Kurt perks up as soon as Miles returns, never once taking their eyes off him. They have to be ready for anything. No matter what he demands, they have to get to it right away. As soon as he gestures to the coals, Kurt nods and starts crawling on their hands and knees to the fireplace as fast as they're able, not affording themself the luxury to care about how mortifying the act is. Debasing themself like this is honestly much easier than getting up to stand when so heavily pregnant. They're expected to stay on their knees by the chair, anyway. Why even bother?
They try to hold on to the little things. The low heat still eminating from the coals feels amazing against their freezing hands. The wood smells really nice, a tiny touch of the forest they miss so much within the stuffy confines of the cabin. They get to be useful, to do something, rather than sit around and wait all day. It doesn't matter how small or stupid it is. They'll cling onto any little thing that distracts them from contemplating the horror of their situation. If not, they'd go insane with grief.
Gently piling kindling and logs on top of each other, Kurt diligently stokes the coals with a branch–they're not allowed a proper fire iron–watching as the bark and wood shavings catch fire. They're getting better at this. Alpha got so upset with them the first couple of times when they couldn't get it going fast enough. Now, little flames are already licking the sides of the heavy logs, singing the wood, slowly engulfing them. Kurt glances up at Miles past their stringy bangs, silently asking if this is okay. If this helps. If they did good.
"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.
They try to hold on to the little things. The shackles that Miles installed in the far corner to bind their wrists, so they won't shove and scratch at him in a blind panic like they had the first time. The floor that's already so discolored from rot and old dirt, you hardly even notice the blood stains. The fact that, despite the nauseating bloodlust that sometimes strikes him, Miles hasn't hurt the baby yet.
The fact that Corrigan's mark still remains. The fact that the pack can't feel them anymore. The knowledge that their agony and terror and devastation won't touch any of their lives.
Little things. Anything that keeps them anchored, keeps them from slipping into total ruinous insanity. Kurt has no other choice but to hold on to them like their life depends on it.
Even Miles' brisk, impatient scolding is a blessing. As frightened and tense as they are, it's so much better than his fist in their hair, his knife to their flesh, the sudden flood of sick excitement they feel through the link as he peels them open and tastes their blood. Kurt is more than happy to set the branch aside and rise up on their knees to face him, pressing in close, so close, slotting right into place between his legs, cold fingers deftly undoing his pants.
The pain left in the wake of removing Naseer's mark is unbearable even when they're stationary. Craning their neck and bobbing their head makes Kurt feel like they're truly dying, white hot flashes of pain shooting through their whole body, making their stomach churn. But they can take it. They have to. They lick their Alpha's unsheathing cock into their mouth, as they have done so many times before, and crane their neck and bob their head and service him as they're told.
There are rewards, too -- Kurt is fed, they're clothed, they're allowed to share Miles's home, his fire, his warmth. Occasionally his bed, though he really only lets them in there when he feels like napping while simultaneously warming his cock inside them. Miles overall prefers to fuck them on their hands and knees in front of the fire, or on the ground, amidst the grime and the blood and the rust, or in his chair, forcing them to ride his cock for hours, smacking their hip or ass or thigh whenever they slow down.
Most often, it's their mouth -- easiest, most straightforward, least amount of work on Miles's end. He can eat or sleep or, occasionally, read newspapers he picks up from one of the mountain towns. Usually he just stares into the firelight, face unreadable, only moving to grip Kurt's hair and hold them still when he releases down their throat.
He's more engaged now, though, paying more attention to their stilted, pained movements, the way they have to push past the pain of their flayed neck, the blood beginning to seep through the bandages from the repetitive movements. That's a bad sign, how intently Miles watches Kurt service him, how his hand slides slowly into their stringy, loose hair, gathering it away from their face.
"Hands behind you," he prompts, suddenly, cock thickening and twitching against Kurt's tongue.
It is a bad sign. Miles usually isn't this hands-on when they're sucking him off. Servicing him can take up the entire day sometimes, when they've done a good job with their chores and their Alpha wants to just sit by the fire and rest. Even then, he only touches them or engages with them at all when he's close to release.
But now, he's playing with their hair, easing it back, away from their face. He's talking to them, making demands. It's enough to make alarm bells go off in Kurt's mind. They gaze up at him, eyes haunted and sunken after almost a month of this, searching his face for any sign of what's about to happen to them. Searching for that glint he gets in his eye, that telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Despite the sudden dread settling in the pit of their stomach like an iron weight, Kurt does what they're told, their shaky hands going behind their back, fingers grasping their own wrists to keep them steady. The whole time, they don't stop bobbing their head, pushing through the pain, lips pursing around his cock, kissing the swell of his knot on every descent. They feel him twitching against their tongue, which they pulse against his hot flesh in return, exactly the way he likes it.
It's entirely possible that Miles is just tormenting them for the pleasure of it -- Kurt retreats too often into their own innermost thoughts, protects themselves by shutting down and becoming numb to the ways Miles tortures them. But still, when they can't anticipate what he's about to do to them, the fear is back, a particular shakiness to everything they do that even concentrated practice can't keep at bay.
So Miles slowly wraps their hair in his hand, the long, loose, limp curls tangled around his fingers, and he idly rocks his hips up into their mouth. "Such pretty hair. You are, really, so very pretty, Kurt. We'd been watching you for a long, long time, you know. All of us -- the whole pack, as it should've been. I had my own ideas for how to take you, that first time."
His free hand comes up to tug at the collar around their neck, fastened tight enough that he has to work to get his fingers under the metal. "My ideas were closer to this. I knew how tricky and conniving you humans could be. But Corrigan wanted to be gentler, wanted to woo you." Miles laughs, soft and breathy and smug. "And look where that got him. If he'd kept you chained to the bed like I'd wanted, he wouldn't have lost you."
If he truly does get off on their fear, he gets potent waves of it now, radiating from them. Every word out of his mouth is like poison. The thought of Miles being part of the pack at all is already incomprehensible to them, his cruelty and malice inherently incompatible with the tender, gentle, loving relationship the rest of the pack had with them, and with each other. But to think he was with them when they chose Kurt, when they watched the little human from afar and saw how miserable they were with their current life, how much better their life could be as the pack's chosen, cherished mate, is even worse.
To think he'd suggested to the pack—to Corrigan, Naseer, sweet Benji, who he'd already bullied enough—that a mate's place was in shackles... chained to the bed... just a thing to be used more than a part of the pack... It sickens them. That bottomless pit of dread in their stomach roils and churns.
His fingers make the collar go tight around their healing wounds, and Kurt whimpers, flinching around Miles' cock. They can feel the tears pressing, pain and sorrow and horror all rolled into one pulsating mess of emotions, threatening to spill over. Only the squeeze of fingers around their bruised wrists keep them in check, the only control they have. It's so frustrating. They don't want to be scared of him, they don't want him to know they're scared, they don't want to be here, and they're so hurt and furious that they have to be.
If not for the baby, they would've pulled away and told him as much. But they don't. They can't.
He does -- tangibly, cock hardening further against Kurt's tongue, pressing at the back of their throat. The corner of his mouth twitches, curves cruelly as the horror they can't hide in their wide, haunted eyes. "Always thought that, even back when it was Benji. That pup was so much more fun when he couldn't resist. Ever notice how fucking bleeding-heart Corrigan never pins him down the way he does you or the others?" Miles sneers, rocks his hips up hard, remembering that fight, him insisting that the whelp wasn't taking to his new role because the Alpha gave him too much damn freedom. He'd always been taught a pack's mate belonged either beneath a wolf or kept somewhere out of the way if not needed. He'd always convinced Benji to be tied down when it was just the two of them, had overridden the pup's fear and unease with everything from soothing words to threats. Corrigan had caught him, eventually, had nearly killed him for it. Weak. Spineless.
Glancing back down, Miles lets his hand drift over to his knife, always strapped at his hip, always ready, just in case. He keeps it with him unless he's asleep, in which case it's kept locked in a drawer, the key put high on the mantle, out of Kurt's reach, no matter how they strain to get it. "He was always so tender-hearted, Corrigan. He let the pack get away with too much -- all of them. Kai wouldn't have lasted a week under my leadership. Leo's as spineless as Corrigan is, and Naseer..." A scoff, a sharp sound as the knife is drawn free from the sheath. "Well, Naseer always got whatever he wanted. A Beta's meant to be subservient to the Alpha, not his equal. Not his friend."
A soft sigh, and Miles waves the knife around vaguely, free hand seizing a handful of Kurt's long, loose hair. Slowly, he begins to saw through the thick strands, idly, like he just wants something to do -- or he wants to scare them by having the knife out, so close. "That won't be how I run things, when we return. Which we will, once you deliver and recover. There's a town not far from here, where a woman owes me a favor. If Corrigan's brat isn't out of your belly in a week, she'll cut it out." All calmly, idly, unbothered, as Miles continues to roughly cut Kurt's hair.
He hurt Benji. Even before Miles pulls out his knife, Kurt's stomach sinks, a cold shudder going through their body as they realize what he's implying. Sweet Benji, so young and obedient and trusting, was once under the thumb of this cruel man just like Kurt is now. Left him with scars that, even now, Corrigan is careful never to touch for fear of what it might trigger. Tears spill down their face as they picture Benji in their mind, the fear and confusion he must have felt while being groomed by this rotten man. Desperate to fit in, to be a good mate for the pack, he would've let Miles do anything to him if it meant he'd be accepted. Miles' cruelty is horrific. Sickening. Utterly abhorrent.
They're supposed to bring a child into the care of this man?
The knife makes them freeze up, eyes wide with terror, breath coming short and fast through their nose even as Miles' cock throbs against their tongue. Thankfully, the blade doesn't get close to their neck. Just their hair. Their thick, lovely, gorgeous hair that they spent so many years growing, so they'd look the way they felt on the inside. Their hair that they fought their father every day to keep, threats of retaliation be damned. Their hair that the pack would lovingly brush and groom and braid, weaving mayflowers through the strands, a fitting crown for their treasured mate. Miles coldly and callously saws through it like it means nothing.
Of course, it doesn't mean anything to him. Nothing does. Nothing except being in complete control. Kurt is shaking, sobbing around his cock as he mutilates their hair, just as he's threatening to have some stranger take a knife to their belly. Cut them open. Rip their baby out of them. They can't take it anymore. Ashamed and hurting and frightened out of their mind, Kurt pushes away from him as soon as the last chunk of hair is severed, the remnants of their pride and femininity clutched in Miles' sadistic hand while they crumble to the floor. Choppy and uneven locks fall limply around their face, barely long enough to skirt their jaw. "Please," they weep, arms protectively going around their stomach. "Alpha, p-please, please don't, Alpha, don't c-cut them out, th-there's no need to—"
"Hush." It's soft, nearly gentle, accompanied by Miles's hand in their roughly-cut hair, sliding his fingers through the mutilated strands, as if admiring his handiwork. The shorn curls are everywhere, mixing with the grime and old blood on the ground, one more layer to add to the mess he keeps Kurt kneeling in. The knife is still in his hand as he tips their face up, sets the point to the underside of their chin.
"You know how I feel about you stopping in the middle of your duties, Kurt," he says very softly, the thin edge of the knife sliding smoothly against their throat, so sharp that it's almost imperceptible when he increases the pressure just slightly, when their flesh parts before it. Only when rivulets of blood begin to weep from the hairline cut Miles has opened up is it even evident he's hurt them.
The hand in Kurt's hair goes tight, fingers curling like iron to hold them still, and Miles slowly drags the knife over the bandages around Kurt's throat, to the coarse neckline of the dress he keeps them wearing whenever he isn't using them. A flick, and one of the buttons tumbles loose, cut free in a blindingly quick motion. "Undress. I'm going to need to see some more of you, if I'm going to forgive you." The blade is traced slowly over Kurt's swollen, rounded chest, Miles's intention clear -- usually he's content with their mouth, but more and more recently he's wanted his hands on their chest, squeezing and groping at the sensitive, swollen buds, pillowing his cock between them.
"I'm s-s-sorry, Alpha," they sob thickly, only apologizing to this awful man because they know they have to. Miles gets off on frightening them anyway, even if it means they end up cutting their duties short, pulling away to protect themself and the baby. If he gets to punish them about it, to hurt and frighten them more, they can't imagine he's actually too upset about it. Even the hairline cut to their throat, the mildest of punishments, hurts so bad. They know he can do so much worse. They're terrified of this man.
Shuddering with fear as they feel the knife playfully tracing lines down the length of their body, Kurt only hesitates for a moment before moving to obey. Pale, shaky hands find the remaining buttons holding their dress closed. They don't even take the time to brush the long shorn strands of their hair out of the way, carelessly discarded all over them, their lap, the floor. They just quickly undo the buttons, scared of what he'll do if they take too long.
While not being as well-fed here as they had been with Corrigan's pack, it really only shows in how gaunt their face has become, the hollowing of their cheeks, and their ribs peeking through along their back. Their chest remains full and soft as they shrug their dress off, pert and pink and swollen and only barely bigger than Miles' greedy, groping hands. This is how he wants them, isn't it? Terrified, humiliated, weeping and bleeding and subservient to his every cruel whim.
Miles doesn't respond to Kurt's teary, shuddering apologies, just waits until they've shrugged their dress down off their shoulders. He doesn't wait for it to be entirely removed -- after all, he's mostly interested in their chest, the pretty, sensitive, tender tits that Corrigan's enjoyed so many times. Miles is much rougher, groping and tugging until Kurt rises up on their knees, until he can slide his still-hard cock in the narrow valley he creates by shoving the mounds together.
"Open your mouth." Short, blunt, commanding, like Kurt exists entirely to sate his desires -- which they do, of course. If they hesitate at all, his hand is already in their hair, yanking their lips back onto his cock, shoving it down their throat like he'd never stopped.
Impatiently, Miles grabs Kurt's hands, one at a time, yanks them to press their own tits together, work the soft, yielding flesh around his cock. "Show some fucking initiative," he growls, wrenching the handful of their hair, fucking up until they gag, free hand smacking against one of their tender, swollen breasts, once, twice, three times. "It's almost like you aren't enjoying yourself."
Of course they aren't enjoying themself—the wet, shattered cries ringing through the cabin should make that perfectly clear. They whimper like a wounded animal with every touch from Alpha's hands, slapping and shoving and crushing their tender breasts in a savage onslaught. It hurts so bad. It's torture. Kurt hates this—
—but that's the whole point, isn't it? Their terror and pain only spurs him on, lets him take his sick pleasure in using their helpless, beaten body like a toy. Making them participate in the abuse is the final insult, the wolf twisting and wrenching their hands to push against their own tits, forcing them to press even harder, squeeze even tighter, wedging his slick, throbbing cock between their aching flesh.
All the while, his grip on their hair is unyielding, forcing them to take every hateful thrust, his cock shoving past their swelling breasts over their twitching tongue into their gagging, convulsing throat again and again and again. The bandages around their neck are soaking through with blood, both the fresh cut and the barely-healing patch of flayed skin alight with agony, steadily weeping crimson. Their cries get them nowhere. They can't fight him. He won't even let them beg him to stop.
This is going to end badly. They can tell. Miles is too aroused, too agitated, pushing them past their limits while his sadistic bloodlust only mounts. Any effort to comply, to get him off with their tits and hands and sobbing mouth, won't be enough. They'll fail to satisfy him the way he wants to be, and he'll take his fury out on them while they're weak and hurt and terrified. Doomed before they even got a chance.
Kurt hopes beyond hope, as their Alpha violently assaults their body, that they're wrong. That he'll stutter and grunt and come all over their face and chest any minute now. That he'll shove them aside and take his knife with him and just go, finally leave them alone, giving them the time it'll take to pick up the pieces he's left them in. To steel themself for next time.
Edited (rewrite now that im not half asleep lmao) 2023-12-06 13:43 (UTC)
For a moment, it seems like Miles might do just that, might finish in Kurt's mouth, might spill across their abused chest and find something else to occupy his time. He doesn't do anything beyond yank at their hair, force their mouth onto his cock again and again, for enough time that it almost seems possible that he's not as escalated as first anticipated.
But then he loosens his grip on Kurt's shorn hair, hands going instead to squeeze at their tits again, fingers plucking at their peaked, cherry-red nipples, pinching and yanking cruelly, rolling the tender nubs between his rough thumb and forefinger. "Touch yourself," he commands and that's -- that's new, usually Miles doesn't care about whether Kurt finds any pleasure in what he does to them. They're a body, a means to an end, warm flesh to use and hurt and torment and then abandon.
Not this time, it seems. Now he's present, watching with a wild glint in his eyes, foot going to nudge Kurt's knees apart, forcing them to spread their thighs as he says again: "Touch yourself, use your hands to make yourself come. One on your cock, one in your ass. Fuck yourself open for me." He's never forced that before, never made Kurt be so present in their own torture, never demanded that they feel pleasure while he's hurting them. But this time he won't let them retreat, won't let them escape into their mind.
His sudden command makes their teary eyes fly up to meet his, widening with horror. Miles never cares if they feel good when he's fucking them—in fact, he prefers them scared and in pain, if he wants them to feel anything at all. Their pleasure has always been the last thing on his mind. That must still be the case. This isn't about making them feel good, or letting them come as a reward for pleasing him. He wants them present, humiliated, and terrified. Put to shame by their own hands.
In a particularly cruel twist of irony, when they shakily scramble to obey, shoving the dress down past their belly and reaching between their legs, Kurt sobs loudly from finding themself already hard. Despite the horror of the past month, their body remains so sensitive, flooded with hormones and expertly conditioned to touch, even from Miles' vicious hands. The abuse didn't stop that. Their body still instinctively aches for their Alpha.
That doesn't mean they feel any pleasure from this. Their cold hand fisting tightly around their cock doesn't feel good, nor do their fingers breaching their body, stiff and trembling and pressing deep inside with only spit and blood to ease the burn. Being forced to pleasure themself right now is killing them. All while Miles savages their throat, pinching and squeezing their tits, watching them so closely, manically getting off on their fear. He's getting exactly what he wants.
More than anything else, it's the look in Kurt's wide, haunted, devastated eyes that gets Miles off -- the disgust and horror and pleading, helpless, hopeless silent begging for mercy. For him not to force them to do this. He's gotten them off accidentally, before, hitting the right angle when fucking them to prompt their oversensitive, hormone-addled body to react, but it's never been forced like this. Never deliberate.
But of course they obey. As long as Corrigan's brat is in their belly, Kurt won't fight back against anything Miles commands. Even with the link shattered in their mind, their once-Alpha completely inaccessible, every inch of their body taken and claimed and brutalized by Miles, that loyalty remains. There's a living reminder of the pack inside them, and no matter what Miles does, he can't fully destroy that -- not if he wants to maintain the leverage over Kurt that he's enjoyed all these weeks.
Still...he can hurry things along, a little. Kurt's due any day, their body exhausted and malnourished and focused entirely on keeping their pup safe. Perhaps something in them is even resisting delivery, not wanting Miles to get his hands on the baby, wanting to protect it with their body a little longer. The thought is oddly enraging to the wolf, his hand finding his knife again, hand going to slowly smooth the hacked-off strands of hair away from Kurt's neck, the nape, the first bite given and the last to go -- Corrigan's.
"Don't stop," he murmurs, raspily, tracing the scar with his fingertips, recognizing it as the one that had once graced his own shoulder, until he was exiled, until he taught himself to pare a knife along flesh and flay the scar tissue free from his skin. It's a skill he still has, setting the blade at the edge of Kurt's mark from Corrigan and saying again: "Don't you dare stop." They're going to get off while he does this, while he skins them alive.
The terror taking hold of them as soon as they see the knife morphs into abject panic when Miles brings it to their neck. Just the touch of that blade to their skin makes their blood run cold, sharp hateful steel pressing into the only patch of skin not already flayed from their neck. Kurt's frightened screams are choked out by Miles' cock, still pumping in and out of their throat.
This can't be happening. That's the last scar. Their last mark, Corrigan's mark—Corrigan, true Alpha, beloved but forbidden—and he's going to take it from them like this. On their knees, pleasuring him, pleasuring themself. They twitch, body jerking violently, like they're about to shove away from him again—
—but they can't. Everything in them is screaming to resist, to escape, but the second they do, it'll be over. Miles only cares about winning. He only wants to punish and dominate his former pack, using their mate or their baby as leverage to get what he wants. He doesn't technically need both of them for that. If he doesn't kill the baby outright, he'll just kill Kurt instead, cutting the infant out of them exactly like he'd threatened to, using them instead. No matter what, Miles wins. He always wins.
They have no choice but to obey. To not stop. Convulsing with sobs, Kurt continues shakily, shamefully touching themself as the knife starts peeling their skin away, making them scream around Miles' cock. Don't stop. The words ring cruelly in their ears. Don't stop. They stroke themself, thighs quivering with every pass of their clammy palm up and down their cock. Don't stop. Their fingers plunge fast and deep into their ass even as they go tight with terror, fear twisting up their guts, sick pleasure flooding every part of their senses already taken up by fear and agony. Don't you dare stop.
If Kurt had pulled away, resisted -- well, that's what the shackles bolted to the wall are for, keeping them immobile, helpless as Miles does what he pleases, whether that's using their well-trained, sobbing mouth or their upturned ass, depending on how he binds them. In the first few days, he'd needed the shackles for everything, Kurt's instinctive resistance at being touched by him too much to deal with. They'd never really fought him, not with the threat of harm to their whelp, but they'd cringed away or begged him or even just flinched at his hands on them. Before, Miles had only wanted Kurt's body, no reactions, no movement, as lifeless and emotionless as a doll.
The fact that even the slow pare of his knife between layer's of their skin, like peeling an apple, parting the soft, scarred skin from the muscle and sinew beneath, the newest wound rapidly flooding with blood that drips down to pool in the hollow of their collarbone -- even all that doesn't make Kurt try to escape him. Miles considers that a victory.
As usual, the sight of Kurt's flesh peeling away with such ease, the sound and feel of them screaming around his cock is almost enough to have Miles releasing down their throat, pumping his spend into their belly. But he has his own goals today, namely to see Kurt come with his knife in them, the threads of pleasure and pain tangled so inextricably that every gentle touch will carry a bite of agony, forever. Or, even better, the little human will never again be able to climax without pain, without a blade in their body, painting it alive with cuts and gashes. Miles idly imagines it, Kurt furiously pleasuring themselves, but unable to finish until he bleeds them somehow. It's equally as arousing, so he grabs for their hair with his free hand, yanking them fully onto his cock, letting it rest in their throat, buried to the hilt.
"Come and you'll be allowed to breathe," he rasps out, continuing to slowly flay the mark from their neck. "Whore like you, shouldn't be a problem at all."
Miles rams his cock all the way down their throat once more, holding them in place, completely choking out their shattered screams—though not for lack of trying. Even though this is the fifth time he's taken his blade to their neck, flaying the skin from their living flesh, the pain is no easier to bear now than the first time. It's blinding. Every nerve in their body is on fire with agony, every muscle going tight, jerking, convulsing, futilely trying to make the pain stop. They can't see, can't hear, can't think, their entire world narrowed down to the feeling of their skin splitting open.
It already feels so wrong. Like the human mind is incapable of comprehending the shock of being flayed alive. Being forced to pleasure themself at the same time makes it all the more unreal. Pleasure doesn't belong in a body capable of enduring such anguish. There's only room for the excruciating pain here. That's all there's ever been. It doesn't make any sense. It's not real. It's all wrong.
Kurt tries to scream again, pure animal instinct, but Miles' throbbing cock won't let them force out so much as a gurgle. That's what snaps them out of it, finally, however briefly. They can't breathe. They'll die if they can't breathe. The baby will die. Fighting through the shock, the pain, the shame, racing against their pouring blood and their rapidly caving lungs, Kurt desperately fucks themself on their hands like their life depends on it.
They know how, mercifully, muscle memory making their fist squeeze tighter around their cock, wrists pumping faster and harder, slamming into their shuddering body. Their fingers go tight in their ass, curling and pointing and stabbing at that one spot inside them with manic jackhammer thrusts, making their thighs quiver wildly. Sparks of savage pleasure demand their attention, even as the knife continues to peel them open. Everything feel wrong.
Kurt goes stiff when they come. The guilt crushes them as they spill all over the floor, their lap, their belly, unseeing eyes rolling into the back of their skull. It feels like they should relax now, finally go slack between Miles' legs and fade into the quiet gray for a moment, but they just won't stop shaking.
Miles times it just right, gliding his blade beneath Kurt's skin, peeling it free from the bloody muscle beneath, so careful, so delicate. He'd been in charge of this, back when he was part of the pack, skinning the prey the wolves brought back from their hunts, carefully parting the valuable fur from the meat, tanning and curing it to sell or trade or just add to the warm pile by the fire in the cabin. He'd known just how to save every last precious morsel of what was edible, how to remove the fur in one solid piece, ready to be sewn into clothes or used to make leather or whatever else they needed.
Kurt is still alive, still moving -- their whole body jolting as they obediently fuck themselves open, hands shaking, eyes glazed and bleary with tears, throat clutching and convulsing around his cock. But the principle is the same. Miles moves the knife, skins away the scar shaped like Corrigan's teeth, waits until the choking, sobbing human finally comes, painting their chest with it, mixing with the blood.
Then with a flick of his wrist, the patch of scar tissue is gone, sliding free to be tossed into the fire, leaving Kurt's neck a raw, open wound, layers of sodden, filthy bandages almost useless by now. Miles waits another heartbeat, watches their eyes roll back, their body shudder helplessly -- and then he slides his cock free and spills over their tear-streaked face, their bloody chest, the wound he's just made. His fingers slide through the red and white, smearing them together, then shoving past Kurt's bruised lips, forcing them to suck their own blood and come off his hands.
Yes. Yes, it was hard. The stench of their own skin discarded and burning in the fireplace stirs them back to awareness, just as Miles empties his balls all over their face, their raw exposed muscle, the bloodbath he's made of their neck. Now every single trace of Kurt's beloved pack, both inside and out, has been brutally crushed, tainted, taken from them by this horrible man, leaving them with nothing. It's the hardest thing they've ever had to endure.
All the while, Miles makes a mockery of their anguish, rubbing their face in it, making them taste their own defeat on his fingers. Kurt sobs loudly, but even in this foggy, bleary, barely-conscious state, they know better than to fight him. So they degrade themself further by sucking his fingers clean of their own blood and come. He's taken everything from them. Their pack, their freedom, their dignity, their joy. Everything except the baby.
The baby... Kurt shudders, gulping around Miles' fingers. This is usually the part where they're left to slip in and out consciousness in a heap on the floor, the pain and shock finally too great to endure, but something's different this time. They're still shaking uncontrollably, muscles twitching, going painfully tight, convulsing... contracting. It hurts. Their sobbing whimpers quickly swell into cries of confused pain as waves of tight, burning spasms wash over them, distracting even from the open flesh wound on their neck. It's worst around their stomach, along their thighs, between their legs...
"A-A-Alpha," they gasp, shrill, frightened, desperate. One hand fists into Miles' pants, holding on for dear life, while the other presses into their stomach, slick with come and blood. It doesn't feel right. "Something's wrong. Th-The baby. Alpha, the baby, something's wrong—! Oh God, no, Alpha, p-please!"
Miles almost shakes Kurt off, almost kicks at them to send them sprawling into the mess of fluids on the ground -- but there's a different pitch to their pleas now, a sort of panic that makes him pause. Beneath the blood, he can see they're carrying differently, there's been a shift -- whether because of the fear or the pain or the bleeding out, something has irrevocably happened.
All business, tucking his spent cock back in his pants, Miles reaches out with one cool hand to press against Kurt's stomach. They're definitely carrying lower, the pup inside them having moved, ready to come out. Too soon -- he'd thought there'd be another few days, at least. The midwife he'd paid off is in town, won't venture up towards the cabin until he sends for her, which he'd planned to do -- damn it.
Too late now. "You're in labor," Miles offers bluntly, irritated, like the most frightening, horrific moment of Kurt's life is simply a major inconvenience to him. He feels their muscles go tight, contracting, then relaxing, times it mentally before standing. "Count how long between each contraction," he commands, going for the bandages, the washbasin, annoyance evident in every movement. When Kurt doesn't immediately comply, he smacks the side of their head, hard, repeating: "Count. If you're too far along, there's no time to get anyone else, you'll have to do it alone."
They're in labor. He says it so briskly, tone short and curt the way it usually is when he speaks to them. It's sounds so familiar, so mundane in its cruelty, that the true gravity of his words doesn't become apparent to them until another surge of painful contractions flings them into orbit. That's not how you tell someone they're in labor. It's too momentous an occasion, the first tenuous moments of what will become the very axis around which Kurt's existence will revolve forever. Surely the start of the rest of their life deserves more gravitas, more emotional weight than that.
But that's not the world they live in anymore. Here, it doesn't matter that they're scared. It doesn't matter that they have no idea how to give birth, what being in labor even means, how to have the child they're currently having without killing them or themself. Here, they're just an inconvenience to their Alpha. Their blistering pain and raw, confused panic just earns them a smack to the head and a stern command barked by the wolf responsible for it all.
Through a torrent of tears and gasped, keening sobs, Kurt tries to focus and count the seconds between each wave of pain. But it's hard—they don't even know which painful flutter or spasm or jerk of muscle is a contraction or not, whether what they're feeling is normal or a sign that something has gone horribly wrong. The sheer agony of their muscles working definitely feels wrong.
This can't be what it's supposed to feel like. This cold, lonely terror, this bewildering pain, like splintering from the inside. As they try to count, try to breathe, Kurt sobs out mindless, desperate pleas through their own blood and tears, "C-Can't, I can't, I can't d-do this alone, please, not alone, I c-can't do it, I can't do it alone, please not alone—!"
Miles is making a brief, dismissive sound, scornful and fed up, grabbing the washbasin and leaving it beside Kurt, within their reach. He won't doctor their wounds, won't even touch them, just leaves them to weep and bleed and panic. "You'll be fine. If it just started, you have hours yet," he says dismissively, going to the door and pulling his boots on. He won't look at them either, not as he grabs his coat, not as he strides out with a brief, "I'll be back."
Not as he leaves them alone, to live, to die, to whatever end. There's no strong hand holding theirs, coaching them through the contractions, soothing them with water or ice or just another presence. Just Kurt, alone, in their own blood, with the wind howling outside.
Except. Except they're not truly alone, not really -- there's that careful spark of awareness, a link Miles's cruelty hasn't been able to touch, guarded and shielded by Kurt's own body. Pure instinct and love and fear had built a wall between the hell they endured on a day-to-day basis and the budding consciousness of the child inside them. Whatever Miles did, whatever torture he administered, it didn't penetrate that wall. The baby doesn't know what's happened to it's mother, that it's been carried through agony and horror unscathed.
But it reaches out now, a soft stirring, a silent outreach of purely innocent, purely adoring connection, solely for Kurt, untouchable by anyone else. And there's nothing but love in that first touch of soul to soul, nothing but recognition and delight and wonder at being alive, at being so close to meeting. In it, there's something like Corrigan, like Naseer and Benji and Leo and Kai, fragments of their affection and warmth and love echoed in the child that had grown beneath their watchful eye for so long. In it, in her, the pack is there, albeit only in Kurt's mind. That's something.
It's everything. In the awful swirl of terror and betrayal and agony, watching Miles get dressed and leave them there when they need him most, feeling that tiny spark of connection through the pain is the only thing they have. The baby, they can feel them, they can feel her, right there under their trembling hands. She's right there. She's safe. She's theirs. Untouched by Miles' cruelty, she reaches for them for the first time, beautiful and unknowing, full of love.
It's the only thing that keeps Kurt moving, the knowledge that she's coming, that they have to keep her safe. It spurs them into action, to clean their face and chest and stomach of come and blood, to shakily clean and dress the wound on their neck, still throbbing and bleeding, the pain dizzying. Though when another wave of contractions hit and they double over on the floor, the pain at their neck becomes a distant memory.
They scream through every second of burning, earth-shattering pain, crumbled in a heap on the floor. To anyone passing by, the cabin must seem haunted by some tortured, wailing spirit, their howls shaking the walls before being carried on the wind. When the contractions subside, Kurt tries their best to stay calm, to focus on her, wiping the floors clean of their own blood and hair—they can't let the baby be born into this mess!—but as the hours pass, those moments of clarity and calm get shorter and shorter.
By the time Miles returns, the cabin is spotless, the washbasin is more blood than water, and Kurt is sprawled out on the bed, face twisted in agony. They know they're not supposed to be up there, but they just needed somewhere soft to lay, pillows to cushion their aching hips, warm sheets to cover them, firm bedposts to grasp while riding the burning waves. The pain is near-constant now, their skin covered in a sheen of sweat and streaks of blood down their chest, along their thighs, every muscle twitching and shaking. "Please, please, p-please," is all they can muster between sobs and harrowing wails. Any minute now. Please, God, any minute now...
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They try to hold on to the little things. The low heat still eminating from the coals feels amazing against their freezing hands. The wood smells really nice, a tiny touch of the forest they miss so much within the stuffy confines of the cabin. They get to be useful, to do something, rather than sit around and wait all day. It doesn't matter how small or stupid it is. They'll cling onto any little thing that distracts them from contemplating the horror of their situation. If not, they'd go insane with grief.
Gently piling kindling and logs on top of each other, Kurt diligently stokes the coals with a branch–they're not allowed a proper fire iron–watching as the bark and wood shavings catch fire. They're getting better at this. Alpha got so upset with them the first couple of times when they couldn't get it going fast enough. Now, little flames are already licking the sides of the heavy logs, singing the wood, slowly engulfing them. Kurt glances up at Miles past their stringy bangs, silently asking if this is okay. If this helps. If they did good.
They just want to make their Alpha happy.
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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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The fact that Corrigan's mark still remains. The fact that the pack can't feel them anymore. The knowledge that their agony and terror and devastation won't touch any of their lives.
Little things. Anything that keeps them anchored, keeps them from slipping into total ruinous insanity. Kurt has no other choice but to hold on to them like their life depends on it.
Even Miles' brisk, impatient scolding is a blessing. As frightened and tense as they are, it's so much better than his fist in their hair, his knife to their flesh, the sudden flood of sick excitement they feel through the link as he peels them open and tastes their blood. Kurt is more than happy to set the branch aside and rise up on their knees to face him, pressing in close, so close, slotting right into place between his legs, cold fingers deftly undoing his pants.
The pain left in the wake of removing Naseer's mark is unbearable even when they're stationary. Craning their neck and bobbing their head makes Kurt feel like they're truly dying, white hot flashes of pain shooting through their whole body, making their stomach churn. But they can take it. They have to. They lick their Alpha's unsheathing cock into their mouth, as they have done so many times before, and crane their neck and bob their head and service him as they're told.
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Most often, it's their mouth -- easiest, most straightforward, least amount of work on Miles's end. He can eat or sleep or, occasionally, read newspapers he picks up from one of the mountain towns. Usually he just stares into the firelight, face unreadable, only moving to grip Kurt's hair and hold them still when he releases down their throat.
He's more engaged now, though, paying more attention to their stilted, pained movements, the way they have to push past the pain of their flayed neck, the blood beginning to seep through the bandages from the repetitive movements. That's a bad sign, how intently Miles watches Kurt service him, how his hand slides slowly into their stringy, loose hair, gathering it away from their face.
"Hands behind you," he prompts, suddenly, cock thickening and twitching against Kurt's tongue.
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But now, he's playing with their hair, easing it back, away from their face. He's talking to them, making demands. It's enough to make alarm bells go off in Kurt's mind. They gaze up at him, eyes haunted and sunken after almost a month of this, searching his face for any sign of what's about to happen to them. Searching for that glint he gets in his eye, that telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Despite the sudden dread settling in the pit of their stomach like an iron weight, Kurt does what they're told, their shaky hands going behind their back, fingers grasping their own wrists to keep them steady. The whole time, they don't stop bobbing their head, pushing through the pain, lips pursing around his cock, kissing the swell of his knot on every descent. They feel him twitching against their tongue, which they pulse against his hot flesh in return, exactly the way he likes it.
Anything not to give him a reason.
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So Miles slowly wraps their hair in his hand, the long, loose, limp curls tangled around his fingers, and he idly rocks his hips up into their mouth. "Such pretty hair. You are, really, so very pretty, Kurt. We'd been watching you for a long, long time, you know. All of us -- the whole pack, as it should've been. I had my own ideas for how to take you, that first time."
His free hand comes up to tug at the collar around their neck, fastened tight enough that he has to work to get his fingers under the metal. "My ideas were closer to this. I knew how tricky and conniving you humans could be. But Corrigan wanted to be gentler, wanted to woo you." Miles laughs, soft and breathy and smug. "And look where that got him. If he'd kept you chained to the bed like I'd wanted, he wouldn't have lost you."
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To think he'd suggested to the pack—to Corrigan, Naseer, sweet Benji, who he'd already bullied enough—that a mate's place was in shackles... chained to the bed... just a thing to be used more than a part of the pack... It sickens them. That bottomless pit of dread in their stomach roils and churns.
His fingers make the collar go tight around their healing wounds, and Kurt whimpers, flinching around Miles' cock. They can feel the tears pressing, pain and sorrow and horror all rolled into one pulsating mess of emotions, threatening to spill over. Only the squeeze of fingers around their bruised wrists keep them in check, the only control they have. It's so frustrating. They don't want to be scared of him, they don't want him to know they're scared, they don't want to be here, and they're so hurt and furious that they have to be.
If not for the baby, they would've pulled away and told him as much. But they don't. They can't.
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Glancing back down, Miles lets his hand drift over to his knife, always strapped at his hip, always ready, just in case. He keeps it with him unless he's asleep, in which case it's kept locked in a drawer, the key put high on the mantle, out of Kurt's reach, no matter how they strain to get it. "He was always so tender-hearted, Corrigan. He let the pack get away with too much -- all of them. Kai wouldn't have lasted a week under my leadership. Leo's as spineless as Corrigan is, and Naseer..." A scoff, a sharp sound as the knife is drawn free from the sheath. "Well, Naseer always got whatever he wanted. A Beta's meant to be subservient to the Alpha, not his equal. Not his friend."
A soft sigh, and Miles waves the knife around vaguely, free hand seizing a handful of Kurt's long, loose hair. Slowly, he begins to saw through the thick strands, idly, like he just wants something to do -- or he wants to scare them by having the knife out, so close. "That won't be how I run things, when we return. Which we will, once you deliver and recover. There's a town not far from here, where a woman owes me a favor. If Corrigan's brat isn't out of your belly in a week, she'll cut it out." All calmly, idly, unbothered, as Miles continues to roughly cut Kurt's hair.
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They're supposed to bring a child into the care of this man?
The knife makes them freeze up, eyes wide with terror, breath coming short and fast through their nose even as Miles' cock throbs against their tongue. Thankfully, the blade doesn't get close to their neck. Just their hair. Their thick, lovely, gorgeous hair that they spent so many years growing, so they'd look the way they felt on the inside. Their hair that they fought their father every day to keep, threats of retaliation be damned. Their hair that the pack would lovingly brush and groom and braid, weaving mayflowers through the strands, a fitting crown for their treasured mate. Miles coldly and callously saws through it like it means nothing.
Of course, it doesn't mean anything to him. Nothing does. Nothing except being in complete control. Kurt is shaking, sobbing around his cock as he mutilates their hair, just as he's threatening to have some stranger take a knife to their belly. Cut them open. Rip their baby out of them. They can't take it anymore. Ashamed and hurting and frightened out of their mind, Kurt pushes away from him as soon as the last chunk of hair is severed, the remnants of their pride and femininity clutched in Miles' sadistic hand while they crumble to the floor. Choppy and uneven locks fall limply around their face, barely long enough to skirt their jaw. "Please," they weep, arms protectively going around their stomach. "Alpha, p-please, please don't, Alpha, don't c-cut them out, th-there's no need to—"
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"You know how I feel about you stopping in the middle of your duties, Kurt," he says very softly, the thin edge of the knife sliding smoothly against their throat, so sharp that it's almost imperceptible when he increases the pressure just slightly, when their flesh parts before it. Only when rivulets of blood begin to weep from the hairline cut Miles has opened up is it even evident he's hurt them.
The hand in Kurt's hair goes tight, fingers curling like iron to hold them still, and Miles slowly drags the knife over the bandages around Kurt's throat, to the coarse neckline of the dress he keeps them wearing whenever he isn't using them. A flick, and one of the buttons tumbles loose, cut free in a blindingly quick motion. "Undress. I'm going to need to see some more of you, if I'm going to forgive you." The blade is traced slowly over Kurt's swollen, rounded chest, Miles's intention clear -- usually he's content with their mouth, but more and more recently he's wanted his hands on their chest, squeezing and groping at the sensitive, swollen buds, pillowing his cock between them.
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Shuddering with fear as they feel the knife playfully tracing lines down the length of their body, Kurt only hesitates for a moment before moving to obey. Pale, shaky hands find the remaining buttons holding their dress closed. They don't even take the time to brush the long shorn strands of their hair out of the way, carelessly discarded all over them, their lap, the floor. They just quickly undo the buttons, scared of what he'll do if they take too long.
While not being as well-fed here as they had been with Corrigan's pack, it really only shows in how gaunt their face has become, the hollowing of their cheeks, and their ribs peeking through along their back. Their chest remains full and soft as they shrug their dress off, pert and pink and swollen and only barely bigger than Miles' greedy, groping hands. This is how he wants them, isn't it? Terrified, humiliated, weeping and bleeding and subservient to his every cruel whim.
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"Open your mouth." Short, blunt, commanding, like Kurt exists entirely to sate his desires -- which they do, of course. If they hesitate at all, his hand is already in their hair, yanking their lips back onto his cock, shoving it down their throat like he'd never stopped.
Impatiently, Miles grabs Kurt's hands, one at a time, yanks them to press their own tits together, work the soft, yielding flesh around his cock. "Show some fucking initiative," he growls, wrenching the handful of their hair, fucking up until they gag, free hand smacking against one of their tender, swollen breasts, once, twice, three times. "It's almost like you aren't enjoying yourself."
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—but that's the whole point, isn't it? Their terror and pain only spurs him on, lets him take his sick pleasure in using their helpless, beaten body like a toy. Making them participate in the abuse is the final insult, the wolf twisting and wrenching their hands to push against their own tits, forcing them to press even harder, squeeze even tighter, wedging his slick, throbbing cock between their aching flesh.
All the while, his grip on their hair is unyielding, forcing them to take every hateful thrust, his cock shoving past their swelling breasts over their twitching tongue into their gagging, convulsing throat again and again and again. The bandages around their neck are soaking through with blood, both the fresh cut and the barely-healing patch of flayed skin alight with agony, steadily weeping crimson. Their cries get them nowhere. They can't fight him. He won't even let them beg him to stop.
This is going to end badly. They can tell. Miles is too aroused, too agitated, pushing them past their limits while his sadistic bloodlust only mounts. Any effort to comply, to get him off with their tits and hands and sobbing mouth, won't be enough. They'll fail to satisfy him the way he wants to be, and he'll take his fury out on them while they're weak and hurt and terrified. Doomed before they even got a chance.
Kurt hopes beyond hope, as their Alpha violently assaults their body, that they're wrong. That he'll stutter and grunt and come all over their face and chest any minute now. That he'll shove them aside and take his knife with him and just go, finally leave them alone, giving them the time it'll take to pick up the pieces he's left them in. To steel themself for next time.
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But then he loosens his grip on Kurt's shorn hair, hands going instead to squeeze at their tits again, fingers plucking at their peaked, cherry-red nipples, pinching and yanking cruelly, rolling the tender nubs between his rough thumb and forefinger. "Touch yourself," he commands and that's -- that's new, usually Miles doesn't care about whether Kurt finds any pleasure in what he does to them. They're a body, a means to an end, warm flesh to use and hurt and torment and then abandon.
Not this time, it seems. Now he's present, watching with a wild glint in his eyes, foot going to nudge Kurt's knees apart, forcing them to spread their thighs as he says again: "Touch yourself, use your hands to make yourself come. One on your cock, one in your ass. Fuck yourself open for me." He's never forced that before, never made Kurt be so present in their own torture, never demanded that they feel pleasure while he's hurting them. But this time he won't let them retreat, won't let them escape into their mind.
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In a particularly cruel twist of irony, when they shakily scramble to obey, shoving the dress down past their belly and reaching between their legs, Kurt sobs loudly from finding themself already hard. Despite the horror of the past month, their body remains so sensitive, flooded with hormones and expertly conditioned to touch, even from Miles' vicious hands. The abuse didn't stop that. Their body still instinctively aches for their Alpha.
That doesn't mean they feel any pleasure from this. Their cold hand fisting tightly around their cock doesn't feel good, nor do their fingers breaching their body, stiff and trembling and pressing deep inside with only spit and blood to ease the burn. Being forced to pleasure themself right now is killing them. All while Miles savages their throat, pinching and squeezing their tits, watching them so closely, manically getting off on their fear. He's getting exactly what he wants.
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But of course they obey. As long as Corrigan's brat is in their belly, Kurt won't fight back against anything Miles commands. Even with the link shattered in their mind, their once-Alpha completely inaccessible, every inch of their body taken and claimed and brutalized by Miles, that loyalty remains. There's a living reminder of the pack inside them, and no matter what Miles does, he can't fully destroy that -- not if he wants to maintain the leverage over Kurt that he's enjoyed all these weeks.
Still...he can hurry things along, a little. Kurt's due any day, their body exhausted and malnourished and focused entirely on keeping their pup safe. Perhaps something in them is even resisting delivery, not wanting Miles to get his hands on the baby, wanting to protect it with their body a little longer. The thought is oddly enraging to the wolf, his hand finding his knife again, hand going to slowly smooth the hacked-off strands of hair away from Kurt's neck, the nape, the first bite given and the last to go -- Corrigan's.
"Don't stop," he murmurs, raspily, tracing the scar with his fingertips, recognizing it as the one that had once graced his own shoulder, until he was exiled, until he taught himself to pare a knife along flesh and flay the scar tissue free from his skin. It's a skill he still has, setting the blade at the edge of Kurt's mark from Corrigan and saying again: "Don't you dare stop." They're going to get off while he does this, while he skins them alive.
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This can't be happening. That's the last scar. Their last mark, Corrigan's mark—Corrigan, true Alpha, beloved but forbidden—and he's going to take it from them like this. On their knees, pleasuring him, pleasuring themself. They twitch, body jerking violently, like they're about to shove away from him again—
—but they can't. Everything in them is screaming to resist, to escape, but the second they do, it'll be over. Miles only cares about winning. He only wants to punish and dominate his former pack, using their mate or their baby as leverage to get what he wants. He doesn't technically need both of them for that. If he doesn't kill the baby outright, he'll just kill Kurt instead, cutting the infant out of them exactly like he'd threatened to, using them instead. No matter what, Miles wins. He always wins.
They have no choice but to obey. To not stop. Convulsing with sobs, Kurt continues shakily, shamefully touching themself as the knife starts peeling their skin away, making them scream around Miles' cock. Don't stop. The words ring cruelly in their ears. Don't stop. They stroke themself, thighs quivering with every pass of their clammy palm up and down their cock. Don't stop. Their fingers plunge fast and deep into their ass even as they go tight with terror, fear twisting up their guts, sick pleasure flooding every part of their senses already taken up by fear and agony. Don't you dare stop.
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The fact that even the slow pare of his knife between layer's of their skin, like peeling an apple, parting the soft, scarred skin from the muscle and sinew beneath, the newest wound rapidly flooding with blood that drips down to pool in the hollow of their collarbone -- even all that doesn't make Kurt try to escape him. Miles considers that a victory.
As usual, the sight of Kurt's flesh peeling away with such ease, the sound and feel of them screaming around his cock is almost enough to have Miles releasing down their throat, pumping his spend into their belly. But he has his own goals today, namely to see Kurt come with his knife in them, the threads of pleasure and pain tangled so inextricably that every gentle touch will carry a bite of agony, forever. Or, even better, the little human will never again be able to climax without pain, without a blade in their body, painting it alive with cuts and gashes. Miles idly imagines it, Kurt furiously pleasuring themselves, but unable to finish until he bleeds them somehow. It's equally as arousing, so he grabs for their hair with his free hand, yanking them fully onto his cock, letting it rest in their throat, buried to the hilt.
"Come and you'll be allowed to breathe," he rasps out, continuing to slowly flay the mark from their neck. "Whore like you, shouldn't be a problem at all."
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It already feels so wrong. Like the human mind is incapable of comprehending the shock of being flayed alive. Being forced to pleasure themself at the same time makes it all the more unreal. Pleasure doesn't belong in a body capable of enduring such anguish. There's only room for the excruciating pain here. That's all there's ever been. It doesn't make any sense. It's not real. It's all wrong.
Kurt tries to scream again, pure animal instinct, but Miles' throbbing cock won't let them force out so much as a gurgle. That's what snaps them out of it, finally, however briefly. They can't breathe. They'll die if they can't breathe. The baby will die. Fighting through the shock, the pain, the shame, racing against their pouring blood and their rapidly caving lungs, Kurt desperately fucks themself on their hands like their life depends on it.
They know how, mercifully, muscle memory making their fist squeeze tighter around their cock, wrists pumping faster and harder, slamming into their shuddering body. Their fingers go tight in their ass, curling and pointing and stabbing at that one spot inside them with manic jackhammer thrusts, making their thighs quiver wildly. Sparks of savage pleasure demand their attention, even as the knife continues to peel them open. Everything feel wrong.
Kurt goes stiff when they come. The guilt crushes them as they spill all over the floor, their lap, their belly, unseeing eyes rolling into the back of their skull. It feels like they should relax now, finally go slack between Miles' legs and fade into the quiet gray for a moment, but they just won't stop shaking.
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Kurt is still alive, still moving -- their whole body jolting as they obediently fuck themselves open, hands shaking, eyes glazed and bleary with tears, throat clutching and convulsing around his cock. But the principle is the same. Miles moves the knife, skins away the scar shaped like Corrigan's teeth, waits until the choking, sobbing human finally comes, painting their chest with it, mixing with the blood.
Then with a flick of his wrist, the patch of scar tissue is gone, sliding free to be tossed into the fire, leaving Kurt's neck a raw, open wound, layers of sodden, filthy bandages almost useless by now. Miles waits another heartbeat, watches their eyes roll back, their body shudder helplessly -- and then he slides his cock free and spills over their tear-streaked face, their bloody chest, the wound he's just made. His fingers slide through the red and white, smearing them together, then shoving past Kurt's bruised lips, forcing them to suck their own blood and come off his hands.
"See? Was that so hard?"
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All the while, Miles makes a mockery of their anguish, rubbing their face in it, making them taste their own defeat on his fingers. Kurt sobs loudly, but even in this foggy, bleary, barely-conscious state, they know better than to fight him. So they degrade themself further by sucking his fingers clean of their own blood and come. He's taken everything from them. Their pack, their freedom, their dignity, their joy. Everything except the baby.
The baby... Kurt shudders, gulping around Miles' fingers. This is usually the part where they're left to slip in and out consciousness in a heap on the floor, the pain and shock finally too great to endure, but something's different this time. They're still shaking uncontrollably, muscles twitching, going painfully tight, convulsing... contracting. It hurts. Their sobbing whimpers quickly swell into cries of confused pain as waves of tight, burning spasms wash over them, distracting even from the open flesh wound on their neck. It's worst around their stomach, along their thighs, between their legs...
"A-A-Alpha," they gasp, shrill, frightened, desperate. One hand fists into Miles' pants, holding on for dear life, while the other presses into their stomach, slick with come and blood. It doesn't feel right. "Something's wrong. Th-The baby. Alpha, the baby, something's wrong—! Oh God, no, Alpha, p-please!"
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All business, tucking his spent cock back in his pants, Miles reaches out with one cool hand to press against Kurt's stomach. They're definitely carrying lower, the pup inside them having moved, ready to come out. Too soon -- he'd thought there'd be another few days, at least. The midwife he'd paid off is in town, won't venture up towards the cabin until he sends for her, which he'd planned to do -- damn it.
Too late now. "You're in labor," Miles offers bluntly, irritated, like the most frightening, horrific moment of Kurt's life is simply a major inconvenience to him. He feels their muscles go tight, contracting, then relaxing, times it mentally before standing. "Count how long between each contraction," he commands, going for the bandages, the washbasin, annoyance evident in every movement. When Kurt doesn't immediately comply, he smacks the side of their head, hard, repeating: "Count. If you're too far along, there's no time to get anyone else, you'll have to do it alone."
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But that's not the world they live in anymore. Here, it doesn't matter that they're scared. It doesn't matter that they have no idea how to give birth, what being in labor even means, how to have the child they're currently having without killing them or themself. Here, they're just an inconvenience to their Alpha. Their blistering pain and raw, confused panic just earns them a smack to the head and a stern command barked by the wolf responsible for it all.
Through a torrent of tears and gasped, keening sobs, Kurt tries to focus and count the seconds between each wave of pain. But it's hard—they don't even know which painful flutter or spasm or jerk of muscle is a contraction or not, whether what they're feeling is normal or a sign that something has gone horribly wrong. The sheer agony of their muscles working definitely feels wrong.
This can't be what it's supposed to feel like. This cold, lonely terror, this bewildering pain, like splintering from the inside. As they try to count, try to breathe, Kurt sobs out mindless, desperate pleas through their own blood and tears, "C-Can't, I can't, I can't d-do this alone, please, not alone, I c-can't do it, I can't do it alone, please not alone—!"
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Not as he leaves them alone, to live, to die, to whatever end. There's no strong hand holding theirs, coaching them through the contractions, soothing them with water or ice or just another presence. Just Kurt, alone, in their own blood, with the wind howling outside.
Except. Except they're not truly alone, not really -- there's that careful spark of awareness, a link Miles's cruelty hasn't been able to touch, guarded and shielded by Kurt's own body. Pure instinct and love and fear had built a wall between the hell they endured on a day-to-day basis and the budding consciousness of the child inside them. Whatever Miles did, whatever torture he administered, it didn't penetrate that wall. The baby doesn't know what's happened to it's mother, that it's been carried through agony and horror unscathed.
But it reaches out now, a soft stirring, a silent outreach of purely innocent, purely adoring connection, solely for Kurt, untouchable by anyone else. And there's nothing but love in that first touch of soul to soul, nothing but recognition and delight and wonder at being alive, at being so close to meeting. In it, there's something like Corrigan, like Naseer and Benji and Leo and Kai, fragments of their affection and warmth and love echoed in the child that had grown beneath their watchful eye for so long. In it, in her, the pack is there, albeit only in Kurt's mind. That's something.
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It's the only thing that keeps Kurt moving, the knowledge that she's coming, that they have to keep her safe. It spurs them into action, to clean their face and chest and stomach of come and blood, to shakily clean and dress the wound on their neck, still throbbing and bleeding, the pain dizzying. Though when another wave of contractions hit and they double over on the floor, the pain at their neck becomes a distant memory.
They scream through every second of burning, earth-shattering pain, crumbled in a heap on the floor. To anyone passing by, the cabin must seem haunted by some tortured, wailing spirit, their howls shaking the walls before being carried on the wind. When the contractions subside, Kurt tries their best to stay calm, to focus on her, wiping the floors clean of their own blood and hair—they can't let the baby be born into this mess!—but as the hours pass, those moments of clarity and calm get shorter and shorter.
By the time Miles returns, the cabin is spotless, the washbasin is more blood than water, and Kurt is sprawled out on the bed, face twisted in agony. They know they're not supposed to be up there, but they just needed somewhere soft to lay, pillows to cushion their aching hips, warm sheets to cover them, firm bedposts to grasp while riding the burning waves. The pain is near-constant now, their skin covered in a sheen of sweat and streaks of blood down their chest, along their thighs, every muscle twitching and shaking. "Please, please, p-please," is all they can muster between sobs and harrowing wails. Any minute now. Please, God, any minute now...
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now that i am FREE from the HOLIDAYS AT LAST
FREEDOM!!!
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