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This is a ficathon devoted to women in refrigerators! What is that, you might ask? Simply, a character is 'fridged' when they are injured, killed or made to suffer to prove a point or to further the plot of another (usually male) character. It can range from major characters (Tara Thornton, Amelia Pond) to characters barely involved in the text (Jessica Moore) to characters not in the text at all (Elia Martell, Girl #2 that got killed off in the first 30 seconds of the latest horror movie you saw). Characters from any form of media apply, as long as they identify as a woman or girl and have been sufficiently fridged. This ficathon is devoted to expanding on these characters and making them more than a plot point.
To prompt first put the name of the series or source material, followed by the character name and prompt. Your prompt can be anything- song lyrics, words, phrases, genres, settings.
To fill prompts please put the title (if there is one), fandom, characters and rating at the top, as well as any potential trigger warnings. This includes violence, incest, gore, abuse, assault etc. Finally, reply to the 'filled' thread with a link to your fill.
Edit: Actually don't do that last bit because I forgot to make a filled thread. Sorry!
If you so wish, you are more than free to promote!
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February 4 2012, 05:40:25 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 05:41:55 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 05:45:41 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 05:47:03 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 05:49:31 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 06:53:34 UTC 3 months ago
tw: death, spoilers
She thinks it's pretty ironic sometimes- have a dud heart, get a new one, die anyways. Sometimes.-
She misses the weirdest things- the smell of burned food, drying her hair, mint tea. Cashmere sweaters, sex, the sound of tennis sneakers on wet asphalt. She misses Curtis sometimes, but not really- she misses the physicality of him, the tangible presence, his smell, his skin, his teeth and laugh. She misses the sound of him breathing next to her. She misses his mortality.
-
Back before the transplant, when she'd been young and sweet and scared, so scared, she'd read philosophers. The immortality of the soul, the echoes that a life leaves behind, that sort of stuff. She'd learned biology, studied decomposition to disgusting degrees. She'd thought of how the atoms she used to eat and drink and talk would be in the ground some day doing something else, being someone else's life. She'd read physicists, learned that energy never changed, that the contractions of muscles of an orgasm, a smile, a sob, were still out there somewhere. She'd wondered if they were lonely.
She thinks that's maybe what she is now, a photograph of energy, like a coin rubbing, like the imprint of a handwritten word when you turn the page.
-
She stays in the flat until the new tenants move in, and then she is driven out by their chatter and dirty cups, their undeniable vitality. She lingers here, there, everywhere, nowhere. Time is nothing, a blink, a sigh. Once, a woman looks right at her on the street- but then she gets on a bus and Nikki stays on the corner, watching it drive away. The woman doesn't look back.
She watches the gang bury Alisha, and Nikki almost hopes- but she doesn't. She watches the grave for a long time after they've left, no coffin, no headstone. Somewhere below the earth bacteria are already using Alisha's atoms, turning her life into theirs. Nikki envies her.
She thinks maybe she'll stay here by the grave and wait for a while, until Alisha is billion new little lives, until Nikki can close her own eyes.
3 months ago
February 4 2012, 05:50:15 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 05:51:02 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 05:53:16 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 20:35:32 UTC 3 months ago Edited: February 4 2012, 20:56:26 UTC
tw: possible ED
When she was sixteen, she'd had a white horse, a diamond choker, and a soft yellow dress that made water sounds when she moved. She'd wanted to run across the beach in it, splash in the waves until she and her yellow dress and the ocean were all one thing, one frothing pale current.-
At nine her life had been doilies and dolls and paper snowflakes that she'd spent hours cutting out alone in her room. Snip, snip little paper petals drifting to the ground until her floor was covered in snow and her walls were a lattice of swirls and holes. She wasn't allowed to play in the real snow, she was too thin, too sickly, and so she fetched a piece of ice from the icebox and held it to her cheek until it hurt. She wondered what it would be like to walk on a frozen pond, to have ice for skin that held in so much dark, dark water.
-
Her mother's friends say silly things, eats as much as a bird, be care with that one Agatha one gust could blow her away. Ruth wonders what it would be like to be blown away by the wind like a piece of paper, turning end over end in the breeze.
The suitors call her pretty names, doll, princess, seashell. She smiles demurely and looks at her wrists, so thin and pale, at the blue veins that make up the web that holds her together. She'd wonders if her bones really are hollow like bird-bones, or if they are made of porcelain, or maybe something else, something stronger.
February 4 2012, 05:54:09 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 05:54:28 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 05:55:58 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 19:40:25 UTC 3 months ago
supernatural, jessica moore (sam/jess), pg, tw: mentions of rape
Jess was born in Michigan. She lived there until she was fifteen and her father lost his job – she remembers how much her mother had started to fret, remembers watching her cry on the toilet seat because she thought the door was shut.Jessica had had a mother then.
They moved to California that following summer, and Jess lost her friends and any connections she had made through school. No one called her, because not everyone had nationwide calling anyway. At least, that’s what the couple of e-mails she received said. She deleted them after skimming. She forgot about them.
Her mother died a week before she turned seventeen. A sudden heart attack. It had shattered her relationship with her father.
As always, she moves on. She dated. She fell in love twice in high school, once with her best friend who was a senior when she was a junior. A girl named Piper who smoked and laughed a lot and graduated and never called Jess back. It wasn’t like they kissed or anything, though Jessica thought about it. But she never addressed it otherwise, and her boyfriend when she was a senior was a wonderful boy, who bought her daisies and kissed her hand on prom night. She was never prom queen and she never wanted to be, but she loved him and she was beginning to adjust.
They broke it off when they went to college and he moved to Iowa. She got an e-mail from his mother begging for help the next year – her son was in jail and had been accused of raping a girl in his class.
Jess had deleted the message, then shut down her laptop.
She meets Sam Winchester through a friend named Brady. Sam is kind and stutters and sometimes looks sad. Only when he thinks no one’s watching, though. He looks at a faded scar on the back of his hand and blinks for long seconds. But he’s also funny and has a wonderful smile. He’s smart – smarter than her, probably, though he always rolls her eyes when she coos at him – and he wants to be a lawyer. When they kiss for the first time, outside her dorm room, he fumbles and touches her shoulder awkwardly. It’s still a good kiss, and Jess smiles before leaning slightly on her toes (she likes that he’s only three inches taller than her) to kiss him again.
His look of happiness is what makes her want to keep going, but they say goodnight, and he presses his mouth fondly to her cheek.
She calls her mother the next morning and tells her about the wonderful boy she’s met. She’s so sure that he’s the one. Maybe not ‘together-forever’ material, but something solid. An equal.
She’s going to be happy.
3 months ago
February 4 2012, 05:56:15 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 06:49:02 UTC 3 months ago
Elia, 1/1
The final time Elia is permitted to leave King's Landing, it is under a veil of grief and suspicion. King Aerys's eyes are hard and cold as he takes leave of her, lending credence to the claim that Varys had to persuade him that she was no threat. That Elia of Dorne is simply a mourning daughter, not a woman capable of toppling a kingdom.(No, years later they would make that claim about Lyanna Stark. Elia is just kind, sweet, gentle. Like a mantra, or a prayer: sweet, kind, gentle. She has never discussed affairs of state with Doran, has never teased her suitors with Oberyn, has never looked into the wolf girl's eyes and thought 'oh dear, this one is desperate to run away as far as she can.')
She travels further and further south, her heart heavy as a stone between her ribcage. Her mother is dead, her mother is dead and the sheer impossibility of it threatens to drown her. Her retinue passes through the bountiful lands of the Reach, and the craggy Marches, and Elia contemplates never hearing her mother's laughter again.
And then she crosses into Dorne.
Her home Kingdom, her life blood. The red sand and merciless heat. But also the oases, the blood oranges, Oberyn's japes, and Doran's placidity. It takes strength of will to make one's home in a land such as this. She briefly raises her veil, to feel the sun's rays on her face.
I've come home.
It feels like the wildest betrayal to feel joy on such a somber journey. And yet that's the only word Elia can put on her present situation. And finally, finally, she recalls her mother as a life lived, not just a love mourned.
If you ever feel happiness, welcome it without reservation. There's little enough of it to go around.
(One day, Oberyn would say something similar to his own daughters, but Elia won't be around to witness it.)
But for now she is almost free, and certainly alive.
Elia urges her horse into a gallop. She has brought gifts from King's Landing for her niece, and she can't wait to see her surprised smile.
3 months ago
3 months ago
February 4 2012, 05:59:30 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 06:02:03 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 06:10:28 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 06:14:32 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 23:00:42 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 06:18:51 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 06:23:58 UTC 3 months ago
February 12 2012, 23:11:44 UTC 3 months ago
solar and stillroom || elaine of astolat(/sir lancelot du lac), g || 1 of 1
Contains implied minor character death. I am not an Arthurian scholar, nor do I play one on TV; my apologies for anything I’ve misremembered.Elaine never knew her mother. She learns to embroider and weave from Nan, and to care for the people of Astolat from her father, and to tend the sick from old Alis who nursed her. She gathers flowers from the meadows and the riverbanks and piles them in heaps, scatters them dried and sweet-smelling through the rushes, then runs back to the river to watch the progress of boats and pilgrims on the far bank.
Weaving is her favorite, she thinks—the thud and the swish of shuttle and trailing threads, bright patterns shaping themselves from nothing. She makes stories on a grand scale: fantastical beasts and beautiful women and gallant knights, whole worlds that would never fit on the edges of an altar-cloth even if they belonged there.
And then other times she finds herself in the stillroom, surrounded by soft-colored bundles of herbs drying and the soft bubble of tinctures and tonics heating, as her hands are stained with medicines and softened with oils, and she thinks, no, this is. She jars her salves and her potions, her powders and ointments, and wraps them in lengths of bandage to keep them from knocking together when she takes them where they’re needed.
She wants—she doesn’t know what she wants. Adventure; meaning. She listens to the petitions in her father’s hall and dreams of other places, of being someday more than a lady gowned in fine clothes and seated still and quiet a pace behind her lord husband.
Sir Lancelot, when she meets him, is shatteringly more than anyone she’s ever known.
Elaine thinks of the wide, wide stretch of open roads, of snow-white horses and faery towers and how King Arthur’s knights are known throughout the land as good. She thinks of what she could do, of all the places she could go; she thinks that at his side she could make something of her life.
He loves the queen, but—but he consents to wear Elaine’s favor; he accepts Elaine’s nursing when he is injured, and smiles at her. And she lets herself think, perhaps soon, and please.
February 4 2012, 06:25:23 UTC 3 months ago Edited: February 4 2012, 07:41:28 UTC
February 4 2012, 06:53:33 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 06:58:10 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 07:02:09 UTC 3 months ago
February 5 2012, 02:17:50 UTC 3 months ago
After Petyr leaves her, she sits before her mirror, vainly attempting (and she knows how ridiculous it is) to ascertain if she’s changed, if her vanished maidenhead is evident in the planes of her face, the tilt of her mouth, the gleam in her eye. But there is nothing. Just flushed cheeks, a cracked lip from when she bit down, hard, in reaction to the sharp yet brief pain of her undoing. Nothing different, nothing remarkable.
She blows out the candle, throwing herself resignedly in her bed.
*
She begins to notice the signs of aging one night, before another mirror, in another home, as she peers half-bored at her reflection. The sharp angles of youth are beginning to soften and she can detect, very faintly, the beginnings of crows-feet at the corners of her eyes, and small tension lines at her mouth. It’s no wonder though, with the parade of dead children and failed children, and her only living one so ill, so frail. But somehow it’s been worth it, and the agony and the effort have been rewarded with a son. Perhaps it’s not all been in vain.
She knows it's not when she hears his cries, and rises to comfort him.
*
She’d never thought that the passage of time would comfort her, but Lysa is glad that the years have flown by, and she’s come full circle. Petyr is hers again, and it almost seems a jest, perhaps a dream, a nightmare, because she’ll wake soon and all of those years of storing secret longing will have been squandered, mere folly of an aging woman who has grown sad and soft and silent, with nothing to show for her years but a sickly child, a fortress, and a heart full of fear. But none of that is true. As she prepares herself for her husband, she powders her face, hiding the blotchiness, symptom of weeping, with a smooth whiteness that obliterates her faults. She adorns herself, clipping earrings to lobes, sliding rings on fingers, lacing fleshy curves tightly.
I will be flawless, she thinks, and turns to wait.
3 months ago
3 months ago
February 4 2012, 07:07:44 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 19:07:30 UTC 3 months ago
revery - supernatural, gwen campbell, 1/1, pg
Funny, how it all ends up like this.She’s just listening. Hearing the sounds of the clock ticking over her head, reading a book. She isn’t sure what she’s doing or who she is anymore – why she’s alive and why she’s sitting here with her legs crossed.
They all seem so unhappy.
This is her life. Some people wouldn’t understand, but she grew up like this.
Dean Winchester looks like his mother. Soft features. She never knew Mary but she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. She’d seen photos, but Mary died when she was young. She never knew a thing about it, of course – most of her family died at the same time.
Her mother and father. She tries not to think about it, much. Instead she lets the disconnection grow and grow. She used to seek differences in her life, she used to want to find something. She used to think it was important, too.
Now, Gwen sits in the dark and remembers what her family taught her. But in the end they’re strangers, and she isn’t sure why she’s letting them tell her what to do.
She turns her head one way and bites her lip. Stares at the door. Eventually someone will enter, someone she hardly knows and yet who says they’re family. Maybe someone else will come in, and she’ll die.
She’s ready to die, she realizes, closing her eyes. It gives her a certain sense of peace when she thinks about it – death isn’t frightening, doesn’t leave her cold and terrified on the inside. Instead it gives her what she thinks must be freedom, recognition of the beyond. Silly, maybe, but Gwen feels so human when she considers it. Even if only for a second.
Still, she’ll cock her gun - she'll load all the bullets. She will soldier on.
3 months ago
February 4 2012, 07:10:06 UTC 3 months ago
February 4 2012, 07:10:17 UTC 3 months ago
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