Chapter Text
Maybe Boothill was crazy. He knew the things he thought about you weren't normal, and occasionally, it freaked him out. Why would he want to tie you to his bed to keep you safe when he knew there was never going to be any harm to you as long as he was around? Why would he want to keep you at his side at all times when you both had busy lives? He had bounties, you had work and life to live. And of course Petunia, your cat, to take care of.
Boothill was also aware of his jealousy issues and overprotective tendencies. Though you haven't been together very long, he was already infatuated with you. He'd worship the ground you walked on if you asked him to. Hell, you didn't need to ask. Nights in saloons weren't always his favorites. It wasn't your fault that you were the most attractive thing he's ever seen, and some others seemed to agree.
People would waltz up to you with Boothill at your side, offering to buy you drinks or take you home. If he had blood, he's sure it would be boiling. He would met you handle it at first, but if the f*cker was persistent, Boothill would step in.
"He said he has a boyfriend, and that boyfriend is me, forker," he would snarl, forcing himself in between you and those who couldn't understand the words: "no, I have a boyfriend." Boothill knew of his reputation of being a ranger, and even a criminal. Others did too, sober or not. Your hand on his shoulder brought him out of his jealousy almost immediately, and he would only turn to flash you his charming grin.
"You want another drink, darlin'?" he asked, already picking up your empty glass. You stabbed the last strawberry in the bottom with your straw and brought it to your lips before he could take it away, popping the sweet fruit into your mouth. "How many have I had?" you asked, peering up at him. "Just a few," the cowboy replied, leaning down to kiss your forehead. "If ya don't want anymore, I can get ya some water or some soda," he offered, moving to stand from the booth he decided to sit at today. Typically he prefers to sit at the bar, but today, he wanted to have a corner with you all to himself.
"Water would be nice. Are you sure you don't want me to go get it?" you ask, your brow slightly furrowed. Boothill flashed you yet another smirk, setting his empty whiskey glass down and using his free hand to tilt your chin up further so he could look at your face better. "Darlin, yer doin' it again," he said, shaking his head in amusem*nt. You always do this, feeling guilty for being taken care of even for the most simplest of things. He leaned over the table, pressing his lips to yours in gentle, yet passionate pecks.
"I. Love. To. Do. These. Things. For. Ya," he insisted, giving you a kiss in between each word. The last kiss was far more passionate, his face tilting to the side to kiss you deeper. He pulled away with a low chuckle, running his thumb over your bottom lip. "I could never get tired o' yer kisses, my darlin'," he whispered, his metal hand reluctantly dropping from your face. "Now, all ya gotta do is sit here n' look cute, which yer already doin'. Lemme take care o' these, 'Ll be right back," he added, already standing up straight and stepping away from the booth you were at.
It was a busy day for the saloon, ladies dancing in revealing clothes, grinding on whoever would give them time of day. Men using outfits as an excuse to touch, and some, like you, hiding in the corner away from all that chaos. You watched Boothill until he disappeared into the crowd, his hat occasionally popping into view. As you sat, you pulled out your phone and started scrolling through social media, catching up on drama and gossip that didn't relate to you, but was still entertaining. You frowned when you saw that your friend posted that they were out with someone else, but you couldn't be too upset. After all, you were here with Boothill.
You heard a small thump beside you and looked up, only to reveal a man that was not Boothill holding a beer with another in front of you. Flashing you a grin, he pushed the beer toward you, as if offering it to you. "Can I... help you?" you asked, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. The man's feline type grin seemed to grow. "Of course you can. Give me some of that company," he slurred, making himself at home in the seat next to you. "Oh, uh... I have someone sitting there-" the drunken man put a finger to your lips and leaned in closer. "I don't see him," he muttered, his breath reeking of beer. "You look so lonely. Here, I got you a beer.
"No thanks, I'm not lonely nor want your company. And I don't like beer," you said, attempting to scoot away from the man. "Oh, c'mon, I won't bite," the man slurred, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Just take a sip," he insisted, bringing the beer can up to your lips. "I said no," you sneerer, shoving the beer can away from your face.
"What seems to be the problem here."
You looked up at the question, though it seemed to be more of a demand than an inquiry as Boothill stood before you, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a glass of water in the other. It looked like the fragile glass was about to break in his palms. Perhaps the man next to you was a little too drunken to notice who he was talking to. "Hey, back off man. I call dibs on this one," the man slurred, raising his beer can.
"Oh, you called dibs?" Boothill inquired, co*cking his head to the side. He didn't blink, the crosshairs in his eyes zeroing in on the uncomfortable look on his face and the way you tried to subtly escape the stranger's grasp. Despite going home with strangers from bars and saloons previously before dating Boothill, you standards weren't low. "Where you think you're going?" The man slurred, his grip on your shoulders tightening.
The sound of shattering glass seemed to break the man out of his drunken state for a minute, looking at the whiskey flowing down Boothill's metal fingers. His jaw was tight, pure rage in his eyes. Without warning, he grabbed the second beer can that the stranger was trying to shove in your face with one hand and the stranger's shirt collar with another.
"Let's go n' have a lil' talk about somethin' called 'respect,'" Boothill sneered, his voice low and dangerous. The man put his hands up in surrender, but the ranger wouldn't have it. "Darlin', go into the intersex bathroom for me n' lock the door. I'll text ya when I'm done with this fellow," he added, giving you a glance.
You didn't have to be told twice. You crawled out from the other side of the booth and patted Boothill's shoulder as you walked past. You mouthed a quick "thank you" to him and gave him a finger heart, and he felt his own metal heart flutter. He found himself grinning, but then turned back to the man that was trying oh so hard for your company.
"Now you..." he growled, his hand moving to grip back of the stranger's neck. "Let's go outside."
A week later...
"I can't believe that guy was found dead after... that night," you said to Boothill, who was sitting on your bed and playing with your hair. His own was tied back, pink barrettes in his hair to keep it from his face. A face mask was pressed to his skin, matching yours. He hummed, one of his arms reaching down to wrap around your waist. With your back to his chest, it was easy to tug you closer. "He had it comin'," Boothill murmured, burying his nose into the crook of your neck. He was only wearing his pants, while you were wearing some shorts and a sweatshirt he bought you.
"Maybe, but the way he died was so simple. There wasn't any signs saying he was mentally unwell," you muttered, giving a shiver as you looked through the details of the case. Boothill's grip tightened around your waist, his other hand dropping to place on your stomach. He pressed his lips to the skin behind your ear, humming in agreement. "I know, darlin'. Don't worry yer perty lil' head 'bout it now, just relax with me," he whispered, huffing as a timer goes off. "Fifteen minutes has been up already?" You thought allowed, moving to peel off your face mask. Boothill held out a hand for you to drop it into while you turned in his grasp to peel off his.
"I can't believe ya convinced me to do this... skincare shtuff or whatever this bull honkey is," he grumbled. "Oh, you like it, don't even. I see you online shopping for more face masks and stuff," you replied, an amused grin on your face as you peeled off the face mask from his skin. "Plus, I've missed you. You were gone for three days," you muttered with a pout. You disposed of it in his hand, which then he dropped into the garbage can beside your bed so you didn't have to lean over. You cupped his face in his hands, squeezing his cheeks and rubbing the remaining serum into his skin. "I dunno what yer talkin' 'bout, songbird," he said, a subtle smirk plastering across his lips. "Ya must be dreamin' of those things. And I had a bounty, baby. I would take ya if I could."
His hands found your ribs, and immediately you tensed. "Don't-" your words were cut off with immediate laughter, his fingers dancing across your skin. His own chuckles mixed with yours, flopping you onto your back. "Gotcha now!" he cheered, feeling you squirm as he tickled you. The laughter that escaped your lips was beautiful, giggles and shrieks that made a perfect melody. When you begged for mercy, he finally heeded his onslaught, his own chuckles mixing with your quieting giggles and pants.
"Aeons, I love yer laugh. And yer smile. The way ya look at me sometimes..." he muttered, moving onto his hands and knees with you beneath him. He moved to cup your cheek, guiding your eyes to meet his. "I would do anythin' if it meant for ya to keep that smile," he whispered, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours. He hummed at the contact, relishing in the soft noise that escaped your throat. The kisses were slow and passionate, tender and filled with affection for one another. Your hands found his metal shoulders and he felt himself smirk. He gently nipped your lower lip, asking for entry to which you permitted. His tongue slipped against yours, willing himself to keep the kisses tender and gentle instead of rough and desperate. He pulled away before he could slip himself into those needy thoughts.
He smirked down at you, noting the way your lips looked when they were wet with saliva. His tongue darted out, licking his own lips and perhaps showing off the new tongue piercing he got. He'll try it out on you sometime. Your cat yowled and jumped onto the bed, making herself at home and interrupting the two of you. Boothill seemed to sulk as he was interrupted, your gaze drifting from him to your baby. He guided you to sit up, Petunia making her way into your lap. You smiled as you nuzzled your nose into her fur, loud purrs coming from her in response. Boothill reached out, his fingers gently moving over her back as he scooted closer to you.
"I would do anythin' to keep moments like this with you, my beautiful boy," he whispered, feeling you rest your head against his shoulder. In turn, he rested his cheek against the top of your head, staring down at you instead of Petunia.
"I already have," he wanted to add.
That night a week ago...
"Darlin', go into the intersex bathroom for me n' lock the door. I'll text ya when I'm done with this fellow," he ordered, giving you a glance before his intense gaze locked onto the stranger that dared to make you uncomfortable, that dared to touch you. The pat on his shoulder made his heart whir, flashing you a smile as you disappeared into the intersex bathroom. What a good boy you are.
"W-Wait, it's not that serious-" the man stammered. Boothill was glad the saloon was packed. He knew where there were no cameras in the back alley. "Oh, it's not that serious? How many times did (Name), my (Name) tell you no? Come on, surely you can forkin' count," he growled, wasting no time to drag the man off into the back alley. Penacony was safe, so Boothill wasn't worried about getting caught. After all, he had a regular 9 millimeter this time instead of the specially crafted bullets he uses. With the beer can in his other hand, he tossed the man into the alleyway, already aiming the gun at his forehead.
"Not. A. Sound," he commanded, his dark eyes demanding silence. "Unless ya want it quick," he added. "What is wrong with you, dude?!" The man shouted. "He was just playing hard to ge-" A loud bang cut the man's sentence off, his body crumpling to the ground.
"Never speak an ill word about my songbird," Boothill growled, throwing the beer can on top of his body. Luckily, Boothill didn't have finger prints, and the saloon was too loud. To those inside, it might've just sounded like something falling in the upstairs rooms. Careful not to get blood on his clothes, and to keep you from worrying or suspecting, he arranged the man's body to make it appear like a suicide. He didn't need this extra 9mm anyway, and it's not like anyone knew that he had it. The joys of being a Galaxy Ranger, having things that people won't verbally question.
Satisfied with his work, he turned away, back to find and to comfort you if needed. He pulled out his phone and texted you that he was outside the intersex bathroom. When you stepped out, his arms immediately flung around your waist and tugged you close. "My darlin'," he whispered, nuzzling his nose into your neck. "Let's go home, yeah? Maybe we can finish our night off strong with a movie, I gotta start gettin' ready to go tomorrow," he said, pulling back to cup your face in his hands. It was obvious you were upset about the stranger that bothered you, he could tell by the silent nod that you gave in return. Boothill offered you his arm instead of his hand, allowing you to link your elbows as he walked up to the bar. "Leavin' early tonight, ranger?" The bartender asked, co*cking a brow as he looked at Boothill's tab. Perhaps he won't find out about the broken glasses. After all, maybe that asswipe of a man shouldn't have pissed him off.
"Yeah, leavin' early. I wanna spend time with this cutie here before I gotta leave for a few days," he answered, smirking down at you. The bartender shook his head in amusem*nt. "Well then, good night, you two. And good luck on your bounty, Boothill," the bartender added. Everyone was too afraid to turn the ranger in to the IPC, and it only fueled Boothill's already growing ego. "G'night, n' thanks," he replied, turning away from the bar to lead you home.
"Ya wanna stop for a water on the way home, darlin'?" he asked, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. "Yes, please," you mumbled, nodding along. "Okay, baby, let's get ya that water, hm?" he responded, his thumb soothingly rubbing your arm as if he didn't just murder a man.
Oh well. He had it coming. You were his. Boothill was going to make sure of it.
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Word Count: 2727
