❤︎ 𝙰𝙽𝙽𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙲𝙴𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃: 𝙶𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝙶𝚎𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗! 𝙶𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 "7.5𝚔 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢" 𝚙𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘 <3

❤︎ 1,599 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜, 6.5 𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎

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On the colour wheel, red and green never sit by each other. A colour wheel is called a wheel not because it moves anywhere, but only because it's round. Things are not always how it seems. The wheel doesn't go forward; it stays and stays flat. A faux wheel with a wannabe axis. An axis from which nothing radiates. Slices of colour form spokes between them. Spokes connecting to the axis. Spokes to axis. Spokes then axe. They spoke. They spoke and an axe fell between them. They spoke between themselves but across the axis, red and green. Red and green never sit by each other, their points only touching. Red is his favourite colour.

I know that just now because red is on me. Red is growing on me. He is planting red on me. Red stems encircle me. I am a stalk of flowers infested by a foreign body. Red vines bite into me. Bloody tentacles suctioning my body. Parasitic ropes syphoning off my life. Deep wine ropes in Geto's hands.

"What are you thinking about?" He asks, softly.

What does one think about when they are knelt on the floor, slowly bound in red ropes? Wheels, vines, tentacles. But I don't speak. I don't give him the luxury of a broken silence.

He folded the thick rope in half, then brought one end of the rope above my chest while looping the other to the small of my back, forming a slipknot around my torso.

Now, the rope crisscrosses between my breasts and then folds itself on my tender back. The rope hugs itself onto my bare skin, just enough so I breathe watchfully. My breasts are heavy, swollen, and bountiful. I am his bounty, his reaping from the lives he took. My lower body is scantily clad in a piece of lingerie, marble-black and laced. He also put me in a pair of webbed stockings held up by a garter belt. How old-fashioned.

His movements are tender, slow, and repentant. What better way to apologize to someone than by binding her up? When you've accidentally hurt your pet, you can say "It hurt my feelings first" and then buy it a nice toy afterwards, whether it likes it or not.

Geto lifts another rope and attaches it to the rope cage constricting around me. He winds it upwards: two braids, each running, vertically, through one of my clavicles. Braids made from jute, little doll pigtails growing from his hands.

When he's finished, I look down at myself. I am secured in a shiabari-style chest harness. It is shaped like a brassière with straps over my shoulders and towards my upper back. The body of the harness consists of a maze of ropes entangling my bosom and ribs.

He pulls me up to my feet and takes me in, his new toy. He cups my cheeks and kisses me darkly on my chapped lips.

Geto unzips a tight, ankle-length black skirt and moves my legs into it, encasing me. He then produces a billowy, white button-up shirt and encloses my arms with its sleeves. He closes up the shirt and smiles smugly at the cropped shirt, just sitting on my belly button. The harness is invisible now; visible only to me and him. He bejewels me with dazzling, dangling earrings and a thin golden necklace with a minute "G.S." pendant that matches the one on my collar. He also fixes my legs into peep-toe high heels. My toe tips peep through the shoes; the shoes look like fish with their mouths open, devouring my toes.

He lets me sit in front of my dresser to put on makeup as he changes behind me. Strange. He has his walk-in closet in his room yet brought his clothes to my room to change. From my mirror, I watch him take off his top, un-hiding winding scars on his back. I watch him slip into an emerald-green silk shirt. I frame my eyes with dark strokes that sweep upwards to my temple. He meets my eyes in the mirror, tucking his shirt into his dress pants.

We don't say a word in the car. There's no chauffeur this time, only him and me. At the intersection before reaching the gala, he places a palm on my thigh and leans in to kiss me on my forehead. "You're gorgeous," he whispers. But I only wrap myself tighter in my jacket as I glance out at the yellow traffic light turning red outside.

The gala is held at a botanical garden in one of the suburbs. Floral archways greet us at the entrance. Archways decorated with dead plant parts, I think to myself. My mouth stays in a flaccid flatline as I relinquish my dinner jacket at the coat check. I had said I wished it'd stay on but he smiled a gentlemanly smile and took it off from me anyway. Now, in the slight late-summer chill, I feel almost naked as my rope-bound breasts pressed into the rose-scented air around me. I sense everyone staring at me, peeking at my restrained body underneath my shirt. However, deep down, I know that the staring stems less from my meagre bosoms and more so from the fact that I arrived at the gala with the famous, or infamous, Geto Suguru. My play, my work will now forever be tied to the cultist philanthropist next to me, who's holding my hand tightly and beaming his diplomatic beam.

I may as well be completely nude, paraded around on a dog leash.

He picks up a glass of champagne and passes it to me. He doesn't ask what my preferred drink was (I would've chosen one of those sparkling pomegranate juices) because he's already decided what's best for me. I take the alcohol like I did the beer at that welcome party in high school.

He talks to people and I mostly listen. They all ask how come we are at the gala together and he grins and replies falsely that we were high school sweethearts who only reconnected recently. His heart was sweet but then it got eaten by worms, I don't say out loud.

We greet waves of people and all the while, he never loosens his grip: middle-aged men with protruding bellies gawking at my nyloned thighs, lean women with bleached hair using every chance to touch him, my fellow artists who try their best to hide their jealousy at my walking cheque next to me. I think of some old-timey shojo manga, or is it some Jane Austen, where this would be my finale–I've made it, I'm now owned by a rich and handsome man. But I don't feel like a happy ending, I feel like a cheap toy.

I finally catch Wes and Sunny beyond the crowd. I tiptoe and wave at them. They both wave back but Wes casts a dubious glance at my plus-one.

I pat him on his shoulder lightly. "What is it, dear?" Oh god, now he calls me dear.

"I want to say hello to Wes and Sunny, Suguru."

I knew he would raise his brows hearing me call him by his name. And so he does.

"Wes and Sunny are the producer-director duo that's behind this theatre and behind my play! If there's a chance later, I will introduce you," I smile at the elderly couple in front of him. I don't know who they are but they must be rich.

He doesn't say a word to me, only grins and lets go of my hand.

"What a good girl your girlfriend is, Mr. Geto!" I hear them comment but only suppress a retch.

I run towards Wes and Sunny. I want to tell them everything, that I am being held as a pet to save my brother, that I was dressed up as a doll by Geto, that I...that I wronged him in high school and this is my payback...

"Wes! Sunny!!!" I hug them with all my might.

But before they can return my hug, I jump back. I can't let them feel the ropes on my body, not with...

"Good to see you again, y/n." Such a beautiful voice they have... "I adore your outfit tonight."

I shake Lexie's hand. "You as well, Lexie. With you in my play, I'm the luckiest playwright in the world."

Their hand is so well moisturized yet strong. I look at Lexie, their braided red hair, and their silk suit. I sense Wes looking at me and I know he must be worried sick about me. "I will talk to you later, okay?" He squeezes my hand as duty calls him and he has no choice but to mingle with his patrons.

"Jeez, I didn't know there'd be so many people here tonight..." Lexie sighs.

"I know, right? It's suffocating."

"Do you want to go somewhere else?"

And so, I find myself at the very back of the park, sitting on a bench with this fairy of an actor. I look back at the bokeh of lights behind us and I attempt to sigh out the discomfort brought forth on me by my rope cage.

They sit within an almost unceremonious closeness to me but I find I do not dislike it. I smell the flowery perfume on them and I remember Shoko. Shoko never smelled like flowers but of laundry detergent and later on, cigarettes. But she was my only girl-friend. One of my only friends–one of my only friends still living. I look down at the grass and suddenly think about the day Haibara died.

I feel the great urge to weep into something. Something warm, anything. Anything but my master.

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Author's note!

lmao im still trying to figure out this whole giveaway thing as i go so thank you for ur patience and thank you for the people who's already joined!

btw, after much much thought, i have decided to switch to a bi-weekly update schedule :( last week, i worked for 50 hours on a film set in 4 days and that really made me realize i need to take things much easier.

so thank you for sticking around and for chatting with me in the comments! i know i have been replying much later these days but know that i will always get to them :))

take care and b safe
ikari din
oct 4