🤯 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.”

// headcanon time! which season does orochimaru prefer? is there any special significance?

Unprompted Asks // @s-talking

They prefer the summer, overall! Winter has its charms for its wrath and storms, and they enjoy the aspect of chaos and unpredictability that comes with it, but the cold bumps it down on their list. They are incredibly vulnerable to the cold, and not being at their best makes them uneasy. Despite that, they actually enjoy winter aesthetically, they enjoy the snow (from a distance), they appreciate storms and violent weather. The cold and rain, not to mention longer nights, means being in disguise and avoiding being seen is a lot easier. Cloaks are not out of place in the downpour, shadows are all over with the dark weather. There is security in it. For this, winter is second on the list.

Autumn carries a chill with it that also has it being less favourable, more importantly, their relationship with Autumn's association with death/decay plays into it. They are fascinated by death, but also averse to it. Some autumns may be pleasant as they toy with the concept of fast-falling life and change, but others are spent loathing the fact that mortality is such an inescapable trap. Autumn is also when they were born, so it crosses over with their birthday, yet another reminder of their mortal clock. This becomes less of an issue when they gain immortality, but it's hard to shake old thoughts. It is third on their list.

Spring is when they lost their parents, a beautiful day, supposedly a time of birth and new life. Instead, they lost their mother and father. They always loathed the fact that the sky dared to be beautiful, the air warm, the world full of life on the night when they lost their parents. It seemed an insult that everything could be beautiful when they were robbed so terribly. They try to be above that kind of sentimental thinking, but they never truly can appreciate the spring until they finally gain immortality and replace painful old memories of their deceased parents with pleasant new memories of their children. Spring is their least favourite. Summer wins due to its climate. They grew up in Konoha, a sunny and warm landscape. They are accustomed to that and find themself more productive and in a better mood with the warmth to keep them going. They enjoy being outdoors and examining ruins and lost villages, this becomes more possible in merciful weather. They don't get overheated even on boiling days, so there are no real drawbacks for them.

👨‍🏫 ,💛 or 👪

Tell me what relationship our muses should have! // @veroxins

send 💛 for our muses to be friends send 👪 for our muses to have a familial relationship send 👨‍🏫 for one muse to be a teacher/mentor for the other muse

// All three of these work honestly! Given what we plotted, I can see Oro easily taking on a mentor role for her, and they could definitely take on a more parental role too? Given the fact they want to avoid her being weaponized by Konoha, and given the fact she shows potential, they would have good cause to offer her a place in the Hidden Sound. And given they can't help but try and teach people things with their passion for learning and seeing growth in others, it would probably occur quite naturally that they would take on a parental role model type figure for her! Especially if she got any clarity on how she was being used, in which case Oro's plight may appeal to her more since they were dealt the same hand as a kid, and they can level with her inner rebel :')

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?”

Commission art by @ravysu 2021. 

"You got a taste for blood, when you were licking your own wounds.”

💖 kabu!!!!

Prompted Asks /. @raichoose Accepting Send “💖” and my muse will admit something they find cute about yours. "Just one thing? Oh but how would I choose? Maybe it's the way he is a menace to society with those illicit passions of his, yet can offer the same passion of bloodlust to his dedicated and far more innocent work in the gardens. The same excitement in his eyes both when he sees a dissected subject and when the cherry blossoms are in season. Or maybe it's the way he speaks? Never have I met a man more snarky than my husband, he could make the most arrogant shinobi humbled with that silver tongue of his. Ah, but then, he isn't just masterful with words when he's putting someone in their place, he can use that wordsmith talent to uplift as well. I know he does with me, with our children. Even the darkest moment can be transformed under his healing touch."

"Or might this be a physical charm I need to speak about? I could go on about his hair, and the way its playful softness reflects in his midnight eyes. Though how could I choose that, when his smile is just as endearing? I suppose if I was forced to choose only one, it would be the way he is as a father. Ever attentive. I always desired my children to live a life as far from my own childhood as they could get. I no longer have to worry about that, if I error, Kabuto by far makes up for it. He is certainly the parent they deserved, the parent I wanted for them. And I suppose most of all, it was the way my boys became our boys the moment he entered their lives. Being a good parent to your own child comes more naturally, I think, being a good parent to someone elses... it takes more than the natural instinct placed in most of us."

✧ Kabuto!

Prompted Asks / @raichoose​ 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).

💖

Prompted Asks /. @sennenryuu Accepting Send “💖” and my muse will admit something they find cute about yours.

"Have you seen her eyes, my dear? The word cute undermines her, criminally. She has risen far too high to be reduced with such belittling compliments. Though I can speak upon the quirks of hers I find most endearing. Her curiosity, namely. She pushes boundaries, she digs up the metaphorical graves that ought to be left alone. She can entertain an idea and philosophy without accepting or supporting it. Isn't that said to be the mark of true intelligence? She's a welcome presence in my laboratory, a sharp mind that belongs there, an inquisitive nature that would thrive there. I hope that clever and blunt mouth of hers doesn't get her killed, I'd quite miss her company, and I fully intend on convincing her to stay a while."

Picrew

( 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.”

❝ words cannot express how you make me feel... how you make my heart... beat... i'd kill for you. i'd kill anyone who even looks your way. your eyes are simply magnetizing... so very beautiful.... ahhh... how i wish i could have a taste... feel the light of you... in my mouth... but i'll be patient, i'll wait. that's the least i can do... before i.. ♥ ❞

Prompted Asks /. @s-talking Accepting Send my muse an anonymous note with your muse’s feelings towards them. My muse has to guess whom the note is from. Quiet observation, as the voice echoes in a familiar and haunting melody. Maybe they are already in the spiders web, maybe each step is them getting more and more tangled. But everyone knows the more one struggles, the more trapped they become. So why put up that fight now? Too curious are they of the predator circling them, with vicious words of devotion, passionate in his confession. The serpents golden eyes circle the room, alight like twin flames, with hues of gold and orange. 'Before I..' Before he what? The killers mind is wicked, the killers mind is beautiful, but more than anything, it is cunning to outwit his victims. They know better than to be complacent, they know they must be ready to bare their teeth, but they know better than to show hesitance too. He has a killer instinct, any trace of a desire of flight will trigger him like a wolf is triggered by the frantic pace of a doe caught out in plain sight. They must be patient too.

"You know more than anyone that I hate unanswered questions, my dearest, you must finish what you start," they say to the darkness, they reply to the currently faceless echo. Strange it might be, but there is an allure to his antics. To all of him. There is a pull towards his wicked energy, his flattery that is hissed to life in threats. They are forever drawn to the dark, to the forbidden, to the dangerous. And they would approach the hunters trap like that same doe approaches a hunter's deer call. Wanting to trace his scars and unravel the story behind them, wanting to drown in his eyes and find the end to that interminable darkness. They should know better. They do know better. But even the sting of death's whisper in their ear, the promise of a trap, of a trick, it is not enough to persuade them. His temptation is too strong. They must have him, even if he gets them first. "I don't want your patience. Face me."

COGNITIVE ASSESSMENT.

bold  / italicize what applies (bold always applies, italics sometimes applies)

alcohol abuse. amnesia. anxiety. appetite loss. binge eating. co - dependence. cynicism. defensiveness. denial. depersonalization. depression. derealization. devaluation. displacement. dissociation. drug abuse. dysphoria. emotional detachment. flashbacks. flat affect. guilt. hallucinations. hypersomnia. hypervigilance. hypochondria. idealization. insomnia. intellectualization. introjection. isolation. low self-esteem. narcissism. night terrors. obsessive compulsion. overeating. panic attacks. passive aggression. paranoia. phobias. projection. psychosis. rationalization. regression. repression. restrictive eating. risky sex. self - harm. somatization. splitting. sublimation. suicidal ideation. sleepwalking. suppression. thousand - yard stare. triggers. trust issues. violence. whiplash temper.

tagged by - @raichoose (stole it!)

tag dump. 1