merife

[merife]

— mayday

pairing: Jotaro Kujo x Reader

summary:  he's alive, you're alive, everyone around you is alive, but there's still not enough air.

word count: 5483

previous

02. of (not)healed wounds

As soon as you open the door to the apartment, the party, which seemed non-existent, appears in all its glory. A couple of people kissing passionately break away from each other: they have dissatisfied look, but their eyes narrowed more at the bright light from the corridor than Oisin and you, that violated an atmosphere of intimacy in the hallway between someone's bags, jackets and other discarded in a fit of passion things. And will it really help you? How can a noisy gathering of strangers help at all?.. [it can. By making the memories of the past flow away and the moments of the present expand even more, it can]

His hand doesn't let go of yours — the path from the entrance to the next room without light on the floor covered with things is inconvenient, but there is no other choice. You stumble a couple of times — yourheart jumps a little in the chest and immediately returns to its place, and the support in the form of Oisin's hand saves you from falling. In the central room, only a pair of lava lamps can distinguish silhouettes, giving off an orange colour on the walls and faces. It seems that you saw a similar one once upon a time in the attic of parent's house among the rest of the trash, but you never dragged it to your room. The smell of alcohol — especially ethanol — mixed with a mix of cigarettes and something else, more organic, but burnt, makes the air feel sticky. It's something you thought you'd never feel again. In a similar way, you used to get together with your friends at one of their homes when their parents were away and you started playing board games, secretly getting alcohol that you would buy with fake documents, so that you could have a heart-to-heart chat. Back then, you had almost no secrets from each other, so everyone just shared present experiences. And you haven't remembered an evening with them for a long time. They must be doing good now. It can't be any other way. You'd even call them if there was anyone else's number — oh, right, you can ask your mother the next time she contacts you.

"Here," Weaver says, handing you a red disposable cup with probably something diluted in it. When did he leave and come back? Oisin quickly clinks his glass with yours and drinks a good half of it. You take a very small sip: cola on the tongue is not different from the usual, but most likely there is something stronger in it. Plan is not to get drunk to oblivion today, you just need to try to relax and unwind. You've been on these parties before, this time nothing should be different, "there are a couple of people I'd like you to meet", but you don't need any contacts- "and I know what you're thinking, but you still need to chat with someone besides me," apparently, the displeasure on your face, he learned to read almost faultlessly. Not a bad skill, Oisin. Next time, shove it away.

"Since you know me so well, why don't you just talk to everyone for me?" you smile sarcastically, and Weaver just nudges you playfully, encouraging you, only to grab your free hand and lead you on. People on your path don't pay attention to you — there's no malice or secret intent in their eyes, which allows you to relax a little, straighten your shoulders, unconsciously hunched in a physical attempt to close. Nothing bad will happen. Here's Oisin, which means that you are not in danger [here's Oisin; this is not Jotaro, this is not Kakyoin — there is no aura of anxiety around him, and you have never felt such pain around him].

Oisin says something: his speech is mixed with David Bowie songs and noisy exclamations from different sides, and you can't pick out a word, so all that remains is keep looking at his neck, where the hairline begins. Why is he deals with you? More precisely, why is he still deals with you?

 Brown hair stops. Oisin brakes sharply, you catch this action a little later than you should and stumble into the air, spilling a few drops of cocktail on the already dirty floor. And then you catch a couple of keen interested glances at yourself.

"This is Marina and Leslie," guy tilts his head to you and smiles, waiting for your reaction to... Two girls who interrupted the conversation to turn all their attention to you. Marina smiles cautiously: her eyes are not aggressive, but she seems to be waiting for something from you. Doesn't trust immediately — and that’s fair. She has beautiful hair with a hint of ginger, which may be real, or may be a consequence of the red colour spreading around the room. And from her appearance, you can safely say that Marina is unlikely to have problems more than a couple of bad grades. It would be nice if this is true. The last thing you want to find in someone else is suffering, because today version of you, real version of you — can't help people who hide their moral pain. All you have left is stand's magic and Oisin's quick-healing bruises.

Leslie, for her part, resemble like the average head girl: she immediately looks for something in you that, apparently, can be useful to her and gives her hand as a sign of acquaintance. She probably knew Oisin because of some club that had already met in advance and discussed plans for the year. Probably, she and Marina roommates, since they keep a physical distance from each other, but their communication is quite brisk — definitely not an empty conversation. There is no stand flying over any of them. It's good.

"Hi! Oisin told us about you," You turn to Weaver, but he doesn't look at you — pretends not to notice the directed scrutiny, however shakes his head, confirming the words, "nice to meet you," you shake her hand with a slight delay that you hope Leslie won't notice, "you're studying in the same department as me, so we'll probably see a lot of each other," she smiles. Friendly. And you repeat it, though not entirely sincerely.

"Oh, that's good," feigned politeness is not so bad as it seemed to you before, "to be honest, you're almost the first who besides me is interested in such things," you speak softly, almost drowned out by the music, but three people next to you smile understandingly and Leslie begins to chatter — which, of course, she is interested, because it's so exciting and unusual and more people should think about this direction, but we are lucky, and-

 Still, how did that guy from the Speedwagon Foundation find you? Your parents couldn't tell them, and grandma Oria perhaps didn't even know about this organization. Oisin also probably has no idea what this Foundation is, and those few people from Italy that you know certainly didn't run to write to the Foundation about your location after the dialogue with you. Did they trace you from your documents? It's possible, but they are not the bureau of investigation, where would they have such information? Besides, why would they want you?

 You nod your head in agreement with words that you don't really listen to. The focus is lost, you're just looking at… Lindsay's nose bridge? But your silence doesn't bother her, just as it doesn't bother Marina that starts talking with her friend. As long as nothing is expected of you, you can safely be near them.

 "Well, I think, you would like our group," girl slaps you on the shoulder — and is mired directly on scar, still feels like a phantom pain on your body, from which you bend over, and unfamiliar hand slides down on fabric sports sweatshirts. A brunette with a succinct name on L raises her eyebrows and looks at Marina.

"It's nothing," a melancholy smile appears on your lips, "just hurts from time to time," in the eyes of Lindsay — her name was something else — a look of surprise changes to a small interest and… It's not what you expect. And right now, you miss the moment when you can stop words from falling from her lips.

"Did you go to the doctor? Maybe it's something serious," you don't have time to prepare for her question, which is already climbing further than the girl opposite suspects. A small word pricks the blood vessels from the inside with its syllables, and an unprepared body trying to pull the trash out from the inside only boils with tension. Oh, she doesn't know how much, but she won't hear that story from you. You don't want to think about it. You don't want [only the starry sky of Cairo is already blooming in your eyes. Only in the chest it becomes as heavy as it was then].

"Let's not talk about it," you take a couple of sips from a cup. Lindsay and Marina are silent, and you just look around at the people near you, suddenly realizing that Oisin has gone somewhere. And right at the moment when you need his presence. Who does that? He knows that for you is hard — to talk to people without someone else. Damn it, Oisin.

 That's why you don't go to the parties. Not to mention the constant need to make sure that people around you aren't dangerous, conversations with them always get out of control and touch on topics that you would rather not discuss [this is like a constant descent of a spiral staircase-there is no end to it and you go lower and lower, not paying attention to people passing by, advising you to stop the descent or sending you further and further down]. In addition, the conversation is already ruined and the girls probably feel awkward trying to come up with another topic, so that the vacuum silence created between the three of you will finally resolve.

 "Excuse me, I'm going to get Oisin," invented reason immediately allows you to leave their company. It's not in your wishes to return, but Lindsay still throws a loud "we'll wait" after you, which is unlikely to come true — you all know that.

The familiar top of the head is still nowhere seen and you have to get rid of an almost empty glass, putting it on one of the tables — the girl with the glass bottle in her hand smiles at you and asks if you want to add more, but you just nod your head in dissent and disappear from her field of view. When you go back to the entrance, you still don't see Oisin. And at this moment you realize: air around you is too viscous — it's impossible to breathe. Filled with smells and smoke, without open windows, it resembles the steam of a sauna, from the high temperature of which even your cheeks starts to burn. It's not nice to leave Oisin alone, but he was the first to go somewhere without you, and now you have every right to at least get some air. And, perhaps later, go back to your own dorm, pleading on fatigue.

 Fresh air fills your lungs even before you step on the balcony. And the second your foot crosses the threshold and your gaze goes unconsciously to the figure on your right, you think… You think you have the ability to stop time, too. As though Queen threw her hands in exactly one second ago and now, in this moment, stretched for a few brief, you examine his back in the search for inaccuracies, errors, extra pair of buttons on the sleeves or incorrect bending of the visor caps — whatever, just to reality is not confronted with an outcome that you've imagined a thousands of times. But every little thing coincides with the unconsciously expected.

"So, White Queen?" disturbed by a sudden sound, the mynas immediately flap their wings and fly away in the direction of the nearest park, while your attention shifts from a landscape around to the person who has approached. Jotaro pulls a cigarette from the pack, then lights it and takes the first drag before returning his gaze to you. It's more relaxed than you expected — there's tension in it, but not the same as you saw at school. And some unconscious nostalgia along with dissatisfaction spreads in your chest, which is why you stop looking at him. The paving stones under your feet don't seem more interesting, but they are an alternative that you humbly accept.

"Yeah," he doesn't come any closer — he stays behind to the bench and doesn't take a step toward it or away. You can't feel his gaze, but something tells you that Kujo is still looking at you. You would have watched if he had turned away as well. The silence of the back courtyard of the hotel, whose name you forgot about two hours ago, is only broken by the trill of cicadas, the rustle of leaves from a small wind, and the distant hum of the highway.

"And how long?" Jotaro exhales cigarette smoke — you can feel the smell of burnt tobacco coming to you. This… Strange, to hear his peaceful voice with some interest after all this time. When you still took attempts to restore conversations, he only snapped irritably or completely ignored your remarks. When you had to come to terms with the fact that you were no longer friends for some unknown reason, your communication was reduced to a minimum, in which you once were on school duty with him and experienced so much tension that you preferred to leave him alone. Since you are so disgusting to him, then wonderful — without any celebration, you can grant him silence in return. You were angry at him all this time, but this anger is now gone somewhere, leaving behind a tart sadness — as if there was no wordless wall, built in an instant and going in a few years.

"Since childhood," you put your own elbows on your knees and put your chin on your hands, looking at the small garden in front of you, "about eight years or something," ("I can introduce you to my friend, but my parents can't see her! She has cold hands, but she's very kind and I think you will get along!") and then you sigh softly, closing your eyes for a moment so that you can turn back to Jotaro. He immediately catches your glance, "and Star Platinum?"

"A few days ago," he says casually, clenching the cigarette between his teeth, as if he told you not about the fact that his soul has recently received the personification of a guardian spirit, but about some trifle. He also looks tired — there are no bags under his eyes, but his posture is not so even, a little distorted in the hips and shoulders. After all, he's probably worried about his mother, no matter how much he tries to look indifferent. Of course, anyone would have been concerned in his place — it was obvious, but the strangely calm that at first glance was filled with the guy, was a little confusing. Not to mention his habit of being silent and pushing his own emotions too far [once you shouted at him — if Jotaro will continue to behave like that, he will explode from unspoken tension sooner or later].

"And you handle it so quickly," even with a little envy and a small admiration. Though the acceptance of your own stand passed quickly, the realization of what happened appeared only a few years later, when White Queen was still close to you, yet your friends no longer had imaginary companions. His eyes, covered by the brim of his cap, reflect the light of the lanterns. Jotaro always was...

"What's there to "handle"? If he's my soul, then he knows exactly what I need," this. For a moment it seemed neutral-general conversation, like the dialogue of ordinary people, but now it began to take on the shades of those rare conversation that you still picked up during school: sharp, ragged. You have neither the desire nor the strength to argue with him, and you just turn away again.

"When I realized that Queen really existed, I thought my parents would send me to a psychiatrist," your wrists get a little numb and you lower your arms and straighten up. He won't tell you what his first contact with Star Platinum was like, which is why you're sharing the memory of your own stand, "I thought I should tell them all about her, and then… We discuss that there are no ghosts, which means that Queen is hardly real."

 Jotaro used to always listen to you — because it was more convenient for him to be a listener than a speaker. You weren't the chattiest person on the planet, and that's probably why you've been in touch for a long time. The silence was calm, but your voice didn't break it — it just added a little colour to the canvas, so that the cotton clouds and honey stars under which you sat together finally can bloomed. You spoke with words, and he with actions, and you were sure that there can't be a better friendship.

But then there was a devastating emptiness and instead of warmth in his eyes, you found only irritation. The question "why" asked thousands of times remained unanswered, and you asked another, longer— did he want to communicate with you at all, or did you give a different meaning to all his actions?

 "You don't have to come with us. Stay with your relatives," much rougher than before. Jotaro throws out the cigarette butt and turns around — most likely, going back to the hotel, but you have your own opinion on the situation and you won't be silent.

"I... Want to," you turn your head. Maybe to see his reaction, or maybe for some other reason, but all you can see is the back of his black school uniform and the hair sticking out from under his headdress. Even in the deep evening, he wears this strange cap, " Seiko-san is in trouble, and besides, your company could definitely use a stand with Queen's abilities."

 You mean: you need my help. You mean: i don't want you to get hurt.

Kujo is silent. He stands motionless and silent so you feel a little uneasy — as if the aura around you is changing and you're momentarily breathing harder than before.

"No. This is a bad idea. Go back home," and Jotaro starts walking toward the entrance, as if this is the end of your little dialogue and he's the one who put the end to it.

"Jotaro, I'm not doing this for you, but for your mother, first of all," you sneer, clinging to the bench with your fingers, "she's a wonderful woman and I'm grateful to her for many things that she has done for me."

"I'm not going to mess with you," he said, already annoyed and angry. Caught in his sharp look, you feel like a burden again.

"I'm not five to "mess" with me," frowned already before that eyebrows fall even lower, and nails dig into the wooden beams. Despite all attempts to convey your point of view, the last in your conversation is, indeed, sounds of his voice.

"Then mind your own business."

You close the balcony door as abruptly as you opened it. Then quickly reach the turn and press the elevator button as hard as possible — you notice the blood rush to the tense finger and immediately pull it away. You don't turn around — you want to turn around and make sure of something, but you also stand still and wait for the elevator, bending a little. And when it comes, you immediately press the button to the first floor. The warm air outside makes it difficult to catch your breath. Even when you get further and further away from the building. Even when you sit down on a bench.

 He's dead, you're dead, everyone around you is dead and they're breathing, they're breathing so much that you can't get a breath inside this mess — they've taken all the oxygen. He's dead — you hold his head in your hands and weep, weep, weep, mixing mud and blood and sweat with your tears, trying to pull a rib out of your chest so that you can save him and, if necessary, sacrifice yourself. He's dead, and you wake up knowing that he's still alive, just too far away for you to hold his head in your hands. He's alive, you're alive, and everyone around is dead and you're crying along with Kakyoin's mother, because you're no longer able to continue. You wheeze in the black gakuran and ask, beg him to never leave, stay close, no matter what to be together. The answer is silence, but he puts his good arm around you, lays his chin on top of your head, and you wake up. He's dead and the ocean holds him to its shore while you try to crawl to him with broken legs, wasting your last strength to even see his face again, but time ceases to exist, and you wake up. You're dead and the burst capillaries of his eyes make that raging blue even brighter when he squeezes your shoulder with one hand and covers the emptiness of your chest with the other, and you wake up. He's dead, Dio's nails pierce your skin, go through your muscles and bones and suck the blood out of your arteries, you hang like a doll without thoughts or desires, you watch yourself being thrown against the wall and then your collarbone is broken with unfamiliar foot, and you don't wake up.

He's alive, you're alive, everyone around you is alive, but there's still not enough air.

 "I'm going crazy," you admit to yourself, lifting your head from your hands just a little so that only the lower part of your face is hidden in it. The light from the nearest street lamp reminds you of the sun, and you look at it, look at it until you see black dots and pulsating spots, so then you won't see anything.

 You used to call him Jojo. In a voice higher than it's now. You would come to Seiko-san's house and greet her joyfully, then call out his name as loudly as possible and wait under the spreading pine tree. The pine was far away from his room, but at the perfect angle so that you could not intrude and still see Jojo a few seconds earlier than he said hello. Little Jojo and little you ran around a small pond in the garden of Kujo's house — koi fish with reddish bellies repeated circular movements following your and his example and Jojo smiled, putting his hand in the water. His smile was so bright that you repeated it yourself; it didn't matter that your front tooth had recently fallen out because of something that didn't remain in your mind, and the rest of the world around you hasn't been preserved at all because of the age of the memory. Because it wasn't as important as that boy's smile and koi's red bellies.

You called him — no, no, — you called him Jojo another — don't, please don't — one — no, n-o, n o You called him Jojo when you were dying.

 Your thumb grazes the earring painfully, and you suddenly realize that you're shaking again. The shoulder feels a phantom pain — you've learned that damn description of "phantom" pain thoroughly, because all that's left of the wound is a scar and a recollection that reproduces and reproduces this aching emptiness under your skin. And you grab it, whine softly and wish to shrink to a ball, just to disappear from this world. You don't need anything, nothing. Nothing more. Nothing-nothing-nothing

 You know who's coming to you before you even hear the voice.

"What are you doing here?"  your lungs get stuck in your ribs: you can hardly breathe, and in the middle of it you're interrupted by a sharp pain in your chest and hold your breath in a panic for a split second. «The same question I can-» no. Don't even think about it, no, no. White dots appear in your eyes of how much you squint them and you feel sick. «You» no more questions!

"So, Lester was right," his voice annoys you — it's like sandpaper goes right through your eardrums, and you cover your ears to make this sounds hardly heard. His voice irritates you; his invisible figure irritates you, his existence at the moment irritates you. You take a breath, then another and again, which makes your head a little cloudy, doesn't get any clearer, how it supposed to be, and you open your mouth to take another ragged and noisy breath.

 You don't remember any Lester, you don't remember anyone, and you know what, Jotaro, go to hell.

"What are you doing here?!"  your voice is hoarse, and every word you say crushes the previous one with its volume, stupefaction and anger. Control over your own body also seeps through your fingers — you think that you still sitting, but in that moment also feel the tension in your standing legs as acutely as stones caught under the sole of your sneakers.

"Can you not scream for a second?"  and of course those are the words you want to hear right now. Nothing else, just Kujo's eternal need for calm. Maybe you also want peace of mind. Maybe you need it, too, but he's standing there right now, ruining a whole year of your hard work, and you don't want to see him. You don't want to see him, because you've seen him die so many times in your unconscious "what if" fantasy that you're afraid to see his face. He's alive, he's standing by and nothing good has come of it in all the years of your life [he's fine — something far away in you whispers and the faint threads that still grip your heart in panic unravel. Since he's fine, maybe you can afford it too]

"And can you answer my fucking question?!" you howl into your own hands, making the sound uneven and sonorous. You don't care how you look from the other point of view and even more so, whether you attract someone else's attention. All that matters are the answer to the question, why [the man from your nightmares? Your only hope? A bundle of the most incomprehensible emotions for you? Someone who was too close? The reason and the solution at the same time?] your former classmate is standing here. Not in Tokyo, not anywhere else. He wanted to do something related to the sea. Thought about Tokyo University and ... refused? Why? And why was he here?! It's... Lester, the guy from the Foundation! What do they want from you?

"I study here."

 Is he... is he mocking you?

It sounds so improbable and stupid, as if the best lie just can't come to his mind. It sounds so strange and ridiculous that it sounds too much like the truth, which makes you turn your head to him to make sure. Jotaro has never lied to you in his life, and there is no reason why he would actually give you such nonsense.

"Are you... Kidding me?" your voice is hoarse. You catch his silhouette in the gap between your fingers, under which you still hide your face, and you just can't quite believe — it's him, it's really him. Because to spit on things, to spit on height, these eyes you will never be able to forget. You don't want to get lost or forgotten in them, no. They scare you. They cause the skin on your neck to goosebumps, and you yourself to seek shelter, just to escape from this green-blue hypnotic colour. Relief comes with a new lump in your throat.

"Good grief, Y/n," you expect the guy to touch his own cap, but still freeze for a few moments when you actually see familiar repeated movement once again. This is true Jotaro, and the fantasies of your meeting that fills your skull to the brim don't have one where you meet him under the polluted night sky of Miami, shivering with the legion of memories that have come to you.

"No, no, no, don't start," you put your hand out in front of you, as if trying to protect yourself or stop him, "that's the guy from the Foundation, right? I told him I wouldn't work with you. Figure it out for yourself, I just-" it's so hard to breathe between words that you stop for an inhale. There is no room for air in the panicked lungs.

"You're too noisy. Calm down," you can see your own hands: they are clean, but the feeling of dirt on them doesn't leave for several minutes. You need to get rid of this. You need to get rid of everything around you in order to find peace in the sterility of your thoughts and body.

"I just got it all back together again. I just stopped seeing them, and then you come in and-"

"I said," he puts his big hand on your shoulder and it's like a physical anchor for getting back, "calm down."

 You say: i'm scared You say: god, Jotaro, I'm so scared.

But you don't utter anything out loud, barely holding on to familiar hands.

  Recently washed bed sheets smells of powder, freshness and chemical lavender. Its scent is gentler and more cautious in life, not so obtrusive, but you can get along with a fake — it's not the worst thing that a rented apartment can smell. Outside the window, the sun shines full, but it doesn't completely pass through the emerald curtains, that fills the bedroom with a faint greenish hue, which is cut by a strip of pure light exactly in the middle. It crosses your hand and seems that if you close your hand now, you can catch a piece of light. But you just keep watching the dust motes move in the air on that strip. Something about this light reminds you of magic and old dreams that the world is not a boring grey box. It wasn't — it stopped at the age when you didn't understand much about taxes and working in an office, which is probably why you envied Oisin and your remaining friends in hometown: their life was boring in some moments, but most of it was peaceful. Small skirmishes with unpleasant acquaintances and, perhaps, fleeting quarrels with relatives — you didn't guess, you knew that their daily life was just like this. And perhaps unconsciously you still belittle their problems in comparison with your own, but you have the right to do so. You didn't smash your father's car to pieces, you didn't fight with your teacher about a low, unsatisfactory grade, and you never went on a bad date, because instead, in your junior year of high school, the concept of "problems" went too high, making all the everyday tinsel still seem too small. Although, over the past year…

You roll over on your side.

To hell with this last year. As soon as a small part of the past appeared, everything immediately returned to its place, as if there was nothing between Egypt and America [And this is so convenient to blame Jotaro, that you slowly, with your eyes closed from yourself, move all the arrows in his direction — that it's because of him memories return with a frenzied speed, that it's because of him tonight, when you awoke from an empty dream, you met the gaze of your own stand. And somewhere, where the threads of your heart get tangled again at the mere mention of his name, you refuse to make that decision. Only it is so far away that you simply don't have the courage to go to such a depth of your own personality, which is why the usual defence mechanism continues to work].

You just need to calm down and look at the situation from a different angle. Then there will be a way out and everything will be as normal as possible. Maybe you should go to the Speedwagon Foundation. Since Kujo is here and they and the Foundation have invaded your life anyway, one of the solutions is simply-

avoid, you need to avoid them and hide, escape again. They won't help you and will only cause more wounds, and you will again weep until your throat is hoarse and-

at least find out what's really going on in Miami. As if something serious could be happening here.

[merife]

— mayday

pairing: Jotaro Kujo x Reader

summary: it’s like the start of the rain  — little drops will bring only cloudburst.

word count: 3906

notes: so, before this chapter i wanted to share some thoughts about stands, that i will use in work. since the stands represent the human soul, this means that it is they who first fulfill the will of the human subconscious, and only then the consciousness. that is, if a person with a stand pushes away their loved ones, but does so because of an unconscious desire for protection, their stand will primarily protect, not repel. likewise, the stand of someone who wants to escape, but needs help, will look for this very help, even if the user does not realize it.if you see some mistakes, please, message me!

previous  //  next

01. of bittersweet greetings

"…Right," Noriaki releases your hand, "it would be extremely inconvenient if we didn’t introduce ourselves again," and waves his hand to the other passengers of the unlucky plane, as if offering to silently join them. Recently brought ashore, all of them are probably unhappy with the crash and the loss of their luggage. You would share this dissatisfaction if you had a suitcase full of things and didn’t know about what was really happening on the plane. However, you were still felt bad about your soaked backpack. It's unlikely that the book lying there will recover from such a flight.

Kakyoin opposite you — a tall guy, probably the same age as you and with strange earrings in his ears — looks like a nice young man and you hope that this opinion is not deceptive. Some can call it gullibility, but you believed the first glance into someone else's eyes — often unconsciously, it showed people unprepared, and therefore in their true form. Still, no first glance will show the changes that the person will be subjected to. Which you may not notice over time.

"What are you doing here," displeased, without a hint of a question, which causes only one reaction: rolling your eyes, you click your tongue —accidentally louder than you wanted. Oh yes, of course. The world around is just beginning to recover, however fate doesn’t allow it to do recovery to the end and decides to take everything into its own hands, returning to place completely the wrong pieces of the puzzle.

"The same question I can ask you," some ease of sudden familiarity, previously present in conversation with Kakyoin dissolves, and you gather your hands in the lock on your chest to then transfer gaze to the approaching man, "Jotaro".

He stands in his usual position: slightly hunched over from his height, hands buried deep in pockets and peering you with his heavy gaze from under the peak of his cap, as he has done a thousand times before, which makes your reaction lack the fright or tension that you might have experienced earlier. Now it looks like a kind of challenge that you unconsciously accept and raise your chin higher, without looking away. See him on the plane to Bangkok was unexpected. See his stand (you freeze between a row of seats and your fingers dig into the back of one of the fronts, until a few meters away, next to Jotaro — what he forgot here at all? — Kujo materializes a humanoid spirit, immediately attacking a flying insect. Since when does this delinquent even have a stand?) it was unexpected. But to see it in the usual state of "out of reach" for ordinary mortals is like returning from a dream to reality: a little unpleasant, but familiar.

"Don't turn this on me, woman," and that's his constant "woman". You are the same age and such a statement sounds at least strange, if not rude.

"Oh God," you shake your head, "our plane just crashed and the only thing you care about is why am I here?" his mouth twists into a grimace of displeasure. It's as if your very existence irritates him, even though you're the only one who has a reason to be angry with him.

"I'm still waiting-

"Excuse me," Kakyoin intervenes in the conversation and — honestly? — it makes it a little easier. There's a look of perplexity on his face that makes you raise an eyebrow in a silent question,"I didn't want to interrupt, but… Do you know each other?"

"Yes," on your lips pops up smile, yet nothing fun in it, while Jotaro utters his favourite phrase on exhale, "we are classmates," despite years communication and years ignoring each other, this the only word that you can use to describe your relationships now.

"Indeed, a striking coincidence," bewilderment is immediately replaced by a kind of calmness with a share of ... joy? Relief? Kakyoin puts his fingers on his chin, as if thinking about something, "to meet your classmate stand-user on a plane to another country, when you are being chased by the enemy".

Enemy? So, this scarab beetle and the old man...?

"Guys," you raise your own hands, indicating that you're not going to do them any harm. Now the picture of what is happening looks a little clearer. Jotaro actually had a reason to ask why you were here — though, it would have been easier for everyone if he had explained it, instead of immediately getting defensive and demanding answers, "I went to my relatives, they live here. And that scarab-

"Y/n!"

"I saw for the first time," the continuation of the sentence is drowned in an unfamiliar thunderous voice — this is a stranger, an elderly man, whom you previously saw in the passenger compartment. He doesn't look aggressive, rather the opposite — as if full of enthusiasm, he takes a few long steps to cover the distance between you and immediately wraps you in a — oh, no, no-no-hug.

"God, how you have grown," the smell of salt water is sharp in your nose. His titanic grip cannot be released immediately, but you don’t give up — you trying to get out and starting to bend your legs, but he probably thinks that you just… Went limp from his actions? Because man starts to hug you a little stronger, "I almost don’t recognize you as that little girl who was always carrying a kite on her back. I'm so glad to see you!" his hands moves from your back to shoulders, and you can see his face again. There is something familiar about him: the general feeling that you have already seen him once is present, but where? — you can’t find the answer. Probably, in a childhood. A very early childhood. And apparently, he catches your embarrassment, because immediately — a little pretentiously, as if childish — the glee in his eyes replace itself on a slight sadness, "you don't remember me? I'm grandfather Jotaro, Joseph," you unconsciously turn your gaze to Kujo — he just snorts and turns his head away. Even if you remembered, the image of Joseph in your head would be different from what you see now. It was too long ago for unconscious attempts to restore memories to actually work. Therefore, a guilty smile appears on your lips. However, it doesn't make the right impression and Joseph only grabs your shoulders harder.

"Jiji, leave her alone, she's here on her own business," the man's attention doesn’t go to the grandson. He still looks at you, as if not noticing the words of Jotaro. "We'll make up for it. Y/n come and have lunch with us," unfamiliar hands disappear, and you are free. Physically. "No, no, Joseph, I have- "Come on, I'm buying." "No, I really can't." "Let's go!"

"Come on, let’s go," Oisin grabs your wrists, presses them to the glass table and looks into your eyes with hope but you just sigh, "it's not a good thing to miss your first party at the university just because you're too lazy".

The end of August in America pleased with good weather. Or rather, too good: thermometer hasn't dropped below twenty-fife degrees by Celsius since you moved to Miami, and you were, in some way, glad that you spent the past year in Sperlonga at grandma Oria's farm, where was almost as hot as here. The climate didn't take much getting used to, so there was only the time zone, which was a bit of a problem. There was no need to go to classes at eight o'clock and adhere to special discipline in past year when you learned on a home-school, so now it was a little difficult to get back into life with a schedule. Especially in such crowded city. But — remember: you picked the hard way to recover. You don’t have a luxury to tremble over every unfamiliar voice, you can’t freeze like a statue every time when you don't know how to get out of a situation. There is no enemy stand-users, these people don’t want to attack you just because you helping someone important. It's already ordinary life that you craved, don’t seek something distinctive in it.

In a time like these you envied Oisin because he definitely doesn’t have such problems. Even though he had arrived only a week earlier, the guy had already made friends with half of the campus, as if he had lived here before and simply introduced himself again. And his energy overwhelmed you even now, like he wasn’t on different continent just ten days earlier and jetlag was created only for you. Yes... this guy exact opposite of Jotaro.

"I don't know, Oisin," you pull up your previously extended legs and Weaver releases your wrists, like he offended by the seemingly expected response, "I still don't feel very well after the flight, plus yesterday-

"You'll get some rest," Oisin said assuredly. Damn his insistence. You sigh. Long. Plangent. With the hope that in this sigh, the guy will find the answer he is looking for, but he just keeps watching you. Getting out to others is not a bad idea, but… In your head, you're still looking for a reason why you might not go, putting aside crippling on your shoulder paranoia that was like a part of you now. Yes ... it's a pity that your mother won't forbid you to go somewhere anymore. And apparently, something in the long silence created in the conversation still responds to Oisin, "okay, miss recluse," Weaver's head tilts a little to the side, and then turns and shifts all his attention to — the menu? He just ate a burger five minutes ago, why else would he, "it's seven o'clock now" brown hair turns back. Ah, he looked at watch, "I have things to do now, but" guy holds up his index finger in front of you, as if rejecting any comment beforehand,"but! I'll pick you up at nine and then you can give me your final answer. Alright?"

God, it's like he's calling you to some sort of ball that you definitely can't miss.

You look down at the empty plate, where the salt pellets from the fries are still visible. It's better than answering now.

"And I still hope you'll go," Oisin carefully takes one of your hands in his — not so dramatically as before, much softer, making you look up at him, "Y/n, I really think it will be good for you," an aura of care seems to emanate from him and you feel... Awkward. Inconvenient. You wish he hadn't said that, because now it's like trying to walk a scared puppy, "and I hope you understand that" Young man doesn't wait for an answer: he lets you go, grabs his wallet and throws it into blue backpack. Oisin stands up, adjusts his t-shirt hastily, and comes over to you, giving you a hasty one-way hug.

"I left. Don't stay too long," he says. Just a few moments and you can already see his silhouette behind the glass of the diner.

Oisin… Peculiar, if you may say so. If you met him now, you would definitely not communicate with guy for one reason — he’s too loud. Oisin's energy went beyond his body and infected everyone around him, so you couldn't even really disconnect yourself from Weaver sometimes and for you — for the version of you that just sat in grandma Oria's garden without thoughts or emotions and stared at the sun, burning your own cornea — he was the perfect candidate for communication. You didn't have to be the guide; you could finally be guided and not be afraid that some extra movement would lead to something dangerous. Oisin in Italy saved you from the haunting ghosts of the past, and sometimes — when every movement, every word, reminded you of them — it was Weaver's hand that stroked your back, his voice in your ear. Oisin was loud, but his volume helped you not get lost in the silence created after Egypt completely. That's probably why, when he said that there was a course options in his university that you were interested in, you didn't have to choose where you would continue your education.

Some hoarse broken cry and the hum of falling iron tray— this brought you back to reality. The smell of beer spilled on the floor immediately hits your nose and unconsciously the name of your own stand passes through your head as you let go of the straw from the milkshake and sprang on your legs. Two tables away from yours is a middle-aged woman with a small group of people gathered around her: probably the man she came with, the waiter (who dropped the tray?) and a couple of strangers like you, who are interested in what happened and decided to help. She seems to be breathing, but she’sdo it with difficulty,though her skin looks healthy. You probably need to take medicine a little more seriously in future.

"What happened?" the startled waiter turns to you as a figure runs to the phone somewhere behind the counter. He doesn't have any reason to tell you, but with a stand that can heal, you can actually help. Not that the guy across knows that.

"I-I don’t know,"he squeezes the tray down to his white from inner tension knuckles, and you call White Queen again, but this time in your mind. Where is she? "carried them an order and… Oh, my God, am I going to jail? I can't go to jail, not now," great, you have also a panicked waiter.

"Calm down," you put your hand on his forearm, try to look into the tear-stained eyes, "it's hardly your fault" and then turn your attention back to the woman, covering the lower part of your face so that the Queen’s name will slip from your lips as imperceptibly as possible. Why isn't she here yet? What's happening?

"The ambulance will be here in a couple of minutes," the appropriate man pushes you and the waiter aside a little and sits on his knees in front of the victim. Her pulse must have been checked earlier, because right now he’s just shifting her head to the side.

"White Queen!" you say it again already loudly, but the words are mixed with the speech of a man, so now it’s sounds like porridge, because of which a couple of people look at you.You just cough into your fist.

Your stand appears exactly three seconds later.

You have to sit at the bar to avoid drawing attention to yourself, but the tall figure of White Queen doesn't hesitate to approach the woman to materializing a pike in left hand and then stab unfamiliar leg where it will not be noticed by onlookers. And you wait for a small green glow to appear on the marble pike, but ... Nothing happens. Capable of healing physical wounds, White Queen's spear remains in the woman's leg and doesn't change anything in her. When Queen turns to you with a puzzled expression on her stony face, you just respond with a nod of your head and a shrug of your shoulders, a little disappointed, guilty — you don't have an answer. It's probably something you can't control: an old illness, food stuck in woman's throat, or something else you don't know about yet. Stand takes the pike from the poor woman's leg — and the wound, which for a moment only the keenest eye can see, is immediately closed. And you pick up your things from the table and leave the place, hearing the ambulance siren, left with not the most pleasant feeling in your heart.

"Where the hell have you been?" White Queen is walking beside you: you can hear her marble feet making a hollow sound when they touch the pavement, like human footsteps. She's trying too hard to be alive. Yes, you rarely call her. Yes, you do everything yourself, if you can, and when you get hurt, you put iodine on the cuts, waiting for them to heal, but when someone else's life is in danger, you simply can't leave everything as it is. Because your problems are your own and have nothing to do with saving strangers.

The only response is silence. Sure.

"I thought I made it clear that you weren't to show up if something happened to me. But, for some reason, you still do it, and when I really need your help, then no, Queen is not here, of course not," you wave your hand in displeasure in her direction and she, like a scolded puppy, lowers her head lower, "let's just agree: you go out only when I call you. Neither sooner nor later," you turn to her and wait for some hint of response — a nod of the head or a change of expression, but White Queen just turns to some person — why is this guy looking at you? — then he returns his gaze to you and disappears into the air.

Even better. It would be great if he thought you were just being weird and talking to yourself. And without waiting for the situation to change, you turn toward the campus.

"Miss Y/n?" no good conversation starts with 'miss', but you can't ignore a stranger — you've seen him, he's seen you — he's seen you've seen him-God, that sounds stupid. And you hear: the third, fourth step and the guy is already next to you, "I'm glad that I met you here. I'm from a mutual friend of ours," he emphasizes the last words with a lowered intonation of his voice. Oisin, did you really get to know all of Miami in a week?

"You missed him five minutes ago," you start walking again. You don't think this dialogue will last too long, "Oisin is busy, so I don't think he can help you-

"No, you misunderstand me," the stranger again catches up with you, "from another mutual friend".

And this is like the result of an undone breath before jumping into the water.

"I have no other friends," the phrase stabs, cuts, but also defends, protects, "so I advise you not to believe those who deceive you," all through your teeth. You — this version of you— don't have any friends for a good reason and you have the right to keep it secret in your ribs, trusting no one [as if you never lie to yourself — as the marks on the path you have passed are not able to tell anyone that you can't be alone anymore].

"I don't think Joseph will agree with you."

You don't feel someone else's hand on your elbow. You don't feel it, you don't feel how White Queen reappear in space, and you certainly don't feel your fingernails pressing into your palms again. But you know how your heart can get caught between your ribs in aching pain. The image of Joestar doesn't appear as a memory in your head like a Kakyoin, but it makes you freeze in place like a phantom. How did they find you? Sure, you weren't hiding, but... You haven't written to Jotaro, much less to his grandfather, where you are. The last time you saw Joestar at the airport, his embrace was tight, but you didn't return it properly, because even then the tremor in your hands couldn't be stopped. At the Tokyo airport, you disintegrated into parts of your own personality, one of which screamed so loudly that it had to be locked somewhere inside, and the other — unprotected, like a stray kitten, knowing nothing more than the silence around you, made only attempts to find a corner where you can hide and not come out until it's too late. There were no more tears; they were replaced by a lifeless emptiness, reflected in an instant in the eyes of Jotaro and you wanted to divide it with the two of you, so that it was at least a little easier to cope and the burden of an endless nightmare ceased to be such, but... You missed moment where it could be true by letting go of the sleeve of his uniform and disappearing like a White Queen.

"Listen, miss Y/n. Here occur- "I don't care what happens here," the moment of your own weakness leaves you and your rage falls like a bucket of water. Queen creates a spear in the air, "I don't want to have anything to do with either the Joestar or the stands," the stranger looks a little scared — apparently, the guy didn't expect such a reaction. But what did he expect from you then? From a woman who had been out of touch for just over a year, whose parents refused to even talk to the Speedwagon Foundation.

"Wait, Y/- "My stand is not as strong as the others," you take a step toward him. His time to speak has passed, "but surely you know that even Queen can inflict injuries, if you are from our mutual friend," barely recovering calm you are not ready to sell for another adventure, now given only to you, "do you have a problem? Discuss this with Polnareff or Joestars themselves," another step to stranger, until he same moves away from you, "damn, make new stand users, as this did Enya, but don't," and another, "involve me" and as confirmation of seriousness of your intentions White Queen's pike pierces palm of the guy, respiration the freezes and slightly whether not screams, however your hand closes his mouth. In a few seconds, the pain will change to warmth, the hole he sees in his palm will disappear and you will no longer be here. However, apparently unable to see the pike created by stand, he tries to close the wound, stumbling into an invisible obstacle, "the palm will heal and I hope that we will never see each other again".

You have time to make three steps before the guy starts talking again.

He says: Y/n. He says through pained chokes: remember — stand users are attracted to each other.

You return home with a heavy heart and a reminder that you shouldn't forget to close the front door.

What kind of statement is that? Attracted. You are not magnets with different poles to break everything and find each other. Moreover, during your stay in Italy, you met only a couple of users, and it is unlikely that they knew about you. The trip was different, but ... Damn, why does it keep coming up? Perhaps you should have stayed in Sperlonga and gone to some university near this village, instead of chasing a dream and getting out of a hastily created cocoon [unless, of course, you yourself wanted to return to this world with dangers, in which, indeed, life was brighter and every day was different].

Notes from an unfamiliar song hit your ears with their sharpness, and you immediately tweak the relay a little to lower the volume. Yeah. What were you talking about?.. Fine. Now you can take the time to sort things out, and then wait for Oisin. Still, maybe he's right.

[merife]

— mayday

pairing: Jotaro Kujo x Reader

summary: The lost crusader under Miami sun with not healed yet wounds — you just wanted to recreate your peaceful life and forget about everything else. You almost done it. But the phantoms of the Egypt trip still lingers in your memory; moreover — they enter in your life once more and a special one — most painful and with that dearest — turns out to be too close to you again. After all, stand users attract each other.

word count: 1466

notes: so, i just wanted to say “thank you” to two lovely authors that unintentionally helped me to find courage to write this! ymiwritesstuff and miodowycukier with their thoughts and tips about non-native writing really boost me to try and i really can’t find a words to describe how grateful i am.

 next

00. of something on the tip of the tongue

Tiredness from the workload makes itself felt on shoulders — just stretch is not enough, so you begin to press your fingers on the hidden skin, so that the muscles under fabric of your clothes become at least a little loosened up and the tension recedes. Moving boxes with pieces of your old life to a new place is still difficult, but it is a small price to pay for silence and quietude.Of course, you can always hire some loaders, but their services cost money that you probably will want to spend on something else, especially since in an emergency you can use stan-

A sharp breath of fresh air through your nose. And then a garland of thousands of «no», entangling climbing on contrary thoughts: «because it's easier, because it's better, because you need it». You just exhale. Too much has already been done and too many movements rewritten to just give up and go back to the hackneyed patterns of daily behaviour. You have reached this point on your own and you can go on alone. Without anyone's help.

«Y/n, right?» a strand of his strange hairstyle twitches a little in the wind, but in the morning sunlight, the cherry colour of his hair is especially beautiful and — you turn to the speaker too sharply. He shakes your hand, wrapping his two arms around your smaller one. Damn. You need a distraction. Quickly. This is the guy. And he smiles. About your age — tall blonde with two bags — they are dry, but warm to the touch, so there is a kind of serenity in your soul — a certain interest in the eyes — and the green colour of his gakuran resembles gouache from the drawing room on the third floor of your old school — and without a stand behind his back. Not hostile, but it doesn't make it any easier. He raises his hands in the air. «hey, it’s okay. Sorry that startled, but Oisin mentioned you and…» — "Yeah, exactly" your own response sounds a little shakier than you thought — his words reached your ears, but their meaning is lost after this damn «and», and the stranger himself comes a couple of steps closer — his name has already been mentioned several times, so you can remember it almost immediately — to… Put a hand on your shoulder? Do not. Do- "And you Why now? Why exactly right- I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I can’t-

-not. Kakyoin?"

«Woah, calm down,» constructed tranquillity, destroyed a moment ago, tries to recover itself again. «I really didn’t want to scary you,» a foreign object — someone else's hand on the shoulder — returns some part of awareness. Your own hands are burning, and as you unclench your unconsciously gathered fists, you can see the crescent-shaped prints of your fingernails. White Queen, making sure at first that there is no hostility in your gaze to the blonde, lowers the pike aimed at the stranger and then lets it disappear under cascade of her hair.

She wasn't supposed to show up.

«I’m sorry,» how awkwardly. You clear your throat and straighten your back. «Y-yeah. This is me. Just didn't sleep all night, so the stress speaking for me,» the just-made-up excuse has some truth in it, but it doesn't get much better. Still, a neighbour — is he your neighbour, right? — you don't think it's just a passing guy. What if...? No, it's the paranoia in you that's asking questions right now. He doesn’t seem like stand-user. Besides, White Queen would have attacked him a moment earlier if the blonde was dangerous.

«It’s nothing,» unfamiliar hand disappears from your shoulder, «was just unexpected,» great, now he probably thinks that you are strange. The best way to start a relationship with your neighbour, «I’m David».

«Nice to meet you,» you exchange a handshake — the skin on your palms is still burning — and the blond David takes his bags, which, apparently, he put on the floor at the moment of your weakness. He’s opening the door next to yours, «I hope we get along,» you say with a glimpse of warmness in words and the guy nods his head.

«If you need help — just knock,» and then he goes to his room.

God, how embarrassing. The awkwardness immediately makes it hard to stay straight so you sit down on one of the boxes without a signature. The most unpleasant thing about returning memories is their suddenness. Everything seems normal, ordinary, but once something small appears — a special spoken word, a small object put in the wrong place, or even a sound heard then to ring now (as if it written on the crust of your skull), the pictures from this damn trip appear again before your eyes, one by one. And now, next to the memory of normal acquaintance with Kakyoin — when you are both standing on the ground and you don’t need to cling to the seats of the plane, don’t need to shout and call White Queen for help, and then meet the stunned gaze of your classmate — slowly but surely, a glimmer of scarlet on your own hands returns.

All right. Three, two, one. Breathe out.

White Queen isn't around — apparently, she disappeared a few moments ago, remembering your attempts to stop using her help at all. And you just sigh. You need to take the remaining boxes to the apartment.

You pick up one of the penultimate ones and carefully open the door of the apartment-glimpse of White Queen appears for a moment to hold it, but immediately disappears, as if a schoolboy who broke the rules and tried to help the teacher like a sign of apology. It's not White's fault that she makes the memories in your head brighter. She knows it, you know it, and yet… This is the only option when you function as before — as an ordinary schoolgirl, now a student, in whose life nothing terrible happened. Because you have no one to ask for help: normal people will not understand you, and stand-users…

Another heavy exhale escapes your lips. The box takes its rightful place next to the others.

Even if there was someone in your new environment who had a stand, they still wouldn't understand you. Because there's only one person on this damn planet who can feel your pain, your fear and your lingered in every action paranoia, and it takes twenty hours to reach him. Without the fact that he might send you away if he sees you.

To be honest, his absence was harder to bear than you first thought. A whole year and a half have passed and still your thoughts flew away in the direction of «what if?», where, when you returned to Japan, you did not run away like a coward to another country, but remained close by him. Maybe it would help more than your own restriction on using the stand. Maybe it would have helped more than stealing your mother's sedatives and shed an ocean of tears over a single photograph. Maybe it would help more than the overwhelming guilt that you survived, and they didn't. After all, Jotaro really supported you — then it looked as if all his actions he performed only to be left alone, but now, looking back, even something small like a trip to the store and back together feels like an act of care. Peculiar, but care. You held on to each other, and maybe he could have helped you again, and you could have repaid him with something of equal value. Unless, of course, you're thinking of something else behind Kujo's actions.

A few more repetitive movements and every box is in place where it should be. Still, it turned out to be a little harder than you thought, so the muscles that are unaccustomed to a large strain again remind you of its fatigue. You need to take a shower. And make something quick to eat.

You look relatively good for someone who has lived in isolation for more than a year. Of course, not ideal: bags under your eyes was still here, and continues to be, but at least the skin took a healthier shade. And everything is normal, even sh-

Damn it. You looked anyway.

Even the shoulder doesn't look as bad as it seemed before — mark from the knife wound isn’t so noticeable, but a scar that begins on a once-broken collarbone and runs a long thread over the shoulder to the forearm… No, it's still as disgusting as it was. Even to the touch of your fingernails the rough skin still feels like a phantom pain from the past. Maybe one day you can get rid of it. And would be able to forget about this part of your life completely.

If it's still possible.

[merife]

Realizing You Have to Wait for Almost an Entire Year for the Second Season of The Mandalorian: A Moodboard (feat. Pedro Pascal)

[merife]

Red. Always Red.

[merife]

“Share?” she looks right in his bronze soulless eyes with some part of anger, fury, that jedi will hide usual, but not now “You don’t share anything. You enslave. You devour. I will never be a part of that”

[merife]

Resources For Describing Characters

Physical Appearance

Arms

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[merife]

Helpful things for action writers to remember

Sticking a landing will royally fuck up your joints and possibly shatter your ankles, depending on how high you’re jumping/falling from. There’s a very good reason free-runners dive and roll. 

Hand-to-hand fights usually only last a matter of seconds, sometimes a few minutes. It’s exhausting work and unless you have a lot of training and history with hand-to-hand combat, you’re going to tire out really fast. 

Arrows are very effective and you can’t just yank them out without doing a lot of damage. Most of the time the head of the arrow will break off inside the body if you try pulling it out, and arrows are built to pierce deep. An arrow wound demands medical attention. 

Throwing your opponent across the room is really not all that smart. You’re giving them the chance to get up and run away. Unless you’re trying to put distance between you so you can shoot them or something, don’t throw them. 

Everyone has something called a “flinch response” when they fight. This is pretty much the brain’s way of telling you “get the fuck out of here or we’re gonna die.” Experienced fighters have trained to suppress this. Think about how long your character has been fighting. A character in a fist fight for the first time is going to take a few hits before their survival instinct kicks in and they start hitting back. A character in a fist fight for the eighth time that week is going to respond a little differently. 

ADRENALINE WORKS AGAINST YOU WHEN YOU FIGHT. THIS IS IMPORTANT. A lot of times people think that adrenaline will kick in and give you some badass fighting skills, but it’s actually the opposite. Adrenaline is what tires you out in a battle and it also affects the fighter’s efficacy - meaning it makes them shaky and inaccurate, and overall they lose about 60% of their fighting skill because their brain is focusing on not dying. Adrenaline keeps you alive, it doesn’t give you the skill to pull off a perfect roundhouse kick to the opponent’s face. 

Swords WILL bend or break if you hit something hard enough. They also dull easily and take a lot of maintenance. In reality, someone who fights with a sword would have to have to repair or replace it constantly.

Fights get messy. There’s blood and sweat everywhere, and that will make it hard to hold your weapon or get a good grip on someone. 

A serious battle also smells horrible. There’s lots of sweat, but also the smell of urine and feces. After someone dies, their bowels and bladder empty. There might also be some questionable things on the ground which can be very psychologically traumatizing. Remember to think about all of the character’s senses when they’re in a fight. Everything WILL affect them in some way. 

If your sword is sharpened down to a fine edge, the rest of the blade can’t go through the cut you make. You’ll just end up putting a tiny, shallow scratch in the surface of whatever you strike, and you could probably break your sword. 

ARCHERS ARE STRONG TOO. Have you ever drawn a bow? It takes a lot of strength, especially when you’re shooting a bow with a higher draw weight. Draw weight basically means “the amount of force you have to use to pull this sucker back enough to fire it.” To give you an idea of how that works, here’s a helpful link to tell you about finding bow sizes and draw weights for your characters.  (CLICK ME)

If an archer has to use a bow they’re not used to, it will probably throw them off a little until they’ve done a few practice shots with it and figured out its draw weight and stability. 

People bleed. If they get punched in the face, they’ll probably get a bloody nose. If they get stabbed or cut somehow, they’ll bleed accordingly. And if they’ve been fighting for a while, they’ve got a LOT of blood rushing around to provide them with oxygen. They’re going to bleed a lot. 

Here’s a link to a chart to show you how much blood a person can lose without dying. (CLICK ME) 

If you want a more in-depth medical chart, try this one. (CLICK ME)

Hopefully this helps someone out there. If you reblog, feel free to add more tips for writers or correct anything I’ve gotten wrong here. 

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which jake gyllenhaal are you today

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Look, kid, we can’t always save the day. All right? We’re just cops. Janitors. So you lost this one, all right?

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Sophia Boutella behind the scenes of ‘The Mummy’

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Sofia Boutella as Princess Ahmanet in The Mummy (2017) 

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I really wanted to make an Evangelion t-shirt design that focused more on some of the symbology in the series rather than the big robots. I thought going with something Seele related would be pretty cool.

I’m going to be selling shirts with this print at an upcoming con!

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Adam Volker

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The Bryan Fuller effect.  (Hannibal ― American Gods)

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all you can feel is blood (do not repost or remove caption)

I told myself that I needed to start using other color schemes than dark and gray. So, obviously, I went with dark and blue.

Instagram.

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