#with the caveat that I went into it

[bluemoonrabbit]

Man, I haven't been this happy since my first year in Japan. Being on unemployment is pretty great. Like nothing drives home that we were not meant to spend all our time working than not having to do that. Mincome for all, safety nets for all.

[sadaveniren]

Girl math this, boy math that, larrie math is the number of fan sightings of Harry goes astronomically down when Louis is on a break from tour and then goes back up right after he goes back to touring 🫠

[zongzhii]

10 min shark

[francesderwent]

when you send out your wedding invitations, they say to expect a twenty percent attrition rate.

what they don’t tell you is it’s not the twenty percent you think it will be. not the cousins you haven’t spoken to since you were both thirteen, not the old roommate living in a new country. it’s the friends who took long drives with you, who heard your most humiliating secrets, who shaped your music taste and your fashion sense and for fragile and overlapping periods of life were the closest friends you had in the world. the same girls whose weddings you attended not quite a decade ago, whose weddings you were in, whose weddings you made speeches at.

you would’ve moved heaven and earth to be there for them when they got married. you did. you took train after train to get to the bridal shower and then got back on a train that same day because you couldn’t afford to take the weekend off. you rubbed elbows with groomsmen, ghosts from your college days you’d never wanted to see again. you took your life into your hands carpooling with a Milanese priest; he told you the whole plot of Arrival on the highway. you bought pastel dresses as instructed and paid to have them tailored. you missed school and missed out on your own short vacations and never, ever got a plus one. but the curse of being the last single friend is they just didn’t have the opportunity to show up for you the way you showed up for them. you knew they would do the same for you, and when it’s your turn, they will.

except when your wedding does come around, seven years later, it’s still not quite your turn. because you can move heaven and earth to show up for your friends when you’re single and they’re the loves of your life. but by the time you’re ready to go to the altar their lives are already full of other loves—they have husbands and toddlers and babies, responsibilities and difficulties and balancing acts that you still can’t understand. they can’t drop everything to show up for you, because what they’d be dropping is infinitely more worthwhile than all the things you dropped.

you keep getting told to ignore the feeling that you’re falling behind, told there’s no mandatory timeline for when you should hit milestones. there might not be a timeline, but it feels like there is a time limit. once you pass the time limit you can still achieve things. but people won’t care the same way. they send you a sweet text congratulating you. then they send you their regrets, and say you’ll have to catch up when it all blows over.

in the end, your attrition rate is higher than twenty percent.

are you finding out who your friends are? you hope not.

[kaeyx]

watching Knight chuuya undress and dispose of his armour while you're waiting for him to crawl into bed beside you and you get the treat of seeing him in the skintight black covers they use under the amour, the slight turtle neck and watching as he rolls up his sleeves to put his hair up so it's not too tangled in the morning

getting to feel his hands wrap around your waist and pull you close to him as he mumbles in a groggy tone about how tired he is from work, how he's so glad he can come home to you. his hand traces up to cup your cheek, its slightly rough from combat, you can assume. but its so warm and he knows you enjoy it on you.

being pulled into a kiss and getting to feel him subconsciously wrap a hand around your neck, pulling you closer while he drums on the sides of your neck..... sigh ........

🌱

Agosufsjdja oh 🌱 anon your mind,,,, you make me WEAK!! Watching his deft fingers undo all the clasps and straps holding his armour on, the heavy clanks of each piece as he sets them down, the gentle clinking of chainmail as he lifts it over his head. Stripping off the tunic he's wearing underneath and hastily shrugging on his bedclothes before he gets into bed with you. His hands are rough from training and yours rough with house and yardwork but neither of you mind, his fingers find their place around your neck and waist as he kisses you desperately, murmuring how much he missed you.

[babe-heffron]

talking to people about masters of the air and its truly fascinating how disappointed they were about biddick dying in ep 3. really wonder if the fairly long gap between filming and release ended up hurting the show in some weird way with some of the actors (austin butler and barry keoghan) having like career defining roles in the meantime which meant audiences had waaaayyy bigger expectations/biases etc

[flashhwing]

I love when I tell people I’m from Colorado and they’re like “oh Colorado’s gorgeous” oh buddy not where I grew up. I still think any area with non-planted trees feels exotic

[bethrnoora]

waiting for the new damian mccarthy movie to drop later this month

[googledocsdyke]

“Death-defying, rule-breaking”: Nietzsche, Supernatural, and the All-American Hero in the Age of Disenchantment

In the 44th episode of the fantasy drama series Supernatural, our protagonists cheat death for the first time. As Sam Winchester lies dying at the hands of a demon, Dean Winchester trades his life for his brother’s, beginning a decade-and-a-long cycle of resurrection and rebirth. The Winchesters, who are tasked first by choice, then by cosmic destiny, with hunting the supernatural and celestial creatures that threaten the world, in some ways emblematise the Nietzschean figure of the “preparatory valorous man,” the hero who carries humanity into a “more manly, warlike age,” in the aftermath of God. However, the show’s inability to imagine heroism outside of the Winchesters, and the relentless continuation of narrative for narrative’s sake, leaves them incapable of dying “at the right time”; ultimately, it is their attachment to the mythology of their own heroism that costs them the dignity of a Nietzschean hero. Against the backdrop of an increasingly senseless world in which gods have lost all enchantment, they insist with futile relentlessness on their own meaning.

To read the Winchesters in the context of Nietzsche’s hero, we must first set out the extent to which the world of Supernatural resembles the anti-teleological, nihilistic world that he describes as a result of the death of God. Nietzsche’s madman famously proclaims that:

“God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we, the murderers of all murderers, comfort ourselves? What was holiest and most powerful of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives.”

Here God’s death, which plunges us into a disorienting modernity in which we “stray as through an infinite nothing”, is a definitive event. The world of Supernatural is, by contrast, not a strictly godless world, but a profoundly disenchanted one in which the differentiation between gods and men has all but crumbled. God (also known as “Chuck,” the metanarrative author of the Supernatural story), remains alive until the penultimate episode, when he attempts to have the brothers kill him. “To die at the hands of Sam Winchester… of Dean Winchester, the ultimate killer… it’s kind of glorious,” he rhapsodises. “Sorry, Chuck,” Dean replies, lowering the gun. “That’s not who I am. That’s not who we are.” Chuck lives, God remains, in the strictest sense of the word, alive.

To mark this as anti-Nietzschean is to miss the point entirely. By the time Dean refuses Chuck’s call to become the “murderer of all murderers,” there is simply nothing left to kill. Following the introduction of angels and Christian mythology to the show at the beginning of Season 4, the celestial descends increasingly into the realm of the corporeal. Angels and demons alike take on the appearance of a human body (as Dean pejoratively refers to it, a “meatsuit”) that, with the right tools is tangibly killable the way a human one might be. In the world of Supernatural, you can wrestle a ghost and shoot an angel with a gun. This turn to embodied mundanity recalls Nietzsche’s shocking use of the imagery of murder for God, who appears as physically embodied, possessing human “blood” that can be drained. In Supernatural, as in Nietzsche’s “The Gay Science,” “gods, too, decompose.”

Thrown into relief against this profoundly disenchanted world, at the boundary between the human and the holy, the Winchesters serve as a tentative, if imperfect, replacement for the divine. As they murder demons, monsters, angels, and even Death herself, they gain currency as a folk-hero duo who, in physical strength and moral fortitude alike, exemplify the “will to power” praised by Nietzsche as a vanguard against weakness. They forgo the comforts of middle-class suburbia to drift from monster-killing venture to monster-killing venture, sleeping in dingy motels. This self-sacrifice is justified by the reverence they receive from their fellow hunters and enemies alike: as Chuck notes, Dean is “the ultimate killer,” capable of distributing life and death in a near-godlike manner. Their “strong and domineering natures” are exemplified and reified for the modern viewer through the culturally specific visual iconography of 21st-century American white working-class masculinity: classic cars, classic rock, and, as Dean puts it, “beer, bacon, and booze.”

This self-mythology of heroism justifies the Winchesters’ keeping themselves alive for living’s own sake. Both dying and resurrected, often by each other, no fewer than 8 times, their refusal to die is in fact part of what holds the Winchester mythology together. At the funeral of hunter Asa Fox, questions about their death-defying are inescapable: “No freakin’ way? Aren’t you dead? Like, four times?” “You were possessed by the Devil?... The actual big, bad Devil, and you lived?” With their resurrection comes yet further disenchantment and demystification of the structure of gods, demons, and angels that suture their world together. By Season 15, our protagonists are capable of casually moving through Heaven, Hell, and purgatory alike with few consequences: what was, in Season 2, the creeping inevitability of teleological death, has now been voided of all structure, direction, or meaning. The immortality of two brothers imposes a Nietzschean meaninglessness on the world at large.

The Death of later seasons, also known as Billie, becomes increasingly frustrated by what she views as the unnaturalness of this resurrection. For Billie, Sam and Dean’s demigod-like inability to cleave to death flies in the face of the fact that “there’s one hard, fast rule in this universe. What lives, dies.” On the one hand, her teleological insistence that proper “order” be installed in the universe, that things reach their “proper” and predetermined end, speaks to Billie’s investment in a structured world that Nietzsche would declare already, irreconcilably dead. On the other, her insistence that Sam and Dean “die at the right time” is profoundly in accordance with Nietzsche. It would not be out of place in the script for her to conclude, of the Winchesters, that “it is cowardice that keeps them on their branch.” In a metanarrative sense, it could be said that the real cowardice at play is that of Supernatural’s eternal narrative, an insistence that the story play out, nonsensically, beyond its own conclusion, until it is dissolved of structure and meaning.

By the fifteenth season, Billie has taken on the role of villain, her hounding of our protagonist to no longer “drag out his thread” framed as unjust and cruel. When she, in the third-last episode of the show, chastises Dean for stubbornly continuing to live, it reads as admiration:

BILLIE: “It’s you, Dean. It’s always been you. Death-defying. Rule-breaking. You are everything I lived to set right. To put down. To tame.”

Supernatural ultimately cannot stare down the barrel of its own meaninglessness. Rather than accepting, as Nietzsche does, that we are “straying as through an infinite nothing,” it sets two (teleo)logical structures against each other. The Winchesters as all-important, “death-defying” hero-gods win out against the narrative of a “proper” death espoused by Billie, but neither is a truly satisfactory answer to the questions the show poses.

By the time Supernatural slouches to its long-awaited end, the Winchesters have entered a world of arch-Nietzschean futility, one in which their refusal to die like heroes ensures that Heaven and Hell are entirely voided of meaning as the teleological endpoint of a life of heroism well-lived. Its own refusal to die parallels that of its protagonists, a dragging indignity that Nietzsche would deride as moral weakness that emblematises the condition of modern disenchantment. If one can travel through Purgatory the same way one might visit Indiana, what reverence can this world possibly have left to hold? All that remains is to decompose.

[sentientsky]

pov: your baby brother is a Weird Little Guy™️

[lesbiansanemi]

I wish there was a way to communicate how overstimulated kids make me and how much I really wish I could reliably be in public spaces without hearing large families/children being insanely loud without sounding like one of those freaks that thinks children should be banned from public spaces

[sabraeal]

Get On and Move Your Body

[Read on AO3]

Written for the irreplaceable (and irrepressible) @bubblesthemonsterartist, who officially becomes OLD(er than me) today! As she already has a few more golden tickets to keep me putting chapters on her favorite niche AU this year, she elected to instead ask for another piece of what we like to call the “Secret Subplot” in WFB. Which means...more Six Flags shenanigans >:3c

For as much as Chief’s planned this whole trip down to the breath, trouble finds them not even minute out the door. Unlike every other SUV His Highness has been carted around in, Big Guy’s Mazda is a mid-size, only enough seats for four grown adults and one guy with the same dimensions as a piece of paper.

“Aw, c’mon, Boss,” Obi cajoles, leaning a hip against the hood. “What’s the problem? We all love each other.”

The problem is that it doesn’t match Romeo’s vision of tucking into the back row and making eyes at each other over the bench seat. But that’s not something he can say, not when Doc is already bouncing on her heels eager to go. 

“There’s not enough room,” Chief grits out instead, glaring at him like he’s the one who made the specs. “There’s no way you can fit three people on that.”

Not without knocking elbows, sure. But Obi’s been in smaller places participating in more...athletic activities. “I dunno, some guy with an engineering degree sure thought you could.”

“It’s really not that bad,” Big Guy insists, like a person who’s never sat bitch in his life. “There’s lots of leg room back there!”

He and the Little Prince exchange looks. Both of them say, this man’s legs have never been anywhere behind the front row.

“We can take my car,” Obi floats; an imperfect solution, but since Danny Ocean here made an imperfect plan, it’s the best they got. “I just vacuumed it last week and everything.”

The correct answer here would be, wow, Obi, thanks, you’re a real one. Or maybe, I’ll name my firstborn after you. He’s not picky. But what he gets is a lip curl so aristocratic it would make guillotines in Paris salivate.

“Why would I go in that death trap?” he sneers, tossing it a gaze so scathing it nearly scratches the paint. “It’s got the same amount of seats.”

Same amount of seats, different driver. One that didn’t have a girlfriend to ride shotgun, which meant if Big Guy did some personal origami, he could fit himself there, and Princess could slide right into the back. And if they convinced Doc to be the cream in their golden oreo, well, maybe it wouldn’t be the pink-stained Wes Anderson aesthetic of pining, but at least his thigh would be all pressed up against hers. That would be like a whole ass base in their weird game of no-contact dating, wouldn’t it?

Alas, the bossguy doesn’t see his vision. So someone’s gotta take a dive.

“All right, all right.” Obi holds up his hands, all charming resignation. “Chief’s got a point. We can’t possibly all fit. So in the best interest of this whole posse, I will--”

Kiki grips his shoulder, hard enough to creak. “Don’t even try it.”

“A-ack!” he hiccups, knees weak under the pressure. “Miss Kiki, I was only trying to--”

“You have to come, Obi!” Oh, it’s not fair that Doc’s been pulled into this, all shining eyes and earnestly clasped hands. “There’s no point in going if we don’t all go!”

“Ah...” He scrapes a palm over the back of his neck, letting it settle over the ache in his shoulder. “Well, I suppose if you’re going to insist, Doc...”

Bossman’s sigh hisses through his teeth, the fight slipping right out of him. “So are we taking two cars, or...?”

It’s with a predator’s smile that Little Miss Shotgun slips past both of them, leaning right in to suggest, “I think you can just suck it up.”

His jaw drops. “But...ugh, fine. I call a window, though.”

Obi’s sure to be all smiles when Romeo throws himself into the rear seat, scowling. 

“No problem at all, Chief.” He waits until bossman’s buckled, committed, before he turns all the potential energy stored up in his limbs to kinetic, springing into the bitch seat with a smile that can only be called unhinged. “I’ve always wanted to be an Obi sandwich.”

Chief’s always had the prettiest eyes, but they’ve never looked more beautiful than this, all wide and wild and ready to wrap his hands around his throat. “But-- you-- I-- Shirayuki--”

“Don’t worry. I don’t mind.” Obi reaches out, giving his knee a nice pat as Doc tucks herself in beside him. “I wasn’t loved enough as a child.”

“Now isn’t this nice,” Big Guy says with a glance in the rearview. “You three look so cozy!”

Chief’s mouth works, a half-dozen complaints circling the runway before fizzling out at the tip of his tongue. With one last sigh, he manages, “Ugh.”

“You know what I like about you, Chief?” He casts him a dreamy look, chin-in-palm and all. “Your eloquence.”

“Obi?” His name sounds so nice grit between Young Master’s teeth. “Go fuck yourself.”

It’s strange, not being the one with the plan. Not that Shirayuki doesn’t appreciate the effort! It’s just...

They’d barely left the roundabout of their driveway before Zen had pulled up a park map, reaching over Obi’s lap to show her that it’s a straight shot from the entrance to the comic themed area. It’s just a smattering of numbers and symbols to her, but it’s clear that for as flat as this map is on his phone, it’s a real place in his head, one he knows well enough to walk in his sleep.

Kiki, for her part, snubs every Dunkins until the last exit. As soon as they’re off the highway, she directs Mitsuhide into a small strip mall parking lot-- just seven shops with the Dunkins sandwiched in between, not even enough room for a drive-through-- and has him walk in with their order.

What’s the deal? Obi had laughed, taking a sip from his iced mocha. They put solid gold in these or something?

Her cup sat in the holder, steaming. Timing.

It’s already warm this morning, but the moment Zen and Kiki step out of the car they both take the first sips from their cups and sigh.

“Perfect,” he sighs, eyes fluttering open to fix on her. “How about you, Shirayuki?”

Her iced hot chocolate has already melted, forgotten after the first sip, and there’s no way she can politely explain that there’s something lost in translation when it comes to taste. So instead she settles for, “Good!”

“Great.” His whole face softens, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way she wishes she could touch, but-- but that’s not a good idea. Not when there’s people behind them in line taking pictures, and someone else with their phone out in the next line over, trying to get their barcodes on the screen.  “Oh, here, I’m the one with the tickets, let me just--”

There’s too many people crushed close for him to comfortably shuffle through; even with Kiki and Mitsuhide stepping out of the way, he still has to stretch between them to reach the turnstile. The ticket taker-- er, guest service representative stares down at him, taking in the mirrored sunglasses and nondescript baseball cap, and a frown brews at the corners of her mouth.

“Ah, here, Boss.” Obi, close enough to rest his hip on the stile itself, plucks to phone out of his hand and offers one of his lop-sided smiles. “Sorry about that. There’s five of us.”

The gaze she sweeps up Obi is slower, dragging around his waist and again at his shoulders, but finally it settles right onto her reflection in his Aviators. It’s not quite a smile that she gives him, but there’s a definite lightness when she says, “I’m going to need you to flip through them.”

It’s nothing that should make her uncomfortable; Obi always jokes that he has a magnetism, that he really knows how to light a flame, and it’s not as if she doubted him, it’s just-- it’s strange to see it in action. To watch a complete stranger twirl her hair and lean close as she scans some barcodes, glancing up at him between each screen as if she’s hoping to catch his eye. And yet the only time he does is when she’s done, letting his smile pull a scooch wider as he says, “Thanks.”

Shirayuki doesn’t think she imagines the disappointment in the girl’s rote, “You can all go in now. Please enjoy your day at Six Flag’s New England.”

“Unbelievable,” Zen mutters as they walk out from under the turnstiles’ shade, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I smile and make nice, and she acts like I’m a felon. You go off and do the same thing and she practically trips over herself to help you.”

“What did I tell ya, Chief?” Obi lowers his Aviators to give him what Shirayuki can only call a saucy wink. “It’s the charisma. Raw animal--”

“It’s the height,” Kiki says with all the subtlety of smashed keys on a piano. “And the scar.”

Zen turns to him, assessing, and scowls. “You’re not that much taller than me.”

Obi’s all mirrored glass and teeth when he answers, “It’s not the size, Boss, it’s how you use it.”

“Three inches,” Kiki interjects, with all the interest of watching paint dry. “And Obi doesn’t skip his core workouts.”

“I’m not skipping, I’m just busy--”

“Don’t worry, Chief, she’s going to be kicking herself when she find out just which GQ motherfucker she snubbed in the ticket line--”

It’s not on purpose that Shirayuki lets them slip ahead; no, she simply gets to the welcome gate, a massive stretch of red brick and Greek columns that reminds her of nothing more than the State’s Pavilion at the Big E, and it hits her-- it’s been a long time since she’s been to a park like this.

She was supposed to go...two years ago now. The senior trip, an overnight to Dorney Park that had everyone buzzing about room assignments, about the last time they went in eighth grade, and ha ha, wasn’t a trip like this for kids? It hadn’t stopped them from getting excited, from spending every moment between periods making plans about which rides to go on, which times they might be able to sneak away and meet boyfriends on balconies or behind Staff Only signs.

Oma had already been sick, then. She’d been slipping between home and hospital every few months, and by March, it became weeks, the bills from previous stays stacking up on the sideboard. A trip to the other side of the state wouldn’t break the bank, but it was still money that they wouldn’t have, another hassle for Opa to handle. It’d been nothing to hide to permission form, to tear it to pieces the next time Opa was out of the house and bury it at the bottom of the kitchen trashcan. Two days in the school library had seemed a small price to pay to keep another worry off his plate. That’s what they did; look after each other.

Or rather, that was what Shirayuki thought they were supposed to be doing, anyway.

The school had been willing to take her even still; her homeroom teacher even taking her out of lunch the day before to explain they had a budget for situations like this, that she could still come and enjoy being a senior like everyone else in her class, but--

But she’d told them she got motion sick. A hard thing to argue with, so they left her alone instead. She’d been good at that. At getting people to look away. It helped that most people wanted to.

There’s a tap on her hand, long bone to long bone-- metacarpals, her textbook would say-- and it’s too firm to be a mistake. Not an accidental brush, but a solid reminder, and as she looks up into the furrow at Obi’s brow, she wonders where she lost the knack of going unseen. “You good, Doc?”

“Yeah.” It’s a struggle to bring her smile to the surface, to try to submerge those raw pieces of herself. “Just...been a while.”

Obi’s not one for extended eye contact outside of a threat, but when he looks at her now it’s like she’s made of puzzle pieces instead of physical features, trying to put them together in an expression that fits in the hard boundaries of her face. And then, with one slow blink, he turns away. Purposeful, even though he doesn’t once fall out of step beside her, and, oh-- he’s letting her compose herself. Letting her choose what she’d like him to see. “I get you.”

For the first time, Shirayuki’s beginning to suspect that might be true.

With a sigh, he adds, “Not long enough, though.”

There’s a small rise to get up to Main Street, and her feet stutter to a stop there, dying to ask why. In books the mysterious companion is always stoic, always silent, a fortress of secrets that no word escapes from. But Obi-- Obi never stops talking, to the point that she wonders when he breathes. And yet it’s never about himself, and she just-- she just wants to know him. To understand why somewhere designed down to the dishware to be one of the happiest places on earth makes his skin crawl. Why he chose to come here even when--

“Oh, there you are!”

Shirayuki can be the first to admit: she’s not paying attention. Even still, she gasps when Zen appears beside her, cupping a hand around her elbow. The cup becomes a catch, fingers latching firmly to tow her through the crowd. “Wait...”

“Come on.” He grins, all eagerness and excitement beneath polarized glass, and it’s infectious. “If we’re going to ride Superman, then we need to get there before the crowd.���

There’s no time to temper her expectations; the last time she walked into a park, it was with Oma on one side and Opa on the other, the buildings along the fairway towering over her, coasts nothing but a distant thunder rumbling deeper in the park, a monstrous set of snakes dueling just over the horizon. She’s taller now though, a grown adult, and for one breathless moment at the top of the hill, she wonders if it’s enough for time to have made places to make someplace like this small.

The worry lasts less than a blink; just a turn of the corner, and-- and--

Red tracks loom over the park, a bright blue car hurtling past with so much force behind it that the pavement rattles beneath her. It flies into a loop, screams trailing seconds behind, and oh, she doesn’t have to wonder why it’s called Superman when it’s got a rise like that, one big peak stretching high enough that the cart doesn’t so much ride up it as it is ratcheted up it, a click click clunk she can hear from the top of the stairs.

“We’re going on that?” The last coaster she went on was in the kiddie area, a little wooden thing that went click-clack beneath her sneakers and relied on centrifugal force to keep them in their seats. Still, it seems safer than this, five-point harnesses and all.

“It’s the biggest coaster in the park.” He hardly needs to tell her that; it’s heads and shoulders above every other ride in sight, save for the drop tower. “When you go down that peak, you experience the same amount of g forces as astronauts on reentry. More than any other coaster in the country until they built Kingda Ka.”

Obi lingers two steps back, hands hooked behind his head, and whistles. “Been studying up, eh, bossman?”

Kiki snorts, shouldering in beside him. “He sure knows a lot for someone’s whose last few experiences with coasters ended with--”

“I was fourteen,” Zen informs her primly. “And that wasn’t even a coaster, it was a tower, which is a much different motion that plenty of people have issues with, and--”

“Shouldn’t we work our way up to this?” Shirayuki would love to sound mild and casual, like she’s only thinking of the group, but instead she’s just...shrill. “Maybe start on, er, that one?”

She flings out an arm, pointing to the track that curls around Superman’s struts like a cat. It’s green, built so low to the ground that it almost disappears into the trees studding the course, and it’s not until everyone looks that she realizes small children are standing in the line to wait with their parents.

“Catwoman’s Whip?” Kiki cocks her head. “That’s a kiddie coaster.”

“And the line never gets that long,” Zen assures her, as if that’s some argument against it. “If you don’t hit Superman at the start of the day, you’ll have to wait hours in line for a single ride.”

“Oh...right.” She swallows, smoothing her palms over her skirt. “Of course. Then I guess...why not?”

“What’s the matter, Doc?” Obi slinks up beside her, all slants and angles. “Throwing yourself out a window is fine but somehow coasters give you cold feet?”

“N-no! It’s just--” there’s a difference between spur of the moment heroics and planning to throw herself from a dozen stories up for fun, and all of it has to do with anticipation “--really big.”

“Ahhh, right. And you’re tiny.” An unnecessary observation, in Shirayuki’s opinion, but with the way has to stoop to make his smile even with hers, she can’t really say it’s wrong. “You know, I can always hold your hand if you get scared, Doc. I’m long enough I could even be a human seat belt, if you--”

“Hey.” Zen’s arm swings down between them, cleaving a space for him to slide into. “I’m the one that’s going to be holding her hand, thank you very much. Ah, that is, er--” he glances at her, a sheepish blush blooming across the flat of his cheeks “--if you actually want to go. We really don’t have to, I just though--”

“No, no!” Her fingers knit through his, palms close enough to kiss. He’s just the right size for it to be the perfect fit. “Holding hands will be nice.”

The thing is: Obi doesn’t really do friends. Or at least, he didn’t. Sure, he’d had kids he hung around in school to pass the time, or other fighters he’d be friendly with until the moment money-- or their girlfriends-- got between them, but not...this. He wasn’t the kind of guy who got six am smoothies at Starbucks after a spar, or who worried about if their roommate would catch them skipping leg day, or who anyone would notice if he missed a meal.

But then Richie Rich pluck him right out of the trash, and suddenly he can’t escape it. Big Guy piling extra fancy ham into a perfectly golden sandwich melt. Princess hunting him down to drink beers on the roof. Bossman cornering him about the state of his resume. And Doc...

Well, it’d be easier to list what Doc didn’t do. So he doesn’t mind getting dragged to some theme park, and he’s determined not to mind being the odd one out. He’d known the score when he agreed to come, known how this would all shake out no matter how many times they told him, it’s not a date--

But they still separate out into pairs without a thought when the lines split for loading. Doc and Chief in one, Princess and Big Guy in the other. One glance at the diagram posted on the wall tells him all he needs to know: two seats to a row, two rows to a car. Best he can do is slip in to the one right behind them and shout across the gap.

The carts roll up, and none of them even give it a second thought as they slide in, two cozy couples with eyes only for each other. It’s cute. Objectively.

The operator scuffs up beside him, giving him one long, measuring look before she calls out, “Singleton here! We need one more!”

His teeth grit down, wincing as Doc looks back, guilt written in broad strokes across her face. He may not be able to hear her over the crowd, but he can see her mouth, “Obi doesn’t have a partner!”

God, being fifth wheel sucks. Good thing they’re worth it.

Doc wiggles in her seat, head swinging frantically from side to side, but it’s not until she glances back, distressed gaze fixed on him, that he realizes she’s looking for the release. That she’s actually going to climb back here and--

“There’s five of us,” Kiki informs her mildly, both close enough and loud enough to be heard. “No matter what we do, someone is sitting alone.”

“But...” Doc stills, and all right, Princess might be the reasonable one here, but Obi still wishes they were in the same car, if only so he could kick the back of her seat. “We promised...”

“Oh, I-- I don’t have one!” A girl breaks free from the group behind him, scurrying up to the operator. “Can I take it?”

Objectively, she’s hot. Tan skin, dark eyes, and long legs framed by even shorter shorts, just the kind of girl he would have taken back to his place after a fight and forgotten about by morning.

She slips in next him, smile nervous as she tells him, “Sorry, my friends are behind us. They’re gonna be--”

“Julie, he’s hot,” one hoots from two rows back. Another adds from right behind them, so helpful, “Get it!”

“--Loud,” she sighs, flushed. “Sorry again.”

“Don’t be.” In another life he’d be interested-- hell, he probably should be in this one-- but all he can think of is red hair and a sweet smile. “They seem fun. This your first time?”

She casts a wary look up the rise. “I’ve done coasters, but...”

He grins. “Well, if you gotta grab on to someone, you won’t break me.”

The look she turns on him is speculative, and, ah, he might not be interested, but something tells him the feeling isn’t mutual. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

After being flung around a track like a hamster in a wheel, Zen doesn’t expect to find the exit ramp the hardest bit. The shaking legs don’t help, of course, sending him careening into a wall with all the grace of a drunk gazelle, but one or two more breaths gets him steady. Lets him find his sea legs, as it were. Just...on land.

Whatever it is, he’s just glad that handful of dramamine worked. Last thing he needs is for Shirayuki to see him hurl into a trashcan for twenty minutes. Especially when he’s got a dozen coasters to get through today, and that’s just the good ones.

“Oh, my...” Shirayuki stumbles up next to him, leaning into his side like a crutch. “Wow.”

It take a second for him to calm himself enough to manage, “Did you have fun?”

She beams up at him, eyes shining and cheeks flushed, and oh, he’s glad he brought more of those pills in his pocket, because he’ll ride a hundred of these to keep her looking at him like that. “So much. Are there more?”

“A ton,” he assures her. Her smile only gets brighter as she braces herself against the rail.

“So, Catwoman’s Whip next?”

“No, no. That’s fast but there’s not much to it.” He chucks his chin out across the park, toward the general direction of South End. “We’re going all the way across the park. The Dark Knight.”

“When’s Mind Eraser?” Kiki leans over his shoulder, squinting at the map he’s pulled from his pocket. “That one’s good. Lots of loops.”

“Right after.” He points to the red track sandwiched between the Superman and Batman’s peaks. “It’s just around the corner once we’re off. Then I thought we might run across to Goliath, and--”

“Hey.” Mitsuhide frowns up the ramp, hands on his hips. “Have any of you seen Obi?”

Zen blinks, folding the map back into his pocket. “I thought he was right behind you guys.”

That thoughtful frown deepens. “He was. But then I turned around and--”

“There.” Kiki nods up to the land landing. “Fashionably late, I see.”

Obi glances up, tucking something in his pocket. “Yeah, I like to keep up the suspense. So chief, where to?”

[skrunksthatwunk]

i just need you guys to know that american schools often don't teach about like. any of the USA's wars past wwii. almost all of the history classes i took centered on american history nearly exclusively and it always trailed off around mccarthyism. i need us to talk about that and never stop because every time i remember it i feel like im losing my mind

[zelda-posting]

tears of the kingdom could have been so good if it were built around like, its story or its characters instead of being a clunky shell to show off the mechanic no one asked for that it forces you to use