as you guys can see, my latest fixation is the man himself and he probably will be for a while so i thought i'd make a separate masterlist for him to make navigation easier. anything aaron or terry related will be found on here and everything else on my main masterlist (linked)
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 **
pairing: professor!terry x black reader
warnings: nsfw, explicit smut (18+), d/s dynamics, cockwarming, teasing, choking, use of names (sir), impact play (implied), slight degradation kink and aftercare (light)
synopsis: she thought she could break his focus with "subtle" actions. she was wrong. terry richmond doesn't break; he simply re-structures the environment to suit his needs. what follows is a slow-burn descent from playful flirting to a rhythmic, punishing lesson in what it means to be truly silent and still.
word count: 1.3k
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The stack of papers sat between them like a quiet accusation.
He had arranged them neatly, squared to the edge of the desk, a pen aligned with military precision beside them. Glasses low on his nose. Sleeves rolled just enough to expose his forearms — veins visible when his hand moved, deliberate, unhurried.
She leaned against the doorframe, watching him work.
“Do you ever get bored of this?” she asked lightly, nodding toward the mountain of assignments. “Or do you secretly enjoy being this… diligent?”
His pen paused mid-sentence.
He didn’t look up.
“You’re distracting me,” he said flatly, as if stating a fact rather than a complaint.
She smiled.
“That’s not an answer.”
A faint exhale left him — restrained, almost indulgent. He finally glanced at her over the rim of his glasses, expression unreadable.
“These need marking,” he said. “They won’t do themselves.”
“And you won’t even look at me while you say that?” she teased, stepping closer. “Harsh.”
He returned to his work.
That was when she knew he was doing it on purpose.
The minutes stretched. The room filled with the soft sounds of paper turning, pen scratching, the quiet tick of the clock. She circled him slowly, perching on the edge of the desk, crossing and uncrossing her legs just enough to test him.
Nothing.
She sighed theatrically. “You know, most people would be flattered by the attention.”
“I am,” he replied calmly. “I’m simply not rewarding it.”
That earned a pause.
She tilted her head. “Oh?”
His pen clicked once, decisive.
“Strip,” he said.
The word landed heavy in the air — not raised, not rushed. A command, clean and final.
She stilled.
His eyes lifted fully this time, dark, focused, unblinking.
“Sit,” he continued, nodding to the space directly in front of him. “Still. Silent.”
Her breath caught — not from fear, but from the sudden understanding that this wasn’t flirtation anymore.
It was structure.
She obeyed.
And as he returned his attention to the papers, pen moving once more, she realised with a shiver that this wasn’t about what he wanted from her.
It was about what he was willing to deny.
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She moved, her body trembling with a mixture of anticipation and indignation. She lowered herself onto his lap, straddling his thighs, settling the slick heat of her core onto the solid, unyielding length of him. His trousers were a rough barrier against her skin, only his member granted access, a partial satiation designed to torment.
Pleasure without purpose is punishment.
She complied briefly, her mind racing with a hubris that was quickly fading. She was certain her presence, the heat, the friction, would be enough to break his resolve. He would forego his duties, toss the papers aside, and focus on the act.
But he remained indifferent, unassuaged. His hand moved across the page, marking a student’s work with the same detached focus he had before. He wasn't even looking at her.
She was the first to break.
It started with a miniscule rock of her hips, almost imperceptible, a nervous twitch more than a deliberate movement. Terry knew her all too well. A slight lift, then a shortened breath earned her a scornful look, a slow, deliberate glance over the rim of his glasses that felt like a physical slap.
“Still.”
The single word was a lash. She defeatedly withdrew and ceased, freezing in place. The humiliation was exquisite. She was so still, she almost felt bored enough to start reading the papers with him, wanting to know which student’s work could possibly have him so captivated. Little did she know that he wasn't even concentrating; this was all an act, a game, and a lesson in one.
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Absentmindedly, the heat and the pressure becoming too much to bear, she recommenced her ministrations, a slow, grinding circle that was purely instinctual. She only realised what she’d done until a firm hand with a burning grip joined her waist, halting her movement instantly.
He pushed her down, a grinding stop that forced the friction to an almost unbearable peak. It was the first true sensation she’d felt all night, and a desperate, ragged moan bubbled in her throat.
Terry finally lowered his glasses, his dark eyes fixed on hers. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through her core.
“Silent.”
The final command was a promise of pain. She swallowed the sound, but the whimper escaped anyway.
“There’s nothing silent about whining. Do I have to remind you, what that means?”
She almost jumped off him with excitement at the prospect of finally getting what she wanted, but Terry, ever the tease and control master, didn't even budge. He simply held her in that agonising, friction-filled position, his eyes demanding compliance.
Her patience, already worn thin, snapped. She twisted her hips, a sharp, outward act of disobedience, trying to force a reaction, a movement, anything to break the stalemate. She wanted him to reprimand her, to punish her, to give her exactly the thing she had been wanting all along.
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As the last vestiges of control burned away, his eyes darkened — revealing the man beneath. He didn't move the papers, but with a powerful shift of his weight, he used his legs to push the armchair back several feet, creating a necessary, deliberate space. He was still seated, still the master of the scene, but now he was ready to work.
His hand remained at her waist, but another met her throat. Not threatening, but a clear, possessive claim.
“Four simple instructions,” he growled, his voice low and thick.
He thrust upward, a sudden, deep stroke that stole the air from her lungs. Her back arched, a desperate gasp escaping her lips.
“Were they too hard?” Thrust.
The friction was immediate, the depth agonisingly perfect. She was fully impaled, stretched, and filled, yet she was the one on top, the one seemingly in control. It was a beautiful, terrible irony.
“Answer me.” Thrust.
He was doing all the work, his hips driving up with a rhythmic, punishing force that made her teeth clench. The rough material of his trousers rubbed against her inner thighs, a constant, abrasive reminder of his partial clothing and her complete bareness.
“I asked you a question...” Thrust.
Her vision swam, the pleasure too sharp, too sudden to form a coherent thought. She could only shake her head, the movement slight against the pressure of his hand.
“No,” she managed to choke out, the words barely a whisper.
“No, what?” Thrust.
“No, Sir.” Perfectly shaped tears graced the corners of her eyes by now.
“No, Sir, what?” Thrust.
The question was punctuated by a stroke so deep it hit the back of her womb, sending a jolt of pure white heat through her core. She was a puppet on his strings, her body responding to his every command, his every movement.
“No, Sir, I didn’t think you would notice,” she gasped, the confession ripped from her.
He released her throat, only to grip her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as he set a relentless, driving pace. The chair creaked under the strain, the sound a counterpoint to the sinful rhythm of their bodies. He was punishing her, yes, but the punishment was exactly the pleasure she craved.
She came apart on him, a shattering, violent release that left her weak and trembling. Her head fell back, her body convulsing around him, pulling a low, guttural groan from his chest — the first sound of genuine loss of control he had made all night.
When it was over, he didn't move. He simply held her, letting the aftershocks subside. He listened as her breathing settled and her body stilled and soothed. Then, with a quiet efficiency that was almost clinical, he adjusted his trousers, re-buckled his belt, and gently lifted her off his lap.
She collapsed onto the couch beside the desk, sprawled and spent, her skin slick with sweat, her mind blissfully empty.
Terry, however, returned to his chair. He picked up his pen, adjusted his glasses, and pulled the stack of papers back into alignment. The only evidence of the storm that had just passed was the slight tremor in his hand and her laying naked and broken beside him.
He cleared his throat, the sound a quiet, final punctuation mark.
“Now,” he murmured, his voice back to its familiar, professorial cadence. “Where were we?”
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a/n: something short and sweet to end the year with, and what better way than with terry! thank you to everyone who’s shown me love with the fics this year. i appreciate every single one of you. as always, comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback 🫶🏾🫶🏾
Warnings: Psychological manipulation, coercive control, power imbalance, emotional dependency, dark romance, quiet horror, changing POVs.
Synopsis: She met him when survival was a full-time occupation. He made life softer before she ever realised it was heavy. He never asked for her dependence - he simply made it efficient. Every need was met before it could be voice. Every struggled quietly erased, and she had never been safer.
Word count: 5.3K
POV key:
♡ = her perspective
= Terry’s perspective
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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.
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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.
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“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.”
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.
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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a/n: thank you all so much for bearing with me whilst I've been gone. I really wanted to try something different from my usual dark arc and I hope it lands well. As always, comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback 🫶🏾🫶🏾
Yes I’m okay now, thank you 🥹 I hope you are too and I miss all of you !
Life had just been lifing for the past few months plus I’m in my final year of uni.
I’ve actually had a dark!Terry fic in the drafts for the longest time but because I’ve been offline for so long, I’m not sure if I still have any Aaron Pierre/Terry Richmond readers - please let me know if you guys are still interested.
I do definitely want to drop something before the end of the year though 🥰
warnings: predominantly smut (18+), some dark themes with a dash of fluff
word count: 5.0K
a/n: let me know if you have a favourite letter 🤭
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
With Terry, aftercare is a non-negotiable ritual - quiet, thorough, and deeply felt. It’s a side of him most wouldn’t believe existed.
To the outside world, Terrance Richmond is all hard lines: a stoic man carved by military training, personal loss, and the scorched aftermath of Shelby Springs. Someone who seems more at home in silence than softness, more familiar with pain than peace. So, the idea of tenderness from a man like him might seem… unlikely. But to the woman he loves? It’s as natural as breathing.
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.
^^prompt
pairing: dark!terry richmond x black reader
warnings: extreme dark themes and smut (18+), psychological manipulation, power imbalance, emotional coercion, orgasm denial, use of restraints, obsessive dynamics, blurred professional boundaries, surveillance implications, d/s dynamics, captivity, moral ambiguity and references to murder
summary: she locked him up, or so she thought. terry wanted to be caught. and he liked the way she looked at him through the bars.
vibe: hannibal meets loki-in-the-glass-box meets joe goldberg. he’s behind glass, but he’s always in control. psychological cat-and-mouse, only she's the mouse who thinks she’s the cat.
word count: 3.3K
a/n: no taglist on this one because i'm not sure that this is everyone's cup of tea.. but i hope this is what you were looking for anon 🫶🏾
The room was sterile.
No sharp edges. No handles. No metal exposed beyond what was absolutely necessary. Every fixture had been scrutinised, every panel engineered to strip a person of leverage, of power, of hope.
The lighting buzzed overhead - cold, clinical, inescapable. White fluorescence that flattened every angle, turned skin sallow, eyes glassy. It should’ve been the kind of space designed to crush someone like him.
But he looked comfortable.
Terry Richmond sat perfectly still in the centre of the observation room - legs spread lazily, hands cuffed to the bolted chair behind him, head tilted slightly like he’d been expecting company.
Not a twitch. Not a slouch. His back remained impossibly straight, like he wasn’t just tolerating the restraints but performing for them.
He wasn’t bruised. Wasn’t panicked. Not a single scratch on him.
The orderlies said he didn’t resist when they brought him in. Didn’t speak. Barely blinked.
And when she stepped into the room, clipboard tucked against her chest, trying to keep her pulse from betraying her —
He smiled.
A slow, wolfish curve of his mouth that didn’t belong to a man who had been captured.
It belonged to someone who had allowed it.
“Took you long enough, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice like warm molasses. “Miss me?”
She didn’t answer. Not right away.
She couldn’t.
Her shoes echoed across the smooth floor, the only sound between them besides the buzz of fluorescent lights and the low crackle of the mic feed. The glass wall between them stretched floor to ceiling - reinforced, shatterproof, unyielding - yet the weight of his gaze pressed through like heat.
She moved to the other side of the glass, stopped exactly seven feet away - the legal minimum. Any closer required full restraints, full observation, full clearance.
He watched her the entire way. Like a hawk. Like a predator who didn’t need his claws to be dangerous.
His wrists were bound. His ankles, too. All precautions she had signed off on herself. Triple-checked. Terry Richmond had been a ghost - a methodical killer who left bodies posed like artwork, the calling cards always just cryptic enough to suggest obsession, never enough to suggest target.
Until she read the patterns between the lines.
Until the messages started to feel personal.
The composition of each scene. The significance of the locations. A flower from her hometown. A book she'd once written a thesis on. The way every victim resembled someone she used to know.
Until it became obvious:
He wanted her to find him.
And now here he was.
Caged. Supposedly.
And yet every time she looked at him, it was her who felt stripped bare.
“You don’t get to speak unless I ask you something,” she finally said, clipboard held a little tighter than necessary. “Understood?”
He leaned forward. The restraints strained just slightly, enough to remind her he was, technically, under control.
But the way he moved, the glint in his eye, told a different story.
He licked his bottom lip, slow. Deliberate. “You came all this way just to play dress-up, baby girl?”
“Terry.”
“You wore the lipstick I like.”
Her jaw clenched. She hadn’t.
Not intentionally.
But he was right.
He always was.
Terry never raised his voice.
Never struggled.
Never made a show of resistance.
He simply spoke in calm, syrupy tones - each word a drop of heat sliding under her skin, burrowing deep, finding places she didn’t know were soft.
Didn’t want to know.
She interrogated him daily.
Always the same seat. The same distance. The same rehearsed control.
A clipboard in her lap. A stopwatch ticking beside her.
Procedure as armour.
He gave nothing.
Not unless she gave something first.
At first, it was harmless.
Minor concessions. A pause when she should have pressed. Letting him talk longer than protocol allowed. Laughing once when he said something unexpectedly dry.
Leaving her jacket behind on purpose.
Maybe just to see if he’d notice.
And he did.
He began to notice things.
Little things.
How she wore her hair differently on anxious days, clipped back when she needed discipline, down when she felt tired and exposed.
How her breath hitched - barely audible, but unmistakable, when she read certain words aloud from his case file.
The ones tied to ritual.
To obsession.
To violence wrapped in longing.
He catalogued her the way he had his victims.
But she wasn’t prey. Not yet.
She was an equation.
A puzzle.
And Terry Richmond loved puzzles.
He began to tilt the interviews - pushing gently, methodically. A look held too long. A question phrased like curiosity but delivered like temptation.
Until it wasn’t about his crimes anymore.
Until it wasn’t about the victims.
It was about her.
And then came the questions.
Questions he had no business asking.
Questions that didn’t belong in an interview room.
Questions that felt more like… confessions.
“You ever make yourself come while thinking about me in here?” he asked one afternoon, voice thick with amusement, eyes glinting just behind the glass.
She didn’t respond.
Couldn’t.
The pen in her hand stilled mid-note. Her pulse thudded loud in her ears, drowning out the hum of the recording equipment.
He smiled. Slow. Patient.
Like he already knew.
“What were you wearing when you read my file?” he drawled, watching her like a man watching a fire catch. “Did you touch yourself, or did you just imagine what I’d do to you if I wasn’t behind this glass?”
Her fingers curled just slightly tighter around her pen.
But she didn’t leave.
Didn’t report the breach.
And from his chair shackled, restrained, supposedly caged - Terry simply watched.
And waited.
Because she hadn’t told him to stop.
And he knew she wouldn’t.
It started small. Harmless, even.
She lingered a little longer after each session. Asked one more question than necessary. Let her eyes trace the line of his jaw when she thought he wasn’t looking.
She told herself it was tactical. That she was watching him closely. That his micro-expressions mattered. But then she started wearing lipstick. A softer red, just enough to feel… intentional. Then darker. Deeper. The kind that left faint smudges on paper coffee cups. And maybe, just maybe, on the rim of a pen she passed between her fingers while questioning him.
She wore lower necklines. Not scandalous. Just slightly less severe. Just enough to feel it when his gaze dipped, slowly, deliberately.
And Terry noticed. Every. Single. Time.
His gaze didn’t linger. It devoured. Not with hunger. With knowing.
Like he’d seen this before. Like he’d planned this.
The glass between them stopped feeling like a barrier. It became a mirror.
And all she saw in it was her own want - staring back, reflected in the eyes of the man she was supposed to control.
He never begged. Never pressed.
He invited. Lured. Opened the door and waited to see if she’d step through it.
And somehow, it was her who started bending the rules. Little ones at first. Just to test. Just to push.
She let him speak off-record. Just once. Then again.
She came outside of protocol hours. Told herself it was for “observation.” For “data.” Told herself no one needed to know.
She sat closer. Then closer still. Crossed one leg over the other. Noticed the way his eyes flicked down, then back up - never hurried, always composed.
Until the glass no longer felt safe. Until the idea of his voice in her ear felt more intimate than touch.
His words changed, too. He started weaving double meanings into every sentence. His voice coiled around her like smoke - thick, warm, inescapable.
“I can’t touch you from here, baby,” he murmured one evening, low and velvet-slick, a knife hidden beneath every syllable. “But I can make you fall apart anyway.”
Her breath caught. She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
Because he was right. She already had.
The spiral had begun. And she was no longer sure whose hands had started turning it. Worse - she wanted to keep falling. Especially if it was his voice waiting at the bottom.
It didn’t happen all at once.
The unravelling was slow.
Surgical.
Precise, like the man himself.
He only spoke when she gave him something first. Never demanded. Never pushed. Just waited. Patient, quiet, coiled like smoke behind glass.
“Tell me a secret,” he said once, voice low, lazy. “One you’ve never told anyone. Then I’ll tell you where I left her body.”
And she did.
She didn’t even hesitate.
The words tumbled out in a hush, too fast, too unguarded. She wasn’t sure who she was trying to impress or confess to. She just wanted him to keep looking at her like that.
Like he knew her.
She didn’t remember when the lines blurred.
But they had.
Somewhere between her long nights and longer stares, between the click of her heels and the soft, slow drawl of his voice calling her back again. And again.
She stopped calling him Mr. Richmond.
Formalities cracked under the heat of his gaze.
He called her darlin’.
Sweetheart.
My good girl.
Every time he said it, something in her stomach fluttered.
Tight. Wrong. Addictive.
It wasn’t affection. Not really. It was control. Drenched in honey, cloaked in charm, but still control.
He never touched her.
But he didn’t need to.
His words filled in the spaces where his hands couldn’t go.
One night, when the lights were dim and the reinforced glass gleamed with twin reflections - her lips parted, his head tilted in that always-ready calm; he leaned forward. Calm as anything. Calculated, as always.
“Put your hand under the table.”
Her breath caught.
She didn’t ask why.
“Now sit on it.”
And she obeyed.
Like she always did.
The chair creaked beneath her. Her thighs tensed. Heat bloomed in her chest and pooled low in her belly. She kept her eyes forward, but he saw everything.
“Tell me what it feels like,” he said, voice dipped in hunger, low and thick like honey warmed on the stove, “when you imagine it’s mine.”
She trembled.
Bit her lip.
Said nothing.
Didn’t need to.
The silence between them vibrated, thick with want, shame, power.
He made her fall apart like that.
Knees clamped together. Breath shaky.
Shame burning under her skin like a fever she didn’t want to break.
And through it all, he watched.
Cool. Composed.
Unmoving.
A man shackled and caged.
And yet somehow still the one in control.
He never touched her.
Not once.
But it was already too late.
She’d let him in.
Not with a key. But a confession.
And he knew it.
He’d always known.
They called it a controlled interaction. A trial run. Monitored. Supervised. Contained.
Every word was meant to suggest safety - layers of oversight, forms signed in triplicate, a room designed to neutralise danger.
No glass this time. Just four walls. One table. Two chairs. And him.
Unshackled, save for the thick cuffs looped to the base of the bolted-down table. A gesture of caution. A gesture of control.
He looked… serene. Almost reverent. As though this moment had been prophesied, and he had simply waited for the world to catch up.
She told herself it was protocol. That he’d earned this after weeks of compliance. That proximity didn’t mean permission.
But when she crossed the threshold, when her shoes sank into the silence and her body moved on automatic, she felt it the shift.
She sat. He watched. And in that single, unwavering moment, when his eyes found hers, dark, steady, devouring - she forgot why she ever thought distance had mattered at all.
His gaze was a gravity well. And she, foolish and human, kept stepping closer.
The silence stretched between them, thick and pulsing, like breath held too long. It wasn’t awkward. It was intentional.
Then slowly and deliberately, he leaned forward.
Not enough to breach the unspoken line between them. Just enough to make sure she could feel it. The heat of him. The nearness. The way his breath stirred the tiny hairs at her neck, sent a full-body ache humming through her chest like a memory.
He didn’t touch her. Didn’t kiss. Just breathed her in like she was his first taste of freedom.
And she let him.
“You don’t want me free,” he murmured, voice a growl beneath velvet. “That’d be too easy.”
His tone was all sin and certainty - not smug but assured. A man who’d read the last page of a book long before she even opened the cover.
She stayed still. Barely.
A single twitch of her hand. A tightening in her throat. Her eyes dropped, then lifted and dragged back to him like tide to the moon.
“You like knowing I could take you…” he continued, voice low, hypnotic.
His gaze flicked downward - not to her lips, but to her throat. To the place where her pulse betrayed her. Where it jumped, visibly.
“…but you let me wait.”
The words sank between them like ink into paper - irreversible, permanent.
And God help her, he was right.
Not because she feared him. But because somewhere deep inside, shameful and throbbing, she wanted him to be the one to cross the line.
And worse still… she wanted to let him.
She unlocked one wrist.
It was supposed to be procedural. A test of trust. Supervised. Temporary.
Every measure in place had been agreed upon - clearance signed, surveillance confirmed, every heartbeat accounted for. It should’ve felt clinical. Bounded. Safe.
But the second the cuff clicked open - a sharp, final sound that seemed to echo too loud in the still room, his hand shot up to catch hers.
Not violently.
But firm.
Possessive.
It was the kind of grip that wasn’t born from panic or impulse, but planning. He held her as if he knew she would allow it.
And she had.
He kissed her knuckles like a gentleman - lips soft, reverent, almost mocking. But the way he gripped them… that was no courtesy. That was a warning dressed in silk.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he guided her down onto his lap.
No command.
No plea.
Just intention.
And she let him.
The cameras caught it. They must have. But in that moment, she didn’t care. Couldn’t.
One hand still chained to the table.
One hand free to ruin her.
And yet somehow, it was her who moved like she had the power.
She straddled him slow, deliberate, thighs tightening around his hips as if anchoring herself to a storm she had no chance of surviving. Her fingers pressed into his shoulders, not for balance, but to remind herself that she was choosing this.
Choosing him.
She rocked against him with the illusion of control - rhythm steady, spine straight - like she was orchestrating the encounter. But every time he growled, low and feral, every time he bit into her skin like a claim, breath hot against her neck like fire at the fuse... she remembered:
She never had been in control.
Not really.
His mouth found her jaw first, then her collarbone, then the hollow beneath her ear. Each kiss a brand. Each bruise a declaration.
He didn’t speak at first. He devoured.
Then, lips brushing her pulse point, he rasped:
“You want to cum?”
The voice was syrupy. Sacrilegious. A sin served in velvet.
“Use me for it.”
She shivered.
Her hands curled into his shirt, gripping tight, grounding herself as much as claiming him.
“You don’t even have to let me finish,” he murmured against her throat. His free hand gripped her hip, hard enough to ache. “Just leave me like this. Begging. Desperate. Caged.”
And she almost did.
Because the way he moaned for her, quiet but guttural, like it scraped up from somewhere primal. The way his teeth clenched, eyes wide and ravenous like he was both starving and thankful to be starved - it was punishment enough.
Her movements grew more ragged. His voice dropped into something darker.
Praise spilled from his lips between snarls and whimpers.
“That’s it, baby. That’s it.” A tremble in his jaw. A twitch in his bound wrist. “Use your favourite monster. Make me your fucking ruin.”
And she did.
Again.
And again.
Until there was no question of who had surrendered first.
And no doubt that he would never stop waiting for her to do it again.
The sex had been her undoing.
The final piece he needed.
He hadn’t just wanted her body; he wanted her addiction. Her loyalty. Her testimony. Her surrender.
And she gave it to him - day by day, breath by breath - each sigh slipping past her lips like a secret she thought he didn’t already know.
But Terry Richmond had known everything.
Planned everything.
Every visit. Every glance. Every angle of his voice. Every subtle arch of his brow. The exact tilt of his head when she’d walk in with a file tucked against her chest like a shield.
Even the camera blind spots, the ones she’d insisted were coincidence.
They weren’t.
He knew the boundaries she would cross before she did. Knew exactly how much rope to give her before she’d tie it into her own noose and call it devotion.
Every protocol she broke, she’d justified.
Just this once.
Just this risk.
Just this man.
She thought she’d kept him caged.
That he was hers because he stayed.
But he’d made the cage comfortable on purpose.
A place she could return to. A place where he waited – steady and knowing while she convinced herself she still had control.
She hadn’t just let him in.
She’d brought him in. Offered him a place beneath her skin, behind her rules, inside the one part of her that had always been off-limits: her certainty.
Let herself feel safe. Special. Wanted.
And that—
That was his favourite part.
Some said the glass had always been two-way.
That he recorded her confessions. Her trembling. Her moans.
Played them back while she slept, whispering memories back into her own body like lullabies dressed in shame.
Others said it was worse,
That she’d let him out.
Just once.
Just for a moment.
A moment of real touch. Of breath. Of whispered ruin traced down the curve of her throat with lips she should’ve never let near her.
And now?
Now the cell was empty.
She sat alone in the chair where he’d once waited, still warm from the last time she’d crossed every line that mattered. The same position. The same table. The same silence.
But now, it rang hollow.
The cuffs she’d undone herself had left a faint ache around her wrists. Not from force but from memory.
From the weight of choosing him. Again and again.
The glass in front of her was smudged with fingerprints, her fingerprints like a ghost pressed into the room.
A history written in oil and breath.
And there it was.
A folded piece of paper left behind. Crisp. Precise. Neat handwriting. No signature.
Just one sentence:
“Don’t let me out… unless you’re ready to be mine.”
And she had.
God help her, she had been ready.
Too ready.
Had opened the door not with ignorance but with something worse.
Hope.
And now?
Now he was gone.
No alarms. No breach. No noise at all.
Just absence, echoing like a verdict.
But he’d left a part of himself behind.
Inside her.
In her breath. Her memory. Her rules rewritten in his voice.
She thought she could close the door again.
Thought she could sit still, go silent, play penance in his place.
But Terry Richmond didn’t need walls to haunt a woman.
He didn’t need chains to keep her his.
She’d given him the key.
She’d let him in.
And now, even in his absence…
He was everywhere.
comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾
pairing: slightly older + switch!aaron pierre x switch!black reader
warnings: smut (18+), orgasm denial, overstimulation, power exchange, d/s dynamic, praise kink, worship kink, bondage, hair pulling, restraint/control, possessive language and aftercare
summary: control was a game they played well but tonight someone would snap. she let him watch. he let her burn. but behind closed doors, they both come undone. power shifts. patience and pleasure becomes the only law they follow. the party ended and their real games began. he held back all night. now he gets to let go and she makes him beg for it
word count: 2.6K
The penthouse thrummed with the low murmur of money and power - the kind of hush that accompanied aged whisky, tailored suits, and men who made decisions with minimal words and maximum consequence.
Aaron stood near the bar, glass in hand, his salt-and-pepper beard trimmed sharp against the deep navy of his open-collared shirt. No tie. Just a glimpse of ink at his collarbone, the glint of gold from his watch, the subtle curve of a ring on his index finger.
He was making the socially acceptable noises that implied he was listening; nods, polite hums - but it was clear he didn’t want to be there.
He hadn’t wanted to come at all. These kinds of parties were always loud in the wrong ways. Full of sycophants and small talk. But a friend had insisted. And she’d said she might come too.
Still, he hadn’t expected her. Not really. Not like this.
He felt her before he saw her - a shift in the air, a ripple in his chest. And then—
Her.
She walked in like she owned the night.
A vision in something slinky and devastating. That colour he could never name because he was always too busy trying not to stare. Her hair was up, exposing her throat. Her lips were painted the same shade that haunted his collarbones after long nights. And her smile? Sweet, small, meant for someone across the room - not him.
His jaw clenched.
All at once, the tension he wore like armour cracked down the middle. His fingers flexed against the glass. His heart, usually slow and steady, stuttered. He hadn’t seen her get ready. Hadn’t zipped up her dress. Hadn’t had the usual privilege of watching her spin for him and ask, “What do you think?”
She hadn’t needed to.
She knew exactly what he’d think.
She moved through the room like she’d been poured into it. Sauntering with that deliberate grace and her waist two sensual beats behind her stride. Her perfume, the one he bought her, cut through the room’s cigar smoke like silk: warm, clean, dizzyingly sweet.
And everyone noticed.
Every head turned.
Everyone watched as the hard reverence in Aaron’s eyes softened into something unmistakably tender. He was unravelling in real-time, stitched loose by the very sight of her.
People greeted him carefully. Men with firm handshakes. Women with polite smiles that never lingered too long. He gave little in return - only nods, clipped replies, a gaze so steady it made most look away.
But when she reached him, she didn’t say anything.
Just stood there - all mischief and control.
Aaron didn’t hesitate. He stepped in close, bowed slightly, and took her hand in his. Pressed a kiss to her knuckles, lingering, reverent. Then he tilted his cheek toward her, beard grazing her skin as he breathed her in.
The shift in him was visible.
His shoulders loosened. His expression softened. And behind his eyes, something unreadable bloomed into something undeniably hers.
Everyone saw it.
The men who’d tried to impress him now watched with thinly veiled curiosity. The women whispered behind their champagne flutes.
Because Aaron - sharp-tongued, unreadable, immovable, had just melted at the sight of one woman.
His woman.
His princess.
His movements were almost imperceptible as he rose from the chair and crossed the room with tunnel vision. He stood by her side, not interrupting her conversation, just grazing her thigh to let her know he was there.
His fingertips paused as they brushed the familiar lace of the garter hidden beneath the slit in her dress.
When she finally acknowledged him, he simply nodded toward a quieter part of the suite. Somewhere more private.
She didn’t speak. Just turned and walked, heels clicking on polished marble, her perfume trailing behind in warm, intoxicating waves.
She wandered into the room like she belonged there.
He followed like he couldn’t help himself.
She dropped her clutch onto the counter, catching her faint reflection in the glass, city lights glowing behind her. She smirked.
“Say it,” she said softly, not turning around.
Aaron rolled his cuffs with slow, precise fingers, his eyes locked on her back.
“You look…” he swallowed.
God, she was already playing with him.
“You look like you were made to drive me mad.”
Her smirk curved wider.
“There it is.”
In three long strides, he was behind her - hands sliding over her hips, guiding her until she was pressed flush against the floor-to-ceiling window, her back to his chest.
“You’re late,” he murmured, voice thick with gravel.
“I wanted to see if you’d wait for me.”
“You know I would.”
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, beard scraping gently against her skin. His hands roamed freely now, greedy and reverent all at once. He breathed her in like a man starved.
“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” he growled.
“Let me see you. Now.”
She turned slowly, deliberately, locking eyes with him.
“Take it off,” he said, voice dipping into command.
“Still pretending you’re in charge, daddy?” she whispered.
His jaw ticked.
“Don’t start.”
“Oh, I think I will.” Her hand slid into his curls, tugging hard enough to make him groan.
“You forget who owns you when you’re in a suit.”
It hurt him to let her take the reins. But he let her. Always.
She kissed him, barely. A brush of her lips, then gone. He chased the second - missed.
She laughed, low and wicked, and reached beneath her dress.
Aaron watched, helpless, as she slipped her panties down her legs with a maddening drag.
She balled them in her hand, stepped in close, and without a word, tucked them neatly into the pocket of his suit jacket, pressing her palm flat to his chest.
“There,” she whispered.
“That should keep you distracted.”
He made a sound, somewhere between a growl and a moan. Hunger laced with surrender.
“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes fluttering shut as her scent hit him. Warm. Head-spinning. Unmistakably hers.
“I’m going to ruin you,” she said, fingertips ghosting up his throat,
“and you’re going to thank me for it.”
And with that, she turned and walked back into the party like nothing had happened.
She kept him waiting.
Not cruelly but knowingly. A dance of glances, of subtle defiance wrapped in satin and smirks. She continued to mingle, to dance, to laugh - the life of the party without trying, radiant and divine, and every bit aware of the man tracking her every move like a starved animal.
Aaron let her have her moment. Let her shine. Let her bask.
But the leash was fraying.
His hand tightened around his glass. His gaze, calm at first, began to shift. That storm in his chest no longer whispered, it rumbled. The longer she smiled at men who weren’t him, the more his patience eroded in jagged, hungry pieces.
And then it happened.
Across the room - a look.
Sharp. Singular. Final.
Enough.
She met his gaze, and something passed between them like lightning, electric, breathless, absolute. No argument. No teasing reply. She understood. She wanted this too.
With quiet grace, she turned back to the circle she’d been entertaining, exchanged a few soft goodbyes, gathered her things without a single glance back.
She headed toward the door to wait for him.
He didn’t give her time to get comfortable.
The ride was silent.
Thick with tension. His hand on her bare thigh, thumb stroking slow, possessive circles that made her shift in her seat and squeeze her legs together. He didn’t speak. Didn’t even look at her. Just stared out the window with a clenched jaw and the promise of unravelling barely veiled in his profile.
She tried to steady her breath. Tried not to let the heat between her legs spread into visible tremors.
But God, the weight of him, of his silence, of his hand, was a gravity she couldn’t escape.
When they finally arrived, the city lights behind the penthouse shimmered like a stage curtain waiting to fall. She reached for his hand as they entered, not to pull away, not to stop him - but to thread their fingers.
A silent signal.
You can lose control now.
He didn’t say a word. Just lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her wrist like a vow, and walked her inside.
The door clicked shut behind them, locking out the world.
She wandered in like she owned the place. Effortless. Unbothered. Ethereal.
He followed like he couldn’t help himself.
The city lay sprawled below them, glittering like it existed just for them. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the penthouse in cold elegance, but Aaron had eyes only for her.
His restraint had lasted long enough.
Now, behind locked doors and blackout glass, there were no more eyes. No crowd. No civility to cling to. Just raw permission. Just her - and the only control he recognized: the kind she gave him.
Here, they could truly be themselves.
He finally snapped.
Not loud. Not wild.
Just… decisive.
Aaron was all silence and precision - composed, deadly focused, every move laced with intent. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.
She tried to keep teasing. Tried to sway her hips with that same party-girl spark in her eyes, like she was still in control.
But he was done with her games.
She let the leash go. He yanked it.
Hard.
Before she could say another word, he had her bent over the back of the leather armchair overlooking the city - the same one they’d sat in last time, her in his lap, all soft kisses and slow touches.
Not tonight.
“Let them see if they want,” he growled low in her ear, hand splayed firm against her lower back. “I only care if you come when I say.”
She was already shaking, worked up from the party, the silent ride, the look in his eyes that told her you’re mine now. He slid his fingers between her thighs, and she gasped - wet, aching, right on the edge.
And he stopped.
She whimpered, grinding back against his hand, desperate.
“No.”
That was all he said.
Orgasm denial began in earnest - sharp, relentless, precise. He brought her to the brink once. Twice. A third time and still withheld.
She was a mess of breathy pleads and bitten-off cries.
He growled when she resisted.
Whimpered when she praised.
When she reached back to pull at his hair, desperate for something to ground her, he rewarded her with his fingers again, with kisses against her neck, with filth whispered into her skin like prayer.
She had him right where she wanted him.
Maybe she turned the tables for a moment, rode him slow, edging him again and again. Or maybe she pulled away entirely, giving him just her fingers and voice while he begged for more, desperation leaking through every trembling growl.
His reactions were raw. Visceral.
That low, guttural sound he made when she tugged his hair. The way he clenched his fists when she denied him again. The hitch in his breath when her praise hit just right, soft strokes through his beard, murmured "Good boy," at the base of his throat.
The scent of her arousal clung to him and tangled in his beard, glistening on his mouth, pooling in his lap. It made him feral with need.
But he wasn’t allowed to finish.
Not yet.
Not until she said so.
“On your knees, daddy,” she whispered, curling her fingers around his collar, giving it a yank just sharp enough to make his breath stutter.
“You want to touch? You earn it.”
His jaw clenched, not in defiance but need.
She knew that tension. Knew how he flexed his fists when his control started to splinter. Knew the sound he made, low and guttural, when he was on the brink of breaking.
One slow stroke through his curls, one soft please, and he was hers all over again - whimpering when she denied him a second kiss, growling when she ghosted her lips over his and pulled back.
His beard brushed her thighs, and she felt it - the sting, the burn, the ache she’d be wearing for hours.
This was the part she lived for: when all that power in him folded under the weight of her touch. When the man who commanded, rooms would fall to pieces at her feet.
And still she wasn’t done with him yet.
Aaron was on his knees now, not literally. Not yet.
But emotionally?
Utterly.
His beard scratched gently against her thighs, lips trailing over the marks he’d left. Not just kissing them - worshipping them. Like they were sacred. Like they meant something.
They did.
“You were so good,” he murmured between each kiss, voice hoarse with sincerity. “You wreck me. I’d do anything you ask.”
And he meant it.
He begged to make her come, not just for permission, but for purpose. To serve. To give her everything.
“Tell me what you want, princess,” he whispered, trembling slightly. “I need to hear it.”
She let him.
But not without conditions.
“Only if you beg like I did at the party.”
That made him stutter. Hands bound behind him, muscles straining, head tipped back in submission. The man who once held every eye in the room now held nothing but the hope that she’d let him touch.
He was unravelling.
Breaking.
She straddled his thigh, leaned in close, bit his neck just hard enough to bruise. Marking him. Branding him.
Hers.
“Look at you,” she breathed, running a finger down the line of his throat. “My perfect man.”
Then she slipped his ring - his -onto her finger with a smile that could ruin worlds.
“It looks better on me, doesn’t it?”
Only yeses filled his mind. No room for anything else.
Only yes.
Only please.
Only the frantic beat of devotion in his chest.
Desperate pleads. Shaky promises.
“I’ll be good.”
“I’ll serve.”
“Whatever you want - just tell me.”
She was his goddess, and he’d do anything. Everything.
And maybe then, just maybe, she would finally let him come.
Or maybe…
She wouldn’t.
They lay tangled - bare, messy, breathless.
Her cheek rested against his chest; their limbs knotted together in a perfect kind of chaos. Skin on skin. Sweat cooling. Hearts still racing from the wreckage they made of each other.
She shifted slightly, reached for his jacket where it had fallen carelessly beside them. Slipped a hand into the inner pocket. And when her fingers closed around familiar paper…
She blinked. Sat up just enough to look at him.
“You kept them.”
He didn’t open his eyes. Just gave a lazy half-smile, one hand finding her waist like it belonged there.
“I never let go.”
It hit her like a soft punch to the sternum. He meant it. Not just the note. Not just tonight. Her.
He laid his head in her lap, beard scratching the inside of her thigh, and she carded her fingers through his short curls - slow, soothing strokes, like worship. Like grounding.
She cleaned him up with the same hands that had just undone him, whispered quiet praises into his hair, reminding him what he was: hers.
Still growly with the world. Still the man with sharp eyes and tighter control. But here, with her?
He was soft. Unmade. Owned.
The city lights glimmered around them, wrapping them in gold and shadow, but Aaron had eyes only for her.
And just as her fingers brushed the hollow of his throat, he murmured - low, wrecked, already hardening again beneath her thighs:
“You know you’re torturing me, right?”
She just smiled.
They were perfectly matched. Freak for freak. Control for control. Pleasure for pain.
pairing: teacher!terry richmond x black!mom reader
warnings: fluff, fluff and more fluff
summary: a compilation of moments stolen and moments gained between terry and certain parent.
word count: 2.3K
a/n: request from my girl - @atasteofmir
The classroom buzzed with the soft hum of crayons scratching against paper and the occasional ripple of giggles from the reading corner. Terry knelt beside one of the desks, brow furrowed in concentration, but not with frustration. His large hands moved with careful precision as he adjusted a little girl’s grip on her pencil.
“There we go,” he murmured, voice gentle, thumb brushing lightly along her fingers to reposition them. “Nice and loose. Don’t strangle it, sweetheart - the pencil didn’t do anything wrong.”
She giggled at that, looking up at him with missing teeth and ink smudged on her cheek. He smiled back, fond and warm, then stood with a low groan - his knees weren’t what they used to be.
He moved from table to table like that, patient and soft-spoken, offering praise as naturally as he breathed. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, tie a little loose by now, as he crouched again to tie a stubborn shoelace for a boy who had already tried (and failed) three times.
“There,” he said, tugging the knot snug. “You’ll be zooming across the playground in no time.”
The boy grinned. “Thanks, Mr Richmond.”
Terry gave a wink, brushing the dust from his knees as he stood once more, taking in the room like he always did - a quiet headcount, a moment of peace.
That was when he saw her daughter - sat at the back, nose in her book, with her lunchbox already halfway unpacked though it wasn’t even close to break time. A bright snack pack peeked out from the zippered pouch, folded neatly, like everything else she touched.
Terry strolled over and crouched again, voice dropping just slightly.
“Did your mum pack this?” he asked, lifting the snack with a soft smile.
She nodded, not looking up from the book.
“She says you forget to eat. She said you’ll get all sleepy again.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, warmth blooming somewhere behind his ribs.
“Yeah? Guess I’ve been caught, huh?”
The little girl shrugged, matter of fact. “Mummy says teachers work too hard.”
Terry’s throat went tight for a moment. He looked down at the note tucked beside the snack - folded paper in her handwriting, looped and lovely.
It didn’t say much. Just Don’t skip lunch today - there’s more where that came from. And a tiny smiley face.
He tried not to overthink it - he really did. But he always knew when the snacks were from her. Thoughtful. Practical. Like she’d packed a bit of herself into them. Like she couldn’t help but be kind, even in the smallest, quietest ways.
Terry folded the note carefully and tucked it into his back pocket.
“Tell your mum thank you,” he said softly. “That was really nice of her.”
The little girl didn’t look up, but she smiled.
“I think she likes you.”
Terry froze, caught mid-step as he rose.
His heart gave a stupid little thump.
“Oh, yeah?” he managed.
“Mmhm,” she said, still reading. “She smiles more on school days.”
He didn’t know what to say to that - so he just ruffled her hair gently and turned back toward the front of the room, the corners of his mouth twitching with something he wasn’t ready to name.
Not yet.
The school day wound down the way it always did - with mismatched mittens, forgotten jumpers, and high-pitched goodbyes that echoed down the hallway like bird calls. One by one, the kids filtered out in a flurry of backpacks and brightly coloured coats, trailing crayon drawings and half-finished crafts in their wake.
Terry stood by the classroom door with a soft smile, shoulder leaned lazily against the frame. He offered gentle waves to parents as they passed, bending occasionally to help zip up coats or remind a child not to forget their bookbag again. It was quieting down now, just a few stragglers left - including her little one, who sat cross-legged by the reading corner, humming to herself as she flipped through the same book from earlier.
She was always one of the last.
Terry didn’t mind.
He turned back toward the girl just as the familiar creak of the hallway door opened behind him - and there she was, breathless and radiant.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, brushing wind-blown hair from her face with one hand, her coat half-buttoned and cheeks a little flushed from the outside chill. “Got caught in traffic after a meeting.”
He straightened without meaning to, suddenly far too aware of the way his tie was crooked, and his sleeves had wrinkled. Her voice - low and warm, just the slightest bit husky - wrapped around his name like something intimate.
“Thank you for staying back, Mr Richmond.”
That did something to him.
The way she said it - like it was a private joke, soft on the edges, a little playful - made something twist low in his chest. Made him forget whatever he'd planned to say. She probably didn’t even realise the effect she had on him. Or maybe she did.
“No trouble at all,” he managed, voice a shade deeper than usual. “She’s been good as gold today. Kept me company.”
Her eyes crinkled when she smiled - tired, but so bright it made his brain short-circuit for a second.
“She always says you’re her favourite teacher,” she said lightly, stepping into the room. “I think you’ve ruined every other grade for her.”
Terry chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as her daughter bounded up and clung to her legs.
“I’ll try not to let it go to my head,” he replied, but his eyes lingered, just a little too long - on the way her hand curled instinctively around her daughter’s hair, stroking it absent-mindedly as they chatted.
She wasn’t dressed up, not really. Just work trousers and a jumper, sensible boots, a scarf loose around her neck. But Terry noticed everything - the faint scent of something floral when she stepped a little closer, the curve of her mouth when she laughed, the way she looked at her child like nothing else in the world mattered.
He felt like a fool.
“Have a good weekend, Mr Richmond,” she said eventually, gathering the little girl’s bag over one shoulder. “Don’t forget your snack, by the way. She’ll ask if you ate it.”
He smiled, half shy. “Tell her I saved the note.”
That made her pause, just a heartbeat and when she looked at him again, her eyes had softened.
“Did you?” she asked.
He nodded, quiet. “Made my whole morning.”
There was a beat of something unsaid between them. Then she nodded once, almost bashful.
“See you Monday,” she murmured.
And just like that, she was gone - hand in hand with her daughter, coat fluttering behind her as they disappeared down the corridor.
Terry stood there for a long moment, staring at the space she’d just occupied.
God help him.
Another day followed on from that; the classroom had settled into its midday rhythm — a soft hum of little voices, crinkling wrappers, and juice cartons clicking open. Terry sat behind his desk, half-pretending to mark some worksheets, but mostly just keeping an eye on the room.
He didn’t usually eat much during lunch - too busy making sure sticky fingers weren’t painting the tables or someone wasn’t trying to trade a banana for five gummy bears.
But today, there it was, a little lunchbox tucked neatly on the edge of his desk. Something about it made him pause.
Inside, he found a granola bar and a sandwich wrapped in parchment. Nestled on top, folded in half, was a small note in soft purple ink:
“Just in case you forget again. Don’t make me send a full meal prep next time. — M.”
Terry stared for a second longer than he meant to. His lips curved, slow and helpless.
He didn’t need to read it twice to know who it was from. Terry laughed softly, his throat suddenly tight. The sound was gentle, almost fond, like it came from somewhere deep in his chest.
He unwrapped the sandwich carefully, like it might fall apart if he rushed. Like it meant more than it should.
Because, honestly, it did.
He felt ridiculous, a grown man undone by peanut butter and a granola bar - but there was something about her thoughtfulness that clung to him all afternoon.
It stayed with him through phonics and finger painting, through storytime and scribbled spelling tests.
And when the end of the day finally came and he heard her voice in the doorway again, saying his name in that low, warm way that twisted something inside him?
He was already gone.
The school car park was nearly empty, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. Most of the parents had already come and gone, but she’d stayed behind, chatting briefly with the headteacher before emerging with a box in her arms - supplies for the bake sale, if he remembered correctly.
Terry spotted her from across the lot, and before his brain caught up, his body was already moving.
“Let me help you with that,” he offered, reaching for the box just as she adjusted it against her chest.
Their fingers brushed, warm skin on skin, and the touch was brief, but electric. It grounded him and rattled him all at once.
“Oh thank you,” she said, letting him take the weight from her arms. She smiled, a little flustered, and pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Then, for the first time, she said it.
“Thank you, Terry.”
His name on her lips - not Mr Richmond, not the usual school-friendly courtesy, but soft. Familiar. Like she’d been holding onto it for a while and finally decided to use it.
He almost dropped the box.
Almost said something stupid.
Almost kissed her then and there.
But instead, he just swallowed hard and nodded, carrying the box to her car in silence while trying not to fall apart completely.
Because that name, from her, meant something.
And now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
It had started drizzling just after lunch, a slow, misty rain that made the whole building feel quieter somehow. Terry noticed her daughter wasn’t her usual cheerful self. Her face was drained, movements sluggish. One of the teaching assistants offered to escort her to the front office, but Terry had already set down his clipboard.
“I’ll take her,” he said, gently resting a hand on the child’s shoulder. “Come on, sweetheart.”
He walked slowly, crouching to her level to make sure she was alright, every step a small ache in his chest. When they reached the office, he didn’t hand the phone to the receptionist - he called her himself.
He told himself it was to be thorough. Just protocol.
But truthfully? He just wanted to hear her voice.
She answered on the second ring, worry already thick in her tone. And twenty minutes later, she arrived - a blur of damp curls and a dripping umbrella, the rain clinging to her coat like silver.
She burst into the room, eyes wide and scanning. “Sweetheart, are you alright?”
Terry stood to the side, hands in his pockets, trying to act composed. Her daughter perked up a little at the sight of her, nestling into the familiar comfort of her mother’s arms.
But Terry couldn’t look away.
God, she was beautiful. Hair damp, cheeks warm, eyes full of love and worry. And she was right here, inches from him and he wanted to wrap her in his embrace. Shelter her from more than just the rain.
She glanced up and caught him watching.
He offered her a small, reassuring smile. “She’ll be just fine,” he said gently. “I thought you’d want to know right away.”
Her lips parted like she wanted to say something. Maybe thank him. Maybe something more.
But then the receptionist spoke, breaking the moment.
And Terry was left standing there, heart pounding, soaked in everything he couldn’t say.
Friday rolled around, almost too soon – Terry loved the weekend of rest ahead always spent those two days missing the buzz of chatter. The last parent had left twenty minutes ago. The halls had fallen quiet, the buzzing lights overhead the only sound left. Terry stood near the classroom door, flipping aimlessly through some worksheets, pretending he wasn’t waiting.
Then her heels clicked down the corridor.
She looked a little windblown, like she’d rushed to make it in time, cheeks flushed from the evening chill. He straightened without thinking.
“Sorry I’m late,” she murmured, her voice low, her smile soft. “Didn’t want to miss the chance to check in.”
She stayed for longer than necessary. They talked, about her daughter, about the school fundraiser, about nothing at all. The air grew heavy with something neither of them named, something that had been building since the first day she said his name with that teasing lilt.
She leaned a little closer when she laughed. His hand brushed hers once when passing her a newsletter. Neither of them mentioned it.
As they lingered by the door, her eyes lingered too.
“You’re good with them,” she said softly, gaze dipping to his mouth and back. “But you’re terrible at hiding a crush.”
Terry blinked, caught completely off guard. “That obvious, huh?”
“A little.” She grinned, slow and warm and absolutely stunning.
And then - bold, quick, she leaned in and kissed him.
Not quite on the mouth. But not quite not, either.
Just enough to make him lose his breath.
“I’ll see you Monday, Mr Richmond,” she whispered, her smile a secret just for him.
And with that, she turned and walked away, heels clicking, curls bouncing, like she hadn’t just wrecked his whole night with five syllables and a kiss that wasn’t quite innocent.
Terry stood frozen for a second, blinking.
Then leaned against the doorframe, dazed and grinning, like a man who’d just been hit by something divine.
summary: after a long day on the job, all terry wants is the warmth of his woman and the comfort of home. but when she’s not waiting at the door, he finds something even sweeter waiting in bed and a night that reminds him just how lucky he is.
a/n: soft!dom terry and wife worship ?? sign me up
The door creaked open on its hinges, the familiar weight of it grounding Terry as he stepped inside, steel-toe boots thudding heavily against the floor. The scent of home hit him first, something warm, seasoned, and slow-cooked. His stomach grumbled. His shoulders ached. Muscles pulled taut from a long shift, grease still clinging under his fingernails and grit caked into the lines of his palms.
The house was quiet.
No soft footsteps rushing to the door. No warm body throwing arms around his neck, peppering kisses across his jaw, teasing him for smelling like diesel and sweat. Just silence, low-lit lamps, and the soft hum of something playing faintly from the kitchen radio.
He paused, brows drawing together. Not in frustration, just… surprise. He had been used to her. To that light in his day, that little smile she always wore just for him, like she had been waiting all afternoon just to make him feel like a king walking through the door.
Instead, he found a plate waiting on the kitchen counter, wrapped neatly in foil. Beside it, a little note written in her hand:
“Eat up, baby. I made your favourite. Didn’t want it to get cold. I’ll be waiting in bed. I love you.”
—x—
A slow smile curved across his face as he pulled off his jacket, fingers lingering on the note. His chest swelled, soft with affection and longing. God, he loved her.
Still… something about the house without her presence at the door made it feel too still. Like it hadn’t quite turned into home yet.
He sat down, ate with quiet gratitude, licking sauce from his thumb and letting the warmth of her cooking settle in his bones. But the thing he really craved?
Was upstairs.
Waiting for him.
Terry set his empty plate in the sink, gave the note one last glance, and sighed like a man already half-asleep on his feet. Every muscle begged for rest, but his mind was fixed on her - how quiet the house felt without her laughter drifting from the living room, or the scent of her skin hugging him in welcome.
Upstairs, he peeled off his clothes slow. Not for show, he never did anything just for show but because that was how he unwound. Belt undone, jeans shrugged off one leg at a time, T-shirt pulled over his head and tossed into the hamper with a tired grunt.
The shower steamed quickly, hot and heavy as he stepped beneath the spray. Dirt and sweat ran in rivulets down his broad back, his arms, his thick thighs. He braced one hand on the wall, head bowed, letting the water drum against sore shoulders. Another day down.
He reached for the soap, lathered up slowly, scrubbing the grime from his skin. A breathy chuckle escaped as he murmured to himself, low and fond,
“She’d still call me handsome even when I come home smelling like work. Crazy little thing.”
He thought of her in that second, probably curled up in bed, half-asleep, wearing one of those soft nightgowns she swore weren’t sexy. But to him?
God, nothing had ever looked better.
He washed his neck, thinking of her lips there. Washed between his legs, thinking of how her hands always fit just right. She had been in every thought, every muscle memory, every sigh that left his lungs.
He finished up with another long pass of water over his face, letting the day slide off him completely. Then, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, he stepped out, silent and barefoot, ready to find the heart of his home.
The bedroom was dim and quiet, moonlight cutting soft lines across the floor. Terry stepped in, still towel-clad, still warm from the shower, and stopped in his tracks.
There she was.
Curled up on her side of the bed, delicate and small despite how deeply she filled every corner of his heart. One arm tucked under her head, legs drawn up, nightdress bunched up high on her thighs like it always did when she slept deep and undisturbed.
It wasn’t anything flashy; no lace, no satin. Just a soft, worn little thing. Wife-core to the bone. But it was hers. And on her? Christ. It clung to every soft swell and gentle curve like it was stitched by the hands of fate just for her and his eyes alone.
Terry stood there for a long moment, just watching. Chest aching with something bigger than exhaustion, heavier than lust. That familiar swell behind the ribs, the feeling that this was what made every long shift worth it.
He padded closer, slow and quiet, not wanting to startle her. The towel slipped lower on his hips as he knelt beside the bed and reached out.
His fingers brushed the bare skin of her calf, warm and smooth under his calloused hand.
“Baby,” he whispered, voice low and thick with longing. “Come into bed more. You know I couldn’t sleep without holdin’ my girl.”
She stirred, slow and groggy, barely blinking as she turned her head toward him. Her voice was a breath of air, soft and drowsy:
“Wanted to leave space for you…”
God.
It hit him like a punch to the gut - the kind that stole your breath not from pain, but from love so thick it pressed into your lungs.
“Aw, sweetheart…”
He eased the blanket back, climbed in beside her, strong arms snaking around her waist. One hand slid up her side, coaxing her gently toward him, cradling her like she was made of spun sugar.
She stretched in that half-asleep way, arms forward, legs back, and her body arched, slow and feline. The hem of her nightdress hiked up over her hips in the process. And that was when he saw it.
Nothing underneath.
No panties. Just bare, warm, glistening skin.
Terry stilled.
His breath stopped in his chest, then spilled out in one slow, ragged draw. That pulse between his legs kicked alive, instant and undeniable.
“Ooooh fuck, woman…” His voice was thick, almost reverent, laced with a growl at the end. “The things you do to me.”
He didn’t pounce. He didn’t rush.
No, he slid out from under the covers, knelt behind her at the edge of the bed, and just looked.
Big hands spread her thighs with reverent care. He groaned under his breath at the sight—soft folds slick and glistening, waiting, aching. Her warmth already called to him.
“You tryna kill me, leavin’ this sweet little thing waitin’ for me like that?” His voice dipped lower, rougher. He palmed the curve of her ass, leaned in to press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, slow and indulgent.
One hand kept her spread while the other ran up her spine, settling over her lower back. His mouth hovered just barely above her cunt, his breath ghosting over sensitive skin.
He kissed her again, right there, tongue parting her lips in a slow, deliberate lick from back to front.
“Mmhm… you taste like my girl. My good little wife. Built for me, huh?”
Terry was already on his knees, shoulders square between her thighs. The room was quiet, still, save for the soft sigh of her breathing and the low hum of his voice, thick with hunger.
He leaned in again, tongue flattening as he licked a long, deliberate stripe up her soaked centre. Her thighs twitched. He hummed into her, pleased.
“You taste like my whole damn world, baby…” he groaned, barely audible as he pressed another open-mouthed kiss to her folds. “This pussy’s heaven.”
He didn’t rush. He savoured.
Slow, deep licks. Tongue flicking against her clit, then dipping lower to tease her entrance, then lower still, giving her ass the same reverence, like she was made of gold and he was here to worship.
He ate like a man starved. Gripping the meat of her thighs to keep her still while he feasted, each moan vibrating against her until she was gasping, trembling, toes curled into the sheets.
“Can’t believe this is mine…” he panted, between licks. “Sweetest fuckin’ thing I ever tasted. Goddamn, girl, you spoil me.”
She tried to wriggle, the pressure building too fast—but he didn’t let her go.
“Uh-uh, stay right there. Don’t you run from me.”
He groaned as she began to fall apart, her thighs squeezing around his head, her voice cracking with breathless, desperate moans.
That was what he wanted. That was what he needed.
She came with a whimper, shaking, face buried in a pillow, and he didn’t stop, not until she was gasping, twitching, overstimulated.
Only then did he pull back, face wet, eyes dark, voice wrecked with praise.
“That’s my good girl… makin’ Daddy proud.
The moment he sank into her, it was deep, slow—deliberate. He paused just for a second, allowing her to adjust to the fullness of him before pulling her closer. The weight of him stretched her, making her gasp softly. He watched her closely, his hands digging into her waist, fingers marking her skin as if he wanted to brand her.
He let her ride for a moment, a slow rhythm at first. Her hips rolled against him, taking what he gave her, each movement driving him mad with the sweet friction.
Then, with one swift motion, he flipped her. Her body landed with a soft thud against the bed, and he loomed over her, a grin playing on his lips, cock still buried deep inside her. He couldn’t stop himself from praising her, the words spilling out like they’d been pent up for far too long.
“The boys at work don’t know I come home to a pussy like this,” he gritted, voice rough and possessive. “They can only dream about this. My perfect little wife. Built just for me, aren’t you?”
Her brain was fogged with pleasure. Her body could barely keep up. She wanted to respond, but all she could manage was a desperate, incoherent whimper.
Terry chuckled darkly at her lack of words. His hand came down on her ass with a sharp, satisfying crack. The sound reverberated in the room, making the heat between them even hotter. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, gravelly and commanding.
“Say it. Tell Daddy who owned this sweet fuckin’ cunt.”
Her body trembled, and she could barely speak through the haze of pleasure. But she knew what he wanted. She knew he would never let up until she gave him what he needed.
“Y-You, Terry,” she gasped, voice cracking with the intensity of it all. “You own me. All yours.”
The words sent a surge of possessiveness through him, and he rutted into her, pushing deeper. His body moved like an unstoppable force, each thrust a little harder, a little faster, until she was gasping, clinging to the sheets beneath her.
He could feel her tightness, her heat, her desperate need for him. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her, keeping her in place as he took what was his.
“Good girl,” he murmured, praising her through gritted teeth. “So fuckin’ good for me. I could never share you. You’re built just for me.”
Her body trembled with the force of each thrust, and Terry could feel the way she tightened around him, her orgasm building. He slapped her ass again, louder this time, and heard her voice break with pleasure, feeling her pussy flutter around him in response.
Her moans fuelled him, making him want to lose himself in her.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice thick with need. “Tell me who owned this pussy.”
Her words spilled out in a rush, breathless and full of need. “You do, Terry! You own me! I’m yours!”
Her response spurred him on, and his pace quickened. He felt himself getting closer, he could feel the tightening in his gut, the familiar rush of pleasure building inside him. Her cries became more frantic, her body rocking in time with his.
Then, just when he thought he couldn’t hold back anymore, he hit that perfect spot—the spot that made her scream out in pleasure. She cried his name, her orgasm rushing over her in waves. Her body shook, and the sound of her release drove him wild.
The warmth of her pleasure, the way her body tightened around him, pushed him over the edge. With a final groan, he released, burying himself deep inside her as his own orgasm hit, flooding her with his warmth.
He stayed still for a moment, chest heaving, both of them caught in the aftershocks of the intensity of it all.
The room felt thick with warmth and sweat, the air still humming with the echoes of their bodies. Terry moved slowly, as if the world had quieted around them. He reached for a soft towel by the bed, careful not to pull too far from her. His movements were gentle, reverent, like he was handling something sacred.
He murmured something low, a kiss pressed to the curve of her shoulder. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart.”
She whimpered softly, spent and pliant, trusting him entirely as he cleaned her up. Every swipe was tender, not rushed, like he was committing her to memory all over again. He tossed the towel aside when he was done and slipped back under the blankets, gathering her close until her body curved perfectly into his.
One arm wrapped firmly around her middle, the other came up to stroke her hair—slow, soothing, like he could lull her to sleep just with the rhythm of his touch. His nose nuzzled the top of her head, breath brushing her temple.
“You’re all I ever wanted,” he whispered, voice thick with everything he didn’t say aloud. “My good girl. My whole damn heart.”
She didn’t speak right away, too heavy-limbed and sated, but when she did, her voice was small and drowsy.
“You’re mine too.”
Her words settled into him like a prayer, anchoring him. Terry tightened his hold just slightly, grounding himself in the weight of her, the scent of her skin, the soft rise and fall of her chest against his.
Outside, the moonlight peeked in faint silver slivers through the curtains. But inside their little world, everything was warm and still.
comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾
summary: after a long day on the job, all terry wants is the warmth of his woman and the comfort of home. but when she’s not waiting at the door, he finds something even sweeter waiting in bed and a night that reminds him just how lucky he is.
a/n: soft!dom terry and wife worship ?? sign me up
The door creaked open on its hinges, the familiar weight of it grounding Terry as he stepped inside, steel-toe boots thudding heavily against the floor. The scent of home hit him first, something warm, seasoned, and slow-cooked. His stomach grumbled. His shoulders ached. Muscles pulled taut from a long shift, grease still clinging under his fingernails and grit caked into the lines of his palms.
The house was quiet.
No soft footsteps rushing to the door. No warm body throwing arms around his neck, peppering kisses across his jaw, teasing him for smelling like diesel and sweat. Just silence, low-lit lamps, and the soft hum of something playing faintly from the kitchen radio.
He paused, brows drawing together. Not in frustration, just… surprise. He had been used to her. To that light in his day, that little smile she always wore just for him, like she had been waiting all afternoon just to make him feel like a king walking through the door.
Instead, he found a plate waiting on the kitchen counter, wrapped neatly in foil. Beside it, a little note written in her hand:
“Eat up, baby. I made your favourite. Didn’t want it to get cold. I’ll be waiting in bed. I love you.”
—x—
A slow smile curved across his face as he pulled off his jacket, fingers lingering on the note. His chest swelled, soft with affection and longing. God, he loved her.
Still… something about the house without her presence at the door made it feel too still. Like it hadn’t quite turned into home yet.
He sat down, ate with quiet gratitude, licking sauce from his thumb and letting the warmth of her cooking settle in his bones. But the thing he really craved?
Was upstairs.
Waiting for him.
Terry set his empty plate in the sink, gave the note one last glance, and sighed like a man already half-asleep on his feet. Every muscle begged for rest, but his mind was fixed on her - how quiet the house felt without her laughter drifting from the living room, or the scent of her skin hugging him in welcome.
Upstairs, he peeled off his clothes slow. Not for show, he never did anything just for show but because that was how he unwound. Belt undone, jeans shrugged off one leg at a time, T-shirt pulled over his head and tossed into the hamper with a tired grunt.
The shower steamed quickly, hot and heavy as he stepped beneath the spray. Dirt and sweat ran in rivulets down his broad back, his arms, his thick thighs. He braced one hand on the wall, head bowed, letting the water drum against sore shoulders. Another day down.
He reached for the soap, lathered up slowly, scrubbing the grime from his skin. A breathy chuckle escaped as he murmured to himself, low and fond,
“She’d still call me handsome even when I come home smelling like work. Crazy little thing.”
He thought of her in that second, probably curled up in bed, half-asleep, wearing one of those soft nightgowns she swore weren’t sexy. But to him?
God, nothing had ever looked better.
He washed his neck, thinking of her lips there. Washed between his legs, thinking of how her hands always fit just right. She had been in every thought, every muscle memory, every sigh that left his lungs.
He finished up with another long pass of water over his face, letting the day slide off him completely. Then, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, he stepped out, silent and barefoot, ready to find the heart of his home.
The bedroom was dim and quiet, moonlight cutting soft lines across the floor. Terry stepped in, still towel-clad, still warm from the shower, and stopped in his tracks.
There she was.
Curled up on her side of the bed, delicate and small despite how deeply she filled every corner of his heart. One arm tucked under her head, legs drawn up, nightdress bunched up high on her thighs like it always did when she slept deep and undisturbed.
It wasn’t anything flashy; no lace, no satin. Just a soft, worn little thing. Wife-core to the bone. But it was hers. And on her? Christ. It clung to every soft swell and gentle curve like it was stitched by the hands of fate just for her and his eyes alone.
Terry stood there for a long moment, just watching. Chest aching with something bigger than exhaustion, heavier than lust. That familiar swell behind the ribs, the feeling that this was what made every long shift worth it.
He padded closer, slow and quiet, not wanting to startle her. The towel slipped lower on his hips as he knelt beside the bed and reached out.
His fingers brushed the bare skin of her calf, warm and smooth under his calloused hand.
“Baby,” he whispered, voice low and thick with longing. “Come into bed more. You know I couldn’t sleep without holdin’ my girl.”
She stirred, slow and groggy, barely blinking as she turned her head toward him. Her voice was a breath of air, soft and drowsy:
“Wanted to leave space for you…”
God.
It hit him like a punch to the gut - the kind that stole your breath not from pain, but from love so thick it pressed into your lungs.
“Aw, sweetheart…”
He eased the blanket back, climbed in beside her, strong arms snaking around her waist. One hand slid up her side, coaxing her gently toward him, cradling her like she was made of spun sugar.
She stretched in that half-asleep way, arms forward, legs back, and her body arched, slow and feline. The hem of her nightdress hiked up over her hips in the process. And that was when he saw it.
Nothing underneath.
No panties. Just bare, warm, glistening skin.
Terry stilled.
His breath stopped in his chest, then spilled out in one slow, ragged draw. That pulse between his legs kicked alive, instant and undeniable.
“Ooooh fuck, woman…” His voice was thick, almost reverent, laced with a growl at the end. “The things you do to me.”
He didn’t pounce. He didn’t rush.
No, he slid out from under the covers, knelt behind her at the edge of the bed, and just looked.
Big hands spread her thighs with reverent care. He groaned under his breath at the sight—soft folds slick and glistening, waiting, aching. Her warmth already called to him.
“You tryna kill me, leavin’ this sweet little thing waitin’ for me like that?” His voice dipped lower, rougher. He palmed the curve of her ass, leaned in to press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, slow and indulgent.
One hand kept her spread while the other ran up her spine, settling over her lower back. His mouth hovered just barely above her cunt, his breath ghosting over sensitive skin.
He kissed her again, right there, tongue parting her lips in a slow, deliberate lick from back to front.
“Mmhm… you taste like my girl. My good little wife. Built for me, huh?”
Terry was already on his knees, shoulders square between her thighs. The room was quiet, still, save for the soft sigh of her breathing and the low hum of his voice, thick with hunger.
He leaned in again, tongue flattening as he licked a long, deliberate stripe up her soaked centre. Her thighs twitched. He hummed into her, pleased.
“You taste like my whole damn world, baby…” he groaned, barely audible as he pressed another open-mouthed kiss to her folds. “This pussy’s heaven.”
He didn’t rush. He savoured.
Slow, deep licks. Tongue flicking against her clit, then dipping lower to tease her entrance, then lower still, giving her ass the same reverence, like she was made of gold and he was here to worship.
He ate like a man starved. Gripping the meat of her thighs to keep her still while he feasted, each moan vibrating against her until she was gasping, trembling, toes curled into the sheets.
“Can’t believe this is mine…” he panted, between licks. “Sweetest fuckin’ thing I ever tasted. Goddamn, girl, you spoil me.”
She tried to wriggle, the pressure building too fast—but he didn’t let her go.
“Uh-uh, stay right there. Don’t you run from me.”
He groaned as she began to fall apart, her thighs squeezing around his head, her voice cracking with breathless, desperate moans.
That was what he wanted. That was what he needed.
She came with a whimper, shaking, face buried in a pillow, and he didn’t stop, not until she was gasping, twitching, overstimulated.
Only then did he pull back, face wet, eyes dark, voice wrecked with praise.
“That’s my good girl… makin’ Daddy proud.
The moment he sank into her, it was deep, slow—deliberate. He paused just for a second, allowing her to adjust to the fullness of him before pulling her closer. The weight of him stretched her, making her gasp softly. He watched her closely, his hands digging into her waist, fingers marking her skin as if he wanted to brand her.
He let her ride for a moment, a slow rhythm at first. Her hips rolled against him, taking what he gave her, each movement driving him mad with the sweet friction.
Then, with one swift motion, he flipped her. Her body landed with a soft thud against the bed, and he loomed over her, a grin playing on his lips, cock still buried deep inside her. He couldn’t stop himself from praising her, the words spilling out like they’d been pent up for far too long.
“The boys at work don’t know I come home to a pussy like this,” he gritted, voice rough and possessive. “They can only dream about this. My perfect little wife. Built just for me, aren’t you?”
Her brain was fogged with pleasure. Her body could barely keep up. She wanted to respond, but all she could manage was a desperate, incoherent whimper.
Terry chuckled darkly at her lack of words. His hand came down on her ass with a sharp, satisfying crack. The sound reverberated in the room, making the heat between them even hotter. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, gravelly and commanding.
“Say it. Tell Daddy who owned this sweet fuckin’ cunt.”
Her body trembled, and she could barely speak through the haze of pleasure. But she knew what he wanted. She knew he would never let up until she gave him what he needed.
“Y-You, Terry,” she gasped, voice cracking with the intensity of it all. “You own me. All yours.”
The words sent a surge of possessiveness through him, and he rutted into her, pushing deeper. His body moved like an unstoppable force, each thrust a little harder, a little faster, until she was gasping, clinging to the sheets beneath her.
He could feel her tightness, her heat, her desperate need for him. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her, keeping her in place as he took what was his.
“Good girl,” he murmured, praising her through gritted teeth. “So fuckin’ good for me. I could never share you. You’re built just for me.”
Her body trembled with the force of each thrust, and Terry could feel the way she tightened around him, her orgasm building. He slapped her ass again, louder this time, and heard her voice break with pleasure, feeling her pussy flutter around him in response.
Her moans fuelled him, making him want to lose himself in her.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice thick with need. “Tell me who owned this pussy.”
Her words spilled out in a rush, breathless and full of need. “You do, Terry! You own me! I’m yours!”
Her response spurred him on, and his pace quickened. He felt himself getting closer, he could feel the tightening in his gut, the familiar rush of pleasure building inside him. Her cries became more frantic, her body rocking in time with his.
Then, just when he thought he couldn’t hold back anymore, he hit that perfect spot—the spot that made her scream out in pleasure. She cried his name, her orgasm rushing over her in waves. Her body shook, and the sound of her release drove him wild.
The warmth of her pleasure, the way her body tightened around him, pushed him over the edge. With a final groan, he released, burying himself deep inside her as his own orgasm hit, flooding her with his warmth.
He stayed still for a moment, chest heaving, both of them caught in the aftershocks of the intensity of it all.
The room felt thick with warmth and sweat, the air still humming with the echoes of their bodies. Terry moved slowly, as if the world had quieted around them. He reached for a soft towel by the bed, careful not to pull too far from her. His movements were gentle, reverent, like he was handling something sacred.
He murmured something low, a kiss pressed to the curve of her shoulder. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart.”
She whimpered softly, spent and pliant, trusting him entirely as he cleaned her up. Every swipe was tender, not rushed, like he was committing her to memory all over again. He tossed the towel aside when he was done and slipped back under the blankets, gathering her close until her body curved perfectly into his.
One arm wrapped firmly around her middle, the other came up to stroke her hair—slow, soothing, like he could lull her to sleep just with the rhythm of his touch. His nose nuzzled the top of her head, breath brushing her temple.
“You’re all I ever wanted,” he whispered, voice thick with everything he didn’t say aloud. “My good girl. My whole damn heart.”
She didn’t speak right away, too heavy-limbed and sated, but when she did, her voice was small and drowsy.
“You’re mine too.”
Her words settled into him like a prayer, anchoring him. Terry tightened his hold just slightly, grounding himself in the weight of her, the scent of her skin, the soft rise and fall of her chest against his.
Outside, the moonlight peeked in faint silver slivers through the curtains. But inside their little world, everything was warm and still.
comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾
summary: after a long day on the job, all terry wants is the warmth of his woman and the comfort of home. but when she’s not waiting at the door, he finds something even sweeter waiting in bed and a night that reminds him just how lucky he is.
a/n: soft!dom terry and wife worship ?? sign me up
The door creaked open on its hinges, the familiar weight of it grounding Terry as he stepped inside, steel-toe boots thudding heavily against the floor. The scent of home hit him first, something warm, seasoned, and slow-cooked. His stomach grumbled. His shoulders ached. Muscles pulled taut from a long shift, grease still clinging under his fingernails and grit caked into the lines of his palms.
The house was quiet.
No soft footsteps rushing to the door. No warm body throwing arms around his neck, peppering kisses across his jaw, teasing him for smelling like diesel and sweat. Just silence, low-lit lamps, and the soft hum of something playing faintly from the kitchen radio.
He paused, brows drawing together. Not in frustration, just… surprise. He had been used to her. To that light in his day, that little smile she always wore just for him, like she had been waiting all afternoon just to make him feel like a king walking through the door.
Instead, he found a plate waiting on the kitchen counter, wrapped neatly in foil. Beside it, a little note written in her hand:
“Eat up, baby. I made your favourite. Didn’t want it to get cold. I’ll be waiting in bed. I love you.”
—x—
A slow smile curved across his face as he pulled off his jacket, fingers lingering on the note. His chest swelled, soft with affection and longing. God, he loved her.
Still… something about the house without her presence at the door made it feel too still. Like it hadn’t quite turned into home yet.
He sat down, ate with quiet gratitude, licking sauce from his thumb and letting the warmth of her cooking settle in his bones. But the thing he really craved?
Was upstairs.
Waiting for him.
Terry set his empty plate in the sink, gave the note one last glance, and sighed like a man already half-asleep on his feet. Every muscle begged for rest, but his mind was fixed on her - how quiet the house felt without her laughter drifting from the living room, or the scent of her skin hugging him in welcome.
Upstairs, he peeled off his clothes slow. Not for show, he never did anything just for show but because that was how he unwound. Belt undone, jeans shrugged off one leg at a time, T-shirt pulled over his head and tossed into the hamper with a tired grunt.
The shower steamed quickly, hot and heavy as he stepped beneath the spray. Dirt and sweat ran in rivulets down his broad back, his arms, his thick thighs. He braced one hand on the wall, head bowed, letting the water drum against sore shoulders. Another day down.
He reached for the soap, lathered up slowly, scrubbing the grime from his skin. A breathy chuckle escaped as he murmured to himself, low and fond,
“She’d still call me handsome even when I come home smelling like work. Crazy little thing.”
He thought of her in that second, probably curled up in bed, half-asleep, wearing one of those soft nightgowns she swore weren’t sexy. But to him?
God, nothing had ever looked better.
He washed his neck, thinking of her lips there. Washed between his legs, thinking of how her hands always fit just right. She had been in every thought, every muscle memory, every sigh that left his lungs.
He finished up with another long pass of water over his face, letting the day slide off him completely. Then, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, he stepped out, silent and barefoot, ready to find the heart of his home.
The bedroom was dim and quiet, moonlight cutting soft lines across the floor. Terry stepped in, still towel-clad, still warm from the shower, and stopped in his tracks.
There she was.
Curled up on her side of the bed, delicate and small despite how deeply she filled every corner of his heart. One arm tucked under her head, legs drawn up, nightdress bunched up high on her thighs like it always did when she slept deep and undisturbed.
It wasn’t anything flashy; no lace, no satin. Just a soft, worn little thing. Wife-core to the bone. But it was hers. And on her? Christ. It clung to every soft swell and gentle curve like it was stitched by the hands of fate just for her and his eyes alone.
Terry stood there for a long moment, just watching. Chest aching with something bigger than exhaustion, heavier than lust. That familiar swell behind the ribs, the feeling that this was what made every long shift worth it.
He padded closer, slow and quiet, not wanting to startle her. The towel slipped lower on his hips as he knelt beside the bed and reached out.
His fingers brushed the bare skin of her calf, warm and smooth under his calloused hand.
“Baby,” he whispered, voice low and thick with longing. “Come into bed more. You know I couldn’t sleep without holdin’ my girl.”
She stirred, slow and groggy, barely blinking as she turned her head toward him. Her voice was a breath of air, soft and drowsy:
“Wanted to leave space for you…”
God.
It hit him like a punch to the gut - the kind that stole your breath not from pain, but from love so thick it pressed into your lungs.
“Aw, sweetheart…”
He eased the blanket back, climbed in beside her, strong arms snaking around her waist. One hand slid up her side, coaxing her gently toward him, cradling her like she was made of spun sugar.
She stretched in that half-asleep way, arms forward, legs back, and her body arched, slow and feline. The hem of her nightdress hiked up over her hips in the process. And that was when he saw it.
Nothing underneath.
No panties. Just bare, warm, glistening skin.
Terry stilled.
His breath stopped in his chest, then spilled out in one slow, ragged draw. That pulse between his legs kicked alive, instant and undeniable.
“Ooooh fuck, woman…” His voice was thick, almost reverent, laced with a growl at the end. “The things you do to me.”
He didn’t pounce. He didn’t rush.
No, he slid out from under the covers, knelt behind her at the edge of the bed, and just looked.
Big hands spread her thighs with reverent care. He groaned under his breath at the sight—soft folds slick and glistening, waiting, aching. Her warmth already called to him.
“You tryna kill me, leavin’ this sweet little thing waitin’ for me like that?” His voice dipped lower, rougher. He palmed the curve of her ass, leaned in to press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, slow and indulgent.
One hand kept her spread while the other ran up her spine, settling over her lower back. His mouth hovered just barely above her cunt, his breath ghosting over sensitive skin.
He kissed her again, right there, tongue parting her lips in a slow, deliberate lick from back to front.
“Mmhm… you taste like my girl. My good little wife. Built for me, huh?”
Terry was already on his knees, shoulders square between her thighs. The room was quiet, still, save for the soft sigh of her breathing and the low hum of his voice, thick with hunger.
He leaned in again, tongue flattening as he licked a long, deliberate stripe up her soaked centre. Her thighs twitched. He hummed into her, pleased.
“You taste like my whole damn world, baby…” he groaned, barely audible as he pressed another open-mouthed kiss to her folds. “This pussy’s heaven.”
He didn’t rush. He savoured.
Slow, deep licks. Tongue flicking against her clit, then dipping lower to tease her entrance, then lower still, giving her ass the same reverence, like she was made of gold and he was here to worship.
He ate like a man starved. Gripping the meat of her thighs to keep her still while he feasted, each moan vibrating against her until she was gasping, trembling, toes curled into the sheets.
“Can’t believe this is mine…” he panted, between licks. “Sweetest fuckin’ thing I ever tasted. Goddamn, girl, you spoil me.”
She tried to wriggle, the pressure building too fast—but he didn’t let her go.
“Uh-uh, stay right there. Don’t you run from me.”
He groaned as she began to fall apart, her thighs squeezing around his head, her voice cracking with breathless, desperate moans.
That was what he wanted. That was what he needed.
She came with a whimper, shaking, face buried in a pillow, and he didn’t stop, not until she was gasping, twitching, overstimulated.
Only then did he pull back, face wet, eyes dark, voice wrecked with praise.
“That’s my good girl… makin’ Daddy proud.
The moment he sank into her, it was deep, slow—deliberate. He paused just for a second, allowing her to adjust to the fullness of him before pulling her closer. The weight of him stretched her, making her gasp softly. He watched her closely, his hands digging into her waist, fingers marking her skin as if he wanted to brand her.
He let her ride for a moment, a slow rhythm at first. Her hips rolled against him, taking what he gave her, each movement driving him mad with the sweet friction.
Then, with one swift motion, he flipped her. Her body landed with a soft thud against the bed, and he loomed over her, a grin playing on his lips, cock still buried deep inside her. He couldn’t stop himself from praising her, the words spilling out like they’d been pent up for far too long.
“The boys at work don’t know I come home to a pussy like this,” he gritted, voice rough and possessive. “They can only dream about this. My perfect little wife. Built just for me, aren’t you?”
Her brain was fogged with pleasure. Her body could barely keep up. She wanted to respond, but all she could manage was a desperate, incoherent whimper.
Terry chuckled darkly at her lack of words. His hand came down on her ass with a sharp, satisfying crack. The sound reverberated in the room, making the heat between them even hotter. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, gravelly and commanding.
“Say it. Tell Daddy who owned this sweet fuckin’ cunt.”
Her body trembled, and she could barely speak through the haze of pleasure. But she knew what he wanted. She knew he would never let up until she gave him what he needed.
“Y-You, Terry,” she gasped, voice cracking with the intensity of it all. “You own me. All yours.”
The words sent a surge of possessiveness through him, and he rutted into her, pushing deeper. His body moved like an unstoppable force, each thrust a little harder, a little faster, until she was gasping, clinging to the sheets beneath her.
He could feel her tightness, her heat, her desperate need for him. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her, keeping her in place as he took what was his.
“Good girl,” he murmured, praising her through gritted teeth. “So fuckin’ good for me. I could never share you. You’re built just for me.”
Her body trembled with the force of each thrust, and Terry could feel the way she tightened around him, her orgasm building. He slapped her ass again, louder this time, and heard her voice break with pleasure, feeling her pussy flutter around him in response.
Her moans fuelled him, making him want to lose himself in her.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice thick with need. “Tell me who owned this pussy.”
Her words spilled out in a rush, breathless and full of need. “You do, Terry! You own me! I’m yours!”
Her response spurred him on, and his pace quickened. He felt himself getting closer, he could feel the tightening in his gut, the familiar rush of pleasure building inside him. Her cries became more frantic, her body rocking in time with his.
Then, just when he thought he couldn’t hold back anymore, he hit that perfect spot—the spot that made her scream out in pleasure. She cried his name, her orgasm rushing over her in waves. Her body shook, and the sound of her release drove him wild.
The warmth of her pleasure, the way her body tightened around him, pushed him over the edge. With a final groan, he released, burying himself deep inside her as his own orgasm hit, flooding her with his warmth.
He stayed still for a moment, chest heaving, both of them caught in the aftershocks of the intensity of it all.
The room felt thick with warmth and sweat, the air still humming with the echoes of their bodies. Terry moved slowly, as if the world had quieted around them. He reached for a soft towel by the bed, careful not to pull too far from her. His movements were gentle, reverent, like he was handling something sacred.
He murmured something low, a kiss pressed to the curve of her shoulder. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart.”
She whimpered softly, spent and pliant, trusting him entirely as he cleaned her up. Every swipe was tender, not rushed, like he was committing her to memory all over again. He tossed the towel aside when he was done and slipped back under the blankets, gathering her close until her body curved perfectly into his.
One arm wrapped firmly around her middle, the other came up to stroke her hair—slow, soothing, like he could lull her to sleep just with the rhythm of his touch. His nose nuzzled the top of her head, breath brushing her temple.
“You’re all I ever wanted,” he whispered, voice thick with everything he didn’t say aloud. “My good girl. My whole damn heart.”
She didn’t speak right away, too heavy-limbed and sated, but when she did, her voice was small and drowsy.
“You’re mine too.”
Her words settled into him like a prayer, anchoring him. Terry tightened his hold just slightly, grounding himself in the weight of her, the scent of her skin, the soft rise and fall of her chest against his.
Outside, the moonlight peeked in faint silver slivers through the curtains. But inside their little world, everything was warm and still.
comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾
warnings: smut (18+), oral (f receiving), cuckholding adjacent teasing (if you squint), power play, lap dance, slight exhibitionism } lmk if you think i missed anything else
summary: a slow, smouldering game of seduction where only one man truly knows how the night will end.
word count: 2.4K
The club’s upstairs lounge was drenched in low, sultry lighting, a haze of deep red and gold reflecting off velvet-lined booths. A slow bassline throbbed through the air, thick and languid, setting the rhythm of the night. The space had been cleared out save for a few club workers lingering in the periphery, but none of them mattered.
Not to him.
Aaron sat in the farthest booth, nestled in shadow, the amber glow of his bourbon catching the light as he swirled it idly in his glass. He looked like a man at ease, posture draped in practiced indifference. But anyone watching closely would see the tension in his grip, the slight clench of his jaw. He wasn’t here for indulgence.
He was here for her.
And then—she arrived.
Moving through the room like liquid sin, she commanded attention without asking for it. A dress that sculpted every curve, heels that clicked against the floor in a slow, deliberate cadence. Eyes followed her. Men shifted in their seats, glances dark with intrigue, hunger.
She was a vision. A fantasy draped in silk.
But she only had eyes for one man. And he knew it.
A slow smirk curved against the rim of his glass as he took a measured sip, watching her, waiting. Letting the game unfold exactly the way it was meant to.
The moment she stepped into the light, she felt it—felt the weight of eyes tracing her every movement, felt the pulse of attention thick in the air.
She thrived in it.
Let them look. Let them hunger. Let them fantasise.
Because none of them would have her.
She moved like temptation incarnate, slow and deliberate, feeding the tension, drawing out the ache. She didn’t rush. No, the seduction was in the waiting, in the slow unraveling of control.
And across the room, in the corner, he sat.
Aaron hadn’t shifted an inch, hadn’t so much as twitched when she entered, but his silence was telling. A storm, deceptively still.
She met his gaze from across the room, let the heat of it settle over her skin like a brand. A challenge.
She wanted to see how long he could hold out.
Her next move was calculated—just the barest touch, fingers ghosting over the arm of a man in her path. Not enough to mean anything. Just enough to be noticed.
Aaron didn’t react. Didn’t tense, didn’t flinch.
But the slow, deliberate roll of the glass in his palm? That was all the confirmation she needed.
Threadbare restraint.
The power play sent a thrill through her, made her movements looser, more fluid, like liquid gold under the dim club lights. She teased the room, let herself be admired, but every shift of her hips, every flicker of her gaze was meant for him alone.
The way she tossed a glance over her shoulder, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips—she knew he saw. She knew he felt it.
His grip tightened on his drink.
The muscles in his jaw flexed.
Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t break.
It was intoxicating—the way he let her have her moment, let her revel in the attention, without an ounce of insecurity. Because he knew.
She belonged to him.
And she knew it too. That was why she pushed it. Just a little.
Her fingers ghosted over another man’s wrist as she passed, a teasing brush, fleeting and meaningless—except in the way it wasn’t.
Aaron felt it.
Not in the touch itself, but in the way she wanted him to feel it.
His expression didn’t change, but his eyes? They burned into her with something molten.
The game had been set, and the moment she finally made her way to him, the tension snapped like a taut wire.
He never had to chase her.
She came to him. Every. Single. Time.
And when she did?
Oh, he was taking his time collecting his prize.
The moment she finally approached him, it was like striking a match in a room filled with gasoline.
Aaron didn’t move, didn’t reach for her, but the air between them shifted. The game was ending, the tension about to snap.
She didn’t sit beside him. Didn’t ease into it.
No.
She swung a leg over his lap, straddling him with deliberate ease, her hands settling against the crisp fabric of his open jacket. Her nails scraped lightly along his jaw, guiding his gaze up to hers.
“You’ve been watching me all night,” she whispered, her voice thick with seduction.
His lips curled, the ghost of a smirk, dark and knowing. “I don’t have to watch.” His hands slid up the silk of her dress, fingers dragging along bare skin, his touch firm, claiming. “I already know how this ends.”
A spark of something wicked flickered in her eyes. “Do you?”
She moved against him then, a slow, teasing roll of her hips, testing his restraint, seeing how far she could push before he broke.
Aaron let out a slow exhale through his nose, his grip tightening, fingers flexing against her thighs like he was holding himself back. Barely.
She fed off that tension, the barely-leashed hunger in his eyes, the heat of his hands anchoring her in place. The room around them blurred—none of it mattered. Not the music, not the empty booths, not the distant hum of the club below.
It was just them.
Her body swayed in a sensual rhythm, every movement slow, deliberate, meant to torture. She leaned in, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “You look like you could use a distraction.”
Aaron exhaled sharply, his jaw ticking. “That what you’re offering?”
A soft hum, teasing. She pulled back, dragging her fingers down the front of his shirt, her eyes glinting with something dark, something playful. “Come find out.”
She slid off his lap, taking his hand in hers, leading him past velvet ropes, through the dimly lit corridor, until they reached the secluded upstairs section—completely private.
The air between them was charged, thick with expectation.
She turned to him slowly, letting the moment breathe, letting the anticipation settle deep in his bones. The soft glow of the overhead lights bathed her in gold, casting long shadows as she swayed, circling him like a predator playing with her prey.
Aaron sat back in the plush chair, legs spread, arms resting on the armrests, watching. Waiting.
She moved for him—only for him.
A slow, torturous lap dance. A tease. A promise.
Every movement was an offering, every roll of her hips, every languid touch along her own body meant to unravel him piece by piece.
His hands never left her.
Gripping. Kneading. Holding.
Like he was barely keeping himself from ruining the night’s game.
And then she leaned in, lips just ghosting his ear, her breath hot, her voice a whisper of sin.
Aaron’s control snapped.
His grip was bruising when he grabbed her thigh, pulling her flush against him.
It was about to spill over.
They barely made it out of the club before they were on each other again.
The cool night air did little to soothe the heat between them as they slipped into the back of a cab, breathless, hands greedy. The moment the door shut, Aaron gave the driver a pointed look. Without a word, the partition slid up.
Good.
Her lips were on his before he could smirk, her hands tangling in his shirt, tugging him closer, like the mere inches between them were unbearable. His fingers found her thigh, pushing beneath the silk of her dress, touch slow, teasing.
She gasped against his lips, whispering something wicked—something about how he was taking too damn long.
Aaron chuckled lowly, dragging his mouth down to her jaw, her neck. “Patience, sweetheart.”
The air between them crackled. This wasn’t new. This was well-rehearsed. A dance they’d performed countless times before, and yet, it never got old.
Her nails dug into his arm as he traced his fingers higher, just to hear that quiet hitch in her breath. He lived for that sound.
Every red light was a blessing and a curse. A stolen moment to let his hands roam, to pull her closer, to tease her just enough. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
Not until he had her where he wanted her.
And when they finally reached their building?
They didn’t make it past the door before their clothes started hitting the floor.
Her back hit the door, a breathless laugh escaping as Aaron’s mouth crushed against hers, hands greedy, starved. The night had been one long, drawn-out tease, but now? Now, he was done playing.
His hands roamed—gripping, tugging, stripping away the layers she’d used to drive him mad. That dress? It pooled at her feet in seconds. Her heels? He left them on, because fuck, she knew what that did to him.
He guided her toward the bed, but before she could climb onto it, he yanked her back against him. His mouth was at her ear, his voice thick, ragged.
“You’ve had your fun,” he murmured. “Now, it’s my turn.”
Then he was sinking to his knees.
She barely had time to gasp before his hands were gripping the backs of her thighs, spreading her for him. The heat of his breath kissed her inner thighs before his tongue did, tracing slow, torturous circles—teasing, not giving her what she needed.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her body trembling. “Aaron—”
“Shhh.” He chuckled against her skin, dragging his tongue higher, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just shy of where she ached for him. “You wanted to put on a show, baby?” He glanced up at her, eyes dark, glittering. “Then I wanna hear you.”
And then? He devoured her.
His tongue worked her like he had all the time in the world, long, lazy strokes that had her legs shaking, her body trembling under the sheer weight of pleasure. His grip tightened when she tried to move, tried to grind against his face, but he held her there, pinned, forcing her to take every bit of his slow, thorough worship.
She whimpered, hips bucking, her hands fisting in his short-cropped hair—or at least trying to, nails scraping against his scalp, his shoulders, anything to ground herself.
He loved that.
She was unravelling for him. Because of him.
He kept her there, kept her dancing on the razor’s edge, until her moans turned desperate, until she was gasping, pleading—
And just when she thought she would shatter?
He stopped.
Her eyes flew open. “Aaron—”
He licked his lips, amusement flickering across his face as he leaned back, dragging a palm up her thigh. “You wanna come?” His voice was low, teasing, fingers dancing right where she needed him.
She nodded frantically, her breath ragged. “Yes—please—”
He hummed, considering. Then, with one last, slow kiss against her inner thigh, he leaned back, settling against the headboard like a king waiting for his queen to take her place.
“Then get up here.” He spread his legs, eyes hooded, dark, filled with promise. “Ride me, earn it.”
She didn’t hesitate.
The second she climbed onto his lap, Aaron grabbed her—one hand gripping her waist, the other sliding up her back, pressing her flush against him.
And then?
She sank down.
A choked groan ripped from his throat as she took him inch by inch, the stretch burning in the best way, her nails digging into his shoulders as she adjusted.
And Aaron? He just watched.
One arm draped over the back of the bed, the other hand resting possessively on her thigh. Relaxed. Controlled. Like he wasn’t buried deep inside her, like she wasn’t clenching around him so tight, so wet—
Her hands pressed against his chest, nails raking lightly as she rolled her hips, slow, steady.
Aaron hissed through his teeth. “That’s it, baby. Show me.”
She took her time. Drawing it out. Making him feel it. Every roll of her hips, every flutter of her walls around him—it was deliberate.
His fingers flexed on her thigh, tightening. His breathing turned rough, that lazy exterior starting to crack.
And that? That made her bold.
She braced herself against his chest and rode him harder, sharper, setting a pace that had him groaning, his hands flying to her waist to hold her there.
“Fuck—” His head tipped back, the veins in his neck straining. “You’re—” His voice broke off into a moan, the sound sending a sharp bolt of heat down her spine.
He was losing it.
And she loved it.
Her lips curled into a smirk, hands sliding up his chest, to his throat, nails scratching lightly against his pulse. “What’s wrong, baby?” Her voice was honeyed, teasing. “You wanted to watch me?”
Aaron’s grip tightened.
And that was his breaking point.
With one sharp, effortless movement, he flipped her, pressing her deep into the mattress.
Before she could catch her breath, he was slamming into her, hard, deep, knocking the air from her lungs.
She cried out, back arching, legs wrapping around his waist—
And Aaron? He grinned.
“Thought you were in control, huh?” He kissed along her jaw, his pace slow, torturous. “That’s cute.”
He rolled his hips, grinding deep, and she gasped, her hands clawing at his back.
“But let’s get one thing straight, baby.” He dragged his lips to her ear, voice thick with pleasure, with possession. “You always come home to me.”
And then?
He ruined her.
They collapsed together, bodies tangled, skin slick with sweat, hearts pounding in sync.
Her cheek pressed against his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling her into something soft, something tender after all the fire.
And then—
She laughed.
A breathless, sated little chuckle against his skin as she lazily traced patterns along his chest. “We really committed to that, huh?”
Aaron smirked, his fingers brushing along her spine, dragging her closer. “Would’ve been a shame if I let anyone else think they had a chance.”
A comfortable silence settled between them, warm and heavy with satisfaction. His hand found her chin, tilting her face up just enough for him to press a lingering kiss to her temple.
His voice was low, rasping, filled with something deeper than lust, something timeless.
Whew!!!! This what Im reading right before I head to sleep. Let me higher self and the Universe conspire so I can have this. This was soo sexy, and sensual. The tension came through fr.
Like wow!!!! This was absolutely amazing 🤩. Your scene setting>>>> like im the club fr🤣🙏🏿
warnings: smut (18+), oral (f receiving), cuckholding adjacent teasing (if you squint), power play, lap dance, slight exhibitionism } lmk if you think i missed anything else
summary: a slow, smouldering game of seduction where only one man truly knows how the night will end.
word count: 2.4K
The club’s upstairs lounge was drenched in low, sultry lighting, a haze of deep red and gold reflecting off velvet-lined booths. A slow bassline throbbed through the air, thick and languid, setting the rhythm of the night. The space had been cleared out save for a few club workers lingering in the periphery, but none of them mattered.
Not to him.
Aaron sat in the farthest booth, nestled in shadow, the amber glow of his bourbon catching the light as he swirled it idly in his glass. He looked like a man at ease, posture draped in practiced indifference. But anyone watching closely would see the tension in his grip, the slight clench of his jaw. He wasn’t here for indulgence.
He was here for her.
And then—she arrived.
Moving through the room like liquid sin, she commanded attention without asking for it. A dress that sculpted every curve, heels that clicked against the floor in a slow, deliberate cadence. Eyes followed her. Men shifted in their seats, glances dark with intrigue, hunger.
She was a vision. A fantasy draped in silk.
But she only had eyes for one man. And he knew it.
A slow smirk curved against the rim of his glass as he took a measured sip, watching her, waiting. Letting the game unfold exactly the way it was meant to.
The moment she stepped into the light, she felt it—felt the weight of eyes tracing her every movement, felt the pulse of attention thick in the air.
She thrived in it.
Let them look. Let them hunger. Let them fantasise.
Because none of them would have her.
She moved like temptation incarnate, slow and deliberate, feeding the tension, drawing out the ache. She didn’t rush. No, the seduction was in the waiting, in the slow unraveling of control.
And across the room, in the corner, he sat.
Aaron hadn’t shifted an inch, hadn’t so much as twitched when she entered, but his silence was telling. A storm, deceptively still.
She met his gaze from across the room, let the heat of it settle over her skin like a brand. A challenge.
She wanted to see how long he could hold out.
Her next move was calculated—just the barest touch, fingers ghosting over the arm of a man in her path. Not enough to mean anything. Just enough to be noticed.
Aaron didn’t react. Didn’t tense, didn’t flinch.
But the slow, deliberate roll of the glass in his palm? That was all the confirmation she needed.
Threadbare restraint.
The power play sent a thrill through her, made her movements looser, more fluid, like liquid gold under the dim club lights. She teased the room, let herself be admired, but every shift of her hips, every flicker of her gaze was meant for him alone.
The way she tossed a glance over her shoulder, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips—she knew he saw. She knew he felt it.
His grip tightened on his drink.
The muscles in his jaw flexed.
Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t break.
It was intoxicating—the way he let her have her moment, let her revel in the attention, without an ounce of insecurity. Because he knew.
She belonged to him.
And she knew it too. That was why she pushed it. Just a little.
Her fingers ghosted over another man’s wrist as she passed, a teasing brush, fleeting and meaningless—except in the way it wasn’t.
Aaron felt it.
Not in the touch itself, but in the way she wanted him to feel it.
His expression didn’t change, but his eyes? They burned into her with something molten.
The game had been set, and the moment she finally made her way to him, the tension snapped like a taut wire.
He never had to chase her.
She came to him. Every. Single. Time.
And when she did?
Oh, he was taking his time collecting his prize.
The moment she finally approached him, it was like striking a match in a room filled with gasoline.
Aaron didn’t move, didn’t reach for her, but the air between them shifted. The game was ending, the tension about to snap.
She didn’t sit beside him. Didn’t ease into it.
No.
She swung a leg over his lap, straddling him with deliberate ease, her hands settling against the crisp fabric of his open jacket. Her nails scraped lightly along his jaw, guiding his gaze up to hers.
“You’ve been watching me all night,” she whispered, her voice thick with seduction.
His lips curled, the ghost of a smirk, dark and knowing. “I don’t have to watch.” His hands slid up the silk of her dress, fingers dragging along bare skin, his touch firm, claiming. “I already know how this ends.”
A spark of something wicked flickered in her eyes. “Do you?”
She moved against him then, a slow, teasing roll of her hips, testing his restraint, seeing how far she could push before he broke.
Aaron let out a slow exhale through his nose, his grip tightening, fingers flexing against her thighs like he was holding himself back. Barely.
She fed off that tension, the barely-leashed hunger in his eyes, the heat of his hands anchoring her in place. The room around them blurred—none of it mattered. Not the music, not the empty booths, not the distant hum of the club below.
It was just them.
Her body swayed in a sensual rhythm, every movement slow, deliberate, meant to torture. She leaned in, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “You look like you could use a distraction.”
Aaron exhaled sharply, his jaw ticking. “That what you’re offering?”
A soft hum, teasing. She pulled back, dragging her fingers down the front of his shirt, her eyes glinting with something dark, something playful. “Come find out.”
She slid off his lap, taking his hand in hers, leading him past velvet ropes, through the dimly lit corridor, until they reached the secluded upstairs section—completely private.
The air between them was charged, thick with expectation.
She turned to him slowly, letting the moment breathe, letting the anticipation settle deep in his bones. The soft glow of the overhead lights bathed her in gold, casting long shadows as she swayed, circling him like a predator playing with her prey.
Aaron sat back in the plush chair, legs spread, arms resting on the armrests, watching. Waiting.
She moved for him—only for him.
A slow, torturous lap dance. A tease. A promise.
Every movement was an offering, every roll of her hips, every languid touch along her own body meant to unravel him piece by piece.
His hands never left her.
Gripping. Kneading. Holding.
Like he was barely keeping himself from ruining the night’s game.
And then she leaned in, lips just ghosting his ear, her breath hot, her voice a whisper of sin.
Aaron’s control snapped.
His grip was bruising when he grabbed her thigh, pulling her flush against him.
It was about to spill over.
They barely made it out of the club before they were on each other again.
The cool night air did little to soothe the heat between them as they slipped into the back of a cab, breathless, hands greedy. The moment the door shut, Aaron gave the driver a pointed look. Without a word, the partition slid up.
Good.
Her lips were on his before he could smirk, her hands tangling in his shirt, tugging him closer, like the mere inches between them were unbearable. His fingers found her thigh, pushing beneath the silk of her dress, touch slow, teasing.
She gasped against his lips, whispering something wicked—something about how he was taking too damn long.
Aaron chuckled lowly, dragging his mouth down to her jaw, her neck. “Patience, sweetheart.”
The air between them crackled. This wasn’t new. This was well-rehearsed. A dance they’d performed countless times before, and yet, it never got old.
Her nails dug into his arm as he traced his fingers higher, just to hear that quiet hitch in her breath. He lived for that sound.
Every red light was a blessing and a curse. A stolen moment to let his hands roam, to pull her closer, to tease her just enough. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
Not until he had her where he wanted her.
And when they finally reached their building?
They didn’t make it past the door before their clothes started hitting the floor.
Her back hit the door, a breathless laugh escaping as Aaron’s mouth crushed against hers, hands greedy, starved. The night had been one long, drawn-out tease, but now? Now, he was done playing.
His hands roamed—gripping, tugging, stripping away the layers she’d used to drive him mad. That dress? It pooled at her feet in seconds. Her heels? He left them on, because fuck, she knew what that did to him.
He guided her toward the bed, but before she could climb onto it, he yanked her back against him. His mouth was at her ear, his voice thick, ragged.
“You’ve had your fun,” he murmured. “Now, it’s my turn.”
Then he was sinking to his knees.
She barely had time to gasp before his hands were gripping the backs of her thighs, spreading her for him. The heat of his breath kissed her inner thighs before his tongue did, tracing slow, torturous circles—teasing, not giving her what she needed.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her body trembling. “Aaron—”
“Shhh.” He chuckled against her skin, dragging his tongue higher, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just shy of where she ached for him. “You wanted to put on a show, baby?” He glanced up at her, eyes dark, glittering. “Then I wanna hear you.”
And then? He devoured her.
His tongue worked her like he had all the time in the world, long, lazy strokes that had her legs shaking, her body trembling under the sheer weight of pleasure. His grip tightened when she tried to move, tried to grind against his face, but he held her there, pinned, forcing her to take every bit of his slow, thorough worship.
She whimpered, hips bucking, her hands fisting in his short-cropped hair—or at least trying to, nails scraping against his scalp, his shoulders, anything to ground herself.
He loved that.
She was unravelling for him. Because of him.
He kept her there, kept her dancing on the razor’s edge, until her moans turned desperate, until she was gasping, pleading—
And just when she thought she would shatter?
He stopped.
Her eyes flew open. “Aaron—”
He licked his lips, amusement flickering across his face as he leaned back, dragging a palm up her thigh. “You wanna come?” His voice was low, teasing, fingers dancing right where she needed him.
She nodded frantically, her breath ragged. “Yes—please—”
He hummed, considering. Then, with one last, slow kiss against her inner thigh, he leaned back, settling against the headboard like a king waiting for his queen to take her place.
“Then get up here.” He spread his legs, eyes hooded, dark, filled with promise. “Ride me, earn it.”
She didn’t hesitate.
The second she climbed onto his lap, Aaron grabbed her—one hand gripping her waist, the other sliding up her back, pressing her flush against him.
And then?
She sank down.
A choked groan ripped from his throat as she took him inch by inch, the stretch burning in the best way, her nails digging into his shoulders as she adjusted.
And Aaron? He just watched.
One arm draped over the back of the bed, the other hand resting possessively on her thigh. Relaxed. Controlled. Like he wasn’t buried deep inside her, like she wasn’t clenching around him so tight, so wet—
Her hands pressed against his chest, nails raking lightly as she rolled her hips, slow, steady.
Aaron hissed through his teeth. “That’s it, baby. Show me.”
She took her time. Drawing it out. Making him feel it. Every roll of her hips, every flutter of her walls around him—it was deliberate.
His fingers flexed on her thigh, tightening. His breathing turned rough, that lazy exterior starting to crack.
And that? That made her bold.
She braced herself against his chest and rode him harder, sharper, setting a pace that had him groaning, his hands flying to her waist to hold her there.
“Fuck—” His head tipped back, the veins in his neck straining. “You’re—” His voice broke off into a moan, the sound sending a sharp bolt of heat down her spine.
He was losing it.
And she loved it.
Her lips curled into a smirk, hands sliding up his chest, to his throat, nails scratching lightly against his pulse. “What’s wrong, baby?” Her voice was honeyed, teasing. “You wanted to watch me?”
Aaron’s grip tightened.
And that was his breaking point.
With one sharp, effortless movement, he flipped her, pressing her deep into the mattress.
Before she could catch her breath, he was slamming into her, hard, deep, knocking the air from her lungs.
She cried out, back arching, legs wrapping around his waist—
And Aaron? He grinned.
“Thought you were in control, huh?” He kissed along her jaw, his pace slow, torturous. “That’s cute.”
He rolled his hips, grinding deep, and she gasped, her hands clawing at his back.
“But let’s get one thing straight, baby.” He dragged his lips to her ear, voice thick with pleasure, with possession. “You always come home to me.”
And then?
He ruined her.
They collapsed together, bodies tangled, skin slick with sweat, hearts pounding in sync.
Her cheek pressed against his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling her into something soft, something tender after all the fire.
And then—
She laughed.
A breathless, sated little chuckle against his skin as she lazily traced patterns along his chest. “We really committed to that, huh?”
Aaron smirked, his fingers brushing along her spine, dragging her closer. “Would’ve been a shame if I let anyone else think they had a chance.”
A comfortable silence settled between them, warm and heavy with satisfaction. His hand found her chin, tilting her face up just enough for him to press a lingering kiss to her temple.
His voice was low, rasping, filled with something deeper than lust, something timeless.
warnings: smut (18+), oral (f receiving), cuckholding adjacent teasing (if you squint), power play, lap dance, slight exhibitionism } lmk if you think i missed anything else
summary: a slow, smouldering game of seduction where only one man truly knows how the night will end.
word count: 2.4K
The club’s upstairs lounge was drenched in low, sultry lighting, a haze of deep red and gold reflecting off velvet-lined booths. A slow bassline throbbed through the air, thick and languid, setting the rhythm of the night. The space had been cleared out save for a few club workers lingering in the periphery, but none of them mattered.
Not to him.
Aaron sat in the farthest booth, nestled in shadow, the amber glow of his bourbon catching the light as he swirled it idly in his glass. He looked like a man at ease, posture draped in practiced indifference. But anyone watching closely would see the tension in his grip, the slight clench of his jaw. He wasn’t here for indulgence.
He was here for her.
And then—she arrived.
Moving through the room like liquid sin, she commanded attention without asking for it. A dress that sculpted every curve, heels that clicked against the floor in a slow, deliberate cadence. Eyes followed her. Men shifted in their seats, glances dark with intrigue, hunger.
She was a vision. A fantasy draped in silk.
But she only had eyes for one man. And he knew it.
A slow smirk curved against the rim of his glass as he took a measured sip, watching her, waiting. Letting the game unfold exactly the way it was meant to.
The moment she stepped into the light, she felt it—felt the weight of eyes tracing her every movement, felt the pulse of attention thick in the air.
She thrived in it.
Let them look. Let them hunger. Let them fantasise.
Because none of them would have her.
She moved like temptation incarnate, slow and deliberate, feeding the tension, drawing out the ache. She didn’t rush. No, the seduction was in the waiting, in the slow unraveling of control.
And across the room, in the corner, he sat.
Aaron hadn’t shifted an inch, hadn’t so much as twitched when she entered, but his silence was telling. A storm, deceptively still.
She met his gaze from across the room, let the heat of it settle over her skin like a brand. A challenge.
She wanted to see how long he could hold out.
Her next move was calculated—just the barest touch, fingers ghosting over the arm of a man in her path. Not enough to mean anything. Just enough to be noticed.
Aaron didn’t react. Didn’t tense, didn’t flinch.
But the slow, deliberate roll of the glass in his palm? That was all the confirmation she needed.
Threadbare restraint.
The power play sent a thrill through her, made her movements looser, more fluid, like liquid gold under the dim club lights. She teased the room, let herself be admired, but every shift of her hips, every flicker of her gaze was meant for him alone.
The way she tossed a glance over her shoulder, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips—she knew he saw. She knew he felt it.
His grip tightened on his drink.
The muscles in his jaw flexed.
Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t break.
It was intoxicating—the way he let her have her moment, let her revel in the attention, without an ounce of insecurity. Because he knew.
She belonged to him.
And she knew it too. That was why she pushed it. Just a little.
Her fingers ghosted over another man’s wrist as she passed, a teasing brush, fleeting and meaningless—except in the way it wasn’t.
Aaron felt it.
Not in the touch itself, but in the way she wanted him to feel it.
His expression didn’t change, but his eyes? They burned into her with something molten.
The game had been set, and the moment she finally made her way to him, the tension snapped like a taut wire.
He never had to chase her.
She came to him. Every. Single. Time.
And when she did?
Oh, he was taking his time collecting his prize.
The moment she finally approached him, it was like striking a match in a room filled with gasoline.
Aaron didn’t move, didn’t reach for her, but the air between them shifted. The game was ending, the tension about to snap.
She didn’t sit beside him. Didn’t ease into it.
No.
She swung a leg over his lap, straddling him with deliberate ease, her hands settling against the crisp fabric of his open jacket. Her nails scraped lightly along his jaw, guiding his gaze up to hers.
“You’ve been watching me all night,” she whispered, her voice thick with seduction.
His lips curled, the ghost of a smirk, dark and knowing. “I don’t have to watch.” His hands slid up the silk of her dress, fingers dragging along bare skin, his touch firm, claiming. “I already know how this ends.”
A spark of something wicked flickered in her eyes. “Do you?”
She moved against him then, a slow, teasing roll of her hips, testing his restraint, seeing how far she could push before he broke.
Aaron let out a slow exhale through his nose, his grip tightening, fingers flexing against her thighs like he was holding himself back. Barely.
She fed off that tension, the barely-leashed hunger in his eyes, the heat of his hands anchoring her in place. The room around them blurred—none of it mattered. Not the music, not the empty booths, not the distant hum of the club below.
It was just them.
Her body swayed in a sensual rhythm, every movement slow, deliberate, meant to torture. She leaned in, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “You look like you could use a distraction.”
Aaron exhaled sharply, his jaw ticking. “That what you’re offering?”
A soft hum, teasing. She pulled back, dragging her fingers down the front of his shirt, her eyes glinting with something dark, something playful. “Come find out.”
She slid off his lap, taking his hand in hers, leading him past velvet ropes, through the dimly lit corridor, until they reached the secluded upstairs section—completely private.
The air between them was charged, thick with expectation.
She turned to him slowly, letting the moment breathe, letting the anticipation settle deep in his bones. The soft glow of the overhead lights bathed her in gold, casting long shadows as she swayed, circling him like a predator playing with her prey.
Aaron sat back in the plush chair, legs spread, arms resting on the armrests, watching. Waiting.
She moved for him—only for him.
A slow, torturous lap dance. A tease. A promise.
Every movement was an offering, every roll of her hips, every languid touch along her own body meant to unravel him piece by piece.
His hands never left her.
Gripping. Kneading. Holding.
Like he was barely keeping himself from ruining the night’s game.
And then she leaned in, lips just ghosting his ear, her breath hot, her voice a whisper of sin.
Aaron’s control snapped.
His grip was bruising when he grabbed her thigh, pulling her flush against him.
It was about to spill over.
They barely made it out of the club before they were on each other again.
The cool night air did little to soothe the heat between them as they slipped into the back of a cab, breathless, hands greedy. The moment the door shut, Aaron gave the driver a pointed look. Without a word, the partition slid up.
Good.
Her lips were on his before he could smirk, her hands tangling in his shirt, tugging him closer, like the mere inches between them were unbearable. His fingers found her thigh, pushing beneath the silk of her dress, touch slow, teasing.
She gasped against his lips, whispering something wicked—something about how he was taking too damn long.
Aaron chuckled lowly, dragging his mouth down to her jaw, her neck. “Patience, sweetheart.”
The air between them crackled. This wasn’t new. This was well-rehearsed. A dance they’d performed countless times before, and yet, it never got old.
Her nails dug into his arm as he traced his fingers higher, just to hear that quiet hitch in her breath. He lived for that sound.
Every red light was a blessing and a curse. A stolen moment to let his hands roam, to pull her closer, to tease her just enough. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
Not until he had her where he wanted her.
And when they finally reached their building?
They didn’t make it past the door before their clothes started hitting the floor.
Her back hit the door, a breathless laugh escaping as Aaron’s mouth crushed against hers, hands greedy, starved. The night had been one long, drawn-out tease, but now? Now, he was done playing.
His hands roamed—gripping, tugging, stripping away the layers she’d used to drive him mad. That dress? It pooled at her feet in seconds. Her heels? He left them on, because fuck, she knew what that did to him.
He guided her toward the bed, but before she could climb onto it, he yanked her back against him. His mouth was at her ear, his voice thick, ragged.
“You’ve had your fun,” he murmured. “Now, it’s my turn.”
Then he was sinking to his knees.
She barely had time to gasp before his hands were gripping the backs of her thighs, spreading her for him. The heat of his breath kissed her inner thighs before his tongue did, tracing slow, torturous circles—teasing, not giving her what she needed.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her body trembling. “Aaron—”
“Shhh.” He chuckled against her skin, dragging his tongue higher, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just shy of where she ached for him. “You wanted to put on a show, baby?” He glanced up at her, eyes dark, glittering. “Then I wanna hear you.”
And then? He devoured her.
His tongue worked her like he had all the time in the world, long, lazy strokes that had her legs shaking, her body trembling under the sheer weight of pleasure. His grip tightened when she tried to move, tried to grind against his face, but he held her there, pinned, forcing her to take every bit of his slow, thorough worship.
She whimpered, hips bucking, her hands fisting in his short-cropped hair—or at least trying to, nails scraping against his scalp, his shoulders, anything to ground herself.
He loved that.
She was unravelling for him. Because of him.
He kept her there, kept her dancing on the razor’s edge, until her moans turned desperate, until she was gasping, pleading—
And just when she thought she would shatter?
He stopped.
Her eyes flew open. “Aaron—”
He licked his lips, amusement flickering across his face as he leaned back, dragging a palm up her thigh. “You wanna come?” His voice was low, teasing, fingers dancing right where she needed him.
She nodded frantically, her breath ragged. “Yes—please—”
He hummed, considering. Then, with one last, slow kiss against her inner thigh, he leaned back, settling against the headboard like a king waiting for his queen to take her place.
“Then get up here.” He spread his legs, eyes hooded, dark, filled with promise. “Ride me, earn it.”
She didn’t hesitate.
The second she climbed onto his lap, Aaron grabbed her—one hand gripping her waist, the other sliding up her back, pressing her flush against him.
And then?
She sank down.
A choked groan ripped from his throat as she took him inch by inch, the stretch burning in the best way, her nails digging into his shoulders as she adjusted.
And Aaron? He just watched.
One arm draped over the back of the bed, the other hand resting possessively on her thigh. Relaxed. Controlled. Like he wasn’t buried deep inside her, like she wasn’t clenching around him so tight, so wet—
Her hands pressed against his chest, nails raking lightly as she rolled her hips, slow, steady.
Aaron hissed through his teeth. “That’s it, baby. Show me.”
She took her time. Drawing it out. Making him feel it. Every roll of her hips, every flutter of her walls around him—it was deliberate.
His fingers flexed on her thigh, tightening. His breathing turned rough, that lazy exterior starting to crack.
And that? That made her bold.
She braced herself against his chest and rode him harder, sharper, setting a pace that had him groaning, his hands flying to her waist to hold her there.
“Fuck—” His head tipped back, the veins in his neck straining. “You’re—” His voice broke off into a moan, the sound sending a sharp bolt of heat down her spine.
He was losing it.
And she loved it.
Her lips curled into a smirk, hands sliding up his chest, to his throat, nails scratching lightly against his pulse. “What’s wrong, baby?” Her voice was honeyed, teasing. “You wanted to watch me?”
Aaron’s grip tightened.
And that was his breaking point.
With one sharp, effortless movement, he flipped her, pressing her deep into the mattress.
Before she could catch her breath, he was slamming into her, hard, deep, knocking the air from her lungs.
She cried out, back arching, legs wrapping around his waist—
And Aaron? He grinned.
“Thought you were in control, huh?” He kissed along her jaw, his pace slow, torturous. “That’s cute.”
He rolled his hips, grinding deep, and she gasped, her hands clawing at his back.
“But let’s get one thing straight, baby.” He dragged his lips to her ear, voice thick with pleasure, with possession. “You always come home to me.”
And then?
He ruined her.
They collapsed together, bodies tangled, skin slick with sweat, hearts pounding in sync.
Her cheek pressed against his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling her into something soft, something tender after all the fire.
And then—
She laughed.
A breathless, sated little chuckle against his skin as she lazily traced patterns along his chest. “We really committed to that, huh?”
Aaron smirked, his fingers brushing along her spine, dragging her closer. “Would’ve been a shame if I let anyone else think they had a chance.”
A comfortable silence settled between them, warm and heavy with satisfaction. His hand found her chin, tilting her face up just enough for him to press a lingering kiss to her temple.
His voice was low, rasping, filled with something deeper than lust, something timeless.
warnings: 18+ MDNI!, SMUT, dom!Terry, au!Terry, billionaire!Terry, slight breeding kink, black!OC, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, possessiveness, biting, choking, fingering, lots of dialogue, explicit language, oral fixation, aftercare and slow burn (please forgive me if i forgot anything)
summary: Caroline Brown, a determined nursing student, is forced to turn to OnlyFans after losing her scholarship. She never expected to catch the attention of Terry Richmond, a powerful and possessive businessman who quickly becomes her most generous client. Their private chats turn intense, Terry making it clear he wants her exclusively—not just on-screen, but in real life.
Caroline is caught between her need for independence and the undeniable pull of the man who wants to own every part of her. Terry has made his offer—he’ll take care of her completely, no more OnlyFans, no more struggling.
The only price? Her total surrender.
And for the first time… Caroline isn’t sure she wants to say no.
PSA: this is slightly long 🥴 it is almost 4000 words. This is a one-shot, there is no planned part two for right now.
Caroline Brown stared blankly at the email, her pulse pounding in her ears as she reread the email for the third time. The email sat open, cold, and final.
We regret to inform you that your scholarship has been revoked due to financial reallocation…
Her stomach twisted.
Her hands trembled, the words blurring together. This wasn’t a minor inconvenience. The words hit her like a punch to the gut.
This was everything.
Nursing school had been her escape, her ticket to stability, to freedom. She had fought tooth and nail to get here, juggling coursework and grueling hospital shifts at Emory Midtown, and balancing her coursework with barely enough time to sleep. But now, with tuition looming and rent already past due, she was out of options. Caroline had never been the type to ask for help. Survival meant figuring things out on her own.
That’s when she made the choice—OnlyFans...At first, it was tame—teasing lingerie, soft lighting, and suggestive captions. The money trickled in slowly, never enough.
Then came the requests
“Private chat?”
“Custom video?”
“How much for a one-on-one session?”
Caroline hesitated. She told herself she had limits. But limits didn’t pay tuition. Tuition alone was $52,000…The first time she moaned a stranger’s name for cash, she cried after logging off. The second time, she barely thought about it. By the third, she was making more in a week than she had in a month at the hospital as a CNA.
Then, one night, she got a message that changed everything.
He stood out immediately—no pleading, no cheap compliments. His messages were confident, and deliberate. There was no bullshitting when it came to Terry.
What’s your price, sweetheart?
At first, Caroline kept things strictly professional—as professional as one could be in a private chatroom on OnlyFans. She had dealt with plenty of wealthy men who wanted to own a piece of her, but none of them intrigued her the way Terry Richmond did.
He was different.
His first message was simple. Confident.
I don’t like wasting time. How much for a private chat?
She ignored him. Men like that didn’t see her as a person. Just a product. But then he sent another message.
I don’t like being ignored.
Something about it made her pulse race. She clicked his profile.
No selfies. Just a sleek, minimalist bio:
Entrepreneur. Investor. I get what I want.
Something about him intrigued her.
She responded.
From that night on, he consumed her time.
Terry was nothing like the other men. It wasn’t just the way he spoke—calm, measured, in control. It was the way he watched her, studied her, read between the lines. He didn’t just want her body—he wanted her attention, her submission, her time.
He asked questions. He wanted to know her.
And, over time, Caroline found herself wanting to give him answers.
What started as a few expensive requests turned into something more.
Wear red for me tonight.
Call me Sir.
I want to see you fall apart for me.
He never asked—he commanded.
And worse?
She listened.
Terry became possessive—demanding exclusivity, telling her he didn’t want her doing private chats with other men.
At first, she resisted. She wasn’t anyone’s possession.
But Terry had a way of getting what he wanted.
It started small—lavish gifts arriving at her door, high-end lingerie, jewelry, a new iPhone. Then, it escalated. He paid her rent—three months upfront.
Then, one night, after a particularly intense conversation, he dropped a bombshell.
“Send me your tuition statement.”
She blinked at the message, her stomach tightening.
$25,000. That was what she owed for Spring 2025—an impossible number, a weight that had been crushing her every single day.
“Terry, I can’t—”
“You can. You will. Send it.”
She hesitated for a full five minutes before finally pressing send.
Within the hour, she got the confirmation email. Paid in full.
Her hands shook as she stared at the screen, her breath unsteady.
No one had ever done something like this for her.
Terry didn’t even wait for her gratitude. His next message came through almost instantly.
“Now you have no reason to keep doing this. I don’t want you showing yourself to anyone else. I’ll take care of you, Caroline.”
Caroline sat in the back of the black luxury SUV, smoothing her hands over the fabric of her form-fitting black dress. The dress was elegant but dangerously fitted, stopping just above her knees, and hugging the generous swell of her hips and thighs.
Her brown skin glowed under the ambient lighting, her makeup flawless, emphasizing her plump lips and high cheekbones.
A gold pendant rested above the valley of her cleavage, drawing attention to the smooth skin there. Her coiled hair was swept up into a sleek bun, showcasing the elegant curve of her neck.
She looked expensive. Feminine. Powerful.
But the rapid beat of her pulse betrayed her nerves.
She had rules—never meet clients, never blur the lines. But Terry wasn’t just a client anymore.
He was an obsession.
Her heart pounded as the car pulled up to Hal’s in Buckhead, one of Atlanta’s most exclusive steakhouses.
Terry had sent the car for her—of course he had. He didn’t just ask her to dinner. He arranged it.
As she stepped inside the restaurant, the air smelled of aged whiskey, sizzling steak, and wealth.
It was nothing like the places she was used to. The dim lighting, the sound of low conversations over clinking glasses, the quiet air of exclusivity—it all set the scene for something dangerous and intoxicating.
A hostess greeted her with a warm, knowing smile.
“Miss Caroline?”
She nodded.
“This way, please. Mr. Richmond is waiting for you.”
Her stomach twisted at the sound of his name. At the sound of his name, a slow, anticipatory heat curled in her stomach.
Terry Richmond. The man who had slipped into her life through a screen and now wanted to own a piece of it in person.
The hostess led her through the main dining room, past white-tablecloth-covered tables, and toward the back of the restaurant.
She stopped in front of a discreet, private door.
She had seen him only through the glow of a screen before now—sharp suits, smirks that promised things most men couldn’t deliver, and eyes that made her feel both exposed and desired.
But the man waiting behind that private door?
That was someone she wasn’t ready for.
The hostess stopped at the entrance.
“He’s inside.”
Caroline hesitated for only a second before pushing it open.
And there he was.
Terry Richmond.
Seated at the head of a long, candlelit table, a glass of whiskey cradled in one large hand, watching her like he had been waiting his whole life for this moment.
He was unfairly gorgeous, but not in the polished, pretty-boy way.
No—Terry was the kind of man who exuded raw power, the kind of masculine, magnetic energy that pulled you in whether you were ready for it or not.
His sharp jawline was framed by a perfectly trimmed beard, and his full lips parted slightly as his eyes slowly drank her in.
But it was his eyes that unraveled her completely.
A blue-green so piercing they didn’t seem real—but sometimes, in the dim candlelight, they flashed hazel, shifting between cool calculation and burning intensity. The contrast against his honey-brown skin made them even more striking, hypnotic-like they could see straight through her.
It wasn’t fair, how he looked at her.
Like he already knew what she tasted like.
Like he was already planning to ruin her.
He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, the expensive fabric stretching over broad shoulders, thick arms, the open collar revealing just a hint of his toned chest.
A gold watch gleamed on his wrist.
And when he smiled?
Slow. Confident. Possessive.
It sent a slow, hot shiver down her spine.
“Caroline.”
Her breath hitched.
His voice was deep, smooth—like aged bourbon and quiet authority.
Caroline slid into the seat in front of him, the smooth leather cool against her warm skin.
The private room was intimate—a candlelit table set for two. The sounds of the main restaurant were muted behind the thick doors, leaving them in their own private little world.
A waiter appeared almost immediately, carrying a platter of appetizers—succulent oysters on a bed of crushed ice, a fresh burrata drizzled in olive oil, and slices of toasted bread.
“Would you like a drink, Miss?” the waiter asked.
Terry’s blue-green eyes flicked to hers, sharp, assessing.
She should order her own.
She should be in control of something.
But then Terry spoke.
“She’ll have a glass of Château Margaux 2015,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying the weight of certainty, possession.
A $1,500 bottle of wine.
The waiter nodded and disappeared.
Caroline swallowed, glancing at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”
His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.
“You think I’d let you drink anything less?”
The warmth in his tone—low, indulgent, slightly teasing—made her stomach tighten.
He reached for his whiskey, fingers long, strong, precise, and took a slow sip, eyes never leaving hers.
“Eat,” he instructed, nodding toward the platter.
Caroline hesitated before picking up a briny oyster, tipping it against her lips and swallowing the cool, salty bite.
The way his gaze darkened as he watched her throat work sent a shiver down her spine.
“So,” she said finally, clearing her throat. “Is this what you do?”
Terry raised a brow. “What’s that?”
“Find women online. Lavish them with expensive wine. Take them to places like this.”
He set down his glass, leaning in slightly.
“No,” he said, voice dropping. “I don’t.”
Her pulse skipped.
The way he said it—low, firm, deliberate—made her feel like he was making a point.
A point that this was different.
That she was different.
He dragged his thumb over the rim of his whiskey glass.
“You think I spend my time on OnlyFans, Caroline?”
She exhaled a soft laugh. “I don’t know what you do, Terry.”
His blue-green gaze burned into hers.
“You will.”
The promise in his voice—dark, dangerous, filled with certainty—made her thighs press together under the table.
She wasn’t even sure what they were talking about anymore.
Only that Terry Richmond had already begun to unravel her.
“I want you to stop.”
Her breath caught. “Stop what?”
“OnlyFans. Other men. I don’t want you to need them anymore.” His fingers wrapped around her wrist, his touch firm. “I want you to be mine.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
She should have told him no. That she was her own person, that no man could control her.
The tension had been simmering between them all night. From the first lingering stare at Hal’s, to the way Terry’s rough fingers had traced slow, lazy circles on her thigh in the car, everything about him exuded control. And now, with his hand at the small of her back, leading her into his high-rise Buckhead condo, Caroline knew she was stepping into something she would never be able to walk away from.
Terry’s Buckhead condo was luxurious and imposing, much like the man himself. Cool-toned furniture, sleek black marble countertops, floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the city skyline. It was the kind of place that exuded power and control—exactly like him.
The door shut with a soft click, sealing them inside, and in the next breath, Terry was crowding her against it, one hand planted firmly beside her head, the other gripping her waist, pulling her against the hard planes of his body.
His scent—rich, clean, masculine—wrapped around her, drowning her.
She barely had time to breathe before his lips were at her ear, his voice a slow drag of control and hunger.
"I’ve been patient long enough, sweetheart."
Caroline swallowed hard, her pulse pounding.
"I know," she whispered, tilting her chin up to meet his blue-green gaze.
His expression darkened, something feral flashing across his chiseled features.
"You have no idea what you’ve done to me," Terry muttered. "Weeks. Weeks of watching you, wanting you, knowing you belonged to me."
She shivered, his words wrapping around her like a vice.
He lifted a hand, trailing a thumb over her bottom lip, his touch slow, deliberate, possessive.
"Say it," he ordered.
"Say what?" she breathed.
Terry smirked, but there was nothing soft about it.
"That you’re mine."
Caroline's breath hitched. She should have resisted. She should have teased.
But when Terry Richmond gave an order, it wasn't a question.
"I'm yours," she whispered.
Terry's control snapped.
He crashed his mouth onto hers, his kiss all-consuming, demanding, punishing. His fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her head back so he could deepen it, stealing every breath, every ounce of control she had left.
Caroline melted, letting him take, letting him lead.
Terry's hands moved fast—gripping, exploring, claiming. He yanked the straps of her dress down, dragging the fabric over her shoulders, down her curves, leaving her in nothing but lace.
He leaned back, eyes dark and starving as he took her in.
"Fucking perfect," he murmured. "And all mine."
Before she could process, he was lifting her off her feet, carrying her through the massive open living space, up the sleek staircase, into his bedroom.
She barely caught a glimpse of the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sprawling skyline outside, the massive bed that dominated the space.
Then she was on it—back against the cool sheets, Terry crawling over her, his body a solid wall of dominance and heat.
His mouth found hers again, his hands gripping her thighs, spreading her wide beneath him.
"You’ve been teasing me for weeks," Terry muttered, his lips dragging down the curve of her neck. "Making me watch you. Making me wait."
Caroline shuddered as his teeth grazed her collarbone, his breath hot against her skin.
"No more waiting, baby," he murmured. "You're gonna give me what’s mine."
She gasped as his fingers slipped between her thighs, teasing, testing.
"You’re already so wet for me," Terry muttered, dragging a finger through her slick heat.
Caroline moaned, her hips bucking into his touch.
Terry smirked.
"Tell me," he murmured, voice thick with control.
"Tell you what?" she whispered.
His grip tightened.
"That you want me to breed this pretty little pussy," he muttered.
Her breath caught.
She should have been shocked, embarrassed—but the way he said it, the way his voice dropped into something dark and possessive, made her entire body react.
Caroline whimpered, arching into him.
Terry groaned, feeling her body's answer before she even spoke.
"Say it," he ordered, his fingers slipping inside her, stretching her.
"Yes," she gasped.
Terry exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening.
"Yeah?" he muttered, dragging his cock through her slick folds, teasing her entrance.
"You want me to fuck a baby into you?"
She clenched around his fingers, trembling.
Terry smirked, knowing he had her.
"You like the idea of being full of me?" he growled. "Walking around with my baby inside you?"
Caroline was gone—mind blank, body shaking, pleasure coiling tight inside her.
"Yes, Terry," she gasped. "I want it—"
That was all it took.
Terry groaned, his hands gripping her thighs as he thrust deep, stretching her completely.
"Take it," he muttered, his hips slamming into hers, owning her.
"This is where I belong," he murmured, watching himself disappear inside her.
Caroline moaned, her nails dragging down his back.
Terry gritted his teeth, his control slipping.
"You’re gonna take all of me," he growled. "Gonna keep you so fucking full, make sure everyone knows you belong to me."
She was on the edge, her body pulsing around him.
Terry leaned down, his mouth at her ear.
"Come for me, baby," he ordered.
And she shattered.
Pleasure ripped through her, her entire body clenching around him, pulling him deeper.
Terry groaned, his thrusts turning desperate, brutal.
"Fuck," he growled. "Take it. Take every fucking drop."
With a final, punishing thrust, he spilled inside her, grinding in, making sure she took everything.
His body shook against hers, his breath heavy, his grip tight.
But he didn’t pull out.
Instead, he stayed deep, keeping her full, keeping her close.
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, charged with something she wasn’t ready to name.
Terry sighed against her skin, brushing his lips over her temple.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice rough but gentle now.
She nodded, still too wrecked to form words, her cheek resting against his damp skin.
He kissed the top of her head, tucking her closer, letting her feel the steady beat of his heart.
"Did so good for me," he murmured, pressing another kiss to her shoulder.
“Come here,” he muttered, shifting them both until she was fully on top of him, wrapped in his warmth.
His fingers stroked lazy circles along her spine, grounding her, keeping her safe.
"You’re not going anywhere," he murmured, his voice possessive even now
Caroline exhaled shakily, nuzzling into his neck, breathing him in.
For the first time in a long time, she felt protected.
And when he pulled the blanket over both of them, whispered, “Sleep, baby,” and kissed her forehead…She realized she was already his.
Caroline lay there, her body tangled in soft sheets, her skin still warm from his touch, and yet… she felt exposed in a way she hadn’t before.
Terry’s weight beside her was grounding, and reassuring, but it also scared her.
This wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
Sex was supposed to be a means to an end—a way to survive, to stay in control.
But Terry had ripped that illusion from her the moment he’d looked her in the eyes and said, “You’re mine.”
She had felt it in the way he touched her, the way he held her through her pleasure, whispered filth into her ear, and then turned around and wrapped her in his arms as if he’d never let her go.
She had spent so long doing this alone. Surviving alone.
She wasn’t sure she knew how to belong to someone.
Terry shifted beside her, his gaze sharp, too knowing.
“You’re thinking too much,” he muttered, his voice deep, still thick with sleep.
Caroline let out a soft laugh, but it came out a little shaky.
His hand was on her waist now, the warmth of his palm searing against her bare skin, anchoring her.
She didn’t move away.
“I just…” she swallowed, forcing herself to meet his blue-green gaze, those sharp eyes that saw too much. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“This?” he echoed, fingers trailing lazily along her hip.
“You.” She took a breath, heart racing. “You staying. You holding me. You looking at me like that.”
His jaw ticked, his expression shifting into something harder, unreadable.
“You thought I’d just fuck you and leave?” His voice had an edge now—rough, possessive.
She didn’t answer.
Because yes. That’s what she had thought. That’s what men like him always did.
But Terry wasn’t letting her get away with silence.
He grabbed her wrist and, without breaking eye contact, pressed her palm flat against his chest.
Beneath her hand, his heart was pounding—hard, steady, unshaken.
She stilled.
“Does that feel like a man who’s only here to fuck you?” he asked, his voice lower now, serious, demanding.
Caroline opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out.
Because the truth was staring her in the face.
This wasn’t just about money for him. It wasn’t just about control.
It was about her.
She licked her lips, her voice quieter now. “I don’t know how to do this.”
Terry exhaled slowly, his hand sliding up to cradle her jaw, thumb stroking over her cheek.
“Then let me show you.”
Her chest tightened, her stomach twisting in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the danger of what he was offering.
Not just his money. Not just his protection.
Him.
And if she accepted it… there would be no going back.
The next morning, Caroline stirred, her body deliciously sore, still cocooned in the warmth of Terry’s sheets, Terry’s scent, Terry’s presence.
She blinked awake, momentarily disoriented by the sheer luxury of the room—the floor-to-ceiling windows spilling golden morning light across the sleek, modern space, the distant hum of Atlanta below, the faint aroma of coffee lingering in the air.
And then she felt it.
The weight of an arm draped over her waist, firm, possessive.
Terry was still there.
He was supposed to be gone. Men like him—rich, dominant, in control—didn’t stay. They took what they wanted and moved on.
But Terry wasn’t like other men.
Caroline turned her head, her breath catching as she took him in.
He was leaning against the windowsill, his broad, muscled frame bathed in soft light, his sweatpants slung low on his hips, one hand gripping a steaming cup of coffee while the other ran through his short curly.
He looked at ease, unbothered, devastatingly attractive.
And then he looked at her.
That sharp, blue-green gaze landed on her like a touch, slow and deliberate, his lips curling slightly as he set down his coffee and walked back toward the bed.
He was a predator, moving with a confidence that made her pulse spike, that made heat coil low in her stomach all over again.
“Morning, baby,” he murmured, voice still raspy from sleep, intimate and heavy with meaning.
She swallowed, trying to ignore how easily those two words melted something inside her.
This wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
She sat up, the sheet slipping down her bare skin as Terry climbed back into bed, his body radiating warmth as he settled beside her.
He reached out, tracing a slow, lazy fingertip along her collarbone, watching her reaction.
“You thinking too much again,” he murmured.
Caroline exhaled shakily.
“You keep saying that,” she muttered, voice quiet.
“Because it’s true.” He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “And I already know what’s going through that pretty little head of yours.”
She arched a brow, masking her nerves with sarcasm. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“That you don’t know how to let someone take care of you.”
Her stomach clenched.
Because he was right.
Terry’s gaze darkened, his thumb stroking over her bottom lip, his voice softer now—but just as commanding.
“You don’t have to do this alone anymore, Caroline.”
Her breath hitched.
For years, she had fought, clawed, survived on her own.
She had told herself she didn’t need anyone.
But Terry wasn’t just anyone.
He was offering her more than just money, more than just sex, more than just protection.
He was offering himself.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
She hesitated, her fingers fisting the sheets, her mind warring with her heart.
“If I say yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “what happens then?”
A slow smirk curved Terry’s lips, but there was something deeper behind it—something real.
“Then you let me take care of you,” he said simply.
AN: thank you for reading! it was a little long, but thank you for making it through! also, i usually don't see many fics with aftercare and i just felt like something was missing. this is my second fic so, please tell me what you think and how i can improve or if yall have any formatting tips to help me out with!
@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @nubiawrites @uzumaki-rebellion @23jammy @hotgirlcece @ruewritesoccasionally @ch33z3grits @writingsbytee @theogbadbitch @yassbishimvintage @pocketsizedpanther @notapradagurl7 @kenshisluvrgirl @earthchica @henneseyhoe @klklklsstuff @avoidthings
hey, do u think u could do an aaron x famous reader? Where they have a kid and are on a red carpet together, and just having a wholesome family moment?
pairing: aaron pierre x black reader
warnings: none - pure fluff
word count: 698
The night shimmered with flashing cameras, the air electric with excitement as celebrities and press flooded the grand event. She stepped onto the carpet with effortless grace, exuding the confidence and charm of someone who had walked these grounds countless times. But tonight wasn’t just about her—or even Aaron.
It was about him. Their little star-in-the-making.
Dressed in a tiny, custom-made suit, their son clung to Aaron’s hip, his round cheeks full of curiosity as he took in the dazzling lights and unfamiliar faces. His curly hair was perfectly styled, and his small bowtie sat slightly askew, a detail Aaron immediately noticed.
“Hold still, mate,” Aaron murmured, adjusting the bowtie with careful fingers while balancing him effortlessly on one arm. Their son wriggled but let his father fix him, letting out a little huff of impatience.
She chuckled, smoothing out invisible wrinkles on her dress as she watched them. “He’s just like you—hates standing still.”
Aaron shot her a playful smirk. “And he gets his dramatics from you, love.”
The cameras went wild at the family dynamic—the effortless affection, the way Aaron’s hand found its home at the small of her back, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns against the fabric of her gown. Their son, meanwhile, had stolen the show entirely. The press cooed over him as he blinked at the sea of flashing lights, little fingers gripping onto his father’s lapel.
One reporter gushed, “I think we all know who the real star is tonight!”
She beamed, pressing a kiss to her son’s temple. “He’s been stealing my spotlight since the day he was born.”
Aaron chuckled, shifting the toddler in his arms with ease. “And mine.”
A chorus of “awws” rippled through the crowd as the family paused for more photos, a picture of love, warmth, and effortless elegance. No matter how many flashing lights surrounded them, how many voices called their names, the only thing that mattered was them.
A reporter leaned in, microphone poised. “So, how’s parenting treating you both?”
Before either of them could answer, their little one—now standing on his own two feet between them—reached up and grabbed the mic with tiny, determined hands. A chorus of laughter rippled through the crowd as he babbled into it, his words an adorable mix of nonsense and enthusiasm.
Her and Aaron exchanged a knowing glance, equal parts amused and proud.
“Well,” Aaron said with a smirk, adjusting the mic so their son could have his moment. “Clearly, he got his charm from me.”
She raised a playful brow. “But the attitude? That’s all you, love.”
The press ate it up, their laughter blending with the sound of clicking cameras.
Social media couldn’t get enough of the moment. Clips of Aaron effortlessly balancing their son in one arm while keeping the other wrapped securely around her waist went viral within hours.
“The way Aaron Pierre carries that baby like it weighs NOTHING while still holding his wife?? I need that kind of love.”
“Their son stealing the mic like he pays the bills?? He’s a STAR.”
“Aaron and [her name] making parenting look easy while being THAT fine is unfair.”
The family had officially stolen the show.
The glitz and chaos of the red carpet felt like a distant memory as they lay in bed, the soft hum of the night settling around them. Their little one was nestled between them, his tiny chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm, completely unfazed by the whirlwind of the evening.
She traced gentle patterns along Aaron’s forearm, her touch featherlight, grounding. He watched her with quiet adoration, his fingers brushing over her knuckles before lifting her hand to his lips.
In the hush of the moment, he murmured, “I’d do all of this a thousand times over if it means coming home to you two.”
Her heart swelled, warmth spreading through her chest as she leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. “Me too,” she whispered.
Their foreheads touched, breaths mingling, as the weight of the world melted away. Here, in this quiet space, wrapped up in love and the steady beat of their family, everything was perfect.
comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾
