you're the beacon / longclaw

[wound]

W ound isn’t surprised to hear that Femur is also spending the winter with a child slowly growing in her womb. She can remember the first time she stepped foot on Tephra’s shores, when Longclaw spilled out from between fronds to greet his mate and her follower. Although the doe-eyed looks they gave each other prodded at Wound’s lonely little heart, their adoration for one another was infectious. It was only a matter of time before their bundle of adopted (or stolen, but does Wound know that?) children was expanded to include ones borne from flesh and blood as well. A gentle, pleased smile curls across Wound’s lips as she imagines her friend winding among Tephra’s lava-streams and rocky foothills with sides as swollen as her own. Femur has always been a firecracker and Wound doesn’t suppose she would stop being one with the hormones of pregnancy drowning her. “You must be very excited.” Her coffee eyes move to meet with his own green ones, curious to know how Longclaw must feel about their growing family. Her gaze darts away when Longclaw mentions his other belles; she hadn’t realized he spent some nights with other women. It sends a tingle down her spine — one which Wound can’t quite identify as prospect, embarrassment, or desire. She recovers by nodding along in response to his statement about Femur as a mother. “I’m sure your child will be loved dearly.” Wound herself is already quite excited to pull her own child close into her chest at night and sing her songs of the ocean’s pull and the stars’ affections and the volcano’s protection. She is distracted for a moment, lost in the future, until Longclaw shifts to move parallel to her swelling sides. Wound turns to look at the side profile of the commander — the shape of his handsome face, the curve of his throat, the slope of his nose, the deep green of his eyes. If his progeny look anything like their father, they will be attractive children. “Yes, my first.” Her comment is somewhat dazed, but she clears her throat and straightens to face the sea and shore. Just as Longclaw suggests moving elsewhere to rest, Wound feels a deep rustle in her womb before a sharp kick pushes against the interior of her body. A low, pained huff blows out of the mare’s throat at the sensation. The movement is so sudden it sends the silver bay’s petite frame against Longclaw’s strong one. “Oh!” Wound struggles to realign her balance, but the effort has become more difficult than in the past with the added weight. “I am so sorry, the baby just kicked me a little too hard.” There’s a sweet laugh on her lips despite the tender ache in her abdomen now. She truly does shine in her pregnancy, with the salty ocean breeze tossing her ombre locks playfully and the warm glow of contentment in her coffee eyes and the swell of her sides almost accentuating the curve of her petite frame. “Rest sounds like a lovely idea, Longclaw. Please, lead the way.”

credit to nat of adoxography.

@[Longclaw]