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#king only deserves the best lovins from us – @gortashshairytits on Tumblr
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TUNNEL SNAKES RULE.

@gortashshairytits / gortashshairytits.tumblr.com

This is an 18+ blog, peruse at your own risk. I go by Kore, she/her, 21+ years old, ENTP (or INTP, not sure which). I just go wherever the hyperfixation takes me, honestly. Blank and/ageless blogs will be blocked.
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kingkatsuki

40 year old Bakugou who’s back is aching from a long double shift, but you look to pretty to resist so he makes you ride him on the couch.

his smile is so tired, his lids so heavy that his eyes are threatening to close any second now because of the long day he's just had.

he's cozy, lounging on the couch like this: with his head resting on the outrageously-coloured decorative pillow that you've insisted he buy to spruce up his living room, and with the comforting weight of your body settling on top of him every time you easily lift your hips and press them right back down, down, down; willing them to meet his own again and again.

your pace is slow and sensual, but rhythmic at the same time - it's just what he needs to end this crappy day the right way. his palms rest on your knees that are on either side of his waist before he glides them along your thighs instead, watching your own loving hands trace his scar-riddled chest; the heart that hides beneath.

your eyes are soft when he looks up. full of admiration. they glimmer right before your eyelashes flutter and you close them to lean down and kiss him on his panting mouth.

being so exhausted, bakugou loses himself in the borderline overwhelming stimulation, in the never-ending affection that is your touch. tiredness turns him more sensitive than usual; he's responsive without trying to be, every nerve end now pulsating with that last shred of energy that takes an absolute effort to produce, but which he'll nevertheless work hard to conjure up just for you. always for you, anything for you.

so when you tell him to take it easy, that it's all right if he doesn't do anything this time; noting the way he struggles to even lift his hips fully so that he can try to follow your pace and push himself even deeper inside your warmth, all he does is click his tongue against his teeth, and lets out that stubborn, "tsch." that has the power to bring your blood to a simmer sometimes.

you already know what he's thinking about, after all. fuck being tired.

he'll rest when he's dead.

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