The Monstrous May Challenge is for artists, writers, other creators, and anybody else motivated by monsters to create works that feature monstrous romance and monsterfucking!
KISS A MONSTER TODAY.
More info about the challenge, as well as banners in the style of the above for each individual prompt, is available here.
You can also browse all the prompts for previous years, back to the first prompt list with banners in 2022.
The language was still in its infancy, with only a handful of words and no name of its own. The first words were the simplest: one sharp tap for yes/good/continue, one emphatic sweep for no/bad/stop. The work was ongoing; there were only two linguists on base, and they had got as far as hello, question?, food, and goodbye. Still, everyone had to learn what words there were, and practise, practise, practise. Everyone took turns to go out to the glade at the centre of the island, step into the deep, clear pool of water at its heart, and sit barefoot on the deep ledge around its edge that left you submerged up to chest or collarbones, legs sticking out straight. Everyone learned how to make the right sweeping and tapping motions through the water, a kind of morse code of pressure waves. The trick was to talk with your hands, and listen with the soles of your feet.
Verne managed both equally well with one tentacle.
"Verne" had come from management, who seemed to have nothing better to do than workshop whimsical names for every new discovery on planet Thetis. Leah didn't mind this one, actually. She'd managed to get the entire team to refer to Verne's home as "the vernal pool", which was about what passed for amusement around here. She wasn't part of the language team; just another biologist, and in particular, keeper of the large waterproof binder that served as the manual to Verne's behaviour.
She had titled it "On the Care and Keeping of Tentacles" and decorated the cover with a doodle of a cartoon squid.
Not that Verne was a squid. Leah settled onto the submerged ledge and swished a hello across the pool. As the ripples settled, a new motion began in its spiralling depths. A massing, a coiling, an unspooling, as Verne's singular tentacle delivered itself from the almost invisible crevasse at the centre of the pool. It drew itself out to something several times longer than a human, tapering from a treelike thickness at the root to a delicate tip barely thicker than Leah's thumb. Suckers along its underside blossomed in the open water, pale pink and slightly translucent against Verne's creamy underside. The upper surface was a deep, rich purple, almost too intense to look at. It left bright yellow echoes in Leah's eyes when she looked away.
The tip of the tentacle twisted towards her, and gestured hello.
Leah settled in. She had no particular task at hand today; this was purely a social visit. Verne didn't like being left alone for too long at a time, and the whole island knew about it when Verne was unhappy.
Solid ground was at a premium on Thetis, so the local seismic activity had seemed like a reasonable price to pay for dry feet. It had been several months before anyone found the weed-choked pool in the overgrown glade at the island's centre. It had taken another couple of weeks for someone to happen to be there during an earthquake, and witness the frustrated thrashing of the gigantic tentacle trapped within.
"Frustrated" would get Leah told off for anthropomorphising, but she couldn't help it. She watched Verne stretch and coil through the water, enjoying the play of light and motion. Almost as if Verne was showing off, just for her. She twirled her fingers in response; not saying anything, just absent-mindedly mirroring. Two creatures enjoying the sensation of clean, clear water.
The earthquakes became much less frequent once the pool was cleared out. With the worst of the overgrowth gone, smaller, lower-lying plants established themselves, and tiny fishlike and shrimplike things began to multiply - and to disappear into Verne's suckers just as quickly. That was when the ecologists got involved, and declared that the pool's ecosystem was far too small to naturally support something as big as Verne. And that was when the archaeologists were brought in, to look long and hard at the strikingly neat, regular shapes of the glade, and the pool, and the benchlike shelf of stone around its edge.
So: they had established a fish hatchery, and a gardening schedule, and Verne had regular meals and pool-cleanings, and before long, language sessions. Barring a couple of misunderstandings in the early days, the earthquakes became almost nonexistent.
Except.
Leah stared absently at the eyewatering purple of Verne's back. It had been intensifying for weeks, almost unrecognisable now compared to Verne's usual dusky, almost sombre tone. "Usual". They'd found Verne three years ago. Nobody knew what that meant, in context. Sometimes Leah lay in her bunk and watched her little mood lamp phase slowly from blue to purple to pink, and wondered if Verne did the same thing, just on a dramatically different scale. Maybe for the same simple reason, too. Just because it was pretty.
As far as anyone could tell, Verne didn't have any sense of sight. Leah often wondered about that. How odd, to be so pretty and have no way of knowing. No way for anyone to even tell you so.
She hadn't volunteered this theory, of course. Everyone was worried about Verne, trying to understand what was happening. The earthquakes were back, infrequent and slight, but undeniably increasing alongside the intensity of Verne's colour. Illness? Age? Nobody knew what to think.
Leah flicked out a good, question? and received an immediate good, good in response. It was the closest she could come to asking how Verne was feeling. She often got the impression that Verne enjoyed talking to visitors, even though their conversations were so limited. There was so much Leah wanted to ask, if only she knew how to send her words through the water.
Good, question?
Leah blinked in surprise. Verne didn't often initiate conversations, but the tip of the tentacle had coiled around almost up to her feet and was holding itself very still. Awaiting a response.
Yes, good.
Leah twisted around for the binder, to make a note of this. All interactions with Verne needed to be recorded, however minor; it was all good information.
She nearly launched it into the pool in shock as a sucker brushed gently against her ankle.
It froze at her sudden movement, but didn't retreat. That intense purple pulsed behind Leah's eyes, so close to the surface.
Perhaps Verne thought that this was a language session. Leah knew that the linguists were working on here/close/come and there/away/go. They had occasionally touched, or been touched by, Verne. Brief brushes of sucker against skin, fingertips skating over supple muscle. Records in Leah's binder that were just slightly more well-thumbed than the others. But no: Verne was a stickler for routine, and this was just a social visit.
Leah didn't know here. With the tiniest whisper of her fingers, she instead tried, hello.
Verne stretched out towards her, one sucker after another walking their way up her bare leg. The very tip of the tentacle rose up enough to reply, hello. It felt odd, so close. Leah was used to listening to Verne with her feet. Now, with the ripples coming from almost in her lap, it was as if the words were coming from inside herself. The suckers left goosebumps wherever they touched; they doubled back over the sensitive skin, curious about its reaction.
Leah couldn't help it. She forgot the binder, and instead reached out and touched the back of Verne's tentacle. It stilled again under her fingers, and then… pushed into them, ever so slightly. Continued making its way up her legs. Had Verne always been this long?
The suckers advancing up her legs found the hem of her shorts, and the tip of Verne's tentacle was immediately distracted by this strange new texture. Leah let out an incredulous little laugh as Verne tugged and prodded at the fabric, and then turned about immediately to investigate the vibration of her stomach.
Verne was heavy. Weight coiled into Leah's lap, using it as a support to explore further up her body. There was definitely more tentacle spilling from the crevasse than usual. Leah held as still as she could, watching Verne's progress with a giddy, anxious sensation in the pit of her stomach. Not fear. Leah had never been afraid of Verne. She probably should be, she thought vaguely as the very tip of Verne's tentacle breached the surface, sliding up over her collarbones and disappearing from view. But she wasn't.
There was nothing to be done about the noise that slipped out of Leah's mouth as Verne clasped over her throat - or the second, much louder one that followed when Verne plastered suckers tight into the sensation. Leah's fingers tensed against Verne's back, and again all movement stopped. A long loop of tentacle slid off Leah's lap, long enough to flex out a word without the tip needing to give up its exploration.
No, question?
Leah took a deep breath. This was such a bad idea. But there wasn't really any question about it.
"Yes." Yes, and she had no way to know if Verne connected the movement of her throat to the meaning of the word but there was the tip of the tentacle, cool and damp, feeling its way around her jaw and towards her mouth just as she'd known it would. She breathed out, and could have sworn she felt it shiver against her at the brush of warm air.
Yes good. Verne felt so much larger, speaking with full coils rather than just a tentacle-tip. The pressure of the words thudded into Leah's core. Verne brushed at her lips, and they parted without a second thought.
Rock salt and pondweed and something faintly tangy and bitter that Leah couldn't quite place. She chased after the taste, sliding her tongue between the curious suckers, and they tasted her right back, fascinated by this new discovery. The tentacle tip probed deeper, exploring the textures of her molars, and Leah swallowed hard on some odd instinct.
Yes good! Spoken with Verne's whole body, so unbelievably loud without sound. Leah groaned around Verne's tentacle as it flexed, enjoying the suction. She swallowed again, impulsively, and Verne kept moving, pushing and pulling back and forth over her tongue, and this was - they were -
How the fuck was she going to write this one up?
Leah couldn't hold onto the thought, too engrossed in the sliding motions of the tentacle now coiling around her legs, the tip of it reaching back to probe at her throat. Hell, she didn't know if she could do that, but there was no doubt that she was going to try. Her eyes watered; she blinked back tears, tearing her gaze away from Verne's searing purple, and saw… movement, down in the centre of the pool where Verne was rooted into the crevasse.
Several more tentacles, all that same vivid purple, pushing their way out of the depths towards her.
Verne rocked gently in her mouth, coaxing her out of her sudden stillness.
Yes, question?
Leah's fingers drummed an instant reply, directly against Verne's skin.
Thinking about how I could probably use the majority of the prompt list to write a STS!AU fic where Mayday the Symbiote helps Peter thru his spider season...
(nsft-ish prompt list below the cut)
Day 1 — Tentacles - obvious
Day 2 — Sound - Mayday reacting poorly/ interrupted by a neighbor's car alarm
Day 3 — Hypnosis - a slight stretch, but maybe Peter falls into a mental lull, slightly hypnotized by Mayday repeatedly playing memories of Curt's voice in his mind
Day 4 — Corrupted - twist on the host also being a "parent" to the symbiote, corrupting their relationship
Day 5 — Size Difference - obvious
Day 6 — In The Air - Peter being lifted by Mayday's tentacles
Day 7 — Aphrodisiac - pheromones created by Peter being in season
Day 8 — Caught in Webbing - obvious
Day 9 — Knotted - obvious
Day 10 — The Werewolf
Day 11 — Living Armour - obviouis
Day 12 — Consumed - obvious
Day 13 — Eggs - a slight stretch, but Mayday could mimic the feeling with its tentacles
Day 14 — Grooming - lots of licking
Day 15 — Bitten - obvious
Day 16 — Pinned Down - obvious
Day 17 — Transformed - obvious
Day 18 — Belly Bulge - obvious
Day 19 — Parasitic Relationship - literally them
Day 20 — The Vampire
Day 21 — All-The-Way-Through - a bit of a stretch, but maybe Mayday's tentacles fill both ends to the point where Peter feels like he's skewered
Day 22 — Spines
Day 23 — Impregnated - mimicked (like "eggs" prompt)
Combining Day 1 and Day 2, “The Werewolf” and “The Monster’s Teeth” for the monstrous may challenge into one story because I missed yesterday. Nothing sexy toady.
Toothless she was and frail.
Ylona’s old gums pained her with the clenching of her jaw.
What a bitter thing it was to be old and powerless. They put her in a corner and gave her potatoes and a knife that was barely up to slicing that thinness of skin. And weren’t they kind, see how we take care of old granddam. We let her sleep by the fire instead of the convenient choice of by the door so we wouldn’t have to take care of old granddam next year.
She skinned the potatoes thinking of her son.
Pyvrek had been a bright eyed boy. Full of trouble that had made Ylona laugh and indulge him until he was too big for control. A great bear of a man like his father before him who took what he wanted and smiled with his bright eyes when he took it.
His bride had been the most beautiful girl. Because Pyvrek took what he wanted and a bright eyed boy full of trouble didn’t know the right things to want. She was a pitiable thing who didn’t realize her ‘power’ would fade and she would be set aside for another girl, someone prettier in the earlier bloom of her youth.
Perhaps Ylona should have loved her bastard grandchildren. Turn the other cheek. Even if it was the hind one in a barn. Like they were rutting ram and sheep, her son and a girl too young to know better. There had been three true born grandchildren. Each set tenderly in the dirt behind their home in a row that their mother ended. Each one had taken a little of her love with them. Until there was only an ember and one girl left.
Ylona still had a smile left for her youngest. A smile and a disinterested pat because it was better not to get attached.
The girl grew up like all children do. A pretty girl, her Halura. Too pretty. And the eyes of the other bear-like men and the counting men and the pretty men all turned to her.
Ylona warned Halura, do not go into the barn alone. Or off anywhere alone with a man. Halura had listened so she couldn’t be trapped.
But there was nothing Ylona could do about her son. Her son couldn’t be turned by a pretty face. He couldn’t be turned by threats. But the glittering wealth counted out for Halura’s skin… that could turn a man’s head. And as the favors piled up higher than the gifts, her son found his eyes ever brighter. So more was counted his way. And the chaff of youth fell before the wealth of ever older and more miserly men who leered ever more openly at what would soon be their property.
Halura at last came Ylona where she skinned and cried her heartache. It didn’t matter who she was eventually sold to. The truth was already there. She would be sold. Her master would be old and have no human feelings for her. She would be a treasure to be locked away and die in the vault by one means or another.
Ylona gave her a smile because what else could she do for her granddaughter? Her son would not listen to her. Her new daughter in a law was barely a stupid stripling girl herself, growing crueler on the indiference of her husband who hadn’t shown as clearly before hand that she was just another treasure to be used up and thrown away. How kind we are. We told her she was beautiful. We showed her love. What a shame she became so sharp and unkind. No appreciation.
Halura begged. “Granddam, help me.”
“I am toothless and frail.”
“I have no one else.”
“What can I do? No one will listen to me.”
“I will listen.”
Ylona had nothing. A place to sit. A knife that would barely cut. Potatoes. She was old. That was what she had. Years. Time and tales. That she could give to her granddaughter.
“You must get me a long, thick, strong rope. One that even your father with a knife would take a long time to cut. Without it, there is no hope for you.”
Ylona peeled her potatoes and waited while the young girl set to hope. In two days, Halura brought her a thick rope made for lifting heavy stones.
“You must get me a knife sharp enough to cut this rope like butter. Without it there is no hope for you.”
Ylona knotted the rope with care, turning it from a single length to a trap that would bind and lift by the weight of her potatoes.
Halura brought her a knife and when Ylona cut the excess from the woven rope, it did cut through it with ease even though her hands were weak and shaky.
“You must get me a fresh cut of meat, something delicious that even uncooked will make us drool for the want of it. Without it, there is no hope for you.”
Ylona filled the trap with potatoes until it was so heavy she couldn’t lift it.
Halura returned, the tangy smell of bloody meat making both their tongues seem to swell and sweat with the need to stuff it in their mouths.
“You must help me carry all this into the woods and set the trap. Without it, there is no hope for you.”
It was a long walk and her bones ached with the distance and the weight. And when they were in the forest, Ylona forced them onward until even her granddaughter shook with the effort and weakness. There they set the trap over a tree that stood by two crossing deer paths.
Halura spread leaves over it with care to hide it even from a demon’s eyes. And Halura set the meat in the trap so that all the songs of the forest stopped.
Ylona held the far end of the trap in her shaking arms so not even an inconvenient breeze could move and reveal the snare. And the scent of peeled potatoes rubbed onto her as she shook so she was like a root herself.
“You must run home now and never say where you have been. Never hint where I may be. If ever a man realizes what we have done, there is no hope for you.”
Halura ran as best she could.
Ylona stayed and trembled as the sun set and the moon rose and the forest stayed silent. Her body begged for rest but the last energy of the dying came to her and she held fast.
At last something dared the path. Eyes shining in the moonlight. A wolf came to the meat, sniffing cautiously.
It snatched the meat which triggered the trap, the extra weight finally overcoming Ylona and she toppled to the ground as the wolf rose into the air. She lay, panting a long time as the wolf thrashed and curled and snapped at the strong rope that held it over the ground. Only as it weakened did Ylona push herself up, conserving all her strength until she needed it.
From the thick woods beyond the path many eyes watched her, bright with the setting moon. Ylona did not flinch or stop but approached the snarling wolf with her sharp knife. Her witnesses howled only once, with her wolf, they chorused with his death howl and then one by one they turned away as she cut the corpse free.
She skinned the wolf. Laid the skin flat. And in the dark of the night she laid herself into the skin and waited for some evil to come to the crossroads.
They placed two sticks in a cross next to Halura’s mother on the far side of Halura’s sisters. And for a month, for propriety, they were allowed time to mourn.
Perhaps, if they had not been given a full month.
Perhaps, if Pyvrek had been a kinder man.
Perhaps, if Halura had not been so headstrong.
Perhaps, if the men had realized it was only the beginning.
What man can say what might have been? They can only say what did happen.
On the night of the next full moon, the first of the wolves came to Pyvrek’s door.
The cold light of the moon fell across the Beast as he stalked through the forest, illuminating him in silver glimpses. His long tails trailed behind him, glittering with hoarfrost, and the silken iron-gray fur of his flanks still showed the dark stains of blood and soot.
He knew I was there, of course. My prince had senses to defy the imagination. The light breeze at my back swept my scent towards him, and after months spent tracking him my sweat and the oils of my skin would be easy for any beast to identify, let alone one like him. If he wanted to get away from me, it would be simple. He was far faster than the deer I traveled on, even if I could convince them to race after him.
But he didn't run this time. He snarled at me once, baring his scimitar teeth and making my stag shy, but he let me keep pace with him. Perhaps after five months of dogged endurance, the Beast had realized that I wouldn't allow him to vanish into the wilderness. That I wouldn't turn back.
It didn't matter where he led us, or how long I needed to spend living off the land or the frozen remnants of his meals. He was my prince, and I wouldn't leave him to the wilderness and the scant mercy of the gods. I would follow him into the jaws of Death himself.
No matter what he had done. No matter what he became. I would never forget where my loyalties lay.
