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The Red Light District of R'lyeh

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Patrick loves the tentacle beds. Brian doesn't have a particular thing for them, but he also doesn't need any convincing to rent one when they stop over at the R'lyeh deep space station for fuel and supplies. He's done them before; he tells Bob they're a little weird, but fun.

Bob is not entirely convinced about the 'fun' part. However, he is also incapable of saying no to either of them about anything that doesn't have to do with the ship's engines, so he goes along with it.

"So far I'm not impressed," Bob says.

They're in one of the rented rooms in the K'Thull district, one of the upscale places. The room is small, but the floors are covered with woven moss rugs, the walls seem to vanish in darkness behind curtains of thin, hanging trees -- if not for the constant thrum of energy running through the floor that Bob can feel beneath his feet, he could almost forget they're not planet-side somewhere.

That's all nice and everything, but the three of them are standing at the foot of the bed, which is...just a bed. It's cushiony enough, but it's just a big oblong thing barely a foot off the floor with a handful of small pillows on it. It's not even covered with a sheet.

He's down to his undershorts and shirt, and he's taking time with his shirt. Brian's entirely naked already, and he's eying Bob and Patrick like he's deciding which of his two loser boyfriends he's going to need to help undress. Bob and Patrick tend to undress like there's a medal for Most Reluctant To Get Naked and they're both determined to win.

Patrick huffs impatiently at Bob. "We've been here five seconds. Give it a minute."

"For what?" Bob says.

"It's checking us out," Brian says. Concluding that Bob is most in need of assistance this time, he slaps Bob's hands down and makes quick work of the buttons. "It has to decide which one of us to pick."

"For what?" Bob says again.

He knows he sounds cranky, but he's getting a little nervous, and cranky is his default when he's nervous. He knows Brian and Patrick wouldn't bring him someplace dangerous, but all he's ever heard about tentacle beds before this is that they can be pretty mind-blowing. Not everyone he's heard that from has said it like it's a good thing.

Plus the air in the room is heavy and close, and too full of plant smells. It's full of a quiet that feels like something in there is waking up, and he's not sure he wants it too.

Brian probably senses his nerves; he smoothes his hands up Bob's chest slowly and with the affectionate smile that always makes Bob's cheeks heat up. Brian pushes Bob's shirt off his shoulders, stroking down Bob's arms slowly to work it the rest of the way off.

Patrick sighs impatiently.

"Bob. You will see. Just take your damn clothes off already."

"You take your damn clothes off," Bob says. "You're still wearing your fucking hat -- oh shit --"

Something snakes around his ankle; by the time he reacts and tries to jerk back a step, it's wound tight and not letting him go anywhere.

Another tentacle emerges from the foot of the bed, this time from the top. It resolves from nothing, just from the surface of the bed, growing longer and longer as it trails its tip up Bob's front from the fabric of his undershorts, to his belly button, skittering across the faint definition of his ribs.

"It went for you," Brian says.

He sounds thoughtful, but when Bob glances at him -- the briefest glance, because there's a tentacle molesting him and he's a little afraid to look away from it -- Brian looks pleased. Maybe a little predatory. Bob doesn't have time to get the usual little thrill from that, because the tentacle presses its length against his torso while its end slithers down to his wrist and coils around.

"Okay," Bob says, to test out his voice. He steadies it a little more and says, "Is this what -- what should I do, should I --"

The tentacle is tugging on his wrist, not hard but relentlessly. He loses his balance and ends up on his knees on the foot of the bed.

"Just go with it," Brian says. "Let it do what it wants to do."

The bulbous-bodied Ulu who'd rented the room to them had droned through a brief list of things like that -- things like how the beds guide the activity, and how customers can struggle if they want things to get rough, but should be passive if they don't. So Bob knows about that, in the rational part of his brain. Only, he hadn't really thought about how hard it would be not to struggle at the touch of wriggly, eerily smooth and warm tentacles. He's definitely having some fight-or-flight issues now that it's decided it wants to do whatever it's going to do to him.

But he swallows his reaction down and tries to relax. More tentacles begin to protrude from the bed, brushing over his body as he crawls in the direction he's tugged, toward the center of the bed.

He feels a slender tendril trail up the inside of his thigh, and he expects it to wrap around like some of the others are doing. Instead it slips beneath the hem of his underwear, sliding around his balls and against his cock.

"Jesus," he gasps, and shoves a hand down his shorts to push the tendril away.

"Oh, don't do that," Patrick says quickly, but not in time.

Another tendril snaps around his arm and yanks his hand out; the tentacle that's been oozing along his back, between his shoulder blades, wraps around his chest.

In a display of strength that shocks the hell out of Bob, the tentacle around his chest lifts him briefly up. It turns him and slams him down onto his back, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to knock the air out of him.

"Relax," Brian is saying. He's kneeling at the foot of the bed and he grabs Bob's leg gently, reassuringly. "Just relax and --"

"I am trying, okay," Bob says, cutting Brian off before he can say 'go with it' again. He's breathless from being tossed around, and from the way the tentacles are spreading him out. They've got his wrists and ankles and they're pulling, jerking, trying to pin him with his arms thrown out. "This is fucking bizarre, this is fucking -- you didn't tell me about this, okay, you guys didn't --"

Brian just repeats his "relax" mantra and pats Bob's leg soothingly. Patrick has managed to get naked and he's not saying anything. He's standing at the foot of the bed watching.

Any self-consciousness Patrick feels about his own nudity tends to vanish if he's distracted enough. The fact that Bob can make that happen pretty quickly is something Bob is maybe secretly a little proud of.

So Bob would normally appreciate the hungry look in Patrick's eyes, the languid way he's wrapped his hand around his dick and is slowly jacking himself, how all of the awkward stiffness in his body has gone loose with desire just because he's looking at Bob. But at this particular moment Bob is a little busy freaking out.

The tendril in Bob's underpants squirms around, and Bob has no idea what the fuck it's planning to do in there until the tentacles gripping his ankles shove his legs almost together and hold him like that. Then the tendril pokes out from the waistband of his underpants and starts pushing them down.

"Okay, no," Bob says. He's not sure why being at the mercy of tentacles seems slightly less upsetting so long as he's got his shorts on, but it does.

He can't do anything about it, though. Another tendril wriggles up between his legs to help the first, and they continue undressing him together.

Brian and Patrick aren't doing anything to stop the tendrils; in fact, now both of them are watching with that hungry look, their gazes raking his increasingly more exposed body up and down.

Bob almost says "hey guys, please put my shorts back on me" even though he suspects they can't. He's pretty sure the bed is in charge now.

Something deep down in his lizard brain reacts to that; his skin prickles, and a warm flush starts in his groin.

But the rest of his brain still going holy shit, tentacles. He can't help straining to hold his knees together to keep his undershorts from going any lower.

Then a couple of the little tentacles flicking around his chest find his nipples and pinch, hard. The sudden pain makes him yelp. One tentacle lets go and moves down, pinching here and there along his chest. The other keeps pinching and twisting until the pain gets red-hot and his eyes start to water.

As a distraction, it works great. He's too busy arching off the bed, trying to free his hands to smack at the tentacles, too busy biting his lip to keep back the embarrassing sounds of pain; the next thing he knows his underpants are god knows where, and his legs are being dragged apart.

Finally the pinching lets up. Catching his breath, Bob blinks wetness out of his eyes and looks for Brian and Patrick.

Brian is still down at the end of the bed, not giving Bob's leg anymore soothing touches because a tentacle has hold of his arms, trapping his hands together. When his expression turns wry and he mutters, "Okay, okay," the tentacle slithers loose, setting him free. Brian doesn't reach for Bob again; he stays where he is and just watches.

Patrick sits on the edge of the bed, still stroking himself. He's done the tentacle beds a lot, so Bob guesses he knows not to interfere.

"This is going to get sexy soon, right?" he grits out.

Patrick lets out a short, breathless laugh. "It already is," he says. "Trust me."

Bob starts to say, "oh yeah, well, maybe you'd like to be the one getting molested by freaking tentacles, asshole." But as soon as he opens his mouth a tentacle dips in.

He gags and jerks, turning his head away and trying to push the tentacle out with his tongue. It just flows in, seeming not to notice when he tries to bite it, pushing his teeth apart. The end of it curls up, growing into a tight, warm ball.

By the time it stops, he can only breathe through his nose. His jaw stretches wide, as wide as when Brian and Patrick both fuck his mouth at the same time. He can't hold back a desperate moan; it's still a little bit from being freaked out, but he can't deny he's getting turned on. This is different than when it's just him and Brian and Patrick. He knows them; he knows the kinds of things they like to do.

This thing, he doesn't know what it will do. He's helpless against it, and it can do anything to him, and even though that's scary in a way he's never scared with Brian and Patrick, it's also a lot hotter than he'd like to admit.

The tentacle in his mouth pulses. Instinctively, he tries to open wider and cover his teeth with his lips, just like he'd do if it was cocks filling his mouth instead.

It must be the right thing to do, because the pressure in his mouth abates a little. It's enough to take the edge off the ache in his jaw. It's also enough that he can swallow a little bit now, and he discovers that the tentacle at least doesn't taste bad. It's mostly tasteless, in fact, only very faintly sweet.

While the tentacle was invading his mouth, other tentacles were busy with the rest of him. He'd struggled without thinking, a reaction to the thing forcing its way into his mouth, so now his arms are pulled out as wide as they'll go. His shoulders are burning from the strain.

More tentacles arrange his legs. As they shift his feet apart and up, making him bend his knees, he tries to tuck his knees together again without thinking. One tentacle simply shifts direction, pulling his foot out to the side; the other is joined by tendrils that wrap around his bent leg, keeping it bent and forcing it to the side too.

Then he's wide open, nothing protecting him or covering him, Brian and Patrick still just watching. The little tendrils flick over his skin, pinch the inside of his thighs, coil around his balls, tease his cock.

With his mouth full, panting for breath is noisy. A weak grunt is forced out of him with each exhale. He still wants to thrash and struggle, but now he fights the urge. He makes himself lay still, relaxes as much as he can.

The tentacles don't respond to that at first. They keep doing what they're doing, holding him too tight and fondling him. Brian has moved to sit behind Patrick, running kisses down his neck and stroking the insides of Patrick's spread thighs while they watch. Between that, and the way he can't move and has no idea what will be done to him next, and the sensation of smooth, wriggling things stroking his cock, Bob is getting hard.

His panting grunts hitch with moans. He's starting to drool around the tentacle in his mouth; he works his tongue, trying to swallow. It doesn't work, but the tentacle ripples against his tongue, meeting his pressure with its own. It sends a hot flush down his body, making him shudder and making his muscles go loose.

Then the strain in his shoulders lets up a little. He gets no slack for his parted legs, but the bent leg is no longer squeezed as hard. Something brushes across the head of his dick, and it throbs and his hips twitch, trying to fuck up into the slithery grip.

He immediately realizes what he's done and freezes, but the tendrils wrapped around his balls and the base of his cock still cinch abruptly tight. He can't help it; he whines. It doesn't hurt, but he knows what that means. Brian and Patrick do that with cords or leather ties when they don't want to let him come for a while.

He tries to say, "you fuckers fucking tipped this fucking thing off, didn't you," even though it can only come out a thready, garbled whimper.

"Yeah," Patrick says, breathy and low, and for a second Bob thinks Patrick somehow actually understood him.

But then there's the light, pricking brush of something down the spread crease of his ass and he thinks, a little wildly, maybe a smidge hysterically, oh.

Then he squeezes his eyes shut and thinks oh shit oh shit oh shit as the tendril finds his asshole and flickers in.

It's a bizarre sensation. It's nothing like a finger, or a cock, or a toy; it's actually nothing at first. Unlike the tentacles holding him pinned, this one is slick, slippery. It's narrow at the end, too, and slides in so smoothly he barely feels it.

When it slips back out and then pushes back in, it's so feather-light that he shivers. Out, in, each time pressing a little further and thickening a little more. Slowly, the pressure builds to a finger's width, the thrusts turn into wet, sloppy noises. There's a pause each time after it pushes in, when it quivers and he feels a tickle inside him that makes him twitch; he feels it up his spine, all the way to his fingertips and toes. His body wants to writhe and just move even if it means heaving against his restraints, and not letting himself do it is more maddening and almost more agonizing than the endless pinching the tentacles had done before.

Then as the tentacle slides out, it crimps and coils. His whole body jerks because he definitely feels that. It must like his reaction, because it does that over and over, wriggling and brushing over his sweet spot until he's a sweaty mess, his body wracked with helpless spasms.

The tightness and heat builds up in his gut, and despite the warning pressure around his balls and cock he can feel himself tipping over the edge. Before he can get release, though, the tendrils around his balls and cock tighten painfully, and his nipples are brutally pinched and twisted. The next time he gets close to coming the tendrils tighten again and the tentacle in his mouth uncoils and worms deep enough into his throat to make him gag and choke. The next time the pinches run along his dick; the next time his arms are pulled until it feels like his shoulders might pop out of joint; over and over, pleasure to pain to pleasure.

He doesn't know how long that goes on, the tentacles taking him to the edge and then yanking him back. At one point a tentacle wraps around his neck and nudges at his chin until he turns his head. He's looking at Brian and Patrick then. They're watching him -- they're watching the tendril thrust into him, watching him shudder and writhe when the pinching and choking bring him back down.

They're listening to the helpless sounds he makes, too. He can't hold back the grunts and moans, and even through the haze of desire and pain he thinks I sound like a fucking whore. He knows, too, how they love that. He knows the wavery moan Patrick makes is only partly from Brian's fingers pressing into his ass, and the shudder that runs through Brian is only partly a reaction to Patrick's hand flexing around his cock.

But mostly it's because of him. They love watching him helpless and falling apart. His body doesn't know if it should go hot with embarrassment or go hot from being so fucking turned on he can hardly stand it.

The tentacle in his ass pushes in then, and instead of curling up and pulling back out this time, it keeps pressing. It swells, too. Slowly, slowly, Bob is stretched out and filled up. That's weird enough; but at the same time the tickle inside of him intensifies. He doesn't know what it is at first. Then the tickling starts to feel like pressure, like the same swelling that stretches his asshole, but deeper. It feels too deep.

He makes a startled, scared sound and jerks. It's an utterly futile move to get away, and all that happens is that the tentacles holding him down tighten, and the tendril working impossibly deeper into him stops taking its time. It pushes faster, and he swears he can feel it in his gut, and he thinks that can't be right and tries to remember if the Ulu who runs the place said anything about the beds ever accidentally killing the customers.

He wants to say no, or tell Brian or Patrick to please pull it out, please make it stop, but he can't say anything around the tentacle gagging him. All he can do is hold still and ride the waves of hot and cold -- pleasure, he can't even deny that it's pleasure because the sensation goes right to his cock even as his eyes fill with tears -- that wash over him until the tentacle finally gets as deep as it wants to go and stops.

Through the overwhelmed haze in his brain, he hears Patrick murmuring something. He thinks it's, "You're doing so good, god, look at you, you're doing so good, doesn't it feel amazing --"

He thinks no, it feels wrong but then yes, oh god. He's pretty fucking sure he shouldn't have things wormed that deep inside him, and he feels weak and used up; but at the same time he's desperate to come. His cock aches, and his ass clenches convulsively around the tentacle embedded in it.

Then there's another searching touch at his asshole, and another tentacle starts to work its way in, all he can manage is a choked sob.

He's invaded steadily by the second tentacle, but before it's even all the way in a third joins it. They stretch him relentlessly open.

Why, he thinks, why and when is it going to stop and please let me come and more, I can take it, please, no I can't, stop, shit --

The tentacle is out of his mouth before he knows what's happening. Suddenly he can get more air, and he's grunting like an animal, with his mouth hanging open.

"That's it," Brian says.

He's crawling onto the bed now. Along the way he gets his hands on Bob. They're so familiar, so gentle and so right that Bob nearly cries.

"Do you like it?" Brian says. He strokes his hands over Bob's belly and chest, soothing the skin bruised and still tender from the tentacle pinches. When Bob just gasps a whimper, Brian says, "What do you want?"

After a few abortive gasps, Bob manages, "I don't know."

"Do you want to stop?" Brian says. His voice is rough, but steady.

And Bob almost says yes, because he needs to get off, he needs it so bad. But then the extra tentacles slide out of his ass and he feels so abruptly empty that he says without thinking, "No."

Brian smiles. He bends down and kisses Bob, still running his hand over Bob's chest. He trails soft kisses down Bob's jaw. When he gets to Bob's ear his tongue flicks out, almost tentacle-like, tasting the sweat on Bob's neck, teasing his earlobe.

"We're going to use you," Brian says softly. "We're going to use you until we're satisfied, and then maybe the bed will let you come."

He pauses, pressing his mouth to Bob's neck and sucking. Bob feels Patrick's hands on his thighs; when he looks down the length of himself he sees Patrick settling in, feels Patrick's knees bump his ass. Patrick has his lip caught between his teeth.

There's still the first tentacle buried deep inside him, and it doesn't withdraw as the head of Patrick's cock nudges Bob's swollen hole. Bob gasps and drops his head back onto the bed, staring up at the dark, vine-hung ceiling without seeing it.

"Patrick's going to fuck you with that thing in your ass," Brian says. "Then when he's done I'm going to have my turn with your ass too."

Bob whines as Patrick's cock breaches him, as Brian continues, "But you're going to suck me while I wait."

Patrick thrusts in, forcing a guttural "ungh" out of Bob. Brian shifts up onto his knees, throws a leg over Bob's chest and straddles him. Bracing himself forward on one hand, his balls bump Bob's chin, and the slick, salty head of his cock slides across Bob's mouth.

"Open," Brian says.

Patrick slides out and shoves back in; Bob's lips part in another grunt and Brian jams his thumb into Bob's mouth and pulls it open.

Bob lets him. He lets his jaw go slack and makes sure he keeps his teeth away from Brian's cock, because it's all he can do.

Everywhere tentacles hold him, they tremble and flex tighter. Brian's buries his cock in Bob's mouth, guiding it in to rub against Bob's tongue. Patrick gets his rhythm, fast and hard. Bob realizes Patrick must already have been so close just from watching, knows he's not going to last long.

Brian gets himself settled in Bob's mouth. The hand that had guided his cock slides down to Bob's throat and rests there. "Suck," he says.

Bob tries. It's hard, with Brian nearly down his throat and his jaw sore from being held open so long before. And it's hard because Patrick's hands are pinching Bob's sides for leverage while he rams into him, and because the tentacle twitches and ripples in his ass and his gut.

Then he has to close his eyes and silently beg the tentacles to pinch him again, hurt him again to keep him from coming. Because Brian's hand tightens around his throat and he starts fucking Bob's mouth, and it's almost too much to take. If something doesn't stop him he's going to come just from that.

As if it can sense his desperation, the tendril cinched around the base of his balls twists hard, a quick, sharp burning pain that makes him cry out around Brian's cock. He hears Patrick gasp, "Jesus," and Brian pushes into Bob's throat to catch the vibrations before starting to thrust again.

It's perfect; Bob goes limp and lets himself be fucked.

Patrick's rhythm stutters, and then he lets out a groan and sinks in one last time. While Patrick is still pulsing come into Bob, Brian pulls out of Bob's mouth.

He's still impaled by the think tentacle, and his mouth feels bruised and his ass burns. But Bob still can't stop the whine he makes at the emptiness in his ass and mouth.

Brian's hand around his throat spasms, throttling him for a moment.

"What," Brian says. "What do you want?"

When he loosens his grip, Bob says, "Please."

"Please what?" Brian shoves off him and down the bed. On the way he drags his fingernails hard down Bob's chest, pausing at his nipple to twist it hard. "What do you want? You want us to stop?"

Bob arches off the bed as much as the tentacles will let him. "No, Brian, fuck, please."

They go as far as they can, when it's just the three of them alone on their ship, and he loves it. He loves them, and he loves them taking him, however rough they want, however much they want him. But this is beyond what they can do alone. He's taking as much as he can, more than he's ever taken, and he wants even more.

Rolling sideways a little, Patrick slides out. Brian is still shuffling down the bed and into position, so Patrick keeps Bob's ass occupied by slipping a couple of fingers in, twisting them around in his own come while Bob jerks and writhes.

"So, so good," Patrick says breathlessly. "Oh my god. Bob. You're so."

He breaks off finally, shaking his head. Brian nudges Patrick out of the way; Patrick's fingers come out, slippery wet, and he smoothes his come over Bob's cock, giving him a few slow tugs.

At the same time, Bob swears he feels the tentacle inside him ripple and try to go deeper. He says, "hhng," which might have been a "holy shit" if Brian hadn't started fucking into him.

Brian isn't that much bigger than Patrick, but for some reason Bob is sure he feels bigger this time. When Brian moans, "God yes, more," Bob realizes it's because the tentacle penetrating him is thickening again. It's making him nice and tight for Brian, making him so tight that it feels like Brian's splitting him open.

It hurts, and it makes Bob choke out an involuntary, "Brian" as Brian pushes in as deep as he can go.

Patrick stretches out beside Bob, propped up on an elbow. He looks wiped, but still determined. When the tentacle starts searching out Bob's mouth again, and Bob tries to turn away, Patrick twines his fingers into Bob's hair and yanks his head back.

"No," Patrick says. "Take it."

Bob doesn't have a choice. The tentacle slides in, but this time it doesn't fill his mouth and stop. This time it fucks his mouth, thrusting in and out, bumping the back of his throat and dragging along his tongue as it matches Brian's agonizingly slow pace.

One thing Brian has way too fucking much of is stamina. He knows Bob is used up, but he takes his time. Patrick keeps his head tilted back, sucking on his neck and licking at biting at Bob's lips stretched around the tentacle. Brian's cock and the thing in his mouth keep fucking him, until he's trembling uncontrollably and dazed.

Then the tendrils cinched around his balls and cock let go, and Patrick reaches down and wraps his free hand around Bob's cock.

"You go first," Patrick says. "Okay? Brian fucks you until you go. But if you make him wait too long, you don't get to go at all."

Patrick emphasizes the threat with a hard twist around Bob's cock. If Bob's mouth weren't full of a thrusting tentacle, he might have laughed, because Brian really isn't going to have to wait.

The knot of heat and need that had been throbbing in his groin for he doesn't even know how long spreads and tightens. The tentacle inside him begins to slide out, wriggling as it goes, making him jerk, making his eyes roll up and flutter closed with the exquisite, filthy weirdness of it.

Then, still thick enough to make Brian's cock hard to take, the tentacle starts fucking him too.

Bob's brain whites out as the orgasm breaks over him. The tentacle whips out of his mouth so that his helpless sobs have nothing to muffle them as his cock throbs in Patrick's grip. He feels his come spatter on his chest, his chin, his face.

Brian pounds into him at a ragged counterpoint to the thrusting tentacle. All of Bob's nerves come alive as his orgasm fades, and he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head helplessly, wanting to beg Brian to stop but knowing that would just make Brian slow down and drag it out longer.

Brian's breath hitches and Bob can hear him swearing under his breath. Bob thinks please -- please -- please and then realizes he's saying it out loud. The word falls out of him with every harsh plunge of Brian's cock and the tentacle into him.

Patrick has his teeth latched onto Bob's neck, biting a bruise into the skin while he smears a finger through the come still warm on Bob's chest. Then he sticks the finger in Bob's mouth and scrapes the come off on his tongue. Bob gags a little, and swallows convulsively.

That's all Brian needs. He pulls out, spattering his come against Bob's hole, then over Bob's limp cock and his chest. Falling forward, braced on one hand, Brian jerks off on Bob and, from the startled sound he makes, Patrick too.

Brian stays like that, hunched over Bob with his head hanging down, after he finishes. Patrick lets go of Bob's neck and hair. He pets Bob's head, leaning over to kiss Bob's forehead and nose.

Bob has nothing at all left. The tentacle sliding out of him barely registers, sending only the tiniest shiver through him. He feels beat up, stretched in new places, and he feels numb. His eyes are already closed; with Brian stroking his hip and Patrick petting his hair it's so easy to slip under.

*

He wakes up once later. They're still on the rented tentacle bed, though Bob is no longer being molested by tentacles, and the lights are dimmed to near-darkness. A blanket has appeared from somewhere, huge enough to be draped over all three of them. Bob lays there for an endless, bleary moment, curled up on his side. He feels clean, not sticky from come or sweat, which sends a twinge of disappointment through him. That's the only bad thing about being used so hard -- he always falls asleep and misses the part where Brian and Patrick clean him up. He really likes that part, too.

But it's still good to wake up not feeling gross. He doesn't think he could get up to do the job himself, seeing as he can't move. He spends some time trying to figure out if that's because Brian is plastered against his back and Patrick is nuzzled up against his front, or if it's because he just plain can't move.

Eventually he realizes that he doesn't really care. He feels more well-fucked than he ever has in his life, and Patrick and Brian are wrapped around him. Not being able to move is moot.

For a while he drifts, half awake, enjoying it all. The blanket doesn't come up over his shoulder, leaving his arm bare for the hand gently stroking it. It's nice. Extra comforting.

At some point he counts hands, though, and finds that his two are tucked under his chin; one of Patrick's is under the pillow and one is resting on Bob's forearm; and Brian's are over Bob's waist and trapped against Bob's back.

As he puzzles that out the section of blanket wound around his leg twitches lazily, and Bob thinks, oh. Tentacle. Then the tentacle stroking his arm pauses to give it a soft squeeze, and for a second Bob is very awake.

Nothing more happens, though. And as he lies there, Bob realizes nothing more will. The atmosphere in the room isn't anticipatory like it was earlier; instead it feels sated, drowsy. As far as he can tell, the bed seems just as content to sleep and cuddle as the rest of them.

"Fucking weird," he whispers against the top of Patrick's head. By that he means Patrick and his tentacle bed obsession, and tentacle beds in general.

The tentacle pauses briefly to pat his shoulder -- sympathetically, is Bob's impression -- and then goes back to petting him.

As he fades back into sleep Bob thinks ...but good weird.

***