by Drake Penn
"You sensitive here babe?" He says unintelligibly to a creature that can't understand him in the first place. King bounces between pulling him away and pressing him in more firmly, the spines of his back and elbows flexing and relaxing as Gareth works his tongue.
"Why does all of you taste so good." Gareth rumbles into King, laving over the wall of tensing muscles and feels King grip his head more tightly. He pulls away and down to the next slit, spreading it open with his tongue until the deep jewel red of gill filament is visible. The wet air sticks to his skin as he continues to tongue at the twitching opening. King tugs him to the side and Gareth spirals his tongue where directed, a stilted rumble escaping King and a long line of suckers tugging at Gareth's muscular thighs; he spreads them and moans open mouthed against King's gill slit when the space is filled by tentacles all too eager to get around his leaking cock and fill his greedy ass–it yields readily to two tentacles entering at once.
Gareth mouths along the outside of the third slit cloyingly, groaning as King pushes him firmly against it and wrings his cock with a frustrated snap of his teeth. The pounding in his ass gets rougher until he's being bounced against the slit like a toy on every stroke, and only then does he work his tongue in with a deep moan that King reciprocates. It's impossible to forget just how big King is like this, how if they line up their torsos Gareth only comes to just above his solar plexus, and that King's arms are as thick at the bicep as Gareth's thighs. A tentacle wraps around his neck twice and squeezes until he whimpers, relaxing at the noise and pulling hard with the innumerable suckers, alternating crushing pressure with fierce suction that drives all coherent thought from his mind, just a burning desire to do whatever King wants. Even when he cums hard and fast he doesn't stop, shuddering through his orgasm with his tongue buried in King and moaning as low as he can get.
The sweet taste on King's skin amplifies and his dick twitches in response, still burning hot against the coolness of King's unrelenting tentacles. He's never been able to keep going like this, but he's never been with anyone–or anything–like King.
The expanse of flesh across what would be King's sternum heaves under his tongue as he travels across to the opposite set of gills. King pushes at his head, urging him to be faster, more frenzied, ripples of scintillating pink and blue lighting the inky black of his few unoccupied tentacles. Gareth sinks his tongue in without buildup and King vibrates like a motor, and–after disentangling his hand–he dips his index finger into the previously tongued slits and rocks in and out gently. The suction cups at his neck pull hard enough to hurt, like King's trying to give him a permanent choker of sucker marks, and Gareth must be awful fucking desperate because that sounds really hot. It's enough to tip him over the edge and add to the sticky mess of cum and slick secretions building between them, a bolt of white hot pleasure burning up his spine and ricocheting around his skull. He's still tongue deep when he stops thrashing involuntarily and moves to the next one as soon as King coaxes him towards it. If he spreads his fingers wide he can manage stroking two slits at once, a droning buzz hitting his chest and throbbing in his cock. Flashing tentacles play with his face and another joins the one circling his aching hardness, the suckers teasing at the sensitive crown of the head until Gareth begs and swears into sensitive skin and King pulses into him. He's overestimated beyond belief, the texture of the suckers grinding up against his prostate, around his cock, his neck, it's all too much for him and he cums again with a weak cry, feeling like a wrung out towel.
Mercifully, King seems satisfied as well, and he patiently removes himself from Gareth's twitching ass with a trail of slick secretions. He reaches behind himself and runs his finger around the rim of his gaped asshole, blissed out and marveling at how easily it stretches.
"Kiiiing you wrecked me. Look at this!" Gareth slides four fingers into himself, and then his thumb, easily able to sink his hand in to his wrist and back out again.
King fusses over him, prodding at the dark marks he left on Gareth's neck, running his claws carefully through his hair, holding him close with soothing ministrations and shifting lights that percolate up from the root of him and travel to the tips of his inky black tentacles. A shiver runs down Gareth. He's entranced by the lights; watching them makes him feel calm, relaxed, and overwhelmingly placid, like he could stay like this forever. The algae King presses into his slack jaw doesn't taste so bad this time, he swallows it complacently and King makes a fluttering noise in his throat like a songbird, the lights dancing with a myriad of colors.
He loses track of time completely as King caresses him. It's nice not to think. People already accused him of that. He doesn't need to think right now. He can just press his head to King's powerful chest and listen to the beating of his heart. Everything else just slips away.
Gareth doesn't make it back to dock until nearly 7 AM.
***
Unsurprisingly, he’s achy the next day. His muscles hurt like he’s going through growing pains again and he has to sneak into his parent’s bathroom to plaster his neck in his mom’s concealer to cover the bright purple ring of sucker marks all across his throat; it’s not the first time he’s had to hide hickeys, but the first time he’s had to give up and get himself a turtleneck.
He’s also stuck with an erection that keeps flaring back to life no matter how many cold showers he takes, or how many times he stuffs his fingers down his throat and jerks himself as silently as he can. There’s a lot of things he should do today–he’s supposed to video call with his friends, the guys at the boat are probably wondering where he’s gone, he ought to do some more research, the front yard needs mowed–and he makes a valiant attempt to do anything besides leak precum through his shorts with little success. Gareth tells his parents he’s caught a cold and locks himself in the guest room with a box of tissues and bottle of lotion until he passes out at some point in the night.
Sunrise wakes him up and he feels incredible. No pains, no fatigue, just bright eyed and bushy tailed. To his surprise, the ring of angry sucker marks around his neck has already faded to a dull red–easy enough to hide with foundation–and the ones that speckled the rest of his body are gone entirely. Riding this high he burns through the pile of housework that’s needed done; laundry is done and folded, the gutter is cleaned and re-aligned, firewood is chopped and stacked, the garden weeded, and the yard mowed. He checks his phone–it’s barely 3pm.
The men at the dock are happy to see him as they mill around, debating on if the weather’s going to turn today or not. With Gareth aboard they decide to risk it, making it to one of their other haunts today and hauling in a few groupers alongside Gareth’s set of flounders before dark clouds roll in and they pack up.
Gareth’s so tempted to head back out to see King tonight but a crack of lightning flashes as if in warning when he peers out the window towards the docks. He’s got time. He can wait.
It rains most of the next day and Gareth’s feeling stir crazy, pacing the house until his dad tells him to sit down and have a beer with him.
“If I see you make another lap I’m going to think I installed a running track.” His father laughs and pries the bottle cap off with a pop.
“Yeah. Sorry.” Gareth flops back into the couch, taking the edge to sit next to the empty space that his dad rolls his wheelchair into.
“Can’t say I blame you. If I were young and able I’d be making as much use of it as I could too.”
“Don’t talk like you’re on your deathbed dad, you get out plenty.”
His dad passes the bottle to Gareth and opens his own, taking a drink with a sigh.
“We both know what I mean. You can’t get on my ass for fumbling with the whole, uh, gay thing if you’re going to pretend my legs are all hunkydory.”
“...That’s fair.”
A silence stretches between them painfully.
“I didn’t mean to kill the mood Gareth, I ain’t upset. I’m glad you’re healthy and that I’m still kickin’, even if only m
etaphorically now.”
Gareth isn’t sure what to say so he takes a drink and nearly spits it back out. “Ughh, what the hell is this?”
“What, Chicago make you into a beer snob? Sorry I don’t have your charcoal infused microbrew or whatever you kids are drinking nowadays.”
Gareth wrinkles his nose and examines the label. It’s a cheap beer that he’s had a thousand times, it’s not anything great but this stuff just tastes wretched. “Maybe I just got a bad bottle or somethin’.”
His dad passes his over and it tastes the exact same.
“What the hell. I know this stuff doesn’t taste like that.”
His dad shrugs. “Maybe your cold screwed with your tastebuds. More for me.”
Gareth passes the bottle back dejectedly and flips through the stack of newspapers on the coffee table. Every single crossword puzzle is filled out perfectly–or what he assumes is perfectly, he’s usually mediocre at them and feels particularly sluggish when he tries to think hard today–and the headlines paint a bleak picture of the country. What else is new. A small article catches his eye; a genetic research lab that was founded here in Callisto is celebrating its 20th anniversary.
“What’s this Arcas Labs place?”
“Oh those guys? They’re that big grey building up the hill, over by the grocery. They do… agricultural genetics, I think. Finding out which fish grow up faster, which ones are more heat resistant, that kind of stuff.”
“Huh.”
That might be worth checking in on. It’d be a hell of a jump to make something like King, but they could probably check out his genes. If he has genes? Gareth sure hopes he has genes.
The conversation shifts around as they while away the rainy day. It’s nice to be able to just talk like this, he hasn’t been able to in quite a while. Things were… rough. Back when he first came out and left home, but his dad realized he was in the wrong and apologized. He’s not exactly an expert now, but he tries to be supportive, which is better than most guys get.
The storm dies off by the time evening rolls around and Gareth makes preparations in the dark, his stomach knotting with anticipation like the first time he kissed a boy behind the bleachers. The cave is cool and calm when Gareth enters this time; King clicks at him from the rocks when his head surfaces.
"You're usually all over me by now big guy, something wrong?"
The creature wraps a tentacle around his leg and pulls him over gently, pointing at a shallow tidepool caught within the rocks and lit from below by a clump of luminescent algae. There's a shark pup, just shy of a foot long and smoky grey, circling inside the rocks around a handful of shredded fish meat strewn about. King watches raptly and prods another flake of fish into the water. The shark snatches it and King chitters in excitement, his tentacles pulling at Gareth into something like a hug.
"You're raising sharks now?" Gareth laughs. "That's pretty metal dude."
King clicks back at him softly, stroking along the surface of the water. Gareth peels the top half of his wetsuit off and leaves it hanging from his waist. He's drug a water-proof bag of supplies in with him this time; a few bottles of water, a couple granola bars, a spare set of goggles, an old towel, and his tablet. Everything but the tablet gets tucked away in the driest corner he can find and he sits cross legged on the rocks to switch it on. The screen flares to life and nearly blinds him in the dark cave, it's enough to pull King's attention away from the shark pup he's still fawning over. Gareth tilts the screen to show him and he grabs for it immediately, forcing Gareth to fend him off with his elbows and hold the tablet away from him.
"King– Stop, you're gonna get it all wet!"
The struggle resolves with King reluctantly backing off after Gareth hisses at him–see, he's getting this communication thing down–and shows him how he can tap on the various apps, narrating it until King stops sulking and presses his chest against his back, resting his chin on his shoulder and locking his arms and tentacles around him. It's pleasantly possessive. Gareth opens the camera and King perks up, swaying and watching his mirrored self sway back after the digital delay.
"That's you King. Say cheese~"
The shutter clicks and he pulls up the picture to the screen. King examines it, slowly tapping the screen with his (mostly) dry index finger. He looks at Gareth and imitates the camera clicking noise.
"Want another one? Sure thing."
He flips back to the camera app and watches King reposition to be better in frame and open his mouth, his row of serrated teeth blinding white from the LED screen. King likes this picture, carefully tracing the triangles of his teeth on the screen, and clicks again. Gareth indulges him, taking pictures of his torso, his tentacles, the underside of his mantle, like the strangest collection of nudes he could ever amass. He takes a video too, which King is even more fascinated by, quickly figuring out how to pause and unpause it and jumping to random points of it in his attempts.
When he finally relinquishes his grip Gareth swipes over to his music and starts up the first track of a playlist eloquently named "King Shit". King jumps away in shock but pulls back in just as fast, rumbling and sliding in time with the heavy bass line.
"Thought you'd like that one."
He's surprised that King doesn't make a move this time, even after nearly an hour of working through his pre-prepared playlist. Not that he's got any clue how to initiate–he hadn't had to think about it when their previous encounters had started with tentacles on his dick–and the constant slide and squeeze of him has compounded with the anticipation to leave him uncomfortably hard in his wetsuit.
Still, he doesn't want to make it weird, and he's really liking getting to learn a little more about King. He checks the battery. There's enough juice left for a movie, so he starts it up and settles in. Having absolutely no clue what King would like–or if he'd like movies at all–he went for a classic: Grease.
What can he say? John Travolta could get it.
King seems to like it–even if he also likes sneaking his hand in to pause it unceremoniously and Gareth has to slap it away–and the low battery warning flashes just in time for it to wrap up. Next time he'll bring an external battery and get some more movies on there, his guess at musicals seemed to be a hit and there's plenty more of those. Would watching Rocky Horror Picture Show be too much? He can only imagine a scientist somewhere cringing that a fully developed intelligence outside of humanity is immediately being contaminated by the gyrations of Dr. Frankenfurter of all things.
"I gotta go now King, but I'll be back soon, okay?"
King holds himself tightly against him in protest.
"C'mon don't be like that babe, we'll get in trouble. I almost got caught last time."
Gareth struggles in King's grip but every tentacle he's able to pry off seems to be replaced by two more. King's not even trying hard, it's unfair.
"Please? Pretty please? Look I'll fucking– I'll eat that shit again–" Gareth opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue–he'd mime putting something into it if he could get an arm free–and watches the gears turn in King's head. The tentacles shift and loosen, not quite relinquishing their claim on him but no longer binding him tightly, and King traces the sharp claw of his thumb across the divot of Gareth's outstretched tongue, the remainder holding his chin in place. It makes Gareth's breath catch in his throat. That sweet taste drips onto his tongue like honey. He wants to swallow it down, to suck on King's finger, but he stays motionless, letting King have full control while he leaks into his wetsuit. King presses his thumb down to flatten Gareth's tongue, his claw digging in just enough to add a metallic tang to the burst of sweetness that spreads into his mouth. He can feel his pulse pound against King's webbed thumb and he sighs shakily, too focused on watching the narrow parting of King's mouth and the patterns dancing on the shifting plates of his cheeks to notice the ball of glowing algae passed forward by his tentacles and slid to the back of his mouth. King doesn’t let go of his tongue and pulls his face in close, watchi
ng with interest as Gareth swallows it with some difficulty.
It must have been a different strain, or maybe riper? Whatever the difference, it tastes much better. Gareth doesn’t even mind when King presses a second wet clump in, even if he does wonder if eating this stuff is good for him. It could be radioactive or something, but it’d probably taste bad if that were the case. A third, smaller clump is proffered; it glows blue instead of the typical yellows and golds, and it tingles against his tongue when King presses it down. Like pop rocks, Gareth decides as he swallows it dutifully, and is hit with a wave of energy deep in his core.
