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foundtherightwords · 13 days ago

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Fallen Empires - Chapter 1

Pairing: Geta x OFC

Summary: Having done the unthinkable to secure his throne, Emperor Geta rules with ruthlessness and paranoia. Now, after escaping an assassination attempt, a badly injured Geta is saved by Daphne, a young widow, who takes him back to her remote village without knowing his true identity. As Daphne nurses the former emperor back to health, attraction blooms between them, and Geta discovers a soft side he didn't know he possessed. But can their love survive his thirst for revenge and his desire to reclaim power?

Warnings: violence, domestic abuse, non-explicit smut

Chapter warnings: mention of blood and injuries

Chapter word count: 5.1k

A/N: I started this fic all the way back in April, when we first got the news that Joe was cast as Caracalla in "Gladiator 2". I did a ton of research, read books and academic papers about Caracalla and his reign, the whole shebang. Then in July, we got the confirmation that Joe played Geta instead, but by then, I'd already written about 30k words and didn't want to throw it away. Since I never was going to follow the movie anyway (no spoilers here!), I thought, OK, if the great Ridley Scott wasn't going to be historically accurate, then neither am I! So I replaced "Caracalla" with "Geta", changed a few details, and here we are.

The biggest change I made is that Geta was the one that killed Caracalla, not the other way around (this is a historical fact so it's not a spoiler for the movie.) Their confrontation also followed history (which happened in the presence of their mother, Julia Domna.) The remainder of Geta's reign is based on the real reign of Caracalla - his various military campaigns, the war against Parthia, and his infamous assassination (attempted assassination, in this case) by Justus Martialis while peeing on the side of the road now all happen to Geta. Also, Caracalla is described as sometimes wearing a blonde wig, so my headcanon is that the ginger hair in the movie is a wig as well (sorry Joe, I know you were working that wig for all it's worth, but I can't take it seriously.)

Prologue

Once upon a time, two brothers founded the greatest empire in the world...

He and his brother had grown up with the tale of Romulus and Remus, as any child of Rome would. But unlike other children of Rome, he and his brother had also been told that they would one day inherit the empire that those two brothers had built.

Nobody told them the birth of that empire had come at the price of fratricide. Nobody told them that only one brother was destined to be emperor.

They knew anyway.

The only question was, after the blood had run dry, which one of them would be left standing?

He, for one, refused to wait for an answer. He would find his own. So when the Fates dealt him their blow, he fought back and reclaimed his destiny from them. And as he stood over his brother with the blade still dripping blood in his hand, as he looked at the shocked faces of the Praetorians, as he avoided his mother's horrified eyes, filled with the tears he didn't allow her to shed, he thought he'd done it. He'd had the answer.

"You all saw!" he shouted at them, daring them to contradict him. "You saw what he was going to do, how he was coming for me! I did what I had to do to protect myself!" No one said a word in response. Perhaps they thought, and rightly so, that it would be unwise to oppose a man holding a bloody sword. "He was a tyrant and a would-be murderer," he continued, indicating his brother. "There is to be no mourning of him." His mother flinched, her arms closing instinctively around her son's still-warm body, but she, too, said nothing. "I want his image removed from all paintings, coins melted down, statues destroyed, his name struck from records. Let it be known from this day forward that it is a capital offense to speak or write his name!"

His orders were carried out, of course. He was the Emperor now.

But in wiping all images of his brother off the face of the Earth, he also had to remake his own. They had been so intricately linked, so connected in the minds of the citizens of Rome, two sides of the same monstrous coin, that he had to become someone else to be seen as the true heir, as the sole emperor. Gone were the wig and the makeup. Gone were the flashy clothes and jewelry. He cropped his hair short, grew a beard, and dressed himself in the simple garb of a legionary. He went on campaign after campaign to expand the Empire. Caledonia, Germania, Alexandria, Parthia. He would become a soldier-emperor, like his father. He would become a conqueror, like Alexander the Great. He would build an empire, like Romulus. Because he, like Romulus, was the brother who survived.

Only he didn't expect the price of surviving would be so high.

Chapter 1

The smell of blood was in the air.

As he staggered over the rocky ground, he could smell it all around him, on him, in him, and there was no escaping it. The sharp metallic tang of it brought back unpleasant memories of battlefields, of death and screaming and decay. But this was no battlefield. It was quiet, far too quiet; there was none of the clashes of swords and armors, the panicked whinnying of horses, or the groans of dying men. The only sound was his own ragged breathing and the hammering of pulse in his ears. There were stabbing pains on his back and between his ribs, and it hurt every time he drew a breath. There was a pounding somewhere on the back of his head—he must have hit it when he fell down the slope, though he no longer remembered where that slope was. He no longer remembered anything except for a burning feeling of anger and hatred, almost stronger than the pains of his body, though at whom or what that anger was directed, he didn't know. And underneath it all was a threat of fear. He had never been afraid of anything. Yet now the cold breath of Phobos was on the back of his neck, driving him on, urging him to get away, as far away as he could.

His head felt heavy and light at the same time. More than once, he stumbled over a rock and went down on his hands and knees. That was when he realized he was clutching a dagger in his hand, a dagger sticky with blood—his own or someone else's, he no longer remembered either. He pushed himself up by the hilt of the dagger and continued on. His lungs burned, his skin was icy cold despite the warm spring sunshine, and his limbs were so numb he was afraid the dagger might slip from his fingers. He must not let that happen. That dagger was important somehow. And he walked on, over the rocks and the uneven ground and the thick undergrowth.

He came across a stream, its banks overflowing from the winter rain. He still had the presence of mind to tuck the dagger into his belt before plunging in. The water was much deeper than he'd expected. His feet went out from under him. The pains in his back and his ribs melted into one scorching spear that went through him from chest to shoulder blades, and he had no strength left to fight the current. A branch of driftwood floated past. He held on to it, by instinct rather than a conscious desire to live. Doing so hurt his chest, but the water cooled his pounding head and washed away some of the searing pain and the blood, so the smell no longer assaulted his nostrils. He let the stream carry him away.

So this is how it ends, he thought, feeling blood and life drain out of him. This little stream was to be his River Styx. Not for him the glorious death of the battlefield. Not for him the quiet, peaceful death after a lifetime of ruling and conquering. Not for him even the sudden, tragic death of a great man cut down in his prime. No, for him would be an ignominious death, befitting an ignominious life. Somehow he'd always known it. This was what the Fates had in store for him.

He never quite lost consciousness, though he didn't know how long he floated. At some point, the light shining through his eyelids lost its brightness, but he couldn't tell if it was because the sun was going down or he was dying.

Hands came down on his shoulders. It brought the pain back, and that was how he knew he was still alive. He'd stopped floating. Someone was hauling him up the bank of the stream, dragging him by the arms. So they'd found him, then. He was dropped unceremoniously over the rocky ground, where he lay motionless, waiting for the soft whisper of a sword being drawn from its sheath, for the final blow to end his misery, for eternal darkness to engulf him at last.

When it never came, he forced his eyes open.

For a moment, he thought he really was dead, and he was facing Charon—a dark shape loomed over him, with fire for eyes and a hairy, oddly-shaped head. The words of the Aeneid, learned from his youth, came to his mind unbidden.

A sordid god: down from his hairy chin;

A length of beard descends, uncombed, unclean;

His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire;

A girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire...

Now he knew he was dying. Since when did he start remembering poetry?

Something warm and moist brushed his face, a snort stirred his wet hair, and the illusion broke. It wasn't Charon that stood over him, but some sort of animal, perhaps a horse. The fiery eyes moved, and he realized they were a torch, held in the hand of a person—a real person, with a cowl covering the head, keeping the face in the shadow. Savior or executioner?

He twisted his head to avoid the animal's inquisitive nose. Even such a tiny movement hurt. A pair of small feet, clad in old leather sandals, stood beside him. A pair of slim ankles, brushed by the long hem of a dark gown. A woman's feet.

Gentle hands turned him over. He tried to focus. In the light of the torch, he found himself looking into a pair of green eyes, as green as the hills of Caledonia, as green as the forests of Germania, as green as the water of the Euphrates, eyes that soothed and calmed and took away his pains.

And, as he looked into those eyes, Emperor Geta, the Imperator Caesar Publius Septimius Geta Augustus, uttered the one word he'd never thought he would say, in all twenty-eight years of his life: "Help."

Darkness took him then.

***

Daphne stared at the soldier lying on the bank of the stream by her feet. He was a soldier, that much she was certain of, despite his lack of armor. It was a good thing too, for he would've sunk to the bottom of the stream had he been wearing all those heavy metal plates. But what had happened to him? How did he come to be here, all bedraggled and bloody? Had there been a battle nearby that she didn't know about? Ever since the previous spring, when war with Parthia had broken out again, Daphne had seen her fair share of soldiers marching through the countryside. Her village was too small, tucked away as it was amongst the hills, to receive much attention from the army, but she'd heard complaints of people from bigger towns who had had their crops taken, their draft animals seized, and their lives disrupted by the war. Even her younger brother, Attikos, had been recruited by the army. He was now serving in a garrison somewhere in the north, and every day her family lived in fear that he would not come back. Daphne, whose own life had been disrupted by another war that took place nearly ten years ago and thousands of miles away, tried her best to ignore the battles that raged on just across the border, knowing there was nothing she could do about them.

But now, it seemed, the battles had found their way to her.

The soldier at her feet let out a groan, and her healer's nature took over. Putting the torch down, she slipped her hands under his arms and lifted him up. The soldier, though muscular, wasn't a big man, and Daphne was strong from all the climbing and walking she had to do every day, so with only some grunting and heaving, she managed to put him on the back of her donkey, Midas, who was hovering helpfully nearby. "Come, Midas," she said, and with the torch in one hand, she led the donkey back to their camp, in one of the many caves that dotted the bottom of the hills.

That spring, as soon as the pistachio trees began putting out their clusters of green blooms tipped with pink, Daphne had left her hut for her bi-annual journey to gather herbs and medicine, while hoping that nobody at the village would be so inconsiderate as to fall ill or go into labor while she was away. It was a journey she had been making with her grandmother since she was old enough to tell wild carrot from poisonous hemlock, and one she'd always looked forward to as a child. For days on end, the two of them would wander up and down the hills and valleys of the Balikh River, searching amongst the new growth that had sprung up after the winter rain, looking for leaves and flowers with healing powers. For Daphne, it had been like playing, running through the plants, gathering up armfuls of fragrant leaves and flowers, cooking on an open fire, sleeping under the stars or in a cave. It was the only playtime she ever had. In the autumn, they would come back for roots and seeds and dry branches, but she loved the spring trip the best.

Now, as a grown woman, Daphne still loved the journey, though she also understood why her grandmother had taken her along all those years ago. It wasn't because Daphne had been that much help, or because her grandmother had wanted to give Daphne a rest from helping her mother and taking care of her brothers. It was simply because the old woman wanted someone to talk to. Back at the village, there were always people coming and going, seeking help. Out here, with nothing but the sky above and the ground beneath her, Daphne sometimes felt as though she was the only person alive in the whole of creation. There was Midas, of course, but as sweet as he was, a donkey was not much company.

So it was with a strange sense of relief and gratitude that Daphne lowered the soldier onto the ground, stoked the fire higher, and cut open his tunic to look at his wounds. Yes, this was something odd and unsettling and perhaps dangerous as well, but at least she wouldn't have to be alone with her thoughts for the night. She would have company, even if he was unconscious, and more importantly, she would have something to occupy herself with.

The wounds—there were two, one on his back near the shoulder and one between his ribs, just below his chest—were deep but clean, clearly made by a blade. Whatever had happened to him, the soldier had certainly been favored by Fortuna. His cloak had softened the blow, and the blade had only gone through the fleshy part of his shoulder. At the front, the blade had also been deflected somehow and had slipped between his ribs instead of burying itself in his heart. There was no blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth, and his breathing was shallow but steady, meaning his lung had been spared. The soldier's trip down the stream had cleaned the wounds, leaving only a small trickle of blood.

Daphne opened her jar of vinegar, which she always brought along in case she found some plants that needed preserving, cut a strip of linen from the soldier's tunic, which was ruined anyway, dipped it in the vinegar, and carefully cleaned the wounds again. There was also a rather nasty bruise on the back of his head, but that would have to wait. Thank the gods she had her suturing needle and thread with her. She'd never gone on a long journey without them, not after the time she fell down a ravine and cut her foot. Had she been further away from home then, she would not have made it back. Yet another reason her grandmother had insisted on bringing along a helper.

The soldier's flesh trembled and twitched under the vinegar cloth. Daphne, bending over the wounds, didn't see him move. She only heard a hiss of steel and jumped back just in time to avoid the blade as it flashed in the firelight, right across her face. The soldier shot up, a dagger clutched in his hand, his eyes wide open, dark and enormous in the dimness of the cave. They were blank and unfocused, and she knew he saw nothing at all.

"Murderer!" he said in a hoarse whisper. "Traitor!"

Something hot and wet oozed down her cheek. Daphne clamped a hand to it and felt pain blaze across her cheekbone. The soldier's dagger had cut her. Had she been a fraction of a heartbeat slower, it would've taken out her nose or even her eye.

"You fool!" she shouted. Her grandmother would have something to say about the wisdom of arguing with a delirious man wielding a dagger, but Daphne had no time for wisdom at the moment. "You utter fool! I'm trying to save your life!" Blood was dripping down the side of her face, warm and sticky on her jaw.

The soldier wasn't listening. He was still ranting and raving about murderers and traitors, and something else in Latin, which Daphne couldn't understand. Then he tried to push himself to his feet, only to collapse in a heap by the fire. The dagger clattered out of his hand.

Daphne approached him cautiously, holding her injured cheek. He was motionless, though his chest was still moving up and down in weak, rapid breaths. Not wanting to take any risk, she picked up the dagger and tucked it into her pack, and, as extra precaution, bound the soldier's hands with some rope. Then, after wrapping some bandages around her cheek to stop the bleeding, she put more wood into the fire to stoke it higher, so its light filled the cave and reached even the furthest corner. Under that light, she sutured the soldier's wounds, using small, careful stitches just the way her grandmother had taught her. Once this was done, she went out again, torch in hand, passed the snoozing Midas by the mouth of the cave, and started searching the ground along the stream. She had seen some early-blooming goldenrods there—she never bothered to gather them, since they were abundant all around the hills of her village and in her own garden, but now she filled her mantle with the small yellow flowers.

The soldier was still unconscious by the time she came back. Good. She didn't want him awake and squirming and tearing the stitches. She crushed the goldenrod blooms and mixed them with vinegar into a bitter-smelling poultice, put it on his wounds and his bruise, and wrapped them in clean bandages. Some of the poultice she saved to put on her own wound as well, though the suturing would have to wait until the morning, when she could see her face more clearly.

With a sigh, Daphne sat back by the fire, trying not to wince as the vinegary poultice pressed into her cut. Her patient was lying peacefully enough, covered in her blanket, though he still writhed and grimaced from time to time.

She looked at him more closely, with curiosity. He was not a young man, though he was not yet old either, perhaps close to thirty. The same age as her husband, Galen, had he lived. But this man was no common foot soldier like her Galen had been. For all the ordinariness of his clothing, she could tell he was a patrician. It was there in the fine wool of his tunic, much finer than the coarse undyed linen of a soldier's, in the soft leather of his boots, in the gleaming buckles of his belt, in the carved ring on the little finger of his left hand. It was there in his face as well, in the high forehead framed by short dark curls, in the eyebrows that seemed locked in a permanent scowl above his fine-shaped nose, in the strong mouth and firm jaw covered by a neatly trimmed beard. Those noble features only heightened the riddle of the man, a riddle Daphne had no hope of solving any time soon.

Well, a good night's rest would bring clarity and wisdom in the morning, as her grandmother had always said. Leaving the mysterious soldier on the other side of the fire, Daphne wrapped herself in her mantle, lay down on the hard floor of the cave, and fell into a tired sleep, her cheek still smarting.

***

The fire had burned down to embers and the pale gray light of dawn was shining in from the mouth of the cave when Daphne was wakened by a shuffling sound. It was the soldier, who was pulling weakly at his bound wrists. His eyes were open, and though they were still dazed, some of the delirium in them had faded.

"What's the meaning of this?" he croaked. "Who are you? What have you done to me?!"

"Please, calm yourself," said Daphne, scrambling to her feet and holding up a hand. "I have to tie you up because you were tossing about. Calm yourself before you tear your wounds open. You're safe."

"Safe?" he repeated, almost to himself. "No... not safe... not safe..." The delirium was settling in again. She had to get a few things out of him before he lost consciousness or worse.

"What's your name?" she asked. "Which legion do you belong to? Is your camp close by?" He showed no sign of hearing her and only looked about the cave with wide, panic-stricken eyes. Daphne stepped closer and pulled her mantle down so he could see her face more clearly. "Is there anyone I can go to for help?"

His hand shot out and gripped her wrist so tightly it hurt. He fixed those enormous eyes on her. "No!" he shouted, though it came out little more than a rasping whisper. "Tell no one! Danger... must hide..." Then his eyes glazed over, and he dropped to the floor, fingers slowly loosening from her wrist.

Daphne made her way back to the other side of the dying fire and sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, rubbing her sore wrist. The soldier's fear was contagious. What had happened to him was no mere battle wounds, she could see that now. He had rambled about murderers and traitors... but was he the victim of murderers and traitors, or was he himself a murderer and traitor? Was he in danger, or was he the danger?

It was a two days' journey to the nearest town, Carrhae, and four days back to her village. The sensible thing to do was to bring him to Carrhae and leave him there for the authority to deal with. But with his injuries, he may not survive the trip. And even if they made it to Carrhae, a lone soldier, very possibly a deserter or even a turncoat, would not merit much attention. The magistrate there may leave him to die. Daphne wasn't sure she could live with that on her conscience. As she watched the unconscious soldier, she couldn't help thinking of her Galen, dead these eight years and buried somewhere in the cold, barbaric hills of Caledonia. What if something like this had happened to Galen as well? What if he'd been separated from his fellow soldiers and stumbled through a foreign land, lost and injured? And what if some woman had also happened upon him, but had decided to let him die because she thought he was too much trouble? What if this soldier had someone waiting for him?

With such thoughts circling around her head like a swarm of angry bees, there was no going back to sleep for her. As soon as the light turned from gray to white, Daphne went to the stream to fetch a pan of water, stopping briefly to check on Midas, who was contentedly cropping the grass around the mouth of the cave.

Her reflection in the stream made Daphne realize why the soldier had been so frightened upon seeing her. With dried blood down one side of her cheek, her eyes sunken from lack of sleep, and her hair all wild, she must have looked, to him, like one of the Furies. Returning to the cave, she tried to stitch the cut on her cheek as best she could, using the pan of water as a mirror. It was going to leave a scar for sure. Oh well. She had never been a great beauty anyway.

She then boiled the water to make some porridge for breakfast. As she ate, she dug around in her store of foraged plants and herbs and found some valerian, which she steeped into a tea to help the soldier sleep. He swallowed the tea easily enough, though Daphne knew what he really needed was some tincture of poppy, which was stored in a precious glass vial on the highest shelf back in her hut, four days away. But could she bring him back there? The villagers would not take kindly to a stranger.

Leaving the soldier in the cave, Daphne returned to the stream with Midas by her side. Mysteriously wounded men or not, she was determined to finish her trip. Throughout the morning, she worked hard on the bank, cutting down armfuls of young willow, as these large trees were of better quality than the scraggy bushes near her village. She took care not to stray too far from the cave and returned from time to time to check on the soldier, who remained unconscious. In the light of day, he was looking very pale. Whatever she was going to do with him, she had to decide quickly. Although his wounds were not fatal, he had lost a lot of blood, and if the wounds became poisoned, there was little she could do for him out here.

Daphne was busy stripping the leaves from the willow branches to get at the medicinal bark when Midas gave a warning bray. She turned around and saw two soldiers striding toward her from upstream. She quickly pulled the mantle over her head to conceal her face, while still keeping an eye on them. They were dressed much more elaborately than her patient, in chainmail and helmets, and carrying swords and shields emblazoned with a scorpion. Dressed for battle. What kind of battle could they expect here, in this lonely valley amongst these rocky hills of Osroene?

The soldiers had spotted her and were quickening their steps. She remained where she was, with her back to them, feigning oblivion.

"You there! Old woman!" shouted one of the soldiers in Greek. Old woman? They must have been fooled by her dark mantle and her hunched form. Part of Daphne was offended, but another part of her was glad. She didn't like to think what such beastly men would do to a lone woman in the wilderness. "On your feet! We have some questions for you!"

Daphne gripped her knife more tightly in her palm, concealing it between the folds of her chiton. With her other hand, she pulled herself up by holding on to a willow tree, making sure to keep her back stooped, trying to appear like an old, decrepit hag.

"Have you seen a wounded man around here?" one of the soldiers asked. He was young, with a face like a rat. He took off his helmet to wipe at his forehead, revealing thin tuffs of pale blonde hair.

Daphne hesitated. These men could be her patient's fellow legionaries, and she could simply hand him over to them and not have to worry about him any longer. However, she was now seeing them more clearly, and the brutal, fierce look on their faces made her knees tremble. She could be handing her patient to his executioners.

"Wounded?" she said in a low rasp. "Why would there be any wounded men around here? Was there a battle? Have the Parthians invaded us?"

"Calm down, you silly old hag," the other soldier said. He was older and darker. A scar ran from his left eye down his cheek, making him look even more vicious. "There was no battle," he continued. "Our fellow soldier simply—had an accident while marching, and we lost track of him. We're trying to find him before he gets seriously hurt. If you've seen him, tell us, and the army will reward you handsomely."

A likely story. Those wounds were no accident. Daphne shook her head. "No," she said. "No, I haven't seen a soul."

The two soldiers glanced at each other in exasperation and something else, too. Fear? Worry?

"He can't have gone this far," the blonde soldier said. "If Martialis had managed to wound him before he was killed—"

"Quiet, you idiot!" the dark one hissed. He pulled his partner away from Daphne's earshot, but some of his angry words floated back to her. "This is your fault! If you'd gone with Martialis to make sure the deed was done, none of this would've happened! Now we're trampling all over this Gods-forsaken land, searching for a needle in a haystack..."

So Martialis—whoever he was, or had been, by the sound of it—must have been the one who attacked her patient. And then her patient had killed Martialis and escaped? Daphne wasn't quite sure what the soldiers' conversation meant, but she was sure that there was some conspiracy here, and those men were in on it.

Her heart stopped. The two soldiers had noticed the cave and were making their way toward it. If they found her patient, they would know she'd lied...

"I wouldn't go poking around in there if I were you, young masters," she called out. The soldiers paused near the mouth of the cave and turned back to frown at her. She bent down a little, so that her cowl fell over her face. "These hills are teeming with scorpions and venomous snakes, and they like nothing more than a cool, dark place like that to hide from the sun," she continued. "They would not take kindly to being wakened from their nap."

The soldiers drew back, peering into the dark of the cave warily as if they could see these snakes and scorpions lurking there.

"I told you, he can't have gone far," the blonde, rat-faced soldier repeated to his partner. "We would've seen him by now. Unless he'd fallen into the stream. And if he had, he's done for anyway."

The dark-haired soldier lifted his heavy mail away from his neck and looked at the sun, which was getting higher in the sky and burning hotter. "Yes, I don't think anyone can survive such wounds out here," he said. "Let's go."

They went back the way they came and eventually disappeared behind the rocky hills. Daphne let out a breath of relief. Carrying her bundles of willow bark, she returned to the cave, where her patient was still lying by the remnants of the fire, breathing his shallow breaths and wincing in his sleep. Daphne sighed. It looked like she was going to have to cut her trip short this year.

"Don't make me regret this," she said, though he couldn't hear her.

Chapter 2

A note on the setting: I know that based on the location of the story (Osroene, now southeastern Turkey), the people were more likely to be Mesopotamian than Greek, but I don't know much about Mesopotamian culture and the research overwhelmed me a bit, so I went with Greek for simplicity's sake. A later chapter does include an explanation as to why there is a Greek community in the middle of Mesopotamia (I doubt anyone would care, but I'm a stickler for historical accuracy, even in an alternate history fic.)

Taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92 (as usual, if you want to be tagged, let me know!)

#joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #gladiator 2 #emperor geta #emperor geta fic #geta #emperor geta x ofc #geta x ofc

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smilesheartshugs · 1 month ago

Text

More for my soul mate au:

A list of bonds people have:

[if a bond is in a bracket like this then I took the bond idea from the comment section. Yall have great ideas and know some of the characters better than I do lol]

Bruce:

On his sholder he has greyed out bonds with his parents, royal blue with Alfred, Nightwing blue with Dick, midnight blue with Jason, sky blue with Tim, a tealy blue with Damian, a blurple with Steph, a deep ocean blue with Duke, and a pastel blue with cas

On his wrist he has an emerald green bond with Kate/ bat woman

On his calves he has soul bond with most of the Justus league and Selina

On his back be has the core justice league members, and all of the bat family members in a royal purple color

He has the mysterious pink bonds with Thalia, Selena, and Clark on his inner thighs. He pointedly refuses to talk about it

Personally I don’t think he has a romantic soul bond, this doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any romantic relationships or interests. There has been cases were romantic bonds only form after knowing the person, it’s rare but it has been known to happen.

Dick:

On his shoulders he has the greyed out bonds with his parents and Nightwing blue bond with Bruce. (Bart has refused to touch any of the bat family members but when he does dick will get an electric blue bond with Bart) [he also has a child bond with Damian]

On his forearms he has bonds with Jason, Tim, Cass, Duke, and Damian. All in getting shades of green

He has a grandparent bond with Alfred on his right shoulder

On the back of his arms he has uncle bonds with Barry, Clark, and Diana

Dick has friend ship bonds on his calves with All the titan member, Barbra, and most of the Justus league members.

Dick has a romantic bond with Wally

Dick has trust bond with everyone he has bonded with and one member of the bludheven police

Jason:

Jason has a greyed out bond with the mother he was raised with (I can’t remember her name but I believe it starts with a c?) and a bond with Bruce in his sholder

He has bonds with Dick, Tim, Damian, Cass, and Duke on his wrist. His bond with Dick is grass green but the others are Lazarus green. His dip in the green coolaid juice has tinted his soul bonds making each new bond he forms a little more green in color. Jason doesn’t have a soul bond with Steph but that doesn’t stop them from viewing eachother as siblings

Jason has uncle bonds with Clark, and Diana on the back of his arms. These are bright orange. Once Bart accidentally touches Jason and forms a merky orange nephew bond.

He has a merky red romantic soul bonds with Roy and Kory.

He has yellow green bonds with the outlaws on his calves and yellow bonds with some of the titans and Barbra

Jason has trust bonds with his siblings and his partners. It takes more time for a trust bond to form with Bruce.

Tim:

Tim gets a soul bond with Bruce on his sholder once Cass drags the both of them into a cuddle pile. Bruce becomes Tim’s fith soul bond

Tim has sibling bonds with Dick, Jason, Damian, Cass, and Duke. The lack of sibling bond has led to Steph and Tim to date for a bit before realizing they were better as friends.

He has a grandparent bond with Alfred

Once young justice forms Tim forms friendship bonds on his calves for all the members (besides Bart who appears to be touch adverse, poor kid is covered in familial grey soul bonds, he has a lot of aunts and or uncles). He also has a friendship bond for Steph.

Once Tim is comfortable enough to visit the watch tower with Bruce he forms uncle bonds with Clark and Diana.

Tim has romantic bonds with Bernard and Kon. Kon’s bond forms later into the relationship while Bernard’s forms right away. This leads to Kon being a little self conscious about his relationship with Tim and Bernard.

Tim has trust bonds with young justice and his family.

Eventually he gets a mortal enemy bond with Ra Al goul

Damian:

He has parent soul bonds with both Thalia and Bruce. [he also has a parent bond with Dick]

He only has one grandparent bond and it’s with Alfred

He has sibling bonds with Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, Duke, and Steph. [and Maya]

He has uncle bonds with Clark, Diana, and Barbra.

I don’t know enough about Damian to know who he would have friendship bonds with but I know he would have some. [friendship bonds with Jon, Collin, and Maya]

Cass

She has a parent bond with Bruce, this is her first bond. [and a parent bond with Barbra]

She has sibling bonds with Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, and Duke.

She has a romantic bond with Steph.

She has a nephew bond with Bart.

I know Cass will form friendship bonds but I don’t know enough about her to know with who.

She has trust bonds with her sibling and Bruce

Duke

Outside of sibling and parent bonds I don’t know enough about Duke to know who he bonds with

Steph

She has parent bonds with Bruce and her mother crystal.

She has sibling bonds with Dick, Duke, and Damian

She has friendship bonds with young justice and Barbra

She has a romantic bond with Cass

She has uncle bonds with Clark and Diana

Bart:

When Bart first gets to the past all his bonds have been grey or silver. No one knows why it’s silver and not grey (they haven’t touched in the present but they bond hadn’t died In the future so silver became the weird middle ground)

After he has touched everyone he was bonded with in the past and some new bonds:

He has parent bonds with Wally and Dick

He has uncle bonds with Jason, Tim, Damian, Duke, Steph, Cass, Kim, Bernard, Roy, Kory, John, and Barbra

He has friendship bonds with the rest of young justice

He has grandparent bonds with Bruce, Alfred, and Barry

So yeah this is what I have for who’s bonded with who… 😅

Edit: okay so thank you to the lovely comment section for input on the bonds! I’ll put every bond in [] are something I thought should include that I took from the comic section

A continuation here

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thepascalparadox · 6 days ago

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Chapter One: Beyond the Window

Word Count | 1.7k

Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x OC F!Reader

Chapter Warnings | None, just introducing the two of them! You always loved the gentle song of birds beyond your window. It offers a fleeting escape from the grim realities that haunt the Roman people outside the gates.

If only I could save them. Yet, one can only do so much. Your father does not bear the name "Justus" by chance. He strives with all his might, doing what he can for the empire. Since your mother’s passing, he has grown quieter, more withdrawn, even distant at times. And yet, the love he holds for you remains steadfast and undeniable, as does the love you bear for him. He has done everything for you, even in matters of matrimony.

At times, you wonder if you should care whether the man you marry will be young, old, or at least pleasing to the eye. But the truth is, you do not. You’ve heard tales of other women in your position who dared to hope for love, only to be met with anguish and betrayal. You will not be one of them.

Marry. Bear an heir. Go somewhere distant. That is the plan.

No love in sight, no heartbreak. Only you, poetry, music, and the birds that sing just beyond your window.

· · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

"I do not to see the purpose of wearing such elegance, when all eyes must rest upon the oh-so-great general of Rome," you say, your annoyance evident as you prepare for yet another festivity you must attend. Or better, endure.

"It is a moment of great significance for your father and for the imperium, Melita," Vera replies, her voice carrying the weight of a serious tone. "And besides, you should not speak of the general in such a manner. He is a man of honor, having done much for Rome."

You miss the days when you and Vera would run freely through the palace gardens, carefree as children, with no burdens to bear. Now, she assists you in preparing for events you cannot avoid, and you wonder if she still sees you as a friend, or only as the filia Caesaris—the daughter of the emperor.

"I apologize," you say softly. "The people hold him in great esteem, and I should indeed be grateful for all he has done for my father. I just wish we could remain here, listening to the ladies gossip about the handsome soldiers returning from war."

"It will be worth it," Vera says with a glint of excitement. "We shall see those soldiers with our own eyes. At last, we shall be the ones doing the gossiping."

"May the gods have mercy on us," you mutter, already dreading the upcoming event. · · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

The sound of metal striking metal still echoes in the general’s ears. The scent of blood, the desperate cries for mercy—it all lingers, vivid and fresh in his mind.

It was you or them. Your home for their home.

He wishes he could be like the other soldiers, who seek fleeting solace in the arms of strangers, lovers whose names they scarcely remember. But those were the days of his youth. He is now the general of the mighty Roman Empire. His focus must remain on strategy, on returning as many men as possible to their homes.

He hears his name called for the second time.

“Forgive me, what was it you said?” The presence of the lady at the entrance of the tent only then registered. His mind was still trapped in the aftershocks of battle, not yet fully adjusted to the safety of the moment. It always took a few days to refocus, to remind himself he was no longer in danger.

“Excuse me, dominus,” she replies softly “I asked if the armor suits you, if it is comfortable. The emperor insists it is to your liking.”

He finds himself momentarily lost in the tenderness of her voice, the sound of a woman’s presence - he had missed the feeling.

“Ah, yes,” he says, shaking himself from his thoughts. “It fits very well, indeed. Thank you for your service. I shall be in the chariot in a moment.” · · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

The triumphal chariot draws near, as the man within waves to the crowd, who scream his name and hurl flowers in his direction. He is indeed very loved. You actually missed hearing and seeing the roman people so happy. After all, some of their sons are returning home. If the general returns, it means the war is over, and peace—albeit brief—shall once again grace the empire.

"The people adore Acacius," your father remarks, ensuring that you and the senators hear him. His tone carries pride, almost as if he himself had returned victorious from the battlefield.

"Does this mean you no longer wish to conquer, Father? Is the war truly over, or shall we find peace but only for a moment?" You whisper, careful that only he hears. A lady should not meddle in matters of politics, but your father had always encouraged you to think freely, to care for the well-being of the Roman people and do what you can to help them.

He leans closer, his whisper low, careful. "This is not for me alone to decide, Vita mea. The Senate desires more land and more wealth. My enemies long for the fall of Rome. The rich seek to fill the Colosseum, to profit from the slaughter and tragedies within. If I do not appease them, they will come for our heads. Do you understand?"

You nod, seeing the weariness in the emperor's eyes. He is just, but at what cost? Trying to please everyone, sometimes, can deny you from your own beliefs.

The general ascends the stairs, and now you may better observe him. He is a towering figure, muscles honed from battle—as soldiers ought to be—his face the very likeness that artists would strive to capture in paintings and sculptures. His gaze is unyielding, as one who has borne witness to horrors, yet bears them silently.

"Emperor Antoninus Justus, I have taken Namidia in your name, so your dominion may eclipse that of all emperors before you," the general declares with stoic solemnity.

"Ah, Acacius, you need not be so formal," the emperor replies, a rare smile curving his lips, a smile you've seen only on joyous occasions.

"We shall celebrate your victory with grandeur in the Colosseum," one of the senators exclaims, raising his cup of wine in eager celebration, seeking the approval of the other senators.

The general, however, would prefer to retire for much-needed rest, would he not? You notice the fleeting glance exchanged between your father and the general—an unspoken understanding shared between them.

"There is no need for such, the glory must be all yours," Acacius replies, his voice still heavy with that same unyielding seriousness.

"The games will proceed, whether you desire them or not, General," the most influential senator among the merchants, Macrelius, declares, his tone laced with authority, intending to compel the general into submission. But Acacius does not flinch. In fact, you notice a fleeting look of irrelevance from the general toward the senator, as though he were but a fleeting shadow, insignificant in comparison to the horrors the general has witnessed. You smile, a quiet thought passing through your mind—perhaps the general shares the same defiant spirit that you carry within you.

"The people of Rome, and my family, are forever grateful for your devotion, General Marcus Acacius," you finally speak, your voice cutting through the tension in the room, a small attempt to make your presence known amidst the sea of men.

It is only then that you realize your eyes have not yet met those of the soldier. But when they do, it is as though the rhythm of your heart falters for a brief moment, missing its beat. Acacius, too, seems surprised, his face relaxing slightly, as though a weight has lifted for the briefest instant, dispelling the tension that hangs in the air. But that impression, it seems, lasts only a heartbeat—or perhaps less.

The general takes your hand, now appearing so delicate in his grasp, and with the utmost care, almost imperceptibly, he presses a kiss to your fingers. Not in a manner of flirtation, but with the solemn respect of a soldier honoring his superior. "It is an honor, to me, Caesaris filia," he says, his voice steady but laced with reverence. "To serve Rome as your father has called me to do."

He looks into your eyes, and you are not quite certain, but it seems as though the dark center of his gaze has deepened, growing larger with intensity. He holds your gaze, almost as if testing whether you will flinch, afraid of his stature, his rank, or the ghosts of battles he has fought.

But just as he did with the senator, you do not waver—not even slightly. You keep your eyes locked with his, and maybe—just maybe—you take the opportunity to truly observe his face.

He has what you would call "a funny nose", though far from ugly—certainly not. His hair, touched with strands of gray, weaves through the dark curls in a wild, unruly way. Faint lines trace the space between his brows, the mark of one who has carried more burdens than most could bear. He has lived enough to wear wisdom in his features, but you cannot find a single thing that would make him anything less than captivating—not one flaw to diminish the sight of him.

And just like that, the moment slips away, and the general withdraws his hand. You nod as gracefully as you can and begin to make your way toward the door, your presence no longer required in the room.

As you leave, you see men from all corners of the hall approaching him—offering congratulations, smiles that seem to lack warmth or sincerity. Yet, before you can step out, you steal one last glance at the general, realizing that your earlier mockery of him was unfounded. He seems like a man of worth.

Unexpectedly, your eyes meet his once again. You cannot shake the feeling that he sought you out—that he waited for you to look, after all, the door to leave lies just behind him. This time, however, you avert your gaze. Not out of fear or submission.

But because you know that if you linger on him for just one second longer, you may lose yourself to the way your heart stirs in his presence.

#joel miller smut #pedro pascal #gladiator ii #gladiator ll #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius fic #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x female reader #general marcus acacius #marcus acacius

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ourstaturestouchtheskies · 1 year ago

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florence + the machine lyrics x colors x textiles in art – red

Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up) – Lungs // Queen Anne, When Princess of Denmark – Willem Wissing and Jan van der Vaart 🩸 Kiss with a Fist – Lungs // Eleonora di Toledo – Bronzino 🩸 Lover to Lover – Ceremonials // Girl with a Doll in an Armchair – Alois Hans Schram 🩸 Ship to Wreck – How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful // Portrait of Marie Casimire Zamoyska (Marysieńka) – unknown artist 🩸 What Kind of Man – How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful // Portrait of a Young Woman – Arnold van Ravesteyn 🩸 Heaven Is Here – Dance Fever // Portrait of Vittoria della Rovere, Grand Duchess of Tuscany – after Justus Sustermans

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phantomchick · 6 months ago

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Naruto and being the Underdog

Okay so recently I was discussing naruto's characterisation in the comments section of a fanfic and the author was explaining that they don't like/never vibed with Naruto's character (which is totally fair). But then they explained how they felt the supposed underdog setup was contrived and didn't really work because Naruto never actually starts at zero thanks to his jinchuriki powers and being the yondaime's son. (And so here I am, on my soapbox to discuss how Naruto and the concept of being an underdog relate.)

On a physical level perhaps this applies, but Naruto places an equal (if not larger) amount of focus on the emotional action as it does on its plot action.

On an emotional level he has to work for each and every one of his personal relationships.

He wants to be hokage a role he can only take if he is both respected by his village and powerful enough to protect it. It''s a twofold goal. And in terms of the social aspect this is clearly stacked against him due to the hatred and exploitation of jinchuriki as well as shinobi in general, achieving emotional connection and dialogue between people who are used to might makes right or who are pre-disposed to look down on him or want to kill him puts him firmly at a disadvantage narratively.

With the notable exception of Hinata whose love is unconditional, whether it's Tsunade, Neji, Sasuke or Gaara or even Kurama the respect and attention that naruto craves are things he actively pursues in both good and bad ways and he earns them through his own effort.

He does this both by striving to understand these very different people and where they're coming from as well as surviving all the shit the world throws at him. Emotional and physical tasks.

In terms of being a jinchuriki and getting the rasengan easily thanks to his shadow clone bullshit / birthright connections to the yondaime It must first be acknowledged that the jinchuriki power is more of a disadvantage than a boon to him at first. First, because of kurama actively going out of his way to mess with his chakra control as a kid while doing the leaf exercise he was unable to learn the regular clone jutsu; it also results in him experiencing the trauma of discrimination and isolation from a young age which could easily have led to festering self-hatred and alienation if not for Iruka's intervention, it results in multiple S ranks who are fully capable of killing even shippuden level Naruto targetting him, and while the trade-off of boundless energy and survive-ability is immense those same boundless resources have the potential to burn him alive if he loses emotional control/gives into his most negative emotions - that's basically making the subtext text at that point, the story is about his emotional development and growth, something his "OP buffs" don't earn for him. Let's talk about boundless chakra resources for a moment. At the end of the original series, he only knows the rasengan; the rasenshuriken, the shadow clone justu and sage mode/yinyang mode by the end of the series and that's like 5 justu tops if we're counting yin/yang/bijuu mode and sage mode as jutsu. The majority of what he learned from jiraiya for three years seemed to be taijutsu only with a side of failed bijuu control. Naruto has his jinchuriki chakra from the start but that doesn't translate to an ability to use it, he has to spend hours working out how to do the shadow clone, he did not figure out how to do the jutsu because of his chakra even if that was the reason he was able to use it at all, and when it comes to the rasengan I will cite [someone who deleted their reddit account] here:

Naruto completed the first stage in three days and one night. He figured out how his chakra needed to move to burst the water balloon (thanks to a cat) but because he didn't have the necessary chakra control, he improvised by using another hand. He completed the second stage in three weeks or so. The next day(?), Jiraiya gave him a hint to improve his focus which allowed him to finally complete it. And the third stage was completed seven days later to win his bet with Tsunade. Once again, Naruto didn't have the control to focus his chakra the correct way despite his continuous efforts. It wasn't until he came up with another improvised method by using a shadow clone to focus the chakra that he was able to complete the final stage.

Meaning he is the one who comes up with unorthodox methods, such as also using his other hand, or using a shadow clone to focus the chakra, to learn it in four and a half weeks but he still had to figure out how to do it all himself. The shadow clone would've been useless without his understanding of the jutsu or his ability to do the individual parts of the jutsu. He earns the jutsu and could conceivably have learned it the old fashioned way were he not under an artificial time limit as both Jiraiya and Kakashi, both without jinchuriki power, know it and can use it.

Now I'll talk about his supposed privilege as the yondaime's child: Sasuke gets chidori and later kirin thanks to HIS connections but that's never remarked on in the same way. And in fact most people in the naruto-verse learn a big jutsu from their clan or parent; see Might Gai, the genius of hard work, learning the eight gates thanks to his father. The rasenshuriken is something he's only capable of learning thanks to his chakra and shadow clones I hear you quote Kakashi, but it's again, something he couldn't do without actually putting the work in to learn the jutsu. Naruto is on a time crunch because of Akatsuki, the fact he is capable of learning the jutsu once he has advice on wind chakra from Asuma and has practiced forming the rasengan and doing windblades enough means he didn't need the extra chakra to do it, having the chakra didn't automatically make him capable of the rasenshuriken all it did was speed up his chakra control practice exponentially, it would have taken him more time practicing but he could have learned the jutsu eventually even if he wasn't a jinchuriki. Now summons. Being the Yondaime's child might get him an in with Jiraiya to let him have the toad contract, but Sakura and Sasuke also get summoning contracts thanks to personal connections with Tsunade and Orochimaru and Jiraiya only gets him the opportunity. It's Naruto who has to use his willpower to stay on Gamabunta's back and it's Naruto who has to form relationships with his summons like Gamakichi, (a bond that becomes instrumental toward the end of the 4th war). Additionally learning Sage mode wasn't just a result of Naruto getting the contract because neither Sasuke nor Sakura achieved it despite both having contracts (and despite Kabuto managing it where Sasuke didn't) Sasuke with the Hawks as well as the Snakes. And importantly Naruto was unable to use clones or his extra chakra to speed up his training in this. In fact the clones only come into it after he has successfully mastered sage mode and function as a limited extra resource that's can't go beyond three shadow clones meditating and this doesn't function as more sage powah but as a means of extending his sage modes duration, a workaround that's only needed because his being a jinchuriki gets in the way of him gathering sage mode in real-time with the toads on him. In conclusion while his chakra lets him practice jutsu to learn them faster, this is not the case in either his sage mode or the yin yang release and only applies to the shadow clone, rasengan and rasenshuriken - all of which he had to actually learn and understand the mechanics of otherwise the jutsu wouldn't have worked no matter how many shadow clones he had try it and that with the exception of shadow clone he demonstrably could've learned them without being a jinchuriki. And in the case of rasengan and rasenshuriken he is under artificial time-limits imposed by Orochimaru and the Akatsuki.

So that's shadow clone, rasengan, rasenshuriken and sage mode covered but what about bijuu mode. An overpowered special mode he only gets for being a jinchuriki, that B only bothers to teach him because he's a jinchuriki, surely that's LEGIT op bullshit. No? No. At least not in comparison to the Sakura's forehead seal from Tsunade, Sasuke's Mangekyou abilities like izanagi, giant purple warrior and amaterasu, Obito's mokuton, Madara's sage of six paths abilities or the rinnegan's everything, anyway. Not to mention what the edo tensei are capable of.

The only reason bijuu mode works is that he earns Kurama's regard on an emotional level, it's not something which being a kage's kid or having jinchuriki chakra levels actually does fuck all to contribute to. He was that all along but Kurama still hated him and tried to take over his body. It's Naruto himself who has to reach out and make that effort to understand this person who he's always seen as a burden or a curse or an annoying tenant who doesn't pay rent, a monster who tries to kill him and take his body. It's Naruto who has to put in the emotional labour and see Kurama as a person, no matter the harm he's done.

Naruto is the underdog in spite of being "the chosen one" and having the strongest bijuu and a kage father because emotional labour is never easy and in a world like his it seems insane to even try. It's why everyone except him was prepared to give up on Sasuke, Naruto recognises his anger at Itachi and desire to avenge his family as valid, Naruto when he finds out the truth about Itachi from Danzo tells Sasuke he gets it, why he wants to destroy the village, why he's so angry, when Sasuke changes his mind and decides to become hokage instead of destroying it so he can change it, Naruto understands WHY even if he still wants to be kage himself. The problem with Sasuke is that his anger is self-destructive and self-isolating, not that it exists, it's when Naruto fights him one last time and makes Sasuke realise that he's only hurting himself and his loved ones at this point, that "talk no jutsu" finally works and Sasuke is able to listen to Naruto and come home.

It's also why Naruto earns being hokage; in a world full of killers, someone who is capable of acknowledging the harm done and not ignoring or forgetting it (like how he tells pain he can't forgive him), but who is also capable of looking past that and understanding the motivations and feelings of the person he's dealing with and talking to them on that level as equals hits so hard. It just felt like a fantastic set up for a diplomatic hokage capable of dealing with other kages and achieving a peace in spite of the fact they're all to the last, untrustworthy ninja mercenaries who are generally very ends justify the means. In a world of kill or be killed Naruto is still willing to kill, but he's also willing to understand and to talk. And he wasn't born with that, he worked for it and failed often, especially with Sasuke, it was never easy, it often appeared hopeless but he kept trying.

And we rooted for him because of it.

#naruto #naruto meta #meta #naruto is the underdog stfu #read critically damn it #naruto shippuden #naruto analysis #uzumaki naruto #sasuke uchiha #kyubi #kyuubi #kurama #sage mode #yin/yang release #rasenshuriken #rasengan #overpowered naruto #underdog naruto #shadow clone jutsu

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strawberry-milkbunny · 1 year ago

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Naruto is my Roman Empire and I’ve been reading MadaTobi fanfics so these r my Founders Thoughts that nobody asked for:

- Tobirama had a crush on Madara and it PISSED HIM OFF like they def had hate sex at one point LMAO

- they literally worked together ur rlly gonna tell me they didn’t have SOME moments of civility btwn them?? (lowkey that’s wild tho having to see ur brother’s murderer everyday at work-I like Tobi but I’m just sayin)

I WANT A WORKPLACE SITCOM WITH THE FOUNDERS SJSKKSKS:

- Tobi doing experiments and scaring the villagers

- Tobi teaming up with Madara to make Hashi do work

- Hashi making flowers w/government documents

- Mito sipping tea while encouraging Tobi to revive the dead

- everyone in the Tower side eying the sexual tension btwn Madara and Tobi and them never denying they’ve fucked before

- Toka cackling in the background

- Hikaku spraying water at Madara like a cat every time he throws a temper tantrum

- Kagami popping in to make sure his clan head doesn’t kill his teacher PERFECT SITCOM MATERIAL

- totally personal preference: Naruto should’ve had more BLOOD AND GORE. I wanna see the grittiness and horror the shinobi world actually is and how revolutionary Naruto as a character is by choosing peace over violence. The only time we get that is Obito vs Kiri nin, Uchiha Massacre, Wave Arc, Orochimaru…before it turns into DBZ fights

I’ve said this before: Sasuke was in a seinen Naruto was in a shounen

- the warring states is literally the perfect place for exhibiting the horrors of war and humanity. Bloodline thieves, child hunting squads, GIVE. IT. TO. ME. Madara and Hashirama experiencing all of this and wanting PEACE FOR THEIR YOUNGER BROTHERS UGHHH ROBBERY‼️‼️

SORRY TW IMPLIED SA !!:

I HC that bloodline thieves is prob why Madara wears gloves….being a YOUNG (he’s been on the battlefield since he was 8??) powerful, prodigy and future clan head of a famous kekkai genkai it makes sense why he doesn’t like skin-contact/sexual repression and repulsion. And why we don’t see female Uchiha shinobi (excluding misogyny) simply bc there’s such a high risk of SA in this era

Moving on:

- Tobi and Izuna were jealous of how their brothers were being taken away. It goes past the senju/uchiha rivalry like they were just kids and were plain jealous.

- Madara and hashirama def share 1 brain cell LOLLL. Like they’re besties for a reason, Madara acts likes he smarter but nah he’s as much of an idiot as Hashi is. They’re both dreamers let these boys live and skip rocks together!!! 😭😭

- let’s be honest: Tobi built the village. Mans was doing ALL the logistics and infrastructure

- tobirama is soooo second son/eldest daughter coded it’s not even funny. The SPARE, serious and emotionless bc he needed to always clean up after his siblings, DUTIFUL, prob has a praise kink etc.

- Madara is an eldest daughter who also prob has a praise kink and touch starved

- NONE of the founders r well adjusted like they went from spending everyday of their lives at war to tryin bring peace and start essentially a ninja-revolution (PLS GO TO THERAPY)

- madara was just the most open about it: being isolated and feared by his own clan BC he was powerful, trying advocate for the village and peace, all while grieving for his last brother…yeah it makes sense y he went crazy or at least wanted to leave (fuck Kishimoto for that Kaguya bs and fuck Zetsu)

- I don’t actually believe he was trying destroy the village idkkk. I think he was trying to do an SNS aka using fighting as a way to communicate with Hashirama and well…yIkEs

- tobirama is 1000% unadjusted: mans literally created a Justu to revive the dead. You cannot tell me that doesn’t REEK of desperation and loneliness. He’s lit rally the OG mad scientist

- hashirama rlly thought sealing the Bijuu and giving them to each village was a good idea….sir WHO TF GIVES NUCLEAR WEAPONS TO SHINOBI???!! 😳😳

- I think hashirama and naruto lowkey can be summed up as: a powerful idealist. Which is a very dangerous combination. Take that how you will especially considering how shinobi thrive off of violence….it kinda makes sense how we ended up with canon Naruto

- Madara has a god complex and knows it. Hashirama has a god-complex and doesn’t know it. (God of Shinobi title def got to him and understandable)

- the founders failed and they know it. But I also kinda love it?? They’re so flawed and human as leaders and you can see how their mistakes drag into Canon Naruto. It also makes me so sad knowing that Konoha was built to prevent child soldiers and give protection only for it to actually be WORSE (Kakashi ITACHI SANNIN ik for a fact it must’ve hurt Hashi to know ur own granddaughter left the village)

Uchiha are: love is the death of duty while the Senju are: duty is the death of love and neither of them will forgive each other for picking one over the other‼️‼️‼️

- proving this ^^ w/Hashirama’s weird af characterization: aka him being a loveable idiot but at the same time CONGRATULATING Itachi for killing his own clan for Konoha…. I feel like that rlly showed me how much of a war veteran/shinobi Hashirama actually is and how he will always pick duty

- we were ROBBED of baby Kagami/hokage Kagami 😤😤😤 I’m sorry Kagami should’ve been made Hokage it just makes sense personality wise and politically wise. The only way I could see him not take it is bc he needed to be a clan leader/placate the Uchiha/help Hikaku.

- I wanna see him process the loss of his clan leader, teacher, and eventually friends to a point where Danzo takes his eyes

- everyone on Team Tobirama had a crush on Kagami at one point

- one of my fav HC: Tobi and Madara co-parenting Kagami. There’s no way Madara didn’t check up on Kagami being taught by THE senju which makes his defection hit harder for Kagami 😭😭

- BABY SANNIN ‼️‼️‼️ Tsunade was old enough to meet and remember Hashirama it makes sense that Oro and Jiraiya meet the founders

- omg could u imagine being Edo Tensei Hashirama?? Ur granddaughter’s weird friend revives u using the Jutsu ur brother invented that you specifically FORBID 😭😭

- Hashi and Tobi staring at Orochimaru like “you look familiar???” IT HAS SO MUCH COMEDIC POTENTIAL

- Mito revolutionized female shinobi like she’s def the reason ppl realized that girls can fight (Senju Toka was an exception) STAN MITO 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

- Mito pulled a Tsunade and mentally yeeted out of Konoha after Hashi and Tobi died. Bc the way we NEVER hear about her and Hiruzen interacting except for Kushina, even tho she’s literally RELATED to the other 2 hokages….ROBBED 😵‍💫

- I HC: she was dealing w/grief (the fall of Uzushio made it worse) and she was lowkey pushed out of the council by Danzo FUCK DANZO

- I love the idea of Mito wooing for Hashirama’s hand/politically smart Mito!! It was a political marriage that grew into love. There’s no way she DIDNT suspect an attack on Uzushio lik it’s literally an island w/Kiri as it’s neighbours….Konoha gets recognition and stability while Uzushio importantly gets mainland allies

- Mito tops btw she’s def pegged Hashi before 🫢

- if Madara or Hashi had sisters/born women they would’ve def had a marriage to solidify their alliance. This makes Japanese homophobia not make sense esp in the shinobi world bc their clans trusted each other w/o backup like marriage?? Idk I’m just kinda confused y it was never even brought up for an alliance…

*cue MadaTobi arranged marriage au 100k, enemies to lovers, slowburn*

- also to dude bros homophobia has no place in the Naruto world (and IRL BTW) outside of making heirs. They’re literally MERCENARIES You telling me Kakashi has never fucked another man for information before??? Pls be serious I’m begging y’all 🙃🙃🙃

- there’s def family drama amongst the senju!! Idk I feel like Hashirama and Tobirama have the relationship of: “they love each other but don’t like each other” which makes Madara’s inclusion even worse for the brothers’ relationship. Like they def always had each other’s backs but never actually felt like they understood each other.

- I wish more fanfics/canon covered the shinobi-civilian politics more (I love politics lol give me world-building kishimoto 😤)

- Civilians hold power. THEY have all the MONEY to pay shinobi

- I’ve rlly only seen 1 fanfic that involves the Fire Daimyo during the Warring States Era (Into the Wide Blue Yonder it’s a KakaSasu Time travel fic that actually ✨works✨ 12/10 recommend) but it’s true.

Wtf is the Fire Daimyo doing during this era??? Why is he being so placate about Senju/Uchiha war unless he just sees it as entertainment?? How have shinobi NOT fought against rich civilian politicians before?? (Introducing Maoism to the naruto world lol 🤔🤔)

- Kishimoto curse ur goldfish brain….

- the uchiha and senju were def broke in this era, LMAO especially the Uchiha and I mean resource wise. War is EXPENSIVE the Uchiha don’t have Hashirama and Mokutan, they couldn’t just grow food whenever they wanted. It makes total sense that they would agree to a ceasefire just to prevent STARVATION

- once again…. robbed in terms of seeing the aftermath and devastation of war and learning how to live in a morally grey, politically unstable, resource limited world which could’ve brought in the ultimate themes of peace and the cycle of violence, and the question of if violence and war is ever justified, but…..no ❤️

#naruto #MadaTobi #hashirama senju #mito uzumaki #senju tobirama #madara uchiha #kagami uchiha #brainrot.txt #roman empire #silly little thoughts #warring states era #I think I’m a Madara stan now???#I blame ao3 for my MadaTobi brainrot phase #pls give me a founders sitcom #tw sa implied

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