DILF! Gojo who...
has never had to work for attention in his life, not once, not ever, not even when he wore those fuckass white Yeezys that should’ve had every self-respecting woman sprinting the opposite direction. But he’s hot. Worse, he knows it. And he likes making people flustered — it’s like a hobby. Some collect stamps, Gojo collects weak knees.
But you?
You’re immune. And that? That makes him rabid.
You moved to Tokyo with a bitter taste in your mouth and a single promise to yourself: No more dick. (Which, honestly, was more about emotional resilience than actual abstinence, but hey. Semantics.)
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.
:)