reddeaddufus

[reddeaddufus]

under the cut: when i get really frustrated while drawing i draw myself biting the subject to motivate myself to keep going

[reddeaddufus]

[reference] by @morganismss

[reddeaddufus]

Jolene by Dolly Parton except it’s playing downstairs while you’re laying up in the loft of a cabin listening to the thunder and rain hitting the roof tiles above you

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he loves his horsey <3

(I enjoy drawing the old guard so much)

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by far the best stranger missions in the game

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...upcoming scene... 🥰

New art commission ^^

[reddeaddufus]

Do y’all ever wonder if Dutch and Hosea knew they were going to raise an absolute UNIT like Arthur? Like he was once a skinny and rambunctious 14 year old street orphan and they took a chance on him and fed him as he grew into a fucking BEAST who is arguably bulkier than the two of them combined, and has become the main brawn of the gang.

This is basically just an Arthur Physique appreciation post but GOD DAMN.

[reddeaddufus]

Portrait of a Man Undone

Arthur Morgan x  F!Reader 

smut (18+), nsfw, mdni

3K words

Smut, fluff, and a little pining. Lazy comfort. Experimental role reversal?

Far too long.

There is a fine view from here, in the soft daylight of the room, with your right cheek on his stomach and his fingers lightly combing your hair. In the mirror that you've moved across from the foot of the bed, the light begins to shimmer. 

He is relaxed, on the slippery verge of sleep, while you take in the details of this situation, the arrangement of yourselves, draped and quiet on the bed. Birds of late summer trilling outside in the shade trees. And this sight. A reflection of his inner self in this moment, lying contented and unhidden in a thick gooseneck curving toward his left hip, slightly darker than the skin of his thigh. 

Afternoon sunlight makes a glowing tangle of his curled, dark blond thicket, all wheat-colored waves and shadows. Your breath stirs the trail of hair from his navel down. There is a slight rustle as your fingers comb through it, and your head lifts and lowers with his breath. It is like you are parts of the same whole, a body or a well or an engine, each enticing the other; an arm moves, air begins to draw. You are careful not to move too fast.

With your head at this undeniable proximity, and lulled by the evenness of his breath, you start to consider how long he will remain in this lovely unagitated posture. Perhaps he’s already asleep, and perhaps you will keep him suspended in a half-dream if you begin to slide your hand down his firm and hairy thigh. 

You might be daydreaming too, unsure if what you just saw is an inkling of greater fullness or the mere lift of your angle with his inhalation. You brush the backs of your fingernails light as streamers down his thigh to his knee, and you outline the shieldlike shape of his kneecap as if you have no intention of reversing your path. 

And this, naturally, incites an unmistakable twitch before your eyes. 

His fingers in your hair have stopped. His stomach, for a moment, grows tight.

You blow another light breeze down the trail of his belly to the base of his cock. The smooth reposed curve seems to stretch awake and alive as if he senses your own arousal.

You love his cock in the morning, when it's as its hardest and ruddy and standing against his stomach, revealing the proud throatlike ridge of its underbelly, and he drags you to his front, lazily urging against the muscle of your ass, until he guides himself between your legs, gets his arm under your knee, and slowly fucks into you, stretching to the full extent of his reach inside.

You love it when he walks naked from the bath, still dripping, and his cock hangs long and thick while his mind is on private things and he distractedly dries himself with a towel.

As he did not five minutes ago. The towel lies in a wet fan on the floor.

Against the shaded side of the barn - he would have had you right there. He nearly did, as soon as John walked out of sight, and he took you by the jaw and pinned you to the wall. Your hands between you fought at his fly and he kissed you like he had been starved for your mouth the last hundred miles or more.

And you love his cock now, beginning to grow heavier, straightening toward his hip, the tip of his head budding at the edge of the sheath of foreskin. Its taut swell calls to mind a fish, smooth and strong. There is a light freckle halfway up his shaft, off-center, and you're not sure whether he knows that it marks a spot of deeper sensitivity, or whether you alone hold this secret to his pleasure. You often graze and lick around it at first, until he starts to breathe harder. When kissed, or busked by a finger, it seems to touch him at the very base of his spine, and without fail causes his hips to lift. 

His hair is still damp where your fingers explore and tantalize the firming base of his shaft. Likewise, his fingers spread warm and gentle over your scalp, untangling, combing the length down your back before the distraction of your musing touch is too great.

On all his body, the skin of his cock is softer than any other part, so soft you want to keep your calluses away but he swears he likes your touch more than his own. He likes all parts of your hand. You spider your fingers up and down from his head, his silken foreskin you want to kiss before he nudges himself against your palm. And so you move with him, tunneling your hand lightly overtop, laying him vertical on his stomach, barely touching him with more than the heat of your hand and stroking up and down his changing form. Behind you, he exhales. Your head sinks. The muscles of his ass gather and firm. He pushes up.

But seems to stop himself. All these small tells of his want give him away. Wanting conflicting things. Wanting what comes next. Wanting to prolong this impending goodness and savor your caress as long as possible, after being apart from it so long. Wanting to devour you, fearing the loss of the devoured.

“Come upstairs.” He'd nipped the edge of your ear and left you a little lightheaded around the corner of the barn. 

“You’re exhausted, Arthur. You need a good meal -” Even though you couldn't keep your hands off his chest and his waist and the edge of his fly.

All he did in reply was kiss you so hard he left you panting.

His cock is warm. Becoming full and stiff and large, veins trickling and verging up his thick column to his dark head emerging, blindly seeking sensation. His hips move, slow but strong, asking for your touch. 

It rises, laid angled up his belly, and you halfway wrap him with your hand, petting down the dorsal ridge of his cock, your touch making half contact, then with more weight. Behind you, his exhalation breezes your back as you push harder and feel the low gratified hum in his chest.

An indefinite trepidation ripples from the place between your legs, some primal apprehension that he is nearly too large for you, a little quail in your cunt when you see him fully aroused. His own body senses it, his cock roused from his stomach, levitating, veering between the boundaries of your middle finger and your thumb, and you let him rest in your touch, giving his shaft another adoring pet, and you smile to yourself when it jumps against your palm and slides heavily side to side, and behind you, his breath comes quicker. His hand reaches to the side and takes a handful of your hip and squeezes, letting your flesh spring out of his grip before he lazily, affectionately smacks you and kneads you again.

His muscles thicken in a full body flex, revealing the strong dimple on the side of his hip, one of your favorite landmarks, as your hand teases him, Oh? Oh you want more than this? Is this not quite what you had in mind? Until you finally let him bob, slowly rising vertical in your hovering hand, and he pushes up, thrusting into your fist. Stalling. Again, higher, and then down. Slowly fucking your grip like he wants to linger in this hazy thrill. 

But it is not possible to linger for very long, much as you try. The longer you delay him, and keep your touch soft, the more deeply he will feel his far-approaching arrival. For now, he is distant from himself. His thoughts, like his hand, spreading, circling. About to hunt.

When you see the tight sleeve of his skin slide down from his head and up again, his push and thrust, and the shine of fluid welling at his tip, growing to a drop that wavers and dribbles down and spreads like a gleaming ring on the sliding rim of his foreskin, you nearly move to put your lips on him. To feel the softness of that skin on your love-parched tongue. To savor his bitter salt. To gratify his want completely with the heat of your mouth.

But you want to watch. In a way it’s as if you’ve never seen him. Never looked this closely before being hauled up to his chest, your mouth to his mouth, in the dark, in the shadows while under your clothes, he hooks your drawers to the side, coupling himself to your slippery hole and fucking in.

His hand kneads your ass more aggressively. His calves harden, the chiseled muscles along his shinbones surely burning. The bones of his feet fan up, and his toes spread and contort and crack under this loving torture. His right foot curves inward slightly, suddenly gives way, as if his strength has broken. And his cock fills your hand, huge and rigid with lust, and when you give him a faster stroke he pants, rises to an elbow, trying to drag you onto him like he’s had more than he can take.

We shall be home in seven days. By the time you get this, it should be two. You’re every thought in my mind till then. I get clumsy sometimes, missing you, like I’m out of balance. 

You love how it is a branch of himself, fully born of the rest of himself. Strong. His body fills doorways. In all his features, this aspect of him is suggested. The strength of his nose and jaw and his chin when he's teasing you, daring you to take him on. His neck and throat, the stone of his Adam’s apple. The ropes of his wrists. The rounded ease of his upper back. The cables that gird his sides. He draws attention unavoidably, breathtakingly. You have seen him walk into rooms and heard the volume dim, and seen their eyes go round. You have seen men become jealous and aware of themselves in comparison. You have seen others act threatened and make themselves stand tall, and seen him oblivious to it; he has no need to be concerned about them. He has nothing to prove.

Least of all with you.

On a whim, you resist his arms and slide your leg over him, facing away, your back to his front, your legs on the outside of his, both of your knees out wide. Straddling his spread thighs, leaving an open space beneath you that you know he seeks to enter. It bothers him in some way, like a fruit he can't reach. A job unfinished. In the mirror across from the bed, you watch his eyes rest there, between your open thighs. Wanting to fill and fulfill you in every way. His cock hovers, slides to your inner thigh, waving slightly from every twitch.

In the silvery reflection across from your bed, you watch his half-hidden face behind you, intent, nostrils flared, eyes closed for a moment. Next his quiet gaze on your neck, your ear, your shoulder. He kisses you there.

Before he can reach forward and guide himself into you, you take him underhand, cradled in your fingers from this side, and feel his body become still. 

What is it like? To stretch and widen and grow beyond your thin sheath of skin, to get large and heavy and sensitive? To become full and still need? Need desperately. How does he feel the need beyond what is rational, and to be needed? Does he need to fill a place unfilled before, like to satisfy hunger?

All these long, red roads will drive me crazy. I confess sometimes all I see is your braid in my hand. When I get home I will get between your legs and not leave them for a week. I believe I shall exhaust you or die trying.

From this angle, you’re suddenly curious at the sight of his cock, how it appears to protrude from your pubic hair, resting in your hand but lightening as it stiffens, cantilevered of its own structure, jolting, bobbing when you let go to watch him buck up again. 

Hard as cartilage in your hand. 

Out of curiosity, you stroke him, your hand and arm moving the same as when he strokes himself, and you hold him close to your body as you do it again, and notice his breath gone quiet.

In the mirror you meet his eyes, and feel emboldened as he watches your hand and the luminous picture of you holding him like your own appendage, stroking him, nestled between your lips. There is confusion for a moment, as he puzzles out your meaning, this whim. This dalliance of a thought. As if you were joined beyond separation. Your figures in front of you sit blended like shadows overlapped. You wonder if he is uncomfortable to see it, and for a second you consider letting things progress in the way you are used to.

You look up, half worried that he's had enough of this. Perhaps interrupted by a trick of the eyes. 

But he does not stop you. And his hand slides up to your breast as you hold him more firmly, and when you stroke him in earnest, he grips your flesh and pushes against you, following your lead, to his own seeming surprise turned on by the sight of his strong erection between your legs getting harder yet.

The sounds of his surrendered pleasure at your neck, your shoulder begin to thrill you as you stroke. The roll of his head as he warms to the sight in front of him, his proud cock aimed high between your legs, stroked between your slicking cunt and hand like he's your own. His other hand spreads over your belly and holds you close, rolling his hips with yours, teaching you his way with himself as he strokes your clit like he's been dreaming of it.

Gingerly, he takes your hand and regrips you around his cock. Slung lower. Squeezes your fingers to a certain pressure, and strokes up and down. His skin slides tight and smoothly.

You’ve always loved the way he handles his own cock with the same fluency as his guns, sometimes easy and unhurried, sometimes necessary and firm, and you have always secretly wanted him to bring himself to completion while you watch. The few times you’ve tried, he can’t stand to finish alone. He’ll pull you close, or crawl on top of you, his dick hard and beyond ready, like he must enter your cunt or your mouth or die, pained to be exposed to the air a moment longer.

And in this way, you become an apparatus of combination, each working the other, no longer each or other, but melted inextricably in this friction and this filthy gorgeous feeling.

He pulls you higher up his chest and watches over your shoulder as you guide and press his wet cock up into yourself, staring heatedly as he curves up and disappears between your legs. With a ravenous groan he kisses your neck, but you lean forward to prop your weight on his knees, kneeling on the outside, and raise your hips. In the mirror, he half grins in marvel, but when you rise on his dick and fuck him deeper, his face slackens and he’s mouthing goddamn beholding your ass and the sight of your slit swallowing him whole jesus christ before his forehead rumples and his head falls back in ecstasy.

What longing has done to you, only this can undo, his hands biting into your hips, and later, you will allow yourself the gift of the sight of him concentrating, sweating at your back, and let him take your breath away with the furious ream of his cock, thick and slippery up your cunt, that makes you gape and sob in brainless, jolting bliss. Where you will come, hunching like a wolf, as he rolls you deep and slow on his base, praising you, There's my girl. My god, you come so pretty, holding his own orgasm back until he’s seen you through yours. 

But that is later. You kneel up and let him slip out, wet and trailing a shine like dew, and without giving him a chance to catch his breath, you nestle him between your folds and run yourself down his length, sliding your hand down the underside of his rockhard shaft and watching him watch you in this moving portrait, captive to you stroking and fucking and rocking your clit on his needy curve until his cheeks are flushed and his teeth are bared and he begins to pant, shaky, ragged and rough.

Surprise me with what's on your mind, my girl. As you always do.

You stroke faster and steadier along the beautiful curve of his cock, his hard head soaked in your slick, purple and presented, and despite your burning shoulder you work faster, smacking rhythmic and steady against your mons and feeling the most pleasurable arousal build through your pelvis with every languid slide, and hearing him suffer against your back, hips thrusting and rocking like he can’t help it. The knuckles of his toes crack. 

And as his breath catches, you reach down low and knead the clutch of his balls, and it surprises you, how completely he comes apart. His gasps rise in pitch and you feel the pulse unlocked with his broken moan. Between your knees he suddenly discharges spurt after endless spurt on the sheet. You stroke him long and slow back to his base to see the extremity of his strong projection and feel the throb of his ejaculation through your hand milking out his high.

His mouth falls open, shocked. Blue eyes hypnotized by the sight as he comes openly between your knees. The vein in his forehead bulges. 

Dazed, incredulous love swims in his mirrored stare.

When it slows, one more spurt, another dribble, one last jerk of his body beneath you, you glaze a drop of spend over his head with your thumb, and he falls back to an elbow on the mattress, disappearing from you in the glass. You lightly unpalm him, and watch his cock come down, bobbing, relaxing in waves, until it hangs heavy in the cove of your legs, full, sensitive, spent.

Gingerly, you get off him, and lie beside him now, collapsed on the bed, and he groans to stretch his legs out long. For a while he lies there, eyes closed and dozing, and then exhales softly as if newly aroused by a memory so recent it has left its light scent in the room. 

His hand crawls into yours. "My girl, what you do to me." He sighs, shakes his head as he stares at the ceiling.

In the corner of the room, two dark spots mark the floor where the mirror once stood, like the footprints of a departed man, and you glance at it now as he moves onto his side and faces you. In that silvery scene, his hand lifts to your chin and turns your gaze to him, and pulls you close for a sweet and yearning kiss, like a drink that dissolves the pain of longing. After some time, you feel his smile, and the backs of his fingers traveling down your side, over your hip and lower.

"Now you're gonna watch what I do to you."

[reddeaddufus]

The Thief

Lee

[reddeaddufus]

[reddeaddufus]

One of my favorite aspects of Arthur’s character is his curiosity and his non-judgmental nature. Even if they are people who are totally different from him he doesn’t judge and he is always intrigued by the unknown.

For example Jamie, having joined a cult and behaving quite foolishly, gave Arthur a lot of trouble. Despite this, Arthur chose not to ridicule him and instead comforted him and said that he cannot judge him because he doesn’t know how his life has been.

Even though Arthur hates big cities, civilisation etc. he is not judgmental towards a woman who comes from a wealthy family, who doesn’t know a thing about survival, who probably never had to work for a single thing in her life. Instead, he is encouraging and helps her be more confident in herself.

Albert Mason, who is totally helpless and who probably couldn’t survive 2 days in the wild couldn’t be more different from Arthur, yet Arthur respects him and likes helping him.

Some of my favorite wholesome encounters include Algernon Wasp, who wants to sell Arthur a corset and make him try on extravagant hats, which aren’t Arthur’s style at all. Arthur could be mean to him but instead he makes excuses to not disrespect his work and even lets him put on the hat after little persuasion!

Arthur is intrigued by the flamboyant Charles Châtenay and his mischiefs and helps him/spends time with him even if there’s no reward for him.

He helps a crazy scientist obsessed with creating his robot son, a crazy palaeontologist..he is obviously drawn to new/unfamiliar things. Even though he might find them weird at first he doesn’t mind and wants to know more about them.

Arthur also doesn’t seem to like physical affection much but I can remember at least 4 instances where he lets people hug him to comfort them even though it might be uncomfortable for him.

I genuinely think that for anyone to say that Arthur wouldn’t be accepting of people different from him, would be homophobic, transphobic, would kill you if you were near him, would be mean to you etc. have no understanding of him at all. Arthur treats people like they treat him and he doesn’t think he is in any position to judge how others live.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Bonus: if you manage to find “Bigfoot” and visit him for the second time he asks Arthur if he has missed him and Arthur is really awkward and doesn’t really know what to say so he says he also missed him haha

[reddeaddufus]

WIP Teaser

I can't remember the last time I posted on here - but when @redwritr tags you, you step up. ❤️ @verai-marcel, your turn.

No smut, but here's our courageous heroine getting the shit beaten out of her by a goose.

Photo credit to the talented @saiyan-druid-art

There was a hysteric edge to Nathalie’s responding bark of a laugh. “And you need him back because..?” Voice strained, she began to advance. The water slipped to her groin. 

“Because he’s our guard goose,” The girl replied caustically. 

Nathalie stopped. “So he’s aggressive?”

“No, keep going.”

The bird took a stalking, perilous step closer. 

The water dropped an inch. Nathalie took another step, then two more. The bird’s hiss was a low constant. The water fell to her knees, sloshing loudly at every stride. It was at mid-calf when Maurice reached her. 

In a blur of wings and with a horrible trumpeting, Maurice launched himself directly at her face. 

Nathalie screamed bloody murder. A dense, wet body slammed into her chest. Powerful wings walloped her arms and back. In one, terrible second she saw the eyes of the thing, merciless and glacier blue, as the bird struck at her chin. 

He missed, and the first strike yanked at the tender skin of Nathalie’s neck before a lucky flail of her arm ripped him free. She toppled backwards in a smear of orange, white, and surging pond scum and flailed in abject terror.  

The splash of cold water soaking her ass was nothing to the vision of Maurice tunneling in. Louder even than the sound of her own screaming was a horrible clang of throaty, infuriated honks. Scuttling backwards with a ringing skull left her as vulnerable as a child. The bright orange bill struck like a snake and Maurice connected successfully with her jaw. The blaring screech of him rattled through her bones as he whipped his skull back and forth. When she could breath the strange, sour musk of wet waterfowl was suffocating. 

“Grab the neck!” The girl hollered. 

Sobbing, Nathalie kicked blindly. Something connected, and the blinding pinch on the square of her jaw ripped free. She scrambled to her feet just in time for Maurice’s return. 

Time froze. Second by second, her field of view narrowed into a slow, glaring burst of detail. A red haze was her only obscuration from the glint of light off of the needle-like projections lining Maurice’s beak. Hell was a clammy, barbed tongue and the black pit of an esophagus. With horrific suspense it began to descend towards her face. Terror was forever going to taste like moldering down. 

Just below the bird’s head, a gap began to open for Nathalie’s arm between beating wings. Nathalie took the chance and struck.

The world hurtled back into blurring speed. A desperate scream ripped through the air as her hand slammed into the bird’s throat. Maurice’s eyes bulged. She could feel the vibration of his honk as it blared out of the incensed bird’s throat. Gasping, Nathalie swung the goose away from her body and well out of range from her skin. Orange legs thrashed and flailed as he continued to buffet her body with his wings.

[reddeaddufus]

WIP ...day

i was tagged ages ago by @cassietrn (thank you!), and since I know they're constantly working on things, here's a no-expiration tag back for @cassietrn as well as @shootybangbang, @twola, @reddeaddufus, @readingcoco and @revolversandlace

here's a tease of a future sidesmut (excerpt is sfw)💗

Lilacs in May

The two of you stand side by side at the front desk in the lobby of The Acadian Hotel, so weary from the road and the heat of the day, you feel as if you’re swaying in place. Wan-faced. Drained. Mud-caked. Bloody.

The clerk clears his throat. “I should mention that our rates are considerable.”

“That don’t matter, partner.” For having been dragged fifty feet or so by his horse, Arthur sounds almost conversational. Affable. Patient for a short while longer.

“Our rooms start at ten dollars, sir.”

“What dyou got for twenty?”

The clerk purses his lips, and his eyebrows push up before he can calm them to a more professionally neutral angle, and clears his throat again. “For twenty you could have room twelve, the Queen Vict-”

“Sounds good, partner.”

“Payment up front, of course, is…customary.”

Arthur unfolds two soggy bills from a thick clip, completely unaware of the attention around him immediately drawn to such voluminous wealth, and wipes away some mud to check the denomination. “I assume you take foldin money.” They fall with a flop on the leather desk top.

“…Yes.” The clerk lifts them with a pinch. “Yes sir.”

Behind the clerk, an ornate key rack hangs mostly empty, but for the one marked No. 12, and as the clerk turns to unhook it, his tone changes as if he’s remembered his duty, and he turns back around with a refreshed smile. “…Might I sugge- mention our spacious, state of the art private bathrooms, equipped with modern shower enclosures, nickel-plated, imported from Europe.”

“Europe you say.”

“England.”

“English showers, sweetheart, you hear that? Sounds perfect.” 

“Finest cure for skin and lung ailments.”

He’s leaning on the desk now as he nudges your arm. You stand there lifting one grime-caked boot, clumps of half-dried mud falling off your trousers on the fancy patterned rug in soft thuds. Gray streaks coat the insides of your trouser legs, dried lather from your horse, and it reeks like a stockyard; even you are repulsed by it and unsure why you have to be waiting here so goddamn long. You notice two ladies across the room not very discreetly fanning the air in front of their faces.

“We have recently had a brand-new boiler installed. Enough to supply hot water to all twelve private baths. We may be on edge of civilization, but no man shall have a cold shower in The Acadi-”

“You got any soap?”

The clerk is silent for a long fluttering blink. “You’ll find an assortment of finest quality soaps and bath oils in the suite.”  

Momentarily, his nervous glance veers left, to the adjacent dining room and its tuxedoed staff lighting tall candles in the center of white-clothed tables, and planting crystal glasses by the plates as delicately as seedlings. “Will you be needing a dinner reservation?” He seems to shrink in his suit, facing the man in front of him again and the prospect of enforcing a dress code.

“Have it brought up.” 

With a noticeable sigh, the clerk glances down as another ten dollar bill is tossed in front of him. Arthur plucks the key from his hand and takes yours, as sticky and grimy as the soles of your boots, and pulls you up the wide, carpeted staircase. He touches his brim at a couple of ladies coming down, who freeze together in a cowering gawk, pressed against the opposite railing.

As soon as the door is closed, he falls in his full kit, two guns, bandolier, and his 10-inch Bowie knife, into a tufted chair in the nearest corner and hangs his arms off the sides and rests his neck loose on the back of the chair.

You trudge two steps past him before you lower, aching, to your knees, and your hands, and your stomach, and your face on the rug, and lie there flat, unexpectedly aware of how fragrant a rug can smell.

“Do rich people perfume their floors?”

“Probably.”

Behind you, the heavy dulled weight of his bandolier clacks on the floorboards, next his gunbelt, then you hear him wince and get down to his knees off the chair and feel him crawl stiffly overtop you until he hovers very close and leans down.

“You just gonna sleep there then?” He delicately nips the edge of your ear.

“Maybe,” you mumble, face mashed into the velvety pile. “Why.”

“I was told there's an English shower over there I'd like to show you."

“What's English about it.”

He's carving his hand under your stomach and fidgeting unsuccessfully with the buckle of your gunbelt while you do nothing to help him.

“I got a few ideas.”

“Why would anyone want to stand up to bathe?”

“Why would you stand up at all. Lazy…” he mutters, trying to jimmy your buckle up to the side as you make yourself even more limp over his hand.

“I was busy working while you had to get yourself dragged off down the road.” Your voice shakes as he lightly jerks your belt and finally pulls it off like he's just pried open a safe.

“If I recall, I was busy gettin dragged while you was bein a show-off.” He crushes you with his full weight before getting up with a heavy smack on your ass.

He explores the room; you hear drawers opening, lamps switching on and off, and then the heavy thud of one boot falling to the floor, and the other, and the sound of him walking into the next room.

There's a light knock on the door like a tremor, and Arthur steps over you to answer, accepts what was brought, and shuts the door while the man is still thanking him for, as far as you can tell, being a guest of the hotel, his tone really more of a question.

You’re half asleep on that plush and fragrant rug when he starts enticing you to your feet one small nudge of his toes in your ribs at a time. A sharp pop of a cork hardly stirs you from the strong magnetic pull of your nap.

And you’re about to ask what got into him, but you know.

[reddeaddufus]

Smiley baby 💕🥰

[reddeaddufus]

[reddeaddufus]

bloody muddy sexy face

[reddeaddufus]

I recently played chapter 6 again and his gibberish pissed me off so😂