#Experienced Presenter

[louisdelac]

anyways when richard siken said "if you can point to it, you don't need a word for it. you only need a word for it when it's no longer there"

and when tolkien said "but of bliss and glad life there is little to be said, before it ends; as works fair and wonderful, while still they endure for eyes to see, are their own record, and only when they are in peril or broken for ever do they pass into song."

and when claudia said "diaries are friends of last resort"

we don't see madeleine and claudia in their months together because their happiness was created in the present and presence of each other, and captured only in the eyes of the other. there's no need to share to strangers what was already shared between the people it mattered most to. the voyeurs of the world will only ever see the outline of where pleasure lies.

[braxiatel]

I am so sorry I am not here to yuck anyone’s yum but if there’s one thing that never fails to absolutely shatter my suspension of disbelief and make me click right out of a mcyt fanfiction it’s referring to the characters by the content creators’ nationalities in a canon setting. Please they’re not from anywhere in the real world they’re from minecraft their nationality is blocks their passport says ꖎ╎ᓭℸ ̣ ᒷリ ⊣∷╎ᔑリ リ𝙹ʖ𝙹↸|| ℸ ̣ 𝙹⚍ᓵ⍑ᒷᓭ ᒲ|| ʖ⚍ᓭ⍑ ||𝙹⚍∷ᒷ ↸𝙹リᒷ ╎ℸ ̣ ᔑꖎꖎ ᓭℸ ̣ ᔑ∷ℸ ̣ ᒷ↸ ∴⍑ᒷリ ⊣∷╎ᔑリ ℸ ̣ 𝙹⚍ᓵ⍑ᒷ↸ ᒲ|| ∷ᒷ↸ᓭℸ ̣ 𝙹リᒷ ⍑ᒷ !¡ꖎᔑ||ᒷ↸ ⍑╎ᒲᓭᒷꖎ⎓ ꖎ╎ꖌᒷ ᔑ ̇/||ꖎ𝙹!¡⍑𝙹リᒷ ᓭᒷℸ ̣ 𝙹リ ᔑ⚍ℸ ̣ 𝙹ᒲᔑℸ ̣ ╎ᓵ ↸𝙹ᓵ ᒲ𝙹リᓭℸ ̣ ᒷ∷ ╎ᓭ ᔑ ᓭᔑ

[paperleef]

Prompts for the sh&co week event by lazypigeons on twitter!

[jirairot]

the sheer number of creators I see on tik tok who base 90% of their content on supposed "mental health awareness" and experiences in psych wards who say absolutely fucking disgusting things about the other people who were in the ward with them for showing "scary" or "weird" symptoms is genuinely astounding.

like???? you were in a PSCYH WARD not a fucking HOLIDAY PARK. THEY WERE MOST LIKELY IN THERE AS A RESULT OF THOSE BEHAVIORS OR THOUGHTS.

you can't preach "mental health awareness" but then throw any mentally ill person who's symptoms you deem "scary" or are otherwise unable to romanticise/sugarcoat/immediately relate to under the bus.

have some fucking compassion.

[ahli-stuff]

Radioapple could be better

Back in the old days radioapple was my fan favorite crack ship . How the times change

Before we got our official depiction of Lucifer as we have now, I imagined him to be condescending, sly, manipulative character who would go on to be Alastor’s foil. Now, the only thing of that remains is that he is Alastor’s foil but the subversion of the sexy and powerful Lucifer of pop culture into sad-awkward dad Lucifer is amazing and I’ve grown really fond of it.

But for how popular it is now, there’s still a big itch that fan content for radioapple (or maybe just Lucifer) fails to scratch for me. This isn’t an issue I have that’s exclusive to Lucifer either, I nearly lost my mind about it in Tv series Lucifer(2016) too.

it’s the fact that there’s barely anyone seems to depict Lucifer’s sheer knowledge. If we are going by the finale, 10,000 years ago is when Lucifer first fell. He is at least 10,000 years old.

10,000 years to learn from the millions of stories (in passing and directly) who have fallen into hell. The wars, the disasters, the movements, the people!!! Age does not equate to wisdom, but you cannot live that long and fail to pick up a certain degree of separation from petty grievances of people who have lived only a fraction of the time you have. That’s doesn’t mean you’re immune to doing irrational things or having childish flaws, but those should coexist with the sheer weight of your knowledge. There should be a certain novelty that an immortal feels in being grounded around very young people who treat them like they are human. Because the knowledge and experience that comes with being immortal can be very dehumanizing, and that is especially so for a figure who has been maybe the most demonized in myth and religion ever.

Give me a Lucifer who knows thousands of different writings, religions, traditions, languages. Give me a Lucifer who contemplates the cruelty of some of the most infamous sinners in real life that have fallen into hell. Give me a Lucifer who becomes lost in ancient levels of nostalgia—his halcyon days with Lilith when humanity began to rear up and he was still hopeful.

Give me an Alastor who, beyond his resentment and ego, is deathly curious how Lucifer works. As a kid who likely went to church every Sunday and listened to pastors caution against the devil so many times his ears may fall off, to meet the guy himself? To meet the entity whom the entirety of the god fearing south wanted to scare him to sleep with? To finally meet the dealmaker of dealmakers?

Give me a late night conversation between the two where they discuss the what alastor has heard about Lucifer topside, Lucifer’s genuine curiosity of Alastor’s morality as a human, and the overall smallness of their existences in the largeness of their myths.

[beforeitrains]

"Go play with someone else, Sou."

[lunamond]

I just adore the way Paul's visions are presented in the new movies.

The way it is never quite clear if they are symbolic, if they show possibilities. Both? Neither? Do they all come true?

The way that the people shown in them aren't even necessarily representing themselves.

Like how many of the visions in Part 1 later on in Part 2 get flipped around.

There is the obvious one with Chani taking Paul's place in the fight sequence from his vision, but there are so many more:

Chani holding the bloody knife vs. Paul after the duel with Feyd

Chani leading him through the desert and showing him the coming battle vs. Jessica leading him through the desert towards death and destruction (both wearing flowy white gowns)

Chani whispering his name vs. Alia doing so post water

Kinda interesting how much Chani, his lover, ends up being a stand-in for either his mother or sister.

Jamis killing Paul and holding his hand as he dies vs Paul being the one to kill and comfort Jamis

Chani stabbing Paul/betraying him vs. Paul being the one to betray Chani

Chani being exposed to a nuclear blast, and her face being severely burnt vs [redacted]

It makes them disorienting and confusing, and they are meant to be, Paul is also never quite sure what they mean for most of the movies.

But all of this changes once he drinks the water of life.

Prior to the water, they were always accompanied by an orange-gold glare and intercut with brief flashes of various imagery (fire, a bloody hand, expanding shadows, etc).

But as the visions themselves tell us: to see the future clearly, he needs to know the past.

So, once he gains access to his ancestral memory, his visions become clear.

They are no longer undercut with flashes of other images. Both the vision of the ocean in the desert and the memory of baby Jessica and the Baron are shot in a way that is undistinguishable from the rest of the movie. Before this, either the editing, the flares, etc. sth was always helping us differentiate between vision and reality. But from this point, they appear as real as the present.

Also, the fact that Alia is both the first person he sees after the water and the first to actively talk to him through the visions. She is also the first one (since Leto) who doesn't seem to put conditions on her love.

All of this makes me super excited to see how Denis is going to approach Paul's visions in Dune Messiah, knowing how important his experience of them are for his character.

[snakeguy999]

heya! do you have any tips on drawing, you have a good style that is very pleasing to the eye.

Yess my best tip is to always try to draw something youve never drawn before otherwise you never learn(ie. Get good) and to do that in a sketchbook to see progress clearly. Also a sketchbook is not meant to be pretty and beautiful, it meant to be full of notes, thoughts and art. It is a reflection of your mind if you let it be. You dont need to show it to anybody. You dont need to polish every doodle. It doesnt matter. Also watch Proko.

[awkwardtuatara]

Having the vaguely interesting and annoying urge to write bnha fanfic metafiction about Jeanist, Monoma, and Mic. Like with Monoma it's right there - his obsession with drama, forced to be the side character, "I'm pulling the strings!" etc. etc. but also Best Jeanist as the designated explainer, the guy with the inspiring speech that just so happens to tell you what the main theme of this fight/arc is; there's no room to tell us his own motivations, his backstory, because he has to tell us what the Heroes should believe and how Working Together is the important thing. And he's very aware of that. He has to know everything that's going on because he's holding together the narrative threads as well as the literal ones, he's the one who knows what the story's about but can't know how it ends. (Maybe he'd even get along with Monoma.) And finally Present Mic's announcer segments being the most common way we see him - who is he talking to? what show is he hosting but the one we're watching? Every scene he's in, he's tangentially connected to the main Plot going on, maybe he's even involved, but he's the witness. He can tell us who these new characters are but he will not meet them. He watches the disaster, he's in the disaster, but he can't change anything. For all three - somehow being aware of the roles they play separates them from the focus, impossible to really dive into, because they've become storytelling devices as well as people.

So they're always always putting on a performance, being flamboyant and confident and embodying whatever they're supposed to. Sure heroics is performative, but there's a certain incredibly deliberate thought and shaping that's gone into their facades. The denim theme and the Responsible One - actually everything about how Jeanist approaches heroics, that's an entirely separate topic, his entire character is just like that and it's fascinatingly frustrating because there's never anything about who he actually is; he is the denim costume and the top-ranked hero and the one who thinks about what's actually happening, there's no Hakamata Tsunagu without it, but that's besides the point. the obnoxious competitive kid. the happy-go-lucky, loud, fun one. and these are absolutely masks, because we've seen Present Mic let it go when he is trapped and pushed, in the moments when he does become part of the story, a real character - he is intense and desperate and it changes nothing. Hakamata needs his performance to be himself, to be a hero, to maintain control. Monoma... just look at him in s7. he's Important now and the euphoria is so intense his laughter is so close to sobbing, and this is what flips his perception, gives him the blissful illusion for a few episodes that he's the main character when he's still not. like bnha is almost certainly not making metafictional commentary in any form (except maybe s7 monoma), but I could make it.

[dykehayleywilliams]

now presenting.... a showdown for the most iconic hayley williams outfit of all time!

Currently in round 2!

Active Polls: Hangout Music Fest 2015 v. SXSW 2013 | House of Blues 2009 v. Paraween 2022

Round 1 eliminations: Parahoy 2016 star jeans | Honda Civic tour promo | Fallon 2023 | MTV Music Awards 2013 | Have A Nice Day | CMTs 2011 | Warped Tour 2007 | VMAs 2008 | Still Into You MV | Told You So MV | EMAs 2010 | VMAs 2009 | Little Mermaid shirt | Warped Tour 2011 | The Smiths shirt | Security | Rock AM Ring 2013 | Riot Fest 2017 | Oversized camo jacket | SXSW press 2013 | Kimmel 2017 rehearsal | Eras Tour Night 1 | Boston 2017 | Fresno 2009 | Oklahoma City 2022 | I love Parawhores | Bakersfield 2022 | We Can Survive 2014 | GMA 2017 | MTV TRL 2007 | Empress Ballroom 2005 | BNE Tour baseball tee

Round 2 eliminations: The Forum 2018 | Leeds 2014 | Playing God MV | Wembley 2013 | ACL Weekend 1 2022 | Paramore is a BAND | The News MV | Tulsa 2023 | Daddy hat | B.O.Y | Summer Sonic 2009 | Toronto 2022 | The Fillmore 2013 | Soundwave 2013

[divyajaitly]

Transform Your Event with a Skilled Live Events Presenter

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[strawglicks]

huge shoutout to chip revvingtons animations ESPECIALLY in the ending cutscene. my god. like i had seen some of them by themselves but never saw them in action, before, during, and after the fight. never been so entranced watching a man have a mental breakdown

[uncanny-tranny]

If you truly want to do what's best for mentally ill people, you have to learn that you often won't be able to separate the "salvageable" parts of ourselves with our illnesses, and you can't pretend like we are sane people underneath the façade of insanity, like we can flip a switch and magically erase the differences that make us "disordered"

[aziraphales-library]

Hello! Looking for an ao3 fic I read, Crowley if femail presenting, Aziraphale is mail presenting, Az is tasked with tempting a human woman thru seduction, but doesn't know how, and asks C to tutor him. Set in the 1900s I think, there are still dances/balls, but doesn't feel Elizabethan or renaissance. Thanks for any help! .

Hi! I believe you're looking for...

An Angel's Temptation by summerofspock (E)

When Heaven assigns Aziraphale a seduction (in not so many words), his attempts at research only serve to disturb him. So when Crowley offers to personalize his learning experience, Aziraphale jumps at the chance, not realizing how quickly he'll get in over his head. Because all that stuff he found disgusting in his research? It turns out it's pretty good when he's doing it with Crowley.

- Mod D

[ehlnofay]

Pax should have said no.

Damn it all, they should have said no. Should have said go to hell and fucked off back – stop contacting me, sort out your own shit – but they didn’t, fuck knows why, and now they’re stuck here.

(They know why. They know exactly why; absolutely anything would be better than fucking off back to Cyrodiil. What’s for them there?)

But there’s nothing worth staying for here either, and now she’s crammed in between strangers on a long table, everyone dressed in fabrics she’s never seen with dyes so saturated they seem almost gory, eating stuff that isn’t food and talking loud enough to make her want to hurl a glass into the wall. It’s bizarre. The woman next to her, ruddy-faced and bald, wears a headpiece that shines like the sun the Isles doesn’t have; the other side is taken up by a stranger in a bone-white porcelain mask who has not moved but to swill the wine around in their glass. There’s scarcely room for Pax’s chair. It all feels like such a baffling pantomime of aristocracy (she's known the real thing well enough – feasts and toasts and luxurious gifts she had no use for, and if she doesn’t stop thinking about it she actually will throw a glass), bright colours and rich settings and a god taking offerings at the head of the table.

At least, Pax thinks, no-one tries to talk to him; they’re too busy fawning over their lord. Which is probably to be expected; but it all feels so strange, so unsettling, the way they all lean in towards it like flowers turning to face the sun, like seaweed dragged at by the inescapable pull of the tides. They grow towards it through the cracks in the air, matter moving toward the inevitable centre, as if they can imagine nothing more than this.

(Even more unsettling is the way it responds in kind, listening attentively to anyone who speaks to it, leaning in as though to kiss them, as though to swallow them whole. All hell, why did Pax agree to this? Why did they come?)

(They should have told it to fuck off. Should have said no way, I don’t want to help you, don’t want to get involved in anything you’d need my help for. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I’m done.)

(Pax is done. Pax is sick to death of all this shit; doesn’t want to deal with this, the vaguely described problems of a god that picks people apart like it’s unravelling a thick yarn shawl. Doesn’t want to deal with anything like this. He’s had his fill of gods.)

(Why is he still fucking here? Why did he agree to this? This is no better than eating in that weird fucking inn in town. This is no better than –)

(That’s a lie. It’s a bit better than Cyrodiil. Just as much a shithole, but it pulls the rug out from under him often enough that he doesn’t have time to think too much.)

“Not hungry?” says a prowling voice, coiling catlike into the plaits in their hair, and Pax jumps enough to jostle the masked bastard sitting ramrod straight next to him.

He looks up.

At the empty placemat across from him sits a figure veiled in gossamer, glittering in the glow of the lit-up lichen on the distant throne; the fabric of its endless shawls pulls apart at the ends, peeling away from itself, shedding patches like iridescent insect wings every time it shifts. If Pax squints, they can see through it to the grand marbled wall behind.

She glances back at the chair at the head of the table, where something lounges, eyes dripping gold, intricately carved cane laid across its knees; its too-many fingers are laced with the hand of a man whose gown blooms floral. Flatly, she says, “What the fuck?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Sheogorath asks, pouting; she can hear it laughing down the other end of the table. “It’s a proper feast. We pulled out all the stops.”

Pax shifts their eyes away to peer down at their plate. “You have served me worms,” she says. She flicks the dish with a fingernail. “In jelly. With flowers.”

“Larva, actually,” Sheogorath replies. It’s still at the other end of the table. It doesn’t seem eager to explain this. When it smiles, the gossamer falls away; its whole face splits in half.

It’s all so fucking stupid. Pax takes a deep breath – in through the nose, ignore all the odd spiced smells, and out – and does not yell at it, or try to hit it, because she’s gotten herself into a situation where that’s not really an option, because she’s a fucking idiot. Why didn’t she just say no?

(She knows why.)

The Mad God’s teeth flash bright as the ornate silver cutlery. Its chair scrapes back from the table. “It melts in your mouth,” it tells her, eyes glittering, “but I won’t make you try it. Walk with me?”

The figure still sits at the head of the table, snatching something from someone’s plate, always, always laughing. Its limbs sprawl like tentacles, like the silken threads of a tapestry, to encompass the whole room. The dinner guests stare as though bewitched, bedevilled, beguiled. Not one of them is looking at Pax. If he were to drop dead with his face in the food his corpse would not be discovered until sunrise.

Pax sniffs and shoves his chair back from the table. He lets Sheogorath (the second Sheogorath – but it must be, what else could it be?) lead him through a narrow door into some winding hallway, the walls lined and rimed with ornate coloured-glass windows. (It’s so much quieter. Still as garishly bright, but Pax is getting the sense that that is inescapable, here; the clothes they wear, as crumpled and covered in travelling-grime as ever and startlingly out of place against the odd jagged finery of the dinner party, seem unimaginably dull in comparison. Everything seems unimaginably dull in comparison.) Outside the windows, they can catch glimpses of the city – its winding, lamp-lit streets, the jumbled mess of its architecture, the sky arcing above it like a child’s attempt at watercolours. Pax wants to smash it, tear it down.

There’s no sun here, but still it’s night. The sky has shifted to purple and black.

“Isn’t it nice?” says their companion; when they look back, it’s nothing more than a shifting impression in the stained-glass window, a series of hairline cracks. It still manages, somehow, to smile at them.

It’s not. The sky is a shadow and the flamboyance of the palace is scraping at their spine. “Sure,” Pax says flatly. When she flexes her fingers, the bruising staining the base knuckle of her thumb aches.

Sheogorath looks at her – an ancient man leaning on a stick, a flickering painting, a bloody corpse, a little girl in velvet-red skirts, a breath. In its mercurial shifting she catches the flowery blossom of the man at the table’s collar, an unpleasant glimpse of her own braided hair, the smell of sulphur. It tips its head. She can’t focus on it anywhere but for the eyes.

“You don’t like my dinner parties,” it announces, as though it’s a revelation, a tragedy; its body crumbles like sea cliffs slowly eroded by the ways. It’s annoying – bloody obnoxious, and incomprehensible, and kind of weird that it noticed, that it would even care. (She’s never liked dinner parties. Nobody ever commented on it before.)

I’ve had well enough of them, Pax could say, or no, I don’t like you, but it’s the fucking Mad God, Daedric Prince of – Pax doesn’t even know what, he’s never known much about this shit, only that it’s well worth avoiding. Prince of the mad and the missing and the foolish, of breaking and breaking and putting yourself back together backwards. She should have said no, but she didn’t, and who knows what would happen if she went back on that now?

It's slinking closer. All that stay static enough to make out are eyes and teeth.

“Pax, yes?” it says, soft-voiced – a hand lands on his arm, small and dry and shivering, the skin as thing as a mouldering leaf. “You have no obligations here. If you want to be on your own, be on your own. We’ve plenty of space for it.”

Pax’s eyes narrow. He does not jerk away from it.

In the light of the coloured sky, the coloured windows, its face is phantasmagorical. “If you don’t want to be here,” it continues – still so skin-pricklingly gentle – “then your hand will not be forced. I’ll speed your way home if you wish.”

They can’t help but twitch at that. It’s setting their teeth on edge. (It’s lying – has to be. After its ages of coaxing them in, meting out information, not telling them where they were until they were on its doorstep, it would not give them the chance to leave.) Rough, still covered in road-grime, Pax asks, “Why should I believe you?”

(None of them have ever given them the chance to leave.)

Sheogorath, a figure of hollow skin and bone, inclines its head. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pax,” it says. Its eyes are wide and bulging, whites on full display like a frightened horse; it grins again. “Others might. But we’re not a monolith. We’re not even especially similar.”

Pax bites down on the flat edge of their tongue. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The light coming in through the windows flickers. The Mad God turns to meet it.

“I’m the youngest,” it says, its voice glittering like mist on the air. “Did you know that? I don’t remember the world without you in it.” Its form spasms, volatile, wings and limbs and eyes like a snail’s on stalks sprouting and choking and subsiding back into its mass. “I’m closer to you than any. I understand, almost.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pax repeats. She’s gritting her teeth, tonguing at her gums where two are missing. Are two devil-gods not enough to deal with for a lifetime? Is there really going to be more of this now, too?

Rolling through the air like smoke, the voice says, “It will.”

Pax presses purple-green knuckles to her mouth. Her teeth dig into the soft meat of her lip.

Sheogorath turns to face her, hair moving as though blown by the wind, as though tugged by the tides. It sighs. “You don’t believe me,” it says. Its tongue pokes through its teeth. “That’s perfectly fine. Clever, even. But if you want to leave, all you need to do is tell me so.” It pauses, then; the train of its strange, gnarled crown shifts over its shoulders when it moves its head. “Or just leave. The door is still open.”

“You’d be fine with me just leaving,” Pax rasps around his knuckle, “after weeks of not leaving me alone?”

(Of begging him to come, poorly-hidden agitation giving way to blatant franticness, half-swallowing the fear that choked its face in every mirror it spoke to him through. Of begging him still, after he got here, after he met it – begging in a roundabout manner, casual as anything, its every motion reeking of fear. Its abject terror when he turned to leave. You’ve come this far. Why not hear an old man out? Pax told it that it wasn’t an old man, that he didn’t give a shit either way, and it slid through a child, a monster, a sulphur-burned body coughing blood, his own shuddering form in armour he hasn’t seen in months, and it said please.)

(Regained its composure, its gentleman’s face, immediately afterward. But it – the Mad God, unknowable, inconsolable – said please. Pax still doesn’t know what to do with that.)

The Mad God, now, shrugs. Taps at the hairline cracks in the stained glass windows. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” it says, one pair of hands braiding something intricate into its beard. The hand on the glass slips down. “I told you. I do need a champion.”

“And I told you,” Pax bites, something aching and ugly surging in their gut, “not to call me that again.”

A smile, bloody-mouthed and beaming. “But we will abide,” says Sheogorath, and digs its fingers into the cracks of the stone. One brick slides loose, mortar dug up under its nails. It offers it up.

Pax licks their teeth and takes it.

The brick shivers, momentarily – crumbles, in their hand, like sand slithering through their fingers, and left in their palm is a hardy slip of bone. Spiked and sprawling, carved with intricate patterns; it arranges itself around an oval of empty space, the perfect size for four sharp-knuckled fingers.

“You can always leave,” the Mad God tells them, and for a moment it does look so very young and strangely, staggeringly hopeful. “But give it a chance. I think you could love the Isles, if you choose to.”

[posletsvet]

When Geto goes searching through the Time Vessel Association's facilities one by one, who or what is he looking for, exactly?

He knows Satoru is dead. Riko, too. I can't possibly imagine what it could've been like -- to come back to your senses and be hit with this realisation all over again. What thoughts raced through his head as he traced his steps back to where he'd left Satoru? As he approached that site of slaughter which Satoru's promise had become, how did he prepare himself to see his best friend's corpse? And then he saw nothing but the clearing torn through the ground like a ragged wound in Gojo's frantic attempt to keep the enemy in sight, buildings adjacent to the main shrine ripped out by their foundations and blown to smithereens. A splatter of sickening crimson where Toji landed his final blow. A few bug-like fly-heads still lingering. No bodies left.

How could Suguru make sense of Gojo's body disappearing along with Riko's? Did he think of his closest friend's corpse getting sold on the black market as an honorary prize and feel his nerves clench close with desperation and anger? Did he make peace with never being able to mourn Satoru properly, or was it a thought thrumming in his head like blood in his temples? Was that what he feared to reveal while rummaging through the Star Cult's scattered buildings?

And what if it was an imperative from Jujutsu High?

For Shoko to be able to patch Geto up, he must have made his way back to the college after his confrontation with Toji. And I can hardly imagine Suguru, being as deligent and rule-abiding as he was, not reporting the failed mission -- and Satoru's (presumable) death, too. And as we know, in order to prevent a sorcerer from turning into a curse after death, they should be eliminated using cursed energy. And Gojo was killed by Toji, who, bound by Heavenly Restriction, had no cursed energy.

Does this mean that immediately after being healed by Shoko Geto got sent on a mission to confirm the state of Gojo's body and potentially deal with the consequencies of him turning into a curse? Judging by immense amounts of cursed energy that Gojo holds, the curse born after his death would be extremely powerful, with Geto likely being the only one on par with it as the other half of the strongest duo. It's only natural that in case of something like that occuring Suguru would be the one to be sent to deal with it. Even if that means purging a curse once known as his best friend.

So Suguru asking 'Is it really you, Satoru?' is not him taken aback by Gojo being alive (well, this, too, but I'd argue that a different reaction would be better fit to express this sort of disbelief), but rather him inquiring about the nature of his friend's resumed existence after he was announced dead by Toji: 'Is it you as I know you? Or is it a cursed apparition that came into being with your death?'