Karl dreams Éomer (R)

[horseboykarl]

I fell asleep early, but then woke in the dead of the night. I went to the window, staring out at the peaceful woods, absently tightening the string on my pants. Must be losing weight, they had slid down my hips. The moon was waxing and the night was clear, not as warm as mid-summer, but getting there. Any other time, I would have taken Ire and Smokey and gone out into the night, just to be a part of its secrets.

But the bandage around my ribs was starting to itch and with a regretful sigh, I turned back to bed. Just a few more days and this was coming off and I was going to get back into my life.

I stared at the moon from my bed until my eyes grew heavy.

When I woke again, I wasn’t alone and then I thought I was still dreaming. He is there in all his golden glory. Like me, he is wearing only pants, some sort of leather legging thing. His hair is loose, not pulled back like it is when he is fighting. His eyes are a lighter hazel than mine, more on the green end, and they are staring at me.

Urban, you are losing it.

Then he frowns and lightly touches my bandaged ribs. “How are you injured?”

I am not having this conversation with my imaginary . . . not friend. So I close my eyes and try to sink back into deeper sleep, willing this dream to end.

But his fingers drift up to my face and when I open my eyes, he’s still there. Shit. Why am I haunted by this jerk?

“I don’t believe in you,” I inform him, just so we are clear on where I stand.

He looks amused at that and I grit my teeth. Arrogant bastard.

“Why do you fight me so? The others accept their shifts and even benefit from the strength we bring them.”

But I remember dinner with Bernard and the agony his shift has caused him and I jerk away from his fingers. “That’s not true and you know it!” I hiss.

A shadow crosses his face and I wonder if he knows what I’m thinking, and I remember that he had loved his uncle as his own father. No! I am not going to feel empathy for the son of a bitch. Plus, of course he knows my thoughts because he is me, he doesn’t exist.

His amusement comes back and he wraps an arm around me, pulling me closer. “I could fight for you, if you would only let me,” he whispers. “Next time you are assaulted, just call me and I’ll be there.”

My unruly mind suddenly remembers Aunt June constantly singing that old song when she was doing her chores. “You got a friend.” James Taylor, is it? Focus, Urban.

“I don’t plan on getting into any more fights, so I won’t be needing you.” I try to squirm away from him, but he is stronger than I am. Fucker.

“But when Morgoth assails you, I will not allow him to harm you.”

“I don’t believe in him, either!” My mind is really unhinged if I can’t escape from the embrace of a dream.

“Then how do you explain me, and the other shifts? And the things that have happened?”

“I think the whole cast of the Lord of the Rings has collectively gone insane. That is easier to swallow than some dimension-crossing big, bad god. There is no such thing as true evil, it’s just an excuse we humans use for the horrible things we do.”

He settles me against his chest. Dammit, why does my mind want to play this particular trick on me?

I continue, “As for you, I probably have some sort of psychological sickness where I go into a, what is it? A fugue state where another part of my personality takes over.”

He looks puzzled at this. “But we do not look alike. Ask your friend, the Elf-man, Hugo. He has seen me.”

“I told you, we’ve all gone crazy, so he’s just part of it.”

He laughs, a rumbling chuckle against my ear which sends chills down my spine. “Such a passionate fighter. I can see why they picked you to represent me in those movies. Your spirit is like my own.”

OK, I know actors have a certain extra amount of narcissism than other people do, or we wouldn’t choose this profession, but this is ridiculous. My own subconscious is giving me compliments.

“If I am just a part of you, why do you hate me so? “

“Because Karl is real and Éomer is not and when Éomer takes over, Karl has no control over what happens.” Shit, I’m arguing with myself now in the third person.

“Ah, I see.”

I really don’t like the look in his eyes. It is knowing and assessing and . . .

Mother fucker. He slides a leg between mine and rolls us over so he is partially resting on me.

“Do you never bottom?” he asks, running his teeth along my neck.

“No, I don’t!” I flinch away.

“You should try it, I’m told it is quite . . . liberating, the loss of control.” He runs a warm palm along the edge of my bandages.

He’s told? Of course, the arrogant bastard doesn’t bottom either.

I refuse to be seduced by a figment of my imagination, which is currently grinding a quite . . . uh, . . . large erection into me. I can’t help it, much as I hate him, he is a gorgeous man, and I arch into him, an involuntary moan escaping my lips.

His mouth hovers over mine, our breath mingling.

“If I don’t exist, why is your body responding to mine like this?” He runs a hand down my chest, provoking another unthinking movement from me.

I remember something I read or heard. “Because the brain is the most powerful sex organ of all. My mind is so fucking warped it’s conjured you for a fantasy.”

His lips close over mine, pulling me into a drugging kiss, making me dizzy and I’m on the verge of giving it all up to him, when the dizziness is complete and blackness wells over me.

Panicked, I shake myself free of the darkness and wake up alone in my bed. My dick is painfully hard and my body is buzzing, begging for release. I’m panting and sweaty, the scent of my sexual musk is on the air.

I refuse to give in to the sensations, but they will not go away and my cock is rock hard and getting sore. Shit.

Finally, shamefully, I put a hand to myself and bring myself to the best orgasm I ever had flying solo. And I wasn’t thinking about blonde barbarian bastards. Nope, not at all.