#if you see me drawing payday man on man it's just a moment of weakness

[silusvesuius]

anime beach episode realness

[insomniamamma]

Liminal: Ezra and Cee

A/N: Contemporary AU in which Ezra becomes his niece, Cee's caretaker after an automobile accident kills his brother, Damon, and costs him his arm. Same AU as "Ferris wheels are for old people." No reader insert character, just Ezra and Cee on the road. Written for @autumnleaves1991-blog​ ‘s Writer’s Wednesday.

Warnings: Mentions of past trauma/injury. Drug references in a song. Some language. I tried to research body powered transhumeral prosthetics to get some idea of how Ezra's prosthetic arm might work, but then I fell into an overthinking morass, any inaccuracies are mine.

"Willin'" is written by Lowell George. The version referenced in the story is recorded by Linda Ronstadt.

lim·i·nal /ˈlimənl/

adjective: liminal

   1.relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process.    2.occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.

--"Willin'"--

          "’... been warped by the rain, driven by the snow,’" Cee sings along with the music rattling through the truck's speakers, "I'm drunk and dirty, don't you know. But I'm still willin'..."

        The road stretches long and straight in front of them, harsh, rust-colored land dotted with scrub under the arc of an impossibly blue sky. Ezra asked Cee to compile the playlist. You are my co-pilot for this mission, he'd told her, and as such your duties include, but are not limited to, navigator, snack supervisor and DJ. DJ? Really? Make us a playlist, Little Bird, every adventure needs some good road music. And she had really delivered.          "’...Out on the road late last night, I'd see my pretty Alice in every headlight, Alice, Dallas Alice...’"  Ezra'd expected hours of auto-tuned pop or loud screamy music where he couldn't understand the words, and while there was some of that, Cee had taken her duties as DJ very seriously, creating a huge genre-bending list that all worked together.

     He knew a lot of it. When he was still weird Uncle Ezra and not Legal Guardian Ezra, Cee made a habit of pawing through his vinyl collection when she and Damon would visit, picking a record to play and then peppering him with questions about it. Still, some of the tracks she picked surprised him, like this one, Linda Ronstadt's version of "Willin'" a road trip anthem if there ever was one, but something he didn't expect Cee to be familiar with.  On their first go through the playlist, he'd asked her, where'd you hear this one, Birdie? You remember that movie, The Abyss? It's in that movie, the director's cut though, not the theatrical cut, the theatrical cut is bullshit--and he'd just listened to her go off about all the things wrong with the theatrical cut, the movie itself he barely remembered, something about divers finding aliens underwater, he'd listened and grinned, Cee could go so quiet sometimes. It was always a relief to hear her sound alive and interested, especially after--          "’And I've been from Tucson to Tucumcari," Cee sings and Ezra joins her, "Tehachapi to Tonopah...’" Cee's voice is sweet. Ezra's voice is not, but that's never stopped him. They've got the windows down. The AC started smelling funny a couple days ago, and, in this part of the world, a breeze to evaporate the sweat is just as good as AC. Cee's hair makes a flyaway halo as they sing--          "’Driven every kind of rig that's ever been made, Driven the backroads so I wouldn't get weighed. And if you give me...’" Ezra and Cee smile at each other, suck in deep breaths for the big chorus, "’...Weed, whites and wine, and you show me a sign...And I'll be willin' to be movin'"

--Petroglyph--

       The rust colored forms on pale stone walls peer out at them. Some loom large in the foreground, others recede into the background as if the weathered rock is a portal a window into some other place that lives just below the skin of the world. The back of Ezra's neck prickles. Sometimes the world is thin. Sometimes he feels as if there is a larger world moving and shifting beneath the surface of this one. Sometimes he feels like things are happening out of order, reality stripping and skipping like a loose bicycle chain--        Cee's warm hand creeps into his, "They're a little scary, aren't they?" She says.        "Indeed they are," says Ezra, "One has to wonder what they were thinking. What they were trying to say. Are these gods in these pictures? Or just regular men?"        "Does it matter?" Asks Cee, and he jerks his head to look at her. She is utterly entranced by the red figures and sigils.        "Of course it does," he says, "You don't think so?"        "I mean, it matters, I guess, but what matters more is that people made these," she says, "People like us. People with hands. Not that Ancient Aliens bullshit." Ezra laughs. Cee squeezes his hand.        "C'mon," she says, "let's see more."

--Rest Stop--

       "Hey MOM!," a child's voice snaps Ezra out of his reverie. Cee is in the truck stop, using the restroom and restocking their snack supply. At these stops he fuels up and then gives her some cash and sets her loose inside. And then they stretch their legs and sit outside for a spell. Ezra sits at a picnic bench letting the sun hit his closed eyelids, "MOM! That guy's got a ROBOT ARM! Like WINTER SOLDIER!" Ezra opens his eyes to a little boy, maybe four with a bunch of curly hair and big eyes, pointing at him.        "Daniel!" His mother hisses, and pinches at his arm, "That's rude. I'm so sorry. Danny, what did I tell you about staring--"        "Ma'am? It's quite alright, Ma'am," says Ezra, and hunkers down so he's eye level with the little boy.        "Hi there," he says, "Daniel, is it? I'm Ezra." He offers his right arm, the double hook at the end open, titanium alloy padded with silicone. Daniel solemnly grips the hooks and shakes.        "You've got stickers!" Says Daniel, and for a second Ezra is confused, and then he grins, looking down at the bedecked black plastic of his prosthesis. He stands.        "My girl decided that I must have a sticker for every state we stop in," says Ezra, he stands and smiles at Daniel's mom, "Like an old steamer trunk. I'm afraid I didn't catch your name--"        Cee steps out of the air-conditioned cavern of the truck stop, slits her eyes against the brightness of midday sun glittering up from the concrete, plastic bags full of crap-snacks and energy drinks threaded over her arms. Ezra handed her a couple twenties and told her to go nuts. Re-supply runs have turned into their own sort of game. She always grabs the usual stuff, chips and Snickers bars and Paydays (Ezra has an absolute weakness for Paydays. They don't taste like they used to, he'd griped, but that didn't stop him from eating them), but somewhere along the line, Cee decided to turn this into a battle of the wills. Her unspoken mission is to find something so utterly weird at one of these stops that Ezra won't eat it. So far, she has been unsuccessful. The closest thing was an aloe juice and cucumber drink that smelled amazing, but felt like swallowing cold snot. That one was a draw. She has high hopes for the dill pickle-sriracha gummy worms nestled in the bottom of the bag. The packaging looked like Christmas in hell. More important than the snacks is the plain, flat paper bag she holds.                                                                                     Ezra's near the picnic benches chattering at some lady with a kid. Menace, she thinks, but smiles. Ezra was always the extrovert before, and it's good to him smiling so big and open in the sunshine, making friends with random people at a truck stop. She sees an echo of her and him before, when she and Dad would visit when she was small and he'd tell her some outrageous tale and she'd say Uncle Ezra, you're so weird, and he'd scoop her up and swing her around, planting a prickly kiss on her cheek and saying oh, little bird, you have no idea, and this always made Dad laugh.

       "Oh, Ez-ra," Cee calls, and when he turns, he sees her devilish grin, holding a small brown paper bag up beside her face like it's contraband, "Look what I found."         "So I get to witness the sacred stickering?" Asks Ezra's new friend.        "Indeed you do," says Ezra, "This is Cee. Cee, meet Jody, and that little man playing in the dirt there is Daniel."        "Nice to meet you," says Cee, "Stick your arm out, old man."        "Don't you want to document this momentous occasion?"        "Oh, right," Cee pulls out her phone, "Hey, uh, miss Jody? Can you take some video? I got it all set up."        "Cee is documenting our adventures for posterity," says Ezra. He extends his prosthetic, already covered in overlapping ovoids, enough that they are starting to resemble dragon scales, "What do you think?" Cee and Daniel circle round.        "How bout here?" asks Daniel, tapping just above the articulated elbow.        "That's a good spot," says Cee and peels the sticker from it's backing with a flourish. She smiles up at her phone recording in a stranger's hand, "We have now infiltrated the state of Nevada," she grins, "Evil-doers beware."        "Yeah!" Says the little boy, pudgy hands planted on his hips for the benefit of the camera, "Or Winter Soldier will KICK YOUR ASS!"        "Daniel!"

--Stars--

       Cee wakes in the dead of night, disoriented, a darkness so thick that for a moment she's not sure where she is, and then she hears Ezra's rhythmic snoring off to her side, reaches out and brushes fabric of the tent and lays back, puzzled, muscles pleasantly sore from a day spent scrabbling up and down eroded granite boulders that looked like they belonged on Mars or Tatooine, walking trails and marveling at the strange ecology of the high-desert, so unlike back home. Bad dream? She wonders, probably. She feels her eyes getting heavy, feels herself lulled by Ezra's sleep sounds, snores punctuated by mumbles. Sometimes full sentences, his side of whatever dream-conversation he's having. Probably has no idea he does it--        Cee sits bolt upright, hands clutched in fists against her chest, a high-pitched wail cuts the cold night, a sound like a woman screaming, and another wail threads through the first, so loud it could be right outside the tent, and then a sound like gruesome laughter. The back of her neck prickles and her heart pounds in her throat. She tells herself that it's just some wild animal making noise, some desert bird maybe, but wasn't the California desert the last known home of the Manson family? Maybe not this desert, but still--        "Ezra," she hisses, and he mumbles something incoherent, "Ezra, wake up!" She reaches and pokes him hard, "Ezra!"        "Whazzit birdie?"        "Listen!" The screams rise and fall again like something from a horror movie.        "s'just coyotes," says Ezra, "probly next county over. They don't hurt people, they're just loud."        "You sure?"        "Go back to sleep, Cee."

       "Ezra," He's dreaming, some place with Joshua trees the size of skyscrapers, spiked limbs under a red sky. Cee's with him somewhere in the bloodlight but he can't see her, just hears her calling--        "Ezra!" He blinks awake, the red sky receding. Cee is shaking him.        "Yuh. M'awake birdie,"        "I gotta pee," she says.        "You know where the outhouses are, just right down the trail,"        "I'm not going by myself! Not with those things out there!" Ezra pushes himself up and shakes his head, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He can just make out Cee's form against the faint light of the sky leaking through the tent.        "Alright, just gimme a second," he says.        "I'll get the light,"        "We don't need it," he says.        "Ez-"        "We got night eyes now," he says, "No light pollution out here. You'll see."

       Ezra stands transfixed in the chill dark, head cocked upward. The more he looks, the more he can see. More stars than he's ever seen in his life spread across the vast inverted bowl of the sky, no summer haze out here, no light-wash from streetlights. He is dizzy with it, the vast sweep of the sky, and as he stares and his eyes adjust further, he can see the arm of the Milky Way angled across the black, can actually see the dark band of dust threaded through the silver-blue light. He doesn't hear the outhouse door shutting, doesn't notice Cee beside him until she folds his hand into hers.        "Look up, Little Bird," he breathes and it feels like a prayer, his heart suddenly full, squeezing in his chest, Cee small and warm next to him.        "Oh, wow," she says, barely a whisper, "That's the Milky Way isn't it?" Tears blur the stars and fall hot against his cheeks.        "It is." He looks at her, her face upturned, cheeks and hair frosted in star shine, limning her eyes, her smile. They've lost so much, him and Cee, but they've gained each other, and that's not nothing is it?        "We're so small," says Cee, "Us. People. This whole planet. All of us. We're just a little dot." Ezra smiles in the dark, even as tears dry in his lashes. He squeezes her fingers in his.        "C'mon, let's get back in the tent before we freeze."

--Hoodoo--

       Cee sleeps in the passenger's seat. She'd helped break camp and pack everything up even though it was early for her. They had spent an extra night in Joshua Tree and now had to make up the difference. It's time to go home. There are things he wants to do before Cee goes back to school, things they need to take care of. So he woke them early, promising Cee that she could sleep in the car as long as she needed. She'd helped him get ready, half-peeling a couple candy bars and putting them were he could easily reach.        "You want the playlist?" She asked, "I can get it going."        "Not right now. I want some quiet."          “'Kay," and Cee was asleep before they were to the next mile marker.

       Hoodoos rise on either side of the highway, striated red cliffs against the slowly lightening sky, cut into improbable formations by long gone rivers, thin spires topped with boulders, first glints of sun hitting the higher cliffs while everything else still exists in that liminal space between day and night. Ezra glances over at Cee, hair in a messy halo, face slack in sleep, cheeks sun-reddened and newly freckled, closed eyes moving, dreaming. Ezra thinks of those first days, wracked with pain and trying to navigate the new, dark-shrowded territory of her and him, each of them crippled by loss, each willing to lash out at the other. Ezra thinks of how far they've come since then, uncurling like relaxing fists and learning to be with each other. They drive into the dawn and the first bit of light touches her hair, turning it to fire. She shifts in her sleep, turning away from that first hint of sun. He doesn't know if she's awake or not.        "I love you, Cee."        "Love you to, Ez," she murmurs and settles back into sleep. Ezra looks out over hoodoo country spread red tinged and stark against the rising light, the miles of road ahead. We're gonna be ok, he thinks and means it.

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr 45: Give and Take

Chapters: 45/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: None Relationships: Loki x Reader (Someday) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Loki Makes A Nefarious Plan To Overcome Captain America By...Bettering Himself, Devious I Tell You, Devious Summary:  Loki gets a scolding for his privacy invasion, Reader gets a lesson in Asgardian Law, and Captain America gets to be in a calendar.  

Captain America posed in various states of undress for several months in each calendar, and each of those months you had simply covered in hearts. Cute little pink marker hearts, revealing an adoration he hadn't realized you had.

No, he'd had some idea of it, he simply hadn't allowed himself to accept it. He had deluded himself again, let himself believe that it was mere admiration for what the Captain stood for that you felt. But in the short discussion that you'd shared about him, you had spoken of him more highly, more positively than Loki had ever heard you speak about any other man, and you always seemed eager and excited for your little weekly check-ins.

Had you been flirting with him, during those secret meetings? Had he flirted back?

Loki's hands trembled. He could tear the calendar to bits right now, toss it in the fire, erase the whole thing. But what good would it do? Depriving you of these pictures would not remove your feelings. And your Tara would almost certainly ask if you had received everything she had sent.

Clever little wretch; he had the feeling that she'd had him dead to rights without even meeting him.

There was a little note within one of the hearts. “Doctor's appt today; 3:30” it said. And three days later, “No results.”

This was from eight months ago. You would have been deep within your mysterious illness, when you were still trying to figure out what was wrong. He flipped a few months earlier.

“Doctor's appt today; 12:00.”

“No results.”

“Doctor's appt today; 9:45”

“No results.”

“Doctor's appt today; 4:15”

“No results.”

“Still feeling sick. Set up Doctor's appt.”

“Sick today. Stayed home. Deduct from paycheck.”

“Felt sick today. Get medicine.”

“Something happened today.”

Any further back from that was merely noting when your payday was, or when you had a vacation planned, or when you were going to meet your father for dinner. “Something happened today”, was such a neutral, vague way to describe the moment your life had irreversibly changed. The day you took a god by the hand, and was bound to him, in body, and if the dreams were an indication, in soul perhaps as well.

“Something happened today”. Such a simple way to preface six months of suffering, a build up to your emancipation from an old life that did not suit you, to a new one where you would be adored and glorified.

“Something happened today.”

You'd been within murdering distance of a god who had killed perhaps hundreds of your kind, your hand burned, and you'd been banned from the tower, and that was how you had described it.

You really were something else.

He loved it.

But all these hearts, they was distressing. Every protest he could come up with for why Steve Rogers was entirely unsuitable for you was countered by his own existence.

Steve was technically an old man, old enough to be your grandfather, easily.

And Loki was old enough to have played tricks on your ancestors.

Captain America, as a member of the Avengers and a proclaimed hero, had many terrible enemies. He was not safe to be around.

Loki had enemies all across space. An immortal madman, an entire planet full of giants, whatever might still exist of the Svartalfari, many of the denizens of Earth, and even members of his own people. He was far more dangerous to be around.

The Captain had seen war. Horrors beyond reckoning. Death, and gore, and pain. Hopelessness and despair. He would be broken inside.

Loki could only wish to have gotten off as easily as he. If Steve Rogers was broken, Loki was shattered into dust. There was no reason you should chose Loki over him, with only those reasons to go by.

What about other reasons, though? What did the good Captain have that he did not? Strength? Power? Loki far outstripped him in both. Loki had bested him in battle once, but he doubted doing so again would impress you in any positive manner.

Was it nobility? Loki had him beat there too: he was true nobility, by birth and by upbringing. Steve Rogers had allegedly come from common, impoverished stock...just like you. Perhaps that had something to do with it, that shared origin.

Steve Rogers had probably never committed a crime against humanity, so that was something that he had on Loki. But he had killed other humans, and who knew how many? He was a soldier, he would know when it was and wasn't necessary. Maybe you felt the same. When the Captain did it, it was necessary. When Loki did it, it was flagrant and cruel.

They were weirdly similar in many ways. Perhaps it wasn't the deeds that mattered to you, so much as the reasons. The intentions.

How could he earn those hearts? Precious pink hearts to warm the winter month called November?

He glared at the picture. The hearts got wobbly partway through the month, before ceasing entirely. You must have been drawing them in with weak and trembling hands all the way up until you were forced to stop. Because Loki had kidnapped you.

There were even a few drawn on the photo itself, where Steve Rogers sat cross-legged on an American flag backdrop, barefoot and bare chested, a basket of puppies cradled in his thick, glistening arms.

Ugh.

Wait.

Was that it?

The softness? The vulnerability? The gentleness and care shown to creatures so much weaker? Knowing that he had power, but also knowing that he was safe to be with?

But Loki was already doing that for you. He was doing all of that. He wanted to do that. If those were the things you desired...he was already well on his way.

He could outdo Steve Rogers in everything. When the man showed up for his brother's silly party, he could observe, watch his ways, possibly even grill him for information; learn his flaws and weaknesses, and avoid being those things. Learn his strengths, his admirable qualities, and become better at them than him. In fact, if he could get on civil terms with the man, that might impress you even more, and he could gather even more information that way. The Captain was going to have to get used to him being here, just like all the rest of them, after all.

Meanwhile, he would show you every courtesy. If his power and prestige made you uncomfortable, he would have to show off his other qualities; the other things he could do that would impress you without frightening you. That must be the key!

You had shown him some of the things you valued, over these past few months. Innovation, frugality, compassion. Your love of animals and plants, your excitement over the possibility of being involved in conservation efforts, when he had held you by the sea, and become captivated by your lips for a brief moment.

Conservation and compassion...

He had an idea.

                                                                     *****

“So, what King Bor was saying in this speech is that he demanded the immediate abolishing of slavery on Asgard, not because it was wrong, but because he was afraid the Asgardians were becoming weak and complacent by having other people do all the work?”

“Got it in one.” Saga said. “And he wasn't exactly wrong either. Certain professions had become slave-dominated, whole industries without a single Asgardian hand involved.”

“That's pretty damn awful.” You said. “Why couldn't it have been because they were people?”

“Because the noble classes would have never accepted it.” Saga griped. “You ever tried to get a powerful person to willingly give up even a tiny fraction of their power? It happens on this world too, and it causes whole wars.”

“You're right.” You said, closing the folder and setting it on the table, next to a lead tablet stamped with pictographs so fine, they could only be seen under direct light. “There are people out there who treat all other life as change in their pockets. People so powerfully rich, it's almost impossible for someone like me to grasp.”

“You grasp the Prince.” One of the ladies cut in.

“I most certainly do not!” You protested.

“She means that you seem to understand him.” Saga said. “At least, she'd better mean that, or she will have interrupted both her work, and mine, and yours, for a snarky comment that doesn't do anything except waste time. Come on Lofn, you're better than that.”

“Not snark.” The other lady said. “Statement.”

You'd noticed that most of the other ladies stopped what they were doing when Lofn spoke, and looked at you. You weren't sure why it was so uncomfortable being the center of attention right now-possibly because they were all Aesir, or strangers, or because of their relation to Loki, or because he wasn't here, and you were alone in a very small room, with a bunch of women who were all better than you in every conceivable way...

And it wasn't like you could leave. You could spin your wheels well enough, but that heavy, wooden door would certainly provide an obstacle.

“I see you two. It is okay. I acknowledge.” Lofn said, a cryptic little smile curving her lips. The other ladies went back to their business, some of them also smiling.

“Lofn...” Saga groaned. “You are being Like That again.”

“I see what I see. If she does not, then give time.”

Saga huffed. “She's here to learn basic Asgardian law, not mystic hoodly-hoo.”

Lofn shrugged. “I leave hoodly to Loki, then.”

You opened your mouth to say something, when Andsvarr burst loudly into the room.

“I bring you lunch, my Seidkona! His Highness regrets that he could not deliver it himself, but some urgent business has demanded his attention. He got some of your favorites though.” He set the tray on the table in front of you with a flourish.

“Nope!” Saga proclaimed. “No food or drink in the conservatory! If it's lunchtime, then take it elsewhere, but it can't stay here!”

“Oh! Sorry, I didn't realize.” Andsvarr snatched the tray back up, looking around the small library, mystified. His gaze landed on a slab of stone in a sturdy, special case, its rough face scattered with faded, monochrome paintings of beasts and concepts you didn't recognize.

“Is...is that Ymir's Dreamscape?” He asked, awed. “You saved it?”

“The rest of the archivists and I smuggled out as much as we could.” Saga said sadly. “But we just couldn't get it all.”

“It looks as though you knew what was most important.” Andsvarr pointed at the stone.” That is the first known instance of art in the whole galaxy.” He told you. “It is almost eleven billion years old.”

You stopped breathing.

“Yeah, let's have lunch somewhere else.” You squeaked. The ladies tittered with amusement as Andsvarr handed you the tray and wheeled you out into the main library.

“Why did they even let me in there?” You gasped. “I'm just a huge humidity factory! I could have destroyed something!”

“Don't worry so much. Saga knows what she's doing.” Andsvarr assured you. “And those cases they are in are nearly indestructible. You could throw this chair at one, and it would bounce off.”

He brought you back to your room, pausing in the short hallway for a moment to comment that he thought Loki might be back from his emergency errand, then parked you in front of your desk and left to go check.

You briefly wondered what would happen if it wasn't Loki, but an intruder. Andsvarr would probably have to try and arrest them, or run them out, or even fight them. What was the protocol for that?

You set your tray of food on the desk, and dug in to the skyr, gazing out the window at the flowers outside. There was a fairly wide space around the complex that was untouched by construction. You didn't know if it would remain a native landscape, or if it was destined to be planted over as a garden, but it was lovely to look at right now.

Just as you were finishing your skyr, Loki entered your room after a light knock, carrying a large box.

“How are you feeling, darling?” He asked, sounding somewhat subdued. “Did Saga treat you well?”

“Oh yeah, she was really informative. I think one of the ladies was making fun of me though. I think her name was Lofn?”

Loki frowned. “Odd. That doesn't sound like her at all. I'll look into it.”

You probably shouldn't be snitching while Loki seemed like he was in a mood. What had gotten into him?

You knew something that might cheer him up a bit though. You placed the cup back on the tray.

“Maybe I just thought that because I'm so tired.” You said, feigning exhaustion. “There was so much to learn, and my head aches. I don't think I can walk right now. Can you help me?”

When you opened your eyes again to look at him, he was staring at you with a confused expression.

Oh right, he could tell when people were lying.

But he set the box down on your desk, and gently lifted you from your chair anyway, sitting with you on your bed and dutifully feeding you the rest of your meal. You knew he seemed to really enjoy being needed, and you couldn't deny the tiny electric feeling every time his fingers brushed your lips.

The tenderness of his actions and intensity of his gaze were hypnotic, and for a short time, you let yourself fall under the spell. Life had been far too eventful lately; and these slow, peaceful moments were gaining in value.

He spoke very little while feeding you, only to ask if you wanted more or not, reluctant to let the moment end. But your curiosity got the better of you eventually.

“What's with the box?” You asked.

“Oh, this is for you.” He said, whisking the food away, and plunking the box down on your lap. “It is from your friend, Tara.”

“And she sent it conveniently already opened, I see.” You said, a frost of sarcasm on your voice. Just a minute ago, you had been thrilled by the merest graze of his fingers; now, you were annoyed by how far he had been shoving his hands into your business.

“I had to check for possible dangers.” He said imperiously.

“From Tara? Come on, we've known each other since grade school.”

“Another school?” He asked. “There was no guarantee that it was truly her who sent it. And if she did, it could have been intercepted and tampered with.”

“And you don't call this tampering?” You gestured at the cut tape.

“There has already been an attempt on your life!” He exclaimed.

You crossed your arms with a huff. Sure, he was right about that, but he could have at least asked.

“Is everything still in there?”

He pressed his lips into a thin line. “No.”

“Loki-”

“There were some foodstuffs, and I sent them to the healing wing to get them checked for poison. If they prove safe, I'll give them back.”

“This is ridiculous!” You snapped.

“Your safety is paramount.” He cupped the side of your head, light as a ghost. “Look at what my negligence has already wrought.”

You knew you shouldn't give up on being angry so easily, and a little knot of resentment did still remain, but his point did dampen your irritation. Of course he felt guilty about all of this.

“Look that's touching and all,” You said placing your hand over his. He froze in place. “But you understand that, if you keep treating me like a prisoner or a criminal, we aren't really going to be able to gel like we should. If I'm gonna be a...magic politician, or advisor or whatever, I mean. You understand, right?”

“I...” He faltered, appearing to debate himself for a moment. Did anybody else ever see him like this? It was so different from the way people described him: not cagey, not guarded, not in perfect control.

“It's more than that.” He finally said. “It's more than just the social importance of your position, and it's more than the responsibility I feel towards you as a ward of the state, and it's far more than just owing you for all the upheaval I have caused in your life. I just...I genuinely do not wish to see you hurt, and it is frightening to realize how easy it is to hurt you. To realize that you are in more danger than I initially thought and that I might not be enough to protect you.”

“And I get that.” You said, stroking his hand. He remained frozen, but shivered just a bit. Poor guy must be really eaten up about your injury. “Things have been more...adventurous for me than they have been for my whole life, and none of it has been a walk in the park for me either. But I can tell you right now, trying to protect me from everything will not work. There will always be something that can break through your defenses, no matter how good they are.

Even before we met, it wasn't like I was completely safe all the time, you know? I mean, there were genocidal aliens that threw my whole universe into turmoil. And even without that, without any extraterrestrial interference, there was still a level of...I guess you could call it normal danger? Like, there was always a possibility I would get into a car accident, or fall down wrong, or catch a deadly disease, or be bitten by a snake, or accidentally poisoned, or electrocuted, or-”

Loki was looking exceptionally pale.

“-Well, you get the picture. There's a million ways a person can get hurt, and there's no real way to prevent all of it without pretty much killing me. Like, locking me away might protect my body, but it would kill my spirit. So there's a level of protection that's fine, and probably a good idea, but if you go overboard, you can easily cause more harm than good.”

“I see...” He said anxiously. “Perhaps it would ease you ire to go through your things?”

He seemed reluctant to remove his hand, but you couldn't reach the box with his arm in the way so you pushed his hand away, a little reluctant yourself.

“Now, there is this strange plush creature...”He lifted it from the box.

“Oh, that's my Bulbasaur!” You cried in delight, snatching it from his hands and cradling it in your arms. “What? Yeah, I know it's silly, but I've had this little guy since I was a kid, and he's the perfect size for cuddling.”

“Is...Is that supposed to be a real animal?” He asked in confusion. “Is that something that could actually be encountered?”

“Oh, no way. This is a fantasy animal. It's too bad; I'd love a real Bulbasaur.”

“And this blanket...”

“Nanna Beth made that! I need to send Tara a present after this. Okay that should probably go over the chair, so I can wrap up in it when I'm working, or something.”

Loki draped the blanket over the back of your desk chair; its familiar pattern bringing a real taste of home to the room.

He proudly presented you with the clothes and cheap jewels Tara had sent, placing them in the dresser, and promising to have a jewelry box brought for you. Your books went on your desk, and the music USB went straight into your phone. Then there were all your papers; important identifications, milestones, memories. You had to explain to Loki what high school was, which brought up concerns about Asgardian public education. It existed and was supposedly top quality, but the population of children was currently very low, and most were in apprenticeship right now, while the schools were under construction.

You briefly brought up the idea of adoption, but it made Loki very twitchy. You dropped the subject and he went back to presenting you with your things.

Phil 2 absolutely thrilled you. Such a healthy leaf meant that Original Phil was being well taken care of.

“I'm gonna need a huge pot for this!” You gushed in excitement. “This thing is gonna get really big! Tall as me, easily!”

At the bottom of the box were your calendars. It gave you a good laugh to see them, and Loki's grumbled response just added to your amusement. He desperately tried to prevent you from looking in the new one, and you eventually agreed not to...until he had left. He hung this years calendar up on the wall, flipping to the current month-Banner, in an open lab coat and possibly nothing else-grumbling even more.

“He's not even that handsome!” He huffed.

“He's got a big brain, sometimes that's enough.”

“For a pin-up calendar? Isn't that all about looks?”

You shrugged. “Heroism is sexy.”

Loki harrumphed, cheeks reddening. Considering all the media speculation about him, it was rather unexpected and actually quite endearing to find out how shy and easily scandalized he could be.

Eventually he sat back down next to you.

“Buridag will be in a few months. There will be city-wide celebrations, and we will be building a courthouse, everyone participating, as per your suggestion. We will be allowing the camps into the city, so they might participate as well.”

“Oh wow! That'll be so exciting! I hope I can see Sofie again.”

“You might. This will also be when we will formally announce your appointment to Royal Seidkona. It's important for you to be aware that this will make you royalty yourself.”

“What?”

“It's a formal title. You won't be a princess or anything like that, but you need an elevated title to be able to properly perform your duties. The Buridag festival will double as a formal titling ceremony. Now, I do not expect anyone to take a shot at you in public like that, but just in case, I am having armor altered to fit you. Hold on.”

He hustled out of your room and back with a handful of papers.

“This is what Andsvarr has donated.” He showed you a drawing. “They will fit you well with a little work, and should protect you from most dangers. And this is something I have designed for your head.”

He handed you another drawing. You'd had no idea before this that he could draw at all.

“Loki...Is this a flower crown?”

“Yes. I thought it appropriate, since you seem to like plants. But this will be nornbein and steel, rather than petals and leaves.”

It was a beautiful design. Loki had incorporated several different kinds of blossoms, their petals spread wide to cover as much of your head as possible, the golden nornbein and silvery steel contrasting to give the flowers color. The skullcap and cheek guards were patterned like ferns, and he couldn't help but to add a few jewels here and there, probably very hard and durable ones.

Loki was going to make you into royalty, and he was going to give you a crown.

Wasn't that a dream come true? Why was it so frightening?

“I really don't deserve-”You began, but he cut you off by placing his hand to your cheek again, and leaning in close.

“Please, won't you let me be the judge of that?” He asked softly. “Trust that I know to whom I wish to distribute my gifts and favors.”

“O-okay.” You whispered.

He leaned away, and begin describing a Seidkona's duties to you again, going over things you'd already heard. All you could think about was that, for a moment, it almost seemed again like he was going to kiss you.

For a moment, you were disappointed that he didn't.

[writeawayjake]

WIP Ch. 4.5!!! (I realized if you want someone to redeem a former hero you have to actually show them not being heroic at first so I slipped a chapter in between chapters)

     As they continued trudging down the road Jared’s head began to sink, sleep was trying to take him after the days strain. Sleep didn’t come lately without drink - it was the only way to avoid dreaming. Fighting to keep his eyes open he kept snapping his head back up, but the monotony of the road was beginning to lull him.

     Until there was a sudden stop that is. His forehead bumped Skye’s back as the horse dug in it’s hooves. The jolt forward woke him up somewhat and it brought into focus the sounds up ahead of them - sounds of a struggle. Leaning to one side he tried to see what all the commotion was about. Squinting in the low light he could see several men harassing someone, a merchant no doubt, judging by their cart and fine clothes. The merchant’s cart had lost a wheel and some highwaymen had no doubt smelled an easy payday.

     The Dark Lord’s absence had not reset the world. Men’s hearts were still weak, their bellies still empty, and their knives were still sharp. The power vacuum and the depleted legions had lead to unchecked brigands and highwaymen.

     “This isn’t our problem…” He said, in a cold dead tone. You couldn’t help anyway, you’re not a hero. The voice assured him.

     “Of course it’s our problem, how could you say that?” She asked incredulously.

     “Someone else will come along.” He replied meekly.

     “You should be ashamed of yourself…” Skye said, stepping out of the saddle, their mother’s ire in her eyes. The shame paralyzed him in the saddle as she strode purposefully toward the fracas. Even in the dull light he could see her hand move to the handle of the axe on her belt. Clenching his jaw and swallowing the lump in his throat he let out a frustrated,

     “Damn it,” under his breath. As she made her way closer and closer he flung himself out of the saddle and made his way after her. He’d waited too long however and she made it to the scuffle long before him. Stopping a few yards short of the group, she let out a stern and sharp,

     “Enough!” The entire world seemed to stop in place at the sound of her command. The brigands turned their heads, the traveler cocked an eyebrow, Jared got several very vivid flashbacks of being disciplined with a wooden spoon, as for what the horse thought? No one can say…

     Why did she have to get involved, the voice groaned.

     “Fuuuuck off.” One of the brigands said dismissively - still holding a knife to the merchant’s throat. Jared’s instincts began kicking in, he began evaluating each if member of the group, taking stock of his enemies, weighing his odds and then finding ways to balance them.

     Their leader, while not a particularly large man, at least not compared to the Behemoth, was still taller and broader than Jared. But a close look at his stance, as well as his grip on his knife betrayed him for the amateur he was. He wouldn't take a great deal of effort to see off should the need arise. Ineptitude, however, is a big factor in why cowards travel in packs. You don't need to be a great fighter when you have four other people in your side.

     None of the band stood out as particularly threatening. All were fairly well built, not sickly peasants - men who ate well at the expense of others. Giving them a good thrashing might lift his mood, but for the wrong reasons. That fact shamed him. He knew the helping the merchant was the right thing to do but justifying the effort wasn't easy.   

     Why should he help this man who wasn't willing to help himself. Why should he stick his neck out anymore, he’d done enough hadn't he?

     Soon however he realized it didn't  matter what he thought, Skye was even more stubborn than he was, she wouldn't back down. She matters more, he thought. Knowing that this wouldn’t end well no matter what he did, Jared finally took a deep breath and walked up next to his sister planting his feet in the ground - ready to receive yet another beating.

     As he stood there the light from the merchant's lantern painted her face a fiery orange to match the determined glare in here eyes. He put on a similar face, trying to communicate to them that they’d be better off just running away. But today just wanted to test him for some reason.

     The leader, clearly fed up with their meddling, turned his attention away from the merchant’s throat and began making his way towards them. Swishing his knife around like a wand he snarled,

     “You two really need to mind your own business before I get upset.” Skye didn't bat an eye yet he could see her hand grip the axe just a but tighter. Instinctively Jared’s hand moved for the sword but again it faltered just shy of the hilt. His hand simply hung their trembling. Please. Don't make me draw… He found himself thinking that desperate thought a lot lately.

     “Ha! Look at you! Doesn't matter how fancy your sword is boy. Cowards is cowards…”

     Boy? The voice asked incredulously. The man took another step towards Jared, knife still swishing this way and that, a crooked grin stretching across his face. Jared backed his hand away from the sword and clenched his fist, preparing to plant it in the man's nose, when suddenly, like a flash of lightning a hand darted forward striking the brigand in the throat. A split second later Jared watched as Skye planted her boot in the mans groin, dropping him to his knees. Before he could grasp what was happening she was behind the brigand twisting his arm in what must have been an excruciating direction before breaking it outright and relieving him of the knife.

     Jared stood there, just as dumbfounded as the brigands friends. He knew Skye was a brave woman and that she knew how to protect herself but he'd still never seen his big sister hurt anyone before. At least not in person. He'd hear a rumor here or there, when they were children, that she’d beaten some other girl for one reason or another but he had never been around to see it. And whenever he asked she’d always deny it.

     Knowing now that the odds were in there favor his mood lightened somewhat but he was still alert and at the ready. While the leader lay on the ground screaming in pain his friends started weighing their options and odds.

     Either this one was feeling strong or was especially stupid because he made his way toward the two of them just as his friend had done. Only with much more purpose and hate in his stride.

     “Boy! You best get that little bi-” The brigands threat was cut short by Jared’s hand around his throat. Steely fingers dug into his Adams apple. This was no longer about saving the merchant. Now it was about hurting them.

     “Keep talking,” Jared Snarled, “Keep fucking talking,” Jared growled through his teeth. He could feel the anger swelling, the hate rising.

     “Jared!” Skye barked, just as she had done at the tavern to snap him out of this exact same bloodlust.

     No! Kill the worm!!! You’re defending her honor! The voice screeched in his head. Trying to justify his actions as if they were for her safety and not his own gratification. As hard as he tried to heed her warning he still found his fingers tightening, threatening to rip the brigand’s throat out. Until he let out a weak,

     “...please…” Staring into the poor jackass’s eyes, Jared saw nothing but fear. Not hatred, or violence, or… evil. Just fear. It took him a moment to remember what that felt like, so long had he either yearned for death or been sure the man in front of him wouldn’t be up to the task.

     Jared’s grip loosened, his eyes softened. After a moment he let the man go entirely. The brigand spluttered falling to the ground, holding his throat - small bruises already forming where Jared’s fingers had dug in. Backpedaling on the ground until finally finding his footing the brigand fell into the arms of his stunned friends, never once taking his eyes off of Jared. Jared simply motioned with his chin for them to run. And run they did, disappearing into the forest.

     The merchant, now free of his attackers ran to his young saviors, falling over himself in his clumsy haste.

     “Thank you! Thank you young warrior!” The plump merchant sang.  “I am eternally grateful! If you ever need anything! Wine, clothes, jewelry, anything! Come to town and ask for Whick!”

     “Just fix your cart and be on your way Whick. Get somewhere safe before dark…” Jared replied dryly.

     “Maybe hire some muscle. The roads aren’t safe these days.” Skye added.

     “Yes! Yes I will thank you! Thank you.” And with that, Jared and Skye walked back to the horse in silence. The merchant frantically began working on his cart. Without another word they went their separate ways, the two young travelers looking for somewhere to bed down for the night and the merchant to tell of them to whoever would listen.

[amillingcove-blog]

In Defence of the Draw - Badou Jack vs James Degale

The Draw. The most unlikely, frustrating and derided result in professional boxing. Rarely is this proclamation met with great enthusiasm. Surely one man must be superior to the other. Why sit so dubiously on the fence. In professionalised violence, where subjectivism is the scorers weapon of choice, why impoverish the contest with such an anti-climatic judgement.

Lewis versus Holyfield I offers this argument a great deal of capital. More so, did every other drawn fight which were crudely deemed illegitimate. In truth, bar the most blatant robberies, most drawn fights will produce a reactionary response; especially if you thought your man threw the cleaner punches. If your man looked the more active. If your boy in there took less damage. But these biases often overwrite the analysis of this sport, and as such explain why the concept of a drawn contest is met with such derision.

Many in Brooklyn on Saturday night called the fight one way of the other. In ode to every great misappropriation of the scores, no draw is celebrated; rather people fret in expectancy of it. Nor in fact does any true boxing enthusiast confidently call it. They fear its existence. People disdainfully dread the possibility of those scorecards getting shared evenly. But the fight on Saturday night, and more acutely the result, should come very close to being celebrated.

The reformation of boxing, which must strike against the stench of illegitimacy, is fuelled by fights like Jack versus Degale. Without resorting to sentiment or appearing mawkish, bouts fought in the manner of Saturday night’s main event are a testament to why this sport can be so absorbing. Yes, admittedly the contest was looked upon dubiously beforehand. And as such exceeded expectations. But the fight was also thrillingly unpredictable, as such it ebbed and flowed in either direction a multitude of times. A tale of two knockdowns, numerous frenetic exchanges and closely fought rounds.

Degale struck early, a first round knock down that, whilst appeared quite benign, did provide great impetus for the first three to four rounds. You were cautiously optimistic that James Degale, besotted by mediocre performances against Bute and Medina, would rise to the elite level expected of him. But the frustration present in those aforementioned fights were founded upon Degale’s inability to capitalise upon early gains. And following this worrying blueprint, he began to drop in the mid range of this fight. Credit of course must be distributed to Jack. Who, after his own unimpressive display against Bute, was able to offer some cutting moments across rounds five through to nine. For me, Degale always offered more stylistic combinations, and even within these rounds he lost he often appeared the slicker fighter. But in testament to the new, mid-fight New York medical checks, Jack was clearly offering the more severe punishment.

The oddity of this fight was that Degale appeared to compose himself in its latter stages. Moreover, his physical conditioning looked superior to Jack’s. But in ode to every cliche ever written in any final round; one or two combinations do change contests. And so they proved to, as Jack unknowingly entered the final round two points down. His knockdown of Degale was fashioned from the same brutality that took Degale’s front tooth out mid-fight. It left therefore a frantic final 90 seconds, the knockdown had punctured Degale, but he refused to be flattened. An indicative reminder that, whilst often viewed under suspicion, the IBF world champion is a raw pugilist. A technically elite boxer, but a fighter nonetheless.

The stoicism of both competitors was one admirable platitude that could be deduced from a typically weak post-fight set of interviews. The Draw, a centrifugal point within the conversation of Degale, Jack and a flustered Floyd Mayweather. They of course poured scorn upon the result, each dissecting its alleged illegitimacy in an expectantly rushed manner. The adrenaline surging through James Degale in particular was striking. We now arrive at the final crux of the draw in professional combat. The respectful, yet ardent criticism of the result. Yet interestingly whilst both fighters were able to thrust semi-compelling arguments for their own cause. Only one pestered the other for another wager. James Degale, imploring one the Greatest of all time, Floyd Maywether Jr, to drag his fighter to London this summer for a rematch. Hardly a toothless proposition.

But it appears Jack is ready to depart the Super Middleweight division. He has attempted to comply to Degale’s demands, but many expert eyes within the fight game look upon it as mere talk. Under Hayman and flagged by Mayweather, Jack must now commodify his brash approach within boxing. There’s no room at this point in his career for repeating history.

Contrary to this disposition, it is argued all draws should be settled eventually. Lennox Lewis, for me the greatest boxer to fight under the Union flag, beat every man put in front of him. He successfully avenged both losses, and that criminal draw inflicted upon him by Holyfield. It makes me consider whether that draw, in New York 18 years ago, is the only of those results that still stifles Lewis. Rahman and McCall were inferior technicians that caught Lewis in fluxes of his own vulnerability. The draw though, the draw wrongly incarcerated Lewis for eight months, until he was mercifully able to seek redemption.

Thankfully this stalemate does not have to be dragged through the formal entities of the WBC or IBF. I would adore each fighter to settle upon a rematch. But the most pragmatic proposition for each fighter suggests we will never see it. Degale can now visualise a series of highly ranked British fighters fresh through his optic lens. Groves in another unification, Smith for a maximum payday or even Eubank Jr. The future of Badou Jack is admittedly more blurry. His ability to fight in the same realm as Ward, Kovelev and Stevenson must be questioned. But Jack does look more capable of fighting at 175 than Degale; and the economics might just affirm this bold career move.

Nevertheless, the fight on Saturday night fully deserved the scores given. An odd exclamation considering both sides reluctance to accept the draw. But as denoted, the draw should not be feared. The bookies are not the only constituent which carry the right to celebrate a drawn contest. Ok, there is no closure to the fight. We dwell sheepishly on what could of happened. But critically, we can also appreciate what did happen, as well. What happened on Saturday night was a terrific bout took place, one fought with a sense of gusto we are too quick to decry the sport often lacks. Its only problem was that it was a little too close to call.