Boothill breathes heavily as you press that sword under his sadistic smile he forced on his face, his jaw. His hand also tightens around the trigger of the gun he pressed to your chest, your one and only chest. Tired of your bullshit, both of you think about each-other. One is an outlaw whose universe got destroyed by the thing the other is apart of. Maybe Boothill likes that his back is pressed against the bloody poker table of the place that one of the IPC members owned just because the action is being performed by you. But..no that isn't the context. There was a rough fight, some of the folks died, their corpse, already starting to rot flesh on the floor. You press your leg onto the poker table, the gaming balls moving around as the material breaks. That was supposed to be threatening but Boothill's eyes linger a little too much on the scene. The blood of your nose slightly dripping down while you didn't care anymore. The eyes held no nothing behind them. "Consider yourself fucking dead.." You said in a quiet tone, uncertain tone of voice that made shivers run down his robotic spine. "All ya can do is whisper sweet nothings to my ear, that oh so hand of yours is too weak to shove that fudging sword in my head." As Boothills mouth continued running you pressed him down more in a painful way that made him let out a breaking chuckle.