NonMetaphoricFlop



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    Today, Sunday, there's a sense of rightness and quiet. Outside, he hears birdsong that reminds him of home. Rashid drops sugar cubes in each tiny glass bowl—refined white for Lapsang Souchong, demerara for Earl Grey—and readies the tea tray for delivery.

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    05 Dec 2019

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    Aziraphale has never met anyone else who can so eloquently convey the embodiment of a nonchalant shrug with a quirk of their mouth alone, but Crowley succeeds in doing just that before getting up and sauntering off into the sitting room. Goodness, the sway of his hips when he walks is so unnecessary. A distraction that frankly shouldn’t be allowed.

    He lasts thirty-seven minutes before rescheduling their ‘evening’ appointment to ‘imminent’ and informing Crowley there’s been a change of plan.

    (or: Crowley stumbles upon Aziraphale’s private book collection, and revelations are had of the non-biblical kind)

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    04 Dec 2019

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    God should not have built them with such discrepancy, made them need for love, and long for wholeness, then left them to their own devices.

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    02 Dec 2019

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    "You know," Crowley said conversationally, "abject terror is really quite exhausting."

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    01 Dec 2019

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    "Aziraphale, little good though it did him, wanted desperately. He wanted with an urgency that scared him. He wanted wine, and cocoa, and the occasional tea. He wanted gravlax with dill sauce, and Pappardelle Bolognese, and those awful little iced biscuits they had at Tesco at Christmastime. He wanted dinners at the Ritz and long walks in the park and late nights in the back room of his shop. He wanted Crowley. Fervently, achingly, he wanted Crowley."

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    01 Dec 2019