#monty python fanfiction

[commonguttersnipe]

Could I have Monty Python oneshots prompts? Character x Character and Character x Reader. I want to write LOADS during half term! Can be fluff, angst and smut!

(Can also be from Fawlty Towers, Ripping Yarns, A Fish Called Wanda, Holy Flying Circus etc)

[yonderghostshistories]

Hey Guys, Gals & Non-Binary Pals! I have a Monty Python/Holy Flying Circus (2011) AU fanfic-in-the-works 👀👀 (it’s my first time actually writing one so YIPEEE!!)

Here’s a lil sneak peek of the draft stage of it (aka what I’ve written so far!!)

Do let me know y’all’s thoughts on it so far, folks!!!

[thesuetyouforgot]

1. Advent Sunday - Imagine

"Now the Christmas season truly has begun!", Eric exclaimed with a chuckle while he set a small but heavy box down on the table. Thud. "Careful!", you quickly warned. "Think of all the delicate ornaments."

Gently and with a hint of childlike excitement you lifted off the box's lid. It was fillled to the brim with all kinds of Christmas decorations and essentials, the ornaments sparkling slightly in the light. "Have fun sorting through that mess… Do we really need all those things?" Terry Gilliam chimed in, leaning over the table to get a better glance at the contents of the box. You playfully tsk-ed at him, shaking your head dismissively. "Terry, Terry, Terry… Says the man from the country of extensive Christmas decorations…"

While you and Terry were occupied playfully bickering with each other, Eric had summoned the courage to reach into the gathering of all things Christmas. With an amused expression he pulled out an ornament in form of a santa hat wearing goose, holding it up between his fingers like a tiny artifact. "Think of it differently, Terry. We have the wonderful gift of not having to go shopping for any decoration this year - we've already got everything", he said with his usual lighthearted joking tone, pulling the others' attention back towards the box.

You looked over at him, taking a second to realize what he was going at now. Seeing it was your beloved goose ornament he was taking a jab at, you huffed slightly. "Oh come on… We're not decorating the tree yet. We just need the stuff for the Advent wreath." You now dove into the box as well, carefully digging through wooden figurines, glass ornaments and tinsel before taking out a few gold painted pine cones and lining them up on the table. "Look. Is this more to your liking?", you asked Eric, challenging him. "Brings you the true spirit of Christmas!" It was Terry who answered instead, holding back a cordial laugh.

"All it is is bloody cold, really…" You turned your head towards the door through which the other Terry joined you with a friendly smile and arms full with four big candles. You quickly hurried over to him to help him with the candles. "Well observed, Tel." Eric took a glance out of the window, where frost covered the trees and plants. "Everything's white, yet it can't even be bothered to be snow…"

"You all don't have to worry about going out anyway, dear Eric…" This time it was John, coming through the door and bringing with him the faint smell of coldness from outside. "We're gonna be fairly busy with crafting this wreath all day. We should have probably just bought a ready made one but this is what happens when you listen to Y/N's ideas…" He was carrying a bunch of evergreen branches, adding them to the christmassy chaos of box, golden pine cones and candles on the table. The small but warm grin he gave you told you that he wasn't actually annoyed, though.

"It's just a completely different feeling if you do it yourself! You'll see...", you quickly promised with a wide smile before you ushered them all towards the table to start your work on the Advent wreath.

[This was an extremely spontaneous idea and i just wrote it down as it came to my mind. Idk how accurate this is when it comes to British Christmas traditions as I basically just pulled the Pythons into my own (non-british) experiences. But i hope you enjoyed reading it anyway ♡]

[missmcharrisonagain]

Someone needs to write a Holy Grail fanfiction from the police's point of view; a crime story of how they investigate and try to find that mysterious murderous knight

[garagepaperback]

okay trash tuesday <3

this was a scrap of smut written for javelin before it became obvious the legilimency scene had to lean toward trauma instead of sex :,)

“You should have said,” Draco murmurs. The sound thrums inside Harry's skull like a palm wading. It’s another memory. A little drunk and pleased, fingers thread through the heavy wet of his hair. Harry presses his forehead against the marble grace of the bath. “It’s embarrassing,” he says—said. Low. A gentle waver in the eucalyptus evening, under the thick wash of night. Draco’s fingernails press a prayer into his scalp, scratching sweet and perfect, the way Harry always thought he'd love, only no one— He’s hard. Humiliatingly so, mouth slow and wet and too turned on to peel his face up from the pretty pale, up to it, whatever.  “Is this what you like the most?” Harry sinks further into the warm thrum, the lush tide of lazy want. This is just after they’d gotten married, he remembers, and remembers, and remembers. Then, now, a knot-throated knowing. Harry hums something of an acknowledgment and Draco’s fingers tend slower and softer, scrubbing the balm in. “Cedarwood, can you smell that? Tonka, orange flower, vanilla. Do you like that, Harry?”  It’s not. He knows. Under the clear water in the open night, Harry’s let his hand wander between his legs, nothing really, just— “It’s lovely, don’t you think? It’s a nice thing. Do you like that? Being given something nice?”  It smells good, but that’s not— “Oh,” Draco breathes, stroking down the bent nape of Harry’s neck, the pads of his fingers skimming his shoulders. His grasp traces through the velvet black of Harry’s own squeezed shut eyes to get the water, like he had—when he had. In a pooled palm that Harry feels without seeing, knows by heart, Draco rinses, reaches, rinses. Harry had looked up before, years before, and he looks up then, the fat of his lip bitten to shit. He’s been hard for a while, waiting for the need to dissolve, for the want to take a less obvious shape and it hasn’t worked. It never does. The opposite is true; his cock’s aching, so full it’ll barely take a few strokes to get him there. Another hungry, weak sound seeps out. “No.” Draco’s voice is low enough to sink between the brimming bath. Warm, dulcet, too much. And still, it's the simplicity of it that's making all the words congeal, too many and too vague to unburden from behind his teeth. His mouth's a little open anyway; he might be drooling, everything feels damp. Draco smiles, and cups his hand. Another just-enough douse pours over his head. Harry shuts his eyes against the decadent rhythm, the humid woodscent and the syrup of his voice, of being cared for so plainly.  Draco’s hand finds his cheek, thumbing the curve of bone like it’s unbearably soft. “It’s—oh. Harry. Darling.”

show me something that didn't make it, or is otherwise lying in wait, please <3 gently tagging @eleadore, @yiiiiiiiikes25, @kamaela, @hollyhawthorn, @dryrsheet, @letteredlettered, @tackytigerfic, @oknowkiss, @citrusses, @jtimu, @mintawasalreadytaken, @sweet-s0rr0w + everyone who might have an ill-fitting thing hanging around ::)

[corrodedghosts]

i have been working nonstop on my gallavich apocalypse au and i just wanted to share a snippet of one of my favorite scenes

~~~

“Think we could have a life here?” Ian asked, sitting down next to Mickey, his legs hanging off the roof of the house the two had claimed as their own. In his hand, he held a bottle of beer, the sides of his middle and ring finger on its neck.

“Maybe,” Mickey said, taking the beer from Ian and chuckling when the redhead began to pout. He took a swig before sighing and leaning his head on Ian’s shoulder, the boy instantly wrapping an arm around his waist. “Depends if the dead stop walking.”

Ian let out a sigh. “If I’m honest, I don’t think they will,” he admitted, leaning his head against Mickey’s. “I believe in Lip. I believe in those fuckers down in Atlanta, but it’s been what, almost a year now? If they had something, I’m sure word would have gotten to us somehow.”

“Yeah. Somehow,” Mickey said, taking another swig of the beer before carelessly throwing it down on the ground below. He watched as it fell and shattered, a small flame of satisfaction rising in his belly at the noise when it reached his ears. “I don’t think we can ever truly be safe,” he said, his chest tightening as he finally spoke the words he had wanted to say for days. The words that started playing in his head over and over again the moment Mandy turned. “As much as I want to believe in a cure, I don’t think there will be one.”

“What makes you say that?” Ian inquired.

“From a scientific standpoint, the fuckers need to be fresh, right? As you said before, the virus has been affecting the world for almost a year. It’s probably been evolving rapidly, and there’s no way to pinpoint the original strain. How are the assholes in the lab able to tell the difference between the new strains and the old ones? Hell, are any of the dead from the beginning of the outbreak still walking?”

~~

please be aware that this is still a work in progress. i’m working on getting it all completed by july at the latest :-)

[bumblepony]

WIP Wednesday

A little snip from one of my Tommy/Maria week fics. The prompt is Injury/Sick.

Tagging @chronicallyonlinewriter @hypnotisedfireflies @sixhours

[gorebonk]

Reading monty python RPF when will I learn shame

[ri-afan]

“[The character in question] would never say/do that!”

They may not on their own, no, but right now they are my puppet and being guided by my thoughts, so…

[cepetriwrites]

Into the Eye Chapter 48 is up!

[commonguttersnipe]

Keeping Up With The Britons (King Arthur x Queen Guinevere)

Summary: After returning from his most holy (and fruitless) quest, King Arthur has to face the wrath of his fair wife, Queen Guinevere.

923 AD England.

The ivy-covered court of Camelot had seen its fair share of absurdity: knights bickering over the proper velocity of unladen swallows (African or European was the question), garderobe fashion shows, and guards defecating over the battlements, but nothing could compare to the English ruler’s hunt for the holy grail.

Arthur, King of the Britons, sat on his throne, visibly deflating as his queen paced furiously in front of him, her green robe swishing like an angry sea of broccoli.

“Let me see if I understand this properly,” Guinevere began, her tone so sharp it could’ve been used as a sword. “You—my husband—have spent the last TWENTY YEARS…”

“Nineteen,” Arthur interjected timidly.

She stopped dead in her tracks, spinning to glare at him. “Do NOT quibble with me about numbers right now, Arthur. If anything, that makes it WORSE.”

He sank lower in his throne. “Well, alright...”

“TWENTY YEARS,” she continued, throwing up her hands for emphasis, “you and the boys, trampling around the countryside-”

“I wouldn’t call it trampling, exactly…”

“-only to come home empty-handed? No Grail. No glory. No divine blessing to justify your ridiculous obsession. Just you, half our men dead or arrested, and a police report!”

Arthur winced. “To be fair, Lancelot is on probation-”

“DON’T YOU DARE DEFEND LANCELOT TO ME!” she roared, slamming her hands on the arms of his throne. “He’s the reason that this whole bloody castle smells like an unholy combination of horse sweat and French perfume!”

Arthur shrank further. “It does linger, doesn’t it? Wait, perfume-”

Ignoring him, Guinevere straightened her posture while pushing her golden hair to the back. “Arthur,” Guinevere said, pinching the bridge of her nose and pacing again, “I need you to answer me one question. Just one.”

Arthur straightened slightly, as if trying to muster some shred of dignity. “Of course, my sweetling. Anything.”

She turned to him, eyes blazing. “What in God’s green earth made you think the Grail was ANYWHERE NEAR ENGLAND?!”

Arthur blinked. “Well, uh…you see…there were these, er, clues…”

“Clues?” Guinevere arched a brow so high it could’ve taken flight.

Arthur nodded solemnly and whined, “God told me.”

“God?!” she sputtered. “Oh, well, clearly that makes it all credible! God just screams reliability, doesn’t He? He never has an ulterior motive at all!”

Arthur frowned. “You’re being blasphemous.”

“Well, I think he’s an idiot.”

“Now, now, there’s no need for that-”

“There is every need for it, Arthur!” Guinevere snapped. “You’ve spent half your life chasing a magical cup based on God’s prattling and some bloke with fireworks!”

“First of all, Tim was NOT just a bloke-”

“Oh, forgive me, Arthur! I wouldn’t want to misrepresent Tim the Enchanter Extraordinaire!”

Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples. “Look, Guinevere, I know it seems foolish in hindsight-”

“Oh, does it? Does it really? Because from where I’m standing, it doesn’t just seem foolish, it seems downright criminally stupid!”

Guinevere planted herself firmly in front of Arthur, arms crossed, the belt of her green robe hanging loose, hinting at far more than court decorum would normally allow. She wasn't unaware of it either. She was mad—and when Guinevere was mad, even her robe staged a rebellion.

“Arthur,” she started, her voice sharp enough to cut through a stone wall, “do you have any idea what I’ve had to deal with? While you’ve been off chasing a cup that probably doesn’t exist, your knights have been engaging in…extracurricular activities that would make a monastery spontaneously combust.”

Arthur, sitting slumped in his throne, tried to meet her gaze but failed miserably. “I can explain…”

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” she cut him off. “Let’s start with Sir Galahad. How long has he been at Castle Anthrax now? A month? Two?”

Arthur winced. “Well, time gets tricky when you’re questing, dear-”

“Don’t you dare,” Guinevere snapped. “He’s been there so long the maidens are no longer maidens, Arthur. They’ve written to thank you for sending him their way! ‘Dearest King Arthur, we would like to express our deepest gratitude for the most thorough… attentions Sir Galahad has been providing. His stamina is unparalleled. Truly, he’s given up to his title as the Chaste.’”

Arthur turned red, sputtering. “I thought he’d resist temptation!”

“Resist? Arthur, he’s been doing so much penance he’s run out of rosary beads to count!” Guinevere leaned in, her tone low and mocking. “Do you know what they call him now? Saint Galahad of the ‘Multiple Rounds Table’.”

Arthur groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’ll send a messenger.”

“Oh, don’t bother. He’s too busy receiving and giving oral sex!”

Arthur yanked his crown off and clutched it like a lifeline. “Galahad’s just…overwhelmed. He’s always been the sensitive type.”

Guinevere barked out a laugh. “Sensitive? That man’s got maidens on a rotation! One for breakfast, one for lunch, and, oh yes, two for dinner.” She straightened and jabbed a finger in Arthur’s chest. “And don’t think you’re getting off easy with Sir Robin.”

Arthur flinched as though physically struck. “What about Robin? He’s…a poet now!”

“A poet?!” Guinevere threw her arms up in disbelief. “Arthur, he’s written twelve verses about running away! ‘The Ballad of My Brave Retreat,’ they’re calling it. The French have adopted it as their national anthem!”

“Well, it’s a catchy tune-”

“It’s embarrassing,” she snapped, pacing now, her robe falling further open with every stride. “He’s hosting a bardic retreat! Charging aspiring cowards three pence a head to teach them the art of ‘strategic withdrawal!’ And don’t get me started on what he’s calling the ‘Retreat and Rear’ technique!”

Arthur squirmed. “It’s, uh…good for morale?”

“Morale?! His last performance involved interpretive dance where he mimed hiding under a bed!”

Arthur stared at the floor, trying to find a crack big enough to crawl into. Guinevere wasn’t finished.

“And Lancelot,” she hissed.

Arthur’s head shot up. “Oh, no. Not Lance.”

“Oh, yes. Your noblest knight, your fearless champion, your ‘bringer of swift justice’—he’s been shacked up with Prince Herbert of Swampcastle!”

“He’s a hostage!” Arthur protested weakly.

“Hostage?” Guinevere echoed with mockery. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Because Herbert’s been sending love letters signed ‘Your little songbird.’ And don’t think I didn’t notice Lancelot’s new wardrobe. ‘Velvet doublets and embroidered tights!’” She threw her arms out theatrically. “He’s a homosexual!”

Arthur opened and closed his mouth several times, unable to form a coherent response.

“Oh, and guess what?” Guinevere leaned down, her lips close to his ear, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Lancelot’s apparently been teaching Herbert the fine art of swordplay. Only, I don’t think it’s the kind you learn in a jousting tournament.”

Arthur opened his mouth to retort, but Guinevere wasn’t done.

“And let’s not forget the time you spent arguing with Frenchmen-”

“They were very rude!”

“-and being nearly killed by a bloody rabbit!”

“It was a vicious rabbit, Guinevere. You weren’t there.”

“Oh, I wasn’t there? No, Arthur, I wasn’t there because I was too busy ruling the kingdom! Someone had to make sure the castle was protected due to the king off chasing imaginary chalices!”

Arthur stood abruptly, his armour jangling. “It wasn’t just about the Grail, Guinevere!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the hall.

“Oh, really?” she shot back. “Then what was it about? Enlighten me, oh wise King of the Britons!”

Arthur took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging. “It was about proving I was worthy,” he said quietly.

Guinevere blinked. “Worthy of what?”

“Of…everything,” Arthur admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “The sword. The crown. You.”

Guinevere froze. For the first time that evening, she was silent.

Arthur glanced at her, his watery blue eyes filled with guilt and something else—something softer. “Do you know what it’s like, Guinevere? To feel like you’re just some bloke who got lucky pulling a sword out of a rock? To wonder if you’re just a fraud and everyone’s too polite to say it?”

Guinevere stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then, to Arthur’s utter shock, she burst out laughing.

“W-what’s so funny?” he stammered, genuinely baffled.

“You,” she said, clutching her sides. “Arthur, you daft old fool. Do you honestly think anyone cares about that bloody sword? Or the Grail?”

Arthur frowned. “They don’t?”

“Of course not!” she said, still laughing. “Do you think the peasants sit around saying, ‘Oh, I wonder if King Arthur is worthy today?’ No, they’re too busy worrying about whether the turnips will grow or if the feudal system has changed at all!”

Arthur scratched his head. “I suppose that’s…comforting?”

Guinevere stepped closer, placing a hand on his cheek. “Arthur, you’re not perfect. God knows you’ve made your share of mistakes-”

He winced. “Like the rabbit?”

“Like the rabbit,” she confirmed with a smirk. “But you’ve got a good heart. And you don’t need a magical cup to prove it.”

Arthur looked at her, his expression softening. “Do you really mean that?”

Guinevere rolled her eyes. “Of course I do, you idiot. Now sit down before you fall over. You look like you haven’t slept in a decade.”

Arthur chuckled, sinking back into his throne. “You’re not wrong.”

Guinevere sat beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. “For the record,” she said, her voice teasing, “if you ever try to chase the Grail again, I will personally pack your things and send you to live with that French Taunter”

Arthur laughed, wrapping an arm around her. “Fair enough.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment before Guinevere spoke again.

“Though,” she said thoughtfully, “if the Grail is real, it’s probably in Jerusalem.”

Arthur groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“Not helping, Guinevere.”

“Not trying to,” she replied with a grin.

[yonderghostshistories]

A Post talking about writing my first Monty Python AU fanfic (of sorts)

This is my first time wanting to write a fanfic. Hope it turns out well! Especially since this particular (albeit kinda morbid) topic of mine has interested me for a while, also because I want to get it out of my chest due to having nightmares about it a while ago, so it'll be better for me to write it down and probably make my health and mind better mentally. Anyway, uhh rambling over. Please do let me know your thoughts on the fanfic idea for when I actually make the idea a full fledged fanfic (maybe with the help of my friends, if they're comfortable with it that is), criticisms and all, just so that i can fine-tune some aspects of it! Thank you.

The working title for the fanfic is called "POV: John and Michael have Ceased to Be...." (A Monty Python AU fanfic)

Age Rating: 13+ and older

Tone: Angst (mostly angst but with some humour in there)

CW/TW: Assassination mention, grief mention, survivors guilt mention.

Synopsis: Today is Friday, 9th November, 1979. You and your friend are watching the "Friday Night, Saturday Morning" debate on the TV, where John Cleese and Michael Palin are up against Bishop Mervyn Stockwood and Interviewer Malcolm Muggeridge about the film "Life of Brian" discussing the accusations of the film being "blasphemous". Along with them, a weird-looking yet somewhat humble and somewhat quiet person called Benjamin Haroldson, a member of the public who was brought in to share their thoughts on the film "Life of Brian", stares at and is mostly fixated on John and Michael. You notice how Benjamin almost always has his hands in his coat pockets, never letting them out. You don't mention this to your friend since, to be honest, it's just a minor detail that you've noticed. Whilst your friend goes to make sandwiches for you and them, you're still at the couch enjoying the programme. One the TV, Benjamin asks for a glass of water, and gets up. That's sounds normal, right? Well, as everyone gets on debating with each other, Benjamin brushes past John and Michael. After Benjamin has his glass of water, he suddenly stands behind where John is sitting, and to your shock, you see him calmly pull out a gun, John at first not noticing and Benjamin shoots him in the head, bits of his brain spread across the floor, blood flowing down his forehead. Michael, in shock, shouts out "J-Joh-" before he too is shot next by Benjamin, his head split with a bullet wound, blood gushing out through his cold, dead face. Everyone in the studio is screaming in horror. Your face is covered by your shivering hands, trying to believe it's not true. That it's just some horrible prank, a joke even. But no.... it's really happening. The last thing you see is Benjamin's cold, emotionless face. The last thing you hear from him is ".....you shouldn't have made that film, you blasphemous twats..." .

[thesuetyouforgot]

Writing you all an imagine

Okay, not completely true but I'd like to get back into writing more and thought a little challenge could motivate me. Please feel free to request something. Just give a Python (character) and give me a little scenario.

And I mean little bc I'm only gonna write a drabble or dribble drabble - whatever, about 100-300 (maybe 500) words. Though I can't guarantee for anything

Just request whatever you'd like! Y/N, ships, characters from show or movies. Anything Python related should be fine. You can comment here, message me or send an (anonymous) ask. Go wild with ideas really :)

[demeter-does-stories]

The Tale of The Rabbit of Caerbannog

Cringetober 2023, Day 17: "It was a dark and stormy night. . ."

On AO3

Rating T - 592 words - Monty Python and The Holy Grail

Summary: The rabbits of the forest of Caerbannog tell the tale of the night when one of their own became the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog.

Story:

“It was a dark and stormy night.” they whispered, many voices becoming one voice. Their breath was a wind that battered its way through the trunks of the old Caerbannog forest. 

“The dark was complete black. There were no stars. There was no light. Nothing existed in the woods. We ourselves stopped existing in that dark. 

“The storm was unexpected. A shattering of meteorological forces that was everywhere and nowhere. We dragged ourselves through thick air. The atmosphere was laden with water and electricity. Our fur clung to our trembling bodies. Our long sensitive ears were deafened by the greatness of the thunder.

“We were rabbits before that dark and stormy night. Now we are something else. A rabbit can fight, but doesn’t. A rabbit runs. A rabbit hides in the burrow. We were born with sharp teeth and sharp claws. But they weren’t meant to taste blood. They were to dig and chew and build the burrow. We were architects of safety before we were remade as machines of war.

“We have tasted blood.

“It was a dark and stormy knight who stumbled through the forest then. He was huge (as all humans are huge). Slow (as all humans are slow). His clanking metal skin would be warning enough any other night. But the thunder had been so loud and the storm so sudden.

“Many of us were out on the forest floor foraging for food. Among them was a new mother from our burrow, a lovely lady fair of feature. The storm frightened her (as it did all of us). She tried to calm her heart and find her way home. She was blinded by the darkness (we all were). She was deafened by the thunder (we all were). She was unable to smell anything but the drowning rain as it poured into her. 

“The knight came upon us. He was a lumbering useless fool. But he was hungry. He grabbed at any of us within his reach. His meaty arms flailed. His grotesquely bent fingers grabbed.

“We ran. We’re rabbits. We ran. We are the fastest creatures on the forest floor. Faster than wolves. Faster than human witches. Faster than human gods. But the storm. The knight kept pace with us in the storm.

“He followed us through the shrubbery. He followed us to the burrow. The lady fair was the last of us to make the dive. He saw her bright white fur, even in the darkness. We thought we escaped him into the safety of the burrow. Until, the knight began to dig.

“He dug up the burrow. He dug up the children. He laughed. His laughter was like the thunder. He grabbed the lady fair’s kit, crushing it in his terrible human hands.

“As her kit drew its final breath, something changed within the lady fair. She raised her nose to the heavens. Her ears alert and haunches raised to fight. She called to any god listening to give her the power to kill any knight who crossed her path.

“Her call was answered.

“A violent new strength took up residence in her body. The lady fair’s teeth and claws had a new purpose. She devoured the knight. Blood mixing with the downpour of the storm.

“She made a new burrow, a giant burrow. Where we are all eternally safe. A burrow big enough that knights could walk right in. And her God would lead the knights to her. Wolves to the slaughter. Entertainment to satiate her bloodlust.

“But there is never enough knight’s blood spilled to appease the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog.”

[ao3feed-montypython]

via AO3 works tagged 'Monty Python's Flying Circus'

[hey-its-sybarite]

Encouraged: context that can be used to understand the twist (historical, geographical, gender, religion etc.), serious theorising, playful yes-anding, codas and missing scenes around the twist, creating new head canons that can become adopted by the fandom as a whole, hyperfixating as a captivated monolith - a hive mind - on just one thing you’re all going to scream about forever, getting derailed and distracted into new tangents whenever the original creators (writers, actors, artists) make an offhand remark.

Discouraged: fandom wank, slagging off any artwork or fiction you personally didn’t like. Setting requirements for creating “valid” artwork or fiction.