#dilf!gojo

“Is that perfume on your ankles, baby? That’s— fuck — that’s a nice touch. You wanted this to happen, didn’t you?” He grinds down into you, slow and filthy, his nose nudging your ankle bone. “Attagirl. You can take more than that.”

The second he bends at the waist, your fingers are curling into that crisp white shirt, indenting the pristine fabric.

“Toru-” you gasp, breathless. “Too-too much.”

He only laughs, a lithe hand slipping out of sight, between the heat of your bodies and part your pussy lips with a gentleness that contradicts the way he’s fucking you.

“You can take it,” he murmurs, low and filthy, voice like velvet wrapped granite. And when he finally settles inside you completely, pubic bone flush with your cunt, it takes a minute before you can breathe again.

You should have guessed that Satoru Gojo has a ridiculously big cock.

He crowds you against the leather seats, fingers wrapping over the nape of your neck to drag you up for a messy kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue and desperation— like maybe he’s been aching for this just as much as you have.

You go soft and pliant like putty. He slides an arm down and under your back, lifting your chest flush to his as his hips start rocking again. The filthy praise never lets up, a low muttering against the shell of your ear that has you tilting into him like a flower towards sunlight.

“There’s a good girl. Fuck, that’s my pretty girl,” he rasps. “Go on, now. Make those pretty noises f’me.”

Your cunt throbs. Your eyes roll back.

He coaxes you through three orgasms before he lets you breathe. You feel the exact moment he goes boneless himself, his own orgasm torturously dragged out as his hips stutter and he moans into your ear.

And Christ, you think you might die if you never hear that sound again.

He gathers you up, smears a kiss that is far too intimate for a one night stand across the corner of your mouth, and sends you back towards the bar with a pat on the ass and a phone number lazily scrawled on the inside of your thigh for you to decipher later.

You’ll be calling that fucking number.

ᢉ𐭩 a/n; babe you actually fucking ate with this, I need him biblically…

Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. You took an HD close-up photo of the tip of his cock when he fell asleep last week (post-round-three, so he was KO’d—no guilt) and sampled the color using your phone’s eyedropper tool like some sort of unhinged digital artist.

Then you blurred it. Abstracted it. Sanitized the sacred filth into one swatch of tender, pretty hue. And you brought that to your nail tech with a smile and said:

“Something like this! Super subtle, but like... soft. Feminine.” (“Cockcore,” if you will.)

*-*

Now, here you are, sitting on the couch, scrolling your phone as Gojo walks in the door all legs and sunglasses and “Sorry, baby, Principal Yaga was being a dick again,” while you burn with the weight of this unspeakable knowledge:

Your nails match his dick. And he hasn’t even noticed.

“Hey, babe.”

“Mmm?” you say, pretending to be disinterested as he tosses his blindfold on the kitchen counter and stretches like a damn athlete in your living room. Shirt riding up. Happy trail taunting God.

You’re already wet. You are a SIMP. A FREAK. A WEAK little creature for Gojo Satoru and his pretty face and prettier dick and prettiest dickhead, and he has the NERVE to just waltz in here like everything is normal.

“New nails?” he asks.

Your heart skips. You bite your lip.

YES. YES. YOU STUPID BASTARD. YES, LOOK AT THEM. THEY ARE YOUR PENIS COLOR.

But you play it cool. You shrug. “Yeah. Just something simple.”

“Looks good,” he says, already heading to the fridge. “Matches your lipstick.”

YOUR LIPSTICK? YOU ARE GOING TO COMMIT A FEDERAL CRIME.

You watch him chug strawberry milk from the carton like the feral 6'3 himbo he is and resist the urge to pounce. He doesn’t know. He’s still oblivious. Still unaware that you are, at this very moment, planning to jerk him off with the color of his own cock on your hands like some erotic form of artistic expression.

*-*

By the time the sun sets and the cat (Chairman Meow, judgmental menace) is glaring at Gojo from his perch on the bookshelf, you’ve reached your limit.

You need to fuck.

Like, urgently. Immediately. Critically.

Not just fuck—you need to do something unholy. You need to defile this man, make God weep, maybe ruin a mattress.

“Come to bed,” you murmur, pulling Gojo down by the collar of his dumb, hot, oversized hoodie (that you’ve definitely stolen more than once). Your lips graze his ear. “Now.”

He blinks.

His hands settle on your hips. “Whoa. Someone’s needy.”

“I’m not needy,” you lie, unconvincingly. “I just want to give my boyfriend a very sensual, very loving handjob.”

He smirks. "Lucky me."

*-*

Chairman Meow is LOCKED OUT. Gojo triple checks the door because “that little bastard clawed me last time, and I’m not about to get cucked by a cat again.”

The moment the bedroom door clicks, your hands are on him. You shove him against the wall. He groans. His cock is already hard against his sweats, like it knows. Like it’s greeting you. Like it missed you.

You slide your hand under his waistband and wrap your fingers around his length, slow and deliberate. You stroke him once—twice—and then pause.

You squeeze. Just a little.

You flutter your lashes.

And then you say it. The killshot. The death blow. The emotional grenade:

“You didn’t notice?”

He freezes. Blinks. Confused, blinking anime boy noises. “...Notice what?”

Your expression shifts. Hurt. Betrayed. A little dramatic.

“No, it’s fine. It’s whatever.” You drop your hand. Abandon his cock. “I just thought you paid more attention to me. But I guess not.”

Gojo looks like he’s about to spiral. “What the hell?? No?? What did I do???”

You cross your arms. “It’s not what you did. It’s what you didn’t do.”

He’s sweating. “OH MY GOD DID I MISS AN ANNIVERSARY—??”

“No,” you deadpan. “Look at my nails.”

He looks.

Then looks closer.

Then squints. The gears start turning. His eyebrows do a little jump. His lips part.

“Wait.”

You smile. Lean in. Soft. Sultry. Absolutely fucking unhinged:

“That’s your tip color, baby.”

He makes a sound. A strangled, reverent, possibly-possessed sound. Like a man meeting God, only God is you, and your altar is his penis.

“WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUUCK—” Gojo is losing it. “NO. YOU DID NOT— HOW?? WHEN??”

You’re already stroking him again, slow and sinful. “Took a picture while you were asleep. Blurred it. Sampled the color. Took it to my nail tech.”

“YOU TOOK MY COCK TO A SALON—”

“Relax, I made it classy.”

“YOU MATCHED YOUR MANICURE TO MY DICKHEAD.”

“...I thought it was romantic.”

He is breathing heavy. Like he just ran a marathon.

“Oh my fucking God, you’re insane,” he whispers. “You are so hot. You’re so freaking hot. What the hell.”

“Mm,” you purr, kissing down his neck. “You gonna show me how much you love my nails, baby?”

*-*

And he does.

He doesn’t just fuck you. He descends. He becomes the spirit of fuck. A living, breathing, thrusting embodiment of the depraved energy you summoned the moment you got those damn nails painted.

Because the second you say it—That’s your dick color, baby—you feel something shift in him.

Gojo stares at your hand still wrapped around him, blinking like he’s seeing the face of God and it has manicured cuticles and dick-pink polish. He’s hard as fuck, twitching in your palm like your confession just flipped a switch he usually keeps behind several safety locks.

“Get on the bed.”

It’s not a command, it’s a plea. Like he needs you horizontal or he’s going to start worshipping you on the goddamn floor.

You’re already grinning when you flop onto the mattress, fingers crooked in a “come here” like a cartoon villainess. Legs wide. Panties somewhere on the floor (how did they come off? you don’t know. you blacked out a little. you’re horny).

Gojo drops his clothes like they’re on fire. He crawls over you, pressing kisses to your thighs, your belly, between your tits—then licks that perfect little trail between your fingers up to your nail tips, staring at them like they just personally brought him back from the dead.

“This is the sickest shit anyone’s ever done for me,” he murmurs, cock nudging against your dripping slit. “You’re so fucking twisted.”

You wrap your hand around his length again, slower this time. A gentle stroke, thumb pressing into that perfect flushed tip. He twitches hard in your grip. You watch him break. Watch him pant.

“You gonna cry about it?” you whisper, lips brushing his cheek.

And then he snaps.

He fucks you like it’s the last nut on earth.

Like he’s grateful to be inside you. Like your pussy is a fucking sanctuary and he’s a sinner on borrowed time.

One hand gripping your thigh, the other fisting the sheets, Gojo drives into you with a rhythm that should be illegal. You squelch around him every time he bottoms out—and he does, over and over, like he’s trying to test the laws of your anatomy. See how far he can go. How deep you can take it.

“Ohhh my fucking god—” you cry out, back arching, brain halfway to heaven.

Your nails dig into his shoulder, and he groans like that touch physically does something to him.

“You’re squeezing me, holy shit—” he pants, forehead pressed against yours. “Fuck, baby. Did you get the gel version so it doesn’t chip while you’re milking my cock?”

You wheeze. You fucking giggle through your moaning because he’s INSANE and you love it.

“I got it for aesthetic, Satoru.”

He’s balls-deep in you. Balls. Deep. And he grins. That stupid, stupid smirk of his, all teeth and sex and chaos.

“Oh, you wanna talk aesthetics?” he huffs, fucking you just a little harder—your breath catches—“Then you should see the way your pussy looks wrapped around me right now. Prettiest shit I’ve ever seen.”

You’re going feral.

You claw at his back, hips rolling to meet every thrust like you’re dancing to the beat of your own damn porn soundtrack. And god, the sound of it—wet and sloppy and fucking poetic. The slap of skin, the hitch of your breath, his gravel-rough groaning against your ear—

“Satoru—Satoru, oh my god—”

“I got you, baby,” he mutters, biting down on your neck—not hard, just enough to make your eyes roll. “Gonna come for me? Huh? With your dick-colored nails wrapped around my back like that? You nasty little freak.”

He angles his hips just right—grinds in deep—and you feel that pressure snap.

You come like a wave crashing. Hard. Loud. A strangled moan and a laugh, because it’s all too much—too good—too perfectly insane.

And he doesn't stop.

Doesn't dare stop.

Keeps fucking into your spasming pussy with tight, desperate thrusts, his breath stuttering against your shoulder until he groans—low, shaky, so needy—and finally lets go.

He comes deep. Messy. Warm. You feel it flood you. A goddamn offering.

You lie there after, limbs tangled, chest heaving, covered in sweat and spit and smug satisfaction.

Gojo kisses the back of your hand. Stares at your nails. Still hardening a little inside you.

“I’m never dating a normal person again,” he whispers. “You’ve ruined me. I’m gonna walk into battle thinking about this. Gonna be exorcising curses while remembering your fucking nail appointment.”

You laugh, dazed and proud. “Good. You deserve it.”

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand and starts typing.

“…Are you Venmoing me right now?”

“Tripling your nail expense,” he says, dead serious. “Also sending a tip to your nail tech. What’s her name? I need her to know she created a masterpiece.”

*-*

The next morning, you wake up to find a Venmo notification:

Satoru G. paid you $225 💅🏼🩷: "tip tip tip tip tip tip tip 😭🙏👑"

A/N: i feel like my works have been repetetive lately, so i'll be doing smth a lil different, angsty but with a happy ending bc i don't wanna be hunted down haha. anyways. i'm exited.

Masterlist.

So, naturally, you went home, poured yourself a glass of wine, slathered a nice fermented rice face mask on, and turned on the cinematic masterpiece that is How to Train Your Dragon (2010). Because, as you’ve made very clear to your boyfriend and God alike: the third one does not exist. Toothless never twerks in front of a white dragon. You reject that canon. Berk is not gentrified.

The third movie never happened. It’s a government psyop.

Enter: Gojo Satoru.

Your door opens (he has a key, you're not that kind of Tsundere), and the infinity's off. You know it immediately, because the apartment suddenly feels ten degrees more real. Like gravity returned from vacation. The barrier of bullshit is gone, and it's just… him.

You sigh, sipping wine like it’s a sacrament. “You’re late.”

“I know.” His voice is tired. Deep. Rough. He's removing his shoes at the trance. A little ruined. Like maybe someone tried to scrape his throat out with too many politics. “The meeting was actual hell. They were being—”

“Dickwards? Bureaucratic ball suckers? Hierarchical hemorrhoids?” You lift your glass. “Take your pick.”

“...Yes.”

And there he is.

Leaning against the doorframe like a white-haired romance novel cover model who’s seen too much, still in his dark uniform but visibly looser at the edges, like someone had taken Gojo Satoru and hit ‘decompress.’ The blindfold’s still on (he likes the drama, it’s his whole thing), but there’s a slight tilt to his head as he sees you.

And listen.

You're not doing anything sexy. You're not dressed in silk or arching your back. You're literally in an oversized shirt (his, obviously), your face is glossy and wet with fermented rice essence, Chairman Meow is perched on your lap like a loaf of bread with no plans, and you're half-crying over the Flight Scene.

And he’s looking at you like you invented the moon.

“...Why are you staring at me like that?” you ask, squinting suspiciously. “You look like you’re about to eat me. I mean, fine, yes, I’m hot, but—”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Then groans — actual, visceral groans — and drops his bag on the floor.

And Gojo?

Gojo gets hard instantly.

Like a fucking psychopath.

“...Hi?” you blink.

He’s not speaking. Just staring. At you. At the mask. At the cat. At the vibe.

You point a glistening hand at him, like God pointing at Adam in the Sistine Chapel, except more annoyed. “What.”

“I think you’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, already crossing the floor with dangerous intent.

You blink.

Chairman Meow blinks.

Your face mask peels a bit at the chin.

“Are you—? Hello??? Sir??”

And then he’s on you.

And listen, you’ve sparred with Gojo. You’ve taught beside him. You’ve seen him eat an entire strawberry shortcake with his bare hands while explaining why Sukuna has "twink energy." But this? This is the first time you’ve ever seen the strongest sorcerer look desperate.

“Jesus, Satoru!” you yelp, squirming under him, the face mask squishing against his cheek. “Chairman Meow is right there!”

The cat gives no shits. In fact, he purrs louder.

“You,” he breathes, voice desperate and weirdly reverent, “look so hot when you’re relaxed. I— I don’t know, something about you with a glass of wine, face mask on, defending animated dragons— I just— I need you.”

“Excuse me,” you say, blinking up at him, your voice flat. “Did you just say you’re horny because I’m... relaxing?”

The sheet mask sticks to his cheek when he kisses you again, and you pull back to cackle like a gremlin. “Oh my God, it's on your FACE—”

He doesn’t care. He kisses you again.

Your cat screams.

You scream.

Toothless screams on TV.

And still, Gojo just groans, like he’s been starving for you.

“Are you actually turned on right now?” you wheeze.

“You don’t understand,” he pants. “You—your skincare? Your chill? Chairman Meow? It’s hot.”

“...Get help.”

“No, YOU get dick—”

“—That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.”

He lets you finish your wine, lets you pat your face down with toner like a gentleman (if that gentleman was grinding against your ass the entire time and whispering disgusting things in your ear like, “I could eat you out with Infinity on,” and “what if I replaced your jade roller with my—”)

“Okay,” you interrupt. “You’re going to hell. With a very moisturised dick.”

“Good,” he says, absolutely unbothered. “I’ll see you there. I’ll be the one with the sparkling cock.”

You're in your room at this point, Chairman Meow locked in the living room- well okay, technically hes got the entire apartment to himself... all while your boyfriend is pocking your skin care.

But despite yourself, you're kissing him back. The kind of kiss that steals breath, sanity, taxes. His hands are everywhere, gripping like he can’t decide what part of you he wants most.

Clothes? Gone. Logic? Gone. Your very well-constructed defenses (literal and metaphorical)? Gone.

You barely register how fast things escalate until—

You’re standing in your bedroom.

Panties: on. (Barely. Light blue. Satin. Suspiciously cute for a Tuesday night but you knew he was coming.)

Tits: out. (Iconic.)

Eyes: focused. Staring.

Because Gojo Satoru, strongest sorcerer alive, is very naked.

And you?

You're quiet.

Which is not normal.

Gojo looks down at himself. “...Are you okay?”

You don’t answer. You just point. Wordlessly. Like a pilgrim seeing a religious vision.

Because.

What.

The fuck.

His dick is just—there. Majestic. Veiny. Pretty? Like it’s standing at attention with a little salute. It’s giving presentation. It’s giving art installation. It’s giving “I got a scholarship to Yale and I don’t need to show off but I will.” The tip is pink, it's aesthetic, it's fucking CUTESY.

Gojo blinks. “Baby?”

You whisper, like a priestess in a trance. “That thing is moisturized.”

Gojo: “...What?”

You: “Do you—do you exfoliate it?”

He squints. “Sometimes? But like, gently—wait, are you complimenting my dick skin care?”

“Sir, that thing has a healthy glow. It could close a business deal. It could star in a movie. It could direct a movie.”

You step closer. Poke it.

He twitches. Smirks. “You poked it.”

“It poked back. Is it alive? Does it have a name? Do I need to bow to it?”

“Please do.”

You ignore him. Still staring.

“I knew you’d be big,” you murmur. “But I didn’t expect it to be… aesthetically pleasing. That’s not a dick. That’s a weapon. That’s—Jesus Christ, it’s got a curve.”

Gojo is thriving. You’ve fed his ego seventeen grams of pure protein and he’s flexing like a peacock in mating season.

“Do they make condoms in—what is that, double XL? Triple? Do you need a permit for that thing? Is it legally considered a support beam?”

“Pookie,” he says, and you immediately regret everything. “We have lube. We have time. And I’ve got six techniques I can use just on your cl—”

“DON’T SAY IT.”

He wiggles his eyebrows.

“I will file an HR report.”

You pause.

“…But also, okay. Choose a lube first though.”

"....Choose?"

You are sitting cross-legged on your bed like an ancient oracle preparing to witness the fall of Rome, except Rome is your pussy and the barbarian at the gate is Gojo Satoru’s godforsaken Excalidong.

And the strongest sorcerer, sluttiest boyfriend, absolute menace to society, hold up each lube bottle like he’s about to defuse a bomb.

Gojo, currently ass-naked and fully committed to the mission, is crouched by your nightstand.

And not in any regular way.

No.

He’s squatting like a sommelier preparing to pair fine wines with emotional trauma, carefully inspecting four bottles of lube like it’s a cursed side quest in a fantasy RPG.

Three are flavored.

All are water-based.

He hums. “Strawberry? Nah. That’s too Valentine’s. Vanilla? Too Catholic. Peach? Too… cottagecore.”

“That one is edible.”

He tilts his head, white hair a sexy, messy crown of sin. “Are you suggesting I eat your pussy like a crepe?”

“I’m suggesting you eat my pussy with intention, but if fruit notes help, go off.”

He picks up the fourth bottle.

Unscented. Simple. Clear. Innocent-looking.

The deceit.

He cackles like you said the funniest shit alive.

You blink. “You seriously chose the beige cardigan of lubes.”

“…But safe.”

You sigh. “Fine. Pick the boring one. We’ll be practical. I guess.”

And then he picks up the fourth.

Your eyebrow twitches. “Satoru.”

He’s grinning. That gremlin little smile. “It’s peach.”

You stare. “You just want my pussy to taste like a fruit cup.”

He winks. “I wanna make it taste like a delicacy, baby.”

You're going to need therapy after this.

“This one,” he declares, eyes gleaming. “This is the one. This is my final answer, Regis.”

You clap once, solemnly. “May the odds be ever in your stretch.”

He grins. “Pookie, I am the stretch.”

Gojo returns to the bed like he’s on a mission.

Which, in a way, he is.

Operation: Ruin Your Shit™.

And, well. He delivers.

*-*

Foreplay begins like a sacrament.

A slow, teasing worship.

Gojo presses you back into the pillows like you’re a prayer he hasn’t finished saying. His mouth is everywhere—collarbone, under your jaw, between your tits—leaving kisses that border on religious trauma. His fingers? Magic. Sorcery. You’re a defense sorcerer and you still have no countermeasures for the way he slides two in, curling just right.

“Oh,” you gasp, your legs falling wider. “Okay, Mozart. Compose me, I guess.”

He whines. Legitimately. It sounds like a dying prince from a war anime.

Gojo is a menace.

And you should have known—should have known—that the man who can manipulate cursed energy at the atomic level would also be able to find your clit in zero seconds flat and treat it like a cursed object that wronged him in a past life.

You gasp the second his fingers slide over it.

He’s not gentle.

He’s focused.

“Don’t say things like that when I’m trying to focus,” he pants, grinding slowly into the mattress, fully ignoring the fact that his dick is visibly bobbing like it’s about to jump in without permission.

“You’re the one grinding like a Victorian widow.”

“Oh, sorry, do you not want me crying on your clit later? Didn’t think so.”

You snort.

“I’m going to stretch you so good, baby. I want you to take me easy, yeah?”

And you're like oh okay, so we’re being demons tonight. Copy that.

His fingers—divine. Slender, long, precise. The kind of fingers that could cast a thousand seals and still make a bitch come in ten seconds flat. His technique? Devastating. He rubs soft, teasing circles on your clit until your thighs shake, and then—

Then the lights flicker.

You would laugh, but he—uses jujutsu. Literally, a pulse of cursed energy hums through his fingers and flickers the damn lights in your bedroom.

“Did you—did you just—SORCERER, STOP.”

Your eyes snap open. “DID YOU JUST—?”

He smirks. “A little cursed energy never hurt anybody.”

“You turned the room into a whole haunted house vibe!”

“Spooky orgasm?” he offers.

“I will hex your balls, Satoru.”

“Not before I hex your G-spot.”

Unfortunately, he means it.

He’s grinding into the mattress, panting like a whore in heat, whining, like the overstimulated little bitch he is, while still playing you like a damn cello. You’re squirming, sweating, cursing your past self for mocking him earlier because what the fuck is this technique???

His mouth joins the party.

You lose your words.

He’s licking you like you’ve got the antidote, the treasure map, and the secret to eternal youth between your thighs. Whiny. Sloppy. Perfect. His hands press your hips down when you try to escape (you can’t), his tongue makes you see static, and the little grunts he makes when you tug his hair?

Sir.

Sir.

You might actually ascend.

When he moves down, you’re already boneless.

Already twitching.

Already clutching the sheets like they might save you from the oral devastation of a man in in who canonically makes out with your pussy. With lots of skill.

And boy does he use the skill.

Like it owes him money.

Like your thighs wronged his ancestors.

Like the concept of modesty must be eradicated tonight.

He's groaning into you. Grinding into the mattress. Whimpering like a dog in heat every time you moan, his whole body trembling from the sheer horniness overload.

His fingers don’t stop. They change technique. Like a man reading a manual called How To Destroy Her Will To Walk in real time.

And he’s whimpering, too. Grinding into the mattress. So much. You glance down and see his pretty, blasphemous dick dragging against the sheets, leaking like a menace, because of course he’s getting off on your pleasure like the little whore he is.

“God,” you mutter, “you’re such a slut.”

He pants into your neck. “Your slut.”

You arch into him. “Damn right.”

You swear he comes a little just from eating you out.

“I could die here,” he mumbles against your thigh.

“You will,” you gasp. “At my hands. After this.”

He grins up at you, face slick with your essence, and licks his lips like a fucking anime villain.

By the time you’re gasping, trembling, wrecked, he looks up at you with that cocky-ass smile and says, “Think you’re ready?”

You nod, eyes glossy. “Give me the holy sword, knight of slutland.”

Gojo snorts. “I hate how much I love you.”

He rips open the condom packet and— his fucking face is on it.

Cartoon-style.

Winking.

With a speech bubble that says “Gojo’s Got You Covered 💙”

You scream.

“WHY IS YOUR FACE ON THE WRAPPER.”

He grins. “Marketing, baby.”

“You got custom condoms??”

He nods like a proud PTA mom. “Limited edition. Light blue. Glittery. Safe and fabulous.”

You hold the wrapper like it’s a cursed object. “This is unholy. This is sorcery. This is a hate crime.”

“You gonna let me use it?”

“...Yeah.”

You stare at it like it’s about to explode.

“Satoru,” you whisper, “is your dick sponsored?”

He winks. “Only by greatness.”

You flick his nipple, muttering something about late-stage capitalism, and yet—

You still let him put it on.

Because.

Jesus.

You watch the roll-down like it's a sport. You are awed. That thing is wrapped like a present from God.

And then. Then comes THE INSERTION. (aka Oh God Oh Fuck Ow Wow Yes More Please).

He’s slow.

He’s gentle.

He’s massive.

You’re stretched wide, gripping his shoulders like your life depends on it, nails dragging deep grooves down his back.

He hisses, muscles straining. “Fuck, baby. You’re tight.”

“YOU’RE BIG,” you shout. “Why are you surprised?!”

He leans in. Kisses your temple. “You’re taking it so well though. Look at you. My pretty little overachiever.”

Your eyes roll back. Your soul detaches.

He finally bottoms out and you just. Whimper. Cling. Bite his shoulder like a feral little possum. He groans so loud you’re scared Chairman Meow is going to call the cops.

And then?

He fucks you.

Not just good. Not just hard. But filthy.

He hits every angle like he studied blueprints of your pussy beforehand. Deep. Mean. Relentless. His dirty talk is incoherent. The man is whining, moaning your name like a prayer, losing his mind every time you clench.

You come once.

Then again.

Then three more times.

You’ve forgotten your name.

He fucks like he’s making up for every missed date night, every bad day, every cursed meeting with those insufferable elders.

He fucks like it’s therapy.

And you?

You are the blessed medium for his emotional dick release.

By the time he’s close, his arms are trembling, your thighs are shaking, and he’s saying, “Wanna come with me, baby? Wanna be full?”

You sob. “Please. Yes. I’ll sign a contract. Make a pact. Use me like a talisman.”

He comes hard, moaning your name like you’re the last incantation in the strongest spell he’s ever cast. And turns out, when he comes, it’s loud. Full-body. Like his soul’s leaving through his dick.

You both lie there after, breathing like you ran a marathon in hell.

He pulls out.

You groan. “That’s so empty. That’s—existentially vacant.”

He pants. Kisses your collarbone. “I got you, babe. Let’s clean you up.”

You’re jelly. He helps you to the bathroom like a gentleman-slut.

When he comes back and starts to pull on his boxers—

You stop him.

“Wait.”

He blinks. “What.”

“Let me see it deflate.”

He stares.

“I need to see it. For science. For closure. For the fucking Smithsonian.”

He continues to stare. Like you just told him you believe in Santa again.

And then—He starts to laugh. So hard he has to sit down.

“You’re the freak of my dreams,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours.

You smile. “And you’re the dick that nearly rearranged my liver. What a pair.”

A/N: weeeee hope it was nice!! it was funny to write!

Masterlist.

You’d been married. Married. To some crusty 30-year-old who acted like a 14-year-old Reddit mod with a God complex. For shits sake, he had a ponytail. And not the good kind.

So now you’re 27. You’ve got an 8-year-old with a sharp tongue and a scary reading level, and trauma responses that’ve got trauma responses. But you’re doing it. You’ve got a new job, a new apartment, and a new standard: no more men who say “not all men.”

Which is why, when your daughter comes home talking about “Uncle Gojo” who paid for the whole class to go on a private tour of the Kyoto National Museum, your immediate thought is:

“Great. Another rich asshole with a savior complex.”

And when you look him up?

“Oh god he’s hot. Fuck. Shit. No. No.” “Satoru Gojo, 35. Head of the Gojo Clan. Unholy net worth. Insufferably pretty.”

You don’t even meet him for weeks. You just hear about him — always thirdhand, always in pieces:

“Uncle Gojo says the cafeteria food is gentrified garbage.”

“Uncle Gojo let me and Megumi wear sunglasses inside and said ‘fuck the haters.’”

“Uncle Gojo picked us up in a helicopter once. Megumi said he does that when he’s bored.”

Who met you for the first time on a random Tuesday.

It’s 4:06pm and you’re staying late to finish some reports at the school office, and your daughter runs in holding hands with that little serious-faced emo boy you’ve now seen so many times, you could pick him out of a police lineup.

Then he walks in. Satoru Gojo.

And jesus christ, you weren’t ready.

This man walks in like he knows he looks like a Final Fantasy boss fight. White hair, stupidly expensive blindfold, black turtleneck so tight it looks painted on—like gravity itself is trying to get a handful of his chest. Long legs. Smug smile.

“Hi,” he says, voice low and amused. “You must be the pretty little secretary everyone’s been warning me about.”

Your soul leaves your body. Your pussy does a backflip. You blink once.

“Do you hit on all the staff at your kid’s school?” you ask flatly, because it’s been a long fucking day and this man just activated your fight-or-flight with one syllable.

He smirks. “I only hit on the ones who look like they could step on me and make me say thank you.”

You almost punch him on reflex. Your daughter whispers to Megumi:

“I think he likes my mom.”

Gojo winks at her. “Your mom’s awesome. She got that hot single-mom-who-reads-dark-romance-on-Kindle energy.”

You glare. “Are you drunk?”

Gojo’s already laughing. “Only on the thrill of the chase, baby.”

DILF!Gojo who...

is 10000% sure he wants you.

No, like, seriously. He's sitting in the staff parking lot eating an onigiri he definitely stole from Nanami's lunch, sunglasses perched on his head, hair extra fluffy for no reason, and thinking:

“If she let me hit just once, I'd marry her by Tuesday.”

You’re trying. God, you’re trying so hard.

Juggling your job, your badass little chaos gremlin of a daughter, 34 suppressed trauma responses, and Gojo Fucking Satoru — who’s been acting like your personal serotonin dealer ever since the kids’ museum field trip.

And for a while? You’re managing. Sort of. Your kid’s happy. You’re sleeping better. The office doesn’t feel like hell. And Gojo, well... he’s there. Hot. Loud. Shameless.

But then you see it.

Your ex. On Instagram. Smiling with his new girlfriend.

She’s younger. Like, younger-younger. No kid in sight. No exhaustion in her face. Just bright, dumb eyes and a #blessed caption about “finding real love.”

And fuck.

You don’t miss him. You don’t want him back. You’d rather deepthroat a curling iron. But something inside you twists anyway. Because he gets to start fresh, and you’re here, pulling double shifts and pretending Gojo’s flirtations don’t make your thighs clench under your desk.

You don’t even say anything. You’re too good at pretending. But Gojo?

He knows.

DILF!Gojo who...

clocks the change immediately.

You don’t laugh at his dumb jokes. You don’t roll your eyes when he winks. You don’t even threaten to throw your stapler at him. And that’s when he knows.

So what does he do? Exactly what a dramatic slut would do.

He sends you the biggest fucking bouquet you’ve ever seen. We’re talking 300-stem, imported-from-the-Netherlands, takes-up-your-entire-office flowers. Peonies. Dahlias. The kind of roses that make grown florists cry.

Attached: a handwritten note in aggressively loopy handwriting.

“No thoughts. Just wanted to make you blush. You deserve pretty things. Also, I’m totally free if you wanna hatefuck someone richer than your ex. Love, Your Favorite Annoyance 💙✨”

And chocolates. Imported. Obnoxiously expensive. Sinful. You almost throw them away. Almost. But then you cry into a piece of dark chocolate ganache and hate yourself a little less.

Weeks pass. You start ignoring him. No eye contact. No flirting. No quips.

Gojo starts spiraling.

“Did I say something weird?” “Does she hate me?” “Was the edible arrangement too much?” “Maybe she hates fruit. Maybe her ex was a banana farmer—”

And then, one Friday afternoon, you walk into the staff lounge — and boom. There he is.

Standing with a massive Tupperware of homemade curry (that he definitely made just to flex), another stupidly large bouquet, and a sheepish little smile that somehow manages to be hot.

“Okay,” he says. “I know you’ve been icing me out, and I get it. I talk too much, and I flirt too hard, and I look like the kind of guy who’d forget your birthday and send a dick pic instead.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“But I’m not him,” Gojo says, voice softening. “I’m not your ex. I’m not here to waste your time.”

You swallow. Hard.

Gojo steps forward, gently placing the flowers down. His voice drops a little lower. Less cocky. More real.

“I don’t want to mess with you. I like your daughter. I like you. I like that you threaten people with staplers and talk shit about rich parents with me behind the copy machine.”

You scoff, “You are a rich parent.”

“Yeah,” he grins, “but I’m the hot, unhinged kind. It’s different.”

You look at him, arms crossed. Guard up.

“I just...” you start. “I don’t wanna... fall for someone who’s gonna leave the second it stops being fun. I can’t do that again. Not with my kid in the picture.”

Gojo’s expression changes.

Not sad. Not shocked. Just... serious.

“I wouldn’t leave,” he says. “Even if you never let me fuck you. Even if you never kissed me. I’m here for you. Both of you.”

Pause. Then, he grins, slow and sharp.

“...But if you did let me fuck you, I’d absolutely ruin your life.”

You snort. “Gojo—”

“Seriously,” he leans in, lips almost brushing your ear. “I’d make you cum so hard you’d forget that loser’s name. I’d have you seeing stars. Moaning like a little—”

“Jesus Christ, we’re in a school,” you hiss, shoving him back.

He laughs. Loud.

DILF!Gojo who...

goes home that night jacking off to the memory of your eye roll. Not because he’s a perv. Okay. Maybe because he’s a perv.

But mostly because he’s in love.

He’s so deep in it. He wants to feed you after a long day. He wants to eat you out after your kid’s asleep. He wants to fold your laundry and then bend you over the dryer.

He wants to be the man who never made you regret opening your heart again.

So when you text him that night — "thanks for the food, idiot"

He stares at his phone and whispers:

“I’m gonna marry her.”

DILF!Gojo who…

straight up ascends into another dimension the moment you say:

“Fine. One date.”

Like this man pauses. Hands on hips. Eyes wide. Breath shaky.

“Wait. Waitwaitwait. Like… a date date?”

You nod, typing something in your phone, casual like it’s not the end of his sanity.

“Yeah, but only if you arrange child care and behave yourself.”

He clutches his chest like you stabbed him with love.

“God, I’d commit war crimes for you.”

Of course, he can only do one of those things. And "behave" is not the one.

So he goes feral on the babysitting arrangements.

Calls up an elite agency like,

“I need someone who’s basically Mary Poppins but hotter. Also, give them money. Like, a lot.”

Finds this perfect 24-year-old early childhood education major named Yuki, who has a master's in "Fun Aunt Energy" and a criminal record of zero. Takes the kids to an amusement park with VIP passes and no lines.

“If they come home without at least one new stuffed animal, I’ve failed as a father figure,” he says, signing the waiver like it’s a business deal.

You’re shocked at the efficiency.

“Jesus, Gojo. How much did you spend on this?” “Not enough, clearly. Should’ve thrown in a bounce house.”

DILF!Gojo who...

books a reservation at a restaurant that doesn’t even have a website. You can’t find reviews. You can’t find prices. The hostess didn’t even confirm your name—just looked at him, said “Right this way, Gojo-sama,” and opened a curtain.

There’s a koi pond inside. The waiters wear silk. The chairs cost more than your rent.

You sit down, blink, and ask, “Why the fuck is the menu just a poem?”

Gojo’s grinning. Elbow on the table. Chin in his hand. “Babe, it’s a kaiseki. You don’t order. The chef chooses. Like fate.”

You side-eye the wine list, but there are no prices. You’re literally googling menu items under the table.

“This appetizer costs more than my daughter’s dental work,” you whisper. “Yeah, but I’d rather pay for your meal than your ex’s orthodontic neglect.”

You almost choke. He’s smiling like the shithead he is. Gorgeous and unrepentant.

DILF!Gojo who ...

is on his worst best behavior.

He doesn’t make a single sexual joke. Not even when you moan a little after tasting the black sesame tofu.

Instead he just leans closer, eyes glittering, voice low.

“You’re gorgeous when you’re enjoying yourself.”

He listens. Like actually listens. Asks questions about your childhood. Your dreams. Your nightmares. You say something offhanded about always wanting to go to the beach alone, and he mentally books a private villa in Okinawa.

By dessert, you're laughing.

By the final sake pour, you’re glowing.

And then?

You kiss him.

On the lips. Soft. Warm. Real.

Gojo. Freezes. Eyes wide.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “Do that again. For science.”

You flick his forehead. He grins like a fucking idiot.

He doesn’t sleep for three days.

Three months later…

It’s quiet. You’ve lit a candle. The lights are dim. There’s a roast in the oven and you’ve got your best bra on under a cozy sweater.

Gojo’s standing in your kitchen, holding a bottle of obnoxiously rare red wine he “happened” to have lying around. Your daughter’s on a sleepover. It’s just… you and him.

Dinner’s amazing. He says it twice. With his mouth full. He tries to help clean, you smack his hand. He smirks.

“You gonna punish me for that later?”

You give him a look.

You’re both a little tipsy. You’ve laughed too hard. He’s leaning against your counter, swirling wine, staring at you like he wants to ruin your life.

Then you ask, voice soft:

“Do you still mean it? What you said before?”

Gojo tilts his head.

“Which part? That I’d be a better dad than your ex? That I’d worship you? That I’d make you cum so hard you see the curvature of the earth?”

You throw a kitchen towel at him. “Gojo—”

He steps closer. Voice a little lower. Smile a little cockier.

“Yes. To all of it.”

DILF!Gojo who...

means it. Totally fucking means it.

Because once you finally let him — once you let him touch you —?

It’s over.

DILF!Gojo who...

has been edging himself emotionally for months and it shows.

He kisses you like he’s starved. Like he’s gonna carve his name into your hips with his mouth. Like he’s grateful.

Whispers against your neck:

“You have no idea how long I’ve been dreaming about this.”

His hands? Everywhere. His mouth? Filthy.

“Gonna take care of you, baby.” “Gonna fuck every sad thought out of that pretty little head.” “Wanna hear you cry for it. Can you do that for me?”

You’re soaked before he even touches your underwear. He’s smug about it. Of course he is.

“God, you’re so wet for me. Is that what I do to you? You that needy already? Hm?”

He teases you. Licks up your thigh just to feel you squirm. Tells you to be patient — but he’s not. Not really. He’s shaking with it.

And when you finally, finally see his dick?

You blink. Stare. Go a little cross-eyed. Because what the fuck. It’s… pretty?

Like, long. Thick. Veiny. But somehow still aesthetic?? Like it moisturizes. Like it gets regular sunlight. Like it’s kissed by the gods.

You mumble, dead serious:

“This is unfair. Why are you hot everywhere.”

Gojo just grins.

“Right? I knew you’d like it.”

He fucks you so good you see heaven. Twice.

DILF!Gojo who...

holds you after, stroking your back, whispering praise into your hair.

“You did so good, baby.” “So perfect. So fuckin’ beautiful.” “Bet your ex never made you cum like that, huh?”

You swat at him. He just kisses your forehead.

He tucks you in like he lives there. Because now?

He kind of does.

A/N:uh... okay maybe went overboard, but whateverrrr, sorry abt not posting yesterday, life got hectic haha, hope this is okay.

Masterlist.