#bilbp

There was something so seductively smouldering in his gaze and voice that the Hobbit promptly felt his ears and cheeks warm up treacherously.

Bilbo had yet to see Thorin sit on his actual throne—he’d been recovering from his grievous injuries until recently, and the restoration and repair crews had not cleared the throne room thus far—but he couldn’t imagine that his beloved could have cut a more alluringly impressive figure on that ancestral seat of power than he did behind the massive oaken desk.

When Thorin braced his broad hands against the littered papers and drew himself up carefully, his future consort felt his knees turn to jelly.

“Or did you need something else from me?” the dwarf asked, his voice heavy with unmistakable mischief. “Why don’t you come here and assist me?”

Bilbo hesitated, prompting a gentle reminder that this was an order from his king rather than a polite invitation.

In the Shire, nobody would have dared speak to Bilbo in that tone, and the titillating irreverence only stoked the fire, spreading from his soft belly to his quivering legs.

“Is that so?” he gasped even as his feet started moving towards the throne of wisdom and wood he’d so admired only a moment prior.

“I know you’re not partial to this chamber,” Thorin hummed as he caught Bilbo by the wrist and tugged him behind the desk resolutely. “However, I think I know a way to reconcile you with it.”

“As your obedient and devoted subject,” Bilbo teased, letting himself be crowded against the solid slab of old oak behind him, “I must insist that you don’t overexert yourself, my liege.”

Chuckling softly, Thorin swept aside the letters he’d been working on and waved an inviting hand at the free space.

“Another order?” Bilbo grinned but hopped onto the tabletop willingly enough.

When Thorin’s lips descended upon his impish face with all the authority of a true-born leader and his hands spread Bilbo’s thighs wide enough to step into the gap, the mouthy adventurer soon gave up on jesting and jeering.

Often, Bilbo reminded his better half that paperwork and diplomatic relationships were as important as fearless warfare and unshakeable loyalty, and so he truly felt as if he was being spread out and undressed leisurely on a throne rather than just an ancient escritoire.

He heard the discreet scratching of a drawer being opened, and then Thorin’s thick, steady fingers were working him open with something Bilbo could only hope was lube and not age-old ink.

“Careful,” he warned again as Thorin fumbled with the countless clasps and fastenings of his heavy garments before lining himself up against his lover’s welcomingly warm body.

“Would you prefer I sit in my chair?” Thorin whispered as he lifted Bilbo’s legs onto his shoulders and pushed into him steadily, hitting every sweet spot just right.

“Stubborn dwarf,” Bilbo cursed and lost himself in this wonderful, royal homecoming.

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