#hsrtum

“Gentle, gentle, darlin’,” Boothill huffs from his position lying before Argenti, his tummy groaning and creaking beneath the knight’s palm. Although he can’t truly feel how stuffed full he is, the frequency of his sensors going off is enough to give him a passable impression of how it should feel. 

It’s in that distant sort of way where they can’t precisely replicate the feelings pressed by entirely organic nerves, but still give enough of a ‘feeling’ for him to perceive with his past experience and memories.

He shuts his eyes at a particularly harsh, scraping groan, absentmindedly moving one hand to rest against his rounded middle. Compared to its usual state, the term definitely applies — even if it, compared to wholly organic bodies, is not very different from a typical belly’s size. Cybernetics and the lesser need for internal organs, he supposes. Not that he’s an expert on that stuff.

“Of course, my dear cowboy.” Boothill feels Argenti’s hand press against his for a couple of seconds before the other moves back to rubbing the doubtlessly cold metal of his abdomen. He can tell that edges occasionally catch along seam lines, in minuscule tugs that thankfully don’t upset the presently iffy balance of his internals.

He reopens his eyes when a warmth is pressed against his forehead — Argenti’s lips, he finds. Tilting his head up slightly, he uses his previously free hand to catch a wisp of the other’s silken soft hair. Though, he doesn’t do anything more than hold it, as his eyes are caught and held by a pale green that reminds him of nobles’ fancy jewelry pieces, that is the color of the knight’s very own pair of eyes.

Well, caught until a slight increase in pressure around what should be his navel has the plates creaking tightly mere seconds before a short, quiet burp takes him by surprise.

“‘Genti, that’s not really, hah, gentle-” He chuckles marginally, slipping into a sort of breathless, exasperated huff when Argenti silences him with another actually gentle kiss, this time right upon his lips.

“You’re so beautiful, beloved,” Argenti murmurs the moment he pulls away, clearly unable to keep his own lips shut on the matter for very long. At first, Boothill had ardently denied words like those — he’s one of the furthest things from ‘beautiful’, after all — but, well, it’s a bit difficult to keep denying something that’s said with such pure honesty multiple times each day. Doesn’t mean he completely believes it, of course — just that he doesn’t entirely disbelieve it anymore.

He willingly shifts his head into the knight’s palm when it comes wandering near his face, softly exhaling at the overall pleasant sensation of both the feeling and warmth of skin-on-skin contact. Just about the only area he can truly feel contact-based warmth from anymore, yet he will likely always publicly deny how much he craves its continuation. Privately, though, he’d prefer to refuse to let go for as long as possible.

“And you’re a tease.”

Generally compliant as he is now, Boothill doesn’t resist at all when Argenti interlaces the fingers of their parallel hands together. He just merely sighs and readjusts, pulling a leg closer to his torso with but a soft groan as the culmination of movement reminds him of his internals’ current state. “Don’ know why I thought letting you do that would feel any fudging different than previous times.”

“It doesn’t hurt, does it?” Argenti inquires softly, a tinge of worry furrowing its way into his facial expression as the pads of his interlaced fingers dance along Boothill’s knuckles.

“Never really — it’s just… a bit uncomfortable, I’d say.”

“Well that’s little good, now,” Argenti’s worried expression only eases a bit with the other’s response, and he pulls his interlaced hand away to once again gently rub at Boothill’s belly.

Boothill himself releases the strands of Argenti’s hair that he had caught before, just to drop his hand carefully upon the crest of his tummy with a light exhale. It really isn’t anything more than an uncomfortable feeling, and besides that he has been slowly getting used to the sensation of being… fuller than he usually is, on the occasion that Argenti requests for a little indulgence, as the Knight likes to call the moments.

“Beautiful,” Argenti murmurs again, with reverence that it sometimes feels like is exclusively for his goddess and Boothill himself, and the galaxy ranger shudders through his systems as he distantly feels the other press his fingers gently against his full belly once more in some semblance of a soothing motion.

Rather than pay attention to what he can feel with his eyes as well, Boothill presses his face as close as is physically possible for him to the hand of Argenti’s that is still cupping one portion of his head.

Though it would burn him to admit it to possibly anyone else, he mumbles something along the lines of “Don’t stop” into Argenti’s palm.

I'd like to think that in the early days of being a cyborg, Boothill had to experiment with what his newly adjusted stomach could and couldn't take, and what sort of things did or didn't affect him anymore.

One of the first things he tested were probably liquids, as that was the consistency of the things that were technically all he really needed to sustain himself anymore.

The gas and oil he uses as fuel tasted horrid every time - he quickly learned to just directly input them into his fuel tank, lest he want to deal with possibly puking the dang liquids back up.

Water made him feel weird, and really the only purpose anymore is to make his mouth not as dry sometimes. Otherwise, all it does is slosh around and stiffen the metal around his gut with its generally cool temperature.

Thank fudge that he can still get buzzed from alcohol. Even if he can't drink as much as he used to before, he still likes the option to indulge in the feeling of it every once in a while. Helps with the shittier days, that's fo' sure.

Soda is horrible. Just slightly above gasoline and oil in his mental rankings because it tastes better, but son of a nice lady does it mess with his tank. The carbonation consistently manages to fudge with his fullness gauges, and the plates around his tank are always left irritatingly strained and groaning for hours after from the aforementioned carbonation.

Juice tends to vary, and he doesn't have it very often to begin with, so there isn't much of an opinion for him to make. Despite that, he decidedly doesn't like the citrusy ones - the acid in them usually unsettles his tummy too much for it to be worth drinking.

Coffee itself doesn't do shirt beyond making him stay up longer, but espresso shots - on the few times he's tried it, that is - never failed to make him miserable. Within less than an hour he'd typically have to duck into a dark corner or similar to cradle his gut as it churns and squeezes horribly, his limbs trembling and twitching in such a way that he's learned over time to not let himself touch or hold much of anything. Not unless if he wants to abruptly crush something with little to no control over 'when'.

In practice, soup is just like water but warm or hot instead of cold. But it reminds him of his life before, so sometimes he'll indulge in it a bit anyway. Just on the particularly bad days, when he can't bring himself to fully get up for a shot or five of whiskey.

A fair while after getting somewhat comfortable in his new body is probably when he started investigating solids - like his bullets, because darn if the extra ammo isn't nice to have at times - and actual foods. Just to see if he could.