8. First date
Faramir watched him sidelong. The Captain clearly planned to share an evening meal with his reluctant Gondorian guest and was busily laying out a few choice items out for them – given Shagrat’s general lack of household furnishings - in their wrappings directly on the floor. He had brought more wine – a bottle each for himself and Faramir, and he was humming a twilight, discordant melody absently under his breath, looking incongruously happy about his task - though the bizarre domesticity of the scene was at one point fractured, as Shagrat, who had been having difficulty in uncorking the wine, with a sudden, unprovoked movement, smashed the necks of the dusty old bottles open against the wall. Sheepishly, he picked the pieces of broken glass away then handed one of the bottles to Faramir, who thanked him and took a careful, polite drink. Shagrat beamed at him, much gratified to see that another one of his offerings had been accepted. Of course, he didn’t look much better when he smiled. He was still as fearsome-looking as ever, and if anything, looked even worse.
Faramir, however, was beginning to get used to that. Shagrat had been a good-looking young Uruk at one point, the Snaga downstairs said, although what that meant by Orcish standards could be anyone’s guess. He certainly did have a kind of ruined, raddled elegance about him, and it would not have taken a very great twist of imagination to see that Shagrat’s appearance could at one time have tended more towards being note-worthy and striking, rather than – as it was now – hideously grotesque. Faramir mulled this over while they ate. The meal was taken largely in silence, Shagrat, with his usual complete lack of finesse, having more or less killed all casual conversation outright.
“Do you like girls or boys best?” he’d asked, interestedly. “For shagging, and that, I mean.”
“What kind of question is that?” Faramir muttered, blushing red to his ears.
“I’m making small talk,” Shagrat said, airily. “I heard about that, once. After we’ve hammered you lot, there might be – you know. Diplomatic opportunities and such. Orc like me, might even have to come to make polite conversation with any surviving members of your side. Small talk. You know.”
“This isn’t making small talk,” Faramir insisted.
“It is if you’re an Uruk out of Mordor,” Shagrat said, stubbornly. “What do they talk about in Gondor?”
“I haven’t had many opportunities to practice the social graces,” admitted Faramir.
“And you living in the White City? How’s that, then?”
“I’m rarely called into polite society,” Faramir said, feeling himself beginning to blush with shame. It was a very familiar feeling, and he spoke quickly, talking about anything at all, to cover it. “But I understand the weather is always considered to be a safe enough topic, by most people.”
“In Mordor,” Shagrat growled, “the sun doesn’t shine, the rain burns if it falls on your naked skin and the wind, when it does blow through the eternal pall of clouds and smoke that surrounds us, reeks of nothing so much as corruption and decay.” He broke off, apparently embarrassed by his own eloquence.
After that, neither Shagrat nor Faramir had said anything more for some time. Faramir, to cover his discomfort, drank deeply from his bottle, so perhaps it was the effect of the strong wine, or perhaps it was the brief moment of pity he’d felt for Shagrat, when he’d heard the Snaga talking about how he’d lived for so many years in isolation. Whatever the reason, at length Faramir heard himself asking: “Why do you choose to avoid all others of your kind, Captain Shagrat?”
Shagrat paused for a long while before making any kind of reply, and when he did, he largely failed to answer the question.
“You know what everyone says about Orcs, don’t you?” he said.
A great variety of statements had been made by very many different people about Orcs, and Faramir didn’t know quite how to respond to that. Eventually, Shagrat answered for him.
“They say that we Orcs are ruled entirely by our base instincts. They say we can’t experience even the smallest shred of enjoyment or pleasure, save for in witnessing the torments we inflict upon our victims.”
“From what I’ve heard, and seen for myself that…does seems to be true,” Faramir replied, uncertainly.
Shagrat gave Faramir a gloomy smile. “Oh, I’d say it was more of a half-truth. People always exaggerate. There are one or two things we like doing, other than ripping, rending and killing. The urge to do violence never does go away though, I will grant you that.” He gave Faramir a long, assessing look, as if he was considering his options, and coming to some kind of decision. “But I must admit I am choosing not to do anything about it, in your case. All right then, Goldilocks,” he rumbled softly. “What say you we try and take my mind off it for a minute. Let’s have a go at doing something else.”
Shagrat knelt down in front of Faramir where he was sitting, and rested a heavy paw on Faramir’s knee. Shagrat’s black-rimmed, re-curved talons flexed and kneaded insistently, pricking through the fabric of Faramir’s breeches, alternating a soothing with a threatening pressure. The Uruk smoothed his way up the young man’s thigh, and traced one claw, teasingly, in a delicate stroke from the base to the tip of Faramir’s growing erection. The slight movement was for some reason wildly arousing to Faramir. He felt as if all the blood in his body had immediately drained itself into his groin, and the throb of his cock as his blood pooled into it made him light-headed with lust.
“What d’you say?” Shagrat repeated, gazing intently up at Faramir, through his ragged fringe of stringy hair. Faramir had to remind himself that an Uruk-hai of Mordor represented a staggeringly ill-chosen object of erotic appeal, to say the very least. Faramir quickly decided that at this stage, he really didn’t care two hoots about that, or Shagrat’s appearance, one way or the other.
Hating himself, and at the same time terrified that Shagrat’s attentions might stop at any moment, Faramir fumbled desperately at the lacings which held the top of his breeches closed. As he exposed himself for Shagrat, he gasped at the sensation of cold air washing over him. This was closely followed a blast of warmth from Shagrat’s hot, damp, breath as the Uruk leaned in intimately, moving further up between his legs.
‘That’s what I like to see, Goldilocks, love,” Shagrat purred. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face sensuously, deliciously, up against Faramir’s hard, stiffened member. Faramir was deeply shaken by this, torn between feelings of shock and horror versus absolute delight at the Orc’s actions. He had never even dreamed of being touched as wantonly, with such unashamed appreciation, as this.
When Shagrat’s mouth enveloped him, and the Orc began sucking with an easy, experienced movement up and down over his engorged member, Faramir for a moment, truly believed that he would faint from pleasure. He had heard of practices like this, of course, but he had never really imagined that he would ever be on the receiving end of such a treatment. Faramir knew – had known for all his life - what was expected of him; as son of the Steward, he would eventually be betrothed to a Gondorian lady of moderate rank. A bovine assortment of future brides – merchant’s daughters, for the most part – had at one point been invited to the Citadel in Minas Tirith, and discreetly paraded before Faramir, or more accurately, before Faramir’s Father, for approval. The prospective brides had been unanimously unenthusiastic over the prospect of liasing with the Steward’s out-of-favour second son, and made little attempt to hide it. Denethor had not chosen from the sturdily-hipped selection of good breeding stock laid out before him that day, leading Faramir to suspect that his Father was deriving a great deal of malicious pleasure from watching his son’s discomfiture during the arranged meetings. Until Faramir’s official engagement was announced, he was under strictest instructions to keep himself, as his Father said, ‘pure.’
Even though, at a few months shy of his nineteenth birthday, Faramir was not, technically, a virgin, on account of his Father’s orders, Faramir’s relations with the fairer sex had been severely limited, all the same. There had been one or two embarrassing, moonlit fumbles - encounters instigated mainly for form’s sake during double dates set up by Faramir’s brother. These had involved Faramir mostly having his hands slapped away by blushing damsels; young women who evidently guarded their maidenly status much more jealously than Faramir did. And one tawdry – and excruciatingly brief - episode with a professional courtesan, bought and paid for, again, by Boromir, who had been quite at his wit’s end about his younger brother’s lack of progress. All in all then, Faramir had never really had a lover, but even without any reference points for comparison, he had the strangest sensation that now in some way he was being made love to, with honest, ardent fervour, by - of all people, the Uruk Captain, Shagrat.
Shagrat brought one of his heavily clawed hands up to massage Faramir’s sac as he continued mouthing him, and began to play his clever tongue along the base of Faramir’s member, urging him to thrust fully into his throat. The sensation of tightness and heat around him were too much for Faramir, and after one or two desperate, final thrusts, he came frantically, arching his back and shivering with aftershocks. Though he knew he should have been repulsed and nauseated, Faramir couldn’t help feeling – mainly exhilarated – by what had happened. It must have shown on his face, for Shagrat grinned up at him wickedly, looking very pleased with himself and licking his lips.
It was a one-off, Faramir told himself, and he continued to tell himself so each evening after that, following the various intimate and unwholesome acts that Shagrat would enthusiastically perform for him. The Uruk certainly didn’t seem to expect much from Faramir in return, during their nightly trysts. It was difficult for Faramir to be sure, given the number and weight of the heavy, crusted leather layers that customarily lay between himself and Shagrat, but he was fairly confident that throughout their encounters, the Orc was easily as aroused as he was, and very likely even more so. Immediately after the young man had reached his orgasm, Shagrat would get to his feet and stalk through to one of the adjoining rooms where he would, Faramir surmised, take matters - in hand - for himself (so to speak). Nude or semi-naked as Faramir often found himself however, Shagrat never removed a single stitch of his own clothing – and to make matters worse, the Uruk was in the habit of wearing the entire contents of his own wardrobe, at all times, simultaneously.
‘That Snaga rabble,’ as Shagrat had at one point explained, ‘would have the whole blinkin’ lot off me the minute my back was turned, else.’
So, between Faramir and the most cherished and private regions of Captain Shagrat would usually be the following items of Uruk-ish attire: one long, thigh-length, armoured surcoat, at least two kilted battle tunics plus a low-slung sword-belt and a rusty, chain-mail girdle. Topping all of this off was a studded, leaf-shaped, black metal cod-piece, a truly fearsome piece, which had discouraged any attempts from Faramir at initiating more intimate contact with the Orc, although even he would have had to admit at times he was becoming more and more tempted.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.