i need to know how boothill would be with a partner that absolutely worships him and look at him like hes something fragile and precious.. a partner whos like funnily unhingedly obsessed with him
Heaven Is Etched In Your Soul
tags: Boothill x GN! reader, Established Relationship, Fluff, Banter, Body Worship, Non-sexual nudity, Non-sexual intimacy, light angst
a/n: Sorry for the wait anon! this request is actually so funny to me bc it reminds me of my boothill yumeship LMFAO. I hope this is to your liking ^^
Standalone work but can be read as part two to Each Flaw On Your Body Shall Become A Favourite of Mine wc: 1,2k
Years back, when the winds smelled of hay and fresh grass, when the creeks ran clear as a whistle and when the stars twinkled above as if sharing a joke only you and them knew, Boothill used to be of flesh and bone. His body had been lean and muscled, almost lanky if his height were anything to go by.
It had been strong and covered in countless scars, each one telling a story, or so Boothill's doctor says one day in an off-handed manner. Your mouth nearly waters at the image and you look to Boothill for confirmation, to which the man scoffs and looks away, his brown cheeks turning a lovely hue of purple. He mutters under his breath, asking his doc' to hurry up already in recalibrating the energy gun in his left hand.
You pout playfully, already making up your mind to pester the cowboy about it once back at your spaceship. And pester him you do, poking and prodding every chance you get.
"C'mon... All you have to do is just tell me whether she was right or not!" You plead, tugging lightly on the small braid nestled amongst the white locks.
"Tch. Like hell I will. That's how it always starts with ya. Y'ask fer one thing an' then you're askin' fer a forkin' drawing or Lan knows what else that goes on in that crazy noggin'," Boothill replies, lightly swatting your hand away.
"Well... Now that you brought it up...."
"I am not drawin' a nude of myself fer you."
You gasp, faux tears springing to your eyes and your oh so sensitive heart on the verge of shattering. How could one man be so cruel!
"Fuck... Just shoot me dead instead, why don't you?" You sniff, fanning at your eyes in a bid to keep the tears away. Boothill raises a brow at the sight.
"Darlin', believe me when I say I would but yer loco ash would probably like it," he deadpans. You shrug in response.
Touche.
Boothill sighs to himself, fond yet exasperated as you quickly go back to giving him your best impression of a puppy abandoned in the rain. He's 90% sure you've been teaching Rappa the same trick and he makes a mental note of separating you two for the sake of his sanity. He cannot be running any more errands for that girl just because she pulls out the photo of when she'd been rescued by another ranger to guilt-trip.
But aside from affectionate exhaustion over your seemingly endless antics, Boothill can't deny that some part of him, one that lay carefully guarded and hidden behind metal walls, twisted at your actions.
When Boothill had chosen to shed his flesh body for one made of cold metal, aesthetics had been the last thing on his mind. He only had one simple request for his doctor and that was to make him nigh indestructible, to turn him into a weapon that culls, to turn him into someone that strikes fear into the hearts of others. He couldn't allow himself to be weak ever again. He had paid dearly once already.
To become Death, to become Marble Orchard's Guard, to become a Harbinger of justice, exchanging his flesh felt like a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things.
So why? Why were you still here, looking at him as if he had hung the stars in the sky? Why did you speak to him as if he was more than a brainless thug? Why did you touch him as if he could break at the tiniest of impact?
It infuriated him. It irked him. It suffocated him. It broke him.
"Jeez... If I didn't know any better, I'd say y'prefer my human body over the bag o' bolts that I am now," Boothill finds himself saying in a dry tone.
You look at him as if he's lost his head. He shrugs in return before yelping as you drag him with an uncharacteristic strength to the bedroom, determined to show him exactly what you thought of him.
The grin on Boothill’s face is nothing short of teasing yet bashful as you push him onto the bed. his cheeks are colored a faint purple hue and he playfully nips at your fingers when you poke his dimples.
Boothill's hair is splayed out across the pillows, framing his visage in a snowy white halo. his inky bangs are askew, just barely exposing the scar hidden underneath. His long lashes, white and black in color, grazes against your skin as you move to press a kiss to his temple.
He's so fucking beautiful that it hurts.
"If I'd known all it took was a bit o' insultin' fer you to get so needy, I'd be doin' it more often," Boothill murmurs, a quiet chuckle leaving him as you tug at his leather garments. He gets the hint and shimmies out of them before tugging at your own clothes.
An eye for an eye, as they said.
One metal hand settles on the curve of your hip once you're out of your clothes. Had it been any other moment, you'd have led his hand to touch you all over. But that wasn't your goal tonight.
You cradle Boothill’s face, stifling a giggle as he nuzzles into the warmth of your hand like a needy kitten. You brush your thumbs across the sharp planes and shower kisses all over. He snorts and squirms, telling you to cut it out but the way he leaned in to meet each kiss said otherwise.
Your lips stay on his handsome, scarred face, whilst your hands start to wander. They trace the sensitive skin of what remained of his neck, feeling the mottled burns where skin met metal. You press a brief kiss there before your hands continue to do the rest.
Boothill’s body was modeled after his flesh, is what you deduce. For metal, while durable and beautiful on its own, forever replicates flesh. It draws on its resilience, forms itself after its radiance.
The drips and crevices that you now traced on Boothill’s body, had existed long before. The grooves where metal met metal had once been lines of dense muscle. The scars on his body had once bled a deep crimson.
As you map out the body of your beloved, your fingers stop at the underside of his left chest plate. If you hooked your fingers just so, you could slip inside and feel his beating heart.
Boothill’s breath hitches as you press teasingly at the crevice. You press once, twice, thrice, before huffing out a quiet laugh and kissing him on the lips, as if to tease him for his reaction.
You did not love metal over flesh. Nor did you love flesh over metal. You loved Boothill and all the raw beauty and ugliness that came with.
It terrifies him, that someone can love another so wholly, that one person could slip past his guards and see him for what lay beneath the mask. And for one fleeting moment, he wants to push you away and curl up into a ball and hide.
A part of Boothill wants to weep as you gently coax him into looking at you once more. And when you kiss the corner of his mouth once more in tender reassurance, you're sure it would've tasted of saltwater had he been kinder to himself.
To be human is to love. Much like his own humanity, Boothill was terrified of loving again. But you're patient. You'll hold his hand and stay until he learns to not be afraid of his own heart. Until he learns that it's not a sin to be loved, flaws and all.
