Seven Deadly Sins [Part 3]
Title(s): Superbia
Author: julia_dreamer
Fandom(s): Naruto
Pairing(s): Orochimaru/Sasuke
Length: 1166 words
Summary: Pride, noun - a high or inordinate opinion of one's own dignity, importance, merit, or superiority, whether as cherished in the mind or as displayed in bearing, conduct, etc.
Note: WARNINGS: : I wrote this after staying up for 30 consecutive hours writing about medieval literature. I was literally incoherent and hallucinating - which was fun for me, but probably means this is a little hard to follow. But I still like it.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Tired didn’t cover it. he was exhausted, depleted, mentally and physically incapable of going any further. He’d been awake - trapped awake, forcefully tied to that-which-was-awake by the burning, the aching, the pain - for more than a couple days. But he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t succumb, couldn’t sit still when his skin felt like it was on fire, couldn’t fall asleep because if he fell asleep it would mean he’d failed the test.
He couldn’t remember what the hell the test entailed anymore, or why it was important - he couldn’t remember anything, nothing but how much it burned, how much he wanted to just rip it off his skin, and no matter how much he scratched the itching and the pain just got worse - but he knew he had to stay awake. He had to outlast something. He thought maybe he had to outlast the pain.
The visions came with it, too, creeping crawling things He didn’t notice them at first, little squirming black shapes he could only see out the corner of his eye, slowly worming forward, shivering shuddering tentacles and thick black pincers, fangs dripping black red fire like ice on his skin, bigger things harsher things twisting everywhere around him, catch his legs and his hands and there’s the snake, the big goddamn snake poised over him leaning over him fangs in his neck--
No. No, not. Only in his head.
Blood comes, under his nails, something he can’t make sense of for a long time because they creeping crawling blackness itches around the edges, but in between he realizes he scratched his skin raw, worse than raw, bloody and open but not that spot, the mark’s still there like fire.
But he won’t. He won’t sleep. He has to stay awake.
They get more vivid, get warmer, more frequent, over and over the snake, but then it isn’t anymore, is it, it’s the other thing. It’s the man, but he’s not, not anymore, he’s something stretched and curved and even more awful, something with long digging claws and harsh breath and fangs sunk deep in his bleeding open flesh. Snakes that tangled around his legs at sibilant orders, coarse shivering scales around ankles, around wrists, around neck, pulling him tight pulling him apart, breaking him, burning him. Sharp nails on skin, on throat, on chest, on hips, on thighs, long red lines all over. Marks and marks and marks. It doesn’t feel good but he thinks he’s reacting, thinks he’s succumbing, giving in, arching and shuddering and needing and it should be easy, shouldn’t hurt at all when he's stretched wide open like this, when he’s twisted and pulled and curved into the right shape. That’s how it is. He doesn’t know if he can feel it, doesn’t know if it’s good or bad, tries to connect it to something, to some moment, but there aren’t any moments, nothing.
It’s still burning-itching-clawing under his skin and he shudders, he squirms, the snake laughs and laughs and laughs and it’s inside him, making him writhe and shake and laughing when he likes it he doesn’t want to like it. He can’t help it, can’t do anything about it can only feel it and want it and beg for it harder-faster-more until he’s coming but that part doesn’t feel good, not like he expected.
Retract. Shivers and squirms and claws slipping out of skin-into skin. Whimpering is he whimpering and little moans too, and the creeping crawl curls back and back until it’s just those little shivers again, little worms and blobs and tendrils in the corner of his vision. Curls up in a ball, tight and safe and confused, hands tangled in short black hair feeling slick like blood but who’s bleeding, he is, where he scratched it, scratched and scratched until it all came off under his nails.
It will come again, he doesn’t want it to. He wants to be finished, to be done, to be safe, to leave this room and the shadows and the shapes in the corners and the not-real memories of things that didn’t happen, won’t happen, can’t ever be allowed to happen.
Tremble. The door creaks.
First it’s light, but then the light shivers and he doesn’t scream but it’s reaching for him, long bright fingers like sunshine and for a moment just a moment he could be home, home in the trees with sunshine in his hair, home where the brightest thing in the world is smiling and touching his cheek and everything is bright--
--
“Did he really stay in iso for a week?” Kabuto asks, stock still.
Suigetsu grins. He likes having the knowledge. He taps on the glass of his tank and swirls himself upside down, peering at his bespectacled captor. “Hell if I know. But Orochimaru-sama said that was the only way to get full control. Five days fighting it all by yourself.”
“What was he like when they dragged him out?” The medic seems so perturbed.
“Na, Kabuto-kun, too bad Orochimaru-sama sent you on that mission, you would’ve been here to see them pull him out...”
“You must have seen, Suigetsu. The door’s right there.”
“Heh. I dunno, you gonna let me out...?”
Kabuto punches the glass - pent up frustration, nothing more - and stalks away. Suigetsu surveys the crack with displeasure. A millimeter off.
--
He recovers - he always recovers, doesn’t he - but it’s not that. Not the blood, not the echo of scarring over his shoulder, not the memories, even. No. It was worth it - worth every minute, as usual, he’s done exactly what he wanted to do and exactly what they told him would be hard to achieve, wouldn’t want to prove that the genius wasn’t as special as they said he was.
Orochimaru smirks at him on the training ground, tosses the kunai at him casually, laughs when the wing sprouts instantly from between his shoulder blades to protect him - burning, twinging, just a little - and there’s something in that laugh like he knows, or like maybe it wasn’t all hallucination, but that can’t be true.
“So, Sasuke, shall we move on to the next test? Or do you need more time to recover...”
“It’s fine. Let’s start now.”
He won’t. He won’t give, won’t let the thoughts overwhelm, won’t let anything. He’s the strongest, always was, stronger than anyone - yeah, stronger than everyone, stronger than his teachers his parents his brother Naruto--
He won’t be beaten. Not again.
[A/N] This series is temporarily paused. I'll get back to it eventually.
Author: julia_dreamer
Fandom(s): Naruto
Pairing(s): Orochimaru/Sasuke
Length: 1166 words
Summary: Pride, noun - a high or inordinate opinion of one's own dignity, importance, merit, or superiority, whether as cherished in the mind or as displayed in bearing, conduct, etc.
Note: WARNINGS: : I wrote this after staying up for 30 consecutive hours writing about medieval literature. I was literally incoherent and hallucinating - which was fun for me, but probably means this is a little hard to follow. But I still like it.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Tired didn’t cover it. he was exhausted, depleted, mentally and physically incapable of going any further. He’d been awake - trapped awake, forcefully tied to that-which-was-awake by the burning, the aching, the pain - for more than a couple days. But he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t succumb, couldn’t sit still when his skin felt like it was on fire, couldn’t fall asleep because if he fell asleep it would mean he’d failed the test.
He couldn’t remember what the hell the test entailed anymore, or why it was important - he couldn’t remember anything, nothing but how much it burned, how much he wanted to just rip it off his skin, and no matter how much he scratched the itching and the pain just got worse - but he knew he had to stay awake. He had to outlast something. He thought maybe he had to outlast the pain.
The visions came with it, too, creeping crawling things He didn’t notice them at first, little squirming black shapes he could only see out the corner of his eye, slowly worming forward, shivering shuddering tentacles and thick black pincers, fangs dripping black red fire like ice on his skin, bigger things harsher things twisting everywhere around him, catch his legs and his hands and there’s the snake, the big goddamn snake poised over him leaning over him fangs in his neck--
No. No, not. Only in his head.
Blood comes, under his nails, something he can’t make sense of for a long time because they creeping crawling blackness itches around the edges, but in between he realizes he scratched his skin raw, worse than raw, bloody and open but not that spot, the mark’s still there like fire.
But he won’t. He won’t sleep. He has to stay awake.
They get more vivid, get warmer, more frequent, over and over the snake, but then it isn’t anymore, is it, it’s the other thing. It’s the man, but he’s not, not anymore, he’s something stretched and curved and even more awful, something with long digging claws and harsh breath and fangs sunk deep in his bleeding open flesh. Snakes that tangled around his legs at sibilant orders, coarse shivering scales around ankles, around wrists, around neck, pulling him tight pulling him apart, breaking him, burning him. Sharp nails on skin, on throat, on chest, on hips, on thighs, long red lines all over. Marks and marks and marks. It doesn’t feel good but he thinks he’s reacting, thinks he’s succumbing, giving in, arching and shuddering and needing and it should be easy, shouldn’t hurt at all when he's stretched wide open like this, when he’s twisted and pulled and curved into the right shape. That’s how it is. He doesn’t know if he can feel it, doesn’t know if it’s good or bad, tries to connect it to something, to some moment, but there aren’t any moments, nothing.
It’s still burning-itching-clawing under his skin and he shudders, he squirms, the snake laughs and laughs and laughs and it’s inside him, making him writhe and shake and laughing when he likes it he doesn’t want to like it. He can’t help it, can’t do anything about it can only feel it and want it and beg for it harder-faster-more until he’s coming but that part doesn’t feel good, not like he expected.
Retract. Shivers and squirms and claws slipping out of skin-into skin. Whimpering is he whimpering and little moans too, and the creeping crawl curls back and back until it’s just those little shivers again, little worms and blobs and tendrils in the corner of his vision. Curls up in a ball, tight and safe and confused, hands tangled in short black hair feeling slick like blood but who’s bleeding, he is, where he scratched it, scratched and scratched until it all came off under his nails.
It will come again, he doesn’t want it to. He wants to be finished, to be done, to be safe, to leave this room and the shadows and the shapes in the corners and the not-real memories of things that didn’t happen, won’t happen, can’t ever be allowed to happen.
Tremble. The door creaks.
First it’s light, but then the light shivers and he doesn’t scream but it’s reaching for him, long bright fingers like sunshine and for a moment just a moment he could be home, home in the trees with sunshine in his hair, home where the brightest thing in the world is smiling and touching his cheek and everything is bright--
--
“Did he really stay in iso for a week?” Kabuto asks, stock still.
Suigetsu grins. He likes having the knowledge. He taps on the glass of his tank and swirls himself upside down, peering at his bespectacled captor. “Hell if I know. But Orochimaru-sama said that was the only way to get full control. Five days fighting it all by yourself.”
“What was he like when they dragged him out?” The medic seems so perturbed.
“Na, Kabuto-kun, too bad Orochimaru-sama sent you on that mission, you would’ve been here to see them pull him out...”
“You must have seen, Suigetsu. The door’s right there.”
“Heh. I dunno, you gonna let me out...?”
Kabuto punches the glass - pent up frustration, nothing more - and stalks away. Suigetsu surveys the crack with displeasure. A millimeter off.
--
He recovers - he always recovers, doesn’t he - but it’s not that. Not the blood, not the echo of scarring over his shoulder, not the memories, even. No. It was worth it - worth every minute, as usual, he’s done exactly what he wanted to do and exactly what they told him would be hard to achieve, wouldn’t want to prove that the genius wasn’t as special as they said he was.
Orochimaru smirks at him on the training ground, tosses the kunai at him casually, laughs when the wing sprouts instantly from between his shoulder blades to protect him - burning, twinging, just a little - and there’s something in that laugh like he knows, or like maybe it wasn’t all hallucination, but that can’t be true.
“So, Sasuke, shall we move on to the next test? Or do you need more time to recover...”
“It’s fine. Let’s start now.”
He won’t. He won’t give, won’t let the thoughts overwhelm, won’t let anything. He’s the strongest, always was, stronger than anyone - yeah, stronger than everyone, stronger than his teachers his parents his brother Naruto--
He won’t be beaten. Not again.
[A/N] This series is temporarily paused. I'll get back to it eventually.