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Eight Arms To Hold Me

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In some ways, Eames is (pretends to be) a traditionalist. He’s always found it easier to test drive a new role in a predictable environment, which is why he puts himself in this dressing room he’s used so many times before. Everything is there, of course, the measured disorganization that conceals all the props he doesn’t need much anymore, racks of clothing like ghosts of the characters who’ve worn them. The only thing he still needs, really, is the large mirror that covers one whole wall.

He peels off his shirt and considers how he’s going to do this. Best not to try full-on Lovecraftian demon on the first go. Eames now knows from his research that squids have two types of appendages, technically, two tentacles and six arms, but actual cephalopod anatomy doesn’t appeal. Maybe the closest thing, adding the arms type to his two human arms.

Eames closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

When he opens them, they’re there, two fleshy tentacles sprouting below his arms. He touches one curiously, and it doesn't feel at all like a cold-blooded sea creature: it's warm and firm with smooth muscle, skin soft and vulnerable like the inside of his elbow. The grasping side is more interesting, the same slick purple-red as the inside of his mouth. Of the head of his cock. By all rights it needs some sort of covering. There’s a reason mucous membranes don’t show up on the outside of the body. Although here in the dream, he has no doubt the arms will keep themselves wet no matter what he does with them.

He glides a fingertip over the membrane, circling the rim of a sucker and feeling it quiver and contract. It’s what he imagined, except… while he’s feeling the tentacle, the tentacle is also feeling him.

Like most humans, Eames has always had two arms and two legs. He forged an amputee once, and he would’ve sworn he could feel the imprint of the missing arm. This is precisely the opposite. His brain has nothing on which to rely for how it should feel. It's all subconscious guess-work, but it’s impressively real (Eames’ subconscious, he feels, is often impressive, yet this exceeds even his expectations).

He hasn’t been trying to move his new limbs yet, letting them float idly instead. But precision of control will determine what use he can make of this kind of forgery. Eames closes his eyes and focuses until he can feel where they are, standing out from his body in a way that's probably not physically possible out of the water-- he puts a stop to that thought. The key to dreaming the impossible is to refuse to believe in impossibility.

He imagines the left arm drawing in, and it does. Perfect. It slides over his stomach, hot and wet like the tongue of some enormous animal. He looks at it and thinks of grasping, and the suckers contract and adhere to his skin. He keeps tightening until it's painful, and when he lets go, a constellation of red circles linger for a moment on his skin.

If two, why not four? The first pair are technically arms, how about true tentacles? Eames wills them into existence, longer and thicker with bulbous ends, suckers only at the tips. He runs a hand over one of them. It's soft and moist against his palm, almost ticklish; at the same time, his hand is dry against it. It feels almost like licking himself, and before he consciously knows it he's brought the tentacle to his lips. It's a kiss... and not. The thing is sensitive, but not in a purely sexual way. Still, as he slides his lips around it, a shiver runs down his spine.

He didn’t come down here with this in mind, and yet...

He's not sure he can control all of them simultaneously and separately. So instead, he thinks of pulling in, of wrapping his arms around himself: three of his new limbs glide over his skin, leaving damp trails in their wake. He’s in a crowd without the crowd, like mouths and hands everywhere, like that one time in Madrid but without the football team or the coke. An arm skims over his nipples and feels them harden beneath it, and he grabs just so, sucking and tugging rhythmically away from his body until they're two impossibly hard points under his suckers, until each motion is a wave of heat sparking low in his belly.

Something curves over his hip, slides under his belt, and Eames shudders when it brushes his arse. It’s hot and wet, more like eating his own arse than fingering himself, longer than any tongue could be as he slips it between his cheeks. His waistband pinches the tentacle-arm uncomfortably where it pushes past it. He shrugs and unbuttons his trousers, peeling layers off until he stands naked, leaning against the counter.

He takes his time teasing his hole open, flicking the finger-width tip against the sensitive rim. He’s all alone, no need to rush. Slowly, he pushes in, the muscle tight around it. The arm is strong but its surface is soft and slippery; it goes in more smoothly than a finger. Inch by inch, it widens, stretching him, the end probing deeper and deeper. Eames shuffles his feet apart to spread his legs.

He reaches back over the tentacles, feels with his fingers where he's stretched around himself. The tentacle is thinner than a cock where it enters him, but much wider than a finger. The texture of the suckers against the rim as he works it in and out, slowly deeper and deeper, is alien, soft and stimulating.

Eames pulls the arm out of his arse slowly, giving his body time to adjust, and then immediately brings the bulbous tentacle in to take its place. It’s thicker, so he only thrusts the first couple of slick inches in and out, feeling himself open up until finally it slides in, heat exploding from the base of his cock – he realises one of his other tentacles is wrapping around under his balls, externally echoing the inside pressure on his prostate. He twitches involuntarily, which makes all the tentacles twitch, too, the one in his mouth thrusting further inside and the one in his ass pulling out minutely and shoving back in. It’s… indescribable.

Eames has never been this deep in himself. In anyone. The tip of the tentacle is strong but soft. It doesn't hurt as he inches it in another fraction, finally meeting resistance. As he pushes it through, his body tenses. He's shaking, barely holding himself up as his abs and lower back seize. Stranger than that, his insides are tightening around the piece of himself inside him, like his own body is trying to push him out, but he only knows this because he can feel the rippling clench in the tentacle. It's good, new; feeling in nerves that he normally doesn't have, like the grip of someone's arse around his fingers but more. Eames rides it out, and in a few seconds his body relaxes, accommodating the intrusion.

It’s deep enough that he can’t feel the end of it moving inside him any more. There's a vague sort of pressure, barely perceptible under the feel of firm flesh sliding over his sensitised entrance. As he carefully probes deeper, he wonders how close to the surface he is. Can he actually... he presses a hand to his belly, where he thinks he is, pushes the tentacle carefully forward: yes, he thinks he can feel it, faint movement behind his belly button. Or maybe he's just imagining things. Fuck. He's still shaking and feeling strangely weak, overwhelmed. He brushes a spare arm over his nipples, suckers grasping reflexively, and rides the pleasure to keep going, fullness pushing up from the base of his spine as he stuffs himself deeper and deeper.

Standing isn’t working so well any more; his hands are slick with sweat where he’s gripping the edge of the counter. His extra arms are roaming everywhere. They move under his control when he’s focused, but if his attention wanders...

Eames watches in the mirror, fascinated, as a tentacle slides a wet trail up the side of his neck. He laughs. If this wasn’t a dream, how would he explain the perfectly circular bruises he’s sucking into his own skin? It tickles the shell of his ear, pressing a line down past his collarbone. The size of them is still shocking. The size, the number, the unexpected touches to the inside of his thighs; his ribs; the back of his neck. The way they move sinuously around his body, turning his reflection into an obscene display. The tentacle is curled inside him, as deep as it can go now. It’s calm, thank God, because what it could do to him – what he could do to himself – if it thrashed around inside, is...

He shouldn’t think about that. Eames is an expert at Not Thinking About Things. He looks back at himself instead, flushed and blooming with bruises, and looking like he’s about to fall over.

The bulbous tentacle that’s not inside him swipes over his lips. They feel good; he’s never had the urge to touch his own mouth before, but this is different. A tingle runs up the length when he licks around the rim of a sucker, impossible/delicious, better yet when he wraps his lips around himself and sucks.

He underestimated how good this would feel. How good the extra limbs would feel, how much they would want to crawl inside him. He maybe still has space for more. Maybe still has the mental capacity to change things, now that he’s decided what they feel like. There’s something so right about eight arms... or maybe he’s just greedy (never claimed otherwise).

Then there they are, rooted in the last free space left along his flank, just above his hips. Before Eames knows what’s happening, one of the new tentacles is wrapping its soft underside around his cock. His hips buck into it by reflex and again everything moves, shaking him from the inside out. Eames sinks to his knees, giving up on the mirror. Giving up on being able to observe this as some kind of experiment, as a useful tool for the job. He’ll think about that later. Right now it’s all he can do not to tip over, which would trap some of his arms under him wherever he fell. So he won’t.

A new limb is probing at his arse, relaxing him, then squeezing a narrow tip inside. The pressure around his cock increases at the same time, burst of pleasure making it easier to go on. It still burns as he stretches himself, but it’s a satisfying discomfort. He spreads his knees wider apart, arches his back, one hand above his head clutching the edge of the counter to hold himself steady. He’s lost the rhythm with the tentacle in his mouth and now it’s just rubbing up against his cheek like it’s waiting for him. He twists the second tentacle in his arse around the other, a perfect tight grasp that makes the deep one want to thrust in and out, that fills him up and pushes his limits and has his arse squeezing painfully tight around both of them. He can’t stop the deep one moving, a sick strange feeling that he’s too overstimulated to examine.

It’s intense in a way that’s almost distracting, too many nerves lit up at once. If he loses himself, he might lose the forge as well. Eames tries to breathe, to relax, but as soon as he focuses and stills a tentacle, he finds another is moving. The pressure inside has him on the edge of something but the dream confuses his senses. There’s too much of him, more feeling than he was made to process. His skin is hot under his tentacles, or is it cold? Well, his skin is cold where he’s left snail trails of wetness, and the inside of his arse is hot, and he’s pushing so hard against his prostate that he either is about to come or won’t be able to at all.

While he’s trying to jack himself harder, a tentacle slips back into his mouth. He’s beyond being capable of deploying technique, but it feels good all the same, closer than he’s ever been to sucking his own cock. His other tentacles are squirming all over, wrapping themselves around him like a hug (a very wet hug, a hug from a warm mammalian octopus), but he can’t, he can’t, he’s reaching for it and he can’t. He’s overstimulated and his grip on his cock is already tighter than normal because normal isn’t working because this isn’t. His tentacles twist inside him and the one in his mouth thrusts in of its own volition down his throat and he can’t breathe and finally the barrier collapses and he’s coming so hard he hits his head on the counter and his arse clamps down painfully on his tentacles and then nothing hurts at all.

Eames drops his hands to the floor and coughs, breathes, chest heaving. All the muscles in his body feel reduced to quivering weakness. Even the tentacles are slack now, draped loosely around him, though two are still buried inside. He slowly draws out the shallow one, then the one pushed in deeper, and it takes takes forever, on and on and thank fuck this is a dream so everything will be clean. When it’s gone, he’s empty, wrung out, but in that satisfying well-fucked way. In front of him there’s come dripping down the wall.

He pulls himself to his feet and looks at himself in the mirror; it will make the change easier. Eames thought he’d look unattractively red and sweaty, and he does, with his hair sticking up. Unexpected trails of sticky wetness criss-cross all over him. There are lines of sucker-shaped bruises scattered over his chest and slanting across his hips that he has no memory of creating.

Breathe in: he has tentacles. Breathe out: they’re gone.

Grabbing a robe, Eames collapses into a chair. This is the most bizarre dream he’s ever experienced. On the whole, a successful experiment. Even nearly failing turned out to be exciting: rather than losing the forgery he lost control of it. He probably reached too far, went to a point where his subconscious stepped in to direct the new parts of himself that were too much for his conscious mind to hold... amazing. This exploration bears repeating, possibly some time in the company of another dreamer. One with a spot of xenophilia.