⟿ ˗ˏˋ𝐵𝑜𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶 𝓈𝒽𝓎 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 ࿐ྂ
Some sfw headcanons this time, but I just might make a spicier part two.
gn!shy!reader, Boothill is pretty soft here, might be OOC since it's written before his release <3
Boothill who leans down to steal a kiss and uses his infamous hat to deflect the arrows of onlookers' prying stares – to hide your pretty, flustered face and his own toothy grin.
Boothill who cracks jokes every time you go stiff in his arms. He's a tease, quick-witted and silver-tongued ('Hey now baby, who's made out of metal 'ere, me or you?'), but he never lets his hands wander if he sees the crease of uncertainty between your brows.
Boothill who goes absolutely ecstatic if you do something as simple as smiling and giving him a thumbs up when he's dueling. Boy, will he giggle like a maniac while bullets sing and blood spills. He wants to impress you – always – and he doesn't need much encouragement to show off.
Boothill who, instead of tilting your head up with his fingers, crouches down to meet your averted gaze – much to your embarrassment and his own amusement.
Boothill who doesn't pry your hands away from your red-hot face, but rather nuzzles into them until he can get to his main prize – your lips.
Boothill who loves how warm your cheeks get when he flirts with you like there's no tomorrow. He knows damn well they're warm 'cause he'll definately press his own face against yours. Flustering you even further.
Boothill who is so used to the good ol' game of chase. He's a hunter, a predator if you will, stalking his prey like a wolf day and night, patient and relentless, waiting for the right moment to strike. Your heart is one of a wild rabbit, you're always on a run from him, embarassed, flustered, nervous and perhaps even scared of so many things. But he's a master of cat-and-mouse and he will catch you eventually.
And when he does, he will sink his fangs into you.
Notes: divier is by cafekitsune
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h.how do we feel .
“Uh… sorry ‘bout the mess. I’ll make it up to ya.” For good measure, the space cowboy kicks one of the corpses to the side with his boot.
You clutch your chest tighter, heart racing. “You just killed fifteen IPC soldiers in my bar.”
“Yep.”
“You–”
He suddenly looks offended. “Hey. I did the world a favour. I don’t take kindly to rats puttin’ their fudgin’ filthy hands on the merchandise.” He gestures to his torso. Then, he whistles, placing his thumbs on the waistband of his pants. “But, nice place ya got. This your business?”
Dazed, you nod slowly. Your eyes flit to the broken sign and the smashed television hanging over the bar counter.
The bottles are smashed to bits. There’s liquor spilled all over the floor—expensive liquor. This would cost a fortune to fix, let alone to then replace all of the products.
You exhale shakily. You try not to look at the bodies.
The cowboy pities you. You can see it on his face. He says nothing. He awkwardly clears his throat and skims the rim of his hat with his fingers.
This sucks.
“How ‘bout this? I’ll give ya the bounty money so you can fix this place up.”
“Will you pay for my therapy sessions as well?” you chime in, murmuring beneath your breath.
He cracks a smile. “If that’s what you want.”
You lean over the counter and place your head in your hands. Tiredly, you ask, “how much?”
You hear the cowboy click his tongue in thought. “‘Bout… seventy-five? Give or take?”
You look at him from between your fingers. “Huh? Seventy-five hundred?”
The cowboy, yet again, looks offended. “Million, hun. I don’t do my job for cheap. What do I look like to you?”
You squawked. “Seventy-five million?”
“You heard me.” He cocks his head to the side, lips pressed into a thin line. “Why? You like that?”
“You can’t give me seventy-five million credits. Are you serious?” You could feel your face burning in shock. Your hands slam onto the counter, and you point an accusing finger in his face. “You must run some sort of shady business.”
The cowboy looks to the left for a moment.
He blinks at you like you’re stupid.
“You’re serious?” you repeat.
Instead of answering, he pulls out his phone from his pocket. You say nothing about the flimsy orange case, instead watching as he fumbles and squints at the screen before turning it towards you.
He shows you the recent deposit.
As he said. Seventy-five million fat credits sit right there in his account.
Hesitantly, you grab the phone to peer closer. Curiously, you start scrolling. These deposits clearly weren’t new to him. There were so many starting back from about ten years ago. There was a recent one of two-hundred thousand, then another just crossing fifty-seven million–
You were going to pass out. You hand his phone back to him with trembling fingers.
“Seventy-five sound good, or ya want some more?” He was tapping away on the screen again. “Gimme your bank details.”
“No!” You shake your head. “I don’t need your money. It’s fine.”
“How ‘bout eighty?”
“I–”
“Eighty-five.”
“No, I–”
“Round it up.” He turns the phone to you again, this time waiting for you to take it. An empty prompt of a receiver for the credits waits still. “One hundred.”
“Stop. I’m not taking your money.”
“I insist,” was all he said. “Got plenty to dispose of. And was never too responsible wit’ it anyway. Also, don’t really need to spend money on food and stuff, ‘cause, y’know–” He gestures to himself again. “I trashed your place. Lemme help ya fix it up.”
“I’m not taking your money,” you repeat.
The cowboy narrows his eyes at you.
To retaliate, you narrow them back.
Then, grumpily, he states, “you’re stubborn.”
“Yeah.” You bristle defensively. “And?”
“I like it,” he all but purrs. He leans over the counter, fingers drumming over the bench. “If ya don’t want my money, how’z about I take ya out for dinner? To say sorry?”
Huh? You lean back, cowering away from the sharp teeth he displays behind pulled lips. Your heart races in your chest, half out of the anxiety that riddles your veins, but also because he’s practically snapping his teeth in your face like a shark.
Your hands coil into weak fists.
“What do ya think, pretty?”
You look at him.
You suppose he’s handsome—you’re not sure if it’s appropriate to call a cyborg handsome. But he’s got lovely hair, and it falls over his shoulders like water. It covers half his face, but the eye you can see is… trustworthy, to an extent.
He’s definitely not the most insane man you’ve ever met, so that’s a bonus. He also just killed a bunch of soldiers in your territory. You didn’t like the IPC either, and maybe he did do you a favour, but still.
You sigh. You think the pleading flutter of his lashes won you over.
“Fine.”
“That’s the spirit.” He holds out his hand, palm facing upwards. “Phone.”
Your face twists suspiciously. “No funny business.” Hesitantly, you reach into your pocket and hand it to him.
He grins and takes it. “Not at all. I’m a super trustworthy guy.” You find it hard to believe him. Again, he seems to have trouble navigating your phone. He notices you staring. “Sorry. Can’t read very well.”
“Oh.” You straighten up slightly. “Do you want me to add your number instead?”
He makes a face at the phone.
“Nope. I got it.” He hands you back your phone after a moment. The contact is still open on the screen: Boothill. He’s somehow taken a photo of himself without you noticing. “Might’ve added an extra zero. Oops.”
“Oh.” You stare down at the phone number. “There's no zeroes in your number.”
“Sure.” Boothill pulls back from the counter with a tip of his hat. “I gotta run. I’ll set up our lil’ dinner date later.”
You turn your phone off. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“You got it, babe.” He blows you a kiss and waves his hand behind him.
As soon as the door shuts, you get a notification of a successful deposit into your bank account.
Your face immediately drains of blood as you frantically open up the app.
Seven-hundred and fifty million credits sit in your account.
The message attached to it reads, ‘Dont bot her snending it back. Wont work. LOL.’
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