mmmikanitaaa

she/her | 22 | ru/en

[mmmikanitaaa]

hi there!! i’m mmmikanitaaa (she/her, 22, isfj)

i mostly write headcanons for honkai: star rail, focusing on character x female reader. huge boothill fan so expect content featuring him

please note that english isn’t my native language, so sorry in advance for any mistakes!

rules: reposts and translations are welcome, but please credit me and link back to my blog. thanks!

[mmmikanitaaa]

at the end of the road

to Boothill, death is just the logical end of the trail – nothing more than the final stop on a long, bumpy dirt road. what’s there to be afraid of? these days, he’s practically a ghost anyway: carrying a dead man’s name, hunting down anyone who crosses him like some vengeful reaper. all that’s left inside this metal shell is a broken shadow of who he used to be. and more and more often, he finds himself wondering what’s waiting at the finish line.

will he see them again? Graеy and Nick – the ones who appear in his restless dreams, steering him forward when the path gets dark? will he finally hold his little girl again? her face has long since faded from his memory, leaving behind nothing but a worn photograph he keeps tucked safely under his hat.

if there really is something after the hammer falls and the last shot rings out, he hopes it’s the endless plains of Aeragan-Epharshel. he’d wake up there and take his first deep breath in years – clean, familiar air, thick with the scent of prairie grass. he’d find his old herding dog and finally play the chasing game he promised her so long ago. and ma – would she have his favorite casserole waiting? he swears he wouldn’t pick at it like he did as a kid. he’d clean his plate, wash it down with a tall glass of warm milk, and finally shed this cold metal skin to feel the soft, living warmth of the earth beneath his fingers again.

yeah. Boothill was ready. life – or whatever was left of it – wasn’t offering him any other ending.

...

he blinked slowly, shaking off the remnants of a light doze. he was lying in a field. meadows stretched to the horizon, like straight out of a "happily ever after" dream. tall grass and wildflowers swayed in the gentle breeze, and the brim of his hat shaded his face from the sun. then he felt a feather-light touch in his hair. you were there, weaving thin flower stems into his long white strands, humming a quiet, nameless tune to yourself.

Boothill propped himself up and tipped his hat back to get a better look at you, squinting against the soft midday light. when you beamed back at him, he reached out, carefully brushing a stray blade of grass from your hair with his metal fingers. then he gently cradled your warm cheek – needing to be sure you weren’t just a vivid dream, but something real and precious.

in the hush of that sun-drenched moment, surrounded by the smell of earth and the sound of your voice, Boothill realized he wasn’t in such a rush to cross over after all.

sooner or later, that reunion will come. a long wait is always worth it. but this precious time here on earth... it’s better if it just keeps flowing at its own pace. right up until that very last hour.

[mmmikanitaaa]

The Cure (inspired by the cure – Olivia Rodrigo)

TW: gambling addiction, self-harm ideation, anxiety, self-hatred, unhealthy relationship dynamics

Aventurine had tried everything to feel better, or at least he'd convinced himself of it. it wasn't like he was short on cash; he could afford any luxury the universe had to offer, fix every flaw, buy his way into recognition and respect at work. but none of it could give him what he so desperately – and he rarely poured his genuine self into anything – wanted: peace, self-worth, and some kind of security that didn't hinge on the next roll of the dice or the next bet. he wanted to stop hating what he saw in the mirror, to keep his fingers from clawing at his neck in a fit of rage, trying to rip that wretched brand off with his bare nails. he wanted his body to stop aching every time he skipped his usual trip to the casino, and he wanted to close his eyes without those sickeningly bright images of slot machines flashing behind his eyelids.

the moment Aventurine stumbled onto love – or perhaps just the idea of being loved – he latched onto it as the only way to fill that gnawing emptiness inside him. he'd tried so hard to love himself and failed every single time, so maybe someone else's love could hand him that magic cure he'd been chasing so desperately. and when it came to you, he threw himself into the relationship with everything he had, sometimes way too much. at first, everything was perfect: no calculations, no backup plans, no weighed odds, just the hope that this time, finally, things would be different, that he'd found the remedy he'd been searching for all along. Aventurine was drunk on the way you looked at him, your words, your unconditional love, your warmth, your hands and your touch – so different from anything he'd ever known that diving headfirst into those feelings was the only thing he could do.

the happiness that came with your affection, predictably, didn't last long. just as fleeting as the high of a winning bet. Aventurine couldn't shake the doubts swirling in his head, the second-guessing, the pretense, the lies slowly poisoning what you two had – despite all your attempts to give him exactly what he thought he needed. his actions spoke volumes, and Aventurine hated how he'd seek comfort not in your arms, but on the casino floor. how he needed to bet everything down to his last penny, or more, just to feel alive. how the spinning roulette wheel made his hands shake more than when he'd dropped to one knee in front of you and asked you to marry him.

bit by bit, Aventurine came to realize that your love, and you yourself ,were never the problem. that he, without a doubt, didn't deserve the kindness you gave him so freely. and that no matter how genuine your affection was – good for him, for sure – it will never be the cure.

[mmmikanitaaa]

my thoughts on Boothill’s childhood

Boothill was the fifth and youngest in a family of adopted kids. from the very early days his energy was boundless. always caked in dust, always up to no good, he left a trail of trouble wherever his boots hit dirt. busted windows? countless. trampled neighbor crops chasing some dog that snatched his hat? too many to count. scraps with other boys over his cowboy pride? near every other day. he was quite a handful, to say the least.

his parents spent half their lives apologizing red-faced for whatever mess he'd stirred up, but they never once turned their backs on him. Boothill watched each of them with admiration, particularly Nick, whom he followed everywhere. the man taught Boothill how to handle cattle and horses, and somewhere along the way the boy fell head over heels for those animals. at noon, when the sun warmed the farmlands, he liked to curl up in pa's wicker chair on the porch, snoozing like there wasn't a care in the world. he held a slight fear for his ma, Graey, who was the strictest in the household, but for all her sternness, she never turned away when her baby came looking for comfort. she'd pull him close against her chest, run her fingers through his hair, even when she had every reason to be cross with him. hers were the gentlest hands Boothill ever knew, and her stew was the finest thing he'd ever eaten.

Boothill understood from the time he could string words together that ma and pa weren't his blood kin, same as his brothers and sisters. but to that boy, "family" was never about blood. it was about watching each other's backs, shared life, mutual support, and gathering around the hearth for a warm meal. so when the village kids pointed their fingers at Boothill and called him an outsider on account of him not looking like the rest of the family, he came at them swinging fists and baring teeth, and he didn't stop till they learned never to speak ill of his people again.

the code he lived by, he got straight from his close ones. family always comes first. nobody gets left behind, and miles don't mean a thing when the bond is true. you protect those who can't protect themselves. you help a stranger in need and don't go expecting a reward. and bad folks? ensure they face justice. this last lesson resonated deeply, thanks to Nick's stories. Boothill would sit wide-eyed listening to tales of righteous cowboys riding the plains of Aeragan-Epharshel, handing out justice to every wrongdoer they crossed. and in his heart, he swore he'd grow up to be just like them – a strong, fearless cowboy standing between his land and his loved ones and anything that meant them harm.

now, his manners? well, let's just say they left something to be desired. one afternoon, Boothill caught pa letting loose a real creative string of curse words at a stubborn mare and soaked up every last one of them. later that evening, right at the supper table, he parroted the whole sermon back proudly. Boothill caught a mouthful from ma, sure – he was no stranger to it anyway – but Nick caught it worse for setting such a fine example for their son.

beneath the mischief lay a kind-hearted kid, and that kid grew up to be the big and strong cowboy he always dreamed of becoming. even after losing the open skies of his homeworld, Boothill held on to the values he was raised on: shield the innocent, punish the wicked, and never forget that there's nothing in this whole wide world worth more than family.

[mmmikanitaaa]

in the early days with you, Boothill...

had no clue what the fudge he was doing.

it all started with him coming back. not just dropping by for a minute when he felt like it, but deliberately coming back to your place after every single mission. Boothill never called it home, but he'd show up unannounced like it was the most natural thing in the world. one day you asked why he kept doing so, and he just waved a helpless wave in your direction – like, duh, ain't it obvious?

Boothill loved playing the tough guy badly. That toothy grin stretched from ear to ear, those cocky invasions of your personal space, that flirtation tossed out so casually, like it was no big deal. but the moment you gave it right back to him – oops, system failure. he would freeze, his eyes going wide with total bewilderment, like you'd just started speaking some alien language. then a nervous cough, a sharp look aside, and a strained: "uh... well. whatever ya say, sweetheart," while ducking his face and trying to hide his embarrassment behind the brim of his cowboy hat.

for your first date, Boothill didn't take you to some fancy restaurant, but took you to a shooting range instead. "what's wrong, eh? ya said ya wanted us to do somethin' together!" he taught you how to hit the targets, gently fixed your stance, and when you actually started getting good, he couldn't help but grin. "forkin' hell, darlin'... remind me never to piss ya off."

later on, Boothill dragged you to some greasy diner, ordered the most delicious, unhealthiest junk on the menu, and spent the whole meal just watching you eat, like it was the best show he'd ever seen.

he rehearsed how to kiss you for the first time for a solid hour... and then got so nervous he ended up bumping his nose into yours like some clumsy greenhorn.

on the first night you shared a bed, he didn’t get a wink of sleep until morning. he lay perfectly still, afraid to move and disturb your peace.

Boothill was crazy cautious, too aware of how strong he was or how cold the metal in his body felt. he always started small, lightly touching your wrist as if to check if you'd pull away from the eerie sensation. if you didn't, his whole body would relax, and his arm would confidently wrap around your shoulders, pulling you in close. in those moments, Boothill finally let himself believe that you were real, and that you were sticking around, well, preferably forever.

[mmmikanitaaa]

what's it like to be in Boothill's arms?

when Boothill's in a hurry – let's say, during a scuffle or running from ipc agents – and especially when you're involved, elegance and comfort are the last things on his mind. best he can do is scoop you up and toss you over his shoulder like a sack of grain, leaving you dangling helplessly in his grip. but don't go worrying about your safety; no matter how reckless Boothill acts, he'll be damned if he lets a single hair fall from your head.

"quit squirmin', sweatheart. ain't got time to baby ya right now," he drawls smugly, adjusting his mechanical hold even as you kick and thrash.

if you act up too much, you risk getting a firm smack on the rear to teach you a lesson. "told ya to behave," he laughs, grinning like the scoundrel he is.

brace yourself for a bumpy ride – Boothill moves fast and wide, the jingle of his spurs blending with the heavy thud of his footsteps. he takes sharp turns without slowing down much, whether it's narrow alleys or the corridors of a space station crawling with IPC men.

if things heat up to the point where bullets start whistling past your heads, Boothill's grip gets tighter, and his voice loses its usual mockery, dropping into low, dangerous register. "alright, darlin', jokes aside. now duck that pretty little head of yours."

without another word, he'll pull you off his shoulder, press you against his chest to shield you with his body, and return fire at your pursuers with a string of precise shots from his free hand.

[mmmikanitaaa]

a random headcanon that Boothill becomes absolutely insufferable when he's in a bad mood

first things first, he's the most emotional man you've ever met. you didn't even know a living person could have THAT many emotions written all over their face. the faces he makes when he's annoyed, offended, or just not feeling it are countless.

and it's also crystal clear that Boothill has no idea how to hide those emotions. no matter how many times he grumbles that everything is "just fluffin' amazin'," his face says the exact opposite. why else would he have chewed his lips raw and have that permanent line etched between his brows?

when he's upset, he huffs like a loud computer and looks like a boiling kettle, practically fuming with anger or outrage.

Boothill has a whole arsenal of smiles for every occasion, from sly grins to gentle smirks and toothy scowls. which one does he pull out today? depends on the situation... but none of them are easy to resist, which will definitely come back to bite you when he asks for something.

the cowboy has a habit of not admitting what's wrong until the very last moment, which makes communication even harder. nothing is ever right for him; even kisses somehow manage to rub him the wrong way. he complains you're kissing him wrong, or right but in the wrong spot, but refuses to say exactly where he wants your lips...

you're his cuddle pillow and his main source of emotional support. if that's the case and Boothill has grabbed you while in a sour mood, then my condolences – he's not letting go until he feels better. he hugs tight as usual, often from behind, resting his chin on top of your head. he pinches your sides or squeezes you in a bear hug if you try to wriggle free.

if Boothill gets it into his head that he doesn't want to go somewhere, then good luck moving him. no matter which way you pull or push, he'll stay rooted to the spot until you're completely worn out. if he really wants something, though, good luck stopping him. Boothill is as stubborn as a mule, as strong as a buffalo, and as fussy as a little kid. quite the combination, if you think you have enough patience to handle his difficult temperament.