#rakhal.drabbles

"Ah hell, darlin'... If I didn't know any better, I'd reckon you can't get enough a'me with the way you're holdin' on!" Boothill remarks, revving the bike and narrowly dodging a person crossing the street. "Relax! I know what I'm doin'! Ain't much different from ridin' a horse, i can promise ya that!"

"I really would love to believe you, dear," you begin, suppressing a scream at the near miss. "But I fear there's a difference between riding a horse through the desert where there's barely anyone around and riding a bike in a very busy street."

"Pssshh, have some faith in me, sweetheart! Them sights on this here planet won't sightsee themselves! An' hey, maybe if ya stop squirmin' like worms in the dirt, I could take ya fer a different kinda ride, if ya catch my drift," he quips. You roll your eyes at the filthy grin sent your way.

"I don't think I wanna ride you on your bike, Boothill."

"Why not!? Call it a ride-ception!"

"Maybe we should cut down on your whiskey intake, yeah?"

"Oh, how ya wound me, sugar!"

College heartthrob Boothill who practically has his own fanclub and rumor has it that he's had multiple partners, more than anyone can count. I mean, who would ever doubt it? Look at the guy! He's got an insanely cool motorcycle, throws killer parties and is unfairly handsome!

Except the truth is that he's practically a virgin at the ripe age of 21. Sure, he's had a few clumsy makeout sessions here and there but! thats it, I fear....

But it's cute! It really is! He gets the sweetest blush on his pretty face when someone compliments him and if you squint, the tips of his ears are practically burning up! Speaking of which, his earlobes are sensitive. You nipped them once and he made such an embarrassing sound that he refused to look you in the face for a week straight.

That's not even the worst of it. Boothill's hands get insanely sweaty when he holds you, no matter what part. He has a stupid little shaky smile on those pierced lips and he gets so easily hard when you make out with him, it's a wonder he hasn't come in his pants yet.

And oh, the bedroom is another story entirely. It doesn't matter whether you're just as inexperienced or a certified expert. You will have to guide him and tell him where to touch, how to move and all that good stuff. But trust, you will be rewarded for your patience. Boothill is a fast learner and a very eager lover. Once he's got a grasp on things, he will absolutely rock your world.

cw: light suggestive implications at the end

The cosmos were a frigid place to be in. Not just mentally, with the inherent sense of loneliness brought about when drifting through large areas of nothingness, but also physically.

Not that you'd know, of course. You rarely ventured out of the spaceship when traveling and when you did, it'd only be with the adequate equipment. What little you know of space's cold temperatures came from Boothill, mostly from when he'd come back from a venture out and would immediately bury his ice-cold face in the crook of your neck.

"Fucking- Get off me, asshole!" You'd squeal, trying to push the heavy cowboy off.

"Save me, darlin'! Reckon 'm turnin' into one'a them snowmen!" Boothill would lament dramatically, nuzzling against your warm skin.

That was the norm. That was your comfort zone, staying in spaces with a moderate temperature that were either refreshingly cool or just the right amount of warm. Not whatever the hell the Kata desert was.

"This place feels like having jalapeño peppers rubbed on your asshole" you mutter, making a pitiful attempt at fanning yourself.

"You speakin' from experience?" Boothill eyes you.

"I don't have to experience it to know what it'd feel like," you retort.

"Right. 'Course. Forgot you're fudgin' omniscient."

"Shut up. And how are you even walking around wearing all that leather? I'm sweating just from looking at you!"

Boothill shrugs, grinning lazily. "Eh. I'm used t'it. I've been through worse back home. An' hey, I always wore ponchos too. Y'gotta admit it's helpin', ain't it?"

You glance down at the poncho you were wearing, made of linen and thoughtfully purchased in your favorite color. Boothill had even gone as far as to embroider flowers onto the material in his spare time. They were a bit lopsided but hey! It's the thought that counts.

"It is... but still. How are you not sweating your balls off?" You raise a skeptical eyebrow.

"Probably 'cause I don't got any no more," Boothill quips.

"Not funny."

"You're laughin'."

"Maybe I'm choking to death from the heat."

Boothill rolls his eyes and holds his left hand out. You flinch back on instinct, not wishing to burn yourself on his metal body again. You were still pouting and cradling your poor hand from when you'd tried to grab the cowboy's hip, even though Boothill had already given you ice from his internal cooler and "kissed your hand better."

"Calm down, honeybee. Jus' helpin' ya cool off 'fore ya faint on me," Boothill sighs, blasting refreshingly cool air from the hole om his palm.

"Could've done this sooner, don't you think?" You grumble while leaning closer.

"Thought you were the one who said y'can handle yerself and ain't a delicate lil' flower," he snorts.

"I think the heat is making you hallucinate, dear."

Boothill shakes his head, a weary yet affectionate smile on his lips. He is so fucking tired of your sass and your antics and despite the heat leaving you and him in less-than-stellar moods, there really was no one else he'd rather be suffering with.

"Poor me, huh? Oughta put the licks in an' head back to camp then."

"Please. I can't believe you left all the cold drinks back there."

Boothill only chuckles, kissing you in apology. You gasp when his split tongue makes an appearance, shockingly cool.

"What? Told ya my insides always stay cool," He shrugs.

"No no.. Just... I'm thinking of other places where your tongue could be of use."

You yelp when Boothill presses his hat down on your head in response. All you manage to see before the brim obscures your vision is a roguish wink followed by the words:

"Hold yer horses there, darlin'. Don't want ya overheatin'."

the journal has laid untouched in a corner of his spaceship for a while now. he grimaces at the dust gathered on his iron fingertip. the miniscule particles rest on the surface and if he concentrates, it almost mimics a fingerprint that no longer exists. and with it, an identity long forgotten.

it's on a whim that boothill opened it, fumbling around for a pen to write with. presumably, it's his mind playing cruel tricks on a dog kicked to the dirt.

but how can one expect him to sit still when the stars outside his window looks to form a constellation he'd see back home?

he can remember with ease – too much ease, in fact – the grass tickling his skin. he can remember your laughter forming ghostly puffs of air, hints of your inevitable fate. he remembers the stars mirrored in your eyes, reflecting back the indifferent heavens.

boothill had laid propped up on his side, gazing into deep pools that he'd happily drown in. it's how he had taught you the constellations, gazing into your eyes because the stars looked prettier there than in the night sky.

"you're lookin' at the Hunter now" he'd murmured, fingers tracing the shape unto your skin. you never asked him how he knew. he wishes you did, if only to prolong how long you had left with him.

" 's tragic. never liked that one."

"i thought you would. thought maybe you'd ask him to guide your bullets in the next bounty."

"now ain't that just insultin'? y'reckon i need guidance like some fool who's still wet behind the ears?"

"why don't you like it?" you had changed the subject with a laugh. it rings in boothill's ears still, longer than the bombs ever did.

"the elders say he's up there 'cause his lover shot him straight through with an arrow."

now he wishes he'd been the one to fire the shot that killed you, if only so you'd die loved and not afraid

"his pardner regretted it, of course. was tricked, she was. so she placed him up there t'honor and mourn"

maybe he should do the same. pick out a star befitting you and all those he lost so your only grave would not be the desecrated soil of Aeragan-Epharshel or his wretched excuse of a body.

you had teased him, saying he's being sappy. he had kissed your lips in return, placing the blame on you.

boothill looks up from his journal, pen lying broken in his hand. the constellation is no longer outside the ship's viewport.

"I never forget those who treat me kindly," he said. All you'd done was listen to him pour out his grief over a couple rounds of whiskey, and yet, he treasured it as if you'd given him the code to the IPC's treasury. You give a dog a bone, and it'll follow you to the ends of the planet.

Boothill shows up when you need him the most, even when you don't realize it. He pays your kindness forward, offering a helping hand out of troubling times and staying by your side like a loyal dog. He keeps watch when you're afraid like a German Shepherd, makes you smile and laugh like a Golden Retriever, and is patient when you're struggling like a Great Dane.

You and Boothill hold little to no connection to one another, especially not in blood. But a lifetime of crude songs and warm laughter has taught him that family extends far beyond flesh and blood. You're as good as home now, and hell, if he won't protect and love you without any further questions, like a dog devoting itself to its beloveds.

When you're gone for long periods of time, Boothill awaits you with anxiety and fear. Everyone he's ever loved has always disappeared. Was it because he was too much? Did he love so hard that the claw marks he left became unbearable? He waits by the door, like a dog waiting for its owner to come back. He pounces on you when you return, holding you tightly and breathing you in, reassuring himself that this time won't be like the others, and all you can do is squeeze him back, hoping to convey your feelings.

"just 5 more minutes," Boothill complains. He's now 8, playing in the grasslands with his siblings. He was about to win their game of hide and seek. Graey stands on the porch, saying dinner is ready and the children must go wash or they won't get any of the berry pie baked for dessert. Time will pass and afternoon will come once more. He can play another time.

"just 5 more minutes," Boothill bargains with his teacher. He's now 12, trying his damnedest to write down his answers on the test paper. The teacher stands beside his desk and sighs before taking the paper anyways. Time will pass and there will be another test to take. He can do better next time.

"just 5 more minutes," Boothill mutters to himself. He's now 18, standing in the quiet of the forest, smelling the sharp iron of blood. He's taken a person's life for the first time. The bandit lays unmoving by his feet, his six-shooter still smoking from the shot he fired into the cranium. Time will pass and there will be more evildoers to come. His hands won't shake next time.

"just 5 more minutes," Boothill insists. He's now 21, trying to prove his idea was a success. Yet, the bait never goes off and three men wind up in crowbar hotel because of him. The gang leader stares at him, unimpressed and orders for his tooth to be removed. Time will pass and one day, he'll become a leader of his own. He won't disappoint next time.

"just 5 more minutes," Boothill murmurs against your lips. He's now 23 and has found himself a sweetheart, someone to do right by. You laugh and squirm in his muscled arms, saying something about how it's late and you really must be going home now. Time will pass and he'll build a space for you at his base. He won't go home alone next time.

"just 5 more minutes," Boothill yawns, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. He's now 26 and his tribe respects him deeply. He's taken it upon himself to hunt those who pose a threat to the peace of the good-hearted. You whisper intimately in his ear, watching the skin darken before sitting beside him to help. Time will pass and the burdens will grow. He won't have anyone to shoulder them with next time.

"just 5 more minutes," Boothill whispers. He's now 29, watching the baby he found in the snow. The little angel sleeps peacefully in the makeshift cot, no longer crying from the harsh cold outside. You chuckle and say she looks just like him when deep in slumber. He glares but doesn't argue. Time will pass and he'll tuck her into bed as often as he can. He won't be there to see her awake next time.

"just 5 more minutes," Boothill argues with the men in black. They're throwing an elderly pair out of their home, claiming they failed to pay the fee to stay. Had he known of this earlier, he would've rushed over with all he had so they may keep the land they loved. Time will pass and more locals will be ousted from their homes. He won't be there in time.

"just 5 more minutes," Boothill pleads with the men in black. They'd taken his elder siblings into custody, framing them of sabotage they never committed. He throws away his dignity, pleading for them to wait so he can prove their innocence. So his gang can storm the place and save those he loves. His siblings are shot in front of him. Time will pass and his siblings will fall one by one. He can't save any of them.

"just 5 more minutes," Boothill relents. He's to sneak to the spaceship that looms like a bad omen. You hold onto him, begging for him to stay just a little longer. To stay with you in the farmhouse he grew up in and watch the little angel grow. But unless he finds the root of the problem, this peace won't last. Time will pass and the bombs have long since turned everything to ash. He won't know peace again.

it creeps in slow. you can feel it, slowly crawling up your body like vines twisting up the walls of a crumbling, abandoned home. you know it's coming, for your heart begins to beat faster and faster with each second that passes, like a prey knowing danger is near.

that's the worst part. you know it's coming and you can't stop it. all you can do is be a sitting duck, your thoughts racing as you're reminded with each ticking second that there just isn't enough time to finish and succeed.

your stomach feels like a pit of quicksand and your breaths begins to come in quick spurts, not enough oxygen reaching your lungs. hot tears sting your eyes and your nails dig into your skin.

Boothill finds you curled into a ball, weeping and trying desperately to just breathe. he recognizes it immediately. he knows how you feel for he's felt it too. the thick panic that grips one's heart like the claws of a beast, unrelenting. the sense of inadequacy, the fear of failure and rejection that sticks to one's skin and refuses to let go.

he knows for he's spent countless nights in the same way, scratching and tugging at the metal on his neck, digging into the burnt scars that border the perimeter until they open and bleed, staining his fingers blue.

Boothill rushes to your side, his hands reflexively reaching for you before they stop and hover a mere few centimeters above. instead, he unzips his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.

it's a familiar weight, one that you'd rather bear than the one crushing your soul. vaguely, your nose registers the comforting scent of leather laced with gunpowder and whiskey. it smells like him, sun-kissed, warm and present.

"hey hey hey... what's wrong? who do i need'a shoot?" boothill asks, his voice gruff and soft. his words come out clumsy and awkward, like the smile on his pierced lips as he tries to cheer you up.

he's awful at this.

"me! it's me you need to shoot!" you choke out in between sobs. he holds his hands out in silent invitation and you take them, letting him pull you close until it's not just his jacket draped over you but him, like the comforting blankets you slept with as a child.

" 'm 'fraid i don't got any bullets with yer name on it, darlin'. y'don't deserve any'a them. you're too good fer it," he murmurs, his head resting against yours. your tears stain his body and he welcomes it.

he wants to bear it all. he wants his body to be a canvas of everyone he loves, to be painted with their affections and pains if only to prove he's here for you.

"talk t'me. what's goin' on in that purdy head'a yers, hm?" boothill asks, pressing kisses on your temple, into your hair and everywhere he can reach.

"i can't do any of this! i'm not gonna be able to finish anything on time and all my efforts will go down the drain because all i'll have to show for any of it is a mess that's better off being shoved down the garbage chute," you weep.

"i'm gonna fail while everyone else around me gets things done because i'm not good for this. i'm not good for anything."

Boothill doesn't respond. he doesn't tell you to breathe or to focus or to calm down. in all honesty, he doesn't know what to say. he doesn't know how to make it better.

instead, he sits there, holding you and letting you cry it out. he lets you ramble and rant every thought that was choking you from the inside until you're content. he holds you and sits in silence with you and your misery.

it lingers. it doesn't go away easy. but Boothill is willing to be patient and quiet, kissing your tears away and occasionally licking, if only to see that smile he cherishes so much. as your breathing slowly starts to even out, lulled by the rhythmic motions of his hands rubbing gentle circles on your back, he relaxes as well.

"here's what we're gonna do, 'kay?" he begins, unsure but well-meaning. "we're gonna order ourselves a giant forkin' buffet o' all yer favorite foods. An' we're gonna eat it while watchin' them flicks y'love so much."

"once yer head is clear, we'll sit together an' tackle each lil' task by the horns, one at a time."

"there's too much. nothing's gonna be completed in time."

"we'll finish as much as we can."

"but if i fail?" you ask, feeling the familiar panic creeping in.

Boothill gives you a squeeze, kissing your lips and chasing the anxiety away. you know what he's trying to say, as you relax into it.