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) Date: 2023-12-06 01:43 pm (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...
Later -- much later, in a world that Kurt can't even conceive of then -- they'll be thankful that Miles wasn't there. That the pain and agony and world-shattering fear isn't witnessed, that there's no help, no comfort beyond what Kurt themselves can muster up, but also, when their daughter finally slides into the world, howling like a true wolf, Miles isn't there to see her. Those first instants, when the baby -- small, so small, but strong and kicking and wailing her indignation at being here -- is still covered in blood, still connected to Kurt, when her father should swoop in to praise and comfort and swaddle her are not Miles's. He isn't there.
Corrigan isn't either, but the child is unmistakably his -- curly dark hair, smooth skin a few shades lighter than the Alpha's, a strong, healthy, booming voice. His presence is there as the baby squirms and protests until she's curled up against Kurt's chest, adding to the layers of blood and blinking open her enormous eyes -- their eyes, the same color, the same shape, a perfect mixture of them and Corrigan.
Only then, does Miles return, sauntering in like he hasn't been absent for hours, like he hadn't just abandoned Kurt to suffer all alone. He pauses at the doorway, looking at the blood coating the sheets, the floor, Kurt -- anywhere but at the baby. "Done, then?"
It's an incredibly cruel, heartless thing to say, like this is all some great inconvenience. Like the way his day's been disrupted matters the most.
No Miles, no Alpha, not even a stranger as midwife to guide them through the most traumatic, debilitating pain of their life. But it doesn't even matter. As soon as she's out, writhing and screaming on the mattress, Kurt forgets all about the pain, the horror of their situation, the fact that they were left alone to endure this. She's perfect. Healthy, ferocious, beautiful. Finally getting to see her, hear her, hold her makes everything they have gone through worth it.
Still breathless and trembling, Kurt scoops her up and cradles her close, so close, not once letting her out of their sight as she opens her eyes to the world. Looking at her makes them feel like they're floating. All the pain is gone, the loneliness, the fear. The world doesn't exist outside of the little bubble shared between the two, the child hiccuping and whining unhappily at the chill of life, Kurt shakily wiping blood from her eyes.
She looks just like Corrigan. Their heart sings at the thought.
Not even Miles' cruelty can dampen their joy—though not for lack of trying. By the time he slithers back inside, the baby has already latched, curling up on their chest to eat while Kurt gingerly wipes them clean. The sight of him makes their blood run cold, a haunted but intense cast over their face when they meet his uncaring gaze. Unconsciously, their grip on the baby tightens. An instinct they can't articulate flares through them, ancient, fiercely protective, their guard already immediately up.
"Yes, Alpha," they manage, surprised by how strong and clear their own voice is even after hours of screaming. They may call him Alpha, but their body knows better, curling defensively around their daughter without conscious thought. He is a threat. "I'm done."
Miles can feel the slight shift in the air, the way Kurt sits up a little straighter, the way they hold the (small, but strong, unmistakably Corrigan's, making him want to reach out and wrench it away) pup closer. Even with his massive amount of power over them, Miles knows that threatening a wolf's young is a surefire way to get his throat torn out. Kurt no longer has to worry about guarding their own body to protect their child. That makes them vulnerable -- he can separate them now, use the baby as leverage -- but it also makes them intensely dangerous.
So he keeps his distance, slowly pulling a few things out of his bag -- salted meat, cheese, bread, the most fresh food he's offered in a while. Kurt's mainly been given watered down broths and soups and gruels, keeping them weak and compliant. But now he has a new agenda. "You need to get your strength up," Miles says, setting the food down beside the bed. "We'll be traveling within the fortnight, once you're strong enough."
He glances at the baby, then lifts his gaze to meet Kurt's calm, wary one. "You'll be able to carry again by the time we get there. If you rest and eat enough." That's his goal, then -- help Kurt recover so he can breed them full with his pup this time.
Kurt doesn't blink. Those huge, devastating eyes are fixed on Miles the whole time, watching his face, his hands. Their teeth are on edge, jaw set like they know that, should he reach for them, reach for the girl, they'll clamp down around his wrist and bite until it shatters. Having just given birth, Kurt was convinced they'd feel weak and exhausted. They're anything but. Instincts primed, nerves screaming, they'll stay sharp and protective like this until their body is fully convinced Miles won't hurt her. At this point, whether or not they'll let him touch her at all is a dangerous gamble.
The food is a surprise, but his words are not. They know full well what he intends to do with them. And for all their ferocity, Kurt still firmly knows their place as a wolf mate, knows what's expected of them. Barely breathing, they nod in agreement. "Then I'll eat and rest well. Thank you, Alpha," they say, words infinitely more placid than their gaze, burning holes into Miles. They'll let him knock them up right away, as long as he knows damn well they won't let him harm a hair on their daughter's head.
"Where will we go, Alpha? She's too small to travel very far just yet," they explain, fingers gingerly petting the baby's hair while she eats. All of their priorities are shifted now.
Miles moves around Kurt like a man trapped in a room with a wild animal -- cautious, careful, mindful. He retreats to his chair, crossing his arms like the sheer force of their gaze unsettles him. Maybe it does. He'd gotten accustomed to their compliance, their submission, but this is...not that. It's not that at all.
So he stays at a difference as the baby ferociously feeds, her eyes closed, long lashes fluttering against her cheeks as Kurt strokes her hair. There's a lot of it, curls and loops, a soft dark color exactly between both her parent's. She curls her tiny hands, tiny fingers against Kurt's chest, perfectly at peace, secure in the knowledge of her own safety.
And Miles stays far, far away. For the moment.
"There's a town, a few miles south, near the river. It's warmer there, a better place to wait out the rest of the winter." Before, Miles hadn't cared much for Kurt's comfort or warmth or even whether they were fed well enough -- perhaps a part of him had hoped they'd miscarry, that he wouldn't have to deal with Corrigan's pup. But now that she's out, now that they're open and ready for his pup instead, caution must be taken. "We'll stay there until the spring thaw."
Only a few miles. Good. They can manage a few miles travel, even with an infant, especially with the promise of warmth. Living by the river will be nice. They'll find a way to be okay with the nearby human settlement—maybe it'll be just distracting and stimulating enough for Miles to leave them alone most of the time. Having to take care of the baby will take up most of their time now, anyway.
Nodding their understanding, Kurt relaxes marginally into the pillows, though their gaze never leaves him for long. He's wise to keep his distance. Not even Kurt fully knows what they're capable of right now, but they know for a fact they could badly hurt him. They'd be lying if they claimed not to feel encouraged by this sudden sense of power. "Thank you, Alpha. That sounds perfect."
Their gaze immediately softens when they look down at the baby, a soft smile tugging at their lips. 'Perfect' doesn't even begin to describe her. Looking at her curled up in their arms, safe and healthy and breathtaking, Kurt doesn't have any regrets. They'd do it all again, put up with anything the universe could throw at them, just to be able to hold her like this. "Hear that? You'll get to play in the river, honey," they murmur, private and fond, only for her.
Over the next couple weeks, Miles does something he hadn't, thus far, displayed -- he keeps his word. He doesn't touch Kurt, doesn't come near their baby, just brings food and tiptoes around and spends most days and nights away from the cabin. It's still cold there, but he ensures there are fires always burning, and the chill is mostly kept out -- he even stops chaining Kurt to the wall, if only because he knows that the baby wouldn't survive an escape attempt, not newborn and so intensely vulnerable, not with the bitterest part of winter still in full force.
But slowly the weather shifts, the snowdrifts begin to melt and the sun is out more and more. The nights are still frigid, but the day Miles decides to leave dawns bright and clear. It's one of the rare nights where he'd slept at the cabin, in his chair, watching the slowly dying fire. The meager belongings he'd stowed in the creaky cupboards are packed by the door, ready for loading into the wagon, ready to go.
Miles rouses himself at dawn, along with the first chirps of birdsong, and slowly rises, stretching luxuriously and glancing Kurt's way, seeing if they're awake. If their careful scrutiny of him has abated at all.
Kurt is still out cold, eyes closed, breaths deep and even, fingers limp against the secure swaddle wrapped around their also sleeping baby. She's a surprisingly calm little thing, especially considering her circumstances—born into the harsh cold, kept inside at all hours, with only the supplies her mother is able to fashion by their own hand—but she's still a baby. She still cries at night when she's hungry or itchy or confused or needs changing, and Kurt is always right there, on a hairpin trigger, forgoing their own rest to make sure she's comfortable again.
This had been one such night—and, seeing as Miles was sleeping over, they were especially vigilant not to irritate him, staying up with her for hours before they dared closing their own eyes. But maybe they hadn't needed to be so vigilant. Miles has been...good lately. A strange sentiment. Miles is never good. But he's left them alone, left the baby alone, only coming to the cabin to feed them and hand off fabrics and soaps from the village before being on his way again. It's been weeks since the flaying, since he hacked off their hair (still short and choppy, but no longer a priority), since he terrorized them into delivery. And while that feeling lingers, it gets more and more distant every day he keeps his hands off them.
So their guard is never fully down. But, deep in sleep for the first time all day, there's little they can do. Exhausted new mothers need their rest. And since their daughter barely stirs by their side, unaware of the danger creeping up to the bed, the danger waiting outside by the wagon, they're not likely to wake anytime soon.
All this time, Miles has been waiting, biding his time, building up to hurt Kurt one last devastating, resonant time. He listens to their even breathing, the steady beat of their heart, lulled by exhaustion into letting down their guard. Miles has been good, has been careful and respectful and cautious. Even if Kurt's body remembers his cruelty, their mind is so desperate to believe that this is real. That it can stay. They long to rest in their Alpha's protection -- it's instinct. It's what they're meant for.
So when Miles creeps up, silent and stoic and not even breathing, then bends to gently scoop up Kurt's daughter, moving so slowly that the baby barely fusses. She's tired too, weary from the busy work of growing and eating and learning the world around her. The entire world is her mother, their warmth, their comfort, their voice.
But for that instant, enough for Miles to scoop her up, the baby doesn't stir. Until she registers the change in the air, the wrong scent and feel and presence. The wolf link in her mind is connected to Kurt and Kurt alone, and this -- the first time it's been tested by distance -- has the pup waking and squirming, letting out a soft, wavering whimper.
For a long, nervewracking moment, it seems the girl's sleepy whimper might be enough to rouse Kurt from their slumber. They've been so attentive, after all, so attuned to their daughter's every move and sound, every flickering thought of a slowly forming consciousness, that they would be at her side the moment anything was tipped even slightly off balance.
But they're so tired. It's been weeks of barely any sleep, pockets of rest here and there, the paranoia of a new parent coupled with their fear of Miles, keeping them on their toes every single moment, waking and not. Now that they're finally getting more than an hour's rest, Kurt's sleeping too deeply for even their daughter's voice to reach them, hopelessly gone.
The girl notices. Mom is always there, ready to scoop her up and coo gently into her ear, play with her hair, put their finger into her little palm so she can squeeze and hold on tight. But now, there's only the stranger, the man who makes mom's heart thump so fast and hard, whose scent scares mom half to death, picking up her swaddled form and taking her away from her mother with slow, creeping steps. The whimpers continue, a soft hiccup turning into a long, shivery cry, her limbs wrapped up too tight for her to wriggle free. Kurt twitches, but falls back asleep in the same breath, not moving under the sheets.
Small favors. Miles knows he doesn't have much time, that even Kurt's exhaustion won't delay the inevitable for long -- soon they'll launch awake, reach instinctively for their baby, find her missing and then there'll be hell to pay. He shakes the whimpering little girl roughly, getting a confused whimpering sob -- mom doesn't do that, mom doesn't shake or hiss or exude hatred and malice. Though she's only a baby, mere weeks old, she knows in her very soul when someone is safe -- and when they're dangerous. This man is dangerous.
But he's also at the door, pulling it open and then closing it quickly, quietly, behind him before the chill rush of wind can alert Kurt. He shifts the baby in his arms, looks across the snowy clearing towards the wagon. The wolf in him is on alert, mistrusting humans on principle, but -- well. These are desperate times after all.
So he nods curtly at the man, strides forward, purposefully. He's confident that the mere sight of this person will be enough to send Kurt into mindless, desperate terror, enough to completely nullify any attempts at retaliation. "Sorry for the delay."
Desperate times indeed. He never thought he'd see the day where he'd be making deals with ferals. If the circumstances weren't so...delicate, he would've shot Miles on sight. Maybe he still should. The hunting rifle strapped securely to the saddle of his horse is unloaded, for now, but that can change. Miles knows that full well. He's certain the savage feels just as uneasy as him.
Still, there's a part of Gunnar that needs to see this through. When the strange feral reached out to him, explained what was going on, what he wanted from him, the man hadn't believed him. But Miles' descriptions of his son—presumed dead, perhaps hoped dead—were too accurate, too detailed to be fabricated. Call it morbid curiosity. He had to see for himself.
"You are certain that's my son in there?" he says, voice low and tinged with a foreign accent, his cadence almost melodic. Gunnar watches the savage approach him, carrying a wriggling baby in his arms. His first granddaughter. The thought of how she came into this world makes him feel ill. With the butt of his pipe, Gunnar pushes the wild curls out of her face, frowning as he studies her features. "She looks almost...human."
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Date: 2023-12-06 03:33 am (UTC)—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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Date: 2023-12-07 03:08 am (UTC)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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Date: 2023-12-10 01:38 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2023-12-10 11:08 pm (UTC)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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Date: 2023-12-11 03:53 am (UTC)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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Date: 2023-12-13 02:33 am (UTC)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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Date: 2023-12-14 12:39 am (UTC)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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Date: 2023-12-15 01:02 am (UTC)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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Date: 2023-12-15 02:00 am (UTC)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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Date: 2023-12-16 01:19 am (UTC)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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Date: 2023-12-16 02:17 am (UTC)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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Date: 2023-12-17 02:47 am (UTC)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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Date: 2023-12-17 03:31 am (UTC)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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Date: 2023-12-18 12:12 am (UTC)Corrigan isn't either, but the child is unmistakably his -- curly dark hair, smooth skin a few shades lighter than the Alpha's, a strong, healthy, booming voice. His presence is there as the baby squirms and protests until she's curled up against Kurt's chest, adding to the layers of blood and blinking open her enormous eyes -- their eyes, the same color, the same shape, a perfect mixture of them and Corrigan.
Only then, does Miles return, sauntering in like he hasn't been absent for hours, like he hadn't just abandoned Kurt to suffer all alone. He pauses at the doorway, looking at the blood coating the sheets, the floor, Kurt -- anywhere but at the baby. "Done, then?"
It's an incredibly cruel, heartless thing to say, like this is all some great inconvenience. Like the way his day's been disrupted matters the most.
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Date: 2023-12-18 03:16 am (UTC)Still breathless and trembling, Kurt scoops her up and cradles her close, so close, not once letting her out of their sight as she opens her eyes to the world. Looking at her makes them feel like they're floating. All the pain is gone, the loneliness, the fear. The world doesn't exist outside of the little bubble shared between the two, the child hiccuping and whining unhappily at the chill of life, Kurt shakily wiping blood from her eyes.
She looks just like Corrigan. Their heart sings at the thought.
Not even Miles' cruelty can dampen their joy—though not for lack of trying. By the time he slithers back inside, the baby has already latched, curling up on their chest to eat while Kurt gingerly wipes them clean. The sight of him makes their blood run cold, a haunted but intense cast over their face when they meet his uncaring gaze. Unconsciously, their grip on the baby tightens. An instinct they can't articulate flares through them, ancient, fiercely protective, their guard already immediately up.
"Yes, Alpha," they manage, surprised by how strong and clear their own voice is even after hours of screaming. They may call him Alpha, but their body knows better, curling defensively around their daughter without conscious thought. He is a threat. "I'm done."
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Date: 2023-12-19 04:13 am (UTC)So he keeps his distance, slowly pulling a few things out of his bag -- salted meat, cheese, bread, the most fresh food he's offered in a while. Kurt's mainly been given watered down broths and soups and gruels, keeping them weak and compliant. But now he has a new agenda. "You need to get your strength up," Miles says, setting the food down beside the bed. "We'll be traveling within the fortnight, once you're strong enough."
He glances at the baby, then lifts his gaze to meet Kurt's calm, wary one. "You'll be able to carry again by the time we get there. If you rest and eat enough." That's his goal, then -- help Kurt recover so he can breed them full with his pup this time.
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Date: 2023-12-19 07:07 am (UTC)The food is a surprise, but his words are not. They know full well what he intends to do with them. And for all their ferocity, Kurt still firmly knows their place as a wolf mate, knows what's expected of them. Barely breathing, they nod in agreement. "Then I'll eat and rest well. Thank you, Alpha," they say, words infinitely more placid than their gaze, burning holes into Miles. They'll let him knock them up right away, as long as he knows damn well they won't let him harm a hair on their daughter's head.
"Where will we go, Alpha? She's too small to travel very far just yet," they explain, fingers gingerly petting the baby's hair while she eats. All of their priorities are shifted now.
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Date: 2023-12-20 01:29 am (UTC)So he stays at a difference as the baby ferociously feeds, her eyes closed, long lashes fluttering against her cheeks as Kurt strokes her hair. There's a lot of it, curls and loops, a soft dark color exactly between both her parent's. She curls her tiny hands, tiny fingers against Kurt's chest, perfectly at peace, secure in the knowledge of her own safety.
And Miles stays far, far away. For the moment.
"There's a town, a few miles south, near the river. It's warmer there, a better place to wait out the rest of the winter." Before, Miles hadn't cared much for Kurt's comfort or warmth or even whether they were fed well enough -- perhaps a part of him had hoped they'd miscarry, that he wouldn't have to deal with Corrigan's pup. But now that she's out, now that they're open and ready for his pup instead, caution must be taken. "We'll stay there until the spring thaw."
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Date: 2023-12-20 02:01 am (UTC)Nodding their understanding, Kurt relaxes marginally into the pillows, though their gaze never leaves him for long. He's wise to keep his distance. Not even Kurt fully knows what they're capable of right now, but they know for a fact they could badly hurt him. They'd be lying if they claimed not to feel encouraged by this sudden sense of power. "Thank you, Alpha. That sounds perfect."
Their gaze immediately softens when they look down at the baby, a soft smile tugging at their lips. 'Perfect' doesn't even begin to describe her. Looking at her curled up in their arms, safe and healthy and breathtaking, Kurt doesn't have any regrets. They'd do it all again, put up with anything the universe could throw at them, just to be able to hold her like this. "Hear that? You'll get to play in the river, honey," they murmur, private and fond, only for her.
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Date: 2023-12-21 01:22 am (UTC)But slowly the weather shifts, the snowdrifts begin to melt and the sun is out more and more. The nights are still frigid, but the day Miles decides to leave dawns bright and clear. It's one of the rare nights where he'd slept at the cabin, in his chair, watching the slowly dying fire. The meager belongings he'd stowed in the creaky cupboards are packed by the door, ready for loading into the wagon, ready to go.
Miles rouses himself at dawn, along with the first chirps of birdsong, and slowly rises, stretching luxuriously and glancing Kurt's way, seeing if they're awake. If their careful scrutiny of him has abated at all.
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Date: 2023-12-21 02:11 am (UTC)This had been one such night—and, seeing as Miles was sleeping over, they were especially vigilant not to irritate him, staying up with her for hours before they dared closing their own eyes. But maybe they hadn't needed to be so vigilant. Miles has been...good lately. A strange sentiment. Miles is never good. But he's left them alone, left the baby alone, only coming to the cabin to feed them and hand off fabrics and soaps from the village before being on his way again. It's been weeks since the flaying, since he hacked off their hair (still short and choppy, but no longer a priority), since he terrorized them into delivery. And while that feeling lingers, it gets more and more distant every day he keeps his hands off them.
So their guard is never fully down. But, deep in sleep for the first time all day, there's little they can do. Exhausted new mothers need their rest. And since their daughter barely stirs by their side, unaware of the danger creeping up to the bed, the danger waiting outside by the wagon, they're not likely to wake anytime soon.
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Date: 2023-12-21 03:08 am (UTC)So when Miles creeps up, silent and stoic and not even breathing, then bends to gently scoop up Kurt's daughter, moving so slowly that the baby barely fusses. She's tired too, weary from the busy work of growing and eating and learning the world around her. The entire world is her mother, their warmth, their comfort, their voice.
But for that instant, enough for Miles to scoop her up, the baby doesn't stir. Until she registers the change in the air, the wrong scent and feel and presence. The wolf link in her mind is connected to Kurt and Kurt alone, and this -- the first time it's been tested by distance -- has the pup waking and squirming, letting out a soft, wavering whimper.
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Date: 2023-12-21 03:21 am (UTC)But they're so tired. It's been weeks of barely any sleep, pockets of rest here and there, the paranoia of a new parent coupled with their fear of Miles, keeping them on their toes every single moment, waking and not. Now that they're finally getting more than an hour's rest, Kurt's sleeping too deeply for even their daughter's voice to reach them, hopelessly gone.
The girl notices. Mom is always there, ready to scoop her up and coo gently into her ear, play with her hair, put their finger into her little palm so she can squeeze and hold on tight. But now, there's only the stranger, the man who makes mom's heart thump so fast and hard, whose scent scares mom half to death, picking up her swaddled form and taking her away from her mother with slow, creeping steps. The whimpers continue, a soft hiccup turning into a long, shivery cry, her limbs wrapped up too tight for her to wriggle free. Kurt twitches, but falls back asleep in the same breath, not moving under the sheets.
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Date: 2023-12-22 02:06 am (UTC)But he's also at the door, pulling it open and then closing it quickly, quietly, behind him before the chill rush of wind can alert Kurt. He shifts the baby in his arms, looks across the snowy clearing towards the wagon. The wolf in him is on alert, mistrusting humans on principle, but -- well. These are desperate times after all.
So he nods curtly at the man, strides forward, purposefully. He's confident that the mere sight of this person will be enough to send Kurt into mindless, desperate terror, enough to completely nullify any attempts at retaliation. "Sorry for the delay."
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Date: 2023-12-22 04:16 am (UTC)Still, there's a part of Gunnar that needs to see this through. When the strange feral reached out to him, explained what was going on, what he wanted from him, the man hadn't believed him. But Miles' descriptions of his son—presumed dead, perhaps hoped dead—were too accurate, too detailed to be fabricated. Call it morbid curiosity. He had to see for himself.
"You are certain that's my son in there?" he says, voice low and tinged with a foreign accent, his cadence almost melodic. Gunnar watches the savage approach him, carrying a wriggling baby in his arms. His first granddaughter. The thought of how she came into this world makes him feel ill. With the butt of his pipe, Gunnar pushes the wild curls out of her face, frowning as he studies her features. "She looks almost...human."
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From:now that i am FREE from the HOLIDAYS AT LAST
From:FREEDOM!!!
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