*sigh*
Damn...

#trigunsubzero

#trigun #knivesmillions #trigunstargaze

#trigun #trigunAU #MillyThompson #MillyWood #NicholasDWolfwood

MillyWood lovebirds from my AU.
I tried the color line drawing on my tablet and liked it.🥰

#TRIGUN

oh my god

Thoughts came to me.
#trigun #trigunstampede

#trigun #vashthestampede #trigunAU

A kick in the ass from Meryl for a cigarette in 3...2...1...

And yet—alive, passionate, with blue eyes and hands that can tattoo, caress, and hold tight, never letting go.

Bottom line:
Vash is a man who has gone through something that has made him calm and whole. He's not perfect, but he is *healthy* in his masculinity: not toxic, not aggressive, not cold. He is a rock you can lean on.

demanding sun and care.

Meaning for him now:

These tattoos are an anchor. When he looks at his arms, he sees more than just ink. He sees his mother, waiting at home with geraniums on the windowsill. Friends who have become his roots. Meryl, who is like a geranium herself—stubborn, blooming even in cramped spaces,

Night, the highway, neon, ink. He took her symbol and made it his own. When Ram saw the tattoo for the first time, she was silent for a long time. Then she ran her finger over the flower on his neck and said, "Beautiful. But mine are better." And she smiled. He knew she understood.

3. Dark blue, not red or pink.
Ram's geraniums are pink, white, red. His is dark blue. Because he's not a carbon copy of his mother. He's her son, but on his own path. Blue is the color of his element.

preventing him from falling apart.

And then he realized: roots aren't about weakness. They're about what holds you when the wind knocks you off your feet.

The roots on his arms are something he chose. Friends. Bike. Tattoo parlor. Meryl. They stretch from somewhere inside and wrap themselves around him

2. Roots.
He couldn't find himself for a long time. He bounced between cities, jobs, people. He didn't put down roots anywhere—he was afraid. He was afraid that if you became attached to a place or a person, you would become vulnerable.

So that his mother would always be with him. Not as a portrait or a name, but as something she loved. Dark blue—because it's the color of the night, the color of the road, the color of his bike in the moonlight. It's a part of him. And the geranium is hers.

Watered them. Repotted them. Talked to them. The geraniums in their house were a symbol that life goes on. That even in the cramped confines of a windowsill, you can bloom.

Vash got this tattoo at twenty-two—the year he left home for the first time for an extended period.

Why did he get them?

1. Rem.
His mother grew geraniums her whole life. For her, it wasn't a hobby—it was a way to hold on. When her husband left, when Knives went away to school, when Vash started disappearing on his bike and returning with broken knuckles—she went to her flowers.

Geraniums bloom from these roots—dark blue, almost inky, with subtle violet and bluish hues. The petals are detailed but not overdone—roughly, in an old-school style.

Tattoos: roots and dark blue geraniums.

From shoulders to wrists, intertwined roots. Symmetrical on the neck. Thin, sinuous, they extend deep beneath the skin. In places, they thicken and overlap, creating a complex pattern.

Scars:

"Bike. Bar. Stupidity." And that's it. He'll only share details if pressed. And even then, reluctantly. Not because he's ashamed. It's just that the past is the past for him. Scars don't beautify or disfigure. They're just there. Like roots on your hands.

Without hysteria. But with a raw nerve. And he quickly pulls himself together—not because he's weak, but because he's not used to whining.

Vulnerability:
He hides it deep, but isn't ashamed. When Meryl touches on something important (his fear that she'll leave, that "Bernardelli" broke her, that he's not good enough for her), he speaks up. Quietly.

He values ​​her, but he can't express it directly. With Millie, Livio, and Wolfwood, he's completely at home, relaxed, genuine. He doesn't play a role. He's the same everywhere.

With family and friends:
With Knives, there's a dry but warm brotherly banter. No snot, but caring, wrapped in sarcasm. With his mother, there's tenderness, hidden behind awkwardness and jokes.

He can be from below, from above, from behind, from the front—what matters to him is the process, the contact, her response. Selfishness in bed is alien to him. He's a generous lover, but not a doormat: he maintains his dominance even in a submissive position.

Sexuality:
Losely, but not vulgarly. Dirty language is a tool, not an end in itself. He enjoys her pleasure, her power over him (even when "tied"), but always keeps his finger on the pulse.

coffee with two and a half spoons of sugar, a back massage, a silent presence nearby. He sees her fatigue, her boundaries, her "don't touch there"—and immediately removes his hand. No hard feelings. No questions. Simply accepting.