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Ache	By : Nemain Category: G through L > Good Omens Views: 3266 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Good Omens, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Ache
- 1
Ache (M for Mature)
Disclaimers: Bow chicka bow wow ahead. If smut bothers you, stop here. This is a work of fan fiction using characters created by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. No money is made off this work. Anything you recognize belongs to someone else.
A/N Musegaarid, I hope you like this! And my beta rocks so much socks for being a beta! *glomp *

He did not ache as humans ached but the need was profound; he sometimes wondered if he were made to suffer especially so because of the time Before.   He wanted, he desired, he needed…but he did not ache. Not for this angel. He did not ache when he watched his lover’s wings spread wide, catching the silvery gold moonlight on pale, almost iridescent feathers. He did not ache when the angel arched in the night, fine bones moving under silky skin. He simply wanted. He did not ache when the angel smiled at him, beguiling and sweet, words like honey dripping onto his lips, his tongue…   He breathed in the angel’s breath, the breath they merely imitated and did not truly need. He felt the light seep into him, infusing every particle with pure bliss, shining need, suffusing into a dull want as the angel’s wings tickled his hands, his arms. Pressed front to back, his own demonic wings folded out of the way, painfully so as they moved in concert, Crowley inhaled the angelic scent of skin and hair and being, the sheer will of existing in anything other than their natural state. It was intoxicating, a drug more dangerous and addictive than anything man had even dreamed of creating.
It was the nearest to Below he could get without summoning a portal to escape. The need was painful, driving him to make poor decisions, to abandon his existence as it should be and adopt one that was a lie, a comfortable lie but an untruth nonetheless. Lying, he thought to himself on the day he brought the angel to his room, should be easy for a demon. But this one was not. He would rather Fall again, to the furthest pits of Hell, the place reserved traitors, the icy realm, according to that fool Dante… Crowley closed his eyes as his angel moved, warm and wet mouth sliding like silk over the turgid member he had conjured, willed into simple existence, making up for his lack of one in his natural state with a hell of an example in his adopted one.   He arched involuntarily, basic need sending trills of pleasured heat through his body, making him feel like golden light was pooling in his belly, warming his thighs. His lover’s lips pressed soft, teasing kissing along his length, making him want, making him need. He spread his fingers against the wall, his wings creaking and protesting the pressure as he leaned back, the flutter and rustle of the angel’s wings the only sound in the room aside from soft, guttural utterances in a tongue long unheard by Man. Crowley could see the words emblazoned on his mind’s eye, words soft and thick with need, painfully tender and twisting in his core. Words that would be secret, his own Hell, his own Fall that he had to live each and every day. Release was torn from him, his body arching and breath hitching in his throat before roaring forth in a cry of pleasured pain, pent up want erupting, filling the angel’s mouth and seeping from the corner of his lips. Crowley peered at the kneeling angel, supplicant to his desire, through narrowed, reptilian eyes. Golden hair caught silvery moonlight and for a moment, he remembered marble statues half carved, whispering into Michelangelo’s ear, murmuring to lesser known artists whose work was lost to time. Then the angel moved and he forgot, for a moment, the eons behind and before them both, the wicked pleasures he had taken with such earnest men and women, carving stone gods, painting his likeness into layer upon layer of glaze and pigment. Cool moon glow limned angelic limbs with radiant silver, the natural pearlescent sheen of the lithe angel’s skin made all the more pronounced in the shimmer of the waning orb. His eyes drifted to the fine boned hands that slid across his chest, long fingered but strong. He pictured tweedy sleeves, slightly worn linen shirt cuffs, a spot of library dust and maybe a smidge of ink. He had to close his eyes to maintain the image; he smiled as the soft touch on his chest moved higher, fingers tracing his throat, the ironic Adam’s apple there, before pressing lightly against his lips. He parted, capturing one fingertip between his teeth and nipping none too gently. He did not open his eyes at the hiss of surprised pain, merely concentrated on the smell, the odor of sanctity the old religious had called it, roses and jasmine and temple smoke, old worlds that were all but forgotten by modern Man. He suckled the finger between his lips and felt the angel stiffen, knew his eyes were uncertain.
Crowley did not look upon the beautiful face he knew to be mere inches from his own, instead releasing the finger and sliding to his own knees then, his wings springing wide, knocking over a beleaguered potted plant but he did not care. The angel was trembling, fairly vibrating, and it was not from fear. He could smell the desire, the raw need, wafting from the strong, slender form like honey from the comb. Fire raged in his belly, searing through his limbs, his wings, his flesh until he was sure he would be ash within moments. He wondered at it, the torment he felt as he cupped the delicate sac of the angel’s flesh in the palm of his hand, stroking the stiff, pale length with the other, his breath feathering across the seeping, empurpled tip.   He did not ache for it as he knew he could, if he tried, but he desired. He wanted to feel the thickness in his mouth, hear the angelic gasps and moans as he laved and suckled. He loved the rush of power when his lover gasped and panted his name, his true name, when delicately strong fingers tangled in his hair and tugged. Crowley smiled, hissing a sibilant breath of pleasure as he drew on the member in his mouth, his own body throbbing again with need (a benefit of being demonic, he supposed, was no refractory period). He opened his golden eyes and glanced up with snake-like satisfaction, his expression akin to a rather pleased python upon finding an abandoned traveler in the jungle. The angel—his angel, for the time being—cried out, languages scrolling and twining, the silvery glow of angelic skin, the scent of angelic being, washing over Crowley in a rolling wave of awareness, need and want and desire tangling into a knot of painful knowledge. The softening phallus, popping out of his lips with a gentle tug and fall, was not what he wanted. The salty-sweet taste of the release, still on his lips and tongue as he rose, pulling the angel in for a kiss, parting tender lips with a thrust of his tongue before nipping with sharp teeth, was not what he needed.
Flesh moved against flesh, forms slipping into truths as they kissed and tugged and pushed and pulled towards Crowley’s bed, the dark sheets invitingly cool as they tumbled down. Wings disappeared for the time being, but the arching bones just beneath the skin, the ribs of their origin jutting just slightly beneath the shoulder blades, along the spine, marking the males as not human, as Other. Crowley caught a glimpse of them, his lover and himself, in the large mirror situated on the far side of the bedroom, and he paused. He did not look like a sated demon. His brows were drawn in concern; his lips did not smile but rather tugged downward. The angel was sprawled like a decadent sultan below him, arms flung wide, legs twined around Crowley’s own. The demon’s eyes moved along the visible prominence on his back and he cursed himself mentally, damning himself again and again. He refused to bend to the need, bend to the desire, but he would be a liar if he denied himself pleasure. This was just pleasure. It was nothing, no one. “Please,” he hissed the word, bending to bite the angel’s neck with a gentle ferocity that sent tremors through them both, “say it.”
“Why?” he gasped, arching his throat, running his hands across Crowley’s back, down his buttocks to his thighs and pulling him closer.
Crowley suppressed a shiver. He had Fallen; this temptation was nothing compared to that of Paradise, true Paradise. He did not let the angel pull him any closer. “Because,” he husked, his voice low and thick, old accents layering over adopted ones. He could see eternity in the angel’s eyes and silently thanked whoever he could that this naked gaze, the true nature of angelic eyes, was hidden from every day use, tucked away neatly until a miracle was needed or some other wonderfulness only those who chose the Other Side in the war could perform. “You sought me out, you needed me…so now say it for me. Say it and I will take you again, make you cry to Heaven…”
He swallowed hard, closing his eyes as if the words were painful for him.   Crowley merely waited, his thick and hardened length pressed where the angel wanted him the most in that moment, waiting to enter, to join and fuse and become one entity of want and need and flesh and bone and light and dark. He had sought the demon out and the demon was pleased, if the truth be told. Needs desired to be slaked. Eyes swimming in infinity opened and met the knowing, slitted gaze above him. “I love you.” He reached for Crowley again and pulled him close, groaning and sighing as the demon sank into him. The demon pressed close and lied to himself again. Fingers, fine and strong, skimmed his back and he knew they were not what he needed, what he desired. They were rough, unkempt, the hands of someone who fought and warred. The hands of a liar, a needy liar like himself.   The golden head beneath him was burnished rather than fair, a rugged face beneath straight and long strands, bound back like a warrior, like the old battle god he once served as a demigod. Crowley glanced at the mirror again and saw them, bodies twined, dark and light together, and hated it, hated the dull throb in his chest and belly, hated his need that would not be slaked so long as the lie pressed on, dragged over centuries, past oblivious angels and dying worlds. The mirror dissolved into the wall, a hiss of brimstone in it’s wake.
Crowley did not ache. He would not ache. He lay back on the sheets as the angel blinked out of sight, hurrying back to Above to absolve himself, he imagined. Maybe he would fling himself at Michael’s feet and beg forgiveness for literally sleeping with the enemy. Maybe they would leave Aziraphale alone for a while, Crowley mused. He closed his eyes, not for need of sleep but because he did not know what else to do, how else to act. He did not ache, not for Paradise, not for love, not for Aziraphale. He needed, he wanted, he desired, but he would not ache. Not for the little angel who sought him out, came down and played at danger, pretended at being a rebel, fancied him with his dark aspect and forbidden knowledge, but he did not ache for him. He needed, he wanted, he desired what he represented, the lie he could be, but he did not ache. He would Fall again, gladly, for one moment to slake the burning, throbbing, dull and constant need, desire and want in his body, filling every fiber of any form he chose to take, but he did not ache.
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Ache