Wild Things Should Stay Wild: To Break a Wild Thing: 1964 Part 3

((below is the rest of the original 1964, could not post on Tapastic due to content. Part 1 is up Tuesday 11/7, Part 2 is up Thursday 11/9. Don’t spoil it for yourself, wait to read all. Please go read the series WTSSW here!))

 

Tears ran from his eyes as he felt the need in his lower abdomen growing stronger. That’s what it was. It was need. Pangs turned into wildfires and he was hurting. He was hurting and whining and utterly ashamed and terrified by the time his door opened and in stepped Don. Before Don could say anything, Rowan asked desperately, “Can’t-t you s-sedate me or s-something?” The cramps had just been agony. It seemed he was more equipped to handle agony than the need.

“I’m sorry, son,” Don answered as he approached cautiously, coming to sit on the bed with Rowan. “Sedatives and drugs have only been known to make the symptoms stronger, even in sleep.”

The mattress dipped under Don’s weight and Rowan let out a loud moan. He covered his now red hot face in embarrassment. “But at least I’ll sleep-p,” he argued.

“You’ll wake up in more pain than before.” Don flattened a hand against Rowan’s lower back and Rowan gasped. The touch didn’t hurt … but he was sure that his body wanted it more than his mind was willing to admit. He didn’t like this. This felt wrong. This felt … humiliating.

“I can take the pain, just make this stop,” he begged. Squeezing his eyes shut, he whimpered and stretched, bucking against the hand and nearly sobbing aloud at how excruciating the need was.

“Do you really want my help?” Rowan made a noise akin to a horrified howl as he pressed his face into the pillow. He was shaking. He felt scared and weak and above all else helpless. He had a need, but if he had any real wants he couldn’t name them. He couldn’t answer Don. It felt wrong to answer him, everything felt wrong. He didn’t know what to say or do, he just knew that his body was on the verge of screaming for something (he wasn’t sure what exactly). “Rowan?”

“Idon’tknow.” It was the truth. He didn’t know. And the longer Don’s hand stayed on him the more humiliated he felt. Rolling onto his stomach, he buried his face entirely into the pillow and brought his arms under the plush material to keep said pillow against his face. The bed suddenly dipped more and suddenly Rowan was alert. Rolling fast enough to twist the blankets around his middle, he swung his leg and almost locked it around Don’s neck. Don ducked just in time, catching his knee and suddenly pinning both of Rowan’s legs to the mattress. Rowan lurched to the side, trying to get out from under Don only to fail. His partner-to-be wasn’t letting him go and Rowan’s lower half was exposed. His whines grew in volume and he couldn’t look at Don’s face. He couldn’t look at all. “I’m scared, DonI’mscared,” he admitted.

Don shushed him, his hands rough against Rowan’s legs. There as a flash of red that made Rowan open his eyes only to find his hands had been bound in Don’s Fate Strings. Similarly red strings held his knees in place, keeping his thighs securely open. Rowan’s heart raced. He tugged against the cords despite knowing they would not give. He turned a fearful gaze to Don and saw he wore the same expression he had the night of Rowan’s turning. It changed, and Rowan could only just read it and feel vaguely what it was Don was feeling. Predation. Desperation. The man’s expression flip flopped between the two but his overall emotion was something Rowan was so wholly unfamiliar with he didn’t recognize it.

Don’s hands slid up his bare hips as he asked, “Do you trust me, Rowan?”

Rowan’s breaths were shallow. He watched the Moderator, no more tears clouding his vision. His need was protesting his hesitation, but still he looked on in fear. “Y-yes.”

“Have I physically hurt you before?”

He had to fight not to bite his lip. He forced himself to answer, “No-o.”

Hands pushed Rowan’s shirt up past his chest, up to his armpits. “Then trust me not to hurt you now.”

Rowan started whining, the sounds clipped and rapid as they fell into a rhythm with his shallow breaths. Don’s hands slid over Rowan’s hipbones and to his thighs. Rowan had to close his eyes, back arching in spite of himself. His restraints kept him from attacking, that much he gathered. That didn’t make him feel any more human. That didn’t comfort him.

There was very little that could comfort him really. There was only the throbbing need in his groin that Don’s fingers met head on.

Don bypassed the groove Rowan had found in the shower and went straight for the part of him that ached the greatest. Thick fingers penetrated him for the first time and the cry he unleashed was utterly undignified. Don’s free palm slid up his body to cover his mouth, quieting him as his fingers worked. Rowan’s eyes watered. The movements were rough, but the need was being satisfied. It wasn’t painful, it wasn’t comfortable, but the need quelled. Don’s fingers slid in and out of him, movements jerky enough to rock Rowan’s whole body. He went from whining to moaning and soft whimpering against Don’s palm. He felt like there was radio static in his mind, a film of sweat gathering on his still heated skin. At some point he realized Don had stopped moving. He wasn’t moving his hand at all. It was just him rocking onto the Moderator’s fingers.

His partner-to-be gave him a thin lipped smile as he looked down at him in approval.

And no matter how bad he felt, he couldn’t make himself stop.

Rowan couldn’t focus on much else thereafter. He lay in bed, he nibbled the food and drank what was given to him, he slept, he accepted Don’s hand when it was offered to him. As promised it didn’t hurt, but it still didn’t feel right. He felt grosser than before he’d taken a shower. Whenever Don came to him after that, he kept his own drink in hand. It was an amber liquid he’d take small sips from as Rowan used him. That’s what it felt like. It felt like Rowan was using him. Realizing it was alcohol Don was drinking didn’t make him feel any better about using him either.

It was one dark night near the close of that second week he’d been kept in the penthouse. He managed to convince Don he wanted to stay in his room, but Don checked on him frequently. The door was left wide open. Every phone call was left unanswered, but if Rowan so much as whimpered Don was there. Ready for use, Rowan would think. He’d been sleeping. He woke himself up as he felt his need rising again. He didn’t move from his facedown position on the bed, muffling his moans in the pillow as he’d done many times before.

Sleep still clouded his mind, but he knew he wasn’t out of it enough to have forgotten the sound of footfalls. After seemingly no sound at all, there was a familiar dip in his mattress. Long since having shed his shirt, he was less opposed to being exposed to Don than before. He knew it was Don. He felt it.

But this time there were no hands pushing his legs apart. This time it was Don’s own still clothed legs. Rowan moaned, his whine sounding louder than normal in his own ears. He responded though the position was different, angling his hips for the other to access.

For the first time Don moaned. That was enough to wake Rowan up fully.

He gasped as Don lay flush against him, chest pressed to his back and mouth pressed to his ear. Rowan caught a whiff of his breath and the telltale sign of alcohol was mingled with it. There was a moment in which Rowan thought he should say something, thought he should ask if the other was actually present in mind. All such thinking fled his head the moment he felt teeth in his earlobe. He whined, Don ceasing the bite at the very second the sound reach his ears. He didn’t apply any harsher pressure, but he did keep nipping. Rowan shuddered, the Moderator’s breath even hotter on his already burning skin. He closed his eyes, kept his face to the pillow, and allowed the man to trail bites along his neck and shoulder. His hands slid over Rowan’s hips, squeezing harder than they had before. There was a fervor that hadn’t been there before. It left Rowan’s heart pounding harder, his claws digging into the mattress as suddenly Don started grinding against his core. The noises Rowan made were such a mix of wanton calls for the other. He panted, letting the other set a pace before coming to a stop that left Rowan gasping. His body wanted more. His mind was still tired, but his body wanted more.

There was a sound Rowan hadn’t heard for a while. It was the sound of a zipper being undone. The ache in his groin grew, but he whined. He didn’t yet voice his concern. Not until it was too late.

Something thick and hard pressed to his folds and Rowan fell flat against the mattress. He cried out as it pushed into him, slowly at first. It was so much larger than fingers, so hot it matched the heat of his insides. He went quiet, feeling his muscles clenching around the hard member before a series of sharp gasps and whines left him. It was tight. The fit was tight, and he was … he was … .

Don’s hands found his wrists and pinned them to the bed. His hips pulled back, then snapped into place. Rowan screamed. He shook, his need too great to protest but utterly taken aback by the almost foreign sensation. Don snapped his hips again and Rowan once more. He felt hot, not just from his need but from something else. The heat gathered in his neck and flooded his cheeks, only worsened when Don snapped his hips into place yet again. His vocals didn’t stop the second Don’s teeth found his ear and throat again. He felt the other moving at his back, felt him moving against him, moving inside him. The bed rocked, hitting the wall at each snap. The mattress springs squeaked at each movement. Rowan lost all sense of time and space and soon he was exhausted. Even as his body was greedily taking what Don gave, he was getting tired. Limp in Don’s hold, Don slid a palm away from Rowan’s wrist to grasp at his hair. Don turned Rowan’s head and much to his amazement pressed a soft, wet, alcohol tainted kiss to his cheek as he slammed into him once again. Rowan melted, giving in to his weariness even as Don was still filling him. He let out a moan, and it drowned out Don’s hot whisper.

A name.

He’d whispered a name.

But as Rowan fell into a trance that matched the pace of Don’s hips, he knew it wasn’t his name that had been whispered. It couldn’t have been.

When next he awoke Don was gone. He himself was absent, but evidence of the night before remained stained on his bedclothes and bitten into his skin. He could pretend the whisper hadn’t happened, but he couldn’t pretend all of it hadn’t.

For better or for worse, Don had kept his promise. None of it had hurt him physically. Emotionally, he had yet to be sure.

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