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Multifandom Comment Fic Tree! Female characters and their relationship with their hair.
So, a while ago, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thelastgoodname and I were talking about running a multifandom challenge or a ficathon that focused on the subject of women thinking about/dealing with/interacting with/commenting on/something-we-didn't-think-of their hair. That time is now.
Sentence fic! Drabbles! Something longer! PG, R, NC-17! Gen, femslash, het! All fandoms and all interpretations of this challenge welcome. Just put your fandom in the subject line so that we're all on the same page.
ETAThis challenge refers to any kind of hair! Head hair! Leg hair! Pubic hair! Armpit hair! Lack of hair!
Please pimp this out. The more particpants we have, the more fun this challenge will be.
My contribution is under the cut.
Supernatural, Jo Harvelle
This is the way you brush your hair,
Brush your hair,
Brush your hair.
This is the way you brush your hair,
So early in the morning.
Most of Eldon Thompson’s left cheekbone is ground into Jo’s low ponytail. His brains, his one remaining eyeball, his toupe—those were all reduced to their component elements and aerosolized when the demon inside Eldon’s body opened its host’s arms and welcomed in the Fire. Jo is certain she has gray matter ground into her pores from that clusterfuck. But her hair? That got screwed when Eldon’s possessed wife smashed Jo’s skull into what was left of her husband’s face.
Jo scrubs and scrubs and conditions and deep-conditions and hair-masks and everything that once belonged to Eldon Thompson is removed but her hair is now dry, limp, damaged. And Jo knows it’s stupid. She’s not cut and no bones are broken and nothing that wasn’t invited has been inside her body this job. She’s lucky. But her hair is fucked and she kinda wants to call her mom. If she was calling her mom this week.
Jo’s never been above using her tits to get what she needs for a job or working her sexy voice when she's angling for tips. But her hair has always been entirely her own—long and soft, the sweet honey of unbroken leather, the arbitrary line she’s drawn in the sand when it comes to her body and what she’s willing to compromise for the mission.
Jo picks the hair from her brush with the tip of her dad’s knife and when what she’s pulled free could pass for a well-fed hamster, Jo breaks down and makes the call.
“Yeah, Mom. I’m okay,” she says. “Really okay.” Jo can hear Ash in the background and the low twang of the jukebox and the beautiful music of glasses in the sink. “No. No. It’s just my hair.” She finally frees the rest of her hair from the brush’s bristles and drops the whole disgusting wad into the trash. “Avocado? That’s weird, but doable.” And for the next fifteen minutes, Jo listens to the low rasp of her mother’s voice and all the things it leaves unsaid.
thelastgoodname and I were talking about running a multifandom challenge or a ficathon that focused on the subject of women thinking about/dealing with/interacting with/commenting on/something-we-didn't-think-of their hair. That time is now.Sentence fic! Drabbles! Something longer! PG, R, NC-17! Gen, femslash, het! All fandoms and all interpretations of this challenge welcome. Just put your fandom in the subject line so that we're all on the same page.
ETAThis challenge refers to any kind of hair! Head hair! Leg hair! Pubic hair! Armpit hair! Lack of hair!
Please pimp this out. The more particpants we have, the more fun this challenge will be.
My contribution is under the cut.
Supernatural, Jo Harvelle
This is the way you brush your hair,
Brush your hair,
Brush your hair.
This is the way you brush your hair,
So early in the morning.
Most of Eldon Thompson’s left cheekbone is ground into Jo’s low ponytail. His brains, his one remaining eyeball, his toupe—those were all reduced to their component elements and aerosolized when the demon inside Eldon’s body opened its host’s arms and welcomed in the Fire. Jo is certain she has gray matter ground into her pores from that clusterfuck. But her hair? That got screwed when Eldon’s possessed wife smashed Jo’s skull into what was left of her husband’s face.
Jo scrubs and scrubs and conditions and deep-conditions and hair-masks and everything that once belonged to Eldon Thompson is removed but her hair is now dry, limp, damaged. And Jo knows it’s stupid. She’s not cut and no bones are broken and nothing that wasn’t invited has been inside her body this job. She’s lucky. But her hair is fucked and she kinda wants to call her mom. If she was calling her mom this week.
Jo’s never been above using her tits to get what she needs for a job or working her sexy voice when she's angling for tips. But her hair has always been entirely her own—long and soft, the sweet honey of unbroken leather, the arbitrary line she’s drawn in the sand when it comes to her body and what she’s willing to compromise for the mission.
Jo picks the hair from her brush with the tip of her dad’s knife and when what she’s pulled free could pass for a well-fed hamster, Jo breaks down and makes the call.
“Yeah, Mom. I’m okay,” she says. “Really okay.” Jo can hear Ash in the background and the low twang of the jukebox and the beautiful music of glasses in the sink. “No. No. It’s just my hair.” She finally frees the rest of her hair from the brush’s bristles and drops the whole disgusting wad into the trash. “Avocado? That’s weird, but doable.” And for the next fifteen minutes, Jo listens to the low rasp of her mother’s voice and all the things it leaves unsaid.