"Oh, no, my pet. This is just the beginning."

They went underground. It wasn’t difficult in a city like LA. People disappeared there everyday and Darla was nothing if not resourceful. She was newly sired, but she felt as ancient and invigorated as ever.

Or she had felt like that. She currently ached all over, her skin – which had been as smooth and white as stone for centuries – marred by burns and her clothes stained with dirt. She was now more determined than ever. They would hide and they would heal and then they would get Angelus back.

All she needed was time, and vampires had plenty of that. If they were careful.

( She woke up to find Drusilla mopping her brow with a square of ragged lace. )

Prompt: "Skin is a covering for our immortality."
Word Count: 899

Fairy Tales

Every story needs a knight. They have witches too, sometimes, but Drusilla has always liked the knights best of all. The witches never get to carry shining swords or ride horses. They only have broomsticks, and they don’t stay up in the sky without the stories to hold them there.

(Drusilla knows. She tried to fly, once, when she was a little girl. She ripped her petticoat and bloodied her knees, and Mama was ever so cross. Drusilla didn’t understand why pretending to be a witch was worse than having wicked witch pictures in her head. She was sure that the pictures were just as loud as the games in the garden, and the neighbours had good ears beneath their sensible white bonnets. At least she didn’t have green skin or boils on her nose. She’d checked in the mirror every morning, before the glass stopped speaking to her. She didn’t have to look after that, because vampires were always better than witches in the books. They had castles, even if Daddy told her that she’d never be able to turn into a bat.)

( The princesses don’t get to carry swords either, but the knights do all the chopping for them. )

No.

No!

I've been a good girl. I haven't displeased you. I haven't eaten anyone on the Plane, not even the Slayer. The stars told me I wasn't allowed to make a mess in their garden, and I didn't want to stain the magic with any blood.

I won't be broken. Not like Daddy. You won't clip my wings. Poor Spike is running around in circles with the tin toys in his brain. He won't know how to look after me.

A filthy, stinking soul. I won't keep it. I'll claw it out. I'll cut it out.

I can smell it already, creeping closer. It's going to choke me! No! I'll get rid of it. I will, I will!

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. )

What if Drusilla had been chipped by the Initiative instead of Spike?

Buffy wasn’t quite sure why – or, indeed, how – Drusilla had become her responsibility. The Initiative had experimented on a lot of demons. Only one of them had ended up living in her basement.

It was probably something to do with Angel. Or, rather, Angelus. He’d made her, and poor Angel still suffered for it. He’d even admitted that she was the worst thing he’d ever created. Buffy couldn’t help but feel that helping Drusilla helped him get a little closer to redemption, even if he was too far away to appreciate it.

Or maybe it was because it was so easy to feel sorry for Drusilla. What with the dolls and the big dark eyes and the penchant for slinky insubstantial nightdresses. Maybe Buffy just tried to rationalise it by attributing it to her feelings for Angel. Because, lets face it, volunteering to look after a soulless, psychotic vampire wasn’t at the top of the ‘best decisions’ list.

( Still, she’d made her bed. Now she just had to make sure Drusilla didn’t slit her throat while she was lying in it. )

Prompt: What if ..?
Word Count: 2416

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

Wow. Dru has received quite a few honourable mentions at the_tammyawards! I'm sure she'd be pleased if she actually understood what that meant, but the mun is definitely delighted.

'Hottest Women Who Can Kill You' is my personal favourite. She also received an honourable mention for ‘Couple Who Could Rule the World’ - along with will_aurelius - and doesn’t understand why it’s only could.

So, basically, thank you very much. I'm sentimental enough at this time of year, so it's probably best I leave it there.

(Although I would like to know why there are so few lesbian couples. Or, rather, why there are no lesbian couples whatsoever. I like slash, I really do, but the internet is in dire need of more femmeslash.)

Don't forget to vote for the nominees!

The Summer of '69

It was 1969. The year of the moon landing, the Vietnam War and the ‘free love’ movement. The year of punk rock, hair gel and hippies that made Spike's mouth fizz.

( (Not necessarily in that order, though.) )

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 )