#Anyway I'm pleased with how effortless his jump looked on this. I have been worrying that he just isn't a great jumper but

[pawsitivevibe]

Doing Big Boy shit.

[wri0thesley]

Nat... 👉👈 since requests are open can I please request some Gojo fluff? If you need a little inspo maybe like, reader and him meet after they were abroad for a mission or something? I'm in love with this funky man and I just wanna give him kiths

sweet tooth - gojo x reader, sfw, 2.5k

the early bird catches the worm. or the cake, you guess.

(just a lot of talking about food tbh . . . i dont get to write pure sfw fluff much, thank u for letting me indulge in my jjk brainrot NFJVND. gn reader! )

You know as well as anyone how little free time a jujutsu sorcerer has. You’ve spent most of your past few years rushing around from place to place, calling it a good night’s rest when you manage to fall amongst your coverings before the clock strikes three in the morning. You think this probably has to go double for somebody in such a constant state of being needed as Gojo – but still, he’d shown up outside your room this morning, bright and early, and said; “We’re going out!”

He hadn’t mentioned that you were still clad in pyjamas, your hair still a mess about your face, eyes still sleep and shadowed. You had jumped out of bed at the knock, of course – you’re used to being needed at the drop of a hat – but there is nothing at all in the way Gojo is looking at you to suggest there’s any kind of danger brewing.

He got in last night at the same time as you, after an exorcism had dragged on longer than expected – you know this. So how is his skin still glowing like moonlight, his voice still so bright, his hair still falling over his blindfold in that effortless perfectly-styled-without-being-styled way?

If he’s slept, he’s gotten the same hour and fifteen minutes you’ve gotten.

“Not even a warning?” You sigh, stifling a yawn. “I haven’t had time to clean my weapons or anything--”

“Woah!” Gojo’s grin doesn’t fade, but he holds up his hands as if he’s trying to avoid a savage attack. “Just you and me. No curses, promise. You won’t be needing those.” He cocks his head to the side. “Unless you wanna try and take me. I think you’d lose!”

Your brow furrows. You know you’d lose, and so does he.

“Have you seen the time?” You ask him, instead. You don’t question why or how he’d gotten into the hallway to stand like this outside of the room you’re renting in Tokyo for a while. You’ve learnt after knowing him for a while that what Gojo wants, he gets – besides. If he’d sweet-talked your landlady into letting him in, you couldn’t blame her for falling for his charms.

He sticks his head into your room and turns his face towards the clock on the wall, ticking merrily away, mocking you. You had hoped, after last night, the next time you saw a clock the hour hand would be well past twelve again. He pulls back.

“Now I have.”

“. . . aren’t you tired?”

Gojo shrugs, maddeningly. Half of what he does is irritating to the highest degree – the other half makes your stomach do strange somersaults that you try and push away. Getting a crush on Gojo Satoru is just going to lead to disaster. Although at this point, you have to admit to yourself that it’s more a case of ‘having a crush’ – there’s not much denying it, when he twinkles at you like this.

“You’ve gotten a good hour of beauty sleep,” he chirps. “Not that you need it. Let me take you out!”

You’re still focussing on the compliment, slipped into his words as if it’s as simple as breathing, when he enters your room full-on and is opening your wardrobe.

“H-hey,” you say, weakly. He’s rifling through the rack without a care in the world. “I—I can dress myself--”

“It’s quicker if I do it,” he replies, pulling out one of your favourite shirts. “Here, catch--!” Your reflexes allow you to not make a fool of yourself in front of him. “The colour of that one’s pretty! It’ll look nice on you.”

You’ve had more clothes piled into your arms before you can blink. You guess that Gojo must know his way around clothes – you’ve seen some of the brands and price tags of things he wears – but you can’t help but be a little flabbergasted by just how casual he is about everything. Maybe it’s the fact that your brain is still short-circuiting after being woken up earlier than you were expecting.

He finishes and walks over to you.

“I’ll wait outside.”

“W-what a gentleman,” you manage, and he throws his head back and laughs, and the laugh feels like it lodges warm in your chest. “After waking me up, bursting into my bedroom--”

“I’ll pay for everything,” he promises. He saunters out of your room, pulling the door closed behind him, calling; “I’ll make it up to you, promise!”

You stand there for a few more moments, still struggling to process the whirlwind that is Gojo’s presence in your life – half joking, half serious, half making you think that maybe you stand a chance, when he calls through the door;

“I can’t hear you moving!”

You jump. You wriggle out of your nightwear, your cheeks heating up, as you snap back;

“You said you were going to wait out there, not that you were going to press your ear to it and listen like some kind of stalker--!”

–

You stare in confusion at the fancy window in front of you, decorated with swirling cursive in gold. From outside, you can see into the establishment – the white scrollwork chairs, the cake stands, the menus standing up in their pale white leather covers. The early morning sunlight from outside is reflecting off a perfectly organised display case teeming with tiny little perfectly formed cakes.

“If you were craving something sweet,” you say, eventually, “surely there was an easier way to get it than this.”

Gojo grabs your arm cheerfully, pulling you towards the entrance of the patisserie.

“Well, I got the first sweet thing I was craving,” he ticks it off with his other hand. “But then I had one of my patented brainwaves.” He elbows you. “Put them both together!”

“I’m not feeling very sweet after you interrupted my sleep,” you mumble, but you know that there’s no real bite in your words. You hope Gojo doesn’t notice the reaction that you have – you know he’d never let it go. You often don’t know how to respond to his flirting – he has a reputation, after all, and you are just . . . you.

“We had to get here early, anyway,” he says, as he stands before the counter. The man in the apron and chef hat behind it recognises him immediately, lighting up – you wonder how much money Gojo spends on expensive patisserie. Everyone knows he has a sweet tooth. “They sell out of some of the best stuff well before ten!”

Gojo knows exactly what he’s doing as he points out various desserts from the display case, the man falling over himself to get the – frankly absurd amount of sweets – carefully packaged up for him. You’re not surprised, knowing Gojo, about the cute animal-shaped cakes that he chooses, the smiling bears and cats with ears made of sliced strawberries. You’re a little more surprised by all of the fancier pieces he chooses that you don’t recognise, but you don’t have much time for dwelling on it.

Spoils in hand, you peer further into the establishment to choose a table.

“Nah, don’t worry about that,” Gojo says cheerfully. “We’ll find somewhere outside to sit. It’s such a nice morning!”

You don’t miss the grin he shoots you as he says ‘morning’, the sidelong tip of his head as if he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him again for interrupting your sleep. You do no such thing, content to be pulled along behind him again as he goes off in search of a place to enjoy his spoils.

People just tend to be pulled along by Gojo’s magnetism, you’ve discovered – and you are, hopelessly, no different.

He finds a quiet bench in a shady corner of one of the local parks; the only other people going past occasional elderly, walking their little dogs. He pats the wooden frame of the bench next to him, smiling.

“You’re not going to make me eat all of this by myself, huh?”

“It’s enough for eight people,” you say, sighing and resigning yourself to your fate as you take the place. He’s lucky you have a sweet tooth too; if he’d brought someone else, they’d probably be shirking back in horror at all the sugar. “You could probably eat it by yourself anyway.”

He pouts.

“I want to share it with you,” he says, cajoling – his fingers hover over one of the smaller cakes, a perfect bite-sized morsel. You try not to think about the elegant lines of his fingers and the power behind them as he plucks it up and offers it to you. “This one’s really good.”

You bring up your hand to take the sweet from him, but he laughs as your fingers bounce away from him, not quite able to get a purchase.

“Let me feed you,” he says to you, and blood rushes to your face all over again.

“I—I can feed myself,” you say, swallowing thickly. Gojo’s smile, on full, sculpted lips, makes butterflies crash into one another in the pit of your stomach.

He brings the treat to your mouth and he’s right, it does look really good. It’s a neat little roll cake, small in Gojo’s fingers, with the green colouring so many sweets you’ve eaten in Japan have been – you hope it’s not matcha, knowing the flavour will surprise you and Gojo will probably laugh, but you open your mouth in defeat and let Gojo pop it in there. His fingers linger a little too long against your lips, his expression fluttering so quickly you don’t quite catch it.

If you didn’t know better . . . you’d say that he had just fought back a blush.

“Is it good?” He asks, and his voice sounds a little strangled. You bite down on the cake, the juice of the strawberries coating your tongue – it is matcha, but the flavour is offset by the sweetness of the vanilla and fruits, and you’re glad about it. You nod enthusiastically, and he laughs.

“I told you!” He taps your cheek. “I know what I’m talking about!”

“You’re so smug,” you tell him, unable to hold back the laughter that’s bubbling out of you. Alright, maybe he woke you up too early and maybe he’s dragged you outside and maybe he’s been haunting your daydreams for months now, but . . . you think he means well. And you can’t deny that the sun is shining and the cakes are really delicious.

“If you were me,” he says, stretching out his arms over the back of the bench, “you would be smug too.” You shake your head at him, but he has a satisfied smile on his face. “Feed me one!”

“Are you going to let me?” You ask. “Or are you just going to bounce it away with your Infinity to make fun of me?”

You hover over the selection yourself, considering what to choose for him. In the end, you go for one of the mini slices of mille crepe cake, reasoning with yourself that even if it’s unusual to be eating so much cake this early, at least crepes are a traditional breakfast. Gojo obediently opens his mouth wider as you lift the slice.

You falter.

“You really want me to feed you?” You ask him, unsure. He laughs, grabbing ahold of your wrist – you almost start as he takes a bite from the treat, his lips tantalisingly close to your fingers. Another bite, and the cake is gone (you’ve never seen slices of mille crepe so small – but then again, judging by the eye-watering amount Gojo paid for his spoils, you’d never be able to afford to buy from a place like that).

“Mm,” he smacks his lips together. “It’s good.”

You swallow, noticing that there’s a smear of the cream between layers at the corner of his mouth. Gojo notices you staring, and quirks his lips into a smirk. “You’re staring,” he says. “I know I’m gorgeous, but--”

“You’ve got . . .” You say, awkward, motioning to his face. Somehow, it feels too intimate to lean forward and dab it away yourself – he’d asked you to feed him, after all. If you did it of your own accord. . .

“Huh? Oh,” He moves one of the arms casually draped over the bench to his face, and you think he is going to wipe it away – but instead, he hooks his thumb under his blindfold, pushing it up casually so the light hits the swirling colours in his eyes.

You’ve seen them before, of course – you’ve seen Gojo at work, after all – but they’re still a surprise, a bright moment of swirling starshine dropped on you when you’re least expecting it. Your stomach does that flip-flop again, the one that you try so hard to ignore – but when he’s looking at you like that, curious and smug all at once, you don’t really know how to handle it.

You’re glad you’re in a secluded spot. There’s nobody to see the embarrassing display of you not quite knowing what to do with yourself.

“You can get it,” he says to you. “I don’t mind.”

“I—”

“Look.” His other hand rises, cups your face, thumb ghosting across the same spot on your cheek that he’d tapped earlier. “I left icing sugar on your face. I’ll get that, and then we’ll be even.”

(Did he do that on purpose, you wonder? You wouldn’t be surprised.)

Your hand is trembling as you reach for the cream. You try and force your fingers to be still as you lean in closer to him, eyes concentrated, as you wipe the little splotch of cream from his mouth. You’re so close you can see galaxies in his eyes, the fan of white lashes, the way that his throat bobs when he swallows as if he’s nervous--

Nervous? Gojo? That can’t be true.

“I got it,” you breathe, though you don’t move. Your faces are so close together. You could lean forward, just a bit, and meet his lips with your own. Gojo’s eyes stay trained on you, not faltering in the least. His thumb is still on your cheek. Your own finger hasn’t moved from the corner of his mouth.

“Wanna know what it tastes like?” Is that a falter, in his voice? You’re stuttering all over the place, but Gojo--

“I’m not gonna put that in my mouth after it’s been on your face,” you tell him, without moving. Your heart is beating ten to the dozen. Gojo’s eyes crinkle at the corners.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says – and he breaks the distance himself, and suddenly he is kissing you. The hand on your cheek cupping your face into his, the other hand going about your waist, holding you tightly against him like he’s been wanting to do it since the moment he woke you up that morning.

(The mille crepe cake is delicious, you find out, from the lingering taste on his lips. Next time you two go there in the early morning rush, Gojo buys two slices.)

[jaskiersvalley]

I'm in ur inbox solely for purposes of crying about the latest shifter au installment, holy shit it's so good!!!!!! I love the narrative style and how soft everyone is, whilst still also being protective af!!! Lambert's cone of shame was the funniest thing ever lmaoooo In short I would die for you thank you have a good day

Please don’t die! Nobody is worth dying for. (I know you meant it in a very nice way but I much prefer people living - especially if they are friend shaped!) While you’ve got the shifter au on your mind, may I offer you a little bonus as thanks for your super sweet message?

Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3.

With their secret out, Jaskier found that he was having to fight for the limelight when out and about with his wolves. He encountered not just his own fanbase but the steadily growing numbers of those who dubbed themselves The Wolf Pack. It was both nice to know that his wolves were so popular but also infuriating because they were Jaskier’s wolves, he adopted them first. Things only got worse as more details filtered out about how they met, sleeping on the streets and helping each other out.

“Aren’t you frustrated that you can’t keep up with them?” A voice, silky and soft whispered from by Jaskier’s shoulder in a coffee shop. “I could help you with that.”

“Not interested,” Jaskier growled. For once, he was without his wolves because he had only wanted a coffee and if they went out together, they would get mobbed. The shop was only down the road anyway.

A business card was thrust towards him. “Call me when you change your mind. We can discuss payment then too.”

The problem was, the idea lingered. Jaskier never did see himself as much of a wolf, he lacked the regal majesty of one. Plus he was much more vibrant. Knowing his luck, he would get turned into a cockatoo. At least he could still appreciate music in that form, headbanging along to decent tunes. But that was beside the point. He threw the card down onto the table and ignored it until Geralt picked it up.

“What’s this?” he asked, frowning at the simple design. The other wolves, as if summoned by his unease, crowded in.

“Some creep wanted to help me “keep up” with you lot. I told him where to shove it. Seemed like a weird old man.”

Vesemir looked the most troubled. “Stregebor is bad news. If you want something, I would suggest Vilgefortz. A much more honest sorcerer.”

It was the first time Jaskier even entertained to notion. He would have loved to be able to keep up with his wolves who seemed to never run out of energy. So he asked Vesemir to set up an appointment.

“How much will this cost me?” he asked, sat opposite the sorcerer.

“It’s not an issue of money. It’s about sacrifice.” Vilgerfortz was looking at him seriously. Outside, the four wolves shifted nervously, wanting to barge in but the privacy spell was keeping them at bay.

Jaskier nodded and thought about what he had to offer. “My singing? My career? Looks? I mean, I’d look rather dashing with a facial scar and at least I’d truly be part of the pack then.”

That drew a laugh from Vilgefortz and he shook his head. “Shifters are dangerous. If they ever had children, they would be unpredictable, maybe even beastly. Even if you’re not a wolf, whatever your inner animal, even if it is a sweet, fluffy moth, you will be infertile.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to laugh. “Take it. I don’t think Geralt ever was the type I could impregnate, even before his mutations.”

In a way, Jaskier couldn’t believe that the price of keeping up was that. He had been prepared to give up fame and fortune for his wolves and now he was being asked for something he never wanted in the first place.

The potions tasted vile and Vilgefortz’s spells grated on his ears but Jaskier weathered it. There was no dramatic wind, no lightning, no quaking of the earth as the spell took hold. At most, it tickled Jaskier’s bones as he felt something shift in him. It was like there was a part of him that had been locked away until that very moment. He certainly didn’t feel like a fluffy moth.

“Concentrate, let your new form come forward.”

The world twisted in the blink of an eye. Everything looked bigger and Jaskier looked down at sandy coloured paws and the swish of a thick, bushy tail. He barked in excitement which settled into an odd purr.

Behind him, the doors opened and four wolves pushed in, curious and worried. They stared down at Jaskier, blinking dumbly until Geralt stepped forward and gave his new form a delicate sniff. The excitement was too much and Jaskier launched himself, trying to play with Geralt before running away, making loops of the room. It was Lambert who first joined in with the chase, heedless of pushing tables over as he chased Jaskier. After two laps, Vesemir stood on two legs next to Vilgefortz and watched the three idiot wolves chasing a fennec fox, nipping and tumbling as if they were young pups.

Once the whole room was a mess, Jaskier stopped by their feet, knowing he was safe from being bowled over in their vicinty.

“How about trying to shift back?” Vesemir asked. There was a knowing smirk on his lips.

Concentrating, Jaskier almost toppled over at the sudden shift and he had a new appreciation for how effortless the others made it look. A snicker from behind him had him twirling. Three pairs of yellow, human eyes were fixed on the top of his head. Reaching up, he patted around and found two large ears nestled in his hair and the bushy tail swished behind him.

“It’s okay, it takes a little while,” Vesemir reassured him. “Geralt had his ears and tail for a good three weeks before he learned to shift fully.”

Lambert reached up to tug at the ears. “They suit you, foxy,” he teased. Immediately, Jaskier was shifting back and jumping at him, barking in excitement as Lambert took on his wolf form once again and the game was back on.