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A Twisted Love Affair
By Helmboy
Codes: LOTR, E/G, R and other.
Disclaimer: Don't tell Chris Tolkien. He'll faint.
For AC, who rocks. Glorfindel and Elrond, or rather
Hugo and someone else in drag, have a problem following
the visit to Imladris of Saruman the Horn Dog. This is
for all the people that wanted an Elrond/Glorfindel
collaboration.
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It was early spring when news came up the valley. Lord
Elrond was going to be a father once more. All the
valley rejoiced, knowing once again the Lord of their
salvation had once again proven himself the Stallion of
Rivendell (tm).
Bustling about the house, laying in all sorts of little
green booties and baby things, all of the women for
miles around sighed. The child would be beautiful,
anything that Elrond touched was and everyone knew that
this child would be special.
The entire valley held its breath as in a quiet room,
the expectant mother waited.
***
"FUCK!"
"You're breaking my hand!"
"I'D BREAK YOUR NECK IF I COULD REACH IT!"
"You really have to work through this anger thing,
Glorfindel. It's not my fault that Saruman carries
a grudge."
Elrond of Imladris looked at his ... seneschal ...
and sighed. For all the years he had been doing the
tall and stately Elf he had never known him to be
knocked up. Why it should happen now *of all times*
was beyond him.
But that was Saruman for you.
***Let us go back to when it all began, shall we?
It was early spring when news came up the valley.
Word had it that Saruman was visiting kingdoms and
would be coming to Imladris in turn. Of course,
that meant that everyone would be hiding the good
silver and locking up the liquor cabinets for the
short term.
Saruman, an Istari from Isengard often made progresses
and when he did, strain on the local economies was
enormous. He never traveled light and when he stayed,
it was for a long, long time.
Elrond sighed, noting the amount of wine in the cellar.
It would have to do, he considered. He had buried all
the good stuff for the celebration when the old
bastard would move on to Lothlorien and the in-laws.
Of course, it also meant that his bed partner would
have to sleep in his own room. Glorfindel, tall, blue-
eyed and blond, long suffering, discreet, a good
horseman both in and out of bed, expert of the souffle
and other esoterica involving skewers would have to
find a new perch. Saruman was of the old school. That
is, if he didn't get any, *no one would*. That school.
Elrond felt the pain of separation, the exquisite
misery of knowing that his lover wouldn't be there
for him, arms and legs all akimbo, snoring softly
into his ear. It was something he felt deeply in
his heart, the sorrow of it and for a moment he felt
the urge to go west.
However, he didn't.
"Elrond, darling ... you look pained. Is there
anything I can do to share the ineffable burdens
of your many cares and woes."
Elrond turned, staring into soft blue eyes, eyes
that loved him.
"Yes, you can."
Ten minutes and one cracking good blow job later,
our Lord of Rivendell skipped down the steps to
meet his new house guest.
"Saruman!" /... you cheap leech ... die soon .../
"Elrond!" /... you wench ... I hope that blond your
bedding is here ... rrrowwwwllll .../ "Glorfunkel!"
"Glorfindel. Fin-dell." /... sigh .../
Saruman gave them both the traditional Isengard
greeting, the one with lots and lots of tongue.
They both made mental notes to gargle later. Turning,
strolling together, they entered the house, walking
to the main room to dine together on a repast fit
for a king. Which some of them were.
They traded amusing stories, like the time that
Glorfindel got locked out of the men's locker room
and all the girls made chalk sketches before he
could hide. Then there was the time that Glorfindel
was caught masturbating behind the big oak out back
because he was having a little spat with his lover
and didn't want him to know he thought he was as
hot as he was because that was terrible sexual
politics. That one.
Glorfindel sat, stylish and red from the neck up,
practically glowing in the dark as people relayed
the many and myriad ways that they abused him to
the mostly total stranger, the Bastard of Isengard.
(tm)
Saruman, for his part took myriad notes and made
chalk sketches, all for his later private use in
the latrine out back behind his suite. Burning in
his scrawny loins for just a taste of the ripe
peach that Glorfindel represented to his wizened
and desiccated libido, he made plans to find the
blond beauty in the maze that was the last homely
house and squeeze a little juice that very night.
Hopefully, it would be his.
***
Glorfindel screamed, that is he tried to around the
socks that Elrond had stuffed into his mouth. Riding
his lord to the pitch of release, he nearly strangled
on the cotton balls in his mouth. He sighed as he
posted to a halt on the gelding of his lover, falling
forward like a proverbial ton of bricks. Elrond,
buried under yellow hair and a totally masculine chest
sighed with joy and bliss. He had achieved his fourth
orgasm of the night and two of them had even been
with his lover.
Floating in a dream world reminiscent of the ending
scene of Gladiator where the hero floats to heaven
after being stabbed to death all over, he sighed.
Even though there wasn't a wheat field in sight, he
was a happy, happy man.
Elf.
Elf-man.
"My lord?"
"Yes?"
"You are one sultry wench."
Elrond smiled. "I am, aren't I?"
Glorfindel sat up, re-spindling himself on the hard
rod of steel that began at his lover's neck and
ended some place around the vicinity of his nuts.
He sighed, reveling in the splintered glory of
exquisite pain and smiled. "You are one piece of
work."
Elrond smiled and pulled him down, counting his
molars one by one with his tongue. Satisfied that
his lover's dental hygiene was in good order, he
sighed and rolled over, pulling the big man
against his chest. "I will miss this with Saruman
here."
"I will too. Do you think he believed our excuses
about having to use the latrine for a few minutes?"
"He's really not very bright. I would say yes,"
Elrond said, unaware that Saruman had watched the
whole thing on his pilantir.
"Not very bright, is that what say you? I will
show you," he cackled, like the wicked witch in
one of those kid stories, the one with seven
dwarves I think. Say! That could work here but
that's another story all together.
With that, a diabolical plot was set in motion
that would present a unique problem for the
unflappable Lord of Imladris. And his butt buddy.
***
Three days passed and Saruman, in the break time
during the big evening scrabble game, announced
that he was leaving in the morning. Barely able
to contain their glee, the main participants
pretended to drop a letter cube on the floor.
They all met under the table and frenched.
Rising and resuming, they let him win for the
rest of the night.
The next day, waving goodbye, they watched as he
headed down the valley on his little white donkey.
Glorfindel, spending most of the previous evening
drinking cheap wine and eating some very strange
candy from the Lord of Isengard's own private
kitchen, the one in the basement where he kept
all of his controlled substances ... that one ...
burped for the forty-fourth time. As he stood
beside Elrond, his Lord's hand discreetly down
his pants, he felt the first yellow pangs of
upset.
"I don't feel good," he whispered to his lover,
ignoring all their private signals for sex.
Elrond pulled his tongue out of Glorfindel's
mouth and sighed.
"What's wrong? You look kind of putrid?"
"It must have been something I ate," he said
just before he dashed to the latrine to blow
chunks.
For three months things went along normal. The
leaves budded out and the song birds sang.
Elrond and Glorfindel rode to the ponies, both
in and out of bed and slowly but surely, the
tall blond's belly grew.
And grew.
And really grew.
As they sat in the bathtub together one night ...
"Glorfindel ... you know that I love you, right?"
Glorfindel looked over the tea cup that sat on
his burgeoning belly. He grinned. "I know."
"Then what's with the gut?"
Never in the history of this or any other world
did a fat man ever exit a tub so fast. Throwing
on a robe, now one size too small, he wailed
from an unaccustomed burst of estrogen in his
system.
"How can you say this to me? How can you ask me
such things when I've given you the best
millennia of my life?"
/... oh crap .../ "Glorfindel ... darling ...
you know that nothing will ever come between us."
/... not even your big fat ass .../ "I love you.
No matter what. Just *tell* me what I need to do
to make you happy again?"
Ten minutes later ...
"Better?"
"Much."
"Good. You have no idea what a bitch it was
inventing pickles *and* ice cream."
Glorfindel only smiled.
***Four months later ...
"Breathe."
"Fuck that. What I want to know is two fold: what
are you going to do to get Saruman and how is
this kid coming out?"
"Sigh."
***
It was a long night. Sharpening his best orc-hunting
knife, Elrond and a bottle of scotch made short work
of one of Glorfindel's burning questions. The kid
was a boy, named Gildor Haldir Inglorian Belloch
Maloney. He was the apple of his father and his
father's eye.
Of course, his brothers and sister are still in
therapy over the whole business but that was another
story.
***
At night, when the baby was finally asleep, two
people lay in the throes of passion. Sighs and
other by-products of intense libido massage
permeated the room. A blond head appeared from
under the covers, staring at his lover's
passion crunched face.
"What about Saruman? What have you planned?"
Elrond sighed. This was the fifth blow job he had
interrupted in his zeal to get paybacks. Would it
always be this way, this blight on their happiness?
Would he always be just at the edge before
Glorfindel crapped out on him?
He hoped not. He hated blue balls.
"Give me time. Do me until then. It helps the
thought process."
The head disappeared under the covers once more
and the great Lord of Imladris took an extended
tour of his inner eyeballs.
***
Saruman rose, walking in his orc slippers to the
bathroom. He took care of his business, sharpened
his long nails and went into the bedroom to sit
and do his hair. He was inordinately proud of it,
brushing it two hundred times before donning his
robes. As he sat and counted, he didn't notice
that for every strand he combed out, one fell on
the floor.
Far away, standing over a basin of water, Elrond
conducted a secret ceremony. Calling on the god
of follicles, he commanded his revenge, the sky
crackling with thunder and lightening as he did.
Far away, a villain was sitting, unaware of the
spell being cast. He would go about his business,
getting ready for the Wizard's convention in
Minas Tirith in three weeks. However, much to
Elrond's gigantic relief, by the time he got
ready to go, Saruman the Wise would be as bald
an egg.
Sort of like his newest whelp, he considered.
At least the old lady would get off his back
Elrond considered with a smile.
"ELROND!"
He turned and looked with his newest progeny in
the direction of the bathroom. The door opened
and a tall blond walked out. He moved toward
Elrond with malice in his eyes.
"Yes, my little petal?" Elrond asked, swallowing
hard.
"What's this?"
Elrond squinted, noting a long blond hair in
Glorfindel's hand.
"Why ... its a long blond hair in your hand,
Glorfindel."
A lovely face crumpled and blue eyes began to get
all runny and crappy as Glorfindel broke into
tears.
"You've got crumpet on the side!"
He turned and ran into the bathroom, locking the
door behind him. As he did, Elrond had a sinking
feeling and turned from the basin of water to a
fat book laying on the table. He reread his spell,
his inner terminator holstering his pistol. He had
picked the wrong revenge, he considered. This one
worked on people who had light hair. Even as Saruman
was becoming thin on top, Glorfindel was too. A
rebound of his spell was flashing in his face and
he realized he was in deep doo-doo.
Blond Elves are second in vanity to washed out
white haired Istari. He considered his options,
slim to none, and decided to do the only thing he
could do under the circumstances.
He went into the basement and got loaded.
***
You may ask yourself the point of this story. There
really isn't one. I wanted to be the first to do
this pairing and all they would tell me is bad jokes,
the wenches. Just know that in Imladris on a very
slow day you can hear loving things spoken among the
greatest of the wise ...
"I HATE YOU, ELROND! WHY THE *HELL* DID YOU LISTEN
TO ME, YOU WANKER!?!"
"You asked me to hit Saruman where he lived.
Since he can't *possibly* be having sex, I went
after his hair."
"YOU'RE STILL A BASTARD!!!!!"
On the rug, playing with his little blocks, Gildor
Haldir Inglorian Belloch Maloney sat. He grinned
and watched the stupid people yell at each other
and considered the future. He would grow up to be
Bill Gates, open a software company that would
strangle the world and put his parents and their
nemesis in a lunatic asylum.
People would bow down to him. Women and men would
worship him as a god. It was either that or playing
center for the Rams.
He sighed and burbled, the side show going on all
around him as another spring in Imladris passed by.
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c2002 2/2 ]:>
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