A/N: This just happened. I just liked the idea, and started typing...I'm planning a few chapters, though.
A/N2:Spoilers for Danse Macrabre and Season 7 of btvs. Kinda. Blink and you'll probably miss it.
Feedback: Yeah! And no flaming, please. It'll just make me bash you in the next chapter.
Disclaimer: I don't own BtVS or Anita Blake. That still remains the property of Joss Whedon and Laurell K. Hamilton.
Xander sighed. He had just come from fixing yet another window that Buffy and the Potentials had broken. The reason for this one was an out-of-control fight for the remote. Pay-per-view worthy, according to Dawn. He shed his clothing and turned off the lights, his mandatory axe leaning on the nightstand. As he curled up in bed for the night, he thought, am I really looking forward to another day of living? He gave a bitter laugh. For what? To be completely disregarded as a valuable member of the Scooby Gang? He could help. Regardless of not being a slayer or anything else supernatural. But no. He was too normal, too “fragile”, to be able to do anything important, slayage-wise. He felt the misery and despair heavy on his soul. Figuratively speaking, of course. Cause if it was literal, then there was probably something Hellmouth-y going on….and that never went well. He sighed, defeated. Was this what his life was reduced to? By that damnable mystical convergence…
Life was just constant struggle after another. He tried to help, but it just wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough, worthy, for anyone. Not even Anya, who slept with that animated corpse. He shuddered. The fact that the vampire….that thing touched his ex made his skin crawl. Every time he saw Spike, he could see straight into that manipulative abyss. That evil darkness that said it would paint them all in red if it ever had the chance. And he couldn’t understand how Buffy could still trust him. Even after the attempted rape, and everything that Spike had done to them. Loudly proclaiming that Spike was the only one behind her, supporting her.
“Guess we just don’t count,” he stated out loud, to himself.
Even his so-called best friend, Willow, thought he was useless. Even after he stopped her from destroying the world. Buffy, on her power kick, would gladly choose the bleached wonder over him any day. Although he didn’t take that too personally; she would choose Spike over anyone nowadays. He noticed the twisted turn his thoughts were taking. Has he always been this self-deprecating? He twisted on his side, and closed his eyes.
As he drifted off to sleep, he hoped that he would one day find someone who needed him.
Belle Morte was furious. How dare that uppity little tart treat her like that? She was Belle Morte, Beautiful Death, one of the oldest and most powerful members of the Vampire Council! She had been the ruling power in Europe for the majority of the century! Revered by the kings and nobility, all wanted, lusted, loved, Belle Morte!
She scowled in the mirror. That little bitch will one day outlive her usefulness, and then…..goodbye Anita. It wouldn’t do to have another succubus, especially one that resembled herself. That little remark of hers had, in fact cut deeply. They did look, at least superficially, alike. Somewhat.
She smirked. At least it was a compliment, in a way. Jean-Claude had gotten a human servant that resembled her. It showed that all did love Belle Morte. That to love her once was to love her always.
That didn’t change a thing. They were still too powerful. Extremely powerful. It would do no good to have someone of her line having such a strong power base. That ardeur of Anita’s, albeit a pale imitation of hers, was too strong. They, Jean-Claude, his wolf, and Anita, had fed off her Augustine. She had felt it. Because for as much power and age as Augustine has, he was still of her line.
She would have to think of something. Fast. Despite of what Anita believed, she did not want to challenge The Sweet Dark for the Council seat. It would be suicide. She just wanted enough power to not have to succumb to the Queen’s every whim. She maybe a soudre de sang, but that kind of power is still a long way off. She needed a Human Servant, a powerful one. She would opt for a Triumvirate, but Belle Morte did not share power. It would hurt her tremendously to get a Human Servant, but it will have to be done. She would have to scour the earth to find one powerful enough to be worthy of being her servant. They would have to be beautiful, too. For she, of course, did not have ugly people in her entourage, and a disfigured person would not be a good Human Servant for Belle Morte.
She looked at her reflection on her vanity mirror. She needed to feed. She has used much energy trying to control that damnable bitch, and it was starting to drain her. She put her hairbrush down, and fixed her hair. She didn’t know why she bothered; it would be mussed up anyways. Belle smirked.
She walked over to her large bed, her short, silk nightgown rubbing her legs. She lay down on the bed, thinking on who she was going to unleash her hunger on first. Arturo was always fun, but she was not in the mood for him. Maybe Quinn, one of her favorite leopards? She sighed. Maybe both? Or she could look for Mercedes, her lovely submissive.
Belle contemplated this, as she felt a surge of power. It made her writhe in her rose-colored sheets. “Oh my…….”
She immediately tracked the tendril of power. It felt warm, like an intimate embrace, and smelled like chocolate, milk chocolate that melted on your tongue, and slid down you throat in a wave of delicious sugar.
By now she was breathing shallowly. The fact that she was breathing, alone, surprised her. No one’s power had ever made her feel like that…..
Belle felt the power leaving. She immediately touched it with her own.
Xander felt like he was at peace. This was an odd feeling for him. Especially with recent developments. He was in a forest, a forest of redwoods and emerald leaves. Silver dewdrops clung to the shining leaves, as golden light filtered through them, the stars brighter that he had ever seen them. Vines of black roses covered and twisted around everything, thorns as big as small daggers.
He walked slowly, admiring everything. It felt vaguely familiar, like he had been there before. He spun around, feeling the cool wind brushing through him, cleansing him. It felt nice.
He didn’t know how long he had stood there, just breathing, and at peace. Suddenly he could smell roses. The strong perfume clung to everything, and he liked it. He felt it go through him, just like the breeze had, only this felt like sex and lust and everything in between. He groaned, and closed his eyes. This was better than sex.
“Who are you?” A voice purred, silk and sex spun into those three simple words.
He blinked. A petite woman stood a short distance from him, looking like a goddess. She was beautiful, the type of beauty that many men would kill and betray those closest to them for. She had long, softly curled hair down to her ankles, and a beautiful body, curved in all the right places. A body that made Xander wonder what she would feel like, how she would taste, how she would look writhing under him. She was wearing a silk nightie that looked like it was painted on, and he wanted nothing more than to rip it off of her.
“I-I’m Xander,” the man croaked out. Belle smiled. It had been a while since she met a man that didn’t immediately try to tackle her and fuck there on the floor, or whatever surface they were on. Those kind of men usually were punished for their insolence.
The man stood in the middle of a patch of those delightful black roses she had encountered on her way in. He had chocolate brown eyes, and a muscular build. He had black curly hair that framed his head, and a white somewhat tan skin tone. However, it was the intensity of those eyes that made her declare him as beautiful. His face looked soft, and kind, while his frame showed him as a fighter, an unknown warrior. It would be a shame to have to kill him.
“They call me Belle Morte,” she purred. She smiled, promising things he would never forget. “Xander….is short for Alexander, non?” She asked after a pause.
“H-how did you know?” he asked with a stutter, which she found somewhat attractive. She rarely found shy men anymore. Maybe it was her reputation?
“It does not take a genius to make the leap from Xander to Alexander.” Belle laughed airily. Maybe she did not have to kill him after all.
“Who are you?” Alexander asked her after he had reclaimed his composure.
She laughed. “I already told you, they call me Belle Morte…”
He laughed nervously. “But what are you doing here?” he stopped and looked around. “What am I doing here?”
She frowned instantly. Did he not know what he was doing? It was extremely rare for a psychic of his power to not know what they were doing.
However, she did not get the chance to explore that notion, as there was a loud ringing. It disturbed the peace of the situation, and Belle found herself on her bed, by herself, the warm power gone.
As she reclaimed her bearings, she gave a throaty laugh. A dreamer! A dreamer of such power, oh she had to have him! And she will! Alexander will be hers! And woe be onto anyone who stood in her way.
Xander awakened with a startled gasp. That pale skin and raven black hair. A body created for sin. “Belle Morte….” He whispered.
As he rose from his bed, he hit the top of his alarm clock. How he w-word that he could have stayed asleep!
“Damn it!” he knew it was only a dream…..but for a while it was real, to him at least. All he could hope for was that the next night he would dream of red lips and the perfume of roses.
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