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A Day Without Melodies.

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that aizen would apologize for the intrusion causes a smile to dance upon her lips. “ i couldn’t imagine a time that you would cause me trouble, aizen-sama. “ gravel crunches underneath her feet. despite her earnest confession her posture never falters, as if sat upon a throne with heavy, royal decor pinned to her hair. as they pass over the steps and into the washitsu, slipping out of her sandals and slippers like she would a glass heel with all the grace of the same kind of princess that would toe off her glass slipper at midnight.

(goodness knows she isn’t the same though; despite her air of elegance the power behind the fluid movements could cause blood to freeze and curdle. she would not have allowed something as simple as a measly elderly stepmother and two unrelated sisters to have held her down--she would have crushed their throats and sipped the blood. she would have poisoned the rats. despite the lush scenery there are zero insects to disturb them. a uniting, yet personal utopia.)

the low table is already set, neat as a display. the steam from the water curls in the air--dancing, even--in thin wisps. kyouka’s vision has touched every centimeter of the atmosphere. the door to the patio is to allow a view of the rear garden, monet-esque and green, but the image of the steep, sharp hills and low trees, the thick forests clustering at the bases in the background balances the almost too brilliant colors cutting bright across the landscape. against this vivid palette she stands, pale faced and dark haired, always the focus of the portrait, like a well timed photograph.

“ it’s a blessing to live in a world so beautiful. i find spring to be most pleasant, so that the plum blossoms will have survived well. “ and it seems so, what with aizen’s compliments towards the appearance, and she can’t help but pull her fan to her face a little bit more, pleased with herself. “ come to think of it, aizen-sama’s date of birth is also in spring. how lovely. “ not one to wax lyrical for longer than necessary, she gestures for aizen to sit upon the cushion, and when he does the jacket spread across the tatami and she can’t help but muse on how similar the two of them are--a zanpakuto named for flora and illusions, the wielder able to cast infinite mirrors reflecting millions of expressions from beauty to evil.

slipping her fan into her obi, kyouka does not sit but instead handles the tools, careful in pouring the hot water. the condensation makes her nails shine. taking the whisk between her fingers, she gestures to a small set of , “ today i have matcha, jasmine, and genmai. jasmine is good for this time of year. “

“ though should you want something else, the rest is prepared to brew as well. “

THE WORLD IS BUT A PAINTING; seemingly unreal for nothing taints the sweetness of the scene. as if he’s crafted it with his own hands. it’s tasteful and serene with that echo of calmness that he exerts in both manner and speech. when he enters, he feels her reiatsu and embraces it, for it is the only kind that mirrors his own and is the only kind to make him feel entwined with that of another being. so foreign is the feeling even after years of communication, years of tea and chatter and years of eyes rolling across her visage to better understand her soul. but he does not treat her like a thing. 

she is a woman of grace, a swan upon the lake and both reflections are equally as beautiful. he respects them both.

“ kyouka. ” he greets her his head bowing back as though meeting with an old friend. she is, in many ways, just that. “ that sounds quite suitable, thank you. ” his thanks come not without a smile, one of honest proportions or at least as true as they can be for sousuke aizen. " not at all. and i’ve noticed. it’s quite lovely. “ compliments spill like wine from the lips of a bottle and he meets with her before his steps cease. ” i apologise for dropping by so suddenly. “ he remarks, as if he walks the world of the living and happened upon a neighbour by necessity. but he was aware she would know of his coming. she, perhaps the only living creature to know what it was that dwelt within his chest. what it was that drew him in.

they walk, not one before the other but side by side as equals towards the setting she had built, something familiar and comfortable for them both to enjoy. for that, he is grateful. he takes a seat, legs bent neatly whilst the white of his clothes fan behind him as though he sits upon a cloud of porcelain. 

” you’ve set the quite the mood, i might add. you have done wonders with your garden. “ he speaks as though merely noting the blossom of a new flower, perhaps the addition of a new carp, but instead he muses to her behind the veil of the power which she breathes. thank you, in not so many words, for your assistance. without this power i may not have succeeded.

for without her, what is he but an opaque glass? a one-sided sheet that one may look outwardly through but cannot share that same vision with those upon the other side. with her, he is but window and with her power that window can be opened. his eyes, some constantly curious pair, watch her gently beneath dark lashes, watch as she maintains the image of someone gentle, something breakable. for he knows that she is not. just as she knows that he is never kind without intent.

except in this world, where petals never brown. where rain never breeds mud. where cracks do not appear.

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Kink survey: bold your kinks, cross out turn offs

decaytouch:

Hands. Fingers. Prominent bones. Eye contact. Hair. Being loud. Being quiet. Wings. Glasses. Lingerie. Horns. Body modification. Piercings. Tattoos. Stilettos. Bloodplay. Bondage. Stubble. Biting. Anal play. Double penetration. Knifeplay. Urine. Scratching. Feet. Leaving clothes on. Boots. Vomit. Licking.Begging. Cuddling. Crossdressing. Bruises. Make up. Pubic hair. Foreign languages. Feminization. Scars. Leather. Accents. Braces. Roleplay. Daddy/master/etc. Slapping/spanking. Tentacles. Non-human species (merfolk, centaurs etc). Defecation. Pegging. Sex toys. Fingering. Tying up. Prolonged waiting. Car sex. Intelligence. Being in public. A specific eye color. Watching. Crying. Hipbones.

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Kagerô-za, Seijun Suzuki (1981)

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Lotus pond at Hōkongōin, by Prado

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Usugumo-tayû entering Jôshô Temple during the Yoshino-tayû Memorial Service

(more photos and videos of this event @sherry_y_official on Instagram)

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いろはにほへと Even the blossoming flowers ちりぬるを Will eventually scatter わかよたれそ Who in our world つねならむ Is unchanging? うゐのおくやま The deep mountains of vanity けふこえて We cross them today あさきゆめみし And we shall not see superficial dreams ゑひもせす Nor be deluded.

Iroha

(Japanese poem, probably written in the Heian era,  containing each character of the Japanese syllabary exactly once.)

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stand to face me beloved and open out the grace of your eyes

Sappho, If Not, Winter (tr. by Anne Carson)

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I think manipulation is the greatest art of them all

(via mecixan)

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Dennis Stock (1928-2010)

A geisha’s life - Japan - 1956

Source : Magnum photos

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REBLOG IF YOU WANT ANONS

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the smell of blood and adrenaline, copper and sweat, it stings her nose; behind her fan she wrinkled it and subtly waved it off despite the mere stirring of the stagnant air that it causes. omniscient and in tune, she could feel pantera’s growl vibrating, the energy coming in small waves of warning up her spine--it tickled her, such a reaction; pantera had the teeth and claws already shining and unsheathed, but kyouka had the ease and the mind.

what, or who, would be the prey today?

“ a gnat, “ she mused aloud. “ oh, that’s no fun at all... “ putting on a delicate pout, she flipped the sleeve of her furisode--clean, much unlike the blotted stains on grimmjow’s own jacket--and crossed her arm across her stomach, taking on an air of nonchalance. were it not for her height and and heavily drawn features it would have been an uncanny stance reminiscent of her master.

“ ... because bugs are disgusting. “ kyouka snaps her fan shut in a flash of red fingernails and jade paper. “ i myself am glad you squashed it. sometimes they need to be reminded of their place in the garden, don’t they kitty-kun? “ as if dangling bait on a string. “ i hope your feline friend isn’t still too restless from batting around the little thing, she seems a bit uneasy. “

          Pantera growls quietly in the back of his consciousness; she is infinitely more aware of her own kind than he, an alert to their false god’s blade only a split moment before he himself feels her approach– their senses are still those of a predator, after all, regardless of the form they have attained. Her claws knead the sand of his mindscape, great muscles shifting with Her weight as She watches through his eyes.

          He wonders why he has to deal with Aizen’s zanpakuto; if luck despises him, if he’s fated to always have these annoyances testing him. Dealing with Her is already enough; if She had a physical form he would probably strangle Pantera himself, the nag that she was– having to be subjected to yet another headache only continues to grate at his rather thin nerves.

          Kyouka isn’t exactly wrong– there are remnants of blackened blood on the sleeve of his jacket, leftovers of an unfortunate subordinate that had believed themselves powerful. 

          The blood from his maw, at least, had been wiped away.

          ❝ Just a gnat, is all. ❞

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The tea ceremony/お点前(着物で集う園遊会）-10 by nobuflickr on Flickr.

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