#But on the surface he looks calm and ready to drop bombs

[nando161mando]

But on the surface he looks calm and ready to drop bombs

[ktsumu]

THE CUT THAT ALWAYS BLEEDS

pairing: childe / tartaglia x f!reader wc: 4.4k

choosing to love him is choosing endless bloodshed; all of it is yours.

(alternatively — the metamorphosis of a god through the eyes of his keeper.)

warnings: suggestive / mentions of sex, nudity, profanity, angst, mentions of murder / death, ambiguous ending i think, almost canon compliant

note: 4.4k words and i don't think even this has a plot. WHO CARES dedicated to @shoyostar bc i never stop talking and @crysugu :3 here he is!

Before he was ever Tartaglia, eleventh of the Harbingers, he was a timid child. 

He feared the simple things — speaking to neighbours, strangers, the mailman. He never went to the market alone, not without his parents, not without his older brother to hold his hand. Neighbourhood boys called him names and you called him sweeter things, bringing him in for hot chocolate because of his red eyes, holding his frozen hands in a lukewarm basin. 

Your town was on the coast but he rarely saw the water; he was afraid of drowning and even more afraid of sinking, even though you could see the ice was six inches thick through the sides of the fishing holes scattered everywhere. Not even the men would crack it, fathers that ate at the head of the table, yet he thought he’d be the one. Nor did he trust anyone to save him. 

Childe was Ajax before he was anything for anyone else, his name from myth. Eagle. He was born a  Greek tragedy; hero, for most. 

He was fourteen when he disappeared. Your mother said he’d come back home, kids get mad. Your father said a bear got to him, a weak thing like that — your whole neighbourhood looked for him after he vanished. 

He was gone three days in the woods but he told you he’d been gone for months. He was underground; you asked if it was Hell but he said it was much more. When he crawled back up to Morepesok, he was a different person.

He looked you in the eye and told you he was finally ready to fight.

+

You didn’t believe he was lost for three months until you watched him hold a sword.

By the barrels on the fishing dock, boys fought with wooden blades. Girls would watch and sit on box crates, swaddled up to their ears, cheering on whichever one they liked that week. They’d watch as they hit each other, splinters snagging on coats, knuckles gone white from the cold and how tight they held their handles. 

When Childe stepped up for the first time, they snickered at him. The boy who ran away from home, coming to join the sword fights. It was a joke and they laughed.

(You saw something in his eyes that day and it scared you. There is nothing more terrifying than a child with bloodlust.)

He beat the kid so badly that they put thirty stitches in his forehead, and you were left to do patchwork on the bomb.

Cutting coloured wires, you dabbed Childe’s red cheek with a warm cloth, wringing it out in the bowl of water that separates the two of you. He was calmer then, in front of you. Not that he wasn’t before; it was less of not being calm and more of craving victory, more of a test of his newfound gift.

“I told you to stop,” you mumbled, “hitting him, I mean.”

“I stop, he starts. I won.”

“What did you win? Where's your prize?”

Childe looked at you dumb, with his dumb childish eyes that no longer held hate. Maybe it was somewhere, hidden, beneath the water you drown in, but instead the surface held a glare of wonder. He was Ajax again, always hopeful.

He hissed when you dabbed his skin with something other than water, something that stung. “I—”

“No one wins in war, Ajax,” you scolded. “You’ll see someday.”

“I won’t be in a war.”

You scoffed, your hand gripping his jaw when he tried to run away. “We’ll see.”

+

You’re seventeen when he stumbles inside your house, the wooden door cracking against the wall as he slumps to the floor.

Your feet are cold when you step away from the wood stove in your living room, dropping to your knees, holding his face in your hands that are always so much warmer than his. They cradle his flushed cheeks, sweat beading on his forehead; he’s gripping at a pulse in his ribs.

“I’m fine,” he assures you, before you start to cry, “just tired. I’m just tired.”

He eases the door shut, his head tilting back against the wall. His hand rests on your knee, squeezing it like he’s grounding himself, counting on the fabric of your pants to do it for him. You touch the icy veins that run over his knuckles and he comes back to life.

“What happened to you?” you rush, your family asleep down the hallway. You turn the dial on the oil lamp beside you, watching the fire reflecting off of his dirty cheeks.

He laughs, pulling your wrist off when you smack your hand over his mouth with a lousy ‘alright, alright’ and a glance towards your parents’ bedroom. “Me?” he coughs out. 

“You should see the other two.”

(You don’t know what told you first, but you remember going cold.)

“What do you mean?” you whisper. You can’t stop whispering, you can’t stop shaking. “Ajax, what did you do?”

Childe’s smile tilts itself crooked. “I killed them,” he says. 

His voice is so quiet it cracks under the pressure to not be heard.

(He’s smiling, but he’s crying. It doesn’t look like he means to. He doesn’t know he is.)

You want to run. You notice the smear of blood on his jaw again—is that even his? His hand still clutches your knee but you only now notice the red his palm stains it with, the red on the side of his torso. You want to run.

(You should run.)

You don’t run. Because it’s Ajax, and he’s tired of running tonight. Why would you?

“It’s okay,” you say with a nod and a shiver, like shutters in a hurricane. You’re both crying, and he’s against your chest, and he’s still so fucking cold that it’s migrating to you. “Stand up. Ajax, stand up—”

“I can’t,” “You can, you need to get in the bath.”

“I’ll wake your—“

“If you were ever worried about that, you wouldn’t have come here, so Ajax would you please—“

He breathes out, muffling his groans as he staggers to his feet. You’re not of much help but at least your hands, your shaking hands, are telling him you’re there. And that’s enough. 

“I love it when you say that,” he grimaces, shuffling towards the hallway. “My name.”

+

Childe misses your eighteenth birthday by ten minutes.

You ate dinner with your family at your favourite pub, his siblings wrote you cards and pulled your ears, you tied your hair loose and flirted with the pretty guy who fed the boat lines. You don’t like him all that much, but he looks nothing like your neighbour and for you, that is a fine enough reason to talk. 

Stones hit your window at ten past midnight, and Childe stands in the snowy alley outside of your bedroom. He wields another pebble and tilts his head.

Your window’s too old for you to ignore me.

You pull on your coat and boots, scarf too because he talks too much, and head outside into the night, creeping out the back door. You cross your arms, walking over to where he stands just outside of the lamplight.

“Hiding?” you ask, stopping in front of him.

Childe laughs like nothing’s wrong, digging through his back pocket with his gloved hand, handing you a box. “Happy birthday.”

“It’s not my birthday."

“Belated.”

You glance between his rosy cheeks and the box before you take it, looking towards the end of the alley to avoid his stare. Because guys like Childe don’t look away — you know better than to look back.

“Thank you,” you murmur, tucking your hands back into the warmth of your pockets.

Childe nods; you don’t open gifts in front of him, you know better than to do that, too. He knows better than to think you would. 

You look at his hands, eyebrows furrowing. “Leather gloves?”

“So you noticed?”

“How? You couldn’t afford long johns last year.”

Childe grins. “I got a job.”

“At the tank house,” you say, crossing your arms. “Which, you had last year.”

The look in his eyes tells you he’s in deep — he doesn’t seem to care about it as much as you do. “I’m a Harbinger, now.”

“You—”

“I’m the youngest—” “You’re the dumbest,” you grit, sticking a finger in between his ribs. “You're eighteen — what kind of achievement is that?”

He takes a deep breath, his lungs pushing your finger back until it falls defeated. “I didn’t expect you to be happy, believe me.”

“Why,” you whisper, “would I ever be happy to watch you sell yourself to killers?”

“You know I’m no better,”

“Oh, Ajax, if you think that’s what I know then you’re more stupid than I thought.”

There’s no real reason to excuse the blood on his hands other than the fact that they’re so gentle when they hold yours.

There’s a voice down the alley and two drunk men in hats and coats wave your way. You grimace, but Childe waves back. 

“This is why you’re outside. You don’t want them to know where you live.”

“Or where you live.”

You grit your teeth. “Yes, because it’s great that your allies are a threat your family.”

“You’re not my family,” he says, “that’d make things weird.”

Your eyes well and you swallow, looking back at the men who stare at both of you. They murmur amongst themselves and you try to ignore them, but it’s hard when Childe won’t look away.

A breeze of snow from the rooftops drifts over you, and you look at him one more time. The last, you try to pledge to yourself. “Don’t leave with them.”

“It’s too late now and you know it.”

“How the fuck would I know it?”

“Don’t cry,” he tells you, much softer now that he knows you didn’t realize it yet, “I’ll come home, I’m not gone forever. If anything, I’ll come back richer. No one will sleep cold.”

“You’ll come back to spoil your family with blood money?”

“I’d spoil you, too,” he adds, “but I know better than to try that.”

There is a heavy silence between the two of you. It isn’t the weight of his gold or the weight of him not coming home; it is the weight of lead, of gunpowder. The weight of the bullets that his two new friends that wait in the street have loaded.

Childe takes your arms, tugging your hands from your pockets, frowning at your white fingertips and cracking knuckles. 

“Take these—”

“I don’t want your dirty paws,”

“Well, I don’t want your dry hands. And when I come home, I’ll need them.”

Childe drives the knife deeper, twists it through your chest, and slips off his gloves. He places them in your hands and just snickers when you pocket them. “No worries, I’ll just get a new pair.”

“Great.”

He nods, starting down the alley. He knows you well enough to understand that you don’t want to say goodbye, not when you know you’re saying goodbye to how things were before. Instead, he just calls over his shoulder.

“See you at Christmas?”

“Why even come back?”

“Right,” he chuckles. “I wanna see your gift next time, though.”

Then he leaves, and he doesn’t look at you again. You suppose he’s been trained to do that, but then again, you can’t remember a time where he has looked back at you, anyway. He’s never looked back at anyone before the end.

+

He comes home every Christmas, just like he promised. 

Each time he does, he drags you out to a cabin outside of town, one so hidden in the woods that you almost thought he built it, and he fucks you like he missed you before he was gone. Not enough to leave the Fatui, but enough to come home once in a while. And once in a while is all you're gonna get, so you don't let it go.

He comes home, tells his family all about his life as a businessman, a toy salesman you once heard, and then sneaks you out so you can love him as loud as you want. Then, you eat the fish you bring, he tells you how much he missed the sturgeon in Morepesok, and he's gone before the sun comes up. 

Childe lets you go with a tired breath, watching the fire beat against your glistening skin as you sit on the edge of the bed. The warmth of him courses through you like a river current and you fix your hair with weak hands, biting the tie that was around your wrist. “I feel your eyes, you’re not subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” he says simply. “You’re beautiful. More beautiful now.”

“You said that last year.”

“Next year, too.”

You roll your eyes, back straightening when he looms behind you, his naked body against yours. His hand sneaks around your waist and his lips press against your shoulder blade, kissing until he gets to the juncture of your neck and collarbone. 

“Ajax,”

“I know,” he says against your skin, “gotta eat.”

“You’d think they would feed you in the castle.”

“Hardly a castle, sweetheart."

“That belt says otherwise,” you mumble, standing, making him let go. You pick up your underwear from the floor, too hot to wear anything else. “It’s custom.”

He snorts, flopping back down on the bed. “Birthday gift.”

“From who?”

“Ooh, jealous?”

“Of someone who doesn’t know who you are? No.”

Childe hums a laugh, giving a look in agreement to the ceiling that you catch out of the corner of your eye. He rests a hand on his chest, watching you sweat in the heat of the fireplace, smiling at the life he has for the next four hours.

He clears his raspy throat. “You finally wore it. The gift.” He snickers, “I only waited two years.”

You look over your shoulder at him, pulling your cami over your head. “I wasn’t gonna let money rot.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“What?”

“The stone. Do you know what it is?”

You stare, face hot. You’re partially embarrassed to not know, never having left Snezhnaya and let alone your town, but you’re curious enough to shake your head. Childe smiles like he knows that you wish you knew enough to say yes.

(You hate that he’s travelled the world you used to tell him you dreamt about. The one you made him dream about, too.)

He scoots up to lean against the headboard, and you take the invitation to come back to the bed. You crawl onto the mattress again, sitting beside him as he moves the clasp of the necklace to the back of your neck, and the stone to the front.

“They call it Cor Lapis,” he says, “it’s in Liyue.”

“Oh.”

He lets go. “It’s not rare, but I like it.”

“You spend a lot of time in Liyue, it makes sense.”

“So you do read my letters,” he says with a grin, cocking his head and holding your hand. “What else do I say?”

“What about the necklace?”

“Huh?”

“If it’s not rare, why get a custom-made necklace?” you ask. “Expensive for such a simple stone.”

Childe’s eyes drop back down to the necklace, holding it out from your neck and in line with the light of the bedside table lamp. It glitters in his eyes and you’re sure it does in yours.

“Cor Lapis is dull,” he tells you. “It doesn’t actually glow until it’s cracked open.”

You look at the cut edges of the stone, framed in gold. It’s small, but it’s something that looks like Childe gave it to you. When your mother saw it, she said it was beautiful and asked when he was home last.

You focus on the fingers that hold it.

“I found it a lot like you,” he says, his voice lower, his eyes finally looking up to face you head-on. “Heart of gold.”

“I don’t need to be cracked open."

“You have been,” he corrects, “you are right now.”

He’s right. He’s so fucking right that it hurts your head to think about and hurts your chest to acknowledge. 

Childe’s hand runs up and under your shirt, showing your skin. “And you’re glowing.”

You sit in the silence inside your open ribs and give him a small smile, standing up to shake his hand off of you.

“I’ll let you tell me that next winter, too.”

+

Next Christmas, you stay in bed. Childe cradles your necklace again but doesn’t tell you about Liyue because you don’t ask, too proud to ask twice. 

Instead, you lay against his chest, littered with brand new scars you didn’t see last time. Some you watch, others you look away from because they run too deep for you to need to know how he got them. Year by year, you get more quiet.

Childe does, too. He hasn’t lost his boyish charm but it shares his body with something else now.

“Why don’t you come home before Christmas?” you ask. “Once, even. Teucer’s birthday?”

“It’s not that easy. If it was, I’d be there for every birthday. Yours, theirs.”

You purse your lips, rolling onto your back to stare aimlessly at the ceiling. “Right,” you whisper.

“Don’t do that,”

“Why do you say that like I’m fishing for empathy?” you ask casually, scoffing a laugh. “You used to have some, you know. Before you were a fucking hitman.”

“You have no problem fucking said hitman, so please, if you now raise any sudden changes of heart, I should probably know.” 

You look at him coldly and he shakes his head. “It’s not like I want to hurt you.”

His arm gets heavier around you, weighing you down against his side. You fight it off when you sit up, turning to look down at him. Déjà vu washes over you both.

“Do you honestly think that I’m talking about me?” you say through laughs. “I’ve gotten used to your wounds, Ajax, it’s not about me.”

“I—”

“How about your family?” you say. It shakes the cabin walls, even though you weren’t loud at all. “You have younger siblings who idolize you and older ones who know better than what you tell them. Do you think they’re dumb?”

He stares at you. You ask, “You remember them, don’t you?”

“I remember my siblings, yes, thank you for aski—”

“Did you know Teucer made a sword?”

Childe’s next sentence fades into a sigh, and his lips purse as he shakes his head.

You cross your arms. “It looks just like yours.”

“Brotherly love, toys are harmless.”

“Who do you think will stitch his eyebrow? Or sneak him into the bathroom after he comes down from his first kill—”

“I never asked you to be my keeper,” Childe says, the grip on your hand tighter than it was before.

“And look how it turned out, anyway.” 

Childe leans back against the bed frame and thin pillows he’s stacked up, looking anywhere but at you. 

He’s older now and hardened into someone you can’t recognize, but he resembles a lot of the boy he was born as. He still doesn’t look you in the eye when he apologizes, not when he means it.

“Do you want me to leave?”

You stand, finding your clothes on the floor. You’re too hot, so you put on your underwear and shirt and leave it at that. “I brought fish. Rest while you can.”

+

It’s July, and Childe comes back to Morepesok in the middle of a blizzard.

Glasses rattle in behind the bar and you dry the ones from the sink, since the hot water ran out an hour ago. The pub’s empty but your shift still stands, even though no one dares to go outside when the storms are this bad, and it’s only you and a few stragglers left to pray the windows don’t shatter when the breeze hits you from the coast.

Every time you catch yourself in the counter’s reflection, you see your necklace, and you wonder what the beaches in Liyue are like. You can’t swim here without freezing to death and you can’t dream in relentless snow, so you let yourself think of him sometimes.

(Warm, swimming in streams. You wonder if he ever got over his fear of drowning when he realized he wouldn’t sink.)

Air whistles through old panels and teases the fire that burns in the seating area, and there’s a quiet hum of voices that dim the crackle of the logs you throw in every half-hour. A glass slides off the counter and breaks in the wind.

You gasp and jump, stepping back, stepping forward when you hit something — someone. You turn around and Childe stares back, snow on his eyelashes and his hair damp from hail and the sweat beneath his hat.

“Why are you here?”

“Oh, you’re so welcoming. Need help?”

You scoff, kneeling with a brush and pan, guiding the glass back into a pile. You don’t answer his question. “They don’t really mean it when they say 'Christmas in July,' you know.”

“You were the one who told me to visit more, right?”

You nod, standing again, dumping the glass into a bin. “Outside the bar, staff only."

Childe slowly raises his hands in surrender, stepping quietly out from the back and rounding to face you again. He leans on the freezing counters, looking around the room. “You work here?”

“A normal person job, yes.”

“So boring.”

“Why’d you come back?” you ask, going back to washing glasses. “When do you leave?”

Please, stay. Just for once, stay.

“Tomorrow.”

“Do they ever let you off your leash for more than a day? Or do you just hate snowstorms that much now?”

“They have gotten worse since I’ve been gone,”

“Or you’ve just been gone long enough to forget where you come from,” you suggest, glancing up at him again. “The Fatui do still operate here, right?”

“Lower your voice, eh?”

“Sorry. Forgot.”

Childe purses his lips, looking around again. He lowers his head. “The cabin’s open.”

“There’s no way we can make it through the trees blind.”

“I can get us there.”

“Do you remember you got lost in those woods once?”

He grins when you look up. “Well, you know you don’t learn without getting lost. I know them now.”

You crack a tiny smile back, one that probably gives him way too much hope. He watches you put glasses away, he relaxes when he sees the necklace you still wear; even if you started wearing it two years late. 

You shake your head. “I’m not coming to the cabin.”

“Why’s that?”

“You should spend the day you have with your family.”

“You—”

“Don’t make things weird.”

The moment is bittersweet and Childe isn’t stupid enough to challenge it, so he just laughs. You try to but it comes out funny.

“So that’s it?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “It’s always been your decision, not mine.”

And nothing you have ever done has been anything I’ve wanted.

Childe nods, biting his cheek. He knows that people who live in the woods often die there, too. He never really made it out. “Show me out, then?”

You give in, walking him the short distance to the door. He rests with his hand on the knob, gently moving you away from the door so the breeze doesn’t freeze you in place. He tugs his hat on and notices the gloves he gave you years ago hang by your coat on the standing rack.

“When should I come back?”

He watches you breathe in, he watches you breathe out. “Come back when you’re coming home.”

Childe doesn’t try to reason or to ask what you mean, because he knows what you mean.

Don’t.

With a nod, he smiles. It shows with a weakness that no Harbinger should still have with them; you think this might be the death of it.

“I’ll see you around, then.” He opens the door.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Bye, Childe.”

The door shuts. You don’t hear the snow crunching beneath his feet until a few seconds later, and you keep your ear against the door until you don’t hear them anymore.

Before he was ever Tartaglia, Childe, eleventh of the Harbingers, his home was in the woods he got lost in. Not underground, but in a cabin, with strong windows and shutters the colour of your eyes.

+

It’s the second Christmas you haven’t seen Childe or the woods. You haven’t checked if he’s stayed there and the stories Teucer tells you are old, but there’s a chance he’s still burning a fire and laying in bed, glowing with heat.

Either Childe hasn’t come back, or he just hasn’t told you he has. Either way, you don't make an effort to know.

Somewhere in Liyue, there’s an ore mine with your name carved above the entrance. The men talk about you when they wheel out carts of jade and ore, wondering how you reached so far up to tell them you were there.

In Mondstadt, an outpost sings a folk tune about a girl who heals wounded soldiers.

In Inazuma, a village calls a seashell by your name. It started with the kids, who said a man from a different place told them all about it. An expert on it, they said. They haven’t called it anything else since.

In Sumeru, your laugh runs through the river.

In Natlan, a painting hangs in a bar of a woman dressed in fire, a ribbon on her wrist and her hair everywhere else. When asked, the artist says he was inspired by a man who spoke of a girl with a heart of gold. 

In Fontaine, they serve grilled sturgeon, only cooked by wooden stove.

Childe sits down in a town in Snezhnaya, far away from Morepesok, and he sits in front of five kids who look just like the ones back home. Freezing, and curious.

He lets them fawn over his attire, bug him for all he’s worth while they’re tucked inside of a barn to avoid the cold. He answers every question about his job selling toys with enthusiasm and without guilt, promising to someday come back with some for them. Then, they ask him to tell them a story — one they haven’t heard before.

Somewhere in Snezhnaya, far away from Morepesok, a tale is told about a girl who travelled the world.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

previous

cw: vaguely implied past noncon/abuse, past trauma

×~×~×

Tea was better than nothing. Jericho had been a little doubtful that Vic would have the ingredients for hot chocolate, so it wasn't too shocking to be proven right, but he was at least glad for the bags of plain green tea in the cupboard. Something warm for the kid to hold on to while they worked to process all of this.

"What's your name?" he asked as he passed him the mug. Technically, he already knew, but he didn't want to startle him with that information.

"Ander."

So he wasn't going by just Sahota yet. It made sense. He didn't seem nearly as cold or closed off.

"I'm Jericho," he said, and the kid nodded, staring at the mug in his hands like he was watching the color seep into the water. Jericho exhaled as calm as he could.

Where to start? Should he ask him about the injuries? Drop the bomb on him that he was temporally displaced? Or should he just hold off on that as long as he could? Man, and what about everybody else? All these cats were bound to come racing out of the bag at some point, and he didn't feel in any way ready for it.

Lucky for him, Ander spoke before he felt the need to fill the silence with something unnecessary.

"You work with Shepard?" He seemed almost relaxed at a glance, poised in the chair, cradling the mug. But as Jer looked at him, he could see the tension under the surface. Like he might throw the tea in his face and bolt for the door at any second.

"Yeah, kinda," he said. "Temporarily. Like I said, computers."

"Yeah."

"I take it you work with him too?"

Ander's eyes dropped. "Train," he said simply.

"Ah." Again, he didn't like the way he said it. He wanted to ask more questions, to slowly circle in on some kind of truth and get to the bottom of the mystery that was Sahota.

But before he could, the door to the kitchen swung open.

The rest of the team poured inside, filling the quiet room with whatever discussion they were having. The instant the first of them---Joy---crossed the threshold, Ander flinched back so violently he nearly sent the mug flying. He was on his feet, stumbling backwards, eyes darting around as if searching for somewhere to hide.

Internally, Jericho cursed himself for not bringing up the others sooner. He jumped to his feet, moving to put himself between Ander and the team, but the kid already had his back to the wall.

"It's okay," he called back to him, trying to keep his voice calm. "These are just my---"

"You never said there were more."

A quick glance back showed him the kid had found a knife. Oh boy...

"Ander--"

"Jer? What's---?"

"Who's that? New teammate?"

"Holy shit, is that--?"

The questions came all at once; pretty par for the course, but in the previously-quiet kitchen, with a scared kid behind him, the sound hit like a crashing wave. Then suddenly--

"Stop."

The command wasn't exactly shouted, but it was sharp enough to bring the overlapping voices to a standstill. Jericho glanced at the doorway it had come from, and wasn't surprised to see Sahota standing there. His expression was almost blank, almost unbothered, but there was a look in his eyes, a concerned tilt to his brows.

The others stepped aside, giving Sahota room to enter the kitchen. He could see Joy glancing from him to Ander. It felt like the room was holding its breath as their trainer stopped a few feet away from his younger self, both men staring at each other in disbelief.

Ander's fingers seemed to tighten around the hilt of the knife, his other hand going to his mouth, thumb on scar.

"You... Who are you?"

Sahota exhaled, lifting both hands as if to signal he meant no harm. "Ander..."

"No. This... Whatever this is, I'm fucking over it, okay? Leave me alone."

Sahota didn't retreat. "Those bruises." Something shifted in his voice, the tone becoming softer." "They aren't the worst of it, are they?"

The younger man glanced away, his voice quieting. "No."

"I remember."

Ander's arms dropped, the knife clattering to the ground. His legs seemed to give out, back sliding against the wall until he was sitting, knees tucked against his chest. Sahota followed him down, crouching across from him.

"How long?"

A pause. "Twelve years."

"Twelve... No."

"It's alright. You got stronger."

"I can't... I can't do that. I can't be here---"

"You don't need to. It's done." Sahota's hand fell onto the shoulder of his younger self, gentle. When they were side by side like this, his scars stood out all the sharper.

"He won't ever touch you again. I swear it."

He. Who? Jericho wondered, even though he already knew the answer. It sat souring in his gut.

"How can I help?" he asked, and Sahota stilled at the question, going silent for a moment.

"Clear a path. Make sure... Make sure Vic doesn't see him." He stood, fixing the room with a stony glare. "I mean it. Please."

The others nodded, and he pulled Ander to his feet.

"Davis, I need you to drive him into the city. Find him somewhere safe."

"I can't," the kid protested. "The chip--"

"He watches my frequency, not yours," Sahota assured him. "You'll be fine."

Joy was already leading the rest of the crew ahead to check the hallways, Sahota watching for her signal before scooping Ander into his arms and pressing forward, Jericho tailing behind.

He knew he should be relieved. Sahota knew what to do. He'd keep Ander safe, and the rest of them wouldn't have to worry about what happened to the kid. But what about Sahota? The man was clearly intent on staying back.

He won't ever touch you again.

Jericho grimaced. They both had to get out. To hell with the mission, whatever Vic had done to Sahota... whatever he was probably still doing, it had to stop.

They reached the exit, and Sahota moved to press Ander into his arms. Jericho took a step back.

"No."

"Davis, please."

There was a desperation creeping into his voice, and it hurt to hear, but Jer shook his head. "You need to take him."

"I can't."

"Why?"

Sahota's mouth tightened. He let out a sharp exhale. "Vic. He'd find us."

"Twelve years," Jericho echoed. "That's too long."

"It doesn't matter. One of us can get away."

"Both of you should. Sahota--"

"I'm already ruined," he snapped. Ander squeezed his eyes shut at the words, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

"It's too late for me to leave this behind," he continued I'm a small voice "I'm not who I was. I can't undo what's happened. But I can stop it from happening to someone else."

"You don't have to--"

"Please."

Jericho clenched his jaw, gently pulling Ander into his arms. The kid clung to him, seemingly in a daze.

"Get as far away from here as you can," Sahota ordered him. "I'll cover for you if Vic asks questions."

Jericho could only nod, swallowing down everything he wanted to say, every plea for Sahota to just run. He wasn't going to make him do anything against his will.

Every step towards the truck felt like walking through concrete; all the weight of this new information dragging him down. The only thing that kept Jericho walking was the need to get Ander to safety. Where to, though?

He guessed he'd ask the kid. See if he had family nearby. And when he came back...

Jericho didn't want to hurt anyone.

Those bruises. They aren't the worst of it, are they?

But right now, it was looking like Vic Shepard would have to die.

×~×~×

@theonewithallthefixations , @violets-whumperflies , @whump-me , @pirefyrelight , @soheavyaburden ,

@snakebites-and-ink , @whumpsday , @kixngiggles , @echo-goes-aaa , @whumpcateyes ,

@clickerflight , @sodacreampuff , @starfields08000

[lightofraye]

Eminem - Lose Yourself

Look, if you had one shot or one opportunity To seize everything you ever wanted in one moment Would you capture it or just let it slip? Yo His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti He's nervous, but on the surface, he looks calm and ready To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgetting What he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud He opens his mouth, but the words won't come out He's chokin', how? Everybody's jokin' now The clock's run out, time's up, over, blaow Snap back to reality, ope, there goes gravity Ope, there goes Rabbit, he choked, he's so mad But he won't give up that easy, no, he won't have it He knows his whole back's to these ropes, it don't matter He's dope, he knows that, but he's broke, he's so stagnant He knows when he goes back to this mobile home, that's when it's Back to the lab again, yo, this old rhapsody Better go capture this moment and hope it don't pass him You better lose yourself in the music The moment, you own it, you better never let it go (Go) You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo You better lose yourself in the music The moment, you own it, you better never let it go (Go) You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo You better

His soul's escaping through this hole that is gaping This world is mine for the taking, make me king As we move toward a new world order A normal life is boring, but superstardom's Close to post-mortem, it only grows harder Homie grows hotter, he blows, it's all over These hoes is all on him, coast-to-coast shows He's known as the Globetrotter, lonely roads God only knows he's grown farther from home, he's no father He goes home and barely knows his own daughter But hold your nose 'cause here goes the cold water These hoes don't want him no mo', he's cold product They moved on to the next schmoe who flows He nose-dove and sold nada, and so the soap opera Is told, it unfolds, I suppose it's old, partner But the beat goes on, da-da-dom, da-dom, dah-dah-dah-dah You better lose yourself in the music The moment, you own it, you better never let it go (Go) You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo You better lose yourself in the music The moment, you own it, you better never let it go (Go) You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo You better No more games, I'ma change what you call rage Tear this motherfuckin' roof off like two dogs caged I was playin' in the beginning, the mood all changed I've been chewed up and spit out and booed off stage But I kept rhymin' and stepped right in the next cypher Best believe somebody's payin' the Pied Piper All the pain inside amplified by the Fact that I can't get by with my nine-to- Five and I can't provide the right type of life for my family 'Cause, man, these goddamn food stamps don't buy diapers And there's no movie, there's no Mekhi Phifer, this is my life And these times are so hard, and it's gettin' even harder Tryna feed and water my seed, plus teeter-totter Caught up between bein' a father and a prima donna Baby-mama drama, screamin' on her, too much for me to wanna Stay in one spot, another day of monotony's gotten me To the point I'm like a snail, I've got To formulate a plot or end up in jail or shot Success is my only motherfuckin' option, failure's not Mom, I love you, but this trailer's got To go, I cannot grow old in Salem's Lot So here I go, it's my shot; feet, fail me not This may be the only opportunity that I got You better lose yourself in the music The moment, you own it, you better never let it go (Go) You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo You better lose yourself in the music The moment, you own it, you better never let it go (Go) You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo You better You can do anything you set your mind to, man

[itsamebubza]

ficlet under the cut to give a bit of context.

The last couple of weeks, they had been gathering information about a possible, definitive, fix for Karlach’s engine heart. The infernal duo had taken to Avernus, leaving Astarion and Tav to look for a solution on the surface.

Reconnaissance had been boring, and neither Tav nor Astarion were big on planning, but when Tav had stormed in Elfsong in the middle of the day while Astarion dwindled the hours away demanding they both left that very second, his affliction be damned, the situation felt more hopeful.

They had all decided that Karlach’s engine took precedence before Astarion’s malaise, as he could cover up from the sun and Karlach very much remained a ticking time bomb. The group split up, Wyll and Karlach looking through Avernus and, Tav and Astarion searching through Faerûn.

Tav had taken them right outside Manorborn Gate, or more accurately to an old forgotten mansion a couple of streets away from the entrance. A big building with extensive decorations littering the entrance with intricate iron designs.

Astarion pulled his cloak tighter, it was high noon, and even with his momentary solution to his sun allergy by Jaehira, his skin felt prickly and stung slightly.

Tav looked back at Astarion as they finally managed to go inside the building.

“Alright, you should be fine now. Take off that thing, I need your eyes peeled and fully able” they said in practiced calm, their eyes flickering left and right, months working in the dark leaving them skittish in broad daylight in comparison to Astarion, who had been in his element after the grief that first night after the Netherbrain lost. “I’m… not entirely sure what we’re looking for…”

The building was beautiful, if a little predictable in layout and decor, whatever the previous tenants had left behind. The immaculate white walls lead to impossibly long looking hallways as the vitraux windows tinted the rooms in an eerie lilac hue. It felt familiar in an unknowable way, but perhaps his many nightly escapades the past two centuries had lead him into similar mansions before. It was difficult to say.

"Faustus said 'you'd know when you see it'" Tav finished quietly as they looked away.

Astarion sighed and walked down the dusty hall, turning around as he took in the room. It felt familiar in a sort of unknowable way, perhaps due to the flurry of mansions he had sneaked in through 200 years of pretending to have romantic rendezvous with Cazador’s preys. The thought brought a chill down his back.

“Well, luckily infernal things reek. We’ll surely find whatever Faustus sent us to fetch quickly enough”, his ego remained as bloated and pompous as always, even without the protection against the blaring sun.

“Astarion. We’re not here for Karlach,” they confessed looking at him intently, something clearly itching to come out of their lips, their eyes bubbling with the unspoken. Tav walked further down the corridor as they spoke, “Let’s split and come back in 10 minutes to touch base. And remember:”.

“Let's do anything hilarious.” They said in unison, the humor not lost to either of them.

The white marble hall echoed around their steps as they rushed through the overgrown manor, it’s decadence hauntingly beautiful in all of its splendor.

Each room resembled the last, covered furniture littered the floors, and had it not been for a bowl of decade old decayed goo, Astarion would have guessed these halls had never been blessed with life. Tav had been gone for a while, their footsteps dissipating in the distance, leaving Astarion alone.

The sudden pitter-patter of small footsteps caught his attention, it could just be an animal, but seeing as he had seen no droppings around the complex it seemed highly unlikely. He readied a knife an

A young boy, couldn’t be a day older than 8, in a corridor looking much too clean for an abandoned mansion. The whole situation was odd, looking much too out of place, but before Astarion could ask the kid what was he doing, a pale and poked out of a doorway, stopping the kid from entering.

“Not now, my little starlight. Mum’s busy.” The voice sounded far, an echo of a past long lost to time, yet warm and inviting.

The boy looked defeated, his toy falling to the ground as he turned running towards Astarion and disappeared as his image collided with his body, revealing an empty hallway with leaves peppering the floor. The cold of the ghostly touch froze him inside out.

“There you are!” Tav reprimanded with a smile. “I thought the earth had swallowed you”. Their face soured when Astarion finally turned towards them, even paler than they thought was possible. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Maybe I have.”

[speedlimit15]

but on the surface he looks calm and ready to drop bombs..

[thomasthetankieengine]

~~ TFW you clearly don't listen to American hip-hop and thus fail to realize that "drop bombs" and "dropping bombs" are common slang for rapping, especially when you're saying something that's true, but shocking and unexpected. ~~

These are the lyrics Komosomolka is having a heart attack about:

His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready to drop bombs, but he keeps on forgetting what he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud He opens his mouth but the words won't come out He's chokin', how? Everybody's jokin' now The clock's run out, time's up, over, blaow

Now, Eminem was not talking about dropping literal bombs in this song. He was talking about rapping. In context, this part of the song is about a man getting onstage to rap and then becoming too nervous to do so and having to get off the stage because he blew his chance.

Obama chose this song because Michigan native Eminem had been onstage prior to him. He was saying that he was really nervous to come on after Eminem.

The American news media didn't report on this because they are more familiar with American hip-hop slang. Komosomolka, though, doesn't know shit about any of that, didn't bother to look it up, and chose to interpret it all as 100% literal.

Hilarious!

Anyway, here are more rap/hip-hop songs that use "drop bombs" and "dropping bombs" in the non-literal sense:

[gaillol-13]

Yo Mama so spaghetti his palms are sweaty knees weak arms are heavy there's vomit on his sweater already he's nervous but on the surface he looks calm and ready to drop bombs but he keeps on forgetting what he wrote down the whole crowd goes so loud he opens his mouth but the words won't come out he's chokin' how everybody's jokin now the clock's run out times up over blaow

[rileyshouseofcake]

Look, if you had mom's spaghetti,

Would you capture it or just let it slip?

Yo

His palms spaghetti, knees weak, arms spaghetti

There's vomit on his sweater spaghetti, mom's spaghetti

He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm spaghetti to drop bombs,

But he keeps on spaghetti what he wrote down,

The whole crowd goes spaghetti

He opens his mouth, but spaghetti won't come out

He's choking how, everybody's joking now

spaghetti run out, time's up, over, bloah!

Snap back to spaghetti, Oh there goes spaghetti

Oh, there goes spaghetti, bloah

He's so mad, but he won't give up spaghetti, no.

He won't have it, he knows he keeps on forgetting

that mom's spaghetti's dope

He knows that but he's broke

He's so stagnant, he knows

When he goes back to his mom's spaghetti, that's when it's

Back to the lab again, yo

This whole spaghetti

He better go capture spaghetti and hope it don't pass him

You better lose yourself in mom's spaghetti, it's ready

you better never let it go(go)

You only get one spaghetti, do not miss your chance to blow

cause spaghetti comes once in a lifetime yo

You better lose yourself in mom's spaghetti, it's ready

you better never let it go(go)

You only get one spaghetti, do not miss your chance to blow

cause spaghetti comes once in a lifetime yo

[head-post]

Barack Obama raps Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” at Harris campaign rally

Eminem and Barack Obama performed at a rally in support of Kamala Harris, after which the former US president read out rapper Eminem’s track “Lose Yourself.”

Barack Obama showed off his rap skills after being introduced by Eminem at a rally in Detroit. He performed a few lines from one of the rapper’s biggest hits.

On Tuesday, the platinum recording artist and former US president performed at Kamala Harris’ rally in the crucial state of Michigan.

After Eminem introduced him, Obama took the stage, joking that he was “feeling kind of post-Eminem” before adding that he was “nervous” about his performance. He then seamlessly transitioned into the opening verse from Eminem’s 2002 single “Lose Yourself.” Obama said:

“I have done a lot of rallies, so I don’t usually get nervous. But I was feeling some kind of way following Eminem. I noticed, my palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy, vomit on my sweater already, Mom’s spaghetti.”

As the crowd broke into applause, he continued:

“He’s nervous, but on the surface, he looks calm and ready/To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgetting…”

He finished the performance by singing the song’s famous opening riff and saying “I love Eminem,” before joking that he might “pop out” on stage if the rapper continued to perform.

Who else supported Harris

Eminem isn’t the only Detroit rapper to endorse Kamala Harris this week: the Democratic candidate also picked up the juggalo’s endorsement, getting the seal of approval from Violent J of the Insane Clown Posse.

In an interview with Daily Show’s Troy Iwata, the clown rapper explained why he favours Democrats over Republicans, and said:

“My mom said the Democrats are saying less taxes on the poor, more taxes on the rich.”

When asked about the taxes he pays, he enthusiastically stated that he pays ‘up the f***ing anus, and I’m happy about it. I pay double what they ask.”

After saying “f*** no” to Trump’s mass deportation policies, Violent J said he wants Kamala to win “because she’s a Democrat and I love my mom.”

On July 22, incumbent US President Joe Biden announced that he was withdrawing from the presidential race. Barack Obama was the one who expressed the opinion that Biden’s chances of re-election have significantly decreased and the incumbent president should “seriously consider” further participation in the election race.

The US presidential election will be held on November 5, 2024 and will be the 60th in the country’s history. The 47th US president will be elected at this election. Pre-voting has already begun in a number of states, when voters can cast their ballots in advance either in person or by sending their ballot by mail.

Read more HERE

[notjustdragonspages]

His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms so heavy

There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti

He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready, to drop bombs, but he keeps on forgetting

What he wrote down this whole crowd goes so loud, he opens his mouth but he words won't come out,

He's chokin' how? Everybody's jokin' now, clocks run out!

Snap back to realiy

Ope

There goes gravity

...

I forgot the rest :> have sparkles! ✨️✨️✨️✨️

This is mildly familiar-

Im tired, it'll probably come to me tomorrow.

[vampire-eros]

do you wipe when it’s fresh or wait for it to crust

yo, his ass is sweaty, knees weak butt is heavy there's shitty on his buttock already,

he's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready to drop bombs 💩 but he keeps on forgetting that he sat down the whole mound goes so loud

[theomnicode]

Automatic reflexes and survival instinct, do you have it?

One thing Saitama tried to warn Fubuki about when they first met:

That her survival instinct when reacting to legitimate threats, even when given plenty time to prep, is lacking, because she's not been tested enough on the field. She's been coddled by her own need to surround herself with a group and sheltered from the harsh reality.

Notably because Saitama himself keeps tackling all the insane level threats.

By putting down other heroes and stagnating their progress, she's directly opposed to them going out there confidently to develop said survival instinct on the field that would help them survive in their chosen profession and otherwise.

Then she even said Saitama won't survive without her help, which is direct insult on his hard work and dedication and capacity to survive in the harshest of environment. Saitama had survived on his lonesome thus far, even if he didn't thrive. But survived nonetheless against the overwhelming odds.

If Saitama had been an actual enemy, she'd have been dead long before she even realized what was happening.

Maybe her reaction time has gotten better since MA arc...maybe she could defend herself in time if she was ready and prepared...

But it is not enough to actually save anybody else from becoming collateral damage.

(Oh look Saitama is collateral and he does not care, because he's invulnerable. Except when he is not)

Her inexperience in handling a sudden situation that threathens casualties makes her unable to react in time quickly enough to prevent them from happening, because she gets too shocked into inaction. It's natural if one is not in such field work for long enough to develop reflexes to save other people, but the world of OPM does not wait for her to get enough field experience.

She needed to perform now and she failed miserably.

She does not have the automatic reflexes to psychically save anybody when push comes to shove either, when threat is far too fast for her to react to or visually even see. Threats at dragon level and above and those who unhesitatingly go for the sudden deadly strike on people who are not even involved in the fight.

Such as civilians.

Can't react to what you can't see coming can ya?

Which would seem to be consistent with how ONE writes psychic powers in Mob psycho too. There needs to be some preparation time. They more than likely have to visually process what they see in their brain in order to exert their will over things.

This would be the weakness of psychics.

And guess what kind of enemy she is up against right now?

An enemy who seems to be very much willing to silence anybody who knows too much about them, if push comes to shove. And can simultaneously tackle many issues at one time.

Because they don't want any witnesses.

Fubuki and Psykos are both in grave danger and Fubuki does not seem to have enough clue about what exactly she's messing with.

Quoting Illidan from WoW:

"You are not prepared."

Look If you had One shot Or one opportunity To seize everything you ever wanted In one moment Would you capture it Or just let it slip? Yo His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgettin' What he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud He opens his mouth, but the words won't come out He's chokin', how, everybody's jokin' now The clocks run out, times up, over, blaow Snap back to reality, ope there goes gravity Ope, there goes Rabbit, he choked He's so mad, but he won't give up that easy? No He won't have it, he knows his whole back's to these ropes It don't matter, he's dope, he knows that, but he's broke He's so stagnant, he knows, when he goes back to this mobile home, that's when it's Back to the lab again, yo, this whole rhapsody Better go capture this moment and hope it don't pass him

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime

In short, we're rapping alongside Forte to Eminem's Lose yourself. We even got the Mom's spagetti reference hahah, this writer is the best.

Forte is just kind of autotuning rn though because he er, got knocked unconscious.

*rubs chin*

(My fastest long meta yet after new chapter lol)

[swagrum76]

His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti He's nervous, but on the surface, he looks calm and ready To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgetting forgetting... forgetting.. forgetting...

[aliceisinchains]

Look, if you had one shot, one opportunity To seize everything you ever wanted-One moment Would you capture it or just let it slip?

His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgettin What he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud He opens his mouth, but the words won't come outHe's chokin, how everybody's jokin now The clock's run out, time's up over, bloah! Snap back to reality, Oh there goes gravity Oh, there goes Rabbit, he choked He's so mad, but he won't give up that Easy, no He won't have it , he knows his whole back's to these ropes It don't matter, he's dope He knows that, but he's broke He's so stacked that he knows When he goes back to his mobile home, that's when it's Back to the lab again yo This whole rap shit He better go capture this moment and hope it don't pass him

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo

The soul's escaping, through this hole that it's gaping This world is mine for the taking Make me king, as we move toward a, new world order A normal life is borin, but superstardom's close to post mortem It only grows harder, only grows hotter He blows us all over these hoes is all on him Coast to coast shows, he's know as the globetrotter Lonely roads, God only knows He's grown farther from home, he's no father He goes home and barely knows his own daughter But hold your nose cuz here goes the cold water His hoes don't want him no mo, he's cold product They moved on to the next schmoe who flows He nose dove and sold nada So the soap opera is told and unfolds I suppose it's old partna', but the beat goes on Da da dum da dum da da

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo

No more games, I'ma change what you call rage Tear this mothafuckin roof off like 2 dogs caged I was playin in the beginnin, the mood all changed I been chewed up and spit out and booed off stage But I kept rhymin and stepwritin the next cypher Best believe somebody's payin the pied piper All the pain inside amplified by the fact That I can't get by with my 9 to 5 And I can't provide the right type of life for my family Cuz man, these goddam food stamps don't buy diapers And it's no movie, there's no Mekhi Phifer, this is my life And these times are so hard and it's getting even harder Tryin to feed and water my seed, plus See dishonor caught up between being a father and a prima donna Baby mama drama's screamin on and Too much for me to wanna Stay in one spot, another day of monotony Has gotten me to the point, I'm like a snail I've got to formulate a plot fore I end up in jail or shot Success is my only mothafuckin option, failure's not Mom, I love you, but this trailer's got to go I cannot grow old in Salem's lot So here I go is my shot. Feet fail me not cuz maybe the only opportunity that I got

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment You own it, you better never let it go You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo

You can do anything you set your mind to, man

[sign-anon]

Palms are sweaty, knees weak arms are heavy there's vomit on his sweater already, momas spaghetti he's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready to drop bombs but he keeps on forgetting

...

[6]

[mod note: WHY DO I FEEL LIKE I KNOW THIS- IM SO CONFUSED- I FEEL LIKE THIS IS A REFERENCE BUT IM NOT SURE]

[if its not i feel stupid]

[edit: no i didnt forget to color the countdown timer, youre seeing things]