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that-foul-legacy-lover · 2 years

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the first time Childe offered comfort, he didn’t know what to do. to see you enter and slump to the floor, your back to the wall as you silently bury your face in your hands, broke his heart, yet still he hesitated. he hesitated because he knew how you gave comfort, but not what comforted you- would you like to be held? to vent your emotions? to simply sit in silence with each other for company? he doesn’t know, because you’re so strong that you’ve never let your facade slip, always turning to comfort him first.

he’s afraid. he’s afraid he’ll make it worse, because that’s all he did before he met you and your open arms and heart. the Gnosis, Liyue, Osial... he stirred chaos, throwing the country into turmoil.

he made people suffer. but he doesn’t want you to suffer, he doesn’t want you to hurt at all. you don’t deserve to, not after all you’ve done for him, the hand of kindness and love you extended his way. he doesn’t want to make it worse, but he can’t simply just stand by and do nothing.

he hates seeing you cry.

so Childe swallows his fear and kneels, quietly, beside your shaking figure. you cry so silently, like if no one can hear you then no one would see the battle raging in your head. but he sees you, and he extends his own hand, much sharper and more clawed than yours; a hand that gives you permission to speak what you’re feeling, one that asks “what’s wrong? tell me, for i love you too much to watch you suffer alone”

and you take that hand, grasping it like a lifeline as your sobs slip out and echo in the hallway. your life has been full of giving everything and receiving nothing, and now to finally be given a moment to be weak and vulnerable makes you cry harder, in relief. Childe’s hand pulls you closer, into his chest, where he holds you as your hands ball into fists in his soft fluff.

it’s so hard to believe that the arms that hold you so gently and softly once killed and maimed with a spear made of stars.

but Childe’s claws are as delicate as can be as they thread through your hair, a comforting purr rumbling in his chest and body. you’re not ready to tell him what happened- he doesn’t mind, even if you never tell him, because what’s important is you, not the conflict. is this what you feel whenever you hold his face in your hands, hushing gently and wiping tears off his face? the warm surge of protection and tenderness, with the need to cradle and care for you until he sees a smile bloom across your face again? it’s a bittersweet feeling, emerging from worry and concern but lightening into soft care and gentle reassurance.

the first time Childe offered comfort, he didn’t know what to do. but that’s okay, because he always knew how to hold and protect and shield you from the outside world, to love you with all his heart. he always knew how to be there, and sometimes, that’s all you need when you love someone.

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dragonsareourfuture · 3 years

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OKAY THE DRUNK ROGER THING SOUNDS RLLY FUN SO- The first letter of my name is 'A' and oo a lil bit about me..I'm an introvert, artist, and uh I love collecting figurines, stuffed toys, or books! Just things that are connected to a fandom I like pretty much! :) Ty! Also happy September it'll be Halloween month soon!

HAPPY ALMOST HALLOWEEN TO YOU TOO! I’m super hyped and thanks so much for sending something in! Sorry it’s late and short, I’ve been rather busy all weekend and school isn’t any better :/

“A…” Roger mutters. His body unceremoniously falls into his desk chair, causing it to roll to the side before he anchors himself back to his desk on which he places a bottle of scotch. “A…what does she like? She likes art…”

Roger opens one of his desk drawers to fetch a glass, filling it up halfway. “Art starts with A,” he states, feeling like a fool whispering things preschoolers know to himself in his office. Why did this whole naming responsibility always fall to him?

Oh, that’s right. He volunteered so that he could get drunk for a good reason every once in a while. He wishes the alcohol would kick in sooner as he takes a large gulp, wincing at the burn. He scolds himself through the grimace, “Of course Art starts with A, but you can do better than that, you sober bitch.”

And soon ‘sober’ is no longer. ‘Sober’ has packed its bags and left the station.

“Art…she likes collecting things…

“aaaaaabsolute hoarder. No, that’s an insult.” Not like Roger hasn’t told A to limit her collections many many times but…he can let it go. Maybe.

“Aaaaaa…ahhh…abstract! That’s artsy, right?” Roger takes another gulp and notes that option down in his mental notebook. “But if I’m going for artsy, I could paint a better picture, right?” It’s as if the new sip of alcohol entering his body takes the opportunity to create such a picture in his head. A…

Aardvarks in herds, galloping across fields of Asters with Ants riding on their backs…

Roger blinks and looks at the nearly empty bottle sitting in front of him.

Roger thinks it’s about time he calls it a night and settle with the one thing he has before he gets alcohol poisoning. Or worse, wanders off and let’s the kids see him like this.

“Alright, Abstract. Hope you like your new name. If not I can get drunk again, so at least something good comes out of it.”

#what the actual fuck is this #event #i’m so sorry

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