"Happy" doesn't seem to be something that Miles is -- he's either annoyed or he's nothing at all. Sometimes through the link, there's only an absence, a void, like he's gotten so good at turning off his emotions that nothing at all bleeds through. It'd be truly tragic, if it weren't for the fact that he definitely still has his moments of intense feeling -- usually triumph, or a sick fascination. These feelings usually only spring up when he's actively hurting something, when there's blood on his hands.
That's the other thing Kurt has to be mindful of, that cycle from calm to violence. Miles follows it as regularly as the moon, his calm neutrality slowly ebbing away, replaced with gradually escalating annoyance or frustration. It can be the smallest things -- a draft in the wall, a snap or pop from a bubble of sap bursting in the fireplace, a mildly singed potato in dinner. But suddenly he'll switch, go from absently impatient and blank to deadly.
When that happens, there's no way out but through. There's no stopping Miles when he gets that glint in his eye, reaches for his knife, drags Kurt over to the far corner by their hair and set about getting his frustrations out. The claiming marks had come first -- Miles had set the edge of his knife to the edge of one smooth, healed scar and slowly drug it over Kurt's pale skin, ignoring their cries of pain, ignoring their screams, focused entirely on flaying the evidence of the pack from their body. One at a time, he'd removed each mark, saving Corrigan's for the last.
It's still there, on Kurt's neck, surrounded by bandages covering the rest of their shredded flesh. A week has passed since Miles removed Naseer's mark, had licked his blade clean and let Kurt bleed for hours before deigning to doctor their wounds. But Corrigan's mark remains, until Miles decides it's time to carve it free. They know it's coming. He knows it's coming. The pressure has been building for days now, and each moment is one step closer to that inevitability.
Now, without even looking at the fire, Miles gestures vaguely at his groin, impatient. "What are you waiting for?" No approval for Kurt's starting the fire, no sign that they've done something right. Just a bored, passive demand for them to service him.
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Date: 2023-11-25 01:18 am (UTC)That's the other thing Kurt has to be mindful of, that cycle from calm to violence. Miles follows it as regularly as the moon, his calm neutrality slowly ebbing away, replaced with gradually escalating annoyance or frustration. It can be the smallest things -- a draft in the wall, a snap or pop from a bubble of sap bursting in the fireplace, a mildly singed potato in dinner. But suddenly he'll switch, go from absently impatient and blank to deadly.
When that happens, there's no way out but through. There's no stopping Miles when he gets that glint in his eye, reaches for his knife, drags Kurt over to the far corner by their hair and set about getting his frustrations out. The claiming marks had come first -- Miles had set the edge of his knife to the edge of one smooth, healed scar and slowly drug it over Kurt's pale skin, ignoring their cries of pain, ignoring their screams, focused entirely on flaying the evidence of the pack from their body. One at a time, he'd removed each mark, saving Corrigan's for the last.
It's still there, on Kurt's neck, surrounded by bandages covering the rest of their shredded flesh. A week has passed since Miles removed Naseer's mark, had licked his blade clean and let Kurt bleed for hours before deigning to doctor their wounds. But Corrigan's mark remains, until Miles decides it's time to carve it free. They know it's coming. He knows it's coming. The pressure has been building for days now, and each moment is one step closer to that inevitability.
Now, without even looking at the fire, Miles gestures vaguely at his groin, impatient. "What are you waiting for?" No approval for Kurt's starting the fire, no sign that they've done something right. Just a bored, passive demand for them to service him.