#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!

[eybefioro]

I'm mixing the GOetry prompt by @isiaiowin and the prompt-a-thon by @ineffablyruined :D

Gamble

White wings

Protecting from rain

Are you still the same?

Questions.

Questions

Black wings,

Burned and changed,

Yet still me, not understanding:

Ineffable.

[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

[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?

[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.)

[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

[hollyhomburg]

Prey Animals (Masterlist)

—  Pairing: Yoongi x reader, Bts x reader

—  Subgenders: Omega! Reader, Beta! Yoongi, Alpha! Namjoon, Alpha! Jimin, Alpha! Taehyung, Alpha! Hoseok, Omega! Jungkook, Omega! Seokjin

—  Genre: Omegaverse, Mafia au, Polyamory au, Found family, Suspense, Eventual Smut, Enemies to friends to lovers, Angst with a happy ending, Hurt and Comfort,

—  Summary: In a world where Beta's are rare, valuable, and often have more than one pack; Beta Min Yoongi does everything he can to keep his mafia heritage a secret from his primary pack. Little does he know he's not the only one who's living a double life.

—  Words: 80k so far

—  Warnings: Violence, Blood, Murder, sexual and physical abuse, PTSD, themes of healing, suspense, mute character's, depictions of eating disorders, healing, hospitals, epilepsy, assassins, spyies,

Before you read:

This is the second version of this story, it's better, edited and longer. But if you want to read the first (near complete) version of this story you can read it on tumblr here, or on Ao3 here. there's like a million words of it lol.

not everything is tagged in this version. there is quite a bit of triggering content. i go into much more greater detail about the m/c and the abuse that she suffered at the hands of Geumjae in this version. if there is anything that doesn't get a tag and you feel it needs it, please don't hesitate to tell me!

This version is a lot longer than V1, and because of that the chapters don't line up, chapters 1-13 cover chapters 1-4.

While there are only a few things that have been taken out/restructured, but yoongi and the m/c get a dedicated slow burn love story in this now. i've also added 60k to what we did have so please give this tons of love!

i will not be reblogging these parts nearly as much as the others, because i want there to be less crowdedness on my feed. i will try my hardest to respond to comments if there are any this time around.

~-~

Prologue: Omens

Summary: you watch your husband murder someone, and try not to make it worse

Part 1: The Beta

Summary: Seokjin meets Yoongi when he's at his lowest.

Part 2: The Funeral

Summary: The death of a king pin makes the whole picture come crumbling down. In 120 days, Yoongi will decide who rules the criminal empire.

Part 3: The Alpha

Summary: Seokjin meets Namjoon when things are finally getting good, will the introduction of an alpha disrupt his and yoongi's little pack?

Part 4: Of Violent Dogs

Summary: Kim Namjoon will kill. That is a fact that you can count on.

Part 5: The Pups

Summary: Namjoon meets Jungkook in the Emergency room. "he's sick Joonie, and you can't make him better." that doesn't mean he's not going to try.

Part 6: Prey Animals

Summary: A death and A dinner party (a woman that yoongi can't take his eyes off of.)

Part 7: Hoseok

Summary: Yoongi brings home a stray, but luckily he's going to stay. (Yoongi won't, Yoongi is going to leave)

Part 8: Just Not her

Summary: Yoongi cannot decide if he trusts you or not. After being followed, he interrogates you to figure out your motives.

Part 9: Ribbons

Summary: A dinner at the Moon house prompt Yoongi to get closer and closer to you. But how close can he get before he pricks his finger?

Part 10: Junk Drawers and Daydreams

Summary: Yoongi just wants to figure you out. Just that. He promises.

Part 11: Warm Monsters

Summary: Yoongi's attraction gets harder to ignore, as does your suffering.

Part 12: The After

Summary: In Yoongi's absence the pack sort of falls apart.

Part 13: Bruises and Butterflies

Summary: One life doesn't equal seven.

~-~

Commonly asked questions:

Why the different name? because i thought it would be confusing to have two series's by the same name on the same page

Why are you editing this story? because i want to put it up for physical purchase either on amazon (ew i know) or some other alternative, the beginning of the story had always bugged me because it was not paced the same as the rest of it.

[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.