It started as a quiet afternoon in one of Orochimaru’s private laboratories, the air filled with the faint scent of ink, parchment, and the lingering tang of strange chemical mixtures.

The dim lamplight threw shifting shadows along the walls, casting the tall shelves and scattered scrolls into a twisting maze of paper and glass.

Orochimaru sat at his desk, long pale fingers turning the pages of a worn scroll, the tip of his tongue just barely brushing the corner of his mouth in thought.

He looked entirely absorbed—focused in that way only he could be, with his body unnaturally still except for the faint flick of his wrist as he wrote down some cryptic note in a spidery hand.

His golden, slit-pupiled eyes flicked toward you once in passing before returning to the parchment.

It was that glance—the faint narrowing of his eyes, the hint of superiority in his smirk—that gave you the idea.

You’d seen him brush off threats, insults, and even wounds without a flicker of real reaction, but you’d also learned something else over the months of being near him: Orochimaru had one very peculiar, very exploitable weakness.

He was ticklish. And not just ticklish—he absolutely despised it. Not because it hurt, but because it stripped away every ounce of the poised, intimidating composure he wore like armor.

The few times you’d caught him off guard, his laugh had been high-pitched, almost shrill, and he squirmed in a way that was… uncharacteristically human. It drove him mad.

You moved casually, circling the desk as though to look over the notes he’d been scribbling.

Orochimaru’s eyes tracked you briefly, but his attention returned to the scroll, his voice smooth and distracted. “If you’re planning to linger, at least make yourself useful,” he murmured.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you stepped in close, quick as a snake, and your fingers darted to his sides.

The reaction was instant and explosive. Orochimaru’s body jerked violently, his chair skidding an inch back across the floor.

A startled sound burst out of him—high-pitched and sharp, almost girlish in tone—before dissolving into a flurry of half-strangled squeals and laughter he couldn’t quite smother. His long fingers shot to grab at your wrists, but his coordination faltered under the unexpected attack.

“Stop—!” His voice cracked mid-word, the refined smoothness completely gone, replaced by a pitch that made the corners of your mouth twitch upward.

His knees drew up slightly as he twisted in his seat, trying to pull away from your relentless fingers, but the desk blocked his escape.

He squirmed in earnest now, his hair falling loose around his face as his breath hitched between uncharacteristic giggles and indignant hisses. “I—hahaha—warn you—!” he tried, though the threat lost its venom when he choked on another burst of laughter that sounded entirely unlike him.

His pale skin flushed faintly—not with embarrassment exactly, but with the sheer indignity of being reduced to such a state.

For someone who thrived on control, on being the one to toy with others, having the roles reversed was intolerable.

His eyes flashed with a mixture of outrage and disbelief, though the effect was ruined every time another involuntary squeal escaped him.

Finally, with a sudden twist of unnatural flexibility, Orochimaru slipped out of your grasp entirely. One moment you had him pinned, the next he was halfway across the room, back to the wall, breathing harder than he’d like to admit.

He smoothed his robes with deliberate precision, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear as if to erase the scene entirely.

The golden slits of his eyes locked on you, and the smirk he wore now was thin and dangerous. “You enjoy tempting fate, don’t you?” he drawled, his voice silky once more, though it carried an edge that promised retaliation.

But the faint pink still clinging to his cheeks and the memory of his undignified laughter told you that, no matter what he said next, you’d gotten under his skin in a way few ever could.