#good omens word prompt

[fearandhatred]

Good Omens and "Ghost" 💖

mari my beloved a poem for you!! <3 it is not 900 words this time but i made it about angel crowley again. and the final fifteen again. because i realised i have free will

text under the cut

i can't look at you some days, do you know that? it's not your fault, it never is just a thousand wrong places at a thousand wrong moments because when the light hits your face just right, when i turn to you a certain way, when the warmth of your hands brushes that spot on my wing i see the galaxies behind you, the pleats of that bygone white robe and lavish gold collar and for a moment your eyes flicker brown, the light reddens your hair it's not your face i see from before, it's mine remnants of a being that was, a phantom grace

it's not your fault that you still have that wonder in your eyes that your indulgence is still all-consuming it never is but maybe we met a thousand different times that we shouldn't have

so even as you kiss me i think maybe some odds are just not meant to be overcome maybe heredity is meant to be honoured maybe when fate decides to tear two beings apart, they should allow it because i love you, and i'll love you for all my days but on some of them i can't bear to see your face

so maybe it's okay that you're gone, back to where my spirit can't return to because at least i don't have to look at you anymore, or be petrified that i can't and maybe it's okay that a different kind of hurt resides in my bones now because now you're just another ghost to follow me around, with no one left to revive me

the dead leading the dead

[whickberstreetwriters]

Five Words Friday: a Good Omens Poetry Prompt Challenge!

In the Whickber Street Writers Association discord, we've recently been putting together some poetry prompts.

The idea for this challenge is that our members suggest and vote for 5 words that everyone can then write a Good Omens-themed poem about.

If you'd also like to take part, the words for this week are:

Ink

Feral

Hunger

Dew

Wanton

How to take part:

This challenge runs until Friday 13th September (at the moment, we're running this challenge every 2 weeks)

You can decide if you want to use all the words or just some - we want people to have fun with this, so we're not going to make it a rule to use all of them if you don't want to

Format/structure is also up to you! Freeform, nonets, haikus, couplets, odes - whatever appeals most. The idea is for folks to feel inspired creatively, and there are lots of possibilities out there. You may find this helpful for some ideas

If you choose to post online, feel free to tag us! We'd love to see what the fandom comes up with and to reblog it too 💜 Have fun!

[westwardly]

ok its a little late but i got something this time

for the @whickberstreetwriters five-word friday poetry promt : ink, dew, hunger, feral, wanton

wanton desire

a feral look in your eyes

animal hunger

sweat beading like dew

sink in your teeth and

draw blood dark as ink

and write with it

the music of my

heart

————

i don’t write a lot of poetry but this was fun 🧡

[sentientsky]

a tiny little ficlet based on this lovely comment from @queer4cryptids on this post! (i accidentally made it angsty, i’m so sorry!! but there’s comfort and gay yearning in there, i swear!) when the night falls low and settles against the side of the Earth; when the the dark begins to carry a certain weight, he shifts his stance. he lets himself breathe air he doesn't really need into lungs that exist simply by virtue of his inclination to breath. it's the same pattern Crowley's watched unfold a hundred million times times over—the stretching of a thread until it frays, three women, a set of blades; a wicked inevitability carried in the lines of time-weathered hands.

and still it never changes, never lessens the welling of grief that builds and breaks in his chest, that stagnates and stratifies like layers of sand upon gravel upon so many eons since he first fell from the sky and lost the right to mourn a woman hungry only for bread and a little kindness.

he leans back against a headstone, swallowing down a familiar hollowness. the sparrows have all taken root in the knots of tree trunks. the moon blinks back at him, clouds swaying like an eyelid closing to sleep.

he turns his face away from the light, sucks in breath for which he still has no need. the rough-hewn granite is going to scuff his coat; he knows this with the certainty of having lived in a world full of serrated edges for so many years. and yet he doesn't care. Crowley can't find it in him to give a damn because finally, finally he's there. he's there and he's real and tangible and it's been eleven months, two weeks, and four days since he's last felt the warmth of angelic skin so close to his own. not that he's been keeping count, of course. and Aziraphale's got that faraway look again. the one pressed into the lines of his face in the aftermath of a flood that tilted against the sky; the same one Crowley saw in the stark daylight of a death warrant unfurled and stamped with the name of the holy Mother herself. it's the same, hollow, teeth-gritted look Crowley himself wore as he stood on a hillside reeking of freshly-cut wood, bearing witness to yet another child of the Almighty thrown to the wolves. Aziraphale turns, then, and blue eyes meet black lenses meet amber-gold. "Crowley—" Aziraphale manages, choking it out in a half-whisper, like it hurts—like it scrapes his throat with bits of barbed wire. and, just like that, something in him is breaking and the oak trees are all whispering dangerous things and still, still he can't find a version of this story in which he doesn't lean closer, doesn't press himself forward into air that smells of earl grey tea and old books and something celestial and hallowed and holy underneath it all. and as though he's drowning—as though the moon doesn't watch them with a flickering gaze and the trees can't hear the brush of skin meeting skin—Aziraphale presses his fingertips to the side of Crowley's wrist. he moves no further. the air holds still, time seeming to freeze around them. it's intentional, he realizes; it's fire and it's heat and it's utterly fucking terrifying. even now, so far above ground, Crowley can nearly feel the weight of hellish eyes on his back. a shudder runs the length of his body. and yet. in the atomic space of that hungry, desperate, throat-baring yet, he turns his hand, trembling, to the side. he finds the angel's touch like a bird bearing North—like a compass forever calibrated to a single, fixed point.

"I know—" he rasps. “Angel, I know.” he twines his fingers with Aziraphale's, and it's positively electric. every cell in his tragically, wonderfully human body has turned pure gold, conducted and galvanized and sparking. a sharp, stilted inhale; a quiet anticipation carved out in the space between their pressed hands (and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss...). the graveyard is still. the grief is there, still. the grief might always be there. but the sharp edges dull, the welling in his chest grows steady and slow and gentle. and the world becomes a little less difficult to bear with the two of them holding it up.

[eybefioro]

Woven word request: saudade 😇

OMG A POETRY REQUEST?? And with that word?? Damn. OK let's see what I can do

The paths that you walked

No longer hear your steps

Even if the floorboards

Lay worn, marked, still

Waiting.

The shop across the street is quieter

And its coffee more bitter;

In the places where you made home

Only the memories of your stay.

I'm alone without a piece of me,

And now all the poets in your shelves scream

Saudade.

[caffeinechic]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: 500 Words Challenge, idiots for idiots, ineffable sexytimes, listen they're clowns, but they're our clowns, crowley is bad a feelings, Aziraphale is just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing Summary:

All things considered Crowley had assumed that when he and Aziraphale finally figured out which way was up that they’d start at the top. Relationship wise.

[allthatslithers]

The deep chill of Winter has the Northern Hemisphere in its icy grip. Family groups huddle around the fire for warmth and comfort, telling stories to pass the long nights. All the while, fearsome creatures of the snowy landscape rattle the ancient windows and pound on the thick door of the log cabin. Some beckon people out into the cold using the voices of loved ones, some the embodiment of hunger, and some are furry bipedal creatures, hanging out in the nearby caves.

This month’s theme is Ice Monsters. From the fearsome Yeti to the cunning Yuki Onna (snow woman), creatures of the cold span many countries and cultures. Looking for a few ideas? This post has a good selection to peruse: https://www.deviantart.com/whisperthewolfie/journal/Top-10-Mythical-Creatures-of-Winter-Ice-and-Snow-717911543

Posting of your works will be from Thursday, January 25th to Wednesday, January 31st. We can’t wait to see your works!

"Wait, I'm new here! What's 'A Strongly Worded Note'?" Welcome! ASWN is a low-pressure monthly event. No level of completion is required to post and we encourage everyone to join in. This isn't an event intended to stress you out - whatever you have, even if it's just a plot outline or a sketch, can be posted!

And don’t forget, if you wish to add your works to the AO3 collection, the link is here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/a_strongly_worded_note

[revyn-moonfox]

One worded writingprompts

Mostly for fanfictions since most of these make more sense in the context of different fandoms. But if you find inspiration for your OCs that's great too :)

Ignis (Firespell)

Nightingales

Shapeshifting

Waterfall

Travel

Home

Suction

Cold

Devine

Statue

Fight

Shattered

Star

Childhood

Fairylight

Blade

Amnesia

Flowers

Forgiveness

Foxeye

NorthernLights

Fists

...

[ddagent]

superhero/supervillain au

Aziraphale/Crowley | Superhero AU | FR12 | 1,643 words     Crowley, obituary writer and supervillain, is brokenhearted. It's not every day you fall in love with a superhero. It's not every day that superhero doesn't love you back. I hope you enjoy! The title comes from 'Clark Kent' by Sub-Radio, my favourite band. Please check them out - they're amazing!

Clark Kent didn’t have to put up with this shit.

Groaning, Crowley clicked his fingers, stopping time just as his alarm went off. However, that also meant being stuck in a bubble of time with the same three notes of the Radio 2 jingle. Another click, and Crowley was awash with the sound of drive time radio and the noise of the London streets outside his Mayfair flat. He got up and showered before his misbehaving powers left him with more damp sheets (an indoor rainstorm, you pervert, he hadn’t thought about the Angel like that in…hours). Crowley stood underneath the spray and did his best not to weep. He did not succeed. Clark Kent didn’t have to put up with this shit. But, then, Clark had fallen in love with someone in his real life. He hadn’t been having meaningful, homoerotic conversations with Lex Luthor for the past twenty years. Fuck.

Showered, dressed and angry, Crowley slammed his front door behind him (causing a minor earthquake in the process) and headed off to work.

His usual morning routine involved paper, coffee, the occasional bank robbery if he was missing his Angel. Today, however, Crowley did not make it past paper. At the newspaper stand he frequented on the corner, he was immediately accosted by the front page of The Observer. A glossy, full-colour photo of the Angel, in his white suit and golden mask – his wings, a trademark of the Celestials (that utterly ridiculous and obnoxious band of superwankers) were tucked just out of view. It had finally made the press that the Angel was replacing the Archer as head of the Celestials, leading them into a better and brighter future.

Continue Reading at AO3

[fearandhatred]

Hehehehehe for the one word thing: theft (or words related to that)

i'm so sorry for this it could be five sentences if you squint real hard. also me when writing absolutely anything at all: how do i make this about angel crowley

the dollmaker

the teeth went first, which you lined up with extreme care onto curved wires caressing a plain, wooden pole. they say teeth are what make a face, and i guess that must be true—you would know. i hadn't known yet what you were going to do, so i just watched with my bare, gaping mouth as you chipped my teeth into asymmetrical shapes, carving them into a beast's.

the tongue was next, the larynx too—just as well. i wasn't much keen on speaking anymore, anyway, what with all the blood in my gums. i wasn't keen on smelling anymore, either, the tang of iron and wood flecks that surrounded you like a visible aura. the silence must have been music to your ears, now that i couldn't scream through the pain, could hardly even take a breath.

there were the lips, the nose, the cheekbones. you took it all off my face, like a sculptor trying to return their creation to a clean marble slab, and all i could do was watch. and maybe, along the way, i was even resigned. that settling that inevitably came with constancy.

but then the panic surged back up and out of my body along with my eyes, which you scooped out with ease, and i could scream again, only it wasn't coming from me—no, maybe it was me, the other me, if it was me. i didn't know which way was left, couldn't comprehend what my eyes were seeing: it's one thing to see fragments of yourself scattered around like an unfinished painting; it's another to see the remains of where those fragments were stolen from—oh god, it would have been kinder to be less methodical, to have had gnarled and brazenly sliced pieces of flesh and marrow exploded off of my face, rather than the precise and surgical peeling away of skin, all in one piece like wool from a shearer's hand.

and you painted them a lurid, reptilian yellow, slitted pupils like a knife's scar. i saw this, i saw my eyes only through yours, gold reflected off blue, and for a moment there was something so intimate, so complementary in that gaze, you with your deceitfully gentle smile and weightless hair, that i forgot what you were doing to me. just for a moment. but then it came into focus again, that garish, nauseating colour of my eyes, and that moment was gone. the colour of sick, one more step away from the angel i was, if an angel was defined only through construct; if an angel was defined by spirit, by grace, by acts… you're the farthest thing from an angel i could possibly fathom, and yet here you are.

i closed my eyes, then, and one by one you took, and you took, and you took, stealing everything from me, stealing myself from me. when you lifted my brain out of my cleaved skull, the pain finally quietened, if only for the few seconds it took to rewire it, but it was a reprieve, and i was grateful. and i didn't feel it when my limbs were hacked off at their stems, tourniqueted and cauterised. i didn't feel it when you ripped out the nails from my fingers and toes and replaced them with claws.

and so even as you took, and you took, and you took, i didn't struggle, no, and soon i couldn't struggle. but i didn't want it, i didn't, i didn't. but one by one by one, it got easier, with every limb and organ and joint, with every side sweep of my hair; you've changed that, too. because i thought—oh, i thought that with every piece of me you changed and fit into this new mold, i thought you would at least take it all. i thought you would complete me at the end, so that even changed, this new thing may still be me.

but we're at the final stages now. here come my lungs, my intestines, my stomach, fitting into this new me so perfectly it's as if i'd never changed at all. you've taken the stray clumps of my meat and stuffed them back into me, you've fed me back my blood, and it all works, as if i'd never changed at all. there's just my heart now, resting on the stool you'd propped me up on like a doll, nothing left but stray splotches of blood, but you're not taking it, you're not taking it, what are you doing?

i feel each individual stitch now as you sew me up around my joints and from my pelvis to my neck, a long line like snake vertebrae, weaving in and out of my skin. and still my heart remains untouched, outside of my body, discarded like waste. i start to beg now, because i can, and i didn't want this, but now i'm so close to reformation, to being whole, and oh, i feel so empty, you left the hole in my chest there where something is supposed to fit, and now my centre of gravity is off, and i can't be expected to live this way.

please, all i'm asking for is my heart, just this one thing. i know i haven't been good, i know i struggled, i know i screamed, i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry. oh, but please, won't you take it?

[schmem14]

Rain

@sapphicmicrofics​​​​​​

Pairing: Lily Evans Potter/Narcissa Black Malfoy Rating: T CW: Angst, UHEA WC: 50

*****

Maybe it’s because Narcissa didn’t grow up with Muggle movies and books.  She didn’t get the memo about rain-soaked love confessions.  They’re supposed to lead to kissing and happily ever afters, not whatever this is. “I can’t,” Narcissa shakes her head, face frozen in pain and longing.  “Please…” Lily begs.

[ineffablelvrs]

me when i hear a mere mention of the word nightingale

[wordtotherose]

“Nothing lasts forever.”

Crowley couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even blink. Absolutely should not remotely have been able to think. 

How could Oh, Crowley have been followed up by that? 

Like he was apologising for pointing out something Crowley should have already known. And maybe he should have.

If anyone was to know, intimately and without reserve, what endings felt like, surely it was him. 

He who had knelt amidst the flames of a bookshop and howled the agony of loss to the uncaring world. 

He who had watched eras and dynasties and lives, so, so, so many human lives go by. 

But, it seemed, at some point in the thousands of years since and the hundreds before the fall, he’d forgotten the lesson scarred into his soul. 

Nothing lasts forever.

‘Suppose,’ he thought, tilting his chin up to stop the tears, ‘we might have.’

‘Suppose I thought we would.’

[spacedoutwitch]

Tribble Month 2023 Day 21: Good or Evil

You’ve spent eons shuffling down the brimstone halls, in step with countless other beleaguered souls and poked gently forward by pitchforks.  Or maybe not; maybe the loss of your body makes your mind go, too, and you never were the most patient person.  But it feels long.  Long enough for memories to go murky, and for you to tally up all the reasons you’ve realized that you do, in fact, belong here, with aching legs and sweaty clothes.

And it hasn’t even begun yet.

The gates reveal themselves at last, dark metal and flaring sconces.  Smoke obscures the sights beyond, but not the sounds, the sounds of shrieking and cruel, cruel laughter.  Some demon or other sits high above and calls an order; chains whip out from between the bars and snatch at the wrists of the soul in front of you, dragging them into the dim.

Your turn.

The demon asks your name.  You give it.  The date of your death.  You give that, too.  A pause.  Some strange, mechanical clattering.  Another pause.  A long hissing sigh.  Muttering, too quiet to make out over the carnage waiting for you.  You brace yourself for the clap of irons.

And then pitchforks are poking you in an entirely different direction, off to the side, under an overhang stinking of sulfur.  You glance around; another soul floats there, offering a wave and a wry smile.

“Oh, good, a fellow clerical error.  Was getting bored over here.  Be glad you’re used to waiting, because Heaven is not more efficient.”

(Word Count: 256.)

[ritz-writes]

It was over. The fight was won, Earth was safe, and Heaven and Hell would leave them alone.

They were finally free.

It didn't hit Aziraphale until later that night. They had just come back from a celebratory meal—date? They could call them that now, couldn't they?—at the Ritz, and were now enjoying wine in the back of the bookshop. In a way, it felt like nothing had changed. They’d done this numerous times before, each one as special as the last. It was like it always had been, but it was also different, more important.

There were small things that helped Aziraphale notice it. The way they didn’t feel the need to keep their voices down while talking, no longer afraid of any walls or trees hearing them. The way the food tasted slightly better, though the recipe hadn’t changed. The way the wine was sweeter, his body warmer than normally when drunk.

The thing that made it really sink in was Crowley. The way Crowley’s smile seemed brighter. The way it reached his eyes and stayed there longer than before. The way his laugh was louder than Aziraphale remembered. The way his eyes were lively, looking at the angel like he hung the stars himself, even though it had been Crowley to do so all those years ago.

And Aziraphale just couldn’t look away.

He knew many words in multiple languages, but he had no idea how to describe what he felt when he looked at Crowley, or when Crowley looked at him. Maybe it was because of how close he was to losing him; how close he was to losing them. But looking at the demon—his best friend, his better half—he felt an overwhelming surge of emotions. He felt alive and safe and happy. Oh, he was so happy. So many words, so many synonyms, but none were strong enough to even begin to explain his love for Crowley.

Crowley raised a brow at him. “What?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Aziraphale smiled.

“Because I can now.”

Random Aziraphale and Crowley dialogue that pops into my head with no context. I don’t even know which way this one goes. Go nuts

“What?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“…Because I can now.”

[allthatslithers]

July ASWN: MONSTER REWIND MADNESS MONTH!

It's the All That Slithers Discord's birthday this month, and to celebrate we are going back into time to give you all the previous prompts from A Strongly Worded Notes past. :D

What this means is you can pick any monster from a previous ASWN prompt for this month!

As usual, the last week of the month is when we will share our retrospective monster creations, and be sure to let us know by @allthatslithers and using #aStronglyWordedNote so we can reblog them!

Also, we have an AO3 collection that you can add your works to if you wish, just please keep in mind that only works that meet our “monster” definition will be accepted into the collection. (As this rule is only applicable to the AO3 collection, you definitely can still post non-monster works created for ASWN.

If you’re new here or you’ve never participated in ASWN before and need a refresher on what it is, here’s all the info you need: ASWN is a low-pressure monthly event. No level of completion is required to post, and we strongly encourage everyone to join in and share. This isn't an event intended to stress you out — whatever you have, even if it's just a plot outline or a sketch, can be shared with us!

The List of Monsters Past:

Vampires (August 2021)

Aliens (September 2021)

Ghosts and Costume Party (October 2021)

Merpeople (November 2021)

Horned Beasts (December 2021)

Dragons (January 2022)

Fae (February 2022)

Equine Monsters (unicorns, centaurs, kelpies, etc) (March 2022)

Banshee (April 2022)

Werewolf (May 2022)

Eldritch Horror (June 2022)

True Forms (August 2022)

Harpy (September 2022)

Haunted House (October 2022)

Sea Serpent (November 2022)

Winter seasonal monsters (December 2022)

Elemental Monsters (January 2023)

Black Dog/Grimm (February 2023)

Modern myths and monsters (March 2023)

Minotaurs (April 2023)

Dryads (May 2023)

Build-a-Creature (June 2023)