heavy tongue

A love for chocolate

Remus awoke that morning to a hand brushing a lock of matted hair off his forehead. Madame Pomfrey was always so kind. He tried to open his eyes but they were too heavy. His tongue tasted strongly of copper and his head was throbbing. He contented himself instead with quiet murmur of thanks before sheer exhaustion took over.

Later that afternoon when Remus finally came to his senses fully, he sat up gingerly and rubbed the crust from his eyes. There on the bedside table, was a pile of chocolate frogs and a note:

You were asleep when I came. I know the next day is always the hardest. Eat. You’ll feel better.
- Sirius


“Hmm. We have more than a few ticks,” she said decidedly, glancing at the clock-not-clock, and running a hand through her hair.

“Would you…” His tongue turned heavy. “Would you like me to brush it for you, again, princess? Your hair?”

She looked at him, and then smiled so radiantly it knocked all the air out of his lungs. “That is a very kind offer, Shiro. Thank you. I…I would like that very much.”

—how to drown in the desert, chapter six: the light

name one hero who was happy

(your lip splits when you open your mouth)
(there’s greed dripping out of the crack)
(it tastes of salvation)

name one hero who was happy

(is your tongue heavy?)
(do you taste blood?)

name one hero who was happy

(when did you stop being mortal?)

name one hero who was happy

(was it ever about happiness?)

some people are born with tragedy in their blood | r.m

Hold my hand, you’ll be alright.

For Week 1 of @rebelcaptainprompts “a hand to hold”

Been kinda busy this weekend and into this week but really wanted to hammer something out for the inaugural prompt :D

There had been no time for comfort, not that he’d needed it. How they’d made it back to the ship, he wasn’t quite sure. He asked her, or thought he’d asked her, but his tongue felt heavy and dry — swallowing the words before he had the chance.

No words escaped her lips other than “bacta” and “hold still”. Her jaw a hard line, fingers deft as she applied pressure at his side. He winced and she sighed, barking another order over her shoulder.

She wouldn’t look at him, or maybe, he couldn’t look at her — the black edging in and out of his vision. He could hear Kaytoo, calm and controlled, responding to her commands.

Her commands. Things must have been bad.

“Hey,” he croaked and licked his lips, the tang of copper slowly coating his mouth. She stared down his side, tongue edging through her parted lips, ignoring him.

“Any more?” She chose as a response as Kaytoo slipped her another patch.

He watched as the crease of her brow hardened, at how distant her eyes had become. His own were probably doing the same, struggling to lock eyes with hers, but she’s looking through him, past him, as if he doesn’t exist —- because maybe she doesn’t want to see it, see him.

It was a face he knew all too well.

She pulled her hand from his side, teetering on the haunches of her heels. She wiped the blood from her hands, shouting another order to Kaytoo he can’t understand. The ship roared to life, the awful clattering of metal too much for his mind to fight past, and he let his eyes slip closed, if only for a moment.

There was a hand in his, and his mind registered it was Jyn’s, because under no circumstance would Kaytoo ever hold his hand, not unless he’d asked. It was warm and slick with blood, gripping it tight as he fought to open his eyes.

Too heavy, he thought.

Her mouth wandered his cheek, the warm puff of heat there a respite from the rest of his frozen limbs. She’s saying something, or trying to, the air moving and parting as if words are coming but he can’t quite hear them. Perhaps because she doesn’t quite know what to say, how to comfort him. Because maybe she can’t speak what she wants to tell him —- “you’ll be alright, it’s going to be alright” —- because right now, maybe she’s not quite sure how true that is.

He feels her weight shift, their hands unclasped briefly before she’s curled at his side, tucked against his shoulder. She seeks out his hand, and he threads his with hers, wishing he could thank her, comfort her in some way, do more than simply squeeze her hand in reply.

But when she exhaled, let go of every last bit of breath she’d held in relief, maybe it had been enough.

As he tightened his hold around each finger, he felt her lips smile against his shoulder, and he was certain it had been enough.

anonymous asked:

What would happen if They cheated on Guardienne while she was on mission (for 2 months) and she came back earlier (She still doesn't know they cheated on her) Luv your blog :>

I experimented a bit with this request since I wanted to try a different scenario style. I hope you don’t mind, Anon! 

Here are your scenarios! If this isn’t what you wanted, then please let me know.


He’s never regretted anything more in his entire life. He did it because he was lonely, miserable with you gone. She was nice, kind and very interested in him. So he gave into his primal instincts and spent the night with her.

The next day, you came back all smiles and sunshine. So very happy to see him, ignorant of the terrible sin he’d committed.

He admits to you almost immediately what he’s done, the guilt of betraying your trust too heavy to stay his tongue.

You’re angry, furious, hurt and he knows it’s his fault.

He won’t beg you to take him back, won’t even try. He doesn’t deserve you. He can only apologise, again and again, and pray that one day, you’ll forgive him.

Nevra –

He’s been going behind your back for months now. He doesn’t know why he’s doing, only know he can. And with you gone, he could spend even more time with his side girl.

He doesn’t think, even for a moment, you’ll come back early. But you do, barging into your shred room with a big smile, that falters and falls at the sight of him fucking some other woman into the bed.

He should have seen this coming, should have known he’d be caught, but he didn’t and he doesn’t know what to say in the face of your justified fury. He tries apologising, tries winning you back but everything fails.

He can’t believe what he’s done. Can’t believe he’s let the best thing that’s ever happened to go. He messed up, and there’s nothing he can do to fix it.

Ezarel –

Loneliness isn’t a feeling Ezarel is accustomed to, not one he likes. But since you’ve been gone, that’s all he’s felt. He was just looking for a distraction, something to numb him from the feeling. He’d found it in the bottom of a bottle, and the bed of somebody else.

He regretted it immediately, had broken things off the second he’d rose from their bed, but the weight of his disloyalty weighed heavily on his shoulders.

He was going to tell you. He wouldn’t be surprised if his stupidity was going to be the end of your relationship, but you deserved to know. But you found out yourself.

He didn’t know how, or when but you did. And you were enraged. He couldn’t blame you, quietly taking your rage and pain as it came.

He wished he could turn back time, stop himself from going too far, but he can’t and now he’s lost one thing he’s ever loved.

Heavy eyes, but the tongue won’t stutter
Mouths are moving and this heart is still fluttering
I’m on my own

You found me in the cold
Now I am wrapped within the warmth of your touch
There’s never a moment that I let slip by in your eyes
Are we growing old and am I melting in the rays of this love?
Never ever gonna let you go
Don’t let go

m a t t y // s e x

Merely weeks later - the first time he felt you, all of you. Fucked you into oblivion. A fight with your boyfriend, Matty had wanted to kill him. Mattress - back of his van. Pleading for him to stay with you, fingers - reaching.  Eyes - glazed, but there were no tears, too proud. That night wasn’t the first night he had seen you cry. But the first night he had seen a crack, break in your mind. A hint of vulnerability. A need to be needed - to be good enough, and maybe he could relate. Validation.

His lips on yours - harsh, steady. Aimless - rolling around the mattress, heavy breaths, tongue kisses. Sat atop his stomach, leaning back against his knees - hair springing loose from your hair tie. Begging for a distraction, he offered to smoke some with you, or there was tequila in the front. Shaking your head - you had said you didn’t want to feel numb, you wanted - needed to feel something. Something real. At first - he hadn’t quite understood what you were asking.

Faces - mere inches away, fingers grasping his jaw, warm breaths on his lips, your eyes - lost. Flickering between both of his and it’s a whisper, hopeless tone, “You care about me Matty, right?”

He swallowed, nodding - of course.

Your teeth tugging - your lower lip, gaze not letting up, intensifying. A crack, “Then show me.” - and your hands - down his jeans. A gasp - against your lips, muffled murmurs on his, you’re begging - again. A tragic sound, “Matty - please.”

It wasn’t the first night he made love to you either.  That wasn’t what you were asking for - wasn’t what he was capable of. He had started with the intent of taking it slow, fervid kisses, heavy touches - reveling in the sounds he was causing you to make. But you were beseeching - harder, craving to feel something and his fingers left imprints, teeth left marks. Asking for him to fuck you, and maybe that’s when he lost it. Any ounce of control he had left. Brutal, desperate - carnal. Until the only sounds falling from your lips - breathless whines, pants - his name. His thoughts - incoherent. Your face, legs trembling around him - something more than lust surging - his veins. Everything blurred - only you.

Laying on his side - you sat alongside him, naked, legs entangled. Tequila, blunt between your lips - his tongue, a freckle where your thigh meets your hip. Nine Inch Nails. Gaze drifting over you - smoke swirling, glazing your eyes, and he recalls thinking you looked so alive. Infinite - that moment. Alive - contrast to the circumstances, reasoning. When the tequila was gone - you begged for more, wanting to feel him again.

Alcohol buzzing - his veins,  smoke clouding - his thoughts. It’s a vague memory - you on top this time. Fingers, blunt nails dragging - your hips. Your face - hazy, lips parting. Sounds of ecstasy, rapture - distant. Time lapses - lasting longer than the first, or maybe that was just the alcohol, drugs. Windows fogging.

An obscure memory - fuzzy around the edges, soft breaths dancing over his chest - asleep. Goosebumps - your thighs, his heart thrumming, contrasting to yours - rhythmic slow. Dark. Recalling - maybe this was the start. And he was okay with that.

But -  come morning, you were gone. It became a familiar scene.

But - it was the start of something, the start of tequila induced numbness, sex to counteract the numbness, eventually something stronger than  weed, conversations - life and death, and Matty falling apart over you - and hating every second of it. Hating you. A perfect storm - the beginning.

Now, if someone were to ask about the first time he made love to you - he’d give one of two options. Ask a younger Matty: he’d say July. Your garage.

In hindsight - he realises that night was amidst the final build up, the build up to your final triumph, how you broke him down completely. Maybe it was the calm before the storm, or maybe that night was the eye of it. He was nearing twenty, you nineteen, in truth - that whole year had been chaotic - heartbreaks, and on that night, maybe you just went crazy.

Garage - your space, art. Now it was paintings, drawings, before - you wrote, stories, poems, before - filming, photography. There was a constant new phase with you, and even he found it hard to keep up at times.

Fingers - ripping, tearing everything down, tears running hot, chest heaving. His old Bowie t-shirt, underwear, paint splattering - dried on your skin. Begging - yelling for you to stop. You wouldn’t - destruction. His fingers - curling around your wrists, turning you to face him, struggling against his hold. Hair wild - eyes wilder, broken sobs. He had been frightened.  Calling your name, demanding that you look at him, pleading. When you did - it scared him. Your eyes, his heart ached. Gaze drifting - you’re pulling against him and it’s sudden. Your name falling from his lips and - “ - look at me, I love you.”

Eyes snapping back to his, and it’s desperate, lost - burning. But - his fingers, cupping your jaw, spanning down the back of your neck, holding your gaze - burning, but he’s repeating. Voice cracking - “I love you.”

The first time he’s said it - said it to you. With a proper meaning behind it. Fingers - curling around his wrists, voice hoarse, quiet - asking him to say it again.

So he did, again - and again.

Lips - against his, salt - tears lacing through the kiss. He says it again. “I love you.”

Fingers - undoing his jeans, pulling the shirt over your head. Again - “I love you.”

Crashing to the ground, next to the couch, torn canvases, newspapers - his lips, trailing, tongue exploring, every inch of skin, every mark, freckle, scar. Again, muffled murmurs - “I love you.”

It’s passionate, fire trailing with every touch - slow, craving. But you’re asking for more, and he kept saying it, reassuring. Reassuring in the only way he knew how - the only way he knew how to make you feel needed, wanted - loved. In hindsight, he realises that wasn’t enough.

Because - even on that night, you were still loving each other lustfully, not selflessly.

If you asked an older Matty; he’d say January.  The rather shitty one bedroom flat - London. Almost three years later. Kitchen floor. Him nearing twenty-three, you twenty-one.

The roles had somewhat changed - for the majority of his teenage years, he reckoned he had been the anchor for you, but now - you were, for both sides, something he’d watched you perfect over the years. The art of holding everything together.

Kitchen floor - one in the morning, he had broken a promise. The one thing he had promised you, couldn’t do it. Ripping him apart from the inside out. Jack Daniels and cigarettes. Dark. You were asleep with George.

A light flickering on - you, his boxers, a tank top, rubbing your eyes - and there’s a gasp resembling his name. His heart dropping - in sync with you, dropping to your knees in front of him. Bloodshot eyes, blown out pupils - and he doesn’t realise he’s shaking until your hands are on him. A whisper, voice cracking - eyes flickering, a hint of pain. The sound still lingering around his ears - “Oh, Matty.”

Blood - trudging under his nose, you had wiped it away, your shirt, putting out the cigarette. Sniffles. Sat alongside him - hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. Your hand - reaching for his, his trembling, fingers lacing. It took a few minutes - tears fell, voice quivering, wavering - calling your name, admittance. “I’m high.”

You just nodded, pressing kisses to his knuckles. Fingers - grasping his jaw, asking him to look at you - he couldn’t, wouldn’t. Fingers pressing - turning his face, meeting your eyes. There’s worry, fear - but your hand squeezed his, voice steady, gaze not faltering. “Matty - look at me. I love you.”

And maybe that hurt worse, that was the knife in his gut - because you shouldn’t. He wasn’t worth it. He shook his head, your grasp tightened, firm. “Matthew - I love you, and I.. I..”

Trailing off, defeated tone. A smile - not reaching his eyes, telling you that you shouldn’t have come with him, be better off without him. You refused. Another stab. Forehead to his, warm breaths, mumbled I love you’s. You promised, swore to him that it would be alright, and he believed you.

Hands, lips - starting to wander, silent reassurances. Skin to skin, soft sounds.

Maybe, it was that night. A new beginning. It wasn’t touches, kisses - sex, out of lust, carnal urges. It wasn’t about getting off. Not about getting off to prove the other was needed, wanted. Because that was already certain - decided on, he knew he was yours and you his.

It was slow, sensual - intimate. It was all the unspoken words, frustrations. Eye contact, heavy whispers. Coaxing - building each other up.

It was selfless. He may have been numb - but it was different from anything from before. Forever etched into his memory, because it should have been the night you walked away. Left him for good. But that would come later.

My dreams taste like charcoal now
Like the fires of failure
And insecurity
Have blackened them beyond salvage
They’re bitter and dusty
And taste remarkably like
Everything I couldn’t manage
Sour with sadness I haven’t overcome
Sickly sweet self deprecation
Heavy on my tongue and making me nauseous from the realization 

That I’m suffering stagnation 

But I feel deep hunger, I face starvation 

So I eat despite knowing my dreams have charred.

My dreams taste like charcoal now

I’ve nothing to say but I’m screaming these words

From the rooftops of the world let me fill your ears,

Verse upon verse of emotionless hymns play without music.

With no more meaning than an empty promise,

Less weight than a balloon filled with childhood dreams

My message flies on demon’s wings as he ascends to heaven.

Venom and with, truth and lies, lay calmly in my mouth

Before dripping like honey from between my teeth

Pooling around the my feet, melting like acid into the ground.

A leaden tongue too heavy to move stays in constant motion,

No outside force strong enough to stop it, nor change its pitch.

The scrolls of Alexandria once held these lyrics etched in hieroglyphics,

Just like them, my words will die in a fire that history will forget

Unknown to a people who want them, only to be found by the lost

Forgotten minds who sit in coffee shops and ponder the world

And exactly how there philosophy will never touch policy.

Empty are the words who inhibit the pages of our law books

Ringing hollow as they are dropped on university floors;

Heavy is the weight of the author’s prose, written in dollar store ink

Smudged by disdain and maltreatment of a careful caretaker.

Blessed are the writers who yawp their meaningless work,

Dear are the letters pressed in disarray throughout history,

For to them belong the revolution, the revelation, and the resurrection.


The isms, posts and neos
survey your identities,
your excuses,
measure the length of your struggles,
carve your existence,
onto articles of elusive law.

They tell you,
“Please sir, you are not allowed onto this boat!”
draw imaginary borders around your body,
weigh your worth,
your usefulness,
the colour of your skin,
the heaviness of your tongue
against the criteria
of a ‘Modern’ citizen.

You are the marked body,
the disposable body,
the gendered, the racialized,
queuing a line
that renders you invisible,
another rootless alien.

All the while,
you have been running
the length of your margins
after an imagined home,
a familiar face,
a smell, a sound,
a place where your senses
are grounded.

Human Instinct

Pairing: Castiel x Reader

Words: 1,182

A/N: A continuation of the imagine imagine teaching Cas how to flirt

Originally posted by cassammydean


Nights moved in slow motion. Faint lights passed through the car window as Dean drove on slowly. The car rocked; or it was the alcohol, you weren’t sure.

“Sit up” Dean said and pushed your shoulder so your head would lean on the window.

“I’m fine” you said and Dean turned to you for a second before hardening his gaze on the road.

“We’re laying off bars for a while” he said and you let your head fall back while staring at the hood of the car. There was a dried blood stain right above your head.

“I can’t believe” you said slowly, your tongue heavy in your mouth, “That family died before we got there.”

“I know. And it sucks. We can’t save everyone, Y/N” Dean’s voice tugged at the silence, pulling the drunken haze off of your eyes.

“Let me heal you” Castiel finally said from the backseat. In the dark you hardly saw his face, just his eyes shining from the moonlight outside.

“Come back in the morning when my head hurts” you said and tried laying on your side. The sound of feathers made your eyes shoot open and suddenly an emptiness settled around you. The tension that was always there disappeared instantaneously. You could tell even in your drunken stupor that there was some sort of tension between you and the angel. But whether he felt it or not, you couldn’t tell. Sometimes, for a beautiful moment, you think the moment is there, Cas will finally lean in and validate every thought you’d had about how he felt. Other times, like tonight, he joins you at a bar and some girl will always approach him and he’ll try flirting back. He never tried with you though.

“He never tries, Dean” you whispered.

“Who never tries?” he said back loudly and you raised a hand to your ear.


“What’s that mean? You know what, you’re plastered, just sit up and don’t fall asleep, alright?” Dean said as he made a left turn. Or right. Probably left though. You tried staring at the radio to pick a station, but all the numbers blurred and you tossed your head back once more.


“I’m trying to read!” Sam’s voice shouted and you jolted upright. The warmth of your pillow was replaced by cool air around your neck and you pulled the sheets back up.

“Just one morning of peace is all I ask for” you whispered to yourself while swinging your legs over the bed. Lazily you reached for the small clock beside you and read 1:15 PM. Without a second thought you jumped up and changed, quickly sprinting into the library.

“No one woke me up?” you shouted in Sam and Dean’s direction. “You seriously went on that hunt alone?”

“We left a note” Dean pointed at the staircase railing. “And we’re back before you even woke up. We thought you’d want some sleep” he shrugged and stood up.

“Sorry, Y/N” Sam said and shut his book. “How are you feeling?”

You nodded your throbbing head and crossed your arms. “Well enough to kick both your asses” you said and pulled out a seat.

“Here” Sam slid you his burger, “You need to eat that hangover away” he said and you nodded, taking a bite.

“What are today’s plans?” you asked with a full mouth.

Dean stretched and cracked his back, “Me, Sam, and Cas are going out” he said and you sighed.

“I take it I’m not invited?” you took a sip of Sam’s ice tea.

“Not after last night, you’re not” Dean said and began walking away. “Oh wait” he turned back around, “What were you saying last night about-”

“It’s not important” you said and brought the plate into the kitchen.


The day passed quickly. You helped Sam with research and then joined Dean for some fighting practice. Eventually Cas joined and you laughed as he pinned Dean down with ease.

“He’s a fucking angel, it’s not my fault!” the older brother shouted, sending you and Sam into another round of laughter.


Eventually though the stars began peeking out and you were left in the library once more, the lamps creating halo’s of light in the dark room. Castiel walked in and stood there for some time before asking, “Are you going to join us tonight?”

“Nope, but before you go can I know how Dean going to take you to a bar when you don’t know how to flirt?” you cocked up an eyebrow and swung your feet off the table.

“I doubt that flirting is necessary” Castiel said as you neared him.

“So while I do this” you ran your hands up his arms to meet his neck, “you don’t feel anything?” you asked and watched as he looked at you, gulping down.

“I don’t t-” he began and you stepped close enough to feel his shoes hit your feet.

“Or if I move my hands just like this,” you reached down so that your fingers ghosted over his, “you don’t get goosebumps?” you bit your lip and looked up at him.

“What if I just lean in, like so” you said, turning a bit and pressing yourself to him, “how’s that feel?” you said quietly. With a pop, the lightbulb in the lamp beside you shattered to the floor in tiny shards.

“I thought so” you said and stepped away, giving Cas a small smile. You swiped the glass you were drinking from off the table and began to walk towards the kitchen, still feeling Castiel’s gaze burn into the back of you.

The floor was cold beneath you feet as you padded up to the sink, dropping your cup into it. A warm hand gripped your shoulder and suddenly you were spun around.

“Wha-” you began when Castiel finally closed the space between you and him. Your back hit the wall but you hardly noticed as he pushed you while you tugged at his hair. Your hands finally met his tie and you began tugging at it while he pressed his body against yours.

“Who-” you pulled away from him, “taught you that?”

“Human instinct” Cas said quickly and again his chapped lips were fighting your soft ones and you ran a hand along his jaw. Like magic all the lightbulbs behind Castiel began popping one by one; pieces landed on the counter, some bouncing off and flying across the floor until the kitchen was pitch-black. You continued moving with him, the only sound was your lips and his clothing shuffling until he finally pulled away and you heard his smile.

“Flirt with me again” he said and a soft laugh bubbled up from your throat.

“It’s your turn now” you said and pulled at his tie. Slowly he ran his hands up your bare arms to your shoulders and goosebumps followed close behind. He ran his hands down your neck and through your hair while you stood smiling, relishing the demise of the tension between you while excitedly accepting the beginning of something new and better; simplicity.