this joke is NOT public library tech approved. we would never get funding approved for an additional regular guy to roam the library, let alone the physical manifestation of the Gods' distain for King Minos!
That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die...
or you could make out with it ;)
Welcome to my month long one-shot collection, dedicated to all things creepy and crawly, the more eyes and tentacles the better.
My hope is to have a new smutty stand-alone eldritch horror x reader one-shot out each Sunday in May. The reader inserts will vary in gender, pairing and personality. The stories will not feature non-con, however there may occur some dubious consent (monsters are monsters, and some drive the reader insane).
Consider this your warning; there is 18+ content ahead.
May 3 - Male!Reader x Shoggoth lord (M/M)
May 10 - Female!Reader x Yog-Sothoth (F/M)
May 17 - Male!Reader x Deep one (M/NB)
May 24 - Female!Reader x King in Yellow (F/F)
May 31 - GN!Reader x Monster under your bed (Other)
Thank you everyone who read and motivated me to write more this month. If there is any story you would like a sequel to or any other monster that you think I should write a story about, let me know.
You had known this monster ever since you were a child. It always came back for you, no matter how many times you had switched beds or moved. Back then you were terrified of it, hiding under your covers at the smallest of sounds. But as you got older, grew into an adult, you realized the fear had evolved into something else. Something that made you a lot more eager to go to bed.
But as soon as you started to embrace your night terrors, they had stopped. For years you hadn’t felt the monster’s presence. You hadn’t even had a nightmare. But a few months ago, the monster returned.
Tags: SFW, Monster fucker reader insert x Confused shadow monster, crack, slow burn (as much as a one-shot allows), dreams, memories
Also on Ao3
Masterlist - Eldritch horror May
It was pitch-black in your bedroom; the blinds were pulled down. Not a single ray of moonlight shone in. A small aura of blue light emanated from your phone screen. You had been doom-scrolling for the past three hours, and your eyes were getting tired. Finally, the display read 3 am; the witching hour was upon you.
You turned off the phone, placing it haphazardly on the nightstand. Everything was prepared. You were laying on top of your comforter in just your underwear. They were nice underwear too, all mesh and lace. You even dangled a hand enticingly over the edge of the bed. Now, you just needed to be patient. You squinted into the abyss around you while you feigned sleep. Slowly, the dark encroached on you, the shadows growing deeper and darker.
Something moved out of the corner of your eye, impossibly fast.
Your skin tingled and your breathing sped up; they were here, somewhere in your room. Behind your door, or in your closet. Possibly even under your bed.
You couldn’t wait any longer. Slowly, you moved down the bed. The wood floor was cold under the soles of your bare feet. The anticipation sent a shiver down your spine. A naked foot, what monster could resist that?
You could barely suppress a moan when the first icy tendril brushed your foot. How you had longed for this. You stayed completely still, afraid that whatever was bellow you would flee if you looked at it. Tentatively, the tendril wrapped itself around your ankle. You bit your lip to keep from making a sound. This was a dream come true.
The tendril coiled around you, but accidentally skimmed the sole of your foot. You flinched; it tickled. The second you moved, the tendril hastily withdrew. As it did, the room seemed to brighten, the shadows loosing their opaque darkness.
“Fuck!” you shouted, cursing your ticklish feet.
There was no point looking under your bed, there would be nothing there. Still, you fell to your knees, bending down to peek under the bed. A couple of socks and a mountain of dust bunnies, but no monster. How did you manage to scare it away again!
You had known this monster ever since you were a child. It always came back for you, no matter how many times you had switched beds or moved. Back then you were terrified of it, hiding under your covers at the smallest of sounds. But as you got older, grew into an adult, you realized the fear had evolved into something else. Something that made you a lot more eager to go to bed.
But as soon as you started to embrace your night terrors, they had stopped. For years you hadn’t felt the monster’s presence. You hadn’t even had a nightmare. But a few months ago, the monster returned.
Although they were different now. They didn’t try to scare you with creaking noises, cold winds or unexplained tugs at your limbs. No, now they were almost shy. Slowly, those feelings you had harbored for the monster all those years ago returned and tonight you were going to confess. Or so you had thought.
You rose to your feet and, slamming the light switch on the way, crossed the bright room to the wooden IKEA closet. It wasn’t big enough to conceal a person, but you had long ago learned that the monster’s shape was flexible. Like a slasher from a bad 80’s horror movie, you ripped open the doors. Inside was nothing but your clothes. You cursed once more, slamming the closet closed.
You were getting real sick and tired of this. The signs were clear as day. That tentacle around your ankle could only mean what you though it meant, or were you delusional? Did the monster under your bed want to fuck you, or should you check yourself into the hospital?
There was only one thing left to do, because you weren’t getting fucking ghosted by a shadow; speak to the god darn monster.
You returned to your bed and crouched on your knees next to it. The space under the bed felt unnaturally warm. You weren’t religious, but you clasped your hands and closed your eyes for good measure.
“If you’re real, which I sure hope otherwise I think I’m going kind of cuckoo. Please, just tell me what you want?”
No answer.
Great now you were pleading with empty space. Your neighbors were going to think you’d had some kind of mental break. Hopefully they weren’t awake at this time of night.
You sighed and continued, “Are we like a thing… or something?”
Still no answer.
The continued silence were getting on your last nerve. “Fucking answer me! Or I promise I will start using a nightlight and a sound machine!”
That threat must've worked, because suddenly the hairs on your back were standing on end —something was in the room with you.
You heard a creaking noise and turned your head to see your door slowly shutting. In the space behind the door was an impenetrable darkness. The darkness seemed to swell and pulse. It crept closer, shadowy tendrils licking the walls as it moved towards you. The shadow stopped a few feet from you, undulating, as if listening.
You watched in awe. It was beautiful, but it also broke your heart.
“Wh-why did you leave me?” Your voice broke as you spoke; you had missed the monster something terribly.
The shadow seemed to fall in on itself, it looked almost ashamed. Then, with one hesitant tendril, it reached for you. You welcomed it’s touch. As the tendril wrapped around your arm, you felt your vision darken and you slumped forward into deep sleep.
Slowly, your sight returned, but now you were no longer in your bedroom. The point of view was different, the eyes that you looked out of where nestled low by the floor. You recognized the room and especially that screeching TV; you were back in your old college dorm’s common room. From bellow the couch you had a great view of the back of your own beat-up sneakers, and a less great view of the TV.
You remembered that evening; one of the freshmen had wanted to watch the Pixar flick Monsters University to commemorate their final exam of the semester. As you watched the movie from bellow the couch, you could pinpoint the exact moment you realized your feelings for your own monster, as your sneaker clad feet stood up and walked away, out of your sight. You knew where you had gone: your bedroom. But sadly no monster disturbed your sleep that night, you had to settle for your hand.
The picture changed, this time you were crammed under a bed. Once more, your recognized the room: your first apartment. Two feet, that must be your own, paced back and forth in front of the bed. This memory was also clear. You had been psyching yourself up to finally ask the monster on a date or proposition them, or something. God, you didn’t know how to flirt with humans, let alone monsters. You never got an answer from the monster that night either.
But the monster had been listening that night. As you watched your younger self confess their heart out, you felt feelings that were not your own. Feelings of confusion, insecurity and uncertainty radiated from the monster whose eyes you borrowed. This must never have happened to them before, and they didn’t know how to react to any other feeling than fear, so they left. They left for years. Processing.
The picture changed, for what you hoped was the last time; this was all feeling a little too “Christmas carol”-y. You were still in your apartment, but, as if you predicted it, it was the holidays, just last year. Sparkling light gleamed in every corner of your room. In a pile in the corner were a couple of presents you had received from a friend secret Santa. Among them were a gag gift: a tentacle dildo. This was years after you had last felt the presence of your monster, and the gag gift had mostly made you sad. But the eyes under the bed were focused on the piece of plastic and warmth seemed to flow around you. If the monster had had a pulse, it would have been racing in anticipation.
The darkness took you one last time and you returned to your own body. In front of you the writhing abyss of shadows squirmed hesitantly, its tentacle still wrapped around your wrist. That trip down memory lane had made it all clear. You had never felt more sure of your feelings, now that you knew they were reciprocated.
With a leap, you collided with the mass of tendrils and wrapped your arms around the shadowy form of the monster. At first they froze, unsure, but then they wrapped every tendril and every tentacle it had around you. Your mouths met; the monster tasted of fresh cotton and their uncountable number of teeth scraped against your tongue. Tentacles were everywhere and you soon lost yourself in the embrace of your monster.
Going to the theater has always been one of your favorite pastimes. You were an aspiring playwright yourself, but too shy to share your plays with anyone. That changed the evening you met her: the mysterious woman wrapped in yellow, her face obscured by a pallid mask.
This is the story of a play, a symbol and a Queen.
Tags: mature, eventual smut, 1890s, sapphic, mildly dubious consent, oral sex, vaginal fingering, dacryphilia, reader's mind is hanging on by a thread.
Also on Ao3
Masterlist - Eldritch horror May
You slouched against the padded velvet railing of the grand circle, absentmindedly watching the empty stage bellow. This matinee was a terrible bore. You wished for a glass of absinthe to take the edge of, but such modern drinks hadn't yet made their way across the canal. London was such a drab city.
You could barely suppress a yawn. Tonight’s play was some kind of nonsensical, depressing thing. It itched in your fingers to get a hold of a copy of the scrip, if only so that you could add a few jokes; even Shakespeare knew people visiting the theater wanted to laugh.
Apparently, this show was all the rage. Literally. Last week, at the premier, there had broken out some kind of violent brawl in the theater lobby. Multiple people had to be escorted out by the police and taken to the asylum. According to the sensationalistic papers, they had been driven mad by the play itself. But more sensible people knew that these brawlers had simply had a glass too many that evening (not absinthe, sadly).
You weren’t one for gossip, but your sister insisted you come with her to see the play. At first you declined, citing that you already visited the theaters enough. You were a seasoned subscriber ticket holder, but you preferred to be at least a little selective of the shows you watched. Still, your sister insisted, shoving a printed advertisement of the play under your nose. “The King in Yellow”, it read and bellow was the name of the theater and a peculiar symbol. Suddenly, you felt a lot more curios and agreed to come along.
There had been policemen stationed outside the theater the evening you and your sister, along with her husband, went to see the play. You showed your tickets at the entrance and were led to the second floor of the theater. As always you had the best seats in the house, reserved especially for you. As the lights dimmed, you grew excited.
It quickly faded.
The play was absurd, dreamlike and odd. By the time the intermission rolled around, you were bored out of your mind. Your sister left to visit the powder room and her husband left for the bar, leaving you alone. You leaned against the railing, tapping your glowed fingers against the metal.
It was there that you first met her.
She seemed to have appeared out of thin air, materializing right next to you. She was quiet as a mouse; you wouldn’t have known she was there if she hadn’t spoken.
“What is your opinion of the play, so far?” her silky voice whispered right next to your ear.
You flinched, taking an involuntary step away. Beside you was a woman in a draped, flowing yellow dress. It was unfashionable, tattered and terribly out of place. A shawl covered her head and most of her face. But somehow, you knew that she was older, even if you couldn’t see an inch of her skin.
“I didn't mean to give you a fright, little one.” The woman smiled looked kindly at you.
Remembering your manners, you curtsied stiffly and told her your name. “I don’t think we've had the pleasure to be acquainted, ma’am.”
The woman mirrored your gesture. Her curtsy was flawless. “No, it is a shame. Indeed, I have long wished to speak with you.”
You raised your eyebrow in a terribly unladylike way. “You have?”
The woman didn’t answer. “Now, would you be so kind as to tell me what you think. I myself am biased towards the second act, however I’d love to hear your opinion.”
You bit your tongue to keep from asking further stupid questions. Clearly, this woman was a part of the theater troupe. That was why she was dressed in such unusual clothes. Maybe she was the author of the play? On the advertisement for the play, there had been no named author.
But why did she want your opinion on her work? There was no way she could know about the stacks of finished scrips carefully hidden in the bottom drawer of your dresser, right? You shared your playwright ambitions with no living soul, it was your deepest, darkest secret. Only in your dreams did you imagine yourself among the likes of Shakespeare, Goethe and Wild.
“It is quite, um… modern,” you began tentatively. “However, I found the second scene a bit confusing.”
“How so?” the woman hummed.
“Well,” you continued, feeling more confident, “all that nonsense about ‘Carcosa’ felt completely out of place. Seriously, two suns? A place like that could never exist, it is simply beyond the realm of plausible physics. And that scene at the masquerade ball! Why should the audience be scared when someone isn’t wearing a mask, which by the way the actor clearly was, I am not blind. The play tries so hard to be deep and scary, but I don’t like it one bit.”
You were out of breath by the time you finished your rant. The woman stood motionless next to you and for a moment you feared that you had overstepped.
“But the costume design was great,” you added sheepishly.
The woman laughed. The sound like nails on a chalkboard. You fought the urge to cover your ears—that would have been rude.
Slowly, the woman quieted. “You dear, are very forthcoming with your opinions. Honesty is a most wonderful quality and one I admire deeply.”
Her pale, almost yellow, eyes drilled into yours. The gaze sparkled, radiating a kind of heat you had never before seen in a fellow woman’s eyes. Your skin tingled under her scrutiny, heat traveling down to your abdomen. This was highly inappropriate, but you couldn't seem to tear your eyes away.
“I-,” you stuttered, cheeks turning pink. “I am flattered, but I have to disagree. I can’t believe I spoke so freely. Please do me the kindness of forgetting everything I said.”
The woman cocked her head playfully. “I can’t promise that. Now, I bid you farewell.”
The woman turned and was about to walk away, when she turned back one last time. “I believe it’s best you do not stay for the second act. I rather prefer your mind the way it is. Until me we meet again.” With that said, she disappeared around a corner.
As the woman left, you felt confused. Whatever could she mean? But something told you to heed her words and you left, forcibly tugging your sister (and her husband) out of the theater.
You didn’t understand why the meeting with the woman had made you so uncomfortable until much later. The play closed just a few weeks after you had attended; apparently the violence had continued to spread to other theatergoers and the brawlers had destroyed most of the lobby. The theater were selling the left-over costumes to fund the repairs. As you surveyed the sale, you were searching for the yellow costume worn by the woman, but to no avail.
You pulled aside an employee to ask if the costume had already been sold, but the employee looked terribly confused. He said no such costume existed in the play. You insisted and started describing the woman you had met. But you found you could not remember her name, nor her face. Had you even seen her face at all? You must've?
The only thing you could remember was a pallid mask. And the sign etched on it, burned into your mind. Then you remembered a name. An unspeakable name. The name of the King in Yellow.
~~~
You rifle through your desk, ripping open drawers and scattering papers all over the floor.
“It has to be here, it has to,” you mumble under your breath. “Where is it!”
But it’s not in the desk either. You hurry towards another cabinet, but on the way you trip on a loose sheet of paper, collapsing in a heap on the floor. You stay on the floor, chest heaving from exhaustion. It’s hopeless; you can’t find it anywhere.
“Could this be what you’re looking for?”
Precisely when you’ve abandoned all hope, the book you’ve been frantically searching for all morning, appears right above you. The book that somehow ended up on your doorstep two weeks earlier. The book you have read from cover to cover, you don't know how many times. The book with the yellow cover and the mysterious sigil. The King in Yellow.
You snatch the book out of the air, cradling it close to your chest. Then you freeze, recognizing the voice. It sends a shiver down your spine. It’s her: the woman from the theater. Your eyes meet her stoic mask-clad face. She is dressed in yellow rags, just like last time.
“I hope my presence isn’t an intrusion. Your housekeeper informed me you have been very busy these last few weeks.”
Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, but no sound comes out.
The woman surveys your room and gestures to a paper pinned to the wall. “I am flattered, but there are easier ways to get my attention.”
It is one of maybe a thousand “Yellow signs” that you drew on any piece of paper you encountered. When the loose sheets of paper ran out, you started ripping out pages of books and eventually drawing the signs on the walls themselves. You flush, momentarily stirred out of your insanity enough to feel embarrassed at the state of your room.
You stagger to your feet, the book still in your hands. “Please, take a seat.” You’re about to gesture to the office chair, before realizing that it currently contains a meter tall stack of paper, an empty absinthe bottle proudly atop the pile.
The woman doesn't point out your fumble, but instead sits down on the edge of your bed. “Now, what did you want to talk about?”
You open your mouth and are about to remind her that she is the one that called on her, not the other way, when you remember the signs. If the signs are somehow linked to the woman, it would be like you sent her a thousand letters. The thought makes you wince; you must look terribly desperate.
But you are desperate, desperate for her touch. Even just being in her presence has you soaking your knickers. Each time you close your eyes you replay the evening you met her, remembering the way her eyes made you feel. She haunts your dreams. They always leave you hot and bothered, with no other choice than to take matters into your own hands. How sinful you’ve been, and by the expression on the woman’s face mask, she knows all about it.
She doesn't move from her perch on your bed, still she pulls you closer; she is a planet and you a moon pulled in by her gravity. You hover between her legs, the book still in your grasp. Gently, she plucks the play from you, putting it down. Your fingers twitch, desperate to touch.
“Go on,” she murmurs.
Your fingers trail up her tattered silk sleeves, across her covered decolletage and lastly her mask-covered face. You push the hood of her dress back. Thick, black hair like the midnight sky tumbles across her shoulders. Your fingers continue their search, this time set on removing the frightening mask. But before you do, the woman stops you.
A hand closes over your wrist. “Let’s not. I did say I preferred your mind the way it is.”
You nod and your arms fall to your sides. You don’t know what to do; you’ve never initiated anything… untoward, like this. But you need her. You let out a frustrated whine.
The woman’s hand caresses your cheek. “Hush, darling. All is well. Just lay down on the bed for me.”
You recline on the pillows as the woman leans over you, slowly unbuttoning your blouse. She removes your clothing layer by layer, each more intimate than the last, until you are left as naked as the day you were born. She runs her hand down your exposed torso, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You spread your legs, wanting her to see the effect she has on you.
“My beautiful girl,” she hums, as her hand travels lower. “So wet for me already.”
You gasp as her first finger enters you. You’re unused to the intrusion, only ever touched yourself a few times. And her fingers. Her fingers feel different, longer and segmented, able to reach much further than your own.
She adds another finger, pumping them rhythmically in and out of you. Her long fingers scrape against your walls, but there is no pain. Instead the feeling is heady, itching out of your skin and leaving you gasping for more. Tears roll down your cheeks. The arousal is too much.
When the woman starts rubbing circles around a small nub you never knew existed, your back arches and you start shivering uncontrollably. That's when the fingers inside of you disappear. You sob from the loss of contact.
A soft mouth kisses your face, licking away the tears. “Don’t cry, my sweet. I want to taste you before our time together is over.”
You can’t see, but you feel her warm breath on your exposed sex. The tip of her tongue flicks against your swollen nub, before sucking it into her mouth. You cry out, unable to stifle yourself. Her tongue slithers into you, licking up your wetness like sweets. The tongue probes deeper, much deeper than her fingers reached.
Finally she has reached the end of you, to the place your fingers have never been able to reach. She laps at that deep place, every touch sending waves of pleasure down your spine. She is relentless, pushing and prodding until you can’t take it anymore. With one last torrent of incomprehensible shouts, you gush on her tongue. She laps it up, every last drop.
You can’t feel your body. You stare into the ceiling, unseeing. Distantly, you hear the woman putting her mask back on, and its pallid features appear in your sight. You reach for her, and she lets you pull her down and hold her close. What you feel beneath her yellow gown is formless in a way your mind shouldn’t be able to understand, but you are too tired to question it.
She leans into the crook of your neck and whispers, “I am glad you called me, it’s been too long since I reveled in the pleasure of another.”
Too soon, the woman slips out of your hold. Desperately, you fumble for her, grabbing her arm. She looks down at your disheveled figure and, somehow, she smiles.
“Don’t worry, darling. We will see each other again. And one day, you will join me in Carcosa.”
After a particularly wet might at the bar, you’re met with a cryptic, and potentially flirty, message on the bathroom mirror. Is someone, or something, propositioning you? That hand print next to the message doesn't look particularly human…
Tags: NSFW, Cryptid attempts flirting, Crack treated seriously, semi-public sex, it/its pronouns for deep one, anal sex, explicit consent, reader is somehow British
Also on Ao3
Masterlist - Eldritch horror May
It all started at the bar— because where else would you be at 2 am on a Saturday morning? You were deep into your third glass of whiskey and stared at the amber liquid, silently contemplating your life choices. Why the hell did you ever move to this fish-stinking town in the middle of nowhere, Massachusetts? You threw back the last of the whiskey, savoring the burn in your throat.
“One more drink would ya, hen.” You rapped your knuckles against the bar.
The bartender was an older woman with gray hair, bulging eyes and some kind of skin disease. She looked suitable creepy for this town.
She removed the empty whiskey glass, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I have to cut you off, dear.”
“Why?” you slurred. “Look at me, I’m fine.”
The bartender glared at you with her bulging eyes. “You’ve had enough. I have to close, and you should get home before the storm gets any worse.”
“Fine,” you grumbled, pushing away from the bar. When you tried to stand up, you’re body remembered how much you’ve drunk and your bladder was suddenly screaming at you. “Just gotta pop to the loo.”
The bartender sighed, but nodded reluctantly, before she went back to sweeping the floor.
You stumbled through the empty bar, making your way to the toilets in the back. You pushed open the door to the men’s bathroom. It was just as deserted as the rest of the run-down bar. You rounded a corner and stopped at the nearest urinal. Your sighed, as you were finally able to relive yourself.
Fuck, your life really was a shitshow. Two years ago, you were living the dream, about to become the youngest foreign zoology graduate offered a full-time position at Harvard. But then the accident happened, and your ichthyology dreams were crushed… literally. Six months lying in a coma isn’t a great way to research fish, but a great way to loose your job.
Instead of a top-modern research institute, you found yourself at Miskatonic: Americas most disreputable university. All you ever wanted to do was to study fish, but there wasn’t an Ichthyology department, so instead you worked alongside the crypto zoologists, trying to discover the Loch Ness monster or whatever. Pseudoscientific bullshit.
The sound of someone turning on a tap pulled you out of your thoughts. Who else could have been using the bathroom this late? A part of you wished it was someone looking for a hookup. You were usually up for a quick shag, and could really have used the distraction from your miserable life. You quickly tucked yourself back into your trousers and rounded the corner to the sinks. The room was empty.
Weird, but you shrugged it off. The tap was still on, spitting out boiling water and clouding the mirror above it. You moved to turn it off, but saw that there were words written in the condensation.
“Tell me your deepest secret,” you chuckled to yourself as you read it out loud.
Who the fuck would sneak into the bathroom just to write cryptic messages on mirrors? Your crypto zoology colleagues might have told you this was a sign of the occult. While this was certainly weird, you didn’t exactly believe in any of that crap. Must be some kind of prank. Let’s all be funny at the expense of the new guy in town. Should you play along?
“You want me to come out, or some shite? Surprise, I’m gay. Well queer. Its not like it is a secret, as most people just assume so anyway. I guess I set of their gaydar,” you blabbered, too drunk to care.
Then you paused. You didn’t want to tell the disembodied question an actual secret, but you also had a feeling whoever was behind this wasn’t going to reveal themselves until you said something juicy. At this point, could your life get any worse if someone posted some embarrassing shite on Instagram?
You lowered your voice for dramatic effect, “You know what is a secret, well, kind of a secret. I’m actually a bottom. Yeah, I know. Big bloke like me prefers to take it in the ass.”
There was a door in the back of the bathroom, which was suddenly thrown wide open, letting the rain and wind into the room. You staggered backwards, expecting someone to jump out, shouting that it was all a prank. But that didn’t happen. Instead, there was a low growl from the door, and you heard footsteps receding. There was someone listening, alright. You didn’t feel embarrassed; you’ve definitely said worse while drunk before.
You walked over to close the door. But before you could close it, a glance at the small window in the door made you freeze. On the outside of the window was a massive hand print. It had long claws and webbing between the fingers. Next to it was written three words: “I’m a top”.
Suddenly, you felt as sober as a funeral. You rushed out of the bathroom door, out into the dark alley. Your face was immediately pelted by rain. The street lighting was crap and Arkham’s harbor stunk of fish. The message on the window was already mostly washed away, but you were more worried about the possible prints on the ground. You squatted down, combing the wet pavement for any sign of footprints.
The rain had picked up, drenching you in mere minutes. Just when you were about to give up, you found something. After examining it in your palm, you could say with certainty that it was a scale. A shiny bluish-green fish scale.
This was mad. You were drunk and should’ve gone home, not gone looking for fish-men. But you couldn't get that hand print out of your mind. If this was a real world cryptid, and you of all people found it first, the other professors at Miskatonic would eat their hats in frustration. A smug smile crept onto your face. Maybe you weren’t as useless as you thought.
Suddenly, you were in research mode, determined to find this being. A few feet from the first scale was another, then another and you followed the trail all the way to the canal. The canal’s water was dark and grimy, filled with decades of industrial waste. But you stumbled down the uneven stone steps and sat on a bench just by the waters edge. Here you had a good vantage point over the canal. You were never the most patient of fishermen, but you stayed silent, waiting for something, anything to show itself.
Your dumb ass must've fallen asleep, because you woke to a pair of wet lips touching yours. You snapped open your eyes. Suddenly, you were face to face with the scariest thing you’ve ever seen. Sharp, needle like teeth, slits for pupils and blueish-green scales. When it saw that you were awake, it jumped back and crouched at the edge of the water. Gleaming eyes stared at you, the expression in them unreadable.
This… creature was magnificent. The perfect mix of human and fish. Finally, you understood the obsession of your crypto zoology colleagues. There truly existed creatures beyond humanity out there. A sudden urge to know it better awoke within you. To know it intimately. The short rest must've cleared your head, because a name came to you unprompted; all those hours listening to your colleagues finally payed off.
“You’re a Deep One, aren’t you,” you whispered.
The creature nodded, its eyes closing and opening sideways. It’s head tilted to the side. Was it curious? You felt warm under its gaze.
“You’re beautiful. I could get lost in those eyes, handsome.” You slapped your hand over your mouth. Had you actually flirted with it? How horny were you?
But the Deep One wasn’t turned off, instead it moved closer, all the while keeping you pinned with its gaze. The weather had cleared and moonlight reflected like silver in its shimmering scales. There were long fins running down its hunched back and down its arms. It stopped just shy of a meter from you. If you wanted to, you could reach out a hand and touch it. Would it be slippery under your touch, or rough like a shark?
“Do you mind?” You held out your hand.
The Deep One moved even closer, until it was leaning over you on the bench. Using one of its massive hands, it picked up yours and guided it to its chest. The scales were rough, but pleasant under your fingers and the chest was solid with solid muscle. It didn’t have nipples, but you ran your hand along it’s chest appreciatively anyway. You felt a deep rumble emanate from its throat.
Encouraged, you used your free hand to cup the creature’s face. Its gills fluttered under your fingers. You leaned closer, giving it a quick peck on the mouth, unafraid of the sharp teeth. The deep one kissed back, wrapping two strong arms around you. The kiss was wet and sloppy, but the creature enveloped your mouth with fervor, letting your tongue explore.
Something touched your leg. You broke the kiss to look down. “A bloody tail,” you mumbled in disbelief.
The scaled tail trailed up your thigh, the tip of it dangerously close to your hardening cock. “You cheeky…,” you trailed off in a moan when the tail brushed between your legs.
The sound caused the tail to stop moving. The Deep One asked something in a unintelligible throaty language, but you got the gist. It was nice to know you had a say in what happened.
You smirked at the creature. “Well, I didn’t walk all the way here just for some sloppy necking, did I? Does that earlier offer still stand?”
The creature’s lips were on you again before you finished speaking. The two arms picked you up easily and you wrapped your legs instinctively around the creature’s waist. It walked over to a wall, pressing you against the wet cold stones. With a slice of it’s claws, your pants turned into a lovely set of ass-less chaps. You shivered from the exposed flesh.
Since you were quite the expert on fish, and also fucked your fair amount of men, you thought you knew what to expect. But nothing could have prepared you for whatever Deep Ones had between their legs. It was some type of fin, long and tapered, with grooves and what you guess to be some kind of claspers at the bottom. It was equal parts terrifying and marvelous. How the hell would that feel inside of you?
Apparently, foreplay didn’t exist in Deep One culture, because the creature lowers you onto its member without any prep. Thankfully, the head is thin and slick, slipping into you easily. It felt completely different from anything you had ever put up yourself before.
The deep one hadn’t even bottomed out, when it started moving inside of you. Wide hands pressed you against the wall as it fucks into you hard. You were definitely going to have bruises after this, but it was worth it, not just for the scientific discovery. The thin and flexible cock was the perfect shape to grind against your prostate. The pleasure was unbelievable, stars flashing in your vision as you clung on for dear life. The creature sped up and at the same time wrapped its muscular tail around your cock. The scales scraped against your sensitive skin.
It didn’t take much more to make you come, staining the blue stomach of the creature with your cum. You went limp, letting the creature support you as it continued to abuse your ass. With a guttural groan the creature buried its cock deep inside of you. It swelled, the bottom claspers opening like an umbrella, and locked you and the creature together. In a sudden spurt, it came inside of you. Since the claspers trapped the cum inside, the feeling was like hot water sloshing inside of you.
Slowly, you felt the cock inside of you deflating and the claspers unclasping you. The creature pulled out and see-through spend sloshed down your legs. It continued to cradle you in its arms, holding you close. Its eyes were wide and shiny with afterglow. It gurgled something, before bending down to kiss you.
“Yeah, it was good for me too,” you laughed, before kissing it back.
It set you down on the bench, ran its clawed hand through your hair, before turning back to the canal.
“Wait!” you shouted. “Will I ever see you again?”
The deep one turned back to you, a wide grin spreading over its face. It nodded once, before diving back into the canal.
The general explanation for why vampires drink blood is that it's symbolic of life. Blood keeps you alive, blood is the sign of a living being, etc. But you know what else is very clearly and consistently symbolic of life around multiple traditions?
Semen.
It''s the fluid that produces new life, so multiple theological, mystical and cultural stories have it as connected to life energy, life, creation, etc. So it makes sense that a vampire should be able to live on it by the same symbolic reasoning.
This even explains why vampires are so sexual. If they can't get blood...
I don't know what to do with this question, but it makes perfect symbolic sense? So there you go.
Beyond the rift there was nothing. Neither dark nor light. Then there was him. Writhing, fantastic, faceless. An impossible conglomeration of ever shifting globes, dancing in every shade of the rainbow and beyond. Yet achingly real as the slimy spheres reached out to touch you.
It’s the night of your wedding and you finally get to meet your husband.
The cloaked people, your friends and family, guided you up the trail towards your destiny. Already, people were gathered in the gaps between the rough-hewn stone columns at the top of the hill. Their faces hidden beneath hoods and shadowed by candlelight. Empty skulls glared at you from below the sizable table-like rock in the middle of the circle. Of your own free will, you laid yourself down on that table. It was after all the night of May-Eve. The night of your holiest of unions.
One of the cloaked figures walked over to where you reclined on the table. A glimpse under his hood, told you this was none other than the leader; your old father. You smiled at him serenely.
“My child, I am happy for you,” he whispered, carding a gentle hand through your long, fair hair. “I couldn’t have wished for a better husband for my daughter.”
You leaned into his touch. “Thank you father. I am ready to meet him.”
Your father nodded, before he turned to the gathered congregation. In his hands he clutched the Book. He looked to you like a minister, although you had only been to a church once. It was quite sad what happened to that poor clergyman, but he should have known better than to preach his blasphemous gospel in these parts.
“Today is a most auspicious day. Today the fabric of our world thins and the planes of our universe overlap. Today we honor our most gracious benefactor.” Your father paused to raise his hands into the sky. “Join me now as we begin this holy ceremony.”
The cloaked figures standing in the ring all raised their hands in union. At my fathers signal, they all began chanting in a curious old dialect. Of course, you knew the words, but you needn’t chant them. All you needed to do was relax and stare into the black twinkling night sky. Soon, the first signs showed. The wind whipped around the altar where you lay, distorting the light around you. You lost sight of the chanting figures.
Above you something unnameable appeared. It was as if reality split in two, ripping like bed sheets. You felt an abnormal tug on your limbs, pulling you upwards towards the rift. You relented and felt your body slowly lifting of the cool stone altar. The chanting figures completely disappeared from your senses as your body was pulled through the fluctuating gap.
Beyond the rift there was nothing. Neither dark nor light. Then there was him. Writhing, fantastic, faceless. An impossible conglomeration of ever shifting globes, dancing in every shade of the rainbow and beyond. Yet achingly real as the slimy spheres reached out to touch you. Understanding reeled through your mind, smashing the walls of impossibility, rendering you unable to speak.
Whatever the thing was, it pulled you closer. You felt a presence in your broken mind. As carefully as someone would repair an ancient vase, the presence weaved your thoughts back together. It mended your mind, cushioning it in a thick veil of clouds. The fear was gone. You smiled blissfully; your husband was truly good to you.
Smaller tendrils and globes pushed helplessly at your clothes. You giggled, undoing the dress tie at your waist. The fabric fell open, revealing you before your husband. Your husband spoke sweet nothings, his thoughts transferring seamlessly into your mind. You blushed under his attention.
He pulled you close, orbs of light playing across your skin. His light was almost blinding now. Everywhere around you was his beautiful body. Your mouth opened, letting him kiss you. Your legs fell apart, allowing him inside.
You couldn’t speak, mouth filled to the brim, but your husband knew your mind. Knew what you could take. Your blood boiled and your souls became one when his manly power pushed inside of you. When you glanced down your saw how your body was stretched, far beyond its natural capabilities. Your lower stomach glowed and bulged slightly with the power of your husband.
Smaller tendrils caressed you, pleasured you. They flowed up and down your torso, squeezing you. They rubbed between your legs, glistening with your wetness. The pleasure was overwhelming. As ever you climbed that mountain towards its peak, ever did your stomach swell. You gasped as you realized that you could go no higher. At the same moment, the orb exploded inside of you, coating every inch of your insides, filling you with his seed.
You were blind, deaf and mute, lost in a sea of afterglow. You barely noticed the orbs and tendrils leaving your body. With a last tender caress, your husband lowered you down and you fell into a deep sleep.
You awoke to the morning sun warming your naked body. You were back on the altar, the stone circle empty around you. You placed your hands on your stomach. It was flat once more. That saddened you. Still, pride swelled in your heart when you remembered that it would grow big again soon enough. Swell with the result of your wedding night.
You’re a fresh faced young actor at the biggest studio in 1950’s Hollywood. How you ever got employed is a mystery, considering you’ve only ever done one movie previously. But you’re not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when you get the chance to star alongside Eugene, Hollywood's biggest heartthrob, and your secret crush. But the encounter with the star doesn't go as planned, it seems you two have different definitions of Reading lines…
Tags: NSFW, period-typical homophobia, Eldritch being is obsessed with you, size difference, anal sex, tentacles, mildly dubious consent
Also on Ao3
Masterlist - Eldritch Horror May
You almost didn’t believe your eyes when you received the neatly-typed script. How did your agent manage to get you on the biggest picture of the year? You’re just some nobody from Sacramento who got lucky enough to be an extra in a war flick six months ago. Apparently, that one voice line you had was enough to get you an agent, who got you signed to one of the biggest studios in the valley.
This is your one chance at a big role. You play the charismatic rival, who seduces the female lead and stands in the way of the happily ever after for the couple. Of course, your character realizes their mistake in time and surrenders the girl to the star of the movie. That star: the Hollywood heartthrob Eugene Acheron.
Despite being new to the business, Eugene only starred in his first picture last year, he won an Oscar for Best Actor and his popularity skyrocketed. He’s the guy all the chicks want. While you’re not a girl, you can’t say you disagree. There’s a scene in Eugene’s movie where his shirt flies open to display truly glorious abs. When you first saw that scene, you had to surreptitiously cross your legs. Thankfully, the cinema was dark.
Now, you weave through the throng of people in the studio lot on your way to the actors’ trailers. You stop outside the trailer with a star nameplate. It is labeled “Acheron”. You hesitantly knock on the trailer door and wait, the script clenched in your hands. Was this a bad idea? Actors run lines together all the time, at least that’s what you’ve heard.
Your hear loud footsteps approach and the door swings open. “No, I don’t want any more soap samples, please.”
You’re speechless as the man you’ve been dreaming about is suddenly in front of you. Eugene's sharp jawline and his sun-bleached hair is just like his posters. If you had less self-control you might gape, but even in the entertainment industry it is safest to remain in the closet.
“My shower is still woefully overstock—,” Eugene cuts himself off. His eyes roam over your face and slowly travels down your body. You have to suppress the heat that’s rising on your cheeks. “You’re not the sample lady.”
“No. I mean... No, sir.”
Eugene raises an eyebrow, hinting that you should state your reason for disturbing him. This time you do blush. Where did all those expensive speech lessons go when you need them?
You take a deep breath. “I’m the actor who plays the rival in the upcoming picture. And well, I was wondering if you wanted to… run some lines,” Your voice fades out as you realize how stupid you sound. Why would an Oscar-winning actor want to run lines with you?
Eugene is quiet for a beat too long. But just as you're beginning to sweat, he smiles and opens the door further. “Sounds great. Come inside, I just put the kettle on. Why don’t we have some tea before we read lines.” Eugene winks.
Your stomach soars, you expected to be turned away at the door, not invited to tea. Something in your traitorous heart wants it to be a date, but you ignore it. This doesn't mean anything. Just professionals being professional.
Eugene’s trailer is immaculate. The floor is spotless, the bed made and the small gas stove does indeed have a kettle puttering. However, the trailer has no table or chairs. The only place to sit is the bed, but that’s way too intimate. You hover by the entrance, unsure of what to do.
“Sit down wherever you’d like,” Eugene says as he rummages through a cupboard for teabags.
You do as you’re told. The mattress squeaks softly as you sit down. You feel the paper of the script grow wet from your hand sweat. Eugene turns away from the stove and hands you a steaming mug of brewing tea. Then he sits down next to you on the bed, close enough for your legs to touch.
You can’t help but look down. Eugene’s thigh is wide and firm. Your eyes accidentally glance up at his crotch. His pants are loose, but your mind easily imagines what’s under them. You quickly look down into your teacup.
“Exactly, what scene did you have in mind?” Eugene’s voice has dropped an octave. Its low and silky in your ear. It sends a shiver down your spine.
“Um…,” you don’t know what to say. Somehow, you get the feeling that you and Eugene have different definitions of reading lines.
Eugene doesn't wait for a response. “You know, I’ve been watching your career very closely. It’s crazy that they haven’t offered you any bigger roles. That smile of yours is to die for.”
Eugene takes a slow sip of his tea, but he can’t entirely hide his smile. It’s just as dazzling in real life as on the movie screen. You can’t look away.
“Thank you,” is the only this you can think of to say.
Eugene puts down his cup on the bed. “When I saw you dying on that battlefield, I just knew you were the one. I pulled a few strings. But ultimately, you came to me all by yourself. What a good boy.”
You’re speechless. What strings? Is he saying he is the one who got you the deal with the studio? You mind is racing and the only thing it can focus in on is the praise. “Good boy” How you’ve longed to hear those words. You immediately feel your body reacting, and your pants become tighter. But this can’t be real.
To distract yourself, you bring the teacup to your mouth. But your hand is unsteady and boiling hot water sloshes out of the cup and onto your hand. Before you can register the pain, the teacup is no longer in your hand and Eugene has placed a gentle kiss on the burn. His lips are warm and wet on your skin. They travel slowly up your arm, until they reach your neck, where he sucks until you’re sure a red splotch is formed.
You can’t breathe. Can’t think. He’s kissing you, but why? You don’t understand. Eugene can’t want you like that?
You aggressively pull away and stand up. In your panic, you accidentally tip over the teacup that was precariously balanced on the edge of the bed. It clatters to floor, loudly. Seconds later there is a knock on the door.
“Mr. Acheron? Is everything alright?”
Both you and Eugene freeze. It must be one of the star’s many personal assistants.
Eugene recovers quickly. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just dropped a cup, but thankfully it didn’t shatter.”
“Isn’t that lucky? I’ll be over by the director’s tent if you need me, Mr. Acheron.”
“Sure thing, Ronny.” Eugene loudly declares as casually as ever. He really is a great actor.
The footsteps retreat and you let out the breath you were holding. But as you do you catch a glimpse of something on Eugene’s face. His jawline has softened. If you had only seen the pictures, you could chalk this change up to diet and some accumulated fats, but you gazed longingly at his face no more than five minutes ago.
As you stare, Eugene whips around to you and stalks closer. As he does you swear his jaw sharpens, until it is sharper than glass. Your eyes must've widened, because Eugene stops. His hand moves to his jaw and he pulls it away as if he’s cut himself.
“I always forget those stupid tiny details,” he mumbles. “Human bodies are tricky to keep a hold of sometimes.”
You don’t understand what he’s saying, but something in the way he acts sends shivers down your spine (and not the sexy kind). You want to back away, but you’ve hit a wall. Eugene has you trapped.
The actor shrugs. “I’m truly sorry you had to find out this way. But what’s done is done.” With that said, Eugene tugs of his shirt.
You instinctively close your eyes, just like you always do in changing rooms to avoid getting beat up. When you next open them, Eugene is gone. In his place is a being not of this planet. It’s body is huge and gelatinous, there’s barely enough space in the trailer for it to stand. It oozes with tentacles and the face is a melted abomination. Clothes, faux skin and a wig are discarded on the floor around it.
Before you can open your mouth to scream, a slimy half-formed tentacle wraps around your face.
“Stop that, I won't hurt you. Not if you behave like a good boy.” The words are sloppy, but recognizable as the voice of the famous actor you knew. But that can’t be.
The body advances on you and two grotesquely big hands pick you up and places you back on the bed. The tentacle around your mouth lets go. When it does, you scuttle as far away as you can.
“What are you?” you whimper.
The being smiles, or you think it does. “That’s a bit rude, I’m quite self-conscious about this body. I’m Eugene, or who you humans call Eugene. My true name is unpronounceable to you.”
You stare, not comprehending anything.
“Now, shall we get back to reading lines?” Eugene, climbs onto the bed with you. In this new form, he towers over you, blocking out everything but his writhing tentacles. They wind about your limbs, tangle in your hair and some even make their way under your clothes. It’s like a thousand wet mouths are kissing you everywhere. Your eyes glaze over, it’s too much.
“Stop, please, stop,” you pant, pushing the tentacles away from you.
Eugene goes rigid. His looks confused. “I thought you wanted to fuck? Your eyes were practically begging me to push you down and ravage you.”
You're taken aback by the filthy words. It’s true, you were looking at Eugene like he was a juicy steak. But that was before he changed into, whatever he is now. Before the tentacles started rubbing all over your body. You notice your pants have been unbuckled. Despite everything you’re still hard, and leaking, judging by the state of your briefs.
“Let me help you,” Eugene purrs as a lone tentacles snakes down your pants. Your impatient cock twitches at the brief touch. It feels so good. Fuck, maybe you want this?
“Yes,” you admit, letting your legs fall open. “I want to…make love.”
Eugene purrs again, his entire gelatinous body vibrating with satisfaction. “Then we will, my little actor.”
Your body leaves the bed, as you're manhandled out of your clothes and onto your stomach by a plethora of tentacles. You feel the weight of Eugene’s heavy body on your back. His lips find their way to your neck. They are just as wet and sloppy as earlier.
He takes his sweet time, licking and sucking, until you know that your entire neck is going to be purple tomorrow. At this point you’re panting, trying to rut against the bed, but unable to with the weight on your back. You try to whine, but when you open your mouth, a tentacle slips inside.
“Hush, be patient for me.”
You calm down, waiting for further instructions.
“My good boy,” Eugene chuckles wetly.
That’s when you feel the first tentacle prodding at your ass. Its slick and moves in small circles to lubricate the area, before diving in. The tentacle is tapered and thin, barely noticeable at first. It quickly grows in size, until it’s massaging your walls. Its uncomfortable and foreign, but Eugene is slow and gently coaxes you open. Another tentacles soon joins the first one, stretching you more than you thought possible. All while he mumbles praises in your ear.
“My beautiful actor, such a gorgeous body. I think you’re ready for me.”
At once, the tentacles disappear. They’re replaced by the head of something even bigger. Eugene pushes his oozing cock into your stretched hole, inch, by inch. Your moan is swallowed by the tentacle in your mouth. If you thought the two tentacles was a lot, it’s nothing compared to the fullness of the monstrous cock.
How he’s able to bottom out is unknown to you, but eventually the entire cock is sheathed inside. Your eyes roll back into your head from the sheer fullness. Eugene is everywhere around you, you can barely tell where one part of him stops and the other starts. You stop breathing when he begins to move. The thrusts are shallow at first, before escalating until the entire bed is rocking with the force.
You see stars every time his cock rakes against your prostate. You’re not going to last much longer. Especially when a tentacle wraps around your cock, jerking you off with fervor. You bury your head into the mattress as you come onto the comforter.
Your body clenches around Eugene’s cock and you feel his movements become irregular. With a grunt he comes inside of you. After a moment to catch your breath, he pulls out. Cum unlike anything you’ve ever felt drips out of you.
For a moment you’re afraid Eugene might collapse onto you, but instead he rolls to the side and with his deft tentacles he moves you onto his gelatinous stomach. You didn’t notice before, but his body is vaguely transparent and it is slowly absorbing the cum you left behind on the bedspread. You get the feeling he is eating it. It makes you blush.
Eugene licks his lips. “You taste delicious, my little actor. But I won’t eat you.” More tentacles warp around your body, pressing you against him. “You’re mine, mine to cherish forever.”
The last sentence is nothing more than a growl, but you’re surprisingly fine with this situation. In a way, you did have sex with Hollywood’s biggest heartthrob, if only not in a way you ever expected.
That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die...
or you could make out with it ;)
Welcome to my month long one-shot collection, dedicated to all things creepy and crawly, the more eyes and tentacles the better.
My hope is to have a new smutty stand-alone eldritch horror x reader one-shot out each Sunday in May. The reader inserts will vary in gender, pairing and personality. The stories will not feature non-con, however there may occur some dubious consent (monsters are monsters, and some drive the reader insane).
Consider this your warning; there is 18+ content ahead.
May 3 - Male!Reader x Shoggoth lord (M/M)
May 10 - Female!Reader x Yog-Sothoth (F/M)
May 17 - Male!Reader x Deep one (M/NB)
May 24 - Female!Reader x King in Yellow (F/F)
May 31 - GN!Reader x Monster under your bed (Other)
theartofmadeline
pixelskylines
kianamaiart
ellievsbear
amandla
