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"Y-You wh-wh-wh-what?" Ava has seen Odin in all shades of pink, red, a few white, and even a few shades of green, namely, when he'd been mixing drinks. But she'd never seen him turn mauve.

"I........... bought... a strap-on."

A long pause stretches between them. Ava begins to mentally construct a list of nearby buildings from which to fling herself off of.

Odin seems to be regaining proper control of his lungs, a wheeze at a time.

"J-Jeez, Ava. Buy me d-dinner first."

"We're married, Odin."

Odin blinks, as if in surprise, and then a smile breaks across his face. "Oh y-yeah." He says, casting a glance at the little bronze key lying at his chest. 

Ava felt the weight of her own key, shiny and iron and square, on hers, and couldn't help but smile back at him, tucking a strand of her red hair behind her ear, as she reached over to Odin, to stroke a thumb on Odin's key. 

Odin had wanted rings, at first. But Ava remembered the weight of tradition, of a legacy that was not hers but had been flung onto her regardless, and she had said, 'No. Something for us, and us alone.'

The moment lingered, between them, as they met eye to eye, red to purple, and smiled with little happy breaths huffing out of them, white teeth showing, cheeks crinkled. 

Ava's tongue licked her dry upper lip, and Odin's eyes followed the motion. 

"... Strap-on?" She asked, head pulled back with awkwardness. Odin blinked, breathed through his nose, and said, 

"Strap-on." And began to, for lack of a better word, twiddle with his thumbs. 

And Ava went rosy, and she began to bluster, and rise from her seat, "I-It was a bad idea anyways! I'll—I'll return it—It's not used so I think someone else could—"

"No." He shook his head, still not looking at her. "I-I—I mean—I've never—U-um, but, but we—W-we could—"

Ava stared, and then nodded her head, and rubbed at her eyes, to get the morning grit out. 

"I'm not a-against the idea. I-I. U-Um, actually, when a, a while ago, I, I-I saw a funny video, and, and saw it, and I-I thought a-about you, and, and—"

She could imagine it. Could imagine him watching some skits, as he usually did, and hearing about it. Could imagine all noise and the world tuning out, as Odin's most shameful ally told hold. Could imagine his eyes lidding, his breath going funny, and then his face going bright and ruddy. They had odd tastes, the both of them. Why else would they choose each other, broken messes that they both are? 

"That's hot." She said, dumbly, with an equally dumb grin on her face. Odin made a bark of laughter, and then made a great sigh, and rubbed his face with those square, calloused hands. Nothing in the world felt better then those fingers running along her skin, or scratching at her scalp like she was a great big cat. 

"R-Right?" And then they both made breathless little giggles, more than a little embarrassed at the shared ball of warmth at their bellies. And then Odin beckoned her closer, and she did, shuffling over with her fluffy bunny slippers. He slung an arm around her waist, and pulled her close. His face was against the soft silk at her belly, and she could feel his breath on her skin, just between the gaps between the buttons. And then he pulled back, just a bit, and pressed a kiss against her, and looked up at her, with big blue eyes so dark they looked purple, and her lip went a little shaky. 

"I'll s-see you later t-tonight then, y-yeah?" He says, her sweet, sweet husband, with his hair sticking out in all directions as he'd not run a comb through it yet, the buttons on his pyjamas all wrong, showing a sliver of skin where, by design, there ought to be only cloth. 

"Y-Yeah." She answered, nervousness eating her alive. The sun was shining, the toaster binged, and she felt the warm arms of Odin Ire release her, and yearned for a world where all the two of them had to do was lay in bed together and love one other. 

But, sadly, bills. 



When the question of last names was posed to Odin Arrow, he began to think. The Arrows were a dark, dark, dark family. A family of pitch and ichor and of dust, of old, dead, rotting things. There was no good, happy family legacy for them. If, when Odin died, the rest of the Arrows died out, the world would not suffer for it. His ancestors had no right to taint Ava with an eon-old curse, a curse of two syllables, a curse that had, once upon a time, taken everything that Odin knew and loved. 

Ava Ire has had so very much taken from her. So very, very much. She did not deserve to have her name taken from her, too. And when the suggestion comes rolling off Odin's tongue, one cold, winter eve, where all of the space heaters have been taken out and are beginning to whine, Ava stares. And she stares, and stares, and her chest hitches, her eyes crinkle, and she leaps up, and holds him tight. All her life, things have been taken from her. She has never had a thing to call her own except for her misery and pain and hot hot tears. But now she has this beautiful, beautiful man for herself, all for herself, and she finds herself not minding the selfishness of it all. 

And that's how the last Arrow died on a modest wooden alter, and another Ire joined the world. 



The evening had come, kicked the afternoon in the junk, and had sent it skittering away to the morning to tattle. The door opened with a great big thud, Ava swayed at the door, and then thumped the door behind her. She stood, swayed a little more, with her eyes half-lidded, and gave a great big sigh as she shuffled into the living room, dropped on the couch, and thought about going to sleep there and then. 

And then a head of black hair peeked from the kitchen, and she found sleep to be far away from her thoughts, now. 

"Oh h-hey." He says, spatula in hand and a pale purple apron on him, stained with god knows what. Ava eased out of her tight flats, threw her weight forward in order to be able to stand, and slumped, a step at a time, towards him. 

The stove was suspiciously clean, and the food looked suspiciously edible. She cast a questioning glance up—And he looked away, a little pink up high on his cheeks—And she followed his gaze to the trash can, where an empty can of readymade soup lay crushing a pile of mysterious, and now likely toxic, black and brown charred something. 

Guilt made Odin Ire look like a morose puppy, or something similar to that end. 

Ava made a weak smile, patted his back, and said, "Better luck next time, Odin." 

Ever since getting popular enough to be able to pursue independent work fulltime, Odin has found himself all alone, with a lot of spare time, in a house that was still as alien to him as science is to uncovering the divine. And with Ava going fulltime, too, he had been wracked with guilt, day in, and day out, until Ava had sighed and messed about in the cupboards until she found her old recipe book. 

It was a work in progress, certainly. But at least he hadn't exploded the microwave, now. 

Odin still stared at the trash can, eyebrows tilted up. Ava's next breath was more resigned, now, and her hand moved down to pinch at the curve of his ass. He yelped, spun round, stared with big betrayed eyes, until she said, "Stop moping, and let's eat. Chef Boyardi, Chef Odin, I don't mind." 

"Fine." He said, laughter making his face shine bright even in the dim light of their crappy kitchen. 

With their bellies stuffed, and today's bitching out of Ava's gut, there was a few moments where all they did was merely stare at each other. Odin still had vermillion smudged on his cheek, and her hands still smelled of latex. Ava's right hand was laying in the palm of his left, and his thumb was smoothing over her knuckles, the movement rubbing out some of the lingering rage from her heart. 

Ava was going in to finish her glass of lime water, when Odin, with his spare hand, pulled up something pink and shiny—And the water propelled out of her mouth, and she coughed into her fist, eyes bulging, feeling rather like a giant fruit. He was dangling her Amazon-bought pink and chrome strap-on like it was just another rag, and not, not—

"Jesus Christ Odin, what a way to break the ice." 

"That's wh-what I d-do best." And then they both flinched at the mention of their past... misadventures with ice. 

"So... wh-what do you say?" He asks, head on his palm, the strap-on dangling by a pointing finger. He's grinning, his eyes are bright, and he's oozing with confidence and smugness. But the hand up against hers is taut, and tight. 

She reaches under, and squeezes his larger hand with hers. "Yes. That's what I say. Yes." The tips of his ears are a pink-red hue, and he coughs into his fist to hide his embarrassment. 

They dump the dishes in the sink, and then, with Odin casting lingering glances back at it, they go back, and Odin washes, while Ava dries and tucks away. Odin may have a lacking ability in cooking—But his urge to clean, and nest, have always been around, and slams right into their weekends when he decides that 8 am is a good time to start vacuuming the ceiling. 

"It was b-beneath me." He said, once, while they were lying in bed, when Ava simply wasn't in the mood and all Odin wanted to do was keep on reading his book. "I never had to do it. A-And when I d-did, it... It was m-m, m-mono, m-mononono, m-m—Yeah. And th-that was nice. Simple. Routine." It was stability, went unsaid. 

And with a visible weight off his chest at the sparkling sink, Ava takes Odin by a wet, water-wrinkled hand, and leads him into the kitchen. And then she appraises him, lavender, dirty apron and thick wool socks and all, and says, "That simply won't do." And then he steps closer, puts his fingers on her blouse, pops open a button, raises an eyebrow, and parrots, 

"That simply won't do." And she rolls her eyes even as she reaches to tug down her pantyhose, side shimmying to the cabinets. 

It's a bit silly, to grab new clothes which she'll immediately slide out of but—But today's a night just for the two of them. And that means being able to do dumb, stupid things, for the sheer sake of them. She grabs her things, scrambles to the bathroom, even as she hears Odin rustle around in the wardrobe for his things. She's down to just her underwear when her hand ghosts over her legs—Her bristly, unshaven legs. 

And she stares, then bites her lip, and yells, "Want me to shave?" 

And, of course, he hollers, "What?"

And she, loud enough to make the neighbours hear, likely, yells, "Want me to shave?!?"

A pause. A shuffle. "Nah." He pipes, and goes back to shuffling. 

Her work clothes are on the floor, and so is this day's underwear. The.. Lingerie? Nightrobe? Thing, that they bought last Christmas stares back at her, and so is her face, sallow and with light bags under them. She pulls down on her eye, and her lips perk up in that despairing, semi-smile those of the Caucasian race make. 

She thinks, for a long time, even as Odin knocks on the door, and goes, "What's u-up?" 

She decides that today isn't a very special day, and all she does is add a smattering of bright red lipstick, before opening the door to her concerned husband, going, "Oh, just nothing." As she beams at him with white teeth. 

"H-Hold still." He says, outstretched a forefinger, and she has to retract that previous thought when that finger rubs against her teeth, and the finger comes back tinged red. And then he steps back, looks at her, really looks at her, and she can see the breath rush out of him. 

Chef Boyardi might not be a good long-term plan. The lingerie, flowy and silky and a light, dainty pink, clings tightly to her form. Not as much at the belly, where the semitranslucent fabric gives a bare impression of decency—But bad for her thighs, where the garter squeezes her thigh tight, causing the flesh on either side to swell up. 

She stares down, and all she can find is imperfection. "U-Um—Should I—Should I—" She begins, and then she's stopped the moment Odin Ire, the massive brute he is, decides to lift her up by the waist as if she's a sack of potatoes, and drops her on the bed, the bed dipping with his weight a moment later.

"What—Odin—I could have just stepped—" And then his beard is up against her thigh, his lips are kissing at her sensitive, sun-kissed skin, and the words die in her mouth as an inelegant, "Oooh," sound. Her hands reach up to grab at the hair on the back of his head, and he makes a faint 'Mmm.' sound into her skin, causing shivers to run up her spine. 

His kisses linger by her thighs, before pressing to her ticklish underbelly, and as he makes care to stray by her stretch marks, long, ugly things that had been horrible leftovers from teenagehood, she can't help but, with her fingers threaded through his fluffy, dark hair, giggle. 

"I kn-know I'm bad, but sheesh, A-Ava, way to bring a guy down." Odin says, chin hidden under her belly, with only his bright, mischevious pearlescent teeth on display. 

Just to shut him up, she gently patted his head. He pushed her further up the bed—Just so that he'd no longer have to lie with his ass up in the air like a cat in heat. Ava clicks her tongue in fake dismay, and just for her cheekiness, he bites her for it. Ava yelps, and goes a little pink—But then Odin kisses it all better, looking up with his face a wonderful, flushed smirk. 

There is a very long moment where all they do is lie like this—Odin looking up at her, clad in those ribbons and straps of the hue of a night sky that he'd been given as a not-so gag gift by a rosy faced Gil, with her lying comfortable and secure, which his weight on top of her, like a warm, fleshy blanket. In fact, even as she closes her eyes to blink, she finds them to stay closed for a moment too long—And blinks back to reality when she feels what can only be described as someone blowing a raspberry on her belly. "Odin." Comes the reflex scold, and she finds an utterly unrepentant little devil staring back at her. 

Her eyes crawl towards the ceiling, and the look in them can't be described as anything but pleading. Her lips mouthing familiar words—O Father, that art in Heaven—"Drama q-queen." He mutters, and Ava can't help the sudden laugh that bubbles out of her. 

When his hand reaches up, to softly knead at the flesh of her upper ass, does she seemingly remember that they're here, in bed, dressed like pornstars for a reason. "Oh shit, yeah." And Ava feels very dumb at that moment. 

"I-It's okay, babe." He says, reaching up, and trying, but failing, to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. Only when he shuffles up her body a little more does he manage to reach, letting out a great big huff in the process. "We c-can... Not, if you want?" And Ava does think about it—She is tired. But. But is there a day when she isn't tired, now? This is how things are going to be, for the next while, unfortunately. 

And then Ava's hands reach down to clamp down on his shoulders, and as he owlishly blinks, she eases him flat onto the bed, with her thighs sidling up to press on either side of him, knees tucked into his armpits. And then her hands slide to cup at his face, a face that's all angles and flatness, all scruff and handsome, male beauty—And she can't help but feel a little bit like a great big lazing worm in his presence. But she toughs the bout of insecurity out, and says, "No—I want to—I want to." And she waits for him to answer, but all he does in her hands is make a big nod, that can't be mistaken for anything else but consent. 

Her face cracks in two, with a giddy, giddy little smile, her forehead presses against the ruddy skin of his neck, and she can feel the jerking heaving of his breath, as she presses her face into her husband, merely, merely—Happy. A hand reaches up, to pet at her course, slightly oily hair, and then she rears back up, making a great big inhale—"Right. Right." She says, back straight, staring forward, resolute

"I don't know wh-whether to feel d-d-delighted or h-horrified that you have this ex-expression on you when you're a-about to stick a d-disco stick up my a-a-a-ass." She's not sure if it's sarcasm or nervousness—The lines tend to be blurred with Odin, at times, so she shushes him, as she reaches over to the bedside cabinant—At some point, someone's brought the strap on onto it, and while she grabs it and puts it closer to them, so it'll be more on hand, she first opens a drawer, pulling out a neat little bottle of lube, and a pink wrapped condom, that she is very suspicious of, at first, and has to hold it up to the light and see the expiration date to check if it's still alright. 

There's a moment where she stares at everything—A little confused as to where to start—So Odin, bless him, says, "I don't think p-putting on the strap-on with lubey fingers w-would work." And, well, that she has to give to him. She doesn't imagine it would. So that first, after all. 

This ought to be simple. So when she's hit minute 5, as she's fumbling with it—She finds Odin can't merely look on anymore, wincing, and offers another pair of hands, to help. And it's only the two of them, with an instruction booklet in hand, that manage to figure the magic of the strap-on out. And now it sits comfortably against the concave part of her hips, the straps sitting snugly, if oddly around her, but of course the most jarring thing for the both of them is the actual, well, fuck-mechanism itself. It's a total of 8 inches in length, and featureless and pink. There were, of course—Fleshier, more realistic options—But just looking at the pictures was enough to make her feel mortified. The real thing would simply scare the daylights out of them both. 

She probes it, by poking the tip, and watching the silicone spring back, like an actual, albeit skinned erection. Oh god that's not good mental imagery. 

She looks back up at Odin—Who's looking at the thing with something like dawning horror on his face. But the fact that she can see the crotch of his.. ribbons, tenting, means that even if on an intellectual basis the thing is horrifying, on—On a more primal basis, he doesn't mind it one bit. Nor does she, she finds, something low in her belly beginning to burn at the thought of—All of this. 

"Prepare to get fucked, Odin Ire. Like the bitch that you are." Slips out, and the both of them look stunned at each other—And then Odin, the bastard, leans his head against the pillow and howls with laughter, the sound high and surprised, and Ava goes red at both his ungodly cheek and whatever it just was that came out of her mouth. 

"O-O-O-Oh Ava, oh my god, do you—Do you want to k-k-k-kill me?" And because he can't let anything go, he just carries on laughing at her expense, to the point where she gets tired of it, gets onto her haunches, and decides to just smack his lower chin with the strap-on. And he flinches, startled, and then he sees it, sees her huffy, cross-armed expression—And laughs just the little bit more, because, of course, of course. 

Ava is beginning to feel rather horrible about this.  "Shut." She goes, one last, feeble attempt at reinstating control. Odin's hand rises to smother his own giggles, and he nods, miming complacency. 

She shuffles back to his waist, and, with Odin's help, places one of his long, hairy legs over her shoulders, just to make the entire process easier. It feels like heaving around a great big log. The sacrifices she makes for good sex. 

Making sure to generously lube up her tan, stubby fingers, she presses a kiss to Odin's tense knee, saying, "Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?" As he gives a jerking nod of his head in response. His eyes seem to be both migrating to the ceiling, as if he's at the doctor's office and about to get his blood drawn, and yet, his eyes are also drawn to her, at work. He makes this tiny little 'eep' noise when she penetrates him with a forefinger, and in front of her eyes, his face blooms, like a spring flower, from a dusty pink to a red hue which stains his skin from the tip of his ears to the bottom of his neck. Sometimes, if he's absolutely scarlet, his chest is ruddy, too. Her beautiful husband, who feels so much he can't keep it to the parts of his body which makes sense. 

 "I've got you, Odin. I've got you." She soothes, and the more she pumps her digit, the less tense he becomes. And when her finger bumps against a point a few inches in—His leg, on her shoulder, jerks as if stung.

"Oh." He goes, rather inelegantly, and while the urge to tease rises—His influence, no doubt—She's got him. She'll take care of him. When she first presses a second finger in, he tenses up, shakes his head, and goes, "A little more." And she dutifully goes at it with the first finger until there comes a point when he nods, and she goes ahead with the second for real, now. He's tight around her fingers—And, god, isn't that a quaint thought? How the roles have been reversed—And he squirms into a slightly more comfortable spot, easing out a breath that quickly shoos away any lingering apprehension in him, as she pumps and later makes little-scissoring motions she learned from him (who, in turn, had been an illustrious alumnus of PornHub). 

One more application of lube to her fingers makes the entire process all that easier, and his jaw goes slack and his eyes a little dull, the leg on her shoulder pushing closer to her, seeking warmth and expressing pleasure all at the same time. His hands are bundled up in the bedsheets, and ah hell, she forgot to get a towel but—Whatever. She'll kick him off the lubey sheets if that's what it takes. 

"Why h-haven't we d-d-done this before." He asks, and she can't help but to agree with a small humming noise as she presses a kiss against his lower belly. Sure, a finger was something they've done before—But full-on—Full-on—Fingerfucking Odin Ire was something they haven't quite done. 

"You're being so good." She says, when her fingers find that sweet spot inside of him and smooth over it, and he makes this small little weepy noise high in his throat at it. "You're being so good, Odin. You're doing so good." And his lips go wobbly with the praise, and his chest is heaving with quick and shallow breaths, and when she sticks a well-lubed third finger in, he jerks, and then wraps his other leg around her waist, pulling her close and making sure she doesn't leave all at the same time. His right hand is seeking her out, and she lets go of his hip, using her knee to prop him up, to hold it, tightly. And when he rocks back against her, channelling something deeper than his conscious mind, she can't help but stop in awe, much to his own whining upset. 

He's fucking himself against her fingers. Oh god why is this so hot. 

His cock is absolutely hard, and the spot of moisture at the front catches the light like an oil spill. And—And the imagery of her husband nutting oil for a minute breaks her out of it, for a minute, and she has to hide her smile into the hairy flesh of his belly. "I f-f-feel that." The dismay is palpable, and she lets him rock back onto her still fingers for a while before she answers, 

"Not, ha, you, Odin, just a funny thought." 

"W-W-Well share with the class, A-Ava." Frustration is seeping in, and then his other hand reaches down, having to awkwardly angle himself a little bit—And pumps her fingers for her. He makes this little sweet whimper at that, eyelids fluttering—His grip is tight around her fingers, and he's using the balls of his feet to angle her higher, over that sweet bump inside of him, with a desperation that's almost virginal—And god, she is violently wet. 

"..Oil spill dick." And the wording, the joke, the image is so utterly out of place that Odin's eyes go a little wide, and then he seems to choke on his spit as he's caught between two opposing and yet utterly complementary desires. And so it's with three fingers up his bum, with the both of them painfully aroused and pink-faced, that they make little gurgles of laughter, pressed against skin or sheets, just to muffle the sound. 

"My d-d-dick cansinglehandedly—" 

"Singledickedly."  She can't help but add, and the ugly bubble of laughter that comes out of the both of them is just so very sweet. 

"Save th-the o-o-oil crisis!" And she can't help it, she honestly can't, she manoeuvres herself up, sliding across his erection and his heaving muscles and his beautiful, beautiful form and she kisses him, she kisses him with a kiss that's all sloppy movements and spit, and her head is a little light from the laughter and the kiss and he kisses back with the desperation of a dying man, and he raises the arm that he's linked with hers over her, so he can feel his skin over the skin of her back. 

"I love you." She says, like a prayer, into the fuzz at his chin. 

"Nuh-uh. I love y-you." And before it can devolve into a neverending battle of 'I love you more' 'No I love you more', she presses a kiss against the scratchy skin of his neck and removes her hand from his ass, and watches the disappointment and frustration flash in his dark blue eyes. But when he sees that she's reached for the lube flask again, and has raised herself up, a little bit, to smear the shiny chrome and pink strap-on with it—He goes just a little pale. And when she feels suitably ready, she looks up, sees something like dread creeping into his edges, and she goes,

"I'll take care of you. I love you. You're being so good, you'll feel so good, okay?" 

Odin has always had an odd relationship with compliments. They make him feel all ooey and icky and weak, and yet, from her lips, they make him weak in the knees and make him flustered and so very touched. They're not lies, from her. She can never lie about this, to him. 

"O-O-O-O-Okay." He goes, in this smallest of voices, and she grips his hand tight, and tries to somehow psychically convey the untold bounds of how much she loves him—And from the look on him, he can understand that, somehow, just, just, just the smallest amount. 

Her love for him cannot be described in words. It's the size of worlds, the size of all of those years they've known each other. It's as deep and rich as his eyes, as his hair, and it's carved with kisses and whispered words and untold amounts of nights where all they wanted and did was to lay, skin against skin, in the sweet embrace of one another. 

She slips an inch or two in without the both of them noticing. It's the next two which make him arch his back, toes curling into the sheets. And she's pressed back against his chest, open mouth on a patch of chest that's both naked and has a creeping edge of his dumb little ribbons. And when she slips all the while in, he's not breathinghis breath caught deep in his chest, and it's only pushed out of him when she sloppily kisses him, or, more rather, the edge of his lips. His hand lets go of hers, and it slings across her, and with one leg over her shoulder, and another curled around her like a serpent around all that is warm and good, he feels ectasy. 

The friction of her body on his erection makes him a weeping confused mess, torn between rocking up and down, seeking twin and incompatible avenues of release. And when she begins to thrust, the angle is all wrong, at first, and she corrects herself with a hiss and a tight breath, and when she tries again, and she can feel his pleasure spreading across the entirety of him, she does it again. And again. It's awkward, manoeuvring something she can't feel, trying to find what's good for him, especially when all her instincts want from her is for her to drop herself down on his own fingers—But she's got him. She's got him. 

She slips out of him once, with the force of her gusto, and he laughs at her blunder, and so does she, and their laughter is swallowed up when she slips back inside. He's the one feeling everything—Feeling all eight inches of her in him, rubbing, every now and then, against that elusive bump which seems to be running away from her. But she's—She's drunk on him. He's a painting now, exquisite art, better than any of his own, or any of the ancient masters'—He is all writhing pleasure, all needy, sweet, loving man, and she catalogues what makes him squirm, what makes him whimper and moan, watches the way muscles tenses, flesh flushes, and the way his voice hitches higher and higher, goes airier and airer. 

He only comes when her hand slides under the ribbons at his crotch, and holds his length, her thumb making a sole swipe over his tip, before he goes quiet and still around her, her hand becoming a mess and his body crashing down onto the bed, breath harsh and quick, thirsty for oxygen, and when his eyes slide over her, she realizes he still thirsts for her. 

She planned on simply fucking herself for a good few moments before cumming herself. But after a moment's reprieve, where she's slid out from him and peeled the condom off, he finds the strength to bodily haul her up—And god, he's strong. She keeps on forgetting, time after time—But he is so very strong and she feels loved and protected in his arms. And then she finds herself on his face, nose right by her clitoris, mouth right by her slit—The strap-on is kind of right on his forehead, and it's a bit awkward, but he doesn't mind, doesn't mind the fact that his access to air is a little tight, as he slips his tongue inside of her. 

And Ava screams at the feeling, and her hands link up with his hair, pulling tighter than she would otherwise, and she suddenly feels more than a little bit like a little foolish girl who's leapt onto the back of a horse with dripping sea-foam hair. 

It doesn't take long for her to clamp her thighs around his head, for her to clamp around his tongue and cum while he gazes up at her with the loving devoted look of a man who would give the world to her, if it would make her happy. 

And when they kiss his mouth tastes of musk and salt, and she makes a low and audible, "Gross." At the taste, and he, the bastard, runs his tongue over his lips and says, retaliatorily, 

"Y-Yum." Like an absolute pervert. 

And when they come to some sort of sense, after several long minutes of lying chest to chest, on their sides, with the both of them stinking of body fluids and sweat and sex, she kisses him on his brow, and he on her chest, and she thinks, 'The bed is a mess.' And so does he, but the both of them don't mind overmuch at the moment. 

And they fall asleep, coiled around each other, bed sticky and gross, and they both dream of only each other, for no matter what, no matter what pain or tribulations or trials they go through again, all they ever need and want and crave to the point of dying is each other. 

Their love is a sweet rosy thing, it's a thing that makes the breath between them easy and carefree, makes them wrap arms and legs and muscles over each other. It's the thing that makes Odin wake up in the middle of the night because he's lying painfully on something he assumes to be her breast, it's the thing that makes them dream of years and years spent like this, together, and no matter the monotony, the pay or the day's trials, nothing means nothing unless it's the both of them, like this. 

After so very long, after so many years of being alone and incomplete—Here they lay, unable to be called anything but whole, and content. 

At least that's what they are until the morn.

Ava forgot to set the alarm.