#aguilareye

[predvestnik]

bites then licks Ajax’s cheek like popsicle 💕

nobody even think to save him, he's exactly where he wants to be and any attempt to remove him from this situation will warrant a duel to the death - and he plans to stay alive for more of this, so be warned.

[sevenwxshes]

My muse runs their fingers along your muse’s wrist absentmindedly, tracing slow, lazy circles. 👀

Contact wasn't something he had as often as people may think, much less was he ever out of his armor in the face of company, much less were his hands not guarded by cloth and steel alike the rest of his figure. His arms ached something fierce from the strenuous activities, and the warmth accumulated upon his flesh instead of the natural warmth that clung to him was not helping. Wearing the armor without the cloth to keep it from rubbing his skin raw, however, was not an option. He'd forgotten entirely that this day, he was not the only one upon The One and Only, all but sinking against the couch in the living space of the large ship. His eyes closed as he instead breathes, each breath drawn out and slow as the cold air fills his warm figure, soothing. It's for that reason, he doesn't realize the other's touch at first upon his wrist, until his fingers move and emerald hues snap open, darting to look in the Galaxy Ranger's direction. One of the few that he would let wander these halls without having the ship monitor their steps, to keep his chamber room locked, in a few company did he leave the doors open. Boothill was one of them because the man would never dare to stab him in the back; it would serve no purpose. Instead, the other, in his own way, unexplainably kept meeting him, over and over, as if the very aeons kept pushing their paths to cross time and time again. He would never look upon such a gift and never be grateful, while the other was much more savage, much more wild than he could ever be. As long as his duty remained, there was a freedom to the man that he himself dared to wonder what it was like. To run freely, uncaring, unwilling to be bound down by the shackles he snared himself with.

Instead, he watches as steel fingers slowly trace along glistening flesh, small traces remaining of how much of a sweat he'd worked up before taking a shower in an attempt to beat the heat. What seems to have the cowboy's attention more than anything is the myriad of scars that run along his knuckles, the deep jagged grooves in his flesh that run upwards across his wrists. His normal appearance never would show the grizzled figure beneath, the way muscles ripple with the other's touch. His gaze remains unwavering, almost unblinking, as the cyborg continues.

Perhaps the reason he doesn't find himself shivering in discomfort is due to the fact that his hands, cold steel, feel just like his armor, the very thing that sheltered him, protected him, and comforted him with its weight. There is a tension that lingers in the air, rising from something he isn't sure of, but his voice feels like it's dropped a few octaves, forgoing the pleasant sweetness to instead whisper, in a voice more subdued, as if he'd awoken from slumber only recently. A peek beyond the veil as the curtain is drawn back, his words so raw, he doesn't doubt that it is felt in the air. "Is it disappointing to your expectations, my dear silver cowboy?"

[ccaptain]

bites and chews on Kaeya’s cheek like taffy 💕

OH MY GOD..... THE CHEWENING IS HAPPENING -- @aguilareye

    ' A! ' He's familiar with this treatment! Boothill is a biter, and Kaeya's cheeks are irresistible... scenting of cinnamon and vanilla-scented baking powder... oh, he's just a very biteable morsel of a wife, that he is.

    He giggles and wraps his arms around his beloved robohusband, making not a single move to stop the cannibalization of himself. Instead, he's purring from the center of his chest like an happy cat, his smile a little deformed and his cheek already developing the indents of sharp teeth.

   The survival instinct of a cabbage.

[mendakium]

@aguilareye ⊹ prompt ⊹ "What if they kissed?" 👀🫱🏼 Skirk perhaps?

             skirk doesn't mind alcohol. It does little for her and its edge is always dull, making it a passable offer; a tolerable indulgence at best, one that barely grazes her senses.

Yet, when it's taken directly off Boothill's tongue, she finds it shows a sharpness it could never on its own.

How's the view, Lone Star? His voice is low and warmer than whiskey, it lingers on her ears the same as the taste of him on her palate. At this distance, she catches the muted scent of smoke in his breath when he speaks, and a faint mechanical whir in his chest when he chuckles. Reckon most people avoid peekin'.

Traces of a smirk pull at Boothill's lips and hide beneath the softer shadows of the hair framing his face. Skirk doesn't mirror it, nor does she wish to see it dim. Before doubt can creep in to smother it under her reserved appreciation, her hand raises to cup his cheek and brush the rogue strands out of the way, tucked between her artificial fingers as if deliberately threaded through her hold so the light may reveal his smile again.

When she looks now, her gaze drifts downward rather than meeting the blazing intensity of his or searching all the ways his war paint can define defiance and perseverace. She watches the fresh glistening of his lips instead, something as intimate as the evidence of her on him, and her thumb strokes just beneath them, tracing their shape unhurriedly, while her other hand moves across his chest plate toward his shoulder. ❝ ...Just carry on. ❞ The more she has of him, the more she realizes the bite of alcohol itself will always disappoint in comparison.

So her eyes flutter shut, her touch hovering at his cheek as she draws him in, letting the kiss to be hers to begin this time.

[aequitaes]

✧ sender challenges receiver to a drinking game.

↳ for aventurine, from boothill

 ❝  That’s  a  bold  move,  cowboy.  ❞   Aventurine  let  the  words  roll  off  his  tongue  like  he  was  savoring  them,  leaning  back  into  the  chair  he’d  claimed  as  if  it  were  a  throne  rather  than  a  bar  stool.  One  leg  crossed  over  the  other;  his  elbow  propped  lazily  on  the  table;  he  looked  every  bit  the  man  who  had  already  decided  the  outcome  of  this  little  contest.  The  dim  light  caught  on  the  gold  at  his  collar  and  the  sharper  glint  in  his  eyes;  calculating,  entertained,  already  three  steps  ahead.

He  didn’t  drink  often;  not  because  he  couldn’t,  but  because  he  refused  to  let  his  guard  slip  for  anyone  who  hadn’t  earned  the  privilege.  Liquor  dulled  the  edges  he  relied  on.  It  made  people  sloppy,  sentimental,  honest.  Aventurine  preferred  to  watch  others  fall  into  those  traps,  not  tumble  into  them  himself.

Still…  tonight  wasn’t  the  usual  battlefield.  Boothill  wasn’t  the  usual  company.  And  the  bottle  between  them  wasn’t  the  usual  threat.  He  shifted,  settling  more  comfortably  into  his  seat,  fingers  tapping  once  against  the  rim  of  his  glass.   ❝  But  a  few  drinks  won’t  kill  me,  ❞   he  mused,  tone  light,  almost  indulgent.   ❝  Might  even  be  fun.  ❞   The  Stoneheart’s  gaze  flicked  up  to  Boothill;  sharp,  appraising,  amused.  The  kind  of  look  that  said  he  was  already  wagering  something  in  his  head.

 ❝  But  let’s  make  it  worth  our  while,  hm?  ❞   Aventurine’s  voice  dipped  into  that  velvet-smooth  cadence  he  used  when  deals  were  being  made,  when  stakes  were  being  set.   ❝  What’s  the  bet?  ❞   He  wasn’t  asking  because  he  needed  incentive;  he  was  asking  because  he  wanted  to  see  what  Boothill  would  put  on  the  table,  what  the  cowboy  thought  was  equal  to  the  risk  of  losing  to  him.  Was  this  going  to  be  a  simple  test  of  who  stayed  upright  the  longest,  or  a  reckless  descent  into  who  could  drown  themselves  in  liquor  before  collapsing  and  needing  to  be  dragged  to  a  bed?  Perhaps  the  anticipation  was  the  most  thrilling  part  of  it  all…

[vvaeritas]

@aguilareye: Boothill takes Argenti’s hand the way a gunslinger takes hold of fate, sure-fingered, a little reckless, and gleaming with danger. The cowboy pulls Argenti close and his metal arm slips around the knight's waist. Boothill can see Argenti's confusion and he grins, all mischief and warm promise. “Hold on now, sweetheart. Trust me," is all the warning Boothill gives before he sweeps Argenti back into a deep dip, graceful as a falling comet and their lips meet; warm, fierce, and sweet. A kiss that tastes of devotion and dust trails, of chivalry meeting wild freedom head-on. Is that lion prince around? -v-

   Argenti may be puzzled, sure- but not distrustful, never so: the deep trust they have in eachother is something forged in battle, in company, in coming to eachother's aid and offering comfort when eeded. The hold over his hand is so sure, so steady, that he wouldn't question it in a million years even if they were strangers. But the knight knows the gunslinger: Boothill would never seek to humiliate him, or do him long-lasting harm; sure as the air he breathes. '' I trust you, of course, '' he says, simple and with a curious smile, letting himself be dragged into the playful antics that characterize his dear silver cowboy.

   Metal-plated hand comfortably, familiarily splays on equally metal-made chest for a bit of purchase, and the small, questioning '' hmm? '' is swallowed by Boothill's mouth on his.

   His eyes widen, rightfully taken by surprise at the boldness of it- there's no resistance that he opposes, something warm coiling in his stomach like a purring, satisfied cat. This feels just- this feels right. It feels like the culmination of something they both wanted, and that Argenti was always too chivalrous, too proper to initiate not in fear of rejection, but out of pure politeness. It's good that Boothill is the impolite one- this seems like a step forward for them.

   His lashes flutter shut, lips slotting better against the cowboy's one as he melts into the loving gesture, fingers curling into the short jacket just above the emblems of Boothill's valor to tug him in, closer, a little noise of genuine enjoyment slipping past their locked mouths, past fingers sneaking into long, silky hair to keep the cyborg close, not let the moment break for a while longer. A mute plea for some more, some more contact.

   ( If, at some point, Boothill realized that rose petals are cascading around them, well… those seem to be a common theme of Argenti. But, surely, he knows by now. )

   It's the one of the two that still need to breath that breaks it, crimson locks spilling past his shoulders and matching the flush on fair, wide-eyed face. It takes him a small moment to part slighty swollen lips into a soft laugh, unmistikably fond, mellowed out by possibly the best mischief hes ever been graced him with. '' You never cease to amaze me, Boothill, '' he murmurs, low and intimate, and so sure of how rightful pressing his forehead to his dear silver cowboy's one does.

   '' Would you grace me with another kiss? ''

[fancoria]

@aguilareye / small rappa thing.

"Silvergun Shura!" Rappa gently hugged his metal body. She hadn't seen him in ages, especially now with so much going on and them both busy in different corners of the cosmos. They finally had some free time, and the woman couldn't help but express her joy.

"We'll go for a drink and you can tell me everything." Finally, her hands left him; instead, she rudely took his hat from his head and placed it over her own. "Payback for abandoning me."

[inibicion]

“Well, now… what do we have here?” The words slithered past his lips, laced with amusement, eyes gleaming coldly behind the ornate mask. His boots crunched against the gravel, slow, deliberate, and deafening in the stillness. Each step seemed to echo a little too loudly, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Even the wildlife had the sense to flee when Il Dottore took an interest. It was the quiet that preceded the revelation. The stillness before an incision. His presence was a scalpel in and of itself - sharp, precise, and made to peel back layers not meant to be seen.

His gaze swept the area, not out of caution, but calculation. Whatever had drawn his attention here was no trivial matter. Curiosity was a dangerous thing in the hands of a man like him, because once Dottore was curious, he would not stop until every question had an answer… no matter the cost.

“Tell me - is there any part of you still human?” A question too direct to be polite, too calculated to be idle. Social graces were tools, not obligations—and he only used them when they served a purpose. This inquiry, however, was not made out of mockery or even cruelty. It was something far more dangerous: curiosity. It was personal, yes. Intimate, even. The kind of question that peeled skin from bone, metaphorically - or otherwise. It tread the fragile line between offence and obsession, but to him, it was clinical. Academic. Relevant. He needed to know.

After all, it was a question he himself had faced more times than he cared to count - spoken in awe, whispered in fear, spat in revulsion. Are you still human, Dottore? What are you?

And what answer had ever satisfied them?

Flesh and blood - yes. Clones and segments - certainly. But humanity? That was always the part they questioned. He didn't mind. Let them talk. Let them speculate. Their fear was a tool, their confusion, a gift. Morality, ethics, sentimentality - frivolous detritus, all of it. He had discarded those things long ago. There was only the pursuit. The question. The truth beneath the skin. And if the world could not keep up with his pace, then it would simply be dissected and rebuilt - correctly this time.

@aguilareye