sometimes people ask me "how do you know that about boothill? it was never said." and i then have to wonder if these people are familiar with the concept of analysis, interpretation, filling in gaps based off context and the concept of "show, not tell"
╰┈➤ summary ; You wake up exhausted, your body aching with the relentless fire of your heat. The sheets cling to your sweat-dampened skin, and every muscle feels heavy, like you've run for miles without rest. Blinking groggily, you spot Reaver sitting beside the bed, his muscular form hunched slightly, those sharp ears perked toward you.
( ! ) Flame reaver + dog hybrid , Gender neutral! reader + cat hybrid , heat cycles , soft sex , slight angst , knotting , breeding , lots of kissing like A LOT , comfort , marking/hickeys , aftercare , slight yandere behavior from reaver but it's not really seen , reader produces slick , reaver barely talks
SERIES MASTERLISTS
( ✎ ) ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE so please expect some grammar mistakes. hi guys let me know if I did the warnings incorrectly so I can change it (also can take opinions/criticism hehe). This one is very soft hehe, I just love making reaver very soft and gentle.
You wake up exhausted, your body aching with the relentless fire of your heat.
The sheets cling to your sweat-dampened skin, and every muscle feels heavy, like you've run for miles without rest. Blinking groggily, you spot Reaver sitting beside the bed, his muscular form hunched slightly, those sharp ears perked toward you. His tail sways slowly, a quiet sign of his concern. He reaches out, his rough and scarred hand gently brushing your sensitive cat ears, the touch sending a shiver through you—part comfort, part spark to the embers already burning inside.
Reaver's dull eyes lock onto yours, intense and unblinking, as if he's been watching over you for hours.
He doesn't say a word. He never does when words feel too heavy.
Instead, his thumb traces the edge of your ear, slow and deliberate, easing the tension that knots your shoulders. The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a lantern on the nightstand, casting shadows over his broad chest and the faint scars that map his frame. His fur, a mix of gray and black, bristles slightly as he leans closer, his scent—colds, sharp and familiar—washing over you like a balm.
A low whine escapes your throat as another wave of heat cramps through your core. Your body arches instinctively, claws digging into the mattress. Reaver's hand stills, his gaze sharpening with that adoring focus he reserves only for you.
He shifts onto the bed, the frame creaking under his weight, and pulls you into his lap without hesitation. His arms wrap around your waist, firm yet gentle, holding you against the solid warmth of his torso. He nuzzles into your neck, his hot breath fanning over your skin, and presses a soft kiss there—light at first, then deeper, his lips lingering as if he could imprint himself into you.
The ache doesn't fade, but his presence dulls it, turning sharp pain into a throbbing need. You lean into him, your forehead resting against his collarbone, and he responds by tilting your chin up with a finger. His mouth finds yours in a slow, reassuring kiss, tongues brushing lazily, tasting the salt of your exhaustion. He kisses you like he's memorizing every curve of your lips, every hitch in your breath, his obsession pouring out in the way he devours you without rush. One hand slides up your back, fingers threading through your soft tail, while the other cups your hip, grounding you.
Minutes stretch as he kisses you endlessly—soft pecks along your jaw, deeper ones that make your head spin, nips at your lower lip that draw faint whimpers from you. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his own filled with a quiet storm of worry and desire. The slight angst lingers in the furrow of his brow; he hates seeing you like this, vulnerable and spent from the heat that's ravaged you for days. But he won't leave your side, won't let you face it alone.
His tail curls around your own, a possessive loop, as he murmurs the first words he's spoken all night, voice rough like gravel but comforting,
"I've got you."
Those three words are enough to crack the dam inside you. You cling to him, burying your face in his neck, and he holds you tighter, rocking you gently. His hands roam, not demanding but soothing, massaging the knots in your shoulders, tracing the line of your spine. The heat builds again, insistent, and you shift in his lap, feeling the growing hardness of his cock pressing against you through the thin fabric separating you. Reaver growls low in his throat, a sound that's more comfort than threat, and he kisses your temple, then your cheek, guiding you down onto the bed with infinite care.
He hovers over you, his massive frame caging you protectively, but his touches remain feather-light. He peels away the sweat-soaked sheets, exposing your trembling body to the cool air, and immediately covers you with his own warmth. His mouth trails kisses down your neck, sucking gently at the skin until a faint hickey blooms under his lips—a mark of his claim, soft and blooming like a bruise from love. He moves lower, lips brushing your collarbone, then your chest, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses that make your skin tingle. Each one is deliberate, a silent promise that you're his to cherish, to protect.
Your hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer, and he obliges, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin. He sucks another mark just below your ribs, the pressure firm enough to sting sweetly, then soothes it with a swirl of his tongue. The obsession in his eyes never wavers as he watches your reactions, adjusting his pace to match your breaths.
When you arch into him, he presses his hips down, grinding slowly, letting you feel the thick length of his cock straining against you. No words, just actions—his body speaking volumes as he kisses his way back up, capturing your mouth in a deep, languid kiss that swallows your moans.
The heat demands more, and Reaver smells it, his hands sliding to your thighs, parting them with gentle insistence. He positions himself between your legs, his scarred fingers kneading the muscles there, easing the ache. He kisses you again, endlessly, his lips swollen from the contact, as he aligns his throbbing cock with your entrance. The first push is slow, careful, stretching you inch by inch until he's fully seated inside. You gasp into his mouth, and he stills, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. His tail thumps against the bed, a rhythmic beat of restraint.
He starts moving then, thrusts deep and unhurried, each one dragging against your inner walls in a way that builds the pleasure without overwhelming. His mouth never leaves yours; he kisses you through it all—soft, messy kisses that turn desperate as the rhythm picks up. One hand braces beside your head, the other grips your hip, guiding you to meet him. The slight concern flickers in his expression when you wince from a particularly deep ache, and he slows, peppering your face with kisses, whispering, "Easy... I've got you," before resuming with even more tenderness.
Sweat beads on his skin, mixing with yours, as he rocks into you. His cock swells at the base, the knot beginning to form, and he groans against your lips, the sound vibrating through you. He pulls back slightly, eyes locked on yours, obsessive and adoring, as he thrusts harder, chasing the lock.
When the knot catches, tying you together, he shudders, burying his face in your neck. He bites down gently, not breaking skin but marking you with his teeth—a possessive claim amid the comfort. His hips grind in shallow circles, the pressure intense, flooding you with warmth as he breeds deep inside, his seed spilling in hot pulses.
The fullness is overwhelming, a mix of relief and ecstasy that quells the heat's fire. Reaver holds you through it, his body a shield, kissing your shoulders, your ears, anywhere he can reach while locked together. He doesn't pull away; instead, he rolls you both so you're draped over his chest, his arms encircling you like a fortress. The knot throbs, keeping him buried, and he strokes your back in slow circles, his rough hands surprisingly gentle on your sensitive skin.
Time blurs as you wait it out, his lips brushing your forehead in absent kisses. The worry eases from his features, replaced by a soft contentment. When the knot finally deflates, he slips out carefully, a trickle of his release following, but he doesn't let you feel exposed.
He grabs a warm cloth from the bedside basin—prepared in advance, because of course he was—and cleans you with meticulous care, wiping away the sweat and stickiness. His touches are reverent, almost worshipful, as he tends to the hickeys he's left, kissing each one softly.
He draws you into his side, pulling the fresh sheets over you both. His tail wraps around your waist, holding you close, and he nuzzles your hair, inhaling your scent like it's his lifeline. No grand declarations, just the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, the quiet thrum of his heartbeat. He kisses your temple one last time, a final mark of comfort, and you drift toward sleep knowing he's there—obsessed, protective, yours.
But the night isn't over yet.
Even as exhaustion pulls at you, the heat lingers in faint echoes, and Reaver senses it. He shifts, propping himself on an elbow to look down at you, his dark eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort.
You locked eyes with him, “Again…please?”
He obliged, leaning in for another kiss, this one lazy and drawn-out, his tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that's tempered by care. His hand trails down your side, fingers splaying over your hip, and he pulls you flush against him again.
You're both still slick from before, bodies attuned, and he enters you once more with a smooth slide, no resistance left. This time, the pace is even slower, almost meditative, his thrusts measured to soothe rather than inflame. He kisses your neck, sucking a fresh hickey into the skin just above your pulse, the pull of his mouth sending sparks through your veins. His free hand finds yours, intertwining fingers, a silent anchor as he moves.
The instinct surges again, his knot swelling quicker this time, locking you in place with a shared gasp. He grinds deep, filling you anew, his growls muffled against your shoulder where he marks you with another bite—gentle, claiming. The warmth spreads, easing the last remnants of your heat, and he holds you through the waves, his body trembling with the effort of restraint.
He cleans you again, this time with kisses interspersed, his lips trailing over every inch he touches. He massages your aching limbs, working out the cramps with strong, sure hands, then feeds you sips of cool water from a cup he's kept nearby. When you're settled, he curls around you spoon-style, his chest to your back, one arm draped possessively over your waist. His breath evens out against your ear, but even in near-sleep, his tail twitches, ensuring you're secure.
The worry returns in the quiet hours before dawn.
You stir from a fitful dream, the heat's still affecting you, leaving you whimpering softly. Reaver's eyes snap open instantly, his hold tightening as he nuzzles your neck. He doesn't speak, but his actions flood you with reassurance—kisses peppered along your spine, hands rubbing warmth into your skin. He turns you to face him, capturing your lips in a deep kiss that chases away the shadows.
This time, when he takes you, it's pure comfort, his cock sliding home with familiar ease. The knot forms, breeding you once more, but it's the intimacy that lingers—the way he watches you, obsessed with every flutter of your lashes, every sigh you release. Marks accumulate: hickeys dotting your throat, collarbone, every part of your skin his mouth can reach.
By morning, the heat has finally broken, leaving you boneless and sated. Reaver tends to you with unwavering devotion, bathing you in a tub he's drawn, his hands soaping your hair with gentle strokes. He kisses your closed eyelids as you relax against him, the water lapping softly.
Back in bed, wrapped in his arms, he marks your shoulder with a final hickey, sealing the claim.
He never says much, but in his touches, his kisses, his obsessive but gentle care, you hear it all,
you're his world, and he'll comfort you through every storm.
I’m sorry it took me this long to even say anything about it, and I’m sorry for even letting it fly over my head, but do not read or support that Boothill slasher au fic. Depicting him as something so. Fucking violent and inhumane, while also claiming to care about his character and what he stands for and the Native Americans. Especially in our current political climate, where fearmongering and vitriol against POC are at an all time fucking high now more than anything I’d seen in all my life.
I cannot take back the ask I made in excitement to averycutesalamander nor comments I made praising her previous works. But please I’m begging you don’t fucking read it. Just thinking about clouding my own judgement to read some fucking smut that is entirely disrespectful to Boothill, who I claim every single day to love, already sickens me to my stomach and I deeply regret ever even reading anything from Sal. I’m in my fucking 20’s and I let that happen. I see people who look like me or my family suffering everyday and I let it fucking happen. Don’t read it.
Absolutely nothing worse than finding out that you share interests with someone you hate. Has you thinking things like fuck you I'm better at enjoying star wars than you are
