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kumkaniudaku · 2 days ago

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NSFW Alphabet | Terry Richmond

pairing: terry richmond x black reader

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.

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