Sleepin' on the Job - Dollhouse - Topher/Victor
Title: Sleepin' on the Job
Pairing: Topher/Victor
Word Count: 263
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for comment_fic.
Summary: Topher falls asleep at his desk.
Topher doesn't really interact with them all that much outside of the technical aspects. He imprints the required personalities then wipes them clean and sends them on their way. He's too busy otherwise - and that's why he nearly falls out of his computer chair when he spots Victor in the doorway, watching him.
"Victor!" he says. Yelps. Squeals. Something like that. "You're here. Here in my office." He clears his throat. Panic really isn't something that's helpful around them. The dolls need calm, need security, and need authority. "Shouldn't you be asleep, Victor?"
"I'm not tired," he answers, with a hint of a smirk and - yeah - the dolls aren't supposed to smirk; they're not even supposed to know what smirking is.
That, as much as the way Victor slinks into his lap, is what tells Topher that he's dreaming. The experienced press of Victor's lips to his skin, the needy rush of hands taking off his clothes, and the begging mewls from the man's lips are all things that can only be bought for millions of dollars - and while this job pays well it doesn't pay nearly that well.
Topher gives in to it, following Victor's lead with dreamlike certainty. The chair squeaks as Victor grinds down against him, and whines loudly when he pushes their trousers down and guides Topher's cock inside of him.
And when Topher wakes up, face flat on his desk with a wet patch in his trousers, he can only be glad that it's after-hours in the Dollhouse: so none of his colleagues are around to see it.
Pairing: Topher/Victor
Word Count: 263
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for comment_fic.
Summary: Topher falls asleep at his desk.
Topher doesn't really interact with them all that much outside of the technical aspects. He imprints the required personalities then wipes them clean and sends them on their way. He's too busy otherwise - and that's why he nearly falls out of his computer chair when he spots Victor in the doorway, watching him.
"Victor!" he says. Yelps. Squeals. Something like that. "You're here. Here in my office." He clears his throat. Panic really isn't something that's helpful around them. The dolls need calm, need security, and need authority. "Shouldn't you be asleep, Victor?"
"I'm not tired," he answers, with a hint of a smirk and - yeah - the dolls aren't supposed to smirk; they're not even supposed to know what smirking is.
That, as much as the way Victor slinks into his lap, is what tells Topher that he's dreaming. The experienced press of Victor's lips to his skin, the needy rush of hands taking off his clothes, and the begging mewls from the man's lips are all things that can only be bought for millions of dollars - and while this job pays well it doesn't pay nearly that well.
Topher gives in to it, following Victor's lead with dreamlike certainty. The chair squeaks as Victor grinds down against him, and whines loudly when he pushes their trousers down and guides Topher's cock inside of him.
And when Topher wakes up, face flat on his desk with a wet patch in his trousers, he can only be glad that it's after-hours in the Dollhouse: so none of his colleagues are around to see it.