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“It’s kind of too bad this is all happening now, isn’t it?”
Sam had never been immune to the melancholy of feeling like you wasted your youth, jokes about late bloomers and approaching mid-life crises, one point for everything you’ve experienced comment below with your score. Comparison was the thief of joy, and he rather liked, or at least was more suited, to the life of an average joe than some partygoer: short stint in college spent in the books, indefinitely after spent as a faceless nameless stocker in a convenience store, his weekends spent with videogames and THC til the A.M.
It’s just that the end of the world kind of makes it sink in, because you can’t really say there’s still time, can you? The time will pass anyways, he’s also heard, but that meant little when that time could be cut so very short.
His arm aches as though it’s still there.
He’s not alone in this feeling, at least.
“Y-Y-Yeah…” Lyle sits beneath him on the couch, no longer able to fit on his own furniture, his laid form beneath the cloak reminding Sam of a cat. His apartment was blissfully quiet– Sam actually wasn’t opposed to the way his apartment looked now…mostly. He felt useful providing, a welcome sense of stability and purpose in the chaos, and god, he’d never have just left Joel there, or Junior…But that didn’t mean it doesn’t get overwhelming, after so many years of pure solitude. “I wi-wish I’d been brave enough to ask you hang out while we worked together…I-I always thought about it!”
“Heh, yeah…” A small lick of guilt, at wondering– and maybe correctly assuming –Lyle is something like him. A homebody without a social life, though at least the guy had a hobby, he supposes.
And a job. Well, it did him nothing to be bitter about it, especially when it hardly mattered now. “Maybe we could’ve, I dunno, you could’ve taught me that Mages and Warlock thing. I never realized you wanted to be friends.”
“Oh, it’s–it’s okay Sam!” He would call Lyle a pushover, but that’d be the pot calling the kettle black. It was just…a great deal sadder to see in someone younger than him, he supposes. Lyle still had time to turn it around…Would he have ended up like me? “It’s not your fault…I mean, I was too s-scared to talk to you, and I kinda tried to make myself invisible…”
“Yeah, well, I could’ve been a bit friendlier myself.” His one hand makes idle circles in the cushion of the sofa, a little listless– but glad to be, as opposed to the non-stop move as of late, the always needing to tend to someone or something. “And then when I got fired…”
Another thing he’s wondered upon, as of late, is the fact that he knows so many of his neighbors now. Jeanne, Harriet, Eugene..And Lyle. People who had frankly been here the whole time, and he doesn’t blame himself too much, he isn’t sure he would’ve known what to do even if he’d realized how much less isolated he could’ve been– none of their paths crossed naturally, outside of the Visit. He wouldn’t of been there to help Jeanne up the stairs after a night of partying, or thought to check in on Summer when he hadn’t seen her in ages. All the assumptions of a world that passes on with no place for him in it made going out of his way never even occur in his mind.
And Lyle had been right there, wanting to be friends, if Sam hadn’t been so focused on the shelves and rent and keeping himself together to look at the mousy boy behind the photo counter.
But better late than never, right? They were still here, and now they have met, and life looks so very different but maybe not every change that comes about will be a bad thing. He’s on the couch in Lyle’s quiet, dim apartment, shooting the shit as if an eldritch monstrosity wasn’t just outside in the sky.
It’s nice. Lyle’s nice.
“Th-that’s still b-b-bullshit…One leave of absence after years of good attendance, all ‘cuz of your b-back.”
“...Huh, he told you guys why he fired me?”
“Oh! Um!” Lyle sits up quite suddenly, and Sam holds back a small snort watching his various metal feet scratch and scramble under him against the carpet. “Yeah, I think he s-said something to that effect…”
He snorts again. Something about Lyle’s intense reactions to the tiniest of things is horribly endearing, even if he feels a little bad he’s so jumpy. “Well, don’t worry, it wasn’t a secret or something. I’m sure you noticed the stupid brace I had on all the time.”
The shutterbug’s hands– the humanoid ones –come to wring in anxious little movements in front of him, his smile shy but proud. Even such a simple compliment had him flustering. “A few times. I mean, not that I thought you were faking or something, I just pa-pay a-attention! It’s really important for photography. You have to pa-pay attention to so many little things! Like…Um, a-actually, that’ll be a bit of a tangent. I don’t think you’re here to learn about ph-photography, haha…”
“Nah, I like listening.” Lyle certainly had more to talk about than him, who’d spent his time up until the Visit wallowing in self pity and near-poverty. “I don’t know anything about photography, really. It’s nice, to just…be able to shoot the breeze instead of getting punched around by rats or something.”
“Oh, well…Haha, I’m not even sure I’ll be able to do it anything more after this…I-I mean, if we can ever go outside again.”
“...Mm.” Sam hums in response, momentarily distracted by a small pit in stomach because yeah, again, they didn’t really know if this would ever end huh? Sure, the other’s already changed, maybe Lyle could get exposed again and be okay, but… “Man, you ever just…think about all the stuff you never got to do?”
He watches Lyle’s mouth open and close a few times, seeking his words. Eventually, his gaze is downtrodden to the floor. “Yeah…I didn’t do a whole lot already, maybe if I hadn’t been so shy I could’ve, I dunno…g-gone to parties with Jeanne, or something…Done freelance stuff…”
Sam nods. “Meet people, try some restaurants, travel…”
“Heh, yeah. M-m-maybe even…d-date someone…”
Oh, that does get a little laugh out of him– Not at Lyle’s expense, but rather, the fact he agreed. “Dating’s gonna be weird if we make it out of this. Who knows, maybe I’ll finally find a relationship now that the playing field’s even.”
“W-what! But Sam, you’re so handsome!” He nearly sputters, because– him? Handsome? Fat hairy unemployed old man handsome? “S-surely you didn’t have much trouble with that, not like me…”
Ah, clearly this was a bit of a sore spot for Lyle as it was for him. Sam sighs, lowers to lay down fully on the couch, stares at the ceiling– how much is he willing to admit?
“I had a couple girlfriends, one in highschool, one in college, had a…something with a guy for a few days, dunno what you’d call it…never really got very far or for very long though. Just didn’t pan out.” God, that was so many years ago, more than a decade even. When did he last even think of them? Are they alive out there? “Stopped trying after that.”
“Oh…W-well, I haven’t had one relationship, heh…But I guess I regret never c-confessing, to, um, this one guy.”
“Aw. You had a special someone?” Lyle pulls his cloak tighter, closer over his face. The frankness, the nonchalant relaxation of relative normalcy, their easy conversation, and an unusual temptation towards mischief kicks in before Sam’s brain fully can. “If it makes you feel any better, I never got to have sex before all this. There’s been a couple times I thought man, I’m gonna die a forty-three year old virgin….” Oh, hm, that wasn’t as funny as he thought. He was trying to take a potshot at himself, to lessen the impact, but…
Lyle makes something akin to a squeak under the fabric, legs curling in close like a dying spider. Sam backpedals, frantic, you fucked up. You made it weird. You antisocial idiot. “Um. N-not that that’s all that matters, or is that big a deal. I wasn’t just in it for that, I just, you know, while we’re talking about stuff we never got to do…”
At first, no reply, and he panics further. “I mean who cares about, uh, societal expectations and all that right I mean what matters is if you’re happy and–”
“It-it’s okay!” His panic instills the same in Lyle, he thinks, whose cloak slips off enough for various reflective circles to peek just beneath the fabric. Two similarly awkward, nervous wrecks, trying badly to steer the conversation back into something casual, comfortable, normal. “It’s…okay. I um. Was just sh-shocked! B-b-but– while we’re, c-confessing stuff –I haven’t either. It’s-it’s kinda comforting someone as cool as you hasn’t either! And I mean, gosh, who would even wanna do that stuff now that I l-look like this?”
“Hey, hey, c’mon now…I mean, I would.” Sam admits, remaining hand fretting through his hair. He tries a reassuring smile. “A lot of people look weird now sure, but it’s about the inside, and if they’re still sane, then…Who am I to judge?”
“...Y-you would???”
Lyle’s voice is quiet, but full of obvious disbelief, proper eyes the size of saucers. Sam feels himself go beet red, wondering if he was about to be judged for his…tastes? Or lack thereof? By someone in that very category, thank you very much.
“Is– is that that weird? I mean, it's still…people…And you’re transformed too! This includes you!”
“...Oh, haha! You meant…you m-meant ma-mutated people in general, I thought…”
…Sam blinks.
“...Lyle,” He says slowly, processing, thoughts lagging behind his nerves, “Did you…Were you hoping I…?”
“It-it doesn’t matter now!” Lyle seems to try to stand up, but one or several legs under his cloak get snagged in the excessive fabric, causing him to stumble and slip. Sam watches, hands up but powerless to help as the coffee table is accidentally kicked a few inches to the side. He’s vaguely reminded of a deer stuck on ice he’d seen once. “Let’s, um, um, I can talk about ph-ph-photography, actually! A-always happy to ramble!’
It’s a tempting offer, to brush it off and forget it ever happened, take the out given to him and just have weirdly tense interactions with Lyle forever or maybe never again. Except– Except they’d just established mutual wants, regrets, and despite himself, he likes Lyle. Maybe not like that, sure, but…
Being so young and having those kind of regrets… Not that Sam thinks late-twenties and inexperienced is at all a failure, but it mattered at least a little to Lyle, clearly. Maybe, there’s a way neither of us have to worry about never knowing what it’s like.
Maybe the apocalypse's grown him a spine, maybe he’s just still old people-pleaser Sam, maybe he’s just curious and desperate for distraction…
What he does know for a fact is he isn’t opposed.
“Lyle, Lyle! Hey it’s fine, it’s…I mean, if you really don’t want to, that’s fine.” Somehow, calming him feels much like calming a startled horse– at least, when Sam approaches, puts a hand on what vaguely might be the place Lyle’s neck or equivalent is, he’s at pretty much horse height. At even just that slight touch, he watches the lens-like anatomy of Lyle’s pupils unfurl, his gaze glued to the point of contact. “But I’m fine with– with…a little friendly fooling around, or whatever. Because you never know what’s gonna happen tomorrow at this point, and…maybe it’ll be fun?”
“...Y-you really want to!?!?”
Maybe it’s projecting, but he clearly recognizes the emotion behind the response– the expectation you might be getting set up, the expectation of a trick, a joke at the other’s expense.
“Why would I joke about that?” He asks despite knowing, because he himself had known too much of that growing up. Punching down to get a leg up. Besides, isn’t this more embarrassing for him? “If we’re both willing and want to, why wouldn’t we?”
For at least a few moments, all the apprehension seems to seep out of Lyle, into something more like amazement. Only now does he realize Lyle’s arms are long enough to drag the floor, flopping down to it in his surprise. The reaction is everything he expected– a stunned balk, red startlingly vibrant against the jet black of the material that now made the man’s skin, the pointier more fang-like teeth he has jut out over his lip once they’re no longer minded. That initial reaction to agreeing to the trade kiss to its most extreme.
“...Y-you really are amazing, Sam.” It’s so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it. “Um! If you’d like to! Then I’d b-be very honored!”
Honored? Not the word choice Sam would’ve picked, he considered himself more a consolation prize in this matter than anything, but he can’t help a little snort.
“Go ahead then.” Trying to maintain some semblance of being the more– experienced? No, perhaps calmer one, he sits himself back onto the couch, leans back and spreads his sit in a way he hopes is some manner of enticing. “You have me.”
The sound Lyle makes is like a croak, and he gets the deeply amusing sight of Lyle trying to carefully tip-toe his unwieldy body closer to the sofa, to him. A chorus of clicks and whirs are muffled through the fabric. His fingertips end up delicately perched on the cushions, yet digging into the edges so tight it betrays his excitement.
“Is…the couch okay? I’d offer you my b-bed but I’m…a little too b-big now.”
“Oh, yeah, I didn’t think of that. It works for me. There’s worst places, right?”
More specifically, Sam remembers the various meat goo painting the walls and floors of Lyle’s bedroom. Yes, the couch would very much do.
“Okay!...U-um, I don’t know how p-people start this.”
Is it bad, for the fact he’s not the blubbering one to go a bit to his head? It’s just so cute.
“Well…You have kissed me before.” In fact, where was that forwardness now?
“R-right! I’ve, uh, th-thought about that moment a lot, heh…”
There’s a terse few seconds of silent expectation, neither moving, just staring. It grows obvious both expected the other to move first.
“Uh…I did, but you wanted me to close my eyes, remember?”
“...Oh.” One of Lyle’s hands pulls the side of his cloak in tighter, the other coming to scratch at his cheek. “I didn’t…want you to see what I really look like, under all this…”
“Can I now?”
He was, for intents and purposes, curious, even in the absence of attraction. He wasn’t going to admit that when the other was already so shy, and Sam knows he wouldn’t take it well either, the nuances of the want surpassing Lyle’s new appearance versus being a result of it. Even then, surely what was underneath couldn’t be that bad. He’s caught secret glimpses of eyes, the many legs, and there’s his implied size underneath.
But he’s also seen people inside out, insectoid beasts, amalgamations of human and metal plumbing. Surely whatever he has going on underneath can’t be that bad, if the only sounds he makes as he moves is mechanical as opposed to wet and squishy.
“...Can I keep it on?” Lyle’s voice is so audibly worried, it actually breaks his heart a little bit. Yeah, definitely proceed with caution. “I-I’m sorry…I don’t– I don’t think I can let anyone see me yet…”
“Yeah, man, that’s fine.” The last thing Sam wanted to do was trample boundaries. “I mean, closest I ever got was a bunch of hands under clothes so, I get it.”
But that aside, Lyle seemed timid to even touch him, reaching out ever so slightly only to pull away. It seems he was going to have to be the leader here, though a part of him that’s only recently begun to realize the value in taking initiative is throttled by the irrational part of him more than happy to let things happen to him. For fear of…what? Disappointing, he supposes. Doing it bad, wrong.
On one attempt, he takes Lyle’s hand, extends his long arms out to press it to his cheek.
“So…do you wanna kiss again?”
“Yes!”
Offering something he thinks might be a mercy, Sam closes his eyes as he had that first time, leaning forward. It’s at least easy enough to initiate, it having happened already. He has to hold the position an uncomfortable amount of time until something finally meets him, and he jolts slightly when it’s very much not smooth glass he’s kissing but Lyle’s actual mouth. The tiny fangs catch on his lips, almost his chin, and he finds to the touch the skin under the cloak feels like a leather car seat. It’s more like pressing their faces flat together, which prompts him to wonder if any of the folds of Lyle’s face were actually lips, but then they purse and he feels them, thin and cracking but there.
His face is unyieldingly smooth and round, making it awkward, more like kissing into a divot, but Sam wouldn’t call it unpleasant. Net neutral experience–
Lyle licks his lips and though it startles him, he obliges immediately and oh, okay, that was a significant improvement. It’s all hesitant little kitten licks, mostly Sam treading into his mouth, but the start of a sloppy makeout has true heat running under his skin for the first time since this was all brought up. He’d always liked kissing, so much so it was even responsible for missing one of his almost-firsts, on account of cumming in his pants from just the highschool sweetheart’s hands and lips on him. She hadn’t laughed, at least.
His hand travels up the cloak, cautious not to move it out of place, until he can palm the back of Lyle’s head and keep him pushed close. A whimper gets whined against his mouth, and the hand on his cheek trembles while the other has snaked its way to fist into his sweater. Cute, the thought bubbles up in the back of his mind, as it has so many times already. It doesn’t go unnoticed the tongue is more similar in texture to it’s normal human version, but thicker, tougher. A stroke of overconfidence makes it dip too far and Sam pulls away to cough after a small gag.
“Ah! S-sorry! I’m so sorry!”
“Don’t be,” Sam rasps. “It was hot.”
It was, in a way he hadn’t realized it would be, and in a way that was making a growing wetness between his thighs worse. He’s sweaty-clammy under his clothes already, and uses the opportunity to get his breath back and ask. “Can I take this off?”
He knows the answer before Lyle even speaks, the aperture in his eyes growing bigger. “Please oh my god.”
It’s a slight struggle with his one arm, but he’s gotten used to it by now, hardly needing longer than before to yank the thing off and away. Sam feels the first sliver of self-consciousness begin to creep in, at his naked torso– he stares down at his front, as if seeing it for the first time. The sag of his breasts, the fat rolls of his stomach, the various smatterings of dark hairs and stretch marks. Looks had been the last thing on his mind as of late, but now that he’s the one exposed…
“C-can I take your picture?” Lyle says all in one long breath, unblinking, staring unabashedly at the newly revealed skin.
“Huh?” He doesn’t even process the request at first.
“I-I-I mean only if you c-comfortable with it! Y-you’d just make such a good model…You’re really, r-really handsome…” Though it sounds as jittery as ever, the very obvious hungry luster in his voice makes Sam’s hairs stand on end. “If you d-did it’d only be for m-me, or you can take it! You just look so good…”
Oh, wow. Pulse in his ears, Sam struggles to make a decision quick enough, thoroughly stunned by the prospect of being found so attractive Lyle wanted him to model. And then, of course, if he was okay being a model in these circumstances, at this level of undress.
(And even further?)
Why did the concept sound so hot? Not just being seen like this, but immortalized like it, and kept secret, stowed away for the sole viewing pleasure of one.
…Lyle has been nothing but respectful, considerate. Hell, he’s even asking before doing…If Sam changed his mind, he’d destroy them, surely?
“Yeah?” Sam clears his throat, tips himself back further, letting himself lounge a bit more against the back of the couch. “Yeah. Go ahead.”
Lyle reaches within the shroud, hand emerging with some square part of him, dark and reflective– glass. Is that what I kissed? His many legs stand straighter, angling him a bit over him, the lens being dragged every which way and making robotic sounds of adjustment as Sam unconsciously continues to sink until he’s laying across the cushions. The imposing figure looms, and unexpectedly, it too draws an interested twitch from his T-dick beneath his sweats.
A flash. His eyes cram shut, momentarily blinded, head turning aside. Through his eyelids, he can tell the flash goes off again.
Something emerges between the front of the cloak, now dangling open, and it’s the bigger mouth below he’s only seen peeks of the teeth of. It’s in a delirious, oafish grin before opening, a fat pillow of a tongue falling out, and sliding down it, two spit-shiny Polaroids.
It accidentally drools a few lines onto his stomach, and he’s faintly reminded of choking on the normal tongue earlier. He presses his legs together hard. Would that tongue be able to…?
“Gosh, these are w-wonderful, you’re wonderful…” Happy as he was to see the other seeming a bit more comfortable, he hadn’t realized what disaster it’d spell for himself, quickly losing whatever air of sway he had in scenario. The photos are slipped into some unseen pocket assumedly within. “Can I t-touch you?”
Losing his voice, Sam nods. With less hesitance then before, the hands start flat beneath his collarbone, before daring to draw downward. In wonder-filled, symmetrical movements, they come to cup and caress his intact breasts, sagging down the sides of his chest as he lay. He’d never bothered with surgery, found himself largely unbothered by them, and later on as he’d aged even felt he’d look sillier without. He was a bigger guy, they matched, and he rather likes the feeling of them groped and squeezed. Lyle does, and he faintly wonders beneath his shuddering breath if the other’s ever gotten as far as touching someone this way. How many of his firsts will he be?
One pinches a nipple, not too harshly, but enough to make him gasp and arch momentarily.
“O-oh! Oh I’m so sorry, did it hurt…?”
“No, no, it– you’re doing just fine.” The breathlessness to his own voice is embarrassing. “Keep going.”
Not needing to be told twice, the other descended to grope greedily at the plush flesh of his stomach, rake sweaty lines through the coarse little curls. His fingers dip into the crease of the fat on his hips, the slice of flat skin just above the sagging waistband of what was, unbeknownst to Lyle, really old sleep pants.
Lyle looks up at him, eyes huge and blindingly bright, husky-dog blue.
“Can– Can I take these off?”
It’s easier to nod, dedicating himself to gripping the couch as he’s exposed, the choppy yanking of his sweats being pulled down failing to hide foolhardy excitement. Lyle’s many metal feet work together to yank them from his ankles and send it to the floor below.
Something mechanical purrs, and Sam peeks just enough to see several eyes below extend, zooming pointedly in the direction of his crotch. He feels the wet splotch against the front of his briefs, fully aware it’s what caught all the attention. His legs fall open, revealing it further, embarrassing in a way that burns good.
“Those too.” His attempt to be suave is undercut by a harsh swallow. “Don’t be shy.”
Lyle’s hands shake with his eagerness, peeling away the waistband like the rind of a delicate fruit, unwrapping him with far more reverence and patience than the pants. His gasp trembles when it reveals him, the thick forest of pubic hairs tacky with slick, T-dick hard and swollen at the promise of action. Whens the last time I even jacked off? It’s not like I’m thinking about that out there… Hard to be in the mood when you’d witnessed naught but horror, tragedy, and your own near-death the entire day prior.
“Oh…So much h-hotter than I imagined…!”
Some part of him, somewhere, vaguely feels the comment off. It’s mostly ignored in favor of his muscles twitching under warm hands running up and down his thighs.
“Um! Imagined anyone I’d d-do this stuff with would be…”
Ah, that makes sense. He was really that negative about his looks before, huh…? Guess I know the feeling.
The thought dies in its tracks when suddenly, the hands wind themselves underneath his thighs, grip the supple fat there, and push them up so he’s spread open. Sam gasps, his dick twitches. Flash. Whirring. The sound itself is quickly becoming something associated with arousal. He might not ever look at cameras the same again.
“Can I touch you? Please? Please???”
He hadn’t expected someone so meek, and with somehow less experience than even him to take the lead, but he’s happy to let him try. Lyle’s excitement is tangible in the way his whole body seems to vibrate and rattle. “Yeah, fuck, go ahead.”
Two thin, metallic legs come up and press just enough to keep him parted, shivering at the sudden cold against heated skin. The toes are pointy- not enough to cut or pierce, or even scratch, though the thought makes him quiver. Lyle’s real hands descend to part Sam’s pussy, thumbs prodding his labia up and out of the way, and he supposes he’d probably be the same sort of awkward seeing one for the first time. They rub, sliding easily across the damp skin, watching the way the fat and folds shift under the touch. It’s the faintest possible friction, already making him feel terribly impatient, the muscles there flexing in arousal. He sees firsthand the stunned reaction to them visibly contracting.
“O-oh, you’re really wet…” Sam laughs, a little flustered. He was easy to work up, sure, but at least it was a bit reassuring to see Lyle still so out of depth, despite the sudden euphemism and courage.
Pointer and thumb come on either side of his dick to stroke it, in featherlight slow streaks. He cants his hips slightly, chasing the friction, trying to signal him to press harder. Lyle doesn’t quite, though his fingers twist and skirt around and up it with no rhyme or reason, purely experimental, fixated. The teasing is getting to his nerves, swelling under the touch, but if the other was down, he was chasing more than a handjob. He’s had enough experience with himself to know what he wants, can handle.
“Y…you can go inside.” He cringes a little at how whiny, needy it makes him sound. “I'm pretty used to…uh, I had, a lot of time after getting fired…”
Ah. Maybe it isn’t doing much for his supposed charm to admit he spent copious amounts of his listless eternity after the firing jerking off, but can’t take it back. Lyle doesn’t even seem to process it though, jolting to attention. “Oh! Okay!”
The fingers jerking him drop to press at his hole, so mildly he hardly feels it, and he has half a mind to inform the other you can do two things at once but then two of them are slipping their way in against his expectations. He’s ready for them, clenching around them tight in shock and greed, already angling himself to try to take them deeper. Lyle keeps still however, stupefied, pressing down in a way making it obvious he’s marveling at the feel of it, the flesh silky and wrinkled. “W-wow…”
Sam does wheeze when they turn, pointed upwards, and an inquisitive wiggle of them gets frustratingly close to his G-spot. He’s content to let him learn on his own, at first, head tipped back and letting his audible breath and hums guide Lyle in the right direction. It’s…an attempt, he’s at least thrusting them, keeping them mostly stationary but getting the message when curling them just so gets a small croon. Still, sensitive and untouched as he is, Sam finds himself wanting terribly more.
He reaches down himself, to toy at his dick with practiced ease, more than used to his own body. That is better, groaning and shifting as his sweat-sticky back begins to itch against the couch’s fibers, peeking to make sure Lyle’s watching. Sure enough, he is, but in doing so, his fingers slow, and Sam suddenly wants to strangle him so very badly.
But it’s the guy’s first time, he can’t fault him, and he’s being a rotten teacher, isn’t he? He’s not used to being in this position, when it’s good it’s so good he forgets to guide. Perhaps…
“Lyle…”
“Y-yes? Is it okay?”
“You’re doing good.” He keeps the needing improvement unspoken, at the least, and is glad he did so when Lyle seems to glow at the praise. “But you know…Did you, uh, how do I ask this…”
What’s the respectful way to ask a changed person what their junk situation is?
“Did you, um, keep…your dick?”
The sounds that emanate from within Lyle’s abdomen reminds him of his laptop overheating. Something grinding maybe, wearing itself down, and he wonders not for the first time how much of him is organic and how much is camera. Even then, the crimson shade Lyle takes all over makes his bashfulness obvious enough.
“Um!...K-kind of? It’s…I’ll just show you…?”
The fingers pull out of him, Sam already mourns the loss, but can’t think about it further when Lyle leans back, using many of his legs to hold himself up– way up, Sam feeling a sex-unrelated bead of sweat roll down his temple, don’t fall on me don’t fall on me don’t fall on me. He struggles with the cloak, trying to get it to expose his underside but not the rest of him, and Sam squints, scanning for what he’s supposed to–
Ah. Hm. Well. That sure was…an appendage, of some kind– two of them actually, wow. They start skinny, progressively getting thicker until morphing into a round, teardrop shaped bulb. The end of the bulb tapers into a fine, curled tip, the purpose of which is obvious in that beads of human-looking (though Sam isn’t sure what the alternative even looks like) precum are pearling at it. Every segment is the same velvety black as the rest of him, each in their entirety boasting a foot in length and an impressive thickness, but much smaller and thinner still than he expected. Almost disproportionate to the rest of Lyle’s body, even.
Could fit, his brain supplies helpfully, and when he looks again at the bulb heat creeps up his neck, reminded of all variety of toys he’s seen but never owned. Such things were very expensive. With a little work, anyways.
“They’re what spiders have, I guess…? I-I don’t know, I looked it up when the internet was still up, I don’t remember the word…But I figured you wouldn’t wanna…You know.”
“Well…Have you, er, checked them out yet?”
“......Yeah.” The sheepish response begins to steer this from startling back to endearing territory. Lyle seems so guilty to dare imply he’s jerked off, for some reason. If he hasn’t been leaving the apartment, might as well. “They look weird, and they k-kinda, pull up into me? They don’t feel like a human one, of course…B-but it still feels good.”
“So…no hidden spikes or barbs or acid or something?”
“...N-not that I know of?”
Like you didn’t shove your arm in a salivating, toothy hole in the wall knowing it’d eat it… Sam figures he shouldn’t be surprised at himself. He’s found his taste…expanding greatly, now that anatomy has. If nothing else, he’s sure, at least once stretched, it won’t hurt, in mass or ability or otherwise. He thinks about seeing similar shapes taken by others in videos in the past, and the seemingly satisfying pop when they finally take it.
“We can try it.”
“H-huh?!?! You- you’re sure…?”
“I mean, I can’t assure you it’ll fit. But if I work up to it…I’ve got a pretty good idea of my limits.”
He swears, still staring, he sees both of the pedipalps twitch. It’s only then he notices the damp streaks across the cushions underneath, what he can only assume was Lyle humping the couch. Poor thing…
“...H-Heheh, I didn’t th-think…so dirty.”
At that, he can’t help a small laugh. “You’re full of surprises too. I wasn’t expecting the camera.”
“I can’t help it! In that moment, you w-were just so perfect…I w-wanted to capture it forever.”
As he says it, Lyle returns to his faint touch, fingers delving back in with an audible squelch. Sam chuffs and bucks, a real moan wringing out of him when he doesn’t need to jerk himself off, the other’s thumb now circling and stroking at his dick. At least that attention to detail was paying off in things other than composition, he supposes. When he sinks onto them easily, a third joins in, and he realizes the human Lyle was before had thick, stubby hands, as the stretch burns in a way he’s very much not opposed to. The wrist turns, his rim forced open around knuckles, pumping in a rhythm that matches the noisy heaving from Lyle’s chest. Sam mourns the fact his anatomy doesn’t much allow him closer while he does so, his upper half disappointingly untouched and unmarked. Could he get either of those mouths to bite, he wonders?
Lyle’s pinkie is felt more by the strain than it entering, than the motion of them thrusting in and out, slower as he struggles to take it. It all blurs into a feeling of being overwhelmingly full he craves, and even more so craves growing used to, for it to no longer feel like much, so it can be more. The more he can look down and see dripping a further mess onto the couch, strings of cum stretching from Lyle’s tips until they break and fall to splatter, and imagine what it’ll feel like inside of him instead.
“L-Lyle–” throughout it all, he finds himself tuning back in to reality enough to plea, struggling to center his focus on anything except the near-fist inside. He doesn’t know what he was going to say, only trying to say something.
“Y-you really can take all this…You’re incredible, Sam! If you th-think you could even t-take…me…”
He could, he could he could he could, he just needed to get used to it, get pliant and relaxed and let himself–
Sam shouts his release, unexpected in that so rarely did he cum from insertion alone, and Lyle hadn’t been playing with his dick that long, and he barely felt it coming before his hole was clenching and he felt every knuckle and wrinkle in executing detail. He shudders, a few dramatic motions, legs clamping down on the arm to keep it close and sunk into him.
There’s a brilliant flash he catches in a split second of fluttering lashes, Lyle dead silent throughout, watching him come undone in stupified awe. He remains still, though as Sam’s breathing slows and his body sags he slowly pulls out, admires the mild gape left behind in his stead.
Sam looks up, the effort painstaking, and groans as he watches the orgasm-coated digits slipped into Lyle’s real mouth, watches him savor it like a fine dessert. He feels himself twitch, suddenly craving that tongue somewhere else instead. He spends far too many long seconds licking every trace of it from himself.
Oh, it hit him like a truck, he can’t help but catch on how thoroughly drained he feels already. Still very much wanting, willing, but…Been that long, I guess. His whole being still buzzes with energy and arousal, with potential, even as the sweat begins to cool on his skin. “Lyle…?”
“Ah! I-I got distracted, are you okay?!” Back to normal, then. He gives a weak grin. “Do you need w-water anything?”
“Nah, m’good…You wanna keep going?”
“...Y-you want to?! But– you already…”
“It doesn’t take me long,” that’d always been a struggle, really. One and done was never enough, even with his own hand, and at times he even envied those who could cum fast and be satiated from it alone. Here, however, he thinks it a boon. “Besides, I’m all relaxed…It’ll make that easier.”
Shamelessly, he yet again takes in the view of the swollen and hungry pedipalps, thinking over all the many times he’s scoffed at those with fantasy-driven tastes. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d found himself out to be a hypocrite.
“You’re sure…?”
“After I got your hopes up?” He sees the argument begin, and raises a stand to stop the other before he even tries. “I want to. And…besides, you’ve never gone multiple times? It’s good.”
“...I w-was always too sensitive after.” Lyle wrings his hands nervously. Ah, fitting, Sam thinks, and cute. “But okay! If you wanna!”
Excited, the shutterbug lurches forward, his considerable heft now leaning over him and oh, a pleasurable thrill runs down Sam’s spine at the realization of how heavy, how much bigger Lyle really is– What his weight, even in this small sliver, could feel like on top of him.
A pedipalp is rutted eagerly against his slit, and he inhales sharp, admits the thought sounds so achingly good. But knowing his limits…
“H-hey, I don’t think I can take it yet.” Still, he angles himself to rub up on the appendage, and he feels utterly mad when it pulses hard enough to be felt and seen, a fat orb of precum falling onto his pelvis. “Do you…have anything between?”
“O-o-oh, um…” In what he thinks is a clever moment of self preservation, he waits for Lyle to offer an option– it was a tad humiliating to admit Sam didn’t exactly have sex toy money, and was plenty used to improvising. Hair brush handles, bottles, soda cans… “I have something! Give me just a moment!”
Lyle hauls himself off the couch, his various legs a little unsteady and Sam tries not to laugh at the fact he’s holding himself awkwardly as he makes for the bedroom, clearly hindered by his lengths. There’s a not unwarranted beat of concern at Lyle getting anything from a room he recalls being covered in various piles of meat, but when the other emerges with, to his own surprise, a toy, it’s thankfully free of concerning goop.
Shyly, he presents what’s obviously a dildo, even before Sam takes a closer look. Upon inspection it’s translucent, emerald, thick and gummy in a way that makes him concerned about the material, revealing a column of mechanics within. A band of beads sits just above the base, where an inconspicuous switch sits beside a battery compartment. It’s decently thick, probably more so than the fingers, but short. It would be a serviceable enough in between, he thinks.
“Gotta admit, not what I’d expect you to own.” Not that he’d ever sat and considered who of his neighbors he barely knew took things up the ass.
“A-Ah…well…It was one of the first things I got when I got my first job, heh…”
It hits again the considerable age difference, where their shared workplace had likely been for those few years said job, but it’s overshadowed by remarkable endearment at imagining someone so skittish and bumbling daring to enter a sex shop. Or considerably funnier, such a section of the pharmacy. He’s sure he hadn’t been much more composed himself, that cheap little bullet that hadn’t even survived his premature dropping out.
“If you don’t want to–”
“Who said that?"
Sam leans back against the arm rest, spreads his legs once more, shudders when the cold air hits his sopping middle, needing all the mechanical heat of Lyle’s torso back against him now. He does, unsubtly needing to adjust the press of the sofa on his erections, and points the toy to Sam’s hole with an unsteady hand.
It sinks into him with ease, the soft material and his previous orgasm granting it a smooth slide in, Sam making a small yelp when it bumps the sensitive ring of his cervix with a thankfully brief blink of pain. Lyle mutters a stuttering apology, draws it out slightly, finding a more suited position for it and holds, watching to be sure, before thumbing at the bottom of the base.
It turns on, evidently on its lowest, out of how many settings he doesn’t know, but Sam whines when the vibrations immediately light up sparks all around him, up his dick. It’s nearly too much, even at that strength, electricity running under his very skin. His toes curl, his nails hurt with how they bend in the strength of his grip. The beads at the bottommost layer jitter with the vibration, popping little bubbles of sensation that have his hips twitching in startled pleasure with every one.
It’s barely a minute before Lyle turns it up, something of a robotic purr emanating as Sam’s head throws back, his lips part in a crackling cry, legs trying to snap shut only to be pried open hard by steel pinchers all across the insides of his thighs. The sudden boldness and domination is delicious, and he thinks he really should of known, given that stereotype about the quiet types. He feels him draw tight inside, feeling close again already, and mourning the fact it would be so soon– second only to the dawning realization if he did, and if he allowed this to continue…
Lyle grinds it back and forth out of him slightly, the friction only doubling everything just so, and when it’s angled in such a way it grinds the jelly exterior against his T-dick he has no hope of holding it back, the vibrations carrying through the entire length of it.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck–” Terse, gritted groans battle at his teeth to escape, until all he can do is pant and tremble and plant his feet vaguely somewhere on Lyle’s mass and push down to keep his legs from scrabbling where there was room. Euphoria floods his veins, syrupy thick through every limb he had left, and the toy is about to be pulled away–
Thighs clamp shut, keeping it in place, trapping Lyle’s hand between him. The other gasps. “An-another?!”
“Just keep going–”
It was so much, it was so so much, and yet something basal and animal inside is too terribly horny for the slight burn, the near painful pleasure to tip into unpleasant territory, even when the response to his begging is another notch to the power. He fucks into it, away from it, hips unable to keep still in the onslaught no matter what. Lyle dutifully continues to adjust and turn it so it stays pressed against every spot that makes him see rapture behind his eyelids.
Bursts of light, flash photography of his undoing in multitudes he loses count of, and were he able to think past more fuck more shit fuck more oh god oh fuck lyle oh more oh he’d wonder if it was within the other’s abilities to take so many so fast, or if he was pushing himself in his fervor to hoard visuals of Sam’s pleasure all for himself. Will he jack off to those later? It feels like hot coals sprinkle his back. Will we do this again? Maybe we can do this again. Maybe he’ll have to date them, all the days of their fucking immortalized in puffy gelatine photographs and thick black marker in loving cursive.
His own imagination in time with the push of the vibrator to its max strength makes his third orgasm emerge as a gunshot, as a blinding and overwhelming boom, the long sound leaving him something more like a sob than any sound of the pleasure he felt. Lyle pants like a dog where he can’t see.
“You’re in-incredible Sam, so amazing! I-I-I can’t believe you can handle this…Y-you couldn’t do another, could you?”
He wonders if the question is rhetorical, and oh, he knows the other will stop if he says so, but…
Does he want to? When his body rocks and shivers and comes apart at the seams to the point the stimulation is becoming an unspecific blur of motion that springs tears into his eyes and for some reason he feels so week week week, helpless in a way he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy–
“Y-yes.”
The hand not keeping the toy buried in him grabs greedily at his stomach, unintentionally pressing in a way that seems to make the vibrations climb higher, curling onto his side to press his forehead to the armrest as an anchor. Lyle takes to fucking it into him harder, faster, maybe as hard as he can and to a degree he won’t be able to maintain long, but enough to send Sam tumbling into his fourth orgasm, though it’s barely that. Bliss, yes, but his body is so thoroughly spent it is merely a drop in a flooding street, wracking a tired rush through him before he sags and whimpers, pushes at Lyle with his foot.
The vibrator is pulled out, and then turned off. He’s faintly aware of the sound of it being placed on the table, the many mechanisms moving in tandem to bring Lyle more to his side, hesitantly pushing aside his hair doused with sweat.
“...Um, S-Sam…? You okay?”
Vocal cords failing him, Sam forgoes the cushions to give a weak thumbs up, still catching his breath and re-calibrating his sex-empty brain into reconnecting. Even just raising his arm takes a disproportionate amount of focus and effort. The other waits patiently, fussing over him though untouching and silent. As the tingling and numbness leaves his limbs, as the sweat on his body cools and with it his mind, eyelids sticky as he opens them, Sam nearly jumps when he does because he’s so close.
“It-it’s alright…Fucked me good, huh?”
He felt good alright. A type of good he might regret the next day when he’s facing possible battles sore and at the moment he’s utterly parched, but for perhaps the first time since this has all started and even before he just feels…relaxed. Supported on a web of casual enjoyment, of the world outside the door not mattering. So spent he can’t muster a single worry, an overthought.
When no response comes, he looks down, unsure when his eyes closed again, and Lyle’s switched from a fixation on his face to his slack, open hole below. His thumb rubs beside it, even the flat pressure of it slightly overstimulating– the air is sucked from his body when the boat of a body creeps closer, lengths ground against the couch but seemingly unbothered as one of the many lens on Lyle’s chest extends–
There’s only a split second to parse what is happening, and the absurdity of it will dawn after the fact, but the zoom lens slips into him easy and thrums with mechanisms that shake him from within. He feels the flash go off, the buzz of the functions coming to life, paparazzi pops lighting up his insides. All the built up photos drool out of the giant mouth, fluttering to the couch and the floor, fallen snapshots of their coitus like Autumn leaves. Something about knowing Lyle will have seen him inside and out, and has permanent record of such, almost like an everlasting mark, brings near-impossible sparks of life back to his used body.
“S-Sam…Please please say you still wanna try, please! You can TOTALLY take it! Y-you’re perfect!”
How pathetic that perhaps, even if he weren’t drunk on sex, the praise alone could have tempted him into whatever was wanted. A pleasant haze of obedience that takes unexpected hold in the face of Lyle’s surprising change of pace.
Wordlessly, he peels himself open with fatigued ungainliness. The lens retreats, glistening and dripping with him, hands claim ankles and spread him impossibly wider, hips protesting the stretch. Lyle’s bulk presses close, leaning awkwardly back until he towers over and the pedipalps flex and stretch with their exposure.
“J-just one,” Sam realizes, with a drop of brief fear, he hadn’t specified. In unspoken agreement, one of the appendages is ground against his slick center, the other his thigh, and he sucks in a sharp breath when the bulb’s size is pressed directly to him. It’s smooth surface is rubbed along him in excruciatingly teasing strides, fat blobs of precum bubbling over to pitter-patter onto his stomach. For someone so eager, he was taking so long. As much as he wants, with how much as happened, and how much it takes from him, he fears he will lose the ability once the adrenaline flees. “Man, hurry up.”
Lyle reaches down to line them up proper, and he only has a second to consider the size of it beneath his hands until the curved tip is pressing into him, nearly unable to be felt with how stretched he was. The tapered head smoothly curls up into him, up until it rapidly becomes the bulb, meeting resistance at his rim, bigger than anything else he’d taken.
Hands on his shoulders, Sam is pushed further into the sofa, rocked into with a force that has his back feeling the springs deep underneath the cushions. The bulb pops in with a sudden, slick noise, at once so suddenly full, pushing at him almost sorely and pressing on every inch of him, walls twitching against the mass.
“Shit, shit, shit…” Sam mumble-moans, legs trying to close but just clamping to the sides of Lyle’s veiled form, it so much but filling him with elation, a kind of stuffing he’d only ever imagined while mourning the prices of things of such size. Lyle attempts to thrust, but the size, the shape of it only allows the slightest grind, with hardly any room left before it’d stretch him to the very top.
“O-oh Sam, you feel so good, a-amazing…” Vocabulary limited by the lust fogging his brain, the same combinations of good-amazing-incredible fall from his lips at every hump, the first true noises of his following. Lyle keens and mewls, the second length rutting against Sam’s middle, drooling a sticky mess he’ll only find so hot during the fact. “I can’t b-believe it…”
Mind a million miles away, Sam looks up to him, where Lyle’s pearly, enlarged whites for teeth catch the faint light of his lamp in a sheen like piano keys, his fully extended eye-lens practically glowing. The eye contact should be embarrassing, perhaps, but he can’t look away, and the longer he does he seems to fade more. The couch a cloud beneath him, Lyle’s heartbeat somehow in his ears and matching is own, their pulses thudding in sync where the length throbs inside him. Their bodies almost feel as though they meld in the middle, and if not for the hard to ignore stretch of him pushed to his limit, so intense he feels it in everything around it, he might even forget where Lyle begins and he ends.
Through the hazy fog of pleasure and fatigue, he manages, just barely, to reach between them and paw idly at the un-buried pedipalp, unable to wrap his hand around it but trailing soft caresses along the entirety of it. Lyle gasps, choking on a noise that rips from him, and with a full powerful throbs Sam can feel through his entire being he’s cumming–
The light from his mechanical bits seem to flicker, flashes erupt like a red carpet premier, he thrusts in one last time hard and Sam feels himself flood with wet warmth, a steady stream of it oozing onto his stomach from the second pedipalp twitching against him. His final orgasm creeps across his nullified form like encroaching fog, enveloping him in full-body heat, core of the earth hot, before all he has left slips from him like the brink of sleep. A weak near-sob is all he manages to get out, overclocked nerves thoroughly burnt out, coasting on supernatural levels of dreaminess.
He does grunt when momentarily, almost too much of Lyle’s weight is on him, and when he does, the shutterbug suddenly perks up into action, having seemed in much a similar state.
“O-oh, sorry! Sorry!”
He backs up, pulls out with a too-fast ease that feels like a lightning shock when the bulb of the pedipalp pops free of him. It feels almost strange now to be so empty, cringing as he feels his own gape, the sensation of cum leaking from him. Sucks for the couch, but well, that isn’t his problem, and is the last thing on his mind that can barely hold onto thought right now to begin with.
As he does, the photographs not yet spit out all at once cascade from his chest. Lyle squeaks. “Sorry! Sorry! I’ll c-clean those up!”
“Sure,” Sam mutters, sleepily, eyes barely able to stay open as hands of both skin and metal work around him to collect the various photos. Too quick to make out any details, though he doesn’t try hard, giving them a sweeping glance, but how many consist entirely of the tone of his skin and things decidedly more pink has him spotting with embarrassment in the aftermath. Well, as long as they’re just for him…
Still, despite the shame, he can’t help but feel a tad soft. Beautiful, huh…He smiles, entertaining himself with the view of Lyle’s various legs shaking as opens the door to his blackroom just enough to dump an armful of photos in, and then skittering away to retrieve washcloths and wet them at his sink.
“Sorry…This must be so gross…” Sam reaches out to take what he thinks is an offered rag, but jumps when it’s swiping at the ropes on his stomach, cold. “Oh! U-um, is this okay…?”
“Yeah, uh, just surprised me.” And frankly, the bit of pampering felt…nice. It only furthered the sinking relaxation, to be allowed to laid back and let the other do the work of wiping him mostly clean, though the swipe across his crotch betrays how utterly sore he is going to be later. Even just terrycloth feels like scathing metal. “Might use your shower later, actually.”
“O-o-of course!” Why of all things, Sam wonders, did that bring out a rosy hue and make the man’s stutter worse? “Um, stay as long as you want…You seem kinda t-tired…Um, I can’t fit in my b-bed anymore, so if you wa-wanted…”
Lyle taps his fingers together, the washcloths dripping onto the floor with the motions. He does consider it for a second, because moving right now feels herculean a task. But…
“Don’t worry about it, I gotta go back and make dinner for the kids.” Sure, someone in the apartment would, if he did not, but he wouldn’t put that on others nor live with the uncertainty and guilt of if they didn’t. Separation anxiety was already proving to be a terrible thing, keeping him distracted even knowing they were shut away in the safety of 33.
Also, the pulsing meat. He has a feeling even if the sheets had been cleaned, that mattress is long gone. His skin crawls thinking about it. “I appreciate it, though. Just…need a minute.”
Lyle’s arms droop. “Oh. Okay.”
The deflation in his posture is so dramatic, Sam almost snorts. He just barely holds it back, and decides it can’t hurt to throw a bone. “You did a good job, by the way.”
And like that, comically, he perks up, throwing a cheek-creasing smile before taking off to, Sam thinks, put the soiled rags in the laundry. Good thing we cleared it out, is his last useless, meaningless thought before he realizes he’s stopped having them, his eyes closed in afterglow unable to reopen.
To Lyle’s surprise, when he returns to the living room, Sam is fast asleep.
He walks as quietly as his form allows when he realizes, creeping up to the couch with nervously wringing hands. And oh, he looks so peaceful like this, limp and lax and glowing. A collage of the events before repeat over and over, had the second they stopped, committing them to memory those his heart sang when he recalled he never had to worry about forgetting, not when…
Lyle pulls that initial photo out of the cloak, runs an affectionate index finger down photo-Sam’s soft jaw, and puts it away once more to admire the real thing.
Oh, he shouldn’t, it wasn’t part of what they were doing, but…
He traces the same finger in the same reverent fashion real Sam, astonished at the feel of his skin, the fact he can at all. Not allowed to, no, but…
How badly as he touched he’d wanted to spill it all, let out rambling compliments of how he’s imagined this so many times and yet not once has his imaginary Sam lived up to the beauty and feel of the real one. Never in his dreams had Sam been so dirty, so gung-ho, so romance-novel-horny and willing. And his body! Oh his body! All the details that had never occurred in his daydreaming, pale stretchmarks and moles and supple folds of the human form mended into the perfect man.
This would not happen again, he does not think he will ever have the courage to ask, not if Sam doesn’t first. But even if it doesn’t, he has the photos, the memories. For a fleeting amount of time, he was a lover as opposed to the artist to a muse, an admiring shadow.
Curling a lock of hair around his finger, Lyle takes the painstaking act of withdrawing himself and his attention, unworthy as he was, filtering his love into something more appropriate, not wanting to take advantage. It erred too close to the line he would never cross– he’d take pictures of that door, so he wouldn’t have to stand out aside when he imagined going in to see Sam in his natural environment. In his kitchen, on his couch, in his bed, in his shower.
But he will, at least, enjoy the rare face of peace on his perfect man who often looked so tired, and allow him to rest just a bit longer, even if he won’t indulge so much as to watch. Though, since they were so close now…
When Sam awakes, he awakes to an empty apartment, a bottle of water, and his clothes folded into neat, neurotic squares on the coffee table, and a hastily written note.
See you back home!