Synopsis: Boothill's a mother hen and you just so happen to be the object of his moderately concealed affections. It's a shame that you also have a knack for making him worry over you.
Or: You get drunk and Boothill comes to pick you up
A/N: idk, this one's kinda ass. this was supposed to be a drabble but ended up spiralling and went over 1k so then im morally obligated to call it a fic and not a drabble or ficlet
Tags: Boothill x GN! reader, friends to lovers (kinda), implied slowburn (its really not), modern AU, banter
Warnings: Brief mentions of throwing up , potentially ooc sorry
wc: 1,4k
Boothill worries. He can't help it, now can he? He grew up on a dadgum farm! He had to watch the sheep, look after the horses and keep an eye on the hooligans – younger and older – that he was (un)fortunate enough to call his siblings. It's only natural that after a lifetime of taking care of others, those habits would linger.
His friends – okay, everyone he knew – liked to call him a mother hen. His siblings said he was just like Graey, fussing and making sure someone doesn't end up banging their head against an electrical pole or get their leg chewed off by one of the rez dogs.
And alright, yeah. Boothill was also a fucking hypocrite. He'd be drinking enough whiskey to put any sane person into a coma but he'd also monitor everybody else's alcohol intake like a hawk. Sure, he'll be driving very a bit recklessly and you'll be in the passenger seat, muttering prayers to whatever deity you think may listen, but! He'll also practically yell in your ear if you go just a teeny tiny bit over the speed limit.
"Dammit, are ya tryna get us all killed?!" Boothill barks in your ear.
"With the way you're yelling in my ear, I have never been more tempted to," you answer with a glare.
"Woah there, firecracker. No need t'blow up on me," he chuckles, all gruff and warm and so fucking endearingly stupid that you really do contemplate driving into the truck in front just to put yourself out of this misery.
"I promise you, I can and will punch you if you don't shut the fuck up and let me drive," you grit through your teeth.
"Tch." Boothill sucks his teeth. "Some driver ya are. Any good host and driver worth their salt can keep up a conversation and drive with their damn eyes closed."
Your friends in the backseat only sigh. Every interaction between you and Boothill was agonizing to watch. He had a knack for getting on your nerves and you had a knack for making his mother-hen tendencies flare up.
It was a deadly combo, combined with the fact that the two of you had such obvious crushes on one another but were too emotionally constipated to properly show it.
On second thought, maybe a car crash that kills everyone isn't such a bad idea after all, your friends silently agree.
Anywho, the point is that Boothill, for all his flaws and infuriatingly cute habits and mannerisms, cared a lot. And it pissed you off to no end as it left you all too vulnerable to the whims of this godawful crush. Far too many nights were spent with you groaning into your pillow and morosely scrolling through his Insta, staring at the small dimples that appeared with every smile and the way certain locks of his hair would curl and frame his pretty face.
As it happens, Boothill wasn't faring much better either. He liked you. A lot. And he had already spent weeks beating himself up over it, feeling like a loser because who the hell falls in love with one of their best friends? That too someone who he clearly believed to be way out of his league. Yeah... nope. He can't do this. He cares too much about you and has gotten to the point where he debates subtly engraving your initials to the underside of his beloved hat.
Hopeless. Dumb dumb idiot dumb.
Salvation comes in the form of a party. Much to your disappointment delight, Boothill couldn't come for once. Everyone was thoroughly surprised since he was usually the first to say he'll go. But as it happens, he's come down with a cold and doesn't want to make it any better by recklessly drinking the night away. That's what he says though you hypothesize it's because his sister and her wife will be visiting the following day and he doesn't want word to get back to his parents that he's been partying too hard and sit through another 3 hour lecture.
But hey, you're no expert on the cowboy. You just happen to know a bit of this and that about a friend. That's all.
The party was good though. Decent. It would've been nicer if Boothill was there to make a fool out of himself, you surmise, but it wasn't the worse and hey! The drinks were good and didn't cost an arm and a liver for once. Shame, you'd been hoping to get even with Boothill for often covering your tab.
"how many drinks have ya had?? somethin tells me that im about 2b spammed with shitty selfies of ya"
Speak of the devil and he doth appear. In your phone, at least.
You squint at the screen, sipping on your… Eh, who cares about how many drinks you've had?
Well, Boothill apparently did.
"whats it to u???" You type back.
"Jus checkin in on ya. lord knows youre enough to send anyone into an early grave"
"right well im find"
"finne*"
"finland*"
"finn*"
"its alright. take yer time, darlin"
You glare at your screen before switching it off. Jerk. You're perfectly fine. It's not your fault that autocorrect decided now was the perfect time to commit suicide, nor was it your fault that the letters on your phone apparently had twins and appeared double. Whatever. The night was still young and they were playing one of your favourite songs now. You're not gonna let some irritating cowboy put a dent in your partying.
Though hours later, you were kinda wishing he was around. The party had ended some time ago and you'd declined your friends' offer to get you home. You lived nearby, there was no need, you'd told them. As drunk as you were, you should be fine, you had said.
Famous last words. Your feet hurt from all the dancing and you've nearly tripped over your own two feet twice now. Thrice, as you trip and bump into a solid wall. You groan, rubbing at your eyes and trying to push yourself upright. Huh.. weird. On second thought, this wall wasn't really that solid. Hard yes, but oddly squishy.
"Darlin', as flattered as I am that ya love my body, I'd rather y'don't squeeze my pecs like that."
You scramble off of him, as if you've been burned.
"The fuck're you doing here?" You glare blearily.
"Rappa texted me," Boothill replies, holding up his phone.
Traitor.
"You shouldn't listen to everything she says, y'know," You mumble. Your body felt oddly warm now. Whether that was from the alcohol or Boothill placing an arm around you to keep you upright, you're not sure. You hope it's the former. "She was drinking a fuckton."
"Yeh an' you and I both know that that gal has superhuman metabolism and never gets moppy," Boothill answers dryly.
"What I wouldn't give for that skill…"
"You an' me both, sugar. You an' me both."
You're about to answer back, something snarky about letting Boothill know that you can walk perfectly fine on your own and don't need his arm around your body, no matter how perfectly it slotted around you or how much you enjoyed leaning against him just a bit. But, he coughs just then. The crunchy kind, where you can hear him rack up all that phlegm and spit it out on the sidewalk.
"What? I told y'all I was sick," Boothill shrugs in response to your disgusted face.
Oh. So he was telling the truth after all.
"Didn't have to come and play babysitter with me if you're sick," You mutter.
I don't want your health to worsen on my account.
"Someone's gotta be responsible 'round here. Gotta make sure y'don't choke when ya end up hurlin' yer guts out in 5 minutes time."
You're more important than some dumb cold.
"No seriously. What if I end up throwing up on you and you get sicker and die and then I'll have your blood on my hands?"
You feel something press against your forehead. Soft and refreshingly cool due to the metal rings that pierced the tender flesh. You close your eyes and tell yourself that it's only the rain. It's only the rain kissing your skin and guiding you back home.
"If that happens, I'll be sure to haunt yer sorry ass 'til y'go insane and join me," Boothill murmurs.
Been craving a comfort fic, but I thought it’d be nice to indulge in comfort for both the reader and Boothill on the topic of touch starvation, after all the only human part of him left is his head, and I’d imagine he’d yearn to feel the same things he once did, but also wanted something more reader focused too as physical touch is a craving of mine and I’d honestly love to just get a hug from this man. You can go in any direction with this! That’s just what I’d love it to be based on, little bit nervous for asking…( ՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞ )
Face Masks, Cucumber Slices, Scented Candles, Oh My!
Synopsis: In a bid to get closer to Boothill, you plan out an at-home spa day. After all, even cowboys deserve some good ol' fashioned relaxation!
a/n: I hope this fits what you had in mind !! And please, don't feel nervous about sending requests >_<!
To be touched was to be vulnerable, even if for a brief few seconds. To allow another to touch you means to let your guard down, whether intentionally or not. To feel another's touch, even if it were a mere stranger passing you by in a crowded street, meant allowing yourself to be, to exist in that moment.
Since the dawn of time, touch has been the preferred and common way to show affection. Whether it be holding a loved one's hand, a kiss on the temple, or even a pat on the back, they were all ways to showcase one's love for another. They were ways for people to come as close as they possibly can without having to merge atoms and become one.
And yet, not everyone allows themselves that which many take for granted. Not everyone receives that which should never have been considered a privilege.
The reasons can be many. One could've been unlucky to find themselves surrounded by those who never recognized their worth and treated them as the treasure they are. One could've simply never had the chance, never been with the right people who were comfortable with touch.
Perhaps, one is afraid. Maybe one doesn't wish to let others come close, for fear of what they may do or what one may end up doing to others. Oftentimes, one simply isn't kind to themselves.
Everyone has their reasons, whether they're the same or different. Boothill had his reasons and so did you. That was all there was to it.
Yet, as time passed, the defenses began to crumble. You're not exactly sure how it began. Was it the casual brush of Boothill's hand on the small of your back each time he went past you? Or was it the brief touches of your hand against his skin when you'd adjust his hat after a mission well done?
But it starts and snowballs from there. The touches increase in frequency, slowly becoming bolder. It rolls downhill and then it…stops. A barrier. A hinder. An invisible force that keeps you and Boothill from daring to continue despite every part of your body screeching at you to just indulge freely for once.
You both were at a standstill and it was beginning to wear on you. Most likely, it was beginning to wear on Boothill too if his sudden penchant for not wanting to be in the same room as you for more than a few hours was anything to go by. Dirty liar, he was, always cooking up one excuse after the other.
It isn't until a little hang-out with your dear friend Rappa that you finally figure out a course of action.
"Say Rappa… You wouldn't mind if I took a few of these with me, would you?" You ask the energetic young woman as she files your nails whilst gabbing away about the latest escapades of her favorite ninja protagonist.
"Of course, Ninja Dokusha! Take as many as you'd like," she grins, tossing a few sheet masks onto your lap. "Ninjas must do their utmost to be clean, both of the heart and of the body!"
"Seems like there's a lot to be done to undergo ninja initiation," you hum, helping yourself to the snacks that Rappa had set out.
"Quite a few! But only a few are important, really. The rest are merely advice from the ninjas of old to stay on track and never lose sight of our goal and- Ah. I'm rambling now, aren't I?" Rappa cuts herself off, looking a bit embarrassed.
You shake your head and smile, at least as much as you could with the sheet mask you had put on. "A bit but I'm not complaining. I always learn a lot from you."
"Ah well uhm, in that case! How about I teach you a few self-care tricks from the old masters? These sheet masks have nothing on the real deal!"
"Sounds like I'm in for a ride…. Just how much do those scrolls of yours cover anyway?"
"Osu! Ninjas must be prepared for anything and everything!"
"You don't say."
—
Growing up as the middle child had always spelled trouble for Boothill when he was a kid. Sure, one could argue that trouble was bound to follow a rascal like him no matter where he went but he begs to differ. There was the normal and fun trouble that the mischievous boy had loved—still loved— getting into and then there was the boring, awful, horrid trouble that he'd be pulled into by his siblings. And for whatever reason, it was always him who'd be the target of their shenanigans.
Some of his most fond memories of yore were of his sisters, both older and younger, who'd lasso him into whatever new beauty trend that they'd read about in the latest penny dreadfuls. He'd have to sit there, lips pursed and brows furrowed like the ugly barn cat that only grew fatter by the day and never caught any mice, and be subjected to his sisters' insane whims while they fussed over him. None of his friends or brothers ever came to the rescue, the forking traitors!
Boothill had always had half a mind to complain to Nick and Graey to stop giving his sisters so much tin to spend. They rarely ever bought anything useful with it! All that money would instead go to foul-smelling creams and pastes that they'd buy from merchants in town, rollers that'd break after it'd get tangled in poor Boothill's hair and oh, he feels faint and queasy just remembering it all.
So you really must forgive Boothill's shock and outburst when he comes home from a particularly grueling mission and finds the spaceship lounge converted into a very flowery-smelling rendition of the Reverie hotel's many amenities.
"What in tarnation is goin' on here?!" The cowboy squawks, eyeing the setup that you currently had going on.
The lounge lights were dimmed, a feature that Boothill ,in all honesty, had no idea existed in the small spaceship. It did create a cozy atmosphere so he supposes it wasn't the worst thing, even if he'd quite prefer to be able to see everything clearly. Perhaps it's a cybernetic feature he ought to discuss with his doctor, Boothill thinks to himself.
"Oh, you're back!" You blink, glancing up from the yellow mixture you were whipping up in a bowl. "It's about time! Where were you?"
"Tsk… Don't get me started, darl'," Boothill sighs, popping down next to you on the sofa. He leans his head back against the plush headrest, arms and legs spread out. His pussy facing the world, as you liked to call it.
"Got held up by a couple muddlefudgers at one'a them IPC warehouses. Reckon they don't get fed at home so I had ta' feed 'em a couple nice an' hot incendiary rounds, if ya catch my drift."
"Sounds like they were more trouble than they were worth."
"Y'can say that again… Forkin' hell. 'S almost unfair I get labeled a savage like they ain't the ones beggin' fer a lesson t'be taught."
"There there, must be tough walking a mile in your boots," you hum, patting his shoulder in sympathy. Boothill only huffs out a weary chuckle, his smile turning the slightest bit strained as his sensors register your touch, albeit dampened by the leather jacket he wore.
"Now… Y'haven't answered my question. The fudge are ya doin' right now?" He asks, gesturing at… well, the entire lounge.
"I'm having a spa day and so are you."
"Say what now?"
You roll your eyes, yanking Boothill back to his seat by his cape. You had half a mind to search for his lasso and use it to tie him in place. Evidently, that thought of yours was visible enough on your face for Boothill to wisely not make any further attempts at escaping. Not yet, at least.
"Don't make that face. You'll love it!"
"I ain't makin' no damn face right now."
"Yes you are! You look like those ugly grumpy cats that look as if someone pissed in their food and smell like piss themselves."
"Ey! Watch yer words!" Boothill glares. The effect is quickly diminished by you pulling his hat down over his eyes, to which he squeaks and yanks it off.
You can't help but giggle at the sight. With his ruffled-up hair, pouty pierced lips, thick furrowed brows and that scrunched up crooked nose, he really did look like those dumb looking cats. You tweak his nose and Boothill can't help but look even more betrayed at your actions.
"Anyways… as I was saying before I got rudely interrupted by the freak who drinks gasoline like water-"
"Says the muddlefudger mixin' congealed piss in a bowl," the cowboy mutters. He sticks his tongue out when you glare.
"As I was saying… We're gonna have a spa day and you'll sit here like a peach and enjoy every second of it because you love me and my happiness is your biggest achievement in life," you declare. Boothill rolls his eyes and sighs, resigning himself to his fate.
"More like my biggest mistake."
"I will forcefeed this shit down your throat if you don't cooperate for once."
"Kinky. What the fork is that anyway?" Boothill asks while shrugging his jacket off. If his experiences with his sisters were anything to go by, then he really did not want any weird concoctions staining his leather.
"It's a face pack! Rappa taught me the recipe! ("Of course she did.") It's made with turmeric, honey, yogurt aaaand I forgot what else I put in this."
"Forkin' hell. Anyone with half a brain uses that shirt fer food and you're makin' face packs?! You've been hangin' out too much 'round them fancy city-slickers. Reckon I oughta take ya to a shrink."
"Ha ha, very funny. I may be insane for putting up with you but I am not insane for making a face pack with all natural ingredients that will leave your skin glowing!"
"You're just recitin' what Rappa told ya, aren't ya?"
"Yeah…"
Boothill snorts, pinching your cheek and lightly pulling on it. At the very least, he had to give credit where it's due. You had clearly worked hard on this little spa day. You had laid out snacks on the coffee table along with a bottle of Asdana's White Oak. Soft jazz was playing from one of the stereos with scented candles lit here and there.
If he didn't know any better, he'd have assumed this was a date. Oh well. "Spa day" and "spa date" sounded close enough.
To top things off, the face pack that you were mixing did not smell foul or overly flowery like the ones his sisters would wrangle him into applying. Then again, perhaps it was the scented candles tampering with his senses.
"And… I'm guessin' that's goin' on my face," Boothill says, eyeing the bowl warily.
"On both our faces, yeah. Don't be such a baby about it," you reply.
The man is about to open his mouth to grumble when he suddenly feels your hands on his face. He freezes immediately, his cheeks and the tips of his ears turning a lovely shade of purple.
"… What're ya doin'?" He asks after swallowing roughly once, twice, thrice. His voice was soft, too soft for his own liking.
"I'm smoothing the hair away from your face, silly," you answer. Deftly, you pick up a soft, fluffy pink headband and adjust it onto Boothill’s scalp, carefully brushing aside any stray strands of hair.
"Were the cat ears necessary?"
"Very. You're my sweet little kitten after all, aren't you? C'mon, give me a little meow!"
Boothill has to fight to keep the smile off his lips this time. He lets out a little mew and leaps forward a bit, pretending to try and nip at you. You laugh and lightly swat him away. He's happy to note your laughter sounded more flustered from the proximity.
"Alright and now it's time for the face pack!" You chirp, grabbing the bowl and dipping your fingers into the mixture.
"Now hold yer horses! Ain't ya gonna put some'a this shirt on yer face too?"
"You can go ahead first… Your relaxation is more important than mine."
Boothill rolls his eyes, very clearly seeing through your flimsy excuse. Without wasting a second, he quickly tackles you on the sofa, easily taking the brunt of your flailing limbs as you squeal and try to fight the heavy cowboy off.
"Oh no, ya don't. You ain't usin' me as yer lil' guinea pig in this, no siree. I've had enough'a that to last a lifetime," Boothill drawls with a sharp grin plastered across his face. With one hand keeping a gentle yet firm grip on your wrists— your face can't help but burn at the observation— and his strong metal thighs clamped down on either side of your body, he reaches for a matching fluffy headband that still had the price tag on.
"If I'm goin' down, you're goin' down with me. We're both puttin' this face pack o' yers on our faces," he declares while wrestling the headband onto your head, price tag and all. "We can have matchin' hives on our skin."
"I think I'd rather die."
"That makes two o' us," Boothill chuckles. His laughter is quick to fade, however, when you awkwardly clear your throat. He looks down and it takes a good five seconds for his brain to register the position you two were in. He's quick to scramble off upon realizing, letting you sit back up.
"S-shirt! I didn't mean t'- I mean, that ain't what I-" Boothill abruptly stops when he feels you smear the turmeric face pack onto his cheek. He isn't really sure what it is that makes him fall silent: the cold and foreign mixture on his skin or the way your soft hands lingered.
Or perhaps it's the way you take one of hands and dip two fingers into the bowl before bringing it up to gently smear it onto your own cheek.
"I think matching hives are a wonderful idea," you say with a shy little smile.
Boothill wonders whether he's been overexerting himself as of late. Surely that must be the reason as to why his entire body feels so warm and fuzzy, right?
"I ah… Yeh. Yeah, uhm. Y’know me. Known fer my genius ideas."
He wants to take himself out back and put a bullet in his own skull. Who the hell answers like some loser around his first crush?!
"Then… Why don't we apply the face pack at the same time together?" You offer. "So uhm, we can breakout at the same time."
It's stupid. It's dumb. It's silly. It's lame.
Boothill finds himself laughing all the same.
"Yeah, yeah sure. Reckon we'll be a fine sight t'see fer the IPC." He snorts, beginning to apply the face pack onto your skin.
It was different being on the giving side, Boothill notes. There's something far more intimate about the process. He wonders vaguely if it's why his sisters and female friends cherished moments such as these so much, to show your care for another by tending to their visage.
He can map out each and every aspect of your face like this. His hands can memorize the swells and dips of your features, the shape of your eyes, the arch of your brows, the bridge of your nose and the small dip under your soft lips that fit his thumb just-so. He could count every lash on your eyes and every pore, if he wanted to. And he wanted to.
There's little else that he wants more than this.
It was sweet, the way you unconsciously leaned forward for more. Yet, who could blame you? Your heart aches with each careful movement of Boothill's hands and it was a pain that you'd quite like to experience for the rest of your days. You'd quite like to feel the kaleidoscope of butterflies in your stomach that came to life with each touch. You'd like for your breath to hitch like it's the first time over and over again as the cold metal warms into something resembling lukewarm flesh.
Can metal ever soften enough to convey affections? Can metal ever fulfill that which you've been starved of for far too long? Can metal ever remind of a long lost humanity?
You suppose- No, you know it can. For the proof was right in front of you.
And contrary to what may appear on the surface, Boothill really wasn't faring much better than you. He may think he's doing a great job of hiding the inner storm of emotions but you know his tells. You know him. You know your cowboy.
His breath stutters just a bit each time you apply the yellow mixture onto his face, carefully smearing it into the brown skin. You can see it, the way his bottom lips tremble with each stutter and hear how his sharp teeth clink against his piercings. You can feel the light little breeze his lashes create with each flutter as you feel the soft and tell-tale give of flesh under your fingers, though perhaps it was just your imagination.
How long has it been since Boothill has felt the touch of another on his skin, a touch that came from a place of tender love and not bitter hatred? Far too long, really. Just how long it's been, he doesn't want to think about it right now.
Perhaps at another time, if the opportunity presents itself and you allow it. And he knows you will. He knows you. He knows his partner.
For now, he's content with greedily drinking in and savoring each touch your gentle hands provide. He's satisfied with shamelessly leaning in further and further until your hands are all but cupping his face and he's nuzzling into your touch like the lazy barn cat of yore that he always would say he despised but in truth, adored and spoiled more than anyone else. He feels—not quite fulfilled— but something close to it.
Perhaps you'd have to give Boothill some more good ol' fashioned loving by way of skinship until he's had his fill. Though, considering the way you and Boothill continued to caress and trace each other's face despite the bowl having long since emptied, it's clear it'd take a good while before either of you are satisfied.
Not that you were complaining, really.
"We look like one'a them yellow fellers from that cartoon you're always watchin'," Boothill snorts once you two finally pull away, if only to let the mask dry.
"What cartoon? You mean The Simpsons?"
"Yeh, that. You're always watchin' that shirt like there ain't better things t'watch like a good ol' western."
"Okay, first off, it's not a cartoon. Second, don't act like you don't watch it with me," you shoot back as you lean back against the sofa, placing two cool slices of cucumbers on top of your eyes from a plate. Boothill eyes you with disgust and mutters something about wasting food before following your example.
"Ey, I don't watch that at all. Reckon y'oughta get yer peepers checked instead'a puttin' cucumbers on 'em like a loony."
"I think standing behind me and peering over my shoulder counts as watching the show. And as for the cucumbers- Are you seriously eating them right now?!"
The continued sound of crunching only confirms your suspicions, as well as the suspicion that the cowboy did not give a fuck.
"It tastes mighty fine with that face pack ya made," Boothill says in response.
"That was not for consum- Y'know what? It's fine. I should've known this is what happens when you try to have a spa day with a pig."
"Aw, don't be like that, darlin'! Swear on my hat I'll behave fer whatever else ya've got planned!"
"You better. Because after this, I've got a massage planned, an extensive skincare routine that you will sit through and-"
A quick peck on your lips cuts you off and you would've screeched if it weren't for the mask on your face. The small squeak that sounds from you instead would have to suffice and most likely, it did, if Boothill's coyote-like laughter was anything to go by.
"How 'bout ya tell me more in a bit? Reckon the face pack won't dry proper if y'keep gabbin' yer head off."
Synopsis: Chaotic shenanigans ensue when Boothill gets turned into an origami bird as you're forced to wait for him to turn back to normal.
Tags: Boothill x gn! reader, fluff, banter, comedy, cheeky bird behaviour (including a mating dance), boothill is a little shit, based off the new Origami Bird Clash event story, established relationship
a/n: I had a vision when playing the event and ran to get this written in the span of 2 hours, are you guys proud of me
Warnings: None!
wc: 1,7k
When you first met Boothill, you already knew one thing for sure. Trouble followed him no matter where he went. Whether it was in the form of his hat flying off his head into oncoming traffic—which caused a couple cars to nearly crash in their attempts to not hit the idiot when he went to retrieve it—to somehow causing a gunfight to erupt the second he walked into a room, it was undeniable that being with Boothill should come with a warning.
Aeons above, he’d really meant it when he said danger is his middle name.
For better or for worse, you’d decided to stick with Boothill despite the fact that it meant you had to learn at least 5 different ways to defend yourself in the incredibly likely event that Boothill either got himself or you or the both of you into trouble. It’s not like you could do anything about it. Your fates appeared to be intertwined and there was no doubt in your heart that Boothill would fight tooth and nail to keep you safe.
However, nothing—not even the time Boothill’s body somehow malfunctioned and lost control over his arms— could prepare you for what you were seeing at this very moment.
“Tweet! @$#¤%!!”
“What the fuck?!”
“Oh dear, it appears Boothill’s crassness has rubbed off on you, my dear friend.”
You sigh and turn to Argenti. You’d rushed over from your spaceship to the Radiant Feldspar when you got the redhead’s message. He’d been surprisingly vague over what had happened and you’d been unsure over whether it was due to his usual flowery way of speech but now that you were here in person, you understood why Argenti had been unable to properly explain what had happened.
“So… that’s Boothill?” You point at the black and grey bird that was angrily chirping at the two of you. You were half-convinced that this was all an elaborate prank being pulled on you. Boothill must’ve gotten in contact with one of the Masked fools, surely! How else had he been able to procure such an admittedly cute origami bird that looked just like him? It even had the little twin bullets from his hat and his X-shaped scar for crying out loud!
“That would be correct! It’s a bit hard to explain but-”
“Lemme guess: Boothill got a bit too excited, ran his mouth without properly thinking and this is the consequence.”
“That’s the gist of it, indeed.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
You scratch at your head, unsure of where to go from here. Argenti had assured you that help was on the way and that there was surely a cure to this mysterious curse that Boothill had been afflicted with… but you couldn’t help but worry. Sure, this may all be a dream but aeons knew what would happen to Boothill’s body in reality if he were to be stuck as a bird forever.
Penacony was certainly holding up to its reputation as the planet of dreams because this entire incident was for sure a fever dream. There was no other way to describe it.
You watch as Boothill—Bootbird would probably be a better name now— hops closer to you. Curiously, you stick a finger out and can’t help but smile when he nuzzles against it affectionately. Despite changing forms drastically, his personality stayed the exact same. There was something so incredibly endearing about seeing such a boisterous and headstrong attitude come from a bird that just barely managed to reach your calves.
“Tweet tweet!”
“Patience, dear. Backup is on the way. Maybe if you’d thought before you spoke, you wouldn’t be in such a pickle right now,” you gently chide the man–bird? You weren’t sure how to act towards him… at least until Bootbird flips you off… or rather attempts to. You had to give him credit where it’s due that he’d even managed to make his wings resemble a middle finger.
“Are you seriously giving me the finger right now? I should just lock you up in a cage, y’know- Wha- Hey!” You hiss, shaking your hand as you feel the sting from Bootbird’s metal beak. The bastard had pecked you! The amount of audacity in such a tiny body had you completely flabbergasted.
“Bad Bootbird! Bad!”
“Tweet! Chirp! *Some truly fowl language.*”
“You take that back right now, you ass! Or I’ll have you sleep on the couch once this shit is over!”
“#@!&%”
“Right.”
–
“Ninja Dokusha! I wasn’t expecting to see you here!”
You nod at Rappa, unable to hold back a little smile. She’s such an energetic young woman. Almost like a little sister really, especially with the way she looked up to both you and Boothill.
“Fancy seeing you here, Rappa. I didn’t realize you were the backup that Argenti was speaking about. I thought you were on another mission.”
“It’s a stroke of luck! I hadn’t been planning on returning to Pinecany for a while but decided to give some of my fellow ninja students at the Academy a visit!” Rappa explains cheerfully whilst animatedly waving her hands about. “Oh, since you’re here, that means Silvergun Shura must be nearby too, right?”
“Ehh… Not exactly? I mean, kinda? You’ll understand when you see it- Wait, where’d he go?” You look around, frowning in confusion at Bootbird’s sudden disappearance. He was just here a couple minutes ago. Maybe he’d flown off to a corner to sulk for a bit. You had been maybe a bit too harsh on him over his language and irritable state. Perhaps you should’ve been a bit more understanding. You know that you certainly wouldn’t like it if you’d suddenly been turned into an origami bird.
You watch as Rappa and her little motley crew talk to the Trailblazer and the young Xianzhou woman called Qingque, gearing up to perform some form of exorcism. Did the ninja scrolls also talk about exorcism? You mentally noted to ask Rappa about it once she was free. In the meantime, you dig into your pocket and pull out a few bullets. You had a habit of keeping some around in case of unlikely emergencies where Boothill had run out of bullets…. And also because they reminded you of the stupid man. You couldn’t help it! He had a way of getting to your heart that nobody else could ever hope to replicate.
“Can origami birds eat bullets?” you mutter to yourself, staring at the bullets in your hand. Maybe Bootbird would forgive you if you fed him some of his favorite snacks.
“My dear friend! Mind if I ask for your attention for a moment? Boothill has something he’d like to show you.”
You glance up at Argenti before peeking behind him. Bootbird was peeking out from behind a pillar with that mischievous little spark in his eyes. Both amused and curious over what the cowboy had in store this time, you nod and follow the knight.
To say you were surprised was an understatement.
“Is… Is he…?”
“Dancing? Yes, he is. I believe considering the fact that he’s now a bird, it’d be more prudent to call it a mating dance.”
This day just couldn’t get any weirder.
You watch with amusement and steadily darkening cheeks at the way Bootbird moved his tiny little bird body in time to an imaginary tune. Was this guy seriously moonwalking now as well?
“Where the fuck did he get that rose from?”
“I let him borrow it. I must say, Boothill is truly someone blessed by The Beauty. Such graceful moves despite the limitations this body must cause!”
“Amen to that.”
You’d been correct in your earlier judgment that Boothill’s new form didn’t change any aspect of his personality whatsoever. Why else would he dance in a circle around you before tweeting and flapping his wings, as if asking you to dance with him? Normally, you’d be a bit more self-conscious over just dancing out of nowhere with an origami bird. But this was Penacony, a planet filled with far stranger sights and this was no ordinary origami bird. It was your origami bird. Your Bootbird.
Throwing caution to wind, you join Bootbird on his impromptu little dance floor and laugh in surprise when he flies up to your shoulder and gently pecks your cheek.
“Tweet tweet <3!”
“Yes yes, dear. I love you too and forgive you for earlier.”
“Tweet! Chirp!”
“Your dance was wonderful as well. You’ve always been the better dancer out of the two of us, even now. You should know that.”
“Tweet tweet!”
You chuckle, watching Bootbird blush and rub at the back of his neck, as if to say “Aw shucks, darlin’!”.
“You really are a little lovebird, aren’t you?” You quip, affectionately feeding Bootbird a bullet.
“Chirp!”
“Touché.”
–
“Rappa really outdid herself this time with these photos!”
“Shut it, darlin’. I oughtta shoot holes in ‘em.”
“You wouldn’t dare. You love me and Rappa too much to ever do that to us.”
“Dadgum wubbaboo…”
Much to your relief, the origami bird curse didn’t last long on Boothill. Sorry as you were to see the adorable and fat Bootbird go, you couldn’t deny that you much preferred your lover as his usual rootin’ tootin’ cowboy self. Though… you’d have hoped for a warning before Boothill was changed back to normal. The idiot had been perched on your shoulder like a dutiful familiar and once the curse was lifted, both you and Boothill had toppled to the ground in a tangled heap.
“Aww, look at this one! It's us both dancing!” You nearly squeal in joy. Trust Rappa to use her ninja techniques and sneakily take such a candid shot! “We should totally frame this and hang it up in the spaceship’s lounge!”
“Y’sure ‘bout that, sweetpea?” Boothill sighs and grumbles under his breath when you nod eagerly at his question.
“It’ll be a nice memory of the day my little lovebird performed a mating dance for me!”
“Speakin’ of… What say you ‘bout makin’ good on that mating dance, if ya catch my drift?”
“Only if you let me put all of these photos of you as a bird on the walls.”
Synopsis: Boothill takes the reader to visit Aeragan-Epharshel after a long time, forcing himself to be at his most vulnerable as he shows the reader around. Be kind to his heart, won't you?
Tags: Boothill x GN! reader, Romantic Fluff, Heavy Angst, Grief/Mourning, Native American/First Nations Culture, Boothill Backstory, Self-Indulgent
A/N: In this fic, Boothill is called sinagé at one instance and I've been told that it's western apache for "big brother" which felt fitting. Please let me know if that isn't the case!
wc: 3,5k
Up until your first meeting with Boothill, you had never heard of the planet named Aeragan-Epharshel. Not really, at least.
Vaguely, you could recall a small amount of outrage over something the IPC had done about a decade or so ago. Ever eager to dig up more dirt on the organization that you swore was not what it seemed, you had tried following the incident to the best of your abilities. Unfortunately, the IPC was quick to sweep it all under a rug and trample out any small-time bloggers and journalists who tried to keep it all on record.
If you really concentrated, you may remember statements posted by an IPC spokesperson, talking about a new planet under their jurisdiction before those too were erased without a trace. Only a single sound had remained, butchered and ugly. It was as if the speaker's tongue knew they were not pure enough to speak of beauty that they had destroyed.
It begged the question: Who will protest for the unknown and forgotten?
The answer came in the form of a cowboy Galaxy Ranger. Dressed in black with splashes of blood-red and hair reminiscent of snow, he went by the moniker Boothill. You had raised your eyebrow at the introduction back then. An odd choice for a name, especially when he elaborated on its meaning. But as you spent more and more time with him, you recognized that it was morbidly fitting.
Boothill didn't like to speak of his past. He clammed up quite quickly whenever the conversation took such a turn. He'd cough and excuse himself, claiming to have received an important notification about a new bounty. Other times, he'd just stay quiet.
Silence can be loud, you came to learn. With Boothill, his silence screamed.
"Please don't ask me to name it," it begged.
It was only when the walls that surrounded the man's blue heart began to crumble for you, that you learned of the tragedy that was etched unto his soul. Even then, his story didn't come coherent and tidy, like a book for consumption. It came in short, abrupt memoirs, none in chronological order. It was all Boothill could manage before grief muzzled him, cruel and unfeeling like the men in black.
It was a jigsaw puzzle, laid bare for you. The puzzle pieces had jagged edges and more than once, you cut your heart and bleed on the sharp sides. But you piece it together, slow and steady as more and more pieces slowly make themselves known. The final picture was of a man who teetered on the line between life and death, a man who only showed himself when the mask became too heavy to bear and his laughter turned hollow enough to shatter.
A Loaded Gun.
—
"I think I'd really prefer it if you didn't just hand out my contact information all willy-nilly like this." You sigh, tossing your phone at Boothill's lap. "I like my sleep and doom-scrolling sessions undisturbed, thank you very much."
Boothill swivels around in the pilot chair, a half-eaten bullet between his sharp teeth. He swallows it in one go before flashing an unrepentant grin.
"Can't blame me, now can ya, darlin'? I'm a busy man! ("And I'm not?!") I can't be gettin' bombed every hour o' the forkin' day with messages. Actual bombs are bad 'nough," he says, shrugging in a cavalier manner. He picks up your phone, opening it to whatever new message it had been that had disturbed you this time.
"It ain't real stealthy if my phone's vibratin' like one'a them toys fer grown-ups," he adds in a dry tone.
"Okay, not funny, first of all. Second, I'm pretty sure stealth is the least of your worries when- I dunno, just look at you!"
"Hey. The best hunters are the ones that you least expect."
"Right…"
You roll your eyes and plop down on the pilot chair beside Boothill's. At your pointed glare, he quickly focuses on the message that you wanted him to read instead of fooling around on your phone like you suspected he had been up until then.
Boothill mutters something under his breath, something about sons of nice ladies always having sticks shoved up their ash. You'd call him out on it but your attention is quickly shifted to the way his expression suddenly sobers up.
A myriad of emotions flicker in his onyx iris. Pain, hope, anger and a whole other range that you weren't quite sure on how to name. Most likely, neither did he.
"What's up? What's it say?" You ask, tentative and careful.
Boothill exhales slowly, tossing your phone back to you. You catch it deftly and give him a curious look as he punches in a bunch of coordinates into the spaceship's navigation pad.
"Nothin' much. Jus' that a bit o' much-needed pest control's been done and well. Reckon it's high time I pay home a visit."
—
Boothill didn't visit Aeragan-Epharshel very often. There were a whole range of reasons as to why he couldn't bear to go back to his homeland and quite frankly, he didn't have the time to sit down and work through them nor did you have the heart to push him further on the matter. But if you were to try your best to word it, you'd say it came down to one emotion.
Love.
Although this was your first time visiting the planet, it was clearly not the case for Boothill. He easily lands the spaceship in a discreet area of the planet, one where there wasn't a single soul to be seen for miles around.
You gingerly step out of the spaceship, holding Boothill's hand for balance so you don't end up eating shit on a wayward rock. Once on solid ground, you glance around the place. It was… Well, the planet had most definitely seen better days, that was for sure.
Aeragan-Epharshel wasn't ugly. No matter how many colonizers may come and dig their foul nails into her fertile soil, the planet still stood proud in spite of the scars that marred her body.
The very first thing you note is the scent of ash. The area upon which you and Boothill had landed was covered in lush green grass; yet there were visible bald patches of burnt flora. Some looked to be fairly recent with the ground caved in, the areas left to rot once the IPC realized there was no black metal to excavate there. Others appeared older with craters and slowly disintegrating remains of what or whom that may have once stood there.
You close your eyes and look away, fighting the bile that threatened to rise in your throat.
"Well! It ain't much," Boothill remarks, his expression grim. Still, his gaze flicks towards you briefly, silently hoping your verdict won't be too harsh. He's aware of the shortcomings. He knows that in comparison to the countless other planets that the two of you have traveled to, Aeragan-Epharshel was more like a dumpster. He knows the IPC has stripped the planet so it looks befitting of the uncivilized savages they claimed him and his people were. And yet, he hopes.
Treat his broken heart with kindness, won't you?
"No… It isn't much," you agree. "But, it has its own charm. The nature is wonderful."
At least, what remains of it, you and Boothill can't help but add silently.
"Hah. You're tellin' me. You should'a seen the place when I was 'bout knee-high as a grasshopper." Boothill huffs out a laugh. "Used t'run 'round the plains with my siblings, tryin' t' outrace the other. Come nightfall and we'd be runnin' around like headless chickens to catch fireflies. The grass was always cool, even in the summer. Try it, darlin'."
You glance down at the grass beneath your feet, trampled under your shoes. Vaguely, your ears register the sound of Boothill toeing at the dirt, soft and careful and trying to remember how it once felt.
Without further complaint, you remove your shoes and step onto the grass and shiver. He hadn't been lying. It really was cool to the touch, with lingering morning dew misting over your feet. Boothill smiles at the sight, the sharp edges softened for once.
"Told ya so," he says.
"Mhm. This really makes me realize just how hot and stuffy shoes can get sometimes."
"Yeh… Really makes ya think- Oh, I wouldn't eat those berries if I were you."
You pause in your movements, having been seconds away from plucking a couple dark berries from a small bush. You frown and draw back, stumbling just slightly before Boothill's hand presses against the small of your back, keeping you steady.
"Why not? They look edible to me. They look like blueberries."
"Ah, but they ain't. Lan above, ain't no one taught ya how to forage? This here's one'a the first things I learned while I was still in diapers!"
You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath about misguided flattery. Boothill pays you no mind and instead leads you to another bush just a few meters away. With nimble hands, he plucks the berries and presses one to your lips, coaxing you to try it.
"Now these are blueberries. Sweet, ain't they? You jus' gotta keep an eye out fer the calyx," he explains. He keeps feeding you the berries one by one while you pluck the rest and tuck them in your pockets. When you ask if he won't eat any himself, Boothill simply leans in and presses a chaste kiss to your lips, suckling gently on your bottom lip.
"Yep. Sweet, as I expected."
His laugh echoes throughout the grasslands, loud and boisterous, when you land a playful swat upside his head.
The grasslands, at least what remained of it, were beautiful. If you had it your way, you would've liked to linger in the place with Boothill. It would've been nice to lay in the soft grass, listen to your lover tell you about the plants and the memories attached to them, to feel the dirt slowly cave under your combined weight and bury you both in its gentle arms.
But you catch the way Boothill's gaze kept flickering southwards. If you squinted, you could just make out a couple buildings and if you strained your hearing, even voices. The reservations. That was where Boothill wanted to go.
So you lace your fingers with his, warm flesh squeezing cold metal, and allow him to lead you towards the still-beating heart of Aeragan-Epharshel.
As you walk, you pass by the crumbling ruins of homes that had once sheltered many. You pass by rotting wooden gallows from which skeletons hung, cracked walls riddled with bullet holes and painted with blood. The IPC had never cleaned the place up. They never allowed the locals to retrieve what remained of their beloveds. Instead, it all stood as a morbid reminder of what happened when one dared to go against the Amber Lord.
Pretty soon, you and Boothill reach the reservations. You had expected to see the place crawling with IPC lackeys but the proud glow on Boothill's face confirms your suspicions on what he had meant when he'd said some pest control had been done.
The houses that stood were a testament to the locals' resilience. They had done their best with the materials they could scrounge up, building cabins and shacks upon burnt land. A few brick buildings still stood here and there, likely ones the IPC had been "kind" enough to spare. Colorful patterns adorned the sides of homes, a tribe's effort to breathe life back into their land despite the circumstances. There were slogans, here and there, some painted over while others stood loud and proud.
Children ran past you both, laughing as they played with tyres that looked to be from IPC machinery. Boothill huffs out a low chuckle and you smile at the sight. Young men and women and everyone in between milled about here and there. Some were conversing amongst themselves. Others were carrying the day's hunt, going about the mundane tasks of daily life.
"You look acock," Boothill remarks, raising an eyebrow as he gauges your expression. "Didn't expect the place t'be so lively, eh?"
"Kinda," you admit with a sheepish little smile. "I dunno what I expected, really. I guess… I sorta assumed everyone would be sad and gloomy."
"Mmn. It ain't like we don't mourn. 'S a part o' life, to mourn what we've lost. But so is laughin' 'til our bellies ache and gettin' into petty fights."
"I didn't mean it like that."
"I know." Boothill gives you a weary smile, sad yet loving. "But it's what you were thinkin' in that pretty head'a yers. Can't blame ya. I was much the same when I first returned."
You catch the eyes of a couple elders, sitting on the porch of a cabin. Their eyes were filled with wariness, some downright fearful. It's only when they notice Boothill beside you and he tips his hat in greeting that their expressions soften. He gives your hand a squeeze, a silent request to not take their vigilance to heart.
"Reckon that's just life. Gotta keep goin', even when we don't want to," Boothill sighs, his gaze now distant. "Gotta live, whether out of spite or with a quiet desperation."
You don't say anything in response, don't even try to. What was there to say? That you're sorry? That they're strong?
No. You stay quiet. Something told you that right now, Boothill wasn't looking for an answer, at least not for one that he already knew. Having you beside him was more than enough. And when you don't make a show when you hear Boothill's breath stutter while he rambles? Words aren't enough to describe how grateful he felt.
The reservations were small. Worringly so, in fact. Your surprise was evident when you both had managed to walk through all the reservations within the span of two hours. Boothill's jaw clenches and you look away when he kicks at a fence out of frustration.
He was about to suggest leaving. He could feel the familiar sensation of his ligaments beginning to lock, a heavy paralysis spreading through his limbs and his heart aching with each beat. He never stayed for long. Couldn't. Wouldn't.
"Sinagé!"
The two of you turn at the sound of a young woman calling out. She was jogging towards you both, thick braids flying behind her, and stops, panting when she skids to a stop in front of you two. Boothill's expression softens a smidge.
"Alopay," He says, huffing out a small laugh. "The hell are ya doin' here?"
"You didn't stop by t'talk!" Alopay replies, a hint of accusation in her voice. Boothill winces, looking a bit guilty.
"Ah… It ain't right if I stay fer long. Was jus' plannin' on droppin' off a couple things before leavin'. Bounties to complete and dirtbags to chase, ain't that right, darlin'?"
You blink, not having expected to be dragged into the conversation like this. You hesitate briefly before murmuring in agreement, backing up Boothill's flimsy excuse.
"C'mon! Stay fer the night, why don't ya? 'S been ages since ya last visited and folks wanna see ya!"
"Gal, I ain't so sure that's a wise idea."
"They won't bother us, I swear. They're too busy countin' losses at one'a the mines."
"… Any of ours?"
"Naw. Just theirs." Alopay winks. Boothill looks mildly impressed and ruffles the young woman's hair who swats lightly at the offending hand. But despite it, Boothill still looked hesitant.
"We'd love to stay the night," you interject. Boothill gives you an offended glare, opening his mouth to protest before closing it with a grumble.
Alopay beams, giving one of your hands a squeeze before running off, likely to spread the news.
"Look what ya've done now," Boothill grouches from beside you.
"I don't see what the problem is. We don't, or rather, you don't stop by here often. We might as well take the opportunity." You shrug.
"Forkin' hell. You're lucky I love you."
"What's that? Say it louder, I didn't quite catch that."
"I said I hate yer guts."
"I love you too."
—
The campfire burned bright, its flames licking high up into the night sky. Folks around you chattered and laughed. You could hear a few singing and others dancing to the beat of drums. The air was fragrant with the scent of frybread and spiced meat, making you help yourself to as many servings that you could manage.
Boothill wasn't very talkative, to your surprise. In fact, he almost seemed to be avoiding any interactions with anyone who wasn't you. It was a far cry from the flamboyant and brash extrovert you had come to know and love.
He could only manage a couple minutes of easy conversation with the youth, teasing and humble. But then, a switch would suddenly be flicked and he'd fall silent, leaving you to carry the conversation.
You didn't mind. The youth were curious and sharp, begging for more details on the various missions you and Boothill have been on. You blush when they tease you about your closeness with the cowboy and you laugh at the jokes they make.
It was the elders that Boothill continuously dodged. An old couple would tap you on the shoulder, asking to talk to the man and without fail, you'd fail to locate him when he was needed. You'd apologize and promise to tell him they had asked for him but they'd simply give you a rueful smile and shake their head. Some would linger for polite small talk before eventually leaving.
When it had been a full fifteen minutes since Boothill was last seen, you decide you've had enough. You search around the perimeter before spotting a familiar figure in the distance, sitting atop a hill and gazing at the horizon.
"You good?" You ask quietly, sitting down beside the man. You follow his gaze and see an area of the plains scorched black. Rubble still cluttered the space. You feel Boothill's fingers twitch beside yours, as if recalling the phantom pain of skin blistering whilst he dug frantically for anything that might've resembled someone he loved.
"I…" Boothill trails off with a heavy sigh. He looks away from the scorched land and instead stares at the grass beneath him, idly ripping them from their roots. "I used t'live there, y'know. At least, 'til I was old 'nough to make a name fer myself."
"Ah…"
Silence descends. Boothill didn't wish to talk anymore about the ruins of the home he'd once laughed and loved in. You didn't wish to prod further.
"They look up to you, y'know," you say after a while. He lets out a small scoff in response. "I'm serious. And the elders… they're clearly worried about you. They just want to talk."
"Yeah? Well, they shouldn't. I ain't some pure-hearted son of a fudge who folks oughta look up to. Hell, they shouldn't even talk to me too much. You got any idea what the IPC would do if they caught wind of me bein' here?"
"Clearly, they know what they're doing. They're strong people. I mean, look at Alopay and the other youngsters! They're still fighting and giving the IPC hell in their own way and just look at the-"
"And their efforts will go to shirt if I stick around."
I failed my people as their leader.
"… Is that what you believe?"
" 'S what I know."
Your jaw clenches, stubborn and unwilling to back down, just like Boothill. The two of you stare decisively at the ground, letting silence fill the space.
But the tension bleeds out and you feel a familiar weight against your shoulder. In response, you rest your head just atop Boothill's.
"… Aeragan-Epharshel was beautiful," he croaks softly. "My home was the finest fer miles around, no fibbin'."
That's what it all came down to, didn't it? Aeragan-Epharshel as Boothill knew it was dead. The planet was home in name only. He can't go back to what once was. He can't hear the rowdy laughter and crude songs, can't feel the sun on his back and the grass under his feet.
Lord, I'm afraid I won't be welcomed back.
"… Aeragan-Epharshel is beautiful," you reply, just as soft and quiet. "Your home is gorgeous. I've never seen anything like it."
For how can Aeragan-Epharshel have died if a piece of home still lives? How can the planet have perished if you can still feel its warm sun in Boothill's smile, smell the grasslands in his hair, hear the clear rivers gushing by in his movements and feel the moon's gentle glow in his eyes?
How can its people have died when their teachings are carried by the brass gun on Boothill’s hip? How can their memories have been desecrated when he stands guard day and night?
How can a place die when its memory lives on in every breath Boothill takes, in every bullet he fires and every word he speaks?
He who became Death to lay their souls to rest amongst the watchful stars, has done more than enough.
Boothill closes his eyes and you feel him smile. You rest your hand atop his and lean into him. The moon blankets you both in her soft light and just this once, lets the world stand still. He may rest for now.
Synopsis: It is a truth less universally acknowledged that touch plays a factor in savoring food. Boothill misses eating with his hands. He misses feeling. You resolve to fix that.
Gift for @boothillshorsie !!
Tags: Boothill x gn! reader, light angst, hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, established relationship
wc: 1k
it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of his tongue, must enjoy food. everyone says it is so and therefore it must be so. boothill certainly thinks it is so. if he can safely taste the spice and crackle of the gunpowder inside the 9mm bullets, savor the sweetness of whiskey and relish the juices of a good ol' fashioned steak then what's the fuss?
after all, what is the point of eating if you cannot taste the flavors and emotions packed inside?
but it is a truth less acknowledged that the enjoyment of food requires the usage of nearly all of one's senses. particularly, one's sense of touch.
if boothill thinks back hard enough – but not too hard for aeons knows he ain't strong enough for that – then he can just remember the easy joy that came from eating with his hands. there is nothing in the universe that could ever hope to recreate those sensations.
boothill remembers the days he used to lick the sweet juices of elderberries off his hands when he'd go foraging by the creek. he can nearly feel how the frybread would give way under his fingers, crisp and flaky yet oh so soft as he'd dip it into graey's famous stew. his bionic fingers twitch at the memory of sticky syrup dripping down his hands as he savored a piece of blue corn cake.
nowadays, boothill barely eats. he doesn't need to. what's the need when all he needs is a couple hours by his charger and enough motivation to get through the day? a couple glasses of asdana's white oak helps too, along with a couple bullets, either in his glass or buried in varmints.
the few times boothill does eat, he makes sure to bitch plenty about it. he hates using all this fancy cutlery, he tells you. the silverware sticks to his metal body and he's broken far too many chopsticks to keep count due to being unable to control his strength at times.
"makes me feel like one'a them city-slickers, it does, tryin' t'be all prim an' proper," boothill jokes as you struggle to pry off a knife off his chassis.
ideally, boothill would like to eat with his hands again. you've seen the way his eyes linger when you share a fruit platter with him, biting into a piece of fruit and trying to catch the droplets of juice before they fall off your skin. he idly cleans his teeth with the toothpick you offer to pick up the fruits, before looking away.
he'd quite like to. but getting the remnants of food out of the grooves and crevices were a nightmare, even if you were around to help. cleaning the sticky juices off the metal was tiring and frankly, he doesn't wish to deal with that.
"i could always lick the juices off," you offered once with a cheeky smile. "i heard saliva's a lot easier to get off metal."
"don't i know it," boothill had rolled his eyes, huffing out what sounded like a mix between a scoff and a laugh. "but i reckon that pretty mouth o' yers has got better things t'do than lick fruit juice off a dadgum cyborg's fingers."
"you say that like it's a bad thing."
"... y'been hittin' yer head one too many times on missions lately, sweetheart. s'pose y'oughta get that checked."
"right."
all in all, boothill misses a lot of things that he once took for granted. and when he'd chosen to give up his body as repentance for failing his people, he hadn't stopped to think how much the phantom sensations would hurt. no amount of tinkering with his sensors can make it go away, nor can they ever replicate what's lost.
how do you help a man who wishes to feel?
you let him feel through you.
the aromatic scent of spices fills the little lounge of your spaceship as you open the takeaway box. you hear the tell-tale jingle of spurs and look up to meet boothill's curious gaze.
"peckish?" he asks, flopping down beside you on the sofa.
"starved, even," you quip. you lick your lips at the sight of the food. "decided to order a dish from one of the planets in the southern band."
"yeah? whatcha get? looks an' smells mighty fine t'me."
"it's a rice dish, a spicy one. you're supposed to eat it with this curry and pickled plums."
"no eatin' irons?"
"only the ones given to me at birth," you reply, holding up your hands. boothill blinks before shaking his head, a rueful chuckle sounding from his lips.
"ah... then i'll be sittin' this one out. bone appleteeth or whatever it is them fancy sonuvaguns say, darlin'," the cowboy says, getting ready to get up. you frown and yank him back down to his seat.
"sit your ass back down. where the hell do you think you're going?" you demand.
"well darlin'... I dunno 'bout you but i ain't keen on gettin' rice stuck in my joints," boothill drawls.
"oh please. you'll be fine. i'll just feed you instead, how about that?"
"uh- what now?"
boothill looks on in surprise, watching you mix the rice and curry before balling up a small portion in your hand. his expression morphs into an uncharacteristic shyness when you bring it up to his lips, an expectant gaze in your unfairly pretty eyes.
hesitantly, he opens his mouth and you gently feed him, his teeth grazing your fingers. rich flavors explode on his tongue and you can't help but giggle at the look of surprise on his face.
it wasn't the same as eating with his own hands, boothill surmises as you continue to feed him in between bites of your own. he won't be able to form that same connection as before. but he had a connection with you. he loved and cherished you to a degree that frightened him and he could taste those same emotions on your skin as you fed him. food had never tasted better than it did right now.
boothill had forgotten many things. but you were here to patiently rebuild what he's lost, with your own personal touch, of course.
Synopsis: You, a newcomer in town, and Boothill, an infamous gunslinger, resolve to work together to solve the mystery behind the recent attacks. However, neither you nor Boothill are quite keen on revealing all the cards in your hand and it appears Aeragan-Epharshel may have plenty of secrets of its own.
Tags: Boothill x GN! vampire reader, AU - Western, AU - Vampires, Dark Fantasy, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mystery, Religious Trauma
A/N: Please let me know if any references to indigneous culture and folklore is incorrect!
Masterlist
Chapter warnings: None... i think
wc: 6,3k
Chapter 3
“You really are just like me, aren't you?” A voice taunts from a corner of your mind, one that you prayed you'd never hear ever again. It was enough to snap you out of your stupor. Bloodthirst be damned, surely that bastard hadn't somehow risen from the dead, had he?
Your body jerks away from Boothill, like a marionette suddenly tugged on its strings. Somewhere deep inside you, the beast protests and your own veins ache, as though sensing the impending loss of red ichor. Yet, no matter how badly your body hungered, you had more pressing matters to attend to.
Like an animal that knew it was caged, your eyes dart around the dim bookstore. Usually, you were quite grateful over the store's strategic placement. The large bank that proudly stood opposite always did a fine job in blocking out the worst of the sun's rays, offering safe refuge. However, for once, you curse the shelter you had fashioned for yourself. You could scarcely see a damn thing and the oil lamps carefully placed around the store did little to help save for casting long shadows that had your paranoia going into overdrive.
For what felt like hours but were in reality mere seconds, you observe each and every nook and cranny from where you knelt. Was he here? Had you miscalculated? But surely not, right? If memory served you right, then he ought to be dead. You would know. You killed him.
"Say, you wouldn't happen ta' have any ol' rags lyin' about fer this, would ya? I'm 'fraid this here hanky is 'bout as useful as a cowboy with no arms," Boothill drawls, the sheepish tone cutting your train of thought clean in half. You blink once, twice, the primitive instincts within gradually ebbing away. The long-limbed figures around you morph back into the harmless shadows they were.
“I’ll go get the medicine chest,” you say, making a hasty retreat into the depths of the bookstore. Your words sound distant, even to your own ears. Garbled even, though perhaps that was due to your fangs shrinking back to a more inconspicuous size. It takes a good while to locate the wooden chest. The sudden bloodthirst that had overcome you appears to have snuffed out your brain's capabilities of complex thought. Your body merely performs shaky motions in an effort to maintain some semblance of normalcy. Perhaps it was just as well.
Your will was still as strong as before, that much was evident. But who knows how long it’d last? Anger and fear weren't stable preservers, after all. Eventually, your resolve would erode away along with your remaining vestiges of humanity until all that remains is a beast. Until then, all you could do was try to prolong the inevitable for as long as possible. You must.
“Mighty obliged, lil’ librarian,” Boothill nods once you set the chest down with a heavy thud, the contents faintly rattling inside. You simply nod in return, putting all your focus on cleaning up the cut.
“I ain’t usually this much of a butterfingers. Don’t know what’s gotten into me, really. Reckon it’s the lack o’ sleep,” he rambles away. Whether it was to stave away his feelings of guilt or just to distract himself from the pain, you weren’t sure. To his credit, however, he winces only slightly when the tarry-smelling cotton hits the wound. So perhaps it was the former.
“You haven’t been sleeping?” you ask, busying your mouth with speaking lest the hunger takes over once more. You’d noticed Boothill had been just a tad sluggish than usual but had merely chalked it up to simple exhaustion from the day’s work.
“Naw… or rather, not as much as I oughta. Been up the past few nights keepin’ watch fer my family. Now, it ain't like I make a habit o' playin' night hawk fer my folks but y'know how it's been lately."
"…No, I'm afraid I don't know how it's been lately," you shake your head. The cowboy falters at the pointed look you give him, reminding him of your homebody-esque lifestyle. The real reason had of course, nothing to do with preferring to stay home and everything to do with not wishing to implicate yourself in the current happenings in the town. You had worked so hard just to keep yourself above snakes, fleeing from town to town, crossing state borders and putting as much distance as you could between each life you'd been forced to lead. You'd sooner starve to death than let all your efforts go to waste simply due to other vampires who should know better.
"Ah. Well, it ain't much different from what I told ya a couple nights ago. Folks are on edge. Livestock won't stop dyin' an' their money won't stop goin' down the drain. 'S bad times, these are. Desperate, even, if things keep goin' like this."
"I see… But you're not gonna be of any use if you keep skimping out on rest like this. Today's a sliced finger, tomorrow may be a missing hand," you answer. Speaking of injuries, it seems as if the bleeding had stopped. Still, you'd rather be on the safe side. Not just for Boothill's sake but for yours too.
"Tsk. You an' everyone an' their fuckin' ma seems t'be hellbent on sayin' the same ol' shit over an' over again," Boothill scoffs, a stubborn set to his jaw. You could only imagine how often he must act like a mule, considering how familiar and natural his stubbornness seemed, despite him being an acquaintance at most.
"Must be some merit to it then, if you've been hearing it over and over again," you mutter, tying a piece of gauze around the sliced finger. Boothill flexes it once, twice, while frowning. You'd tied it too tight, nearly cutting off all blood flow. He wonders vaguely whether you have some fear of blood. It must've been why you'd been trembling so much when you brought the medicine chest over, as well as why you'd been so quick and overzealous in your efforts to staunch the bleeding.
Well, he can't say he's not charmed in a sense.
"Maybe. Maybe not. But I can't rest." Boothill shakes his head as he fixes the tight knot. "Today's a dead sheep, tomorrow could be entire herds left t'rot. This town and its folks have suffered plenty throughout the years. I ain't havin' another buffalo slaughter happenin', not if I've got anythin' t'do about it."
You were glad your back was turned to the man, busy with closing the medicine chest so you could carry it back to its original space. You couldn't let Boothill see your reaction, the way your eyes had widened and your hands began to tremble once more.
For the umpteenth time in your agonizingly long life, you curse yourself for having gotten involved with him. He who'd left his horrid mark on history, making sure to haunt you despite having long since perished.
"Then I s'pose it's high time we start searching for answers then," you say upon regulating your breathing. You stand up, dusting off any remaining debris from the broken vial off your clothes. You'll clean it up later, you decide. Both so you wouldn't have the cowboy encroaching on your space for longer than necessary but also so you wouldn't have to deal with any more bloody fingers.
You grab Boothill by the hand, helping him back onto his feet. His hand was warm, almost unbearably so, due to all the blood that had rushed to the area because of his injury. You drop the offending limb quickly, but not before your stomach growls loudly at the mental image of getting blood fresh from the tap.
Boothill stares at you for what felt like hours while you wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Your face burned with moritifcation and it's all you can do to simply clear your throat and act unbothered.
Since when did sounds echo in the bookstore? And for that matter, has the store always been this quiet?
"Well ah… Reckon we better get to it then 'fore ya decide you're hungry 'nough t'eat a grown man like me," Boothill snorts, attempting to stave away the awkward atmosphere that had descended.
You warily eye him, wondering whether he was onto you or if he was simply cracking a joke that was unknowingly in poor taste. Considering the way he mistakes your wary expression for one of offense, even mumbling out a tiny apology, you relax. Still in the clear.
"No worries," you say in response to the apology. "I'm afraid a stubborn, bumbling fool of a gunslinger isn't to my taste."
"Darn shame, that is," Boothill grins, sharp and cocky, following after you as you head deeper inside the bookstore.
But of course, "getting to it" was much more easier said than done. For one, the exterior of the old bookstore did not match up to its interior. Simply glancing from the outside, as Boothill had done countless times before when passing by, the building gave you the impression of being about as big as the average two-room log cabins that decorated the frontier town. And certainly, the building was about as big as them but that brings us to the second point.
Without any need for furniture outside of shelves that spanned entire walls, a few tables and chairs along with the cash register, it was easy to fit well over a thousand old tomes and scriptures inside a room. Not that anyone was keeping count. You certainly weren't.
"So ah…. Where t'start?" Boothill asks, looking around the countless shelves. You don't answer just yet, taking your time in lighting enough lamps around the space to ensure there wouldn't be anymore unnecessary bumping and bruising.
"I've got a list of titles from the old records that should be helpful but I'm afraid they're gonna take some searching. The old owner wasn't very keen on keeping a proper system and I haven't had the time to make sense of it so this may take a while," you answer, handing a sheet of paper to the man.
Boothill squints at your handwriting, looking through all the titles listed. Some appeared to be encyclopedias about animals to be found in the west, a familiar topic that had him relaxing. If the mystery predator was just some rare-sighted animal, then this little case would be over in the twinkling of a bed-post. Speaking of which, he really misses his bed. He hopes none of the strays or his siblings had been taking his absence as permission to ransack it.
However, the next few titles had Boothill's jaw tightening at once. Books about the supernatural. Of course. It seems even a home-body librarian like you, is also folly to rumours and old wives tales. Nope. No matter. It wouldn't hurt to keep both eyes on the herd…. even if he could feel a headache beginning to form at the idea of having to read through the ramblings of folks gone senile.
"Geez… I took mah time in swingin' by and ya didn't ever find the time t'search fer these books yerself?" Boothill remarks in a dry tone, side-eyeing your figure as you search the shelves behind him.
"I was under the impression this was gonna be a joint effort, cowboy," you reply easily. You feel your hand twitch, aching to throw a rude gesture at him but refrain just this once. "Besides, two heads are better than one. Even if I had been searching for the books on my lonesome, which I assure you I was, there's no guarantee I would've made any progress."
"Stupid fuckin' town. Always gotta do everythin' 'round these parts," Boothill grumbles to himself, joining in on the search. "At this rate, I'll have more gray hairs than my ma an' her name literally is Graey!"
"If it helps you tone down the bitching, I already found three of the books on the list."
"Oh. Should'a said that earlier."
"What a world of change that would've made."
Thankfully, even if the bookstore seemed endless, it wasn't. After about two long hours of searching, almost all of the books were found. All but one, that is.
You had been right. Two heads really are better than one, as you and Boothill together managed to figure out the chaotic organizing system the previous owner had used. The bookstore did have a proper system. It's just that the previous owners had decided to make one of their own, following the Dewey decimal system as a guideline.
The numbers etched on the spines, were all fading however. You could only thank the Aeons for pitying you this once, as the fading numbers were no match for your vampiric vision and Boothill's eagle eyes.
That just left… a book way up on the top shelf. It wouldn't be impossible to reach, considering the rolling ladders each shelf was equipped with. However, you weren't exactly keen on climbing up a set of rickety wooden steps and risk breaking your neck. A quick glance at Boothill, who suddenly pretended to be very interested in something stuck to the bottom of his boots, told you that neither was he.
Bastard. You should've just drained his blood when you had the chance.
Cursing your luck in having to deal with a brash, stubborn mule of a cowboy, you grab the ladder and begin climbing. The steps creaked ominously under your weight and you have to stop to take a few breaths and steel your nerves. This is fine. You'll be fine. Broken necks aren't fatal to vampires…. you think.
"Y'doin' alright up there?" Boothill calls from down below. You swallow the urge to throw a book at his head.
"Peachy. Just… shut up and let me focus. I'm trying to find the last book," you grunt.
"Rude. Here I thought folks appreciated a bit o' morale-boostin'."
"Maybe not when they're busy trying to do something useful and not fall off an ancient ladde- Woah!"
Perhaps there's something to be learned in not letting your emotions get the best of you. Maybe if you hadn't been busy snarkily replying to Boothill, the step under your feet wouldn't have decided it's lived a long life and chosen now of all times to kick the bucket. As you're falling from the moderately-short distance from the top of the ladder to the floor, you wonder whether time really does slow down when you're falling or if it depends on the distance.
Boothill moves without blinking, sprinting to where he assumes you'd fall. He lets out a gruff "oof" when you land— not very gracefully — into his awaiting arms. He mentally claps himself on the back, smug that his cattle-roping skills came handy here, though he's careful not to mention it. He doubts anyone would like being compared to cattle.
You, on the other hand, feel the breath leave your lungs once Boothill catches you. Not for any romantic reasons, mind you. This wasn't some cliche love story where the main character is enchanted by the debonair face of their savior and feels their heart skip several beats of being in their muscled arms.
For one, Boothill was absolutely not the kind of man someone should be losing their breath over. Not because he's ugly. He's unfairly handsome, really. But rather, it's because any words of appreciation immediately fade from your tongue at the sight of the shit-eating grin he had plastered as he stared down at you. Second, the only reason you even lost your breath was because anyone would, if they suddenly fell from a tall ladder and were deftly, yet suddenly, caught.
"Reckon it's a good thing it wasn't me on that ladder, eh?" Boothill grins. "Don't s'pose you'd have been able to catch me."
"You wanna test that theory out?"
"Naw. You make helluva example," he chuckles, shaking his head. You snort at his words, feeling a bit ridiculous. Ah well. At least you had managed to grab the book you'd been searching for, right before falling.
"You don't say. But thank you, for catching me. I mean it."
"Much obliged, lil' librarian. I'd say we're even now after I broke yer lil' glass vial. And hell, brawn ain't much use without brains, ain't that right?"
"I don't think that's how that works."
"Semantics, lil' librarian. I'd have thought you of all folks would know."
You roll your eyes and try to envision smacking the cowboy over the head with the book in your hand. Unfortunately, that image is ruined by the fact that you were still carefully being held in his arms. It's hard to stay mad at someone when in such a position.
"Right well…. How about you put me down first before we argue over semantics?" You say, clearing your throat.
Boothill stiffens, feeling his face burn with embarrassment. He scrambles to put you down, mumbling out an apology. But in his excitement, he ends up dropping you flat on your ass to the wooden floor.
So much for catching you.
"Shit. My bad!" Boothill says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. He holds a hand out, helping you to your feet and makes a point of not meeting your glare head-first.
"It is a miracle that someone like you is this town's best gunslinger."
"Y'know, my siblings say the exact same thing. Reckon y'all would get along like peas in a pod."
"Surely. Anyways, we've wasted enough time. Let's get to reading through these books."
"Yeah, uh. In a minute," Boothill mutters. You raise an eyebrow but choose to not push it, instead heading to the table where all the books had been haphazardly stacked. You'd like to make some actual progress before the day was over so you could get the cowboy out of your hair.
Boothill watches you take a seat by the table and open a dusty old tome. He feels his lips twitch when a cloud of dust hits your nostrils, leaving you in a coughing fit. He looks away quick enough, focusing on his hands.
Over the course of his gunslinging career, Boothill has had to carry countless people and help them out of harm's way. Whether it be a spooked animal, a scared little kid or an old lady about to breathe her last, he's done it all. Yet something about you makes him pause.
Was it the fabric of your clothes? Surely not. What about your weight? Nope, not that either. Besides, Boothill's a strong and experienced man, thank you kindly. He knows his way around carrying people who weigh no more than a feather to those on the heavier side and everyone in between. So it can't be that.
Boothill curls his hands into loose fists, the realization dawning on him then.
Your body was unnaturally cold.
—
People's ability to put words to their thoughts and knowledge is truly remarkable. Truly, there is no other creature who has the ability to connect words into long eligible chains to convey their message. However, you do wish writing in a simpler language was more popular. You could feel your eyes beginning to hurt after hours of holding pages close to the lamplight and reading the same sentence over and over again in hopes of understanding the prose.
At least Boothill was in the same boat as you.
"Y'know, readin' these books made me realize it's a wonder more folks ain't illiterate. Hell, if I had ta' read this shit everyday, reckon I'd have lost it," Boothill sighs, leaning back in his seat and stretching like a cat.
"You're telling me," you groan, resting your head on the table. The wood felt wonderfully cool on your aching eyes and throbbing head. "If I have to read one more passage that could've been rewritten as a simple sentence, I will scream."
Boothill pats your shoulder in sympathy, eyeing your exhausted figure. He could barely hear you breathe, perhaps due to the table muffling the sounds.
"Well, if ya ask me, I'd say we've made plenty o' progress. I'd say we've earned ourselves a lil' break."
"Yeah… I'm gonna get some shut-eye. You go and do… whatever," you mumble, waving a dismissive hand. Well, Boothill's not gonna argue against that.
Standing up from his chair, Boothill stifles a groan and rubs his ass. He's never had much there to begin with but after sitting for hours on a wooden surface, he's quite sure whatever little meat he had there had promptly been flattened. What a catastrophe! I mean, what's the point of wearing leather chaps if he doesn't have an ass to match?
Seeing as you were currently nowhere near rejoining the land of the living, Boothill undertakes the decision of snooping browsing around the bookstore and see what goodies this old place may be hiding. Truth be told, he didn't really have any high expectations. At most, Boothill expects to maybe find old love letters or something of that sort hidden here and there.
He decides to try his luck in searching the shelves that hold books about the supernatural. Granted, the topic made his head hurt and he'd rather not think about creatures that he wishes to not get mixed up or creatures that were made up by bored old fools, but! He surmises that if he wanted to find something juicy and insane, it would have to be in the section written and read by the senile.
The vast majority of tomes were old and dusty, Boothill notes. He trails a finger along the worn spines, marveling at just how much dust builds up on its pad. A flash of red catches the attention of his ivory crosshairs and Boothill pauses, pulling the book out of its snug home. Its cover was bound in goatskin, decorated in red embellishments that shone when the light hit it just right.
"Vampyres, Dhampirs & Nachzehrers: A Guide to the Nocturnal"
Boothill raises an eyebrow as he pores over the cover. It appears to have been written by some fella named Le Fanu, though perhaps it would be more accurate to call it a compilation of several authors over the past centuries. Normally, he'd rather not have anything to do with the words and superstitions of white men who were far too comfortable preaching their worldview as the only correct one. But this time, something compels him to crack it open and take a look.
"What're you doing?"
Boothill jumps, the book slamming shut in his excitement. He turns around to face you. When the hell had you gotten here? He hadn't heard a peep, not even any chairs scraping against the floor. Unfair really, he thinks to himself. You had chastised him for slinking around like a cat and here were you, doing the same!
"I'm doin' whatever, like ya said," He replies.
"Whatever doesn't mean snooping around," you say while rolling your eyes. You were suddenly quite jittery, he notes, as you grab the book from his hands and place it back on the shelf.
"It ain't snoopin' around if it's a bookstore," Boothill argues. " 'Sides, what's so wrong with me readin' that?"
"I thought you didn't believe in vampires."
"I don't. But that don't mean I can't learn more 'bout them old wives tales the ol' coots keep ramblin' about."
"Well…" You pause. Boothill was watching you again. It was strange. Humans were, by all means, prey for vampires. But locked in an impromptu staring match now, the roles feel switched. You swallow roughly.
"It's a limited edition. One-of-a-kind, y'know? Can't have just anyone roughhousing with it."
"I'm plenty gentle with my hands, swear on mah hat!"
"I'd rather not take the risk."
Boothill grumbles under his breath. One of these days, he'll show you just how gentle he can really get. No, not like that. Get your head out of the sand!
In the hopes of getting this situation back under your control, you suggest comparing the notes you both had taken when poring over all those books earlier. Boothill obliges, following you back to the table, though he bitches plenty about stuffy and ignorant librarians.
"So… Shall we start with the natural or the supernatural?" You sigh, staring at the pile of notes.
"I'd rather not make the bangin' in my head worse."
"Natural it is."
You and Boothill read through the notes, searching for a completely reasonable and scientific explanation behind the livestock that were dropping like flies. Unbeknownst to you, the cowboy was also searching for a reason that would explain the agitated behaviors of the local fauna. Yet…
"That don't make a lick'a sense," Boothill pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling the crooked little hump. "Who the hell has ever heard of a goddamn wolf partnerin' with a snake?!"
"It's not out of the ordinary!" You argue. "Mutualism happens all the time between animals. And it makes sense! A snake could very well bury its fangs inside an animal and render it paralyzed in seconds!"
"Yeah? What 'bout the poison? Don't reckon I've ever heard o' wolves that are immune to snake venom."
"Animals evolve all the time. It could be a new sub-species or a mutation!"
Boothill feels a sense of deja vu at that. He bets if Nick were here, he'd be laughing it up at his expense.
"Right. Then what 'bout the missin' blood? Let's say, in theory, that the wolves wait 'til the ranchers throw the dead cattle away 'fore diggin' in. That don't explain why there ain't a drop o' blood left!"
"Maybe-"
"They ain't bleedin' t'death either," Boothill huffs, poking your forehead as if trying to drill some sense into you. "If they were, hell, I reckon Aeragan-Epharshel's grass would'a turned as red as its sand by now."
"I never said it was a perfect theory," you mutter, swatting his hand away.
"You're right. It's a shit theory."
"Go to hell."
"Already there, lil' librarian. Already there."
The two of you glare at each other, locked in a stubborn match like two stags duking it out. You can feel what little blood you had starting to boil. This was proving harder than you had anticipated. A cowboy who knows the land, that too one as astute as Boothill, would need a lot more than mere hypotheticals to swallow whatever excuse you threw at him.
After all, there's a reason why shepherds lead and sheep follow.
"It could be vampire bats. Says here that they feed on blood from livestock," You suggest, taking a look at the notes Boothill had taken. "It's possible they've migrated north from their local habitats."
"Mmn… Reckon you're onto somethin' there," Boothill concedes. "But I don't see how such tiny lil' critters could leave an entire animal drained dry."
"It could be an entire colony working together?"
"I'd think folks would'a heard a fuckton of bats flutterin' around in the dead o' night. The animals would'a caused a ruckus too."
"Not unless the bats know which places to target, that'd leave the animal unable to make a sound."
Boothill narrows his eyes, scratching his chin in thought. Thus far, the notion of vampire bats was the only theory that held any merit. Granted, it didn't explain how sheep would be found with their wool ripped off, or that there'd only ever be one set of puncture mark but it was a start, wasn't it?
A rocky one but right now, he was tired and getting desperate. Throw a hungry dog a stick and it'll gnaw on it like a bone.
"So, we've got wolves an' snakes maybe workin' together, a shit idea by the way (You flip him off.) or bats from further south," Boothill lists off. Naming the possible culprits out loud made him feel silly. But the situation was absurd enough as is.
"Are we missin' somethin'?"
"Well," you start, checking the other notes you had taken. "It could be skinwa- I mean a-"
A calloused hand immediately crashes atop your lips, cutting you off immediately. You stumble back from the force and glare, offended, at Boothill.
"Are ya outta yer fuckin' mind?!" He hisses, voice low as if expecting the creatures to suddenly barge inside the bookstore. The dim lighting from the nearby lanterns did not help his sudden jittery nerves. "This town's already got enough problems o' its own an' you're here tryin' t'bring more?!"
You wrench Boothill's hand off your mouth, resisting the urge to bite down for the sake of petty revenge. His hand smelled like gunpowder and horse. An odd combination.
"I wasn't gonna say it, thank you kindly," You huff, dusting your clothes off in an attempt to regain your composure. "I corrected myself immediately!"
"Don't reckon more than half the damn name counts as immediately."
"An honest mistake."
"Right. Well, it ain't them," Boothill sighs. He has to take several deep breaths to calm down before continuing. "It ain't them or the other one either."
He gestures to your notes at that. You glance down, frowning to yourself. They had seemed like plausible explanations, at least ones that Boothill and the townsfolk would be more willing to believe. Guess time has made your brain a bit rusty.
"How can you be so sure?"
"I dunno what parts o' this country you've been in, lil' librarian. But over here in the west? Ain't a soul who ain't familiar with them. This ain't how they act."
"For a man who's so…" You gesture vaguely with your hands. "Against the concept of the supernatural, you sure are knowledgeable on the topic."
"Tch. Ain't against it. I just got 'nough sense t'know what's real and what ain't."
"Right…"
The two of you stare in a silent standoff, each firm in your stances. Boothill is the first to break, blinking when he thinks he sees a flash of red. Nope. Nothing. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, wanting to wrap this up without any further problems.
"It could be a chupacabra," Boothill finally says. If the realm of the supernatural was inevitable, then this was the one creature he'd bet all his money on as the culprit.
You feel relief flood your veins at the suggestion. Yes. Of course. How could you have forgotten? You had been so preoccupied in trying to find explanations that would shift the suspicion off of you and potential others that you had ignored the simplest of answers to all your problems.
"Mm… It fits all the criterias," you nod, trying to mask your relief.
"Mhm. Though… Ain't heard hide nor tail of 'em reappearing here," Boothill replies, scratching at a scar on his cheek. "Thought the bastards would'a gone and stayed elsewhere."
"Oh?"
"Don't lookit me like that," he scoffs. "Wasn't nothin' special. They're still beasts at the end o' the day. Jus' gotta show yer strength and they run with their tails betwixt their legs."
You don't argue against that logic. Every creature, whether natural or no, followed the same rules as anyone else. Power is the one language universally spoken and feared. It's as simple as that.
"That's a wrap then, hm?" You hum, beginning to tidy the books away. Stress sure had taken its toll on you. You hadn't even realized how heavy your body had been feeling until now.
"Yeh. Reckon so. Mighty obliged, lil' librarian. Folks can rest easy now," Boothill grins. You don't return it as a thought occurs to you. You know this town. The folks may be kinder but instincts and habits remain.
"How will you prove it?"
"Huh?"
You work your jaw, trying to figure out a way out of this. If you were to fix this mess and block off any possible chances of this going awry, you had to be careful with your words lest you dig yourself a new grave.
"Folks won't take your word for it so easily. They're going to want proof," you say.
"Eh. I'll jus' hunt down the beasts," the cowboy shrugs, the action betraying a hint of tension. What was your problem?
"Alright. Let's say we manage to hunt down any one of these beasts. That'd be great, wouldn't it? But the question remains, my good sir…" Boothill’s eyes twitches. You must be doing this on purpose, he's quite sure of it. Stars above, this is why he never wasted time with tenderfoots. They're all too busy looking down on the folks who know the truth of this world, who have experienced the harsh realities and survived.
"How will you know the beast is our culprit?"
The cowboy is silent. If it weren’t for the movement of his jaw working, grinding those sharp teeth to dust, you'd have thought he was a statue. Perhaps you've- No, you're well aware you've hit a sore point.
No man appreciates being reminded of his failures, regardless of how many kills and achievements he's got under his belt. To remind him that he's been running around like a headless chicken to chase coyotes and wolves that he knew damn well had nothing to do with the recent happenings, that he knows next to nothing about what could be behind the killings… You must have a death wish.
"S'pose we could take a look at their teeth," Boothill finally says. He looked damn near ready to riddle the nearest book full of holes.
"Teeth?" You prod, tilting your head slightly as if the raise of your eyebrow wasn't enough to convey your patronizing confusion.
"Teeth. We don't know much 'bout these beasts, I'll admit. But what we do know is that none of the livestock so far's been mangled to death. They've all got clean puncture marks," he explains. "Clean puncture marks that'll tell us what kinda canines this sonuvagun's got."
"And you're positive it's the canines being used?"
"Them's the sharpest and longest teeth all animals' got. 'Sides, I've been bit plenty to know my shit."
"It's a miracle you haven't contracted rabies."
"What can I say?" Boothill flashes you a cavalier grin, his teeth on full display. "Death jus' don't want a piece a'me. Hurts my feelings, it does. I always reckoned I'm a handsome feller, wouldn't ya say so?"
You huff and roll your eyes. You don't bother answering. Both because you're certain it's a rhetorical question and because there's no use stroking the ego of a self-assured man like Boothill.
"Right, well… It seems like this time, death might just manage to make an honest man out of you," you say.
Boothill raises an eyebrow, wondering where you were going with this line of questioning. If he were to be perfectly honest, you'd been getting on his nerves for quite a while now. Granted, it likely came with the territory of owning a bookstore, this know-it-all attitude that appeared whenever you posed a question. Like you knew something he didn’t and were dangling it in front of him, just out of reach.
He watches you leave briefly, disappearing past a door just beside the cash register. When you come back, you held two fruits in your hands. Apples, both of them, from the looks of it.
Just what kinda game are they playin' at?
"Let me frame it this way," you begin, holding up each fruit in one hand. "I've got two fruits here. One's a Golden Delicious. The other's an Asian pear. Both two different fruits but they look the same. The only thing that sets them apart is the taste."
"And yer point is?"
"None of these fruits are gonna let you get close enough to take a bite. Not without a considerable amount of risk. So, my point is, cowboy, how do you identify the pear from the apple?"
A low scoff is heard from Boothill. So this was your ploy. He had to admit, you raised a good question. If he were anyone else, he'd probably be scratching his head and conceding his lack of intelligence the way every city-slicker undoubtedly expected the folks of the country to behave.
But that's just it. He's not just anyone else.
And his name doesn't mean Loaded Gun without a reason.
You hear the gunshot sooner than you feel it, the bullet grazing past your cheek and embedding itself into the flesh of the pear in your right hand. You stumble, the backs of your legs hitting the edge of the cash register.
"Seems t'me, my lil' librarian," Boothill drawls, blowing the smoke from the muzzle of his six-shooter. "That you've forgotten who you're talkin' to."
He chuckles, handing you his dirty handkerchief. It still smelled strongly of iron, his blood crusted into a mouthwatering pattern. Mechanically, you press the fabric to your cheek, even though you know there won't be any blood seeping from the wound.
As if making a trade not unlike the ones he'd often make with merchants, Boothill leaves the handkerchief in your hand in exchange for the pear in your right. He digs the bullet out with his teeth and spits it to the side before biting into the fruit, juice dribbling past his lips.
You swallow.
"Guns are what runs the west. Just so happens, I'm the best gunslinger this place has seen since Wild Bill Hickok and my ma retired," he continues, gathering the handful of notes he'd written from earlier. All the while, his teeth don't stop tearing into the pear's flesh.
"I'll be seein' ya around," are his parting words. With a wink and a tip of his hat, Boothill is gone, his poncho billowing behind him like a sea of blood. You wave in farewell, still feeling a bit dazed from the suddenness of his actions.
Brash, theatrical and impulsive. Three words for a man with an overwhelming amount of presence.
You sigh to yourself, throwing the apple away. All's well ends well, you think. After all, the bullet could've lodged itself in your heart instead. But it hadn't and you've lived to see another day. Several, even, considering how well you played your cards this time. Congratulations were in order, you surmise as you finish tidying the books.
Instinctively, your eyes flit across all the shelves and you freeze. Your heart starts to race and you swear out loud.
Synopsis: A mission goes awry and has Boothill lactating from his metal tits (yes you heard that right). With no one else that he'd rather trust, he turns to you for help. And help he receives, and then some.
Tags: Boothill x GN! reader, Wireplay, Male lactation, cunnilingus, fluff, smut, bottom boothill, boothill has a vagina (yay), aftercare, ambiguous relationships
A/N: baby's first smutfic and it's... squints, wireplay! anyways be nice, this is my first actual smutfic
Warnings: NSFT MDNI !!!! also small mentions of blood
wc: 4,3k
Boothill doesn't have much that he prides himself upon these days. Once upon a time, he'd rattle off a whole list of feats and achievements, with no shortage of personal strengths, added to the mix. Now? All that the cowboy had left were his sharpshooting skills honed from years of hunting and this indestructible body of his.
Or well… Nearly indestructible would be a better way of putting it.
Of course, Boothill should've seen this coming. He kicks himself over it, agonizing over why he'd never once stopped to think things through before jumping into the fray. He should've realized that the sturdier the body, the more fatal the flaw. Nothing can be too strong. There was nothing in this universe that could stand tall without risking erosion. There will always be a chink in the armor, an Achilles heel.
He simply never realized that the consequences would be lactation of all things.
No, it's fine. He's prepared for this (probably). I mean, more often than not, his friends would force him to be the mama whenever they all played house as kids. They'd swaddle a little lamb from his family's herd and Boothill would coo and hold the sweet thing close to his chest, as if nursing the animal. That stopped after the lamb bleated when roughousing too much one day and nearly bit his nipple off.
Aeons above, why the fuck do kids never role-play as something more normal?
Boothill did get a shot at redemption when he later found a little baby girl wailing at the top of her lungs in the snow, much like how he once had been found. With plenty of help from Graey and his brother's wife, he managed to be a decent parent for the little angel. As decent a parent one can be when forced to leave base for hours, sometimes days, at a time to hunt and do some much-needed pest control, that is. That must be why when Boothill had finally returned and taken the effort to head straight towards the farm he grew up, the very first thing that his daughter had did upon being picked up was bite down hard on his nipple as an act of revenge (Graey had said something about teething but Boothill called bullshit).
Yeah no, maybe- Scratch that, he was definitely cursed. And he had hoped, prayed even!, that he wouldn't suffer any similar predicaments upon gaining a metal body. After all, it's not like anyone would want to bite down on the screws he had for nipples, right?
Still… Boothill can't just walk around with leaky tits. For one, he wasn't even sure what the hell was dripping from the metal teats and he wasn't really keen on tasting the clear fluid that had his chest and abs covered in a glossy sheen just to find out. Second, Boothill wasn't exactly sure whether he was steadily losing some vital fluid from his body. It wasn't blue in color, so he could at least rest assured that he wasn't bleeding to death from his chest. However, a cyborg needed much more than just cold blue blood to function. There were a multitude of other fluids, circuits, wires, cogs and whatnot that kept him running like a horse through grassy plains. How could he be sure that he won't combust within the next hour just because his nipples aren't leaking blood?
There is also the fact that his bandana and cape were thoroughly soaked from his efforts to wipe the fluid away before any wandering soul stopped for a second too long and asked Boothill why the hell he was lactating.
The universe left no other option. Boothill curses his luck once more. He'd been hoping that after that shootout with the IPC, he could sneak back to the ship he'd hijacked and perform some much-needed maintenance on himself. Surely there's a manual somewhere that dealt with this or some poor soul who had once also suffered from leaky tits and asked for help on a forum and received an extremely detailed and helpful answer. But alas, a short while of searching provided absolutely zero results. Even the forum that typically held all the answers to anything and everything, including how to remove a cylinder shaped object from a M&M tube without harming it, had zero results.
So, Boothill did what anyone with leaky tits would do. He hopped into his ship and sped off towards a doctor, which in his case, would be a mechanic. But not just any mechanic, no. He's sure that the doctor who'd created his cyborg body would laugh in his face and throw her sandwich and tell him to get out. No, this was a sensitive matter. And there was only one soul that Boothill trusted enough for this.
—
As one would expect from residing in a universe full of intellitrons, droids and all sorts of machinery and sentient life forms, you had quite the experience under your belt. There wasn't a single problem thus far that you hadn't managed to resolve! Everything from re-calibrating the auto-aim on a droid's cock to rewiring an intellitron's pussy so that it throbbed to the beat of her favorite song, you've done it. Of course, your expertise didn't only lie in such matters. The vast majority of your work consisted of the average repairs and maintenance with the occasional commissioner requesting something built.
Despite all of that, despite the glowing reviews on your webpage raving about your professionalism, despite having patented a new core for a client that could synthesize food at will, despite everything you've done in all your years as a mechanic, never once had you been greeted by a scene like the one before you.
"… You're lactating," you state, blankly staring at the screws on Boothill's metal chest plates. He gives you an unimpressed look, very obviously wondering whether he'd made the right call in coming to you for help.
"Congrats, darlin'! Ya've got eyes! I never once doubted ya!" He deadpans. You make a face in response but don't say anything in response. For now. You vaguely wonder whether it's pregnancy hormones that are making the man so cranky, if the lactation was anything to go by. Can cyborgs even get pregnant?
"Alright, alright. I'm not taking this job just to deal with the attitude. What's up? You been…. lactating long?"
Yeah. Boothill definitely did not make the right choice in coming to you for help.
" 'S been like this fer a couple system hours now," he answers, just barely managing to keep his irritation in check.
"Ah… So… were you doing anything before the lactation started? Any… Ah, endeavors? Perhaps of the sexual kind?"
"If you're tryin' t'say I'm pregnant, you're about t' become real familiar with this six-shooter o' mine."
"Hey, I'm not slut-shaming-"
"I am not pregnant."
"Huh. Bummer," you sigh. Boothill feels his eye twitch and despite how badly he wants to shoot at your feet and make you dance, he manages to rein in his anger just this once. After all, you're the only one he knows who'd fix this problem of his with no- er, a moderate yet harmless amount of judgment.
"Anyway," Boothill drawls out. "I was wrappin' up a bounty. Didn't realize that the warehouse kept automated reinforcements so I ended up gettin' caught off guard by one'a them fat forkers the IPC loves t' keep around. Slammed into me like a bull that saw red an' I've been spurtin' whatever the fork this is ever since."
You hum in answer, your mind already drawing up a solution if your hypothesis was correct. You motion for Boothill to take a seat on the work table whilst searching for your toolbox in the pigsty that you called a workshop. The cowboy obeys, taking your silence as an opportunity to continue gabbing on about how he taught those muddlefudgers a lesson and had fun pulling out the wires deep inside the mech's guts. Famous last words.
"Do you have any idea on what's been leaking out?" You ask, adjusting your chair so that you were about face level with his chest. At least now you had an excuse to ogle his tits to your heart's desire. Aeons knows how big they were when he had his organic body.
"Naw, don't got a fudgin' clue."
"You didn't think to check? You couldn't… Oh, I dunno, taste what the hell you've been squirting out of your tits like a faucet?"
"Why the fork would I lick the shirt I've been leakin'?! That's like crankin' the hog an' eatin' yer own emissions!"
"Very eloquently put, Boothill. But I'm asking because it would've given me an idea as to what went wrong so I wouldn't have to go in completely blind," you explain patiently. You unzip his cropped jacket so you'd have easier access to his gorgeous tits. "Besides, it's not like you'd die from it. I've seen you eat bullets."
"If ya wanna taste so bad then be my fudgin' guest," Boothill says irritably. You mutter something about putting his name on the suicide note if you die before suddenly, your lips wrap around his left nipple and sucks. Hard.
An undignified squeak leaves his lips and he nearly shoves you off. Instead, he manages to grab you by the hair and firmly pull you off, glaring daggers at you. Your slick lips and unrepentant grin is what greets him.
"When I said have a taste, I ain't meant anythin' 'bout suckin' on mah screws like a forkin' baby!" Boothill grits out.
"There's a lot of things we mechanics have to do for the sake of science," you shrug. If it weren't for the eager gleam in your eyes as you drink in the beautiful blush coloring his cheeks, Boothill would've assumed you were doing this just to get on his nerves. "Anyway… I'm not exactly sure what the fluid is. I don't think I've ever tasted anything like it."
"Ya make a habit o' tastin' that shirt?"
"In my line of work, you have to use all five senses. Anywho, I don't suppose you'd know what it is, would you? I don't think it's inedible since I haven't dropped dead on the floor, unfortunately. It tasted quite sweet, in fact. A bit slimy in consistency though."
Oh.
Oh.
The blue blush on Boothill's skin darkens even more, if that was even possible. He pulls the brim of his hat down, covering his eyes in an uncharacteristic act of shyness. You roll your eyes and lightly swat his hand away.
"C'mon. Spill," you prod, not unkindly. You remove his hat and gently brush a stray lock of hair away from his good eye, forcing him to meet your gaze. Jeez, where did all this tension suddenly come from?
" 'S lube…" Boothill mutters, promptly looking away once the answer leaves his lips. But of course, that answer only furthered your confusion and he had no choice but to explain. "So my joints don't get all rusty….and for uhh… other purposes."
"Oh wow. I'm hurt you never told me about that."
"Reckon I'd rather take ya out fer dinner first than do that."
"That an offer?"
"Shut yer bazoo."
You stifle a snort and return your attention back to the matter at hand. You've worked on Boothill's body before so you were intimately familiar with his insides, ignoring how grisly that sounds. If he was leaking lube like this, then the problem and solution were evident for you.
"Okay, I think I know what happened. When that IPC mech rammed into you, it must've caused the wires inside to get all jumbled. Likely, the wires that directed lube to the necessary areas got jumbled to the point the routes got redirected to your tits," you ramble away, already grabbing a screwdriver to get down to business.
"Great. Knew I could count on ya!" Boothill sighs. You don't bother pointing out how his expression had told a completely different story just a couple minutes ago. Instead, you focus on removing the chest plates, revealing the cavern inside his body that was decorated with all sorts of parts. Fuck, it was like a mechanic's wet dream.
"Lemme know if things get uncomfortable. I'm diving in," you say. Putting on gloves on your hands and holding a torch in one, you peer inside the cavity, taking in what you saw. The wires really had been jumbled. Thankfully, you had a good idea of how things really should be looking and get to work.
"Really wish ya didn't word it like tha- Ah!" Boothill jolts and immediately clamps one hand over his mouth.
"What was that?"
"N-nothin'… Keep goin'."
You raise an eyebrow and continue. You were trying your utmost to be careful. Just because the exterior was sturdy doesn't mean the same could be said for the interior. But that was tough when everything was in such a disarray. With as much care as you could muster, you tug at a handful of wires that were stuck in an awkward position.
"Mmngh! W-what the fork are ya doin' in there?!" Boothill demands, his voice sounding awfully breathless. Since when did cyborgs need to breathe?
"Fixing your insides, genius. The lube leaked everywhere. It's like someone squirted everywhere here!"
"C-cain't ya be a bit more gentle?"
"I'm trying but the wires are all slippery an-"
Your words are cut off by an embarrassingly loud groan from above. Strange. All you'd done was roughly unplug one of the circuits. This wasn't supposed to hurt. You'd made sure the pain receptors were dialed as low as possible. Unless…
Experimentally, you pull at another wire and sure enough:
"H-haah… H-hey, quit that!"
"Just doing my job," you hum. "This is all necessary, y'know. But… if it's making you uncomfortable and you want me to stop, I have no problems whatsoever."
Boothill glares at the top of your head. He could hear the shit-eating grin in your voice and it did not bode well with him. You were smart. It never took too long for you to put two and two together. Still…
"Nah… 'S fine. Jus'… be a bit gentle, yeah?"
"Only for you, cowboy."
"O-oh fork," he softly whimpers. It takes everything in him to not double over or buck his hips. He tries, he really does, to focus on something else. Like the various decorations in your workshop, the twinkling streetlights outside, the softness of your hands that he could just barely make out despite the gloves and- Now, hold on.
"You can hold my hair if it helps," you offer, as if sensing his internal war. Almost immediately, you feel the dexterous fingers grab a firm, but not rough, hold. Heat pools deep in your gut but you ignore it for now. Boothill can help out that in due time.
Needy little moans fill the workshop while you work. Each tug at a wire, every time you wiped lube off the parts, every tiny little shift had the man close to writhing. What you wouldn't give to see his face right now. Was he drooling? Was he biting his lips bloody to keep the desperate whines in? Your fingers curl a bit too tightly over the bundle of wires you were holding, causing him to choke on a moan.
"You're doing so good f'me," you hum, patting the plug before inserting it in its rightful place. "There's not much left now, I promise."
Boothill keens, his black bangs falling over his good eye now. This was torture. Mind-numbingly pleasant and sweet, but torture nonetheless.
"Mmf… D-doc'… I ain't sure I can hold on fer much longer," he hiccups. He wanted so desperately to press his thighs together, to relieve a bit of the ache between them but you had your body planted firmly in the middle. He could barely get the friction he so badly desired.
"Just a few more minutes, okay? You can do that for me, can't you? Be a good boy for me this once."
A shiver runs through Boothill's body and incoherent moans spill from his lips, all the while he's tugging harder on your hair. You think you can just barely hear soft pleas with downright pornographic moans of your name but you push it aside, trying to get enough of a grip on yourself to finish the job.
"Alright. It's done. Holding up alright?" You finally stand up after screwing the chest plates back into place, feeling your joints pop from the awkward position you'd been in for the past… Jeez, how long has it been? You cast a glance at Boothill and nearly come undone from the gorgeous sight before you.
His hair was a mess, wayward strands covering parts of his face. You gently brush the strands away, eagerly drinking in the fucked out expression that greeted you. Sure enough, small pricks of blue blood stained his pierced lips from being bitten raw. The soft flesh shone with drool, a few drops nearly falling if it weren't for your thumb swiftly catching them.
"Reckon I'm doin' jus' fine… Peachy, even," Boothill finally answers, peering at you through his long lashes. You bite your lip and press your thumb against his lips, watching it disappear into the cavern. The insides of his mouth were so warm and soft, his tongue laving and suckling at your thumb. You pop it out of his mouth, wiping the remaining saliva across his cheek and grinning.
"S'pose it's time for payment now," you hum. Your eyes trail down his body in a last minute inspection before you frown. "Or not."
Boothill looks downward as well and his cheeks darken. There was a damp patch between his legs that was steadily growing, a familiar slimy fluid making itself known.
"Ah… I was worried this might happen."
"Wh- huh?!"
You sigh, motioning for Boothill to take his pants off. At this point, he's too far gone to feel any shame. He's pretty sure he's already come just from the sensation of you tugging on his cybernetic insides so stripping down wasn't exactly off the table now. You look away to give some semblance of privacy and once you hear the sound of his belt hitting the floor, you turn back.
Boothill was leaning back on the worktable now, his legs spread and head bashfully turned to the side. You sit back down and feel your mouth water at the sight before you.
"I didn't know you had a pussy," you remark, noting the lube that was steadily gushing out of his weeping core. "Don't tell me you had other plans today."
"Shut it… I ain't that kinda man. Was jus'- ah, forget it, what the fork is goin' on now anyway?"
"A minor side effect. Seems like once the system was re-routed correctly, it caused a bit of an overflow. It should die down eventually but…"
"But what? C'mon, don't leave me in the dark like this, doc'."
"Buuuut, I can't give you an exact time on how long it'll take to stop. It can take anywhere from a couple minutes to a few hours. It also depends on exactly how much lube is supposed to flow out."
"A couple hours?! The fork am I s'posed t' do then?! I can't walk around like I'm some muddlefudgin' kid who can't keep it in?!"
You sigh, rubbing at your temples. You did have an idea but it all depended on Boothill and how comfortable he feels around you.
"I do know one way we could speed the process up but…"
"I swear on mah hat that I don't give a flying fork on what you gotta do at this point."
"Then how comfortable are you with me eating you out?"
Boothill's jaw hangs open at that. He's almost certain he misheard. It's not like it wasn't a dream come true. I mean, what cyborg doesn't wish to be manhandled and roughed up by his trusted mechanic? But you can't exactly fault him for being in shock when the offer just falls into his lap like this.
"Well?"
"Gee, at least take me out fer dinner first," Boothill sighs. He leans back and spreads his legs further in a clear invitation for you to dive in. "But go on. Put that mouth o' yers to good use fer once."
You grin, looking every bit like the cat that got the cream. You drag Boothill closer by the hips, relishing in the shiver that wracks through his body when he feels your breath ghosting over his pussy.
"Aren't you a pretty little thing?" you hum. You run an experimental finger down the soft flesh, just barely dipping the tip inside his weeping hole. A breathy moan sounds from above, followed by a curse when you lick the lube that had gathered on your finger.
"Wow, this tastes good. Are you sure you didn't lace this stuff with drugs?"
"No?"
"Hm… Addictive nonetheless."
Boothill rolls his eyes and tugs on your hair. You pat his thigh, muttering something about patience and appreciating beauty for what it's worth. He's really hoping you don't forget about him and start nerding out about how beautifully crafted his pussy is or whatever it is that gets mechanics turned on.
Thankfully, you don't get sidetracked. A pleased sigh leaves Boothill's lips as you begin to place fluttering kisses on the insides of his thighs, gradually moving towards where he needs you the most.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were this wet just for me," you remark. You press a feather-light kiss on his clit and grin at the way his pussy all but flutters, lube gushing out even faster now.
"F-fudge… Don't flatter yerself…. Though ya may have played a role in it."
"Oh, I am definitely taking you out to dinner after this."
Boothill opens his mouth to argue back when he lets out a vulgar moan instead. You'd placed your warm lips over his clit, sucking gently on the bud. He tugs your face closer while simultaneously rocking his hips into your mouth.
You moan against his clit, the vibrations sending a heady rush of pleasure into Boothill's brain. His eyes roll back briefly, a long string of curses leaving him.
"M-muddlefudger, ya do this often?" Boothill gasps, trying his best to keep his thighs from closing in around your head. You grin and lick a fat stripe up his pussy, savoring the sweet fluids leaking from his hole.
"Nah… But if you're saying I'm good at this then thanks. Was afraid I'd gotten rusty," you reply. Boothill glares down at you and tugs harder on your hair. Less talking, more licking.
You get the message, setting a mind-melting rhythm as you alternate between kitten licks and long rough licks up his core. The sweet lube continues to flow onto your awaiting tongue and vaguely you wonder if there was no end to the supply. Not that you'd mind, though Boothill certainly would if his squirming body and whimpers were anything to go by.
You pat his thigh in an effort to soothe him and feel his free hand reach down to lace his fingers with yours. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze and you smile. As if to reward him, you trace sloppy stars over his clit while your tongue dips inside his hole. From the way his pussy was fluttering around your tongue and the way his moans grew more ragged, you could tell he was getting close.
"About to cum, cowboy?" You ask, briefly stopping your actions. Boothill whines, his expression dazed and bordering on fucked out.
"Ngh! Y-yeah… F-fudge! P-please… Don't stop now. 'M so close," he begs, bucking his hip as if chasing your tongue.
"Hmm… You can beg better than that, can't you? Go on. Beg for it."
Boothill's pouty lips tremble and if it weren't for the fact that he'd gotten his tear ducts removed, you were sure he would've started crying. He takes in a shaky deep breath, debating on whether his need to come mattered more than his dignity.
Alas, he is only human.
"Please…! Please touch me, doc'…. I need ya so forkin' bad! Can't finish without yer tongue!" Boothill whines. He lets out a soft sob, continuing to tug at your hair and begging for you to let him cum. As much as you'd love to edge him further and draw it out, you figure that he's gone through enough for one day. Perhaps some other time.
Relenting, you all but dive back between Boothill's legs, lapping at his sweet pussy and milking it for all it's worth. He keens loudly, his teeth mauling his bottom lip while you made out with his lower lips like a lover. You roughly press your tongue inside his hole, basking in the sound of Boothill's breathless " 'M so close, 'm so close."
The orgasm crashes over him like a wave. He throws his head back and moans, all while grinding his pussy against your face to ride it out. You were nearly suffocating but hey, there were worse ways to die.
Pressing one final little kiss to his clit, you eventually pull away and look up. Boothill was almost slumped over, blood and drool steadily dripping from his lips and his eyes still rolled in the back of his head. Sensing your movement, he glances at you with a dazed expression, mumbling a soft whimper of your name.
"Shit… You did so well," you murmur, stroking his hair. You stand up properly, pulling Boothill into your arms and peppering gentle kisses to the side of his head while he buries his face in the crook of your neck. "Never seen a sight more beautiful."
"Mmf… Fudge. Reckon I won't be able t' move fer a while," he mutters.
"That's a shame. I was hoping to take you out for that dinner but… let's eat in instead, yeah?"
Boothill stifles a snort and gives you a look.
" 'M surprised you're hungry after eatin' me out."
"I've got a separate stomach for pussy eating and another for food."
Synopsis: Boothill's partner comes down with a fever and he's now worrying himself to death over the love of his life and their health
Tags: Boothill x gn! reader, fluff, light angst, established relationship, hurt/comfort, sickfic, soft boothill, boothill has ptsd
Warnings: None! I think...
wc: 2,4k
One of the perks of space travel was that there were no space bugs and by “space bugs”, you aren’t talking about those awful and freakish swarms of True Stings. Rather, you meant simple viruses that went around spreading infections and illnesses.
It was an absolute dream, being able to walk around the spaceship wearing whatever you wanted with no regards whatsoever for the temperature and eating anything you could get your hands on with zero fucks given over whether it’s a smart decision to eat an entire tub of your favorite ice cream while butt-naked and dripping wet from the shower you’d just taken.
Even better was the fact that you never needed to worry about your travel companion ever carrying any diseases either. I mean, come on! Boothill’s a cyborg! Cyborgs can’t get sick unless you count malfunctions as illnesses… Although, to be fair, the guy certainly acted like he was on death’s door whenever suffering from an internal problem in his circuits.
“Oh darlin’.... Is that the pearly gates I see?,” Boothill moans dramatically while lying on your worktable with his metal abs removed, revealing the beautiful hardware underneath. He truly was a work of art with wires filled with icy blue fuel mimicking the veins and arteries of an organic being and making everything, even the tiniest little gear, tick as it should. Or… that would’ve been the case if it weren’t for the odd pieces of junk that had somehow wormed its way inside through the cracks and crevices.
“I don’t know what’s more surprising. The fact that your insides are like a garbage disposal right now or the fact that you think you even stand a chance of coming near the pearly gates,” you remark dryly. Was that a fucking mini tumbleweed stuck between two gears???
“Right. ‘Pologies fer havin’ ambitions.”
“They’re a bit too high, don’t’cha think?”
“Gee, y’really know how ta’ make a man feel better ‘bout his choices, darlin’.”
“Considering the fact that my hands are deep inside your guts, you’ve got a lot of nerve giving me attitude. I recommend keeping the sass to a minimum before I decide you’ll make a lovely smart fridge.”
At least that did the trick in getting Boothill to shut up. You loved Boothill, you really did, but aeons above did he have a wobbling jaw.
But oh, now you’re getting carried away, aren’t you? The point is, Boothill was the ideal travel companion, even if his snores sounded like a motorcycle being revved up and the two of you would have to play doctor quite a lot with you being the doc’ and him being the patient.
“My darlin’ doc’,” Boothill liked to call you and you could never object to the affectionate nickname. Not when he’d have the goofiest and most dazed smile on his lips after you’d fixed every little malfunction of his.
However, nobody’s ever really given some thought to what happens on the rare occasion the doc’ gets sick.
“Holy wubbaboo, was that the sound of Acheron obliteratin’ some poor soul with ‘er blade?” Boothill jumps, his hat nearly falling off upon hearing what sounded like thunder striking down the earth. For a brief second, his hand hovers above his six-shooter before he moves it away with a heavy exhale. There’s no danger. Not here in this little spaceship that you both call home now.
The cowboy was just about to investigate just what had caused such a noise when the answer revealed itself. You step out of the storage room, bleary eyed and sniffling audibly. Boothill raises an eyebrow and walks closer to you.
“Hot diggity fudge, sugar. I never knew yer sneeze was louder than the bombs that exploded on my home planet,” Boothill teases, giving you his signature toothy grin which immediately falters as his onyx eyes drink in the state of you. Normally, you’d have given him a fierce glare by now to let him know the jokes about his trauma were not funny at all (he himself believes they’re the epitome of comedy, thank you kindly). However, that wasn’t the case this time. This time, you looked- well- you looked like shit, for the lack of a better word.
Your nose was red due to how hard you were sniffling and blowing your nose into a tissue that quite frankly, should’ve been tossed ages ago and despite your best efforts, snot was still dripping from your nose. Your eyes were red and a bit puffy and if Boothill tuned his ears properly, he could hear your breathing was heavier than normal (perks of having augmented senses, if he may say so himself).
Well, none of those seemed like good signs. Not at all.
“Hey… y’alright, sugar?” Boothill asks, softening his voice to a low rumble when he catches you wincing at his original volume. He takes a tentative step closer and presses the back of his hand against your forehead, the metal refreshingly cool against your skin.
“ ‘M fine… think I might’ve caught something when we were in Talia,” you cough out, wanting nothing more than to just slump against Boothill’s body and let the cold metal soothe your burning flesh.
“Yeah? No kiddin’, yer burnin’ up!” He remarks, frowning when his temperature sensors inform him of your temperature. A whopping 38 degrees! Just the sight of the number had his mother hen instincts kicking into gear.
“Right, c’mon now. Tell me all yer symptoms an’ don’t miss a single thing,” Boothill instructs, almost interrogating really, while his hands rested on your shoulders to steer you towards your bedroom. You sigh internally, resigning yourself to your fate of watching him be the doc’ for once. Maybe it won’t be too bad, assuming he doesn’t forget you’re not a cyborg like him and have no need for reboots and software updates and absolutely will not feel better after chugging gasoline like it’s beer.
You list off your symptoms while Boothill makes you change into a pair of soft and fluffy pyjamas that you’d once bought when visiting Penacony, the latter nodding to himself with every word and already drawing up a mental list of everything he’d need to do to make sure you’d be in apple-pie order in no time at all. Let’s see… a cold compress, medicine, a fuckton of fruits, chicken noodle soup and of course, an abundance of love and affection.
Initially, you’d been a little wary of leaving things in Boothill’s hands. That’s not to say you don’t trust him, of course! No ma’am! You trust him with your life. But for all his virtues, you couldn’t deny he was a bit… reckless. He was prone to jumping the gun, no pun intended, and was a man who tended to act first before thinking things through. Better safe than sorry, he likes to say. But you really did have to give credit where it’s due.
When it came to you, Boothill was more than willing to slow down. Hell, he was treating you like you were made of glass! His boisterous personality transformed into something more softer, more quieter. It transformed into something he hid underneath that literal metal shell of his. He was no longer a weapon, ready to take justice into his own hands and mete out punishment the way his principles and beliefs say it should be given. Rather… he was now just a man, a man with so much love to give that it felt as if his heart may burst any moment now.
The cowboy was quick to scamper off to the nearest supply stop from the spaceship and buy enough medication to last several amber eras. You nearly jumped when he dumped the medication onto the bedside table before coaxing you to take a few pills and swallow it down with some water that he was quick to provide. He wasted absolutely no time in stripping you bare and wiping your feverish body down with a cool, wet rag, his every action careful and methodical.
“Fuck… the towel’s way too cold,” you curse, flinching as the cold and damp fabric brushes against your skin.
“I know, darlin’, I know. But, I swear on mah hat that you’ll be feelin’ a whole lot better after this,” Boothill shushes you gently. He presses kisses to your temple and reassures you that he’s almost done even if he was far from done. Regardless, he wasn’t fibbing when he told you that you’d be feeling a lot better afterwards. Your body felt almost rejuvenated each time he wiped it down with a damp towel.
He certainly wasn’t cutting any corners in making sure you’d recover from your sudden bout of sickness. He stayed by your side, either massaging your achy joints or cutting up fruits and feeding them to you affectionately.
“You do realize that I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself, right?” you sigh, opening your mouth when Boothill presses an apple slice to your lips. He sure knew how to buy his fruit though, you had to admit, biting into the crisp fruit and tasting the sweet juice. Must be due to being brought up on a farm. You could already envision a kind and gentle woman, peeling an apple and cutting it into pieces with a soft smile on her lips, the very same way Boothill was currently doing.
“Nonsense, darlin’. I ain’t havin’ you overexert yerself,” was Boothill’s easy reply, waiting for you to finish chewing before pressing another apple slice to your lips.
“Feeding myself does not come anywhere near overexerting myself.”
“Yeh, well, yer a bit too busy blowin’ yer nose, ain’t ya?”
“Shut up- oh eugh, this looks absolutely disgusting,” you grimace, peeking at the tissue you’d just cleaned your nose with.
“Lemme see. Huh…. kinda looks like you, don’t it?”
“You don’t say? I was gonna say it looks like your mom.”
“Jokes on you. I dunno who mah real mama is.”
“Fine then. It looks like whatever mother figure you had.”
“Y’know sugar, that joke really doesn’t hit the same when you say it like that.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
All things considered, Boothill was an absolute treasure of a partner to have, especially when you were sick. You didn’t have to worry about him catching whatever bug you had. He didn’t have an organic body anymore so there was nothing that could infect him. Or so you thought.
You see, while Boothill did his damndest to nurse you back to health, running back and forth between your room and the kitchen to bring you medicine, fruits, chicken noodle soup, the works, you couldn’t help but notice that he was a bit… overbearing. He was constantly checking up on you, peeking through the doorway to make sure you were fine and not coughing up a lung. On several occasions, you catch him stroking your hair and holding your hand as if you were on your deathbed.
It was true, he couldn’t get sick but perhaps it was a foolish mistake to assume it applied for everything.
Boothill could get sick. He was sick with worry and with fear. Dread coursed through the wires that mimicked veins, trepidation filled the hardware that felt like a cheap copy of a person’s organs and terror gripped every corner of his brain. His traitorous mind replayed the horrific screams and the explosions of cannonfire until he felt as if he could still feel the smoke clawing its way down his throat and feel the ashes from debris and corpses alike clinging to his clothes.
What if something happened to you? What if this wasn’t just a mere fever but something far more sinister? What if he’s gonna end up being too late once again? What if, what if, what if, what if-
“Boothill.”
Your voice cuts through his train of thought, saving him, albeit temporarily, from the downward spiral he was seconds away from falling into.
“Boothill? Are you…okay?”
Onyx eyes look up at you, no longer sharp and alert but tired and wary.
“I… yeah, sugar. I’m jus’ peachy.”
“Doesn’t seem like it to me. You realize this is the 5th time in an hour that you’ve tried to make me take more medicine?”
The cowboy winces at your words. Perhaps you were being a bit harsh and direct but for a man like him, that was the best medicine you could offer.
“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
He sighs, sitting down on the edge of your bed.
“I- I’m jus’ worried, sweetheart. Man like me, havin’ seen the things I have, I… I get scared,” Boothill confesses. He felt embarrassed and more than a little silly once he voiced his fears out loud. He notices the way you raise an eyebrow and rushes to explain himself before he made an even bigger fool of himself.
“It ain’t like I think yer fragile, darlin’! Far from it! I know yer tough as nails an’ can hold yer own. I… I know I’m bein’ irrational. I can’t help it. Y’ain’t like me. Yer still human. All flesh an’ bones an’ so… mortal.”
“But it’s just a-”
“I know. I know it’s jus’ a fever but the IPC, once upon a time, were jus’ foreign men in black to me.”
Your expression softens as Boothill lays his heart bare before you. Behind the rowdy and reckless persona of Boothill was a man long forgotten, even by himself. A man terrified of losing more than what he’d already lost.
“C’mere, you big baby,” you finally sigh, lugging Boothill closer until he was nearly laying on top of you, his ear pressed against your chest. “Tell me: What do you hear?”
The cowboy is silent for a while before answering quietly: “I hear yer heart.”
“That’s right. You can hear my heart beating and pumping blood through my arteries and veins and all that jazz. What does it mean, that my heart is beating?”
“... It means yer alive an’ well.”
You smile softly and press a tender kiss to the crown of his head, fingers carding through the snowy tresses.
“Exactly. I’m alive and well and I promise- no, I swear that I will never leave you.”
“...Thank you, darlin’.”
…
“Have I ever told ya ‘bout the time I caught the flu?”
“You have not.”
“Well, buckle in, sweetheart. It’s a ride, f’sure. It’s also how I came ta’ learn to make mah famous chicken noodle soup.”
Some illnesses had no cure. Some left their marks, both mentally, and physically. But as you lay in bed, having Boothill regale you with tales of his childhood, you think to yourself that love can help alleviate even the severest of illnesses.
