#sal.ask

[averycutesalamander]

oh my gosh it's so weird, whenever ive written or planned fanfiction with boothill and i had like a bad guy there, his name would always be silas as well! can't wait for more:)) p.s pls show rat pics, i love rats

THATS SO FUNNY SHENFJSJSHH i actually have an oc named Silas that's just kind of a bastard but it's such a great name for a villain isn't it??? smth about it has this insane "cold businessman" feel i guess lol? or just generally "this guy's trouble"

RAT PICS RAT PICS !!!! his name is monkey :)

[averycutesalamander]

pls write yan!boothill OMG WHO SAID THAT

ohoho....!! i must confess that im quite picky when it comes to yandere content, bc i don't particularly like the extreme end of the spectrum. physical violence and straight noncon in particular don't click for me (absolutely no shade to people who like that tho, you do you!!) buuuuuuut ..... i mean, im the one writing?? so i can do whatever i want??? so alright here you go :) also check my reblog for.. a lot of rambling lmao

may i present to you: my interpretation of boothill in love, but he has a few too many screws loose. warning for relatively vague descriptions of violence and, uh... yandere stuff. you know how it goes.

In all honesty, Boothill is not a "love at first sight" type. His attraction to you is a gradual, budding thing, built over many repeated encounters. He's emotionally isolated himself, after all - built a wall thick enough to muffle the whispers of his past, smothering it in a slurry of rage and sorrow. It'll take time for him to let down his guard for long enough to even register the feelings you conjure in him - a flutter in his chest every time you smile at him, a spark of joy every time he makes you laugh, a strike of fondness every time he looks at your pretty face when you aren't paying attention.

And beneath it all, a low, simmering greed, a hunger, a yearning; the urge to bite and devour and never let go.

The pressure builds with time, as the two of you grow closer. He visits often, though not so often that it would catch the IPC's attention. You laugh and joke and tease, playfully flirting with him yet keeping a healthy, platonic distance. (He very pointedly and stubbornly ignores the way his heart soars when you look at him like that - like you want to pull him into your bed and let him take you apart, piece by ruinous piece. It's just harmless fun, after all.)

(Right?)

Despite the yawning fractures in the wall he's created, despite the increasing complexity of his feelings for about you, he still hasn't untangled whatever complicated web of feelings that's arisen around you, content to leave himself oblivious for the time being - until you make a joke about him marrying you and sweeping you away on some bizarre galactic adventure, and he damn-near bluescreens.

(He hates, hates, hates that the first thing he feels is something adjacent to the feeling a cat gets when it finally corners a particularly unruly mouse, akin to the thrill he gets whenever an enemy exposes a weakness. A sick, twisted kind of satisfaction.)

His mind churns as the wall cracks, wavers-

...and crumbles.

He panics. He makes a flimsy excuse about getting a notification through his neurochip, about needing to help out a fellow ranger - and he feels even better worse when you believe him unhesitatingly, sending him off with a sweet little "Be safe!" just as you always do.

It's only after he leaves the planet that he thinks about how much you've grown to trust him, about how damn gullible you are, about how often you give him the benefit of the doubt, about how kindly you've always treated him in spite of (or perhaps because of) his dozens of strange quirks. Everything unravels, threads spilling from his fraying mind and spilling between his fingers, and when the tattered fabric settles-

He simply can't deny it. He's in love with you.

It takes some time for him to piece himself back together - weeks of complete silence from him, your texts going unanswered. Every time he sees a fresh notification from you, his heart twists with guilt - but he's not ready to face the music. Not yet.

He comes crawling back to you, sooner or later. He knocks on your door with the most sheepish, guilt-ridden look on his face that you've ever seen, a rich bouquet laden with yellow roses and purple hyacinths tucked timidly in his arms. He lies about why he left - says it was all because of a mission that got more complicated than it should have, and it wasn't safe to reply to your messages - but when he tells you that he's sorry, he means it genuinely.

He's a bit disturbed by the sensation in his gut - that foul, wicked satisfaction when you accept his apology with barely a slap on the wrist, cheerily inviting him inside to catch up. You tuck the flowers neatly into a vase, chatting easily with him as you carefully arrange them.

"It's alright!" you say, waving dismissively at him when he murmurs another apology. "I know you're busy. I can't be your biggest priority, obviously. You've got more important things going on."

(You don't have a clue how wrong you are.)

He integrates back into your life like he never left. When he has the time, he sneaks his way back onto your planet, knocking on your door or searching for you in your usual spots. You get impossibly closer; your playful flirting goes from blatantly humorous to something foggier, something more ambiguous, teasing the line between platonic and something heavier. He matches you step by step, returning your advances with just a little extra spice, his eyes a bit darker and his smile a bit wider.

He tries to be patient - god, does he try - but there's an itch that's bloomed beneath his metal, impossible to scratch, impossible to sate, made worse by every little joke you make about kissing him or touching him or marrying him or letting him spirit you away. The pressure builds further and further, the tension winding tighter and tighter, the anticipation bubbling higher and higher.

(He will never, ever admit that he truly contemplates stealing you away, crowding you onto a ship and carting you off so he can always keep an eye on you, can always guarantee your safety. His paranoia has been building since he recognized his feelings for you; it's taken every ounce of restraint in his body to stop himself from giving into the urge, from crowding you, from suffocating you, from locking you away like a fragile songbird in a cage.)

(He's torn between his protectiveness and his understanding that you deserve freedom. You deserve independence and a life that isn't tied directly to him. He doesn't even know if you return his feelings. But...)

(But there's that nagging feeling in the back of his head, that pestering little voice that grows louder by the day. You'll be safer with me, it says, dark and tempting, bursting behind his teeth. I can make you happy. I can keep you safe. I can show you pieces of the universe that you've never seen before. I can love you like no one else ever could. I can hold you and cherish you and consume you and-)

(He takes that little voice and wraps his hands tight around its throat, frantically trying to suffocate the noise, terrified by its allure. But it's always there, lingering, lurking - because the call is coming from inside the house.)

Something gives, eventually.

When he inevitably breaks, his lips crashing heatedly and messily into yours, there are two paths ahead - but the difference is ultimately moot, because they collide not long after.

Perhaps you reciprocate. Perhaps you melt against his lips, your arms coiling around his shoulders and drawing him further into you. Perhaps you whimper when his hands trail downward, squeezing at your hips. Perhaps you pull away with a gasp, your pupils blown wide, your heart pounding when you see the look in his eye - dark and hot and desperate and hungry. Perhaps you accept his quiet declaration of affection with open arms, returning it in full, your eyes sparkling with joy.

Or perhaps you reject him. Perhaps you freeze like a startled deer before pushing him away, your face slack with shock. Perhaps you apologize, stumbling over your words, your heart thundering in your chest when you see the look in his eye - dark and cold and empty and hungry. Perhaps you gently tell him that you don't feel that way about him - that you only see him as a friend.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because Boothill - careful, meticulous Boothill - has slipped up, and the IPC finds you.

After he leaves next, whether that be with a broken heart or a giddy one, a trio of IPC employees pluck you up from the street in broad daylight, shoving you into a dark transport ship for "questioning." And once they bring you to an IPC space station, they do indeed question you - though it feels more like an interrogation, considering that you've been tied ankle-and-wrist to a chair like you're a dangerous serial killer and not a regular civilian.

"Suspected colluding with the criminal known as Boothill," your "interviewer" tells you flatly, idly thumbing at the knife in their hand. "Camera footage, reports from neighbors, records from his Synesthesia Beacon... All clearly show that he has made repeated visits to your planet and your home. We're in the business of knowing why."

Perhaps you keep your mouth shut and refuse to divulge anything, no matter how close that knife gets to your bare skin. Perhaps you break when it begins to slice into your flesh, drawing blood from your body and tears from your eyes and stuttered words from your lips. Perhaps you grit your teeth and bear it, unwilling to betray the man you've grown so fond of.

Or perhaps you cave immediately. Perhaps you sell him down the river the first chance you get, frantic explanations spilling from your lips. Perhaps you tell them that you had no idea he had such a massive bounty on his head. Perhaps you panic when they find the information insufficient and draw the knife on you anyway, deaf to your begging and pleading as they wet your skin with blood.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because a distant explosion rocks the entire space station, and the flashing lights from the silent alarms interrupt your interrogation.

You're left alone when the IPC agent flees, locking the door behind them with a heavy clunk. Minutes pass as you fumble desperately with your restraints, your body pulsing with pain; a cacophony of gunshots and screaming penetrates the thick walls, growing louder and louder, your heart pounding faster and faster.

There's a noise just outside the door - a horrifically wet noise, like raw flesh on tile. You freeze like a rabbit that's just heard the panting of a starving wolf, far too close for comfort.

Silence. Your head aches from the flashing red lights.

Suddenly, steel fingers wedge into the gap between the locked door and the wall, single-handedly tearing it open and breaking the hydraulic lock with inhuman ease. Metal crunches and squeals, piercing the quiet - and there he stands, right in the doorway, a silhouette of black and red.

Never in your life have you seen him this manic.

His white hair drips with scarlet and his teeth are bared; his eyes are alight with rage, a shock of bright crimson among the dark smears of blood and viscera that coat him head to toe. In the light of the alarms, he looks like the perfect picture of a killer from a horror movie; violence and slaughter, just waiting to be unleashed. When his gaze locks onto you, there is a long moment of utter stillness; instinctual terror floods your entire body in a cold flash, because there isn't so much as a glimmer of humanity in those eyes - only pure, boiling, ravenous, frantic anger.

For a heartbeat, you're convinced he's going to rip you apart with his teeth.

Then, as if he finally registers who you are, the madness evaporates, replaced by a nearly manic sort of relief. He rushes to your side, looking you over; you don't miss the flash in his eyes - seething, smoking fire - when he spots your injuries. In the same breath, he snuffs it out, focusing instead on breaking your binds with his bare hands.

You're already crying when he takes you up into his arms, cradling you close to his chest and unwittingly smearing IPC blood onto you. "It's alright, sweetheart," he murmurs, soft and reassuring, a beacon of comfort in a sea of terror. "I'm right here. I've got ya. No one's ever gonna take ya from me again, okay?"

(Maybe if you weren't in shock, you'd be startled by his words. As it stands, though, they're like music to your ears, like a warm blanket settled over your shoulders, like a tight hug from someone you trust with your life.)

He encourages you to press your face into his shoulder - mercifully free of blood - as he carries you through the carnage he's left in his wake, the jangle of his spurs and your muffled sobs echoing through the silent halls. Your entire body shivers at the noise of him stepping into some unidentifiable slurry of viscera, and he thumbs at your back in an effort to soothe you, speaking quietly into your ear about everything and nothing.

Time passes in a blur of tears. He takes you to the ship he, uh... commandeered to get here, ducking into the bathroom and settling you gently - so very gently - onto the floor. Or, rather, he tries to - because your fingers are frozen stiff in his jacket, your grip unrelenting.

"You just wait here for a sec, alright?" he whispers softly, the chill of his hand settling lightly against your wrist; the blood there still feels warm to your delirious mind. "Gotta get the autopilot started, okay? I'll be right back."

You're both surprised when you shake your head insistently, your eyes wet and pleading. In an instant, he softens, his heart aching in his chest.

"Alright, sweetpea," he breathes, carefully picking you up again. "I've got ya."

He keeps you cradled to his chest as he walks to the cockpit, holding you easily with one arm as he gets the ship moving. Reinforcements are on the way, no doubt - but you'll both be long gone by the time they get here.

(Maybe the IPC will get the message when they find the scene he's left behind - when they view the camera footage and see the rampage he went on. Decapitation and disembowelment is a new one, even for him...)

(...but he needed to make it clear that no one, no one, touches what's his and gets away with it.)

When the engine is purring beneath his feet and the rumble of FTL travel is humming in the walls, he brings you back to the washroom and settles you to the tile again, gently untangling your grip from his jacket. You're in shock, he's sure, so he's careful to continue talking to you as he wets a towel with warm water, murmuring soft reassurances as he wipes the blood from your skin, handling you like you're glass.

Once you're clean, he messily towels himself off to get the worst of the mess off, then brings you to the captain's quarters, digging around in the closet to find something comfortable for you. Your shaking fingers cause you trouble, so he gently eases your ruined clothes off, his eyes respectfully averted as he helps you redress. He takes one look at the messy, used bedding and promptly decides to change the sheets. (Something within him stirs and snarls at the thought of you smelling like anyone else.)

Finally, when all is said and done, he eases you beneath the covers, brushing away the last remnants of your tears. His heart is torn between singing with joy and aching with pain when you reach up and take his hand in yours, your fingers wrapping tight around his.

"Gotta go wash up, honey," he murmurs, watching you closely as you sink into the protective huddle of the blankets, exhaustion painting your features. "That alright? I'll be fast."

(He tries very hard to ignore the flutter in his chest from the look in your eye - like you're genuinely considering whether or not you need to stay near him, like you aren't sure if you can bear the distance.)

(He also tries very hard to ignore the little pang of disappointment when you slowly nod, releasing his hand.)

He cleans himself up with record efficiency, resigning himself to wearing clothes that are a size or two too small until he can wash his usual outfit. The clothes are for your sake, really; it's not like he has any, uh... equipment to expose - not yet - but he's relatively sure that it would make you uncomfortable anyway.

By the time he steps lightly into the room again, you're asleep.

For a long, long moment, he's struck stupid by the sight of you, by the softness of your face in rest.

Fuck, you're beautiful. He knows it in his heart, feels it in his core, senses it in his chest - you're the prettiest little thing he's ever seen.

(And you're all his, now.)

His fists clench, and he swallows down the thought like bitter poison. (You deserve better than this - better than him. He's a broken man, he knows - a messy reconfiguration of a thousand corpses, glued together by hatred and grief. He could never love you the way you deserve. He could never-)

He's broken from his rapidly spiraling thoughts when you twitch, a tiny furrow appearing in your brow. A surge of emotion nearly bursts in his chest - the urge to comfort, to protect, to soothe - and he slowly circles to the other side of the bed, climbing into the empty space and settling beneath the blankets. Hesitantly, he wraps one arm lightly around your waist, drawing you against him with your back pressed tight to his chest.

His heart soars when he feels you instantly relax, the tension fleeing your body.

(It's fine. This is fine. He'll make everything better. No matter what he has to do, who he has to kill, he'll make everything better.)

(He's not wrong - but he also doesn't need to disable the button on the inside of the ship that opens the exit hatch. You don't need to know that; he doesn't need to acknowledge that.)

A handful of days pass like that. When he stops by a market to get supplies for you, he gently tells you that it's best for you to stay in the ship for now; odds are that you actually have a bounty on your head as well, now.

As time passes, he tries not to suffocate you, tries not to hover, wary of putting you under any more stress - but it's ultimately a useless task.

When you finally, tentatively ask him about going home, his brain goes numb, the world snapping into sharp focus. He turns his gaze to you, disturbingly absent of emotion.

"It ain't safe for ya there, now that those IPC dogs know to look for ya," he says, his voice far too even.

When tears begin to bud in your eyes, it finally sweeps up some sympathy in his chest, his entire face softening. He takes your shaking hands in his, tenderly grazing your knuckles with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps, reaching up to wipe away your tears.

(He's barely sorry.)

"I don't like it either, but..."

(Yes, he does.)

"It's safest for ya to stick with me, alright?"

(Wishful thinking. He could find somewhere for you to stay - some quiet planet outside of the IPC's reach, where you could live without worry. He could send you credits regularly. He could make sure you were happy and secure, independent of him.)

(He won't.)

(He could. He should.)

[averycutesalamander]

thoughts about public woohoo with boothill? i feel like he'd be into it sometimes

public woohoo 😭😭😭 ur so funny omg

i think he matches your vibes on it? in the sense that when you're into it, he's SUPER into it, but when you're not, he's perfectly happy without it. he definitely doesn't shy away from risk, and he especially loves taking risks when you're involved.

i kinda think he's of two minds about it. on one hand, he absolutely has a possessive streak, so making everyone know you're "his" is super appealing to him. (on that note, pull out the ol' "i'm yours" on him, and he'll go crazy. like, hands and teeth and everything all over you kinda crazy.)

on the other hand, he's... well, pretty greedy about you. there's a line in DHCS that acknowledges this pretty directly...

He's nearly overwhelmed by the suffocating urge to kiss you; to bite marks into your delicate little throat; to bend you over this counter and have his way with you, onlookers be damned.

(Hm. Maybe not that last one – he’s far too greedy, far too possessive, to expose you to a room full of strangers. He’d much rather keep you all to himself; his to covet, his to adore, his to break.)

in regards to a scenario? well...

(read on ao3 if you'd prefer)

Boothill has decided that he absolutely hates this new contact.

First of all, she's cagey as fuck, and she constantly dances around the point. Secondly, she only ever communicates in the most obtuse code he's ever seen. Thirdly, she absolutely insists that, for his next lead, he has to find her at a masquerade to receive the information in person.

She's lucky that her intel is so damn valuable, or he'd have wrung her neck a hundred times over by now - and unloaded his revolver into her a few times for good measure.

He rants and raves to you for quite some time, venting his frustration as he swears up and down that he's never turning to her again once this whole affair is done. By the time he runs out of steam, he's slumped against your shoulder with his arms wrapped around you, utterly drained. You pet his hair soothingly, letting him cool off before quietly asking, "Is there anything I can do to help, honeybee?"

He's quiet for a long moment, before finally lifting his head to look at you, a peculiar look in his eye. "Well..." he's begins hesitantly, "would ya put me in an early grave if I asked ya to come with me, sweetpea?"

You laugh, shaking your head in open amusement. "I suppose I can spare you, just this once." You press a quick kiss to his forehead, your smile turning a bit mischievous. "Get me a dress and treat me to ice cream after, and I'll do whatever the hell you want."

The very next day, he brings you to a shop - pleasantly small with an obscenely well-crafted selection. You balk when you walk inside, immediately stunned by the space, because this isn't just for rich people, this is for rich people. The moment you turn to him to argue that this is way too nice, you find that he's already grinning and shaking his head.

"I don't give a hoot what ya say," he drawls, openly delighted. "What the fork else am I gonna burn all this IPC cash on, huh? Let me treat ya, sunshine."

And so, you end up getting the most extravagant article of clothing you've ever touched in your life, guided by an incredibly sweet attendant that doesn't even blink at your cluelessness. Boothill lingers in the dressing room, whistling obnoxiously every time you step out in a new dress; he practically faints (whether or not it's a joke is up for debate) when you walk out in a comfortably tight underbust corset, his eyes trailing lasciviously from the curve of your waist to the swell of your chest. (He thanks every higher power he can think of that his cock is kept in an internal compartment, because lord fucking knows he'd be so horny that he'd risk busting his jeans open.)

Once you settle on a dress and have it sent off to be tailored to your size, you keep him company while another attendant takes all of his measurements for a suit, fitting him into one to test how well the jacket hugs his waist. He grouches about how this doesn't fit his style at all, but shuts right up when he sees the look on your face. (Maybe wearing a suit won't be so bad if you keep staring at him like you want to eat him alive.)

In the following days, the date of the masquerade looms over you - and all the while, Boothill eyes you with a look you can't quite decipher.

Finally, it all comes to a head the day after you pick up your newly tailored outfits.

His eyes are dark when he holds up a remote-controlled vibrator - one that syncs to his neurochip, which lets him control it with a simple thought; there's an app as well, which would let you shut it off on your own if you ever got too overwhelmed. He tilts his head in question, and the gesture might've seemed innocent if not for the untamable hunger in his eyes.

If you decline, that's the end of it, and the entire masquerade passes without too much incident. Once business is done, you dance and chat, berating the event's selection of alcohol and quietly mocking the outfit choices of every aristocrat you see. If you accept, however...

The night of the masquerade arrives on your doorstep, heralded by the anticipation bubbling in your gut. The atmosphere is so taut that you both get ready in silence, but his hungry eyes tell you everything you need to know. He helps you into your dress, does your hair for you (he's shockingly good at it), and, if you'd like, paints your nails with his unfathomably steady hands. You help him with his tie, braid his hair neatly, and straighten out the relatively simple black, silver, and red mask on his face. And all the while, he stares at you like a wolf sizing up its prey - watching, prowling, waiting for the time to strike.

Finally, the time to leave arrives. You stare at each other for a long, tense moment before he finally rasps, "Back against the wall, doll. Spread your legs and lift your skirt for me, won't ya?"

Oh, you're already done for, and the night has only just begun.

He gets down on his knees in front of you, easing down your underwear with cold fingers. He's ready to prep you, but to his delight, you're already getting wet. He looks up at you with piercing eyes, grinning wickedly. "Filthy girl," he scolds without heat. "I haven't even touched ya, n' you're already soakin' your panties?"

You whimper when he grazes your folds with his fingers, openly admiring the way your slit trembles. "Can you blame me? You've been looking at me like you were gonna fuck me before we even left."

He laughs, dark and gritty. "Oh, you're barkin' up the wrong tree, cutie." Then, he lifts the toy, pressing it right against your entrance. "I'm gonna make you work for it first."

Without further preamble, he slowly, agonizingly eases it inside, and when it's fully seated, you have one end nestled right against your g-spot, and the other pressed tauntingly against your clit. For a moment, you think that's going to be the end of it for now - but then he eases it out ever-so-slightly, giving him just enough room to lap hungrily at your clit. You gasp and shake on your feet, clenching one hand in his hair so tight that he growls into your cunt. You throw your head back against the wall and moan all pretty for him, helpless as he circles your bud with his tongue.

He holds you there, just like that, subtly thrusting the toy against your g-spot, winding you tighter and tighter, and just when your breath hitches, just when your thighs start to tremble, just when you're about to tip over the edge-

He pulls away, sending you crashing back down to earth.

You whine in anguish as he settles the toy back inside you, sliding your panties back on like he'd never been there at all. He kisses your thigh tenderly in what might've seemed like sympathy if not for the devilish glint in his eye.

"Sorry, honey," he hums, not sorry at all, standing back up and licking your come from his lips. "Gonna have to wait."

(Oh, if only you knew.)

The ride over to the event is quiet and tense, but rather peaceful - until he starts testing out the vibrator, that is. He holds you in his lap and wraps his unrelenting arms around you, which might've looked sweet to the chauffeur, but you know better. You keep your jaw clenched tightly, trying to get yourself into the practice of stifling all of your noises and reactions - but he seems to take that as a challenge, because he hikes the intensity higher and higher until you're trembling like a leaf against him, your fingers wound in his suit jacket. And just when it nearly overwhelms you, just when you think you might reach your peak, he lowers it back down to a subtle hum.

And then you arrive to the masquerade, and the true depth of what you've signed yourself up for hits you full force.

He lingers with you for a time, keeping the vibrator rather low, even turning it off on occasion. He grants you the small mercy of adjusting to the crowd in relative peace, but you're already so wound up that it doesn't do that much good. Eventually, he kisses you sweetly on the lips and murmurs, "Gotta go take care of some business, sweetpea. You gonna be alright?"

It's a genuine question, so you answer genuinely. "As long as you don't torture me the whole time you're gone."

When he smiles, you feel like you've just stepped into a trap. "Of course, baby. I'll be back in a jiffy."

He's nice enough to let you get situated in a quiet corner with a drink before he starts fucking with you. To his credit, he sticks to his word...

But only to the letter, and not to the spirit.

He torments you for most of the time he's gone, but not quite all of it. For the most part, he sticks to the lower settings; you seek him out through the crowd, and he meets your gaze across the ballroom while he speaks to someone you don't recognize, his eyes glittering with promise. You thank every Aeon you can think of that no one tries to talk to you while he's gone, because he won't stop randomly spiking the intensity, higher and higher until your fingers are quivering around the stem of your glass - then he drops it right back down, leaving you stewing in a mix of grief and relief.

You completely lose track of time, your eyes going distant and hazy as you put all of your focus into keeping yourself together. He scares the hell out of you when he finally returns, looping one arm around your shoulders and leaning close to your ear, purring, "Hey there, sugar. Is somethin' wrong? You're lookin' a lil' faint."

The look you give him is positively murderous, but he just laughs right in your face. Then, with mischief in his eyes, he invites you to a dance - and how could you ever say no to a face like that?

He might find the music stale - nothing will ever beat the music from back home - but it's all worth it to watch you squirm. Just before the first song begins, he leans right next to your ear and whispers, "Count how many times ya come, and how many times I deny ya. You can do that, can't ya, princess?"

When you hesitantly nod, his smile turns lethal, sharp enough to cut both ways.

(What he doesn't tell you is that you aren't going to come at all. Only he gets to see you like that. Only he gets to feel you tremble. Only he gets to hear all of the pathetic little noises that spill from your lips.)

He edges you the entire fucking time, and he keeps you on that dance floor for as long as you can stand it. Again and again, he builds you up, then breaks you down, guiding you seamlessly every time you stumble or trip, the toy jostling against your g-spot with every step. If you ever get too quiet for his liking, he turns up the vibrator until you can't help yourself. The little noises you make are lost to the crowd and the music, but not to his enhanced hearing. Get too loud, and he turns it back down until you pull yourself together - over and over and over, until your brain feels like liquid in your skull. Before long, you're leaning into his shoulder, using his body to shield the way your jaw drops whenever he brings you to the edge again.

And every single time, you whimper that ever-increasing number in his ear, and every single time, he purrs in delight and croons, "Good girl."

He murmurs filth into your ear the whole time, his breath washing over you as he describes in ruinous detail all of the things he's going to do to you later, all of the ways he's going to break you.

Eventually, he leans close and murmurs, "How wet are you, doll?" The timbre of his voice so close has shivers skittering up your spine. "Bet you're soaked by now."

Just to fuck with you, he hikes up the intensity of the vibrations right when you open your mouth to reply. You trip over your own feet, but he sweeps you along without batting an eye, somehow making your slip-up look natural.

When he finally turns it back down and you compose yourself, you grit out, "I was soaked before we even got here, you fucking basta- oh!"

He smiles with the most unconvincing mask of innocence the world has ever seen as he raises the intensity again, your backtalk dying in your throat. Then, as he lowers it to a more reasonable level, he turns his head to press a kiss to your temple to hide his wicked grin from any onlookers. "Poor baby," he croons, so demeaning that it has your walls shivering around the toy. "You drippin' down your legs yet, sugar? Bet it's smearin' all over your thighs."

You answer him with a pretty little whimper, and he can't help but chuckle, low and husky in your ear.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. Once I'm through with you here, I'm gonna take ya somewhere nice n' quiet, and then I'll get down on my knees for ya," he rumbles. "I'll hold ya up against the wall and lick your thighs clean, 'til you're beggin' me to put my tongue in your pretty lil' hole, 'til you're beggin' me to suck on your clit."

On and on and on he goes, until you're so fucking drenched that the entirety of your inner thighs are slick with your wetness, until you're so desperate to come that you think you might fall to your knees and beg for it, audience be damned.

Just when you're about to tap out, right when you're about to cave and beg him for mercy, he sweeps you into a grand dip at the end of a song, and you're trying so hard to keep it together, and just when you think he's going to finally let you come-

The vibrator goes completely still.

When he finally pulls you up, he wraps a strong, possessive arm around your waist, guiding you off the dance floor with the poise and seriousness of a man on a mission. You're so out of it that you barely register when he sweeps you into a bathroom, but you certainly snap to attention when he wheels around and pins you flat to the door with his hands tight around your hips. The lighting casts his face so starkly in shadow that all you can see are the red pinpricks of his pupils.

Without saying a word, he cranks the vibrations to the maximum, and watches you fall apart.

You moan and whimper helplessly under his stare, and as your peak rapidly creeps up on you, you can't stop yourself from begging. You whine and beg and plead for him to let you come, completely shameless in your need.

"I've been good," you gasp, your throat closing as you race toward the edge yet again. "Please, please, please, bee. I've been good!"

He stares, utterly silent, pinning you with his unwavering gaze.

Your orgasm is so close you can fucking taste it, and your heart is pounding with anticipation, because you still don't know if he's going to let you come, if he's going to deny you again, if he's going to keep torturing you, if he's going to leave you stranded on this edge forever and ever and-

Oh- Oh, fuck, you can't take it- You can't-

You come so hard your vision goes white.

You can feel the pressure of his lips against yours, swallowing up the broken wail that escapes you, drinking it down, down, down as you spiral in the clutches of your orgasm. Your knees collapse from under you, but he supports your weight like it's nothing, keeping you pinned like a moth against the door. As you ride out the waves of your climax, your fingers wound tightly in his suit jacket, he gradually eases the vibrations lower and lower, coaxing you down; finally, you go completely boneless against him, fully trusting him to keep you upright, and he shuts off the toy entirely.

He holds you while you recover, petting your hip with his thumb, cradling you as you piece yourself back together.

"I think I just died," you mumble into his jacket, your mind still heavy with fog.

He chuckles softly, pressing his lips into your hair. "Well, I guess I'll have to revive ya," he murmurs as he pulls away, grasping you by the chin and forcing you to face him, and his voice is thick with gravel when he says, "because I'm not done yet."

You're not quite sure what expression crosses your face, but whatever it is, it makes him grin wickedly.

"How many times did I deny ya, princess?" he rumbles, as if he hadn't been counting alongside you the whole time.

You take a trembling breath, clearly needing a moment to piece your brain together. When you finally answer, your voice is as fragile as a breath of wind.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sweetheart. Didn't realize I'd done so many," he lies blatantly, smiling in a way that might've seemed apologetic if he weren't grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

Then, his hands trail slowly downward, and he kneels on the tile in front of you, gradually raising the hem of your skirt higher and higher. You instinctually take it from him with shaking fingers, hiking it up to expose yourself to him. Sure enough, you've completely soaked through your panties, and drops of your slick trail obscenely down your legs. Ever-so-slowly, he eases your panties downward, licking his lips at the sight of you.

"Lemme make it up to ya, baby," he murmurs, his eyes fixed shamelessly on your cunt. Then, he looks back up at you, his eyes dark and all-consuming. "I'll make ya come once for every time I cut ya off. Ain't I generous?"

He's going to kill you. He's going to eat the fucking soul out of you. He's going to break you apart until your mind is ground into dust.

He eases the toy out of you, and a heavy stand of your come stretches and snaps as he pulls it away. Without a moment of hesitation, he laves his tongue across it, moaning obscenely at your taste. You watch with an intoxicating mixture of awe and arousal as he cleans the vibrator end-to-end, licking up every drop until nothing remains; then, he tucks it nonchalantly into his pocket, utterly unbothered.

"Don't forget to count, doll." He grins up at you with too many teeth, leaning closer to your pussy. "And... make some noise for the folks outside, won't ya?"

@opheliaflavoredinstantnoodles @ikeagroceries @shadowstadium @theswashbucklingspy @cosmo112 @fxngtasy

[averycutesalamander]

Boothill getting all shy that he can’t provide as much heat as a regular person

(I run hot) and y/n who is constantly hot

Constant cuddles. Boothill gets warmed up and he cuddles all day! And y/n gets a break from the heat (I beg)

omgggg the summertime cuddles would go CRAZY with him. i also run extremely hot so this is a big mood

i actually imagine he can both raise and lower his body temperature pretty consistently. (he's built to function in tundras just as well as deserts, and his hardware has an ideal range for peak performance.) turns out that there's actually a reason he dresses so slutty (other than him being utterly unapologetic about how sexy he KNOWS he is), and it's because it makes temperature maintenance a hell of a lot easier when his vents aren't blocked.

all of this to say that, no matter what your default is, he can change to match you. out on a walk, and you get a bit too chilly? he picks you up and lets you cling to him like a sloth while he runs his internal heaters. cuddling under the blankets at home, and you get a little too sweaty? give him a sweet little kiss as payment, and he'll cool you right down. he uses it for other stuff, too. have muscle cramps? he'll warm up his hands and massage you into a puddle of goo, content to listen to you groan in delight. is your drink too warm? he'll get it chilly again - though he will steal a sip in exchange.

he 100% uses this to be a little bastard sometimes. if you refuse to get out of bed, he'll lower his temperature as far as he can handle, then climb under the sheets and slip his frigid fingers under your shirt to poke at your sides. they feel like little ice cubes against your skin, and he always laughs at the way you flinch.

(he also uses it during sex, just to spice things up. he looooooves the way you squirm when he cools down his fingers and presses them inside you. it affects the temperature of his mouth, too, so... do with that info what you will.)

[averycutesalamander]

drops this into your inbox yells BOOTHILL refuses to elaborate and leaves

"What do ya mean you're tired, baby?" he croons, a devious tilt to his smirk. "You've barely been goin' for five minutes, and you're already tuckered out?"

"Shut the fuck up," you whine, too lost in your need to sound legitimately intimidating. Your hips and thighs ache ferociously from the motion, but you want to come so desperately that you try to fight the burn; despite the fact that he's the one with his wrists bound in rope above his head, he's edged you for an hour at the very least, bucking into you from below hard enough to make your head spin. Then, he'd slow to a crawl, listening to you beg and babble and whimper as your upcoming orgasm faded into oblivion.

He made a smug comment along the lines of, "I knew you were spoiled, but this is crazy, sweetheart. You're so pampered that ya expect me to do everythin', even when you're the one ridin'. Some cowgirl you are, huh?" And you hate that he knows exactly how to push your buttons, because no matter how hard you fight, it never ends in your favor.

Still, you'd narrowed your eyes and grumbled, "I'll show you spoiled, you smug bastard."

And, naturally, that led you to your current predicament: riding him for any length of time is fucking exhausting.

The hot bursts of pleasure can only override the ache of your muscles for so long, and you haven't even managed to come yet, and god you wish he would just do that thing where he gets tired of your nonsense and flips you over and has his way with you. You suspect that isn't on the menu tonight, though, because he looks perfectly content to utter filth into your ear while he watches you struggle.

"C'mon, doll. It can't be that hard, can it?" he says, and even though your eyes are squeezed shut, you can still see that smug fucking smirk, clear as day. "This is just pitiful, honey. All that big talk, and now ya can't even make yourself come?"

You damn near sob, unable to resist the urge to slump down into the crook of his neck. All you can manage now is the slightest rock of your hips, but the tiny bursts of pleasure as his head grinds into your cervix are mere sparks over damp tinder. Eventually, you can't even handle that motion, and you're left whimpering like a puppy into the cool steel of his neck, panting and quivering and so desperate that you could die.

A shiver runs up your spine when he laughs, his breath hot on your ear. "Poor thing," he coos without a drop of sympathy. "That's all you've got, huh? You're all burnt out?"

"Please," you whine, cutting right to the thick of it, because you already know he's going to make you beg. "Please just fuck me, bee."

He hums in thought, and your neck tingles at the depth of his voice, at the rumble of his chest beneath yours. "Tell me you need me," he says, deceptively light.

"I need you, baby," you keen, caving without hesitation. "Need your cock. Need you to make me come. Please, please-"

"And who do ya belong to?" he growls, just barely nipping at the lobe of your ear.

He just barely grinds up into you, leaving you gasping and moaning. "You! I'm yours, I'm yours, it's all for you-"

You hear the rope snap only half a second before you feel the ruthless grip of his fingers around your hips. In a blink, you're face-down in the pillows, your waist pinned to the mattress, and you feel him starting to slip out of you-

And then he slams home inside of you again, so hard that it punches a moan straight out of your chest. You have only a moment to scramble for a hold against the pillows before he really starts to fuck you, completely prone, with absolutely no hope of escape. His weight prevents you from moving at all, aside from the uncontrollable shuddering that runs through your whole body.

It takes less than a dozen strokes of his hips before you feel the heat rising to a boil once more, curling in your gut, shivering in your cunt. You start babbling and begging and whimpering and god, fuck, you're so close you can feel it in the back of your throat-

The tension snaps, and you clench around him like a vise.

You moan helplessly, shaking like a leaf, hit by wave after wave after wave of pleasure, so thoroughly lost in the undertow that you fear you'll drown. And all the while, his pace doesn't falter in the slightest, dragging it out for longer and longer, and finally, you start to feel the brutal burn of overstimulation creep in.

Your moaning turns ragged and tense, your voice breaking under the pleasure. "Oh- Oh, fuck, this is- It's too much-"

"Well, you're gonna have to cry about it, doll," he purrs, sounding far too pleased with himself. "If I'm doin' all the work, it's only right that I take however much I want from ya, right?"

His next thrust is cruel in its intensity - so ruthlessly efficient that you almost wail. Already, you can feel another peak building in your gut, leaving you shivering underneath him as he takes, and takes, and takes.

He laughs, dark and smoky in your ear. "Yeah, I knew you'd agree, sugar. Now sit still and take it like a good girl, won't ya?"

(It's not like you have any other options.)

[averycutesalamander]

https://x.com/ziranotzireael/status/1807083208007135503

(Cyborg shark merman Boothill)

IMAGINE, siren Boothill who wants to kill off pirates and etc who stole from innocent people, and meets y/n on the S.S.Astral Express, and falls real hard

—

Alternatively, ruffian cowboy Boots kidnaps Royal y/n to go party on the town.

(here's the link if you're on mobile)

oml that art is SO CUUUUUUUTE !!!!! and it's so funny you mention that because i do actually have a mer au cooking hahaha. here's the summary (haven't put it up on the WIP list because it's already pretty dense up there lol)

You are a mer that lives a rather simple, lonely life at the edge of the reef, farming a variety of algae with your mysid shrimp. Your peace is disturbed when deep sea mer rise from the depths to claim the bounty of the reef for themselves, killing everyone that gets in their way – and the situation only grows more complicated when you find a dying shark mer near your farm.  So much for simplicity. 

he won't be mechanical in this au (kinda tragic but i think it makes more sense with the setup/backstory im giving him) BUT i do imagine him as a thresher shark. they whip prey with their tails to stun them !! and i imagine that if he put spurs on his tail like piercings then he could do some REAL damage with that shit. also, bonus:

THEY'RE FUCKING IRIDESCENT. it's not very visible unless the lighting conditions are just right but i still think it's awesome. also if you're curious about the "mysid shrimp" bit in the summary, tl;dr there is a species of damselfish that "farm" them in the wild!! they protect them from other predators and the shrimp fertilize the algae that the damselfish eat. very cool. milf (man i love fish)

anyway yeah im planning for that fic to be released for mermay (it'll be multichapter) but who knows. my mind is an enigma or whatever.

[averycutesalamander]

hello miss sal i hope u are doin splendidly. i am here to say ive had juno on repeat for the past week and have had. well let’s just say. Thoughts. i need to know what u think about breeding kink boothill like.. on one hand i feel like he would be sent into a total frenzy if you were so into it in the moment you let slip you wanted him to knock you up. the fact you’d want him to give you everything, to have his kids, to lock you down, even despite his current predicament. but on the other hand i also feel there’s a little twinge of sadness in his head given he can’t physically give you that. probably heavier on the former i think he would absolutely be into that and give you SO much lip for it. in that sexy as fuck drawl man so uhh yea roll credits ROLL CREDITS

BREEDING KINK GOES CRAZY WITH HIM HjafhaJWFHAJFHJ ok hi i am normal. i did something adjacent to this at the end of DDBB (shameless plug if you haven't read it) but i think it'll end up featuring in a lot of my fics because i am Obsessed with the idea LOL

but yeah i imagine him to be really into it too, not just as a kink but also because he would love to have kids with you, if you were down for that. he gets so into it that im not even confident that the sadness would register for him in the moment. the dirty talk with him is insane. if you were super into it he would absolutely make you beg for him to get you pregnant. goes completely apeshit at the thought of filling you with his come. would love to stuff you full and then keep a plug or something in you to "make sure it'll take." christ he makes me crazy

in regards to actually having children (adopted or otherwise)... i honestly think he'd be torn between wanting to wait until all of this IPC business is done and over with before committing to kids, OR wanting to make sure he has one with you now, just in case, yknow?... like, if something wildly out of his control happens and he dies, would it be better or worse if he left behind a child that you'd have to raise on your own? the idea of you having to raise your kid without him is agonizing to him, but the idea of leaving you with nothing but memories is almost worse. there's also the aspect that if you have a kid now, he'd have to be far more absent than he'd like to be until his revenge is secured - especially during your pregnancy, when he would want to stay basically glued to your side so he could take care of you. with all of that in mind, i think he might lean slightly toward wanting to wait, but you could very easily convince him to go for it now.

i imagine, in whatever wack-ass future HSR is set in, he can get some crazy operation done that samples dna from whatever remains of his human body (which in my headcanon is pretty much just his brain and spine and maybe some nerves to connect to the artificial nervous system) so he can essentially make himself fertile again? via sci-fi magic? and uhhhh not to completely show my hand or anything but. imo the ideal situation would be like.. he is technically fertile, but the success rate would be so low that.. well. the two of you have to really try to make it happen. (im in a weird limbo where i do absolutely have a breeding kink but i ALSO have a mortal fear of pregnancy. but it isn't quite as hot without the risk of getting pregnant yknow. so if the chances are low it hits that perfect sweet spot for ME, but obviously feel free to imagine that however you like)

on a vaguely related note. uhh... warnings for cnc under the cut lol

so i have a loose plan for a second cnc fic (the first is dizzy heat, cloyingly sweet) where the two of you roleplay like you're an IPC office worker or something that he's kidnapped and he's trying to get a code for a computer out of you. naturally this involves some.. uh.. unique interrogation methods, including edging you until you break and give him the code.

a snippet for you (in text form bc im on pc):

He leans back onto his heels, looking you up and down, quick and noncommittal – almost unimpressed. Then, he makes a grand show of throwing up his brows in consideration. He scans you a second time, though this one is far more leisurely – almost starved; the plushness of your lips, the curve of your neck into your collarbone, the tempting swell of your breasts, the way your shirt clings to your waist, the way your pants cradle your thighs. “Well, ya might be IPC scum,” he drawls, raking his gaze up your body to meet your eyes, “but you're still quite a looker.”  The astonished look you give him isn’t quite entirely a farce; he has to wonder if he’s genuinely flustered you by just staring at you a little too hungrily. His lips twitch into a grin, his eyes narrowing lethally. “How about this?” he begins, his tone deceptively light. ��Let's play a lil' game, huh?” Slowly, agonizingly, he leans forward into your space, his smile widening steadily as you flatten yourself against the wall. He presses further, dipping one knee down to rest just barely against your cunt, his teeth glinting as they hover just out of reach of your lips; he doesn’t miss the tiny breath you take as he reaches forward, hooking one finger beneath your shirt and leisurely dragging it upwards, exposing a sliver of your skin to the chill of the ship’s air.   “Let’s see how hard I can push ya before you break.”  Oh, he could die happy at the look on your face, all wide-eyed and awed, shamefully aroused and horrifically desperate. Your lips shake as you whimper, “W-Wait, please…” With a glint of red in his eyes, he snaps one hand around your throat, his gut clenching at the way you stiffen beneath him. “I don't wanna hear a word outta your mouth unless it's about that code,” he rumbles, his voice dark and husky. He squeezes around your throat once for emphasis, and he damn near growls at the tiny noise that escapes you. “Got it? Good.” 

anyway im thinking of ending that fic with him claiming that he's "still fertile" (whether or not that's true will be up to the reader's interpretation) and basically saying he's going to keep the reader as his "little breeder" and essentially baby-trapping her with the extra spice of kidnapping. the reader is like "wait no, you cant!! im ovulating!!" (also up to the reader's interpretation) and he just smiles and purrs, "even better, doll" and jesus christ i need to be euthanized bc im blushing just thinking about it LOLLLL

[averycutesalamander]

Thigh-fucking with boothill drools

this one goes out to all my fellow thigh-fuckers out there ✊ 18+ under the cut, warnings for consensual nonconsent, gun play, and aphrodisiac use

[averycutesalamander]

hi<3 i'm in love with your writing! can i ask how you think we got into a relationship with Boothill? did he ask us out or did we? how did we even meet?

hihihi!! thank you 💝 also it's funny you ask because i actually have a moderately complete first meeting draft (which i guarantee will NOT go the way you think it will), and it's decently high on my priority list. (say thank you to the person in my DDBB comments for that hahaha)

essentially, the plot is that you actually meet through a job. he needs to infiltrate an extremely high security IPC base (ideally without tipping anyone off until it's too late), and it turns out that there's a tunnel system that runs right underneath the compound; trouble is that it isn't so simple to navigate. you're his golden ticket, because you can lead him straight there, no problem. or... it should be no problem, but little does he realize that this job won't be so simple after all.

shenanigans ensue. the two of you stay in contact for spoiler reasons, and also grow uniquely close (also for spoiler reasons) in a way that very rapidly breaks down the emotional barriers both of you keep up. you also just click super well, and he finds that he quite enjoys your company! things stay casual for quite some time. he visits your planet when he gets the chance, for business or for pleasure, and he takes no small amount of delight in your friendship. with time, the two of you develop a flirty kind of dynamic that reaaaaally blends the lines between platonic and romantic. it only takes a particularly pointed joke from you about giving him head as a reward for something comically benign for him to think "ah, fuck. that sounds a little too appealing doesn't it."

to be perfectly honest, i think it'd take a lot for him to ask you out first - not because he doesn't want to, but because he feels like he can't give you what you deserve. for the foreseeable future, his time would always be divided between you and his revenge, and he's extremely aware that you deserve better than to be forced to fight for his attention. you deserve someone that you can wake up beside every day, that you can eat dinner with, that you can go out in public with without fear. how can a man that doesn't see himself as alive possibly match you, someone that's so profoundly full of life? so he sits and simmers in his feelings, which grow increasingly complicated.

as for the reader in Steel Hands, Soft Heart... well, you're kind of a mess LOL. you're generally anxious and oblivious and uncertain, but you also fear complicating your relationship with boothill. you value his friendship very highly, and in your mind, it would be preferable to choke down your rapidly developing feelings rather than risk ruining your relationship. but there are a suspicious amount of half-jokes about dating him or kissing him or doing any other number of definitively non-platonic things.

ultimately, boothill is the one to break the tension first. he kinda speedruns through every stage of grief when he realizes that you're waaaaaay too flighty and nervous to be brave enough to seriously ask him out, and the building anticipation is absolutely killing him. once he breaks the ice (with the qualifier that things don't actually NEED to change between you, whether or not you return his feelings), things are actually pretty smooth sailing.

your relationship is one that is, above all, defined by patience. i can't imagine him being with anyone that isn't understanding about his responsibilities and his mission, even if he feels really bad about it. otherwise, it would be the root of a ton of underlying tension, and i think it'd boil over eventually. if you pulled an ultimatum on him - told him to choose between you or his vengeance - his choice would change depending on how close you were, but the end result would be the same: he would never be able to let go of his past. it would Haunt Him. if he stayed with you, he'd spend just as much time thinking about it as he would've spent actually doing something about it. it would drive him to leave you, sooner or later, but to say that he'd feel guilty about it is an understatement.

sooooo it's a good thing that the thought is basically inconceivable to the SHSH reader. like, the idea is kind of revolting. (in my characterization, anyway lol.) once the two of you settle into a rhythm, you fit really well together. he covers your weaknesses and learns to work with all of your quirks, and vice versa. world's most casual power couple 👏

[averycutesalamander]

okok yayyyy! it was a like. 20 minute no ref doodle so it isnt on model but here is ur stinky!! merry christmas ^o^ !!

GHJGJGHGUYRYHRHRHRGHJNBSVJGVJHR OH MY UFKGUNIKNC HOGFSHEJGSJHGFBJSHBJHBSJHB IT'S BEAUTIFULLLLLLL 💝💖💝💖💝💖💖💝💖💝💘💘💘💘💘 omgggg the hair tied up... the arch of his heels... the way you drew his THIGHHH and the BLUSHHHHHHHHH AUGUHAGUGHGHFJHBGJHFBJ this is so fantastic thank you. printing this out and eating it. wishing you the merriest crimbas of all

[averycutesalamander]

just droppin in before i go to sleep to say i will never stop thinking about how well u write His dirty talk…… on the brain 24/7 im so serious. anyways peace and lurvvv as always <3

AAAAAAAA thank you !!!! it's honestly really difficult to write with his censor in mind so i'm happy you like it so much ♥ i literally HEAR his voice in my head when i write it lol

another snippet (also just text) from mtct as a treat, because this is personally my favorite bit in the fic so far.... obligatory warning for spice lol

“I oughta bend you over my knee and spank that confidence outta you, lil' girl,” he rumbles, dark and smoky in your ear. He doesn't miss the telling flutter of your walls around his length, his lips twisting cruelly. “You'd be cryin’ and beggin' for mercy before I could count to three.”

Despite his backtalk, he drops his hand back between your legs, his fingers seeking out your clit. He keeps the pressure light, far lighter than he knows you like, rubbing leisurely circles around your bud. You whine, high and desperate, squirming in an attempt to chase the pleasure – but you're speared helplessly on his length, and all you manage to do is grind the ridges of his cock even harder into your g-spot. 

“One a’ these days, you’re gonna push just a lil’ too hard, and I’ll make you regret it,” he continues, watching your reflection with dark, all-consuming eyes. “I’ll get my payback for every drop a’ that snark, and I'll take what I want no matter how hard ya fight.”

The laugh that leaves you is faint and strangled, like you're trying to sound haughty, but can't quite manage it with his cock pressed so tight against your cervix. “But not today,” you breathe. 

He smiles, his teeth glinting in the low light, tauntingly close to the tender, bruising skin of your neck. “Don't sound so sure, doll. There's still time.”

“Yeah, but–” you choke, then whine when he increases the pressure on your clit just a bit, his eyes glinting. “You have to… to do whatever I say. That’s the whole point, right?”

He chuckles, deep and rich. “Sure, baby.” Then, he leans in, his lips brushing your ear and his gaze burning into you. “Unless I stuff your mouth full a’ my fingers and pound ya so hard ya can’t get a word out. What do ya think about that?”

Your eyes widen, and he moans unabashedly when your walls shiver around him. You open your shaking lips like you're about to snark him – or, more likely, dig yourself deeper – but he abruptly triples the pressure of his fingers, rolling your nipple with a vengeance just to hear you gasp. 

“Yeah,” he laughs, low and rumbling. “That's what I thought, doll. Just as predictable as always.” Then, he grinds his hips up into you, pressing just a bit harder into you – a promise. You reward him with a ragged moan, your walls squeezing frantically around him. His hand skates upwards from your breast, then settles heavily at the center of your collarbones – a warning. “Now, how ‘bout we get this show on the road, huh? I think I'm done playin' around."

[averycutesalamander]

SAL im so excited for your next fic i can’t stop reading your 31k…. i have feelings for it i fear… im literally so obsessed with your writing style like GOD but yea… waiting patiently.. very excited…. mwah

!!!! thank you !!!!! im so glad you've enjoyed ddbb so much, that means the world to me 💝💝 i have another smut fic on the way soon!! im also making good progress on unpacking from the move so i'll be able to make solid headway in the next few weeks :) hoping to get it out before christmas but idk we'll see !!

p.s. ...a snippet for you ♥ under the cut because it's saucy lol

[averycutesalamander]

https://youtube.com/shorts/9fOwsz4QM2k?si=TBIu9lMJywZipxRx

Smug ass boothill.

THE WAY HIS TEETH LOOK WHEN HE SMILES..... AUAAGGHHGHHHH HE MAKES ME CRAZYYYYYYY

[averycutesalamander]

u are the best boothill writer i have ever seen in my life good heavens. changed my life forever type fics. family heirloom fics im passing them down for generations. the world will end and in 3000 years theyll find me buried with these fics and think it was some religious texts

you're so sweeeeet thank you 😭💖💖💖 things like this keep me going so i really appreciate you taking the time to let me know :) i have so many things im excited to write and i hope all of them hit just right!!! xoxoxo

[averycutesalamander]

me @ yandere boothill: ok but can we go back to grab my plushie collection tho

THIS IS SO FUNNY because he totally would 😭 he'd go "of course sugarplum 🥺 i'll go right back and grab em for ya. you want anything else? your blankets? pillows?" he'd bring your pets if you wanted them LMAOOO. he doesn't want you getting lonely while he's off doing ranger things!! (but don't give them too much attention when he comes back... he might get a lil jealous.) he's so accommodating for a yandere it's kinda embarrassing.

(you're staying on the ship while he grabs everything tho. he's a little too paranoid that you'll try to contact someone from home for help.)

((actually as long as you're good he would probably let you call and text family and friends eventually. MAYBE visitation as well, after he settles into it. supervised but still. he's surprisingly lenient as long as your conduct is perfect.))

[averycutesalamander]

hello<3 this may be weird but i just wanted to say that i really enjoy all of your takes regarding Boothill, as well as your writing and everything else. i legit think he's one of the greatest characters ever written and you write everything about him so beautifully, so heartfelt, it just makes me happy idk!! have a wonderful week<3

OUGGHGGGGGGGHHHH anon this is so sweet, thank you 💖💖💖 i absolutely agree!! i find his character so engaging and interesting and GROUNDED in a way that puts me in a chokehold!! the quiet, hidden depth that lies beneath his brash personality, the details of his past, the fact that he CHOSE to become a weapon (instead of being forcefully turned like some of us guessed when he was first leaked)...

all of it is compelling, but what i find especially interesting is the way that a very close relationship (platonic or romantic, but obviously i wanna wife him up so i write it romantically lol) could change him!! i rambled about this in the comments of Darling Daisies, but Boothill is a character defined by his past, fueled by vengeance, ruled by his grief - he's rebuilt the shattered pieces of who he once was into a jagged, cold body of hatred and mourning. it's so clear that he doesn't see himself as a person anymore, but as a vessel - a tool to deliver justice for the ghosts that still haunt him today.

...so how does a character that lives in the past handle an intimate relationship? how does a man who sees himself as a tool handle desire for something other than his self-defined purpose? THAT is what's so compelling about him, imo - because, compared to the vast majority of other hoyo characters, Boothill would be exceptionally affected by a deep, personal relationship. like, "potentially changing his entire future and the course of his life" kinda affected.

i love him so damn much and im glad that carries through in my writing 💝💝💝