I really want for all bigger black girls to find love. Love that cherishes them, holds them like the most treasured gift that they are and protects them on the daily. Love that doesn’t just accept but absolutely celebrates every inch and facet of their mind and body. Love that they can actually receive and reciprocate. I want bigger black girls to know love like this.
telling, asking, or even expecting black folk to be understanding in the midst of experiencing overt racism is fucking madness. that's like someone smacking the shit out of you and telling you to relax afterwards. Hollywood can understand any and every other form of abuse but racism is meant to be met with understanding and compassion? i don't give a single solitary fuck about homeboy having Tourette's, disabilities don't make you racist and neither do they absolve you from being one.
how would Erik react if he fucking reader real rough and dominant like he usually does and she hit him with the puppy dog eyes and ask him to hold her hand ?
The door had barely shut before he was on her, one hand gripping the side of her neck, the other wrapped tight around her waist, pressing her back into the wall like he’d been starved of her. He dropped his duffel with a heavy thud, kicked his sneakers off sloppily without ever looking away, and caught her bottom lip between his teeth as he lifted her. The hem of her sleep shirt rode up as her thighs wrapped around his hips.
“You miss me?” he rasped, voice low, eyes sharper than they had any right to be after a long-ass trip.
She nodded, breath hitching, “Yes—”
He kissed her again. Didn’t let her finish. Didn’t need her to.
The way she clung to him said it all.
By the time they made it to her room, the hallway lights had long been forgotten. Only the soft glow from her nightstand lamp painted gold over her skin. He took his time undressing her, and then he peeled off his clothes like wearing the fabric was suffocating him. He laid her down like something sacred, arms bracketing her head, broad chest rising and falling as he stared at her. Then dipped down to taste the hollow of her throat.
The first stroke was slow. Deliberate. Thick.
She gasped, arching up.
His jaw flexed as he pushed in deeper.
“Yeah. That’s right.” His lips hovered by her ear, hips rolling in a rhythm that made the bed creak and her toes curl,“You feel that shit, huh? Been sittin’ here waitin’ on me…pussy still mine.”
A shaky breath left her mouth, soft and desperate. “Erik—”
“Tell me. Say what’s on your mind, baby.”
Her legs trembled where they were folded back, calves brushing his shoulders, ankles twitching as he worked her open from the inside out. She was so full. Every slow thrust dragged against her walls like he was re-learning her body, carving his shape back into her like he never left.
“Yours,” she breathed. “All yours.”
“That’s right,” he growled, thumb pressing into her thigh to keep her folded, so deep she couldn’t run if she tried, “Tight as fuck. Been thinkin’ ‘bout this the whole damn flight. Didn’t jack off. Didn’t do shit. Saved every drop for this pussy right here.”
She was moaning now, eyes glassy, voice cracking when she tried to form words. The stretch had her squirming, mouth open around half-formed cries. He was stroking her so deep it felt like he could rearrange everything. Her nails scraped down his back, her fingers clawing at him to pull him closer, deeper.
“I missed you,” she whimpered.
He kissed her shoulder, never stopping, “I know, baby. I missed you too. I’m right here now. Right where I belong.”
The rhythm changed. Slower. Longer strokes. He was feeling it now, not just fucking her. Sinking into her like he was letting go of the world outside her body. Like the only thing keeping him grounded was the way her pussy wrapped around him, wet and tight and perfect. Her hand reached for his arm. Not to push. Not to pull. Just to feel him.
And then she looked up at him. Eyes wide. Shining. Her voice small and sweet.
“Can you hold my hand?”
He stopped moving.
Still inside her, he shifted just enough to lean back and look at her. Chest heaving. Lips parted. Sweat starting to form at his temple. His brows drew together slowly like he couldn’t believe what he just heard. The way she said it…fucked-out and soft like she needed it more than the sex. Like something in her was breaking open under him and she needed to feel him hold her steady.
He tilted his head, “You want my hand while I make love to this pussy, huh?”
She nodded. Big eyes still locked on his. Lips trembling.
His jaw worked as he swallowed, something hard and protective curling behind his ribs.
“Yeah, baby,” he said, voice lower now, “I got you.”
His fingers reached down between their bodies and found her hand, large palm closing around her smaller one. He interlaced their fingers, squeezed gently, and never looked away.
Then he started moving again.
Slow. Deep. Every thrust was thick and wet and intentional. Like he wasn’t just inside her body—but inside her soul.
She cried out softly. The kind of sound that came from the chest. She held his hand tighter. He squeezed back.
“That feel good?” he whispered against her cheek, “Tell me. I wanna hear you say it.”
“So good,” she gasped, legs quivering against his sides, “Feels so good, Erik.”
He kissed her temple. Her cheek. Then her lips, “I know, baby. I know. I’m right here.”
And he was. All of him. No bravado. No armor. Just raw, grounding pressure inside and out. One hand in hers, the other cupping her jaw as he made love to her—deep and slow and firm—like she was the only thing tethering him to this earth.
And in that quiet, slick rhythm they breathed as one.
origamiaround
dailybridgerton
titsay
germansingergirl
romaincrisis
