fanfic: Dollhouse, Claire/Boyd
Title: the cinders they splinter
Fandom: Dollhouse
Prompt: Claire/Boyd, identity
Word count: 930
Notes: written for the Porn Battle; original post here.
She went to Boyd, because he wasn’t Topher. This was all a game to Topher, his chance in a lifetime to play God at a switchboard, and she was nothing more than one of his pieces, a construct of equations brought to three-dimensional life at the stroke of a key and the buzz of electrodes. He had programmed her based on whims and emotions she couldn’t understand, had built her spontaneously, under the most desperate of circumstances. Among the dolls, it was she who had come closest to being born as creatures are meant to be born, through random sequences of events and numbers and chemicals, combinations forming faster than thought. Topher was father and mother and midwife and God, and he was pathetic.
She went to Boyd.
“I’m not real,” she said softly, simply. “I never was.”
He knew, of course. As head of security he must, but he gazed at her levelly and weighed her words.
“Let’s walk,” he said.
They walked, through one hallway and another, round corners and down stairs. They walked for the sake of walking, side by side.
“For as long as I have been here,” he said, “you have been Claire Saunders, medical doctor. Compassionate. Capable. Resourceful. What is reality but that which can effect change in its surroundings? You are as real as I.”
She said, “Men build and destroy and live and kill in the name of God. God is not real. He cannot exist. We have taken his work away from him. I am not real. I have no claim to this world.”
“You are capable of thought and speech. Of action. Whatever your origins, you are a human being.”
“This body isn’t mine. This face isn’t mine. They don’t belong to me. I have no right to them.”
“She signed over her rights a long time ago. You have all the rights in the world. Why should you be any less real than she was?”
She turned to him. She asked, “You look at me and you see a person?”
“I see a friend.”
She asked, “How do you do it?”
“The same way you did, Dr. Saunders.”
She looked around them. “We’re off-camera.”
He said, “We are,” and kissed her.
Dr. Claire Saunders remembered losing her virginity at the age of eighteen to the boy she sat next to on the first day of freshman biology; how this body had truly lost its innocence, she would never know. She remembered sweat and skin and fingers twisting inside her, remembered muscles beneath her hands and lips. None of it was real.
This was.
Boyd’s hands had lifted her shirt, and his palms seared her skin. His lips nuzzled behind her ears, making her fingers tingle. He slid a hand up her torso and curved his fingers around one breast, thumbing her nipple through her bra. She bit her lip.
He whispered, “Tell me to stop.”
She turned her head, grasped his cheeks between her hands, and found his lips with hers. She realized at once how much distance he had been keeping between their bodies. Now, he closed in; his groin made sudden and direct contact with hers. He was hard. It was a shock. Even in her false history, Dr. Claire Saunders had been celibate for two years, since shortly after entering the Dollhouse. Boyd felt good, he felt solid and masculine and rugged. Claire felt feverish. Her hands slipped down his back and rested just above his belt. She pressed him harder against her and rolled her hips, relishing the contact.
So good; Claire felt her back begin to arch. She needed so much, so much, and this was only the beginning. Her fingers clutched his shirt.
Boyd lifted her skirt. He slipped a hand between them and Claire reeled; she knew what was coming, and then it came. Fabric bunched to one side, a tentative stroke, then a push. Her head fell back and hit the wall; her hands scrabbled at his shoulders. A single finger pumped in and out, and she tightened her muscles frantically, needing pressure, needing more.
Claire heard a zipper. She cracked her eyes open and watched as Boyd’s free hand slipped beneath his own waistband. She could feel the moment his fingers wrapped and squeezed; inside her, his other hand gave a jerk, and she gasped. Boyd’s finger moved faster. She could feel his other wrist jostling rhythmically against her hip. She dug her nails into his shoulders and pushed her hips forward. Her senses were lost; all she could feel was Boyd’s steady stroke, grounding her. When she thought she would break, Boyd stopped. In a single motion, he moved one hand to her thigh and brought her leg up to rest on his hip, and with the other guided himself to her center. Then she was full, and there was pressure, and speed and sweat and rhythm came together and contracted where their bodies were joined. They were both close; Boyd thrust and her back slammed into the wall once, twice, and then she was pitching forward and hugging his shoulders while her whole body shuddered.
When she could breathe and her vision cleared, she slumped against the wall and watched as Boyd re-tucked and smoothed his shirt without looking at her. When he finished, he lifted her head by the chin and stared directly into her eyes. He stared intently, his jaw set, and said nothing, searching her face.
Claire nodded. Boyd released her and walked away.
Dr. Claire Saunders returned to her office. Empty bodies awaited tending.
Fandom: Dollhouse
Prompt: Claire/Boyd, identity
Word count: 930
Notes: written for the Porn Battle; original post here.
She went to Boyd, because he wasn’t Topher. This was all a game to Topher, his chance in a lifetime to play God at a switchboard, and she was nothing more than one of his pieces, a construct of equations brought to three-dimensional life at the stroke of a key and the buzz of electrodes. He had programmed her based on whims and emotions she couldn’t understand, had built her spontaneously, under the most desperate of circumstances. Among the dolls, it was she who had come closest to being born as creatures are meant to be born, through random sequences of events and numbers and chemicals, combinations forming faster than thought. Topher was father and mother and midwife and God, and he was pathetic.
She went to Boyd.
“I’m not real,” she said softly, simply. “I never was.”
He knew, of course. As head of security he must, but he gazed at her levelly and weighed her words.
“Let’s walk,” he said.
They walked, through one hallway and another, round corners and down stairs. They walked for the sake of walking, side by side.
“For as long as I have been here,” he said, “you have been Claire Saunders, medical doctor. Compassionate. Capable. Resourceful. What is reality but that which can effect change in its surroundings? You are as real as I.”
She said, “Men build and destroy and live and kill in the name of God. God is not real. He cannot exist. We have taken his work away from him. I am not real. I have no claim to this world.”
“You are capable of thought and speech. Of action. Whatever your origins, you are a human being.”
“This body isn’t mine. This face isn’t mine. They don’t belong to me. I have no right to them.”
“She signed over her rights a long time ago. You have all the rights in the world. Why should you be any less real than she was?”
She turned to him. She asked, “You look at me and you see a person?”
“I see a friend.”
She asked, “How do you do it?”
“The same way you did, Dr. Saunders.”
She looked around them. “We’re off-camera.”
He said, “We are,” and kissed her.
Dr. Claire Saunders remembered losing her virginity at the age of eighteen to the boy she sat next to on the first day of freshman biology; how this body had truly lost its innocence, she would never know. She remembered sweat and skin and fingers twisting inside her, remembered muscles beneath her hands and lips. None of it was real.
This was.
Boyd’s hands had lifted her shirt, and his palms seared her skin. His lips nuzzled behind her ears, making her fingers tingle. He slid a hand up her torso and curved his fingers around one breast, thumbing her nipple through her bra. She bit her lip.
He whispered, “Tell me to stop.”
She turned her head, grasped his cheeks between her hands, and found his lips with hers. She realized at once how much distance he had been keeping between their bodies. Now, he closed in; his groin made sudden and direct contact with hers. He was hard. It was a shock. Even in her false history, Dr. Claire Saunders had been celibate for two years, since shortly after entering the Dollhouse. Boyd felt good, he felt solid and masculine and rugged. Claire felt feverish. Her hands slipped down his back and rested just above his belt. She pressed him harder against her and rolled her hips, relishing the contact.
So good; Claire felt her back begin to arch. She needed so much, so much, and this was only the beginning. Her fingers clutched his shirt.
Boyd lifted her skirt. He slipped a hand between them and Claire reeled; she knew what was coming, and then it came. Fabric bunched to one side, a tentative stroke, then a push. Her head fell back and hit the wall; her hands scrabbled at his shoulders. A single finger pumped in and out, and she tightened her muscles frantically, needing pressure, needing more.
Claire heard a zipper. She cracked her eyes open and watched as Boyd’s free hand slipped beneath his own waistband. She could feel the moment his fingers wrapped and squeezed; inside her, his other hand gave a jerk, and she gasped. Boyd’s finger moved faster. She could feel his other wrist jostling rhythmically against her hip. She dug her nails into his shoulders and pushed her hips forward. Her senses were lost; all she could feel was Boyd’s steady stroke, grounding her. When she thought she would break, Boyd stopped. In a single motion, he moved one hand to her thigh and brought her leg up to rest on his hip, and with the other guided himself to her center. Then she was full, and there was pressure, and speed and sweat and rhythm came together and contracted where their bodies were joined. They were both close; Boyd thrust and her back slammed into the wall once, twice, and then she was pitching forward and hugging his shoulders while her whole body shuddered.
When she could breathe and her vision cleared, she slumped against the wall and watched as Boyd re-tucked and smoothed his shirt without looking at her. When he finished, he lifted her head by the chin and stared directly into her eyes. He stared intently, his jaw set, and said nothing, searching her face.
Claire nodded. Boyd released her and walked away.
Dr. Claire Saunders returned to her office. Empty bodies awaited tending.