Okay! * slaps hands on desk *
So - Get The Fuck Off My Lawn, Self Appointed Ambassador Crowley and You Bullied Me And Now I'm Your Boss Bitch Supreme Archangel Aziraphale have hit over 2000 NOTES.
Thus, I promised to play the Note Game.
But ... with Good Omens.
SO.
100 Notes - I spend the extra $2 to get BEST CONTENT for @gleafer
200 Notes - I finally buy a Good Omens laptop vinyl sticker.
500 notes - I finish Chapter 3 of my fic 'I See A Silhouette' before Saturday and get it put in for editing.
750 notes - I start Chapter 4 right after.
1000 - I buy new Good Omens t-shirt AND work on Chapter 5 to be finished by sometime next week.
1500 - I rewatch the entire series, and perhaps record train of thought commentary? Add another Good Omens artist to my Patreon? Not sure about this one. Open to suggestions!
2000 - I finish my fic in the next 3 weeks, I buy NEW art for everyone to enjoy, and I start my Human AU Good Omens. DUN DUNNNN DUUUUUUN.
Motivate my Good Omens obsession, Tumblr!
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so to recap on the r/GoodOmensAfterDark Angst War, we have
Crowley following Azi into hell and using occult holograms of his ass to lure away a hellhound
Crowley straight up getting stabbed
Crowley pulling out his feathers and preparing to save Azi
Inappropriately hot, chained-up Crowley who may or may not be hallucinating the cruelest Azi ever
You’re killing us, @gleafer, @gahellhimself-blog, @daneecastle, @vavoom-sorted-art
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Uh. Hi! I'm Alex and I love writing pain.
I've seen the angst war going on and I am incredibly tempted to contribute; I'm not quite sure of the rules (if there are any) so feel free to bring me up to speed. Updates will be at whatever pace is fun/doable for me, interactions, asks etc. always very much appreciated 💚
@goodomensafterdark @daneecastle @gleafer @gahellhimself-blog @vavoom-sorted-art @kotias
I will put appropriate content tags on every chapter and make a masterpost once I have a handful of posts. Please keep in mind that this series is going to deal with a heavy dose of unreality, self-injurious behaviour, substance abuse, erratic behaviour/mood swings, and more. There will be a happy ending.
Now, without further ado, the first instalment of what is going to be us following Crowley down the path of (hopefully temporary) insanity.
rest your head \\ chapter 1
(~800 w, no additional warnings)
Sleep deprivation, while usually not fatal, is not the least bit pleasant. Human brains require sleep to function—and not just their minds, either. The entire body breaks down oh so slowly as every system designed to keep it alive deteriorates without the comforting embrace of unconsciousness.
However, the actual cause of death is yet to be identified, and luckily Crowley's corporation functions on the principle of 'what it doesn't know won't kill it'.
Over the centuries, earthly indulgences have become more and more common, pleasures easily sought and found no matter where he went, although nothing ever beat a good night's (or decade's) rest. Sleep calms his mind and allows him to drift through time without a care, surrounded by ever-shifting dream clouds and the occasional vivid interference. In short, it takes away the pain, and Someone knows there is a lot to carry when he returns home for the first time in four years.
No dust had dared to settle on the furniture, and the familiar smell of damp earth welcomes him. Locking the door behind him, Crowley blindly finds his way through the corridors, kicking off his shoes as he goes and throwing his glasses onto the nearest surface. When he pushes into his bedroom, which is just as pristine as he had left it, the anger churning in his gut cools.
Home. Has he ever had a home? Once upon a time, maybe, before time had been born, surrounded by breathing nebulae and void, and then—
Eden. Him. Right, that's done.
A snap of his fingers and his clothes change into a set of silk pyjamas, the fabric brushing over his skin like liquid silver, and the black-out curtains snap shut. Darkvision is one of the advantages of being a demon, but he finds the dark has nothing to offer him today, so he closes his eyes and pulls back the sheets to curl around a pillow.
Images flicker in the pulsating emptiness left behind, piercing blue eyes and fluttering hands, a press of lips against his, words digging into his skull like tadpoles making a home within his brain matter. Electricity crawls over his slowly numbing body, urging him to disappear, to sink into nothingness and waste away until he is a dried stain on the mattress.
No one will come looking for him, after all.
Maybe the world will be brighter once he wakes, the pain duller, the loneliness less aching and all-consuming. Within his chest bleeds a hollow, jagged wound, dripping black blood and drowning the radiant remnants of Aziraphale's presence; his essence is familiar, it's- home.
Crowley does not need to sleep, yet somewhere between Rome and the present, he had forgotten about it, his corporation shifting and changing, craving rest and punishing him for its absence. It will not kill him, it does not even occur to him that it might, but there are countless fates worth than death and he is already living one of them. What's another added to the mess his life has become?
His nails dig into the pillow case, his consciousness choking on the scorched battlefield of the day, but no matter how hard he tries, how desperately he commands his body to bend to his wills, sleep refuses to come. A new, different kind of pain rises, worse than fatigue and infinitely more addictive. Its sting is battery acid on his tongue, infusing him with a restlessness that is scratching on his bones, and when blue irises keep mocking him behind closed lids, he forces his eyes open, turns onto his back, and stares at the ceiling, waiting.
Light wanders and shifts, barely visible through the heavy fabric adorning his windows, and it dips behind the horizon before reappearing on the other side. Crowley stares at white paint and counts the moving dots gradually clouding his vision, absently pressing his knuckles against his sternum over and over—whether to calm himself or to chase away mental pain with physical is beyond his awareness.
Both, neither, maybe.
His too-human body protests and whines, and once he begins to see blue shadows in his periphery, Crowley bites his tongue and gets up. Coffee will help, then a hot shower, and yelling his plants back into order is going to occupy most of his afternoon anyway, so what's a night without sleep?
The next one will bring him the rest he needs, and Aziraphale's eyes will stop striking him down whenever he blinks. He is alone now (alone in London, alone on earth, his chest constricts and twists at the thought, stealing his breath) and he will have to get used to it; it'll be fine eventually, right?
—
Three days later Crowley is staring at his bedroom ceiling, impatient, restless, exhausted, and attempting to chase away the bone-white teeth hovering underneath lightning-blue eyes.
"Fine, have it your way," he snaps eventually, his voice too loud in an empty room, and feels the smile breathing down his neck all the way to the kitchen.
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