The more things change…
The more they stay the same.
Just a random drawing to get out of art block :|
I don’t remember Error’s backstory but I wonder if he thinks he himself is a glitch. It would be interesting to see
The boy unglitched under the cut
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V
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childe x reader: five-thirty pm.
features childe
notes: I don’t even know what’s happening here either, so. also, I’ve got exams coming up, so I’ll try to write small things like these before I get back to writing long works 👍🏻. thank you!
warnings: not proofwritten
synopsis: sometimes he thinks he’s too lucky.
Out of all the possible outcomes he could have had in his life, he had never once imagined that it would be so lucky as to have this.
You puff out breaths of laughter into the air like a Christmas carol, eyes relaxed as he nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck, cooking up giggles from the pot of your chest. He feels giddy, high on your body, happy and healthy, high on your love, warm and welcoming; he’s covered in a blanket by this feeling, lulled to it by its lullaby and its loving.
Your skin is so cold, a bucket of ice cubes during scalding summer weather, his chest feels content and warm like chamomile tea in the winter. Bursts of giggles bubble up from his chest like foam on hot cocoa, the afternoon glow seeping through the curtains and spilling onto your skin in abundance: the sun shines on golden rings, on shimmering shores by the azure seaside.
His eyes lie closed on your skin, the ocean calm and undisturbed, temporarily bereft of its thundering waves, only choosing to remain with tranquillity, only wanting to savour it as much as it can.
Childe’s hands grip the parts of the blankets that flank your sides. “Come on, say it!”, he chortles, joyous breaths rushing out of his body like a flowing current. “Say it, say that you love me, okay?”
With an open mouth and eyes shut from splitting your sides you squeeze the corners of your mouth together to form a coherent answer. “Say— say you love me, first! Say you love me first, Chi— haha!”
And he wonders how he could have deserved you. You who his name is unknown to, you who only knows him as Childe, as a beautiful stranger who stayed and grew to be a friend, grew to be a lover. Grew to be the tide holding you close under the pottered moon, the glass of water to a morning headache as the sun woke.
He is one half of the two of you, a ragtag pair of a couple who tear through opponents as if they are merely wet paper, and kiss under the moonlight as if it’s glow signals a gunshot right at the start a race.
“Come on, I’ll have to go back to work tomorrow,” he whines playfully, “Please? ‘I love you, Childe’: that’s all you have to say!”
“You still have to say it first— I’m the one being left here,” you swing back, “It’s going to be so cold back here, you know? You have to say it first, Childe!”
A faux sigh of defeat pulls the lever for a cheeky grin for you, as his arms loop under you between your back and the comforter, and he pulls you in, tight. He hopes you don’t question why he holds on for just a little while longer every time he does so.
“Okay,” he acquiesces, “I love you more than anything,” he starts, lightly pinching your nose, head moving closer down to yours. When your heads finally connect he repeats, just a bit softer this time, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
You giggle. He feels your skin get warm again, a shift from winter to spring.
“You big softie, you,” you whisper, guiding his lips to yours.
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