faderift | [ closed ] turkish i mean tevene oil wrestling

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[ closed ] turkish i mean tevene oil wrestling

WHO: Iorveth + Thor + Gwenaëlle + Resa + Thranduil + Loki yelling from a window
WHAT: Wrestling!!!! + Catch all for other things that happened in this eventful day that left Iorveth very sore
WHEN: Early Harvestmere
WHERE: Gallows training grounds
NOTES: Gratuitous shirtless boys touching each other a bunch (FOR WRESTLING, GOD) + NSFW things in another thread that will prob be moved to an inbox idk im sleepy

[ "If you two are going to fight, it's no magic, no weapons, wrestling only, and you have to take your shirts off."

Leave it to Gwenaëlle Baudin to actually get two grown ass men to agree to this nonsense. At least, by the time they decide to start up, Thor and Iorveth have made some kind of temporary peace. While they're still at odds over Tevinter's view on elves, they're discussing it more than simply threatening bloodshed. So, let's be real. This is basically because they both think Gwenaëlle is pretty. Aaaaand, a little, a pissing contest still.

So, no shirts she said. Iorveth wears about 4 to 6 layers of gear at any given time, so it takes him a little bit to strip down from shirtless. First, the cloth belt, the leather belts holding his quiver, bow and swords in place, with the badges of slain special forces commanders decorating it, his gloves, and the leather chest guard are all unbuckled and set aside. Then, the chainmail shift. Then, the loose, brown tunic beneath, and lastly, the larger green tunic, and the plain linen undershirt beneath. When he's finally clear of all that junk, the tattoo that usually only peeks through the top of his collar, branches and leaves weaving up his shoulder and neck, is in full and complete view, and it's much, much larger.

The design stretches from his shoulder, partway down his upper arm, down his chest on his left side, until it reaches his ribs, and wraps around his side there. In full, the tattoo forms a tree - the art of it gnarled and old, twisted and mystic in nature, roots stretching out as far as the branches do. all through it, in the grain of the wood and tangle of the roots and branches, new designs are formed. Some foreign symbols, like runes and sigils, some animal faces or bodies. one could easily guess it's religious in nature, because it is. That taken care of, he'll leave the headscarf on, and he's ready to go. Pacing over to Gwenaëlle, Iorveth stands with hands on his hips as he tilts an amused smile towards her. ]

Any other requests, Elaine Ard Rhena?

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[ he is bone-deep content, in the easy way he has been since he returned from tevinter. lazying on the bed, reviewing the wrestling match he had spied with his elven eyes from his office.

he watches iorveth, clothed, now, but still vulnerable with the removal of his weapons and his layers, but where gwenaelle rises, he stays low. he has had this sort of conversation before. he knows the soothing that gwenaelle prefers will not work with him. ]

What my lady said. [ said first, and said best. ] The three of us are.

[ entangled in one another. literally, now, that thranduil has gotten over that particular hurdle, and given in fully. ]

[ it warms something at the core of his soul, to hear them both express a want for him to part of their love on such an intimate level, and sparks a happiness in him Iorveth hadn't thought would ever be written into his life. that there was no room for it. but at the same time, it aches, for that reason exactly. thranduil, much as iorveth adores him, is rigid and absolute in his decisions. but he has never known slaughter and subjugation at mens' hands, not like the aen seidhe have, or the thedosian elves. and gwenaelle in the middle, trying to make peace of it all. iorveth nods, and pulls in a deep inhale. ]

If we are to all be equal in this, then... [ this is where it becomes messy, but he's had too many lives paid in faith of him to do anything else. ] No Chantry wedding.

[ If they're being bonded to one another, and he's to be bonded along with them, that puts him into the crime of denying his faith just as well. It may not mean much to them, but to Iorveth, it's everything. his people, their culture, their traditions, it is everything he has built into himself, everything he has spent his life protecting. the wedding isn't all, though. ]

And if I hear word of the Archon's whereabouts near Kirkwall again, I will have his head. [ the phylactery he doesn't bother mentioning, as its done and gone. nothing to be done now. but the Archon is both too large an upset to over look, and an issue that persists so long as he remains in Inquisition custody. ]

These are not negotiable.

( the archon, for once, is the simplest matter so far as gwenaëlle can see it—it isn't as if she's unhappy with the thought of him being gutted at the first and most convenient opportunity. the arguments for his continuing to draw breath were good, and convincing, and would not stop her from stepping aside and letting iorveth personally put an end to him.

the wedding, as tempted as she is to acquiesce immediately, is trickier. her gaze slides towards thranduil, who can probably guess her ambivalence. it's not as if she's thrilled it's happening, but she understands why he needs it. enough she's been willing, if not pleased, and.

maker, she doesn't want this of all possible things to be the deal-breaker. )

I mean, fuck the Archon, ( she says, first, distracted by trying to order the rest of her thoughts. )

[ now, at least, he sits up, one leg folded on the bed and the other straight across the sheets. he hears what iorveth is asking, but supposes that in this, iorveth is like gwenaelle. he would rather find the source of it than answer the questions on their own.

iorveth came into this knowing what the answers would be. he is clever, wickedly so, which is why thranduil loves him.

he does not say yes. he does not say no. instead, he says: ]

Why now? This sounds like something you have mulled over for a time, but why ask today? What happened?

[ something, to have him forcing the answer. thranduil had watched him tussling with thor, and that was hardly worth a crisis of conscious, which is what this seems to be. ]

[ he watches thranduil closely, different from how iorveth's eyes follow him around the room most nights, warm and content and sated. iorveth knows what this is, and at times he wishes he were a fool so easy to distract and placate. all that he is has been built on the concept that he won't be soothed over these issues. there are two parts of him at war — the hopeless fool he'd been as a child, before his father's murder and his mother's passing, still believing in things like what thranduil and gwenaelle are, and the warrior Isengrim carved him into, the shadow of all that he was to him looming. ]

Someone expressed interest in me. [ he's not saying who, because he's pretty sure one, or both, of them will murder Kostos in the night. ] It prompted the thought that I'm uncertain what I am and what my limitations are between us. But, I believe I've known and I just...

[ a mirthless smile quirks one corner of his lips, and iorveth shakes his head, because really, this is pathetic. ] I thought I could push it off forever. Have both.

[ pretend there was no big issue in it. that there were perfectly legitimate reasons that he decided not to act on any of these issues, reasons that had nothing to do with but I don't want to lose them. he'd deluded himself. the crux of it is this: ]

Honorable, valiant, beloved warriors have laid down their lives for me, because they believed in the promise that I would never be bought, never compromise on our ideals and beliefs. On our people. [ not only the justice for them, but the soul of them. their way of life, their spirituality, everything. Iorveth's head bows, because there's shame in admitting this that stings so keenly in him. ] I have done that here. For you. For this.

[ for the bribe of comfort and personal happiness. because he was shown the thing he'd longed for so much in the two of them, and he couldn't resist falling for it. ]

Edited 2018-10-03 08:38 (UTC)

( would she be gwenaëlle still if she didn't immediately object? when has she ever been presented with something she could not object to— )

A different way of doing something isn't trading away your ideals, ( balking at once at the thought, for all that she's only in recent years discovered that she might have ideals to trade or not, beyond those long-standing high-minded notions of artistic freedom. other forms of freedom might also have value she's prepared to do something about, too, it turns out.

what he is describing isn't a struggle she's ever felt. she can't comprehend it, the way that he feels it, but it bothers her at once to hear this soft landing described, defined so. it feels tawdry.

and not in a fun, sexy way. )

It doesn't have to be. I don't see that it has to be.

[ if he spoke plainly, if he laid out solas' plans, their plans, before both of his loves, would they understand why he acts as he does, why he dabbles in intrigues, why he plays the games he does. he closes his eyes, exhales inaudibly, and then stands, rolling into uprightness with an easy grace.

it is what he is. ]

Iorveth, I... do you think I am trading my ideals, by being here? By taking the position I have, by wedding Gwenaelle in their farce of a religion, by smiling and simpering and holding my tongue? [ he says it quietly. there is no attack in him. he is being honest. ] What do you think of me?

There is glory in being forthright, in speaking what you hold in your heart, but 'glory' has always struck me as a mannish affliction. Your Scoia'tael do not engage on the battlefield, do they not? They strike at night, they hary the enemy.

[ and because they are in this room, because he can tie it as tight and safe as the girdle protected him as a child, he says: ]

I have done nothing that does not further my goals. There are things that will come to light once Corypheus has fallen, but they are pointless unless Corypheus falls.

Edited 2018-10-03 08:56 (UTC)

[ Iorveth's eyes slip to Gwenaelle, and he knows she doesn't understand. He offers her a small smile, but shakes his head. That isn't how this works.

But it's Thranduil that lays out questions, dismantles and shifts and shines a different light. He's an imposing figure when he stands, and while Iorveth's never feared him, there's something in his grace, and the dignity he never seems to be without, that seems to separate him so keenly, particularly in discussing this. Stand him in a line with the other officers of the Vrihedd that were slaughtered, and he stands out like a gleaming deity among haggard nomads. ]

I think you have never seen your neighbor burned alive for worshiping Melitele. Your mother never had you wear the crest of the Eternal Flame to ensure you got to the market and back unharmed. [ War certainly, and strife, probably, but to be something crushed into the dirt, helpless, beaten, robbed. To shed your skin and become a shadow that cowers and hides and fears every day, for the sacrifice of pieces of your soul to be a common daily practice. ] You've lived many, many years, Thranduil, but the elves of Arda have never been the Aen Seidhe.

[ He has the urge to tell him the Scoia'tael do both, whatever's needed, and when they used to have the numbers for it, there was an army. But most of what they do is in stealth, he's right in that. The mention of glory curls something in Iorveth's chest that burns. it comes out in a harsh, choked laugh, because glory has never meant a thing to him. ]

None of it is done for glory. What use do we have for glory when basic dignity is in such short supply? [ it's for being a people again, rather than a broken shade of life. to stand up straight and claim a right to exist. he wishes it were so simple as trusting Thranduil has a plan, and perhaps if he'd only ever been a soldier to look to a commander, he could do that. Once you are that commander, it eliminates the ability to blindly follow. ]

If these things are so dire, and we're to be equal, why do you guard them? [ and this, the cold tone it comes out in, is the commander that's never trusted a supposed ally that refused to work completely hand in hand. not after nilfgaard, after dol blathanna. if you aren't trusted, there's a good reason not to trust. ]

( gwenaëlle knows the misstep the moment thranduil makes it, the shift in the air at the word glory and how harshly it underlines the separations between them. thranduil comes from a world where elves might act for glory, and for all the many things that she doesn't understand

(and they are many)

she knows in her bones that she does not, and she knows iorveth couldn't, either. so she is not surprised, either, when iorveth's words turn cold. cold—and familiar, her own argument in his mouth, so much less plaintive, so much less likely to be placated the same way. thranduil might bind his wife's trust with her own flaws, but iorveth?

if it had been hard for her to come to implicit trust, she is a summer noon breeze in comparison. )

I am afraid, [ he admits, closing his eyes, tasting it in his mouth but saying it anyway. ] any time you say something with which the humans might take umbrage, I wonder: who hears it? Will they come for him now, or will they wait until we are no longer needed? How many Rifters are needed to close a Rift, and when will they decide that we are elves, first, and useful, second?

But I love you for speaking it.

[ he fears his door breaking open in the middle of the night like an elfling in mirkwood dreams of the spiders, and it is sharper for being foreign, for being a monster he banished when he took up his crown and set melian's lessons to task to protect his people. ]

You are brave in a way I am not, [ he admits. ] You are accustomed to this, to fighting this, and maybe my weakness is in viewing it as a temporary change, a depression, something that can be righted rather than something that is broken.

[ and here it is: ] The fewer who are sworn to a secret are the fewer who can be executed for keeping it.

Edited 2018-10-03 09:54 (UTC)

[ Iorveth's not sure he's ever heard Thranduil admit to a fear, even once. What anger burned in him a moment before simmers and fizzles out with his confession, and the love he gives him freely. Reaching up, he cups Thranduil's face in his hands, and brings their foreheads together. It doesn't surprise him, what he tells him, because his mother forbade him from having anything to do with the Scoia'tael for so long for the same reasons. ]

This is why I hesitated. [ Iorveth tells him softly. When they first started this. Not only because he knew he'd have issues putting them above what he fights for, but for the fact he might not come back one day. It would hurt them much more than it would frighten him. Pulling back, he looks over him, thumb smoothing over his cheek, a sad smile on his lips. ]

In a world like this, and like mine, they enslave you with the fear of loss. When you have nothing to lose, they have no control over you, and you're free to resist them in every way you can. [ That was what made the Scoia'tael so powerful, and what left those in the cities, with their children and shelters, so vulnerable. It had to be someone like him. ]But, if it makes you feel any better, an entire Continent has wanted my head for decades. With all their Kings and their unchained mages, all they got was an eye. And I'd a spare, so what do I care?

[ he's fucking hilarious, okay? okay. there's a lull, and Iorveth's hands drop from Thranduil, turning to pace the room, rolling over this issue of Thranduil's secrets in his head. He can't just sign it off as he has been doing, because he'll end up in the same position, and they'll do this all over again. eventually, he lets out a huff, and flops down in a chair, slouched. ]

You can't bargain with a fear of execution while being one already in danger of execution, to someone who has no fear of execution.

[ if he was trying for the 'don't make me be afraid for you' angle, well, he's already put that on Gwen and Iorveth both by involving himself. And self-preservation is an utter moot point with Iorveth besides. basically what he means is: not good enough, try again. ]

( muttering i can keep secrets in orlesian under her breath speaks for itself on the matter of who, exactly, is being kept in the dark—not some marital conspiracy that iorveth is outside of, but one of thranduil's own making that gwenaëlle has only chipped away at, not yet broken into— )

Iorveth is an elf and he can keep secrets.

( maybe this seems like a non sequitur. not to her, though. she's feeling her way through something, and it doesn't seem to entirely satisfy her, but she's following a train of logic. )

It's—fair. To say that I'm not spectacular. At that.

( byerly rutyer seems to think he can teach her to be, but be that as it may (and she is not sure it may), )

And I'm human, and I'm sure that that's not irrelevant.

( to what she is and is not trusted with. whether or not thranduil would agree with her assessment of either its relevance or, frankly, her species is immaterial. she believes it; there's nothing accusatory about the way she says it, observing a fact. )

I don't see why you couldn't trust Iorveth with more. And I would—

( she takes her glasses off, then, turning them over in her hands. stares at them for a moment, and then up at iorveth— )

I'd trust you for both of us.

( i love you, too. she wills him to hear it. )

Edited (yeah she just went to orlais for this tag) 2018-10-03 10:47 (UTC)

I will— ask.

[ because that's all he can do, and high time that solas brought more into the fold. time and time again, thranduil will coax him to reach out to the dalish and the city elves, say, here is an army, ready-made, and maybe solas will see, one day, what he might have. what he ought to be fighting for, rather than old dreams.

back to iorveth's points.

(he feels better for having been touched. here are his centers, his lode-stones, his true norths.) ]

I will make no effort to stop you, should you go after the Archon, but I urge you to consider what message will be sent should you succeed. If I am able to leverage my position to have him sent to Skyhold, I will do so, no matter what you choose.

[ as for the wedding— he looks to gwenaelle. the invitations have been sent out. not an inconsiderably sum of money has been spent. there are expectations, and the event has been tied too tightly to the inquisition's reputation not to damage it, pulled free. which is what he had wanted: help one to help the other. ]

I would beg you to reconsider on the point of the wedding.

Gwenaelle... [ he knows it's painful for her, to volunteer to be the one boxed out of this. ] Your humanity doesn't make you a bad secret keeper. Elves can be just as terrible with it.

[ your lack of being a military agent and occasional spy does. it also helps Iorveth and Thranduil can probably both withstand torture for a hell of a long time. regardless, he wishes it would be easy to share with them, but if Thranduil is so fearful of it, one of them is better than none. ]

Consider yourself fortunate I met you as an elf before I met you as a politician. [ because Iorveth fucking hates politicians, because they say crap like that, and people who should be skinned alive and rolled through salt walk free. ] Return that man to power in Tevinter, and the blood of all elven slaves there is on your hands, and any others who stand in inaction, including me, which I cannot abide.

If you plan on using him to that end, I suggest you find an army to keep me from him when the time comes.

[ and then another army to defend you, my dude. Not that he could ever bring himself to harm Thranduil, but he hopes it's the same for him. but, for better or worse, that's the compromise he's giving him. he'll suffer the archon to live, for now, but not to return to power. on to the next bullet point - the wedding.

iorveth pushes a hand through his hair (bandana lost along with his armor and weapons, probably), letting out a tense exhale. everything in him seethes at the idea of this thing. like he'd told thor only half a day earlier, aen seidhe are born with their spirituality being an essential piece of the core of their soul. if their love is his love, and they commit it to this religion that's done such horrors to this world and the elves here, even disingenuously... it makes his stomach turn. ]

Give me a better reason and I will. [ reconsider it, he means. a good enough excuse to allow it to happen. this plan he has. something more than just 'trust me'. iorveth may love him, but he's more commander than he's ever been lover. but, at the same time, a grim thought creeps into his head. one he'd like to believe thranduil wouldn't do, but. he has to ask. ]

If I refused, what would you do?

I know what makes me bad at keeping secrets, ( it's her face and her big mouth, but there's a bigger picture that she's not unaware of. it was always going to be complicated, thranduil's dreams for the elven people with his human bride at his side (or, more likely, in his lap); he forgets that, sometimes, but she doesn't.

she leaves aside the matter of the archon—the question of his returning to power is no question at all, she thinks, tevinter has seen him weak and even if they wanted something that insane he could never hold his throne a second time—but the wedding seems like a point on which she ought to weigh in. she's in it, after all. and yet: she's so reluctant to speak for it, as much as she's equally reluctant to pull out of it. the necessity seems clear, and if only that made it all less distasteful. and there are a lot of things she might say about it, but iorveth asks that question and she holds her tongue, looks up at thranduil.

what would he do? )

[ his points on the archon are accurate and succinct. thranduil knows. he always had. when he'd sat with the man's body on the ship, he had known. would it have been a relief, had someone else killed him? ]

Because I love her, because I want to make them watch it. Because if we are people, if one Rifter can be tamed, then perhaps they are not so dangerous, and I needn't worry that a mob will come to the Gallows some fine day. Because they will allow me closer for it, and closer is a shorter distance between my sword and their throat when the time comes.

[ he has always been, at his core, a proud man. arda was crafted for the elves, put into their care. what men did to it and do to it always, always sickens him, and here he is in constant, humiliating contact with them.

he hates it.

he does not want to look at iorveth. he does not want to look at gwenaelle. ]

Watch my the value of my word plummet in their eyes, but I- I will do it, if you ask it of me.

[ another first - he's never heard Thranduil, King of Elves, Lord of Mirkwood, stammer. he's put him through a great deal tonight, asked him to swallow fears and make concessions. iorveth's never been an easy person to live with, and even less to please. there is so much of him that is immovable, and must be, for what his purpose is. still, these two love him, for whatever insane reason.

rising from where he'd flopped down, he crosses over to thranduil again, because it hurts him to see such a proud and beautiful man, that he cares so painfully deeply for, so shaken to pieces. he tugs him close, an arm around his back and a hand at the back of his head pulling him against his shoulder, a soft kiss placed against his temple. that's enough. he doesn't need to drag him through this any longer. ]

Build me a shrine, to Dana Méadbh, Queen of the Fields. [ Iorveth tells him, nose pressed against his cheek with a light nuzzle. ] Help me hide it from the humans. Give me a place I can honor her while you do this, and I'll allow it.

[ and that's it. he'll call it even and done.

iorveth stretches his arm out, motioning for Gwenaelle to come join them. they're done with this tonight. ]

( gwenaëlle—

exhales.

it had felt tenuous, there, like they were teetering on some precipice. when she joins them (putting her glasses aside on the bedside table and not fidgeting with them any further), it's by crawling into thranduil's lap in between them, slinging one knee over iorveth, insinuating herself like something that only has bones when they feel necessary. )

I'll help, ( she offers, feeling more or less comfortable assuming that here and now she isn't the humans. )

[ his teeth snap close to iorveth's ear, denied the chance to close on flesh, because he is fussy and angry still besides, and always a proud man, and there is perhaps a little fight in him as he is directed to the bed, but he goes down easily enough, and wraps an arm around gwenaëlle to bind him tight to her as soon as she's close enough to do so.

he wants to feel real, flesh-and-fëa, not just some fade construct or dream able to be blown away by the wind. he wants blood, and maybe more inclined to raising bruises than his normal, fastidious self. ]

How? [ only the too-prim vanyar have anything approaching religion, and 'shrine' is something that makes him think old gods rather than elf. are there stones involved? how big will it need be?

an aside: ] Who propositioned you?

[ again, with the blood. ]

[ blood and bruises and snapping teeth are all things iorveth can handle, things he knows like his own skin, like the inside of his head, and as they sink down to the bed, he straddles Thranduil's lap on his knees, Gwen curled between them), hands pushing back into his hair and nails dragging at his scalp, harder than usual, as he hovers close to him. ]

White stone. [ Iorveth murmurs, leaning down, curved over gwenaelle, to kiss along the side of Thranduil's face, pausing at his jaw to sink his teeth in against the muscle and bone. ] Flowers. No wood. Not big. She isn't picky.

[ he's still carrying all the aches and pains from fighting with Thor into exhaustion, a bruise starting to form deep over left cheek bone where he didn't get out of the way fast enough. funny, he was thinking of these two at the time, mind elsewhere. but nothing aching on him is enough to really be bothersome, not in a real way. not enough to stop him from wanting both of their hands on him right now, craving it.

kissing down the side of Thranduil's throat, he curls an arm around Gwenaelle's waist, just enjoying the feeling over having her pressed tight between the two of them. a low, deep laugh rumbles in the back of Iorveth's throat, and he bites down against Thranduil's collar bone, harder now. ]

What'll you do with the name?

[ it's asked with a small, sharp smirk. iiiiiit's pretty hot when Thranduil's all boiling blood and rage, not gonna lie. Maybe he should piss him off more often. ]

( it's warm between the two of them, the way they press against her when she breathes in deep. iorveth leaned over her shoulder at that angle to reach thranduil presents her with a convenient vantage point and she turns her mouth against his throat, lazy and unhurried, thinking about white stones and shrines and reasonable trade-offs.

and the snap of teeth, and how appealing it is when thranduil's hands forget their strength. )

You know what he wants to do with the name, ( arch against iorveth's skin, finding her way up behind his ear, to the point of it. )

[ less wise, more dangerous, the pain from iorveth's nails, the spasm of his body when teeth sink in, and then again the second time, twisting to free himself of it but holding them both close.

he thinks of polished white marble, the endless light of it in comparison the obsidian shrine the outsider had mocked in creating for himself, a god without worshippers.

he doesn't want lazy. he wants--

interlinking gwen's fingers with his own by means of his between hers, then the combined mit of their hand scorring down iorveth's back. ]

Forget it, [ he says. ] Forget them.

[ he is seven thousand years of stubborness and quendi traditions and won't allow the sacrilege of the thought of a stranger in his bed, in their bed. ]

Edited 2018-10-04 13:06 (UTC)

[ their nails rake sweetly sharp down iorveth's back, and he arches against them, a hiss pulled from between clinched teeth, lips pulled back less in a snarl, but a sharp smirk, pleased with the bright, stark reality of their mark on his skin. pain has always been something of a drug to him, an intoxication that pumps adrenaline through his veins, that sparks along his skin, that makes his mind dance. ]

Forgotten. [ no stranger in any manner of form - thought or spirit or otherwise - in their bed. only the purity of this all-consuming love between them.

iorveth tilts his head to the side, baring his throat to Gwenaelle where her warm breath trickles a current against his skin, dragging an involuntary shiver through him, against them, within the frame of their arms around him. he hardly does much to hold it in.

one arm rested on thranduil's shoulders hold him steady on the king's lap, and the other hand slipped along underneath the back of gwen's nightgown, palm smoothing over the curve of her spine as he dips to kiss along the low, loose collar of the garment, barely concealing the rise of her breasts. the other hand busies with whatever nonsense thranduil has covering up his chest, iorveth's hand curling in the fabric and tugging none too gently at it to drag it from his body as if it's personally offending him right now. ]

Edited 2018-10-10 23:16 (UTC)

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[ closed ] turkish i mean tevene oil wrestling

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