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This was hell. John Doe was in hell.
The oppressive press of bodies all around them. The low ceiling that just barely had room for the stinking clouds of cigarette smoke that wafted overhead. The sultry tones of the band barely audible over the rumbling of a hundred different conversations, the clinking of glassware, the far away retching of some drunk in the toilets.
And the smell. Oh god the smell. The smoke was the least of it. The sharp tang of alcohol, of sweat, cologne, and whatever sick chemicals the women put in their hair. Yes, that was definitely someone puking in the bathroom, and over in the corner, and probably somewhere near the bar. The stench was just barely covered up by the cheap lemony disinfectant, which itself was just another scent swirling through the cabal.
Arthur… John warned. He was at his fucking limit.
He hated humans, actually. He hated cities, he hated life. He hated noise and sight and smells and touch and how he didn't even have muscles that could cramp, yet the prolonged time spent keeping the cloak clutched tight to Arthur's body still managed to ache. Most of all he hated this fucking night club. Every atom of this nightmare should be wiped from existence.
A hand slid along the side of his hood, the only sensation that didn't push John to violence.
"We're leaving…" Arthur murmured softly. "Just hold on a little more."
John crinkled his mandibles until his fangs dug into Arthur's sternum. Arthur slid a gentle finger down John's gums.
"Hold on." Arthur repeated as he tried to weave against the flow of bodies to the exit.
Whose stupid idea was it to have a bar underground anyway? So what if alcohol used to be prohibited? It wasn't anymore. Everyone should just stay above ground where their sweat and puke and stink wouldn't fester like compost.
MOVE. John growled at the patrons who couldn't hear him. He was so close to lashing his ribbons out to shove them aside.
They hadn't even gotten the information they came for. John didn't care. Fuck Susannah Perks. Fuck her missing nephew. Fuck whatever informant thought it was a good idea to hang around disgusting underground clubs. Fuck cults. Fuck mysteries. Fuck their whole stupid business in stupid fucking Arkham.
It was pathetic, really. John used to be a god, he'd withstood sensations for more mind-shattering than this just to take the edge off. If anyone in the club could know a fraction of what he endured for pleasure their faces would melt clean off.
But this body was so… new.
Not the ancient form he'd once shared with the King, nor the semi-metaphorical being of rage he'd inhabited as Hastur. John's fusion to Arthur had meant translating his organs into something that made sense in this reality. Every sound, smell, and touch felt like he was feeling it for the first time. It was like trying to shovel snow with a dessert fork. There was only so much he could handle at once.
Finally Arthur made it up the steps and out into the night air. John gulped down breaths like a man dying of thirst, but even that relief soon became overwhelming. It was so cold, like his throat was frosting over with ice.
Arthur. He practically sobbed.
This time when Arthur reached up to stroke him, John's tongue shot out to coil around his fingers and down his wrist. There he clung to Arthur as the entire world tried to rip his sanity apart.
He fucking loved Arthur's hands. His skin. Arthur's flesh was John's but at the same time not John's. They were joined enough to be safe, but not so much that the touch was his own. This was John's home. He shared it with his best friend. It was the only stimulation in this rotten dimension that made sense.
More. John growled.
Beneath their cloak, his tentacles coiled up Arthur's thighs.
Arthur flinched.
"Shit." He swore. "No, not- wait until we're home John."
I am home. John said.
Arthur swore again and knelt to bat the tendrils off his legs. He might as well have stabbed John through the heart.
Too much. It was far too much.
To his incredibly limited credit, Arthur didn't waste any time. His hand never left John's hood as they ran down the dark streets. The gentle circling of his thumb was the only thing that kept John from sweeping them up onto his ribbons and charging home like an angry bull.
It was a good thing there weren't many people about. If their glamor failed, John might just lose it. Hearing someone scream at their alien appearance would be enough to tip him past the point of no return. He was getting himself worked up just thinking about it.
That they had to hide their body. That anyone would dare to scream at their beautiful, joined body. A body that would be driven mad if John didn't get his tentacles around Arthur soon.
Finally, finally, their building came into view. John felt like screaming as Arthur fumbled with their shitty old lock, wishing that he could just scale up the side of the wall to crash through the window. When Arthur finally got the door open John was at his limit. He dropped the glamour completely, ribbons snatching up Arthur's legs, and crawled up the stairwell like a spider.
He could have shoved their front door off its hinges, but still allowed Arthur to use the key. Once inside they fell onto the landing in a heap, and John wasted no more time sliding his tongue down Arthur's neck.
"Not on the floor, John!" Athur gasped.
He tried to get up, only for John to shove him back down onto a spongy net of tendrils. They wormed around his legs and elbows, holding him aloft. Perfectly comfortable.
There. John said, the hem of his cloak wrapping tight around them.
Arthur shuddered, his heart hammering beside John's.
"Wait! Let me lock the-"
John reached out a ribbon to turn the lock with a sharp click.
No. He growled. No more waiting.
"J-John–!" Arthur managed before their hood closed over his face.
With Arthur cut off from air, John took a deep breath of his own. It was strange, sharing a pair of lungs. Especially when one of them was trying to breath steadily, while the other was a panting mess. John could feel Arthur's chest trying to compress with gasps as he stroked his arms, his legs, his face.
Another deep breath, and John willed himself to calm. Focus on the warmth of Arthur's flesh. He wormed his tendrils along the bumps of their ribs. The hard skin of their heels. The raised lines of Arthur's veins. He traced a fingernail with the soft underside of a ribbon, then pressed against the sharp edge. The gentle sting made his eyes flutter closed with relief.
There were so many textures on Arthur. His flesh was so responsive. Twitching and shivering with each sensation. It was a good kind of touch. Familiar. His.
There was a whimper beneath John's folds as Arthur began to squirm. John's frustration lessened just a bit more. He loved it when Arthur moved inside him. It was like he'd become John's own beating heart.
Yes, Arthur…
John's hold tightened. He slid his grip along the gooseflesh of Arthur's left thigh. Another traced the soft fluff of his belly, into the dip of his navel, then up to slide over his right nipple. His only nipple. Arthur used to have two, which was sort of annoying. John lamented not having a matching set. He liked how the rubbery flesh stood on end when he flicked it.
Arthur's entire body jerked with a sharp moan. John could feel something swell against the ribbons that hung over his groin.
John huffed a laugh. Already?
Theoretically there was a reply from within him. Some self-protective quip about John misunderstanding a yelp of pain.
But John, well. He wasn't stupid. Or naive, or ignorant of how humans worked. He knew about their rituals, their own version of eternity. That network of nerves and glands that flooded their brains with pleasure to ensure they'd always make more of themselves. There always needed to be more humans. They were so fragile, how else were they to last?
But an endless thing had no need for reproduction, neither had the King in Yellow any interest in spawning an army of half-god offspring. It wasn't that he didn't understand the appeal. John had once laid his ribbons so flush against Arthur's erogenous skin that he was able to leech the sparks that went off in Arthur's brain as they teased each other.
It was just that it didn't really apply to him. It seemed such an incomplete kind of pleasure. The sweet, soulful cry of a violin as it was plucked and thrummed to its zenith. It made for a lovely little tune, even a profound one if they were both in the mood for it. But John wondered how Arthur would react to a full symphony.
As it was, though, John could go for a bit of plucking. He had planned to do some poking around down there anyway.
The coil around Arthur's breast tightened, John rolled the hardened nub of flesh with the tip. The responding shudder intensified when another tendril dipped to cup Arthur's groin. Though John was ambivalent towards sex, humans had the most delightful reproductive organs. The skin was soft and wrinkled, and almost seemed to have a mind of its own as John stroked it to hardness.
John squeezed and tugged at Arthur in waves, adoring every part he could reach. Arthur's groan was the loudest yet, a slack-jawed obscene thing that provided perfect opportunity for John to unfurl his tongue and shove it into Artur's mouth.
He felt the press of Arthur's teeth right away, and John's eyes rolled with satisfaction. Arthur had so many of them, all different shapes and sizes, leaving unique imprints in John's tongue.
And goddamnit, how John wished he could slip a ribbon up Arthur's nose. He just knew that it would be warm, and apparently there were hairs in there! But the first and only time he'd attempted it Arthur had laid down a hard boundary. Not even for special occasions, or if he'd been good that week. It was so unfair.
Instead, John focused on the holes he had free reign to explore. A tentacle that had been lapping over Arthur's scrotum slid back to press rhythmically against his entrance. Arthur's teeth dug harder into John's tongue as he probed. Shallow little nudges, a parody of restraint. Never hard enough to penetrate, John played with the elasticity of the rim.
Eventually the flesh had softened enough that Arthur's jaw went slack again, allowing John to press further into his mouth. He felt along the bumps of Arthur's tongue, slid across the crown of his molars, tapped at the point of his canines. Arthur panted wetly in reply, his own tongue extending to slide down the seam of John's, parting the folds enough to tickle his cilia.
John jerked and an undignified noise echoed between their minds. His eyes snapped open, his tentacles stilled, shaking as Arthur dug his tongue into the slit. It took a moment for John to recover, then he chuckled darkly in Arthur's mind.
This means war. He warned, before shoving his tongue roughly down Arthur's throat.
There was a shudder, a muffled 'Gulk!' and Arthur swallowed him down eagerly. For all the world like he had monstrous tongues shoved down his throat every day. He didn't, it was every other day at most, and John was annoyed at the lack of reaction.
He pressed his tongue deeper and twisted. At last Arthur's throat constricted, gagging on him as his body convulsed. John sucked in quick breaths of air to soothe him, but didn't relent in his probing of Arthur's throat. He squeezed Arthur's chest in time with their breaths. Arthur's throat squeezed him back. His cock oozed in John's grip as he thrust into it.
They wrapped and churned against each other. So tightly wound. The best of best friends across all the cosmos, in every dimension, at any time. Two halves of a perfect body.
How could John have ever cursed this form? It was a blessing to be so sensitive. To be so here. Here with Arthur. Whole.
Arthur, Arthur, Arthur…
There was a groan from deep within him, drawing John's attention. The tendril pressing against Arthur's entrance had slipped inside without John's notice. Arthur was arching into it, his teeth digging into John's tongue again, thighs trembling as John held them apart. For all Arthur's insistence that this part needed time and preparation, he'd always get so needy once John was inside him.
John braced himself against the floor to swing them back and forth. He didn't actually need to, his tendrils were stable enough that he could thrust and squeeze any part of Arthur whilst standing perfectly still. But Arthur had once mentioned something about the motion feeling more 'natural', so John carefully rocked them in time with the thrusts.
Another groan, crackling into a whine as the tendrils on Arthur's thighs squeezed.
John should feel guilty, playing with Arthur's reproductive instincts like a puzzle box. But then Arthur could stand to have a bit more guilt himself! Forcing John into that tight, stuffy nightclub, knowing that his senses were still raw. It had been far too much at once! At least John knew when to slow his ministrations to keep from overwhelming him.
As if to illustrate the point, John slowed to a gentle pace just as he felt Arthur's pulse thundering beside his own. John could have sworn he heard a sob, but he wouldn't risk going too fast.
Arthur didn't like to be fondled after he climaxed, and John couldn't be having that.
Once the wave had passed, John returned to thrusting at a steady pace. Arthur's ass wasn't especially exciting. Not like his mouth, with all of his different kinds of teeth, ridged roof, and bumpy tongue. But it was soft and yielding the longer John played with it, and he liked the way the ring fluttered around the base of his tentacle
Slowly, with Arthur quivering in and around him, the last threads of tension disappeared from John's mind. He looked around their apartment to ground himself. There was the radio that Arthur bought for John to listen to at night. There was the planter box where he'd experimented with peonies, immediately became frustrated, and repurposed as a feeding box for pigeons. There was their kitchen, with their crap little oven and noisy fridge thrumming beneath Arthur's mewling.
It wasn't much, but it was theirs. Their home that surrounded their home.
John sighed and curled deeper into Arthur. Now that he was more relaxed he could appreciate the silky walls, sliding along them like an old friend. They contrasted delightfully with the coarse hairs on Arthur's calf. John thrust harder, faster, whilst stroking against the grain of Arthur's body hair.
There was an unmistakable shudder. Suddenly Arthur's innards squeezed around John's tendril with a high pitched whine.
Oops.
John slowed himself, retracting the tendril from Arthur's prick as if it had burned him. There was another whimper, a feverish jutting of the hips, but John didn't feel anything spurt inside him. Arthur had only come from the back, not the front. Which was the one that meant they had to stop again..?
Sharp canines dug into John's tongue, causing him to flinch. Arthur was practically grinding him in his teeth as his hands yanked impatiently at the hem of his cloak.
Right. The front. They weren't done yet.
John resumed his pace. Calm as he was, he wasn't ready to stop petting his dearest friend. Instead, he closed his eyes and let his mind wander as he played with Arthur's parts.
They really shouldn't have left so quickly. John would have to make it up to him. But it was also sort of Arthur's fault for not warning him. He knew this had been a problem for them. This wasn't even the first time they had to-
…That was a lot of pre-ejaculate. John relented in fear of finishing Arthur off. But the quick pause listening to Arthur's whining confirmed that it wasn't the case.
Speaking of the case.
The one good thing was that John had lost his patience early into the night. They hadn't asked any suspicious questions, or even spoken to anyone at all. So far as the staff and other patrons were aware, a man had come in, had a bit of a turn, and rushed out. They might not even remember them the next day.
"Mmn… Jomn…" Came a muffled moan.
John's tongue must have slipped from Arthur's mouth. How had that happened?
"GULK."
Of course, going back would just mean more of the same. That place would still be insufferable no matter when they went. But at least now they could prepare for it. Maybe practice some breathing exercises? At the very least John wanted to hold Arthur's hand. He could make the glamour look like it was just sitting in their pocket or something.
In fact, John hadn't actually played with the glamour all that much. It had just been a means to an end. Maybe it was possible to do more to Arthur under the cloak if he could just get the hang of making it seem normal.
In his excitement John very nearly tipped Arthur over the edge again. He managed to slow just in time, wringing a desperate sob from his best friend.
Anyway.
The point was, things weren't completely a wash. John was calm, Arthur was– well, he would be calm in a few minutes, and they still had their case. That had only been a brief lapse in composure. Sprawled in the entryway of their apartment, John wondered how he could have ever questioned his choice.
They were safe. They were home. It was peaceful.
Arthur screamed around John's tongue.
Right, John felt better now. Better enough to get bored if this went on any longer. Without further ado he curled his tendril against Arthur's prostate and hammered it until Arthur spilled into his coils. Arthur's teeth dug into John's tongue again, Arthur's body going rigid, tightening around the tendril inside him so fiercely it might have snapped off.
John cradled him through his climax until the last wave crested and fell. Just like he always would. He had such affection for his friend.
At long last Arthur went limp, and John let the hood part. There was one last whine as he retracted his tongue, and then Arthur was gasping for his own breath as he collapsed into the bed of John's tendrils.
"G-goddamn it John." He muttered hoarsely. "You monster…"
John laughed warmly. He knew Arthur didn't mean it. Just like John didn't mean it when he threatened to rip off Arthur's nose if they didn't get out of there as soon as possible.
Are you okay? John asked, sliding his tongue gently along Arthur's cheek.
Arthur brought up a hand to catch it, bringing it to his mouth to kiss the seam. John's cilia shivered in pleasure at the warm press of lips, one of the few parts of their body that processed that kind of affection in the same way.
"I'm fine." Arthur murmured. "Are you feeling better?"
Yes, Arthur. John rumbled happily. I think I'm ready to try the club again.
It was Arthur's turn to laugh. "You're mad if you think I'm moving in the next three hours."
I could carry us. John offered.
"You're carrying us to bed, you muppet." Arthur said. "I can't believe you did this to me on the floor."
John scoffed in outrage. You weren't on the floor!
To illustrate his point, John gathered up Arthur's sprawled limbs and carried him over to the small cot next to the radio. It wasn't the most comfortable, John insisted that his tentacles were better, but Arthur still struggled to fall asleep sitting up. The moment they reclined properly he took in an exhausted sigh, worming his way deeper into John's tendrils.
John coiled gently back, careful not to overwhelm his sensitive skin. The grip had to be light for an hour or so, but they still liked to cuddle.
Once Arthur was settled, John carefully reached out to turn up the volume of their radio.
'...Why be afraid of it? Let's close our eyes, and make our own paradise.'
Oh, good. John liked this one.
'Little we know of it, still we can try to make a go of it…'
With Arthur slipping away and John humming to the music, it was hard to imagine what the fuss had all been in the first place.
'...We might have been meant for each other, to be or not to be let our hearts discover.'
'Lets fall in love.'