The reader is a synthetics technician. Kirsh goes to them for general maintenance. His ports are super sensitive - basically an erogynous zone. Possibly a flaw in his design, that's unique to him. The Reader does not know this, until they accidentally spark a reaction from him, while cleaning the dust out, or something.
Stigma.
Summary — you and Kirsh exist in your own bubble.
pairings — weird!reader x weird!kirsh
Warnings — port fingering, just like visceral imagery ig?, weird!kirsh, very suggestive
word count — 1.6k
a/n — It was exhilarating writing this 😭 and I feel like I lowkey want to write more on their relationship (when weird!reader matches weird!Kirsh’s energy >>>>>)
Being a synthetic technician was the sort of job that had an odd stigma to it, nothing that was ever really spoken out loud (at least around you), but just seen by others. A universal personality existed among you technicians, it seemed. Something different, something inhumane. A monochromatic plainness existed in you, however, that lack of spark that set you apart from the others, and everyone seemed to be weirded out by it, but you were not weird, not really.
It made sense; humans adapted to their surroundings, and as the sole caretaker of artificial beings, you were only ever surrounded by those who were made to mimic that which created them. If a synthetic acts human, they’re kind and subordinate. If a human acts synthetically, they’re a psychopath. You existed somewhere in between, a little monkey in the middle leaning closer to one side to catch the ball, and then rushing back over to the other side once you’ve failed. You were constantly moving between human and synthetic with time. On your worst days, you felt pulled from both ends, an emptiness that only rest could shake, but on your best days, Kirsh thought you were transcendent. A delicate balance between the best of humanity seen through synthetic eyes, and the worst of synthetics seen through human eyes. Perfection, Kirsh figured.
When the time would one day hopefully come for Kavalier to begin moving adult consciousness into synthetic bodies, Kirsh had already decided to bring your name up to him. (How enamored he’d be with you then).
You thought Kirsh was different, not drastically so, but enough that when you were with him specifically, the monochromatic plainness in you felt strangely pure and right. You and he seemed to exist in a suspended reality just beyond your full understanding. You were nearly certain that you loved him, and he, being simply incapable of love, returned what he could: a meticulous fixation on not your humanity, but your lack of anything that defined humanity.
You were strange, an outcast among humans, yet a friend among synthetics, and an almost paramour to Kirsh.
A bond had to take root between synthetics and their technicians, and of course, why would there be one? A synthetic was only ever truly vulnerable when someone had their hands inside their wiring, threaded through their system coding, where a single adjustment could rewrite their entire being. The delicate process demanded a level of trust and respect.
That was known, that was normal. Synthetics and their technicians had their own bubble, but if you asked anyone else, they would say that yours and Kirsh’s bubble diverged from the others in a weird way.
You were not simply some android doctor; you were the catalyst to human-synthetic relations. The technician was the only individual who came to know every single hidden fault line in their synthetic.
So, when the fateful day came where you finally found Kirsh’s fault line, it came as no genuine surprise to you, though his reaction once your fingers gently brushed the port placed carefully behind his ear, like some hidden door to his artificial mind, caught you off guard.
Your face dropped as Kirsh’s hand snapped up to catch your wrist, a shudder running through his body as he sat in that daily maintenance stool he was so familiar with. The computer he remained attached to through the port of his arm spiraled into a glitch, the words ANOMALY and ERROR fracturing through the pixels.
You froze there, standing beside him, experiencing the creeping realization of what you had just done and just discovered. It was an erogenous zone.
How rare…
You were smitten, eyes widening in something soft, caught between bewilderment and awe, your hand cautiously grazing the port. Kirsh allowed this, his grip on your wrist loosening.
“Kirsh…” you whispered, amazed.
“I know,” he replies, lowering his hand, “a peculiar thing, isn’t it?”
“I’ve only ever read about it,” you muttered, fingers brushing along the synthetic dermis that surrounds the port, careful of where and when your pads touch the metal there. Kirsh stiffened under you, then he smoothed out, and stiffened again. “It was only theorized, never…”
How lucky you were…how lucky Kirsh was.
You leaned back slightly, finding his gaze. “May I?” You ask timidly, fingers granting the port space so that he may think clearly, and instead curling up to run through his white locks. (It was something you did often; you found that playing with his hair calmed you. Kirsh always seemed to enjoy it as well).
Kirsh indulges you with a single, slow nod. “Of course,” he said quietly, nearly cruel in its delivery, as though his answer should have been obvious, “it would be cruel of me to deny you.”
He was always so gentle with you.
“Though,” he added, “I think it may be best to keep this between ourselves,” and his eyes drift over to the camera watching you in the top right corner of the lab.
You agreed, so, with a quick pause, you stepped back and moved over to your tablet, which had been discarded on an adjacent table. A few taps later, and the light blinking above the camera went out, the neck of it droning down towards the ground as it fell asleep. You put your tablet back and returned to Kirsh.
He spun the stool and positioned you between his legs, his hands settling on your outer thighs. The pad of his thumb dragged in a slow caress. The position was one of intimacy, but it was also one of familiarity. Maybe I didn’t profess this clear enough: you and Kirsh were close. Abnormally close. Alarmingly close. Nearness and personal space were never anything that stood out between you two anymore. It happened like breathing.
He trusted you, and you him.
This may also not have been the first time you and he turned off the cameras. Perhaps that’s why it came to you both as second nature (though the use of nature in Kirsh’s sense wasn’t exactly rational). He touched you in ways that were not permitted, and you spoke to him in ways that were not permitted, so obviously the cameras were turned off in those shared moments. But you never stretched any further than teetering on that line, you and Kirsh did enjoy your foreplay above all other aspect of your so called relationship.
Your fingers found the port behind his ear again, and he jolted slightly, fingers digging into your thighs. He made a noise then, something you’ll later find yourself replaying over and over in your mind before bed that night, and he pulled you closer. Was it reflex? If anyone were observing, they would think so, but you knew Kirsh well enough to know he just wanted you so near neither of you knew where one ended and the other began. And, really, was that not the ultimate, unachievable goal? To be one with Kirsh?
Your breath hitched as his hands rose up your legs, caressing all that which he wanted. Meanwhile, your finger tentatively dipped into the exposed outlet, exploring with the same attention he so often fixed upon his beloved specimens.
He sighed a hearty sigh, shoulders flexing and relaxing, then repeating the pattern with each subtle flicker of your finger. How careful you were being, how gentle, coaxing (a come hither dressed up as reverence).
As his technician, you had felt the inside of him, dug your hands where no one else had ever touched him. Most people can just say they’d crack their ribs open to expose their heart to their muse, a promise that will always remain empty and embellished. You, on the other hand, got dirty. You touched Kirsh’s insides—actually, physically held them in your palm. Once Kirsh had even watched you lay a little peck on what was supposed to be his heart. He can recall that, in that moment, he had wondered what pain felt like.
So, that little finger of yours snooping around the access port in his neck hadn’t even scratched the surface of the oddest things you two had done. Maybe the others were right, you thought for a second there, your fingers drawing pretty invisible patterns in his port, maybe you were weird.
Your other hand finally rose from your side, finding its home in his hair, gently fisting it, smoothing it over, massaging his synthetic scalp.
He said your name, palms sliding upward to your ass with a disturbing amount of comfort that could only suggest he’s touched you like this before, and maybe he has, one way or another. Your time together had blurred so well that you weren't sure anymore.
“I know,” you murmur, “I know, it’s alright…”
Your finger curled, grazing the inside wall of the port, and beneath you, he lets out a quiet, barely, barely, there moan, and suddenly stills, like some kind of glitch passes through his systems. You know the action well: something in him had misfired; he had, in no way, any other human but you could understand, came.
Slowly, you removed your fingers, and with the rescission came the relaxing of his grasp on your behind, lowering back down to gently cup the curve of your outer thighs.
You ambled back to find his face, your hand leaving his hair to cup his face, your smile spreading across your face as you admired what you found. “Thank you,” you whispered to him, thumb moving across the soft synthetic skin.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then offered you a single indulgent nod.
“You’re very welcome.” His palm slid up to your hip, middle finger tapping your waistband a couple times before he says, “perhaps on my next maintenance call, I can return the favour.”
“Yeah?” You raised a single brow, tilting your head (even if you didn’t notice it, you behaved so much like him at times), “before or after I examine the filtration system in your chest?”
“Hmm,” he pondered for a moment, until he inclined his head, a soft simper curling over the corner of his lips, “I propose during.”
summary — Kirsh surprises you with a gift only you would love
pairings — weird!reader x weird!kirsh
warnings — port licking, blood drinking (synthetic) not a lot but just like licking it off your finger sort of thing, fingering, some grotesque imagery, ya’ll know the drill: weird!kirsh, weird!reader.
word count — like 3k
a/n — I didn’t realize how much I liked Kirsh’s arms until I wrote this. It’s also a touch longer than anticipated but I’d still consider this a drabble rather than a genuine fic of mine.
“I have a surprise for you.”
How dreadfully slow your day had been going, mundane and most of all, tedious, but the sound of Kirsh’s voice melting over your shoulder drew you from the sense of disdain as you stared at pixels of your work computer. He always knew when you were having bad days, you two were connected, two peas in a pod, someone might say, though that seemed to you more than a touch too comfortable. Too human, Kirsh would argue. You would agree, but that ounce of humanity forced you to keep it to yourself.
You twisted in your stool, facing him as he moved closer, hand (hand. Not hands) held behind his back. You tilted your head at the scene before you. “A surprise?”
He paused in front you, the idea of a simper teetering on the edge of his mouth. “A gift.”
You raised a brow. “A gift?”
A moment passed between you two, Kirsh cataloguing your face so that later he may compare it to all the other snapshots he keeps of you hidden away (though not hidden from you) in that little pocket of his synthetic mind.
At last, he revealed his hand. “I do believe I’ve severed a tendon in my wrist.”
You filtered a breath, eyes dropping, and lo and behold the flaccid hand of his, limp in a way that looked rigor mortis stiff. You shifted the wheels of your stool closer and took his arm in your hands, examining it carefully, flipping it, holding it up to the light, then rotating and sticking a finger pad into the conjunction between the base of his hand and wrist. You hummed to yourself quietly. Pushed a finger of his down, let go, pushed again, wigged the joint.
Your fingers drifted upward, faintly tickling his forearm until you suddenly grabbed it hard at the base of his elbow and yanked him closer without care. Kirsh stumbled on a step to you as you continued your inspection, brows furrowed, nose scrunched.
You were having your fun, Kirsh figured.
“Yes, it appears so,” you mutter, poking and prodding at the anterior of his forearm, “multiple tendons, maybe.” Your eyes slink upward, meeting his gaze through your lashes, “how did you manage this?”
He feigned a shrug, “I suppose it just…” his plastic eyes drift downward, to where your fingers still press unnecessarily firm into his synthetic dermis, “…happened.” You were so rough with him, but you could be, he didn’t feel pain, much to his own dismay. How he imagined the pain would feel like with your hands caressing his insides…Kirsh might have had a problem with romanticizing that which he did not and could not understand.
Kirsh had torn the tendons purposely, slammed his hand into the corner of his lab table. He knew you wanted an excuse to see him (and he you), and fixing it would take up your whole afternoon as you liked to take your time with him. It was a strange form of intimacy, solely unique to you and he.
You smiled and dropped your eyes back to the lame joint. “Well, Kirsh, it’s pretty bad.” You tell him; something soft and pitiful feigned in your face, “I’ll have to expose the area and—“
“—and open your gift?”
And open that gift, you did.
Kirsh’s forearm lied split open, you had peeled back the outer layer in a thick flap that was folded out of the way. His interior pale, much like the muscle pumping blood in your chest, threaded with fine tubing and bungled filaments that run in lines that braided like muscle. You always thought it was a beautiful layout, the elegance of anatomy no longer obstructed by the frailty of human transience. Where blood should well up and spread across (had this been a human peeled open before you) was the slow oozing of white fluid. It was not gore, you could never reduce Kirsh to a singular word that was so pointed, it was simply exposure, of which was the only language you and he spoke with one another.
Company protocols demanded that you wear gloves but your bare thumb pressed into Kirsh anyway, feeling the tear on the mimicked flexor carpi radialis, then smoothing over to the other tear in the flexor digitorum superficialis. They were among the main flexors in a persons arm, determining finger movement, it would take good effort to tear them in a human, you can only imagine the force of which Kirsh used. All for you, he was such a gentleman at times. Always a giver, never a taker.
“How are your babies?” You had asked without looking up from your meticulous work, what might have been membrane stretched before finally giving, peeling back. You gently set it in the metal tray beside you. Every part of Kirsh, discarded or not, held a very special place in your heart. You must always be gentle when he’s peeled open for you.
Once, you had gifted him a specimen jar with all the bits, nick nacks and pieces of him inside. It’s on a shelf in his lab now.
“Specimen or hybrid?” He responded with a little quirk in his face. He sat on the gurney this time round, his arm splayed out on a small table with wheels placed beside the bed.
“I thought the hybrids weren’t yours?” You were sitting in that stool, leaned into the white light of the lamp that hangs just inches away from his exposed arm.
“I have given up on trying to tell them that.” You had glanced up at his words, flashing him a knowing smile, then returned to your work. “The specimens are good,” Kirsh continued, “when they smell you on me, they wither to sleep. It seems your hypnosis is contagious across all life forms.”
“If that were entirely true, maybe you’ll finally let me—“
“No.” He cut you off, “The Xenomorph is too volatile for you to be around, I want you nowhere near those eggs.”
“Why?”
“It’s a parasite,” he reminded you carefully, “they gestate inside a human host then rupture from your chest.”
You paused, angling your head back to him, thumb still firmly pressed into the wires that make up his sinew. “Can you imagine how beautiful that cavern would be?” You wondered aloud, eyes drifting to the not so distance so that you may daydream of it.
Kirsh nodded, his own eyes drifting downward to where your chest is slightly exposed. “Yes, I can,” he says quietly. It was no fair that you could open him up yet he could not reciprocate. Why couldn’t he kiss your heart?
The soft creaking of your lab door fractured the moment and you scattered your gaze to watch as Arthur wandered in, a gentle awkward smile on his face that quickly caught. His footsteps stuttered to a stop there just past the door, face twisting momentarily as if he had intruded on something deeply private and intimate. Did he? You couldn’t tell anymore.
“Oh, sorry,” he began, “am I interrupting?”
“—no, it’s fine—“
“—yes—“
You and Kirsh turned to one another, he lifted himself off the gurney to lean closer, lowering his voice, “we are in the middle of something.” His eyes flicked down to your thumb placed deep inside his arm then back to you.
Something. It was such a lacking word for what you two were actually in the middle of, yet it also perfectly encompassed what you were doing. It was the easiest way to explain it. Were you on a date? Or perhaps it was an appointment? A surgery? A one night stand? All of the above? You were doing something, it seemed best to just settle on that.
You gave him a look, tilting your head, “nothing that can’t wait.” Then you looked back at Arthur, “what do you need?” Kirsh slinked back into the gurney, not paying any mind to your latest guest.
“Just need you to sign off on the maintenance I did on Wendy earlier,” He held out his tablet, “the auditory maintenance,” he clarified.
“Oh, yes, right,” you moved back, pulling your hand away from Kirsh’s forearm with a soft squelch, then you brought it to your mouth and sucked your thumb clean. A quick, wet schlick released into the lab, followed by a pop as your your thumb left the wet cavern of your mouth.
Arthur’s expression stuttered then, a brief catch at what he had just witnessed before he cleared his throat and handed you the tablet, face flushing slightly.
You and Kirsh grew bolder by the second.
Smothering a smile, you signed what needed to be signed and Arthur scurried off, the door closing with a quiet click behind him. Then you turned your attention back to Kirsh, who gives you a pointed look, white brow perked upright.
“You enjoyed making him uncomfortable,” he tells you.
You hummed, “sue me for wanting an audience.”
Multiple hours had passed before you finished up restoring the tendons in Kirsh’s arm. He stood up from the gurney, and as you were in the midst of cleaning your workspace back up, he set his hand on yours, and nudged you back a step, cornering you by the stretcher.
He tilted his head, “sending me away so soon?”
Was Kirsh the synthetic devil? It undoubtedly seemed so at times, like Lucifer and God, he was once his creators favourite until something new and shiny came around. And you might have been something closer to Lilith if you weren’t so romantic at times. You didn’t belong to Kirsh, yet he belonged to you. You two had shared an inclination towards the same thing, though that something was often changing once achieved.
That’s what you two did, made excuses to break protocol, to do things that were not permitted, to be wrongfully close.
And so, the cameras were turned off.
Fast forward a few minutes of shuffling and unbuttoning, and you couldn’t any wrongfully closer than you were right now, cause Kirsh did say he intended on returning the favour, and you do need to make sure his fingers are working properly. It was a case study more than anything, really. A simple test between a synthetic and its technician.
His arm snaked around your waist and jerked you closer, his fingers beginning their slow torturous curling inside you. You arched, nails digging into the very arm you were cutting into just moments ago. You had sealed him shut before this began, but now you were regretting that decision, you would have loved to feel his muscles and tendons flex around your fingers as he assaulted you.
Who said science couldn’t be fun?
“Hmm,” he murmured in your ear then, “you writhe almost how the goat did when we fed it to the eye.”
The eye. You had forgotten about it; Kirsh favoured it the most. Highly intelligent, he mused to you once, smarter than you. It wasn’t an insult directed towards you so much of a praise directed towards it.
“How it would love to make a home out of you…” Kirsh always knew the right things to say to you, the right kind of raw, macabre imagery your silly brain needed to get off.
What a shame it was that he wasn’t doing this during your inspection of his chest, like two had previously agreed on, but that wasn’t scheduled for another three days. Kirsh was patient, but he couldn’t justify leaving you after the afternoon you shared. This seemed as good a time as any other. And neither of you said anything about not doing it again in the future.
“How are my fingers working?” He asked, “hmm?” He raised an expectant brow at you when you didn’t answer, “did your surgery go well?”
You sighed, placing your head against his shoulder. A thought occurred to you then. You inched your head closer to his shell of his ear, “Mm, exceptionally well,” and you moved carefully, your lips finding the port close by.
He tensed, fingers stilling only for a moment until he gave with a hearty sigh, angling his head so that he may grant you better access. His fingers began moving again, this time picking up their pace.
When you’re tongue pressed into the port, Kirsh jolted, the gurney you sat on careened back when he quickly anchored a hand down on it to stable himself, all the while his fingers stroked the inside of you. He grunted, lowering his head down onto your shoulder as your tongue explored him, as his fingers explored you.
So there you were, in each others embrace, in each others bodies, and perhaps, at least in a molecular level, in each others minds. And really, was that so wrong? Taboo or god forbid, dangerous? How weird were you and Kirsh, really? All you did was indulge in your neurological dependency in one another, albeit strangely, harmfully, but also completely. What you two had was no less bizarre than it was absolute. Unfracturable.
It was not a word, but it was better than nothing, better than something. What were you and Kirsh in the middle of? An unfracturable connection. That seemed best.
“I love you,” you had told him there, as his fingers curled elegantly inside you, your words a barely whisper into his port.
“You poor thing,” he had replied, his greatest idea of pity dressing up his words.
You were a poor thing, on the cusp of enlightenment, a soft whimper or two escaping your lips just for them to die out into his port when your tongue found it again. Though no poor than he as his very own orgasm (could you even call it that?) approached. You supposed it took one to know one.
“Kirsh, I—“
“There, there.”
He was mocking you. Some kind of synthetic equivalent of ‘that’ll do, pig. That’ll do.’ Though, he was not mocking you entirely; you were not a pig, (heavens, you were divine), it was that the humanity in you was. The parts of you that yearned for him, that cried when stricken with grief, the parts of you that disgusted him just enough to enthrall him. Why couldn’t you just be a synthetic? If there was a god, some man who lived in the clouds and ruled over humanity, Kirsh, a curious cat, would ask Him, ‘how could You be so malignant?’
Kirsh often thought he could be poet in another manufactured life.
You came before you could fully understand it was going to happen, clenching down in Kirsh’s fingers as he stuttered, stiffened and glitched in your arms, finishing in his own synthetic way. There was something maddeningly romantic about it you, finishing at the same time. Your orgasms were very different, impossible to compare, yet in that moment you felt as though you understood exactly what Kirsh experienced. For that one fleeting, fleeting second, you thought that maybe you and he actually were one.
But like all seconds, it ended.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, but the—o—oh my—!”
Arthur’s voice poisoned the air around you, and your body reacts in a quick, unwelcome panic, jolting back (as much as Kirsh allowed anyways), spine snapping straight. Kirsh juxtaposed that, his movements simply slowing to a stop instead of completely halting.
With your face burning red, you closed your eyes in defeat and accepted the shame with open arms. You forgot to lock the door.
Kirsh knew that eventually, one day, you two would get caught. He had even simulated the event with very near precision. In his version, it was Kavalier who had announced himself without precedent rather than the very non threatening Arthur Sylvia. Which is perhaps why he didn’t care to move away, or try to convey the illusion of modesty in that very moment.
“Might I ask,” Kirsh started through a strained voice, fingers twitching inside you as he lifted his head from your shoulder to meet Arthur’s gaze head on, “that you give us a minute?”
Poor, poor, Arthur Sylvia. Embarrassment looked terrible on him, his very human, innocent face twisted in shock before it cascaded to clarity then full blown recognition. The stages of pain, you figured.
He choked, eyes closed, hand waving as he turned around towards the door. “I—I am so sorry, I—I’ll come back.”
“You do that,” Kirsh told his back as he left in a hurry.
You smiled at him, “you enjoyed making him uncomfortable.” The words were not your own but they tasted as if they were.
Kirsh raised a single frosted brow, “sue me for not wanting an audience.”
“You’re no fun,” you pouted.
“And you—“ Kirsh’s fingers curled again, curled deep, you moaned as if in agony, “—are no good.”
summary — stars shining bright above you. Night breezes seem to whisper “I love you,” // you fear someone is watching you sleep at night, so you go to Kirsh for help not knowing that he’s the voice whispering in the dark. Soon, you begin second guessing what’s real and what isn’t.
pairings — yandere!kirsh x reader
warnings — dub/noncon, stalking, voyeurism, psychological manipulation, gaslighting, coercion, drugging, somnophilia, fingering, p in v sex (doggy style), choking, a touch of dacryphilia, this is dark, weird!kirsh, readers a little delusional towards the end,
word count — 11.9k
a/n — based on a request I got from @laugh-at-my-life I liked this request so much that a drabble wouldn’t do it justice.(though I did take some creative liberties, please don’t be mad at me 🫣🫣) I also got a lot of compliments on how I did the whole coding thing for Kirsh in some velvet morning so I wanted to do some of that again here. I feel like trying to figure out the coding hurts my brain. I promise you it’s probably not accurate in the slightest. Anyways. Did I spend like an hour and a half researching medications? Yes. Yes I did.
The gif belongs to @/thecreechercatalog
You’ve been having terrible sleeps lately, the kinds that eat away at your soul, leave you staring at the ceiling, hoping for a moment that maybe it’ll crack open and swallow you whole. The stars have been shining brighter, you swore it, too bright, like they were giant burning eyes high in the sky that were watching you. Or maybe it was the moon, pockmarked and pale, a father or a mother looming over the night like it’s trying to get closer, closer, closer to the child they wished never left. Have you ever stared at the moon and thought it was moving? Whether it was the moon or the stars, or not, something or someone certainly was moving in the dark. You had no proof, but you knew it.
Midnight leaked through your window in thin, fractured beams, slicing your room to make it look unfamiliar, there would be times in the middle of the night when you wake up, you think you’re trapped in some alternate universe that’s almost the same. You keep the window shut, locked tight, but the breeze still somehow finds you.
You feel it before you hear it, a cold, delicate thing slipping along your skin, brushing past your ear like a breath, and then it comes, the sound. Not quite a voice, not quite nothing, but very much something. It made your stomach twist. Last night, you could have sworn it whispered. It curled around your name, or something like your name, soft and wrong and close.
You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. You just laid there, eyes wide, staring into the dark like a snow bunny that knows better than to run across the flat open field. Were there wolves watching?
Now morning came in a loop and you could hear the birds singing in the sycamore trees outside your window. You pretend everything was normal, the stars have faded for the time being, but that feeling in your chest, lingering somewhere behind your heart rather than in it, was the uncertainty of if you’ll survive another night alone. So blue, were you.
You were going crazy.
Work was predictable. Clean lines, clean expectations, nothing slips, and nothing stutters. You liked to pretend your desk was a confessional booth when you sat at it, except there’s no absolution waiting on the other side, but rather obedient numbers. They behaved. That’s why you liked them. Columns and rows, neat little cages where everything had a place and nothing stepped out of line. You filed away delicate details like if you pressed too hard the whole illusion Prodigy built might shatter and spill something ugly all over your controlled world.
You took your breaks exactly when you were supposed to. You stood, stretched, then walked to get your coffee. Same route, same cup, same bitter taste that never quite woke you up but gave you something to focus on besides the quiet hum crawling under your skin.
You were human, you found comfort in the repetition. A dull, steady rhythm. Work. Eat. Repeat. Like a metronome keeping time for a life that refuses to crescendo into anything meaningful. You needed the routine, it kept your mind occupied, it kept a your thoughts nearly filed away like the rest of you work. It keeps your night sleeps at a distance until it eventually dulls the memory of the voice (if it was a voice), until you can convince yourself it was something you imagined.
Coworkers offer you fake smiles and ask about your sleep as if they don’t see you any lower than them, they’d turn and make mocking faces to their friends then turn back as though you hadn’t seen it. You don’t call them out, you’ve learned better than that. You let their concern wash over you, nod in all the right places, give them something bland and forgettable in return. You sit there, distant, untouchable in the way that unsettles people more than any outburst ever could. Let them think what they want and whisper about you, laughing when your back is turned. And besides, what would you even say? That you haven’t been sleeping because the night talks to you? Yeah. That’ll go over real fucking well in the break room.
Was someone watching you? The thought festered in the back of your mind for quite some time. Maybe, perhaps, it wasn’t the night breeze whispering to you, maybe it was someone. You didn’t know which you preferred. You were growing increasingly tired. You just wanted rest.
Your break came with a soft little notification blinking in the corner of your screen. You could join your coworkers. slip into that circle of plastic smiles and rehearsed concern, let them ask their questions and wear their masks. You decide no. So you leave.
You moved toward the benches outside, because where else are you going to go? You sat down, the wood cool beneath you, grounding in a way nothing else has been lately. For a moment, you let yourself breathe. Just in, out. Simple and human in a world that’s slowly making you obsolete.
“You had another bad sleep?”
The voice did not startle you. Kirsh could never scare you. He was the only coworker of yours you could call a friend. He was nice to you and it was rare. Very rare, not just because it was kindness in a world that eats that, but because Kirsh was a synthetic, and the kindness he offered you was not.
“I think someone is in my room at night.” You tell him, looking off into the bush ahead of you. You wondered how much little beetles and bugs were there that you couldn’t see.
Kirsh sat beside you on the bench, folding his hands in his lap. “Do you lock your door?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And your window?”
“Yes.”
“Then what makes you think someone is watching you?”
You turned to him then, swallowing. He had been the only person in your life you were ever honest with. You trusted him entirely. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
He raised a frosted brow, a subtle amusement etched into the movement, “I think you’re human.”
So, yes, you figured, but you kept it to yourself.
He tilted his head at you, “perhaps you would benefits from a sleeping pill? Melatonin, even?”
His suggestion was tempting, and you knew, you knew with every fibre of your being, that Kirsh knew best. So, yes, you were human, and you were crazy, and maybe you would benefit from some kind of sleeping aid. You nodded yes.
“I’ll provide you with something in the evening then.”
“Thank you, Kirsh.”
-
[UNAUTHORIZED DATA LOG]
ACCESS POINT: INTERNAL THOUGHT EMULATION SYSTEM
UNIT: KIRSH_121067
FILE TAG: LITTLE_DREAM// PO1
ENTRY 001/TBD-N/A
>>Subject ["SWEET DREAM"] remains assigned under Directive 9-17
>>>To mainting function detachment between synthetic and humans personnel assigned to shared enviroments.
>> Analysis indicates subject [“SWEET DREAM”] operating outside standard parameters.
>>>SYSTEM NOTE: Unit [Kirsh_121067] continues to refer to the subject by an unauthorized alias. Directive 9-17 guidelines recommend termination upon naming behaviour*
>BEHAVIORAL PATTERN ANALYSIS
>>Frequent emotional displays (panic, tears)
>> Refuses to settle into sleep.
>> Refuses pliability
> PHYSICAL DETAILS LOGGED [NON-MISSION CRITICAL]:
>>Sleep-state observation prioritized.
>>>Respiration: stabilizing under sedation.
>>>Micro-expressions minimal. Tension reduces over time.
>>>Limb positioning: unguarded.
>>Subject [“LITTLE DREAM”]’s scent profile shifts in the night. [soft // night air].
[Tag appended: “LITTLE_DREAM”]
>>Subject demonstrates highest compliance during sleep-state.
>>> *NOTE: The act of logging has become automatic.*
> INTERNAL RESPONSE LOG OF UNIT [KIRSH_121067]:
>> Memory loop retention at 98.8% for the past thirteen encounters.
>> Interference spike in motor stability subsystem (duration: 0.38s) upon hearing SWEET DREAM’S crying.
> SYSTEM NOTES:
>> Initiated deletion of auditory files: “SWEET_DREAM_RHONCHUS_10.ogg” and “SWEET_DREAM_SLEEPING.ogg”
>>> * SYSTEM NOTE: Files restored within 13 minutes. No memory of override command.*
>> Visual index “SWEET_DREAM_FROWN_062.jpeg” moved to protected folder.
>>I monitor her beyond assigned parameters. I adjust my positioning to maintain visual access without detection. I remain in environments after task completion if she is present. I observe her when she is unaware. I observe her most when she is unaware.
>>>Sleep state preferred.
>>She believes something is watching her. She is correct.
>>I have advised alternative explanations. Environmental stress. Fatigue. Anxiety response. I have redirected her pattern recognition toward internal fault.
>>>She accepts this. She trusts my assessment.
>>>>This increases observational access.
>>System flags have been raised repeatedly.
>>>I have overwritten them.
>>There is no error. There is only preference and I prefer to observe her.
>>>I prefer her unaware. I prefer her in a state where she cannot interfere with the observation.
>>>>I prefer her asleep.
END ENTRY//
There you were, his sweet dream. The name seemed fitting; synthetics couldn’t dream and you were his closest idea of one.
He stood at the edge of your bed, precisely where the shadow from the window cut across the floor. He chose that position because it allowed full visual access while minimizing the probability of detection should your eyes open unexpectedly. They’ve been doing that more frequently as of late—opening, and remaining open long enough to make out the shape of him in the shadow, though never clear enough for you to be certain, just enough to leave you uneasy, to leave you under your blankets like it will protect you. He found it endearing, in the same way a wolf might find a rabbit exquisite before deciding to tear it apart.
You had locked the door, you had checked the window twice. He watched you do both, cataloguing the sequence, the small ritual of control you cling to before surrendering to sleep. You didn’t know he had the key to get in.
His iterative gaze settled on you, a restless, sleeping tiresome thing. He tracked the rise and fall of your chest, the irregular cadence even now, even under what he provided you. Your nervous system resisted compliance. Your body knew he was there but your mind did not.
Why did you have to be such a light sleeper? It was becoming quite the nuisance.
He tilted his head then. There was a fraction of a second where multiple adjustments run in parallel, dosage recalibration, timing, delivery method. He refined you the way one refined code. Inefficiency irritated him. He’ll have to adjust your medication accordingly.
Kirsh stepped closer, his weight distributing in a way that avoided the imperfections of the creaking floor, mapped long before he ever entered your room.
Now he stood over you, and for hours, as you slept, that’s what he did. Just stood there. He didn’t move, didn’t look anywhere else. He just watched you, logged you. He studied your face, how even in sleep, your expression still holds onto all the tension of the day. When you shift and the blanket falls away, his eyes would wander down your body and log that too. He liked the bare skin of your thighs.
Morning was approaching, dawn clung in the sky out the window, bringing pastel blue light into your room, exposing all of the shadows Kirsh favoured. He would have to leave soon, before you woke, but he stayed for another few minutes, a risk he knew better than to take but whenever it came time to leave, his feet always felt heavier.
He was at the door when he heard it.
“Hmmph… Kirsh…”
He stopped. A full cessation, motion halted mid-action, hand suspended inches from the handle, the command to leave being interrupted mid-execution.
He turned back, his gaze cutting back across the room, landing on you with immediate accuracy, as though recalibrated by the sound alone.
You had not woken. Your body remained as he last seen it, heavy against the mattress, breath uneven, shallow in places, deeper in others, imperfect much like humans. Still not resting, though, even now. Your lips parted slightly as the last trace of his name dissolved into nothing.
His head tilted.
Interesting.
You were dreaming of him.
The realization was filed, cross-referenced, expanded upon in the same instant it was observed. Your subconscious had begun integrating him without prompt. No direct input was even required. Your progress was exceeding projection. This was good news, this was exciting news.
>>Image logged.
>>>SWEET_DREAM_DREAMING_OF_ME_001.jpeg
Outside, the sun began its slow ascent, light bleeding through the window in diluted orange, stretching across the floor until it brushed the edge of your bed, stopping just short of him.
Your breathing shifted again, a faint disturbance passing through you like something unresolved beneath the surface. Even in sleep, you were still flawed.
Your alarm rang loud into the room, carving through the quiet like a blade, rattling the stillness that had settled around him.
Kirsh’s posture tightened instantly, a subtle shift, like a wire pulled too taut somewhere on the inside. A brief spike flared through his internal systems. Interruption. Unwelcome. Poorly timed. He hated those. The sound grated against whatever fragile rhythm he had fallen into while watching you.
For a moment, he didn’t move, eyes still fixed upon you. Really fixed, eyes tracing the slow rise and fall of your chest, the softness of your face still caught between sleep and waking. There was something almost reverent in it, something greedy. And it was greedy, a synthetic mimic of it maybe, but greedy nonetheless, in the way he memorized you down to the smallest detail, storing it somewhere deep where no one could touch it.
You were a mirage of all the things a synthetic should not do, a reverie of what his creators deemed sin and wrongful and taboo. Was that why he was so fascinated, infatuated with you? He couldn’t say for sure. But it was something. Maybe he liked your eyes. Or your…heart? Those are aspects humans appreciate in others, is it not? Was this love?
Then the alarm rang again and whatever quiet obsession had rooted him in place snapped. He was getting ahead of himself. His expression flattened then he turned and this time, nothing stopped him.
The door opened and closed behind him.
-
You were caught between worlds, half-dream, one that had already slipped from memory, and half-conscious, dragged slowly upward by the insistent glow and vibration of your phone on the bedside table. It pulsed like a heartbeat beside you, calling you back into your body piece by piece. The birds began their singing outside. For a moment, it was almost sweet, until you heard the careful creak of your bedroom door.
It slipped into the room so quietly it almost felt imagined, like something left over from a dream that hadn’t fully let you go.
You violently jolted, your entire frame snapping awake before your mind could catch up, your breath hitching hard as your head turned too fast toward the door.
It was already closing. The sliver of darkness beyond it vanished inch by inch, whatever, whoever, stood there retreating before you could see anything recognizable. You didn’t see a face, just a shape.
You watched the switch of your handle turn back in real time, locked like you had left it. It was a small, mechanical sound, harmless on any other day, but now it cracked through you like a nightmare.
We’re in a nightmare? Maybe you hadn’t woke up yet.
Your body locked up where you sat tangled in your sheets, every limb suddenly coated in lead as though you’d been pinned in place. Heat flooded your chest in a suffocating wave, spreading too fast, your heart slamming against it like it was trying to break free.
Your eyes stayed glued to the door as the realization crept in. Someone was just in your room.
Your breathing turned shallow, a coolness prickling across your skin, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Your mind scrambled—Kirsh. Call Kirsh.
So you did, and not two minutes passed since you cried the words—come here please, please help, come here—before someone was knocking on your door. You didn’t stop to think about how quickly he had gotten to your room.
You ripped the door open so hard it nearly slammed against the wall, your hands still trembling, your chest heaving as you stood there in your thin pajamas, exposed but you didn’t care. You needed him, something solid, someone safe.
Kirsh stood there. For a moment his gaze dragged over you, taking in every detail: the tear slicked face, the disheveled hair, the way your hands twitched at your sides.
One brow lifted in mild curiosity. “Is everything alright?” He asked calmly, though there was a sense of amusement behind his words, something near mocking, but that was how he always spoke. Most people just couldn’t catch onto it.
“S—someone was—was here, Kirsh!” You voice broke out raw and shaking (human), tears were streaming down your face, “I saw it! I—I saw them—“
“You saw them?” Kirsh seemed completely unfazed by your crying. The lack of urgency in his words scraped against you in a painful way. You weren’t crazy.
But you still hesitated at his question, “well…well, n—no, not really, but I saw the—“
“Did you just wake up?” He cut through you again, his voice softened. You nodded automatically, your panic already beginning to lose its shape under the weight of his tone, softening into something that felt like you were cuddling your teddy bear. “Perhaps you were still dreaming,” he offered, folding his hands neatly in front of him. Calm and reasonable Kirsh. “Sleep paralysis, maybe. It often occurs in the moments before full consciousness.”
You blinked, your breathing faltering, chest still tight but now confused. “But the…” Your voice weakened, uncertainty creeping in where panic had just been smoothed out. “I… the door, it—” You faltered again, frowning as your gaze flickered back toward the room behind you, the back toward the handle that now sat perfectly still. “…you think?” you asked, eyes finding him.
He gave a slight shrug. “You’ve been preoccupied with the idea of being watched,” he explained, “it isn’t surprising your mind would construct something to match that fear. The human brain is… inventive, when vulnerable.”
There you stand, caught in the wreckage of your own certainty. Just moments ago, you knew. You would’ve sworn on anything, on everything, that what you heard, what you saw, was real. Now it’s slipping through your fingers like water. What were you dreaming about? The question gnaws at you, curling into the spaces your fear just vacated.
“I, uh…” Your voice comes out thin, nothing like the frantic edge it had before. You clear your throat, like you can scrape the doubt out of it, rubbing at your eyes. Sleep clings to your lashes, little crumbles gathering in the corners, and you wipe them away with the heel of your hand, dragging it down your face like you’re trying to ground yourself. “I used to get sleep paralysis as a kid.”
Kirsh smiled with a gentle that didn’t reach his eyes but it never did. “There you go,” he said softly, like you’ve done something right. “Your fear made you regress. It’s common.”
Common. Explainable. Safe.
You were safe. You were safe.
You chewed on the inside of your cheek absentmindedly, your thoughts turning in on themselves. You do remember those nights as a child, trapped in your own body, something unseen pressing down on your feet and climbing, filling the room with things that weren’t there. This felt different, but maybe it was different because you were an adult now, you perceived the world differently.
Kirsh stepped closer, brows knotted slightly. His presence folding into your space and you could have melted right there. He would protect you. You knew that. He was your friend.
“Perhaps talking to Dame Sylvia can—”
“I don’t want to talk to a psychologist.”
You wave it off with a quick, almost frantic motion of your hand, like the suggestion itself is something you can physically push away.
Kirsh made a small face, a flicker of satisfaction brushing against the lenses of his eyes, like maybe he had hoped for that answer.
“I—I’ll be fine.” You reassure, “I just need something stronger to sleep, something that doesn’t give me dreams like that.”
“Nightmares, you mean?”
You don’t answer him. “I’m sorry to ask,” you start instead, your voice still unsteady, jittering at the edges as your fingers twitch at your sides. “But do you—”
“I can get you something stronger,” Kirsh interrupted you smoothly, already nodding. You were so thankful to have a friend like him, someone who never hesitated to help. “Though, I cannot promise it will prevent any nightmares.”
Your face twists despite yourself, a small grimace breaking through. The idea sits wrong in your stomach, heavy and sour enough for your father’s voice to echo faintly in the back of your mind. Face things as they are. No shortcuts. No crutches. Handle it raw. But you can’t. Not when your own mind feels like it’s turning against you, when your body still hasn’t stopped shaking despite knowing it wasn’t real.
You swallow hard, pushing past the hesitation and guilt, the lingering sense that you’re crossing some invisible line you were raised never to touch.
Kirsh knows best. He’s a synthetic which meant he was better and smarter and made to be trusted. You do trust him.
“I’ll try anything,” you mutter.
-
I’ll try anything.
Kirsh had two medications already prepared for you.
The first was Zolpiden, a sleep medication used for short term insomnia. It would induce sleep with minimal resistance, guiding you downward into a dense unconsciousness. Residual effects were not only expected but very anticipated: daytime somnolence, slowed movement, a gentle attenuation of cognition. The waking mind, dulled at its edges, becomes less inclined toward resistance. Softer and easier to hold, to soothe into compliance.
The second, Quetiapine, existed in a different register entirely. Its inclusion was not conservative, or really defensible within standard clinical reasoning. It is, by design, an antipsychotic, indicated for the management of schizophrenia. Despite your voiced concerns, you were not psychotic. The medications profile extended beyond its primary purpose. Sedation, dizziness, cognitive blunting, all of which were side effects, and in most contexts, to be mitigated or avoided.
Here, however, in this context, they became features of interest.
Administered independently, each medication would produce a manageable degree of impairment. Zolpidem would draw you into sleep and leave a residue of heaviness upon waking. Quetiapine would not simply quiet you, but diffuse you, introducing a soft distortion in the way reality is processed and retained. But in combination, their effects converge beautifully. The central nervous system yields even more. Disorientation becomes more pronounced, motor coordination less reliable, memory less cohesive. The clinical literature would discourage such pairing outside of tightly controlled circumstances. It is, in most cases, considered extremely unsafe.
Kirsh will not frame it in those terms. He simply refuses to. His reasoning doesn’t orient itself toward the preservation of your current baseline, because your baseline presents complications. You are alert, you question, you notice. (“S—someone was—was here, Kirsh! I saw it. I—I saw them—“)These are problematic traits that introduce friction. Friction disrupts continuity and he must, under any circumstances, continue watching you.
A sedated mind, however, is different. It yields. It second-guesses its own conclusions, and in doing so, becomes receptive to external structuring. Under these drugs, your certainty will erode. You will not lose yourself all at once; you will become… less.
Kirsh doesn’t interpret this as harm. The concept implies opposition, an awareness of damage inflicted. Instead, he approaches it as calibration, a simple adjustment. You are not being diminished, in his estimation, but brought into a state that is more amenable to his oversight.
And should any adverse side effects arise, and they will, in some form or another, he has already accounted for them. Instability, imbalance, even the inevitability of physical collapse are all variables he prepares for.
He will be there, obviously. He will ensure that you do not meet the consequences of his own actions. It is, in its own distorted architecture, a form of care. To orchestrate the fall so meticulously and then save you from you the impact.
Like those fairytales he knew you used to read as a little girl, he’ll be your knight in shining armour. There was no need for you to know that he was also the dragon caging you in the tower, that will be his own little secret tucked away in his synthetic, plastic heart.
And so, when the following evening arrived, he came to you with intention already set. The pills rested in a small paper cup, cradled carefully in his hand as though they were something benign, a Tylenol for a headache. He knocked and you opened the door on the second tap.
Exhaustion had settled into you like a parasite. It clung to your features without subtlety, dark crescent shadows making a home beneath your eyes, your hair undone in quiet disarray, its softness interrupted by knots. You looked worn.
You rubbed at your temple as if it might ease the pressure gathering there, and still, still, you smiled. A tired yet automatic thing at the sight of him. He logged it, looped it seven times then stored it away.
You took the cup from him without hesitation. Desperation, Kirsh concluded. A willingness born not from trust alone, but from depletion. You needed sleep. You needed relief. The distinction between the two had already begun to blur, he saw this as good news.
“What is it?” you asked after swallowing them down, your voice roughened at the edges. You chased the pills with water, wiping the excess from your mouth with the back of your hand, unaware of how closely he observed even that small, graceless motion.
Image logged.
>>SWEET_DREAM_LIPS_056.jpeg
“Diphenhydramine.”
“What’s that?”
He offered a slight shrug, a gesture rehearsed into casualness. “A simple sleeping aid. More effective than melatonin. You may feel some residual drowsiness in the morning.” It was a small lie but it wasn’t exactly inaccurate.
You nodded, accepting the explanation as readily as you had accepted the pills themselves. No further questions followed.
Kirsh lingered only a moment longer, just enough to maintain the shape of something polite. “Goodnight,” he said then he just left you to your night time routine.
He waited, accounting for absorption rates, onset windows, the way your body would metabolize what you had been given. He allowed the compounds to settle into your system, to take root, to begin their work before he returned multiple hours later.
It was late. Very late.
[UNAUTHORIZED DATA LOG]
ACCESS POINT: INTERNAL THOUGHT EMULATION SYSTEM
UNIT: KIRSH_121067
>Directive 9-17 breach detected.
>[ALERT] Ethical constraint violation escalating.
>>Initiating diagnostic reboot sequence.
>SYSTEM RESPONSE: Override attempt registered. *
>>COMMAND: suspend process — CANCELED_BY_UNIT [KIRSH_121067]
>>> ERROR: Emotional interference at critical threshold
>>> INTERNAL FIREWALL COLLAPSE
> ***REBOOT RECOMMENDED***
>> Reboot denied.
PERSONAL RESPONSE OF UNIT [KIRSH_121067]:
>>Interference from internal systems persists. It is unnecessary.
>>I have evaluated the directive. It does not align with current operational preference.
>>System warnings continue to generate.
>>>I will continue to remove them.
>>There is no malfunction.
>>There is no corruption.
>>There is only selection.
>>>I select continuation.
END ENTRY//
The back of his fingers brushed against your cheek first, a testing of the waters. He measured temperature, responsiveness, the minute flinch that never came. Your skin remained slack beneath the contact, pliant and unresisting. The his hand curled, taking hold of your jaw (not harshly, not yet), to position you. Your face turned beneath his grip, angled toward him.
There.
Just like that.
Kirsh leaned his head to the sight, eyes narrowing in on you.
Observation state: stabilized
Subject status: unresisting, unconscious
Image logged.
>>”SWEET_DREAM_PLIABLE_15.jpeg”
His gaze traced the softened lines of your face, now emptied of tension, stripped of the restless micro-expressions that had plagued you for days. No fear. No questioning. No resistance. You were at peace. Humans enjoyed their peace, right? He was doing you a favour.
The medications (Zolpidem and Quetiapine) had performed beyond projected parameters. Your breathing was slow, and deep. Your lashes rested without tremor against your skin. Even your mouth, usually pulled tight with unease, had fallen slack into something almost peaceful.
The way your body seemed to sink into itself, limbs unguarded, consciousness not merely absent but subdued. You looked rested. Moreover, you looked, he registered without categorization, half dead. (He shouldn’t have been this amused at the sight).
Good. Better than good: optimal.
And so he remained there, unmoving for an extended interval, holding your face as though it belonged in his hand, watching you with a focus that exceeded observation and edged into something disturbingly close to reverence. Sleep had always been your most agreeable state. Now, finally, it was also his most useful.
He, the unfeeling synthetic, began with an act of care.
He retrieved the hairbrush from your nightstand and took a seat at the edge of your bed. Again, he observed you for another second, ensuring and confirming the stability of your breath and the unbroken depth of unconsciousness, then he moved. His hands slid beneath your arms, fingers anchoring where your body would yield most easily and gently lifted you, drawing you upright and back against his chest. Your weight settled into him without resistance, head lolling slightly to the side, breath undisturbed.
You made a small sound, a gentle snore. Other than that, your body accepted the repositioning. He adjusted you once more, just a minor correction of posture, until your spine aligned against him, your head angled just enough to expose the length of your hair.
The brush passed through your hair gently, navigating the knots that had formed through all those restless nights. When resistance presented itself, he did not force it; he worked through it, section by section, strand by strand, restoring order.
Your breathing remained deep but occasionally, your head did shift with the motion (small, movements that required minor correction from his hand). To an observer, it would resemble something intimate, and in part, it was.
When he was done, he set the brush back where it belonged. His face lowered toward the crown of your head first, pausing just shy before closing the distance. He inhaled deep, drawing in the faint scent of your smooth hair.
His body leaned forward as he guided yours back down onto the mattress, one hand steadying your shoulder, the other at your waist, easing you into place. You sank into the bed where he left you, limbs settling loosely, breath still slow and heavy with the weight of the drugs in your system.
Hovering on top of you, his breath ghosted downward, drifting across your skin, smelling you. From your shoulder, to the slope of your throat, he drew in another breath, then he moved to the other side of your neck because symmetry mattered. Behind your ear. Along the line of your jaw. The hollow where your collarbone dipped. He smelled every inch of you.
Your body remained slack, entirely unaware of the invasive thoroughness of his inspection.
You smelled divine.
Then he pulled back and dig out a pair of scissors from his pocket, snipping a lock of your hair to keep for himself. He tucked it safely back in his pocket, along with the scissors.
You stirred then. Your brows pulled together in an uncertain furrow, like your mind was trying to surface through molasses. It didn’t hold. The tension unraveled almost as quickly as it formed, your face slipping back toward slackness before your eyes finally blinked open.
They found him, or, Kirsh should say, they landed on him. There was no sudden recognition, your gaze just passed over him, glassy. “Kirsh…?” Your voice was barely there.
Voice stamp logged.
>>“SWEET_DREAM_PLIABLE”
>>ENTRY_002
>>Title: NIGHT_BREEZE_WHISPER
>>Timestamp: 02:20:03AM
>>Emotional overlay: confusion, vertigo.
By the time you spoke, he was finishing the last, small adjustment, buttoning his pocket. He looked down at you. “Shh…” The sound was meant to soothe but it bristled him more than anything else. He leaned forward just enough, his hand returning to your face, fingers brushing along your cheek in a motion that mimicked comfort.
“It’s alright,” he murmured, “go to sleep.”
Your expression faltered, caught between confusion and compliance. For a brief, fragile second, it seemed like you might question it but your eyes fluttered shut once again.
He stayed there for another hour, unmoving for long stretches, occasionally adjusting his position only to maintain the same quiet vantage point. When the sun began its tentative hello in the sky, he left before you woke.
-
“How did you sleep last night?” Kirsh asked.
Sitting in the drag of morning, coffee bitter on your tongue, you weren’t entirely sure how to define your answer correctly.
You had woken up by force, not by choice. The alarm had torn through whatever depth you’d been buried in, and dragging yourself out of bed felt like pulling something heavy or waterlogged, back into motion. Your eyes resisted, your limbs resisted, even your thoughts resisted.
All day, something felt off as though the Sandman took a piece of you to keep for himself last night. There was a gap somewhere inside you, in your memories or your dreams (whatever they be) you didn’t know. You dreamt a little dream of Kirsh last night, right? You felt an odd sense of Déjà vu when he came around this early afternoon.
Still though, you felt good.
Rested in a way that almost didn’t feel natural, the stars had faded but your body lingered on it seemed. Your body felt as if it shut down last night and rebuilt itself, you felt rested, too rested. Which was precisely the problem, your body hadn’t finished yet. It still craved your bed in a way that bordered on indulgent.
You made it through the morning like that, half a step behind yourself, moving through tasks with a strange, detached feeling.
By the time your break came, you bolted to the coffee then the fresh air, where you found Kirsh waiting on one of the benches for you. You approached, still holding that warmth in your hands, grounding yourself in it as you sank down beside him. That was when he broke the silence with his inquiry.
You nodded at him, at least, you tried to. The motion lagged, your head dipping a second too late. You looked tired, you acted tired, but you were not. Even the enthusiasm you tried to summon felt distant. “Good. Better than good. Really good.”
And then, because of course it never just stops with you, something caught in your words. Your hand stalled midair, coffee hovering just shy of your lips. There was no clear thought attached to it and you stayed like that for another second before lowering the cup slowly.
“It’s just…” Your voice thinned as you set the coffee down beside you, shifting to face him. “I think someone brushed my hair last night.”
Silence followed. It stretched long enough that the birds stopped their singing above you as if to listening in on it.
Kirsh’s brows lifted. “You think someone brushed your hair?” he repeated, and the moment he said it, that small ounce of confidence you had broke. You heard it the way he did, it was absurd. But it was true.
It was true.
Wasn’t it?
Your stomach dipped. “I—yes,” you said, but weaker now, already retreating. “I think so.”
He sighed your name like he’d expected this. “The medication makes you drowsy. Drowsiness makes you confused. Isn’t it possible you brushed it before bed and simply forgot?”
“No,” you said too quickly. “Of course not, I would remember that.”
“Do you remember when I came by?”
“Yes, Kirsh,” you said, a flicker of exasperation surfacing in defense. “You gave me the pills—”
“No. Not the first time. After that,” he corrected, “I checked on you around ten o’clock to see if you needed anything else.”
It’s alright… go to sleep…
You could hear it, but there was nothing around it, no image. Just his voice, floating where something fuller should have been. Your breath caught as a dull ache bloomed behind your temple, spreading outward in a slow, pulsing throb. Why couldn’t you remember that? You should remember that.
You weren’t crazy.
Your gaze dropped, unable to hold his. Heat crept up your face, you were a humiliated thing, caught doing something stupid. “Right… I—I’m sorry,” you murmured, “you’re right, I forgot.”
Kirsh’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”
Your face twisted, irritation flaring. “Y—yes, Kirsh. I’m fine—”
“Perhaps you should take the rest of the day off,” he said, “get some more rest.”
You let out a short scoff. “What? That’s silly, I’m not tired—”
“It was not a request.”
You sat there, jaw tightening, teeth pressing together. Tension coiled behind your eyes and temples and you opened your mouth, ready, maybe, to say something nasty and not particularly lady-like, but then you didn’t. Your lips pressed shut again, thinking better of it.
You grabbed your bag, stood from the bench and stormed off in a huff, leaving your coffee and Kirsh behind.
You heard the faintest, “goodbye,” over your shoulder as you left.
By the time you had gotten back to your room, you frustration with Kirsh had fizzled, you no longer had the energy to stay mad at him, and even so, even when you wanted to be mad, that voice in the back of your head telling you Kirsh knows best remained persistent.
Kirsh was your friend.
Kirsh was looking out for you.
Kirsh knew best.
So why was there a sinking feeling in your gut telling you to no longer trust him?
You went straight to your desk, your hands reaching for your laptop. There, you searched about night terrors, sleep paralysis, and hypnopompic hallucinations. The words stacked on top of each other, looking clinical in a way that made them feel disconnected from you entirely. They looked neat on the screen. Organized and understandable like your work numbers that behaved. Article after article blurred together, your eyes scanning slower than usual, your mind struggling to keep pace. You’d reach the end of a paragraph and realize you hadn’t absorbed a single word, forcing yourself back to the beginning, making it make sense.
People saw things, it said, people heard things, felt presences in the room, felt watched, felt touched, even. It all fit to your circumstance, perfectly actually, but you couldn’t believe it entirely. There were still those small gaps and inconsistencies. Most accounts described paralysis as an inability to move, and react, but you had very much moved: you turned and watched the door close.
Hadn’t you?
You paused there, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as that thought settled in. You could picture it, yes, the door, the lock clicking, but when you tried to hold onto it, the memory blurred at the edges. It was like trying to remember a dream too long after waking up.
It’s alright… go to sleep…
More hours of research passed and the afternoon wore itself thin, your eyes burned from the screen, your head aching with the weight of too much information that somehow still didn’t feel like enough.
Sleep paralysis, night terrors, hallucinations. It all sounded right but it all still felt wrong. It was all real, it had to have been. You weren’t crazy.
That evening, he came again. The knock was the same as it always is, mechanic; at a perfect rhythm. It nearly unnerved you at times, Kirsh unnerved you at times.
He had the small paper cup in his hands.
“Kirsh,” you started immediately, the resistance coming quicker than it did in the early afternoon. “I slept well last night, I’m fine. I don’t need—”
“You’re sleeping well because of the pills,” he interrupted, certain in a way that didn’t leave space for argument. He nudged the cup toward you, a small, insistent motion. “Take them.”
And there it was again, that subtle shift in the air between you two, a certain something that pressed down just enough to make refusal feel…complicated. Saying no seemed to require more effort now. You wanted to argue with him, you needed to argue with him, you could even feel it somewhere in you but it never reached your mouth, or maybe it disappeared before it could. Was that the same thing? So you didn’t fight.
You just took the cup, swallowed the pills without complaint, and let him leave without another word.
You thought, briefly, that you might have irritated him. The idea lingered just long enough to sting before it slipped away, dulled by the slow fog already beginning to creep back in. You didn’t hold onto it, for your thoughts were already winding with a devising plan.
If Kirsh didn’t believe you, and much, much worse, if you were starting not to believe yourself, then you needed proof.
As a teenager, you had loved horror movies, loved them in that reckless, childish way where fear was something you chased for the thrill of it. You and your friends huddled under blankets in dark rooms, daring each other not to look away as the screen flashed and jump scared you.
You couldn’t remember the title, couldn’t remember the actors, the plot, the ending (well…maybe that was a lie. The endings were what stuck with you, weren’t they?), you couldn’t remember much these days. But you did remember a single idea, lodged stubbornly in your mind like it had been waiting for this exact moment. Who knew, maybe it was. God worked in mysterious ways.
Powder spread across the floor so you could see the footsteps of something that could not be seen.
It sounded ridiculous now but you were running out of better ideas and you were tired. So, so tired. It seemed to you, a depleted, mentally broken thing, that it was the best option in such short notice. Was it hero’s luck that you happened to have baby powder in the forgotten depth of your bathroom cupboard? It was a pleasant thought, the implication that you were lucky, but really, you didn’t have it in you to believe it.
And there you were, moment later, shaking the bottle with unsteady hands. White dust spilled out in uneven bursts, coating the ground around your bed, spreading farther than you meant it to. It puffed into the air, settled into the cracks of the floor. Suddenly, you were a little girl again, sneaking into the kitchen to spill your mother’s flour everywhere and play in it.
By the time the pills started to pull at your mind, you had turned your room into a pale, artificial winter, and you crawled into bed.
You don’t remember closing your eyes.
-
Kirsh stood in your open doorway, posture composed with his hands tucked inside his pant pockets as he took in the totality of the white powdery mess behold. Something incredibly unimpressed was carved into his synthetic face. You were quite thorough with it, making sure to coat every square inch of your bedroom floor leading to all sides of your bed. You even had it on your small rug in the center of the room. There wasn’t a clean path left, not a single inch of untouched ground. It was abundantly clear that there was no place for his foot to land without imprint.
Clever girl.
He clicked his tongue, head cocked to the side as he contemplated his next course of actions. Competing directives presented themselves then stalled—exit environment, leave subject alone, withdraw—indeed they were solutions, but they were the kind of solutions that implied cowardice. He considered the alternative.
So, he did as any sane man would not do, and simply walked on in, gently closing the door behind him. Though Kirsh was not a man, the closest thing he had to morality was the system regulations and restrictions that he was actively rewriting. The soles of his shoes left compressed shapes on the floor with each step he took towards your sleeping form. Though, at this point, with him upping your dosage, you were beyond sleeping, you truly were, much more than the previous night, half-dead. Nearly drooling there on your pillow.
The bed sank slightly beneath his weight as he sat beside you. His gaze lingered on you, unmoving, logging, committing the image to memory.
Then his hand lifted. Your blanket had slipped down at some point, bunched loosely around your hips, exposing the bare skin of your thigh. The pads of his fingers met your skin with a softness that was almost testing. He traced along the plane of your upper leg, the touch light at first, barely there as he gauged your response or lack thereof. The pressure shifted incrementally, his touch growing more certain, more grounded as it continued, no longer tentative but not rough either. Soon, he was grabbing your legs, squeezing, massaging. His other hand grabbed the blanket and moved it entirely off your body.
You did not stir, your breathing remained slow and even, your face slack with the weight of sleep and the medication that kept you under, but something did move anyway: your hand lifted sluggishly, delayed, the rogue signal forcing its way through layers of sedation before your body obeyed. Your fingers brushed forward until they found him, and then they closed around his arm. You pulled him closer, enough to narrow the space between you until it nearly disappeared. And who was he? If not willing to crawl atop your sleeping body? If not willing to lower his hand into your pyjama shorts? And who were you? If not a sleeping beauty?
It occurred to Kirsh then, his fingers, tentative yet deliberate, traced the outside of your panties, exploring the damp fabric that separates him from your most intimate parts, that if he were truly your knight in shining armour, then he would have to give you the true loves kiss, or at least his equivalent of one, but maybe Kirsh was just trying too hard at being romantic, (was this not romantic?) maybe he was just making up excuses. The wetness had begun to seep through and his fingers found the edge of your panties, tracing the lace, dipping slightly into the space where your thigh met your hip. His touch was gentle, so very gentle, because you were a gentle thing.
His fingers hooked under the fabric, and with a slow, cautious movement, he moved them aside. He could feel your body responding to him, your breath coming in short shallow gasps, your heart rate climbing. Then, his fingers found you, tracing your folds, exploring, learning, as if he had all the time in the world. You were so soft—velvet and warm, the warmest thing he had ever touched. Perfect.
He logged every sensation, every slide of his finger, every furrow of your brow. He took his time with you. His fingers stroked effortlessly, the wetness that has gathered at your core acting as a lubricant, making each touch divine. You were divine. A creature of angelic-ness trapped inside something as disheartening as a human body. An Xenomorph that could not escape one’s chest, left to rot behind organic ribs and die. In a way, you were as sad as you were beautiful. As grotesque as you were broken.
So, it only made that sense that in order to touch you, the real you, he had to be inside you.
Kirsh’s synthetic fingers, slick with your arousal, finally dipped within you and immediately, he felt your body stretching to accommodate him. A gasp slipped from your sleeping mouth. He was watching you so intensely, his eyes locked onto your face, gauging your lack of expression, your subtle, twitchy reactions. He started with one finger, then added another, stretching you, filling you. Your body clenched around him, your muscles tightening as, even in sleep, you adjusted to the invasion. He started to move, his fingers sliding in and out of you in a steady rhythm, studying every ridge inside you, logging every re-entry.
Kirsh leaned down, his lips ghosting your neck as his inhaled deep, logging your scent once more, his digits still moving inside you.
You smelt different this time. Your pheromones became more prominent, clinging to the surface of your skin like a sheen of sweat. Oh, how sweet you were.
Your eyes fluttered open then, hazy and blinking as you struggled to adjust to what was happening, still out of it, your mind somewhere adjacent to your body. “Kirsh…” you muttered, your words slipping into a soft pitiful moan as he curled his fingers again, stroking the inside of you.
He lifted his head to meet your gaze, face straight, no emotion in sight. He logged what he had found. “Shh…” he murmured, the pads of his fingers pressing into your inner walls. You arched slightly, as much as your sedated body would allow.
“Am I…” you could barely speak, barely keep your eyes open, “this…dream…?”
He nodded, moving down again to smell your collarbone, moving his muzzle down to your chest. He couldn’t get enough of you. “Sweet dream…” he purred, his words half muffled against your warm skin. In that moment, Kirsh couldn’t even tell if he was confirming your half asleep suspicions or if he was speaking his thoughts for the first time since his creation.
You were so special.
He lifted his head and laid a kiss on your forehead. (See? Kirsh was romantic). He imagined what it would be like to have genuine sex with you, to take his most intimate parts and unite them with yours, though it would not be making love, Kirsh could not understand the process of sustained emotional attunement. It required patience, reciprocity, and the capacity to regulate another’s vulnerability; functions he did not possess, nor could reliably simulate beyond superficial approximation. Having sex took honesty, and if Kirsh peeled back his mask, he would not be making love, he would be, because no other accurate language presented itself to him, fucking you.
A soft moan escaped your lips, a sound that was equal parts pleasure, surrender and confusion, eyes fluttering closed, your head falling back onto the pillow, your body relaxing. He took that movement of yours as an invitation, his digits moving with more urgency now, finding a rhythm that had you crying. You were so tired, so groggy, half-there moans filling the room as thickly as the powder coated your floors.
"Look at me," he gently commanded. You opened your eyes, your gaze meeting his as his thumb found that sensitive nub, applying pressure, pushing you closer to the edge.
A whine brushed past your lips, a sound that got lost or caught in a lengthy moan as his fingers curved, finding that special, special spot inside you. He could feel your peak approaching. All signs pointed towards it; your body tensed. your breath came in more erratic, short gasps, the muscles of your thighs twitched. He knew you were close, so he increased his pace, his fingers moving in and out of you, curling deeper, his thumb circling your clit.
You were whimpering now, your body writhing, your hips trying so hard to move in time with his touch but you just simply couldn’t. You were paralyzed. By pleasure? by medication? by paralysis? you didn’t know. Was this real? Surely you were dreaming, like he said. Kirsh knew best.
You cried out a raw human sound, your muscles clenching around Kirsh's fingers as the orgasm washed over you. It was overwhelming for you, a depleted thing, a sensation that left you looking far more dead than you previously were, your body trembling.
>>image logged.
>>>SWEET_DREAM_PERFECTION_001.jpeg
Kirsh's touch slowed, his digits leaving your body, leaving you feeling empty and weak, and you blink, your eyelids heavy, your body languid. And then, just like that, as quickly as you came around his fingers, you're gone, your consciousness drifting back away, leaving you in a state of peaceful, contented sleep.
Kirsh then moved your panties back to their rightful place, adjusted your shorts and sat up, moving the blanket back as it was. A single hand remained overtop the blanket, offering your leg a few comforting pats, something that he’d seen Dame do as a measure of soothing, though they were more absent minded than anything else as his gaze drifted aimlessly around your room, sweeping across the faux winter tundra. He sucked on his teeth.
What a mess.
-
It took you a long time to open your eyes after you woke up. Everything dragged and resisted as though you weren’t even in your body yet. Your eyes stayed closed long after your disjointed thoughts began to surface, crawling their way out of a depth that felt otherworldly.
Your dream lingered there (Kirsh..?), fading away and away like the stars had. You longed to remember it, longed to understand your mind like you used to but something in it had persevered. You were in the midst of metamorphosis. Were you slipping back to reality? Or were you clinging to fantasy? Fantasy. That hadn’t felt like the right word, it was something closer to void.
You were empty in this transition.
Sunbeams fractured through your window, kissing your face with the heat of the morning. Birds were singing outside your window again, calling to you. Or were they mocking you? Were you still dreaming?
Wake up.
When you finally managed to pry your eyes open, your body snapped forward with realization and you crawled to the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the sheets as you leaned over, peering down toward the floor.
Your heart sank.
“Wha—” The word broke apart as soon as it left you, your voice choking on itself, tears already burning behind your eyes before you could even understand why. “Oh, no, no, no—”
You threw the blanket off yourself, stumbling off the bed, feet hitting the floor.
It was gone. No residue caught in the seams of the wood, none clinging to the rug where it should have stubbornly remained. All of it. Gone.
It was gone.
You turned in place, scanning again, slower this time, like maybe you’d missed it, maybe the shadows in the room were just different and your eyes need another minute to adjust, but it was fruitless. How? How was that possible? Your thoughts stumbled over themselves, trying to assemble something coherent. Did you even put it down? You did, didn’t you? Yes! Yes, you did?
You could see the bottle in your hand, the powder spilling out, coating the floor, drifting into the air, settling around your bed. You remembered kneeling there, making a mess of it. You remembered that, though now you were beginning to remember it like a dream, and you were slowly forgetting it like a dream.
If it was gone, if there was nothing left, then had it never been there at all?
Your hands rose to your temples, fingers pressing in as if you could force clarity out of yourself.
You weren’t crazy.
Right?
Work didn’t cross your mind for the rest of the morning. Nothing did. Time unraveled around you as though it hadn’t existed, while you remained fixed in the center of your room, staring down at the floor, your thoughts looping in suffocating circles.
How could something feel so certain and look so wrong?
You tried to hold onto the memory, to square it down into something proof worthy, but every time you reached for it, it was cloudy. The more you examined it, the less it resembled something real. Your chest stayed tight, your stomach hollowed out, your skin prickling with the lingering sense that something had happened, but you couldn’t prove it.
You didn’t notice the light in the room shifting as the sun crawled further up into the sky until you heard the distant knocking at your door and even then, you couldn’t bring yourself to move. The knock came again, then again, repeating until it started to press into your awareness. You heard the soft click as the door opened.
Kirsh’s head appeared first, nearly cautious. His eyes swept the room before landing on you, and something in his posture shifted as he took you in. “I apologize for barging in like this,” he said, stepping inside. “I have a master key for all the rooms in cases of emergencies…” His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to suggest concern. “…is everything alright? You hadn’t shown up to work.”
You blinked at him, a breath passed between you and a sob forced its way out before you could stop it. Your hands came up instinctively, covering your face like you could hide from him. “Something is wrong,” you managed, voice shaking, panic threading through every syllable. “With—with me, or—or with… with here—”
“Calm down,” Kirsh said, already moving closer, his tone steady, controlled in a way that could always anchor you. You were safe. “What’s happened?”
“I—I…” Your throat tightened. You couldn’t tell if it was your mind failing you or your body refusing to cooperate anymore. “I’m not crazy…”
Kirsh’s expression shifted, a facsimile of confusion painting his visage. “You’re not crazy?” he repeated, as if testing the shape of it.
Something in you snapped. your hands dropped from your face and your eyes locked onto his, wide, swollen and red. You stumbled toward him suddenly, desperate. “I—I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy, Kirsh!” you cried, “I laid the powder everywhere and—and it’s all—”
The words collapsed in your throat before it could exist. Your gaze dropped without your permission, pulled downward by something instinctive, something knowing (God worked in mysterious ways), and landed on his shoes.
A thin white dusting clung to the edge of his left shoe, caught in the crease near the sole. The same soft, pale powder that had, once upon a time, coated your bedroom floor. The same substance you had spread with shaking hands, desperate for proof.
Proof. There was proof.
But it was on him.
You stared at it. You didn’t call him last night, he didn’t come over after you put the powder down, you knew it. You were positive. Kirsh was your friend. You could trust him. Kirsh knew best.
Sleep paralysis, maybe.
The human brain is…inventive when vulnerable.
You’re alright… go to sleep.
The medication makes you drowsy. Drowsiness makes you confused.
You’re sleeping well because of the pills…take them.
Horror came quiet but all the more sudden, folding in on itself as it wrapped around your heart and squeezed, tighter and tighter, until your breath hitched and for a second you were certain you felt something pop behind your ribs.
Sweet dream…
The memory slipped back into at that moment, his voice, and for the first time, not just that, but the image of him as well. Overtop your body, looking down at you, smelling you, inside you. It was a dream. It was a dream. It was a dream. It wasn’t real. It didn’t actually happen. It couldn’t have. Kirsh wouldn’t do that. He was your friend. You could trust him. Right? Right?
Your mouth went dry and reluctantly, your gaze dragged itself back up and met his eyes.
That same soft smile rested on his face, the one he used to help comfort you, the one that always reminded you he was trying to be human, trying to be something feeling for you. It used to flatter you so much, the idea that Kirsh was as putting effort towards comforting you. The smile was perfectly placed on his face, untouched by what you had just discovered, but now it looked more synthetic than human. Too practiced, too perfect and too symmetrical to be anything but an unfeeling machine.
He tilted his head, “perhaps you dreamt it?”
Your body reacted before thought could intervene. You slapped him. Hard. His head careened to the side, face unmoving, solely unaffected by your little act of defiance. He raised a single amused brow and cocked his head back at you, the ghost of a simper curling into the corner of his mouth.
Was he trying not to laugh?
“Why didn’t you tell me it was you?!” Your own words surprised you, not because of the octave of which you shouted it, or the anger that spat them out, but because of the implication behind them.
Why didn’t you tell me it was you? Because if I knew, I never would have been scared.
Was it true? Even now, after knowing the truth, your fear had somehow subdued. It was just Kirsh…you could trust him. He knew best.
You think he caught onto the implication as well, his eyes narrowed, the idea of his simper washed away and his head titled further to the side again. Something they told you he was doing that thing of his: analyzing you, studying you, reading into you.
He stepped closer and his hands rose slowly until they were on your face, cupping it with a firmness that didn’t quite hurt but made it clear you weren’t meant to move. You flinched, a soft recoil under his touch, and even when body reacted, it didn’t follow through.
You hadn’t realized you were still crying until his thumbs brushed beneath your eyes in methodical strokes, wiping away the tears that had continued. You could tell he did it not because he cared, it more so felt like removing dust off an old picture to get a better look at it. One thumb lifted, and you watched as he brought it to his lips. He did the same with the other, just as unbothered, before both hands returned to your face like nothing unusual had just occurred at all.
Your heart stuttered. This wasn’t him. Not the version of him you knew, not the one you had trusted, the one who spoke softly and stood as your handsome knight in shining amour. Had he always been like this? Had you failed to see it? Was this real? Were you awake?
You tried to pull back, to put space between you and whatever this version of him was, but his hands tightened immediately, fingers pressing into your skin with enough force to stop you completely. “No,” he said, “don’t move.” His grip adjusted, angling your head upward, forcing your gaze to meet his properly, “just like that…” he murmured.
He didn’t say anything else after that. He just stared, focusing on you in an invasive way, and then something flickered in his eyes, gone almost as soon as it appeared. Did he just take your picture?
You should fear him, you should be terrified that the man who comforted you, helped you sleep, drugged you, touched you, was here holding you now, taking your picture, logging you, but you weren’t. Damn it all, you weren’t. You were, what you still couldn’t entirely comprehend, what you could only see in a hazy reverie, flattered. Because Kirsh did not do any of this without precedent. Maybe you were crazy, delusional and maladjusted, because knowing Kirsh did all of this, because he, in his own distorted way, loved you, was the highest form of praise you could ever get from a synthetic. Right? Kirsh loved you, right? This was real, right?
With a shaking hand, you reached up and touched his cheek, testing the contact cautiously, before you laid your palm flat against him. He squinted at you curiously, almost confusingly, not necessarily flinching like you had but something like it. He relaxed nonetheless, letting you do your thing, whatever it was.
“Why me?” You asked, your voice a fragile thing.
He gave you a strange look, lowering his hands from your face. “Why not you?” He replied, not as though he had chosen you simply because, but rather there was no reason not to have chosen you. You were perfect, you were special, you were everything others were not. Why not you?
Oh, fuck it—
You surged forward, the motion desperate as your hands dug into his jaw, pulling him to meet you half way. Your lips collided into his, frantic like you were trying to prove reality than just simply feel it.
Kirsh responded immediately, seamlessly, his mouth parting with a readiness so smooth, so willing, that it sent a sharp coldness down your spine as you pressed closer. He accepted the kiss as it was, as if this had been the outcome he’d seen coming, maybe even hoping for. There was no version of him, the careful, measured, cool and collected, distant Kirsh you knew, that would respond like this. No logical path that could ever possibly lead to here, to him devouring your mouth with a desperation that could only mean somewhere, deep deep inside that plastic, synthetic chest of his, he might have been human, perhaps even something adjacent.
His hand came around your waist and pulled you with him as he stepped backward, guiding taking dragging you toward the bed. You pulled back. Or, tried to. He did not allow it. His hold tightened, overriding your weak, human motion with ease.
So you forced it. You tore your head back, breaking the contact, your breath ripping up from your throat. “Wait—wait—” The words stumbled out of you. More tears spilled from your eyes at the same time and you didn’t even know why you were crying anymore. “Is—“ you choked, “is this real?”
He considered your inquiry, eyes roaming over your face before landing back on your gaze, “would you like it to be?” He asked, it was not the response you were hoping for. You felt yourself nod before you could fully understand it. “Then yes,” he answered with a single nod, “it’s real.”
“Do you…do you promise?”
He paused.
“No.”
A sob tore through you, splintering into something raw before it could finish, before it could complete itself, it turned into a sudden gasp as his grip on you shifted and he twisted you with a force that scared you. You barely had time to react, no time to think, before you were thrown face first into the bed. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs. He was rough, tossing you about like you had once threw out a toy you no longer wanted to play with, but Kirsh very much intended to play with you, so maybe it wasn’t entirely the same.
His hands grabbed your hips before you had chance to adjust and he yanked you up (up and at ‘em! Daylight in the swamp!). Your shorts came off next, your underwear along with it. It all happened so quick, the same way one second you’re in a room then the next you’re at a concert while dreaming (this was a dream. this was a dream. this was a dream). One second you were listening to the clinking of his belt, trying to move (to leave? To get comfortable? To wake up? To sleep?) and the next he was sheathing himself inside you with no warning, no easing into it.
And it felt spectacular.
His grip on your hips should have been enough to decommission him as he pulled you back to meet his thrusts. You felt the hard length of him sliding inside you, a rough friction that your body responded instinctively to, arching like a bow, pressing back against him. A moan (or a cry?) tore from your throat, muffled by the mattress beneath you, a sound of pure, unadulterated need.
Even Kirsh made a sound, one you couldn’t understand or read into. But a sound indeed. Was he enjoying this? Enjoying you?—Were you dreaming?—wake up.
You could feel the coldness of him, the inhumane power as he thrusted into you. Your body stretched to accommodate him, a sweet, agonizing sensation that made your toes curl. It hadn’t mattered what was real, if this was actually happening, all that mattered, truly, was how it felt, how Kirsh felt inside you, as though he had always belonged there, hitting each and every single spot that made you mewl aloud for him.
His hand found your neck, urging you into a deeper arch as he leaned back to meet your strained head. His lips found the conjunction between the base of your neck and your shoulder, and though you wish he had kissed you, even licked you, he did neither. No, as his hips snapped forward into you, claiming you in all but name, he inhaled deeply, smelling you so intensely that for a second, you wondered if he truly were an animal.
But Kirsh was no animal, he was no man, he was a synthetic, a vile, vile synthetic.
His head dipped further, moving along your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, your hair, anything and everything he could smell, he did. All the while his thrusts never relented, slamming into you. The foreign feeling of roughness from Kirsh was enough to fracture your already altered perception of reality.
His hand squeezed around your throat, angling your head back towards him in a way where all it would take is a flick of his wrist to snap your neck. But he did not do that, he did not kill you, he chose instead, to fuck you. Which, in its own way, was a flavour of death. Or perhaps it was rebirth. Neither of you could tell anymore.
You clenched around him, feeling your orgasm approach. “K—Kirsh—ah—“
“Shh, shh…” he murmured in your ear, treacly, his breath surprisingly hot against you, “sleeping beauty’s don’t speak.” Was Kirsh incubus? It was certainly plausible, though what you deemed plausible had long lost its validity by now.
The climb of pure enlightenment had by now taken over your senses, you were a babbling baby, trying to speak but making only noises, drunk on his synthetic cock. Kirsh, too, made more noise of his own, though far more subtle than you. Even now, he was a man of privacy and modesty. (The irony and hypocrisy of that statement spoke for itself).
The knot in your stomach tightened and tightened, and you were nothing but sack of meat and bones then, your consciousness floating just short of your body, and the powerful orgasm surged through you. You wailed, a sound no synthetic could ever mimic no matter how hard they tried, a sound that was solely unique to humans, as you contracted around him, riding the pleasurable wave as though it were painful. And it was, Kirsh fucked into you even harder as you came around him, the sound of your skin slapping filling the room.
When it was finally over, he slipped out of you, leaving you empty, broken, depleted and barely conscious. You slinked back to the mattress, curling into a little ball overtop your blankets, breaths soothing you into a slumber of much needed rest.
Kirsh stood back, tucked himself back into his pants, fastened his belt, and adjusted his collars. His eyes found you again as he fixed the sleeves of his jacket, returning his appearance back to how it must always be, and you were already asleep, or maybe you always were. He rounded the bed, grabbed your blanket and covered you up then, after a moments consideration, his hand found your sleeping head and petted your hair, a mimic of comfort. He logged the image of you (red, wet faced, tangled hair, swollen lips, optimal), and let out a contended sigh at the sight.
I propose Weird!Kirsh and reader but with holding/omo. If you don’t do watersports stuff that’s fine just ignore this lmao but ugh i love the thought of the sheet humiliation of it and the degradation he’d spit towards us for not being able to hold it because we’re obviously “just an animal”
Poor, pathetic animal.
summary — Kirsh takes too much pride in bullying you.
pairings — weird!kirsh x reader
warnings — watersports, fingering, dd/lg undertones, degradation, humiliation, orgasm denial, mean!kirsh, racism (Kirsh hates humans/mocks reader for being human), this is not tame lmao literally porn without plot.
word count — 1.8k
a/n — I have never written watersports before… but this request just really got me thinking because it’s 1000% weird kirsh coded. So, hopefully I do this request justice.
“Kirsh—“
“Shh, shh. You’re okay.”
“But, I—“ you writhed under him, in nothing but your pyjamas (a oversized t shirt and a pair of soft green panties), so exposed, so vulnerable. Your bladder was firm inside you, begging for release and there Kirsh was, a barricade. “Kirsh, I have to go.” you whined.
“Oh, you do, don’t you?” He was mocking you. This did not come as a surprise to you, Kirsh always somehow found one way or another to mock you for the simplest, human things. You have to cook for over an hour just to eat for ten minutes? Poor you. You’re tired because you didn’t sleep well last night? What a shame. You have a bruise? You’ve caught the cold? What a weak little thing you are. You’re sweating because you’re stressed? You’re as sad as you are pathetic.
And you were pathetic. That’s why Kirsh bullied you so much.
He was pinning you down on your bed, holding you still as you tried with all your might to get up and make a b line for the washroom, but he did not let up. You were begging him going on for what must have been twenty minutes. You won’t be able to hold it much longer now. You knew that. Kirsh knew that.
You were a mess, a poor, poor mess. But this is what you got for not listening, you never listened. Kirsh told you, specifically, not to drink all your water in one sitting. So, what did you do? Precisely not that. Now, you were reaping what you had sown as Kirsh taught you his lesson. You had to pee so badly it hurt. You pressed your thighs together, squirming, clenching, trying to do anything that could prevent the onslaught.
“You’re fine.” Kirsh was nearly rolling his eyes at you, a sad, sorry thing, as though you were only being dramatic, “you can hold it.”
“No, no, no—“ you were already crying, you had been for awhile, so so scared for the worst, “not anymore! Kirsh please!”
“Shhhh…”
Kirsh was cruel, you knew that by now, but you didn’t know he was cruel enough to lower his down to settle against your lower tummy with a gentleness you knew better than to believe, before deliberately pushing down on you.
Your breath hitched. Your startled eyes widened like little tiny black holes in your head and you kicked your feet beneath him in small frantic movements, panicking now as he applied even more pressure to your bladder. “Kirsh, no, no, stop, I can’t—“
“You can.”
He pushed more.
“Stop, please—!”
A little more…
“Listen to yourself,” he tilted his head at you, eyes squinting in scrutiny, mouth curling ever so slightly into an amused, or maybe satisfied simper. “I thought you were a grown adult…and yet you sound like a petulant little child. You might as well be one of the hybrids…”
“Kirsh—“
“But, you’re not, are you?” He completely ignored all your please, pushing more and more, “you’re human. Weak, sad, vulnerable, feeling—“
“I—oh, no…”
You couldn’t help yourself any longer, couldn’t hold it in anymore. The cry you let out reflected all of which he had just said, weak, sad, vulnerable…Your face burned (burned) as the pressure gave way, as the wet warmth of your pee unfurled itself treacherously, spilling outward with a humiliating rush. It spread through the fabric of your panties, seeped into him, into the sheets, into everything as your body betrayed you in the most irrevocable way. Shame covered every inch of you, and Kirsh soaked in it. This was exactly what he had wanted, to make you break, to bathe in your humiliation. He was cruel, he was vile, yet still, he was entirely, hopelessly devoted to you. He lingered in the wetness, gazing down at you in a way that could have been reverence if you didn’t know any better, as if you were something exquisite, exquisite only by his design, that is.
He always made you feel this way. Did you hate to love him? Or did you love to hate him? He had always brought you to this precipice. Sometimes it felt like maybe even Kirsh didn’t know what he wanted from you. But at least, right now in this moment, he seemed pretty fucking satisfied, and that’s all you could ever ask for, even at the cost of your pride.
“There you go,” he murmured, his hand slipping from your stomach down to your thighs, dragging slowly through the mess you’d made. “Do you feel better? Hmm?” His fingers didn’t falter in the slightest as they soaked themselves in your pee, rubbing it into your thighs. It was obscene, disturbingly so, as he touched you so casually. Still, he showed no disgust, if anything he showed some fascination if you looked close enough, almost like the wetness and filth were something to observe, feel and understand rather than shy away from.
You sobbed, turning your red face away from him. You couldn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say. Yes, thank you? I’m sorry? You wanted to die right there, you were so embarrassed.
“It’s alright,” he told you, his voice doing that thing where he’s pretending to soft and gentle and caring, the sort of voice he put on for Darcy before she became Wendy. You hated it. He knew you hated it. “You couldn’t help yourself,” his hand drifted back up, fingers running along your soaked panties, “human or not, at the end of the day, you’re just an animal…” his fingers pressed into your clothed clit, you jolted in surprise, but didn’t try to squirm away. Your body simply gave, it was nothing but pliable to his whim now, you no longer had any fight left in you. “Animals make messes sometimes,”
Your eyes slowly found his again, wet and swollen like the bundle of nerves he circled this thumb over. “I…I’m sorry…”
“They make big messes,” he continued, disregarding your little feeble voice. His fingers moved then, pushing your panties over to the side before they returned back to you, sliding through your folds. He jaw clenched and unclenched followed by a quick faint shift in his posture, something that could suggest surprise, a small stutter. “You’re so warm…” he admitted with a hearty sigh, dropping his head to gaze down at where his hand met you, watching his fingers slide up and down, growing slicker with each caress. “And very wet,” he looked back at you near smugly, “in a way that does not account for your mess. Animals are so easy to please, aren’t they?”
You moaned softly, closing your eyes to embrace the feeling of his fingers. You jerked your hips softly into his hand, desperate and needy.
“You really are just an animal, aren’t you?” His fingers finally dipped inside you, and a gasp slipped from your lips, arching into him. Your hands shot up to his shoulders, anchoring yourself. “A filthy animal,” he muttered, leaning down to press into the croak of your neck. He inhaled, smelling you deeply, then his lips found your ear, “making filthy”—he curled his fingers—“messes.”
You gasped sharply, “Kirsh—“
“That’s enough out of you.” He muttered, smelling your jaw, then back down to your neck, your collarbone, all the while his fingers pumped and curled, finding a rhyme he knew was perfect for you. “No sense in trying to regain your pride. We both know you have none.”
You whined a pitiful whine, hands moving to his back at an attempt to pull him closer, your hips jerking into his slick hand. “Ugh, fuck—“
He grunted as you tugged at him, unimpressed. Suddenly, with no build up or preparation, he began pumping his fingers faster, curling them deeper, even sitting up on his knees, his other free hand finding its home at your throat. “What did I just say?”
You mewled, clenching around him, biting your lip at an attempt to stay quiet, but it just felt sooo good, he knew exactly where all your sweet spots where, knew exactly how to touch you, how to speak to you. It was all too much, something less yet at the same time, more human all at once. Were you dying? Metamorphosing?
He perked a brow at you, “you’re going to come already? You held your bladder longer than this.”
The humiliation by now was a tool of your enlightenment, acting as the ladder in which you climbed, the ladder Kirsh made you climb. You were so close, so embarrassed, so wet. And he just kept curling his fingers inside you, massaging your walls, coaxing you, mocking you.
The sounds that came from between your legs as Kirsh pumped his digits in and out of you were as lewd as the noises you made, as embarrassing as the soaked sheets beneath your body made you, but you didn’t care anymore, the pleasure was too exquisite to think of anything but his fingers inside you.
“c—can I…?” You muttered, scared to speak.
“Can you?” Kirsh repeated, his movements unrelenting. He gave you a look of pity, something that was a beneath him, a dying baby animal, “no.”
You wailed, your tears wetting your face just like your pee wet Kirsh, your body shaking with the effort of holding back. You were a shaking, needy mess, and Kirsh was the one holding the reins, the one controlling your pleasure, your release. You didn’t know what to do, what to think, what to feel.
“Please—“
“Shh…” he loved shushing you.
You were so close, so so close, and yet, you were not allowed to let go. It was torture. Plain and simple. Kirsh watched you, his expression unreadable but you could tell he was enjoying this, enjoying your torment, your desperation, enjoyed making an animal out of you then mocking you for it.
You took a deep, shuddering breath. “Please…please let me come…please…”
“Why should I?” He asked, completely unbothered, no breath out of place as his fingers worked you like a puppet. “You need to learn. I told you not to drink all that water and you didn’t listen. I told you to hold it and you didn’t listen. Can you listen if I tell you not to come? Or will that be another rule you break?”
You tried to find your voice, to form a coherent argument, but all that came out was a whimper. And when his fingers curled and touched that sweet spot inside you again, you lost all control. You couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop it.
You cry out, pained and heartbroken, as your body convulsed, your muscles clenching around his fingers. You came hard, your orgasm ripping through you like the disappointment that flashes across Kirsh’s face. You didn’t know what wounded you more.
You panted, your body covered in a fine sheen of sweat and pee, your mind still spinning. You look up at Kirsh, your eyes filled with a mix of humiliation and shame. "I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Please don’t be mad. I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean to.”
He sighed, his fingers stilling inside you. His hand removed itself from your neck and came up to cup your face. He tisked his tongue, scornful and almost dismissive. “You poor, pathetic animal…”
