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Boothill does the best he can to keep his damn trap shut when it comes to bedroom activities.
It doesn’t matter if it feels good, or that Argenti will whisper praises of his beauty—it’s an undeniable fact that it is not sexy to be moaning out the word fudge when getting railed.
Argenti doesn’t demand it, he’d never, but the request is there all the same. “I want to hear you,” he says near Boothill’s ear, draped across his back and grinding his cock deep.
Boothill shudders. His body is sensitive enough thanks to the wonders and wiles of modern science, but there’s something just different about warm breath puffing against his ear, or the soft kiss that Argenti presses into the skin just underneath it. And who is Boothill to say no? He’s a romantic at heart, and he loves this man, so he forces himself to look past the sheer embarrassment that comes with begging Argenti to just fork him.
He’s a simple enough. It’s been long since they last met, and he’s eager to please, eager to do whatever he needs to if it means that Argenti will just keep… doing that. Short, hard thrusts, the deep grind of his cock; those gentle kisses against his throat. Boothill groans, fisting his hands into the sheets, burying his face into the pillow as he fucks himself back onto Argenti’s cock, meeting every slap of his hips.
“Shirt,” comes a small grumble, swallowed by the silk pillowcase his mouth is pressed into. “Shirt, that feels—”
Argenti knows. Boothill can sense the way that he smiles, utterly pleased with himself. Modesty is not a trait well associated with him, which leads to him being a little too confident when it comes to sleeping with each other.
“Me?” he purrs. Another thrust of his hips, his cock sliding through Boothill’s insides. “What about you? Still wet and slick despite…” Being artificial, not that even of them care. What matters is that Boothill is wanton and takes his cock well—better than most men. “Always so handsome,” he says next, an arm wrapped around Boothill’s front, his palm flat against the metal there.
That hand roams, fingers catching against nails, and the shifting plates of Boothill’s abs. Argenti maps out every curve, every rise and dip. He thumbs over the swell of Boothill’s pec, and Boothill might not have nipples anymore, but it feels mostly the same.
“A beauty, unparalleled. My how I’ve missed watching you, seeing you, my darling Silver Cowboy.”
“Red.” Boothill moans, tilting his hips so that Argenti’s cock hits just the perfect angle. “Red, you—”
Argenti leans back, leaving Boothill’s back cold and clammy. He pulls out, his cock sliding through those sensitive insides until only the tip is left. Empty. Fuck, he feels empty, but Argenti seems intent on making him wait, on taking his damned sweet time as he just looks and looks.
“And to think I worship Idrila when I could worship you instead.”
Oh. Oh. This is all bedroom talk, but the praise sinks into Boothill’s gut nonetheless, setting what’s left of his veins on fire. His cock aches, hanging underneath him, hard and full. He’s desperate to be filled again, but torn between just relishing the sweet touch of Argenti’s hands as they roam down the length of him.
He doesn’t have to wait long; Argenti’s hands drag down his sides, fingertips digging into the spaces between his artificial joints. Then they curl around his waist, hooking at his hips. “Darling,” he murmurs, his voice deep and heated, “you are divine, ethereal. Do you want more?”
Boothill could strangle him. Boothill does not, he just wriggles his hips, and whines pathetically. “Please,” he mutters, swallowing his damn pride. “Please just—”
Argenti clicks his tongue at the lack of a curse, and a proper plea. “That’s part of you,” he says with a lighthearted laugh. “It’s endearing.”
“Endearing my bum—”
“I like your bum." Argenti then thrusts into him sharply, yanking Boothill onto his cock with surprising strength. “And I like your vernacular. There’s no need to hide it, or to hold it back. I want to hear it.”
Boothill isn’t going to win this fight, not when he’s stuffed with Argenti’s cock, and drowning in his praise. It washes over him, warming his cool skin. He hisses when the tip strikes a bundle of artificial nerves, making Boothill’s cock drip all over the sheets. Fully functional, at the very least. Small fucking blessings when coming out as a little less than human.
“I— I—”
Argenti is ruthless now, thrusting into Boothill with a steady, sharp pace. His cock is thick and long, hitting all the right spots. He moans—Argenti—sweeping his hand across the small of Boothill’s back, his other hand still notched around his hip, guiding him onto his cock over and over.
The drive is relentless. Boothill finds his synapses slowing, short-circuiting as they often do when the pleasure becomes blinding hot. He touches his own cock, hissing as he pulls over it too hard, too tightly, stroking himself from base to tip.
“Fuck,” he hisses, thumbing over the tip, feeling that tacky precome that beads there.
They both still.
Argenti pets the base of his spine as what Boothill just said sinks in.
What? Huh?
Boothill tilts his face to the side, freeing it from the warm silk of the pillow. “I… fuck? Wait, wait—” He looks over his shoulder. The look on Argenti’s face is wide-eyed and wild. He thrusts again, shoving his cock deep, and Boothill reels, jerking in the sheets. “Shit, shit, that feels good.”
“What’s this? Am I fucking you so well that you’ve been rewired?”
Logistically, impossible, but there’s something there to be studied at least. Boothill curses again, curses Argenti’s name, the heft of his cock, and mostly the way that he pounds into him. Clearly, the beacon is glitching. Clearly, something in his brain has short-circuited, but Boothill cares not as he just chants, “Fuck, fuck,” over and over.
Argenti worships him. He always does this, fucking him sweetly as his hands roam. But this time he leans close again, his chin resting against Boothill’s shoulder. “What a delight,” he says, “for you to have lost yourself to the point of malfunction.”
“Harder. Fuck, Argenti, harder.”
Argenti’s thrusts turn heavy and deep as he grinds against him. He moans, burying his face into Boothill’s nape, nipping at the edge of where his artificial neck begins. “Are you going to come so soon?”
“Yes. Fuck, yes. Yes.” If the way his cock twitches in his hand is any indication. Boothill strokes himself in time to Argenti’s thrusts, pleasure pooling in his gut as it just builds and builds. And those thoughts, those curses, drip from his tongue freely, letting loose tension that Boothill didn’t even know that he carried.
“There’s a good boy,” Argenti coos against his ear. “So honest for me, so utterly beautiful in your devout submission. Go on, then, I want to see you spill.”
Boothill’s cock twitches, stiffening in his palm. Fake or not, it feels the same; all the heat inside of him flares, white-hot and catching. He snaps, cracking under the pressure, coming all over his hand, and the sheets below them.
Argenti moans at the sight, at the feel of his ass clamping tight around his cock. “Darling,” he mutters, kissing the shell of his ear, hips moving quicker as he begins to chase his high.
Boothill floats, drunk on pleasure, on overstimulation. “Fuck,” he whimpers, brow drenched with sweat. “Fuck, Red, you, you’re—”
Gods, there truly is nothing like this, Argenti against his back and singing his praises as he thrusts deep. Argenti loses his rhythm. One short thrust, one long, staggering one, one where he pulls Boothill against him to meet a grinding swivel of his hips.
And then he’s coming, filling Boothill up with a curse of his own, hidden against Boothill’s nape as if he’s afraid that Idrila will hear it. A few more short thrusts and then Argenti collapses against his back. Boothill bears the weight with a grunt, but loves it, loves the way that Argenti drapes across him, pressing him into the sheets.
He still pets him, dragging his knuckles down his sides, smoothing over the dinged and tarnished metal. Boothill is a mess of shaking limbs, his front wet with his come, and sweat slick, but Argenti still tucks close to him, uncaring.
Finally, Argenti breaks the silence, that hazy aftermath of their pleasure. “You cursed—properly so. Was it truly that good?”
“I… look, Red, I dunno what that was about, but fudge—”
Ah, dammit.
Whatever program glitched has righted itself.
Argenti laughs, pulling off of him, his cock slipping from Boothill’s now loose rim. He dips close, kissing his shoulder, and says, “Well, it’s a memory I’ll keep close. Or, perhaps, we can test those limits again?”
Boothill likes that idea. Boothill adores that idea so much that he rolls over in the sheets, flopping onto his back, uncaring of the mess. “Darlin’,” he says as Argenti slots between his legs, “you wound me with such a thought.”
“A thought.” Argenti looks amused. He drags a knuckle down the length of Boothill’s spent cock, watching it twitch. Another benefit of his dick being artificial; his refectory period is slim to none. Boohtill just has to want it to get hard again, and his below-the-waist circuitry does the rest.
Argenti’s expression his thoughtful. “You should know by now that what I love most is worshiping you.”
“Most? Worshipping me, not me, the darned man?”
“Ah. Apologies, for I misspoke. These two things come hand-in-hand, do they not? The thought of you losing yourself again, in such a way…” Argenti’s eyes turn sharp, expression hooded. He moves, then, dragging down the length of Boothill until his face his near his half-hard cock. “We must make up for time,” he finishes, his hot breath washing over the length of him.
Boothill barks a laugh, but the rest of him softens. Aeonsdammit, he’s too fuckin’ soft. “Do as you will, then, Red. I’d be a son of a bench if I turned that down.”
Argenti’s mouth curls into a smirk. Then he licks across Boothill’s length, suckling at the tip, tasting the mess of his come—and Boothill falls so easily, right into that touch.