This horribly irreverent comedy-type thing came to mind about a month ago, and is partially inspired by Pika-la-Cynique's Girls Next Door comic (this is where I would put a link if I knew how to do that). Anyway, it's on Deviantart and there's also a voiced-over version on Youtube.
The other part of this was inspired by the lovely Audrey Spirit, who first suggested I do a Thranduil/Thorin thing like this. Someday I'll set out to write the story as it was originally intended, but today is not that day.
Any followers of mine may notice that this story is full of things I usually don't go anywhere near with a ten-foot pole. Or an eleven-foot one, for that matter.
And so, ladies and gentlenerds, I present to you the first chapter in a series of semi-related scenes which has undergone about ten or so revisions for optimum side-splitting.
An Elven Invitation
"Your Highness," Thranduil's steward gasped as he stepped into the throne room. "You're looking…especially regal this morning." In your kimono, he thought.
Thranduil was dressed in his finest silk robes embroidered with swans and pink flowers. "Thank you, Ciernan. I'm expecting a guest of great importance." he smirked, waving his faithful servant aside and ascending gracefully—if not a little…flamboyantly—to his throne.
"Oh," replied the other, nonplussed. "I take it that is what the rather…extensive…preparations were for?" he gestured to the Elvenking's throne room, where silvery streamers were thrown about just so so that they neither looked methodical nor careless. A duo of trumpeters had been intensively practicing the Imperial March for weeks, though neither they nor anyone else knew why. Another two had been told just this morning that they were to be stationed by the front gate holding baskets of confetti and glitter which they were to toss in a procession to the throne room as they led in a foreign dignitary. Ciernan and the other servants had been utterly perplexed, but they were used to the King's unusual demands. Once, for no apparent reason at all, he had demanded that his elk be brought in from the stables and given a lavender-scented bubble bath and an antler polishing. This was far from his strangest request.
"If I may ask, Your Fabulousness," he queried, cringing at the king's preferred form of address, "Who is this guest?"
"You dunce!" roared the king. Obviously he had forgotten to take his sedatives this morning. "He is none other than Jareth Caspar von Buttenfyüken, High Prince of the Seelie Kingdom and Ruler of the Goblins!"
"Buttenfyüken?"
"Don't ask me. They're Bavarian." the Elvenking rolled his eyes, pressing well-manicured fingers to his temples. "Why do I put up with these imbeciles?" he muttered to himself. "Oh, for the love of the Valar! Cease your incessant chortling, or I'll have you sent to the Insanity Chamber where you will be assaulted with terrible food, bright colors, chipper music, and singing animatronics from the most uncanny of valleys!"
Ciernan's eyes grew to the size of saucers. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "Indeed, sire…Your Royal Fabulousness. I'll see to it that the glitter throwers are well-rehearsed."
"You'd better," Thranduil mused. "Or it's terrifying robotic puppets and rigged arcade games for you!"
"Yes…sire." His faithful steward stammered, turning on his heel and bolting from the throne room. Once the heavy double doors slammed behind him, Thranduil's elf ears heard him whisper, "I think Her Majesty is riding the cotton elk again."
Outside, a strange noise was heard. Faintly at first, and then it grew louder, a bizarre and almost ethereal…music, was the only thing the guards could fathom it being. Glitter and hail rained down from the heavens, and with a bright flash and a mighty clap of thunder that rendered them both incontinent, a mythical striped beast appeared. Astride it was a character of indeterminate gender. That was, until he dismounted and they were graced with a full-frontal view of his…hosiery.
"You tit!" One of them accused the stranger. "I've soiled my armor because of you!" This only warranted a sharp jab in the side from his companion.
"Don't you know who that is?" he hissed. "Now shut up and go and change your armor!"
"Your Royal Sex Machine," the trumpeters and glitter throwers hurried out and bowed to him thrice, each time loudly proclaiming, "We're not worthy! We're not worthy!"
"Well," he said, raising one made-up eyebrow and somehow managing to keep his dispassionate poker face intact, though he had to admit, his ego had been stroked to the point of orgasm. Or maybe that was just his extremely tight pants. "This is quite a welcome."
"Greetings, Your Highness." exclaimed the steward a bit too enthusiastically, the threat of being shipped off to Freddy Fazbear's still fresh in his mind. "King Thranduil has been waiting for you." It was all too late that he realized he had not been looking into the king's eyes, but staring rather intently at his…family jewels. His eyes snapped back up to meet the king's mismatched ones. "I…erm…my name is Ciernan, and should you need anything during your stay, I'll be delighted to be of assistance."
"Yes, I'm sure you would be." he said, waving the elf's hand—which had ventured in the direction of his trousers—away.
"My humblest apologies, Your Royal Sex Machine." he muttered. "If you will follow me." Stupid sexy Jareth.
The trumpeters took up their instruments and the glitter throwers ceremoniously flung tiny shards of festive silvery shrapnel everywhere.
"Wait…"Jareth mused. "Are you sure he was expecting me and not Darth Vader?"
"He…thought you'd appreciate the gesture, Your Royal Sex Machine." Ciernan muttered apologetically.
"Strange chap."
"I'll say. Wait till you see what he's done to the throne room."
He didn't have to wait long. On cue upon his entrance, streamers were thrown across his path, and nets which had been hung across the ceiling released their contents over them all. Jareth, now practically blinded by confetti, kicked aside the balloons and made his way forward. If it was a glitter war Thranduil wanted, a glitter war he would have.
"Your Eminence," Jareth bowed, whipping his cape back like a bat's wings as more glitter cascaded from the folds, clouding the entire room. Several died that day, and even now in the halls of Mirkwood, the incident is referred to only—with extreme fear and utmost caution— as "the Glittering."
The two kings had retreated into Thranduil's chambers, away from the mess that they had both created. Thranduil was staring at the Goblin King with a strange expression over his glass of wine. Jareth was beginning to feel extremely unnerved, though he would never say so. He had received a summons from this elf, who had only ever had minor dealings with the Seelie kingdom, explaining that his was a matter most urgent and Jareth had to come to Mirkwood immediately.
"So," he urged the Elvenking, whom he noticed was gazing a bit far south, "What was this urgent matter that you needed me for? If you don't tell me in the next five minutes, I'll see your silence as permission to take my leave."
Thranduil's eyes snapped up, startled, to rest on Jareth's uneven pupils. "I…uh…how do you get your hair like that?! I've been wanting to do something new with mine, and…"
Jareth stood up, a flurry of glitter rising around him in his fury. "You." He pointed an accusatory finger at his companion. "Dragged me all the way here from the Underground to ask me how I do my hair?"
"Um…yes?"
Jareth did not speak, but his face took on an expression of concentrated rage. The room suddenly grew dark and a strong wind blew through it, sending anything that wasn't bolted down to the floor whirling inside a miniature tornado. Colorful ceramic figurines whizzed past their heads as they made their way into the maelstrom.
"Stop! cried Thranduil with a wave of his hand. The frantic gusts died down to a calm breeze, and then the air was still once more. He practically trampled over the hem of his robes to reach the pile of destroyed knickknacks. "Nooooo!" he wailed, picking up a decapitated pony and falling to his knees in despair. "Twilight Sparkle!"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, you sniveling prat." Jareth sneered, striding over to stand behind him, arms crossed in annoyance. "Have you learned your lesson never to bother me with such trivial matters again?"
"Y…yes." Thranduil sniffed, holding the dismembered figurine limply. "But before you depart… would you accept a goblet of wine in apology?"
"Oh, all right."
Three hours later…
"I'M TOO SEXY FOR MY SHIRT, TOO SEXY FOR MY SHIRT, SO SEXY IT HURTSSSSSS….." crooned Jareth, twirling in one of Thranduil's robes. He had, in fact, removed his shirt and tossed it aside dramatically. The two of them had imbibed a bit too much of an excellent vintage and were now making a mess of Thranduil's expansive walk-in closet.
"AND I'M….TOO SEXY FOR MY ELK, TOO SEXY FOR THESE ROBES…" replied Thranduil joyfully, deviously sliding out of said robes and striding over to select another set.
"Never thought you'd be *hic* the partying type," Jareth said, lazily holding a half-empty goblet of wine in his hand as he pulled himself up onto Samuel Elk Jackson, the king's majestic stag. "I always thought *hic* elves had quite the stick up their collective *hic* arse."
"Well…that shows what you know." Thranduil giggled with a playful jab in the Goblin King's side. "I was getting tired of being so…so…boring. Figured I should do something about it." He sighed, and shrugged on another set of robes. "Ch-ch-ch-changes! Turn and face the strange…" he warbled, stealing Jareth's riding crop and mincing around until he caught sight of him staring in bewilderment.
"Give me back my *hic* crop!" he cried, lunging at the errant elf and nearly toppling off his mount.
"No!" Thranduil snipped, dancing away from him and continuing with his song. "Just gonna have to be a different man! Turn and face the strange ch-ch-changes…oh come on, Jareth, who has a stick up their arse now? You of all people should know this song!"
"And…why's *hic* that?" he asked, finally grabbing his crop when Thranduil stopped dancing. "Give me that, you *hic* drunken poof!"
"Ahahaha, look who's talking!" Thranduil grabbed it back and took off running out of the closet. Jareth mounted Samuel Elk Jackson and pressed him into a canter with his heels, sweeping past the thief and grabbing his crop back again. Thranduil swiftly hurdled onto the elk's back just as the doors to his chambers opened and a very flustered Ciernan burst in.
"Your Fabulousness, your stag is missing from the…" he began, and then caught sight of the open closet, the clothes tossed everywhere in disarray, the broken figurines on the floor, the spilled wine, and the two half-clothed monarchs astride the elk, urging it into a gallop around the room with a riding crop.
"Oh, by the Valar…I think I need to lie down."
Some days after the Goblin King's departure, Ciernan caught sight of Thranduil in the gardens. He held something in his hands, head bowed, and seemed to be muttering some sort of ritual incantation over it. A trowel lay planted in a small mound of dirt at his feet.
"Your…Your Fabulousness?" he questioned, taking a step closer. "Are you all right?"
The Elvenking stiffened and lifted his head, avoiding Ciernan's eyes. "Yes, Ciernan, I'm quite all right." But he wasn't. He sounded almost tearful.
"Well, I'll be on my way, then…" the steward excused himself awkwardly. "Pardon me, Your Fabulousness."
"Yes," the king replied. "Go. It's for the best."
As Ciernan turned to leave, he distinctly heard the king say to himself, "It hurts so much…but it was real. Friendship is magic. Friendship is magic."
I hope you enjoyed the first installment of my attempt at comedy. I'm usually not much for it, so this is probably not something that's going to be updated often. Besides, I fear the readers of one of my other stories, All Who Wander, may form an angry mob and kill me if I don't post a new chapter sometime in the near future.
In the meantime, reviews are much appreciated. Ciao!