My love for Benoit Blanc knows no bounds. He's just some guy, he's a genius, he's the new Poirot, he encourages women to speak their mind at people who screw them over, he hates rich people, he's married to malewife Hugh Grant, he dresses like a 70s queer man with access to online shopping, he has no consistent accent other than Vaguely American Southern, he can solve any mystery, he cannot win Among Us, and I would marry the hell out of him him if I wasn't a lesbian and he wasn't a gay dude.
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Me watching the first third of glass onion: man idk, it just doesn't have the same vibe as knives out. I mean we're spending *way* too long on the build up, Benoit Blanc isn't even acting like himself, and it feels like the story's almost over even though we're nowhere close to halfway. Kind of disappointing man :(
Me watching the last two third of glass onion: oh! Ohhhh! OH!! OHHHHH!!! OHHHHHHH!!!!! OHHHHHHHHHHH-
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They could make 50 benoit blanc movies and i will enjoy each and every one of them infact i want them to make 50 movies
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Bakugou likes to remind you to breathe whenever you two have sex. It can get so overwhelming for you—the pleasure, the intensity, the intimacy, the eye contact that he never lets you lose. It’s a connected feeling, when you’re at the height of it all, the precipice of climaxing.
“Hey, hey, eyes on me, baby,” he’ll whisper to you, tapping your cheeks once, twice, gently to gain your attention. Your eyes flutter open, rolling once before they settle on his, whining when you catch a carmine gaze, filled only with a type of passion and adoration that it makes your hole clench around him.
“Breathe through it, will you do that for me, baby? Huh?” He talks to you like you’re some airhead and, in a sense, you guess you are at the moment. Only able to gasp, mouth dropping open for his tongue to swipe the inside of it, hands pawing at his shoulders and nape.
“Cmon, baby, breathe with me. Gonna make you feel so good,” he promises, watches how your eyebrows screw up, how your eyes struggle to stay open.
You’ve always had the bad habit of holding your breath when you orgasm, and Bakugou’s heard somewhere that breathing through it makes the feeling all the more powerful. And he’s been doing it with you ever since—pressing his chest to yours, his mouth against your own, his breath in, your breath out.
When you cum, you remember to suck in your deep breaths, eyes hopelessly rolling to the back of your head as you shake and tremble all over. Bakugou praises you the whole time though, groaning and whispering about how good you did for him, how tight you are, how you listen so, so well.
His own breath stutters as he follows you, toes curled against the mattress as his breath slows until his balls finally unclench and he can relax into your body. You’re both boneless in seconds, and you figure the mess can wait until you gain feeling back in your body again.
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