Name of Story: (Not Quite) Prince Charming
Rating (If Applicable): M/NC-17
Description (Authors): The problem, Bilbo would later tell Gandalf in aggrieved irritation, was not so much the unannounced visitors, oh no, but the fact that due to the lateness of the hour and sheer merciless fate, it came to be that at the respectable age of forty, Bilbo was being introduced to a real, live king while wearing striped pyjamas and fluffy slippers.
As some of you may know, I have been thoroughly involved with the hobbit fandom as of late, I just can’t get enough. Besides crossovers I am obsessed with Thorin/Bilbo fics whether Bilbo be a male or female I honestly don’t care… and I had run out of fics to read. I didn’t take to the modern world AU…
THEN I stumbled along this masterpiece. A mix between the modern world and Tolkien. I fell in love from the first sentence to the last and by god did it send me into a fit when it ended. Everything was written well and sent me on a rollercoaster ride of emotions while having to remind myself this wasn’t a scifi movie or book but actual fanfiction!
Viewfinders, high-tech AI’s and freaking phaser axes! Everything a gal like me could want in a story of the modern world!
I highly suggest it, give it a go and share the love!
The problem, Bilbo would later tell Gandalf in aggrieved irritation, was not so much the unannounced visitors, oh no, but the fact that due to the lateness of the hour and sheer merciless fate, it came to be that at the respectable age of forty, Bilbo was being introduced to a real, live king while wearing striped pyjamas and fluffy slippers.
Granted, in the four decades of his life to date Bilbo was no stranger to abject humiliation by any means, if only because he had always been vertically challenged and had been forced to go through the cruel gauntlet that was state school, but he was fairly sure that where the British were concerned, this particular episode was quite possibly, as it were, forging new horizons in the wide sea of utter mortification.
“He doesn’t mind,” Gandalf arched his whiskery gray eyebrows with an expression of innocent surprise. He had trailed behind Bilbo to the bedroom, leaning against the doorway while Bilbo hastily buttoned up his best shirt. “After all, the hour is late, and I did not call ahead to notify you that we were coming.”
“Yes, why didn’t you call ahead?” Bilbo hissed, “I could have appreciated a text, even, maybe along the lines of ‘Dear William Robert Baggins, I will in an hour or so be bringing along some scions of East European royalty, so please ensure that the kettle is on and you are appropriately dressed’?”
“I never text,” Gandalf drawled, and held up two long-fingered, bony hands in supplication when Bilbo bristled and briefly considered the ambit of justifiable homicide. “This is a rather unusual situation, old friend, and we’ve had to go to some great lengths to come to your apartment without being followed. In the circumstances, propriety is rather something of an intellectual exercise, isn’t it?”
Bilbo exhaled explosively, as he threaded through his cufflinks. “I suppose… oh, well, then, um,” he muttered, as he cleared his throat, “I think I’ve seen the pictures after the… but they really are royalty?”