lil incorrect quote w/ thorin and thranduil's wives and thorin + thranduil
(a/n: i'm thinking of writing a short oneshot with these characters, if you want that, lemme know)
Thorin's Wife: Hey, Thranduil's Wife, what do you think it would be like if we both had kids?
Thranduil's Wife: What would it be like? Inconvenient, mostly.
Thorin's Wife: No, I mean, what would they be like, the kids? You ever think about it?
Thranduil's Wife: Can't really say I have.
Thorin's Wife: You know, for someone as eccentric as yourself, you can be boring as fuck sometimes.
Thranduil's Wife: Sorry, Thorin's Wife. For what it's worth, I'm picturing them now. You, a wee girl. Me, a little boy. Two perfect little freaks of nature raised by people who've clearly got no business bringin' up anybody.
Thranduil: This food is too hot… I cannot eat it.
Thranduil's Wife: You’re very hot, and I still eat you.
Everyone at the table: silence
Thorin: YOU GUYS ARE DISGUSTING!
Thorin's Wife: One dinner… I just want ONE DINNER!
Thranduil: Screams
Thorin: Screams louder to establish dominance
Thorin's Wife: Should we do something?
Thranduil's Wife: No, I want to see who wins.
Thranduil's Wife: I hardly slept last night
Thorin's Wife: When you can’t sleep, it means someone is thinking about you. Someone who loves you.
Thranduil's Wife: Who would be thinking about me at 3 a.m.?
Thranduil: [panic]
164 notes
·
View notes
SasuNaru snippet.
For @atqh16, whose ideas are sparking way too many dynamites in my brain. For god's sake, why is it that when I'm at my most busy that's when ideas decide to hit? I've got so many W.I.P's I have to complete, but, oh well—
The scars whispered secrets of a garden haunted by stolen blooms.
From the crevices and chasms of his weary form, delicate tendrils of life erupted, unfurling like pale specters in the moon's ethereal glow. It was a ghastly ballet of nature's triumph over human frailty, a testament to resilience carved in flesh and bone.
From the deep, jagged scars that marred his skin, blossoms of sorrow and hope arose, their petals kissed by a pale luminescence that cast long, ghostly shadows. Their roots snaked through the fissures, entwining with the sinews of his being.
Each bloom held the weight of his untold stories, the fragrance of his silent suffering mingling with the night air. They whispered secrets carried by the wind, secrets of a soul adrift in the boundless sea of existence. And yet, they yearned for solace, for the gentle touch of understanding hands.
Those hands were brushed aside, shoved aside for calloused hands and indifferent hearts. Hands that came to teal away these fragile blossoms, ignorant of the pain that bled with each pluck. They took, as if entitled, heedless of the toll it exacted on Naruto's garden of scars.
Petals fell, like mournful tears, leaving behind a desolation that echoed in the hollow chambers of his heart. The once vibrant blooms now lay strewn, reflecting the erosion of his spirit. And still, the insatiable hands reached out, tearing at the remaining vestiges of his fragile sanctuary.
As the moon waxed and waned, so did the garden of Naruto's heart. What was once a testament to the indomitable spirit, now bore the wounds of a thousand thefts. Each stolen blossom left behind a void, an emptiness that resonated through the very core of his being.
---
For all that the sunlight dappled through verdant leaves, there was no warmth to be found in Konoha.
No warmth for Naruto who had been drowned in the cold and cruel waters of solitude. From the first rays of dawn, he was taught to bear the weight of his trials, to swallow his problems like bitter pills.
(Jiji's weary voice weaves a lament, 'What doesn't kill you births strength,' he murmurs, a symphony of sorrow in his timeworn tones.
Younger Naruto, the one that had been a mere sapling had nodded, eyes wide and yearning, desperately trying to find some source of warmth.
But after years of fighting off the shadows that have embraced his soul, a scream threatens to tear itself out of his chest. ‘I don't crave for strength,’ his words come out as a hoarse whisper, merging with the ephemeral winds. ‘Love's embrace, safety's sanctuary, and happiness' tender kiss – these are the blooms I seek.’
But what does it matter now, when the recipient of those words has long turned to dust?)
A tempest, raging silently within the confines of his being, whipped by memories that howled like winds through the gnarled branches of ancient trees. His heart, a mosaic of shattered dreams and thwarted hopes, was guarded by a ribcage of iron.
The sunken path he treads upon was strewn with the fragments of a thousand battles fought, both within and without. Each step echoed with the resonance of whispered promises and stifled cries. His spirit, forged in the crucible of adversity, bore the scars of unspoken pains etched deep into his very core.
He found no guidance on how to mend the breach, how to stitch together the torn fibers of his soul. The echoes of his struggles reverberated through his chest, a relentless drumbeat that pulsed with the rhythm of a heart yearning for release.
His voice, once vibrant as a chorus of songbirds heralding the dawn, had become a hushed murmur, choked by the weight of unspoken burdens. The river of words that once flowed freely, now dammed by the wreckage of unvoiced confessions. His throat, the conduit of his soul's symphony, lay barren and desolate.
In the quiet moments, when the village slumbered and the moon cast its silvery veil, Naruto would sit beneath the canopy of stars, seeking solace in their distant glow. His breath, a fragile whisper in the vast expanse, carried the weight of untold stories and stifled cries. The moon, a silent witness to his struggles, bathed him in its ethereal light, as if offering a balm for his wounded spirit.
The heavens wept for him, their tears mingling with the rain that kissed his cheeks, as if mourning the silent suffering of a soul bound by its own silence.
He was far too tired now to find the strength to retrace the stitches of his heart, to sew his throat back together, and reclaim the voice that had been lost to the winds of misfortune.
---
The hands that cradle his face are gentle, as if woven from the finest threads of moonlight. Their touch, a balm to wounds unseen, carries the solace of forgotten lullabies, each finger a whispered promise of respite.
Warmth, like a slow, ethereal river, seeps into his skin, a golden current burrowing its way into the very marrow of his bones. It pulses, a steady rhythm of comfort, casting away the shadows that had taken refuge within his soul.
‘Come on, usuratonakachi.’
The voice that reaches his ears is soft as if made from the very material clouds are made of. It swirls around him, a delicate mist of wisdom and weariness, carrying the weight of centuries in its ethereal notes. It is a voice that has weathered storms and witnessed the rise and fall of empires, yet still carries the tender cadence of compassion.
In the hushed stillness, Naruto finds himself drawn to the presence before him. Sasuke stands like a sentinel in the fading light, his form bathed in a halo of moonbeams. His eyes, deep wells of understanding, hold the secrets of a thousand lifetimes, and yet, they shimmer with a melancholic gentleness.
‘Let's go home.’
As the words hang in the air, they linger, like a whispering breeze through forgotten ruins, carrying with them the weight of unspoken truths.
(A fragile bloom grows amidst the thorns of his existence.)
Maybe, Naruto wonders, just maybe, they are, perhaps, the flowers that can grow even in the cracks and scars of his wounded heart, awaiting only the touch of tenderness to awaken them from their slumber.
(Love, pursuit, and happiness need not be distant stars in a darkened sky.)
Inspired by the Hanahaki disease.
9 notes
·
View notes