Gizmo, our cat of 17 years passed away today. I’m no good at this type of thing, and I’m trying not to cry right now, but I wanted to put these pictures up here, to say goodbye somehow. You were a good cat Gizmo, and I will never forget you. Your absence will be felt in my life for a long time to come, and your place in my heart will never disappear.
in harry potter fandom we don’t say ‘i love you’ we say ‘i don’t think you’re a waste of space’ which roughly translates to ‘hey so maybe our entire childhood i was abusive to you and i’m only just realising how fucked up that was’
Dean barely notices when Sam runs into the house to investigate the nephilim situation. His eyes dart this way and that, taking in the tattered, broken wingspan spread out before him.
All of the times that he lost Cas, he never saw his wings. Not once. And it feels so…final.
Dean’s lips tremble as he casts his gaze upwards towards where he knows heaven is watching. He wonders if the angels care. He wonders if God cares.
He knows Chuck probably isn’t even in heaven, and maybe he has his ears turned off while he’s having the family meeting to end all family meetings with Amara, but he tries anyway. He wants to beg, bargain, and scream, but he’s not sure he can speak. He sends up a plea, his lips mouthing silent prayers.
The air is still. Too still. Deathly still.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut and slumps down to the ground. He bows his head down, but he can’t yet bear to look. Not yet. Not again.
He breathes, and it feels like a monumental effort. He is hyper aware of being alive, of his lungs filling with oxygen and expelling carbon dioxide, and suddenly he thinks he might understand why yoga helps to clear the mind. Maybe he’ll take it up. He could do with a nice, clear mind after…after…
He opens his eyes. Cas is there, but he isn’t.
Dean swallows against the burning lump in his throat as he reaches a hand out. Hand touches hand. One is cold.
Dean stares at the eyes and wills them to open as he curls his fingers around the still, cold hand. And finally, after much effort, he finds that he can speak.
“Please,” Dean pleads, his voice smaller than he thinks it has ever been. “Please. Cas. I need you.”
No. That’s not right. That’s not enough.
“I love you.”
Too late. He says it, finally, after all of these years, and it falls on deaf ears. Ears that will never hear those words.
Dean’s eyes sting. “Come back. Like you always do.” His voice cracks. “I love you. I love you. I love you. Please come back.”
The world is still. Too still.
He’s not coming back this time.
Dean folds himself over Cas’s body and finally allows himself to break.
Since I’ve been traipsing around a different continent for the past three months, I haven’t even seen the rest of the season and the finale… but let me tell you what happens anyway after last night’s Apparent Clusterfuck:
As Dean Winchester stands next to his prone angel, morbidly fascinated by the ash wings burned into the ground around his feet, he feels completely and utterly numb. He’s only had the presence of mind not to step on them, an easy thing given the fact that they’re so bare of feathers.
Carefully, and still without thinking, the hunter lowers himself to his knees, brow furrowed and lip trembling as he attempts to process what is clearly right before him.
Castiel is dead.
Still, Dean can’t help extending a shaking hand. His fingers gently trace the curve of Cas’s cheekbone in a way he never would have allowed himself if the other was still breathing, and despite the fact that his mouth feels like sandpaper and he can feel Castiel’s skin turning cold he asks the question anyway:
Dean can feel Sam staring holes through his back, but that’s the extent of any response to his query.
“Cas, wake up.”
His voice is a broken croak, but Dean keeps speaking anyway, turning bolder and more desperate with every second that reality sinks in.
“Cas? Castiel, wake up. Wake up, Cas! Cas!”
He’s pawing at his angel now, vision blurring until he has to blink to clear it. He all but throws himself across Castiel’s torso to uselessly slap at his cheeks in an attempt to rouse him.
“You stupid son of a bitch, wake up! Wake up, Castiel! Don’t you dare leave me, don’t…”
Castiel is still motionless when Dean collapses against him. “Don’t go,” the hunter whispers pitifully into his angel’s neck. He squeezes his eyes shut and swallows a sob. “Please. I… Cas, I…” His heart is in his throat as he turns his head to press a light kiss behind the other’s ear, moving to put his lips against Castiel’s own for the first and last time. “…I love you, you dumb angel,” he murmurs. “So you gotta wake up. Cas. Cas, I love you, so you hafta…”
When nothing happens, Dean curls himself over his angel and cries.
Sam joins him after a time, crouching to put a hand to his shoulder and blinking back tears himself. Soon, though, they have to go. “Dean. Dean, we have to get out of here.”
“I know. It’ll be okay.”
But when they both turn away from Cas for the first time, God isn’t who they’re expecting to find. In all honesty, they’re not expecting to find anyone… and yet, there he is: Chuck, dressed in a robe and stained pj pants.
“You love my son?” Is all he asks, piercing gaze boring into Dean. Dean takes a step back as if to protect Castiel’s form from his own father, and that apparently is good enough. Chuck nods sagely. “I don’t play favourites, you know,” he says. “I did that once with Lucifer and it didn’t end well… but Castiel is, different. He’s everything I didn’t know I wanted angels to be. He makes mistakes. He learns. And yet every time I bring him back, he ends up risking his life for you.”
Dean holds his breath. Chuck sighs. “I love my son, I would give him the world if I could.” There’s a beat, and Chuck tilts his head to the side. “But we’ve both seen what happens when he has unlimited power. Besides, at the end of the day… I think he really just wants you.”
And then God is gone.
Dean is confused for only a moment before there’s a gasping breath from behind him and a hacking cough, Castiel sitting upright and flushed and so very alive that Dean can do nothing but throw himself to the ground. He tackles Cas in a kiss before the other has time to say a word, pressing him to the floor and putting everything he is into the contact.
When he pulls away, Cas is bright red and smiling with the approximate wattage of the sun. “Dean,” he murmurs, awed. “I’m… I mean, I…”
Dean presses a finger to the other’s plump lips. “I love you,” he says simply.
Consider the peach. It’s delicious. It’s covered in fine fuzz. It’s generally yellow and red or pink. Inside it, around a porous pit, is an edible and popular fruit-flesh that can be consumed raw, or cooked into pie and cobbler, and so on.
But to the Greshami, the peach is far more than a fruit. It’s even more than a way of life. To the Greshami, the peach is God.
From the dawn of Greshami culture as recorded in their history (which is written entirely on leather-tanned peach skins), the peach has been revered as the sole source of food for the Greshami people. Limited in trade by their isolation (until recently, see below), the Greshami developed over ages to subsist solely on the peach. Peaches, like potatoes, contain nearly every protein and mineral necessary for human development, with the exception of fatty acids, which the Greshami ingest in minimal portions from the fatty air that surrounds their region.
As the sole food, the peach has long been revered as their god. That they follow the peach harvest with the utmost solemnity is a given, but the more curious nature of the Greshami is how they’ve incorporated this godly fruit into the rest of their culture:
When the Greshami are born, they are taken from their mothers and immediately given a peach from which to suckle. That peach nectar is the always the first flavor to touch their lips, and in their last rites, it is administered again as they die in the same manner. Their mantra, recited each morning and night, and upon the onset of death, translates roughly as “From the Peach we came and to the Peach we go, for the Peach is life, and life is Peachy.”
The linguistics of the Greshami also show reverence for the fruit. “Hello” in Greshami is “ZnZni-Zni” which literally means “Peach be upon you.” This invocation is a blessing of good fortune. Goodbye is “HuHu-Ha” meaning “Parting is the pits,” also a benevolent though melancholy statement.
The peach pit itself is the currency of the Greshami. This has led to extreme class disparity, as those who have the most peaches to eat get the most pits from those peaches and can afford even more peaches. However, charity is also important to the Greshami, and a rich tribesman who ignored the hungry would be ostracized instantly and permanently. To deny a hungry person a peach, among the Greshami, is total anathema because it is to deny them access to God, a religious offense.
Greshami contact with the European world has been fairly problematic. They were first recorded into European history when explorer and ethnographer Richard F. Burton encountered them by chance when one of their peach peeling ceremonies spilled over into his camp. The Greshami run while peeling peaches so that the skin can be scattered and enrich the land. One boy, known only as Znizne (Peach eater) ran into Burton, who he led to the nearest encampment, a village known as Znu-Az-Zni (Peachville). Burton was given the ritual greeting peach, which he consumed on the spot, much to the pleasure of the Greshami. Unfortunately, Burton had no peaches of his own and was unable to reciprocate, leading the Greshami to consider European culture childish, as children were the only ones in their world who did not carry peaches (the concept of an “Adult” or “Child” does not actually exist in Greshami culture, there are simply those who have peaches and those who have yet to carry their own). As such, the Greshami are very kind to visiting Europeans, who they look down upon with a kind condescension. They are quite helpful to anyone they meet, giving them peaches and conferring upon them the blessing to the young or unfortunate, translated, “May you one day eat a peach so delicious that it blows your dick off.” Note that this is a wholly positive blessing to the Greshami.
The Greshami are a dwindling culture. The Orange-folk of the south and the northern Applemongers (both known to the Greshami as “GuZni” or “Non-Peach people” intermittently declare war on this peaceful tribe. According to Margaret Mead, “The Greshami are a pleasant folk, but a doomed folk. When they are attacked, they merely pelt their attackers with rotten peaches. Their birth rate is low, and they never accept outsiders to replenish their stock. I do not expect they shall live to see the 21st century, no, nor even the 1990s.”
The Greshami number only in the hundreds now, but they still thrive. And they have begun to explore the regions outside of their native land (Gresham in Atlanta, GA, near Melvin’s Used Appliance Sale and Repair). Recently they stumbled upon the local Wal-Mart SuperCenter and their access to its produce section has provided the “XiZni Unu” or “great Peach feast” weekly, when it was previously only celebrated each season. The manager of the aforementioned Wal-Mart has welcomed the Greshami and is currently learning their language:
“The Greshami language is beautiful. They don’t say “I Love You” in Greshami, they say “Znizi zi Zni, Xuzni Hu Zniznu” which means “Your company is as delicious to me as a peach,” and I think that’s beautiful.
Summary: Cuddling up to Otabek has always been easy and normal for Yuri. So when Otabek starts avoiding him, it hurts a lot more than he expects. (2nd place giveaway prize for @some-sort-of-firefly !! Prompt: confessions and first kisses. otayuri. word count: 1237)
They’ve always been
comfortable with being close together physically. That’s how it’s been, and
that’s how it always will be.
At first, it was never the way
Viktor and Yuuri are always draped over each other in public – god,
Yuri would rather never step foot on the ice again than be anything like those
two – but it’s
more of the subtle things, such as Yuri wrapping his arms around Otabek during
motorcycle rides, or Otabek’s hand gently holding the small of Yuri’s back as
he leads them through the streets.
Then it started becoming,
well, less subtle. Such as the
multiple times Yuri has tackles Otabek in a hug after a long period of time
without seeing each other, Otabek playing with Yuri’s hair and braiding it to
different styles, and falling asleep together on the same bed, arms wrapped
around each other.
For Yuri, it’s something
natural, comforting. Nothing calms him down more than Otabek’s touch, warm and
steady and easy to focus on when he’s starting to lose his temper. He’s sure
that his best naps he’s had have always been with Otabek’s arms around him.
Otabek is such a comforting presence that is now hard to live without.
As of late, though, he’s
noticed that Otabek has been distancing himself from him, physically.
Everything else has been the same, but Otabek no longer plays with his hair or
takes his hand, or, well, anything.
He’s been conscious with how he moves when he’s around Yuri, and whenever Yuri
tries to initiate the contact himself, it only takes a few minutes before
Otabek gently moves Yuri’s hands away from him.
concerning. And lonely, he finds out, when Otabek smiles at him apologetically
that night and says he’d rather sleep in his own hotel room for the rest of
their time in France for the Grand Prix Finals. He doesn’t get much sleep that
night. And when he sees Otabek yawning and rubbing his eyes the next day, he
knows he isn’t the only one.