Chapter Text
An Uruk will stab you in the front. Most likely the throat.
Much of the truth of that depends, Ratbag thought to himself, isolated thoughts flaring into being through his fading consciousness, on what the other fella’s finding to be stabbing you with.
Once again Ratbag found himself facing a spot of bother. And in his experience, these things had a tendency to always go the same way.
Ratbag would put a foot wrong. And it might be over anything, ranging from, say, him unsuccessfully attempting to set himself up as Warchief, to Ratbag, in his perpetually-famished state, having golloped down a portion of some other Uruk’s scran. Whatever its nature his transgression, real or imagined, would soon be uncovered. Then they – the other Orcs, would berate him, beat him, and then, likely as not, string him up from some conveniently-located gibbet, whipping-post or gantry.
And yes, occasionally it would occur to one or other of them to fuck him, while he was hanging helpless there. Owing to his temperament and appearance, Ratbag could count few allies among the rest of the Orcish troops, which meant there never seemed to be anyone willing or available to cut him down or step in on his behalf at times like these; occasions on which for example, someone took it into their head to give him an unwanted fucking, so that was another thing that sometimes also happened. But the point here was that afterwards, when whatever they were doing to him was finished, they’d leave him alone. And then, sooner or later, Ratbag would somehow or other make his escape.
But that wasn’t happening this time. Because this one – the one that had him? This one was a pervert.
Ratbag knew that, and not just because he was such a keen observer of Orcish behaviour. Admittedly, he’d come to be a connoisseur of the Orc and Uruk mind-set mainly in the hopes of avoiding fetching up on the wrong side of it, and although lately, that part hadn’t exactly been going according to plan, he did know on account of it that most of them possessed little by way of active cognitive abilities. Not like Ratbag. Those other fellas? They’d not much going on upstairs.
This one, and he was an ugly young meat-head Ratbag thought he recognized, name a’ Glob-dug, or Dug-glob, or some such – problem was that he had enough about him to be trying for some finesse.
Glob-glob, or whatever his name was - the pervert - had come with his cock jammed up Ratbag’s arse, finishing very quickly, the way they always did. He’d pulled loose – as ever, it was an awful sickening feeling – leaving Ratbag floundering on knees and elbows, hands bound in front of him where Glob-dug had thrown him, down in the dirt. Glob-dug picked him up, one-handed by his wrists, and hung him back on the hook on the whipping-post to which he’d originally been tied.
So far so good.
The hitching point on the post was positioned so that most Mordor Uruks secured to it would have been able to easily stand with both feet planted flat on the ground. Though Ratbag persisted in naming himself one - all available evidence to the contrary - he was much smaller than an average Uruk-hai. With his sallow, greenish-yellow skin and wiry, stooping physique he was in looks as well as stature more like a Mountain Goblin than anything else. He was not even as a tall as a Man and so he dangled, hanging from his wrists.
Since he was already in the air Ratbag brought both his feet up, aimed a hefty kick at Dug-Dug’s stomach and missed.
Dug-Glob’s response was to punch him full-force in the gut. He followed that up a swinging left-hook – one! Two! And the worst thing was the fucker took his time to be artful about it. Sheen of sweat glistening off Glog-glog’s bald head, brow furrowed in concentration as he aimed his punches into Ratbag with exquisite precision – overloading on all that homoerotic machismo and malarkey.
It made the smaller Uruk sick.
Dug-glob double-punched him another time. Gave him one more set, just for luck.
While Ratbag was heaving and retching trying to get over that Glob-dug yanked his trousers further down, well past Ratbag’s hips.
This being the first indication Ratbag had had that Glob-dug was a pervert. That he was planning to go off-script.
Glob-dug circled behind the post, dragged Ratbag’s ankles back and tied them, with the whipping post between. At the front that left Ratbag’s thighs splayed wide open, his privates dangling down naked, fully exposed. The pervert reached round from behind and started….playing with him.
He closed his other hand round Ratbag’s throat, forcing his head back against the whipping post. Began throttling him, by steady increments tightening, then slightly loosening his grip. He was obviously aiming for a spot erotic asphyxiation – that old chestnut! - but from Ratbag’s perspective, this sort of nonsense never did a thing. Apart from making him start to lose consciousness, of course. Which is where he was at the beginning of the story, when we came in.
One of the first things a person might notice on meeting Ratbag for the first time was that there were iron rings piercing his lip and eyebrow. He had a conspicuous nose-ring, several ear-rings - and they were set in other parts of his body, too.
The pervert had been mystified when he found it. When he put his hand on Ratbag’s privates and the metal rings studding his cock and his ball-sack kind-of went ‘clink’.
“Woss all this shit?” he asked, astonished.
Ratbag didn’t bother to answer, on the grounds that it was obvious.
“Hurrr! Kinky,” the pervert said.
“Like you can talk,” Ratbag gasped, still winded from his recent throttling, not to mention the gut-punching that had preceded it. “I don’t want any of this,” he snarled at Glob-dug. “Know what you are? You’re a nuffing but a fucking pervert!”
That only made Glob-dug laugh. But unfortunately, now he was getting into it. He started playing with the things Ratbag had in him. Ratbag had to bite his lips so as not to cry out. The hardware he was sporting between his legs made him terribly, acutely sensitive down there.
“But what’s all this shit for?” Glob-dug exclaimed. “Done this yourself, ‘ave you?”
Ratbag was outraged. Of course it wasn’t self-inflicted! Another pervert, another fucking pervert - and wasn’t it just Ratbag’s luck to keep running into these characters – a different fucking pervert had deliberately done it to him. Sometimes he’d used the rings in Ratbag’s stick to tie him down – other times - well. One way or the other it was always for control. Bastard had liked leading him around by those things. A piece of meat on a fucking leash.
The thought of being complicit in anything that other pervert had done made Ratbag’s blood boil. “What would I want to go and do that for?” he demanded. “You think anyone would – ever - want to do something like this to themelves?”
Glob-dug shrugged. His response was pragmatic. “Why don’t c’her just take them out, then.”
It wasn’t as if Ratbag hadn’t already thought of that and tried. It’d hurt him, but oh, how he’d tried. “Ah, but I’m waiting on getting,” he explained, “a set a’ miniature pliers of ‘xactly the right size. Gotta have the correct tools for the job, don’t yer? An’ those things - they’re not standard-issue. Means it's necessary to send off.”
“Do yer. Do yer really,” the other Orc said sceptically, bored with the topic already. In want of something better to do he went back to playing with Ratbag’s privates. Ratbag couldn’t have said why on earth he wanted to do it, but for some reason the other fella was obviously trying to get a rise out of him.
Way he was hauling Ratbag’s ‘bits’ about - no way that was happening!
Nothing did happen, so at length Glob-dug got bored with that as well, and moved on to something different. But instead of cutting his losses and leaving be, the cunting, fucking rapist only went and tried a different tack.
Ratbag yelped out in surprise and disgust as the rapist knelt down, cupped his hand round Ratbag’s buttock to shift him outwards from the post, then pushed two of his fingers straight up into Ratbag’s arsehole. They went in easier than they should’ve and he probed with them, rolling and stroking Ratbag insistently on his insides. Glob-dug didn’t know, but sometimes that was something that could make Ratbag -
A shiver of exquisite, shameful pleasure thrilled through him. It was not at all wanted, and yet it felt – it felt –
It felt fucking loathsome!
“You bastard!” Ratbag howled struggling frantically. “Stoppit! Gerroff me!”
The bigger Uruk, however, wouldn’t stop. He didn’t ‘gerroff’ as Ratbag had demanded. Pushing Ratbag back against his post he held him in place by his narrow hips until Ratbag, through his struggles, had tired himself out. Then he went back to his finger-fucking, vigorously pumping his thick digits in and out, and in and out of him.
They went through this rigmarole maybe two-three times, until Ratbag’s knob, reluctant as it was, was finally standing sort-of semi-erect.
At that point Glob-dug dug a length of rawhide string from out his pocket. Grinning at the exhausted Ratbag widely, he looped the cord twice round Ratbag’s ball-sack and yanked on it, to pull off the slack. He tied the ends off tight, twisted round the base of the other Orc’s approximate erection. Then he tucked the increasingly purple-hued mass of eye-wateringly swollen tissue back into Ratbag’ breeches, which he pulled back into position and belted securely round the smaller Uruk’s waist. As a parting shot he patted Ratbag, almost fondly there. The shock of the unexpected, agonizing sensation caused the smaller Uruk’s eyes to glaze over with unshed tears. His breath was stolen from his lungs and he was barely able to stutter out a faint wind-broken, wheezing shriek.
“That’ll give you something to think on, won’t it?” Glob-dug said, stepping back to admire his handiwork and smirking with self-satisfaction. “That’ll keep c’her good and hard for me. Oh, an’ don’t I ‘ave plans for you! Know what? I’ve some ‘special tools’ a’ my own hid in my kit that I’ve just been itchin’ to use. Why don’t c’her have a think about it ‘till I get back, Ratbag, ‘cos I’m dyin’ to try ‘em out on you.”
Now, maybe it’s ironic or something, but them’s the last words he ever says, actually, because that’s when –
One thing Ratbag might not have had a chance to mention is there’s this half-undead, kind of resurrected, Tark Ranger bloke he knows from before. Name of Talion. And the Ranger, Talion he’s called, he’s got this – Ratbag wouldn’t call it a habit, really. But sometimes – and it’s def’nitely been more than once – sometimes he shows up, just when things are looking their very blackest and then he –
Well then, sometimes he up and rescues Ratbag, doesn’t he?
Next thing Ratbag knew was that Glob-dug had fallen to his knees in front of him, with Talion’s half-broken sword blade sticking through his neck. The Ranger had stepped up quietly behind him and nearly chopped that pervert’s block off!
A hot arterial spray fountained up from Glob-dug’s partly-severed throat and rained down, spattering onto Ratbag’s head. It ran into his eyes and dripped down off his chin.
Ratbag could’ve cheered!
Bracing one leg against Glob-dug’s still-upstanding body, Ranger tugged his sword free from where it was now firmly embedded, in the bones of the dead Orc’s neck. Losing its balance point, the corpse of Glob-dug slumped down and sideways, out of Ratbag’s field of view. Now Talion was standing before him, looking, as ever, tall and handsome, silent and grave.
As Ratbag stared open-mouthed at the Ranger, his heart did this weird double-thump thing, very hard, high up in his chest. Ratbag found he couldn’t look away from him. His throat went dry.
“Orc,” the Ranger said, nodding.
“S’good to see yer….Ranger,” Ratbag acknowledged, by way of reply.
Talion went round the back of the post to cut Ratbag loose. “Orc,” he said easily, “now who was that poorly-favoured fellow? Who have you been getting on the wrong side of this time?”
A measure of how discombobulated Ratbag was feeling was that it was on the tip of his tongue to tell him, ‘Glob-dug the rapist,’ but he managed to stop himself, just on the cusp. “Him? He’s no-one,” he said. No need to worry yourself about him.”
This was far from being their first Ranger / rescue scenario. Ratbag felt a slight, fleeting rush of warmth – and it was a distinctly odd sensation – run through him as he realized that Talion was taking a moment to unfasten his legs, first. The first time he’d freed him Ratbag knew the Ranger been hard-pressed not to laugh out loud when he saw Ratbag, joints sore and locked in place from having been tied upright for – what? Must’ve been gettin’ on for two, stinkin’ days – fall down flat on his face. The Orc bore him no ill-will for finding humour in that, however. It was enough – more than any other had done, for Talion to have bothered saving Ratbag in the first place.
“Orc. Are you ready?” Talion said, hands warm on Ratbag's rope-bound wrists, and there it was again – that strange flush of emotion. Ratbag wondered what the right name for what you called it was. Gratitude perhaps. Affection - maybe? He couldn’t place it, but there was every chance it could be something like that.
“Yeah,” he nodded. And then, while Talion was still occupied, which meant Ratbag would get away this once with not having to make eye-contact with him, he asked the question that had been weighing heavy on his mind.
“Ranger. ‘Fore you got here. You didn’t – see nothing, did yer?”
“Why?” Talion’s tone was even. And if he did hesitate before replying, the pause was so slight as to be almost impossible to notice. “Should I have?”
Talion cut the ropes securing the Orc to his hook. Ratbag dropped down and caught himself, managing to stand upright, though as yet his legs remained unsteady.
“Nah,” he said quickly. “Course you shouldn’t’ve. That's 'cause there wasn’t anythink to see.”
TBC
The lovely Sauntervaguely has drawn some terrific artwork relating to this story, which you should go and have a look at immediately, here: