He had become used to way he looked in a mirror: wild hair, cool almost pale skin where the sun never touched, black bugs that crawled whisper soft across and under his skin. It took him until that point to accept his body for what it was, a hive, a nest, a symbiotic commune of writhing bodies within a shell of skin and bone. He looked back into dark eyes, pools of chilly calm, and didn't wonder why no one came to him for comfort, for sleepless nights with heat and need and nameless cries; there was no one who quite understood and he would never be with anyone who did not know.
Maybe, he thought, there is someone. One person who knew and didn't look at him with faint unease and fear. But he wouldn't allow himself to think too hard on that, most times, because he was uncertain and didn't want to sacrifice what he had for wishes and maybes. Now though, he wanted to think, wanted to wonder, and the rare occurance of release, the leash of his control loosened, freed him for thoughts he would normally never dream of entertaining.
Shino lifted his hands to frame the passive stare of his mirror image, fingers pressed to skin formed of illusion and tiny teeming bodies, but warm and alive beneath his touch. The kikaichuu - simply bugs in the way that Akamaru was simply a dog - could mimic him eerily, but he thought that it was easier when he was not emotive in any case, stoic and reserved, increasingly private and self-contained.
He looked back at himself and Shino wondered if he seemed so empty to others, the waiting stare and calm like graveyards and abandoned houses. Something to be filled, but holding nothing on its own. Fingers pressed harder and those eyes did not change, continue to stare and await direction.
The sigh that escaped him was frustrated and all he wanted was a gasp, a twitch, as if by provoking reaction he could prove something to himself. He wasn't even sure what that was, had no clear idea beyond the short-term goal, the recognition of his actions.
His hands slid down to shoulders, gripping the broad stretch of them to push back, press the obliging doppelganger against the plaster wall, and he felt this spark of anger, fascinating because heat was other, not him, was Kiba and that sudden realization gave him strange insight.
The clone leaned back, passive and trusting, and he ran his hands over the curves of shoulder, thumbs pressing into faint scars, tiny reminders that he served only as a vessel, a house with too few exits. He pushed the thought aside, embracing the curling angry heat, the growl of frustration that began low in his chest, and he pressed harder, palms crossing the expanse of chest, nipples tightening beneath his touch. Those eyes finally reacted, a faint widening, confused and unsure, but still waiting, still trusting.
Shino watched the echo of himself and growled again, a far away flash of remembered dream in the image of him and Kiba, flushed and panting, starkly naked and writhing. He fixed that in mind, cast himself opposite his shadow. He was Kiba with this, Kiba's intent if not his form, searching out weakness, stubborn in the face of that impassive silence. Shino wanted to break it, pull fire and need from that calm.
He cupped the angle of jaw, tilting the clone's head and leaning in to bite, to rumble against flesh and feel the tension and uncertainty though it never pushed him away, never told him no in so many words. The press of their bodies was almost strange, familiar only in recognition, the hard angles and planes that were also forgiving and welcoming. He rolled his hips, demanding reaction and the sharp intake of breath, the shift and answering motion drawing a grin of teeth bared against the hollow of the other's throat.
Most surprising was the return touch, the firm grip of long-boned hands against his biceps, and he lifted his head to see questions in the endless black of those eyes, lips parted as something unfamiliar coursed through a body never meant for this sort of affair. The anger in him allowed for no explanation and he trusted himself - the other, himself but not, many minds with little independent will - to allow his explorations, his touch and his need.
When he growled again and shifted forward to bite, to find that curve of mouth, the taste was strange and thick against his tongue, inescapably not- human. He imagined to those who live with heightened senses that he smelled of glittering black bodies and sounds of chittering swarms muffled by muscle and bone. But he only felt warmth beneath his palms, the faint flutter of a heartbeat so excellently simulated, a gasp as he rolled his hips again and something dark coiled, building in the stirring of flesh, fingertips dragging down the arcing curve of ribs and back to rest at narrow hips. Shino thought he would not look so empty as his clone, responsive and yet not reciprocating. Taking but not giving, no instinct to guide them.
His cloneself made some sound, a huff of breath and confused sensation, and Shino was encouraged to touch further. He felt the thread of hesitation in the impermanent body, the shiver and shift as he slipped one hand down, knuckles brushing soft against the twitch of abdominal muscles, scars like scattered silver-shot across the mirrored skin. His mouth pressed against the downward slope of collarbone, biting at the copied heat of flesh and blood, and the other breathed in, a sudden gasp, grip tightening reflexively.
That-! That was what he wanted, the helpless need and hands pulling closer, wanting more. He growled in unconscious imitation, thought of broad palms and blunt fingers as he slid the length of his hand around and pulled, knowing now how to bring the heavier, shortened breaths from those lips. Shino felt the trembling grip tug at him and he laughed in baritone depths, tongue pushing at slick scar tissue weakened by too many tears, imagined the skin breaking and bleeding black.
His fingers traced fineries of veins and nerves, almost teasing as the shadow sighed and groaned, its hands slipping to press along Shino's back. There was something of power in this, in being able to bring a being of limitations so far, and he reveled in it even as he wanted more, fingers kneading at the hollow of one hip as he stroked, the other's cock heavy and hot in his palm. Reversed from the familiar sensation and so easier to think of as new, as Kiba touching Shino.
He pressed his thumb to the faint leak of viscous wet and rumbled low, lifting his hand to taste - the bitter salt made him think of blood, of sweat and still it wasn't right, wasn't quite the human musk and he accepted it, but it burned like betrayal.
The clone sighed and arched, not able to ask in more than silent need, black eyes seething, staring. Shino shifted, pushed knees apart to loom and bare teeth faintly in the dim light, stroking firmly, tightly held in the circle of his fingers, almost wringing each new sound from the shaking, groaning mimic of his undoing. He could feel the baring of his own teeth, the grinning victory, the scarlet ink blazing like passion full and sacred fire.
Shino watched, the other's chest rise and fall hard with each barely-enough breath, hips grinding back against his touch, fucking his hand as he held him back against the wall, and he waited, impatient, feeling the heart of him pulse and twitch and need. Small sounds, almost whimpers, and he groaned frustration, angered by the lack of shoutingyellingcryingout. He tugged faster, flesh slipping thick and hot in his hand, the clone pushing, writhing, bucking, and he felt the tension in the arms around him, clawing lines of pain and--
He trembled at the high keening cry, the thick wet heat spilling against his fist in fitful spasms, and he knew fear/shock/pain was mirrored in his own eyes as the other looked at him through searing release, death and oblivion in the widening deep black.
Shino pulled from hands already scattering, disintegrating into falling shells of bodies, like faraway rain against the rooftops as he stumbled back, panting. He couldn't look away, had to watch the clone die as if burned, blackened and charred as flesh became reality - kikaichuu swarms decimated, fallen for their master.
The bed frame tripped him up and he fell against the mattress, heavy in heart, in body, and the survivors followed him, like reverse waterfalls onto the blankets, pushing into his flesh, reopening wounds in search of sustenance. Shino felt tears against his cheeks and knew what he'd done. He was selfish. He was weak.
He could never be with one who did not know and he could never share this secret shame.
Maybe, he thought, there is someone. One person who knew and didn't look at him with faint unease and fear. But he wouldn't allow himself to think too hard on that, most times, because he was uncertain and didn't want to sacrifice what he had for wishes and maybes. Now though, he wanted to think, wanted to wonder, and the rare occurance of release, the leash of his control loosened, freed him for thoughts he would normally never dream of entertaining.
Shino lifted his hands to frame the passive stare of his mirror image, fingers pressed to skin formed of illusion and tiny teeming bodies, but warm and alive beneath his touch. The kikaichuu - simply bugs in the way that Akamaru was simply a dog - could mimic him eerily, but he thought that it was easier when he was not emotive in any case, stoic and reserved, increasingly private and self-contained.
He looked back at himself and Shino wondered if he seemed so empty to others, the waiting stare and calm like graveyards and abandoned houses. Something to be filled, but holding nothing on its own. Fingers pressed harder and those eyes did not change, continue to stare and await direction.
The sigh that escaped him was frustrated and all he wanted was a gasp, a twitch, as if by provoking reaction he could prove something to himself. He wasn't even sure what that was, had no clear idea beyond the short-term goal, the recognition of his actions.
His hands slid down to shoulders, gripping the broad stretch of them to push back, press the obliging doppelganger against the plaster wall, and he felt this spark of anger, fascinating because heat was other, not him, was Kiba and that sudden realization gave him strange insight.
The clone leaned back, passive and trusting, and he ran his hands over the curves of shoulder, thumbs pressing into faint scars, tiny reminders that he served only as a vessel, a house with too few exits. He pushed the thought aside, embracing the curling angry heat, the growl of frustration that began low in his chest, and he pressed harder, palms crossing the expanse of chest, nipples tightening beneath his touch. Those eyes finally reacted, a faint widening, confused and unsure, but still waiting, still trusting.
Shino watched the echo of himself and growled again, a far away flash of remembered dream in the image of him and Kiba, flushed and panting, starkly naked and writhing. He fixed that in mind, cast himself opposite his shadow. He was Kiba with this, Kiba's intent if not his form, searching out weakness, stubborn in the face of that impassive silence. Shino wanted to break it, pull fire and need from that calm.
He cupped the angle of jaw, tilting the clone's head and leaning in to bite, to rumble against flesh and feel the tension and uncertainty though it never pushed him away, never told him no in so many words. The press of their bodies was almost strange, familiar only in recognition, the hard angles and planes that were also forgiving and welcoming. He rolled his hips, demanding reaction and the sharp intake of breath, the shift and answering motion drawing a grin of teeth bared against the hollow of the other's throat.
Most surprising was the return touch, the firm grip of long-boned hands against his biceps, and he lifted his head to see questions in the endless black of those eyes, lips parted as something unfamiliar coursed through a body never meant for this sort of affair. The anger in him allowed for no explanation and he trusted himself - the other, himself but not, many minds with little independent will - to allow his explorations, his touch and his need.
When he growled again and shifted forward to bite, to find that curve of mouth, the taste was strange and thick against his tongue, inescapably not- human. He imagined to those who live with heightened senses that he smelled of glittering black bodies and sounds of chittering swarms muffled by muscle and bone. But he only felt warmth beneath his palms, the faint flutter of a heartbeat so excellently simulated, a gasp as he rolled his hips again and something dark coiled, building in the stirring of flesh, fingertips dragging down the arcing curve of ribs and back to rest at narrow hips. Shino thought he would not look so empty as his clone, responsive and yet not reciprocating. Taking but not giving, no instinct to guide them.
His cloneself made some sound, a huff of breath and confused sensation, and Shino was encouraged to touch further. He felt the thread of hesitation in the impermanent body, the shiver and shift as he slipped one hand down, knuckles brushing soft against the twitch of abdominal muscles, scars like scattered silver-shot across the mirrored skin. His mouth pressed against the downward slope of collarbone, biting at the copied heat of flesh and blood, and the other breathed in, a sudden gasp, grip tightening reflexively.
That-! That was what he wanted, the helpless need and hands pulling closer, wanting more. He growled in unconscious imitation, thought of broad palms and blunt fingers as he slid the length of his hand around and pulled, knowing now how to bring the heavier, shortened breaths from those lips. Shino felt the trembling grip tug at him and he laughed in baritone depths, tongue pushing at slick scar tissue weakened by too many tears, imagined the skin breaking and bleeding black.
His fingers traced fineries of veins and nerves, almost teasing as the shadow sighed and groaned, its hands slipping to press along Shino's back. There was something of power in this, in being able to bring a being of limitations so far, and he reveled in it even as he wanted more, fingers kneading at the hollow of one hip as he stroked, the other's cock heavy and hot in his palm. Reversed from the familiar sensation and so easier to think of as new, as Kiba touching Shino.
He pressed his thumb to the faint leak of viscous wet and rumbled low, lifting his hand to taste - the bitter salt made him think of blood, of sweat and still it wasn't right, wasn't quite the human musk and he accepted it, but it burned like betrayal.
The clone sighed and arched, not able to ask in more than silent need, black eyes seething, staring. Shino shifted, pushed knees apart to loom and bare teeth faintly in the dim light, stroking firmly, tightly held in the circle of his fingers, almost wringing each new sound from the shaking, groaning mimic of his undoing. He could feel the baring of his own teeth, the grinning victory, the scarlet ink blazing like passion full and sacred fire.
Shino watched, the other's chest rise and fall hard with each barely-enough breath, hips grinding back against his touch, fucking his hand as he held him back against the wall, and he waited, impatient, feeling the heart of him pulse and twitch and need. Small sounds, almost whimpers, and he groaned frustration, angered by the lack of shoutingyellingcryingout. He tugged faster, flesh slipping thick and hot in his hand, the clone pushing, writhing, bucking, and he felt the tension in the arms around him, clawing lines of pain and--
He trembled at the high keening cry, the thick wet heat spilling against his fist in fitful spasms, and he knew fear/shock/pain was mirrored in his own eyes as the other looked at him through searing release, death and oblivion in the widening deep black.
Shino pulled from hands already scattering, disintegrating into falling shells of bodies, like faraway rain against the rooftops as he stumbled back, panting. He couldn't look away, had to watch the clone die as if burned, blackened and charred as flesh became reality - kikaichuu swarms decimated, fallen for their master.
The bed frame tripped him up and he fell against the mattress, heavy in heart, in body, and the survivors followed him, like reverse waterfalls onto the blankets, pushing into his flesh, reopening wounds in search of sustenance. Shino felt tears against his cheeks and knew what he'd done. He was selfish. He was weak.
He could never be with one who did not know and he could never share this secret shame.