[ a kiss, then, from iorveth, and he is not ashamed to admit he prefers gwenaelle’s taste to iorveth’s, tongue against his lips to taste it. the position strains his neck, and he is large, and lazy (though his own want still burns under his skin, more a presence than something he has any real desire to do anything about) and soon returns to his spawn, gwenaelle’s hand in his hair like a leash. ]
Practice will help, [ he demurs, his hand on iorveth’s hip, thumb brushing the characters of tengwar into his skin, the meaningless repetition of a schoolboy, all smooth whorls and occasional dashes.
gwenaelle’s toes go wandering and he gives in; turns his head so he can meet her bright little eyes, watching him like a stoat stares down a baby bird. ] Not tonight, [ he says, and regret briefly pulls his face into apologetic; creased brow and sympathetic eyes. the burn under his skin, the tightness in his stomach—those are enough, and he has no desire to chase them to an end that will feel cursory when he has desires for much greater things. if he just lays with the two of them—no more fuss or moving about—he will be happy indeed. ] I am sorry.
( it's a preference, as thranduil has noted, to come around cock and not tongue; the problem that they run into here, as embarrassment tightens her shoulders and robs her of that hazy post-orgasm ease, is where that preference comes from. it's convenient that she finds penetration suits her so well, but the point of it is-
she could be anyone, if all she does is lie here and be pleasured. pretty but replaceable; nothing of herself that makes her necessary. she's spent years learning how to be worth someone's while and that, more than anything else, is why as much as she enjoyed what iorveth had been doing, thranduil's languor runs icewater down her back. it's irrational, she knows: he could not replace her. would not.
(iorveth might, that shadow whispers; iorveth has made no promises, knows her little, could let her slip through his fingers still without much thought. how is she supposed to wind him close to her without her hands, her nails, her teeth? what's she supposed to make him need her with, her fucking personality?)
it's irrational. half the shame that suffuses her is in simple acknowledgment of that: this has been lovely, and she teeters on the edge of ruining it.
gwenaëlle makes herself breathe out. doesn't try to smile when it won't look right, doesn't want to lie - doesn't want to hurt either. when she begins disentangling herself she does it gently, bending as she does to press a kiss to iorveth's mouth, then thranduil's. )
I'm not tired, ( is what she settles on saying, sweeping her hair back over her shoulders, slipping free of thranduil's shirt in preparation for finding something presentable to wear. ) So I'll kiss you now, you'll be asleep by the time I come back.
( she only wobbles a little on it, voice just a little the wrong side of her anxious energy. take that energy and- ride around the camp, maybe, til she feels cold and wants to come back. it's almost all she says, but that wouldn't be fair, and she's been trying to be fair and good and speak instead of scream so she says, neutrally, knelt at the edge of the bedding, )
[ this, at least, he knows like he knows his own mind. it has worn ruts in his heart; the unending wheel of her pulling away and him following. ]
Where are you going, [ he says, mild for now, but he sits up in bed to track her movements with a look that’s more dominating than anything he’s used on her in bed. she can’t go. now is the time for quiet words and affirmations, the time where he can rebuild that part of himself that he finds so fragile in the aftermath. perhaps it is wrong of him to depend upon her so in this, but it is a habit he is afraid to break himself of. he stands, unabashed in his nudity—it is secondary, and she has seen him so much lower. there is no cloth to grab, so he takes her hand instead, makes her pause in her flight. ]
We will do whatever you like, barring my—limitations, [ he promises. he does not say ‘do not go’, but his face is drawn almost into concern, his jaw tight. why is she leaving? ]
( her eyes track...not thranduil but iorveth, her mouth pulling tight with unhappiness catching his unease. her toes find his trousers and sweep them not unintentionally out of his reach. excuse all of everything. excuse the way she leans out of her husband's grasp, too, pulling her hand free even as she silently objects to anyone else leaving-
as evenly as she can manage: )
I like this. The three of us, I like this and I want to do it again, but,
( this is so uncomfortable; so uncomfortably exposed, to both of them, its excruciating. admissions she had managed not to make even to thranduil in so many words, )
You know I hate it when you expect me to lie there and let you touch me, ( finally, and some of the strain shows; it would be easier just to fight with him. a hundred hurtful things she doesn't mean on the tip of her tongue, that she knows aren't true, and it's harder than she wants it to be not to say them. ) Don't - mistake me, Iorveth, I liked...
( you know, he probably noticed what she liked. )
But I might as well have not fucking been there for all- ( no, wrong direction, bad, voice raising. she swallows it. plaintively: ) You wouldn't let me touch either of you and now you're just done. You know I hate that. I love you, Thranduil, but I don't like you very much right now and I don't want to be near you while I feel like this.
( it's not about how much she likes to ride him; it's that she needs to please him. )
[ she—ah, then, that makes sense, and he lets his hand fall, lets her be as realization blooms over his face. instinct screams at him not to, but he’s been ignoring that a great deal lately; what’s a bit more. ]
Gwenaëlle, [ he says, and it’s not begging, and it’s not ‘please’, though it could be, from another man. she has a right to see herself out; hardie will go with her, that’s why he found her the hound—to keep her safe when she banished him. The way he’s holding himself shifts, formalizes—at least his own trousers are in reach, and these he puts back on without much fuss or fanfare. and the shirt—not the one that gwenaëlle was wearing, but a clean one, unworn since it was laundered in skyhold. he cannot be here right now anymore than she can; whatever direction she picks he will choose the opposite and walk until he reaches a forest.
at least, he thinks, she has grown. better this than a screaming fight where they do not speak with one another for months after. ]
[ welp, this is A Talk. or, rather, a distinct lack of one. he's not too sure that makes it any better.
it is tense, and it is emotional, and it is awkward for several reasons. one being that they're all bare assed naked. another, because this is mostly an argument between a married couple and iorveth is just some dude that got a bj. yet another, because iorveth does not have talks like this - ever. they just don't happen in his life.
this is complicated, and he'd really like to slither away right now. the part where he's naked as hell makes that difficult, and gwen apparently catches him skimming the floor of the tent for his pants, tugging them out of reach. for that, she gets a look, one that is not terribly pleased. being responsible for a person's emotional well-being is a terrifying thing, and before, Iorveth had the excuse of the entire Continent knowing he's a bastard to simply excuse himself from it. but now, here we are. he's considering walking out naked just for the fact that gwenaelle decided taking his pants meant keeping him trapped here.
but that would be petty, and rude, and something he'd do to a person he doesn't give two shits about. gwenaelle and thranduil are, unfortunately, not in that category any longer. but, they both seem ready to depart in one direction or the other, and perhaps that's for the best. leaves him to escape this tension by just.... staying put.
so he does just that. remains seated on the mattress, sheet pooled over his lap, and hand braced thoughtfully against his lips, eye shifting from one to the other, but clearly making no attempt to intervene. ]
( she is, perhaps, still being more than a little unfair trying to dig claws into iorveth while trying not to come apart at the seams; she picks up his trousers after a moment, stands awkwardly with them as if she hadn't thought it all the way through -
entirely possible
- and then gives them to him, her fingers lingering a moment as if she'd considered reaching for him and found herself uncertain of her welcome. better to spare them both making it worse if he'd rather not, so she curls her fingers under her palm instead of touching his face and says, )
I'm sorry, that's not really what I had in mind for this evening.
( she gathers up the simplest of her own clothes - not a gown, but the trousers and blouse she usually wears with coupe, which will suit riding and her mood, and pauses, dressing.
does not apologise to her husband, no, but she stops him with a hand at his elbow, her blouse still half-undone, leaning up to reach him, jaw working for a moment. then, an offering: )
I think I'll be an hour, maybe. A little more. But I'll come back.
( it'd be nice if he were there when she did, eventually, but she hesitates to ask it of him when this is so-
if he needs to go further, too. fair. they're so fucking difficult. )
[ so they are gone, both of them, for an hour at least—gwenaëlle to wherever she needed to process those feelings she had learned to leash, and thranduil to stew and brood and compose himself, because he needed composing, to come back to the tent. he wears his assortment of clothes like they were fine silks, bare-footed and obviously having made use of his glamour to escape notice.
he is very disinclined for anyone to see him out of sorts.
his hair has been tided and braided for sleep, and he glances into the tent before entering, and ties the entrance closed behind him. they are back in bed, and calm—iorveth stayed—and in the darkness he has no problem returning to them, stepping over hardie but lingering on the edge of the mattress. waiting for permission.
his eyes do not reflect light like the elvhen, but he is a presence in the darkness nonetheless. ]
[ after the two went their separate ways, Iorveth stayed, sitting up in a pile of sheets and pillows, contemplating what the fuck just happened. he's fairly decent at interpreting conflict and dynamics between others - gwenaelle has an issue feeling true worth for herself, perhaps purpose, and thranduil has a very particular preference for how he'd like things to be done, and a mind used to authority and control in uncertain situations. love complicates them both.
the problem iorveth has is finding his own place within them, between them, beside them, whatever. the idea of just gathering his things and taking off in his own direction as well is tempting, leave the complication behind. he nearly does, but idles instead. though he hardly knows what to say to either of them about what conflict they just had, he settles down into the blankets again and just... goes to sleep. he's hoping his presence will speak more than any actual words he could come up with.
Gwenaelle returns first, and of course, Iorveth hears her, because a fox could scamper past outside the tent walls and Iorveth would still hear it in his sleep. She cuddles up next to him, and he smiles in the darkness, lifting an arm to wrap behind her head and hold her close.
Thranduil is later, standing at the edge of the mattress like something stoic and foreboding, but he isn't nearly so stony a soul. Iorveth sighs out, moving the blankets aside for him, and holding out an arm to beckon him closer. come lay down, you beautiful fool. ]
[ his presence says a great deal, and thranduil slides in beside him. they have caught iorveth between them, and so it is iorveth thranduil leans over to kiss gwenaelle on the cheek, a murmured 'beloved' following before he relaxes back onto his third of the bed. and he too drapes an arm, though he catches both of them in his reach, and his hand stays on gwenaelle's hip.
this is just as important to him as the sex. his nose ends up near iorveth's hair-- he will be picking it out of his teeth in the morning-- but here he finds what he was so adrift without but an hour and change ago. ]
( slipping back into bed, gwenaëlle hadn't gone to sleep; had lingered on the edge of it, curled to fit against iorveth, breathing out warm against his skin, tapping restless nonsense patterns against his side. quiet, because she hadn't felt well-served by speaking, earlier, and-
does not, still, when thranduil returns and does not immediately return. it's unfair to expect other than what he does, but it still lodges somewhere behind her ribs that he hesitates. if this is what speaking does then she should never do it again, because she loathes it. she nearly says as much, overtired and overstressed and wanting to undo the past few hours entirely, promise that she'll never do anything like that again, that she'll swallow it next time, that she'll make herself quieter and smaller,
iorveth forestalls it, gesturing thranduil to bed; she will do nothing by speaking but spark more of the same.
she rolls onto her back and stares up at the tent's ceiling. it will be a long time until she sleeps. )
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Practice will help, [ he demurs, his hand on iorveth’s hip, thumb brushing the characters of tengwar into his skin, the meaningless repetition of a schoolboy, all smooth whorls and occasional dashes.
gwenaelle’s toes go wandering and he gives in; turns his head so he can meet her bright little eyes, watching him like a stoat stares down a baby bird. ] Not tonight, [ he says, and regret briefly pulls his face into apologetic; creased brow and sympathetic eyes. the burn under his skin, the tightness in his stomach—those are enough, and he has no desire to chase them to an end that will feel cursory when he has desires for much greater things. if he just lays with the two of them—no more fuss or moving about—he will be happy indeed. ] I am sorry.
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she could be anyone, if all she does is lie here and be pleasured. pretty but replaceable; nothing of herself that makes her necessary. she's spent years learning how to be worth someone's while and that, more than anything else, is why as much as she enjoyed what iorveth had been doing, thranduil's languor runs icewater down her back. it's irrational, she knows: he could not replace her. would not.
(iorveth might, that shadow whispers; iorveth has made no promises, knows her little, could let her slip through his fingers still without much thought. how is she supposed to wind him close to her without her hands, her nails, her teeth? what's she supposed to make him need her with, her fucking personality?)
it's irrational. half the shame that suffuses her is in simple acknowledgment of that: this has been lovely, and she teeters on the edge of ruining it.
gwenaëlle makes herself breathe out. doesn't try to smile when it won't look right, doesn't want to lie - doesn't want to hurt either. when she begins disentangling herself she does it gently, bending as she does to press a kiss to iorveth's mouth, then thranduil's. )
I'm not tired, ( is what she settles on saying, sweeping her hair back over her shoulders, slipping free of thranduil's shirt in preparation for finding something presentable to wear. ) So I'll kiss you now, you'll be asleep by the time I come back.
( she only wobbles a little on it, voice just a little the wrong side of her anxious energy. take that energy and- ride around the camp, maybe, til she feels cold and wants to come back. it's almost all she says, but that wouldn't be fair, and she's been trying to be fair and good and speak instead of scream so she says, neutrally, knelt at the edge of the bedding, )
I think we should do it differently, next time.
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Where are you going, [ he says, mild for now, but he sits up in bed to track her movements with a look that’s more dominating than anything he’s used on her in bed. she can’t go. now is the time for quiet words and affirmations, the time where he can rebuild that part of himself that he finds so fragile in the aftermath. perhaps it is wrong of him to depend upon her so in this, but it is a habit he is afraid to break himself of. he stands, unabashed in his nudity—it is secondary, and she has seen him so much lower. there is no cloth to grab, so he takes her hand instead, makes her pause in her flight. ]
We will do whatever you like, barring my—limitations, [ he promises. he does not say ‘do not go’, but his face is drawn almost into concern, his jaw tight. why is she leaving? ]
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as evenly as she can manage: )
I like this. The three of us, I like this and I want to do it again, but,
( this is so uncomfortable; so uncomfortably exposed, to both of them, its excruciating. admissions she had managed not to make even to thranduil in so many words, )
You know I hate it when you expect me to lie there and let you touch me, ( finally, and some of the strain shows; it would be easier just to fight with him. a hundred hurtful things she doesn't mean on the tip of her tongue, that she knows aren't true, and it's harder than she wants it to be not to say them. ) Don't - mistake me, Iorveth, I liked...
( you know, he probably noticed what she liked. )
But I might as well have not fucking been there for all- ( no, wrong direction, bad, voice raising. she swallows it. plaintively: ) You wouldn't let me touch either of you and now you're just done. You know I hate that. I love you, Thranduil, but I don't like you very much right now and I don't want to be near you while I feel like this.
( it's not about how much she likes to ride him; it's that she needs to please him. )
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Gwenaëlle, [ he says, and it’s not begging, and it’s not ‘please’, though it could be, from another man. she has a right to see herself out; hardie will go with her, that’s why he found her the hound—to keep her safe when she banished him. The way he’s holding himself shifts, formalizes—at least his own trousers are in reach, and these he puts back on without much fuss or fanfare. and the shirt—not the one that gwenaëlle was wearing, but a clean one, unworn since it was laundered in skyhold. he cannot be here right now anymore than she can; whatever direction she picks he will choose the opposite and walk until he reaches a forest.
at least, he thinks, she has grown. better this than a screaming fight where they do not speak with one another for months after. ]
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it is tense, and it is emotional, and it is awkward for several reasons. one being that they're all bare assed naked. another, because this is mostly an argument between a married couple and iorveth is just some dude that got a bj. yet another, because iorveth does not have talks like this - ever. they just don't happen in his life.
this is complicated, and he'd really like to slither away right now. the part where he's naked as hell makes that difficult, and gwen apparently catches him skimming the floor of the tent for his pants, tugging them out of reach. for that, she gets a look, one that is not terribly pleased. being responsible for a person's emotional well-being is a terrifying thing, and before, Iorveth had the excuse of the entire Continent knowing he's a bastard to simply excuse himself from it. but now, here we are. he's considering walking out naked just for the fact that gwenaelle decided taking his pants meant keeping him trapped here.
but that would be petty, and rude, and something he'd do to a person he doesn't give two shits about. gwenaelle and thranduil are, unfortunately, not in that category any longer. but, they both seem ready to depart in one direction or the other, and perhaps that's for the best. leaves him to escape this tension by just.... staying put.
so he does just that. remains seated on the mattress, sheet pooled over his lap, and hand braced thoughtfully against his lips, eye shifting from one to the other, but clearly making no attempt to intervene. ]
no subject
entirely possible
- and then gives them to him, her fingers lingering a moment as if she'd considered reaching for him and found herself uncertain of her welcome. better to spare them both making it worse if he'd rather not, so she curls her fingers under her palm instead of touching his face and says, )
I'm sorry, that's not really what I had in mind for this evening.
( she gathers up the simplest of her own clothes - not a gown, but the trousers and blouse she usually wears with coupe, which will suit riding and her mood, and pauses, dressing.
does not apologise to her husband, no, but she stops him with a hand at his elbow, her blouse still half-undone, leaning up to reach him, jaw working for a moment. then, an offering: )
I think I'll be an hour, maybe. A little more. But I'll come back.
( it'd be nice if he were there when she did, eventually, but she hesitates to ask it of him when this is so-
if he needs to go further, too. fair. they're so fucking difficult. )
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he is very disinclined for anyone to see him out of sorts.
his hair has been tided and braided for sleep, and he glances into the tent before entering, and ties the entrance closed behind him. they are back in bed, and calm—iorveth stayed—and in the darkness he has no problem returning to them, stepping over hardie but lingering on the edge of the mattress. waiting for permission.
his eyes do not reflect light like the elvhen, but he is a presence in the darkness nonetheless. ]
no subject
the problem iorveth has is finding his own place within them, between them, beside them, whatever. the idea of just gathering his things and taking off in his own direction as well is tempting, leave the complication behind. he nearly does, but idles instead. though he hardly knows what to say to either of them about what conflict they just had, he settles down into the blankets again and just... goes to sleep. he's hoping his presence will speak more than any actual words he could come up with.
Gwenaelle returns first, and of course, Iorveth hears her, because a fox could scamper past outside the tent walls and Iorveth would still hear it in his sleep. She cuddles up next to him, and he smiles in the darkness, lifting an arm to wrap behind her head and hold her close.
Thranduil is later, standing at the edge of the mattress like something stoic and foreboding, but he isn't nearly so stony a soul. Iorveth sighs out, moving the blankets aside for him, and holding out an arm to beckon him closer. come lay down, you beautiful fool. ]
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this is just as important to him as the sex. his nose ends up near iorveth's hair-- he will be picking it out of his teeth in the morning-- but here he finds what he was so adrift without but an hour and change ago. ]
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does not, still, when thranduil returns and does not immediately return. it's unfair to expect other than what he does, but it still lodges somewhere behind her ribs that he hesitates. if this is what speaking does then she should never do it again, because she loathes it. she nearly says as much, overtired and overstressed and wanting to undo the past few hours entirely, promise that she'll never do anything like that again, that she'll swallow it next time, that she'll make herself quieter and smaller,
iorveth forestalls it, gesturing thranduil to bed; she will do nothing by speaking but spark more of the same.
she rolls onto her back and stares up at the tent's ceiling. it will be a long time until she sleeps. )