Please. If I get anything, it'll be knives on my feet, and then you can call me the Cassowary.

[...what? Sam likes birds, he knows things about them. And while falcons are much cooler-looking than cassowaries, the latter are birds you definitely don't fuck with.

Sam reaches around to his back, rubbing the salve on the sore skin. It's mostly healed by now, but being under the weight of the harness all day makes it tender.]

Is this my appointed slot of Loki-bothering time?