Miles should probably know better -- he knows intimately what it feels like to have the warmth and love of the pack wrenched away, without mercy, without thought. Corrigan had been surgically precise when banishing him, a far cry from how he'd brutally torn any emotions or connections to the pack out of Kurt's subconscious, but it had still hurt like an open wound for weeks. It's not possible that Kurt isn't acting now, not when they're enduring the psychic equivalent of a knife to the chest.

Still, he doesn't care. Their throat works around him, their tongue fluttering slightly, their big teary eyes fixed upwards. So obedient, so good. Miles doesn't give them any praise, but his hand softens minutely where it's knotted in their long, tangled hair. He even pulls them far enough off his cock that breathing is easier. His version of a reward.

But then he yanks them back, thrusting up hard enough that even his comparatively small length hits the back of Kurt's throat, slides back to block their air for another long, painful moment. He wants to taunt them about doing this for Corrigan, choking on his cock every night, but that silent threat is echoing still in his mind. So Miles stays silent, immovable, just focusing on fucking Kurt's throat hard and deep and punishing.