#Method Mag

[checkthefeed]

[ FEARING BLISS | Full Movie 2023 ]

The Simpson Brothers & Method Mag present you FEARING BLISS.

This is the latest movie made by our beloved Simpson Brothers and their entourage!

BLISS: "Reaching a state of perfect happiness, oblivious of everything else." In search of bliss, we realised that we feared it. Breaking a camera, deciding not to name shots, and in general trying to "break the mould" that we had gotten ourselves into, FEARING BLISS is letting go of invisible rules whilst striving for our best.

Featuring: Jake Simpson @jake_the_snake1 Joe Simpson @brain_half_full Alex Taferner @tafernair Dusan Kriz @dusankriz Simon Pircher @simonpircher Hrund Thor @hrundur Senna Van Drunen @tweakh.art Mehdi Soltane @alpasdechiko Tom Cordier @_tomcordier Marko Malsub. @narko.nalsub Sponsored by: Drake Snowboarding @drake_snowboarding Spy Optics @spyoptic

[p-clodius-pulcher]

RIP Sulla MastersofRome you would’ve loved a 17 step skin care routine

[viriborne]

Do u think Lilia forces Malleus, Sebek, and Silver to help him dye his hair

[scxttershot]

Send “ø” for a LATE NIGHT text. catman!

Floyd - Tomcat. U up still??

[is typing...]

Floyd - I'll regret this in the morning. Drungk. Drunk. Very. Thinking about your eyes. Don't take this the sappy way or nothign. They're just s o fucjing green. Like emeralds. I can see my reflection.

[is typing...]

Floyd - How did you get all the good genes

[magpiethepunkfairy]

I once went on an internet rabbit hole deep dive that started at torture methods, into like, CIA/government experiments and ended with me reading the entirety of the unit 731 Wikipedia page. I did this for probably 4-5 hours before going to bed.

I have a very hard time actually keeping information in my head so I can't info dump without anything prepared, but I will share my favorite fact which is really just a definition but:

Vivisections are essentially autopsies done on living things, technically it's just surgery done on living things to view like internal structures for experiments.

autistics who get obsessed with stuff people typically find too creepy or gross or dark to discuss PLEASE infodump in the comments

[blackcrowing]

Important Facts about Samhain from an Irish Celtic Reconstructionist

Pronunciation

SOW-in or SOW-een ~NOT~ Sam-han, Sam-win etc.

Dates

Most reconstructionists celebrate Samhain on Oct 31-Nov 1, however some may choose to celebrate on Gregorian Nov 13-14 as this would match the Julian dates of Oct 31-Nov 1. Some also believe that it was a three day festival spanning Oct 31- Nov 2 on which Nov 2 is specifically devoted to ancestral veneration, but there is no specific evidence of this, only possible extrapolation from more modern practices.

Following the Celtic method of days beginning at sunset, regardless of the specific dates you choose to celebrate on your festivities should begin at sunset and end at sunset.

Importance in the Mythos

Ná Morrighan has a strong connection to this time of year thanks to the story of Cath Dédenach Maige Tuired (The Last Battle of Mag Tuired) in which she is found depicted as the ‘Washing Woman’ (sometimes washing herself in the river and other times washing the bloodied armor of the soldiers that would die that day), on the eve of the battle which is also Samhain. The Dagda approaches her and couples with her (creating the ‘Bed of the Couples’ along the bank of river and granting Dagda her blessing in the battle to come). This encounter seems to over emphasize the liminality of the encounter by taking place during the changing of the year and with the couple each standing with ‘one foot on either bank’ of the river.

She and her sisters (Badb and Macha) then use various forms of magic to rain destruction on their enemies (in the form of fire and blood). After the day is won Morrighan speaks a prophecy that describes what is taken by some to be the end of days and others to be the events which will later lead to the Ulster Cycle.

Beneath the peaceful heavens lies the land. It rests beneath the bowl of the bright sky. The land lies, itself a dish, a cup of honeyed strength, there, for the taking, offering strength to each There it lies, the splendour of the land. The land is like a mead worth the brewing, worth the drinking. It stores for us the gifts of summer even in winter. It protects and armours us, a spear upon a shield Here we can make for ourselves strong places, the fist holding the shield Here we can build safe places, our spear-bristling enclosures. This is where we will turn the earth. This is where we will stay. And here will our children live to the third of three generations Here there will be a forest point of field fences The horn counting of many cows And the encircling of many fields There will be sheltering trees So fodderful of beech mast that the trees themselves will be weary with the weight. In this land will come abundance bringing: Wealth for our children Every boy a warrior, Every watch dog, warrior-fierce The wood of every tree, spear-worthy The fire from every stone a molten spear-stream Every stone a firm foundation Every field full of cows Every cow calf-fertile Our land shall be rich with banks in birdsong Grey deer before Spring And fruitful Autumns The plain shall be thronged from the hills to the shore. Full and fertile. And as time runs its sharp and shadowy journey, this shall be true. This shall be the story of the land and its people We shall have peace beneath the heavens. Forever

(based on the translation by Isolde Carmody)

It is also mentioned in Echtra Cormaic that on this festival every seven years the high king would host a feast, it was at this time new laws could be enacted. (but it seems that individual Tuathas or possibly kings of the individual providence may have done this for their territories at Lughnasadh).

It seems to be a time considered especially susceptible to (or of) great change as it is the time which the Tuatha de Danann win victory over the Formorians and take control of Ireland, the invasion of Ulster takes place at this time in Táin bo Cúailnge, in Aislinge Óengusa Óengus and his bride-to-be are changed from bird to human and eventually he claims kingship of Brú na Bóinne at this time of year.

Celebration Traditions

Samhain is the beginning of the “dark half” of the year and is widely regarded as the Insular Celtic equivalent of the New Year. The “dark half” of the year was a time for story telling, in fact in this half of the year after dark is considered the only acceptable time to tell stories from the mythological and Ulster cycle (the Fenian cycle being assumed to be no older than the 12th century based on linguistic dating). Traditionally anything that had not been harvested or gathered by the time of this festival was to be left, as it now belonged to the Fae (in some areas specifically the Púca).

This was also an important time for warding off ill luck in the coming year. Large bonfires would be built and as the cattle were driven back into the community from the pastures they would be walked between these bonfires as a method of purification (the reverse custom of Bealtaine where the livestock were walked between the fires on their way out to the summer pastures). Assumed ritualistic slaughter of some of the herd would follow (though this perhaps had the more practical purpose of thinning the herd before the winter and creating enough food for the feasting). In some areas the ashes from these fires would be worn, thrown or spread as a further way to ward off evil.

Homes would be ritualistically protected from the Aos Sí (Fae or ‘Spirits’) through methods such as offerings of food (generally leaving some of the feasting outside for them), carving turnips with scary faces to warn them off (we now tend to do this with gourds), and smoke cleansing the home (in Scottish saining) traditionally with juniper, but perhaps rowan or birch might be an acceptable alternative. It is likely these would be part of the components used in Samhain bonfires as well, for the same reason.

Lastly based on later traditions as well as links in the mythology this is a time where divination practices or those with the ‘second sight’ were regarded to be especially potent.

Art Credit @morpheus-ravenna

My Kofi

[kneelingshadowsalome]

thinking about how konig can’t get his hands to stop roaming when cuddling <3 being so touchy feely of reader’s soft thighs and back and arms and tummy <3 how big and heavy and warm his hands are omg ok i’m done

Just imagine trying to escape his cuddles… This man weighs a ton because he's so tall and most of that body mass is muscle so when he comes to the bed it sags so that you practically roll downhill and straight into his arms ❤️

König loves to be the big spoon, loves to squish you against him, just enough to hear a frustrated whimper or two. After he's hugged you "enough" he goes to your tits (yes he's a simple man), just paws and rubs them gently, then slides his palm down to your tummy and draws you closer to him even though there's not a hair's breadth between you two.

All your softest parts seem to drive this guy completely crazy! He's used to squeezing hard metal, being rough and methodical with mags and knives and guns so caressing you feels like he's holding warm velvet in his hands.

Fervent kisses are placed on your neck until you're whining because your skin starts to get sensitive, and you try to turn… But as soon as you face his chest he crushes you against him again like you're just a cuddly little teddy bear.

He loves your hips, loves how wide they are compared to his, caresses your thighs like they're pure silk. If you ask him to massage your back he's happy to oblige. He runs his hands all over you, reverently: you look so smol compared to him and his hands, your body is so different from his, he's just fascinated. And because he's also fascinated by softness, the promised back rub soon turns into König massaging your ass...

When he's had enough of you (for now) he falls asleep, just like that. You're trapped there under heavy arms because König won't let you go even when he's conked out. He's used to getting sleep whenever he can, that's the first thing he learned as a young Jagdkommando soldier, and he's used to sleeping outside, in cold planes and cold houses, so when he decides it's time to get some shut eye his body heat automatically shoots up to keep him warm.

He's blazing and you're sweating, but if you try to move he only tightens the hug and grumbles in his sleep – no one is going to take you away from him.

[kirbybecomesastarwarrior]

Why doesn't Marx want Kirby to forgive him, is it just the guilt thing?

Long story short, this is a combination of "the fear of getting hurt/rejected" & "shame and guilt," which results in self-sabotaging, but the main reason is...

HAMELIN REALLY MESSED UP MARX!

So, like Kirby with Cappytown... Marx was Hamelin's hero, but they betrayed him and thus turned to the dark side.

This all ties into his initial hatred for Kirby... he's very much angry at his former self for being so foolishly naive, and Kirby's good nature is too reminiscent of his former self.

That also makes it the main reason he could never truly hate Kirby... a younger self that he can't help but connect with. Leading to his "fake friend act" to accidentally grow to care for him and actually want him as a friend.

However, Marx knows he deceives Kirby the same way the people of Hamelin did to him... "pretending they cared for him." Using the very same methods, the townsfolk did to him... ("became what he hated")

This is why Marx doesn't have the heart to forgive himself... even though Kirby was always ready to forgive him and welcome him back with open arms. Because he knows he can never forgive the people of Hamelin... Why should Kirby? And, of course, he does!

The restoration of a friendship between Marx & Kirby happens~, But unlike the people of Hamelin, Kirby has this unconditional love for Marx and wants more than anything to have him back in his life.

I'd say these events happened after Planet Robboot... Marx finally makes his return and "saves Kirby?!" (I'm not gonna reveal from what because of spoilers)

With my interpretation of Marx, I wanted to take him into a sympathetic route (to make him stand out from the others). He still has the sass and mischievous charm, but I wanted to give him a proper reason why he is the way he is. It's a more heartfelt version of Marx that Kirby would want to be friends with and him in turn.

Marx represents "self-worth"; if people don't appreciate or treat you the way you deserve, then they don't deserve you. (Minus the piping all the Dark Matter back into the town as revenge...) KNOW YOUR WORTH AS A PERSON PEOPLE!

And he stands as one of the main reasons why Kirby ultimately chooses to become a star warrior. Moved out of the Popstar to travel and pursue his aspirations & dreams.

Please keep reading for spoilers & quick bonus comic~

So Arthur pretty much reveals Marx's backstory to the rest of the Kirby gang... and needless to say, they're speechless!

He still doesn't want to be forgiven, so he stays with Magolor (which I cover here with Magolor's lore), but yeah, of course, Marx opened up to Mags about Hamelin. And that's why Mags is there, while Kirby & Marx are back in his place telling his story to Kirby. (Kirby saw it because of "empathic touch" but didn't know the exact details of it..)

And Dragato, yeah, he was already on his redemption arc (Falspar's already went through his with Fluff, so he's there for moral support, plus it's the reason why Arthur partnered up together).... he already knew he messed up. But now, hearing the full story that he was, not only did he fall for the people of Hamelin's lies, but... MARX WAS THEIR HERO. (I know kinda of shoehorned the crew for the sake of missing the gang, I just missed them I had to...)

There's actually a small bit of tragedy... while the adults sold Marx out, the children who really loved him would've vouched for him... it'll tie back into his character later.

And I know it seems like I'm painting Dragato in such a bad light, but it's part of his character development. And for those of you who don't know... HIS MENTOR WAS DAME MORGAN (LE FAYE)! So yeah, high standards, little affection, never impressed~

Which is why I still need to establish her a bit more! More Morgan coming up soon

I'm trying to get to the old asks I wasn't able to answer before (since I was still developing the lore...) And I just need a little break from the tournament plus, I've been working on some Kirfluff stuff for Oct.: Kirfluff week!

Also, little funny side notes and gags' "Hero to Zero... Hercules" reference and Mag's little side comment. Based on the meme, "you ruined a perfectly good child..."

So, hope you guys enjoyed it!

[0l-unreliable]

I didn't mean to make this look like a porn mag cover, but I also didn't NOT mean to make it so. Anyway, i was trying a new coloring method and Andriel is, as always, the perfect subject/s

[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.04 ~ ♆

“ You’re done, it’s okay. “

{{ Finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, insinuation of forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, death, nightmares, almost drowning, etc

{{ word count }} 2.7 k

{{ outfits }}

{{ prompt }} The end of a grueling game leaves blood on your hands, the crimson stain is sticky, metallic, and permanent.

{{ a/n }} *evil laughter*

The 67th annual Hunger Games lasted twenty-one days.

Eight Tributes were killed in the bloodbath by the time night fell over the arena.

By the end of the first week, half of the reaped Distract’s children were gone.

For three days afterward, the arena was still in anticipation. Every twig cracking or howl of wind caused skittish responses from those left alive.

On the eleventh day, the trees sparked flames and pushed the remaining Tributes into the deadly maw of the ravine. Two more children died at the hands of the Game Makers.

Ten Tributes remain alive.

Finnick Odair hated attending the viewing parties of the Capital Elites. Loathing the sticky, manicured fingers of Capital elitists clutching at his burning skin or tugging at the disturbingly revealing tunic he’d been forced to wear. Each touch started to feel like a singe of flame licking up to eat away his sense of self. Sea-green eyes trained in a foggy haze toward the silver projections of the arena. The film moved, but he wasn’t absorbing any of the content, too occupied in attempting to drown out the awful commentary concerning the Games not being “nearly as entertaining as previous years.” and other ludicrous filth.

A flicker of something ghosted its fingers in a lingering touch over the boy’s heart when your crumpled form appeared on the silver screen. The Game Makers didn’t feature your whereabouts often due to a lack of activity. You had managed to huddle inside a rocky alcove near the bottom of the ravine but had fallen about eight feet down to get there. Not to mention the surely infected wound on your lower left leg. A thick swallow forced itself down his constricted throat, brows flickering into a creased position for only a second, the only tell of his reaction as his gaze fixated on you.

Finnick Odair wanted to hate you.

The potent sting of venom from your verbal altercation on the train weeks ago still rang true in the victor's thoughts. The two of you had barely met, yet you made assumptions in only two days and three conversations, spitting bitterness toward his ruthless "methods" in the Arena for his own survival. You hated him, and there wasn't anything he could do about that simmering hatred in your core.

But the irony of it all was that he agreed with you. He should be dead instead of here, living in such comfort paid for in the innocent blood of children he’d never known, but there was no way to take back the moral damage he’d done to survive. As much as nightmares plagued his slumber, he couldn’t change what he did. He’d committed atrocities all in the name of his own survival.

Finnick started to ponder whether this new position in the Capital city after President Snow proclaimed him “desirable” was worth “surviving” - but he had to protect Mags. He’d rather endure the torture or light himself aflame before allowing any harm to come to the older woman who loved him as her own son.

But watching you cower on that screen and panic without any hope you’d survive tugged a painful string in his chest.

Finnick Odair wanted to hate you.

As golden light filled the cavernous Arena on the sixteenth day, what remained of the two career packs destroyed one another. It had been three against two, and no one had left the battlefield alive.

Five Tributes remained.

By nightfall on the eighteenth day, mutts were set loose through the rocky cliffs. The mutations resembled bats but were five times the size with razor-sharp talons and excellent night vision. The wretched creatures spit a green mucus that amplified feelings of pain without physical damage needing to be done. The mutts targeted the shadowy alcoves, pushing Tributes further down while narrowly avoiding being pulled into the sky and dropped to their deaths. Two of the grotesque mutants discovered your alcove, spitting mucus that retched a shrill scream from your throat as white-hot pain shot like fire through your right side and across your drenched arm.

The pain was paralyzing. More screams were smothered outside your hideaway with a sickening ripping sound as a bat tore apart and dropped someone to the bottom. The knife in your hands trembled as the creatures corned you, their prowl slow and intense. Adrenaline flooded every fiber of your system as you used every ounce of fear and bitter determination to swing your blade at the sharp-toothed maws of the bats. Another pained scream tore from your lungs as the weapon made contact, and black blood splattered your cheek. The unharmed bat lunged, its talons sinking into your shoulder, and the pain was immeasurable as your screaming didn’t falter. With your good leg, you immediately force your knee up, and a cry emits from the mutt, stalling it for just enough time to plunge your blade through its skull. The feeling caused bile to rise up in your throat as you willed yourself to throw the creature off onto the other mutt. The second bat went down quickly.

The twenty-first and final day of the Games was the shortest.

Two days prior, a rock slide initiated by the Game Makers finally pushed the remaining three tributes, including yourself, to the bottom of the ravine. Rubble had added to your growing list of injuries in the form of scrapes and bruises. Your entire body felt lethargic on labored breaths. You couldn’t help wondering if you’d die as a result of the pain shooting through you or the infection in your leg taking over before another tribute found you. The other pair of Tributes must have also taken substantial injuries in the rockslide since things had been eerily still the past two days.

It was the wee hours of morning when the 67th Hunger Games finally ended.

You had spent the last few days hiding under a pile of rocks near the river, nursing your wounds with a near-empty tin of salve no larger than the palm of your hand. Thatcher had sent it. A small note simply saying “for your leg.” with their name at the bottom in fine print. The only downside to the sponsored gift was that you had to move from your previous hiding place after receiving it. If either of the remaining Tributes figured out where you were, you’d be dead. A seething hiss left your gritted teeth while applying the salve to the wound. The ointment stung with a strange cooling effect that shot like ice down your aching muscles.

You had to survive. You could try to continue to outlast the remaining tributes and allow them to destroy themselves like the careers did. Your chances were slim to none at this point. It was a feat in itself that you had lasted this long, to begin with. Currant Bush had been your only form of nutrition. The small berries had a tart flavor, but it was enough to keep you going, albeit barely. You hadn’t slept much, either. The abyss behind your eyelids held only reflections of the horrors the past month had inflicted upon you. Another hiss escapes as you shift your sitting position. Everything felt raw and grimy on your hands. The metallic scent of copper filled your nostrils, and crimson that wasn't yours caked your fingertips. A shaky exhale has your eyes fluttering closed. You couldn’t stay in this position for much longer. Being a sitting duck wouldn’t help you. It’d only kill you.

Crack

The sound shocks your senses into focus, jolting you awake as your eyes snap open. The small blade you carry is in your hand in an instant, protectively placed in front of you as your eyes dart around the hollowed space. The sound of crunching gravel and debris underfoot continues somewhere above you. Your chances of running have vanished, and assuming by the chorus of sounds above, the two remaining Tributes were working together. Your breath hitched as the steps drew near.

Swallowing thickly, you do your best to move into a crouched position. You were cornered, but there was no way in hell you would go down without a fight. Shadows pass overhead through cracks in your hideaway, blocking out the small streams of silver moonlight. Your eyes fell to the small opening leading to your location. Slowly, you crept forward as quietly as possible in your current position. The crunching of rocks above you came to a sudden halt, as did your movements. A beat of silence passed before your prowl continued above and below.

The mouth of your makeshift cave pours dim light, elongated shadows further heightening the fear gripping your chest. After a deep inhale through your nose, you spring from your hiding place and attack. The least you could do was surprise your attackers in hopes of getting an advantage. Your move works. Scrambling across the rocks and swiping your blade, you manage to make contact with someone’s ankle, and a sharp cry rips from their throat. The other Tribute, a boy from District 2, launches his spear right for your skull. He thankfully misses as you duck down, the metal clattering somewhere beyond. Snapping your head back up, you look just in time for a knife to come swinging down. You move fast, but not fast enough, and the blade slices into your already wounded shoulder. A pained grunt leaves through gritted teeth, and you reach up and yank your attacker’s feet from beneath them. The Tribute goes down, her head smacking on the rocks, and an awful crunch comes from her nose as contact is made. You’re panting heavily, any air reaching your lungs coming at an expensive effort. Pure fear and adrenaline fuel your motives.

A knife whizzes past, slicing your cheek and in return, hurling your own blade at the male Tribute, landing square in the chest. Bile threatens to rise in your throat as he goes down, but you don’t get the chance to mourn or even think as you're thrown back. The last remaining Tribute has tackled you, the wind being forced from your lungs as ice-cold water rushes over your skin.

The River - you’re underwater.

Forceful pressure latches onto your throat, and your limbs aimlessly thrash in an attempt to release the constricting chokehold of your assailant. Water forces itself down your throat in a silent scream as your legs are pinned beneath you by the Female Tribute straddling your waist. Pure terror rips through your chest as death creeps closer. You were going to drown at the hands of a scared teenager and water. You couldn’t die.

You will not die.

One of your hands remains clawing at the fists around your throat while the other fumbles for a slick stone above your shoulder. It takes a few attempts to get enough grip, but as quick as your fingers wrap around the stone, it flies just as quickly into the skull of the Tribute above you. Instantly, you’re released, jolting upright and hurling water and bile in sputtering coughs over yourself while struggling to scramble away from your attacker. Blood dribbles down the stone in your hand. Your vision is hazy in the chaos, air barely reaching your lungs as you’re pounced on again and thrown back into the frigid water. The stone in your hand holds fast, whipping once more into the face of your assailant with a grotesque crunch of bone as warm blood splatters against your hand.

You thrust yourself out of the water, pouncing on the other Tribute. She goes down, head below the water, and blood seeps from both of your wounds, staining the water crimson. She thrashes under your grip, and with a shaking hand, you bring the stone in your hand down once more, another crunch sounding under the impact, and you’re sobbing. Not from fear, not from anger, but from pain. Pain and a harrowing sorrow at what you’re doing. You have to kill this girl to survive. You’re taking a soul from this world all in the name of saving your own skin. Bile roses in your throat as she stops moving.

The last canon of the 67th Hunger games fires.

It’s over.

Water splashes as you force yourself up, knees trembling, and away from the still body. You don’t make it far before crashing down to your knees on the riverbank. A raw, anguish-filled scream leaves your throat as tears pour and bile soon exits your mouth. Your whole body is shaking in shock at what you’ve just done. The disgust and shame at your actions weigh heavy on your shoulders, and tinnitus blocks the commencement of the Games from reaching your ears. Blood soaks into what feels like every pore of your being. Maybe it was more water than blood, but it all felt the same. Copper fills your nostrils, and you’re throwing up again.

You’re shot with a sedative when the hovercraft comes to retrieve you from the arena.

Finnick was frozen as the feed of the Games went out. You’d won. With your hands stained crimson and the sheer remorse and terror expelled from your system before the screen went blank, you’d won. He’d been lucky enough to be alone. His client of the evening had left an hour prior, and he’d been too hollow to try and attempt sleeping yet. The boy had figured you’d be one of the last surviving Tributes, but he hadn’t allowed himself to believe you’d become the lone victor. But now you were, and the Capital’s emblem stood static on the silver screen in idle motion. A sigh looses from the victor’s chest, and that familiar tug of something he can’t quite place squeezes his heart. He should go find Mags. If Peacekeepers hadn’t awoken her already with the news, they would soon. Shrugging his tunic back on, he left the small, too-luxurious hotel and went off.

Heated murmurs slowly drew your consciousness back into your body. Everything ached. There was a beeping to your left that made your head want to explode from the high-pitched tone, and you could feel something like a needle in your arm and a few other sticky monitors attached to your skin to monitor your vitals. Your eyes took some adjusting to the sterile white of the medical bay, making your irises burn. Blinking fiercely, you tried to sit up with a pained groan, but a firm hand on your shoulder pushed you back down. Your jaw set as your eyes finally started to focus and scan around the small room.

However, just as your senses snapped back, so did the chokehold of adrenaline, fear, and survival instinct. Kicking out hard, you connect with someone who emits an “oof”, and instantly you’re scrambling up and away from whoever was in the room with you. Everything was white and sterile, setting your skin crawling as panic and terror ripped through you. Heated whispers become distressed shouts and running feet from outside only add to your spiked instincts. Grappling for anything to remotely defend yourself with, you manage to latch onto a device meant to check your hearing and eyesight and grip the cool metal so hard your knuckles turn white.

“Hey! Hey! Stop, don’t touch them!”

A boy’s voice pierces above the chaos, and your eyes snap to the sliding door as a bronze-haired boy enters. Instinctively, you whip the metallic device at the intruder, eyes wide in fear, with your heart drumming in your chest so fierce you feel it might burst. The boy narrowly dodged your attack, the device cracking the pane of glass behind him. Your breaths come in ragged wheezes as your muscles howl in pain from the sudden movements and your injuries. The boy is swift, quickly maneuvering to grip your biceps so tightly you can’t pull away, and your eyes snap to meet oceans of sea-green.

“F-Finnick ?”

“Yea, it’s me, you’re out. You’re done, it’s okay. You survived.”

Survived.

{{ taglist}}

@emerald-09 @reader-bookling123 @finnickodaddy @thehairington86 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @avoxrising @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @whens-naptime @violettbae @the-lonely-abyss @secretsicanthideanymore @nexxus13 @takanparadiae @yourdailymemedelivery

[jonsimsandcats]

IT'S HAPPENING AGAIN: JON SIMS AND CATS DAY 2023!

Why?  Because Jon loves cats and it’s cute!  And we could use some pure fluff and delight.

When?  April 29 - The date we got to hear Jon hanging out with the Admiral in MAG 93.

What? Fanart or fanfic featuring Jon and any cat(s)!  It could be the Admiral, it could be a scraggly alley cat behind the Institute Jon is slowly earning the trust of, it could be a mother cat and litter of kittens he and Martin found in the shed by the Scotland safehouse.

Please check out our FAQ post (app post link ||| desktop page link) for more details!

How?  Post to the #JonSimsandCats2023 tag on tumblr, and/or @ us so we can find your post.  This is a good method if you’re having trouble getting an ao3 link to show up in the tags.

We also have an ao3 Collection! Jon_Sims_and_Cats_2023.  Please check our FAQ for detailed instructions on how to submit fics to the collection.  We are accepting both old and new works!

[sewer-sermon]

see madcom has genuinely got to be one of my favorite ways a story, or fictional world, has ever been told. krinkels has fucking MASTERED the art of environmental storytelling- i think my favorite example is Mag Agent Torture, a character who could easily just be a big baddie for Hank to fight, but bears some pretty grim implications about their own past & existence if you're really paying attention. it goes like

•they have weird spikes stuck in their head and a cool name

•oh, wait. those spikes kind of look like the ones auditor uses to punish dissenters, seen in the background of several episodes, don't they?

•then the torture focused Incident reveals in their internal monologue that "their disharmony is my pain", implying in some way that torture carries the burden of suffering for the entire agency

•oh. dissenter spikes and that knowledge in mind, and the name Torture. did something happen to this guy. Were they always like that? is auditor punishing them in some way?

like, idk. krinkels is just very good at knowing exactly what to elaborate on and what to leave nebulous- giving hofnarr & jeb proper backstories & explanations for how they got that way in mpn doesn't really end up removing any character agency or weight of the mystery behind their actions, it just characterizes them more thoroughly & makes them more compelling overall. meanwhile refusing to elaborate in a clear cut way on whatever the fuck is going on with Hank keeps them a nebulously terrifying force, just as they're perceived in-universe- i think if we ever did get a straight answer for why Hank is the way they are without it being vital info for the conclusion of the series, it'd just kind of fall flat and kill the wiggle room your mind has for working with them

some things in worldbuilding are more fun and interesting when they have more thorough explanations, and some of them aren't. it very heavily relies on the context and level of plot relevance of the information itself- you can't just spoonfeed everything to the audience, they have to be able to make their own takeaways of course! but you can drip-feed them in small enough increments about inconsequential enough things that it still ultimately gives them a rich and fascinating array of information to work with.

idk. madcom the animated series is primarily very good at this bc of it's lack of dialogue, but mpn dodged a HUGE bullet in destroying this method with the way the story is framed- ultimately it ends up being exactly like a very long, playable version of one of the animated "incidents", because of how inconsequential it ends up being to the main story. it gives us MASSIVE insight into how the world works and what goes on in the background of it, but is far enough removed from the main plot that we don't end up sitting through the characters literally just grabbing us by the shoulders and spoiling the entire mystery of the series through soliloquy.

i think it's cool!!! i think it's really fucking cool and really masterfully done!!! and its one of the many many reasons i adore this series as much as i do. Muah

[frogblast-the-ventcore]

From clockwise right, we have:

Hellreigel 9mm submachine gun (text via IMFDB: "As of current knowledge, there was only ever one example of the Hellriegel and it did not survive the war. Its caliber, capacity, operating method, and whether or not it was even a functional weapon are conjecture based on analysis of the photographs and historical context. It is assumed to have been blowback operated with the projections at the rear being a pair of recoil springs, and the large structure over the barrel is thought to have been a leather-wrapped water or oil jacket for cooling. From what little could be known about the weapon from the three images, it appears that the Hellriegel is a large-capacity submachine gun, firing what seems to be a 9mm cartridge. It would make the Hellriegel one of the first submachine guns made in the world by definition of a submachine gun. It wouldn't be referred as a submachine gun at the time, as the term "submachine gun" was first coined in 1921 to advertise the Thompson Submachine Gun; the Hellriegel was referred to as a machine gun (Maschinengewehr) on the image caption. It could feed from straight box magazines, or from a large drum magazine which was not actually connected to the weapon and instead fed the cartridges through a flexible chute. The unusual appearance of this drum magazine led to some assumptions that it was belt fed, however this is not the case with the rounds being unconnected from one another and are propelled along the drum and feed chute by a spring in a similar manner to the Trommelmagazin snail drum used by the Luger pistol. The drum magazine is believed to be able to hold up to 160 rounds while the box mag is limited to 20 or so. It seems to be crew-served, as one image depicts an ammo bearer with a backpack for drum magazines, and its seeming intention to be used as a stationary weapon given its weighted base for the drum and its machine gun name (making it a "heavy" submachine gun of sorts). The provision for a drum but not a bipod however, means it is unclear what exactly the weapon was intended to be used for. All three pictures were taken from the right side of the gun, so what the left side looked like is a complete mystery."

Tsar tank (absolutely bonkers Russian experimental wheeled tank):

Hand-dropped bomb runs (commonplace during the war until bomb racks were invented for small aircraft):

German cavalry with pikes (note the horse gas masks).

Also this happened:

[yuri-is-online]

i’ve got this picture of Yutu being kind of artsy from your description. besides, being an outcast probably means a lot of solo hobbies from no friends. maybe a bonding method for Yutus with a father that is more artistic 👉👈

You have such a good point about being an outcast driving people towards solo hobbies σ(￣、￣=) certain Yutus are more outgoing than others but that does only get you so far.  Of the ones I have written about, Floyd! and Cater! Yutu both had friend circles before coming to Twisted Wonderland, while Ace!, Azul!, and Riddle! Yutu were certifiably friendless.  Bonding between Yutu and a more artistic dad hmmmmm let's see...

notes: they/them used for Yuu, this is part of my fyuuture kid au, you can find an explanation of it here and here, or look at my masterlist for all of the posts.

Vil! Yutu

... really likes to paint and draw, when I first wrote about him his unique magic involved temporarily bringing his paintings to life.  My brother used to dig through old fashion mags when he was teaching himself to draw and I can see Yutu doing the same.  So when he finally gets to see a not tortured version of his father and finds out he is a model on top of being an actor?  He's so eager to learn about all of it, and Vil has got to be thrilled to share.  You know between him and his own dad Vil has got to have a nice collection of vintage designer items he's willing to let Yutu have a look at.  Yutu has drawn his dad a lot, receiving a drawing someone has made for you is already beyond flattering, but when it's from a family member?  Forget the fridge, Vil is getting this framed.  I can also see him maybe commissioning Yutu because he wants to make sure he never under sells his work.  He is a member of the Schoenheit family, he is allowed, nay required to have a great deal of pride in himself.

Cater! Yutu

... likes playing guitar and he loves playing with his dad.  He's not really interested in playing with the other pop music club members, Yutu is a bit shy around his dad's friends.  When he's stressed he likes to play a few songs and sing, something I could see working for Cater too.  While I'm talking about Cater, I don't think he'd make a bunch of magicam posts about his family, just in general.  He uses magicam as a way of maintaining his false happy facade, his want to date Vil comes at least partially from his presence on magicam, some of his real self is on display there sure but a lot of it is exaggerated and fake.  When he has something real he wants to keep it away from the rest of the world, so while his followers absolutely are told he's #taken #blessed they don't know about the details of his relationship.  At least not if it's a healthy one.

Jade! Yutu

... is someone I haven't written about before but he is also very into music, just not jazz music.  Not that he hates jazz, he's just stuck in that teenage phase of refusing to admit the things his dad likes are cool, something Jade reasonably “sniffles” about but that's not to say music isn't a bonding point for them.  He also plays bass, just an electric not an upright one, and Jade enjoys listening to Yutu play.  He's very supportive and surprisingly soft in his praise for someone who just got done listening to his kid scream out a punk rock song.  As long as Yutu is willing to do some hiking with him (which he is) then he has no real problem with what his kid likes, if anything I can see Jade enjoying their differences.  Life is boring if everyone is the same.

Rook! Yutu

I've been thinking about Rook, just as a character recently and one of those things that's been stuck in my mind is that he was very shy as a child.  To keep this from becoming just general information about Rook! Yutu, unlike his father Yutu never got over his shyness, so a lot of their bonding revolves around Rook encouraging Yutu to see the beauty in himself.  He books tickets to shows, symphonies, and ballets in advance so he can make sure Yutu knows when they are going out and can prepare himself to be seen in public.  They plan their outfits together in advance, look up information about the company and what they are going to see so they can appreciate the art just that much more.  On the day of Rook makes sure to kiss Yuu goodbye,  and promises to come home safe.  But not to worry, he always has Yutu help him pick out a bouquet of flowers to bring back for you.  (Unless you're allergic to pollen in which case he'll bring home something else.)

[rei-ismyname]

Magneto shocked that Captain America doesn't hate mutants

He doesn't hate them, but he has a liberal approach to helping them.

Ol Mags built himself a plugin for his helmet that detects and removes any anti-mutant feelings from a target (that's what he's tearing out of the bucket.)

Showing poor application of the scientific method, he gives up on that after testing it on one person - Steve Rogers - a statistical outlier if ever there was one. Showing that he's still got a long way to go he concludes that Chuck is right, more or less. Mutants have a lot to fear from institutions that don't have anti-mutant feelings but will oppress them anyway. Profit, political gain, geopolitical and military advantage, and most of all the neoliberal commitment to the status quo are all dangerous to any minority.

Imagine if he saved that sucker for Cassandra Nova or Reverend Stryker etc. However, the mutant metaphor is dead in the water the moment you can solve it with the push of a button. It's yet another very impressive scientific feat from the Master of Magnetism.

[callsignhood]

König on a rampage

Tags: Angst / Headcanons /‼️Description of violence and cruelty‼️ / Not proofread /Dark König??

Word count: 500ish

König was always on missions during his twenties. Sometimes it lasted for days, sometimes for weeks.

Being deployed and following commands was almost a therapy for him. It provided him the focus on something that could be controlled, rather than his untouchable anxiety.

Handling weapons and aiming targets was easier than handling relationships, which he was slow at.

He wasn’t too close to his team, but they weren’t strangers either, of course. He just had trouble to open himself up to anyone.

He was young, with a body built like an oak tree and nerves of steel. He always tried to maintain calculated during gunfights. Although he was young, he never acted recklessly. He was even willing to retreat if the consequences of pushing forward were high.

König rarely got shot since was agile and vigilant on the battlefield. If he was, he knew how to treat wounds because it was given as mandatory training.

His pain tolerance was very high. Or maybe he’s just good at keeping everything by himself. He’d clench his teeth and wrap the flesh tightly to stop the blood flow, take a few breaths, self-evaluate if he can do this or not, then continued to fight.

He barely had any rest, because he believed he didn’t need much of that. If he had a day off, he would wash off all the blood and sweat on his body, eat until he’s satisfied, then slam himself on the bed and sleep for an entire day.

König was then deployed to Berlin. It was a rescue operation from the hands of Al-Quatala, and he led a team of five.

It was a mission under raining bullets. The commander has underestimated enemies’ resources, and König’s team was struggling with limited assets.

One of them was down during this twelve hours pain-in-the-ass battle. It made König frustrated at the whole situation.

He sweated under his gears and gloves, changing mags and yelling out order behind cover. He counted his bullets, not enough. His commander has not yet telling them to retreat.

Fucking bullshit, he mumbled. This better not be a suicide mission.

He then e saw a child being thrown out instead of a grenade, a few feet beside him. As he was taking in this sudden information, a flash of explosion blinded his eyes, he felt himself being knocked out by the shockwave.

He growled at the pain, got up from the bloody ground after a few seconds of struggle, then he saw half of an arm and one foot. Small. Belonged to the child.

König took a few breaths, their death sinking into his brain and it made his blood boil. For the first time, he didn’t wait for further instruction by the commander, as he let rage takeover the body.

And it became his weapon, he stormed into the room with his assault rifle, shot down a few panicked enemy that was fleeing to take cover. They did not expect anyone would storm into their base recklessly like this.

He double-tapped them, then took pursuit on the rest like a beast going rogue. Six were on the base floor, four on the roof top. If his ammo ran out, he’d ditch it and grab a rifle from the dead enemies. Turns out they had a fucking heavy machine gun, that’s why König’s squad were showered with bullets.

If there was a chance for melee combat, he’d use the most painful method without a blink.

He got shot twice on the arm, once on the leg form the back. He bit through it, half with adrenaline, half with his flaming rage. He had enough with this. Nothing could stop König on his rampage.

The remaining two were guarding the hostages. König took aim and shot one of them dead with one bullet.

The other screamed and wanted to run, but König was faster, pinned him down and grabbed him like a prey. His own blood stained the clothing, and the burning revenge was dripping down from his eyes, glared down at the enemy.

“You like to be cruel, ja?” König spitted, stabbed the knife into his eye. “Then I’ll pay it back to you!” He gutted out those painful screams. Again and again, as it was the only way to calm himself down.

When König was done venting his fire out, he turned to the hostages. He was almost covered in red with a pair bloodlust eyes. They were trembling at the sight of this man, refused to go with him.

They had to be convinced by the rest of his team, so they could be finally escorted to safety. The team also took care of König. They were terrified too.

König finally passed out on the retreat heli by the blood lost and by his overwhelmed mind.