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there are a lot of sounds Boothill likes.
the crack of a well-aimed shot. the familiar rumble of his ship's engine roaring to life. the soft glug-glug of whiskey spilling into a dented cup after a long, hard mission.
but none of them (NONE) compare to the noise you make when he catches you off guard, hand snapping to your ass with a wicked little slap that makes you yelp, high and sweet.
"Boothill!"
it's like clockwerk. always the same pitch, the same scandalized edge, and god, how it thrills him. his grin breaks wide, threatening to split his face in half, and it only widens when you turn to shoot him that familiar, half-hearted glare. the one he adores. the one where your brows furrow together like you're actually mad. and you're trying (he knows you are) to look menacing, but honestly... all he sees is the softest, cutest little thing. like a kitten trying to bare its claws.
he's a bastard, your Boothill. a smug, insufferable bastard. especially when he tilts his head and gives you that innocent, drawn out "what?" like he genuinely doesn't know why you're glaring daggers at him.
"don't 'what' me," you snap, but your voice comes out more flustered than fierce. and damn it, he hears it, too. if he wasn't already halfway to laughter before, that just about does it.
"i'd never 'what' you, darlin'," he says, mock-serious, one hand pressed over his mechanical heart. "i got too much respect for you to do somethin' that low."
it's the worst performance of innocence you've ever seen, and somehow, it's almost convincing. except you know he's already planning to do it again.
(secretly, though, you don't mind. sure, you could live without the sting, but not the smile he gives afterward. soft, boyish, reaching his eyes. it's almost disarming, the way he lights up, and if only for a second, you catch a glimpse of the man he used to be before regret stole his softness and revenge sharpened what was left.)
but even so, as much as he loves that startled little squeak of yours, there's another sound he loves more. one that no one else gets to hear but him.
your moans.
soft, breathy, and unguarded. the kind of sound that slips past your lips when you forget to be shy. when he touches you just right, or murmurs something filthy in your ear, and then rolls his hips against yours. the moment your breath catches and spills out in a helpless little moan... fuck, that's what undoes him.
and it's every single time.
he swears something inside him shifted the first time he made you let go like that. as if something suddenly clicked into place, right there, between his heart and ribs, nestled among the cogs and wires that hold him together. and it's yours now, that place. but that sound? that's his.
and he'd trade a thousand gunshots, engines, and whiskey pours just to hear it again.