Always look on the bright side of wank....
Right. So about that monstrous wankstorm in Sherlock fandom....
See, the wank itself, although ultimately at its heart it's really about bullying and ego as usual, touches on a LOT of sensitive topics that simply are never funny.
There's always at least one aspect that can be pointed at and mocked with a clear conscience though. You can count on fail-fandomanon to find it. So the Category 5 Sex Hurricane Fest was born.
And, well, as I would tell the doctor in the ER, "I was just vacuuming the ceiling naked like everyone does, and I slipped and something from this prompt list got stuck up my butt! It was an accident, I swear."
Have a little bit of a WIP. It's G-rated now, but it is going to a very, very messed-up place.
Gathering her cloak, standing straight as best she could in her grief, fair Yavanna walked away from the place of death, Ezellohar the Green Mound, which would now be barren forever, as a place that will ever bear the shock and shadow of a terrible wrong.
The dithering of her kinsmen in their grief and horror and confusion was as idle chatter in her ears, and were she to stand there any longer, she would surpass her sister Nienna even in weeping, and create a new sea in darkness. With her hood about her face to dim her radiance, Yavanna walked on the soft grass, feeling with her feet through the darkness, to the city of Tirion.
The city was quiet and empty now, for nearly all its people had attended the ill-fated feast. The pale lights of Varda, cool and remote, were her only guide. Even upon the paving stones, little flowers and delicate mosses rose up where she had tread.
There was one lantern of oil burning in one window. One resident of the shining city who would be most likely to disdain the feast, preferring the company of his books and his instruments of study.
There were those who feared and disdained Sérelóke, dreaded a darkness within him and had named him the resting dragon, waiting only for some bait to rouse him from his affable appearance. Though he wore the raiment of the Firstborn of Ilúvatar, he himself was of the Ainur in kind, a Maia born from the first thought of Eru; had sung his part in the Great Music; and by all accounts a faithful servant remained; and yet he seemed to show no particular allegiance to any one of the Valar; in his love of lore he perhaps hearkened most closely to Aulë. Sérelóke was one who loved above all the solving of mysteries and puzzles and the delving of secrets. He was known for his keen observance and foresight, and was not reticent about displaying his knowledge, to the degree that he had more than once been told to piss off, after the manner of the Valar.
But Yavanna had taken the measure of him, and it seemed to her that he had been made to lie in wait for his time of need. As there had been no crime before in Aman, Sérelóke had yet to find his true calling - and now perhaps his hour had come.
She knocked upon his door, and he admitted her to his humble, cluttered abode with all courtesy. “My lady Kementári,” he said in his deep voice, bowing low. “I anticipated your coming. Please, be seated.” As she did so, he offered her a glass of golden wine. The mice that lived in his stacks of scrolls gamboled about her feet.
“You foresaw this?”
“As soon as I perceived that our beloved Trees have been murdered, I expected you would come to me. All the Valar loved Laurelin and Telperion, but to you the grief is sharpest, as a mother would mourn her children. You would tire fastest of the dithering of Manwë, and you would not wait for a pompous pronouncement from Mandos. You would seek justice through channels they might not. Therefore: me.”
Yavanna stared at him, at the strange fire of his sea-grey eyes, and found no malicious design there, merely the workings of his mind, cunning as any of her husband’s craft. “How did you know? Laurelin and Telperion are dead, or as good as, yes - how did you perceive this?”
“With all due respect, my Lady,” Sérelóke said, rolling his eyes. “It’s dark.”
“Oh.” She cast her gaze downward, and the floral pattern of his rug worn by pacing came alive and gave off a sweet summery scent.
TO BE CONTINUED....
See, the wank itself, although ultimately at its heart it's really about bullying and ego as usual, touches on a LOT of sensitive topics that simply are never funny.
There's always at least one aspect that can be pointed at and mocked with a clear conscience though. You can count on fail-fandomanon to find it. So the Category 5 Sex Hurricane Fest was born.
And, well, as I would tell the doctor in the ER, "I was just vacuuming the ceiling naked like everyone does, and I slipped and something from this prompt list got stuck up my butt! It was an accident, I swear."
Have a little bit of a WIP. It's G-rated now, but it is going to a very, very messed-up place.
Gathering her cloak, standing straight as best she could in her grief, fair Yavanna walked away from the place of death, Ezellohar the Green Mound, which would now be barren forever, as a place that will ever bear the shock and shadow of a terrible wrong.
The dithering of her kinsmen in their grief and horror and confusion was as idle chatter in her ears, and were she to stand there any longer, she would surpass her sister Nienna even in weeping, and create a new sea in darkness. With her hood about her face to dim her radiance, Yavanna walked on the soft grass, feeling with her feet through the darkness, to the city of Tirion.
The city was quiet and empty now, for nearly all its people had attended the ill-fated feast. The pale lights of Varda, cool and remote, were her only guide. Even upon the paving stones, little flowers and delicate mosses rose up where she had tread.
There was one lantern of oil burning in one window. One resident of the shining city who would be most likely to disdain the feast, preferring the company of his books and his instruments of study.
There were those who feared and disdained Sérelóke, dreaded a darkness within him and had named him the resting dragon, waiting only for some bait to rouse him from his affable appearance. Though he wore the raiment of the Firstborn of Ilúvatar, he himself was of the Ainur in kind, a Maia born from the first thought of Eru; had sung his part in the Great Music; and by all accounts a faithful servant remained; and yet he seemed to show no particular allegiance to any one of the Valar; in his love of lore he perhaps hearkened most closely to Aulë. Sérelóke was one who loved above all the solving of mysteries and puzzles and the delving of secrets. He was known for his keen observance and foresight, and was not reticent about displaying his knowledge, to the degree that he had more than once been told to piss off, after the manner of the Valar.
But Yavanna had taken the measure of him, and it seemed to her that he had been made to lie in wait for his time of need. As there had been no crime before in Aman, Sérelóke had yet to find his true calling - and now perhaps his hour had come.
She knocked upon his door, and he admitted her to his humble, cluttered abode with all courtesy. “My lady Kementári,” he said in his deep voice, bowing low. “I anticipated your coming. Please, be seated.” As she did so, he offered her a glass of golden wine. The mice that lived in his stacks of scrolls gamboled about her feet.
“You foresaw this?”
“As soon as I perceived that our beloved Trees have been murdered, I expected you would come to me. All the Valar loved Laurelin and Telperion, but to you the grief is sharpest, as a mother would mourn her children. You would tire fastest of the dithering of Manwë, and you would not wait for a pompous pronouncement from Mandos. You would seek justice through channels they might not. Therefore: me.”
Yavanna stared at him, at the strange fire of his sea-grey eyes, and found no malicious design there, merely the workings of his mind, cunning as any of her husband’s craft. “How did you know? Laurelin and Telperion are dead, or as good as, yes - how did you perceive this?”
“With all due respect, my Lady,” Sérelóke said, rolling his eyes. “It’s dark.”
“Oh.” She cast her gaze downward, and the floral pattern of his rug worn by pacing came alive and gave off a sweet summery scent.
TO BE CONTINUED....