ADULT CONTENT BLOG. Masterlist. Rules. Blog info.
I am just a 24-year-old gal who loves movies. I love horror movies and military cinema the most. I write occasionally. I tend to talk a lot.
I know that evil dead 2 is like a retcon of evil dead 1 or something but ash continuing to bring girlfriends to this terrible cursed cabin in the woods is another funnier worse option.
MARY: This is Father Simon Xavier Ashby. You may see a Catholic priest, but I see a man guilty of committing atrocities against his countrymen, sentenced to hang by his queen. I have invited you here so that you may know that under my rule, all men will be judged not by their faith but by their actions. Because, regardless of my faith….
Pairing : Paddy Mayne x female reader
Summary : A botched burglary leads you to Paddy Mayne's isolated home, where the war hero awaits someone to inherit his lost legacy.
Warning/s : Non-con/dub-con, captive/captor dynamic, breeding kink, forced pregnancy, Stockholm syndrome elements, violence, rough sex, emotional manipulation, age gap (implied), dark themes. MINORS DNI.
Do not read if you're sensitive to any of the above, you have been warned.
This fic contains graphic depictions of sexual violence. This is your last warning.
You hadn't slept.
How could you, with him still inside you, his arm locked around your waist like a steel band, his breath hot and steady against your neck?
You'd counted his heartbeats.
Three thousand, four hundred, and twelve.
Each one a reminder that he was real, that this was real, that you weren't waking up from some terrible dream.
When he stirred, it was with the sudden alertness of a soldier.
His eyes opened—blue and clear and immediately fixed on your face. He didn't smile. He just watched you, assessing, cataloging every tremor, every flutter of your pulse in the thin skin of your throat.
"Morning, love," he said, his voice rough with sleep. He shifted his hips, and you felt him hardening again where he still rested inside you. "Already wet for me. The body learns fast."
You opened your mouth to deny it, but he rolled you onto your back and thrust deep in one fluid movement, cutting off whatever lie you'd planned.
The soreness made you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders—still bound at the wrists, the chain between them catching the light.
"Breakfast first," he murmured against your mouth, not breaking his rhythm. "Then a bath. Then we'll talk about your new schedule."
He took you quickly, efficiently, his eyes never leaving yours.
When he finished—spilling inside you with a groan that seemed torn from his chest—he didn't linger. He pulled out and stood, adjusting his trousers with the casual ease of a man who'd never questioned his right to anything.
"Don't move," he said, though you couldn't have if you'd wanted to.
He climbed the stairs—heavy boots on wood—and returned with a tray. Real food. Eggs, toast, a glass of milk.
The smell made your stomach twist with hunger. You hadn't eaten since... when? The day before? Two days?
He set the tray on the floor and unlocked your wrists from the wall, leaving the manacles on but giving you enough chain to reach the food. You hesitated, expecting a trick, expecting him to pull it away.
"Eat," he commanded, crouching down to your level. "You're feeding two now, even if you don't know it yet."
"I'm not—" you started.
"You will be." He caught your chin, thumb pressing hard enough to leave a mark. "I don't miss, girl. Never have. And I put enough in you last night to guarantee it."
He watched you eat.
It should have felt humiliating, being studied like an animal in a zoo, but the food was too good, your hunger too sharp. You devoured it all, even drank the milk, and when you finished, he took the tray and returned with something else.
A basin. Warm water. Soap.
"Strip," he said.
You stared at him.
"Paddy," you tried, using his name like a talisman, like it might soften him. "Please. Let me go. I won't tell anyone. I swear—"
He moved faster than you could track.
One hand in your hair, pulling your head back until your neck was exposed, vulnerable. The other at your throat—not choking, just holding, reminding you that he could.
"You broke into my home," he said quietly, conversationally, like he wasn't holding you by the hair like a disobedient dog. "You violated my space. My sanctuary. And now you're mine. That's the law of the jungle, love. You wandered into the wrong territory, and now the predator keeps you."
He released you, and you stumbled back against the wall, breathing hard.
"Strip," he said again, "or I'll do it for you. And I won't be gentle."
Your hands shook as you removed what was left of your clothing—the torn underwear, the bra he'd never bothered to fully remove. You stood naked before him, arms crossed over your chest, shivering though the cellar wasn't cold.
He made a sound—low, appreciative—and gestured to the mattress. "Lie down. On your back. Legs apart."
"Paddy—"
"Now."
You obeyed.
The mattress was thin, the springs digging into your spine, but you stretched out and opened your legs because the alternative was worse, because some part of you was learning that compliance meant less pain, because his eyes went dark and hungry when you submitted and that was somehow safer than when he was angry.
He washed you himself.
The cloth was warm, the soap unscented and harsh. He started at your ankles, working his way up with methodical thoroughness—calves, knees, thighs.
When he reached the juncture of your legs, he paused, looking down at you with an expression you couldn't read.
"Already bruising," he murmured, tracing a mark on your inner thigh with his thumb. "Pretty."
He cleaned you there too, gently, almost tenderly, and you hated the whimper that escaped your throat, hated the way your hips tilted toward his hand, hated that your body didn't care about your fear as long as he was touching you like that.
He moved upward—stomach, ribs, breasts.
He spent time on your breasts, cupping their weight, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened despite your best efforts. He smiled when they did, a small, satisfied curve of his lips.
"Responsive," he noted. "Good. That'll make this easier."
"Make what easier?" you whispered.
He didn't answer.
He finished washing you—arms, throat, face—then dried you with a rough towel. When he was done, he produced something from his pocket.
A razor.
You went rigid.
"Easy," he said, and his voice was almost soft. "Just maintenance. I like my women smooth."
He shaved you himself, holding you open with one hand while the other moved the blade with terrifying precision. You didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe, terrified that a flinch would end in blood. But his hands were steady, practiced, and when he finished, he ran his palm over the result and nodded approval.
"Beautiful," he said. Then, casually, "Turn over."
"Paddy—"
"Turn. Over."
You rolled onto your stomach, burying your face in the thin pillow.
He shaved the back of your legs, your thighs, and then—oh god—between your cheeks. You bit the pillow to keep from crying out, humiliation burning hotter than any flame.
When he finished, he slapped your ass—sharp, possessive—and stood. "Up. Walk around. I want to see you move."
You stood on shaking legs and walked the perimeter of the cellar because he'd told you to, because the chain gave you just enough length to circle the room, because his eyes followed you like you were the only thing in the world worth watching.
"Stop," he said when you reached the far wall. "Bend over. Hands on the wall."
You froze.
"Paddy, please—"
"I said bend over."
You placed your palms against the cold stone and bent, arching your back, presenting yourself to him in the most vulnerable way possible. You heard him move, heard the clink of his belt, and then his hands were on your hips, positioning you exactly how he wanted.
"Look at you," he breathed. "Already open for me. Already ready."
He entered you in one thrust, deeper than before from this angle, and you cried out against the stone.
He set a brutal pace, hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the small room.
"You were made for this," he grunted, reaching around to rub your clit with rough fingers. "Made to be filled. Made to carry."
You shook your head, tears dripping onto the floor, but your body was traitorous, your body was weak, your body was arching back to meet him because he'd trained you in one night to need this, to crave the stretch and burn of him inside you.
"Going to take you three times a day," he promised, his rhythm faltering as he neared his peak. "Morning, noon, night. Going to keep you so full of me you never forget who you belong to."
He came with a shout, pressing deep, holding you flush against him as he pulsed.
You felt every spurt, felt the flood of warmth, and knew with sick certainty that he was right, that he wouldn't stop, that eventually your body would break and accept his seed and grow his child whether you wanted it or not.
He pulled out slowly, watching his essence leak down your thighs with obvious satisfaction.
He caught it on his fingers and pushed it back inside you, working it deep with two thick digits.
"Stay there," he ordered, though you couldn't have moved if you'd wanted to. "Don't spill a drop."
He left you bent over, exposed, while he climbed the stairs again. You heard him moving above—drawers opening, water running—and then he returned with something that made your blood run cold.
A plug.
Small, silicone, with a flared base. He showed it to you, turning it in his fingers, letting you see exactly what he intended.
"No," you whispered.
"Yes," he countered, and there was no negotiation in his voice. "You need to be trained. Need to learn to hold what I give you. This will help."
He used his own spend as lubricant, working one finger into your ass, then two, stretching you with the same methodical patience he'd shown with the razor.
You whimpered, toes curling against the floor, but you didn't fight him. You'd learned that lesson. Fighting made it last longer.
He pushed the plug in slowly, steadily, not stopping until the base seated flush against you.
It was foreign, intrusive, a constant reminder of his ownership. You felt full, impossibly full, your body clenching around the invasion.
"Good girl," he praised, slapping your ass again. "Now turn around."
You turned, leaning back against the wall for support. He looked you up and down—naked, chained, plugged, marked by his hands and his seed—and nodded slowly.
"Better," he said. "Already looking like a proper little wife."
"I'm not your wife," you spat, finding some last reserve of defiance.
He laughed, delighted, and crossed the room to cup your face in his hands. "Not yet," he agreed. "But you will be. Once you're swelling with my child, once everyone sees my mark on you. Then we'll make it official. Until then..." He kissed you, hard and brief. "Until then, you're my captive. My project. My breeding stock."
He dressed you then—in a simple cotton dress that buttoned up the front, no underwear, nothing beneath.
The fabric rubbed against your sensitive skin, against the plug, a constant friction that kept you on edge.
"Upstairs," he said, unlocking the chain from the wall but keeping your wrists bound. "You can earn some freedom. Behave, and you get the run of the house. Fight me, and it's back to the cellar."
He led you up the stairs, and you emerged blinking into a kitchen that was surprisingly normal—clean, orderly, pots hanging from a rack, a table set for two.
The house looked different in daylight. Less threatening. Almost homey.
He sat you at the table and produced a bottle of prenatal vitamins. Set two in front of you. Watched until you swallowed them.
"Good," he said, pouring tea. "Now. Tell me about yourself. Where you're from. What you were running from."
You stared at him. "Why do you care?"
"Because you're mine now," he said simply. "I want to know what I'm working with. What broke you enough to make you a thief."
Something in his voice—some hint of understanding, of shared damage—made the words spill out.
Your mother's death. The debts. The eviction. The desperate choice that led you to his door.
He listened without interrupting, his blue eyes never leaving your face. When you finished, he reached across the table and took your bound hands in his.
"Hard luck," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. "World chews up soft things like you. But you're safe now. I keep what's mine. You'll never want for food, for shelter, for protection. All you have to do is submit."
"And if I don't?"
His grip tightened. "Then I'll break you until you do. But I'd rather not. I'd rather you came to me willing."
He released you and stood, moving to the window. "War taught me things, love. Taught me that civilization is a thin veneer. Underneath, we're animals. We take, we claim, we breed. I'm giving you the chance to be something more than a victim. Be my partner. My woman. The mother of my children."
He turned back to you, and for the first time, you saw something other than cruelty in his eyes.
Loneliness. Desperation.
A hunger for connection that ran as deep as his hunger for your body.
"Choose," he said softly. "Fight me every step, and I'll keep you chained in the cellar until you're too pregnant to run. Or..." He extended his hand. "Take my hand. Learn to belong to me. I can be kind, girl. I can be good to you. But you have to meet me halfway."
You looked at his hand—scarred, calloused, capable of such violence and such gentleness.
You thought of the cellar, of the chains, of the inevitable. He would break you eventually. He was too patient, too determined, too convinced of his right to you.
Or you could bend. You could survive. You could find the parts of him that were still human and cling to them, use them, manipulate them until you found a way out.
You placed your bound hands in his.
He smiled—real, warm, terrifying in its sincerity—and lifted your wrists to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chafed skin.
"Good girl," he murmured. "My good girl."
He unbound your wrists then, removing the manacles for the first time since he'd captured you. You rubbed the marks they'd left, watching him, waiting for the trick.
"No chains," he said, reading your suspicion. "Not if you behave. But..." He produced a collar from his pocket—leather, slim, with a small silver ring at the throat. "You wear this. My mark. My claim."
He fastened it around your neck, adjusting it until it sat snug, not choking but impossible to ignore.
A leash hook dangled from the ring, a silent promise of what would happen if you ran.
"Beautiful," he breathed, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Now. Upstairs. I'll show you the bedroom. And then..." He caught your waist, pulling you against him, letting you feel his hardness. "And then I'll show you what it means to be claimed properly. In a bed. Slowly. Until you're begging for it."
He led you up the narrow stairs, the plug shifting with each step, keeping you aware, keeping you ready.
The bedroom was small, the bed narrow, the sheets clean and smelling of him.
He undressed you slowly this time, unbuttoning the dress with reverent fingers, kissing each inch of skin as he exposed it.
He laid you back on the bed and removed the plug, replacing it with his tongue—there, where you were most vulnerable, most ashamed.
You cried out, hands fisting in the sheets, and he laughed against your skin, the vibration making you squirm.
"That's it," he encouraged. "Let go. Let me hear you."
He brought you to the edge with his mouth, then crawled up your body and entered you in one slow thrust.
This time was different—he took his time, watching your face, adjusting his angle until you gasped, until your hips rose to meet him, until you were moaning despite yourself, clutching at his back, his shoulders, anything to anchor yourself.
"Say it," he demanded, grinding against you, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. "Say you want it."
"I want it," you lied, or maybe you didn't lie, you couldn't tell anymore.
"Say you want me."
"I want you, Paddy."
He groaned, burying his face in your neck, his rhythm breaking. "Again."
"I want you. I want this. Please—"
He came with your name on his lips, filling you again, marking you again, claiming you in the most primitive way possible. And when he rolled to his side and pulled you against his chest, you didn't pull away.
You lay there in the afternoon light, feeling his heartbeat, his hand resting possessively on your stomach, and knew that the war was over.
You'd lost.
But in losing, you'd found something too—a purpose, however dark.
A keeper, however cruel. A future, whether you'd chosen it or not.
"Sleep," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "When you wake, we'll start planning. Names. The nursery. Your new life."
You closed your eyes, the collar warm against your throat, his seed warm inside you, and dreamed of chains that felt like home.
A/N: The first one was already a treat. This one? Oh, this is the cherry on top.
