BirbMuffin



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    “Isn’t this nice?” says Aziraphale with badly feigned casualness the next time Crowley stops by for a late night drink.

     

    Crowley is all set to reply, words lined up in his mouth waiting to go, when Aziraphale adds,

    “I mean, all of the books and furniture and bottles of wine and things?”

     

     

    Aziraphale nests. Crowley relearns some crucial facts about angelic courtship rituals.

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    13 Jul 2026

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    As soon as Aubrey Thyme, psychotherapist, had opened her office door and seen her new client, Anthony J. Crowley, sitting in her waiting area, she was observing and assessing him. At first glance, she paid attention to the following:

    --His clothing was expensive and stylish;
    --He wore very strange but noticeable cologne;
    --His relationship to the seat he occupied could only, very loosely, be described as “sitting;”
    --He looked angry;
    --He was wearing sunglasses.

    What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

    Language:
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    13 Jul 2026

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    It turns out that Daisy still has a sturdy set of metal handcuffs from her days on the force. Jon knows that they weren’t with her on her trip through the Buried, because they’d both had to just give up and throw the clothes that they’d been wearing when they went into the Coffin away as unsalvageable lost causes. The cuffs would still have dirt caught in their teeth. 

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    06 Jul 2026

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    A moment or an eternity later, Timothy Stoker gasped with lungs that did not exist, blinked against the light with eyes that were not there and, despite the refusal of contradiction in the not-place that killed him and the not-empty that held him, became his own not-living contradiction in the living world.

    Or, in which Jon is not the only member of the archive staff to stumble into becoming an avatar.

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    05 Jul 2026

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    “What--” He stops to compulsively lick his lips. His back hits the wall-- he’d started backing up at some point and he hadn’t noticed. He can’t tear his eyes away from the man on his couch. No. The creature. “What are you?” 

    Martin finally looks up from his book. He looks at Jon. He doesn’t look like Prentiss. He isn’t full of gaping holes that should have killed him, he isn’t covered in squirming, shiny white worms, he doesn’t smell like a moldy, rotting corpse. He looks like a pleasant, normal man. He has freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, his cheeks. Monsters shouldn’t have freckles, Jon thinks nonsensically. 

    “I’m your boyfriend,” the monster sitting on his couch says, as if this is a matter that is not up for debate, that Jon has no say in. 

    Language:
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    03 Jul 2026