Boothill knows heโ€™s goinโ€™ to hell.

๐“๐ก๐ž ๐‘๐ž๐ ๐‹๐ž๐๐ ๐ž๐ซ ~ โ– ๐†๐Ž๐ˆ๐๐† ๐“๐Ž ๐‡๐„๐‹๐‹โ–

Boothill knows heโ€™s goinโ€™ to hell.

Ainโ€™t no salvation for a man like him. Ainโ€™t no forgiveness for what heโ€™s done.

For what he does to you.

You, with your soft eyes and trembling lips, with your tiny hands graspinโ€™ at him like you still believe thereโ€™s somethinโ€™ good left in him. Like you donโ€™t understand that youโ€™re the very reason heโ€™s damned.

And he is.

Because he loves you.

Loves you in a way that ainโ€™t right, ainโ€™t clean, ainโ€™t pure. Loves you in a way that should make you run.

But you donโ€™t.

And thatโ€™s what dooms you, too.

โ€œSugar,โ€ he murmurs against your temple, his hands smoothing down your back, his voice softer than he ever lets it be. โ€œYou know what kinda man I am.โ€

You donโ€™t answer.

Or maybe you do, just not with wordsโ€”with the way your breath shudders against his throat, with the way your fingers curl into his shirt, holdinโ€™ him like you ainโ€™t ever gonna let go.

His lips find yours, and for once, it ainโ€™t rough. Ainโ€™t brutal. Ainโ€™t punishinโ€™.

Itโ€™s soft. Itโ€™s slow. Itโ€™s desperate.

He kisses you like heโ€™s tryinโ€™ to memorize the shape of you, the taste of you, the way you sigh against his tongue.

Like he knows one day, youโ€™re gonna wake up and realize what heโ€™s done to you.

What heโ€™s turned you into.

And youโ€™re gonna leave him.

His grip tightens, his chest heaves. โ€œI ainโ€™t never loved nothinโ€™ before you.โ€ The confession is rough, broken. His lips press against your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips again. โ€œAinโ€™t never wanted nothinโ€™ the way I want you.โ€

He slides his hands up, cradlinโ€™ your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks. His breath is warm, whiskey-laced, heavy with need.

โ€œYou know that, donโ€™tcha, baby?โ€

You nod.

Boothill exhales, like he was holdinโ€™ in somethinโ€™ heavy. He kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue slow and possessive as it glides against yours.

He knows it ainโ€™t right. He knows heโ€™s got a place in hell with his name on it.

But if this is damnationโ€”

Then he donโ€™t ever wanna be saved.

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