#inky.boothill

[recareels]

take it slow just as fast as i can

character: boothill notes: i just rly, genuinely think boothill would be obsessed with feeling every fucking inch of you, that’s all c: | title credit: body like a back road by sam hunt warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, thinly veiled body worship, mentions of scars + implied stretch marks and cellulite, marking (biting and bruising), implied multiple orgasms, tiny bit of angst right at the end words: 830

boothill knows your body better than he knows anything else in the cosmos. 

boothill knows your body better than he knows his own—better than he knows his scorched, excavated homeland, better than he knows the smooth metal ripples and ridges, cold curves and contours of his own so called ‘body’, better than he knows his cherished 9mm revolver—the ivory grip, pretty pearlescent nacre shimmering up at him delicately from between the gaps of mechanized fingers, stamped with that gilded eagle sigil; the artfully notched cylinder, embossed with decorative arrows—six, one for each chamber—and the angular hammer, piped with shimmering aureate; the golden barrel, intricate inclinations carved to sharp, exquisite perfection. 

boothill knows every curve, every dip, every edge of your form—all of your lines and dimples and scars, and could map them out with his eyes closed and recite each corresponding story: a single metallic fingertip tracing along the jagged strikes of silver etched into your skin; his hard thumbprint pressing into the dents peppering your thighs, a cool knuckle skimming over that scar on your knee. 

and boothill loves appreciating them, appreciating you, appreciating how it all comes together to create one of the most magnificent masterpieces he’s ever had the pleasure of touching, the privilege of loving. 

it’s become somewhat of a ritual now to take his sweet time admiring your figure before he fucks it, feeling every part of you plush and pliant beneath his grooved palms, revelling in the soft gasps that stutter your chest and dainty shivers that ripple your flesh as he kneads it. 

he fills his touch with it, grabs healthy handfuls and squeezes—so soft, so supple—alternating between harsh groping, iron fingers sinking into your thighs, your hips, your tits, and gentle caressing, bullseye gaze watching with sheer wonderment as his palms glide over your silhouette, slick lips parted and damp with panted breath.

sometimes he’ll just let his hand rest on your ribs, observing the way it rises and falls with each of your quiet breaths, feeling oxygen expand your lungs as it flows in, then feeling your chest depress with every exhale pushed up your throat. 

he loves to experience the thrum of your pulse beneath his fingertips—nothing more than a faint fluttering pressure against his receptors, but present nonetheless—an undeniable confirmation that you are indeed here, alive, his. 

so beautiful, he murmurs from between your thighs, one large hand pressed flush against your heart, his chin resting on your stomach. a work of fudgin’ art, baby, I swear to the stars. 

it all gets him going so goddamn easily, instils a hunger in him so ferocious that it chews on his wires, zipping through the cables in sparks of desire until it devours his brain, gorges every thought and notion until all he can conceive, all he needs, is you. 

he can’t help but lick and kiss and bite and suck, desperate to leave his own impermanent marks on this gorgeous canvas. bruises blossom in the shapes of his fingerprints, sprouted in clusters of five across your form. engravings of razored teeth litter your thighs and hips, his gnawing just a hint shy of too strong, leaving behind wide crescents of thirty-two little crimson pinpricks. petals of thick saliva dry hard and stiff on your stomach and neck and collarbone, planted into your skin by puckered lips and chaste kisses.

it’s customary that he murmur sweet nothings into every claim he creates, knowing that his words will seep into your tissues in the form of gentle vibrations, knowing that they will stay, even after his marks fade.

your body is art, too, you tell him softly, after he’s made you cum several times on his cock, iron shimmering with a thick coat of your arousal, slick he refuses to clean off. a tender finger traces along the tears laden across his torso, rough and saw-toothed—scars he refuses to let heal. 

no, he murmurs, rubbing his mouth into your shoulder as he speaks, eyes closing briefly with a slow, deep inhale. not the way yours is. 

your body is a storybook of your life, inscribed with tales and memories—the way your body developed as you entered womanhood, too quick for your delicate skin to keep up with, procuring shimmering streaks across your breasts and bum; the time you flipped your childhood bicycle, kneecaps scraping concrete, bloody and raw; that dark dash seared along your inner arm, a constant reminder of an earnest mistake, when you accidentally nudged the rim of a pot filled with boiling water. 

his body was carved in a lab, too precise to be real, too perfect to be human, constantly torn apart and put back together; rearranged, scrambled, chock full of modifications he never asked for, never agreed to. a true horror story—a weapon of death and destruction, a film of inevitable demise clinging to the metal.

he fears that’s all it ever will be. 

[inkykeiji]

anyway i am once again thinking about riding boothill’s revolver ( ◡‿◡ *) danger play danger play danger play!!! make that man feel some real exhilaration!!! phallic objects in place of real phalluses ( ◡‿◡ *) load that motherfucker up Daddy let’s play some russian roulette ♡

[recareels]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ boothill + having his hair pet

character: boothill warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, female reader, iron cock, fluff + angst, mention of blood, mention of gentle hair pulling words: 933

boothill loves having his hair played with and pet because it is one of the only things he can truly, genuinely, physically feel. 

it’s different from the manufactured touch he ‘feels’ on any other part of his iron body; different from the artificial heat his sensors and receptors send zipping to his brain when you splay a palm on his knee or your cheek on his shoulder, different from the simulated pressure he experiences when you twine your fingers with his and squeeze.

and while all of those things are still good and nice—it’s definitely better than not feeling anything at all—real will always feel different. 

real will always feel indescribable. organic, authentic, you.

he loves it when you use his hair as leverage while you’re riding him, knuckles rooted to his sensitive scalp, buried in thick warm tresses. it helps keep you steady and stable as you bounce on his solid cock, strands twirled around your second knuckles and tugging slightly. the pulling isn’t unpleasant, doesn’t hurt, stops just short of actually painful, instead procuring a tingling sting that erupts across his skill, each roll of your hips yanking him forward and sending another bout rippling through the follicles. 

he loves it when you push it back from his sweat-beaded forehead or unstick coiled tufts from his clammy temples, sweeping it away from his face and allowing wet salt to hold it in place as he rests his cheek against your chest. a pillowy palm pets over the drenched locks as your heart begins to calm, as you both come down from the highs of hedonism, as your pretty cum dries glistening and glazed on his iron cock, brains still dazed with bliss. 

he loves it most of all when you scrape your nails over his scalp, all ten grazing through his dense mane and scratching pleasantly, loves it when you comb your fingers through it slow and gentle, watching ink and ivory cascade softly over your skin. 

he hums—purrs like a fucking cat—flops his head down in your lap after those especially rough, ruthless days; a silent demand to be adored. tender fingers submerge themselves in the strands and his eyes slip shut, whole body impossibly melting into you, deliquescing beneath your rhythmic touch. 

no words are spoken, just a gentle whir and the wheeze of his breath as you brush each section, delicately untangling the knots from today’s work, each gnarl smoothed out relieving another ounce of his stress. 

it’s intimate in a way that’s different than when he’s got his metal cock buried balls deep in your cunt (though he loves that, too, don’t get him wrong); it’s intimate in a deeply quiet way, a special closeness that transcends carnal pleasure and synthetic sensations, only matched by the feeling of his tongue dragging across yours, of your teeth burrowed in his lip, of warm blood oozing from split skin—yours, his, tangling with threads of spit and becoming one, massaged into burning flesh and sensitive tastebuds, seeping into him. 

but your hands in his hair, your fingertips pressed to his scalp and his temples, your nails raking against delicate skin—that’s different than the ritual of kissing and swapping crimson-tinged saliva, because kissing is a joint effort, a shared sensation, a mutual give-and-take, while petting and combing his hair is all you. 

it’s you giving him something without anything in return, and him accepting it wholly and earnestly. it’s you gifting him a sensation that he cannot truly give back; not with heavy silver fingers that press just a hint too hard; not with grooved mechanized knuckles that catch on strands even when he tries his hardest to be careful, to be gentle.

he’d lay there forever if he could, calmed beneath your sweet ministrations, lulled into such content complacency that he often drifts into a serene sleep, free from those haunting visions of charred earth and melted flesh, of ash and copper saturated air, of choking smoke and blistering screams. 

jus’ another five minutes, he slurs out, when you tell him your knuckles are stiff and your fingers are aching and your belly is empty. then i’ll make ya somethin’ t’eat, promise. 

his drool is sticky and hot on your thigh, drivelling from the corner of his mouth to puddle on your skin, and an intense bout of love, pure and bright and so, so warm, fills your ribcage—your lungs and your heart and your very soul itself—so much so that the bones expand, stretch, strain with such immensity. 

a palm flattens to the crown of his head, curled around it almost protectively, your thumb caressing his hair in slow, long strokes. a sigh wafts over your thigh, cooling the small pool of spit, and he nuzzles his cheek into your leg, satisfied. 

there are other physical sensations you gift him, too: your sounds melting on his tongue, puffed scorching hot into his mouth and down his throat as he pounds into you, things he swallows so greedily, things he is forever starved for. he likes to eat your sounds, likes to feel your sounds—the vibration of your moans against his tongue, slick muscle pressed flat to your sternum; the steady thump of your heart, pulsing against his ear or his cheek; the damp warmth of your whimpers drifting drowsily across his face in the sweetest caress, his own name so gorgeous on your tongue, in your voice, pushed from pouty lips to soak into the only flesh he has left. 

but none of it beats your hands in his hair. 

[recareels]

too many thoughts about director reca x breakout starlet reader in her first leading role (and reca of course credits himself for ‘creating’ her) x established western-cowboy actor boothill

like reca’s shooting a spaghetti western and you’re the leading lady; some sweet dame in the town the cowboy enters. probably the sheriff’s daughter who doesn’t know how gorgeous she truly is but the whole town is smitten with her. little angel of a girl who everyone thinks is waaaay too good for the lone cowboy (boothill)—a rugged but handsome man who, as per typical genre conventions, is merely passing through the town; an anti-hero who eradicates the threat and saves the day but is too broken and barbed to stick around, settle down, start a family like he ought to. it’s heartbreaking, and you long for him and he pines for you, the yearning so potent it’s nearly streaming past your lashes and staining both your cheeks…but the cowboy must go, because he always goes—onto the next town, to solve the next problem, to break the next heart.

you and boothill have great chemistry, and reca’s absolutely thrilled about it…until your chemistry becomes a little too real—which makes for terrific cinema but terrible jealousy on the part of the director! and yet, despite how much it irks him, how much it feeds and nurtures the green-eyed creature of envy sprouted within his ribcage, reca might even stroke that drama—poke it, prod it, push it—because he knows it will make for realistic and raw cinema; a film that will touch the souls of its viewers…and he is more than willing to suffer for his art.

[recareels]

very much thinking about you forcing boothill to dress up as the tin man for halloween because he’s already 90% of the way there! it’s practically perfect! and he just >:( pouts and grumbles but does it anyway—with a hefty dose of grouching, of course, muttered out through gritted teeth—because despite how silly and embarrassing he thinks it is, he loves you to death damn it,,,,, and, well, that short, sweet lil dorothy dress with the obscenely fluffy and borderline inappropriate petticoat helps, too (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

[recareels]

so anyway i ran out of hands to carry my plums up with me to the kitchen so i stuffed them in the front pocket of my overalls and all i could think about was running around the farm on a hazy, late summer evening with boothill, picking plums from the hardygold trees and stashing them in the bib pockets of your grass-stained overalls. 

you aren’t even supposed to be harvesting plums in the first place—these are for the market, not for personal use, and if Daddy catches you there’ll be a stern talking to (no doubt some hefty lecture all about that no-good damned cowboy you keep hangin’ around with), followed by a punishment of some sort. the two of you weren’t sent out here to frolic and play hide-and-seek between the orchard trees. 

but that’s never stopped you before. 

the sun has only just begun its descent, bathing everything in thick gilded light. dust motes and spritz of fruit juice shimmer in the atmosphere, procured by the snapping of stems and the piercing of teeth, sinking into soft yellow flesh. overhead, the rippled clouds look saccharine, dyed punchy strawberry and coral by the waning sunbeams. 

despite having a pocket of your own brimming to the rim with ripe lil topaz gems, you won’t stop stealing plums from his, dainty fingers playfully dipping into his bib pocket to snatch yet another, escaping his grasping hand with all the sly grace of a cat, slipping from his touch then leaping away enticingly, just out of his reach.

but eventually, he catches you. just like he always does.

your fingertips are stained sour-sweet from the fruit, a squeal of giggles twining through the tree branches as boothill finally captures your wrist and brings it to his starved lips, a simple don’t tell yer Daddy breathed out hot and humid against your skin. that’s all you get; a single, four-word warning before his tongue curls around your knuckles, siphoning syrupy fingers into the heat of his mouth and sucking, hard.

[recareels]

thinking about asking boothill to teach you all of the cool tricks he can do with his pistol and him replying with an endless supply of god awful innuendos about all the things n tricks you can do with his pistol (¬_¬")

[recareels]

boothill who doesn’t truly respect aventurine until he realizes aventurine can easily out-party him and drink him under the fucking table

[recareels]

the plum boothill drabble was SOOOO CUTE ^.^ you’re always coming up with the sweetest ideas i love you sm clari! (now i want boothill pulling apart plums and feeding me the sweet fruit, caressing my head bc he thinks im a good girl ><)

aw thank you so much sweetpea!!! (ㅅ´ ˘ `) i’m so happy to hear that you enjoyed it!!! c: i love YOU sm ehehehe <33 ah!! what a sweet idea!!! shimmery dribbles of fruit juice streaking his fingers, collecting in the lines of his mecha-palms all sticky n fragrant <3 he’ll allow you to sop it up with your tongue if you ask real nicely, real prettily, with one of those precious lil pouts he seems to love so much, perfectly paired with the dainty flutter of lashes and a whined-out please, mister? <3 that lidded bullseye gaze watches, dark and heavy, as the tip of your tongue outlines all of the curves carved into his metal hands—full of care and caution, the utmost precision—before it flattens to his palm and drags up in slow, wide strokes for good measure, ensuring that you lap up every last drop.

a soft chuckle vibrates in his throat, mirth and adoration swirling in his irises, and he brings his glistening hand to his nose, inhaling deeply. the scent swells in his chest and he holds it there, savours it in his body, lets it ferment and cling to the tangle of wires. he refuses to wash off your thick, syrupy saliva, drying hard and tacky on the iron, because he loves carrying the smell of you with him, on him, as a part of him, your candied spit bonding itself to his touch <3

[recareels]

boothill asks dan heng to give you the one thing he can’t—a real cock.

[recareels]

when boothill stutters!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 🥺🥺🥺 when he gets all flustered and stumbles over his words!!!!!!! when he is frustrated or confused and his tongue trips over the letters!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ｡ﾟ(｡ﾉωヽ｡)ﾟ｡

[recareels]

I want boothill to tuck me to sleep🥺 and boop my nose and kiss my forehead

he absolutely WOULD, anon!!! please boothill has caregiver woven into his very SOUL. i think he actually really enjoys taking care of those he loves tbh!! i think he finds a lot of validation and satisfaction in being able to care for and provide for you, you know? it gives him a sense of purpose outside of revenge—something soft and sweet; special, significant—and he feels good when he can help to guide you and make a positive impact in your life.

he’s totally the type to have a whole bedtime routine for you too, and he tries to follow it faithfully but he isn’t immune to a deviation every now and then (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵) sometimes you can manage to push back your bed time or wrestle an additional bedtime story out of him with some fluttery lashes and a pretty pout <3

[recareels]

how does boothill use his phone if his fingers are metal?????

my boyfriend says maybe he has heat sensors in his fingertips 🤔🤔🤔

[recareels]

i only just noticed the film grain during boothill’s ultimate and i think it’s just such an endearing little touch!!! especially considering his ult voice line is heavily inspired by the good, the bad, and the ugly (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

[recareels]

who do you think is the cruelest wen it comes to punishment out of your fave hsr men? ><

omg anon i am kissing ur big beautiful brain rn uGH thank you for this question!!!! ( ๑ ˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و ♡

HMMMM honestly,, sunday!!! out of the four of them (dan heng, boothill, aventurine + sunday) sunday seems the most strict, the most likely to enforce firm, fixed rules and the most likely to enact swift and stern punishment. maybe that’s not necessarily the same as being the cruelest, but i don’t think any of them are quite ‘cruel’ when it comes to punishment. i think aventurine can be sadistic in the bedroom, but i think he plays loose and fast when it comes to ‘punishment’ outside of that; he’s always ready and willing to raise the stakes, provided you’re game, and the rules change on a whim—anything to make it all the more exhilarating.

sunday, on the other hand, is fucking stringent when it comes to his rules. if you broke a rule, you broke a rule, and you have to pay the price, no ifs, ands, or buts about it (in fact, talking back, grovelling, or attempting to lessen the sentence in any way is guaranteed to earn you an even harsher punishment). order, control, perfection; for this to be achieved, everything must be meticulously and thoroughly thought out, including his relationships and all aspects related to them. i also just think sunday has a god/saviour complex and he loves to exert that power over you while deluding himself into believing that he’s doing it all for your sake; for your own good, your own health and vitality—and then subsequently patting himself on the back for taking such good care of you.

boothill, in contrast, struggles to enforce punishment because he is weak to fluttery puppy-dog eyes, a pretty pout, and a salaciously drooled out please?. that doesn’t mean you can get away with everything, or that he’ll allow you to, but it takes serious bratting for boothill to enact a serious punishment that isn’t a funishment in some way.

dan heng just fucking ignores you until he quite literally can’t anymore and absolutely must put you back in your fucking place (because 1. who the fuck do you think you are, brat, and 2. he cannot stand you like this any longer and clearly must remind you who is in charge here, and that he deserves respect same as you do)

[recareels]

i very much believe that boothill would be a (self-proclaimed) connoisseur of silly nicknames and i very much believe he’d call me his ‘lil clari berry’ and ‘freckle-faced fairy’ (*ﾉωﾉ)

sinks his spiky teeth into the curve of my neck, or latches them over the dip of my collarbone, and bites down hard, mumbling against my skin, ‘mmm, clari berry, my favourite’ like the goofball he is,,, tongue laving over the twin crescents of tiny pinpricks now etched into my flesh n then sealing it with a spit-slicked kiss, breathing out that i’m the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, he swears to the stars,,, chuckling dark n low when i shiver, his words cool against damp skin,, (ㅅ´ ˘ `)