- My Precious - @gollum-esque - Tumblr Blog

May 8, 2023

I’d love to see Faerie AU Gojo with praise kink

at this point this isn't really a kink fic, sorry anon i got carried away!!!

the machinist and the faerie - gojo x reader (8.5k)

the woods feel more home than any cottage ever could; and for the white-haired not quite mortal boy who was the playmate of your youth that goes double.

warnings: not sfw, minors dni. fantasy au. faerie gojo with praise kink. childhood friends to lovers. virgin reader, fingering, piv sex. afab reader with neutral pronouns, with a few references to marriage and ‘carrying on a family line’.

Your parents warn you never to go deeper than a hair’s breadth into the forest that edges your cottage. They watch you, when you’re a small child with poor impulse control, from the doorway of said cottage – call out to you, or run out when your toddling seems like it’s going to lead you too far in. They scold you with their carefully guarded words, always saying the same thing;

“It’s dangerous,” they tell you. “There’s no telling what kind of things you might encounter in there. We’ll tell you why when you’re older - but for now, little one, heed our advice. And stay away.”

When you’re a little older, they tell you more – they tell you the stories of the children from the village who go into the forest and never return. They tell you the stories of a poet who sees something so beautiful (or perhaps so hideous) that he spends his life wandering the forest for another glimpse of it, until he fades to bone and dust and nothing. They tell you of a beautiful lady from town who shares one kiss with an elfin knight she meets in the forest, and finds herself never satisfied with the life of a mortal, until she too goes into its dark depths and is not seen again.

The stories are somewhat sanitised, you find out, through whispers of the village children who do not like to play too close to where you live. They do not like to play with you at all; they think you strange, for your family’s superstitions and their insistence on living so close to what terrifies all of everyone else who lives near.

They think the gifts your mother hangs around your neck (for protection, she insists) are witchcraft more than they are charms; they call her so much, wonder aloud if perhaps there is something wrong with you too--

So you learn to play alone. You learn to make up entire universes in your head, and sit in the sun-warmed grass behind the cottage (never too close to the forest) and whisper to yourself furtively, imagining yourself a princess or a dragon or a knight in turn.

But children grow up and they grow wilful, and though the village holds little glamour for you, at twelve years old with skinned knees and tangled hair, the forest seems to represent a wealth of possibility.

Your parents no longer watch you; they trust you, now. They think that their stories and their warnings have sunk down deep into your very being – that you will heed them, and stay away from the tempting darkness and deep that lingers just on the edge of your universe. They have forgotten, then, what it is like to be twelve years old and so very alone in the world.

You slip into the forest one day when your father is in the small workshop that he makes little wooden trinkets to sell at markets within, and your mother is in town fetching a length of fabric to make new aprons. You do it with little preparation, not wishing to give your plans away. You stand as if merely to stretch your legs, and you let your feet carry you towards it, and before you can let out the breath you hadn’t realised you had been holding you are beneath a canopy of green leaves with the scent of earth all around you.

The thing that the adults don’t realise, you think, as you venture yet further and deeper into the unknown, is that the forest is a dream for someone like you. Somewhere entirely untouched by the hand of grown-ups, where you can dream whatever dreams you would like without a nagging voice disproving them. A place where anything could happen.

You are happy to be utterly alone; you are happy to be able to play your games and sing your songs softly and daydream without another soul near.

You do not see the bright blue eyes watching you from the shadows, or the mass of pale hair, or think for a moment that there is any child in the whole world (your world, of course, having narrowed to the confines of the gnarled oak trees) except you. And for that time, you are correct, and you leave the forest when the skies start to dim and lie to your parents about how you must have been just out of sight when they scanned the land for you.

You go back.

How could you not, having discovered exactly what real freedom felt like?

You go back the next day, and the next – and your parents trust you to be smart and not to go into the forest, and you always pat down your clothes and smooth your face in the hopes that no stray twig or streak of mud will tell of your guilt before you go back into your house.

It is two weeks of this before Gojo reveals himself to you. He does it with little fanfare; one day, you are sat cross-legged in a clearing with tongue poking from the side of your mouth as you string daisies together – and then there is a pair of bare feet in front of you and a curious voice ringing out;

“You shouldn’t pick those, you know!”

You look up to see this intruder to your peaceful fantastical world, and for a moment all thoughts go out of your head.

Eyes that blue and shifting do not belong on a human child. Hair that pale white does not belong on a human child. And though he is, perhaps, your age . . . there’s a bearing to him that suggests otherwise.

You want to snap back that you’ll do what you want, that you have no need of some silly boy to come and give you orders – but you see this boy-creature for the first time and all of the stories you have ever been told come rushing to the forefront of your mind.

“Why not?” You ask him, instead.

(At twelve years old, you are too bold for your own good, and even knowing that this boy is nothing like you is not enough to deter you from your dogged curiosity).

But the boy looks delighted you’ve responded. He crouches in front of you and reaches out to touch one of the daisies that has not fallen victim to your culling; he’s gentle with it, like it’s a breathing thing.

“The land doesn’t like it,” he tells you. “Silly! Everyone knows that.”

You wrinkle your brow and scrunch your nose and he laughs like the pealing of a bell.

“The land?” You ask. “I don’t think it feels it.”

“Of course it does!” This one is almost a scoff; the arrogant nature of a boy who has never been told he is wrong. “It feels everything.”

“Then surely we ought to stop walking upon it, too.” You counter-offer. The boy’s eyes gleam, like he’s unused to being challenged. You’ve amused this faerie child then, you think – and you wonder on those stories of poets and scholars, and wonder too if perhaps it is enough to spare you.

“That’s pedantic,” he says. “The earth is made for walking upon. The daisies do not grow to be plucked and chained!”

But he does not seem dangerous. He seems . . . you think, despite the way he’s trading verbal jabs with you, that he seems lonely – and you think of the rustles you have sometimes heard in the forest and the sensation of being viewed from afar. You deflect the conversation.

“Have you been watching me?”

It throws him pause. A cloud passes over his face. He opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

(You recall your mother telling you that faeries are unable to tell lies when asked a direct question).

“ . . . Yes,” he says, eventually.

You smile at him, bright and wide.

“You can play with me,” you tell him. “If you want.”

And his face lights up like he’s never had an offer the like, this creature that lives in the forbidden parts of your life. This thing you’re supposed to be scared of, that your parents warn you about, that the children in the village live in fear of. His face lights up, and he is just . . .

He is merely your ilk. He is small, and lonely, and dreaming.

He is just like you.

He tells you his name is Gojo, and you do not push any further because the tales have taught you that a name is something powerful in realms like this one. In return, you give him only your first name, and you keep your family’s name and the sweet nicknames your parents call you and everything else held close to your chest so that you have some weapon against him, if the tales do one day prove to be true.

But you turn thirteen, and then fourteen, and Gojo is still your friend and your playmate and he never raises so much as his voice at you in anger.

(He raises his voice in excitement, in bright exclamations, in joking laughter – but never, ever in anger. You flinch from him once, when your friendship is new and he reaches out to touch your shoulder, and his entire face seems to fall in on itself before he can catch it. It’s natural to fear him, considering what the stories tell you – but Gojo, you think, is afraid of being feared like that).

The other children in the village leave behind games and stories; but you have never really been like them, as much as you like to pretend. You do not get tired of the wind in your hair and the grass beneath your feet and trading snatches of narrative with Gojo as if the two of you are writing some kind of book together, and years and years pass and you remain a little too wild and a little too strange for anyone but him.

Your parents speak to you in worried tones. They talk to you of your marriage prospects, of your prospects for work, of the future that seems to creep closer and closer to you despite how you long for the world to stop, just for a little while.

You do take up work, for you are not that uncaring of a child – you would not ask your parents to keep you for nothing. You apprentice a tailor, and you draw chalk patterns on fabric and run silvery huge scissors through it to make the shapes that will turn into clothes, but you have no real aptitude for the sewing. Still, the tailor is pleased with your dogged dedication to trying, and you bring home your keep to your parents -

And head out into the forest on an evening, saying that you are going into town to meet friends you have made.

Gojo always sends you home before real nightfall comes, but you snatch moments together all the same – and you realise, at seventeen, that the heat in your stomach and the fluttering in your heart when Gojo’s loping form emerges from the bushes is more than mere friendship.

At nineteen, he has grown into a man. His hair is still unruly pale, falling into those brilliant blue eyes no matter how often he runs his elegant fingers through it. His shoulders have broadened, any awkward gangliness come to a stop. He was pretty as a boy, but as a young man . . . you think it no wonder that maidens and knights alike in stories find themselves so utterly bewitched by faeries they meet.

Sometimes you catch him looking at you and you wonder if he feels the same.

For this is not a friendship that should have come to be; you know that much. Gojo does not speak much of where he comes from, and you are polite enough to not outright ask him and force him to lay it bare (and perhaps you are afraid, a little, of what he might confess) – but he drops hints, all the same. And you learn that his kind have little care for mortals like you.

But when you see him looking at you out of the corner of those eyes like the sky and sea all at once, your heart skips a beat nevertheless.

You have never felt as understood, as at home, as much like you belong, as you do with Gojo. A hand on your shoulder (once an ordinary, playful gesture) suddenly has more meaning than ever before; a quirk of his lips makes you giddy and light-headed. You skirt around the issue until one balmy midsummer evening, when you decide to throw all of your caution to the wind.

Gojo is asking you about your day at the tailor’s, fascinated as always by all of the little ways that humankind works without the help of magic that he has grown so accustomed to. You are trying to describe the great industrial sewing machine that is the centrepiece of the workroom, as you have so many times before; trying to explain how the pedal makes the needle punch, without the knowledge of why exactly it does such. And Gojo is staring at you, utterly engrossed in the way your hands move and listening harder to the words you say than anyone in the real, waking world outside of the forest ever does – and you seize your chance with both hands, and you lean in and you kiss him.

It’s your first kiss.

You don’t know how to do it; you don’t know the angle at which to hold your head to present your noses from clanging together, nor do you know what to do with your teeth – your hands move to cling to his shoulders, but they are awkward in how they dig into more muscle than you’re expecting to find. You don’t know whether to close your eyes or not, though the moment your lips meet his you squeeze them shut anyway so as not to see if disgust fills his gaze instead.

(Or if, indeed, it is pity that colours them. Pity, you think, may be worse than any other option).

Nothing. There is no response from Gojo at all, and you draw back all warm and breathless with your heart hammering like a battle drumbeat in your chest. You stare at Gojo with all of your cards laid out on the table; your soul laid utterly bare for him.

He whispers your name like he can’t believe what’s happening, but you can still not read the tone. There’s a quietness to it that’s almost fear, that sets your back prickling.

“What have you done?” He asks you, hand coming up to his mouth, fingertips ghosting over the places your own lips just learnt for the first time.

You feel your face crumple. A cold pit at the centre of your stomach, like you are a bruised peach fallen from a tree.

You think of those longing looks and lingering touches and Gojo by your side for years and years and years.

“Don’t you . . . don’t you feel the same?”

Your voice is whisper quiet, but it’s not that which makes Gojo flinch as if you have struck him. You know what you’re doing.

It is a direct question. A ‘yes’, or a ‘no’.

And by birth, by virtue of what he is, Gojo is not allowed to lie in response to it.

Those eyes so wide and blue and fathomless. He’s so beautiful, now. He stands up, his gaze still stuck on you even as it seems like he folds in on himself and despair begins to fray away at his edges.

“You shouldn’t have asked me,” he says, raggedly. “You shouldn’t have done it.”

“Don’t you?” You repeat, a little more forcefully.

Gojo’s eyes flicker closed. He breathes it out into the universe, even as he turns away from you. Even as you’re rooted to the spot as he disappears once more into the thickets of trees that you sometimes think feel more your home than the cottage you were raised in.

There’s a finality to the syllable. A quiet resignation; it sounds like the last word of a dying man, though you know Gojo will live your lifetime a hundred times over.

Even as he disappears, the word seems to stay suspended in the breeze, hovering in the echelons of your mind and echoing through your ears despite how it hadn’t been louder than a breath.

Don’t you feel the same? You’d asked, knowing that it would make everything between you shift and willing to gamble on the chance that perhaps he did.

And Gojo’s response.

(It did change everything. It does change everything. You’d gotten the answer you wanted – but oh, it came at a price).

“Yes.”

You come to regret the question.

You come back from the tailor’s the next day, ready to tell Gojo about how the machine had gotten stuck and you’d watched the tailor pry it open and seen the insides of it, all silver and bronze cogs and wheels and wires like the organs in the belly of some non-living creature.

But Gojo is not there, in the clearing that you two have made your home. All of the forest has been a playground, but this clearing has always been somewhere special; a home base, that the two of you have mapped every single inch of. Gojo taught you the names of every flower and leaf and bush and tree that grows here. Your feet have tramped across every blade of grass a hundred times over; you have tended to bruises and scrapes, fallen asleep in drowsy golden light on hot days and shivered in your staunch refusal during winter to not have time with your best friend.

But it is most familiar with Gojo at its centre, his smile wide and bright and his eyes glowing with excitement.

And he is missing from the picture.

You think of what happened the evening before; you think of the ultimatum you issued him in the form of a question, and though fear gnaws at your guts, you convince yourself that perhaps he just had other matters to attend to tonight.

Tomorrow, then, you tell yourself – tomorrow, Gojo will be here, and everything will be as it has been.

He is not.

And he is not the next night, or the next, or the next week.

The next month.

You do not stop going into the woods. You do not stop waiting for him to return, even as the seasons shift. Even as time marches on and you grow older and the first and second and third winter that you have not seen Gojo pass, you cannot stop your feet bringing you into the clearing and looking about yourself for his laughing face and his too-tall frame and those eyes that you dream about every night without fail.

You become more than the apprentice. You learn how the insides of the sewing machine work; you learn, too, to tame it as one tames an unwieldy beast. You do not have the nimble fingers for embroidery, or the artistic sense for design – but the big creature in the middle of the workroom becomes your domain, and you long to tell Gojo exactly what it is that makes the needle punch through the fabric in perfectly neat stitches. You know that, now. You have so much to tell him about – but he remains out of reach, too far away, and sometimes you wonder if he was ever real at all.

You think about going to the village doctor about it, even; but then, you have to check yourself. The village people accept you a little more now that you work among them, but there is still a distrust of the child who never came to the village square to play and lived perhaps too close to the domain of the fair folk.

If you were to go to the doctor, and tell them about the beautiful but so very not mortal boy you played with and told stories too and loved, any semblance of trust you may have found yourself with would be shattered. So you are quiet and calm and you never give away how your heart beats fast in your chest only when you think of the wind and the grass and the woods that have always felt like home.

Suitors attempt to woo you. But they are never possessed of Gojo’s silvery pale hair, or his brilliant eyes, or his laugh or his teasing wicked smile. They dull in comparison to him; a stone beside a pearl.

The stones, at least, stay in your hands while the pearl slipped too smooth through your fingers.

Your parents notice when you’re walked home from the tailor’s by admirers; tell you this one’s rumours and that one’s faults, coo in delight when it is the child of the town’s judge, knowing the family to be wealthy.

They never walk you home more than once, and you fend off advances thinking only of Gojo even though it has been years since you have seen him.

(The irony is not lost on you, when you think of that folk tale of the young maiden who spent a night in a faerie ring and could never think of anything but that again, until she wasted away in her bed through wanting. You sometimes think that you want to see Gojo again so badly that it’s like a physical ache).

They grow tired of having their child at home. You provide far more to the household income than they do, now – but the principle of you, unmarried and approaching an age where you will be considered no longer a prospect, casting a sour light on their rearing of you . . .

Your parents have been loving if cautious your whole life, but as time goes on they begin to needle and pick at you. Your hair. Your clothes. Your bearing.

“We had such high hopes for you,” they say, sighing, and it hurts like stitches being snipped. Your parents fading away from you.

You are a burden on them, and sometimes you go into the woods on an evening before true night has fallen and think about lying there, in the clearing, and waiting for the things that come when the moon is high to take you away.

(The only reason you do not are Gojo’s warnings; Gojo’s insistence you should always leave before then, and the fear in his face when it seemed that you did not want to. Even no longer in your life, you are unable to shake the hold that he has on you. You do not want to disappoint him).

But simmering resentments are bound to come to a head, and the simmering resentment of your family when it came to the presence of their child who ought to have been long married and raising children is no different, and one night your father drops over dinner thus;

“You haven’t been inclined to do it yourself, so I’ve arranged a marriage for you.”

Your head snaps up from the plate before you, to meet your father’s cold eyes. They never used to be so cold.

“What?”

“You heard him.” Your mother’s eyes are trained on the fine embroidered tablecloth given to you by your employer as a gift on the first year anniversary of your working for them. “It’s getting embarrassing, having you still here. People think there’s something wrong with you.”

“I’m . . . I’m not going to marry some stranger,” you say, when the lump in your throat has been swallowed down. “That’s not your decision to make.”

“We’re your parents,” that’s your father, his voice commanding. “It’s time for you to fly the nest. It’s time for you to carry on the family bloodline.”

“I don’t think that’s for you to decide, Father.”

“You live under our roof, in our house--” He raises his voice, slams his fist down on the aged wood of the table. “You know the things they say about you in town, don’t you?”

“And you know,” you try and counter, “that none of them are true.”

“Do I?” His eyes bore into you. “Maybe there is something strange about you. Maybe that’s why you’re still here.”

Your mother’s eyes dart up and look at you pleadingly.

“Darling,” she says, trying to wheedle. But too much coldness and too many needles of her insults have lodged themselves into your heart; you know that this pleading is falsehood designed to make you bend to what your parents want.

You won’t marry. Not ever. Not when you’re still in love with something you should never have so much as spoken to. Time and distance do not bend your heart’s wants for a moment.

“It’s your duty,” your father hisses. Tears are gathering in the back of your throat, and you try to maintain some dignity and stop your voice from waving like reeds when you speak.

“No,” you say. “No. I won’t do it.”

Your mother says your name in an attempt to placate, but your eyes are burning fury as you stare at your father and see a man that you don’t know staring back.

“You’ll do it or you’ll leave the house and not come back,” your father returns, just as stone-cold stubborn as you yourself. Your mother whispers his name and tugs at his sleeve – but the edict that issues forth from his mouth makes a sudden certainty settle about you with a chill.

“Then I’ll leave,” you say, and you stand yourself from the dinner table.

You do not head for the little room upstairs that you sequester your few belongings in. You turn from the dinner table and go for the door.

You hear clatters from behind you as your parents follow, but you are suddenly hit with a clarity that you’ve never felt. You do not belong with them. You do not belong anywhere but where you’ve always known you do, deep in your heart. You’re not wearing shoes when your feet sink onto the grass, and your mother calls your name as she watches you walk the length of the cottage’s fields and head for the forest.

“Don’t!” She says. There’s real terror in her tone, now. She’s right to be afraid, you think. You have no intention of ever coming out again.

You wonder how your father feels, watching his only child (the only one to carry his bloodline, the one who is shirking their duty and responsibility with every padding footstep) slip into the forest that all are so afraid of. You do not care if watching you do this makes them realise that all of those other times you’ve said you were playing by the back of the cottage, or in the village, or a hundred other places have been lies. You do not care for anything except how your feet follow the same path you’ve trodden a hundred times before.

The daisies have closed their flowers in time for nightfall. Gojo would be hurrying you out of the forest by now.

But Gojo is not here to offer his protection any more.

You find the clearing that feels like home. Since yesterday, a small ring of mushrooms has sprouted in its centre. You recognise their colour, their spots, the shape of them – poisonous. But that doesn’t matter either; any ring of any kind is bad news, here in the forest where mortals lose their wits and become characters in stories more than people.

You look at it for only a moment before you talk towards it.

If you give yourself over to them, you think, perhaps they can tell you something of Gojo before they break your mind and your bones or set you out as bait for the Wild Hunt. Maybe you will even get to see him again.

There’s just enough space in the centre of the circle for two people to stand comfortably. You are on the edge when you feel it.

Something barrels into you, and you’re tackled to the ground beneath something heavy and large and real with your foot still half in the air in preparation to give yourself over to the fair folk.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You know that voice; deep and musical and just a touch whiny, just a touch over-familiar and arrogant. “Do you realise what you almost did?”

You stare up at the man above you. Features that have burnt themselves into your mind, but with little changes that assure you that Gojo has finished growing up in the same way you have. The same familiar strands of silvery moonlight hair, the same eyes like fractured stars glittering at you in a perfect face.

How often have you dreamed of those eyes?

“Gojo,” you say, struck a little dumb to finally see him again after all of the seasons that have past. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” he says. “You were going to do something very stupid, and I know you’re not.” He looks at you, and his face softens, and you are children and best friends all over again and you realise with a painful pang that you have never ever for a moment stopped loving him. “Well. Not in this way, anyway.”

“You asked me a long time ago,” Gojo says, sitting beside you on the ground, “if I’d been watching you. I answered truthfully then, and . . . I’ll answer truthfully now. Yes.”

“I learnt how the sewing machine works,” you tell him, and he gives you one of those wide, bright smiles you loved – you love so much.

“I missed you,” he says.

“I missed you,” you return. “I came every day.”

“I know,” Gojo replies, and then he pokes you in the arm. “It was a little pathetic, honestly.” He winks. “Not that I didn’t like you being pathetic over me.”

You take a deep breath before you address the real elephant in the room; the one that’s hung over you for years and years. You’ve gone over that meeting, the one with the kiss, a hundred times in your dreams since then. Tried to do it differently. Wished and cursed over it.

“Why did you run?” You ask. “Why didn’t you ever come back?”

His eyebrows furrow.

“Can’t you guess?” He asks you. There’s patience at war with frustration in his tone. “I thought it was obvious.”

“It’s because of the question, isn’t it?” Your throat is dry. “Manipulation.”

Gojo stares at you.

“I’m going to have to rethink what I said about you being stupid,” he said – and for that, he wins a hard tap on the arm. Now is not the time for jokes, you hope your expression says – and Gojo quietens, and you think he got the message.

“I won’t say I was thrilled to hear the question,” he says. “I don’t like being forced to give answer like that, and I thought that our . . . relationship was at a point where you’d never ask me something so blatant. But . . . I didn’t come back because. Well. I.”

It’s another question he can give nothing but truth in reply to, and this particular truth is making his face heat. It’s unusual, to see Gojo like this; he’s always been so sure and certain of himself. The Gojo you knew was a boy who had never had ‘no’ said to him and carried himself with all of the arrogance that such demanded.

This Gojo is older. Wiser, perhaps.

“I knew if I gave in,” he says, “you’d never get to go home again.”

“Gojo,” you say, softly. You lay a hand on his arm. “I am home again. Finally.”

There’s a tenderness in his eyes that you’d seen before only in stolen glances. His hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb sliding along the apple of your cheeks.

“You have a family,” he says, all quiet. “You deserved to live out that life. I didn’t want to steal all of those joys away from you. My realm . . .”

“I’ve never fitted in,” you breathe to him. “The others have never really believed me one of them. I have felt displaced everywhere my whole life, except when I’m with you.”

He looks at you, and there is that smile again – the one you love, the one you’ve missed, the one that is seared entirely onto your soul. The needle of your heartbeat has stitched him there forever.

“I have never felt more at home than by your side,” he admits. “In my realm . . . Well. I suppose there’s no hiding that I’m a man of some importance, is there? But with you . . . with you, I didn’t have to be the heir. I didn’t have to be the prince. I could just be-- I could just be Gojo.”

“I’m never going to call you ‘your majesty’,” you tell him, and Gojo (Prince Gojo) laughs.

“I would never expect you to bow before my kingship,” he says. “You’re far too proud. I’d have had to lead you to your execution first.”

“Will you?” You ask him. “Have me executed? Is that what faeries do to mortal trespassers in their domain? If I’d stepped into the circle--”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t want to think of it.” He grips suddenly, tightly against your arms. “You have no idea what could have happened to you.” He swallows. “I’m a selfish creature. I want you in my realm. I want you for myself. I want, I want, I want . . .”

“I want you,” you breathe in return.

His tongue flickers to wet his lips, and there’s hunger in his eyes as they slide up and down your form.

(You do not want to admit to anyone the nights you have spent thinking of Gojo’s eyes and Gojo’s hands, in these long lonely expanse of years. You do not want to admit that you thought of them and let your hand slip between your thighs and touched yourself and wished it were him. But the way that Gojo is looking at you right now, you think perhaps he may have done the same).

“If I went beside you,” he says, “If we stepped into the circle together and I made it clear you were my intended, beloved, betrothed, to be by my side forever-- then they’d have no choice but to accept you.”

You stare up at him. You had expected to end this night dead or worse. You had not expected to have this offer put in front of you.

(Your father would not need to worry for his bloodline, you think, dimly. Though perhaps with faerie blood running merrily through their veins, he would rather there be no children at all).

“I’d go with you.” You say to him.

“Would you?” He cups your face. “It’s not easy. It’s selfish of me to even ask-- my life is not simple. My darling . . . there’d never be real peace for us.”

“I’d do it for you by my side.”

This time around, it is Gojo who begins the kiss – who presses his lips hungry and needy against yours. And this time around, you know how to kiss back, and it is clear that Gojo does too. He tugs at your lower lip with his teeth, begs entrance to your mouth with his tongue, and devours you body in the way that the thought of him has devoured your soul.

You lose sense of anything but Gojo before you, and the feel of his hands as one cups the back of your head and the other pulls you towards him as if the smallest iota of distance is a problem to be solved.

When he breaks for air, his chest is heaving and his lips are swollen.

“Let me have you to myself for one night,” he says. His eyes and hair are wild. His gaze is wild. His smile is one of a conqueror; arrogant and breathtakingly beautiful. “Before I share you with my court . . . let us spend one night out here in the woods that we met, and let me have you.”

“Perhaps if the having is mutual,” you reply, and Gojo laughs a wild, wild laugh, and then he is kissing you again.

Gojo has more experience than you; this much is clear in the way he touches you and the surprisingly gentle way he relieves you of your garments, the soft cadence of his voice as he murmurs;

“I’ve dreamed about you like this – you’re even prettier in the flesh--”

You’re nervous, but Gojo murmurs gentle praises still. Tells you about the softness of your thighs and how warm your skin feels beneath his palm and how beautiful you are, how he is going to take care of you entirely. His fingertips skim your bare skin, palms grazing your nipples as your back arches and you whimper and he smiles.

“So responsive,” he murmurs. “You’re perfect--”

He returns to your nipples with his mouth, lowers them and sucks one into his mouth in a way that makes your thighs clench. Even the earth beneath your back is soft, as if it knows that there’s a moment too important to be interrupted by errant twigs and discomfort. Gojo sucks and licks at your nipple, sending shock waves of pleasure down to the place between your thighs and making you gasp out his name. Teeth dig only gently into the supple flesh, and that intensifies the shock waves threefold.

It is not just your nipples he sucks and kisses and licks – he does the same across the hollows of your throat and collarbones, your wrists and the shell of your ear and places you never realised would make you feel so burning hot to be touched before Gojo set upon them with a wicked mouth.

“So pretty with my marks on you,” he tells you, in a thick voice. You feel his own hardness pressing against your thigh – and still, Gojo maintains an air of patience to make sure that you are ready and comfortable and pleasured.

It’s at odds with the arrogant persona he wears, of a prince who is given whatever he wants – but it is a Gojo you know, one you are familiar with, and one that makes your heart full.

When his fingers drag up your thighs and urge them to part, he whispers in praise again;

“You’re so wet for me. You’re doing so well.”

The praise feels all the sweeter for coming from Gojo’s mouth, his lips like rose petals as he seals them over your own at the same time as his fingers delve between your slick-wet folds. This time, you cry into his mouth in surprise at just how much better someone else’s fingers feel between your legs than yours ever have.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” He murmurs, kissing, sucking on your lower lip. “You feel so good on my fingers, too – I know you’ll feel better inside, if I may--”

One finger pushes inside, the copious slick making the intrusion easier than even when you’ve been alone and fantasising. The reality of Gojo’s long fingers inside of you feel better than any daydream ever could, and as his finger crooks and he gently stretches you open, two syllables fall from your mouth in a haze of pleasure.

“G-Gojo—”

He looks down at you so tenderly.

“Satoru,” he whispers. “Satoru Gojo. That’s my name.”

You blink hazily up at him, this faerie prince who you have loved for what feels like a lifetime. You correct your own whimpers of pleasure, your voice pitching and breaking.

“Satoru—”

He pumps the finger in and out of you slowly, stoking the fires within you like a poker in a flame. He kisses you and murmurs your name in between the kisses – and though you could give him your full name in return, it no longer feels right. You do not feel as though you belong to anything but Gojo – Satoru – and the woods.

Satoru does not ask. You think he knows it too.

Two fingers, curling and stroking within you – finding a spot inside of your tight walls that you have never been able to reach yourself but that Satoru manipulates with ease. He presses against it over and over with the thrust of his fingers, and your hips begin to rock up to meet him with soft whimpers and moans.

“That’s right,” he breathes. “You’re even more beautiful like this.”

You think you must be sweaty and wild-eyed, but it doesn’t matter. Not when his fingers feel like sin inside of you and you can’t bring yourself to care about anything but chasing that hot ball of fire that Satoru has put start to within you. You have to let it explode, you think – you have to chase the peak until it washes over you.

His thumb strokes across your clit and you break for him.

Your cry is of his name, distorted by burning hot slack-jawed pleasure that washes over you like great waves on a shoreline. You feel yourself clench around him, your sex pulsing yet more slick over the fingers buried inside of you as Satoru continues to rock his fingers gently to allow you to ride out every last pulse of rapture that the digits have brought you.

“You can’t imagine what you looked like, when you came--” Satoru breathes, staring at you like he has never seen anything like you in his life. “You can’t imagine how you make me feel--”

“Kiss me,” you beg him, and he is more than happy to oblige and bend and kiss you so sweetly that your heart aches for him. When he breaks the kiss, breathing hard, you’re reminded of the thing pressing into your thigh with his own desire. He has given you pleasure tonight, but . . . you want to feel him completely. You want to bring him to the same hills and peaks that he has brought you.

Relationships are about giving to one another, and sharing, you think. And Satoru has shared so much with you tonight – his name, and his lineage, and the cold, hard truth. You want to share what you have to give with him.

“Satoru,” you whisper, and the name still seems a novelty dropping from your lips for him, one that gives him smiles and brightens his eyes. “I want you to-- I want us to--”

“Are you sure?” He asks you. “I know you haven’t--”

“I want you in every way,” you say, all certainty. You are certain about this. You have never been more certain about anything in your life. “Please.”

“You really do want me to have you,” he teases, but he is moving above you – shedding his shirt, to reveal a body that is just as pale as the rest of his skin and just as beautiful. “Who am I to say ‘no’ to a request from the one I hold most dear?”

The way he phrases it makes you giddy, but you bite back the smiles and the laughter when you see his cock for the first time, flushed and hard and leaking from the tip.

His fingers fitted inside you, but this--

He sees the anxiety that pulls at your features and gives you a soft smile, a reassuring touch to your hair.

“You’ve done so well already,” he says, heaping compliments upon you. “If you need me to stop, say so – but, my darling, if you don’t mind me saying . . . You’ll take me with ease, and you’ll do it well.”

“I want it,” you say to him, and Satoru smiles as he places himself between your thighs on his knees and big hands fasten about your hips, gently pulling you up towards him. He slides his cock between the lips of your sex, wetting it even further in your slick – and you gasp and sigh and moan softly as the feel of it pulsing hot and stiff. The knowledge of what he is rubbing against you and where he is going to put it serves only to reignite the sparks of pleasure that have already exploded once tonight – and as Satoru teases more, merely rubbing and rutting against you, you huff out a noise of impatience with any anxieties about it fitting inside of you already dissipating.

Satoru clicks his tongue at you childishly.

“Have some patience,” he tells you, with a lazy slyness. “Be good for me--”

“I’ve had patience,” you tell him. “I came here every day for years, did I not?”

“Ah! Your invocation of that is cruel but fair, I suppose.”

“Then I’ve been waiting for this for years, too,” you tell him, though your brain feels like a mass of gelatine and making your mouth form words seems a challenge when all you want is that rolling pleasure again, but this time joined with Satoru. “So . . . give me it--”

“Who am I to deny my beloved anything?”

Satoru takes his time sliding into you. Your fingers clench about his shoulders at the initial sting of his head stretching you out – a soreness that isn’t entirely unpleasant, but is nonetheless new. But once the initial stretch is over, the wet pop of his head finally fitting inside of you . . . there is nothing but the strange half pain-pleasure of being opened up and being filled.

“There we are,” Satoru murmurs, but his own voice is starting to shake. “Taking me so well. So pretty. So good.” He slides further into you, his pale eyelashes fluttering as your body welcomes his cock as if it was made to harbour it. You feel right, bound together like this. As if this is how it has always been writ to be.

“Big,” you breathe, and Satoru preens for it. “Feels good--”

“Yes,” Satoru agrees. He bottoms out inside of you, and the two of you have chests pressed against one another and twin matching heartbeats like one soul in two bodies. “Good. Right. Meant to be.”

Fated.

He tries, a few times, to shape more praise and compliments for you, and ease whatever anxieties he may think you have – but with him inside you on the floor of the woods, you have no anxiety. This is always how it was supposed to go.

There’s nothing but the wet noise of his cock driving in and out of you and the slap of skin on skin and both of you, breathing heavy and whimpering and moaning and speaking in only that language which comes when two people who love one another give themselves over to the earthly pleasures.

He feels so good and right – his mouth seeks yours out for hungrier, messier kisses. His pale hair is slicked to his forehead with sweat as powerful hips pump into you, and you know your own brow is beaded with such too. Heat suffuses every inch of you, but none so much as inside, where the two of you meld and pleasure mounts insurmountable once again.

You reach your peak, this time, with Satoru’s cock buried inside of you. Clenching and pulsing and dragging him further and further into you, your thighs locking about his hips and your feet finding purchase in the curve of his lower back.

The tightening of your sex around him and the noises that come flying from your throat (noises that speak only of pleasure, of fulfilment of the promise of years and years without him) push Satoru over the edge too, and he spills himself inside of you with a whimper of your name that makes your toes curl and your heart know it has finally found a real home.

His hips stutter as every drop of his release is fucked into you, and then he simply stays there, inside of you and on top of you, gazing down at you like he’s seeing you for the very first time.

“I love you,” he says – and though you are surprised that he is the first one to say it, it’s hardly unwelcome. You smile up at him, all sated and pleased and finally finally home.

“I love you, Satoru Gojo,” you say. And then;

“But you’re heavy on top of me, and I’d rather be held.”

Night has well-fallen around you, and this time Satoru Gojo does not bid you leave for your safety, for his body is coiled around yours and nobody would ever bother a faerie prince and his lover lest they feel his wrath.

It’s the golden fingers of dawn that wake you; the sun warming your bare shoulders. Satoru is already awake, beside you – those beautiful eyes full of love and adoration and all of the things you have always wanted them to be.

“Beloved,” he says to you, and he kisses you hungry and magical and perfect. When he pulls back, he grins at you and plucks a twig from behind your ear. “The perils of sleeping rough.”

“I love you,” you tell him, and his cheeks pink again. To think that you’re the one capable of making this being blush. To think that you’re the one capable of making Satoru blush.

“I love you,” he says – and he leans forward and presses a kiss onto the tip of your nose. “Have you changed your mind? Because if you have, I’m not saying I’m going to be mad, but--”

You laugh.

“No,” you say, as the two of you stand up and you pull back on the clothes you were wearing last night. “No, I could never. I belong with you.”

“I think there’s something of my kind in my blood, you know,” he says, taking your hand, smoothing his thumb over your palm. “The woods call to us like they call to you.”

“They don’t call to me half as much as your presence does,” you tell him, and he winks at you in a way that makes your heart skip a beat.

“Flatterer,” he says. “Come.”

You take the faerie prince’s hand and let him lead you to the outside of the ring of mushrooms. There is no doubt in your heart. You feel more free now than you have in all of your life.

“Last chance,” Satoru says, coyly, looking at you from under his pale lashes.

“Are you getting cold feet?”

He looks down at your bare feet, matching his own.

“No,” he says. “The ground is warm.”

You step into the ring first.

The ballad the poets write about you, they call “The Machinist and the Faerie”. Satoru makes every bard play it for you at every opportunity, and every bard has a different name for you, a different face, a different life. Satoru corrects them all with a wide smile and a grin and a boyish bounce on the throne he has taken.

You like this story better than the warning fables you were told as a child.

“Only,” you tell the latest bard, a young woman bright of eye and bright of hair and bright of voice. “I think they all make the faerie prince far too learned for a man who doesn’t understand the purpose of sewing machine oil. Childish has the same syllable count as clever, does it not?”

Gojo thinks your rewritten version of your love ballad much less fun.

But he sings along with the bard even so.

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