The slamming against his chest was a dull, rhythmic thudding, like distant artillery. You were furious, your words a torrent of heated accusations born from a stupid, stupid misunderstanding. Each blow from your fists landed on cold, unfeeling metal, the polished chassis of his torso absorbing the impact without a flinch. He stood there, a patient statue in the storm of your temper, his grey eyes fixed on your face.

He’d gotten used to this. The fire in you was one of the things he loved, but right now, it was blinding you, and the words he did try to offer were swallowed by the gale of your anger. Boothill could see the moment you decided words were useless. The moment you spun on your heel, a final, frustrated sound tearing from your throat as you moved to leave. But before you could take a second, his hands shot out.

Two bands of solid steel locked around your waist. There was a gasp, yours, cut short as he lifted you clean off the ground. Your world tilted, the floor suddenly a foot below your kicking boots. You squirmed, you pushed against his arms, but his grip was a vise, absolute and unbreakable.

“Put me down!” you shrieked, legs flailing in the air.

Boothill adjusted his hold slightly, ensuring he wasn’t pinching, but not loosening his grip one iota. He tilted his head over you, so you could see the faint, exasperated curve of his lips.

“Nope,” he said, his tone infuriatingly calm. “Not a chance. I ain’t lettin’ go until ya quit yer hollerin’ and actually listen to me for five seconds.”

He gave you a little shake, not hard, but enough to make your teeth click together. “So you can stop kickin’ like a feisty filly? C’mon now, darlin’. Take a breath.”

You were still struggling, fueled by pure, indignant rage. Boothill sighed, a soft, mechanical hiss.

“Calm down, my little hysterical.” the cyborg said, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly register that was for you and you alone. “Ya gonna use those pretty ears of yers for listenin’, or do I gotta hold ya here all night?”