shadowglitter | PSL || poe/odin

PSL || poe/odin

WAY TO REJECT ME YOU FLIGHTY AIRBORN PIECE OF SHIT! WAY TO FUCK EVERYTHING UP FOR ME AND MY HEART, FOREVER AND EVER, ALWAYS UNTIL FOREVER

HEY YO YOU TOLD ME TO WRITE A LIST SO GUESS WHAT!!!!!! IT'S TIME FOR US TO GET FUNKY AS FUUUUUUCKKKKKKKK

god i am not going to bother formatting this

TO DO LIST:
1. SEXTING FROM BOOT CAMP ringverse AU
2. prince/concubine AU - owain's the prince, poe's a concubine to the king, paranoia and political assassination ensues, etc etc etc etc etc
3. vampire hooker AU?? owain gonna get his gothic goth goth dick wet in that spooky vampire butt
4. HAHA BOOM WE'RE DOING IT I LINKED THE POST DOWN THERE
5. enemies of war AU - owain's a good guy on the bad guy side who almost loses his life trying to save poe even though he's an enemy soldier, poes like What, Shit, Damn, gay shit ensues
6. HNENENGH
7. ANGELS AND DEMONSSSSSSsss
8. 20s AU///?? YES. YES ALRIGHT
9. WW1 AU WHATS Up
10. ?? there was something that was supposed to go here from the kink meme
11. samurai champloo AU what up. chon'sin. Shit
12. bBODYSWAPPpappapp

long-term AU posts:

⚔⛉☆ PLEDGED

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He recoils at Poe's voice, hiding his face behind his hand for a moment and staring down at the asphalt, hoping against hope that he might just be able to black out and wake up back home where all of this pain is just gone.

"Sorry. Yeah."

Again, he tries to think of an excuse - a way to laugh this off, to say he'd just partied too hard and now he's paying the price - but he looks miserable and dirty and he's a mess with damage from the fight, bloodied and sad but discarded like the rest of the litter lining the streets of Maurtia. He draws his arms in on himself and clutches at his sides, humiliated. More humiliated than he's ever been.

"You didn't have to come? You didn't have to-- just, things are hard. All the time." He scrubs at his eyes, then winces when he touches the bruise. "I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to make things-- not-- hard. I didn't want you to ever see me like this, I shouldn't have-- I'm so careful about you not seeing me like this--"

Ah, shit. Poe's face twists in concern, and he's already reaching out - one hand on Owain's back and the other coming up to the man's face, thumb brushing over the edge of a bruise. Damn.

"Of course I had to come. It's alright. Hell, I've looked a lot worse, trust me. But let's get you home, okay?" He hated seeing Owain like this, but knowing that he might have gotten into trouble like this before, and not got a hold of him?

A lot fucking worse.

"Come on, I'll take you home. We'll get you sorted."

"Just--"

He's got a headache, he feels like he's swimming through syrup. He tenses at the hand on his back but softens when Poe touches his bruise. It stings, the thumb over his wound, but it's-- comforting, and it's Poe, and he's always been far too alright with Poe hurting him, however accidental.

He clenches his teeth and pulls himself to his feet, and it takes a while, with how disoriented he is, but he gets there.

"Just-- drop me off at home and go. Okay? You're not--" He staggers, a little, and leans on Poe's shoulder for support. "You're not obligated to stay with me. I'll call Archie, or something."

"Yeah, like that's going to happen," Poe replied, sliding an arm under Owain's and trying to get him back on his feet. No flying, not like this, so he stuck out an arm to wave down a cab.

"I've got you, okay? Let's just get you home."

Luckily, in this area of the city, at this time of night, cabs were fairly frequent. Everyone needed a lift home. So it took no time at all for one to roll up to the curb.

Owain protests, a wordless whine that's equal parts annoyed and apologetic. He lets Poe help him into the cab, sliding into the back seat and immediately resting his head against the window. The cool glass eases the dull thud in his skull, and he lets his eyes shut and stays silent on the drive home.

It's rare, to be with Poe and to not talk. When he's with Poe and he's not just being overwhelmingly honest about his feelings, he's usually tripping over himself to be-- funny, or interesting, or good, all in an attempt to make Poe just fucking change his mind and choose him. But he's tired, and everything from his bones to his heart aches and splinters, and if Poe tries to talk to him, he doesn't hear it.

When they get all the way back to Nonah, which takes far too long without using any porters, Owain staggers out of his side door and starts walking to his house without waiting for Poe to help him. He's too drunk to get his key in the door, but he tries, and when he can't do it he lets out a yell of frustration and kicks the stupid door like everything in his stupid LIFE IS THIS STUPID DOOR'S STUPID FAULT.

He slumps forward, when he's done, head against it.

"Fuck's sake."

Poe's a little later - having to stop and pay the cabbie - and by the time he catches up, he arrives just in time to find Owain slumping against the door.

He'd tried, a couple of times, to ask what had happened - but had given up in the face of Owain's obvious misery.

His desire for answers didn't trump his need to be there for Owain.

"I got it." He reached out to slide the keys from Owain's hand, then opened the door slowly, so that Owain had time to catch himself before he just fell in.

"Where's your first aid kit?"

He catches himself on the door frame and stumbles inside, and for a second, it looks like he still won't answer Poe. He heads to the stairs that lead up to his room, and he hesitates, pointing him towards the kitchen, where he'll find the first aid kit tucked away under the sink. He mumbles another quick you don't gotta do anything, but it's followed by an even quicker m'gonna go to bed, so as he starts stumbling up the stairs.

When Poe finds him, he'll be in his bed, arm over his eyes and trying, unsuccessfully, not to cry. It's been a while since Poe's been up here, and things have changed - he's decorated his room with the interests he's picked up on over the past few months, and a lot of it is relatively harmless - things he's carved from wood, posters of musicians he aspires to be like -

But the walls and the ceiling are covered in stars, thousands of tiny white dots on dark blue paint he's magically enchanted to glow and look real. The effect looks too similar to what's projected by the glass orb he gave Poe before christmas to be anything other than inspired by him.

He doesn't blame Owain, for the muttering or the stumbling or the way he won't catch his eye. Poe has been far worse, in his time. So all he does is go straight for the kit, grabbing it and then grabbing a large glass of water and a couple towels, before heading to Owain's room.

He stops in the doorway.

It's impossible not to notice the paint job, even if it didn't glow, and he can feel a heat around his collar and a lump in his throat. He knows Owain well enough to know what this was, and what it meant. But he had to put it aside. He cleared his throat as he stepped over to the bed, putting the glass down on the bedside table before taking a seat on the edge next to Owain.

"Alright, let me get the blood first, alright? Where are you hurt."

He drops his arm to his side just in time to see Poe clear his throat, just in time to see how uncomfortable the room must make him, and he laughs, quiet and bitter and dripping in self-loathing. He's about to roll over onto his side and face the window - the window that overlooks Poe's house, the one he shares with... with--

But he can't, and he just covers his eyes with his arm again, smearing blood on his wrist from a cut in his forehead. He takes along, shaky breath before he replies.

"Odin Dark answer or Owain answer? 'Cause I've got a lot to say about the blood-stained corpses of my enemies and how this is nothing in the face of... of, like, darkness, or... or whatever."

He sounds like he's been smoking, which he hasn't been - one vice he's yet to pick up, thankfully - but here in the light of the false stars the pale sallowness of his skin seems so much more apparent under the dark bruises, the cuts on his face, the blood still periodically pooling under his nose only to be wiped away on a bloodstained shirt.

"Just--" he hesitates. "Face. Is where he hit me. Mostly. Stomach hurts... and ribs. But they're just-- bruised. I can tell."

It makes his chest ache, to see Owain like this, and Poe's face is deep and grim. He dips the end of one of the towels into the glass, soaking up a little water, before reaching out to lift Owain's arm from his face.

"We'll check in a minute. Tilt your head back, alright? Force, Owain..." He ran the towel ever so carefully over his skin, swiping the blood away.

He does as he's ordered, even if he isn't happy about it. There are sparks, when Poe touches him. It hurts.

"Sorry."

He tilts his head back and shuts his eyes, feeling the relief of the towel on his face at the same time a knife cuts up his insides. He doesn't know if he has it in him to... explain, but he's speaking without making the conscious decision to, still raspy and broken and empty, every part of him surviving on fumes.

"I keep doing this shit," he mumbles. "I just keep trying to find ways where it won't-- hurt. And then I get hurt, because I'm stupid, and I chase distractions and different kinds of hurt without, like-- like, any regard to my own safety. All of my friends are getting tired of me, and I was fine with that, because... because you didn't know I was like this."

He swallows.

"But now you do," he breathes out. "My dad would hate me, if he saw me."

"You should have told me." Quite, but flat. He didn't quite meet Owain's eyes, focusing on his hands as he worked. He wasn't a medic, but he had some experience - so though he tried to keep his touch light, he was also not dawdling. He wanted to get Owain cleaned up and patched up as efficiently as possible.

"And I'm pretty sure your dad wouldn't hate you. Just-- you should have told me."

He looks at Poe, heartbroken and apologetic. He didn't need to hear that - not from the open wound in his life. Poe's only worried about him, but Owain is Owain, and he takes what he hears in the worst possible way. An accusation, something angry.

"Why?" It's a genuine question, but it sounds withered and small, so he swallows and tries again. "You're the one person I couldn't have told. You're the reason-- I mean, not the reason, but you're the--"

There's a cut on his lip that splits open when he bites down, a fresh, thin spot of blood to join all the others.

"Just-- you're living your life, and everyone keeps telling me I'm-- petty," he thinks of Lando, "or-- not-- a part of--" he thinks of Maxwell--

"Just-- yeah. Not you. You need to be happy. Not ruined. By my bullshit."

You're the reason I'm like this. Owain doesn't need to say it, for it to be heard, and Poe grits his teeth silently but can't stop the blade of guilt. Still as sharp as it had ever been.

He finishes cleaning the head wound and grabs for the bandages instead, eyes carefully on his own hands.

"I could have done something," he said almost under his breath, but still all too clear in the quiet of the room. "I-- This is the last thing I wanted to do to you. I should have -- I should have just left, completely--"

"Don't--"

And here, Owain thinks, is the only reason Poe hasn't cut him out of his life. Not because he can't bear to lose him, or because he loves him on any level, but because Owain panics and begs him not to go every time they get too close to this.

"Don't go. Don't even-- fuck, don't say that, please, you're already gone, I can't-- I can't lose you even more than I already have."

He props himself up on his elbows, watching Poe touch the bandages. There's a sick, rickety feeling in his chest, like he thinks he might throw up. It isn't because of all the drinking.

"There's nothing you could have done," he starts, slowly, until he laughs, hollow, looking up to the ceiling, too drunk to filter himself. "There are things you could have done, actually. Left Finn and ran away with me already. Chosen me instead of him in the first place. We could have been happy. We could still be happy, if you'd just-- fuck. But I can't even-- I can't even spend a night with you, like I used to, let alone a life. I can't get better or come back from this when you're too far away to heal me."

A flush ran under his skin, but is was pure shame. He hated having this much power over Owain. He always had. One person should not be able to dictate another's life so thoroughly and so completely. His hands shook, a little, and he pressed the bandage to Owain's forehead and taped it in place.

"I really don't see how me being around could even start to heal you, when I can't--" but the sentence didn't finish. It didn't need to. His throat was drawn tight and he swallowed.

"Owain, this isn't-- I can't let you go on like this, you have to know that."

He knows - he's always known - the position he's put Poe in. The pressure he's put him under. It's why he tried so, so hard to keep this to himself, and it's why, now that he's drunk and so fucking emotionally vulnerable, everything's slipping out of him like a balloon filled with too much air.

He used to think it was romantic, knowing it was inescapable for him to pledge his life to Poe. That no matter what happened - no matter how many stars he crossed, how many oceans he swam, no matter how much time he fell through - it would always come back to Poe. But it's-- not. It's not.

It's not a good thought, when he's bloodied and battered and Poe is looking at him like he's fragile and broken. A burden, like he was on his family. When I can't hits him so hard that he pales and, again, feels sick. He doesn't know how many more times he can hear Poe remind him that he's not--

"It's either go on like this-- or lose my mind," he says, quietly. "Those are my only two options. When I'm not-- fucking strangers or getting drunk or starting fights-- I'm stuck in my head, thinking of you. And that's-- worse. A lot worse. But I don't have anything else."

He raises his hand to rest on Poe's cheek, smoothing his thumb across the bone, looking up at him from the bed with tears in his eyes.

"I'm happy when I'm with you," he says, slowly. "When I can see you being brave and headstrong and beautiful. The moments when I can trick myself into thinking I'm as much to you as you are to me are the only moments in my life that don't hurt. The only good times I have. I don't-- have anything-- other than you-- and I barely even have that."

He drops his hand, and he's not sure if the tightness around is skull is the freshly applied bandage or the fucking sadness. There's too much vertigo here from the alcohol, and he shuts his eyes, the breath he breathes out labored under the strain of a man trying not to cry.

"I miss kissing you," he whispers. "Feeling like-- you wanted me."

Owain is not the only one who feels sick. Poe's stomach twists almost violently, a bitter taste at the back of his throat, ash in his mouth. He keeps his lips pierced tightly as Owain speaks, trying to focus on cleaning him up as the guilt stabs again and again and again.

"Take off your shirt," is all he says, his voice far lower than it should be, grinding out between his teeth, as he stands up from the edge of the bed. He needs a drink. He needs eight drinks. And he thinks he knows where to find them - that fridge that Owain had just so he didn't have to get out of bed when Poe was over - and with a sickening lurch he hopes Owain kept it stocked. He didn't even look in it, just grabbed blindly for the first bottle he could find, cracked it open, and swung it back into his throat.

Better.

He scrubbed the liquid from his lips and then went back over to Owain.

"I just-- Owain, you mean - you mean so much to me, I can barely stand the thought that this is- that it's all my--"

He cuts off again and he bites his cheek so hard that copper blooms on his tongue.

Owain hears you mean so much to me as another rejection, and his expression clouds, more than it already had been. It doesn't make him angry, to hear things like that. Poe never makes him angry, or bitter. Just - sad. Those words lighten his heart and ease the pain of his injuries, but they're a rejection so he doesn't know what to say.

He pulls off his shirt, wincing when it hurts. The damage is worse than he said it was - the dark purple bruise over his chest is starting to yellow around the edges, but there are old wounds, too many old wounds, peppered over the rest of him. Cuts and tears and breaks in his skin surrounded by other bruises and other marks, a build up of months of self-destruction littered on toned muscle. He doesn't complain about any of it. He is, after all, still a soldier.

Owain watches Poe drink, and after laying back down in bed, he holds his hand out for a bottle of his own.

"My place, my rules," he mumbles. "Your place, technically, but my apartment. My rules, still. No drinking without the host."

"I have to catch up to the fucking host, first," Poe says, leaning down to check the fridge for water - or, more likely - chocolate milk. Owain is already far too drunk.

He finds the latter because of course he does, thrusting the milk container into Owain's hand.

He took another hard drink of his own, before turning his attention to Owain's chest. He swore, lowly, under his breath. For Owain to be able to do this so regularly that the nanites couldn't keep up--

"What would stop this." It's not quite a question as much as a demand, given through gritted teeth. "Just- tell me, and I'll do it."

Owain looks at the chocolate milk, and then at Poe, and then back to the chocolate milk. That is absolutely not what he was asking for. On the other hand, Poe's giving him something, and Owain's so desperate for anything from Poe that he takes it and starts to drink, spiky resentment towards himself clawing at his chest. Whatever.

He sets it down on the side table, wincing, again, at the strain of his muscles, and hunches back against the headboard. He watches Poe with heavy, lidded eyes, guilt eating away at him more than ever. He's done too much wrong. Poe would be better off without him.

The demand makes him flinch and go quiet.

"I... just..."

He's so much smaller in his tears than he ever has been before, when they came from a place of happiness or when they came from. He tries to keep his face steady, to hold some semblance of dignity despite him having none, blinking rapidly and scrubbing his hands over his bruised and tender eyes to make the crying stop.

"I just-- want-- you," he says, and it's childish, it's pathetic, but it's true. "I just want you. Some part of you. That belongs to me. Something. Anything, that I know is mine, that I know will stay mine, that I can-- just-- have. It's just-- you."

"You already do," He says, but he knows that it's a useless argument. What good is a piece of a heart denied? His face was creased with concern and hurt and guilt and he reached out, leaning in so that he could put a warm, steadying hand on the side of Owain's neck.

"You already- you already have a piece of me, Owain, that's not- that was never really... a question. I just--"

Just had to put it aside.

He couldn't say that outloud. Certainly not like this.

"I don't know how to prove that to you."

"That piece of you can't be worth very much, if you let it go," Owain says, slow, careful to keep any perceivable anger out of his voice - because he doesn't have any, not really, he's just sad and he's fucked up and he's worthless and Poe's only ever proven that to him. He's too drunk to tamper those feelings.

"The thought of even-- attempting to let go of you, or to stop hoping for you, is like a knife in my chest. And you just... did it. It was just-- something you could do. Even if you didn't stop... loving me, you've stopped wanting to be with me, if-- if you ever even did-- because I'm not as important as him, and I'm not as important as you are to me, I'm not-- I'm not shit."

His eyes draw closed, and he leans into Poe's hand like he's never even been comforted before, absorbing all that warmth and all that steadiness and just relaxing, despite everything. Even just this - just Poe's hand on his - is enough to ease the ache in him, however briefly.

He knows what he wants. He wants a thousand things, each of them too terrible to ask for, and he knows he wouldn't be able to stop himself from asking for things he shouldn't ask for. Knows that if this goes any further, he won't know what he'll do.

Edited 2018-01-20 02:13 (UTC)

The breath that left him was far more like a sigh- long and drawn out as if he was simply letting all the air escape his lungs. He leaned down, still holding Owain's neck, but then pressing his head against the other man's, leaning into his hair. He breathed deep, closing his eyes and trying to ignore how fucking badly everything hurt.

Like all of his worst fears about both the situation and himself were all true.

"I'm sorry, Owain," he murmured lowly and forelornly into the other man's hair. "... I don't know how I could have let you believe any of that... You-- you are so much more..."

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PSL || poe/odin

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