Chapter Text
"Are you comfortable?"
"I am."
"Good. Then let's explore your true form, shall we? Together."
"Are you sure? I'm not..."
"Human? John, the only part of you that's ever been human is your willingness to change for the better. This is no different. You're..." Arthur breathes out a laugh. "Frankly, the word 'friend' has stopped being enough to describe what you are to me for a long time now. But, I can't think of a better one." He shrugs.
"You're my friend. My closest friend, John. I want to get to know you, all of you, especially now that we're separated and I still can't see. So, let me touch you. Let me feel you, the real you, not the human mask you put on for the world. I'll ask for clarification if I need it, but I want to do this on my own. Please."
John lets out a sigh, laced with the same constant growling undertone of his voice. It's something only Arthur can hear, they've found, even through John's human disguise.
"Okay. Just, promise me you won't try to apply too much... logic, to it."
"I suppose that makes sense. Like back in the Dreamlands, the laws of reality don't entirely apply to you? I promise."
"Good. Then... How do we...?"
Arthur holds out a hand. "How about you guide me to you? For old time's sake."
"Heh. Alright."
What reaches for his arm isn't a hand. Arthur was never expecting it to be. Instead, the tip of a tendril all but licks across his palm as it moves to curl around his wrist. It's about half as thick as said joint when Arthur's fingers close around it, but with a surprisingly strong grip once it completes a full loop around it. He is tugged forward, gently but inexorably, toward John on the bed. Is he sitting? Lying down? Do those terms even apply to his current form? Arthur can't wait to find out.
His knees bump against the side of the mattress, and he crawls onto it to sit. As he does, he hears movement. He feels no other touch from John besides the tendril on his wrist, so he can only assume John has moved whatever appendages he has to make room for him.
This close, it's like he can feel John's presence in front of him. It reminds him of a case where the perp had somehow gotten his hands on dynamite. The wave of pressure that crashed into him when it went off was like nothing he'd ever felt before, like the fist of an angry god ramming into him from head to toe.
John feels similar, but faint and constant. His presence seems to exert some kind of pressure on reality itself, bending it just a little. If Arthur weren't already so deeply entwined with the supernatural, he'd probably never notice it. As it is, it serves as a guide when he reaches his free hand forward.
John catches it, however, in something that does feel like a hand of his own. "Start here," he says, as he guides Arthur's fingers up to what feels distinctly like a jaw and cheek.
"Oh. So you do have a human face in this form."
"Something like that."
The tendril releases his wrist, to let Arthur begin exploring in earnest.
"Let's see here... Hm, the overall shape of it is definitely human. Not much different from your human body, just... Smoother, I suppose? I can't feel a nose."
"There isn't one."
What Arthur assumes to be John's mouth doesn't move against his fingers. His voice comes from somewhere further down. Arthur files that away for later.
"Have you looked at yourself in the mirror like this?"
"I... Have. Briefly."
There's hesitancy there. Maybe a little bit of fear or shame. Arthur chooses not to pry.
"...Right. Well, there's your eyes. And... some more of them."
"Don't try to count."
"Yes, of course. Let's estimate them at... around half a dozen feels right. On your face, at least. What color are th— Wait, no. Let me guess. Your eyes are golden?"
"They are. I'm gold and black all over."
"Sounds beautiful."
"I... Thank you."
Arthur traces the narrow line that seems to constitute John's mouth. It's a simple slit on the curved plane of his face.
"Your skin is... It's close to human, but so much smoother. I don't think even a baby could feel this smooth. And your mouth... doesn't seem to have lips?"
"No, it doesn't. Do you want it to?"
"No, no, I'm just describing it. But am I to understand that it could?"
"Of course. I can be however I choose, Arthur. Putting lips on a single mouth would take less than a thought."
"Good to know. But not right now, I want you in your most comfortable form."
"Okay." John sounds almost bashful. It's terribly endearing. "Do you want to explore inside it?"
"Hm, that's a good question. You're not speaking from this mouth, so I assume you have more than one. Are they all the same inside?"
"Mostly."
"Then I'll wait. Let's go up first." Arthur traces his fingers up toward the top of John's head. "Ah, here we are. There's a shift in the texture of the skin here, where one might expect a hairline. It becomes even smoother, completely inhuman now. What does this remind me of? Snake scales, perhaps, but as a single unbroken surface. And you have... What are these, more tendrils on your head?"
One of them coils around Arthur's finger. "Yes."
"Hah. At least you won't have to worry about messy hair in this form. And they're quite thick at the base. Interesting."
He moves his hand to cradle the back of whatever passes for John's skull. He tries to, at least, but all he finds are the tight crevices between the tendrils, which wrap around his arm and fingers with something like playfulness or curiosity.
"They're quite eager to touch me back, it seems."
"Mm. Y-yes. It's, ah, a reflex, I believe you might call it."
Arthur has to suppress a grin. That little stutter in John's voice hasn't gone unnoticed, but he decides not to bring it up. Yet.
"I see."
"No you don't. You're blind."
"Oh, you know what I mean."
He pulls his hand back. There's some slight resistance, just for a moment, before the tendrils of John's 'hair' let go. He slides both his hands down to either side of John's neck, though the 'hairline' continues on the back of it, where more tendrils sprout from where a spine might be.
"A very human neck here, okay. Shoulders, nice and broad. And... Huh, more tendrils coming out of them. Is your whole back covered in them?"
"Yes."
"What color are they? And your skin, for that matter."
"I told you, I'm gold and black. My outer surfaces are all black, except for my eyes. My insides are golden, as far as I can tell. My tongues certainly are. And my..." John's voice dips in volume. "My tears. ...My blood."
Arthur's hands still. "Are you alright?"
"I..." A not-entirely-human hand closes gently around Arthur's wrist. "When I first saw myself like this, I couldn't... I was feeling so many things. I was relieved and, and angry and..." He lets out a breath. It hits Arthur's face, making him realize John must be using the mouth on his face to speak again. "I don't know. But I cried. And when I was done with that, I... clawed into one of my tendrils. Just one. I just wanted to know."
Arthur brings a hand back up to cradle John's face. He nuzzles into it.
"I understand."
"Mm."
His hand trails back down, this time along the arm that's holding his own.
"Now, this arm I know well. Even under this different skin, it feels just as thick and strong as your human form. But... Oh. The texture shifts again. Your elbow matches the quasi-human skin of your face, but it gradually changes to the same unnatural smoothness of your tendrils at the wrist. The hand is the same shape under it, for the most part, but the fingers... You said you clawed your tentacle, but I can't feel any sort of boundary between skin and claw. It's like your fingers just harden into sharp points."
Arthur tries to map the exact shape of one claw and earns himself a small nick across his fingertip.
"Hah, very sharp. And yet you've been so gentle with them."
John sucks in a breath. Arthur can't quite tell if it's embarrassed, surprised, or both.
"I..."
"I never would've guessed you had claws if you hadn't told me or I hadn't just felt them myself."
"Arthur..."
It's almost a plea. For what exactly, Arthur isn't sure, but it certainly isn't for him to stop. He moves his hands back up the limb, and one of them goes across the shoulders to the other arm, just to make sure it's the same. With that done, he's ready to explore John's front.
"Now for the chest. ...No clavicles it seems, interesting. Or at least, no noticeable bony points at the base of your throat. But the pectorals are here, and quite warm too. Oh, that's very nice, actually."
He presses his palms over them. John shifts with a noise like a small grunt.
"Is this alright?"
"Yes," he says, voice a little tight and breathy.
Again, Arthur has to suppress a grin. This isn't the first time they've had sex, he knows just how much John likes being touched.
"Good, good. Oh, wait! I don't feel any nipples! Hah, I suppose mine don't do anything either, so that makes sense. Then... Yes, I can feel a heartbeat, nice and strong. And further dow— Oh. Is this where you were speaking from before? Another mouth?"
"It is."
This time, the slit under his hand does move. It opens far wider than a human mouth ever could. There's the briefest brush of something hard as stone against his fingers, and a puff of hot breath into his palm, matched only by the spark of heat that whizzes down his spine. He can't contain a slight gasp.
"Can you leave it open for me?"
John's response isn't words, but the quiet slick sound of two wet surfaces pulling apart. The hot, humid air that rises from the cavity envelops his hand again. It makes him gulp.
He probes slowly, with both hands. He finds the edges of the open mouth first, to trace its shape and position. It's long, well over a foot, cutting across John's stomach at a slight angle, the left corner higher than the right. Like the mouth on his face, there are no lips to speak of. Rather, when the slit unfurls, it reveals the same border between human-like skin and smooth surface which, much like John's claws, hardens abruptly into long, sharp points to serve as teeth. They flex individually from each other, and yet Arthur is certain they could bite off any piece of him if they so wished.
"Are these...?"
"What?" The voice comes from John's face.
"Your teeth, what— Are they also black?"
"Yes. And... This is gold."
What can only be one of John's tongues presses up into Arthur's palm, making him gasp. He grabs it almost by reflex.
"It's... It's so hot. It's wet. The texture, it..."
The tongue curls and licks around his fingers. His next exhale is shaky.
"It's long and sinuous like your tendrils, but it's not smooth, the texture is... It's not like a human tongue either. I mean it is bumpy, but in a different way. Bigger bumps, I think, rounder. Maybe this is what an octopus would feel like..."
"Maybe."
John's voice sounds heated. Eager. His tongue, whether consciously or not, seems to be trying to draw Arthur's hand deeper into the mouth. After a moment's hesitation, he lets it. The tongue squirms higher up his limb, past the wrist, looping around his forearm greedily, but partially freeing his hand. He takes the chance to angle it toward the walls of the mouth cavity. His fingertips graze along a wet, slick, faintly ribbed texture, not unlike the roof of his own mouth, but without bone behind it to keep it from moving and spasming like a throat.
So much like a throat, in fact, that the whole cavity suddenly shrinks inward. The mouth closes around his arm. The teeth flex outward, caging the limb, their sharp points barely pressing into the meat of his forearm. Each one is a tiny little sting, so mild it's almost a tickle. When Arthur feels around with his other hand, he finds that only the teeth around him are out; the others have folded inward, leaving the mouth on either side of him a simple slit once again. The tongue is still wrapped around him, still moving slowly under the pressure holding him from all sides.
He and John let out a heavy breath almost in unison. And finally, for the first time, something touches Arthur without his prompting. Some stray tendril finds his ankle and curls around it, startlingly hot against his chilled skin. He squeezes the tongue in his hand in return.
"John..."
"Yes."
Christ, John's voice is so heavy. It thrums inside Arthur's chest, a deep needy growl that he's surprised he's even able to understand. The tongue and mouth tighten around him, clinging to him. The points of the teeth press a little more into his flesh, maybe even enough to draw blood. He can't tell. He doesn't particularly care either way.
Arthur clears his throat. "I'm uh. I'm not done exploring. Can you...?"
"Oh, r-right. Sorry."
After a moment, the mouth relaxes. Like John's 'hair', the tongue puts up some token resistance before it releases him, and the mouth folds shut. The saliva left on Arthur's skill feels uncomfortably cool in the open air. He rubs it between his fingers.
"Is this gold too?"
"Translucent, but yes."
"It's thick. Thicker than mine, at least." He tries to look up toward John's face. "Can I... Can I see the other one too?"
Again, John's response is to open said mouth with that same slick sound. Arthur reaches toward it, but the tongue finds him first. This one isn't as thick, and yet it seems to have no trouble stretching well beyond the length of a human tongue to catch his hand and guide it into John's other mouth. It feels much the same as the first, but on a smaller, more human scale. The teeth flex outward around his palm just like before. His thumb is left outside.
This time, however, John makes a noise somewhere between a moan, a hum and a growl, and the deep vibration makes his fingers tingle.
"Fuck," he whispers.
Arthur withdraws his hand without needing to ask. He wipes it messily on the bed covers. Another stray tendril comes to rest on his thigh, its touch blocked by his pyjamas. He takes a moment to breathe.
"Okay. Let's keep going. So... Yes, there's your second mouth. And below it is just more of that almost-human texture. No abs that I can feel. No navel either. But below where it should be, the human-like texture changes gradually again, like on your arms, and... These aren't hips."
Arthur's hands do find two limbs bent forward and spread out around him, but they're nowhere close to human legs. He follows one, from the thigh-sized base, down the whole curved length as it smoothly shrinks in diameter, to where the very tip has been coiled around his ankle for a while now. It's not hard to guess the rest.
"You... Your lower half is all tendrils."
"It is."
The tendrils on his legs start to move away, but Arthur grabs the one on his ankle.
"No! Stay. In fact..."
Arthur scoots forward until his knees press into the base of John's frontmost lower tendrils. They seem to automatically bend forward to wrap around his legs and hips. One of them slips under his shirt, its hot tip tracing over the many scars on his belly. It draws a small, open-mouthed moan from him.
"That's it. I told you I want to feel you, John."
"Arthur."
He drags his hands back up John's torso, all the way up to his jaw again.
"How about you lay back for me? So I can feel all the tendrils you have."
The noise John makes isn't even a moan, just a rush of air somewhere between gasp and growl. He doesn't hesitate this time. The tendrils around Arthur shift as he moves back, but more join it, clearly emboldened. Then, there's a pause, as though John might be considering something, and the two initial tendrils lift away, plus a few more. Arthur doesn't need his sight to understand that John is spreading himself out to him, like a flower of obsidian petals with, hopefully, an invitingly gold center.
Thick, strong tendrils wrap around him, not just his legs but his waist, his back, even his shoulders. Some of them wriggle under his pyjama shirt, but more don't, instead pushing the fabric around over his skin with enough force to make it clear that they could tear it off in a single pull. He almost wants to tell John to do it. He's been resolutely ignoring his own growing erection, and the thought only makes that harder.
Then John's tendrils try to draw him closer, and he throws his hands out.
"Wait! Wait. I... I think... I think I'm wearing far too much for this. Can you give me a moment?"
John growls. The tendrils come to a standstill, but don't let go.
"John?"
There's a huff, and Arthur suddenly finds himself lifted right off the bed. Those impossibly smooth tendrils snake all over him, some holding him aloft, some burrowing under his clothes and yanking them off, maneuvering his limbs with as much ease as a child playing with a doll. He's pretty sure he hears at least one seam get torn, but he honestly couldn't care. Against the skin that was kept warm by the pyjamas, the tendrils are almost cool to the touch.
"There."
He's plopped back down onto the bed, in almost the exact same position, still shrouded in tendrils, but now completely naked. At the very least, none of the tendril tips wandering across his skin try to reach for his cock. He's not sure he'd be able to stay focused if they did.
"R-Right. Ah. Thank you, John."
Now the tendrils pull Arthur forward, looping around him more, drawing him closer to what he can only assume is John's genital area. Some of the tendrils around his legs get dangerously, tantalizingly close to his own. He doesn't let it get to him, however. He reaches forward instead, feeling along the length of the many hefty tendrils forming John's lower half.
Sometimes, his fingers pass over another mouth, or another eye, or maybe even something in between. He never lingers long enough to find out, wanting to map as much of John as possible. Sometimes he might even feel teeth or a tongue when his hand strokes one way, and just smooth skin when it goes back over the same spot. The number of limbs wrapped firmly around him is hard to keep track of. There might be some tongues in the mix. It's very strange, in the best way possible.
A mouth, the first of many, opens on a tendril wrapped around his midsection. Twin rows of needle teeth press into his belly. A tongue drags wetly between them, tracing one of his many scars. Arthur moans.
"Christ, John. It feels like you're everywhere. This is... This is so much."
"Arthur."
The growl of his name shivers up his spine. It's... aggressive? No. It's possessive. And it makes Arthur smile wide.
He shifts his focus, stroking his palms along the underside of John's many tendrils. He works his way toward the center, the core where they all meet. The gaps between them narrow into tight lines as they flex and slide past each other in their quest to all but smother him. The closer he gets, the more the temperature climbs. The slits of mouths and eyes and whatever else stop showing up, at least under his hands. And Arthur becomes aware of...
"What is that?" He breathes in deep. "There's... Is that you?"
John doesn't hum so much as growl in silent questioning.
"That smell. It's..." He fills his chest again as he leans closer. "What does that smell like? The sea? No, not just that, there's... There's something else there, I can't put it into words. It's..." One more deep inhale. "Oh, that is maddening."
All at once, John's tendrils around him freeze.
"John? Wha— Oh! No, no, it's fine! I'm fine, it's..." He chuckles. "Sorry, bad choice of words. Really, it's fine. It's good, even. Don't worry." He strokes John's tendrils soothingly. "I just mean it's not like anything I've smelled before. It's okay."
One by one, the tendrils relax. "...Okay."
"Can I touch the source of this smell?"
"Yes. Although, I'm not sure what you'll find, Arthur."
"Well. I did say we'd explore your body together. Let's see what we have here."
Arthur goes back to his gradual path toward the center. His palms stroke along the curves where all the tendrils meet, until he finds a definite ridge, a line where the unnaturally smooth skin ends and whatever is beyond radiates heat. John has tensed again. His breaths are harsh and rolling, like a miniature storm. Arthur takes in one last lungful of that intoxicating sea-like smell, and inches his hand past the edge.
John croons.
"O-Okay. This feels similar to the inside of your mouths. It's smooth and slick, but the skin is much thinner, and the flesh underneath is soft and yielding. And it's so hot. You're like a furnace, John."
Speech seems to elude John for the moment, because his only response is a deep, throaty growl. His tendrils squeeze Arthur even closer, forcing his fingers to slide deeper. He finds that the raised edge marking John's core forms a wavy circle, right across the base of every tendril on his lower half. At the very center, he finds a hole, hot and wet and inviting. By instinct, he pushes two fingers inside.
The entirety of John's form shivers. He groans so deep it seems to rattle the walls themselves. His tendrils pull so tight it's actually painful, just for a moment, though one curls a little too close to Arthur's neck. He coaxes it lower.
"John?" he calls, voice rough. "Everything alright?"
"Yes. God, Arthur, yes."
"Okay. Watch the neck, John."
"R-Right."
The tendrils enveloping him shift lower. One tries to grab for his cock, but Arthur catches it before it makes contact.
"No. No. Not yet. I want to focus on you. Eat the elephant, yes?"
John huffs impatiently. "I'll show you how to eat the elephant..."
"Hah. I wouldn't be opposed to it, friend. I'm sure you'd taste divine."
John very nearly whines. Arthur gives the tendril he caught a little pat.
"But not quite yet. Let me use my hands first."
"Fine, fine. Just hurry up."
"Patience, John. Let's enjoy this. I think you need some time to get used to it, anyway."
He concludes with a thrust and twist of his fingers inside John, forcing another rattling growl from his mouths, and not just the ones on his face and stomach. It's followed by a much more threatening growl, clearly frustrated. One tendril snakes down Arthur's arm, all the way to the wrist of the hand probing inside John.
"If you don't give me what I want..."
"You'll what? Force me? No, you won't. I know you won't. Trust me, John, this will be much more enjoyable if you let me take my time."
A low, lengthy growl thrums through Arthur's chest. The tendril releases his wrist.
"Good boy."
He rewards John with a third finger and another twist of the wrist. John croons again. He might even arch off the bed, it's hard to tell without sight. And the most wonderful thing is, there's absolutely no resistance to Arthur's probing. The tendrils around him are heavy and solid, their grip firm, but this exposed flesh at their center is so very soft, it makes room for him so easily. He wouldn't be surprised if he shoved his whole arm in there and never found any sort of end.
He won't, of course. He half-suspects John might inadvertently crush him to death if he tried it without proper buildup. Better not to test that theory. There's something else much more worthwhile he can verify.
"Let's see how you taste then, shall we?"
Before John can reply, he switches the two fingers from one hand with three from the other. Whatever words were about to come from John die on his many tongues, replaced by a warbling moan. Arthur brings his slathered fingers to his own mouth. Up close, the sea smell is even more unnatural, that edge of otherness far more pronounced. He rubs the slippery fluid with his thumb, then licks it off.
"Mmm... Yes, it definitely tastes like sea water. And blood, I think. Not overtly, it's quite diluted. A single drop to a full glass, perhaps. Some mild acidic sourness too. And the texture, it clings to my tongue rather stubbornly for how thick it is."
John huffs, biting off a groan at the fingers still idly probing inside him. "Is it... good?"
"I won't lie, it wouldn't be my first choice for a meal. But that hardly matters." Arthur makes a show of languidly lapping up the remainder from his hand. "Would you like me to continue like this, John?"
John's breath quivers. The tendrils around Arthur squeeze just a little. "You don't have to," he lies.
"Of course not."
Arthur shifts his knees back and to the side, lowers himself onto his elbows. The tendrils flow around him easily to accommodate the new position. They drape over his shoulders, some even tangle through his hair, but they pointedly avoid his neck, which he's very proud of. Two rows of pinpricks sting all across his back as a tongue from a particularly large mouth licks down his spine. He almost laughs. John's need is obvious, no matter how he tries to hide it.
Arthur's hands grip the thick base of two tendrils, for lack of thighs to serve as anchor points. Again, the scent of John's core fills his nose, sea salt and bloody rust and something beyond. It's intoxicating.
"Arthur?"
He nuzzles into a crook between the tendrils, then slides down. The tip of his nose finds that boundary ridge first. The heat that bathes his mouth and chin, even before they make contact, is tantalizing. He sticks out his tongue, and begins to explore.
Above, John groans. He growls, and gasps, and moans and whines, he tries to speak and is only mildly successful at it. Below, Arthur finds himself fascinated by the texture of it all. His tongue can pick out details his fingers missed, tiny little veins and bumps and nodules in the soft flesh that make him think of organ meat. And the softness of it. It's like the golden flesh is all but structureless inside. When he pulls back to catch his breath, he probes with two fingers again and literally hooks them over the boundary ridge, under the edge of John's thick skin. John's only reaction is yet another throaty moan.
...Could he actually fit his whole arm in there? Does he dare try?
He pulls himself close to sitting again. "John? Would you be open to an experiment? If you'll pardon the pun."
"Wha... What? What are you talking about?"
"Do you know how deep this... orifice of yours goes?"
"Of course not."
"Would you care to find out?"
"I... Okay? How?"
Arthur's response is to slide all four fingers of his hand into the opening. John croons, deep and wavering. Teeth and tongue tease across the side of Arthur's thigh.
"Yes."
"Good."
What follows feels almost too much like an official investigation. Arthur takes his time, not because John's body puts up resistance, but because John himself needs to acclimate to the progressively deeper invasion of it. The capacity for speech breaks down. The further Arthur reaches inside him, the more his higher thought seems to melt away, until he's all but a puddle of loose limbs and long, pleasurable noises.
Arthur works his hand back and forth, in and out, scissoring the fingers open and shut at semi-regular intervals before moving on to a bigger insertion. Four fingers becomes all five, with the thumb tucked into the palm. The wedge shape becomes a fist that opens and closes, digging blunt fingernails into John's inner walls. Then, little by little, the seal around Arthur's wrist climbs higher, swallowing his forearm inch by inch as he pushes forward.
The slick fluid is always there, lubricating everything perfectly, but the quality of it changes, it becomes less dense. The temperature climbs steadily, though never to the point of discomfort. The texture against his skin shifts. The imperfections of the soft flesh grow in size and number. Arthur starts to doubt that there are actual walls to this cavity, like one might find inside a mouth or vulva. The flesh itself begins to move against him, pulsing and squeezing and twitching. By the time he's elbow-deep inside John, he has to stop.
"John. Am I touching your actual organs?"
The only response is a vague pleasure-drunk warble.
He's not worried he's hurting John, but Arthur would very much prefer a proper answer. He should be able to get one, though. His free hand splays out across John's belly. His hand on the inside starts to push up through the shifting meat, toward the ceiling. After a few seconds, he feels a matching pressure against his palm from within John.
"Holy shit..."
Arthur suddenly wishes he could see. That wish is rare nowadays, but here and now, having visual confirmation that John is perfectly fine would be deeply reassuring. He can feel a part of him wanting to panic, to withdraw, to make sense of how this is even possible... Until another long slit of a mouth opens on a tendril to lazily drag its tongue over his shoulder.
Right. He promised. Don't try to apply logic to it. Think of the Dreamlands. He breathes in deep, and lets it out slowly.
He's gone deep enough. It's time to finish this.
He's about to pull back, maybe start thrusting his whole forearm in and out, when he realizes the strong rhythmic pulse he's been feeling in his fingers must be from John's heart. At least, the heart he felt before, inside the chest. The main heart, possibly? He scoots himself forward and pushes just a little bit deeper, combing through organs strange and unnameable, until he finds it. A single large lump of solid muscle about the size of a fist, which is to say about the size of both of his fists combined. The exact shape is difficult to ascertain, but it pumps in and out like any other human heart would.
The moment Arthur strokes his fingers across it, John yelps. All his tendrils suddenly tense up, pressing teeth into the skin of Arthur's hip. The lazy, tantric ebb and flow of pleasure becomes a rush to the finish line. It's all Arthur can do to try to keep his hand on John's heart, to keep stroking and squeezing it as it beats a more and more frenetic rhythm against his palm, as John's volume climbs higher and deeper and wilder and the walls, even the bedframe shakes, until it all culminates with Arthur matching the heart's systolic convulsion with his own crushing squeeze.
The room fills with an ear-splitting screech, from more mouths than one could possibly count. All the tendrils around him tighten past the point of discomfort. Arthur's bones creak against the pressure. The air is forced from his lungs. The orifice around his elbow clamps down, as strong as any of the mouths singing John's mind-rattling howl of climax.
Then, just as quickly as it began, it all abruptly stops. Arthur's ears are ringing. He draws in a hungry gasp as the pressure around him relents. Tendrils now hang heavy and limp over him, and most slide off his sweat-damp skin to slap onto the bed. Besides the ragged breaths, still with the faintest undercurrent of a rolling growl, John is utterly silent.
Arthur pulls out his arm. The sea salt odor is now only on his elbow. His pruney fingertips smell of equal parts blood and that otherworldly tang he can't put into words. When he licks one finger, the taste isn't much different.
"John?"
There's a pause. A huff that trails into a chuckle.
"Your left arm is covered in gold, Arthur."
"Heh. I did use the left one, didn't I?" He rubs his wet fingers together; the texture is just on the edge of too gritty to be human. "Was that good for you, my friend?"
"Arthur..." John sits up. Large clawed hands grip the other's shoulders. "Arthur, you exquisite, relentless creature. I have lived for eons as the King in Yellow, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that very few things in that time have matched or surpassed what you've just accomplished. It was... rapturous."
"Oh. I... I see."
His face is hot. Why is his face hot? Actually, nevermind that question, because John leans in and presses the flat slit of his face mouth to Arthur's own, and Arthur gets to feel the skin around it extrude out and fold over itself to form the unnaturally smooth lips that kiss him. He kisses back automatically. He tries to wrap his arms around John, but the left one gets caught in a coil of tendrils full of many little mouths and tongues. By the time they part, the limb is about as close to clean as it can get without a proper wash.
"A-ah, thank you."
One of John's arms wraps around his back. The other hand tangles up through his hair, palm cradling his nape. Tendrils snake around his legs again, but loosely and, at least for now, lacking the various ephemeral mouths that laved him in so much attention before.
"How about I repay the favor?"