#im actually soooo proud of this

[novasintheroom]

Touch me gently (Vash x Reader)

♡ Pairing - Vash x Reader

♡ Word count - 3k

♡ Warnings - mentions of having future children at the end

♡ Description: A drabble of various touches between you and Vash the Stampede as your relationship grows.

Part of the 150 Bullets drabble series on AO3 (separated into different chapters, as indicated in brackets)

Hands (056. Turn)

Neither of you are very touchy people.

Vash because he has to be careful.

You because you’ve never liked it.

It suits you both fine; neither of you signed on to the job to be touchy.

The boss wants a survey of a nearby gulch and valley. Hopes to find some good land for investment – water or oil or to build some new town with his name. You, the cartographer for the job. Vash, one of your hired bodyguards. The other two men look the part – grizzled, tough. Mercs. Vash stands out with his frame, the bold red coat. Still a merc, but he looks at you kindly, and you take to him as only a nervous scholar can. Some kind of comfort, if only in your head.

You shake the bodyguards’ hands. Vash’s is warm and a little clammy. You turn and do your best to not stare at the old-tech arm at his side. How curious, still.

/~*~\

Arms (053. Emporium)

The town square is full of life.

The other two mercs have gone off elsewhere to find booze or girls or bullets. Vash weaves on ahead. Always light on his feet, careful to dodge stray hands and still looking at everything with a smile. He’s careful to keep you in the corner of his eye. He loves this. He loves people. He’s in his element – one of them, anyway.

You, little scholar, are not. The crowds push in on the emporium – marketeers hocking their wares and greedy eyes follow your steps. You keep one hand on your purse. All walks of life brush past, children running around, toma pulling carts and calling out. Something lets out a boom, and there’s cheering down the street. Colored smoke rises from a stall with a dizzying aroma. It’s overwhelming, it’s more than you’re used to.

“Vash!” You call out. He doesn’t hear you.

Quiet halls with old paper and ink. The shuffle of pages, someone reading their research under their breath. Old tech flickering to life with a hum. Echoed rooms and soft music playing. That’s where you belong. That’s your safe space. Your element is so far away in this press.

A group of women pass between you and Vash. You lose sight of him. It’s jarring, how used to that red you’ve become, looking at it for some sort of comfort. He’s further ahead now, looking at a stall selling old tech baubles. You reach for him, that beacon of red, catching the crook of his arm and weaving your own through before you can think, before you can lose him again. He stills and looks down at you. Your jaw sets, your cheeks flush with embarrassment. You glance up, and ask with a look, Is this okay? Please let it be okay.

And he thinks for a moment. His heart warms. Squeezing your arm with his own, he pulls you closer to his side as you both step back into the throng. Yeah, it’s okay.

/~*~\

Feet (033. Trampoline)

Five months into knowing Vash, and you’re at his heels more than you ever were at your mother’s. Mostly to keep him out of trouble, but still.

The backs of his heels meet the sky more times than any grown man’s should. Summersaulting through the air to escape bullets, grabbing hands, the loss of freedom. You dog at him the entire time, your own feet pounding, pounding, pounding to keep up.

Vash meets the edge of a building, and he cries out, arms pinwheeling to keep him up. You lunge, snagging his ankles as he pitches forward. His weight pulls you, and you both fall. Luckily – as Vash’s luck often goes, metronoming from one extreme to the other – you land on a market stall’s tarped ceiling, bouncing once, twice, a makeshift trampoline. Now both of your feet are reaching for the sky.

Vash’s breath comes in and out like bellows. Yours isn’t better. In the distance, you hear shouts, screams, cries from the mob trying to hunt down the Humanoid Typhoon. You know you need to move. The stall owner is peering up at you strangely from beneath his tarp.

Still, Vash finds the time to look over at you and say, “You shouldn’t have done this.” ‘This’ meaning follow him, of course. A tired argument at this point, like he can’t get enough of saying it.

And you, you know you shouldn’t have. You have no business following an outlaw like him. Scholars stay hidden in their nooks and crannies and don’t do things like jump from building-to-building chasing after that waving red flag. You should focus on being a librarian, hand out books to word-starved children, build the world into a better place. Be who you should be.

You look back at him, a moment of stillness settling in your bones. “And let you have all the fun?” You shake your head. “No.”

A spark of something in his eyes. Clarity? Realization? He won’t tell you to this day, but his lips quirk up, and he drags you off the tarp and down to the ground. You both race off, leaving the bewildered shop keep staring after your dwindling figures.

/~*~\

Stomach (001. Trust)

It’s been a long day. The winds howl at the mouth of the cave, spitting dust and bits of sand like an angry cat. You and Vash set up camp deep within.

Dark with only a small electric lantern at your side, it’s hard to see the ink in your book. You don’t want to sit up to look at it, though. You squint. Vash finishes laying out his sleeping bag at your feet. He’s already set up some line and sound trap measures at the cave’s opening. No one needs to keep watch tonight.

 “We should get you a new book in the next town,” Vash says idly, “that one has pages falling out of it.”

 An old topic of chatter. “That’s because it’s well-loved,” you hum.

“You’re going to love it to death.”

You smile and raise the book to look at him. He’s set up near your legs, getting his sleeping bag ready and as comfortable as it can get on a stone floor. “Trust me,” you laugh. “I’d rather have it go like that than –“

And suddenly, he scoots up and puts his head on your stomach. A little pillow to use instead of his coat. You’re shocked, finger holding your place in the book as you look his way. He peaks back, a shy glint of blue in the lamplight. Is this okay?

Please let it be okay.

His head bounces when you laugh. You return to your book and knock his head gently with your other hand. Yeah, it’s okay.

/~*~\

Shoulders (082. Warmth)

His broad shoulders are distracting.

Burning white and too-hot already, the morning suns accentuate the curve of his neck, the slope of his back, tapering to a slim waist. Vash curls into a yoga pose in the shade of the outcropping, stretching his muscles and limbering up his joints. He’s shed his coat for the moment. Even he feels the heat today.

You feel a different heat. One you’re trying to not freak out over.

Since when has he been that built?

Your mind scrambles to get ahold of itself. That’s your friend, you think, chiding the rampant girlish thoughts of Holy Hannah, he’s hot.

Of course he’s also hot. Of course! It’s not enough that he’s kind to a fault and genuinely funny. And cute. His face is very cute. You purse your lips and force yourself to stare down at your notebook. You almost gag when you notice you’ve been doodling his figure this entire time, rather than writing notes of your latest escapade from town.

What are you, a schoolgirl?

Guiltily, you look up and watch him stretch his arms to the sky, from one side to the next. His eyes are dull, thoughts turned inward. You trace his shoulders again. They aren’t perfectly rounded – more square, and there are things underneath that slightly bulge and catch on his shirt when he moves. You eye those parts, wondering what it is that makes those shapes.

What’s under there?

Blue eyes suddenly flick to you, and you’re caught red-handed staring. But Vash, ever forgiving, ever one to give someone the benefit of the doubt, gives you a sincere smile. “Why don’t you join me? It could help!”

A blush’s warmth crawls up your back. Help? With what? “Oh,” you say aloud, realizing he means your own limberness needs some work. “Well, sure,” comes out before you think about it, and you put your notebook on your bag, padding over to him on bare feet.

He smiles, dimples in his cheeks. “Do you know how to do the cobra pose?” He’s testing the waters, unsure of how much you know. Vash lays flat on his stomach and bends his body upward. You follow him, feeling your abs and shoulders stretching. “Breathe in…and out…”

And that’s how it goes for a while; Vash teaching you new and old yoga poses, and you trying not to ogle your friend. Not what you expected today – but when does living with Vash ever turn out the way you expected?

/~*~\

Lips (097. Sinking)

The first time, it’s an accident.

You’re both pressed into a crevice in a canyon, fleeing a large worm set on making you its meal. The rock digs into your spine, and Vash is squished to your front, trying to be the shield. The worm screams and screams and breaks against the crack. Pebbles and sand rain down from above.

Vash leans down and shouts, “I think - !! – should – “

“What?!” You scream back.

Vash lowers his head just as you stretch to hear better. Your lips touch, his moving with his message and yours open in terror. Even then, you note how chapped his lips are. “We need to climb!” He starts climbing the sheer rock wall that shakes with every shove of the worm. All you can do is follow.

The second time is a coincidence.

It’s a dance at a bar. One of the many you and Vash have been to. Line dancing, dancing with partners, dancing alone – all on the docket. It happens when he’s leading you down the clapping line, cheek to cheek. He’s singing with the song, leading you back and forth and getting the crowd laughing with how he spins and twirls you, then how you dip him like a lady. You nearly drop him. He screams like a girl. You both lurch toward the other and your lips collide.

The crowd roars in approval, even if it only lasted half a second. There’re pats on the back, winks from the ladies, before you’re shoved back in line and the incident is moved to the back of everyone’s mind in favor of more drink and dancing. Vash’s cheeks flush every time your eyes meet.

“Sorry about that,” he says later, when you’re both stumbling to your rooms and the noise downstairs has died down. His hand is to his neck. Bashful. “You know, the whole…” he gestures with his hand, moving it from his mouth to yours in the air.

“No, I, uh – no, it’s fine,” you stammer, feeling your own heat of embarrassment. But you laugh to ease the tension, “Hey, best kiss I’ve ever had!” Your jaw snaps shut, teeth rattling, and before you can say anything else, you flee into your room with a squeaky “Goodnight!” following the door slam.

Vash flushes, staring at your door. His heart thuds in his ribcage, quick and bright. He lets out a chuckling sigh and goes to his own room. The motions of changing to pajamas, brushing his teeth, and cleaning his face is a soft blur. When he’s finally lying in bed, a hoarse giggle escapes, hands fisting the blankets and turning his head into the pillow to hide his smile from the moonlight.

The third time is a damn shame.

You’re nestled in the crook of his arm, both of your legs hanging off a ledge as you sit on the side of a porched building. Your stomachs are full for once, merriment of your hosts tucked away in their house as you take a moment to yourselves. Another damsel in distress saved. Another day lived.

A content sigh slides out of you, and you rest further on his shoulder. You’ve borrowed a blanket from the lady of the house, wrapped around your shoulders to fight off the chill of night. The last of the suns sets. Everything is blue and quiet.

“You getting cold?” He murmurs, wrapping you closer to his side, opening his coat wider to allow you in.

You smile at his voice. “Nah, you’re a furnace. I dunno how you stand the heat.”

You’re close again. Too close. Always too close, Vash thinks, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. It brings your eyes to his, and there’s a sudden something between you.

He can’t ignore the look in your eyes. The love there. But he buries his own echo of it deep and wonders, why me? Why would you pick me?

Still, he leans forward.

Still, you do the same.

And just as your lips brush, just as he feels the warmth of your breath fan over him –

– someone opens the door of the house and calls out, “Vash, ______, get back in here before the little worms getcha!”

You two spring apart like you’re both on fire. Maybe you are. An “Oh!” falls from your host’s lips, and she hides inside in embarrassment.

A coiling, sinking feeling rests in Vash’s chest. He isn’t sure what to call it. It feels close to regret, maybe indignation? Embarrassment? It’s hard to look at you. His ears are burning. When he finally peaks over, he sees you do the same. You both look away quickly. “Uh, uhm,” he says, then clears his throat, “they’re probably starting the games. We should – “

“ – yeah, we should.” You nod, standing and twirling around to retreat. But, you stop, seeming to catch your cowardice and glance at him. Hesitantly, you offer your hand out.

Vash looks at your hand. How many times have you offered it to him now? Too many, he thinks. But you always do so willingly. He takes your hand and stands, following you back into the house, the feeling of your breath entwining with his still on his mind.

Damn shame indeed.

/~*~\

Nose (107. Sigh)

In the dim morning light, you feel his nose brush yours.

His nose is straight, somehow, despite all the times it’s been broken. You feel his enviously long lashes brush your cheeks. You try to keep still.

“Morning,” Vash whispers, and kisses your eyelids.

You still don’t move, feigning sleep.

“I know you’re awake,” he says, and his lashes flutter on your own now. “You’ve stopped snoring.”

“I don’t snore,” you say, groggy, and smile when he lets out a laugh.

You hum, scrunching your body up into a ball and burrowing closer to him. He lets you – he always lets you – and his hands run up and down your back, along your sides, under your thighs. The careful caresses of a sleepy lover.

The suns rise once more, blinking into existence one at a time. The motel’s dusty windows let in a fraction of their light, old and cracked. You reach out and trace his chest with calloused fingertips. Your eyes slowly close.

Times like this are rare. A comfy mattress to sleep on, a safe room to be in (with locks that actually work), and nothing but each other to keep company. It’s perfect. Delicate.

“Hey,” he says, leaning his head down and nudging his nose with yours. “I had a dream. We had this big farmhouse with lots of land, and you had your own library in it, and I was an actual Plant engineer, but just for the city near us.”

“Oh yeah?” You yawn, shaking your head to clear it of fuzz. “No more travelling for you?”

“Guess not.” He continues rubbing your back, eyes never leaving you. “I think my mind made up that all the Plants were doing well enough to not need me as much. We even had two dogs and a cat.”

Your lips quirk up. “Can’t have a farmhouse without those.” You yawn again into his chest.

He hums. “Nope. It was a big house. I got lost in it a few times, but then the kids helped me find my way out – “

“The kids?”

He sputters to a stop, and you’re suddenly much more awake, looking up at him through lashes. His eyes rove yours, wondering if he should keep going. “The kids,” he says quietly, “yeah. I…think there were three.”

Your lips thin for a moment, teeth worrying your bottom lip. “Whose…I mean were they…?”

“Ours?” His voice is just as quiet. His hand takes yours from his chest, holding it over his heart, and says, “Yeah, they were.” He licks his lips and a blush rises to his cheeks. “Two of them had your eyes.”

The information settles on you like a warm blanket, and you give him a sleepy smile. “That’s too bad. I’d prefer they have yours.”

He stares at you a moment. Then, Vash lets out a sigh of relief and pulls you closer. Kissing your temple, he says, “Nah, they need your pretty eyes.”

You’ll agree to disagree.

[sarioh]

still cannot get over how much of a toxic sweat joel is. like if you watched his pov for mcc you would have no idea that his main schtick is that he's literally a builder on a fantasy roleplay server he is one of the most unnecessarily competitive players ive ever seen. the guy taught himself to speed bridge for tgttos and he occasionally does it on empires just to show off. he posted a clip on twitter of him playing tgttos on mcc island and the only words he says in the whole clip are "fuck off" four times. he camps the subreddit and viciously attacks anyone who places his team lower than top 5. someone so much as looks at him funny on stream in empires and he goes back to his base, grabs a chestplate and 5 golden apples, and hunts them down in complete silence until they're dead. you just know that man spends hours of his free time grinding competitive minecraft and for WHAT. to build a floating island???? to babysit his armor stand son????? NOBODY does it like him

[humanmorph]

"[high pitched and tinny] Let’s dive in. Let’s dive in. It’s time to dive in. Get ready to [audio distorts and slows] dive. Diiive. Diiiiie…" (The Road to PALISADE 20: City Planning Department)

so that's what i've been working on for the past 2 weeks! i wanted to draw something for this intro ever since i first listened to it (as a companion piece to my other gur drawing, though it of course ended up being way bigger in scale), but it only really gripped me about halfway through PALISADE ep 18. the next morning after that i listened to this narration on repeat for about 45 minutes and then made a big sketch on 4 sheets of paper at my desk at work.

anyways, i haven't listened to the new episode yet but i think i'm probably ready for whatever they're gonna throw at us with the next sortie. i'm gonna believe, against it all, in millennium break. for gur

(i recommend listening along while scrolling! + transcript btw. if anything is hard to read)

[lameow-l]

GAMING IS MY SON AND IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO HIM IM GONNA KILL EVERYONE IN THIS ROOM AND THEN MYSELF!!

LOOK AT HIM HES SO CUTE

i still have hope in getting the other boys too

its ok they can be a band or smth.. at least then gaming wouldn’t have to be so disappointed in people not hiring him bc he’s just having fun with his boys…

[om0000]

@mango-mya why did u make her so cool for 5 mins of screentime

[tales-of-snaktooth]

a few more pixels for the characters page! Seaside's brothers Tuhonee and Imony, one of Olsa's daughters; Denerah, Zereh, and the two Queens

[nuggets4fools]

some art for a friend’s fic :] hehehehheeh here u go @oh-snapperss :>

[da-cannibal]

I'm gonna eat you, you're my desire.❤️

[sheepydwagondraws]

Artfight Week 1

Been trying really hard to dedicate time to working on pieces for AF this year, and I'm really enjoying it! I love drawing silly little guys <3 I should do trades more after this is over lol

Featured Characters:

Hum, owned by @kowtownart

Vista, owned by @cupidtxt & Spammail, owned by me :3

Addision, owned by @gehega

Brandy, owned by Windwaken (on AF/dA/TH) & Spamton, owned by Toby Fox lol

Rocco, owned by @lighterium

Kelby, owned by @hannah--bug

[a-a-a-anon]

charlie: i didn't get to go [to prom] when i was in high school, dude.

dee: my back brace was under the dress, and mom called me fat. so i stayed home and cried instead.

these two losers absolutely spent prom night together

click for higher quality !

[jils-things]

sorry viddy game posting lalalal

[a-usernamelol]

Warm up sketch of Ominis before I crack down on an Art trade that has been so patiently been waiting

[flopbftheo]

oh i'm gonna be so annoying about this album..... i even took notes while listening to this just now...

[ruinakete]

♡ ・ LETTERS TO THOSE WE MOTHER ━━━ an introspective, drabble series dedicated to zephia & eremiya

. a few days after apping zephia, i reread the script of NMotE and fell in love with eremiya's character. the potential, the archetype, and most of all, the backstory she was given. though i disliked how it was thrown messily into the script, i had no doubt that she could be a character i'd enjoy writing. which, then, led me to wonder how similar and different she and zephia were. and i must admit that i grew obsessed with the idea of them interacting with one another ( though, at first, the thought definitely stemmed from a flickering, romantic piece i wrote for them. pardon my insanity it was a voice test for eremiya,, ).

thus, i created this! letters to those we mother, is a drabble series where i hope to do an in-depth exploration of their characters, both in who they are, what they are, and the potential was created for them. though this is self-indulgent, i hope to entertain whoever reads along, whether in succession or standalone.

thank you, TOA, for letting me have the opportunity to explore writing styles within this setting, as these two would never tolerate one another otherwise.

further information ( synopsis, table of contents, disclaimers, schedule, set-up; all to be updated with each drabble posted to the dashboard ) beneath the readmore!

. SYNOPSIS. what happens when fodlan shatters the mirror separating an archetype? what should unfold when these two sides, cut from the same lengths of glass, find their hands touching, skin-upon-skin, without the safety of a reflection?

zephia dahut kurosawa, a mage dragon faithful at the feet of her lord, and eremiya n. ahava, a bishop condemned to obey the voice of her lord, have crossed into each other's territory and, thus, will embark on the reluctant path that mothers must retrace once their children have grown into young adults. a lifestyle they would have walked, separately, lest their corruptions never been birthed.

neither of these beasts have savored the taste of motherhood the way fate planned them to. so, what now? will their faith create permanent cracks in the mirror? will a dragon's realism and a bishop's pessimism meld together into the flawed glimpse of another; optimism?

this, only time would reveal.

. TABLE OF CONTENTS. as of planned, currently.

i. origins.

ii. cradles & fires.

iii. tbd.

iv. tbd.

v. tbd.

vi. tbd.

. DISCLAIMERS. neither zephia or eremiya are characters that will be redeemed in this series. instead, i hope to explain their conditions and explore the consequences to which they must be condemned. with this in mind, understand that these two muses are bad people and will not change automatically in the first drabble. the journey of self-introspection is a long one.

. SCHEDULE. estimated to be 6:00 pm on the 23rd day of every two months. ( ex. if the first drabble is posted on february 23rd, at 6:00 pm, then the next drabble would be posted on april 23rd, at 6:00 pm, and so on ) a brief prologue that contains a recap, teaser, and important information such as content warnings and writer notes will be posted at 9:00 pm on the 18th day of every two months.

. SET-UP. likewise, the order of drabble posting will switch between muses. this is with the hope that zephia and eremiya will have equal related posts to archive properly. the first drabble, origins, will be posted on zephia's blog, while the second, cradles & fires, will be posted on eremiya's blog. in that order ( zephia, eremiya, zephia, eremiya, etc ) the drabble series will be completed. none of these drabbles will be reblogged by either blog, simply linked. however, this post will be shared between blogs, just for easier access.

. final words from the mun. again, whether you read one or two or all drabbles in this series, i hope you enjoy it! if i missed any content warnings and need to tag any themes or spoilers, let me know and i'll correct the mistake. otherwise, that's all from me. see you on the 18th / 23rd, concerning the series, and may the day treat you kindly, reader! ( and ps. yes, i did choose the 23rd because the number is my birthday number MKSEWKMSDJN )

[sapphire-to-the-rain]

saph stick with one art style challenge level impossible

[hiemaldesirae]

old art i need to redraw (posting these now bc the first redraw is almost done cackles)