fic: it doesn’t matter as long as you don’t break him
Title: it doesn’t matter as long as you don’t break him
Rating: NC-17
Genre(s): porn, angst
Word Count: ~490
Pairing(s) / Character(s): realboy!Rory / plastic!Rory (srsly)
Warnings / Spoilers: end of Matt Smith’s first season
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who.
Summary: You’ve always wanted to know what you taste like. All I can say is - fatherbananas MADE ME WRITE THIS. I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS MINDFUCK. AT ALL. HAPPY BIRTHDAY GURL!
You meet him in another life.
He’s a broken man. He’s the man who waited - or is waiting, rather. Two thousand years. Guardian to a box.
You know he knows it’s worth it.
When you take him, he doesn’t struggle. He’s loud beneath you; all moans and gasps and oh God please. You kiss the noises right out of his mouth. Your mouth.
It’s wrong. Both of you know that this is wrong. And yet.
“What do you want?” you rasp, rough and grating. Your fingers are going to leave bruises along his thighs, until you realise that he’s made of plastic anyway. It doesn’t matter as long as you don’t break him.
“You,” he gasps. You watch his eyes - your eyes - run into the back of his head with a particularly hard thrust. You know your cock is hitting the right spot. You’re amazed he has a spot. “I want you, please, please.”
And you give it to him. The bed is shaking, the bolts creaking beneath your combined weight and the violent movement of you above him, fucking down into his arse. You watch your cock stretch him wide, lube slicking his hole, and you think it’s gorgeous. Fucking gorgeous.
“Christ, you feel good,” you moan out loud, and you try to speed up, even though there is no more speed to give. “So tight and, fucking hell, I’m not going to last-”
He whimpers beneath you, tugging at his own cock through his fingers, and the sight makes you rut into his arse until you’re coming, spunk filling him so full, it slides down his cheeks. You fuck him through your orgasm, wrung from your throat, and then pull out.
You feel so tainted.
Afterwards, you lick him clean - thrust your tongue into his hole and eat him out, tasting yourself in your mouth. Then, when he’s begging for it, you swallow his cock; suck him so hard he comes down your throat with the most piercing scream. You’ll never forget it - the sound of his release, the taste of come on your tongue.
So that’s what you taste like.
It’s alarming, how accurately they’ve been made, these plastic drones. How real they are; how human.
You swallow every drop. Then you climb off him and put on your clothes. Five minutes later, you’re walking out of the door.
At the end of the day, he has a box to guard. And you? You have a life to live. Without her.
Rating: NC-17
Genre(s): porn, angst
Word Count: ~490
Pairing(s) / Character(s): realboy!Rory / plastic!Rory (srsly)
Warnings / Spoilers: end of Matt Smith’s first season
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who.
Summary: You’ve always wanted to know what you taste like. All I can say is - fatherbananas MADE ME WRITE THIS. I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS MINDFUCK. AT ALL. HAPPY BIRTHDAY GURL!
You meet him in another life.
He’s a broken man. He’s the man who waited - or is waiting, rather. Two thousand years. Guardian to a box.
You know he knows it’s worth it.
When you take him, he doesn’t struggle. He’s loud beneath you; all moans and gasps and oh God please. You kiss the noises right out of his mouth. Your mouth.
It’s wrong. Both of you know that this is wrong. And yet.
“What do you want?” you rasp, rough and grating. Your fingers are going to leave bruises along his thighs, until you realise that he’s made of plastic anyway. It doesn’t matter as long as you don’t break him.
“You,” he gasps. You watch his eyes - your eyes - run into the back of his head with a particularly hard thrust. You know your cock is hitting the right spot. You’re amazed he has a spot. “I want you, please, please.”
And you give it to him. The bed is shaking, the bolts creaking beneath your combined weight and the violent movement of you above him, fucking down into his arse. You watch your cock stretch him wide, lube slicking his hole, and you think it’s gorgeous. Fucking gorgeous.
“Christ, you feel good,” you moan out loud, and you try to speed up, even though there is no more speed to give. “So tight and, fucking hell, I’m not going to last-”
He whimpers beneath you, tugging at his own cock through his fingers, and the sight makes you rut into his arse until you’re coming, spunk filling him so full, it slides down his cheeks. You fuck him through your orgasm, wrung from your throat, and then pull out.
You feel so tainted.
Afterwards, you lick him clean - thrust your tongue into his hole and eat him out, tasting yourself in your mouth. Then, when he’s begging for it, you swallow his cock; suck him so hard he comes down your throat with the most piercing scream. You’ll never forget it - the sound of his release, the taste of come on your tongue.
So that’s what you taste like.
It’s alarming, how accurately they’ve been made, these plastic drones. How real they are; how human.
You swallow every drop. Then you climb off him and put on your clothes. Five minutes later, you’re walking out of the door.
At the end of the day, he has a box to guard. And you? You have a life to live. Without her.