in which the writer is loving aziraphale too much to fall asleep

So, I have some new stretch marks.

(I fucking get it, Universe, thank you very much.)

On the top of my left thigh, stripes of red stand out against older lines of faded white.

So, I am thinking of Aziraphale tonight. I have this great candle from Etsy right now. It smells like “old bookshops and Earl Grey tea.” It sits on my desk, next to the angel mug that never leaves my desk. I only drink Earl Grey tea and red wine from it, and it does not leave my desk.

Aziraphale, I am so grateful to you, do you have any idea? Here is just one little story: It was shortly after my first viewing of Good Omens, and I ended up (as usual) at my favorite doughnut shop. And I bit into the doughnut, and my brain immediately started cycling through all the usual bullshit it cycles through when it comes to enjoying food:

“You don’t need to be eating this. What are you going to do to make up for it? How many miles will you run tomorrow? You’re so weak. You didn’t need this. This is bad. You are bad.”

And this new, kind, sweet voice gently but firmly countered:

“Aziraphale would eat the doughnut.”

FUCK.

DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW FUCKING MUCH THAT MEANT TO ME?

Aziraphale, I am so in the practice of hating myself, but I love you so much, and there are things that I think we have in common, and so maybe I am worth loving.

I would not have come out without you. Would not have accepted my pronouns without you. Would not have finally touched my own soft body, stretch marks and all, and believed that it was handsome and worthy of adoration.

I have felt so confused and uncertain in this body for so long. To finally have labels for it that give me peace and comfort… Dani. They/Them/Theirs. Justly accused once of eye-fucking all the pastries at a Trader Joe’s.

Ethereal fucking being.

It is after midnight, and I should definitely be asleep, but here I am again. It’s awfully nice to come here, at the end of the day.

It’s just nice to talk to you.

Mind how you go.

 

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