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Arthur traced a finger along the book's uneven edges, worn to softness with age and use.
It was the book— the very one that had led them down this damnable path, its mad knowledge still tauntingly hidden from his eyes. How very like John's book to deprive him of its secrets, even after it had completely shattered his world, his body, and to some extent, his mind.
"It wouldn't tell you anything," John reassured him. Hearing that voice echo from a place outside of him, carrying across some unseen distance still felt so… Strange, he decided.
Strange, but not wrong. They had travelled so long to get here, what they've done could not be wrong.
"Could you read it to me, still?" Arthur asked. Something moved to his right— the shifting of a limb, perhaps? It seemed large and heavy, sliding across the floor like a roll of carpet being dragged.
John made a noise of irritation and said, "There's really nothing in there that would help you understand this."
"Then… For fuck's sake!" Arthur dropped the book at his feet, reaching forward until his hands brushed something solid. John rumbled as he pulled away, backing further into the corner Arthur had corralled him into. "John, describe yourself to me. I deserve at least this much."
"It wasn't my intention to end up back in my original form— stop that!" He recoiled again from Arthur's curious hands, voice coming from somewhere high above him. Arthur could not help but picture a cobra reared into striking position.
He knew that John wore clothing. That was the first, really the only sensation he had been given ample time to discover. Combined with his hazy memories of how John had once described the King in Yellow, he was somewhat surprised to find that John's own robes were of a coarsely-woven fabric, not any fine golden silks or fleece as he had imagined.
He could assume they were at least yellow. Saffron, maybe, or dandelion-bright. But beyond that, he had no idea what form he could have taken, what he looked like.
He was large. Towering, behemoth-like in size. That much was obvious, and the King had been much the same; but unlike with the King, Arthur harboured no anxieties as he felt blindly in front of him, trying to grasp onto any solid proof that John was there.
"I'm not describing any of this to you," John insisted, remaining always just out of reach.
Arthur was not quite at the point of begging, but could not keep a hint of desperation from his voice as he attempted to reason with the entity. "I spent years— we spent years trying to get to this point! I need to know, John."
"You really don't."
"You have described countless horrific scenes to me and yet this is where you draw the line?"
"It's… It's different! You don't know what you're asking."
"I'm asking to see you in the only way I still can. Please, John, not knowing anything makes the mental picture so much worse."
"You wouldn't be saying that if you could see me."
"Well, I can't. And I never will. So just— your hand," Arthur bargained. "Please. Let me actually shake your hand, and not just my own."
A moment of silence. Arthur would've almost believed that he were completely alone if not for the strangely rhythmic pulses of air that streamed out of the body before him. They were not quite breaths, but gusts of warmth that ghosted past Arthur's fingers like a thick fog.
"Our hand," John said.
"Sorry?"
"It was our hand. Our body, our…"
Blood, and bones, and breath. The hollowness was there for Arthur too, like a gap between the teeth where a molar had been pulled. John's absence had left him with a divot in his mind, and it gnawed at him.
"Eyes," Arthur simply said. "You still have my eyes. Willingly, granted, but you have them. And just like every other time, I'm asking for a bit of clarity here. Give me something to understand you by."
"... I cannot describe this in any way that will make sense to you."
"Then give me your damned hand, and let me figure it out for myself."
Arthur felt a nudge against his upper arm. Immediately seizing upon it to investigate, he found it to be a long finger. Spindly, thin and clawed, it was not unlike the talon of a bird.
As he trailed his own fingertips along its knobbly joints, John gradually relented the rest of his hand. Five— no, six— fingers splayed open, and a flat, cool palm that dwarfed Arthur's as he pressed them together, digits hooked in the gaps between John's.
"This is not a handshake."
Arthur laughed, breathless. "Shut up."
Another finger grazed his side, then another at his lower leg. And more. The tips of many claws probed cautiously at his limbs, his back, his ankles. Arthur felt his breath still in his lungs; instinctual, perhaps, as John began to unravel before him.
Whatever knot he had coiled himself into had vastly betrayed his true size. Arthur felt his presence unspooling around him, heard dozens— hundreds!— of limbs finding purchase on the floor below.
A nervous smile crept to his face. "How… How many?"
"Many."
"Do they all have hands, or…?"
"Arthur." John suddenly sounded very close. Something was before him now.
He brought his free hand towards it, and felt the smooth countenance of a mask.
"Hi," John said.
"Hello…” Arthur chuckled. “I don't know why I expected differently."
"It's not exactly my face, as you'd think of it. If that helps."
"It… Honestly, I'm not sure if that does. But thank you."
He trailed his hand— their hand no longer— across the mask's swooping cheekbones, its crescent moon-like jaw. It was sculpted with smooth, fluid edges, the simple suggestion of a human.
"Can you feel this?" He asked.
"No, but I know what you're doing."
Arthur's fingertips lingered on the mask's lips. "Where is your actual face?"
"It's… Complicated."
"Try me."
A stronger gust of air rushed past him— a sigh, perhaps? He smiled at the thought.
"There is a mouth under it."
"Under the…?" There did not appear to be a true edge to the mask, as it blended seamlessly into a hard, shell-like surface that Arthur had to slip his hands beneath John's burlap hood to uncover.
John grumbled like a broiling saucepan. "No, not under the mask. Here."
The mask left him, pulled upwards as John extended whatever Arthur might have thought of as a neck. Something damp glanced across his knuckles. Instinctively he flinched away— but just as quickly brought his hands back to explore the anemone-like curtain before him, stifling a nervous laugh as the tendrils gripped at his arm.
The expanse of writhing tendrils seemed to run the length of John's underside, or at least so far as Arthur could reach. Trying to get a better feel of one only caused it to wriggle out of his grasp. While they didn't appear to have octopus-like suckers, they did not feel completely smooth, and the ones pulling his arm further in towards their apparent centre had quite the grip.
Then, to his shock, he felt the flat of a large tongue swipe against his palm.
He froze. Humiliation rushed to heat his cheeks as John released him, roaring with deep, echoing laughter.
"I'm sorry," John said. "I couldn't help it."
Arthur shook his now uncomfortably wet hand. "How very… Childish."
"You asked."
Unable to keep from breaking into a smile of his own, Arthur reached up once more. He ran a thumb across the smooth curve of John's body, finding a gap between the folds of his robes. The way John leaned into his touch was thrilling, baring more of his form to Arthur's curious hands.
He found the texture of John's— for lack of a better mental image— carapace to fall somewhere between a shell and a porcelain mug. Near the mask were protruding pieces, horns perhaps, or mandibles? They remained as still and cool to the touch as stone.
Travelling down along his body’s side, as Arthur's hand brushed past one of the ducts the ever-present air flowed from, a distant memory came to him all at once.
"Oh," he said, "Centipedes."
"What?"
"That's what you're like. Well, partially." His hand passed over the hole twice more, catching swirls of lukewarm wind. "You exhale through these spiracles, don't you? That’s why you never seem to breathe in.”
"... I do. How do you know all of this?"
"I had a book on entomology when I was young. It's funny, I've forgotten nearly everything but that…"
John began leaning harder against his hand, almost insistent. "Entomology?" He prompted.
"The study of insects," Arthur replied. "Now that I think about it, with all the legs… You do seem rather like one. Among some other things."
"Such as?"
"Well the— yes, these." Arthur had evidently found the mass of tentacles again. He let them slip through his fingers as he spoke, almost as if they were playing with his digits. "They're rather like… I'm not sure. A jellyfish? An anemone? And most insects aren't exactly known for their tongues…"
He could almost picture John's self satisfied smile; or whatever passed for one, given his anatomy. Giving one of the tentacles a little tug, he moved his hands towards unexplored territory, pushing aside more of his robes.
"This is soft, here." The carapace beneath his hands was still rigid, but seemed a bit more pliable than the rest of John's body. A deep groove marked the boundary between one segment and the next. "What am I touching?"
"My… I don't know." A second pair of hands gently steadied Arthur as John moved around him, seeming to settle against his own body. He said, "Arthur, you have to understand, I am not like you. Trying to assign words to this is…"
"Futile, I know. But it's not as if you haven't described your fair share of monstrosities to me in the past."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"What?"
"... It's nothing."
Arthur turned to press his cheek against one of the spindly hands wrapped so carefully around his shoulders. It retreated, but not without caressing the line of his jaw as it went.
"John. Come down here."
Another shift, and again Arthur felt the mask settle at roughly eye-level to him. Completely unrepentant of shame or worry, he wrapped his arms around John's body, tucking his head beneath the mask's smooth jaw.
To his surprise, John reciprocated the hug immediately. Gathering Arthur into a nest of clawed fingers, there was a rumbling from deep within that Arthur might've mistaken for a growl under other circumstances. But John's hold on him was careful— so careful that it was almost unsatisfactory, as if he were afraid that the slightest pressure would harm him.
Arthur tightened his grip, tugging uselessly at John's robes as he attempted to bring the massive body closer.
"Arthur."
"It's still you, John. It's still you, and I'm still here. And though you've gotten very well acquainted with what I look like during our time together, I've never properly met you before. So please, let me..."
A hiss answered him. It was all the warning he was given before John's claws tightened just enough to lift him from the ground, bringing him close to the body that had been eluding him since their separation. Countless talons snagged against his clothes, unseen limbs closing in on him from all sides as John constricted in loose coils.
He put his hands out on instinct, finding a mass of curling tentacles beneath him. Their movements ignited a nervous flutter in his stomach.
"John?" He called.
The way John's voice enveloped him was almost painfully similar to what he had lost. "I am here. It's me, I'm here. Did I scare you?"
Arthur skimmed his fingertips up until they once again settled against the mask's cheeks. He leaned up and, as if compelled by some maddened fervour, kissed its unmoving lips.
Another deep rumble bubbled beneath him— then a hand draped itself across his back, its claws attempting to be delicate as they scraped through his hair. The slight prickle of pain sent a rush down his spine and through his limbs, stuttering the beat of his heart for a moment. He would've laughed were his mouth not already preoccupied, but once those branch-like digits had begun to travel towards the nape of his neck Arthur found his body following them, bowing to chase John's touch like a cat arching to be pet.
"Your robes," Arthur said, clutching fistfuls of coarse fabric. "How do they…?"
"... Are you trying to undress me?"
"John."
John laughed beneath him, above him, from all sides. The tendrils that Arthur all but straddled seemed to have deemed his legs a suitable place to rest, and their subtle, curious movements sent unexpected shocks racing through his lower stomach.
John's mask nuzzled against his collarbone. "Arthur…"
"Yes?"
"Arthur."
Limbs closed in around him like the clamp of a vice, tugging him close until his body laid flush to the mass of tentacles. Then, from some unknown depth, John's tongue emerged to press against his stomach.
The hot spike of arousal hit Arthur like an arrow through the skull. He couldn't help but to keen, low and wanting, attempting to press himself closer despite the claws that dug into his flesh. His hands fluttered against John’s body, searching for purchase. He caressed the mask, pressing kisses against its unmoving lips, its jaw, its temple. One hand gripped the base of a mandible while the other remained to cup John’s cheek.
John explored him lazily, lapping at his clothes with no real sense of urgency. Were he in a clearer state of mind, Arthur might've paused to consider that this appendage was one of only a few in John's possession not tipped with stiletto-knife claws; that this was, perhaps, the only way he could match his gentle affections. But at present, Arthur could think only of his own shame as he stuttered his hips against the motion of John's tongue, stealing flashes of pleasure from these otherwise chaste ministrations.
Arthur knew that he really ought to tell him, to put a stop to this— but surely John had to know, didn't he? How could he not, when Arthur's blood was rushing so loudly in his ears that even separated from his body, John could surely feel it, too. How could there be any doubt when Arthur's every exhale was punctuated by a poorly stifled moan? John knew how human bodies worked. Surely, surely…
It's only after John had managed to untuck the edges of his shirt and run his tongue along the scar that marred his stomach, that Arthur felt himself arriving far too quickly at the peak of his pleasure.
He backed away just enough to find his voice. "God. W… Wait, just a moment John, please."
John immediately froze under him. "I'm sorry. Was that too much?"
"No, no." A bark of a laugh escaped his chest. "Quite the opposite."
"What do you… Oh." The mask returned to his neck, its nose bumping against Arthur's thrumming jugular. John had started to chuckle. His hands— one set of many, with another pair at his back already cradling him like some priceless treasure— carefully skirted under the edge of his shirt, pushing it up to where it bunched underneath his chin.
His tongue pressed insistently at the jagged scar, as if it could open anew for him. Arthur made no attempt to quiet his gasp as John worked at its edges like they were the lips of a lover, arching into the cool press of his hands against fevered skin. It dawned on him that John was watching him, silently observing the way he writhed, panting underneath him.
Arthur had never felt so exposed. Humiliation mingled with desire as he thrust his hips shallowly against the flat of John's tongue.
His own mouth seemed incapable of projecting his voice any louder than a breath. "John, please, let me… Let me."
"I'm not sure what I can offer you." John sounded preoccupied; enthralled, almost. His fingers scratched the base of Arthur's skull and he threw his head back against them, bearing his throat to John.
"You do. You know."
"Our anatomies are so different, I…" He paused. The air around Arthur seemed to still for only a moment as John's 'breath' caught. Overcome, Arthur turned his head to kiss his fingers. "Oh Arthur, really, you've only just—"
"John, I want this."
"You don't know what you're even asking for!" Despite the venom in his words, the claws that curled around him were careful, protective.
Arthur shot back, "Well you're the one who started this!"
"Me? Arthur I've been trying to avoid—"
Rolling blind eyes, Arthur thrust roughly against John's tongue and the vast hollow of his mouth. His point could no longer be disputed; either they were doing this, or it ended then and there.
Voice surprisingly steady, Arthur again demanded, "Show me. Now."
Fear prickled at him when John's response was not immediate. He reached a hand down, seeking the strangely comforting reassurance of grasping tentacles, and felt the low, unnatural rumble of John's growl before he was again pulled close.
Gentleness yielded to John's fervour as the claws that surrounded his body now hooked into his clothing, shredding jagged cuts into the thin fabric. John's breath became hotter, stronger, almost like the exhaust of an engine billowing from the ventricles that lined his body. Arthur could feel him moving, his coiling body rearranging itself in odd configurations— and with surprising delicacy, Arthur was moved from his stomach to his back, pressed against what he could only assume to be John's underbelly.
The claws that had scraped across his shoulders now poked threateningly against his ribs. It was like a bed of thorns, Arthur thought; curiously running a hand along John's body, he found that it curved upwards, creating a hollow of sorts for Arthur to lay against him. Beneath him, the tentacles had become sparser; but they did still tickle the tender flesh of his inner thighs, now exposed in patches of goose-fleshed skin.
"…Reach forward," John asked of him. To Arthur's endless— if belated— amusement, he sounded simply mortified.
But Arthur did as he was commanded, and felt a tacky wet organ before him. John must have arranged himself in such a way that it hung there just within reach, at what would've been eye-level were he still possessed of sight.
Damn my eyes, he thought, and shifted upwards before John's claws could prevent him from coming closer. Not that they didn't try— he felt them sink into his skin on instinct, slicing razor-thin lines down his body as John yelped in alarm; both for what he had done, and what Arthur so clearly intended to do.
John's cock was tapered, thick at its base, thin as a branch at its tip. It felt long, pulsating with a foreign heartbeat. Though it was not overly hard— Arthur gave it a firm squeeze and was rewarded with a litany of curses from John hovering somewhere above him— it seemed to have some sturdiness to it, more than enough to keep its shape in spite of the geometric puzzle John had twisted himself into.
And enough, at least, for Arthur to lean in and take the tip into his mouth. A shutter cascaded down John's many limbs, echoing in his voice as he pleaded, "Arthur, wait—"
The taste of him was strange; akin to cold spring water around hot flesh, lending it an almost sweat-like resemblance. Arthur hardly had time to mull over its finer notes, however, as its movements proved more than distracting enough. Where at first the organ pulsated, it now pushed forward a splash of hot liquid into Arthur's mouth.
John disappointingly succeeded in pulling him away before more of the fluid could fill his throat. His voice was strained as he attempted to explain; "I am not like you, you can't just… It's not designed for that, Arthur. I can't stop it."
Grinning, Arthur let his hands continue to trail along John's length. He was pushing both his patience and his luck, but he leaned against the claws that kept him still until they relented, lest they lacerate even more of him.
"Can't stop it?" He asked senselessly, pressing his cheek to John's cock. Near the base was a slit, presumably where the organ had emerged from. Arthur's clever fingers had dipped into it, putting pressure on the root of John's cock and receiving a chittering groan in response. His voice had started to lose whatever veneer of humanity it typically affected, and as it caused the hair on the back of Arthur's neck to rise, so too did his own erection bob in interest.
His other hand held John steady while Arthur worked his way along its length. His clear inexperience appeared to matter little, as John's body rocked against him in half-aborted thrusts, shaking with the effort of remaining still.
Arthur knew what to expect when next he took the organ into his mouth, letting his jaw fall slack and waiting as the shaft undulated, spilling hot release across his tongue. It was not like his in the slightest— it was rather more dilute, and all the more abundant as a result. Slightly filmy, tart to the taste, but slick and easy to swallow as he took more of John in, letting him pump wave after wave of the fluid down his throat.
John was hardly so composed in the moment. His groans had taken on a fully alien nature, reverberating deep within Arthur’s eardrums. While his lower body was held as still as he could will it, his other limbs— namely those that still clung to Arthur’s lower half— were anything but. It seemed as though John’s claws were itching to tear him apart, to splay open his soft belly and break apart his ribs. It was only through considerable effort that Arthur remained just grazed by his grasping claws, but he could hear the strain in John’s voice, sense the tension in his rigid body. He wondered— oh, how he wondered — what he must look like in that moment.
Feeling the limit of his inexperience beginning to catch up to him, Arthur pulled away with only a slight gag. Still, his hands were not idle— one remained at John's cock while the other travelled down his own chest, skimming across dozens of clawed appendages before reaching the button of his trousers.
Attempting to stroke John and undo the straining closure at the same time was difficult, but not impossible. As he worked at his clothing, he asked, "Wh… What do you see, John?"
"Jesus , Arthur." His words were hardly recognizable. John's voice had turned low and bubbling, the voice of an undersea geyser, the scrape of a tectonic plate against the continental shelf.
"Tell me. Describe it to me."
A high buzz, then a low drone. Something animal was behind the tone but Arthur couldn't place its origin. "I can't, I— Arthur, that's…"
"Please." Ah— the button gave way at last. The rush of sudden relief washed over Arthur like a cool wave, causing his heart to briefly leap into his throat as he bared himself fully to John's ever watchful eyes. A broken moan escaped him as the new appendage was seized upon by wandering tentacles, and John answered in kind.
"God." Another shutter wracked through him. Arthur leaned up once more, taking his cock deep into his mouth. John's resolve finally faltered with a few quick thrusts into Arthur's throat. "God, I see you, Arthur. Your clothes are ripped and your legs are splayed wide for me, by me . You're hard, Arthur, twitching with my every word. Your damned hands are on my… Y-your mouth, Arthur."
He pulled back, panting, feeling the heady rush of arousal filling him. "Tell me."
"I'm trying, I—"
"John, tell me."
"I…!" John's entire body tensed around him for a moment before letting loose the restraints he had placed upon himself. Though he still tried to be gentle, his thrusts were no longer shallow or halting; Arthur accepted them greedily.
"Fuck, your mouth is around my cock, your hands are at its base; you're scratched Arthur, you're bleeding . You're…" The mask settled against his sternum before something— multiple somethings, with round mouths like leeches— bit into his skin. John's voice was little more than thunder as he proclaimed, “Mine, you’re mine , y̶̫͂ỏ̶̖u̸̖͋̆̔'̵̟̼̎͜͝r̷̥͉̠͉̲͊͒͊ĕ̵̹͜ ̵̖͈͉̔͆̕m̵̼̈́̓ì̶̛̲̖̜n̸̡̧͍̎e̶̼͚̺͚̬͗ .”
John did not yield in the slightest as Arthur's orgasm hit him. So preoccupied with John's cock fucking his mouth and the incessant digging of teeth and claws into his flesh, keeping him pinned still and open, Arthur could do little more paw uselessly at John's underbelly as it coursed through him, a high whine escaping from around the member down his throat.
Perhaps the sight of it was what sent John to the brink of his own strange pleasure, or maybe it was the taste of his blood— but John shivered down his entire body as Arthur came, following with a thicker, more viscous fluid which threatened to suffocate him had John not pulled back, instead spilling his release across Arthur's burning skin. Arthur had not realised the deep, low vibrational noise John had been making until it stopped, and the room seemed to open around him once more, no longer so small and intimate as the space between them had seemed.
John's teeth had also retracted to wherever they had come from, though the mask still remained against Arthur's heaving chest. Exhausted, it took all Arthur's strength just to lay a hand across his hooded head.
John angled the mask to press a series of chaste kisses to Arthur's chest.
"I thought you couldn't feel that?" He asked, his voice scratchy.
"I can't," John confirmed. "But I know what I'm doing."
Despite the discomfort, Arthur laughed. He took the mask in both hands and brought it close for another facsimile of human affection. Though John's lips could not open for him, he ran his tongue along their part regardless, just as John's tongue had traced along his scar.
"Glad you showed me, now?" Arthur teased.
He offered no resistance as John's many appendages moved him back to rest chest-to-tentacled-chest once again. As John seemed to settle into a comfortable position, Arthur busied himself by kissing the tendrils that squirmed around his hands, delighting in their mindless grasping. And though he really should've expected it, he did still gasp at the tongue that emerged to swipe at his inner thighs.
"Yes," John answered, his voice heavy with affection. "Very."