It's Fregar now, for Ashglob cannot say his proper name. "Dunno why you want them so long," Ashglob said when he heard it. "And another on top? I dunno…" Without families of their own, Orcs do not understand the concept of surnames.
They do not entirely understand beds either. Ashglob's black nails snag on the sheets and clean white counterpane. Fregar stretches in the patch of sunlight at the far end of the bed: he feels the goblin's eyes watching him, feline-keen and interested, but Ashglob is more doggish with his large cocked ears, his thousand points of awkwardness.
"Come here?" he asks, uncertain, eager. Not someone to be frightened of. Fregar thinks of staying put, but he will not forget what Ashglob is, or Ashglob may remember. And Fregar has family.
Strong crooked hands on his body, rough swart skin on his skin,
("I like how soft you are")
It is not true to say that Fregar lets it happen, for he takes some part in it as well.
After, shy as any hobbit lad a-wooing, Ashglob offers him a basket of red fruits. Pilfered, Fregar knows, and is oddly touched by how much the goblin wants to please.