🤯 or ✋, or both, whichever you fancy! ~~ @shatteredxlookingxglass

Send an emoji for a starter based on the trope // @shatteredxlookingxglass

🤯  -  a  starter  where  my  muse  recognises  yours  from  a  past  life,  but  your  muse  does  not  remember  them. ✋   -  a  starter  where  my  muse  traces  your  muse’s  scars. 

He was supposed to come back. The dim lights of the bar hang moodily above their head, candles replaced by modern fixtures of glass and electricty. So very different from their simpler youth. Menus are more complicated, drinks more dressed up, patrons fashioned in casual clothing lacking armor, signs flashing neon, streets paved and modernized instead of gravelled and rustic. Everything has changed in the last century. Everything except the Sannin sitting in the small bar, nursing a drink too fruity and not strong enough. They miss the liquor from the war days. It had the right kick. Despite having been born in the First Great War, and having fought and lived through the Fourth Great War, the viper looks not a day older than their mid twenties. Immortality looks good on them they decide. Eternally youthful despite being just shy of a hundred years old. But while they look exactly the same as they did in their youth, everything around them has dwindled out, the old replaced by the new. By all accounts, they shouldn't even be here. They are a criminal across five nations, and would be put straight back on trial for breaking their parole. Yet a custom is a custom. And they will not break it for the sake of the law. This is the bar they sat at every thursday afternoon with a dear friend. A friend now deceased. Who had been deceased since the Second Great War. An era of such immense tragedy, it had spiralled the serpent into a maddening depression. One that sought out violence and corruption. His death had sparked a grief that had transformed them from war hero to war criminal. His death had been what shaped them into a monster. His death had been the day they executed their old self to be reborn as someone entirely new. Someone stronger. At any wretched cost. The hopeful youth that would visit his home, drink his liquor, read his notes, listen to his stories and songs. That youth had their throat slit the moment their dear friend lost his life. He was supposed to come back. It's been more than half a century since Dan died. And yet, they have never moved on. They are still sitting at the same bar they used to frequent with him. They still hear the whistles of his song birds. They still picture him walking through the door. They still feel his presence. They don't know if Dan is haunting them, or if they chase his shadow out of pure psychosis. Perhaps they are the ghost. Haunting the same little corner in the same little bar. Never moving on from the last place they saw him alive. Smiling, talking, breathing.

They had thought they could bring him back, they had dabbled in necromancy to conjure his spirit. But never could they reach him. They swear dust will collect on their raven hair, their lavender kimono, their porcelain skin. They are little more than a statue frozen in time in this very town as they exist past their life expectancy. He was supposed to come back. That thought now resides in their mind every waking moment, and haunts even the sleeping ones. So when they suddenly catch his reflection in the window, they merely stare for a while. Calmly, as if they are first addressing their own mind and asking why such cruel tricks must be played so often. As if the ghost of him is not foreign. As if they are accustomed to the merciless trick of seeing the man they wished would come back to life. But his movement is not like the figments of their imagination. Nor is his voice as he makes a passing comment to the bartender. For a moment they try and think of what rational reason there could be. This isn't Dan, just a relative who looks identical. Maybe some punk shinobi stole the image of a deceased shinobi and is using henge for some unknown plight. Maybe their eyes are playing tricks on them. They watch him, but their own visage is hidden well. A cloak over their svelte figure. A shadowy corner. Avoiding attention because they are not meant to be here. When the bell chimes signalling Dan has opened the door and is leaving, the serpent slips from their chair too. The bartender eyes the viper cautiously, as if he wants to warn the silver haired stranger that a venomous missing-nin is pursuing him with interest, but thinking better of it to avoid the Sannin's wrath. Orochimaru follows Dan quietly, like a cat after a bird, knowing one wrong move and it will fly away forever. It feels almost too high stakes. As if the universe plays a trick on them. As if approaching him wrong, too quick or too slow, could mean he vanishes from their world all over again. Finally, they pounce. Maybe he lets them catch him, maybe they are above and beyond even an elite shinobi's reflexes due to their newest discovery of immortality. It doesn't matter. They have him pinned to a wall, their smaller figure deceptively strong when they back their movement with chakra. They have a dagger brandished to his throat, forcing him to stay still as it kisses his neck. Then they bring the blade down, and let the sharp edge slice down his shirts collar. It looks like they are toying with him, but instead they expose a scar they knew lays hidden there. Proof this is no imposter. For no one would know Dan as intimately as the seprent. No one could recreate a hidden scar. The serpent goes so silent that one could hear a hairpin drop. But instead, it is the clattering of their dagger that is heard as they release the blade to hold onto something more precious than a weapon in combat. First slim fingers glide down the scar to check it is real, to check it is authentic. Then slender arms suddenly throw themselves around his neck, pulling him in for a hug that has the vice grip of a boa constricting prey. Lunging at him for an embrace. How many times had they destroyed a bedroom? A rented inn room? A training grounds or research chamber? How many times had they had his memory flicker in their mind, rendering them either ensnared by rage, grief or both? How many times had they screamed his name in the night, in throes of anguish, as if hoping he might hear them and turn around from the afterlife to come right back to their side? How many times had they told themself they didn’t love him after all? Trying to convince themself in a futile attempt to not be quite so broken? How many times instead had they only managed to remind themself just how much they actually loved him instead? They had mourned him for more years than he had lived. Perhaps there are kinder words to offer him in this moment. Perhaps warmer sentiments. But they can not think of anything else to say but the honesty that rips itself from their shaken throat now choked by the tears they refuse to shed. “You took everything when you left.”

028 + 031. Just two pals having a spar again. Mortem very fixated on what is effective against Orochimaru but equally observant if it seems as though they are being pushed too hard. That extra shove against the wall meant to be a moment for her to take in their state quickly and determine if they should continue still or not. Disguised as a second attack as to not insult their prowess, just a moment of observation would do.

Though to be quite honest, the witch is clearly satisfied to spill their blood. Knowing how potent Orochimaru is now was an indicator of how they were in their prime - with a body closer to what they wanted. It's truly an honor to spill their blood. She can't help but smile.

Violent action starter // @cursedfortune

028. — Harm my muse enough for them to cough up blood. 031. — Slam my muse against a wall.

Gold eyes shimmer with excitement and anticipation, then narrow, they can only brace for her next strike, they can’t act quick enough to avoid it. Steeling themself for the blow, they feel the air stolen from their chest and their body lurches from the extreme force. A moment of tensing from the pain, and then blood is working its way up their throat until they are forced to cough it up. It may look grim, but they would resent her going easy on them. It is the reason they have gotten along with her so well. The refuse to be treated like some fragile mortal when they fought so hard and long to be above that. When they survived too many agonies to be reduced. And she has never even attempted to underestimate them, to patronize them with pity or mercy. She gives as much as they do in combat.  They back up to cough up crimson liquid, blinded by their own spluttering for a moment, opening their eyes to see her right in front of them and realizing their back is quite literally against a wall. The ruined village they train in has crumbled and collapsed, but some structures still stand tall. Their eyes spark with anger for a moment, not a good loser and getting too competitive when they realize she may win this sparring match. Angry because it means they are not keeping up with her anymore, they are getting worse, going backwards after all their progress. 

Suddenly she has slammed them into the wall, a moment of observation they almost don’t catch. Almost. But they are too attentive of her lately. And not just in combat to avoid a strike. No, they have started to observe her more... loyally. Fond of her? It is foolishly sentimental. But they have. And what they are fond of, they defend. They observe. They overanalyse and fixate. They watch to see if she ever looks uncomfortable, the tensing of her figure, the fidgeting of her hair. They watch to see if she ever looks to be brooding, dismayed, distanced. Should her eyes flicker with those emotions, they seek out next the cause, ready to eliminate it as a dog does for a master. Willing to spill blood at the smallest inconvenience caused for their dear one. That was what they were raised to do from their years as a soldier, since a mere child. Fight to the death. Defend what is held close at all costs.  They are vicious by nature. And they dare to think their loyalty is such, that their fierceness can be forgiven.  She has gazed them over, checking she is not harming them beyond a point of recovery. They take the opportunity to lunge forward, their lower half morphing into that of a serpent, now before her as a hybrid, a naga. Their tail twists around her tightly, they spin her around so her wrists are slammed beside her head and her back pinned to the wall. Nails have extended to be claws, their golden irises seem to encroach, wanting to make their entire eyes that molten hue. Violet chakra sparks around them like angry flames, licking at her skin, their fangs half a snarl half a smile, “what’s the matter? Worried I’ll break? Surely you know better than that.” they tease, winding tighter around her body, their serpentine tail circling into a tighter grip to steal her breath the way she had theirs. They realize they have gotten all their coughed up blood in their hair, raven locks twirled in a loose wave from the gore clinging to it. A little matted from the sticky source even, they give it a displeased look. But following their own gaze down their black river of hair, they notice where they have torn her clothing. A slit in her side where the skin has healed but the fabrics of her attire have not. Peaking out, a tattoo that is still too covered to be properly seen for its design. They observe her a moment in the pause, the coils of their serpentine body loosening due to their curiosity. They have had enough sparring, their body trembles from clear fatigue, their breathing is too heavy and full of effort, their mouth is still stained with red at the corners of their lips, their golden eyes a little glossy and their wounds are not healing. Chakra depleted. So they use the last of their strength and their naga tail to yank her from her pinned position to toss herself and them onto the floor.

Where they can catch their breath side by side. Something akin to a mermaid out of water but pulled right out of a nightmare rather than a fairytale, their long tail spills out around them. Part coiled loosely over Mortem in a possessive show that she is theirs, part lounging over broken rocks from fallen buildings to enjoy the residue of warm stone. Their hands idly twirl their hair in front of them, twisting it as they assist themself in cleaning the gore by summoning water. A small amount of chakra required that causes no further harm, “you speak a lot about your purpose. But what about yourself outside of that?” they ask, glancing to the tattoos that they have now discovered, trailing a clawed finger across it, “you’re one of the few people I take interest in outside of their purpose and use. It would be a shame if you didn’t share hm?”

./ @gwynblcidd . Starter A once bustling town is now empty, old residents having moved out, and two new residents having moved in. Word spread quickly when trade is halted and disrupted, the town depended on for resources now unable to respond, as if becoming a ghost overnight. Only the wind dares to pass through the town nestled in the thickets of woodlands, for the new occupant residing there has taken the entire village as their refuge. Having arrived here bewildered and injured, Orochimaru had taken the town by force in a necessary pursuit of licking their own wounds. At first merely seeking shelter, the witch hunt that ensued when they were deemed a monster had them making a change of heart. The towns people had bared their teeth at the viper, so they had bared theirs back.  It isn’t their fault if at their weakest, the serpent boasts magic unseen by many, and rivaled by even fewer. 

Three days after the attack, where the serpent had slaughtered the brave soldiers who contested them, and chased off the remaining civilians - who would likely be dead with the winter nights they had been forced to flee in to - and Orochimaru is only partly healed. Still hiding behind a close companion. Another monster to some, but a sacred ally to the golden eyed immortal. It is somewhat a surprise when they sense the presence of a wanderer, when they hear the sound of hooves clipping along the paths. Besides stray dogs and livestock that now roams freely, the village is scant of life at first. No humans have been welcomed, but then, the Witcher is not quite human. Perhaps they should have suspected as much. But they would not be the first one to greet Geralt and Roach. Instead, a serpent the width of a carriage and the length of a river emerges from the ground, gaping jaws and three rows of back facing teeth opening to emit a low hiss toward the rider and horse. With its head raised, the ruby eyed leviathan levels Geralt’s gaze with its own, while its jaws threaten to elongate just enough that it could swallow dear Roach whole. The hiss that rumbles the ground and startles the nearby sheep in to fleeing sounds like sandpaper and thunder at once, yet it falls silent when a calmer voice speaks. “For your sake, I hope you are just a lost wanderer my dear, and not a bounty hunter looking to lose his head.” Orochimaru says, their slender figure spotted leaning on a broken building, a ruined stable their summons tail had crippled by merely slithering over it. The way Orochimaru stands, a skilled eye may deduce they are shielding an injury, keeping their wound further from the Witcher, slightly bent forwards as if any movement may cause discomfort of some kind. A broken rib or abdominal puncture, it would be hard to say, as they remain cloaked in their black cape, “turn back, I would hate to overfeed my companion over here.”

Starter ./ @hana-akari The serpent does not have much interest in Konoha’s problems. But the village has welcomed their youngest son in to its gates, and as a means of maintaining fragile peace, it is the vipers responsibility to nurture that peace as much as they can. In this instance, that requires aiding the village. Even when they are issued a parole officer of rather high regard. The Sannin knows of Sakura’s prowess, they know she is a skilled shinobi, and they know they likely can’t walk all over her as they have been all their other parole. After all, the immortal legend of a near century of age is a colossal threat, and well worth respecting. Or at least, fearing, if respect is not on the table for a criminal like them. Ah, how they could circle the point that all shinobi are killers. That their crimes had incentive to better the human design. What a terrible design it was. A design that left millions of orphans in its fragile wake. Was that science not a better reason to kill than blind loyalty to a village? A better reason than killing because of differing headbands? Killing because of Kage-waged war?

They think so. But they also know better than to open that debate. After all, they have done inexcusable evil in their pursuits. Back then, the means was justified by the ends. Now? Now they have two sons. Now they know there is more to human survival than just surviving. Less about the people. More about every person. They have considered that over and over again. They don’t need a more moral shinobi telling them such things. They have found their need for redemption on their own. For themself. For certain fallen. For their sons. Not for the shinobi now glaring at them. Overly long kimono sleeves hang over their hands, though an ivory hand peaks out of the light blue sleeve so they might brush back a raven lock of hair that covers a bright pair of eyes, the sound of their earring clinking as sharp nails accidentally knock that too. Their smile rises to their lips to reveal a gentle smirk, but it loses its more relaxed quality due to the sharp fangs revealed. “Sakura dear, what a pleasant surprise,” they say, feigning a friendliness they know will be caught out, but not too phased about that either. Rather she hone in on the fact their sincerity may be a bluff, than the fact they actually knew full well she was their parole officer for the long road ahead. Information that was only known to them because they had snooped on Konoha files. The serpent had many moral changes. But the petty crime of locating forbidden information? That was not something they had yet parted with, “I hope you’ve rested well, the road is a long one to the first village.” they say, a more friendly way of saying trains would be off the table, and the old fashioned way by foot would be necessary. The ex criminal would create too much of a panic on public transport.

She had been watching them this evening. Among the merriment of celebrating a festive holiday; in watching mortals dance, prank or treat one another, she saw them. No, felt them first. A single thread upon her web struck, then more - attention diverted from the all to the one. Curious, curious. This one, their energy - it was fun. Unusual. Unique. Enigmatic. Witches often liked mysteries.

Thus she spent some time observing, occasionally offering a trick or a treat when another interrupted her attentions before she refocused upon them. Attempting to decipher just which they deserved. It's only when she has decided that the witch approached; a sharp and gleaming sickle in hand that had earlier been used for harvesting this very (toffee) apple that sat upon its tip raised skyward.

Though her expression is quite pleasant there's an undoubtable slyness in her gaze - amused by something. Perhaps the mere decision to approach and offer them a treat this day? "May you slither around the tricks before they have the chance to reach you, lovely." Mortem commented, tone playful as she dipped her head and excused herself back into the crowd.

./ @cursedfortune Crowds are not their favourite place to be, despite their fascination with people-watching. Human nature may be a certain interest of theirs, but being born in to war has made them hesitant to stand in the midst of so many strangers. Fearless as they are, their instinct to survive and stay away from what may snuff out the flame of their existence is strong. How they would prefer to be upon one of the highest rooftops instead, marveling at the silly antics of the festive and chatty celebrators below. But though their brilliant golden gaze lingers on those that pass them by, their true focus is on the one who is equally focused on them. One did not live a near century, being one of the most hunted down criminals in the five lands, without developing a talent for deciphering who took interest in them. It was almost always a bad sign when a pair of eyes landed in fixation upon the serpent, and yet, they are far too curious a creature to be put off by it. Instead, they are only willing to match that curiosity.  Who dared meet the eyes of a reaper like them, and smile so wickedly back in return? So when she approaches, though they may turn to her as if noticing the witch for the very first time, they had already profiled her. A woman standing a little taller than themself, and just as slender in build from what their eyes can tell, hair as rich as their favourite wine in plum hues, eyes as dark as the boulders that shatter ships in a storm. They greet her with a fanged smile, and a curious tilt of their head, their gaze the sun and hers the eclipse. A pale hand as ivory as a porcelain doll reaches out to grasp the apple from her sickle. Briefly glancing down to the item of fruit, as their painted black nails sharpened like claws easily tear the hard exterior of the ‘treat’.  Ah, but she tries to leave as swiftly as she arrives, though they will not allow it. As quick a movement as a viper striking, they have tugged her to a halt. Slender digits curled around the sickle that lingered nearest to them. Uncaring about the way the blade bites in to their skin, “now where is the fun in that, my dear?” they ask, stepping closer as they release her blade, and circling around the witch for a better view, “I much prefer allowing others to think I am playing right in to their tricks before I turn the tide. There’s nothing like keeping a mortal’s arrogance in check with ones own game.” they say, a subtle clue that they knew they were speaking one non-mortal to another. And finally, their circling has started closing in on her, until they are breaking the boundaries of social etiquette with their closeness, “you must have seen something you liked, you were staring for an awfully impolite amount of time after all, lovely.”

( post-war! )

There’s an odd, yet not so surprising silence that Kimimaro gives as he first steps into the room that Orochimaru occupies, viridian hues only briefly scanning what was contained within its walls before landing on the other figure. ❝ My lord. ❞ The younger greets them gently, setting the tray carrying some herbal tea he readied for them just minutes prior on an unoccupied table. Another stillness transpires, his mind spinning. While it had been some time since he settled back into the routine he grew so accustomed to years prior, there was an odd, conflicting sense of unfamiliarity within it somehow.

❝ I truly didn’t think I’d ever find myself finding a home back here after… what occurred. ❞ Kimimaro trails off as he attempts to find the correct words, no hints of complaint laced in what he speaks this genuinely. Daring to allow his gaze to settle back on the sannin, he continues his musing. ❝ This is the only home I’d known growing up. I’m grateful to you for accepting me once again. ❞

Impromptu Asks // @cxmellia

Ah, they must be going soft. Only a handful of years ago, two decades in fact, they had sentenced Kimimaro to his certain death. They had watched the small flame that was his life being snuffed out, and they had not so much as mourned him for a moment. Too chaotically hellbent on finding a cure to mortality, too desperate to live, to survive. He had been just another life they used to find that goal. Yet, as of now, things were so very different. Now those shameful memories must be stored away. Maybe it is because they are a parent, but the young shinobi before them, humbled by years of grievances, is much more like a son than they would like to admit. 

As his quiet footsteps enter the room, their musings on the subject pause so they can focus on him, on his words. Golden eyes drawn first to the steam rising up from the cup of tea, before following his hands all the way up his arms and to his gaze, where they can offer him a gentler smile in greeting, “thank you dear, but shouldn’t you be resting?” they ask, taking a step toward him to place a hand to his forehead, inspecting for temperature, ensuring there was nothing returning from his previous illness and demise. Once reassured all was well, they grasp the mug in both dainty hands to bring it to their lips, blowing gently to cool the water before they take their first sip. Giving him the gap to now voice what was weighing on his mind. They listen without expressing any telltale emotions, only curiosity a constant in their gaze.

“This was always your home. In life, even in death,” they say, though it was pleasant they had been wrong when thinking him deceased. A stroke of luck they did not take advantage of in time, “there was no need to worry, you merely came back to where you always belonged. Your absence was the abnormality, not your return.”

A soft hum left the witch as she slid down to their level and upon a knee, a thick blanket finding its way around their shoulders as she did so. It's one of her favorites when dealing with the cold, given she suffered from heat loss as one of the many consequences that came with the spell she cast upon herself so long ago. It's easy to see that they suffer something similar. Whether that was due to their snake-like attributes or some other physical reason, what mattered was the result she wished to help soothe.

Dropping to sit fully beside them the witch tucked her cloak around herself further and admired the dancing flames. "Tis fitting that the beauty of winter would come with the baneful curse of the cold." Mortem mused over how beauty and horror intertwined so perfectly. Perhaps that's why she loved it even if it brought the two of them such discomfort.

The witch's shoulder pressed lightly against their own through the blanket, making a direct physical connection so that she may share her near boundless energy with them. It may not be much in terms of keeping Orochimaru warm but it was a small something to try and help nonetheless.

Unprompted Asks. @cursedfortune

Golden eyes watch the flickering of the flame before them, small embers sparking from the fires mouth only to be instantly snuffed out on the frosty forest floor. Even the serpents breath forms small clouds of mist, as they breathe in and out to remind their body it still had work to do. That it had to sustain them even when the icy touch of winter wanted to numb every organ inside them in to subdued stillness. That is, until something soft brushes over their shoulders and neck. Her hand and the blanket equally as soothing in sensation, as the witch takes her seat beside them. And right beside them. Her shoulder now pressed to theirs, which causes their eyes to tear away from the flames and calmly address her instead. Now, when last had such a gentle affection been offered to the hybrid shinobi? They can count the times on a single hand. When they were four and their mother couldn’t get her stubborn child to come back inside, and resorted to letting them wear a blanket like a cape. When they were ten and Hiruzen tried to offer them some comfort on a particularly awry mission. When they were sixteen and Jiraiya had caught their shiver and tossed his blanket over them along with a teasing remark. When they were forty and Kabuto cared for them when they were ill, a silent offering of extra warmth because he knew they were too weak to get it themself and too proud to ask. Distant memories, all of them. Yet it does not allow the Sannin to overlook one very similar connection between those instances and this one. The act was one of care. A worry for their wellbeing. An understanding of their needs, even when they are silent upon those needs. Maybe it is that thought that has an amused smile rising to their lips, maybe it is her words that bring it forth, perhaps even a combination of the two. Either way, a soft huff of laughter escapes them. They rest their head against her shoulder, shuffling a little to get closer and more snugly pressed against her figure, “everything stands out against contrast, hm? The beauty of white is most visible against a backdrop of black, much like beauty comes to life most against the backdrop of horror,” they reply, their smile looking briefly wicked, their eyes reflecting the flames dancing, yet the gold from such a gaze is far brighter and more lethal than the fire itself. How many people had compared them to winter over the years? Nearly all their lovers, certainly. Beautiful, but cold and lethal, unapproachable, loved best from a safe distance. They chuckle at the memory of being referred to as such, before they toss her a playful gaze, “maybe that is your appeal too. Your beauty shines most amidst your madness,” they say, a little taunt, a little coy, and a little truth. They see no insult in such a statement. They took pride in their own madness, they took pride in being desired for their beauty yet shunned for their wrath. They did not want the beauty of the rose, of the jewel. Rather to have the beauty of the flash of lightening, of the midnight and raging sea, of the captivating but poisonous wisteria. They wanted their beauty to be corrupted by all that they were and had become to survive. That held more proof of being alive. That held the war that was always in their blood. And when they look at her, they see a mirror of themself, they see all those things, and more. They look up, kissing her forehead before settling more securely against her, to catch some form of rest while she stays awake for the first shift of night-watch. Finally able to seek rest now that she had offered a solution to the overbearing cold, and rescued them from winter’s wrath, “not to sound like an ungrateful damsel-in-distress, but shouldn’t an all accomplished witch such as yourself have more tricks than just a blanket to combat the cold? It’s still rather chilly.” they say, perhaps simply because they are unable to let themself sound too grateful, and need to give her a hard time to maintain their persona of being a vile little creature.

✧ ( Hello! )

Prompted Asks / @cxmellia Accepting

send me a ✧ and i’ll bold all that apply to your muse.

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧   I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧  I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

"My karmh-ssek, this old heart of mine must be broken. Every time I so much as smell your presence nearby it beats out of tune, to a rhythm that isn't my own. Help me carve it out and keep it in a pretty sake jar in your favourite laboratory, will you?"

./ @traitorousscales They know when he has slipped in to their home, though admittedly, he is already just outside their door when they are properly aware. The Sannin would know an approaching shinobi miles ahead of their entrance, let alone inside it. But not Teppet. They have long since marveled at the skills he possesses. Him and his brother both, though his dear sibling would never have the lacking modesty to gloat. Unlike their dear, precious Teppet. Who has all the lacking modesty to gloat. But it works in their favour. The sharp tongue of his, playful and witty, is precisely why they have become so attached to the cobra. Besides, he was marvelous, and it was best he knew just how many leagues ahead he was from shinobi kind.  They glance over their shoulder at the sound of his voice, having only had a few moments to realize someone approached. Placing a vial down carefully in its holder, they turn to face him, leaning against the counter with a curious and pleased expression, fangs bared in their amused yet wicked smile, “now Sess'mjavak, isn’t that simply what love is? It hijacks our senses and makes us near strangers to ourselves,” they say, removing each plastic glove from their slender hand in an elegant and playful motion.  They then cross the distance, and run a hand along his shoulders, over blue scales as they chuckle softly, painted black nails lingering briefly on his heart in question, “but don’t be so silly, I will play the butcher only toward the  sess'achulg. You do not belong picked a part and left on display in this museum of mine,” they finish their little circle around him, before their golden eyes meet his gaze in curious wondering, “but I might consider keeping you prisoner here for a while. Since I’ve missed you so.”​

tag dump. 1