𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒖 𝒈𝒐𝒋𝒐 ✶

Gojo knew her name before she even said it. Or maybe that’s a lie he tells himself now, months into whatever this is. But truth be told, from the first time he spotted her through the glassy fog of that overpriced coffee shop off-campus—the one with the soft jazz playlist and the world’s most undrinkable lavender lattes—his body already knew. Something deep in him leaned forward. She was reading something thick and academic. Something smart. Knees crossed. Chrome Hearts frames sliding a little down her nose as she read, perfectly unbothered by the world. Skin glinting like it’d been kissed by the sun itself, lips full and glossed and slightly pouted, like the book was annoying her. Her curls were tucked back in a silk scrunchie that matched the soft pistachio green of her hoodie. And Gojo, Satoru Gojo, six-foot-something of pure calculated chaos, forgot why he came in the shop to begin with. He asked for her Instagram. She barely looked up when she gave it. But he noticed the way her lip twitched—the faintest amusement. She knew he thought she was fine. She knew she was. And he? He was hooked.

That was six months ago. Now he’s sitting on her twin XL bed in her tiny-ass dorm that always smells like warm vanilla and whatever she just used on her hair. His laptop’s open, some dumb coding assignment half-finished. She’s stretched out beside him, oversized T-shirt riding up a little on her thighs as she scrolls through her phone, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s absolutely not doing his homework. It’s wild. Not the being here. That part makes sense. The wild part is how naturally he fit into her life. How someone so divine-looking, so soft-spoken, so immaculately put-together could actually want him. Because while he looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ when he felt like it, Satoru Gojo was, at heart, a huge-ass nerd. Honors physics. Academic scholarship. Tutored kids for fun. Had a 3D-printed figurine of Kakashi in his dorm and got bullied for still reading manga weekly. And yet… She calls him when her head hurts. When her job stresses her out. When her classmates get too weird and her professors don’t get how hard she’s working. And sometimes, she doesn’t say anything. Just texts you up?, and he knows to show up with her favorite snacks and sit on the floor while she talks. One night, she called him over late. Rainy and cold, her hoodie sleeves pulled over her fingers. They hadn’t even kissed yet, but she’d looked so tired. He rubbed her calves without being asked. Pulled her into his chest. And when her voice dipped into a whisper, telling him she was tense, really tense, Gojo did what he knew best. Gave. Laid her out and slid his tongue slow and deliberate over every aching part of her, murmuring praise between soft, open-mouthed kisses. Watched her gasp, eyes wide and lips parted. He didn’t even try to fuck. Just pressed his face to her like she was healing, and he? He was just here to worship. That first time turned into a routine. Never spoken out loud. Just a need, and his name in her phone, and him showing up to take care of it. Always gentle. Always smiling a little too big after. Always pressing kisses to the inside of her thighs like he was grateful for the privilege.

So now, when she’s laid out across her sheets, wearing those tiny grey shorts that drive him insane, and her curls are tied up again, Gojo’s sitting next to her pretending to code but really just stealing glances. He leans in. Noticed she’s smirking at her phone. “…what?” She just giggles, shrugs. “Lemme see.” He stretches his long arm out, trying to tilt the screen toward him. “Nooo,” she laughs, locking it, biting her lip. He narrows his eyes playfully, then reaches to tickle her, making her squirm until she finally gives in. He squints. It’s a group chat. Her friends. A bunch of voice notes and memes. And then he sees it. “girl i KNOW that nerd is an eater. u can SEE IT”
“he be in the books and in the coochie huh”
 He smirked, waiting for the go ahead to do what he does best..

Eating her out.