“ . . . 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓭𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓮, 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓰𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓼.” ۪࣪ ִֶָ˖𓂃.₊𖥔ㅤㅤㅤㅤtwenty . . . forgets things easily ,, dreamflux reef's definitive number one slacker !
. . . + ♪ 𝄞 ₊ currently on 2 months of daily boothill !! | reblogs from @ebiifried | art blog @ebichanrkgk | about me | selfships | navigation
hello !! im ebi and i like to draw. sometimes i go by ezzokko or zko in other places, but just ebi is fine <3 heres my ⌜ 𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑻𝑨𝑮 ⌟ if u just wanna look at my art n stuff
⌜ 𝑯𝑶𝑵𝑲𝑨𝑰 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹 𝑹𝑨𝑰𝑳 ⌟ i post about my hsr ocs/favs n general hsr lore a lot but also about music sometimes. if im online but i dont respond ily im just shy and also an airhead so its slow ;; thank u for ur patience !!
brushing eachothers hair... washing eachothers hair even and then talking and laughing about a hundred sweetly pointless things while working it into cute little braids after it dries akshchcksenb ??fncmsnrnfckoeeor
me when im not even religious but i love you so much that i start thinking about impending divine punishment coming to strike me down from atop my ivory tower because it feels like im being given too much of a good thing and i really really dont believe that im a good person enough to be allowed to be so happy
✦ oc x canon | 1.3k words | junehill | divs. ⋆ scarlett i hope u know the ask u sent gave me so many brainworms it pulled me out of my billion year long fic writing block @scarlettjskipper <//3 title is from mitski
“What are you doing?”
Boothill felt the rumble in her chest before he processed the sound of her voice. The vibrations tickled the inner workings of his ear and rattled through his head. It was a soft, barely intelligible question, more a mumbled groan than distinct words. He pulls in a breath of air. It doesn’t help the whirring of his fans, trying to dispel the rising heat.
“Nothin’ in particular.”
The thrum of her pulse against his ear quickens at such a shameless lie.
June groans again, in annoyance, and he swore he could feel the spark going down his steel-plated spine so deep and thorough he nearly shudders.
“...Boothill.” She scolds. His head doesn’t leave its place, lying with his cheek at the crease of her chest.
“Go back to sleep, birdie.”
He couldn’t tell if the heat on his face was from her skin flushing in embarrassment or from his own barely tamped down, poorly regulated, over-clocking system. Thankfully, June never seemed to mind anyhow and quite welcomed the warmth of whenever he invited himself into bed– the thing she was groaning about was whenever he got too close.
But Boothill loved being close. Close enough to touch more than shoulders while lying side by side, close enough to hold. And every time he got bolder and bolder. First, it had been falling asleep together on the couch. Then it became sleeping on the couch together on purpose, when he saw that she was alone and far too blissfully unbothered. Then there was the bed. Now they were here. His hands palm at her waist and slip underneath her featherlight resistance, wrapping his arms around her torso enough to wrinkle her shirt.
It wasn’t like he needed to sleep. He could have just been plugging himself into the wall and charging back up that way. Sleeping was, in fact, slower to replenish the systems that powered his body than any other method. Not that any of this stopped him. Boothill closes his eyes. There’s the pulse again, he can feel it in his temples, in his mind, at the back of his throat when he swallows.
Lub-dub, lub-dub, systole, diastole, systole, diastole; the pounding of a blood-filled heart.
When God collected souls, THEY sent angels.
Boothill was not familiar with scripture– no, not at all was he a religious man. On the streets of Penacony and dozens of other planets he watched evangelicals preach and speak of Aeonic favor, of blessings from beyond the sky. He had fought against such people, too, had been asked questions he didn’t have the time to wax poetic on; when you are born weak, which god do you turn to for solace?
He felt the steady beating thrum of the proof of her life and he felt as helpless as the day he came kicking and crying into the world. Boothill sucks in another breath, greedy. He watched the way her lungs rose and fell, he blinked at the dip of her clavicle. Thud, thud, thud, her pulse sang into his ear. Flesh and blood.
He was not a religious man, but he knew of the word, plain and simple. The Choir, The Family, any of those people who spoke of the messengers of Xipe and their divine dispositions, golden halos crowning their heads and voices that spoke into your mind from the inside out. He knew hell. So he knew angels.
And he knew whenever THEY needed to exact punishment, THEY sent an angel.
He feels her shift in place where he was holding her, his weight on top of her body made him feel guilty, clunky in comparison to the pliant yield of her shape. The steel of his digits pressed so easily into the small of her back. The feathers crowding around her neck ruffle with a quiet, cozily familiar noise. Then a soft, purr-like cooing sound, almost like a pigeon’s. His lips quirk upwards without showing his teeth. Little birdie….
And it hits him all at once, like a flood, like waves on a coastline curling into a riptide right underneath him so suddenly that it makes the sputter of his cooling pump lurch in his chest and his arms tighten around her without thinking, clinging to her living, breathing body in the physical space in front of him. Hell and angels.
Surely, it was coming.
Boothill knew he was being given too much of a good thing. He thought of it constantly. Thought of it now, as he stared at her blissfully at peace face, laden with sleep. He wanted to– he wanted, and Boothill bites back his own tongue. Little Miss Birdie who slept with her mouth slightly ajar from how well she was dreaming. Little Miss Birdie who thumbed so softly at the corner of his eyes, at those two distinctive moles. Little Miss Birdie who would wash his hair at night and comb it out with care when he came home covered in muck.
Little Miss Birdie, who let an outlaw climb in her bed. He knew he was not a good enough man to justify being able to have such good things.
He felt it in his bones, fashioned from steel and that deep, death-black ore. He knew it. He was sure. And yet day by day he indulged himself, damning it all further down– damning himself with how shamelessly he drank in the quiet of the room and the easy familiarity of the way she fit in his arms. Boothill sidles up closer, leaning into her like if they parted she would dissipate with a blink, leaving nothing but smoke and air in his hands.
He knew he was much heavier, and while it would have driven him crazy to hear her voice pitch up and whine again at the press of his weight he’d invested far too much of himself in the moment now to ruin it, so he takes care not to crush her. He listens to that pulse again, loud and thrumming where he has his ear to her sternum and he feels delirious. He wanted to hear it over and over. He wanted to stay and listen for hours, doing nothing but hold her. He wanted nothing but to stay.
June’s heart skips a beat. She’s squirming uncomfortably from the slight chill of the bullet hanging from his earlobe brushing her skin, and Boothill snaps out of it.
He couldn’t do such a thing. He swallows thickly, the hydraulics of his joints tensing. Blinks. He was acutely aware he needed to do none of those things. The remaining mental reminder not to crush her with the weight of his steel body hanging over her grounded him into reality. He knew he was not a good enough man to justify being able to have such good things.
Whenever THEY needed to deliver divine retribution, THEY sent an angel.
Boothill repeats it all in his head as if words he didn’t believe in would suffice as a mantra that would guard against the corruption of evil. Evil, temptation. He only wraps his arms tighter around her, enough for June’s breath to hitch on the next exhale and earn him another half-hearted scolding. Her expression crumples adorably as he watches it change. June runs a hand through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp and that barely repressed shudder from before rips through his whole body without restraint.
“Boothill.” She’s chastising him again with the sound of his name leaving her lips. He doesn’t pull back, emboldened, greedy. The sound of it was too sweet. Boothill buries his face in her chest and wants to suffocate in the fabric of her baggy shirt. The feeling was so heady on the back of his throat he could almost taste it. Just this once, the mantra warps in his mind. Just a little while longer.
me when im not even religious but i love you so much that i start thinking about impending divine punishment coming to strike me down from atop my ivory tower because it feels like im being given too much of a good thing and i really really dont believe that im a good person enough to be allowed to be so happy
✦ oc x canon | 1.3k words | junehill | divs. ⋆ scarlett i hope u know the ask u sent gave me so many brainworms it pulled me out of my billion year long fic writing block @scarlettjskipper <//3 title is from mitski
“What are you doing?”
Boothill felt the rumble in her chest before he processed the sound of her voice. The vibrations tickled the inner workings of his ear and rattled through his head. It was a soft, barely intelligible question, more a mumbled groan than distinct words. He pulls in a breath of air. It doesn’t help the whirring of his fans, trying to dispel the rising heat.
“Nothin’ in particular.”
The thrum of her pulse against his ear quickens at such a shameless lie.
June groans again, in annoyance, and he swore he could feel the spark going down his steel-plated spine so deep and thorough he nearly shudders.
“...Boothill.” She scolds. His head doesn’t leave its place, lying with his cheek at the crease of her chest.
“Go back to sleep, birdie.”
He couldn’t tell if the heat on his face was from her skin flushing in embarrassment or from his own barely tamped down, poorly regulated, over-clocking system. Thankfully, June never seemed to mind anyhow and quite welcomed the warmth of whenever he invited himself into bed– the thing she was groaning about was whenever he got too close.
But Boothill loved being close. Close enough to touch more than shoulders while lying side by side, close enough to hold. And every time he got bolder and bolder. First, it had been falling asleep together on the couch. Then it became sleeping on the couch together on purpose, when he saw that she was alone and far too blissfully unbothered. Then there was the bed. Now they were here. His hands palm at her waist and slip underneath her featherlight resistance, wrapping his arms around her torso enough to wrinkle her shirt.
It wasn’t like he needed to sleep. He could have just been plugging himself into the wall and charging back up that way. Sleeping was, in fact, slower to replenish the systems that powered his body than any other method. Not that any of this stopped him. Boothill closes his eyes. There’s the pulse again, he can feel it in his temples, in his mind, at the back of his throat when he swallows.
Lub-dub, lub-dub, systole, diastole, systole, diastole; the pounding of a blood-filled heart.
When God collected souls, THEY sent angels.
Boothill was not familiar with scripture– no, not at all was he a religious man. On the streets of Penacony and dozens of other planets he watched evangelicals preach and speak of Aeonic favor, of blessings from beyond the sky. He had fought against such people, too, had been asked questions he didn’t have the time to wax poetic on; when you are born weak, which god do you turn to for solace?
He felt the steady beating thrum of the proof of her life and he felt as helpless as the day he came kicking and crying into the world. Boothill sucks in another breath, greedy. He watched the way her lungs rose and fell, he blinked at the dip of her clavicle. Thud, thud, thud, her pulse sang into his ear. Flesh and blood.
He was not a religious man, but he knew of the word, plain and simple. The Choir, The Family, any of those people who spoke of the messengers of Xipe and their divine dispositions, golden halos crowning their heads and voices that spoke into your mind from the inside out. He knew hell. So he knew angels.
And he knew whenever THEY needed to exact punishment, THEY sent an angel.
He feels her shift in place where he was holding her, his weight on top of her body made him feel guilty, clunky in comparison to the pliant yield of her shape. The steel of his digits pressed so easily into the small of her back. The feathers crowding around her neck ruffle with a quiet, cozily familiar noise. Then a soft, purr-like cooing sound, almost like a pigeon’s. His lips quirk upwards without showing his teeth. Little birdie….
And it hits him all at once, like a flood, like waves on a coastline curling into a riptide right underneath him so suddenly that it makes the sputter of his cooling pump lurch in his chest and his arms tighten around her without thinking, clinging to her living, breathing body in the physical space in front of him. Hell and angels.
Surely, it was coming.
Boothill knew he was being given too much of a good thing. He thought of it constantly. Thought of it now, as he stared at her blissfully at peace face, laden with sleep. He wanted to– he wanted, and Boothill bites back his own tongue. Little Miss Birdie who slept with her mouth slightly ajar from how well she was dreaming. Little Miss Birdie who thumbed so softly at the corner of his eyes, at those two distinctive moles. Little Miss Birdie who would wash his hair at night and comb it out with care when he came home covered in muck.
Little Miss Birdie, who let an outlaw climb in her bed. He knew he was not a good enough man to justify being able to have such good things.
He felt it in his bones, fashioned from steel and that deep, death-black ore. He knew it. He was sure. And yet day by day he indulged himself, damning it all further down– damning himself with how shamelessly he drank in the quiet of the room and the easy familiarity of the way she fit in his arms. Boothill sidles up closer, leaning into her like if they parted she would dissipate with a blink, leaving nothing but smoke and air in his hands.
He knew he was much heavier, and while it would have driven him crazy to hear her voice pitch up and whine again at the press of his weight he’d invested far too much of himself in the moment now to ruin it, so he takes care not to crush her. He listens to that pulse again, loud and thrumming where he has his ear to her sternum and he feels delirious. He wanted to hear it over and over. He wanted to stay and listen for hours, doing nothing but hold her. He wanted nothing but to stay.
June’s heart skips a beat. She’s squirming uncomfortably from the slight chill of the bullet hanging from his earlobe brushing her skin, and Boothill snaps out of it.
He couldn’t do such a thing. He swallows thickly, the hydraulics of his joints tensing. Blinks. He was acutely aware he needed to do none of those things. The remaining mental reminder not to crush her with the weight of his steel body hanging over her grounded him into reality. He knew he was not a good enough man to justify being able to have such good things.
Whenever THEY needed to deliver divine retribution, THEY sent an angel.
Boothill repeats it all in his head as if words he didn’t believe in would suffice as a mantra that would guard against the corruption of evil. Evil, temptation. He only wraps his arms tighter around her, enough for June’s breath to hitch on the next exhale and earn him another half-hearted scolding. Her expression crumples adorably as he watches it change. June runs a hand through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp and that barely repressed shudder from before rips through his whole body without restraint.
“Boothill.” She’s chastising him again with the sound of his name leaving her lips. He doesn’t pull back, emboldened, greedy. The sound of it was too sweet. Boothill buries his face in her chest and wants to suffocate in the fabric of her baggy shirt. The feeling was so heady on the back of his throat he could almost taste it. Just this once, the mantra warps in his mind. Just a little while longer.
