To love a creature like him — if "man" was even a word fit for such a thing — was to chase after a mirage. Orochimaru, with his serpent’s tongue, wove only lies, each word a silken thread meant to ensnare. A snake cannot love; it lacks the heart, the soul, the stillness needed for such a fragile thing. To seek love in him is to drink poison and pray for wine.

He sought not tenderness, not companionship — only power, only the cold, unyielding hunger that love could never satisfy.

He tilted his head with slow, predatory grace, golden eyes gleaming like polished coins, empty of anything resembling affection. His voice, smooth and low, coiled through the air.

"...You love me?"

A soft, poisonous laugh curled from his lips, as if the very notion amused him.

"How sweet, utterly pitiful...but sweet."

he murmured, the corners of his mouth lifting in a mockery of a smile.