[ 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

[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. ]