Everyday I Want To Rip Out My Hair Because I’m Not Waking Up In This Bed With This View

it is what it iss-

“I watch Psycho-Pass for the plot” the plot:

bonus:

42 for Illumi 💕

Prompt: “It’s okay to break.” - “I’m not going to break.”

Kintsugi:  The Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold or similar material, highlighting the cracks instead of disguising them

The bowl is beautiful, there was no denying it. After months of waiting, the finished product fits perfectly in your palms, slivers of gold coating the rim and cracked edges of the fine china glimmering brightly under the dim light of your bedroom, starkly contrasting the porcelain white hue and ornate floral designs. Its’s perfect, so perfect that you can almost forgive yourself for breaking it in the first place. You smile, pressing your lips against it, the coolness spreading across your skin.

It almost makes you wonder if you should show this to your…. “Husband” …..

Smile faltering, you pull the bowl away from your face, and stare at the clock ticking ominously above it. You haven’t seen him in a couple weeks, and none of the butlers would even deign you the slightest answer whenever you pepper them with questions. It’s probable they know as little as you do, however unlikely that situation is.

But you know your place. For all the glamourous marble columns and comforts of plush furniture surrounding you, the fact is that the whole setup was nothing more than an elaborate cage, set to separate you from the outside world and chain you down to whatever your owner desired.

You squash the feeling of resentment piling deep in your throat, unconsciously grasping your hand to prevent it from shaking so hard. There is no use in being angry, no point in submerging yourself in that all-consuming feeling of rage that never surmounted to anything more than additional hurt.

The heavy wooden doors to your room open with a loud swing. The lack of tell-tale padding sounds gives way that this could be none other than Illumi. It shuts with a simple click, and nothing happens.

You stop and turn, wondering why he was just standing there, and nearly drop the bowl. Illumi stands at the door, hollow, unmoving, dark substances pouring from the crevices on his face. It’s blood, you realize with a shock. It dribbles down his face sluggishly, pouring out from the angular cuts that cover his face, haphazardly made and extremely painful to look at. But the dark abyss that are his eyes scare you the most. It’s different. Even more so than usual. It’s strange how emptiness is felt, how everything sucked out of the room until you’re left with nothing but beating hearts and sweaty palms. He stays where he is, your breath catches in your throat, and the familiar creeps of fear and dread crawl over your skin, clambering all over your neck and oozing into your brain, you wonder if you’ll survive the night.

“What happened?” You ask before you can stop yourself.

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