Miles moves in time with them, like he'd always known they'd obey -- which he had, of course. The protective instincts of a wolf towards their pup were sacred, insurmountable. Only the devotion of a pack to their mate came anywhere close to that level of devotion. He could've commanded Kurt to slit their own throat, to let him cut out their tongue or tell them to get down on their knees and service him, right then and there in the woods. That last thought was, admittedly tempting.
But Miles preferred to have their first time be somewhere he could take his time with Kurt, could truly savor every moment of claiming what was rightfully his. Still, he couldn't resist stepping forward as soon as they were hidden in the treeline, pressing up against Kurt's back, one hand coming up to cover their mouth. The other, still holding the knife, slowly traced it in lazy circles over their stomach. "Very good. Hold out your arm. I need some of your scent to linger here, while we get a head start." Miles nuzzled his face against the hollow of their neck, pressing his lips to their shoulder, adding softly: "And don't scream. I only want you, I have no qualms about slicing you open and leaving your pup here, before I take you."
When Kurt obeys -- because of course they will -- Miles draws the tip of the knife over the soft skin of their lower arm, from wrist to elbow. It's just enough to cut, just enough to prompt drops of blood to well up, dripping onto the brush and grass. Not enough to be immediately identifiable as blood itself, but enough to leave Kurt's scent there, at the treeline.
Satisfied, Miles moved his hand away from the trembling human's mouth, then nudged them forward, hard. "By the tree, on the ground." Folded there were baggy, shapeless garments -- a dress, a cloak, shoes. Too big for Kurt, all of them drenched in the scent of the woods, grime and sap and pitch rubbed into the fabric. Even their familiar, beloved scent would be smothered, impossible to detect as Miles dragged them farther and farther away from Corrigan's territory.
Miles kneed Kurt hard in the back of their legs, hissing out impatiently, "Put them on. Quietly. We need to move."
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But Miles preferred to have their first time be somewhere he could take his time with Kurt, could truly savor every moment of claiming what was rightfully his. Still, he couldn't resist stepping forward as soon as they were hidden in the treeline, pressing up against Kurt's back, one hand coming up to cover their mouth. The other, still holding the knife, slowly traced it in lazy circles over their stomach. "Very good. Hold out your arm. I need some of your scent to linger here, while we get a head start." Miles nuzzled his face against the hollow of their neck, pressing his lips to their shoulder, adding softly: "And don't scream. I only want you, I have no qualms about slicing you open and leaving your pup here, before I take you."
When Kurt obeys -- because of course they will -- Miles draws the tip of the knife over the soft skin of their lower arm, from wrist to elbow. It's just enough to cut, just enough to prompt drops of blood to well up, dripping onto the brush and grass. Not enough to be immediately identifiable as blood itself, but enough to leave Kurt's scent there, at the treeline.
Satisfied, Miles moved his hand away from the trembling human's mouth, then nudged them forward, hard. "By the tree, on the ground." Folded there were baggy, shapeless garments -- a dress, a cloak, shoes. Too big for Kurt, all of them drenched in the scent of the woods, grime and sap and pitch rubbed into the fabric. Even their familiar, beloved scent would be smothered, impossible to detect as Miles dragged them farther and farther away from Corrigan's territory.
Miles kneed Kurt hard in the back of their legs, hissing out impatiently, "Put them on. Quietly. We need to move."