thislovestoogoodtolast:

captcrieff:

Can you guess who?

Fuck you !!!

crispins:

tom hiddleston for flaunt magazine [x]:

let us go then, you and i,
when the evening is spread out against the sky
like a patient etherized upon a table;
let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
the muttering retreats
of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
and sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells…
                 the love song of j alfred prufrock - t.s. eliot

sassy-disney-prince-loki:

ihearthiddleston:

[x] or [x]

DONT MESS WITH HIDDLES

Tom Hiddleston talks about himself his character - Loki

(Source: mishasteaparty)

rrrowr:

rubato:

frostasgardian:

#do we maybe want to take a second to look at that tear streak #how scared he is to leave thor #how badly he wants to stay #but how much he needs to prove to odin that he is a force to be reckoned with #and he doesnt know how to hurt odin without hurting thor #so he does both #and it kills him

About sacrifice, I am not
so sure now. A river falls or rises
according to what leaves

or enters it.
But sacrifice is not the river. Compassion
is not what leaves. For what enters,

I have many names - I’d decide if I could,
if I were meant to. There’s an instinct
that is rare but does occur in humans,

the ones who themselves feel
no different - it’s any hour,
forgettable - as they turn toward the work

whose power will break them
eventually, and make their name.
I turn everywhere,

I see shapes by which
a holiness declares itself more
and more, as if to be noticed

were all it wants of me. The body,
for example, in a cloud
of mayflies stalled briefly in a light

that passes: now the moon -
now the stars appearing, choir-like,
with a choir’s tendency to make

the soloist at once seem lonelier,
and more complete. I’m not reckless.
I’d comply, if I could. In dream,

there’s a choice: precious freight,
or the barge that carries it,
or the water without which a barge

can at first seem nothing. I choose the water,
I choose with a wisdom that looks effortless
because it is. It’s that kind of dream.

— Carl Phillips, “Armed, Luminous”

(Source: nevershavethomas)

casthebadass:

[x] or [x]

Story of a Five Year-Old Avenger, Meeting the Avengers

“Hi, Loki!” my wife said (100% sure she didn’t know Tom Hiddleston’s name). “Can my son get a picture with you?” she asked. “Can I put him on my shoulders?” Loki asks. “Um … okay?” is Jill’s response and hands Tom Hiddleston our son.  He hoists him up on to his shoulders (I should mention that this guy is like 8 feet tall), and my wife takes out her Blackberry, only to find that it’s on its last battery leg. Nonetheless she manages to get a couple of shots.  Hiddleston puts Edison down, shakes his hand and says goodbye…

… Evans crouches down next to Edison, who extends his hand and shakes the hand of The First Avenger. “Can I see your shield?” Evans asks and Edison hands his battered toy shield over. “Wow, you’re getting a lot of use out of this. You fighting a lot of bad guys with this?” he asks.  Chris Evans and Edison proceed to have a conversation about the finer points of shields and fighting the enemy.

Album Art

Tom Hiddleston reads Bright Star by John Keats

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art— 
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death. 

(Source: cesaray)

Played 56739 times.

isitmadness:

omfg his cheekbones are unreal in this scene

(Source: mishasteaparty)