satoru gojo - mvp in the stacks
pairing: hockey!gojo x female!reader - college!au
warnings: smut; himbo!gojo
･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
Satoru – Forward, Number 5
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
Gojo Satoru was used to being watched.
In the rink, in the dining hall, at those godawful frat mixers he wasn't fond of but showed up to because people liked it when he did so.
He was a walking headline: hockey’s brightest star, face made for highlight reels, and a record from last season that still made his coach choke up mid-speech. So when a girl sat down next to him in the library and didn’t look at him, Satoru thought he might be hallucinating.
You had your laptop open, notes spread next to an intro to econ textbook, and when he sat down, knowing he was impossible to ignore, you didn't bother looking up.
“Y’know,” He started, shit eating grin practiced, “most people at least say hi before stealing my good luck.”
"Huh?" Your pen scratched across the page. “Your what?”
“My good luck. You’re in my spot.”
You glanced at him, finally, eyes flat as if he were some guy complaining about printer ink. “There are thirty tables in here.”
Yeah, okay, technically you were right. There were thirty tables, but this one? This was his table. The one with the slanted leg that made his left skate twitch whenever he sat here, the one with the gouge across the surface that looked suspiciously like a hockey stick had carved through it years ago. This was the spot he always used when he crammed before exams; he convinced himself that it carried good luck, like the way he always tied his skates left to right or knocked his stick against the bench three times before skating onto the rink.
Superstition, maybe. He'd never test what happened when he didn’t follow the rules. Did you not get it? Did you not feel the weight of what you were messing with? He could already picture it: him bombing the next game, tripping over his own damn feet on the ice, all because a pretty girl had hijacked his seat in the library and didn’t blink about it.
No flutter of apology, no wide-eyed gasp of recognition, no “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, campus legend, here, take it.”
There are thirty tables in here. Were you messing with his head?
Maybe you hadn’t recognized him. Rookie mistake.
“You seriously don’t know who I am?” He insisted, sounding more and more like a conceited asshole.
You tilted your head, brow furrowed, and said, “You’re loud.”
Loud. Loud? Girls usually called him charming. For the first time in twenty-one years, he felt himself flounder.
“Wait,” He tried again, throwing out his ace card. “You didn’t see us win the championship last spring?”
“No?” You said, pen tapping against her notebook. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
The championship was the event last year; the school practically set fire to itself after the win. Professors canceled classes. Someone spray-painted his number across the quad fountain. People still stopped him on the street to say thanks for the title.
Yet here you fucking were, sent down from space apparently, blinking at him like he’d just asked if you’d ever heard of sliced bread.
“Uh, yeah,” He chuckled, maybe you needed reminding. “National title? We were on ESPN? Big shiny trophy, confetti, me lifting the captain over my shoulders—ringing any bells?”
“None.” You clicked your pen twice and went back to scribbling.
His jaw actually dropped. He felt heat crawl up his neck, a strange, tight thing that wasn’t anger but sure as fuck wasn’t comfort either.
Most girls would’ve killed for this interaction, batted their lashes, let him explain every second of his highlight reel, begged him to sign something stupid, like their arm. You made him sound like a door-to-door salesman peddling a product you didn’t want.
Worse—Was this what being provoked felt like? Not on the ice, not in a fight with a rival defenseman, but here, in the library, by a girl who hadn’t bothered to look up properly?
“You’re screwing with me,” He accused, his cologne slipping into your airspace. “Nobody lives under a rock that big.”
You sighed and finally turned, pinning him with a look that was all irritation and absolutely no awe. “Do you ever shut up?”
The audacity.
Satoru Gojo, manwhore, golden boy, ego the size of the rink—should’ve been insulted. He should’ve rolled his eyes, found another girl, and drowned himself in validation shots at the bar later.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice droppinp, plotting sin, “if I shut up, how would you know what you’re missing?”
Your pen stilled. He thought victory! He’d cracked through—earned a blush, a laugh, something. As if.
You turned back to your notes, cool as ice. Gojo tilted his head, squinting at you. Perhaps if he changed the angle, you’d suddenly remember who he was and start acting normal about it.
“Okay, wait.” He held up a hand, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Have we met before?”
“What?”
“Because, like…” He leaned closer, studying your face. Pretty. Definitely unforgettable. “If we’ve met, and I was—” his grin faltered for a second, “—I dunno, mean to you or something, that would explain why you’re acting like this.”
Your pen stopped moving, not quite believing the words leaving his stupid mouth.
“And by mean,” he rushed to clarify, “I mean, accidentally cut in line in the dining hall, or stole your chair in class. Not really mean. I’m not a monster.”
The look you gave him was priceless, somewhere between are you serious and I’d rather choke on this pen cap than respond. But his brain wouldn’t shut up. It couldn’t. Because what if that wasn’t it?
What if it was…oh, shit.
“Wait—” His eyes widened. “Did we—?” He gestured vaguely, lowering his voice into something conspiratorial. “Did we hook up? And I forgot to text you back?”
Now you were gaping at him, literal disgust painted across your face. “Excuse me?”
“Because if I did,” he backpedaled instantly, heart thumping, “first of all, I’m so sorry. That’s not usually my style. Okay, maybe sometimes it’s my style, but I swear I would’ve remembered you. You’ve got a, uh…” His tongue tripped over the word face. Soul. Anything. “You’ve got an unforgettable vibe.”
He sounded insane. He was insane. What the hell was wrong with him?
You shoved your notebook closer to yourself, clearly done with this entire exchange. “Do you not remember the people you sleep with?"
Oh great, now you sounded ten times more repulsed.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. That sounded bad. Out loud it sounded bad.
He’d been around the block once or twice—or more. Fine, a lot more. But what the fuck else was he supposed to do? He was the rising star of the hockey program, winning game after game, the entire school riding his name like it was their meal ticket. He tried not to get sloppy, not to get wasted too often, because staying in shape for the rink mattered. The girls flocked like moths. He’d step into a bar, and three different majors would combust in the corner booth.
Was he supposed to…say no? Let them cry? Break their little campus-sweetheart hearts? No! He liked to help. He was generous, and he had a reputation for it, actually. If his generosity sometimes looked like making out in the back of a frat house or stumbling home at 2 a.m. with glitter on his shirt—that wasn’t his fault.
So yeah, he didn’t remember everyone. But you? He’d remember you. He would’ve. Satoru dragged a hand through his hair, hoping the sheer proximity might dig him out of the hole he’d already sunk into.
“That’s not—okay, that sounded bad. Really bad. But—listen, I don’t forget people. I swear. I mean, maybe once or twice, but that’s only because—”
“Because what?”
He felt like he was back on the ice, blade catching, the whole arena waiting for him to fall. Because what? Because, shit—because you looked like that. Even with your brows drawn in irritation and your mouth set in a thin, don’t-you-dare line, you were ridiculous.
You had this softness at the corner of your eyes that stayed even when you glared, and a faint sheen of lip balm he wanted to taste.
“Because,” he blurted, smiling too wide, “I wasn’t myself that night. Probably concussed! Happens a lot, hockey players y'know."
He wanted to laugh it off, lean on his usual charm, but something about your absolute refusal to play into his script made his confidence drop to the ends of the earth.
“Okay, no, wait,” he said quickly, voice pitching up as the words tumbled out faster than he could control. “You’d know if I ghosted you. I mean—do I look like the kind of guy who would just leave someone hanging like that?”
“Yes,” you deadpanned, flat as the damn rink.
Attraction bloomed right alongside offense, until he couldn’t tell the difference between the two. How dare you. How dare you make him feel this shit and yet still attracted.
His knee bounced under the table. His grin was slipping but he refused to let you see it.
“So…” The words kept dragging, fishing for something, anything that didn’t make him sound like a jackass. “We didn’t....?”
You blinked at him, incredulous. “Absolutely not.”
Ouch.
The certainty in your voice hit him harder than a body check at full speed. No hesitation, no coy smile, only flat-out rejection.
He’d heard a lot of things from girls in his life, squeals, giggles, even the occasional I love you muttered too soon, but never those two words.
“Wow.” He whistled low, trying to play it off. “You said that with your whole chest, huh?”
“Because it’s true,” you replied, eyes already dropping back to your notes. “And if it wasn’t obvious, it will never be true.”
Never. Christ.
Offense fused with fascination, humiliation with attraction, until Gojo Satoru, the guy who’d coasted through life on charm and cheekbones, didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to do with himself.
On instinct, he invaded your space again, because distance felt too much like defeat.
“Y’know,” he murmured, grin tugging at his lips, “most people would die for the privilege of saying they’ve been in my bed.”
You looked at him slowly, eyes narrowing like you’d just discovered mold on week-old bread.
“Oh my god,” you said flatly. “You think I’m upset because I missed my shot at sleeping with you?”
That…wasn’t the reaction he’d planned. Wait. Were you mocking him? That tone belonged to rival defensemen right before he dropped gloves. It belonged to teammates when they roasted his Spotify playlists. But from a girl? No, worse—from a girl who didn't know who he was?
“That’s not—” He defended himself, but you cut him off.
“No, no, let’s roll with it,” You nodded like you were genuinely considering it. “Clearly, my life is empty and tragic because I didn’t make it onto your…what? List? Roster? Whatever you call the collection of poor souls you can’t even remember the names of.”
Roster. Christ. Nobody had ever called it that out loud. He opened his mouth, closed it again.
“And just to be clear,” You went on, pen twirling between your fingers as if this conversation wasn’t obliterating his entire ego, “you think I’m sitting here, in the library, studying supply and demand, all while secretly pining over the fact that Satoru Gojo didn’t bless me with his—” you paused, smirk dangerous “—what, five minutes of glory?”
He choked. FIVE MINUTES? That was… that was character assassination. That was slander. That was—Wait.
Wait wait wait.
His name. You said his name. His heart tripped over itself like it had forgotten the rhythm. “Hold on. Did you—? You do know who I am?”
You looked up, unimpressed. “Of course I know who you are.”
But—you—so you’ve known this whole time?”
“Obviously.” You leaned back in your chair, as if he weren’t unraveling in front of you, "We've been in the same class since freshman year."
Same class? Since freshman year? No. No, no, absolutely not.
Impossible.
He would’ve remembered you. He had to have. That pretty face? That sharp tongue? The way you looked at him like he was gum on the bottom of your shoe? That wasn’t forgettable.
You weren’t the type who could sit in the back row and fade into the wallpaper. He would’ve seen you. Clocked you. Stored you away for later, the same way he catalogued every superstition, every ritual, every habit that kept his game tight.
Unless—you were lying. Fucking with him, testing him. Yeah, that had to be it.
If what you said was true, then Gojo Satoru, campus legend, face-on-a-banner Gojo Satoru, had gone three years without noticing someone like you.
“Nah, see, that doesn’t make sense. We couldn’t have been in the same class. I’d remember.”
“Why?”
“Why?” He repeated it like it was the dumbest question in existence. “Look at you. You’re…” His hand gestured vaguely; his brain couldn’t settle on a word. Pretty? Scary? “There’s no way I would’ve missed you.”
"I'm flattered."
Fuck. Direct hit with sarcasm.
Maybe you transferred last year and sat in the corner and wore disguises. Except—god, look at you. Your mouth was so plump even when you were unimpressed; your eyes skimmed over him like he wasn’t worth the carbon dioxide he was exhaling. No one ever looked through him, you should’ve been burned into his memory from the first second.
He was half-hard and humiliated and trying not to look like either.
"You come here often?"
You snorted in response. "And it gets worse."
"Don’t knock it. I’m trying here.”
“Don’t.” Your pen scratched another note. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
He laughed anyway, because what else was he supposed to do? Walk away? Admit defeat? Not a chance.
“So you have noticed me before,” he pushed, eyes zoning on your pretty caligraphy. Why the fuck is he assessing calligraphy now?
“I notice colds before they knock me on my ass, too. Doesn’t mean I want them.”
He gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Cold? That’s harsh, sweetheart.”
“And desperate.”
His knee bounced faster under the table, he'd never been called desperate before. But then again, he was here begging for scraps of your attention while you flicked him away like a mosquito.
"I’m not all bad. I’m fun. I’m generous. I—” he swallowed, embarrassment crawling up his neck, “I eat pussy like a fucking champ.”
Your eyes went wide with incredulous amusement. “Are you bragging about your tongue in the middle of the library?”
Shit. Shit. He had.
“I—I mean—” he stammered, cheeks flushing despite the smile he pasted on, “it’s true, really true. Ask—well, maybe don’t ask, but…” He trailed off, groaning into his hands. “Fuck.”
You laughed for the first time since he sat down.
“Wow. That’s your pitch? Not your stats, not your trophies, not the championship ring—you want me to be impressed because you’re apparently good at going down?”
His throat bobbed. “...Yes?”
He wasn’t lying. He was good. But now it sounded like begging.
"And pray tell, Satoru, does eating pussy get you to shut the fuck up?"
He chastised himself, for the hundredth time, not to look. It was library etiquette, common decency. But when you turned to ask him the question, the tilt of your shoulders and the reckless way your top didn’t quite cooperate with whatever modesty laws applied to campus left him speechless.
His gaze moved with a mind of its own, snagging, then jerking away as if burned, "Yeah?"
The part of him that catalogued strengths and weaknesses—opponents’ tendencies, teammates’ favorite pregame songs—now kept a new private stat line: your collarbone, the curve under that fabric, the casual ripple when you crossed an arm.
"So, hypothetically speaking of course, if I sat on your face, would you leave me alone?"
His brain flat-lined, then rebooted with all the grace of a freshman goalie.
“...Yes.” The word squealed out before he could process it. His knee stilled, broad shoulders leaning forward like a man possessed.
Your lips quirked. “Is that so?” you echoed, mock-sweet.
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice dropping low, rough with need. “You can use me. Sit on my face, grind on me ‘til you’re done—fuck, I’ll be quiet, I swear. You won’t even know I’m here."
"Mmh, hard to believe."
He was hard under the table, fingers flexing against his thighs because he wanted to touch, wanted to taste.
You tilted your head, "And what if I don’t cum?”
His pupils blew wide, a scoff leaving his lips, voice was hoarse when it came out. “You will."
You closed your laptop with a sharp snap. His breath caught.
“Pack your shit, hockey boy."
He scrambled, fumbling with his notebook, shoving things into his backpack like the national title was on the line. His grin was back, but it was ruined—half feral, half worship.
“Where we going?”
“Somewhere you can put that mouth to work.”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
Fifteen minutes in, Gojo Satoru knew two things: one, he was absolutely working harder for you than he had for any championship game. And two, if this was love—ugly, humiliating, face-red love—he was already ruined.
Not on the ice, not in overtime, but here—cramped between two sagging shelves of books no one had touched since the fucking Carter administration with your back pressed to history and your skirt bunched around your hips.
He’d thought about this, the second you said pack your shit, but thinking wasn’t the same as kneeling. Thinking wasn’t the same as parting your thighs, your plushy thighs brushing over his cheekbones, tongue already itching to taste.
“Fuck,” he whispered, the word falling out on a groan.
He didn’t wait for permission, nosing in, open mouth to the wet patch on your panties, starving for this exact thing. You hissed in surprise, fingers flying to his white hair as he mouthed over the fabric, sucking until it was soaked through.
The sound was echoing in the tight aisle, and he hoped someone heard. Let the whole place know Gojo Satoru was down on his knees like a supplicant for a gorgeous girl who apparently hated his guts. He hooked your leg over his shoulder, shoving the scrap of lace aside, and licked, moving his tongue because he had something to prove.
You’d mocked him, dismissed him, called him desperate, and Christ, he was.
The first drag of his tongue through your puffy folds made you gasp so daintily, his cock twitched in a way that he almost doubled over.
“There she is,” he mumbled against you, “Knew you’d sound pretty.”
He was nose-deep between your thighs, knees wrecked on the shitty carpet, tongue working like the game clock was winding down.
“God, you’re so—” you broke off on a shaky breath, “So annoying.”
He pulled back to grin, lips already swollen. “Annoying?” He gave your clit a lazy kitten lick. He pushed his tongue into you, just the tip, shallow strokes teasing in and out, never giving you the full thing.
Your thighs shook. “You motherfucker—”
“Mmh?” Gojo looked up with those crystalline eyes, gleaming, his tongue still moving. “What was that? Annoying?”
Your hips rolled against his mouth, and he let you—hell, he wanted you to. He flattened his tongue, let you take what you needed, let you smear yourself all over him until his chin was slick and his ego was obliterated.
You glared down at him, breath hitching when he did it again—short, fast little thrusts that had slick gushing onto his face.
“Soooo annoying, sweetcheeks?” His grin split wider as he dragged his tongue out and shoved it back in.
You gasped, nails scraping over his scalp. “Stop—fuck, stop playing around—”
“Playing?” he mumbled against you, nose nudging your clit while his tongue fucked you mercilessly, shallow. “Baby, I’m workin’ overtime here. I’m your MVP.”
Gojo tried to keep the jokes at first. But then he got a real taste of you—dizzying—and it shut down his whole brain.
“You—fuck—you taste…” His words dissolved into a hungry moan as he licked you open, hoping he could somehow drown in it.
Every slick gush on his tongue made his cock grow impossibly harder; it had him gripping your thighs like a bitch. His ego couldn’t hold up under it—he was whining now, actually whining, rutting his face against you.
“So good—so good, I can’t—” He gave up talking, gave up everything, burying his mouth against you.
He sucked at your clit, slurped greedily, tongue plunging inside your hole until his jaw ached. He didn’t care. He wanted the humiliation of being strung out on the taste of you, until your legs trembled against his ears. He hummed low, vibration spilling into you, because fuck yeah, he was good at this.
Gojo knew that much.
When you whimpered his name, dragged from your lungs against your will, Satoru thought he might die happy right there, knees bruised on the library carpet.
“Look at you,” you muttered. “Finally shut the fuck up.”
He whimpered against you, hips wanting to rut the air if he could, and you felt the words more than heard them, a muffled, desperate plea: “Please… just let me…”
He was gone, whining into your cunt, eating you like you were the first and last thing he’d ever be allowed to taste.
"Keep it down!" You hissed in between pants. When you tried to push him away with a shaky hand, he only growled and latched onto your clit. “Sa—toru—” Your voice broke.
Satoru pressed two fingers into you without warning, while his mouth sealed over your clit again. The combination had your back slamming into the bookshelf, books rattling, your gasp echoing far too loud in the so-called quiet.
You tried to scold him again, but he felt the words become caged in your lungs, a strangled cry took their place when his fingers stroked deeper.
Your head tipped back against the shelf, neck arched, throat bared. Lips parted, trembling with a cute cry you tried to swallow down. He’d seen girls moan before, but you? So fucking pretty when you lost control.
Your brows pinched both from pleasure and what he'd guess was the remaining hatred for his personality, lashes fluttering. He swore he saw stars burst behind his eyes at the sight. His mouth never stopped moving.
Gojo's pupils were blown, wide and adoring, drinking you in like he'd never seen a woman cum before. You squeezed around his fingers so tightly he thought his knuckles were going to snap. Your thighs clamped around his ears, and instead of fighting it, he let himself be smothered. His cock twitched painfully in his jeans, untouched, but he didn’t care. This was better.
Your back arched, breasts heaving under your top, a broken sob tearing free as your orgasm came along. You shook, hips grinding helplessly into his mouth, and Satoru’s vision blurred with tears he didn’t realize had pricked his eyes. He kept his gaze locked on you—star-eyed, dazed, a man who’d finally found something worth worshipping.
Your orgasm bled out slowly, in shivers and slow breaths, until you finally slumped against the bookshelf, thighs loose around his head. Gojo kept his mouth on you anyway, coaxing every last twitch, humming while hoping he could wring another wave out of you if he tried hard enough.
But then your hand came down on his shoulder—a pat, like he was a dog that had done a trick well.
“That’s enough,” you murmured, still breathless.
Gojo blinked up at you, face wet, utterly starstruck.
“Enough?” he rasped. He looked like he’d just been baptized and then excommunicated in the same breath.
You smoothed your skirt back into place, eyes still glazed, but your mouth turned into the faintest smirk. “Yeah. Thanks for the service or whatever.”
“Service?” Gojo repeated, stupefied, still kneeling there on the shitty carpet.
You shouldered your bag from one of the shelves, legs falling down from his shoulders, stepping back into the aisle like nothing world-ending had happened.
“Try to stay quiet on your way out, champ.”
Then you were gone.
He stayed crouched, staring at the space you’d vacated, catching up with the fact that you’d just gotten off on his tongue and left him hard and dripping in the library stacks.
Realizing he didn't even know your name.
Not that it mattered—he would remember it the moment he found out, no matter what. A slow, crazed look took over his face as he tilted his head back against the shelf, chuckling at himself.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling like a lunatic. His heart was sprinting, and his cock was still painfully hard. He pressed his fingers to his mouth, committing the taste of you, the sound of you, the whole impossible picture to memory.
“Oh, I’m gonna marry you, sweetcheeks.”
