Bullshit., n. slang; vulgar
/ ˈbu̇l-ˌshit /
“What can you offer me?” He asked me the moment I had gathered my courage to approach him.
I raised any eyebrow at him. “Offer?”
He shook his head as he appraised me. “Do you have riches? Fame? Influence? Brains, perhaps? No?” He fired at once when he saw my clueless expression. “Then what shall I benefit from your companionship?”
My eyebrows were furrowed as I silently studied him. “A friend,” I whispered.
“Friend?” he scoffed. “And what makes you think that a god- much less a prince- needs a friend like you? A lowly mortal who neither has riches nor fame nor anything to benefit from. What makes you think you deserve my companionship?”
There was a dangerous glint in his eyes. I should tremble in fear. After all, the Avengers left for a mission (thanks a lot, guys. Leave a mortal to Loki-sit, will ya?) and this is the first time I’ve encountered the infamous god who destroyed New York.
I should fear him but why does it feel like there’s more to this guy than his massive god complex?
Why do I suddenly have the urge to whack him in the head like I did to those who weren’t telling the truth?
“I...”
His words sting, like a lot but why am I compelled to stand my ground?
“Leave, you’ve no use to me.”
I should have taken the out he gave me. I should have just left him alone since he’s all douche-y and he might stab me. (Thor did warn me about his stabby nature, again, thanks a lot!)
A heartbeat had passed. (and yes, I will regret this when this is over)
“That’s bullshit,”
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