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A dare. It had been a dare, and Argenti was nothing if not willing to prove that his dedication to The Beauty was above reproach. But, holding the fabric in his hands, hearing the hum of the Express around him and the slow, steady pulse of music in the party car, he wavers. There’s not much to the fabric; half of it feels like mesh, catching on the callouses and scars on his palms. Still—Boothill is here, equally shoved into one of the small guest rooms to change, he assumes, and Argenti can’t bring himself to let the ranger down.
So, he unbuckles each piece of his armour with careful hands, setting them up on the shelves in the room. Then, his underarmour—the padded vest, the soft turtleneck, the thick pants. Each is folded and set with his armour, and once he’s in just his underwear he shakes out the fabric he’s been given.
Mesh tights are the first things that come free—they’ll do absolutely nothing to hide his legs, or balance the thickness of his thighs that has come from decades of travel and fighting. As he tugs them on, they at least soften the sharpness of his scars, making them look purposeful rather than like failings of his training. They barely fit at his waist, slipping loose, so Argenti folds them at the back and clips them with a hairpin to keep them in place.
The second piece of fabric has red staining his cheeks, his ears, his throat. Soft leather-like material, almost suede on the inside. When Argenti holds it up against himself, it barely covers anything—the top stopping just above his pecs, the bottom not even covering both of his cheeks. It feels vulnerable to even consider wearing them, but—he can’t give up now. He can’t.
One foot, then the other. The material is silky soft against his skin—fake leather, but still well-made. It’s flocked on the inside, just a little bit, and he realises his underwear will be far too visible. Argenti hesitates, staring at the costume. It’s an honour to be included in the Astral Express’s antics, and it’s an honour to be given something so perfectly fitting and well-made. It would be a slight to the crew—to the Trailblazers themselves—if he weren’t to give it its due.
Reluctantly, he removes the net tights, removes the final scrap of fabric, and returns the tights to his body. They feel strange, and he’s glad he keeps his hair trimmed if nothing else. Then, the bodysuit—one leg after the other. It fits perfectly across his hips, and after a moment of adjustment, he settles himself in the lower half with minimal risk of exposure. The fabric only covers half of his ass, but with how perfectly it fits elsewhere he can only assume it’s the intended design. There’s a little zipper under his arm that he tugs up once the rest of the bodysuit is in place, and the leather closes around him, fitting him like a glove.
His boots won’t suit—but there’s a pair of shoes in his size that can only be for him tucked on one of the shelves. The heel is high, higher than he’s ever worn, and the bottoms of the shoes are a glossy red that stands out against all the black. He slips them on. They give an extra few inches of height, enough that he can’t see his own eyes in the mirror, and knows he’ll have to duck to exit the bathroom.
There’s a small package on another shelf, and when he looks inside he sighs in relief: a hairbrush, some simple hair products that he recognises, and a tube of lip paint. This he knows. Argenti brushes his hair, scrunches his curls back into place, then tips forward to apply the red paint to his mouth.
A step back, two. Argenti gets a look at himself in the mirror, and—oh,Beauty save him. It’s almost lewd, but in the most tasteful way. Miles of skin exposed, with the important bits covered. He’s bulging through the front a bit, but it’s only truly noticeable from the side—the seams of the body suit disguise his endowment well enough and likely would if he sat. He looks ridiculous, he thinks, but is well aware that it’s only his innate reaction to being so exposed. Objectively…he’s certain that he looks good. Good enough to do justice to the Express, at least.
The final step is the headband, strips of fabric attached to it. He puts it on, fluffs his curls around the band, and gives his head a little shake to ensure it’s secure. The bunny ears bounce, but the band doesn’t move.
A deep breath. It’s all well and good to put it on, but a frisson of nervousness runs through him at the thought of leaving the four safe walls of the guest room. His toes curl in the shoes, gripping the soles, and butterflies flutter in his belly in a familiar way. Still—this was what the express had signed him up for. Argenti is a Knight of Beauty. He will not let them down.
He grips his phone and opens the door. There’s no one in the hallway, just the delighted shrieks of the young Trailblazers as someone else arrives, and the gentle hum of voices below it. The door at the end of the hall slides open, and Argenti startles, clutching his phone to his chest.
“‘Genti?”
Boothill’s in the doorway, staring. His eyes flicker red, and the soft sound of his bionic plates shifting and re-settling is loud in the hall. Argenti summons a smile to his face even though he can feel his cheeks heating. He starts to bow, realises that would simply expose his chest to the cowboy further, and aborts the movement. “Ranger Boothill,” he says. “It is good to see you—I presume the young ones have concocted a costume for you as well?”
For a moment, Boothill is silent. His mouth opens and closes as the reticle in his uncovered eye flickers red, then back to grey. Finally he speaks. “I-uhh. Yeah I guess, they told me somethin’ was waitin’ for me. Genti—what are you wearin’?”
Argenti looks down at himself, then back at the ranger. “The costume I was provided—it seemed dishonourable to ignore the effort despite it being significantly out of my comfort zone.”
Boothill blinks once, twice. His jaw works. “I suppose,” he says, then hesitates again. “I… I should let you join the party.”
Something wells in Argenti’s throat. It tastes like disappointment. He’s not sure why. “Of course. Come find me once you are changed—I would enjoy seeing what costume the Trailblazers have designed for you.”
“I’m sure y’would,” Boothill mumbles, and Argenti doesn’t think he was supposed to hear that. “Here—” Boothill steps back, holds the door open for Argenti to pass. He stumbles a little as he does, and Boothill catches his elbow—metal on bare skin. The red of Argenti’s cheeks deepens. “Woah, careful,” Boothill murmurs, and he’s so close to Argenti’s ear that it sends a shiver through him. “Can’t have ya hurtin’ yerself.”
“Thank you,” Argenti says in a rush, entering the party car properly. Boothill lingers behind him, huffs out a breath, then he’s gone.
The Trailblazers cheer when they see him, the twins excitedly cackling as Argenti resists the urge to cover himself with his hands. A handful of people look his way, but most seem unbothered by his clothing—or lack of clothing—compared to their own. It’s obvious that the four young Trailblazers had a hand in most of the costumes here. The ninja ranger is in full dramatic ninja attire from the comics Caelus had once shown him. There’s a scholar dressed like a dinosaur-creature, and a young woman in what looks like a school uniform chasing after someone on what looks to be a hovering board propelling them around the room.
There’s a kid dressed as a blonde video game character pestering someone else dressed as a sleepy tiger, and at least two others in inflatable-style horse or cowboy or ‘alien’ costumes. More and more people filter in through the door he came through in varying outfits, and Argenti finds himself drawn into a conversation with someone dressed like a cliché cowboy and someone dressed like an ancient human warrior, helmet and all. Beyond a few people looking him up and down, no one seems too phased by his outfit and slowly tension drips from his spine.
He’s just started to feel more like himself when a hand collides with the middle of his back and a low, familiar hum tickles his ears. Argenti jumps, then settles immediately as Boothill’s low drawl follows. “Well, who are ya friends, Rosey?”
He’s never been this close on purpose. Argenti is sure of it. Still, Boothill’s hand is warm on his back and his presence is comfortable at Argenti’s side.
“Oh— I’m Phainon, hi,” The dressed-up-cowboy says, clutching at his hat as he offers a hand to shake. “This is Mydei.” The warrior nods his head once, but doesn’t speak. “You must be the ranger Argenti was telling me about—Boothill, right?”
Argenti feels the tips of his ears flush at being so quickly called out, but it feels almost second nature to glance over at Boothill as they converse, only to find Boothill’s eyes on him. Boothill winks, and Argenti’s gaze drops, only to catch his first glimpse of what Boothill’s wearing—or, the lack of it.
Boothill’s also been stripped of most of his clothing by the chaotic quartet of Trailblazers. Baggy pants sling low on his narrow hips, leaving the rest of his body exposed, and a pair of wolf-like ears rest on his head, colours matching the fall of black and white hair over his shoulders. Argenti can’t help but swallow, eyes tracking away from Boothill even as his body makes its own decisions and leans in until their shoulders bump together. Boothill’s hand presses a little more firmly into Argenti’s spine.
He loses track of the conversation for a moment, taking a second to mentally beseech Idrila for assistance. With Boothill’s beautiful body on display, part of Argenti wants to hide it from view, and the rest of him wants to honour that beauty more… directly. Neither option is suitable for this moment. Instead, he swallows hard, prays to his Aeon, and hopes his distraction isn’t immediately noticeable.
Boothill nudges him with the hand on his spine, and Argenti realises immediately that he’s been caught. “Say, ‘Genti,” Boothill’s saying, eyes glinting as he looks over. “You’ve fought your fair share of monsters out in the wilds. What’s the biggest, baddest one?”
Lust, part of Argenti wants to admit. His own feelings. His own desires. “They all have their own unique challenges,” is what he says instead, eyes returning from Boothill to the other two. “The swarm seems almost too-obvious an answer. The blade of an Emanator, perhaps?”
His words spark interest in the eyes of their conversation partners, especially the one with red markings on his face. “Ah, let me tell you the story,” he says to eager nods.
It takes far too long, but by the end of it, Argenti’s mind is calmer, and Boothill’s presence at his side has become a comfort rather than the cause of his agitation. Still, as the cowboy and his warrior are drawn into other conversations, Boothill’s hand at Argenti’s back becomes a little more insistent and Argenti allows himself to be led to a quiet corner of the party car.
He finds his back to the window a moment later, Boothill between him and the rest of the party-goers. “What were the gremlins thinkin’,” Boothill huffs, mostly to himself, but he looks up at Argenti when Argenti makes a questioning noise. “Dressin’ you up like this.”
“You don’t like it?” Argenti prompts, a little frown on his face. “I will admit, it’s not the most comfortable attire, but once I got used to…the level of exposure it has been quite interesting to wear.” The frown only deepens to confusion when Boothill scrapes out a sigh and reaches up, tugging the bunny ears off Argenti’s head and replacing them with the wolf ears of his own outfit.
“The opposite, ‘Genti. Ya look too good, an’ people are starin’.” A metal hand lands on his hip, and it’s warm through the leather.
Oh. Argenti blinks, once, twice. Stares at Boothill with his lowered eyes and his bare chest and his almost possessive grip and Argenti’s breath catches in a sudden realisation. For a moment he wonders if he should—but then his mouth takes over. “Did you wish to discuss this in a more…private setting, my dear ranger?”
The hand on his side grips tighter. Boothill takes in a breath Argenti knows he doesn’t really need, and tilts his head up to meet Argenti’s gaze. His eyes are dark, darker than Argenti’s ever seen them, and the flicker of red in the reticle of his eye is enough to catch his attention. “You sure it’s just a discussion ya want?” Boothill rumbles, and Argenti grabs his hand, tugs him towards the door to the parlour car.
A few people call out greetings and Argenti almost absently waves at them, focused on getting to the quieter car—and when they do, it’s almost a relief. There’s a few people here but only the soft twinkle of something gentle on the phonograph, and quiet, private conversations occurring between a few people here and there. No one looks up as they pass, and Argenti keeps moving, towards the car that holds all of the small guest rooms he’d changed in. Boothill stays quiet, following like a shadow, but when Argenti squeezes his hand, he receives one in return.
Down the hall of doors, then Argenti pauses, hesitating outside the one he’d changed in. Boothill squeezes his hand again.”Doesn’t have’ta be anythin’, Genti,” Boothill murmurs into the quiet. “We can just talk.”
That reassurance is what solidifies everything in Argenti’s mind. Boothill’s not going to push for more than Argenti wants to give. He swallows, slides open the door, and drags Boothill inside.
It’s a small room, a wide bed taking up most of the space, the shelves and mirror that Argenti had been using covering most of the opposite wall. Boothill closes the door behind himself and the lingering sounds from the other cars are cut off cleanly. The only thing left is the soft tap of Argenti’s shoes as he paces forward, and the unsteady breath he lets free. Boothill stays by the door, leaning against it, and the silly bunny ears flop over as he tilts his head. There’s something predatory about him, still, even though his hand in Argenti’s remains gentle.
Argenti turns to face Boothill properly, then tugs their joined hands until Boothill steps forward, into his space. “What if… I want it to be something?” He asks, heart beating in his throat. It feels silly to worry, to fret about wanting to offer himself up like this, but bravery is one of the tenets of knighthood and one he has never shied away from. “What if it’s something I’ve wanted for a long time?”
For a moment Boothill stares up at him, unblinking, steady. Then his free hand finds Argenti’s waist and tugs him forward a step. Argenti stumbles as he does, falling into Boothill’s chest, but the ranger doesn’t seem to mind, barely sways with the impact. “I’ll admit,” Boothill says, rasps. “Always feels strange when a wish comes true.”
Before Argenti can question it, Boothill’s tilting his chin up and warm, chapped lips meet his own. It’s chaste, sweet, and Argenti finds himself relaxing into the contact. It’s unfamiliar, but it’s Boothill, and he surrenders himself to the man he trusts not to lead him astray.
Boothill pulls away only to reposition his head, drawing Argenti into another kiss. This time the steady flick of a tongue against his lower lip catches his attention, and Argenti parts his lips on a sigh. Boothill takes advantage, pressing inside, but the roll of his tongue against Argenti’s own is coaxing. The metal touch at his chin disappears only to splay over his cheek, Boothill’s palm nudging him into place. Overwhelming—it’s overwhelming, Boothill’s scent in his nose and taste on his tongue, the pricks of sharp teeth breaking through the haze only to coax him back into it. Gunpowder and rust, that’s what Boothill tastes like, and Argenti finds himself clutching for it where time Boothill breaks the kiss to reposition.
An unyielding thigh presses between his. The metal rides up, up, until Argenti’s breath stutters. The bulge at the front of his body suit is wedged firmly against it, Boothill rocking up into it as Argenti almost unconsciously presses down.
A sound catches in his throat, swept up by Boothill’s mouth. That thigh rides up a little higher as Boothill shifts closer, as the hand on Argenti’s waist grabs harder. “Still okay?” Boothill murmurs into his mouth. It unsticks him—Argenti’s hands lurch forward, grabbing into Boothill’s sides. He presses forward until their chests meet. He nods jerkily, and Boothill laughs against his lips. His belly swoops as Boothill spins them, barely keeping his footing in the heels he’s wearing. “Mmh, more than okay I think,” Boothill rumbles out as his sharp teeth leave pinprick bursts of pain along his jaw.
“Boothill,” Argenti says, gasps really—his voice is hoarse, his fingers trembling at Boothill’s bare waist. The metal under his touch is smooth, and the fishnets covering his thighs catch on the thicker canvas of Boothill’s costume pants. This bodysuit isn’t made for this—he can feel himself thickening against Boothill’s thigh, distorting the front of the bodysuit as he does, and Argenti’s ears get redder still, dripping down to splotch over his cheeks. “It’s—this—”
Boothill pulls his head back to blink up at him. A thumb rubs back and forth over his jaw, and the contact helps him focus, get his tongue back under control. “I… don’t know what I’m doing,” Argenti admits on a ragged breath. Courage, honesty. Knightly tenants. “Can you—show me?”
Boothill’s responding laugh is low, scratchy. “When you ask all sweet like that,” he murmurs, tilting his head up. Lips grace against Argenti’s, but when he leans in Boothill’s mouth drifts away. “Lemme look after you, alright?” he continues against Argenti’s skin.
Argenti’s breath catches again but he nods, leaning forward—into Boothill’s bulk, into the thigh still wedged between his own. He opens his mouth to speak but Boothill sits, then, leaning back on his elbows on the bed. It’d fit Argenti comfortably, but the two of them are a stretch—still, Boothill splays across it like it’s the most luxurious thing in the world. His thighs splay wide, but he pats his belly with one hand and Argenti hesitantly settles one knee on either side of him before awkwardly shuffling to where Boothill wants him.
“Sit,” Boothill says—it’s an invitation Argenti accepts, though Boothill’s metal belly is cool on the exposed skin of Argenti’s ass and thighs. He must flinch because Boothill’s laughing, low and easy, grabbing his thighs with warmer hands. “Sensitive, are we?” He teases, hands still tugging—tugging Argenti’s thighs open, tugging at his hips to pull him further forward still. The fishnets catch on the plate joins, tugging and snapping against Argenti’s thighs, and he can’t help but unsteady little sound that escapes him when they land back against his skin. His hips hitch unconsciously, hands landing on Boothill’s chest.
He lets Boothill’s hands guide him higher until his knees are on either side of Boothill’s shoulders—he hesitates there, eyes going wide. His chin is to his chest and yet he can’t truly see Boothill’s face unless he leans back. “Boothill—?” He questions, and Boothill smiles wider as his eyes drag up the length of Argenti’s body. “Beloved—Where?”
“Little higher,” Boothill coaxes in return. “Sit on my face, let me taste you.”
It’s—filthy. It’s dirty, he’s a little sweaty from the thickness of the body suit and he’s heavy and he’s not done this before and, and, and—
“‘Genti.” Low, soothing. “Trust me. You can say no, but you can trust me if you want to try.”
“It won’t—hurt you?” Argenti gets out, eyes flicking all around the bare room before returning to Boothill’s face settled and waiting between his knees. Boothill’s head lifts up, then he’s pressing his mouth to the slow-forming damp spot at the front of Argenti’s body suit. His whole body jerks, shudders, toes curling as the sudden pressure lights up his nerves. A tongue rubs over the wet spot, thickens it, and Argenti can feel the wicked curl of it against his shaft almost like there’s nothing there. “Beloved,” he gasps out to Boothill’s laugh.
“Ya won’t hurt me—If I were this easy to kill it’d be worth it anyway,” is the rumbling response before another wet kiss is placed right over Argenti’s bulge. “C’mon, sit on me.”
Argenti kneels up, if only to get away from that hot breath and curling tongue for a second. His mind feels fuzzy, almost, his skin itching in a way that only the gentle pressure of Boothill’s hands is soothing. He shuffles forward, breath catching as Boothill’s eyes light up red before flickering back to grey. Boothill’s hands tug, and Argenti lowers slowly. For a second he locks his knees, does his best to hover over Boothill’s face, but Boothill growls out something unintelligible and grabs his hips, yanking him back.
The leather bodysuit truly isn’t made of thick material. Argenti gasps as he feels the ridge of Boothill’s chin, the flex of his lips. His nose presses right up behind argenti’s sac, and Boothill lets out a low, heady groan that almost hides Argenti’s high-pitched squeak. The mouth under him opens and hot, humid breath presses through the fabric. Another low sound, then Boothill’s shifting under him, one hand reaching back to hook his fingers under the back of the bodysuit.
A tug, and Boothill’s mouth finds skin, the gusset of the bodysuit yanked to the side. It’s—overwhelming. The press of Boothill’s teeth sending pinprick-pain flickering through him, chased by the wetness of his tongue as he licks slow and easy. Argenti’s never had anyone else touch there—only the press of his own fingers, curiosity and desperation driven touches in the quiet of his own ship. This is nothing like that—Boothill’s gentle, teasing back and forth over him, leaving cool streaks of wet over his skin. His free hand grips Argenti’s hip, soothes his palm over the skin. An unfamiliar ripping noise-then Argenti feels the fabric of his net stockings loosen.
Argenti’s hands find the only thing they can—burrowing into Boothill’s hair and gripping. The sound that comes out of him is an unfamiliar one, a reedy, thin whine that he can’t suppress until it’s already out in the world, until Boothill’s growling softly in response and pressing his tongue harder against argenti’s body.
For a moment it’s just pressure—strange feeling as Argenti’s breath catches in his throat and his pulse thunders in his ears. He’s not sure whether to push back or pull away, but his body decides for him—the pressure releases, his whole body shivering as Boothill’s tongue slips inside him. It feels strange, pressure and wet. Argenti’s hands tighten in Boothill’s hair, and his cowboy moans into him and works his tongue deeper still. Boothill’s free hand slides forward, cups Argenti’s cock through the leather of the body suit, and his whole body jerks in response, another unsteady whine escaping. With every press of Boothill’s tongue the glide gets easier, and the penetration feels a little less strange, and with each gentle squeeze of his hand Argenti feels his lagging cock filling again, Unsteady, his hips hitch forward into the pressure, then something presses him back as the pressure of Boothill’s tongue disappears for a moment. Again, and again—Argenti moves hesitantly and little by little it stops feeling strange and starts to feel good.
Shoulders relaxing, argenti’s weight deepens on his haunches and Boothill makes a pleased little sound before something else presses against Argenti’s hole. Metal, cool and familiar, slicked wet. The tongue slides out, and Boothill’s finger slips in, chased by the thick warmth of Boothill’s tongue again.
That finger presses deeper, deeper than Argenti’s ever been able to get his own, and feels strange for a moment until—
Argenti gasps, hips jerking as lightning courses through him. It fades, leaving his legs trembling, until Boothill curls his finger again, laughs and mumbles against Argenti’s skin, “Found you.”
Argenti doesn’t know what he needs, other than more, hips unsteadily grinding back as Boothill rocks the pad of his finger against that spot. Everything goes a little fuzzy, hazy almost, Argenti’s mouth falling open as Boothill squeezes his cock and works another finger inside of him. It’s not enough—no, he tugs on Boothill’s hair and gasps out a “more,” with a voice that doesn’t sound like his own.
A third finger. Boothill’s tongue slips free and he places biting little kisses over Argenti’s thighs, his cheeks, suckles at the rim of him and has Argenti’s thighs shaking with it. Something coils in his belly, slow and steady and unknown—so, so similar to when he’d chased his own highs and yet different all the same. He can’t control it as it pulls tighter, tugs at Boothill’s hair in an effort to slow him down as his own gasps turn into unsteady mewls and attempts at words that are knocked free from his lungs, but Boothill ignores him. Boothill hums against his skin and squeezes his hand again and Argenti—that coil snaps taut, balancing him on the precipice before he surrenders to those wicked, coaxing fingers and shudders apart.
For a moment all he hears is static as his head rocks back, grip tightening, knees squeezing. Then, a gasp as the tension releases, as he feels the drip of hot come soaking through the leather of his body suit, muscles trembling as he shudders in Boothill’s grip. Those fingers don’t stop, pressing deeper, digging into the spot that has Argenti whining, gasping breaths against his hole making him shiver and jump even more.
It fades, slowly. Argenti expects embarrassment to chase it, but Boothill’s hands shift to pet over his thighs, leaving him open and wanting, and that’s all Argenti can focus on. His knees splay again and Boothill tilts his chin, rapid breaths against Argenti’s sac have him shifting back in sudden realisation.
“Sorry—sorry,” he gasps, tongue not working more than that handful of syllables, but Boothill grunts out a laugh and nudges Argenti down to sit on his chest instead. He’s—Boothill’s a mess. Cross-hatched fishnet imprints cover his cheeks and chin, spit shiny and flushed red. Boothill’s eyes track up his body. He’s grinning, wider than Argenti’s ever seen him—predatory almost in the way he stares up at Argenti.
“Fork that was somethin’—you taste good, pretty knight, the next time can’t come soon enough.”
Argenti’s cheeks heat and he covers his face with one hand. The depravity of it, of the look on his cowboy’s face and the way he licks his lips clean, the raspiness of his voice, it’s overwhelming even as Argenti can’t deny the unsteady pulse in his gut in response.
Boothill’s hands find Argenti’s hips, clutch tight. “We don’t haveta keep goin’,” he rumbles out, thumbs rubbing back and forth on the now-slack fishnets. “But I’d like ta. If you do.”
Argenti blinks at him over his fingers, eyes flicking over Boothill’s face. Despite the depravity there, there’s still an underlying thread of need, and a quiet shimmer of uncertainty below it. Argenti swallows hard. Settles a palm on Boothill’s cheek. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits again, brushing his thumb over one of the indents in Boothill’s cheek. “But…I want to learn. I want you Boothill, my silver cowboy.”
Boothill huffs a breath out, and his hands squeeze tighter against Argenti’s hips. Argenti takes a deep breath to steady himself, and his hands drop to Boothill’s chest. “Show me what to do,” Argenti says as nervous heat rolls through his belly and excitement tingles across his skin. Boothill lifts himself up, braces on one elbow, and draws him down for a kiss. For a moment he expects more, but the slow, drugging press of Boothill’s tongue and the soft pull of his teeth settle the butterflies, have Argenti’s breath hitching into soft sounds. Boothill’s hand ends up in his hair, pulling him in, and Boothill’s tongue teases at his own until Argenti’s hips start to slowly, steadily hitch against the metal planes of Boothill’s belly.
As he does, Boothill smiles into his mouth before breaking the kiss to look down at their bodies. “I like this on you,” he rasps, an inscrutable gaze on the bodysuit. “But, it’s in the way now.” The hand in Argenti’s hair drops, and before he realises what’s happening Boothill grabs the back gusset of the bodysuit and yanks. The fabric tears, tugging against Argenti’s belly, and his shocked sound is drowned out by the ripping sound as Boothill keeps yanking, tearing until the whole gusset is loose and can be pulled away from Argenti’s lower half. The stockings already have a hole in them and Boothill yanks it a little wider, exposing more of Argenti’s ass to the air as Argenti scrambles to work out how to react. “There—I’ll buy you a new one,” Boothill rumbles as Argenti’s tongue finally loosens, as he pulls the flapping, wet fabric away from his groin.
“This was a gift,” he stumbles, Boothill’s hand grabbing his ass and massaging one cheek firmly. “I would have removed it for you.”
“Didn’t want to let you up,” Boothill retorts, fingers sliding downward, tracing over Argenti’s loose hole. “Lookit you, Red—how could I let you go?”
Argenti huffs, but Boothill’s fingers probe a little deeper and he can’t think of a response at that moment. He presses back into the contact and Boothill laughs, the indignant expression Argenti had schooled his face into disappearing as a steady wave of pleasure rolls over him. “Sweet thing,” Boothill murmurs instead, lying back again, fumbling his free hand out to the side. The sound of a draw opening, metal against wood, and then—ha, the sound of triumph followed by a low laugh. “The Express is nothing if not a generous host,” he murmurs as he lifts a small bottle, and it takes Argenti longer than he’d like to admit to recognise it. Lubricant—the Express has stocked the guest rooms with lubricant.
Boothill doesn’t seem surprised by it, cracking the unopened bottle and spilling liquid onto his fingers, and for a moment Argenti’s caught up in the mortification of it all. The young Trailblazers had dressed him up provocatively, and stocked his room with lubricant like they knew something, and he’s about to pull back when Boothill’s slick, cool fingers press to his entrance and his voice rings in Argenti’s ears.
“Don’t think so hard—they probably have it in every room,” Boothill says as his fingers nudge deeper. “Focus on me, ‘kay?”
Argenti nods, then nods again, fingers pressing into the metal plate of Boothill’s chest just shy of hard enough to dent. Boothill’s fingers slide free, and there’s a fumble of fabric, and the soft, slick sounds of something being oiled. Argenti glances back, not sure what to expect—Boothill’s never looked to have any—equipment—and Argenti, shamefully, had looked before. But there’s unmistakably a cock in his hand, plush silicone and the same soft brown as Boothill’s face. The head slips through Boothill’s fist, slick and waiting, and Argenti’s mouth waters at the sight of it, his whole body clenching in anticipation.
“Ya look hungry,” Boothill rumbles, and there’s a note of amusement in his voice. “You can have it if ya want, Rosey. Just sit back fer me.”
Argenti’s belly jumps, tensing and releasing at the thought. He can take it, he can have that inside him, he can have Boothill inside of him. He shuffles back on his knees until he’s spread over Boothill’s hips, then blinks up at Boothill, mouth opening, closing, then opening again. “Beloved,” he says, and Boothill’s gaze softens. “I—” He stutters to a halt, but Boothill understands him. Hands settle on his ass, guiding him down, then something wide settles against his entrance. Argenti swallows, and his hands shake. He’s not sure if it’s nerves or lust, anymore. His body coils tight, breath catching as he lets himself be coaxed back, lets that thick, blunt head press deeper inside him. Boothill rubs a thumb back and forth over his skin, then his hands find Argenti’s hips to coax him forward, then back again, pressing a little deeper with each hesitant rock of his hips.
Full. He feels so full, so fast, little pants escaping parted lips. Boothill’s hands ground him, keeping him sane as everything in him focuses on the pressure of Boothill’s cock, of the thundering pulse in his ears and the stretch of his body around Boothill’s. He’s on the verge of surrender when he presses back one final time, feels the brush of Boothill’s hips against the back of his thighs, feels the full weight of Boothill’s cock inside him, feels the twitching ache of his own against Boothill’s belly. He’s dripping pre, and it pools in the hollow of Boothill’s bell only for Boothill’s fingers to find it, slick themselves and take his flagging erection in hand. Argenti gasps loud at the sudden touch only for Boothill to soothe him with a quiet hum, thumb rubbing carefully over the head of Argenti’s cock. Distracting—he’s distracting, and it’s working, Argenti’s body slowly relaxing around the intrusion until Boothill can shift his hips and Argenti can only gasp in response.
“There ya go,” Boothill murmurs as Argenti’s hips hitch forward, then grind back, then do it again, and again. The throbbing pleasure-pain has settled, leaving only pressure, and when he hitches his hips forward that turns into the shaky burst of sensation in his belly that has Argenti trembling. It’s as though something else takes control of his body for a moment—he pulls forward, presses back into the thick jut of Boothill’s cock, and moans soft, shaky. Another grinding little bounce, and Boothill’s hand on his hip coaxes him into it again. Slow, steady, his erratic movements become a rhythm, finding a pattern that has his cock jumping in Boothill’s grip and his mouth hanging open. Wet gasps escape him every time he shoves back, and it doesn’t take long to speed up again. His hair sticks to his cheeks, his throat, the bare skin of his back, and Argenti barely notices as he watches Boothill. His eyes stay locked with his cowboy, his ranger, his beloved, and Boothill smiles under the focus, squeezes Argenti’s cock a little tighter, and says, “Take what you need, ‘Genti.”
All too quickly his body trembles, hips jerking forward with each squeeze and stroke of Boothill’s hand on his cock. Boothill’s hips jerk up and knock a cry from his lips, and Argenti slaps a hand over his mouth with wide eyes. “Good boy,” Boothill rumbles, and—oh-
Argenti shakes through an orgasm with wide eyes and a covered mouth, rapid pants of breath escaping as soft mewls behind his hand when Boothill bucks his hips up, grip tight on his cock. His vision wavers as static rolls through his body, head lolling back as his toes curl under him. Boothill’s voice is a haze under the heavy thump of his heart. The world spins, then his back hits the softness of the mattress and Boothill looms over him, Argenti’s body still trembling with a pleasure bordering on pain. His belly aches, the kick of his cock falling against his own abdomen is sensitive enough that just his own heavy breaths are enough to have him twitching, and the steady drip of his own spend back down from Boothill’s belly to his own has him twitching. “Boothill,” He gasps, and Boothill’s response is to hitch his hips forward, and oh Boothill’s still hard inside him, heavy and thick and mostly still like he’s waiting Argenti out.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” Boothill rumbles, bracing his hands by Argenti’s shoulders. He leans forward, brushing his lips over Argenti’s hand until he moves it, then against Argenti’s slick, parted lips. “It shouldn’t surprise me—how forkin’ pretty you are when ya fall apart,” he continues when he pulls back, “Yer gonna have me addicted to it.”
Argenti’s hand flutters, finds Boothill’s shoulder and grips tight. He’s certain he’s a mess, legs splayed wide around Boothill’s hips and hair a mess, but instead he gets out, “What about you beloved?”
Boothill laughs low. “Trust me, if I’d had a normal body I’d’a bust three times over now.” His hips hitch up, and oversensitivity frissons through Argenti, lighting him up as he gasps. “But… like this I can choose, an’ I wanna make sure yer well forkin’ satisfied before I fill ya up.”
Argenti can’t help but shiver at the implication, at the way his body clenches around the thick press of Boothill’s cock like it’s coaxing him deeper still. Some of the oversensitivity fades, and his own cock jerks unsteadily at his belly, still hard. He swallows hard. “Show me what you can do, my beloved cowboy,” he says as he hitches his legs up around Boothill’s lean hips. He’s certain his bravado will backfire on him but the idea of Boothill filling him up as he’d so crudely put it has heat curling in his belly again.
Boothill laughs into his mouth, and one hand drops to Argenti’s thigh to pull him in closer still. “If yer so sure,” he murmurs, hips hitching forward.
Argenti melts. By the third steady thrust he’s trembling, muscles lax under Boothill, legs only held around Boothill’s hips by hooked ankles and a prayer to Idrila. The soft oh, oh, oh knocked from his lungs is involuntary, eyes rolling back as Boothill fucks him slow, as the pleasure of it rolls through him like waves lapping at the shore. He’s being unmade, and Boothill’s mouth on his is all that’s holding him together. Slow, unsteady kisses, licks of his tongue against Boothill’s sharp teeth, chasing the little sounds of effort that escape Boothill as he stays close. “Boothill,” he slurs out, tongue barely obeying. The tang of rust has become a comforting one after the prick of Boothill’s teeth, and he takes an unsteady breath when Boothill’s knees shift higher, Argenti’s hips lifting off the ground into Boothill’s lap. Still, he needs to say it. He needs Boothill to know.
“Love. I love. You.” He takes a ragged breath in, but once he gets the words out he can’t stop them, tears beading on his lashes as he babbles I love you. I love you. I love you, over and over as Boothill shudders. His hips are lifted higher, the next steady thrust pressing right up where he’s so, so sensitive, and Argenti shakes apart like that, confession staining his lips in the hopes that Boothill will feel even close to the same.
Boothill hunches forward, cheek pressing to Argenti’s. His staccato words fall to Argenti’s ears as his thrusts get erratic, as Argenti feels the pulse of heat in his belly and the jerk of Boothill’s cock as he’s filled. “Mine, my Argenti, my knight, love you, Fork—I love you, yer mine.”
Argenti blinks once, twice, feels the wet on his cheeks before he realises he’s crying. His hands clutch at Boothill’s shoulders, legs tightening around Boothill’s hips, and as Boothill stills, as Boothill breaths unsteady against his cheek and tears drip from Argenti’s lashes he says, “I love you, Boothill,” with what breath he can pull together. Boothill’s lips find his, desperate, seeking, and Argenti loves him. He loves the press of his tongue and the hitch of his hips and the unsteady catch of his breath and the weight of his body over Argenti’s own.
“Thought I was goin’ crazy,” Boothill murmurs into his mouth. “Thought It was just me. That you couldn’t love… this.” Argenti doesn’t need to look to know Boothill’s gesturing at his body, at himself.
Argenti lifts a hand, presses it to Boothill’s chest. He can’t feel the beat of Boothill’s heart, but he knows it blazes inside all the same. “How could I not, my beautiful ranger? Everything about you is beloved by me—” He’s cut off by Boothill’s mouth meeting his own, but he doesn’t fight it. No, Argenti sinks into the kiss, knowing it is one of many more to come.