Title:   Twisted
Rating:   PG-13
Feedback:   Yes yes yes!! Feedback is good, constructive crit is good, and flames will be laughed at, because flamers always make themselves look stupid.
Warnings:  Slash. Male-shaped creatures with other male-shaped creatures. If you don't like that, then you should go elsewhere. You have been warned.
Disclaimer:  None of it belongs to me, all of it belongs to gneil and pterry, who so rock on.
Summary:  A Crowley stream of consciousness fic, where he ponders on his angel and tries to convince himself that he's not crazy.
Notes : This is my very first GO fic, so please be gentle...


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Sometimes I can't bear to look at you. When you smile, or laugh, and joy bubbles up through your skin and casts radiant light all around, I just can't bear it. You become something so beautiful, so pure, that I have to turn away. Do you know what you do to me? Do you know that my eyes burn when you smile, when I make you smile? Your purity is the antithesis to all that I am supposed to be. And it hurts, like a half-forgotten memory, when I see you smile.

And yet I stay.

I never think about it, really. What you have become to me is something so forbidden, so unspeakable, that I can't even speak it to myself. I can't even wonder, or imagine, or daydream without the fear that someone will find me out. It's all a bunch of sentimental bullshit, anyway. And so not me. What is it that you've done to me to make me such a fool? I know I haven't done anything, and I certainly didn't ask for this. Didn't ask to fixate on your lips when you talk, watching the words move in sick fascination past your perfect mouth. I wonder what it would be like...

No. I don't wonder at all.

And I don't understand this pain in my chest when you're around. I don't understand and I don't like it at all. It hurts, and burns like fire twisting in my belly. It calls out to me whenever you're near, making me want, making me want you. But you, you're always the catalyst. Always the instigator and oh-so-innocent.

You don't know at all, do you?

We talk. Over drinks, over dinner, and you don't understand at all that when you laugh, or smile, I want to die. Anything to rid me of this sickeningly sweet torment. The fires of hell would be cool in comparison to this desire that burns me alive whenever I see you and I just want to hurt you and curse you and make you bleed and...

Hold you, and kiss away your tears and run my hands through your silk-spun hair and...

I've decided I'm going mad. There's nothing else for it. It has to be insanity that keeps me here, so close to and yet so far away. I don't understand how it hurts to be near you and then hurts when you're not around. I don't understand why the pain only fades when you speak, in that soft perfect voice, just to double back and leave me speechless before you. But I know I'm not insane. If the deepest, darkest rings of hell cannot drive me insane, then how could a soft-spoken book dealer, who is so much more...

It's your fault.

It cannot be mine so it must be yours. Your fault for being so perfect. Your fault for graceful fingers that brush against my own. Your fault for ageless blue eyes that hold laughter and silent promises. Your fault for changing me. Irrevocably. To the core.

I can't bear to hurt anymore. Neither myself nor others. I can't inflict pain, cause chaos, spread misery because even though you know it's in my nature all I can see are your eyes brimming with sadness and disappointment. You know it's in my nature, supposed to be in my nature. My nature, it seems, has changed. You've changed it.

I hate you for it. Or try to.

You sit there, as we talk, nodding along even as I can't remember what I'm saying and my mind wanders while my lips move and you agree or disagree and it doesn't matter because I'm not paying attention to my own words, I'm only paying attention to you. To the way your skin shifts over muscle and bone, beautiful and translucent all at once and I'm wondering how it moves over the rest of your body and how maybe it would look across the planes of your chest stretched taut as you arch your back and... and...

Maybe it's lust that coils like and unquenchable fire in my belly.

Somehow I don't think so.

Lust is something I can deal with, something I know. Something easily cured. And I could cure it, certainly. I could take you, willing or not, and make you mine and mark every inch of your skin with my fingerprints and make you cry and beg and scream...

I could make you scream. Pleasure and pain are indiscriminate things, really.

And it's in my nature to cause pain. Should be in my nature, was in my nature. My nature has changed. I don't want to hurt you, couldn't hurt you, I just want to hold you and kiss you and mark every inch of your skin with my fingerprints.

I still want to possess you. Some things don't change.

I just want you to possess me as well.

And so we sit, over coffee and cocktails, and you look at me strangely and I realize that I've been staring again and quickly catch myself as you smile knowingly, a satisfied, relieved smile and my heart hammers madly in my chest and then stops altogether because suddenly I know. Suddenly I understand.

This plague you've set on me isn't madness, or lust, it's something much, much worse.

Love.

I can't love. I don't understand it and I'm not supposed to feel it. And yet you sit there, and you smile, and I can't understand how this fire in my veins that wraps itself tightly around my heart could be anything but love. Twisted and strange, for certain, but when was love not?

I understand. And understanding has set me free.

I smile at you now, across tables in restaurants and benches in the park and I watch you freeze, uncertainty flashing brightly in your eyes, and I know, in this second, that I've won. It's only a matter of time before you realize it, too.

I can wait. I've got all the time in the world.







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