westside-rot

[westside-rot]

This was too cute. I adore a nice and fluffy story.

congrats on writing your first fic

"Say My Name"

Hi guys!!! Okay!!!!!! I have been sitting on this story for a good minute, tweaking it here and there until I drove myself crazy! Debating for so long if i wanted to get into writing and actually posting it. I've been sitting on so may stories and ideas that I am excited to share with you all soon. I was SCARED lol ! Go easy on me pleaseeee.. I also will gratefully welcome any criticism and comments. Cheers to my first fic of many!

Lastly, I am open to taking requests! Okay, enjoy! :)

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

Summary: A playful bet sparks between Terry and Reader : whose name will the baby say first—"mama" or "dada"? The wager? One night of anything the winner wants.

Warnings: Fluff, Mild Sexual Content / Light Smut, Minors DNI, Teasing and Suggestive Language, Playful Flirtation

Word Count: 2,500+

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There was something so peaceful about Saturday mornings in the Richmond house.

The scent of cinnamon waffles wafted through the air, soft 90s R&B hummed from the Bluetooth speaker, and the sunlight spilled gently across the kitchen floor where Terry stood in gray sweatpants, barefoot, flipping waffles.

You were curled on the couch, your bonnet still on, wrapped in his old hoodie with a sleepy-eyed baby girl perched on your lap. The baby—your baby—had Terry’s bright, feline-like eyes and your wide smile. She giggled, a high-pitched sound that always made your heart skip.

“She’s definitely saying ‘mama’ first,” you declared lazily, bouncing her on your knee. Terry peeked over his shoulder, eyebrow arched. “You wish.”

“I know,” you grinned, brushing a curl off your daughter’s forehead. “I carried her for nine months. We bonded." Gently squeezing her chubby cheeks and kissing her nose. "She knows who gave up wine and sushi for her.”

He turned fully around now, pointing the spatula in your direction. “Okay, first of all, she spent nine months kicking you. That’s not bonding, that’s training.”

You laughed. “Training for what, your side of this argument?”

“She’s a daddy’s girl. Watch.” He strolled over, crouched down to your daughter’s level. “Princess. Say ‘dada.’ Come on, sweetheart. Daaaaa-da.”

She blinked and blew a spit bubble.

Laughter echoing through the room as she clapped her hands, proud of herself for being cute. “She’s trolling you already,” you said smugly, standing to carry her over to her high chair.

Terry took her from you, brushing a kiss on your neck in the process, his lips lingering a second longer than necessary. “Mmhmm,” you hummed, raising an eyebrow. “You trying to distract me?”

He smirked, placing the baby in her chair. “I don’t need to distract you. I just need to make a bet.”

You turned, arms crossed. “Oh?”

“If she says ‘dada’ first…” He stepped closer, his voice dropping a notch. “I get one night of whatever I want.” You tried to play it cool, but the warmth that bloomed at your cheeks and down your chest betrayed you. “Whatever you want?”

He nodded, voice playful but husky. “No rules. No time limit. Whatever I want."

You tried to stay composed, but a grin cracked your lips. “Fine. But when she says ‘mama’ first? You do that thing I like.”

“The thing with the—”

“Mmhmm.”

“Oh shit, bet.”

“Deal?” he asked.

“Deal,” you said, sealing it with a kiss that started off innocent but lingered with just enough heat to make you pull away before breakfast got too cold.

********************************************Day One of the Bet

You both tried everything.

During tummy time, you whispered “mama” like it was a secret spell. Terry? He sang “dada” like it was a nursery rhyme hook.

At bath time, you cooed “mama” while wrapping her in a towel like a burrito. Terry read her bedtime stories replacing every third word with “dada.” You caught him showing her flashcards.

FLASHCARDS.

Day Four of the Bet

Terry woke up to the sound of your voice.

“Mama. Can you say ‘mama’? Say ‘mama’ for mommy.”

He cracked one eye open and caught you sitting on the edge of the bed, the baby in your lap, both of you bathed in soft morning light. “Cheating,” he grumbled, voice gravelly with sleep. “This is cheating.”

“She wakes up when I wake up. Not my fault.” You turned to look at him. He rolled onto his side and pulled you both into his arms, smothering you with sleepy kisses. “Mmm. You’re lucky you’re fine.”

“I know,” you said, pressing one back onto his jawline.

She squealed. You paused.

“She’s gonna say it,” you whispered, holding your breath.

She burped. Terry cackled.

Day Seven of the Bet

You both stood at the sink, washing bottles side by side like some domestic sitcom couple. You were in a oversized t-shirt turned "nightgown" and Terry had been eyeing you all morning—especially after you bent down to grab the bottle scrubber and he caught a glimpse of your panties underneath.

“You wear that on purpose?” he asked lowly, rinsing a nipple of the bottle way too slowly. “Wear what?” you said innocently, leaning forward just enough to tease him.

“Oh, you dirty for that.” Terry sending a gentle slap to your ass. You smiled sweetly. “Motivation for winning. I like to keep the prize warm.” you winked.

“Mmm,” he murmured, stepping behind you and letting his hands slide around your waist. “Well now I have to win.”

Leaning back into his chest. “You always say that.”

Terry lowered his lips to your neck. “And I always do.”

You were about to retort when you heard a noise from the baby monitor.

A gurgle. A babble. And then...

“Da-da.”

You froze.

Terry blinked. “Wait—did she just—?”

You both sprinted to the nursery like it was an Olympic event. She sat in her crib, giggling. “Say it again, baby girl,” he begged, breathless. “Say ‘dada.’”

She clapped. You tried not to look completely crushed. He picked her up, spinning her gently in his arms, and she laughed like it was the best day of her life.

“Say ‘mama,’” you said hopefully.

“Daaa-da!” she squealed. Terry’s eyes met yours, triumphant.

Walking toward you, baby on one hip. “I believe you owe me one night. Of whatever I want.”

********************************************That Night

You had just put the baby to sleep when you walked into the bedroom and found Terry already there, lights dimmed and shirtless.

He smiled slow, the kind of smile that made your stomach flutter. “You ready to pay up?”

You slipped your robe off slowly, wearing nothing underneath. “I’m a woman of my word.”

He sat up, eyes running down your body with open appreciation. “Good. 'Cause I’ve been thinking about this shit all week.” You climbed onto the bed, straddling his lap. “One night of anything, huh?” He leaned in. “Anything.” gently moving your hair out of your face.

“I’m a little scared,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You should be,” he whispered, before capturing your mouth in a kiss.

It was the kind of kiss only a man who knew exactly how to love his wife gave. He kissed you like it was date night, prom night and honeymoon night all rolled into one. Like it was the last kiss he would ever give you. Something to remember.

Your body against his bare chest. His hands found your hips like they were made to live there, thumbs brushing over soft skin as you leaned in close.

He kissed you deep, with heat and hunger that had been simmering since Tuesday. His mouth moved down your neck, slow and purposeful, like he had nowhere else to be, warm breath ghosting over your skin.

Leaning you both back a little. “You know what I want?” he said against your collarbone.

“What?” smiling, curious of what he was about to say.

“I want you exactly like this—on top. Slow. Eyes on me. Not saying a damn thing but my name.” "Show me how much of a winner I am."

You swallowed hard, your thighs already tightening around him. “Whatever you want... daddy,” you whispered, and then you kissed him like you meant it—deep and dirty and full of the promise to make good on everything he’d asked for.

Somewhere between his mouth on your chest and your hand trailing down between you both, you forgot who technically won the bet.

Because tonight, it felt like you both did.

Later, breathless and tangled up in sheets, he whispered, “Next baby’s saying ‘dada’ too.” You laughed against his chest. “Oh, is that part of your evil plan?”

“Mmhmm. Two for two.”

“Well,” you sighed, pretending to consider, “I could be convinced to give you a rematch…”

He grinned. And you knew the bet wasn’t really about winning. It was about laughing in the kitchen. Sneaking kisses over bottle warmers. Being a team, even when competing.

And loving each other, deeply, wildly, every single day. But still…

Next round?

You were definitely winning.

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

I feel like I could make a bonus to this as like a "Morning After" kind of thing.. Let me know!

L-U-X <3

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a post will have 500 notes and only 48 of them will be reblogs. i promise you that reblogging something will not ruin your aesthetic on this utterly swagless website.

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Somebody write a story using this. Please! Dear Lord. 😮‍💨😮‍💨

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🫦

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Someone link and gif the new Aaron workout video

Praise the Lord God and Jesus actually

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Help. I keep revisiting these pics.

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Chapter 1

It was in the hours before dawn, while the house lay swathed in velvet silence, that the young boy tossed and turned beneath a worn woolen blanket, muttering soft, incoherent pleas into the pillow. Rain whispered against the shuttered windows, and the fire in the hearth, long extinguished, left the air shivering with damp.

In sleep, Aaron dreamed.

He was again a child of seven years, barefoot on the cold stone floor of the servants’ corridor, the scent of yeast and boiled turnips clinging to the walls. His hands—so small, so desperate—trembled as he reached for the heel of bread left neglected near the edge of the kitchen table. It was nothing—a crust, hardened by the night’s air, too unworthy even for the hounds.

And yet, the moment it touched his lips, the voice came.

“Thief.”

It was not a shout, not even a proper accusation—just a single word, low and cold, spoken with the sort of disdain only those born into comfort could wield with such effortless cruelty.

Before he could turn, rough hands had seized him by the collar. The bread fell, unnoticed. A blow struck the back of his thigh, sharp and sudden.

Another.

And another.

“Bastard brat,” someone muttered.

Aaron bit his lip until it bled, refusing to cry, for tears were unbecoming of even a child who had no place. He had learned already that the world did not soften for sorrow. It hardened against it.

The voice of his mother flickered in the corner of his mind—a whisper in French, soothing, almost songlike: N’aie pas peur, mon lionceau. Do not be afraid, my little lion.

But then, even that memory faded.

The dream shifted.

He was lying on a thin cot in a room meant for cast-offs and shadows, and through the crack beneath the door, candlelight danced—gold and flickering. He heard voices in the hallway, low and clipped, the sort that belonged to those who had never once been uncertain of their place.

“He can’t stay here indefinitely,” a man’s voice said, stern and vaguely familiar. “It’s improper. What are we to do with him now that she’s dead?”

“She,” the other replied, with the sort of sigh one might offer to the passing of an ill-kept horse, “was never meant to last. Flame like that burns quick. You ought to be grateful she died before her scandal truly bloomed.”

“She was a performer. A woman of colour. It was bound to happen. They always end in tragedy, don’t they?”

A sip of wine. The soft clink of glass. Laughter—not jovial, not even warm. Merely… bored.

“And the boy?”

A pause.

“I suppose we’ll send him to school. Far. Quietly. Somewhere they need not know the circumstances of his birth.”

“Do you mean to claim him?”

“Heavens, no. It would dishonour the name. No… let him be educated. Let him grow into something tolerable. But he shall never sit at my table.”

Aaron awoke in that moment, heart pounding, breath shallow, drenched in the cold sweat of memory. His limbs twitched as though still bound by the dream’s punishments.

Above him, the room remained dark and dry—grand now, adorned with gilded sconces and silk draperies, all remnants of a life he had taken, piece by careful piece. But even now, in the hush of the early morning, the walls whispered.

Bastard. Half-blood. Unwanted.

He sat up slowly, raking a hand through his curls, now grown thick and unruly. He was no longer a child. No longer voiceless. He had learned how to speak in the language of power, pleasure, and perfect cruelty.

But even a man who charms duchesses and ruins heiresses can wake haunted.

And sometimes, when the house is very still, the dreams come anyway.

He sat up slowly, raking a hand through the wild curls that had grown thicker with age, now styled with intentional disorder that made him appear both careless and irresistible. His nightshirt clung to his chest with the damp of half-forgotten dreams, but he paid no mind. He had long since learned that nightmares were not things to be feared—only remembered, refined, and folded into one’s armour.

The fire had been restoked—likely by Halvers, the manservant assigned to him now that he had a townhouse of his own and enough coin to pass for respectable. Ashbourne still kept him near the estate, of course, but he no longer slept below stairs. His room was modest by noble standards, but the furnishings were tasteful, and the view overlooked the eastern gardens, which the ladies of the house found romantic in mist.

He dressed slowly, with deliberate grace, pausing at the mirror only to adjust the fall of his cravat and regard the man he had become.

There was no hint of the boy who had wept silently into straw bedding. His skin was smooth, his features well-formed—too handsome, some whispered, with a mouth that knew its own power. His eyes, dark and unreadable, had the unsettling habit of making a lady feel as though she had revealed something without ever speaking.

Downstairs, a simple breakfast was laid out in the morning parlour. He took his seat without being announced—he was not family, after all—and the footman hesitated only a moment before pouring the tea. There was steel now in the way Aaron carried himself, a quiet command that unsettled those unaccustomed to seeing confidence in someone with his history.

He ate slowly, with elegant restraint, spooning the warm oats with just enough honey to sweeten them. He always took oatmeal. It was practical, humble—unimposing. And it gave the impression of someone moderate and temperate, which could not be further from the truth.

What they did not see—what they never suspected—was the way he listened.

To everyone. And everything.

The Lady of the house had spoken too freely the week prior, laughing over port with two friends in the drawing room, unaware that Aaron lingered just beyond the velvet curtain. Something about an investment gone awry, and a certain gentleman with a fondness for married women. She hadn’t noticed him when she mentioned Lord Everleigh’s indiscretions. Or that her own daughter was being courted by a man drowning in debt.

They never did.

He was charming, of course. Amusing. Just scandalous enough to entertain, never quite improper enough to be cast out. He had learned how to ask questions without asking, how to coax confessions from wives and debutantes alike, their secrets blooming like roses under his gaze.

They mistook his quietness for humility. His flattery for sincerity. His attention for affection.

And when they leaned too close—when they whispered things they ought not to share—he filed it away with a smile and an arched brow.

Information, after all, was a currency more potent than gold.

And Aaron was, at last, beginning to build his fortune.

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Yes! I love it. While he's tasting his creations im trying to get a taste of him 🤣 i want all the kisses

LMAO you're funny! I agree with everything & I can totally see it!

Glad you can appreciate my shenanigans 😂

Jalen is the husband I deserve but can't find cuz the men out here are trash with no muscles.

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Yes! I love it. While he's tasting his creations im trying to get a taste of him 🤣 i want all the kisses

I don't think you answered my last message, I still want to hear about them Jalen headcanons lol

Oppsies. I apologize for not responding. I got caught up with other things and meant to come back to my inbox and never did.

But I think he's a man of integrity. The kind of man worth bragging about only you don't need to because his actions make it clear to everyone how much he loves his wife. I say wife because once he's in love and sure you're it for him you wouldn't be a girlfriend for long.

He's going to say "my wife" at least once in a conversation. Multiple times on a really good day. It can annoy some people but ask Jalen if he cares. He's been waiting his whole life to be married.

I think he likes to cook. I think he uses food to spoil his wife. It's not uncommon for him to wake up early on a Saturday morning to surprise her with breakfast in bed.

He's somewhat of a nerd who prefers to stay inside and chill with his woman whether it's introducing her to a show he loves or binging something new. Regardless it wouldn't be uncommon for them to spend hours discussing the plot and character dynamics. Not sure if he plays video games but I could see him playing board games. I'm thinking those Sherlock Holmes, murder mystery type games. Game/Date night is the highlight of his week.

I'm not going to blab too much since I'm thinking about writing some fics, but I still need to give it some more thought.

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I don't think you answered my last message, I still want to hear about them Jalen headcanons lol

Oppsies. I apologize for not responding. I got caught up with other things and meant to come back to my inbox and never did.

But I think he's a man of integrity. The kind of man worth bragging about only you don't need to because his actions make it clear to everyone how much he loves his wife. I say wife because once he's in love and sure you're it for him you wouldn't be a girlfriend for long.

He's going to say "my wife" at least once in a conversation. Multiple times on a really good day. It can annoy some people but ask Jalen if he cares. He's been waiting his whole life to be married.

I think he likes to cook. I think he uses food to spoil his wife. It's not uncommon for him to wake up early on a Saturday morning to surprise her with breakfast in bed.

He's somewhat of a nerd who prefers to stay inside and chill with his woman whether it's introducing her to a show he loves or binging something new. Regardless it wouldn't be uncommon for them to spend hours discussing the plot and character dynamics. Not sure if he plays video games but I could see him playing board games. I'm thinking those Sherlock Holmes, murder mystery type games. Game/Date night is the highlight of his week.

I'm not going to blab too much since I'm thinking about writing some fics, but I still need to give it some more thought.

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I'm going to need black actors to quit signing up for movies where they're the only black person in the script. Sinners has proven once again what we're willing to spend money on. I can step outside to see irr's any day for free. Sell me a damn fantasy or keep that shit, respectfully. 🤣

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Dorianne Laux, from a poem featured in Only As The Day is Long: New and Selected Poems