He watches. He waits. He does not know what he is waiting for. But he waits. And he knows, when it's right, he will know what he has been waiting for.
Time does not matter. He is unaware of this concept. Human concept. He has no time, he needs no time. What he sees is decay. Decay from the beginning, never stopping, matter crumbling, the wholeness being destroyed. Disorder.
He knows who he is. He had always known who he is. He did not grow up. He had directly come from his fathers mind. Thought up and brought to at least some sort of existence.
Reason does not matter. He is unaware of this concept. Human concept. He has no reason, he needs no reason. What he sees is decay. Decay from the beginning, never stopping, matter crumbling, the wholeness being destroyed. Disorder.
He is not evil. He is unaware of this concept. Human concept. He has no morals, he needs no morals. What he sees is decay. Decay from the beginning, never stopping, matter crumbling, the wholeness being destroyed. Disorder.
The sun is rising. He stands by his window, overlooking the city. He nods a greeting towards the ball of fusing hydrogen.
Just now he does not shade his presence. He is on his own. Not that he would care for what happened if anyone saw his true shape. But his father wanted it this way. So when he is in society of humans he does not change his form, he is not capable of that, if you know who you are, you can't change what you are. And there had never been a doubt about who and what he is. He just makes them think they see something else.
He is relaxes, his hands are folded behind his back, resting just over his tail-base. His wings are folded as well, their sharp, poisoned talons scratching over the rubber-like scales of his thighs.
The rising sun made his light-green body appear as if carved out of wet soapstone, the deep crevices between his tight muscles still in shadow while his scales appeared luminescent from within. His head's tentacles barely move, only the tips sway gently over the scales on his chest, shoulders and back.
Slowly he turns, scanning the room with his yellow eyes, trying to decide whether to go now or later. He does not really care about that person he is to meet today but ... he does not have any desires that need satisfaction right now, so he might as well just go now.
He prepares to leave the apartment, shading himself, making himself appear an average human businessman, unremarkable though not unattractive. Amber hair, short, a bit wavy, 5'10, athletic build, meh.
Humans are unimportant.
He is not really annoyed about being forced to hide himself, but every time he felt a little revolting twinge inside him. Disobeying his father was out of the question though. He just does not understand why he has to hide himself.
The moment he reaches the door and extends his hand to wrap his two digits and the sharply clawed thumb around the doorknob, he feels it.
His father tells him to answer a summoning.
Summonings. He never quiet understood why he or his father ever answered them. As if the human's cries had any effect on either of them. He frowned and immediately lost the human shading. At least this is not necessary anymore.
Standing in front of the door, looking at his paw he frowns. Humans are a nuisance. On the other hand, he fed on humans. But dealing with them? Why?
Disobedience is not an option. He sighs and focuses. His father points to where he is to appear. And he appears. All the obedient son. Again. How nice.
He is nervous. Of course it is not going to work. Of course this is just something that sprang from the mind of some either very talented or very sick mind.
He looks down on to book he holds in his hands, he finally had managed to get a Necronomicon. He had found it in some antiques shop that specializes on occult books.
Technically this is not even an occult book, it's a work of fiction. But still, the feeling deep inside him remains. He did not HAVE to summon Cthulhu, did he? So why bother, why risk?
Because if he did not he would regret it. And sooner or later he would. Just to chuckle nervously after nothing happened and tell himself: see, told you, nothing happens.
He draws a deep breath and looks at the signs on the floor, the candles. He has everything prepared. So ... the decision had been made, had it not? And taking all this effort, creating this nice atmosphere and then not speak the words? What a waste of time, really.
He got up from his bed, holding the open book in his hands, he stepped inside the circle of candles, careful not to destroy the symbols he had chalked on the floor. He had even removed the rug.
Positioned between the mirrors, multiplied into eternity, he looks himself into the eyes and speaks the words. He knows them by heart, he not once looks down into the book as his tongue winds itself around the strange syllables, his voice coming hesitantly first but then gaining strength and force. He almost screams the last verse, the echo of his own voice ringing in his head: tulu ... tulu ....
Echo? That sure is only in his head. His room does not echo.
He waits. Only now he realizes that he had not breathed in once. His lungs already hurt. Just for the fraction of a second he blinks, breathing in deeply.
As he opens his eyes again, still looking straight ahead of him, the book falls out of his suddenly limp hands, landing on the floor with a soft thud. He literally wets himself. A dark, wet sport spreading in his crotch, hot piss running down his leg. He looks himself in the eyes. Still. But it is not him multiplied into eternity anymore.
The mirror has turned into ... something else. Not a window, he still sees himself. But behind ... or before him ... somewhere he sees a figure that looks almost exactly like in the pictures drawn in the book.
He is not able to move his eyes, he stares into his own pupils, only out of the corner of his eyes he sees it. The bulky, shiny, somewhat slimy creature with the head „of an octopus", the tentacles swaying as if moved by a breeze. It seems to be just a little bit taller than himself but much broader. The ... almost ... human body bulging with massive muscles under green scales. It does not move. It just stands.
Somewhat blurred, still not able to focus on the creatures in the ... „mirror" it seems as if the creature was grinning. It's bright yellow eyes sparkling, his „mouth" a vertical dash from the forehead down to the chin seems to be opened in amusement, showing teeth, crystal clear and very, very pointy.
It lifts it's right hand, two fingers and one thumb, and waves jovially.
Everything goes black and the young man that has summoned Cthuhlus's son passes out.
He watches. He waits. He looks at this human. He sees the tiny nervous movements of his muscles under his skin. The pores opened wide, each oozing a tiny drop of sweat. He smells his nervousness. He senses the thoughts, he sees him sitting there, curious, doubting. Sees how he tries to calm himself down.
He does not come when summoned. He comes when his father knows that someone is dedicated to summon him and wishes him to answer.
He does not know why his father chooses to let him appear to some humans and not to others. He also does not know on what occasions his father chooses to go himself. He just has been told to be here. Nothing else. That is not unusual, his father never tells him what to do. He can do what he pleases. Or not do anything at all. He only must show himself. The rest ... is up to him.
Usually he eats then. Why bothering with getting something else when he is around anyway.
He does not care for their flesh. He is no predator, no animal. He feasts on their feelings. The strong feelings, the feelings that make them go on. These are his nourishment, the food he needs to go on. He feasts on Lust, on Pain, on Fear. He smiles, watching. This one will be delicious. He knows already.
Patiently and just a little bit annoyed he waits through the summoning. He rolls his eyes, again asking himself why those beasts are so damn stupid. Why the hell should a God or Demon or ... he himself answer a call, admittedly spoken in nice, fancy words, of a mere human? He understands their craving after a meaning, after some sort of higher sense, of higher being. But lighting candles, something that did not even exist when most entities came into existence, and reciting words some strange mind has made up ... That's just plain stupid. And even IF some demon were stupid enough to promise to show up when certain words are uttered. It's a demon. They are not the most reliably bunch.
The human blinks.
This is what he had waited for. He likes this kind of entrance. Of course he could just show up, kick the summoner in the shin and torture him as long as possible to drink down the pain and the fear. But it was more fun like this. He watches as the lids close over the moist eyeballs and steps into the world once more, carefully positioning himself, flexed his muscles a bit. He knows that they make a huge impression on most humans. He did not choose to look the way he looks.
But he indeed -is- rather happy that he, without needing to shade himself, is very capable to evoke in some of his food lust and desire. These creatures are really strange. Comes a ... him. Comes him into a room, claws and fangs and tentacles and some of them stare at his muscles and his ass and his cock (he is not, per se, male ... but he has a cock. And other bits.) and get all horny.
He grinned to himself, expecting rich harvest in this one and waited until he finally opened his eyes again. This is going to be fun he thinks as he lifts his hand and waves a friendly hello.
He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. He smells wax and his own sweat. He smells ... urine. He frowns. But he is relieved. He must have ... had some sort of fit and passed out. That picture in the mirror was either some part of that fit or he had dreamed it.
Rather embarrassing though. He sighs and sits up, looking into his damp crotch. He curls his lips in disgust. He has never had a fit like this before. Or any other sort of fit. Again he sighs and decides to file this whole business under trial and, my goodness, error.
He lifts his gaze and squeaks.
On his bed, legs spread relaxed, crouched forward a bit with his arms resting on his thighs sits ... this ... this ... creature.
It looks at him, it's eyes burning deeply into his head, locking his eyes to it's stare.
He starts to, slowly, crawl backwards. His legs kicking as he tries to shove himself further away from the bed. From where that things sits. The hideous, slimy tentacles that hang off ... no, that ARE his head brushing over its arms ... Big arms. Muscles. The body is strange. But only because of the colour. And the scales of course. It seems to consist of muscles only, the scales almost straining over the bulging muscles, deep crevices between his pecs and his abs. The biceps a bulging mass of flesh, his legs massive trunks of muscle, the feet ... what the fuck was he thinking. Looking at the green paws, two digits, more joints than normal, like four or so. Huge talons protruding from the ... claws. Pitch black, they seem as if they were made of some sort of glass. Or crystal.
He snatches back into reality. Reality? He feels his stomach rise, he was short before throwing up, adding more humiliation to his wet crotch, his stench of cold piss.
He swallows hard. He ... still lives, doesn't he? But for how long? He groans as he realizes what this was. This must be Cthulhu. It had worked? He had summoned some ... priest as it were, from the Necronomicon.
Surprisingly enough, he realizes, he has the time to think all this. Confusion sneaks into his fear and panic. What ... he should have thought about this earlier, but then again, he had not really expected this to work, now had he?
What was one supposed to do after one had summoned Cthulhu? Neither the Necronomicon nor any other source he had read said anything about granting wishes or something. Everything is only about summoning.
He coughs, trying to swallow down the still rising bile. He forces himself to look up again, his gaze leaving the paws of Cthulhu (he now thinks of the creature not as "it" anymore). He looks at that "face" again, trying to ignore the cleft that obviously serves him as mouth, he focuses on the yellow, unblinking eyes.
Still he is rather sure that no malevolence comes from the other, he seems amused. He coughs again, his face cracking up in wrinkles as he tries to smile.
He just sits. He looks. His mouth is open, he filters the emotions that pour out of that human before out of the air that is heavy with human smell.
He enjoys the fear as something like a starter, the delicate taste lingering in his whole body. He savours it, not greedily taking it in all at once.
And soon there is something else, he almost laughs as he tastes it, arousal. It is distance, hidden under the stronger taste of fear, but it is there. He does not yet do anything, he just watches, oberves how the thoughts build up in that human, how the impressions collide inside it's brain, how it tries to make sense of what is happening. It is, for him of course, not the first time he sees and tastes all this. But it is always amusing to watch the feelings build up before they gush out of them.
He cocks his head, smiling, the corners of his mouth wrinkling, exposing some more teeth (a smile it was, but he also was very well aware of the fact that no human would be able to actually identify it as such).
As it speaks, it's face a mask of strained horror, he leans back, supporting his heavy torso with his hands firmly placed behind him on the bed. He gives the human a perfect vision of heavily muscled movement. The taste of arousal becomes stronger. It almost now matched the intensity of fear. He closes his eyes for a moment, drinking down the bitter-sweet mixture, coating his inner self with that humans feelings. He leans back his head, pushing out his bulging pecs and he spreads his legs more, allowing the dim candles to reveal what had been hidden in shadow. His green, heavily barbed cock lies between his thighs on the sheet of the bed, a green, thick, vicious looking pole of flesh reaching almost to his knees.
He "breathes" in sharply, waves of arousal, of righteous horniness, washing around him, he sucks it in eagerly, drinks it, lets it flow through his self.
Opening his eyes again he sees the creature still sprawled on it's back, it's mouth hanging open, the eyes glued to his cock. His chest swells as more and more of the human's feelings wash through his body. He is hungry now, the taste of those feelings make him want more, his desire, the only feeling he himself knows, is awake, demanding more of that taste.
He gets up, slowly, his eyes never waver, never blink as he looks down on his meal, the source of his meal. The taste of arousal becoming stronger. This is nice. He needs and he likes the fear, the surrender, the portions of soul fleeing his prey's body. But arousal, though not uncommon, adds a delicious note.
After only a second more of pleasant anticipation he sets to work, hungry for as much lust and pain he can get out if his prey.