Chapter 1: John
Chapter Text
John Marston had made a lot of mistakes in his life, but walking into this particular building in Saint Denis might just take the goddamn cake. It didn’t even have a real name, just a little velvet sign hanging crooked in the window, with shimmering gold lettering that read:
‘Let Us Make You Feel So Good You Go Stupid.’
Underneath it, scribbled in chalk on the door frame:
‘No questions. No judgment. Safe word optional.’
John blinked at it, squinting.
The fuck did that mean?
Still, he was tired. A little drunk. Abigail had been giving him the cold shoulder for a week, and he’d just spent the better part of the afternoon being insulted by fancy men in tall hats. His boots were muddy. He was grumpy.
So he pushed the door open.
Inside, everything was… red . Red curtains. Red carpet. Red wallpaper with little gold vines. The air smelled like incense and pipe smoke, thick and cloying. Soft piano music played from a phonograph in the corner, just loud enough to be unsettling.
Behind the counter sat a woman in a corset and spectacles, reading a newspaper with an expression of mild boredom.
John approached, hat in hand.
“Uh… howdy.”
She looked up. Smiled. “Welcome.”
“Right. I, uh… saw the sign outside.”
“You here for the full experience?”
He hesitated. “…Maybe?”
“No judgment,” she said pleasantly. “We cater to all sorts. Now: standard protocol. You’ll be assigned a private room, soundproofed. You may request the machine to stop at any point during the process. If you panic, say the phrase ‘That’s enough’ and everything ceases immediately. Understood?”
John blinked. “I’m sorry, the what ?”
“The machine .” She gestured with her pen toward a heavy velvet curtain behind her. “They’re all customized. Responsive. Discreet. Very effective.”
“Machine,” John repeated flatly. “Y’mean… like a massage machine?”
Her smile widened, just a bit too much. “You’ll see.” She rang a little bell. A side door popped open, and a young man in a red vest waved John through.
Still confused, and starting to sweat a little, John stepped through the door and down a dimly lit hallway with plush carpeting that swallowed his boots’ footsteps.
Room Seven. Gold numbers on a red door.
He stepped inside.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
The room was dimly lit, with soft red lanterns casting long shadows across the floor. There was a chaise lounge, a mirror, a padded bench, and something in the center of the room that looked like—
“…What the hell is that.”
It was large. Black. Glossy. Unmoving.
Something like a polished metal frame suspended from the ceiling. Dozens of black cords and hoses were coiled around it, neatly at first glance, but the longer John looked, the more they seemed to shift, ever so slightly, like they were breathing.
The air smelled like leather and ozone.
He took a step back.
That was when the door sealed shut behind him with a click.
“O-okay, n-now hold on a goddamn second—”
A sudden mechanical whirring sound filled the room. The tentacles unfurled all at once—fluid, too fast, and way too many of them. Before John could reach for the door again, two thick arms wrapped around his waist and hoisted him off the ground like he weighed nothing.
“HEY! H-HEY–!! WAIT A FUCKIN’–!!?”
Another appendage snagged his hat and tossed it gently to the floor. His coat was unbuttoned in one sweep. His shirt tore open with surgical efficiency, buttons flying. Something warm and strangely soft wrapped around his ankle. Then the other. Then his thighs.
By the time John processed the fact that he was being suspended midair, naked from the waist up, and being gently but firmly restrained by a dozen inhuman limbs, it was already far too late.
He twisted, red in the face, cursing every decision that led to this moment.
“What the hell kinda massage is this?!”
From the far wall, a red light blinked on.
John’s back hit something, cool, padded leather, but he was still suspended a few feet off the ground, limbs stretched just enough to keep him from squirming too much. A harness of sleek, shifting tentacles held him suspended, and with every passing second, more joined in—brushing, nudging, tasting his skin with slow, experimental strokes.
He didn’t know whether to shout, panic, or just lie back and let it happen. His body had already decided for him.
The first touch came like a whisper across his collarbone: a warm, oiled tendril tracing a line down his chest. Another soon followed, coiling delicately around his upper arm, smoothing something across his skin. Then another, across his stomach.
They were coating him in something thick and slippery, with the faint scent of eucalyptus and something else, sweet and musky. Every inch they touched got warmer, more sensitive. His skin tingled. His nipples pebbled from the chill of it, but a second tentacle was already there, teasing one between two warm, slick pads with agonizing slowness.
“Goddamn–!” he gritted out, trying to twist away. “You better not be…fuck…! Waxin’ me or some shit…!”
He jolted when one tendril pressed between his ass cheeks, running slick and deliberate along the seam. It didn’t enter, just glided back and forth, slow, lazy, exploratory.
Another one slid along his spine, then circled around his waist and grabbed him by the hip, kneading, pulling him open with greedy curiosity. The machine wasn’t just touching him, it was learning him. Mapping every reaction. Every shiver. Every involuntary gasp.
John tried to arch up, but the moment he moved, another tentacle slithered between his thighs and spread them wide, wrapping around each leg with slow, insistent pressure.
“H-Hey– HEY! I didn’t say you c–could—! H-hnngh~?!”
Another thick tentacle, slick and glistening, curled around his cock. He hadn’t even noticed how hard he’d gotten. Hadn’t let himself notice. But it wrapped around him like a snake, tight enough to feel every vein, every throb, and started to pulse gently.
His breath hitched. His fingers curled. He still hadn’t said the safe word.
Because he didn’t want to.
He could. At any moment. That was the worst part. The sign had said he could leave. The lady at the desk had smiled when she said it.
But he didn’t.
The first slick tip pressed inside him without warning, broad, slow, and relentless. It didn’t hurt, it was warm , already lubricated, patient in a way that made it worse. It didn’t force its way in; it just… stretched him open, curling deep with the smooth, purposeful slide of something designed to push past every line of decency.
John grunted, chest heaving. “Fuck—! fuck~!”
A second tentacle coiled up beside his head, almost gentle, tapping at his lips. His eyes widened.
“You want me to…? No. No fuckin’ way, you—!!”
It pressed again. Not shoving. Just waiting.
John clenched his jaw. But something about the way it throbbed, warm and wet against his mouth, made his spine tingle.
He opened.
The tentacle slid in, slick and sinuous, pressing against his tongue. It didn’t go deep, just filled his mouth, hot and heavy, and began to rock gently as if tasting the shape of his mouth in return.
His moan was muffled.
By now he was being touched on every front: one thick tendril fucking into him slow and deep, another pumping slick around his cock with teasing pressure, another rolling his nipple between warm pads, another sliding down the curve of his neck, stroking, wrapping, claiming.
His hips bucked on instinct, and the tentacle inside him curled, stroking something that made his vision flash white.
He choked around the tentacle in his mouth, eyes fluttering shut.
The machine purred.
The tentacle inside him started to fuck in earnest—long, slow strokes that built unbearable pressure with every thrust. The one around his cock squeezed tighter, twisting in wet, gliding motions. The one in his mouth began to rock deeper.
And still he didn’t say the words.
Didn’t even want to.
His thighs were shaking. Sweat clung to his chest. His whole body writhed in the machine’s grip, overwhelmed and helpless and so close already…and all John could think, as another slick, teasing tendril curled up behind his balls and gently lifted them, was: God help me. I might be goin’ stupid after all.
At some point, John didn’t even know how long it had been anymore.
Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been an hour. The lighting in the room hadn’t changed, and the machine never slowed.
It only got worse.
He’d come at least three times, probably more. He couldn’t tell anymore. They all blurred together. He’d screamed around the tentacle in his mouth once, then groaned, then choked a sob when the thing still didn’t stop.
Every time he came, the tendrils only adjusted, pressing deeper, wrapping tighter, stroking with a rhythm that danced on the line between euphoria and madness. One inside him, two now, sliding in perfect, obscene tandem. One on his cock, one teasing his nipples, one in his mouth, fucking it with slow, sticky pulses that made his jaw ache and his toes curl.
His arms were jelly. His spine arched helplessly every time the machine hit his prostate—again, and again, and again .
The strokes grew faster.
“Hhn~! Hhhhgn—A-aah…~! F–ffuck...!~” he moaned, sweat-drenched and twitching. His dick was raw and red, still achingly hard. His balls pulled up tight, but the last orgasm had come and gone, and the one after that had barely spurted.
He was coming dry. And still, he needed more .
Fuck, he needed more.
The machine’s grip on him was firm and all-encompassing. At some point, he’d stopped thinking about what it was doing and just let it take over. Every sound was a gasp, every movement a shudder. His brain was half-melted, his face slick with spit and sweat, drooling weakly around the tentacle still rocking into his mouth.
“Ah~ fuck! fuck, I can’t—! I can’t— don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—!!”
The tentacles didn’t answer. They just kept working. Their grip never faltered. Their rhythm never slowed.
John could feel it happening.
That creeping, numbing warmth spreading through his core. That tingle that started at the base of his spine and lit up his whole nervous system. He was going. He was going, his eyes fluttered back, his body bowed hard—
—and it stopped.
Everything.
The tendrils released him all at once, unwinding and sliding away like lazy smoke.
The one inside him pulled out with a squelch. The one in his mouth slipped free, dragging one last trail of slick spit down his chin. The one around his cock gave one more teasing stroke before it, too, uncoiled and let go.
John dropped.
Right onto the padded floor, trembling and soaked and completely empty.
He blinked, dazed. Tried to lift his head. His arms wouldn’t work right. His thighs quivered helplessly beneath him.
He groaned, dazed, “Wh—huh…?”
The silence was deafening.
Then, the door hissed open.
John flinched at the sudden change in pressure, but didn’t move. He couldn’t. He heard footsteps, soft and quick, and the sound of someone fumbling with something just outside the door.
“Mr. Marston?” a voice called gently.
He blinked toward the sound—his face still flushed, mouth shiny with spit. He barely managed a noise in response.
The voice continued, polite but a bit strained. “Sir, I—um. I just wanted to inform you that, uh. It seems the stimulation unit ran out of battery mid-session. We do apologize. This… doesn’t usually happen.”
He heard a throat clear.
“We, uh, recommend keeping sessions under forty-five minutes, but… it seems yours, ah, exceeded expectations.”
John’s eyes rolled slightly as he tried to sit up, completely wrecked, cum drying between his thighs, his chest heaving like he’d been chased by a damn bear. He managed to rasp out, “You think?”
The employee, clearly mortified , was peeking in with one hand over their eyes. “There’s a robe on the wall for your use. Shower station’s to your left. Please feel free to exit at your own pace. Your… session has been marked as complete.”
Then, quickly: “Thank you for choosing Aether Sensory Solutions. Have a great day.”
The door clicked shut.
John sat there, slack-jawed and trembling. Eventually, after a long moment spent blinking at the red ceiling, he reached for the robe, draped it over his ruined body, and staggered to his feet.
He shuffled out of the building ten minutes later.
Hair wet. Knees wobbling. Eyes unfocused.
The woman at the counter gave him a polite, knowing nod. “Have a good evening, Mr. Marston.”
John didn’t respond. He just wandered out onto the Saint Denis streets like a man in a trance.
Somewhere in the distance, a trolley bell rang.
A bird chirped.
And John muttered to himself, face blank, “I… think I saw God.”
Chapter 2: Javier
Chapter Text
The sun had barely risen when John Marston staggered back into camp. He was disheveled. He was damp. He looked like he'd just been born .
And somehow he was grinning.
Javier spotted him first. Sitting on a stump by the fire, coffee halfway to his mouth, he watched John stumble in with that vacant, cock-drunk smile and bleary, unfocused eyes.
John dropped his satchel on the ground. Flopped down onto a log like his legs had stopped working. And sighed, deep and happy.
“…Qué carajos,” Javier muttered and stood up, walking over slowly. “You get in a fight or somethin’? You look like hell, hermano .”
John just blinked at him, then gave a lazy, satisfied exhale and mumbled, “Nope.”
“You drunk?”
“Nah.”
“…Then what happened?”
John didn’t answer. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled card with an address printed on the front in glossy red ink, and handed it to Javier without a word.
Javier looked at the card. Then at John.
“...What is this?”
John smiled wider. “You’ll see.”
—
Javier didn’t plan to go.
He really didn’t.
He waited a whole day. Watched John limp around like a man twice his age, sighing every time the wind blew the right way. The others asked what was wrong with him, Abigail rolled her eyes, Arthur laughed, but John refused to explain.
Just kept saying: “Changed my damn life, is all.”
By the next evening, Javier couldn’t take it anymore.
He cleaned up. Took his horse to Saint Denis. Found the place tucked between a shoe store and a cafe. The sign read: Aether Sensory Solutions, “Pleasure Beyond Comprehension”
He nearly turned around right then and there, but curiosity was a bitch, so he stepped inside.
The woman at the counter greeted him politely. Her eyes skimmed him once, taking in the weapons, the spurs, the slight confusion on his face.
“First time?” she asked with a smile.
Javier nodded. “Uh… yeah. I guess so.”
She passed him a clipboard. “Please read and sign the waiver. Don’t worry, we’re perfectly safe and fully soundproofed. And if at any point you’d like the session to stop, simply say ‘That’s Enough’, and our equipment will immediately power down. Understood?”
“Uh. Sure.” Javier scribbled something that vaguely resembled his name.
She gestured to the hall. “Room Four. Enjoy yourself.”
Javier walked slowly.
The hallway was dimly lit, the doors all sleek and numbered. He found Room Four. His hand hovered over the handle. He took a breath, then opened it.
What greeted him was red lighting, warmth, padded floor, a faint, humid scent like something floral and chemical. And in the center of the room, slowly rising from a recess in the floor…
A mass of slick, glossy, writhing tentacles.
They shimmered in the light like something born of oil and shadow. Some long and slender. Others thicker, twitching with anticipation. One flexed midair and let out a wet pop.
Javier froze. His mouth opened. Then shut. “ Ay dios mío ... what in the world did I get myself into?”
The door hissed closed behind him, Javier didn’t have time to run.
The machine moved, slick appendages sprang forward from its writhing mass, one snaking around his wrist, another curling around his ankle. His eyes widened. “HEY….!”
Too late.
The ground dropped under his feet as he was yanked upward, lifted off the floor like a rag doll. The tentacles hoisted him into the air with shocking precision, and he cursed in rapid Spanish as the cool air kissed newly exposed skin, his clothes being neatly stripped away one layer at a time by those impossibly nimble limbs.
“ Oye —?! what the fuck—! Let go of me, pendejo !”
But they didn’t let go. Instead, the machine purred. Not literally, but the low hum in the room deepened, vibrating through the walls and floor like something alive. Something... amused.
Before Javier could yell again, a slick, heavy tentacle slithered over his chest, pressing against him, gliding up his torso, spreading oil as it went.
It felt good. Too good. Warm and smooth and just the right pressure. His body tensed as another wrapped around his thigh, squeezing, lifting his legs further apart. A third trailed up his spine, teasing, slow, almost gentle.
He narrowed his eyes. “OH–! O…oh...! D…damn…”
One thick tendril coiled around his cock and Javier whimpered, sharp, involuntary. His hips bucked in the air.
Another slid between his legs, down over his entrance, and his hole twitched involuntarily, a fresh stream of Spanish curses spilling from his lips.
He was panting and sweating now. “E–easy…”
The first breached him.
Slick, thick, insistent.
Javier gasped, back arching midair. “Fffff—fuck! Ahn..~” he groaned. “Okay– okay , I said easy– Mierda ! G-Gentle— GENTLE —!”
He wasn't sure what he expected, but the machine... paused.
The tentacle inside him went still. The ones holding his thighs loosened slightly. The stroking at his cock slowed to a less overwhelming rhythm.
Javier panted, dazed. “...it can understand me?”
A low mechanical hum answered.
He wasn’t sure if it was a yes, but the tentacle inside him resumed at a slower, more deliberate pace, stretching him with firm but measured thrusts, easing past resistance inch by inch.
He moaned and dropped his head back. “Ohh…~ Mierda...Y-yeah…that’s... better…haa…”
Another tentacle slid along his mouth. It tapped his lips, oiled and pulsing.
Javier hesitated, then gave in, opening his mouth. It pushed in slowly, carefully, filling his mouth in a rhythm matched to the one inside him.
And when the third tentacle resumed stroking his cock, alternating tight pulses with teasing flicks, Javier whined –he couldn’t help it.
He was floating. Spread wide and full and used. Slippery, dizzy, breathless, but it felt incredible .
He couldn’t stop moaning. Couldn’t stop trembling.
And as he lost track of the number of tentacles working him over—two, three, maybe four—he suddenly, deeply understood the look on John’s face the day before.
“Y-you fucking…perverted bastard ,” he mumbled around the thing in his mouth. “You knew what this was…”
He started to come, hard. But the machine didn’t stop.
Javier didn’t know how long he’d been in the air.
Minutes? Hours? A lifetime?
Everything was slick and glowing. His own sweat mixed with that sweet-scented oil, dripping down his thighs, his chest, his face. The machine had wrapped him in its rhythm, rolling him along in wave after wave of tight, wet, relentless pleasure.
It was gentle, at least compared to how it had started, but that gentleness didn’t stop. It just kept going. One thick tentacle inside him moved with deep, smooth strokes, another teased his entrance, fluttering lightly just outside. A third coiled lovingly around his cock, pulsing with heat and friction. The one in his mouth had long since retreated, leaving him panting and slack-jawed.
He came again.
He whined, high, breathless, helpless, and shuddered, twitching in the air.
“Ah–Ah–Ah~! Haa…nghh–p-please—” he gasped. “Enough– that’s enough—”
The room thrummed.
The machine didn’t stop immediately, instead, it slowed, tapered off. The tentacle inside him pulled out with an audible slick sound, the one stroking his cock gave a few final slow squeezes before retreating.
Then, like a sigh, the machine gently lowered him to the padded floor.
Javier collapsed. Just... melted into the cushions, slick and spent, face-down and half-conscious. His limbs wouldn’t move. His eyes barely opened.
He groaned into the floor. “... fuck me …”
Nothing answered.
He realized distantly that the machine had gone still, its tentacles coiled back into their resting state, humming faintly, as if... waiting. It felt like he’d been let go early. Like the machine was... disappointed.
He chuckled weakly, face still pressed into the cushion. “Reckon John spoiled you, huh…”
Javier returned hours later, slow, swaying slightly, face flushed and glowing like he’d just come back from a damn spa.
His hair was tousled. His shirt was buttoned wrong. He looked like a man who hadn’t blinked in thirty minutes and was still thinking about what just happened.
Karen stared at him from across the fire.
“You good?” she asked.
Javier nodded slowly, blinking. “... Sí .”
John looked up from where he was whittling. The corner of his mouth twitched.
Javier walked right past him, no eye contact, no comment , then dropped himself flat onto his cot and just... stared at the sky, wide-eyed and slack-mouthed.
John waited a beat.
Then asked, casually, “So... how many times?”
Javier let out a long, wheezy breath.
“Too many.”
Chapter 3: Arthur
Chapter Text
The morning was quiet, which was suspicious enough on its own.
Arthur had been on coffee duty, meaning he was awake earlier than he’d like and crankier than a bear in summer. But what really set him on edge wasn’t the lack of gunfire or shouting.
It was John.
John was sitting across the fire with his coffee, smiling.
Not just smiling, fuckin’ floating . Like every goddamn problem in his life had been scooped up and tossed into the nearest river. The man had the slack-jawed, blissed-out look of someone who hadn’t thought a single negative thought in days.
Arthur squinted at him over his mug. “…The hell you so happy about?”
John blinked, slow, like his brain was on a delay. “Nothin’.”
“Bullshit. You ain’t smiled like that since you found out Abigail was pregnant. Which, far as I remember, didn’t even last a week before you started panickin’ .”
John chuckled to himself. “Guess I just… had a good time.”
Arthur frowned. “A good time where?”
John just took another sip, eyes distant, and sighed like he’d seen heaven and lived to tell the tale. Arthur had half a mind to keep digging, but his attention was pulled to movement on the far side of camp.
Javier was limping.
Not badly, just a subtle hitch in his stride, but it was paired with the kind of smug, self-satisfied glow Arthur normally only saw after a card game he’d cheated in.
Arthur’s frown deepened. “What the hell’s wrong with your leg?”
“Nothing’s wrong with my leg,” Javier said easily, grabbing a plate of stew from Pearson’s table. “Just a little sore.”
“You’re sore, John’s sittin’ there lookin’ like he’s driftin’ through a dream, and neither of you’s givin’ me a straight answer. I don’t like it.”
Javier took a slow bite, chewed, and smiled like he was holding in a joke too big to hide. “Brother,” he said finally, setting the plate down and leaning one elbow on the table, “you’ll never believe me unless you see for yourself.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “See what?”
Javier’s smile only widened. “Just… take this.”
From his coat pocket, he slid a small, glossy card across the table. Red lettering. An address in Saint Denis.
Arthur didn’t touch it. “This some kinda scam?”
“No scam.” Javier leaned back, watching Arthur like a man who already knew the ending of the story. “It’ll change your life. But don’t take my word for it.”
Arthur glanced between him and John. John was still staring off into the distance with a smile that could’ve belonged to a saint or a lunatic.
“…You two are up to somethin’,” Arthur muttered.
“Maybe.” Javier picked his stew back up. “Or maybe we just found somethin’ worth the trip.”
Arthur stared at the card a moment longer. The gold letters seemed to catch the light, even in the shade.
He hated how curious he already felt.
Now, Arthur was not the sort of man who made “special trips” to Saint Denis.
He went there for supplies, information, or because Dutch said so, and every time, he got out as fast as possible. But the damn card had been burning a hole in his pocket for days now, tucked between his cigarettes.
Every time he lit up, he saw it.
Red lettering. Gold trim. That smug little address.
He told himself it was nonsense. Probably some kind of fancy gambling parlor or backroom brothel that was overpriced and overhyped. But then he’d remember the way John had looked, like his brain had been wrung out and left in the sun to dry, and the way Javier was still moving like he’d been in a fight he didn’t regret losing.
Curiosity was a dangerous thing.
So, one humid afternoon, Arthur tied up his horse outside the Saint Denis post office, wandered through the market, and found himself staring at a storefront so discreet he almost missed it.
Aether Sensory Solutions.
The lettering shimmered faintly in the shade.
Arthur snorted. “Sensory Solutions my ass.”
But his boots carried him forward.
Inside, the place smelled like warm incense and something faintly floral. The lighting was low, the wallpaper deep red, the air thick enough to drink. A woman sat behind a counter, spectacles on, smile polite but unreadable.
“Welcome,” she said. “First time?”
Arthur’s eyes swept the place, wary. “Reckon so. I’m just… lookin’.”
She tilted her head. “Looking is free, but the experience is better. Standard waiver applies. Full privacy. If you want to stop at any point, just say ‘That’s enough,’ and the process will end.”
Arthur frowned. “Process?”
Her smile didn’t budge. “Room Eight is open.”
He thought about leaving. Right then. Thought about tipping his hat and walking out, back into the street, never speaking of it again.
Instead, he muttered, “Fine. Just to see what all the fuss is about.”
The hallway was quiet enough that he could hear his own boots against the plush carpet. Every door he passed was numbered in gold, the air growing warmer the further he went.
Room Eight.
He hesitated, hand on the knob. Told himself it was harmless.
Then opened it.
The light was low, casting long shadows over padded floors and warm red walls. In the center of the room… something shifted.
A glossy black shape rose slowly from a recess in the floor, dozens of slick, supple tentacles unfurling like a nest of snakes waking from sleep. Some thick as his wrist, others slender and twitching. The air carried a faint scent of oil and something sweet he couldn’t name.
Arthur’s breath caught.
“…What in the goddamn hell…”
One of the longer tendrils flexed, as if testing the air. Another swayed toward him, just slightly.
Arthur took a step back.
The door clicked shut behind him and the machine hummed, a low, steady sound that vibrated in his ribs. The tentacles shifted, curling and uncoiling with slow precision, like they knew exactly who had just walked in.
Arthur swallowed. “I, uh… I think I might be in the wrong–”
A single tentacle, smooth and warm, brushed the back of his hand, Arthur froze.
Another traced the edge of his coat, deliberate and almost… curious.
He could leave right now, say the words, walk out, but instead, he stood there, watching the tentacles close the distance.
And damned if he didn’t want to know what would happen next.
Arthur didn’t move.
The first touch had been light, just enough to test him. The second was firmer, curling against the back of his wrist in a way that made the hair on his arms stand up.
He cleared his throat. “You, uh… you got the wrong fella.”
The tentacle didn’t seem convinced. Another slid in from the side, slick and warm, brushing along the line of his jaw before retreating.
Arthur’s instinct was to grab it, shove it away—but then he remembered the way John had been smiling. The way Javier had been limping.
Hell.
Before he could decide to leave, two of the thicker tendrils coiled around his forearms, not tight, just enough to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere unless he said the words.
“Alright,” Arthur muttered, voice low. “Guess I’m stayin’ a minute.”
The machine hummed, as if pleased.
The first tug was careful, drawing him a step closer to the center of the room. Another pair of tentacles worked at his coat, peeling it from his shoulders with precise efficiency. His vest went next. His shirt followed—buttons plucked loose, fabric sliding down his arms until his chest was bare in the low light.
The air was warmer here. Heavy.
Something slick and heated curled around his waist, pulling him forward until his boots touched the padded floor beneath the machine’s main frame.
Then came the first real contact, broad, warm strokes gliding down his back, across his shoulders, over his chest. The oil was thick, faintly sweet, and spread in deliberate circles that made his skin tingle.
Arthur grunted. “You some kinda… fancy massage contraption?”
A tentacle brushed across his nipple, teasing, and his breath hitched despite himself.
“Mmgh–! G-guess not…!”
Another tendril, thinner and more deliberate, slid along the inside of his thigh, pausing just short of his groin. The heat from it radiated through his trousers.
Arthur’s fingers flexed, his voice rough. “You tryin’ to get friendly?”
The answer came in the form of his belt being unbuckled, his fly undone, and his trousers sliding down in one smooth motion.
He’d expected the tentacle to grab him immediately, but instead, it traced along his hip, slow, deliberate, mapping him like it had all the time in the world.
The anticipation was worse than the touch.
When it finally wrapped around him, thick, hot, and slick enough to glide with no resistance, Arthur sucked in a sharp breath.
“Son of a—!”
The stroke was slow. Testing. Another tendril joined in, sliding behind him, pressing between his cheeks with warm, steady pressure. Not forcing, just exploring, circling, letting the oil do its work.
Arthur shifted on instinct, and the tentacle took it as permission.
The first push inside was broad and patient, the slick warmth spreading deep as it filled him inch by inch. He groaned and braced his hands on the padded floor.
The tentacle around his cock tightened, stroking with a lazy rhythm that made his hips twitch. Another wrapped his chest, holding him steady while the one inside him began to move, slow thrusts that seemed to sync perfectly with the strokes at his front.
Arthur’s breath got heavier.
“Goddamn…hmgh…! You’re good at this,” he muttered.
The machine hummed again, as if agreeing.
Another tendril joined in at his mouth, brushing his lips, warm and faintly pulsing. Arthur hesitated for all of two seconds before opening, letting it slide in. It filled his mouth in a way that made him hum low in his throat, the taste faintly sweet like the oil on his skin.
Soon, he was wrapped from every angle, one inside him, one around him, one in his mouth, others stroking along his sides, kneading his thighs, brushing his nipples until he shuddered.
He came once, hard enough his knees threatened to give out, but the machine didn’t stop.
Didn’t even slow.
Arthur grunted around the tentacle in his mouth, eyes half-lidded, sweat running down his chest. Every stroke, every push inside him, built another wave before the first one had faded.
“Ffff—uck—! GHh..!~ Hmph…”
He lost count after the second orgasm. By the third, his voice had gone hoarse. By the fourth, his legs shook uncontrollably.
The tentacle in his mouth slid free with a slick sound, leaving him gasping. The one inside him curled deep, stroking a spot that made him groan loud enough to echo off the padded walls.
It was too much.
And he didn’t want it to end.
The machine seemed to know, picking up the pace, thrusts and strokes perfectly timed to pull him apart piece by piece. His head tipped back, jaw slack, hips moving on instinct.
He came again, nearly collapsing, but the tentacles held him up, slowing only when his head lolled forward and his breathing turned ragged.
Then, with the same care it had shown from the start, the machine unwound from him. The one inside slid free, the one around his cock loosened, and all the others retreated until he was standing there, shaking, slick with oil, shirtless and panting in the warm red light.
Arthur laughed—just once, low and breathless. “Yeah… I see what they meant.”
The machine gave one last, low hum, almost like a purr, before sinking back into the floor.
Arthur stood there for another minute before he could move, pulling his clothes back on with unsteady hands.
When he finally stepped back into the hallway, the woman at the counter gave him the same polite, unreadable smile she must’ve given everyone who came out of those rooms.
“Have a pleasant evening, sir?”
Arthur smirked, hat tipped low. “Somethin’ like that.”
Arthur got back to camp late enough that the fire was already lit and most everyone had settled in for the night.
He tied up his horse, dusted himself off, and told himself that he was just going to walk in, sit down, and not give anyone a reason to ask questions.
Easy.
Except the first person he saw was John.
And John looked at him the way a coyote looks at a rabbit that’s just stepped into the wrong patch of dirt.
“Well,” John said, leaning back on his log, “if it ain’t Mr. Skeptical.”
Arthur grunted. “Evenin’.”
Javier glanced over from where he was cleaning his guitar, and the moment his eyes hit Arthur, that slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
“No,” Arthur said immediately.
“No what?” Javier asked innocently.
Arthur dropped into a chair, grabbing a plate of stew from the table. “No, we ain’t talkin’ about whatever the hell you’re thinkin’.”
John snorted. “Yeah? ’Cause I’m thinkin’ you look like a man who just saw the light.”
“I look like a man who just rode in from Saint Denis,” Arthur said, stabbing his stew.
Javier leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Mmm. And did you… happen to pass by a certain establishment? Red walls, gold letters, discreet little sign?”
Arthur didn’t answer, which was all the answer they needed.
John’s grin turned downright smug. “How many times?”
Arthur set down his fork and fixed him with a look. “Don’t start.”
Javier chuckled low. “I’ll take that as ‘more than once.’”
Arthur rolled his eyes, picking up his plate again. “You two are idiots.”
“And yet,” John drawled, “here you are, joinin’ the club.”
Arthur didn’t reply, just kept eating, ignoring the way both of them were watching him like cats with a bowl of cream. His shoulders were sore, his thighs ached, and there was still oil clinging faintly to his skin no matter how much he’d scrubbed in the bathhouse.
But damned if he didn’t feel… better.
Javier strummed a lazy chord on his guitar, still smiling. “Told you you wouldn’t believe me unless you saw for yourself.”
Arthur finally smirked into his stew. “Yeah… you were right.”
Chapter 4: Charles
Chapter Text
Arthur wasn’t used to people paying close attention to his moods.
Most folks in camp either took him as he was or left him alone, and that suited him fine. But Charles… Charles noticed things.
Which was why Arthur found himself under quiet scrutiny three mornings later.
He’d been leaning back on a log after breakfast, coffee in hand, legs stretched out toward the fire. For once, his shoulders weren’t knotted up like fence wire. He’d slept well, eaten well, and, though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, was still riding the slow afterglow of his trip to Saint Denis. That was when he realized Charles had been looking at him for a good thirty seconds.
“…What?” Arthur asked, lowering his cup.
Charles tilted his head slightly. “You look… different .”
Arthur frowned. “Different how?”
“Relaxed,” Charles said simply. “Like… everything that’s been eating at you just let go all at once.”
Arthur snorted. “You sayin’ I usually look like hell?”
Charles just gave a small smile. “You usually look like you’ve got a few extra miles on you. Not today.”
Arthur took a long sip of coffee, hoping that would be the end of it. But Charles didn’t move on, just kept watching him with that quiet, steady patience that was somehow harder to dodge than a direct question.
“Was in Saint Denis the other day,” Arthur said eventually. “Got myself a decent meal. Bath. That’s all.”
Charles’ brow ticked up, like he didn’t quite believe it.
Arthur shifted in his seat. “…And maybe stopped by someplace John and Javier wouldn’t shut up about.”
That made Charles’ eyes sharpen with interest. “What kind of place?”
Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. “One o’ them… private sort of places. You know. Curtains in the windows. Staff don’t ask questions.”
Charles chuckled. “You went to a brothel?”
Arthur gave him a flat look. “Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
Arthur hesitated. This was ridiculous. He wasn’t embarrassed, hell , it had been incredible, but there was no way to describe it without sounding insane.
“…Ever heard of somethin’ called Aether Sensory Solutions ?”
Charles blinked. “No.”
Arthur leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Good. Don’t. Unless you feel like walkin’ out lookin’ like your legs forgot how to work and your brain’s been put through a washboard.”
Charles’ lips twitched. “…That’s… oddly specific.”
Arthur sat back with his coffee. “All I’m sayin’ is…John’s been smilin’ for a week, Javier’s been walkin’ like he lost a fight with a wild horse, and now I’m the third fool in the line. Draw your own conclusions.”
Charles raised a brow. “You enjoyed it?”
Arthur smirked faintly. “Let’s just say I ain’t complainin’.”
Charles didn’t go to Saint Denis often. Crowds weren’t his thing, and neither was the smell of horse dung mixed with perfume. But once the seed of curiosity was planted, it was hard to ignore.
Three men he knew well, men he’d fought beside, bled beside, were all walking around camp looking like they’d been let in on some kind of cosmic secret.
John, with that lazy half-smile and faraway stare, Javier limping like it was worth every step, Arthur, loose in the shoulders for the first time in years.
It was suspicious. Too suspicious.
Which was why, a few days later, Charles found himself standing in front of a small, discreet storefront wedged between a hatmaker and a closed bakery.
Aether Sensory Solutions.
He took in the gold lettering, the faint shimmer of the sign in the afternoon light, and exhaled through his nose. “Alright,” he muttered, “let’s see what’s so damn special.”
Inside, it smelled warm and sweet, ncense layered over something floral. The red wallpaper and plush carpet seemed to swallow sound. A woman in a corset and spectacles greeted him with a practiced, polite smile.
“Welcome. First time?”
Charles gave a single nod. “Yeah.”
“Excellent. We pride ourselves on full privacy, safety, and discretion. If at any point you’d like to stop, simply say ‘That’s enough,’ and the process will cease immediately.”
Process. He didn’t like the way she said it.
Still, he signed the paper she slid across the counter. The pen felt oddly heavy in his hand.
“Room Two is ready for you,” she said, gesturing down the hall.
Charles walked slowly, boots soundless against the thick carpet. Each door was numbered in gold. The air got warmer the further in he went.
Room Two.
He opened the door.
The lighting was dim, lanterns casting soft, red shadows across padded floors. The air carried a faint, humid scent, and in the center of the room… something rose from the floor.
Glossy. Black. Moving.
Tentacles, dozens of them, unfurled like a living thing stretching after sleep. Thick ones, slender ones, all gleaming with oil that caught the light. Some hovered, some curled lazily, others flexed in the air like they were already mapping out his shape.
Charles froze. “…What the hell…”
One of the longer tendrils swayed toward him, slowly, deliberately.
And for the first time, he understood why Arthur had leaned in and told him not to ask too many questions. Why Javier had been so smug. Why John had looked like a man who’d been hit by lightning and liked it.
He stood there, half in the doorway, as the first tentacle brushed the back of his hand, warm and slick in a way that made his skin prickle.
Charles swallowed hard. “Alright… what the hell did they do in here?”
The tentacle curled, as if inviting him further in, and before he could talk himself out of it, he stepped forward.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Charles wasn’t the type to rush headlong into things he didn’t understand. He preferred to observe, weigh, and only then decide how to move.
The machine, if that’s what this thing was, seemed to know it.
It didn’t lunge at him the way it had with the others. No quick snatch of limbs, no sudden hoisting into the air. Instead, the mass of black, oil-slick tentacles spread out slowly across the floor like a dark tide creeping toward the shore.
Each tendril moved with its own rhythm, some curling and uncoiling lazily, others swaying in time with the low hum that seemed to fill the whole room.
Charles stayed still, letting his eyes track the motion, cataloging the differences in thickness, the faint pulsing along some of the longer ones, the way the oil caught the red lantern light like wet silk.
The first contact was almost polite, a single, slender tentacle brushing the side of his wrist, a warm slide of oil that left his skin tingling. He didn’t pull back.
Another coiled around his forearm, not to restrain but to test, the pressure adjusting subtly in response to the tension of his muscles.
“You’re… feeling me out,” Charles murmured under his breath.
The hum deepened, as if in answer.
When the first thicker tentacle approached, it didn’t go for his clothes. It wrapped once around his waist, firm but loose, a reminder that it could take control at any moment but wasn’t in a hurry. Another trailed down his back in a slow glide, leaving a slick path from his shoulder blades to the base of his spine.
Charles exhaled slowly. The oil had a scent, something sweet under the floral, heady enough that each breath seemed to sink into him.
By the time the machine started undressing him, he’d already adjusted to the closeness. His coat was eased from his shoulders, his vest unbuttoned with a series of precise tugs, his shirt parted to expose the solid planes of his chest. The air felt warmer on bare skin, the red light wrapping everything in a low, intimate glow.
A broad tentacle stroked across his chest, mapping the slope of his collarbone, the line of his pecs, the faint ridge of his ribs. Another followed the seam of his trousers, pausing at his hip, before working the button and sliding them down in one smooth pull.
Charles didn’t fight it.
The strokes became more deliberate. One tentacle circled low around his thigh, the texture shifting, slick pads at the tip pressing and releasing in a kneading motion. Another curled behind his knee and lifted just enough to adjust his stance.
The first touch at his cock was measured—heat and slick pressure coiling around him in a slow, exploratory wrap. It didn’t squeeze yet, just held, letting his body grow into the contact. The tentacle moved with patience, learning the way he twitched when it shifted, the way his breath hitched at a tighter curl.
When the first press came at his entrance, Charles’ fingers flexed reflexively. The machine didn’t push, just circled, traced, spread the oil in long, lazy arcs until the tension eased from his stance. Only then did it begin to breach, inch by steady inch, the warmth stretching him open without rush or force.
A low hum vibrated through the tentacle inside him, traveling deep enough to make his breath stutter.
Charles tilted his head back, eyes half-lidded, focusing on the way every movement felt coordinated, not random, not overwhelming. Strategic.
Another tendril joined the one at his cock, curling in the opposite direction, twisting gently as the first began to stroke with a languid, steady rhythm. The one inside him matched it, long, deep glides that brushed that tender point inside just enough to keep his breath uneven.
It was as if the machine wanted to see how far it could take him without ever losing control of the pace.
And he let it.
When the first wave crested, it was less an explosion and more a long, drawn-out pull that left his legs shaking. The machine held him upright, eased the rhythm without stopping, coaxing him into a second climax before he’d fully come down from the first.
By the third, Charles’ head hung forward, sweat sliding down his temple, lips parted around ragged breaths. His hands, once relaxed at his sides, were now gripping at the tentacle braced across his chest, not to push it away but to hold on.
The hum deepened again. The strokes grew a fraction tighter, the thrusts a little more insistent, and heat pooled low in his spine until he spilled again, groaning under his breath.
Finally, the pace slowed, the tentacle inside him retreating with a slick, careful slide, the one around his cock loosening until it slipped free entirely. The others unwrapped from his body, leaving his skin warm and glistening with oil.
The machine drew back into itself, folding away into the floor like a dark flower closing at dusk.
Charles stood there for a long moment, steadying his breath, before reaching for his shirt. His muscles felt loose, his chest light, like something in him had been unwound.
As he dressed, he glanced at the space where the machine had been and shook his head once, a faint smile touching his lips.
“…No wonder they wouldn’t tell me.”
By the time Charles rode back into camp, the sun had dipped low enough to paint everything gold. He tied up his horse slow, took a breath, and told himself:
Just walk in. Sit down. Don’t say a word.
Easy.
His shoulders were looser than they’d been in months. Every muscle in his body felt like it had been unwound, stretched, and put back together just right. But that was the problem—he felt different. And around them , it would be obvious.
He ducked under the clothesline and headed toward the fire.
John looked up first, half-smirk already forming. “Well, well. If it ain’t the quiet one.”
Arthur, sitting back with a cup of coffee, raised an eyebrow. “Evenin’, Charles.” His tone was too casual to be innocent.
Javier didn’t even glance up from tuning his guitar. “Mmm. You went to Saint Denis.”
Charles kept his face neutral as he set down his saddlebag. “Yeah. Needed supplies.”
“Mhm,” Javier hummed, still plucking at the strings. “And did those supplies happen to come from a certain building with red walls?”
Charles pulled off his gloves. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
Arthur’s lip curled just enough to show he was enjoying this. “Funny. You got the same look I had when I came back. Like somebody beat the stiffness clean outta you.”
John leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So?”
“So what?” Charles asked, reaching for a plate of stew.
“So,” John said, “how many times?”
Charles stilled for half a second. That was all it took. Three sets of eyes, each one knowing exactly what that pause meant, locked onto him.
Javier’s grin was slow, smug. “Welcome to the club, hermano.”
Arthur took a drink of coffee, hiding a chuckle. “Thought you’d be the last one to go for it.”
Charles kept eating, refusing to rise to it. “Wasn’t what I expected.”
“No,” John said, sitting back, “it never is.”
Javier strummed a lazy chord. “And yet… you’d go back, wouldn’t you?”
Charles didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him before he could stop it.
That was enough.
Arthur shook his head. “We’re all doomed.”