Blue and confined
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Magnifico doesn’t just collect wishes. He collects people’s futures. And because the system is built on “forget without regret,” the population doesn’t feel the loss. They experience surrender as relief. #RFT #episkevology #anthropology #moviereview #wish
Survivor Literacy Review: [Archetype / Pattern] in [Media Type]
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Under the right circumstances, I would say yes, but I’m afraid the reason has more to do with the fact that she’s self-destructive than her devotion to her comrades (unless we are talking about Aokiji in a pre-timeskip setup maybe).
Birdie grew up learning that she constantly had to put everything on the line to achieve… anything, really. Proving herself, even at the cost of death, could become more alluring than failure. Plus her life was always considered cheap, by others and herself. This does not mean that she was suicidal or she was always jumping between danger and other marines, but the occasion could arise. I mean, that’s what she did for Koby and Helmeppo in Captive.
Of course context is important, but I believe that the ultimate sacrifice should not necessarily be read as a proof of love when it comes to birdie.
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Little Rabbit Caught
Part 1 of 2
Hello my loves, this is a darker more explicit version of “Run Little Rabbit”. In this version Lily, June’s best friend, decides to confront Joan after seeing how broken June Bug was. This is the scene where our story begins.
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The rain came down in Brisbane the way it always did in February—sudden, biblical, and indifferent. It hammered the wide glass windows of Joan Ferguson’s house on the river, turning the city lights into long, trembling streaks of gold and red. Inside, the air was cool and still, scented faintly with cedarwood and the ghost of last night’s whiskey.
She sat with her phone. The screen was dark. She had not unlocked it in three days. There were no new messages from you—of course there weren’t—and she had deleted every notification app that might tempt her to check whether you had posted anything, liked anything, existed anywhere beyond the radius of her control. She was trying to starve the hunger. It was not going well.
A low buzz startled her. Not the phone. The intercom.
Joan did not move at first. She simply stared at the small panel on the wall as though it had personally offended her. Then, slowly, she rose. The silk whispered against her thighs. Bare feet made no sound on the polished concrete floor.
She pressed the button. “Yes?” Static. Then a woman’s voice, hesitant, almost apologetic. “Joan? It’s Lily.” The name landed like a dropped glass. Joan’s thumb remained pressed to the talk button for several seconds longer than necessary. “I’m not receiving visitors,” she said finally. The words came out velvet-smooth, polite, lethal.
“I know. I just… I need to talk to you. About her.” Her.
Joan exhaled through her nose. The sound was almost amused.
“Five minutes,” she said. “The lift code is still the same.”
She released the button and stepped back. When the front door opened six minutes later, Lily stood dripping in the hallway, umbrella forgotten in the lift. Her dark hair was plastered to her temples; mascara had begun to migrate. She looked smaller than Joan remembered. Less of a threat. More of a drowned thing. Joan did not invite her in. She simply leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed beneath her breasts, robe slipping just enough to reveal the sharp line of her collarbone.
Lily swallowed. “I’m not here to fight,” she began. “How refreshing.”
“I just wanted you to know she’s… she’s not okay.” Joan tilted her head. The movement was slow, feline. “Define ‘not okay.’”
Lily’s gaze dropped to the floor. Water dripped from the hem of her coat in soft, metronomic plinks. “She’s drinking too much. She barely sleeps. Last week she fell asleep on the couch with all the lights on and woke up screaming your name. She won’t talk about it, but she’s… she keeps your scarf. The green one. Sleeps with it sometimes. I found it under her pillow when I went to borrow a charger.”
Joan’s expression did not change. “And you’re telling me this because…?” “Because I think she’s going to crack if she doesn’t see you.” Lily lifted her eyes. They were red-rimmed. “I don’t like you, Joan. I never have. But I love her. And whatever fucked-up thing the two of you had, it’s still inside her. Eating her alive.” For a moment the only sound was rain on glass. Then Joan smiled. It was small, careful, almost tender.
“You think she’s suffering,” she said quietly. “She is.” “You think I should… what? Ride in like some tragic heroine and fix her?” Lily’s jaw tightened. “I think you should stop pretending you don’t still want her.” Joan studied the other woman for a long beat. Then she stepped aside. “Come in. You’re flooding my hallway.”
Lily hesitated, then crossed the threshold. Joan closed the door behind her with a soft, decisive click. Inside, the house felt even larger with another body in it. Lily stood awkwardly near the island, arms wrapped around herself. Joan moved past her without touching, poured two fingers of whiskey into a fresh glass, and slid it across the marble. “Drink,” she said. Not a request. Lily took it but didn’t sip. “I’m not here to get drunk.” “Then why are you here, exactly?” Joan leaned back against the counter, mirroring Lily’s posture. “To plead her case? To warn me? To ask me to stay away?”
Lily looked at the glass, then at Joan.
“I’m here because she won’t say it, so someone has to. She still loves you. She hates that she does. But she does.” Joan’s gaze never wavered. “And you?” she asked softly. “Do you love her?” Lily flinched. “That’s not—” “Don’t lie to me. I can smell it on you.”
The silence stretched thin and dangerous. Finally Lily whispered, “Yes.”
Joan nodded once, as though confirming a minor hypothesis.
“Then you understand,” she said, “why I cannot simply… let go.”
Lily’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not hearing me. She’s falling apart.”
“No,” Joan corrected gently. “She’s relearning how to breathe without me. It hurts. Of course it hurts. But pain is not the same as destruction.” She pushed away from the counter and walked to the living-room windows. The city glittered below, wet and careless.
“She left because she wanted to prove something to herself,” Joan continued, voice low. “That she could exist separately. That privacy was worth more than safety. That love did not have to mean total surrender.” She turned her head just enough to catch Lily’s reflection in the glass. “She was wrong.”
Lily set the untouched glass down with a sharp clink. “You’re unbelievable.” “Perhaps.” Joan’s reflection smiled again—small, private. “But I am also patient.” Lily took a step forward. “If you really loved her, you’d leave her alone.” “If I really loved her,” Joan replied, turning fully now, “I would wait until she remembered what it felt like to be whole.” Thunder cracked somewhere over the river. Lily stared at her for a long moment. Then she shook her head, once, like someone trying to wake from a bad dream.
“I shouldn’t have come.” “No,” Joan agreed. “You shouldn’t have.”
Lily moved toward the door. Halfway there she stopped, shoulders rigid. “She’s going to call you,” she said without turning around. “Maybe not tonight. Maybe not this month. But she will. And when she does… don’t hurt her again.” Joan said nothing.
Lily left. The door closed quietly behind her. The house returned to silence.
Joan remained at the window for several minutes, watching rain slide down the glass in slow, silver tracks. She waited. Because somewhere across the city, in a too-small flat with peeling paint and second-hand furniture, you were lying awake too. And Joan knew—knew with the calm certainty of gravity—that eventually, the silence would become louder than pride. When it did, she would be ready.
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The flat smelled of instant coffee gone cold and the faint, chemical sweetness of cheap vanilla candle that had burned itself out two nights ago. Rain still tapped against the single-pane window like impatient fingers, but inside it was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of floorboards settling under someone who wasn’t sleeping. You hadn’t slept properly in weeks.
Not since Lily came back from Joan’s place looking like she’d been hit by something heavy and invisible. She wouldn’t tell you everything—just that Joan had been calm. Too calm. That she’d poured whiskey like it was tea and spoken in that low, measured voice that used to make your knees soft. Sarah had said other things too, words you were still trying not to hear: “She’s waiting,” “She knows you’ll call,” “She’s not finished with you.”
You hated how the sentences fit inside your chest like keys turning in locks you thought you’d thrown away. Tonight the green scarf lay across the pillow beside you. You hadn’t meant to keep it. You’d found it folded at the bottom of the laundry basket three weeks after you moved out—must have been tangled in your jumper the night you left. You should have posted it back. Burned it. Thrown it in the river. Instead you’d pressed your face into the cashmere once, just once, and the scent of Joan’s perfume (jasmine, amber, something faintly metallic) had punched the air out of your lungs so hard you’d dropped to the floor and stayed there until your knees went numb.
You hadn’t touched it since. Until tonight.
Your thumb traced the edge of the fabric now, slow, almost careful, the way you used to trace the inside of her wrist when she was half-asleep and soft in a way she never let anyone else see. The memory arrived uninvited: her bedroom at three in the morning, moonlight slicing through the blinds, the way she’d catch your hand and press it to her throat so you could feel her pulse—steady, arrogant, alive. “Feel that?” she’d murmur. “That’s you. Still inside me. Always will be.”
You closed your eyes against the sting. The phone sat face-down on the nightstand. Black screen. Silent. You hadn’t looked at it in hours because looking meant temptation, and temptation meant weakness, and weakness meant— It buzzed. Once. Sharp. Like a slap. You didn’t move at first. Just stared at the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster you already knew by heart. One. Two. Three.
The second buzz came softer, almost apologetic. A message. Not a call. You turned the phone over. Unknown number. No name. Just digits you recognised instantly because you’d deleted them from your contacts but never from muscle memory.
The preview showed only the first line: I know you’re awake.
Your heart did something violent against your ribs—half protest, half recognition. You should have turned the phone off. Blocked the number again. Thrown the device across the room. Instead your thumb hovered. Then pressed. The full message opened. I know you’re awake. I can feel it the way I always could. The scarf still smells like me, doesn’t it? You stared at the words until they blurred.
Another message arrived before you could decide whether to breathe. Don’t answer if you don’t want to.
The phone trembled in your hand. You typed nothing. Deleted the empty text box three times. Typed again. Then deleted everything.
The screen stayed blank. Minutes passed. Rain. Fridge hum. Your own breathing, too loud. Another message. I’m not asking you to come back. Not tonight. I’m only asking you to remember what it felt like when you didn’t have to lie to yourself about what you wanted.
A pause. The three typing dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. When the final message arrived it was just four words. You’re still mine, darling.
You dropped the phone onto the mattress like it had burned you.
It landed face-up. The screen glowed softly against the dark sheets. The green scarf had slipped half under your cheek while you weren’t paying attention. You could smell her again—faint, persistent, inevitable. Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, something older than pride was waking up. You didn’t reply. Not yet. But you didn’t turn the phone off, either. And sometime around four a.m., when the city was finally quiet and your pulse had slowed to something almost like calm, your fingers moved without permission. They closed around the scarf. Pulled it closer. Pressed it to your mouth. And for the first time in months, you let yourself whisper her name into the dark.
Just once.
Soft.
Like a confession.
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The bar on Ann Street was one of those places that pretended to be forgotten—dim neon bleeding through fogged windows, sticky floors, music low enough to let conversations feel private. You had chosen it deliberately. No one you knew came here. No one who might report back.
You nursed the same gin and tonic for forty-seven minutes, watching the ice melt into pale ghosts. The green scarf was folded inside your coat pocket like contraband; you hadn’t worn it, just carried it. Proof of something. Insurance against forgetting. At 11:14 p.m. you paid in cash and stepped into the alley behind the building to cut through to the main road. The rain had stopped hours earlier, leaving the air thick and metallic. Your boots clicked once, twice against wet brick.
Then the world tilted.
A hand—warm, familiar—closed over your mouth from behind. Not hard enough to bruise, just firm enough to silence the instinctive sound rising in your throat. The other arm banded around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground as though you weighed nothing. You recognised the perfume before you recognised the strength: jasmine, amber, something faintly metallic. Joan.
You thrashed once—reflex, panic—but she had already turned you, pressing your back against the rough brick wall of the neighbouring building. The alley mouth was only ten metres away, streetlight spilling gold across the entrance, yet the shadows here swallowed sound. “Shh,” she breathed against your ear. Her voice was velvet over steel. “Don’t scream, darling. You’ll only embarrass yourself.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt. You tried to speak—her name, a curse, anything—but her gloved palm stayed sealed over your lips.
She leaned in until her mouth brushed the shell of your ear. “I’ve been patient,” she murmured. I counted every day. But tonight you carried my scarf like a talisman. You whispered my name in the dark. Did you think I wouldn’t know?” Your eyes widened. How— She smiled against your skin—small, indulgent. “I never stopped watching.”
The words landed like ice water. You jerked again, harder this time. She absorbed the movement without effort, her body a warm, unyielding cage.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said softly. “Not the way you’re afraid of.” Her free hand slipped into the pocket of her long black coat. You caught the glint of glass—a small syringe, already capped, the liquid inside clear and innocent-looking. Adrenaline flooded your system. You bucked, tried to knee her, but she anticipated it—shifted her weight, pinned your thigh between hers with casual precision.
“Easy,” she soothed, as though speaking to a startled animal. “This will only make things quieter. Softer. You’ll sleep, and when you wake up, you’ll be home.”
Home.
The word twisted inside you—half memory, half threat. You shook your head frantically against her hand. Tears burned the corners of your eyes. Joan’s expression softened, almost tender.
“I know you’re frightened,” she whispered. “But you’re also aching. I can feel it in the way you’re trembling—not just fear. Want, too. You’ve been starving yourself of me for months, and your body remembers what your mind keeps trying to forget.”
She uncapped the syringe with her teeth—quick, practised. The faint pop of plastic echoed in the narrow space. “This is midazolam,” she told you conversationally, as though explaining a wine vintage. “Fast onset. You’ll feel heavy, warm, then nothing for a little while. When you come round, you’ll be in our bed. Safe. Mine.” You tried to scream behind her palm. The sound came out muffled, pathetic. Joan pressed her forehead to yours for a single heartbeat—intimate, almost loving.
“I’ve waited long enough,” she said. “I’m taking you home now.”
The needle slid into the side of your neck—smooth, barely a sting. Cold spread from the injection site like frost under skin, followed by an unnatural warmth that rolled down your spine and pooled in your limbs. Your knees buckled almost immediately. Joan caught you easily, scooping you against her chest. Your head lolled onto her shoulder; the silk of her scarf—her scarf—brushed your cheek. The alley began to blur at the edges. Streetlight smeared into halos. Sound receded until all you could hear was her heartbeat—steady, arrogant, alive—right against your ear.
She lifted you bridal-style, coat falling open just enough to shield your face from the drizzle that had started again. Her steps were unhurried as she carried you toward the black Audi parked at the far end of the alley. No one passed. No one looked. You tried to lift your hand, to push, to claw—anything—but your fingers only twitched uselessly against the lapel of her coat. “That’s it,” she murmured, kissing your temple as she lowered you into the passenger seat. The leather was warm. The seatbelt clicked across your chest like a promise. Your eyelids fluttered. Heavy. So heavy.
Joan slid into the driver’s side, started the engine with a low purr. She reached over, brushed a strand of hair from your face with the back of her knuckles. “Sleep now, love,” she said quietly. “When you wake, I’ll be there. I’ll be gentle. I’ll be everything you’ve been pretending you don’t need.” The car pulled away from the kerb.
Rain streaked the windows in long silver lines. Your last coherent thought—faint, fading—was that her hand had come to rest on your thigh, thumb tracing slow, possessive circles through the fabric of your jeans. Then darkness folded over you like silk.
Soft.
Inevitable.
Home.
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The drive took twenty-three minutes. Joan kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting high on your thigh—possessive, unmoving, thumb pressed just firmly enough against the inseam of your jeans to remind you she was there. Even unconscious, your body registered the weight of it. Your head lolled against the window; shallow breaths fogged the glass in small, irregular clouds.
She parked in the underground garage beneath the river house. No neighbours. No cameras she hadn’t already disabled years ago. The lift ride up was silent except for the soft chime at each floor and the faint rustle of your coat against her arm as she carried you again—this time over one shoulder like game she’d hunted herself.
Inside the apartment the lights were already low, warm amber strips along the skirting boards. She kicked the door shut behind her without breaking stride and carried you straight through to the master bedroom.
The bed was made. White Egyptian cotton, hospital corners, the same sheets you’d once slept tangled in. She laid you down carefully—almost tenderly—then stepped back to look. Your coat was still on. Boots still laced. Cheeks flushed from the sedative’s lingering warmth. Lips parted just enough to show the edge of teeth. The green scarf had slipped halfway out of your pocket during the carry; one end trailed across your stomach like an accusation.
Joan removed her own coat first. Folded it. Placed it over the armchair. Then she turned back to you. She started with the boots.
One at a time. Slow. Deliberate. She unlaced them without hurry, slid them off, set them neatly beside the bed. Your socks next—peeled away, revealing the pale arches of your feet. She ran a single fingertip along the sole of one, watching the unconscious twitch of your toes. A small, private smile curved her mouth.
“Still so responsive,” she murmured.
The jeans came next. She unbuttoned them, tugged the zip down tooth by tooth. The sound was obscene in the quiet room. She hooked her fingers into the waistband and dragged the denim down your legs—inch by inch—until they pooled at your ankles. She left them there for a moment while she studied the plain black underwear you’d chosen that morning. Nothing special. Nothing meant to be seen. That was the point.
She peeled the jeans free completely, folded them, placed them on the chair with her coat. Methodical. Controlled. Your jumper was oversized, soft wool. She worked it up your arms, over your head, taking care not to snag your hair. Underneath was a thin cotton camisole—white, slightly worn at the straps. No bra. Your nipples had pebbled in the cool air of the room. Joan traced one with the pad of her thumb. Not hard. Just enough to watch it tighten further.
“Look at you,” she said softly. “Trying so hard to pretend you’re ordinary. Trying so hard to pretend you don’t belong here.”
She slid the camisole up. Paused when it caught under your arms, then tugged it off in one smooth motion. Your breasts shifted with the movement; she caught one in her palm, thumb brushing the nipple again—firmer this time. A low sound escaped your throat, involuntary, drugged. “There it is,” she whispered. “Even asleep you can’t hide it.” The underwear was last.
She hooked two fingers under the elastic at each hip and drew them down slowly—agonisingly slowly—until they cleared your knees, your calves, your ankles. She left them hooked around one foot for a moment, then slipped them free and dropped them onto the pile.
You lay bare now. Spread slightly from the way she’d positioned you. Thighs parted just enough for her to see everything.
Joan stood at the foot of the bed for a long minute, simply looking.
Then she spoke—quiet, conversational, as though you might answer.
“You ran because you were ashamed of how much you liked being owned. You told yourself it was suffocating. Toxic. But we both know the truth.” She leaned over you, bracing one hand beside your head, the other trailing down the centre of your body—sternum, navel, pubic mound—until her fingers rested lightly between your legs.
“This is what gives you away every time.” She parted you with two fingers. Found you already slick. Not dripping—not yet—but unmistakably wet. Joan laughed once, low and dark. “Months of freedom and your cunt still knows who it belongs to.” She didn’t penetrate. Not yet. She simply circled the entrance, spreading the wetness, letting it coat her fingers while she watched your face for any flicker of awareness. Your brows twitched once. A soft, helpless sound slipped from your lips.
“Good girl,” she murmured. “Even when you’re out cold, you still open for me.” She withdrew her hand, brought her fingers to her mouth, and licked them clean—slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving your face. Then she straightened. She undressed herself next. Methodical again. Shirt unbuttoned one cuff at a time. Trousers unzipped, stepped out of. Underwear discarded without ceremony. Naked, she was all sharp lines and controlled strength—muscles shifting under pale skin, the faint scars from years of control she never explained.
She climbed onto the bed, straddling your hips without putting weight on you. Leaned down until her breasts brushed yours, her mouth at your ear. “When you wake up,” she whispered, “you’re going to feel me everywhere. You’re going to feel how wet you got while you were helpless. You’re going to feel the ache and know exactly why it’s there. And you’re going to hate how much you want more.” She reached between your bodies, guided her thick strap to your entrance—slow, careful, but unrelenting.
One long, steady push.
You took her easily—too easily—body yielding even in unconsciousness. A low moan vibrated in your throat; your head turned on the pillow, seeking something you couldn’t name.
Joan stayed still for a moment, buried deep, letting you adjust around her. Then she began to move. Slow rolls of her hips. Deep, deliberate thrusts that dragged against every sensitive place inside you. She kept her weight braced on her forearms so she could watch your face—every flutter of lashes, every parting of lips, every helpless twitch of your fingers against the sheets. She fucked you like she was claiming territory.
Every time your breathing hitched, she angled deeper. Every time your hips lifted unconsciously to meet her, she rewarded you with a slower grind, letting you feel the stretch, the fullness, the way your body clenched around her like it remembered exactly who it answered to.
She came first—quiet, controlled, a soft shudder that travelled through her arms and into you. She didn’t stop. Kept moving through it, drawing out the aftershocks until you were trembling beneath her, inner walls fluttering in confused, drugged response.
When she finally pulled out, she stayed between your legs. Watched the slow leak of her release mixed with your own arousal. She gathered it on two fingers, brought them to your mouth, and painted your lips with it. “Sleep now,” she said softly. “When you wake, we start again. Properly.”
She kissed your slack mouth once—tasting herself on you—then settled beside you, pulling the sheet over both of your bodies.
One arm draped across your waist. And when the sedative finally began to thin—when your eyelids fluttered and your fingers curled weakly against the pillow—she would be there.
When the sedative began to thin, it did so slowly—first in the fingers, a faint prickling that spread like pins and needles up the arms, then in the eyelids, heavy and reluctant to lift. Consciousness returned in fragments: the cool press of sheets against bare skin, the faint musk of sex already lingering in the air, the low hum of the city beyond the windows. And then the weight.
Joan was already between your legs again—had been for some time, judging by the slick ache already settled deep inside you. She wasn’t moving fast. She wasn’t moving hard. She was simply… there. Buried to the hilt, hips rocking in the smallest, most deliberate circles, letting you feel every inch of her without giving you the rhythm that might let you chase release. Your eyes fluttered open.
The first thing you saw was her face—calm, watchful, the same expression she used to wear when grading a subordinate’s performance. Patient. Disappointed. Certain. You tried to speak. Your throat was dry; the word came out cracked. “Joan—” “Shh.” One finger pressed to your lips. Not gently. Firmly. “You don’t get to talk yet. You get to feel.”
You became aware, then, of your wrists. They were above your head, looped through the soft leather cuffs she kept in the nightstand drawer—the ones lined with sheepskin so they never bruised unless she wanted them to. The chain between them was short, hooked to the headboard. You tugged once, weakly. The metal clinked softly.
Your ankles were free, but your knees were pushed wide apart by the deliberate press of her thighs. Nothing restrained them except her body and the humiliating knowledge that if you tried to close them, she would simply spread them wider.
She shifted her hips—once, shallow—and you felt the slow drag of her inside you, the obscene wet sound it made. Your face burned.
“Look at me,” she said quietly. You didn’t want to. You stared at the ceiling instead. Joan sighed—the sound of mild exasperation—and reached down between your bodies. Her fingers found your clit, pinched it lightly between thumb and forefinger, then rolled it once. Sharp pleasure spiked through the fog; your hips jerked involuntarily.
“There,” she murmured. “That’s better.”
She began to move again—slow, punishingly slow thrusts that never quite gave enough friction, never quite reached deep enough to satisfy. Just enough to keep you aware. Just enough to keep you leaking around her. “You came twice while you were out,” she told you conversationally, as though reading from a report. “Once when I first entered you. Again when I fucked you through my own orgasm. Your body clenched so prettily around me both times. Like it was grateful.” The humiliation landed like a slap. Heat flooded your cheeks, your chest, the back of your throat.
“I—I didn’t—” “You did.” She leaned down until her mouth brushed your ear. “You moaned my name in your sleep. Soft little whimpers. “Joan… please… You even said you were mine.” You turned your face away. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Joan caught your chin between thumb and forefinger and turned it back. “No hiding,” she said. “Not anymore.”
She straightened, braced herself on one hand beside your head, and used the other to spread you open wider—fingers framing your clit so she could watch exactly how your body took her. “Look down,” she ordered. “Watch how wet you are for this. Watch how easily you open for someone who drugged you and carried you home like luggage.”
You tried to resist. She simply stopped moving—completely—until the ache of emptiness became unbearable. You looked.
The sight was obscene: her thick strap, still glistening with you—slowly disappearing inside your body with every shallow roll of her hips. Your own arousal coated her, slick and shining, strings of it connecting you every time she pulled back even an inch. Your clit was swollen, flushed dark, twitching under the lightest brush of her thumb. “Say it,” she whispered. You shook your head.
Joan smiled—small, cold—and pinched your clit again. Harder this time. You cried out—sharp, broken. “Say it.” Your voice cracked on the first try. “I’m… wet.” “Louder.” “I’m wet for you.” She rewarded you with one deep, deliberate thrust. Your back arched; a sob tore out of your throat. “And?” You swallowed. Tears slipped down your temples into your hair. “My body… wants you.”
“Better.” She began to fuck you properly now—still controlled, still measured, but deeper. Each thrust pushed a wet, humiliating sound from between your legs. “And why does your body want me?”
“Because—” The word stuck. She angled her hips, dragged against that spot inside you that made your vision white at the edges.
“Because it remembers who owns it,” you choked out.
Joan’s smile was almost tender.
“Good girl.” She didn’t let you come.
She brought you to the edge—again and again—until your thighs shook, your wrists pulled uselessly at the cuffs, your voice turned raw from begging. Then she stopped. Completely. She pulled out slowly, letting you feel the drag of every inch, until you were empty and clenching around nothing. You whimpered—actually whimpered—at the loss. Joan sat back on her heels between your spread thighs and simply looked at you: flushed, trembling, dripping onto the sheets, wrists bound, face wet with tears and shame. She reached for the nightstand, picked up her phone, and opened the camera. Your heart stuttered.
“No—” “Shh.” She angled the phone downward, framing the mess between your legs—the swollen, slick folds, the slow leak of her earlier release mixed with yours, the way your entrance fluttered helplessly. She took one photo. Then another—closer. Then a short video—ten seconds—of her fingers spreading you open again, letting the camera catch the obscene shine, the way your body clenched at nothing.
She didn’t show you the screen. She simply set the phone aside.
“Insurance,” she said softly. “In case you ever think of running again.”
You sobbed once—quiet, defeated. Joan leaned down, kissed the corner of your mouth where the tears had gathered. “Now,” she murmured against your skin, “let’s see how many more times I can make you come before you admit—out loud, properly—that you never wanted to leave in the first place.”
She slid back inside you in one smooth stroke. You broke on the first thrust. And she smiled—slow, satisfied, victorious—as she began again. Joan didn’t rush. She kept the same slow, punishing rhythm—deep enough to stretch, shallow enough to tease, every withdrawal deliberate so you could feel the humiliating drag of her leaving you empty again and again. Your wrists strained against the cuffs; the sheepskin lining did nothing to muffle the soft, pathetic clinks when you pulled.
She watched your face the whole time. Not with anger. With clinical satisfaction. Like a researcher documenting the exact moment a subject broke. “You’re dripping onto my sheets,” she said, voice low and conversational. “Look at the mess you’re making. Months of pretending you’re independent, and one night back under me and you’re already leaking like a desperate little slut who can’t control herself.”
The words hit low in your belly—hot, shameful, twisting with the slow grind of her hips. You tried to turn your head away. She caught your jaw again, fingers digging just enough to force your eyes back to hers. “No,” she said softly. “You don’t get to hide from this. You don’t get to pretend you’re above it. Say it.” Your lips trembled. “I—I’m not—”
She stopped moving entirely. The sudden stillness was worse than the motion. Your body clenched around nothing, aching, betraying you with another slow trickle of wetness that slid down between your cheeks. Joan tilted her head, smile thin and cruel. “Say. It.” You swallowed. Tears slipped sideways into your hair.
“I’m… leaking.” “Louder. And be specific.” “I’m leaking for you,” you whispered. Voice cracked. Barely audible. She rewarded you with one hard, punishing thrust—deep enough that your breath punched out in a sob. “Pathetic,” she murmured, almost fondly. “You ran halfway across the city, changed your number, told your sad little friends how ‘suffocated’ you were. And yet here you are—cuffed to my bed, cunt soaked, begging with your body even when your mouth tries to lie.”
She pulled out completely. The emptiness was immediate and devastating. You whimpered—couldn’t stop it—hips lifting instinctively, searching. Joan laughed. Quiet. Cutting.
“Look at that.” She spread you open with both hands, thumbs pulling your folds apart so wide the cool air hit your swollen clit like a slap. “Look how your greedy little hole twitches when I take myself away. Like it’s crying for me. You really are nothing but a needy fucktoy who got too full of herself.”
She dipped two fingers inside you—just the tips—then withdrew them glistening. Held them up so you could see the strings of arousal stretching between them.
“Open your mouth.” You shook your head once—small, futile.
Joan’s expression didn’t change. She simply leaned forward, pinched your nipple between her free thumb and forefinger, and twisted—slow, unrelenting—until pain bloomed sharp and bright.
Your mouth fell open on a gasp.
She pushed her slick fingers past your lips.
“Suck.”
You did. Couldn’t not. The taste of yourself—salty, musky, mixed with the faint trace of her—was overwhelming. Humiliating. Your cheeks burned hotter than they ever had.
“Good slut,” she purred, pumping her fingers slowly in and out of your mouth. “Clean up your mess. That’s all this mouth is good for when it isn’t begging to be used.”
She withdrew her fingers with a wet pop, wiped them carelessly across your cheek, leaving a shining streak.
Then she lined herself up again and sank back inside in one brutal stroke.
You cried out—muffled against your own bitten lip.
Joan set a rhythm now. Not gentle. Not cruel in the way that left marks. Just relentless. Each thrust punctuated with another soft, devastating word.
“Worthless little runaway.”
Thrust.
“Thought you could live without this cock owning you.”
Thrust.
“Thought anyone else could make you this wet, this stupid, this broken.”
Thrust.
“Look at you. Crying. Dripping. Clenching like a whore who’s finally back where she belongs.”
Your sobs came harder—ugly, ragged. Shame and need twisting so tightly you couldn’t tell them apart anymore.
She leaned down until her mouth was at your ear, voice dropping to a whisper that felt louder than any shout.
“You’re not a person when you’re with me. You’re mine. A wet, trembling hole that exists to take what I give it. And you love it. You hate that you love it. But you do.”
She ground deep, circling her hips so the base of her pressed hard against your clit.
“Come,” she ordered. “Come while I tell you exactly what a pathetic, cock-hungry slut you are. Come knowing you’ll never leave this bed again without my permission. Come knowing every time you try to pretend you’re free, I’ll drag you back, strip you bare, and fuck the delusion out of you until the only thing you can say is my name.”
The orgasm hit like violence.
You shattered—back arching, wrists yanking the cuffs taut, voice breaking on a wail that echoed off the walls. Your body clenched around her so hard she hissed, but she didn’t stop. Kept fucking you through it—slow, deep, merciless—drawing it out until you were shaking, oversensitive, tears streaming.
When the aftershocks finally ebbed, she stayed inside you. Still. Full. Unmoving.
She brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead with surprising gentleness.
Then she smiled—small, satisfied, victorious.
“Say thank you.”
Your voice was hoarse. Barely there.
“Thank you… Joan.”
She kissed your temple once—soft, almost loving.
“That’s my good little whore.”
She began to move again.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Nowhere near finished.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Joan pulled out slowly, letting the slick length of the strap drag against every sensitive inch until you were clenching around nothing again. The sudden emptiness made your hips twitch, a small, involuntary lift that drew another low, mocking laugh from her throat.
“Still hungry,” she observed, voice dripping with contempt. “Even after all that, your greedy little body can’t stop begging.”
She reached down, gripped your hips with both hands, and flipped you in one smooth, effortless motion. Your bound wrists twisted above your head; the chain rattled sharply against the headboard as your face pressed into the pillow. She didn’t give you time to adjust. One knee nudged your thighs wider apart, spreading you open on your stomach, ass raised just enough for what came next.
You felt the cool air hit the wet mess between your legs first—then the humiliating drip of your own arousal sliding down the insides of your thighs. Joan noticed. Of course she did.
“Look at that,” she said softly, almost reverent. “You’re so soaked you’re making a puddle on my sheets. All from being called what you are: a pathetic, cock-addicted slut who can’t even pretend to have dignity anymore.”
She ran one palm down the length of your spine—slow, proprietary—until it settled at the small of your back, pressing you down harder into the mattress. Your cheek mashed against the pillow; you could smell sex and her perfume and the faint salt of your own tears.
Joan shifted behind you. You heard the soft click of a bottle cap—lube, cold and generous—then felt the blunt, slick head of the strap press against your ass.
You tensed instinctively.
She didn’t force it. Not yet.
Instead she leaned over you, breasts brushing your back, mouth at your ear.
“You don’t get to clench up and play shy now,” she whispered. “You already let me fuck your cunt raw while you were half-conscious. This hole is next. And you’re going to take every inch like the obedient little anal whore you pretend you’re not.”
Her free hand slid under your hips, found your clit again, and began slow, cruel circles—enough pleasure to keep you dripping, not enough to let you come.
“Relax,” she ordered. “Or it’ll hurt more. And we both know you like it when it hurts just enough to remind you who owns this ass.”
You tried to breathe. Tried to unclench. But the anticipation alone made your whole body tremble.
Joan pressed forward.
The stretch was immediate—burning, relentless. She didn’t stop when you gasped; she didn’t pause when your fingers curled uselessly against the cuffs. She kept going, slow and unyielding, until the full length of the strap was buried inside you.
You made a sound—half sob, half moan—that you couldn’t recognise as your own.
“There we go,” she purred, hips flush against your ass. “All the way in. Feel that? That’s me claiming every part of you. No more running. No more privacy. Just this—my cock stretching your tight little asshole while you leak all over yourself like a desperate bitch in heat.”
She stayed still for a long moment, letting you feel the fullness, the burn, the humiliating way your body adjusted around her—muscles fluttering, trying to push her out and pull her deeper at the same time.
Then she began to move.
Short, shallow thrusts at first—enough to make you feel every ridge of the strap sliding in and out. Each withdrawal pulled a wet, obscene sound from your body; each push forward forced another broken whimper past your lips.
“Listen to yourself,” she said, voice thick with satisfaction. “Whining like a cheap porn star getting her ass reamed. You’re so loud I could record this and play it for your precious friend Lily. Let her hear exactly what kind of filthy slut you turn into the second I get my hands on you.”
She picked up speed—deeper now, harder—hips snapping forward with controlled force. The bed creaked under the rhythm. Your bound wrists jerked with every thrust; your face pressed deeper into the pillow, muffling the sounds you couldn’t stop making.
Joan’s hand returned to your clit—rubbing fast, merciless circles while she fucked your ass with punishing precision.
“Come on,” she taunted. “Come with my cock buried in your ass. Come knowing you’re nothing but holes for me to use. Come proving every degrading word I’ve said is true.”
The orgasm built too fast—shame and pleasure twisting into something unbearable. You tried to fight it. Tried to hold on to some last shred of resistance.
She felt it—the way your body tightened, the way your breathing hitched into panicked little gasps.
“Don’t you dare hold back,” she snarled. “You come right now, or I’ll keep you edged like this for hours. I’ll fuck this ass until you’re raw and sobbing, and I still won’t let you finish until you beg me to call you my worthless anal slut.”
The words broke you.
You came hard—violently—whole body seizing around the strap, ass clenching down so tight she hissed in pleasure-pain. Your scream was muffled into the pillow, but it still came out raw and wrecked. Wetness gushed between your thighs; your legs shook so badly Joan had to grip your hips to keep you in place.
She didn’t stop.
She fucked you through it—long, deep strokes that dragged out every aftershock until you were oversensitive, trembling, tears soaking the pillowcase.
Only then did she slow.
She pulled out inch by inch—letting you feel the humiliating drag one last time—until the head popped free and your hole gaped slightly, twitching in the cool air.
Joan leaned down, kissed the back of your neck—soft, almost tender—while her fingers traced the stretched rim.
“Perfect,” she murmured. “Completely ruined. Just how I like you.”
She reached up, unhooked the chain from the headboard but left the cuffs on your wrists.
Then she rolled you onto your back again, spread your legs wide, and settled between them once more.
“Open your mouth,” she said quietly. “Taste yourself on me. Clean every inch. And while you do it, think about how grateful you should be that I bothered to drag your pathetic ass back where it belongs.”
She wasn’t finished.
Not even close.
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Part 2 will be up soon x
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Oh to be a princess held captive by a villainess / witch… I just want to be her pretty little servant…
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Another chapter of Captive Nolan and Ivan.
Still not sure that to call this ship after nearly two years of writing about them lol.
Ivan’s Dog - Chapter 1 - x3no9 - Call of Duty (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]
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The Captive (2025) | Movie | Movies Dock
🎬 Title: The Captive / El cautivo
The genius behind Don Quixote has a remarkable, yet untold, story of his own.
Story: In the year 1575, young soldier Miguel de Cervantes finds himself captured by Barbary pirates while at sea and is taken to Algiers as a hostage. As he faces the grim prospect of death if his ransom isn’t paid quickly, he immerses himself in his love of storytelling as a means of…
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restrained - FlightSporadic - Iron Man (Movies) [Archive of Our Own]
Summary:
For Whumpuary 2026 - Day 19: seeing double | shivering | restrained + alt: gagged
The bindings on Stephen’s wrists and hands left no possible room for movement that he could use to initiate a spell.
Fandom: MCU
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can i become a better storyteller
i am so enthralled by this story I am reading at this moment. i dont want to end it
a moment in time to piece together and to tell. i want to go off the cuff and capture this moment exactly… the emotions for myself and for the screen.