#day 25

Octoblorbober day 25! Jaster Mereel

𝔐𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰 - 𝔶𝔲𝔧𝔦 ☕︎ྀི

Summary. He’s exhausted from telling you how cute you are and watching you not believe him. So instead, he shows you because actions always speak louder than words.

word count. 4.5k

Warnings. fem! chubby reader, office worker Yuji, pwp, unprotected sex, modern au, he's a little dumb, praise, impact play, fingering, mirror, nipple play, biting, grinding, a little mean, not proofread,

an. This took me a bit, but it was really fun to write for him. This is a modern AU with older Yuji. I hope you enjoy it! @blushinglemon

Yuji was the golden boy of his workplace—charming, handsome, and constantly surrounded by people who wanted his attention. So when a coworker jokingly asked, “Be real, man. Why’d you pick her? You know you’ve got girls everywhere.” Yuji blinked. Then he smiled—wide and easy, the kind that always looked honest.

“Because I love her,” he said.

That was it. No buildup. No joke. Just facts. A few people laughed like he was kidding. Someone else snorted. Yuji only shrugged and went back to eating like he hadn’t said anything wild. But later, he thought about it. And he decided, Okay, maybe they just haven’t met her properly… so I’ll show them. Over the next few weeks, Yuji called you constantly.

“Hey, I forgot my lunch again. I know, I know—I’m dumb. Can you save me?” “Hey, uh, I forgot my notebook. Can you bring it? Also… I wanna see you.” “Are you nearby? Come say hi!” “Baaabe, I swear I left my charger at home. Please.”

Every time you walked into the office, Yuji lit up like a puppy seeing its favorite person. He’d wrap an arm around you, kiss your cheek, and introduce you to everyone like he was showing off a treasure. You thought it was sweet—hell, amazing even—getting to see him every day, all dressed up and in his element.

Until one day, when you stopped in the bathroom to freshen up before heading home. Two women walked in behind you, not realizing you were in a stall.

“She’s cute, but… you know.” “Maybe he makes her bring him stuff so she walks more.” “He could do better.”

You froze, your mind racing. Why was he calling you so often? Could he really just be calling so you’d walk more? Was he suddenly unhappy with your body? Your chest tightened, your eyes burned, and your thoughts spiraled a mile a minute. You left quietly, hands shaking. After that, you stopped bringing him things.

When Yuji asked, you said things like: “I’m at the gym.” “Sorry, I’m trying this new weight-loss smoothie.” “Wish I could, but I’m out on a run. Love you, though.”

Yuji was proud at first—he always supported you—but something felt off. You sounded tired. Quieter. Still, he brushed it aside, frowning at his phone. Oh… okay. Have fun? Don’t overdo it, alright? About a month later, Nobara approached him at work.

“Itadori… you should check on your girlfriend.”

Yuji’s head snapped up. “Why? Is she okay?”

Nobara sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I saw her at the gym. She looked… exhausted. Like she was pushing herself too hard—no breaks, legs shaking. I tried to say something, but she just smiled and laughed it off. I thought maybe you could talk to her. You’re her boyfriend, after all.”

Yuji’s stomach dropped. Did something happen? Did I do something?

He decided to talk to you after the upcoming office dinner—a dinner he insisted you attend so you could see his coworkers in a calmer setting, not rushed and tense like they were at work.

You spent days preparing. You’d lost some weight. You bought a new outfit. When you stepped out of the bedroom, Yuji’s jaw dropped.

“…Whoa,” he murmured, laughing as he rubbed the back of his neck and walked over, hands resting gently on your waist. “You always look good. You know that?”

You turned away, embarrassed. Yuji always said that, but his dumb smile and sweet words still made your face heat up. You reminded him you needed to hurry so you wouldn’t be late.

At dinner, everyone wanted Yuji’s attention. He joked, poured drinks, and cheered too loudly—but under the table, his hand stayed on you. Squeezing your thigh. Tracing lazy circles. Brushing your knuckles when he felt you tense. He didn’t even realize he was doing it. He just liked touching you.

You felt safe whenever he was near… yet unease still lingered. The thought that everyone believed you weren’t good enough for him wouldn’t leave. Eventually, you excused yourself for some air and went to the bathroom, fixing your makeup and trying to make everything look perfect.

On your way out, you heard voices.

“He hasn’t looked at her once all night. Poor girl,” a man scoffed. A woman laughed. “If he wanted someone real, he could have me. I could take him easily.”

Your heart cracked. You’d tried so hard to be perfect—and still, it wasn’t enough.

You walked past them without reacting, returned to the table, and smiled through the rest of dinner. Yuji, tipsy and clingy, leaned into you, but you stayed quiet.

At home, you helped him onto the couch and started making some hangover food. The thoughts wouldn’t stop. Yuji deserves someone like Nobara.

Arms wrapped around you from behind.

“Baaabe,” Yuji slurred happily, “Gojo said if you’re free, you should come to the next office party. Some of the higher-ups want to meet you.” You forced a smile. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. They won’t take you seriously if they see me with you.” He hugged you tighter, tickling your sides. “No way. You’re way too cute and pretty for that.”

But your thoughts twisted into monsters.

You’re clumsy. You’re slow. You’re no match for him. You don’t even know what he likes about you.

“You should date someone better than me!” you shouted.

Yuji froze—then laughed softly, hugging you even tighter. “No way. I love you. And the only way you’re getting rid of me is if I die.” Something about that made your throat close. You turned and pushed him away. “Yuji, I’m serious.” 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered over and over, staring at the floor. Look what you did. You’re pathetic. Yuji was quiet for a moment. Then, gently, “Do you feel uncomfortable when you’re with me?” You shook your head, still apologizing. “I love you,” he said softly. “No matter how you look. No matter your size. Why can’t you see that?”

He picked you up and carried you toward the bedroom. “Since you don’t believe my words… I’ll show you with my actions.” He kissed you deeply, slow and sure, until you finally pulled back, covering your face.  “I can’t take it anymore,” you cried. “The whispers. The insults. People are saying you’ll leave me—that I’m not good enough. There are better options out there.

You sobbed. “You’re perfect. Everyone loves you. It feels like I’m just dragging you down.” Yuji waited until you finished, then gently pulled your hands away, wiping your tears with his shirt. “Stop listening to other people,” he said quietly. “Focus on how I make you feel.”

He kissed your cheek, steady and warm, letting his shirt fall somewhere behind him.

The argument had been stupid. A silly, petty thing about you doubting yourself again and him finally reaching his limit with your stubborn insecurity. The words had been sharp, leaving cuts that felt like they might never heal. I think we should take a break. You’d said it to hurt him, to push him away before he could see the mess you believed yourself to be. The silence that followed was worse than any yelling.

Now, you’re standing in the dim bedroom, the fight’s echo still vibrating in the air. He’s behind you, his breath warm on the back of your neck. His hands, which moments ago were gesturing in frustration, now settle on your hips. There’s no more talking. The tension has melted, shifting from emotional to something unbearably and undeniably physical.

His fingers find the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t fumble. There’s a deliberate, possessive efficiency to his movements. The soft cotton is pulled up and over your head, discarded without a glance. Your bra clasp gives way under his practiced touch. The cool air kisses your skin, raising goosebumps, but it’s nothing compared to the heat radiating from him. He spins you just enough to face him, his dark eyes drinking you in. “Look at you,” he murmurs, the anger gone, replaced by a raw, hungry awe. “Just look.”

His palms slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. A shiver, deep and involuntary, racks your body. He sees it, a slow smile touching his lips. He pushes your pants and panties down in one smooth motion, and you step out of them, feeling utterly exposed. He hasn’t even taken off his jeans. The rough denim grates against the backs of your thighs as he pulls you flush against him.

You can feel him. All of him. You can feel the hard, unyielding plane of his chest pressing against your back. His arms, with their solid strength, wrapped around you, crossed over your stomach, and held you tight. And, most insistently, the thick, rigid length of his cock, trapped behind his zipper, pressing into the plush curve of your ass.

He begins to move.

A slow, deliberate grind. The denim is a rough, thrilling friction against your sensitive skin. With each backward roll of his hips, you feel him—the formidable outline, the heat, the promise—getting harder, thicker, and more insistent. It’s a claiming. A wordless argument of its own.

“Look,” his voice is a low growl in your ear, his breath hot. “Because of you. Because of this gorgeous body, my cock’s rock hard. It’s fucking aching.” One hand slides up from your stomach to cup your breast, his palm fitting perfectly over the swell. His fingers find your nipple, already peaked and tight from the cool air and his proximity. He toys with it, a gentle pinch, then a slow, circular rub that makes you gasp. “Look. It pokes out the second I touch it. So good. So perfect.” He gives your right nipple a firmer squeeze, not painful, but enough to send a jolt of pure, sharp pleasure straight to your clit. You whimper, your head falling back against his shoulder.

“I love you,” he says, the words simple and devastating amidst the sensual assault. He says it like a fact, like the reason for all of this.

His lips find the ridge of your spine. Soft, open-mouthed kisses trail from your shoulder blade down to the small of your back. Each one is a brand, a point of searing heat. His hand stays on your breast, kneading, possessive. “Spread your legs, love,” he instructs, his voice thick.

You obey, your mind hazy, your body operating on a primal frequency all its own. You widen your stance, and the moment you do, he shifts. The hard ridge of his clothed cock slides down, finding the slick, hot seam of you with unerring accuracy. He presses it there, against your clothed, sensitive folds, and rocks forward.

“Oh, fuck,” you choke out. The friction is maddening, incredible. Through the layers, you can feel your own wetness soaking through, creating a damp, hot patch on his jeans.

“Look at you,” he whispers, his voice full of dark wonder. “Look at how your body reacts. It’s so fucking honest. So cute.” He grinds again, and a broken sound escapes you. You try to form a sentence, to resurrect some shred of the argument, of your dignity. “But… I hate it,” you manage, the protest weak, breathless.

He goes still for a heartbeat. The silence is heavy, charged. Then his lips are on your neck, a quick, firm kiss that feels like a punctuation mark. “I guess I’ll just have to show you.”

In one swift, powerful motion, he bends, hooks an arm under your knees, and lifts you. You’re cradled against his chest for a second before he sits on the foot of the bed, depositing you in his lap. You’re facing the large, ornate mirror across the room. He arranges you with deliberate care: your back to his chest, your legs parted wide over his thighs, your entire naked body on display.

Your reflection stares back, wide-eyed and flushed. You see the sweep of your hair, messy from his hands. You see the red marks his mouth left on your back. You see your breasts, full and tipped with tight peaks. You see your cunt between your legs, glistening visibly even from this distance. And you see him behind you, half-clothed, his expression one of intense, focused ownership.

“Look,” he says, his hands smoothing over your stomach, holding you in place. “You’re leaking. And you said we should break up.” He chuckles, a low, warm sound. “Clearly, your body doesn’t want that. It knows.”

One hand drifts down, through your curls, his fingers sliding through your slickness with an appreciative hum. He doesn’t tease. One long, thick finger sinks into you, deep and slow. Your cunt clutches at him instantly, a silken, wet fist.

“Good girl,” he groans. “You’re soaking my fucking finger. Do you want my cock that much? Hmm?” He begins to move it, a slow in-and-out that has your hips trying to follow. Then he curls it, rubbing the pad firmly against that spongy, electric spot inside you.

Your back arches. A sharp, punched-out moan tears from your throat. Your inner muscles clamp down on his finger violently.

“Fuck, love. You love when I play with you right here, don’t you?” His voice is ragged with his own need. “Every time. Every single time I touch you here, you tighten up so sweetly. Like you’re begging for it.” He picks up the pace, his finger pistoning in and out, that curl on every inward stroke relentless. He gives you no chance to adjust, to breathe. The pleasure is a tight coil in your belly, winding hotter and tighter with every pass.

“Can I add another?” he asks, his lips trailing those soft, distracting kisses down the column of your neck, along your cheek. It’s a courtesy, but the hunger in his tone makes it a demand. You can only moan, a high, tearful sound of pure need. It’s answer enough.

A second finger presses alongside the first. There’s a delicious, stretching burn, then it slides in, quicker than the last, welcomed greedily by your slick, clinging heat. He scissors them gently, stretching you wider. “You like my fingers all deep inside you, don’t you? Filling you up?” He’s fucking you with his hand now, a steady, deep rhythm that brushes that perfect spot on every thrust. Your mind is going white, static filling your vision. The knot in your stomach is a live wire. You’re panting, little breaths that do nothing to steady you.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you breathe out, the words barely audible. You’re not even sure what you’re apologizing for anymore. For the fight? For the way your body is betraying your words? For needing him this desperately?

He chuckles again, the vibration rumbling through his chest into your back. “See?” he says, his fingers never slowing. “When I touch your cute body like this, you can just feel how much I love you.” When you don’t respond, lost in sensation, his free hand comes down on your ass in a quick, stinging slap.

The shock of it jolts through you, a bright spark of pain that melts instantly into a deeper, warmer pulse of pleasure. You cry out.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, his voice dangerously soft.

“No,” you whimper, the truth dragged from you. “Please, no.”

He turns your face towards his and captures your mouth in a deep, sloppy, claiming kiss. His tongue invades, tangling with yours, tasting you. You kiss him back desperately, your hands coming up to clutch at his hair. Your mind whites out completely, reduced to the duel of your tongues and the exquisite penetration of his fingers.

He breaks the kiss, both of you breathless. “I bet you’re not satisfied with just my fingers, are you?” He speeds up, his fingers ramming into you, curling and poking relentlessly at that glorious, swollen spot inside. The coil snaps.

“Please!” you sob, the word ripped from your soul. “I want you. Inside. Now.”

He doesn’t give it a moment’s thought. He slowly pulls his fingers out, the drag exquisite and agonizing. He brings them to his lips, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror, and gives them a slow, thorough lick, humming in appreciation. He watches, fascinated, as your empty hole tries to clench around nothing, a flutter of pink, slick muscle. Once he’s had his fill of the sight, he moves.

He lifts you off his lap and lays you down in the center of the bed, face-first into the pillows. The scent of him, of you, of sex, is overwhelming. You hear the rustle of clothing, the jingle of his belt, and the zip of his fly. The anticipation is a physical ache. You try to push back, to thrust your hips into the air, seeking friction, seeking him.

Another light, sharp smack lands on your upturned ass. “Fuck,” he grits out. “I was trying to be gentle. But seeing you like this… I don’t think I can be.”

You feel him kneel behind you, feel the heat of his bare skin, and feel the weight of him as he leans over you. The broad, velvety head of his cock nudges against your entrance, slick with your juices. He pauses, teasing, letting you feel the immense pressure.

Then, in one deep, ruthless thrust, he buries himself to the base.

claimed, and the air leaves your lungs in a shocked gasp. He’s so big, so deep, stretching you so perfectly full. For a second, there is only the overwhelming sensation of being impaled, claimed, and occupied.

“Ah, fuck! You feel amazing,” he groans, his voice strained. He doesn’t wait for you to adjust. He sets a punishing pace immediately, fucking into you like a man possessed, driving all his body weight into the curve of your back with each powerful slam. You swear you can feel the plush, swollen tip of him kissing your cervix with every deep dive.

“You’re… you’re going too deep,” you mumble into the pillow, the words shattered.

“You’re so fucking cute, I can’t help it,” he pants, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. You shake your head in a weak, reflexive denial. The response is another quick, sharp smack to your ass, followed immediately by a thrust so deep and powerful it seems to touch your very clit.

It sends you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashes through you without warning, a detonation of pure, blinding pleasure. Your cunt convulses around him, milking his length in frantic, rhythmic pulses. A ragged scream is muffled by the pillow.

“Did you just cum?” he asks, wonder and triumph in his voice. He never stops moving, his pace becoming even more relentless, spurred on by your climax. “Did you just cum from me thrusting inside you? God, you’re perfect.” His fingers find your swollen, hypersensitive clit. “And when I thrust and play with your clit like this…” He gives the little nub a pinch, then rubs it in tight, dizzying circles. You shriek, the sensation almost too much. “…you moan so loudly. So prettily.”

You shake your head, trying to ignore his words, to retreat from the overwhelming intensity. Another hard smack lands on your now-warm, tingling ass. The pain-pleasure mix is intoxicating.

“So why,” he grunts, slowing to deep, measured, soul-stirring thrusts, “do you keep reducing your confidence like this?” Each word is punctuated by a drive of his hips. “I’m the one who’s filling your insides with my cock. I’m the only one whose opinion of you matters. Got it?” To emphasize his point, his hand comes down on your ass in a rapid, stinging volley—slap, slap, slap—each one syncing with a deep plunge.

“Fuck, are you going to cum again?” he marvels, feeling your inner walls begin to flutter and tighten anew. “Your body is so fucking lewd. So perfect, babe.” He suddenly hooks his hands under your waist and flips you onto your back in one fluid motion. He looms over you, his expression fierce with adoration and lust. He sheathes himself inside you again in the new position, the angle even more profound.

“Look, babe,” he says, his voice softer now. He places a large, warm hand flat on your lower stomach, pressing down. “This is where my cock hits you. Can you feel it? Both inside and out?” You can. You feel the thick intrusion and the pressure of his hand from the outside, as if he’s cradling himself within you. The intimacy of it steals your breath.

“Can you feel how deep I’m going?” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “How hard I’m trying to fill you up? Not just with my cum… with my love.” He lifts one of your legs, placing your calf over his shoulder. The change in angle is devastating; he’s hitting places that make you see stars. “See? If you weren’t made for me, we wouldn’t be feeling this good.” He gives you a quick, sweet kiss. Then his hands grip your waist, and he slams you down onto his cock, driving up into you at the same time. “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be doing this with you.” Another kiss, this time to your temple. “And since I’m the one saying it… you believe me, don’t you?”

He waits, his hips still rolling in slow, deep circles. You’re speechless, lost in the sea of sensation and emotion. When you don’t answer, he smiles, a dark, playful smile. “I guess I’ll just have to ask this cute cunt of yours.” With that, he starts thrusting again, harder than before, his pace becoming frantic, desperate. The slap of skin, the wet, filthy sounds of your joining, the creak of the bed—it’s a symphony of raw need.

Then, he stops. He slowly pulls out, leaving you gaping and empty, a cold ache where he was so hot and full. You whine at the loss.

“Look,” he says, his voice hoarse. He kneels beside you, his cock standing proud and glistening with your shared slickness. It’s thick, veined, and beautifully hard. “It’s like this because of you.” He taps the leaking tip against your cheek, a warm, wet brand. “It gets like this any time I see you. Sometimes I have to stop myself from just pouncing on you.” As he speaks, he begins to stroke himself, his fist moving slowly up and down his cock. At the same time, two of his fingers from his other hand slide back into your wet, hungry cunt. The dual sensation—watching him pleasure himself while being filled—makes you moan loudly, your back bowing off the bed.

“I think you’ve finally learned your lesson now,” he says, his fingers doing a gentle scissoring stretch inside you. Then he pulls them out and, without wasting a second, replaces them with the head of his throbbing cock. He pushes in slowly, inch by exquisite inch, his eyes locked on where you’re joined. “Look how my cock goes deep inside your tight cunt,” he breathes. “Like we were two puzzle pieces made to fit.” He grabs your legs, pushing them back towards your chest, folding you almost in half. The vulnerability is total. The penetration is complete. With a groan, he thrusts in, balls deep.

“Fuck! Look at you take it all. Like the amazing girl you are.” He starts to fuck you in earnest, nice and hard, his cock slamming in and out of your gripping heat, giving you no time to recover, no space to think. “You turn me on so much,” he grunts, leaning down to kiss the inner part of your thigh, a tender gesture amidst the brutal pace. “You can really feel how much I love you. How much your body loves me.” You try to stifle your moans, to hold them back, a last vestige of control. It earns you another stinging slap on the ass. “Don’t hold back,” he commands. “I want to hear your cute moans. I want everyone to know who makes you sound like that.”

He fucks you even harder, his rhythm becoming erratic, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The pressure in your own core is a supernova waiting to happen. “I’ll keep calling you cute while fucking you until you accept it,” he promises. “Now, let me see that cute face.” He leans closer, his forehead against yours, his eyes boring into you. You’re so close. So is he. You can see it in the tension of his jaw and the wild look in his eyes.

With one last, deep, grinding thrust that seems to touch your soul, he stills. A guttural roar tears from his throat as he comes. You feel the hot, liquid pulses deep inside you, painting your inner walls, a claiming so profound it brings tears to your eyes. “Fuck, I’m cumming! Are you? Come on, let’s cum together!”

His words, the feel of his cum, and the overwhelming rightness of it trigger your own. Your second orgasm is different—deeper, warmer, a flood of release that washes through every cell. You clamp down around him, milking every last drop of cum from him as you cry out his name, your body arching sharply off the bed. A milky-white ring of your combined release forms around the base of his cock where he’s still buried inside you.

In the heavy, breathless aftermath, you reach up, your arms weak, and pull him down into a soft, lingering kiss. You break it just enough to whisper against his lips, your voice raw with emotion and exhaustion, “I love you.”

You feel his cock, still semi-hard inside you, give a weak, answering twitch. His face, so fierce moments ago, flushes. He looks almost boyish. “Come on,” he mutters, hiding his face in your neck. “Keep talking like that and you’re begging for another round.”

Linktober 2025 Day 25: Twilight

Never A Dull Moment

Kinktober Day 25 — Body Swap

Summary: You told Stack to stop playin’ with the mysterious jars on Annie’s top shelf!

Pairing: Elias “Stack” Moore x Black fem!reader

Warnings: smutty smut, explicit language, use of the n-word, magic use, body swap, rough sex, dirty talk, degradation, praise, creampie

Word count: 3.3k

Kinktober 2025 Masterlist

The first mistake was letting Stack into Annie’s kitchen while she was out with Smoke grabbing a few items from Bo Chow’s shop. The second was letting him reach the top shelf where Annie kept her jars and vials.

“Elias Moore,” you chastised, “Annie said those jars ain’t for you to be touchin’ now.”

“They just herbs,” he said, balancing on a chair. “Ain’t nothin’ magical ‘bout thyme and vinegar.”

“That ain’t no goddamn thyme, fool—that’s hoodoo.”

He grinned, reaching higher. “Hoodoo, voodoo, whatever-doo. Smell like lemon.”

“Put. It. Down.”

Prompt: Cold hands

Pairing: Johnny Storm x Reader

Summary: The heater broke in the Baxter Building and now you have to work in the cold...but Johnny is kind enough to lend a hand.

Word Count: 0.7k

Warnings: fluff (obviously), reader works for Reed, mutual feelings

day 25

ok i was just gonna draw aradia but then i. think i mightve got obsessed with this lineup actually. i started having Thoughts. soooo bloodswap au thoughts under the cut: