Now, I Really Do Love Lycaon's Original Design With This Handsome Little Face Of His Being So Sophisticated

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...

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. 

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

⋆₊˚⊹♡ 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. 

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.

Size kink is going CRAAZY rn