"I'm here, I'm here." It's murmured soft into the hollow of Kurt's neck, pressed to the scars there, ones from another's hand, another's whim and will imposed upon his mate. Still, Corrigan is soft, he's careful and reverent, he's nearly worshipful -- because it's still part of Kurt, their body, brave and wounded and crawling on bloodied hands and knees back to him. Nothing about them could possibly make him recoil or turn away in repulsion. Nothing.
The woodshed is chilly, dark, but there are a few smoldering coals in the fire pit there, a place for the wolves to gather on clear nights, to bundle up in furs and sip hot beverages and tell stories and legends. Or -- it should've been, in that first winter with Kurt. They should've had those snowy nights, bundled in new furs, sharing roasted meat and bright citrus fruits purchased from the village, hearing their pack's songs and myths. There should've been dozens of nights like that, mulled wine and mead and the furs spread out by the fire, the pack's bodies joining and tangling in the dark, thrilled by the crisp air and the stories and the wild beauty of the moon.
Now the year pivots slowly toward spring and it's too late. Corrigan puts the thought aside, though, tells himself to grieve the lost time later, clears his mind of everything but Kurt, cradled against him as he stokes the coals into a crackling frame, spread out carefully on the furs, kissed again and again. "Here all right?" Corrigan murmurs against their mouth, kneeling over his little mate, ensuring the warmth of the furs and the fire and his own body keep the chill away. One warm hand slips down Kurt's chest, their stomach, strokes his thumb over where he'd gotten so used to feeling a bump. Wolf gestation is so swift for a reason -- so the pack can easily satisfy the urge to have their mate carry a pup from each of them, one after another. The fact that Kurt is there beneath him and not currently pregnant feels -- wrong.
Still, that's a bit of a jump, even though Corrigan desperately longs for it -- longs for one of his brothers, his pack to have a turn breeding Kurt, seeing them grow heavy and full with their pup. He craves the frenzied nights of the wolves taking their turn, one after the other, until Kurt's carrying, until that urgent need is satisfied. Everything in good time, though. He can be patient.
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The woodshed is chilly, dark, but there are a few smoldering coals in the fire pit there, a place for the wolves to gather on clear nights, to bundle up in furs and sip hot beverages and tell stories and legends. Or -- it should've been, in that first winter with Kurt. They should've had those snowy nights, bundled in new furs, sharing roasted meat and bright citrus fruits purchased from the village, hearing their pack's songs and myths. There should've been dozens of nights like that, mulled wine and mead and the furs spread out by the fire, the pack's bodies joining and tangling in the dark, thrilled by the crisp air and the stories and the wild beauty of the moon.
Now the year pivots slowly toward spring and it's too late. Corrigan puts the thought aside, though, tells himself to grieve the lost time later, clears his mind of everything but Kurt, cradled against him as he stokes the coals into a crackling frame, spread out carefully on the furs, kissed again and again. "Here all right?" Corrigan murmurs against their mouth, kneeling over his little mate, ensuring the warmth of the furs and the fire and his own body keep the chill away. One warm hand slips down Kurt's chest, their stomach, strokes his thumb over where he'd gotten so used to feeling a bump. Wolf gestation is so swift for a reason -- so the pack can easily satisfy the urge to have their mate carry a pup from each of them, one after another. The fact that Kurt is there beneath him and not currently pregnant feels -- wrong.
Still, that's a bit of a jump, even though Corrigan desperately longs for it -- longs for one of his brothers, his pack to have a turn breeding Kurt, seeing them grow heavy and full with their pup. He craves the frenzied nights of the wolves taking their turn, one after the other, until Kurt's carrying, until that urgent need is satisfied. Everything in good time, though. He can be patient.