Just a sweet and sappy piece of Argenti rubbing Boothill's belly.
Kink Fic; Don't Like, don't read
Here’s to the usual disclaimers -
> I do not play HSR.
> I do not watch playthroughs of HSR.
> I do not usually look at the HSR wiki.
+ A fair amount of handwaving cybernetic vs. organic functionality.
Yeahhhhhh this took me a while to write, and I'm mildly disappointed in myself for being unable to get it to at least 1k words, BUT it was very enjoyable to write, so worth it to be honest.
@nai-z4ro-0ne hey so you inspired me to start writing this a while ago. Feel like you'd like to know.
Fic below the read line, in case if one doesn't wish to access Ao3.
“Gentle, gentle, darlin’,” Boothill huffs from his position lying before Argenti, his tummy groaning and creaking beneath the knight’s palm. Although he can’t truly feel how stuffed full he is, the frequency of his sensors going off is enough to give him a passable impression of how it should feel.
It’s in that distant sort of way where they can’t precisely replicate the feelings pressed by entirely organic nerves, but still give enough of a ‘feeling’ for him to perceive with his past experience and memories.
He shuts his eyes at a particularly harsh, scraping groan, absentmindedly moving one hand to rest against his rounded middle. Compared to its usual state, the term definitely applies — even if it, compared to wholly organic bodies, is not very different from a typical belly’s size. Cybernetics and the lesser need for internal organs, he supposes. Not that he’s an expert on that stuff.
“Of course, my dear cowboy.”
Boothill feels Argenti’s hand press against his for a couple of seconds before the other moves back to rubbing the doubtlessly cold metal of his abdomen. He can tell that edges occasionally catch along seam lines, in minuscule tugs that thankfully don’t upset the presently iffy balance of his internals.
He reopens his eyes when a warmth is pressed against his forehead — Argenti’s lips, he finds. Tilting his head up slightly, he uses his previously free hand to catch a wisp of the other’s silken soft hair. Though, he doesn’t do anything more than hold it, as his eyes are caught and held by a pale green that reminds him of nobles’ fancy jewelry pieces, that is the color of the knight’s very own pair of eyes.
Well, caught until a slight increase in pressure around what should be his navel has the plates creaking tightly mere seconds before a short, quiet burp takes him by surprise.
“‘Genti, that’s not really, hah, gentle-” He chuckles marginally, slipping into a sort of breathless, exasperated huff when Argenti silences him with another actually gentle kiss, this time right upon his lips.
“You’re so beautiful, beloved,” Argenti murmurs the moment he pulls away, clearly unable to keep his own lips shut on the matter for very long. At first, Boothill had ardently denied words like those — he’s one of the furthest things from ‘beautiful’, after all — but, well, it’s a bit difficult to keep denying something that’s said with such pure honesty multiple times each day. Doesn’t mean he completely believes it, of course — just that he doesn’t entirely disbelieve it anymore.
He willingly shifts his head into the knight’s palm when it comes wandering near his face, softly exhaling at the overall pleasant sensation of both the feeling and warmth of skin-on-skin contact. Just about the only area he can truly feel contact-based warmth from anymore, yet he will likely always publicly deny how much he craves its continuation. Privately, though, he’d prefer to refuse to let go for as long as possible.
“And you’re a tease.”
Generally compliant as he is now, Boothill doesn’t resist at all when Argenti interlaces the fingers of their parallel hands together. He just merely sighs and readjusts, pulling a leg closer to his torso with but a soft groan as the culmination of movement reminds him of his internals’ current state. “Don’ know why I thought letting you do that would feel any fudging different than previous times.”
“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” Argenti inquires softly, a tinge of worry furrowing its way into his facial expression as the pads of his interlaced fingers dance along Boothill’s knuckles.
“Never really — it’s just… a bit uncomfortable, I’d say.”
“Well that’s little good, now,” Argenti’s worried expression only eases a bit with the other’s response, and he pulls his interlaced hand away to once again gently rub at Boothill’s belly.
Boothill himself releases the strands of Argenti’s hair that he had caught before, just to drop his hand carefully upon the crest of his tummy with a light exhale. It really isn’t anything more than an uncomfortable feeling, and besides that he has been slowly getting used to the sensation of being… fuller than he usually is, on the occasion that Argenti requests for a little indulgence, as the Knight likes to call the moments.
“Beautiful,” Argenti murmurs again, with reverence that it sometimes feels like is exclusively for his goddess and Boothill himself, and the galaxy ranger shudders through his systems as he distantly feels the other press his fingers gently against his full belly once more in some semblance of a soothing motion.
Rather than pay attention to what he can feel with his eyes as well, Boothill presses his face as close as is physically possible for him to the hand of Argenti’s that is still cupping one portion of his head.
Though it would burn him to admit it to possibly anyone else, he mumbles something along the lines of “Don’t stop” into Argenti’s palm.
"Where in a certain banker stayed out in the cold snow for a bit to long, and didn't take any measures of keeping himself warm enough during or after that point in time."
Pantalone is only mildly irritated, yet not surprised, when he wakes up shivering heavily, instinctively tugging the comforter further up to tightly wrap around himself. He spends but a minute drowsily trying to blink away the sleep from his eyes before he reaches out from his little cocoon, fumbling around his bedside table for a short moment in search of his glasses.
When he does eventually find them, he pushes himself to leave his bed, rushing to pull on his usual clothes to hopefully stave off the cold a bit. Even when dressed with his usual fur coat, his shivering doesn’t lessen even slightly. However, he doesn’t spare much time to be confused over that - he has a lot of work to catch up on today, considering he had spent far longer than he meant to out in the field the day before.
Instead, he simply reaches into his medicine cabinet to take some basic cold medicine - just in case if he’s actually coming down with something - before moving to migrate to his office. Which is, unfortunately, relatively the same temperature as the rest of Zapolyarny Palace, but there’s not much he can do for that besides make sure the windows are shuttered and the fireplace lit.
Those two, of course, are the things he does first upon reaching said office of his. He struggles longer than usual with lighting the fire though, his hands trembling from shivers as he tries to light a match, but soon enough there’s a steady fire going to hopefully warm the room up at least a bit.
Looking over at his desk, Pantalone quietly sighs to himself and organizes a few things throughout the room before finally sitting down, pulling over one of the papers from yesterday that he missed due to his outing.
“Regrator, I have a proposition!”
Il Dottore - the Prime, this time around - slams the door open, grinning widely from a combination of his new, phenomenal idea - of which he’s going to need funding for, of course; why else would he be here? - and having completely terrified the guard standing outside the room prior to bursting in as he has just done.
When he actually catches sight of the other Harbinger, he frowns at the absolute lack of any sort of cutting retort, as the other usually tends to do. Instead, the Ninth seems to be staring down blankly at a sheet of paper - probably some nonsensical monetary report, maybe the Eleventh spent ten million mora on a meal in Liyue again!
The Doctor strides towards Pantalone, curiously leaning down to catch his eye once he’s close. They’re glassy, which is certainly an odd deviation from how the banker usually presents himself. Always so fastidious about himself, from his appearance to his evident attention - most of the Harbingers know to simply come to him if they missed something in a recent meeting; even Tartaglia, the youngest and easily the most naive of them all, has learned how to be roundabout in netting any required information during one of the Ninth’s heretic rants.
Disregarding that matter for the moment though, Dottore’s frown only deepens when Pantalone snaps out of his little haze, the man barely moving beyond the shivers he’s been under this entire time, as well as slightly rotating his head to look at Dottore.
“You were… quick today, Dottore..” He fully scowls when the man struggles to pick up his pen - it’s just a pen, and an easy one to hold, at that! - reaching out to stop the Regrator from moving any further. He recoils slightly when he feels how cold Pantalone is - just slightly, for his lab is also rather freezing, though he certainly didn’t expect to feel that same relative temperature on the skin of his dear banker - but doesn’t stop holding his wrist. Cold, very cold; shivering; clearly disoriented and tired; an inability to easily grab onto things..
“Ignorant imbecile,” Dottore sighs, tugging Pantalone’s chair away from his desk. The Doctor ignores the other’s belated protests as he hoists him up into his arms - for all the Ninth tries to struggle, it’s a rather pathetic attempt, as he doesn’t even cause Dottore any issue as he carries him out of his office - once again scaring the guard stationed outside it half to death.
Rather than bring him to his lab - which certainly won’t be any help at all, not with how cold it is in there - Dottore takes Pantalone over to one of the warmest rooms in the palace, second only to the gardens and installed by the very banker within his arms. Who, it seems, has given up on trying to get down and has instead resorted to occasionally - yet weakly - attempting to punch him. Which, of course, does nothing in regards to freeing him.
When they’re almost there, Pantalone sighs quietly and completely gives up in any escape attempts. Dottore grins and immediately deposits him onto the couch, pulling a blanket over him with all the flourish that is expected of one of his younger segments - a bit too energetic for anyone else to deal with; not that he cares, of course.
“Stay right here, Regrator, and I shall be back!”
He cackles as he strides off towards the kitchen, leaving the freezing banker to uncomfortably doze, shivers wracking his body as he absentmindedly fumbles with pulling the blanket closer to himself. It takes a long time for him to even think of responding, and even with no one else around to hear he sounds pathetic.
“As if I can even move..”
It hasn’t been long enough for the Doctor to finish whatever-it-is he’s doing in the kitchen before somebody else disturbs Pantalone, as he feels something heavy, yet warm, drop onto him - nigh on knocking the breath out of his body - and someone sits next to him.
Blearily opening his eyes, he glances to his right and only gets slightly startled at the hulking form of Capitano, who is supposedly staring right at him - not that he can really tell, considering the Captain’s helm and its solid darkness. But, it is pointed in his direction, and it’s generally the thought that counts anyway.
“Regrator.”
“C-Captain.” Mentally, Pantalone curses his shivering, as his teeth chatter lightly.
“You’re cold.”
“Maybe so, yes.”
The silence that comes after their very brief conversation is a comfortable one, rather unlike most silences that Pantalone has with his other fellow Harbingers - those silences tend to be rather awkward, full of words that none of them will say. Mostly because they’re either spiteful ones that need not be stated within their positions, or terms that need not be said for already being known and understood.
Of course, that’s not to say that there aren’t outliers, but Pantalone prefers to put Dottore and Tartaglia into their own little group, rather than factor them into his internal comparisons.
He’s startled out of his thoughts when Capitano places a surprisingly warm hand on his head, effectively mussing up his hair. Hesitating, he eventually just sighs and burrows deeper into his blanket - and apparently Capitano’s coat, too - cocoon. If today’s the day that everyone decides to be all touchy-feely with him, then what power does he have to stop them; especially considering he can’t even hold a pen, for Tsaritsa’s sake!
While Pantalone begins to lightly doze again, the Captain keeps a hand on his head, and they remain like that even when Dottore returns. With more blankets. And a steaming cup.
Pantalone grunts when Dottore haphazardly drops all of the blankets onto him, leaving either him or Capitano to figure out placements - more likely Capitano, since the doctor then shoves the steaming cup - of tea, apparently. He didn’t realize that Dottore could make tea without burning the water - into the Ninth’s hands; when he protests due to the heat, said doctor merely replies, in false cheer, “Good to hear that you’re more aware, dear Regrator! Now, drink up!”
“I-”
“Drink.”
Pantalone sighs, but does as ordered with obvious reluctance, only to immediately let a grimace cross his face the moment the liquid touches his tongue.
“It’s scalding,” he complains, holding the cup away from himself with all the delicacy of the rich, picky banker that he is.
“And you’re freezing.” Dottore shoves it back at him, nearly causing it to spill over him. At this point, Capitano finally reaches over to put a hand between them, plucking the cup from Pantalone’s hands to spend a brief burst of cryo energy - courtesy of his vision - in order to cool the cup slightly. Only slightly, so that it’ll still be hot, but not so much that Pantalone would have to burn his tongue.
“Drink the tea,” he commands, handing the cup back to the banker - who carefully takes it in his hands and does as asked, only to be pleasantly surprised at how the tea is, in fact, no longer burn-his-tongue hot.
“Oh, so you’ll willingly obey the Captain, but not me, the literal Doctor. I see how it is.” Dottore openly sulks, laying it on thick as he sits on the coffee table without a care for how dirtied he’s making it. However, he squawks in a completely undignified - when did he ever have proper dignity, though? - manner when he’s abruptly plucked up off of said table and set on one of the many plush armchairs spread throughout the room. He cranes his head up at the first chance to glare at Capitano, for who else would have done that?
Of course, his glare isn’t as effective as it could’ve been, considering his mask, but it’s thought that counts - or, at least, that’s what Pantalone always says.
Once they’re a bit apart, though, both the Regrator and the Doctor finally stop sniping at each other. As Pantalone quietly sips at his drink, buried under at least half a dozen blankets, Dottore pulls out a small chaos core and begins to fiddle around with it - pulling it apart and rearranging it - and Capitano silently heaves a sigh of relief from having nipped that small argument in the bud.
