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A Dream of Moon- and Star-Light (The Hobbit, NC-17, interspecies)
Title: A Dream of Moon- and Star-Light
Fandom: The Hobbit movie verse (An Unexpected Journey, etc)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Bilbo/Isildur
Summary: Bilbo dreams of Isildur.
Content Advisory: Sex, dreams, that's about it.
All Thanks To: The brilliant anon who requested Elendil/Bilbo or Isildur/Bilbo with Isildur "not an ass".
Disclaimer: Middle-Earth is the Professor's, and the fullness thereof.
First two lines quoted from the Silmarillion
…recalling the tale of the Trees of Valinor; and Isildur said no word, but went out by night and did a deed for which he was afterwards renowned.
Thoughts of valiant majesty echoing through his mind, Bilbo laid the History of the Last Alliance on his chest and closed his eyes to better picture the Numenoreans. Elendil stood like a statue, towering and stern with steel-tinted hair and glinting eyes, but Isildur wore a gentle smile, waves of shining black hair framing his bright starlike eyes and the sparkling gem upon his brow, his powerful form clad in princely armor of blue and silver, his hand curved round a moonlike fruit of Nimloth the White Tree.
Bilbo enjoyed this noble mental image right up until he yawned so that his jaw almost unhinged. Smiling softly at himself, he set the book on his nightstand, for it had done its task, snuffed out the candles, and rolled over to fall asleep. His skin prickled with faint proddiness but his blood flowed slow and warm, so Bilbo decided against taking himself in hand; instead he let the cozy darkness blanket his eyelids as the image of the tall young king shone behind them, lighting the way into his dreams.
******
"And well met!" booms a deep lively voice in a strange rolling accent, and Bilbo looks up. And up, and up. Before him, fist on golden belt and eyes shining like silver stars, stands Isildur son of Elendil, fair face lit with a broad smile.
"Hullo?" Bilbo answers cautiously even as his feet bear him nearer, treading on soft billowy nothingness.
Said to be tall even for the overtall race of Men, Isildur towers like a sturdy young tree, extending an inviting hand. "Hello, my fine lad."
Well that makes Bilbo drop his reaching hand to square his shoulders, even though his eyes fall level with the hard-muscled bulge of Isildur's thigh. "I'm no one's lad," he says proudly, chin lifted, "I'm a hobbit grown."
"Indeed." Isildur's eyes twinkle though all around is shadowed. "To solid maturity, and yet…" Folding those pillar-like legs he sits, and he's still taller than Bilbo, but now at least not so neck-strainingly. "Yet your blood rushes hot sometimes, does it not?" Bilbo's hand settles onto Isildur's rather without his conscious permission, and when he glances down he sees how Isildur's palm extends all round his, how Isildur's fingers stroke halfway up his forearm. His bare forearm, where's his dressing-gown and nightshirt gone to?
Where's Isildur's armor and don't high kings wear smalls beneath? Isildur sits naked and warm as a summer's evening, his astounding chest adorned with an inverse four-point star of sleek dark hair. Folding that mighty hand round Bilbo's arm he tugs gently, a sweet unvoiced command, and Bilbo steps near and sits on a curve of muscled thigh, pressing his other hand to the hard segmented planes of Isildur's belly. "You are magnificent," he gasps, and his cheeks heat. Oh, that's not right, to have to blush even in a dream.
"And you are quite fair," Isildur returns, "In a strong and sturdy manner." Bilbo could almost feel mocked but Isildur clearly means no jest, touching his cheek with fingertips as gentle as they're broad. "Well met by moonlight indeed."
"But it was cloudy today," Bilbo gasps, for no good reason, as Isildur cups his head like a ball, scar-seamed palm cradling his cheek from temple to chin, long fingers arcing through his hair, as Isildur laughs and his teeth shine all the brighter against his shadow-dusted cheeks. Bilbo reaches up and feels a fine velvety prickle, can't resist stroking Isildur's chin until Isildur, laughing like a tween, catches Bilbo's fingers between his front teeth and laves them with a massive flexing tongue.
Bilbo would never have expected a mighty king of the last age to be so mischievous, nor to enjoy it so. His blood surges indeed within him, rushing in spate so his ears twitch and his skin tingles and his prick rears up. As if to reprove it with a look, Bilbo glances down, or at least begins to till Isildur's hand tips up his chin, till Isildur's moonlight-colored eyes flash as he leans in to kiss Bilbo encompassingly.
The warm stroking press of Isildur's wide mouth is fittingly immense, stirring Bilbo top to toes; he gasps over the dent of Isildur's upper lip and Isildur skims a pointed tonguetip up his chin and licks into his unwary mouth to nimbly their tongues, so lasciviously all Bilbo can do is squeak for shocked rousedness. Chuckling delight, Isildur pulls Bilbo up against him, ravishing his mouth, pressing him to a mighty expanse of chest, add Bilbo can but moan shamelessly, hands clutching and roaming over resilient skin and dense flesh. Finding himself saucily curling his tongue along Isildur's, Bilbo startles at his own wantonness, and Isildur's laugh tingles his lips as he lets Bilbo down into his lap.
Which has grown far lumpier. Bilbo's thigh slides along a blunt knob of hard flesh; daring another glance he gasps at the sight of his knee draped round a truly massive prick, hot and red and up-curved, and the rich sharp scent of rousedness fills his nose and tingles his throat. "That's the size of my forearm!" Bilbo cries, unwinding his leg, and Isildur shudders and booms with breathy laughter.
"You flatter me." Taking gentle hold of his wrist, Isildur settles Bilbo's hand upon that rampant prick, and as his fingers spread over tender skin and deep heat, Bilbo feels an answering hot surge within him despite its alarming hugeness. He sets both hands to the task and his fingertips barely meet, he bends to lick a wet stripe across the spongy head and considers the remote possibility of fitting it to his mouth.
"I am awed," Bilbo murmurs against Isildur's prickhead to feel him quiver and rumble in pleasure, and licks him again, savoring salty musk. He even tastes a little different than a hobbit lad, not so much rounded-sweet as spicy-sharp, and he palms Bilbo's head as Bilbo lays on several sucking kisses and flicks his tongue along the slit. Isildur jerks so fiercely Bilbo's head fairly spins with the rush of power, so he does it again before asking, "How might we accomplish this?"
Isildur tips his head back again to look into his eyes. "I would try a different fit, if I may," he asks, and Bilbo nods before he can properly think; then he finds himself upended, Isildur's hands on his sides spanning armpit to waist as Isildur lays him down on fleecy mist. Stroking Bilbo's sides with those great hands, up and down and lower on each downstroke, Isildur smiles dazzlingly and leans in for another overwhelming kiss, following it by sucking hot aching kisses down Bilbo's throat and chest as Bilbo helplessly tangles his fingers in thick silky waves and moans into the soft air around them, too roused for words.
And then Isildur cradles his arse in both hands and lifts him to his mouth, engulfing him to the root in twining wet heat, and Bilbo cries out, pleasure snapping his spine taut. "Oh great king," Bilbo hears himself whimper, and Isildur hums buzzingly round him, pulls back one hand and presses a blunt finger to him, broad as a hobbit's prick as it sinks into him. It's like being tupped and sucked at once, twin glories of being filled and laved, and Bilbo writhes and moans most tweenishly beneath the double tending, all decorum melted and drained away in all this heat. "Oh mighty and Faithful, beloved of the Moon…" His babbling echoes in his ears, Isildur puffs hot as a dragon against his belly and sucks all the tighter, and Bilbo thrashes up to a peak like a cascade of fireworks, explosion upon coruscating explosion crackling through his flesh and fizzing through his blood until they die away to shudders and gasps as he slumps, utterly unstrung. After some shiver-inducing swipes of tongue Isildur lets Bilbo's prick from his mouth but presses the side of his face to Bilbo's belly, shuddering in his turn as he pants over Bilbo's navel, and Bilbo strokes his hair with unsteady fingers and feels every tremble as Isildur brings himself off, pillowed on Bilbo's belly, lashes and lips fluttering over Bilbo's skin.
For some time they lie there together, just breathing, until at length Isildur shifts, reaches, and ruffles Bilbo's foot-curls exactly as he might his hair. Bilbo twitches and huffs, still filled by Isildur's long finger; Isildur tugs it free, knuckle riding over the sensitive bump within, and chuckles as Bilbo shivers from that center outwards. "Oh, I beg your pardon," Bilbo starts, propping himself on his elbows, meaning to apologize for letting Isildur bring himself off, until Isildur quiets him with a fond, sparkling-eyed glance and a soft lush kiss.
"We have shared pleasure, all its forms are lovely." Isildur strokes Bilbo's hair and face, and his hands shouldn't be so dry, but then it's a dream. "As are you, my halfling successor." Bilbo would almost object, but some depth to Isildur's glittering gaze stops him. "You and your heir between you will accomplish what I could not. We are well met by dream light, my fair hobbit."
With those words, he kisses Bilbo, closed-lipped and gently, one last time.
******
Bilbo woke slowly, sluggishly, his lips tingling with the ghost of a kiss, his face and arm cooled by scented spring breezes. What a dream, he thought as he clambered to wakefulness, opening his eyes to the Sun already high in the sky, as he shifted his legs and found himself sticky like a lad. "Oh, botheration!" he muttered as he sat up and threw the covers back, the dream's pleasure giving way to the annoyance of mess and oversleeping and general irregularity. Irritated with himself, Bilbo stripped off the soiled nightshirt to swipe at the worst of the mess, shivering in the perfumed but cool morning air. What a dream indeed, brought about by reading too late and going too long between wanks and carelessly leaving the window open at night for the unsettling wildness of springtime to soak into his brain.
At length Bilbo dragged himself from bed, bathed briskly and dressed carefully, feeling calm infuse him with every rustle of cloth and properly done-up button. It was too late for first breakfast, but Bilbo had a good solid second breakfast, did his washing-up, and went outside for a good settling smoke in his lovely garden. He settled on his bench like always and puffed methodically as always, closing his eyes to better feel the warm sunshine.
And then the smoke twisted round to tingle his nose, and when he looked up a tall grey-cloaked wizard stood at his garden gate.
Fandom: The Hobbit movie verse (An Unexpected Journey, etc)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Bilbo/Isildur
Summary: Bilbo dreams of Isildur.
Content Advisory: Sex, dreams, that's about it.
All Thanks To: The brilliant anon who requested Elendil/Bilbo or Isildur/Bilbo with Isildur "not an ass".
Disclaimer: Middle-Earth is the Professor's, and the fullness thereof.
First two lines quoted from the Silmarillion
…recalling the tale of the Trees of Valinor; and Isildur said no word, but went out by night and did a deed for which he was afterwards renowned.
Thoughts of valiant majesty echoing through his mind, Bilbo laid the History of the Last Alliance on his chest and closed his eyes to better picture the Numenoreans. Elendil stood like a statue, towering and stern with steel-tinted hair and glinting eyes, but Isildur wore a gentle smile, waves of shining black hair framing his bright starlike eyes and the sparkling gem upon his brow, his powerful form clad in princely armor of blue and silver, his hand curved round a moonlike fruit of Nimloth the White Tree.
Bilbo enjoyed this noble mental image right up until he yawned so that his jaw almost unhinged. Smiling softly at himself, he set the book on his nightstand, for it had done its task, snuffed out the candles, and rolled over to fall asleep. His skin prickled with faint proddiness but his blood flowed slow and warm, so Bilbo decided against taking himself in hand; instead he let the cozy darkness blanket his eyelids as the image of the tall young king shone behind them, lighting the way into his dreams.
"And well met!" booms a deep lively voice in a strange rolling accent, and Bilbo looks up. And up, and up. Before him, fist on golden belt and eyes shining like silver stars, stands Isildur son of Elendil, fair face lit with a broad smile.
"Hullo?" Bilbo answers cautiously even as his feet bear him nearer, treading on soft billowy nothingness.
Said to be tall even for the overtall race of Men, Isildur towers like a sturdy young tree, extending an inviting hand. "Hello, my fine lad."
Well that makes Bilbo drop his reaching hand to square his shoulders, even though his eyes fall level with the hard-muscled bulge of Isildur's thigh. "I'm no one's lad," he says proudly, chin lifted, "I'm a hobbit grown."
"Indeed." Isildur's eyes twinkle though all around is shadowed. "To solid maturity, and yet…" Folding those pillar-like legs he sits, and he's still taller than Bilbo, but now at least not so neck-strainingly. "Yet your blood rushes hot sometimes, does it not?" Bilbo's hand settles onto Isildur's rather without his conscious permission, and when he glances down he sees how Isildur's palm extends all round his, how Isildur's fingers stroke halfway up his forearm. His bare forearm, where's his dressing-gown and nightshirt gone to?
Where's Isildur's armor and don't high kings wear smalls beneath? Isildur sits naked and warm as a summer's evening, his astounding chest adorned with an inverse four-point star of sleek dark hair. Folding that mighty hand round Bilbo's arm he tugs gently, a sweet unvoiced command, and Bilbo steps near and sits on a curve of muscled thigh, pressing his other hand to the hard segmented planes of Isildur's belly. "You are magnificent," he gasps, and his cheeks heat. Oh, that's not right, to have to blush even in a dream.
"And you are quite fair," Isildur returns, "In a strong and sturdy manner." Bilbo could almost feel mocked but Isildur clearly means no jest, touching his cheek with fingertips as gentle as they're broad. "Well met by moonlight indeed."
"But it was cloudy today," Bilbo gasps, for no good reason, as Isildur cups his head like a ball, scar-seamed palm cradling his cheek from temple to chin, long fingers arcing through his hair, as Isildur laughs and his teeth shine all the brighter against his shadow-dusted cheeks. Bilbo reaches up and feels a fine velvety prickle, can't resist stroking Isildur's chin until Isildur, laughing like a tween, catches Bilbo's fingers between his front teeth and laves them with a massive flexing tongue.
Bilbo would never have expected a mighty king of the last age to be so mischievous, nor to enjoy it so. His blood surges indeed within him, rushing in spate so his ears twitch and his skin tingles and his prick rears up. As if to reprove it with a look, Bilbo glances down, or at least begins to till Isildur's hand tips up his chin, till Isildur's moonlight-colored eyes flash as he leans in to kiss Bilbo encompassingly.
The warm stroking press of Isildur's wide mouth is fittingly immense, stirring Bilbo top to toes; he gasps over the dent of Isildur's upper lip and Isildur skims a pointed tonguetip up his chin and licks into his unwary mouth to nimbly their tongues, so lasciviously all Bilbo can do is squeak for shocked rousedness. Chuckling delight, Isildur pulls Bilbo up against him, ravishing his mouth, pressing him to a mighty expanse of chest, add Bilbo can but moan shamelessly, hands clutching and roaming over resilient skin and dense flesh. Finding himself saucily curling his tongue along Isildur's, Bilbo startles at his own wantonness, and Isildur's laugh tingles his lips as he lets Bilbo down into his lap.
Which has grown far lumpier. Bilbo's thigh slides along a blunt knob of hard flesh; daring another glance he gasps at the sight of his knee draped round a truly massive prick, hot and red and up-curved, and the rich sharp scent of rousedness fills his nose and tingles his throat. "That's the size of my forearm!" Bilbo cries, unwinding his leg, and Isildur shudders and booms with breathy laughter.
"You flatter me." Taking gentle hold of his wrist, Isildur settles Bilbo's hand upon that rampant prick, and as his fingers spread over tender skin and deep heat, Bilbo feels an answering hot surge within him despite its alarming hugeness. He sets both hands to the task and his fingertips barely meet, he bends to lick a wet stripe across the spongy head and considers the remote possibility of fitting it to his mouth.
"I am awed," Bilbo murmurs against Isildur's prickhead to feel him quiver and rumble in pleasure, and licks him again, savoring salty musk. He even tastes a little different than a hobbit lad, not so much rounded-sweet as spicy-sharp, and he palms Bilbo's head as Bilbo lays on several sucking kisses and flicks his tongue along the slit. Isildur jerks so fiercely Bilbo's head fairly spins with the rush of power, so he does it again before asking, "How might we accomplish this?"
Isildur tips his head back again to look into his eyes. "I would try a different fit, if I may," he asks, and Bilbo nods before he can properly think; then he finds himself upended, Isildur's hands on his sides spanning armpit to waist as Isildur lays him down on fleecy mist. Stroking Bilbo's sides with those great hands, up and down and lower on each downstroke, Isildur smiles dazzlingly and leans in for another overwhelming kiss, following it by sucking hot aching kisses down Bilbo's throat and chest as Bilbo helplessly tangles his fingers in thick silky waves and moans into the soft air around them, too roused for words.
And then Isildur cradles his arse in both hands and lifts him to his mouth, engulfing him to the root in twining wet heat, and Bilbo cries out, pleasure snapping his spine taut. "Oh great king," Bilbo hears himself whimper, and Isildur hums buzzingly round him, pulls back one hand and presses a blunt finger to him, broad as a hobbit's prick as it sinks into him. It's like being tupped and sucked at once, twin glories of being filled and laved, and Bilbo writhes and moans most tweenishly beneath the double tending, all decorum melted and drained away in all this heat. "Oh mighty and Faithful, beloved of the Moon…" His babbling echoes in his ears, Isildur puffs hot as a dragon against his belly and sucks all the tighter, and Bilbo thrashes up to a peak like a cascade of fireworks, explosion upon coruscating explosion crackling through his flesh and fizzing through his blood until they die away to shudders and gasps as he slumps, utterly unstrung. After some shiver-inducing swipes of tongue Isildur lets Bilbo's prick from his mouth but presses the side of his face to Bilbo's belly, shuddering in his turn as he pants over Bilbo's navel, and Bilbo strokes his hair with unsteady fingers and feels every tremble as Isildur brings himself off, pillowed on Bilbo's belly, lashes and lips fluttering over Bilbo's skin.
For some time they lie there together, just breathing, until at length Isildur shifts, reaches, and ruffles Bilbo's foot-curls exactly as he might his hair. Bilbo twitches and huffs, still filled by Isildur's long finger; Isildur tugs it free, knuckle riding over the sensitive bump within, and chuckles as Bilbo shivers from that center outwards. "Oh, I beg your pardon," Bilbo starts, propping himself on his elbows, meaning to apologize for letting Isildur bring himself off, until Isildur quiets him with a fond, sparkling-eyed glance and a soft lush kiss.
"We have shared pleasure, all its forms are lovely." Isildur strokes Bilbo's hair and face, and his hands shouldn't be so dry, but then it's a dream. "As are you, my halfling successor." Bilbo would almost object, but some depth to Isildur's glittering gaze stops him. "You and your heir between you will accomplish what I could not. We are well met by dream light, my fair hobbit."
With those words, he kisses Bilbo, closed-lipped and gently, one last time.
Bilbo woke slowly, sluggishly, his lips tingling with the ghost of a kiss, his face and arm cooled by scented spring breezes. What a dream, he thought as he clambered to wakefulness, opening his eyes to the Sun already high in the sky, as he shifted his legs and found himself sticky like a lad. "Oh, botheration!" he muttered as he sat up and threw the covers back, the dream's pleasure giving way to the annoyance of mess and oversleeping and general irregularity. Irritated with himself, Bilbo stripped off the soiled nightshirt to swipe at the worst of the mess, shivering in the perfumed but cool morning air. What a dream indeed, brought about by reading too late and going too long between wanks and carelessly leaving the window open at night for the unsettling wildness of springtime to soak into his brain.
At length Bilbo dragged himself from bed, bathed briskly and dressed carefully, feeling calm infuse him with every rustle of cloth and properly done-up button. It was too late for first breakfast, but Bilbo had a good solid second breakfast, did his washing-up, and went outside for a good settling smoke in his lovely garden. He settled on his bench like always and puffed methodically as always, closing his eyes to better feel the warm sunshine.
And then the smoke twisted round to tingle his nose, and when he looked up a tall grey-cloaked wizard stood at his garden gate.
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