( closed for @violentparties ) — “i think i could outdrive it,” harley decided as he wedged the wooden stick into the lid of the paint container that he was currently stabilizing between his thighs. there was nothing like an impeding tornado to motivate him to finish his bike, and as planned, indy was there in the garage to bestow it with her artistry. “like, tornadoes are literally just air,” he contained reasonably, punctuated by a small grunt as he pushed down on the makeshift lever, “and people drive through air all the time, yeah? the only difference between a car and a motorcycle is that cars have walls, so theoreti--” the lid suddenly popped off with an odd squelch, and with it came a volley of paint droplets, dotting harley’s legs and shoes and indy’s pants. “oh. oh my god. tell me those are your paint clothes.”
