A/N: Well, sorry this took me so long . . . Anyway, all of Eragon's slashy reactions in the seen-those little one/two liners-were written by or with the help of a roleplaying partner on proboards. Special thanks . . . My slash comes out better if I have an actual victim . ..lol. Anyhow, since school's restarted updates may be slow. But, here, for your enjoyment, is the slashy dream I promised you guys.
Eragon lay asleep, back in his old bed, a bed destroyed so long ago. He only questioned it briefly, for his head felt so strange. He opened one eye, and saw the sun through the window, the first light of daybreak evident in a twisted splash of pastel. He struggled to sit up, and looked to his left . . . He heard movement in the hall.
The door opened slowly, the gentle creak promising something good. Eragon raised his head, his eyes seeking for enough light to make out the entering figure. He craned his neck . . .
"Surprised to see me, little brother?" Murtagh whispered, and slipped in through the door. He shut it almost silently and turned to him. He wasn't wearing much . . . Only bottoms, and those were undone at the waist. Before Murtagh turned, Eragon saw the little line in the center of that slight curve. He could only stare as Murtagh sat on the bed beside him. And as Eragon sat up, blinking sleepily, he noticed this was not a bed, but rather a bench . . .his old room was gone, to be replaced by a snow-covered scene, great clouds of white mounded upon the ground. The stony bench was throbbing with cold beneath his legs, and the wind bit at them every few seconds. He shivered. "Wh-why are we here?" He looked down at an old book in his hands, the characters of it unfamiliar, and set it to one side.
Murtagh grabbed his shoulder, leaned in close to him, his warmth unmistakable in the frosty weather, and whispered with a dark smile, "Because I'm a controlling bastard . . ."
"Oh, no!" Eragon protested, and blushed, looking down. "Of course you're not, Murtagh . . . You've never been anything but-"
"Oh?" Murtagh said archly. He looked back at Eragon. "You make one mistake by saying I'm not a controlling bastard . " The tinest of grins tugged at the corners of his mouth. Without warning, he put his hands on the younger boy's shoulders and shoved him roughly across the bench, knocking the long-forgotten book to the ground with an indelicate thwump!, and straddled the bench, leaning forward over Eragon. "And another error in assuming that's a fault . . " Murtagh gripped the edges of the bench, just above Eragon's shoulders.
Eragon stared up at him, into those sparkling blue orbs, feeling the strength of this connection, almost believing he could know Murtagh's midn. "Well then." Eragon said, a small grin escaping. "I guess you're going to have to prove me wrong."
Murtagh smiled, a smug affair that belied the little ball of warmth the situation actually gave him. He lowered himself to the bench so that he was seated, the crooks of his knees looped over the tops of Eragon's legs. Murtagh grabbed at the waistband of Eragon's pants, his agile fingers almost flicking the button loose, then he moved his legs so that he could lean forward, his hand lingering there only briefly before he ran it up the rippled terrain of Eragon's abdomen, over the rough flow of his ribcage. He finally found Eragon's shoulder again, maintaining the slightest pressure as his leaned in, his lips seeking Eragon's to finish a kiss that had been on hold for an eternity..
Eragon moaned, leaning back into the kiss, yearning for more.
Murtagh thrust back harder against Eragon's push, reasserting his point with the roughness of the kiss. He forced Eragon's lips open further, and slid his hand up from the shoulder underneath the neck, controlling the contact from within, forward, behind. Murtagh's other hand, which had been supporting him, returned to the earlier-abandoned region of Eragon's hips; Murtagh gripped Eragon's ass and then his hand sought the frontal region, staying almost cruelly on the outside of Eragon's clothes while he worked the dragonrider's arousal, the fabric of Eragon's pants soon enough pulled tight by his efforts. Eragon moaned deeper into Murtagh. Leaning down, he took off Murtagh's pants with his teeth, and his underwear soon after. he moaned between gasped, "Take me."
Murtagh gritted his teeth and almost growled at him. He tossed his discarded clothing onto a heaping snowbank, creating a little nest in the snow. He stared for one eager second at the other boy before he once again gripped him, this time close to himself, and wrestled him down to the ground, Murtagh's bare knees grazing the stray snow along the edges of this makeshift blanket. Despite the icy chill, Murtagh was fully hard, and the combined heat of their blood-flushed bodies created a rising humidity within the pocket of the snow. He pushed Eragon's head down and leaned over to whisper roughly in his ear, "Controlling bastared doesn't even begin to describe this . . ." before giving Eragon a number of rough thrusts that should well have split him open . . .
Eragon groaned and screamed Murtagh's name. "Harder." He said as loud as he could through gritted teeth. He rocked his hips in line with Murtagh's thrusts. "Please" he begged. "HARDER!"
Murtagh, who seemed no stranger to a good fuck in an inopportune location, growled, "Hush," though he knew that was no more possible than it suddenly becoming summer-although, within their little pocket, the temperature was positively tropical. He rested his weight on his right hand and brought his left underneath Eragon, caressing him with quick and measured stokes while he continued pumping, then running his hand down the shaft to that sensitive joining at the base, working it in harmonic rhythm with the greater movement of his hips, the pounding accelerating as Murtagh approached his own end. He restrained his motions, ensuring that Eragon would climax with him.
Eragon screamed lowly as Murtagh's essence filled him. . "y-es" he muttered, smiling at Murtagh. He collapsed onto the crumpled clothing, his arm trailing into the snow, and pulled Murtagh back on top of him. He kissed him, his heart pounding, the warm spasm continuing with him, and lay there panting.
Murtagh rolled onto his side, his arm stretched lazily across Eragon's chest. "I love . . . Wake up, Eragon."
"What?" Eragon protested in confusion. "Murtagh-what do you-"
Murtagh closed his eyes and whispered roughly. "Wake up."
Eragon rolled over to his, opening his eyes . . . And finding himself back upon the blanket, the quiet campsite around him flush with the pastel twinges of dawn's first efforts. He brushed his hair back, finding it dampened with sweat . . . .his skin had a fire that belied the morning chill . . . And, yes, as he looked down, it was unfortunately evident that his dreams had been too intense. Eragon, red-cheeked, scrambled to his feet and looked about, heading for the edge of the river to wash up.