ImmiThrax

A blonde woman is wearing armor on her left shoulder and holds her right hand up with her fingers spread. Yellow geometric patterns extend from her hand against a purple background.



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  1. Public Bookmark 50

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    In the beginning of the sixteenth century, Aziraphale and Crowley converge on a monastery in northern England, each on an assignment as an undercover priest.

    Or, on the nature of miracles, love, and forgiveness.

    “Give it a try.”
    “What?”
    “Confess to me.” His voice was low and sweet.
    “What - I - confess what?” Aziraphale said, and laughed nervously. “I have nothing to confess. Certainly not to you.”
    “Well, how about drinking in the confessional? Start small.”
    “What - I - you tricked me into doing that!”
    “I thought angels couldn’t be tricked.”
    “Tempted,” Aziraphale said, absent-mindedly. “Angels can’t be tempted. Alright, fine. Yes, I confess to - to drinking in the confessional. Give me that,” he said, reaching over into Crowley’s side and wrenching the bottle out of his hand. He drank, and tucked the bottle between his thighs, daring Crowley to say something.
    “See?” Crowley said. “S’easy once you start. Go on then, what else?”

    Language:
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    12 Feb 2025

  2. Rec *

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    “As you may know,” Muriel started, “as a human police officer, I can unobtrusively monitor your marriage without raising suspicion.”

    Yes. What? Aziraphale stared. “Marriage?”

    “On whether it’s being,” Muriel hesitated, eyes cast up as they searched for the right word, “consummated properly.”

    -------------

    Or, after the Antichrist cancels Armageddon, Heaven and Hell come up with a peace treaty. Traditionally, treaties involve a marriage between representatives of each side. It goes about as well as you might expect.

    Language:
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    16 Nov 2023

  3. Public Bookmark 77

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    “Oh, everything’s gone to absolute hell,” Aziraphale says, then makes a face, nose scrunching up in a way that Crowley resents missing so much. “Well, Heaven, I suppose. I’ve made quite a few powerful beings very cross and I’m not precisely sure what is going to happen next but–oh, Crowley, I just wanted to see you.”

    “Aren’t you the big boss up there?” Crowley asks, turning over the end of that sentence in the back of his mind over and over again. “Shouldn’t they be submitting to your–holy wisdom or something?”

    “It’s possible I’ve angered God,” Aziraphale says, voice dropping to a whisper.

    “. . .I’ve never loved you more,” Crowley says.

    It’s not what he intended to say. But it’s certainly how he feels.

    Language:
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    2/2
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    639
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    11 Feb 2025

  4. Public Bookmark 29

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    Crowley buys them a cottage on the South Downs. Aziraphale hates it.

    A fic for anyone who's thought, "Maybe a Soho snob *wouldn't* go for cottagecore."

    Language:
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    3,755
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    207
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    11 Feb 2025

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    After the Second Coming’s come and gone, Crowley moves to the South Downs. Aziraphale stays in London. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t come to visit.

    Or, Aziraphale’s his own angel, now. He just has to learn what that means.

    When Crowley wakes up again, two weeks later, Aziraphale knows. He can feel it tugging at the edges of his essence. No, it’s going straight through him, like oil dropped in water. On the human level, he can feel it in his chest, a tight, hot thing. He stops in the middle of rearranging the cooking books, holding Cabbage the Athenian Way in one hand. Once he determines Crowley’s not going back to sleep, he reshelves the book, walks back to his desk, and sits himself down. He waits until a decorous amount of time passes, and then he calls Crowley.
    Crowley picks up on the second ring. Strange; he’s never had to wait that long before.

    Language:
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    Chapters:
    3/3
    Comments:
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    10 Feb 2025

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