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Belladonna
In March 2013, not long after the critters returned from an extended absence, a new pony showed up on the meme: Belladonna. Inspired by a nonnie's earlier comment about Vampire Pony Adventures, meme's Poet drew this new addition to the pony pantheon and wrote an accompanying backgrounder in verse for her. Ur-Sunny posted the drawing and poem at the sunnymodffa journal, the mods made Belladonna and her poem the theme for FFA [LJ Post #193], and Belladonna became a mod icon.

Nonnies promptly squeeed over Belladonna, inquired about obtaining Belladonna-themed goods (and the copyright/fair use defensibility thereof), and wrote Belladonna fic:

Cure (crossover with House M.D. post-series finale)
His head hurt, and he was pissy about that. House had reminded him -- as House often did -- that it might be nothing or it might be that the cancer was now invading his brain. Because House was a bastard that way, back and forth between unconditional love and the deep desire to browbeat Wilson into some new and radical treatment.
So Wilson stomped out the door of their latest way-station, hopped into the latest rented car, and went out into the desert. They were in the wilds outside Albuquerque, where they'd stopped because Wilson wanted pictures, specifically pictures at night. More specifically, at night in that little gully where they'd stopped to pee two days before, and Wilson had found night-blooming cactus.
So he went back there, down to the dry creek bed with his tripod and camera and something to think about other than everything.
The trudge down from the road was tiring, much more so than it should have been. Weaker today than yesterday, he thought, and tried not to think any more. A few more yards, and he'd be there, but maybe he ought to rest. He set down his heavy gear, and looked up just in time to see the very last gorgeous cactus-flower disappearing into the mouth of a fucking horse.
Pony, said House's inescapable voice in his head. Fine. Pony. His headache got worse. Something small and dry scurried past his feet, but by the time he looked, it was gone. Scorpion, maybe. Wilson kind of hated the desert. Hazards everywhere.
A snort from the horse -- pony -- caught his attention again. It tossed its head so that its forelock parted, revealing a set of big, clear eyes that caught the moonlight.
The damn thing was cute. He hated to admit that, but it was. He'd photograph it instead of the flowers, if only it would be still enough for a long exposure. Which was doubtful; the moonlight was bright, but this was a dark-colored pony. He tossed aside the thought. The wind shifted, and he thought he smelled cactus flowers.
"If it follows me home, can I keep it?" Wilson murmured. He had the absurd image of the little horse in the car's back seat, its thick mane flying out the open window, riding back to House with him. I'm dying, House, and I always wanted a pony, he'd say, and who knew what House would do, but it would amuse Wilson, whatever it was.
Not going to happen, of course, but fun to think about. He wondered whose pony this really was, and how it got out here. Someone would surely be looking for it. Something dark, maybe a bat, whizzed past his ear, and the little shadow-horse stepped closer, whickering to him.
It was limping. Left front foot barely touching the ground. "Oh, God," Wilson said. Just his luck. He went to it, walking softly, stretching out his hand. "Come on, pretty girl. Let's have a look at that, okay?"
The pony nuzzled him and stood still while he crouched to run his hands down its leg. It picked up the foot for him, as if it understood that he wanted to help, but he couldn't find the injury in the dark. Nothing seemed to be swollen, or hot, and the little horse's muzzle-whiskers were now tickling his neck. He chuckled.
"Hey, knock that off. I'm trying to do a, a ... hoof thing, here," he said.
The next thing he said was, "Ow!"
He was frozen in place there, with his hands still grasping the pony's leg. The velvet muzzle was soft against his skin, and locks of black mane played across his face while the pretty, pretty pony took his blood.
_________
Wilson had been gone almost twenty-four hours, which presented a big problem for House. There was no way to tell whether this was just another of Wilson's epic sulks, or whether the moron had gone and gotten rattlesnake-bit while lugging his camera around, or been carjacked outside that lone seedy bar at the intersection south of here, or what.
Reporting him missing would be the smart thing to do. But that would mean calling the cops, which would be a stupid thing to do if Wilson was just off at a hotel somewhere, giving him the silent treatment. Cops had a thing about poking around, asking questions, figuring out you were legally dead.
He'd damn near worn a path in the old gold shag carpet, back and forth with his phone in his hand, when he heard the car. Instantly he was out the flimsy aluminum door, picking his way across the stony drive in the dusk. Damn Wilson. House loomed over the open window of the car, blocking him from getting out.
Wilson smiled up at him, the bastard.
"I thought you were dead, you moron."
"Yeah, about that," Wilson said. "C'mon, House, I'll explain inside."
House should have been angrier than this. He was angry, just a second ago, and he watched himself in befuddlement as he stepped back, opened the door of the car, and quietly followed Wilson into their decrepit "rental cabin."
The door rattled shut behind them. "Have a seat," Wilson said, and it was so weird how House just did it, how he couldn't seem to stop himself, how he plopped down on the sofa without protest, instead of demanding to know where the hell Wilson had been. Something was wrong here, wrong wrong wrong. Wilson was sitting down beside him, close, the way House always wanted him to do. Something -- it had to be Wilson -- smelled very, very good. Like spice and fresh rain.
"I have something for you," Wilson murmured. "Shut your eyes."
And House did.