❀ ˎˊ- prompt: when being a mechanic means performing maintenance on a space cyborg cowboy, you start questioning your career choices.
❀ ˎˊ- boothill x gn!reader
❀ ˎˊ- wc: 750
❀ ˎˊ- warnings: written before his release whoops, boothill's half naked but like. he's always half naked your honor
❀ ˎˊ- a/n: engineers and mechanics dont @ me i dont know how machines work i just want to make funny cowboy man drabbles
❀ ˎˊ- img credits
Sometimes, you just had to take a step back and wonder just how badly you screwed up to get to your current point in life.
Sparks fizzled and sprayed out at you as you worked on the cyborg before you. Wiping at your forehead, you clicked your tongue as you dove in deeper with your pliers into the cavity in Boothill’s back, trying your best to make sense of the jungle that was his wires. It’d been a while since you’d seen such an… old fashioned model (now that everything was all puppets and wireless), but it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle.
“You be careful back there,” your client called, throwing his head back to look back at you with a toothy grin and hitting your face with his hair in the process.
Briefly looking up for your work, you met his grey eyes with an unimpressed stare.
“I told you to keep your hair out of my way,” you chided, jabbing at a particularly sensitive spot with your pliers and earning a startled yelp.
“Ow-!” Boothill blew at a lock of hair childishly as he faced forward again. “Alright, alright, no need to get all cutesy.”
You raised a brow. “Aw, you think I’m cute?”
At your teasing, Boothill let out a whiny snarl, a scowl twisting his face. “Y’know what I mean. I swear, the second I get my hands on that troublemaker, I’m going to hug him.”
“Well, aren’t you just a sweetheart?”
He could practically hear the smile in your voice, and it only set him off even more. Out of spite or perhaps pettiness, Boothill shook his head, shoving even more of that hair into your face. Upon hearing your indignant complaints, he huffed smugly.
“That’s what you get for playin’ with me, sweetheart,” he sung triumphantly, leering at you with a cocky grin. You rolled your eyes, poking him in the nose.
“You’ve got some nerve to talk like that to the person with pliers in you,” you retorted, twisting said tools. Boothill shrugged, swiping out his tongue to try to lick at your finger, giggling like a schoolgirl when you quickly withdrew your hand.
“Ah, but you’d have to be a special kind of stupid to mess with me.” Boothill exhaled in satisfaction as you tightened certain screws, adding the finishing touches before closing his back hatch. “And you might be fiesty, but you ain’t stupid.”
You slapped his back as you finished, Boothill laughing as you did. Over the years, you’ve learned that he had quite the contagious laugh, evident by the way you too smiled upon hearing it. There was just something about the way he laughed without restraint, without worry or care for what others might think of him. But then again, that was just how Boothill was.
Standing up, you took off your apron and gloves and stretched, your bones cracking satisfyingly as you rolled back your shoulders.
“Let me get your clothes for you,” you said, shaking out your legs as you walked to your work table.
There, laying on it was his hat and what could barely be called a shirt, as you’d often say. Usually, you didn’t care about what your clients wore as long as they were decent, but if Boothill didn’t have metal for a torso, you were sure he’d be banned in most public spaces.
“Seriously, you should-” you began, only for something to completely slump against you, making you stumble from its weight and nearly collide into your work table. Familiar metal arms looped themselves around your waist, their flesh cold and hard.
Knowingly, you let out a sigh.
“Boothill, get off me.”
The cyborg hummed, briefly considering it before shaking his head and burying his face into your neck.
“Deal with it for a minute, won’t you?” His voice was muffled by your skin, his shark-like teeth grazing you as he spoke. “Been a while since I’ve seen you, much less held you.”
Slowly, you set down his clothes. With Boothill’s bare chest pressed against you, you could feel every stir and thrum of the machinery, from his artificial heart to the relaxing hum of his engine as he laid against you. That same hair that’d been your headache for the last hour now tickled at your neck, a giggle rising up in you at the feeling.
“Alright,” you conceded, patting his head and threading your fingers through his hair, a pleased murmur escaping the cyborg. “But only for a minute.”
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