Loki and Dejah
Norse gods don't all live on Asgardia. A few of them live in New York.
And none of those Norse gods actually look like Norse gods. This particular one likes to hang out in expensive coffee shops and use their wifi to play World of Warcraft on his laptop.
He's not wearing his mail or horns today, but instead a rather ironic I ♥ Asgardia shirt. (He doesn't. He really, really doesn't.)
And none of those Norse gods actually look like Norse gods. This particular one likes to hang out in expensive coffee shops and use their wifi to play World of Warcraft on his laptop.
He's not wearing his mail or horns today, but instead a rather ironic I ♥ Asgardia shirt. (He doesn't. He really, really doesn't.)
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"That is a heavy name to carry around. Mine's just an Edgar Rice Burroughs tribute."
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Rather like people get suspicious when he's not misbehaving.
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Her expression becomes more intent, and her hand is moving slower on the page.
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"It's a very good way to look at it," he agrees. "If I'd been called Thor, everyone would expect me to much more well-behaved, and where's the fun in that?"
He seems to reconsider this at the last moment.
"No, actually, he gets away with even more than I do, somehow."
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"You have a relative named Thor?"
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The smirk on Loki's face does suggest that every word of it is, in fact, a massive lie.
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"So what do you do for a living? If I might be so bold."
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It's actually the truth. In a way.
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Who knows? It might be a useful skill to have.
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She looks up at him, a sharp expression on her face. "You want me to teach you art? Or --" She waggles the pencil between her fingers, "to draw? Which?"
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"Well, yes. One is learning to walk, the other is learning to fly. Both useful, under the right circumstances."
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The corner of her mouth curls into a smirk as she says it.
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"That cold be fun," he says.
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She turns the page around and shows him two very intimately entwined stick figures. Nothing more than rated PG, but the impression is very clear.
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"I've never had a student before. I'm not sure I could teach you, actually."
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"I wouldn't ask you to do it for free, either. Nor do I know the going rate for art lessons, so I shall have to trust you to set a fair price."
The boy's got an original Jackson Pollock in his apartment. He's probably good for the cash.
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She looks up at him, her blue-eyed gaze keen.
"But if you want to come by the studio, hang out while I'm working, maybe bring pizza? I could sit you down with a sketchbook, give you some tips?"
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Pizza in exchange for tips does sound like a fair trade, though.
"What day is best for you?"
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"What's today, Thursday? I have a thing up in Boston tomorrow. I should be back by Saturday morning. How's Sunday work?"
She's scribbling a number and and address in the corner of the page, tearing it off and handing it to him.