a_pretty_fire: (human)
Once Upon a Time

3. The true beginning of our end.
A Midsummer Night's Dream: Act V, Scene I

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful little girl. )
a_pretty_fire: (ill met by moonlight)
Tell us about your name.

Grandmother Darla lost her name. Very careless of her. She didn’t remember to keep in her pocket, where the pixies couldn’t pull at it. Tricky little things, playing games with vampires who let the moon fill their heads with nonsense. Drusilla was too sensible for their tricks. She listened to them, letting them in so she could control where they wandered.

She can’t remember if her name has always been Drusilla, though. )
a_pretty_fire: (daddy's back)
“Father?”

Angelus let go of the priest with a dull thump. He couldn’t believe it. It was her. His little Saint. He reached out towards the grating, and he could almost feel her pulse beneath his fingertips. He could feel her breath, certainly, coming in frightened little puffs as she murmured her supplications.

Despite the vast number of churches in the city, she’d managed to walk into his.

If he’d been a younger and more impressionable vampire, he’d have put it down to fate. )

Prompt: won't go to heaven / she's just another lost soul, about to be mine / she was taken / and then forsaken / give your soul to me / for eternity -- 'Inside the Fire', Disturbed
Word Count: 996
a_pretty_fire: (to her own tune)
The Lunatic and the Poet

1. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact.
A Midsummer Night's Dream: Act V, Scene I

The Royal London Hotel was the most sumptuous building William had ever been in. He’d been in nice buildings before, of course, but only thanks to the social circles he’d desperately tried to move in. This was different. He wasn’t that person anymore, for a start. No more cringing, no more clinging on at the edges of society. He was going to show the world who William Pratt could be.

Although he needed to work on the name. It wasn’t very ... vampiric, was it? )
a_pretty_fire: (human)
Little Anne was born in the spring, the time of new life and fresh starts. Flowers bloomed wherever she walked. She was Persephone and Isis and Maia. She was dryad and nymph and woodland spirit. Her clothes always smelt of lavender, because she scattered dried flowers between the layers in her trunk. Her fingers were stained red from strawberry picking, and, whenever she returned to the house from one of her walks, her hair and clothes were covered in burdocks and other clever little seeds. They couldn’t let such a wonderful girl pass without clinging on and trying to become a part of her. She was everyone’s favourite.

Drusilla was born in the autumn, in the in-between time. It was too busy to be winter and too quiet to be summer. The world hovered on the edge of things, unsure which way to fall, and Drusilla lived her life in the same way. Poised between good and evil, between summer and winter, between childhood and adulthood. It didn’t matter. Anne loved her. Anne – who was everything that was good in the world – picked posies for her elder sister, and they sang special songs which nobody else could understand.

Then the Beast came. )

Prompt: 'Ancient Eyes' Picture Prompt
Word Count: 1298
a_pretty_fire: (killer)
Drusilla has always wanted a daughter. Or another sister. Maybe the girl can be both, she hasn’t decided yet?

She doesn’t need to, either. Vampiric families don’t work like that. Darla is more than her grandmother. Spike has never been a son alone. And how could anyone try to label her dear bad daddy?

There’s no need to get caught up in details. )

Prompt: ‘Different’
Word Count: 517
a_pretty_fire: (family)
We're not a tree. We're a knot. All of us linked together, hand in hand and blood to blood. We have the same roots and leaves and branches. I don't know how I can draw it.

Princess's Family )
a_pretty_fire: (could have been a saint)
"He's coming, Mama."

The words were barely above a whisper and Drusilla gathered the bedsheets to her chest as she spoke, staring at the open window. A gaping hole, letting the night pour in. Swallowing up the light. Just like a mouth. Big and black and hungry. So very hungry.

"Who, sweetheart? Who's coming?"

Her mother set the candle down on the bedside table, reaching for her daughter's hand. Her skin was cold and clammy, worn from years of honest work and diligent prayer. Drusilla snatched her hand away immediately.

"The Beast! He's waiting in the darkness. Waiting for me."

"Drusilla! You shouldn't say such wicked things!"

No, she shouldn't. Mama was right and Drusilla was wrong. Bad and wrong and wicked.

But not as wicked as the Beast. Not yet.

"He's a hunter. Like a cat. I'm just a mouse. Just a little mouse."

"Drusilla, stop this."

Her mother sounds frightened, but she isn't frightened of the Beast. She believes in him, of course, and prays to God every day to make sure he delivers from her family from his evil clutches. She believes, but she doesn't understand. She's frightened of her own daughter. She doesn't know what Drusilla has seen. She doesn't know what is really lurking in the darkness.

With a whimper, Drusilla rolls over, burying her face in her pillow.

After a moment of heavy silence, her mother reaches out and strokes her hair.

"Run and catch, run and catch," she sings softly.

"The lamb is caught in the blackberry patch," Drusilla whispers.

She knows that outside, in the darkness, the Beast is waiting.

Prompt: Cat and Mouse
Word Count: 268

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April 2012

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