#and its been kind of funny just having this half naked angel following the group around
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I was today year's old when I discovered that if you unequip your instruments, you can whistle for the perform action.
#grey's bg3 tag#bg3 posting#i mean#i much prefer the lute#but if you want a whistling troubador#you can have it#also the deva is there#just because he got summoned for the lorroakan fight#and its been kind of funny just having this half naked angel following the group around#no one comments on him#or runs away screaming like the fire elemental#so it all works out#(i actually learned this whistling factoid from a tiny little youtube channel)#(that has been absolutely churning out banger bg3 content)#(on that note check out panicrolling on youtube if you want some very good deep dives and guides into various classes)#ari's og campaign
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Bechloe Week 2020 – Day3: Drunk Texts
We were bound to be together
An au where Beca didn't get together with Jesse and that allowed her relationship with Chloe to grow.
or
The way Pitch Perfect 1 should have gone ;)
Set during Beca’s first two years at Barden; everything goes as it should, nothing angsty happens and everyone is happy. Just a sloppy falling-in-love story between two college girls, told through their drunk texts, kind of...
Rating: T
Words Count: 2.5K
Thanks to @viharistenno for being my beta
Read here or on AO3
She took my arm, I don’t know how it happened
After Hood Night, Beca was lying on her bed; the weird buzzing in her brain caused by alcohol made it hard for her to fall asleep. She wasn’t used to drinking and partying with strangers until late night, but she had to admit it wasn’t the worst thing she’d done. That Jesse seemed nice after all, a little pushy maybe, but Beca knew she needed a push sometimes, maybe she should give him a chance-
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand
CHLOE BEALE: Im so glad that I met you xx
BECA: Yeah, you kinda mentioned that…
Beca bit her bottom lip and a bright smile formed on her face. There was something about Chloe, that didn’t make Beca want to push her away. On the contrary, it was rather a pull, that made Beca want to get closer to her.
She placed the phone on her stomach, letting out a heavy sigh, smile still present on her lips. Beca couldn’t believe she actually auditioned for an acapella singing group, just because a crazy – naked – girl told her to, after crushing her shower and forcing her to sing with her; it was a situation that normally would have made her run for the hills and yet, she went to the audition – and she got in – and to the following party. Beca didn’t even know how that happened, Chloe had dragged her into this whole new world, and she was kinda okay with that.
It confused Beca; for the first time her instinct didn’t tell her to push this person away, it told her to get to know her better, to become her friend, but most of all Beca wanted Chloe to like her, she wanted to impress her. She checked her phone to see if Chloe had texted her anything else, but there were no new messages, so she let out another sigh – a disappointed one this time – and put the phone away.
Maybe Chloe was still with shower guy, they seemed to be pretty close at the party. Her stomach twisted and Beca huffed again; the way Chloe had grabbed her arms and how close she got to her while talking, gave her some vibes, for a moment she’d thought that the redhead was flirting with her – a thought she wasn’t completely opposed to – but then she saw her with that guy while she was busy talking to Jesse, and kicked herself for being so delusional, she was well aware they were having sex in the sowers, they were obviously together.
Beca shook her head and rolled her eyes to herself, turning to her side to try to sleep.
I felt it in my chest as she looked at me
CHLOE: Admit you had fun tonight! :P
Beca was a bit more tipsy than usual – okay, let’s say she was drunk – but it wasn’t her fault; Amy arrived there with the clear internet of getting the brunette drunk that night. She dumbly smiled at her phone and almost gave in, but then she remembered their bet.
“I don’t know why I let you drag me to this stupid party” she spat out when they arrived at the ΣΒΘ frat house.
“Come on, I bet you’re going to have fun” cheered Chloe making Beca roll her eyes.
“I doubt it” stated the brunette.
“We’re here bitches!” screamed Amy going straight for the alcohol table, followed by Stacie.
When her head started to spin, Beca realized that maybe she’d let Amy fix her one drink too much, but she didn’t care, not when Chloe was leaning in so close to whisper things in her ear – shout actually, to be heard over the loud music – and had one arm wrapped around Beca’s shoulders; the weight of Chloe on her felt amazing and the way Chloe looked at her made her heart do funny things in her chest.
Beca definitely blamed it on the alcohol, but deep inside she knew it was the same feeling she had the first time they met at the activities fair; that smile Chloe gave her and those blue eyes, so deep that Beca felt like she was drowning in them, knocked all the air out of her lungs and she felt her heart racing.
Even if she did run away that time, Beca just couldn’t stop thinking about her, until that girl jumped in her shower, making Beca incredibly frustrated and embarrassed. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t help but looking – more than once – at the girl’s naked body and her mind wandered without her permission. Chloe was undeniably beautiful, and her confidence made her even hotter.
Beca should have known then that she was gone, but – always oblivious to her own feelings – it took her several weeks of parties and rehearsals to know that she had, in fact, fallen head over hills for the redhead.
Suddenly Beca felt Chloe stepping away from her and saw the girl launching herself into Tom’s arms. The brunette found herself downing the remains of her drink and accepting a new one from Amy. The rest of the night is still a blur, she vaguely remembered Jesse helping her through her dorm room door and saying good night, at which she believed she grunted before the guy closed the door behind him.
Beca frowned at the memory and looked back at her phone; there was a new message on the screen
CHLOE: you disappeared tho. Stacie said you left w Jesse :(
BEC: yoy wr wit Tom
CHLOE: I told you I was going to say hi and when I came back you were gone >.<
BEC: are u tofether?
CHLOE: No, I’m alone
BEC: no I mwan ar you datingm
BEC: ?
Chloe started typing and deleting and Beca started to freak out; she’d known this girl for less than a year, she saw her with Tom from day one, she had no right whatsoever to be upset about them dating, even if Chloe had been sending her mixed signals from the start and was annoyingly touchy and loving and not-so-unintentionally made Beca’s head spin more than alcohol did
CHLOE: No, he’s not my boyfriend. We used to be fwb but I ended it a while ago because I started to like someone… :)<3
Just keep your eyes on me
The following day Beca felt like shit; her head hurt, and she felt nauseous, that’s why she was immensely grateful to Chloe for dragging her to that stupid party the night before their special rehearsal’s session.
“Remind me to kill you when this is over” she lamented when Chloe greeted her with her usual bright smile – the girl clearly didn’t drink as much as Beca did the night before – and a quick hug
“Can’t wait” winked the redhead, making Beca’s blood boil in her veins.
Chloe really looked amazing that morning and was clearly making an effort to be noticed by the brunette; she managed to make even that idiotic hostess choreography look beautiful. It wasn’t just the dancing, Beca found every movement Chloe made incredibly sexy, maybe because of that half confession she had made the night before, or maybe because Beca knew Chloe was doing it on purpose; she knew it because Chloe basically never dropped her eye contact with Beca, almost like she was trying to cast a spell on her, and maybe she did.
“You’re on a mission today huh?” Beca hushed to her during a break
“I don’t know what you’re talking about” answered Chloe wearing a shit eating grin
“Well, better for me then, I’m enjoying the show” she shot back without thinking too much about it and regretting it right away, but the fire it lit in Chloe’s eyes told her she’d said just the right thing.
“What’s with all this eye fucking?” suddenly spat out Amy, making the room giggle. Except for Beca who became bright red, and Aubrey who cleared her throat glaring at Chloe, who innocently smiled biting her lip.
“Did you finally hook up or something?” asked Stacie in amusement
“Can we focus on the damn choreography?” asked Aubrey grinding her teeth.
Deep in her eyes, I think I see the future
Beca’s plan was simple: to go to college for one year, convince her dad that she tried and have him send her to Los Angeles the following year to finally start working towards her dream of producing music. However, something along the way went incredibly wrong, or rather incredibly right, and now all she wanted was to stay there with those nerds who somehow became her family.
The look on Chloe’s face when they won the finals made Beca realize that her future wasn’t in LA, her future was right there with those girls, with Chloe. In that moment Beca felt like she belonged there; she saw her next few years at Barden, with the Bellas, and in the hug they shared, Beca felt that Chloe would be part of her life forever.
The girls celebrated in the Bellas’ sorority house and they all, even Aubrey, got incredibly wasted. Most of the girls had already moved there from their dorms and wouldn’t have to go anywhere after their party.
During the night Chloe made sure to let Beca know, more than once, how sad she was that the brunette had decided to really leave for Los Angeles in the end, instead of moving in with her, and she never left her side the whole night. They drank together and laughed and danced, and they almost kissed, but Chloe pulled away last minute confusing Beca. When Beca asked her why, Chloe mumbled with watery eyes “you’re leaving, what’s the point?”, but immediately cleared her throat and dragged Beca to dance with the others. In her inebriated state, the music and Chloe’s body moving rhythmically against hers, were enough to distract Beca from that statement. Only later, walking back to her dorm, it carved its way back into her mind.
BEC ♡: I not gng to LA
CHLO: ???
BEC ♡: im stang heee
Chloe’s reply was a string of emojis Beca was too drunk to interpret followed by
CHLO: yoy styng w the bellassssss
BEC ♡: im staying fr you
CHLO: were gnna be cocaptnsss!!!
This woman is my destiny
Beca’s second year at Barden started out completely differently from her first one; she was living in a sorority house along with eight other girls and was co-captain of the acapella group she led to victory the year before.
Her relationship with Chloe evolved in a strange way; they acted like a married couple now, but they never crossed the line, both too scared of ruining what they had. With Aubrey gone, the Bellas were their responsibility and Beca knew that was what mattered the most to Chloe, so she chose to focus on their acapella group. For Chloe, not because she was scared of fucking things up, obviously.
Their mutual pinning was clear to all their friends; some of them – Amy – teased them about it, while others desperately tried to help them figure it out.
One night, during one of their let’s-get-drunk-because-why-not nights, they were playing truth or dare
“Beca” started Stacie “truth or dare?” she asked with a wicked smile, making Beca sweat
“Truth…” tentatively answered the brunette
“Do you have more than platonic feelings for anyone in this room?” asked Stacie raising an eyebrow. Chloe held her breath at that and Beca was the only one to miss it, too occupied freaking out
“Dare” blurted out Beca “dare, I meant dare!” Beca’s heart started beating dangerously fast, hoping that Stacie would have let her change her reply, but the girl’s eyes twinkled and Beca knew she’d fallen right into her trap.
“I dare you… to kiss the girl you have the biggest toner in the world for and release us all from this ridiculous sexual tension you two generate” commanded the tall girl rolling her eyes.
Beca felt all the air leave her lungs. Everything was silent around her and all she could hear was the uneven beating of her heart. She swallowed hard looking at Chloe to see what her reaction had been and the girl’s hesitant smile calmed Beca a little.
Beca wasn’t one to back down from a challenge and the alcohol in her system only made her more competitive, but most of all, there was nothing in the world she wanted more than to finally kiss Chloe, so she crossed the circle they were sitting in to reach the redhead on the other side of it. Chloe was biting her bottom lip in anticipation and Beca could see in her eyes that the girl wanted to kiss her just as much as she did.
Beca gently rested her palm on Chloe’s cheek. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t need words to communicate; their eyes were saying all they needed to say. They expressed how much they both wanted to do this, but only if the other was okay with that, and that it was going to be okay. They completely forgot they weren’t alone.
Beca leaned in and kissed her, Chloe wrapped her arms around Beca’s neck and pulled her closer, letting out a sigh that made Beca’s heart flutter. They stayed there, kneeling in the middle of the living room, kissing slowly and deeply, their lips moved together as if they were dancing. Beca wasn’t sure who deepened the kiss, but as soon as their tongues touched, a million fireworks went off in her brain, covering the sound of their friends whooping and clapping and wolf whistling – Amy – and making her forget her own name.
Beca couldn’t have enough of Chloe’s lips. When the kiss ended and Chloe tried to move away, Beca desperately chased her mouth and started kissing her again, gaining a chuckle from the redhead. The two girls were only separated by Amy accidently bathing them in tequila while waving a bottle in the air, shouting that they had to drink to that.
After two – or was it three? – Bhloe drinks, as Amy had named them, Beca was still snuggled up next to Chloe. They shared some quick kisses during the rest of the night and when they decided to go wrap it up, Beca really wasn’t ready to sleep. All she wanted to do was kiss Chloe all night long and the morning after, and for the rest of her life. When Chloe pulled her in for another kiss, she was happy to welcome Chloe’s tongue in her mouth again
“Good night, baby” whispered Chloe against her lips before leaving.
Beca was lying awake in her bed; she could still feel the ghost of Chloe’s lips lingering on hers. She took her phone and started typing.
BEC ♡: I lied at trth o dre I dont have a tner for you
CHLO: Bec…
*CHLO IS TYPING*
BEC ♡: Im crazy abt yoy! youre my destiny
BEC ♡: you’re
CHLO: you jst gve me a heartattack yoi asshole1
BEC ♡: srry xD
CHLO: wnna cme here to sleep w me?
BEC ♡: we r drnk…
CHLO: I jut wanna slp
BEC ♡: Any wll tease th shit out of us
CHLO: I don’t care
CHLO: I miss u
Beca didn’t really use much her bed in the Bellas’ house.
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compilation of my favorite otp prompts 8
tag
AUs for when both members of your OTP are stubborn pricks [x]
you were sat in my reserved train seat and refused to move so i sat on your lap and now we’re both too annoyed and awkwardly turned on to move
ive been trying to grab your attention in class for over half an hour by poking you and throwing things onto your desk and you’re refusing to acknowledge me and gdi all i wanted to do was tell you that you look cute and now it’s gone too far and it can’t go back
if you’re struggling for AU ideas take a look-see at this list i wrote for my friend who dubbed it “better than the 10 commandments" [x]
Coffee shop AU
you give me a different fake name every time you come into starbucks and I just want to know your real name bc ur cute but here I am scrawling “batman” onto your stupid cappuccino
Weird places to meet/awkward meetings in general
“My shower’s broken but I’ve got a date tonight could I possibly use your shower please?” “Oh sure (neighbour that I’ve been crushing on for the past six months) of course you can use my shower to get ready for your date (fuck fuck fuck)”
Soulmate aus
You get an ‘impression’ of your soulmate when you turn 18 or something but all I got was a strong smell of bananas or an overwhelming feeling that Thatcher was a good prime minister or an image in my mind of a fucking unicorn
Other aus that I like
You’re an actor/other famous person that I really admire and I just saw you in the street and as I was debating whether or not to say hi you came up to me and started flirting what do I do??
I’m a waiter at this wedding and you’re a drunk guest who will not stop hitting on me please I’m trying to work no I can’t dance with you omg let me find you some water
BED SHARING AUS [x]
Hey dude I read that cuddling helps you sleep better, you wanna try it out?
We fell asleep on the couch together on accident, how did my hand end up in your hair? Were you breathing on my neck?! (Why did I get tingly???????)
We’ve had this tradition as besties to have a sleepover once a year but this year….it feels different…were your pajamas always this cute??…did I always have butterflies???
Dork Otp Prompts [x]
‘I saw you rollerskating and I thought ‘that person is cool’ but then you crashed jesus are you okay’
'Me and my friends are such memey shits and they made me send you one of those 'send your crush without context’ thing problem is you don’t use the internet much and don’t understand and I’m so embarrassed’
'We’re at a karaoke bar and you went up as a joke but the lights are hitting you so perfectly and your voice is so angelic and wow I think I’m in love.’
Here are some winter aus too [x]
I slipped on ice outside and you ran over and tried to help but ended up slipping too so now we’re both just kinda lying on the ground
You built an igloo this morning and every time I look out the window you’re just kind of sitting in it doing nothing- are you okay?
You were walking your dog by my house and I was aiming to hit the tree behind you with a snowball but I just nailed you in the face I’m sO SORry do you want hot chocolate??
Camp Counselor AUs [x]
We’re co-counseling the youngest group of kids together and they’ve decided that we absolutely have to get married so now we’re holding a makeshift wedding ceremony and they’re insisting we kiss and you look so pretty up close and I’m about to die of embarrassment, please help.
friendship to romance tropes i can’t get enough of [x]
holy shit i just realized i’ve liked you for the past 8274 years and i really wish i didn’t but i dO and everyone somehow knows about it except for you oh my god why is this happening to me
we drunk-kissed but you forgot about it and i don’t know how to act around you anymore wtf
some cute aus [x]
“you kissed me on the playground the day before you moved away in the 4th grade and now your dorm is right across the hall from mine” au
“my friends forced me to ride this roller coaster but i just ate so now i puked all over the floor and you are an amusement park staff who is rushing over to help me but oh god you’re cute and i have chunks of barf on my lips” au
another list of weird but funny AUs [x]
“You rubbed my lamp, I am your genie but I kinda suck at using my magic so bear with me here” AU
WEREWOLF AU’S [x]
“you being part dog has its perks, mostly for me because whenever i toss something away your eyes follow it and you perk up like you want to chase it but restrict yourself and its honestly the cutest fucking thing ive ever seen”
“babe you know i love you and i would give up my life for yours but i sWEAR TO GOD IF YOU GIVE ME ONE MORE DOG TOY FOR MY BIRTHDAY IM GONNA PUNCH YOU SQUARE IN THE FACE”
a werewolf getting personally offended when someone says they’re not a dog person
“as a werewolf i can personally talk to dogs and boyohboy does ur little pug have some tea to spill…"
“when I saw you climbing out of the stream I was fishing in dirty, wet, and naked, I assumed you had just survived some kind of intense mob hit or something but really you had just detransformed from a werewolf after you were playing in the water trying to catch a fish, and ultimately failing. nice ass, by the way.”
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For Want Of Sleep
My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Requests always welcome!
It’s a few days after the apocalypse[1], the first time it happens. They’ve been drinking at a comfortable, cosy little bar, the two of them alone together, sharing a bottle of some white wine that Crowley can’t pronounce the name of, but loves. They’re not even that drunk, but when Aziraphale stands up to go, Crowley talks without even thinking, his tongue moving without his permission.
Because Aziraphale says, “You know, I’m actually quite tired. I might even take a short sleep!” and he says it in a sort of cavalier way, but in a hushed tone, as if it’s something naughty, and Crowley’s heart surges in his chest. There’s been no word from Heaven or Hell in a while: for now, they’re floating in limbo, aware it will all probably go back to normal, but at the moment, they are each without scrutiny.
“Er, you know, you could come home, with me,” he says, trying not to sound as eager as he feels. “Big bed.” The idea enthrals him, all at once: Aziraphale almost never sleeps, but Crowley knows from a couple of little moments throughout the past few millennia[2] that his body radiates heat, and the idea of having it next to him while he takes a sleep is intoxicating, more so even than the wine. Crowley is still a snake, at heart, and Aziraphale picks the most unfashionable bodies, yes, but they aren’t half-good for insulation: well-padded and encased in wool, and so soft!
Aziraphale blinks at him from drink-unfocused eyes. “Er,” he says. “Would that be… Oh, dear boy, I really don’t think—” He trails off, and Crowley leans back.
“Oh,” he says. “That’s… too much, I s’pose,” he says, trying not to sound disappointed. Aziraphale coughs, and then he draws himself up to his full height, which is still nearly a half-foot shorter than Crowley’s.
“Yes,” he says, sternly. It is let down only slightly by the wine-red flush in his cheeks, and the way he sways just slightly. “Yes, that’s far too far. Of course, I’ll still walk you home.”
“You don’t need to walk me home, angel,” Crowley says.
“Yes, I do,” Aziraphale says, doing that funny little crinkle of his face, where his nose comes right up, and his lips pout. “There’s still a third of that bottle left, and I’m not letting you drink it all.”
Crowley grins.
They walk the few streets toward Crowley’s flat, leaning heavily on one another, and they share the last of the bottle between them: Crowley tries to toss it into the bottle bank in the car park on the corner, from about twenty feet away. He winces when it shatters loudly, and listens to the quiet clunk as Aziraphale reconstitutes it and puts it inside the bottle bank, rather than on the outside. When he opens his eyes[3], he sees that the carpet of broken glass that naturally surrounds these little islands has also disappeared, likely placed into their colour-coordinated banks. There’s also a new mural on the wall, of a bird singing.
“You always have to take it and run with it, don’t you?” he asks, with more scorn than he feels.
Aziraphale smiles beatifically, and says, “I don’t know what you mean.”
He walks Crowley right up to the door, and then hesitates. Crowley looks at his face, at the uncertainty that shows on Aziraphale’s funny, pudgy features, and he clears his throat, leaning on the door to open it.
He doesn’t say anything. He feels like if he said something, he would ruin it: he just leans on the door, leans into the building, and kind of waits for a second, for Aziraphale to follow him. After a long moment of what looks like desperate deliberation, Aziraphale does, and Crowley has to prevent himself from squirming with excitement. It’s been years since he slept with someone else in his bed, years on years, and he really does miss the way it used to be, where you could sleep in close contact with other people, and no one batted an eye…
Ah, well.
Humans.
They come into the flat, and Crowley hangs up their coats as Aziraphale stands awkwardly in his living room, absently stroking the wide leaves of a Dracaena fragrans, the plant shivering under his touch. It had better not get any ideas.
They move into the bedroom, and Crowley doesn’t even think about it, snaps his fingers and puts himself into his pyjamas. They’re good pyjamas, too – black silk, soft and sleek and cool against his skin – and he thinks he actually has a set of Aziraphale’s pyjamas from that business in ’25, where—
Aziraphale’s hand is on his shoulder, and Crowley turns. “Angel, I think I still have your—”
And then Aziraphale’s mouth is on Crowley’s mouth, one of his plump, pretty hands is curled tightly in his hair, and the other one, the other of Aziraphale’s elegant hands, is grabbing at his arse, even as he crowds Crowley up against the edge of the bed.
“Oh,” Crowley says when they break apart, his head spinning.
“Oh?” Aziraphale repeats, even as he hurriedly undoes the buttons of his waistcoat. This is… unexpected. He didn’t even know the angel thought about sex, let alone that he’d be interested in giving it a try. It’s one of those vices that Crowley likes, but doesn’t often bother with himself – not because it isn’t pleasant, because it is, but simply because all the other people involve sometimes get a bit complicated, or difficult to choreograph. Oh, don’t get him wrong, sex can be useful in his line of work: the right blowjob here, the right seduction there, even just enticing a group with the right kiss on the right mouth, but you know, it’s all about the right company, isn’t it? He’s tried pretty much everything under the sun, at least once or twice, just to make sure he’s covering all angles, but sex just isn’t satisfying in the way that sleep is, or in the way a good meal is. Angels and demons do have drives, when they inhabit human bodies, but they’re usually distant, as if you’re feeling them through a screen. Crowley has long suspected Aziraphale actually feels things more than he does himself, but sex? Well.
Sex had always seemed like distinctly unangelic territory.
But—
Well.
It’s not like it’s unwelcome. He likes Aziraphale, and he’s willing to go along with it, especially if they can sleep afterwards.
--
“You’re a demon,” Crowley mumbles into the pillow, sprawled on his belly and entirely unable to move. He’s soaked with sweat, and his whole body is aching distantly, suffused with the pleasant stiffness of muscle that accompanies a long session of sex. And long is right.
“I am not,” Aziraphale says, with a playful smack against his thigh: Crowley’s skin sings.
They got back in at a little past one o’clock, and now, the sun is rising.
“Are you tired?” Aziraphale asks, his soft fingers tracing down the line of Crowley’s spine, pressing down slightly, and Crowley grunts at the wondrous heat his touch leaves in its wake, making his body tingle. “Because,” he continues, and the finger slides between the cleft of Crowley’s buttocks, and Crowley groans.
“Angel,” he says plaintively.
“Hm?” He sounds so innocent! The finger presses down, and Crowley chokes.
“Angel, lie down,” Crowley groans.
“On our sides?”
“On your back.” He miracles the sweat from his naked body, and he doesn’t even bother to put his pyjamas back on, just slides on top of Aziraphale and drops heavy over the comfortable pillow of his chest and belly, closing his eyes. “We are sleeping.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale says.
“Oh?” Crowley repeats pointedly.
He falls asleep blanketing the angel’s chest, just like that, and it’s wonderful, better than he could have dreamed: Aziraphale’s heart beats regularly beneath Crowley’s cheek, his chest the perfect pillow, warm and yielding even where it rises and falls with the angel’s breaths, and he lets himself melt in his place.
“Oh,” Aziraphale murmurs against his hair, softly, his hand resting comfortably on the back of Crowley’s thigh, “you wicked thing.”
Sleepily, Crowley smiles.
--
The second time is a few weeks later.
Crowley comes into the bookshop through the back window, slithering in where it’s slightly ajar, and when he slides into the backroom, Aziraphale has a biography of Wodehouse open in one hand, and is leaning back in his armchair, sipping idly at a cup of tea.
His lap, Crowley notes, is the epitome of free real estate: warm, open, and decorated horribly, but the latter could probably be remedied. He slides forward, and instead of bothering with a traditional greeting, deposits himself on the angel’s thighs, leaning forward and putting his head in the crook of Aziraphale’s shoulder, sliding into place in such a way as to not disturb his knee.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale chides, but his cheeks begin to flush, and he doesn’t let out any noise of complaint. This sort of thing, Crowley knows, isn’t part of the Arrangement, but things are different now, and he’s warm.
“G’morning,” Crowley mumbles against Aziraphale’s neck. He watches with one lazy, suspicious eye as Aziraphale sets his cup of tea aside, and marks his page with a bookmark[4], but then Aziraphale leans, tilting Crowley’s head to meet his, and kisses him. It’s slower than it had been before, less urgent, but he still kisses, his hand sliding slowly into the waistband of his trousers.
Oh.
--
The third time, Crowley is already naked, sprawled on his belly like a starfish, and Aziraphale lets himself into the flat. It’s a little past one in the afternoon, but Crowley has no intention of rising until at least this time tomorrow, and he barely stirs as Aziraphale comes in.
“C’mere, angel,” Crowley says. “Take off your coat.”
“I hung it up, dear,” Aziraphale replies, but Crowley hears the noise through a haze of sleepy wakefulness as he takes off his shoes and puts his clothes aside: he feels the mattress decline slightly, and he reaches loosely out with his left hand for Aziraphale’s.
Aziraphale’s fingers intertwine with his at the same time as his mouth touches Crowley’s skin, licking up, and suddenly Crowley is wide awake and moaning. They don’t get to sleep again for hours.
--
The fourth time, Crowley loses it.
Aziraphale’s hand had been reaching between his thighs, but Crowley grabs his wrist and wrenches it above his head, moving to pin the angel’s hands above his head and stop him from moving. The angel’s eyes widen, his lips parting, and Crowley sees the unmistakable flush rush over his cheeks. “Oh,” Aziraphale says breathlessly. “Very well, dear boy, let’s—”
“No!” Crowley snaps, dragging his hands back and pressing them to Aziraphale’s still-clothed chest instead. “No, no, no, angel, it’s— I won’t have it anymore. I won’t. I like sex, Aziraphale, I like sex a lot, and I like sex with you, but I’m not trying to fuck you every time I crawl into your lap or get you into bed with me! I just want to sleep!”
Toward the end, his indignant growl becomes more of a plaintive whine, and Aziraphale peers at him, his eyes wide, his lips parted in surprise.
“Oh,” Aziraphale says softly, his eyebrows shifting up in disappointed uncertainty. “Oh, my dear, I am sorry, I didn’t… I thought you wanted—”
“I like it,” Crowley repeats. “Just— If I’m already in bed, I probably just want to sleep. Unless I start kissing you or something, if I get into your lap, I just want to leech your heat. You’d be furious, wouldn’t you, if I tried to come bother you while you were buried in an important book?”
Aziraphale’s lip twitches, and he gently pats the side of Crowley’s hip, his gaze flitting down. “I’ve been rather overeager with you, I suppose.”
“You could be overeager with me now,” Crowley mutters. Aziraphale inhales, and Crowley shivers as Aziraphale’s fingers slide slowly up to his shirt, beginning to unbutton it. Crowley yawns, his jaw opening wider than a real human’s might, before he says, “You could… while I was sleeping. Another time. I wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh, you beast, I could never,” Aziraphale says, in a tight, hotly excited voice, and then he leans, brushing his lips against Crowley's chest. “Oh, have I been dreadful to you, my dear? Demanding all this sex of you?”
“No,” Crowley mumbles, his eyes closing as he tips his head back, lazily grinding his hips down against Aziraphale’s, arching up and into his mouth. “Mm.”
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, and he kisses the space between Crowley’s pecs, but then summons a thick blanket about his shoulders, drawing Crowley up against his chest. “You sleep, my dear, and I shall reduce you to a quivering wreck once you wake, hm?”
“L’ve you, ‘Zirafel,” Crowley mumbles against Aziraphale’s neck, his eyes closing shut as Aziraphale draws him against his neck.
“I love you too, my dear,” the angel murmurs, and Crowley lets himself drift into sleep.
[1] That is to say, the apocalypse didn’t happen, but the end of days sort of retains its status as the end of days in one’s mind even when it wasn’t actually, per se, the end of days.
[2] Both of these “little moments” had been fuelled entirely by wine, but that’s to be expected.
[3] In the dark, his sunglasses are perched in the black crop of his hair, and his night vision is very good.
[4] It’s made of tartan cloth, and has golden tassels. Crowley hates it on principle.
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sick sick sick
The Art of Cruelty is a book by Maggie Nelson which is about things that are, in the words of the author, not nice. Shouldering aside the semantic ambiguities of defining exactly what is meant by ‘cruel’, the book leans heavily on a sense of knowing it when it is seen. An instinctive feeling of revulsion, followed by a certain compulsion to investigate further. An unwillingness to break the gaze because of what the viewer feels, in spite of whatever they might believe. The works under discussion here seem intended to leave their audience feeling like the unhappy student quoted here, with reference to a controversial novel by Brian Evenson: ‘I feel like someone who has eaten something poisonous and is desperate to get rid of it.’
It is a book about the visual arts, performance, poetry and film, clearly informed by many of years of study and teaching. But it’s also a book about a writer struggling to account for her feelings of fascination/repulsion towards some of our society’s most startling artistic productions. It suffers from a certain surfeit of ambition: it struggles to pin down exactly what a ‘cruel’ work of art is, beyond a tendency towards shock or violence, either in its expression or representation. And at times it is hard to detect a thesis; sometimes the thread of the argument is lost in a blizzard of quotation. Yet it’s exactly this lack of polish, this sense of awkward self-remonstrance, that makes the book so endearing.
It takes the work of Antonin Artaud as its starting point, and specifically his term ‘The Theatre of Cruelty’. Derived from his book The Theatre and its Double, this was an approach to performance outlined in stark, boldly abstract terms: ‘Everything that acts is a cruelty…It is upon this idea of extreme action, pushed beyond all limits, that theatre must be rebuilt…’. Founded in the abolition of concepts like ‘performers’ and ‘audience’, Artaud’s actual performances were startling, violent works, and rarely executed properly in his lifetime; his work was difficult, and he suffered terribly from mental illness. Nelson’s contention is that he was an artistic failure, though his theories were highly prescient.
Some, but not all, of the other artists presented here fall into that category too; interesting to read about, but in execution alienating, dull or confused. Like Artaud they seem against theory in principle, yet were it not for theory their reputation would have vanished. I can’t muster any interest in the works for which Chris Burden became notorious, for example — filming himself crawling half-naked over broken glass, or being shot in the arm — but perhaps that says more about our current over-exposure to violence than it does the value of his actions.
The book somehow manages to be both sprawling and narrow in its interests: it covers a vast range of material, but it rarely steps outside the kind of thing which we might find in a well-stocked university library. Today there are vast swathes of Western culture that might fittingly be described as ‘cruel’, but which are barely touched upon here. Violent sports, video games, graphic novels, horror fiction, pornography, pop music and mainstream movies all seem to fall outside the book’s purview. This is fair enough, of course; though to me it seems like a decision prompted by inherent value judgements that ends up limiting the expressive range of the writing.
The films of Ryan Trecartin, for example, are praised to the skies for their remarkable expressive qualities — ‘a riotous exploration of what kinds of space, identity, physicality, language, sexuality, and consciousness might be possible once leaves the dichotomy of the virtual and the real and behind, along with a whole host of other need-not-apply boundaries’ — but this, combined with the compulsion to quote from other approving authority figures, ends up telling the reader very little about what it is like to actually experience these films.
Despite the fact that Trecartin seems to have been lauded by establishment art critics, it seems to me that most of his influences most of them have very little to do with established art. It’s as though Warhol were described only in terms of his brushwork and printmaking, with no mention of contemporary trends in media production. It’s bizarre to encounter Trecartin’s work after reading this; for me it’s shot through with the kind of hyperactive, unsophisticated viral culture that circulated in the earliest days of the internet, and it seems odd to pretend these influences don’t exist because they have everything to do with play and little to do with art.
Nelson’s approach is unashamedly highbrow, and she’s lightly scathing about the lack of value she finds in current approach to pop culture criticism:
‘I’m not saying there’s no fun or value or necessity in this work anymore; maybe there’s more than ever. I’m just saying that for me, personally, it feels like a dead end. The cultural products now seem designed to analyse themselves, and to make a spectacle of their essentially consumable perversity.’
There’s a lot to agree with in this statement — god knows what Nelson would make of Game of Thrones — but it’s also a nice illustration of the novel’s typically enjoyable one-two stylistic punch. First the brusque avowal of a position; then a light-hearted refusal of it; followed by a final, definitive statement of intent. It’s the old cliche about ‘I’m not saying / I’m just saying’ — yeah, actually you are saying exactly that thing you’re not saying. If this were an academic paper, surely only the third sentence would be permissible. This is typical of the author’s bobbing and weaving throughout here — it makes for an entertaining, conversational read, but at times it’s difficult to unpick exactly what we are supposed to take home.
The effect is a little like sitting in on a seminar with a group of funny, opinionated, well-read people who have not yet decided ‘how to feel’ about something that has affected them greatly. But perhaps the idea that we have to reach a definitive position on ‘how to feel’ about everything is itself the problem.
The book is actually at its most entertaining when it is at its most incomplete. The sequence following the quote above departs entirely from its format and switches into the author’s reaction to the billboards advertising a horror movie that suddenly appeared around Los Angeles in 2007:
‘…you call to complain, disliking the sound of your Tipper-Gore-esque voice. You hang up and start worrying about the free-speech implications of your protest, so you turn to Noam Chomsky and ponder hard questions about manufactured consent and the meaning of free speech in an everything-is-owned-or-for-sale world, then to Jurgen Habermas, to ponder the meaning of public space is an everything-is-owned-or-for-sale world…So you wonder how to tell what emanates from where, and how you might balance your visceral outrage against the Captivity emanations with your deep veneration of writers from Sade to Jean Genet to Dennis Cooper to Heather Lewis to Pat Califa to Benjamin Weissman, and ask yourself if you can keep resting on some quasi-nostalgic and most certainly elitist (but not-wholly-without-significance) between high and low art, or the value of the complex and essentially private written word versus that of the mass marketed, in-your-face media image…’
It goes on for another page or so like this. And this model of throwing up endless little questions that it doesn’t stop to answer is essentially the model pursued for the rest of the book. It models exactly the author’s own frustrations with the cul-de-sac of pop culture criticism previously expressed; but it makes no attempt to find a new model, nor does it entirely escape the same trappings. What is this if not making a spectacle of an essentially consumable perversity?
And yet this is the closest the book comes to a clear picture of the current predicament of anyone who would try to write about the most extreme examples of culture. A little learning is a dangerous thing; the weight of critical theory in this field is so considerable that it ends up stifling the original reaction which brought you to it in the first place. But that is worth preserving — and so, perhaps, is the associated confusion.
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