:
Topher sat hunched over the desk space adjacent to his primary desktop computer, the dissected innards of a cellular phone scattered over the glass table top lit only by a single lamp. To say Topher wasn't partial to dark spaces was an understatement – he was in fact an outright nyctophobiac, but it was difficult to discern the level of detail he needed in the phone's chips in any other lighting. Topher's drive to pursue his theories generally overrode all other impulses and so while absorbed in his work, the dark did not phase him.
He squinted through his magnifying glass, tweezers grasping at a minuscule resistor on the tiny memory stick he'd pried from within what had formerly been Echo's cell, the very same Alpha had remotely wiped the doll from about a year previously. His movements were meticulously slow and delicate as he pried up the connecting wires on either side, muttering to himself.
“So close, so close – the answer has to be in here, I just have to reconstruct it. Alpha thinks he's so clever with his 48 brains, but Topher Brink can out think any and all of them and then he'll get Mr. Ambrose to notice him, he--”
Wham!
At the noise Topher nearly jumped out of his skin, jolting up right and tearing the resistor from the circuit without ceremony.
“Frak!” he spat, wild eyes not taking the time to seek out what had caused the sound before focusing on the the memory stick and tweezers in his hands. Miraculously, both pieces appeared fine, just--
Creeeak.
The door to Topher's imprint room glided open.
Suddenly he was very aware of his murky lighting environment.
“W-who's there?” he choked out, dropping the pieces of tech on the table and grabbing for his desk lamp, swinging it wildly to try and illuminate the opposite side of the room and shed some literal light on the identity of his visitor.
Topher fidgeted when he found no-one, sinking back into this chair and trying to think of who all ever visited him here when unscheduled to handle an engagement – or to be sent out for one.
“Boyd? Agent Ballard? ...Ech-- ahhh AH... hah... ah!” he lept from his seat and whipped around, having felt a pair of hands on his shoulders.
Behind his desk stood the last person he'd ever expected to see again, and she was smirking at him, clearly pleased to have frightened him momentarily.
“Cl- Doctor Saunders!” Topher stuttered, laughing nervously as he tried to calm his racing nerves.“I-- you--” he sputtered, beginning to babble, “Where did you go? How did you get back in without security noticing?! They were supposed to have added heightened measures after, you know... well, maybe you don't know, we've, uhm, been through a lot of interesting things here lately, and--”
“Topher,” she interrupted him. As he spoke, Claire had slid out from between the desk and the balcony railing and stepped over to stand less than a foot from him, her eyes fixed on his face intently, “Why don't you ever call me Claire?”
Topher fell silent a moment, mouth agape as he grasped for a response. He certainly hadn't expected that question.
“I... ahh, it wouldn't be... professional?” he tried, sounding vaguely hopeful.
She regarded him with undisguised scorn, “Don't lie. You've called other House employees by their first names – Boyd, Ivy - even Adelle on occasion. Yet never once have I heard you utter the name Claire.”
Her eyes flicked down and back up again, giving him a once-over. Topher shifted uncomfortably.
“Except,” she continued, stepping closer to him and flattening her hands against his chest, “For just now, when you quite nearly called me Claire.” She paused, her expression predatory, “Well, that and most nights. In your room, by yourself.”
Oh, god. She'd heard--
Topher felt himself turning what was sure to be a positively brilliant shade of red, stumbling backward to maneuver her out of his personal space as quickly as he could.
“How did you... hear... Doc, I...” he tried to begin, at a loss for things to say. When she'd come at him for the first time, months ago, he had the benefit of anonymity. She didn't know the truth; she didn't know who she was, or had been. She didn't know how sorely he'd wanted to give in, to let her ride him in the very same cot he often stroked himself, thinking of her.
“My name,” Claire said, pressing forward, reclaiming the space he attempted to put between them, driving him forward until the backs of his knees bumped up against the imprint chair. He swallowed visibly.
“My name,” she repeated, “It's the same as my real first name, isn't it?”
Topher hesitated for long moment, then nodded.
“Yes,” he finally confirmed in a small voice, his eyes locking with Claire's.
She stared him down for a moment, appearing to digest this information, her breathing irregular like that of someone day dreaming rather than alert in the present.
Then it all happened so fast, Topher hardly had a chance to react. She shot forward, overtaking his mouth with her own and shoving him back in the chair, climbing up to straddle his lap. He would have yelped in surprise had her tongue not forced its way into his mouth, curling around his own possessively and quite effectively silencing him.
She ground against him roughly before her deft fingers made short work of his fly, pushing his pants and boxers down and exposing his erection to the chill air of his imprint room. Seconds later due to the easy access of the lace dress slip she wore, Claire's slick opening was pressing against the head of his member.
The sensation jolted Topher to action and he shoved at her with all his might, breaking the kiss and pushing her away far enough to grab his breath and begin to protest.
“D-- Claire,” he hissed, hoping the name she apparently so wanted to hear would have effect, “This isn't--”
But Claire had already shoved him back into the chair firmly, her lithe frame housing much more strength than it betrayed, and in one smooth motion she was sinking onto Topher's lap, hilting him completely.
“--isn't... right,” he continued, his words devolving into a low groan despite himself.
She began to slide over him, hands digging into his flesh for purchase, legs propped against the arms of the imprint chair.
“Oh god, Claire,” he breathed, his tone pleading. For as often as Topher had imagined having her again, it wasn't like this – never like this, “Please don't--”
She again silenced him with her mouth, kissing him firmly and biting his bottom lip as she ground onto him aggressively, taking all of him with each stroke.
Topher felt sick. Conflicting emotions and sensations swirled in the pit of his stomach. Relief that she was here, that she was alright; fear on her behalf, now that she'd returned to the Dollhouse, thoroughly broken doll that she was; waves of pleasure as she moved over him, the familiar spark he hadn't felt in so long that always ignited between them erupting from every touch; disgust at himself for enjoying it at all, because this wasn't Claire - not his Claire anyway, or even if Saunders were glitching, not all of her.
------------
It was true, what he said. Or at least it should have been. Nothing about this was right, and yet Claire had been wanting it for... well, she thought probably as long as she actually had existed. Which was perhaps the real reason she had pranked and tortured Topher for months on end when she first discovered the true nature of her identity, or lack thereof. Logically she knew her state of being was not his fault – she knew the routine: he was given instructions, he made personalities fit to order and imprinted them on the dolls. He was amoral and reprehensible in his seeming inability to treat said dolls as actual people but she was not his fault.
What angered her about him was that he made her unsure of who she was. She'd told him she knew, and that she hated him. She did hate him. She thought she hated him anyway, and yet often felt that she did not. Topher was a paradox that troubled Claire, some sort of a memory hook that clouded her ability to focus on simply being Dr. Claire Saunders.
Claire suspected immediately that he'd known her, before. Whomever this body once belonged to. Little things keyed her in. The way his voice cracked when he pointed out that she hadn't opened her file, how his eyes often lingered on her for just a beat too long. When she'd attempted to seduce him the first time she justified herself in that she'd been acting out of cruelty, to try and stir up those memories for him, whatever they were, in reparation for all the false memories he'd seeded in her. But laying on top of him in his cot in the server room, despite her seething hatred for him and her aversion to his smell (which she now knew was specifically programmed – which she also found suspicious), she found that she'd been massively turned on, and that his rejection of her actually stung. Her shouted why shouldn't I love you? wasn't so much her questioning his programming as questioning herself.
Claire found that she could not be herself around him. Whoever that was. So she left. And in the time she was gone, she decided she did actually want him. Her, Claire Saunders, and whatever other self was inextricably tied up in her. And if that was a glitch, some sort of need that desired fulfilling like those she'd attempted to exorcise from the actives (her fellow actives) then she wanted to tackle it head on and get it out of her system, and reclaim herself as a separate entity from Topher.
So here she was, nearly raping him on the imprint chair, probably within full view of some security feed or another. And she didn't care.
Claire angled her body, riding him hard as the pressure built toward her release. It all felt so familiar, the feel of him. She moved instinctively, as if her body had done this before on multiple occasions and remembered just how it was supposed to react to the reality of Topher. Suspicions confirmed, this only edged her on, fucking him in what she hoped was a far more aggressive manner than the original Claire would have mustered.
She tore her mouth away from his and gritted her teeth as she felt her muscles spasm and a shudder wracked her body, a satisfied groan rising up through her vocal chords. Not seconds later Topher was bucking involuntarily beneath her as he hit his release as well, a small strangled cry escaping his lips. Claire swore she saw tears in his eyes, but he looked away quickly and she couldn't tell for sure.
Breathing heavily, she slid from his lap, her eyes raking over Topher's form. As he awkwardly scrambled to his feet and tried to cover himself, she noted with satisfaction that fluids from their encounter and dribbled onto the imprint chair, pooling on the bottom cushion and sinking into the fabric.
Claire hoped it would stain.
He squinted through his magnifying glass, tweezers grasping at a minuscule resistor on the tiny memory stick he'd pried from within what had formerly been Echo's cell, the very same Alpha had remotely wiped the doll from about a year previously. His movements were meticulously slow and delicate as he pried up the connecting wires on either side, muttering to himself.
“So close, so close – the answer has to be in here, I just have to reconstruct it. Alpha thinks he's so clever with his 48 brains, but Topher Brink can out think any and all of them and then he'll get Mr. Ambrose to notice him, he--”
Wham!
At the noise Topher nearly jumped out of his skin, jolting up right and tearing the resistor from the circuit without ceremony.
“Frak!” he spat, wild eyes not taking the time to seek out what had caused the sound before focusing on the the memory stick and tweezers in his hands. Miraculously, both pieces appeared fine, just--
Creeeak.
The door to Topher's imprint room glided open.
Suddenly he was very aware of his murky lighting environment.
“W-who's there?” he choked out, dropping the pieces of tech on the table and grabbing for his desk lamp, swinging it wildly to try and illuminate the opposite side of the room and shed some literal light on the identity of his visitor.
Topher fidgeted when he found no-one, sinking back into this chair and trying to think of who all ever visited him here when unscheduled to handle an engagement – or to be sent out for one.
“Boyd? Agent Ballard? ...Ech-- ahhh AH... hah... ah!” he lept from his seat and whipped around, having felt a pair of hands on his shoulders.
Behind his desk stood the last person he'd ever expected to see again, and she was smirking at him, clearly pleased to have frightened him momentarily.
“Cl- Doctor Saunders!” Topher stuttered, laughing nervously as he tried to calm his racing nerves.“I-- you--” he sputtered, beginning to babble, “Where did you go? How did you get back in without security noticing?! They were supposed to have added heightened measures after, you know... well, maybe you don't know, we've, uhm, been through a lot of interesting things here lately, and--”
“Topher,” she interrupted him. As he spoke, Claire had slid out from between the desk and the balcony railing and stepped over to stand less than a foot from him, her eyes fixed on his face intently, “Why don't you ever call me Claire?”
Topher fell silent a moment, mouth agape as he grasped for a response. He certainly hadn't expected that question.
“I... ahh, it wouldn't be... professional?” he tried, sounding vaguely hopeful.
She regarded him with undisguised scorn, “Don't lie. You've called other House employees by their first names – Boyd, Ivy - even Adelle on occasion. Yet never once have I heard you utter the name Claire.”
Her eyes flicked down and back up again, giving him a once-over. Topher shifted uncomfortably.
“Except,” she continued, stepping closer to him and flattening her hands against his chest, “For just now, when you quite nearly called me Claire.” She paused, her expression predatory, “Well, that and most nights. In your room, by yourself.”
Oh, god. She'd heard--
Topher felt himself turning what was sure to be a positively brilliant shade of red, stumbling backward to maneuver her out of his personal space as quickly as he could.
“How did you... hear... Doc, I...” he tried to begin, at a loss for things to say. When she'd come at him for the first time, months ago, he had the benefit of anonymity. She didn't know the truth; she didn't know who she was, or had been. She didn't know how sorely he'd wanted to give in, to let her ride him in the very same cot he often stroked himself, thinking of her.
“My name,” Claire said, pressing forward, reclaiming the space he attempted to put between them, driving him forward until the backs of his knees bumped up against the imprint chair. He swallowed visibly.
“My name,” she repeated, “It's the same as my real first name, isn't it?”
Topher hesitated for long moment, then nodded.
“Yes,” he finally confirmed in a small voice, his eyes locking with Claire's.
She stared him down for a moment, appearing to digest this information, her breathing irregular like that of someone day dreaming rather than alert in the present.
Then it all happened so fast, Topher hardly had a chance to react. She shot forward, overtaking his mouth with her own and shoving him back in the chair, climbing up to straddle his lap. He would have yelped in surprise had her tongue not forced its way into his mouth, curling around his own possessively and quite effectively silencing him.
She ground against him roughly before her deft fingers made short work of his fly, pushing his pants and boxers down and exposing his erection to the chill air of his imprint room. Seconds later due to the easy access of the lace dress slip she wore, Claire's slick opening was pressing against the head of his member.
The sensation jolted Topher to action and he shoved at her with all his might, breaking the kiss and pushing her away far enough to grab his breath and begin to protest.
“D-- Claire,” he hissed, hoping the name she apparently so wanted to hear would have effect, “This isn't--”
But Claire had already shoved him back into the chair firmly, her lithe frame housing much more strength than it betrayed, and in one smooth motion she was sinking onto Topher's lap, hilting him completely.
“--isn't... right,” he continued, his words devolving into a low groan despite himself.
She began to slide over him, hands digging into his flesh for purchase, legs propped against the arms of the imprint chair.
“Oh god, Claire,” he breathed, his tone pleading. For as often as Topher had imagined having her again, it wasn't like this – never like this, “Please don't--”
She again silenced him with her mouth, kissing him firmly and biting his bottom lip as she ground onto him aggressively, taking all of him with each stroke.
Topher felt sick. Conflicting emotions and sensations swirled in the pit of his stomach. Relief that she was here, that she was alright; fear on her behalf, now that she'd returned to the Dollhouse, thoroughly broken doll that she was; waves of pleasure as she moved over him, the familiar spark he hadn't felt in so long that always ignited between them erupting from every touch; disgust at himself for enjoying it at all, because this wasn't Claire - not his Claire anyway, or even if Saunders were glitching, not all of her.
------------
It was true, what he said. Or at least it should have been. Nothing about this was right, and yet Claire had been wanting it for... well, she thought probably as long as she actually had existed. Which was perhaps the real reason she had pranked and tortured Topher for months on end when she first discovered the true nature of her identity, or lack thereof. Logically she knew her state of being was not his fault – she knew the routine: he was given instructions, he made personalities fit to order and imprinted them on the dolls. He was amoral and reprehensible in his seeming inability to treat said dolls as actual people but she was not his fault.
What angered her about him was that he made her unsure of who she was. She'd told him she knew, and that she hated him. She did hate him. She thought she hated him anyway, and yet often felt that she did not. Topher was a paradox that troubled Claire, some sort of a memory hook that clouded her ability to focus on simply being Dr. Claire Saunders.
Claire suspected immediately that he'd known her, before. Whomever this body once belonged to. Little things keyed her in. The way his voice cracked when he pointed out that she hadn't opened her file, how his eyes often lingered on her for just a beat too long. When she'd attempted to seduce him the first time she justified herself in that she'd been acting out of cruelty, to try and stir up those memories for him, whatever they were, in reparation for all the false memories he'd seeded in her. But laying on top of him in his cot in the server room, despite her seething hatred for him and her aversion to his smell (which she now knew was specifically programmed – which she also found suspicious), she found that she'd been massively turned on, and that his rejection of her actually stung. Her shouted why shouldn't I love you? wasn't so much her questioning his programming as questioning herself.
Claire found that she could not be herself around him. Whoever that was. So she left. And in the time she was gone, she decided she did actually want him. Her, Claire Saunders, and whatever other self was inextricably tied up in her. And if that was a glitch, some sort of need that desired fulfilling like those she'd attempted to exorcise from the actives (her fellow actives) then she wanted to tackle it head on and get it out of her system, and reclaim herself as a separate entity from Topher.
So here she was, nearly raping him on the imprint chair, probably within full view of some security feed or another. And she didn't care.
Claire angled her body, riding him hard as the pressure built toward her release. It all felt so familiar, the feel of him. She moved instinctively, as if her body had done this before on multiple occasions and remembered just how it was supposed to react to the reality of Topher. Suspicions confirmed, this only edged her on, fucking him in what she hoped was a far more aggressive manner than the original Claire would have mustered.
She tore her mouth away from his and gritted her teeth as she felt her muscles spasm and a shudder wracked her body, a satisfied groan rising up through her vocal chords. Not seconds later Topher was bucking involuntarily beneath her as he hit his release as well, a small strangled cry escaping his lips. Claire swore she saw tears in his eyes, but he looked away quickly and she couldn't tell for sure.
Breathing heavily, she slid from his lap, her eyes raking over Topher's form. As he awkwardly scrambled to his feet and tried to cover himself, she noted with satisfaction that fluids from their encounter and dribbled onto the imprint chair, pooling on the bottom cushion and sinking into the fabric.
Claire hoped it would stain.
Current Mood: 
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