#terryrichmond

Terry worked overnight duty on base, and his desk phone rang at ten-twenty. His neighbor Roderick, a fellow marine, hit him up with news that a noise complaint about his apartment brought out the local police. It was the second one that month.

"Your girlfriend has a bunch of women in your place again…the music is blasting and the cops are talking to her right now."

Terry rubbed his forehead. His jawline tightened. Sasha knew better than to have a bunch of people in his place when he wasn't there without letting him know about it ahead of time. He'd recently given her keys to his apartment six months ago as a reward for being a good girl. Here she was, fucking up the privilege already.

You see, Sasha is a brat.

On purpose.

It's a quality that titillates Terry, and yet it frustrates him, too. Sasha can't help it. Her nature is to be desirable, a supreme fuck, and well…a rule breaker.

Terry met Sasha at a wedding in Bayagoula Parrish, Louisiana. Both were part of the wedding party, he as a groomsman and she as a bridesmaid. He wore his military dress blues to match the groom. Sasha's beauty angered the bride who felt she eclipsed all the other women in the wedding party. He appreciated it because they'd been paired with different people to walk down the aisle, and he had the opportunity to watch her stroll in after him. Sasha displayed her shapely figure, which could be quite distracting. Her legs were fantastic, especially in heels and a high slit dress. She was top heavy too, and the off-the-shoulder dress made every attracted eye dart back and forth between thigh meat and the big juicy melons bouncing as she approached the altar. The tangerine orange of her dress enhanced the warm cognac color of her skin. He couldn't pull his eyes away from her. She was pure fap material for guys who couldn't pull her, which happened to be many at the reception. Samuel, who partnered walking down the aisle with her, strutted around thinking he was the shit with her displayed on his arm. But it was a wrap once Sasha lined her gaze with Terry's at the altar. Fireworks.

The two of them together oozed sex appeal and thoughts of sex. They complimented each other's energy. He had an assertive, domineering personality shaped by his years in the marines. Equal parts controlling and nurturing, he could overwhelm the ladies within seconds of meeting them. He already had the women there swooning over his voice. A gaze from his alluring eyes in any direction set hearts fluttering. Even the older women tee-heed with girlish enthusiasm interacting with him. He knew his power to attract and weaponized it as needed.

Sasha was a natural pleaser. Not to be mixed up with an overall people-pleaser, or a tiresome PickMe, her desire was to satisfy her lover, and they in turn would naturally gift her the moon, with a necklace of stars to match. She came off bubbly, warm, and endearing…the type of woman receptive to romance from an Alpha type. Male or female. He sensed she needed a little bit of spoiling with firm discipline to keep her in check. Pleasure and punishment. A heady combination he wanted to offer.

One bridesmaid joked about Terry and Sasha looking like human versions of Scar and Nala from The Lion King. His devilish green eyes and her equally cat-like eye shape gave testament to it. Their instant chemistry was like an electric current running through a socket. Everyone around them sensed the incredible magnetism they carried in proximity, like static electricity zapping them.

She sat down at the same table and immediately started flirting with Terry. After a few drinks, a deeper connection blossomed. Her voice turned him on. Everything sounded erotic the way she enunciated certain words, as if she wanted to make love to his ears. They chatted each other up, lightly touching hands and arms, whispering in each other's ears. Her breasts kept brushing against his arm, turning him on further as he fantasized about sucking on them with her sexy legs thrown over his shoulders. She brought out a feral competition in a lot of the men who interacted with her on the dance floor. What impressed him the most was how she complimented women there constantly, hyping them on their clothes and make-up. She was a girl's girl and danced with some who men passed over by streaking to the dance floor because the DJ was excellent. Sasha rallied a group of women into doing the YaYa, a Creole line-dance making a resurgence in those parts because of Beyonce's Cowboy Carter album.

He didn't want to get sweaty in his military uniform, but Terry couldn't resist a good, soulful line dance with a bunch of Black people. Bayagoula had some slim pickings for Black women since it was a majority white town, but since the bride was Black, Terry and a host of other Black soldiers hoped she had enough Black female friends coming to town available for some good times. He silently thanked the wedding planner for placing Sasha next to him. They shared a slow dance, and he loved having her breasts resting against his chest.

As the evening continued, they cozied up even more.

Sasha kissed him first right at the table. The lights in the venue had lowered for after-dinner partying, so Terry took advantage, purposely grazing his fingers against her right breast where he'd thrown his arm around her shoulder. Their table was empty and the dance floor was full tilt boogie. Nibbling on her earlobe, he whispered filthy things he wanted to do to her. He lowered his hand and slipped them up the slit in her dress, sliding her panties aside, fingering her with shallow thrusts. She let him finger fuck her, begging for him to go deeper.

Sasha started playing with Terry's dick under the tablecloth. Everyone else was too drunk and too occupied with dancing. No one paid attention to them. She got his dick so stiff that he dragged her to the nearest restroom and fucked her. Lifted her onto the sink, hiked up her dress, unfastened the upper part of her dress and released tits he now adored. It didn't take long for him to spill into the condom. Their foreplay at the table had them rearing to go.

His dick was too big and heavy to fit all the way inside her pussy. The last two inches, visible at the root, moved up and down as he ejaculated. He loved how she handled his meat. He packed so much length that her pussy squirted from the pressure of being stretched to capacity. She peed on him, too. He pinched her big nipples, obsessing over them already.

"I'm taking you home with me," he said.

His dick kept pulsing cum, and he shivered as the last orgasmic surge pushed through his dick. Even his nut sack jumped at the pleasure of release. Sasha gave off soft babygirl energy, and he wanted a woman like that. He'd only known her for five hours and already claimed her as his.

"Okay," she said, with her legs draped over his arms.

Terry turned her around and lifted her breasts. He watched his reflection in the mirror bounce them in his hands, getting off on the weight and size. His dick finally started going down, and Sasha peeled the condom off. He turned to urinate in the toilet and she held his dick for him, guiding the stream into the bowl.

"You like watching me do that?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Hmmm, into watersports?"

Her sloe eyes twinkled with delight.

"I used to watch my brother's college friends pee in our backyard when they were drunk. The sight of dicks out in the open like that…squirting everywhere…yummy. I get wet just thinking about it."

"What if I pissed on you? Would you like that?"

"Yes, Daddy…I would play with my pussy while you did it."

He grinned. She already understood his expectations. He whispered in her ear that he wanted a good girl, an obedient one, and she knew exactly what he meant. A submissive that catered to her man.

She shook his dick and used one of the soft paper towels to clean his tip. Then she dropped to her knees and sucked him off for a final cleaning. He wanted to bust a load on her face, but they'd been in the restroom long enough.

He scooped her up and drove back to his apartment.

They began a committed relationship soon after.

Terry dominated her life. Told her what to wear, what to cook for them when he worked hard all day supporting them both. Sasha flitted from part-time job to job like a bee gathering pollen whenever she was bored, not in a rush to find a career like Terry had done. He was a big bad marine with a jacked body, a tatted sleeve down one arm, and a sculpted face. He liked her being home, and she liked being there spoiled by him. His pay grade and rank allowed him to provide a comfortable life for her.

There were other rules, of course.

The apartment had to be pristine clean and her pussy had to be ready when he came home. He dealt with loud, tense, funky, gritty, and abrasive men all day. His home had to reflect the opposite vibe, and he needed to sink into her softness in the evening.

She greeted him at the door after work, looking dreamy in heels and clothes he liked to see her in, like short skirts and sexy dresses to show off those legs. With a cocktail in hand and deep welcoming tongue kisses, Sasha played her role. He brought home flowers every Friday, and at least once a week he bought her presents. She liked bracelets and expensive perfumes in fancy little bottles. He bought her books on whatever new hyper-fixation she had. One month it was soap-making. Another month it was origami, and he suffered through an apartment full of little flying cranes and odd-shaped butterflies. It made him feel good to bring her something special just to witness the sparkle in her eye and the squeal she let out each time. That was often more arousing than foreplay.

On the weekends, when he had to stay on base or travel out of state for additional work-related training, they agreed that she could have a female lover over for girl time. They'd brought other women into their bedroom on various occasions, and Terry sat next to Sasha as she had sex on the king-sized bed. He never indulged in the other women with her, preferring to watch and jerk off. Some might say he was a cuck, but that wasn't it. He had a compersion fetish. Sasha's happiness at having him as a boyfriend and still indulging in sex with another woman gave him pleasure mentally. It stimulated him, no doubt, to watch his woman go at it with another beautiful woman, but he never did a threesome by sticking his dick in someone else. Sasha was enough woman for him, plus, not every outsider was into the things that he liked to do to her. Like breath play with choking, and of course, the golden showers.

Sasha played the submissive well, pampering herself during the day in preparation for his coming home. Terry gave strong Daddy energy, and it brought out the softness in her. His father raised him to be a stern patriarch and southern gentleman. Women were to be taken care of and the expectation was for them to please their men like sweet southern belles.

Sasha was sweet and one hundred percent southern…but a brat, nonetheless. And brats don't always do what you tell them.

She'd purposely leave crumbs in the kitchen for him to find after work. Or she'd forget to make the bed the way he liked. Sometimes she ordered take out instead of making him the home-cooked meals he expected. That's when Terry would fume and take off his belt, lifting her up and taking her into the bedroom to get spanked until her ass cheeks were a deeper shade. When he finished striking her backside, he'd rub cooling blue gel all over her rump, simultaneously soothing her and chastising her.

"Why do you make me do this to you?" he'd lament. "You know I don't like punishing you. I want to come home and have peace. You're my peace, Sasha."

Those searing green eyes would narrow and his brows stayed furrowed, correcting her behavior.

She loved that shit.

However, on the day he had to leave for a weekend base stay several hours before Roderick called him about the police at his place, Sasha (purposely):

1. Forgot to pick up his dry cleaned dress blues on time the night before when he asked.

2. Tossed his clean clothes in drawers without folding them.

3. And God forbid, mixed his unpaired socks in his underwear drawer.

His jaw grew rigid, and he spoke to her through gritted teeth.

"Didn't we talk about this?" he said with an exasperated tone.

"Who cares? Everything is clean. I'll get your dry cleaning today. Don't have a cow," she said, scrolling through pages of fashion on her tablet, hoping he'd snap.

He always took the bait.

His hand went gently around her throat, and he pushed her against the wall.

"What did I tell you about talking to me like that?"

A dangerous smirk twisted his lips to the side. Sasha pouted.

"It won't kill your clothes to not be perfect. I washed and dried them and put them away. That's good enough. Deal with it."

"You know we have to have order in this home. I tell you this every day, Sasha, an orderly home denotes an orderly mind. Fix it."

"You fix it."

He sighed and glanced over at the clock on the wall. His work day started in thirty minutes. He had to be on base in fifteen or risk being late. That was simply a no-no.

"Go straighten out those drawers," he insisted, with more bass in his voice.

He pushed her toward the dresser and hurriedly went to their walk-in closet to grab and fold his old dress blues. He liked to have them on him in case the upper brass needed him to appear ready at a moment's notice for any occasion. His new uniforms needed cleaning before he would wear them. Sasha strolled past their bureau.

"Sasha, I'm not playing!"

He buttoned up the shirt of his duty uniform. She sashayed toward the bedroom door, switching her hips in her babydoll nightie, big titties bouncing, not having any plans for the day except eating chocolate bon bons and shopping online or doing whatever she wanted at her whim because he wanted her to.

"Sasha!"

She ignored him. He snatched her up, throwing her across his lap on the bed. Yanking her nightie up, he pulled the matching panties down and swatted that ass. He gave an even number of spanks on each cheek, careful to soothe as well as punish so as not to harm her tender skin. She yelped and refused to apologize for back talking, making him more upset…and his dick hard.

He added some harder smacks under the jiggling booty cheeks, and she got the message, jerking on his lap and hissing from the sting of genuine pain settling in. He held her down with one arm and heated that ass up, stopping before she needed their safe word. Her disobedience and disrespect resulted in an unscheduled spanking session today, although they had scheduled sessions for weekdays and weekends.

He refused to use the cooling gel on her. She needed to feel the pain of punishment for at least an hour. He'd give her more after he returned home from work.

Terry looked down at his protruding dick nearly blasting a hole through his work pants. Sasha stared at it too, licking her lips. This was what she wanted. He'd ignored her earlier in bed when she wanted dick at four in the morning. The night before, he'd dragged home exhausted from combat drills. He chose to crash out instead of pleasing her. Her hand rubbed on his muscle-toned thighs and traced lines on his tatted bicep, but he was not in the mood.

She chose to make him late. Just to get back at him. He came harder when he was angry or irritated. Down went his zipper… and her knees. He fished out his dick and stroked hard and fast.

"Selfish little brat," he barked. "Making me fucking late!"

She pulled down her nightie, revealing his weakness, and he stared at her breasts. He moaned out loud when she plucked at her nipples and circled her pretty manicured nails around the edges of her dark areolas, reminding him visually of how big they were, and how much he loved that about her.

Pre-cum spilled out of his deep slit, and she used it as a lubricant to tease around her sizeable nipples that stood out like fat, juicy blueberries. His sack was heavy with cum. Sasha licked her lips. Smacked those big melons together, and he blew his load all over her pretty face. She brushed back her wild, wavy hair and continued shaking her titties for him.

He panted and shot another hot rope across her tongue. She jumped up and placed herself on the bed, spreading open her labia for him to see the wet pink of her dripping pussy.

"Fucking slut!"

His eyes became mere slits of angry jade. He grabbed his cell and called his boss while shaking off his pants. A credible lie fell out of his mouth as he plunged into her. He bought an hour pretending to have a dead battery in his car. Tossing the phone on the bed, he fucked Sasha as deep as she could take unsheathed. He grunted, and she threw her arms across his shoulders, satisfied that she got what she wanted.

Anger guided his thrusts. When he started getting too aggressive, he switched to eating her pussy. That helped calm him down. She was insatiable. He should've paid more attention to that quality about her after the first night he fucked her. Sasha loved his dick and craved it at all hours.

Terry sucked and licked her clit, forcing breathy moans out of his woman. She rocked and rolled her hips, her vulva laid out like a summer nectarine: smooth, juicy and sweet. Sasha soaked his lips and chin. His facial hair became a sticky mess with her excess.

He spooned her on his side and parted her cheeks with his dick alone, sliding in and stretching her properly. Terry fondled a breast and pounded her down until that juicy pussy clenched around him. He kept fucking because he knew she needed more.

"Oh, Daddy! I'm sorry! Don't punish me like this!" she screamed, clutching onto the covers.

She wasn't sorry. She wanted that deep Daddy dick.

Sasha said it like a mantra over and over, "Oh Daddy…I'm sorry! Oh, Daddy…I'm sorry! Oh, Daddy…"

He groaned and hit the side of her walls to really make her feel it, and spurt a geyser of cum, still angry that he was late. But busting a nut that hard was worth it in the end. She gasped, her legs jerking wildly at the intensity.

Rising from the bed, he looked down at his brat. She took her fingers and peeled back her labia, letting him see the big creamy mess he made inside of her.

"Wait until I get home Sunday!" he snapped, lifting his pants from the floor.

She pissed him off.

And he let her.

He grabbed his small work duffle, and the garment bag he stuffed his old uniform in and slapped her thigh.

"Fix those clothes in the drawers," he grumbled.

After he left, she teased him mercilessly with several bathroom selfies of her voluptuous breasts and pancake areolas. Her big nipples stuck out hard, and she knew he would suffer at work seeing them all weekend and unable to touch them. During his lunch break, he went into a restroom stall and recorded himself urinating. Using his pelvic muscles, he made his dick twitch and spill urine on the seat. His penis was still big while flaccid, and moving it as he splashed into the toilet would excite her. He shot off the clip to her and later, during another break in his car, she sent him video clips from her smartphone of herself fingering her wet pussy and sucking on her nipples while she watched his video on her tablet. Sex was their shared passion. Their best form of communication.

"You were mean to me today," she texted afterward.

He jerked off in the car, re-watching her squirt all over herself. His dick was the object of her affection when she watched him piss. To her, it was just as sexy as watching him ejaculate semen. It came from inside of him, therefore it was precious to her.

She sent more photos of herself looking down at the phone with her breasts hanging with her tongue partially sticking out. He fucking loved her, and immediately sent her a sweating face emoji with hearts, and couldn't wait to fuck her like a goddamn wild man.

Back at work, he did some emergency drills and then took his place at the duty station, overseeing lower ranked soldiers.

Roderick's phone call shattered the routine of his evening. He couldn't leave work to deal with her, so he had to suffer the entire weekend.

Sasha didn't know that Roderick notified him of the cops. She kept sending him loving texts. Asked him what he wanted for supper on his return home.

"I picked up your uniform, and I organized the drawers properly, Daddy," she texted.

He ignored it, pretending to be busy.

She never mentioned having a gathering at his place that weekend. Technically, it was their shared residence, but his name was the only one on the lease. That meant any problems that occurred with the cops reflected on him in the complex. It wasn't a rarity to have the police called around there for noise ordinances. It was predominately military living there, so close to the base. Lots of parties occurred. But he'd never had them called on him until Sasha moved in. He didn't want that reputation, and he didn't want to dump her like he did his last girlfriend, who stayed out of pocket with him until he had enough. She was disobedient in other ways, but not enough to bring the authorities his way. His reputation and moral character around town was everything to him. He'd hate to let go of amazing pussy and fat titties. Terry was already thinking of putting a ring on Sasha's finger after only six months of being together. Babygirl was that perfect.

Except for when she acted out in ways he didn't like.

Sunday couldn't come fast enough.

He'd have Monday and Tuesday off. Plenty of time to course correct Sasha.

After showering and shaving on base, he drove to his complex in the early evening without telling her the exact time he was coming back.

He crept up the stairs to his second floor. The onsite apartment manager taped another yellow noise complaint notice to his door. He pulled it down and read the warning while sliding his key in. Stepping inside, the living room lights were off, but the bedroom and hall lights were on. She'd cooked something because the odor of something good still wafted in the apartment. He kicked off his shoes, already upset that she wasn't there to greet him.

Dropping his bags and the warning notice on the couch, he padded to their master bedroom.

Sasha was sucking down another woman's box on his bed.

Jasmine.

Both women were oblivious to him being there.

Terry sat down on the side chair in the room facing the bed and watched them go at it. Sasha had a small vibrator inserted into her vagina that also stimulated her clit. It was a cute little pink toy that hummed along to their sex play. His irritation from the notice simmered in the back of his mind. It took him a few minutes to settle into watching his woman and her side piece. Their moans and soft murmurings lulled him into arousal.

He started playing with his dick, pulled it out all the way along with his balls. Smearing pre-cum all around the bulbous head, he took slow strokes up and down, staying underneath the thick ridge. Sasha's pussy looked so pretty, with the pink toy snug inside of her. Her lover thrashed her head back and forth. He fisted his dick faster, smacking on his balls, wishing her pussy could go all the way down on him.

Jasmine came in Sasha's mouth and his lady love's pussy throbbed with a powerful orgasm. Sasha smacked her lips and moaned as her pussy took the internal vibrations. She glanced over her shoulder.

"Daddy," she sputtered, shocked to see him sitting in the room.

Jasmine lifted on her elbows and grinned.

Terry stood and dragged Sasha by her foot to the end of the bed. He pulled out the small vibrator from her pussy and jammed the tip of his dick against her vulva and nutted all over it. Sasha squealed with delight at the man-handling and Jasmine stared with envy. She longed to suck and fuck him, but that would never happen.

"Come lick up his cum," Sasha said.

She smeared it all over her clit and Jasmine settled between her thighs, lowering her head to lick like a cat lapping up milk.

Terry pulled off the rest of his clothes. Sasha kept her eyes locked on his, ignoring Jasmine licking her way to glory. When most of his semen went down Jasmine's throat, he climbed onto the bed. Jasmine scooted over, giving his large body precedence. His dick bobbed and Sasha whimpered in expectation.

"So glad you're home," Sasha said.

Terry carefully placed his thumb and fingers on the sides of her neck. She relaxed under him.

"Jasmine, I think it's time for you to go home," he said.

Sasha blinked twice and her eyes darted over to Jasmine, disappointed that he didn't want their favorite voyeur staying for their lovemaking.

"Now, Jasmine."

Jasmine quickly left the room. They heard her scramble into her clothes and leave the apartment.

"What's wrong?"

He liked the hesitant tone in her voice. It threw her off.

"Do you enjoy living here with me, Sasha?"

She tried to sit up. He held her down by the throat. Still gentle, but gripped tight enough to let her know she wasn't getting up. Pushing his tip into her, she sucked in a breath and he squeezed the sides of her neck, careful to count out the seconds she could handle before easing the pressure. The opening of her pussy throbbed around him. He slowly pushed in, each inch parting her slippery walls. Jasmine made Sasha frothy and wide open for him. He stopped and squeezed her neck again, giving shallow thrusts and counting to her limit before releasing the controlled grip.

"Can we keep going? Do you need a break?"

"No Daddy, I can take it a little more. I'll tap you when to stop."

He pushed in to her limit, thick and heavy. Her pussy lips looked like a swollen vise around his girth, with the last of his inches unable to go in. Each time he pushed forward or pulled back, she gripped him with her walls, giving him the friction he dreamed about all weekend waiting to come home.

He began fucking her slowly, his hand clamped on her neck.

"Ready?"

She nodded and he pressed his fingers in again with gentle pressure, heightening her pleasure. Her eyes went glassy with lust. Although he choked her with their breath play, her pussy choked his dick and he released her neck to rock his hips into her with a steady rhythm.

"You feel so fucking good…taking care of Daddy's dick…"

He started kissing her, thrusting his tongue in her mouth, letting hers slide against his until the erotic sensation of their lips feeling raw and sensitive to the connection overtook him. Kissing her was life itself. He pulled back from her, still stretching her pussy, but not pumping into her.

"Roderick called me about the cops being here again. There was a warning notice on the door. What do you have to say about that?"

Her eyes widened, and she bit her bottom lip.

"How come you didn't tell me before I left about having people over here?"

"It was impromptu. A few friends, and then…a few more friends of friends…it was a wine and cheese thing and then…the cops showed up."

Terry pulled all the way out of her and left the bed.

"Do we have to talk about this now? Can we finish this and talk later?"

She breathed heavily, upset that his dick wasn't plowing her.

"What do you think will happen if I get another notice?"

She pressed her lips together for a second.

"It won't happen again. I promise."

"You said that last time two weeks ago."

"You won't have to worry. If I want to have a gathering again, I'll do it at Jasmine's. Please, Terry, don't be upset."

"What do I like more than anything at home?"

His hard dick pointed toward her and Sasha's eyes kept losing track of his face by focusing on his erection she wanted back in her guts.

"Peace and calm."

"My neighbor shouldn't be calling me about you. That means it disturbed him, too, and probably a lot of other people. If I get a third notice, the manager will break my lease. You know what that means? He can ask me to move. I picked this complex because it's close to my job. The job that takes care of you, and allows you to be my good girl. You've put our housing in jeopardy. Before I left for work, you were acting out and I didn't have time to really put you in your place. I've been super busy this past month and I think I've been letting you get away with too much. But I'm going to get back to proper discipline. No physical contact at all."

Her mouth dropped open.

"What?" she said.

"Spanking won't do this time. You don't get to have me until I think you get your behavior together."

He walked to his side of the bureau and pulled out lounging pants and a t-shirt. He strolled into the bathroom. She followed with panic in her eyes. He stretched his back and stood in front of the toilet. She reached for his dick to help him urinate, but he slapped her hand away.

"No," he said. "You don't even get to watch."

He arched an angry eyebrow, and she pouted. He ignored her breasts and the fat pussy he'd just been inside of that enticed him to cave.

"Out!"

She scuttled away like a little crab who sensed danger on sand.

He relieved himself and changed into his house clothes.

"I would like my dinner in half an hour," he called out.

He went into the spare bedroom where he set up a mini-gym and desktop computer. He checked sports updates before opening a porn app. His balls ached wanting to cum inside Sasha, but he searched for Black women masturbating and found one using a vibrator with large pussy lips that excited him. Fisting himself, he left the door open so Sasha could hear him and seethe. She slammed the kitchen cabinet doors and let some silverware clatter onto the table to show her anger at not getting his dick. He chuckled.

"Fix that attitude. This is your fault for being irresponsible," he called out.

His porn play pal had nice tits and a soft belly. He came into his hand.

"Your dinner is ready," Sasha called out.

He cleaned his hands in the bathroom and walked into the dining area with his mouth salivating. Smothered chicken and rice with French green beans drenched in garlic butter. Homemade and piping hot.

"This looks good, baby. Thank you."

He sat down and she sat across from him. They said grace together, and he stuffed his face, licking his fingers and complimenting her cooking. That perked her up, and yet she still stared at his chest in the tight T-shirt, and admired the sleeve tats.

He punished her for a month.

Sasha stayed on her A-game. Clean house. Clothes put away properly. Bed made so perfect that he could bounce a quarter on it. Uniforms pressed and already placed in his garment bag. She'd gone to the apartment manager and explained the situation with the loud party. Sasha claimed to be his house sitter who didn't know the rules about no loud noises after nine at night. Terry was pretty sure she jiggled her tits and flirted with the male manager. Her legs in some stiletto heels would do the trick easy. The manager actually ignored the second noise warning…and the first, clearing Terry's apartment record.

In bed, she suffered from wanting to curl under or around him, but he stayed on his side with his back to her. She knew better than to seek out Jasmine for respite. It wouldn't be a satisfying, playful romp when she yearned only for her man's affections. She thought it best to accept the dry spell.

Meals…impeccable.

Cocktails at the door…refreshing.

Terry slowly started showing her physical affection with a kiss on the cheek goodbye in the morning. He brought home flowers and gifts again with kisses on the forehead.

He ended her punishment by walking into the bathroom as she smoothed unscented body butter all over her naked body after a shower. She stared at him in the mirror as he stood behind her. He circled his hand around her throat, forcing her to turn her face to the side so he could kiss her.

Sasha moaned into his mouth and broke into tears of joy.

"I won't disappoint you gain," she whispered into his mouth.

"That's all I want from you, baby. Follow my rules."

He continued kissing her, lifting those glorious breasts.

"Will you fuck me now?" she pleaded.

"Of course."

Sasha whimpered at the deep rasp of his morning voice. She leaned forward, and he entered her. Cupping her breasts, he fucked her hard and fast. Her pussy squelched, and she cried, her tears of happiness wetting her face.

"I'm sorry, Daddy…sorry, Daddy…sorry, Daddy…!"

"Pussy so fucking good…I missed these big titties…tight pussy…oh babygirl…fuck Daddy's dick!"

He studied her expression in the mirror.

"Want Daddy to punish this pussy?"

"Yes!"

"Take this dick then…take it…take it babygirl…oh you're taking it deep…oh shit! Oh, shit!"

She still couldn't take him in all the way, but it truly felt like he got in deeper than he'd been before. Her eyes looked up to the ceiling, then rolled back. She squirted everywhere, soaking his dick.

He ejaculated hard enough to make him lift onto his toes. He dropped to his knees to smother his face in her ass and pussy, wanting to feel the back rush of his cum dripping out of her.

His bladder poked at him. He drank an extra glass of water for the occasion.

"Get in the tub, baby," he said.

Sasha yelped with excited anticipation. She climbed into the tub and he handed her a towel that she folded as a knee cushion. Once she was comfortable, he rested his balls on her mouth and she sucked them while playing with her clit and pussy lips.

"Let me hear that wet pussy, Sasha."

She flicked her clit and used her three middle fingers. He stared down at her, reaching for a heavy breast.

"You ready, baby?"

She hummed with his nuts in her mouth.

"You'll be my dirty little slut? Huh, baby?"

"Yes, Daddy…yes, I'll be your dirty little slut…"

"Oh, let me hear that pussy talk, Sasha!"

Sasha whimpered, and her tone was on the edge.

"Daddy's 'bout to give you what you want…get ready…oh…get ready…"

"I'm still your good girl!"

Her tongue slid up and down the underside of his dick, her words warm on his skin.

"Sasha…baby…fuck…dirty little slut letting me do whatever I want!"

Terry took a step back, and Sasha kept pleasuring her pussy. She tilted her head back. A hot stream of urine flew out of him and splashed all over her breasts. Holding his release for a longer period made the sensation of voiding his bladder sweeter. It felt almost as good as an orgasm soaking her.

Sasha's glassy eyes looked far away. She was in her pleasure zone, cumming so hard she couldn't even speak anymore. He drained himself all over her tits, and she slumped back with loud pants.

"Goddamn, that was fucking good!" he shouted to the ceiling.

His aftercare was tender with her.

He used the shower nozzle to rinse her off first before he cleaned her with honeysuckle body wash. Helping her stand up, he rubbed her vulva, thighs and backside, then lathered up her tits. He rinsed her off, then stuck the nozzle back up high and joined her in the shower for a long rinse with hotter water. They kissed as heat steamed around them, his arms cradling her.

"I don't like punishing you like that. It hurt me not to touch you for a month, baby," he hummed in her ear.

She hugged him tight.

Back in their bedroom, they made slow love on the bed. She rode him and he praised her…worshipped her body.

"I love you, Sasha."

"I love you, too, Terry. I want to make you happy."

"I want to make you happy every day. You're really the boss of me. Everything I do is for you."

"I know. I'm yours, Daddy. Let me take care of this dick."

He held his legs wide open, and she rode him backward, perched between his thighs at an angle. He let her slide up and down to the depths she could take and watched her pussy work his length. She slid back to sit on his face, where he slathered her folds with a wide, wet tongue.

They finished with him on top of her, declaring his undying love. He came all over her breasts, and hugged her tight under the covers, playing with her nipples and making plans for their future.

Terry cooked them a late brunch and cleaned the kitchen himself. Sasha washed clothes and looked up a movie for them to go see. All was well until he went to his sock drawer and found unmatched pairs with underwear mixed in.

"Sasha!"

She sauntered in, carrying one of his belts folded in her hand.

"Shall I assume the position?" she teased.

"Once a brat, always a brat," he said.

He chased Sasha around the room until he caught her, snatching the belt away and pushing her down on his lap.

Terry taught her a new lesson.

And, of course, she loved it.

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A lot had changed since the night of Khloés grand opening of her restaurant Velvet Rose. After much success of her very first location she decided to open up two more locations just a few cities away from the original, one far north and one deeper in the south. The reviews were always great and the money was rolling in like crazy. She knew she’d be a fool to miss the opportunity to expand her restaurant. 

Customers from all over the country were traveling through the states just to dine at one of the luxury restaurants in Louisiana. People were dying to get a taste of her food as well as meet the woman behind the magic. 

While Khloé worked hard to keep her business afloat, so did her fiance Terry with her fathers business. After moving up the ladder at the job, he was now out of office and traveling to help scout new warehouses for the MacArthur business. He’d be scheduled to meet contractors across the country to discuss budgets and everything in between. 

With the two love birds running rampant trying to secure a stable livelihood for one another, it left no room for them to actually spend quality time together. They’d see each other a few times out of the month and then Terry would be back on the road for her fathers business. 

Khloé admired the fact that Terry loved working and took pride in not only his job title but her family’s legacy. However, she couldn’t help but feel as though she had taken a backseat to the very thing she had once made her whole life. 

-

Khloé had been quiet the whole ride, turning her body toward the passenger door to purposely close herself off from her Fiancé. Of course he noticed the resistance in her energy. Normally she’d be excited to hear all about his trip and in return she’d share all of the new things she had planned for their wedding. But this time was completely different. 

The newly engaged couple sat across from each other, picking at their food. Every question Terry asked would be met with a dry response or no response at all, simply just a head nod. Every attempt he made to strike up a conversation was met with a slight attitude from Khloé. Eventually he’d grown exhausted with her behavior and decided to pay the tab and head home. 

They pulled into the driveway after a silent ride to their estate. Terry carefully parked the car and pressed the button to shut the engine off. The entire car fell silent. He looked over at his fiancé, hoping she’d have something to say. 

Even if she were to start cursing him out that would be a relief for him because then he’d know she was still interested in being with him, still interested in marrying him. But he knew his woman all too well. He knew silence meant there was something deeper going on and he’d have to brace himself for whatever she was going to deliver to him when she finally decided to do so.  

“Don’t touch the door.” He said, watching as she began to lift from the passenger seat. 

Khloé sat back, slightly slamming her back into the seat, arms folded. 

“What is your problem?” He asked. 

“Nothing.”

“Why are you acting like this?” 

“I said nothing.” 

Terry took a deep breath in and out as he looked forward, staring at the home he had purchased for them just a few months ago. He knew how stubborn Khloé could be and although it wasn’t his favorite thing about her, he knew what would happen if he’d be the one to let his pride get the best of him once again. 

He turned his head again to look at her. 

“Any other time you’d open your mouth to say whatever is on your mind, so what’s stopping you now?” He asked sincerely.

“Any other time I would actually have something to say to you and right now I don’t.” 

“So silent treatment is your only option?”

“Guess so.” She spat, leaning against the door. 

“That’s immature Khloé.”

“Why do you talk to me like that?” She snapped, finally turning her attention directly toward him. 

‘Thank God!’ He thought. 

“Like what?” 

“Like you’re a fucking drill sergeant and I’m supposed to do everything you say!” “Don’t say this.” “Don’t grab that.” “Don’t touch the door.” “Don’t raise your voice.” She went on, mocking him as she made her voice a bit deeper to somehow mimic the way that he spoke. “I’m a grown ass woman!”

“You don’t think I know that?”

“Well since you know, stop yelling commands at me all the damn time!” 

“You think I want you lifting a finger while I’m around?” He started. “I barely see you as it is, I don’t want you doing much of anything while I’m here.” 

“I should be able to do whatever I want to.” Khloé responded stubbornly. She knew she didn’t want to open her own doors or even yell at him out of frustration. She didn’t even want to be on bad terms with him but here she was, trying her hardest to pick a fight when a simple conversation would suffice. 

He shook his head and wiped his face in a swift motion. Once again, he chose to swallow his pride and do whatever he needed to do to lift this resistance off of her. 

“Look baby, I’m not trying to boss you around. I’m just trying to be the man in this relationship.” He started. “Maybe I go about it the wrong way, maybe I’m a bit more demanding than I should be. I can acknowledge that and I apologize for it. However, ignoring me won’t solve your problem.”

Khloé sat quietly, unmoved but still bothered. 

Terry reached down to unbuckle his seatbelt and get out of the car. In usual routine, he walked around to her side and pulled the door open before leaning forward with his hand against the roof of the car. They stared at one another, not exchanging any words. 

Khloé then looked down, grabbing her clutch and stepping out of the car one foot at a time. 

Terry blew out an agitated breath as he took a step back from the car. 

She smoothed her dress down and pushed a few fly aways out of her face as she waited for Terry to close the car door. 

“What?” She asked. 

“You just gonna stand there or do you wanna go in the house?” Terry asked, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his keys. 

“You’re the one with the keys, you expect me to walk through the walls like a damn ghost?”

That statement alone caused him to clench his teeth before taking another step toward the front door. “You’re really testing my patience Khloé.” 

Terry looked down at his hands to search for the key to their home while Khloé followed right behind him, doing all that she could to get another reaction from him. 

“So now you have an attitude because I have an attitude?” She asked as she marched up to the front door, struggling to keep her balance in her heels. 

Khloé went on and on in Terry’s ear as he fought with the door to get it opened. She went on to tell him how he was wrong for not listening to her, although she refused to speak all day. She told him how he was more immature than her for matching her attitude, although he had done the total opposite. 

Khloé tried her hardest to make Terry argue with her but she was only proving to him what he had already suspected. 

Terry pushed the large door open and waited for Khloé to step in first before following behind her. He shut the door behind him and locked it, trying to ignore Khloés constant attempt to get him out of character. 

“You’re so occupied, you can’t even tend to your own fiancé. I wonder who has you so busy.”  Khloé asked, slamming her clutch onto the small table that sat in the foyer. She proceeded to turn the corner when she felt herself being yanked backward. 

“Come here.” He placed his hand at her waist and pressed her against the wall. “You have every right to feel how you feel but don’t play with me Khloé.” 

“There you go again,” She yelled. “telling me what to do.”

“Khloé, I'm serious.” Terry said, pointing a firm finger in her face. “I let you walk around with your lip poked out. I let you ride to the restaurant with your arms folded. I’ve let you get all of your frustrations out since we pulled up but you gotta chill at some point.” 

A lustful expression quickly washed over her face before returning to the frown she’d been wearing all night. She stared up at him, trying to hold her frown. Khloé was slightly disappointed in his response simply because it wasn’t the reaction she wanted… only part of it. 

As well as Terry knew Khloé, you would think she’d know him just the same. As quickly as she tried to shift her expression to appear frustrated, Terry hadn’t missed the split second of desire on her face. 

‘She needs some dick.’ He thought to himself. 

Her behavior had proved him right. So instead of actually arguing with her, he decided to just let her be. He didn’t mind giving in, she wasn’t going anywhere anyways so why stress himself? 

“Nobody’s scared of you.” Khloé stated, staring at his back as he walked away from her and into the kitchen. 

“I didn’t ask you to be.” He responded calmly. 

“You think standing over me and slamming me against the wall is supposed to stop me from saying what I wanna say?“ Khloé was right behind him, still trying her hardest to fight with him. 

“I didn’t slam you.” He chuckled at her dramatic ways.  

Khloé stopped in her tracks as she noticed all 32 of his teeth appearing. “What the fuck is so funny?” 

Terry removed his suit jacket and placed it on the back of one of the barstools. He pulled at his tie, undoing it as he walked over to her smirking a bit. 

“Why you wanna fight with me so bad?” He asked, pulling his tie apart and removing it from around his neck. 

“I’m not fighting with you. I’m just letting you know that what you just did isn’t gonna stop me from saying what I wanna say!” Khloé shot back. 

Terry stood towering over her with a smirk on his face. 

After the past few years he spent with her, studying her in and out, he had learned her all too well. She wasn’t really upset with him, she was just frustrated… sexually frustrated. Sure Khloé didn’t like being bossed around, she never did. But it wasn’t the demands that had her frustrated, it was the lack of dick she was getting that made it hard for her to follow them. 

Terry could never take any of her words personally and Khloé was never crazy enough to cross the line. This was her unique way of “communicating” but Terry had his way as well. 

“Okay baby.” He said with a soft smile. 

Khloé frowned as she watched him smile down at her. “Now you're trying to make me look crazy.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” He placed his hands at her waist and dropped his head to place kisses on her neck.

“Stop Terry.” She said, barely putting up a fight to stop him. 

“Why?” He asked in between kisses. 

“Because…” She replied, trying to hide the moan that left her lips. “I'm mad at you.”

“I know.” Terry tightened his grip on her waist and lifted her until she sat on the large island. 

She bit down on her lip, moaning from the feeling of her skin between his teeth. “So let me be mad.” 

“Go ahead.” He said, licking the spot just below her ear. The sound of her deep inhale made his dick stiffen. 

Terry lifted her dress and tugged at the thong around her hips until it snapped and fell to the floor. She leaned back, resting both hands on the counter as she let her fiancé leave passion marks along her neck and jawline. 

“What else do you need to say to me?” His deep voice startled her a bit, seeing as though she was so caught up in his touch and the warm feeling of his tongue. 

“Huh?” She breathed out, dropping her head back even more to reveal more of herself to him. 

Terry lowered his kisses down her chest, bringing himself down into the cut of her dress. Khloé was cooing like crazy, biting her lip as she pressed her chest against his lips. His eyes rolled up to get a slight view of her face, smirking a bit at the woman who was once trying her hardest to rattle him, becoming unraveled. 

“What did you need to say?” He asked, feeling the small bumps form against her chest from the combination of cool air in the room and his warm breath. 

“It’s not fair.” She moaned.

He curved his index finger around the thin strap on her dress and pulled at it slightly, dragging it down her arm. He did this to both straps until her breasts were bare. Her brown nipples were swollen buds that were yearning for his lips ever since they entered the house. 

Terry swirled his tongue around her areolas as he felt her acrylics against the nape of his neck. He wrapped his lips around her hard nipple and sucked it gently, licking her ever so often. 

“I’m listening baby.” He teased her, trying to pull one of her usual smart remarks from her lips. 

He wrestled with the swollen buds using only his mouth, knowing he was sending a flood to her center. She gasped and wined from the pleasure, wishing she wasn’t so weak for him. If only she was strong enough to keep her attitude, she would have proved her point… whatever it was. 

“I just missed you.” She whined at the feeling of him lowering his head towards her thighs. 

“I missed you too.” Terry wrapped his hands around her waist and softly laid her flat on the island. “What else?”

He pushed the dress up past her hips, leaving it wrapped around only her stomach. One by one, he lifted her legs, kissing them before pushing her knees back toward her chest. 

He pushed her legs apart slightly to watch her lips spread even more, revealing the glistening essence that shined from the reflection of the stove light. Inhaling quietly, simply to soak as much of the pheromones as he could, he could feel himself growing more and more in his dress pants. 

“It’s been so long.” She moaned in a soft voice trying to sound innocent. Terry chuckled lightly to himself, unable to believe that she could switch her voice from booming throughout their chateau to barely above a whisper. 

“Too long.” Was the last thing he stated before running his tongue through her slit, indulging in the wetness that always tasted so sweet to him. 

Khloé gasped once again, this time louder than before. No matter how many times they had fucked, made love or had a few quickies, it always felt like the first time all over again. 

Terry moaned against her clit from the sound of her voice. He loved how reactive and responsive she was every time they’d come together. He didn’t care how whipped he appeared to be. There wasn’t anything in the world that could stop him from devouring her at any given chance. 

“I didn’t mean it.” Khloé whined from the joys of his tongue caressing her clit. She was biting back, trying to keep herself from apologizing. Her stubbornness just wouldn’t allow her to. 

But that was fine because Terry didn’t need an apology. He just needed her to talk, to tell him how she was feeling. Even if that meant hearing her beautiful moans in between each confession. 

Terry gently licked her clit, barely applying any pressure to the sensitive bud. She rocked her hips forward as much as she could trying to feel more of him but his grip on her thighs made it difficult. 

“Stop playing Terry.” She said, reaching down to touch his head that had been freshly cut just hours ago. 

“Say what you need to say.” He mumbled. 

She kissed her teeth and stared up at the tall ceiling. 

“You work too much and I don’t like it.” After finally blurting out what she had been too hesitant to say, she yelped as she felt her clit in between his lips. 

He sucked, rotating his head slightly. Rubbing the back of his head, she let out an exaggerated “Yesssss…” that blended into a hiss. 

“I just wanna see you more.” She moaned.  

Terry licked and sucked on her clit as he listened to her cry out all of her frustrations with him. It was as if the more she communicated with him the more his hunger for her grew. After he spent that lonely year without her, he decided on the night they rekindled that he’d never be without her again. So if she was on the brink of cursing him out while his head was in between her legs… then so be it. 

Khloé knew she had created a monster. A man that was once so focused on making money to simply get back on his feet, had suddenly become so ravenous and undisciplined whenever she was around. Would he still do his part within the family company? Of course. But there was never a time that they were in the same room and he would be able to keep himself off of her. 

“Wait baby, I don’t wanna cum yet.” Khloé cried, wanting to hold onto this moment for as long as she possibly could. 

“That’s not up to you.” He quickly stated before latching himself back onto her clit. 

By this time, Khloé had placed both of her hands on his head desperately trying to free herself from his grasp. She just wanted a moment to come back down so that she would have to be built back up again. But fortunately for the both of them, Terry had no plans to release her any time soon. 

Khloé knew that if he was already making her cum this soon, she’d be coming for the rest of the night which meant exhaustion the next day. 

“Fuck Terry!” She yelled, trying to squeeze her thighs together to stop him but that was a failure. 

She could feel his baritone as he moaned while bringing her to her climax. That feeling coupled with the warmth of his tongue and the smoothness of his lips sent her over the edge. 

Khloé cried out, letting her voice echo throughout the kitchen into the great room and down the corridors. Her body shook as the grip she had on his head began to loosen. A few more tender licks on her clit caused her body to jerk, making her breasts bounce from the reaction. 

“Ugh, I hate you so much.” She breathed out, dropping her hands to her side and relaxing her body. 

“That’s too bad, get up.” Terry placed just a few more kisses on her above her hips before standing to help her get on her feet. 

He turned her around, facing her against the counter with a clear view of their front yard through the large window. With her breasts exposed, he wanted to be sure that whoever drove by could get an idea of what was happening in the dimly lit kitchen. 

Terry rocked his hips forward, rubbing his hard bulge on her ass. He wrapped his hand around her jaw gently and pulled her head back to get better access to her neck again. He felt that he needed to leave a few more marks on his territory so he did just that. 

“People are gonna see.” Khloé moaned, eyes closed from the feeling of him gnawing on her neck. 

“They’ll enjoy it.” He muttered against her skin. 

While he continued leaving his love marks, he undid his pants. Pulling himself out of his dress slacks, he rubbed his tip in between her lips. Coating his head in her juices. Not bothering to give a warning, he pushed himself into her slowly, listening for the gasp that was bound to leave her lips. 

Khloé leaned forward onto the counter with her arms stretched out in front of her. Her jaw dropped while her eyes rolled into her head from the feeling of him stretching her tight pussy. 

“You feel me?” 

“Yes baby, I feel youuu.” Khloé whined. 

Terry placed his hands on her hips and pulled himself out. Pushing back into her slowly to hear her gasp again and watch her body shake from the feeling. He rocked his hips back and forth slowly, looking down at his dick to watch it shine twice as much with each stroke. 

“Terry I can’t.” Khloé cried, leaning even further onto the counter. 

His strokes were deep, so deep that Khloé could feel herself slightly lifting onto her tiptoes in an attempt to “run”. But even that was a failure due to the tight grip he had on her hips. The stretch was a mix of plain and pleasure, both too intense for her to handle at the moment. 

“Yes you can.” He said. 

“Oh” Khloé let out as her jaw dropped even lower. 

Terry's strokes were extremely slow. He’d fill her all the way up, pressing his hips against her ass, then pull back to leave her walls vacant. The way she took him in, molding so perfectly around his girth made him wish he could stay inside of her all night. 

“Fuck.” He whispered harshly. 

Terry fucked her long and slow, listening to her whine and attempt to apologize. His eyes were focused on her ass, the way it jiggles with every move he made. He couldn’t help but to slap it a few times, completely caught up in the sight and the pleasure of it all. 

Khloé didn’t have a choice but to relax. Terry wasn’t letting her move any time soon. She was pressed firmly against the large island, scratching at the marble surface. 

“Keep talking.” He said. 

“I’m finished.” She breathed out. 

“I know you’re not.” Terry placed both hands on her ass and spread her cheeks gently. A long string of spit fell from his lips into the crack of her ass. Using his thumb, he smeared it right over her tight hole before pressing down. 

Khloé hissed at the feeling. He knew how much she loved being filled like a bowling ball. Finding a rhythm that worked for the both of them, Terry pushed his thumb in as he pulled his hips back. Then proceeded to fill her walls again and leave her third hole empty. This drove Khloé crazy. 

“Oooh fuck yes!” Her tone dragged out as she tried to speak through her moans. 

“Keep talking.” He said once again. 

“Stay home more.” She said in between strokes. 

His pace increased. Both his dick and thumb working her over. Her words were blending into one another. Her sentences were broken. There was no room to focus on her speech because well… she was cumming. 

“Yes!” She screamed. Her juices flowed so quickly causing his dick pop out of her. Dropping her head, she took this short moment to catch her breath and find her senses. 

Terry pushed back into her before reaching forward, wrapping his hand around her neck. Lifting her off of the island, he brought her ear to his lips. His hand slipped in between her legs and found her clit, wet and sensitive. He toyed it in circles as he fucked her, this time as hard as he wanted. 

“I love you.” Terry gently spoke in her ear. 

Khloé was back in her trance, pleasure written all over her face as she held onto his arm. Her eyes were crossed, her mouth was open and her cunt was stuffed nonetheless. 

Terry could see her expression, he wanted her completely wrecked by the time he was done with her. He kept speaking to her, doting her all while fucking her senseless. 

“Oh my-“ Khloé said before taking a deep breath. 

She was cumming yet again. The feeling of him teasing her clit made the pleasure too intense. She could feel her legs buckling. Terry removed his hand from in between her legs and wrapped his around her waist. He was gonna milk her as much as he could so she’d have no reason to be mad at him any time soon. 

“You done?” Terry asked, still fucking her as if she hadn’t cum enough already. 

“Yesssss.” She cried, overwhelmed with ecstasy.

His grip on her waist tightened along with his balls, heavy and ready for release. He closed his eyes as he emptied himself into her, body jerking a bit from the feeling. He stroked just a few times more before loosening his grip altogether.

Khloé fell forward onto the island, placing her face flat against the cold surface. Her breathing was heavy and her eyes were low. All she needed to do was find the strength to carry herself to her room and go to sleep there. But luckily, she had a man to do it for her.

“Come on.” Terry tapped her hips, signaling her to stand so he could do what he always did. 

Terry lifted her and the two made their way to the bedroom. A quick shower for the both of them and they were both out for the night. 

quick reminder that i write for black readers only and i do predominantly write smut and dark fics so 18+ readers for everything, MDNI

smut will be indicated with **

ordinarily my ask box would be closed for any kind of request but seeing how aaron is my current obsession, it will be open for any blurbs and headcanons but not full fics atm. i do reserve the right to ignore or decline if i feel like it is out of my depths, inappropriate etc but if any of my mutuals or writers in general see the ask and want to take it up then they are more than welcome to !

ask box (linked)

as always, comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback and if you want to join the taglist, either comment or send me an ask - other than that though...happy reading 🥰

last updated: 31st december 2025

Aaron Pierre

Aaron Pierre - Running Home

Aaron Pierre - Playing with Fire**

Aaron Pierre - The Reunion. Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3, Pt 4, Pt 5 ** Pt 6 (complete)

Aaron Pierre - The Games We Play **

Aaron Pierre - Unravelled **

Terry Richmond

Terry Richmond - Welcome to the Neighbourhood **

Terry Richmond - Shades of Red **

Terry Richmond - Lessons in Obsessions **

Terry Richmond - Caught In The Act **

Terry Richmond - Friction & Flames **

Terry Richmond - A Symphony of Sin ** (part 2 to Lessons in Obsessions)

Terry Richmond - I Spy **

Terry Richmond - Tequila Temptations **

Terry Richmond - Made for Me **

Terry Richmond - Confinement **

Terry Richmond - NSFW Alphabet **

Terry Richmond - Spellbound

Terry Richmond - By His Rules **

Requests

Aaron x Reader in a couple's interview

Aaron x Reader - Red Carpet Romance

Aaron x Reader - teasing and jealousy on holiday **

Dark!Terry x reader - obsession origin story **

Aaron x Reader as parents on the red carpet

"Just wanted to make sure everyone on the team is straight. This meeting was an all-hands-on-deck meeting. She's lead, and she wasn't there." I took time making sure my delivery was even and reticent. 

"Riiiiiiight," she started with a knowing eye. Technically, you've been leading since you got here, Hot Shot, and she forwarded all of her materials to you via SA Hilt. With all the information she's uncovered, I would think she's allowed a personal day or two."

"So that's what this is about? She's protesting meetings because I'm technically lead?"

"I didn't say that. I just pointed out that your statement was false and that she did her work. That work was presented on time in the meeting. That is what is required in our huddles at The Box." She was defensive and cold. 

"I see" was all I managed. 

"I'll let her know that you asked about her—for her safety, of course," she flashed a small, curt smile and went back to looking at the image on her screen. 

Taking my leave, I wondered what that was about. Am I on Donovan's shit list too? I don't even know what I did. Regardless, I needed to lay eyes on Y/N. Stakes were getting high, and anything could happen. I arrived home in the early evening after all the paperwork I had to write, fill out, and send. That's one thing I miss about just being an SA. There is very little paperwork outside of your case. Everything has to be reviewed and signed off by me, so I'm doing most of the paperwork in my department.

Breaking up the monotony of scribbling, underlining, circling, and clicking on keys, I went for a run. The trail next to my hold-up was beautiful at sunset. I would clear my head and figure out what the next move would be. In the next two days, everything has to be flawless.

I'm sure my presence is being felt on campus, judging by the stares I get from certain employees. Adrian, no matter what Y/N wants to believe, isn't clueless or harmless. He's exactly who I think he is, and if he thinks I'm law enforcement, he will likely inform others in his organization.

As I ran, I mentally reorganized the pictures on the case board in my office, picturing where Adrian fit in all this. He wasn't the main guy, but he literally came out of nowhere. Something about him doesn't feel right. How does an ordinary curator hire eyes on a college campus? How does an ordinary curator have a detail? I get the expensive cars and luxury apartments in the city, but he has influence. I just don't know why. Two miles skated by me according to my Apple watch; I could get in two more before heading home to hit the showers and re-working the case.

My body collided with another after making a sharp left turn. Contents of a cover cup slipped in the air while papers from a well-tanned leather satchel flew in the other direction. 

"Shit!" yelped the voice beneath me. 

"Damn, I'm so sorry. I didn't see you. There is sort of a blind spot…"

"It's okay. I know what you mean."

Either my eyes were deceiving me, or this was … no, my eyes definitely weren't deceiving me. I could never forget her face. Why would she be here? How was she here? If she recognizes me, that could blow the whole case, especially if she's a part of what is going on in and around that museum. She looked exactly the same as I remembered her all those years ago. She stood five foot ten inches with long jet-black hair that kissed her back two inches above her waist. Her pupils were infused with the color of jade, her lips were soft and shaped in a relaxed pout, and her facial structure was every model's dream. Her athletic frame was garbed in a loose burgundy jumpsuit and a black leather jacket.

I stood paralyzed for a moment before deciding to help her up. Holding out my hand, I pulled her onto her feet and made my way to the scattered papers. Gathering the ones I could, I returned to her to present my findings in scattered disarray. 

"Thank you"

"Again, I apologize for running into you."

"That's okay. You know, you look really familiar."

"Do I?"

"Yeah, I can't quite put my finger on it, but it feels like we've met before," she chuckled. "My friends laugh at me and tell me that I literally say that about everyone these days. My name is —"

My phone rang loudly, interrupting the sentence I didn't need her to finish. I was well aware of who she was, but I wanted to stick around and see if she remembered who I was. 

"Excuse me for a minute," I said, answering my phone. "Hello?"

The phone on the line was quiet for a moment before replying. 

"We need to talk. I can meet you at The Box."

"I'm not there. I can send you an address, though."

"Okay. I'll see you there."

I turned back, eager to pick up my previous conversation, but she was no longer there. At least that remained the same. I texted the coordinates in my phone to the caller and ran home. Showering and changing into a comfortable Maison Cashmere sweatsuit, I headed out of the location. I parked two blocks down from the side entrance and walked around until I came to the front of the diner.

After ensuring I wasn't being followed or there weren't any marks in the surrounding areas, I walked in the door. I sat in the booth in the far back and ordered a coffee. I wouldn't drink it, but I did want something to warm my hands with. Besides, coffee mugs are always made for good weapons. I had taught that lesson several times to my former students at the Corp and the occasional 'badass' who tried me. The scent accosted me. I missed it. I longed for it. I silently cursed it for being absent for so long. She sat down with another man across from me in the booth. I looked at her intently, waiting for her to explain her cryptic phone call and the man beside her. 

She took her time revealing the nature of this impromptu meeting; I made her feel my gaze until she started to speak. 

"SA Richmond, this is Matthew. Matthew, this is SA Richmond."

"SA Richmond? What does Matthew mean to this case, SA Olisa."

"Matthew is a runner for Adrien and his half-brother."

"His what?"

"His half-brother," she said shakily.

I lifted my eyes from her and turned them on him. I didn't know whether she had secured a key witness or endangered our whole case. I watched him fiddle with his ring. His hands were steady, but he kept rotating his ring with his thumb. He had a family or at least someone he cared about losing. He caught me staring at his ring and stopped fidgeting. 

"If you want to know if you should be sure about me. I don't know. I don't know about me either. I ain't never been on this side," he said, voice low and raspy. He was loyal and always had been it appeared. 

"So why are we here?"

"Cause he's going too far, and I can't have that."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that he's flying a little too close to the sun, and it's starting to affect what I got going. That's a big problem."

"So y'all couldn't work it out? Say what you're not saying, or we can leave here. I got shit to do." He looked on for a while, then began to speak.

"We were thick as thieves. I was his left and right hand. Everything was good after we came back from Panama. We were on top. Then, he took a trip to El Salvador alone. I didn't hear from him until two years later. I was managing things in his absence as he requested, but we started to worry. We went to look for him for the third time, and he just popped up. He was quiet, had new scars, had new close. He looked like my nigga, but that wasn't my nigga.

Then, he got a job as a curator. I'm thinking something happened to him and he wanted out the game. No. He wanted to maintain everything we had going on and then some. Three weeks later, a lot of whites and Latinos started showing up at our shop to talk shop. I went to sit in on a meeting, thinking that we would move more weight, but he had one of the boys tell me I was gonna sit this one out. When the meeting was over, I confronted him about it. He told me that it was a separate aspect of the business that would bring us more money than ever, and it had to do with moving illegal art. Since I didn't know much about art, he would handle that. What he did want me to do was figure out how we could move weight through sculptures and shit. I was satisfied with the answer, but I was still salty that he didn't tell me himself and had a little nigga come tell me that my presence wasn't wanted.

I started noticing he would never come by the house anymore. He used to come by every chance he got to see my kid and buy her all kinds of shit she shouldn't be having. She still hasn't seen him 'till this day. I chalked it up to him not wanting to be around the women and kids because of whatever fucked up shit he had seen when he was missing. He kept his distance, and I didn't pry. Last year, around the springtime, we dropped off the illegal art out the back of the gallery, and I saw her. Alana. He ain't tell me he had a girl. He met my great-grandmother. He wouldn't keep something like him having a girl from me unless he was truly cool on me. All the things I made up in my head about him not wanting to be around women and children were a lie. 

I went inside from the back and went to the gallery floor. I picked up a program and a glass of champagne and watched him make a speech. His eyes were hollow. Everyone clapped as he rejoined the crowd. I watched him with her…you," he said, looking at Y/N, "he looked like he found something. Like you brought a flicker of whatever he had left back to the surface.

I interrupted them and introduced myself. He was polite, but he was annoyed. After Alana and I exchanged words, he started treating me like the help. I waited until he was finished and looked him in the eye. Facing him head-on, I ensured he caught the drift I was sending before apologizing for interrupting their evening. Then I left. Since then, this niggas had been giving me dummy missions to do. Whenever I tried to confront him about what was happening, he made an excuse to leave. The last time we got into a heated exchange. 

Last week, I got a call from him saying that one of the drivers was missing and something went wrong. He needed me to be at the port, get the container, and then drop them off at another location. When I tried to question why I needed to drop off a seaside container at another location when we had already paid to occupy a private portion of the port, he told me that I needed to do what he said for once. Then he said the word 'please'. This nigga rarely used the word please and I damn sure never heard it since he got back from where ever the fuck he was for 2 years.

That's when I knew something was wrong. I got to the port, intercepted the container, and took it to the location he sent me. I had to know the reason this nigga begged me to get this container. When I opened it, I couldn't believe what the fuck I saw." His voice caught in his throat. His eyes moistened. "They not running drugs man, they running—"

"Excuse me, I was wondering if you all had an extra bottle of ketchup on your table. They forgot to bring me some packets for my burger," a stranger with a red hat said, motioning to the ketchup on the table. 

Matthew stilled. I handed the ketchup bottle to the man and turned back to Matthew. 

"Aye, I gotta go," Matthew said.

"Wait, where are you going?" Y/N asked.

"Thanks for your time," he replied.

"Matthew, you told us—" Y/N started.

"Thanks for your time," he repeated, cutting her off. 

It was no longer safe. He stood, looking at me for a second, and then he was gone just as quickly. I motioned for Y/N to sit back down. We sat quietly, eyes saying what we knew our lips could not. I stirred my tea as I looked up at all the exit signs. Where there were once slate grey doors now stood men, appearing like shadows emanating from no particular place. They varied in height but were not below 5'9". They wore dark clothing, faces obscured. No one else in the diner seemed to notice they were there until they started walking towards us from all directions. 

"210, 240, 175, 180," I said calmly, still stirring and hoping she understood what I meant. Her eyes left me, and she looked behind me.

"210, 245, 176, 180," she corrected.

I took a swing of my coffee. It was just how I liked it. 

The first man approached. Mr. 210. He approached me from the right, attempting to place his gun discreetly at my temple. His first mistake is that he got too close. Close combat was where I came alive. Grabbing the gun with my left hand and reaching the man's neck with my right, I slammed his head on the table repeatedly. The other approached from my two o'clock position to help his "friend". Y/N, to my surprise, jammed her steak knife into his right leg just in the inner.

Doubling over in pain, 245  made enough space between him and 176 for me to throw the now empty coffee mug in the air and have it land right in between 176's nose. Retrieving 210's gun from his waistline, I wasted no time firing two rounds into 176's leg and thigh. I turned around and found Y/N struggling with 180. He had her in the air by her throat. Sweat streamed down her face as she tried to free herself from his grasp. She kicked and clawed, but he was unrelenting. The light was leaving her eyes as blood failed to reach her head. As she got closer and closer to unconsciousness, so did I.

The walls began closing in, and invisible shadows took hold of my limbs. Breathing became difficult. My heart rate tripled, and my chest tightened. Vomit threatened to escape my lips while my stomach churned. My vision darkened. Her eyes turned slowly toward me as if I was the last thing she wanted to see before she went. Pleading. Summoning. Beckoning. Conjuring. Her eyes rolled back.

Blood spattered on the side of her face. She dropped. The man who previously had her in death's grasp fell to his left. The sound of his body hitting the floor caused me to look around to see who fired the shot. He wasn't the only body hitting the floor. The rest of his crew lay in puddles of their own crimson. I scanned the area quickly and realized that there was no one else here but us, and the heated metal that laid them to rest lay in my hands. Pushing the questions of how this came to be and how I couldn't remember any of it aside, I ran to her. 

"Y/N, hey, wake up for me. Please. Get up for me, sweetheart," I pleaded. She stirred but not by much. Scooping her in my arms, I headed for my vehicle. Leaving through the diner's doors, I noticed a final body lying on the floor a block away. Without getting any closer, I already knew who that body belonged to.

My pace quickened. Once in the car, I headed to the nearest hospital. In the emergency room, they peeled her from me while they placed her on a gurney and rushed her into a room. The questions and discussions around me melted into the background. I couldn't address them without addressing some of my own.

What would've happened if she died? Would I have died too? Would it have sent me back to that place? How would she explain this to that fuck nigga who probably arranged for this ambush? Could she go back there? Are her things there? Is her cover blown, and if so, how was she made? Would she mind staying with me? Is there someone she would want me to call to let them know that she's okay? Shit, is she okay?

"Sir, I need you to tell me what happened," a voice said. I looked down toward where the sound was coming from.

"It was an ambush."

"Are you too gang or law enforcement?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know what I think. You haven't answered a single question since you got here, and you showed up with an asphyxiated woman in your arms?"

Gathering the darkness in her tone and the scenario she painted, I began telling her what happened. 

"I need to use your phone. I need to call the team."

"There's a phone at the nurse's station."

Within minutes, the team swarmed into the hospital in plain clothes. I debriefed as best as I could under the circumstances. We still had no word on her whereabouts until finally, the doctor came out to the waiting room. Brooke and I were the first on our feet. 

"Is this the Olisa party?"

"Yes," Brooke and I said in unison.

"Nice to meet you all. My name is Dr. Sanders. She was fortunate. A second longer, and she wouldn't have recovered."

"So she's okay," Brooke asked, pleading for good news.

"She'll recover, but it will be slow. A good bit of time passed when oxygen wasn't getting to her brain. Her memory will start coming back slowly but surely. She knows who and where she is but doesn't remember how she got here. Hopefully, seeing your faces will jog her memory. I will say her reflexes are impeccable."

"What do you mean?" I inquired. 

"Well, one of the nurses startled her, and she grabbed a syringe from the table and stabbed him with it. The whole thing happened in less than 2 seconds," he replied, fascinated.

"That's slow for her. I need to see her," Brooke urged. 

"I can take you to her, and you all can visit her two by two. She will need her rest, but I understand that you all have questions to ask her," he finished, leading Brooke to the room.

Two by two team members went into her room and visited her. Some debriefed her and reported how much she knew. 

"Sir, she can't go back to that apartment," I blurted. I didn't know that her cover wasn't already blown or how she would explain what happened today. Her phone was in the wind, and she hadn't checked in with that nigga all day. 

"We have people sitting in the apartment. No one has come in or out of there since you placed the call. Y/N had people tailing Adrian when she apprehended the asset. He was at the museum all day. We don't know who is behind this or how much Adrian knows. Until we find that out, her being in the wind will raise suspicion."

"With all due respect, I don't give a shit. She's not going back there."

"Not sure when you and Y/N got so close, but you need to get over that and look at this logically. This is going on 6 months of hard work, and how we handle this is crucial."

"She brings his former right hand in and is ambushed at a diner across town. Do you think this is, what, a coincidence?"

"You should watch your tone. We've known her way longer than you have. We all have a vested interest in making sure whoever did this pays for what they did. Now is not the time to get reckless."

"She doesn't even remember this asshole. What lie are you going to make her say that is actually going to stick.? Her life depends on lying this day away and making it so convincing that he doesn't dig further into who left marks on her neck. You haven't met this nigga. He's not the type to let that go. He's either going to think she's fucking around and would burn the city looking for who she's sleeping with, or he knows how and why she's fucked up right now and will be looking to finish the job. You're sending her right into the pit. It's all fucked. She's not going back there."

"Where do you think it's safe for her to go to?"

"With me."

"And you think internal affairs would be good with that?

"I'll have her held up at her own space of my choosing where I can have close eyes on her and guys I trust until I string that bitch up and get answers."

He stopped asking questions because he knew my mind was made up and there was no use in discussing the topic any further. He cursed under his breath and left, pressing numbers into his cell phone. I hoped whoever he was calling was packing up all her shit from her house because she was coming with me. She was mine. 

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As always, thanks for reading!! Check out all the previous parts here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4. Please hit the comments with your feedback, give suggestions on what you'd like to see, and let me know who you like and don't. Talk TO ME!!! I've tagged everyone that I could remember, but if you're coming across me for the first time and want to be tagged in this fic or any others, please comment and let me know you wanna be tagged!

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The smell of steamed milk clung to the air, heavy and warm, competing with the bitter tang of espresso and the faint sweetness of pastries. She tied her hair back again, cursing the bun that never stayed in place, and wiped a stray curl from her temple. The order screen blinked insistently: “Two cappuccinos, one flat white.” She moved toward the machine with the automatic ease that had become muscle memory.

At the corner table, he was there. A man she would have passed a dozen times without notice if not for the subtle difference — the straight posture, the calm that seemed to ignore the chaos around him, the way his hands rested lightly on the edge of the table, not clutching, not restless. He didn’t watch her. Not really. He merely existed in the space she moved through, a presence almost ambient, like the gentle buzz of fluorescent light.

She wiped the counter and glanced at the line, barely registering him. The tip jar chimed when she added coins; she didn’t notice his hand brushing the glass on the far side, leaving a little more than expected. A small, fleeting detail that felt like nothing at all.

He noted the curl of her bun resisting the heat, the slight tension in her shoulders when she leaned into the counter, the way her eyes scanned the orders, flicked up at a customer’s smile, then returned. He noted it all, silently, for no one to see but himself.

The espresso hissed. She adjusted the grinder. He sipped, unmoving. He didn’t intrude. He simply aligned with her world.

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Her rhythm continued, uninterrupted. She called out names and drinks with automatic clarity, hands moving faster than thought, energy flowing from caffeine, obligation, and habit. Somewhere behind her mind’s eye, the world narrowed, and she didn’t see him as anything more than background — polite, unobtrusive, forgettable.

But he remembered.

The way her eyes lingered on the froth just before serving, the way a brow twitched at the corner of a smile, the tilt of her head — the small, intricate music of her body in motion. He catalogued nothing in words. It didn’t need words. He would know her in the silences.

A customer dropped a cup; she laughed, briefly. He barely glanced. But the glance he gave her later, over the rim of his coffee, carried something she didn’t yet register — familiarity unclaimed.

It would be inevitable, eventually. But not today. Today, he was simply there, and she was herself.

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The café thinned. Morning gave way to early afternoon, chatter dimming as orders slowed. He remained, adjusting nothing, observing only what passed freely in the air between them. She passed by his table once, carrying a tray, and their fingers brushed on the edge of the ceramic. She barely noticed.

“Flat white,” she said to herself more than him, placing it down. She smiled faintly — for the coffee, not for him.

He sipped. Quiet. Immeasurable.

And when she finally paused, leaning against the counter, letting a moment of breath pass between tasks, she didn’t know it yet, but her world had subtly shifted. A presence, measured and consistent, had been born inside it — immaculate and unremarkable, yet fated.

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━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ She wiped down the counter, fingers damp from the rinse of cold water, hair escaping her bun with stubborn little curls. The diary propped beside the till caught her eye for a fraction of a second — colour-coded, neat, a stark contrast to her own scattered thoughts. She didn’t notice him at first, seated in the corner, coffee untouched, gaze steady yet unobtrusive.

“Three lattes, please,” she called, voice even, brushing off the tug at her sleeve as another customer approached. She didn’t turn, didn’t notice his faint nod, the way his posture didn’t shift with the crowd around him.

The coin jar chimed under her hand. He left something inside, a sum just enough to feel like chance. She glanced down, blinked, and thought: lucky day. Nothing more. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━●━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ He watched the curve of her shoulder as she moved between machine and counter, cataloguing minutiae: the pause before she set the cup, the small crease at the corner of her eye, the rhythm of her steps.

The diary had been visible for only a moment before he glanced away — a brief scan sufficed. Colour-coded, neat, and readable in the short span she’d never realised he noticed. He didn’t need to know everything, only enough to anticipate her patterns: when she was busiest, where she went next, what she could not or would not carry alone.

She looked up briefly, scanning the queue, unaware that her life had already been mapped in silent observation. The world buzzed around her, normal and unremarkable, but within it, he had already calculated what mattered. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ “Is that for me?” she murmured, picking up the coins, brow furrowed.

He sipped the coffee he hadn’t touched, minimal, careful, precise. No answer needed. The gesture wasn’t a question. It wasn’t interaction. It was a system operating, silent, invisible.

She tucked the thought away, filing it under coincidence. The diary was her own; the coffee was hers to serve; he was simply another customer — for now.

And yet. He observed. Always.

The clatter of cups and chatter of conversation formed a backdrop to his attention, but it was her movements, her small gestures, the fraction of fatigue slipping into her expression, that he registered. Every pause, every tilt of her head, every breath measured and stored.

She never noticed the calibration. She never would. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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The door fought her on the way in, the autumn draught slipping past the hinges and curling around her curls. Her hair had escaped its bun, cheeks flushed with the cold and the effort of running late. She muttered a short apology to no one and weaved between chairs, keys jangling in her pocket.

She didn’t see him. Not yet.

The staff area offered a brief reprieve — a moment to smooth the bun back into place, tug the apron tighter, reclaim composure. When she returned to the floor, something made her pause. He was there. Not in the dark suit of before, but in casual layers, sleeves pushed up, laptop open, coffee cooling at his side. Familiar, yet unrecognisable.

Her brow furrowed for half a second. “Has he been here long?” she asked her co-worker, more out of habit than curiosity.

“I don't know. Quiet as always,” came the reply.

She moved on, completing her rounds. By the time she reached the corner table, she glanced down at the cup, then up at him. “Flat white, I presume?”

He didn’t ignore the question. He tilted his head, measured, careful. “You alright?” he asked lightly. Not concern. Not insistence. Just space.

She laughed — short, breathless. “Yeah. Traffic was hell. My car hates me.”

A new data point. Filed. Stored.

He stepped closer, tip jar between them. Coins dropped in — consistent, enough to mark presence but not to alarm.

“Long day?” he asked.

She nodded, pouring the milk with care. “Second shift. Library earlier. This is my closing one.”

Library. He didn’t comment. Only a tilt of the head, refining the picture silently.

“That’s a lot,” he said. Statement. Not admiration, not pity.

“Temporary. I’m finishing my degree. Fees don’t pay themselves,” she replied, handing him the cup. Fingers brushed porcelain, a fleeting acknowledgment.

He took it, still untouched. “Respectable. Still showing up twice in one day.”

Her smile was slower this time, genuine in a quiet, unpractised way. “I don’t really have a choice.”

He didn’t correct her.

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Closing came quietly. Chairs lifted, lights dimmed. She wiped the counter one last time, stretching her back with a small wince she didn’t think anyone noticed.

He waited.

Outside, the street was darker now, the air sharper. She locked the door behind them, keys jangling, and fumbled briefly with her phone.

“Car still being difficult?” he asked, glancing toward a modest vehicle parked a little further down the street. The model was unremarkable, chosen purposefully — enough to appear casual, unassuming, to avoid the weight of expectation, yet still an opportunity to remove friction from her day.

She exhaled, a quiet mix of fatigue and resignation. “Battery’s been dodgy all week. Just hoping it holds.”

“I drove,” he said softly. “If you want a lift. Just this once.”

She hesitated, calculating — not out of distrust, but because habit dictated self-sufficiency. He didn’t rush, didn’t press. Presence alone held weight.

“…Alright,” she said finally. “That’d be really kind.”

He opened the door for her, effortlessly, without ceremony. The journey was quiet at first — measured, precise — yet it allowed her to settle, to speak.

“Library was packed today. Couldn’t find a single empty desk,” she said, a note of frustration beneath the factual tone.

He nodded, attentive, saying nothing but giving space.

“Assignments piling up. I thought I had one week to finish three essays, turns out I misread the deadlines,” she continued.

He glanced toward the road, then back to her. Each pause, each word, catalogued naturally — not interrogation, just awareness.

“It’s just… everything at once, you know?” she added, eyes briefly meeting his.

He allowed a small, acknowledging nod. No judgment. No attempt to soothe. Presence was enough.

By the time they arrived, she had outlined enough of her week, her struggles, and her routines that he could now anticipate needs, plan interventions, and understand the scaffolding of her life — all without her realizing she was being mapped, cared for, observed.

He dropped her off at her humble address, noting the turns, lighting, and pace of her steps. He didn’t linger. Not yet.

She stepped inside, unaware of how many variables had been accounted for, how friction had quietly been removed, how the space for future dialogue and eventual reliance; had just been created.

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After that, the rhythm shifted — subtly, naturally.

Some nights he waited at the end of her shift. Not every time. Just often enough that it felt incidental. He’d be seated somewhere unobtrusive, coffee cooling beside him, presence folded neatly into the room.

It never felt deliberate. That was the trick of it.

“You ever stop?” he asked one evening, watching her wipe down the counter.

She glanced up, surprised — not by the voice, but by the attention. “Hm?”

“I always see you working,” he continued. “Never on a break. Have you actually eaten?”

She laughed before she could overthink it. “Is that a trick question?”

“Answerable, though.”

She shrugged. “Coffee counts. Sometimes.”

He nodded, confirming something only he could see.

“Come on,” he said, already standing. “There’s a place down the road.”

“Now?”

“It’s quick.”

She hesitated. Habit again.

“…Alright.”

The restaurant was small. Unassuming. Close enough to her street that she blinked when she realised where they were.

“I didn’t know this was here.”

“Most people don’t.”

Inside, she scanned the menu, lips moving faintly as she weighed options aloud without meaning to.

“This sounds good but maybe too heavy, and this is nice but—”

He ordered while she spoke.

When the plates arrived, she stared. “You’re joking.”

“You leaned in at that one,” he said. “And frowned at the spice.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “That’s unsettling.”

“Effective,” he replied.

She ate like someone who hadn’t realised how hungry she was until it was too late to pretend otherwise. Words spilled easier after that — about exams, about tuition, about the strange relief of being near the end.

He paid before she noticed. Tipped enough that the waiter thanked him twice.

Outside, the night had cooled further.

He draped his jacket over her shoulders without asking.

“I’m fine,” she protested weakly.

“I know,” he said. “Take it anyway.”

She did.

They stopped short of her place — close enough to recognise, far enough to still feel accidental.

“Thanks,” she said. “For the food. And the company.”

“Anytime.”

No hug. No kiss. No pause heavy with meaning.

She slept better that night than she had in weeks.

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He arrived early.

Not by much, just enough to settle without being seen doing so. The top floor of the library was predictably quiet, the air dense with concentration and the low electric hum of minds at work. He chose the seat without hesitation.

Her seat.

It had taken him three visits to confirm it. Window-adjacent, far enough from the stairwell to avoid traffic, close enough to the radiator to make winter tolerable. A place chosen by someone who needed to be left alone but not entirely unmoored.

He set his laptop down. Opened it. Let the screen glow softly, indistinct from the others scattered around the room.

Two coffees sat beside him.

She would expect one.

She always did.

When she arrived, she didn’t look for him — not at first. She dropped her bag, rolled her shoulders once, already mentally bracing for the hours ahead. It wasn’t until she slid into the chair opposite that she paused.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “You’re already here.”

A flicker of surprise. Not alarm. Not suspicion.

“Library ran long,” she added, by way of explanation, as if he might need one.

“I figured,” he replied, equally quiet.

She smiled, brief and tired, already opening her laptop. The greeting was minimal now. Familiar. Efficient. They both understood the terms: this was work time.

Silence settled easily between them.

She worked the way she lived — methodically, without complaint. Pages turned. Notes annotated. Occasionally she tugged her hair free from its tie, only to wind it absently around her fingers again as she read. He noted the crease forming between her brows. The way she rubbed the bridge of her nose when a paragraph resisted comprehension.

Fifteen minutes passed.

She took a distracted bite from an apple, already browning at the edges. Set it down. Forgot it.

The water bottle beside her remained unopened.

He didn’t interrupt.

He waited until the pattern confirmed itself.

Then he slid the envelope across the table.

No preamble. No flourish. Just enough pressure to make it noticeable when her elbow brushed it.

She glanced down, frowning. “What’s this?”

“Food and taxi fare,” he said quietly. “For the week.”

Her instinctive response surfaced immediately. “I can’t—”

“Eat,” he interrupted, not sharply. Not unkindly. Simply final. “And leave the car at home. You’ve got too much on your plate as it is.”

She stared at the envelope a moment longer than necessary. He watched the internal negotiation play out — the reflex to refuse, the fatigue that dulled it, the relief waiting just beneath.

“…I’ll pay you back,” she said, automatically.

“No.”

Not raised. Not softened.

Closed.

She exhaled, shoulders lowering a fraction. “Thank you.”

Dutiful. Sincere.

She tucked the envelope into her bag without opening it.

Work resumed.

The hours passed until cold crept too insistently through the glass, until the library staff began their quiet circuit of warnings. She packed up reluctantly, stretching fingers stiff from effort.

Outside, the night had sharpened.

Her car waited, faithful only in theory.

He didn’t comment as she unlocked it, though disapproval registered cleanly and without emotion. This variable was unresolved. Temporary.

“I’ll get it looked at,” she said, reading something in his stillness. “Leave it in the garage for the week.”

“Good,” he replied.

They parted without ceremony.

Later, his phone lit up.

Home safe. Twenty minutes after that: Food arrived. Thank you again.

He didn’t respond immediately.

He didn’t need to.

The system was holding.

For now.

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Exam season hollowed her days out.

Café shifts had all but vanished; the library became her refuge — somewhere to escape the walls of her room when they pressed too close. Revision notes followed her everywhere. Meals were incidental. Sleep irregular.

She hadn’t asked him to come.

He simply did.

Not hovering. Not insisting. Just present — settled in a far corner with his laptop, working in parallel silence. It didn’t feel like supervision. It felt like balance. Someone else inhabiting the same hours so they didn’t collapse inward.

She appreciated it more than she admitted.

That afternoon, she was halfway through a practice paper when the low buzz of the library desk broke the quiet.

A staff member leaned in. “There’s a parcel for you.”

She frowned, checked the time, then followed them to the desk. The box waiting there wasn’t familiar.

“Signature, please.”

She signed absently, already trying to place it.

Back at the table, she turned the box once, then twice. A single envelope rested neatly on top — unsealed, unadorned.

One word, written in careful script.

Dove.

She smiled before she could stop herself. A quiet breath left her — not surprise, not suspicion. Recognition, somehow.

“That’s… new,” she murmured.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t think to.

Exhaustion made things easier to accept. She told herself it must have been something she’d ordered and forgotten — exam season did strange things to memory.

Inside the box: notebooks in muted tones. A thermos. A small, practical hamper of food — nothing indulgent, nothing excessive. Enough to get her through the week without disruption.

She paused.

Not startled. Not wary.

Just still.

“Well,” she said quietly, almost amused. “That’s thoughtful.”

From across the table, he watched the way her shoulders softened, the subtle easing she hadn’t noticed herself. She touched the notebooks, lingered a moment longer than necessary, then nodded faintly — as if something had aligned.

“Thank you,” she added, softly, to the space between them.

Her eyes brushed his.

He inclined his head. Nothing more.

The items disappeared into her routine without fuss. The thermos filled. The notebooks stacked neatly beside her laptop. The food set aside with intention.

Pages turned. Pencil scratched.

When she sighed, rubbing at the bridge of her nose, he nudged the thermos closer without comment. She poured. Nodded. Continued.

Their knees brushed under the table. Neither reacted.

A pen slipped from her bag. He caught it before it hit the floor, placed it beside her notes. She glanced up, offered a small smile, and returned to work.

Time passed unnoticed.

Eventually, she stretched, rolling her shoulders with a low hum of fatigue. He closed his laptop slowly, the sound muted.

“Done for the day?” he asked.

“Almost,” she said. “One more review later.”

He stood, gathering his things.

Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows — light, persistent. He didn’t comment on it. Didn’t suggest anything.

“I’ll let you get back to it,” he said instead.

She nodded. “Thanks. For… today.”

He paused just long enough to acknowledge it, then stepped away.

She watched him leave the floor, his presence lifting without disturbance — like something essential switching off without consequence.

She returned to her notes, steadier than before.

The name stayed with her longer than it should have.

Dove.

She wondered, briefly, why it fit so well.

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The weeks following her final exams unfolded almost imperceptibly. Each milestone — a graded essay, a returned assignment, an examination result — was met with quiet acknowledgment, delivered not through fanfare, but with precise attention. A small parcel at the door. A note folded with her name, elegant and minimal: Dove. Practical items first: notebooks, thermoses, groceries. Then, subtle indulgences — scented candles, a single silk scarf, chocolates, a journal with gilt edges. Nothing that could overshadow her world, yet everything that drew her closer to his.

She began to notice patterns, though she called them coincidence: the timing of deliveries, the lightness of the notes, the way the items always seemed to arrive just when she needed them. She never considered him outright — the thought barely brushed her mind. There was always a practical explanation: her own forgetfulness, errands from friends, the universe’s good timing. Each time, she arranged the items carefully, integrated them seamlessly into her day, and carried on with her life.

And yet, beneath the surface, the rhythm was shifting. She found herself finishing her library shifts earlier, taking a moment to breathe, because she suspected a familiar presence might be waiting. A coffee in hand. Laptop open. Quietly, unobtrusively, doing his own work as if the world outside did not exist. She did not question why he was there. She simply felt the continuity, the comfort of a second shadow, steady and unwavering, moving in tandem with her own.

As weeks passed, the milestones grew heavier, more deliberate. Exam results, small celebrations. Each gift arrived not as extravagance, but as acknowledgement, a subtle framing of her world with care and attention. A quiet dinner to mark the end of an exam period, an afternoon tea after a particularly brutal essay. She noticed the thoughtfulness, the timing, and wondered at her luck. She never questioned the orchestration behind it. He was simply… there.

On one such evening, after a particularly long study session, she finally lingered on his sofa, books abandoned for a moment of rest. He adjusted the blanket without asking, a subtle straightening of the space around her. Her head tilted slightly, hair spilling onto the cushion. He let it lie. The movement was imperceptible but precise, and she felt it as comfort, not intrusion. The world had narrowed to this shared, unspoken domesticity. Her choices untouched. Her autonomy intact. Yet every friction, every minor inconvenience she had struggled with over the past months had been removed before it touched her.

And yet… the moment of serenity carried with it the faintest trace of calculation. Graduation was over. Exams were behind her. Future plans emerged from the shadows of her thoughts. Post-grad ambitions, interviews, applications. Variables. And Terry, watching her quietly, felt the smallest, subtlest irritation: not at her, not at the choices she made, but at the return of unpredictability.

Why move when the system is already aligned?

It was a tiny fracture, a pause in the perfection of his observation. But he said nothing. He did not correct. He did not intervene. Yet he catalogued, adjusted, accounted. If friction existed, it was simply an opportunity for further smoothing.

The subtlety of his presence, the rhythm of his interventions, the gentle imposition of care and attention, had begun to weave her life into his orbit. She remained unaware. She felt only the continuity, the ease, the quiet pleasure of shared silence, and the faint warmth of being observed and accounted for.

One evening, weeks after the milestone deliveries began, he raised a glass in their first proper toast — the first he had called it.

“Practice,” he said, flat, measured.

She laughed, the sound light, bright, almost disbelieving. “Don’t be silly. If this is the first one, then what were the others?”

He tipped his glass just slightly, eyes steady. “Practice.”

The crystal rims clinked. Champagne caught the dim light, casting an iridescent glint across her fingers, down the line of her outfit, from head to toe. Everything about her screamed refinement, careful curation, a life brushed against by wealth and taste, but it was hers, not borrowed. She examined him, briefly — his ensemble a mastery of form, his movements deliberate yet unshowy. She thought, fleetingly, of luck, of chance, of timing — of how it could have all aligned so perfectly. But the alignment was never chance.

In the quiet, calculated interventions, the unremarked attention, the delicate gifts, the rhythm of shared silence, she had begun to move entirely within his orbit. Choices preserved. Autonomy intact. Yet the world had subtly shifted. He was no longer optional.

And she would never know the extent — not yet.

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The air was still. Rain drummed softly against the window, a muted accompaniment to the faint hum of the city beyond. She entered the apartment quietly, carrying her bag and leaving the weight of exams, deadlines, and the slow drain of months spent surviving on caffeine and stolen moments of sleep. Terry was already there, in the corner of the living room, laptop closed, a single book beside him. Presence without intrusion. Comfort without commentary.

“Evening,” he said lightly, not looking up. She nodded in return, shedding her coat, settling into the space as though it had always belonged to her alone.

He had prepared the evening with subtle precision. Nothing ostentatious — no overt display of wealth, no grandiose gestures. But every detail carried weight: the soft golden light, a low scent of vanilla lingering in the room, a place set for her at the table, the faintest arrangement of flowers in a muted vase. Every object, every flicker of light, designed to be noticed but never announced. She could choose to see it, or not. She did.

Dinner arrived, quiet, unremarkable to anyone else, but to her, it felt deliberate in ways she couldn’t place. The food was warm, familiar, comforting — nourishing, not indulgent. She paused at the table, momentarily considering the calm of the scene, the rhythm of this shared silence. Terry sat opposite her, arms relaxed, eyes attentive, allowing her to be fully present without interruption.

Small gestures, familiar now, wove between them. A napkin adjusted; a plate slid closer. The chair tilted just so when she leaned forward. He noticed the faint crease at the corner of her eyes, the tug at her nose bridge, the habitual restlessness of shoulders that had carried too much for too long. All corrected without comment. All without demand.

After dinner, he disappeared briefly, returning with a soft package. She looked up, curious, unguarded.

A golden gown, folded neatly, accompanied by matching jewellery and shoes. She blinked.

“You’ll want to change,” he said simply. No ceremony. No flourish. Just presence and expectation — two words interlaced in silence.

She took it slowly, brushing fingers over the silk and weightless fabric. It was rich, impossibly smooth, luxurious beyond her usual life. The gold caught the light in a way that made her own reflection strange, unfamiliar. She almost laughed at the incongruity — herself, the girl who had carried coffee orders and textbooks across town, now holding something fit for a ceremonial evening. She thought she might feel out of place. She didn’t.

Terry watched from the doorway, a quiet observer. The small lift of her brow as she lifted the gown. The pause as she touched the matching jewellery. The way her hair fell differently when brushing past her shoulders. Every shift catalogued, every reaction noted. Not for judgment. For alignment.

When she finally appeared in the dress, he rose, still quiet, still deliberate. The room held its breath as he looked at her, not with possessive hunger, but with a slow, meticulous certainty. She paused at the foot of the table, self-conscious, aware of the richness she had never expected to inhabit.

“Do you know why I wanted you to wear this,” he asked softly, voice steady, “and why I call you ‘Dove’?”

She shook her head. Unease flickered for a moment, tempered instantly by the familiarity of his presence.

He stepped closer, lifting his hand with care, tracing the line of her collarbone — intimate but reverent. His fingers cupped her jaw, thumb pressing gently against her pulse point. Not force. Not menace. Just… correction. Attention. Presence.

“Because,” he murmured, deliberate and unhurried, “you are my bird, and this is your golden cage.”

She blinked, heart catching — but not in alarm. Not in revolt. Only recognition, quiet and almost imperceptible. Her body, her mind, had long since adapted to this rhythm. She had been moving through a life carefully aligned, adjusted, and maintained — and now it had a name.

The light glinted against her jewellery. Gold, iridescent, perfect. Her gown flowed around her as she stood, dejected, obsolete, eternally clueless. She had never felt trapped, had never felt forced. And yet the words settled around her like air: inevitable, undeniable, permanent.

Terry stepped back slightly, releasing her jaw, but the gravity of his presence remained. He did not linger unnecessarily. He did not offer comfort or explanation. The sentence was complete.

She turned, slowly, to the table, to the food still warm, to the familiar surroundings. The space had not changed. The air had not shifted. But she had.

Outside, the rain continued. Quiet, steady. Unseen.

Inside, the golden cage gleamed. And she walked within it freely, fully, unresisting, the spell unbroken, the enchantment complete.

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Because unsurprisingly, to those lucky enough to know what’s beneath the surface, Terry is nothing if not devoted. And that devotion doesn’t stop when the sex does - in fact, that’s when it sharpens. He’s not the type to rush. He stays close, grounded, watching every tremor in her breath with that unblinking focus of his, waiting to see what she needs or if she can speak at all. If she can’t, that’s fine. He already knows.

There’s a kind of reverence to how he moves afterward. She’ll find herself cleaned up without ever needing to ask, ice water placed on the bedside table, fresh sheets already pulled tight. A bath is drawn, steam curling from the door as he helps her step in, and if her muscles are sore, which, under his hands, they often are - his fingers will find every knot with the same ruthless precision he’d use clearing a weapon. Terry’s love is measured in actions, not words.

She’s lotioned down head to toe with practiced care, her favourite pyjamas waiting at the foot of the bed, a silk scarf gently tied to protect her hair but only after he’s oiled her scalp, thumbs pressing slow and sure like it’s holy work. He doesn’t speak unless she needs him to. But his touch - steady, firm, unrelenting in its care - tells her everything she needs to know.

You’re safe. You’re mine. I’ve got you.

B = Body Part (his favourite body part of his and his partner’s)

His own? It’s his shoulders. Always has been. Not just for how they look - broad, sculpted, unmistakably powerful but for what they represent. They’re where he carries the weight of his world: duty, regret, discipline, loss. And her. Especially her. It’s where she clings when she buries herself against him, face tucked into his neck, arms circling like she’s trying to hold the very foundation of the man together. It’s also where her legs go - flung high and trembling, draped over his shoulders while he locks his arms around her knees and fucks her deep, steady, unrelenting. There’s no part of that position he doesn’t love: the helpless arch of her spine, the ragged pitch of her breath, the quake in her thighs just before she breaks. She never escapes him like that. She doesn’t even try.

As for her body? Where does he begin. There’s no part of her he doesn’t favour. She was made for him. That’s what it feels like, every time he lays his hands on her. Perfectly built to fit into his arms, against his chest, underneath the full press of his weight. Her smaller stature leaves her nestled so neatly beneath his - he never has to try hard to shield her. And he lives for that contrast. Her hips, wide and soft beneath his palms, make for the perfect anchor. Her neck? A canvas for his marks, a place his lips return to night after night. Her breasts - full, sensitive, hers - seem to respond to nothing but him. But it’s her stomach that always stops him. The stretch marks, the give beneath his hand, that faint tattoo that curls from her back and trails over her side - he kisses it every single time like it’s the first. And maybe it is worship, the way his mouth lingers there longer than anywhere else.

He doesn’t just know her body. He’s memorised it. Charted it like a map. He knows her body better than his own weaponry. Better than the sound of his own voice.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Terry Richmond is a traditional man, in every brutal, beautiful sense of the word. He comes inside his woman or not at all. That’s the point. That’s the claim. That’s the ritual. He waits, stays buried deep, unmoving - just to feel her flutter around him, to watch the subtle shift in her features when it all hits at once. Her orgasm. His. The tension between their bodies snapping like wire pulled too tight. He doesn’t pull out until he’s sure every last drop is right where it belongs.

And then the part he never skips - he makes her walk. Shaky, fucked-out legs, body still trying to remember how to breathe. He doesn’t help her. Not at first. He just watches, arms crossed, silent and smug, as gravity takes its course and the evidence of what they’ve done together spills down her thighs. There’s reverence in it. Possession. Filth.

Making her cum is less about pleasure and more about proof. Multiple positions. No shortcuts. No mercy. He doesn’t stop until she’s writhing, the sheets soaked beneath her, and she’s left speechless - not because he demands it, but because she has nothing left to give. Her moans are his favourite sound in the world, but no one else gets to hear them. The room’s soundproofed, his design. No one hears her cry out but him. No one ever will.

And just before she breaks, just before her body clenches tight and drags him down with her - he looks her dead in the eye. That’s the moment he wants her to see it. The shift in his face. The fire in his gaze. The exact second the man she knows becomes the man who ruins her, again and again.

D = Dirty Secret (a secret or unexpected turn-on)

On the surface, Terry Richmond is a man made of command: hard jaw, sharper eyes, voice that never needs to rise above a low register to be obeyed. Every inch of him reads “control.” Which is why it would come as a surprise, to anyone but her, that his dirtiest secret is this: he loves when she takes over.

Not often. Not always. But when she decides to flip the script, to pin him down, ride him slow, leave him begging with nothing but the roll of her hips and the drag of her fingernails across his chest? That’s when she sees it - the man who commands entire rooms coming undone at the altar of her body. It’s not submission. It’s devotion. It’s knowing he could throw her off at any second, but choosing not to. Choosing to be undone. Choosing to give her the same power he wields everywhere else.

It’s not about being topped. It’s about being hers.

E = Experience (how much experience do they have, how good are they?)

He’s not the kind of man who talks about his past - especially not in the bedroom. But if you’re wondering if he’s had his fair share of partners, the answer is yes… and no.

There were women, here and there - more when he was younger, before the weight of the world settled across his shoulders. Most of them blurred together, bodies used more for stress relief than intimacy. He turned down more opportunities than he took, never out of prudishness - just disinterest. If it wasn’t meaningful, if it wasn’t mutual, he didn’t see the point.

But Terry is a strategist before he’s anything else. And strategy starts with observation. He studies her - every twitch, every stuttered breath, every shift in the rhythm of her moans. He learns fast. Remembers everything. And once she’s his? She becomes the only curriculum he’ll ever need.

F = Favourite Position (what do they prefer, and why?)

It depends on the night - on the weight he’s carrying, on how much she needs to forget, on how much he needs to feel.

But more often than not, it’s chest to chest. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her back arching to press them closer, breaths mingling in the small space between them. Eyes locked. Skin slick. Heartbeats syncing. He fucks like he fights: with precision, intention, and focus and he wants to see her come apart under him.

Sometimes he holds her face in both hands as he moves inside her, like she might disappear if he looks away. Other times, he tucks his forehead against hers and stays completely silent, except for the way his hips keep moving and his hands don’t let go. For Terry, eye contact isn’t just a kink - it’s a confession.

Every thrust says what he won’t out loud: I see you. I need you. I’m not leaving.

G = Goofy (are they silly in bed?)

Terry Richmond is not goofy. He doesn’t crack jokes mid-thrust, doesn’t fumble, doesn’t break into boyish laughter when something slips or squeaks or shifts. That kind of playfulness doesn’t suit him, not with everything he’s been through. He’s far too composed, too deliberate. Always in control. Always watching.

But that doesn’t mean he’s humourless.

No - Terry’s version of “play” comes in the form of teasing, the kind that walks the line between cocky and cruel. The kind of low-voiced taunts that make her breath catch and her legs tremble. “Oh? Is it too much for you now?” A tilt of his head. That slow, wicked smile that only ever shows when she’s split open beneath him. “Then you’d better hold on”.

And just like that, he’s nudging her thighs wider with his knees, his palm closing tightly around her throat, the other braced against the headboard as he fucks her deeper and harder, with the same cool precision he uses to handle a weapon.

It’s not humour. It’s dominance dressed in charm. And if she dares to answer back? He makes her regret it… or beg for more.

H = Hair (how well-kept are they?)

Terry takes immaculate care of himself. Always has. From the cut of his beard to the shape of his brows to the way his body hair stays groomed without ever being bare - it’s not vanity, it’s discipline. The kind of upkeep that was drilled into him in the field, refined in civilian life, and perfected the moment he found someone he wanted to look good for.

He doesn’t believe in showing up as anything less than his best, for himself, yes, but especially for her. She deserves to look at a man who knows what pride in appearance looks like. A man who knows the value of presentation - of presence.

As for how she keeps herself? He has no preferences, no requests. Her body is hers. Full stop. The fact that she gives it to him at all - bares herself to him, lets him see her in every state, every angle, every inch. That’s the real honour. And Terry treats it as such. Always.

I = Intimacy (how romantic are they?)

Intimacy isn’t a mood for Terry. It’s his mother tongue.

It’s in the way he handles her like she’s breakable and indestructible all at once. In the way he holds her after just as tight as he did during. It’s in the way he says her name - low, reverent, like it costs him something every time and he’d pay it a thousand times over.

With Terry, love is suffocating. Not in a way that overwhelms, but in a way that fills. Every room. Every breath. Every corner of her body until all that’s left is him. She breathes him in - and he holds her steady when the world tilts on its axis.

He doesn’t speak in flowery declarations. Doesn’t send poems or write long letters. But his love is devotional. It’s adoration in action. It’s in the way he slows down when she starts to speed up. The way his thumbs trace lazy circles into her hips long after they’ve stopped moving. It’s the quiet pride on his face when she melts under his touch like he’s just witnessed something sacred. It’s the blanket pulled up to her chin before she can shiver. The pad of his thumb brushing over her bottom lip, not to hush her - just to feel her. And when she’s half-asleep, limbs tangled with his, skin humming from everything they’ve shared - that’s when he presses his mouth to her temple and breathes the only truth that ever mattered: Mine. Still. Always.

J = J*ck Off (masturbation headcanon)

Yes, but rarely. Some would call it denial. Terry calls it preservation. Why settle for fantasy when the real thing ruins him so thoroughly every time? Still, when the ache coils too tight and the nights stretch too long, he lets himself give in. But even then, it’s never just about release. It’s about her. The way she arches when he grabs a fistful of her hair and drags her hips back to meet his thrusts. The soft hiss she makes when he licks a stripe along her collarbone. The crack in her voice when she moans his name like it’s a prayer and a curse all at once. His hands move with a mind of their own. Rough. Focused. Ruthless. Fists wrapping around his length, mimicking her grip - sliding, tugging, pumping, desperate for the relief only she truly offers. Sometimes he pictures her watching. Mouth parted. Eyes locked on his. Talking him through it like only she can. His tip flushed, swollen, threatening to spill, he pushes harder. Faster. Until the knot inside him snaps. When the pressure snaps and he spills hot across his own thighs, he just closes his eyes and breathes through the comedown. And still, for a moment, he stays in the silence. Chest rising. Fingers twitching. Eyes closed. Not ashamed. Just imagining how much better it’ll feel when it’s her hands next time. Her heat. Her body. Because waiting for her? That’s not denial. He tells himself he can wait a little longer until he can have all of her again.

K = Kink (one of more of his kinks)

Terry is controlled, but never boring. Experimental, but never careless. A beautiful oxymoron. He’s a man of studied extremes and nothing excites him more than seeing her toe that line. Restraint is a favourite. Ropes, wrist cuffs, the ring loops he’s fitted into their headboard; all to keep her laid out, helpless, and entirely at his mercy. Blindfolds sometimes. Headphones, rarely. But her mouth? Never. He'd sooner carve his own heart out than miss the way she begs, pleads, breaks for him. Because that voice - ragged, raw, soaked in want, is his anchor and undoing both. He doesn’t play for noise. He plays for ruin. And if her voice isn't echoing through his bones, it’s not worth the game.

L = Location (their favourite place)

Nowhere beats their bedroom - the sanctity, the scent, the sweat-soaked sheets that still hold memories in the morning. But the living room? That’s where the devil in him stirs. There’s something about seeing her bent over the back of the sofa, flushed and wrecked, skin marked where only he knows to look. Even better when they have company over. Watching her glide through the room with practiced grace, laughing, offering drinks, hair still damp from the shower he pulled her into after fucking her face down on the cushions. No one suspects a thing. Except her. Because her thighs still tremble. Her voice still cracks. And she knows damn well that when the last guest leaves, he’s taking her right back there and starting all over again.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

It goes without saying that Terrance Richmond is a man of order. Regime. Discipline. That control extends into every aspect of his life, including the bedroom. He’s no stranger to want, to need. But he doesn’t indulge every whim that flickers across the battlefield of his mind. Unlike most men, he chooses his moments and that’s what makes him lethal. But then again, not every man comes home to her. A half-drunk glass of red wine, perched carelessly on the staircase. A full bottle at its base. The laundry basket outside their door - a quiet invitation for him to strip off the day, piece by piece. And then: her. Clad in a striking blue lace babydoll, curves haloed in soft lighting, curls pinned into an elegant updo. The sheen of oil catching the light along her legs - the same legs that would be wrapped tight around him soon enough. Lingerie was his undoing. His favourite contradiction. She couldn’t possibly get more perfect and yet she did, every time she walked into their bedroom dressed like sin and sanctity all at once. The lace - intricate, delicate, deliberate - mirrored her spirit too well. He’d started buying two of everything: one to tear off in a frenzy. The other to study like scripture.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Finding a hard limit with Terry is near impossible. This is a man who embodies darkness - the best and worst thing to be alone with in a locked room. He devours fear, spits it back out in flames. He doesn’t just toe the line, he redraws it. But even he has his rules. Anything that leaves a permanent mark? Off the table. Not because he’s afraid to claim her - he already has. But because when he met her, she was immaculate. A masterpiece. And though he has no intention of ever leaving, he’s made a quiet vow to keep her body untouched by time, unmarred by consequence. The bruises and bite marks he leaves? Temporary. Intentional. Because he loves watching them heal - knowing they’ll fade and that he’ll get to ruin her all over again, one careful kiss, one hungry mark at a time.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

This was her time to shine. Terry pleased her so thoroughly, so relentlessly, that she always found her way back to her knees - not in submission, but in passion. Because from that vantage point? She led. She saw everything: The way his brow furrowed in restraint. The ripple in his abdomen with every twitch of muscle. The bead of sweat threatening to drip from his temple. The way his stance widened as balance became a fight. The slow tilt of his head as pleasure took him over. And above all else - the way his cock swelled and pulsed against her tongue, weighty and commanding, as she hollowed her cheeks and took him past the point of resistance. She could’ve come from the sight alone. And Terry? He said nothing. Didn’t need to. The way he looked at her in those moments, like he was the one being worshipped and he accepted the praise wilfully.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual?)

It’s not that Terry doesn’t have time for romance, he does. He bleeds affection into every corner of their life. But the bedroom? That’s where he leaves the polish at the door. That’s where his unbridled desire runs unchallenged. She can take everything he gives. He fucks like it’s life or death - fast but never rushed. Rough but never reckless. If she still has air in her lungs to beg him for more, he’s not working hard enough. He wants her breathless. Wants her squirming. Thrashing. Wanting. Sometimes he even shoves the sheets out of the way - not to see more of her, but so there’s nothing else for her to cling to but him. The marks she leaves on his back? Better than any medal, trophy, or ribbon. They don’t adorn him. They belong on him. He doesn’t need a crown. He has her nails.

Q = Quickie (opinions, frequency, etc.)

Not a no but definitely not his preference. Terry doesn’t like to rush when he could instead unravel. Still, that doesn’t mean he’s immune to the thrill of public teasing. He plays the long game: A curl tucked behind her ear, knuckles skimming her cheek - not for affection, but to feel the heat rise there first. A hand resting innocently on her thigh under the table… until it slides higher. Two fingers dipped between her folds, her body already welcoming, hungry, slick. If not for the noise of conversation around them, the wet sound of her taking him in might echo across the room. By the time they’re walking to the car, she’s gripping his wrist with more desperation than poise. He whispers that they’ll finish it later - not because he’s teasing, but because they both know the real reward is the slow torture he’ll deliver when they’re home. Quickies? Fine. Delayed gratification? Divine.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks?)

Terry doesn’t take chances - he takes control. He knows her better than he knows himself, and that makes her the safest risk he’s ever taken. So when he wants to push boundaries, it’s never a gamble. It’s a guarantee. He guides. He reassures. He commands. Her pleasure isn’t just a goal - it’s a study, a ritual, a devotion. Yes, he could bend her into obedience. But the real satisfaction? Watching her surrender willingly. Letting her mind go blank and her body follow his hands. He plans. She trusts. And in those moments, she isn’t just a woman. She’s his canvas. His doll. His perfect experiment in how far desire can go when it’s built on faith.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

The answer’s almost insulting, painfully obvious. A body like that? It didn’t build itself. It was made, sculpted, trained - almost as if he constructed it just to ruin her. Terry lasts as long as it takes. And then a little longer. One orgasm is simply a warm-up. Two, a tease. Three, expected. It's not over until he sees the signs: — When her clit flinches at the ghost of a touch. — When her legs tremble just trying to close. — When her arms are too weak to cushion the next thrust and instead fall limp around him. — When her back sticks to the sheets, soaked and twisted from the wreckage of too many positions. — When she's gulping air between moans, bruises blooming on her throat from his hand. — When the spasms of orgasm don’t shake her anymore but her body simply gives. But most of all? It's when she can't even say his name. Not a gasp, not a whisper. Just silence. That’s when he knows she’s truly been fucked. He turns her every way but loose, keeps those tired, glossy eyes on him the whole time. Villains can still have superpowers and his is endurance.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Toys? Terry’s view is simple: collaboration, not competition. They’re tools, not replacements. A means to an end, the same end he always works toward: her ruin. And if a few carefully selected instruments make that ruin deeper, louder, longer? All the better. He doesn’t keep anything for himself, but he’ll watch her choose her weapon: wand, clamp, vibe, plug - like it’s a rite of passage. He wants her to feel in control… before he takes it away. She’s ridden him with a bullet vibrator tucked between them before, the trembling pulse nearly knocking the air out of both their lungs. He’d gripped her hips and thrust up so hard she nearly lost her balance, her spine bowing as she sobbed from the overstimulation. He’d only laughed. “Keep going,” he’d growled, voice dark and low. “I didn’t say you could stop”.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Terry Richmond is a deviant. Plain and simple. Cruel in ways that make her cry and come in equal measure. He mocks. He teases. He degrades. And all of it? Every word, every withheld touch, every dragged-out edge - it’s intentional. He'll stroke her slowly with just the head of his dick for minutes on end - never pushing in, just circling, prodding, taunting. He’ll whisper filth in her ear, not for arousal but to bait the desperation. Tears? He laps them up. And if she thinks that’s enough to earn mercy? She’s sorely mistaken. He has no problem leaving her high and dry, strung out on the edge, legs shaking from denial. Sometimes he’ll even fake the promise of release, only to pull away at the last second - again and again and again. He could let her come. He could be kind. But instead? He’d rather see her beg. Break. Burn. And when she finally does? He rewards her with overstimulation so vicious it feels like punishment until it doesn’t. Until her brain stops knowing the difference.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Terry doesn’t believe in holding back when it comes to her - not in touch, not in feeling, and certainly not in sound. He’s hers in every way a man can be. Mind, body, soul and voice. If she wants to hear how good she makes him feel, she will. No hesitation. No shame. A groan when her mouth wraps around him just right. A deep, drawn-out moan when her walls flutter around his cock mid-stroke. A low, guttural grunt when she sinks down on him without warning. But it's the whimpers that undo her - rare, involuntary things, dragged from his throat when he’s too far gone to hold onto pride. He’s vocal, not just with sound but with language. Praise? Filthy promises? Cruel nicknames that make her drip? He doesn’t discriminate. One second it’s “Good girl, that’s it, fuck, you’re perfect.” The next, it’s “So fucking needy. Bet your pussy’s been aching for this all day.” His voice is always coated in something dark and sweet. Honeyed, but laced with salacity. Whatever the moment calls for, Terry gives. Because she deserves to hear the ruin she creates.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

When Terry’s working late or away on assignment, they fall back on their menu. Code words. Inside jokes. A whole system built on anticipation and shared sin. “#27?” he might text - short, simple. And she’ll know it means a photo from her back camera, her fingers spreading herself open just for him. “#33” means a video in one of his shirts, toy buried deep, his name whispered like a prayer. Sometimes she sends something extra just to surprise him: no warning, no number and it never fails to derail his night completely. He’s ruined in the best way. Hard behind his belt with no time to do anything about it. And when he comes home, he makes sure she pays for every one. Routine isn’t boring with them. It’s just the foundation they build their chaos on.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Terry is the exact opposite of short and sweet. He’s long - intimidatingly so - with a thickness that takes time to adjust to, no matter how many times she’s taken him before. Uncut, flushed dark with blood when aroused, the kind of dick that curves just enough to hurt in the best way. A prominent vein trails up the underside, pulsing against her tongue when she sucks him slow, against her walls when he fucks her deep. He’s heavy in the hand, even heavier on the tongue and when he’s buried to the hilt, balls pressed flush against her, she feels every inch. The kind of dick that ruins her for anything else. And he knows it. She’s left trembling and stuffed full, dripping down her thighs, breathless and stretched to her limits and he still asks if she can take just a little more. “You’re mine, sweetheart. Say it with your cunt”.

Y = Yearning (how much they crave their partner / how high is their sex drive)

Terry craves. Not just in body, but in presence, in spirit - in the quiet moments and the ones filled with chaos. He’s a real lover, always has been. Deep, unwavering, and endlessly tactile. He’s not shy about needing her. Privacy is sacred, sure but that doesn’t stop him from wrapping an arm around her waist at the supermarket or slipping his hand down the back of her jeans in the lift. If she’s within reach, he’s touching. Whether it’s her hand, her thigh, the curve of her ass, or a possessive squeeze under the table, it grounds him. At home, she’s his pillow and his prize. He’ll rest his hand under her shirt, palm cupping her breast like it belongs there and it does. His sex drive is sky-high, but never messy. Never careless. She could so much as breathe and he’d be hard but he’s never just horny. He’s needy. Needy for her. When the ache gets too deep to ignore, he’ll brace himself over her with forearms dug into the mattress, hips grinding slow, deep, relentless, pressing his full weight into her so she feels it. So she knows he’s not going anywhere. She’s his. And he’ll spend a lifetime showing her what that means.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

It depends on the day, the session, the storm they’ve weathered but she usually falls first. Terry likes to watch her drift. Curtains cracked just enough for the moonlight to kiss her skin, the sheets tangled between their legs, her breathing deep and steady, one bare thigh thrown over his waist like she’s trying to keep him there. Not that she needs to. He’s not going anywhere. It’s in those moments - her soft sighs, the curve of her mouth still wet with kisses, the faint scent of her pleasure still clinging to his skin - that Terry feels something close to peace. He’ll fall asleep eventually. But not before he’s memorised the shape of her in the dark. Not before he’s reminded himself, again and again, just how lucky he is to have her.

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