A/N – Just to warn you again, this is pretty dark.
This was borne partly of a desire to abuse the beautiful Frodo, frankly because it appeals to my kinks, but also because I feel that this helps to explain Frodo's PTSD and inability to recover from his journey. Therefore, I have tried to situate the fic within the original text; there are a few quotes lifted from Tolkien and paraphrasing of a scene. Basically, the most beautiful bits are entirely Tolkien, not me.
It was over, it was all over.
They had taken the ring.
Gandalf was dead, and Sam - dear Sam - would be wandering through Mordor looking for him. They would kill him. Even if Sam ever found Frodo, he would find no more than his dead body.
He knew what the orcs would do to him, and he was better off dead.
Though he had been drifting in and out of consciousness, he had seen the way their evil eyes had raked over his body as they tore off his clothes, barely glancing at the mithril Bilbo had given him as they looked greedily at their real prize.
Frodo had tried not to listen as they detailed what they would do with him later as they stood guard outside the door, but with his arms bound, he couldn't even cover his ears.
Oh, Sam, save your master, your Frodo, one more time.
Just to see Sam again...Frodo pushed the thought from his mind. He never wanted Sam in a place like this and he never wanted him to find out he had lost the ring. If we are all to die, it should be without Sam knowing I have failed him.
Over, it's all over.
He couldn't keep track of the days, or nights, kept only in the dark and relying on fickle consciousness. Every part of his body ached from lying on the cold stone floor, the ropes that bound him burning his wrists even though he tried not to move them.
An orc had come into the chamber and questioned him about the ring and about his friend, and another had stood there and watched, shifting himself through his dirty breeches as his beady eyes darted hungrily over Frodo's body. Frodo had seen it and felt sick, but the orc, having seen Frodo's eyes flicker away, had grabbed his crotch at him and moved closer, tugging at the strings of his breeches, teeth bared in a disturbing grin.
"Please...no," Frodo had gasped, tears wetting his dark lashes.
"Snaga," the other orc had reprimanded. "The master wants 'im for questioning. Says not to break him just yet." He had growled the sentence with a moist lick of his lips. Frodo shuddered.
After sizing up the other orc, Snaga had backed off, uttering some base, guttural words under his breath.
Since then Frodo had feared what would happen, waking from nightmares about the orcs' red eyes and wandering hands. It hadn't just been Snaga, but the other orcs who had torn off his clothes. Males of all races had always looked at him with lust, and those in the Tower of Cirith Ungol were no different.
The wooden door slammed against the stone walls as the orcs kicked it open.
One of them had brought in something that looked like a rack. They've come to torture me, Frodo realized with a spasm of fear. The largest orc picked Frodo up and threw him on top of it, so he lay on his front, his wrists tied beneath him.
"Turns out you ain't the hobbit the boss is looking for," the orc growled in his ear as he bent over him, "so now we gets to do what we wants with yer."
He jerked Frodo's arms above his head and held them fast with a single strong hand. With the other he reached around to Frodo's groin and positioned his rear so that it brushed against the orc's breeches-clad hardness. The orc thrust his hips forward, pressing his arousal against Frodo's supple behind with a groan.
"No," Frodo choked out, "please."
The other orcs, at least five, stood around, growling or laughing or something in between that Frodo couldn't process.
"Please…please," he begged, tears once again glistening at his wide blue eyes.
He squirmed, trying to free himself, but only succeeded in rubbing himself against the orc's arousal, eliciting another groan.
This was it. Sam, he thought.
Even with his eyes squeezed shut, he was aware of the orc reaching down to grasp himself, and Frodo felt something warm and hard, yet silky soft, dragged across a cheek and settled at his entrance.
"Please," he whispered, "please."
His first time wasn't going to be like this. No, no, no.
He felt the orc nudge at his entrance again, and with a grunt, the orc forced himself inside him. Frodo cried out in pain, humiliation, disgust. He was dead. It was over now. There was no coming back from this, as soon as he could, he would die.
But it was not over. The orc merely pulled himself out to the tip, and forced himself inside all over again. Frodo sobbed as he felt the orc's hardness filling him, his hips slamming into him hard enough to bruise. It seemed an eternity as the orc fucked him with long hard strokes, and Frodo willed himself somewhere else. If he could just go away inside until this agony was over.
And yet, with a pang of disgust that made him retch through his choking sobs, he realised he was hard, a purely physical reaction to the orc pounding into his prostrate.
"Please," he whimpered, not to the orcs now but to himself, to a higher power. Couldn't he suffer one less humiliation?
"Little halfling loves it," one of them gloated.
"Loves being fucked hard does 'e?" said the orc that was inside him.
The knowledge must have sent him over the edge, as with a few shorter, spasmodic thrusts, Frodo felt a warmth within him, and knew the orc had filled him with his hot seed, which lubricated the final few thrusts as the orc's length softened within him.
He felt the hot liquid run down his thighs as the orc finally pulled out. Knowing that the orc had marked him, left something of himself within him, made Frodo retch again.
It's over, it's over now, he told himself.
The orc released his wrists, and Frodo turned his head slightly to the side to attempt to breathe, before his head was slammed down again into the wood.
"My turn," growled an orc from behind him, and Frodo bit down on his lower lip as the orc fumbled to unlace his breeches. He forced himself inside Frodo quickly, the first orc's seed lubricating his entry. His hand tangled in Frodo's hair to keep his head down, though Frodo no longer had any fight left in him.
He slipped in and out more easily than the first, due to the first orc's slippery seed. Though the other had pounded him with powerful thrusts, this orc mounted him and thrusted like an animal. It hadn't been long before he pulled out and flipped Frodo onto his back before shoving himself in again.
Frodo turned his head to the right, squeezing his eyes shut, but the orc's fingers wrapped around his face, and turned his head back to him.
"Open your eyes," he commanded. "I likes to see 'em cry."
Frodo's tears had already washed tracks down his sooty face, but now they had dried up. As he lay there, his arousal lying against his stomach, watching a revolting orc slam himself inside him, Frodo was beyond tears.
Or so he thought, before the orc pulled out, and with a few jerks of his hand spilled his seed all over Frodo's face. He cried again then, salt tears mingling with the salty seed, and didn't stop as the next shoved himself inside.
They took him there over and over, and just as Frodo thought he was numb to their torture, they found new ways to toy with his body, one orc even forcing himself into Frodo's whimpering mouth as another took him from behind, skewering him like meat on a stick.
He lost count of how many orcs had been inside him, unknowing and uncaring whether dozens of orcs had fucked him or whether it was the same few over and over. He no longer cared about anything as he lay broken on the cold stones, sobbing as his body tried to heave up the contents of an empty stomach and the orcs' seed trickled down his legs.
He felt dirty, was dirty.
And the next day he no longer cared how many orcs took him as he lay on the ground, pulling his behind up so they could slide in their hard lengths.
They came one at a time over the next few days, as and when they wanted to use Frodo's body like a fuckable rag doll, rather than a group at the same time, which he realized had been to humiliate him as much as to help the orcs relieve tension.
Now they simply used him when they felt the urge, came within him and left him there.
Now I'm really not good enough for Sam, he thought randomly, as an orc moved inside him, sharply nailed fingers digging into his hip. He might have laughed, if his body still felt like his. But it belonged to the orcs now.
Dirty. Filthy. Used.
Those were the only thoughts Frodo had. And sometimes there would be Sam's smile and he wouldn't think about it because he was dirty now, dirty, disgusting and he wasn't worthy of thinking about Sam at all.
Disgusting.
And then Frodo had the first clear thought he had in a long time. Now.
He saw across the chamber that in Snaga's haste to take him earlier, he had dropped a pin with which to fasten a cloak. If Frodo could just get across the room and jam it into his neck or wrists…
He laughed silently, tears streaming down his cheeks, when he heard something beautiful.
Sam, my dear Sam.
It had worked. He must be dead. And his Sam had come for him and his heart was about to burst, but when he opened his eyes he was still here. Still in this dark chamber.
But he heard it again, Sam's voice singing, the sound of so many summers in Bag End. And before he knew what he was doing he was singing back.
Then Snaga was straddling him, and a whip was lashed down upon him. He shielded himself from an expected blow, but it never came. Instead there would footsteps all around him, and then there was Sam.
"Frodo! Mr. Frodo, my dear!"
Frodo dared not open his eyes, afraid to dispel this dream, the most beautiful he had ever had.
"It's Sam, I've come!"
And then Frodo was being held to Sam's chest. He opened his eyes.
'Am I still dreaming?' he muttered. 'But the other dreams were horrible.'
'You're not dreaming at all, Master,' said Sam. 'It's real. It's me. I've come.'
So he wasn't dead. Yet he couldn't return to Sam like this. Ruined.
His Sam had come all this way, slain orcs for him. Sam deserved better. If he ever found out what had happened to Frodo, it would kill him. The dear lad would blame himself. He would never forgive himself.
"I can hardly believe it," said Frodo, clutching him. "There was an orc with a whip, and then it turns into Sam! Then I wasn't dreaming after all when I heard that singing down below, and I tried to answer? Was it you?"
"It was indeed, Mr. Frodo. I'd given up hope, almost. I couldn't find you."
Taking a moment to bask in the feel of Sam's arms, Frodo made a decision. Sam could never know. Frodo would decide another time what to do, how to kill himself if need be, but for now he would make sure Sam was safe. The ring was gone, and Sam needed time to get somewhere safe, to warn his Gaffer in the Shire.
'Well, you have now, Sam, dear Sam,' said Frodo, and he lay back in Sam's gentle arms, closing his eyes, like a child at rest when night-fears are driven away by some loved voice or hand.
Sam kissed Frodo's forehead.
Sam would never know.
Frodo told him some story, the best he could come up with about orcs with knives and red eyes, and Sam accepted it readily, holding him all the while.
Yes, Sam would never know.
THE END