#you just wrote such a beautiful piece of writing and everythign i tried to reply with held the wrong tone and used the wrong words and then

[jaegersol]

@lewdestconcubine || Continued from here

He knows exactly who the Sexta means when he says him.

The rage that flows through him for just a moment, collideing with sadness from an empty place. No matter how many time he's convinced that he's healed, that he doesn't care that his broken box of bugs is long gone, it comes back.  It's searing, like a hot knife, melting that façade that he keeps rock solid in front of anyone else.  Anyone but this man before him.  This person who he'll always blame.

"Do you?" he asks.  There's venom on his tongue that hides something soft, complex.

His voice goes low, soft.

"When he went with you, that was the first time we'd been separated in our entire lives.  This one, our life before, all of them.  After all, for most of my development, we were one being."

His brow furrows.

"I wanted to be okay with that.  I wanted more than anything, you know."

Golden eyes regard the man before him.  He's perfect as he is.  An avatar of destruction, hollowness reaching its pinnacle, matching his purpose, his name, just as well as Szayel does.  Grimmjow is both what he despises and something he admires.  He doesn't blame Yylfordt for taking this path.  Maybe if he'd been born a different way, in a different world, without his other half...he'd have done the same thing upon meeting this man.

But that's not the reality he was born into.  

"Yes."  He says.  

Navigating his emotions is perilous at the best of times...and these are among the stormiest thoughts surrounding the sharpest rocks.  He's shaking at the edges.  

"Like an amputation.  Like a closed door.  Like a lobotomy."

He holds firm.

"And yes.  I will always blame you.”

Grimmjow has never pretended to be a good person. He’s not delusional. Nor, under standard circumstances, is he a liar. He lacks both the emotional awareness and the interest to perfect such a useless skill in a world ruled by violence and power. People like Szayelaporro and Aizen? Their sort exist under the misguided belief that lies and knowledge and information confer some sort of power. Occasionally, Grimmjow can even be tempted to entertain their perspective. Up until it’s a lack of raw physicality that deposits a corpse at his feet or between his jaws.

“Would you care if I did?”

Grimmjow doesn’t say he does. He never cried, he never mourned - why would he? Bigger shit was going on. It wasn’t his fault that Yyfordt was a weakling piece of shit. It wasn’t his fault that the idiot lost all his intellect to Szayelaporro and was left with nothing but the ability to get killed by a shitty shinigami. Grimmjow had taught him better. They’d all been taught better. How to fight, how to pick their battles, how to chose their prey, how to divide a pack and slaughter the weakest links, how to sow discord and fear.

Grimmjow listens quietly. It sounds like some sort of confession, but Grimmjow already knew all of this. His pack had no secrets from him. He was their king, and they conferred more than just their hunger upon him. Grimmjow is privy, most likely, to more details that Szayel would expect. Or prefer.

He wants to say ‘why would you care.’ The angry, vitriolic thing inside of him wants to hiss or roar, wants to gouge bloody crimson ribbons from Szayelaporro’s flesh, wants to yell ‘you did this to him! You cast him out first! If he stayed with you, he’d still be here!’ But Grimmjow is as possessive as he is violent, and if Szayelaporro kept him, then Grimmjow would have never had him at all. And he’d never allow that. Yylfort is his.

Part of him still lives on inside the blastzone of his soul.  

“Good.” He says instead, and means it. Good. Miss him, blame me, hate me. “Means you’ll be forced to remember him.”