#story: something ends something begins

[hanzajesthanza]

crossbow bolts & goodbyes

i love it when ciri steps into geralt's role in the endings to the story :')

from the lesser evil, one of the original short stories and before ciri had even been concieved of as a character:

to the very end on the stairs in lady of the lake:

asides from "geralt quickly covered ciri with his body" and "very good, but if you ever do that again, i'll tan your hide"—that ciri successfully pulls off the same move, deflects the crossbow bolt with her sword, like geralt has :') oh, witcher and witcher girl...

and in this same vein, it should also be mentioned, geralt and nenneke's parting at the end of the voice of reason:

to ciri and geralt's parting in something ends, something begins:

[captain-astors]

The Crown Prince

[that1notetaker]

Mha chapter 429 Spoilers! Deku hugging ochaku mirrors exactly ochako's hug when Deku's 'heart' went out of control back all those chapters ago. In both cases, both their hearts were out of control because of someone else. Izuku because of Katsuki and Ochako because of Toga. Again, they're mirrors. They've been mirroring each other for a long time. Izuku knew exactly what to say, because he literally understands. He really does. Now, I absolutely loved the tenderness of the scene. The 'hey, you can let the ugliness out, I'm here, it's okay. You can let it out." Izuku has been dealing with his own closed-off heart for a long time, and we still haven't seen HIM open up properly. I'm not sure how the manga will handle it, IF it will. But it feels like there's something missing, for Izuku's character to round up. I vote for Deku vs Kacchan 3, a reversed of 'The only one that can accept Kacchan's feelings is me'

[pyro-madder]

in honor of my sudden re-binging of TRC, i finally bring out an unposted quality archive from 2017

[centeris2]

This seems to be an uncommon opinion but thank god SSO is making (what appears to be) serious headway into the story.

For years it felt like it had stalled out. It was valid wanting main characters and villains to be visually updated before continuing, but it slowed things down.

I'm glad they aren't going "we need to update Mr. Sands, Darko is a pretty old model compared to the Dark Riders, Avalon really needs an update, so does Pi, etc"

Because yes it absolutely would look better if everyone had the same number of polygons. And yes it WOULD be great if SSO picked up those threads mentioned throughout the main story. But if they did that and got all those map areas that had been brought up in the story quests then it'd be another 10 years of filler in the main story until they can 'wrap up'

And honestly I'm tired of waiting. This isn't even an impatience thing, this is a "I've played this game for 10+ years and at this point I don't care how it's wrapped up, as long as it IS wrapped up."

Probably helps that I don't expected a 'satisfying' ending from SSO, I just want AN ending to the main story. I expect Garnok to be 'defeated' and for the Soul Riders to be victorious, probably through the power of friendship. That's all I'm expecting.

[natjennie]

i think mostly we as a culture need to stop pretending media is for us and instead recognize that it's for the people making it. "the show didn't do the thing I wanted it to" is so not the point. did it do what the people making it wanted it to do? did it tell the story they were trying to tell? than it was successful. if that doesn't align with what you wanted to happen, don't get up in arms about it. don't badmouth the creators and throw a tantrum. that's what fan works are for. the text is the text, and it told the story it was telling. you wouldn't be like "ugh shakespeare is insane for act v btw like there was no reason for juliet to kill herself she should've just waited and then her and romeo could have been together wtf this ruined the whole play" like no!!! the themes were there the set-up was there the foreshadowing was there shakespeare did what he intended to. just because it wasn't a happy ending and just because you thought it should've went differently doesn't mean it was bad. read a fic where juliet lives and move on.

[moodyseal]

Okay I promise I will try to shut up about this specific moment in AA soon but. The dive into the past in Turnabout Succession with the whole Magnifi Gramarye case and its aftermath is already heartbreaking on its own but what I think is the most heartbreaking thing about it is how the gameplay itself carries out. I mean they could've let the player watch the case unfold as usual and then have Phoenix simply yell "HOLD IT!!" and present the single piece of evidence that got him disbarred completely on his own (no less tragic, but at least it's like hearing someone recount a memory) but they actually gave the player the choice. Or the illusion of it

A screen pops up with two single options, "Show evidence" and "No need", and of course you hesitate to click on either because this happens in the last few stretches of the game and you already know what consequences this will have. It will be bad. You try to change the outcome, click "No need". After some quick dialogue, it goes back to that screen. You click it again. It circles back to those two options. And again. And again. And then you realize you never really had a choice after all and you click "Show evidence" and then of course it ends badly. Which you knew already, but couldn't prevent

With this game dynamic you're not just witnessing this story—you become part of that case. You're forced to give the wrong advice even if you're aware it's wrong, and you're forced to knowingly doom Phoenix Wright with your own two hands

[sunshine-and-her-ikevil-stuff]

*thinking about the villains' tragic fates*

You know, their routes never really talk too much about their fates and how it effects them mentally. Or how the MC feels about it, and dealing with the fear and angst of it with the slight exception of William's route

*eyes widen*

... I think I know what the sequels are gonna be about

[tapakah0]

You know

We had the canon story with where they could at least save another timeline

You did a story where they managed to have their happy ending

And now, I suspect

It's time for the complete failure?

Nope, I've mentioned before that it will be good for one person, don't worry

[hanzajesthanza]

combining (one of my) favorite short story with (some of my) favorite characters ❤️

[d8tl55c]

early in the morning after dead'nt, orange has a question.

usually he'd still be asleep long past now, but he wanted to ask about... TDL.

without the others interrupting.

so, he goes to chosen's door.

immediately this plan starts to slip off the rails.

no one knows where dark is.

...........because the others may or may not have spent the entirety of last night searching for him in every nook and cranny except there and they said they'd tell him if they found him and no one woke him up yet so

that means, the only logical conclusion is: he's in chosen's room.

so how is orange gonna ask chosen his question????

well, usually, chosen lets him just walk in.

s0!

here goes nothin

he opens the utterly silent door.

green made it special for cho, because they didn't want anyone to ever hear it being opened.

as a special bonus, yellow was able to code the door in such a way that it would never need any maintenance related to sound: its hinges and latches would stay pristinely quiet, forever.

so chosen doesn't wake up when orange sneaks inside.

they wake up when orange takes one step in, spots bright red, and fails to stifle a gasp.

"oh shit!!" orange whispers.

chosen's eyes peek over the covers.

"I'm sorry! i didn't know- uh, i would've- if um- i can come back later-"

they stare at him. "what's wrong." chosen prefers clear and concise, especially early in the morning.

"you-" orange carefully picks his next words. "and him-"

they're in the same bed.

"yep." chosen nods.

orange stands there.

then he shrugs.

"um, sorry. on our shows, this is always a big point of conflict. we don't know why. so i just didn't want to- you know. assume otherwise."

"oh. thanks...?" chosen blinks sleepily. "yeah, it's okay."

"okay!"

"you wanted something?"

"yeah, so-"

orange cuts off again midsentence.

TDL is beginning to stir.

dark emits the highest little squeak-whine that orange has ever heard (even compared to red's baby rabbits), and raises a hand to tug chosen back down to the pillow.

chosen turns their entire face to him, trilling.

they both perform a little brushy-brushy head bonk thing.

then chosen maneuvers their body (under the covers) so it, presumably, mingles more tightly with dark's.

this is satisfactory - for now. dark grumbles about it and stuffs his head under chosen's chin.

orange stands pixel-perfectly still by the door.

"you were saying?" chosen finally turns back to him.

"uh," orange stalls.

dark's eyes open.

he awakens with terrifying speed, untangling from chosen, hoisting up from the covers, and raising a warning fireball within milliseconds.

the room shifts into blazing color and stark shadows.

he shrieks,

"GET OUT!!!"

it seems dark does not, "okay" this situation.

orange drops, scrambles, and miraculously operates the door with enough precision to tumble out the other side unscathed.

silently, the door shuts itself behind him.

...

the fireball is put away.

...

"cho, why do you allow The Beast into your room?"

chosen snorts. "it was him who rebuilt you."

dark snarls. "are you SURE it wasn't some trick? you watched the whole time? i don't trust it."

"i trust him."

"why? how?? you do understand why i have reservations about it???"

"yes," chosen nods. "But I trust him."

They press their very cold head into dark's very warm head, and both of them sigh in relief.

"He brought me you."

dark huffs. "mm."

...

"and other things," chosen concedes. "you... weren't there."

"tell me."

...

outside, orange is still collapsed, upside down, against the wall, across from chosen's door, where he crashed earlier in his escape.

red has just found him while coming upstairs to check out the commotion.

"orange!? u okay?"

"yeap," orange strains. "all good."

"what happened?"

orange's hand flops on the floor towards chosen's door. "you were right. dark's in there."

red takes a second to digest this.

then his hands fly up to his mouth.

"what're they doing in there?????? did you see???"

"yes. i dunno."

"were they ? ? ?

fucking ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?"

orange squints at him.

through the door, two voices loudly interrupt,

"NO!"

the angrier voice adds,

"AND FUCK OFF!"

red squeaks and hurries back down the stairs.

orange sighs deeply.

this has been a terrible learning experience for all.

[headfullof-ideas]

Rivalries (at least ones that aren’t in the pre-existing lore, Ala Viggo and riders, Alpheus and Ant, so on and so forth…)

I genuinely don’t really see Snotlout and Alpheus getting along. Their personalities clash too much, and Snotlout just gets beef with anyone new in this story, due to trying to protect the other riders. Alpheus being a little pompous and cocky and ‘so this is the brainless muscle-head?’ Upon first meeting didn’t really help either. Lots of petty pranks and fights between these two, with poor Ant playing mediator, albeit reluctantly due to not knowing Alpheus too well himself, he just knows Snotlout. Honestly I’m not sure about Alpheus and Dagur either, i don’t know if Alpheus would play nice with someone named Deranged, though I do see Dagur enjoying messing with him, but that’s neither here nor there-

Kaiko and Viggo have had beef for longer than Fontaine has been alive, so Viggo starts sweating when he realizes that Ant is Kaikos kid. She also scares him a little bit…or a lot a bit. Assassination attempts have been had, on both sides. As well as petty smack downs with whatever they can get their hands on. Like the drawing above, where little-sibling-extraordinaire Viggo (not to be confused to these two being siblings, just that their fights can resemble sibling fights sometimes) is utterly losing.

Camicazi and Mad Madeline are a case of thief meets thief, but Madeline is better at it than Camicazi, with the additional bonus of being a sea-faring pirate, and also being nearly five to six years younger than Camicazi. And Camicazi HATES someone being better at something than she is, especially something she insists on being so good at. So naturally they clash. Maddie spends most of it just messing with Camicazi, much to the older girls infuriation.

I would like to clarify that Astrid and Fontaine’s rivalry has nothing to do with race, though Astrid has never really interacted with a person of color due to the overall whiteness of the Archipelago, Ant being the only person with darker skin she’s ever met till she leaves the Archipelago. No, it’s because they’re both stubborn, Astrid hates being called out on her not-so-great actions, and being held responsible for those actions, and Fontaine loves pointing this out and poking the metaphorical sleeping bear that is an easy-to-piss-off Astrid Hofferson. There may be a bit of petty grudge-holding due to what Fontaine has heard about stuff that happened between Astrid and Ant too, which also pisses Astrid off. Fontaine has the same flaw of being incapable of acknowledging her own mistakes though, so Astrid makes plenty of jabs in her direction too with the same effectiveness.

Heather is obsessed with Kari’s dragon Ardyn, and Kari is mad about the time she straight up tried to run off with Ardyn. This is probably the pettiest of rivalries here, next to Camicazi and Madeline anyways. Heather pretty much just pulled an Alpheus and started having beef with a thirteen year old for no real reason beyond spite and petty rage. Granted, little Kari is a menace who is not above biting, and has bitten Heather, so there’s some of a reasonable grudge there. (Especially not helped by Heathers older brother teaching the little brat how to shoot a crossbow-) It’s hard to feel justified venting to someone about it though when you’re reminded you’re getting into squabbles with a tweenager a head and a half shorter than you who hasn’t even started puberty yet. Heather’s younger than Alpheus is in the show, so it’s a little less embarrassing when she loses, especially when it’s over something wildly different

These are the ones I can think of, and I’ve got doodles i want to draw to further elaborate on these dynamics, that might not come to light in the actual story itself. I dunno yet, we’ll see. I’m juggling a couple of things irl at the moment, so new stuff might be a bit scarce, but i’m hoping to send chapter three to my beta in a few days! So hopefully chapter three comes out sometime in the next few weeks

[dearestaeneas]

Pappappappappap.

Turn left. Up three slats. Forward for a bit. Hang a right.

Ancient drywall dust speckled the ground at his paws, the wood old and dry and at risk for splintering. It was an absolute playground.

The rat did not know this, but the house had been abandoned for years. On the other side of the wall sat dusty furniture and heavily graffitied wallpaper, empty glass bottles, and general litter. The town had debated knocking it over, putting up a parking lot, but decided against it.

There wasn’t even a shopping mall. What would we need the lot for?

So there the house remained. Abandoned and unloved by humans. The teens who hid in the leaf-filled kitchen to smoke after school did not love the house, with its 3 floors and creaky stairs. The college students who appeared each Thanksgiving night to drink and reminisce, pretending they were anything other than babies in the world did not love the house’s study, home to an elderly desk that no one cared enough to look in. The rats and birds and insects and squirrels did not see the need for the money, or the books, or the gold watch that still, despite it all, ticked.

Pappappappappap.

His little feet pounded ever forward, his little round body squeezing effortlessly upwards between wooden planks.

The little rat, with his round body and busy feet, loved the house. He did not care about the once-expensive looking rugs, or the elegant, but stained, crown molding, and he did not care about the ornate door knobs. The little rat, in no particular order, loved these things about the house:

He loved the still-somewhat-silver silverware that sat in a kitchen drawer for the noise it made when he scurried over them (knives make for a particularly pleasant noise, with their flat edges that slide off of one another).

He loved the bookshelves that lined the walls of most of the rooms, because they made for excellent perches to sit on to survey the floor (not to mention that if one of the books could be knocked over, a page could be taken for a nest with incredible ease).

He loved the plushies left behind in one of the smaller upstairs rooms. There was one that looked like him! Although this was not his favorite (that honor belonged to a little brown bear, who lay on his back, leaving his stomach open for the most wonderful of naps), it pleased him. A mirror had been knocked off the bathroom cabinet and shattered, its shards sparkling on the floor. The little rat tended to avoid that room, knowing simply that the little silver points were bad news, and not needing more information than that. However, he had not come to this conclusion without first exploring the room, for the initial shattering had mimicked the pleasant sounds of the silverware, but times a thousand. He was intrigued by the other little round-bodied rat who looked back at him from one of the shards. He hoped he was not lonely in there.

But the little rat did not love the house for what it contained. Its contents were beneficial and made life interesting and wonderful, but he would have loved the house if it were vacant and cold and bare and boring. The little rat loved the house because it was his home, and because his home loved him.

His home protected him from the rain and the snow and the cold and the heat, his home kept him entertained and safe and happy. He needed nothing and wanted for less.

Pappappappappappap.

He wanted to do something nice for his home. But what did he have to offer? He couldn’t fix the leaky roof, or replace a cracked tile, couldn’t put a chair back upright or even change a lightbulb.

Ultimately, he decided the best way he could show his love would simply be to live in his home. His home would understand his limitations, while still seeing that the little rat stayed because he wanted to, and because staying was important to him.

He climbed higher and higher, ascending more and more wooden slats and boards, scurrying from opening to opening, until finally: a break in the wall.

Drywall parted, and the little rat felt himself becoming giddy. He inched forward, his little nose twitching furiously, his little black eyes boggling.

He panted slightly, having climbed all the way up to the second floor. A journey that would take a human seconds had taken him several minutes. He looked out from his little hole in the drywall to see the ancient chandelier at eye level. If he wanted, he could climb all the way to the very top, and look down onto the chandelier. He’d done this several times, and would, inevitably, do it again.

But there was something magical to being eye level with the sparkly glass. He would say nature played a cruel joke on him, leading him to his home and cursing him with his blurred vision, stopping him from admiring the intricate details of the crystal before him, but the simple problem with this is that he didn’t know any better, didn’t know there was a world outside of the outlines and colors he saw. He loved his home for its outlines and colors, for the way that the chandelier caught the light at certain hours of the day. He loved the sparkle of the rainbow that was cast about the entryway.

Nature was not cruel, nature did not punish him or play jokes. It loved him. It loved him the way he loved his home, it protected him and marveled at him and delighted in his joy.

He sat there, squeaking with great contentment as the sun went down and its rays caught the glass, bathing him and the home he loved in color.

[feanorianethicsdepartment]

i somehow doubt that the noldor didn't tell the sindar about the first kinslaying out of malice. they weren't rubbing their hands with glee, cackling and mwa-ha-ha-ing, they weren't trying to sneak into the sindar's good graces to betray them all or whatever the fuck. i think it was more -

it can't have been deliberate. they were the children of a world without death, part of a culture that holds slaying another elf as the worst crime a person can commit, only one of them had ever raised a weapon at someone else in anger before. i think here, before their doom proper even began, the idea wouldn't have even occured to them; if it did, it would have been dismissed out of hand as obviously insane. i suspect what happened is that fëanor came up with some ridiculous cockamamie plan to steal the ships - literally to steal them, like they were going to sneak into the harbour, climb aboard the ships, and sail away without anyone noticing somehow - and of course they were discovered almost immediately, and then -

the sky was dark for the first time in almost all of their lives. as far as anyone knew, the entire world was ending, and a ton of people - on both sides - had grabbed sharp things in case of giant spider. everyone was on the edge of panic, negotiations had conclusively broken down and yet nobody was backing down, the valar were conspicuously absent, nobody could see worth a damn without the trees, nobody really knew what was happening -

that, to me, doesn't sound like the army of professional soldiers the noldor aren't yet massacring innocent fisherfolk. that sounds like the kind of situation where, if they had guns, someone would have fired a shot, and no one would ever find out who

it's chaos. the noldor somehow get out of there with the swan-ships, but not a single one of them could tell you how it happened. they don't even really start processing what they've done until they're already fleeing up the coast in a disorganised mob, and then...

children of a world without death. born to a culture that holds kinslaying as its highest taboo. there is no possible way the realisation they had just barrelled over every ethical law they had didn't hit them as hard as the trees going out

so no, i'm not surprised they didn't volunteer this information to the sindar. i mean can you imagine opening relations with thingol with this partially it's the guilt, partially it's the shame, partially it's the fact that the first thing they did on their heroic quest to reclaim their stolen masterworks was somehow actual kinslaying, that's gotta do a number on your self-image, partially... i think they were still having trouble processing it, especially early on. how do you come to terms as a culture with having done something like this, when nothing like this has ever happened before?

(and maybe - they're never going back, right? mandos was pretty clear they'd never be welcomed in valinor again, and the teleri probably aren't gonna come chasing after them seeking vengeance. whatever... that was (because they don't have a name for it, not really, everyone who knows about it was either there or learned about it while the blood (don'tthinkabouttheblood) was still drying, how do you even give a name to such a crime?) all its consequences are on the other side of the sundering sea, and chances are they'll stay there)

(so maybe. maybe if they don't mention it. maybe it can stay back in valinor, with the valar and tirion and everything else they'll never see again)

(maybe, it'll be like it never happened at all)

[fourleafclovxr]

8: hewn

Only one teacher is allowed into the Theatre of Tales, the night before the Circus of Talents. The rest are locked in their rooms, doors spelled shut with a magic far older and more powerful than their own, for all the Dean of Good might try.

But August Sader walks unrestricted in the School; Rafal could not keep him trapped if he tried. Not that he would try. There’s an old analogy about two birds. One that has every luxury in the world, but is kept in a locked cage. Another that has nothing, except for its freedom to come and go as it pleases. The first will fly away as soon as it is able. The second will always come back home.

August is still unsure of which, exactly, Rafal sees him as. Or which he is.

Rafal must know that, in the end, they are not on the same side.

But he is kind to August, or if not kind, at least lenient with him in ways no one else is afforded. Of all his colleagues August alone is allowed the privilege of freely coming and going wherever he desires. He can go home, meet his brothers, meet their children— if they want to see him. He can visit his sister and her twins, Rafal’s twins— if she lets him. Most of the time she doesn’t. The last time he saw Rhian and Japeth was their eighth birthday, the year before Evelyn sent them off to Arbed House.

A lot of the freedoms Rafal allows him are not freedoms at all, really. August would not leave the School if he could help it. He likes it here, really, likes that he’s familiar with the winding steps and the ever-alike classrooms and the intersecting hallways, likes that he knows his way around.

More than that, this is his duty. This School; this post.

And this man, just a man, who knows full well August would never believe his mystique. The School Master is sparing with his name, but he’d given it to August freely: Rafal, or, as I was known before, Rhian. Call me Rafal. My dear brother was wrong about me. He’s dead, now.

August, who had written and animated his first draft of the Student’s History of the Woods about Rafal and Rhian, or the other way around— then promptly burned it— had only nodded. Rafal’s mask had glinted, a blur of silver in August’s vision. I look forward to working with you, my Seer, he’d said.

My Seer. Rafal has always treated him like a possession, a prize. Has always been so proud that August chose to come to him. It is something that is easy to resent.

And yet August chooses to come to him, even now. Chooses to sit and listen patiently as Rafal enchants wooden likenesses of dying princes, on the other side of the Theatre for Tales. He’s spelled them to die with choked-off screams and feeble declarations of Good, though August isn’t sure how they’re dying exactly. It would be disturbing, if they weren’t in a School quite literally raising children to kill each other in their fourth year.

August has been dreaming of these things for years. Before he knew what they were.

He’s been dreaming of Rafal for longer. He knows all this already.

One last scream, and the room drifts mercifully into silence. Rafal turns, his boots clicking neatly on the floor as he makes his way back to the Good side of the theatre, cape sweeping over the floor with more flair than ever necessary.

He comes to a stop in front of August; offers his arm, fingers brushing August’s shoulder. There is not much August can do other than take it, gripping his cane firmly as Rafal pulls him to his feet. Rafal’s hands are, as always, ice-cold.

“You never have anything to say,” Rafal says lightly, half-complaining. “Perhaps this is the year my art finally gets through to you.”

“Our dearly beloved School Master,” August says, acerbic. “An artist. Perhaps you should pursue that, instead.”

“I could say the same about you, my dearly beloved Seer,” Rafal laughs. He seems happy to have gotten a rise out of August at all.

They pause just in front of the wall. August brushes his fingers over the carvings with a gentle touch; the carved knights cough and cry as he does. It’s good workmanship. Rafal has had a hundred years to improve on it, after all. But it’s not a very pleasant experience.

He says as much. “It’s not supposed to be,” Rafal replies, “they’re Evil.” He guides August to a carving of… some monster, or another, one that roars under his touch, spitting a burst of burning sparks. August tugs his hand back reproachfully. Rafal laughs, again.

“I’ll enchant something nicer for Good,” he promises. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Our first Good Seer in generations. Our first Seer with any sort of allegiance.” His voice strays dark as he completes the thought.

“You know very well why I have an allegiance,” August says mildly. It’s his duty; to kill Rafal. There is only one way this story ends.

“We could have been such good friends,” Rafal sighs. “You and I. But then I suppose we would have no reason to be.” He hooks his arm through August’s once again. They play at closeness, the two of them. Or Rafal does, at any rate.

They move to the crystal freizes, on Good’s side of the Theatre. They must be lovely, like everything to do with Good is. The stained glass is pleasantly cool under August’s fingers; he makes out the outline of a rose in bloom.

“I’m thinking of having them bloom as the students enter,” Rafal says idly. “No monsters here.”

“You just resent that Good keeps winning,” August sighs.

“I do,” Rafal admits openly. He has nothing to hide from August. He could not, either way. “There are more carvings, lower down, if you care for them.”

August nudges at the base of the wall with his cane, curious; he kneels to feel the raised patterns. Textured feathers. There, a wing, another. Borne in flight.

“Swans,” Rafal provides. Of course. He’s more predictable than he thinks.

August moves his cane along the wall, then starts walking back towards the other side, cane knocking against the continuous loop of carvings. Twin swans hewn all around the Theatre. A reminder of a promise unfulfilled.

Rafal doesn’t usually care so much.

But, of course, this Circus is special.

“This will be the tale to end all tales,” the School Master says, almost to himself. “Won’t it, August?”

“I don’t take questions,” August says.

“This is what you’re here for, after all,” Rafal continues, as if August had never spoken at all. “What role are you going to play, I wonder? Will we have to be enemies?”

This is the second to last time they will ever meet each other. August has spent years knowing Rafal, years with the idea of him— the shadow of him— living in his head. It was never going to amount to anything more than this.

Will he fly free, out of this gilded cage? Or has he sworn himself to Rafal, and his tale, and his end? You go on, no matter the cost. Seers don’t speak of costs, they only speak of duty.

Either way, both of them are trapped.

“You know,” Rafal says. Almost wistful. “You know, if I had the chance, I would want it to be you.”

[longagoitwastuesday]

ngl it sort of pisses me off the way adults regard Gojo in Jujutsu Kaisen at times. Which could be a very interesting and poignant point in a good way if well written, but as it is it becomes mainly just frustrating and sad in a negative way.

Nanami saying Gojo never cared about anything or anyone other than himself crashes interestingly with Kusakabe saying the whole situation was just all his fault because he refused to kill Itadori. The students are very aware of those aspects of Gojo's personality, but overall they seem to regard him with way more kindness and fondness even when at their rudest, not truly coinciding with either Nanami's or Kusakabe's views.