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."
Finally. The relief is palpable as Miles at long last empties himself down their ruined throat, before briskly yanking them off his cock, flooding their lungs with air. His spend is like molten iron in their stomach, so heavy it's painful. The shame doesn't help. Even through sobs and coughs and gasps, even through the terror and tears, Kurt still aches between their legs. They still long for Alpha's cock inside. Their new Alpha, their true Alpha, it doesn't seem to matter which.
At least they remain good at this one thing. Being a loyal, eager mate. As they lick him clean and tuck his softening cock back in his pants, as they curl up beside him to cry themself to sleep, Kurt prays it will be enough to keep them and the baby safe.
Safety is, they quickly learn, relative. They're never safe from his threats, nor the back of his hand, nor the awful howling emptiness he floods their mind with when they don't do as he pleases. Any straying thought, any resistance to bowing to him as Alpha, is punished with a merciless denial of their link. Kurt didn't even know that was possible, to close a bonded pack member off like that, to leave them adrift in the cold and dark. It's a violence much worse than the strikes, the kicks and shoves, the tightly gripping fists. Kurt very quickly learns to obey.
Not that they can go anywhere. After what felt like days on the road, stopping for only hours at a time for a nap and a brisk fuck, Miles leads them inside a derelict cabin nestled partway up a mountain overlooking a human village to the north, and he never lets them leave. Their new home is dark, cold, dusty, the wood rotting and splintering, the windows caked in ancient grime. There's a constant musty smell they can never seem to get used to. There's always a draft coming from somewhere. When they're not sleeping or servicing their Alpha, Kurt tries to clean and maintain the cabin as best they can.
The chain is never quite long enough. From where it's bolted into the wall and fastened to the humiliating dog collar around their neck, it only lets them get partway into the cabin. Maybe fifteen feet before it goes taut. Enough for them to reach the wash basin and the fireplace and — most importantly — the bed. But not the door. Never the door.
There's that draft again. Kurt curls up tighter where they're sitting against the wall, hand absently smoothing over their stomach in silent apology to the baby. Bizarrely, they're grateful that Alpha makes them wear clothes now. It would be much too cold in here without the modest, protective layers of skirts and dresses and aprons. If they were allowed knitting needles, they would busy themself making clothes for the baby too. Kurt can only sit idle and stare into space, hoping and praying Miles will provide when the time comes.
Any day now. They stroke their stomach again, a fervent plea for forgiveness. This isn't the life Kurt had wanted for them.
Miles had intended to wait until they got to the cabin before fully claiming Kurt the first time. He'd had ideas of making an event of it, a ceremony akin to the one that had first bound Kurt to the others of the pack. Perhaps it was an attempt to reclaim what the others -- what Corrigan had taken from him.
This idea had only lasted until the afternoon of the second day on the road. Grimy and tired from another long series of hours spent pushing the panting, shivering horses past their limits, Miles had experienced a change of heart. Kurt was spoiled, ruined -- they didn't deserve the dignity and ceremony of a formal claiming. So he'd given them what they did deserve: his cock driving inside their ass as they waited on hands and knees by another miserable fire. He fucked them hard and quick and businesslike, then and ever after, each time they stopped to rest on the long, endless road through the woods. Miles would tug Kurt into his lap or spoon up behind them as they slept, dragging up their coarse skirts and plunging inside them for a handful of rough, silent moments.
And then they'd push forward again, day after day until the horses were near dead from exhaustion and the air took on the bitter chill of the climate near the mountains. Corrigan's territory was beautiful and temperate, closer to the coast, but Miles's cabin was far from that. It had only been a few weeks -- one of travel, the others settling into the cabin, training Kurt on their new duties -- and the air already had the bitter chill of winter, as opposed to the mellow early autumn they'd left behind.
Miles pushes open the door now, arms full of wood, sighing in a heavy, put-upon way. It's obviously a great trial for him, having to warm the miserable hovel they live in. He dumps the wood by the smoldering fire, then drops heavily into his chair -- the only chair. The rug in front of him is where Kurt usually stays, on their knees, either stoking the fire or servicing their Alpha. Now, gesturing vaguely at the coals, Miles grunts a short: "Well? Hurry up."
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.
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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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At least they remain good at this one thing. Being a loyal, eager mate. As they lick him clean and tuck his softening cock back in his pants, as they curl up beside him to cry themself to sleep, Kurt prays it will be enough to keep them and the baby safe.
Safety is, they quickly learn, relative. They're never safe from his threats, nor the back of his hand, nor the awful howling emptiness he floods their mind with when they don't do as he pleases. Any straying thought, any resistance to bowing to him as Alpha, is punished with a merciless denial of their link. Kurt didn't even know that was possible, to close a bonded pack member off like that, to leave them adrift in the cold and dark. It's a violence much worse than the strikes, the kicks and shoves, the tightly gripping fists. Kurt very quickly learns to obey.
Not that they can go anywhere. After what felt like days on the road, stopping for only hours at a time for a nap and a brisk fuck, Miles leads them inside a derelict cabin nestled partway up a mountain overlooking a human village to the north, and he never lets them leave. Their new home is dark, cold, dusty, the wood rotting and splintering, the windows caked in ancient grime. There's a constant musty smell they can never seem to get used to. There's always a draft coming from somewhere. When they're not sleeping or servicing their Alpha, Kurt tries to clean and maintain the cabin as best they can.
The chain is never quite long enough. From where it's bolted into the wall and fastened to the humiliating dog collar around their neck, it only lets them get partway into the cabin. Maybe fifteen feet before it goes taut. Enough for them to reach the wash basin and the fireplace and — most importantly — the bed. But not the door. Never the door.
There's that draft again. Kurt curls up tighter where they're sitting against the wall, hand absently smoothing over their stomach in silent apology to the baby. Bizarrely, they're grateful that Alpha makes them wear clothes now. It would be much too cold in here without the modest, protective layers of skirts and dresses and aprons. If they were allowed knitting needles, they would busy themself making clothes for the baby too. Kurt can only sit idle and stare into space, hoping and praying Miles will provide when the time comes.
Any day now. They stroke their stomach again, a fervent plea for forgiveness. This isn't the life Kurt had wanted for them.
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This idea had only lasted until the afternoon of the second day on the road. Grimy and tired from another long series of hours spent pushing the panting, shivering horses past their limits, Miles had experienced a change of heart. Kurt was spoiled, ruined -- they didn't deserve the dignity and ceremony of a formal claiming. So he'd given them what they did deserve: his cock driving inside their ass as they waited on hands and knees by another miserable fire. He fucked them hard and quick and businesslike, then and ever after, each time they stopped to rest on the long, endless road through the woods. Miles would tug Kurt into his lap or spoon up behind them as they slept, dragging up their coarse skirts and plunging inside them for a handful of rough, silent moments.
And then they'd push forward again, day after day until the horses were near dead from exhaustion and the air took on the bitter chill of the climate near the mountains. Corrigan's territory was beautiful and temperate, closer to the coast, but Miles's cabin was far from that. It had only been a few weeks -- one of travel, the others settling into the cabin, training Kurt on their new duties -- and the air already had the bitter chill of winter, as opposed to the mellow early autumn they'd left behind.
Miles pushes open the door now, arms full of wood, sighing in a heavy, put-upon way. It's obviously a great trial for him, having to warm the miserable hovel they live in. He dumps the wood by the smoldering fire, then drops heavily into his chair -- the only chair. The rug in front of him is where Kurt usually stays, on their knees, either stoking the fire or servicing their Alpha. Now, gesturing vaguely at the coals, Miles grunts a short: "Well? Hurry up."
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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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now that i am FREE from the HOLIDAYS AT LAST
FREEDOM!!!
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