Dollhouse: We've Almost Made Amends
Title: We've Almost Made Amends
Fandom: Dollhouse
Characters/Pairing: Claire/Topher
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,086
Prompt: lipstick
And here she is again, descending from on high back into the depths of the Dollhouse, a vision in a dress that shines like midnight even in the dim lights from his computers. He has seen her like this before, elegant and untouchable, back when she was still Whiskey. She was always popular with the fancy dress crowd, had a gracefulness and classic style to her beauty that suited them well.
She must be dipping into the wardrobe for her wanderings, and hell if he can guess what she’s doing out there. They don’t force her to stay or force her to leave. He doesn’t have to keep track of her anymore, and he doesn’t want to. He’s giving not screwing up people’s lives a shot this time. Whatever she’s looking for she must not be finding, because she always come back. Always here, because she likes to take it out on him.
Tonight she looks more dangerous than refined. She’s made up her face to hide her scars, something she never bothered with as the house doctor. Her eyes are piercing. Her lips are deep red. More Crystal than any of the high class ladies and southern belles he’s made her into in the past.
Topher leans back in his chair as she takes a step closer. Crystal scared him almost as much as Alpha did. She was one of only seven imprints to threaten to kill him and really, really mean it. He’s fairly certain Claire wouldn’t actually do anything, but when he took out the sleeper code, he took out all of the trigger phrases, and he would have nothing to fall back on, not a single failsafe.
He has no need to worry, though, because her danger now is of a different sort, an older danger. This is what used to keep him up at night when she was Whiskey. When he would send her off in those fancy gowns, and she would toss a flirtatious smile over her shoulder, and his heart would stop for a split second and he would have the first inklings of what it was like to truly hate himself. This is what made him praise his forethought when she was Dr. Saunders and their arguments would get a bit too heated, because wasn’t he brilliant to build absolute revulsion with him into her imprint?
It’s not something he’s been overly concerned with for quite a while, because she was gone, and there was Bennett and Boyd, and then death and the end of the world. So when she crosses the floor and drapes herself suddenly across his lap, his only immediate reaction is to think, with a sort of dull surprise, oh, so it’s this again.
It lasts for the span of several seconds, enough time for her to lean in and for Topher to think that the red of her lips isn’t quite the shade he thought, that it reminds him of drying blood (there are stains in his office that he still can’t get rid of), before he remembers that this is supposed to be a bad thing. Dangerous. He brings his hand to her shoulder to give an obligatory shove, says, “Wait,” but even he can tell it’s half-hearted. The looks she gives him would be haughty if it weren’t so damaged. His expression can’t be much better as he lets his arm fall uselessly to his side.
Claire dips her head, and he feels the cool, slick sensation of her lips, the heat of her tongue at the hollow of his throat. He closes his eyes and sighs deeply. He’s had dreams like this, still does, sometimes. (Usually when he’s worked through the night and into the next one, passing out at his desk through sheer mental exhaustion. Like fever dreams, tiring and terrifying and captivating.) She kisses up the side of his neck, over to his mouth, and he parts his lips to let his tongue slide over her, just barely, out of curiosity. There’s a slight chemical taste, not the metallic tang he was somehow ridiculously expecting. A sharp sting of teeth, and he flinches; she may taste that way before this is over.
After a few moments of this, of her making the only movements, she grows impatient with him. Claire Saunders, the nice doctor, calm and patient with everybody except Topher Brink. She grabs his wrist, pushes his hand up the side of her thigh, under her dress. He knows what she wants from him, that this is just another part of her search for whatever it is she needs. And if she can find it, good for her, because he gave up his own hunt somewhere around the time he pulled the trigger, watched Boyd collapse, and didn’t feel nearly the remorse he should have. He slides his hand between her legs and draws his fingers across the fabric of her underwear.
Claire eases her head back. Her eyes slide shut and her mouth falls open in one movement. She shifts her hips, pushes against him, and Topher watches in fascination as a moan escapes her scarlet lips. He moves the fabric to one side, slides fingers inside her, and is rewarded when it happens again. And he keeps staring at her mouth, watching how it changes for different sounds, heavier breathing, how it looks when her whole body shudders.
He almost doesn’t notice when she comes, takes a moment to connect her white teeth biting her bottom lip with the fingernails digging into his arm and the feeling of her spasming around him. She holds herself shaking above him for a moment, waiting until he pulls his fingers away and trails them wetly across her leg. Then she lets herself collapse forward, her forehead pressed against his and her breath hot on his cheek. The red of her lips is smeared.
Topher knows the exact moment that the revulsion sets in again. Her hand, gentle against his chest, suddenly becomes a fist around his shirt, and he feels her whole body tense. She manages not to push back, not to jump off of him and run away and leave him sitting there with his confusion and guilt. She shivers with the restraint it takes.
He leans back and pulls his arms away so she’s only touching him where she chooses, wipes his hand off on his jeans. “Did you find it?” he asks in a whisper.
Her voice is bitter and brittle in his ear. “No.”
(Originally posted here.)
Fandom: Dollhouse
Characters/Pairing: Claire/Topher
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,086
Prompt: lipstick
And here she is again, descending from on high back into the depths of the Dollhouse, a vision in a dress that shines like midnight even in the dim lights from his computers. He has seen her like this before, elegant and untouchable, back when she was still Whiskey. She was always popular with the fancy dress crowd, had a gracefulness and classic style to her beauty that suited them well.
She must be dipping into the wardrobe for her wanderings, and hell if he can guess what she’s doing out there. They don’t force her to stay or force her to leave. He doesn’t have to keep track of her anymore, and he doesn’t want to. He’s giving not screwing up people’s lives a shot this time. Whatever she’s looking for she must not be finding, because she always come back. Always here, because she likes to take it out on him.
Tonight she looks more dangerous than refined. She’s made up her face to hide her scars, something she never bothered with as the house doctor. Her eyes are piercing. Her lips are deep red. More Crystal than any of the high class ladies and southern belles he’s made her into in the past.
Topher leans back in his chair as she takes a step closer. Crystal scared him almost as much as Alpha did. She was one of only seven imprints to threaten to kill him and really, really mean it. He’s fairly certain Claire wouldn’t actually do anything, but when he took out the sleeper code, he took out all of the trigger phrases, and he would have nothing to fall back on, not a single failsafe.
He has no need to worry, though, because her danger now is of a different sort, an older danger. This is what used to keep him up at night when she was Whiskey. When he would send her off in those fancy gowns, and she would toss a flirtatious smile over her shoulder, and his heart would stop for a split second and he would have the first inklings of what it was like to truly hate himself. This is what made him praise his forethought when she was Dr. Saunders and their arguments would get a bit too heated, because wasn’t he brilliant to build absolute revulsion with him into her imprint?
It’s not something he’s been overly concerned with for quite a while, because she was gone, and there was Bennett and Boyd, and then death and the end of the world. So when she crosses the floor and drapes herself suddenly across his lap, his only immediate reaction is to think, with a sort of dull surprise, oh, so it’s this again.
It lasts for the span of several seconds, enough time for her to lean in and for Topher to think that the red of her lips isn’t quite the shade he thought, that it reminds him of drying blood (there are stains in his office that he still can’t get rid of), before he remembers that this is supposed to be a bad thing. Dangerous. He brings his hand to her shoulder to give an obligatory shove, says, “Wait,” but even he can tell it’s half-hearted. The looks she gives him would be haughty if it weren’t so damaged. His expression can’t be much better as he lets his arm fall uselessly to his side.
Claire dips her head, and he feels the cool, slick sensation of her lips, the heat of her tongue at the hollow of his throat. He closes his eyes and sighs deeply. He’s had dreams like this, still does, sometimes. (Usually when he’s worked through the night and into the next one, passing out at his desk through sheer mental exhaustion. Like fever dreams, tiring and terrifying and captivating.) She kisses up the side of his neck, over to his mouth, and he parts his lips to let his tongue slide over her, just barely, out of curiosity. There’s a slight chemical taste, not the metallic tang he was somehow ridiculously expecting. A sharp sting of teeth, and he flinches; she may taste that way before this is over.
After a few moments of this, of her making the only movements, she grows impatient with him. Claire Saunders, the nice doctor, calm and patient with everybody except Topher Brink. She grabs his wrist, pushes his hand up the side of her thigh, under her dress. He knows what she wants from him, that this is just another part of her search for whatever it is she needs. And if she can find it, good for her, because he gave up his own hunt somewhere around the time he pulled the trigger, watched Boyd collapse, and didn’t feel nearly the remorse he should have. He slides his hand between her legs and draws his fingers across the fabric of her underwear.
Claire eases her head back. Her eyes slide shut and her mouth falls open in one movement. She shifts her hips, pushes against him, and Topher watches in fascination as a moan escapes her scarlet lips. He moves the fabric to one side, slides fingers inside her, and is rewarded when it happens again. And he keeps staring at her mouth, watching how it changes for different sounds, heavier breathing, how it looks when her whole body shudders.
He almost doesn’t notice when she comes, takes a moment to connect her white teeth biting her bottom lip with the fingernails digging into his arm and the feeling of her spasming around him. She holds herself shaking above him for a moment, waiting until he pulls his fingers away and trails them wetly across her leg. Then she lets herself collapse forward, her forehead pressed against his and her breath hot on his cheek. The red of her lips is smeared.
Topher knows the exact moment that the revulsion sets in again. Her hand, gentle against his chest, suddenly becomes a fist around his shirt, and he feels her whole body tense. She manages not to push back, not to jump off of him and run away and leave him sitting there with his confusion and guilt. She shivers with the restraint it takes.
He leans back and pulls his arms away so she’s only touching him where she chooses, wipes his hand off on his jeans. “Did you find it?” he asks in a whisper.
Her voice is bitter and brittle in his ear. “No.”
(Originally posted here.)