#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!

[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.

[allthatslithers]

January 2025 ASWN: The Undead

Snow falls heavily in the little clearing. Fat flakes build on the small tent, threatening to cave in the thin fabric. A youthful person tries desperately to light the half drenched wood and grass within the hastily dug fire pit. They curse over another failed attempt and pray their companion returns from the trees with some dry kindling.

Just as the flame finally catches, icy fingers close over the young traveler’s shoulder. A joyful greeting dies on their lips as they turn to face the frozen countenance of another long dead.

This month’s monster theme is The Undead! A broad category ranging from zombies and liches to mummies and vampires. You’ll be opening up coffins and performing ancient dark magic to raise these creatures from the afterlife and into your creations.

Posting begins January 25th.

"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 the last week (7 days) of the month! Just be sure to tag as here at @allthatslithers so we can reblog it.

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

[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.

[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

[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.’

[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?

[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.)

[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

[suugarbabe]

magical creatures | m.r. x reader

prompt: may i suggest hufflepuff!reader, or just shy reader who often hangs around by herself or at hagrids hut helping w the magical creatures. yknow the type of person who no one notices is in class cuz she’s so quiet and he’s like,, enamored lowkey bc she’s so gorgiana but so shy. maybe draco calling her a mudblood and matty’s like abt to get in a fight w his own cousin bc of it.

word count: ~2.1k

warning: fluff

an: the end is a little shite, but the rest is good so bare with me.

It was both a blessing and a curse to see thestrals. They were very unique magical creatures in that only those who have seen death can see them. It makes sense, given their appearance. The black skin, the skeletal body, the reptilian face and the wide leather wings. To the unknowing wizard, the animal looked like it came straight from muggle hell. Historically, it was an omen of misfortune to see one, but they were protected on school grounds and oddly enough, they gave you comfort. 

You often found yourself out in this part of the forest after you had a particularly hard day. Hagrid was always kind enough to give you some raw meat to feed them, and this was the first day you could see the new foal since she was born. You tossed a portion of meat its way, the foal slowly coming up to sniff it. Once it had a taste, it came up to you, sniffing your bag and begging for more. 

You laughed at its enthusiasm, gently petting its neck, “You’re just trying to find your way, aren’tcha bub. That’s okay, me too. This world is hard, but you’ve got your mummy here, she’ll protect you.”

A snapping of twigs made you freeze. No one came to this part of the woods, no one but you and Hagrid, and he was going to be gone for another few hours. You stood up slowly, taking your wand from your jacket pocket. 

You held it tight to your side, trying your best to make your voice sound intimidating, “W-who’s there?”

A boy slowly crept out from behind a tree, his hands up in a surrendering position, “Don’t stupify me, please. I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

Your grip on your wand loosened slightly, but to say you were confused was an understatement, “Riddle? What’re you doing out here?” 

“Could ask you the same thing. What’s a badger like you doing out in the forest?” He wore his infamous smirk, and you weren’t sure if he was trying to be charming, or getting ready to bully you. The lot he hung around, was the leader of more like, made it tough to decipher his motives at times. 

“I was just…feeding the new foal,” you gestured towards the creatures behind you. 

He looked at you curiously, “You can see them, too?” 

You stood up a little straighter, “Yes, Mattheo. I can see them. Slytherin’s aren’t the only ones who can come from a tragic past.” 

Mattheo chuckled at this, “Okay, fair point.”

You looked at him curiously, “What're you doing out here?” 

He smiled sheepishly now, “I was watching you.” You raised your eyebrows at this.

“Not in a creepy way!” He tried to assure you, hands straight out in front of him. “I just, I’ve been noticing you.”

“You’ve been noticing me?” 

“Yeah, I mean. You’re…nice to look at. And you’re…cute when you’re with animals.” His cheeks tinted pink at the confession. 

You couldn’t help the blush that crept up your neck, definitely not expecting that from him. You offered him something to feed the foal and he quickly accepted. You watched at he knelt down to the ground, hand extended as the foal slowly walked up to him. 

He spoke in a hushed tone, “S’alright, mate, I won’t bite.” You smiled at the scene before you, rough and tough Mattheo Riddle being soft and gentle. He stayed with you in the forest for another hour or so, both of you getting lost in conversation. 

He had offered to walk you back to the castle, but you insisted on needing to stop by Hagrid’s before dinner, encouraging him to go on without you. 

After that first encounter in the forest, you expected yours and Mattheo’s relationship to go back to the way it was, which was nonexistent. But the next day, when he saw you in the hall’s he ran up to you, quickly falling into step to ask you how your day was going and if you planned on “feeding any strange animals after classes”. He started doing that often, finding you in the hall or after class, asking when you were going to visit some magical creature and asking if he could tag along.

He found himself fond of how soft you were with them, no matter how rough the creature seemed. He would tell you about the grindylows he could see from his dorm window, and the way your eyes lit up made him wish he could take you there and show you himself, just to see your smile take up your whole face again. 

He had made a vow to himself to never subject you to the ridicule you would get if he brought you to the Slytherin dorm. Not because you were a hufflepuff, but because of your blood status. 

As a half-blood he knows that most Slytherins would look at you like a roast to feast on and their utensils would be harsh words and hexes. Over the last several weeks he found himself growing protective over you. 

Around you he didn’t have to put on a mean face, didn’t have to act tough, he could let his guard down. The Mattheo you knew was not the Mattheo that everyone else saw. Where others saw brooding and flying fists, you saw gentle touches and whispers. 

You never expected you would ever call Mattheo a friend, but it seemed that’s what he became. Where you were once invisible in classes, you found Mattheo staring at you. When you were always able to slip past your peers in the corridor, his hands always found you, pulling you to his side. 

You weren’t naive, you knew the looks you were getting, but with Mattheo near you, you just couldn’t find it in yourself to care. At least that’s how you thought you felt, until you found yourself being dragged by said boy to the Slytherin table for lunch one afternoon. 

“Mattheo, no, there’s no way,” you really thought he had lost his mind. 

“Oh c’mon, darling, it’ll be fine. We’ll sit at the end or something. I just wanna have lunch with you, pretty pretty please?” He was batting his eyelashes at you. His stupid, dumb, long and beautiful eyelashes and looking at you with the most pleading amber eyes. 

You huffed out a long sigh and Mattheo cheered silently in victory, slinging his arm over your shoulder and leading you to the table. 

You sat down across from him, listening to him ramble about his latest potions assignment as you filled your plate. The longer he talked and joked the more relaxed you felt. It seemed like it was not going to be as bad as you had made it out to be, until a head of bleach blonde came into view. 

“Ya lost, badger?” Pansy Parkinson thought she was clever, but in reality she was just the same as a lap dog, following Draco around like a pathetic lovesick puppy. 

You shook your head no, looking down at your plate. “Fuck off, Parkinson,” Mattheo’s harsh words head your head snapping up to watch the scene that was unfolding in front of you. 

Draco tsked, “Oh cousin, ran through the lot of Slytherin women already? Needed to find yourself a little mudblood to entertain you?”

Mattheo was up so quickly it seemed like your eyes had glitched. The smirk was immediately gone from Draco’s face as Mattheo gripped the collar of his robes, teeth gritted as he spoke to him, “Don’t use that bloody fucking language around her, you understand me?” 

If looks could kill Draco’s funeral would’ve been yesterday. He seemed to understand how serious Mattheo was because the most he answered was a grumbled ‘yes’ before brushing his robes off and walking away, not even sparing you a second glance. 

When Mattheo turned back to you his eyes were full of remorse. You spoke before he got a chance, “S’okay, Teo. Let’s just go. We can feed the thestrals before curfew if we leave now.”

You started towards the doors, Mattheo quick to fall in step beside you. When you reached the top of the hill you stopped. Mattheo looked at you quizzically, “Y’alright, love?” You nodded your head, giving him the biggest grin before taking off running toward the forest. 

Mattheo stood frozen for a moment, in shock of how cheeky you were being before his brain caught up with him and he darted after you. 

“You know I’m captain of the quidditch team, love!” he shouted towards you. You shouted back over your shoulder, “Yeah, well you seem to be struggling without your broom, sir!” 

This bit of banter seemed to spur Mattheo further, his feet seemingly moving faster and getting closer and closer to you. You could sense him getting closer, and you could help the butterfly feeling that started to build in your chest. 

You reached your familiar spot, bracing yourself on a tree when you felt hand grab your waist and turn you to face him. “You cheated,” he was breathing heavy, but his tone was still playful. 

“I thought Slytherin’s were cunning, guess I was wrong,” you shrugged your shoulders, biting your bottom lip gently. 

He reached up, cupping your cheek. The pad of his thumb tracing your lower lip, dragging it down slightly. Your breath hitched slightly, watching as his eyes flicked from your lips meeting your eyes again. 

You stared into his eyes, wondering if what you think is going to happen is about to actually happen. 

“Can I…” he questions, trailing off tilting your chin up. You nod slightly, then his lips capture yours. It was tentative at first, like he was afraid if he kissed you any harder you’d disappear like a dream. 

He pulls back, breathing slightly heavy, giving you a silent look as if to ask, ‘is this okay?’ You press your lips back to his as an answer, with more passion this time. It’s wet and messy, tongues dancing as his hands caress the soft curves of your body, pressing you harder into the tree.

He bites down on your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth causing a whimper to leave your throat. You pull him back by his hair and he lets out a desperate huff. You start to kiss down his neck, finding his pulse point and sucking a fresh hickey to his otherwise flawless tan skin. 

You lean back, a smirk spreading on your face as you admire your work. “Proud of yourself, love?” Mattheo’s voice vibrates against your skin, his nose nudging playfully along your jawline. You nodded your head, “Very proud.” 

He was looking at you now, hands resting on your hips, but still pressing you into the tree slightly. His face had fallen ever so slightly, looking a little sadder than the moment called for. 

“I’m sorry for Draco earlier,” his tone was pained, like he was hurting just thinking about the earlier interaction. 

“S’okay, Teo. It’s not the first time someone’s said that to me. Honestly I don’t even think that’s the first time Draco has said it to me,” you laughed a little, but Mattheo could see it didn’t reach your eyes. 

He cupped your face again, thumb rubbing soothingly on your cheek, “He’s never going to call you that again, I’ll make sure of it. He should’ve never said that to you in the first place, or ever.”

You grabbed Mattheo’s face, holding it in your hands and making him keep eye contact with you, “Thank you for being so protective of me. It really does make me feel safer.” His cheeks were straining against your hands as he smiled. 

“Please, please understand that as long as I’m with you, it doesn’t matter what other people say. Even your cousin, okay? And if he is ever ever mean to me again, which I think is likely. You have my full permission to transfigure him into a ferret again.” 

Mattheo laughed at this, a full hearty, deep laugh and you wanted to hear that laugh all the time. Wanted to bottle his joy and happiness and release it on your toughest days to bring you cheer. 

Mattheo followed you back to Hagrid’s hut, getting the supplies you needed to feed the thestrals. You watched as he played with the foal. He looked as carefree as you’d ever seen him as you wished he could feel this way every day. The way he looked back over his shoulder, child-like grin adorning his face, you knew you wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.

[elenthyaolyenths]

"What if I fall?"

"I'll catch you. You have nothing to be afraid of, angel."

"I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you again."

[ChillOmenstober] Day 22 : "Wings"

"On Angel's Wings", by @the-bentley on Ao3. Art by yours truly.

↓More info about the ficlet "On Angel's Wings" (Rating G, 920 words) under the cut↓

Linktree - Masterpost

This ficlet was initially gifted to me as a wish of speedy recovery after my wrist surgery in July. I'm so happy to finally be able to illustrate this wonderful glimpse of hope and love.

"𝙊𝙣 𝘼𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡'𝙨 𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨", 𝗯𝘆 𝗧𝗵𝗲_𝗕𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝗲𝘆, 𝗼𝗻 𝗔𝗼𝟯

Read on Ao3

𝗧𝗮𝗴𝘀: Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens); South Downs Cottage (Good Omens) ; Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens) ; Flying ; Fear of Flying ; Injury Recovery ; Healing ; Supportive Crowley (Good Omens) ; Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens) ; Wings

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆:

𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺, 𝘈𝘻𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘭𝘺. 𝘊𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦���� 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘭���� 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

𝗘𝘅𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗽𝘁:

“𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘫𝘶𝘮𝘱 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘧.”

𝘊𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘏𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘈𝘻𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦’𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.

“𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭. 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘱. 𝘓𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺.”

𝘊𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘵-𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘫𝘰𝘬𝘦. 𝘈𝘻𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬.

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭?” 𝘏𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘊𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴.

“𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘰𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯."

Continue on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59928034

Thanks to @gribouli for their Chillomenstober Prompt list!

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[solxamber]

Antinomy - Leo Kurosagi x reader

You and Leo have been at each other's throats for the past few years. So why does it feel so wrong when he shows up at your door bruised and bloody? aka the prompt: "I didn't know where else to go"

The knock is sharp, almost a thud, one that echoes through the room like the reverberation of some bad omen. It’s well past two in the morning, and nothing good ever comes from visitors at this hour. But still, curiosity gets the better of you, and you open the door with more force than you intend.

You freeze. It’s Leo.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, disheveled, one arm clutching his side. His usual smug demeanor is nowhere to be found; instead, his face is bruised, streaks of dried blood trailing from his nose. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, barely clotted, and his shirt is torn like it’s seen better days—like he’ seen better days. It’s probably the first time you’ve ever seen him so out of sorts.

“What the hell…” You can barely get the words out as he leans more heavily on the frame, gritting his teeth.

“Look,” he rasps, voice rougher than the usual annoyingly smug tone, “I didn’t know where else to go.”

You stare, unblinking, taking in the sight of him—your infamous rival, the bane of your existence, now standing battered and barely on his feet. A barrage of thoughts rush through your mind. The first: how the hell did he end up like this? The second: why is he here?

When you don’t immediately move or speak, Leo’s mouth curls into something resembling a smirk—though it’s weaker, a shadow of his usual arrogance. “Sho’s out of town… and as much as you love hating me… we both know you don’t hate me enough to leave me out here bleeding.”

Your jaw tightens at that. The nerve. But he’s right. Damn him, he’s always right when it comes to this—knowing just how far to push before you break.

“What did you do?” you finally snap, folding your arms, though it feels more like an attempt to shield yourself from whatever storm’s about to follow him inside.

“Picked the wrong fight,” he mutters. “Didn’t turn out quite the way I expected.”

“Clearly.” You look him up and down, incredulous. “And Alan? Why didn’t you just call Alan?”

A wince flashes across his face as he tries to straighten himself. “I'm already on thin ice with him. I'd rather not hear it from him right now.”

“You expect me to help you? You do realize who you’re talking to, right?” You bite out, though a part of you already knows you’ll cave. There’s something different about Leo tonight. Gone is the usual bravado, the mocking quips and cynical remarks. In their place, you see desperation—vulnerability. He wouldn’t have come here unless he really had no other option.

“Come on,” he breathes, his voice fraying at the edges. “As much as you’d love to see me suffer, you wouldn’t let me bleed out on your doorstep.”

You hate that he’s right. And you hate that some twisted part of you does care—more than you’re willing to admit, even now. With a sigh, you step back, allowing him entry.

“Fine,” you huff, “but don’t expect me to play nice.”

“I’d never expect that from you,” he says with a pained grin as he limps inside.

You close the door behind him, trying to ignore the pounding in your chest. You’re rivals—you hate him, really—and yet, here you are, letting him into your space, into your life when he’s at his weakest. It’s irrational. It’s stupid. But it’s Leo, and you’ve never been able to figure out why you care so much about someone who’s made your life extremely inconvenient for so long.

“Sit,” you order, motioning toward the couch.

He gives you a mock salute, then collapses onto the cushions with a groan, clutching his side tighter.

“What the hell happened to you?” You grab a first-aid kit from the kitchen, already mentally preparing yourself for a long night.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Leo mumbles, though the way he winces with every breath tells a different story. “Just got a little out of hand.”

“A little?” You raise an eyebrow, kneeling down in front of him to examine the damage. His knuckles are bloodied, the cut on his eyebrow still oozing slightly. His shirt’s soaked with sweat, and you can see the bruises spreading across his ribs. He looks like he’s been through a war.

Leo watches you with an unreadable expression as you start cleaning his wounds. “What’s with the concern, hmm? Thought you’d be celebrating right about now. Finally got me on my knees, and not in the way you imagined.”

You glare at him, pushing a bit harder on the wound than necessary. He hisses but doesn’t flinch. “Shut up, Leo. You’re lucky I don’t kick you while you’re down.”

He chuckles softly, though it’s strained. “You always had a mean streak.”

“Maybe I just hate you.”

His grin falters for a moment, something almost… hurt flickering in his eyes. “Yeah, maybe.”

There’s a beat of silence, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you. You’ve patched him up as best you can and cleaned the wounds on his knuckles but they still looked raw and painful. But the tension in the air is thick, and neither of you seems willing to break it.

“You didn’t have to come here,” you murmur, sitting back on your heels, arms crossing over your chest again. “You could’ve gone to anyone. Your fans would’ve eaten this up. Why come to me?”

Leo’s gaze shifts to the floor. For the first time since you opened the door, he looks… unsure.

“I… I didn’t want them to see me like this,” he admits quietly, his usual cocky bravado nowhere to be found. “And Sho wasn’t around. You were the only one I thought of.”

Your heart skips a beat, though you fight to keep your expression neutral. “Why?”

“Because I knew you wouldn't let me bleed out,” he says, so softly you almost don’t hear it.

And there it is. The vulnerability beneath all the layers of arrogance and wit. The part of Leo you’ve only ever caught glimpses of. You’ve always known it was there, buried deep under his ego, but seeing it now, laid bare in front of you, feels… different.

“Dumbass,” you mutter, looking away. “You picked a fight, got yourself hurt, and now you’re here expecting me to fix it.”

“I don’t expect you to fix anything,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I just didn’t know where else to go.”

You take a deep breath, trying to rein in your frustration. He’s hurt, and despite all the history between you two—the constant bickering, the rivalry that’s lasted years—this is different. He came to you when he was at his lowest, and there’s something in that which makes your chest tighten.

You sit down beside him on the couch, careful to give him space but not too much. It’s a strange feeling, having Leo so close, especially like this—broken, vulnerable, his cocky grin now replaced by something far more human.

“Why do you always do this to yourself?” The words slip out before you can stop them, not exactly what you meant to say, but the only thing that comes to mind. “You pick fights you know you can’t win and rely on Sho to bail you out. What do you think will happen if he can’t make it in time?” You gesture toward his battered state. “And when he couldn’t, you showed up at my door?” Your voice trembles as you take a shuddering breath. “Do you expect me to pick up the pieces?”

Leo glances at you out of the corner of his eye, and for a second, you think he might laugh it off, make some snide remark like he usually does. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just sighs, leaning his head back against the cushions, eyes closing.

“I don’t know,” he admits quietly, and it catches you off guard. “Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment.”

You shake your head, frustration boiling beneath the surface. “That’s not an answer, Leo. You’re reckless. You put yourself in danger just for the thrill of it, and then what? You expect people to be there to bail you out?”

“I don’t expect anyone to do anything for me,” he says, his voice sharp, but there’s an edge of defeat in it. “Not even you.”

“Then why come here?” you press, anger rising. “Why not just go home and patch yourself up like you usually do?”

He opens his eyes, turning his head to look at you. There’s something raw in his gaze, something you’ve never seen before. It’s unsettling, like he’s letting you in, showing you a part of himself that he’s always kept hidden.

“Because I knew you’d actually care,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

And there it is again, that vulnerability, the crack in his armor. It’s the one thing you never expected from him, and it’s throwing you off balance. You don’t know how to respond, don’t know how to deal with Leo when he’s like this—so exposed, so… real.

You swallow hard, looking away. “You’re an idiot, Leo.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, leaning his head back again, closing his eyes. “I know.”

Silence falls between you, thick and uncomfortable, but also strangely intimate. You can hear his breathing, slow and steady now that he’s stopped trying to act tough. His hand rests on his lap, knuckles still raw from whatever fight he got himself into. Without thinking, you reach out, gently taking his hand in yours, inspecting the damage despite just cleaning it.

He doesn’t pull away.

“You could’ve died,” you say softly, the words almost getting caught in your throat. “And for what? A stupid fight?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost pained. “Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if I had.”

Your heart stops. You turn to him, eyes wide, but he doesn’t look back at you. He keeps his gaze fixed on the ceiling, as if he’s afraid to meet your eyes.

“Leo…” you start, but you don’t know how to finish. You’ve never heard him talk like this—so defeated, so broken. It’s like you’re seeing a completely different person, someone who’s been hiding behind that arrogant smirk for years, and it scares you.

“I’m tired,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Tired of all of it.”

You swallow hard, trying to keep your emotions in check. “Then why do you keep doing it? Why do you keep putting yourself through this?”

“Because I don’t know how to stop,” he admits, his voice trembling. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and suffocating. You can feel the weight of them, pressing down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. You’ve always known that there was more to Leo than the cocky influencer he portrayed online, but you never realized just how deep his insecurities ran.

You squeeze his hand gently, hoping to offer some kind of comfort. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know. You don’t have to keep pretending like everything’s fine when it’s not.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “And who’s going to help me? You?”

You meet his gaze, holding it this time. “Yes. Me.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The tension is thick, but there’s something else there too—something unspoken, something that’s been building between you for years. You’ve always been rivals, always been at each other’s throats, but underneath all of that, there’s been this… connection. This thing that neither of you has ever been willing to acknowledge.

Until now.

Leo’s eyes soften, his usual sharp wit dulled by exhaustion and pain. He watches you for a moment, like he’s trying to figure something out, and then, slowly, he leans in.

You don’t stop him.

His lips brush against yours, tentative at first, like he’s testing the waters, waiting for you to push him away. But you don’t. Instead, you close the distance, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that’s soft, but filled with years of unresolved tension.

It’s messy and imperfect, but it feels right—like this was always supposed to happen, like this was the inevitable conclusion of everything that’s ever passed between you. And for a moment, it’s just the two of you, lost in each other, everything else fading away.

When he finally pulls back, he looks at you with something like disbelief in his eyes, like he can’t quite believe what just happened.

“You…” he starts, but he doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

You just nod, leaning your forehead against his. “Yeah. Me.”

And in that moment, something between you shifts. The walls that you’ve both spent years building up start to crumble, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re both just… there. Vulnerable. Real.

It’s terrifying, but it’s also liberating.

“You don’t have to keep doing this, Leo,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “You don’t have to keep fighting.”

He closes his eyes, exhaling softly. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you say again, squeezing his hand. “I’m here.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. But then, slowly, he nods and buries his face into your neck.

“Okay,” he whispers.

And for the first time in years, Leo lets his guard down.

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