#* 00 OUT OF CHARACTER : ❝ JERKINS ! ❞ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

storm-and-starlight · 2 years

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I posted 1,373 times in 2021

138 posts created (10%)

1235 posts reblogged (90%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 8.9 posts.

I added 1,010 tags in 2021

#the witcher - 293 posts

#geraskier - 115 posts

#the witcher fanart - 88 posts

#fic - 87 posts

#fanart - 87 posts

#the witcher fic - 81 posts

#my writing - 74 posts

#fic recs - 66 posts

#timezone reblog - 65 posts

#geralt - 54 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#show!geralt's inability to consider consequences is a major character flaw and also consistent enough that it seems like something intentio

My Top Posts in 2021

Call me with Geralt and Jaskier please?

Leave a “Call Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble about one character asking for another.

Sorry not sorry lmao

"Is-- is Geralt here?" Jaskier asks, squinting up into the blurry dimness -- must be a storm coming. Strange. He hadn't seen one on the horizon.

In the distance, there's someone shouting -- "he was a noncombatant, he doesn't even have a dagger on him, I should have you all hanged for being a danger to your own damned people--" before it's drowned out by a chorus of raised voices.

"Geralt," Jaskier says again, blurrily, and tries to push himself up to sitting so he can see what the fuck's going on. There's a rough-gentle hand on his shoulder, though, holding him down, and he glances over to see a stricken face, bled out pale to match his armor -- red and white, Redania's colors.

"Your wolf."

Jaskier nods, squinting into the dimming sky. It doesn't feel like a storm coming, this slow loss of sight. Maybe sunset? There's a cold spot in his chest, slowly spreading.

"He's-- he's not here. Yet," says the soldier, and Jaskier frowns, or tries to frown. The coldness has spread up to his face, his lips, his throat, and though he tries to ask why, he can't respond.

"I'm sorry," the soldier blurts out, "we-- we didn't know, we thought that there was a Nilfgaardian patrol in the area, they didn't tell us anything about civilians--"

The shouting in the background falls silent with a chorus of "oh shit"s, and there's the clean sound of a sword into it's sheath.

"Jaskier?"

So Geralt is here, then. That's good. He can't see anything, anymore, and all of him is so, so cold, but Geralt's here.

"Jaskier!"

208 notes • Posted 2021-09-29 00:20:40 GMT

Death and Destiny, Heroics and Heartbreak

(It’s onion)

This fic took over my life for about a week and it’s been all I’ve been working on. It was originally intended to be pwp and then it ended up being about 13k words long, so uh, that went out the window. I’ll post installments either every day or every other day, depending on my general life, and will be posted on AO3 as soon as all tumblr installments are up. Enjoy!

Read on AO3!

The whole thing starts out rather unassumingly, and rather more embarrassingly than Jaskier would have cared for -- a single wobbly stepping-stone and Jaskier is flat on his back in a freezing stream, soaked to the skin in an instant and having to be hauled out by an irritable Geralt.

“Sorry, ah, sorry about that, bit of an-- unsteady path -- these stepping stones can be really slippery, oof” he says, and Geralt grunts and remounts Roach and rides off without saying another word.

Jaskier squishes along in soggy boots and ignores the way the wind seems determined to strip every bit of heat from his skin, resolved to not complaining anymore in case Geralt decides to abandon him in the middle of nowhere, finally fed up with one too many times Jaskier needed rescuing, but it really is very cold, and he’s very wet, and he’s not dressed in nice thick leather armor the way Geralt is but in summer cottons that don’t even hold in warmth the way a nice wool jerkin might, and--

“We’re stopping here for the night,” Geralt says, and Jaskier lurches to a stop. His teeth are chattering and he can feel the beginnings of a truly nasty case of the shivers working his way up through his body because he is genuinely absolutely freezing here--

He flops down on a bit of dry ground and focuses on not making pathetic noises (as much as he would like to, he has a feeling that Geralt would rather kick him out than coddle him, and he’d rather not risk that after only a year of knowing the man) while Geralt builds the fire and gets water boiling for the dried-meat-and-potatoes stew that seems to be the only thing he makes whenever they can’t hunt. It’s… filling, and that’s about the only good thing Jaskier can say about it. At least it’ll be warm.

Gods, this is miserable. Life on the road is rarely pleasant, but he likes to think he’s gotten used to it, become inured to cold and wind and weather but he is-- he is absolutely going to die of hypothermia out here, and Geralt won’t even act like he cares--

There’s a warm onion-smelling weight dumped on his head.

He squawks and struggles his way out of miles and miles of heavy wool and discovers that Geralt’s given him his cloak, of all things. It stinks of onion, and other… less-pleasant things than onion that he’d really rather not think about, thank you very much, and it’s made to cover Geralt in his armor, which means that it’s big enough to cover Jaskier three times over, but it’s thick black wool and warm.

Brilliantly, blessedly warm.

“Oh, gods, thank you, I could have sworn I was going to freeze to death out here--”

“Your whimpering was getting annoying,” Geralt says, and tosses another log on the fire, and Jaskier is too busy huddling down inside the layers of wool to block out the biting wind to think of a comeback.

The stew is ready soon enough, and Jaskier eats it still curled up in Geralt’s cloak, face tucked into the collar because this is-- probably the greatest show of kindness Geralt’s ever given him, and isn’t that pathetic, that he’d spend two years following around a witcher who can only barely be bothered to loan him a cloak when he’s frozen half to death, but he can’t even be bothered to care, really, because Geralt actually cares--

Geralt, who is currently staring at him with that slightly constipated expression that Jaskier still hasn’t deciphered yet.

“What?”

Geralt huffs and looks away, sharply. Honestly, the man can be insufferable at times.

“Geralt, it’s considered a common decency to talk to your traveling companions, you know.”

“I never asked for a traveling companion.”

Jaskier huffs. “Well, then, it’s polite to not just-- stare at people without saying something to them.”

Geralt has the ingratitude to snort, and doesn’t even deign to follow it up with a reply, just eats his bland and watery and somehow-horribly-salty stew with the single-minded determination that Jaskier’s only ever seen from Oxenfurt students who haven’t eaten a thing since yesterday morning and are debating skipping this meal as well to study. Clearly, he’s not going to get anything else out of him, so Jaskier turns back to his own meal. Even still, he catches Geralt looking at him oddly, huffing in a breath through his nose every so often like he’s about to speak but never actually does.

When the stew is all gone and Roach untacked and the fire fed and banked for the night, Geralt moves to lay out the bedrolls, side by side this time instead of across the fire from each other. Which is...unusual, to say the least, but Jaskier’s certainly not complaining. He’s loath to offer the cloak back to Geralt though, warmed through by his own body heat as it is, and he’s even begun to get used to the smell, onion and old blood and strange herbs. It smells like Geralt does.

“Keep it.”

“What?”

Geralt still isn’t looking at him, but he makes that strange inwards-huffing sound again. “The cloak. I don’t need it.”

Jaskier blinks. “I, ah. Thank you, Geralt.” It comes out more like a question than he intends, but he shrugs it off and drapes the cloak over the top of his bedroll like an extra blanket, shucking out of his damp clothes and wriggling underneath.

Geralt makes an odd sound.

“...Good night?”

“Go to sleep, bard,” and Jaskier, for some reason deeply touched by nothing more than what would be considered common human decency -- it’s a cloak, for Melitele’s sake, it’s not some grand romantic gesture -- smiles in the darkness and drags the edge of it closer around himself.

~~~

The thing is, being a relatively-unknown (for now, anyways) bard traveling with a witcher isn’t exactly the most… profitable of lifestyles. Oh, Jaskier gets by well enough, but most of his money goes towards food and lodgings and actual clothes (he is not going to spend his life rotating through the same three shirts until they’re worn to muddy shreds the way Geralt does, thank you) rather than things like, say, expensive cloaks. His old university cloak is good enough for now, and it’s not like he’ll need it much, after all -- if it’s raining, he can just stay indoors.

Which is to say, it’s raining and he’s rather deeply regretting the decision not to buy a proper wool cloak last time he had the chance, because he is absolutely soaked through and getting wetter by the minute, while Geralt in his big, warm, and most importantly waterproof cloak is trudging along through the mud seemingly ignorant to the fact that it is absolutely pissing down.

He trudges along, idly composing a verse or two about the trials of life on the road and uncaring witchers and the horrors of sucking road mud that must be more than half made of whatever little presents the cart horses left behind-- it’s pathetic, yes, but it’s something to occupy his brain while he’s too tired to talk and he can’t bring his lute out of the case for fear of the damp, so sarcastic limericks it is.

“This way, bard,” Geralt says, and he drags his head up from his contemplation of his boots -- he’s going to need new boots after this or otherwise they’re going to reek of mud and rain and horseshit for ages -- to follow him into the shelter of a few pine trees, clustered together like old women huddled around the well and just as bent and aged.

Their branches are a high tangle above their head, though, and they catch the rain and roll it down between them until it gathers into fat, freezing drops -- unpleasant to have fall on you, yes, but less so than the constant drenching downpour out in the open of the road.

Jaskier huddles miserably close to the trunk of the largest and oldest tree, tucked among sheltering roots and trying to ignore the weight of his sodden clothes while Geralt unsaddles Roach and unbuckles his armor and tucks all of their things underneath the big alchemically-treated blanket he uses to carry monsters around -- which is disgusting but if it keeps his things at all dry he’ll take it. It’s still too damp to get a fire going, so instead Geralt tugs out dry rations -- bread and nuts and that horrid dry jerky that takes an age to chew, and-- sits down beside Jaskier in the damp earth.

“What-- what are you doing, what is this--”

“Here,” Geralt says, and holds out a handful of bread and jerky like some kind of offering.

“...Thanks?”

Geralt hums, deep in his chest, and tugs Jaskier away from leaning against the trunk of the tree. “The water runs down the trunk when it’s raining this hard. You’ll get wet.” Pause. “Wetter.”

“Oh thanks, it’s not like I hadn’t noticed.”

Geralt hums again, and then grabs him by the shoulder again and-- moves him.

Jaskier ends up leaning with his back up against Geralt’s shoulder, one fold of that lovely, lovely cloak draped over him, gasping and trying very hard to hide exactly what that kind of manhandling does to him.

“I, ah, not that I don’t appreciate this, Geralt, but what, exactly, are you doing?”

“It’s warmer like this,” Geralt says, and adjusts Jaskier so he’s more fully underneath the shelter of his cloak, tucked into the warm hollow of his shoulder. Jaskier very nearly chokes on his own spit.

“Right. Yeah. Good. Warmer. You, uh, you’re sure you want to-- I mean not that I’m complaining but this really isn’t… entirely like you…”

“Jaskier.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Jaskier shuts up. Over the course of two years traveling with Geralt every time he’s been this close to the man has been an incident he would rather not think about right now, thank you -- blood and guts and being told to sew him up like he’s some kind of… of doublet rather than an actual human person are not exactly pleasant things to think about when the man he’s been desperately pining after since they met has him wrapped up in his cloak with him in it.

Oh, he’s going to die, he is really, truly, going to die right here--

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again, and Jaskier very nearly melts at the sound of his voice.

“Mmh?”

“You should eat,” and is he… amused? He sounds amused. Jaskier huddles down into the warmth of Geralt’s cloak to try to hide the way his face is undoubtedly bright red and focuses on gnawing away at the dried meat until his jaw aches with the effort it takes to eat it.

And Geralt is still fucking holding him.

Fuck, he really is just going to die.

213 notes • Posted 2021-08-13 03:25:36 GMT

A Musing on Names

Geralt is an older name already, when Vesemir finds the boy -- it's the name of old men in taverns, smoking pipes and reminiscing about their glory days. To anyone born sometime in the past thirty years, it evokes images of greybeards with crooked canes and wavering voices. it's a common name, and a commoner's name -- no lord in his right mind would name his son Geralt of anywhere. It's not the name of a child with curly auburn hair and freckles, unless you're so old that the passage of human time's lost all meaning.

Vesemir is, of course, old enough that human time's lost all meaning.

When he was a boy, scrabbling in the village dirt, Geralt was the name of half the children in the village, and their fathers besides. Never the name of a hero, but the name of many a hardworking man. It's a good, steady name, for a child too young to really know his own -- something serviceable, unremarkable. It will serve him well.

[]At the keep of the witchers, the boys are all too young to know that Geralt isn't a name for a child, but they do know that it's a lonely sort of name, with no home or father or title to it. Geralt of nowhere, no place, no parentage -- a plain name for a plain boy with nothing but a training sword and a woolen jerkin to his name.

Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegard, in the meantime, is a name befitting a Toussaintois dandy, someone who smells of rosewater and fancy soaps instead of sweat and guts and onion, who drinks fine wine and feasts on peacock and had never held so much as a bejeweled rapier in his life. It's no name for a witcher. Geralt of Rivia serves just as well.

At least there's a place to it, anyways.

Even if it's somewhere he's never been.

In the wider world, beyond the glittering peaks and impossible valleys of the mountains and the glittering waters of the lake that hides the skulls of a hundred boys unlucky enough to be consigned to its depths, Geralt is still a name for an old man. Even with a young man's body and a youth's face, the white hair lends him a gravitas, that people think the witcher fresh on the path is an older one, long-traveled and hard-bitten. It makes things easier, for a while, until Geralt-the-name falls into rusty disuse, people remembering a parent of a parent of a parent, long dead, who also bore that name. It's a lonely existence, to walk and know that no one else carries it anymore, that even as a child he was pulled out of time, untouched by its waters as the rest of the world.

There is a body in the dirt.

There is a body in the dirt and Geralt is no longer a name for old men, a name for commoners, but a name for beasts, for the monsters that hide in the shadows, that carry bloodied swords and slaughter you quick as blinking -- a name whispered only in hidden corners, in frightened taverns -- Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken.

It is a name to curse by.

A name to curse by, much loathed, much feared -- until a bard, young and reckless and far too horny for his own good scoffs at the stories and follows the witcher in the corner and takes a will and a quill and a song to the records of the world -- no more Butcher, no more Blaviken, only a sword and a Wolf and a hero of legend.

Geralt is a name for warriors -- an ancient name, unused. It's a lonely name with none to call it their own save one -- a rare name for a rare man with a world's worth of glory at his feet and a dozen sagas to praise him.

Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf -- may his name live on forever.

288 notes • Posted 2021-08-25 23:30:51 GMT

'Cause We're One and the Same

This fic was inspired by this art from @itsrapsodia -- I got this scene of the two of them together stuck in my head and ended up writing it! (As a... general sort of trigger warning, Jaskier opens the fic by making a joke about not having a penis; my intention was that he experiences little-to-no bottom dysphoria and being both slightly drunk and around trusted friends, he’s comfy stating that.)

"--and that fucking Valdo Marx," Jaskier says, gesticulating wildly with his thankfully mostly-empty mug, "always sauntering around like he's so much better than everyone else just because he managed to get a court position straight out of Oxenfurt instead of slumming it like the rest of us, and all the rest of-- them," with a peculiar emphasis on the word that Geralt has no clue what it means but Priscilla and Essi clearly do, "acting like they're so much better than us."

Priscilla makes a sharp noise of agreement and sets her glass down on the table with a thunk. "It's like it's all just a contest to them, who can get the most popular song or the biggest royal patronage or--"

"It's a dick-measuring contest, is what it is," Jaskier says with finality, thumping his hands on the table, and Geralt snorts.

"Which you're exempt from?"

"Geralt, darling, I think by virtue of not having a dick--"and his mouth snaps shut, eyes going wide and startled. “Shit.”

Geralt blinks.

"Um," says Priscilla, and then leans over and says in a furious whisper "you haven't told him?!"

"No, I haven't," Jaskier mutters, seeming almost-- shocked, "it never came up, and he can hear you."

Geralt hums to indicate that he can, in fact, hear them both, and turns his gaze on Jaskier. The bard is growing paler by the moment, all the blood draining from his face, and for the first time since they met Geralt can smell-- fear? Just the barest traces of it, overlaid with alcohol and nerves, but it's the first time it's been really, truly, directed at him.

Jaskier's fingers are rattling on the tabletop, off-beat and out of rhythm, and then he shoves himself up and away with far more force than necessary. "I'm-- getting some air. Don't wait up."

"Jaskier--" Geralt says, half-reaching out to him, but Essi puts her hand on his wrist and pushes it back down, firmly, and Priscilla gives him a glare that could curdle milk as Jaskier ducks through the growing crowd inside Three Little Bells. He's had worse glares from Lambert, but there's something about seeing Jaskier so shaken from what seemed to be nothing more than a slip of the tongue that leaves him... unsettled.

He shakes off Essi's arm and rises to go after him, to make sure the bard's okay, but Priscilla catches him by the fabric of his sleeve. "Leave him." He blinks at her, and she levels him with that glare again. "He doesn't need you barging in after he's already said too much," and Geralt looks at her, really looks at her and how much she cares, and dips his head.

"If he comes back, tell him I'll be in the room." She keeps glaring at him, fierce and protective, but very deliberately lets go of his sleeve, and he walks away before he can start to think about-- whatever it was that just happened

He's carefully cleaning his steel sword when Jaskier comes stumbling back into the room, still pale-faced but with the scent of alcohol no longer quite so pungent from him. He's sobered up a bit, then, and Geralt very carefully sets the sword to the side, folds his hands in his lap and tries to look as unintimidating as possible. It's late enough that the tavern is quiet now, and he's had plenty of time to think about what he wants to say to the bard. There’s a lot of secrets he hasn’t wanted, or even had the chance to tell, but he’s beginning to think--

Better to see what the bard says first, though.

"Hello, Geralt."

He hums in response, not quite sure how to start... whatever this is. Jaskier closes the door behind him with exaggerated care, and then doesn't move from the middle of the room, scratching at his lute calluses in the familiar nervous gesture, the tension radiating off of him in a cloud. Literally; Geralt can smell it.

"I should probably. Um. Explain."

Geralt nods, and then seeing how Jaskier goes that much paler, huffs and clambers to his feet to haul out the room's single chair. "Sit down before you fall down."

"Ah. Thanks?" It's almost more a question than anything else, but Geralt nods in what he hopes is a reassuring manner and retreats back to the bed.

"Right. So. I should... probably tell you. What I meant by-- by that." Jaskier flounders, hands fluttering wildly through the air, and settles on "I-- I wasn't born a-- a man."

It's only one of the answers Geralt had been prepared to hear, but it settles something reassuring in his gut, that there's more common ground between them than only a few years of shared adventures. "Neither was I."

"I know it's not exactly-- talked about, but I promise you it's very real and I really am a man and if you don’t think that’s true we are going to have-- hang on, what?"

"I wasn't born a man."

Jaskier gapes.

"But you're--" and he flaps his hands in Geralt's general direction, "I mean, you-- I've never seen you-- really?"

"Yes."

"And you're not just saying that to make me feel better, in some twisted... I'm-an-outcast-from-society-and-I-don't-understand-basic-etiquette-like-not-telling-bards-they're-pitchy-to-their-face kind of way?"

Geralt lifts an eyebrow, carefully not commenting on the fact that he had been pitchy, and Jaskier lets out a sound that might be a laugh and might be a sob. "Right, yeah, when do you ever care enough about my feelings to do something like that. Fuck, Geralt, you can't just-- spring that on a fellow. I mean-- gods, here I was worried that you'd be... weird about it, and instead you're--"

"As dickless as you are?"

"Oh, fuck off," but the fear-scent is gone, the color slowly coming back into his cheeks, and he slouches back into his chair in a boneless heap. "Gods. I-- thanks, by the way."

"For what?"

"For... for trusting me, I guess? I mean it can't exactly be the kind of knowledge you want getting out there, what with witchering being... witchering."

Geralt shrugs. His brothers all know, of course, and so did most of the Wolf School before the pogrom -- hard to keep secrets like that with communal bathing, and there were always a few of his kind -- their kind, now -- in every school. "Most people just... assume."

"Right, yes, what with the whole... big grumpy manly... man look you've got going on there. How did you do that, by the way, some kind of potion? Transformation spell?"

"The Trials," Geralt says, trying to hide the flinch that comes with the memory, even after all these years. "They made us all like this."

"Ah," says Jaskier, and falls silent, not quite looking at him, or at anything in particular.

"Are you--" Geralt starts, the dim memory of before the Trials and the horrible sense of not fitting into his own skin surfacing unbidden, and Jaskier must read something in the look on his face because he nearly lunges forward out of his own chair.

"No! No, I'm-- I'm happy, really, Geralt, I promise. Just, uh, teensy bit jealous, you've got the whole--" and he makes another of those flailing gestures that only really manages to indicate where Geralt is in the room rather than anything in particular about him, "muscles and jawline and stubble thing really going for you."

"You can grow a beard too," because he can, he saw it when Jaskier's razor broke in the middle of Kaedwen and he couldn't get a replacement for a week and a half.

"I can!" and Jaskier grins, impossibly wide. "There's a-- a potion, there's a mage in Novigrad that makes it, it's why I'm here, actually, and it's what makes me, well--" and he gestures proudly to himself, to the long trim line of his torso and the shadow of dark stubble on his jaw and Geralt can't stop the half-smile that grows across his face because even though it's been sixty years and more he still remembers the impossible joy of finding a skin that fit.

Jaskier grins back at him, bright and brilliant and throws himself forward to wrap his arms around Geralt's shoulders in an abrupt embrace. Geralt can smell the happiness rising off of him and for once he doesn't stop himself from holding the bard back, because-- There were others like him, at Kaer Morhen, but they all died in the pogrom a long, long time ago and it's been... lonely, since.

"Thanks," Jaskier says, softly.

"For what?"

"For being here," and Geralt only hums and holds him tighter.

622 notes • Posted 2021-10-13 21:11:41 GMT

One of the... I guess challenges I’ve faced in getting people to take ADHD seriously is that the prevailing idea (in my experience, anyways) about dopamine is that it’s the “drug neurotransmitter”. It’s the fun one, that’s bad for you! Like all drugs! You shouldn’t be looking for more dopamine, that just means you’re looking for a high!

The things is, it’s not like that. It’s really, really not.

Dopamine’s a little bit like glucose (sugar, required for your body to generate energy); a substance that is 100% genuinely essential to having a fully-functioning properly working brain and body, to the point that it feels good when you get more of it because you’re filling a need, to the point that yeah, you can get addicted to it.

But if you’re glucose deficient, that’s hypoglycemia (low blood sugar), where your cells don’t have the energy to keep running because there’s no fuel. AKA a major issue.

If you’re dopamine deficient... well, just go look up the symptoms of ADHD. All of them, not just the inattentiveness ones. ADHD can and does fuck up your life severely, on multiple levels, because ADHD brains are chronically lacking in a compound necessary for basic function.

Yeah, like anything, you can have too much dopamine. But that’s literally the opposite of the problem here.

Dopamine’s not the “evil drug neurotransmitter”, but the number of people I’ve tried to explain ADHD and ADHD medications that think that has really impacted my ability to even be understood, much less given the accommodations I need.

1260 notes • Posted 2021-11-17 05:35:59 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #long post #i mean considering that the majority of my original posts are fic this makes sense #but the fact that the readmores don't carry over is kinda annoying

3 notes · View notes

viterbofangirl · 3 years

Text

first line meme!

@fallynleaf said in her post to consider myself tagged, so I’m happily indulging in this lil’ ego boost! Thanks for the opportunity, m’dear! ^_~

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 authors!

NB- These are all unfinished and unposted WIPs. It behooves me to note that some of these are not at all recent. However, they ARE fics that have “first lines” at all, which is not necessarily a given as my Creative Muse is obnoxiously nonlinear in her inspirations.

~~~~~

1- The Gray Ghost had suffered some engine trouble somewhere on Interstate 65, so Mom and Dad hadn’t managed to make it to Chuck’s wedding. (Early Edition: ”Belly Up to the Bar”, a canon-compliant continuation of the episode “Occasionally Amber”, Gary/Toni except kinda not really because she’s totally pissed)

2- Oracle, Texas. 1878. A gnarled husk of a town still trying to deny that its glory days are past. (”Gunslinger”, my serious treatment/retelling of the Roger Corman western)

3- The gate clanged shut behind him, and Meng Yao took a deep, steadying breath. (MDZS: ”Leverage”, an Untamed AU based on inspired by pretty much continuing @littlesmartart‘s brilliant setup and concept)

4- Many, many nights would Jiang Cheng lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling and pondering the razor’s edge of chance he’d toed. (MDZS: an Untamed chengqing fic set post-canon, current working title is “Second Chances” but I don’t like it)

5- Napoleon Solo flipped though an outdated magazine with little real interest as he lounged in one of the chairs lining the lobby of the car rental establishment. (TMFU (2015): ”Girls Just Want to Have Fun”, a fic set in my “Eight Strapping Daughters” universe where it is currently 1987 and Gaby and Illya have had eight daughters, any of whom are capable of taking over the world... and all of whom are about to spend the day at a shopping mall)

6- He felt the phone vibrating in his pocket. (Sailor Moon: ”Moon Revenge”, a Minako/Kunzite bodyguard AU)

7- The Moon was visiting Earth. (Sailor Moon: ”No Miracle for the Likes of Us”- another working title- which is Venus/Kunzite-centric exploration of the end of the Silver Millenium)

8- Chibi-Usa hasn’t stayed very long after Helios departed. (Sailor Moon: ”Rebirth AU”- you guessed it... working title- a Minako/Kunzite-heavy-but-not-exclusive AU that deviates from the manga/SM Crystal canon after the end of the Dead Moon Circus arc where the Shitennou are revived and the events of Star never occur)

9- Monday, 7:00 AM: Alarm goes off.

Monday, 7:00:08 AM: Alarm thrown across room. (Sailor Moon: “Codename: Teen Idol ‘Dite”, a side arc set in the above AU where, lacking any catastrophic galactic conflicts to fight against, Minako is going out of her mind with boredom and takes an undercover job as an idol as part of a police/Interpol sting operation)

10- Normally, Salazar Slytherin took great pride in his self-control. (Harry Potter: ”Release”, a short Hogwarts founders one-shot involving a maddening magical construction project and a sudden bout of swearing)

11- It was the first truly warm day since winter had broken, and Salazar Slytherin wandered the grounds with no purpose or destination in mind, simply basking in the sunlight until he began to feel the chill of the dungeons recede from his bones. (Harry Potter: ”And Treat Them All the Same”, a Hogwarts founders story about Helga Hufflepuff’s background and why she feels very strongly about equal treatment)

12- Salazar Slytherin stared at the wardrobe for another minute before finally deciding to throw another fur over his fur-lined cloak, leather jerkin, and wool tunic. (Harry Potter: another one-shot Hogwarts founders fic with a teeny bit of Helgazar where the very cold-blooded Slytherin has to deal with a snowball fight, currently but not definitively titled “Snow Day”)

13- As the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, Brooklyn burst through the thin stone crust encasing him, his awakening roar shifting into a yawn as he stared blearily at the skyline and tried to remember what century he was in. (Gargoyles: ”Return of the Time Dancer”, Brooklyn’s return to New York- family in tow- after his Phoenix Gate adventures)

14- The couple breaking their fast that morning were strikingly handsome, if perhaps past the most fashionable age. (The Scarlet Pimpernel, Pride and Prejudice: “Scarlet Impressions”, a crossover fic that pretty much unfolded itself when I a) crunched numbers regarding the dates and years of respective storylines and b) realized that while Lizzy and Marguerite would get on like a house on fire, Darcy’s only possible reaction to Sir Percy would be unmitigated horror poorly repressed due to the latter’s much higher social standing)

15- Paris really was lovely this time of year. (MCU: “Threads and Patches: Part One”, first part of a three-part Clintasha AU set after the events of Civil War and most emphatically *not* farm-family friendly)

16- The briny air filled her lungs to bursting, but she continued to draw in breath until it hurt. (Highlander the Series: “The Mad Viking Saga”... because, frankly, EVERYONE should have an Immortal™ self-insert character and I refuse to apologize or feel ashamed of mine)

17- “Your Highness? The oracle is here.” (Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas: “Sinbad and the Garden of the Hesperides” a sequel to the animated movie that actually should be titled “Proteus and the etc., etc.” bc it’s mostly about him and giving him the ending I think he deserves, a.k.a. an OC love interest and a chance for adventure while on a quest to save his city from a plague)

18- Bare feet pounded on the hot, rough pavement as Sinbad dashed around another tight corner. (Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas: “Fast Friends”, an eight-chapter prequel telling the story of how Sinbad and Proteus met and grew up together, wherein each chapter progresses with each year they know each other from when they meet to when Sinbad leaves)

19- Reed was well-known as your stereotypical absent-minded professor. (Fantastic Four: “Shut Up and Dance With Me”, a Reed/Sue fluffy one shot where Reed is adorable because fight me)

20- The spaceport on Aruus Minor reeked of fuel, welding torches, and sweaty coveralls, but it was a welcome change from the recycled air of the Lambda shuttle. (Star Wars Legends Expanded Universe (BITE ME DISNEY): “Everything Unsaid”, a Luke/Mara chance encounter set during the we-share-an-unbearable-degree-of-compatibility-to-say-nothing-of-the-overwhelming-sexual-tension-but-both-of-our-lives-are-kind-of-a-mess-and-neither-of-us-feels-ready-to-deal-with-our-feelings-for-each-other-so-we’ve-individually-decided-to-just-ignore-said-feelings-while-simultaneously-being-drawn-to-each-other-whenever-we’re-so-much-as-in-the-same-fucking-hemisphere years)

~~~~~

WHEW! Well, it sure was fun to tease all my followers with a taste of fics that will neverrr be finished! As far as patterns go, seems I tend to prefer either set-up paragraphs or punchy one-to-three-liners intended to trick intrigue people into reading further. My favorite is definitely #9. It’s a diary/log of Minako’s day, and her POV is hilarious and sooooo much fun to write like that!

Anyone who wishes to participate should consider themselves tagged, and PLEASE TAG ME IF YOU DECIDE TO PARTICIPATE!

#fanfic #WIPs #mod's stuff #viterbofangirl thinks she can write #asks #my stuff

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canadaherligste · 6 years

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AFTER THE STORY: THE MUSIC OF SKRIK-TYVERIET

Hello everyone, and welcome to the music review of Episode 6 of "Stories From Norway." As usual, there’s a separate post to the music of the episode, giving us all the freedom to get into detail! Today I'm flying solo, so I'm hoping that you guys will come keep me company here :-)

So oh my gosh say goodbye and hang up the damn phone already, and come join me as I get long-winded as usual about the songs, their genres and videos, their vocals. As usual, I want to know what you loved and didn't love, and I'm looking forward to learning from you all as I always do! So here goes:

1. Which was your favourite song? 2: Genres. Homages. Parodies. Tropes. Music. Vocals. Let’s break this down, song by song: A - Nå er det OL B - Man Of A Thousand Faces C - The Smell Of Money D - You And Me E - Non-Ylvis song choices: Africa (Toto)

BONUS QUESTION: Pål had Toto's "Africa." What would be your getaway song?

1. Which was your favourite song?

Robin: "Nå er det OL" by a pretty wide margin. I'll get into it more below, but this song is pretty perfect; lyrically, musically, vocally on point. Plus I was really happy with myself because I understood most of the song the first time I watched the episode in Norwegian!

2: Genres. Homages. Parodies. Tropes. Music. Vocals. Let’s break this down, song by song:

A - Nå er det OL

Robin: Guys, this song is freakin' phenomenal. It really is and I'm in love with this song and I'm going to ramble about why so buckle up LOL.

They were definitely going for the style of inspirational Olympic theme, like Gloria Estefan's "Reach," Koreana's "Hand in Hand," Nikki Yanofsky's "I Believe." Some usual staples of the inspirational song are here: the instrumental opening, the soft wind instruments, major key, modulation with choir, quiet fade out. They certainly nailed the genre. Having Vegard dress (and look) like Sissel was perfect since she did the Olympic Hymn at Lillehammer that year.

That said, though, Lars does his usual thing and adds his own flair to the song to make it interesting. Because of course Lars would compose a song with two different time signatures. The verses are in 6/8, the chorus is in 4/4. Guys, I'm a complete sucker for mixed time signatures in pop music. Even if this song had nothing else going for it, I'd be in love with it just for that. But it has so much else going for it.

For one, there's Vegard's vocals. I have never heard Vegard sing like this before; you don't get head voice from him very often because he's often doing power vocals. It's insane how beautiful and feminine he manages to sound. The break as he switches from head to chest in the last part of the choruses are just soooo smooth and pretty. And can we talk about his own voice doing the background vocals and how freaking high he gets in that last chorus, though? My goodness.

Then there's the lyrics. This song is hilarious and thematically on point for the episode. I love that they managed to write a whole song about there being no law enforcement in Oslo interspersed with random mentions of some of the opening ceremonies' characters. It almost works like the world's worst subliminal message: "It's the Olympics, we have gremlins and trolls NO POLICE IN OSLO and bushes and snow PERFECT TIME FOR ROBBERY we're all here celebrating NO POLICE IN OSLO..."

Okay, yeah, I've talked enough. I'm sorry. I love this song.

B - Man Of A Thousand Faces

Robin: This is a fun song! I've tried but failed to remember what this song reminds me of, so I'm asking all the theatre gurus to tell me where it comes from!

I mentioned this in the review post; my favourite part of this song (and the episode) is the jazz break in the middle of the song, which musically is highly reminiscent of Henry Mancini's "The Pink Panther Theme" with the percussion style and tenor saxophone. Bård then launches into a French accent like Inspector Clouseau from the Pink Panther movies; a character known for his outlandish (and mostly ineffective) disguises.

Bård is soooo over the top in this song it's *almost* too much! This is probably the most energetic I've seen him since I can't remember when. I can't imagine how much work this video was to shoot. So many costume changes, so much energy; Bård must have gone straight to sleep after this because even I'm tired after this song.

C - The Smell Of Money

Robin: This song is in an R&B style that started in late 90s when the genre started moving away from New Jack Swing, and continued into the 00s. This sounds like it could have come straight out of Teddy Riley's, Rodney Jerkins' (Darkchild) or Timbaland's production studios; they were the most well known producers of that time. Similar songs musically would be Destiny's Child "Say My Name" along with almost anything by Blackstreet, and the vocal style is similar to the musical storytelling that R.Kelly (eww) did with "Trapped In the Closet."

I really want to love this song, and lyrically it's hilarious, but it is not their best work vocally and I'm a bit disappointed. Both Vegard and Bård are flat with their pitch a lot. I understand can happen because the duet is pretty rapid-fire and the intervals move quickly, but R&B is pretty unforgiving that way; even with rapidly paced lyrics like this you have to be on point (see "Satisfied" on the Hamilton soundtrack).

That said, it's still a funny song, and the awkward "byes" at the end are hilarious. I assume they used R&B (a sexy genre) to relate to the idea that the money is seductive and arousing. So arousing that Vegard-Jan steams up the phone booth, they both constantly have their hands on the windows Titanic-style, and Bård-Pål has a look of satisfaction and can barely catch his breath after the song is done.

Honorable mention goes to Bård's dancing; that spin is everything.

D - You And Me

Robin: This is a beautiful song. It's the kind of soft rock ballad that you could find in any decade from the 70s onwards. Also, Vegard even sounds a little like Kenny Loggins. I'm sure there's some musical theatre precedent to this song that I'm unaware of. Lars' composition here is stunning, and I loooove the ending chords of this song (similar to "The Prayer").

I mentioned this in the previous post; this song could have had a much bigger emotional impact if the relationship between Skrik and Pål had been alluded to or highlighted before this moment. The song is great and the connection between the two is solid at that moment, but there's no investment on the viewers' (or at least my) part before then. Maybe that's just as well for me; I don't think I would have survived another "What Will I Say."

In any case, both Vegard and Bård do a fantastic job here, both vocally and in the music video. They really sell the connection at the time between the two characters, and the first time we see Skrik smile is really something. Watching them go to their respective prisons was pretty sad.

E - Non-Ylvis song choices: Africa (Toto)

Robin: There are numerous articles online about why Toto's "Africa" is a magical song, and I agree with every single damn one of them. There's something about "Africa" that is just uplifting, that you can't help singing along with, that makes you feel good when you hear it. So that choice was perfect for this moment, as Real-Pål talks about how electric and magical it felt to have pulled off the heist and to have Skrik.

Lyrically, it was some fantastic irony. "It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you..." - it took three million kroner. And he was almost literally dragged away from Skrik at the end by much less than a hundred men. "There's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do" wasn't exactly right now, was it...

BONUS QUESTION: Pål had Toto's "Africa." What would be your getaway song?

Robin: OutKast's "Rosa Parks," Seal's "Padded Cell", or Ylvis' "Pressure."

#ylvis #stories from norway #after the story ylvis #skrik-tyveriet

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vileart · 7 years

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Dramaturgy, She Didn’t Write: Lizzy Skrzypiec @ Edfringe 2017

Murder, She Didn’t Write

Pleasance Courtyard | Pleasance Beyond

17:00 (18:00)

2-28 August

2-4-1 on 7th & 8th August

Late night drag

‘Murder, She Didn’t Write’

Every Sunday at 23:00

A classic murder mystery is created on the spot in this ingenious and hilarious show from Bristol Improv Theatre's resident company. Miss Crimson poisoned in the parlour? Mr Gold exploded by cannon in Sainsbury's? You decide! But will you guess whodunnit? And for your Sunday night entertainment, don’t forget our additional late night shows!

What was the inspiration for this performance?

This improv show is a murder mystery format we have spent years creating and performing. We are improvisers from a range of backgrounds and we wanted to create a show that has both drama and comedy - rare in a lot of improv shows. Murder mystery is very popular and, judging by the popularity of a lot of crime dramas on Netflix etc, it certainly seems in vogue.

However, when we came up with the show we just picked something we would enjoy learning about which had a whole world we could create, something you could really get your teeth into as a viewer. Not just a throw away series of sketches but a genuine plot with twists and turns and red herrings that you could really invest in. We hope we have achieved that with Murder, She Didn't Write.

Is performance still a good space for the public discussion of ideas?

It certainly is. It's my favourite thing to do, after a show, put the world to rights over a pint of gin and just discuss what we've seen. It's always been a great catalyst to get the grey cells in motion. I've watched a fair few shows I have hated or certainly felt were poor performances, but even those have sparked discussion.

Even a badly performed show can give you something to talk about good or bad, and in that case has it really failed?

How did you become interested in making performance?

Me personally? I've always been a bit of a performer I think, even back at school dramatically retelling embarrassing stories or recounting what happened in class "oh you wont believe what Lisa did in History?" I, like most improvisers, got into the art of improv at university. Bristol Improv Society was both incredibly inspiring and just plain silly.

I thought it was ludicrous people would pay good money to see a show where people dicked around playing games on stage. Turns out it's a beautiful thing to watch, and to perform. I was hooked.

Is there any particular approach to the making of the show?

I used to watch a lot of Peter Cook and Dudley Moore as a kid and a lot of Monty Python too. It seemed like it was a space where performers had fun, there was a palpable joy and friendship. Peter Cook would always go off script to make Dudley Moore corpse and I thought it was the most marvelous thing to watch. I'm of the belief that an audience like that chemistry, they like to be in on the act.

There's the story of two men in an art gallery but also the story of Peter pulling out whatever lines he could to make Dudley nearly choke on his sandwich. That's the approach we take on stage, we are a band not a group of individual performers. People like watching us harmonise with ideas and play with each other. Setting each other up and letting the audience in on something special. We are always in each other's heads.

Does the show fit with your usual productions?

We are the resident group of the Bristol Improv Theatre and they teach a lot of long form (plot lead) improvisation so in that respect MSDW is absolutely a fit for their usual productions. This is Degrees of Error's main show. Our "flagship" production we've worked on for about 5 years.

We also have a few other formats we create and try out but this one is something we've spent a long time on. We have another show called "Writers' Room" which is completely different to MSDW. It's set in a writers' basement, littered with ideas, where we gather round a typewriter to tell a story which we jump on stage and act out. It's very stylistic (similar to MSDW) but much less formatted which gives us a vehicle to perform a different type or style of improvisation.

What do you hope that the audience will experience?

It's a play along show. As with any murder mystery you'll be guessing whodunnit the whole time and we ask everyone to point out who they think is the murderer before the final denouement. However, I also hope there's that extra layer that only improv can provide - a scene within a scene.

Mr Blue talking to Ms Violet but also two improvisers playing on stage, working together, harmonising, throwing each other offers and curve balls. Setting each other up for evidence and motives. Building on a story. A two level approach where on one hand we have a complex story (I hope) and on the other we have a band of people joyously dicking around.

What strategies did you consider towards shaping this audience experience?

So there are a number of audience interactions formatted into our show. We have a character called Jerkins who is a member of the audience who catches a hat which is randomly and blindly thrown by the detective.

They help the detective choose which audience suggestions they want for the show. We ask the audience for suggestions on an event during which a murder takes place, and an unusual item which is central to the case. Then Jerkins also picks (without anyone else in the audience seeing) the victim and the murderer. It's up to the rest of the audience to try and work out who the murderer is.

Then, just before the denouement, we ask everyone to point at who they think did it. It's almost a game show format but it allows the audience to heavily engage in each show and keep them playing along. It's a good audience experience that we are pretty pleased with. Also, it's a format which lets us roll up our sleeves to show that the show is truly being made up on the spot. We've even done murders in space!

from the vileblog http://ift.tt/2rCXAef

#Theatre #Blogger #visual art #Edinburgh Fringe #Experimental Critique

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