Blind Date Series: Gojo Satoru
Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Chubby Black Female Reader
Genre: Fluff, Slow Burn Romance, Blind Date AU (modern Jujutsu world but Gojo’s just a ridiculously hot, overpowered teacher who loves sweets more than fighting curses)
Warnings: None. Pure tooth-rotting fluff, body positivity, sweet tooth solidarity, Gojo being Gojo (teasing, dramatic, zero filter). Reader is explicitly chubby, brown-skinned, natural hair, melanin-popping beauty.
Word count: 5.8k (I went LONG for yall 💕)
A/N: For my Blind Date Series! This is part one—after the mess with your ex, your bestie drags you out and sets you up with the strongest (and sweetest) man alive. Enjoy the sugar rush
You stared at the cracked phone screen, the last text from him still glowing like a fresh bruise.
“You’ve let yourself go. I can’t keep pretending this works.”
That was it. Three years. Three years of you shrinking yourself—your curves, your laugh, your love for extra frosting on everything—just to fit the version of you he wanted. And the second you stopped starving yourself for his approval, he bailed.
The breakup wasn’t loud. No screaming, no thrown vases. Just a quiet “I think we should see other people” over lukewarm takeout, followed by him sliding the key to your apartment across the table like it was nothing. You sat there in the booth, brown skin prickling with heat, thick thighs pressed together under the table, and felt every inch of yourself suddenly too much. Too soft. Too wide. Too… you.
You didn’t cry until you got home.
You curled up on your couch in the oversized hoodie he left behind (the one that used to swallow you but now barely zipped over your chest and belly), natural curls tied up in a messy pineapple, and sobbed until your throat felt raw. Your phone buzzed nonstop—your best friend Mia blowing it up—but you ignored every call. The only thing you reached for was the emergency stash of strawberry mochi in the freezer. You ate three straight from the pack, tears mixing with the sweet red bean paste, and whispered to the empty apartment, “Guess I really am unlovable like this.”
Depression hit like a truck the next two weeks.
You called out of work (thank god you worked remote as a graphic designer). You wore the same hoodie for four days straight. Your melanin-rich skin looked dull under the blue light of your monitor; the cute freckles across your nose and cheeks faded under puffy eyes. You ordered Uber Eats every night—extra caramel drizzle on the cheesecake, double chocolate chip cookies the size of your palm, those limited-edition matcha KitKats you hoarded like treasure. Every bite tasted like comfort and punishment at the same time.
You avoided mirrors. When you did catch your reflection in the bathroom, you sucked in your stomach on instinct, then let it go with a bitter laugh. “Why bother?”
Mia showed up on day fifteen with no warning, banging on your door like the apartment was on fire.
“Open up, bestie, or I’m using the spare key you gave me for emergencies!”
You shuffled over in fuzzy socks, hoodie zipped only halfway because your boobs and belly refused to cooperate anymore. The second the door cracked open, Mia’s eyes softened. She took one look at your swollen face, the crumbs on your hoodie, the empty mochi boxes on the coffee table, and pulled you into a hug that smelled like vanilla body spray and unconditional love.
“Girl,” she sighed into your curls, “he was trash. Capital T. You deserve the whole damn bakery, not some low-carb fool who couldn’t handle a woman with actual curves and taste buds.”
You laughed wetly into her shoulder. “I’m never dating again. Ever. I’m just gonna… be the cool auntie who brings dessert to every family function and dies surrounded by cats and cake.”
Mia pulled back, hands on your shoulders, thumbs brushing the soft roundness of your upper arms. “Nope. Hard pass. You’re getting back out there. And I already set it up.”
Your eyes widened. “You did WHAT?”
“Blind date. Tomorrow night. 7:30 at that new dessert café downtown—The Sugar Veil. He’s tall, stupidly hot, loves sweets more than breathing, and I told him you’re a goddess who deserves to be worshipped like the snack you are.”
You groaned, trying to close the door on her. “Mia, no. I’m not ready. I look like I’ve been stress-eating my feelings for two weeks straight—”
“Exactly why you need this. And before you say no again, I already paid the reservation fee and told him your favorite color is anything that matches strawberry frosting. You’re going. End of discussion.”
She left a dress on your bed before she bounced—an emerald-green wrap dress that hugged your waist and flared over your hips and thighs like it was made for a chubby Black girl who actually had hips. Paired with your favorite gold hoops and a slick edge on your curls, you almost felt cute again. Almost.
The next evening you stood outside The Sugar Veil at 7:25, heart hammering, stomach doing flips that had nothing to do with hunger (okay, maybe a little—your sweet tooth was screaming). The café glowed through the windows: fairy lights, pastel booths, glass cases full of macarons, mochi towers, and cakes that looked like works of art. You tugged at the hem of the dress, smoothing it over the soft curve of your belly, and whispered, “Don’t embarrass yourself, (Y/N). Just eat dessert and leave.”
Then the door chimed and he walked in.
Six-foot-five of pure chaos wrapped in a black button-down that strained deliciously over broad shoulders. Snow-white hair that somehow looked effortlessly styled and messy at the same time. A black blindfold pushed up into his hair like a headband, revealing the brightest, most electric blue eyes you’d ever seen—like summer sky meeting ocean. And that grin. That infuriating, cocky, heart-stopping grin that said he already knew he was the strongest… and the sweetest.
He spotted you immediately (because of course he did) and his entire face lit up like you were the last slice of cake at the buffet.
“(Y/N)?” His voice was smooth honey with a mischievous edge. He strode over, long legs eating up the distance, and stopped just close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne—something clean and sweet like vanilla and cotton candy. “Damn. Mia wasn’t lying. You’re even prettier in person.”
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “You’re… Gojo?”
“In the flesh.” He winked, then dramatically swept an arm toward the hostess. “Table for two, please. The one with the best view of the dessert case—my date has excellent taste.”
The hostess blushed and led you both to a corner booth tucked behind a wall of hanging plants. Gojo waited until you slid in first (gentleman behavior? from him?), then folded his long body across from you. His knee accidentally brushed yours under the table and he didn’t move it. Neither did you.
“So,” he leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in his hands like a kid at story time, “tell me everything. Favorite dessert. Go. Don’t hold back—I already know you’re a fellow sugar fiend.”
You blinked, caught off guard by how easy it felt. No awkward small talk. No sizing you up. Just pure, unfiltered Gojo curiosity.
“Strawberry shortcake with extra whipped cream,” you admitted, cheeks warming under your brown skin. “And those mochi that are filled with red bean and dusted with powdered sugar. And honestly? I could destroy an entire tray of macarons right now.”
His eyes sparkled like he’d just found his soulmate. “Marry me.”
You laughed—actually laughed—for the first time in weeks. “Slow down, Six Eyes.”
He gasped theatrically, hand over his heart. “You know the nickname already? Mia really did tell you everything. Traitor.”
The waitress came over and Gojo ordered like he was on a mission: the strawberry shortcake tower (extra whipped cream), a flight of six different mochi flavors, two slices of matcha tiramisu, and a chocolate lava cake “just in case we need backup.” He glanced at you with a playful smirk. “Anything else, princess? Don’t be shy—I’ve got the metabolism of a curse-eating machine.”
You added a caramel-drizzled cheesecake and felt zero shame for the first time in forever.
While you waited, he didn’t stop talking. He told you about his students (“They’re menaces but I love them”), his obsession with Digimon (“Don’t judge me, the nostalgia hits different”), and how he once ate an entire wedding cake by himself because the bride was late. Every story was delivered with wild hand gestures and that ridiculous laugh that made the whole café turn and smile.
And through it all, his eyes never once left your face. Not your body in a creepy way—just… looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room. Like your round cheeks and full lips and the way your curls framed your face were exactly what he’d been hoping for.
When the desserts arrived, it was basically a sugar explosion on the table. Gojo’s eyes went wide like a kid on Christmas.
“Okay, rules,” he declared, picking up a fork. “We share everything. No ‘that’s mine’ nonsense. And if you steal the last mochi, I’m fake-crying until you give me a bite.”
You raised an eyebrow, already digging into the shortcake. “You’re on, Gojo.”
The first bite of strawberry shortcake melted on your tongue—light sponge, fresh berries, clouds of whipped cream. You let out an involuntary happy hum. Gojo’s head snapped up.
“That sound,” he said, voice dropping an octave, “should be illegal. Do it again.”
Your face burned, but you laughed and scooped another bite, this time offering it across the table on your fork. “Here. Taste and stop being dramatic.”
He leaned forward without hesitation, lips closing around the fork. His eyes fluttered shut for a second. “Holy—okay, yeah. We’re getting married. I’m calling the bakery right now.”
You snorted, covering your mouth with your hand. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously into you,” he shot back without missing a beat, then stole a bite of your cheesecake in revenge. “Mmm. Caramel drizzle? Bold choice. I like a woman who commits to the bit.”
Conversation flowed like melted chocolate. You told him about your graphic design job, how you loved drawing chubby characters who looked like you—soft bellies, thick thighs, glowing brown skin, natural hair in every style. He listened like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard, chin in his hand, blue eyes soft.
“I need to see your work,” he said seriously. “Right now. Pull it up.”
You hesitated, but he gave you the most earnest puppy-dog eyes behind that blindfold-slash-headband. So you pulled up your Instagram art account. He scrolled for ten straight minutes, cooing over every piece.
“Look at her,” he pointed at one drawing of a curvy Black girl in a sundress. “She’s got your smile. And those hips? Chef’s kiss. You draw yourself so beautifully, (Y/N). Like… you get it. The softness. The power in it.”
Your throat tightened. No one—not even your ex—had ever looked at your art and seen that.
Gojo noticed the shift. He reached across the table and gently flicked your forehead. “Hey. Eyes on me, princess. That ex of yours? Total clown. Anyone who makes a woman like you feel small doesn’t deserve the sugar high you bring to the world.”
You blinked back sudden tears. “How do you even know about him?”
“Mia gave me the SparkNotes. Said you’ve been in a sweets-and-sadness spiral. Figured I’d bring the sweets and kick the sadness out.” He grinned, but there was something softer underneath. “Plus… I saw you walk in and thought, ‘There she is. The girl who’s gonna ruin me for regular desserts forever.’”
The lava cake arrived and you both attacked it with two forks, chocolate oozing everywhere. Gojo got a smear on his cheek and you reached over without thinking, wiping it with your thumb. He caught your wrist gently, eyes locking on yours.
“Careful,” he murmured, voice playful but warm. “I might get used to you taking care of me like that.”
Your heart did a full flip.
By the time the bill came (which he insisted on paying, dramatically slapping his black card down like it was a battle technique), the café was closing. You stepped outside into the cool night air, stomach full of sugar, cheeks hurting from laughing. Gojo walked you to the curb where your Uber waited, hands in his pockets, white hair glowing under the streetlights.
“So,” he rocked back on his heels, “this was the best blind date in the history of blind dates. Fact. I’m already planning date two—there’s this mochi-making class next weekend. You in?”
You bit your lip, feeling shy and bold at the same time. “Only if you promise not to eat all the red bean filling before I get a chance.”
He laughed, bright and loud, then stepped closer. Not enough to crowd—just enough that you felt the warmth of him. “Deal. And (Y/N)?”
His voice softened, the teasing edge melting into something real. “You’re not ‘too much.’ You’re exactly enough. Soft, sweet, strong, and I’m kinda obsessed already. Text me when you get home safe, okay? I’ll send you a goodnight mochi emoji.”
You smiled so wide your cheeks dimpled. “I will.”
He waited until your Uber pulled away, waving like an idiot until you were out of sight.
Back home, you kicked off your heels, flopped onto the couch still in the emerald dress, and opened your phone.
One new message from an unknown number (Mia had clearly given it to him).
You laughed softly, the depression that had clung to you for two weeks finally cracking open like over-baked sugar crust. For the first time in forever, you didn’t suck in your stomach when you looked in the mirror. You just saw yourself—chubby, brown, curly-haired, sweet-toothed you—and thought maybe, just maybe, someone saw all of that and wanted seconds.
You set the phone down, stomach full, heart fuller, and for the first time since the breakup, you fell asleep smiling—dreaming of white hair, blue eyes, and an endless table of strawberry shortcake shared with the strongest, silliest, sweetest man alive.
A/N: ITSSSS FINALLY HERE THIS TOOK ME SO LONG, IM SORRY FOR THE WAIT.
Blind Date Series continues… next up:Geto x chubby black reader Stay tuned besties~
(And yes, the reader is always chubby, always Black, always the main character. We love body-positive fluff in this house.)
