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21 January 2012 @ 12:45 pm
I AM THE PLOT, BABE: A VILLAINESSES COMMENT FICATHON  

A comment ficathon dedicated to the women who shape the story.  A villainess is any woman who is simply not "good", whether she plays the traditional roles of protagonist or antagonist, whether she narrates her own story (Cersei Lannister, to use an example from the banner) or is seen through the lens of someone else's (Bellatrix Black).  She can be fictional, historical, contemporary; from the books, from the movies, from music: if she's a villainous woman, she's in!


HOW TO PROMPT
Simple: leave a comment with fandom, character name, and prompt.  The prompt can be anything, from a line of poetry or a song lyric, to a quote directly from the woman herself, to a fic you've always wanted written about her.  Anything goes!

HOW TO FILL
Reply to the prompt comment with your fic.  In the subject line, put the title of your fic, the characters in it, and rating; be sure to include any pertinent trigger warnings.  Then link to your fill in the "filled" thread!

PROMOTION
Please feel more than free to promote the ficathon! You can use the banner above or make your own (and if you do, tell me so I can post it here).  If you're using the above banner, here's the code for LJ promotion:


 
 
 
miss sofia: {we'll always have paris}sofiawonderland on January 24th, 2012 01:45 am (UTC)
she's a killer queen, gunpowder, gelatine; marie antoinette; pg
She's 12 and people around her speak of marriage. They arrange her hair, change her clothes, bring metal to her teeth, scold her for saying things she shouldn't say. They tell her she's going to be a queen, and she believes it deep to her chore.

She's not yet 15 and she's getting married, a dress twice her own weight, her hair done up impossibly high, her cheeks flushed and her lips red. Her fiancé, le dauphin, walks next to her as everyone watches, admiration and jealousy beaming her way.

She's 17 and she understands power. She plays the prince as she plays her cards, mischievous and dirty and ruling. Her hair is done and her clothes impeccable and her face painted, and she hasn't even left her room.

She's 19 and she's finally a queen. The entirety of France is at her feet, and the temptation to change everything so that it's perfectly to her liking is too strong. She spins people around like marionettes, like the dolls her mother hid under her bed the day it was decided she wasn't to be a child anymore.

She's... She's not even sure anymore. Someone tells her there are things going on in the rest of France, but it's hard for her to see beyond the walls of the Petit Trianon, beyond the curtains of flowers and dresses and the layers of sticky sweet food and bubbly champagne. She sighs and rests her head back, waits for someone to clean it up and deal with it, because she's a queen and that's why she has servants.

She's 37, bordering on 38, and she walks to her death, head held high, choking on a sob but keeping her tears bottled up inside. She brought a nation to her knees, and now it's her turn, down on hers in front of France, in front of the eyes of the dolls she played with for all of her adult life. She doesn't blink, just lets out a breath and hopes for the best. For she is a queen, born to be a queen, and she's going to die like one.