probsjosh:

stream:

jchamphero:

zooweamama:

stream:

dorkasaurus-spiritus:

parks-and-rex:

kevinburnsred:

stream:

“But, you see, it was just fate that you survived it…you had one last golden egg to give.

“

always thought that Obadiah looked like Thanos

*pants nervously* OHhhhhHHHHHhhH lordieeeee

I’ve also noticed that both of them have a similar line in their movies

Obadiah: I never had a taste for this sorta thing, but I must admit, I’m deeply enjoying the suit.

Thanos: fun isn’t something one considers when balancing the universe, but this? Does put a smile on my face.

Obadiah didn’t die in the arc reactor explosion but instead was warped to Titan memory wiped and grew into a big purple man

okay but….

The theory grows

i’d actually like to draw attention to the fact that these villains are similar in that they are deeply violative of the personal and emotional space, even the bodies, of others. they both literally reach into other people and remove their life source; they both believe that their self-serving ends are also for a “greater good,” be it an arms company’s survival or the universe. both are essentially serial rapists, even if they do not necessarily commit the sexual act. what they do steals and violates from the most intimate parts of others. they are predators.

and the people who survive their assaults are very, very strong, and very, very brave.

Fund for Jason’s mums cremation and service

lokiperfection:

I think this link might work.

Let me know if anyone is having issues.

Thank you!

I would imagine superheroes get requested a lot for a visit to a child through Make-a-Wish. What would Loki’s reaction be to Thor handing him a letter from Make-A-Wish that there’s a child that requested a visit from Loki?

The parchment is strangely physical in his fingers. It is both
unreal, and too real, its weight startling for the fact that it is
mere paper.

Dear Make-a-Wish:
I want to meet Loki. He reminds me of my big brother who
died in a car accident. I think he is like the Grinch, or the
old cat that lives next door, who has bad bones, and hurts,
and is cranky. I named the cat Grinch because I like
green and Oscar the Grouch is also green. Please give
this letter to Thor because he will give it to Loki. I want
Loki to know that I love him just like I love Grinch. Maybe
I will name Grinch Loki instead, if that will make Loki come
and see me.
Love,
Flor

The skin around the edges of jade eyes grows taut; there’s
a force of RAGE trying to press itself outward from
Loki’s hide. Those eyes cut the air as they snap up to face
Thor.

“This taunt is cruel, even for you.”

No child could seriously yearn to know the creature
who rained brutal death on a quarter of New York City.

The Trickster God conjures fire
into his palm and drapes the letter over it. Yet just as the
paper begins to singe, the envelope drops a photograph
of a small brown-skinned girl with scars of third-degree burns
across one cheekbone and one eye. Loki catches the image,
and stares at it, even as the letter disintegrates into ash. His
mouth goes dry.

“The child was in the automobile accident with her brother,”
comes Thor’s unusually quiet, somber rumble. “She does
not understand your part in the devastation upon New York.
She only knows that you feel … unwanted, and that you
hide yourself in safety behind illusions. Do not disappoint her.”

Loki does not answer Thor; he only vanishes in haste.

In a suburb of Chicago, a small child with a facial scar
discovers her cat Grinch has befriended a young, sleek
black companion with green eyes. This new arrival sits
in her lap for well over half an hour, on her back porch,
resonantly purring. When the black cat leaves, Flor
and Grinch meander inside.

On her desk is, ostensibly, a simple photograph, sporting
an image of Loki holding a sign, with “Thank you,” written
in English, Spanish, and Old Norse. Flor’s mother and
grandmother are somewhat mystified when she races
downstairs with her photograph; “Abuela, I got my wish!” she
squeals while shoving the image into her grandmother’s
hands.

Her abuela glows to see her so exuberant for the first
time since her brother’s death, despite the confusion
surrounding the fact that it’s only a snapshot of a little
black cat.

What would Loki’s boggart be?

//Man I love this question. I LOVE it.

My first instinct: himself, standing in Asgard’s Throne Room, full of lifetime friends and family, invisible to them all, unless he strips naked, and in doing so, peels off his Asgardian skin to reveal the Jotun underneath. If he touches anyone, they turn to Jotnar as well, but cannot handle the “disease,” and also fall down dead. A child version of himself watches from across the Throne Room, Frigga standing behind the child. Both silently point in conviction. Frigga is bleeding from her mortal wounds. Everyone’s eyes are bleeding red, the longer they look at Loki. Eventually he is the only person left living in the entire Throne Room, except for the child version of himself, who is covered in his mother’s blood.

(rather-be-a-good-man) //ooc: My turn to go and punch a cactus, apparently.

They are both ancient, the product of many wars and
many orbits back to each other. In their final three
centuries, Thor and Loki declared their final and lasting
truce. But even sinewy heroes scented of ozone and
open air, with the sun and stardust in their golden manes,
must ebb to time and age, and Thor’s passage to Valhalla
is at hand.

He is still a large man, and perhaps it’s a heartcrushing irony
that no opponent in any Realm could fell the Thunderer,
who is now to be taken by a rare and agonizing disease.
That heart that beats in his chest is strong, and Loki knows
that his co-regent and brother will suffer and suffer and SUFFER
for weeks on end. Both brothers have lost their spouses now,
and though they are surrounded by grown children, they are
alone, save for each other.

The hour is dusk when Loki, still slender and whip-sharp of wit,
enters his brother’s bedchambers, takes his hand, and simply
sits.

“You always knew it would be me in the end, didn’t you?”
he pants a laugh, crow’s feet splitting the skin under his
still-bright jade eyes, and he brings Thor’s wrinkled palm
to his hollow cheek. It’s already moist, because Loki knows
what he must do. “You held me once as I passed into
Hel. I’ll not leave your side. Brother: I will always need
you.”

The hand on his face tightens, fingers curling around
to cup the nape of his neck. Even in his death throes,
the God of Thunder seeks to comfort his little brother.

“Aye,” Loki gasps a moist laugh, “aye, you promised. I know.”

So did I. I made you a promise.

Loki nods for confirmation. Thor huffs a ragged,
gravelly aye, from his sea of snowy-blond hair.
Snow, Loki hated snow once. He sought never to
let the dirtiness of his own heritage touch Thor.
But Thor did not let him think himself dirty anymore.
After he cast him out with clawing nails and bared
teeth and vitriol, over and over and over.

I will sacrifice the one thing I can’t live without,
for { you. }

Loki takes a pillow and presses it to Thor’s bearded
face.

My promise was that none other could kill you.
None but { I. } I promised.

I will give you up, to END your PAIN.

I will FREE you.

He pushes down. There is no struggle; Thor’s eyes,
milky and clouded where they were once cobalt seas,
are GRATEFUL.

“I’m coming, just wait but a moment,” Loki reassures
a second time. “You are ever so impatient.”

Eye contact is not broken until it’s over.

Loki reclines on his side next to Thor’s form, and
curls up for but a moment. He watches the still profile
of him who was the North Star of his every hope and
scheme, and bears the roaring void of it for but a moment,
before standing.

The guards are coming to make routine rounds; he must hasten.
Loki lays a parchment written
by the Thunder God, a will with instructions,on the
bedside table.

And then Loki stabs himself on his own blade. The puncture
is clinically precise and strikes sufficient vital organs. He
drops onto the bed at Thor’s side. His first memory was of
his elder brother. So too should his last be.

[ Come and lay my brother and me in the same pyre,
and burn us together. Dress us in our finest warrior’s
attire, red and green, the hues of valor and cunning.
Hook our arms and lift a thousand lights to our name,
and if Valhalla will not have Loki now, I will barge through
its gates arm in arm with him, and demand he be let in
myself. Make it so. ]

It is a little after twilight when two boys, blond and raven,
heart and mind, Ethos and Pathos, dash into the open
arms of their mother,

arm in arm.

also alice dying, that seems like a good idea too

“You made me feel the way that one feels inside during
a snowstorm, sweetling. That terrible wonderful superiority
of being curled up in a warm place buried in furs and blankets,
by a hearth’s fire–did you know that is one of my attributes,
Alice?–a hearth’s fire?–and … safe. Safe, so very fortunate.
That was what it was to be your elder brother … “

Loki props Alice’s burned and bloodied form into his
arms, untroubled by the reek of burned flesh and burned
hair.

I promised to protect you and I have let you down.
You, your mother, your father, your grandmother and
grandfather, your ancestors, your siblings, your cousins,
all whom I brought to this sanctuary to protect. And still
enemies too great to face or to measure immolated you
just as my dreams bade, to get at ME.

Is this, then, how Thor felt, as he held my dying, impaled
body in Svartalfheim?

I would not wish it upon even Odin, this feeling as though
I am meant to put you to bed, and it shall be for an ETERNITY.

“I love you so … here … hold still, my small heroine,
and I will read to you.”

The words flow out with all of Loki’s precocious verbiage;
they are as liquid silver, tongue wrapping succulently
around every consonant and adjective. Loki cries, but it’s
silent; Odin scorned tears from Asgard’s S O N S even
while knowing Loki was no Son of Asgard and so Loki
learned before losing his final baby tooth just how to
weep concealed. He employs that skill of tragic origin
now, the better to console his bandaged and delirious
sister.

When she passes, he continues to read for another half
hour, even though he can feel the stilling of her form.
He must finish the chapter: he owes her that much at
least.

When he is done, he unfurls the bandages of her face.
He presses a kiss to her cheek and then rests his forehead
to hers.

“Sleep, with my heart,” he gasps, and then sobs far
less quietly.

i could not find the meme, but if you are so-minded, xiao-jing? pls feel free to ignore

She should not have let the child go alone.
She should not have indulged Xiao-Jing’s need
for a MARTIAL relationship when Loki all along
sought something akin to MOTHERHOOD.

But what was she to do, when the girl knew mothers
only as beasts who BRED their children to eat, sleep,
think and fuck to their own selfish whims?

What had Loki ever been against a NEGLIGENT parent?
The last one she’d faced was her own father–BOTH of
them!!!–and to this day she defined herself by their
lack of love, even in her very effort to REBUFF their
authority over her consciousness. Could she expect
the gasping, diminutive creature she held, with a deceptive
secureness, to fare any differently?

There had been no choice but to let Xiao-Jing repeatedly
enter a realm of danger …but the sting was no less
pungent.

“Invisibility does you little good when a foe throws a
javelin through your ‘empty air,’” Loki wetly chastises,
and then laughs, to show Xiao-Jing that she is not truly
angry. Now, even NOW, Loki cannot reprimand the
child bred to be a perfect warrior when there is nothing
to scold.

She hopes that Xiao-Jing won’t mind her own
FAILURE.

“You have done well,” the God of Mischief declares with
quiet tremor, “WELL, my confidante and protege, well indeed.
You will be remembered.”

She would employ her skill at LYING toward a humane
end–to tell Xiao-Jing that her mother always lied, and
she is perfect. But that, she knows, will not have the effect
she so DESPERATELY seeks. So instead …

“This is your final mission: to understand this without
question–you are FLAWED, and yet, this does NOT
define your worth to ME.”

amber you’re going to make me grey before my time but please react to matt dying in loki’s arms

My sweet mortal,

so far kinder and more deserving
than ever you granted yourself belief.

I love you with all my heart, and I will
go on loving you with a heart that lives
for five thousand years, without a moment’s
dimming.

“As you go to your Heaven, and look upon the face of
your God, He will tell you that you fretted so often in vain,
my darling.”

Loki holds up the ancient head, white and gray like
snow and ash. His own features have scarcely changed;
lime eyes are still precise and clear as his whittled tongue,
with but a few more crow’s feet collecting in their corners.
But Matthew is OLD, and Loki is not saddened by it, because
Loki made it his VOW long ago to see his lover to such
ripeness.

No criminal bullet nor inopportune tumble from a skyscraper
would claim the life of the one whom the vengeful dragon of
Asgard would clam as HIS. So it is that they are here now,
in Matt’s beloved city, in a room overlooking Hell’s Kitchen;
Matt spent his last years in Asgard, under the superior care
of its Healers, but Loki brought him home for his final weeks,
knowing that the din of its horns and its shouting pedestrians,
the noise that once granted him no peace, would now be a
hymn seeing him off into rest. It’s warm and quiet here,
clean and gentle, and Loki holds the frail thing that was
once so ferocious in firm arms that recognize his own
soul is bound to him whom he cradles.

It amazes him that there are still no milky cataracts, no
obstructions, in the path of eyes that see only darkness.
They are brilliant and dark and sharp as ever, framed in
so many black eyelashes, twin obsidians that mete out
justice and mercy with a profound need to atone.

Loki kisses those eyelids.

There is never enough time to do the things we
want or need to do, but with you, at least I began to do
them. With you I

BEGAN.

  “Do you know how you saved me? Do not forget this,
  my Saint Jude.   Look and see me. It would be a
blind man who saw the Unseen best. And think on how    you will see me come dawn. You will see

everything

that you selflessly loved once more. You will see me
and you will use your solicitor’s powers to plea before my court that I might one day join you. Please ask Him …”

Matthew is gone, in one husky release of breath.
Loki knows, and withholds the raw sob long enough
to gasp it once more, a sound pitiful and trite under
any other circumstances, a

PROFOUND

admission

and

surrender

in these:

“Ask Him to let me join you … .! God of Matthew, please

let me see him again as I could not see my mother …

let me in where Valhalla turned me away, p-please, oh …

G-God, let me in.

. . !”

ღ: Emotionally scar them: leaving a torn portrait or a destroyed statue of Frigga for all to see. (I’MSORRYI’MSORRYI’MSORRY!!!)

ღ: Emotionally scar them

Loki knelt before the effigy of his mother because he did not
deserve her, and never had.

He caressed the gentle long face and the apple cheeks–the half
of the portrait bust that remained undamaged. The other half
was scorched, and hammered, away, leaving a brutalized edifice.

Loki’s throat closed and his heart hemorrhaged as he thought
on her funeral pyre, that which he, and only he, had not been
permitted to witness: had this been the appearance of her face,
when her still, clammy corpse burned? Why could he not have
joined her, simply climbed into the fjord and fallen over its edge
at her side? Certainly he would have fallen, and not ascended
with her to Valhalla–certainly he knew that even in death ,he
would not see her again, or he would have long since taken his
life already. But at least she would not have gone over the ledge
alone, and after all, Loki had already fallen off that waterfall
and into the open expanse of space before. Into nothingless,
weightless and icy cold.

Was this, then, a sign from her, of his insufficiency as a son,
that even in death he had failed her? Had she sent these
witchcraft-loathing radicals to the palace, these iconoclasts
who took pickaxes to every female statue in the palace, to remind Loki
forever of his separateness from the family he yet inexplicably
loved?

Loki quaked violently, picked up the statue and carried
it singlehandedly into the Throne Room, and commanded
that no one disturb him for the ensuing hour, in which,
while a storm brewed out on the palace grounds, he
clung to it and wept her name, and begged that she might
know she was and had ever been his mother.

“You can’t have her this time,” he mumbled wetly at the
chill wind gusting in through the chamber, as if the storm
were Thor come to hog their mother’s memory. “It’s my
turn with her. Let me pretend I was as good as you. Just
once, gods damn you.”

Then he apologized for contaminating the statue further with his
poisonous touch. He apologized to its unmoving face. Such a
haunting likeness, but so nonpresent.

Then he caressed that sweet, wise face, cruelly remote in
its marble cast.

Then he strode back out into the courtyard.

“Remove their heads,” he seethed through bared
and grinning fangs, “for the desecration of the memory of
she whose boots they are not fit to lick, and then put their
heads on spikes in the graveyard for Hugin and Munin to
feast upon.”