Summary: A parody of elf-slash themed Tolkien fanfiction, featuring Elvish ways, Elrond's weakness, Boromir's breeches, and lots of fragrant alabaster skin. Brought to you by the most popular lubricant in Middle-Earth, the Phial of Oil tm - ask for it by name!
Story Warnings: Slash, Graphic Sex, saccharine language. Rating NC-17.
Disclaimer: These characters and Middle-Earth are the copyright of the Tolkien estate and this fan fiction is not meant to infringe on that copyright in any way.
Thanks to beta readers Suzana and Aayesha (who added some zingers, let me tell you!)
The Fellowship of the Ring gathered after dinner the night before they left for their noble quest. "What is going on?" asked Frodo.
"Elrond said he wished to take counsel with us," said Aragorn.
Elrond entered the room. He was clad in silken elvish robes of surpassing gorgeousness, midnight-blue cut velvet embroidered with trapunto trenellations, crystal briolettes, and silver star-shaped sequins, piped with silk of a blue that evoked the midnight sky, lined with silver leaf-patterned damask silk satin, the garment's train trailing elegantly behind him for three ells while not concealing the lean line of his hips. He was adorned in delicate intricate hammered intertwining jewels of gold and silver, which chimed softly in elfin music at every soundless step. His long, dark, silky, fragrant, elegantly braided hair hung down his back in a smooth watery sheet. The pointy ears made the whole ensemble come together.
"Mae govannen, ciranon," murmured Legolas to this vision of elvish desirability.
Elrond clapped his hands. "Aragorn! You have misunderstood me. I only wish to take counsel with members of the Fellowship who are - well - who are not hobbits, dwarves, or wizards. Nothing personal, Gandalf. All you short ones, out!"
"But why?" whined Aragorn, looking longingly at Frodo.
"Because I cannot abide long beards or hairy feet. Go on, shoo!" The hobbits left, not unhappily, for counsels of their own. Gandalf murmured something about having a hot date anyway. "I'll see you later," said Gimli, winking at Legolas.
Aragorn and Elrond turned to Legolas. "What was that about?"
"Nothing! Nothing! Just, ah, building fellowship, don't you know. Yes, that's it. Fellowship."
"What is going on?" asked Boromir. "Why all this havoc? There was no waterbed in the room when last we took counsel here." He watched in amazement as Elrond and Legolas fell into a passionate embrace.
"It is the warriors' farewell of the Elves," said Aragorn. "I know their ways, for I was raised among them."
"This explains much," said Boromir. He'd thought the embroidery along the edge of Aragorn's tunic was a bit over the top. "What are they saying in Elvish?"
Aragorn translated with ease. "Elrond says to Legolas that he bears a great passion for Legolas' youth, beauty, golden hair, true spirit, and tight ass."
Boromir watched the fair elves at their sport, wondering greatly. "And now Legolas speaks. And strikes him."
"He says, bastard, that's what you were saying to Glorfindel last night. And he says - ah. Excuse me a moment." Boromir watched in further amazement as Legolas turned away from Elrond, and Aragorn and Legolas fell into a passionate embrace. Boromir stood by for a moment, his embarrassment waxing by the second along with that telltale tightness in his breeches, and finally tapped Aragorn on the shoulder that wasn't draped with hot moaning elf-flesh.
"Aragorn? Aragorn? Aren't you engaged? To Elrond's daughter? O Heir of Isildur?" Boromir hissed.
Aragorn turned back and waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, but this is their Elvish way. Arwen understands." He turned back with a moan as Legolas licked his neck.
"Ai, mortal man! I am undone by your harsh beauty! You must have me tonight!" cried Legolas.
"And I, fair Elf, am undone by your surpassing loveliness! No mortal, man or maid, can compare to you! I must have you or my sorrow will never cease beyond the circles of the World, even!" called Aragorn in turn.
Elrond looked Boromir up and down. "You'll do, I suppose."
Boromir huffed, "Fine by me." Despite his moral disapproval, after watching the Elf and Man, the tightness in his breeches was distinctly uncomfortable, so what the hell, he thought. (But he made a mental note to have a word with his tailor when he got back to Gondor.)
They both turned to watch as Aragorn flung Legolas breathlessly upon the richly draped waterbed. Aragorn pounced upon the elf, kissing him madly, stroking his long soft beautiful golden hair. Legolas then danced away to shed his silken tunic, revealing a smooth alabaster chest. He then shed his soft leggings, unsheathing smooth alabaster legs.
"Beautiful are you, Legolas! Your rump would make even Ithil the silvery moon jealous," said Aragorn. "Although the spire of your elfhood is perfection itself, I must take you, lovely one!"
Legolas blushed prettily up to the tips of his pointed ears, and nibbled coyly at Aragorn's pinky, for all the world like a modest maiden. "Your passions are strange to me, man of the Dunedain! Even though I am 2,912 years old, I am new to the toyings of love - strange, is it not? I am but a lad by the measure of my people. Yet I cannot help but give in before your compelling, seducing, forceful temptation." They closed in for more fevered kissing.
Aragorn caressed Legolas slowly, marvelling at the especially fine texture of elvish skin, the delicate sandalwood fragrance that clung to Legolas - or was it musk? Or moss? Or Givenchy for Elves? "You are delicious beyond the measure of mortals," Aragorn said, kissing every inch of the elf in a delerium of delight. Legolas quivered like a harp-string under his caresses, then tensed like a bow-string, sighing in rapture, swept away, lost in a maelstrom of passion, and giggling slightly when Aragorn's mustache tickled him.
Boromir eyed Elrond. "Ready to bend over?" asked Boromir.
"I am Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Rivendell, bearer of the ring Vilya, warrior and lore-master. I bend to no man," huffed Elrond, tossing his love-locks.
"I am of a high line of Gondor, mighty among Men!" huffed Boromir in turn.
"Men are weak. I am mighty among both Men and Elves, so there." Elrond stamped his foot.
"If I cannot take you, my lust for the Ring of Power will overcome me, and I will seize it from Frodo!" cried Boromir, knocking over a small table for emphasis.
Elrond's eyes lit up. "Lust for a ring of power? Ooooh, like that hottie Isildur. I love it when mortals have that. But you must take me in the Elvish way, as is fitting."
"Whatever." Boromir began to disrobe, relieved that that was settled.
"Elrond, my friend," cried Aragorn. "Whence is the Phial of Oil(tm)?"
Elrond pulled it from a fringed satin-lined velvet pocket and tossed over the tasselled cut-crystal phial, even as Legolas helpfully pulled another crystal phial out from under a pillow. Boromir watched Aragorn as he picked off the wax safety seal and put it at the ready beside the bed. When he turned around, Elrond had stripped, and he was somewhat consoled for being chosen last. Without the dress, Elrond was much more his type.
Meanwhile, on the waterbed, Aragorn smoothly slid his hotness and hardness inside Legolas' tightness and inhaled in ecstasy at the wetness he met. Legolas leaned back to meet the penetration, crooning a song of lust fulfilled as his famous archer's bull's-eye was pierced to the true by Aragorn's shaft. "Eictho-ni, Ada!" Legolas moaned. The two began to pulse together in perfect unison, both near to crying out for the pure bliss of it. They were rocked by the wave of Boromir and Elrond whumping down onto the waterbed beside them, but nothing could disturb their union divine.
As Boromir got ready to take Elrond in the same way, using his own extra-strength Gondorian Phial of Oil (tm) to get greased up, the half-elf cried out, "Wait!"
Boromir sighed impatiently. "Can't I just do you up the butt?"
"No! It is not our Elvish way. Give me some sweet talk, big boy." Elrond leaned back, crossing his arms.
"Oh, all right." Boromir cleared his throat. "Ahem. Fair elf-lord, I am, uh, enchanted by your fairness. And that of your land. Let me taste the pleasure of your favors."
"That's a good start."
"Your hair is...uh...your hair is as black as my stallion's tail."
"Is that the best you can do?" Elrond huffed.
In response, Boromir shoved two fingers into Elrond's center. "That's how we treat rings of power in Gondor! How's that for you?"
"Take me! Take me now!" Elrond yodeled.
"That's more like it. Ow! Watch those finger nails!" Boromir yelped.
"Sorry. Saruman's manicurist. Overpower me with your mortal passions!"
"Don't you ever shut up?" moaned Boromir.
"It is not our Elvish way. Do me harder! Yes!"
On the other side of the bed, Aragorn and Legolas were approaching their climax, resolutely ignoring the jouncing of the waterbed. Together, they reached a release that pulsed through them like waves of light, while singing out statements of care and devotion, both shattered by the joyous bonding moment of ultimate pleasure.
Impaled on Boromir's hotness-and-hardness, Elrond came as well, crying out in the beautiful words of ancient Elvish, "Ai, harad-dan, naegro ni-finnel!"
Still mounted behind him, Boromir thought, What the hell does that mean? He's throwing me off. Damn Peredhil. Boromir gritted his teeth and thought of Gondor. At least he's tight, and oiled and - Boromir grunted with relief.
He sank back, tired already, and realized the waterbed was still rippling. "They're still going at it?" Boromir muttered to Elrond. On the other side of the bed, Aragorn and Legolas had renewed their union again, with Legolas being the one to make use of the Phial of Oil (tm) this time. Instead of saying something reassuring, Elrond dragged him back down for another round.
By the time the fiery light of a red, red dawn was creeping up over the deep-cloven valley and turning all it touched to a fiery version of whatever it had been originally, the four lay exhausted, spent, and depleted on the bed.
Elrond suddenly seemed awfully snuggly. "Quit with the smooching, will ya?" growled Boromir, trying to get some personal space back.
"Sorry," murmured Elrond. "It is-"
"Our Elvish way, I know." He looked over at Legolas, still nibbling besottedly at Aragorn's neck.
"Psst! Aragorn! Do you have to go through this whole rigamarole every time you get some action from an Elf?"
Aragorn nodded grimly. "And they let us off lightly this time with foreplay. Usually, we have to style each other's hair for an hour first."
Boromir shuddered. Not even the part where Elrond had done that thing with his tongue was worth that. He looked at Aragorn more appreciatively. Maybe the man was the heir of Isildur, and engaged, and there was the tunic embroidery thing, but he looked like he hadn't washed his hair all week. Could be my kind of guy, thought Boromir. What did that faraway look in Aragorn's eyes mean?
"Those hobbits are looking better all the time," murmured Aragorn.
Boromir lay back with a defeated sigh.
Mae govannen, ciranon = Hello, sailor. Sindarin!
Eictho-ni, Ada = Do me, daddy. A mix of Quenya and Sindarin - hey, it's all Elvish, right?
Ai, harad-dan, naegro ni-finnel! = Hey, you stupid/uncultured (implied) Southern mortal, you're pulling my hair! Sindarin.
He sank back, tired already = This is based on an obscure reference in Morgoth's Ring, History of Middle-Earth, that contrasts elves' endurance with that of mortal...hey, where are you going? Come back! I'm not done yet! I've got three more pages of footnotes to go! And if you don't give me any feedback I will...
Feedback or comments on this story are petulantly demanded - email Tyellas here.
Please do not repost or reproduce this story without permission. First posted Sept. 21, 2002, at the Henneth Annun archive.
For more slash stories with these characters (the ones who are not hobbits, dwarves, or wizards), see the Slash Fiction page.