「 物 の 哀 れ mono no aware 」

⠀ ⠀ ⠀𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐎 𝐍𝐎 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐄 — 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 .

⠀ ⠀ ⠀KETSUMYŌ.⠀a roleplay blog for KURAGANE TSUBAKI , an original ⠀ ⠀ ⠀shinigami to tite kubo’s BLEACH . by miru. 30+. she/her .

⠀ ⠀ ⠀学. 「 CARRD 」 「 RULES 」 「 PROMO 」 ᴍᴜɴ ᴀʀᴛ ᴠɪsᴀɢᴇ ᴍᴜsɪɴɢs

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ind. private. selective. pressure-free environment just here to vibe. ⠀ ⠀ ⠀crossover & oc friendly. currently LOW activity.

trigger warning. blood, physiological & medical content, violence, sexual themes, alcohol & tobacco use.

⸻ pinned art by me & kenichi on skeb.jp

“then, we leave it for three minutes.” 

as the tea rested, she returned the kettle to the hearth. the embers were reduced to a kindly, smouldering light now.

“I know it must seem like such a rigmarole,” her half-smile was given to reassure rather than amuse, “but I use it as an opportunity to slow down. breathe a little.”

she brought her gaze to @hollownekomata—a near maternal scrutiny which, in the quiet of the teahouse, tried to read the heart. hollow or not. one was there.

“you've had a good deal to learn recently, I've no doubt. I thought something quiet like this might do you good today.”

and I am getting back to work on Tsubaki's new reference art YIPPIE. it's been fighting me at every hurdle but her face finally looks how I see it in my head

“I play Go myself—once turned poetry into a game, too.” she adds, amusement softening the corner of her lips. a fond thought.

“there were no stakes, of course. it was simply for the pleasure of it.”

“what will you do now?” she asks @rueain. her question is earnest; not curiosity for curiosity's sake.

another prime minister will merely take their place; the cycle is doomed to repeat.

unprompted // always accepting

血妙 | " hello . . . " she began. it was perfectly pleasant, save for the undercurrent of uncertainty.

she refers to her notes: gambling addiction.

' oh boy ' is the first thing that springs to mind. she may know this rodeo, but it doesn't make the ride any easier . . .

unprompted // always accepting

血妙 | “ it . . . has been a while, hasn’t it ? ” she tested the strength of her voice; it was a frail, tremulous thing, catching on strained chords. 

“ I’m sorry . . . ” how easily she could have surrendered to the corrosiveness of guilt. it begged her—sat in her chest like an acrid, leadened weight that had, for months uncounted, whispered torturously of her dereliction. 

but such was not her way.

her fingers sought the hollows between his, weaving through the interstices until, interlaced, her palm rested upon weathered knuckles. she held him as he held her, anchoring against his warmth, and vowed:

“ but know this: I am never truly gone. a thread of fate connects us now. though the vastness of this world may conspire to part us, I will always follow it back to you . . . ”