#⌞ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⭑ ⋆⁺₊⋆ constellation: cheerisse ⛵️ ⌝

[sunderingstars]

don't be a coward, roll the dice 🎲

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ DICE ROLL #43 — A BLOODY KISS ⌝

based on this post!

word count: 1.4k

what the stars reveal: boothill x reader, gn!reader, boothill calls reader "darlin'," slight mentions of blood, i'm allergic to not putting a Narrative™ in everything i write

— thank you for the excuse to write angst cheerisse >:3

Three days. That’s how long it had been since Boothill told you he’d return. Three long, grueling, torturous days. You thought you’d be used to it by now — the stretches of time he went radio silent for one reason or another, flickering out of your life like a candle. Yet, it was impossible to truly release.

Despite occupying such an important role in his life, a partner in all its meanings, it was so easy for him to dissipate, to leave wisps of smoke behind as his flame dwindled. It was the fleeting nature of a Galaxy Ranger, you knew, but you couldn’t understand. What was the point of making you worry? What was the point of those sleepless nights? 

On day one you had forced yourself to be patient. Quiet. You molded yourself to the chair at your workstation and sat, eyes roaming over the bits of machinery and time-worn tools scattered about. Once in a while, you’d even let yourself tinker with a piece or two, just to make sure everything was ready for his arrival. You had an important job after all; not just the maintenance of his body, but of his soul and mind. Nothing was quite as sweet as the moments your eyes met while tuning him.

But the second day began to gnaw at you. Twist, in your stomach, like snakes. Their sour venom began to leak into your mind, swirl your worries in a cocktail of potential tragedies, and you contemplated sending him a message. Just one. Enough to ease your mind, to let him know a small blip of you was waiting for him back home. After a few hours of pacing back and forth in your shared kitchen, you worked up the determination to do it.

… No response. Not at dinnertime, not in the evening, and certainly not in the early hours of the morning — most of which you lay painfully awake during. Only the cruel static of a blank screen remained, blinking once, twice, as it tried and failed to reach him among a sea of stars.

The third day was the worst. Everything seemed to compound, balloon out in your mind to the point it began to seep into other parts of your being. You bounced your leg, bit your fingernails, peeled at your lip without even registering it. Eventually, you made your way to the storage closet for some whiskey, if not to take the edge off then to at least give your mouth a diversion.

You had just popped open a bottle when you heard a clank. Immediately, you stilled. Listened again. The bottle, prone, hung in your grip.

Clank. 

It was outside, not in.

You were out the door faster than you could blink, legs weaving around rocks and brush as you trampled anything too small to get caught on. The sun was beginning to set, casting the arid landscape in darkening hues of pink and gold, but you knew this place like the back of your hand; the lengthening shadows did nothing to stop your pursuit. Under normal circumstances, you’d be more concerned about threats — wild animals, loose tools, even the stray IPC guard who managed to track down your location, but you didn’t care about any of that now. Not when Boothill was on the line. 

So you persisted. Drew closer to the noise as much as you could, eventually picking up an increase in frequency and the soft humming of a tired engine. You squinted. Then, you almost collapsed in relief; trundling down the paved dirt road was a motorbike. Boothill’s motorbike. It was a ghost of its former self, laden with loose parts and constant stuttering and a headlight practically severed from the rest, but it was his. 

Not wanting to waste any more time, you picked up your pace with a clear destination in mind. It’s not like he could properly run you over anyways. You were surprised the thing was even moving. 

“Boothill?” you called into the dusk. Out-of-breath and ragged, your mind began to filter through your fears, fearing silence, fearing stillness.

However, as the silhouette slowly resolved into familiarity, so too came a voice that pricked tears at your eyes.

“Yes, darlin’?”

Whatever sharp spark of anger coasted through your chest at the causal response fizzled into nothing once you laid eyes on his face. That signature smile, those red-tinted eyes, all backlit against the rays of a dying sun. Healthy. Whole. Alive. Once again, you felt as though your legs might give out. 

You made it just far enough to lean against the shuddering fuel tank before using the last of your willpower to vault yourself towards the open embrace of Boothill’s chest, wrapping your arms tightly around his torso. A hearty laugh sounded against you.

“Missed me that much, huh?”

You mumbled an unintelligible response. The loud hum of the bike became an irrelevant backdrop to the soft hum of metal and leather, the feeling of machinery quietly whirring against the skin of your cheek. No stutters, no pauses. Unlike the dying corpse below, Boothill was running smoothly. You breathed a sigh of relief.

“Why…?”

You didn’t have to finish your sentence before a sigh crested against the crown of your head. A hand, firm and comforting, came to rest on the back of your neck. “’M sorry, darlin’. Damn phone got busted. I knew you’d worry, but tryin’ to make a call in IPC territory was too risky.”

“It’s okay,” you mumbled, breath hitching in a vain attempt to keep tears from falling. “I’m just happy you’re— you’re safe.”

In your arms, the leather of his jacket shifted. A warm weight pressed to the small of your back.

“Aw,” he cooed, breath fanning across your cheek as he shifted you into a more comfortable position, “it’s alright. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Something about the combination of his words and actions, the familiar smell of gunsmoke and malt clinging to him like home, made it all bubble over. Before you knew it, you were tilting out and up, cupping your hands against Boothill’s cheeks, bringing him home. In the last painted rays of the sun, your lips met in a stroke of vibrant color.

It felt like everything you had wanted over the past half-week — brightness, relief, the surety of something alive and warm against you. An immeasurable weight left with the tear-tracks down your face, each fear dissipating with a new round of wetness. His lips slotted against yours with the ease of practice. Drifted with purpose to wash away your worry. By the time you tasted tang, you thought it must have been you. It wasn’t uncommon for a part of your lips or tongue to get caught in Boothill’s sharp canines, rupturing the skin ever so slightly to form a pinprick of blood. However, it became clear this wasn’t the case when you surfaced for air. 

As your eyes adjusted to the growing darkness, you began to make out faint, dark splatters against your partner’s face.

Fear returned to you in a rush. You hadn’t even checked for flesh injuries when you first saw him, too caught up in the relief of seeing him again. 

“Boothill—” you said, fingers tracking carefully along the edge of his mouth where you could see a blossom of dark blood emerging, “—Boothill!”

The man in question hummed in confusion. Slightly frantically, you traced the pads of your fingers along the edges of the splatter. It was fresh. Oh, Aeons, it was fresh, and you hadn’t even thought—

“Woah, hey.” The low timbre of Boothill’s voice brought you out of your spiral. The hands on your back rubbed soothing circles, the kind he used when trying to calm a horse. “It’s nothin’, darlin’.”

“‘Nothing?’” you asked incredulously.

“It’s not mine, if that’s what you’re askin’.” He shot you an infuriating smile. “A few folks from the corporation got on my nerves, that’s all.” Then, when your skepticism remained: “Promise.”

You bit your lip, trying to tamp down the fluttering revival of fear in your chest. You couldn’t deny it, though — even in the night, the drying splatters clearly arced in a passing motion rather than a bleeding one. For what felt like forever, you focused your eyes on the spot near his mouth, burning it into your mind until it dispelled any doubt. 

Eventually, you slumped, more out of fatigue than anything else. “Okay.”

“Alright?”

“Okay,” you repeated, “but we’re going inside first. And I’m still checking you over.”

Boothill chuckled. “‘Course. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Then, he smiled, and you found yourself silently glad for the darkness, for the ability to see the radiance of the man before you in place of a sun. 

It was beautiful.

© written by sunderingstars. do not copy, repost, translate, modify, or claim my work as your own.

[sunderingstars]

cygnus, Aquila, Vulpecula, Orion,

hi cheerisse !! ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧

(based on this ask game)

cygnus ⟡ did you build forts when you were a kid? what did they look like?

⟢ i absolutely did build forts — not often because i tired out easily, but on the right day i’d take cushions off the living room couch and prop them between the frame and the ottoman, then add some blankets for flavor. usually i’d lay down and read under there, but sometimes i’d daydream too. (although i will say, they were never very stable, i put everything together just enough to not fall apart!)

aquila ⟡ what's your favorite cheesy joke?

⟢ i’m tempted to try and find something more niche, but i can’t deny the truth: “are you from tennessee? because you’re the only ten i see” is the one i can never stop thinking about. it’s a classic, it’s popular, it’s catchy in a way that my brain finds easy to repeat. 10/10, no notes.

vulpecula ⟡ what did you think adulthood was like in your teens?

⟢ adulthood always seemed like this vague, unreachable state of existence. i could understand the freedom conceptually, but beyond that i really couldn’t fathom how people lived as adults. my brain tended to circle back to the “office worker” — the adult who worked in a small cubicle doing spreadsheets from 9 to 5 — and i do have to say, that wasn’t very appealing to me. (i would say my experience of adulthood has been much better than the ideas i had as a teen, though!)

orion ⟡ what is a red, a beige and a green flag of yours?

⟢ red: i isolate when upset / nervous / stressed.

⟢ beige: i write everything in my notes app like god intended.

⟢ green: my favorite trope is found family & i go to therapy regularly.