Boothill - HSR

The Neon-lit streets of Penacony were usually a delight, but tonight, they felt suffocating. You, a demi-human whose ears usually flicked with excitement at the sight of your loud-mouthed cyborg cowboy boyfriend, were currently hiding in the shadows of a nearby lounge, teeth clenched.

You had only intended to surprise Boothill after his "business meeting" with some shady IPC informants. Instead, you caught the tail end of him leaning against a bar, looking far too pleased with himself while another demi-human —a foxian with far too much confidence—ran a hand over his metallic shoulder, giggling at something he said.

You saw Boothill smile—that lazy, charming smirk he usually reserved for you. He didn't pull away immediately. He just drawled something back, his mechanical hands, which usually held you securely, relaxed at his sides.

Son of a nice lady

You turned on your heel, your own ears pressed flat against your head, and walked away. The jealousy was hot and sharp, a feeling you weren't normally possessive to the cowboy, but seeing him with another damn human did..

—

For the next 48 hours, Boothill was a frantic mess.

It started in the hotel lobby. He saw you, shouted your name, and went to pull you into one of his signature bear hugs, likely planning to spin you around. You stepped aside, eyes focused on your datapad, pretending you didn't hear him.

"Whoa, darlin', almost tripped over nothin'! Ya didn't see me?" He laughed, trying to play it off, reaching for your hand.

You brushed his hand away—not harshly, just... dismissively—and kept walking. "Busy, Boothill."

He froze. The smirk faltered. He wasn't used to being ignored. "Busy? It's our day off! Come on, I found that crazy coffee place you liked!"

You didn't answer. You didn't even look back.

—

Boothill tried everything. He followed you to a quiet spot in the Dreamscape, tried to apologize (even though he didn't know what he did), and even tried to make you jealous back by jokingly flirting with a potted plant.

Nothing worked. You were cold, efficient, and distant. When he tried to corner you in your room, you told him you were busy "researching" and closed the door on his face.

The reality was, your heart was doing flips, but your demi-human instincts—the part of you that felt protective of your mate—was furious. He was the most stubborn, reckless, foul-mouthed cowboy in the galaxy, but he was your cowboy.

Even if he wasn't actually your mate it felt like it. All the time. When he would hold your hand, pet you and other things. It made your instincts tell you that he was your mate

—

On the third night, you were sitting alone at a small café, watching the floating islands of Penacony. You heard the familiar, heavy footsteps of his robotic boots. He didn't sit in the chair; he just slid into the booth beside you, his presence filling your space, smelling of ozone, leather, and gunpowder.

"Alright, that’s enough," he rasped, his voice modulator flickering slightly—a sign he was actually nervous. He took off his hat and placed it on the table, looking directly at you.

You didn't look at him. You kept staring at your drink.

"I don't know what I did, I swear on my last bullet," he said, his tone softening—the rare, genuine side of him. "But I can't do this. I feel like my damn brain is gonna overheat without you talking to me."

He paused as the memory hit him. The way he’d been leaning back, enjoying the attention.

"You're jokin'," he whispered, a smirk trying to break through his serious expression. "Are you... jealous? My little firecracker is jealous of some random?"