I am Monika, 34 years old This is my secondary Blog for just reblogs.
Because I didn't want my main Art blog to be too cluttered, I created this second blog in the first place. I mostly reblog whatever I like and that comes across my dashboard. This could be art references, sometimes photos/videos of cute animals, a bit about mental health and emotional abuse, and about some fandoms here and there.
welp. this is about the point where ya’ll realize how absolutely feral I am for this man-plant. talk about no self restraint, I wrote this in a stupor of simpery, was guided by the spirit of the horny ghost on this long journey. I also did not edit it, because nobody has time for that. anyways, starting off part two strong with J, for Jesus Christ, I Am So Down Bad I’m Literally On My Knees. it also stands for Jack Off, which is funnier, I think.
warnings/tags; afab, fem pronouns, p in v descriptions, public sex, overstimulation, oral/cunnilingus, edging, praise kink TO THE MAX, pain kink, [we know how I feel about this, but imma be real and say he’s a not-so-closeted masochist] rough sex, hair pulling, biting, BEGGING, so much begging, and probably a ton of other things but you get the point.
⍟ Vash may be a Plant, but some might argue he’s more human than he believes himself to be. He still has to sleep, and eat, drink water or he’ll succumb to the tribulations of dehydration, and so he does indeed find himself burdened with the very human ailment of sexual frustration.
⍟ Although opportunities to relieve himself with another happen rather frequently [he’s not blind, he can tell when a woman wants him], he never entertains them. It’s not that they’re not beautiful, or kind, or caring—they certainly are, most of the time—it’s just that he doesn’t really allow himself that easy relief. Something about it just feels wrong, like he hasn’t done enough to deserve it.
⍟ A voluntary celibate, if you will. Besides, the idea of a quick romp in the tattered sheets with some nameless girl rings very hollow to Vash. The connection would be purely physical, and he believes it wouldn’t be fair for either party. If he’s going to let himself be that vulnerable with someone, he has to know them, trust them entirely.
⍟ Countless times he’s brushed off a flirtatious hand on his bicep, excused himself from the sultry, half-massed gaze of a pretty girl to sequester in whatever decrepit motel room he’s in for the night. It’s there that he finds his relief, alone.
⍟ When he’s enveloped in the privacy of a room or even the vast solitude of sand for iles around, the only light being that of a luminescent glow from above, Vash takes his time. His palm smooths down his torso, feeling the ridges of tender scar tissue, the protrusions of metal implants, before passing his belt entirely to press firmly against his groin.
⍟ He waits to shuck his pants down, just enough to wrap a hand around his stiff cock—waits until he’s panting softly, desperately. He has a tendency to tease and inch his way to a point where he can no longer hold back, and sometimes, longer still. But when he finally does, the sensation is strong enough that it feels like the first crack of rapture. His rolling breaths catch in his throat, moaning loud enough that he’s scoring his lower lip between his teeth, harshly stifling himself.
⍟ Vash is both embarrassed and shameful of this, but he tends to favor his prosthetic over his remaining hand. He takes pleasure in the initial contrast of cool metal against the stiff, hot silk of his length, and the sensors are dull enough that he can suspend his disbelief, if just for a moment—imagine that the tight fist stroking his cock belongs to another.
⍟ The guilt nearly ate him up alive the first time he envisioned your delicate hand there, your beautiful face resting against the sharp crescent of his hipbone, lovingly and patiently shattering him to pieces. It does still, but it’s a gnawing thing now, and Vash thinks that this is a guilt he’s capable of bearing; he simply can’t imagine anyone else.
{word count} 779 ( with the head cannons) 860 all together
{Author’s note} This one is a bit longer than the Wolfwood one because I absolutely adore writing for my hubby Vash. If there are any punctuation errors or spelling errors, feel free to point them out to me. I want to learn from the mistakes I make while writing this. With that out of the way, enjoy.
SFW:
My baby loves food, so of course he cooks with you. He loves getting cooking lessons from you. You’re so sweet and teach him step by step.
Cuddles! cuddles! cuddles! This man has gone through so much sh*t that he needs to be loved, so hug him and never let go of him. acts like a puppy when you give him praise and attention.
Goofy Man always makes you laugh; he’ll have you giggling for hours. He loves your voice; your laughter is music to his ears.
He hates it when you cry; he wants to protect you at all costs. He’ll blame himself if you ever get upset in his presence and get mad when others hurt your feelings.
He Loves bathing with you. At first, when you two started dating, he was hesitant, but you reassured him that it was ok, and he’s been hooked ever since.
About his scars, he really doesn’t think they look good at all and is kind of ashamed of them, and because of this, he would avoid taking his shirt off around you until one day you found out and he was upset you weren’t going to like them, but you told him they were nothing to be ashamed of, and this boy cried; he didn’t expect you to react that way.
Big Softie isn’t afraid to cry around you; just be sure to try to cheer him up; he’ll appreciate it a lot.
The sweetest at aftercare takes care of everything and doesn’t let you lift a finger, even though you said you could help.
Piggyback rides are the best with Vash; he loves carrying you around, whether it’s bridal style or any other way.
He likes to listen to music with you even when you’re sleeping; it calms him down and puts him to sleep faster.
He loves playing with your hair and brushing it. You could sit with him playing with your hair for hours; he’s so gentle. He also loves when you play with his hair; his hair is super soft to
NSFW:
Praise Kink, both receiving and giving it, loves calling you a good girl or boy and loves it when you tell him how well he’s doing, and calling him a good boy, baby, or darling drives him crazy.
He Loves your thighs and chest, especially if you have tits, and loves kissing and sucking on them. Also loves marking them. Or just using them as pillows when he’s tired.
He’s absolutely amazing at giving oral; he also loves receiving it, but he’ll mostly like to please you first.
If you’re into spanking, he won’t mind; that also goes with choking. Whatever you’re into, he’ll try it, and if he doesn’t like it, he’ll tell you (unless he’s under the influence of alcohol and can’t handle not touching you in every way).
Loves the way his fingers feel inside you and is always willing to give you a bit of attention down there if you ask. Of course, you also do this for him.
Bit of a secret that he’ll never tell you because he’d be embarrassed. But he loves it when you smother him with your thighs, either with him just lying between them or when he’s eating you out. He also loves when you sit on his face.
Loves the way you beg, your voice trembling, the way you look up at him, and the way your body reacts to him touching every part of your body. it’s the little things that turn him on.
Vash is more into passionate sex rather than your typical fast and rough; he loves taking his time and making sure you’re both enjoying it. Unless you ask for him to do it differently, he will always take it slow.
This Man is really vocal in bed; he mostly whimpers and moans. He cannot shut up for the life of him. It is best to use something to keep him quiet. 🤫
He would be embarrassed if people saw the scratch marks or hickeys you left on him. The first time that happened, Wolfwood noticed, and he wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks.
This man is a tease when he’s needy. Whenever he goes hours or days without touching or hearing you, he’ll play with you a bit, mostly where he can’t be seen, like under a table or under the blanket when you’re both around the others, and before you can reach your high, he stops. It pisses you off every time.
vash is an old man. and a hoe. and a dumbass who doesn’t learn his lesson. and a optimistic romantic.
vash is so in love with humanity. always running to their side, following them through the desert no matter how many times he gets burned, or shot or stabbed or abandoned. after the fall, he latches onto the ship 3 people. they take him in, they become his family. but he can’t stay with them. he only puts them in danger by hanging around by syphoning off of them. a waste of space and resources and time. a plant who onlytakes, and he has so much to do. so much to repent for. so he goes out to find others. and he helps them too. repairing tech, building towns, taming the Thomases and hunting worms, all of them learning to live again, together. vash grows to love humanity even more than he ever throught he could. he’d read their stories and seeing their work on the ships, learning from their curiosity and their cultures. art and language and science and discovery, but now he sees them as people, he learns the old women on the corner makes the best donuts, but hates the cold. he learns that the little boy who lives in the third house down likes to watch the glowing worms and loves his mom. he lives with them and loves them, but vash has always had a habit of getting … too attached. he falls in love with every person he meets, and then he has to go they chase him out. run out of town by flames and bullets and angry, terrified screams. he loves every days and everyone, but sometimes he falls a little too hard. there was the barmaid with the green eyes and the laugh like the popping of a soda bottle that neither of them ever got to hear. there were bullets and a sad smile with a scarlet drip drip drip from the upturned corner of the softest lips he’d ever kissed. there was the inverters son who wanted to touch the stars, with his mechanical wings and flying machines that vash helped him build. with flames and crashing and shattered bones. a broken feather falling from the wing, from where vash had lovingly tucked it as a good luck charm.
vash tried not to get too attached after that.
and it worked! … until he met the the daughter of the local baker and the gun woman who’d been terrorizing the nearby towns, not that he was supposed to know that. her eyes were so full of life and passion and anger, so mad at the world that turned it’s back on her father, yet still kind enough to save a stray dog from the cruel kids who decided to spend their afternoon chucking rocks at it. vash tried to keep her at arms length. he really did. but she took one look at him and decided he was a shady asshole who needed to be kept and eye on, and what was he supposed to do with those flaming eyes on him all day?!
nothing ever happened between them. she said she couldn’t love someone with a death wish couldnt stand to be loved by someone who couldnt love himself. so he left. and she grew old.
she still writes him, every few towns he’ll find a letter from her, all addressed to ‘the angel with the watercolor eyes’ in beautiful loopy handwriting. he can’t forget. he doesn’t want to.
he visits her, sometimes. she’s old and grey now. dried out in the way a life in the desert does to someone.
it breaks him to go back there. to return to the one town that never chased him out in a hail of bullets.
he goes back.
she isn’t there.
but there’s a pair of twins with her flaming eyes, and they gasp at the sight of him.
’look! it’s grandmas angel! I told you he was real!’
thinking about vash for once. in trigun 1998 a kid sees him trying to staunch the bleeding of two goons when he himself is bleeding out from a nasty stomach wound and shouts, “you’re too clean!”
vash continues bandaging. because he isn’t clean, right? that’s what eats him.
he’s not clean, because the deaths of so many people follow him everywhere he goes. this is him trying to be clean. this is him trying to clean up the mess, but there’s just so much mess, it’s spilling out from between his fingers and it’s getting all over the floor and-
more bodies. vash does what he does to prevent the deaths from stacking up and yet they keep coming, because as long as he’s vash the stampede, the humanoid typhoon and knives’s brother besides, people are going to die wherever he goes.
in one sense, it’s the conceit of the story: vash brings death in his wake and is tortured, endlessly, by its inevitability. sometimes death is named millions knives. sometimes it’s named human greed. sometimes it’s legato bluesummers and sometimes it’s monev the gale.
it doesn’t matter. Vash can’t be clean, he can’t go back to that childhood shot through with sunlit innocence. he is at once Rem’s son to a fault and yet utterly unable to become that kid again.
if cleanliness was the sweet naïveté of a boy who thinks he could save everyone, vash will never be clean again. he’s torn constantly between living like he’s got that sweet naïveté and the bitter knowledge and signaling of the world that he can’t, that that’s a luxury he can’t actually afford, and the result of all of these different internal conflicts lock in stalemate. Meryl stryfe looks at vash and can’t figure out how to reconcile his many contradictions—neither can he. is he too clean to kill? is he so unclean that he mustn’t kill?
it’s unclear. yes. no. he’s everything at once and yet he’s nothing at all, because really, vash the stampede is as close an approximation to a normal human man as anything else.
oh, the irony of calling an angel “too clean.” vash is the dirtiest angel I’ve ever seen, wading knee deep in the dust and blood and spit of humanity of his own free will. he finds meaning in it. purpose. something close to happiness. it’s an interesting relationship to examine.
