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rina-teatia · 14 days ago

Text

Food and porn (18+)

Gallagher is a humble London bartender with a rich martial arts background. Boothill is a master criminal and scoundrel. They can't seem to have anything in common... except kinks.

these are not my arts, but my friend's with whom we had rp by this story! you can subscribe to his social networks (a friend has agreed to publish the art)

X: https://x.com/ahhswan

DA: https://www.deviantart.com/drasterod

tg: https://t.me/drisnyastanOD

Pairing: Boothill x Gallagher

Tags: Human Boothill, Dom Boothill, Weight Gain, Food Kink, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Food Sex, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Fat Fetish, Fat all

Words: 2,619

The sky over London was habitually covered with clouds. It was evening, about seven o'clock, but the bad weather had made it dark outside. The first tentative drops hit the cobblestones of the streets before the downpour hit the roofs.

Gallagher grimaced at the spectacle through the small window of his bar. He lit a cigar and muttered something like an old man's `huuuuʼ though he wasn't old enough for that yet. A downpour is a shitty thing. Usually even the most avid drinkers in the rain prefer to drink at home rather than drag themselves to a bar. In short, there was nothing economically advantageous about this situation.

His leg, wounded in an old battle, had started whimpering a couple hours ago, heralding rain, and still didn't want to settle down. Gallagher smoked and read the papers. Scotland Yard was reporting again on a mysterious burglar who had already robbed several pawnshops and jewelry stores. The message was terribly familiar, moreover, Gallagher even knew the criminal personally, but he was in no hurry to write letters to the police. After all, the robber was...

“What a weather, partner!” A large figure wrapped in a red, worn poncho walked into the bar. A wide black hat was pulled over his eyes, and half his face was hidden by a red handkerchief. The man's mud-splattered boots shuffled across the floor, sticking out of chaps that were equally muddy near the end of his pants. The man tossed his long black-and-white hair back and grinned, pulling off his handkerchief. “You weren't expecting me?”

“God, why aren't you home?” Gallagher sighed heavily, setting aside the newspaper and slowly standing up.

“The rain washes away the odors! No bloodhound can smell me. By the way, this is for you.” The man chuckled and put into Gallagher's hands a handmade gold watch on a chain with a cover inlaid with small stones. The man grimaced as he looked at the gift. “Pour me a bourbon, dear.”

“Boothill, you're insufferable. Lock the door, damn it.” Gallagher stood behind the bar and pulled out a bottle of bourbon with a heavy sigh. Boothill removed his hat and poncho, spreading them out on a nearby stool, and adjusted his vest, which was tight against his round belly.

Well, they were notorious old lovers who never seemed to be able to be together. Gallagher had worked for Scotland Yard as a detective in the past, before the leg injury that had forced him into early retirement, he'd been a top-notch bloodhound. Now the old dog was working in a bar and trying to forget his past glorious life.

Boothill, on the other hand, was a hardened criminal. He had come from the New World to good old England for a new life, but his language was sharper than his nine-millimeter ammunition, and no one was in a hurry to hire a foreigner with a nasty American accent. He could have written a book called `Why Men Kill�� but it would have had all the pages written in the short and succinct `MASSACREʼ in big letters.

Gallagher happened to own Boothill's secret when he almost turned him in to the constables. The old policeman still had his powder in the bottle, and perhaps if it hadn't been for Boothill's eloquence, he'd be hanging from the gallows right now....

“Your bourbon, as usual, is the worst stuff I've ever tasted.” Boothill smiled and squinted one green eye that was visible from beneath his bangs.

“Why do you drink it?”

“Hell if I know... I could drink diesel or kerosene if I wanted to.” He wiped his mouth with his hand and grinned through his shark teeth, glaring at Gallagher. “We really haven't seen each other in a long time. You've gotten even fatter, I see.”

Boothill reached across the bar and playfully poked the bartender in the belly. Gallagher rolled his eyes.

“I could say the same about you, Mr. Robber. At this rate, you won't fit through any bank window or sewer manhole.”

Boothill chuckled, slapping himself on the thigh. He grabbed the bottle of bourbon and tipped more liquid into his glass before greedily chugging it down.

“Son of a bitch! You're damn right I am! How about a bet?!” The cowboy held out his hand for Gallagher to shake. “You win, I become your pet kitty and never rob anyone again, just like you always wanted. And if I win – you'll like it too. But that's later. Agreed?!”

“What's it gonna take?” Gallagher put his hand to his cheek. He wasn't in a hurry to agree to shady deals.

“Shoot that deer in the eye.” Boothill drew his heavy American revolver and twirled it playfully in the air. “Don't you think so, Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Have you forgotten how to hold a gun yet?”

Gallagher followed his gaze. It was about the trophy deer head on the far wall of the bar. The room was elongated in length, and the end of the room extended quite far from the bar. Gallagher calculated the distance and the target. Not an easy task, of course... But he had a better chance than Boothill, sober as he was. He was on his third glass of bourbon. The idea of making him stay home was very appealing. Normally, Boothill lived with him on a raiding basis, like an ancient Viking - looted and gone on his way. In their case, though, he fucked and ate all the food. That's why he'd been blown up to the size of a medium-sized boar. Gallagher offered to move in with him a long time ago, but Boothill apparently liked living in a basement with rats and fighting in a dump with raccoons for half a hot dog.

“All right. Go ahead and shoot.” Gallagher snorted and turned his eyes to Boothill. He burped and shoved the revolver into his lover's hand.

“Ladies first!”

It was foolish to argue with him, so, rolling his eyes, Gallagher accepted the weapon. The revolver was indeed heavy, with a carved wooden handle and a graceful, thin barrel. Gallagher remembered how constables were taught to shoot. You take aim, point the muzzle straight at the point - the eye of a deer, freeze, hold your breath, pull the trigger without jerking your hand, and!..

There was a loud pop of gunfire in the bar. When the small cloud of smoke and powder cleared, Gallagher looked at his target. The bullet had entered the deer's forehead.

He missed.

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” Boothill laughed when he saw the result of the shooting. “Is that what they taught you at Scotland Yard?! No wonder I'm still alive! Those sons of bitches are total assholes!” He resolutely took his revolver and slid in next to Gallagher. “Out of my way, senior citizen. Daddy's in the building. I'll show you how to handle my gun.”

“Yeah, go ahead.” Gallagher grimaced and crossed his arms over his chest. While Boothill took aim, he picked up his glass and took a sip. Boothill was right-it was nasty. At that moment a shot rang out. Gallagher shuddered with surprise: he was sure the tipsy Boothill would take fifteen minutes to aim. The bullet stuck out proudly in place of the deer's eye.

“Ha! Well, snatch?” Boothill shoved Gallagher in the side, chuckling happily. “You lost me a wish!”

“What?! How did you do that?!” Gallagher even stepped closer, not believing his eyes. How does Boothill do that?! Sick bastard.

“You can't beat talent.” The cowboy smirked smugly, took the unfinished glass of bourbon from him and ʼclinkʼ with his revolver.

“What do you want?” Gallagher sourly returned to the bar and propped his arms on his chest, leaning against it. He watched Boothill grimly. He glared at him. Gallagher stood up so well that his thick chest was literally poking out of his shirt, forming a lush cleavage. Boothill yanked at his half-unfastened tie and grinned.

“I want those fat tits first. Them, and also to feed you to your heart's content.” He rose from his seat and licked his lips. He pulled his tie back on, tightening it around the stranger's neck in a tight loop. Gallagher gritted his teeth, but made no attempt to resist. His cheeks, overgrown with dark stubble, trembled in a blush. Boothill swung easily over the bar and got right up to the man. One of the cowboy's palms slapped him hard across his stomach, pushing his shirt up cheekily. Boothill gagged him with a wet kiss, wrapping his tie around his hand and nearly strangling Gallagher with it.

“You asshole. Wandering around, and now you think I'm going to give it to you like an obedient whore?” The bartender breathed heavily, his hands loosening the pressure of his tie a little.

“'Come on, sweetheart. You're not a whore, you're my dear partner. You didn't like the watch? You know, you got off easy on that bet! I can already feel how hungry you are for... everything.” Boothill kissed him again and gave him a little distance. “Come on, be a good girl, sit tight, I'll be quick. I hope your pantries are stocked with snacks as usual?” He laughed and opened one of the doors to the staff room. This wasn't the first time Boothill had been here, so he felt right at home. “Wow! Damn you're a hoarding old bear!”

Gallagher slumped weakly in his chair as he watched Boothill rummage through the pantry and rattle dishes. The bar did indeed offer not only booze, but quite a few appetizers as well. Gallagher was never in a hurry to cook during his shift, so he kept his own convenience foods in the freezers; mostly meat, but some freezable meals as well. It was easy enough to heat them up on the fire or throw them in hot oil, and then serve them immediately to guests. The quality didn't suffer much, though, so for the unsophisticated average person, it was fine. People came to the bar to drink, not to eat, so no one turned up their noses.

Boothill had gutted the stock almost completely. To be honest, Gallagher was afraid to go in there, because the pantry and the adjoining kitchen were rattling, hissing and clinking with metal and plates. Gallagher was well aware that he was about to be thoroughly fed. It was another unusual aspect of their relationship. The bartender lowered his gaze to his stomach, resting softly on his lap and pulling up the buttons of his vest. In his youth, he'd been a slender and muscularly handsome constable, the rare sort of man. But after his injury and retirement... Well, he'd let himself relax, sought solace in food and drink, hence the slight fullness. And he never thought anyone would like it. What's more; he'd like it on someone else, too. However, Boothill always knew how to surprise him. In fighting, shooting, appetite, sex; the cowboy's possibilities were endless.

“Waiting?” Boothill returned to the bar, purring something under his breath and carrying a cart full of greasy appetizers. His only visible eye gleamed predatorily, as did his sharp teeth. Gallagher's stomach rumbled-not from hunger, but rather from excitement.

“Who's going to pay for all this?” Gallagher asked sourly.

“You. Or me. We'll figure it out later.” Boothill shrugged nonchalantly, sitting down on the bartender's lap. His palms gently squeezed his tiits before pushing the fragrant-smelling cart closer. “Come on, get on it. I bet you've missed this since the last time we met.”

Gallagher knew what that meant; he was being offered to eat until he burst. Boothill had some pretty perverted fetishes, and it seemed Gallagher did too, because he obediently took a bite of the hot, spicy steak. There was much more in the cart: roast beef, reheated pork pies, apple pies, lots of fried sausages in a thin film that burst in the mouth, spilling hot juice into it; fish and chips, sandwiches and some of today's puddings. Under Buthill's watchful eye, all this splendor began to be slowly eaten.

“If you end up getting caught, I'll personally go and report you for violence.” Gallagher exhaled heavily, finishing one of the pies. He was already feeling quite full! It had only taken a few meals to reach the line that separated satisfying hunger and excessive satiety. But that was the line Boothill wasn't interested in. He was pushing Gallagher further, to the line of "horrible gluttony."

“If that's what you wanted, Mr. Detective, I wouldn't be here a long time ago. What's to stop you from dialing Inspector Argenti right now and telling him all about me?” Boothill gently poured some beer into his mouth to wash it down. Gallagher exhaled, feeling his belly gradually rounding into a full sphere.

“Idiot…” Gallagher wiped his lips. He was beginning to breathe heavier. Boothill, sitting on his lap, unbuttoned first the man's vest and then his shirt. Gallagher realized wistfully that he would not button it again today.

“Is your tummy bothering you?” Butkhill grinned playfully, wrapping both hands around the man's heavy belly and kissing it slowly a few times. He leaned down to Gallagher's ear and whispered with an almost manic tenderness: “Keep it up, and I'll show you how good I am with your shaft, too.”

“I hate you…” Gallagher grumbled as deft hands fed him another sandwich. He felt stuffed almost to the brim, but Boothill wasn't done with him yet, forcing him to eat without interruption.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

The belt of his pants was starting to dig painfully into his lower abdomen, and his pants creaked threateningly. It wasn't just Gallagher's growing girth, but also his growing erection. His belly was big enough to put a little weight on the rising bump with his weight, and when Gallagher moved a little, rubbing himself and it caused a whole flurry of sensation. God, he's getting so fat...!

Boothill, as always, was the epitome of attentiveness. His deft hands undid the belt and fly of his pants before they could burst. Gallagher seriously feared this might happen, for his belly was as round and taut as a ball, and it protruded proudly forward and wide, offset by his broad love handles. Boothill was frankly enjoying his lover's helpless position, stroking him, caressing every crease and beginning to rub his aroused cock as well. Gallagher was breathing heavily; the pressure inside his belly was almost unbearable, so much so that it converted itself into arousal. He wanted to cum excruciatingly badly. Boothill was slowing him down, torturing him, squeezing all his juices, squeezing out the presperm drop by drop. The cowboy himself was squirming impatiently on Gallagher's lap, from which he was slightly displaced by his impressive belly.

“Ha... Shit... Ha-ah!” Gallagher gave a low shriek, collapsing back in his chair as Boothill's hand became damp with whitish liquid. He grinned.

“You should see your face when you cum... I'd paint a picture like that and hang it in my room above the frame.” He stood up slowly, giving Gallagher one last pat on the belly. “'I've got to go, sweetheart. You know, the constables are already out hunting for my head. Don't get bored in here.”

He climbed back over the bar, put on his poncho and hat. The red handkerchief returned to the bottom of his face. Boothill walked over to Gallagher one last time to smack the bartender, completely exhausted from gluttony and orgasm, on the cheek.

“I'll come by again tonight. Don't forget to leave the window open!” With those words he disappeared into the night, as he always did, leaving Gallagher alone with the consequences of their games.

haha im sorry guys english isnt my native language btw i hope u enjoed it!

#hsr #hsr fanart #hsr fic #honkai star rail #hsr gallagher #boothill #hsr boothill #gallahill #boothill smut #gallagher smut #fat fet1sh #honkai smut

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