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Silver Bells and Honey Cakes. by Urloth

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Chapter notes:

I feel lik disowning this fic, right here and now. It makes no sense, it is something brutal and IDK where it came from save it seeped out of me at the sight of Croclock's gorgeous, gorgeous picture of Finrod in Tol-in-Gaurhoth. (Also posted with permission at the bottom of the fic in case you don't like Tumblr.)

Yeah.

All the trigger warnings guys: Rape, violence, gore etc.

This is dark and disturbing. I am not kidding.

Finrod hunched over, unable to see anything through the fall of his hair around his body, till pristine despite his capture. Sauron had, had him cleansed and primped before he had been dragged before him, wanting the elf captive to be a pleasing sight.

But that had passed. Now he knelt here, beaten and in misery, throat aching like an hot iron bar lay against his vocal cords.

Footsteps came upon him, bare footed by the sound of it, and a beautiful voice, which put into his mind by the sound of it images of silver bells and honey cakes with candied lemon rind atop them.

“Beautiful,” that voice sighed, “how absolutely beautiful.”

He opened his eyes and saw nothing for a moment, before the barely there light hit the silver speckling in the dark grey fur of the wolf watching him. It opened its mouth in a grin, sliding out of the darkness and padding around him.

It was too large to be a normal wolf, and too long in the middle. And its paws… Finrod swallowed down bile. They were more like little furred hands, perfect and dainty as a child’s, yet covered in fur and with black padding on the palm.

He closed his eyes again.

There was a hand on his ankle, stroking the skin.

He opened his eyes and there was no hand anywhere, just the wolf grinning at him.

Closed his eyes. The hand on his ankle squeezed and then traced the shape of his calves with soft, elegant feeling fingers to the bent crook of his knee.

He opened his eyes again. Nothing.

Closed his eyes.

The hands dipped into his hair, the long golden river of it he had been so proud of, falling past his buttocks when he stood and almost kissing his knees.

“It’s so long,” the beautiful voice marvelled, “and so very golden.” His hair was pulled forwards so that those long fingers could comb through it

“Oh,” the voice hitched and he heard the stranger shuffle closer to him, kneeling as he knelt. “You are so beautiful and he has given you to me.” They pressed against him, thigh to thigh and chest to chest and a cheek brushed against his as he was forced to straighten up.

Their skin was like silk, no better than silk; there was an addictive warmth and softness to it that he had never felt before. He could drown in the feeling of it and when it pulled against his.

Little jitters of lightening ran up Finrod’s spine and he forced his heavy eyes open abruptly.

There was no one there. His hair lay to the side of his face as it had before, trapped partially beneath his knees. The wolf had crept closer though. It lay one of its deformed paws upon his thigh, and he would have cringed away but for the look in the creature’s eyes.

Delicately it licked his nose and growled in what might have been a friendly manner.

“Get off,” Finrod said coldly.

The wolf whined sadly and pulled away.

Finrod closed his eyes.

“Mean,” arms slid over his shoulders. The chest was flat but that meant nothing, for the skin was still so silky and soft, and the groin that bumped against his gave no indication of genitals of any kind.

“You are going to be the last one,” the beautiful voice said, “you are the leader and it is only fitting you hear your men die first. I am so pleased, it means I have more time with you; more time to memorise how beautiful you are.”

They slipped around him and ran their hands along his bound arms with a lustful sigh. Then they slipped a hand up his back to scrape their nails over the awkward angle his shoulder-blades were held at by his arm bindings.

Then they proceeded to find each and every bruise on his body, and grind their palms against them.

Finrod jerked and opened his eyes at the pain which faded like a dream.

The wolf had lain out on the floor, watching him unwaveringly.

He gritted his teeth and resolved that he would not close his eyes again, past blinking.

-

Of course this was not possible. Sometimes his eyes slipped closed as the cold seeped into his bones. Sometimes it was defence against the noises in the darkness; of wolves devouring his companions.

He could hear Beren’s laboured breathing nearby, and smell the sour reek of terror from the Man’s skin.

There were other voices, all beautiful, entreating his men to give them their identities. They promised fame, fortune, peace, a cessation of pain, or in the case of a voice like spiced nut cakes drizzled with melted brown sugar, companionship and love for life.

The voices delved into the darkest secrets and wants of his men, and laid them bare, offering them the chance of obtaining them.

Yet Finrod was spared this, for now, and only had to listen.

His voice, as he had come to think of it, only cooed over him, and hands stroked along his body, touching every plane of muscle and skin possible.

“Why aren’t you beautiful? The most beautiful of them all,” said a voice like the smoke of apple wood, and the taste of a ripe apricot. Hands he was not familiar with glanced over his shoulder.

“GET AWAY!” the silver voice yelled and there was a human scream, and the sounds of fighting. He opened his eyes and wished he had not. The wolf that ever watched him was up on its back legs, the throat of another such wolf in its maw. It used its extra height from its unnatural torso to fling the other wolf against the walls repeatedly.

“Stop it!” he yelled, sickened.

His wolf let go of the other in an instant, which ran yelping away.

Then it crept forwards and pressed hopefully against him. It was warm against the chill of the ruined tower, and the fur was like silk.

“Get away,” he snarled, and jerked back.

“Why are you so mean to me?” the voice asked him the moment he closed his eyes, later that day or night, whichever it was.

“You? You mean the wolf?”

“I am the wolf,” the voice sighed sadly. And it all made sense. Finrod had read the reports, knew of the rumours of what lived now in former Tol Sirion.

“You are not what I expected a werewolf to be,” he told the Werewolf.

“You have a lot to learn,” Sauron laughed behind the bars that caged Finrod in. He had come to watch another one of Finrod’s men be devoured, and his face was flushed like a maid at a dance, eyes not wavering from the screaming, gory mess before him, “if you think a monster is something ugly.”

-

“I would make you my bitch,” the voice said as though this was a compliment.

“I am not interested in such a thing,” Finrod replied with every bit of wounded sensibilities he could dredge up from behind the numbing effects of his horror filled captivity.

“It would be a good life. I would bring you my kills. We would share them. We would have many beautiful pups. You would be warm and never in pain, ever again,” the hands cupped his face for a moment, then slid up into his hair.

“I would give you what you wanted,” they added as a sweetener. Ah, the time had come for his temptation; the brutal dragging of his darkest wishes from his soul. Finrod thought of Amairë determinedly, her sweet smile and modestly clad body as they walked beneath the trees, in the orchards of Taniquetil.

“Oh please,” the Werewolf laughed at him, “I know you better than that. You want something darker. You cast thoughts of that wey faced, naïve girl from you the moment your cousins walked through your gates.”

The image came upon him suddenly, of walking towards his bedchamber with anticipation building in everystep.

Celebrimbor stepped out of the shadows and caught his arm.

“Don’t go in there,” Curufinwion said, eyes wide and horrified, “don’t go in there Cousin. This is not what you want.”

But he shook him off and entered the room.

The door clicked shut behind him, locked and Curufin wrapped his arms around his shoulders, breath sweet with mead.  Celegorm was already upon the bed, and both were naked save the collars around their necks, and Finrod’s brand upon their hips.

He was barely aware of warm, silken hands sliding between his thighs, locked in the vision as he was, and stroking him.

In Dream-Nargothrond Curufin used his teeth to great effect across Finrod’s shoulders, begging for his turn beneath Finrod.

Finrod meanwhile sank himself into Celegorm, teeth and cock, until Celegorm was whining high in his throat, and trembling from the twin pains, whilst his prick ground against Finrod’s lower stomach.

Neither protested their usage as he left them bruised and battered. They weren’t princes anymore, just apologetic slaves who knew their place and never tried to rise above where he had placed them. They might struggle from time to time, but they learnt swiftly that they loved whatever Finrod dealt them, pleasurable or agonising.

This was punishment, as was due to them for their betrayal, and they took it with nary a complaint.

He shuddered through an orgasm, gasping against a soft mouth he could not see; which would disappear should he open his eyes.

“Naughty,” growled the Werewolf in his ear, dragging a rough tongue along the edge of it. “How beautiful though. I’ll get you them, just say the word and they’ll be yours. They’ll be on their backs for you, your bitches, so long as you are mine.”

“Be gone,” Finrod growled, sounding more wolf-like than his tormentor.

“So stubborn,” the Werewolf moaned against his neck, their silky naked flesh sliding over his own before they pulled away and he heard them stand.

He cracked his eyes open a little. As usual all he saw was the strange wolf, sitting before him, with its deformed paw-fingers tapping lightly against the stone. Its muzzle hung open in a knowing grin, and its yellow eyes winked at him in the darkness.

Finrod closed his eyes again and felt the standing presence by his side. Hands slid through his hair and gently stroked it back from his face, running through the entire length of it.

“So beautiful,” the Werewolf said in regret, and left.

-

The voice that tasted like spiced nut cakes drenched in melted sugar was sobbing with grief.

Edrahil had died the night before. Whenever Finrod had closed his eyes, the spiced voice had been pleading with Edrahil to just tell them what they wanted to know. That they would stop the moment Edhrahil told them who they were. All the while the rhythmic slap of flesh violating flesh had rung in Finrod’s ears.

When he had opened his eyes all he could hear was Edrahil’s screams and the snarl of a wolf, flesh being rent by claw and teeth but nothing else.

It had been preferable.

Footsteps and paws upon stone at the same time.

He shuddered in awareness as hands swept his body, whilst his eyes saw the wolf come out of the darkness, slinking low with their ears back and eyes shining red with blood lust.

He grappled the creature even as he was pierced, tore and bit at the wolf whilst hands were dragging him against a body, and he was split apart obscenely.

Long, he grappled and wrestled with the wolf, and long was he violated, unable to escape his tormentor.

His hair was grabbed, used to yank his head back, and he writhed as his throat was bared to wolf-teeth, and normal teeth alike. He gave himself whiplash loosening the hold, and avoided instant death by a hair.

At last though, his teeth found a pulse beneath a thick protective ruff of fur.

He bit.

“Oh,” that beautiful voice sighed, “is this love?”

He clenched his jaw tighter and the Werewolf jerked against him, as bone snapped, and flesh ripped. Its body fell away onto the floor, lacking a throat. Finrod spat aside his mouthful of fur and flesh, blood trickling down his chin and gasped for air.

He stared at the wolf. It was as it had always been. Its strange paws were now tipped with scythe like claws with serrated edges; all the better to mangle and ruin the flesh they found purchase in.

Blood trickled from his many wounds, from the pierced artery in his neck, but not from between his legs. Despite this his fëa was screaming at the violation it had endured, sure he had been raped.

To his knees he dropped, and he saw Sauron move amongst the shadows.

Beren was silent and still.

Finrod bared his teeth in a bloody, victorious smile, and there he fell, dead.

 

Chapter end notes:

Finrod in Tol-in-Gaurhroth.Picture by Croclock, and belonging to her; Finrod of course belongs to Tolkien.