I'm still really in love with the idea of a human village that loses all their crops to a flood, and so they don't have enough to eat. to survive, they strike a deal with the brutish orcs that live up in the mountains—the villagers will trade them a maiden for enough food to make it through the winter.
you are the maiden, still a virgin, terrified and alone as you're shipped off to your new home. the orcs at least give you a choice for who to marry, so you choose the quiet blacksmith, the one who seems the least likely to hurt you.
even though he's always wanted a wife, he didn't want to be chosen, to be forced to care for a human. but he brings you home anyway, gives you a clean bed and food to eat, and then, promptly ignores you.
he goes about his day, sweating over the forge. you like how his big muscles flex as he swings his hammer, and sometimes you watch him work, even if it annoys him. he takes good care of you, buying the foods you like and the clothes that compliment your figure, even as he keeps you at arm's length. perhaps, you wonder, he's protecting you—from himself. he doesn't want to take your maidenhood, because you're there against your will.
but soon, it doesn't feel like a chore or a punishment to be here with the blacksmith. you start to hope he'll come around to you, that he'll give in to the desire you can tell is sprouting and growing in him, same as the desire that's taken over you.
one day, you make him his favorite meal, with his favorite mead, and wear your best clothes. you massage his shoulders, tense and hard from his work. he relaxes into you, at last, letting you wrap your arms around him. when he kisses you, his tusks get in the way, which is even more endearing.
finally, he gives in. the blacksmith tears off your pretty clothes, and takes you to his bed. all his buried hunger rises up to the surface, turning him into the brute you had once feared and now long for.
it will hurt this time, he says, but from every this moment on, you will feel nothing but pleasure with me.
he prepares you for his big cock as best he can, and gently presses it inside you. he takes care to move slow, to let you adjust to him, before his wild instincts take over. then he plunders you, reveling in your soft, small body, until he brings you to your roaring finish. then he fills you up, giving you all of his seed.
when you lie side-by-side that night, he rubs your belly, pleased at the idea of his orcling growing inside you someday. this may not have been what he expected, but now it's everything he wants.
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breeding kink but ONLY for monster fucking. some human promising to put a baby in me does nothing for me. but a werewolf deep in rut desperate to mount and shove their swelling knot in me and we get locked together for at LEAST 15min until it deflates while my stomach visibly extends from how much cum is being pumped into my poor abused hole and whole time theyre rambling abt how great our pups are gonna be..? 😳😳
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"i wanna see something other than the same edgy horror stuff when a beloved character becomes public domai-"
FUCKING MAKE IT, THEN.
the literal only difference between you and those horror directors who took mickey and winnie the pooh and made them into the horror you hate so much is that they made something and you didn't.
MAKE the romcom. MAKE the deep and existential meta horror you want to see. MAKE something cozy and child friendly. MAKE MAKE MAKE MAKE MAKE
don't just sit there and bemoan the things you don't want to see! MAKE THE THINGS YOU DO WANT TO SEE. BECAUSE NOW WE CAN MAKE ANYTHING. THAT'S THE FUCKING POINT!
YOU DON'T NEED PERMISSION. YOU DON'T NEED TO BE SOMETHING FIRST. JUST MAKE WHAT YOU WANT TO SEE.
YOU CAN'T STOP AN ARTIST FROM TAKING A CHILD FRIENDLY THING AND MAKING IT INTO HORROR. THE LITERAL ONLY PERSON YOU CAN STOP, AND ARE STOPPING, IS YOURSELF.
DON'T FUCKING WAIT FOR SOMEONE ELSE TO MAKE IT FOR YOU. PICK UP A DAMNED PENCIL/KEYBOARD/WHATEVER AND MAKE THAT THING YOU WANT TO SEE, GOD DAMMIT!!!
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satoru loses his mind a little every time he hears you sing a random line from a song. its not the fact that you’re singing that’s killing him, it’s the words.
“when I suck it I look in your eyes, you better fuck me like you mean it,” you’re unaware of the eyes he’s giving you from his spot on the couch while you make yourself a snack in the kitchen.
bending you over that counter sounds so good at that moment.
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