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radramblog · 3 years

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Eldritch Moon my beloved

I think most Magic players are going to have a favourite set. Often that’s going to be one they started playing with, or one that really got them into the game, or one that had a limited or standard format they really enjoyed. A lot of people won’t, and that’s okay, they’re allowed, it’s hard to pick favourites sometimes.

But for me, it’s Eldritch Moon, aka the last time we went to Innistrad, and things got a bit more tentacular.

Eldritch Moon had a lot working against it from the get-go.

The Shadows block immediately followed the Battle for Zendikar block, one which a lot of people Didn’t Like. Whether it be for some of the more questionable art direction, for the relatively weak cards and boring parasitic mechanics, and for arguably some of the lamest story the game has had to date. More relevantly, though, it was a pair of sets where a fan-favourite plane was essentially dominated by squid monsters and lost a lot of its unique identity in the process- gone was the fun D&D-esque adventure world, replaced by stark wastelands and a war story with like one good story article. It’s the Tazri one.

And then the next set was Shadows over Innistrad. Another return to a fan-favourite plane, with a huge mystery being built up as to why everything was going to shit again. Why Avacyn and her angels were turning on humanity, why there are all these funky stones everywhere, what exactly Nahiri was doing fucking around on the plane of someone she apparently doesn’t like very much.

There were cryptic hints in the set itself. Its title is a reference to the Lovecraft story, Shadows over Innsmouth, with a fair few cards alluding to the story itself. A few cards did have subtle tentacles in the art, as well as subtle warping of flesh and world. The most damning clue came in the form of a puzzle regarding different flavour texts for the card Tamiyo’s Journal, which gave a particular phrase- “Remember this: they came as three”- flavour text from a Battle for Zendikar card referring to the three Eldrazi Titans, only two of which had been dealt with in that story.

Despite this, people still denied that this was the plot-to-be. There were still rumours that it was somehow Marit Lage again after all this time, or that the threat was a new one, or that it was somehow the Gitrog Monster’s fault. Personally, I wanted to believe this, and desperately didn’t want the next set to be Eldrazi-themed- I’d gotten pretty sick of them from BfZ and OGW and was very much enjoying all the new Werewolves and Madness cards and Delirium mechanic. This was at the point where I was drafting at FNM weekly, and the fun differential between the two blocks was stark.

But of course, the mystery was revealed. It was old god Emrakul the whoooole time! Quelle fucking surprise. And yet it ended up being significantly better than the previous block, for a number of reasons.

Firstly, the story is just kind of better. We get to see distinctly through the cards and the plot how the influence of Emrakul has affected the regular citizens of Innistrad, and how all its various factions- the Church, the vampire manors, the packs of werewolves, et cetera- were all twisted in her visage. We get to see the desperate fight against them, with all these gothic horrors warring against eldritch horrors, and against themselves. And we get both Jace doing some surreal journey-to-the-centre-of-the-mind shit while Liliana gets to be the hero and Tamiyo gives us an ending that raises more questions than it answers.

Also, Sorin gets stuck in a rock. Fuck that guy, Nahiri was always cooler, and fuck War of the Spark for apparently just having them make up off screen.

Secondly, the cards. Flavourwise, the three Eldrazi Titans’ corrupting influence manifests differently for each- Ulamog consumes and drains the world, Kozilek corrupts the mind and wreaks havoc on space, and Emrakul? As we see, Emrakul twists flesh into new and horrifying shapes, that the set’s cards display in loving and disgusting detail. While Ulamog and Kozilek’s drones were clearly a part of themselves, the Eldrazi of Innistrad all used to be something much more reasonable before Emrakul made it to the plane.

There are three types of Eldrazi in this set. Firstly- the transform mechanic from Innistrads previous has been played with to suit the needs of the flavour. With the exception of Ulrich, every single double-faced card represents a creature from the world, be it Human or Werewolf or otherwise, that is touched by Emrakul and makes a permanent transformation into something else. There’re masses of limbs, shapes echoing Emrakul herself, and flesh in configurations that Should Not Be. The shift on every card is stark, and in every case, you have to actively put in effort to push them over the edge- and off a cliff which they cannot come back from. This is especially true with the Meld mechanic, with the cards fusing into this giant monstrosity that literally dwarfs every other card on the table.

The next type of EMN-drazi is the Emerge creatures. The mechanic was extremely fun, almost all the cards were eminently playable in at least one format (mostly just limited), and the art is spooky. The flavour of some guy on your table getting fucking chestbursted and having fucking Elder Deep-Fiend pop out is incredible, and each is a great way of showing how the regular fauna of the plane (and flora, like, I think Lashweed Lurker is a plant or something) are mutating in response to the creature’s presence.

Finally, there’s the cards that make 3/2 Eldrazi Horror tokens. There’s less of these and they’re less intense, but by and large they’re a representation of the regular people being affected by the whole thing. Just about every card that makes one of these involves a creature dying in some way (Desperate Sentry, Otherworldly Outburst) or being spawned by an existing mass of flesh (Hanweir, Howling Chorus), and it gives this sense that everybody is affected by this effect.

Of course, that was also a thing in Battle for Zendikar block. The whole thing was Eldrazi, Eldrazi, Eldrazi, with even vanilla 4/3 worms having something to say about fighting them. They key difference of Eldritch Moon is that the flavour of the world is still preserved outside of this Eldrazi presence.

What I’m saying is- the gothic horror of Innistrad is still present despite the eldritch horror of the set’s antagonist. There’s still a corrupt and violent church (albeit with a few more tentacles now), there are still cults and Frankenstein zombies and vampires and werewolves. Innistrad’s tone is compatible enough with the Eldrazi’s that the combination enhances the two rather than diminishes them.

The final thing I want to say is just- the set’s really fun. It has a bunch of my favourite classic limited cards- Thermo-Alchemist, Ulvenwald Captive, and Boon of Emrakul- along with multi-format all-stars like Grim Flayer and Collective Brutality. It has big potential get-there moments with the Meld cards and some of the flip Eldrazi, and splashy interesting cards like Emrakul herself and Harmless Offering. The set drips with flavour that enhances the gameplay, with very little wasted space.

It’s a set I only really have two complaints about. Firstly- lol Ulrich isn’t good and wasn’t what basically any werewolf fan was after. And two- it suffers from an eternal issue that Magic only recently solved, in that it’s a Small Set with a pile of mechanics that it cannot possibly fully explore in its 200 or so cards. The biggest victim of this is Meld, as they could only fit 3 pairs in under the restraints of the set size. And that’s a real shame, considering that it’s a mechanic that we’re probably never seeing again, especially considering the recent Midnight Hunt. I really think there was a missed opportunity to not have a few leftover Eldrazi in that set- whatever happened to the Dronepack? Or the corrupted vampire houses? I suppose, though, that “I want more!” can be the best complaint a creator can get.

Eldritch Moon had big shoes to fill. However, in my eyes, it didn’t just fill those shoes. It filled them and kept filling them until its distended toes burst out the front and sides of the shoes and just kept growing, and bending in really weird ways, and I think I’ve lost the plot of this metaphor. It’s my favourite Magic set, and I don’t see that changing for a while.

#ramble #mtg #mtgemn #eldritch moon #this was the first storyline where jace actually got to be interesting

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asscreeds · 3 years

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Heila - Chapter 2

(beautiful screenshot by @freyastrider!)

You start the long road to recovery, albeit shadowed and full of doubt. Promises are made.

TW Graphic descriptions of blood/treating & stitching wounds, mentions of dismemberment (not of the reader). Also some elements that could potentially trigger EDs; you can skip “She then grabbed the bowl of stew…” to “Valka shrugged on an overcoat” if you like. If I ever miss something, please let me know! Read on AO3 | Masterlist

What you could see in your blurred vision was both a worry and a comfort. You were in some sort of healer's place, though where you were exactly, you did not remember. Combing your memory for what happened the night before made your head ache, and you felt like your entire head was submerged in water. Laying on your side, you could feel the cooling presence of a soaked cloth on your forehead and smell the herbal scent of whatever balm had been applied to your wounds. At some point you had been bathed by the smell of soap on your skin. All at once, it was too much, and you took a rattling breath that made your entire body ache.

You were not the only one surprised to see you alive. From the corner of your blurred vision you saw movement - a woman, dressed in an assemblage of fine clothing, fur and bones, noticed your eyes opening and the change in your breathing. She approached you slowly, and spoke calmly.

"Hello, y/n," she said, and in your fever-addled state you thought she had the prettiest accent. "Can you hear me?" You tried to nod your head but the motion made your vision flicker & your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head. A soft grumble emerged from the back of your throat at the sensation. The woman's brows furrowed, and she quickly turned away and began to make something. The clatter and clink of ceramics, even as gentle as they were, made you feel as though your head was splitting in two. A minute later, she returned with a cup of something herbal-smelling and warm. Tea.

"Please, drink this. It will help you," she said, gently lifting your shoulders so you could press your lips to the edge of the cup. Whatever tea it was it tasted like heaven and filled your belly with a warmth that spread across your body, collecting in your fingers. Even though you'd faced the darkest part of your life the night before, it still made you smile, and your vision slowly ebbed back. You could see much clearer now and found yourself examining the multitude of bone chimes, dried herbs & various other decorations in the strange woman's home. She gave a small chuckle upon seeing your smile. "I know you must be afraid, waking in a strange place," she paused, and your brain filled in the blank with 'after what you have been through.'

"But you do not have to be," she said, gently setting the cup down on the bedside table. "My name is Valka. I am the völva of the Raven Clan. Tell me, do you know where you are?" Remembering anything still hurt, but you had an idea of where you were. "England?"

"Yes, we are in England. A village named Ravensthorpe. Eivor told you, remember?" No, you did not remember. The last 24 hours or so of your life were a blur of sensation, already locked behind something in your mind to protect itself. Who is Eivor?

You had your answer readily enough. Another woman turned the corner, looking worse for wear, blonde hair falling out of a messy-side braid. Something in you stirred, you did recognize her, but… it felt off, in a way, as if you'd known her forever yet forgotten about her still, like some old childhood friend or a distant family member. She stood there awkwardly in the shadows for a moment, the large woman endearingly nervous & fidgeting with her hands while giving Valka a nod.

"Ah, there you are. Hello Eivor," the seeress said, greeting Eivor in her own way with a small bow and a friendly smile, though you could tell she immediately caught on to Eivor's nervousness. "Are you well?"

"Yes, Valka, I…" she began, and as you sat up on the bed a little to try and squint to see her better, her ocean blue eyes snapped to your form as if she'd completely forgotten about you, too. She paused for a moment, squeezing her eyes shut and pinching the bridge of her nose. "...I am well." A lie. Valka hummed, then turned back to you.

"You must rest for now, y/n. I will come back later to change your bandages," she said, feeling your forehead again and swapping the now slightly-warm strip of cloth for another cool one. Then she turned back to Eivor, gesturing towards the door on the far side of the hut, and the two left you to your fevered delirium on the bed. Your head swam with questions as you slowly remembered the ride to Ravensthorpe. Is Eivor okay? Did she find who she was looking for? Are my friends okay? What happened to the arrows in my back? Hmm, what was that tea that Valka made, it tasted good…

The soft embrace of sleep came quickly to you.

Eivor took too much shit. She was practically a doormat at this point.

Between that snake bitch Fulke turning on her and Basim at the last moment to sell her brother to King Alfred, then Eivor chasing her across what felt like the entire damn continent to try and get Sigurd back even after he'd insulted her and her late family in some sort of manic state rambling about being 'something greater' and only finding dead ends. Mortifyingly, one of those was a literal dead end; Sigurd's amputated arm. And of course there was Dag, who'd begun to refuse to sail with her on account of her 'not looking for their Jarl while she chases glory.' When she came back from Cent and dropped you off at Valka's hut he'd cornered her in the Longhouse, accusing her of 'bringing back the wrong person,' that she'd somehow forgotten about her brother, as if she had not spent the last six months searching. Dag would have to wait a little longer, just as Eivor would have to wait for another letter from Basim.

It was a miracle she had not unravelled, nor burst at the seams from the amount of stress rolling underneath her skin. She grew anxious, reading too far into the looks of Ravensthorpe's denizens, even the slightest downturned glance sending her into a state where she did not know if she wanted to take it out on destroying something, or cry, or both. Despite it all she was still kind. Your rescue had been enough to prove to herself that there was still something human in her. Now she just had to hope you would stay alive, and that the vikingr she gathered to free your kin would not think too lowly of her for even trying while Sigurd was still missing.

To be honest, after a fitful night of barely any sleep, she'd completely forgotten about you. She had gone to Valka for guidance, and for the seeress to give her a chamomile & lavender tincture for restful sleep, and was caught off guard when you roused, already awake and seemingly coherent. You were your own blessing and she'd been grateful to the Gods that you had not passed on overnight. Seeing you suffer at the hands of the Saxons last night had nearly broken something in her mind, especially after Fulke's bloody gift. She had to force herself to stay her hand and not go on a berserked rampage in the middle of the city. She has seen her fair share of blood, war and torture, but for them to take you, something so clearly small and defenseless, and leave you to die an unjust death, alone, left a cold feeling in her bones.

She took a deep breath of the chilly morning air to clear her mind once she and Valka left her hut, and the two of them walked to the small pond behind. Valka stayed quiet, and sat at the water's edge, motioning for Eivor to join her. The Wolf-Kissed did so, slowly, avoiding the seeress' gaze and stared into the clear waters of the pond, how the morning fog hung over it like a blanket of the fae.

Valka spoke first, looking towards Eivor with a soft expression. She could see the bags under her eyes even in the dim morning light. "Tell me, Eivor. What troubles you? Is it in regards to your brother?"

Eivor continued to stare at the waters for a moment, contemplating on what to say. Yes, her brother's capture has troubled her greatly. How was she to convince the people of Ravensthorpe that she had not abandoned him, nor her quest of seeing him returned to his people? There was something else. Between her brother's ramblings of being 'something more,' Fulke's notes on him painting a vivid picture of his torture at her hands and that something was awakened within him, even just momentarily, and Basim's cryptic speech towards her for the entirity of it, she felt like she was… left out of something. Out of the loop. There was some connection between all of them that she could not see, nor comprehend. For now, anyway. And between her strange dreams (or maybe memories, she was not sure, they felt so real ) of Asgard and Jötunheimr, and the vision of the wolf-dragon, the blizzard and Sigurd's lost arm (that she now scarcely remembers) when she drank the potion in Rygjafylke, she did not like the inkling of what she thought was the truth. She was not ready to face that part of her. Not yet.

Her speech was quiet, with the hoarse sound of sleep at the back of her throat. "Everything," was all she said. She looked at Valka with an unreadable face, though Valka could see the pain behind her eyes. The Seeress simply nodded in understanding, turning from Eivor to pick at reeds growing along the bank.

"I do not claim to know what is running through your mind, Eivor, but I do feel your pain. The Nornir work in strange ways. Not everything is presented in clear light, as I have told you before," she began, beginning to weave the plants together in a braid. "I understand that your continuous failure to find Sigurd has taken its toll on you. But I do not believe this is the end of your saga , though now it may feel otherwise. What is important is to keep moving forward so that you may find him. Cast away any worry you may have, of what others may think of you. It is your fate to find him. I know so." She finished the braid with a twist, then used another, thinner reed to tie it into a circle; a bracelet. A small, if fleeting, gift. She held it out to Eivor, who gently took it and held it in her palm, running her thumb over the texture of the braid.

"I do not believe the betrayal of your brother lies here, while you strengthen Ravensthorpe and make alliances with the people of England. You are doing what you must for your people. To keep them safe, and fed, though some may not recognize your efforts."

The pair fell silent then, and the sun rose higher into the sky, warming their backs. Eventually, Valka rose. "I should change y/n's dressings." Eivor stayed there for a while longer, still fidgeting with the bracelet in her hand. Mulling over Valka's words, she found it difficult not to ruminate; if this was not her betrayal to Sigurd, what was? Would it be even worse than failing to save him from torture?

Her thoughts were cut off by a long wailing sound coming from Valka's hut. Immediately, she rushed to the Seeress and you, her body seemingly moving without a mind. The reed-bracelet dangled from her left wrist.

The sight that greeted her was not pretty. In removing your dressings, the lacerations along your back had become greatly irritated and were oozing fresh blood all over one of poor Valka's cots. You shook from the pain, seizing up as if struck by lightning when Valka removed the last strip of cloth. Eivor must have made a shocked sound, as Valka swung her head around to look at her with a pleading look.

"Please, Eivor. Her wounds are too dire now that I may see them clearly, they are too large and must be sutured. Help me to restrain her," she pleaded, setting the strips in a pot of water to be boiled later and milling about, searching for her iron sewing needle and the catgut thread given to her by Yanli.

Eivor moved to your side, where you were huffing like an injured animal (you sure felt like one) on your belly, eyes unfocused and unmoving. Gently, she brushed your hair up and out of your face and out of the way of your back, and moved to put a portion of her weight on the cot, her thigh resting against the back of your legs and on a portion of your forearms. Too delirious to react, you could only stare forward.

Valka returned quickly. "The arrow-wounds are older, and have been untreated for some time. I removed the heads last night and have drawn out the infection as best I could but I am afraid that they were too close to her spine and have already caused damage. I do not think she will ever truly recover," she said, grabbing a cloth to gently wipe away the blood that had seeped down the length and sides of your back, setting it down on the bedside table. Eivor felt dazed, seeing so much of your blood soaked up by the cloth, even though she'd seen - and lost - much of it before. Despite Valka's words she hoped that you would recover; despite being a complete stranger, your death would do a number on her mind.

When the needle pierced your flesh, you let out another strained wailing noise, and Valka pulled back as if she'd been burned. She grabbed a jar of some cool-smelling salve off of a shelf and quickly rubbed it into the sides of the first laceration. It was completely alien to you, at first burning hot in a way that made you nearly break your teeth clenching them and then tapering off to a much cooler, nicer, numbed feeling. Your mouth hung open as you took rapid breaths, drooling onto the furs and squeezing your eyes shut.

Valka quickly yet expertly sewed your flesh together, trying to make the experience as painless and as brief as possible for you, though there was only so much she could do. You'd black out at some points, began shaking again at others, and even with the cooling burn of the balm you could still feel the pierce and pull of the needle stitching you together. All the while Eivor kept a firm, grounding presence, the weight of her at your backside preventing you from squirming and injuring yourself further during the process.

After what felt like an eternity, Valka was finished, and she stood back for a moment to wipe at sweat on her brow. The brand new spool of catgut had almost been used up completely. You'd passed out completely by now, your body too fatigued to endure the last five or so minutes. Eivor had checked your wrist for your pulse again, and felt somehow even more relieved than the last time. She and Valka shared a weary look.

"Will she be alright?"

"I will give her new dressings, and change them each hour as needed… but it is now out of my control if she survives this battle. Her life is in the hands of the Nornir." Eivor looked down at your raw sutured flesh with a mixture of pity and frustration. Of course. Stay strong, little one.

Eivor hummed, and bid Valka farewell with a nod. As soon as she stepped into the cool spring air of Ravensthorpe, she felt something cold against her thighs and forearms. Looking down, she apparently did not realize the volume of your bloodloss, and there were small - yet very noticeable - stains in the cloth of her tunic and pants. There goes brand new tunic number thirty three. Sighing, she rinsed her hands and her fingernails of your blood in the pond, and made to go to her room in the longhouse to change. As she passed the curve of the building, she spotted Dag storming away from the shipyard towards her, a scowl on his face. Not wanting to deal with his disrespect, she speedwalked as inconspicuously as she could into the longhouse and promptly slammed the door to her room just as Dag entered the building. She felt like a teenager, running away from a responsibility and locking herself in her room, but she supposed that was a sacrifice she'd have to make if she wanted to relax.

She leaned back against the door, listening to the rustle of Dag's armor and footsteps grow closer, then disappear as he decided to leave her alone, and she let out a long, slow exhale, closing her eyes for a moment, just breathing.

When she opened her eyes she was greeted by a goofy grin from Mouse, the wolf she'd saved from starving in a cellar. As the settlement grew and seasons went by, she noticed she had a tendency to… collect animals. And people. You were an example. She gave Mouse a little smile.

"How's my boy?" she chuckled, the wolf nosing her palm, smelling your scent. She reached over with her other hand to scritch behind his ear, making the wolf tilt his head in a funny way to lean into it. She looked at the way the sunlight streamed in through the windows high on the wall, and realized she'd forgotten to feed him on time. Reaching into her bag she procured some dried meat, holding it out to the wolf. "Hungry?"

The wolf sniffed the meat, then oh-so-gently took it from Eivor's hand, as if he was afraid he would hurt her, and trotted off to eat it beside her bed. While he ate, Eivor rummaged through the trunk at the foot of her bed for a new, cleaner set of clothing, changing and throwing the bloodied tunic and pants in the designated 'do this later' corner.

Sitting down on the edge of her furs, she rubbed at her eyes and only then did she feel the true effects of last night's broken sleep. Yawning, she reached into her bag for the chamomile tincture, pouring two or three drops of the bitter-tasting liquid underneath her tongue before swallowing, then washed it down with the last bit of mead in her cup from last night. I hope Randvi will not think less of me for taking a day or two to rest.

Laying down and pulling the furs up to her chin with Mouse quickly climbing onto the bed beside her, she quickly fell asleep with the help of the tincture, though she would be plagued with yet another vivid dream.

She was in a clearing, surrounded by wood and bark and foliage, from what she could see lit by moonlight. The quiet drone of crickets filled the air, and no other sound could be heard. Then Eivor's gentle exhales echoed against the bough of every tree, and she willed herself to stop breathing, if only to stop hearing the quiet sound turn deafening within moments. The crickets quieted as her breathing stopped, and the forest was silent for what felt like an eternity. And then a long, baleful cry split the silence, and the once blue shades of the moonlight boughs took a red, bloody hue. Eivor moved towards the sound against her will and against her fear of the suddenness of it, still unbreathing.

A second cry rang out against the trees, and as Eivor progressed they began to look less like trees, and more like angular cut stone, and they blurred together in her periphery. The ridges of the bark began to glow and formed strange, unreadable glyphs. She was still not breathing.

A third and final cry was heard closer by, and a distant flock of cawing crows was startled by the sound, and Eivor could hear every single beat of their wings and their hearts. Finally she came upon another clearing, and found a fox ensnared by a trap, whimpering, red vibrant blood running down the creature's leg to form rivers in the soil. It looked to her with wild, slitted, pleading eyes. As Eivor reached into the jaws of the trap to disarm it, the fox cried out again and again and struggled until Eivor had finally broken the trap in half. Instead of being grateful like she expected, the fox clamped its jaws around her hand and pulled with a force that should not have belonged to such a small creature. Crying out in pain, Eivor cradled the hand to her chest, watching the blood curl around her fingers and drip onto the forest floor, and wherever it dripped bright patches of red moss grew. When she looked up again, she did not see a fox, but saw you, dressed in a sheer white gown with the same slitted, now guilty, eyes and a bloodied mouth. You opened your mouth to say something, but the only sound that came out was a pleased moan.

She awoke with a gasp.

The next morning came, and when you stirred you were greeted by the savory smell of stew. There was a constant dull, radiating pain coming from your back, and though you could not remember what happened clearly, you knew that your split skin had been stitched together. Blinking rapidly you tried to raise a hand to wipe at the sleep in your eyes and the simple motion caused a new wave of pain as the muscles in your shoulder screamed and you hissed, forcing your body to relax and rest your arm again. This would not be an easy thing to recover from, but you knew that you would adapt.

Valka took notice of your sound, and moved to stand by the bedside. "Good morning, y/n. How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," you said with a hoarse voice, gently pushing yourself to lean more of your weight on your side than your stomach. The seeress pressed her palm to your forehead, and hummed, pleased. "Your fever has gone down a bit."

She then grabbed the bowl of stew on the side table and held it towards you. "Are you hungry?"

Your body answered the question, your stomach growling and mouth watering at the smell of the hearty stew. You'd forgotten that the last time you ate was four nights ago, and it'd been only stale bread and water. Maybe eating a savory, hot meal was not the best decision but right now you'd kill for it. You eagerly accepted the bowl and spoon held out for you using your slightly less painful arm. It was amazing , melting over your tongue and perfectly spiced, and as you expected far too much for your belly after being empty for four days. You took three spoonfuls before a wave of nausea hit you, and you had to set it back on the table.

Valka had turned away to make another numbing salve and let you eat in peace, then heard you set the bowl down. She did not look up from the mortar and pestle for a moment, but still acknowledged you. "Are you well?"

To be honest, no. "I will have to eat slowly," you said, sitting up slightly in the cot and fidgeting with your hands.

Valka, kind soul, was all-accommodating. "Would you like something simpler? Bread perhaps? Tarben bakes the best loaves, and I am sure he would enjoy a new patron," she said, sending you a gentle smile. Bread would be gentler on your stomach… you nodded, and settled back down in the cot for now.

Valka shrugged on an overcoat made of raven's feathers and thick bear fur, and bid you farewell with "I will return within a half hour," leaving you to blissful solitude in her hut.

With your fever quelled, you could think more clearly than before and remembered much more. The raid, Franklin's cowardice, being captured, being tortured… all in a few days, the life as you'd known it had been turned on its head, and here you were, half-dead in a town you didn't even know existed. All thanks to the mysterious woman that had saved you from a worse fate. And then your mind turned to Frederik, and despite being injured, your blood boiled with a new fury as you thought of all the ways you would confront and kill him for what he'd done not only to you but your clan as well. You could only hope that Gunnar, Vilmar and the rest of your friends were still alive.

Your furious thoughts were cut short when you heard footsteps from the entrance of the home, though they were not Valka's. Curious, you peeked around the corner to your ability, and were greeted by the figure of the giant Norse again. Eivor. She appeared rested, though worrisome, playing with the sleeves of her tunic. "Valka, are you here? I had another vision," she said, keeping her gaze to the floor… troubled by something.

You chose to speak up. "No, she left to get bread from Tarben." This startled the mighty drengr, and she almost comically jumped from the sound of your voice with wide eyes before forcing a much more stoic front, furrowing her brows. It almost made you giggle. Trying to spare herself from more embarrassment, she turned to leave. "Thank you."

"Wait!" you yelled out, a bit too loud and a bit too harsh, making you cough from your throat's sudden use after days of scarcely speaking above a whisper, and the action filled your ribs with fresh pain, making you wheeze. Eivor had stopped in the doorway, looking back at you with a puzzled and concerned expression. "Wait, I…" you began, clearing your throat and taking a deep breath.

"I wanted to thank you," you said, feeling suddenly small and anxious. "For saving me." The floor did indeed look very interesting.

Eivor blinked. "Of course," she started, facing you fully now. "It was the least I could do, after what the Saxons did." You slowly sat up in the cot again, oh how the floor was so interesting, and there was a long pause between the both of you, as if you'd wanted to say more yet could not find the backbone to do so.

You spoke again first. "I remember why I was there," you said, running your fingers over and through the fur blanket. "What happened before I was captured." Eivor walked a little closer, leaning back on a table with her arms crossed. "Why?"

You met her strikingly blue eyes. "My Jarl betrayed me. My clan. Left us to die," you explained, voice laced with bitterness and remorse. Eivor stayed silent but held your gaze.

"He had a choice, of doing the best for his people, or for himself. He broke the only oath he promised to us. Left us to die at the hands of the Saxons after we'd raided Raculf monastery. Things went smoothly at first, then reinforcements came… there was no way we would have fought our way out. And instead of negotiating, even attempting something, he ran."

Eivor hummed. "...what is his name?"

"Frederik Mikkelsen."

She took note of this, filing it away into her memory. Another long pause. "Why did you raid Raculf?"

You sighed. "For supplies. Frederik made it out to be some sort of conquest. We'd been sailing to Normandy to establish a new settlement for his father but were thrown off course by a storm, landed here in England. We were still fucking drying our clothes when he sent us off to raid. Couldn't wait a damn week for assistance from another Dane camp. I swear something snapped in his head as soon as he saw that storm," you said, reaching over for another spoonful of the stew, though your stomach still complained.

At some point Eivor had looked down at the floor again, mulling over your words. She'd send out a rescue party tomorrow. "I will see to it that your kinsmen are rescued as soon as possible," she said somberly. She knew the pain you felt, having the direction of your life turned completely around. Of having to leave it behind to wither in the past, to let your rage fester and seek revenge for wrongdoings. "And if I hear word of Frederik, I will let you know."

Eivor's kindness was blinding. You could only muster a small "thank you," and Eivor took this as the time to leave. She went to duck under the door frame, then promptly bumped right into Valka.

Valka nearly dropped the basket of bread but caught it at the last second. "Oof! Oh, my apologies, Eivor. I did not know you would be here. Is something the matter?" Eivor only shot Valka a small apologetic smile and shook her head, and bid the two of you farewell. She would discuss her dream with the seeress some other time.

You ate a bit of the bread, your stomach still not properly enjoying the sensation of being filled after days of not eating but the loaves were soft and warm and far easier on you. Valka then made you more of the sweet-smelling tea, and suggested that you rest. Whatever was in that tea blissfully knocked you out cold. You can't be in pain if you're unconscious.

#my writing #ac valhalla #f!eivor x reader #eivor x reader #ac valhalla spoilers #valhalla #eivor #lady eivor

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mail-me-a-snail · 4 years

Text

Pink in the Night

Hugo Wallace’s story continues! in this chapter, we learn of the baker’s real name, and finally settle this emotional debacle

tag list: @txmmy-rose @immabethehero @spoken-paper-plane @cryptic-phantom17 @iv0ry-keys tw: mild nsfw, brief description of broken bones read pt.1 here

The rain beats against the ground. Somewhere, thunder cracks and lights the world up for one moment. The trees rush past Hugo Wallace in a wild blur as he races through the forest, trying his best to keep his footing as hot tears muddle his vision and the ground becomes muddy.

"Stupid," he berates himself, "Stupid, stupid, stupid. The one you love doesn't love you back, even though you knew he wouldn't, so you run away, crying like a child. Stupid, stupid—" "Doctor Wallace!" yells the baker from somewhere behind him over the rain. "I told you, don't follow me!" His voice cracks on the you. "Doctor Wallace, please, listen—" The ground gets rockier and muddier and it’s harder for him to maintain his balance. There are more trees now, crowding the edges of his vision. He's stumbling in the dark because he left his lantern in the grove. Another stupid, stupid decision, all because of this Bird Man nonsense. He isn't even using his cane; it's swinging as his arm does, like he's ready to hit something, because he is more than ready to. His clothes are sopping wet. "What do you want me to say, doctor?" The baker persists, footsteps closer, followed by the sound of branches being moved aside. "Do you want me to tell you I don't love the Bird Man? Would that help things?" Hugo wants to say yes, but the confusion drips so strongly from the baker it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. "Drop it, please, for the love of God, drop it!" Hugo shouts, "Clearly, you're in love with a silhouette!" "That's not—" he growls in frustration, "Where are you even going?" "I'm going home. I'm tired and angry, a-and upset, and I just want to go—" "HUGO!"

Hugo's stomach dips as he falls straight off the path's end. At first, he thinks that this is it, that this is his end—a less than satisfying death at the bottom of a cliff. Oh, well. At least this emotional debacle would be over. The pain that comes with his jaw smacking hard against the forest floor, rattling his teeth, his mask scratching his face, and the bruising along his body reminds him he is very much alive. The breath is driven out of him and he struggles to breathe, but he is alive for the most part. His cane falls beside him. Dirt and rain shower him. He's covered in mud and his robes stick to his body. He looks up. He had fallen into a ditch, maybe five or six feet deep, and can see the trees overhead. He could climb out. His head hurts like hell and what's worse is that he can't see a thing in the darkness. "Hugo!" The baker's face pops over the lip of the ditch, eyes bright with worry. "Are you okay?" "Baker?" He groans, sitting up. Two of the baker's face shifts in and out of his swimming vision. A severe flame erupts in his left leg as he tries to stand, and he swears loud enough to scare away all the animals. As a physician, he knows his leg is broken. He feels around his pant leg for blood. The skin isn't broken, thank God, but the bone—his fibula, by the source of pain, it seems—is still shattered. The skin around it is already swelling. There goes climbing out. "M-My leg; it's broken." "Shit," the baker breathes, then slides down the hill to meet him. He leans down on one knee. "Tell me what to do, Hugo. I'm no doctor." The pain is already fading into numbness. Not good. He's going into shock; the edges of his vision are already turning a fuzzy black. He drops onto his back, feeling weak, sending a puddle splashing up around him. "Hugo!" The baker's strong, calloused hands help him sit up. One of his hands is placed right against Hugo's heart, which is thumping rather slowly, despite his wish coming true. "Hugo, stay with me. Tell me what to do." Hugo's head lolls and turns to the baker. He can see the anguish in those beautiful hazel eyes. It hurts him to see the baker so worried. His red hair and beard are wet from the rain, hanging around his face, making him look like a sheepdog with long jowls. Hugo's anger dissipates in a matter of seconds, though it might just be the shock. "F...first," he slurs, "Get me out of t-this hole." The baker hesitates, then puts one hand under Hugo's legs, careful not to jostle the broken one, and the other on his back. He lifts the doctor up without strain. Hugo throws an arm around his neck. "You weigh no more than a sack of flour does," The baker observes, "You should really eat more." "I-Is now r...really the time?" He lifts Hugo onto the other side of the ditch. He then hoists himself up and Hugo can't help but watch his muscles bulging as he does it, giggling to himself in delirium. Thunder claps again, and he can see the way the baker's wet shirt leaves little to the imagination. The baker sits beside him, unperturbed by his giggling. "Y-You must set the bone," Hugo undoes the clasp around his jaw and lifts his mask just until his mouth is exposed. "C...cane, give me my cane." The baker goes back to the ditch, climbing out with the cane in hand. He wipes it against his shirt, staining the cotton black with mud. Hugo wrinkles his nose; he doesn't exactly have many options here. "This will hurt," The baker warns, as if Hugo doesn't know that already. The doctor puts the cleaner part of his cane in-between his teeth. The rain coursing down his chin makes it hard to keep a grip, but he just bites down with all the strength in his jaw. He gives the signal. He tries to hold onto both the cane and the feeling of the baker's hands on his exposed leg as he nearly loses his mind in the pain and screams into his cane. Once it's over, he lets the tool drop and nearly drops down himself. The baker's hand on his back is the only thing grounding him. He's become deaf to the sound of rain and thunder because if the world's mad, then so is he, so the world has no right screaming like this. "S...Splint," Hugo blinks slowly, trying to get the words out. "Sticks. Two. Wrap." "O-Okay." The baker forages for sticks and finds two of roughly the same length. He tears fabric from the hem of his shirt. Following Hugo's instructions, he splints Hugo's leg. Then, the doctor promptly passes out. -- Everything is warm. Too bloody warm. Hugo wakes up covered in a sheen of sweat. He tries to move the heavy blanket off of him, but his motions are sluggish, like his brain and nerves aren't communicating. There's something cold and wet across his forehead. He relishes it. Every part of his body hurts and even blinking does, too. He wants to say something, but the sound that comes out of his chapped lips is a rasp. He realizes, with a start, that he's not wearing his mask, or his uniform. He's wearing a cotton shirt that isn't his, plastered to his chest because of the sweat. The room itself is cold, even with the fireplace roaring pleasantly and casting light on everything. The window outside shows the chaos of a thunderstorm. Rain pounds the roof. The walls are painted red. The bed of his is comfy, pillows presumably filled with goose down. The blanket is woven and threadbare. His mask is hanging on a coat rack in a corner of the room, along with his hat. He tries to adjust his position, but his left leg is in severe pain. When it flares up, he remembers why; the chase through the woods and subsequent fall into a ditch, where the baker splinted his leg and carried him out...this was probably the baker's house. The thought warms his cheeks more than the fever does. He shivers. He startles when the baker walks in, sporting a similar cotton shirt. He's holding a bowl with a spoon. Hugo can see the steam rise from it, but he feels nauseous at the thought of digesting anything. "You're awake," the baker says softly, lacking his usual gruff. "How do you feel?" He pulls a chair towards Hugo's beside and sits down. "Like s...shit," Hugo replies, every word sluggish. He squints at the baker, the firelight behind him burning his retinas. He looks away. "I expected as much." The baker presses a hand against Hugo's neck and the doctor prays the other man doesn't feel his pulse quicken at the contact. The baker draws his hand back. He has to hide his sore disappointment. "You're burning up, doctor. Come on, I know just the thing." He props Hugo up to a sitting position and takes the cloth from his forehead. The doctor's head hangs, and to his embarrassment, leans into the baker's shoulder. The baker isn't surprised and keeps a solid hand on his nape. All this touch—it's so new and scary to Hugo and yet he craves more. More of calloused hands. More of being held. More of him. Even breathing hurts for Hugo, and his breathes come out shallow. He hates being so weak. He's been attending to plague victims for a straight year so far—he's never gotten sick until now. Of course, it's not the plague, though. No one in Honeycliff has been infected...yet. "You must eat, doctor," the baker holds a steaming spoon in his other hand. "When I was a boy, my sister would have me eat this when I got a fever. Besides, you're too skinny. You can't fight the plague without some meat on your bones, now can you?" He holds the spoon to Hugo's lips, but the smell, as warm and comforting as it is, with hints of rosemary and thyme, spins his stomach over and he turns his head and buries it further into the baker's shoulder. The baker sighs, right next to Hugo's right ear. It shakes his messy hair. "I did the same, when I was younger," he chuckles, then grows serious. "Please, Hugo, you must eat." Hugo pauses. Then, he looks up at the other man, squinting at him with shiny eyes. His freckles pop out like stars. His beard is fluffier now that it's been dried. "Why do y...you do that?" He whispers, because anything above so hurts his chest. "Do what?" "You s-switch from 'doctor' t-to my name. You did the same thing in the forest...when I fell, you called my name. Every other t-time before this, it has always been d-doctor, or 'Doctor Wallace'..." He plops his head onto the baker's chest, gripping the blanket tightly. "...I don't understand you." A bead of sweat rolls down his nose. "I don't understand it, either, d..." He catches himself. To Hugo's surprise, he starts stroking the back of Hugo's neck, fingers tangling in his messy hair. "...Hugo. It just happens—spontaneously, then I remember that there's a pretense that comes with knowing you, so it—I correct myself..." "There's no pretense with the man you saved," Hugo picks at his shirt. "And whom you gave your shirt to. Did you..." He hesitates. "...undress me?" The baker is silent for a moment. "Yes," he murmurs, then adds, "But only your shirt. I kept the pants on. They dried well enough by the fire." "Oh. Good, good." He blushes a red bright enough to rival even the baker's wild locks. He's glad the other man can't see his face. Those hands being so close to his chest...it's enough to make his whole face red. "Will you eat now?" Hugo resists groaning and nods. It would be better to get it over with. He leans away and sits up properly. The baker's hand goes back to his back. He opens his chapped lips and takes a sip from the offered spoon. It's not entirely bad, and his stomach doesn't feel like a waterwheel, so he keeps eating. He was right, of course, about the spices; rosemary and thyme, with the slightest hint of lemon. They don't speak. The fire, the rain, and the clacking of the spoon against the bowl are the only sounds that make up a conversation. They leave things unsaid; this kind of thing doesn't just end in a ditch. He's much hungrier than he thought. The bowl gets finished much quicker than the plague spreads. "There you go," the baker says with a fleck of pride, and Hugo can't help the way it makes his heart flutter. The baker leaves the bowl on the mantel, then comes back to sit by the doctor's side, grasping his hands in his lap. He's about to speak, but Hugo cuts him off. "I...I don't think I know your name," he admits sheepishly, "I'm sorry. I lo...I love your bakery, so it's, um, strange I never got your name." "It's Thomas," Thomas says, "Thomas Gray. It's alright. I don't suspect you know the farmer's name either, nor his wife's. You've been here with us for all of—what is it now—three months, and you hardly know our names." Thomas's tone isn't accusatory, but observational, even humorous. Hugo's glad he finds it so funny, because he's embarrassed. He couldn't give a shite about the farmer or his wife or their kids, so he's more embarrassed about not knowing the name of the object of his desire than their names. Being a plague doctor isn't a highly personal job, after all. "Thomas," he tries the name, and it feels right, that it should be coming from him. "Thomas, you're Scottish, aren't you?" "Yes. The plague did start with our sailors. My family and I hopped onto the nearest wagon and made it here, in Honeycliff. We separated, however, so my father's serving as a plague doctor in another town and my mother as a seamstress in London. My three brothers have gone off to do odd-jobs in the villages." "You're the oldest?" "The youngest, actually." At Hugo's odd look, he laughs. "Yes, I am the youngest. My older brothers are all titans." Three other men built like Thomas. Hugo thinks that's the closest thing to heaven he'll achieve in this world. The silence returns, if only for a moment. "So, about last night—" The baker starts, but Hugo is quicker. "The soup was lovely. Y-You should give me the recipe, sometime." "I-I suppose. Hugo, last night—" "Would you look at that, the rain's stopped!" "It very much hasn't. Will you please let me speak?" Hugo opens and closes his mouth, struggling for a reason why they shouldn't have the conversation Hugo's been dreading since he woke up. He finds nothing. He motions with one sweaty hand for Thomas to continue. The baker takes the hand in his own. "Hugo Wallace," he says, "You were right when you said I was in love with the Bird Man. Because I was. Because I knew it was you." "W...what?" He looks up at the other man. His hazel eyes are honest. "Honestly, did you think I was just some big Scottish oaf who couldn't connect the dots like everyone else in this village? There is only one Bird Man around here, and it's the man with the very obviously bird inspired mask." Okay, he did used to think of Thomas as stupid, so color him surprised, but he still doesn't understand it. Hugo shakes his head. "I don't—then why did you answer me the way you did? That you 'didn't know' if you loved me?" "That," Thomas sighs, "I was very stupid to say. I didn't want to confess yet because it was all so...so sudden. I wasn't nearly prepared and I didn't even know if you felt the same way." You have no idea how much I love you, he almost says, but stops. How much does he actually love Thomas? In a wonderful display of hypocrisy, he's fallen in love with Thomas's image, with his body. He doesn't know the first thing about this man besides the fact that he is Scottish and has three brothers. "I do," Hugo admits, "but in the same manner I thought you had loved the Bird Man. I don't...I don't know you as well as I w-want to. And I do, I want t-to know you. I want to get to know you. We can start over. Will you...will you have me?" Thomas's other hand props up his chin, making the doctor look up at him. His thumb brushes Hugo's lips. The look in the baker's eyes is gentle, but serious. "There is no question of it, Hugo," he whispers, "I love you, Dr. Wallace. I have, ever since you moved into the village. I have loved you since the time you first came by my shop, looking in from the display window, and I knew how much you had wanted to go inside but you couldn't because of the plague, so I set up the delivery service especially for you. And...And I will love you, even if you don't feel the same once you get to know me." Hugo's eyes drift to Thomas's lips. He licks his own, and grabs the hand under his chin with both of his. Their freckles mesh together in one big pattern of stars. "I love you, too, Thomas," his voice cracks on the baker's name. There's a stone lodged in his throat. "Tell me you l-love me again, just once more." The baker chuckles. "I will make sure you don't forget it." Thomas tugs him forward and kisses him. Oh. He closes his eyes and leans into it. Oh. He has never felt such warmth. Their lips press together, pushing and pulling like waves. Hugo tastes thyme and rosemary, sweet on those lips, familiar on his. Something tugs at his fingertips, at his toes, at the bottom of his stomach. He curls his hands into the front of Thomas's shirt, trying to rid himself of the pins and needles that build up underneath his skin. They pull apart for a moment to breathe. Gasps. Soft breaths. Hugo's lips are not so chapped now. He's so eager that he's the one who pulls Thomas back into the kiss. He throws the blanket aside. He tilts his head, grasping at the other's lips, wanting so much more. A muscular arm wraps around his midsection, pulling him closer, and the other keeps a hand on his thigh, squeezing just that much. His touch is electric. It's like every nerve in Hugo's body is a firecracker. He's finally getting what he wants. So, why does the stone in his throat and the heat behind his eyes get harder and harder to ignore? He pulls away, trying to stifle a sob. "Hugo," Thomas murmurs in concern, cupping his cheek. Hugo leans into it. "Are you alright?" "I-I'm sorry," Hugo sniffles, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "I don't k-know what's come over me. It's been a v-very long time since I've been...touched like this. I have been starved, so to say." "I understand." Thomas's smile is full of patience. "I k-kissed you," Hugo starts to smile despite the tears, "but I don't think I did it right. Can I try again?" "And again, and again, and again," Thomas presses a kiss to his forehead. "As much as you'd like to, doctor." And he does. He kisses Thomas. Again, and again, and again. "I love you, Hugo Wallace," the baker says while they're pressed against each other, gasping for breath, "I love the way your eyes are a different shade—blue and hazel, just like m-mine. I love..." Hugo tugs at his bottom lip and he growls, losing his train of thought for a moment. The doctor is trembling. "...I love your bravery, y-your strength. Even if you are snarky on the outside, your heart is tender." Hugo's hands, with hungry minds of their own, lift up the hem of Thomas's shirt. They touch the muscles there, then travel upwards. The other groans; he is just as needy as Hugo is, he knows it. He wants so badly to take off those trousers and empty this pool of warmth in his stomach. His eyes are distracted by the wonderful V that is formed by the baker's hips and the orange fuzz that peaks out from under. Thomas's lips press against his neck, leaving cold, cold kisses against his flushed skin. He nibbles a bit, before eventually biting down, long and tense, savoring the moment. He groans, the sensation setting off another few firecrackers, and grips Thomas's hair tightly as the other man's tongue laps at the spot. "A reminder," he hums against Hugo's neck, sending shivers down the man's spine. "And a gift." The baker's calloused hand holds his waist under his shirt, thumb rubbing into the freckled skin. The other is still teasing his thigh. "You are so precious in my shirt," Thomas whispers in his ear. The hand under his shirt wanders, and Hugo sucks in a breath. Just as quickly as it came, it's removed. Hugo hisses, partly out of frustration, because he just wants to be torn apart. Just as his hands are about to tuck into Thomas's trousers, the baker pulls away and stands, fixing his shirt and hair. Hugo blinks slowly, not understanding for a moment, before he gasps. "Thomas," he whines, breathless, grabbing the hem of the other man's shirt. "Don't leave it at that. I...I want t—" "I know you want more, my love," Thomas says, amused, patting Hugo's messy hair. "But your leg is broken and you've got a fever. I don't want you to strain yourself." "T-This old thing?" He gestures to his left leg, which is in a rather well made homemade cast. "It won't stop m-me, Thomas. Please." "You are sick," Thomas shakes his head firmly, hands on his hips. "You need rest." Hugo pouts, then flops onto his back. The disappointment and warmth are already starting to ebb. Thomas draws the blanket around him and brushes the hair out of his face. He kisses his forehead softly. "Goodnight, Hugo," he murmurs, "I'll see you in the morning." "Goodnight. I love you." "I love you, too." The baker leaves the room. The doctor touches his neck, pressing his finger into the bruise the baker had marked there. It stings pleasantly. He grins. As he drifts off to the sound of rain tapping against the windows, he thinks of the kiss between two silhouettes, and thinks of the ones that are yet to come, when they start over and become people, become more than just lips and breath. He thinks of the canvas-like palms of the baker holding him close—not destroying him, like he had wanted. Thomas is far more than muscular arms and hearty laughs. He is gentle. He is kind. He is not afraid of contact. That is all Hugo can ask for.

#oc #writing #plague doctor #plague doctor oc #fiction #my writing #mine #note: this is alternate history #so #its not entirely based on the bubonic plague

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valeriannnn · 4 years

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if youve ever wanted to think about what almost every major RWBY character would main in professional overwatch, then today is your lucky day! brought to you by hiatus, return of owl, and 3am delirium

RUBY - Star DPS. Extremely flashy, always on the highlight reel. Will play whatever is needed to pound the enemies into dirt, but also the type to say "fuck it ok guys trust me im gonna pop off" and swap to her signature widow/tracer to Pop Off. Works unfailingly. Team captain and emotional core. Prefers mobile heroes and an unpredictable playstyle.

WhiteSnow - Flex Support/Flex DPS. Put her on any sniper (including and especially Ana) and watch all hell rain down. Methodical playstyle, favors high-utility heroes. Aside from snipers, can often be found on Baptiste/Mei/Symmetra. Enables teammates to make big plays, but often sacrifices her own presence in the killfeed for the benefit of the team as a whole. Loves to maker opponents' lives a living hell with CC. Line em up, knock em down.

Belladonna - Offtank. Extremely attentive to her backline, constantly running interference and peeling for allies. Impossible to catch off-guard. Delights in thwarting the enemy team's plans and preventing them from making the plays they want to. Excellent map awareness and always the one to touch point to preserve overtime. Shotcaller. Struggled with committing to risky/aggressive plays, but being on a reliable team has made her more comfortable performing her role and trusting her teammates to have her back. Prefers mobile heroes but will adapt to any situation to work in perfect tandem with...

YangXiaoLong - Main Tank. Could have been a DPS main but early on committed to tank role to enable her duo parter (and little sister) to pop off (and have shorter queue times). Developed a real knack for controlling space and being a brick goddamn wall between her squishies and the enemy team. Extremely aggressive playstyle, but has cooled down in recent years to be more of a team player. Still loves to thrash about when given the opportunity. Known for bold plays and phatty shatties.

Arc - Main Support. Tried for years to be a DPS hotshot but was determinedly mediocre and got hard stuck in plat. Persuaded by Pyrrha to pocket her for a few games, and discovered the depth and fulfillment of playing support to a well-coordinated team. Nurtured his aptitude for assisting from the backline and quickly rose through the ranks. Will play whatever is meta but will always be a Mercy main at heart. Played Brig during GOATS. Shotcaller.

Valkyrie - Doomfist.

Nikos - Main Tank. Extremely methodical player, reknowned for big brain cerebral plays and unflappability. Can be slow to push advantages, but never makes mistakes. Loves the mind games in a Rein v Rein matchup, and unfailingly blocks the enemy shatter (delights in cucking the enemy Rein). Will play Orisa For The Good Of The Team but takes no joy in it. Terrifying on defense; takes a strong position and allows time pressure to force enemies into missteps. When you make a mistake, she will be there. Strategic backbone of the team.

RenLie - Flex Support. Bloodthirsty support. Likes the balance of damage potential and support capacity in Zenyatta, but puts forth strong showings on Moira and Ana as well. First priority is of course keeping his team alive, but flankers trying to dive him in the back line tend to get sent home in tears. Big Jjonak energies. :uwuknife: Can be susceptible to tunnel vision/desperation, and occasionally needs teammates to re-ground him. Always nanos Nora.

PPolen - Offtank. D.Va one-trick. Absolutely notorious for eating ults; absolutely infuriating to play hitscan into. Flawless mechanical skill. Occasionally struggles with communication, but honestly so on-the-ball that it doesn't usually come back to bite her. Always has gold objective time.

Qrow - True flex. Exclusively solo-queues on ladder, just plays the leaderboards. Played just about every role at some point (except main tank, fuck that), but currently on a flex support kick. Holds world records for gravs/blizzards/immortality feels clipping through the geometry and falling out of the map. The sort of Ana who will singlehandedly take out both enemy DPS when beset by flankers only to immediately die to an errant Moira orb. Gamers can we get an F in chat. Accustomed to playing on 200+ ping and is deeply unsettled when he moves somewhere with good internet and has to re-learn all his timings.

RWBY+JNPR+P All form a single 9-man roster. Sub out roles with redundant players for map set strategies and for flexible plays. Probably called the Beacon Huntsmen or something generic like that, who cares

Winter - Main Tank and Offtank. Excellent mechanical skill. Unparalleled when allowed to execute her set strategy, but struggles with adaptability. Extremely self-sacrificial, and knows exactly how to leverage her health pool to buy time and/or space for her allies to make the plays they need to. Will unflinchingly act upon callouts, good or bad, because the worst outcome is a split decision. Especially fond of a quick reset.

Whitley - Doesn't play Overwatch, but holds several championship trophies in international Pokemon tournaments. Minecraft youtuber.

Adam - Widow one-trick. Highly overrated, inexplicably popular streamer. Mechanically talented but poison in a team environment. Picked up and quickly dropped from several professional teams. Teabags. Looks impressive on stream but crumbles against opponents with any semblance of coordination. Eventually blacklisted from professional environments after one too many scandals in his personal life.

Ozpin -Franchise owner. Has never actually touched Overwatch, but used to be a respected Starcraft player back in the day. Took on a coaching role for a time, but now largely manages from afar. Has a sparse and cryptic social media presence. Makes business decisions largely at random, unbeknownst to all his subordinates.

Salem - Hates videogames. Will unplug the router if you piss her off.

Ace Ops - High profile roster hand-picked for perfectly complementary hero pools. Hyped to fuck in the preseason. Unparalleled individual play but poor communication, incompatible playstyles, and truly abysmal coaching staff keep them from being a top-tier team. Widely considered a disappointment considering the talent and money backing them.

Harriet - DPS. Exclusively plays flankers and extremely mobile DPS. Tries to solo-carry; in her defense, it often works. Unironically brags/complains about having gold medals. Quick to tilt but often uses the negative energy to pop off even harder. Overtime clutch god.

Marrow - Flex DPS. Cautious player, often hesitant to commit to risky strats. Flawless positioning, both personally and for thrown abilities. Talent for projectile DPS; probably contributed not-insignificantly to scatter arrow being removed from the game. Prefers to understand the enemy's strategy before acting. Shotcaller. Nobody listens.

Elm - Main Tanks (Except Reinhardt), Zarya. Aggressive tank player, frequently found with gold damage. Generally good natured but vulnerable to tilt if on a losing streak. Highly momentum-based. Makes tutorial videos on strategy and positioning for her youtube channel. Wants to see the competitive scene develop and flourish, but sensitive to feeling threatened by new talent. Helps them anyway.

Vine - Flex Tanks (except Zarya), Reinhardt. Unflappable, regardless of quality of games or recent performance. Good at reading enemy team and tracking ults. Generally calls enemy plays before they happen. Always sticks with Elm, largely out of obligation to bail her out when her aggression puts her in a dicey position. Understated player, rarely in highlight compilations, but extremely consistent performance. Plays off-meta in scrims so as not to reveal strats.

Clover - Main Healer. Can play any support, but Lucio main through and through. Suffers from Reddit Lucio syndrome, but usually good enough (or lucky enough) to get away with it. Loves to deny enemy followup. Peel master, boop god. PMA to a borderline-irritating degree. Gives great pep talks at half time. Tends to overcommit to strategies that are dead in the water; sometimes it's better to call it and switch comps while you still have time on the clock. Despite this, is opportunistic in the moment-to-moment sense and quick to capitalize on enemy vulnerabilities.

Flynt Coal - Lucio one-trick. I mean, come on.

Wukong - ??? Exclusively plays off-meta heroes and weird shit. Talented but remains on ladder because he doesn’t like the rigid structure of tournament play. Refuses to be confined to a single role. Hates role lock cause he can’t swap mid game anymore. Despite all this, somehow tends to be more of an asset than a detriment. Definitely a team player. PMA king. Occasionally finds legitimately competitive strata for underutilized heroes. Nutty with hammond movement, godawful with mines. Has the Winston skin equipped, of course.

Ilia - DPS. Popular streamer. Tried going pro for a bit, but didn’t like the schedule and retired shortly. Frequently plays with the community and does weird custom game modes for a laugh. Loves Daddy Rein Chases Tiny Torblets. Refuses to open loot boxes, much to the dismay of her stream. Plays Golfing Over It during long queues. Draws all her own custom emotes.

Watts - DPS. Mains Widow, Sombra; plays anything that lets him avoid ever actually engaging the enemy at close range. Thinks the game stopped being good when Sombra GOATS stopped being a thing. Spends all day on twitter heckling pro players and declaring Overwatch a dead game. Suspected of cheating. Considers himself a shotcaller but isn't very good at it.

Tyrian - Plays Junkrat and Roadhog exclusively. Thinks it's bullshit that the game doesn't have friendly fire. Thinks it's bullshit that Junkrat doesn't deal self-inflicted damage anymore. Master of the bounce shot. Tends to treat the game like a TDM and forget the objective in favor fragging out. Targets a single enemy player and tries to get them to tilt. Uses voice chat but only laughs. Never makes callouts. Trash talks in all-chat. Considers it a personal victory if he gets someone to rage quit.

Hazel - No Role. Doesn't really get the idea of the metagame; knows it's generally good to have a balanced team but thats about as deep as he chooses to go. Was one of the old guards of PC gaming but now that it's a mainstream hobby has to refuses to confront that he's hot garbage at them. Can't really parse everything that's happening onscreen in a fast-paced game like overwatch, so he just picks Torb (regardless of map or attacking/defending status) and uses the turret as a security blanket. Godawful turret placement. Still has a good time somehow.

Cinder - Main Tank. Likes the importance of the role, and especially the way her team has to follow her calls for any chance of success. A nice balance of aggression and craftiness, she makes a fearsome opponent. Callouts could be more frequent/detailed, but her directions are always good when given. Very susceptible to emotional ups and downs, and often takes out frustration on teammates. Takes losses very hard, gloats about wins. Happiest with an Ana pocket.

Emerald - Offtank. Would be much happier on DPS or Support, but desperate to show off and live up to Cinder's expectations. Sticks with her main tank except when it's absolutely necessary to peel for the back line. Tends to be overcautious with ults; she's good enough mechanically to earn them relatively quickly, but fear of whiffing one makes her reticent to spend them. Flawless bubble timing on Zarya.

Mercury - Support. Still considers Symmetra a support. Quick to whip out the blaster and try to fight off flankers instead of calling for assistance. Knows all the angles for a narsty biotic grenade. Plays as though he's got better positioning and backup than he does; frequently gets opponents to back off just by winning the mental game. Will let allies die on ladder if they piss him off.

#rwby #rwby meta #kind of?????????#yall have my SINCEREST apologies if the readmore dont work and youre on mobile #long post #anyway heres Content #feel free to add your fave that i couldnt think of anything for #eventually i fell asleep

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bluefurcape · 6 years

Text

Sakura and Kakashi - Part 2

Part 1 here!

For the “Locked In” prompt for Kakasaku Month 2018!!!!!!!! @thekakasakusquad @itslulu42

Phew, wasn’t really planning for it to be this long. I will be posting this on ao3 and ff after some light edits. Thanks for reading!

September was the month that she’d gotten divorced. One day, she’d woken up alone in the bed that she’d shared with her ex-husband and realized that seven years had gone by. She’d wondered then when she’d learned to just accept how things had become. The dinners with just her and Sarada. The parent-teacher conferences where the instructor sympathetically, if mistakenly, patted Sakura’s hand for being so brave as a single mother. The fact that not a closet in their home contained a single item of Sasuke’s clothing.

Maybe she could have handled it if Sasuke’s coldness had only extended to her, but she noticed Sarada watching Inojin with his father at the summer lantern festival with a sadness that broke her heart. Over and over again, Sarada bit her lower lip before shaking it off and putting on a brave face. She was just a child, born into this world with all of Sakura’s love. Sakura knew something had to change.

The divorce was messy, a process that she didn’t care to relive if she could help it. Some people that she thought were her friends turned on her, blamed her for her marriage falling apart. Ino was always there for her and for that she would be truly grateful. Naruto did his best, though on the most basic level, he didn’t understand why Sasuke just couldn’t get it together. At least he hadn’t tried the same kind of stunt he was pulling tonight with her and Sasuke. She shuddered to imagine what kind of permanent damage that would have done. Kakashi at least was willing to humor this. She imagined Sasuke would have renounced Konoha for good, if the situation had been forced on him.

Ino was the shoulder that Sakura had cried on, but Kakashi had been there for her in his own way. Take-out dinners picked up for her and Sarada. Training sessions here and there to help her daughter with a particularly tricky technique. A leak fixed in their ceiling after a particularly bad storm. Chance encounters that always made her feel like the world wasn’t so bad, reminding her that she still had people that she could trust.

The only exit to the room remained secured, the seal glaring back at her like a disembodied eyeball. She couldn't believe that she was still here. She took a piece of paper from the stack of notes left on the table, and after noting that it was regarding a meeting on nothing important (just Naruto’s doodles and a few ideas for Icha Icha fanfiction) she tore little pieces from it and crumpled them into balls. The repetitive action soothed her somewhat.

Eventually, she grew tired of sitting on the chair and, because it was preferable over the floor, she chose to stretch out on top of the table, staring up at the recessed lighting on the ceiling. The fatigue of the day caught up to her and she longed for her bed. She had never been much of a night owl by nature, but she had a suspicion that the same was not true for Kakashi. He remained as he was, engrossed in his book without a single complaint. Paired with the fact that he often would show up to training sessions scheduled to begin in the morning well into the afternoon, she surmised that he probably preferred being awake at night.

"This is so pointless," she said under her breath. To her surprise, Kakashi's gaze flickered up to her. She could almost believe that she had imagined breaking through his general shield of indifference. The silence had stretched this long, so she wondered why he reacted at all. Being forced into the same room together seemed like an ill thought through plan, a matter-of-fact strategy that was not surprising coming from Naruto. Despite the years since they’d both been taken off active duty, they were still both shinobi. They had endured worse interrogation techniques, though she was tempted to say that this was going to make the top ten. She supposed she should be touched that Naruto still retained more than a touch of the naivete of his youth. He believed in the best version of people, meaning that he failed to understand why people just couldn't get along. It must have been especially hard to swallow when it came to his old teammates. But sometimes that was just how it was. Teams grew apart, lost contact. It was a natural part of life.

"You should sleep. It'll make the time pass faster," Kakashi said. The statement didn’t count as a real conversation, though it would be the first time that he’d spoken more than two words at once to her in more than a year. It veered towards a command, the kind a superior officer would drop curtly. All business.

A part of her didn't want to give him the satisfaction of ordering her around, like he was still her captain, but she was tired. She refused to answer him, turning away and closing her eyes, aggressively trying to fall asleep. Even breathing. Clearing her mind. Counting by multiples of three. She used all of the tactics at her disposal to make herself fall unconscious, but success eluded her. Her brows knitted together.

The problem was that she realized she could feel his attention on her back.

“Quit staring,” she demanded. At the same time, her curiosity speculated wildly on the reason for his eyes being on her.

He coughed. The chair legs dragged as he shifted his position. She held her breath as she waited for his response, but there was none. Did he finally want to talk or was there something gross stuck to her back? She discreetly reached around and patted the area.

“Do you have an itch?” Kakashi asked.

Immediately, she retracted her hand. “No.”

“Naruto…sure is something. Isn’t he?”

“He’s an idiot.”

Kakashi sighed. “I didn’t realize that it had become this bad.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I regularly stop speaking to some of my oldest friends all the time. It’s a completely normal thing to do.”

“…Sorry.”

She sat up, incredulous. “Sorry? That’s it? Sorry? You ignored me for a year. What did—” She stopped herself, realizing that she was about to ask him what she had done wrong, because her default always went to a place where the fault lied with her.”Never mind, there’s no point.” She turned away again to lie on her side, showing her back to him. She cringed at herself, torn between feeling like a bitch and feeling weak. Neither made her consider herself a very good person.

She heard the pages of his book rustle as he closed them. He asked, “Are you okay?”

“I’m not.” Screw it, if they weren’t friends anymore, at the very least she was going to get some kind of closure. She rolled to her back, her body hitting the table like a sack of potatoes with a thump. “Why did you stop talking to me?”

He blinked, the book in his hand halfway raised in hesitation, as if he was considering just hiding his face instead of responding. The muscles in his neck tightened as he swallowed. Finally, he sighed. “I was distracted by a few things.”

Her lips pressed together. She wanted to shoot back that she had seen him out and about, talking with Genma, doing stupid shit with Gai, even grabbing a bowl of ramen with Naruto. She didn’t want to admit just how closely she’d been paying attention, knowing that it would only make her appear needy and insecure. “You could have come to me if you needed help,” she said softly, deciding to ignore what she felt was a lie. Arguing about it would only end badly.

“I wouldn’t want to burden you like that.”

“That’s what friends do. They come to each other for help.” Perhaps they weren’t friends. Perhaps they never had been. Pity could have motivated him to help her back then. She ignored the aching emptiness the thought left in her. “I guess you didn’t see me like that.” He didn’t want to rely upon her.

“I couldn’t come to you for this,” he murmured.

“But we are friends,” she said, contradicting the voice of doubt in her head.

“Of course.”

She grabbed one of the small pieces of crumpled paper that she’d been piling on the table. She threw them at him, one by one. “Friends. Don’t. Do. What. You. Did.” It wasn’t cool. The unaffected, stoic asshole act had lost its appeal to her long ago.

He took the barrage of paper balls without changing his expression. Tiny pieces got stuck in his hair. She giggled, which broke into full on laughter, at his ridiculous appearance. The corners of his mouth tilted up.

“Good to see you finally cracking a smile after all this time,” she said.

“You were always able to make me smile.”

The revelation touched her, but her bright expression faltered. “Then tell me why you stopped talking to me.”

He closed his eyes. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

If not for the chakra dampening stone, Kakashi would have disappeared after his cryptic refusal. She was at a loss on how to draw out the conversation, so she let it drop.

She accepted that sleep was an impossibility for the night. Kakashi went back to reading his Icha Icha in isolation and she was bored. In her delirium formed from a combination of a lack of rest and her emotions, she put together a doll of Kakashi, made of a permanent marker that she’d scavenged out of on of the cabinets and taped on some paper hair cut to resemble his spiky silhouette. She made one of herself too out of a pink highlighter.

“My name is Kakashi, and I’m a big ol’ jerk,” she made the makeshift doll say in her terrible imitation of his voice. She glanced over at Kakashi, who flipped through the pages of Icha Icha in deep concentration. The small bit of conversation that they’d had cleared the largest elephant in the room, but not much had been resolved. He still hadn’t explained why he’d ignored her for so long. In fact, he made it clear just how reluctant he was to broach the subject. She continued in the little Kakashi’s voice, wanting to provoke a reaction, if anything, “Icha Icha is the worst. You know that it doesn’t matter if any of the characters die because they just come back to life later on! There’s no real stakes in the story.”

Kakashi’s brow rose.

She waved little Kakashi in the air dramatically. “The love story in Icha Icha Violence doesn’t have enough development. Am I supposed to believe that Yuki and Soichiro are hot for each other at first sight when they have nothing in common?”

Kakashi started drumming his fingers on the table.

“The villain’s motivation is so weak—so he’s just mad that Soichiro was rude to him? Is that a good enough reason to try and wreck everyone’s lives?” she made the Sakura doll say.

“You’re missing the point of Icha Icha completely,” Kakashi interrupted, an edge of irritation in his voice.

“Enlighten me.”

He leaned forward, on the verge of launching a tirade, before he stopped himself. He settled back into his seat, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

She wasn’t even worth the effort of a stupid argument about made up characters. She let the makeshift dolls fall, her shoulders shaking. “That’s how it always is, isn’t it? Do you know how hard it’s been for me to accept that this is how it’s going to be?” Things had been different right after the war. She couldn’t claim they had been bosom buddies, but there had been more to their relationship than this awkward, tense silence. Her divorce had been difficult. Sasuke had not taken it well, though in the end, he accepted that it was over. During those awful days, her random encounters with Kakashi had been some of the only times that she had been able to smile. He broke through the misery and guilt. She had always trusted him, but she came to learn exactly why. He was there for her in unexpected ways. Not to fix her. He was just…there

And at one point she had thought they were becoming…something more. “I missed you, Kakashi. Really missed you. You were part of my team.” To her horror, tears dripped down her face. Her voice cracked. “You locked me out.”

She hid her face, ashamed that she couldn’t stop crying. The floodgates were open and the truth was, she was never okay with losing Kakashi. She needed his odd, stabilizing presence in her life; the past year had shown her just how much she needed him.

She heard his chair scrape across the carpet and looked up. He moved quickly when he needed to and suddenly he was by the door, sizing it up, then rearing back and slamming his fist into it. Predictably, the seal remained whole, but he stood there, frozen.

“Kakashi?”

He hissed out a swear, falling to his knees and clutching his hand, his knuckles rapidly swelling to an ugly red that had a promise of a darker bruise as time went on. Sakura hurried to him, instinctively reaching for her chakra. Belatedly, she remembered she couldn’t heal as she needed to here. “You idiot, what have you done?” She clicked her tongue and gently cradled his hand. “Did my crying make you so uncomfortable that you actually tried punching your way out? You’re going to have to deal with a broken hand until we get out. Stupid.” She called him other variations of a person without low intelligence as she rummaged through the cabinets for some kind of emergency medical kit.

He watched her as she set the bones, wincing, but quiet. She managed to find painkillers and gave him a triple dosage to help him get through it until morning.

“I’m sorry that you’re always having to fix me up,” he murmured.

She looked up in surprise. “What’s wrong with that?” She smiled, wiping away the remnants of her tears. “You’re my friend. I don’t mind because I care about you.” She let her voice drop. “You mean a lot to me. I just wish you cared about me too, just a little bit.”

She felt his uninjured hand trace her jawline. “I do care, Sakura.”

“Then why?” Her eyes were filling again with tears. He knew exactly what she was asking him about.

He confessed everything.

Kakashi wanted to see her again.

One day, he woke up with that realization and felt his stomach drop. Sakura was a bright, kind woman, with a young child to care for. She had only just gotten through her divorce with a man that she had tried hard to love since she was a child. It must have been difficult giving that up in so many ways. He berated himself for being selfish.

But he never claimed to be a good man. He still found himself running errands around the time that he knew that she would be out and about. Or heading to the hospital during her shift for an injury he could have easily avoided during a bet with Gai. More frequently, he came up with flimsy excuses to cross paths with her. Just hearing her laugh made his day.

He didn’t dare hope that she felt the same way, though there were a few signs that even he picked up. There were the lingering glances. The non-verbal communications that passed between them as easily as if they could speak telepathically. The times when their hands brushed together and remained touching.

He could see a life with her, clear as day. Happy. That state almost seemed like a foreign concept, but he found himself daydreaming about it anyway. He couldn’t offer her much, just himself, and he had to admit that sounded like poor prospects. He didn’t exactly go courting frequently. And he was pretty sure that nobody called it ‘courting.’ Even his thoughts were proving to him that he was an out-of-touch old man. But if she wanted him too…

He waited, gathering the courage to say something. Simply being by her side was enough. His day was good if she turned her smile on him. A little pathetic, he realized.

Kakashi had fallen hard and fast.

He was on his way to the bookstore to pick up a copy of a title that Sakura had recommended, when Sasuke’s voice from an alleyway stopped him in his tracks. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Good afternoon to you too, stranger.” Kakashi touched two fingers to his temple in a loose salute. After the divorce, Sasuke had cleared out of Konoha. Not that he had kept his residency here for long periods of time before, but he even cut contact with Naruto. Kakashi only knew that because Naruto included it on his drunken list of grievances against Sasuke. It was extensive, detailed, and repeating.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sasuke repeated more firmly, stepping out onto the street. He had lost weight. His cheekbones cut more sharply than Kakashi remembered.

“Going…to buy a book?”

Sasuke scowled. “You know what I mean—with Sakura. I come back and find out that you’ve been hanging around her like a puppy.”

“We run in to each sometimes.” Many times a week.

“You fixed a leaking ceiling in her house?” His glare grew pointed. “That better not have been a euphemism.” For a man who chose to be a wandering hermit, he was surprisingly up to date on the gossip.

“Is there a point to this? I have places to be.”

“The divorce only went through three months ago,” Sasuke pointed out.

“Oh, has it been that long?” Kakashi feigned, well aware of the timeline.

“You’re a vulture. The ink’s barely dried.”

“Sakura and I are friends, Sasuke.” Kakashi was a touch exasperated.

Sasuke continued as if he hadn’t spoken, voice lowered in bitterness, “We don’t deserve her.” That gave Kakashi pause, the subtly snarky responses that he’d been volleying back dying in his throat half-formed. “You know it. We’re more alike than I’d like to admit.”

That must have taken a lot for Sasuke to concede, given that he seemed to enjoy flaunting his own rarity through the ‘Last of the Uchiha’ status. (Seemed like he was a bad father, though, forgetting that Sarada was also an Uchiha.) A reluctant part of Kakashi agreed with Sasuke. Kakashi was not a superstitious man, but it did feel sometimes like a curse had followed both of them around for their lives. Misery affected the people that they loved the most. Sasuke had not been able to make Sakura happy and she had chased after him since she was a child. Was it arrogant to think that Kakashi could do any better?

“For her sake,” Sasuke said, “leave her be. That’s what I’m doing.”

“Forgive me if I don’t put a lot of stock in your judgment.” Kakashi drew himself up.

“Then what about this: did you know that there is a lengthy appeal process for divorce?” Sasuke tilted his head, regarding Kakashi coldly. “The statute of limitations is two years. The Council frowns upon divorce and gives every opportunity for couples to work it out.”

Kakashi blinked deliberately, not wanting to betray his thoughts as he put two and two together. “Is that a threat?”

“I gave Sakura what she wanted, but I will still protect her. She needs a different kind of man, not someone like us.”

Someone like us. The words echoed in Kakashi’s mind with growing intensity.

Sasuke stepped back into the shadows of the alley behind him with a stony expression. The red of his sharingan eyes glowed even in the dim light.

His message had been clear.

At the conclusion of his story, Kakashi said, “I couldn’t let him put you through the divorce again.” He looked down. “And I didn’t think I mattered enough if I disappeared.”

Oh, she was going to kill Sasuke.

Despite his injury, Sakura punched Kakashi in the shoulder as hard as she could. He yelped. “We’re idiots,” she whispered, then she pulled down his mask and kissed him.

The kiss was sweet, tinged with a year’s worth of longing. He had believed that he mattered so little to her that he could just leave. She wanted him to know how far away from the truth he was. Her lips on his were a promise and when she felt him respond, her heart soared.

She couldn’t help but laugh as a thought occurred to her. “So Sasuke told you not to date me, and you cut off all contact?” The ridiculous logic of it was not fitting with her.

He flushed as he sheepishly admitted, “It was a little extreme, but I couldn’t go halfway. I—” his gaze lowered to her mouth, “—couldn’t trust myself.”

She hummed to herself, leaning closer. “I’m still mad at you. You have a lot of making up to do.”

“I’ll try my best,” he breathed and kissed her again.

The door to the room swung open. From somewhere in the back of the group, Kiba groaned, “They’re not naked!”

“Gross,” Ino replied, shoving him.

“Are there any shrimp chips left?” Naruto peered at the discarded bags of various junk food.

Sakura sat up from the table that she and Kakashi had been sharing as comfortably as they could (not very). Her back ached, but not from any lewd acts, as much as she would have preferred that. She scowled, crossing her arms across her chest. “You assholes, I can’t believe you did this to us.” She sniffed. “We ate everything in the cabinets.”

“Everything!” Naruto shouted in outrage. “Even my limited edition fire ramen that I hid in the vent?”

“Especially the limited edition fire ramen,” Kakashi said.

Naruto’s face crumpled. Then, just as quickly, he brightened. “You two look like you’re getting along much better. I knew my plan would work.”

“Actually, we’re mortal enemies now.” Sakura shot a glance at Kakashi, a spark of amusement in her eyes.

“Huh?” Naruto looked to the older man for an explanation, but received none. “Mortal enemies?”

“She is my nemesis. Come on, we’ll let you buy us breakfast.” Kakashi hopped off the table.

Naruto remained behind, frowning as if he was doing highly complicated calculus in his brain. It wasn’t until he saw Kakashi take Sakura’s hand that he finally understood the joke.

He punched the air. “I’M A FLIPPING GENIUS.”

#kakasakumonth2018 #week3day5 #kakasaku #my writing #sakura and kakashi

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