#I have a trouble focusing on reading currently but I should read more hobbit stories to be able to give recommendations

[lonicera-edulis]

9 and 22 [Thorin or Bilbo] thank u!

9. "Write a recommendation of someone else's fic you enjoyed!" - Oh, I saved some that I was able to pick from 2012-2016 on AO3. I have no good memory and need to take a quick look what I saved for a moment... Ok, I like Twelve Months and Fifty Years (Sansûkh: The Appendices) by determamfidd focusing on Thorin and his brother in afterlife.

22. "Give us a headcanon for [character]" - I still think that Bilbo, who can mesmerize kids with an interesting story, is not able to keep up with baby raising. But he is good with taking a teen (tween) under his wing (like it happened with Frodo).

I am sorry if these answers weren't good enough, I usually go "brain empty" when I am asked questions of this sort.

[morgana-greenleaf]

Tower of Tomorrow - Chapter 2

Tower of Tomorrow Masterlist

One year after TWS, Sam and Steve finally track Bucky down and bring him back to Avengers Tower.

Of course, there's still lots of HYDRA bases to be taken down, and Bucky finds himself actually enjoying the Avengers' company, and making friends.

Fury cleared Bucky to access the rest of the tower late the next morning, and the moment he stepped out of the lift he was accosted by Tony, holding a tablet that was projecting a hologram.

“So, I was thinking, since you’re stuck in the tower for a while, you’d need your own floor. There’s an empty one sandwiched in between Steve and Clint that should be fine. And it’s already got the basics – bedroom, bathroom, living room, plus a kitchen and laundry, although JARVIS can order you takeaway if you like, or you can use communal kitchen, that’s what most of us do, but it’s there if you like. And there’s a chute you can put your laundry and it’ll be back clean and dry within twenty-four hours, although you can do it yourself if you like. But that’s not what I’m here about, I need to know if you’d like anything special put in. Bruce wanted it extra-reinforced to survive the Hulk, and Natasha wanted it super-duper secure for all her secret spy stuff. And Clint has his set up so JARVIS can still send him warnings and whatnot if he hasn’t got his aids in. And for a dog.”

“I-I don’t need anything. You don’t have to-” Bucky began.

“Damn right I don’t have to. But I’m gonna. I need a new project to work on, and redesigning your floor might keep me amused for a few hours.”

Bucky hesitated. Did he really deserve his own floor? “Yeah, okay. But you don’t have to do anything special.”

“You must have something you like doing. Something to amuse you all day instead of moping around the tower like Steve’s been doing,” Tony protested, poking the hologram. “Look, there’s a huge empty spot here. We’ve gotta put something there.”

“A library? Maybe?” Bucky had always loved reading, although his family hadn’t been able to afford many. He must’ve reread The Hobbit dozens of times.

Tony smacked a hand into his forehead. “I’m so stupid! I didn’t build a library level! JARVIS, cancel my plans. We’ve got a library to design. Why didn’t I think of this before?”

“Because the reading you do is usually on an ebook?” JARVIS suggested.

“That-that’s not the point, JARVIS,” Tony huffed, fingers already flying across the screen.

“If it’s too much trouble, I can just use an ebook thing?” Bucky offered, but Tony dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

“No, this is fun. Plus, physical books are better. Just stay out of your level until dinner while I get the builders in.”

“What am I supposed to do until then?”

“Ummm.” Tony looked stumped. “I dunno. Explore. Go online shopping. Just don’t kill anyone.”

“Online shopping?” What the hell was that?

“Just ask JARVIS to order anything you like in. Clothes, shoes, books, knives, whatever you like.”

“I don’t have any money.” And speaking of which, was he supposed to pay rent? Because he’d rather just squat in abandoned buildings.

Tony looked shocked. “You’re on my money now. And I have a lot, so there’s no need to worry.”

“Okay, thanks.” Bucky turned away, but Tony caught his wrist.

“One more thing, JARVIS, scan him.”

A blue light ran up and down his body, and then JARVIS announced, “All done, sir.”

“What was that?” Bucky demanded.

“Most of the tower uses fingerprint ID or retinal scans. JARVIS is giving you access,” Tony explained, shoving past and into the lift.

Bucky wandered over to the kitchen benchtop, and glanced around to make sure there was no one else there. It was clear. He looked up at the ceiling.

“Building? JARVIS?” he asked, sceptical.

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?” JARVIS responded.

“Can I eat this? The food here? Or do I need to buy my own?” he asked.

“All the food for here is in the communal area, and therefore, in theory, for anyone. However, I might advise against eating prepared food that someone might have saved for later, or Ms Romanov’s chocolates.” JARVIS informed him.

“Thanks.” He opened the fridge, and found a large tub of yoghurt. That would do. Even a year on from HYDRA, he still preferred to eat softer foods, closer to the consistency of the gloop they’d fed him. He filled a bowl, and then added in some berries from the fruit tray. He settled on the lounge nearby, and switched on the television.

It showed a report on the HYDRA base he’d destroyed just yesterday. “-believed to be the work of a vigilante group comprising of at least a dozen members,” some politician was saying at a press conference. “While their efforts are appreciated, we must reiterate that it is not their responsibility, but rather the job of the Army and Special Forces. We ask them to stand down. Anyone with information on the location of HYDRA bases should call the hotline 1300 655 506, where it will be dealt with by the appropriate authorities.”

The number flashed on the screen, and then changed back to the studio. “And just in, the notorious Winter Soldier has been detained in relation to the events last year in DC, as well as two dozen assassinations and several more suspected assassinations. Thought for many years to be just a ghost story-”

The screen switched off. Clint chucked the remote onto the ottoman and dropped down beside Bucky. “Don’t look at that. It won’t help.”

“Who told them?” Bucky growled.

“None of us. Things get leaked. It happens. Trust me. My home address got leaked, and I could barely get out the door the next day there was so many people. But Tony’ll get his press people onto it. They’ll sort it out.”

“That’s what Steve said about the lawyers. Sounds like Tony doesn’t do much, he just pays people to sort everything out for him.”

Clint snorted. “Guess that’s an advantage of being so rich no one can actually put a value on you. But seriously, they’ll sort it out. You might have to give a few statements, do some interviews, talk about what happened, which sucks, but then you’ll be fine.”

“I can deal with that,” Bucky said, “What I can’t deal with is sitting here all day with nothing to do.”

“Want to come to the range with me?” Clint offered.

“Am I allowed?” Fury had said he could go anywhere in the tower, but surely thing wouldn’t allow him to shoot things.

“Course you are. And anyway, the guns only have blanks on the range. Although I use real arrows.”

“And I can use a bow. How do you know I won’t shoot you with one?”

“I don’t,” Clint grinned, and lead the way to the range.

Bucky had a surprisingly good time at the range. He spent half an hour destroying the bullseyes of the four targets in his lane before Clint showed him how to on the fight simulator. The two of them spent hours fighting off wave after wave of holographic projections shooting holographic projectiles at them. As time progressed, and the simulator got harder, the walls started shooting jets of water at them, trying to knock them off their feet, or tipping piles of foam bricks on their heads (to simulate falling buildings), and then the wind machines turned on at full power. Bucky was just gland both he and Clint had had the presence of mind to fit as much ammo as was physically possible on their person.

Then the floor started shaking. Apparently Tony had found a way to simulate earthquakes. The man was a genius. And completely mad. Foam balls started rolling along the floor at them. A blue blip hit Clint in the head, and it took Bucky a few moments to realise that the simulator had ended. They stood there, in a room empty except for water and foam blocks and balls, with arrows and the blank bullets littered around. They were both drenched.

“Hey, you’re pretty good,” Clint said, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “We should do this more often.”

“You’re not bad yourself, Hawkeye,” Bucky said. “JARVIS, what’s the time?”

“It is currently three forty-nine, Sergeant Barnes.”

“I’ve got to go and see the doctor for some assessments. Thanks for…this,” Bucky said, turning to leave.

“You’ll come to dinner though, right? 6 o’clockish, the kitchen. Everyone’ll be there. And we’ll probably have a movie night, after.” Clint began picking up his arrows.

“Sure,” said Bucky, and headed back out.

He managed to sneak into Steve’s floor and have a quick shower (once JARVIS informed him Steve was in the gym) while he dried his clothes in the drier.

It was one minute to four when Bucky stepped into the lift, and the clock flickered over to four o’clock as he stepped out of the lift into Bruce Banner’s lab. He swept his gaze over the lab, cataloguing everything in sight, every piece of equipment that might be used on him.

“Hi, Bucky,” Bruce said, setting his glasses down on desk.

“Hi,” he gritted out. This was a bad idea. The doctor would run tests on him. Experiment on him. Use him as a labrat. He tried to back away, but his back hit the wall, blocking his escape.

Bruce followed the movement. “Nothing that I’m going to do will hurt you, or alter your body in any way. I’m not a HYDRA doctor. I won’t do any of this without your permission, although I strongly advise you to do this.

“All we’re doing today is some scans, mainly focused on your brain and arm. For your brain, we would like to compare your current scans to the ones in the files from HYDRA, to see how the healing is going. The other thing we would like to look at is your arm, and how it is attached to your body. Tony will probably want to have a look at it at some point, if you’re willing.”

“The files said how it was attached,” Bucky mumbled.

“The files showed several versions, which I assume means different arms?” Bruce asked, and with a nod from Bucky, continued. “It also showed that a lot of your bones have been either replaced or reinforced with metal to support the weight. It’s anchored quite deep into your chest, I believe.”

“Why do you need to scan, then?” Bucky asked, dreading the answer.

“We don’t think that it’s particularly good for you, with the way it’s done. If it’s left the way it is, there might be permanent and serious damage to your spine and back.”

“I managed for seventy years.”

“Yes, and did a lot of damage.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll do the scans,” Bucky said. Better get it over and done with.

Bruce led him over to a gurney. “If you’d like to hop on here, I’ll put you in the machine. It’ll take at least an hour and a half to fully scan you, so feel free to sleep or something.”

Bucky took a deep breath, and climbed onto the gurney. He squeezed his eyes shut as Bruce wheeled him into the scanner and turned it on. It was cylindrical, just like his cryofreeze chamber. It made whirring noises, just like the cryofreeze chamber just before it froze him. He dug the fingernails of his right hand into his palm, and tried to focus on that instead. He couldn’t sleep like Bruce suggested, because who knew when he’d wake up? But he could survive an hour and a half in there, if it helped Fury clear him. He’d survived worse.

Ten minutes by his count into the scan, Bruce settled into a chair. “How about I put some music on?”

“Sure,” Bucky said. It came out barely audible, and weirdly high pitched.

There was a moment of silence, and then music began to play. “This is the Beatles,” Bruce said, “Rubber Soul.”

“Okay.” Bucky settled back and focused on the music.

The ninety minutes passed in a blur. The scanner switched off just as Help! finished, and Bruce pulled him out.

“Would you like to stay and see the scans?” Bruce asked.

“Yes, please.” This was a luxury never afforded to him by HYDRA doctors.

Bruce pulled the scans up on a holoscreen, and then pulled up the HYDRA scans next to it.

“This is the most recent scan, from July 2011. There’s minimal difference between that and the scan from 2004, so if we assume that nothing major happened between 2011 and 2014, we then compare it to your scan you just did.” Bruce pointed to an area on the brain. “This is your hippocampus, where memories are stored. If you look at the two scans, you can see it looks a lot better than it did in 2011. So we can assume that your brain has been healing very quickly. I’m guessing you’ve got a lot of your memories back?”

“Yeah. I think I remember pretty much everything, expect for what a normal human forgets. But I remember my family, and growing up and moving out, going off to fight. And fighting in the war, and getting captured. I remember all the experimentation and torture…from Azzano and from later.”

“Do you remember when everything was? The order of memories? Or are they just…there?” Bruce asked.

“I think most of the order of the memories I’ve worked out is from books than my memories. But every day, they make more sense,” Bucky said.

“That’s a good sign, Bucky. I’ll let Fury know, send him these and explain them. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. What choice do I have?”

Bruce looked guilty. “I wish it were otherwise.”

For some reason, Bucky believed him.

He left the lab feeling considerably better than when he’d entered, and took the lift up to the kitchen, where Clint, Natasha, Tony, Steve and Sam were loading platters of food.

“Help yourself,” Clint said, shoving a plate at him. Bucky grabbed it reflexively, then followed Clint over to the benchtop.

Clint filled his plate with pizza, which Bucky ignored in favour of the spaghetti bolognaise.

“Who makes this?” he asked, sitting down between Clint and Sam.

“Whoever feels like cooking, and then we just order takeaway for the rest,” Clint said around a mouthful of pizza.

“The spag bol’s mine, by the way,” Sam said.

“It’s very good,” Bucky said honestly.

“Oi! Terminator!” Tony yelled.

“What is it,” he said. One conversation with Tony had proved exhausting.  He wasn’t sure he could cope with another.

“So, it’s movie night tonight. Have you seen Star Wars?”

“No, I’ve been a little busy.”

Tony gasped dramatically. “Okay, we’re watching A New Hope tonight.”

“A New Hope? We have to watch The Phantom Menace first,” Sam said.

“A New Hope came out first,” Tony said, “Therefore you watch it first.”

“The Phantom Menace is first chronologically. It makes sense to watch them in the order they happen,” Sam argued.

“All in favour of original trilogy before prequels?” Tony asked. He raised his hand, followed by Clint, and after a moment’s hesitation, Natasha. “Sorry Sam, you’re outvoted.”

“You didn’t ask Bruce,” Sam said, petulantly.

“JARVIS, please ask Bruce his opinion on the order to watch the Star Wars films,” Tony said.

“Don’t you think you’re taking this a bit seriously?” Bucky asked.

Tony looked scandalised. “No! This is an important part of your cultural education.”

“Excuse me sir, Dr Banner believes A New Hope should be watched first,” JARVIS interrupted.

“Argument settled. A New Hope it is,” Tony announced smugly.

Sam huffed, and looked away.

After they’d all finished eating, and worked together to wash up and clean the kitchen (which Tony managed to get out of by setting up the movie and making popcorn), they sat on the lounge (except for Clint, who sat on a purple beanbag, with a massive labradoodle lying on top off him, trying to steal his popcorn) and watched A New Hope. And when that ended, Tony put on The Empire Strikes Back straight away and no one argued, so they watched that, and then they decided they may as well finish the trilogy, so they watched Return of the Jedi as well.

By the time Bucky trudged out of the lift and into his new home, it was past midnight, so he didn’t get the chance to explore, instead just lay down on his bed without even undressing, and fell asleep.

All things considered, it was a good day. No one had tried to electrocute him, the doctor actually seemed okay, and the Avengers hadn’t treated him weirdly, and actually seemed to accept him, although he wasn’t convinced that would last. It was probably because he hadn’t spent that long with them yet.

Still, maybe tomorrow would be a good day too.

[pendragonfics]

Room For Improvement

Paring: Thranduil/Reader

Tags: female reader, set before The Hobbit, Reader is an elf, arranged marriage, strangers to lovers, books, reading, play fighting, swords. 

Summary: Reader is a noble she-elf from Rivendell and after an arranged marriage to the King of Mirkwood, and a year living with the forest elves, Thranduil finds that his wife is not much of a fighter, and takes it upon himself to teach his bride to defend herself, forbid anything happened.

Word Count: 2,535

Current Date: 2017-07-24

Unlike most people who dreamed stories and were doomed never to live amongst the fancies and ploys on the paper, you had the pleasure. As a noble elf from Rivendell, the elder cousin of Arwen, daughter of Lord Elrond, you were destined to become something of yourself. But while your mind was reading stories of adventure to faraway lands and cultures, the story your life had turned into something more…traditional, for your gender. Marriage. The news came to no shock to you, as you were always to be married off, but to whom? Your heart had almost stopped upon hearing the news.

“You are to marry King Thranduil, son of the late King Orophor,” the message-elf of your father had told you. Perhaps it was for the better your own father did not break the news himself, or he would have had a slipper thrown at him.

You had nodded, and thanked the messenger, and moved to the balcony to ruminate over the news. You could almost hear the people you called friends gossiping when they heard the news of your arranged marriage. The King? Of Mirkwood? How inane a match for ________! As if they doubted a scholarly-minded Elf such as yourself could soar that high, to be considered for the man who had lost his father so recently on the battlefield.

Slowly, you moved to the balcony balustrade, and sinking your head upon your hands on the railing, looked out upon the citadel of Rivendell where you lived, lost in the myriad of thoughts that followed the word passed to you. But lost in your thoughts, you did not notice that your cousin, and confidant, the Lady of Rivendell. But to you, she would always be Arwen, whom you had shared the splash pools of the forest with as children.

“What plagues your mind, ________?” Arwen’s voice came to you, and turning, you saw your cousin. Her brush in hand, she worked on her hair, slowly uncoiling the tangles that followed horseback riding. “You look troubled.”

You nod, agreeing with her wording, “I have just been told I am to wed,” you confess, moving to sit beside her on the chaise. She hands you her brush, and taking it in your hands, you take it upon yourself to detangle your cousin’s hair, and the judgements in your mind.

“Is it the news itself that troubles you, or the match made for you?” Arwen asks. She’s always so eloquent, and wise beyond the years she has spent on this world.

You shrug. “I have always known I was to be married off, Arwen,” you remind her softly, your fingers working around a particularly hard knot on her dark mane.

You think back of when you were children, playing in the halls of the palace. While you had stayed focused on your books, sharpening your mind, she had caught sight of Aragorn, and pledged her love and allegiance before your parents had ever thought their children could fall in love, or fall into a tactical place for love to come later. Perhaps because Arwen was promised, the elite who hid away in their council hall had decided you were the next best noble-blooded She-Elf to be wed away to strengthen allies.

“But what of the match? You have not spoken word of it, ________; I know you, and your sharp tongue well. Are you ashamed?” She implores, pushing for the news to be spilt.

You pause at your brushing. Ashamed? No. Perhaps you are too humble, having spent so long by true nobility’s side, to see that you are worthy of this match, this opportunity. You take time to think of a reply, but Arwen beats you to your answer.

“I think you should trust the judgement of our fathers,” she confides to you, “They could have matched you with the youngest son of the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien,” she reminds you. “Have faith in the Ilúvatar.”

You shake your head. “My faith is unwavering, cousin, and I do not doubt the judgement of the gentry who arranged this. I – I am to be married to King Thranduil, of Mirkwood,” you confess, the words overflowing from your mouth like sap from a wounded tree. “Arwen, I will be so far from you, from home,” you whisper.

She turns, facing you on the chaise, her light eyes full of starlight. “And so close to your fate,” she reminds you, and running a hand through her hair, smiles at the lack of knots. “Thank you, ________ … fear not. I will not forget you.”

---

Forgetting one another was not a problem, neither was the marriage. Not a year after the news broke, you were wedded, and lived away in the forest from the Elves you called family. You had come to love your husband, Thranduil, and the people he ruled over in the forest lands where the stars shone so brightly through the blanket of the night. You loved how over time, the king had showed you compassion, and open arms and a larger library than you had ever seen before in your life.

While he was in council meetings to dispel rebels, and consolidate the peace his father had died for, you were away reading as usual, filling your head with the works of the legendary Elves, the long-dead Men, the poetry written down from the faraway Hobbits, reading ballads translated from the Khuzdul of Dwarves. Yes, you appeared when you needed to beside your husband, and yes, you slept when the bed required warming at his side in the sheets, but the library – it called to you loudest.

But on an evening when the stars were bright enough to chart, the moon high, you did not return to the chambers. Instead, you slept at the scholars’ desk, the open parchment smelling so sweetly that it had lulled your mind to slumber. While it was an occurrence that was normal to yourself, having done this many a time in your life, your husband hadn’t known of this practice. It was how you woke to a royal guard calling your name, a hand shaking your shoulder, your husband in the doorway, a relieved look upon his face.

Later that night in your shared chambers, though, it was more of an ordeal. “You mustn’t read past sundown,” Thranduil instructed you, his cold blue eyes fusing a look that could melt steel into your gaze. “And once eaten for the night, return to the chambers.”

“Thranduil,” you scoff, “is that not heavy-handedness?”

He shakes his head, his long hair wavering in the moonlight, turning from your gaze. “It is not, when the kingdom of Mirkwood could have daggers for their new Queen’s heart, waiting. ________, not all are content. You could have been, for all I knew, dead.”

“You thought me dead?” you huff, your eyes wide, “I – I was-am not dead, just reading!” you implore, and stalking to your husband, force him to look you in the eye. “If I am not allowed to fill my mind, it might shrivel up, reduce itself to nothing at all!” You are adamant. “I cannot believe you are so hard-headed upon my only pleasure, Thranduil.”

For a minute, the pair of you are at a stand-still, an impasse. You do not back down; you will not back down on this fight, would never. Whilst over Elves danced and sang, played instruments, had their trades, you had your books, and your hungry mind, devouring everything and anything it could lay its hands on. It was the only thing that kept you sane, in this new land; perhaps, it kept you thinking that you were still and elfling at the bosom of your mother, back in the lands of Rivendell with Arwen not too far away. Slowly, Thranduil nodded, and taking his hand in yours, hummed.

“I would never want to harm your mind, ________, but you must know that there could be threats to us, beyond our control.” He begins, his other hand moving to stroke your cheek slowly, his forehead bowing to touch against your own. “I propose an overture.”

“Yes?” you cock an eyebrow, and clicking your tongue in annoyance, utter, “I am listening, husband mine.”

“You may read as long into the night as you wish to, and for as many a night, too. But there is a clause to this.” Thranduil tells you. “For three hours a day, you will train with the best soldiers and myself, to defend yourself should any attack come unto you.” He instructs.

Silently, you nod. “Starting tomorrow?”

Your husband agrees. “Yes, at midday. Do not tarry, or the library shall be locked to you.”

“Of course,” you huff, unperturbed by his idle threat. At this, you begin to change into your bedclothes, not allowing your eyes to break contact with your husbands as you undress. “But know you are overreacting, Thranduil. I am perfectly capable of keeping myself safe.”

“We shall see,” he replies, and snuffs out the candle by the bedside.

---

The next morning, you rose early, and dressing in clothes made for exercise (an event which certainly was not a favoured pastime of yours), you called a palace servant to aid you in tying your hair up and away for the training. You had woken so early, you did not take breakfast beside your husband in bed, nor watched him wake slowly in the sheets beside you. While he was doing such things, you were finding your way to the armoury, and suiting up for the training.

“My Queen,” A Sindarian soldier saluted upon your entry to the armoury, standing stock-still as a statute as your eyes perused the room full of weaponry and bodily protection, “I knew not of your arrival here,” he added, glancing to the otherwise clean room, except for the stray cobwebs that grew upon the uppermost of the vaulted ceilings.

You nodded at his words, “At ease,” you waved at the soldier to not stay at attention in your presence. “I am required by my husband to start a training session with himself. Would there be any sort of…protection to wear for an elf such as myself?” you ask him.

The soldier’s head bobbed at that. “Yes, my Queen. If you shall wish, I can have it brought to you to be fitted?” He asked.

“Yes, please,” you smile.

Not too long after, you are fitted into armour that covers your chest and legs, with leather circlets to protect your arms. Unlike the soldiers who wear chainmail, you look the part of somewhat of a novice, wearing training clothes, or perhaps a babe pretending to dress like the hero the firelight stories told of. But unpersuaded, you are ready to try to do your best with your (non-existent) fighting skills.

It was a good thing you woke before your husband; because only now dressed in the armour, he comes into the room, wearing his, looking like the Gods themselves.

“Are you ready?” He asks you.

You nod. “I believe so.”

Together, you walked to the courtyard, where you had once seen the soldiers training before. This day, it was well-lit, warmed by the rays of the summer sun, much like your childhood home. But now was not a time to be nostalgic. You were here to fight for your right to read the way you had always read. And your husband was a seasoned warrior, ready to teach you the ways of the battlefield that he had known since he was an elfling.

The soldier handed you a sword; you had never held a weapon before in your life, save for a bow in a mausoleum you had broken into on a dare as a child. The sword was heavier than any book you had ever held, and taking it in both hands, you held it at your side, pointed away from yourself.

"You need to defend yourself," Thranduil held his sword like it weighed of nothing but air, pointed toward you. Your mind was buzzing, but most of all, wondering how you were to defend yourself if you knew nothing of how it was to be done. "Then, defend."

Taking your sword, you move toward your husband, the blade moved widely as if a staff coming horizontal to his side. It is as sloppy as it is slow, and he defends your attack before you are even done the move. The sword flies from your hand, your wrist smarting from the jerk.

“Do you require me…?” The soldier asked your husband.

Thranduil shook his head. “No. Thank you, Gwaenor.” As you ducked to take sword from the pavement of the courtyard, Thranduil’s sword pointed at your jugular. It was hardly fair, but you opted to not make a remark on it. Your sharp tongue had gotten you into this mess, and it would not get you out of it. “Do you wish to read your books again?” he taunted. “Prove you can defend yourself.

Pushing the sword from your neck, you stand, your blade heavy in your hands. “Taunting, are we?” you narrow your eyes. “Possibly I would be better suited to a different sword, which I could handle with ease? Or maybe, you could decide to not teach me within a day, and expect progress.” At this, you had your sword up, slashed at his own blade.

Thranduil’s eyes were wide at your move, and as he went to parry, you blocked, the sword heavily held across your body to shield his move from touching you. It was just like you had seen the Elves practicing, in Rivendell; almost like a dance. By the time you had moved the sword, Thranduil moved forward, his blade dangerously close to your side. You knew he did not want to harm you, not his Queen, but the people he insisted would harm you would not hold back. Sidestepping, your feet receded from his reach, and by the time he had reacted, the force of your swing disarmed him, and yourself, the swords clattering to the pavement. The swing from your sword did not end there; no – it led to your feet falling over one another, and your body falling onto your husbands.

Together, you fell to the ground, the clanking of his and your armour filling your ears, your chest hitting his, your hair falling onto his face, your faces as close as they could be in the confines of the privacy of the royal bedchambers. Unlike any other times you had seen his face, though, it was flushed red with exertion, his eyes bright and searching yours as to why the pair of you here horizontal upon the pavement.

“________,” he whispered.

You laughed. “Room for improvement?” you asked him.

Thranduil nodded. “Most definitely,” he murmured, his eyes bright and beautiful.

“That’s good,” you smile. Perhaps it was the blood rushing through your brain, or the sight of your husband, the King of Mirkwood, leader of the army, the man behind most of the tactics of the woodland elves beneath your body, you were not sure, but slowly, you leant toward his lips, kissing them softly. “Then we can do this more often.”