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theogbadbitch · 3 months ago

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"I know. I love you 3000." You tried to kill me with this??????

Giving him the Spider-man party he always wanted, Patrice the wife you are>>>>

(Callback to the picture of baby him dressed as Spidey, cut these cameras!!! 🥹)

“If he had to fight crime by night to bring Patrice the desires of her heart, he'd do it with a smile under his mask. “ A REAL MAN, A REAL HUSBAND, LOVER , AND FATHER!!!

Him showing off his figurine😭😭😭😭😭😭

Superhero

Summary: Surprise shawtyyyy! It's Terry's birthday!

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC (Patrice Ellis)

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: None

"A little to the left, Phee. A little more. Okay, back to the right. Perfect!"

Napheese breathed a sigh of relief as she released her hold on a Terry-sized cutout of his favorite super arachnid something-or-another around Diedra's living room. Patrice couldn't remember if it was Peter, Miles, or one of the others – all she knew was Terry loved the blue and red masked crusader. Whatever Terry loved, she vowed to bring to him in abundance.

As party guests doubled as set-up crew members and buzzed about the Richmond family home, Patrice played project manager, wrangling pockets of confusion until they came together to produce the vision she'd had in her mind since Valentine's Day. In the backyard, Ken managed the tedious task of stringing up a paper-mache Spider-Man while Terry's old teammates carried folding tables to and fro under Zorah and Zanah's watchful eyes.

Marvin and Leon stood at the grill, unloading freshly cooked meats and roasted veggies into aluminum pans, dancing along to Corey and June's partnered DJ set as they tested their speakers.

Napheesa's husband, Aaron, and Victoria's fiancee, Jonathan, manned a makeshift bar area, trying to find the right liquor-to-mixer algorithm for cocktail recipes Patrice had found online. From her spot at the kitchen table, Patrice could see them grimace and toss yet another drink over their shoulders to start fresh.

Indoors, Patrice and her trusted set of ladies turned Terry's childhood living room into a blue and red wonderland, complete with decor rivaling any party planner's best day on the job. Comic books with a cartoon version of his adult form sat next to masks, noisemakers, and shot glasses to mix the childlike with a little adult fun. Streamers hung from the ceiling. Confetti decorated themed table cloths. Games sat waiting for the perfect time to pop them open and unleash all of the arguing that came with friendly competition.

Huffing, puffing, and aching, Patrice had done her job. She'd deal with the soreness creeping up her legs and resting at the base of her spine once clean-up was wrapped, and Terry was grinning from ear to ear.

Diedra looked up from stuffing colored cellophane treat bags meant to appeal to the inner child of 30-somethings. She smiled at her daughter-in-law and the swell of her growing belly showing beneath her sweatshirt. "You've done a good job, Patrice. Take your rest, sister girl."

Rest was a foreign concept to an expectant mother hellbent on scaling a four-year-old's birthday party to something fit for a grown man. He couldn't quite put his finger on what had Patrice protecting her phone screen when he was around and hadn't gathered any details outside of the Publix order she tasked him to deliver for the month's supposed Sister Circle meeting. She'd sent him over 30 minutes away for a fruit platter and wings she swore up and down the closest supermarket could fulfill. He was off the trail for now. Just long enough to usher his closest family and friends into his parent's living room to sit in excited silence, anticipating the opportunity to wish him well in his next year of life.

"Your brother's at the store, wondering which beer Terry likes most," Rosalyn relayed with the phone unnecessarily close to her face as she marched into the room from the backyard. "And those boys are tearing up all that liquor out there. I don't know if y'all are gonna have any left."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Ros. They always tearing something up. Can't take 'em nowhere," Victoria mumbled as she finished tying ribbons on her stash of treat bags, earning a hum in agreeance from Napheesa.

Patrice nonchalantly waved them off as she used one hand to stuff a piece of chocolate into her mouth and the other to rub her stomach. "Tell Junior it's alright. He won't drink anyway. He says he's sober until further notice. Just make sure he brings enough ice."

"Terry won't have a beer on his birthday? He's been doing that since he was 18. You really are a magician, Little Richmond." Dee's compliment came in a sweet voice that sharply contrasted her expert precision in plucking Patrice's third bite-sized Snickers from between her fingers before tossing it in a nearby wastebasket. She ignored the small whimper and continued. "You know you're the only one that can surprise him, right? We've been trying since he was a boy, and he always sniffs out the plan. With you, he follows directions blindly. I wouldn't have ever been able to get him 'cross town for this long."

"Did you ever try threatening him? That's usually what I do," Patrice added.

Napheesa chuckled. "Girl, he listens because you also got something his mama ain't got."

"Ain't that the truth. The vagina does amazing things, ladies. There's power between those thighs. Come to the real Sister Circle meeting next week, and we'll talk all about it!" Diedra agreed.

"I know that's right, Auntie," Victoria exclaimed.

Patrice sat with a satisfied grin on her face, wanting to take exception to her mother's not-so-subtle assertion but knowing that the truth was simply the truth. She chose a joke as her rebuttal: "Y'all don't know what we're doing when we're alone."

"Baby, we know. We can see you. Ain't no shame."

All in the room laughed at Rosalyn's joke, compelling Patrice to join in, even at her expense. She ran her hand across her belly, dreaming of what her baby might think of all this fanfare unfolding mere inches from their safe space.

She sighed and looked around, tears pricking her eyes. "Everything looks so good y'all. Thank you for helping me. Even if you did take all my snacks. I owe y'all first dibs on newborn photos."

"As if I won't be in that house helping you the second you get home," Vick scoffed. She reached over to grab Patrice's hand for a quick squeeze. "We got you girl. Anything for you and that man of yours."

"One day, you're gonna have to get over the breakup, Victoria," Napheesa laughed.

Vick rolled her eyes. "Patrice forgives. The Lord is still working on me. Sometimes, I have flashbacks and just wanna…" Her voice trailed as she made a strangling motion and shook her hands. When she stopped, she looked over at Diedra, laughing at her animated movements. "No offense, Mrs. DeeDee."

"Sometimes little traces of his daddy jump out, child. Blame it on that fiery, light-eyed Richmond blood. Lord knows I love it and hate it all the same damn time."

Wisdom and frustrations shared between generations of women connected through one man filled the room, pushing Patrice into a fit of giggles as she listened along and tried to quell the unfamiliar fluttering in her abdomen. Buzzing in the front pocket of her working overalls paused her participation in the conversation. It brought her attention to Terry's teenage face filling the screen.

She lifted her hand to get the group's attention. "Sshh sshh, y'all. This is Terry. Let me put him on speaker." Talking ceased, and breathing stilled as they rushed to sit perfectly quiet and eavesdrop. Patrice put on her sweetest voice to answer. "Hey, Birthday Man. Everything okay?"

On the interstate, Terry slowly switched lanes, growing frustrated by the unfathomable traffic on Saturday afternoon. He grimaced at the nickname. "Baby, I'm in my 30s. Birthday Man makes it sound like I never moved out of my mama's basement."

"Excuse me for wanting to celebrate you. Guess I'll cancel the reservation too, then," Patrice sassed, earning stifled laughter around her.

"I'm sorry, Piggy. Call me whatever you want. Don't cancel our time together. I'm excited." The genuine smile in his voice brought heat to Patrice's cheeks and a quiet swooning to the group.

She smiled, though he couldn't see her. "I'm excited, too," she gushed. "You on the way back to me for a little while?"

"Yeah, I should be there in fifteen minutes. You stayin' off your feet over there? I won't hear about you on no ladders, will I?" Terry knew the answer. He always knew the answer to whether his busy body of a wife had finally committed to following her doctor's orders.

"Duh, TJ. I know how to sit down," Patrice answered.

Terry chuckled. "You know how to lie, too. At least sit down until I get back. Corey says he's running late anyway."

"Alright. I love you. We love you." Patrice's voice carried an innocent lilt mushy enough to make Zorah quietly roll her eyes in the background. She padded into the room.

"I love y'all, too. See you in a bit, baby."

Air kisses shared from a distance, growing shorter by the second, capped off a nauseatingly sweet conversation so covered in newlywed confections that it was nearly responsible for new cavities in everyone's mouths.

Patrice gave Terry's photo a final smile before looking up at the face carrying varying mixes of disbelief and shock. She rolled her eyes. "God forbid a girl is nice to her husband. Stop looking at me, and let's get this show on the road. My baby will be here soon!"

Prison warden sensibilities helped corral a group of adults into Marvin and Dierdra's living room with enough time to spare for Patrice to toddle down the front porch steps like a damsel in distress and look for her "missing" cell phone charger.

T.I.'s 'U Don't Know Me' rattled car windows lining the street as he barrelled down the quiet residential street. Terry's arm hung comfortably out of the window, allowing the rays of a blazing sun sitting high in the sky to ping off of his wedding ring once he raised his hand to wave at his first love. Patrice put on an unassuming smile and closed her back passenger side door to wait for him to follow his usual routine.

The truck's engine shut off with an easy twist of Terry's wrist once he found a spot in front of the house, taking Urban Legend's bass-heavy third track with it. Bags rustled, and soft grunts of effort left newly moisturized lips. A heavy door slammed as a mountain of a man stepped out of his chariot and took long strides toward a woman dancing from foot to foot to welcome him in.

"What you doin' out here," Terry asked as he approached. He gently placed the lightest bag in Patrice's outstretched hand before leaning down to peck her puckered lips. "Who let you come out here by yourself?"

She shrugged, unwilling to place blame on anyone in particular. "The meeting hadn't started yet, and I thought I had left my charger in the car, so I came to grab it. But I guess it's in my bag? I don't know. This momnesia stuff is real."

"Mhmm. How's your back?" A large hand came up to place light pressure in the spot she'd recently complained about, hoping to ease the pain.

"It's better." For his sake, a lie slid off Patrice's tongue with minimal effort. "Dee's grabbing me a heating pad, and I get the good chair. Wish she'd let me have another chocolate instead, but whatever. Perks of getting disgusting in that hotel room, I guess."

"I really hope you don't say that in front of these old ladies. Is that who all these cars belong to? You think they gon' eat all this food?" Terry questioned, taking stock of the unfamiliar vehicles.

Patrice sighed in exasperation. "Oh hell, Terry, are you helping me or interrogating me? Come on and get this stuff in the house so I can talk about you behind your back in peace."

Terry's chuckle and the audible pop of palm on her denim-covered backside rang out behind Patrice as he followed her into the house. Blissful ignorance carried him in the house. He blissfully smelt her perfume wafting in the wind, blissfully watched her spreading hips switch in front of him, blissfully listened to the sweet alto of her voice call out his presence as they rounded the corner—blissfully unaware.

"Surprise!"

Bliss abruptly took a back seat to the reflex to shield Patrice from danger. The hair on Terry's arms stood attention, looking for the threat, and wild eyes surveyed the room. His father's smile disarmed him first. Then his mother, Corey, with his phone up to capture the moment, his sisters giving him identical middle fingers, and the hulking Spider-Man cutout masquerading like a member of his extended family, calmed him further. Confusion came for him next – a fleeting emotion but one that rocked him with so much force that he considered walking out of the house altogether. If not for Patrice grasping his arm to keep him in place, Terry would've hightailed it back to his truck and disappeared into the wind.

But, as his fight or flight response dissipated and realization knocked the wind from his lungs, tears pricked the corner of his eyes.

Spider-Man. The birthday party he never received. The superhero he spent hours dreaming of becoming in his boyhood. The character that kept him excited for something in his darkest times. His favorite interest to share with his father and the one he hoped to pass on to his child one day soon. A sea of red and blue engulfed him, sparking up more gratitude than his body knew how to filter into productive words or sounds.

"Say hello to your people, baby. They came to see you!"

Patrice's voice pulled Terry back into reality and broke him down, all in the same breath. He slowly set the fruit tray on the floor before pulling her into a hug packed with a heady amalgamation of wish fulfillment and unspeakable gratitude. A chorus of 'awws' rolled across the room in a murmur from people not used to a vulnerable Terry willing to cry in front of a crowd.

Patrice ran her nails across his shoulder blades as she rocked them side to side. "Happy Birthday, Pookie Bear! We're all so proud of you and the man you are."

"Thank you," Terry whispered against Patrice's neck. "I love you so much."

"I know. I love you 3000." A short laugh sent warm hair fanning across Patrice's skin before Terry pulled back to look at her face with amused confusion. She smiled. "See, I pay attention sometimes!"

Whispered declarations of love and short kisses kept at bay with the strength of Christ himself produced more big feelings and bigger tears until the soft clearing of a throat nearby reminded Terry that not only was he at a birthday party, he was at his birthday party.

"Shit," he whispered to himself before quickly swiping moisture from his cheeks. Terry scanned the room for faces once more, taking in the full scope of all his wife had achieved. "My baby sisters are here. They never come home," he laughed through more tears. "Ken is here! Mike, Tim…what is goin' on here? Oh my God!"

Corey hollered back behind his phone. "We here to party, man! We had to cut the guest list. Everybody and they mama was trynna get in here for you, boy!"

"And the catfish. Mostly you, but definitely the catfish," Zanah added to scattered laughter.

Terry's smile stretched from ear to ear as he reached out to snag two plastic Spider-Man masks from a nearby table. With careful precision, he slid one onto Patrice's face, adjusted it, and then did the same for himself. Childish whimsy compelled him to try shooting imaginary webs from his wrists.

Patrice gave him a quizzical look. "Does that mean we're good to go, Spidey?"

They were more than good. Like fresh champagne uncorked and sprayed to celebrate a championship win, Terry's imaginary webslinging cracked the seal on the afternoon. Adults ran around, stuffing their faces and dancing like children dropped off at a classmate's birthday party. Terry got the first crack at his pinata and hit it so hard dead center that Peter Parker nearly disintegrated into a heap of cheap paper and cardboard. Relay races stretched muscles, many of which hadn't been used in ions. Pictionary on the back deck quickly turned into a game of watching Ken flex how many things he could turn into awful stick figures. They presented the man of the evening with sentimental and gag gifts in equal measure and showered him in praise.

"Okay, babe," Patrice exclaimed as she presented Terry with a slender box wrapped in red paper. "While you open that, I have to give a speech because you always have one for me. Terrence is nothing short of amazing. I've never met anyone so dedicated to serving his family and his community. You're a mentor, a dutiful son, an amazing big brother, and the only husband I want. I'm so happy to get a front-row seat to your next evolution as Daddy. I love you, Pookie Bear. Hopefully, this shows how much I look at you as a superhero. Our Friendly Neighborhood Terry, if you will!"

A little online digging and a sketchy, at best, Etsy shop brought Terry's wildest dreams to life. He held a detailed figurine of his face and body contorted into a signature hero's pose. Thanks came in deep kisses, and a grown man showcased his new toy to all his friends as if he was transported directly back to age six.

By sunset, more libations and a deck of cards procured from thin air, turning innocent fun into a heated competition between teammates seeing each other for the first time in years and couples looking to put a hurting on each other's pockets.

Terry existed in a permanent state of laughter. His shoulders shook with each chuckle, his abs flexed and relaxed underneath his shirt from every joke and story taking him on a trip down memory lane, and his cheeks burned from smiling with the full force of his facial muscles.

As much as Patrice wanted to remain with the group and listen to a spirited retelling of Terry's infamous in-game trash talk and a nasty reaction to his taunting, she needed to listen to her little one's demand for an empty bladder.

Terry watched her disappear into the house and half-listened to Tim's story, which was littered with exaggerations, for a few minutes before pushing back from the table and excusing himself. He slipped into the quiet, empty house and flipped on the kitchen lights in search of his mother's good cake knives. Methodical cuts produced a small sliver of contraband for someone special.

Loud whooshing from the hallway powder room and the sink shutting on and off produced goosebumps pebbling across Terry's skin. Anticipation coursed through his veins. His smile grew as she came around the corner, rubbing her fluttering stomach.

"Oh, hey," she greeted, exhaustion evident in her tired smile. Once they were within arms' length of each other, she reached out to caress his cheek with her thumb. He leaned into her touch, kissing her palm. "Having fun, baby?"

He nodded. "Mhmm. I got something for you?"

"Baby, this is your day. You don't need to get me anything," Patrice whined.

"Shhhh," Terry answered, shaking his head. "Just let it happen. Close your eyes."

She did so reluctantly, expecting a silly kiss or something inappropriate until the soft embrace of fluffy buttercream and soft vanilla cake pushed past her lips into her mouth. Patrice hummed and chewed, savoring every morsel before opening her eyes. "God, I love you."

"Not nearly as much as I love you," he answered while feeding her another, bigger bite she readily accepted. "I owe you the moon next month, okay? Name it, and you got it."

"A BMW. All white. Peanut butter insides."

Terry scoffed and wiped the corner of Patrice's mouth free of debris. "Easy. I'm literally Spider-Man. Give me a challenge, Treecey."

"Ooooh, I see you. Shut my mouth," she exclaimed, her laughter inviting Terry to join in. "Let's see, superhero. How about…"

Mention of fantastical things like trips to the moon and a purse made from rare stars fell from Patrice's lips in jest as Terry carefully balanced feeding and active listening. What she considered a silly little game was anything but for a man wholly invested in her happiness. If he had to fight crime by night to bring Patrice the desires of her heart, he'd do it with a smile under his mask.

Superhero. He'd waited a long time to finally earn the moniker and party to boot. And he'd wait for 100 more, fight a never-ending list of villains, and jump across the multiverse just to love like this again.

------

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#MY SHAYLASSSSSSS #terry richmond #fic rec #i will NEVER get tired of these snippets #my girl want a bmw peanut butter seats iktr

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pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

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Two Weeks | Oscar Piastri (18+)

A From Eden Oneshot | Oscar Piastri x Francesca Gold

Summary — It’s been two weeks. Two weeks of pining. Of waiting. Of wanting. And now his wife is in front of him, beautiful and warm and needy. How could he possibly resist?

Warnings — Soft!Dom Oscar, ‘good girl’, explicit sexual scenes, aftercare (because obviously).

Notes — My Shaylasssssss!!!!! I missed them so much. Had a soft!dom Oscar itch; so guess what? I scratched it!

Francesca didn’t even get to make it fully into the hotel suite before Oscar had her pressed against the door.

His hands were trembling; not with nerves, but with a build up of too much restraint. They pressed flat against the wood on either side of her head and he just looked at her. His chest was rising fast, cheeks flushed pink all the way to the tips of his ears, eyes dark and dangerously tender.

“I don’t—” he started, voice rough, then stopped. Swallowed. His gaze flicked down her body and then back up like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to look. “You look so good, baby.”

Francesca smiled, soft and open, like she’d been waiting forever to hear him say it. It felt like she had. Two weeks without him had felt like an entire lifetime. “Hi,” she whispered.

That was all it took.

He crashed into her, mouth hungry but reverent, hands diving into her hair, fingers digging into her waist, anywhere he could reach.

She whimpered against his mouth, fingers clinging to the hem of his shirt. “Missed you,” she breathed. “Miss you so much, Osc.”

Oscar pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. His pupils were blown wide, pink spreading across his cheeks in earnest now, embarrassed by how much he needed this. Needed her. His entire world, finally within reach. His heart. His wife. “I—fuck, I missed you too. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Everything made me miss you.” His voice cracked a little, and Francesca?

Francesca melted.

She rose up on her toes, rubbing their noses together, and whispered, “Let me take care of you?”

That did him in.

“Get on the bed,” he said, low and certain, but his hands were still shaking as he helped her out of her jacket, his thumbs ghosting over her arms like she might disappear. “Please, baby.”

She obeyed immediately, crawling back across the sheets, eyes never leaving him. She didn’t want to look away. Didn’t want to miss a single minor reaction from him.

Oscar followed slowly, kneeling between her legs with a reverence that felt like worship. His hands were rough where they touched her — firm, unyielding — but his eyes, his voice, were soft. “You’re so fucking beautiful. I don’t know how to handle it. You— you don’t know what you do to me, ‘Cesca.”

Francesca flushed, cheeks pink and eyes shy, but her smile was dripping with want. “Tell me,” she begged, pleaded. “I want to know.”

He leaned down, cupping her face, kissing her like she belonged to him — like she was something sacred and already claimed. His voice was low, rough at the edges. “You make me feel invincible,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “Like no one can touch me. Like I was made to be yours — and you were made to be mine.”

“You are mine,” she said, lips brushing his. “And I’m yours. Always.”

That snapped the last thread of his restraint.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, and pushed inside her slowly, too slowly, dragging it out because he needed to feel every inch of her around him.

Francesca hitched a breath, her whole body responding before her mind could catch up. Her back arched, pressing her chest flush to his, skin to skin and desperate for more. Her hands slid up the nape of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, holding him there like she needed him closer. She did. She needed him as close as possible. All hers.

Oscar dropped his forehead to hers, whispering, “There she is… that’s my good girl.”

She whimpered, tightening around him, her thighs wrapping around his hips. “Yours. I’m yours, Osc.”

His hips snapped forward, the pace brutal and unrelenting; but his words, his hands, his heart stayed soft.

“Doing so good for me,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face, kissing her nose. “So sweet. So fucking pretty, baby.”

She keened, overwhelmed by the praise, the pleasure, the closeness. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Never,” he swore. “I’ve got you. Not going anywhere. Not ever again.”

When she came, it was with his name on her lips. Oscar, Oscar, Oscar. And he followed seconds later, burying his face in her neck, murmuring how perfect she was, how much he loved her, how he didn’t know how he’d managed to exist in the world for so long without her.

They stayed tangled together, limbs and whispers and sweat-slicked skin, until the world shrank down to the soft rise and fall of their breathing and the feeling of finally, finally being home.

⸻

Oscar carried her to the bathroom.

She was boneless in his arms, cheek resting against his shoulder, fingers idly tracing the line of his collarbone. There were fresh teeth marks on the curve of his neck.

His heart was still hammering against her ear; not from exertion anymore, but from something quieter. Something tender and sweet.

He set her down on the bathroom vanity with a kiss to her temple, then knelt to start the bath. Warm water thundered into the tub, steam curling around them as he reached for the little bottle of bubble bath she liked; the one he always remembered to travel with, even when it was unnecessary and took up too much room in his case.

Francesca watched him silently. Her lashes were heavy, her lips kiss-swollen, and there was a peaceful sort of glow about her that made Oscar’s chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked, not looking up as he tested the water with his hand.

She smiled sleepily. “More than okay.”

His blush flared up again, pink blooming over the apples of his cheeks. “Good,” he muttered, suddenly shy now that they weren’t tangled up in each other. “Didn’t want to be too much.”

Francesca reached for him, tugging gently until he stood between her legs. She rested her hands on his hips and tilted her head up. “You’re never too much,” she said. “You were perfect. You’re always perfect.”

Once the bath was full, he lifted her in first. Then he slid in behind her, arms wrapping around her torso as she settled between his legs, her back flush to his chest.

The bubbles frothed around them, lavender-scented and soft. Francesca leaned her head back onto his chest with a slow, gentle sigh that melted through the room.

Oscar nuzzled against her, pressing little kisses along her skin. Soft and unhurried. “Missed this,” he murmured. “Missed you.”

She reached back to tangle her fingers in his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. “I know,” she whispered. “Me too.”

His hands never stopped moving, gliding along her arms, her sides, her thighs under the water. Not sexual, just grounding. Reassuring. Like he needed to remind himself she was really here, really his.

“You always take such good care of me,” she said quietly. “Best husband in the world. My world champion.” She murmured, pushing back against him and closing her eyes.

They stayed until the water cooled, until the bubbles popped and the steam faded from the mirrors. Until their fingers were wrinkled and their skin soaked and their hearts finally felt whole again.

And even then — they didn’t let each-other go.

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