Perfection

By UltimatePalmTree

All those beautiful people.

I want to have them. I want to have them all.

All those porcelain models...

If only I could make them fall.

Dolls.

He liked dolls.

They reflected perfection. They reflected the impossible; the human dream. You could do things with dolls that you couldn't do in real life. You could do things with dolls that you wanted to do in real life. You wanted to fly? You acted it out with Barbie or a Superman doll. You wanted to go swimming in the middle of winter? You acted it out with dolls. You wanted to envy how much your body was flawed compared to the perfection of dolls? Well... Obviously, you compared yourselves to dolls. All day, in fact. Even when the magazine covers never showed porcelain dolls. When they showed flesh and blood and bone imitating porcelain and alabaster and painted-on make-up meant to enrapture a small girl's imagination.

What was meant to be a game later on screwed you up pretty badly.

Things were taken literally. People emulated these dolls, emulated the perfection that was rightfully only meant to belong to dolls and angels. Crash diets, liposuction, and all sorts of disgusting things were used to attempt to attain doll-like perfection. Make-up and skin treatment lotions were made so the skin of the otherwise imperfect humans could be as perfect as their heavenly counterparts.

He wasn't sure if the people were going to love the results of hours of meticulous treatment and care of parts they otherwise wouldn't be damned as to notice. But that wasn't what Desire was. Desire was simply a need for this perfection. Desire was the emulation of the dolls and the angels and the seemingly perfect models and girls on the televisions, who seemed to be smiling all the time and never had bad hair days or were PMSing. Desire wasn't a true feeling; not love, certainly no.

Desire toyed with love, seeing how much trouble he could wreak with it and in what ways he could manipulate it before ripping out its heart and throwing it on the floor and stomping away. Desire was simply desire. Nothing more. Nothing more than the carnal enjoyment of love affairs and the perfection.

The perfection...

The desire for the moment where you could put on that baby blue silk gown and not think you look fat. The desire for the moment where you could put on your tuxedo and go out on the town for the night, often bringing the word 'lady-killer' to the surrounding peoples' lips.

That was what Desire was. A lady-killer. Or, if you preferred, a man-slayer. It was how you viewed him. Perfectly androgynous, Desire was whatever you wanted him to be.

But there was always one thing Desire always was.

Perfection.

Perfectly pale skin. Alabaster, ivory... perhaps porcelain, if you like. Eyes of a wolf; gold and sharp and intelligent, conveying that – while you are with him – he has the upper hand, no matter what you happen to think. Dark hair, always meticulously in place. As if he had time every half-hour to go back to his bathroom and gel every last hair back into the spot it had been in before. Medium height... could've been taller or shorter, I suppose. Dresses well, androgynously. Wears anything you might find on any gender; nothing specific, but always – always­, for this is part of his charm – very nicely-dressed. Attractive, no matter who you are.

Despite all this charm and beauty, Desire doesn't love you. Desire doesn't love you, and Desire wants to have his way with you, and then manipulate you and hurt you in some of the most creative ways he can possibly think of. Sometimes physically, sometimes emotionally, sometimes mentally, sometimes a mix of all three. He's not finicky; he wants to hurt you in some way. Merely because desire isn't love, and he doesn't feel for you. He feels for you in the few fleeting seconds where you absolutely need something. Then, after a while, you begin to bore him. After what can be an eternity – for him, it's most likely just a few seconds of his ever-present time – he finally decides that you're not for him.

While you're begging and pleading him to take you back for one last episode with Desire, he simply shrugs, says "Tough". With that, he merely looks away from you and walks away, already on the lookout for someone else to hurt.

Desire is sadistic.

Desire is pleasure.

Desire is what you want.

Desire is yours.

But remember that Desire never really stays long.

Like dolls.

Desire is perfection.

Love is for poets.

Never the famous balcony scene.

Just a dying faith on the heaven's gate.

I don't know why, but I like Desire. He's (or she's) pretty cool. I always see him as a he, though. Hence why, in this fic, it's a he. Either way... Desire's cool.

Desire does hurt you though, huh?

Constructive criticism is much appreciated and well-loved; what doesn't kill me makes me better. Flames? Sure. Do it. Even though it's going to hurt me a little, it'll make me a better writer. So, review if you liked. Review if you didn't like. Either way, I'm fine with it. So... Thanks for reading!

I don't own Desire, The Sandman, or the song lyrics used here. They are from a band I love called Nightwish, from the song Swanheart. Good song. Great song, in my opinion. The first and second to last verses sounded perfect for Desire to me... So, that's why I have 'em there! XD

Hope you like!