Wrench's teasing is excruciating, each practised slide of his hand sending ripples of pleasure outward from Kurt's core. His body thrums with it, impatient for something other than pain and grief and muscles locked up with tension. Kurt is only too happy to let himself feel every second, doing his best to put aside the darkness of the last few days for the way the bed creaks under him and sun warmed skin sliding against the insides of his thighs, holding the moment and letting it go with each shuddering breath.

Logan, he thinks, would understand.

The soft keening noises he's barely conscious of making are interrupted by a stuttering groan as Wrench takes him into his mouth, hot and wet and unexpected, his leaning weight preventing Kurt from rocking his hips up to meet him so instead he comes up on his elbows and arches his spine, tail shivering and toes digging in to Wrench's sides.

As Wrench settles into a rhythm he's able to lift his head and look down at the other man, the sight of him between his dark-furred legs is almost enough to push him over that inevitable edge. Instead, he reaches out and brushes his palm over Wrench's cheek, eyes wide and wet with thankfulness, then buries his fingers in those rust-gold curls; not quite holding him, allowing him to set his own pace, but wanting that connection.