"He has a 12 inch cock" well my pussy ain't a fucking magicians hat bitch where is all that supposed to go

morrissey could NEVER know how joan of arc felt. me in the other hand, a schizophrenic dyke that has has the voice of god in my head since a child actually,

I think I just got catcalled from a truck but I don’t know because I have auditory processing disorder. misogyny 0 autism 1

and then the Parade of a hundred demons didn't happen

-> To have found you was the world's regret, not mine

The rumors had spread like wildfire.

The child born with too many eyes, too many limbs, had devoured his twin in the womb. A demon cloaked in human skin, they whispered. He was evil incarnate, an abomination that would only grow stronger if left unchecked. But killing him outright would be a sin too great for their souls to bear. So they left him to rot. On the desolate side of the country, where even the air could be considered poison, they abandoned him.

They thought they'd washed their hands clean.

They thought starvation would take care of what they couldn't.

But death didn't come as quickly as they had hoped.

Sukuna was nothing more than a husk of a boy now, his four arms limp at his sides, his ribs threatening to pierce through his skin with each shallow breath.

Nature, just as cruel as mankind, had left him no mercy.

And then you appeared.

supermanish

gojo is offended by your son's drawings.

drunks and children always tell the truth. satoru, your husband, knows that better than anyone.

he adores his mini clone you gave him, truly, but sometimes he is very unfair to him. the unfairness of it all always comes with seventy three crayons scattered like colorful shrapnel across the low table, the rug, and one of satoru’s discarded socks.

the man himself is attempting to organize cursed technique documentation while simultaneously monitoring his son's artistic development (or lack thereof) –all stretched out on his stomach like a bored house cat, long legs kicking lazily behind him, blindfold pushed up onto his forehead, and white hair a mess because he’d let his little version ‘style’ it earlier with a plastic comb and sheer stubbornness.

haru, your four-year-old storm of energy, sits cross-legged on the floor, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. a fresh sheet of paper is pinned under one chubby knee. the scratch-scratch of crayon on paper has been going on for twenty solid minutes, which in toddler time was basically the full twilight saga.

you are on the couch with a lukewarm cup of tangerine tea, pretending to read a novel while actually watching the two of them. satoru keeps sneaking glances at the paper, pretending he isn’t dying of curiosity. he’s terrible at pretending.

“whatcha got there, little gremlin?” he finally drawls, voice low and playful. “better be a portrait of the world’s most handsome dad. i’ve got standards.”

haru doesn’t answer right away. he’s in the zone, delighted with the way the wax flattens and spreads across the canvas, leaving spaces of a couple of millimeters. when he finally sits back, he holds the paper up with both hands and a smile full of milk pearls, tiny and slightly disproportionate.

"dada, look!" haru squeals, proud of another masterpiece from his daily collection of crayon atrocities. "it's you!"

he crawls over on all fours and plopped the drawing straight onto satoru’s chest. then he waits, cyan eyes huge, expecting the same reaction he got when he drew a lopsided sun or a stick-figure dog.

your husband straightens up from his position and carefully analyzes what was handed to him. the drawing features what appears to be a blue blob with spiky white hair, wearing a light blue suit with the classic superman’s s shield smack in the middle of the chest (even a little yellow belt buckle) and a red cape flying over some scribbled buildings. the blob has stick arms and legs, but the body itself... well, it's generous to call it a body.

it’s a long, thin, wiggly noodle of a shape. not muscular. not even vaguely humanoid in the heroic sense. just one continuous, slightly translucent-looking scribble that tapers at the waist, bulges oddly at the shoulders like melted marshmallows, and ends in two stick legs; the arms are even worse: limp, looping ribbons that seem to float rather than flex. the whole torso has the consistency of a jellyfish out of the sea –deformed, squashed.

satoru’s left eye twitches once. twice. that’s it. this is what always happens. four years of devoted fatherhood, countless bedtime stories, piggyback rides through the park, and teaching the tiny human how to properly terrorize his uncles –and this is how he is rewarded?

silence stretches for three full seconds.

you know that silence. it’s the same one he uses right before he dramatically declares that someone had committed a crime against humanity –usually it involved missing mochi or someone daring to schedule a meeting before noon.

you hide your smile behind your cup.

“haru,” satoru begins, voice dangerously sweet, the tone he uses when he’s trying very hard not to laugh and cry at the same time. “buddy. sweet angel of mine. destroyer of my ego. what… exactly… is this?”

haru giggles, completely missing the point as he proudly points to the amorphous blue shape. "you! flying! saving people!"

“right, right, the saving part i see. very heroic. ten out of ten. but–” he continues, already taking on that theatrical quality that signals an impending dramatic monologue and taps the amorphous middle with one elegant finger. “why does dad look like he’s made of… what is this, melted ice cream? or a very sad cloud? i’ve got abs, kid, abs that could cut glass. i have been told –by reliable sources– that i have the physique of a greek statue at his peak potential. where are my abs in this portrait of injustice?"

haru beams. “you’re stretchy, dada!” he tilts his precious head. “like when you pick me up and spin super fast and your arms go whoosh whoosh whoosh.” he demonstrates with his own pudgy arms, nearly smacking satoru in the face. “and when you’re fighting the bad shadows you get all blurry and wiggly and then you’re behind them and they go poof.”

satoru sighs dramatically, flopping backward onto the couch cushions. your son runs off to find more paper, leaving your soulmate to contemplate the cruel hand fate has dealt him. here he is, the strongest jujutsu sorcerer, feared by beasts and respected by sorcerers alike, reduced to a blue blob with no discernible musculature.

"the betrayal stings more than any special grade curse. my own flesh and blood, reducing me to... this."

later that evening, you find satoru in the home gym, shirtless and doing crunches with an intensity usually reserved for exorcising.

"what's all this about?" you ask, leaning against the doorframe.

"preparation." he grunts out between crunches. "tomorrow, haru and i are having an art lesson. i'm going to model for him. properly. with lighting. maybe some baby oil to highlight the definition."

you raise an eyebrow, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. "you're going to pose for your four-year-old?"

"desperate times call for desperate measures." he says, sitting up and wiping sweat from his brow. "i cannot have our child growing up believing his father is shaped like a lumpy snake. think of the psychological damage!"

-

the next morning, satoru sets up his ‘art studio’ in the living room, arranging chairs and even attempting to create proper lighting with a couple of desk lamps. haru, meanwhile, is more interested in the box of crayons than his father's impending modeling session.

"alright, kid," gojo announces, striking a pose that he probably thinks is heroic but mostly just looks uncomfortable. "capture the essence. the power. the... abdominal definition."

haru stares at his father for approximately two seconds before grabbing a purple crayon and beginning to scribble enthusiastically. satoru holds his pose, muscles tensed, a determined expression on his face. after about five minutes, he starts to tremble slightly.

"almost done, buddy?" he asks through gritted teeth.

haru holds up his new creation. "dada!"

dada cautiously approaches, trying to maintain his dignity despite the growing cramp in his left calf. the new drawing features a purple blob –slightly less amorphous than yesterday's blue one, but still distinctly blob-like– with spiky hair and a green cape this time.

satoru is very confused.

"i... i don't understand." he mutters, genuinely baffled. "i was literally right here. in three dimensions. with muscles."

haru pats the purple blob proudly. "strong dada!"

satoru sinks to the floor in a display of melodrama that would make broadway actors envious. "i'm defeated. utterly defeated. my own son cannot perceive my physical form. is it the infinity? is it so advanced that even on paper, i cannot be properly rendered?"

you watch from the doorway, trying to suppress your laughter as your four-year-old son obliviously continues to create amorphous superheroes while your husband has an existential crisis about his horrendous capture.

-

that weekend, satoru decides to take haru to the park, partly for father-son bonding time, and partly because he's convinced that fresh air and proper sunlight might somehow improve his son's artistic abilities. as haru plays on the swings, satoru sits on a nearby bench, dramatically sighing every few minutes.

"what's wrong, babe?" you ask, sitting beside him.

"he's doing it again." gojo whispers, gesturing toward your little hurricane, who has found a stick and is drawing in the dirt. "look. that's supposed to be me. flying over the park. i'm a brown smear with hair!"

you peer at the dirt drawing and have to admit, it's not the most flattering representation. it does indeed look like someone dragged a stick through mud and added a few spiky lines at the top.

"i think you're exaggerating a bit too much. he’s four; maybe he's just not focused on physical details." you suggest gently, trying to be the voice of reason. "maybe he's capturing your essence in a more abstract way."

"i just don’t get it." satoru retorts, but there's less drama in his voice now, more genuine confusion. "he can draw animals perfectly. look!" he points to a series of dirt drawings nearby. "that's a frog. that's a whale. that's definitely a squirrel. they all have proper bodies and everything. but i'm... i'm like a drop of paint that has been ruined with a spit."

then his mini nightmare runs over before you could speak, holding up a leaf he's found. "look, mama! a superhero cape for dada!"

satoru takes the leaf, his expression softening as he looks at his son. "thank you, champ. but you know, capes work better when they're attached to actual bodies with... you know... shape."

you roll your eyes and haru just giggles and attaches the leaf to satoru's shirt collar. "there! now you're flying!"

as he stands up, the leaf flutters dramatically behind him, and haru claps with pure joy. for a moment, gojo's overreactive frustration melts away, replaced by the genuine warmth of seeing his son so happy.

"alright, you little monster," he says, scooping haru into his arms. "if i'm going to be a superhero, i might as well do some superhero flying."

he proceeds to spin around with your child in his arms, making whooshing noises as the leaf cape flutters behind them. haru shrieks with laughter, completely spoiled by his father's performance.

-

that night, as you're tucking haru into bed, he presents you with yet another drawing. this one features an unrecognizable pink line with spiky white hair and a yellow cape, holding the hand of a lady and smaller figure that's clearly meant to be himself.

"it's you and me, mama," haru says sleepily. "and dada's flying us to neverland."

you smile, touched by the simple sweetness of the drawing. "it's beautiful, sweetie. but why is dada always so... blob-like?"

haru considers this for a moment, his little brow furrowed in concentration. "because," he says with the certainty only a four-year-old can possess. "dada's not like other people. he's special. he's magic! magic has no shape."

you smirk, understanding dawning on. you're about to ask him to repeat it next morning to his overwhelmed and ego-bruised dad when he enters the room, having overheard the last part of the conversation.

"what's this about me not having shape?" gojo asks, though there's less indignation in his voice now, more curiosity.

haru pats the spot on his bed next to him. "dada, you're magic. you can be any shape you want when you're saving people."

satoru sits on the edge of the bed, looking at the drawing with new eyes. "any shape, huh?"

"uh-huh." haru nods, already half-asleep. "you're superman. you don't need anything."

your husband goes quiet for a long moment, his usual demeanor replaced by something softer, more contemplative. he picks up the drawing, tracing the outline of the pink blob with his finger.

"hey," he coos, looking at you over haru’s head. his heart is as melted as his crayons on the paper. "maybe he's not so unfair after all."

haru wasn't incapable of drawing his father properly –he was drawing him exactly as he saw him: not as a man with specific physical attributes, but as pure, shapeless power. magic. protection. the embodiment of ‘superhero’ in its most abstract, powerful form.

"still," satoru whispers, his usual mischief returning to his sapphire marbles. "tomorrow, we're working on stick figures with slightly more defined legs. a father has his limits, after all."

fuuuuckk i have a type

no dude it's so cool how attached you are to that character who is singled out and ostracized due to the external monstrousness that clashes with their internal spark of humanity. and i love how drawn you are to themes of horror and love, nature versus nurture, otherness, isolation, and the abject. i bet you have normal feelings about your own personhood

twinkle, twinkle little star — gojo satoru

synopsis: gojo still has the blanket someone gave him as a kid because being the strongest does get lonely.

contains: babyjo :( those damn fanarts, a little angst, child neglect ig, fluff, reader's mother and her visiting him, older gojo meeting reader again, 2.4k words

babyjo art by nyank0z and the other is by su2kuna on x!

The Gojo estate's shoji doors don't click when they slide shut, they hiss as if a snake is warning one to stay out. You can imagine what it may sound like to a child growing up there. One could say that Satoru had been stolen by a serpent, a helpless chick left behind while the adults hunted only to be preyed upon by a scaly, thieving reptile.

The presence of the Six Eyes in their bloodline again resulted in the baby being whisked away from his parents’ warmth before he could even form memories of their scent. He was raised in a gilded cage, surrounded by "caretakers" who were really just guards in soft clothing. He became a holy relic rather than a child the moment he was born.

The overwhelming weight of his birth wasn't only a shift of the world's balance but his own life too. For as far back as he could remember, everything was too much. Too bright, too loud, too heavy for a little one to endure. Silk and incense fill the corners of his inner sanctum, his parents distant deities who viewed him as a miracle to preserve like everyone else rather than a son to be held.

When the dark was scary at night, whispers of eerie creatures and chills permeating in the nursery, Satoru would will his eyes to glow, casting the room in a blue hue to chase away the scariness until he grew too drowsy to keep his eyes open and fell asleep.

Every time Satoru began to lean into a specific person, they'd be replaced the next morning. Just as he would learn the distinct hum of a woman’s cursed energy, her scent, the comforting sound of her voice—just as he began to lean his head against a shoulder or reach for a hand—they would be gone. The Clan elders feared "emotional contamination" may compromise him.

A weapon was desired, not a boy wanting a mother.

May Apollo, bearer of the silver bow, strikes all the generative AI data centers with his arrows.

WE STILL TALKING ABOUT YOU.

we still talking about you, johnny. (trying out new techniques)

omg normal people dni actual PERVERTS and DEPRAVED WEIRDOS with GROSS ABNORMAL EROTIC FIXATIONS only

not sure how to caption this... the 09 ghoap brainworm is slowly taking over my mental capacities

NOTHING makes me more mad than people shoving aside creepy behavior just because the person in question is neurodivergent and doesn't pick up on social skills well. there was this girl in high school who got way too touchy with me no matter how many times I told her to stop and the fucking school guidance counselor and school psychologist were like "well you can't blame her because she can't pick up on social cues well". i'm neurodivergent too but if someone begs me to stop doing something it's kind of fucking clear they don't like it???

just the way people approach neurodivergency is so infantilizing I hate it. if you ever reblog a post about how it's ableist to react angrily to someone invading your space i'll fucking kill you. half the things you guys call ableism are just straight up not, and this isn't even a tumblr thing, it's something supposed medical professionals believe.

It's no longer a social cue if someone says "stop, i don't like that" it's literally just someone verbalizing what they expect you to do. which is stop.

^^exactly

if you state your boundaries clearly and someone crosses them after that, the brain condition they have is being an asshole