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gods of wood and stone

(this may or may not ever turn into something, so I thought I’d leave it here as the product of my procrastination.)


Obito gets lost on the way back to the afterlife.

It sounds like the start of the worst joke ever, like something Kakashi would mock him for forever after finding out about it, but it is, Obito admits to himself with great reluctance, actually true. This is definitely not the Pure Land, Rin is definitely not waiting for him, and he is definitely alive, because apparently using Kamui to skip out on your path to the afterlife leaves you alive even when you don’t want to be.

The worst part is, Obito can’t even regret it. He’d make the same decision again, because Kakashi needed his eyes so he wouldn’t just stand on the sidelines like a useless lump or throw his life away trying to take a hit. With Kamui, Kakashi has a chance at getting them a victory against Kaguya. Without it—

Without it he’s dead, and Obito doesn’t need the blood of any more teammates on his hands.

Cursing quietly, Obito pushes through a particularly tight net of tree branches, trying to figure out where he is. Another dimension, he can tell that much—Kamui gives him a good sense of such things—but unless he wants to kill himself with chakra exhaustion he can’t teleport back out of it. He could try it to get back to the afterlife that way, or just use a kunai, but—

Obito is a stubborn bastard. He was fine dying to save his friend, because there was no other choice and he was dead at the end of the war anyway, but if he’s alive? Yeah, fuck that, Obito is going to survive. It’s what he’s always done, and even if it’s against the world’s best interests, Obito is going to keep it that way. He’s alive, and no one can take that away from him.

The forest thins out up ahead, the spaces between the tree trunks widening as the ground grows rocky, and Obito makes for it, hoping to find some higher ground so he can at least get a look at his surroundings. The earth is covered with old leaf-litter, soft and silent underfoot, and Obito feels like he should know it, like this whole area is familiar, but he can’t quite place it.

He rounds a thick stand of trees, pushes through a thicket of brambles that curl away from the touch of his Mokuton, and hears—

War. War like the one he just left, the one he started, but without the monstrous roar of the bijuu or the overwhelming lash of chakra from shinobi with no concept of human limits. The earth trembles beneath his feet, the air rings with shouts, and there’s a clang and crack of weapons meeting. Fire roars, the smell of scorched cloth and flesh rising in its wake, and there’s a loud cry.

A familiar cry.

Obito reacts without even thinking. He dodges around the last copse of trees, chakra already surging within him, and bursts out onto the battlefield just as there’s a flash of yellow light.

Years of learning how to craft a plan, how to alter it on the fly, how to act and react and take advantage of every skill he’s managed to cultivate—that’s enough to let him take in the fight in one swift glance, ignoring that fact that it should be impossible. Senju on one side, heavily armored and fighting desperately; Uchiha on the other, backs bared because their stupid pride won’t let them wear armor, but pushing the Senju back. Two sources of chakra brighter than the rest—one on the far right, two heads with long black hair, a dragon made of wood, a familiar gunbai and a curl of scorching flame. The other is at the far end, almost dead-center. A fading glow of gold, black hair, Uchiha symbol, and he’s turning but it won’t be fast enough.

But Obito has faced a man who’s even faster, and he can make it in time.

It’s nothing conscious that drives him—the connections are simpler than that. Half a moment to judge, another bare fraction of a heartbeat to let Kamui whirl to life, and there’s a beat in Obito’s blood that sounds like the cause the cause the cause. Nothing solid, nothing certain, but trained instinct and denial working in tandem as he whirls off the battlefield. A portal into the Kamui dimension, and almost before he fully materializes he has another forming, leading right back out, and he snatches up a staff from a pile of stored weapons and is gone. As soon as he’s through he shifts his body sideways, back into the other dimension as he phases through the man—no armor, just robes, and fuck but Obito can’t believe he’s part of a clan filled with such arrogant assholes, thinking they’re too good to wear armor in a fight—and brings the shakujo around.

A sword collides with it in a flash of yellow light, and red eyes framed by white hair go wide.

Obito snarls, in no mood to call for a truce here and now, and plants the butt of the shakujo in the ground. He leaps, using it as a pivot, and slams a foot into Tobirama’s armored chest with all the force of his chakra behind it. The future Nidaime goes flying, and Obito lands lightly, yanking the staff up as he turns.

Uchiha Izuna rounds on him with a victorious laugh, red-and-black eyes bright with triumph, and opens his mouth.

Obito sweeps his feet out from under him, dumps him on his ass, and buries him in grasping roots that drag him to the ground and pin him there. “When the hell is it ever going to be enough for you bastards?” he snarls right in the man’s dumbfounded face. “How many innocent people need to die in this stupid fucking war before you finally decide that you’ve had enough revenge?!”

There’s no answer, only blank gaping, and Obito growls, pivoting on his heel. Several knots of fighting shinobi are watching him with one eye, clearly wary, but not enough to stop their own battles. It’s not going to be enough to save them, because in a split second Obito has made up his mind. It’s a stupid decision, probably the worst he could come up with, but if there’s a chance in hell of stopping all of this before it starts, Obito will take it.

“Stay there,” he growls at Izuna, leveling his shakujo at him, and then turns. A burst of speed sends him hurtling right at a Senju kunoichi with her hair in a topknot and the ponytailed Uchiha she’s fighting, and he shoves right behind them, knocking the woman into the man and pinning them both with Mokuton. The Senju lets out a startled cry, but Obito is still moving. Branches and roots erupt around him, grabbing for shinobi without discrimination.

Those in Obito’s path don’t have nearly as much of a chance to fight back; Kamui makes him a ghost, and even when he’s tangible his speed leaves him all but untouchable. He plows through the ranks separating him from the other fighting pair, drives forward with a wave of Mokuton subsuming everything behind him. There’s a snarled knot of fury growing larger and larger in his chest, a twist of something that’s very close to grief, and he’s had enough.

With a shout, Madara shoves Hashirama away, then whirls in, sword sweeping down. Hashirama catches it on a thick burst of wood, shoving him back, and in the same moment Madara’s eyes flicker up above Hashirama’s shoulder, taking in the rest of the battlefield in an automatic sweep.

Obito, barely three yards away with his shakujo already swinging, catches his eye and bares his teeth in a wolf’s grin.

Oh, he’s going to enjoy this.

Hashirama must see something in Madara’s face—either that or his instincts give him warning, but Obito likes the idea that Madara’s dumbfounded expression serves as warning enough. The man ducks, rolling to the side, and the ring of the shakujo sweeps across the space he just occupied. It just misses Madara as he leaps backwards, a fireball bursting from his lips, but Obito phases right through it, landing lightly and spinning the staff through his fingers.

Madara feints left, but this is man who trained Obito to begin with, almost a century younger and far less skilled, and Obito easily spots the misdirection. He lunges the opposite way, catches Madara’s sword when he reverses directions, then twists past the blow, drives an elbow into Madara’s gut, grabs him by his long, thick hair, and uses it as a handhold as he spins, knocks Madara’s feet out from under him, and drags him down to the ground.

From above and behind him, there’s a cry, and Obito wrenches the sword from Madara’s hand, keeping the other man pinned with the shakujo against his throat, and half-turns to level the blade at Hashirama. It taps the Senju’s chest as he pulls up short, eyes wide, and Obito snorts.

“One move and I’ll happily put another hole in this waste of space,” he growls, seeing the way Hashirama’s eyes flicker from him to Madara and back.

Hashirama stares at him for a long moment, then nods and takes a careful step in retreat. One half-glance around them and he says very quietly, “You have Mokuton.”

Madara makes a sound like a pissy cat dropped into a pond. “You have the Sharingan,” he spits, as though this personally offends him. “You’re an Uchiha.”

“And that fact has been responsible for pretty much all of the misery in my life,” Obito retorts, and for a breathless, terrible moment he’s back in that clearing under the full moon, a handful of seconds too late to save Rin from Madara’s manipulations. One blow and he can stop all of that here and now, can prevent so much of the pain that might come.

Hashirama must see something of that in his eyes, because he takes a quick stride forward, only to pull up short when Obito snarls and levels the blade at his throat again. “Please, don’t!” he insists.

“Get lost, Senju!” Madara snaps at the same time. “This is an Uchiha matter, I will handle—”

“Clearly it is a Senju matter as well,” Tobirama says coldly, coming to a halt a short distance away, but his eyes are on Obito’s sword where it touches his brother’s collarbone.

“I don’t think so,” Izuna counters, equally chilly and just as biting as he edges closer, Sharingan eyes narrowed and wary. “Just because some Senju bastard couldn’t take no for an answer when it was coming from an Uchiha kunoichi—”

Instantly Tobirama whips around, offended rage written clearly across his face, and he grabs for his sword, only to be pulled up short when Hashirama reaches back and grabs his wrist.

“But—” Tobirama starts to protest.

“Izuna,” Hashirama says, carefully even, and he doesn’t look away from Obito but there’s a spark of tightly contained fury in his dark eyes. “Mind. Your. Tongue.”

Izuna flicks a glance between Hashirama and Tobirama, swallows, and takes half a step away from them. “Brother,” he complains.

Madara gives Obito a dark look, but he doesn’t try to move. “You wouldn’t stand for such an insult to our clan, Izuna,” he huffs. “Don’t expect the Senju to have any less pride.”

Narrowing his eyes, Obito presses the shakujo in a little more firmly. “Don’t bother taking that high and mighty tone, Madara,” he bites out. “You’re the one I hold responsible for all of this, and I’m going to fucking take it out of you hide.”

Red-and-black eyes go wide, and Madara almost flinches away from him, hands rising in something like surrender.

Obito doesn’t want surrender, though. He wants to rip into Madara the way he wasn’t able to before, wants to get a hand in his chest and tear the heart right out of him, pay back every bit of pain that Madara inflicted on the world, through Obito and through Zetsu and by his own hand as well. Wants to rip and slash and hack away until this monster is nothing but a pile of bloody flesh, unable to hurt anyone ever again. It overwhelms him for the space of a breath, white-hot rage the only thing inside of him, and before he can think to stop himself he tightens his grip on his shakujo and—

Big hands grab him, one arm around his waist and the other around his chest, and with a jerk he’s hauled right up off of Madara, dragged back against a broad chest as dark hair tumbles around him. “No,” Hashirama says, halfway to a plea, and his grip tightens enough to force the air out of Obito’s lungs.

Obito freezes, stiff and stunned at the touch of another human. Years, it’s been, since anyone touched him to do anything but inflict pain, and his muscles go tense and tight in anticipation of a blow.

There isn’t one, though. No hit, no pain, no kunai slid into his kidneys to gut him and leave him for dead.

No pain, just—

A trickle, wet and hot, against the back of his tattered robe. Blood, by the smell, and since Obito doesn’t bleed anymore it has to be Hashirama’s, has to be from when he knocked the sword aside to save the man who will eventually kill him.

It’s too much. The thought of it, the reality of standing here over Madara, able to end everything before it begins, and Hashirama is the one to save him—

What Obito did, the people he killed—that’s on his head. But it’s on Madara’s too, on Zetsu’s, on Kaguya’s. Uchiha Obito should have died in a cave-in when he was thirteen, but he didn’t, and the reason for that is right in front of him. The reason he didn’t carved a seal into his heart, killed his best friend, and gave him a twisted, broken vision of the world as an illusion, and then set him to unmake it.

Obito is responsible for his own actions, and he knows it all too well. But Madara was the trigger. If Obito was the sword then Madara was the hand that forged and wielded him, and that has to mean he bears at least a part of the blame from the hell of the past few years.

No,” he snarls, and though he shoves backwards to loosen Hashirama’s grip and get away he doesn’t reach for Kamui, doesn’t try to hurt the man (again, again, something in him whispers, hurt him again you mean). “Let go of me! He deserves whatever I do to him!”

Hashirama’s grip isn’t harsh, but it is immovable, and he’s as solid as an oak as he drags Obito back another step. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “This isn’t the way.”

Naruto, Obito thinks, guilt and grief and regret and anger all wound up and tangled together. He curls his fingers into fists, takes a breath that vibrates with anger, and does the hardest thing he’s ever managed in his life.

He opens his hand and lets the weapon go.

Daydream

hey guys, here’s my first TC imagine. I’ve been sitting on this one for a while, so I hope it’s good! Enjoy/tell me what you think?

You’re sitting in your seat at the front of the class, right next to his desk. The rest of the students are getting up to leave for their next class, but you linger in wait for a chance to get a word in to your TC. He’s sitting at his computer, brow furrowed because the new grading system is still a mystery to him. Soon, there are no other people in the room. It’s just you two in comfortable silence. You get up to leave, and he stands up at the same time. He turns to face you and grabs a stack of papers.
“You doing okay today (Y/N) ? You seemed a little out of it during class.” He asks, with an expression of gentle concern.
“yeah, I’m just fine. I guess it’s just a bit warm so I’m sleepy.”
This much was true, but you held your tongue to another fact. It’s warm, you smell like coffee, I can hear the gentle rise and fall of your breaths, and it feels like I’m in heaven.
Your TC smiles, that lovely, perfect smile that he only gives you.
“Good.” he says, and as he takes a few steps closer in an attempt to pass by you, you notice there’s something on his cheek.
“you’ve got something…” You say as you motion at your own face.
Your TC puts down his papers and brings his hand up to his face to try and get whatever it is from his cheek, but fails.
“Here, let me —“ You say as you take one more step towards him and raise your hand towards his cheek. He doesn’t protest at your help, and you tentatively brush off the small speck — a rogue eyelash refusing to come off.
After removing it, you look into his eyes, and notice that he’s been carefully watching you the whole time, his beautiful, bright eyes tracking your movements. You can’t help but smile.
“What?” he asks with a smile mirroring your own.
“Nothing.” You say with a hint of sarcasm. You bring your hand up to his face and give a gentle pat.
“Now you’re all handsome.”
You removed your hand from his face, but as you turned to walk away you feel a strong hand grasp your wrist. Turning back around, he takes a step towards you and brings your hand back up to his face. He closes his eyes and leans Into the touch, your hand tentatively wrapped in his, your fingers feeling the prickly stubble on his face.
You smile and as he opens his eyes once again, there is a suspiciously playful glimmer in his eyes. His eyes flicker down to your lips, and you immediately know what he’s going to do next;

And he does exactly that.

He drops both of his hands and let’s go of yours for just a second, only to gently wrap his fingers around your cheeks and pull you into a desperate, but very gentle kiss. He separates from you for a second, looks into your eyes for anything that could be resistance or a sign that he’s made a mistake, a misjudgment,

But there is none. You bring your hands back up to his beautiful scruffy face and pull him back into a languid, better than perfect kiss. You can taste coffee on his breath and on his lips, and your heart soars. This is what you’ve wanted to do for years, since the first day you met him.

He pulls away and drops his hands back to his sides and struts away. You hear the reason why; the door handle turns and another teacher walks into the room. You look back to your TC, and he slips his hands into his pockets with a smug look. He turns to talk to the teacher, as if nothing had happened, and you’re left breathless.

I don’t know how many of ya’ll know the Ranger’s Apprentice series by John Flanagan, but I personally grew up with it and thoroughly loved the story and it’s characters! Halt O’Carrick was my favorite character by far, thanks to his sass and wit, so I decided to practice my digital painting skills and I came up with this lovely image! 

If you want to purchase anything with this image on it, I’ve uploaded the design to my Redbubble: https://www.redbubble.com/people/carolinafury/works/26502506-halt-ocarrick?asc=u&ref=recent-owner

And for those of you who follow me for my writing, would any of y’all like to see some Ranger’s Apprentice one shots or reader inserts? Hit me up in messages if you’re interested!

Bitte nehmt euch kurz Zeit.

Hallo euch Tumblr-Menschen.

Mich würde es freuen,wenn ich hier mal kurz stoppt und euch diesen Text durchliest und mal drüber nachdenkt. Ich weis wie es vielen Menschen hier geht, hier sind so viele Menschen aus so vielen unterschiedlichen Gründen. Die meisten sind hier, um irgenwo ihren Schmerz,Hass,Wut ,Einsamkeit und vieles mehr loszuwerden und es mit den anderen zu teilen. Bei mir gab es leider auch schon oft genug Niederschläge,ich weis wie es ist, niemanden zu haben,alleine zu sein,schmerzen ertragen zu müssen. Und meiner Meinung gibt es einfach viel zu wenig Menschen,die sich mal wirklich mit dem Thema und den Gefühlen der Menschen hier auseinnder setzen und ihnen einfach mal zuhört. Es tut so verdammt gut,wenn man einfach mal jemand hat der einen zuhört,der einfach da ist. So viele haben hier Narben, na und ? Narben sind wunderschön! Ich bewundere Menschen mit Narben so sehr. Traut euch ruihg sie zu zeigen,ihr braucht sie nicht zu verstecken. Diese Narben gehören zu eurem Leben! Ich Liebe es euch zuzuhören,ich höre gerne zu und bin gerne da. Wenn ihr Fragen habt dann fragt. Oder wenn ihr einen Rat braucht oder eine Meinung,meledet euch ruihg. Egal wann ich bin 24 h da. Schreibt mir ruihg. Ich mag es neue Menschen kennen zu lernen. Ihr müsst wissen,das ihr nicht alleine seit mit euren Problemen. Ich würde mich freuen wenn ihr diesen Beitrag rebloggt,ich wünsche mir das diese Botschaft an viele ankommt. Also traut euch und schreibt ruihg an. Ihr seit alle so wundervolle Menschen. Egal wie ihr aussieht, ob ihr kräftig seit, ob ihr zu dünn seit,ob ihr zu klein oder zu groß seit,es ist doch vollkommen egal. Eure inneren Werte machen euch aus.

Dieser Moment, wenn man wissen will, was eine bestimmte Person jetzt so macht, wie es ihr geht, ob sie auch an einen ab und zu mal denkt. Man es aber nie mehr erfahren wird, weil der Kontakt nicht mehr besteht.