Gojos Search History

gojo satoru desktop wallpaper for the month of august

i know I’m a little late but here’s a cute desktop wallpaper you can use on your laptops or desktop computers!! with the cute little satoru on every corner for motivation

gojo satoru desktop wallpaper for the month of september update

an september update for the gojo satoru wallpaper that i created last month. it is requested by one of my dear follower @singing-christmas-songs-in-july!

have a great month everyone!

written with my post-vaccine brain so judge me all you want :)

Did my breast get bigger? Looking at the mirror you gave your in front a thorough look, checking on every nook and cranny that somehow changes on your body. Gazing yourself, especially your breast intently in a full view mirror gives you a mixed feeling of dazed and confused.

“Was it really bigger? That can’t be.” You were not sure if you are seeing right but you think your breast got bigger compared to before. Given the fact that you need to use an extender now to hook your bra properly, the cup too came in useless because they aren’t covering much of your soul. Furthermore, the underwires were cutting quite a bit of your meat, leaving your skin itchy and sore. Still befuddled by the new changes you are seeing, you turned your body around to ask your boyfriend for his opinion.

“Hey, babe did my breast get bigger?” Your boyfriend-Gojo was laying down on your bed with his long slim legs on top of the other busy going through his phone when he detached it to look at you.

“Come again, sweetie?” You turned your body around facing him completely before you pushed your breast upwards while looking at him straight in the eye.

“I was just wondering if my breasts got bigger? What do you think? Did they get bigger?”

Gojo folded his arms around his chest, grin painted all over his face, blue eyes raking up on your body up and down. Liips drenched from all his licking before he situated his orbs on your breast boldly undressing you with a mere look.

“Yes baby, your breast certainly got bigger. And I did that to you so you should thank me for it.” Proud of his so-called achievement Gojo strolled towards you, a winning smile covering the entirety of his mouth, he grabbed your breast molding it with his palms like his own art piece.

“So you say baby, don’t you think I need a reward or something?” Tonic with his touch, you decided to play it off and get along with his sultry look, sultry voice, and sultry intention.

“Like what, gojo?” You know what he wants to do and you want to do it for him so you push yourself forward. Letting him feel your roundness on his chest.

“Like a boob job, sweetie. My cock pulsating between your breasts while I spill my cum all over your face. That’s only fair for saving you the money you could have used in a breast implant right?.” Defeated from gojo’s blatant discourse you decided to provide him the deed. He worked too hard to make this breast of your own, so he should definitely try how it works right?

Gojo sensei ✨

૮ᏊWEATHERING WITH YOU— GOJO SATORU

a/n: to the anon who asked for this, if you’re still here, the emoji is all yours. first fic of the year and it’s angst..it’s kinda rusty but i reallyliked this concept. this took me forever to finish. i am so sorry. the ugliness of my writing does not reflect the beauty of this man.

tags: angst, soulmate au (red string of fate), not proofread, flirty gojo, male reader, manga spoilers, past satosugu.

wc: 2.2k

He has been, and always will be, an extension of his own wickedness. Despite the many lives he lives— at home, he is Satoru. At work, in public, he is Gojo. To his students, he is their Sensei. Eventually, the lines begin to blur into an alarming shade of red. Burning, scarlet and untouchable, invisible strands of thread travel through the alleyways of Kawasaki City.

At home, he is Satoru. The notorious heartbreaker, the ‘soulmate’ to many— he has the red strings to prove it. He stares into his reflection, pulling at the pale skin encasing his soul. It feels forlorn, his body is not his own. The distorted image of himself stares back at him, cerulean eyes wide and sunken, completely unblinking. He tries to put on a smile, figurative chains pulling at his cheeks and leaving indents that mock him endlessly.

At home, he is Satoru. With gangly limbs and unruly hair. His blindfold, tussled between white bundles, remains over his eyes as he brushes his teeth. The bristles swipe over his gums, across each tooth, and metallic blood finds itself enamored with his toothpaste. He spares a second glance at his reflection.

He’s never felt so tired in his life.

In public, he is Gojo. He steps into the crisp, winter air with festive bags draped over his strong arms. Railings are decorated with a frozen chrysalis, and Gojo catches sight of himself. His pale skin is flushed, a blotchy shade of pink that clashes with the rest of his face. Even then, he smiles through his black, cloth mask before picking up a phone call. He is respected— respectable, as a man, because of his ability to masquerade, he supposes.

In public, he is Gojo. No one bats an eye as he flirts, slinging his winter coat over his shoulder as he opens a door for the prettiest person he can see within a five mile radius. He responds to flushed “thank you”s with a cunning smile and a gentle wink, later sliding passed with his hand ghosting over soft waists.

He’s never felt so tired in his life.

To his students, he is their Sensei. Idealized, omniscient, indomitable. His abilities are uncanny, the weight of Six Eyes diminished and underestimated— because Gojo, Satoru, a mentor at Tokyo Jujitsu High, a special grade sorcerer, is the perfect fit. His Six Eyes tell him he’s unbounded, but his soul knows otherwise. Tinted red strings tie themselves to each of his fingers, each tighter than the rest— but only one burns brightest.

Invisible strands of thread travel through the alleyways of Kawasaki City, tying Satoru down to an unreachable, desolate, cliff. Undisclosed loneliness gnaws at his abdomen, and chips away at his liver until it grows back the following morning. He wonders who feeds on his very being, who tugs at the strings tied down to his long, cadaverous fingers.

Snow falls onto wet concrete, January air nipping at your fingertips. It’s a fruitless effort, huffing into your palms as your brisk stride carries you through a damp alleyway. Despite the many lives you live— you’ve always been honest. Some part of you, you suppose, will always be left upon your sleeve. whether you spend sleepless nights trying to mend that or not. The day flies past you in a blur, stuck on autopilot, until you realize you’ve smacked your hand against the register.

Before you could succumb to the rabid evil of your mind, a new customer drops a nauseatingly sweet treat onto the worn conveyor belt. The arrangement of sweets seem to be leftovers from the store’s bakery, wrapped delicately with bows and intricate wrapping paper. Your arms ache with fatigue, though you’re still grateful for the distraction.

The cash register mocks you with your very own reflection, and as the sweet is pulled forward, you catch yourself frowning at the dull depiction of you. The distorted image of yourself stares back at you, tired eyes sunken in and exhausted. You try to put on a smile, eyes flickering up to meet the tall man with an insatiable sweet tooth.

You’ve never felt more tired in your life.

A mosaic of effervescent, electrifying, hues of blue cluster in your vision, indescribable shades blurring together. Hauntingly— painstakingly, beautiful.

Then, almost immediately, you’re overwhelmingly warm and gaping in unfiltered awe. His grin is just as bright as his eyes, your heart buffering before you can register your facial expression. Looking up to the stranger in front of you, you exhale breathlessly and shove the sweets into the recyclable bag.

He’s beautiful. Unapologetically, unconventionally, irrevocably, beautiful.

His eyes are blue; sunset lit and sparkling with shades that remain nameless to this day. His hair is the cleanest tinge of white you’ve ever seen, brighter than the snow blanketing the rooftops and streetlights. His glossy, rosy, lips curl into a cunning grin.

You’re quick to ring him up, clenching your jaw as your fingers struggle to separate each end of the plastic bag. With the man hovering directly parallel to you, an anxious tremor racks your body. At this angle, shadows meet to frame him perfectly. The curve of his face, the slope of his Adam’s apple, his silhouette blanketed by a ray of sunlight that peeks through desolate clouds.

“Is that— Will that be all for today?” You clear your throat, leaning against the register stand with fabricated confidence. You watch him readjust his sunglasses, his plump lips jutting out as he thinks over his purchases. Despite the coy display, his long fingers slide out of his pocket with one languid motion. He pulls out a card, shiny and gleaming with wealth you could never begin to comprehend. Not while you work 9-5, anyway.

“Well, when you put it like that it’s kind of embarrassing!” He huffs dramatically, waving the card between two manicured fingers. He taps it against his bottom lip once, then twice, and leans over the register— seemingly taller by the second. With zero comprehension of personal space, he tilts his gaze down from your lips to the cash register pin-pad. His breath smells of mint and chocolate chips, but it’s the smell of his expensive cologne that curves your judgement. For a moment, you consider what it’d be like— being wrapped up in his honey-smooth scent. His voice lowers to a whisper as he tilts his head, “Don’tcha think?”

“Uhm,” You mumble, hushed. There’s an impenetrable force compelling you to step forward, bask yourself in his congenial warmth, despite only having seen him a handful of times here and there. You’re breathless, completely discarding the question all together as you watch him fix his posture. Somehow, he seems even taller, as if his legs have no end. “Excuse me?”

His omniscient grin wavers, only slightly, and if you weren’t studying his expression with intense care you’re not sure you would’ve noticed it. His eyes, blanketed by dark shades, trail down to his hand, across your bicep, and back to your ring finger. His smile tightens, but he clears his throat to speak nonetheless.

“[Name], is it?” His saccharine smile twinkles as he changes the subject, blue eyes rereading your name tag. “You hit your hand awfully hard just a second ago. I don’t usually flirt with boys, but…”

His hand travels to meet yours, gentle and soft despite rugged scars that litter his palm. With Six Eyes he can see it all much too clear— a blazing red string that ties himself down to you. But this has to be some sort of dream—it’s all too sudden, all too real. His fingers cascade across the tendons of your hand, where you’ll be sure to bruise later. He inhales sharply, intense crimson spreading throughout his warm fingertips, with heavy cotton in his head. Selfishly enough, he hopes the forming bruise will be the only thing connecting his soul to yours.

Oh..” You respond, swiping his card with trembling hands. “It’s nothing, really.”

You take in the sight of Gojo (you’d learned his name a few nights ago) under streetlights, his glossy irises bouncing yellow hues off it’s surface. He holds onto your hands like he’s known you forever, leading you down the cold streets of Kawasaki City. Lilliputian sheets of black ice blanket the open street— which remains unusually quiet for the late evening. His stride never wavers, despite stepping on ice several times. His gaze is shielded, but his shoulders remain dropped and weary, and you can’t help but wonder about his story. You hope to have the chance to discover who he really is, behind those glasses, but your thoughts collide before you can sort yourself out.

His reciprocated gaze is full of fascination, uncharacteristically speechless and— wounded. Almost like he’s watching himself in the reflection of your eyes, his lips split into a bittersweet grin. There with you physically, his mind seems to have drifted off elsewhere. The whirlwind of emotions welling up in his head jostles him with whiplash..the image through his eyes seems hypnagogic, almost like he’s looking right through you.

“Satoru?” You ask, expelling his name much too warm for his liking.

Hearing his name repeated so sweetly, like it had been so long ago, makes a heavy lump of bile form in his throat. This moment he’s sharing with you— it belongs to someone else. Tears form at the corner of his eyes, and Satoru blinks rapidly behind his disguise. Holding hands under the pale moonlight, keeping the other warm with residual body heat… This moment belongs to happiness. Happiness, found in long, dark hair and eggplant eyes. Found in smug remarks and tangled hair bands. In Suguru.

And you..you are not Suguru.

“Hm?” He inhales sharply through his nose, an even sharper crack exuding from his lips. Your gaze follows his movement, frantic and confused as he pulls himself free from whatever internal conflict just flickered across his face. He traces something you can’t quite comprehend, moving alongside it as if there’s an invisible line that’s caught in knots and tangled past reconstruction connected to your fingertips. He shakes his head, a rancorous snigger escaping past his shiny lips. “Oh, nothing! I was just thinking…”

“The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” Is what you thought you’d hear— somehow, somewhere, beneath a vast kaleidoscope of blue hues.. you found yourself selfish enough to hope for more. It was fate that brought him to you, a diverging path of the unknown haunting your loneliest nightmares. And you’re delighted, delighted to have met Satoru. With striking eyes and unruly hair— large palms and a contagious laugh. To you, despite only knowing him for a short amount of time, that was happiness.

Knowing it’s not reciprocated, even in the quietest part of your mind…

“…Anyway,” Satoru carries on with the insatiable need to satisfy his use of phrases. You hadn’t noticed it before, but the man’s desire to fill silence is almost deafening, as if the moment he stops speaking he’ll burn from the inside out. Like a short fuse, ready to burst at any moment. “It’s getting pretty late.”

There’s a collective pause between the two of you, a silent orchestra of contemplation as the night grows colder.

“Did I do something wrong?” You ask, and his demeanor shifts, much colder than before, as he stuffs his hands into his coat pocket. The lingering idea of being an afterthought, a rebound, threatens to tear you apart from the inside out. You laugh, bitter and distorted enough to sound like a strangled cry.

And, ironically enough, misfortune held your hand through it all. Gracing you with this man; a sorcerer, a mentor, a respected name, it breaks your heart. You didn’t know him like the back of your hand, but no matter where you went, he was there. To pick up the pieces, to apply the bandaids over your scraped knees when you pushed yourself too hard.

Believe it or not, when you were with him, you felt whole.

“What? Of course not!” He promised himself he’d be better. He’d love despite the strings tying him down to countless others. Despite the string pulling him toward an empty, nevertheless marked, grave. Alongside his best friend he’d bury his doubts, his soul crushing anxiety that came with yielding Six Eyes. “I was just thinking about where we should eat!”

Being the strongest man in the world can be so, so lonely.

He promised himself he’d be better. The first few times the desk seated next to him was empty, he told himself it was nothing. Because of this, his own selfishness, he lost what could have been. And for that reason, and that reason alone, Satoru will always be the weakest man in the world.

He promised himself he’d be better. The first few times he ran into you at the grocery store, he told himself it was nothing. The red strings connecting him to high school sweethearts and some of his closer acquaintances were nothing. The matted and tangled strings that seemed to never stop growing…were nothing.

And the universe’s divine hands must be incomparably cruel, because from nothing comes everything.

His shoulder bumps against yours as he smiles at you, January air jostling you about, but somehow missing the teacher completely. Lingering tension evaporates into the air as you nod in acknowledgment before hooking your arm around Gojo’s.

At home, he is Satoru. The notorious heartbreaker, the ‘soulmate’ to many— he has the red strings to prove it. He stares into his reflection, pulling at the pale skin encasing his soul. It feels forlorn, his body is not his own. The distorted image of himself stares back at him, cerulean eyes wide and sunken, completely unblinking. He tries to put on a smile, figurative chains pulling at his cheeks and leaving indents that mock him endlessly.

But with you, he is a fraud.

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Gojo Satoru x Reader, fluff

“Kids, this is my wife.” He gestures at you flamboyantly before stepping inside to give you a peck on the cheek. “Wife, these are my kids.”

He continues to point at each of them, “This is Megumi, Nobara and Yuuji.” He then turned to you again and smiled softly. “First years, this is Mrs. Gojo.”

The trio exchanged baffled expressions but bowed in greeting nonetheless. Their eyes wildly flicker at each other, their sensei and well, at you. You offer them a small smile, raising your hand to wave. “Hello, I’m Y/n.” you greet. “Please, come in." 

"What the hell? Gojo-sensei is actually married??” Nobara hisses under her breath as they take off their shoes by the entrance, eyeing you as you go to grab some house slippers for them.

“Don’t look at me, I’m as surprised as you two are.” Fushiguro whispers back carefully, even flashing you a thin lipped smile when your gazes meet as you hand him his slippers. 

“I never met her before.” He murmurs, also watching you curiously as you walk to the kitchen to help their teacher unpack the food he brought home. 

“He does mention a "partner” from time to time but I didn’t think for a second that he meant a wife.“ Fushiguro shrugs. "I mean, look at him.” Fushiguro makes a face then jerks his head at Gojo who was doing a little happy dance after eating a mochi he bought from their most recent trip.

“Yeah, I love Gojo-sensei and all, but I’m honestly surprised someone agreed to marry him.” Itadori snickers, causing the other two to crack a grin. 

“I heard that!” Satoru suddenly yells from the kitchen counter making you jump. God, he’s been away so long that you had forgotten how loud he gets.

Over dinner, you couldn’t help but notice how your husband’s students keep glancing at you. You return their nervous smiles until Satoru speaks up. “Is it that hard to believe thatI have a wife?" 

”Yes.“ 

The three answered in a heartbeat, making you choke on air, desperately trying not to laugh aloud at their bluntness. Satoru looks somewhere between annoyed and amused as he rolls his eyes. 

"Were you forced to marry him??” Nobara asks you directly and you see Fushiguro elbow her in shame. 

“Well,” you glance at your husband whose cheeks is now tinted a faint shade of pink. “Sort of. Our marriage is arranged. For progeny purposes. But we both wanted it-” You say honestly and then blinked down at your plate, grinning. “-eventually.”

“Called it!” Itadori hollers, opening his palm at Nobara who huffs before digging on her uniform for her wallet to hand him a fifty. 

“You ungrateful brats made a bet about my marriage??” Satoru asks incredulously. 

“I’ll have you training with cursed objects tomorrow from dawn to midnight.”