tokyoblueflame

she/her || mdi || hi!!

[tokyoblueflame]

Table of Contents: Volume I

Leni || she/her || volleyball, folklore, writing || mood range: sunshine to existential pit || soft grunge / dark academia || emotionally bonded to fictional men || soul runs on winter, sad music & katsu || lowkey plotting a novel when not hyperfixated main fandoms: Jujutsu Kaisen, Bungo Stray Dogs, AoT, JoJo, KNY, KNH 💌 certified Dazai wife || Megumi's shadow <33 songs on repeat: hunter eyes - laydownrot, eat me - 6arelyhuman

my WIPs:

Cinderborn (s. gojo x reader)

inbox and asks are open!

©2025 all works made by tokyoblueflame, you may not reproduce or translate to any platform, or create them into bots without my permission.

[satorusmegumi]

There's a gofushi week for 524 day this year!

Reblogs appreciated

[tokyoblueflame]

oh hey, i've never met another leni, what's up

the sky/j sorry I had to

ANYWAY HIII nothing tbh, I'm currently finishing JoJo pt2 while sick and drawing megumi 🥹 (art below the cut)

[leniiskindacool]

oh sick your art is gorgeous

I haven't gotten around to watching jojo's, I keep forgetting it's on my list

[tokyoblueflame]

AGH THANK YOU SM (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

[tokyoblueflame]

oh hey, i've never met another leni, what's up

the sky/j sorry I had to

ANYWAY HIII nothing tbh, I'm currently finishing JoJo pt2 while sick and drawing megumi 🥹 (art below the cut)

[tokyoblueflame]

I AM FROM BOSNIA, TAKE ME TO AMERICA 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️🇧🇦🇧🇦🇧🇦🇧🇦🇧🇦🇧🇦

[tokyoblueflame]

‎‧₊˚✧Cinderborn✧˚₊‧

| satoru gojo x suguru's little sibling |

| cw: angst, suguru's descent into madness, SH, ED, body dysmorphia. satoru, suguru and reader are one year apart in age - reader was born in july 1991, they attended jujutsu high together. hurt/no comfort

preview | part 1 | part 2

Thump.

Your bag fell heavy against the floor, creating a flat sound that richocheted off the beige walls of Satoru's apartment. The penthouse was not as huge as people thought it would be, oferring a rather introverted feeling of safety than one of luxury. You didn't even know why you lived here - not like the two of you were dating, afterall. Quite the opposite, actually.

Maybe it was convenient - you wouldn't have to pay rent, and you wouldn't have to sink a lot of cash into gas to get to Jujutsu High either. Maybe you just accepted the offer due to your own selfish desires that have been simmering down deep within since ten years ago.

One way or another - what Satoru and you had was describable as nothing and everything at once. Living with him could seem a bit intimate to others, but you never dwelled on such mundane matters. The arrangement benefitted you, and you wouldn't complain.

Afterall... he enjoyed it, too.

Once your shoes were set by the wall left of the front door, you stepped further into the dark interior of the apartment and looked around.

Looks like Satoru wasn't home yet.

A frown marred your face - he left Jujutsu Tech before you did and therefore should've been home by now. Maybe he stopped by a supermarket to pick some groceries up? Who knows. You didn't want to care, but this small part of your brain kept pressing the "what if?" button.

The dim glow of the tablepost lamp a few feet away did little to light your way to the bathroom up, feet padding softly against the carpeted parquet floor. Nimble fingers pushed the heavy bathroom door open as you flicked the light on, striding inside and sliding it closed. The tile soothed your tired feet, forcing you to relax as you stripped your uniform down - first the upper layers, then the bottoms, the cold air washing over your overworked body. Eyes fluttering half-shut, your undergarments were the next on the pile of clothing on the floor, and you swallowed down the visceral feeling of utter alienation. The person standing on the cold tile felt like a character you were tired of playing. There was a Great Divide between the 'you' that lived behind your eyes and the thing that wore your name - a body that felt too loud, too present, and yet entirely unrecognizable.

You could only stare at the reflection of the mannequin you were inhabiting - a collection of limbs and angles that felt borrowed, or perhaps stolen. It was like watching a film of someone else’s life from the back of a darkened theater: you saw the hands move, saw and even felt the chest rise and fall, but the tether between your soul and that flesh had snapped long ago.

So long ago that you almost forgot when your own face had stopped looking like yours and started looking like a reprise. You traced the line of a jaw that was too sharp to be soft, too familiar to be yours. It was his. The same pull of the skin across the cheekbones, the same ghost of a slant in the eyes, almost a genetic echo of Suguru that lived on while the man himself became a memory.

It almost made you wonder - has Satoru ever looked at you and thought of a tragedy he already survived?

A hand slammed over the reflection of your face on the mirror, eyes wide and chest heaving. You haven't noticed how you were drowning - drowning in despair, in pain. In a body not yours, in memories dark and jagged.

In a desire to be the person who ten years ago stood by Suguru and felt like her own person.

In a delusion that maybe this was all a dream and not reality - your brother would be there when you'd wake up. He'd pick on you and laugh freely, right? You'd get annoyed and jump at his taller frame, punching his chest, falling to your knees, looking up at him.

Dread.

Looking up at him through soaked lashes, pupils trembling like leaves in wind, hot rivulets scorching your cheeks as he looked at you - as if your mere existence was the cause of all his suffering. As if you were another one of those monkeys he abhorred with a burning passion.

Your hand slid down the glass, leaving a blurred, streaky trail over the face you didn't want to claim. The "monkey" he hated, the "reprise" Satoru loved - the labels felt like lead weights tied to your ankles, pulling you under.

You turned away from the reflection, your movements jerky and uncoordinated, like a marionette with tangled strings. The glass of the shower door felt biting against your palms as you pushed it open, stepping into the narrow stall. It felt less like a bathroom and more like a glass casket.

When you reached for the handle, your fingers fumbled, the metal cold and unyielding before the pipes groaned to life. You didn't wait for the temperature to even out. You just stood there, staring at the drain, as the first spray of water hit your skin - a shocking, needle-like sting that should have brought you back to reality, but only pushed you further into the sidelines.

As the steam began to curl around your knees, obscuring the sight of your own legs, you leaned your forehead against the tiles. The rhythmic thrum of the water against your scalp sounded like a heartbeat that wasn't yours. You closed your eyes, letting the spray wash over the jawline that looked too much like his, the shoulders that felt too heavy to be yours, wishing the water could scrub away the DNA, the memories, and the haunting familiarity until there was nothing left but the porcelain and the quiet.

The steam had turned the small stall into a white void, blurring the edges of the world until you were nothing but a ghost in a cloud. You didn't hear the bathroom door click open over the roar of the water, nor the soft thud of discarded clothes - only felt the sudden shift in the air, a slight break in the spray as a much larger shadow stepped into the stall behind you.

Satoru didn't speak - he rarely ever did in moments like this.

You found yourself thanking him for it.

A burly arm enveloping around your waist pushed your conscious back to reality, the heat of Satoru's chest against your back offering a momentary repose - though it didn't last long enough to make you feel better. Another feeling burrowed deep in your bones beside it - a spiritual exhaustion and listlessness that leaves one feeling lost and desperate for any sign of meaning.

"Hey. Stop it," he murmured, his voice vibrating against your wet skin, muffled by the sound of water hitting tile. He didn't specify what to stop - the thinking, the spiraling, the silent grieving - but he knew.

You both did.

Satoru's damp hair tickled along your neck, his lips pressing into the junction of your neck gently - almost reverently. Your eyes drifted shut again, Satoru's large palm covering your stomach entirely. The two of you stayed like that for a while, and then he turned you around quietly. Water sluiced down his face, masking whatever expression lay beneath his wet lashes. A hand - the one not holding you close at the back - lifted to graze a knuckle over your hollowed-out face with dangerous tenderness; a tenderness so scary you could've recoiled from the contact.

But you didn't.

Satoru took it as a green light to press his forehead against yours, water pouring down on his back shielding you. You let your head hang, your forehead resting against his with a limpness that felt terminal. By this point, you were beginning to lose the ability to tell where the water stopped and your body began.

His hands moved over your back, his touch grounding and real, but you felt it as if through layers of thick wool. You were starting to become a passenger in your own life - again.

Or maybe you never stopped being one.

Watching Satoru's fingers press into your skin and thinking, 'That’s a nice hand,' as if it weren't touching you at all. As if the body he was holding with such care was just a piece of luggage you were tired of carrying.

You didn't cry. You were past crying. You were just... vanishing.

Vanishing, and Satoru knew - God, he knew, but didn't know how to stop it.

Now that he thought about it, his own stupidity and lack of skill in this field was what drove Suguru to a fate worse than death. Hell, he could understand why your eyes held such a burning albeit exhaused resentment all those years ago at the vending machine.

History was repeating itself once again - and Satoru didn't know how to alter it this time either.

His fingers dug into the skin of your waist, a bruising reminder that you were still solid, still there. Satoru didn't want the ghost; he wanted the girl who hated him. He’d take the resentment over your silence any day. It at least implied you were alive enough to feel something other than this void that scared even him - the Strongest.

Satoru just stared at your face - the outlines of what you felt didn't belong to yourself, the traces of a reprise you despised - and covered your eyes with his warm, wet palm, his thumb pressing almost too hard against your temple. He didn't want to see the way you were looking through him with his best friend's eyes. It angered him so irrationally; why did you have to resemble Suguru so much? Why you? Why couldn't he see the true you beneath all the similarities you and Suguru shared?

Satoru couldn't admit out loud that - for the sake of him - he despised you a little for it.

Your eyes closed as his palm settled over them, black clouding behind them as you just stood. Maybe the quiet stillness of the world would've felt nice had you not gotten used to anxiety and uncertainness plaguing your mind 24/7.

The sound of the shower faded into background noise, only the feeling of suffocation and a haunting restlessness residing within you. When your eyes reopened again, you weren't in the shower anymore.

Breathe.

A house was visible a distance away.

A house not yours, but of the thing inhabiting your body.

Fire. Not red flames - blue. Blue, like the sky you once loved gazing at, throttling and detonating in a wave of blinding, dry pressure. You were there, too.

In the house.

Burning down with it.

No air.

There was no air.

The fire sucked it out of he house like a vacuum, leaving you swallowing jagged shards of shame instead of oxygen - temperature rising to feverish degrees, feverish enough to scald at your skin and senses alike. The house was fading, too.

Was that Suguru?

It looks like him.

But Suguru wouldn't leave you alone in a house of collapsing cards you had no strength to lift back up again, would he?

Would he?

Something exploded in your ears - a white noise strong enough to knock you down into the flames even further. The vacuum was absolute. You reached for a breath and found only a mouthful of grit and the ghost of a laugh that didn't belong to you. The house of cards didn't just fall; it vaporized. As the last of the oxygen was siphoned away, the world narrowed down to the heat of that palm over your eyes- the only thing keeping your head from shattering.

You wanted to beg him to let go, or maybe to press harder until the skull cracked and let the heat out, but your tongue was a heavy, charred weight in a mouth that no longer knew how to form words.

You were drowning, and you didn't even know.

And you would've preferred to stay trapped in this nightmare, but your throat constricted too forcefully, your hands gripped Satoru's wrist too desperately for it to continue being all a dream.

The sound of water toppling down against the tile smashed against your ears with blazing force, the bathroom’s artificial glow feeling like needles behind your retinas. Your lungs, finally finding oxygen, didn’t welcome it. You didn't just breathe; you heaved - a ragged, wet sound that tore through the rhythm of the falling water.

"Breathe," Satoru commanded, though his own voice sounded like it was being dragged through gravel.

But how could you breathe? The water hitting your skin felt like lead bullets. The ceramic under your feet was too hard, too cold. You were back in the mannequin, but the joints didn't fit right anymore, they never did. You felt the skin of your face, the jawline that belonged to a man dead ideologically - and it felt like a mask that had been fused to your skull with heat.

You weren't screaming anymore, but the silence was worse. It was the sound of a fire finally running out of things to burn. You slumped against Satoru, your forehead sliding down his chest, leaving a trail of heat against his skin. You wanted to tell him that the house was gone. You wanted to tell him that Suguru hadn't stayed.

But what came out was the sound of a body long dead.

[tokyoblueflame]

‎‧₊˚✧Cinderborn✧˚₊‧

| satoru gojo x suguru's little sibling |

| cw: angst, suguru's descent into madness, graphic descriptions of murder/gore, SH, ED, body dysmorphia. satoru, suguru and reader are one year apart in age - reader was born in july 1991, they attend jujutsu high together. hurt/no comfort

part 1 - 2008

Winter, 2007

It was cold.

Not just outside - it was rather snowy today as it was still December, but even inside, it felt... unwelcome. You were laying on the cold floor of your dorm, a photo propped up against the wall. Its edges were worn out and just shy of crumpled from the number of times your fingers held onto there, almost a reminder of how you could never be the girl you were in that moment, captured on Haibara's old camera.

The wind rattled against your window, but you didn't budge, still staring back at the three youthful, smiling faces painted on the photo. It irked you.

How did he have the energy to smile, even when rotting from inside? How could he hug you so warmly, eyes crinkling at the corners with his happiness bleeding through paper? You almost wanted to resent your older brother for slipping away while right next to you. Loving someone while watching them decay ideologically is a specific kind of helplessness - you've had to sit with it longer than you knew how to mourn a person still alive and within an arm's length, yet so, so far away. The feeling that he chose the abyss over you - his reason to keep going packed into a bundle of restless energy and fiery vigor - spent enough time loitering inside you that you even dared to now consider it a part of yourself.

The light overhead flickered as the snowstorm raged on outside of your room, juxtaposing how you felt: empty. Dead. Black swam through your vision, an increasing pressure on the back of your head amplifying tenfold with each passing second you spent staring at the photo -something ugly brewing in your gut - knotting it into a million tiny loops. The feeling then traveled from there and up, bile rising in your esophagus slow enough that you had time to weakly force your body upright and run to the bathroom, falling before the toilet and retching.

A strong hand suddenly twisted in your dark strands, pulling them back into a makeshift ponytail as your body voided itself of everything it had left - which wasn't much anyway, save for a helplessness too heavy and a dignity torn apart.

Your hands flexed around the toilet rim, eyes drifting shut.

"Easy." Satoru's smooth voice rung out from behind you, his other hand massaging the junction between your shoulder and neck. A sharp discomfort shot through your muscles at the motion, a pained frown manifesting on your face.

How did he come here in the worst possible moment?

Empty coolness replaced the small bit of comfort Satoru's hands offered as he walked over to the sink, soaking a towel underneath warm water and kneeling next to you. One of his fingers lightly pulled a wayward strand from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear.

You couldn't bring yourself to look at him - the shame of being seen in a moment as vulnerable as throwing up settling over you like an uncomfortable weight.

"Bug. C'mon." Satoru's tone slid into a subdued, more mindful tone as he tapped your chin with the same finger. "I want to help you. Let me."

The words almost made you believe him - even for a second, and it felt... intoxicating. You finally forced your eyes open, sending Satoru a tired sideways glance. "I barfed my guts out in front of you."

"So what?"

"It's embarrassing."

"I've seen you wave back at people you thought were waving at you." He shot back, trying to get you to relax and smiling gently.

As much as you hated both Satoru and his smile, you faced him. The soothing glide of the towel wiping at your lower face making you drowsy and letting your guard down.

Satoru focused on being as mindful as possible, cleaning at the small bit of regurgitated content away and off the corners of your mouth. This wasn't the first time - and possibly wouldn't be the last - he saw you in such condition. Ever since Suguru became a curse user, you've been deteriorating both mentally and physically. It worried him quite a bit - Satoru was sure his best friend would be mad if he knew you were doing this unwell.

So, he tried.

Satoru tried his damned best at being there for you.

But it didn't always seem to get through your thick skull.

Once he was done cleaning your lips, Satoru threw the towel into your sink and sighed. You tried getting up - again, tried - but your traitorous body was quite too weedy to hold itself up, thus you stumbled to the left dangerously, head bowing as your hand flew up to it. The pounding headache was back, making you appear even more frail than you really were.

And if there's one thing you hated, it was someone you cared about too much seeing you as weak.

Satoru was quick with coming to your aid, swiftly throwing your arm over his built shoulders and helping you stand straight.

"Thank you," you whispered, grunting quietly in an effort to not lean so much of your weight on him. Satoru tsked, shaking his head.

"S fine. Don't mention it."

You sighed in relief when he languidly picked you up and set you down on your bed, instantly curling up into a ball and shivering from exhaustion once Satoru threw a blanket over your sickly figure.

"You need water? Snacks? Anything?" He probed, feeling useless now that you were taken care of.

You shook your head, already half-asleep. "M-m."

Satoru nodded in silence, looking oddly serious as his knuckles ran over the reddened, irritated patch of skin below your eye. His heart dropped only a little, throat drying up as he realized just how much you were struggling.

"... okay. I'll check on you later, bug."

And you wish it would've stayed this warm in spring of 2008, but the resentment over Satoru not noticing Suguru's spiral that planted itself in your heart just about outweighed everything else you felt for him - even the purest of emotions there are.

January, 2008

"And you have to focus your attention on-" Satoru stopped listening to what Shoko was going on about the moment he saw you walk past him with your two friends - Mae and Fumiko, both semi-grade two sorcerers and your close firends.

Or at least he thought they were close to you.

You were laughing with Fumiko, one arm over the girl's shoulder and bent at the elbow while the other was looped through Mae's as the three of you walked. Obviously, you felt Satoru burn holes through the back of your skull but chose to ignore it. He wasn't worthy of your attention, anyway.

Satoru's fist balled up, nails digging crescent-moon shapes into the skin of his palm at the sight of your smile. Why were you trying to play okay? The smile was so clearly forced - you looked pained and tired, almost hollow from his standing point. Yet, he found himself wondering...

Why couldn't you be like that with him?

Smiling, caring, touching. Trying to show you don't hate him.

Satoru grit his teeth together, not even trying to pretend he was looking at you. Shoko raised an eyebrow, noticing how her friend got antsy out of the blue.

"... You know you're staring at the poor girl, right?" She poked, testing the waters.

"Mhm."

"... Aight. Sure." Shoko shrugs, deciding to play along with Satoru's game. He's been restless for the past few months, and she knew it wasn't because of Suguru's departure. It was worse.

----_----

You’ve already pressed the same button three times. Nothing. Just a dull whir and the flicker of a drink that refuses to drop, caught on the edge like it’s thinking about it and deciding against you.

You press it again, harder this time. Useless.

“Gonna break it if you keep doing that.”

The voice comes easy, light - too light for how quiet the hallway is and for how dull you feel.

You don’t turn, but you sense him before you see him.

Satoru's large frame pops up beside you out of nowhere, snowy hair ruffled and reading glasses slipping down the sharp slope of his nose. You clench your jaw, the muscle popping painfully.

He leans in slightly, long fingers already moving toward the panel.

“Here, you’ve gotta-”

Your hand wraps around his forearm before he can finish.

“Stop.”

Satoru freezes, the celestial azure of his orbs locked on your face twisted into something almost representing… resentment.

"What?" he questions, confusion washing over his pale features - the half-smile that had been on his face up until a second ago vanishing as quick as it appeared. The way you were looking at him just a second ago… it hurt. it shouldn't have, but it felt as if a hand were crushing Satoru’s heart, nails sinking into the muscle.

"Stop doing… this." You finally look up, teeth digging into the flesh of your inner cheek in order to suppress the tears threatening to spill. The hurt and confusion on his face was painfully clear, and the sight awoke a sick sense of sadism somewhere deep within you. You got off on it.

"I'm not a fucking charity case you need to save. I can do it on my own, alright? Just… leave me alone."

The words land colder than you expected.

For a moment, it feels good.

Clean. Like cutting something out before it festers.

But it doesn’t last long. Not by a mile.

The flip switches - everything you said sitting heavy in your throat, sharp and wrong, like you swallowed something poisoned and broken beyond repair.

Satoru doesn’t move.

For once, he doesn’t have anything ready. No joke, no deflection, no easy way to flip the moment back into something lighter.

You’ve never spoken to him like that before.

Not when you were sick. Or when you could barely stand.

Not even when you were at your worst.

This... this was new. Satoru's is gaze dropped, just briefly, to where your hand was still wrapped around his arm.

The contact feels different suddenly. Not at all familiar.

Heavy. Suffocating.

“I’m not…” he starts, and the words sound wrong coming from him - quieter, thinner than they should be. Meek.

He doesn’t try to continue.

Your grip tightens for a second before you let go, teeth grinding, the pressure behind your eyes building too fast, too much. You want to cry. You want to hit him.

You want him to understand you without you having to explain anything at all.

“Damn. Okay.” The words are soft, awkward in a way he never is.

Satoru steps back, careful. Like he was suddenly aware of the rift between you and didn't know how to bridge it anymore.

“Sorry.”

The apology leaves his mouth uneven. Not enough. Too much. Both. Nothing and everything all the same.

He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder before turning away, leaving.

You watched him go - vision blurring, chest tight, something hollow opening up where the anger was a second ago.

Behind you, the vending machine finally gave in with a dull thunk.

The drink dropped.

But did it mean anything, now? After you've pushed yet another person you care about away and forced yourself to drown in despair and grief like you were in a never-ending loop?

You weren't quite sure.

leni's note: i wrote this after a whole day of eating pies, soups, salads and baklava T-T. Eid Mubarak to all my lovelies!!

[tokyoblueflame]

another AoT ramble because it's got me in a chokehold!!

i personally don't believe eremika are doomed. doomed ships are left unresolved, cut off. one person doesn't know how much love the other held for them and often believe they were nothing more than just a 'friend' to said person.

eremika is quite the opposite.

these two paid the price of loving one another in a world which doesn't allow softness to bloom - and that's what sets them apart from the rest. yes, mikasa has spent more years sitting by eren's grave than she has standing next to him, but she still knew - and he did too - how deep their love ran. imagine having this gutting burden of being the Coordinate placed upon your shoulders as a child, and your only anchor is a girl you killed two men for at nine, just so she would live. that same girl later on becomes your appointed executioner whom you found a way to create an alternate reality for where everything is calm - and you plant those memories in her mind just before going on and lying about hating her your entire life.

who in any sense of 'doomed' would find a way to branch the current reality just to see their beloved happy? exactly, no one.

i also believe they're not doomed because mikasa lived a long, maybe not as happy - but still safe and peaceful life after eren's death, just as he wished. they reunite in the afterlife (as shown in the "Itterasshai" video on YT) and get their happy ending. in every other universe, they're together. happily.

another thing: mikasa had the strength to behead him purely thanks to how selfless she is, and because of those "memories" eren gave her. she knew, thanks to the cabin AU, that eren loves her just as much as she loves him. it gave her the strength to collapse her own world - just for the sake of what has come to be left of others' worlds. yeagerists can cry about it, but that is NOT doomed. it's incredibly beautiful in its own way: eren finally got to rest after being someone everyone relies on, and mikasa's constant suffering over seeing him destroy himself would come to a stop.

in the end, mikasa chose the world over eren, but eren chose mikasa over the world by giving her that long, peaceful dream. her living a long life was her ultimate act of love for him - carrying his memory so he wasn't truly gone, even if it meant she had to endure the loneliness.

eren wasn't ever a monster or a martyr; he was a boy who broke the world so the person he loved most could finally be safe in it. to call that 'doomed' is to fundamentally misunderstand the cost of his freedom -and hers all the same.

[tokyoblueflame]

‎‧₊˚✧Cinderborn✧˚₊‧ (preview)

| satoru gojo x suguru's little sibling |

| cw: angst, suguru's descent into madness, graphic descriptions of murder/gore, SH, ED, body dysmorphia. satoru, suguru and reader are one year apart in age - reader was born in july 1991, they attend jujutsu high together. hurt/no comfort

Your older brother, Suguru, was the axis your whole world spun around. Then there was Satoru Gojo and Suguru was his “one and only,” or whatever he used to call him with that stupid grin. You were close to Satoru too, at least in the way a shadow is close to the flame that burns it. He cared. He tried. But Suguru moved through Satoru's orbit with a kind of ease that made a wound open and bleed, no matter how many times you stitched it back together.

Maybe it was envy. Maybe it was longing. Maybe it was that dangerous thing in between, the kind people pretend doesn’t exist because naming it would tear open the sky.

There was always tension - fine, invisible, coiled. Not the playful kind. This was the type born in the space between salvation and destruction, where tenderness feels like a trap and love scorches deep enough to leave bone exposed and your chest torn open.

The change was sudden - Suguru went down the "wrong path" - even though you knew there was no true wrong or right in this context.

Two years after Suguru wiped out your home - a village of 114 people, 112 of them slaughtered without hesitation including your parents - you stopped pretending that the ache in your chest was anything but real. Something inside you shattered. Something else started to grow in its place. Satoru became the only remaining witness to both versions of you: the one Suguru loved, and the one he destroyed.

[ourskiesaboveus]

actually, caesar was stabbed 60 times. it just looked like 23 because, after the tumblr update,

[tokyoblueflame]

AoT ramble cuz people pmtfo

-----------------------

From a morally ambiguous, survival-first framework, Eren’s logic makes sense. If extermination of your people is on the table, preemptive annihilation becomes a brutal form of deterrence. It’s the logic of nuclear doctrine. It is literally saying, "if I don’t end this, my people die.”

From a moral philosophy lens, say deontology (duty-based ethics), genocide is wrong regardless of outcome. The intentional killing of innocents violates moral law.

From utilitarianism (maximizing overall well-being) it still collapses. The suffering inflicted outweighs the claimed benefit. You can’t math your way into global extinction being net positive. What makes Eren compelling is that he believes the future is fixed.

The determinism (the philosophical and scientific belief that all events, including human actions and decisions, are inevitable consequences of preceding causes and natural laws. It implies that, given the past, only one future is possible, challenging the notion of free will) angle muddies agency. If you see a future and act to fulfill it, are you choosing freely or are you trapped in a causal loop? The series continuosly keeps asking that with almost every episode. On the contrary, if the story started from Marley’s perspective, Eren would look like an apocalyptic villain from page one.

The story isn’t posing the question of, “Is he right?" Its looking for an answer to, “At what point does survival turn into self-deification?”

Eren says he wants freedom. But absolute freedom without restraint becomes domination. And domination is the same logic used against his people in the first place. The cycle doesn’t break, it simply mutates.

[anhedoniacity]

man it’s genuinely diabolical that fujimoto was like how can i fuck up aki hayakawas life the absolute maximum amount possible and then on top of everything else he went and made him bisexual

[skiplo-wave]

Love chainsaw man analysis

[tokyoblueflame]

they're everywhere ffs someone save me from the doomed yaoi