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."
Of course Kurt obeys. Even as they cringe and shudder with revulsion at the press of his body against their back, his lips on their bare skin, they hold out their arm exactly as told and let themself be cut. It hurts, but they only let out a gasp, a sharp inhale through their nose, too terrified of making noise to even care about the pain.
Theirs and the pack's both. Picturing the wolves frantically searching for them, tricked by the scent marks they're forced to leave behind, makes their heart twist into a painful knot. But they can't care. Miles will hurt the baby. That's all they can care about.
Miles. Even though it's been months, even though they can't see him, they know it's him. They recognize his voice, the gross feeling he leaves them with inside as his body presses flush to theirs. Kurt only met him once, and they still feel like he's branded them, left a mark on them that's unmistakably his, a painful groove inside where he fits perfectly. Not even humanity, in all its cruelty, made Kurt feel this filthy and frightened and small.
But they have to push past it. As they're shoved and kicked onto their pale knees by the pile of clothes laid out for them, they know they can't let fear's grip on them get too tight. They have someone important to protect. So they hurry to get dressed, pulling the dress down over their head and shoulders, lacing up the shoes, fastening the cloak with trembling, unpracticed hands. It all covers them head to toe, concealing the shape and look and smell of them. Miles can take them into a human village and pass them off as his pregnant little wife, and no one would bat an eye.
Don't think about it. Still quiet, still not looking behind them, Kurt supports themself against the tree as they rise to stand once more, a protective hand on their stomach. They'll go wherever he tells them to. No tricks. Even as tears stream uninterrupted down their face, they'll do exactly as Miles tells them do. They don't have a choice.
Miles is confident enough in Kurt's obedience that he keeps a closer eye on the clearing, waiting to see if any of the wolves will wander by, looking for their mate. He's confident in his ability to ward off one at a time, but that's a risk he'd rather not take.
Luck -- or fate -- is on his side, it seems, because nobody comes around the corner of the house, calling for Kurt. Nobody even notices as Miles slides the knife back into it's sheath at his side, stepping forward and grabbing the human's arm hard, just above their elbow, right where the knife had dug in. "Walk," he murmurs against their ear. "Slowly, don't make a lot of noise. I'll tell you when it's time to run."
Blood soaks through the fabric, but Miles's tight grip means that no drops escape, nothing to make a scent trail that can be followed. They walk quietly, through an afternoon that seems almost peaceful -- the sun is shining, the birds singing, a soft breeze at their back. It's nearly idyllic, actually.
After several minutes, though, the peace is shattered by a sound from behind them -- far enough behind that Miles is secure in their head start, but close enough that the agony of it shakes the trees: a howl. Then another, and another, a chorus of primal grief and rage that sends the birds into silence, that seems to darken the sky itself.
Miles huffs out a laugh, stepping out of the forest, onto a path, where a cart waits, hitched to two horses. He shoves Kurt towards it, grabbing a filthy, stained blanket and throwing it at them, movements quick, impatient. "Sit, cover your head. If you try jumping out, you'll be killed -- either by the fall, or me. Understand?"
Then he's up, grabbing the reins and slapping them hard against the smooth, wide backs of the two powerful horses, urging them into a brisk trot, then higher, into a gallop that soon becomes a dead run. No horse could outrun Corrigan’s pack in a fair race, but with their head start? They'll be halfway to the coast before the wolves ever find a trail.
The chorus of howling agony shatters them to pieces. For a moment, as Miles laughs in the face of the pack's grief, Kurt doesn't think they'll be able to move through it. How could they? How could they possibly go on living, knowing the horror in those ghostly howls is there because of them?
Of course, they must go on, whether consciously or not. Miles' grip on them is much too strong, vice-tight around their arm as much as their heart. The consequences of disobeying are much too dire.
But even as they scramble into the waiting carriage and cover themself as instructed, Kurt isn't here because they're willing. Miles knows that as well as they do. They know where they belong. They know, as the stricken howls grow fainter and fainter with the thunder of hooves underneath them, that their family will never stop looking for them. The pack will tear itself asunder searching for them, they will turn the woods and mountains inside out for any sign of their lost mate, of the beloved child they'd all been waiting for, the missing piece that would make their family whole at last.
Kurt screams.
They're only human, so their voice doesn't carry the same, doesn't pierce through the trees and make the earth fall still around them. Their agony will never reach far enough. But they still scream, wailing with terror and grief as they're taken away, curled up on themself in the back of the racing carriage. They scream into the rushing wind until their lungs ache, until their insides feel scraped out, and then they scream some more.
Maybe the pack, by some miracle, will hear them. Maybe Miles will punish them the moment he brings the horses to a stop, making them regret ever being born. It doesn't matter, any of it. Kurt screams and screams and screams, but they still stay.
Miles hears the sobbing screaming, but only just barely over the rush of the wind, the thunder of the horse's hooves. He can feel an echo of it through the strained and broken pack link, though, along with the resonating horror and confusion and fury from the other wolves. He can sense their disorganization, their frantic, frenetic searching of the cabin, the clearing, the river, all the places that Kurt would usually be. In their urge to be present in the moment, to search the familiar, they don't think to look too far, not yet. They can sense Kurt's terror and loss, but they can't pinpoint where it's coming from.
And then Miles steps in, through that link, forcing his way in and closing Kurt off from the others, a brutal almost-spiritual invasion, grabbing those threads of connection and wrenching them apart. This is the other reason he hadn't reappeared, the reason he'd waited and bided his time, creeping closer and closer to the pack's home, to their silent, inexplicable link to one another. So they wouldn't sense him, weaving his own will into the link Kurt has -- Kurt had -- to their family. So they can't stop him when he abruptly cuts that off.
It's a painful, violent, unthinkable thing, a member of the pack forcefully ousting another from that link. Miles is only able to do it because of the hours and days he'd spent waiting and building up his strength. The violation of it will be a physical pain for Kurt, for the rest of the pack, but it'll confirm that there'll be no way to track them. That they can truly disappear.
Satisfied, Miles urges the horses faster, their galloping hooves consuming the long, long road beneath, through the forest, into a field, then a different, darker wood. The weather changes, growing colder, the faint scent of the sea on the air. Miles pushes the horses until they're stumbling, panting, breathing heavily, covered in sweat.
Then he pulls them to a halt, letting them shudder and wheeze, as he turns and alights in the wagon, reaching out to pull the blanket off Kurt. His expression is cold, neutrally curious. "Are you done?"
When their link is severed—unthinkably, impossibly—Kurt goes dead silent, their tortured wails abruptly cut off by all the air evaporating from their lungs.
The pain is immediate. Devastating. All-consuming. They can't feel the pack anymore, at all. In all the time they've spent with the wolves, Kurt had gotten so used to always feeling them, their emotions becoming part of them, their place in the world always clear, even when they were separated. Benji's excitement, Leo's warmth, Kai's protection, Naseer's fondness, Corrigan's love, it was all always there, a comforting blanket of safety and belonging that nothing could break.
But now it's all gone. Now, instead of comfort and safety and belonging, Kurt only feels the shadow of a looming stranger. A malevolent presence unbonded to them, uninvited, invading the link and staking its claim. Frantic, disbelieving, they rip at the cloak and the collar of their filthy dress to run their trembling fingers over the claiming bites around their neck. Nothing more than scars now.
They find their voice again somewhere along the long road, their screams panicked and shrill, interspersed with desperate howling sobs of terror and agony. It doesn't last long. By the time the horses are permitted to rest, Kurt is quiet, curled up on the floor, arms around their stomach, eyes staring blankly into nothing. They shiver at the sudden cold when Miles tears the blanket off them, but they don't react otherwise.
Already Miles is stepping in, both physically -- taking Kurt almost gently by the elbow and guiding them to sit upright -- and through the link, inserting himself into the torn-apart threads of connection, the only option, the only one left. It remains to be seen if Kurt will cling to him, desperate to fill the hollow, howling emptiness, or if they'll resist.
Eventually, though, it won't matter. Eventually they won't have a choice.
The man's hands are still gentle, pushing back the hood of Kurt's cloak, smoothing their hair, thumbing away their tears with cold fingers. When he leans back for a moment, there's no change in expression between that tenderness and the sudden crack of his open palm against Kurt's cheek, slapping them hard, then immediately backhanding the other side of their face.
"I asked you a question," he says calmly, like he hadn't just struck them hard enough to leave immediate, vivid red marks. "When I ask a question, I expect a "yes sir" or a "no sir". Understand?"
Kurt offers no resistance as they're pulled up to sit, as Miles brushes their hair back and wipes their cheeks free of tears. They can feel him, snaking into the now empty pack link, dominating the space that five much better men used to fill. His presence is pervasive, oppressive. It sickens them to the core, that he's somehow able to force his way inside without ever bonding with them, like he belongs there.
But there's nothing they can do to force him out. Even without the baby to protect, Kurt has no idea where they are, how to get back to their pack, how to re-form the broken link. Where would they even start?
Not even the sharp strikes of Miles' hand to their face prompts resistance, though they do earn the man a shrill cry from the human, frightened and pained and surprised. That hurt. Whimpering, Kurt reaches up to cover their cheek, hot and stinging from the impact of his knuckles, fresh tears wetting the throbbing skin. It's been a while since they've been backhanded like that. Not since living with their father, back in early spring.
The violence, terrifying and debilitating as it is, is almost a sick relief. This, at least, is familiar. This, they know how to deal with, how to survive, much more readily than whatever Miles did to the pack link.
"Y-Yes, sir," they choke out, cowering with fear, in pain and humiliated, but compliant. "I understand. I'm d-done, sir..."
"Good." The gentleness is back, Miles reaching to take their hand, to set his other at their back to help them stand, help offset the weight of the baby. He guides them forward, to step down from the back of the wagon, squeezing their hand gently and murmuring, "Careful, there you go. Don't trip. Wouldn't want an accident, would we?" There's a bit of a cruel smile on Miles's face as he says it, suggestion he may not mind that at all. But he needs to be strategic -- having been torn away from their pack, the pup is likely the only thing Kurt cares about anymore. Without it, there's no way to ensure their compliance.
As if testing just that, Miles reaches one big, deadly hand -- the one still smeared with Kurt's blood -- and rests it on their belly, fingers spread wide, possessive. "How far along are you?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow up. Corrigan's child is useful in their own way, but Miles doesn't want to live on the run forever. He wants his pack, his territory, his home back, and it's going to take him knocking Kurt up to do it. And he doesn't enjoy waiting any longer than he needs to.
Case in point -- the hand resting so supportively at Kurt's back has slid down, smoothing over the shape of their ass beneath the baggy, ill-fitting dress, squeezing with that same possessive, punishing grip. He doesn't intend on abstaining from his long-denied pack privileges while in hiding. In fact, he's going to have a lot of free time, and will need a lot of distraction...
Miles is a cruel but brutally efficient teacher. As soon as he gets what he wants, the punishments stop—though the threats of accidents do not—and he's all gentle and helpful once more, supporting them as he guides them wherever they're going next. All Kurt has to do is duck their head and follow his lead, obey him promptly, act subservient and meek, and neither they nor the pup will end up hurt.
They hope. God above, they hope. They will do anything to protect their baby.
That's why Miles' hand pressing against their belly puts them in such a tricky situation. They can live with him groping their ass—even though he squeezes much too hard, makes himself much too familiar, helps himself to imagined privileges he never truthfully had any right to. They're already resigning themself to Miles having his way with them sooner rather than later. He'll touch them whether they like it or not. But the baby... Miles getting his hands anywhere near the baby makes their hackles rise, and their immediate instinct is to swat his hand away.
They don't, of course. Wouldn't want an accident. "Five months, sir," they manage through fresh tears, shuddering from how possessively firm Miles' touch is. They have to fight to keep their voice low and even. "I understand I'm further along than I would be with a human child. Naseer s-says..." Just thinking about the Beta makes their heart ache, a dull heavy pain in their chest. "S-Sorry. They think I'm due in a month's time, sir."
"Ah, yes." Miles drops his hand away from Kurt's stomach, fingers curling into a fist at the mention of Naseer. Perhaps for the best -- though he keeps the other hand firmly on the little human's back, only sliding slightly up from their ass, to propel them forward. "Naseer doubtless has all the accurate information, as per usual. He's never been wrong once, in his entire life." There's obvious venom in his words -- Corrigan might be his biggest enemy, but Naseer is clearly loathed almost as much.
Another shove forward, towards a small lean-to by the side of the road, one of many built for passing travelers to spend an hour or a night while their horses rest. It's little more than a smudgy firepit with a holey roof over top, but it'll do for the night. Miles gives Kurt one last rough push, this time to sit down in the ashes by the fireplace. "Hold still," he commands, pulling a length of rope from his belt and beginning to loop it around Kurt's ankles.
"A month's time, hm? That's not very far away." He lifts his eyes, cold and pale blue and immediately locking with Kurt's. "Can you feel them yet? Your link with the pup?" His hand is back on Kurt's rounded belly, smoothing back and forth. "It'll be there, already. They can feel you too, your fear, your joy. But they won't understand who their father is until they're born. Until they link with him."
Miles thankfully doesn't punish them for slipping up—this time. They're certain he won't be so understanding the next time they mention their former pack. Although they note his particular vitriol towards Naseer, of all people, with baffled confusion. Calm, wise, gentle Naseer, the doting and dutiful Beta, only ever watchful and fair. What could he possibly have done to earn Miles' scornful loathing?
They offer no resistance as he ties their ankles together, only gathering their cloak tighter around their shoulder to ward off the cold. His words do give them pause though. Kurt does feel the baby. They're so small still, a far-away presence very close by, unable to signal thoughts of hopes or desires on their own yet, but Kurt knows deep in their core that they're there. They depend on them. They love them.
They will never know their real father. They will never know how wanted they were, how loved they were, long before they were ever born. Corrigan, beloved Corrigan, won't be there to witness the birth of his first child, to lock eyes with them for the first time and know, just as surely as Kurt does, that they love him.
The realization crushes them. "P-Please," they whimper, devastated, fighting through another wave of sobs rocking their little body. Their hands join Miles' on their stomach, fingers trembling over where the baby rests. They can't even delude themself that the pup is peacefully oblivious within them. While they can't comprehend the peril they're in, Kurt knows they can feel the sheer depth of their grief. That's not fair to them. None of this is. "Please... P-Promise me you'll take care of them. Miles, please, promise you'll treat them like your own," they beg, seeking the wolf's cruel gaze. The baby may never know the love of their real father, but they should at least be safe with the one who's pretending to be.
"They didn't do anything to d-deserve this. Please..."
The conditioning isn't just physical, isn't just Miles reaching up to stroke back Kurt's hair, cradle the cheek that he'd bruised only moments before. Each time Kurt submits, each time they surrender to what Miles wants, he reaches through the fractured link that only they share, soothes them from inside out with waves of comfort, warmth, affection. It isn't just the loss of their pack that'll hurt, it'll be the absence of them, the hollows they've left behind. Eventually Kurt will seek out Miles, seek to obey and please him, if only to fill up that terrible emptiness for a moment.
"Of course, of course," he soothes, stroking his thumb over their cheekbone, brushing away their tears. "That's what a true Alpha would do, hm? They'll be as good as mine once we meet. Even Corrigan would have to respect that." Miles reaches out with his free hand, the one he'd set on Kurt's stomach, reaching around to tug them forward, into his lap.
"Though I think he'll respect you carrying my pup even more so, don't you?" He nuzzles against their ear, whispers softly: "If you do everything I say, if you obey me without question, I'll take you with me when I conquer the pack." Miles lets this linger, a potential of reunion, of return to Corrigan and the others, even as the first prisoner of a usurper, an invader.
But then: "I'll let you choose what order I kill them in."
The worst part is that it's working. Miles put them in this terrible situation, severed those cherished links they'd built with the pack, and successfuly weasled his way inside without ever claiming them for himself. His presence is overwhelming, as threatening as it is soothing, oppressive and comforting all at once. It's not the presence they want, not the link they desire, but it's something. And compared to the awful, howling emptiness, Kurt will cling to that comfort every time they're offered it.
Even now, knowing full well what he's done and what his plans are—taking them and their child, impregnating them, building a family only to use it against their old one—Kurt doesn't resist him as he pulls them close. Miles is repugnant and dangerous and so, so cruel, but he's there. He's a soothing hand and a warm breath and a soft voice, a strong firm body against their own. They shiver at the closeness, and they cannot pretend that none of it is with delight, however reluctant.
Except when his final suggestion is spoken. His final threat. The sob that escapes them shakes the walls of the flimsy lean-to. "P-Please, no," they cry, burying their face into his shoulder. Part of them is screaming to get away from him, push away and run, to somehow warn the others of what Miles is preparing to do. But even if their legs weren't tied at the ankles, they'd never make it anywhere. If he's already intent on killing his former pack, his family, surely the only thing stopping him from killing Kurt too is their continued compliance and obedience. Still, this... they can't accept this. "Sir, please, don't— d-don't hurt them, we don't have to hurt them, p-please— please..."
"Shhh, shh, none of that," Miles murmurs, still petting at Kurt's hair, tucking them close against him, their shivering, sobbing body in his lap. He's the picture of indulgence, sighing heavily and sliding his hand to rub in slow circles on their back. "I suppose I could consider a different plan. It depends on how well you prove your loyalty, of course."
Pulling back, he cradles Kurt's chin in one hand, giving them a gently stern, almost paternal look. "That's a lot of responsibility. Do you think you can show me how good you can be? How you'll listen to what I say and not fight me?" He doesn't mean a word of it, he's going to do damn well whatever he pleases, but Kurt doesn't need to know that. They need that flicker of hope, that shred of possibility that Miles might not kill the others. Fear is a powerful motivator, but so is love.
So, leaning forward and kissing their forehead gently, Miles seemingly relents: "If you think you can, you need to show me. I'll build a fire, then you can begin proving it to me. I left your hands and mouth untied for a reason. Use them. Understand me?"
It doesn't even matter if it's a trick at this point. If there's even a sliver of a chance that Miles is telling the truth, that he'll reconsider bloodshed if they can just prove their loyalty, Kurt has to take it. They don't have a choice. "Y-Y-Yes, sir, I underst-stand," they manage through terrified tears, nodding fervently, meeting his stern gaze with a pleading one of their own. "I'll be good, sir, I won't f-fight you, I promise. I'll be g-good."
The time it takes for Miles to get a fire going is just enough time for Kurt to compose themself, wipe their tears, calm their breathing. They have to do a good job at this. As much as they hate the thought of being intimate with Miles in any way—most of all willingly—it's a small price to pay for the pack's safety. If all it takes is to play the part of a loyal, obedient, dutiful wife, Kurt will give the performance of a lifetime.
Besides, they're very good at this. As soon as Miles is seated again, Kurt is curling up next to him, tucked against his side, trembling fingers undoing the buttons holding his trousers closed. They're admittedly a little clumsy, not used to dealing with clothes anymore, but it doesn't stop them from touching him all over, hands smoothing over his thighs and hips and stomach, palming encouragingly at his swelling sheath. "How— H-How do you like to be serviced, sir?" they ask from where they're resting their head on his lap, lips shakily parted less than an inch from where Miles' cock emerges. "Slowly? O-Or all at once?"
Miles seems almost -- unaware of Kurt's shaky hands unbuttoning his pants, settling with his back against one of the more sturdy posts holding the lean-to up. His cock reacts, sliding free into Kurt's hand, the same tapered, slick shape they must be so used to by now -- more familiar with werewolf cock than human, likely. The thought has his expression darkening minutely, hand reaching out to slide through Kurt's long hair, loose from the braid they'd worn when he'd taken them.
"I prefer," he began softly, almost tenderly, voice remaining just as gentle as he abruptly twisting his hand in their hair, yanking their head back hard, wrenching them up onto their knees. "If you keep that pretty mouth shut if I'm not fucking it. Understand?" Miles meets Kurt's eyes evenly, calmly, twisting his hand tighter and tighter, then shaking them a little to punctuate his final word.
Then: "Open, tongue out. Hold still. If I want you to talk, I'll ask you a question. If not, don't make a sound. Nod if you understand."
Kurt yelps and cries out with pain, forced up on their knees by Miles' firm, cruel hand. This— They're not used to this. The pack always played rough with them, pulling and twisting their hair, heedlessly using them like a pretty little toy, leaving them breathless and broken and strung out with pleasure. The wolves liberally teased them with pain, with demeaning words, but it was with an understanding that Kurt liked it, was enthusiastically playing along. They always encouraged the human's words, their noises, delighting in their choked moans while fucking their tight, wet throat.
Not Miles. Miles barely wants to know they're there. Their fingers stiffen against his hips, his slick cock, they whimper with fright, but they don't fight him. He tells them not to make a sound, and they obey. He tells them to open their mouth, and they do just that, tongue out, wetting their chin, just as they're told. He doesn't tell them to relax their throat yet, but they still do, shivering, waiting for him.
Kurt's eyes well with tears as they hold his gaze, trying to wordlessly communicate their intent. They'll do better. They'll do everything he says. They're his, free to use, free to play with whenever he wants. They're so, so good at this. Let them prove it.
The difference, of course, is that Kurt was a toy -- but they were the packs toy, their cherished, beloved slut, their needy spoiled brat. Every rough hand in their hair, every big hand swatting their upturned ass or sliding around their slender throat and squeezing was given amidst such pride, such love flowing through the link. The pack shared pleasure whenever, however they could, each member's enjoyment bleeding into the next. Even if it were just Corrigan tangled up with Kurt, taking his lazy time (as an Alpha should) in their bed, or by the riverside, his pleasure would be felt by the others, no matter where they were.
Corrigan's link had been the hardest to break, straining even now in the back of Miles's mind, strong enough to flare even through the shattered link they had once shared. It was horror, it was rage, it was confusion, still. But the real reason Miles had stopped, had allowed the exhausted horses and his exhausted captive some rest, was because Corrigan had realized, at last. The wolves had found the blood, had searched beyond the spot and found Miles's secret, hidden camp. They'd caught his scent at last, mixed with that of their terrified, bleeding mate, and they had understood -- Kurt had been taken, stolen, and Miles was responsible.
Miles had known it would happen, of course. It was an important part of the plan, realizing that he was the one to blame, and that he was willing to harm Kurt -- or their baby. They'd underestimated him once before, and would be more cautious in retaliating. They may not even search at all, fearful that Miles would sense them coming closer and punish their mate for it.
Corrigan was no fool. He'd be cautious, strategic. He'd deliberately close off whatever remained of their link. And he had. But not before sending through, in a silent, devastating force of emotion -- I'm going to fucking kill you.
The force of the mental message had rattled Miles, leaving him shaken, exhausted. They had enough of a head start that he felt find taking a momentary break. Not sleeping, but relieving tension some other way. He still had very specific plans for how he would fully enjoy Kurt's body -- like his former pack had for months now -- but there was no shame in using what he had to pass the time. The journey would be very boring if he didn't take full advantage of their well-trained mouth.
Like before, Miles's cool, neutral expression gives nothing away. He simply gathers Kurt's hair back in a tight, cold fist, knotted at the back of their skull, and pulls them forward, filling their mouth with his cock. There's a soft, pleased groan at the soft, slick heat, the way the human's throat tenses, then submits, lets him slide down it. "Look at me," he commands softly, forcing Kurt to gulp down his entire length. He's -- honestly he's by far the smallest of the pack, even more so than Benji, the youngest. Of course size isn't everything, but even when he was accepted by the others, he'd never been great at technique. He tended to be rough, businesslike, mindless, only wanting to get his cock sucked or top one of the others.
But he forces Kurt to hold it, to stay with his cock plunged down their throat, to look up at him and swallow around him and prove how good they could be.
Poor little Kurt is completely oblivious to Corrigan's lingering link with Miles, strained and brittle though it had been, and the message that Alpha had sent before breaking the link once and for all. Had they known, had they even had an inkling that Corrigan knew, that he was coming for them, maybe they wouldn't be submitting so easily. But the intruder, the usurper, doesn't give anything away with his expression. He just wears that same cold, detached look, watching them with something they can only describe as unwavering disinterest as he pushes their open mouth onto his cock.
The human can't hide their feelings as well as he can. Being with the wolves has only made them more expressive, easier to read, seeing as they no longer had anything to fear from showing their emotions. So there's no hiding the pitiful shiver of delight as Miles' cock breaches their throat. It goes all the way down their spine to their twitching toes, fingers curling against his hips, their eyes reflexively growing hazy.
It doesn't matter that his cock is thoroughly unimpressive compared to what they're used to, nor that he lacks in any flair or technique. Kurt has done this so many times, their mouth so well-trained by now, that just the act of servicing him triggers a full-body pleasure response. Being pregnant and flooded with hormones doesn't exactly help. It's so unfair.
But they can still follow orders, uncrossing their eyes to look up at him when he commands it, those big devastating eyes welling with tears fixed on Miles' face through long eyelashes. They shudder, held firmly in place against his pelvis, throat working around his cock, fluttering, clenching, squeezing. As their lips and tongue twitch against him, Kurt can feel themself getting hard too, unfairly at the mercy of their oversensitive, well-conditioned body, so finely tuned to pleasure and pain.
Kurt never once fights him. Even as their lungs start to ache for air, they don't resist his grip or try to pull away. If what Miles wants is a quiet, submissive, obedient little breeding slave, that's what they'll be for him. Their own pathetic reflexive pleasure might even help sell the performance...
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.
They're powerless to stop him as he starts manhandling them in earnest, fucking their throat without any regard for their comfort or enjoyment. He doesn't even say anything. The only way they can tell he even likes this is by how tightly his fingers grip their hair, how hard his cock feels against their tongue, how badly it hurts every time it pushes into their slick throat.
It feels awful. Kurt can't stop the choked whimpers and sobs of pain every time they're yanked back down on his cock, can't stop the tears from pouring down their face as he helps himself to their mouth, forcefully taking what he imagines he's earned. But it's nothing compared to the molten hot stab of shame at how their body reacts to being taken, being fucked. They're flushed and sweating. They're getting hard. Their body craves more. Like it doesn't matter who fucks them, as long as someone does.
It's a betrayal. Grotesque and deprived. Kurt shouldn't want this, shouldn't want him, but what else do they have? They try to reach out to Corrigan—their Alpha, their love—on sheer instinct, seeking his guidance and comfort and forgiveness, and they find nothing. There's only Miles.
Miles knows, of course, can smell Kurt's arousal, heavy and sweet and intoxicating, designed to call to any wolf and compel them to take, to claim, to possess. It's the scent of an eager, well-trained mate without a pack, something both horrifying and beguiling. Miles has shattered the bond Kurt has with Corrigan, with the pack, an act that takes sheer force of will to complete. His hatred for the pack he once had is stronger than anything else, his desire to destroy drowning out even his own pleasure.
Still, Kurt does have a pretty mouth, a mouth that knows exactly how to please a wolf, even when roughly used and not given much chance to do anything but kneel there and take it. Miles knows the little human's mind -- whatever they may be thinking about being used by their Alpha's greatest enemy -- is helpless in the face of their body's hormones, it's instincts. Kurt has been so conditioned to crave touch, no matter how rough, perfectly trained to service an entire pack all day, every day. In all his months of watching, Miles had rarely seen them without at least one of the wolves touching them, holding them, kissing them and -- most often -- fucking them. Being pregnant has only intensified this, as Kurt's body has become even more insatiable, more easily aroused, more sensitive and needy. It's a biological need, some believe, a way to ensure that the pack stays close to their vulnerable mate and protects them.
Even Miles's hardened instincts are touched by the pheromones Kurt is drowning the clearing with, compelling him to use them, stay close to them, keep them safe and protected. Granted, he doesn't care as much about their physical safety -- it's much more about keeping them away from Corrigan, under his control. He continues fucking their throat deep and steady, heedless of their choking, gasping sobs, scarcely allowing them to breathe.
And when they reach out, desperately, instinctively, Miles reaches back, drowns them in his own presence, his own power, entrapping them with scent and flesh and mind, beginning to overwrite the warmth of the pack with his own eerie, cold presence. "You know," he rasps, pumping into Kurt's throat and holding his cock there, in the convulsing, tight heat, massaged by their involuntary clutching muscles. "I don't think I like you calling me "sir" anymore..." He slides one hand to rest over the terrified, weeping little human's throat, squeezing slowly, wanting to feel them gag, hear them choke on his cock. "I think "Alpha" suits me much, much better. Don't you?"
There's only Miles, only Miles, only Miles. Kurt reaches for comfort, and finds only Miles' cold overwhelming presence. Kurt reaches for guidance, and finds only Miles' steely control dominating their mind. Kurt reaches for Alpha, and finds only Miles.
They can't breathe. His hand tightens around their throat, filled to bursting with his cock, leaving not a single crevice untouched by his malice. Gagging, choking, Kurt shudders violently as their thoughts get muddied, their vision blurs, lungs aching for air that won't come. Their convulsing throat only feels good around his cock, not once prompting an urge to pull away. He won't let them go. Miles won't let them go. Alpha won't...
No. Alpha would let them go, Alpha always let them go, always let them pull back to breathe, always let them rest when it finally became too much. Alpha would never hurt them like this. Alpha loves them. Kurt has to fight not to mix them up in their mind, not wanting to confuse Miles with Alpha, not wanting those thoughts to even touch.
But it's hard when they start losing control of their own thoughts, when they can feel themself starting to fade, when their struggling gets weaker and weaker. It's hard not to confuse them when they reach out again and again, reaching for Alpha to save them, to keep them safe, and they find only Miles, only Miles, Alpha, Miles, Alpha, Alpha, please...
There's no escape from it -- pulling away from Miles as Alpha is akin to choosing to remain in that cold, limitless, endlessly dark place. Embracing it, submitting, fearful and choking and lost, is so much better. Because when Kurt finally reaches out in confusion and terror, Miles is there. He curls around their mind, soothing the wounded, shattered shards and loosens his grip on their hair at the same time, letting them pull back, letting them breathe.
"Good." It's a brief token approval, accompanied by another painful thrust down Kurt's throat, but at least the rhythm set is one where Miles pulls back each time, gives the terrified human a chance to inhale quickly through their nose. He thrusts up a few times, idly, gaze wandering over the fire and the dark, dark woods, like he's not really that invested.
Because he isn't. Because this is simply the first of many acts that will sever Kurt further from their pack and bind them inextricably to him instead. Miles cares more about that, the long term goal. It's that thought -- that and Kurt's silent, desperate begging -- which finally prompts him to climax, to release down Kurt's throat, holding them still for several moments as he pumps into their stomach. "Clean me up," he commands in that raspy, short tone. "Then go to sleep. We travel again at first light."
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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."
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Theirs and the pack's both. Picturing the wolves frantically searching for them, tricked by the scent marks they're forced to leave behind, makes their heart twist into a painful knot. But they can't care. Miles will hurt the baby. That's all they can care about.
Miles. Even though it's been months, even though they can't see him, they know it's him. They recognize his voice, the gross feeling he leaves them with inside as his body presses flush to theirs. Kurt only met him once, and they still feel like he's branded them, left a mark on them that's unmistakably his, a painful groove inside where he fits perfectly. Not even humanity, in all its cruelty, made Kurt feel this filthy and frightened and small.
But they have to push past it. As they're shoved and kicked onto their pale knees by the pile of clothes laid out for them, they know they can't let fear's grip on them get too tight. They have someone important to protect. So they hurry to get dressed, pulling the dress down over their head and shoulders, lacing up the shoes, fastening the cloak with trembling, unpracticed hands. It all covers them head to toe, concealing the shape and look and smell of them. Miles can take them into a human village and pass them off as his pregnant little wife, and no one would bat an eye.
Don't think about it. Still quiet, still not looking behind them, Kurt supports themself against the tree as they rise to stand once more, a protective hand on their stomach. They'll go wherever he tells them to. No tricks. Even as tears stream uninterrupted down their face, they'll do exactly as Miles tells them do. They don't have a choice.
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Luck -- or fate -- is on his side, it seems, because nobody comes around the corner of the house, calling for Kurt. Nobody even notices as Miles slides the knife back into it's sheath at his side, stepping forward and grabbing the human's arm hard, just above their elbow, right where the knife had dug in. "Walk," he murmurs against their ear. "Slowly, don't make a lot of noise. I'll tell you when it's time to run."
Blood soaks through the fabric, but Miles's tight grip means that no drops escape, nothing to make a scent trail that can be followed. They walk quietly, through an afternoon that seems almost peaceful -- the sun is shining, the birds singing, a soft breeze at their back. It's nearly idyllic, actually.
After several minutes, though, the peace is shattered by a sound from behind them -- far enough behind that Miles is secure in their head start, but close enough that the agony of it shakes the trees: a howl. Then another, and another, a chorus of primal grief and rage that sends the birds into silence, that seems to darken the sky itself.
Miles huffs out a laugh, stepping out of the forest, onto a path, where a cart waits, hitched to two horses. He shoves Kurt towards it, grabbing a filthy, stained blanket and throwing it at them, movements quick, impatient. "Sit, cover your head. If you try jumping out, you'll be killed -- either by the fall, or me. Understand?"
Then he's up, grabbing the reins and slapping them hard against the smooth, wide backs of the two powerful horses, urging them into a brisk trot, then higher, into a gallop that soon becomes a dead run. No horse could outrun Corrigan’s pack in a fair race, but with their head start? They'll be halfway to the coast before the wolves ever find a trail.
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Of course, they must go on, whether consciously or not. Miles' grip on them is much too strong, vice-tight around their arm as much as their heart. The consequences of disobeying are much too dire.
But even as they scramble into the waiting carriage and cover themself as instructed, Kurt isn't here because they're willing. Miles knows that as well as they do. They know where they belong. They know, as the stricken howls grow fainter and fainter with the thunder of hooves underneath them, that their family will never stop looking for them. The pack will tear itself asunder searching for them, they will turn the woods and mountains inside out for any sign of their lost mate, of the beloved child they'd all been waiting for, the missing piece that would make their family whole at last.
Kurt screams.
They're only human, so their voice doesn't carry the same, doesn't pierce through the trees and make the earth fall still around them. Their agony will never reach far enough. But they still scream, wailing with terror and grief as they're taken away, curled up on themself in the back of the racing carriage. They scream into the rushing wind until their lungs ache, until their insides feel scraped out, and then they scream some more.
Maybe the pack, by some miracle, will hear them. Maybe Miles will punish them the moment he brings the horses to a stop, making them regret ever being born. It doesn't matter, any of it. Kurt screams and screams and screams, but they still stay.
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And then Miles steps in, through that link, forcing his way in and closing Kurt off from the others, a brutal almost-spiritual invasion, grabbing those threads of connection and wrenching them apart. This is the other reason he hadn't reappeared, the reason he'd waited and bided his time, creeping closer and closer to the pack's home, to their silent, inexplicable link to one another. So they wouldn't sense him, weaving his own will into the link Kurt has -- Kurt had -- to their family. So they can't stop him when he abruptly cuts that off.
It's a painful, violent, unthinkable thing, a member of the pack forcefully ousting another from that link. Miles is only able to do it because of the hours and days he'd spent waiting and building up his strength. The violation of it will be a physical pain for Kurt, for the rest of the pack, but it'll confirm that there'll be no way to track them. That they can truly disappear.
Satisfied, Miles urges the horses faster, their galloping hooves consuming the long, long road beneath, through the forest, into a field, then a different, darker wood. The weather changes, growing colder, the faint scent of the sea on the air. Miles pushes the horses until they're stumbling, panting, breathing heavily, covered in sweat.
Then he pulls them to a halt, letting them shudder and wheeze, as he turns and alights in the wagon, reaching out to pull the blanket off Kurt. His expression is cold, neutrally curious. "Are you done?"
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The pain is immediate. Devastating. All-consuming. They can't feel the pack anymore, at all. In all the time they've spent with the wolves, Kurt had gotten so used to always feeling them, their emotions becoming part of them, their place in the world always clear, even when they were separated. Benji's excitement, Leo's warmth, Kai's protection, Naseer's fondness, Corrigan's love, it was all always there, a comforting blanket of safety and belonging that nothing could break.
But now it's all gone. Now, instead of comfort and safety and belonging, Kurt only feels the shadow of a looming stranger. A malevolent presence unbonded to them, uninvited, invading the link and staking its claim. Frantic, disbelieving, they rip at the cloak and the collar of their filthy dress to run their trembling fingers over the claiming bites around their neck. Nothing more than scars now.
They find their voice again somewhere along the long road, their screams panicked and shrill, interspersed with desperate howling sobs of terror and agony. It doesn't last long. By the time the horses are permitted to rest, Kurt is quiet, curled up on the floor, arms around their stomach, eyes staring blankly into nothing. They shiver at the sudden cold when Miles tears the blanket off them, but they don't react otherwise.
They are done.
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Eventually, though, it won't matter. Eventually they won't have a choice.
The man's hands are still gentle, pushing back the hood of Kurt's cloak, smoothing their hair, thumbing away their tears with cold fingers. When he leans back for a moment, there's no change in expression between that tenderness and the sudden crack of his open palm against Kurt's cheek, slapping them hard, then immediately backhanding the other side of their face.
"I asked you a question," he says calmly, like he hadn't just struck them hard enough to leave immediate, vivid red marks. "When I ask a question, I expect a "yes sir" or a "no sir". Understand?"
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But there's nothing they can do to force him out. Even without the baby to protect, Kurt has no idea where they are, how to get back to their pack, how to re-form the broken link. Where would they even start?
Not even the sharp strikes of Miles' hand to their face prompts resistance, though they do earn the man a shrill cry from the human, frightened and pained and surprised. That hurt. Whimpering, Kurt reaches up to cover their cheek, hot and stinging from the impact of his knuckles, fresh tears wetting the throbbing skin. It's been a while since they've been backhanded like that. Not since living with their father, back in early spring.
The violence, terrifying and debilitating as it is, is almost a sick relief. This, at least, is familiar. This, they know how to deal with, how to survive, much more readily than whatever Miles did to the pack link.
"Y-Yes, sir," they choke out, cowering with fear, in pain and humiliated, but compliant. "I understand. I'm d-done, sir..."
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As if testing just that, Miles reaches one big, deadly hand -- the one still smeared with Kurt's blood -- and rests it on their belly, fingers spread wide, possessive. "How far along are you?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow up. Corrigan's child is useful in their own way, but Miles doesn't want to live on the run forever. He wants his pack, his territory, his home back, and it's going to take him knocking Kurt up to do it. And he doesn't enjoy waiting any longer than he needs to.
Case in point -- the hand resting so supportively at Kurt's back has slid down, smoothing over the shape of their ass beneath the baggy, ill-fitting dress, squeezing with that same possessive, punishing grip. He doesn't intend on abstaining from his long-denied pack privileges while in hiding. In fact, he's going to have a lot of free time, and will need a lot of distraction...
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They hope. God above, they hope. They will do anything to protect their baby.
That's why Miles' hand pressing against their belly puts them in such a tricky situation. They can live with him groping their ass—even though he squeezes much too hard, makes himself much too familiar, helps himself to imagined privileges he never truthfully had any right to. They're already resigning themself to Miles having his way with them sooner rather than later. He'll touch them whether they like it or not. But the baby... Miles getting his hands anywhere near the baby makes their hackles rise, and their immediate instinct is to swat his hand away.
They don't, of course. Wouldn't want an accident. "Five months, sir," they manage through fresh tears, shuddering from how possessively firm Miles' touch is. They have to fight to keep their voice low and even. "I understand I'm further along than I would be with a human child. Naseer s-says..." Just thinking about the Beta makes their heart ache, a dull heavy pain in their chest. "S-Sorry. They think I'm due in a month's time, sir."
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Another shove forward, towards a small lean-to by the side of the road, one of many built for passing travelers to spend an hour or a night while their horses rest. It's little more than a smudgy firepit with a holey roof over top, but it'll do for the night. Miles gives Kurt one last rough push, this time to sit down in the ashes by the fireplace. "Hold still," he commands, pulling a length of rope from his belt and beginning to loop it around Kurt's ankles.
"A month's time, hm? That's not very far away." He lifts his eyes, cold and pale blue and immediately locking with Kurt's. "Can you feel them yet? Your link with the pup?" His hand is back on Kurt's rounded belly, smoothing back and forth. "It'll be there, already. They can feel you too, your fear, your joy. But they won't understand who their father is until they're born. Until they link with him."
A slow, curling, cruel smile. "With me."
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They offer no resistance as he ties their ankles together, only gathering their cloak tighter around their shoulder to ward off the cold. His words do give them pause though. Kurt does feel the baby. They're so small still, a far-away presence very close by, unable to signal thoughts of hopes or desires on their own yet, but Kurt knows deep in their core that they're there. They depend on them. They love them.
They will never know their real father. They will never know how wanted they were, how loved they were, long before they were ever born. Corrigan, beloved Corrigan, won't be there to witness the birth of his first child, to lock eyes with them for the first time and know, just as surely as Kurt does, that they love him.
The realization crushes them. "P-Please," they whimper, devastated, fighting through another wave of sobs rocking their little body. Their hands join Miles' on their stomach, fingers trembling over where the baby rests. They can't even delude themself that the pup is peacefully oblivious within them. While they can't comprehend the peril they're in, Kurt knows they can feel the sheer depth of their grief. That's not fair to them. None of this is. "Please... P-Promise me you'll take care of them. Miles, please, promise you'll treat them like your own," they beg, seeking the wolf's cruel gaze. The baby may never know the love of their real father, but they should at least be safe with the one who's pretending to be.
"They didn't do anything to d-deserve this. Please..."
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"Of course, of course," he soothes, stroking his thumb over their cheekbone, brushing away their tears. "That's what a true Alpha would do, hm? They'll be as good as mine once we meet. Even Corrigan would have to respect that." Miles reaches out with his free hand, the one he'd set on Kurt's stomach, reaching around to tug them forward, into his lap.
"Though I think he'll respect you carrying my pup even more so, don't you?" He nuzzles against their ear, whispers softly: "If you do everything I say, if you obey me without question, I'll take you with me when I conquer the pack." Miles lets this linger, a potential of reunion, of return to Corrigan and the others, even as the first prisoner of a usurper, an invader.
But then: "I'll let you choose what order I kill them in."
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Even now, knowing full well what he's done and what his plans are—taking them and their child, impregnating them, building a family only to use it against their old one—Kurt doesn't resist him as he pulls them close. Miles is repugnant and dangerous and so, so cruel, but he's there. He's a soothing hand and a warm breath and a soft voice, a strong firm body against their own. They shiver at the closeness, and they cannot pretend that none of it is with delight, however reluctant.
Except when his final suggestion is spoken. His final threat. The sob that escapes them shakes the walls of the flimsy lean-to. "P-Please, no," they cry, burying their face into his shoulder. Part of them is screaming to get away from him, push away and run, to somehow warn the others of what Miles is preparing to do. But even if their legs weren't tied at the ankles, they'd never make it anywhere. If he's already intent on killing his former pack, his family, surely the only thing stopping him from killing Kurt too is their continued compliance and obedience. Still, this... they can't accept this. "Sir, please, don't— d-don't hurt them, we don't have to hurt them, p-please— please..."
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Pulling back, he cradles Kurt's chin in one hand, giving them a gently stern, almost paternal look. "That's a lot of responsibility. Do you think you can show me how good you can be? How you'll listen to what I say and not fight me?" He doesn't mean a word of it, he's going to do damn well whatever he pleases, but Kurt doesn't need to know that. They need that flicker of hope, that shred of possibility that Miles might not kill the others. Fear is a powerful motivator, but so is love.
So, leaning forward and kissing their forehead gently, Miles seemingly relents: "If you think you can, you need to show me. I'll build a fire, then you can begin proving it to me. I left your hands and mouth untied for a reason. Use them. Understand me?"
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The time it takes for Miles to get a fire going is just enough time for Kurt to compose themself, wipe their tears, calm their breathing. They have to do a good job at this. As much as they hate the thought of being intimate with Miles in any way—most of all willingly—it's a small price to pay for the pack's safety. If all it takes is to play the part of a loyal, obedient, dutiful wife, Kurt will give the performance of a lifetime.
Besides, they're very good at this. As soon as Miles is seated again, Kurt is curling up next to him, tucked against his side, trembling fingers undoing the buttons holding his trousers closed. They're admittedly a little clumsy, not used to dealing with clothes anymore, but it doesn't stop them from touching him all over, hands smoothing over his thighs and hips and stomach, palming encouragingly at his swelling sheath. "How— H-How do you like to be serviced, sir?" they ask from where they're resting their head on his lap, lips shakily parted less than an inch from where Miles' cock emerges. "Slowly? O-Or all at once?"
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"I prefer," he began softly, almost tenderly, voice remaining just as gentle as he abruptly twisting his hand in their hair, yanking their head back hard, wrenching them up onto their knees. "If you keep that pretty mouth shut if I'm not fucking it. Understand?" Miles meets Kurt's eyes evenly, calmly, twisting his hand tighter and tighter, then shaking them a little to punctuate his final word.
Then: "Open, tongue out. Hold still. If I want you to talk, I'll ask you a question. If not, don't make a sound. Nod if you understand."
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Not Miles. Miles barely wants to know they're there. Their fingers stiffen against his hips, his slick cock, they whimper with fright, but they don't fight him. He tells them not to make a sound, and they obey. He tells them to open their mouth, and they do just that, tongue out, wetting their chin, just as they're told. He doesn't tell them to relax their throat yet, but they still do, shivering, waiting for him.
Kurt's eyes well with tears as they hold his gaze, trying to wordlessly communicate their intent. They'll do better. They'll do everything he says. They're his, free to use, free to play with whenever he wants. They're so, so good at this. Let them prove it.
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Corrigan's link had been the hardest to break, straining even now in the back of Miles's mind, strong enough to flare even through the shattered link they had once shared. It was horror, it was rage, it was confusion, still. But the real reason Miles had stopped, had allowed the exhausted horses and his exhausted captive some rest, was because Corrigan had realized, at last. The wolves had found the blood, had searched beyond the spot and found Miles's secret, hidden camp. They'd caught his scent at last, mixed with that of their terrified, bleeding mate, and they had understood -- Kurt had been taken, stolen, and Miles was responsible.
Miles had known it would happen, of course. It was an important part of the plan, realizing that he was the one to blame, and that he was willing to harm Kurt -- or their baby. They'd underestimated him once before, and would be more cautious in retaliating. They may not even search at all, fearful that Miles would sense them coming closer and punish their mate for it.
Corrigan was no fool. He'd be cautious, strategic. He'd deliberately close off whatever remained of their link. And he had. But not before sending through, in a silent, devastating force of emotion -- I'm going to fucking kill you.
The force of the mental message had rattled Miles, leaving him shaken, exhausted. They had enough of a head start that he felt find taking a momentary break. Not sleeping, but relieving tension some other way. He still had very specific plans for how he would fully enjoy Kurt's body -- like his former pack had for months now -- but there was no shame in using what he had to pass the time. The journey would be very boring if he didn't take full advantage of their well-trained mouth.
Like before, Miles's cool, neutral expression gives nothing away. He simply gathers Kurt's hair back in a tight, cold fist, knotted at the back of their skull, and pulls them forward, filling their mouth with his cock. There's a soft, pleased groan at the soft, slick heat, the way the human's throat tenses, then submits, lets him slide down it. "Look at me," he commands softly, forcing Kurt to gulp down his entire length. He's -- honestly he's by far the smallest of the pack, even more so than Benji, the youngest. Of course size isn't everything, but even when he was accepted by the others, he'd never been great at technique. He tended to be rough, businesslike, mindless, only wanting to get his cock sucked or top one of the others.
But he forces Kurt to hold it, to stay with his cock plunged down their throat, to look up at him and swallow around him and prove how good they could be.
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The human can't hide their feelings as well as he can. Being with the wolves has only made them more expressive, easier to read, seeing as they no longer had anything to fear from showing their emotions. So there's no hiding the pitiful shiver of delight as Miles' cock breaches their throat. It goes all the way down their spine to their twitching toes, fingers curling against his hips, their eyes reflexively growing hazy.
It doesn't matter that his cock is thoroughly unimpressive compared to what they're used to, nor that he lacks in any flair or technique. Kurt has done this so many times, their mouth so well-trained by now, that just the act of servicing him triggers a full-body pleasure response. Being pregnant and flooded with hormones doesn't exactly help. It's so unfair.
But they can still follow orders, uncrossing their eyes to look up at him when he commands it, those big devastating eyes welling with tears fixed on Miles' face through long eyelashes. They shudder, held firmly in place against his pelvis, throat working around his cock, fluttering, clenching, squeezing. As their lips and tongue twitch against him, Kurt can feel themself getting hard too, unfairly at the mercy of their oversensitive, well-conditioned body, so finely tuned to pleasure and pain.
Kurt never once fights him. Even as their lungs start to ache for air, they don't resist his grip or try to pull away. If what Miles wants is a quiet, submissive, obedient little breeding slave, that's what they'll be for him. Their own pathetic reflexive pleasure might even help sell the performance...
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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.
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It feels awful. Kurt can't stop the choked whimpers and sobs of pain every time they're yanked back down on his cock, can't stop the tears from pouring down their face as he helps himself to their mouth, forcefully taking what he imagines he's earned. But it's nothing compared to the molten hot stab of shame at how their body reacts to being taken, being fucked. They're flushed and sweating. They're getting hard. Their body craves more. Like it doesn't matter who fucks them, as long as someone does.
It's a betrayal. Grotesque and deprived. Kurt shouldn't want this, shouldn't want him, but what else do they have? They try to reach out to Corrigan—their Alpha, their love—on sheer instinct, seeking his guidance and comfort and forgiveness, and they find nothing. There's only Miles.
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Still, Kurt does have a pretty mouth, a mouth that knows exactly how to please a wolf, even when roughly used and not given much chance to do anything but kneel there and take it. Miles knows the little human's mind -- whatever they may be thinking about being used by their Alpha's greatest enemy -- is helpless in the face of their body's hormones, it's instincts. Kurt has been so conditioned to crave touch, no matter how rough, perfectly trained to service an entire pack all day, every day. In all his months of watching, Miles had rarely seen them without at least one of the wolves touching them, holding them, kissing them and -- most often -- fucking them. Being pregnant has only intensified this, as Kurt's body has become even more insatiable, more easily aroused, more sensitive and needy. It's a biological need, some believe, a way to ensure that the pack stays close to their vulnerable mate and protects them.
Even Miles's hardened instincts are touched by the pheromones Kurt is drowning the clearing with, compelling him to use them, stay close to them, keep them safe and protected. Granted, he doesn't care as much about their physical safety -- it's much more about keeping them away from Corrigan, under his control. He continues fucking their throat deep and steady, heedless of their choking, gasping sobs, scarcely allowing them to breathe.
And when they reach out, desperately, instinctively, Miles reaches back, drowns them in his own presence, his own power, entrapping them with scent and flesh and mind, beginning to overwrite the warmth of the pack with his own eerie, cold presence. "You know," he rasps, pumping into Kurt's throat and holding his cock there, in the convulsing, tight heat, massaged by their involuntary clutching muscles. "I don't think I like you calling me "sir" anymore..." He slides one hand to rest over the terrified, weeping little human's throat, squeezing slowly, wanting to feel them gag, hear them choke on his cock. "I think "Alpha" suits me much, much better. Don't you?"
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They can't breathe. His hand tightens around their throat, filled to bursting with his cock, leaving not a single crevice untouched by his malice. Gagging, choking, Kurt shudders violently as their thoughts get muddied, their vision blurs, lungs aching for air that won't come. Their convulsing throat only feels good around his cock, not once prompting an urge to pull away. He won't let them go. Miles won't let them go. Alpha won't...
No. Alpha would let them go, Alpha always let them go, always let them pull back to breathe, always let them rest when it finally became too much. Alpha would never hurt them like this. Alpha loves them. Kurt has to fight not to mix them up in their mind, not wanting to confuse Miles with Alpha, not wanting those thoughts to even touch.
But it's hard when they start losing control of their own thoughts, when they can feel themself starting to fade, when their struggling gets weaker and weaker. It's hard not to confuse them when they reach out again and again, reaching for Alpha to save them, to keep them safe, and they find only Miles, only Miles, Alpha, Miles, Alpha, Alpha, please...
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"Good." It's a brief token approval, accompanied by another painful thrust down Kurt's throat, but at least the rhythm set is one where Miles pulls back each time, gives the terrified human a chance to inhale quickly through their nose. He thrusts up a few times, idly, gaze wandering over the fire and the dark, dark woods, like he's not really that invested.
Because he isn't. Because this is simply the first of many acts that will sever Kurt further from their pack and bind them inextricably to him instead. Miles cares more about that, the long term goal. It's that thought -- that and Kurt's silent, desperate begging -- which finally prompts him to climax, to release down Kurt's throat, holding them still for several moments as he pumps into their stomach. "Clean me up," he commands in that raspy, short tone. "Then go to sleep. We travel again at first light."
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now that i am FREE from the HOLIDAYS AT LAST
FREEDOM!!!
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