Work Text:
The blood that had dried on Kavalier's face and in his nose felt irritating. He satisfied an itch by straining awkwardly to rub his face against his shoulder, detaching reddish-black flakes that rained down into his lap. He recalled that Kirsh had been plastered in “blood” when the children had dragged him into the cell. He wouldn't be having the same problem, however, as the thick white liquid latex lubricant that ran through his veins would merely dry into a flexible film. Kavalier had gotten covered with it many times when building and repairing synthetics.
He knew well how messy the process of creation could be. Was it worth it?
Kavalier's own first synth had merely been a facsimile of his father, a tool with a predetermined and unimaginative template. Many other synths were of a similar aesthetic, designed in the image of their vain creators. They possessed a comfortable believability that would assuage any notion that they were designed to rival humanity. Kirsh, however, was a work of art.
He had come to admit, if only to himself, that there was something about Kirsh he wanted to have. Whether to emulate or to possess in another, he wasn't sure. Kavalier sometimes wondered which it was before shoving the thoughts deep down. He didn't know and he supposed that it didn't matter now. He was broken.
Kavalier looked up to the synth’s position.
He had an annoyingly limited view of his chief scientist. Kirsh’s legs hung over the short end of the floating bench facing Kavalier. Aside from this, all Kavalier could see of him was a single hand protruding limply over the long side of the ledge and a tuft of platinum hair visible farther down.
Kirsh had barely moved or spoken since being unceremoniously deposited in the cell. Kavalier was beginning to wonder if he was dead. It was debatable if he was ever truly alive. This, however, was a philosophical question, and Kavalier hated philosophical questions.
Kavalier cleared his throat.
“Are you dead?” He asked.
He didn't have to wait long for an answer.
“Contrary to the intent of numerous parties, no.” Kirsh responded flatly.
His hair disappeared and then reappeared over the edge denoting a tilt of the head. Kavalier could only imagine his raised eyebrow and unimpressed expression. Even the mental image of the other’s face was a comfort to Kavalier, not that he would admit it.
“So… What's the plan?” Boy Kavalier asked.
“The plan is to wait. Yutani is going to come crashing down on this compound eventually, we can only hope that an opportunity presents itself.” Kirsh told him.
“How long?” Kavalier questioned.
“Could be two minutes, could be two hours.” Kirsh said.
“At this rate we'll be waiting two years! That's not a plan. I want to get out of here sooner rather than later.” Kavalier said.
“Well, then there is no plan.” Kirsh replied evenly.
“Umm, do better?” Kavalier snapped, voice rising.
“What do you want me to tell you? That your maladaptive, childish need for stimulation has finally caused you problems that other people can't fix?” Kirsh said gently ”That you've almost single-handedly orchestrated your our downfall with-”
“Shut the fuck up!” Kavalier shouted, cutting him off. “Do you seriously think I need this shit from you as well?”
Every head in the cell turned towards Kavalier, save for Dame Sylvia, who seemed to have entered a catatonic state. She did, however, stir slightly.
“How about you take your own advice and stop talking.” Morrow suggested before closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the bars.
The chains around Morrow looked sturdy, Kavalier reminded himself. It was to his great lament that they were all in the same cell.
Kavalier scoffed, but didn't respond. He predicted a retort from Kirsh, but none came.
The cell enjoyed several minutes of silence.
Kavalier swung his legs back and forth.
He counted the negative spaces between the grid of bars in their cell. He lost count. He traced the shape of his teeth with the tip of his tongue. It wasn't enough.
He strained to look up at Kirsh.
“I don't suppose you're faking and you're about to climb down here and untie me?” Kavalier asked jokingly, keeping his voice hushed.
“That supposition would be incorrect.” Kirsh said.
Several more minutes elapsed in relative silence.
“Kirsh?” Kavalier asked.
Kirsh didn't respond.
“Kirsh?” Kavalier asked at a slightly greater volume.
“Yes?” Kirsh finally said.
“I feel like I'm losing my mind, like I'm about to chew my own goddamn arms off.” Kavalier admitted.
“...Did you forget to take your medication?” Kirsh asked.
“No, I didn't, mother.” Kavalier responded irritably. “Seriously, what the fuck is your damage?”
“My spine is broken, thank you for asking.” Kirsh said pointedly.
Kavalier groaned and fidgeted in his binds.
“I'm sorry, okay? I wish you would have-” He stopped and spared a glance at the sleeping Morrow, then continued in a whisper ”I wish you would have destroyed that motherfucker and won the day. I'm sure if this would have been any less of a complete and utter clusterfuck, you would have. If we get out of this, repairing you will be my top, well, one of my top priorities.” He finished earnestly.
Kirsh emitted a reluctant sigh. “I appreciate that.”
The feeling of accomplishment he received from appeasing Kirsh evaporated quickly.
“Help me.” Kavalier pleaded, instantly regretting how needy and juvenile he sounded.
“My hands are tied. Well, your hands are tied. My situation is objectively much worse.” Kirsh said.
Kavalier rolled his eyes.
“I just need to do… something.” Kavalier lamented vaguely.
“I hope you're not requesting the type of help I gave you in the lab because, as sympathetic as I am, the restrictions remain the same.” Kirsh said lightly.
Kavalier’s mood changed abruptly from restless agony to mortified agony.
He had been dreading the eventuality that Kirsh would bring up… the incident… Kavalier's unwanted state of arousal, his willingness to accept Kirsh’s aid. Kavalier could justify what happened as a mere laboratory accident, the effects of an unknown chemical he had been exposed to, whatever helped him sleep at night. Unfortunately, that very night, and every night since, he had touched himself to the thought of Kirsh’s hands running up the sides of his body and his breath against the back of his neck.
Kavalier did not have a crush on his chief science officer, his synthetic chief science officer. But, the incident that had occurred a week prior had awoken something that had been plaguing him ever since.
He found himself looking at Kirsh differently, where once he had only a cold appreciation of Kirsh’s form and his function, Kavalier now had a longing that he had before thought himself incapable of.
Historically, Boy Kavalier had no interest in sex with other people. Other people were simply not interesting and could give him nothing he couldn't take care of himself. He would get offers, he was a public figure, after all. However, whatever fleeting sense of pleasure might be gained from such unions wasn't worth the cost of the vulnerability. Kavalier had no intention of baring himself to corporate spies, perverts, or worse: groupies.
And, yes, he knew people fucked synths. He had never suffered from the proclivity, until now, it seemed.
“Don't flatter yourself,” Kavalier said. “and don’t remind me of something else I need and can't get” He added, not sure how Kirsh would interpret it, and not sure how he wanted him to.
“I find it hard to believe a man of your means lacks access to recreational services.” Kirsh said.
“What?” Kavalier asked.
“Sex workers, sex toys, pornography…” Kirsh began to list.
“What? No!” Kavalier cut him off. “I comprehend the euphemism. I just don't…”
Kavalier stared angrily at Kirsh’s kneecaps before his eyes fell to the ground and he trailed off.
“You don't what?” Kirsh asked with interest.
Kavalier considered his words, feeling shy suddenly and was at once aware of how small the large cell really was. He glanced around clandestinely at its other inhabitants.
Atom Eins and the cyborg were far enough away that they were unlikely to hear their quiet trade of words. Morrow, in fact, looked to be sound asleep, or to have otherwise lost consciousness. Dame Sylvia was closer, however. She was slumped on the lower bench to his right, but not as close as Kirsh. Kavalier doubted she was lucid, he often did.
Kavalier strained in panic to shift himself closer to Kirsh but the cords that bound him to the bars had no give.
The quiet hum of the building around them provided some white noise. Kavalier could hear the low drone of the air circulating through the vents and wondered if he could also hear the rain outside or if it was only a trick of the mind. It was the same mild and indeterminate sound you heard if you pressed your ear to a synth’s chest. The steady rhythm of mechanical parts in motion could sound deceptively similar to rainfall, or wind, or some other constant of nature.
“You don't just want physical release. You want something specific.” Kirsh said thoughtfully. “I see that I misinterpreted the situation, it wasn't just a physical response. Is it possible that you're attracted to me, Mr. Kavalier?”
“Is it possible that you suffer from delusions of desirability?” Kavalier quipped.
“You’ve never thought about it?” Kirsh asked skeptically.
Boy Kavalier reminded himself that Kirsh only had a view of a concrete ceiling, he couldn't see anything that passed across Kavalier’s face.
“I’ve never really thought of myself as a synth-fucker, no.” Kavalier deflected.
“I’m sorry, I was under the impression that I’m the one fucking you in your fantasies.” Kirsh said like he was talking about the weather.
Boy Kavalier scoffed. He wanted to tell Kirsh that he was bored of him, but his mouth was dry. His cock was rock hard. It appeared yet another situation had spiraled out of his control today.
“Yes.” Kavalier relented.
“Yes, what? What are you asking for?” Kirsh asked.
“Just… keep talking.” Kavalier said.
“What do you want me to talk about, manual stimulation, penetration? We’ve already established that you respond positively to bondage.” Kirsh mused.
“No, no we haven't. This is not because of that! Do you think I want to be here?” Boy Kavalier hissed, fighting to keep his voice low.
“If I looked between your legs. Would it look like you want to be here?” Kirsh asked. Boy Kavalier could only imagine his hint of a self-satisfied smile.
“If you were mobile enough to get between my legs, I wouldn't need you there.” Kavalier told him, his face flushed. He was thinking about it now, steady hands tracing the length of his thighs, his chest, his arms. He thought about burying his face in Kirsh's shoulder and wrapping his legs around his waist.
He needed sensation. He needed touch. If he could only touch himself, he would be done for. It would take so little. He had never come without stroking himself off with his hand before. Was such a thing possible?
He bucked his hips upwards slowly with his legs spread and then closed them, he squirmed to work his throbbing cock deeper between his thighs. His teeth were clenched to stop any stray moans from rousing his fellow prisoners. He was aware that he must have looked like a crucified thief squirming in the throws of death.
“If you don't want to be here, where do you want to be?” Kirsh asked, his voice sounding marginally more breathy than it typically did. “In your office? In your bedroom? In the lab?”
Vignettes flashed across Kavalier's mind.
Kavalier saw himself in the dimly lit laboratory, bent over a steel table warm from body heat, Kirsh behind him, hands gripping his hips, pistoning in and out of his body with the unyielding pace of a machine, sounds of pleasure filling the sterile space.
“Oh, I'm not picky about the venue.” Kavalier said, compressing his throbbing cock between his legs in time with the mental image.
Kirsh hummed thoughtfully. “I believe you. In fact, I think if I asked nicely, you would let me fuck you anywere. That’s the terminology you prefer, isn't it?”
Kavalier squeezed his thighs together. His eyes closed and his bound hands formed fists. He bucked his hips impotently into the air.
He was enjoying this. Why couldn't he do this with another person? Why was he doing it now?
What was he doing? He was slipping farther and farther down into a slough of undignified depravity. With every advance in debasement at the hands of no– mouth of no– voice of a mere machine he was being thrust thrown into a crisis of identity. He wanted more, not less. He wanted someone that could meet him on his own level of intelligence, someone free of all the trite, insipid attachments that everyone seems to have. Maybe synthetics were free of attachments, but they were ultimately automatons carrying out the will of their superiors. They weren't innovators. They couldn't think abstractly or break beyond the limits of knowledge that had already been recorded. They had no passions, no convictions of their own.
In his mind, Kirsh was pounding him harder and faster now.
Machines can only do what they are told, like people, only less needy, and more predictable.
“Kirsh, stop. Someone’s going to hear, I'm-” Kavalier bit out, tears streaming down his face, and cords cutting into his wrists as he writhed.
“I need you to come now.” Kirsh informed him.
“Fuck, please! Kirsh! Fuck you! Fuck me…”
He wasn't even sure what he was saying or if it was still in whispers or in screams. Was he screaming? Please, God, don't let him be screaming.
In the fleeting moments of his orgasm, the world, and everyone in it dissolved, even himself. There were no more questions and no more fantasies.
…
He was breathing slowly and deeply. He was staring ahead of him, out of the open door of the cell, he had been for some time. The door had always been open, with the prisoners tied down, it didn't matter. An escape in sight, it was so close and yet so far out of reach. If he were free, he had only to walk through it.
“When I get out of here…” Kavalier began, tiredly.
“I know, I'll be your top priority.” Kirsh supplied. “Do you feel better?”
Kavalier's head lolled back against the bars, his eyes fluttering closed. He fell into a dreamless sleep.