[arusato]

okay but can we talk about how the fandom always woobifies nerd!gojo into this shy, bumbling, scatterbrained softboy and i'm just like. babes. BABES. you're missing the point entirely. like yeah it's a hc, i get it, but canonically the man is a genius. he KNOWS he's a genius. and if we're doing college au or whatever, his personality wouldn't just evaporate?? nerd!gojo should be INSUFFERABLE. obnoxious. the kind of guy who corrects every single thing you say, who spent three hours beefing with strangers on reddit over some niche technicality, and WON. and he'll bring it up. he'll cite his sources. he's not confident for no reason— he actually IS the smartest person in the room and he's 100% aware of it. he doesn't waste time on people he deems beneath him. he's a menace. a condescending, smug little shit. a bona fide mean girl. cocky, bratty, absolute asshole energy.

and that's what makes it so DELICIOUS. nerd!gojo is a tsundere. fight me on this.

∩^ω^∩

you're elbow-deep in the same problem set for an hour when a shadow falls over your desk. you don't look up. you already know.

"move your bag."

satoru doesn't wait for you to move it. he just drops into the chair next to you, shoves your backpack onto the floor with zero ceremony, and pulls your notebook toward himself.

"okay so first of all," he says, already scribbling in the margin with a pen he definitely stole from your pencil case, "this step is wrong. not in a 'different approach' way, in a 'this fundamentally misunderstands the assignment' way. just so we're clear."

"hello to you too."

"hi. you're welcome." he doesn't look up. his hair is a mess. he's wearing the same hoodie from yesterday. there's a red mark on his cheek from leaning on his hand too long. "you reversed the variables. happens to people who don't read the instructions. which is most people. so don't feel special."

he talks fast. he always talks fast. like his mouth is trying to keep up with his brain and losing, so the words come out clipped, efficient, slightly brutal. he's not trying to be mean. he just doesn't see the point in cushioning facts with niceties. a wrong answer is a wrong answer.

"see here?" he jabs the paper. "you assumed this was constant. it's not. it literally says it's not in the second paragraph. did you read the second paragraph?"

"i read it."

"okay so you read it but you didn't, like, absorb it. got it." he flips the page, scans the next problem, makes a small "hm" sound. "this one's actually fine. good job. moving on."

he doesn't linger on the praise. he's already onto the next thing, crossing out a line of your work with three aggressive strokes.

he's not gentle. he's patient, though. in his own way. he explains things once, clearly, without repeating himself, and then waits— actually waits— for you to nod before moving on. his leg bounces under the table the whole time. he has too much energy. always.

"so." he caps the pen, finally, and slides your notebook back. "do the rest. i'll tell you if you fuck it up."

he doesn't leave. pulls out his phone, opens some app with a dark background and a lot of text— probably some forum where he's currently winning an argument against three people simultaneously— and settles in. his shoulder is warm next to yours. he doesn't mention it. neither do you.

halfway through the next problem you pause, pen hovering.

"what?" he says without looking up from his phone.

"i didn't say anything."

"you stopped writing. what?"

"...this variable. i don't—"

"it's derived from the one above it." he still doesn't look up. "they're connected. it's not standalone. you're treating it like it is."

you stare at the problem. he's right. obviously.

"okay.."

"yeah. keep going."

five minutes pass. you get through three more problems without stopping. he's still there, still scrolling, still bouncing his leg. at some point his knee knocks against yours. he doesn't move it.

when you finish the last one, he glances at your paper. does that rapid scan thing with his eyes. nods once.

"see? you don't actually need me. you just get in your own head and then spiral about it."

that's.. not what you expected him to say.

he stands up, stretches, cracks his neck. grabs his bag.

"same time wednesday?"

"for what exactly..?"

"physics." he says it like you're stupid. "you're gonna hit the next unit and do the exact same thing where you overthink everything and then panic. i'd rather just fix it early than deal with the theatrics later."

"i don't do theatrics."

he gives you a look. flat. unimpressed. "you literally almost cried over a coefficient last week."

"i did not—"

"it’s fine, i’m not judging. i’ll text you."

he leaves.

your backpack is still on the floor. your pen is missing. there's a sticky note on the inside cover of your notebook that says read page 312 before wednesday in his cramped handwriting.

[eirasera]

you thought you’d get under his skin with a little flirting — too bad gojo’s got his reversed cursed technique ready to steal every orgasm and keep you begging for more. how far would you go to reclaim what’s yours?

<𝟑 .ᐟ gojo satoru x f!reader , mdni , divider->@/cafekitsune

cw: feral unhinged gojo , orgasm denial using supernatural powers, rough revenge sex , overstimulation , size kink (implied) , oral sex (f. receiving) , emotional vulnerability including crying and begging , degradation , mention of naoya zenin .

not proofread , art by sakimenz on insta

you’d done it on purpose.

a gentle laugh, a hand on Naoya Zenin's arm, the way your voice softened — just a little — when you said his name.

Gojo had watched from across the room, eyes hidden behind his blindfold, a smile on his lips that didn’t reach his voice.

it was petty. you’d wanted to sting him. to get a reaction, but Gojo Satoru doesn’t do jealousy.

he does revenge.

which is why you’re here now — naked and trembling on his bed, your body wrung out from being dragged to the edge and back again, each high meticulously stolen by the brush of his cursed energy, each orgasm erased with the clinical precision of a man who could do this forever, his blindfold and clothes now discarded on the floor too.

but first — he’d made you feel it.

he had dragged your knees apart and spread you open with the reverence of a priest and the cruelty of a god.

his tongue was devastating. slow, languid strokes at first — deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of your folds with the flat of it, as if the taste of you was something to savor rather than devour.

his breath fanned out over your slick skin, humid and maddening. every pass of his tongue sent your hips twitching, but he didn’t let you move — not even a little.

he moaned against you, low and indulgent, as if your pussy fed something primal in him.

your hands fisted in his hair. your thighs tried to close around his head, trembling, but he shoved them back open — firm, unhurried, unbothered. one hand gripped your inner thigh tight enough to bruise, the other slid underneath you, palm pressing flat to your lower belly — pinning you down, anchoring you like he knew you were about to come undone.

his mouth sealed around your clit, sucking slow, torturous pulls that made you choke on your own breath. then the tip of his tongue flicked — quick and rhythmic, teasing the bundle of nerves with surgical precision.

he alternated between flattening his tongue and curling it against you, dragging the wet muscle over every swollen, sensitive spot like he was testing how far he could push you without letting you fall.

and when you began to shake — legs tensing, voice gone — he shifted slightly, lips slippery with your slick, then whispered against your cunt like a secret, “that’s it, baby… give it to me.”

you came... or tried to.

snap, gone.

the orgasm vanished like a phantom breath, ripped from your nerves before it could detonate. your mouth opened in a soundless cry, the pleasure caught in your chest like a sob that wouldn’t release.

that was the beginning of your unraveling.

now, an hour later, he kneels between your legs, sleeves rolled up, mouth glistening, fingers stroking idly at your folds. you twitch under his touch.

“still feeling flirty?” he hums, mock curious, tilting his head like he doesn’t already know. “or are we learning how to behave now?”

you glare at him, but it’s pathetic. you’re flushed and panting, thighs spread wide, unable to even close them with how sore you are. you’ve already cum — what, three times? four?

no. you haven’t. that’s the sick joke of it.

your body has. screamed and clenched and convulsed. but every single time, just as you came — he’d used reversed cursed technique on your nerves, wiping away the peak as if it never happened.

leaving you empty. ruined. needing.

he was never angry. never cold. just... calmly vindictive, “you’re insane,” you croak out.

he hums again, amused, like you’ve said something sweet. “you knew that when you chose me, you're just as bad.”

you try to sit up. he presses your hips back down instantly, one handed, with terrifying ease.

“toru—”

he leans in, licks a slow stripe up your inner thigh. “don’t say my name like that unless you mean it, baby.”

your whole body jerks. “i do,” you pant. “please—let me cum this time. i won’t flirt with him ever again.”

he smiles. but it’s not kindness — it’s confirmation. “there it is,” he murmurs, pleased. “took you long enough.”

the fourth orgasm hits like a freight train, or it would’ve.

you feel it build in your gut — tight, volcanic, desperate. his fingers are perfect, curling inside you, thumb circling your clit, his mouth whispering filth you can barely process. and just as your breath catches — just as your body tries to surrender again—

gone.

you scream into your own hand. he sighs, mock sympathetic. “awww. almost.” you writhe, tears slipping from your eyes.

he leans in close, licking one off your cheek, his voice silky. “you know how precise i have to be to catch it right as you tip over? it’s hard work.”

“sadist,” you whisper, “mmhmm,” he nods like you’ve complimented him. “try again?”

you shake your head. “no. i—I can’t.” he kisses your stomach, soft. “you will.”

by the time he’s undone your sixth orgasm, you’ve forgotten why you flirted with anyone in the first place.

you’re incoherent. your body is oversensitized to the point of pain, nerves frayed, thighs shaking every time he exhales near your cunt. your fists clench the sheets. you hate him. you need him so bad that it hurts.

he’s humming a tune. casual. barely sweaty, even though he’s been at this for over an hour.

“i’m honestly impressed,” he says, pressing two fingers back inside you. “i thought you’d safeword by now.”

you blink up at him, barely. “i want to cum.”

he smiles, slow. “you want that, but you also knew what you were doing, baby. you knew what would happen the moment you put your hands on him.”

your breath catches.

“you did it for this.” he kisses your inner thigh. “you wanted me to snap. to fuck you stupid. to ruin you.”

he bites, just enough to make you gasp, “i’m only obliging.” you sob — half laughter, half broken plea. “then fucking ruin me, gojo satoru.”

he freezes for a second.

then — something changes.

when he slides into you, with no warning. just heat and stretch and a low, animal growl torn from his throat.

your cunt, swollen and hypersensitive, welcomes him in with an obscene squelch. you’re soaked — slippery and pulsing — and yet the thickness of him still steals the breath from your lungs. he sinks in slowly, grinding deeper with every inch until his hips press flush to yours and his cock is nestled so far inside, you feel him in your ribs.

your walls spasm around him, clenching like your body’s trying to drag him in deeper, as if it’ll never be enough.

you cry out, legs instinctively hooking around his waist despite the ache. he grabs under your knees and bends them up and out — folding you open, exposing everything, letting you feel every inch of stretch and friction as he rocks his hips forward again.

“fuck—still this tight after all that?” he groans against your neck, voice rough and disbelieving.

you can’t answer. your brain is static.

he draws out slow — so slow — and your pussy clings to him, velvety and drenched, unwilling to let go. you feel everything: the ridge of his head, the drag along your walls, the pressure curling low in your gut again like a threat.

and then he slams back in.

you scream. your body jolts under his weight, the bed creaking beneath you. he does it again — snapping his hips with brutal accuracy, hitting that deep spot inside you over and over until your back arches and your fingers seize against his scalp.

his rhythm is devastating. perfectly cruel. he fucks you like he’s driving something out of you — like he wants to brand himself into your bones.

your chest drags against his with every thrust, your breasts bouncing between your bodies, slick skin slapping slick skin. every inhale tastes like him — his sweat, his breath, the faint trace of your arousal still slick on his lips, making them glossy and so fucking kissable.

your arms wrap around his shoulders as if on instinct, fingers trembling where they knot into his snowy hair. your chest presses flush to his, nipples stiff against him, and as he fucks you, you kiss him — anywhere you can reach. his neck, his jaw, his cheek, his collarbone — each frantic, sloppy kiss smeared with desperation, a string of saliva clinging to your parted lips every time you gasp against him.

“please,” you whisper into his throat, voice cracked and close to crying. “don’t take this one. please—please—”

he doesn’t answer, he just fucks you harder.

you’re close, closer than ever.

his hands are everywhere — one gripping your hip like a vice, the other cradling the back of your head as your face tucks against his neck. his cock drives into you with merciless intent, stroking deep, thick, hot. it’s too much, too perfect, too right.

your whole body tenses, the orgasm barreling toward you like an avalanche. every nerve is wired. every inch of you feels electric, ignited, seconds from collapse.

he feels it.

his pace quickens, rhythm ruthless, breath ragged in your ear, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t taunt. doesn’t move to take it away.

his face is focused.

you break with a scream — loud, raw, wet —and for a moment, for a terrifying breathless second, you think he’s stolen it again.

but he doesn’t, you finally cum.

it explodes out of you, violent and endless — your back arching clean off the bed as your cunt clamps down around him, pulsing, spasming, flooding. the pleasure hits in brutal, dizzying waves, white hot and relentless, until your vision swims and your body bucks and jerks uncontrollably beneath him.

you’re crying. sobbing from the release, from the ache, from everything.

he fucks you through it, his hips stuttering at the way you squeeze him.

and then he groans — loud, hoarse, guttural — as he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you.

his cock twitches with every pump of cum he pours into your cunt. he shakes against you, his body trembling with the force of it, and finally — finally — he collapses onto your chest, gasping into your neck.

you both pant into the silence.

you lie there for a long time, twitching with aftershocks, muscles limp. he doesn’t move. just wraps his arms around you, face buried in your neck.

eventually, you manage, hoarsely, “you let me…” “mmhmm.”

“why?”

his voice is tired and smug and terribly fond.

he lifts his head from the crook of your neck, strands of white hair sticking to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath.

and when he looks at you — really looks at you — it’s with those piercing eyes: crystalline blue, glassy from the aftershocks of pleasure, half lidded but sharp, like they’re cutting straight through you.

he looks ruined, sweaty, glowing, a little unhinged, and still utterly in control, so fucking beautiful — you thought.

“you finally begged pretty.” you punch his shoulder. weakly.

he laughs. kisses your cheek. then cups your jaw and whispers, voice low and warm: “next time you touch someone else — I’m taking your memory of the orgasm too.”

you don't answer. just lie there, breathing him in, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist where it holds your jaw.

you’re too spent to speak.

too full of him to care.

and when he kisses your temple — gentle, almost apologetic — you think you might forgive him for everything.

a/n: wtf this is the first time i wrote smut i actually liked

[arusato]

nerd!gojo does not understand personal space. not in theory, not in practice, not even conceptually. in his head that entire idea just… doesn’t exist. he’d be genuinely confused if you complained.

“boundaries?.. that’s a thing?”

from the outside he looks shy. the second your fingers so much as graze his cheek, his skin flushes soft pink like you just overloaded him with attention. he looks away, lips pressed tight, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself… you’d think he’s timid.

but that’s only how you see it….

when he touches you? oh boy. no hesitation. no second-guessing. definitely no “uh, can I?”

nerd!gojo knows exactly what he wants and his hand is steady, warm. his fingers land wherever he finds interesting. he studies you — focused, almost academic, like your body is a book he intends to read cover to cover. and the issue isn’t that he’s a shameless freak —no (..though that’s debatable.) he genuinely doesn’t consider any of this inappropriate. to him, it’s not flirting or a suggestion. he just likes your body. there’s zero double meaning in his mind, only pure fascination.

and when you start reacting, when your breath stutters, your eyes lock onto him, your lips part just a little…

nerd!gojo… he honestly doesn’t get what’s going on.

“uh..?” satoru blinks, like someone yanked him out of deep focus. “are you… okay? did I do something wrong?”

nerd!gojo doesn’t get hints. if you want something from him, you’ll have to spell it out. “satoru, you’re pushing it.”

he goes still. but his fingers? they stay right where they are, resting on your skin. his eyes slowly lift to meet yours. and only then does he realize he maybe went a little too far.

“oh…”

a quiet exhale.

“sorry. got carried away.” the corner of his mouth curves, voice dipping into something soft and sure.

“interesting.”

he doesn’t pull away. doesn’t stop touching you. he just becomes aware of the effect he has.