Work Text:
It was very late at night, and Lovecraft was awake. Such an event was rare and generally unpleasant, but tonight was different. Tonight was the first night he and John were sharing a bed. It seemed like such a small thing to be able to watch the man as he slept, but Lovecraft couldn't take his eyes off him. John was curled up against his chest, snoring softly, and he found himself willing to stay up, at least for a time, to enjoy it.
John had been nothing but anxious about this new arrangement when he was awake. As soon as he drifted off to sleep, though, he had shifted in close. Close enough that Lovecraft could feel how warm he was, and could tell that he smelled faintly of soap. He ran a hand through John's hair and watched it part around his fingers. Even in the dark, without the touch of the sun to turn it into dancing gold, there was a beauty to it.
After a short time, John's sleep became restless. He began to whimper softly, and his hands clenched, and Lovecraft began to worry.
It seemed as if John was having a bad dream. Lovecraft remembered him saying that he often slept poorly due to nightmares. That was easily remedied. Lovecraft smiled to himself in the dark. If there was one thing he could ensure, it was that the only terrifying thing in John's dreams would be him.
He pressed a hand firmly on the back of John's head. The touch made him murmur faintly, but he didn't wake, even as Lovecraft searched for his dream. It wasn't difficult to find. John's dreams resided very close to the waking world. A moment's concentration was all it took for Lovecraft to slip inside.
There John stood, surrounded by gore. The air was stagnant and thick with the smell of iron. Blood and viscera covered an otherwise barren patch of dirt. Very little was left behind to identify the scattered chunks of flesh as human, but Lovecraft assumed by the sandy colored hair covering half a scalp by his foot, that at least some of the remains had once represented John's family.
Vines riddled the air and covered the ground; far more growth than John could ever hope to sustain in reality. They too were coated in blood. The origin of the carnage was unclear; if there had even been a reason, it too had been destroyed.
John stood, wide eyed and pale, in the center of the grisly display. He noticed Lovecraft, and took a step towards him, but tripped over a bone and fell face first onto the ground. Covered in blood, he began to sob, soundlessly.
Lovecraft mused for a moment on the fact that John's dream was silent. If he had been inclined to, he could probably infer some truth about the man's subconscious from that, but he wasn't particularly interested.
As he crossed the distance towards John, he heard soft squelches and snaps echoed from his footsteps. A human's dream could impose no rules on him; he knew places like this far too well to be caught in their snares.
When he reached the shaking figure, he knelt down. John gave no indication that he noticed. Lovecraft gently placed a hand on the small of his back, and the multitude of vines fell away, curling in on each other as they withered and sunk into the earth.
Lovecraft nodded. Good. It would be far easier to guide John back to safer ground now.
Slowly and carefully, Lovecraft pulled John to his feet. Lost to his despair, he was nearly boneless. Lovecraft mused on the fragility of the human mind: so vulnerable, even in dreams, it was a wonder sometimes that they didn't just collapse dead from the weight of existence. How had he come to be so fond of such ridiculous creatures in the first place?
Ah, but that memory, as most were, was lost to the past. Lovecraft wondered briefly if he had always been so sentimental, or if perhaps his younger self was the cruel and selfish beast most assumed him to be. Not that he would ever know, not that it mattered in the slightest. He was what he was, and the reasons why were irrelevant.
He assisted John's stumbling walk away from the blood-soaked scene. The dry, cracked earth gradually gave way to softer ground, and signs of plant life began appearing around them. Soon, they stood in a seemingly endless field, under a clear blue sky, caressed by a gentle breeze. It was warm, and smelled of fresh turned earth and green, growing things.
This was a strange place for something like Lovecraft, but it was pleasant nonetheless.
Surrounded by the peaceful scenery, Lovecraft finally allowed John to slump to the ground. He folded himself up next to him, and waited patiently for his breathing to calm.
He briefly contemplated leaving John to rest alone, and returning to the previous dream. It would be a simple thing to eradicate it. But he had learned long ago that such an act, even when wrought of kindness, usually had unpleasant consequences.
Humans, it seemed, required their dark places. But he was not about to let one that he cared about languish in them.
Lovecraft cupped John's chin and attempted to wipe off the blood coating his cheek. John's eyes went wide when he saw Lovecraft's hand come away red. He seemed to notice for the first time the state of his own hands, and clothes. The panic that suddenly surged through him threatened to rip apart the quiet place. The scent of blood began pouring in, drowning out the air of tranquility.
Lovecraft's hand dropped to John's shoulder, and he shook his head. It was too late, this location was compromised. He needed to find somewhere stronger than John's fear.
After a moment's thought, he nodded and began to concentrate. The field and its increasing sense of panic melted away in an instant, replaced by something quiet and cool.
A thick mist resolved itself around them. In the distance, a series of rotting wooden structures jutted out from choppy water. The wind whispered strange languages around them. This place was Lovecraft's, and John's churning emotions could not tamper with it.
John sat up and rubbed at his forehead.
"It may be a little uncomfortable for you here," Lovecraft said.
"It's... heavy."
"Yes. It does not typically exist for the benefit of humans, but you are safe here."
John stared out into the water. "They're dead. My family. All of them. Dead."
"Yes." On this night, in this reality, they were.
"I killed them."
Lovecraft shrugged. It was as likely as anything.
"I was glad about it. I laughed. I was free, finally."
"Yes." Such was the nature of John's fear.
"I don't deserve to be alive." John cast his eyes around their surroundings, looking for an exit.
Lovecraft smiled gently. "The water here will not fill your lungs as you wish it to, John. It is of me, and I have no wish to harm you."
"Let me."
"I will not."
John awoke abruptly. Hazy memories of pain, blood, and water filled his mind. He'd had some kind of nightmare. Well, nothing new about that. He'd been having bad dreams almost as long as he could remember. There was something strange about this one, though. He had a feeling that there had been someone trying to help him.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned, which almost turned into a yelp of shock when he noticed Lovecraft sleeping beside him. Why was he-- Oh. That's right. They lived together now. This was normal.
Once his surprise faded, John realized that one of Lovecraft's hands was resting against his head. He looked at the man curiously; maybe it was that simple contact which had shaped his nightmare a little differently.
It was a funny thought. You weren't supposed to invite something like Lovecraft into your life. You were supposed to be afraid of it. But John wasn't. He hardly ever had been. Instead, he was fascinated by this creature that was pretending to be human. So much so that instead of being scared, he apparently took comfort in its presence, even subconsciously.
He reached out and rested his hand against Lovecraft's shoulder.
Lovecraft murmured softly and opened one eye. "John? Is everything all right?"
"Oh, I thought you were asleep."
"No."
"Oh. I'm sorry if I woke you."
"You did not."
"Oh."
Lovecraft let out a small laugh. "Oh."
"Hey, don't tease," John grumbled. "I'm too tired for that."
The tired look on Lovecraft's face turned to one of curiosity. His hand reached out, and came to rest near John's heart. "You are awake here."
"Yeah. Had a nightmare." That might have been the reason he woke up with his heart racing, but now that Lovecraft's eyes were on him, and was touching him lightly, it was definitely not the only reason that it was still beating hard.
"Yes. I saw."
"What do you mean, you saw?"
"It is nothing, John. You had a bad dream, and I did what I could to dissipate it. That is all."
John's eyes widened a little. What exactly had Lovecraft done? It sounded like more than a simple head pat. He was filled with a momentary reverential awe at the reminder of Lovecraft's weird powers. The awe shifted quickly to a fierce sort of pride. Lovecraft was unfathomable and amazing and most importantly, his.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"There is no need to thank me. I dislike knowing that you are suffering." He said it as simply as if he had brought a glass of water, or retrieved a blanket from the floor.
John looked over at him, amazed. "Well, I appreciate it all the same. Been having those dreams a really long time, I wouldn't mind it if they just up and disappeared."
Lovecraft's hand was still at his chest, cool and reassuring. "As long as you fear, they will not leave you entirely. But I will protect you from them when I can."
Was it the stillness of the hour, or the fact that Lovecraft had apparently recently been inside his head that made John feel like they were sharing a genuine connection? Not that it mattered why; it was enough to know that it could happen at all.
John tentatively slid his hand down Lovecraft's side. Underneath his touch he felt something rearrange itself into the feeling of ribs and muscle, and John laughed quietly. Mere seconds after admitting that he could alter John's dreams, was Lovecraft worried that he didn't seem human enough?
"You don't have to do that on my account," he said softly. He pressed on one of the thin ribs and felt it sink into Lovecraft's body. "Especially if you're just going to make bits up as you go."
Lovecraft shrugged and looked away for a moment.
Was he embarrassed? John grinned at the possibility. "It's okay," he said, as reassuringly as he could. "You can be comfortable, you know. Especially in the middle of the night. It doesn't bother me."
Lovecraft didn't respond, but the idea of bones and musculature melted away underneath his touch, replaced by simple, cool, smoothness.
"That's better, isn't it?" John asked. Almost at the very edge of sensation, he thought he could still feel something moving, but he wasn't sure.
Lovecraft was watching him closely.
John suddenly remembered the many times, when he was younger, that he had been afraid of people's judgement for his ability. How eyes had narrowed when they learned he was gifted, how they either kept their distance, or tried to use him. He wondered if, in some small way, Lovecraft's long existence had been like that.
He rubbed his hand over Lovecraft's side in what he hoped was a comforting manner. "Hey, I'm real nervous too, you know. I'm just some guy. But you, you're... incredible. I've always thought that. I like... well, I like that you're different. That you're you. So try not to worry, okay?"
Lovecraft nodded, and pulled him in closer. When John finally drifted back to sleep, his slumber was peaceful and dreamless.
The next time John woke, it was morning. The clock was on Lovecraft's side of the bed, so he couldn't be sure about the exact time, but sunlight was already filtering in through the curtains. To his farm-raised internal clock, that meant it was capital-L late.
He swung himself out of bed, determined to make up for the time he had already lost.
Or at least he tried to.
In actuality, he could barely move at all. Something was restraining his legs, and his arms, and, well, pretty much his entire body. Something that was slightly cold and writhing.
The hair on his neck stood on end and he shuddered. One of the cool, undulating things brushed past his nose and he was overcome for a moment by the smell of salt and decay.
Ah. Of course. He had just told Lovecraft to relax around him, hadn't he? Had he honestly expected that he would maintain his disguise while asleep? Waking up like this was just one of many things he was going to have to get used to. And, honestly, it wouldn't be so bad if he could just move.
"Let go, Lovecraft, I need to get up," he grumbled.
Lovecraft emitted a low gurgle, which John assumed meant no.
He struggled against the constrictive grasp of the tentacles to no avail. They were surprisingly strong, much stronger than he was. He tried to see if he could find a weakness in the way they shifted and curled. Eventually he gave up and did the only thing he could think of.
The next time one waved past his face, he bit it, as hard as he could.
A decidedly more human protest came from the figure next to him. "Why?"
"You need to let go, I can't move. I gotta get up."
There was a moment of quiet.
"You need more sleep, John."
"I got plenty of sleep!"
"Then I need more sleep."
"Well, you don't need me here for that."
The shifting grip tightened. "But it is nicer with you here."
John smiled slightly. Maybe he could say in bed just a bit longer, after all, Lovecraft wasn't typically sweet like that. At least he didn't think so. He honestly didn't have a lot of experience to go on.
"Let go a little, then, my legs are starting to go numb."
The tentacles loosened, and John rolled over onto his side. "Thanks."
Lovecraft nodded sleepily and pulled him closer. The tug of the limbs wrapped around him from neck to toe shot a thrill through his body, and he blushed fiercely. They may have been holding him more gently, but they were still all over. He needed to get up before he did something rash.
John wriggled against the grasp and realized immediately that he had made a mistake. Now he definitely needed to get out of bed, and take a fast, cold shower. He prayed silently that Lovecraft wouldn't notice his reaction.
His prayers went unanswered. Lovecraft opened one eye and regarded him drowsily. "First thing in the morning, John?"
"No! I'm not--I mean--You're the one who's touching--"
A slight smile crawled its way onto Lovecraft's face. "Indeed."
John averted his eyes and stammered, "I didn't expect you to be so handsy."
"I cannot be handsy, John, I currently do not possess hands."
"Oh my god," John exhaled, looking very hard at the small patch of mattress between them. "You know what I mean."
Lovecraft shrugged, and the motion rippled through his tentacles and John deeply wished that it hadn't.
"John?"
"What?" He still couldn't bring himself to look Lovecraft in the eye.
"I did not expect you to be so shy," Lovecraft murmured, bringing a single tendril to brush against John's cheek.
His touch was light and careful, and John bit his bottom lip and tried, very hard, to think about anything else. He had errands to run. Things that needed doing. Things other than giving in to his racing heartbeat and the insistence growing just below his stomach.
What he should do was tell Lovecraft to keep his appendages to himself and let him get on with his day. He was absolutely going to do that. Definitely. In a minute, or maybe two.
"I'm not shy," he answered, still studying the stretch of fabric over the bed and not the similarly taut fabric over Lovecraft's chest at all. "I just didn't expect to wake up as the filling to a tentacle burrito."
Good work, he thought to himself. Make a joke out of it. Then get out of bed.
Lovecraft laughed, and each of his tentacles wriggled as if they were independently amused. John felt goosebumps break out across his body, and the insistence grew stronger.
"After your restless sleep, I thought perhaps holding you would provide some comfort," Lovecraft said softly. "If it was unwelcome, I apologize."
Countless wriggling limbs unwound from around his legs and his chest. As soon as Lovecraft let go, John regretted it. The loss of the tentacles around his body left him feeling cold, even though the air was warmer than Lovecraft's body temperature.
"It wasn't bad, it was... just unexpected, I guess. All the wiggling."
Lovecraft looked away from him and frowned slightly. "You had said that I shouldn't worry about being more... myself."
"Ah, no, I didn't mean... Ah shit. I'm sorry. I told you I'm awful at this. I really do appreciate the gesture." John raised a hand to rub the thin tendril still touching his face. "And I really don't mind the tentacles. They're kinda cute. Maybe we should have a no hands in bed rule."
That earned him a slight laugh. "Very well. I admit that I may have been overeager in my efforts to keep you secure."
"Nah, next time I'll be ready."
"Ah, so you would like there to be a next time?"
John felt his face go warm again. "Yeah. It was kinda nice."
Lovecraft chuckled. "I noticed that you enjoyed it somewhat."
The warmth became an inferno on his cheeks. "That's not--"
"But I may have simply misinterpreted certain biological signs."
Certain biological signs? Jesus Christ. So much for hoping that maybe Lovecraft hadn't noticed his reaction to being held like that.
"So, was I mistaken?" Lovecraft's voice was sultry and teasing.
John swallowed and couldn't find the words to answer. Lovecraft wasn't wrong, but admitting it was far too difficult.
Lovecraft was staring at him, dark eyes unreadable as ever. "Breathe, John."
He hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath.
"Please relax," Lovecraft said softly. "You seem more terrified of contact than you do of battle."
Maybe he was. Combat was familiar. Easy, in its way. The only thing that counted was winning. This situation, speeding quickly away from the familiar, was complicated and terrifying.
At least a little bit. His pounding heart, that twisting in his stomach, the way he could barely think; that was fear, wasn't it? Fear and nervousness. And it came wrapped up in a beautiful cloth of want.
Lovecraft shifted closer to him, his legs pressed up lightly against John's own, a few thin tendrils caressing his chin and cheek and tracing the curve of his mouth. The fluttery touches made his skin tingle and he felt like everything had become far too intense: the warmth of the single layer of cloth separating their legs, the unseen patterns being traced against his face.
"You know, I wasn't even sure if you were into that, and now it turns out that you apparently can't go eight hours without trying to get in my pants."
"Ah, I forgot. You have not done this before."
Lovecraft's tone was kind, but his words startled John. "Wait. Have you?"
"Of course. Countless times." Lovecraft seemed confused.
"Oh." John's embarrassment grew. You're an idiot, Steinbeck. Sure, he's centuries old and never messed around with anybody before.
"John?"
"I, uh. I need a minute," he heard himself mumble. He rolled over onto his side, and felt Lovecraft shift as well, giving him space.
"If it helps you to know, they are all dead."
It didn't help. He'd be saying that about him one day. And now he couldn't shake the thought of Lovecraft saying the same things, doing the same things, to an army of faceless corpses. He shuddered.
Every inch of his body was screaming at him to stop being stupid. He wanted this, didn't he? Wanted him.
John sighed. They were so close; it should be easy from here, shouldn't it? Almost instinctual? To slip together, lock legs, delight in closeness. He was already nearly dizzy with the need for more.
But instead, here he was, worrying about an ageless monster's previous affairs and contemplating his own mortality. Wasn't it was silly to get so tied up in past things that he couldn't change? Lovecraft was still close, and still, for the time being, his own. "I'm okay," he said at last. "I was just being stupid and selfish."
That earned him a smile and a quiet laugh. "It is very understandable, John. Maybe I am progressing too quickly. You would, perhaps, prefer the simple romance of holding hands with the unknown?"
"Nah, I like kissing the unknown, too."
Lovecraft leaned in and placed a light kiss on his forehead. "The unknown enjoys kissing you as well."
John grinned, suddenly more at ease than he had felt all morning. "Then kiss me properly."
It started out sweet. And, at least on John's side, with innocent enough intentions. But at some point, Lovecraft's tongue found its way into his mouth, and a tentacle was tracing lazy figure eights just underneath his ear, and one of Lovecraft's long legs had arched over him, pushing them even closer together.
John's desire overtook what was left of his nerves, and he pushed back, hard. They were so close that he felt rather than heard the low chuckle in Lovecraft's throat. He exhaled through his nose, sharp and short, a huff of embarrassment.
He half expected Lovecraft to make some comment, but his response was tactile; John felt a smooth tentacle slide underneath his shirt and brush across his stomach. As it wound its way up his chest, it seemed to latch onto the hunger coiling within him, dragging it further throughout his body. It was better than a simple touch had any right to be.
Lovecraft was watching him, a clear question in his eyes that John still couldn't bring himself to answer with words.
Instead, he reached out with a tentative hand, and placed it against Lovecraft's belly. He thought he heard a soft sigh, but Lovecraft's expression didn't change. He ran it slowly up Lovecraft's chest, mimicking the movement of the tentacle, and smiled as he realized the simple smoothness under his hand meant that Lovecraft had taken his previous words to heart. There was no attempt at deeper anatomy, just cool, soft skin, with the underlying sensation of hidden motion, as if Lovecraft's insides were also composed of writhing tentacles. For all he knew, they were.
John wondered suddenly if Lovecraft even got anything out of being touched; he'd seen him take damage that should have caused him immense pain, with no indication that he had even noticed. If he couldn't be hurt, was he similarly incapable of feeling pleasure?
What was Lovecraft even getting out of this? John was afraid to ask, nearly certain that the answer wouldn't be the one he wanted, but he also felt like he had to know before this went any further.
"Hey, Lovecraft?"
"Yes?"
"Do you... like... this stuff?" He cringed internally. They were pressed against each other, and he still couldn't bring himself to form the words for what they were about to do.
Lovecraft tilted his head and looked at him curiously. "Is my gratification a concern to you?"
"Well, yeah. Of course it is. I want... I mean... it'd be selfish if I was the only one enjoying it."
Amusement settled onto Lovecraft's face. "You are a strange creature indeed, John Steinbeck. There are few who would worry themselves about the pleasure of one such as myself."
"What, really?"
"Consider, John. I am summoned for a purpose. A tool. Do you think Fitzgerald cares about anything other than how efficiently I perform his tasks? I have performed a great variety of tasks for a great number of people. My feelings about them are not a concern."
That made sense, in a sad way. For everything Lovecraft was able to do, there were lots of things he didn't have any sort of control over. "Well, this isn't one of your jobs, right? I'm pretty sure Fitz didn't tell you to come try and seduce me. He doesn't like me that much."
"Indeed. But still, as something not human, I am often treated as lesser, a mere monster."
"Well, that's just wrong. There's nothing lesser about you. Monster or not, you're amazing."
Lovecraft shook his head and smiled at John fondly. "As I said, John, you are a very strange creature."
"And you never answered my question. What's in this for you?"
"You are warm and soft and good to touch, John. Is that not enough?"
"I dunno. Is it?"
"There is a joy in coaxing out secrets, John, as you well know. Your weaknesses, your blemishes, your hidden beauties. Every human is so similar yet so completely different. It is a curious thing, and to have curiosity rewarded with trembling gasps and contented sighs is a great pleasure."
John replied with a quiet, fussy sound. "Still didn't really answer my question."
"So stubborn," Lovecraft said, and John could feel his smile against the skin of his neck. "Even at a time like this."
Lovecraft's tongue traced slowly up his neck, behind his ear, and back down. The gentle scrape of teeth against his earlobe made him gasp sharply.
"Or perhaps you aren't enjoying it?" Lovecraft's smile was practically audible.
"Never said that," John mumbled.
The low, breathy chuckle tickled his neck again, then Lovecraft's mouth was back on his, and the cool touch of the tentacles spread to his sides and slid his shirt up and over his head. He knew his whole face was flushed, even though he'd had his shirt off around Lovecraft before. This was different. Really different.
He took a deep, ragged breath and closed his eyes. Lovecraft took his time exploring the tangle of scars that dotted his chest, tracing invisible patterns between them. The feathery tendrils were soon joined by a thicker, suckered tentacle that wound its way from John's waist to his shoulder. He remembered what Lovecraft had said the night before about his scars, and wondered if the odd sticking sensation of the suckers would add yellow-purple nebulas to his star chart.
One of the tendrils at his cheek climbed sinuously to his ear, and brushed back his messy morning hair. It was joined by a few more, and John let out a little sigh of contentment as they wound and circled across his scalp. They weren't ever really still; even at rest they undulated slightly, as if moved by the waters they missed so badly.
Their touch was gentle, sweet really, even as it clashed with John's memories of what he usually saw Lovecraft do with his tentacles - gruesome, forceful acts of violence that left him in awe.
It was almost hard to believe this was the same person he fought alongside. Something twisted in his stomach as he imagined the bulbous, writhing thing that was the truer shape of his companion. It was something tinged with fear but also with desire, and he swallowed back his urge to ask Lovecraft to hurt him, to squeeze until he stopped breathing, to rend him to pieces, to overcome him in a million ways and destroy him. Why did he want so badly to just grab Lovecraft's face, to kiss him hard, and to beg him for death?
His thoughts were interrupted by Lovecraft's concerned voice. "John?"
"I'm... I'm okay." Afraid of the dark shape his need took, John couldn't think of anything else to say. He didn't truly want to die, but God did he want to sacrifice himself, to submit to this power that was currently sweetly carding through his hair, watching him quietly.
"I do not wish to take your life, John, but whatever else you offer I will gladly receive."
John's breath caught in his throat. How did he know?
"Your kind is overcome so easily," Lovecraft added softly. "With time and familiarity your desire may not plague you so."
He felt his chin pushed up by yet another twisting tendril, and he opened his eyes. Lovecraft's face was inscrutable as always, and John felt almost crushed by the need to know what he was thinking and how he felt.
He tried to ask, but his thoughts were jumbled and his tongue was clumsy, and all he could say was, "Why?"
Lovecraft's expression shifted; his normally unreadable eyes displayed a rare tenderness. "John, for all the world has done to you and you have done to it, there is still a warmth in you. That, and your unusual fearlessness, are captivating. And yet you are still so very human. Your instincts were not made to deal with something like myself. Will it reassure you to know that I will gladly accept your life and your ardor, but wish to share it rather than consume it?"
Lovecraft's voice was low and smooth, and John didn't focus on the words so much as the sound. He was lost, and he knew it. That sweet, dark, rich, voice could tell him to do anything. If it wanted him to die, he would. If it wanted him to live, he'd try his damnedest. He nodded shakily.
"Very good, John. Now tell me what it is that you really want."
John could see himself reflected in Lovecraft's dark eyes, flushed, wide eyed, and clearly nervous. He leaned up against Lovecraft's ear, and breathed out, "Fuck me."
Just saying it shot a thrill down his spine.
"I thought you'd never ask." He felt Lovecraft's low chuckle in the cool breath on his cheek, and he squirmed away, suddenly embarrassed.
When he dared eye contact, he saw Lovecraft looking back at him, clearly amused. "John, do not try to tell me that I have misunderstood your intentions again."
"N... no," he stammered. "That was... I just..."
Lovecraft's mouth found his again and cut off John's words. This close, John could smell the strange, damp smell that always seemed to follow Lovecraft: a little bit musty like stagnant water, a little bit electric like a storm, and something John couldn't wholly identify, but that wanted to call darkness or danger.
He let out a whimper as he inelegantly smushed his face against Lovecraft's, in a desperate attempt to be closer. One of the tentacles caressing his chest stopped above his heart. Lovecraft made a quiet, contented noise.
"Hmm?" John mumbled.
"Your heart is beating quite fast, and I find it pleasing. Is it that unusual that I would enjoy your reactions?"
"I guess not?"
Lovecraft nipped at his lower lip as he pressed John back against the mattress, and chuckled as John's heart began to beat even harder. "So much excitement. I will have to go slow to ensure that you do not inadvertently come to harm."
"I'll be fine!"
"You cannot say that with certainty, John." There was something strange in Lovecraft's voice, and it took John a long moment to realize it was playfulness. "I shall have to go very slow indeed."
John was going to protest, but a lingering kiss on his shoulder stopped him. "Gah. You're cruel."
"As I have been assured many times."
After a moment, Lovecraft shifted so their foreheads were touching. "You are very warm, John."
That was an understatement. John felt as if he had caught on fire, and the only thing in the world that could save him was more of Lovecraft's sweet, cool touch. He reached up and wrapped his arms around Lovecraft's waist. He had thought about this sort of thing before, of course. Of giving in to his urges, submitting himself to the whims of this creature that he was so inexplicably drawn to.
But for it to actually be happening, to be on his back, hands clutching at soft skin, mouth filled with the taste of the ocean, skin tingling under the careful touch of something completely inhuman, was better than he could have imagined. He let out a pitiful whine in the back of his throat.
One of Lovecraft's tentacles started toying with the waistband of his pajamas, and John rolled his hips up almost instinctively. He felt two of the larger tentacles slip over his thighs and push down against him, holding him still. The suckers stung a little as they clung onto the sensitive skin by his hipbones and he keened again, high pitched and needy.
Lovecraft looked at him, concerned. "Ah, did I hurt you?"
John nodded.
"I apologize."
"No, it's..." John's voice was quiet, almost too quiet for Lovecraft to hear. "it's good."
The thick tentacle that was wrapped around his torso and neck squeezed him tightly at that, and he felt a thousand little pinpricks when the suckers latched on tight across his body. He shuddered and exhaled a satisfied groan.
"Is it really?" Lovecraft asked, amusement in his voice.
John nodded again. The smaller tendrils were always on the move, writhing and curling across his skin like tickling fingertips, leaving goosebumps in their wake, but the bigger tentacles were something entirely different. They were soft but strong, and their grip got all the stronger if he struggled to get away. The feeling of being completely helpless, held by hundreds of needle-toothed mouths sucking at his skin, was almost too much.
Almost.
The large tentacle around his chest squeezed him again, harder, forcing the air from his lungs and gripping his throat, and the mouths sucked at his skin eagerly. Then he was released again and inhaled raggedly. "God yes," he breathed out.
Lovecraft pulled John's head up and shifted the tentacle away from John's skin, so he could survey the damage he had caused. All across John's throat and chest were brightly burning circles where the suckers had held on. By the next day they would be purple, dull reminders of the morning's activities.
Then Lovecraft's tongue was on them, trailing sweetly over the thick red welts, nibbling at them and toying at the oversensitive skin with his mouth.
John let out a soft murmur of contentment.
"You have a very good tolerance for pain, John," Lovecraft purred against his neck. "There is a particular delight to be had in eliciting noises of pleasure from what would make the average person balk."
John let out a breathless laugh. "Well, you've seen what I do to myself for work."
"Indeed." His voice was thick and almost playful, and absolutely didn't prepare John for the sudden sharp bite that followed.
Lovecraft's teeth were sharp and John's skin was already red with pain. The sting shot through his skin and only added to his lust. When he realized that Lovecraft had drawn blood, he didn't care. There would be a dark bruise there for days, over the raised red welts left behind by the tentacles.
The mere thought of it made John hungry for more.
"What else should I draw from you besides blood and noises?" Lovecraft asked, voice thick with mischief.
John swallowed hard. If he'd just stop asking these embarrassing questions and get on with it, it'd be a lot easier. But at the same time, his voice was mesmerizing, and it slipped into his brain and stifled his ability to think.
Lovecraft didn't wait for an answer, but bit him again, gentler this time, and ran his tongue over the slight wound. Overwhelmed, John buried his face in Lovecraft's shoulder, which did little to muffle his insistent noises.
In moments Lovecraft was following the trail left behind by the tentacles down John's chest, and across his stomach. John's back arched when Lovecraft reached his belly, and tugged down the waistband of his pants to nibble at his hipbones.
Lovecraft pushed his knees apart and sat back between them, admiring the view. John was flushed all the way down his chest, and his breathing was hard. He reached out to pull Lovecraft back down on top of him, but was stopped by the tentacles wrapping his arms.
"Ah, no, John, please just lay back and relax." He gently tugged John's arms behind his head, and wrapped his wrists together firmly.
John squirmed a little, and realized he was effectively bound. "Let go."
"In due time."
He would have pressed the issue, but in truth, he didn't much mind. There was a certain excitement in it, and besides, he wasn't really sure what he should be doing with his hands, anyway.
He watched hazily as Lovecraft tugged at his pants; they were gone in an instant. The chill of the air rushed against his legs, and he clamped his legs together in a futile effort to hide what Lovecraft had earlier termed a certain biological reaction.
True to what he had said the night before, his legs were crossed with a multitude of thin white scars. Lovecraft traced them along the outside of his thighs with his tongue, and the soft touch of the thin tendrils followed, coaxing quiet sighs from John's mouth. They were followed by the thicker tentacles, which slid between his thighs easily. They bit and sucked at his skin until they found the ideal places to make him squirm, and settled there.
Suddenly, the tentacles at his thighs pulled his knees apart, and if he had felt exposed by the loss of his pants, it was nothing compared to this. Held down, spread open, completely vulnerable, he gasped.
"You seem to be enjoying yourself," Lovecraft noted.
His cock twitched at Lovecraft's words, and he didn't have to look up to know he was being watched. If John could have blushed any harder, he would have, but he was already bright red. He also could no longer hide the fact that he was very, very aroused.
Everywhere around him were the soft green tentacles; most of them were the smooth and thin tendrils that curled against his skin in constant, chaotic motion. Scattered among them were thicker, stronger tentacles, that slid easily enough until they located their desired position, and then latched on around his arms, his thighs, his neck. Their biting suckers would leave trails of bruises and he didn't care.
One of the tendrils slid up against the base of his cock and he groaned. After all this time, even the slightest touch felt intense. "Please," he panted.
The tentacle began to coil slowly around his shaft, agonizing and wonderful. It rubbed against him softly, a rising spiral of sensation that stopped just short of wrapping his entire erection. It pulsed gently against him, and he thrust his hips uselessly into the air, instinctively trying to find a more satisfying touch.
The grip tightened and the coil began to writhe more vigorously; it was unlike anything he had ever done to himself, and he could feel the muscles all through his body tightening in response to the cool, shifting touch. When a second tendril began stroking his slit, and a third wrapped its way around his balls, he was nearly overcome.
"Hmm, not just yet," he heard Lovecraft say. The grip relaxed slightly, and the coiling vibration became calmer.
John whined hungrily and struggled against Lovecraft's grasp. He wanted more, he needed more. It had been so good, and his muscles were screaming with tension.
Lovecraft let him lay there, his burning hunger fed by the touch of the tentacles everywhere but where he so desperately craved them. It didn't do him much good to struggle; he was thoroughly pinned, and every time he rocked his hips too far upwards, Lovecraft pushed him back down.
John tried to reach out with a foot to draw Lovecraft closer, but he was held too tightly. He wanted to protest, or to beg, but he couldn't catch enough breath to do more than whine piteously at the teasing.
He was being studied. Lovecraft watched how he responded to each touch, each squeeze, each sucker that pulled away with a damp pop before repositioning itself.
John finally noticed Lovecraft's attention. "It is a good enough show for you?"
"No. Not yet."
Two of the thick tentacles around his legs shifted and pushed his knees in close to his chest. The air was cold against the sweat on the back of his thighs, and he gasped.
A moment later he felt the light touch of a tendril against his ass. A sharp thrill of excitement shot up John's spine and he shivered in anticipation. He had no idea how it would feel, if it would hurt or be good or both, but he could hardly bring himself to care. All he wanted was to know that Lovecraft was inside him, claiming every last inch of him.
But Lovecraft, it seemed, was determined to make him wait. The single tentacle traced lazy lines up and down along his ass, pausing to make a little circle when it intersected the tight muscle of his entrance.
He rolled his hips forward desperately, impatient. Finally it began rubbing a little more insistently, then, without warning, pressed against his asshole and slid just barely inside. Even that slight motion stung for a moment, and John clenched his eyes shut, and bit his lip, trying not to let out any noise that might make Lovecraft reconsider.
As the tendril slowly wound its way further inside, the strange new sensations it brought with it overtook his initial discomfort. There was the stretch as his insides shifted to accommodate the tentacle, there was the gentle but extraordinary feeling of it throbbing and coiling against his insides, and the overall sensation of being filled. Lovecraft still had ahold of him nearly everywhere, but his mind was focused entirely on one place.
"Are you all right, John?" he heard Lovecraft ask.
He exhaled raggedly and nodded. He was beyond all right, he was in bliss, but as good as it felt, it still wasn't enough. "More."
"Of course."
The tip of another thin limb began wriggling against his asshole; this one was slick, somehow. John didn't have time to question what it was before it had pushed its way in alongside its twin. He was almost ready for the stretch and the burn that time, and thrust his hips up to give them better access.
The two were joined by another and another until John lost track of the number. All he could tell was that each one was moving independently of the others, and each tiny, writhing movement rippled through his body. The cluster twisted deeper until one of the tendrils found the sensitive bundle of nerves buried inside him. John let out a loud moan of pleasure as he arched his back and clawed vainly at the tentacles binding his wrists. He was absolutely positive nothing was supposed to feel that good.
He thought he heard a satisfied noise from Lovecraft, but it was hard to be sure. His own noises were loud and long, drawn from him with each stroke of the knot of tentacles.
It slid out slowly, too slowly, and crashed back in. Everything else moved to the same agonizing rhythm: the pressure of the tentacles around his thighs, his arms, his throat; the tight grip of the tentacles wrapped around his dripping cock; even the swirl of the single tendril that occasionally rubbed at the slit and made him shudder and moan.
So many sensations left his head spinning and his body on fire, but it still wasn't enough, not nearly. His muscles were tight, his breathing labored, and all he could do was whine and writhe in the grip that refused to give him quite what he needed.
Lovecraft was speaking but John couldn't make out the words, and could only tell that his tone was pleased.
He tried to say "faster" but it came out as a muffled groan.
Lovecraft chuckled. He seemed to understand what John wanted, and was deliberately refusing.
John exhaled thickly and squirmed as Lovecraft continued to toy with him; his pace was slow, too slow. It was all overwhelming and wonderfully excruciating. He was wound too tight, and he felt as if he might explode any moment from lust.
And then, finally, Lovecraft increased his pace; the long, slow thrusts of the thick mass of tentacles became shorter, faster, harder. It was exactly what he needed, and it only took a few of the blissfully violent strokes to push him over the edge.
His tight, sore muscles finally released, and the bright burning want was washed away with the sweet, dull bliss of orgasm.
As he lay breathless, lost in a haze of cloudy pleasure, he was dimly aware of tentacles slowly sliding off of him; the larger ones pulled away with dull snaps of pain that still brought a gasp to his lips. One of the last ones wiped at the warm splatter on his stomach, in a feeble attempt to clean him up. He smiled with the ridiculousness of it.
A moment after he was left bare and empty, Lovecraft settled beside him. He was still wearing his makeshift pajamas, but his tentacles had been exchanged for human hands. He wiped one of them awkwardly against the mattress. "I had forgotten how messy this was."
John laughed, overcome with an absurd fondness for the strange creature who had just spent the better part of the morning seducing him, only to be apparently confounded by something as simple as ejaculation. "Yup. Sure can get that way."
Lovecraft wiped his hand again, this time against the side of his shorts. John made a mental note to add laundry to his list of things to do that day.
Satisfied that he had rid himself of the sticky substance, Lovecraft cupped John's chin and kissed him gently. "I hope you found the experience acceptable."
Acceptable? Really? John grinned back at him. "Yeah. You could say that."
"I am glad."
And for once, Lovecraft really did look surprisingly happy. It was strange, maybe the strangest thing John had seen all morning. He'd been fairly sure that Lovecraft's face just didn't work that way. But he was smiling, and the smile was mirrored in his eyes and it was so odd, and it made John's heart ache, just a little, with joy.
He really was remarkably human sometimes. Tentacles notwithstanding.
That thought reminded John of something. "I see you're already breaking the no hands rule."
Lovecraft laughed at that. "Indeed. At some point I expect I will need to be properly punished. But for now, you should rest."
John nodded and buried his face against Lovecraft's chest; he still smelled like the ocean, but now the musty salt smell was mixed with the thick scent of sweat and sex. John was certain it was the best thing in the world. "You're incredible," he said quietly. "Everything about you."
Lovecraft rested his head atop John's own. "As are you."