#I’ll support them to change the face of this sport through gritted fuckin teeth

[russilton]

Wow! If I had a nickel for every time an upcoming female face of motorsport said something offensive about one of my identities, I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird infuriating that it happened twice. Right?

[truckstop-sushi-blog]

Bow-Ties and Pig Skins (Adam Driver x Reader Fic)

CONTENT WARNING: homophobia, bullying, sexual themes, dated slang, sexual scenes, vulgar language, dubcon

18+ CONTENT

You were daydreaming in physics today, again for the third time this week. It was 9:53 am and you were tired out of your mind, shivering despite the denim jacket your dad had gotten you the week before. It was like an ice box in that room.

As you rested your head on your fist, elbow connected to the textbook below, you thought of that devilishly attractive jock who had been giving you hell . You figured that since you were both adults in college, at least one or more of you would act with more maturity. 

No. 

Yesterday, he shoved you into your locker and shut the door. Today, he shoved you on your way to class making you spill your books everywhere. The thought pissed you off, but those eyes-- those damn hard brown eyes. They just made you stick to the floor and go mute. Everyone thought you were afraid and ridiculed you, but truth be told, that jock was the hottest goddamn hunk of muscle you had ever laid your bespectacled eyes upon. You thought you might want to continue the daydream, but--

“(Y/n)? Mister (y/n),” said the teacher up front, “Are you listening? I just called on you to answer a question. A question, might I add, that will be on your quiz at the end of the week.”

“O-Oh, sorry,” you said, startled out of your trance, “I-I um... I just... don’t feel terribly well. I’ll answer now. What was the question again, ma’am?”

The teacher sighed and asked the question again, following with a warning that another instance such as this one would result in points being taken away from the daily grade. Snickers rang out quietly in the room like the pitter patter of rain drops.You felt your cheeks redden but you decided to ignore your peers. You cleared your throat and answered the question, getting it right as you pretty much always do. You were a science major, so you were putting a lot of extra effort into studying for your science courses. Once the class was over, you filed out of the room behind a string of other people. As luck would have it, you didn’t have any more classes that day. They had been cancelled for the final football game of the season, and the professors happened to have sons on the team. You thought football was a rather frivolous sport and a waste of time, but your good friend William managed to convince you to go, at least to support the marching band. This was going to be a very big game for the band, as well. And, according to William, there was going to be an afterparty at the ΛΧΑ house when the game ended.

You were hesitant, but William convinced you to go to both the game and the afterparty, William having reported that Betty Adcock was going to be there and he needed a wingman. You didn’t put much stock in girls, mostly due to the fact you’ve never been attracted to them, but you decided to go anyway. The hope that the handsome jock would be there weighed heavily on your mind.

You went back to your dorm, hiding an embarrassment between your legs the whole way there, trying to avoid interacting with other people. Your roommate wasn’t anywhere to be found, and you assumed he must’ve been in class. You decided to take care of the problem you found yourself with, quickly though because you knew the assholes who lived here came in and out as they pleased, especially since the lock was broken on your door. After, you cleaned your mess, you got a new change of clothes on and you fell onto your bed asleep.

You were jolted awake by William tugging on your arm and shouting at you to wake up.

“(Y/n)! Wake up, (y/n)!” he repeats over and over again before seeing you’re awake, “Come on, the game starts in 2 hours, and I gotta be there in one!”

“The field is literally a ten minute walk from here, William.” you groaned, trying to stuff your face back into your pillow.

“Okay, and if you’re not early, you’re late.” he retorted.

You bit your lip, frustrated, and sigh. “Fine. But at least take me to get a burger or something.”

“You got it. I’ll just shove you into my car and we’ll pop on by the diner before we go to the field.”

“Sounds good. Will I need to pay you back?”

“Not at all, don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks.”

“Much obliged.”

You hopped up, slipping on your shoes and following your friend out of the dorm complex and into his cherry red Nomad. The musical stylings of Elvis poured into your ears like warm milk into a kitty dish from the radio. You hummed and tapped your fingers along to the beat. You were both at the diner in a flash. It wasn’t packed like it usually is on game day, which came as a surprise since it was such a hotspot in that rinky dink little college town you lived in. It was nice, though, since you were rather anxious about social situations. William parked and cut the engine off before getting out with you following suit. There were a few girls in the diner and a couple of greasers in the back smoking cigarettes. The smoke smelled a bit dubious, but you ignored it. It wasn’t the most frightening smell you’d ever had tickle your nose.

You and William sat down at the counter, William giving the lady who worked behind it a quick wink. She smiled politely, but I could tell as soon as she turned around she had rolled her eyes. You could tell by the way she sighed--you understood her pain to some extent. You elbowed William sharply.

“Ow! What the hell, man?!” he whispered under his breath through gritted teeth.

“You really shouldn’t be flirting with every girl you see. Just because they’re nice to you doesn’t mean they like you. She probably deals with creeps every day.” 

“What’s it to you? I’m just trying to get good-”

“Yeah and not every girl you meet is target practice, asshole.”

William looked at you with lips pressed into a thin line before looking at the menu on the wall.

“Just fuckin’ order something.” he grumbled. You could tell he knew you were right but was too full of himself to admit it.

You perused the menu before settling on a cheeseburger, fries, and a strawberry malt. William chose a chicken fried steak, potatoes, and a bottle of coke. You gave your order to the woman working and she took it, giving it to the cook in the window. You both sat there in silence, barely looking at each other. William got his coke first, you got your malt shortly thereafter.

You both didn’t say a word to each other, even after you got your food and ate it. You both paid, left, and got into the car.

After a bit of tense silence, William spoke, apologising for his behaviour and admitting you were right he was being creepy. After that, it was like nothing had happened. You both started talking about anything and everything under the sun, but then while you were in the middle of complaining about the asshole jock who has been giving you problems, William interrupted you.

“You know... the way you talk about him,” he said, “It sounds an awful lot about how I would talk about a girl who used to annoy the hell out of me that I happened to have a major crush on.”

“Joan?”

“Yeah, her.”

“What’re you playing at?” you asked, feeling your stomach tighten in fear.

“I’m just saying,” he said, dropping his voice down to a whisper, “Are you a...you know..?”

“No, I don’t know.” You said, giving a nervous chuckle.

“A...A...” he said, trying to grasp the words, “A...you know, a- a homosexual.”

He whispered the last word in your direction tentatively even though it was just you and him in the car. He parked in front of the football field and killed the engine. You stared at him.

“I...I’m not--”

“Listen, I’m okay with it, you don’t have to act like I’m going to turn you in to the police or anything,” he said.

“Well I kind of have to be that way around everyone. Last time I checked, this is 1955 and being a homosexual is illegal.”

“Yeah, well black folks using the same restrooms as white folks is illegal, too, and that isn’t right either. Law isn’t the pillar of morality.”

“Just don’t let anyone outside of this car hear that.” you laughed.

You two both shared a laugh for a good minute before falling silent. William looked at you with a friendly smile.

“I hope that we both live long enough to see the day people can live together in peace without givin’ a shit about who loves who or who has what skin colour.” he remarked before putting his hand on the door handle and getting out, “Now, come on, I’ve got a few minutes before I have to be in the stands.”

You followed him out, paying the ticket master the fee for the game and then parting ways with your friend. You sat at the front of the bleachers, overlooking the freshly mown and painted grass. The cheerleaders from both teams were already on the grass and practicing their routines, and you could hear the other school’s band rehearsing. The football team was also on the grass, presumably going over plays and runs or whatever those silly meatheads talked about. Something to do with pig skins, you knew that much. As the sky turned from blue to an array of farewell hues, more people filed into the bleachers, talking loudly and making you very nervous. You wanted to escape into the restrooms, but you knew that wouldn’t be the most splendid idea given the last time you did that, you got a new hairstyle courtesy of a player’s hand and the flushing toilet.

Even as the game began and progressed, you found yourself sucked in even though you didn’t understand a single thing about football. Your chest swelled with pride every time your college’s team made a point, especially when that asshole was the one who made the touchdown. While catching a sneaky look at his ass, you noticed the name on the back of his jersey: “DRIVER.”

Driver. A fitting name for such an athletic guy. Even if he was the most attractive jerk you had ever met in your entire life. He gave you hell in high school, and he certainly didn’t cease in college.

After one particular touchdown, however, it appeared that he had seen you. His countenance wasn’t like that which you had been acquainted with several times before. It was actually friendly and loose, unlike his usual hard scowl he usually wore. It seemed like he looked straight into your soul, and you held your breath and blushed. Your face reddened deeper as he winked and blew a sly kiss your way.

No fucking way that just fucking happened. He must have had a girlfriend that sat directly behind you. Right? Right???

You didn’t dare to look, both frozen in your seat and by the crippling social anxiety. You stayed in this haze like this until halftime, making your way out of the field and back into your friend’s car. You said you’d come to support William in the band, but that gesture from that Driver fellow was too much for your little gay heart to handle.

You crawled into the backseat, laying across the cool leather seats, watching your breath come out in plumes in the freezing air. You hoped the game would end soon, and right in the middle of that thought, you fell asleep. It felt like you were awake in a snap because William had apparently found you there, shaking you awake like he had earlier that day.

“You okay, man?” he asked once he realised you were awake.

“Yeah, it’s just... something happened and I needed to come out here to think. I guess I fell asleep before I could really finish thinking.” you said, sitting up and rubbing your face, “Did we win?”

“Oh, not by a fucking longshot. But hey, that means better alcohol at the party.” he answered.

“I guess. But alcohol has never really been my thing.” you said.

“True. More for the rest of us.”

You agreed as you sat back in your seat and waited to be carted away to the frat party. As soon as you both arrived there, there were people all over the lawn, some sucking each others faces off, others sucking other things off, and music pouring out of every possible orifice that the house possessed. It was loud, it was proud, and it had a big crowd. Everything you hated, but dammit, if Driver was here, it would be worth the anxiety.

You and William made your way inside, you especially braving the sounds and smells of it all.

You almost instantly became too overwhelmed for your own good, immediately running to the first bathroom you could get into. Luckily, there wasn’t anyone in there before you, so you just shut the light off and hid in the tub, closing the curtain and hiding. You prayed nobody would follow you, but someone did, flicking the light on and locking the door.

Oh, shit.

The person’s heavy footsteps and sultry breathing gave their identity away immediately. It was the asshole jock. The outrageously attractive Driver. He began whistling to himself before stopping by the toilet, acting like he was going to use it before turning to the tub and furiously pushing the curtain to the side. He saw you, eyes wide in terror, cheeks red in arousal and embarrassment. You barely got two words out before his glare choked you and that grin--that fucking grin--made it impossible for you to function.

“So,” he said, picking you up by the back of your collar, leading you out of the tub and pressing your back against the bathroom door. It came naturally to you, following him, almost as naturally as you were already twitching in your pants for him, “Do you know what happens to geeks who hide away in the parking lot after becoming too flustered to function?”

“How do you--”

“And do you know what happens when they have the balls to show up to your frat party uninvited, only to hide away in the bathroom?” his voice was deep, his words were dark and cutting. It drove you mad with lust and fear.

“W-W-What happens?” you piped up tentatively, your breathing laboured and heavy.

He pressed up against you, making you let out a whiney moan. God, how you wished he would just bend you over the sink and fuck you into oblivion.

“Oh, so you’re a squealer? I like that.” he said, leaning to whisper into your ear, “I like that a lot. It drives me fucking insane.”

“I-I can do more.” you said, your lips parted in anticipation. You licked them and gulped nervously.

He pulled away from your ear, looking at your moist lips with a deep hunger and closing the gap between you two, kissing you with such ferocity, it would make even the devil gasp in disbelief. You whined against his fevered lips, silently begging for release. You could feel his own length cry out against his own pants.

After what felt like eternity, he pulled away, still making fervent eye contact with you.

“We both want it,” he said, “But do you want me to take it?”

“Take wha--” you stopped yourself before realising what it was he wanted to take from you, and then answered with: “Yes. God in heaven above, yes.”

He undid his own pants, freeing his own impressive erection first. You stared at it in its pale, lurid glory. The tip was quite a furious pink, one that begged quietly for pleasure. After that, he undid your pants, dropping them to the floor while your own erection stood in wait for its own release. Yours appeared to be less a passionate pink than his. He’d apparently been craving this longer than you have.

“W-Wait,” you said as he bent you over the sink’s edge, “What’s your name?”

He groaned, having rested his feverish dick on your ass, “Adam.”

“I-I’m (y/n).”

“Nice name. Nicer ass.”

“Th-Thanks--oh god!” you cried out and then bit your lip as he shoved himself into you without so much as a warning.

He pumped into you, slowly at first but picking up the pace at which he thrusted into you. Your mind clouded with pleasure, lust, passion, and everything that followed being fucked into oblivion by the hottest guy in probably all of existence. You hoped it would never end, but the knot in your stomach made you realise just how close you were to climaxing.

“Oh, I-I’m gonna...I’m gonna...” you whined.

“Not before I do.” Adam said, his voice husky, reaching around to clamp a thumb and a finger around the base of your throbbing dick. The pain that followed the denial was so excruciating, so enthralling--it was impossibly good.

“P-Please,” you begged, “Please, l-let me--”

“N-Not until after I do.” he insisted.

He started drilling into you, his hips clapping rhythmically against your ass. The pain and pleasure mixing together like hot honey and sugar made your brain cells explode like fire works. You started weeping, begging for climax, dick twitching in an effort to find some sort of relief.

It wasn’t long before you felt him empty his load into you. It was so hot and made you feel so full--some of it leaked out of your ass and onto the floor. He loosened his grip and wrapped his whole hand around your pleading member.

“Now you can. But only at my say-so.” he said.

You whined and moaned as he touched you, gliding his surprisingly smooth hands up and down your shaft. He was going slowly, teasing you.

“Please, please let me cum, Adam.” you begged, “Please.”

“Sorry, can’t hear you.” he said, “You’re going to have to talk a little louder.”

You could hear the grin in his voice. If you weren’t so weak right now, you’d want to smack the daylights out of him. But all you could do was beg. He had you right where he wanted you.

“Come on, (y/n),” he teased, “You can do so much better than that. I’ve heard you in the showers in the dorms before. Such an adorable little voice you have when you’re screaming my name when you think no one else is around.”

You blushed madly at the thought that he had heard you masturbating to the thought of him. It also turned you on a hell of a lot more, especially since he thought it was cute.

“I’m not hearing anything, (y/n).” he said, “Come on. I know you’ve got it in you.”

You gulped and let out a shaky breath. “P-Please let me c-cum, Adam.”

“Better,” he said, gaining a little speed, “But not loud enough. Try again.”

“Please, Adam! Please!” you said, borderline shouting.

He picked up the pace. You could feel yourself teetering right on the edge of pleasure.

“Please, for the love of god, please let me cum!” you begged, to which Adam picked up the pace one final time before finally allowing you to have your very messy release.

Your mind was hazy, and your dick was content with your climax. As your heart thrummed wildly in your chest, hammering away, Adam got you both cleaned up, cleaned up the bathroom, and then led you to the door. Before he unlocked it to turn you loose to the party, he grabbed you softly, but sternly by the neck and looked you in the eyes before whispering to you,

“You’re mine, (y/n).” 

This statement made you quiver, even worse when he kissed you a final time.

“Now have a good time at the party. If anyone gives you trouble...I’ll give them a taste of hell.”

THANKS FOR READING! Hooboy that was *fans self* lord have mercy...

[handstitchedcircuitboards]

“I brought him a cheeseburger and tequila, and yet he’s still mad at me!”

Hanzo looks frazzled. It’s novel. Genji’s never seen Hanzo frazzled before. Hanzo’s chewing on the post of his lip piercing, which is doing some unsettling things with the structure of his lower lip. Genji winces.

“Okay, but you did put IU down as winning the tournament.”

Bewilderment. This is just a banner event for strange Hanzo faces. Genji should be documenting this for posterity.

“IU is going to win, and I want the pot,” Hanzo says. He was probably aiming for a reasonable tone, but he’s clearly said that exact sentence so many times he breezes through it like it’s some magical incantation meant to summon some specter of practicality. Genji grins, with extra shit eating.

“Okay, but it’s IU.”

“They have the best record in the league!”

“But it’s IU.” Genji bites his lip to keep from laughing.

“O. E. A. Vowels! Who cares!”

“That stands for Indiana University,” Genji says, quite magnanimously he thinks.

Hanzo makes and expansive gesture that can only be interpreted as so-fucking-what. Genji laughs this time, he can’t help it.

“Fine, if you’re not going to help,” Hanzo snarls, crossing his arms.

“Ask Fareeha,” Genji wheezes.

--

Fareeha whistles a long, low tone. Hanzo clamps down on his knee jerk response.

“Yeah, you fucked up.”

“I noticed,” Hanzo says through gritted teeth.

“Seriously. IU? In this house?”

Hanzo pinches the bridge of his nose and declines to mention their record again.

“First off, Huskies or die, but if you’d put down UCLA, you’d have gotten some brownie points.”

“UCLA has the worst record!”

Hanzo put some serious effort into his bracket. He’d been cajoled into joining the betting pool in the first place, but once he had, he’d sat down to do some serious research on the various American college basketball teams. After running the numbers, he’d found that placing Indiana University as the eventual winner was the mostly likely outcome. UCLA had a minuscule chance, based on his research.

“Okay,” Fareeha reaches out and places her hands on Hanzo’s shoulders. This close, he’s acutely aware of how much taller she is. “Next time, go with the Cats or the Boilermakers. He’ll love that.”

“But—!” Hanzo says faintly.

Fareeha grimaces.

“Ican’tbelieveI’msayingthis, look buddy, you can support IU or you can tap my brother, but you can’t do both.”

Fareeha lets him go and then claps her hands together.

“And with that, we are done here.”

--

Ana clicks her tongue. Hanzo fails to suppress the twitch.

“Yes, Captain Amari?”

“Indiana, really?”

Hanzo throws his hands up. Ana sits down next to him and pats his knee.

“I’ll let you on in a little secret. Jesse doesn’t know the first thing about basketball. He much prefers soccer.”

Ana seems to sense his quickly building rage, because she holds up a hand.

“Jack quite likes basketball, and has always supported the Hoosiers.”

“Oh,” Hanzo says flatly.

“Oh,” Ana replies, more than a little sarcastically. “You see the problem?”

Hanzo hums. He did only put down twenty Euros. Twenty Euros isn’t worth dealing with the thing that is Jesse’s relationship to the former Strike Commander. Hanzo sighs.

“May I ask you a frank question?”

“Of course, dear.”

“What the fuck is a Hoosier?”

--

His revised bracket is accepted by the committee, the committee being Athena. Jesse’s reception is cool at first, but quickly warms. Hanzo bites his tongue, and reminds himself he doesn’t actually care about which team wins. Or that winning the pot was at all important, in the grand scheme of things. Jesse’s not peeved anymore, and that’s much more important.

It is fortuitous, however, what happens at IU’s first game. They’re the number one seed, which, by Hanzo’s reckoning, is historically precarious. He had originally hoped they’d overcome, their defense had been impeccable this season, but now he’s rooting against them alongside Jesse.

They’re tied, and it’s nearing the end of the fourth quarter. Hanzo is about to gauge his lip piercing by pulling the ring completely through, but he can’t stop fidgeting with it. Jesse is leaning over his knees, making half punches at the screen. Morrison is tapping his fingers against the arms of his chair, in sharp contrast to his otherwise relaxed posture.

Then, out of seemingly nowhere, a member of IU’s opposition lobs the ball toward the hoop from just past the half court line. It hits the basket and bounces before slipping through the net just milliseconds before the final buzzers sounds.

Jesse leaps to his feet with a whoop, shouting jeers at the screen.

“Hah, suck it ya fuckin’ scrubs!”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Hanzo growls through gritted teeth, all his consternation at having to change his bracket washed away. Jesse shoves at his shoulder in excitement, and Hanzo shoves back at his hip. Jack looks murderous.

Hanzo swears to never to bet against Jesse in American sports again.

[metuere-now-exspiritment]

Join the resistance. Call Spirit.

So the phone rings, like it always does, and she picks up, like she always does, and says, only somewhat ironically, “Thank you for calling the resistance, this is Spirit speaking. How can I help you?”

“Look here, motherfucker, I don’t know what has finally snapped in that puny little pseudo-brain of yours, but you’re fucking impressing me with your stupidity--you have surpassed all human expectations for the dumbest piece of shit alive--you are so ridiculously awful at being alive, it’s a miracle you haven’t choked to death on your own breathing, and thank fucking God for the day that finally fucking happens--”

She hangs up.

Not three seconds later, the burner phone starts buzzing again, some mockery of an ambivalent ringtone that vibrates expectantly in her hand. Spirit glances around helplessly, almost hoping to make eye contact with someone who will understand this pit in her stomach that makes it difficult to move or think or breathe--but nobody looks. It’s just a phone to them, after all. 

She misses the second call. When the ringing begins for a third time, she hurries down the street and back to the relative safety of her apartment. The phone won’t stop ringing. He’s called five times, now, and this is when she finally decides to pick up.

“It’s been ten years, kiddo. Did you know that? Did you really know that? Can you even count that fuckin’ high? Can you stay grounded in the real goddamn world long enough to know that time passes linearly? I really fuckin’ doubt it, kiddo, because this takes the absolute fuckin’ cake of absolutely insane shit I ever thought I’d see you do.”

“I used to think you were out to get us. Like, with them. I thought your ghosts were the people in charge of the people we killed, and I thought you were feeding them information so they could beat us while we were down. Do you understand that, old sport? Do you understand why I wanted you dead and why I left you there? I thought you were the bad guy, kiddo. I thought you had us on strings. Isn’t that so fucking ridiculous, old sport? Because you are dumber than dumb could fuckin’ be.”

She hangs up.

Somewhere past the point of crying, there’s the nausea, and the bloodless face, and the dizziness. Somewhere past that point is crying again. Spirit is aware of the fact that she entered the apartment but didn’t have the chance to move anywhere further than the kitchen; it’s here she falls, knees suddenly useless, and begins to sob.

The phone rings. It rings. It rings. She doesn’t know if it’s him calling or if she can’t stop hearing the last five minutes in some monstrous echo of an even worse version of his words. 

Courage fails, hands shake; her words and her cruel, cold stare are all forgotten as the tile floor chills her bones and she struggles to find air, thinking how that would just be fucking perfect, choking on her own breath, all alone, a house too big for her tears and her lonliness and her stupidity teetering on delusional.

The door opens--in some vague sense of that concept. The door is slammed into and splintered and, eventually, allows her a person to enter. Kind of like a door does, when it’s opened, with torque and a handle and perhaps some knocking. 

“You saw that, right, kiddo? You got that?” There’s no time to think before hands are in her hair and pulling her up until her feet dangle helplessly, like a root vegetable being plucked from the soil. 

Harris stands a foot and a half taller than her. Neither of them have cut their hair for ten years; he’s practical enough to keep his up, accenting a hardened jaw and steely brown eyes. He reeks of sweat and soy sauce; she can hear his dead father and his dead comrades and dead boys from the city killed on accident or for money. She’s annoyed by this--but somewhat impressed. She wonders if he stopped at a casual Chinese joint before breaking into her house, or if he joined a gang just to find her and kill her.

He brings their faces unnecessarily close together; his teeth are gritted in a snarl that makes her wonder how he hasn’t crushed his own mouth. “I found you so goddamn easily, kiddo,” he growls. “All I had was a name and a phone number and this vague idea of you at eight years old. Now, kiddo, now everybody knows your name, and a phone number you’ll answer, and the fact that you’re either enhanced or stupid enough to openly support a revolutionary cause. Now, at first, I think, of course. It’s a trap. It’s a fuckin’ trap. She gets the punk mutants to call her and meet her and then she wipes ‘em out, the tricky fuckin’ bitch. But then--”

His hands go from her hair, to her cheeks, to under her jaw. He holds her effortlessly by the shoulders; runs his fingertips down her arms, extending them and holding her by the fingertips. She feels, for all intents and purposes, like she’s floating in midair. He can’t believe she’s real, that she’s so scrawny and dirty and rough around the edges and yet, inexplicably, alive. 

He doesn’t know how to admit that his escape from hell was made possible by her ghost stories, or that he saw her terror-stricken eyes and desperate resistance when somebody tries to drag her back into solitary. He doesn’t know how to tell her what it looked like, to see her with her tiny fists stabbing her creators and interrogators with scalpels until their eyes dripped down their cheeks. He doesn’t know how someone could fake that kind of trauma, that indignant fury. He feels it too familiarly to ignore it. He is also not stupid enough to tell her any of this.

“But then I thought, Spirit has never been strong enough to do anything on her own. She’s needed people like me and Burns to keep her alive. So what I’ve decided is that some politico hotshot’s got you wrapped around his fuckin’ finger, and you’re essentially a glorified receptionist for someone who can, y’know, break brick walls or commit mass arson.”

When Harris was younger, he relied on physical violence to hone his cruelty, sharp as a blade. She’s stunned he’s become better than that.

“And since I’m not the biggest idiot on Earth like you, I realize that powerful people like that, they don’t keep their receptionists. They don’t treasure the little pieces in big games. This guy, he’s got connection. He knows a lot, and hates, one of the most powerful men alive, and he’s keepin’ tabs on all of the powerful people in the area. This powerful guy, he puts people like you out there to save his own skin. He’d do anything to keep it like that. Shit, I bet he’d send you right back to where we came from just to save his ass when all this comes crashing down. Going public like this means that you’re not only someone else’s bitch, but also that the people who made us can pluck you out of society in one fuckin’ second, and the powers that be won’t bat an eye. Do you think about that, old sport? Do things like that find their way into your brain? Or are you too busy talking to dead grandmas and crying ‘cause I broke your poor fuckin’ arm?”

“You never made me cry, Harry.” And to prove it, she grins her grin of invincibility in childhood, even as his fingers dig into her arms hard enough to make her immediately wonder if something is swollen or sprained. “Where’s Burns, Harry? Where’s Juni? I wanted to see them.” She can’t mock herself flippantly  enough to hide how desperate the request really is.

He smiles maliciously, thinly. He says nothing. He thinks of the small house in the suburbs where he lives with Juniper, Burns, and Lila, providing them like a patriarch is supposed to, keeping them safe and keeping them loyal, like a general is supposed to do. He thinks about how two years ago, Burns finally stopped saying Spirit’s name.

His silence makes her falter, but she continues, at least comfortable with the fact, acquired through her radio signals, that he hasn’t killed them. “And I know you think you’re, like, insanely smart, but you don’t know shit about what’s been happening in the real world. You think I’m fucking crazy, I mean--holy shit. Listen to yourself. You’re writing a fucking Die Hard, GI Joe, whatever the fuck movie just to keep yourself looking superior. It’s not like that--”

She grunts when he finally drops her, but now that she’s found the courage to speak, it’s easy to maintain a level stare. It only infuriates him further. Some things never change. 

“That’s real fuckin’ cute, kiddo. Real, real fuckin’ cute. But I need you to listen to me, and I need you to try your best to comprehend me--”

Subconsciously, she had taken steps away from him once her feet were on the ground. Now he grabs her wrist and decreases this distance--and, while he’s at it, twists something the wrong way and pauses his threat briefly long enough to let the snap echo. Her heavy, frantic breathing fills the room until he’s satisfied enough with her response, with her dangling arm, to speak again.

“You know what I was made to do. You know what I’ve already done. If you tell anybody, resistance or whoever the fuck, that the four of us exist--and we exist, by the way, and we-are-thriving--”

She gasps in pain, as if his statement, uttered with such relish, hurts as much as her broken wrist.

“--I will find you. Like I have already done. I will rip your bones out of your skin, and I will stab you to death with them, and I will leave it in Times fuckin’ Square. I’ll take pictures. I’ll show one to Burns. You know what he’ll do? Jack shit, old sport.”

She uses her good hand to shove him, her two good legs to kick at his knees and stomach and groin, all of the sudden beating wildly with both of her arms at any part of his body she can find. She hits him because he allows it. He steps back because he chooses to. The blows don’t make him flinch, or retaliate, or grimace in pain. He smiles like she has smiled. He tousles her tangled hair, for old time’s sake, and leaves her on the kitchen floor exhausted and weeping.