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The signs should have been clear—childishly obvious, given Boothill’s lengthy career in pirating. He knows his punishment is deserved, time and time again denying the need for crewmates or any person of sense to yank the cloth of hubris from around his eyes and lure him away from the siren’s song. He works alone, he's constantly insisted, often accompanied by a censored expletive and a stomped out cigar that he couldn't even taste.
The first glaringly red flag was the fact the ship was even still operable. A much older model of ship, gaudy in the way those in the previous amber era preferred, drifting through space with no obvious dents to its name. If Boothill’s eye for beauty wasn't carved out of his skull he would have noticed the freshly polished roses reflecting the light of the stars. The main hatch had opened with little effort, hissing open with delight as Boothill crawled into the maw of the beast.
The second was the staggering darkness within the ship itself. One would think the stars and planets would shine their light through the large windows and illuminate the space within, but even with his enhanced vision Boothill couldn't make out anything around him. Didn't make a lick of sense, he thought, even as he continued forward with the confidence of a man with nothing to lose.
Thirdly was the creaking. With every long stride forward the ship seemed to come more alive, the quiet groaning of engineering running through metal too weak to withstand its power. By the time Boothill had the good sense to pause his ministrations, digest the movement of the beast around him and realize ah fuck, he was in an occupied home, and run back to the hatch from whence he came, the lights around him flickered on; not precisely to life, but perhaps rustled into an undead stupor. The awakening had only pushed Boothill faster, metal hands scratching loudly against the handle as he fumbled with the hatch, trying and failing to pull it open the way he had previously.
“Oh?” A voice that seems to come from the darkest corners of the ship and simultaneously right next to his ear ring through his mind. “And what do we have here?” There's a silent melody to the stranger’s voice, long forgotten chords strung together through spoken words.
Boothill’s pirate instinct causes him to snap his revolver out of its compartment in his arm, scrambling for purchase as he fumbles to his feet.
The voice scoffs softly, now right up against his ear. “An intruder in my home, and you dare threaten me?” The gentle breath of air against Boothill’s jaw sends a phantom shiver down his spine as he snaps towards the source of the noise. Dead air.
A moment of tense observation passes until his human instinct catches up with him, always just a few paces behind. He is intruding on someone’s ship—though he thought it abandoned—the voice is not the unwelcome guest, rather, he is. Boothill’s gun snaps back into place in his arm.
“I'm awfully sorry ‘bout this,” he murmurs apologetically, raising his hands up in what he hopes is a placating gesture. “I'll pull in my horns, scamper off real quiet like, now. Won't even remember I was here.”
“Oh, but how could I forget such an alluring sight?” Though he doesn't feel it, Boothill’s alerted to his arm being grabbed, raised up as if to be inspected. He whips his head around but is stopped with all but the force of a semi truck when glimpsing upon the stranger’s form.
Boothill doesn't consider himself a romantic, but something about the stranger screams coming home to a bouquet of roses and soft kisses into the night, an aura of domesticity. His red hair falls over his shoulders like they belong there, and the color of warm blood has never looked so beautiful.
“Forking hell,” Boothill murmurs, eyes wide.
“Pick your jaw up off the floor, dearest,” the beautiful stranger remarks, raising Boothill's arm to inspect the chamber in which his revolver is held. “You'll catch flies.” He smiles with too-sharp teeth, something dark glinting alongside that playfulness in his narrowed eyes. It's a familiar expression: a predator having found his prey.
Boothill snaps from his lust-addled stupor as the realization dawns upon him. He's had a lot of bad lays, but this would certainly be the biggest mistake he could make—not that he can experience the pleasures of the flesh, anyhow.
He makes an attempt to yank his arm from the stranger’s grasp, another muttered apology beginning to escape his lips when his pistons come to a screeching halt. Boothill hears his arm creak as he's held in place with a seemingly effortless strength. 20,000 psi, an alert helpfully notifies from the corner of his vision.
“Ah, apologies, dear,” the belvidere remarks, though he does not seem very sorry at all, “I seem to have gotten carried away.” He releases his grasp to reveal noticeable indents pressed into Boothill's arm—it makes him dizzier than he'd care to admit, fans whirring to life against his will.
“‘S ah… ‘s quite alright, mister…”
“Argenti.” He presses his hand, adorned with a silver gauntlet, over his heart, bowing towards Boothill. “I would say it is a pleasure to meet a beautiful specimen such as yourself, however…” Argenti’s eyes sharpen for a moment, causing Boothill to freeze up once more. “...It seems as if you were not invited.”
Boothill plucks his hat off his head solemnly, bowing his neck in embarrassment as he holds it to his chest. “‘m still awfully sorry,” he murmurs, “‘should be on my way shortly.” His eyes flicker to the hatch, still sealed shut. He licks his lips nervously, shuddering out a breath he had no need to take; there’s still a chance of escape, if he stays calm.
“Nonsense, my sweet.” Argenti lifts Boothill’s hand up to his mouth, pressing his lips to metal knuckles—so soft his systems cannot even detect the motion. “An opportunity like this should not go to waste. Allow me to accommodate you for the evening; it is quite late, is it not?”
A quick check of Boothill’s internal clock indicates that yes, it is quite late, 0023 system time to be perfectly exact—he’s been in this damned ship for over five minutes now, five minutes longer than he ever should have been. All he can manage, intelligently, is a single nod of his head. At the end of the day, he is only a man, easily swayed by beautiful men with silky hair and siren songs.
Argenti smiles with a sly sort of satisfaction, tucking a loose strand of hair over Boothill’s ear and sending sparks down his artificial spine. “Aren’t you the sweetest, my dear Boothill?” The praise goes straight to his core, stomach fluttering somewhere between nausea and desire. “Come. I’ll prepare us a meal.”
Hand still grasped firmly in Argenti’s, Boothill is led down a corridor and around a corner, cotton filling the space where his mind should be. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind dying like this, he thinks. He’s sat down in a dining chair that feels far too expensive for someone like him to be resting upon, back splayed against the ornately embroidered pillowing.
“I will be back shortly.” Argenti smiles before turning around swiftly, beautiful hair following in his wake as he walks with a floaty elegance to a separate room.
This ship is much nicer than Boothill’s own, decorated with the same dark wood through the entire structure, shining silver polished and buffed until he can see his own reflection within each and every surface.
As Boothill gawks at the scenery, he is struck with a realization.
He never gave his name.
“Shirt,” he hisses, gaudy chair screeching across the wooden floorboards as he abruptly leaps to his feet. “Fork.”
Boothill makes a run for it, steel toed boots scratching against the elegant flooring as his leg pistons work with an unexpected urgency. He feels his knees slam against the ground as his hands fumble with the hatch, grasping and pulling with the fervor of a cornered animal.
“Ah, there you are.” Boothill’s hair is tugged sharply, ceasing all ministrations—he’d be lying if he said no artificial blood rushed to his ears at the motion. “You worried me, running off like that,” Argenti drawls, no attempt made to conceal his amusement.
Boohill shoves himself from Argenti’s grasp, scrambling against the smooth floor. His eyes flicker for any sign of movement from the red haired man on instinct, hand grasping for his revolver. “What kinda forking game do y’think you’re playin’ at?” Boothill shouts, aiming his barrel at Argenti’s skull.
“You’re a wanted criminal, dear.” Argenti strides forwards with an irritating lack of care about the gun pointed between his gorgeous eyes. “I feel it would be stranger not to know your name.” He stops right in front of Boothill, bending down to meet his face with a deceivingly gentle smile.
He has incredibly sharp teeth—not unlike Boothill’s.
“ Fudge me sideways,” he breathes out, unsure whether to fight the urge to look away from that too-white, too-pointed grin, “you’re a…”
“A vampire, yes, dear.” Argenti tilts his head in amusement, red hair falling over his face like a curtain. “Though you surely needn’t worry about such trivial matters.” his eyes, bright with lust, slowly rake over Boothill’s body, licking his lips in a way that screams that Boothill should, in fact, worry.
Despite the predatory gaze (or Aeons forbid, because of it), Boothill’s body jolts with something akin to arousal, vents billowing with steaming hot air in a feeble attempt to cool his internal systems.
Before he can dismiss the sheer amount of warnings flooding his visual system, a hand slides over the small duct on the side of Boothill’s neck. There is an almost instantaneous reaction of what could be described as lightheadedness, and, despite himself, he freezes, only moving to slowly crane his face to stare disbelievingly at Argenti.
The man’s gaze gleams with fascination, gloveless hands pressing firmer as if to test the give of Boothill’s steel. After an all too silent moment of intrigue, he releases his hold with a satisfied smile.
Boothill’s jaw widens to gasp for air he doesn’t truly need, tongue lolling out of his mouth in a pathetic pant. Argenti has stood up straight once more with an all too smug expression, casting a shadow over the cyborg’s whirring form. His eyes scan over Boothill’s half exposed torso, studying it with a discerning eye that makes him squirm in place. “I see” is all he murmurs to himself.
“Aren’t you a beautiful sight?” Argenti kneels down, caressing a hand down Boothill’s blushing skin. He finds he doesn’t mind the feeling as much as he should. “When was the last time you were touched like this, I wonder?”
It’s a fair assessment, given Boothill’s pathetic state from a handful of flowery words and not-so-gentle touches. It must have been multiple years at this point, perhaps not even since he was fully human—not for a lack of trying, but most people tend to view him as a gaudier spot to rest a dildo upon; after a couple of bad lays with faked reactions he tended to stop seeking them out.
Evidently, the silence is the only answer Argenti needs. “What a waste of such exalting beauty,” he murmurs, and Boothill is not sure if it’s meant for his ears or Argenti’s. “Why, if you were mine, I would surely—”
Argenti is cut off by a hand around his gaudily adored ruff, head dragged in front of Boothill’s flushed face. “Why don’t y’put your money where your mouth is?” he doesn’t mean for it to come out alongside a layer of sputtered static, voice module glitching momentarily.
Argenti gives another irritatingly gorgeous smile. “I thought you would never ask, my dear.” With little fanfare Boothill is raised off the ground in a bridal carry, burning hotter at the sheer ease of the movement.
“I’m gone gostlin,” he murmurs as he buries his face into Argenti’s neck, “gonna regret this.”
“You surely will,” Boothill can feel the smile in Argenti’s tone, “but isn’t that the thrill of it?”
Boothill doesn’t get the chance to argue before he falls back onto a luxuriously large bed, sheets pooling around him. He looks up to see Argenti straddling his waist. “Oh, my dear.” His red lips stretch around a wide grin. “I am going to ravish you,” he says before thrusting his plush lips onto Boothill’s, tongue meeting little resistance as it begins to explore his mouth.
Deft hands zip off Boothill’s jacket and undo his scarf, discarded to the side. Argenti’s tongue is long, he realizes as it’s shoved down his throat—he’d surely be choking on it if he still had the means to. The thought sends sparks up his spine.
Argenti’s tongue retracts back into his mouth slowly, grazing over Boothill’s sharp teeth with little care. When their lips break apart, it’s not without a loud gasping sound and a string of saliva connecting where they were once joined. Argenti is able to remove his own shirt with surprising ease, the overly decorated fabric and metal accessories falling to the floor with a solid noise.
If Boothill could drool, he would at the sheer sight of Argenti’s exposed torso, a thin layer of fat covering an undoubtedly toned abdomen, blush dusting his collarbones and a small bead of sweat running between his tits. He can’t suppress the urge to reach out and grab the torso in front of him, appreciatively running his fingers over the abdomen even if he lacks any sensation.
Argenti laughs, running his tongue along Boothill’s jaw, scraping his teeth over the sensitive flesh. The feeling is surely dulled from years of nerve damage to the one human piece he has left, but it causes Boothill to shiver nonetheless.
Argenti’s mouth trails further down until he’s pressing his lips against the junction of Boothill’s neck and shoulder, smooth metal dripping with saliva.
“Hate t’ disappoint, Rosey, but I can’t quite feel—”
A buzz of electricity and a shout cuts Boothill off as Argenti bites down on the metal, puncturing it with ease before whipping his head to the side, tearing off Boothill’s shoulder panel and taking some wires down with it; the alert in the corner of his eye caps out at 99,999 psi. An unintelligible garble forces its way out of his throat, unable to vocalize his exact feelings. It hurts, yes, but it’s damn good— the first kind of stimulation he’s felt in a good long while. It helps that the bite of pain makes him moan with need. “What are you—” he manages to choke out before his voice fails him once more.
“Stunning,” Argenti groans as he wraps his hand around the end of a torn wire, thumb pressing down on the frayed end and running down the sparking edges.
The feeling is indescribable, as if Boothill’s very nerves are being set alight. His shoulder burns— he can’t take the unimaginable pain. He can’t get enough of it.
“ Again,” he manages to hiss out, grasping Argenti’s wrist in a bruising grip, “more.”
Argenti lets out a groan, grinding his cock against Boothill’s thigh. Even while confined in his trousers the bulge is noticeably large, erection pressing painfully against the fabric. Just the thought of wrapping his lips around it has Boothill all but salivating.
“As you wish, dear.” A clawed hand trails down Boothill’s metal torso, scratching a noticeable indent down his chest and halfway down his abdomen. Argenti’s finger catches on an indent and he immediately pierces the steel with his claws, slowly scratching a tear downwards in a way that should not be as attractive as it is. A gaping wound is left in its wake, the sharp edges of ripped steal glistening threateningly against the dim candlelight of the bedroom.
The tips of Argenti’s claws glide against Boothill’s circuitry, scratching against his wires in a way that has his artificial heart jumping with desire, usually sharp eyes unable to focus as a pleasant fog crawls its way in his mind, floating in a way he hasn’t in a good long while. The act of feeling alone is divine, but feeling real, unfiltered pain is far more blissful than anything else.
Boothill hears his stomach panel tearing away more than he sees it, too focused on the beautiful man on top of him—his hair, his chest, his eyes, his lips…
He realizes he’s been asked a question. Argenti has a handful of thick wires grasped loosely, “are any these important, dear?” he repeats, tugging on them gently to hear a quiet gasp from Boothill.
“I uh—no forking clue,” Boothill stammers out, mind just a bit too far to handle the simple act of listening, let alone deciphering the intricacies of his own body.
“Good.” Argenti smiles before his grip tightens and the wires are torn from Boothill’s stomach, earning a shout of something between unbearable pain and a near orgasm. He no longer has connection to his left leg—not that anything matters to him besides the red haired vampire currently tearing him apart.
“My dear Boothill,” Argenti leans forward, running his claws down Boothill’s cheeks. He realizes he’s dry sobbing, long unable to form any kind of tears but feeling the tightening in his throat all the same. “How beautiful you are, while in the throes of pleasure. I knew you would be absolutely divine—I am going to ruin you.”
Argenti has pulled his cock out of its confines—just as egregiously large as Boothill imagined it would be—and smears the length of it with his own precum in lieu of proper lubrication. Boothill gets a good look at how painfully erect it is as Argenti moves forward so the tip hovers over his open abdomen. He pauses and tucks a loose strand of hair behind Boothill’s ear before shoving his cock into the heat of his metal body, momentum pushing it forward and into his cest. Argenti lets out an obscene moan, leaning forward to capture Boothill’s lips in his own before starting a languid pace. Boothill would go so far as to call it loving, if he weren’t practically ripped in two.
Argenti’s cock presses against Boothill’s wires in a way that keeps him afloat in his fog addled mind, dull pain morphing into a twisted kind of pleasure. His eye rolls back into his skull as the tip of Argenti’s dick presses against something deep within Boothill’s chest, choking out a moan into Argenti’s mouth as he practically feels the length in his throat .
He lets out a much more pathetic whimper upon the realization that Argenti is thrusting directly into his heart, the blue, pulsing core of his very being. Boothill has no way to stop the stuttered sobs escaping his throat as Argenti hits home once more, adjusting his hips so his cock can beat into that same spot with every thrust.
It’s only a matter of time before Boothill blacks out. He can barely hear the alarms blaring in his mind through the thick haze of pleasure, punctuated with every strong thrust against his core. “‘Genti— fork, I’m—” Boothill grasps wildly at Argenti’s arms, grip pressing bruises into tanned skin.
“I am too, sweetheart,” Argenti gasps out between pants, sweat dripping from his chest and onto Boothill’s, “let go, dearest, lose yourself to your pleasure. To me.”
How could Boothill ever dream of saying no to such a request? Certainly not when he’s being fucked within an inch of his life, half his body numb and the other burning with red hot pain and desire.
“I—I’m—” he’s unable to finish his half formed thought—not that it would have been anything remotely intelligible—as his speakers cut off and his body stiffens before spasming violently, throwing his head back with a cry and arching his back to meet Argenti’s thrusts through his orgasm.
Argenti’s hips stutter, hips pistoning at a shallower angle as he chases his own pleasure, before warmth completely floods Boothill’s insides, coating his internal systems with a thick layer of cum. The feeling is almost enough to set him off again, but he feels himself slipping away from his body.
Boothill’s eyes flicker up towards Argenti, who leans down and smiles, face flushed, sweating, his beautiful blood red hair tussled beyond any recognizable styling. Their lips meet once more in something infinitely more tender before Boothill blacks out completely.
—
Boothill awakes in his own bed. It’s never a pleasant experience when he comes back from unconsciousness, systems switching from completely dead to whirring to life all at once, giving him little time to adjust to the sensations.
Everything aches, he immediately recognizes as he sits up, clearing a metric ton of alarms and notifications from his vision. But all in all, he seems to be in working condition. When he looks down, his chest stutters at the gashes clawed down his abdomen, patched up expertly but clearly visible with his everyday attire, the repaired metal slightly darker than the rest of his skin as if a reminder. That it was real, perhaps—Boothill would have chalked it up to a realistic dream were it not for the obvious wound.
He stands, padding over to the widow of his ship, halting when he sees that familiar ship looming over his comparatively smaller vessel, almost as if it is protecting him from any threats. They’re connected by a metal walkway between the two, out of his own ship and into that same hatch he first arrived him.
There’s a rose placed delicately on the steering console. An invitation.
Boothill exits his ship, staring up at the familiar hatch. Walking forward, he moves so he’s grasping at the handle tentatively, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He could fly off, pretend nothing had ever happened, delete the memories from his system if he was feeling particularly outlandish. He sighs.
Boothill swings open the hatch.