oneshots | JJBA

jotakak | black streaks in the sky

trigger warning: descriptions of self harm.

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It began as a thought.

Jotaro Kujo has never been one for outright self destruction. His poisons have always been quiet and common. Smoking is the most obvious one someone could sus out of him. No one ever tended to look much farther than that.

Fighting was another, until now. The thrill and adrenaline were intoxicating, some menial reminders that he could still trigger such emotional responses. It never grew boring, it never got old, and he never lost. Punks think they're punks until they fight Kujo. That's his thing.

Now, no one cares about his thing.

Now, the name Kujo doesn't scare anybody.

And too much of anything is too much.

Like an addict, Jotaro feels a pull for the adrenaline he once felt throwing a punch. It began with a punch. A simple knock up the jaw when some bastard remarked that his dad was a sissy. Jotaro was young and still frail, and it made him feel powerful to knock that kid onto his knees. A punch wouldn't do it then, no, he needed to land two or three or four. And once the punches got boring, kicks were his new drug. His legs have always been lean and strong, from his track days, and thus, good for kicking.

On continued his search for gratification, until this very second. He sits on a hotel bed and switches his pocket knife's blade in and out, in and out, in and out; the glint of the metal and the soft swishing noise of the blade retracting is mesmerizing to him.

He has never cut anyone. Something about weapons makes fighting seem more violent than the raw, natural strength of a fist ever could. But he thinks that now, he may. His wrists sting with the anticipation, the skin feeling thin and papery, his bones exposed; an irrational and vulnerable tactile hallucination brought onto him from the depths of his weary mind.

Kakyoin is in the shower. They've been roomed together ever since he said they could share one, and Jotaro misses the privacy of his own room. He's as alone as he will get, now, and he pauses with the knife's blade out.

His frown deepens as he looks at it, stares into the metal and sees himself looking — bedraggled — back.

He wants to feel something.

Anything at all will do.

And he's staring right at something he could feel.

The shower rains on. Jotaro feels himself begin to sweat, as he presses the knife against his wrist. It is chilly and makes him sneer. He squares his jaw, digging in.

He huffs out short breaths, drawing a semicircle of blood before he can take it no longer and drops the knife, holding his arm. The pain sends shocks up his arm, stinging at the flesh as the blood pools and runs over. It was quick and shallow enough, but it hurts.

Thank god, it fucking hurts, he thinks. It isn't pleasant nor does he like it. It is still a sensation, though; pain is a living sensation, a human sensation, and there's nothing quite as human as self-inflicted pain. His teeth grind and his nostrils flare, and he kicks his foot in an attempt to waste the adrenaline coursing through him, his body's rush to stop the pain, to—

The showers shuts off. Jotaro swears. He feels like he's been caught red-handed — quite literally has, as the blood begins to run like a spilled drink — and his eyes flick wildly around the room to finding something to tie his arm with. He wishes he hadn't taken off his coat, but he did and now his arms are bare in a t-shirt and—