Title: Prettiest

Author: Arctapus/H-boy

Code: LOTR, R, Violence, Sexual content, L/everyone :0), Humor

Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don't own them. I borrow them and play.

Summary: A humorous take on the Lord of the Rings and her inherently funny characters.

Feedback: Answered.

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They were gathered for important discussions, leaders from all over Middle Earth coming to Rivendell to talk. He was there for his father, representing the Great Green Woods at the Council. It had been a dream come true, coming here and being The One.

He stood in the doorway, light glinting off his shiny golden hair, peering into the room as he looked for a familiar face. Elrond was there, tall and comely. His father had told him about the bewitching ways of the great lord and so he watched him with a mingling of respect, seething sexual longing and loathing.

Another stood by him, a tall man with dark hair. He was human, that was clear. How he could tell, he knew not. He just knew it was so. Tall, strong, beautiful in face and form, he was intriguing and so Legolas of Mirkwood made a mental note to check further into the personal peccadilloes of the figure so earnestly in conversation with Lord Elrond.

Legolas, himself was no slouch in the looks department. He had been chosen prettiest five cycles of the sun running in the annual fall festivities that his father permitted for the sake of his mother. She liked to dance, sing and pick flowers, all the things that Elf women excelled in. His father, being more the manly man type liked to shoot, kill and drink lots of ale. Legolas himself was some place in between as he had come to the conclusion early on that a well made ass on a man excited his little pony a lot faster than one on a female.

Even if he did like dress up.

After a lot of soul searching and frenching boys in the loft of the hay barn, he knew that he was destined for different rather than great things. So when the opportunity came for him to ride to Rivendell and shoot the shit with a lot of comely and powerful men, he begged his father for the chance. "Dad, I want to go."

"I don't think so, son. Your mother needs you to help her squish grapes with her bare feet."

For a moment, he almost wavered and then he pressed onward. "Pa! How will I ever learn to be a leader of men?"

Thranduil sighed, visions of his son bending over to find the soap in the shower springing quickly to mind. "Okay."

Legolas suppressed a squeal and ran from the room, choosing from among his extensive wardrobe that which would bring out the blue in his eyes the best. Green and silver. Of course, he only *wore* green and silver but that was another tale for another time.

***Later that same evening ...

Dinner that night was around the big table that Elrond kept in the room with a roaring fire. It almost fried his shapely little ass as Legolas sat quietly studying the human male that was obviously so much a part of Elrond's family. He wondered who he was, this handsome yet sensitive fellow. All the questions discreetly asked during the day had only turned up a name.

Aragorn.

What kind of name was that, he considered. Aragorn. Actually, as he sat picking at the remains of a turkey leg, he considered it to be rather sexy ... /... so ... big boy ... how about going to the hay loft and showing me your ... gorn .../

He sighed and shifted on his chair. His taupe trousers were suddenly two sizes too small.

"So, I said to the Uruk Hai-"

He caught a drift of a joke Aragorn was telling, his soft melodious voice reaching him in his lust-tinged haze. He sighed again. Dropping his turkey bone on the floor, he made a mortified face. "Oops. I must get my turkey bone."

With that, he slipped under the table. All along the sides of him were men's legs, their feet and boots and their delectable thighs. It was almost too much as he gathered himself, looking for the gams that he most wanted to inspect close up. Crawling carefully, he reached Lord Elrond, mastering a nearly overpowering urge to peek under his robes.

Beside him, his legs splayed, Aragorn, of some place, sat. Using his intensely powerful Elvish eyesight, Legolas inspected the inseam of the human's finely tailored pants. They were exquisite, a delicate stitching that he was sure even *he* couldn't duplicate. His eyes traveled up and paused on the package that protruded from the front of the deliciously teal colored trousers.

/... damn ... I *love* teal .../

It was clear that Aragorn, son of someone, was packing a load. He swallowed hard, considering the ramifications of it all. Then he sniggered.

/... ramifications .../

He paused as Aragorn shifted his feet, putting one of them down on his hand. He saw stars, constellations he had never prayed to before and he sucked in his breath, tears springing into his eyes. Elrond's feet shifted and he felt them settling on his back. Obviously, the great Lord of Imladris was used to footstools.

He was still for a while and then Aragorn, son of a bitch, moved his foot off the pale and lovely fingers of the Lord of Mirkwood's youngest and most lissome boy. He stayed a moment and then Elrond sat straighter, moving his feet off Legolas' body. He quickly turned around and scurried back, picking up his turkey leg and clambering back into his chair.

He wiped tears from his eyes, dropping the bone on his plate. A dwarf sitting next to him gave him the eye and he turned, snubbing him with all the grace and expertise of a debutante.

Things were not going well for Legolas of Mirkwood.

***Even later that night ...

He stood on the balcony, peering into the darkness of the room that Aragorn, son of a guy he never heard of but had a similar name, gave himself a sponge bath. He could see the dark outline of Aragorn's body, the long lean lines of his form and it made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up. He was falling.

Hard.

Sighing, he moved closer, pausing and arranging himself in the doorway like a vamp. He leaned against the door and silently cursed the Elvish aversion to smoking as he waited for the figure in the tin pail to turn around. He smoothed his hair back, offering his best profile. Peering out of the corner of his eyes, he met the startled gaze of Aragorn, son of a dead guy, when he turned around.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked.

"You don't know me do you."

Aragorn looked him over and licked his suddenly dry lips.

/... no, but if I play my cards right that will change, hot pants .../

"You tell me. You rather have me at the advantage."

Legolas kept his eyes steady even as he longed to cop a look. "I do, don't I. I am Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, son of Thranduil, grandson of Oropher and head boy in my class at Outward Bound."

Aragorn nodded, impressed. "Nice credentials."

Legolas lowered his eyes, fastening his gaze on Aragorn's rather substantial Johnson. "You too."

At that moment, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, Chieftain of the Dunedain, Lord of the Western Lands, heir to the throne of Gondor and Arnor knew he was going to get laid.

TBC c2010