#another old man to objectify 👀

[footballandshit]

saudi arabia nt manager, mr. hervé renard...if you’re reading this i am free on thursday night. if you would like to hang out i am free on thursday night when i am free to hang out. i am free to hang out on thursday night so if you want to hang out on thursday night i am free.

[rosella-writes]

👀 (and happy new year ro!!)

Thank youuuuu right back at’cha 💚

Um I have a lot of Warden Loghain wip so here’s some uh explicit spice (cuz Morrigan and I like objectifying that old man):

“You are what I want,” he confessed. “Your sounds — your pleasure is more than I deserve.”

“Silence,” she scoffed, hitching another moan as he locked his lips on her breast. “Nonsense, j-just — fill me.”

His grunt at that was involuntary. He loved that she did not ask, that she did not implore. He gave her what she demanded, bodily wresting her leg aside and slotting between her thighs. She cried out once, as if surprised, when he tested her slick with his fingers.

“No, no, your — you, not your hand,” she said.

He chuckled at her self-correction. “A Witch of the Wilds, rumoured to be a maneater, and yet still new to the way of men. What more can I learn of you, hmm?”

“Your cock then, you horrible man.”

He ground against her, daring to grin at her sudden gasp. Those gold-bright eyes all but flashed in the darkness as they fixed on him — he slid one hand beneath her head to cradle it in his palm, and her strands of obsidian hair were soft and tangled between his fingers. He remembered how those eyes had flashed before, how he had felt like a creature clutched in the claws of a hawk. But he had not touched her hair before. He had not been this close. He had not had her soft body in the cage of his arms, his weight atop hers. He had closed his eyes and murmured a dead woman’s name under his breath.

This time, he held her gaze as he pressed inside her. This time, it was her name in his mouth.