#day 25

[daily-qifrey]

history lesson

[thats-ee]

Octoblorbober day 25! Jaster Mereel

THE MAN THE MYTH THE LEGEND I’m gonna draw him more later

[wildandsmile]

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.”

You just look at him, a slow, sated smile spreading across your own well-fucked face. It earns you a shower of quick, soft kisses all over your cheeks and nose. “Come on,” he says, his voice gentle now. “Let’s get you showered and in bed. Don’t want anyone else seeing your cute, fucked-out face. Or your afterglow. It’s all for me.”

[mochiwei]

Linktober 2025 Day 25: Twilight

Print available here!

[papiliomame]

Ectoberweek Day 25 - Forgetting

"Still human... enough?

[wakandas-vibranium]

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.”

He deliberately ignored you, a grin growing as he secured his grip on what he had been reaching for.

The four-ounce jar wobbled, slipped, and hit the table with a booming sound like thunder.

A puff of greenish smoke billowed up, sharp as pepper and sweet as molasses. The air got so heavy you choked. At the same time you both let out a hiss of pain as a migraine came out of nowhere.

For a second you thought it was just from the green fumes, but then your vision blurred and everything went black.

You don’t know how much time had passed.

It could have been minutes or hours.

When you finally opened your eyes, your headache was gone, and so was the green smoke. You pushed up off the table, and when you looked across the kitchen at Stack, you were looking at yourself. Or more specifically, your own face looking back at you. Wide-eyed, mouth agape.

“Elias?”

“What the fuck—? Why your voice sound like that—oh hell no.”

You looked down: rough hands, knuckles worn from labor, a man’s chest filling out your shirt.

Stack—now in your body—was patting himself down like he couldn’t find his wallet.

“This can’t be real,” you said. Except it came out in his low drawl.

“It’s real!” he shouted, in your voice. “I done gone and turned us inside out!”

“Lord have mercy!” You threw your—his—hands up in frustration.

He looked down at your thighs and put a hand between them. He gasped in shock as he reveled in the feeling. “I got a cooze! And it’s warm as fuck! You always this wet?”

You both talked over each other for a solid minute before collapsing into matching groans.

“I told you not to mess with them jars,” you said.

“You think I meant to? All a nigga wanted to do was find out what smelled so good!”

“Congratulations,” you spat through clenched teeth. “Now you smell like molasses and regret.”

You both brainstormed ideas while cleaning up the evidence of Stack’s impulsiveness.

Trying to explain it to Smoke was out of the question; he’d never let Stack live it down. Annie would be more disappointed than pissed, but Stack didn’t want to tell her either.

After throwing away the broken glass, you both agreed you didn’t want to be there when Annie and Smoke returned and holed up at the farmhouse, faking like everything was still normal.

Unfortunately, that charade only lasted about ten minutes.

Stack-in-your-body couldn’t walk in heels.

You-in-Stack’s body, apparently—misjudged what Stack actually weighed and almost broke a chair.

You rolled your eyes in annoyance at Stack. “How do you walk around like this, huh?! Big-ass dick in the way each time I take a step!”

“You wasn’t complainin’ earlier this week when that big dick was fuckin’ you silly.” He shot back, your own smirk making you even more irritated.

“And how you think I feel?!” He continued, shaking his head—your—head at you. “This furnace you got between yo legs—a nigga can’t even focus on shit.”

You both complained the entire walk back to Annie’s house. The sun was almost done setting when stomped up the porch steps together.

At supper, you both tried to fake casual conversation while Smoke eyed you suspiciously. Annie gave you both a chastising look when you sat down at the table. 

There was no way she knew already, right?

“Y’all actin’ strange,” Smoke said finally.

“We always strange,” Stack blurted and then remembered whose voice he was using.

Smoke narrowed his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

As soon as he left the room to help Annie with the dishes, you hissed, “You gotta stop talkin’ before he figures it out!”

“I can’t help it—this body got opinions!”

Later that night you realized the real problem: being stuck like this meant sharing every physical quirk and habit you’d never noticed before. It was funny for about five minutes, then awkward, then funny again.

By dawn you were both determined to confess to Annie and beg her to fix it come morning.

Stack in-your-body had woken up first — he was splayed out on the couch, messy hair splayed over a pillow and your borrowed nightgown scrunched at the knees.

You-in-Stack’s body sat straight up in the armchair when you realized the sun was already stretching its way through the curtains. His morning wood rested heavily on your thigh. Too difficult to ignore. The pressure almost unbearable.

“You wake up like this every mornin’?” you groaned, your voice low and raspy. “Dick harder than the pavement!”

“Don’t start, Y/N,” he said, wiping the sleep from his eyes—your— eyes on his face, which only made you queasier. “Cooze wetter than the Mississippi River.”

“Shut up, nigga.”

“Come make me.”

“I’m in your body now, remember? It won’t take much for me to fold yo ass up, nigga. Keep talkin’, hear?”

“We’re fixin’ this. Today.” He grumbled, sitting up.

That’s how the two of you ended up pounding on Annie’s door before breakfast, trying not to draw Smoke’s attention.

She opened it still dressed in her nighty, gorgeous brown eyes narrowing at the sight of her two biggest headaches.

“Troublemakers,” she mumbled. “What y’all do now?”

“You gotta help us with this,” you started. “We—he—Stack done broke one of your jars, and now—”

“Now she got my dick, and I got her cooze,” Stack cut in, pointing at you. “It’s been a whole day!”

Annie just stared for a long second, lips twitching.

“I told yo ass not to fool with my work,” she said finally. “Guess the ancestors decided you needed a lesson.”

“Lesson learned!” you said quickly.  

“Can you please help us fix it before Smoke get home?”

“He gon’ be back before sundown,” Stack added, panic creeping into your—his—voice.

“Mm-hmm,” Annie exhaled sharply, already turning toward her shelves. “Y’all best sit down. This gon’ take a minute.”

You both sat across from each other at the kitchen table, trying not to fidget as she started mixing powders and humming under her breath. It didn’t take long for the air to shift. The room filled with the sweet smell of sage and molasses, smoke curling lazy from a small brass bowl.

“I swear, I ain’t never touchin’ yo things again,” Stack promised.

“That’s a lie,” Annie said without looking up.

“Aight—maybe I’ll ask next time.”

A tiny snort escaped your throat. It was hard for you not to find the whole thing ridiculous upon seeing your own face pouting across the table from you, that same mop of curls falling into his—your—eyes.

“If we live through this,” you said, “I’m makin’ you scrub every inch of that kitchen clean.”

“Fine with me. Long as a nigga get his body back.”

Annie shot you both a warning look. “Keep talkin’, and I might just leave y’all like this.”

That shut you both up quick. The only sounds in the room was the simmering of the potion and the creak of the wooden floor underneath your borrowed boots.

The silence stretched on a few more minutes until Annie set two steaming jars on the table. The liquid inside was the color of creek water and smelled just about the same.

“What’s in it?” Stack asked, suspicious.

“Justice,” Annie said flatly. “And a little cayenne.”

You sniffed it, the smell much more appealing than the appearance. “Cayenne?”

“Spices help wake the spirit,” she explained. “Now drink up before it cools.”

You exchanged looks—seeing your face frowning back at you in his body was still strange.

"On three," you said.

"One, two—“

"You didn’t even wait for three!"

You both gagged instantly. The potion burned all the way down, a heat that settled somewhere behind your ribs.

Annie crossed her arms. "Alright good. That’s the potion. Now for the final step."

"I ain’t eatin’ no chicken bones," Stack’s ignorant ass muttered.

Annie raised an eyebrow. "You want this fixed or not?"

You nodded. "Yes, tell us the laststep."

"Y’all best reunite the bodies the old-fashioned way. The spell can’t break 'til it’s sealed in flesh."

Your eyes went wide, "Annie!"

"Don’t ‘Annie’ me. Y’all wanted to meddle in grown folks’ magic now you can deal with the grown folks' consequences."

You ain’t even do shit. This was all on Stack.

She snatched the empty jars and set them in the sink before pointing towards the door.

"Out. Be gone from my kitchen before I decide the lesson ain’t stuck enough."

Stack sputtered, "Wait, you mean right now?"

"You heard me," she said as she ushered both of you out the door and onto the porch. "Do what you gotta do and get outta my sight. If the ancestors take pity, you both wake up right by mornin’."

The door slammed behind you before you could say anything in response. The sound echoed all the way down the dirt path and to the passing truck.

You turned to him—your own body now wearing that dumbstruck expression you’d seen a hundred times and sighed deeply.

"We fuck all the time, Stack,” you shrugged. “This time we tradin’ places is all."

He rubbed the back of his—your—neck, cheeks heating. "Reckon we get this shit over with then."

The two of you were back at the farmhouse now. Nerves shot to hell. For the last fifteen minutes you’ve been trying to get Stack to lay back on the bed and spread his—your—legs. You got naked five minutes ago, and he’d just been staring at his own dick.

Your patience was wearing thin, so you blurted, “Take the clothes off and spread your fuckin’ legs.”

“Wait a minute—“

“—Nigga I’m tired of carrying these big-ass shoulders and this heavy-ass dick! You wanna stay stuck like this?!”

He exhaled sharply. “Fine.” he undressed and lay back on the bed, knees together. 

Goddamn, you were fine as hell. Breasts looking all soft and curves looking too kissable for your own good. 

You gasped as you felt your—his—dick harden. It happened so fast your head spun for a few seconds.

You kneeled on the bed, raising your eyebrow as you peered down at him. “How we suppose to fuck with your legs closed, Stack?”

He spread them slowly as he said. “What if it hurts?”

That made you pause. He was nervous to take his own dick. You couldn’t blame him. You’d been together six months now, and you still weren’t completely used to the stretch.

You leaned forward, belly flat against the bed as you pulled him closer to your face with your newfound strength.

He shot up, eyes wide. “What—you ‘gon eat your own cooze?!”

“Yeah, nigga! I’mma warm myself up first just like you always do.”

He shook his—your—head in disbelief before relaxing back on the bed. “I ain’t suckin’ my dick.”

“Nobody asked you too,” you muttered. “Now hush and feel what I feel.” you added and began edging closer to his—your—sex.

You slid two fingers along his—your—slit, playing with the clear fluid of his arousal.

He twitched against the bed, suppressing a moan.

You smirked, blowing against his clit. He let out a sharp gasp.

You closed your lips over the sensitive bud, finally tasting yourself.

Delicious.

Now you understood why he would bury his face between your thighs every chance he got.

“Mmm,” you breathed. “You taste good as fuck. Guess you do tell the truth sometimes.”

He chuckled softly as he relaxed a bit more. Moans escaped as you tugged harder at his clit.

It didn’t take long for you to develop a comfortable rhythm. Alternating between sucks and licks. Eating cooze was more fun than you’d imagined.

He still was holding back, so you whispered against his wet pussy. “You can moan louder, you know.” The tip of your tongue flicking over and over again as you slipped a thick finger inside. “I love hearin’ what I do to you, Stack. No matter what body you in.”

“Oh shit,” he gasped, letting out a boisterous moan as you closed your lips back around his clit, fingering him nice and slow.

The noise that came out of him was sweet and starving, damn near pitiful when you added a second finger.

“You sound so pretty, Elias,” you praised, flattening your tongue and dragging it upward, swirling at the top, then pulling back before adding. “Music to my goddamn ears.”

He finally spoke, “You tryna outdo a nigga with his own mouth.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the vibrations causing him to arch forward and fail to suppress a whimper.

You applied more pressure, pressing and curling your fingers even deeper as you sped up the movement. 

He whimpered in between curses, head thrashing weakly against the pillow as he struggled to warn you. “Baby—oh fuck—I think I’m 'bout to—“

You didn’t stop. Your fingers continued to thrust, and your lips continued to tug. Your command came out rough and muffled, “Come for me.”

He choked on a scream as his orgasm ripped through him, different and more intense than the ones he’s experienced in his own body. He was floating. It was like something cracked open deep inside of his mind and soul. He almost didn’t want to switch back.

Almost.

You were painfully hard now. You needed release soon, or you were afraid you would start foaming at the mouth and possibly barking.

Slowly, you climbed over him, slotting between his legs, they still jerked from aftershocks.

You smiled down at him, pecking his—your—lips before teasing, “I have the overwhelmin’ urge to call you my pretty girl.”

He chuckled softly, “Shit, you got a nigga feelin’ like he can fly right now. I’ll answer to whatever name you call.”

You kissed him again, slower this time. Your ears rang. You were obsessed with the small sighs he let out. You wondered if you sounded this good to him.

You reached between you, stroking your erection and damn near busting right then. Fuck, you had too much pressure built up.

You rubbed the tip up and down his slit, slicking yourself up. 

“You ready now?” You asked once you broke the kiss.

He nodded and smirked. “Let’s see if you can fuck this pussy as good as me.”

You pushed inside, sinking deeper inch by inch. You both let out a noise that would have been embarrassing had you both not already been so far gone.

"Holy shit," Stack inhaled sharply, fingers clutching at your—his—shoulders. "This shit overwhelmin' but in a good way."

You knew you were not going to last long. No fucking way.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Stack chanted, moans picking up again as you rocked into him with deep strokes.

You grunted, gripping his hip as you sped up and asked. “All cooze feel this fuckin’ good?”

“Hell naw,” he shook his head, panting harshly. “Only your pussy squeeze and drown a nigga like this.”

“You like takin’ dick as much as givin’?”

His eyes fluttered closed, and he whimpered as you hit that stop he always skillfully found. “Ask me again in five minutes.”

“Tight fuckin’ pussy,” you repeated over and over, pace growing more relentless as the minutes ticked on.

“Goddamn, baby,” Stack rasped. “I don’t know who enjoyin’ this more you or me.”

“I think we tied, baby.”

You knew you’d never get this experience again, so you enjoyed every thrust, moan and squeeze.

You giggled like a madwoman as you felt his walls tighten around you. “You comin’ again, Stack?”

“You ain’t givin’ a nigga any other option!” He rushed out, his mouth fell open as another orgasm washed over him. He let out a sound that sounded far too close to a growl.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you groaned loud and rough as you felt your own orgasm approaching. “You ready to learn what it feel like to be stuffed with come?”

“Give it to me.”

You both were so far gone neither of you noticed the return of the green smoke and the sweet smell of molasses.

You spilled into him with a shout; the feeling was so foreign and overwhelming that your head began to spin.

The blissed-out look on Stack’s—your—face was the last thing you remembered before blacking out.

Birds were already chirping in the pecan tree when Stack shot up, blinking at the sunlight spilling through the curtains. For half a second, he thought the whole thing was a dream—until he looked down.

"Oh, thank the Lord," he whispered. “I'm me again!"

He threw back the blanket, grinning like a fool, and let out a laugh that startled the hound outside.

Across the room, you groaned. “Stack, what in the world—"

"My dick is back!" he bellowed, voice cracking between joy and disbelief.

"Congratulations, now shut up," you mumbled, dragging a pillow over your face.

He completely ignored you, bouncing on his toes like a man reborn, dick swinging.

"You don't understand, Y/N. Yesterday, I couldn't even walk right in yo body. My hips were all confused. My balance was off."

"And my back still mad at you for that," you said, trying and failing to stay annoyed.

He paused long enough to look over at you, still half under the blanket, hair sticking out every which way. The grin softened.

"Guess you got yo body back too," he acknowledged quietly.

"It look that way."

"You feel…normal?"

"As normal as I ever do 'round yo foolish ass."

That made him laugh, the big warm kind that filled up the room. "Ain't never doin' that magic shit again," he said, hands up in mock surrender.

"Good," you said. "Next time you wanna learn a lesson, just read a fuckin' book or leave me the fuck out of it."

He chuckled, dressing quickly and grabbing his boots. "Deal. But I'm still tellin' Smoke we swapped just to see the look on his face."

He tipped an imaginary hat, still grinning as he walked to the door, sunlight catching the dust motes in the air around him. You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, because some men never changed—and one of those men literally turned your universe inside out.

[galaxy-siren]

Flufftober Day 25

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

Superheroes aren’t so different from the everyday man. They have to deal with mundane, run-of-the-mill problems just like everybody else. Maybe their car is making a weird noise, and they have to take it into the shop, or they ran out of sugar while they were baking something and have to ask a neighbor to borrow some, or maybe their heater stops working causing the entire Baxter Building to feel like a frozen tundra.

You sat at your desk in the lab, bundled up in layers upon layers of clothes, and you still felt like a popsicle. Your work laid abandoned on your desk as you breathed onto your hands in hopes of warming them just a fraction. How it was so cold in the middle of fall you weren’t sure, but you were starting to think that it might be colder in the building than it was outside. It had been two days and the heater still wasn’t fixed, and now you feared it never would be. You’d be doomed to work in the freezing cold until you died of hypothermia.

“Aw, is someone a little cold?”

Johnny leaned against the doorway of the lab wearing a teasing grin that if you weren’t too cold to move you would have smacked right off his face.

“I’m not in the mood, Johnny.” You said through chattering teeth.

He pushed himself off of the doorframe and sauntered into the lab, “I’ve got some good news and I’ve got some bad news.”

You rolled your eyes, “What?”

“So, the good news is that the heater will be fixed.”

You perked up for a moment, but instantly deflated, “And the bad news?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, like he was hesitant to tell you, “It won’t be fixed until Monday.”

“But it’s only Thursday!” You whined, sliding down in your chair.

“Yeah, sorry,” He hopped up onto your desk, “but I have some more good news.”

“What? Is it that we’re opening an ice rink in the lab because it’s cold enough too? I’m pretty sure my coffee is starting to freeze.” You picked up your mug and swirled the now cold liquid around, trying to see if there were any ice crystals forming.

“No, no ice rink, but Reed said you can take the day off tomorrow. Stay home, drink some tea, stay nice and warm.” Johnny took the mug from you, using his powers to create a small flame to heat up your coffee before setting it back down on your desk.

“I’m beginning to fear I may never be warm again,” you finally noticed that Johnny was only wearing a t-shirt, no jacket, no sweater, no flannel, nothing, and yet, he looked content, there were no goosebumps on his arms, his teeth weren’t chattering, he seemed comfortable, “How are you not freezing?”

“I, uh, run warm.” He winked at you with a cheeky smile.

“Right, of course of you do,” you flexed your fingers, they were beginning to hurt from the cold, “God, I wish I had gloves; my hands are freezing!”

Johnny stood and rounded the desk so he was standing next to you, “I can warm up your hands.”

“Johnny, you are not setting my hands on fire, I’m not that cold.”

“I’m not gonna use my powers, just let me hold your hands.”

The idea of Johnny holding your hands sent a flutter through your stomach. Even though he annoyed you to pieces sometimes, constantly interrupting your work, teasing you, and being a general nuisance, you found Johnny to be quite charming. From time to time, you may have even said that you liked him. You stared at his offered hands then up at him, his blue eyes gazing at you with a warmth that could have instantly fixed your problem.

You placed your hands in his and your eyes grew twice their size in shock, “Holy shit!”

“What’d I tell ya?” Johnny chuckled. He thought your wide eyes and surprised expression were adorable.  

Without even thinking you stood up and wrapped your arms around him, reveling in his warmth. You nuzzled your head into his chest and let out a content sigh.

Johnny hadn’t been expecting you to hug him, but he was not complaining. With a smile, he moved his arms around you, swaying gently back and forth as he leaned his head against yours and let out a content sigh of his own.

“Would you be willing to walk me to the door like this, because now that I’m warm, I’m not going back to the cold.” You mumbled against his chest.

“It would be my pleasure.”

Tag list: @spider-starry

[autisticaradiamegido]

What ifffffff a ceruleanblooded Aradia! Little spider queen ::::D

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:

SO the flarpers get switched but they still have essentially the same effects on each other. Vriska injures Tavros, maybe via ghosts this time. i think this time maybe instead of Aradia haunting Vriska she just lays the fuck into her and is vaguely threatening in the initial aftermath and Scratch is able to leverage the whole "oh shit a highbloods mad at you theres Actual Consequences to worry about now i think you might have to make sure she doesnt tell on you to anybody important" and that could be enough to get her to murder her, which she does by pushing her into The Spider Pit.

speaking of which i think aradias scavenging recently dead corpses for spidermom. i think her archaeology interest spirals into Graverobbing The Recently Dead pretty easily when theres a big spider pressuring her to bring her dead kids.

i think the pressures of One Big Scary Hungry Spider and An Entire Society Of Big Scary Highbloods probably end up having... similar personality effects on Aradia and Vriska when swapped out for one another. Vriska probably kills way less people and aradia is probably a bit more stressed out but i still see vriska being like "shit if i want to hold my own against these snobs i gotta get STRONG and POWERFUL" and since her powers as a rustblood are largely ghost based i can kiiiinda see her and terezi having a similar vigilante justice schtick going on for their flarp campaigns where they take out people they judge to be "evil" and vriska basically adds them to her increasing army of puppetable ghosts. and mmmmaybe shes able to get ghosts to like. POSSESS people??? and control them that way?? that could be neat if a little OP.

meanwhile aradias like "okay YEAH i have this awful spider lusus but im not gonna let that stop me from doing basically what i want, in the way that i want to do it, social norms be damned." she also.... doesnt have vriskas sense of self-preservation. at least not initially! so sorry spidermom it doesnt matter if you want fresh meat, you are getting who/whatever aradia was able to scrounge up from the nearest large-scale culling. this does not work out well for aradia when vriska throws her into the spider hole though. i also think she probably gets her ghost army to like. i dunno, push aradias tower hive over onto spidermom to keep her from scuttling out and getting HER. so aradia still ends up lususless and homeless as WELL as dead.

also in canon aradia mentions not liking to control the ghosts for her own use so i feel like shed have a similar feeling about the mind control stuff as a cerulean but.... shes a nosy mf i think she DOES absolutely read minds like, all the damn time. she probably justifies this by being like wellllll as long as i dont let anybody know im acting on stuff i got from reading their minds its fine they dont need to know all that but i also think shes not a great liar and does not end up hiding this very well lmao

Anyway I think one of the major ways this all backfires on Vriska, in addition to continuing the cycle of revenge and getting her eye and arm blown up, is that being psychically aware of ghost voices at all times makes it SUPER easy for Aradia, as a ghost, to haunt the shit out of her. just like, on a personal individual level. i also kinda think aradias mind control abilities, while not able to control vriska, might be enough to keep vriska from controlling her as a ghost? mainly because i think its funny if vriska has no way of shutting her up.

catch ghost aradia in vriskas hive at 3pm while shes trying to sleep like "its me girl im the ps5 speaking to you inside your brain-"