LyraParry12



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  1. Public Bookmark 30

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    Crowley meets Aziraphale Fell at a film premiere and is told,quite confidently, that he’ll probably marry him.

    Crowley thinks that’s ridiculous.

    A few hours later, he realises it might be true.

    Then Crowley’s father dies, and timing becomes everything it never is.

    Three years pass before they meet again, this time as co-stars on a BBC drama, older, steadier, and still unmistakably drawn to each other.

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  2. Public Bookmark *

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    “It’s good, thank you,” Zira said curtly, then fixed him with another glare. “And my name is Zira, not Angel.”

    He shouldn’t speak, he shouldn’t speak, he shouldn’t speak— “S’not what the A stands for? Cos it seems like it could be, with, y’know, y’lookin’ all—ngh—angelic and—nhmmm—cherubic an’ stuff y’know.”

    Crowley was going to cut out his own tongue.

    *****
    Zira loathes Crowley from the first time they crash into each other. The cool, confident, brash man is the opposite in every way to his anonymous online paramour, Rose. Crowley is attracted to Zira, but the man is supercilious and overbearing. Besides, he’s only flirting with Zira because he doesn’t think he’s worthy of his anonymous online partner, Flower. Now, Zira and Crowley are trapped on a ship together, assigned to the same dinner table for the next two weeks, while online, Flower and Rose are planning to meet in person for the first time…

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    06 Apr 2026

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    Comment on Chapter 18

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    23 Mar 2026

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  4. Public Bookmark 1

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    Crowley was unexpectedly reminded of a Higgs boson (or maybe a graviton, as hypothetical as such a particle was). The quantum excitation responsible for all mass, and subsequently, all gravity. And—even more subsequently—all attraction. Because that was the word for it, wasn’t it? Attraction. Crowley was attracted to Aziraphale. Physically, yes; as all matter was attracted to all other matter. And yet, as he closed in, the space (a dimension that felt oh so fleetingly linear) seemed squashed between their bodies. The distance, in its own maladroit discourtesy, was suddenly wavering for all its previous impertinence. Almost bashful in the way that it slowly (yet, somehow, not slowly enough) dissipated. Into nothingness. The air succumbing to the vehemence of their debate.

    Crowley was fucked. Oh, he was so utterly fucked.

    ---

    AKA the inherent homoeroticism of co-authoring a paper.

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    20 Mar 2026

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    Archived Ch. 1

    Deleted Text Work

  5. Public Bookmark 22

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    On the eve of his return to public life in 1894, Sherlock Holmes happens into a dusty bookshop.

    He's just assembling a disguise. He couldn't have much in common with this stuffy little bookseller, could he?

     

    The bell rang as I entered, startling the proprietor from his bespectacled focus on that morning’s Telegraph. A middle-aged man, still living in the era of his youth, I inferred from attire some decades out of date; of irregular habits, if one trusted the opening hours posted behind the glass of the door; likely of independent means, given the absence of customers and the dust settled undisturbed over nearly everything. I expected no less; Britain offers up many such examples, scions of well-do-do families who can afford to practise a hobby under the guise of an occupation.

     

    I did not expect his startled, almost joyful look, nor the cry of “My dear fellow! Is it truly –” quickly interrupted as he snatched away his half-moon reading-glasses and rose from his desk. His manner became instantly more guarded. “Oh – my pardon, I mistook you for someone else, I fear. May I be of help?”

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