#no names

She planted a small kiss on his lips. A peck. A small token of “here’s your miracle of the day.” So soft and gut wrenching, the blessing of this kiss is overwhelming. Everything is a lot lighter now.

He chuckled a little, a smile rising as he leaned forward to kiss her again. His heart was getting suffocated by her. It felt as though multiple hands squeezed and tickled his beating heart, teasing him of his unconditional love for her.

@flufftober

Prompt: Coming Home

Fandom: original fiction

Style: Immersive Reader

~

The air is damp and heavy when you leave, but all the same there's a jacket draped over the driver's seat. The sky is dull, the trees are grey, and nothing is going on, even as you drive down the highway.

You turn off onto a smaller road and slowly but surely, things begin to change. The trees, they start to change color. They're full of reds and oranges and yellows. The bark is bright and white and brown. The sky is blueing and finally it's clear. Miles and miles of a bright, lively fall.

The pavement turns to gravel, and then to dirt. The trees are almost joined together, as if in peace and friendship, and the car kicks up small gusts of leaves, even though you've long since reduced your speed.

Finally, the trees get a little sparser, and through their bodies you can see something in the distance.

You round a shallow curve and before you is a farm house. On the front step, wittling something out of wood, sits a little green goblin, long ears pointing up from underneath his knitted hat. He drops his knife and carving, and as you step out of the car, you feel the fresh autumn chill, and hear his voice.

"They're here! They're here!" He comes running across the yard towards you.

You breathe in the crisp air, feeling like yourself again, before embracing your small friend. Two others come up from the apple orchard, one tall and thin, and one short and round, and she drops her basket of apples in order to stampede you.

"Holy hellfire, we missed you!" she calls out as she barrels towards you, and you hold out your arms, bracing to catch her. Her wings open up behind her and she almost flies into your chest. You spin on your feet, working with the momentum to stay upright.

Her companion sets aside his apples, and quietly joins the group, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder, ever-mindful of his long claws.

The front door creaks open, and you look over your shoulder to see the tallest friend coming out to see what's all the ruckus, and your nose catches the heavenly whiff of fresh-baked apple pie.

When she sees it's you, a broad smile appears on her face, her eyes crinkling with genuine joy. Her green skin is glowing against this backdrop of red and gold. She hangs the dishtowel she had in her hand over her shoulder and makes her way to you.

You gently let your little winged friend down and prepare your warmest hug, wrapping your arms around around her waist, and she hugs you tightly about the shoulders.

"Good to have you back, kid."

"Good to be back."

She pulls back and nods her head toward the cabin.

"Now, c'mon. There's pies to eat."

This rundown is why the Yankees don't have their names on their jerseys. We know that baseball is a team sport and it takes a team to win. Look how many players got this one out!! Great teamwork, gentlemen!! Spectacular baseball!!! Got him!! Fantastic!!!

The so-called ‘death threat’ wasn’t a comment I made on their post. It was a note I wrote in a PDF I created to document the harassment I was receiving. I was quoting and annotating their comments in-character—as any fandom writer would understand. If quoting a fictional character in my own documentation is ‘a threat,’ then context no longer matters, and every academic quote would be criminal.

They used my own documentation note against me—taking a fictional tone comment in a PDF meant to expose their harassment, and reframing it as if I attacked them. This is not a misunderstanding. This is a manipulation of evidence.

In other words, Ladyyomi has admitted to:

Reframing out-of-context notes from my private documentation as “death threats”;

Inventing a fictional “Chinese fandom” voice to support her claims with no evidence;

Coordinating a network of friends and alt accounts to spread these fabrications across platforms.

A thimbleberry stain bloomed across the cuff of her sleeve. She’d brushed against the bush outside, rushing in from the rain. Now it marked her like cheap ink. She didn’t notice. Her eyes scanned the hotel bar—low lights, leather booths, the clink of ice against glass. Her fingers tapped the polished wood counter. Waiting. Always waiting.

The man beside her slid a room key across the bar, face down. No glance exchanged. Just the cool plastic edge nudging her wrist. He smelled of bourbon and bergamot, sharp beneath the bar’s haze of fried food and spilled gin. She palmed the key. Her thumb traced its ridged teeth. Sixty seconds, he’d murmured earlier. Not a second less. She counted breaths. One. Two. Three. The bartender wiped down a tumbler, oblivious.

Upstairs, the corridor swallowed sound. Carpet thick as moss. Room 417. The lock clicked softly. Inside, darkness pooled like oil. Only city light bled through half-closed blinds, striping the bed. He stood by the window, silhouette rigid. Waiting. Her coat hit the floor. Silk whispered down her thighs. Still counting. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. His hands—sudden, rough—spun her. Fabric tore. Buttons skittered across hardwood. Cold air kissed her skin.

No names. No hesitation. His mouth found her throat. Teeth scraped tendon. She gasped—not pain, but relief. Like drowning in oxygen. His fingers hooked her waistband. Denim ripped. Cotton shredded. Fabric scraps pooled at her ankles. The bed swallowed her back. Springs groaned. He pinned her wrists above her head. One knee shoved her legs apart. His breath burned her collarbone. Bergamot and bourbon, yes, but beneath it—salt. Sweat. Need. Raw as a wound.

"Look at me." His voice rasped. Command, not request. She obeyed. City light striped his face: jaw clenched, pupils swallowing iris. His thumb traced her lower lip. Calloused. Possessive. Then he kissed her. Not gentle. Claiming. Tongue against teeth. Heat flooding her belly. Her hips arched. Met his. Hard against soft. A groan tore from his chest. Vibrated through hers.

He slid inside. Slow. Torturous. Filled her. Stretched her. Made her gasp. "Christ." His forehead pressed hers. Breath ragged. "You feel…" He didn't finish. Didn't need to. His hips snapped. Deep. Brutal. Again. And again. Driving her into the mattress. Springs groaned beneath them. Her wrists still pinned above her head. His grip iron. Her fingers curled. Clawed at nothing. Every thrust stole breath. Replaced it with fire.

She choked on bergamot-salt breath, mattress fibers scratching her cheek. His thrusts hammered deeper—no rhythm, just possession. "Say it," he growled against her ear, hips pistoning. Her throat clicked dry. "Say you’re mine tonight." Not a question. His fingers tightened on her wrists. Bruises blooming tomorrow. She gasped the word—yours—and something primal unlocked in him. His groan vibrated through bone.

The city glow caught sweat-slick ridges of his back as he reared up, dragging her hips higher. One hand slid from her wrist, down her belly, fingers parting her roughly. Calloused. Purposeful. Her cry fractured the dark. "Fuck. Wet as sin," he rasped, circling that swollen knot of nerves. The dual assault—deep penetration, relentless friction—built pressure like a kettle screaming. She bucked, but his forearm pinned her pelvis. Trapped. Used. Perfect.

His thumb pressed harder. "Come. Now." Command scraped raw. Her spine arched off damp sheets. Vision whited out. Not stars—blinding static. Muscles clenched around him, milking a guttural groan from his chest. He didn’t slow. Didn’t stop. Drove into her shuddering body, riding the convulsions. "Good girl," he breathed, almost tender, before biting her shoulder. Claiming the aftershocks.

She floated somewhere between ceiling and mattress. Dimly registered the wet slap of skin, his ragged breaths near her ear. "Look at you," he muttered. "Used. Perfect." His hand slid slick from her clit, smearing wetness across her thigh. The loss of friction left her gasping. Empty. Until he hooked her knee over his shoulder, angling deeper. A choked cry tore loose. Every nerve lit again.

His thumb traced her ankle—surprisingly gentle. "Still counting?" he rasped. She hadn’t realized. Numbers had dissolved into sensation. Forty-nine. Fifty. His laugh vibrated against her calf. "Late." Then he moved. Not brutal now, but deliberate. Slow, grinding circles of his hips. Dragging her clit against his pelvis with each withdrawal. She arched, seeking pressure. He denied it. "Patience." The word scraped her nerves raw.

Rain lashed the window. Neon signs bled watery light across his shoulders—red, then blue, then red again. She watched the colors shift on his sweat-slick skin. His fingers dug into her hip, holding her angled for deeper penetration. "Touch yourself," he ordered. Her freed wrist trembled. She hesitated. His palm smacked her thigh—sharp, stinging. "Now." Her fingers obeyed, circling her clit. Slick. Swollen. Electric. "Louder," he demanded. Her moans filled the room, mingling with the storm’s drumbeat.

He slowed his thrusts to a torturous grind. Each withdrawal dragged against sensitized nerves. Each entry stretched her anew. "You like this?" His voice was gravel against silk. She nodded frantically. "Words." "Yes." "Yes, what?" "Yes—please." He chuckled darkly. "Better." His thumb replaced hers at her clit, pressing hard circles. Precision. Punishment. Pleasure coiled tighter. She choked on air. "Look at me." Her eyes snapped open. His gaze pinned her—dark, hungry, utterly focused. "Come when I say."

Outside, rain hammered the window like thrown gravel. Neon signs from the street below pulsed red-blue-red across his sweat-slicked back. It illuminated the ridges of muscle shifting beneath his skin, the flex of his forearm as he pinned her thigh back. Saw-grasses of tension whipped through her belly. His thumb pressed harder, faster. The pressure built—unheroically intense, a minisphere of pure sensation threatening to explode. "Now." The command cracked like ice. Her body obeyed. Shattered. Vision dissolved into static. Muscles clenched violently around him, pulling a ragged groan from his throat. He rode her convulsions, never stopping, driving deeper with each pulse. "Good," he rasped. "So fucking good."

His praise landed like a spark on dry tinder. Heat flared anew. The aftershocks hadn’t faded—they intensified. Her hips bucked instinctively against his palm. His thumb slid away, slick and abrupt. The loss left her gasping. Empty. Hollow. Before she could protest, he hooked her knee over his shoulder, angling deeper. A choked cry tore loose. Every nerve lit again. His thrusts resumed—deep, grinding, relentless. The rhythm shifted. Not frantic now, but deliberate. Measured. Each withdrawal dragged against sensitized nerves. Each entry stretched her anew. "Look at me," he demanded. Her eyes snapped open. His gaze pinned her—dark, hungry, utterly focused. "Say it again." She gasped. Yours.

Her knee hooks sharply into his flank, leveraging momentum as she twists beneath him, flipping their positions with a fluidity born of practiced desperation—her thighs clamping his hips while his groan dissolves into ragged disbelief. Rain streaks the windowpane like dragonesses’ tears. "Not done," she pants, pinning his wrists against damp sheets. His laugh, low and startled, vibrates through her palms. "Clearly." She grinds down, taking him deeper, relishing his sharp intake of breath. "My turn." Her fingers trace the salt-stained hollow of his throat. "Say you’re mine tonight."

He stares up at her, pupils swallowing iris. "Always was." The admission hangs raw between them. She leans down, biting his collarbone—claiming, not asking—and begins moving. Slow circles at first, then sharp snaps of her hips that draw choked curses from his lips. Neon pulses: blue illuminates her arched spine, red catches the sweat beading between her breasts. His freed hand slides up her thigh, thumb finding her clit with brutal precision. "Louder," she demands, echoing his earlier command. His groan shakes the headboard.

Her fingers dig into his chest as she controls the rhythm—fast then agonizingly slow—watching his eyes glaze before he arches violently beneath her. "Louder," she repeats, grinding down on him until his groan cracks into a sharp cry. Neon paints her triumphant smirk blue. He bucks upward—not escape, but demand—his teeth grazing her nipple. She gasps, losing rhythm for one delicious second before reclaiming it. "Patience," she mocks, echoing him earlier, dragging her nails down his sternum.

His thumb circles her clit faster—not punishment, but entreaty. "Say you feel it," he rasps. "The edge." She does. It’s tectonic, grinding deep in her pelvis. His other hand grips her hipbone, guiding her movements now—deep, rolling thrusts that make her see phantom starbursts. "Almost," she breathes. The admission feels like surrender. He smiles—a flash of teeth in the pulsing dark—and pinches her clit hard. Not pain. Catalyst.

Her climax detonates silently at first—a vacuum of sound where only her spine exists, arched like a drawn bow. Then sound floods back: her own choked scream, the wet slap of skin, the headboard cracking against plaster. He rides it out, relentless, until she collapses forward onto his chest, trembling. Sweat glues her cheek to his sternum. His hand slides up her back, possessive. "Good," he murmurs. "But we're not done." His hips lift, grinding deep. She feels him—hard, insistent—still buried inside her.

He pushs her off him, and onto all fours on the bed, prying her apart with his knees. Positioning himself behind her, hands on her hips passively. Then he thrusts forward. Slow, medium, hard, fast and rough. Each time he pushes her harder into the mattress. She buries her face into the pillow, muffling her screams as she cums again. He pulls her hips back to meet his thrusts. Her legs shake uncontrollably as he pushes her deeper into the bed. She collapses onto her stomach, exhausted.

He pulls her hips up, forcing her onto her knees again. "Stay," he commands, thrusting harder. She obeys, trembling. The bed creaks beneath them. The room smells of sweat and sex. He grips her hair, pulling her head back. "Look at me," he growls. She turns her head, meeting his gaze. His eyes are dark, intense. He thrusts deeper, harder. She cries out, arching her back. He releases her hair, slapping her ass. The sound echoes in the room. She gasps, pushing back against him. He groans, thrusting faster. His hands grip her hips, fingers digging into her skin. She feels him swell inside her. He grunts, thrusting erratically. Then he stills, buried deep. She feels his warmth filling her. He collapses on top of her, breathing heavily.