He isn't really capable of fully grasping what Owain's words meant to him, let alone be able to say something about them that managed to convey even a sliver of it. Because they wouldn't have been true, a few days ago. Knowing that they were both having fun hadn't been the point of Owain's training. So it made something tighten in his chest - an almost sweet taste at the back of his throat - but he swallowed it down and covered it with a dumb, slightly smug grin instead.
Later. He could think about it later.
Two seconds later the choice on when to think upon it was made for him - because Owain had found his cock and all thoughts had fled his head utterly. He leaned in a little, pressing his forehead into the man's shoulder.
"I don't know whether I should... curse you, or bless you, right now--" He complained lowly.
He keeps stroking Poe in deliberate, slow twists, grinding over his tip with his palm to overload his nerves. Each tug of Poe's cock is firm and decisive but ultimately unfulfilling with how slow it is, with how certain Owain is in only stroking upwards - it's his goal to bring Poe as close to the edge as he can be after last night, and only when he feels like he's hit that point does he stop and press another gentle kiss to Poe's lips.
"I mean, it's not quite what you mean, but I like it when you curse, if that influences anything." He's so, so close to Poe, voice the tiniest whisper. "You're this elegant nobleman I'm supposed to walk on my hands and knees for, and yet there are times when we're in bed where you just-- sound like a fucking whore. Like despite all the power you should have over me, all the poise you were raised with, in the end there's nothing you want more than my cock. Nothing you'll fall to pieces faster for."
He grins, leans back, taking his hand away.
"Don't even get started on how hard I get when I see you angry. Fuck." He strokes his own cock a few times, forcing the last drop of cum out of him that he swipes up with his fingertip. He brings his finger up to Poe's lips, biting his own and watching to see if he'll taste it.
He groans, his body falling a few centimeters as it chased after the hand that was drawn away. He was already having to tell himself that waiting until later was a good idea, was better than just pushing Owain down on his knees and thrusting himself into his mouth or jerking himself off onto his face or a myriad other images that those achingly slow strokes had brought to his mind. (The earlier romance of that first kiss he had stolen was utterly gone.)
But he doesn't blush, even at the words fucking whore, because instead of being embarrassed by them, he almost feels... a bit proud. So instead of blushing he just grins, wicked and wide and sharp, trapping his tongue between his teeth, barely visible through parted lips.
"And you're getting fucking cocky," He replied, his voice low and husky, and he did - indeed - sound like a whore. "Not wrong, though." He tilted his head as the finger tip was offered, and he leaned in, tongue swiping the drop of cum from the tip before his lips closed around the first knuckle and he gave a good little suck.
He was getting a complex about the words good boy, his cock visibly jumping an inch as it twitched to it, and he wet his lips again as he savoured the taste of Owain's cum.
He can't tell if this is okay or not for him to feel, but the way Poe calls him cocky sends a fucking bullet of pride straight through his system. He still lusts for that - acceptance for Poe, admiration, praise - and that's what he takes this as, but. He thinks that's okay, because it's different, when thoughts of Kes are at the back of his mind and he cares less about the training ingrained in him and more about just being with Poe. When things are good, like they are now, that praise is just--
Praise. From someone he cares about. Not carefully tailored words from a master, feeding into his position as a slave and keeping him down. Just - praise.
And fuck, he definitely noticed how Poe's cock twitched just now.
"Aight, c'mon."
He slaps Poe's ass, overtly cocky, shuffling his cock back into his pants. He gives one last, swooping kiss to Poe's lips and helps him find something to clean up with, then stretches his arms and back and acts like he's not about to spend the rest of the day fucking with Poe's head and driving him to a frenzied desperation for later tonight.
"You wanna buy me a present still? 'Cause, I mean, I don't know how you can top what we just did, but that's probably next on the list."
It takes him a few minutes to make himself less of a mess, and to make sure there's no longer cum dripping from his ass down the backside of his thigh, but eventually he manages to pull himself into something respectable - even if his cock is still hard enough to visible strain at his pants. Might need to deal with that before going out on the street, but. It's fine for now.
"Actually, I had an idea about that. But it's... not exactly a traditional kind of gift."
Nah, Odin'll want him to show off. He slides up behind Poe while he's talking, holding him from behind, resting his chin on the curve of his shoulder. He doesn't say anything for a while - just slides his fingers down over Poe's cock and leaves them there. Not even stroking him, just letting his palm rest against the tent of the fabric. When he does talk, his voice is riddled with that same cocky, smug tone as before. The boy's enjoying himself.
"Yeah?" He kisses Poe's neck, soft and chaste, such a dichotomy to how he's treating him. "I'm happy with anything you wanna do. The journal alone makes me wanna cry? Like, every time I think about it, it overwhelms me. So. I'm not gonna be able to keep myself from breaking down if you've got something even more beautiful than that in mind."
He can't help it - shifting his hips to get even a little movement of Owain's fingers over his clothed cock.
"Well, I think I'll leave it a mystery until we get there," He said, turning his head with a smug smirk, before pulling out of Owain's grasp. He really, really needed to get a hold of himself before they got to the street.
It took a little while to get to the street.
Eventually, however, Poe was walking up to a small dark shop without a window front. It didn't even have a sign, just two gold letters painted on the door: T.T. He pushed the door open, gestured for Owain to follow him and stepped inside.
"Tristan?" He called out, and a moment later an older gentleman, covered with tattoos appeared from a doorway, rubbing his hands down with a cloth. "Ah, Captain Dameron. And this is...?"
"Owain." Poe answered immediately, before offering a charming grin. "He'd like to sit in."
It strikes Owain, as he sees Tristan in all his rugged, ratty, amazingly bearded glory, that he feels much less afraid of being around new people than he was a few days ago. He's not sure what's changed - maybe it's just the fact that he went through something awful with Kes and Poe stuck by him regardless - but that cockiness in him surges, and he focuses on his new found confidence rather than worry about what, exactly, he's sitting in for.
He uses that new found confidence to sling an arm around Poe's waist, slightly possessively. He could take on this fuckin' dude, and his bearded-ass beard. He'll fight anyone to keep Poe close to him.
"I'm gonna sit in so hard."
Shit, he's gotta calm down.
Arm still on Poe's waist, he looks around the store, eyes drawn back to that T.T. on the outside of the glass. He looks back to Tristan.
Tristan's eyes crinkle a little at the display, shooting an amused raised eyebrow at Poe.
"Owain, huh." He steps over, and holds out a hand - even after being washed, there are dark ink stains spotted over the skin. "Tristan Treehold, technically - my name, not my profession."
"Tristan's a mage," Poe explained, with a half smile back at Owain as Tristan gestured for them to follow him deeper into the shop. The front was almost nothing but books - even though each shelf had a thin chain across it with little signs that said 'do not touch'. At the back of the shop was a black chair, higher than most, and leaned back farther than most, as well. Owain would recognise this, at least. Even tattooists who didn't work with magic tended to use similar chairs.
"He has a very special branch of magic - no one in the army would look to anyone else for a tattoo. Am I right?"
"That's right," Tristan agreed with a broad smile, moving back to a table. It was covered with long needles, all carefully cleaned and prepped, as well as something that looked like a tiny chisel and hammer. "Surprised to see you though, Dameron, you didn't seem very interested last time we spoke."
"Yeah, well, I actually have an idea now. Got some paper?"
"Yeah, over there," Tristan pointed, and Poe shot Owain a grin before pulling from his grasp to go and draw something across the room.
"You in Poe's regiment, then?" Tristan asked Owain amiably as he opened a cupboard and pulled out a small dark bottle of ink.
Mages meant something to Owain - his mom had been amazing, given freedom to study her craft under the generous consideration of The Lady Commander, and he'd always admired the things she could do. He looks at Tristan with a newfound respect, and he holds his hand with that same barely there softness he was trained to have as a Pledge. Making himself as small as possible, even as he sticks by Poe's side and tries to rebel.
Poe pulls away, soon enough, and Tristan is asking him... a question. He's not sure how to answer, partially because he doesn't want to say I'm his Pledge but primarily because there isn't really a word for what he and Poe are. He shoots a nervous glance to Poe to try and find guidance, but Poe's busy drawing something, which... sits on Owain's mind, makes him wonder what this is, until he looks back to Tristan with a very tentative confidence.
"I'm, uh." Again, there's hesitation; a pregnant pause as he looks at the ink in Tristan's hand and realization about why they're here starts to dawn. "I'm his friend. More than his friend? I'm more than his friend."
Yeah. Yeah, he's happy with that. It's shy and hard to restrain, the smile in his voice, but he does his best, just so he doesn't start laughing like a fucking idiot in the middle of someone's tattoo parlour.
Some of his pride falters, and the smile slips from Owain's eyes. It's not really... news? Poe had said he'd go to bars and shit to relieve his stress after a day like the one they first had together, so it makes sense that people who knew him would be... aware, maybe, of Poe's interests.
But it's a reminder that those interests are there, and Owain's eighteen and he's in love and against all the evidence that suggests otherwise, he wonders if Poe would have gotten bored of him and sent him away by now if it wasn't for the obligation of keeping him.
"Uh," he starts, even though he has no idea where to go or what to say. He looks at Tristan and shrugs, somewhat nervously. He lowers his voice, in any case, making absolutely sure that Poe can't hear him.
"I can't really-- speak for him. But it's-- a lot. To me. Here." He pats his fist over his heart. "Every time I think about him. So. I don't know. Just, it's a lot. To me? Maybe for him. I think for him. I don't know."
Tristan just smiled at him, knowingly, and then reached out to pat a thick, warm hand on Owain's shoulder. "You wouldn't be here if there wasn't something there," He said, giving a squeeze, before looking back at Poe who was walking over with a piece of paper.
"Alright. Look - don't say anything about how terrible the drawing is, alright? As long as you know the heraldry I'm looking for, you should be able to work it out, right?"
Tristan took the piece of paper, with, quite frankly, a really really terrible drawing of a house crest on it. "You could have just told me that you wanted your crest, Dameron, I think I even have it in one of my boo--" He paused, and then squinted. "Oh. Never mind. Sure. I've got it."
He flashed a look at Owain, a curious frown on his face, but then he walked over to his sketching table. There was no way in hell he could work from Poe's drawing, so he quickly sketched out another one. Poe, on the other hand, was already stripping off his jacket.
"Did you want a spell in it?" Tristan asked without looking up from his drafting table.
"Yeah, just a basic protection charm, thanks Tristan."
The hand on his shoulder reminds him of Lon'qu, and he looks at Tristan with an even brighter admiration than before. He can see both of his parents in this man, to an extent, and he's overwhelmed with an instant desire to just-- to know him, to be his friend, to study under him and become a mage and an artist and brand things to people's skin and make it permanent and solid and real.
His stomach tightens, when Tristan reassures him of Poe's feelings. Something about Tristan is just-- honest, so it takes a moment, but Owain soon nods, completely believing him.
When Poe comes back with his drawing, Owain stands on tiptoes to try to see it, but he can't quite see it and he's not sure if he's allowed to ask for a chance. When Tristan looks at him, there are too many butterflies in his stomach to make him shrink back, so he just... waves. At that frown. Soon, Poe is stripping and getting settled and Owain comes to wait by his side again, the artist's chair reminding him of the time he was branded as a child. Even that had happened in the Estate, keeping him secluded and away from the city - but it's familiar, nevertheless. He runs his hand over Poe's arm, catching his attention.
"Is this..." He hesitates. He knows what this is, he knows, but he hasn't let the gravity of what Poe is doing sink in yet and he doesn't have the guts to ask in case he's wrong or in case he's right and he'll make a fool of himself with all the inevitably bawling. "Is this still-- my birthday present?"
He pulled off his shirt, too, setting everything carefully aside before climbing into the chair. He was, of course, utterly covered in scratches and bruises and dark red marks on his throat, but Tristan was a professional and a gentleman and was busy in his work. When Owain touched his arm, he offered a warm, beaming smile.
"I warned you that it wasn't exactly traditional," Poe mused, still smiling as he reached out to grasp Owain's hand, and pulled it to his lips, pressing a warm kiss against his knuckles. "And technically I was going to do it anyway, so I'm not sure it counts as a birthday present, but. Yeah."
He looks at the marks on Poe's skin, the bruises he left there. Each individual injury a memory of a time Owain was just so fucking happy to be with him that he got carried away and felt too much. Everything in his chest is too full for him to carry, like someone just inflated his heart with hot air, or like he's been holding his breath for too long and his lungs have forgotten how to work without aching.
He finds Poe's hand and he holds it, and he doesn't realize he's tearing up until he looks at the knuckles he's gripping tight to and finds them blurry. He's startled, and he blinks, and it makes a couple of tears fall onto Poe's wrist. He laughs, shy and awkward, scrubbing it away. He completely forgets Tristan is even here.
"Are you sure? You'd be-- mine. Permanently." He swallows, looking at Poe. "I'll always be with you, if you do this. I'll always be a part of you, in some way, and-- and. I know the last few days have been a lot, but are you sure you're okay with that? Okay with me?"
"I already am, and you already are," Poe pointed out, simply. "That's going to be true, tattoo or not. But I'm not going to let you be the only one to wear the mark of it, Owain."
He gave Owain's hand a squeeze, with a reassuring smile.
"The pledge is already there. I'm just making it visible."
Owain's heart seizes and he looks at Poe for the briefest of seconds--
And then he crashes their lips together, laughing, hands on either side of Poe's face and just-- crying, through all of it, overwhelmed and full of too much fucking love to be able to conduct himself any better. It's a fucking terrible kiss, honestly - wet from tears, Owain breathing too hard into it, teeth, and he pulls back too soon, wiping both of his eyes on his wrists.
"Fuck," he says, voice thin and diluted. "This is-- fuck. I don't deserve this, everyone's gonna know, this isn't-- this isn't something you can hide or explain away like the bandage on your hand, man, this is--"
He cuts himself off, holding Poe's hand, bringing it up his cheek and just-- resting on it.
"I wish I knew how to be as much to you as you are to me." He kisses the back of Poe's hand, breathing out. "I wish I just-- fuck."
He could say it. He could say it so, so, so easily.
"They'll have to get my shirt off, first," Poe reminds him, gently teasing, nothing but warmth in his expression. He wanted to lean over and press his lips to every fallen droplet, but he resisted the urge.
He spread his fingers over Owain's cheek, gently caressing with his thumb.
There were words there, just at the tip of his to tongue - a pledge of a very different kind. But he swallowed it. It wasn't something he could do, until Owain honestly had his freedom. Not just the fledgling start of one, but one where he had the option to say no. Where he had another choice. The pledge meant that they would be at each other's side until one of them died, but it didn't dictate to their hearts.
So he wouldn't do so now, regardless of how impulsively he wants to say something anyway.
Somewhere behind Owain, Tristan cleared his throat.
He gets lost in Poe's eyes, as he so often does. Caught in the depth of them, wishing his own were as beautiful. Tristan clears his throat and Owain knows, instinctively, that he should address him, maybe pull back from Poe and stop making things so fucking awkward for the poor dude but he-- can't, not yet.
He presses his lips to Poe's forehead and just breathes. He wraps his arms around him - one behind his head and the other his neck - and just fucking holds him, pulling Poe to his chest and resting his chin in his hair. He's just-- overwhelmed, and he needs this, needs Poe, and it takes another few seconds of silence before he eases back.
There's no way in hell he's going to miss this by sitting in the back, so with an apologetic - but defensive, maybe - glance to Tristan, he sits on a table right by the chair, holding Poe's hand tight again and refusing to let go.
"... Holdo's probably gonna flip her shit."
He's not saying it to anyone in particular. The air, maybe. Holdo's totally gonna flip her shit.
Tristan doesn't interrupt, though he does give Poe a bit of an "are you sure about this" look over Owain's head. Poe just nods, and waits until they're all set up.
"By he time she hears about it, there won't be a damn thing to do about it," Poe said as he held out his arm. Tristan carefully cleaned the area of skin on his bicep, before grappling his tools - sliding a fresh needle into the end of be bamboo rod and dipping it in ink. He took the tiny metal hammer, and after glancing as his sketch again, began to tap the hammer against the rod, driving the needle into Poe's skin. He blood welled, dark with ink as he worked, murmuring the entire time under his breath in a long- forgotten language, the magic in it making the hair raise on the back of Poe's neck, a tingle to the air.
Owain doesn't let go of Poe's hand during the process, squeezing tighter every time it looks like it might have hurt a little too much, consistently letting him know that he's here. There are a few moments where he feels like crying again, and it's stupid how easily the tears come - he smears them away on the back of his hand every time, sniffling and not really knowing what to do with himself. Neither Poe nor Tristan seem to hold it against him, and that makes his heart swell. Crying at the Estate meant kind words and gentle consoling followed by stern, soft-spoken lectures about keeping up appearances. There was nothing manipulative here.
He almost starts a conversation with Tristan, but his throat feels closed and sore from all the emotion that keeps welling up in him. He watches the ink and the magic bloom and he thinks of his own brand, and he wonders if-- there's something he can do, maybe.
"My mom... had a location spell."
He's swallowing, hoping it's not too late to bring this up, for either of them, but maybe-- maybe. He looks at Tristan, but he doesn't have the guts to ask him, so he looks back to Poe, as if he might know the answer.
"Could... Tristan enchant our brands-- both of them-- so that, like, we'll be able to track each other? Find each other, if we're ever apart?"
"I assume so," Poe replied, who despite the literal driving needles into his flesh seemed fairly impassive - only wincing when Tristan started on a section of bare flesh that hadn't been touched yet. In a few seconds, it was numb.
"But nothing that could be activated by someone else. Last thing I want is to end up being captured and giving away your position, too."
"Hmmm, that's more difficult," Tristan murmured. "Location spells tend to be tied to the object that is most useful - the spell can remain far after death. But what you're talking about feels far more... Personal."
Owain hadn't handled his own branding quite so easily. He'd gotten used to physical pain over the years - it was, inevitably, part of his training - but he'd been young when Poe's personal crest had been etched on his arm. Every flinch, however miniscule, has Owain smoothing his thumb over Poe's hand and wincing in sympathy.
He looks to Tristan, and he tries to keep quiet so as not to interrupt his concentration.
"So - we can't do it?"
Lissa's spell would have been easy to track - a marking of property, return to sender, and that's not what he wants his and Poe's to be. He wants a spell that's just there's, something that connects them. He looks at Poe a little nervously. He drops his voice.
"I just, like - don't want to be apart from you. Or not be able to find you, if I ever need to."
"I didn't say I couldn't do it." It wasn't an admonishment - Tristan's brow was pulled tight into a v, deep in concentration and thought. The sentences came slowly, like they were being drawn from somewhere deep below, and in between he continued to murmur the protection spell he was etching into Poe's skin.
"I could have it take a more - telepathic link. If you touch it, a light will appear in your vision in the direction of the partnered tattoo... brighter if you're closer, fainter if you're farther. Mind, if one of you lost an arm, it would only take you to the arm, but."
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Later. He could think about it later.
Two seconds later the choice on when to think upon it was made for him - because Owain had found his cock and all thoughts had fled his head utterly. He leaned in a little, pressing his forehead into the man's shoulder.
"I don't know whether I should... curse you, or bless you, right now--" He complained lowly.
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Owain's falling in love with him for a reason.
He keeps stroking Poe in deliberate, slow twists, grinding over his tip with his palm to overload his nerves. Each tug of Poe's cock is firm and decisive but ultimately unfulfilling with how slow it is, with how certain Owain is in only stroking upwards - it's his goal to bring Poe as close to the edge as he can be after last night, and only when he feels like he's hit that point does he stop and press another gentle kiss to Poe's lips.
"I mean, it's not quite what you mean, but I like it when you curse, if that influences anything." He's so, so close to Poe, voice the tiniest whisper. "You're this elegant nobleman I'm supposed to walk on my hands and knees for, and yet there are times when we're in bed where you just-- sound like a fucking whore. Like despite all the power you should have over me, all the poise you were raised with, in the end there's nothing you want more than my cock. Nothing you'll fall to pieces faster for."
He grins, leans back, taking his hand away.
"Don't even get started on how hard I get when I see you angry. Fuck." He strokes his own cock a few times, forcing the last drop of cum out of him that he swipes up with his fingertip. He brings his finger up to Poe's lips, biting his own and watching to see if he'll taste it.
"Your reward for being a good boy."
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But he doesn't blush, even at the words fucking whore, because instead of being embarrassed by them, he almost feels... a bit proud. So instead of blushing he just grins, wicked and wide and sharp, trapping his tongue between his teeth, barely visible through parted lips.
"And you're getting fucking cocky," He replied, his voice low and husky, and he did - indeed - sound like a whore. "Not wrong, though." He tilted his head as the finger tip was offered, and he leaned in, tongue swiping the drop of cum from the tip before his lips closed around the first knuckle and he gave a good little suck.
He was getting a complex about the words good boy, his cock visibly jumping an inch as it twitched to it, and he wet his lips again as he savoured the taste of Owain's cum.
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Praise. From someone he cares about. Not carefully tailored words from a master, feeding into his position as a slave and keeping him down. Just - praise.
And fuck, he definitely noticed how Poe's cock twitched just now.
"Aight, c'mon."
He slaps Poe's ass, overtly cocky, shuffling his cock back into his pants. He gives one last, swooping kiss to Poe's lips and helps him find something to clean up with, then stretches his arms and back and acts like he's not about to spend the rest of the day fucking with Poe's head and driving him to a frenzied desperation for later tonight.
"You wanna buy me a present still? 'Cause, I mean, I don't know how you can top what we just did, but that's probably next on the list."
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"Actually, I had an idea about that. But it's... not exactly a traditional kind of gift."
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"Yeah?" He kisses Poe's neck, soft and chaste, such a dichotomy to how he's treating him. "I'm happy with anything you wanna do. The journal alone makes me wanna cry? Like, every time I think about it, it overwhelms me. So. I'm not gonna be able to keep myself from breaking down if you've got something even more beautiful than that in mind."
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"Well, I think I'll leave it a mystery until we get there," He said, turning his head with a smug smirk, before pulling out of Owain's grasp. He really, really needed to get a hold of himself before they got to the street.
It took a little while to get to the street.
Eventually, however, Poe was walking up to a small dark shop without a window front. It didn't even have a sign, just two gold letters painted on the door: T.T. He pushed the door open, gestured for Owain to follow him and stepped inside.
"Tristan?" He called out, and a moment later an older gentleman, covered with tattoos appeared from a doorway, rubbing his hands down with a cloth. "Ah, Captain Dameron. And this is...?"
"Owain." Poe answered immediately, before offering a charming grin. "He'd like to sit in."
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He uses that new found confidence to sling an arm around Poe's waist, slightly possessively. He could take on this fuckin' dude, and his bearded-ass beard. He'll fight anyone to keep Poe close to him.
"I'm gonna sit in so hard."
Shit, he's gotta calm down.
Arm still on Poe's waist, he looks around the store, eyes drawn back to that T.T. on the outside of the glass. He looks back to Tristan.
"Tristan's Taradiddle? Tristan's Tiromancy. Tristan's... Triskaidekaphobia?"
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"Owain, huh." He steps over, and holds out a hand - even after being washed, there are dark ink stains spotted over the skin. "Tristan Treehold, technically - my name, not my profession."
"Tristan's a mage," Poe explained, with a half smile back at Owain as Tristan gestured for them to follow him deeper into the shop. The front was almost nothing but books - even though each shelf had a thin chain across it with little signs that said 'do not touch'. At the back of the shop was a black chair, higher than most, and leaned back farther than most, as well. Owain would recognise this, at least. Even tattooists who didn't work with magic tended to use similar chairs.
"He has a very special branch of magic - no one in the army would look to anyone else for a tattoo. Am I right?"
"That's right," Tristan agreed with a broad smile, moving back to a table. It was covered with long needles, all carefully cleaned and prepped, as well as something that looked like a tiny chisel and hammer. "Surprised to see you though, Dameron, you didn't seem very interested last time we spoke."
"Yeah, well, I actually have an idea now. Got some paper?"
"Yeah, over there," Tristan pointed, and Poe shot Owain a grin before pulling from his grasp to go and draw something across the room.
"You in Poe's regiment, then?" Tristan asked Owain amiably as he opened a cupboard and pulled out a small dark bottle of ink.
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Poe pulls away, soon enough, and Tristan is asking him... a question. He's not sure how to answer, partially because he doesn't want to say I'm his Pledge but primarily because there isn't really a word for what he and Poe are. He shoots a nervous glance to Poe to try and find guidance, but Poe's busy drawing something, which... sits on Owain's mind, makes him wonder what this is, until he looks back to Tristan with a very tentative confidence.
"I'm, uh." Again, there's hesitation; a pregnant pause as he looks at the ink in Tristan's hand and realization about why they're here starts to dawn. "I'm his friend. More than his friend? I'm more than his friend."
Yeah. Yeah, he's happy with that. It's shy and hard to restrain, the smile in his voice, but he does his best, just so he doesn't start laughing like a fucking idiot in the middle of someone's tattoo parlour.
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"For more than a night? Alright, I'm impressed." Something twinkled in his eyes when he turned back to Owain. "Didn't think I'd live to see it."
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But it's a reminder that those interests are there, and Owain's eighteen and he's in love and against all the evidence that suggests otherwise, he wonders if Poe would have gotten bored of him and sent him away by now if it wasn't for the obligation of keeping him.
"Uh," he starts, even though he has no idea where to go or what to say. He looks at Tristan and shrugs, somewhat nervously. He lowers his voice, in any case, making absolutely sure that Poe can't hear him.
"I can't really-- speak for him. But it's-- a lot. To me. Here." He pats his fist over his heart. "Every time I think about him. So. I don't know. Just, it's a lot. To me? Maybe for him. I think for him. I don't know."
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"Alright. Look - don't say anything about how terrible the drawing is, alright? As long as you know the heraldry I'm looking for, you should be able to work it out, right?"
Tristan took the piece of paper, with, quite frankly, a really really terrible drawing of a house crest on it. "You could have just told me that you wanted your crest, Dameron, I think I even have it in one of my boo--" He paused, and then squinted. "Oh. Never mind. Sure. I've got it."
He flashed a look at Owain, a curious frown on his face, but then he walked over to his sketching table. There was no way in hell he could work from Poe's drawing, so he quickly sketched out another one. Poe, on the other hand, was already stripping off his jacket.
"Did you want a spell in it?" Tristan asked without looking up from his drafting table.
"Yeah, just a basic protection charm, thanks Tristan."
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His stomach tightens, when Tristan reassures him of Poe's feelings. Something about Tristan is just-- honest, so it takes a moment, but Owain soon nods, completely believing him.
When Poe comes back with his drawing, Owain stands on tiptoes to try to see it, but he can't quite see it and he's not sure if he's allowed to ask for a chance. When Tristan looks at him, there are too many butterflies in his stomach to make him shrink back, so he just... waves. At that frown. Soon, Poe is stripping and getting settled and Owain comes to wait by his side again, the artist's chair reminding him of the time he was branded as a child. Even that had happened in the Estate, keeping him secluded and away from the city - but it's familiar, nevertheless. He runs his hand over Poe's arm, catching his attention.
"Is this..." He hesitates. He knows what this is, he knows, but he hasn't let the gravity of what Poe is doing sink in yet and he doesn't have the guts to ask in case he's wrong or in case he's right and he'll make a fool of himself with all the inevitably bawling. "Is this still-- my birthday present?"
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"I warned you that it wasn't exactly traditional," Poe mused, still smiling as he reached out to grasp Owain's hand, and pulled it to his lips, pressing a warm kiss against his knuckles. "And technically I was going to do it anyway, so I'm not sure it counts as a birthday present, but. Yeah."
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He looks at the marks on Poe's skin, the bruises he left there. Each individual injury a memory of a time Owain was just so fucking happy to be with him that he got carried away and felt too much. Everything in his chest is too full for him to carry, like someone just inflated his heart with hot air, or like he's been holding his breath for too long and his lungs have forgotten how to work without aching.
He finds Poe's hand and he holds it, and he doesn't realize he's tearing up until he looks at the knuckles he's gripping tight to and finds them blurry. He's startled, and he blinks, and it makes a couple of tears fall onto Poe's wrist. He laughs, shy and awkward, scrubbing it away. He completely forgets Tristan is even here.
"Are you sure? You'd be-- mine. Permanently." He swallows, looking at Poe. "I'll always be with you, if you do this. I'll always be a part of you, in some way, and-- and. I know the last few days have been a lot, but are you sure you're okay with that? Okay with me?"
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"I already am, and you already are," Poe pointed out, simply. "That's going to be true, tattoo or not. But I'm not going to let you be the only one to wear the mark of it, Owain."
He gave Owain's hand a squeeze, with a reassuring smile.
"The pledge is already there. I'm just making it visible."
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And then he crashes their lips together, laughing, hands on either side of Poe's face and just-- crying, through all of it, overwhelmed and full of too much fucking love to be able to conduct himself any better. It's a fucking terrible kiss, honestly - wet from tears, Owain breathing too hard into it, teeth, and he pulls back too soon, wiping both of his eyes on his wrists.
"Fuck," he says, voice thin and diluted. "This is-- fuck. I don't deserve this, everyone's gonna know, this isn't-- this isn't something you can hide or explain away like the bandage on your hand, man, this is--"
He cuts himself off, holding Poe's hand, bringing it up his cheek and just-- resting on it.
"I wish I knew how to be as much to you as you are to me." He kisses the back of Poe's hand, breathing out. "I wish I just-- fuck."
He could say it. He could say it so, so, so easily.
"Just--"
I love you, right there, so, so, so, so easily.
But it doesn't come.
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"They'll have to get my shirt off, first," Poe reminds him, gently teasing, nothing but warmth in his expression. He wanted to lean over and press his lips to every fallen droplet, but he resisted the urge.
He spread his fingers over Owain's cheek, gently caressing with his thumb.
There were words there, just at the tip of his to tongue - a pledge of a very different kind. But he swallowed it. It wasn't something he could do, until Owain honestly had his freedom. Not just the fledgling start of one, but one where he had the option to say no. Where he had another choice. The pledge meant that they would be at each other's side until one of them died, but it didn't dictate to their hearts.
So he wouldn't do so now, regardless of how impulsively he wants to say something anyway.
Somewhere behind Owain, Tristan cleared his throat.
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He presses his lips to Poe's forehead and just breathes. He wraps his arms around him - one behind his head and the other his neck - and just fucking holds him, pulling Poe to his chest and resting his chin in his hair. He's just-- overwhelmed, and he needs this, needs Poe, and it takes another few seconds of silence before he eases back.
There's no way in hell he's going to miss this by sitting in the back, so with an apologetic - but defensive, maybe - glance to Tristan, he sits on a table right by the chair, holding Poe's hand tight again and refusing to let go.
"... Holdo's probably gonna flip her shit."
He's not saying it to anyone in particular. The air, maybe. Holdo's totally gonna flip her shit.
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Tristan doesn't interrupt, though he does give Poe a bit of an "are you sure about this" look over Owain's head. Poe just nods, and waits until they're all set up.
"By he time she hears about it, there won't be a damn thing to do about it," Poe said as he held out his arm. Tristan carefully cleaned the area of skin on his bicep, before grappling his tools - sliding a fresh needle into the end of be bamboo rod and dipping it in ink. He took the tiny metal hammer, and after glancing as his sketch again, began to tap the hammer against the rod, driving the needle into Poe's skin. He blood welled, dark with ink as he worked, murmuring the entire time under his breath in a long- forgotten language, the magic in it making the hair raise on the back of Poe's neck, a tingle to the air.
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He almost starts a conversation with Tristan, but his throat feels closed and sore from all the emotion that keeps welling up in him. He watches the ink and the magic bloom and he thinks of his own brand, and he wonders if-- there's something he can do, maybe.
"My mom... had a location spell."
He's swallowing, hoping it's not too late to bring this up, for either of them, but maybe-- maybe. He looks at Tristan, but he doesn't have the guts to ask him, so he looks back to Poe, as if he might know the answer.
"Could... Tristan enchant our brands-- both of them-- so that, like, we'll be able to track each other? Find each other, if we're ever apart?"
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"I assume so," Poe replied, who despite the literal driving needles into his flesh seemed fairly impassive - only wincing when Tristan started on a section of bare flesh that hadn't been touched yet. In a few seconds, it was numb.
"But nothing that could be activated by someone else. Last thing I want is to end up being captured and giving away your position, too."
"Hmmm, that's more difficult," Tristan murmured. "Location spells tend to be tied to the object that is most useful - the spell can remain far after death. But what you're talking about feels far more... Personal."
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He looks to Tristan, and he tries to keep quiet so as not to interrupt his concentration.
"So - we can't do it?"
Lissa's spell would have been easy to track - a marking of property, return to sender, and that's not what he wants his and Poe's to be. He wants a spell that's just there's, something that connects them. He looks at Poe a little nervously. He drops his voice.
"I just, like - don't want to be apart from you. Or not be able to find you, if I ever need to."
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"I could have it take a more - telepathic link. If you touch it, a light will appear in your vision in the direction of the partnered tattoo... brighter if you're closer, fainter if you're farther. Mind, if one of you lost an arm, it would only take you to the arm, but."
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shut up
Make me :')
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