Latest Posts by tsalyani - Page 7
Like Real People Do
This is part of lokisoul 1k writing challenge. It was inspired by Hozier’s Like Real People Do.
Pairing: Loki x Reader
Warnings: light swearing, pure fluff
Word Count: 4914 (I can’t wrote short things.)
Summary: Loki has just started dating the reader and he is struggling to express how much he cares about her. So he goes to Thor for help. It does not go well.
***
Sunday
“Thor, I need your help,” Loki asked hesitantly. He regretted asking his brother for anything but he was desperate.
Thor looked up from his cup and with his twinkle in his eye smiled.
“Why brother, how desperate you must be to come to me for help.”
Thor rarely gets to throw Loki’s words back in his face, so he relished the moment.
“Brother, I am serious,” Loki pleading, “You are friends with Y/N, am I correct?”
“I am. What does that have to do with you?”
Thor was just taunting his brother now, Y/N had come to him a few days ago and let him know Loki had asked her out. She had wanted to make sure Thor wasn’t going pummel his brother into oblivion. Thor was pleased to see Loki finally making good decisions. But that didn’t mean he was going to let him off easy.
“Well, I have decided to court her, so to speak, and I need to some help,” Loki shifted from side to side, clearly uncomfortable, this was uncharted territory for him.
“I don’t know how to properly express my affections towards her and I was wondering if you offer some insight.”
Thor snickered, “Why don’t just ask Y/N yourself?”
This was just too good. Thor decided to have a bit of fun with his brother. All’s fair.
“That would ruin the element of surprise, brother,” Loki quipped back.
“Fair enough. Well, I she has mentioned to me quite often how much she enjoys cats, perhaps you can get her a kitten?” Thor offered sincerely.
There was a glint in Loki’s eye. As much as he hated to admit it, his brother was on to something. But why just get an ordinary Midgardian kitten, when Y/N was deserving of so much more. He rushed away to begin making plans. Thor was startled by his brother’s abrupt exit.
“Where are you off, brother?” Thor asked after his departing brother.
“To make plans!” Loki bellowed, not even bothering to turn around.
Continuar a ler
I'm 21 but can I tag along?
Dark times all around but there are still people out there who love you
Do not hurt yourself, do not hurt others, get help, talk to someone, anyone. Humanity has survived before and we can do it now if we all just support each other. My country and my people let me down and endangered my life but there’s nothing I or anyone else can do about that so let’s try to spread the love that is so clearly lacking.
No Justice, No Peace. Quote from Emiliano Zapata
Art by Liberal Jane
READ. EVERY. WORD. OF. THIS. Account of a medical team out in St. Paul last night.
Link to original tweet thread.
Fiction get its inspiration in reality, reality inspires itself in fiction. It just makes sense that we can trust some parts of fictional stories, because something might actually happen!
But then, you have to wake up! You have to grow up and stop believing everything will be alright because in stories does, you grow up thinking bad things happen to bad people and if you good you will be rewarded by fate. But then, reality comes and it hits you hard.
One day you wake up and you understand that your good deeds didn't take you to your better half, they didn't lead you to a happy job where you are congratulated by being a good worker. No!
Fiction failed me, not only because it lied to me about my happy ending before my thirties with my soulmate but it failed me also because good people not always get good things, bad people not always suffer the consequences of their actions. Karma isn't real, the world is, the physical things are.
Reality is real, fiction it is not but I no longer see the inspiration they used to share! The world is getting rotten because dreams keep on dying, because people keep on thinking on ways to survive instead of ways to live.
Fiction is like a Greek goddess everyone can applaud to her beauty, but she will never completely protect you because like all Gods fiction is also egotistical they sell dreams but never tell you they're impossible!
Fiction has failed me and I can't forgive her for it, I just can't seem to find that sympathy on me to forgive her, or maybe I can't just find within myself a way to forgive myself for believing on her!
Not a US citizen, but here a crazy thought:
Why don't you vote on the person you want to?
Please don’t vote third party or write in Bernie Sanders at the presidential election. All that does is split the vote and ensures another 4 years of Trump. Vote Democrat and get Trump out of office in November
There was something magical on their dance, something I couldn't explain and then I saw it the sun rise and... there are no words to describe it. It was truly magical, the most beautiful thing I had ever see.
I still don't know why they were dancing or if they do that every single day, I never searched it and I never asked I don't want to know the answer, but while looking at that amazing sight I like to image that all those druids that go there since so long ago, centuries ago, do that every morning until the sun rise to make sure the sun will keep rising every day until the end of times!
Oh valley of learning
Excuse me wtf?!
I was do soft and then ...
okay so... when geralts on the road and doesn’t have a lot of money for a while, his hair grows right? so imagine this: geralt with shoulder length or longer hair, and it’s so long that his classic half down half up doesn’t keep it out of his face anymore. after watching him grumble about it for days, jaskier steps in. he had four sisters and can do hair pretty well, if he does say so himself.
jaskier, watching geralt rip tangles from his hair after a fight and cringing: come here
geralt: what
jaskier: just do it
geralt: fine but wtf
jaskier gently takes geralts hair and brushes through it with his fingers, undoing all the knots and smoothing it out. he then starts braiding it, a single, simple braid that goes down geralts back.
it becomes a tradition. geralt keeps his hair longer, and jaskier does it for him. increasingly complex, multiple braids that end together, messy buns for when they’re camping. jaskier humming his newest song and braiding small strands all over geralts head while geralt sharpens his sword at his feet. it relaxes both of them, a moment of vulnerability after the excitement of the road every day.
heads turn while they walk down the town road and into the tavern because is that a Scary Witcher(™) with dandelions braided into his hair???? what the goddamn fuck. (geralt had been unsure but jaskier insisted he “needed some color contrast because all he wears is black leather honestly geralt” and geralt didn’t want to start that argument plus a part of him was glad, it made the children less scared of him)
geralts hair is always wavy when he takes the braids out at night (jaskier has yelled at him reminded him any many times that he can’t sleep in them because it’s bad for his hair)
and geralt gets used to it. (a part of him loves enjoys it)
and then one day jaskier leaves, and he doesn’t come back.
geralt cuts his hair with a sword and hates it almost as much as he hates himself.
What would Elliot's first word be and how would Loki react? Btw love your writing❤️
nobody move or you’ll scare the content away
ugh i am so sorry i haven’t been able to write much! thank anyone who stuck around! i’ve been having to focus mostly on my school related writing (plus got a job so woo!) and its definitely not slowing down anytime soon, but here’s a little something i did manage to get out.
i don’t think i’ll ever get over the idea of Loki being a dad
A light that isn’t supposed to be on is on in the kitchen.
Continuar a ler
It was the first time my shrieking drew someone closer to me. I saw it in the corner of the mirror. A shuffling amongst the shower curtains, grey pyjamas it looked like. They reminded me of something horrible. Black hair, fair skin. A young boy. It was like the mirror wanted to stab my eyes with the worst memories.
Except, I didn’t have eyes.
If my shrieking wasn’t going to do it, I thought my visage would. I turned slowly, revealing each rip, tear, cut, and pustule on my pallid skin. My fingers would look especially long, like the claws of some horrid roc. Their nails would be long and sharp enough to break flesh to the bone. And my teeth—when I flash my smile, my teeth would do all the talking.
But the boy had little reaction other than a slight shaking of his arms and legs. His eyes—oh what eyes he had—stared wide open at me. He was frozen, as if he had been trapped under an ice-skinned lake. His parents had chosen the wrong house to move into.
I began laughing. There was nothing funny. But I laughed, because laughter is a weapon—it’s a devastating lance that strikes straight into the gullet. Your breath escapes, you stare at the teeth and the creases on the face, and the deepened eyebrows, and the eyeless sockets of a skull with a dead woman’s flesh.
His eyes settled, and his arms and legs stopped shaking. He shoved his hands into his pyjama’s pockets.
I reached out my hand, and the boy did not so much as flinch when I touched my cold, clammy hands to his cheek. Instead, he raised his own hand and touched mine. He closed his eyes, and he let me run my hands over his head, over and through his hair, rubbing his eyebrows, feeling his tiny little ears.
“It’s not you, is it?” I asked. My first words in eighty years.
The boy opened his eyes, felt the scales and cuts on my arm, all the horrible marks of a thing too dead to be beautiful. He came closer, closer than any living thing ever had.
Then, for the first time since I died, I felt warmth. It was in the chest, or what should be the chest, if it wasn’t cleft in half to reveal rotten and diseased insides.
The boy lay his head against my chest and wrapped his arms around me.
“It can’t be you,” I said. “How could they let you come back? How could they make you come back? After all that they did to you?”
“I came back on my own,” the boy said. His voice echoed through my corpse.
“Why would you?” I asked. “Don’t you know what they did to you?”
“I know,” the boy said. “And I also know what you did for me, when no one else would.”
Another kind of warmth—this time on my face, sliding and streaming down my eye sockets, wetting my cheeks.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I said. My voice was breaking. “You don’t want to end up like me.”
The boy hugged me tighter. “I would rather be you than anyone else.”
Everyone always wants to talk about Hook or Pan. Everyone always wants to debate which one is good and which is evil - who we’re supposed to follow and who we aren’t. The Peter Pan mythos has pretty much shrunk down to nothing but Hook and Pan (Hook, SyFy’s Neverland, Pan, OUAT, etc). Occasionally Tinkerbell factors in (Hook, Disney’s Tinkerbell, OUAT, etc). There’s one character, however, that always gets sidelined - which is puzzling since they are the main character of both the play and the book. That character is, of course, Wendy Darling.
Peter Pan is Wendy’s coming of age story. Wendy who decides to run away from home. Wendy who realizes that she must grow up - and that there’s no shame in that. Wendy who sees Peter as deficient and sees Hook as empty and decides that, no, she doesn’t want to be a part of that. Wendy gets the adventure she’s always wanted and she turns away because she realizes that it’s lacking. She’s the only one who truly sees the hollowness of being young forever. Barrie even says “You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than other girls.”
People always debate on who the hero is. When they learn that Peter could be horrid they assume it has to be Hook. Of course, the answer is that neither of them are the hero. Wendy is the hero of the story. You’re not supposed to be like Peter, who kept every good and bad aspects of being a child and can’t tell right from wrong. You’re not supposed to be Hook, either. He let go of everything childish and loving about him and became bitter and evil. They’re both the extreme ends of the scale. You’re supposed to fall in the middle, to hold onto the things about childhood that make it beautiful - the wonder, the imagination, the innocence - while still growing up and learning morality and responsibility. You’re not supposed to be Hook. You’re not supposed to be Peter Pan.
You’re supposed to be Wendy Darling.