𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒
elf!gojo x healer!reader
you and an immortal prince share a moment that was never meant to last. but intimacy, brief and undeniable, forces you both to confront something that neither of you are willing to face: that despite feeling something deeply for each other, it must end.
content: NSFW/MDNI, soft hurt/no comfort, smut, lotr!gojo (no prior LOTR knowledge needed), immense age-gap(because he's immortal lol), immortal/mortal dynamic, pining, lack of communication, making out, pheromones in saliva, oral(hardly but f! receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, desperation.
wc: 6.1k
a/n: my first time writing smut! hope you enjoy! ♡ ㅤ
dividers by @thecutestgrotto
The sound of the river fills the silence, soft and endless.
A light spray of glistening drops from the waterfall nearby coats your skin, giving it a dewy glow.
You kneel among the athelas, busying yourself by clipping their dead petals, the air damp with the scent of crushed leaves.
A shadow falls across your hands—silver light caught in long, waist-length, white hair, eyes blue like the morning sky above.
The air shifts.
“You’re here early,” you murmur without looking up.
“You’re here alone,” he replies, and you hear the smile in his voice.
“What if I had been someone else?”
You glance at him, arching a brow. “Then I’d have asked them not to step on my seedlings.”
His laugh is low, melodic—and far too close.
“You’d scold a prince over a few blades of grass, sweet healer?”
“I’d scold a god, if he crushed something I’ve grown.”
“I’ll tread carefully, then,” he says, voice softer now. His silence is brief, but heavy—something unreadable flickers behind that playful mask.
With a serious look in his eyes, he stares as though memorising every blemish and pore that he could undoubtedly see in your imperfect, mortal face.
You turn away, wishing you’d left all your hair down to hide behind, instead of letting Shoko braid half of it up in a hair crown that was customary of the elves in Rivendell. As your assistant healer and close friend, she’d done everything she could to make you feel like you fit in.
With hands clasped behind his back, Gojo turns on his heels, heading towards a bush a few steps away.
“These are new,” he bends over to touch the small blue petals that flutter in the wind. “What are they?”
Of course, he already knew. After having lived for over 2500 years, there was hardly anything he didn’t know. He just liked to hear your voice. He'd never admit it, though.
You take a break from tending to the soil and sit back on your heels.
“Blue chicory. Your father had it brought in per my request.”
His father, the King of Rivendell, was a responsible man, unlike his son, the heir to the throne. As the new healer in the palace, it was your responsibility to make sure that all necessary herbs were stocked up, in case any noble elf were to be harmed in battle.
“What does it do?” Gojo’s unsettling, blue eyes capture yours.
“You already know,” you huff, raising a brow.
A grin plays on his plump lips, ”Humour me”
You roll your eyes despite how your heart flutters at his tone and resume tending to the roots.
Sunlight reflects off of Gojo’s regal, silver robes as he moves to kneel beside you, brushing his sleeve against your arm, eyes lowered to your hands instead of the flowers. He’s close enough for you to smell him. His clean scent of crushed crystal and white cedar cuts through the earthy atmosphere. He catches you staring at him through his long, snow-white lashes, and you feel heat creep up your neck in embarrassment.
The air hums, fragile and bright.
The attention you were getting from the Prince of the West confused you.
As one of the strongest elves to have ever walked Middle-earth, with impeccable light manipulation and spatial control, Gojo could have any soul beneath the stars, and the world would have called it an honour. And if the night air carried whispers true, he’d rarely spent one alone.
He had spent the past few weeks of your initiation as the head healer tailing you, cornering you when you were researching new healing techniques in the ancient royal library, or bothering you as you mixed potions and elixirs in the labs.
It seemed to you that he found your human mannerisms interesting and amusing.
Surely that's why he stuck around you.
You knew elves: they were arrogant and elitist, mostly opting to live in kingdoms far from any other species. Most of them had hardly interacted with a human.
It was a shock to them all when the King appointed you as the head healer. It was even more of a shock to them when they found out that it was due to your exceptional healing skills in a war that the elves had fought alongside mankind against the forces attempting to overthrow them. A human? As an elvish healer? It was unheard of.
You fight the urge to hide your hands in your sleeves under his scrutinising gaze. His slender fingers trail over your wrist and linger on the faint scars you procured at your many previous demanding healing jobs. Once again, you’re reminded of your imperfections. Defects that he could never have.
Your breath stills. The light obeys him—bends, softens, hides. He could raze mountains if he wished, but he’d rather spend his mornings in your gardens counting dew on the leaves. That had to mean something, right?
“You shouldn’t be out here alone. You're defenceless." He lifts one of your arms,” Look at you. You couldn’t hurt a fly.” A laugh, like the clear ringing of a windchime, tumbles from his lips. Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Come. I'll walk you to the breakfast hall.”
He stands up in one swift movement and stretches out a hand, which you take. He strides off gracefully, silver robes billowing out around him, long white hair cascading down his shoulders. “They say mortals tire easily. Shall I walk slower?” he calls out over his shoulder.
You follow him towards the warm aroma of honeyed bread and the soft chatter of waking elves.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
Lanterns are dotted along the river like captured starlight. The soft lilt of harps and flutes drifts through the air.
You move quietly along the terraces, fingers brushing the silver leaves. Content with viewing the celebration from a distance, you scan the crowd of elves celebrating the Festival of Starlight for Shoko.
Then you see him.
Clothed in moonlight, Gojo, radiant even among elves, laughs at something one of the Ladies of the Court whispers to him.
He holds a crystal goblet, its contents, a pale gold liquid that casts shimmering rainbows across the sharp planes of his face.
The Lady of the Court’s hand touches his arm, and he leans in, smiling with that effortless charm that always makes your breath stutter. Your stomach drops a little—and you remind yourself firmly: he’s a Lord, a creature of beauty and light, not someone who would ever consider you.
It infuriates you how, even now in the night, light still gravitates to him. He looks…breathtaking. Light weaves itself through the pale strands of his waist-length hair. It slips between his fingers as he brushes a few stray strands from his face. It glints off the silver circlet sitting across his forehead.
He turns to you and catches your gaze from across the room. The mischievous spark in his eyes makes your chest tighten.
He smiles, full of charm but small and knowing, and you quickly look away, suddenly finding the crystalline flute filled with elderflower wine in your hands very interesting. You decide that it’s probably best for you to retire for the night.
It’s nothing, you persuade yourself, he's just being polite, is all. After all, we are… what? Friends?
Was it too much to consider yourself friends with a prince? Does he consider you to be his friend? Surely not.
Maybe he thinks you are cordial acquaintances at most. That's probably it.
And even as you repeat it, you can't help the small tug of curiosity, the slim glimmer of hope that lingers when the starlight hits his face just right.
You find Shoko and all but cling to her side in relief. She politely excuses herself from the conversation she was having with two male servant elves and hooks her arm through yours. After following your line of sight, she glances back down at you, her expression disapproving,” You’re staring again.”
“I’m observing.”
“You’re sighing while you do it, though.”
You feign indifference, "I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Sure. And you just happen to observe only one man in the entire realm.”
“He’s …conspicuous.”
“He’s Gojo”, she responds dryly.
You roll your eyes, but your heart still hasn’t slowed since he looked your way.
You huff in frustration. “Whatever.”
Shoko’s lips twitch. “Mortals. Always observing, always sighing. You’d think you were carrying the weight of the Arda on your shoulders.”
“Maybe I am,” you mutter.
“Then at least do it with better posture,” she says, brushing a fire moth from your shoulder. “Honestly, you’ll give the healers work before the night is done.”
You can’t tell if she’s joking, but the corner of her mouth is betraying her. She starts to move.
You nod, absentmindedly, falling into step beside her.
The night hums softly—harp strings, laughter, the scent of summer wine—and for a while, you let her easy stride carry you out of your thoughts. Shoko unwinds her arm from yours and pulls out a pipe, handing you a box of matches for you to light it for her.
“Really? Here?” you question. All around you, elves shoot you disapproving looks. She gives you an expectant look, and you light the pipe for her with a roll of your eyes.
She takes a deep inhale and closes her eyes, ignoring the looks of reproach she gets from the elves around her. She smokes as an act of quiet defiance.
“Elfdom is overrated. A little hobbit vice never killed anyone.”
“Don’t let them hear that,” you jut your chin towards the crowd, “they’ll use it as an excuse to finally have you kicked out. You know they’ve been wanting to for a while.”
The two of you share a laugh. It was no secret that Shoko was ostracised and shunned by her fellow elves. Her unconventional habit of picking up foreign customs from her travels made her unpopular within the elvish community.
Not wanting to draw any more attention, you steer the two of you to the outskirts of the celebration and lean on a pillar hewn from pure white marble. Breathing a quiet sigh, you allow your head to loll to the side and rest on the pillar.
Shoko’s eyes crinkle in amusement as she watches you. You click your tongue.
“You're laughing at me,” you mutter, deadpan.
A smile ghosts over her lips but slowly fades away as a thought crosses her mind. “You know he’ll outlive you, right?”
You stare deeply into her eyes for a few seconds too long before looking away. Looking at him. “I know.” There's a long, pensive pause, “I just—I don’t know why he looks at me that way.”
You don't have to explain what you mean by that. Shoko already knows.
Shoko rubs her neck thoughtfully, “Mortals are rare, and interesting ones as beautiful as you, rarer still. He’s in love, maybe. Or he’s…fascinated? Who knows?”
Fascinated. Something in you recoiled at the word. Fascinated. Like you were an ancient artefact or a newly-formed invention. A quiet ache, sharp and insistent, claims the space where hope had lingered. You knew that Shoko was right; you just refused to acknowledge it until now. Gojo didn’t like you. He liked that you were human. Distinct. Other.
A sigh rushed through your lips, “You’re right.”
“Hey,” Shoko nudges you, “Don’t look so down. There’s always better.”
A smile plays at your lips, “You know that’s not true.”
You laugh wistfully, and Shoko gives you a pointed look. Then her vision shifts to something—or rather, someone—behind you. Swiftly, you spin around, and you’re met with a glimmering, breathtaking smile. His glimmering, breathtaking smile. You can't help but wince as your heart squeezes at the sight, not being able to return his grin. You're so fixated on him that you don’t notice Shoko slipping away.
Gojo’s expression flickers when he looks at you—really looks—as though the crowded festival falls away.
He moves to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you, and you both observe the fire moths that float gently around you in perfect silence. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, which makes it hard to focus on anything but him.
As you turn away to admire one of the floating lanterns, Gojo watches you—openly, for once.
He’s just keeping an eye on you.
That’s what he tells himself.
But when the lantern light catches your face, something in his chest twists in a way he absolutely refuses to examine at that moment.
He tilts his head, studying you with that unreadable glimmer in his eyes.
“You’re enjoying yourself?” He asks like he actually cares.
“I am, my Lord.”
A moment passes.
“Good.”
He looks away from you.
“I’m off on a diplomatic mission to Mirkwood. I should be back in about a week.”
The news shocks you. You whip your head round to him.
“What?” you question.
Your blood runs cold. Relations between Mirkwood and Rivendell were a lot less than friendly, which puts Gojo, as the heir to the throne, in grave danger.
“I hope your worry for me won’t keep you up at night for too long.”, he quips with a playful grin.
You shake your head. Gojo can’t stay serious for longer than half a minute.
Despite how your anxious heart thunders (which he can most definitely hear), you scoff, “You’re a big boy. You don’t need me worrying about you.”
He throws a couple of pale sugared grapes into his mouth and then offers you some, holding the vine to your lips. With your gaze fixed on his, you pluck one off with your teeth and chew it slowly.
“I’ll try not to start a war,” he jokes, softly, eyes still on you, “no promises, though.”
You purse your lips at this, “You'd better not, my Lord. That would be rather inconvenient.”
And with mirth in his eyes, he bows his head slowly, watching you until the very last second, in the customary way.
But it feels intimate. Intentional.
When he rises, his gaze drags over your face as though reacquainting himself with each small detail. This time, you don’t feel like hiding behind your hair and instead meet his gaze head-on. No words, no touching—just that lingering, deliberate moment before he turns away, silver robes catching the festival lights as he disappears into the crowd.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
A week had passed since the festival—since the way his eyes lingered on you as though he were memorising something he had no right to. You hadn’t been to visit him since he arrived three days ago.
So when Shoko storms into your chambers as you ready yourself for bed, you know something bad has happened before she even speaks. “Your prince is back,” she tells you.
“He’s not mine,” you roll your eyes.
“Yeah, whatever. He looks like absolute hell. And before you ask—no, he won’t let anyone touch him. Especially not me.” You frown at that. He'd been refusing treatment for three days?
Her eyes flash in amusement.
“So congratulations. You’re his one and only exception.”
Your stomach tightens.
Gojo never asks for anyone.
You follow her through the quiet upper walkways of the stronghold, the hum of elvish wards faint beneath your feet. The air grows cooler as you near his chambers—a subtle sign of the northern winds he had travelled through. Your heart thunders as you approach his doors, your nerves eating away at you.
You hate how he messes with your mind. Makes you feel special. How he invades our space, both physically and mentally. How he has you at his beck and call. How he gives you hope to cling to—that maybe, just maybe, you’d have a chance. A chance to be his, through and through. As absurd as it sounds.
Shoko stops at a carved door, hand hovering.
“He refused his healers,” she whispers.
Then, softer: “Be vigilant. Don’t let him manipulate you. You know what he’s like.”
Before you could ask anything, she slips away.
You push the door open.
Dim light spills across the room—not from lanterns, but from a cluster of faintly glowing stones set around a basin. The scent of crushed herbs hung thick in the air.
And Gojo—
Gojo sits on the edge of the low bed, tunic half undone, blood dried along his ribs in a pattern that makes your throat tighten.
He looks up the moment he senses you.
Relief flashes across his face first.
Then something warmer.
Almost… pleasure.
“Finally.” His voice is rougher than usual, low around the edges. “I was starting to think they’d send everyone else in the world before they’d let you in.”
He doesn’t smile—not fully—but the corner of his mouth curved, smug and soft all at once.
He shifts, the motion tight with pain.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
“I want your hands on me.”
A moment passes. You don’t dare move. It feels like a trap.
Then, after a faint, breathy laugh:
“For medical reasons, obviously.”
You cross the room slowly, refusing to be rushed by the way his eyes track your every step. When you reach him, he tilts his head in that lazy, knowing way—the one that tells you he’s doing better than he looks. When you reach for the basin, he stops you with a quiet:
“Not that one. The silver bowl.”
Your brows furrow in confusion. The silver bowl contains stronger medicine—the kind used for wounds touched by hostile magic. Surely his wounds can’t be that bad.
You bring it over and kneel in front of him. Only then do you notice the faint shimmer, the green tint, around the cut along his rib. Unnatural, like the afterglow of a spell.
Your eyes narrow as you touch the edge of the injury lightly with your fingertips.
He sucks in a breath, sharp through his teeth, though he tries to mask it with a smirk.
“Didn’t think you’d—ah—start there.”
You shoot him a warning glance.
He raises both hands in surrender.
“Sorry. Proceed, healer.”
Your fingertips press a little harder than necessary.
He hisses. You don’t apologise.
Without looking up at him, you dip your cloth into the bowl and ask, “What happened, Gojo?”
He exhales, gaze lifting to the ceiling as though choosing what version of the truth to give you. When he speaks, his tone is too light to be honest.
“Diplomacy,” he says, “can be… lively.” You give him a pointed look. He sighs—defeated, amused, and strangely unguarded.
“The envoys from the northern clan weren’t pleased. The humans in their borderlands have been pushing too far into their forests. There were accusations. Tension.”
There's a pause as you wait for more of an explanation and as he debates on what to say next.
“And someone mentioned you.”
Your hand stills.
“Me?”
He nods, jaw tight.
“Your name came up. And not kindly.” There’s a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. Something older. Sharper.
“They said a mortal walking freely among elves was an insult to us all,” he says quietly. “That it was… indulgent.” Another pause.
“That I was indulgent.”
Your breath stills. There would be rumours. Ruthless ones. This could destroy your career. You look at him, but he looks away, as though the memory irritates him.
“One of them spat your title at me. Your title. I couldn't believe it,” he grunts out, his passion causing him to jostle painfully, “as though the idea of having a human healer at my side was unimaginable.”
Your heart almost stops. There it is. You can feel it. That flicker of hope blooming warmly in your chest. You smother it quickly.
“That doesn’t explain the wound, Gojo.” His eyes return to yours, piercing and intense.
“I moved before I could think,” he admits. “The magic meant for him caught me instead.”
He shrugs, wincing at the movement.
“It wasn’t supposed to touch flesh. It was meant to brand. Mark. Warn.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, then dip the cloth again, gentler this time. He watches your hands as though they’re the only thing anchoring him to the present. When you press the heated herbs to his skin, he inhales sharply—but not from pain.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” you say, “You’re a prince. One rash decision from you can kill thousands.”
He scoffs softly. “I couldn’t let them do that to you.”
Your pulse kicks hard at his tone, and you know he can hear every beat of it due to his amplified hearing. You look at the wound just to avoid looking at him. But Gojo leans forward, closing the distance until you can feel the brush of his breath against your cheek.
“I would do it again,” he murmurs. “Even knowing it would hurt. Even knowing you’d scold me for it.”
You swallow. Sorrow claws at your throat, stopping you from being able to respond. The words he uses, the way he speaks—it’s not fair. You're almost certain that your words don’t have the same effect on him as his have on you. He continues, voice almost a whisper:
“You think I’d let someone speak your name with mind harm? You think I’m that indifferent?”
Your hands shake as you fold a fresh cloth. Your nerves are getting to you. He catches your wrist to make you look at him. His voice lowers, softer than you’ve ever heard it:
“I asked for you because… I didn’t want anyone else touching this.”
His gaze drifts to the wound, then back to your face.
“Or me.”
There’s a long silence.
He laughs. It’s a faint, breathless sound.
“And besides,” he says, “the other healers would’ve nagged.”
He knows what he’s doing.
He knows the effect his words have on you.
He can hear how your breath stutters, how your pulse kicks. He can see how you avoid eye contact.
Knowing that you want him as much as he wants you, he looks down at you, still kneeling in front of him, and moves his hand towards you.
His fingers trace the back of your neck, sliding into your hair. “You smell of athelas and sunlight,” he whispers. “Do you know what that does to an elf?”
He tilts your head back and presses his sharp nose to your throat. He takes a deep inhale, and he lets out a low groan, unashamedly. Your heartbeat quickens at the sound, and you feel warmth start to pool at your core.
His tongue darts out of his mouth to lick a long stripe from the base of your neck to your jaw. Taking in a shaky breath, your hands come to rest on his shoulders, and you bite down a moan. His nose nuzzles its way up your cheek until his lips hover over your own. He exhales, cool breath coaxing your lips apart. His lips linger over yours for an agonising minute. And then he kisses you.
His lips move languidly, slow, as though relishing the taste of you. Gojo pulls you upwards with a firm hand on your hip onto his lap to straddle him. His hand in your hair yanks your head closer to his, making sure you're not breathing anything that isn’t him.
His lips taste so good that it hurts your heart. You want him so badly that your breathing becomes strained.
“Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this,” he mumbles against your lips.
Hope warms your heart. Maybe he's wanted you as long as you've wanted him?
Hungry lips devour you. Teeth nibble at your lips, your tongue. “You're loving this, aren’t you? I can tell,” he sighs into your open mouth.
You stifle a moan.
Gojo's tongue swirls around your mouth, nudging in every nook and cranny. You feel a tingle in your mouth—on your tongue and gums. Slowly, it spreads, and you start to feel it on your lips.
As a certified elf healer, you’d studied this phenomenon, but had inconveniently forgotten all about it until now. You've gotten yourself into deep shit.
Male elves release pheromones in their saliva during intercourse when they’re in love.
And Gojo’s most certainly releasing them now.
He pulls his head back and unlatches his lips from yours with a smack! His shining, blue eyes follow the glistening string of saliva that falls from his mouth and trails down your chin.
He locks eyes with you, and you both stare at each other for a moment, desperately trying to catch your breath.
Then his eyes start to trail down your body, slowly, taking in your attire as though he’s just realised that you’re almost naked.
You’re in a translucent nightgown made of elvish gossamer silk with a matching robe in the same fabric—night wear befitting a noble elf. Gojo’s had more than his fair share of conquests, and so this is most definitely not his first time seeing a woman in their nightgown.
But it is the first time he’s ever felt to stop and stare.
It looks different on your human body.
He likes the way the fabric clings to your curvier body and softer flesh, as though it were wet. He likes the way he can see your breasts hanging heavy and your plush thighs pressing together.
His eyes fix on your nipples that pebble through the thin layer of fabric.
A breathy sigh makes its way out of your mouth as he moves his lips down your body. They’re hot and soft.
Not breaking eye contact with you, he wets your nipple with his tongue through the fabric and skims across it with his teeth. A sigh passes your lips as you arch your body forward, pushing his face into your chest.
You know you shouldn’t let this continue. You know that this is unlikely to develop into the relationship that you desperately want it to. You know that it is likely, however, that you could just be another name on Gojo’s long list of conquests.
Yet you can’t stop, because it just feels so right.
Getting impatient, you reach your hand from his shoulder and grab a fistful of his white hair close to his scalp, and tug painfully so that his head tips back to look at you. Gojo groans lustfully, basking in the pain, and your cunt clenches wetly at the sound.
Fuck. You can feel the effects of his pheromones settle in and cloud your mind. You can feel yourself slipping away. You shouldn’t let him use you like this.
But you can’t help it. It just feels so damn good.
“Fucking kiss me again,” you pant. And he does just that.
You want more. Need more.
You can almost feel Gojo’s pheromones pumping away in your bloodstream, taking over each cell. Channelling all your thoughts, energy and attention onto one person. The delectable man right in front of you.
As he envelopes your lips with his, you desperately remove your nightrobe and hike up your nightdress—you need friction, and you need it now.
Chuckling at your desperation, he lifts you up into his arms and bucks his hips up into you, rabidly rocking it against your sloppy slit.
He’s hard. Massive and hard and throbbing and needy.
“You feel that?” he breathes into your mouth, “it's all for you.”
In response, you hungrily rock your hips back and forth, rubbing hard to get the right amount of pressure on your clit.
“Go on. Just like that.” he breathes against your lips.
He quickly throws your dress over your shoulders to reveal your peaked nipples. You watch his eyes turn black, the sky blue rings of his irises growing thinner and thinner each second. He catches a nipple between his teeth, rolling a tongue over the tip of it through your dress.
“Mmmh! M-my Lord—”. You throw your head back and grab a fistful of his silky, milk-white strands. You'd dreamt more times than you could even count, of what it would feel like to touch his hair. Now that you know, you don't think you could ever let go.
“No. Say my name.”
“G-Gojo,” you manage to stutter out.
“That’s it.”
He sucks at your nipple and twists the other one with his fingers, eliciting moans from you that ring out through the still, night air. He hikes his thigh higher, causing your hips to stutter and stop their frantic bucking, and rips off your nightdress. Cold air blows across your already stiff nipples.
“Shit. I can smell you,” He licks his lips ravenously and shoots you a devilish grin, “ You taste as good as you smell?"
And before you can answer, he throws you onto his silk-covered bed. You desperately grasp onto the embroidered sheets under you in anticipation as you watch Gojo slip his arms out of his tunic.
Despite the wound on his rib, Gojo is still the epitome of strength and grace, his body looking like it was hewn from stone by the gods.
Your eyes greedily follow the white happy trail that leads down, down, down…
A grin plays across his swollen lips as he pushes your thighs apart, his perfect face lighting up at what he sees there.
“Heavens,” he murmurs, taking in your weeping slit and clenching hole, “You’re perfect.”
“Please…” you whisper hoarsely, not entirely sure what you’re pleading for.
At that, Gojo lowers himself to you and licks a long strip from your ass to your clit, slurping up your juices.
“My my, you’re nasty. So fucking wet for me,” he lets out an amused sound.
You can’t even make a noise as your eyes roll back and your hands find purchase on the white oak headboard behind you. And you almost choke on your own breath when you feel his long fingers push into you, two of them, then three, four, sloshing in and out of you, stretching open your ring of muscle.
“Oh,” you cry, your toes curling, “You’re fingers—they’re so—oh fuck—big.” You clench around him as he shoves deeper into you like a glove.
“Just my fingers have you crying like this, sweet healer?” He breathes from between your legs.
With that, he unplugs his finger and slides his breeches down. You gulp and take a glimpse at his hefty dick as it jumps up to hit the hard ridges of his abdomen. Like the rest of him, it’s glorious—twitching and thick, with a bulging pink tip that leaks a thick, shimmering, pearlescent glob of cum.
He leans over you, tall and towering, lines himself with your entrance, and pushes in.
“Ah, f-fuck.” Gojo groans low, throwing his head back, giving you a view of his thick neck, as his Adam’s apple bobs. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his long hair frames his body beautifully. “You’re so fucking tight. Relax, healer. I can hardly move”
The stretch is already unreal, despite his thorough prep, and he’s only put the tip in. You already know you’re fucked.
He doesn’t wait for longer than a second before he slams in, balls deep, your labia flush against his snowy white base.
You both moan.
“Mnhh—Gojo!” Your hands fly to his firm biceps that grip your thighs as he pushes them impossibly wider and wider.
With your nails pressing little crescents into his skin, he pulls out and drives back in with one smooth thrust. He's in so deep that if you had no knowledge of human anatomy, you’d have been sure that he’d come out the other side.
He sets up a vigorous rhythm with ferocious pace.
In. Out.
“Ah, fuck, you’re practically choking me—mmh.”
Punishing strokes scrape at your walls, absolutely wrecking your cunt. Each roll of his hips coaxes more and more of your cream out of your dripping hole.
“Look at you,” he grunts out through gritted teeth, “those mortal men don’t give it to you good enough, do they?”
You can only reply with an unintelligible whimper, your eyes glazing over. Your pleasure is amplified by the pain of Gojo’s cock impaling you as you try to accommodate his sheer size.
The calm, silvery silence of the moonlit night is disrupted by the smacking of his balls on your sore ass and the squelching of your crying cunt. It sounds dirty. Disgusting. So, so pornographic.
“Oh—hah,” you let out a desperate, filthy noise,” I-I can’t. Fuck!”
Gojo repeatedly strikes that sensitive spot deep in your gushy walls, like he’s magnetically attracted to it, causing you to clench down hard around him.
A deep growl resonates from the vast expanse of his chest.
“Yes, you can. You can—hngh—take it. Make it worth my time,” he licks his lips, revealing a perfect set of pearly white teeth, glinting in the glowy moonlight.
He reaches down your body to flick at your swollen bud, circling it teasingly with the tips of his fingers.
“She’s so greedy. Look at how she’s slobbering all over me.” With heavy-lidded eyes, he looks down at your union, savouring the feel of your juices dripping down his heavy balls and your tight pussy suctioning him, before he leans down to press open-mouthed kisses all over your body.
The combination of his drilling thrusts, unforgiving fingers, and merciless mouth is pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
“Hah-ngh. Fuck.” he exhales into your neck, right next to your ear. You're blinded by the blanket of hair that falls over your face as he nuzzles himself into you, and you inhale his deeply intoxicating scent.
You’re plastered together, sticky skin slipping against each other. Your chest heaves, and your nipples rub against Gojo.
Every thrust sends you further and further up the bed; your back rubbed raw by the friction.
And you're close. So close—
“I'm gonna cummmm! Gojo,” you whine.”Stop! I can’tttt.MMh-nghh!”
Your cunt relentlessly convulses and quivers as milky white cum rings coat his cock.
“Yesss, that’s it. Holy shit, you’re so fucking tight.” Gojo’s breaths grow heavier as he reaches his climax, carelessly using your body to reach it, “Fucking milk me. Just like that.”
He ruts into you, his rhythm sloppy. He feels like he’s losing his mind, buried deep in your pussy. He can’t even pull out in time before he spurts out thick ropes of iridescent cum directly into your womb.
Loud squelches fill the huge room as his seed overflows out of you. He cums for longer than you’ve ever experienced a man to. You feel it splotching and coating your walls, thoroughly filling you up.
And when he’s done, he slumps on top of you for a moment, his forehead touching yours as both of your breaths slow to a normal rate.
And then he speaks. Not playful. Not in his usual flirty, oh-so-Gojo tone.
He just says, “You should rest,” not distant or dismissive. Just honest. And careful.
The intensity fades first.
Not all at once—just bit by bit. Enough for the pheromones to wear off. Enough for you to be aware of yourself again. Of the quiet around you. Of where you are. Of the fact that Rivendell hasn’t stopped breathing just because something irreversible has happened between you and its prince.
Gojo just lies there.
You just lie there. Your head is on his chest.
You count each beat of his heart until you lose count.
Doubt starts to seep in like water creeping its way through cracks in a dam.
You don’t panic. Or feel regretful. You just think in silence. Start to catalogue the events clinically, as a healer would. What he said. And what he didn’t.
He was present. Attentive and engaging.
But he didn't promise anything.
You sigh as heartbreak starts to settle in, and your thoughts begin to spiral.
Was what happened desire… or distraction?
Does it mean anything to him?
You try to be realistic.
He's ancient. He flirts easily—you’ve seen it.
But then your mind drifts to how he looked at you, almost in awe at what he saw, and the ache comes back.
Your chest feels heavy as you breaths slow, tuning soft and heavy.
Gojo adjusts the spider silk covers over your sleeping form without waking you. He doesn’t move, even when the room goes quiet.
Every battle Gojo walks into is one where he might not return.
And even if he did, your life would still be measured in decades while his stretches on, merciless and unchanging.
For once, he fully lets his guard down—no shield, no reputation to maintain. He's not a prince anymore. In this moment, he just has you.
He commits this moment to memory—knowing fully that it cannot happen again.
a/n: thanks for reading! likes/reblogs appreciated ♡
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