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“No,” Obito says, flat and cold.

It’s testament to how much she’s hardened over the last year that Hinata doesn’t even blink. She certainly doesn’t waver, feet planted firmly on the other side of the bed and eyes fixed on him.

“Do you really think I would come to you if there was any other option?” she asks quietly.

“Do you really think I care?” Obito retorts, and he doesn’t look away from Sakura’s gaunt, wasted face, pale against the hospital sheets.

There’s a long pause, and then a soft pad of steps interrupted by the click of a crutch. Hinata limps forward until she’s hovering over the bed as well, looking down at her friend, and her mouth pulls into an unhappy slant, her pale eyes full of grief.

“The Clan Heads agreed,” she tells him. “Unanimously. I don’t think that’s ever happened before.”

Obito snorts before he can help it, both at the flicker of tired humor and the thought of calling the ragged assortment of shinobi Clan Heads. They’re children, or just barely beyond it. The children he fought in the last war, dragged into seats of power they’re not ready for, and Obito isn’t going to be among them.

“Give it to Gai,” he says instead, because Gai probably would have been Kakashi’s choice, if he’d survived to take the hat back.

“I admire Gai greatly,” Hinata says quietly, “but he’s not Hokage material. There are some decisions he won’t be able to make, and they’re the ones we need right now.”

It’s true, though Obito doesn’t want it to be. Gai is strategic, but only when immediately involved in things, and he doesn’t have that streak of darkness in him that most shinobi do. It’s admirable, but it means that he makes decisions based on the right thing to do and sentiment and good choices. That will kill them all more quickly than the enemy could, right now.

A breath, and Hinata leans forward, bracing a hand on the railing of the bed to meet Obito’s eyes. She holds them steadily, sharp and intent, and there’s exhaustion in the lines of her face but also a determination that echoes with painful familiarity.

“Naruto would have wanted it,” she says, a killing blow.

Obito takes a breath, closing his eyes. Naruto, who they found on the battlefield far too late to save. Naruto, who Hinata screamed and wept over, even as Ino tried to drag her back. Naruto, whose death drove Sasuke to recklessness that killed him within a week, and left the burden of the Hokage’s position on Sakura, where it might as well have killed her.

“Please,” Hinata whispers, loud in the silence of the room. She’s not crying, but Obito would feel better if she were—the grief in her should be too much for any one body to contain. “You’re a strategist, and you’re stronger than anyone left. You’re smart, calculating, ruthless—you’re everything we need in a Hokage right now. I wouldn’t ask, I wouldn’t want this, but Obito—you’re our only choice.”

The ache is overwhelming. Obito lets himself fold forward, pressing his hands over his face. He doesn’t want this, either. It was a dream, once, but.


Obito is three decades and a thousand worlds away from the little boy who wanted acknowledgement, who would have done anything to be Hokage and be seen. Like this, with enemies at the gate and poison in the water, with all of the Hidden Villages beset and their numbers dwindling, with no way to win and the only goal being to hold out as long as possible until someone can figure out who and what these creatures are—

This isn’t what Obito meant, when he once said he wanted to be Hokage.

A sharp, shuddering breath, and Obito scrubs his hands over his face. Damn Kakashi to hell and back, leaving him alone like this. Damn him for dying at the start of all this, damn Naruto for getting himself killed saving their forces, damn Sasuke for following him, and damn Sakura for sacrificing herself to put up a barrier around Konoha. There are only a handful of Konoha’s best remaining, and all of them are scarred and tired and worn down. They’re dying, as a village.

But Obito—well. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s surviving against all odds.

“Unanimously?” he asks, because he’s spent the last five years a near-prisoner, and understandably so. Too valuable to kill, repentant as he was, but too dangerous to let go free, with too many sins on his head regardless. Kakashi had overseen his confinement, right up until the battles started getting fiercer. Right up until Konoha started losing, which isn’t a thing that has ever happened before. Konoha is the strongest of the villages, by far, and the attacks on them are proportionately merciless.

“Unanimously,” Hinata confirms, and Obito looks up at her. She isn’t wearing her hitai-ate, and the faded mark of the Caged Bird Seal stands out against her skin, the short bob of her dark hair. Hanabi had gotten Sakura to alter the seals, tie them to the Clan Head so that her death would remove the seal entirely, and Obito wonders if Hinata has forgiven her sister for that yet. For making plans for her death, rather than just fighting to survive.

Hinata, he thinks sometimes, has become a little too much like Naruto, after all these years. All his best parts, and all his worst. It’s…comforting, even when it shouldn’t be.

It’s the reason he recognizes the light in her eyes right now, the relief and buried joy. Hinata might present the perfect appearance of a Hyuuga Clan Head to those around her, but they both loved Naruto with the same ferocity, the same blind devotion. It leaves them open to each other, and Obito should probably hate it, but he can’t bring himself to.

They’re both of them broken and dimmed and fading, but Naruto was their sun even if his eyes were focused elsewhere. Maybe it’s not a comfortable connection, but it’s what they have.

“What did you find?” he asks, and knows it’s something. Something that’s given Hinata hope.

She takes a breath, doesn’t look away from Obito’s mismatched eyes, Rinnegan and Sharingan both. “Sasuke had a theory,” she says, and her mouth curls with faint pain at the name. “I found his notes. He thought—the shadows. They could be remnants of Kaguya, working on instinct.”

It makes a horrific kind of sense, and Obito swallows, feeling his stomach turn. Kaguya and her influence, targeting chakra, devouring life. It fits, even though he doesn’t want it to. “And?”

Hinata smiles, bare and tired, and shifts her crutch out of the way as she carefully settles into the chair across from him, with Sakura’s painful, rasping breaths between them. “I was looking through the library,” she confesses, looking down at her folded hands, and in the middle of a war as fierce as this one, it is a confession. They’re supposed to be sleeping, or training, or fighting, with no time left for other things. “There were…references. To kinjutsus. Kinjutsus that only the Hokage can access.”

Obito contemplates her for a moment, considering. Konoha’s forbidden jutsus are by and large Tobirama’s creations, requiring massive amounts of chakra but also pinpoint control, and of the shinobi left in the village, Obito is probably the only one who can manage both. “Specific kinjutsus, I assume,” he prompts.

Hinata’s smile gains an edge, and she’s beautiful, worn but still fighting, grieving from the loss of so very many people but still forging ahead. Obito’s seen her with Karin, wrapped together with all the desperation of love in wartime, and he hopes it’s made her happy even as he knows it will never be enough for anyone.

“Did you know another Uchiha had Kamui?” she asks.

Obito blinks, taken aback. He hadn’t, but then, Zetsu and Madara hadn’t been inclined to tell him much of anything, and he hadn’t spent time in the Uchiha records whenever he managed to sneak into Konoha. He eyes Hinata, raising a brow, and she actually laughs.

“The Nidaime recorded his encounters with an Uchiha kunoichi who he thought could bend time when she teleported,” she says. “And then he tried to recreate the ability. The Flying Thunder God was the result, when he realized she was bending space, but before that…”

Before that the Nidaime had been experimenting with altering time, and if anyone could manage it, it would be a mad genius like Tobirama.

Obito breathes in, shaky and uncertain, and shakes himself. He thinks of it, of the applications and logistics, of when and how and where they could step in to create the greatest number of ripples, and then thinks about kicking Zetsu in the teeth.

“I’m in,” he says, and the smile that twists his face is all teeth. “As long as you’re coming with me.”

“And Karin,” Hinata says, determined, and when Obito casts her a glance—because Hinata is a viciously selfish creature, and it’s one of the things he likes best about her, but he’d like an explanation for this particular idea—she tips her chin up and says, “She’s an Uzumaki.”

And really, that’s all the justification anyone could need, Obito thinks, wry. With those chakra levels and that brain, not to mention that will—

“She knows?” he asks.

Hinata smiles, just a little. “It was her idea in the first place,” she says.

Yeah, looking for a time-travel jutsu sounds like an Uzumaki solution, without a doubt. But Obito just snorts, shaking his head, and pushes to his feet. One last glance at Sakura, a friend and an ally and someone he’d never thought to like, but who had managed to earn his admiration anyway, and then he steps around the bed and offers Hinata his hand. She takes it, delicate pale fingers sliding into his scarred ones, and he pulls her to her feet.

“I’ll take the hat,” he tells her. “But only long enough to raid the vaults. And next time? Lead with that.”

Hinata laughs, short but warm with pure relief, and grips his hand tightly. “Where?” she asks. “Or—when?”

Obito considers it. Three options, depending on whether he and Karin together can gather enough chakra, but the best… “Back to the beginning,” he says. “The Warring Clans era. We find Zetsu and destroy him, and then Kaguya isn’t a problem anymore.”

She smiles, full of sharp edges and blades in the dark, fractured pieces she’s only barely holding together. It’s beautiful, like a red sun over a killing field. Obito thinks of stepping onto the battlefield of the Warring Clans time with her, and grins right back, all vicious humor and the promise of blood.

Maybe they can’t save their world, not the way they want to, but this is might be the next best thing.
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(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.

This is fantastic and beautiful and just guhh. Obito going for Madara, and almost incidentally saving Izuna along the way - Izuna, who was the trigger that was almost single-handedly responsible for Madara’s later actions. Obito, who doesn’t give a damn about who’s Uchiha or Senju and is almost casually curb-stomping them both equally as he lunges for Madara’s throat - *sniffs happily*. This is lovely.

I especially love all the speculation about Obito’s background! This must be the darkest fears (or the secret hopes) of both sides; an individual wielding both the sharingan AND motokun. Who does not hesitate to bitch both sides out (though I think he hates the Uchiha a lot more then he does the Senju - eh. Apples and oranges). The speculation that he’s a child of rape, that’s - well, completely plausible within the clan’s working framework of the situation. Add in the way that he went straight for Madara - the obvious conclusion is that he’s perhaps taking out a very personal grudge on Madara in his capacity as head of the Uchiha clan, and thus nominally responsible for his entire clan and their actions. (…the age difference isn’t plausible for the other reason a Senju/Uchiha hybrid might be going for an Uchiha).

…all I can think of is that one story of yours where Obito was the child of a Senju and Uchiha marriage. I can just see him going “It was my father who was the Uchiha, actually. And my mother was the Senju.” And just as both clans start drawing some horrifying conclusions, he casually adds - “Also, they were married.” (THAT would set the cat among the pigeons)
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I personally think Hashirama would be a really good fit for Jack? Maybe Madara as Barba - NO. NO, MADARA AS DAVY JONES. AND TOBIRAMA AS TIA DALMA. 

Maybe twist things around and have Obito as Elizabeth and Kakashi as Will? Rin can be Norrington, maybe, or the lady pirate on Jack’s crew whose name currently escapes me. 
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I honestly cannot even imagine Tobirama of all people as Captain Jack, talking like Captain Jack, pulling off some of his stunts ans lines and just. No. My brain shorts out. 
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I honestly cannot even imagine Tobirama of all people as Captain Jack, talking like Captain Jack, pulling off some of his stunts ans lines and just. No. My brain shorts out. 
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A TobiMada fill for Prompts #1 and #7 that I had written by the middle of October but never got the chance to type up and post because that’s what happens when your Gandpapa’s Parkinson’s is in actually misdiagnosed hyper-aggressive Stage Four Cancer. Between the hospital visits and funeral arrangements you rarely have time to sit down at your computer for leisure activities, no matter how badly you may wish for the chance to escape for a bit.

Anyway, enjoy it, lovelies. After this shitty ass year we all deserve some nice things. I’m just doing my part.

Better late than never, eh?

@blackkatmagic  @hiruma-musouka

You NEED to read this.
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He comes to on a field heavy with the scent of blood, to a rout of shinobi in unfamiliar uniforms but sporting familiar hitai-ate. One step and he staggers, gravity re-exerting itself in a sudden rush. There’s a whisper in his head, paradise denied, but death is in front of him and he can’t waste time on regrets.

Another step, steady this time, and he looks down. There’s a body stretched at his feet, one bloody hand still pressed against the lines of the seal carved into the ground. A young man, barely into his twenties, streaked with blood. His hair is a river of midnight across the torn earth, his skin pale. There are purple shadows around his eyes, clan markings and sleep-bruises in equal measure, and even in unconsciousness his expression is caught between fury, determination, and horror.

For half a moment, Tobirama considers himself. There’s no pull of compulsion, no blankness to his thoughts. This is Edo Tensei, but—no control seal. No direction. Just a shinobi’s last, desperate attempt to turn the tide of a battle that’s closer to a massacre. Too much chakra used, Tobirama assumes, taxing already depleted reserves—he experienced it himself, the first time he attempted Edo Tensei.

“Sensei!” a child’s voice cries, choked and frantic, and Tobirama turns. A genin boy with sandy hair and a Konoha hitai-ate, hemmed in by shinobi wearing Iwa’s symbol. There are bodies beside him, two more children, and for a blinding moment all Tobirama can think of is Itama, Kawarama, falling at the hands of Uchiha squads with no goals but to hunt down children at their most vulnerable. He moves before he can consider the implications, a blur of motion as he draws his sword and leaps. Blood splatters the ground as bodies collapse, boneless in death, but the boy doesn’t even pause. He leaps past them, heading for Tobirama’s summoner at a run, and drops to his knees beside him.

Following more slowly, Tobirama wipes off his sword and re-sheaths it. “He’s still alive,” he tells the boy. “But on the edge of chakra exhaustion. Is the village close?”

The genin pulls in a shaky breath, squares his shoulders, shakes his head. One hand comes up to fist around the pendant he’s wearing, and he says as steadily as he’s able, “There’s an outpost a few miles away. Sensei—can Orochimaru-sensei make it there?”

Tobirama crouches down, turning his summoner over carefully. His uniform is soaked with blood, tattered and scorched, but he doesn’t look to be in immediate danger. “He will,” he confirms. The violet clan markings catch his eye again, and this time there’s space enough for the thought to finish. “One of the Yashagorō Clan? No wonder he was able to complete my jutsu. I’m glad to see they did join Konoha after all.”

The relief on the boy’s face is eclipsed by confusion. “Yashagorō?” he repeats, and then shakes his head. “Orochimaru-sensei doesn’t talk about his family. He’s the only one left.”

One of the greatest tragedies is the loss of the smaller clans in wartime, Tobirama thinks regretfully, sliding his arms under Orochimaru’s limp body and lifting him carefully. He doesn’t stir, and only the faint rise and fall of his chest gives any hint at life. Tobirama weighs the strength granted by Edo Tensei against the heft of his sword just moments ago, and decides that for a man his age and height, Orochimaru is far too thin. Between that and the weariness all but ingrained into his face, and the boy’s mention of an outpost, Tobirama can guess that whatever conflict resulted in this ambush, it’s ongoing and expansive. Another war, most likely, and it curls like regret in his gut.

The boy scrambles about for a moment, gather up a sword, a set of scrolls, and a tattered flak jacket, and then hurries back to Tobirama’s side. “This way,” he urges, turning south, and with a moment’s concentration Tobirama can feel the tight cluster of chakra signals in the distance.

“Your name?” he asks, resettling Orochimaru in his arms. The man’s head rests against his shoulder, dark hair half-obscuring his features, and Tobirama keeps a careful eye on his chakra levels. Edo Tensei strains even him, after all—the Yashagorō Clan are known for cleverness, not chakra reserves, and Tobirama is not a healer. Better to take too much care, rather than too little.

“Senju Nawaki,” the boy answers, and manages a shaky smile up at Tobirama. “You’re my granduncle.”

So Tsunade has a little brother. Tobirama is glad; she always seemed like she’d grow in a wonderful, caring woman. “It’s an honor to meet you,” he says. “Tsunade is well?”

Nawaki glances back at the battlefield, eyes lingering on the corpses of his teammates, but nods. “She’s still in the village,” he says. “Sarutobi-sama put her on leave because she was wearing herself out.”

If Hiruzen is still Hokage, it likely hasn’t been all that many years since Tobirama’s death. He wonders how much has changed, and just what has stayed the same. Too many things, if Konoha is caught up in another war.

Orochimaru stirs slightly in his grip, expression twisting as if he’s fighting sleep. One blistered hand curls, earning a soft sound of pain, and his eyes slit open, showing an edge of eerie gold. “Nawaki,” he manages, though his voice is rough and scratchy.

“I’m here, sensei,” Nawaki says immediately, ducking in front of Tobirama and rising on his toes to study his teacher. “Are you okay? Can I help?”

There’s a momentary pause full of confusion, and it’s easy to see the jumbled thoughts Orochimaru can’t quite straighten out in his current state. “Eiji?” he asks, with an edge of desperation. “Tama?”

Nawaki bites his lip and doesn’t answer.

Orochimaru doesn’t make a sound, just turns his head into Tobirama’s shoulder and lets his eyes fall shut.

Tobirama glances down at him, then looks away. There’s wetness on Orochimaru’s cheeks that runs like blood and hurts just as much, but isn’t. He may not be able to offer much by way of privacy, but what little he can give he will.

“Only a little further,” Nawaki says quietly, fervently, and the look on his face is one Tobirama is all too familiar with. He’s seen it in the mirror, seen it in his brothers, in every child who’s ever faced the staggering, overwhelming loss of a shinobi’s life too early.

Tobirama looks away from that as well, and regrets.
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via http://ift.tt/2cS6a1W:



Все мы нежно любим котиков, и я не исключение. Но одно явление в мире кошачьих, на мой взгляд, достойно особого внимания и восхищения - это лапы канадской рыси.

I can’t understand the original caption, but the lynxes are beautiful.  :)

Here’s what google says of the Russian text above:
We all love the gentle seals , and I am no exception . But one phenomenon in the world of cats, in my opinion, worthy of special attention and admiration - it is the Canadian lynx paws


Behold! A wild Tobirama appears!
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via http://ift.tt/2byfrPg:

Sooo, this idea originated with the lovely @puzzleshipper. Sorry for hijacking your idea, darling. It rather hijacked me, to be honest.

Title: Catch The Lightening In My Hand - Part 1

Fandom: Naruto/Star Wars Crossover

Rating: G

Relationship: Background Tobirama/Kagami, for which I blame @blackkatmagic for even considering. The rarest of rare pairs, behind the two that inspired this fic: TobiramaxHappiness and Obi-WanxHappiness

Summary: Jedi Master Senju Tobirama does not appreciate being dragged away from his mission by an urgent Force-summons. If this is Hashirama’s fault, again, he’ll throw him off the North tower, just watch.

He isn’t expecting the Force-summons to lead the Initiate floors of the Temple.

A/N: Just a warning, I just reread Jude Watson’s first Jedi Apprentice book, and as a result, want to set Qui-Gon Jinn on fire. My first time writing Tobirama, hopefully I have not mauled him too much.


Jedi Master Senju Tobirama sliced through the halls of the temple, not caring when initiates, Padawans, Knights, even fellow Masters scuttled out of his way.

He was positively disheveled; robe tattered and streaked so heavily with soot and blood in a kaleidoscope of colors that the robe’s original hue could only be guessed at. Between his appearance and the fury in his presence he couldn’t be bothered to hide, he wasn’t surprised by the reactions of those around him.

Neither was he concerned about the ruffled feathers of Temple bound Jedi who wouldn’t know a battlefield if they were dropped naked into the middle of one, and who’s notion of diplomacy was to stand at the sidelines and blather until someone deigned to listen to them.

You didn’t achieve peace that way, you achieved it by working for it, by whatever means you had to.

If the blasted Force was so insistent upon his arrival at the Temple this very day that it had pulled him away from his partner in the middle of a very important mission it could soothe the fragile sensibilities of those murmuring around him.

Or the Force could have provided a better transport, where he could have at least washed the worst of the stains off.

Since neither of those things seemed to have happened, it must be the Will of the Force, as the wizened old troll who was king of these narrow-minded, hide-bound fools was so fond of saying.

Tobirama dismissed them from his mind and stalked further into the temple towards the bright light he could feel in his mind. It had been a faint pinprick, a persistent niggle in the Force to go back to the Temple, that refused to leave him alone no matter that they had only managed to bring hostilities to an end mere hours before, and had weeks of treaty negotiations ahead of them.

No, he must leave right then, blast it all to hell and back. Kagami was entirely capable of completing this mission without him, but Sith take it all, they were partners. You did not abandon your partner in the middle of a mission.

This had better be good.

Keep reading


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