Trying out somethin' new. I'm a 19 year old autistic artist playing the role of Boothill. Feel free to ask me anything, I'm bored as heck.
"I'm.. A galaxy ranger, uhh, ask away er... somethin' I dunno"
Boothill: I just realized I ain't put an introduction yet! pardon me!
The name's Boothill! an' I'mma Galaxy Ranger! Argenti introduced me ta this cute lil place, an' I seem ta be gettin' lots of attention so far! come talk ta me! ask questions, come chat, I don't bite! ..hard~ Don't be shy ta be curious or ta come talk!
[Voice message converted to text.]
((Hi! I'm the man behind the silly little cowboy, you can call me Moon! I'm a 19 year old autistic self-taught artist and writer that is into quite a lot of fandoms, games, and music. I don't own the character whatsoever, but I wanted to do an ask blog playing as him! you might see my art crop up during asks, or you might see me write differently for different asks, so don't be too surprised if that happens! don't be shy to stop by and say hi! Boothill and I will be happy to see you! I'm still trying to figure out my style, so please excuse the frequent changes.))
This is my main account, go check it out for art, and other non-HSR related stuff!))
> No NSFW. flirting and silly suggestive stuff is fine, but NO NSFW.
> No homophobia, transphobia, or hate. we're just tryna have fun here.
> I'll use (( )) for out of character stuff, > < to explain in character actions, and [ ] for voice message related stuff.
> I don't have much of a life, so responses are usually very quick.
> Ships are okay, I'm a multishipper, so please don't go fighting about ships in my DM's or comments
> Be nice! Have fun! and don't be afraid of a little roleplay!
boothill's never been a man for much words. he says more in his actions. he hates explaining himself too much— especially when emotions are running high— so he prefers to act instead of talk.
warnings; bittersweet. angst but not angst at the same time. language (but it's boothill's version im sorry if even that is terrible), mentions of injury and blood, established relationship. not proofread don't slaughter me if this is too ooc for you
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the sound of rapid footfall were starting to grow louder behind you. that either meant your bounty was coming back to finish their counterattack on you, or boothill had finally gotten a lock on your coordinates and was coming in heavy with an assist.
by the time you're able to turn and actually look, you have to lean onto the brick of the alleyway you've stumbled into for stability. your hand clutches at your side— the wound from moments prior is already starting to affect your momentum. your vision can barely focus on the streaks of red dotting along his clothing— clearly your target wasn't dead like you had assumed.
boothill can tell something isn't right the moment his eyes land on you properly. never mind the fact that you had gone radio silent on the comms when he called for an update earlier— that was his first sign— he knows you well enough to see when you're attempting to hide something from him.
"don't start, it's not that bad," the words are already falling out of your mouth.
he doesn't even give you a chance. "not that bad?" the words echo back to you in his incredulous, disbelieving tone. he scoffs as he grabs a hold of your free arm, heated metal fingertips digging into your elbow as he hauls you off of the wall. "are ya even lookin' at it?"
"i am!" you protest in return. even with the blood loss, adrenaline is pumping through the flow that manages to stay in your veins. when your hand meets your side, it's warm. you don't even look at it. "i've had worse—"
"don't you dare give me that bullshirt," his footsteps were quick and forceful until he pauses at your statement. he takes another good look at you— lingering at the stain at your side that only seems to grow with each stubborn movement of yours to stand on your own.
boothill's never been a man for much words. he says more in his actions. he hates explaining himself too much— especially when emotions are running high— so he prefers to act instead of talk.
so, even if his expression is dark and stormy; he takes what tatters of fabric remain of your damaged jacket and tugs it down your arms. the fabric tears easily under his strength and grip, but you find yourself not wanting to argue when your head swims uncomfortably.
"it's not—" your voice cuts off into a jagged hiss when his fingers prod into the wound. your body jolts and your features twist with a wince, but his free hand steadies your hip. somehow, you find the nerve to look somewhat guilty about it.
boothill only rolls his eyes at the protest. deflection and avoidance are a strong flaw of yours, whether you want to admit it or not. his hands make quick work with the scraps of fabric, however— his touch is rough, but his intentions are pure. he only digs his fingers into your side to wrap the fabric around the wound to help staunch the bleeding.
"stop try'ta hide it," he snaps after you squirm during a particularly rough press of his hand. he pushes harder to force you still— eyebrows knitted together with a scowl that shows his concern underneath the harshness. "you have to stop being stubborn for a goddamn second and just let me—"
your face falls— turning your chin away from him, chewing on the inside of your cheek. there's something in his tone of voice that tugs at you— you can't tell which way. it doesn't feel good, whatever it is.
"don't fuss over it," you mumble after another moment of tense silence as he wraps another pass of fabric around your side.
boothill shakes his head, eyes narrowing at your tone and the way you avert your eyes. "you're making it hard not to fuss over it," he retorts bluntly. there's another round of fabric woven around before he eases the pressure, but his hands do not leave your side. "you do realize the more you downplay it, the more i worry, right? just admit it's bad."
when you clench your jaw, your teeth ache. "fine," you hiss with a forced breath. by now, he's gotten the wound wrapped and secure— but his hand wraps around your elbow again like he expects you to dart off. "i know it's bad— okay? don't start with the lecture about bein' reckless or whatever—"
he clicks his tongue in disapproval. "i won't call you reckless," he tugs you along— careful to keep you upright, but not minding how you have to jog to keep up with his strides. "but you are a dumbash for not backing out the minute when you knew you were outnumbered."
your jaw tightens. everything in you wants to snap back— but you know where his heart is, or rather; what counts as a heart in his case. he sounds harsh, he's being mean— but it's just his rough affection showing through. you know he cares. maybe a little too much, when it comes to you.
the way he's acting and treating you in this moment tells you what he can't put to words; he's worried. you can see the subtle pinch in between his brows even if he tries to hide it.
and when he gets this worried, words just slip out of him. "you're supposed t'pay better attention when you're out here like this." his grip tightens around you, but he keeps his gaze forward as he hauls the both of you forward. "i trained you better than this. you know better—"
in a last ditch effort to soften the blow of the incoming lecture you know is coming (and that he knows you hate getting from him), your head tilts with the slightest bit of remorse. lips jutting outward, voice softer than it was previously. "i love you, okay?"
boothill pauses. his brows knit together tighter— still frustrated, still mad— but something softens in his expression. he doesn't look at you right away, but his grip on your arm loosens a tad.
he scoffs sharply, his jaw working around words he either won't or can't say in the moment; and he forces himself to meet your gaze again. when he speaks, his voice lowers and lacks the bite from earlier. "you don't get t'just— say that— to win arguments, [y/n]."
but the longer he stares, the more he realizes he doesn't want to argue just as much as you don't want to. his jaw works again and he huffs, "love you too. quit tryna sweet talk me outta bein' mad at ya."
well— it worked, somewhat. he's not as rigid and tense as before, but he's still holding onto you like he doesn't quite trust you to walk on your own.
maybe he just wants to hold onto you. he does like to have a hand on you at all times— protection wise or any other time, really— but this touch feels weighted in all of the ways that can't be put to words. which, admittedly; he seems to be the best at.
"next time, you just run; y'hear me?" he mutters under his breath. "ain't no medal for tryin' to fight a losin' battle alone. aeons— i swear, we're gettin' you patched up proper and then you're gettin' a proper scoldin'."
he's nice enough to let you lean into his side, at least. even if he continues to grumble under his breath— but his weight is steady enough for you and it's force of habit how his arms immediately choose to wrap around you. he's careful not to mess with the makeshift bandage, though metal fingers graze along your ribs when he adjust to steady you when you stumble.
you're not sure where the nearest medical center is. or if he's planning on heading that way. knowing him, he'd stubbornly force you back onto his own ship and take care of the rest of your injuries himself— but both of you know this is not an injury that will heal on it's own with minimal care.
so he swallows his pride and sets his sights on the nearest inconspicuous treatment center he could find.
after a few more moments of silence, down a few more alleyways and crossing a few more streets— it's clear that boothill is still agitated. he's chewing on the inside of his cheek more, the telltale ticking in his chest alerting you to an increased heart-rate— at least, that's what you call it.
"why didn't you radio me in?" he's not gentle about the way he shoves open the door to an unmarked building— though the sterile interior tells you it's exactly where you need to be— and once inside, the outside noises of city life come to a halt.
the two of you have been on this particular planet long enough that some buildings are laid out almost identically. so it's no surprise when he starts tugging you along down quiet, winding hallways.
"had a bad feelin' about this job from the start. that's why i insisted on goin' with ya," he continues, keeping his gaze forward as he guides you along. "what did you do? you went against my call and went alone. now lookit ya. stubborn as a forkin' mule. stupid too."
he's just ranting, you tell yourself. you know he's not deliberately trying to poke and prod— but it still kicks you in the gut. because yes, while the two of you are a team— not every call he makes should be final. it's 50/50 between the two of you. equal.
your feet pull you to a stop. you feel your lips tilt downwards, something bitter starting to coil in your chest. "do you not trust me or something? do you think i can't handle situations on my own?"
"no, i don't trust you," he retorts almost instantly, coming to a stop just in front of you. when he whirls around to face you, those reticle shaped pupils are dimly colored red— showcasing his rise in genuine irritation. "not when you pull crap like this. you always think you can handle things on your own, never wanna ask fer help— it's like you've got some fudgin death wish, y'know that?"
the words land like a slap. it stings— far worse than the actual wound in your side.
"why do you always insist that i need to be helped?" your voice rises to mirror his own, strained and raw. you tear your arm from his grip and ignore how the motion sends a wave of agony through your body. "how am i supposed to learn to make difficult choices if you're always there?"
"i 'insist' because you've proven time and time again that you can't make the right decisions!" his eyes flash brighter when you rip your arm away from him, but he steps closer, raising a hand to point an accusing finger in your direction. "you think you're invincible, huh? you think you have to go and get yourself hurt or worse just to prove something? to who?"
"well, we aren't all made of metal!"
silence settles in the air between the two of you. heat flares in your cheeks from the rush of anger— but neither of you dare to look away. almost like one of those western stand-offs— though it's unclear who will make the first move.
you've always hated how small you feel when he yells at you like this. how hard you have to push and fight just to feel like you're worth it to stand in front of him or even by his side in a fight.
you just want to be someone of worth in his eyes, and all he wants is for you to be safe.
"so now you have a problem with me being a cyborg?" his voice is far too quiet— far too even and calm considering how close the two of you were to a screaming match. and you don't miss the hint of hurt in his voice either— that much was obvious. "is that what this is, [y/n]? are you mad because i'm not as fragile as you are? is that why you're so hell bent on doin' things your own way— because you need t'prove you can keep up?"
your chest squeezes violently at the accusation. your eyes burn as you stare at him because you refuse to blink and find tears. because he's right and he knows it and it pisses you off.
"you can try and deny it all you want, sweetheart," he continues, low and rough, "but we both know the truth. you're just too stubborn and insecure to admit it."
it feels like a bullet right through the chest. the lump in your throat makes it difficult to swallow. "i try," your voice wavers, "to prove myself— to you— that i'm not afraid. and you—"
your voice falters.
"i what?" boothill prods, his eyes narrowing as he watches you struggle with your own emotions. he knows he's hit a nerve, but he's not letting you deflect from this conversation. in the past, he has— he's let you fumble over words and then just brush them over the rug and both of you dismiss it.
"go on— say it. tell me how i make everything harder for you. that's what you want t'say, isn't it? that i'm the one holding you back?"
"i don't want to be afraid of dying," you manage to get out. it's weak, and you know it. "of getting hurt too badly—"
boothill's expression falters for a moment— like the embers of a dying fire— before his scowl deepens. "darlin', you should be afraid of dying."
his voice has lost some of it's bite. his shoulders have lost some tension. he tries to meet your gaze but you've turned your head away to hide how tears have sprung along your lash line.
"that's the whole forkin' point of bein' careful, sugarplum— you don't charge in like a bat outta hell because you think fear makes you look weak. it don't. it makes ya smart." his tone softens, frustration melting into exasperation. "you don't gotta prove jack to me. never had to."
he moves closer, but he doesn't reach out to touch you. you'd just bat him away if he tried, he knows that. he knows you hate crying in front of him.
but his hand reaches out anyway, metal fingertips tilting your chin upwards so your teary gaze can meet his. a thumb drags along your cheek to wipe away a stray tear.
"every time you pull this kinda reckless crap, i gotta sit somewhere wonderin' if this is the time i lose you. that's why i'm mad." a sigh escapes him— manufactured, but it's still warm when you feel it against your skin. "it scares the hell outta me."
your lower lip wobbles. "'m sorry," you mumble after a moment, voice weak and low. defeated.
his jaw tightens for a brief second— like he's fighting the urge to continue lecturing you or just letting you cry into his chest. his eyes trail over your expression— glassy, wet, flushed cheeks— the latter wins out almost immediately.
he scoffs— though it hardly holds much heat as he's tugging you forward into him. "you better be— stubborn, reckless little—"
he lets his voice trail off once you're tucked comfortably against him. you don't exactly wrap around him, just digging your nose into the fabric of his jacket until you're satisfied. his arms wrap around you regardless, whether you want to be squeezed or not.
his nose finds your hair, and he settles for just inhaling your scent while staring vacantly at the tile flooring below. you smell like you always do— mint and aloe shampoo and the lingering hint of something metallic.
he's memorized the scent, because he doesn't want to forget you. he'll try everything in his power to make sure he doesn't.
Youtube Version | Bluesky Version
I have a three day weekend and with more audio of him popping up why not play?
Well this was fun. Time to play videogaaaames!
Sketch that might or might not get more fleshed out...
Was thinking of Wolfwood's devotion to Vash while drawing this :') le Sigh! Two Trimax panels in particular that just destroy me.
Reminder that ao3 does not have an app. Any apps you see are third party and are making money off of the writers without their consent. They’re also probably harvesting your data. Do not support this garbage.
REALLY FUN FACT for big cats cheetahs are fucking docile as shit
my grandfather ran a cheetah sanctuary in south africa and he’d just lie with them and sleep among them and they’d rub against him and chirp at him they’re big fucking babies
Another Fun Fact: Cheetahs are incredibly nervous animals. One of the (many) reason’s they’re going extinct is that cheetahs are so sensitive and nervous, some of them are literally too nervous to breed. Others will breed, but stress themselves out so much, they’ll lose their cubs.
So zoos with breeding programs had to figure out how to make cheetahs comfortable enough to first of all, get laid and secondly - not spazz themselves into miscarrying.
So what’d they do?
They gave the cheetah’s their very own Service Dogs!
The dogs make them feel safe, protected and secure!
Also! Cheetahs are not in fact classified as big cats, they are simply very large lesser cats, due to the fact that they purr, meow, chirp, and cannot roar. Also many cheetahs have learned to recognize wildlife photographers are friends and not foes, so they will just come up to people and be friendly occasionally as pictured at the top of the chain. Some will even leave their Cubs with photographers to look after while they hunt. So. Yeah. Cheetahs are great
this works because cheetahs are actually fairly social animals, and they look to members of their group for context on how worried they should be about any given Situation. but since cheetahs are also nervous social animals, they can work each other into an anxiety spiral pretty easily over things like “being in an enclosed habitat” and “there’s a guy over there”.
so by introducing a dog as a member of the group, the cheetahs will now look to the dog for context clues on how worried they should be! and the dog Is Not Worried At All, Thanks, so the cheetahs think everything must be chill even if they were personally unsure about it, and they stop being so freaked out about literally everything.
