Tittle: Perfect
Author: davinci_1985
Pairing: Um... that's a difficult one. Mainly, Angel/Xander (sort of). Let's say there are mentions of Angel/Drusilla, Angel/Spike, Angel/Buffy, Xander/Faith.
Spoilers: S3 Buffy, after Consequences.
Warnings: this is dark and a little disturbing. Don't know what overcame over me, but it mentions non-con, torture, bloodplay, a very fleeting implication of child abuse, and... well, masturbation.
Rating: I think this qualifies as NC-17.

Thanks: to my wonderful beta, sublimatedangel, who had to suffer through my horrible grammar and spelling, and thanks to whom, this piece is legible. I'm not an English-speaker, so she had to deal with quite a lot of mistakes. Thank you!!

Thanks again: for those who nominated this fic at three different awards!!!








Perfect

Angel steps inside his room. He is tired; his body aches with exhaustion. He wants to sleep, but he is still too charged up on adrenaline and excitement, and he knows he’s still hours away from being calm enough to get any rest.

Sweet scent, golden hair falling in soft curls, and he wanted to stroke them, so much, so very much.

But Buffy’s unreachable, and she always will be.

He undresses. First the coat, then the shirt. Shoes, socks, pants. A ritual, and it always relaxes him a little, this familiar pattern, but now it doesn’t affect him at all, except maybe to make the anticipation more prominent. He is going to take a shower, see if he can calm himself down. He’s still aroused.

A good fight, excitement, nervousness, adrenaline, it usually causes it, and he always releases the tension as quickly and efficiently as he can, not wanting to dwell on it.

But tonight the demons won’t be ignored, no. The urges, the desires, the wants.  And his demon wants, wants, wants. Wants to be free. Wants to hunt, to kill, to feed, to hurt. To hurt others, and to create twisted paintings of beauty, just like his Drusilla, perfect and beautiful and delicate and just. So. Damaged.

Rough fabric being ripped open, exposing soft flesh, fading bruises. Nun’s room, nun’s clothes. Frightened eyes, the beginnings of madness in them. Soft, smooth skin met his hand. He bruised her, because he likes the screams and the pretty colours it creates against her skin. Angelus could appreciate the beauty for what it was: pure, simple, amoral. She was perfect, and like a child. Trusting and distrusting and pleading and needy and aloof, and she was all those things at the same time, and it made him feel drunk, because it was him, who created this. Him.

The water is warm against his back, and he soaps up his body, ridding it of smells, of dirt. He pours shampoo over his hair and rinses it.

Drusilla was pretty, but not as pretty as his William, his lovely, lovely William. Golden strands, softer than they had any right to be, curly and Angelus wanted to caress them, to pet him, to rip them off the scalp violently.

Drusilla had caused him to be drunk on power, but William… William… He was perfect, his perfect boy. Soft, soft skin, much more so than Darla’s, or even Drusilla’s. Deep cobalt eyes, startlingly blue, intense and powerful. Long limbs, perfectly defined. Delicate, but not fragile. Fine bone structure; pretty, pretty face.

So pretty…

Angelus, as an artist, always did love pretty things, and Spike was by far one of the loveliest beings he had ever met. Harsh, soft, it didn’t matter. He was beautiful in his submission, he was beautiful in his rebellion.

Angel pinches a nipple, remembering. Warm water hits his back, and the persistent arousal won’t leave him.

His William, all harsh angles and smooth curves, fusing together perfectly. A man’s heart, a man’s pride, a man’s passion. Angelus had loved him so much, so deeply, Angel often measured his feelings, comparing them to what he felt for Spike. He wondered if what he felt for Buffy came close, some days.

His William, who had screamed so perfectly for him, who had submitted so perfectly, who had rebelled and fought and hurled and received abuse so perfectly. His William, who had hated him with such perfect intensity, even as he loved him: who had written dark, seductive lines for Angelus, full of blood and pain and death and passion, and had driven Angelus wild.

His hand goes down, slowly, slowly, caressing needy skin, desperate for contact, for blood, for tongue and saliva and lips and fingers.

Perfect skin marred by blood, running from carefully crafted cuts, creating one of the most beautiful paintings. William, naked, body lying in an unconsciously seductive posture, eyes intense and strange and so full of passion, of pain, of pleasure. Long hair around his face, blood pooling in the arch of his back, hard cock and desperation in his begging voice, for Angelus: his pain, his caresses, his blood, just please.

He encircles the base of his cock, preventing himself from coming at the memory of the moaning, the writhing pleasure-filled nights, caresses, kisses, love.

His lovely William was gone now, forever. Drusilla, too. His princess and his prince. Beautiful, twisted, mad, and just. Perfect. Because they were his, his art, his masterpieces, his doing, his.

Releasing the tight grip on the base, he sighs softly with the ghostly sensation of his fingers still surrounding his shaft.

Buffy… His beloved… He wanted her, so much…

But she wasn’t for him, no.

Her eyes, full of pain and defeat the night he was sent to hell.

She had broken, and broken beautifully, almost perfect in her pain and anguish… But the defeat, the acceptance of fate… No, no.

She had broken beautifully, as he always knew she would so, but… Dru and William… they had broken spectacularly.

His finger begins running from base to tip torturously slow, because he wants to enjoy this, he wants, yes.

Smell of arousal and cum and sex and soft cries, in the dark.

Because he loves Buffy, and she was pure, and innocent.

And he doesn’t love the boy, no.

“Yes! Fuck!”

He pinches his foreskin, hissing.

He opened the door. Dark hair, dark eyes, the scent of female arousal heavy in the air. Quietly, quietly, didn’t want to be detected.

His hand drifts down, and he caresses his balls, teasingly, as a prelude of things to come.

And he saw it: perfection. Just like his lovely William, but with a hint of Dru’s madness behind those dark eyes.

He finally fists his shaft, and ever so slowly, so softly, begins caressing himself.

Xander was on his back, Faith on top of him. Her face was contorted in pleasure, her breathing ragged, and she had come at least once, judging by the scent. Xander, under her, was twisting and straining and trying to make needy cries and moans.

He groans, the image powerful, and the spark of desire flares inside of him, hitting him with force and setting him on fire.

Panting. Barely audible rustle of cloth as she writhed. Ineffectual attempts at dislodging her.

Slayers were stronger than master vampires. That’s the reason he couldn’t free himself, couldn’t escape.

Xander was a human boy. Young and stupid and…

“Yes, X! Was this what you wanted, you little fucker? A connection?”

…such a perfect victim.

His hand tightens violently around his cock, the sudden pressure contrasting against the previous ghost touches, and making it all the more satisfying.

She was moaning, aroused and excited, impossibly powerful hands squeezing, clenching around a tender neck as she climaxed once more, rubbing her wet sex against his cloth-covered crotch, uncaring, lost in her desire, drowning in her pleasure.

Xander, torn shirt, scratched, red lines against smooth-looking skin. Young, and innocent.

Virgin skin.

And as he strokes, he knows that he should have stopped Faith in that very moment, but he didn’t.

Xander had a perfect neck, just like his William. Long, perfectly shaped, unmarred. Adam’s apple visible and bobbing when nervous.

Faith’s hands were squeezing it, and Angel could see the throbbing jugular between her fingers.

Harris’ eyes. Harris’ face. Harris’ lips.

Angel returns to a slower stroking. He wants this to last, to last as long as Xander’s humiliation did.

Xander’s body contorted as he tried ineffectually to fill his burning lungs, body fighting, lips forming words that couldn’t be heard, but Faith clenched harder, and rocked a little more, and Xander’s cock responded to the pressure and friction.

Xander’s eyes were tinged red.

His gaze intense, dark, full of passion.

>Angel wanted to be the cause of that look, to have Xander look at him, to have him at his mercy, suffering, and like Faith, he wanted to get off on his pain.

His hand is a blur on his cock, raw and just this side of painful. From time to time, he lets his nails caress the oversensitive skin.

Xander’s blood, calling to him. Sweet and innocent and perfect. Innocents’ blood is always darker, undiluted, and thicker. He loved it, and reveled in the other scent, of pain and sex and death and dust and graveyard and decay and power, from Faith.

And Xander’s scent. Sweet, in a way no-one had ever equaled. Not those fake-sweet smells people have, chemically achieved, but sweet, like he was all things good and pure, and that was why he was so perfect in his death, in the violation of his body and soul. He smelled sweet and spicy and like chocolate. He smelled warm, Angel didn’t know how else to describe it, and like a forest and like the ocean, and it was a strange combination that never failed to arouse him.

Especially when he smelled of pain, of hopelessness, of fear and love, and his scent was mingled with that of her release and Angel was hard, watching Xander die.

Xander. Angel focused on his face: the pain, the acceptance, the betrayal and the love and the despair and the fear and the love and the hate and the self-loathing. Even emotions Angel, with all his years, had never seen on anyone’s face, not on his victims, not on anyone.

Xander was obnoxious, petty, young, immature, and a little crazy, but nobody could say he didn’t feel deeply, because the depth of his emotions often startled Angel, and he always wondered if he could feel them, just for a moment, if he drank his blood, because he was jealous of the easy way Xander let himself feel them, how unashamed he was in his innocence.

He can see Xander trying to get at Faith, because, let’s be clear, Xander loved her, like he loved every one of the people he saw as ‘his’. He even loved Angel, in his twisted way.

He loved her and forgave her and accepted her even as she was raping him and getting off on his suffering, on his pain, on killing him.

He offered his innocence as she desecrated it. She spat on his concern, twisted his offer of friendship, his help.

Buffy had told him that Xander had been with Faith, and that poor Willow had taken the news bad. That Xander thought they had a connection, and wanted to help her. How they had dismissed it.

Angel knew it was true. Abused, born victims, growing up in places that were human hells, distorting personalities. It was this connection that Xander was referring to, and Buffy and Willow, who complained about their home lives (absent parents making them feel inadequate) couldn't even begin to imagine the beatings, the emotional pain, the exquisite torture. Loving the very people who made your life hell, knowing it’s their blood that runs through your veins…

Like his precious princess did with him.

And it was in that very moment that he realized just how perfect Xander was in his suffering: he hadn’t crumbled, no matter what. Angel knew, with absolute certainty, that if he survived, he’d be telling jokes tomorrow, and that he’d force himself not to flinch when Buffy touched him or when Willow turned disappointed eyes in his direction. Faith was broken, violent and dark and seductive, and the darkness in her was beautiful; but Xander used his darkness to emphasize his purity, and it was such a rare and precious thing.

And he was dying, dying at her hands, and in his eyes all Angel can see is love and regret and forgiveness.

Hot water cascading over his dick, and he’s close, so close, so close...

And Xander’s eyes shut, his body went limp, and Faith, above him, stilled and came with a groan. He knocked her out before she could finish his life.

So, so very close. He tugs hard, harder than before, and it’s painful and his head is spinning…

Xander, face full of hatred and shame and self-loathing, beautiful bruises marring that perfect, perfect neck, looked up at him, and forced himself to thank Angel for saving his life. His voice was raspy, and his breath labored. He probably should have gone to a hospital, but since had Xander done what he was supposed to, when he’s the one injured? Angel could still scent the blood all over his chest, in his split lips, where Faith bit, in his throat.

And he’s warm, warm, warm, and the pleasure is too much, and the pain is too much, and he’s about to explode, and...

“Thank, you, Angel.”

White hot sparks dance in his vision, and his knees buckle. He feels dizzy, and he is still coming, coming, coming, and it tastes bittersweet, like Xander’s shame, and oh, god.

“Thank you.”

No, he doesn’t love Xander. He isn’t going to see heaven, either.

But that night, as he sleeps, he dreams of brown eyes, intense and dark and powerful in the depths of passion, and he explores that burning body and makes it his, a White Knight to join his Dark Princess and his Golden Boy.

And it’s as close as heaven as he will get.