There's always those stories of Fae would have a fuck ton of kids with humans and I can't help but think it's a breeding kink. Like maybe fae pregnancies are really long, especially in comparison to human pregnancies (9 months is nothing to a fae) so when Fae realize that they just can't stop themselves from grabbing the first pretty fertile human they see.
Just imagine it; being some pretty young girl who happened to catch the attention of a fae and getting whisked away to be treated like a prized broodmare, constantly being breed. If your fae gets really attached they might just use their magic to keep you young and fertile forever.
I need to brush up on faeries 1000% because I did not grow up with them and did NOT know that lol. How... curious... 👀👀 I am very intrigued ehe
tw.yandere, noncon, pregnancy, minors dni, as always my shitty version of being kidnapped by ... something not human
You know, right now I'd walk straight into any otherworldly little trap, so let's follow that thought for a bit.
You're stressed, you feel like you're absolutely drowning in responsibilities, work, a million deadlines - so, so sleep-deprived and mentally exhausted that your judgment softens, your senses dull, your mind grows hazy. And while it will pass (all things eventually pass, don’t they?) and you’ll be fine some weeks, months from now on - the way through it all is grueling and hard, mundane and repititive.
Wouldn’t you be fortunate to catch the eye of someone out there? Someone, something who thinks you’re quite charming; soft and human and almost clumsy in the way you putter about and oh, you’re so weak. Some beautiful stranger who whisks you away, to somewhere so odd you think you’re dreaming at first. It’s so surreal, you have to be asleep, right?
And how harrowing it has to be to wake up for the first time, realizing that you made a stupid mistake some weeks ago, something you can’t even quite remember. Maybe the stranger caught you sometime during the dawn when you were half asleep- maybe they got you when you wandered too far into the forest on one of your nightly walks- it doesn’t matter, really, does it?
Your head feels as sticky as cotton candy and heavier than a brick, and they keep you in a bed of soft linen and way too many pillows, and fuck you so full you can’t make out left from right-
You can’t fight against them, and your rational thought is merely scratching at the door to your consciousness - but that underlying dread mixed with too-sweet dreams and kisses has to be terrible. Every passing day turns sweet to sour and when your stomach swells you finally manage to break away from the spell, if only to vomit out the food the stranger has stuffed you with... I feel like they’d basically keep you drugged and pliant for all eternity- with you just being able to feel that foreboding sense of ‘something is fundamentally wrong’ but not able to formulate a single clear thought. Any time you manage to free yourself from their influence, you’re immediately pulled back into it; and the memory erased. I can see them not even really talking to you - you’re like a sweet little pet to them, stupid and only there for what you can provide for them. Kept happy and dumb and pregnant, doomed to be a drooling broodmare...
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#86
Being a hero is stressful. That much is common knowledge. How a hero goes about unwinding from said stress is a mystery no one has yet figured out.
The hero settles in one of the little chairs in the circle. The man next to her gives her a light nudge. “Let’s see what you made this week, then.”
The hero reaches into her bag to show off her latest stress relief—a giant blanket, knitted in the downtime between jobs, sporting a rainbow of colours in bright streaks across its face. Everyone oohs and ahhs appropriately before the rest of the circle gets to showing off their own creations.
It’s been nice to have a place that isn’t entirely consumed by work, the hero thinks as she nods approvingly at someone’s mug cosy. No worrying about tomorrow, no wondering where the villains might be.
Her gaze flits to the next person in line to show something off, and her heart momentarily stops as she meets her eye. At least she doesn’t have to worry about the latter of her thoughts right now.
What the hell is the villain doing at the hero’s weekly knitting club?
“Go on,” the woman next to the villain prompts. The villain huffs and makes a show of it, but she pulls out a cardigan with a ghost of a pleased smirk.
The hero only realised why she’s so self-satisfied when she catches herself gaping in awe. The villain’s little cardigan is elaborate in pattern, swooping waves lining its shoulders. The yarns meld together in a perfect cacophony of colour. It’s amazing, more amazing than anything the hero could do.
The villain soaks in the praise with a humble nod before setting her gaze on the hero. It probably looks hopeful to anyone else, but the hero can see the glitter of arrogance in her eye. Go on, the villain’s practically saying, tell me how great I am.
“It’s nice,” the hero says through gritted teeth, and the villain’s smile turns humoured.
The hero can’t leave fast enough. Everyone else is packing their projects away. The hero’s blanket gets folded thankfully easily and she’s out the door before anyone can stop her.
Fine. A new project. Something to advance her skills and show the villain that she’s not the hot shit she thinks she is.
It takes all week. The hero holds her jumper up to show the group. The villain raises her eyebrows from across the circle.
“Inspired by another knitter here,” the hero says with what could almost be sarcasm, and the villain snorts a poorly contained laugh.
The villain shows off her creation. A pair of mittens, the patterns lacy and the colours bright. The hero scowls. Pissed doesn’t describe the feeling.
Next week. A layered scarf from the hero. The villain wins everyone’s affections with a tiny knitted elephant. “For my niece’s birthday,” the villain says innocently. “She loves them.”
Leaving is becoming more of a race with each passing week. “Keep trying,” the villain comments brightly before the hero can escape. “You’ve plenty of room to improve.”
The hero considers strangling the villain with her scarf.
The hero settles at her computer that evening with a scowl and a cup of hot chocolate, mentally prepared to prowl the internet for several hours for ideas on how to one-up the villain. It’s madness. She’s meant to be out there kicking the villain’s ass, and here she is trying to out-knit her.
It’s been three weeks, and she’s only just realising that her stress-relieving hobby is suddenly a lot more stress-inducing.
“Fuck,” she hisses outloud, and she momentarily considers the idea of knitting the word into a coaster for the villain too.
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