Wild Things Should Stay Wild: To Break a Wild Thing: 1980 Part 3

((This transpires directly after 1980 Part 2 here))

“Don …,” Tea couldn’t say anymore.

He didn’t have to say anymore. Don was pushing him down onto the floor. “You are safest with me. No one can take care of you like I can, my boy.” Tea whined as the Moderator positioned himself between Tea’s legs, spreading his knees apart to reveal the place where he ached most. Tea didn’t ask, and he didn’t resist. He placed his own wrists above his head as he was laid flat on the ground. He barely noticed the strings that pinned his hands where he had instinctively placed them. In a matter of seconds Don’s fly was undone and the man was pressing into him. Tea howled, cut off sharply by Don’s palm over his mouth as he pushed as deep into Tea as he was able. The blunt daggers which had been piercing Tea’s abdomen earlier all but dissipated as Don began to move, began to sate Tea’s need. Still the drumming remained as Tea vocalized against Don’s palm. The hand gripped his face harshly, nails digging into his cheeks as Don turned Tea’s head to the side. Suddenly there were teeth in Tea’s neck and Tea’s eyes snapped open at the harshness of the bite, the violence of the thrust. Don was heavy on him, thick inside him, rough against him, but he had never shown this much … Tea didn’t have a word for what the Moderator was doing now. He didn’t know, but it was making him arch. It was making his body protest against the movement, rigid against the Moderator in spite of how much it needed this attention. It hurt. It hurt about as much as the daggers.

But instead of slowing upon Tea’s muffled, “D-Dnn,” Don got rougher. He bit harder. He thrust harder. He gripped harder.

The Fate Cords tightened and Tea was whimpering in pain by the time Don’s teeth left his neck and his lips were against his ear. “Do not. Trust. Them.” He thrusted into Tea so harshly at each stop that Tea was blinded by tears again. “They will hurt you.” Tea pulled against the strings, but they didn’t give. He started to squeeze his thighs tight, but they were so weak Don’s hips moved as though Tea had made no effort to stop him. “This is nothing compared to what they would do.” Another bite, mouth landing just below the other mark. Tea screamed again, black dots lining his vision as he felt a tightness forming in his core. He wanted to clench, wanted to reach it sooner. This would stop if he could reach it sooner, then maybe all the hurt would subside, maybe the memory of this moment would subside. “Do you want to be taken from me? Are you willing to risk it?”

“No!” The picture splintered, the tightness shattering like a glass thrown against the wall. He was blind for a moment, Don still lodged inside him, throat still wet from his mouth. He was sore. He was limp, and he was sore.

And he didn’t stay awake long enough to feel Don pull out, gather him in his arms, and carry him back to bed.

The violent pain and drumming that had rendered him so weak was slow to fade from him the rest of his season though by the following week it was merely a memory. Don did not repeat the harshness of that instance.

But Tea did not accept his touch without a flinch from that moment on.

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