1 - 20 of 44 Works by drawlight (ripeteeth)
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You like to cut yourself on his bones, and he likes to let you.
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Fifteen years after the war, two broken men try to make any sense of it at all.
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Wait for me, Aziraphale had said. In the education room.
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Stars fell for you, Aziraphale, he wants to say.
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One day, a pale rider on a pale horse comes to a city on a hill.
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We're used to tremors. To having the Earth shudder under our feet, always falling back into place. Never something to worry about. Sam Vimes has been ignoring the way the ground shivers.
Havelock Vetinari knows that someday the eruption will come
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Even love stories must have a final chapter.
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Incubi are known to shapeshift to appear as one's deepest desire. Geralt has found one.
It looks like Jaskier.
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In a dark theater and without names or voices, intricate rituals are constructed to allow them to touch each other's skin.
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because it is bitter, and because it is my heart by drawlight (ripeteeth)
Fandoms: The Witcher (TV)
03 Feb 2020
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“You stupid fucking idiot,” Geralt hisses. “You could have been killed.”
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A strange letter arrives at Crowley's Mayfair flat. Blank and unusual with nothing written inside. When he begins to feel peculiar after opening the letter, Crowley would rather sleep for a hundred years than to ever risk endangering Aziraphale.
[A tale told in vignettes.]
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There is a ball tonight at the Winter Palace. Crowley has laid out his lord's clothes.
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Witchers cannot love, as the tales go. (Jaskier is a bard, he knows all the tales.)
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"I'm going to make love to you and I'm going to tell you what to do," Aziraphale says. He's got one hand on Crowley's back and the other tips Crowley's jaw downward. "Is that alright, dear?"
"Yeah," Crowley breathes, his heart shifting gears, speeding up. "Yeah, that's fucking alright."
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Aziraphale is terrified of Heaven looking over his shoulder. He is terrified of burning Crowley with his holy-water-touch. So he doesn't reach out. He never says a word. Aziraphale loves Crowley in the wordless and touchless way of a ghost.
But there have always been languages for ghosts to speak.
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On the first day of December, Aziraphale hangs a sprig of white-berried mistletoe above his bookshop door. Crowley doesn't know what to do.
(A collection of connected holiday-themed vignettes.)
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Crowley has never seen the name on Aziraphale's chest. He doesn't know the syllables of it, the shape of the transliterated letters. It doesn't matter. He'd gotten quite drunk once, sometime in the fourteenth century, and asked Aziraphale point-blank if his name was there.
It was not.
(He doesn't think about Aziraphale's name on his own chest, growing darker every year.)
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In 1347, a ship arrives bearing books and news from the east. Aziraphale, a Cistercian monk of Tintern Abbey, travels to collect his books. There he meets a lazy-hipped, red-haired sailor and has the strangest feeling that he knows Crowley, that they have met once. He just cannot remember at all.
Or, all love stories are ghost stories. And to tell a ghost story, something must have happened before.
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as certain dark things by drawlight (ripeteeth) for KawaiiUsagiChanSan
Fandoms: Good Omens (TV)
18 Oct 2019
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After six-thousand years, the heart is the strongest muscle in Crowley's body.
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"Ask me again," Aziraphale says, standing at a train station, his hat half-crumpled in nervous hands.