It’s Day 3 now and I still haven’t done day 1. WHATEVER. I felt compelled to get this one done, and it’s dedicated to @xiz0rand@dreadwolfiscoming. This is what can happen if you make art that gives me FEELS.
“Hawke.”
His own name is the first thing he hears after the sundering. He had been left alone in the darkness, but now there is light and familiar faces. There are tears then. Shouts. A wail. Hawke hears it, but feels nothing. It’s too late. He was taken and broken.
It’s Fenris who leads their final charge through the Gallows that day. Hawke follows because there is no better way. None of the people he once called friends can bear to look at him. Hawke knows he makes them uncomfortable now. He knows, but does not care.
When it is over, they flee the Gallows. There, on the docks, there is a hurried talk of what they should do with Hawke now. It isn’t safe for any of them, especially not the Champion, broken as he is. When one suggests putting him to the knife, chaos erupts. Hawke watches and doesn’t flinch. He knows he once told them he’d rather die than become Tranquil. But now he does not feel that conviction.
Before the argument even ends, Fenris takes him by the hand and pulls him away.
“Where are you taking him?” Varric demands. His voice had been the loudest in speaking out against Hawke’s killing.
“Does it matter?” Fenris hisses. He had remained silent while the others fought. Now, his gauntlet is sticky with Templar blood and the tips dig into Hawke’s hand. “Do not follow us.”
Excerpt from an unnamed WIP, set during the Four Swords manga, under the cut: It’s tangential to the Links Winter AU, and can be considered background to Out of Time. It’s one of those WIPs I come back to whenever I want to write something with a more lyrical/fairytale-esque quality. Currently un-edited.
Words: 596
Character(s): Red, Miss Fairy. Mentions of Green, Blue, and Vio.
Content warning(s): Graphic description of injury (burned palms).
When Miles Vorkosigan is 17, the most lucrative cargo he spots is a haul of medical equipment. It hasn’t been sitting as long as the canonical Felician, but there is a little slack time from distaste at its destination: Jackson’s Whole.
He makes the trip. He runs into predictable kinds of trouble. He runs into a far more unpredictable kind of trouble when—well, possibly someone recognises him? Or possibly he just runs into a kid who looks maybe 14, and otherwise exactly like him.
There are sensible ways of dealing with this, but I think the Miles way of dealing with this involves eventually dragging back home with 50 kidnapped clones, an assortment of semi-random refugees-slash-criminals, about half an accidental mercenary company, and one baby brother in tow.
and if any of you had, just hypothetically, written, say, 178 vorkosigan saga fics, and were considering writing more,
I’ve got about ninety million WIPs already, but I’ve got the writing bug today, so ask and ye shall receive, at least to the tune of a little ficlet :-D
The Tirion Edain Historical Society was not an officialsociety in any sense of the word, consisting as it did of three adolescent girls: Rainale, Annalote, and Lehtalinde, in whose home the girls met on a monthly basis.
That said, what they lacked in official status, they made up for in passion.
rated e | 9k | amnesia, cults, action, angst and romance | 11/11
Under the scorching desert sun, Shiro picks up a stranger who saves his life– and claims to know him.
There’s a soft rumble in the distance, and Shiro squints as he looks up. He uses his hand to shield his eyes from the sun and to better see the rapidly-approaching vehicle in the distance. The sun glaring off the metal’s not doing Shiro any favours, but it’s easy for him to make out the sleek black and red body of a motorcycle roaring up the driveway.
Shiro closes the hood of his truck and throws his towel on top of it as the bike pulls into his vicinity. It kicks up clouds of dust on the unpaved road before it makes it onto the asphalt in front of the garage, screeching to a halt ten feet away from where Shiro’s standing. The motorcyclist revs once, twice, three times.
“Can I help you?” Shiro calls out, approaching the motorcycle as the engine’s killed and the driver kicks out the stand.
“Maybe,” comes the reply as gloved hands pull off a helmet, revealing a shock of black hair plastered against a damp forehead.
“On a boring summer afternoon, a strange young man wanders into Han’s magic shop. What kind of trouble will he bring to the small, quiet town of Anchorhead?”
Happy Thrawn Thursday… I’m finally getting my ass in gear, by repeated request of @blackmonitor and publishing my third Thrawn Fanfiction! The story is complete ! enjoy
God dammit I did this just for a pun but now I’m imagining this whole backstory where a wounded female goblin flees from some battle and winds up on the edges of the Shire and she’s gonna jump some Hobbit dude named Blinko Tumbrush but Blinko’s so unfailingly polite that his first reaction on seeing someone in a rough situation is to invite them in to dinner and gobbo chick is just like “… uh… ‘kay.”
And then she has dinner and it’s the best thing she’s ever eaten and even her little green brain is able to put together “If I knife this guy so I can take his stuff he can’t cook more of this” so when he asks her to stay the night she’s just like “Fuck yeah breakfast”.
And all the other Hobbits in the area are staring at this new arrival who starts begrudgingly working in the garden (she can pull out the weeds they’d normally have to hitch livestock to) and they’re all thinking “Uhhhhh that’s a fucking Goblin there, chief” except if they actually acknowledge that she’s a goblin then it’s a huge to-do and a lot of excitement and possibly there would be adventure involved in chasing her off. So they just sort of silently, collectively decide they’re going to ignore it and all go “Oh, Blinko finally found himself a lady, how nice, she must be one of the Glumbrushes from over the far side of West Farthing, I always did hear they were on the homely side, not much hair on their feet you know.”
And eventually in due time along comes Korbo Tumbrush and decently cute Hobbit baby but the biggest fucking ears you ever saw on a Hobbit and he’s a bit green and everyone is thinking “That’s a fucking half-Goblin you’ve got there, chief, you fucked a fucking Goblin, you made a baby with a damn Goblin my guy” but this would be an immensely rude thing to say to someone so they’re just like “Oh how nice, Blinko, he looks just like you, has those Glumbrush eyes though.”
And Korbo the Goblit grows up a proper little man in his waistcoat and pipe and every so often someone visits from a different part of the shire and sees this plump green dude with massive flappy pointed ears and they start to open their mouth only for a local to leap right in and go “HAHA YES THAT IS KORBO TUMBRUSH A VERY UPRIGHT HOBBIT WE ALL LOVE KORBO HE’S GLUMBRUSH ON HIS MOTHER’S SIDE (WE THINK) THAT EXPLAINS EVERYTHING!!!” and the visitor just starts nodding along emphatically because this is clearly something that is Not Spoken Of.
I fuckin love it
I. I have to know …
Does Korbo know!? Like is the Gobit aware his momma is a goblin? Or does he just grow up like
“yup us Glumbrushes sure do look different”
He leaves home on an adventure and stumbles n a hoard of goblins marches right up like
“how do ya do fellow hobbits? You know I’m half Glumbrush myself”
Alright, so, Korbo got in a fight once.
Once.
The Tumbrushes are, as a family trade, purveyors of fine pieces of wood. Not of large amounts of lumber, for which Hobbits don’t have a particular lot of call save occasionally, but rather of particularly nice pieces suitable for the making of fine window trimmings, floors, or the occasional carved bit of artwork to be given at a fancy event. Obviously for this one doesn’t go cutting down any tree willy-nilly, and Korbo had spent most of the day out and about looking for suitable trees.
(Korbo also personally assisted in cutting them down, being rather well known as on the strong side for a Hobbit, wink wink, nudge nudge.)
Having put in a genuine hard day’s work and rather pleased with himself, Korbo retired to the local bar to have a few beers and a smoke and to partake in good company, all of whom had gotten so used to pretending there was nothing odd about him that it was almost as if there was genuinely nothing odd about him.
Until along comes Humdil Thumbletoe.
Now the Thumbletoes were what was known in the Shire as “experts on genealogy”. This might sound like quite a good thing when you consider how well-versed most Hobbits are in their family lines, until you consider that most Hobbits are already well-versed in their family lines. A Hobbit being thoroughly knowledgeable of their family tree is not much to be remarked upon, so when it is remarked upon it is more to mean that the Hobbits in question are such tremendous mooches that they have had to dive far more deeply into their bloodlines looking for more relatives to leech off of than any Hobbit would generally consider polite.
Humdil was fairly brawny as Hobbits go, which was about all you could say for him. In fact Humdil had realized that was really all that could be said for him and had become a bit of a bully. And so it was he entered the bar that night with a very put-upon third cousin twice removed (by marriage) and caught sight of Korbo for the first time.
“Why, look at that one!” he bellowed, guffawing. “He’s so ugly his mother had to have been a Goblin, ey!”
The whole bar goes quiet. Aside from the obvious abominable rudeness of this, Humdil has said the thing that is never supposed to be said, and is clearly too stupid to realize he’s right. All heads slowly turn to Korbo.
Now, it is well known that Korbo has inherited his father’s tendency to never give a single solitary hairy-toed fuck about anything. He has currently been in the running to be at least the second most chill dude to ever be born in the Shire. And indeed, right now he’s still looking perfectly calm, puffing on his pipe. He sets the pipe aside, finishes off the last of his beer, and stands up.
“Sir, we’ll be needing to step outside.”
Now Hobbits are mostly a peaceable lot, not given to wars or fighting for any old thing, but a bit of fisticuffs outside the bar is hardly unheard of. Mostly everyone is kind of nervous about this because they’re still not sure how Korbo is reacting to this whole Goblin thing. So someone takes Korbo’s jacket and Humdil’s third cousin twice removed (by marriage) grudgingly takes his, and the two square off.
Now, Humdil was a big Hobbit, it was true, but there were a few things that, being a moron who didn’t realize he was right, and who had never been outside the Shire or seen a Goblin anyway, he could not possibly know.
For one, Goblins have long, spindly arms, giving them a surprisingly good reach for their size… not abominably long, certainly not in the case of a half-Goblin, and certainly not above being concealed by the cut of a well-tailored shirt. Second, they are compact, wiry creatures, with dense muscle over their otherwise lanky forms, and given to that a Hobbit’s already greater mass and the anchoring benefit of large, wide feet, well.
The moment Humdil stepped forward and started to swing, Korbo’s fist shot out like one of Gandalf’s better rockets and struck him directly in the nose. His flight was also, for some weeks after, compared to one of Gandalf’s rockets, though not quite as far and the explosion at the end was mostly him laying on the ground cursing wetly due to all the blood streaming from his nose.
Korbo apologizes profusely to all and sundry for the disturbance, collected his jacket, and goes home. Honey is out picking mushrooms (still being of the more nocturnal persuasion after all these years), but Blinko’s sitting by the fire reading a book. Korbo sees that there’s a newspaper (full of lots of extremely important things like how the pipeweed was growing and which barrels of beer were going to be uncasked that month), so picks it up and sits down to read.
“Evening, Da.”
“Evening, son. Pleasant evening out?”
“Oh, fine. Save for I broke Humdil Thumbletoes’s nose for him.”
“Hm, hm, I see. Why did you feel the need to do that?”
“Well, he called Ma a Goblin, you see.”
Blinko slowly lowers his book, and slowly raises his head. Looks at Korbo for long moments. Raises one eyebrow a little.
“Son. You know full well your mother is a Goblin.”
“Well, yes, but he didn’t know that, and he said it as an insult anyway so it being true or not doesn’t really matter that much, does it?“
“Hm, hm. I suppose that’s true at the end of the day, isn’t it?”
Blinko goes back to reading his book. Korbo continues reading the paper.
“You could have stabbed him,” Blinko eventually notes.
“Aye, could have stabbed him,” Korbo agrees easily enough. “But it’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?”
“True, true, probably would have been a bit of a mess in the road, not very thoughtful to the community,” Blinko allows.
And that was the end of it.
I love all of this so much. Also-
“Sir, we’ll be needing to step outside.”
The power. I set down my drink after that one.
Oddly enough, one might expect Korbo to have trouble finding a lady hobbit. He’s not given to being as plump as his fellows, and his feet are a bit small, and he’s rather, well, tall for a hobbit, isn’t he. And green. Always looks a bit like he’s eaten something that didn’t agree with him.
But he runs into Hilda Greebrook one day in town, and she’s lost her favorite pipe, which is of course a tragedy of the highest order. It’s not unheard of for a lady to smoke, but it isn’t particularly encouraged, either, and so the general reaction is “you poor dear, perhaps it’ll turn up, hadn’t you best be getting home for luncheon?”
Korbo, however, stops to help her look for the pipe, and when it’s nowhere to be found he offers to make her another just like it, if she can tell him what precisely made it so special that it was a favorite, for after all a favorite must be distinguishable by something.
Unfortunately the thing that distinguishes it is that she got it from Gandalf and it’s quite unlike most pipes in the Shire, so recreating it is quite the task. But Korbo sets himself to it anyway, working a bit each night and handing it to Hilda daily to see if it feels quite right, and six months later he’s done it—recreated a pipe that came from the world of men, or perhaps elves, but certainly not that of hobbits.
Hilda for her part discovers Korbo quite likes to read, and though he’s from a reasonably well-to-do family—for hobbits are always in need of new toys and fancy party decorations after all—can’t get his hands on books fast enough to satisfy himself, and, well, her da’s a transcriber, someone’s got to write out the papers after all, and she’s got access to practically every book in the Shire, and ways to make copies besides.
At first people think it’s odd, a hobbit who can’t see asking to borrow books, but then they find out Korbo is involved and asking questions could lead to excitement and so they absolutely do not ask and simply offer up their histories and books of poetry and hobbit folklore (for even without want for excitement there are things it’s good to remember, and things every hobbit child should know so they, too, can grow up properly plump and staying well away from adventure), and resign themselves to never seeing their books again.
And then they find that far from their books quite disappearing, they return in fine form—albeit usually in a timeframe rather too long to be polite—but oddly quite a lot seem to have tiny bits of wood shavings in, although one wouldn’t expect it in a hobbit home? And THEN Hoptus Redbranch finds Korbo one day in his workshop, he’s just stopped by for the wood to repair a door after an unfortunate incident with attempting to remove a colony of bees and rather too much smoke for the moving of bees, and Korbo is simply. Pressing small pieces of hot iron into a very thin piece of wood, making small triangle patterns like no hobbit decoration Hoptus has ever seen, and he’s quite frequently checking into a book on his left that turns out to be one of Hoptus’ own books, and very carefully turning the pages with a cloth so as to not get oil from the hot iron all over the pages—
—and THEN, not long after the news of Korbo’s strange woodburning activities have spread across most of the Shire (and caused no small amount of consternation, because goblins are clever but so often the things they make are cruel and the cause of ever so much unpleasantness), Hilda is seen in her own garden with Korbo with a stack of these thin pieces of wood all carefully hinged together, running her fingers over carefully sanded and varnished pieces and feeling the triangles and recitingahobbittale.
For all those months of strangely disappeared books, Korbo has been translating Westron into an alphabet that can be read with one’s fingers, and making Hilda books, and teaching her to read them.
Nobody is entirely surprised, after about three years, when the two of them vanish for a few months, and come back quite married.
Within a few generations, this is absolutely going to be a thing Not Worth Remarking Upon. So when a young hobbit finds themselves accidentally ripping the knobs off doors when they’re cross, their parents will sigh and the elder hobbits in the village will remark that ‘that’ll be the Glumbrush in ‘im coming through, I told you his ears were a little bigger than his siblings, didn’t I?’ much the same as they always did on Bilbo and Frodo’s Took relations and the resulting hankering for adventure.
Were anyone from the outside to visit the Shire, they’d find a small colony of goblins thoroughly intermarried and also avoiding the usual goblin tendencies towards stabbing, so long as no one is so gauche as to insult them for being goblins.
(Sooner or later, one very flustered hobbit is going to accidentally do the same thing with an orc.)
Fic idea I was struck with the other day and keep thinking about: a Vulcan adopts a cat.
Still thinking about this, even though I’m not writing the fic!
This Vulcan, I’m calling her T’Pen, goes to a shelter and gets a cat, and the shelter employees are like, a bit weirded out? But obviously they’re going to give her a cat, I mean, she’s a Vulcan, she’s Super Responsible, she takes all the pamphlets and listens attentively to all the advice the shelter employees give her, even though it is obvious she researched a lot on her own.
Then T’Pen asks the shelter folks what she should name the cat and runs into That Thing Humans Do Where They Confound a Vulcan With Their Weird Ways
Shelter Employee 1: oh, you can name a cat anything! That’s what’s great! People names, common nouns, whole phrases.
Shelter Employee 2: yeah, nothing sounds weird on a cat. Everything from Chad to Cupboard is fair game.
SE 1: yeah, I mean, you can’t call a dog Chad, that would be weird
SE 2: I wouldn’t fuckin’ trust anyone who named their dog Chad
SE 1: oh word
T’Pen:….
T’Pen: ….fascinating.
Later, in the interest of furthering her anthropological study of Earth, T’Pen has a houseparty and she invites her coworkers, many of whom are human, but others which are aliens, and are fascinated by T’Pen’s cat
Vulcan Co-worker: T’Pen, what have you named this small Earth feline?
T’Pen: I have named him Marmalade.
Vucan co-worker: Is that not the name of a type of Terran fruit preserve? I do not understand the logic behind this choice.
T’Pen: the logic is self-evident to a human.
Human Co-worker: T’Pen, omg, you have a cat! What’s his name?
T’Pen: thank you for your inquiry. His name is Marmalade
Human Co-worker: oooh! yeah, that makes sense, because he’s orange and sweet! lmao, great name
Vulcan Co-worker: …
Vulcan Co-worker: ….fascinating
Human: So, how’s Marmalade?
T’Pen: He has the peculiar habit of walking on my workstation.
Human: Aggravating, isn’t it?
T’Pen: We Vulcans do not feel human emotions. However, I would prefer it if Marmalade stayed off my workstation, particularly when I am working.
Human: Get a box.
T’Pen: Murdering Marmalade seems an overreaction.
Human: No, you need a box with interior dimensions approximately the same as Marmalade’s body, and set it on the floor next to your workstation. Marmalade will sit in the box.
T’Pen: Why do you believe that this will work for Marmalade?
Human: We don’t know. It’s just something cats do. If he fits, he sits.
T’Pen: … Fascinating.
Vulcan Commander: T’Pen, you are posting videos of your cat. Explain.
T’pen: My colleagues are amused and entertained by Marmalade’s interactions with his environment. I am amused and entertained by their reactions as reflected in the comments.
Vulcan Commander (reading): “U haz done me a startle”?
T’Pen: Some of them like to verbalize what they believe are Marmalade’s thought processes. He is a cat, so they imagine that he does not grasp human spelling and grammar.
Vulcan Commander: … Fascinating. As you were. (signs off)
T’Pen (returning to her meal): Now I can haz lunch.
I need more people to write more bits of this.
The Vulcans going “…Fascinating” is hilarious for some reason.
It’s hilarious because it’s the closest they can get to saying “what the fuck”.
au/episode where Obi-Wan and Anakin run-afoul of some Sith temple defensive measure and both completely lose their memory. Featuring:
wandering around a highly contested hell-scape planet fighting absolutely everyone because they both sense doom from both armies and instinctively trust only each other
it’s deeply embarrassing to be beat up by amnesia duo because they’re flailing about really incompetently with makeshift staffs (sith temple stole their lightsabers and their muscle memory is adjusted for a weightless blade) while shouting at each other, “HEY SIR JUST REALIZED I CAN LEVITATE STUFF?!?! CAN EVERYONE LEVITATE STUFF?!?!”
(they think their names are sir and general because that’s what the clones keep calling them while chasing them down)
just the silliest fight scenes as the troopers are desperately trying to demonstrate they’re friendly while also attempting to subdue the Jedi before they die and obi-wan and anakin are really in tune with the force but barely capable at fighting so they mostly just dodge and do cartwheels while like 300 men try to tackle them. everyone looks stupid.
playful bickering over whose older because Sir looks older but maybe it’s just the beard (obi-wan refuses to shave in case General is right)
platonic cuddling because they both get cold and they don’t know they’re not supposed to
they both sleep incredibly well, it’s honestly insane how much better they feel a week-in, even on the run they’re getting so much more sleep
(this can most likely be attributed to a lack of crushing guilt and stress but the cuddling also probably helps)
Obi-Wan struggling to use the force and anakin trying to explain until Obi-Wan bursts into tears because “it’s not easy for him how are you making it look so easy”
“Maybe I’m just more experienced?” Anakin says in a panic.
sparring with staffs like no- this is- this almostright but not at all…
Anakin being very gee whiz sweet a la episode one, like he sees some troopers are in trouble with the quicksand and insists that they go to the rescue.
the group of shinies are relieved but also very unnerved to be rescued by kind and gentle General Skywalker and scowling General Kenobi (Obi-Wan also wanted to help the troops but felt the need to be overly suspicious to balance things out)
alternating between being the risk taker and the cautious one (no change from canon there)
aaand Obi-Wan occasionally going: “What if we’re married, or lovers? Maybe we should try and sleep together, just to see if it jogs any memories" because his default mode is slut
Anakin: “I don’t know man it feels wrong"
Obi-Wan: “yes what does that have to do with anything”
(I’m not very into Obikin so the minor Obikin subplot would be a hilarious source of deep personal and physical distress to them once memories are regained)
Literally the entirety of what happens:
*make out for 30 seconds*
Obi-Wan: *breaks it off* “Yeah you were right that was super weird sorry”
Anakin: “uhhh” (it wassuper weird for him too but Obi-Wan’s a reallygood kisser so amnesia!Anakin now has uncomfortably mixed feelings)
Rex chasing them and growing increasingly stressed because everyone thinks they’re way more sexually involved then they actually are and just knows they’re going to freak out when they get back to normal
supporting evidence: cuddling, calling obi-wan ‘sir,’ the fact that the more time passes the more radiantly cheerful they seem- like we get that forgetting all their responsibilities is probably great but they keep getting more good-spirited (this is 95% because of the sleep), a lot of times when they find them they’re inexplicably shirtless and sweaty (meditating and sparring)…the list goes on
this is confirmed when they freak the fuck out upon regaining their memories. Histrionics, vomiting, avoiding each-other, crying.
so much crying
SO uncomfortable to be around
they get back to coruscant and Anakin breaks down apologizing to Padme and she’s completely understanding, doesn’t consider it infidelity, completely natural given the circumstances, and then Anakin chokes out the explanation of sort-of enjoying his Master’s tongue in his mouth and how he almost even kissed him twice
Padme: ”…That’s…it?”
Anakin: *sniffling* “I mean sometimes we woke up with boners but that kind-of just happens even when you’re in medbay or whatever…”
Padme: “I see so then you-”
Anakin: “Oh ForceNo! Oh wow, ugh. Yeah I guess things could have been worse, but still!”
Padme: “…Amonth andallyou did was kiss once?”
Anakin: “I’m not explaining right”
Obi-wan gets back to Coruscant and attempts to turn himself into the high council and they’re tryingto take him seriously, because he’s obviously distressed, but honey you do understand that it wasn’t your fault, you didn’t have your memories, no one’s upset at you, we’re working on getting counseling for jedi while they’re in the field but please, please we need you to let go of some of the guilt because SO much paperwork piled up while you were gone and you are literally in charge of a third of our army, our galaxy sized army, I know we say this a lot but we need you to power through.
So Obi-Wan’s treating his military duties like they’re penance, and maybe they are, maybe all of his life’s suffering has actually been deserved pre-emptive punishment for being a monster who would seduce his own padawan while he’s in a vulnerable state—
After a couple days of this Plo Koon gently pushes him to talk out what happened because he’s clearly having trouble meditating on it.
Plo Koon: “…That’s…it?”
Obi-Wan: *sniffling* “I mean sometimes we woke up with erections but that kind-of just happens even when you have external genitalia…”
Plo Koon: “I see so then you—”
Obi-Wan: “Oh ForceNo! Oh dear, no. Yes I suppose things could have been worse, but it really is the principle of the thing!”
Plo Koon: “…A monthandallyou did was kiss once?”
Obi-Wan: “I’m not explaining correctly”
Plo, and by extension the council, is working so hard to be empathetic but there are whole planets where french kissing is just a normal diplomatic greeting. Obi-Wan’s been to planets like that. Clearly he’s in distress but, like, nothing happened. Even without your memories you still decided not to pursue that type of relationship. This is…a little exasperating.
Eventual Joint Therapy: Are you sure you’re not just upset about something else and choosing to fixate on the exceedingly brief, not unreasonable romantic exchange because it allows you to just stew in shame rather than do anything productive?
Obi-Wan: “…Why was our relationship so much—so much better without our memories?”
Anakin: “Maybe because you forgot how much of a disappointmentI am!”
Obi-Wan: “…What?”
And thus this becomes a fix-it in which they actually realize they have, like, a lot of baggage to work through.
And also need to get more than 6 hours of sleep a week, holy kriff they didn’t realize how tired they were all the time until they spent a month sleeping somewhat normally.
sorry im in my birds of prey x the batman era, but i think it would be so funny to see harley try and get bruce out of his shell by doing various activities with him like:
harley and bruce go down to the boardwalk/carnival and spend the day going on rickety rides and eating corndogs and doing those dorky photobooths. bruce is standing in the same position with the same blank expression the entire time
harley teaches bruce how to roller-skate and is holding his arms like you would with a kid. he looks like hes concentrating very hard on not falling over but is otherwise completely blank
harley takes him to a nightclub and he stands in the middle of the dancefloor while harley dances on/around him. he has his arms crossed and doesnt move the entire time
and at the end of the day bruce drops her off at her apartment and says “thanks, i had a really nice time” and harley says “me too! you’re a really good hang!” and both of them are being completely sincere.
also it’s so key that harley did dress him and this is the fit:
The apathy has molded itself to her by now, curled around and around her insides like a virus and settled.
And it could be a curse, a slow descent into uncharted territory, but she feels as though she has gone through catharsis, really, has come out clean and holy, all of her old sins shoved into the glove compartment of her car where they rattle around with crumpled tissues and a pack of Lucky Strikes.
Adam Parrish, engineer and rising star at Cabeswater Consulting design company, just wants to live a normal, stress-free life. Ronan Lynch, architect and bane of Adam’s existence, won’t let that happen. Nor will Adam’s unsolicited and unwelcome ability to see ghosts. When a supernatural problem comes crashing in on Adam’s tidy little world, of course Ronan Lynch is there for the fallout. Will the two of them learn to get along well enough to solve the mystery?
Do you like ghosts?
Do you like murder mysteries?
Do you like wild historical fiction peppered with little kernels of truth?
Do you like enemies to lovers? Workplace banter? Sexual tension? Relationship development that starts with very different perspectives on life, and ends with both characters learning to understand the other’s point of view???
“This isn’t sabotage. It’s information gathering.”
“For eventual sabotage,” Ronan insisted.
“We don’t know that yet,” Adam insisted right back.
“So if we find evidence they really are murdering people, you’re what, just going to ignore it because you work for them? Cool plan, bootlicker,” Ronan responded.
“Or we could tell the proper authorities.”
“Pfft. Knew you were a narc.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Adam muttered under his breath.
