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The line between safety and danger blurs just so and makes each touch a scalding brand, marks the weight and scent of Madara to be as much a boon as a peril. He could tear out my throat, Tobirama thinks, quaking in fear. He’s breeding me, he thinks, and shakes, awash with pleasure. At any rate it's too late to do a thing. Tobirama sealed his own fate the moment he stepped uninvited through that door.
Your funeral. Well, as far as caskets go, this one’s pretty plush.