#''lol''

“FUCK YOU!!!!!”

someone actually recced Check Please! to me in 2016 when I was in the middle of defending myself from The Foxhole Court recs coming from all sides, and, MUCH TO EVERYONE’S SURPRISE, in a moment of weakness I read the whole thing.

I probably won’t catch up because I would have to read it all from the start as I erased it from my memory to make room for things that weren’t sport, BUT currently googling ‘flyers players mic’d up’ and ‘sebastian aho how tall’ and going to one (1) EIHL game a week isn’t sufficiently feeding my hyperfixation so IF ANYONE HAS ANY RECS OF HOCKEY THINGS TO READ/WATCH/LISTEN TO I WOULD PROBS DO IT 

Most other hollows kept well away from him upon sensing that heavy reiatsu anyway, so thick it was with despair. None would ever come close.  And if they tried, the sheer density of that despair would make quick work of them – in one sense or another.

Even upon first becoming an Arrancar, he was alone. He holed himself up in his prison of crystal, content to stay in that isolation until the end of days, hoping to lose himself in its cold embrace, to finally wither away into the nothingness he so desperately craved.

Rumor spread that the giant mass of crystal branches he attempted to die in was a cursed place, unsafe for any hollow to approach no matter how brazen. 

“ is it, then? “ 

and what was one mere shadow when faced with an abyss? jericho swain had peered into the darkness of the void, yes. but even it paled in comparison with the darkness that lurked within the heart of mankind. he had seen it at its darkest points, and walked in its shadow.

“ your time in ionia has dulled you then, i see. a noxian does not boast or threaten; he takes action.” 

the boy fancied himself an ionian, perhaps to dull whatever sense of compassion he had for a broken people. indeed, even the grand general could admit that compassion and mercy were attractive subjects, the people loved them so—they did have a nice ring to them. 

however. it was mercy that the grand general lacked.

a hand gently swept the dust from his coat, a single eye remained fixated upon his little visitor. 

“do not tell me you have forgotten that.”

Ah yes, the stories of righteous anger. The fire that will burn the unjust and the evil, vanquished. But blood is still blood, no wrath is righteous. Only bloody.  And indeed, no matter how much one coated wrath with flowers, it still remained vile and acidic.

Swain muses upon this, his long, clawed fingers carve small trails upon the throne. The air grew denser, and thick with magic.. His own anger lingers, much like an omen.