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"I've got something new. I think you'll like it." I know I will. The look between them tells him Orochimaru is well aware of what he doesn't say.

"Very well."


Kabuto was right.

Orochimaru has always been able to take shape in new ways, but this is certainly different. They can feel as their skin shifts, becomes more alive, more aware. Feel themselves splinter into a dozen different pieces, enough to strain the consciousness of anyone less adept. For them, the feeling fits beautifully, a so easy to slip into it feels moulded to fit. Though, they suppose, it likely is. Kabuto is always attentive in his creations.

"How long will it last?"

"I'm not sure."

"Hmm," Orochimaru allows themself a moment to stretch, flex their newfound forms, "best to make the most of it, then."

"I agree," Kabuto grins from his place across the lab. "We should test it thoroughly, while we have the chance."

Pieces of them melt away, leaving them no less complete- they'll have to ask how he did that, after- and while Orochimaru does not move, they can feel the cool stone below the snakes which slip from his skin and slither towards Kabuto without hurry. They feel every crack, every pebble. They feel the warm shiver which runs through Kabuto's body at their touch. They see it, too.


Every scale is warm to the touch. Kabuto knows that when others look at Orochimaru, at their creations, they see something cold, although they feel the burn upon touch. They make sure of that. Kabuto sees the heat, though. He sees the flames burning below the skin, feels as they brush across his own and leave scorched skin behind.

Kabuto lets himself be pulled to the floor as snakes wrap, thick and heavy, over every part of him they can reach. He lets his clothes be pushed and pulled into disarray, allows Orochimaru to lean over him, running elegant fingers along his skin until tremors follow, full of need. When Orochimaru shifts and sinks down around him, still refusing to allow him the space to move, any measure of control, Kabuto shudders against the hold. The pace is set agonizingly slow, every shift of Orochimaru's hips feels like a painful luxury, sending fire through his veins and forcing him to feel every touch, overwhelmed by sensation. The snakes which writhe and trap, the nails running sharp over his chest, the pull of his own muscles under his skin, desperate for more. Always, more.