Dissolutionaria, 3/5
Mar. 20th, 2006 11:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
foudebassanWarning: silly, unbeta'ed, naughty language, disrespect to Serious Authors.
Rating: PG-13
Part one may be found here: A Secret Gathering;
Part two may be found here: The Great Bargain.
Part 3 – Wherein male characters make an appearance
You know, adored reader, writing is an awkward business. You get so absorbed by plot development, fidelity to the original storyline, or other such lowly considerations, that you forget the most basic political correctness. Believe it or not, the first two parts of this humble story did not leave one single opportunity for any male character to make an appearance. Shocking, isn’t it? We’re all here in the fandom to mindlessly worship at least one of the male actors playing in the HP movies, so why bother to read a story that doesn’t make bask in allusions to their long blond hair, long greasy hair, or short spiky hair? Oh, hang on a second. The author may just have understood why the hit count is so low. Do leave her to her recollections, whimsical reader, and look at the scene instead – several people are coming onstage, several men.
Men come in several varieties. First, there are those who have yet to be able to come; then those who would like to, repeatedly if possible; and then those who cannot any more.
All the world’s a cunt, and all men and boys merely cocks; they have their exits, and their entrances - although usually it’s not in that order, unless you count birth - and one man in his time has many rides, his orgasms coming in seven stages. At first, the bulge, pulsing and straining against the trousers; and then the growing erection, with its foreskin creeping back at a steady pace, back towards the shaft. And then the lover, sighing like furnace, with a woeful drop to rub against his mistress’ dark curls. Than a soldier, full of enthusiasm, sheathed in to the hilt; predictable in its direction, quick in his moves, seeking the hidden spot in the very cannon’s mouth. And then the ejaculation, in fair round rivulets, streaming along in large unruly filaments. The sixth stage shifts back towards the flaccid, with pouches on side, a world too wide for the shrunk member. Last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history, is a growth back to the initial length – no more come, no more strength, no more anything.
This is the part (if we were faithful to our Great, Great models and providers of plots and quotes) where a chorus of elderly men should come in, chanting regular trochaic hexameters. We are sad to report that the author is too busy with figuring out why the hit count on this story is so low to actually write anything in trochaic hexameters. Or even in dactylic hexameters.
Truth be told, she’s even too busy to provide you with a regular chorus – So poor Dumbledore finds himself all alone, quite aggrieved and looking forsaken, muttering under his ample breath that these bloody women had better figure out a good excuse for kicking him out of Hogwarts, him, the Headmaster, and on such short notice at that! Oh, but the Wizengamot would hear about this, yes sir, it would, and in no uncertain terms, no sir, there were times when some amount of bad language is practically called for, yes sir, called for it was.
Dumbledore was so absorbed in his ramblings that he did not notice you readers massed out around the Hogwarts gates, waiting for the play to go on. Neither did he notice the leering witches, huddled on the top of the highest towers, smiling at the horizon with glowing self-confidence.
He was of course committing a very grave mistake indeed. Readers can be ignored quite easily – isn’t the author living proof of this? – but leering witches huddled on the top of the highest towers, smiling at the horizon with glowing self-confidence, mean trouble for the wizards underneath. And Dumbledore was terrifyingly unaware of just how grave the trouble was going to be. He had not even begun to measure the extent of trouble he found himself into. He was only in the middle of chapter three, and God only knows how long the story might go on, or what kind of developments it might bring.
Back in Hogsmeade, Severus, on the other hand, was starting to feel the first spurs of uneasiness.
He woke up.
He felt at his side.
His hand met nothing but cold bed linen. With an emphasis on “cold”.
Now this was strange. Hermione never woke up before him – on the contrary, she was a very high-maintenance witch, and required at least two cups of coffee in bed, sometimes even a little bit of physical stimulation, before she deigned stand up. Severus made sure she would never leave him for another man by delivering both the cups of coffee and the morning entertainment session to her.
So how come she was not at his side at this early hour? It was hardly 7 o’clock.
Panic arose, unbidden. Kidnappers were excluded – no one in their right mind would ever attempt to kidnap her, she was way too powerful, even without her morning caffeine. But she might have left him after all. Maybe it was his fault? Maybe he had proven unable to satisfy her womanly needs? Maybe he should have brought her three morning cups instead of two only… no, scratch that, she was much too excited after two cups only, a third was not necessary. But the alternative was even worse! Were his skills insufficient? Were her enthusiastic exclamations during their last morning session, yesterday, only faked?
The panic blended into full-blown hysteria. He jumped out of bed, the respectable morning erection only slightly abated by the adverse context. He stumbled down the stairs, barged into the kitchen – and saw The Note. He held it up, shaking like a man stricken by a sudden fit of palsy, and just barely deciphered the words that covered it, words written in that beloved handwriting.
“Gone to save the wizarding world… have to convince other witches to commit themselves to abstinence… nobody gets any until end of war… you and I included… don’t wait up for supper…”
A lesser man would have fainted dead away. But Severus was no lesser man. He was, and still is, the hero of countless fangirls and grown women. Despite his greasy hair and nasty temper, computers and plushies get named after him; icons bear his resemblance on every continent, in every single country. No, Severus possessed a strong soul, and iron self-control.
He managed to stagger into a chair before fainting.
Somehow, his erection did not follow suit.
A/N: The characters are all borrowed from JK Rowling. No disrespect is meant, no money is made, no harm is intended. The plot is stolen from Lysistrata, by Aristophanes – do go read the play if you are not acquainted with it already. An English translation is available on this website.
Part four, The Phoenix's Song, may be found here
Rating: PG-13
Part one may be found here: A Secret Gathering;
Part two may be found here: The Great Bargain.
You know, adored reader, writing is an awkward business. You get so absorbed by plot development, fidelity to the original storyline, or other such lowly considerations, that you forget the most basic political correctness. Believe it or not, the first two parts of this humble story did not leave one single opportunity for any male character to make an appearance. Shocking, isn’t it? We’re all here in the fandom to mindlessly worship at least one of the male actors playing in the HP movies, so why bother to read a story that doesn’t make bask in allusions to their long blond hair, long greasy hair, or short spiky hair? Oh, hang on a second. The author may just have understood why the hit count is so low. Do leave her to her recollections, whimsical reader, and look at the scene instead – several people are coming onstage, several men.
Men come in several varieties. First, there are those who have yet to be able to come; then those who would like to, repeatedly if possible; and then those who cannot any more.
All the world’s a cunt, and all men and boys merely cocks; they have their exits, and their entrances - although usually it’s not in that order, unless you count birth - and one man in his time has many rides, his orgasms coming in seven stages. At first, the bulge, pulsing and straining against the trousers; and then the growing erection, with its foreskin creeping back at a steady pace, back towards the shaft. And then the lover, sighing like furnace, with a woeful drop to rub against his mistress’ dark curls. Than a soldier, full of enthusiasm, sheathed in to the hilt; predictable in its direction, quick in his moves, seeking the hidden spot in the very cannon’s mouth. And then the ejaculation, in fair round rivulets, streaming along in large unruly filaments. The sixth stage shifts back towards the flaccid, with pouches on side, a world too wide for the shrunk member. Last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history, is a growth back to the initial length – no more come, no more strength, no more anything.
This is the part (if we were faithful to our Great, Great models and providers of plots and quotes) where a chorus of elderly men should come in, chanting regular trochaic hexameters. We are sad to report that the author is too busy with figuring out why the hit count on this story is so low to actually write anything in trochaic hexameters. Or even in dactylic hexameters.
Truth be told, she’s even too busy to provide you with a regular chorus – So poor Dumbledore finds himself all alone, quite aggrieved and looking forsaken, muttering under his ample breath that these bloody women had better figure out a good excuse for kicking him out of Hogwarts, him, the Headmaster, and on such short notice at that! Oh, but the Wizengamot would hear about this, yes sir, it would, and in no uncertain terms, no sir, there were times when some amount of bad language is practically called for, yes sir, called for it was.
Dumbledore was so absorbed in his ramblings that he did not notice you readers massed out around the Hogwarts gates, waiting for the play to go on. Neither did he notice the leering witches, huddled on the top of the highest towers, smiling at the horizon with glowing self-confidence.
He was of course committing a very grave mistake indeed. Readers can be ignored quite easily – isn’t the author living proof of this? – but leering witches huddled on the top of the highest towers, smiling at the horizon with glowing self-confidence, mean trouble for the wizards underneath. And Dumbledore was terrifyingly unaware of just how grave the trouble was going to be. He had not even begun to measure the extent of trouble he found himself into. He was only in the middle of chapter three, and God only knows how long the story might go on, or what kind of developments it might bring.
Back in Hogsmeade, Severus, on the other hand, was starting to feel the first spurs of uneasiness.
He woke up.
He felt at his side.
His hand met nothing but cold bed linen. With an emphasis on “cold”.
Now this was strange. Hermione never woke up before him – on the contrary, she was a very high-maintenance witch, and required at least two cups of coffee in bed, sometimes even a little bit of physical stimulation, before she deigned stand up. Severus made sure she would never leave him for another man by delivering both the cups of coffee and the morning entertainment session to her.
So how come she was not at his side at this early hour? It was hardly 7 o’clock.
Panic arose, unbidden. Kidnappers were excluded – no one in their right mind would ever attempt to kidnap her, she was way too powerful, even without her morning caffeine. But she might have left him after all. Maybe it was his fault? Maybe he had proven unable to satisfy her womanly needs? Maybe he should have brought her three morning cups instead of two only… no, scratch that, she was much too excited after two cups only, a third was not necessary. But the alternative was even worse! Were his skills insufficient? Were her enthusiastic exclamations during their last morning session, yesterday, only faked?
The panic blended into full-blown hysteria. He jumped out of bed, the respectable morning erection only slightly abated by the adverse context. He stumbled down the stairs, barged into the kitchen – and saw The Note. He held it up, shaking like a man stricken by a sudden fit of palsy, and just barely deciphered the words that covered it, words written in that beloved handwriting.
“Gone to save the wizarding world… have to convince other witches to commit themselves to abstinence… nobody gets any until end of war… you and I included… don’t wait up for supper…”
A lesser man would have fainted dead away. But Severus was no lesser man. He was, and still is, the hero of countless fangirls and grown women. Despite his greasy hair and nasty temper, computers and plushies get named after him; icons bear his resemblance on every continent, in every single country. No, Severus possessed a strong soul, and iron self-control.
He managed to stagger into a chair before fainting.
Somehow, his erection did not follow suit.
A/N: The characters are all borrowed from JK Rowling. No disrespect is meant, no money is made, no harm is intended. The plot is stolen from Lysistrata, by Aristophanes – do go read the play if you are not acquainted with it already. An English translation is available on this website.
Part four, The Phoenix's Song, may be found here
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-03-20 02:49 pm (UTC)I still haven't understood what humour is. I think the common background is vital - you refer to something known by the reader and turn it to ridicule / put it in another context altogether / caricature it / etc. But it's impossible to make someone laugh when the someone isn't feeling like it.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-20 02:58 pm (UTC)So there does have to be a common background. I'm not sure I would understand you poking fun at French culture.
There are people I have failed to make laugh, but I've always looked on that as a failure in taste on their part rather than a deficiency in writing on mine. ;-)