A Constant Test
After an uncomfortable and seemingly final "rejection" from your hopeless crush, Kirsh catches you in the elevator after you've been avoiding him. Pairing: Kirsh x Reader Tags: (MDNI🔞) Very suggestive, Kirsh seems a bit mean until you realize he’s not, so much tension, angsty but happy ending with some fluff, unrequited feelings (not actually because he REALLY likes you), intense makeout sesh with a synthetic, inappropriate elevator shenanigans Note: Kirshtober. Help me. He has taken over my life <3 Y’know he has two great elevator related scenes lol. I'm down bad, this is WAY LONGER THAN INTENDED. I was listening to this on repeat while writing! Found this song through this Kirsh playlist, it's really good check it out AO3: drcranefly
“I don’t have time for this.” A sharp, icy stab through your gut kills all those persistent butterflies in a flash freeze. Your smile fades, pure horror taking place as your chest grows painfully tight and you stop mid-attempt to show him something on your tablet you had deemed somewhat amusing while endlessly scrolling. The worst part is, as he remains leaning over the table with forceps in hand, he doesn't even bother to lift his gaze to look at you when he says it.
Then, he adds softer, nonchalantly: "direct your focus elsewhere."
Kirsh is blunt, yes, sometimes a little sharp, yes, but to hear... that?
Doesn't have time. Not even 'I can't reciprocate', which would be bullshit, because you are and always will be a firm believer of autonomy for artificial persons and their ability to develop and maintain relationships. It's a matter of... time. For him. A timeless synthetic. The message, to you, is loud and clear: he doesn’t want to reciprocate.
You are, well and thoroughly, gutted.
Everything about him completely steals your breath away. That voice, low, distinctive, a touch raspy. He's modelled to look like an older man, perhaps in his late fifties. Taller than you. Definitely stronger. The amount of restraint it takes for you not to touch his hair is unfathomable. But what truly captivated you about Kirsh was... Kirsh. Intelligent. Meticulous. Patient but unapologetically sassy, which, the subtle passive-aggressive remarks and glances may just be your favorite part about him—if someone held a gun to your head and told you to choose. Right now, though, there's none of that, though a gun to your head might have felt better than... this. You'd thought there was something between you; you've been working with him for months, he's allowed you this close, he's welcomed you in even when it isn't your shift, he's let you run maintenance on him instead of his usual technician, he's walked with you through the halls enough times for everyone to notice so yes, you had felt special.
Now, you feel stupid. Really, really stupid. Your face is burning and you think he must be aware of how mortified you are but he's not even giving you contemptuous side-eye. The specimen he's dissecting has his full attention. And you? You wish the fucking thing would spring back to life and put you out of your misery. "I..." You cross your arms. Uncross. Then you wilt. "—okay." It's all you can muster at first, really. Since when the fuck did it get this bad? You're still clinging to denial that this is just a silly crush and not something devastating. "Mixed signals. I'll, um..." A pause as you bite back tears, your voice hushing to a whisper. "...see you later, Kirsh."
You're not sure what to do. So you turn and you leave.
He doesn't move to stop you. "See you around," he states flatly to your retreating back, the phrase devoid of any warmth, sounding instead like a simple confirmation of shared workspace proximity.
Afterwards? Prodigy’s wheels keep turning. Things just… continue as usual. But not really. Because Kirsh logs the deviations in your behavioral patterns and over the course of a week, your presence, previously a near-daily occurrence marked by unsolicited assistance and a distracting brightness in your expression, had ceased. Isaac inquired twice about you. Without your support overtime, project timelines suffered minor delays. Statistically insignificant, and yet...
In the lab, when unavoidable, you kept conversation to a minimum. Outside, you keep your gaze down and you quicken your pace when passing him by. He watches you with almost detached curiosity and that stings, because you would rather him just not watch you at all anymore. Your absence, which is ridiculous in the first place, begins to itch. He's never felt an itch before. It's made worse by the fact that he can't scratch it because it's on the inside, and no matter how many times he purges, recalibrates, it refuses to go away.
On the seventh day, opportunity presents itself. He observes you entering the elevator alone. Calculating the timing precisely, he slips inside just as the doors begin to close. The pneumatic hiss seals both of you inside the sterile, mirrored box before you can protest.
"You're avoiding me," he observes, his tone detached, analytical, yet somehow intrusive. He doesn’t face you directly yet, instead watching your reflections in the polished door. His posture is unnervingly still. "And your avoidance strategy isn't working."
Your jaw nearly drops as he blatantly calls you out, still in the process of trying to accept the fact he is standing right next to you. Unbelievable. Dread, frustration and relief washes over you all at the same time because firstly, he’s taken notice of your absence enough to bring it up, but secondly… he’s gone out of his way to corner you in here. You can’t escape the conversation. He’s taken that away from you, and you hate the settling warmth low in your belly. The audacity.
"...and your cornering strategy is bullshit. I clock in and out every single morning and evening without fail. I'm meeting my contracted hours. I'm directing my focus." You try to sound cold, to give him a taste of his own medicine and keep up the mystique, but the edge in your voice is so harsh you nearly flinch at yourself. The anxiety is rolling off you in suffocating waves. "I'm not avoiding you, I'm just... doing other things in my spare time. I don't live in that lab..." You mumble, borderline petulant. "Unlike some.”
He turns his head, steely eyes fixing solely on you. The butterflies instantly come back. A persistent fluttering alongside treacherous pangs of want. For a moment that feels like eternity, he just stares down at you and you can feel the hot flush crawling up the back of your neck, cheeks reddening. "You overreacted. My statement was logical, not…" he pauses, as if searching momentarily for the appropriate term, "...unkind. And," he adds as he shifts deliberately closer, reducing the distance between you, "this is childish. You are not a child, you need to stay focused."
You finally scrape together the courage to glance up at him and your breath catches when you realize just how close he is, which doesn’t help your flustering at all. “F-Focused? Fuck—” You have every intention of telling him where to shove his unsolicited, borderline paternal scolding but when your eyes lock, your defiance dies. You want to be angry at him but... you can't. Uneasily, you realize you just feel... sad.
“I know you’re not being unkind, Kirsh,” you concede quietly. It makes you ache, the barely noticeable tilt of his head as he listens. What was he thinking? Did he know just how beautiful he is? Your eyes briefly betray you and dart down the length of him before settling on his face again. “I completely respect your choice to make whatever decisions you want. Including... not wanting me around. If my presence bothers you."
Shit. It wasn't meant to come out like that. You turn your head forward again as you struggle to articulate yourself beyond that, the click audible when you swallow. You can feel your heart pounding in your throat. "I'll get over it." You attempt to sound a little more lighthearted, though you're fairly certain you sound crushed. The irony isn't lost on you, so you decide to just put this all to rest while you feel like you can, expecting him to acknowledge this with the same indifference and move on. "It's called a crush. I just... really like you."
"Really like me," he echoes and you cringe. The silence is painful and your eyes drift to the elevator buttons, wondering how to make this go quicker. He notices. “I am synthetic, my responses are not yours. My motivations are not yours. You must understand that.” Mixed signals. The steel doors shudder as the elevator halts between floors, lights flickering. Kirsh didn’t press the emergency stop. Probably. His hand rests near the panel, fingers splayed. "Avoidance," he continues, stepping fully into your space now, forcing your spine against the mirrored wall, "won’t help you. Neither does denial." He leans down, white strands of hair catching the fluorescents, until his lips hover a breath from your ear. "I propose an alternative. Exposure therapy. Systematic desensitization."
...huh? "Excuse you?" Is all you can initially squeak out. "If this is your way of trying to get me back into that lab during my free hours—
“—you will be going back into the lab during your free hours.” He interrupts smoothly to correct you and heat pools between your legs because you can tell it isn’t up for debate. One hand presses flat against the wall beside your head, caging you in without touching you. The proximity is completely deliberate. The hitch of your breath fascinates him and it shows all over his face, the subtle squint of his eyes, the hint of parting lips as his simulated breath ghosts over yours. “Direct exposure may accelerate habituation,” he murmurs so softly your knees buckle, “reduce the crush.”
Before you can muster a half-hearted protest, before your mind can catch up with the sheer absurdity of this out of pocket proposition, before you can comprehend just how hard you’re breathing, he closes the final inch of space and your world explodes. Cool, dry lips press against warm moisture, unmoving, assessing, chaste. The simple pressure is too much and not enough at the same time and you gasp too loudly for what it is, fingers glued to the surface behind you. He holds the contact for precisely four seconds before he pulls back to observe you and you suddenly feel like one of the creatures on his dissection table, because he waits for your reaction patiently like a scientist expecting lab results.
Kirsh kissed you.
And now you know there’s absolutely no way you’re ever going to get over him.
"I... I hate you. Insufferable, inconceivable—snarky—you—" You groan, then slap fruitlessly against his chest. "WORSE!" You squeal, before you bury your burning face in your hands. You can’t look at him; this isn’t fair. "That made it SO much worse and I s-should kick your synthetic ass for..."
For kissing me so gently. For treating it like an experiment. For crushing my hope of being with you then throwing me through a fucking loop.
"...for all of this! For... for totally leading me on!” You accuse lamely. “For months! And before you deny it—you let me stay around all the time! You let me cling to you and… and we just… like…." Your voice cracks a little as you find yourself stumped. You didn’t even realize you were crying until you were blinking away the tears. He’s already told you how it is—you don’t know why this is so difficult—
“My statement,” he repeats slowly, talking to you like you’re stupid. You just might be. “Was logical. Your presence is a constant test. That doesn’t mean I don’t want you around.” You’re struggling to understand that ‘logic’, but you open your mouth only to close it again when he shoots you a look that tells you he already knows what you’re going to say. “I was not leading you on.”
“Y-You said you didn’t have time for me—”
“No, not for you. For that.” He gestures with a small tilt of his head down towards the tablet hidden away in your bag. You frown. Same thing, you want to argue. “I didn’t anticipate your melodramatic tendencies spiralling into an episode, which was, by all means, a failure on my part.”
That’s as close to ‘I’m sorry’ you’re ever going to get but the backhanded apology doesn’t hurt, because you’re once again intimately aware of how close both of you are, how the sarcasm slides in, subtle and effortless, and how he is purposefully trying to bait you into a reaction.
Systematic desensitization is total bullshit. And the knowing twitch of the corner of his lip, almost a smirk but not quite yet, makes it clear that he knows you know that, too. That tight ball of dread in your chest gradually unfurls and you nearly bite through your bottom lip as you finally accept that if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t still be in front of you right now, both of you momentarily suspended in time inside the elevator. You sniffle. “...you’re an asshole.”
His brows lift. He gives you a slow blink as he processes that, simulated breath catching for just a moment. He has the gall to take that quiet, assertive tone with you again. “Sensible.” He corrects dryly. He reaches up before you can retort again, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, then your drying tears. You shut up instantly and stare at him in awe, goosebumps erupting everywhere and he barely put a hand on you. “Try it sometime."
Ugh. Despite yourself, you giggle. The sound makes some kind of internal process inside momentarily stutter, his fingers twitching. “There’s absolutely nothing sensible about trapping me in here and kissing me.” You pause, the anticipation buzzing between you with an electric energy that feels downright dangerous. Your voice drops to a whisper that carries a note of fragile hope. “...did you like it?”
Kirsh instantly tilts his head back as he continues to stare down at you, gaze darting down to your lips then back to your eyes. “...further testing is required.”
Liar.
The next kiss makes that obvious. Slow. Deep. Far too human.
“Kirsh!” You part with a giddy gasp of his name, mouth still open against his, the taste of him strangely absent but also unique. “Aren’t you breaking several protocols?”
Yes, he is, but some protocols are routine for weaker synthetics, so he’s not going to address that. He answers by kissing you again and when you moan, when his name leaves your lips like that, the sounds loop inside him like corrupted code, amplifying. His hand snaps up to grip your wrist when you reach out to touch him, pinning it against the wall beside your head. Cool fingers press into your skin, feeling your racing pulse. “Look at you,” he mutters as he now gives you a once over, and you know he sees you clenching your thighs. He presses impossibly closer, the hard plane of his body aligning with yours. His other hand tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his piercing gaze. “You make assumptions. You’re impulsive. Needy. Where does that get you?”
He’s right, but… “...exactly where I want to be, apparently.” Your free hand takes the chance to slide down his chest, grabbing the utility belt around his waist and giving a small tug. Kirsh exhales sharply through his nose—a simulated breath that warms your skin.
“Needy,” he repeats in low rasp and you whimper at the hot slide of your lips locking, beginning to lose count of time entirely. You know he must be perfectly aware of the minutes ticking by but he’s not stopping, and he’s a very fast learner because he’s devouring you now with his equivalent of hunger, greedily stealing your breath and holding it hostage within himself.
"You're... warming up, Kirsh..." You point out coyly, the abrupt shudder that runs through him when you whisper into his ear utterly captivating. Both his hands now clamp around your waist and haul you flush against him. Friction. You want it, you need him to give it to you, and by the way his knee is discreetly slotting between your legs, he has to know. “You… you can’t even begin to imagine how badly I want you. It drives me mad sometimes just… being near you… I…”
"You're wrong," he rebukes huskily, burying his face in your hair. You give a yelp when he bites your ear. "I can imagine. In explicit detail."
“Oh, fuck—
"I have simulated this scenario one thousand, four-hundred and twelve times—" before claiming your mouth again. The confession of his fantasies breaks you completely. You kiss back with wild fervor as he tangles your tongue with lethal precision, the collision of your bodies as your hips twitch in a grind against his turning all thought into molten honey. Through the barrier of his uniform, you can feel him. You nearly want to sob from how desperate you are. One of his hands slides around your lower back, cushioning before his fingers press hard to keep you where you are, denying you your pleasure. A slightly staticky sigh of satisfaction slips out of him when you whine in protest—he likes this.
He likes you needy.
He pulls back just to enjoy watching you left panting and wanting, immediately filing away for later all the little places that make you arch into his touch, meticulously cataloguing them all. The smile on his lips is diabolically gentle. “But you are right about one thing.” He leans in, forehead touching yours, savoring the heat of your flushed face and the sweat beading on your temples. "I am warming up."
There’s a cocky touch to his statement that is quite possibly the sexiest thing you have ever heard. You want to tease him but he beats you to it, his knee sliding just so to remind you of your predicament. "What happens next?"
The question takes you aback for a second. He’s only asking because he wants to hear you say it. “What… do you want to happen next?” You whisper dazedly, fingers sliding to tangle in his white hair. You’re aware of something straining through his uniform, trapped between the two of you, and it takes every last ounce of your shattered composure not to just start begging. Now you know how it is between the two of you, you enjoy this game. You don’t want it to stop. “What do you want to do to me?”
The question lingers in the charged air between you. You can’t imagine this ending any other way but being slammed up against this stupid, mirrored box with your legs locked around his waist.
"Everything." The word is raw, stripped of synthesized sarcasm, of clinical calculation, punching right through your lust and reminding you just how much you feel. "I want to disassemble you," he adds, putting it in terms he expects you to take seriously, because he won’t tolerate your insecurities any longer. "To study every reaction. Every sound. Every flutter.” He briefly bites the corner of his lip as if in contemplation where he would like to start. “Everywhere.”
Your attempt not to beg immediately fails. “Oh, please, Kirsh—
His knee shifts abruptly, grinding against you in a slow, merciless rhythm. "The next time you you start thinking on my behalf—” He pauses so he can soak in your moan, a far cry from your previous shy whimpers. His voice drops to a whisper, rough with static, as he grabs your chin with a firm hand, forcing you to keep your eyes on him as your head rolls back. “—you stop. You don’t isolate yourself from me. You ask.”
He pauses all movement and you tug his hair in retaliation, his head jerking an inch. He doesn’t react. He can’t feel pain but it sends a strange burst of static through him that only makes him all the more determined to see what other reactions he can coax out of you. He just keeps staring. “Ask me.”
You’re so hot and bothered you can barely speak anymore but he’s going to wait until you do. “Do you… want me in the lab?”
“Yes,” he states simply and you feel a heavy weight immediately lifting from inside you; you don’t know if Kirsh is capable of wanting in a conventional way, but there’s no catch, nothing else but that one word. You trust him wholeheartedly, though the illusion of ever having any control in the first place has never been more transparent—you were always his, and he is very particular about your relationship.
You stepped uninvited into his world and made yourself at home.
You became essential to his process.
So now you can’t just leave.
And the fact he has to spell it out for you sparks something deeper than superficial irritation.
“Do you want to… oh!” You cry out when he rocks his leg again, the pulsing between your thighs unbearable, grabbing the front of his shirt; you’re already coming apart for him, burying your face in his neck, needing him impossibly closer. “Fuck me…"
It ends up not being a question, so he doesn’t answer.
Instead, he obeys.
You’re not sure when he pushed the button again, but the elevator finally resumes its descent. It doesn’t matter. You’d go whether he decides to take you, as long as he wants you there.
This time, it’s shamelessly over the edge.