by Drake Penn
King reluctantly releases his tongue and lets him pull away from the mass of tentacles enveloping him. Gareth struggles to get his wetsuit back on, everything feeling tight and his neglected cock chafing in the neoprene–he’ll take care of that once he’s home. King doesn't follow him through the water this time–he's back to watching over his shark–but Gareth catches the edges of him rumbling out the bass line of Summer Nights.
***
Over the next month his parents comment on him bulking out–which he passes off as a nice side effect from his fishing–but he has to replace nearly his whole wardrobe, which should be concerning, but he kind of likes it. Maybe it’s the algae. He’s stronger, more flexible, he can hold his breath for longer, and he heals faster. It’s convenient, King can really go all out on him, sinking his tentacles deep inside of him until he’s hilted to the mantle, and he loves it. He loves anything King does to him. It’s hard to think of anything but how he can sneak away to get back to King. If he closes his eyes he can see the flashing of his luminescent rings and has to struggle to keep his pavlovian response in check and he has an unfortunate number of throbbing erections to hide in his attempts to keep up a semblance of a normal life.
Gareth spends all of his free time hauling in as many things as he can think of that King might like and slowly convincing him not to destroy the water bottles Gareth tries to leave for himself. Glow sticks are a big hit, as is beef jerky, and the rapidly expanding list of pirated movies and songs get rated on a chirp to hiss scale.
He does not like westerns in the slightest.
The big winner of his miscellaneous doodads he hauls in is when he shows King a coloring book app on his tablet and demonstrates how to pick a color and fill in a lined section of an intricate floral pattern. King picks it up quickly–he's more tech literate than Gareth's own dad at this point–and fills out pages with fast and meticulous precision.
An actual drawing app goes over even better.
Gareth tries to demonstrate how to use a tablet pen and draws in a sketch of King's face but King hands the pen back after a few failed attempts and resumes with just his finger, slowly trying to replicate Gareth's lines. He takes a gamble and leaves it with him, hooked up to the biggest battery pack he could find and set to auto save as he works. When Gareth returns the next night he finds the tablet carefully propped up in the natural shelf he's been keeping supplies in, and the results are shockingly good, a full canvas of vibrant fish and reefs, a view of the sun from under the water, his own limbs, the tablet itself, and a lot of pictures of Gareth in various states of undress and arousal.
"Holy shit King." He pans over the canvas again, noticing the corner where King has layered hundreds of colors in different sizes and brushes, a testing ground. "This is incredible."
The creature chitters, sliding the canvas over to a lovingly rendered erection and looks at Gareth expectantly.
It's 50/50 on King feeling frisky when Gareth visits, but that's been more than enough to get very good at what they do. He hums in response and pushes the rest of his wetsuit off while King puts the tablet back away with delicate movements.
"How d'ya want me?" He speaks low and gravelly just to watch King snap to attention. He gets absolutely manhandled (tentacle-handled?), flipped onto his back on the rocks with a dazing amount of force and mounted. He groans and King vibrates around him, quickly locking him in place and pressing a tentacle into his pliant hole.
"Shit you're horny today." He gasps out as King pulls hard with his suckers at his chest and neck, marking him up to stake his claim on him.
King sinks down, enveloping him with the cloacal opening on the underside of his mantle and squeezing just shy of painful until Gareth bucks into him. He's always deceptively cool inside, a lower body temperature adapted to the water, and it's overwhelming against his burning shaft. King wrenches his legs further apart and works another tentacle in alongside the first, alternating thrusts.
"You're gonna ruin me for anyone else King." It's hard to keep a steady rhythm like this, he feels like he's going to be wrung dry.
A third tentacle enters with little warning. The new stretch is unbelievable, an aching burn that makes him arch and beg–for more, for less, for everything. The taper of his tentacles creates a continually undulating size, pushing him to his limit and drawing back over and over as they advance further, coiling and sliding against each other inside him and imprinting against his tan abdomen. King swaps Gareth's wrists to being pinned under one hand above his head and runs his newly free one across the bulge, vibrating so intensely that Gareth feels his teeth rattle. It's enough to push him over the edge and he spills inside of King with a shout.
King doesn't stop moving.
Gareth lets out a confused groan. The tentacles inside him push deeper, hit harder, and King's jaw hangs slack as if he's in a trance. Another tentacle draws a line across his face before sinking into his mouth and down his throat. He groans around it, it's so hard to think, there's so many sensations going off like fireworks in his skull that he barely notices a second tentacle forcing its way into his cramped mouth until it's hitting against his filled throat and being squeezed by a third wrapped around his neck.
Everything is bruisingly tight, frenzied and frenetic. He can't breathe, he can't think, he is completely at King's mercy and King is taking full advantage, wringing desperate noises out of him with all ten of his limbs. Gareth's never orgasmed twice in a row with no rest to even catch his breath like this before, but he's been having a lot of firsts recently. He almost blacks out from the force of it tearing through him, all convulsing electric force thundering through his spine. King presses himself against Gareth while he's wracked by the most intense orgasm of his life and soaks up every filthy noise until Gareth goes quiet and King slowly withdraws.
Gareth coughs and sputters and swears and moans, he's going to be so fucking sore tomorrow and he's got hickeys up to his chin.
"H-Holy shit. I thought I was gonna die."
He manages to roll to his side and King smooths out his dark hair. He's always handsy but he's got a particular fascination with Gareth's hair, no matter how many times he plays with it. Maybe he'll just sleep here tonight and let future Gareth deal with the litany of consequences that would incur. Maybe he'll just stay here forever and hope he adapts to salt water.
King pulls him over to the tidepool–despite his complaints of post-coital exhaustion–and motions towards the shark; it's grown large enough that it barely fits in the space anymore.
"What are you going to do?"
King whistles slightly, an odd sound Gareth hasn't heard him make before, and reaches into the pool to gently retrieve the thrashing shark. He carries it to the mouth of the cavern and releases it into the water there, it's off like a shot. Gareth steps beside him–wincing as the salt hits the raised sucker marks on his legs–and rubs sympathetic circles onto the space between his spines and shoulder blades.
He takes his time recovering and is extremely glad there's still a granola bar and waters left to bring him back to a functional state. King is reticent to give back the tablet–he's already added a new section depicting fragments of their most recent encounter–but complies.
Gareth, after making it home, examining the damage, and getting some sleep, opens a new canvas and gets to work.
Trees. Flowers. Animals. Everything he can think of that King would have only seen on film. Full body portraits of King. A series of tattoo designs based on him. The box of his needle gun and ink calls to him like a siren song. He cracks it open and gets to work.
Tattooing yourself is hard as fuck but so so worth it. He goes slowly, carefully, the steady pounding of ink into flesh until a black ring of tentacles reaches down his arm and intersects with the pre-existing collection of good luck charms and cautionary reminders. Hurts like a bitch.
That makes this permanent.
It feels good to knock the rust off and to tie his sleeve together in the cohesive way he'd felt it
had been lacking. It's not like people are going to side eye him harder if he's got a few more inches of ink than before, they'd be side eying him if he had a few inches of ink total. He looks at the clock. 2pm. If he hurries he can catch the old men before they head out and get some fishing in; there's not a lot else he can do with the number of sucker marks on him.
He thinks about King on the walk over. He'd been… aggressive, last time. Well, more aggressive. The guy liked to be in charge of everything normally, but that had been a particularly intense show of dominance and he was still sore from it. Maybe it's some sort of breeding thing? His physiology was still largely a mystery but Gareth had done a lot of reading on octopi and can't recall anything like that, but who knows? He's not even positive on King's sex–if he's like an octopus then even that can change–but a stilted game of hot or cold did confirm that King saw himself as one of the guys.
"Man, King's going to be sorely disappointed if he tries to impregnate me."
The boat is packed and just about to depart when Gareth shouts down the dock. It's Louie, Harv, and Don today and they give him shit the whole time he clambers aboard.
"Jeez kid, you look like shit. Didya lose a fight with an octopus or somethin'?" Harv motions at his neck.
"Oh, uh, nah. I just ate some pineapple on accident. It's hives, you know cause I'm allergic."
Harv squints at him. "Well that's a damn shame. No one's gonna swallow if ya can't eat pineapple!" He barks out a laugh, ragged from years of smoke blackening his lungs.
Gareth rolls his eyes and relaxes until they reach their usual spot.
He’s careful on his dives, staying quiet and giving the cavern a wide berth. A ring of tentacles emerges from the dark and it’s so hard to keep himself away, but he kicks back to the surface with his catch and recenters himself before diving back down. King’s gone when he dares to look again and he lowers his guard, drifting closer almost unconsciously, until flashing orange flares to life and dances in front of his eyes. He groans underwater and throbs against his wetsuit, getting snagged by the tentacles and roughly fondled. King rumbles behind him in the shadows and works a tentacle under his mask and down his throat, dripping sweet slickness that makes him heat up and relax in King’s grip. His tentacles grope at his chest through the wetsuit and stroke his hardness quickly, strong muscles trapping him underwater and working him firmly. He glances up at the bottom of the boat and the dangling fishing lines, the hazy recognition that only the depth of the water is preventing the men aboard from seeing him being–very willingly–molested by a sea monster.
It’s too much to handle. He humps against the tentacles pressing against his hardness and swallows around the one in his throat, cumming in his wetsuit with a shaking grunt. King retreats and gives him a push towards the surface, sliding back into the crevasse with a sway that reads as smug.
“You good kid? Thought we lost ya for a sec.” Don calls from the boat.
He gives a thumbs up and empties his facemask, trying to discreetly suck in air. He’s going to be so sticky when he can get this wetsuit off.
***
He can’t stand it and sneaks out again that night.
King ambushes him as soon as he surfaces, dragging him bodily to the shore and stripping off his bag, pushing it away to a small inlet. He yanks Gareth's zipper down hard enough to tear off the tab and roughly shoves it off of him, his clawed thumb going clean through in his haste.
"Shit babe, slow down–!"
That sets him off. Every part of him whips out with a snap and his spine arches. The luminescent patterns flare in a staccato loop of runway lights and he pulses out a new, deafening whub whub that makes the hair on Gareth's neck stand on end. He gets flipped onto his stomach with the water lapping at his cheek as King pushes his face into the silty sand, his legs being pried open under the water. There's a brief struggle; Gareth tries to push his torso up and King slams him back down, a wave of tentacles latching onto his arms and pinning them behind his back. King is straddling his ass beneath the surface, the curve of his mantle rubbing against him as he repositions.
Gareth takes a deep breath and tries to calm his thundering heartbeat. King leans forward and brings his face alongside Gareth's and for a moment he thinks he's going to kiss him. A lance of pain cuts through him instead when King sinks his teeth deep into the meat of his shoulder and he gives a startled gasp into the wet sand.
Something large and blunt presses against his asshole. In the time it takes him to think "That's not a tentacle–" it's thrusting into him, a thick girth of ridges that flares wider in the middle, splitting him open mercilessly.
"Oh fuck." Gareth groans out. "Ohhh fuck."
King keeps his pinned and firmly locked in place; if Gareth even tries to struggle he'll shred himself on King's teeth, and he knows better than to think he'd ever be able to beat the creature in a contest of strength. All he can do is accept that King has complete control.
The thought makes his dick jump, embarrassingly.
It's too fast and too hard to be comfortable but getting used like this, all feral instinct driving King to claim him, that's more than enough to make him moan against the sand and thrust into empty water. Usually King's tentacles would be all over him but today they're wrapped around his straining legs and thighs like a harness, neglecting his cock entirely to jackhammer him whole-bodily onto the long, mottled shaft protruding from his cloaca, speeding up with every clench and groan. It's hitting him deep, the texture pulling at his insides with every stroke and he feels impossibly full. Even the bite to his shoulder has shifted from a sharp pain to a pleasurable dull ache that pulses with his heartbeat and fills his brain with a diffuse warmth of indolent thoughts–nothing exists outside of King. He relaxes, becoming plaint under King with a vague sense of confusion that’s quickly smoothed away by King’s teeth sinking deeper and the lights on his tentacles dancing across his vision.
Gareth feels King’s hand card through his hair when he settles snugly against Gareth’s ass, abruptly twisting his hand around to secure a grip and shoving forward another three inches, a swollen bulb at the end of his shaft popping into his ass all at once. Gareth groans, low and needy, as he’s overtaken by orgasm. He rides it out with King matching his vibrations to the pulses that wrack his body, the heady feeling of release overtaking him while watching the rainbow of lights dance and refract hypnotically onto the walls of the cavern. They’re locked together now, King tugging at him, trying to get even a fraction closer to him, like he wants to live under Gareth’s skin, and right now Gareth would welcome him in without a second thought. No one’s ever known him so thoroughly. No one else ever could. He can feel King’s heartbeat echo all the way through him. How deep is his cock buried in him right now? It may as well be brushing against his heart.
King vibrates against him–all through him–and the knot inside him gets bigger, pushing Gareth to his absolute limit. Even through the foggy soup in his head a spark of fear catches up and he struggles feebly, none of his limbs responding as they should. King pushes his head down into the sand decisively and moves to bite his other shoulder, a fresh wave of pain and relief washing through him until he goes limp again. The bulge continues forward deeper inside of him until Gareth realizes what’s happening; it’s an egg. A delirious laugh makes it out of his scratchy throat. He feels nauseous, but he can’t tell if it’s from fear or excitement or the huge, jelly-like egg currently travelling impossibly deep inside of him in rhythmic pulses that match the runway strips of lights. It crushes up against his prostate and it feels so good he whimpers wretchedly, vision going white and hazy and cock leaking into the ocean water in a forced orgasm. He can feel it bulging out his abdomen as it travels in a disorienting sensation, the twists and turns of his intestine shifting to oblige it. Finally it comes to rest and his breaths come up shallow, the egg pressing up against the organs at the bottom of his ribcage from where it is cradled deep in his intestines.
Then another one enters.
A long chain of thick eggs enter in rapidly increasing frequency. Each one grinds against his prostate in a parade of debauchery, the most obscene string of anal beads imaginable, and settle deep inside of him. All the time King had spent working his tentacles in deep and building up positive associations with the sensations has reached its payoff; Gareth does little but ceaselessly cum and moan, the squeezing of his orgasms pulling the eggs in deeper. The final egg is the biggest of them all, unbearably slow to enter in a way that makes him feel every fresh inch of stretch on his overused ass. Gareth hadn't even registered King's shaft retracting back into the swollen knot with each successive lay–he felt too full to even imagine it–but he feels the last egg stop shallow enough that he could reach it with his fingers if they were free, hot and sticky against his overestimated prostate. King pulls him tight enough to cut off circulation in his legs and ejaculates a thick, viscous substance as he pulls his knot out that binds to the walls of his gaping hole, pulling it tight and hardening into a barrier.