#mimic x reader

[specsthesecond]

The mimic you replaced your husband with finds out you've been lying.

Part one

You're really lucky your former husband had no job and drove away all his loved ones except for you because it really makes passing his replacement off much easier.

One morning while making yourself and your husband some tea (he prefers no milk or sugar apparently) you notice that he seems a little agitated. It's been a week since you brought him home, you assumed city life would be a hard adjustment but maybe you should check if the forum says anything about-

You can't finish your thought because he suddenly shoots up from his chair, scraping it against the floor and making you flinch back on instinct.

You both freeze, he's clearly confused by your reaction and you puff out a little laugh to ease the tension, remembering that he might look near identical but this is a different person. He eyes you with concern, almost looking pained, and you slide him his tea, giving him a reassuring pat on the arm.

“It’s fine, I’m just a little jumpy today."

He nods his head but it's clear that he knows there's something else. You’ve seen that look a few times, you think he gets it when he’s remembering something from your ex’s memories that doesn’t add up with the present. It’s just like what someone from the forum said, they clearly don’t remember things in detail, it’s more like they mimic a person’s muscle memory. Though your mimic doesn’t seem to even remember much of that, he doesn’t really speak or move or act like your ex at all, even his expressions incredibly different.

Maybe your mimic is less experienced with mimicry or maybe he doesn’t care about your ex enough to mimic him right. That thought makes you smile just a little before you realise your husband is still looking at you with concern in his eyes.

You brush your fingers up his shirt,

“What's the matter?"

His fingers fiddle with the hem of your sweater, waiting a minute before asking,

“Can we go outside."

You blink, looking at the early morning sun peeking through the kitchen window.

“Now?"

He nods and you shrug your shoulders, “Why not."

He smiles, still a strange site to see on your ex-husband's face. The way he does it looks a little off, like he’s out of practice. You're not even a little concerned when he downs the mug of just boiled tea in one go, this is the same creature who ate a handful of dirt from one of your potted plants once when he thought you weren't looking.

You watch him march to the front door of your apartment and call out,

“You have to put some pants on, Babe!"

He whirls back around in confusion, “I’m wearing-” He looks down at his boxers for a long moment, you imagine him looking through your ex’s mind to evaluate the difference between baggy boxer briefs and pants. He looks back up at you, “Right.” and marches off to the bedroom.

The inexperienced mimic theory only strengthens.

Once you're outside, you walk him to where you're pretty sure he wants to go, holding his hand firmly so he doesn't get lost or overwhelmed by all the people.

He brightens up the moment he's under the trees of the city park.

“I know It doesn't compare to the woods we were in last week but…"

He smiles up at you, sitting on the ground picking at grass.

“It's nice…Babe."

His eyebrows furrow, the word must be unfamiliar on his tongue, your ex never called you by any pet names, none that you could call affectionate. He does that often, tries to do things he thinks you'd like to keep up his charade but it seems he has difficulty finding the muscle memory in his stolen body for any tender actions.

He clearly struggles with his wants and his desire for his nature to stay a secret, and it makes you wish you could just confess that you already know but everyone on your little forum advised against it. Nobody gives much information besides the basics, the location and what mimics are, you assume if you even hint at what you’ve done, you’ll be blocked and banned from the secretive group.

Worst case scenario is your mimic starts acting more like your ex in an effort to keep his secret safe. Maybe if you encourage him to do things your ex would never do then he’ll continue forming an entirely different personality on his own without even realising it.

He closes his eyes and lays flat on the grass, the site makes you stifle a laugh before you sit down next to him.

“Y'know, you could work here as park staff. You'd get to come here every day and look after the park and the animals, maybe improve your people skills a little?"

You confidence fizzles out a little as you speak, your ex would've had an outburst if you even mentioned him getting a job. He looks up at the trees and breathes in deeply, unlike the stiff mechanical breaths he usually repeats.

Your husband nods his head, turning to look at you.

“I want that."

You smile back down at him. He wants that. Not you nor your ex’s ghost. Him.

You’re both cuddling on the couch, eyes glued to the documentary playing on the TV, the calming voice of David Attenborough helping you relax after a long day.

“The leader raccoon and I are on good terms again."

Your husband mumbles, sliding his hand up and down your back. You hum for him to continue, head resting on his harder than normal chest as you breathe in his always piney scent.

“He wont be messing trash all over the walkways anymore.”

You mumble a little, “That’s great, Honey.” watching a very majestic humpback whale come up for air.

He says your name softly and you crane your neck up to look at him. The conflicted look on his face makes you pause.

“I used to work in I.T before I quit a few years ago… Why did you think I would like working at the park?"

You expected questions from him, far more than he’s actually thrown at you but you still tense up when he actually asks you something from your ex’s memories. You try to recite exactly what you practiced in your head many times over.

“Well…ever since that camping trip you've been acting different…in a good way. I think getting out there and reconnecting with nature really helped you out of your slump. You have a job now and a friend even though he's a raccoon."

He looks away almost bashfully, giving the TV a long calculating look before meeting your eyes again. “I changed… for the better?”

You nod, leaning up on your elbows to see him better. Maybe this is it, this is how you keep him from realising you know but also keep him from acting more like your ex for his own self-preservation.

“Yeah, that trip was good for you. You’re happier and kind and helpful and you don’t get so… angry all the time. I- I really like it.”

You stroke his cheek lightly, this past month has really been the happiest you’ve been in years. You just wish you could show him how much you want him, not who he’s failing at pretending to be.

“Even if it’s different?”

The hope in his voice lights up your heart.

“I love the new you... more than I ever loved the old one.”

He meets your eyes and it’s like you can see all his emotions in his blown out pupils. His fingers graze your cheek and he leans forward, bringing you into a kiss. You kiss him back, straddling his lap as he sits up. He pulls on your sweater, bringing you closer,

“You love me. You love me.” He mumbles like a prayer into your skin as he kisses your neck. This poor creature spent all this time thinking you wanted another man, probably carrying guilt at being the one to take said man away from you. If only he knew.

His hand carves through your hair and you think you feel him shiver before you softly bite his neck, not hard enough to hurt, just to leave a mark. He bucks his hips and moans, actually moans.

Your sex lives have mostly consisted of pretty vanilla fucking with him only letting out grunts every now and then. You figured that’s all he knew how to do and he just needed some time to get comfortable. It was far better than your sex life before him so you were sure to never complain lest he start trying to look into your ex’s memories for reference.

But hearing the sound he just made fired up something inside you that's been dormant for a long time. You want to hear it again so you bite down again but you were clearly too overzealous because he winces and pulls you back by your hair, making you let out a surprised whine of pain. Suddenly you’re not warm anymore, you’re freezing and the man in front of you isn’t your mimic anymore, it’s your husband. It happens in an instant, you push him away from you and scramble back to the other side of the couch.

He goes completely rigid and the horrified look on his face knocks you out of your panicked state immediately. He looks down at his hand, clenching and unclenching his fist and then looks back to you. It’s almost like you can tell exactly what memories you’ve just triggered, just by looking at his face. You crawl a little closer to him, trying not to shake too much.

“No, no, It's okay, It’s- I’m fine."

He shakes his head, suddenly standing up, straight and rigid like a tree.

“I need the bathroom."

He walks off, twitching slightly, shoulders tensed all the way up to his ears and you hear the bathroom door slide shut.

He stays in there for hours. Hours of alternating between frantic pacing and sitting on the couch with your head in your hands trying not to cry. What’s worse, killed by a monster you thought could love you or abused by said monster just like the husband you killed.

You want to believe your mimic wouldn’t do that to you but there was a time where you thought your husband would never lay a hand on you either. When it gets late enough, you decide to head to bed, not to sleep but to at least have somewhere soft to wait for your fate. You can’t run even if you wanted to, the other members of the forum made that clear, if it wants to, it’ll find you.

Curled on your side, you don't turn around when the door creaks open and he pads into the room. The footsteps stop at his side of the bed and everything is silent except for those distinct snapping sounds you haven’t heard since that night. You take deep breaths, readying yourself to get what you probably deserve.

You feel the bed dip and he pulls himself under the sheets. He slinks an arm around you, pressing you against his unmoving chest. He isn’t even trying to pretend to breathe anymore, not trying to seem human any longer because what would be the point?

You hear something from behind you, a whispery, scratching sound, you don’t even register that it’s coming from him at first. Eventually it becomes more distinct, a voice, his voice, not your husband’s but a voice that sounds airy and sharp, like leaves rustling in the wind.

“He’s dead.”

The bed dips further behind you, like he’s getting heavier somehow. You feel a strange thickness climb over your body under the sheets, it smells like pine and you let it slowly swallow you.

“We killed him."

Your tears flow freely and you pull the sticky, viscous form of your lover closer to you, seeking it’s warmth, it’s comfort. You cling to it, feeling vines wrap around your legs and sturdy bark under your fingers. It brushes your tears away with the softness of a flower petal.

“I will never let you suffer like that again.”

The smell of dirt and moss is strong, you welcome it into your lungs.

[running-with-kn1ves]

Welcome Home

TW: body horror, doppelganger/mimic,

Synopsis: Something returns in the body of your husband, making him more off putting than usual.

He'd been gone a long time, a lot longer than you expected.

A part of you wished he wouldn't come back, that he'd get lost in those neverending hills of ombre greens, mountains with small streams flowing through them and twisting paths that bore broken ankles and scraped knees if one tripped.

Here he was, though. The reins of the horse that was given as part of your dowery in his fist, his left leg twisted backwards to give him a gangly lean.

The lonesomeness of the high mountains could be crippling, but it was being around your menace of a husband that truly made life there hard. He was the only man in your clan who would take you, and your family would rather lie in their graves to rot than send off one of their own to a traitorous neighboring village.

None of that mattered now, when you were so far from any form of companionship or civilization, your desperation leading to the point of grasping at the few straws your distant, cold husband would offer.

But that man wasn't here, not in this house. What remained of his hollow vessel was unholy, a beast of small resemblance.

The details were all there: dirty off-white field shirt, cracked leather suspenders, even the strong gash of scar across his knuckles, the one that gripped the reins so tightly they twisted in his fingers.

"You're home." Was all you could mutter.

Not, 'where have you been' or 'I was worried sick;' when speaking to your husband, most words would float right past him.

The mud on his boots slid against the oak floors, leaving a wet, thumping sound as he trudged through the living room. Small remains in the fireplace was left in glowing embers, dying flames casting shadows upon your husband's face.

You had never stared long at anything above his shoulders, either out of worry of him striking you for doing so, or maybe fear of finding him repulsive to look at, knowing he was all you had until your life's end.

But seeing him now, his face didn't look much different. A sharp frown turned down his lips, his strong nose inhaling, exhaling so quietly you might not hear him breathe in a silent room; but his chest heaved in wild ups and downs.

Another step forward. The front door was left open, and you could see the summer fireflies landing on the porch outside. A shallow dirt line followed his trail up the steps, as if his boots had been sliding in the dirt all the way home.

You held the oil lamp further away from your face, illuminating the dirt smeared across his. His hair was slick, covering his eyes like dripping ink.

"Want a bath?"

You spoke louder, voice still hoarse from sleep. He didn't look right, and it wasn’t just the dirtiness. Was there some sort of attacker that shook him? maybe a steep fall from one of the narrow roads down the hill?

Not quite...  there was something deeper under his skin that was inherently different. His smell, like that of petrichor and iron. As he moved, one arm swung lower than another, his back hunched in a way that made him look broader.

As he walked, his leg cracked in such a loud pop it almost made you jump. Splatters of dark speckled his cotton shirt, becoming brighter as he neared.

It was like watching an injured animal try to scoot itself deeper into the forest, letting itself suffer rather than stop to spare the pain. But instead of a creature trying to escape, he was languidly dragging himself at you.

"You sound... tired. You should get to bed."

Despite the gnawing sense of dread beginning to curl in your stomach, you stood your ground, half of your body leaning from out of your shared bedroom. You'd do your spousal duties, take care of him, so long as he stopped scaring you. 

As you listened to him, you realized Bettie couldn't be heard in her stall, and there were no hoove prints following the fresh trail of mud near the front door. Where had she gone? Had he lost her in the high mountains, leaving my her to roam aimlessly in the wide plains?

Or maybe, something had gotten her, your husband barely making it out himself; it would certainly explain the state he was in.

His body cracked with each aching move, back twisting in a way where his ribs jutted beneath his skin, twisting again for his left leg to snap back in place. Before you knew it, his face was hovering, drifting only inches away. Along the dry wall his hand grazed to create a black streak, sliding over the only picture you kept of your wedding day. He was so tall he barely fit in the yellowed picture; though his height was noteable, it never scared you until tonight.

Along with it, his hands... they hung low to the ground, the one resting upon the wall now coming towards you. It grasped foreward for you, opposite to the oil lamp in your grip. Dirt and something thick, like molasses, was stuck beneath his fingernails.

"Mmhn..."

Something guttural came from his lips, his mouth parting with a black thickness foaming at the corner. It glued between his teeth, swallowing his tongue as it drooled down his chin.

This wasn't him. It was his body-- or atleast what you could remember of it. They were pieces of him but they didn't fit right. He looked like a corpse left forgotten and dunked in oil, but he smelled only of rainwater and highland grass, nothing dead following him. Yet, the smell on his hands, the one that came to rest upon your cheek, cupping at your jaw, it was like rotting flesh.

His fingers rigidly stroked your cheek, using his thumb to smear a mixture of black beneath your eye. So cold, the touch sent a shock down to your feet, leaving you frozen still.

You might've not known your husband, not his voice or a solid memory of his face. But this was... something from outside. Someone. But it wasn't the man who promised to hold you in sickness and health.

A wet smear from his finger drew down your lip, the caress so gentle and inexplicably foreign.

Through the croak of his chest, he strained to speak through the black trenches of his mouth.

" I'm... home."

[bumpen-underbeds]

You're not too sure what you have gotten yourself into when you agree to help your friend out, they had asked you to take in their roommate as something had happened in their apartment, and their landlord was too cheap to find a hotel room for them, simply telling them to grab their essentials and come back in two weeks when he was finished with their apartment.

Your friend was lucky enough to be able to crash with his girlfriend, however apparently his roommate is not so lucky, being the only member of his family in the city and single at this point in time, you don't really mind taking them in, so long as your friend keeps up his end of the bargain and it's willing to chip in on part of your rent for housing his friend and roommate for the time being.

You've met his roommate exactly twice before you found him standing in front of the door to your apartment, and both times he had been playing some sort of online game, grumbling as he ate various snacks with several different levels in languages that aren't any of the known human ones.

As such, awkward is a gentle term for the moment you let him into your apartment, the man is almost freakishly tall, pale, and on the skinny side, in a way that would be concerning had you not looked up and seen pitch black eyes staring back at you, as you let him pass into your home. Having met several different kinds of monsters and worked with a couple over the years, finding out that your friend's roommate was a monster is less unnerving now then just assuming your friend was living with a pale, shut in, incel like person.

Only your not sure what kind of monster your temporary roommate actually is.

Helping him settle in and deposit his items in your spare room you know there's nothing out of the ordinary, he had brought clothes, his laptop, and a few toiletries that seem perfectly normal to you. He hasn't brought any specialty foods or odd items to be added to your kitchen, you know several breeds of monsters need special equipment to be able to consume human foods, not wanting to seem awkward, you offered to order pizza and get to know each other properly seeing as you'll be together for the next two weeks or so.

What followed seems like a very normal first time getting to know each other, you ask some questions about what he does in his free time and he asked about your work schedule and whether or not him being up late would be a bother to your sleep, overall it seems that while yes he does have monster like features, he might just be a half breed, but nevertheless he seems like a perfectly fine person to live with.

The first week of living with him is mostly settling into a routine, he seems to work from home and as such when you leave for work he's typically still asleep, when you come home he is usually in the middle of some call or meeting while being deeply entrenched in something on his computer screen. Despite your clear difference in work schedules, you manage to get quite close with him, joking and playfully mentioning that if he didn't want to move back in with your friend, you wouldn't mind having him as your long-term roommate.

Soon the first week flies by, and you forget about his strange paleness or the lack of any visible pupil in his eye, beyond the pure black that consumes his scleras.

Or well you had forgotten about his odd features until one late Wednesday night, you had taken too long coming home from work, traffic had blocked your bus route or maybe someone had managed to slow down the public transport in the city with some shenanigans, but it was close to 10:00 p.m. by the time you managed to make it home stepping through your door into a very dark apartment. After kicking off your shoes and turning on the light to the hallway of your apartment, you find your pale house guest at the end of the hall, staring at you almost painting as he takes a few steps forwards before stopping and shuddering, not just a shiver but his whole body seems to waver, as a seam begins to appear from his hip hidden under his waistband, and up along his chest in an almost diagonal path towards one of his shoulders.

While the appearance of this seam is unnerving what truly made you take a moment to pause, was how it seemed to open, peeling back and revealing white silvery jelly-like tentacles that sprouted from his chest. Any thoughts of him being simply a half breed fade from your mind as you remember reading about a recent arrival of a type of monster to the city, humanesque mimics, in most appearances they seem just like everyone else but tend to come in odd colourings, often being found "blooming" with their more raw forms once they grow more comfortable with the people they are around.

And suddenly it all makes sense, his pallor, the lack of any colour to his eyes that anyone else human, or otherwise would have, and the preference for a homebound job.

As the now shambling mass of tentacles that was your house guest moves closer and closer one other fact about humanoid mimics comes to mind, they tend to get attached to select humans choosing them as suitable hosts and partners for propagating more of their kind, regardless of perceived male or female orientation, once they have found the preferred person they tend to bloom and attempt to join with their preferred person.

The cold pale hands of your house guest cradle all your face, as one of the jelly-like tentacles seems to almost parody a caress, swiping itself across your lips and tapping against the seam of your mouth, seemingly seeking permission to slip into your mouth. Beyond the writhing mass of tentacles that spread across the open seam of his chest, you can see the more humanoid face of the mimic creature smiling, the look on his face seems soft, almost fond as he speaks clearly using your own joking mention of letting him become a more permanent roommate to you, as he asks if you'll let him stay here with you.

After all, it was unlikely he'd be able to live with your friend ever again after having found you.

[eldritchpotato]

In which a mimic thinks you'd be perfect to incubate its eggs.

Getting captured by a mimic is the lowest of lows for any adventurer. The stupid things look like a big wooden chest, they aren’t weren’t exactly subtle.

But as the acid melts away at your clothes, and you think this is finally it, you realize a whole new uncomfortable truth about mimics.

It’s not solid, so there’s no escaping as it’s squirming ovipositor slides inside you, hot and slick. Then you feel the pressure, the bulges of eggs as it fucks them into you.

Just as quick you’re left panting on the dungeon floor, throbbing in confusion and arousal. It didn’t rat you… so there’s that. But now you have to walk all the way back to town, your clothes ruined, and your cunt full of eggs.

With every step, you can feel them shift and jiggle inside you. When you cum on the side of the road alone, a pathetic sound squeaking out of you, you can only be grateful that you’re all alone out here.

[silkhunger]

MONSTER MONDAY - MIMIC X F!READER

✦ WARNINGS: 18+・tentacles・prehensile tongue・cunnilingus・squirting・marathon sex・aphrodisiac saliva・multiple orgasms・overstimulation・bondage・is it bondage if it's tentacles???・ ✦ TAGS: smut・happy ending・monster romance・ ✦ WORD COUNT: 3.3k

The warlock’s shop smells like burning hair and old parchment.

You’ve been standing outside for the better part of an hour. The sign above the door is painted in something that may or may not be rust, and the letters rearrange themselves if you look too long, settling finally into: GIDEON GRIMGALE — PURVEYOUR OF CURIOUSITIES & MARGINAL WISDOMS.

Either this is a test or he can’t spell; you’re not sure which answer would be worse.

You go inside.

Gideon Grimgale is exactly what a mad warlock should look like, which makes you trust him even less. The too-long beard. The too-many rings. The way his left eye is a slightly different color than his right, which he clearly expects you to notice and remark upon.

You don’t. You skip straight to the point, and tell him what you’re here for.

Magic.

Real magic. Not the hedge-witch cantrips your neighbor sells in little paper pouches, or the cold-reader and misdirection the street performers use in the market square, or the theories upon theories gathering dust in university libraries that require seventeen prerequisite courses and a letter of recommendation from someone already admitted.

You want the thing itself, the kind of magic that changes what’s real.

Gideon stares at you for a long time.

“Most people,” he says, drawing out his syllables, “want magic because they want power or safety or some such thing.”

“Yes,” you nod.

“Which such thing is it for you?”

“I want to understand,” you answer confidently. 

There’s a shift in Gideon’s mismatched eyes, like a sunbeam reflecting off of a mirror’s surface.

“I’ll take you on if—” he sweeps his velvet-clad arm over the counter, taking the clutter with it and leaving behind a box, “—you can solve this.”

It’s not a beautiful box like you expected. A chest of dark wood inlaid with silver, or a reliquary of pale bone with hinges shaped like hands. Something that screamed “ancient warlock’s test”. Instead the box is roughly the size of a large book and covered in what looks like aged brown leather, slightly worn at the corners, the surface embossed with no discernible pattern.

There’s no visible seam. No latch or keyhole, either. It sits on the counter like an ordinary object and asks nothing of you.

“Take it home,” Gideon urges, waving the box toward you. “Solve it. Bring it back.”

“How will I know when I’ve solved it?”

“You’ll know,” he grins, which is the kind of answer that makes you want to throw something.

When you pick up the box, it’s unnervingly warm. It vaguely reminds you of the boxes that sat in your attic for too long, accidentally left to bake near your collection of dragonfire lava lamps, but this warmth seems to come from whatever is inside.

(too warm—warm like a living thing)

You spend the first three days doing the obvious things.

You poke and prod at every inch of its surface, looking for a hidden latch. You tap it, listening for a hollow echo that might reveal a hidden mechanism. You try heating it, freezing it. You try every unlocking cantrip you know, which are admittedly few and weak and kind of smell like your neighbor’s paper pouches, but still. You consult three different texts on puzzle-boxes and follow their suggestions with careful precision.

Nothing happens.

The box sits on your kitchen table, warm and immobile, and you begin to suspect that you’re being made fun of.

On the fourth day, you decide to stop trying to solve it, and start watching it instead.

You eat your meals at your kitchen table, staring directly at its plain exterior. You work on other things—mending, correspondence, chores, all the small maintenances of life—and keep the box in your peripheral vision.

You begin to notice things. The warmth fluctuates, very slightly, in a rhythm too slow and irregular to be mechanical. Sometimes, when you’ve been still for a long while, reading or sleeping in the nearby chair, you’ll wake to find the box a half-inch from where you left it. Never more than that, never enough that you could be certain. The worn patch on the upper-right corner is on the upper-left corner one morning when you’re almost sure you didn’t turn it.

“Are you alive?” you ask it on the fifth night, feeling foolish.

The box is still.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you pout. “If that’s the issue.”

The warmth shifts. Intensifies, briefly, then settles.

You dream of darkness, warm and damp, and too many eyes, all focused entirely on you.

—

By the second week, you’ve stopped thinking of it as a puzzle.

You talk to it, a little. Similar to the way you talk when you’re alone and working through a problem, thoughts spilling sideways into the room. You tell it about the book you’re reading and the list of chores you have to do and how much you like the way the sun lights up your bedroom through the new curtains you bought.

The box sits with you. The warmth is steady now, and you’ve started to find it reassuring.

(probably not wise, but you’ve decided not to think about that)

You carry it from room to room. You’re not sure when you started doing this; it happened gradually, the box migrating with you, until, one morning, you notice it has been on every surface in your home. It feels natural to you, not unlike the way a cat takes ownership of a house.

On the tenth day, you wake at three in the morning to the sound of breathing.

You lie very, very still.

The breathing is low and even, coming from the direction of the box on your bedside table. It’s not human breathing—too slow, too large for its size—but it is, unmistakably, breathing. The inhale, exhale of something alive and resting. It dawns on you then exactly what you’ve been doing for the past ten days.

(it knows you now—you’ve earned its trust)

You close your eyes.

You don’t reach for it, don’t tense or hold yourself still in a way that would communicate fear. You just breathe, letting yourself relax in its presence. You follow its breaths, lulling yourself back to sleep with its odd rhythm until your breaths are one and the same.

—

It opens on the thirteenth day, in the plainest of fashions.

You’re eating breakfast and reading, not paying it any particular attention, when there’s a sound. It’s not loud, not a click or a creak, but a soft pop!, and, when you look up, the box is open.

A seam has appeared along what was the bottom edge, hinged now so the top half lies flat against the table and the inside is—

(deep-water dark—something moves in it—large—something that should not fit)

You should be afraid.

You notice this about yourself distantly. You should be afraid, but you’re not. Or rather, you are, but the fear is thin, easily overpowered by something that almost feels like—

It surfaces. There’s no other word for it. It surfaces like a creature from the depths, a mass of shifting, textured dark, chitinous in places and soft in others. Too many angles for what a body should be, odd shadows and reflections of light that make it appear both wet and dry.

Eyes—too many, irregularly placed, all amber-gold and unblinking—and a lolling tongue the length of your torso that drips thick and wet.

It is fully monstrous, and stares at you the way you stare at the light beams shining through your bedroom curtains.

“Oh.”

—

The Mimic doesn’t speak. You didn’t expect it to.

Instead, it holds very still, as if it’s trying not to startle you further.

“You’ve been awake this whole time,” you realize. “Since the shop.”

The mass of it shifts. Agreement, you think. Whatever its version of a nod is.

“He sold you.” All the little pieces start to click into place, the grand puzzle finally coming together. “He was seeing if I was someone you’d trust.”

The eyes blink once, one after the other, in a smooth succession.

“How long have you been doing this?”

The question lands differently than you intend. 

How long have you been in boxes, carried from hand to hand, opening for the ones who were patient? What did you do to the ones who weren’t?

The creature stills, its mass tensing until it doesn’t appear to even be breathing.

“I’m not going back to Gideon,” you tell it quickly. “You don’t have to either.”

Its eyes focus on you, breathing picking up just a tick. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re aware that this creature has more ways to kill you than you have names for. It’s been in your home and the dark of your bedroom for thirteen nights, and you aren’t afraid.

(wisdom or foolishness—Gideon would say they’re one and the same)

Slowly, with great effort, the creature moves across the table.

The leading edge of it, the part that has been the worn leather corner for thirteen days, opens an inch wider, tongue slithering out to land on the back of your hand with a soft ‘slap’.

The warmth you’ve been sleeping near for nearly two weeks, present and pulsing against your skin.

You turn your hand over.

The tongue is wide and soft, textured with fine, velvety ridges. The wet slap of it against your palms sends a jolt straight up your arm. It’s hot, hotter than the box, hotter than your own skin. A thin, clear fluid beads from its surface, smelling faintly of water on hot stone.

A tremor runs through the mimic’s mass.

You stare at the tongue on your skin, eyes flicking back to the sea of amber watching, waiting for your reaction.

“Go on,” you breathe.

That’s all the invitation it needs. The tongue moves, explores your hand with a curious slowness. The tip traces along the fine lines of your palm, gliding through the sensitive skin between your fingers to skim the veins on your wrist. It laps over your knuckles, and you feel the texture all the way to your toes. The fluid it leaves behind tingles, absorbing into your skin like a fine lotion.

The box remains on the table, but the rest of it shifts and undulates with motion. Tendrils unfurl from its body, slick and oil-black, moving with liquid grace. There’s no hurry to them, slithering toward you casually.

One tentacle, thinner than the others but surprisingly strong, winds gently around your wrist. Another loops around your other wrist, pulling your hands behind the back of your chair. The grip is firm, but not painful, feeling more like an embrace than restraint.

More tendrils snake around your ankles, pulling your legs apart wider, wider, wider until they’re draped over the armrests and you’re left open, exposed, and completely at its mercy. The kitchen’s air is cool on the damp heat already gathering between your legs.

Its myriad eyes roam your body, all coming to fix on the apex of your thighs. The great tongue retracts from your hands, leaving the limb glistening with spit and buzzing in your veins. It hovers in the air, flicking like it’s tasting the air.

Then, it lowers.

It presses flat against the fabric of your sleep trousers. The heat is searing, soaking through the thin cloth immediately. It drags upward, a heavy, wet glide that tears a gasp from your throat. Your hips buck involuntarily against the friction. The tendrils tighten, holding you in place.

(a silent command—stay—receive)

“Please.”

The tip of the tongue—narrower, more pointed—hooks into the waistband of your pants and underwear both. It pulls, and the fabric tears with a sound like wet silk giving way, leaving you bare to the cool air and its burning gaze.

The tongue returns, and the creature nearly purrs at the absence of any barriers.

It licks a single, torturously slow, stripe from your ass to your clit, the velvety ridges catching on every sensitive part of your flesh. The fluid it secretes is warm, amplifying every touch and movement until it feels like your nerves are singing.

The tongue laves over your folds, exploring every inch of your cunt it can reach, circling your entrance with teasing delicacy until it finally, mercifully, presses inside.

The orgasm hits you violently. Your back arches off the chair, a hoarse cry ripped straight from your lungs as the tongue breaches you. It’s thick, stretching you wider and wider the deeper it slides. It curls inside you, stroking against your inner walls to find that place that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Your pussy clenches down on it, and it purrs in response.

You come again, your second orgasm cresting on the tail of the first. You gush helplessly, and the tongue is greedy to lap it up, its movements growing more eager, more demanding.

You lose track of yourself. There is only this—the grip of its tendril, the sopping noise of its tongue fucking into you, and the blinding pleasure that never seems to end.

You’re nothing more than an instrument, and it plays you with expertise, plucking one orgasm after another out of you until you’re a sobbing, writhing mess.

Your encouragement is incoherent, a constant babble of yes and please and more and don’t stop falling from your lips.

The mimic pulls itself closer, the box-like shell scraping softly against the table. More tendrils emerge, thread-like in their fineness. One brushes over your lips, smelling of honey and your own arousal. You open your mouth without thinking, welcoming its glide along your tongue to the back of your throat.

The tongue inside you thickens, thrusting its way deeper and deeper. One of the larger tentacles unwraps from your thigh to press against your spit-slick folds, grinding its textured length against your clit opposite the rhythm of the tongue’s relentless assault.

You scream as you come, body shaking with the force of it, nearly drowning the creature in a fountain of arousal.

(it tastes—drinks—devours—more, more, more)

When the orgasm finally quells, you’re left limp, held up only by the tendrils binding you to the chair. Body covered in a sheen of sweat and drool, you gulp down air, trying to come back to your own mind.

The tongue withdraws, leaving you aching and empty. For a brief moment, you think it’s over, but the mimic shifts its position.

Your legs are pulled straight up, pressed together save for the tendrils that slip and pulse between them. The great, dark mass looms over you, and the wriggling, eager tongue.

It pushes into you with one harsh thrust. It feels thicker than before, stealing the air from your lungs as it fills you to the brim, the tip kissing the mouth of your womb. It holds itself there, giving you time to adjust to the overwhelming size of it.

Then it begins to move.

It pulls out almost completely, tickling you with the tip before slamming back in with a powerful stroke that rocks the chair. The squelching slap echoes in your kitchen, sending a fresh wave of heat through you.

The fine tendril in your mouth begins to pulse, pouring a sweet nectar from its tip. It glides down your open throat, warming your stomach and chasing away your exhaustion and keeping you in this state of heightened, desperate arousal.

You’re not sure how long it lasts. Time dissolves into a blur of thrusting tongues and tendrils and orgasms. You come again and again—

(and again and again and again and again and again)

—each peak higher than the last, until your pleasure is so intense it borders on pain. The world fades into a haze of lust and want and the feeling being filled and emptied and filled again.

The last thing you feel before you slip into unconsciousness is the creature’s body pressing closer, tendrils tightening as its tongue slides deep inside you, and you’ve never felt more wanted.

—

You wake in your bed, face down in your pillows.

You have no memory of getting there. The light is different, a soft, golden hue of late afternoon. There’s a minute where you consider it might have all been a dream, perhaps a product of a lonely imagination.

Then you feel it, that pressure between your legs.

The mimic is still inside you, tongue buried deep. It doesn’t move, simply resting there hot and heavy. There are more tendrils wrapped around your body, anchoring you to your soaked sheets and to it. You try to move, try to shift your position, and the tongue responds with a playful twitch inside you. A wave of pleasure washes over you, so intense it brings tears to your eyes.

“Oh,” you mewl, body arching into your mattress.

Slow thrusts start anew, building into a steady, gentle rhythm. It must’ve been going since morning, your body raw and overly sensitive. Each movement, yours and the mimic’s, rubs sharp shocks of electricity through you, and you come almost immediately. Your orgasm is quick, a sharp pleasure-pain that leaves you panting.

Another thin tendril slithers into your mouth—your lips parting automatically at the feel of it—offering more nectar. You drink it down greedily, strengthened with every gulp, the fog of exhaustion replaced with a fresh wave of insatiable lust that the mimic is all too happy to oblige.

Over the next few days, the mimic fucks you in every room of the house. It takes you on your kitchen counter, against your living room wall, on the floor of your hallway, bent over your desk. It learns your body in a way no human ever could, merciless in its discovery of what makes you scream and beg for more.

It discovers a spot just inside your cunt that makes you squirt uncontrollably. It spends hours there, milking you for everything you’re worth, feeding you nectar and gulping down your arousal as if it was starving for it. It learns that if it fucks you from behind while a thinner tender circles your clit, you whine in a pitch that matches its chittering.

You’re more than willing to help, meeting its thrusts, squeezing your inner muscles in a way that makes it shudder. You learn to communicate with it through touch and sound, telling it what you want without words.

(easy to do when all you want is it)

“Again,” you beg, voice hoarse and nearly gone as the tendrils bounce you up and down on its tongue in front of your closet mirror. “Don’t ever stop.”

It answers with a mischievous hum, and a quick thrust of its tongue that sends you spiraling into another orgasm that steals your breath and your sight.

All you can do—all you want to do—is beg for more.

—

You return to Gideon’s shop, box tucked safely in your arms.

He waits for you to set it back on the counter, but you don’t, standing across from him in silence. He’s patient—time, like most other things, meaning nothing to him—waiting several minutes for you to speak or move.

“Go on then,” he urges after ten minutes, clearing a space for the box with a sweep of his arm.

“I solved it,” you say, notably not setting the box down. You don’t need to, not when Gideon’s eyes flick down to it to notice the way it shifts to settle into your arms.

Gideon is many things—mad mostly, probably dangerous, certainly difficult—but he is also, underneath everything, a man who wants to know how things work. You recognize that in him, just as you recognize it in yourself.

Irritation morphs into something more complicated, maybe a little envious, before it finally, grudgingly, settles into vague respect.

“The deal was an apprenticeship,” you remind him.

Another ten minutes of pure silence.

Gideon stares at the box, then at you, then at the empty space on his counter, then back to the box. He stares and stares, until…

A set of apprentice robes come flying out of the back, folding themselves neatly on the counter top along with a fresh grimoire.

Gideon puts the kettle on.

CREDITS banner ✦ orangemagik (pixeljoint)

[dept-of-monster-affairs]

Surprise

Mimic(s) x gn!reader

Word count: 3313

Contains: dub-con, soft vore, total restraint, tentacles, all holes filled, implied aphrodisiac, light horror themes

While out checking your trail cams you come across a strange tower that hadn't been there two days before. Deciding to check it out you hear someone calling for help. Only to be surprised by what was calling out to you - and even more surprised by its intent.

Something strange had happened after the Great Incursion. Sometimes where a Rift had appeared and closed things were left behind. Monsters, yes. Magic, yes. But also items, land, buildings. A blending of worlds more dramatic than most areas.

You had heard rumors of how several areas in Washington and Oregon - no - the Kingdom of Dosneni had experienced this blending. Great castles and keeps, that the new vampire rulers inhabited. It was rarer here in the new country of the Federation of American States. The old D.C. metro area had been transformed into a landscape of hellfire and immoral demons…you supposed that the latter wasn’t that different than before.

But most of these blended areas were not so drastically different. A barn on main street. A hill that hadn’t been there before. So, when you found a tall tower in the forest it wasn’t something that stood out as completely strange. It was strange though that it certainly hadn’t been there two days ago when you had been by before. 

It was round, forty feet tall, separate from any main keep, and with a flattop that a person could observe afar from. A lookout tower of some sort? It had definitely sat in a forest as there were three willow trees nearby that weren’t indigenous to the area.

Of course, the real question was - is this a problem? For all you knew this could be some fey trick. It could be a mage’s tower and filled with magical traps. Or it could be completely empty and abandoned. There was also the concern that something else had come with the tower. Could there be a new monster in the area? If so, friendly or dangerous?

Maybe you should contact DOMA? But who knew how long it would take them to get out here for just a tower. They had so many other cases to deal with where people were in danger. This tower wasn’t an obvious danger and it would be rude to call the feds on a possible new neighbor.

For now, you decided to leave the tower alone. You still had to collect the data from your trail cams. If there were any monsters that had come with the tower, it was possible you had captured some footage. There was a camera facing the area of the tower, you might have even captured its arrival. Switching out the memory card for the trail cam you moved along the path to the next one.

Back in your cabin you uploaded the photos to your laptop and began flipping through. You were looking for signs of grey wolves. Wolves had started returning to their natural habitat in southern Canada after the Great Incursion when urban pressure had been reduced. There were rumors of wolves returning to this area as well. A few of your neighbors in town had sworn they found a deer corpse with wolf prints around it. And Mrs. Flannery told you she had seen something large and dog-like, running along in the woods as she drove at night. So, as a member of the Forest Amelioration Engineers you had set out your trail cameras out in the woods to see if the wolves could be found. 

There were no photos of wolves on the camera. But the trail cam had captured the appearance of the tower. Just a few photos of the tower, when its arrival triggered the motion sensors. Nothing else. Perhaps, the tower was really abandoned.

Just in case you would bring a basket of food for anything living in the tower as a welcome gift and peace offering.

The sun was reaching its zenith by the time you reached the tower the next day. You had spent the morning filling out the DOMA report form online. Technically, you had submitted it too but the internet was less than reliable sometimes so it was still clocking when you left, hopefully, it would be officially submitted by the time you return.

While you were coming with a basket of food and a few shiny objects you still approached the tower with caution. There was a hunting knife strapped to your belt for self-defense. If there was something dangerous in there hopefully you would be able to hurt it enough to escape.

The walk itself was peaceful if not a little quiet. Stepping up to the large stone base of the tower you looked around for another sign of life. Nothing inside the tower moved at ground level and you couldn’t see into the balcony windows. 

“Hello!” You called out announcing your presence verbally. “Welcome to the human realm!”

Walking around the tower you called out some more trying to make sure you were heard by anything inside, before approaching the door. “I am here with a welcoming gift, it is a part of my culture for new neighbors.”

You knocked on the door. As fist hit wood, the door creaked out. You blinked staring into the dim interior. There was a table, some chairs, a cold fireplace, and no humanoid. No sign of life.

“Is anyone there,” you asked, sticking your head cautiously inside. “I mean you no harm and I do not want to trespass.”

You were about to finalize that there was no one there when you heard something from the upper floors. It sounded like a voice, a cry.

“Hellooo,” you questioned, stepping half way into the building.

“Hello,” the voice was muffled, weak but certainly there.

“Is it alright if I come in? I can leave the gift and go.”

“Come in,” the voice called back, still hard to hear through the stone.

“Thank you.” At the invitation you entered, still cautious. You set the basket down on the table. There was no dust, no cobwebs in the corners. Someone definitely lived here.

Silence in the air. It gave you an eerie feeling. “I put the gift on the table. I can leave if you want…but if you need any help I live down the deer path to the southwest…”

“Do not leave,” the voice replied quickly, the sound still muffled by the stone. “Help.”

Your eyes widened. “You need help? I am coming upstairs.”

“Upstairs. Help.”

Hurrying up the stairs you came to the second floor, light streamed in though the archery slits. It looked like an armory of some sort. A lookout tower with soldiers would make sense. 

“Hello,” the voice called again from further up. It was clearer now, you could tell it was questioning if you were still there.

“I’m coming,” you yelled back as you continued to climb the stairs. The next floor was barracks, there had definitely been three soldiers here given the number of beds. But what had happened to them? It didn’t look like an attack. Maybe they had been out on patrol or something when the Rift opened? Then who was left behind?

“Upstairs…” One more floor. You arrived at a closed door on the landing of the fourth floor. There was a ladder that led to the roof. In the back of your mind you questioned though. The voice it sounded strangely familiar. “Hellooo?”

You tossed open the door to find…an empty bedroom. The captain’s quarters given the set of armor in the corner.

Stepping in questioningly, you looked around for the voice. “Hello,” you softly called out looking around the room. “Where are you?”

Silence.

Shit. Did you just follow a ghost?

On a desk sat a journal. Peering over the faded yellow pages you saw hurried but clear cursive writing. 

Thrimilchi Seventh Day afore Ides

Movement from the orcs hast did cease.  Those monsters art camp'd ov'r the range.  Hath sent Blye to scout.

Thrimilchi Fourth Day afore Ides

Blye hast not hath return’d. I shalt sendeth Harold aft'r him on the morrow.

Thrimilchi Third Day afore Ides

Blye hast hath return’d afore sunrise but hast hath chang’d.  That gent doest not speaketh.  His corse is whole but his mind is a wand'r.

Thrimilchi Second Day afore Ides

Blye doth speaketh yet ‘tis nay be his voice. His mind is yond of a raven.  Repeating the voice and w'rds of oth'rs. Be he possessed by a spirit?

Thrimilchi First Day afore Ides

Blye hast p'rish'd.  His corse wast did violate and did split in twain.  Harold hast did vanish yet his boots remaineth by his cot. ‘Twas murder afore fleeing into the night ‘tis seems. I away’d Tobias to beg reinforcements from His Majesty. Continueth watch in vigil shall I and Perrigen.

How awful. A murder. Maybe you had heard Blye’s ghost. You turned the page, did they ever catch Harold?

Thrimilchi Ides

Hark! Our senses deceive’d us.  ‘T cameth with Byle.  ‘T couldst beest aught.  If ‘tis true thou art reading my account I pray thee fleeth. Taketh naught for chance ‘tis be the daemon.

Your blood ran cold. A voice calling out to you. A man who only spoke repeated words of others. The voice which had said no words than those you had spoken already.

How many stories had you heard growing up? Never follow a voice calling to you when you are alone in the woods. The false comfort of it being in this building fooled you. 

Pulling out your knife you backed away from the journal, looking around for any movement. There were so many monsters it could be. What was it? A Raven-mocker? A wendigo? A doppelganger? Could you defeat it? Were you already doomed?

No, you had to run. You had to --

“Welcome,” a voice said behind you, in your voice, in the exact tone you had used when welcoming it to this realm.

You screeched and whipped around. But something had caught your feet. You fell to the ground hard, the knife clattering out of your hand. Twisting your body you watched in horror as the trunk at the foot of the captain’s bed split open wide revealing a massive maw lined with horrid fangs. From its side a tendril had wrapped around your feet.

As bright orange eyes opened in between the false planks of wood on the round top of the trunk you screamed. This was a fight for your life. You kicked at the mimic trying to free your feet. Your boots were stuck to the tendrils. 

You crawled desperately against the ground, the tendrils trying to pull you back stuck to your boots. Acting fast you reached down and pulled at your bootlaces. The slack loosened your boots. Your feet began to slide out of your boots as you played a morbid game of tug-of-war with the mimic.

Suddenly, your feet popped free. 

Scrambling across the floor you saw your knife near the wardrobe. You lunged for it. Yet, just as you did a slimy pulsing purple tongue wrapped around your legs. Grabbing the doors of the wardrobe you tried to pull yourself free.

“Help,” your mimicked voice said.

The doors of the wardrobe swung open revealing a deep purple gullet.

“Hark!” A gruff man’s deep voice rang out around you as the second mimic’s tendrils wrapped around your forearms.

A scream tore from your throat. “Nooo! Please! Don’t eat me! Please!”

“No harm.”

“Nay bestraight’d,” an older yet more refined man’s voice joined as the armor lurched. It limped forward in mockery of a man, teeth and tentacles seeping from between its metal joints.

“Neighbors.”

“A comely one.”

“Welcome.”

“Boon bestowed upon thee.”

“Disrobe.”

“‘Twold foin a sheep.”

“Fie,” yet another mimicked dead soldier exclaimed, the desk dragging itself towards you on thin tentacles. It spoke in broken repeated lines to create a new sentence. “As one. We fight. As one. Be pleasur’d.”

The sound of twisted and shifted flesh engulfed the room as four mimics began to wrap their bodies around you. Then silence as the wardrobe swallowed your head. Cutting you off from all senses but touch. You felt its hard teeth pressing against your neck and waited for them to clamp down…but it didn’t.

The hard armor pressed against your back as sticky tendrils wrapped around your chest. They twisted the fabric tugging and pulling, stretching the sturdy linen of your shirt. From your legs you felt the chest engulf your feet, the teeth piercing through your jeans but not your flesh. 

Inch by inch your body was overtaken by the mimics. You could not tell where one ended and the other began. You were wrapped in a cocoon of hot sticky flesh, held tight and immobile. You could feel the teeth and tentacles moving around you. Their saliva soaked every part of you. Your clothes, your hair, your skin.

Submerged in purple flesh your lungs burned. You needed to breathe. There was just enough of a gap for your jaw to move. When you couldn’t take it any more your body forced you to gasp for air. And steamy, strange tasting air filled your lungs in return.

After a few desperate breaths you felt your heart beginning to calm. Your panic subsided even as your hardy outdoor clothing began to dissolve away. In fact, you felt like you were floating in the humid soft darkness. Floating as if this were but a dream and you half woken within it.

The mimic tentacles moving around you slowly pulled the scraps of your clothing off your body. Your skin was tingling. Was this the digestive juices? Why did it feel so good? The flesh of the mimics undulated around your body digging deep into your muscles like a slimy massage.

A long moan escaped your lips, the sound swallowed by the mass of flesh. You were melting. You were blind and deaf and melting as the mimics rubbed against every inch of your body.

Like a kiss a sticky tentacle brushed against your lips. It slid into your mouth moving against your tongue like a passionate lover. 

You couldn’t help it. You felt so good. So, you kissed it back, flicking your tongue against the tip of the tentacle. 

As if waiting for that moment the mimics’ movements changed. Strong but thinner tendril slid between your fingers, wrapping around your hands as if intertwing a set of fingers and guiding them up over your head as if pinning you down. Instead of mindless rubbing against your flesh, tentacles with little toothy mouths began to tease your chest. Dragging the teeth along your skin, plucking at the most sensitive areas.

Your legs were slowly spread wide and body positioned to give the mimics access to your sex. They created a void around your hips where nothing was touching you. Just your hips in the air, your sex dripping with new found arousal.

“Please,” you groaned, the fear of being eaten replaced with another primal feeling. You needed to be fucked. These mimics were hitting almost every single kink you kept deep within. Your deepest fantasies. Restrained. Helpless. Used like a toy.

Tentacles shot forward engulfing your sex. They slid deep inside of you with no prelude.

Your eyes rolled back in the darkness as you screamed with pleasure. The tentacle that you had been making out with responded in kind. Using your gapping mouth it slid down your throat.

The tentacles thrust in and out of you each at their own pace. Everyone of your holes filled. All you could do was accept them.

An orgasm ripped through you. Your body clenching around the tentacles, your body convulsing against the flesh surrounding you. The tentacles did not even slow down. They continued to piston into your holes. Not a moment’s rest as they continued stimulating your most sensitive spots. 

The tentacle in your throat slowed its thrusting. It began to swell before gushing searing thick slime into you. You could feel the viscous fluid running down your throat into your stomach. A moment later and the one tentacle in your ass began filling you up from the other end. The tentacles playing your sex kept going, keeping you in a torturous ecstatic high.

The spent tentacles pulled out of you. 

“More,” you begged, starting losing your sanity to the pleasure. “Fuck me. Use me.”

Two more tentacles lined up with your used holes and slammed inside of you. You squealed with pleasure. Each movement of the mimics around you drove out your thoughts, turning you into a mindless piece of fuck meat. Your body had melted and now your mind was as well.

You wanted this forever. You’d do anything to experience this pleasure the rest of your life. Another orgasmed was forced out of you and with it your final conscious thoughts.

You awoke with a start, fresh evening air filling your lungs. Eyes open wide you saw the moldy half collapsed ceiling above you.

Sitting up your hurried looked around. You were alive? You were free? Where were the mimics?

There was nothing. 

A broken desk, water logged wardrobe, rusted armor…even the chest was sitting lid torn off its hinges, rust on the lock.

What happened?

You stood on shaking legs, your skin sweaty and sticking to your clothes. Your clothes! Looking down you said your clothes were just as they should be. Boots on, jeans intact, shirt a bit twisted but easily fixed with a tug.

Stumbling out of the captain’s bedroom you leaned against the wall as you carefully descended the stairs. The previously pristine tower was crumbling in disrepair around you. Strange fungi were growing from the wood of the furniture.

Gods had you been breathing that in? Had all of this been a hallucination from the fungi? Or some sort of spell you triggered? Maybe this had all been a fey trick?

On the ground floor you saw your picnic basket sitting on the dusty table. You reached to grab it but stopped as you remembered what had been in the journal. Take nothing for it could be the demon. If it really was a mimic…who knew if you’d survive again.

Fleeing out of the tower you had just enough daylight left to make the trek back to your cabin. By the time you arrived your body was exhausted. You hadn’t eaten since breakfast, even so, you were hungry, in fact you felt quite full. It just felt like you ran a marathon. You need to be checked out by professionals. Real mimics or a hallucination something had happened in that tower.

Stumbling over to your computer you wiggling the mouse to take it out of sleep mode. It turned on showing that the submission form to DOMA had failed. Laughing in exasperation you went to click retry…but your hand froze.

Looking down with horror you saw a thin tendril stretching out from your sleeve, wrapping tight around your finger to stop its movement. Your sleeve shifted, little teeth forming along the seams and the buttons turning into eyes. Against your body you felt your clothes morph and shift into tentacles embracing your body.

“New neighbors,” your own voice echoed back to you. “Welcome. No harm.”

The voices of all the people it had mimicked squirmed around you as the tentacles pressed back into your ass and rubbed your sex. “Use. Thee. Fuck. Thee. More. Granteth a boon. More!”

“What do you want,” you managed to cry out as tentacles crept towards your mouth. 

“Doth not wanteth. Hunting. Spy. Sustenance. Plenty. Thou doth. Feed! Me. Granteth…” Your own cries of utter pleasure rang out around you, mimicked back with intent.

If you feed the mimic it would grant you that pleasure. The memory of that beautiful mindless pleasure sent a shiver across your whole body, nearly making you cum right then. You could have that whenever?

“Yes,” you groaned, “Fuck yessss…”

“Huzzah!”

You sank to your knees as it began to fuck you once more. You didn’t even notice a stray tentacle starting to munch on the hard candy you kept on the counter.

Well, this is what y'all voted for on Friday! I hope you enjoyed. For those ideas that didn't win the vote, don't worry, I still have plans to write up those stories. Especially, the two sapphic romance ones. Keep an eye out in June especially for those two.

Comments and reblogs are appreciated. Asks are always open!

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[vals-lente]

Unhinged mimic x fem reader

Day 3 of Monstertober 2025

Prompts: mimic, house, treasure

Dubcon, somnophilia, oral sex, p in v

After a rough breakup, your friends put some money together and rent a cottage for you in the countryside for the entire month. Driving out into the middle of nowhere is the last thing you want to do, but the gesture is so sweet that you can't say no. You arrive early in the afternoon at a picturesque paradise. The sheep grazing in the distance look like fluffy clouds in a rolling sea of green grass, and birds sing in the nearby trees. You take a deep breath of air that is thick with the scent of flowers in full bloom.

Pebbles crunch and pop under your feet as you make your way to the cottage. It's an adorable thing made of weathered bricks with a shingled roof and aggressively cheerful yellow shutters. The front door unlocks easily, and you step in. The smell of cinnamon leads you to the kitchen, accompanied by a box of cookies with a card that says "Welcome, I hope you enjoy your stay!" on it in elegant, cursive letters.

You leave your bags in the hall and settle on the couch to have a good cry, falling asleep with your tears soaking into a throw pillow. Ever since the breakup, your dreams have been cruel at their best. You usually dream that you never broke up and instead are getting married, picking out fucking wedding dresses, and doing cake tastings.

But today, you dream of something entirely different. So different that you don't remember what you were dreaming of when you wake up. Your hand is jammed between your legs. The fit is tight, and the back of your hand is abraded from the rough seam of your pants, but you're so close that you ignore it and carry on. It only takes a couple more rubs for you to splinter into a sleepy orgasm. With a gasp, you fall limp against the couch, confused but relieved. Perhaps it had been an irrational fear, but you had been afraid of never being able to masturbate again because all you saw when you closed your eyes was your ex.

You spend the rest of the day unpacking and eating cookies, and wandering around outside, enjoying the cool wind and the birds singing. After a delicious homemade dinner–the entire fridge is stocked with fresh ingredients–you go upstairs and take a closer look at the bedroom. You only came in here earlier to put your clothes away and completely missed the beautiful decor. Everything in here feels like a preserved piece of time, from the dresser with a wash basin to the baroque mirror and antique wardrobe. You spot a jewelry box on the dresser. You're not expecting it to have anything inside, but when you open the lid, you discover a beautiful necklace drowning in gemstones. You can't resist trying it on, admiring the way the gems sparkle. It fits perfectly too, and feels so nice that you end up leaving it on.

You wake up a while later, disgruntled. When did you fall asleep? Did you even brush your teeth? You squint your eyes open. The brocade curtains are drawn over the windows, and it's dark.

Slowly, you become more aware of your body and realize you're completely naked. You can just make out your pants hanging haphazardly on the handle of the wardrobe. Your nipples rub against the sheets, and you realize you're dripping wet. There's a weight on your back. The firm hands of your lover stroking your body, his hips pushing against your ass, dragging the hot brand of his cock over your skin... And then you remember. You broke up with him. Your ex isn't here. You're supposed to be alone.

You whip around with a scream ready, only to find there's no one there. The bedroom door is shut tight, and it squeaks terribly, so you would have heard if someone left. Goosebumps prickle over your skin as you search the entire room. The wardrobe contains nothing but your clothes. It takes almost five minutes before you can find the courage to look under the bed, and while it's one of those with drawers, your paranoia makes you open each drawer anyway.

Your phone is downstairs, charging. You're convinced you were having some kind of dream, but you decide to grab it anyway, just in case. Once you get back to your room, you prop a chair under the door handle for extra security and go back to bed. You're still wearing the necklace. You should take it off... Your eyes flutter shut and you fall asleep faster than ever.

You wake up again what feels like ten minutes later. Your eyes are gritty, and your mouth is dry from gasping. Your legs are thrown wide open, and your pussy throbs. For a moment, you swear you feel a thick tongue drag over your folds, lips pressing a tender kiss to your clit. You clamp your thighs shut with a shriek and scramble to turn on your phone's flashlight. Are you stuck in some kind of dream? You reach out and realize the air in front of you is strangely warm. It's cooler at your sides and above your head, but the space between your thighs is warm, the bed sheets rumpled. You rub your neck and remember the necklace. It takes a ridiculous amount of time to unlatch, your arms trembling from being held in the air. You drop the necklace on the side table and fluff your pillow.

Maybe this is the new phase of post-breakup dreams, you think.

Again, you conk out in just a few seconds, and the fourth time when you wake up, it is to hips driving into your own with thrusts so desperate and powerful that the whole bed shakes.

"What the–mmph!"

A hand clamps over your mouth, so all you can do is mumble into their palm as you stare up at the being on top of you. Their body is sparkling, thanks to the gemstones studded into their cheeks and arms, and sides. Their eyes are a familiar shade of gold, and their hair the color of silver, falling from their head to brush against you in ticklish sweeps.

The necklace.

"So sweet," they whisper, soft and sibilant. "You put me on, you placed me close to your heart."

Their cock plunges into you again and again, unreasonably thick, but you're so wet that you take it with ease. Your walls clench down as your core throbs with pleasure, and they hiss, their rhythm faltering as they shower you with kisses and broken-voiced praise.

"Oh, I love you. I love you." They whimper, burying their face against your neck.

Who knows how long they've been fucking you? You're already at the edge, compelled to pull them closer, holding on tight. They laugh breathlessly.

"A miracle," they say, "I don't think I can let you leave."

You know you should be concerned, but then you climax and all the thoughts are wiped out of your head. Your consciousness drifts away, taking everything with it.

The next morning, you wake up to a text from your friends. They're coming over to take you out for brunch, and you need to wear something fancy. You send a grateful yet scolding text back about how they're spending so much on you, and hurry to get dressed. Luckily, you packed a few dresses to choose from. You check yourself in the mirror, wondering why you feel like you've forgotten something... Aha, your outfit needs a finishing touch. That's got to be it. Just in time, you recall the necklace you found yesterday, and you take it out and put it on, figuring you might as well borrow it since it's just lying around. A soft wind blows through the halls like a happy sigh, but you're in a rush and you don't notice.

@vals-lente

Your friends comment on how much better you look already and compliment the necklace, asking where you got it from. You make up something about a great aunt gifting it to you, because finders keepers, right? You gush about how much you like the cozy little cottage, and how you're thinking of staying.

Day 4 - false god

[wyrmst]

Your mimic boyfriend always wins at hide and seek.

Which is an endearing quality, for the most part.

But when you really would like to find the rascal, it can be a bit frustrating when its so doggedly committed to the ruse.

You've checked all of its usual favorite spots. Usually, it prefers places it knows you'll interact with so that it can fulfill its instincts and 'catch' you. It could be worse- you're thankful that your mimic prefers cuddling and advanced cuddling over spraying you with digestive enzymes or trying to swallow you whole.

You plop down on one of the bar stools (that you're reasonably sure isn't actually your boyfriend in disguise- you've already made that mistake before and don't feel like cleaning up a mess like that again at the moment) leaning on the kitchen island with an overblown sigh.

"Alright, I give up. You win, you can come out now." You call out.

Silence.

…Typical. During a match, it won't give up for anything until it feels like its clearly earned its victory or loss.

Luckily for you, you have an idea to test that you think may just be foolproof.

You pull out your communicator, devious smile lighting your face.

Then, after a bit of typing, you sit and you wait.

Finally, as you're doing the at least tenth visual pass of the space, the doorbell rings.

You return from answering the door with the rustling of a take out bag.

"I suppose I'll have to just eat all of this myself then." You monologue aloud to the seemingly empty room, setting out the spread of sushi containers down on the counter, one after the other. Then, you take a seat to pick at your lunch and simply observe.

To its credit, it resists for a solid few minutes before its camouflage starts to slip.

It's subtle at first, but their hiding spot becomes obvious very quickly when the edge of one of the throw pillows on the chaise lounge starts to visibly ripple at the edges, as if reality itself was warping and breaking the logic of the normally solid object.

When you look up from answering a message, the pillow in question has changed form altogether, from square and plain white, to the recognizable shape of sushi.

You fight the urge to laugh out loud. Its mind is obviously on one thing, even if its stubbornly holding out.

You watch it for a few more moments before rising and approaching its hiding spot.

"Got you." You say simply, picking the pillow up and giving it a firm squeeze between your hands.

Its shape shifts in your hands, from the soft plushie-like sashimi, to a intermediary moment of gummy slime threatening to drip through the cracks of your fingers, to then finally stretching and expanding outwards on both ends, until you are holding up a monochromatic, yet otherwise very accurate facsimile of yourself by the underarms.

"You cheated." Your mirror image protests, letting its head lull back petulantly with a smug grin, completely dead weight.

"It's not cheating if it's not addressed in the rules, my dear." You retort. "That is called a loophole."

"Loophole, loophole." It repeats in a recreation of your voice as if it were playing back a tape at different speeds, seeming to like the sound of the new word. "Looo-ooop-hole."

"Now, are you going to sit and eat with me like a civilized being?"

"Do I have to?" It sighs, deflating slightly. You know that if it had it its way, it would simply roll over its food like a steamroller and absorb it.

"It would please me." You say, amused. "And it would be much easier to feed you..."

It stretches its arms above its head and escapes your grasp, immediately making a beeline for the seat next to yours.

Winning isn't everything, you suppose.