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daniiwrites · 1 day ago

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Confinement | Terry Richmond

^^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.

Torture wrapped in reverence.

Biting. Bruising. Bruised knees. Bruised egos. Bruised morality.

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 🫶🏾🫶🏾

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daniiwrites · 2 days ago

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I need a Terry in my life.

"Handled"

Hi guys!!! I wrote this around 2:30am. I'm ovulating. Do with that information what you will.... LMFAO. I will gratefully welcome any criticism and comments. Help a girl out :)

Pairing: Terry Richmond(Rebel Ridge) x Black Female Reader

Summary: After weeks of emotional distance and clashing schedules, tension finally boils over. Terry doesn’t just hear it—he feels it, and he’s done letting the space between you two grow. What starts as a heated argument turns into a sensual, emotional reset.

Warnings: 18+ Sexual Content, Minors DNI, SMUT, Cursing, Dirty Talk..

Word Count: 2,930

***********************************************************

It was 2:37 PM on a Saturday, and the only thing louder than the clanking dishes in the sink was your irritation. You slammed a cabinet door shut, hard enough to make Terry pause the game in the other room.

“Everything okay?” he called out casually.

You didn’t answer. The fork organizer was in the wrong drawer—again. And someone, most-likely Terry, used the last of the oat milk and left the carton in the fridge like a damn trophy. You stood still, hands clenched on the counter, teeth gritted.

It wasn’t about the oat milk. It wasn’t even about the fork drawer or the Tupperware. You were tired. Tired of the missed texts. The rushed kisses and conversations. The fact that you’d been living in the same house, but hadn’t felt Terry’s hands on you in what felt like weeks.

You felt ignored. And you hated how much you missed him.

He walked in looking entirely too fine for someone who hadn't given you proper attention in weeks.

“What’s up with the cabinets?” he asked, eyeing you cautiously.

“Oh, now you’re concerned?” you said, voice sharp.

“You got a problem with me?” he asked, jaw tense.

You finally turned to him. “Oh, you noticed something’s off? That’s cute.”

His brows rose, just a little.

“Terry, I’m not in the mood for your calm voice and your little lectures about how I should just breathe and stretch it out. I’ve been holding it down while we pass each other like damn coworkers. You haven't touched me in weeks! You said, slightly raising your voice. “And if you think a slammed cabinet is dramatic, congrats—you finally looked up from your schedule long enough to see I’m annoyed.”

“You’re mad because I haven’t touched you?”

You flinched. “Don’t say it like that.”

He stepped closer. “I’m not saying it like anything. I just didn’t realize we were fighting over the lack of dick.”

“Oh my God, you’re such a—”

“You need to say what you mean,” he cut in, voice low now. “Because I’m sitting here trying to figure out why my girl is acting like I forgot our anniversary or something—”

“You might as well have,” you snapped. “You think I wanna be acting like this? Like I’m losing it over plastic containers? No. I’m just tired and I miss us. I miss you.

“You ain't the only one feelin’ starved, baby,” he added, voice dipping to something thick and heavy. “But don’t mistake my silence for not wanting you. I been tryin’ to give you space so I didn’t push you when you already tense.”

“You should’ve pushed,” you shot back. The silence cracked between you. His jaw clenched. Yours was already tight.

Then his eyes darkened.

“You know,” he said slowly, “you throwing a fit like this… that’s real cute.”

You glared. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Nahhh,” he said, voice dropping an octave. “I’m just realizing what this is.”

You turned away, arms folding tighter—but Terry followed. “So what you wanna do? Slam more shit or let me remind you who you talkin to?”

Your breath caught, heart hammering.

“Come here.” He bit his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving yours—like he already knew you’d listen.

You didn’t resist this time. You let him pull you in, let him kiss you like a man who knew exactly how far apart you’d drifted and was ready to pull every piece back together. His hands slid down to your ass, gently gripping it like he was grounding you—reminding you exactly where you belonged.

“You been walking around here with all this attitude and no panties under them shorts?” He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, heat radiating off him. “You want attention? You about to get all of it.”

His voice turned sharp. “Go to the bedroom.”

Your breath caught. The room shifted.

You turned slowly, heart thudding hard, and walked. Terry didn’t rush. He closed cabinets. Turned off lights. Let you wait—a punishment in itself.

By the time he entered the room, you were sitting on the edge of the bed, arms still crossed, stubborn streak not quite worn off yet.

He didn’t say a word. Just pulled his shirt off with one hand, revealing his tattoos you loved to kiss. His eyes locked with yours.

“Take your clothes off,” he said calmly, tilting his head slightly.

You hesitated.

His brow lifted, eyes locked on yours—waiting for you to do what you’d been told.

You stood. Peeled your tank top off. Your shorts next, slow enough to keep your dignity.

Terry took one step, then another, until your bare chest was brushing against him and your breathing stuttered. His fingers grazed your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“You wanna act out like you’re not spoiled every day of your life?” he whispered. “You forget who you belong to?”

Your voice wobbled. “You.”

“Act like it..”

Then he kissed you. Not sweet. Not slow. It was greedy. His tongue parted your lips, claiming, demanding. You moaned into it, finally feeling him again. His hands slid down your back, gripping your ass tight, lifting you like nothing, tossing you back onto the bed with ease. You watched him as he removed his clothes. Painfully slow.

“Lay down.”

You obeyed.

Terry pulled your legs apart. Bent down and kissed the inside of your thigh so softly it made you whimper.

“Look at you,” he murmured, eyes locked on your center. “So mad, but so wet.”

You gasped as his tongue made first contact. His mouth was hot and unrelenting, tongue circling your clit, then flattening against it with that practiced, wicked rhythm only he knew.

“T-Terry—” you moaned, thighs twitching.

Your hips lifted but his forearm pinned you. “Been starving you, huh? Should’ve said something instead of slamming my cabinets like you pay the mortgage.”

You moaned louder. “Please…”

“I’m not done.” His tongue flicked faster. You squirmed, legs locked around his head, and still he didn’t stop until your whole body trembled beneath him.

You came with a scream, back arching, legs shaking.

But Terry didn’t let up.

“Oh my God—Terry, wait, I can’t—”

He looked up, mouth and chin wet. “Yes you can. You been needing this, right?”

He climbed up your body, hands pinning yours above your head, letting you feel just how hard he was against your thigh. Kissing you hard, so that you could taste yourself on his tongue.

“Turn over.”

You rolled, shaking, pressing your cheek into the pillow. Terry dragged his hand down your back, smoothing over the curve of your ass.

“Back arched. Legs open.”

You obeyed without a word.

Then he slid inside.

You gasped—nothing about it was gentle. He filled you in one stroke, thick, deep, perfect.

“Oh fuck, I—”

Terry groaned against your ear. “That’s it. You feel that baby?”

He started moving, slow and deep, and then you felt his lips at the top of your spine.

The kiss was soft, contrasting the way he was fucking you—like he was marking you with pleasure.

He dragged his mouth down your back, licking a line from your shoulders to the dip of your lower spine, warm tongue leaving a trail of heat across your skin.

You shivered. “Terry—baby…”

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you back onto him as he thrust deeper. “Been too long since I had you like this,” he growled.

Lost in the stretch, the rhythm of his hips slamming into you. He gripped your hips, driving into you harder. “This what you wanted? My attention?”

“Yes!” you cried. “Terry—please—”

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling you up against his chest. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, I’m yours,” you babbled. “Always—”

He pushed your face back down into the pillow, one hand gripping your ass as he pounded into you, your cries muffled, your body trembling again.

“I’m gonna cum,” you gasped, breathless, dizzy.

“Do it. Show me who this pussy belongs to.”

You shattered again, eyes rolling back, body melting into the mattress. But Terry didn’t stop—not yet.

He flipped you over one more time, kissing you hard, lifting your leg over his shoulder as he drove into you again, rougher, deeper, the headboard knocking the wall in rhythm.

You clawed at his back, sobbing his name.

He groaned. “Fuck—you feel too good..”

His pace faltered, hips stuttering. With one final thrust, he buried himself deep and came, moaning into your neck as your fingers traced his back.

And then… stillness.

You laid there, panting, limbs jelly, brain foggy and full of him.

Terry kissed your temple. “Better?”

You gave a sleepy little smile. “I don’t even remember what I was mad about.”

“Good,” he chuckled. “Next time just say, ‘I need some dick,’ and save us both the trouble.”

You swatted at his chest. “You’re so stupid.”

He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheek. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” You let your eyes close as he left the room. A few minutes later, you heard water running. You cracked one eye open and smiled.

When he returned, he stood at the door taking a second to admire all your beauty. “Come on.”

“Terry, I can’t move my legs.”

He grinned. “That’s not my problem. Come on, lazy.”

You managed to get to your feet, groaning dramatically, and followed him into the bathroom. The lights were dim, just the glow from a small candle flickering by the tub.

“You lit a candle?” you asked, amused.

“I had one job: fix your attitude,” he said, helping you step in. “Mission accomplished.”

The water was warm, just the right temperature, laced with lavender bubbles. You sank into the bath with a soft sigh, letting it hold your weight. Terry grabbed a soft cloth and knelt beside the tub.

“Lean forward.” he said softly.

You did, and he gently ran the cloth across your back, the motion slow and soothing. He worked in silence for a moment, just washing you with care.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupted softly. "Let me do this for you.”

His fingers threaded through your curls as he poured water over your shoulders, letting it cascade down your skin.

“I see you, alright?” he said quietly. “All the ways you hold shit together. The stuff you don’t say out loud. I see all of it.”

You turned to face him, eyes glistening.

“And I’m here,” he added. “Even when life gets loud and days get long. I’m still here. You still mine.” You reached for his hand and laced your fingers through his. “I know.”

He leaned in and kissed your knuckles. “Good,” he said with a small nod. “Now relax. Let me love on you.”

And as he picked up the cloth again, gently rinsing the last of the day’s weight from your skin, you let yourself sink fully into the warmth—of the water, of his hands, of his love.

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I love me some Terry omg.....

I do want to tag some of my favorite blogs. I know I be "serial-liking" on you guys page, forgive me LOL. You guys are the reason that I was inspired to write and get out of my comfort zone. Everybody make sure you go check out their pages if you haven't already!! I promise it's worth it. Thank youuuuu!

L-U-X <3

@keyaho @onherereading @megamindsecretlair @kumkaniudaku @redacted-anon @spookysanta @uzumaki-rebellion @nubiawrites @writingsbytee @zillasvilla @that-one-anxious-mango @theogbadbitch @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theereinawrites @enticingmelanin @ruewritesoccasionally @novahreign @sillyteecup @yassbishimvintage

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daniiwrites · 2 days ago

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"Yours, Even Still"

Hi guys!!! Hope yall had the best day today. Please excuse any grammar errors. Don't forget to leave a comment if you would like to be added to my tags. Thank yaaaaa <3

I am open to taking requests! Okay, enjoyyyy! :)

Pairing: Terry Richmond(Rebel Ridge) x Black Female Reader

Summary: When a romantic proposal at a beach bonfire stirs long-buried insecurities, you find yourself questioning everything about your relationship with Terry. In a night filled with unspoken feelings, rising tension, and raw emotion, love is tested under the weight of unasked questions.

Warnings: Emotional Angst and Complicated Feelings

Word Count: 4.9k

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The beach was glowing. Not just from the descending sun casting rose-gold light across the sky, but from the tiny fairy lights strung up along the edge of the cabana. The ocean whispered behind them as waves met the shore in a soft hush. A steel drummer played something light and melodic in the background while waiters passed around fresh ceviche and cold glasses of prosecco.

You had your heels in one hand and Terry’s fingers laced in the other as you walked toward the group gathering near the bonfire pit. Everyone was laughing, drinks in hand, post-dinner glow on their cheeks. The smell of salt, citrus, and grilled shrimp filled the air, and your curls fluttered around your face in the breeze. You felt beautiful. Light. Almost.

Then it happened.

Lila, your best friend since middle school, stood there in a flowing orange sundress with a hibiscus tucked behind her ear, looking confused as her boyfriend Marcus dropped to one knee.

“Lila…” Marcus started, pulling a small black box from his pocket. “…you are the sun in every one of my days. You’re my peace, my laughter, and the reason I believe in good things. I knew I loved you when you made me eat that dry-ass banana bread on our first date and I still asked for a second slice just to make you smile.”

Everyone laughed—Lila too, already crying.

“I don’t want to go another day without calling you my fiancé,” he said, voice trembling but steady. “I want to build a life with you. I want your chaos. Your sarcasm.. Will you marry me?”

Lila didn’t even say yes. She just dropped to her knees with him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and whispered something over and over that only he could hear. Probably “yes,” probably “I love you,” probably everything she’d waited her whole life to say.

Everyone screamed, clapped, phones out capturing the moment. Champagne was being popped somewhere behind you. A violinist emerged from nowhere and began to play All My Life by K-Ci & JoJo as the couple swayed, forehead to forehead, in the sand.

You clapped, smiled, cried, and even screamed “Yessss girl!” at one point. You were truly happy for your best friend. Especially with everything you two have been through with her past relationships. You felt so guilty that your heart was folding in on itself.

You didn’t even notice that you had let go of Terry’s hand until he slipped it back into yours.

“You okay?” he’d asked under his breath.

You nodded. “Yeah, just emotional.”

But really, you were drowning. Not because you were jealous of Lila. But because you could see yourself in her. You could see yourself having that moment. But it still wasn’t your turn.

And the part that really broke you.. You didn’t even know if your turn was ever coming.

But as you glanced at Terry—standing next to you in his open white linen shirt, drink in one hand, the other casually looped around your waist like he wasn’t holding your world together—you felt that familiar ache pinch your chest again. You loved him. That wasn’t in question. But love, it seemed, didn’t always lead to commitment.

Five years.Five whole years. And still no ring.

You were surrounded by congratulations, camera flashes, and joyful noise, but your inner world was eerily quiet—all questions and doubt and what ifs.

After the proposal, as everyone gathered closer around the bonfire, you found yourself taking a small step back. You stuck near the edge of the group, sipping slowly on your drink, laughing when appropriate, smiling when expected. But your heart was out of rhythm with the celebration.

Terry noticed.

He kept looking your way as he talked with Marcus and a few of the other guys, nodding when they joked, but his eyes always found you again. You weren’t touching him like you usually did. No subtle hand on his arm. No leaning into him when you laughed. You weren’t even making eye contact.

He tried to pull you into conversation once or twice, but you offered short answers, a distant smile. Eventually, he stopped trying. You weren’t mad at him. But you didn’t know how to mask the ache growing heavier in your chest.

Suddenly, arms wrapped tightly around you from behind. Lila.

You turned just in time to catch her as she fell into your arms, both of you laughing and crying at the same time.

“Oh my God, I’m engaged,” she whispered through her tears.

“I know,” you laughed, holding her just as tight. “You’re gonna be somebody’s wife, Lila!”

“I can’t believe it,” she pulled back just enough to look at you. “You’ve been with me through every horrible date, every trash ex, every heartbreak. You’re the first person I wanted to hug.”

That cracked your heart a little more, because you were happy. Genuinely. But this moment made your own dreams feel even further away.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whispered, brushing a tear off her cheek.

“Girl, we have to start planning,” Lila grinned through her tears, grabbing your hands. “You already know I need you. Maid of honor duties, okay? And we’re doing it big. Caribbean or Italy, I haven’t decided, but it’s gonna be a movie.”

You smiled, nodding, trying to lock away your emotions in a corner where they couldn’t ruin this moment. “Of course. I’m all yours.”

Lila squealed and hugged you again before being pulled away by a group of her cousins wanting pictures. You stayed where you were, pressing your hands to your chest and breathing slowly, trying not to break.

Terry was still watching you. Still noticing everything.

Back in the hotel room later that night, you sat at the edge of the bed in silence while Terry flicked through the TV channels, barefoot and still humming the song from earlier. The glow of the television lit his face in soft flashes of blue and gold, but you weren’t watching. You weren’t even really in the room anymore.

"Hey," he said, finally setting the remote down and looking over at you. "You’ve been quiet since dinner. You okay?"

You didn’t respond at first.

You fiddled with the hem of your sundress, heart beating like a drum in your chest. This wasn’t how you wanted this trip to go. You wanted to be full of sunshine and mango daiquiris. But you couldn’t keep pretending like everything was fine.

"Terry… can I ask you something?"

"Yeah," he said, giving you his full attention.

You looked up, voice soft but shaky. “Why haven’t you proposed to me?”

His brows creased. “What?”

You took a breath, but it felt sharp in your chest. “I mean… we’ve been together for five years. We live together. I know you love me, and I love you too, but… what are we waiting for?”

Terry blinked like the question had physically hit him.

“I—babe, where is this coming from?”

You stood now, needing space to breathe, to think. “I watched my best friend get proposed to tonight, Terry. I watched her cry happy tears while the man she loves told her she was his everything. And the whole time, I stood there wondering if that’s ever going to happen for me.”

Terry stood too, slower, cautious. “Hold on now. Don’t do that. You know I love you—”

“That’s not what I said,” you snapped, suddenly louder. “I know you love me. But love without action? Without commitment? I’m starting to wonder if you’re just comfortable with me.”

He flinched. “Comfortable?”

Your eyes welled. “Yeah. Like maybe you just like the convenience. The security of me always being around. But maybe I’m not the one you see forever with.”

Terry’s face hardened. “That’s not fair.”

“I’ve waited, Terry! I’ve been patient! Every anniversary, every birthday, I keep wondering, ‘Is this the moment?’ And it never is!”

He rubbed his face, jaw clenched. “So this is about your friend getting proposed to..”

“It’s about me feeling like I’m standing still while everyone else moves forward!” she cried.

“You think I don’t want to marry you?” His voice raised now too. “You think I haven’t thought about it every damn day? Don’t stand here and say I don’t see forever with you. You don’t know what the hell I’m doing behind the scenes.”

“Then tell me!” you shouted. “Let me in! Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’re the only one who knows where we’re going.”

Terry took a step closer, voice strained. “You really think I’ve been coasting? You think I haven’t felt the pressure, the weight of wanting to give you the perfect moment? Do you know how many times I almost did it? How many times I chickened out because I thought it wasn’t enough?”

You scoffed, wiping your eyes. “Clearly nothing’s changed.”

Terry looked at you like you had just slapped him. Then he laughed bitterly.

“You know what?” he said, grabbing his shoes. “I need some air.”

“Terry—”

“No. Because the way you’re talking right now… you know what, nevermind” He shook his head, storming to the door. “You really don’t know me.”

And then he was gone.

You stayed frozen in the room for a long time after the door shut. The silence was brutal. Your own words echoed back at you like thunder. Tears came hot, heavy, and too fast to stop. You hadn’t meant to hurt him like that. But you were hurting. You just... needed to be seen.

By the time you left the room to find him, the sun had disappeared, and the beach was bathed in moonlight. The chill of the night creeping under your skin.

You found him sitting alone on the sand, far enough from the resort lights that the stars above looked close enough to touch. He was sitting in the sand with his shoes tossed aside like they’d been bothering him all night.

“Terry?” she said softly.

He didn’t turn around immediately, but she could tell by the way his shoulders rose and fell that he wasn’t angry anymore.

He turned slowly, eyes tired. “If you want to yell-”

“I didn’t come to fight,” you said, cutting him off. “I just… I needed to say I’m sorry.” you stepped a little closer to him.

He didn’t say anything, just patted the spot next to him.

Heart thudding, you sat beside him, brushing sand off the hem of your sundress.

“I’m sorry,” you said after a long pause. “I didn’t mean to say all that the way I did.”

He sighed, low and heavy. “You meant it, though.”

“I did,” you admitted. “But not because I don’t trust you. It’s because I’ve been scared.”

He turned to look at you finally, his face dimly lit by the moon.

“I know we’re solid,” you continued. “But when I watched Lila get proposed to tonight, it felt like this mirror got held up in front of me. Like everyone else was sprinting ahead while I was just… stuck waiting. And that’s not on you. That’s my fear talking. I let it spiral.”

Terry nodded, staring out at the waves. “It hurts, hearing you say I might just be with you for convenience.”

“I know. And I regret it. I was lashing out.”

Another pause. The wind carried salt and the faint sound of someone laughing in the distance.

“I’ve had the ring for months,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s at home, in the top drawer of my dresser behind that old Virginia Tech hoodie you keep trying to throw away.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’ve been waiting,” he continued, “not because I don’t want to marry you. I do. You’re it for me, baby. No doubt in my mind. But I wanted it to be right. For both of us. Not just right in the romantic way—but right in my heart. Something I’d look back on and feel proud of. Something I’d tell our kids about one day.”

You stared at him, tears stinging your eyes again.

“But tonight… the way you came at me?” he shook his head with a sad smile. “It felt like you didn’t believe in me. And that? That’s what hurt the most.”

“I do believe in you, Terry,” you whispered. “I’ve just been afraid I wasn’t enough for you to want forever with.”

He turned to you again, reaching out to hold your hand. “Don’t ever think that. Not even for a second. I wake up every day and choose you." he gently squeezed your hand. "Even when you forget to put gas in the car and lie about it.” he smirked.

You sniffed, laughing through your tears. “That was one time—”

“Three times,” he corrected with a grin.

You laughed harder, leaning your forehead against his.

“I’m not proposing tonight,” he said, firm but gentle. “Not because I’m not ready—but because I want you to trust me when I say: it’s coming. I’m serious about you. I love you. And I’m going to marry you.”

You closed your eyes, breathing him in, letting those words sink deep into your soul.

“Okay,” you whispered. “I trust you.”

He let out a breath of relief and touched your chin gently, guiding you to look up at him. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you nodded, voice thick with emotion. “I just needed to hear it from you. Not a dream, not a hope. I needed your words.”

Terry leaned in, brushing his lips softly against hers — not rushed, not fiery. Just slow and deep, like he was sealing a promise.

You melted into it, arms sliding around his shoulders as his hands cradled your waist. The kind of kiss that said we made it through that. The kind of kiss that held five years of love, hours of arguing, and a lifetime still ahead.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your forehead.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he whispered against your skin.

“Only fair,” you whispered back, smiling. “You drive me crazy too.”

“One day,” he murmured, kissing you again, this time longer, “you’re gonna tell people how you almost broke up with me in Mexico because you were impatient.”

“And I’m gonna say that it was worth it.” you teased.

Terry grinned against your lips.

Later that night, after everything had been said and unsaid, and the two of you made your way back up to the hotel room, it was quiet between you. But not the kind of silence that hurt. It was full of something warmer, something softer.

Terry climbed into bed behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you gently until your back was snug to his chest.

“You still mad at me?” he asked against your neck.

“No,” you whispered. “I hate that I hurt you.”

“I hate that I hurt you too.” He kissed the shell of your ear, then down to your shoulder, lingering there.

You responded in kind, fingers slipping under his shirt, nails grazing his back.

Each kiss was a question and an answer. You tangled into each other like you were rediscovering a language only the two of you spoke.

“You know I’m yours, right?” he whispered, voice low, rough.

“Yeah,” you whispered back. “And I’m yours.”

And in the quiet of the night, under sheets, tangled and hearts open, you reminded each other what it meant to be chosen. Again and again.

Not just with words. But with every touch.

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L-U-X <3

Tags: @onherereading @megamindsecretlair @christinabae @lucidspiritmoon

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daniiwrites · 2 days ago

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𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈

𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀－𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁*𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾*𝖬𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗑 𝖡𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒－dropping off your son at your ex’s place, and Stack taking the opportunity to taunt you about your boyfriend

𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗁𝗌－Harsh language, N-word usage, toxic ex dynamics. Stack & Smoke are being arrogant, petty assholes.

A/N: I watched Sinners for the first time and loved it. I’m pretty sure I’m a Smoke girlie, so here’s a little story.

It was a hot afternoon when you pulled up to Smoke’s house—well, your old house, if we’re being technical. Your son was in the back seat babbling about Roblox and fries, kicking the passenger seat every few seconds like he knew your nerves were already hanging on by a thread.

You adjusted your sunglasses, took a deep breath, and walked your baby to the front door like you hadn’t just been arguing with your new man ten minutes ago about “boundaries” with your ex.

But the second the door opened?

Trouble.

And that’s exactly what stood on the other side of the front door when it opened

Elijah “Smoke” Moore.

Your ex-husband.

Your baby’s father.

The man who ruined you for everybody else.

Smoke was leaned against the doorway shirtless, tattoos gleaming, chain swinging just enough to catch the light. His usual low-eyed expression flipped to a grin the moment he saw you—and then his eyes dropped to your outfit.

“Mmh,” he hummed, already staring too long. “You showin’ up in them tight-ass leggings like that for me or for him?” he nodded down at your son. “’Cause either way, I appreciate it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“Ain’t startin’ nothin’ but missin’ what used to be mine,” he muttered, stepping aside to let y’all in.

Your son took off toward the living room while you stayed back to hand over his backpack. That’s when you heard it

“Damn, she came by lookin’ like that you sure she don’t want you back?” came Stack’s voice—from the kitchen.

You froze. “Oh lord, not both of y’all here today.”

You gave him a tight smile. “Hey, Stack.”

Smoke smirked as Stack walked in with a paper plate of wings, wearing a gold chain and a devilish smirk. “What’s up, baby mama?” Stack grinned, licking his fingers. “Or should I say baby mama who downgraded to a nigga who work at T-Mobile?”

You squinted. “Y’all are ridiculous.”

“Nah,” Smoke said, closing the front door behind you. “He ridiculous. Walkin’ ‘round thinkin’ he competition. Heard he wear them little loafers with no socks.”

“He don’t,” you muttered, lying.

“Bet he say ‘grand rising’ too,” Stack added with a snort. “That’s not a man. That’s a therapist with a fade.”

“I’m not doin’ this today,” you said, putting the backpack down hard. “He treats me right.”

“‘Treats you right’ but don’t know how to fight?” Smoke stepped in, arms folded across his broad chest. “You lettin’ a soft nigga be around my son? C’mon, mama. He ain’t even built for this life. If somethin’ popped off, he’d hide behind you.”

“Nigga probably cry when he get pulled over,” Stack added, cracking open a Sprite. “Talkin’ about, ‘I pay my taxes!’”

You wanted to be mad. You did. But their tag-team was relentless—and funny.

You groaned.

“He look like he cry after sex. Probably moans with his eyes closed and say, ‘Am I pleasuring you?’”

“Y’all done?” you asked flatly.

Smoke shook his head. “Nah, not until you answer one question.”

You tilted your chin. “What?”

He looked you dead in the face.

“When shit hit the fan, and you need somebody who’s gon’ slide, gon’ ride—you really think that cornball you got now gon’ stand ten toes behind you and our kid? Or you gon’ end up callin’ me?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The silence in the room got loud.

Stack laughed from the kitchen. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Smoke stepped up close, all low voice and heavy heat. “Keep playin’ house with that nigga. But when you tired of fake peace and yoga-ass sex, you know where I’m at.”

You scoffed and turned to leave—but not before Stack called out, “Tell him next time he come pick you up, to park on the other side of the street. My neighbors allergic to bitch-ass energy.”

You stood frozen in the doorway for a long second before your son called from the back, “Mama? You leavin’?”

“Yeah, baby,” you said, voice thick. “Mama’s leavin’.”

But even as you walked away, the way Smoke watched you—hungry, smug, dangerous—you knew you’d be back.

And that’s what scared you the most.

Smoke leaned against the doorway again, smiling like a man who knew he still had it. “Later, mama.”

You didn’t look back. But your heart? Yeah—it stayed right there in that damn house.

And worse?

Smoke knew it.

You made it halfway down the steps before you heard the door open again behind you.

“Wait.”

You stopped, hand on your car door, not turning around. Just… waiting. Breathing.

“What?” you asked, already tired, already knowing whatever he had to say was gonna make things worse.

Smoke’s voice dropped. “You leavin’ like that, and we not gon’ talk for another week? You cool with that?”

You slowly turned, face blank, lips tight.

“We don’t need to talk,” you said. “You got him for the weekend. I’ll pick him up Sunday.”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

Your fingers tightened on the car door.

Stack was still inside, but quiet now—too quiet. You could feel the weight of both their eyes on you.

Smoke walked toward you slow, steady. Like he had nowhere to be but here. Like he didn’t give a damn about the new man, or the way your jaw clenched when he got too close.

“Y’know what I think?” he said, voice low and gritty. “I think you tryna prove somethin’—to yourself. Not to me. Not to him. You tired of this life, tired of the mess, so you went and found the safest man you could. Somethin’ neat. Predictable.”

He stepped in close enough that you could see the gold in his grill glinting when he spoke.

“But safe don’t mean happy.”

You blinked at him, your throat tightening before you could stop it. “I am happy.”

Smoke raised an eyebrow. “That why your hands shakin’ right now?”

You glanced down—and cursed under your breath when you saw he was right. Fingers trembling around your car keys.

“I’m fine.”

“Fine ain’t love. Fine ain’t joy. Fine is what people say when they tryna convince themselves they ain’t settlin’.”

Your breath hitched.

“You got me twisted if you think I want to come back here and be played with,” you snapped. “I left for a reason.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But you came back for one too.”

“You forget who the fuck you built all this with?” he asked, voice low and ragged. “Who kept you safe?Who put money in your mama pocket and never said a word?”

You opened your mouth to argue—but the words didn’t come. Because he wasn’t wrong. And you hated that he wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t just about your son. It wasn’t just about co-parenting.

It was about the way this house felt like it knew you. Like you’d left parts of yourself here that your new man never even touched. It was about the way Smoke looked at you like you were still his, even after all this time. And the worst part? You didn’t even fight it anymore. You just buried it. Swallowed it.

“I gotta go,” you whispered, finally unlocking your door.

“Yeah,” he said, stepping back. “Go ahead. But you know where the real is.”

“Next time you come over here wit’ his scent on your skin, I’m fuckin’ it off you”

You slid behind the wheel, started the engine.

And just as you reached to shift gears, Stack leaned out the front door with his usual smug grin. “Hey!”

You looked up.

“If little man’s stepdaddy ever wanna learn how to change a tire, tell him we do classes now. Free for lames.”

You flipped him off through the windshield. He just laughed.

Smoke leaned in, one last time, one hand on your car door. “He can’t protect what he can’t handle. And you?” His voice dropped. “You too much woman for half a man.”

You didn’t say anything. You just drove off, pretending you didn’t see the way your hands still trembled on the wheel.

But later that night?

When your son was already asleep in his Spider-Man sheets, and your man was still out at some networking dinner that didn’t include a plus-one, your phone lit up.

Smoke:

“He ever fix that weak-ass handshake? Felt like I was dappin’ a wet napkin.”

You stared.

Cutting your phone off you turned over when you got a call from smoke.

Groaning you answered

@enchanthings

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daniiwrites · 2 days ago

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Coming Soon...

S U M M A R Y :

Naomi thought she knew what love looked like. But the road to healing is messy. And love? Real love—the kind that chooses you, sees you, and stays? It might just be waiting where she least expects it.

Some love takes too much. The right one gives you back to yourself.

Meet The Cast:

Rayan as Naomi Ellis

Aaron Pierre as Terry Richmond

Greg "Tarzan" Davis as Jayce Carter

Ange Jose as Carmilla Sinclair

Dina Denoire as Jade Henly

I have been working overtime on this and I hope you guys like it. I’m not sure when I will post the first chapter but it will be very very soon! Likeeee the next few days soon. I just want to make sure I’m putting out good quality work for you all! I think you guys will enjoy this. Okay byeeeeee!

L-U-X <3

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daniiwrites · 2 days ago

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The moment after you’ve pumped her full of cum and you’re slowly pulling out to see how pretty her pussy looks with your cum leaking out of her. Then fuck it back inside her again to not waste a single drop

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daniiwrites · 2 days ago

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I love pushing the Smoke is demisexual propaganda. Like I can’t see him having sex with no one else but Annie. But I can see Stack messing around with other girls than Mary if that makes sense. I think he just doesn’t like nobody but his wife. He’s never gotten close to someone like he did with her. He don’t just be fucking(he can’t😭).

Like I can imagine Stack trying to get over Mary in Chicago by messing with other women. Him suggesting Smoke do it too and Smoke does this:

“Hell no nigga.”

“Damn nigga it was just a suggestion, you almost yanked my fucking lips off!!”

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daniiwrites · 2 days ago

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I wish kinky sex ed wasn't so stigmatized even among left-leaning "sex positive" circles. Everyone's all "uwu I'm a sub I'll do anything you ask" okay mommy wants you to read The New Bottoming Book so you learn how to sub without hurting yourself since your sex ed up to this point is porn and your ex boyfriend Jared who liked to choke you incorrectly

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daniiwrites · 2 days ago

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“AT THE SAME DAMN TIME.”, chap one, chapt two, chap three.

“Don’t let me walk out this house lookin’ basic.”

You sat in Sevyn’s bathroom, your legs crossed under you while she dipped into edge control and eyed her parts in the mirror. A pile of synthetic hair bundles sat between y’all like some kind of offering. You’d been braiding each other’s hair for years, but today? It felt different. Intentional. A little…competitive.

Because Smoke and Stack were gonna be at that party. And like Sevyn said earlier—this had to be bitch-you-lost-me loud. Your hair was already halfway done—soft, loose boho knotless braids with curly ends that framed your face like silk. Sevyn’s would match. You told everyone it was so y’all could be twins for the summer.

By the time y’all were finished, the sun was getting low, casting that golden hour light on your skin as you both stood in the mirror, checking your angles. Sevyn wore a lime green swimsuit with clear heels. You chose the cherry-red bikini—the one Mary would’ve killed to fit the way you did. You tied a mesh skirt around your waist, hoop earrings in, clear gloss shined up, gold anklet catching the light.

“You look like a damn problem,” Sevyn said, snapping a photo. “Good,” you smirked. “I wanna ruin somebody’s night.”

•several hours later,

The bass from the backyard speakers was deep enough to vibrate through your chest. The crowd was thick—bodies half-drunk, glittering in oil and chlorine. You and Sevyn walked in side-by-side, braids swinging, skin glowing, confidence high.

Y’all mingled with a few people you knew from high school, laughed over plastic cups, and dipped your feet in the pool before finally slipping in waist-deep. The water was warm from the sun, and for a moment—you almost forgot about the real reason you were here. Until you saw him.

Smoke.

Fresh cut, black tee stuck to his chest, chain resting against his collarbone. He wasn’t in the pool, just standing to the side with a drink in his hand, cigar tucked behind his ear, eyes locked on you like you were the only thing worth watching.

But then—him.

Stack.

Leaning back in one of the patio chairs, shirtless, glistening, laughing with his head tilted back. And sitting next to him? Mary. Long-legged. Bikini too small. Hair damp from the pool. And she was giggling like she’d never heard a joke that funny in her life. Your smile dropped. Your stomach twisted. Ugly and mean. You didn’t even notice the way your lips pushed into a pout until Sevyn whispered, “Bitch, relax.”

You inhaled once. Smoothed your expression. Then let a slow smirk spread across your face. “Nah,” you said, wading toward the steps. “I’m good.” You walked up to Smoke, water still dripping from your thighs, mesh skirt clinging to your curves. His eyes followed the drops. Then rose—slow and hooded—to meet yours. “You always watch this hard, or is it just me?”He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “It’s you,” he said simply.

You stepped closer, real close. Chin tilted up. The music slowed into something bass-heavy and slick, and suddenly you didn’t care who was watching. “And what you gon’ do about it?” Smoke set his drink down. Palmed the back of your waist, warm and confident, drawing you into him with quiet heat. “Come here,” he said low.

And you did.

The kiss hit different. Slow. Warm. Wet. His lips moved like he already knew how you tasted. Like he was just confirming what he imagined. Your fingers gripped the front of his shirt, lips parting, and he kissed you again, deeper—his hand sliding down to the small of your back like he’d claimed it.

You didn’t know how long it lasted. But you knew when it ended. Because suddenly, a voice snapped from behind you.“Man, what the fuck?!” You pulled back, blinking. Stack was standing there, arms wide, face twisted up. Mary was beside him, eyes darting from you to Smoke to Stack like she couldn’t believe what was happening. “What is your problem?” she snapped at Stack.

“Why do you care if she’s over there with Smoke?!” “Because!” he barked, hands dropping. “Because it’s her! You don’t get it.”People had turned by now. Faces watching. Eyes wide. Mary threw her hands up. “No, you don’t get it! You been flirting with me, making me think—!” “Man, I don’t owe you nothin’,” Stack spat.

And right there, in front of everyone, they were yelling. Mary’s voice sharp, Stack’s louder. Your name came up once—“You was just tryna get back at her!”—but you stopped listening. Your stomach was tight. Your face hot. Smoke’s arm was still around your waist, but the moment had died. Sevyn found you quick. “We gotta go,” she whispered, already tugging your hand. “They just killed the whole damn mood.”

You nodded numbly. Turned to leave.

But before you did—you looked at Smoke. Reached in your purse. Pulled out a pen and slid it across his hand. Your number. “For when the mess dies down,” you said. You didn’t say it was to get back at Stack.You didn’t say you actually liked that kiss. You just walked off. Braids swinging Heart racing.And Smoke?

Smoke watched you go.

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