[ closed ] turkish i mean tevene oil wrestling

[aenseidhe]

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?

Comments

[rowancrowned]

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.

[aenseidhe]

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?

[elegiaque]

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? )

[rowancrowned]

[ 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.

[aenseidhe]

[ 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. ]

[elegiaque]

( 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. )

[rowancrowned]

[ 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. ]

[aenseidhe]

[ 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. ]

[elegiaque]

( 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. )

[rowancrowned]

[ 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. ]

[aenseidhe]

[ 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. ]