Scarlett
Every centimeter of Rory’s length is filling me up in slow, careful increments, as if he thinks I’ll shatter around him.
He’s holding back. But I want it fast and ugly.
I want him grunting, sweating, panting as he rams into me.
I want him to shatter me. I want him to let go.
He pulls back a little, careful, and I can feel the tremble in his arms.
His glasses are fogged up, half-slid down his nose. I want to rip them off, bite his ear, drag him into me so deep he can’t ever pull out.
I look at the ruined cups around us, then back at him, then at the shelf behind me—a shrine to his mother’s work, all perfect and precious and aching with judgment.
They’re beautiful.
I want to see them fucking explode.
“Harder, Rory,” I shout, “fuck me. Split me fucking open.”
He blinks, stunned, as if the words physically strike him.
“Scarlett,” he gasps, voice breaking, “I don’t want to hurt you—”
“You won’t,” I hiss, clawing at his ass and pulling him into me, so that his hips slam into me and I’m taking him all the way to the root.
The crash of a teapot behind me is deafening, but all I care about is the impossible stretch of his cock inside me.
His nostrils flare, wild, and his tail whips behind him so hard it snaps a teacup off the edge of the table under me.
The shatter is glorious.
I grab the back of his head and force him to look at me. “Don’t hold back!” I growl. “You won’t break me, but let’s break these fucking things, then make something more beautiful out of them—together.”
For a heartbeat, nothing moves.
“Rory,” I hiss, “Come on, baby boy. Give it to me. I can take it.”
He pulls back, and I think he’s going to fully pull out, turn around, and run from me.
I plead, “Rory, please, fate wouldn’t have put us together if I couldn’t take it. That’s not how it works, right?”
His eyes go wide. Then something in his brain finally clicks—unlocks—and the full, unbridled force of Rory slams into me.
He surges forward, and the table shrieks under me.
He’s huge—oh fuck, he’s so fucking huge—stretching me past my limit, past anything I’ve had before.
My back bows so hard my vision flickers.
The world whites out.
Then he pulls back and does it again—harder, and I swear I can feel my internal organs rearrange to accommodate him.
I scream, “YES, Rory! Just like that! That’s my good boy!”
He fucks me then—no other word for it—hard and full and with a rhythm that obliterates thought.
Every thrust is a hammer-blow straight up my spine, knocking all knowledge of anything but his cock right out of me.
The whole fucking store rattles around us. The display I’m on obliterates, as the table rattles in time with our body and the china leaps to its doom, piece after piece.
My moans are drowned out by the sound of cunty tea sets dying glorious, necessary deaths.
With each desperate push of his hips, another piece of his mother’s china goes toppling to the linoleum, and with each crash, a little piece of Rory, the real repressed Rory, slams into me.
Every thrust is a small apocalypse—sharp, overwhelming, delirious, euphoric.
It’s all want, all need, all the violence of two broken beings desperate to become whole—together.
Porcelain erupts.
Red and green shards everywhere.
Each crash hypes him up, making him pound harder and me scream louder.
Crash. Pound. Scream.
Crash. Pound. Scream.
Crash. Pound. Scream.
He lets out a roar that’s half orgasmic, half battle cry, and pistons into me like he’s been training his whole life for this exact moment.
There is nothing gentle left in him, nothing careful.
I wrap my legs around his waist and claw at his back, pulling him deeper, closer, rougher.
His cock is so thick I can feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse, and it’s perfect—it’s exactly what I need.
I want my insides imprinted with the shape of him.
The more he loses control, the more I love it.
Every time he bottoms out, I see stars. There’s a part of me he hits with each thrust, a secret switch nobody’s ever found before. I feel it in my legs, my gut, my heart.
And now I know for an undeniable fact that fate kept me alive so that I could feel him inside me.
Rory’s hands tighten around my hips. He pulls me to the very edge of the table so he can fuck into me even deeper.
The china keeps breaking.
I hear it, smell it, taste it—each crash a little orgasm for my reckless soul.
His glasses fall down his nose. And when he presses them up with one finger to look at me, all armor built around my heart breaks open for this fucking adorable dork.
I want to giggle, but I’m too busy panting, sweating, surviving the onslaught. Instead, I hook my hand around one perfect horn and pull him even deeper.
He roars.
“Rory—” I gasp. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m—”
His eyes snap wide, pupils blown, and the sound he makes is pure, unfiltered lust. He buries his face in my throat, breathing so hard it’s like he’s trying to inhale me. “Scarlett,” he groans, “you’re so—” He doesn’t finish. He just fucks me even harder.
And that’s it, he didn’t even have to say it. I come so hard I think I scream, but the sound is lost in the cacophony raining porcelain.
My orgasm goes on forever, wave after wave, like nothing I’ve ever felt.
My whole body seizes and then melts.
He’s still going, not slowing, not letting up. Relentless, desperate, as if he’s chasing something just out of reach.
I squeeze around him, digging my heels into his hips.
He roars again.
The table gives an ominous crack, but I don’t care. Let the whole shop go under; let the entire fucking world break apart as long as he never stops.
I grip the bases of his horns, anchoring to him, as the table collapses underneath me.
He doesn’t stop. He just grabs my ass, rushes forward until he’s got me braced against the shelf behind the destroyed table.
An avalanche of porcelain falls around me as we slam into it. But I’m left unharmed, because a large arm umbrellas over me, taking the brunt of the onslaught.
I grip the shelf with both hands and arch into him, egging him on, “Come on, Rory. Come for me, baby.”
The shelf behind me can’t take it.
Red and green teasets rain down around us.
He slows, and for a second, I think he’s spent, but he just shifts his grip—one hand on my waist, the other bracing the shelf—and resumes with a force that shakes the whole goddamn store.
The pressure inside me builds as his cock swells and—impossibly, fucking impossibly—thickens even more.
Then he explodes inside me.
The heat is unreal. I feel every pulse of his dick, every spasm, every drop.
I want it all.
My body milks every last inch, every last drop.
Another orgasm hits me, without warning, and I seize around him.
He holds me, shivering, as if I’m the only thing in the world worth holding.
We stay that way for a long time, panting, slicked with sweat and cum, and the fine dust of pulverized bone china.
The table is a ruin underneath us. The shelf has holes where his horns apparently thrust into it. And not a single piece of those red and green teaset survived.
I laugh, loud and delighted, wrapping my arms around his back, clutching him to me. “See?” I say, still breathless. “You didn’t break me.”
He looks down at me, dazed, then laughs—a deep, contented sound. “I think I broke everything else, though.”
He pushes his glasses up his nose again.
I ask, “How the hell did you keep those on?”
He looks at me with all the earnest sincerity I am learning is characteristic of him. “I wanted to see you.”
“How are you so sweet?”
He just shrugs and nuzzles into my neck, inhaling me, and stroking my hair, soft and slow.
“Hey, Rory?” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
“We should put the pieces back together.”
“We will,” he says, and squeezes me tighter.