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[When Peter's worn himself down to sleep soundly, sleep soundly he does. After the extensive partying on the fifteenth and a little bit of drunken clean up after midnight, he passed out for a good chunk of the following morning and slept like a rock. A rock that is now stirring, face down in the bedding and groaning from the lightest headache that still lingers in his skull - distracting him when he blinks open his eyes and lifts up his head to a blurred room.

In time he would've noticed the sheer amount of natural light blinding him from one wall meant this is not and could not possibly be the bedroom he holes away in in his mother's basement; but what clues him in instead is the tangle of limbs. His first thought is to whisper 'Wanda, get out' before he realizes the back he's pawing at is not that of a sleep-walking, telepathic sister. It's a dude. It's a dude? It's a dude.]

Wh - Wh!

[He almost flips backward in his haste to get away, sliding off the edge of the bed with a shout and a hard pull on the thin cotton sheet that is the only thing hiding any of their modesty. He lands on the floor, wide eyed and crawling backwards before he notices said lack of modesty - lack of clothes and shouts louder as he tries to cover himself with something because she sheet's tangled around his ankles.

Luckily for him, Rootbeer waltzes in and a seventeen year old Peter Maximoff is not above grabbing a dog as using her to hide his dick as he stands up; a furry bouquet held in front of him while panic still screeches through his head like a breaking record. This isn't his house. This isn't his house. Who is this? Whose dog is this?

He looks down at her:] S-Stop trying to lick my arm, dog. It's weird right now.

[ It's been a long, long time since Owain has woken up to a morning like this one. There are birds - he can hear them just outside the window as he blearily hovers in and out of consciousness, the soft rustling of wings and all those gentle whistles easing him out of sleep. He can't smell smoke, he can't smell death, it's all just - quiet. Warm. He thinks he must be dreaming, made all the more sure of this by the warm body at his back, the sounds of cars and traffic lights and sirens so unfamiliar to the world he came from.

Whoever's behind him is nudging at his shoulderblades enough to stir him awake - he fights it as best as he can, but soon the sheets are being pulled off of him and he's waking up stark naked and dizzy, clinging to his mattress and groaning like one of the Risen. He sits up and blearily lets himself adjust to the world around him, breath caught in his throat, and finds himself eye-level with--

Wow, what a well-placed dog. ]

Wha... what? What are...

[ His eyes drift up and he sees Peter looking down at him, tall and silver-haired and rocking a fucking amazing aesthetic. Owain doesn't really know what to do, at first, other than stare - but he does what he always does when confronted by someone strong and scary who apparently hid away in his bedroom overnight. He panics. ]

In-intruder?! [ Bolting to his feet, Owain stumbles backwards and reaches for his belt, grabbing at his sword and panicking when it isn't there. Even when he sleeps naked, he usually keeps at least a dagger holstered on his thigh - being this bare is terrifying, and Owain blindly slaps his hand in the air behind him until he finds something he can wield on the bedside table beside him. It's shaped like a big, pink dick and it buzzes when he presses the button, which, of course, he absolutely 100% presses. He brandishes the wild, vibrating cock at the stranger in his bed with reckless abandon, eyes wide and hand shaking. ]

The-- this-- foul beast! To try and slay he of insurmountable anguish, Owain Dark, at the deepest depths of his most vulnerable, sleepy depthy sleep-depths-- death comes for he who calls, and with this... s-sword, I-- I'll ring that bell! For you! I'll ring your bell! To call death!

[ wait ]

Wait?

[ wait ]

Wait.

[ Owain waggles the dildo. ]

... Wait, I can do better than that. I just woke up, I'm not-- fuck, okay, hold on. Give me a second?

[At first he's just as shocked and surprised, taking a half step backward with dark eyes wide and silvery brows shoot up. The person before him is lithe and handsome, dark hair a mess and still utterly contrary to him in a way that fits like a glove. Silver to black, like the stars to a night sky. He flinches when Odin swings toward him something but once it just sways between them, a glittery pink cock, he drops his gaze to it silently and in awe.]

Is that - is that a dick?

[Peter stares at it as it continues to buzz and then scowls, feeling protective of the small animal who is too close too his junk and whose tail sways up against his thigh and makes him panic-gasp and toss her away to a pile of pillows on the floor. 'Not around-' he feels compelled to say, realizing he doesn't know her name, even if he feels he somehow should. Dropping her has the downside of leaving him completely naked again and after realizing that, his eyes droop down even further to his own junk - and he flushes with color before silently reaching to tear the sheet up off the bed and hold a corner of it over him with as much dignity as he can.]

Your name's Owain Dark? That's pretty cool. I'm Peter. Why are we naked together? You remember anything about that? Annny reason why?

[The dick dildo buzzes and his stomach feels clenched.]

Annnnny at all?

[ Peter drops his eyes to the stunning, phallic broadsword gripped so tenderly betwixt his calloused and war-weary fingers, and Owain misinterprets where he's looking. Is that a dick, Peter asks, and Owain drops his eyes between his legs to find his own thirsting love-muscle swinging pendulously within the jailed confines of his well-toned thighs. It is a dick. This is, indeed, a dick. ]

Oh - um. S-sorry.

[ He covers himself up with the dildo, which really doesn't help, though he's stunned by the similarities between both raging dragons. This toy is-- a copy, almost. A clone of his own cock, lovingly crafted, a silicone doppelganger. Owain frowns, another piece of the puzzle vexing him anew. Why did he wake up naked with this dude, his erection born into this world through a magenta reflection, pulled from a glassy, mirrored universe like a sworn drawn from the center of a sacred lake? This doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense.

He's confused all through the dog-tossing and the dick-exposure, right up until Peter calls him cool. Nobody - nobody thinks he's cool? He's never been complimented for his name, not like that. He smiles and lets his guard down, then realizes, well - clothes. He should cover up, if Peter is. He drops the Vibratosword and grabs one of the pillows from the bed, holding it in front of his lap and figuring, for now, that that's good enough. The mesh-wearing sorcerer has always been a part of him. ]

Um - no. I mean - I have ideas, but my ideas aren't ever normally... I mean, people don't come to me for ideas. I don't usually say the right - ideas? Or reasons. For things. So... I don't...

I don't know. Maybe. I think I have ideas, but I probably don't. Is my point. And - oh, yeah. Yes? Yes. I'm Owain. Daaaaaark. Owain Dark. Dark... Owain. Scion of... H-- I have a whole thing? A whole introduction. We'll circle back.

[Pretending like he's covered enough by the sheets, Peter's more red with each passing second; it's hard not to catch a fleeting glance (which for Peter is more than enough to completely scope something,) of Odin's dick. He covers it with a pillow but it's not something simply closing his eyes will unburden his mind with, and it makes Peter squirm in a way he's wholly unfamiliar with. He looks down at the dildo as it buzzes away on the bed and hesitates, giving a false start before he reaches for it and tries to turn it off. Failing for a few seconds and looking. Alarmed at the intensity as it buzzes harder by mistake.

He ends up throwing it away, to make disturbing grinding noises up against a bookshelf and looks around the floor for actual clothing. He sort of dreamed that if he ever woke up from a one night stand it'd be all splayed out, telling a real story. A heterosexual story, but hey - life's full of surprises. He doesn't really find anything, at least until he pokes through a dresser and starts pulling out items.]

I'm just Peter. Peter Maximoff? I don't have... any cool kinda name, or anything. At least nothing that sounds as cool as Scion of - what? Scion of what? Don't leave me hanging. Also, uh. Here?

[He throws a pair of neon pink briefs at Odin in his search for boxers; finding only mesh, glitter and glitz. And a variety of other sexual aids that he just sort of shuts the drawer on and immediately just skips to finding pants. He points behind Odin in a very pass me those? kind of way while trying to still shield his junk.]

I'm doing pretty well right now at containing my anxious freak out but like, can we finish introductions once we're dressed or like. Something? I'm still so...

[He looks at his hand like it's a foreign entity; the band on his finger making him suddenly pale. He flexes said fingers before dropping them back to his side, dark gaze frantically looking around. He still doesn't recognize this place. This isn't his basement, this isn't his home, why isn't he at home?]

I feel like I'm on the butt end of a joke, pretty fuckin' literally.

[ It's - strange, maybe, how innately comfortable he feels. Peter grabs at the dildo on the bed and Odin's caught between laughing like an idiot and trying to shield his eyes behind his hand, red-cheeked and nervous but ultimately - thrilled? Weirdly thrilled. He's so used to running and fighting and war and death and pain, and out of nowhere comes this stupidly bright, funny prettyboy, tilting everything he knows to the point that he feels delirious and giddy and new. Maybe he's dreaming, maybe he died. He's not letting go of this.

Peter Maximoff. Odin likes that name. He gasps and catches the briefs with both hands, dropping the pillow, reflexively trying to grab it before it falls and, of course, failing. This is starting to feel less and less surreal, which makes him feel more and more embarrassed about being exposed, so he slips on his briefs with only a few awkward staggers and half-hops back to the pile of clothes stacked up behind them. ]

Um, okay. We can wait. Scion of Heroes, though, if you were... if you didn't want to be. Left hanging? Left hanging like-- like our...

[ Dicks. He exhales. Hoo boy.

He rummages through and finds pants for Peter, just black and cotton and easy, pairing them with a band t-shirt and passing them his way. There's no armor here, no weaponry, though there are a few foil pants and reflective jackets that look like they might be made of metal - the outfit Odin ends up finding for himself is pretty basic, or at least the shirt is, and he tops it all off with pink sneakers that are clearly, judging from how scuffed and worn down they are, his favourite. ]

You think this is a joke, though? It doesn't feel like a joke to me. I mean - [ what does he mean. ]

It feels - I don't know. Exciting? Don't you feel excited? Waking up somewhere new, surrounded by a peaceful existence and a fluffy dog. It's like - an adventure, only it doesn't feel like anybody died to get us started.

I guess...

[He starts to say before just taking the pants, putting them on one leg at a time at a normal pace; knowing he could dress himself hastily but not really trusting his body not to somehow zip up over his dick with how foreign his body feels when the world around him settles in to a crisper picture. Their clothes come from the same piles, fitting like gloves; they're waking up in a bed in the midst of a room tailored at least half to his taste, with a spectacular view of a city he can't recognize. It smells good here too? A mix of - well, sweat and skin and something musty.

It smells like day old sex. Or is he imagining that? Fantasizing that.

Odin's outfit - isn't helping, but Peter's fastened his jeans and pauses while threading on his shirt, feeling scrawny in comparison. His ribs show when he slides the shirt over his head, muscle flexing beneath thin milky white skin - because fat just won't stick to his beanpole of a growing body. Ten more years on him helps a little, but he still stays lean.]

I guess I kinda always wanted the adventure of waking up in bed, Vegas Style with a stranger. I don't... I don't remember yesterday? Or what should've been yesterday - something happened between us and I wanna know what it was but I just. I feel like I know more than I remember. Do you - get that?

[He's talking fast, too fast, as he scrubs his hands through his hair and makes it a messier mess of silver. Blows a strand away from his eyes, brows furrowed as he tries to state what he means a bit more clearly. Struggles, fails, parting his lips and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. Blushing again.]

And we did stuff. Right? We - We had to've, like. Done stuff?

[ I guess isn't very encouraging, but he's not sure what he expected, given that even beautiful boys with silver hair and eyes like the night are probably less acquainted with travelling through space and time than he is. Odin scratches at his arm and tries not to be too obvious as he watches Peter slip his shirt over his head, still red and still optimistically uneasy, his blush standing out so brightly against fair skin and black hair. He's not as built as he will be in a few years, but he's lived his life training his body like an instrument; he's built but he's gangly, he's ripped but he's awkward. Too young to fight but too old not to. ]

I don't-- I don't know what Vegas Style is? I'm just happy to, uh. Wake up somewhere nice. I kind of get the feeling your home isn't the same as my home? You don't really look like you're a fighter. Not to say that you don't look-- good, because-- I mean, obviously I think you do, if we-- did-- done... stuff. The stuff that you're... asking... if we did. Which I think-- we did? We had to have-- I mean, we're naked. We...

[ Oh, boy. Odin trails off and rubs at his eyes, waving one hand carelessly through the air to sort of wrap up the section of conversation where he has to use words like a normal human being. Peter asked him if he feels like he should know more about this place than he does, and that's a better thing to focus on than all the horribly inappropriate and poorly timed thoughts about Peter's tight, freckle-dotted body. He looks around the apartment and he sees so many things that feel like he'd kill to own - a rainbow sword, nailed to the wall. A suit of armor made of pink satin that despite the flowing fabric still somehow holds its form, no doubt due to someone's excellent craftsmanship. The dog, obviously. ]

I - yeah? Yeah. I feel relaxed here. Normally, Owain Dark struggles to survive against the violent push and pull death tortures him with through horrible days and restless nights. The curse within my aching sword hand rages with a thirst for blood I can rarely ever control, but here, the darkness within me is - quelled. Silent. I feel - I don't know.

[ he struggles to find the word, finally noticing the ring on his finger. he twists it in place, frowning. this isn't lissa's. ]

Home? Maybe. Which doesn't make sense, because my home is this big royal palace, and it's super destroyed.

Peter Maximoff just kinda wonders where his mom is, because he's probably going to get yelled at for not coming home again.

[He's fast to mirror and adopt the third person style of commenting, not blinking an eye as he assimilates to it. Is it supposed to be weird or annoying? He just kind of pops his brows up before finding his eyes back on Odin, like there's nothing else around as interesting to look at. Which is a lie, because there clearly is, but this kid feels like a magnet for his attention.

Stuff. They did stuff. He's still hung up on that and starting to rock on the heels of his feet, fidgeting with a flare of anxiety and energy to match the quick way he talks and the drumming of his fingers against his thigh. He can't shake the heat in his face, this awkward embarrassment over the idea of fooling around with someone - anyone - not just a guy. That adds another fumbling layer of added inexperience, making him rub his nose and dart away from making eye contact a few times. If you look down, you may notice he's suddenly wearing sneakers; that happened in a flash, a nervous flash and a ruffle of his hair.]

Are you like, rich? Or - like, royal? Are you royal like, like what. A prince? That's pretty cool 'cause I've never met one before. Owain Dark's a pretty cool name? You use a sword, too? Cool. I just. I don't? But like, I can admire that.

[He says that last bit while looking down at his empty hands again, palms upward.]

How much stuff do you think we did?

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