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Boothill’s hands are bound above him, tight–the rope is his, the knots are his. He knows how to break them, has the end tucked into one palm. It was his only condition to this, and one Argenti was more than happy to provide. There’s a thin layer of fabric between his arms and the rope itself, protecting the lasso from the metal joins at his wrists. He’s thought of everything, Boothill has.
They’d explicitly agreed a week ago for Argenti to do this–and despite the anticipation his beloved has still slept soundly. Only the soft whirr of mechanics punctuates Argenti’s work–and the quiet, barely-there breaths that the man takes. When he’s with Argenti, he usually slips from sleep to wakefulness easy, gently. Trusting–it warms Argenti’s heart any time Boothill sleeps with him, sleeps around him. Neither of them trust easy, but around the other Argenti sleeps like a babe and it seems Boothill is the same.
It gives Argenti plenty of opportunity to look at him, properly look–the tension around his eyes are gone, the ever-present faint scrunch of his nose. He’s slack-jawed, hair pulled into a careful queue. He’s beautiful, is what he is, chapped lips and all.
Boothill’s metal body is splayed out. Hands bound above his head, crossed at the wrist. Flat on his back, neck supported by a thin pillow. Legs loose, parted around Argenti, everything on display. He’s not plugged in–had charged what he could during their downtime. The sleep is for his mind, but–he’ll be waking up soon, internal clock never variable. Argenti doesn’t feel guilty for starting early–his cowboy isn’t losing sleep.
Argenti drags his hands down Boothill’s thighs, just to touch. Down to his knees, where he traces the shape of the metal panels, commits them to memory. Each seam of metal, each pipe, each wire. Everything that makes Boothill tick. From his knees to his calves, wiry, corded. He’d been lean before this body, Boothill had told him. Argenti can picture it–the muscle, hair soft under his hands. As much as Boothill worries, Argenti doesn’t mind this body. It’s Boothill, really–however Boothill looked, whatever body he had, Argenti would love it the same.
The spurs are gone, carefully unclipped and set aside, but his beloved’s feet are as they are–cleaned meticulously, but boots all the same. Argenti strokes his hands over the tip, traces the engraving underneath, then lets his hands start the crawl back up.
Boothill stirs, right on time. Punctual as ever. His thick lashes flutter against his cheeks, then flick open. There’s no dreariness, no sleepiness–he wasn’t awake, and now he is. But–he doesn’t tense, trusting, so trusting. His eyes flick up to his arms, then down to Argenti.
Argenti smiles at him, hands cupping Boothill’s calves. “Good morning, beloved,” he murmurs, and those sharp eyes soften, crinkle at the corners.
“Got me in a situation, huh, Rosey?” Boothill says, voice scratchy as his facilities boot, one after the other. “Mornin’, sweet.”
“And what if I do?”
Argenti raises an eyebrow, and Boothill snorts, tests the give on the rope. “Nothing, nothing. Just wonderin’ what you want to do with me at your mercy, is all.”
Argenti isn’t going to tell him–no, that’s half the fun. “You’ll find out, my dear,” he says, squeezing Boothills calves before sliding his hands up, slower this time. A little more pressure, so Boothill can feel the weight of it. Up to his hips, thumbs following the seam of two plates, emulating the iliac ridge he no longer has. One catches on a cut in the metal, thick and gouged, the edges filed clean. “One day I’ll get this story out of you,” he says, and Boothill grins down at him.
“I told you–borosin attack,” Boothill says, smiles full of teeth. It’s a different answer to the last time Argenti asked, and the time before. He’s not worried–if it had been a problem, Boothill would have mentioned it–he just evidently enjoys being catty.
“Mmh, with their big, sharp claws,” Argenti says, tracing it one last time. He leans forward, watches Boothill’s eyes sharpen, presses a kiss to the scar. Sits up again, smiles. Boothill’s eyes narrow slightly. Argenti shuffles forward, knees touching the insides of Boothill’s thighs as they spread imperceptibly wider. Uses the leverage to slide his hands higher still, finding every nick and scratch, everywhere that feels buffed and filled in. His beautiful cowboy has faced plenty even before this body, hasn’t let up since he’d changed either.
“’Genti,” Boothill starts, then his eyes slip closed when Argenti tuts softly at him. They’ve discussed this, too–Argenti does things because he wants to, not out of pity. He’ll happily remind the other, but he can’t tell Argenti that he shouldn’t touch him. Argenti knows he doesn’t need to touch this metal body–and he wants to anyway. Idrila-blessed, that’s what Boothill is. Beautiful twice-over.
Argenti traces the plates of his abdomen, over his chest. Strokes firm, presses his weight behind it. Boothill takes a shaky breath in, eyes snapping shut. “Let me touch you?” he checks in, soft, and Boothill nods, then nods again, reaffirming.
“Anything you want.”
Argenti raises an eyebrow, taps one finger firmly over Boothill’s chest, where his heart still beats, hidden behind layers of metal so thick Argenti cannot feel the throb of it. “Anything we want,” Argenti murmurs, emphasises. They both have no-go zones. Argenti’s not overriding Boothill’s will with his own.
Boothill takes in a shuddering breath. “I want you to touch me,” he tries again, and Argenti nods. He tips forward, easy, so easy, and presses a soft kiss to Boothill’s chin, then to his lips as they part.
“Good morning,” he says, soft. Boothill leans up, catches his mouth again, and Argenti smiles into the kiss. Those sharp teeth graze over his tongue as he licks at Boothill’s lips. The flicker of pain makes Argenti hum low in his throat, thumb finding Boothill’s chin, coaxing his mouth open as he deepens the kiss.
He pulls back before he really wants to, and by the way Boothill chases him, he wasn’t done either. But, he has a plan, and he wants to continue. He kisses Boothill’s nose instead, humming as it scrunches under the contact. “Beloved,” he murmurs, just to say it. He presses his forehead against Boothill’s for a breath, two, then kisses his cheek, then his jaw. Nuzzles in under the sharp edge of it, licks over his pulse. Feels it kick up–the slow, steady beat jumping. Argenti closes his teeth over that patch of skin, that proof of humanity, then sucks a mark slow and steady. There’s a rustle over his head, and he knows what it is–Boothill testing the rope, the knot in it. Argenti trusts it’ll hold. It does.
He nips his way lower, lips and teeth finding patch of skin after patch of skin until he feels the thickness of old scars. Kisses those too, soft, then drags his tongue against the sensitive seam below it where flesh gives way to metal. It’s an absolute honour to be able to touch here–right where Boothill is vulnerable–skin still so sensitive, never quite healing. He’s the only person to touch them–Boothill had confided that long before, when he’d still been so, so cautious about it. About letting Argenti in.
Shifting his weight, Argenti frees a hand, splays it over Boothill’s chest again. The seams in the plates are unmistakable, and his fingers find them easily, running over the barely-visible lines. Another kiss to metal this time–finding the upper plate of his neck. He licks, and there’s the faint taste of oil.
“I can barely feel it,” Boothill murmurs.
Another kiss. “But you know I’m doing it.”
A hum in return, and Boothill’s legs shift around him. He doesn’t respond, but Argenti doesn’t need him to–he relaxes again and that’s the thing that matters. Argenti slides his hand down, applies pressure over Boothill’s belly. Feels the plates shift and hiss, hears the gentle hitch of breath. He taps his fingers against one of the plates, finds the sealed edges and applies a little pressure. The electrical impulse tingles across his fingers when Boothill’s body reacts and Argenti strokes the spot again, and again, right until he can feel the nudge of silicone against his wrist. He grins–doesn’t touch the swelling cock–no, he skirts around it instead. Strokes over the ports at Boothill’s hips, the narrow dip where there’s just thick, durable carbon fibre, then over the plates of Boothill’s outer thighs.
Down, then up again, cataloguing each and every dent. There are new ones since Boothill’s let him do this last, and he rubs his thumb against them as he finds them. They’re filed smooth if nothing else. Argenti kisses Boothill’s belly, licks up the seam between his abdominal plates. He licks up, leaning forward as he does, until he’s settled over Boothill. His weight holds Boothill in place, Boothill’s cock trapped between their bellies, and Argenti aches to slide his sleep pants free and feel him, but–this isn’t about him, this is about Boothill. For Boothill. So, his cock stays in his pants, though he can feel the way the fabric is starting to stick to his skin.
One hand slides under Boothill, finding the ports on the back. Argenti runs his fingers over them, watching as Boothill twitches, breath catching as much as his hydraulics do. He’s trying to hide his reaction, so Argenti dips his fingers inside to stroke deeper. The metal contact points are cool to the touch, along the sides of the port–the ones at the bottom are warmer from his beloved’s internal heat. He wants to chase his fingers with his tongue but–if he unties Boothill to roll him over, he will lose control of this. Boothill’s behaving, yes, letting Argenti explore, but one wrong move and he will take over again. So, instead Argenti drags his fingers higher, chases the edge of each raised plate. They shiver under his touch, pulling in before settling back into place. When Argenti lifts his head, rests his chin on Boothill’s pec, the other’s eyes are dark, red target locked on him. Argenti smiles, and Boothill huffs out a breath.
Higher still–he traces the panels that make up Boothill’s shoulders, waits for the other to shift his weight so he can slide higher. His neck, the back of it–another port. Concentric rings with contact plates tucked inside, barely a knuckle deep. Diagnostics, not charging. Argenti touches it anyway. The circle is sensitive from Boothill’s reaction–actively pulling away from the contact. The metal here is thinner–layered over remnant skin, perhaps. Argenti doesn’t linger, though Boothill doesn’t push him away.
No, instead Argenti climbs higher. He straddles Boothill’s waist, tucks his hand under Boothill’s head. His fingers weave into the soft, almost fragile strands of hair, and he scritches his nails lightly over Boothill’s scalp once he’s clear of the metal.
That rips a sound from Boothill–shaky, low. A moan he clearly wasn’t expecting to make, because he cuts it off a second later. When Argenti glances down, Boothill’s teeth are digging into his lower lip–hard enough that blue blood leaks between the points of his teeth.
“Beloved,” Argenti murmurs. He presses a thumb to Boothill’s lower lip, wipes away the blood. “Do not hold yourself back–I would like to know what feels good for you.” He shifts his hips backwards until Boothill’s cock bumps against his back. He lifts, hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pants, and pulls them down a little–enough that when he sits back down, the silicone cock can rub up against his ass properly. A few wiggles of Argenti’s hips, Boothill shifting restlessly under him, then it’s tucked between his cheeks. “Do you like this, or do you prefer my hand? My mouth?”
Boothill’s hips lift jerkily, and a sound catches in his throat. “This’s good,” he grunts out, then his teeth snap shut again. Then, a moment later–“Fudge, ‘genti.”
Argenti kisses him, then–it’s hard not to as he stares up at Argenti with such-reverence in his gaze. Like Argenti’s even close to what Boothill is to him. Argenti’s eyes flick over his face–the blue tinging his cheekbones, the flare of his nose with every rapid pant of breath, the blood staining his lips when Argenti pulls back. Boothill lifts his head, chasing, and Argenti caves easily, melding their mouths once more.
One of Argenti’s hands traces up one of Boothill’s arms, taking in the corded wire and metal plate. They’re smaller here, for precise movement, and Boothill shivers as he gets higher still. His forearms are sensitive by the way that Boothill moves under him, all the way down to his wrists, his fingers where precise touch is so, so integral for his job. Argenti strokes his fingers over Boothill’s metal palms, trails up the inside of each finger in turn, then he breaks the kiss, leans forward, and licks one. He trails his tongue over the tip of Boothill’s finger, glides it down to his palm, then pulls away when Boothill tries to pinch it between two fingers.
Argenti laughs, low and soft, then pulls two fingers into his mouth. He sucks, rubs his tongue against them, watches as Boothill shivers. Boothill opens his mouth, closes it again, applies a little bit of pressure to Argenti’s tongue instead. Delicate, his touch is delicate. For a moment when Argenti pulls back Boothill keeps his grip, holding Argenti in place for a moment. Then he’s letting go, and spit drips slowly down his fingers when Argenti sits back to stare. It eventually reaches the fabric around the rope, darkens it. He pushes his hips back, grinding against the weight of Boothill’s cock, then he’s dropping to kiss Boothill’s cheek.
He lifts his hips, shuffles backwards, sits straddling Boothill’s thighs instead. When he tips forward, Boothill’s cock bumps against his chest but Argenti ignores it in favour of mouthing at the bolts holding Boothill’s chestplate in place. He dips his tongue into the rivets, lathers the plate with spit, chases one gash in the metal down to Boothill’s belly plates. With each inch he lowers himself, he shifts his hips lower until he’s face to face with the nasty scarring on his beloved’s belly. He doesn’t give Boothill the chance to make up another story, just kisses it, leaves a slick mark next to it that will fade as his spit dries down matte again.
When he glances up at Boothill, he’s got his lip caught between sharp teeth again, staring down at Argenti with dark eyes. “Sweetheart,” Boothill bites out, and Argenti presses a kiss to his belly again.
“You know what you need to say to stop me,” Argenti response with a hum, and when Boothill’s teeth click shut he snorts. “Is it watching me or my touch that has you this worked up?”
A ragged breath in. “Both. Knowin’ what you’re doin’ is… it’s doin a lot for me. An’ then I see you doin’ it.” Boothill wheezes softly, fans spinning fast. Argenti takes pity on him then, drops a hand to glide it up the length of Boothill’s cock. It has the cyborg’s hips kicking up before Argenti shoves them back down again, applying a little bit of pressure to keep them there. Boothill’s breath catches, eyes flickering red then back to grey. “An’ then I can feel… pressure from your hands. Keeps me here with ya.”
Argenti can’t help but reward Boothill’s honesty, kissing the tip of his cock, licking over the carefully moulded head. Heat and pressure, that’s what Boothill’s said he can feel, so Argenti tightens his grip, lets the head sit in the heat of his mouth before dipping lower, taking more. There’s a rattle as Boothill yanks at the ropes but the knot holds firm, keeping Boothill at his mercy. The end of the rope still sits in one clenched hand, and Boothill doesn’t free himself, just tugs again with a hoarse sound as Argenti pins his hips and drags up until the tip of his cock sits against his lower lip.
Boothill is acting on instinct, body shifting like he’s not made of metal and carbon fibre. Fluid, easy rolls of his hips counterpoint the restless stir of his legs under Argenti, stalled only by Argenti keeping him pinned down to the mattress. “And this?” Argenti prompts as his fingers trail down, following the silicone back to rub against the hole there. “Tell me, beloved, how does this feel?” He presses one finger inside, scraping lightly over the dry silicone, before pulling it free again. He sticks it in his mouth, swirling his tongue over his own finger until it’s wet enough to slide in with the lightest push on his second attempt.
Boothill’s breath catches, but he doesn’t respond until Argenti bullies another finger inside, prompts with a soft hum.
“Ahh-good,” he startles, eyes flitting across Argenti’s face. “Just—warm, an’ I can feel where—” he cuts off on a shaky breath when Argenti curls his fingers, pressing them into the walls of the silicone. His pretty lashes flutter, then his eyes are rolling back, breath heaving as he comes sharp and sudden. There’s no body reaction, not anymore, but his mouth goes slack and his eyes go dark for a moment and Argenti smiles against the head of his cock and waits him out.
Another ragged breath, then the third, and Boothill blinks a few times in rapid succession. “Sorry,” he wheezes, and Argenti tuts softly at him.
“For what, beloved? This is for you, and I want to see your pleasure.”
Purple flushes over Boothill’s cheeks and his eyes slide away, then return like he’s forcing himself to look. “I like making you feel good,” Argenti reiterates. “That—you, coming—is a compliment to me.”
Boothill huffs, but he doesn’t argue for once in his life, eyes flickering over Argenti’s face. “If y’sure, Red,” Boothill rumbles, and the furrow normally between his brows is smoothed out. Argenti huffs right back at him and presses Boothill’s cock into his mouth in lieu of responding verbally.
Boothill’s second orgasm rolls through him mere minutes later as Argenti gags on the silicone cock, three fingers deep in his hole. He lets out a shocked little whine and Argenti’s eyes flick up to him immediately, breathing hard through his nose as he watches blue flicker over Boothill’s retinas, watches as it takes him longer to recover, this time. “Shirt,” Boothill wheezes, sagging against the rope, one heel hooking over Argenti’s leg to bump against his ass. “Are ya tryin’ to kill me?”
Argenti presses down on his cock until the head bullies up against the back of his throat, suppressing a gag by the skin of his teeth. The pressure has Boothill’s whole body twitching this time, heel skittering across the bed as the other digs into Argenti. “‘Genti,” he says, but when he doesn’t continue Argenti does it again, and again until his body accepts the intrusion, relaxes around the cock in his throat. He swallows, watches Boothill’s eyes get wide, does it again as spit drips from the corners of his lips. Boothill nudges his ass again and it presses Argenti forward into the bed—he realises with a ragged inhale through his nose that he’s dripping wet, pressed up against the mattress. Argenti can’t help himself, hips hitching once, twice, until he’s moaning brokenly around the silicone and Boothill’s gasping under him. “Don’t waste it on the bed,” Boothill gets out, raspy. “C’mon, Red, sit on me, I want you to.”
That’s what Argenti’s been waiting for—the explicit invitation, Boothill wanting something more than just wanting to make Argenti happy. His fingers slide free with a wet squelch, and he gasps for breath when he lifts his head, hand fumbling for the space around him until—
The bottle of lubricant is cold against his fingers, all but hidden in the folds of their bed. When he sits back, clicks it open, Boothill’s laugh is muffled, turned into his bicep. He’s too rational, Argenti decides. One arm hooks under Boothill’s leg, lifts until the cyborg is all but folded in half, until Argenti can lick at the damp hole directly. There, he lingers, working his tongue in as Boothill barks out a surprised yelp, as his feet cross behind Argenti’s shoulders. “‘Genti!”
Argenti moans against Boothill’s body. Restless energy rolls through him, fingers shaking where they grip Boothill’s leg, eyes flicking all over Boothill as he works his tongue deeper. Boothill’s watching him, eyes wide, reticule a steady red now as he locks in. Feeling Boothill like this, seeing Boothill let him do this, it’s heady, almost beating out Argenti’s original purpose in being between Boothill’s legs. But, no, this is all about his beloved, the cowboy who hasn’t truly let himself feel all this time. So he reaches behind himself, slips a finger inside himself, breath shuddering against Boothill as he opens under the pressure. Argenti’s a lot less careful with himself than he is with Boothill—one finger quickly turns into two, discomfort curling into pleasure quickly enough as his hips hitch back into the pressure of his own digits. Three fingers, then four. Spread them wide. Shudder, breath catching. Then he’s reaching for the lube again and smearing it up Boothill’s cock. He lingers when Boothill shudders, stares when Boothill’s eyes slip closed, then regretfully pulls away from his soft hole to straddle Boothill’s hips.
“My silver cowboy,” Argenti murmurs, and that has Boothill’s eyes opening again, lashes low, staring up at him. Needy, he’s gotten past Boothill’s barriers and it’s wondrous to see him so needy, at Argenti’s mercy. A grind of his hips, Boothill’s cock slipping past the wet divot of Argenti’s hole. Another, the head catching this time, Boothill shivering as his mouth falls open. Pressure, Argenti reminds himself. Pressure, and heat. “Don’t hold back.” Argenti licks his lips, takes an unsteady breath. “I’m yours.”
With that, he reaches back, fits the head of Boothill’s cock to himself, and sinks down, slow. He’d rushed the prep and Boothill feels massive, but Argenti just breathes in a ragged breath and forces his eyes to stay open as he works himself down bit by bit.
Boothill’s mouth pops open, lips wet and smeared with blood. His teeth glint in the low light, head kicking back to expose the soft hollow of his throat and the raw scarring above the metal. His ass has barely met the metal of Boothill’s thighs when Boothill moans in a shaky, grating way, eyes rolling back as a shiver rolls through him—all of him. Aeons, he’s so beautiful like this, Argenti thinks. A true gift, something only Idrila could have fashioned for Argenti. A gift for his devout following, surely. Boothill’s chin twitches up, then back down as he blinks rapidly. The blue tinge in his retinas lingers this time, fading slowly with each ragged breath he takes. “‘Genti,” he says, licks his lips like even that was a struggle. His hands tug weakly against the ropes, and for a moment Argenti considers freeing him. But—he knows that the second he does, Boothill will be rolling them, focused on Argenti when that was never the plan. So Argenti leans down to kiss him instead, licking into his slack mouth.
A moan, music to Argenti’s ears. scratchy and raw, all the more beautiful for it. He lifts his hips, grinds back down as Boothill twitches under him. “Boothill,” he murmurs. “Beloved.” A gasp, Boothill’s chin tilting up into Argenti’s kiss, and Argenti trails his mouth lower. Across the sharp line of Boothill’s jaw, nipping at the soft skin just above the metal, leaving a mark just because he can. There’s no hiding it either, and they both know it—Boothill’s hips jerk up into him and Argenti bites back a sound, quivers over Boothill.
“Love you,” Boothill rasps, head tilting back. “My knight. My Rosey.” He sounds almost delirious, breath rattling in, artificial pulse thumping hard under Argenti’s mouth. Argenti rides him like he knows best—tight circles of his hips, keeping Boothill deep, lifting only to drop back on him and get his cock deeper still.
Normally, Boothill is as resilient as he is. Normally Boothill can outlast Argenti’s weak human limits, can have Argenti whimpering and shaking before he’s even halfway done. This time, this time Boothill’s writhing under him, restless and wanting under the pressure of Argenti over him, forced to experience everything he’s being given.
Boothill shudders, and his eyes flash even through his lowered lids, They flicker red, then blue, and Argenti feels the way he sags. Boothill’s breath leaves him in a shaky gasp, then his lips are parting and he’s gone, lashes fluttering and displaying the blue and white error messages of his cybernetics giving out.
Argenti leans forward, biting his lip at the pressure shift, and tugs the quick-release on the ropes at Boothill’s wrists. The knots come undone easily, and he links his fingers with Boothill, petting the fine metal plats of his knuckles as his systems reboot.
It doesn’t take long—Boothill gasps as he comes online again, eyes flickering red before settling back to grey. “Aeons, Red,” he huffs, hands flexing. It takes him longer to realise his hands are free, squeezing Argenti’s hands in his own almost absently before he blinks once, twice, and grabs Argenti’s hips. “The things you do t’me,” Boothill says, voice scratching, hoarse.
Argenti smiles, wider than before, and flexes his hips just to watch Boothill’s lashes flutter. “Don’t tap out now,” Argenti responds, and Boothill’s responding laugh is hoarse. The world shifts, just like he’d expected it to, and his back hits the mattress a moment later, one of Boothill’s hands leaving his empty to grab his waist.
“Mmh, no, it’s yer turn,” Boothill says, and Argenti drags him into a kiss.