Founders Era - Tumblr Posts

cant believe the entirety of naruto wouldn’t exist if madara didnt fucking suck at skipping rocks

I’ve been stuck in the Naruto (founders era mostly) fandom for some time now, and finally managed to throw something together to post. Enjoy some Tobirama and Hashirama sketches :) I gave Hashirama a little sprout on top of his head that changes based on his mood (it flowers when he’s excited, wilts when he’s sad or getting relentlessly bullied by the combined powers of Tobirama and Madara…). I just think it’s neat.

I love them both so much and reading fics where they’re in a healthy sibling relationship makes me irrationally happy (though they’re quite rare, since Hashirama is often portrayed as evil for some reason 😅 - no matter, I’ll still read them).

I also sketched them planting a tree together. In my mind, they’re planting it on the day of the official establishment of Konoha, so it will act as a reminder of peace for many years to come. It’s set in a world where nothing is wrong, Izuna is alive and well, Madara isn’t insane, Konoha is thriving (happy endingy FTW).

There’s a short rant beneath the cut, nothing important :)

I’ve been a bit under the weather lately. Thankfully, my final exams (the most difficult exams in my life) are behind me (I’m still waiting for the results, but I’m pretty sure I passed), but unfortunately, my portfolio for an art college I had applied to had been rejected. I’ve never liked my artstyle (and art in general), and the rejection hurt me more deeply than I thought it would. It fuels my insecurities about my art to the point where I was second-guessing if I should post these sketches or not. I’m constantly worried that they look fine to me, but horrible to others, but I managed to convince myself to post them nonetheless. No worries though, I plan on practicing more, now that I have more time. I’ll probably post more as well (no promises), and I also thought about writing a bit (fanfics). I’m excited to see where life takes me, since it kinda came crashing down on me in the past few days, but I’ll pull through, I’m sure. Thank you so much for reading and I hope you’re enjoying your day :)

What about Tobirama messing up with his s/o and refusing to admit he was wrong and thinking that she's being dramatic, until the evening he comes back home and she's not there? 👀

A/n: oo- 👀👀 now listen- This is Tobirama we are talking about this ain't gonna be that short of a fic as I intended for these to be.

Warnings: angst, mentions of blood, not proof read

' Too Late '

They both stood facing each other, breathing heavily as the cold downpour soaked them both to the very bone. Both of them red in the face from the cold and the anger. The white haired man was the one with the last words, having cut his beloved off with words that had cut her deeper than any blade ever could. She now stared at him in utter disbelief; it made her wonder if this was her husband speaking at all. Her own anger boiled inside her and ran thick in her veins so much that it blinded her. The cold rain was no match for it, she didn't feel it, she felt nothing at all in truth now. As her expression fell, so did Tobirama's angry look, confusion and shock sparkled in his scarlet eyes for a moment, something she would have missed if she blinked. But her eyes were stuck on him, her jaw clenching as she debated what to do. She turned on her heel slowly before padding away in long strides through the mud and the wet shrubs, leaving the Senju to stand alone in the storm. The thought of him suddenly felt like a bed of nettles and weeds, it made her gut churn and her wound burn, and her walking soon turned into running.

As minutes turned into hours, and hours turned into days, and the mission dragged on to the end, Tobirama had almost fully rid himself the memories of your arguments. He looked forward to returning to the village and your shared home, although he knew the reunion would be sour; you were overreacting, you were being stubborn- he told himself. But it all made him worry, every step he took to the house made all concern suddenly blossom strong, thorny stems hugging his heart tight. Just as he placed his hand on the door handle to open it, he realized that it wasn't locked, it was cracked open for anyone. The storm from days prior was followed by freezing weather and the hall was still wet at the entrance. Cold air hung humid and old inside. The steps Tobirama took grew slower and slower as realization was even slower to hit. His mind could barely process this.

The painting of the two of you was on the floor, faced down, some glass was spread in the kitchen, the bedroom closet was a mess, left in a rush, your things were missing, mainly your clothes and basic necessities. Droplets of blood were splattered everywhere, matte and old. Were you attacked in your own home, he suddenly wondered. No. You were wounded, he remembered.. The smell that wafted was nothing but akin to the wet leaves that were slowly rotting away. There was no letter, no last words, nothing. Now there was only your slowly fading presence left, what used to be of it, still lingering on the walls and dark corners of the rooms as Tobirama dropped to his knees before the painting.

Guess what?! Guess what?! Guess what?!!!!!!! PitchBlackMagpie updated their ‘My Tongue is a Weapon’ story! Hallelujah!!!! After two years they have finally returned!!

Guess what?! Guess what?! Guess what?!!!!!!! PitchBlackMagpie updated their ‘My Tongue is a Weapon’ story! Hallelujah!!!! After two years they have finally returned!!

And now they’ve updated Palingenesis! The wedding has happened people!

Guess what?! Guess what?! Guess what?!!!!!!! PitchBlackMagpie updated their ‘My Tongue is a Weapon’ story! Hallelujah!!!! After two years they have finally returned!!

And now they’ve updated Palingenesis! The wedding has happened people!

Guess what?! Guess what?! Guess what?!!!!!!! PitchBlackMagpie updated their ‘My Tongue is a Weapon’ story! Hallelujah!!!! After two years they have finally returned!!

This is how the sorting hat came into being. No arguments.

So here’s one of my founders headcanons: Salazar Slytherin being a potions master is all well and good, but just because his house produced a lot of them doesn’t mean he was one. Basically, imagine Rowena Ravenclaw as a mad scientist. Imagine her working on a potion all night and almost falling asleep at the breakfast table. Imagine her with crazy hair and sooty clothing because “It exploded, Salazar! It’s not supposed to do that! Why did the hellebore have such a violent reaction to the aconite!!” and Salazar just sighs and “Rowena, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Were you experimenting with your potions again? You know that’s not my area of expertise.”

Imagine Rowena getting a pretty diadem from her aunt who thinks she should act more like a lady. And Rowena doesn’t know what to do with it because jewelry isn’t practical, what if it gets stuck in something or falls into a potion? So instead she leaves it on the table and gets distracted by her thoughts, and ´I wonder what would happen if I made a runic chain mixing sumerian and norse. Hmm… if I added mannaz there and.. but what would I use it for. It could boost someone’s intelligence if I added the hagalaz rune there but how do I apply it to a person without causing irreparable damage… what if….´ and then she remembers the diadem in front of her and grabs it, heading for her workshop.

Rowena finishing the diadem but noticing it only works on fullblooded humans, not centaurs or other similar beings. She tries to figure out why and sees the mannaz rune in her configuration. Mannaz, human. She removes it and adds some other runes for balance, because mannaz is usually used to stabilize. But she needs something to try the new rune chain on. She doesn’t really have any more jewelry. So she sneaks in and “borrows” Godric’s hat while he’s asleep, and works on it for hours.The end results are not quite what she planned. Breakfast the next morning is… interesting (maybe she shouldn’t have taken out the mannaz rune). “Hey, has anyone seen my hat?” “Er, about that Godric..” “Rowena what did you do.” “I… ImighthavemadeyourhatsentientI’msosorry!” “..did you just say you made my hat sentient? How the fuck did you even do that? Wait no, don’t answer that, just give me my hat.” “I.. are you sure you want it? It’s just that, well, it picked up some of your habits…” “What do you mean?” “Well.. you know how you sometimes sing drinking songs when you’re bored?” “Yes… Wait. Rowena, please don’t tell me-” “WHEN YOUR DRINK IS HALF EMPTY AND YOUR GLASS IS HALF FULL, WHEN YOU’RE DOWN ON YOUR LUCK AND YOUR LUCK IS DOWNHILL, I’M THE HAT FOR YOU IF YOU TIP YOUR HAT TO ME, OH HEYY, TIP YOUR HAT TO MEEE” “This is your fault Rowena”

Just, mad scientist Rowena. The other founders avoiding her part of the castle because of fumes. Students forbidden from going into the labs without supervision because she might have left a potion to brew or a bit of runework unfinished or another one of those carnivorous cauldrons lying around. Mad scientist Rowena Ravenclaw. Yes.

Salazar: Why is he even trying?!

Helga Hufflepuff is Online

Answering your questions and offering advice <3

yall have no idea how bored I am and tumblr is the only thing keeping me alive at this point (and msyme)

y’know we probably would have prevented a lot of conflict if someone sent madara to therapy

Naruto tumblr in 2020 is kind of crazy because some of y’all are like “I’ve been sexually attracted to Kakashi for nearly half of my life” and then some of y’all are like “dismantle the military state: here’s why Sasuke was wronged” and then the remainder is just Gaara stans 

“It was a gift and a curse to love and to hate so intensely. It was more a curse than a gift, a sweet prank from the gods, the man Madara most hated in the entire world, the man he learned to love so deeply, be the man he worshiped above anything else.”

In the good days, Madara would pray to Izuna, wherever he could be, to understand. That he could never leave Tobirama without giving up his own heart.

In the bad, Madara would look at Tobirama, quietly asleep on his chest, and ask himself what kind of brother that would turn him into.

Pairing: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara

Rating: M

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Chapters: 1/1

Words: 2011

Language: bad English

CW: VERY unhealthy relationship, mild blood/gore, eye trauma

naah, don’t mind me. just some indulgent relationship study i took off my drafts.

read on AO3 or under the cut! <3

⚠️ I’m not a english speaker, and I haven’t a beta version for this text, so you’ll probably notice some grammar mistakes. I did my best to clean the most I could, but I’m not fluent. My apologies for any major incoherence 😔

* There is a very small reference to Uchiha's centers, mostly implied. I guess the first one on the fandom who came with that concept was KeanBlade, so all the credits at them! <3

There were days where everything seemed to be dark.

There were days where Madara felt they were back to war. Fighting to survive another day, to take a last breath, to see the next blood moon rising up in the sky.

There were days when everything was delightful and sweet like it’d be a daydream. The kids running around with their lips spread on big, lazy grins, holding sticks of Dango and tops, instead of too large steel weapons; their wounds were from falls and stupid street fights, not from sharp, poisoned needles.

There were days when everything seemed to be almost perfect. These were days like today, lazy and lethargic when there was no work to be done yet and the afternoon was wasted on small talks, sprawling together in the engawa, speaking with soft voices. Enjoying the post glow, sunlight heat pleasantly in the early spring.

The sky is already dark, the very last warm sunbeams slipping away through the wood floor, reflecting on the clear water on the koi pond. Uchiha’s compound’s quiet murmur rocked Madara’s lazy nap, a soft wind whistling cozily on the engawa.

The heat of the body tangled with him caught Madara’s attention, as the light glimpsed against Tobirama’s chest and reflected through Madara’s own gapping hakama on Tobirama’s body. A colorful enamel uchiwa pendant tied up against his collarbone proudly, painted with Madara’s mangekyou pattern.

A symbol that couldn’t mean less than the obvious. A proof that Tobirama was taken.

Marked as his; married.

(It still sounded odd in Madara’s mouth—luxurious, making his blood set on fire.

Bitter, though, sometimes. Like funeral pyre ashes.)

Was a… strange combination, him and Tobirama, Madara would easily admit. They weren't— aren’t —that kind of sweet couple like Hashirama and Mito were. They never found comprehension in their relationship, and much less any soft, amorous love. There were no tender touches, no kisses on the cheeks, no holding hands in the dark, or mute twinkling love-sticky smiles—there was nothing but sickness, the darkest of two men born and raised in the war, over the bloody ground of the battlefield.

Sometimes, Madara would look at Tobirama, so calm, so quiet, asleep on his side and his heart would hurt with the if.

If he'd be a better man.

If he could pardon.

If they’d been born in another life, one that wasn’t so violently marked by the pain and spotted with bitter regrets. One that wasn’t so much blood and so much war and so much hate.

If he just could be a little more like his oldest friend and let it go from the hate. Wash clean with water the dirty in his hands, brush away the blood over his nails.

(But you could never just forget a life of nightmares and death, the destruction caused by your hands. All the sorrow and all the pain were memorized forever into your head, the memories blurry by the bloody red of the Sharingan.

He was an Uchiha. A great one. Pureblood.

He could never forget the face of his brother’s murder as he could never let his lover go away again when he held Madara’s heart in his hands.)

The war left behind ugly, open wounds. Left violence, left pain, and left unsaid words. Left mistrust. Left regret.

They were like that. Broken, desperately trying to fill in a hole in their souls that neither of them knew couldn’t anymore be fixed up. The softness they itched to have just couldn’t ever take a place between them—not when they were so twisted, so full within the past to accept the glimpse of what the future could be.

They weren’t good, but they managed to move on.

They would die for each other at the same time they couldn’t stay alone in the same room for more than five minutes. Their bodies danced together in the linens on ends until the crack of the dawn, but when the morning rose up over the window, they couldn’t look anymore eye in the eye without the remorse, the bitter regret from the past burning in their lungs, the taste of ashes heavier than the quiet peace rounding Konoha’s sky in the first hours of the morning.

They worked very well until they didn't, but, still in those worst moments, just the thought of being away hurted deeply.

Because, no matter how fun that thing of souls could be, they loved.

They adored in a way that couldn't be healthy.

As it could be any different, when they were just… them; two broken men trying desperately to keep everything together, trying to stay sane in a peace made over bones and blood, dead-bodies of both Senju and Uchiha still warm when Madara and Hashirama held up hands after sign a dumb piece of paper as if it’d a magical solution to a century bloodbath.

As a broken record, keeping the same past fails on replay, they never spoke.

They never spoke about them, about the kilometric distance between them some days. About the open injuries that still bleed, cuts open. About the world collapsing around them, about how everyone was so deeply determined to ignore all the cracks in the fragile, fresh peace they all fought so hard for.

They never spoke. They fucked until the exhaustion and buried all the problems later, hid the blood inside gloves, and put the pain out onto sarcasm and mockery.

Their love was lug, tired, hard. Was sticky, melting across Madara’s fingers. Was like being constantly pushed up to the limit, broke into a thousand pieces and so glued again, the sharp edges non-sanded.

It was like taking a deep breath when you’re drowning in the sea. That moment of agony, when instead of air into your lungs, you’re breathing salty water over the hum of chaos in your ears, desperately trying to reach for the surface; a moment before that silent, awkward peace when you’re slowly losing your conscience.

It was crystal at the same time it was buried. Spotted with too much blood to be cleaned properly.

(Luckily, Madara always liked the flavor of ichor.)

Somedays—somedays like that—, Madara would lay down on their bed and think about how it was a gift and a curse, in the same way, never to forget.

Never forget the moment when Tobirama stabbed his last little brother, face cold and impassive. Emotionless like a demon.

Never forget the moment when Izuna was finally gone, his chakra slipping away from his body as he choked with a last sigh, taken away by the fervor.

It was a gift and it was a curse to see the shy smile Tobirama gave him when he thought no one was looking, the way he shivered when came, the way his whole body shook quietly when he laughed.

It was a gift and a curse to love and to hate so intensely. It was a gift and a curse to love and to hate so intensely. It was more a curse than a gift, a sweet prank from the gods, the man Madara most hated in the entire world, the man he learned to love so deeply, be the man he worshiped above anything else.

Tobirama, Izuna’s killer, the center of Madara’s world. The man Madara needed more desperately than breathing.

Anyhow, in the good days, Madara would pray to Izuna, wherever he could be, to understand. That he could never leave Tobirama without giving up his own heart.

In the bad, Madara would look at Tobirama, quietly asleep on his chest, and ask himself what kind of brother that would turn him into.

Trust his life, his backs, his home, his heart in the hands of such a demon.

Madara’s fingers danced across his lover’s pretty face, tracing the fragile eyelids right above the ice, long eyelashes, the crooked shape of Tobirama’s nose, the softness of his white skin.

The veiled act of intimacy, the vulnerability that meant much more to a shinobi than could be put together in words, weighted on Madara’s stomach. The way that Tobirama didn’t even frown above Madara’s fingers, deeply asleep, but leaned at the touch of bare skin, made Madara’s sick mind turn on the obscurity.

How easy would it be if Madara cut his throat like that? Would he feel it? By what emotion would his pretty red eyes be filled when the blood drained down his lips and he gazed up at his lover watching him choking?

But…

How easy would it be for Tobirama to just pull an eyeball out of Madara’s face, push up the nerves, and leave behind a heavy trail of sticky blood spotting their linens? Would the blood drip on Madara’s porcelain skin, if Tobirama waited for him to lean on his lap as he was used to, past his fingertips right down Madara’s temples, and stretch open his eyelids?

Madara could almost feel it. The pain burning his senses, the viscosity gluing down his eyelashes behind an empty hollow…

And Madara couldn’t raise one finger. He couldn’t hurt Tobirama, no matter what he may make.

He’d never be able to do it anymore, would he?

Oh, darling, no. Not now. Not after the pale shine of the ring in his fingers. After he hiccupped the I do below Amaterasu’s arms.

(That trust. That blind, unconditional trust—that scared Madara more than anything could ever do. That, if…

If Tobirama asks him for it, it would be all Madara’s pleasure to rip off both of his eyes to give Tobirama, wrapped in silk.)

The twisted feeling of his chakra twirling on a dark spiral apparently had grown enough to disturb Tobirama’s senses and woke him up, making a wave of mint-refresh-ocean-ozonium chakra burnt, rising up to tangle around Madara’s body like a shield, as a pair of focusless, dilated red eyes open to stare at him.

“Madara?” he offered quietly a second later, a pinch of worry merged in the roughness of Tobirama's barely awake murmur.

There was a knot swelling in Madara’s throat when he tried to speak, the always proud, smug tone of his voice reduced pathetically at a broken whimper. “I—” he started unfirmly, “my head. I’m too far. I need—make me stop to think," Madara begged quietly, stuffy against Tobirama’s hair.

Tobirama’s eyes blinked open, suddenly getting away from the sleepy haze.

“How do you want me?” Tobirama’s tone was thick, a smoker's voice deep on his throat.

Madara swallowed heavily.

Tobirama probably was still open and lacking by the fuck Madara get on him early this afternoon, and it would be so easy to pull out and slide in, but it wasn’t what Madara needed right now.

Not when he felt like this.

When he needed to feel Tobirama, everywhere. Throbbing on him, burning against his skin, touching where he felt more vulnerable.

“On me.”

Please, now, he did not add.

Tobirama’s quick breath against his neck made Madara bristle, a goosebump running down his backbone. Closing his eyes, Madara felt Tobirama clumsily moving behind him, heat pressed behind his thighs as Tobirama’s fingers fumbled blindly to push down his pants.

His fingers were cold, sleeky with the olive oil he spread on his fingertips, as he pressed in Madara’s rim, thorough and controlled as everything that heartless man did—but his shaking fingertips squeezing his thighs painfully, choppy breath told Madara more than he needed to be told.

The elbow was hard against his ribs.

“The dead don’t speak, Madara,” Tobirama murmured quietly into Madara’s sweaty skin, kissing his neck. Madara scratched bloodlines with his nails on his back, holding Tobirama's body as close as he could, squeezing Tobirama’s shoulders like a lifeline while Tobirama slowly rocked against him, holding Madara’s hips firmly against the mattress.

Madara just could close his eyes, boneless, and pray.

If it was for mercy or death, if it was for the gods or for Tobirama, no one could answer but Madara.

Luckily, good shinobi carry their secrets to the grave.

A little half-baked thought that pops in my head routinely and I find interesting to consider: Izuna reincarnating as Itachi.

Bc yknow. He died first so he's older + the strong affection they both have for their siblings + generally being Doomed By The Narrative. Izuna dying and his soul feeling just lost in it's second life, trying to take in the world around him and understand the point of it all. Then his brother reincarnating and it just clicking / filling a hole in his chest even though he has no idea why. And just. Izuna's soul's love for his brother surpassing the ties of hatered he had for the senju / would have had for the village in his past life.

But also just. How pissed he'd be if he saw his own second incarnation. And probably ready to yell to the heavens that he was right that pairing with the Senju would be a mistake for their clan. Maybe I'll bother actually thinking about the concept for more than 5 minutes at some point and write a fic but for now. I just need to put it out there bc I think it's neat to think about.

Fix it fic where pre-massacre Itachi ends up in the past post-Izuna death. Itachi realizes Madara super was not as cold towards his brother as the history of their clan makes it out to be and is like. Pooling all the information he'd gathered in trying to understand the village vs clan feud, he decides. If he can't make it back home to help the tensions. He will simply try to cut it off at its base. Que 12 year old Itachi making the best of the single photo he keeps in his wallet of Sasuke. Itachi, appearing mysteriously during the founding of the village (Though either the timeline for when Izuna dies would need pushed back a bit for this or Itachi would need to adjust the hell out of his appearance to make himself look as young as he could possibly get away with. Possibly a really strong hinge or him somehow getting his hands on a beta version of one of Tobirama's questionable experiment scrolls - deaging etc etc), dropping to his knees in front of Madara. Claiming to be the illegitimate son of Izuna, hidden out of fear that he would lose his life in the war. Him explaining that Izuna had him hidden away with his mother and brother until recently - deep in the mountain. But that they had both perished and Itachi didn't know where to go but to his uncle that his dad spoke so highly of 🥺 and to the village his dad wished would work but just didn't believe would 🥺 but look at it now, so amazingly built 🥺 his uncle is so amazing to have been able to pull it off 🥺look at this photo of a mini Izuna in his wallet that was once his own little brother 🥺 feel a connection to him and keep your ass right here 🥺

Unforgivable! 💔💔

The forgotten Founders' Era characters