#stark attila

[brgzmpff]

Képek, amiket nagyon szeretnèk :)))

[sunny-honeytears]

So I've been working on a longer post again but tbh even as someone in elective literature course and just in general as someone who is crazy about hungarian literature, it's really hard to make progress with this so I'll just post what I already have

TANZ DER VAMPIRE CHARACTERS AS HUNGARIAN POEMS (and the poems itselfs)

Krolock:

Kölcsey Ferenc- Vanitatum Vanitas

To be completely transparent, I used an ai translator for this, for the simple reason of there not being any translations avaible online. BUT BARE WITH ME, ITS FOR THIS POST AND THE AI DID A GOOD JOB

If you look at the og, it's pretty dang similar so for the reason of sharing the poem I used ai, but if there *is* a translation online, I'll be using that don't worry.

Now heres the poem!

VANITATUM VANITAS

"Here’s the writing, contemplate it

With a mind serene and clear,

In its lines you’ll find the merit

Of what wise King Solomon here

Teaches us: this world we stand on

Builds itself on weak foundations,

Summer dew, the winter’s snow,

All is vanity below!

Our Earth is but an ant-hill’s nest,

Born from a fleeting spark of flame;

Thunder’s roar and lightning’s jest,

Like a bee’s buzz, without aim;

History’s swift flight of fable,

Like a sigh, is just as stable;

All pomp and grandeur we adore:

A thousand years, a bubble more.

Alexander’s glittering chase

Is like hunting deer or hare;

Attila’s hordes, a rodent race,

Waspish swarms brought to despair;

Great King Matthias’ battle honor,

Napoleon’s feats of conquer,

And the Waterloo renown:

Only cockerel duels found.

Virtue’s grand illusions beam,

But mere steam, fever’s snare;

In the breast, love’s glowing dream

Blood surging in its lair.

Socrates met his end’s doorway,

Cato’s blood dripped in his foray,

Zrinyi Miklós’ sacred dust,

Just a chain of folly’s trust.

And you wise men, what have you brought

That could earn esteem and grace?

Drunken madness filled your thoughts—

Plato, Aristotle’s face.

Reason’s folly intertwined,

Knowledge nothing but combined

Deck of cards and airy breeze—

All the sciences but tease.

Demosthenes with thundered cries,

But a hawker’s wrangling blare;

Xenophon with honeyed lies

At the wheel awaits his share;

Pindar’s heavenly flights elating,

Cold and hot stuttering, abating;

Phidias’ statues, all we laud,

Just chiseled lines upon a rock.

What is life’s fiery flow?

Just the warmth of falling sparks.

The passions’ roaring blow?

Like butterflies in swirling arcs.

Beginning and the end embrace,

And life’s true leaders in the race

Are faith and hope along the span,

Fleeting mist and rainbow’s fan.

Moonlight is our happiness,

Smoke the ill-luck that will fade;

Candlelight our universe,

Death a breeze’s fleeting shade.

Are you waiting for renown

Or immortality’s bright crown?

Like a scent, the bloom shall leave,

Though a moment shall it grieve.

So care not for this fleeting world,

Wise is he who scoffs at all—

Fate and virtue, greatness furled,

Science, fame, and life’s enthrall.

Be like a rock that never sways,

Still, unmoved in all its ways.

Let joy raise or sorrow weigh,

Blind to beauty and decay.

For whether the earth will move or stay,

This tiny world with you in play,

Whether moon and sun shall gleam

O’er your head or dull their beam,

Whatever color fortune brings,

Neither bad nor good it sings,

For in the end it’s just the same:

All of it is but a game."

Professor Abronsius: Vörösmarty Mihály- Gondolatok a könyvtárban (Thoughts in the library)

now buckle up, this is a LONG one

Thoughts in the library

"Consider, scholar, when you enter here,

on cast-off rags, man's stigma freshly marked,

with words as stark as the dark winter night,

there looms, written blood-black, the awesome lesson:

"while into misery millions are born

a few thousand might find in life salvation

could they but make use of the days of their lives,

had they the mind divine, the Seraph's temper."

Why all this rubbish? So, like sheep on grass

we may graze on it? Sated with fodder

and idle hours synthesized by science amoral

to waste God's day, a nation's energy?

Why this rubbish? From its stench I recall

all the sins of the animal man - they reek!

Virtue is written on this page, which once

as rag has garbed an outlaw. This other page?

perhaps - oh happy days of innocence -

the frail dress ripped from a ravished virgin,

perhaps a lust-enraged whore's negligee.

And here on these leaves, the law whitewashed from

remnants of bloody rebels and false judges,

from masks of sanguine tyrants washed white;

the secrets of machines and of numbers laid bare,

but those who tore garments, stripped man naked,

flayed dignity that bindings might be vellum,

these, unaccounted for, must render account -

they spin on Ixion's tempest-driven wheel

within the vortex, misery without end

and, gnashing their teeth, wail in the dark outside.

On the madman's sheets ponders a sage's head;

the astronomer, on eyeless beggar's rags

measures bursting universes piled on end -

light and blindness, all on a flimsy page!

The coward and the captive, both hapless roles

are bound forever in one book that sings

of freedom and heroes hewing history...

Stainless sheets, pulped from traitor's rags, now

reward the friend and thus honor the faithful;

yet over all, all-polluting, the Big Lie!

The Word, cursed by the pallid winding sheet

its black image adorns, suffers damnation,

rag-lure of countries, your name is library!

Where, then, is the volume that answers all?

The greater part of Man - where is his joy?

Is the world no better for any book?

Yes! The more gloriously man's societies arise

the greater the human refuse at the bottom.

The bursting breast of rags stuffed with man

must breathe contagion into the empire's heart.

Should we, after all, topple what countless brains

have wrought in the linked sunbursts of their minds?

Void the golden knowledge rare brains have

chopped and torn away from the mines of time?

How many bright souls immolated themselves

in vigil at the burning ruins of the heart

to give purpose, strength and comfort

to erring humans humbled by destiny?

Those heroes of unrecognized merit

whom the contemptible public mocked

were praised after death, when praise cost but words:

their thoughts beatified by the martyring mob!

Should the great burn to ashes at the same stake

with rag peddlers, numbskulls, and mildewed hearts?

Glow in embers with dark passion-panders

indiscriminate? Good on account of bad, with them?

Never! That which I said was pain.

The travail of many a bold spirit,

even those luminous minds could not save

the sons of dust from sinking in the mud.

There is barely a corner of the world,

one little oasis on the barren sand

where the most sought-after name is not that of Man,

where the ancient rites of generation

yield as heritage the name of Man!

Except for those who have been born to blackness,

labelled cattle by the glorious elite

who caress the dark image of God with whips.

Despite all, despite all, one must travail -

a new spirit is fighting its way up,

through the soul of man bursts a new approach -

to nurture fruitful ideals in races

primitive, to culture finer sentiments

that they may embrace, at last, each other,

and within their hearts reign love and justice.

So the lowest peasant may, in his hut,

say with assurance "I am not alone,

my brothers and sisters number millions,

I protect them, and me they defend;

fate, I fear thee not, despite thy dread will!"

That is why one must not succumb to despair.

Let us, steadfast as ants, set down that which

our brains, in the rare inspired hours, create,

and when we have assembled every stone,

we'll erect the Babel of a newer age,

build it until it towers among the stars,

and when we have looked through the gates of Heaven,

having heard from without the Angels' song,

with every drop of our earthly blood

aglow from elevated flames of delights,

let us then scatter like the ancient peoples

and begin anew, to endure and to learn.

Is this then our fate, and nothing our goal?

It is not - nor will be while the earth yields life,

and its mortal sons are not turned to stone;

what, in this world, is our task? To struggle,

and to nourish the needs of the spirit;

we are Man, son to both the earth and sky,

our soul is the wing beating toward heaven,

but we, instead of striving up to soar,

would rather, dully, like some bird beneath contempt,

eke out existence sucking mud from swamps.

What, in this world, is our task? To struggle,

according to our strength, for noble goals.

Before us stands the fate of a nation -

when we, from the irrevocable fall

have preserved it and restored it to its heights,

fighting under the clear beam of the spirit,

we can say, returning to our ancestors

in the dust: "Thank you, life, for thy blessings -

this has been great joy, yea, the Work of Men!"

Hart, H.H."

I told you its long, its called "The biggest hungarian philosophical poem" and personally one of my favourite poems ever, I have a quote of it on a shirt lol.

Alfred: Csokonai Vitéz Mihály - A Reményhez

To Hope 

To mortal eyes, you, Hope, do seem

a form divinely sweet;

but eyes of gods can pierce the dream

and see your blind deceit.

Unhappy men in times of ill

create you for their easing;

and as their Guardian Angel still

they worship without ceasing.

Why do you flatter me with praise?

Why do you then deride me?

Why in my bosom do you raise

a dubious heart to chide me?

Stay far and fair beyond my reach,

as first my soul you greeted!

I had depended on your speech,

but you have ever cheated.

With jonquil and with daffodil

you planted all my garden,

and introduced a chattering rill

to be my orchard's warden;

you did bestrew my laughing spring

with many a thousand flowers,

the scents of Heaven did you fling

to perfume all its hours;

my thoughts, like bees, found morning sweet

'mid garden plots and closes,

and hovered 'round in fragrant heat

above my heavy roses.

One hope possessed my soul apart,

one radiant prospect joyed me,

my garden lay in Lilla's heart

its wonders never cloyed me.

But, ah, the roses of my ease

Have withered quite away;

my sparkling brook and shady trees

are dead and dry today.

The springtime of my happiness

is winter now instead;

my dreams are gone beyond redress,

my fairy world has fled.

Ah, would you leave me but my lass,

the Lilla of my passion,

I'd let all sad complaining pass

nor mourn in any fashion.

Within her arms I could forget

misfortune, grief, and pain;

no wreath of pearl could match my girl

were she with me again!

Depart from me, O cruel Hope!

Depart and come no more;

for blinded by your power I grope

along a bitter shore.

My strength has failed, for I am riven

by all my doubt and dearth;

my tired spirit longs for Heaven

my body yearns for earth.

I see the meadows overcome

with dark consuming blight;

the vocal grove today is dumb;

the sun gives place to night.

I cannot tune this trill of mine!

My thoughts are all askew!

Ah, heart! Ah, hope! Ah, Lilla mine!

May God remember you!

Kirkconnell, Watson

To be honest this doesn't give back the feeling of the hungarian one so I'll link in an audio recording, do go and listen to it it's amazing, especially if you know the backstory of the poem

Herbert (x Alfred lol): Ady Endre- Héja nász az avaron

Hawk-love on the fallen leaves

"Setting out now. For Autumn are we heading,

with wild shrieks of joy and pain are chasing

one another: our wings are hurt and we’re a hawk-couple.

Fierce lovers, we’re fleeting the Summer.

New hawk-wings are in fight and flutter

and we eagerly kiss each other to death.

Up and down. Soaring from the Summer

and then falling back, just a shivered flutter

and the lovers’ combat ceases, with our wings in pieces.

Our very last and violent love-scene as it’s been.

We tear each other’s flesh, defeated, and into the jade-green,

crimson-coloured cushion of the Fall, there do we collapse, consummated."

György Eszter

Sarah: Csokonai Vitéz Mihály- Tartózkodó kérelem

Shy request

Mighty love's consuming fire

Has most deeply scorched my soul,

Cooling balm for hot desire,

Gracious tulip, make me whole.

Lively morning fires glitter

In the sparkle of your eyes,

many thousand worries flitter

From your dewy lips' sunrise.

Save me, Angel, speak, be willing,

Mend my heart so sorely rent -

And with ardent Grecian kissing

Will I pay for your consent.

Makkai, Adam; Roberts, Ena

This is all i have for now! I'm still thinking abt a different poems so I might make a follow up soon! Stay tuned and share what you think!

I fucking love hungarian literature guys-

[byneddiedingo]

Die Nibelungen (Fritz Lang, 1924)

Die Nibelungen: Siegfried

Hanna Ralph in Die Nibelungen: Siegfried

Cast: Gertrud Arnold, Margarete Schön,Hanna Ralph, Paul Richter, Theodor Loos, Hans Adalbert Schlettow  Georg John.

Die Nibelungen: Kriemhild's Revenge

Margarete Schön in Die Nibelungen: Kriemhild's Revenge

Cast: Margarete Schön, Gertrud Arnold, Theodor Loos, Hans Adalbert Schlettow, Rudolf Klein-Rogge, Georg John.

Screenplay: Fritz Lang, Thea von Harbou. Cinematography: Carl Hoffmann, Günter Rittau, Walter Ruttmann. Art direction: Otto Hunte, Karl Vollbrecht. Costume design: Paul Gerd Guderian, Aenne Willkomm. Music: Gottfried Huppertz.

Fritz Lang's two-part epic, based on the Middle High German Nibelungenlied, will confuse anyone who knows the story only via Richard Wagner's Ring cycle: There are no Rhinemaidens or gods or Valkyries, nothing of Siegfried's parentage, and, since it lacks gods, consequently no Götterdämmerung. It consists of two films, Siegfried and Kriemhild's Revenge, that tell the story -- parts of which will be familiar from the final two operas in Wagner's cycle -- of how Siegfried slew the dragon and bathed in its blood, becoming invincible except for one spot on his back that the blood failed to touch, then killed the dwarf Alberich and took possession of a magic net that renders him invisible. He travels to Burgundy, where he wins the hand of the beautiful Kriemhild by helping her brother, King Gunther, subdue the warrior maiden Brunnhild. But Siegfried is killed after Gunther's advisor, Hagen, tricks Kriemhild into revealing his vulnerable spot. Brunnhild kills herself and Kriemhild vows revenge on the whole lot, which in the second film she accomplishes by marrying King Etzel, aka Attila, and provoking war between his Huns and the Burgundians. Lang tells the story with an eye-filling blend of tableaus, set-pieces, and scenes swarming with bloody action, concluding with a spectacular fire in which the Burgundians are trapped in Etzel's castle. The performances are pretty spectacular, too. Paul Richter plays Siegfried as a muscular young goof ensnared by fate, Hanna Ralph is a formidable Brunnhild, and Margarete Schön modulates from naïve to terrifying as Kriemhild. But it's the production design by Otto Hunte and the costuming by Paul Gerd Guderian that lingers most in the memory. The production evokes late 19th- and early 20th-century book illustrators like Arthur Rackham and Walter Crane, but also the stark hieratic figures of Byzantine mosaics, especially Kriemhild, who becomes more powerfully static as the film progresses. Much has been written about the way the film fed into the heroic German myth that was co-opted by the Nazis, especially since the screenwriter, Thea von Harbou, Lang's wife at the time, later joined the party. (Lang, whose mother was Jewish, left Germany in 1934.) In fact, the Nazis sanctioned only the first half, Siegfried, after they came to power. Kriemhild's Revenge, with its depiction of the corruption of power and its nihilistic ending, didn't suit their purposes.

[byneddiedingo]

Die Nibelungen (Fritz Lang, 1924)

Die Nibelungen: Siegfried

Cast: Gertrud Arnold, Margarete Schön, Hanna Ralph, Paul Richter, Theodor Loos, Hans Adalbert Schlettow, Georg John.

Die Nibelungen: Kriemhild's Revenge

Cast: Margarete Schön, Gertrud Arnold, Theodor Loos, Hans Adalbert Schlettow, Rudolf Klein-Rogge, Georg John.

Screenplay: Fritz Lang, Thea von Harbou. Cinematography: Carl Hoffmann, Günter Rittau, Walter Ruttmann. Art direction: Otto Hunte, Karl Vollbrecht. Costume design: Paul Gerd Guderian, Aenne Willkomm. Music: Gottfried Huppertz

Fritz Lang's two-part epic, based on the Middle High German Nibelungenlied, will confuse anyone who knows the story only via Richard Wagner's Ring cycle: There are no Rhinemaidens or gods or Valkyries, nothing of Siegfried's parentage, and, since it lacks gods, consequently no Götterdämmerung. It consists of two films, Siegfried and Kriemhild's Revenge, that tell the story -- parts of which will be familiar from the final two operas in Wagner's cycle -- of how Siegfried (Paul Richter) slew the dragon and bathed in its blood, becoming invincible except for one spot on his back that the blood failed to touch, then killed the dwarf Alberich (George John) and took possession of a magic net that renders him invisible. He travels to Burgundy, where he wins the hand of the beautiful Kriemhild (Margarete Schön) by helping her brother, King Gunther (Theodor Loos), subdue the warrior maiden Brunnhild (Hanna Ralph). But Siegfried is killed after Gunther's advisor, Hagen (Hans Adalbert Schlettow), tricks Kriemhild into revealing his vulnerable spot. Brunnhild kills herself and Kriemhild vows revenge on the whole lot, which in the second film she accomplishes by marrying King Etzel (Rudolf Klein-Rogge), aka Attila, and provoking war between his Huns and the Burgundians. Lang tells the story with an eye-filling blend of tableaus, set-pieces, and scenes swarming with bloody action, concluding with a spectacular fire in which the Burgundians are trapped in Etzel's castle. The performances are pretty spectacular, too. Richter plays Siegfried as a muscular young goof ensnared by fate, Ralph is a formidable Brunnhild, and Schön modulates from naïve to terrifying as Kriemhild. But it's the production design by Otto Hunte and the costuming by Paul Gerd Guderian that lingers most in the memory. The production evokes late 19th- and early 20th-century book illustrators like Arthur Rackham and Walter Crane, but also the stark hieratic figures of Byzantine mosaics, especially Kriemhild, who becomes more powerfully static as the film progresses. Much has been written about the way the film fed into the heroic German myth that was co-opted by the Nazis, especially since the screenwriter, Thea von Harbou, Lang's wife at the time, later joined the party. (Lang, whose mother was Jewish, left Germany in 1934.) In fact, the Nazis sanctioned only the first half, Siegfried, after they came to power. Kriemhild's Revenge, with its depiction of the corruption of power and its nihilistic ending, didn't suit their purposes.

Margarete Schön as Kriemhild of Burgund

DIE NIBELUNGEN: KRIEMHILD'S REVENGE (1924) | dir. Fritz Lang

[peterfybori]

2022, a jubileumunk éve nehéz, de sok-sok pozitív meglepetéssel és váratlan boldogsággal teli esztendő volt nekünk: őszi-téli koncertjeink Budapesten elővételben teltek meg, a tavasszal megjelent Borikönyv pedig megnyerte az Év könyve díjat életrajz kategóriában! Az új évet, és a zenekar történetének következő 15 évét egy különleges koncertsorozattal kezdjük. A 2010-es évek elején már próbálkoztunk ilyennel, de most rendszerbe fogva, újra elejéről eljátsszuk az összes stúdióalbumunkat az A38 hajón. A Bori lemezvégigjátszó újratöltve sorozat első állomásán a  2007 októberében megjelent, cím nélküli első albumot játsszuk végig! Nemsoká jön a sorozat második része is, figyeljétek majd a híreket a weboldalunkon és a facebookon!  Legyen szerencsés, vidám évetek idén! Bori és a fiúk (Grafika: Stark Attila)

[starkattila-blog]

[sobakaisti]

Prva svirka u Subotici. Prvi i poslednji put u Studio 11 (zatvara se) Prvi put Astro.

First time in Subotica. First and last time in Studio 11 (they are closing the place) First time Astro.

Designed by: Stark Attila

[loving-barnes]

Vendetta - Masterlist

Pairing: Mob Boss! Bucky Barnes x Mob! Boss Y/N Fox (Bucky Barnes x female reader)

Chapters: 20/20

Warning: NSFW, dark elements, language, alcohol, drugs, violence, blood, noncon (?), murder, smut, angst, fluff and more... This story is for readers 18+

Summary: Years ago, Mad Man Attila broke the piece between the Foxes, Wolves and Starks. After his wife died, Attila became a vulnerable man. Hydra used him to break the New York alliance and start a war. Before the inevitable could happen, Attila was poisoned. He ended up on his death bed. That was when the family and the business inherited one of his children – the one he quietly prepared for this role. With the new head of the Fox family come revelations neither of the Wolves and Starks expected.  

Autor’s note: I would like to say something about Y/N (the reader) - it is a female reader, and she has a family name (for story purposes). Also, Y/N went through a transformation - from an ugly duckling to a beautiful swan. However, I don't describe too much of her physique (or I really, really tried). I tried to be as inclusive as possible. If not, please, let me know.

CHAPTERS:

One - Kitty 

Two - Manhattan 

Three - Spring Cleaning 

Four - Lotus

Five - Numb

Six - Alliance

Seven - Where it all began 

Eight - High 

Nine - Hydra’s assassin 

Ten - Vulnerable

Eleven - Crossed 

Twelve - Suffocating 

Thirteen - Unity 

Fourteen - The truth 

Fifteen - The Loophole 

Sixteen - Face-to-face 

Seventeen - Betrayal

Eighteen - The Last Supper

Nineteen - Vendetta 

Twenty -  Time is ticking

VENDETTA 2 MASTERLIST

[aliasimagines]

budapest//pietro maximoff

a/n: I was so afraid to write a hungarian reader for some reason but right now I just don’t care. I just had this idea last night and quickly wrote it. Nooow, I don’t wanna say I am gettin out off my writer’s blog but I might be.. (but only thanks to this quick bastard and József Attila xd)

hungarian!reader x pietro (i think i kept the reader gendernetural)

word count: 915

"As fucked up as it sounds.. I am so glad Bértesy got out of jail and decided to pull off an illegal weapon deal." you say not even bothering to hide the smile playing on your lips. The excitement you got since you learned that the team has a mission in your birth-town just got stronger since you got on the Quinjet, and now that you actually landed and set your foot on the cobble-stoned streets of Budapest you felt more than excited. 

"Let's get that motherfucker!" 

Natasha smiled at your eagerness and led you and the rest of the team to the garage building where the deal was to take place. It was a simple mission that didn't require all of the Avengers to be here. Natasha was here because she knew her way around here almost as well as you. Clint didn't come, he just doesn't like Budapest, and neither did Baner, Vision, Sam, Rhody. 

So it was just Tony, Steve, Nat, the twins and you. 

The mission itself was quite easy. You busted in, took out the dealers and their goons, Stark and Cap got the weapons on the plane and soon everyone was ready to fly back home to the Avengers facility, everyone except for you. You stopped right before the stairs of the Quinjet. 

"Hey guys… I think I'll stay for a bit? Make sure the police really locks up  those douchebags." you say. Of course the team knows why you actually want to stay back. Since joining the Avengers you rarely got to visit your home. Wanda sent an understanding smile, she gets your homesickness. Steve leaned against the metal wall of the plane. 

" And how are you planning to get home?" 

You bite your lip, you could book a flight, it would take much longer than using the jet but you could do that. Or.. 

"It's, ok. I'll stay and get us home." you almost jump hearing Pietro's voice from next to you. "I'll help y/n oversee the police." 

"Are you sure you wanna run that much after a mission, son?" 

"Oh, come on Cap, I barely got to do anything this mission. Let me run a bit, eh?" 

You smile at the speedster and Steve nods, giving you guys his approval. 

"Alright, see you later kids." 

The jet takes off leaving you and the silver haired boy alone. Staying true tk your words the two of you go and check the police but once making sure everything's alright you wander around the mostly quiet streets. The dim light of the street lamps, the fresh night air and the sound of passing cars makes you feel warm inside. 

"I love Budapest at night." you say to your companion. "Sure it is beautiful in the daylight but at night? It's.. Truly breathtaking. For me, at least." 

Pietro hums in agreement. His eyes scan the floodlit bridges and buildings. 

"So this is where you grew up?" he asks. 

"Not right here but yeah, I grew up in Budapest." you inhale a big amount of the night air and exhale with a smile. It smells like your childhood. You feel a gently breeze caress your cheeks. "So, why did you stay here with me?" 

He shrugs his shoulders taking a bite of the lángos in his hand, which you have no idea when he got but you are almost sure it wasn't there a minute ago. 

"Always wanted to visit. Plus I love spending time with ya, draga mea." 

You chuckle. 

"Sure you do, Maximoff. You wanna sit by the banks of the Danube? I used to love doing that."

He offers you his arm with a wink. 

"Lead the way, miere." 

You walk together till you find a nice bench to sit on. You talk some, he asks about the city, your childhood here and he gets some more food, this time bringing some for you too. After a while the two of you just sit there, enjoying the pleasant weather and the picturesque scenery. The lights of the bridges and buildings reflect on the water of the river. The whole atmosphere is so peaceful and calm. Something Pietro rarely experiences. He is always on the go, always rushing to get from one place to another and never thinks about stopping to enjoy the little things. Yet here he is, looking at the sleeping city, with you leaning your head on his shoulder and he feels calm. 

"You were right. This is beautiful." 

You look up at him with a soft smile. His accent sounds heavier as he speaks with a lower voice. 

"I'm glad you think so." you gaze into his deep blue eyes and he does the same. 

"We could come here more often." 

"Definitely." you mumbled "And maybe next time I'll get to show you around a bit more." 

He flashes you his signature smirk. 

"We still have a few hours to ourselves, miere." 

You cannot say no to him,but it's not like you want to. So you get up and pull him with you. 

"Let's get going then, drágám." 

You see him raising an eyebrow. 

"What? If you get to call me pet names in your language, so do I." 

Pietro laughs and kisses your temple. 

"I guess you are right. So, we go?" you can't help but smile again and grab his hand. And you go, discover not only the resting city but the thing you have been feeling when with one another. 

[brgzmpff]

Tudjatok mit nem latok? Egy Stark Attila wikipedia oldalt. Ez csak nekem furi?

[poptod]

hello! can i request something romantic with either ahk or snafu or really any rami character where y/n has round dark brown doe eyes? like so dark brown they look black if you’re not looking at them in sunlight? and he’s just flirting with them and he says something nice about their eyes? i have round dark brown eyes and i’m kinda insecure about them cuz they’re so common, and it’s been one shit-show if a week for me and i really just need to feel good about myself

notes: damn, i can totally do that for you. hope your weekend is much better than your week :) thank u for requesting and i hope you enjoy it !

WC: 2k

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Life never worked naturally to your advantage. You were born average looking – nothing special on either side of the spectrum, with average hands and common dark brown eyes. You grew up poor and worked your ass off to get into a good college on a scholarship, eventually getting kicked out for something you didn't even do. You auditioned to be part of an orchestra, but there were too many violinists already, and you just 'didn't fit the profile'. You tried to be an artist, but no one liked your creations. You tried to pick up another instrument, but you couldn't afford a good one, and the last time you tried to buy a cheap guitar, the neck broke on the third use.

Because of these many happenstances (and the many more, less mentionable ones), you considered yourself unlucky. It was a fact of life for you as much as the sun's existence in other peoples lives, or that the superbowl was too long. Or guacamole wasn't good. Fortunately, the years of nothing ever coming naturally had made you into a fantastic worker, and by some rare stroke of luck, you found you were rather good at physical labor jobs. You weren't strong by any standards – in fact rather weak – but your attention to detail made you the janitor of a prestigious museum you visited twice as a child.

It wasn't a fantastic job, and the poor pay led to having five roommates, but you enjoyed yourself. You tried to do that in every aspect of life; finding the joy in menial tasks, or solace in duty. After all, you got to see wonderful recreations of history in the still wax figures, and learn heaps of knowledge from the many information panels you came across when making your way through the museum. The only truly unfortunate part of your job was the time – right after closing, but you had to finish quickly, as you weren't allowed inside at night. A stupid rule, but the night guard and Dr. McPhee were insistent on it.

They thought you didn't know about the exhibits.

They were, obviously, wrong. You knew, and you adored the magic behind it all. While you hadn't actually ever seen any of the exhibits come to life, you watched the news on an evening where the exhibits broke out, and with your knowledge of the Tablet curse, you pieced the mystery together.

You hadn't meant to take this long. McPhee was already pissed at you for 'accidentally' skipping over the men's restroom yesterday, and taking too long at your job would land you on thin ice, something you couldn't afford. With a hurried pace you finished sweeping the floors in the last room, storing the broom away and moving on to mopping. Checking your watch once more, you noted the time, mentally checking if you would be able to finish before closing hours.

Mopping the Egyptian room usually takes five to ten minutes, and closing is in two, you thought, despair settling in your stomach. What would you do if you 'found out' about the tablet? What would McPhee do if he found out you knew? He wouldn't fire you, would he?

You truly didn't know. He was a bit of a loose cannon when it came to those things.

As fast as you tried to move, the hours of night came faster than you could mop, and the tablet began to glow behind you. Bewildered you turned, watching with your mouth slightly parted as the glow grew to the radiance of the sun. You knew the tablet brought the magic, but you didn't know about the glow – now that you were witnessing it yourself, the only thing you could feel in your pounding heart was fear. A fear that only grew worse when the Pharaoh's sarcophagus began to rattle.

You'd thought about the wax figures coming to life. You thought about the dinosaur. You, however, did not think about the 4,000 year old mummy.

Needless to say, you bolted. Leaving behind your supplies, you ran as fast as you could, wind pounding past your ears as the sound of a lion's roar came from the neighboring hall. You grit your teeth and made for the main entrance, but by the time you got there many of the exhibits had adjoined in the main room. Pressing yourself against the locked door, you watched with wide eyes as the Teddy Roosevelt statue began to talk to Attila, and in that moment you realized that perhaps magic was not always good. Not when you were spiralling into a panic at least.

It took a couple hours of you staring into space before anyone actually noticed you. To your surprise, it wasn't the night guard, or even McPhee – it was a Pharaoh, skin and everything intact. His crown remained polished upon his head, a stark difference from the crowns on exhibit, whose colors and carvings had faded long ago.

"Hello," he said with a pleasant, polite smile as he knelt, matching the height of your seated position on the floor. "Are you a new exhibit?"

You looked down at your clothes. Janitor clothes.

"No," you said, and instantly his demeanor changed.

"Oh dear," he said, and though you agreed with that statement, you certainly did not agree with him grabbing your wrist and dragging you into the crowd.

"I don't really want to be doing this," you said in a shaky voice, but he did not answer.

As he dragged you through the crowd you kept your eyes closed, wary of overstimulation of both ears and eyes. He eventually stopped at the top of the stairs, where you opened your eyes to find the night guard, Larry.

"What are you still doing here?" Larry asked almost frantically, looking between the dancers below and you.

"In my defense I didn't want to be here, I knew about the magic and I don't – I didn't ever want to actually see it," you half-lied.

"How the hell did you know?!"

"You don't do a very good job of covering it up, Larry," you said flatly, your voice still cracking from nerves.

You didn't have very many friends. Your roommates didn't talk to you much, and the life you had outside of work consisted mostly of quiet, indoor hobbies you could do just about anywhere. So, once the whole of the situation was sorted out (with input from McPhee), you took your drawing pads and notebooks to the museum with you, working for the first few hours and drawing into the hours of night while watching history come to life.

Despite your original discomfort of being in the presence of a 100% authentic, come-to-life mummy, you became rather good friends with him. Not fantastic, and he didn't know very much about you, but he was kind and handsome. You hated to admit it, but he held your avid interest. Another one of those unlucky things in your life – of course you had to fall in love with an immortal, reanimated mummy who only came to life at night.

"Why don't you ever come dance with us?" Ahkmenrah (his name, apparently) said as he sat down beside you on the loft, the only barrier between you and a fifteen-foot fall being a stone rail.

"I'm afraid I'm not all that good of a dancer," you said, not bothering to look up from your sketchbook. You couldn't ever bear to look at him that long anyway.

"Neither am I," he laughed. "That's the point."

Instinctively you looked up at him, holding eye contact with his grey eyes for only a second before you looked away, a blush already making its way to your cheeks. He had the opposite of your life – lucky beyond belief. The favorite of his parents, completely immortal, completely beautiful, almost too wealthy, and many, many friends, including yourself.

What got you the most however was his eyes. Cold eyes were already praised in modern society – people loved grey, they loved blue and green. But in Ahkmenrah's society, the one that existed thousands of years ago, blue eyes hardly existed. The mutation for the new color was one in a billion back then, making him one of the (probably) three people on the planet with blue eyes. And now that lucky mutation stood before you in its purest, oldest form, and you couldn't bear to look at them for any longer than a solitary moment.

For some reason, it hurt you. Maybe because you were boring. Dull. Brown in a brown society. Sure, they looked beautiful in sunlight – you knew that. They turned into swirling gold and the taste of chocolate, but Ahk couldn't see them in the sunlight. That made you dull.

Now, Ahkmenrah was not a man to point things out about people. If they were being a dickhead, yes, but most of the time he noted things and dismissed them. But you'd been doing this for so long that he grew weary of the dance.

"Why don't you ever look at me?" He asked, a question that had your eyes widening and your back straightening, alarm bells ringing all over your brain.

"I look at you plenty," you said while avoiding his gaze like a 15th century doctor avoids respecting women.

"No, you don't," he said softly. "Not even now. I wish you would – you've got such beautiful eyes."

Your sketching stopped at his words. At your silence he placed his hand on your jaw, tilting so you looked at him. Instead of meeting his gaze you looked to the floor.

"They're very common," you got out weakly, still unable to make eye contact, but he kept you where you were, in the easy sight of him. "They only look good in the sun."

He shifted closer, keeping his hand on your jaw in hopes of you changing your mind and meeting his eye.

"Even in darkness they're beautiful, voids as empty and long as night," he hummed, drawing closer yet till you could feel the heat off his body on your still fingers. "I've noted them quite a lot. Eyes are a beautiful thing, aren't they?"

"Yours are," you mumbled, barely catching the meaning and insinuation of your words before they came out.

"As are yours. Remember when we snuck into McPhee's office? The lamplight bounced off of them and they practically glittered like the embers and smoke of a fire," he said with a small smile. "And the bright lights in the hallways –"

Florescent, you thought.

"– and the candle lights that Nick brought, those flicker with that same spark within you. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

You couldn't move, stuck in place and stuck in your own head.

"The golden fireplace, Christmas lights – and the light of the moon, a dim, faraway light that can only be admired from a distance... like you," he murmured.

Sometimes you forgot his people were poets and admirers of nature.

"You have blue eyes," you whispered through the knot in your throat. He listened carefully. "And... I can see reflections in them. They're soft, like velvet. Despite everything, they.. you seem... happy. You always seem happy, and your eyes give it away."

"Have you ever kissed anyone?" He asked quietly, and in that moment you realized his nose was almost touching yours.

"No," you answered honestly. Another unlucky aspect of you.

"Neither have I," he said before he leaned in, pressing his lips against yours in a tender embrace you weren't at all expecting.

From both the view of the first kiss and of a Pharaoh's kiss, you weren't prepared, but the plush of his pink lips against yours sent sparks of delight into your heart. He moved slow, taking his time to map out your aspects just as you began to trail your hands over his open palm, memorizing the creases. You were reluctant to part, but he ran his hand through your hair and your brain short-circuited into placitude.

"You have the softest lips," he murmured, hand coming to cup your cheek once more.

You never applied aquaphor or did anything to make your lips soft.

Maybe it was luck.

Didn't really matter to you, because he kissed you again, and your eyes fluttered shut as everything in the world but him faded away.

[tovishaziambrus]

2009-ben, amikor a zenei blogok még léteztek, kiraktunk egy ingyenes pakkot a sajátunkra három számmal és egy káoszosan szép borítófüzettel pdf-ben. Fogadjátok szeretettel ezt a Harcsa Veronikával és Stark Attilával közös régi kislemezünket új gúnyában, 2020-as dalverziókkal és egy új, gombás karácsonyi számmal, amelyben Lee Scratch Veronika is közreműködik. Bónuszként a Bandcamp vásárlók számára Attila pdf- borítófüzetével együtt érkezik!

//

Back in 2009, when music blogs were a thing, we posted a free 3 track single and a chaotic and beautiful digital booklet. Now we present a new version of this mini album, created in collaboration with Veronika Harcsa and Attila Stark. With a mushroom infused Christmas song featuring Lee Scratch Veronika and brand new 2020 versions of all three songs. Bandcamp customers also get the pdf! 

[avengerscompound]

I was watching this show called hollywood medium and it got me thinking. how would the avengers feel dating a medium who could connect with spirits and could predict the future?

I guess it depends on if they really are.  The show you just mentioned has been shown to be a fraud.  As have most mediums.   So if you’re a fraud yeah, they’re not going to like you very much for taking advantage of people in vulnerable states.

This isn’t our world though.  It’s theirs.  And in their world people like Stephen Strange exist.  So it would be a bit different.

Steve Rogers would have mixed feelings about their abilities.  He has lost so many people that the potential to speak to them again would be strong.  However, he’d be worried that he might get trapped with the dead because of not wanting to let them go.

Bucky Barnes would be okay with it if you didn’t go on about it all the time.  He’s had enough of death.  He wouldn’t want to dwell in it.

Tony Stark probably still wouldn’t believe them and they’d end up with a kind of mean nickname.

Sam Wilson would be very skeptical about their abilities and would try and trick them a lot.  Once he knew they were telling the truth he might just not want to know.

James Rhodes would be quite creeped out about it.  He’s very in the present.

Bruce Banner will not have strong feelings about it.  He won’t really want to know his future but a the same time he might keep pulling at that thread.

Natasha Romanoff doesn’t like messing with the dead too much and really doesn’t want to know the future.

Thor is used to people who are connected to death.  He has a healthy respect for it.

Clint Barton doesn’t really take what they do seriously.

Wanda Maximoff does not like messing with that stuff at all.

Pietro Maximoff like his sister doesn’t like messing with that kind of thing but doesn’t really care that they do.

Vision doesn’t really think about it either way.

Scott Lang doesn’t really care much either way.  Makes jokes about it though.

Peter Parker asks you to do a seance then chickens out about it.

T’Challa communes with the deceased as part of his position in Wakanda.  Isn’t that impressed.

Loki is really unimpressed.  Asks if you’d like to get to know the dead on a more even level.

Carol Danvers just takes it as another person with another power.  She doesn’t think about them unless they can be useful.

Hope Van Dyne thinks it’s interesting enough but doesn’t really care for you to use your gifts for her.

Stephen Strange likes to blend his stuff with your stuff.

Maria Hill tries to get you to use your gifts to help her save the world.

Phil Coulson is pretty far from surprised about anything these days.

Nick Fury signs you up for the Avengers Initiative.

Peggy Carter is quite creeped out by your gifts but tries not to let it bother her.

Brunnhilde isn’t really that big of a deal for an Asgardian but she might like to talk to her ex through you.

Wade Wilson makes them summon up all his favorite dead guys.  Like Elvis and Attila the Hun.

[aces-nrw]

“Untervögelt” 🐦

#AllonormativitätHinterfragen Allosexuelle Macker halten sich für die größten Kings, wenn sie '*Untervögelung*' als absolute Knallererklärung beisteuern können.

Talking about allosexys are back at it again!

Tweet #1: Das erklärt vieles #Bild #untervögelt

Tweet #2: Wäre Attila Hildmann eine Frau, würden kritische Stimmen behaupten, dass er gerade so abgeht, weil er stark untervögelt ist. Drum schreibe ich es: Dieser Mann muss wahrscheinlich einmal richtig durchgenommen werden - um mal wieder zu entspannen.

Und ja, unabhängig, welche Intentionen jene Macker zu dem Zeitpunkt hatten. Trifft sich ja häufig auch sehr gerne in trauter Zweisamkeit mit Misogynie (Rape Culture).

Bitte merken:

Das Fern-Attestieren von "nicht genug Sex" ist in den seltensten Fällen angebracht!

#2 Auch hier: "einmal richtig *durchgenommen* werden" ist kein subversiver Take! Get your shit together. Ich verstehe absolut, von welcher Seite es gemeint ist und AH finde ich nicht cool, aber das ist einfach alles andere als subversiv, sorry.Gut gemeint ist nicht gleich gut gemacht. Und das humoristisch zu verpacken (Ironie oder durch gezielte Umdrehung von Rollenstereotypen) - so etwas (!); Nein, tut mir Leid - das sendet verheerenden Zeichen.

(Hier ist natürlich nicht nur #Allonormativität am Werke! Ich will niemenschen so etwas "wünschen".)

[peterfybori]

Amikor bezárt a világ, mi csináltunk egy lemezt. A címe az, hogy Szikra. Ha szeretnéd támogatni a zenekart, rendelj cd-t: https://bolt.peterfybori.hu/termek/szikra-cd/ Spotify és társai: https://bit.ly/egyszikracsak Lemezbemutató koncert november 28-án az Akvárium Klub NagyHalljában.

Dalok:

1. Egy 2. Az utolsó farkas 3. Nem ma 4. Kéket vagy a pirosat feat. Saiid - albumverzió 5. Szikra feat. Pándi Balázs 6. Lula Luna 7. Keringő 8. Gonosz dobos 9. A nap felé 10. Száz fényév 11. Ki tartja az égboltot föléd? 12. Meteor

Zene:

Tövisházi Ambrus (1-11) Havasi Balázs (12)

Szöveg:

Péterfy Bori (1, 3, 5, 6, 8, 9, 11) Saiid (4) Sarkadi Balázs (4) Hajós-Dévényi Kristóf (2, 7, 12) Szabó Benedek (10, 11)

Album legénység:

Drapos Gergely Gáspár Gergely Nagy István Péterfy Bori Pándi Balázs Pápai István Saiid Tövisházi Ambrus

Videó:

Hegyi Nóra Merényi Dávid Merényi Zsazsa Péterfy Bori

Dalszöveg animációk:

Császár Róbert (Tri-Angle Prod) https://www.facebook.com/triangleprod/

Betű:

Stark Attila http://instagram.com/kulo.city

[starkattila-blog]