Home sweet home. Boothill saunters into the bar with all the confidence in the world, beelining straight for his usual spot at the counter. A glass of whiskey is already sliding his way as he sits down; he tips his hat to the bartender, metal fingers clinking on the glass as he brings it to his lips.

The booze here is top shelf, smooth stuff that burns nicely and puts hair on his chest; or, it would, if he had skin and not metal plating for pecs. If anyone were to ask, he’d say it’s the drink that keeps him coming back to this seedy hole-in-the-wall joint. Of course, the real reason he’s here is right over there, hopping their pretty little ass onto the mechanical bull.

His steel eyes flick to you, watching the arch in your back as you adjust your seat in the saddle, the way your thighs flex to grip on the sides. God damn, he mutters under his breath. He knocks the rest of the whiskey back, tapping the counter for another.

The bull starts to move as he gets his second drink, fingers fumbling at the glass; he’s too distracted, gaze locked in the hypnotic rhythm you’re making on that fucking bull. The way you do it is so natural. Your hips undulating with the bucks and twists, your waist loose and flexible, the strength in your legs that keeps you steady.

Boothill licks his lips, a simmering heat building in him; equally drunk on just watching you as he is on whiskey. Liquid courage muddles his rationality, and eventually he just can’t take any more. He slides off the stool at the bar, sidling up to the edge of the mat next to you.