sagebrush-and-sadness - Tumblr blog

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

anything for you;

nsfw. mdni. f!reader. oral (fem! receiving)

Boothill is absolutely depraved when it comes to you. There's no limit to what he'd endure or how far he'd bend to your whims, just to see that smile of yours that drives him to the brink of madness.

Tell him to sit, roll over, or bark like a dog—he’ll do it, and he won’t think twice. He’d give up his pride, kneel at your feet, and obey every word you utter without question.

Because it's not just about the commands—it’s about you. Everything is. Every little thing you do captivates him. The way you talk, the way your voice can turn from soft to teasing to commanding, making his systems overheat and short-circuit with desire. The way you look at him, the way you kiss him, like he’s the only person that matters in that moment. And the way you fuck him—God, the way you fuck him—it’s something he can never get enough of.

He’d do anything for you. And so when you leaned in close to whisper in his ear, your voice a sweet, sultry murmur as you told him how much you wanted him to eat you out, Boothill's reaction was immediate and intense. There was no hesitation in his response—no pause to weigh the consequences or assess the situation.

His focus narrowed entirely onto you.

Without a second thought, he pulled you away from the bustling party, where the Nameless had graciously invited you both to celebrate a recent victory of theirs. The music, the festivities, the clinking of glasses, and the ambient chatter—all of it faded into a distant, meaningless blur as he guided you towards the nearest bathroom.

“You’re so forkin’ needy,” he muttered as he shoved you into the cramped space, but there was no heat behind his words. He was more than happy to oblige. Your back met the cool, hard surface of the sink, and Boothill quickly maneuvered you onto its edge.

His knees hit the cold, hard tile with a thud, the sound barely registering over the pounding of his mechanical heartbeat. His eager hands roamed up your thighs, fingers curling around the hem of your sinful skirt before he yanked it upward in a swift, impatient motion.

And then he froze.

Nothing. No underwear.

Your bare, glistening pussy was there for him—waiting, exposed, dripping with anticipation. His breath hitched audibly in his throat, and for a brief moment, time seemed to stop. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight, couldn’t process anything other than the overwhelming need to touch, taste, and devour you. You had planned this—there was no doubt in his mind—and the realization only served to intensify the smoldering heat pooling in his gut.

“Like what you see?” you teased, looking down at him with a wicked grin. The question hung in the air, thick with promise and expectation, and all he could do was nod, dumbly, his mouth dry and his mind a haze of need. Words failed him in that moment. All the sharp retorts, all the cocky remarks he’d usually throw your way had vanished.

You smelled amazing, and he knew you’d taste even better. The anticipation had him practically trembling. With a low, approving growl, he grabbed your leg, hiking it over his broad shoulder. 

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot, desperate, insatiable—his lips parted eagerly as his tongue plunged into your folds with an intensity that sent a shockwave of pleasure rippling through you. The heat of his mouth, combined with the way his tongue moved, slow at first, then quickening in rhythm, made you gasp. He devoured you like a man starved, groaning against your skin as your taste overwhelmed his senses.

Your fingers tangled into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as you pulled him closer, needing more, needing everything. His hat fell to the floor, but neither of you noticed or cared. Your hips moved instinctively, grinding against his mouth, chasing the pleasure he was giving so freely. He groaned against your folds, the deep vibration only heightening your sensitivity, making your pulse race and your thighs tremble.

Every flick, every swirl of his tongue was deliberate, designed to drive you wild. He knew exactly where to focus, teasing your clit with quick, sharp strokes before switching to slow, languid circles that made your breath catch in your throat. Each motion was calculated, expertly so that you’d remain on the edge, dangling between unbearable need and the promise of release.

Boothill’s lips sealed around your clit, and he sucked gently before releasing it, only to dive back in with a renewed intensity. You gasped, your back arching in response, the knot of tension in your stomach tightening as his relentless attention pushed you closer to the brink. The wet, sinful sounds of his mouth working you over filled the cramped bathroom, mingling with your own heavy breaths and soft, breathless moans.

It was almost unbearable, and then Boothill's tongue darted down, plunging into your drenched hole. He buried his tongue deep inside you, drawing out your sweet nectar with hungry slurps. As he felt you flutter around his pink appendage, he couldn’t help but let out a deep, guttural moan directly against your sloppy pussy, his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his skull.

“Oh, my god… Oh, fuck…” you gasped and writhed uncontrollably, but Boothill held you firmly in place, his hands pressing against your thighs, keeping you spread open for his insatiable mouth.

It didn’t take long for the pressure building inside you to reach its breaking point. With a final, shuddering moan, you felt the tight knot snap. The floodgates opened, and your climax surged through you with an explosive intensity. Your body convulsed, each spasm tightening around Boothill's insistent tongue. The release was so powerful that it felt almost otherworldly, your cries mingling with the muffled sounds of his mouth still working relentlessly against you.

He should stop—he knew it, even as your trembling hands tried weakly to push him away. But how could he stop when you tasted so good, when the heat of your climax was still fresh on his tongue?

“One more, sweet girl,” he groaned, his voice rough and gravelly as he finally pulled back, his mouth glistening with your juices. He didn't leave you empty for long, though. His hand slid down between your legs, two thick fingers slipping into your soaked, eager hole with an ease that made you gasp. His other hand kept your thigh draped over his shoulder, holding you open for him as his fingers curled inside you.

“Just gimme one more,” he growled, pumping his fingers into you with a rhythm that had you arching into his touch despite your overstimulation. He was ravenous, his mouth descending once again to latch onto your clit, sucking gently before flicking his tongue across the swollen bundle of nerves.

Boothill wanted to feel you come apart in his hands again, to watch you shatter one more time, your sweet pussy squeezing his fingers as you fell over the edge into bliss. The pressure inside you began to build again, and despite the overwhelming intensity, you couldn't help but chase it, your hips bucking up into his mouth as your second orgasm neared.

God, he was trying to kill you. You were sure of it.

The sensations surged, and then it happened. Without warning, another wave of ecstasy crashed over you, even more intense than the first. Your vision went hazy, and a strangled moan tore from your throat—raw, desperate—more a cry than a sound. Your pussy clamped down on Boothill's fingers, gripping him so tight it almost felt as if you were trying to keep him there, to hold onto the pleasure for just a little longer.

Boothill responded with a deep, satisfied groan, his breath hot and heavy against your flushed skin. “That’s it… That’s my good girl,” he praised, pulling back slightly, just enough to look at you, to take in the sight of your completely fucked-out state. His eyes were dark with satisfaction, and he watched as you rode out the last remnants of your high.

Finally, he slipped his fingers from you, causing a soft, shuddering sigh to escape your lips. Your head fell back against the mirror, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat still coursing through your veins. He straightened, rising to his feet, but not before licking his fingers clean with a deliberate, slow swipe of his tongue, his eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“You liked that, darlin’?” he asked, his voice dripping with satisfaction and a hint of smugness. The question was rhetorical, more of a statement wrapped in a tease than an actual inquiry, but you nodded nonetheless.

And then, as if on cue, you gave him that smile—the one that always drove him mad, the one that held a power over him that nothing else could compare to.

In that perfect, fleeting moment, Boothill knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he really would give anything, do anything, just to see it again.

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

Let's all face it: Boothill is a stinky man. He runs on oil and probably smells of metal, like, from a mile away; he drinks Himeko's coffee and concoctions that taste like dirt; good Lord, he eats bullets and then snacks on some garbage after that 😭

I tell you, if he was still a happy carefree human he would be sweaty and musky all the fucking time. Working with horses and cattle would make him carry the scent of manure and hay everywhere he goes, while his breath would smell of beer and perhaps sorrel he'd munch on out of boredome. He's an honest and hardworking man and you could definitely see it - judging by the dark stains on his shirt that grow big on his chest and back and in his armpits - and hell, smell it too...

and it smells fucking delicious

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ 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. 

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

Now, I really do love Lycaon's original design with this handsome little face of his being so sophisticated and modest.

But what gets me going is Lycaon with a long snout. An arch of a muzzle, proud and large, a bigger nose, soft, wet and always cool to the touch, his whiskers ticklish as he nuzzles your skin. Huge canines and black lips that stick out funnily when he frowns like a disgruntled dog.

With a snout like this there is no way he could kiss you properly, but it's hardly an issue for you. Because when he leans down and licks into your mouth, his tongue is silky smooth against your own, dripping with saliva. It's so hot and so big... No human could ever compete with that...

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

Size kink is going CRAAZY rn

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

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. 

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

Boothill would put his hat on your head and have you ride him for hours. Chuckling as you whine and sob from the overstimulation.

“Come along, beautiful. Surely you can hold out longer” the other man in the room encourages, red hair falling along both you and Boothill as the knight kisses your neck.

Argenti licking and worshipping you as you ride the cowboy. Chuckling and giving mocking encouragement as you whine and grip onto the metal underneath you.

You nearly scream when Argenti folds you against Boothill, allowing them to kiss each other with you sandwiched between them. Listening to you choke out moans as Boothill continues thrusting up into you, your sigh of relief when he finally cums at feeling Argenti grip his hair as they make out.

The hat falls off your head as you melt, cockwarming Boothill as the two men continue their kiss. When they finally pull away from each other the redhead pushes his hair back with a chuckle, kissing your cheek as he mumbles “My turn?”

It was gonna be a long night.

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

guilt🥀

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

Nah, I genuinely find the idea of hand-feeding Boothill bullets, like you would feed a horse some sugar cubes, fucking hilarious but surprisingly wholesome. It's like giving a dog a treat for good behavior. Since he munches on them out of boredome, having a handful of them in your pocket is actually quite useful. You want him to do something he would rather not do? Just tell him you've got some new, crunchy bullets for him to try and he'll be there, grumbling and frowning yet listening to you diligently.

He would actually lean down and take them from the palm of your hand with his teeth, too. Boothill knows it makes you giggle every time, so he's always ready to do the most boring shit for your sake if it means you'll smile for him.

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

Whoever was the first person to think 'Hm, Boothill should definitely have a golden tooth', I owe them my life because now I literally cannot imagine him without one. Like, it's almost a physical reaction, it just feels right to see Boothill having a golden canine tooth in my mind's eye, see it shining in his cocky grin... or him deliberately biting the bullet in half with it... He's so endearing.

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

MR. TELEPHONE MAN!

"𝘔𝘳. 𝘛𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦! 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺'𝘴 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳, 𝘐 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦!"

Synopsis: Pick up, pick up, pick up— still no answer. Desperately trying to reach you after your argument, Boothill finds himself repeatedly directed to the operator's automated voicemail. 'Please hang up and try again, baby.' Genre: Comfort, fluff Character: Boothill x gn!reader Warnings: Established relationship, mentions of Dan Heng, a little strayed from canon events maybe, slightly ooc, mentions of prior argument, slight angst if you squint, half of the fic is just Boothill and Dan Heng having a heart to heart bro talk lol [masterlist] [about me]

Boothill cursed himself silently, though as vigorously as he could manage since his synesthesia beacon was malfunctioning. Walking briskly around the Parlor car, phone gripped tightly in hand, he couldn't escape the relentless sound of the dial tone on repeat. Meanwhile, Dan Heng observed him with a quizzical expression, one brow arched in curiosity.

Witnessing Boothill in such evident distress was a rare sight for Dan Heng. The ranger typically exuded an aura of nonchalant confidence, often adopting a "fudge it, we ball" attitude towards life's challenges. Consequences were either dealt with head-on or circumvented through sheer audacity.

Reckless. Yes, that word seemed to define him perfectly. And perhaps that's why he was so visibly agitated now. Boothill's thumb hovered over the name 'sweetcheeks' on his phone, a term that made Dan Heng cringe inwardly, yet he dismissed it knowing it was a manifestation of love.

"May I inquire as to your purpose for boarding the Astral Express today? If your intention is merely to cause a disturbance, I suggest you reconsider," Dan Heng stated firmly, crossing his arms and adopting his usual stoic expression, his brow arching slightly. While he and the other nameless welcomed all aboard the Express with open arms, Boothill remained a figure of caution, especially given recent events, despite the significant assistance he had provided.

"What? Ain't you the one who said I could drop by anytime?" Boothill retorted, his frown deepening as he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. His attention flickered momentarily to his vibrating phone before returning with disappointment when he heard the all-too-familiar phrase that had been echoing for the past half-hour. "Sorry, please hang up and call again."

"I never made such a claim," Dan Heng countered, a faint hint of amusement dancing in his narrowed eyes as he observed the disgruntled expression on Boothill's face. "Apart from the conductor, Pom Pom, none of my colleagues have had the pleasure of meeting you. It would be prudent for you to acquaint yourself with them before boarding."

Boothill let out a derisive snort, his thumb instinctively jabbing at the 'dial again' button as he locked eyes with Dan Heng. "Aw, come on now. The conductor already gave me the green light. Ain't that sufficient? And you, you actin' like a youngster. Do I gotta meet your folks before I can come over and play?"

Instantly, Boothill regretted his words, his lips forming a tight line as he realized he had overstepped. "Well, shoot. My apologies," he conceded, his voice softened with regret as he retrieved his hat and made his way to the nearest couch, slumping down with a heavy sigh. This was his perpetual dilemma— he was too forthright, too bold with his language. His words spilled out before he could filter them.

Boothill was baffled by his own behavior. Apologizing to strangers or mere acquaintances came naturally to him, the words slipping out effortlessly, whether they were genuine or not. But when it came to you, it was as if his internal wiring malfunctioned. His mechanical body buzzed with static, sparks dancing erratically, and his words emerged in a tangled mess. The simple phrases— "I love you" or "I'm sorry"— seemed trapped behind a barricade, struggling to find their way past his lips.

"Forget it," Dan Heng sighed, striding over to the dejected figure slumped on the couch. "But do enlighten me as to why you're here just to make a phone call, presumably to your significant other? Is it a must to reach them while aboard the Express?"

Boothill simply shrugged, emitting a grunt of frustration before pulling his hat down over his face, a gesture of defeat. "There ain't no signal anywhere else, I reckon. Figured your train might lend me a hand, even just a tad."

As the number continued to ring with no response from you, Boothill finally opened up, his voice softening as he admitted, "Got into a spat with my partner."

With those words, he began to dismantle the barriers surrounding his emotions, allowing them to spill forth within the confines of the Express. Dan Heng listened attentively, offering a supportive presence to the troubled man.

Boothill couldn't shake the feeling of remorse gnawing at him. He knew he had deeply upset you this time, and he had no one to blame but himself. Who wouldn't be hurt if their own partner hurled insults at them, especially when all they wanted was to show care and concern? Boothill couldn't help but imagine how he would feel if the roles were reversed, and the mere thought made his stomach churn.

"I think I really got under their skin— no doubt about it," he muttered to himself, replaying the scene in his mind where you were left with a furrowed brow and glistening tears threatening to spill. In that moment of frustration, he couldn't fathom why you would bother caring about him. After all, he was no longer flesh and blood; he was encased in metal, his heart silent, and his tear ducts dry.

He couldn't feel pain or sorrow like he used to. So why should you waste your concern on someone who couldn't be harmed or hurt? He couldn't feel anything beyond his face. There was no need for you to worry about him getting into trouble or getting hurt, because he wouldn't feel it.

It was a selfish thought, he admitted, yet at the same time, it wasn't. After all, you were human— a fragile being whose existence could be snuffed out in an instant— while he remained invulnerable. So why waste your energy worrying about him, when he should be the one worrying about you?

As Boothill drowned in his sorrows, his metal hand tapping incessantly on his phone in a desperate attempt to reach you, Dan Heng listened intently, a somber hum escaping his lips as he nodded along.

'Sorry, please hang up and call again.'

Well, fork me.

"Have you apologized?"

"I want to," Boothill admitted, his brows furrowing with guilt. He mulled over various ways he could make it up to you without actually uttering those two crucial words—an apology. Perhaps he could buy you your favorite cake, shower you with affectionate kisses until you couldn't help but giggle, and lavish you with words of admiration.

"That sounds more like a birthday celebration, Boothill. It would be selfish and ignorant of you to avoid apologizing," Dan Heng interjected, cutting through Boothill's thoughts with a firm reminder.

"But— But it's dang near impossible to say those words!" Boothill groaned, frustration evident in his voice as he sat upright on the couch, dialing your number once more, silently pleading for you to answer. "It's like pulling teeth."

"And that's precisely the issue you need to address," Dan Heng replied firmly, his gaze unwavering.

The Ranger slumped back, averting his eyes and releasing a heavy sigh of defeat. "…What do you suggest I do, then?"

"Apologize."

"…you—alright. Fine."

"But apologize like you actually mean it, not just because you have to."

As Dan Heng's words sank in, Boothill felt a sudden jolt of realization. Apologize like he meant it— not just because it was expected of him. The gravity of those words hit him like a ton of bricks, causing him to freeze in place, his wide eyes meeting Dan Heng's steady gaze.

With a nod and an encouraging thumbs up from Dan Heng, Boothill was left to ponder his next move in solitude. Did he truly mean it, this apology? Absolutely. It shouldn't be so difficult to utter those words, right?

His thoughts were interrupted by the familiar automated message playing once more: "Sorry, please hang up and call again, baby."

A small gasp escaped Boothill's lips as he jolted upright, his hands trembling as he fumbled with his phone. Could it be? Was it really you on the other end? "W-wait—! Darlin'? Sweetcheeks? Is that really you?" he stammered, lifting the phone to his ear and pacing in circles, heart pounding with anticipation.

"Forgot my voice already?" Your retort hit Boothill like a punch to the gut, and he could almost see the frown forming on your face. He let out a noise of frustration, his head bowed as he nervously fiddled with the hem of his jacket, rendered momentarily speechless. "Erm— nah. How could I?"

If he still possessed skin and flesh, Boothill was certain his palms would be sweating profusely right now. A man who had faced countless bounties on his head, vanquishing his enemies with a flick of his gun, and executing daring escapes from perilous heights— now reduced to a speechless fool at the mere sound of his lover's voice.

"I, uh… I wanted to talk to you," he finally managed to breathe out, his voice laced with uncertainty. He could almost hear the slight scoff on the other end of the line, a sound that made his heart ache with regret.

"About what? I don't think there's much to talk about after the tantrum you threw at me," your voice came through, laced with a hint of bitterness. Were you being immature? Perhaps. But you had every right to be upset, every right to be salty.

Boothill swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper as he stumbled over his words, the apology he wanted to offer caught in his throat. "I- uh, um…" He cursed inwardly, his free hand nervously tugging at a few strands of his hair in a panic.

Darn it, why didn't he ask Dan Heng when the Express would reach the planet where you resided?

"I wanted to say that I…I'm so—" He groaned in frustration, slapping his hand against his face as he gritted his teeth in irritation. Why was it so blasted difficult to express himself? "I-I'm sorry, darlin'. Truly, I am."

The silence from your end only intensified Boothill's nerves, sending a wave of panic coursing through him. Was this it? Were you going to leave him, leaving him to wander aimlessly without a home once more? "Please, sweetheart. I'm pourin' my heart out here," he pleaded softly, his voice trembling with genuine sincerity.

He listened intently, straining to hear any sign of your response. From the muffled sounds of sheets rustling, he could only guess that you might be on the verge of tears again, and it tore at his nonexistent heart. "I'm sorry for…for yellin' and such. I was actin' selfish and ignorant, and I know that was wrong of me," he confessed, his cheeks burning with embarrassment and guilt as he cast his gaze downward.

Desperation clawed at him, the longing for your touch, the warmth of your presence beside him each morning, the comfort of your embrace— it all flooded his senses. He yearned for a home to return to, a sanctuary where he could find solace in your love once more.

"I'll make it up to you, I swear," Boothill vowed earnestly, feeling a spark of hope ignite within him.

He heard a quiet sigh escape your lips, and he squirmed with anticipation, eagerly awaiting your response.

"You've got 10 minutes to get your behind back into our home, right this instant," you blurted out, attempting to inject a joking tone into your words, but Boothill could detect the slight tremor in your voice.

His heart soared with relief and joy at your words. "Alright— okay, I'll be there. Just let me ask Dan Heng when we'll be arriving, alright?" he replied eagerly, his demeanor brightening considerably. This was his chance to make things right, to rebuild what he had almost shattered. He wasn't about to let it slip through his fingers.

As Boothill's metal boots echoed through the halls of the Express, his heart lightened at the sound of your voice. "I miss you," you confessed, the sniffle in your tone tugging at his wired heartstrings.

A chuckle escaped him, his hand reaching for the doorknob that led to Dan Heng's room. "I missed you too, sweetcheeks. I'll make it up to you, I swear on my bounty," he promised, determination lacing his words.

He could sense the relief in your giggle as you bid him goodbye and hung up, prompting him to knock on Dan Heng's door. "Yo, bro! When we makin' a stop at my planet?"

"We're not," Dan Heng's muffled voice responded, causing Boothill to freeze in his tracks. "We're stopping at Penacony to go to The Reverie to pick up my colleagues."

"…We're what."

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

BOOTHILL HEADCANONS

author's notes just some silly goofy headcanons for Boothill because he's a cutie patootie and I love him fem!reader, completely SFW ♡ and ⥩ are appreciated!

※ He always patiently waits for you to finish applying sunscreen or moisturizer to his face before he can finally go shooting bad guys to his heart's content. Most of the time he jokes around or teasingly dodges your hands; sometimes he mumbles that this is embarassing and he really doesn't care, sweetie, come on, but he will always give you a kiss as a token of gratitude. Because, trust me, he does care.

※ Loves snapping his teeth at you. It's a (weirdly charming) sign of affection, a habit Boothill took up pretty early in your relationship. You teasingly call it a cute aggression and he doesn't deny it. However, if he does that in public at someone else, you better get a hold of him and scatter away because the man is getting pissed.

※ Oh, he absolutely will blow raspberries on your neck whenever he has a chance to hug you from behind. And he's as sly as an old fox, lulling you into a false sense of security with gentle kisses and nuzzles — just to violently strike a poor, helpless you and dance away laughing joyfully.

※ Your first kiss with Boothill was that of desperation — he just barely made it out alive from one of the IPC warehouses, his left leg limp and dragging lifelessly across the floor, a few bullet holes adorning his signature hat, thankfully not lost in the heat of a battle. He looked no better than a wild ragged coyotte, a pitiful thing, an unsightly creature smelling of rot and blood, but upon seeing him, safe and relatively sound, your heart swelled with tenderness and your eyes — with hot tears. You wanted to kiss him then and there, and he anticipated as much, grabbing your face in his hands, firm yet gentle, and all but smashing your lips together. Perhaps, it was a shatter of all your dreams about a romantic first kiss, but at that moment it was the most perfect one...

...Or was it? As tender and loving as Boothill was with you, his tongue still tasted like oil and gunpowder. He laughed it off the first time you made a face, but since then he's made a mental note to always carry a bag of candies and lollipops with him.

※ He's the type of guy to randomly get you fresh field flowers.

Also the type to dance with you while holding one in his teeth. There is a whole anecdote about him picking an unknown flower that turned out to be quite poisonous and suffering from tongue swelling half a day after that. Don't bring this story up, though, his male ego is still recovering.

※ Boothill's upbringing obliges him to treat women with courtesy and respect. He may look like a heartbreaker to some, but in truth, his mindset is that of a traditional man. This said, he loves referring to you as a 'woman'. His woman. He relishes the fact and there is so much pride, so much infatuation and genuine awe behind this word every time he all but purrs it out. It's a strangely specific nickname of his, and no matter how unusual it might have sounded to you at first, now your heart flatters every time you hear it drip from his lips. After all, you are his woman and he is your handsome cowboy.

He might however bark at you when you're pestering him. Something in the lines of 'I'm busy, woman, what are ya yapping 'bout?'. Naturally, he never uses it as a means to offend and will put a bullet through the head of anyone who dares belittle you like that. The unspoken rule of a cowboy says: never criticize another gentleman's hat, horse and wife. And Boothill is very serious about his rules, even if technically you are not his wife (yet).

※ He adores it when you dress up for him. No matter how often or seldom you do that, no matter what exactly you're wearing — a cute cocktail dress or a strict suit — he would whistle low and stride right to you with the air of a beau who just saw the girl he'd buy a drink for. His sultry pretentious flirting never fails to make you giggle.

※ Boothill will always find time for you. No matter how many light days separate you from each other, no matter how busy the schedule or how dangerous the enemies, he can never really get you out of his head. You are always there, his little beacon of light, and he knows that you're waiting for him with worry and hope. He hates telling you that you can't come with him this time; hates seeing your smile drop and your fingers fidget anxiously as you watch him step on an unknown land. He misses you dearly five minutes into the mission, so he calls you as often as he can, showing you all the pictures he took or all the things he got for you as souvenirs. When it comes to your messages or calls there is never really bad timing for Boothill — an inconvenient one, perhaps, but even the heat of the battle will not stop him from picking up. He might even consider against shooting the poor son of a bitch that let him talk to you peacefully out of courtesy, but we will see about that.

※ Ever since you came into his life, Boothill's spending habits have gotten somewhat healthier. The thing is — the guy is loaded, yet money never held any real interest for him. After all, he became a hunting dog not for the promise of fresh bones, it was more of a pleasant bonus rather than a necessity. Most of his credits were spent on oil for his spaceship and himself, some repairs here and there, bullets and, surprisingly, booze — now unable to fully experience the harmful effects of a few bottles of whiskey a day, Boothill drinks it in the same manner some people chew on their gum. However you and your loyal companionship awoke something within him, something he thought had died many miserable years ago. An urge to care. And it came so naturally to him, too. It was very easy, on a level of subconscious, for him to pick up the habit of buying you food — the one he knows you like, of the highest quality. Or making sure you have an outfit for any occasion in your life and enough space to store them all. Or that all your beauty and health treatments are paid for. Or... and the list goes on and on. Boothill is a man who will respect you for wanting to be independent, sure, but will not shame you for wanting to be provided for.

English is not my native language. So please, if you see any mistakes in grammar, punctuation or spelling, or simply think that something sounds weird, let me know! Ty!

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

My biggest issue with Boothill right now is how different he sounds in English compared to other languages.

I play in CN and I love CN Boothill, he's loud and honestly reminds me of Itto. He's such a charming goof, the type to say the most random shit (the way he called himself Pom Pom... that was not an improvisation, it was his plan all along and he was proud of it) and make you giggle even when he didn't mean to do that. And it suits him!

And EN Boothill is so...ah. He's the kind of guy whose remarks make you blush - and he will chuckle and tease you when he sees that. He sounds so tough and rough, it's so remarkable and honestly so hot.

But how am I supposed to write about him when he kinda has two different personalities now?..

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

BOOTHILL — COWBOY BUSINESS

This is a big deal, cowboy. Of course, it'll be dangerous. ... Dangerous? Well, fudge. Dangerous for who!? Bring it on, baby!

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

h.how do we feel .

“Uh… sorry ‘bout the mess. I’ll make it up to ya.” For good measure, the space cowboy kicks one of the corpses to the side with his boot.

You clutch your chest tighter, heart racing. “You just killed fifteen IPC soldiers in my bar.”

“Yep.”

“You–”

He suddenly looks offended. “Hey. I did the world a favour. I don’t take kindly to rats puttin’ their fudgin’ filthy hands on the merchandise.” He gestures to his torso. Then, he whistles, placing his thumbs on the waistband of his pants. “But, nice place ya got. This your business?”

Dazed, you nod slowly. Your eyes flit to the broken sign and the smashed television hanging over the bar counter.

The bottles are smashed to bits. There’s liquor spilled all over the floor—expensive liquor. This would cost a fortune to fix, let alone to then replace all of the products.

You exhale shakily. You try not to look at the bodies.

The cowboy pities you. You can see it on his face. He says nothing. He awkwardly clears his throat and skims the rim of his hat with his fingers.

This sucks.

“How ‘bout this? I’ll give ya the bounty money so you can fix this place up.”

“Will you pay for my therapy sessions as well?” you chime in, murmuring beneath your breath.

He cracks a smile. “If that’s what you want.”

You lean over the counter and place your head in your hands. Tiredly, you ask, “how much?”

You hear the cowboy click his tongue in thought. “‘Bout… seventy-five? Give or take?”

You look at him from between your fingers. “Huh? Seventy-five hundred?”

The cowboy, yet again, looks offended. “Million, hun. I don’t do my job for cheap. What do I look like to you?”

You squawked. “Seventy-five million?”

“You heard me.” He cocks his head to the side, lips pressed into a thin line. “Why? You like that?”

“You can’t give me seventy-five million credits. Are you serious?” You could feel your face burning in shock. Your hands slam onto the counter, and you point an accusing finger in his face. “You must run some sort of shady business.”

The cowboy looks to the left for a moment.

He blinks at you like you’re stupid.

“You’re serious?” you repeat.

Instead of answering, he pulls out his phone from his pocket. You say nothing about the flimsy orange case, instead watching as he fumbles and squints at the screen before turning it towards you.

He shows you the recent deposit.

As he said. Seventy-five million fat credits sit right there in his account.

Hesitantly, you grab the phone to peer closer. Curiously, you start scrolling. These deposits clearly weren’t new to him. There were so many starting back from about ten years ago. There was a recent one of two-hundred thousand, then another just crossing fifty-seven million–

You were going to pass out. You hand his phone back to him with trembling fingers.

“Seventy-five sound good, or ya want some more?” He was tapping away on the screen again. “Gimme your bank details.”

“No!” You shake your head. “I don’t need your money. It’s fine.”

“How ‘bout eighty?”

“I–”

“Eighty-five.”

“No, I–”

“Round it up.” He turns the phone to you again, this time waiting for you to take it. An empty prompt of a receiver for the credits waits still. “One hundred.”

“Stop. I’m not taking your money.”

“I insist,” was all he said. “Got plenty to dispose of. And was never too responsible wit’ it anyway. Also, don’t really need to spend money on food and stuff, ‘cause, y’know–” He gestures to himself again. “I trashed your place. Lemme help ya fix it up.”

“I’m not taking your money,” you repeat.

The cowboy narrows his eyes at you.

To retaliate, you narrow them back.

Then, grumpily, he states, “you’re stubborn.”

“Yeah.” You bristle defensively. “And?”

“I like it,” he all but purrs. He leans over the counter, fingers drumming over the bench. “If ya don’t want my money, how’z about I take ya out for dinner? To say sorry?”

Huh? You lean back, cowering away from the sharp teeth he displays behind pulled lips. Your heart races in your chest, half out of the anxiety that riddles your veins, but also because he’s practically snapping his teeth in your face like a shark.

Your hands coil into weak fists.

“What do ya think, pretty?”

You look at him.

You suppose he’s handsome—you’re not sure if it’s appropriate to call a cyborg handsome. But he’s got lovely hair, and it falls over his shoulders like water. It covers half his face, but the eye you can see is… trustworthy, to an extent.

He’s definitely not the most insane man you’ve ever met, so that’s a bonus. He also just killed a bunch of soldiers in your territory. You didn’t like the IPC either, and maybe he did do you a favour, but still.

You sigh. You think the pleading flutter of his lashes won you over.

“Fine.”

“That’s the spirit.” He holds out his hand, palm facing upwards. “Phone.”

Your face twists suspiciously. “No funny business.” Hesitantly, you reach into your pocket and hand it to him.

He grins and takes it. “Not at all. I’m a super trustworthy guy.” You find it hard to believe him. Again, he seems to have trouble navigating your phone. He notices you staring. “Sorry. Can’t read very well.”

“Oh.” You straighten up slightly. “Do you want me to add your number instead?”

He makes a face at the phone.

“Nope. I got it.” He hands you back your phone after a moment. The contact is still open on the screen: Boothill. He’s somehow taken a photo of himself without you noticing. “Might’ve added an extra zero. Oops.”

“Oh.” You stare down at the phone number. “There's no zeroes in your number.”

“Sure.” Boothill pulls back from the counter with a tip of his hat. “I gotta run. I’ll set up our lil’ dinner date later.”

You turn your phone off. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“You got it, babe.” He blows you a kiss and waves his hand behind him.

As soon as the door shuts, you get a notification of a successful deposit into your bank account.

Your face immediately drains of blood as you frantically open up the app.

Seven-hundred and fifty million credits sit in your account.

The message attached to it reads, ‘Dont bot her snending it back. Wont work. LOL.’

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

Ugh I've been obsessed not only with Boothill lately, but with Guns'n'Roses as well. Love their dynamic and aesthetics.

And I really want to write some small western!AU drabble with poly argenthill now. Especially since a lot of character × reader × character things aren't actually poly, but rather just reader having two partners.

Hope I'll find some time to fix this and make Boothill and Argenti kiss each other as well.

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

⟿ ˗ˏˋ𝐵𝑜𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶 𝓈𝒽𝓎 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 ࿐ྂ

Some sfw headcanons this time, but I just might make a spicier part two. gn!shy!reader, Boothill is pretty soft here, might be OOC since it's written before his release <3

Boothill who leans down to steal a kiss and uses his infamous hat to deflect the arrows of onlookers' prying stares – to hide your pretty, flustered face and his own toothy grin.

Boothill who cracks jokes every time you go stiff in his arms. He's a tease, quick-witted and silver-tongued ('Hey now baby, who's made out of metal 'ere, me or you?'), but he never lets his hands wander if he sees the crease of uncertainty between your brows.

Boothill who goes absolutely ecstatic if you do something as simple as smiling and giving him a thumbs up when he's dueling. Boy, will he giggle like a maniac while bullets sing and blood spills. He wants to impress you – always – and he doesn't need much encouragement to show off.

Boothill who, instead of tilting your head up with his fingers, crouches down to meet your averted gaze – much to your embarrassment and his own amusement.

Boothill who doesn't pry your hands away from your red-hot face, but rather nuzzles into them until he can get to his main prize – your lips.

Boothill who loves how warm your cheeks get when he flirts with you like there's no tomorrow. He knows damn well they're warm 'cause he'll definately press his own face against yours. Flustering you even further.

Boothill who is so used to the good ol' game of chase. He's a hunter, a predator if you will, stalking his prey like a wolf day and night, patient and relentless, waiting for the right moment to strike. Your heart is one of a wild rabbit, you're always on a run from him, embarassed, flustered, nervous and perhaps even scared of so many things. But he's a master of cat-and-mouse and he will catch you eventually.

And when he does, he will sink his fangs into you.

Notes: divier is by cafekitsune