Part 2: Still the Prettiest *****************************
He quavered inside, so great was his longing but he held himself together, meeting the lovely deep set eyes of Aragorn, son of the last fool to try and assert himself against Mordor, the late Arathorn, levelly. His eyes, that is. It wasn't easy. His knees, reacting from habit with a mind of their own, craved to hit the floor.
"Who are you?" Legolas asked, quelling his urge to lick various things coming ever closer to him as the enigmatic man stepped out of his little tin pail and sauntered over.
"I am Arathorn, son of Aragorn." For a moment it was silent. Then he sighed. "Let me rephrase that. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn."
"Oh. So basically you have no kingdom of your own," Legolas replied haughtily, trying not to notice that Aragorn's Johnson was poking him in the stomach, so close did they stand in the moonlight.
"I have two. I've merely misplaced them for now. How about you?" Aragorn replied, moving even closer. He paused as his dick bent against Legolas' belt buckle, causing new constellations never before prayed to, to rise in his own eyes. He cleared his throat, willing the tears in his eyes to go away. "How many kingdoms do *you* have in *your* future?"
Legolas could almost taste Aragorn, so close was his lips. Of course, that would have entailed a repeat of dinner but at this point, he didn't care. What was a shank bone among friends?
"I ... uh, I ... that is ... uh," Legolas stammered as he stared into the deep limpid pools of Aragorn's eyes. They were shimmering with the promise of days to come, of hours spent upside down braying at the moon.
He was intrigued.
"I have one."
"Your brother is the heir. You're just the spare."
"I am not!" Legolas replied indignantly. "My father promised to give me my own lands when I came of age."
"When is that, hot pants?" Aragorn whispered, licking Legolas' lips as he pressed him against the wall.
"When I remember who I am," Legolas replied before climbing up Aragorn's naked body like a chimp on a bamboo tree.
They grappled, kissing and tonguing and groping as Aragorn staggered all over the room, Legolas' ass cheeks clutched tightly in his hands. They bumped into walls, toppling things over before finding the bed and falling upon it like a big meandering sexual avalanche. Silver and green clothing flew as calloused hands made short work of Legolas' clothes.
Outside in the hallway, carrying a bottle of vintage Chablis in the folds of his robes, Glorfindel paused, listening to the monkey noises coming out of the bedroom that was always given to Aragorn, son of a man he used to shag out behind the barn as a wayward youth. Arathorn, that is. Smiling as memories of sweating and screaming and floundering around filled his mind, he shook his head and continued onward.
/... *that* nut didn't fall too far from the mallorn tree .../
With a chuckle, he slipped into the room where Elladan and Elrohir were waiting for their late night game of strip snakes and ladders. As he did, a door farther down the hall opened and a very short figure stepped out.
Gimli, son of Gloin, grandson of a buncha guys with names that rhyme slipped out and hurried down to the bedroom that he knew was given to Legolas, son of Thranduil, grandson of a whole buncha guys he really hated then and still did now. However, that was put aside as he considered his own initiative.
For far too long the relations between Dwarves and Elves was strained and tense. When he had arrived with his relatives, he had noticed the tall and pale figure of the Prince of Mirkwood as he galloped into the courtyard. He had fallen he was ashamed to admit. The idea of licking that tall popsickle had overtaken his otherwise normal Dwarvish aversion to lean white meat.
He had decided to make his own alliances, coming to the rooms of the son of Thranduil and offering his own personal take on Dwarf-Elf inter-relationships. Of course, if his father ever found out, he would kick his ass. Gimli smiled. His father was a piece of work, the homicidal old kleptomaniac.
Moving along the wall, he found the door he wanted and went inside, but not before pausing to listen to the monkey sounds emanating from the rooms of the man named Aragorn, something or other. He sighed. The youth these days. No consideration for others. He would offer to lend his ball gag to the human the very next day.
The door closed behind him.
**********Ten minutes later...
Legolas lay half off the bed, his form scored from end to end with the love bites and down right angry weals of the new man in his life. He had never been much into whips and chain mail but he found that he could be flexible under the right kind of persuasion. The human was a silvery tongued devil.
He sighed. He was in love.
Aragorn crawled out from under the bed, sighing with passion and the clear cut knowledge that his rug burn was going to chafe on his saddle the next day. He stared at the limp figure of his newest conquest and smiled.
/... piece of lembas ... heh-heh-heh .../
"So, Legolas, son of Thranduil, grandson of a whole bunch of people my own ancestors probably hated ... is that not the best sex you ever did have?"
A deep shuddering sigh wracked the limp form. "Yep."
Aragorn moved to his little tin pail and poured more water. He grinned and preened as he began to wash his privates once more.
/... score .../
**********Elsewhere ...
Elrond sat in his stone bathtub, sipping Chianti and eating donut holes as he considered the next days' meeting. Soon it would be up to the group, with their combined wisdom, to do something about the Ring that was soon to arrive on the back of a donkey.
At least that is what he thought Gandalf had told him. He said to expect a Hobbit ring bearer and a donkey ... or, maybe he meant a ring bearer and his flunkey ... he sighed. It was tough being the biggest brain in the world.
It was a lonely job. He hadn't been laid in about two thousand years. He needed a hose monkey of his very own, someone who understood him, someone who would be delighted and grateful for having on tap the experience he himself had accumulated on the golf courses and stair steppers of his youth.
Yeah, gratitude. That was the ticket. If he himself could get laid anytime soon, he *KNEW* *HE* would be grateful. He considered his options and drew the obvious conclusion. There was only one person around here that had blue enough blood and was high stepping enough of a nancy boy to accept his advances, suave or no.
That was Thranduil's rather interesting youngest boy. Besides ... it would piss the old bastard off.
He smiled and settled back, dilemma solved. Tonight, he would visit the green woods of Mirkwood's youngest sapling.
**********In Legolas' rooms ...
He sat in the chair next to the fire, smoking a rolled slab of Shire weed. It had soothed his disappointment once he found out that he was alone. He had poked around, putting a pair of monogrammed silk panties in his pocket as a souvenir for his efforts. He had to count coup, he considered, and have a trophy for the boys back at the club when he got home. They would never just take his word that he bagged Thranduil's sonny boy. After all, he had locked up numerous of his relatives once and among primate-like creatures, no one had a longer memory than Dwarves.
He would have his fun and slip out into the night, like smoke moving silently across the moor. He would leave with his trophy and tell the tale around the blazing fires of Moria, the tale of his conquest of the Ice Queen of Mirkwood.
All he needed now was that damned elf.
He sighed and sat back, his feet not touching the floor and waited for Legolas to come home.
**********A little while later...
He slipped from his rooms, his best (non)smoking jacket on and walked to the door that was Legolas'. He paused and opened it, slipping inside and walking to the bed in the pitchblack room.
/... thank goodness we have eyes that can
see in the dark ... mostly .../
Elrond smiled and slipped inside, rolling over onto a body that was naked and waiting. He smiled and then considered how short it was.
/... ah well ... not everyone is as tall as me .../
Elrond smiled and began to kiss a very hairy face. Pausing, he peered down.
"You have a lot of hair."
"And you don't," a deeper voice than Elrond expected replied.
Elrond shrugged his shoulders and began to feel around, looking for the Mirkwood Prince's gold rod. He didn't find it so he did the best he could, pounding SOMETHING in his lust crazed lustiness. By the time he lay spent like a bullet from a gun that hadn't even been invented yet, he smiled.
/... score one for Imladris ... heh-heh-heh .../
Next to him, wondering where his stogy was, another pondered his victory.
/... heh-heh-heh ... score one for Foondin, Boondin, Goondin, Art, Bart, and Fargo .../
**********Nearby ...
Hot kisses were exchanged as one wayward Elf bid adieu to one self-satisfied Man. They parted with a sigh and the door closed. As Legolas leaned against the door, covered in shadow, the door to his own rooms opened and a short figure scampered away, silk monogrammed panties in hand. Behind him, grinning like a loan shark, the Lord of Imladris slipped away.
By the time he came to his senses and began his own happy dance to the tin pail waiting for him in his room, everyone was gone from sight. Legolas, son of Thranduil was a happy boy. The bite on his hip, the hickeys on his neck, the burning in his ass and the sweat on his brow had transmuted themselves into sacred icons of his perfect love.
He would make sure that Aragorn never had a private moment again for the duration of his entire life.
Whistling a happy tune, he entered his room and the door closed, thus ending another day of diplomacy and debauchery in Rivendell.
Tbc c2010