👉👈 angry, potentially violent, confession from mayuri cursing you for "making" him develop feelings for you? There's a few lines of inner dialouge you wrote once where mayuri recieves oral for the first time and he's terrified and livid that someone has seen/made him vulnerable and it lives RENT FREE in my head
sometimes i go back to read that and am like ‘wow i really catered to myself as hard as possible’. here’s me getting back to my excessively self indulgent roots for the man who has his weird fingernails embedded in my fucking brain.
also since i mentioned what thirst i was working on, this isn’t even the mayuri thirst. lka;jsdflkasjdf
ALSO sorry this is not edited. i’ll probably clean it up later on but my time is so limited lately.
Features: very toxic relationship. physical violence (choking). verbally mean man syndrome. mentions of gore. mentions of murder. mentions of mayuri being a creep.
The Forced Hand:
The charm of technology has never outweighed the need for tradition. Why request with an email what he can demand from a shinigami?
Maintaining the Research and Development Department as a true institution by and for the Seireitei requires such commitments. Mayuri, himself, enjoys the confirmation of power.
Usually.
Face paint stark in its fall, Mayuri frowns, focus falling to the organic wheeze inhaling and exhaling air. At the top left of the computer before him, above the screen, a stretched face breaths in hoarse gasps. Frown cutting deeper, he wills himself to be unmoved by the automated ventilation system.
A functioning part of a viable creation should be left to work.
Unwelcome, his mind’s eye summons the lilt of your smile. Left at work, you create with such masterful understanding of what he demands. Every suggestion you bring forward, if not functioning, is viable in its horrible aesthetic or application.
The last had been a glossy coating for zanpakuto, an accelerant that transferred a being into flames before the throat could produce screams. Your smile then, lit by glow of a suffering fool, had quickened his heart as it turned to him.
“Kurotsuchi-sama,” you’d said, eyes glittering as the begging of the subject began. “Imagine a field of this! Hollows gone before the flame burns out.”
He’d imagined the tongue smoothing over your lips being forced to wet his instead.
Before that had been, perhaps, his favorite of your endeavors. An attempt rather than an accomplishment. Hell butterflies unlocked from their limitations of mimicry, able to speak and think and act as true servants. Evolution.
You’d bowed so, so low when reporting your failure at progress, voice dull with emotion he hated to hear.
Softer than he was with anyone, Mayuri had played at focusing on his terminal, one long fingernail pressing against your forehead, “Of course the task of evolution has not been accomplished. Such ego, to think you could do it in less than 100 years. Before me, even. Did this project steal your ability to think?”
“No, Kurotsuchi-sama!”
Rising, you had continued to deny any thoughts of grandeur. But you had not moved away from his finger, which had trailed down your chest and rested at your stomach, your inhales pressing your flesh further against it.
That moment consumed him still. Had you not noticed? Were you toying with him--seducing him? How could you stay, unflinching from his touch, if not because you wanted it?
Mayuri had done something foolish, mouth open as he dared to flick his hand back up, nail applying pressure from your stomach to your nose, which he pressed hardest at, until you backed away.
“Enough,” he’d said in a great sneer, disgusted with the unseemly lust bubbling in his groin. “Continue, under my instruction, while bringing forth new projects each quarter. Your incompetence has been only temporary, yes?”
“Yes,” you’d said, light and smiling. “Thank you, Kurotsuchi-sama.”
“Thank your peers for being lesser if you must thank anyone. And leave me to work. Now.”
You’d left with a bow, a springing step, and his attentions curled tight around you.
Everyday since saw Mayuri dip his hands further in the boiling waters of insanity. Always, one of the various monitors at his terminal was taken by you, the security footage that captured you zoomed in until you filled the screen.
He filled his hand with shameful loads of seed time after time, to your easy smile or the occasional flick of your eyes to the camera. Each time was followed by the burning of the cleaning supplies as well as his hands, which regrew bone, to muscle, to skin. A painful lesson that went unlearned no matter how repeated.
The attention you payed him blew larger in his mind than it sat in reality. Mayuri was cognizant enough to know few in his division would dare back away from his touch, should he dole it out.
But, the projects you nurture broadcast your analytic mind. You must know. You must want him this way. Your smile must be so warm because you’re watching him burn for you.
Yes.
Mayuri has always enjoyed the confirmation of power in-person reports give, until you.
Until his sense of control lay tilted on an axis of explicit lust for you and wondering why refused to relent his torture.
There is weakness leaking in his stomach as you enter with a bow, your eyes crinkled with pleasure at seeing his black and white face painted with pain at your presence.
A sliver of hard plastic the size of a coin is settled in the folds of your intestinal tract, where the large and small are tied loosely to contain it. Someday, he’ll feel a clarity of mind and leave you to broil alive with the poison inside. Or perhaps tear your limbs with the force of the bomb snug between your lungs, your pretty parts arcing like flesh fireworks for his amusement.
Someday fizzles to never when you address him not as captain, but as master, like always, the manila folder tucked in your arms flush against your chest. He finds it so attractive, how your body is tensed toward him, face eager and open, waiting to accept whatever Mayuri gives. He wants to peel the folder and uniform and flesh from you. To burrow between your muscle and bone, unseen by everyone, even you.
Unphased by the strange, prolonged silence, you dive into the newest project proposal after skimming his hand with yours, and Mayuri snaps. Because you’ve done the right thing. The thing he wanted.
And he must act in one way before he gives into the thought of the other act, where you are shoved against the terminal, smile moving against his mouth until he’s able to consume its shape.
“Stop,” he says, breathe coming in a pathetic pant.
You obey, calling his name and Mayuri forces his auditory systems to distort your voice before he can fling himself upon you like a sailor to rock.
But, the ever insistent siren, your fingers trace his hand, and Mayuri can not resist. He takes your neck to hold and his lips crush yours in one long press.
Again, he kisses you. And once more after that. Until his other hand, where one nail is over-long, is tilting your head. Until your lips part for him to chase your tongue, coaxing it to fill his mouth. Until Jizo, hanging over the crotch his tightened hakama, pokes painfully into your body, the yip you release deepening the kiss.
Your hand at his jaw brings the sting of reality to surge through Mayuri’s brain. A frail string of spit connects his lips to yours before it is broken. And so, too, is his tender touch about your neck. Replaced by a rough shake that forces you against the wall, where his hand wrings tighter to keep you from speaking.
“You’ve forced this from me,” he says in a hiss. “You’ve orchestrated every moment.”
Nothing comes from your lips but a wheeze and Mayuri laughs. “You wish to be a functioning part in the creation of my ruin, don’t you? Tell me why you’ve done this to me before I toss you in the maggot’s nest.”
Mayuri shook you with each word, increasingly frustrated at your thumbs stroking the hand that fucking choked you.
One last squeeze was applied before he released you to splutter, the computer left to wheeze alone once more.
“K-Kurotsuchi-sama, I don’t understand,” you say eventually. “I’ve only done what you wanted.”
“What I wanted?” He laughs again, high in his register.
To let you know him as a man of weakness for anything, least of all flesh...Mayuri wants end you before burning himself up and regenerating clean, untouched by you.
He can’t bear to be without you, nor stand to be with you, balanced on an edge of his own design.
Fear turns him to action. Desperately, he tries to force you away. He thinks to choke you again. And he does, squeezing for every part of him that wants to stop, for every part that wants to kiss you while your hands pet at him again.
“You’ve been so calculating and exact,” he says after letting you go, your body falling to the ground, doubling over in desperation for air. “But I’m your better in everything and my vulnerability is only the one--mortality.”
And how mortal he is too, leaving you there so he can run and hide in his room like a little boy, his hands shaking with...something. You could tell everyone. Let anyone know that Mayuri Kurotsuchi kissed you, wants you, perhaps loves you for all the things he punishes you far.
How horrible. How fucking repugnant that only a tranquilizer offers him peace from the looping memory of your lips on his.
Worse, still, your small smile as you pass him in the hallway days after, that stops him enough to be noticed.
“Ah,” you turn, pouncing on the opportunity his pause gives. “Kurotsuchi-sama. I apologize for...mishandling our last meeting. Of course, I’ll reschedule at your convenience.”
Mayuri’s over long fingernail brushed against the fabric of your hakama, his wrist barely moving to accomplish the touch.
“Yes, you will. Do present yourself with more decorum when I see you next. Your manners are becoming inexcusable.”
“Kurtosuchi-sama,” you said in acknowledgement, punctuated by a bow.
Yet, you walked away with your hold on him tight as ever, seemingly pleased to play a game you were always going to win.
He’s standing out in the snow and cold of his timeline. He was in the park, away from everyone. It was late and cold so it was empty.
He growled, punching the tree. And then he punches it again. And again. His hand is cracking, bleeding, getting all scraped up. But he doesn’t care. He’s numb.
Finally, anger takes over. He grabs the tree and smashes his skull against it.
Over and over. His breathing is heavy, and he’s biting back a cry every time.
His skull is breaking, and blood is running down his face.
