okay but consider that human singing sounds like babies trying to learn how to talk to Eridians and just-
Grace is pottering around his little house on Erid and singing while he cleans up, and Rocky and Adrian are about to *explode* with cuteness aggression because he just deadass sounds like a little pebble trying to make words for the first time--sometimes swearing, even if he's not trying to--and when he turns around he cannot figure out why the two of them are whistling like teakettles with the Eridian version of the giggles
Simon walks in from the greenhouse, raises an eyebrow while he kinda settles against Grace's side, and he's like "...Ry, you sound like the pebbles in your class. They think you sound like a baby."
and Grace just >:( "I'm not a baby I am a SCIENTIST"
emotional stability is a distant fever dream at best for me but i think the closest i come to it is when i can turn my brain off and spend time with the people i care about and if that's not love then idk what it is
idk maybe not struggling with the simple act of Being Alive for five minutes is making me consider that maybe, just maybe, there's love everywhere that i haven't been seeing because i was so fixated on finding romantic love (which i've always been a little weird about) that i never stopped to consider that there were other possibilities.
what is love if not wheezing in laughing tears with your closest friends because of a stupid joke that none of you remember the origin of but it still hits just right
what is love if not a quiet conversation in the wee hours about how you're terrified that you'll never have more than the cards you were dealt, and the tears that follow
what is love if not the reassurance that yes, you're cared for and you are loved, stop trying to bite the hand that's feeding you and let yourself enjoy something nice for once in your life
the point is i think maybe there's always been love and i was too blind to see it
emotional stability is a distant fever dream at best for me but i think the closest i come to it is when i can turn my brain off and spend time with the people i care about and if that's not love then idk what it is
i think the funniest thing about the gosling cinematic universe is to me, is the fact that the phenomenon of people suddenly getting Super Invested In Ryan Gosling after watching PHM is not specific to him
this has happened to me (and a small group of friends) before, in almost frighteningly similar circumstances
we all watched Good Omens, decided that it was in fact The Absolute Shit, and then a few of us kind of went off the deep end and watched everything ever made by either Michael Sheen, David Tennant, and a few particularly dedicated (autistic /lh) soldiers among us watched everything ever made by BOTH.
we were shipping Tennants and Sheens together. We were shipping Tennants and Tennants, Sheens and Sheens, side characters that maybe had two words through the whole production, it didn't really matter if we could find even a CRUMB of chemistry that might exist, it was eerily like what's happening in the Gosling fandom rn (looking ever so lovingly at you, Sundaydriver. You're mostly very wholesome and i'm glad i found you by chance)
the point is that history is a wheel and we all must spin and it's really funny watching it happen in real time from slightly to the side
so i started writing this fic like, four years ago? and i hit a speedbump that inevitably crashed the proverbial car. i'm tired of it sitting and rotting in its unfinished glory so please enjoy the chunk of a Supernatural x Cyberpunk 2077 crossover/universe swap/whatever Dean is in Night City
Flashes of neon and the blinding glare of a muzzle flash, the sound of shells clattering to the ground and screams echo off the walls of his brain. So, so many screams. Were they his own? His brother? Everything fades away to blackened silence all at once and he’s almost grateful for the reprieve.
Suddenly, there was sound. Dean’s own panicked breaths come back to him as he realizes that he is not, in fact, rotting in line for the crematory like he’d suspected he would be after that job went south. He can smell garbage and rot around him…one of the many dumps around Night City if he had to guess, probably somewhere out in the Badlands. He’s trapped underneath something heavy, nearly buried by it in fact. Like someone had just left him for dead and tried to get rid of the evidence. But rather than panic like he was so tempted to do, he started to dig. He dug until his nails and palms were bleeding but he freed himself after what felt like hours, crawling through the filth and the mud until he was finally, blessedly able to take a breath of air that wasn’t fully tainted by the garbage of the city. Then, a thought occurred to him as he lay in the filth with his chest heaving - Everyone he knew thought he was dead. His brother Sam, his ‘father’ Bobby, and anyone the former nomad had come to call his family were probably convinced that he’d gone on to meet his maker and that thought terrifies him in a way he doesn’t dare put into words.
He could panic later, but right now he needs to get himself back to the city. That’s the only thing he can think of to do.
Dean struggles to his feet with a grunt and starts to walk off in a random direction, one he can only hope will lead him into said city, but just when he starts thinking he’s gone off track he runs across an abandoned-looking Mark 24. The shitty lock on the fuel station door doesn’t stand a chance when he kicks it in with a heavy grunt, stepping around the broken glass and dust piles that’d accumulated over time with only one mission in mind: a drink. There were a few questionable-looking bottles in the coolers but a NiCola Blue stood out to him amongst the others, and two seconds later the entire can had all but been inhaled by the thirsty nomad. It was lukewarm and stale, probably extremely out of date too, but he was just thirsty enough not to care about just how old it might’ve been. Not that it really mattered all that much considering how many preservatives were in the thing and how much of the crap he’d put into his body over the years, but still.
Once he had that and a pack of some garbage junk food in his belly, Dean decided he ought to take inventory of himself. Considering a few hours (days? weeks?) prior he’d been shot in the gut, it was strange that he wasn’t in pain…gunshots didn’t just go away like that. Especially not ones from the huge custom revolver that’d aerated his insides. The Hellhound, the woman had called it. Seems like it was a pretty appropriate name considering he could remember smelling his clothes burning before he’d collapsed from the agony. There weren’t a lot of guns he could think of that were capable of that but…well, what did it matter now? The damage was done and the bastard that had shot him was hopefully rotting somewhere. A man could hope.
The bathroom off to the side has a crashed-in door from some idiot looking to shoot up no doubt, and Dean decides he ought to go inside and look himself over for any wounds that would’ve gotten infected during his little nap in the dump. Happily that seems to not be the case, aside from a little charring around the standard-issue port behind his left ear for info chips, but that damage seems relatively minor when he thinks too much about the barrel of that gun that had blown a hole in his favorite shirt. Just then though, it feels like the store erupts around him with shimmering white light and Dean drops to the ground with his hands over his ears and his eyes clamped shut. Maybe a bug of some kind? A virus getting him would just be the cherry on top of a shit sundae at this point, wouldn’t it. Just as soon as the world seemed to explode though, the racket and light were gone and he hesitated before peeking open one eye. Every pane of glass that wasn’t already shattered by the elements and citizens of the city had been reduced to a fine dust of glittering shards, he had blood trickling from his ears, and there was a faint high-pitched ringing in his head that he couldn’t quite shake.
i don't remember ever setting an IFTT for this blog but i guess i did and the poor thing just took over, i am so sorry about all the random space posts you guys have put up with over the years lmao
i've decided that labels don't matter for shit and i love and care for my best friends as much if not more than i would love and care for any romantic partner and they love me and that's enough i think
not everything needs a label, sometimes you just wanna kiss the homies on the forehead and curl up in their arms to sleep in a pile because wowee isn't being loved amazing?
