[ CLOSED ]

[aenseidhe]

WHO: Iorveth, Thranduil and Gwen
WHAT: Arguing, naked people
WHEN: Directly after this.
WHERE: The Gallows, Thranduil's office
NOTES: Bad words and life choices, also Gwen's boobs.

[ Thankfully, no Templars get in Iorveth's face on the way to Thranduil's office, and he makes it to the door with no blood on his hands. However, he's no less enraged, paranoid, and ready to bolt from this shithole of a city, possibly without a left hand, thanks, Casimir.

Or possibly with all the left hands of all the Rifters. He really shouldn't have mentioned that part.

Shoving the door open, Iorveth marches in looking entirely like the officer that carved vengeance out of men's bodies, claimed trophies from human officers, and burned men alive. There hasn't yet really been cause for him to get so up in arms, until another set of foreign negotiations made rules over his will. It compounds - the thoughts he'd had in wondering what the consequences to telling the Inquisition 'no' would be, how long the Inquisition's insignia will keep him from being cornered into an alienage as well, all the people standing still while things something disgusting occurs and calling it civility, or politics.

It makes his skin crawl. So here he is, because Thranduil called, and somehow he has the respect to obey that when very few else would win it, but today that's been pushed too. ]

What?

Comments

[aenseidhe]

[ For the majority of Thranduil's speech, Iorveth is blinking down at the warm hand on his arm, bereft of the studded leather gloves he'd had on earlier, and at Gwen's aforementioned bare thigh. by the time Thranduil's speech is done, he's decided these things are good (and comfortable, and cozy, and personal, and enjoyable) and may be kept. he may possibly start inspecting the stitching on Thranduil's robe idly, because it's pretty and so is he.

But, when Thranduil hands him back the pipe, he's immediately pushing it back from whence it came, even trying to put the end of it back between his lips. ]

Nono. You need it more.

[ Until you stop talking about political bridges and hungry Dalish and slaughtered Rifters. Stop being a buzzkill. ]

[elegiaque]

( iorveth makes an excellent and compelling point, far more immediately interesting than further dissection of potential dissections; when thranduil breathes in smoke and lets go the pipe, gwenaëlle is there a moment later, lips pressed sweet and thieving to his. there's a pleasant shared burn, and the tang of coupe's probably acceptable alcohol on her breath from thranduil's mouth when she exhales a wreath of it for iorveth, the lean of her toward him pressing her knee in and bringing to her attention for the first time exactly how much of her thigh and weight he's been tolerating. )

Fuck the Arlathvhen, then, ( sedately. )

[aenseidhe]

[ that is. much more involved of an inhale than he was expecting to happen, but then again, he's hanging out blazed out of his mind with a couple married people, one of them very naked, and the other not seeming too concerned by that. his jaw might have gone a little slack while watching that exchange, feeling like he's caught with a hand in the cookie jar when gwenaëlle's attention turns back to him.

iorveth's head is too much in a blissful daze to feel any kind of awkward panic that might have come from thranduil's wife imparting another stream of smoke to him to do anything but inhale the remnants of it deeply.

that, and, feeling the balance of her perched half on thranduil and half her weight on his chest now, iorveth grabs quickly at her knee to steady her, making sure she doesn't go toppling over. a century worth of reflex training beats out stoner motor skills, heyooo.

it ends with him beaming a lazy grin up to the both of them, relaxing back and repeating her. ]

Fuck the Arlathvhen.

[rowancrowned]

[ he tips his head back and closes his eyes. gwenaëlle’s kiss? entirely expected, given her opportunistic ways, but considering how she shares it with iorveth, how iorveth responds, well—

gwenaëlle has made her point well enough. there will be no more ruminations on politics and consequences this evening. which is well enough—he is feeling pleasantly warm, and his lover is here, and both his doors are locked.

he waits until gwenaëlle looks at him to speak softly. ] We cannot offer to keep him until he knows what it means, [ he says. his own tendencies towards possessiveness, gwenaëlle’s vulnerabilities, their altered states. something about duty to make sure not to take advantage of him.

but thranduil wants him to stay, wants this odd arrangement of limbs and personalities. another pull from the pipe—and if he jostles gwenaëlle when he leans over to hook a finger in iorveth’s collar to drag him close enough to share the smoke with the other elf like gwenaëlle had done with him, he thinks he will hear no complaint from her about it. ]

[aenseidhe]

[ it's the aftermath when gwenaëlle leans back into her husband's arm that iorveth's sluggish mind starts to put pieces together and understand what's happened. typically he prides himself on being quicker on the uptake than most, enough to have kept his unit alive and well through the decades, but this is something very different from guerrilla warfare, and it's been a very difficult day thus far.

On the tail end of what he doesn't quite catch spoken between thranduil and his wife, Iorveth's lips are already parted, and the first half-second of sound that makes up 'I'm sorry' is half-way past them. Abruptly derailed with Thranduil dragging him upward, hand jerking to grasp his forearm to keep himself upright, but with absolutely no complaint for the brush of lips that siphons him another lungful of smoke.

everything feels surreal and slow around him, the shift of Thranduil's lips, the expanding of his own lungs, the beat of his heart in his ears, and the way his friend's face comes back into focus when he parts. his gaze holds with thranduil's for what seems like much longer than seconds, meaning sinking into his mind like cogs fitting together, and the step from there is a natural progress.

tilting his chin up and back, he leans for gwen, waiting for her to close the distance before exhaling to pass the smoke on again, the same exquisite slow of time and buzz all through his skin that he'd felt with thranduil repeated with her once more. Another few seconds of silence to watch her exhale, and he murmurs a question, soft and dazed. ]

I've never been married... but this doesn't usually happen, does it? [ just. to make sure there's not something glaringly obvious that's gone completely over his head for one hundred twenty-seven years. ]

[elegiaque]

( that is


a good point that he's making, reminding her of the conversation they had and the conversations that would need to happen before they acted on anything. if they want to, when they sober up. something like that needs to be looked at carefully, not fallen into in a fog of pipeweed, so easy and comfortable and intimate. so easy, breathing in smoke from iorveth's mouth and processing slowly, what thranduil says and he does,

oh,

well.

gwenaëlle doesn't complain of being jostled. she rolls down from thranduil's lap, tangling herself thoroughly in his robe and landing in the crook of iorveth's elbow, nestling in snug and hooking her (apparently very interesting) thigh over his knee where they drape at the end of the bed- )

No, ( she allows, and then, very seriously to them both, ) but we can just cuddle.

( she's very tactile. )

For now.