OOC: Dream #1
There's a rush of energy that crackles up his arm like invisible lightning. He can feel it pulling at him with the weight of whatever it is he's gripping; surging into him and flooding out again like the ebb and flow of a strong tide.
It's a drug, filling his veins and his lungs - better than the best high or the best orgasm he's ever had. And in its wake there's an explosion of adrenaline as he moves - fast - dodging something he can't see but can hear - the high-pitched whine of metal and the soft brush of air against the side of his neck.
His skin prickles in response, the awareness of the danger bringing with it only excitement. He laughs, moves to the left in a bid to intercept someone or something, swinging the weight in his hand forward, over his shoulder and down. It's an oversized blade - he can feel it now - feel the weight and balance of it as it arcs through the air, There's a sharp crack when the tip hits the ground several feet in front of him, and the impact travels up his arm and through the soles of his feet. Yet the movement is effortless, the awareness of his own strength exhilarating.
Another sharp hiss of spinning metal and this time he deflects it, shifting into a half crouch as he sweeps the blade across his body and to the right. A fleeting jolt of energy that feels different, somehow, and there's a surge of triumph that follows it when he knows, without a doubt, that contact has been made. He laughs again, and the scent of impending victory breaks his concentration for the briefest of moments.
Brief... but it's enough. A flash of steel; a swirl of black and red in the periphery of his vision and he realises his mistake just as the world dissolves around him. Grass and trees melt into a landscape of permanent night; the ground underfoot littered with polished white skulls and a crimson moon dripping low in a sky devoid of stars. He's dimly aware of the scent of blood - his own and someone else's - and that he's bound, somehow, hands and feet, by a means he can neither discern nor fight. The air is warming around him, slowly... so slowly... until it's unbearable. He can't remember how long he's been here now - hours? Days? Seconds?
Something buried deep at the back of his mind tells him that the time is skewed, but he can't catch a hold of the thought. Instead, he can only feel the heat blistering his skin - smell the charring - and he knows that he's opened his mouth to curse, but when he does, all he can feel is the scorching air burning away the flesh in his throat as he inhales. There's quiet laughter beside him; fingers twisted into his hair and a knife slicing his cheek. He tugs sharply on the restraints and through the pain there's the strongest urge to ram his tormentor's teeth down their throat.
"Bastard."
But the blood running down his cheek reminds him where he is - where he must be - and the word is barely croaked out before he closes his eyes, the nightmarish scene dimming to nothing in a moment. It takes him another moment to adjust; to reject the reality of it and concentrate on the feel of the sword in his hand - both hands. Another curse as something pierces through his left palm once, twice, three times; through flesh and muscle and tendon. He ignores it - no, welcomes it - and pulls the weight of the blade towards him. This time, when the energy slams into him, it's like being hit by a wall. It coils and recoils, arcing and twisting through his body like an overloaded electrical circuit as he struggles to draw breath and remain conscious.
Silence, except for the sound of his own breathing. When he opens his eyes he's on his knees, propping himself there with both hands wrapped around the pommel of the sword, the blade angling down to touch the ground far outside the edge of his vision. There's grass below; no blood on his hands, just the soft yellow gleam of the ring on his left ring finger. For now he can't move; can't even raise his head, and that pisses him off more than anything - an all-encompassing weakness that is unlike anything he's ever felt before.
The other is there now, above and behind him, and the urge to rip off his head in revenge for the trickery redoubles. He can smell him - hear him - and in an effort to seek out a weakness before his next attack, he lets his mind linger on the details. He knows what he's looking for, and there it is, beneath the expected tang of blood and the seemingly even sound of breathing. It's barely audible - that softly laboured inhale and the bubble of fluid - but it can't entirely be disguised... not from him. And for some reason that knowledge makes him smile - a spiteful satisfaction that appeases his urge to kill... for now.
The hand that appears under his nose is fine-boned; the skin smudged with blood and dirt but pale underneath. Purple-painted fingernails that match his own and a ring that's as deep a red as the image of the moon he can still feel burned into the back of his eye sockets. Long fingers curl half in invitation when they tap his wrist, and he grits his teeth in response.
"Do you need a hand, old man?"
"Fuck you, Konoha-baita*. Touch me again, and you'll be food for Samehada."
Notes: *["baita" - bitch, whore]. This dream is entirely head-canon, as we are never shown or told that Kisame and Itachi have fought. I think it inconceivable that they have not, at least once - probably when Itachi was younger and they were still sizing each other up. The swirl of red and black is not necessarily identifiable as sharingan since throughout this scene, Kisame is trying to avoid looking into Itachi's eyes, for obvious reasons.
It's a drug, filling his veins and his lungs - better than the best high or the best orgasm he's ever had. And in its wake there's an explosion of adrenaline as he moves - fast - dodging something he can't see but can hear - the high-pitched whine of metal and the soft brush of air against the side of his neck.
His skin prickles in response, the awareness of the danger bringing with it only excitement. He laughs, moves to the left in a bid to intercept someone or something, swinging the weight in his hand forward, over his shoulder and down. It's an oversized blade - he can feel it now - feel the weight and balance of it as it arcs through the air, There's a sharp crack when the tip hits the ground several feet in front of him, and the impact travels up his arm and through the soles of his feet. Yet the movement is effortless, the awareness of his own strength exhilarating.
Another sharp hiss of spinning metal and this time he deflects it, shifting into a half crouch as he sweeps the blade across his body and to the right. A fleeting jolt of energy that feels different, somehow, and there's a surge of triumph that follows it when he knows, without a doubt, that contact has been made. He laughs again, and the scent of impending victory breaks his concentration for the briefest of moments.
Brief... but it's enough. A flash of steel; a swirl of black and red in the periphery of his vision and he realises his mistake just as the world dissolves around him. Grass and trees melt into a landscape of permanent night; the ground underfoot littered with polished white skulls and a crimson moon dripping low in a sky devoid of stars. He's dimly aware of the scent of blood - his own and someone else's - and that he's bound, somehow, hands and feet, by a means he can neither discern nor fight. The air is warming around him, slowly... so slowly... until it's unbearable. He can't remember how long he's been here now - hours? Days? Seconds?
Something buried deep at the back of his mind tells him that the time is skewed, but he can't catch a hold of the thought. Instead, he can only feel the heat blistering his skin - smell the charring - and he knows that he's opened his mouth to curse, but when he does, all he can feel is the scorching air burning away the flesh in his throat as he inhales. There's quiet laughter beside him; fingers twisted into his hair and a knife slicing his cheek. He tugs sharply on the restraints and through the pain there's the strongest urge to ram his tormentor's teeth down their throat.
"Bastard."
But the blood running down his cheek reminds him where he is - where he must be - and the word is barely croaked out before he closes his eyes, the nightmarish scene dimming to nothing in a moment. It takes him another moment to adjust; to reject the reality of it and concentrate on the feel of the sword in his hand - both hands. Another curse as something pierces through his left palm once, twice, three times; through flesh and muscle and tendon. He ignores it - no, welcomes it - and pulls the weight of the blade towards him. This time, when the energy slams into him, it's like being hit by a wall. It coils and recoils, arcing and twisting through his body like an overloaded electrical circuit as he struggles to draw breath and remain conscious.
Silence, except for the sound of his own breathing. When he opens his eyes he's on his knees, propping himself there with both hands wrapped around the pommel of the sword, the blade angling down to touch the ground far outside the edge of his vision. There's grass below; no blood on his hands, just the soft yellow gleam of the ring on his left ring finger. For now he can't move; can't even raise his head, and that pisses him off more than anything - an all-encompassing weakness that is unlike anything he's ever felt before.
The other is there now, above and behind him, and the urge to rip off his head in revenge for the trickery redoubles. He can smell him - hear him - and in an effort to seek out a weakness before his next attack, he lets his mind linger on the details. He knows what he's looking for, and there it is, beneath the expected tang of blood and the seemingly even sound of breathing. It's barely audible - that softly laboured inhale and the bubble of fluid - but it can't entirely be disguised... not from him. And for some reason that knowledge makes him smile - a spiteful satisfaction that appeases his urge to kill... for now.
The hand that appears under his nose is fine-boned; the skin smudged with blood and dirt but pale underneath. Purple-painted fingernails that match his own and a ring that's as deep a red as the image of the moon he can still feel burned into the back of his eye sockets. Long fingers curl half in invitation when they tap his wrist, and he grits his teeth in response.
"Do you need a hand, old man?"
"Fuck you, Konoha-baita*. Touch me again, and you'll be food for Samehada."
Notes: *["baita" - bitch, whore]. This dream is entirely head-canon, as we are never shown or told that Kisame and Itachi have fought. I think it inconceivable that they have not, at least once - probably when Itachi was younger and they were still sizing each other up. The swirl of red and black is not necessarily identifiable as sharingan since throughout this scene, Kisame is trying to avoid looking into Itachi's eyes, for obvious reasons.