Title: Precious
Author: Culumacilinte
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sméagol/Déagol

A/N:  I had this plotbunny in my head, and originally, I thought I might
post a challenge on some LOTR slash site, but then I thought, hey, why
not have a go at it myself?   So, here we are- my Sméagol/Déagol
necrofic.  Pray do e-mail me at
LOTR_freaktheworldisgoingaroundincircles@hotmail.com with feedback.

Warnings:  Necrophilia contained herein.   For those who don't know
what necrophilia is, it's people doing naughty things with dead people.
You have been warned.

Synopsis: The Finding of the Ring, and what took place immediately
after, from Sméagol's point of view. This does not do the fic justice, so
pray do ignore my abhorrent summarizing skills.

Oh, and I would like to thank my lovely beta Nigeline, she was a great
deal of help.


Déagol, his precious Déagol, his cousin, his friend, his lover.  It was
wrong, he knew, but the temptation of sweet cousin-flesh under the
smiling moon was too much. And though Déagol too, knew that it was
wrong, he also knew Sméagol would come when he called, always.    And
he called.   For the sweet-sharp pleasure of loving his cousin-friend on the
grass by the pool or under the trees was not something that could be
denied, and forbidden pleasures, after all, are always the sweetest. And so
they lived, friends by day, lovers by night, content and happy.

At whiles, on lazy afternoons, they would swim in the river, or the ponds,
chasing each other through the water, swiftly darting otter-shapes in the
stirred up silt and grime, laughter bubbling from their mouths. A hunt
where the quarry wanted to be caught.   Sweet pale flesh turned green by
the river-light, dancing sunlight and ripples playing over naked bodies,
turning them both into water-sprites.

Or, if they didn't want to swim, they'd go fishing, lounging idly in each
others arms in the little coracle they'd built together.   And they'd catch
fish, and bring them back, and when they ate them, they'd taste all the
better for having been caught together.

But then one day, as they were out fishing, Déagol fell in.  Sméagol had
laughed and waited for him to bob up again, but when he did not, he began
to worry, and then to panic.   Desperately, he jumped into the water
himself, searching for Déagol. There were tears running down his face, but
in the water, it was impossible to tell.   When he ran out of air, he
surfaced, sobbing for breath.  He stumbled up onto the bank, tripping over
his feet in haste and fear.

"Déagol!  Déagol, where are you?!"

His voice fell disconsolately on the still summer air.  But then, even as he
turned around, there he stood, his cousin, dripping wet, staring intently at
something clasped in his palm, making no sign that he had heard Sméagol
at all.   The great bubble of despair that had swelled in Sméagol's chest
burst, and he smiled, slumping with relief, and made his way over to
Déagol.

"Oh, Déagol, you're alright!  I was so wor- what's that?"

For he had spotted, in Déagol's hand, a glimmer of gold.  A ring, it was, as
shining as the sun, for all it was smeared with mud and grit. Sméagol was
more accustomed to fancy jewelry than most of his friends, because of his
grandmother's status, but this… this was beautiful, more so than anything
he could ever remember seeing.   Almost without realising what he was
doing, he walked softly forward and nuzzled up to Déagol's neck, as he so
often did.

"Give us that, Déagol my love."

Déagol seemed suddenly aware of his cousin and pulled away abruptly.

"Why?"

"Why?  Because it's my birthday, my love, and I wants it."

"No."

No?  His Déagol had never said no to him.  But then, this Déagol was not
his Déagol.   His Déagol did not have hard, cruel eyes, nor did he stare at
Sméagol with disgust and loathing, his Déagol was gentle, and funny, and
he loved him.

"I have already given you a birthday present, more than I could afford.
This is mine- I found it, and I'm keeping it."

At these words, Sméagol seemed suddenly to be outside his body, his
mind floating somewhere up in the clouds, as another consciousness
suddenly seized his body, making his eyes darken, and his brow raise.
And he heard himself speak, voice laden with an unspoken threat.

"Oh are you, my love?"

And with that, he snatched at the Ring in Déagol's hand.  Déagol closed
his fist around it, and suddenly they were scratching and clawing and
pummeling each other, this other-Sméagol frantically groping for the Ring
in Déagol's hand.   Sméagol watched as the two of them rolled around on
the grass, grappling with each other in a grotesque parody of love.
Sméagol felt the blows raining down upon him, but not really.   He had
eyes only for the Ring that lay in the grass before himself and Déagol.  In
an unthinking fury, the other-Sméagol caught Déagol around the throat,
and began to squeeze.   Sméagol tried to stop, but his hands kept
tightening, and for all he tried, he couldn't loosen them. And so, weeping
uncontrollably, he watched helplessly as he throttled the life out of his 
best
friend.

When the body (no, Déagol) stopped twitching, he returned to himself,
and detached his hands from Déagol's bruised throat.   Tears ran down his
cheeks and he stared, disbelieving, at his hands.  These hands had killed
his Déagol.  His Déagol, who now lay, eyes blankly staring up at the no-
longer-smiling sun.   His Déagol, whose ruddy skin was now deathly pale,
whose chest no longer rose and fell with lifebreath, whose clever mouth
would never again speak a word.

He sat for a while, staring uncomprehendingly at the body before him,
until he, almost out of instinct, bent down, till his nose was almost
touching that of his lover, and kissed his cold, dead lips.

--mouths crashing together, all battling tongues and teeth and ohh…
Déagol moaned beneath him as he plundered his sinfully velvet mouth--

Oh-so-softly, he unbuttoned Déagol's sodden shirt, and traced a path down
his chest with a finger,

--fine coat of sweat glinted upon Sméagol's chest in the moonlight, which
was heaving with exertion and passion. With a wicked grin, Déagol began
to suckle and nip a burning path down his stomach and chest--

caressing the smooth flesh, trying to pretend that Déagol was not dead at
all, merely cold.  He unlaced Déagol's breeches, whispering softly.    "My
Precious Déagol.  I'll never let you go, never."

--pounding into Déagol, all reserve now gone, white-hot pleasure searing
up through his body, setting him on fire with lust.   Déagol was writhing
beneath him, gasping at the electric friction of their bodies.  He was
hissing Déagol's name, over and over again, a thoughtless mantra--

And so he was, thrusting deep into his lover's dead core, as if he could
bring him back to life, the way he used to be, that he might love again.
He wept as he did so, despair and ecstasy blending into something so
intense it could not be born, a feeling that left him howling his despair 
and
rage and love and lust into the summer air, up to the unfeeling sun.   And
when he came, it was almost painful, and he was shamed that he took so
much pleasure in the sensation.

He clumsily pulled Déagol's clothes back on, and with a last, chaste kiss,
heaved him into the river.  He grabbed the Ring out of the grass where it
lay, and examined it.  For a moment he was tempted to throw it into the
water along with Déagol, but the thought soon left him, and feeling
ashamed but elated, he slipped it on, and crept into the shadow of the trees
to pretend, for a moment, that nothing had actually happened, and that
Déagol might come walking down the path in a moment, whistling
cheerfully.   But deep in his heart, he knew that he would never come
back, never again, and it was his fault.  And so, too drained to do anything
else, he sat down at the foot of the tree, and cried.


fin