Chapter Text
Halsin pulled back from the savage kiss he had given her, and placed one hand firmly against her cheek.
Foxglove could see calculation behind his bestial anger, that gnawing-thrashing-biting spirit waiting to be unleashed on the criminal that stood before him - Ketheric Thorm: the curse-layer, the enslaver, the cultist. His actions were almost Halsin’s undoing, and the defeat of Ketheric would be the opposite - the restoration of a land, a home, a ward Halsin had fought to save for a century and more.
Foxglove felt the tingle of magic, sliding like cool water over her skin, underneath her armor. Halsin leaned in, whispering.
“Nightsong must be freed. Zevlor will keep the General talking - you must hurry. Be swift, be unseen. When you free her, the fight will begin.”
Foxglove nodded, desperately grateful for his direction. She swallowed hard, keeping a tight grip on the anger her Lord had awoken moments before.
There was no time to mourn. There was no time to unpack all of the memories and feelings, fuzzy and sharp all at the same time. She’d buried them long ago, left all their sharp points intact, instead of letting those things tumble about and erode and smooth over time, and now she would have to relive it all. When there was time.
Foxglove felt Halsin's magic seep into her skin, and when she lifted her hand, all she could see was a faint outline of herself, ghostly white. Taking a deep, slow breath, she began to slink past her friends.
Past Halsin, who had turned back to face Ketheric, his expression stony.
Past Zevlor, who had taken a single step into the light, facing the General with the kind of poise and steadiness that withstood disasters.
Foxglove could hear Ketheric’s low voice, drawling and arrogant.
“But you could not resist fate, could you, paladin? I did not know you were traveling with these errant True Souls, but your death will find you, all the same,” Ketheric promised. “It is inescapable.”
Then, she crept past a group of chittering devourers, past a looming mindflayer, its glassy orange eyes staring past her, full of malice.
“Our fates are not so sealed, General,” said Zevlor, his tone forced light. “We are all a collection of our choices. And what difficult ones you have had to face,” Zevlor sighed, true sympathy and fatigue flowing from his lips.
Foxglove could see the glow of Nightsong ahead, but the woman was hidden, tied down to a platform with bondage of Myrkulite magic, its glow a horrible green against the moon-white radiance of her.
Foxglove began to climb a web-sticky mesh, tensing her body with each movement, willing herself to be still, to be silent.
“What do you know of loss, paladin?” Ketheric scoffed, almost teasing. “You cannot begin to fathom the loss I have experienced. Nor the prize I have been offered,” he added dreamily.
Foxglove crested the platform, eyes finding at last the bound body of Nightsong. Within a moment, Nightsong’s eyes snapped to hers.
Truesight, of course, Foxglove realized. She might be invisible, but such magic could not conceal her from the divine, from the Daughter of Selune and her mother’s light, illuminating things that hide in the dark of midnight.
“Your daughter, Isobel,” came Zevlor’s reply, soft and mournful. “Returned to you, and yet she refuses your company.”
“Do not taunt me, you worthless dog!” Ketheric bellowed, then paused, chest heaving. “My darling girl… she does not understand. But she will.”
Foxglove watched as Nightsong's eyes slid from her to Ketheric, expression changing from hope to hatred, no less intense.
Foxglove scrambled fully onto the platform and crouched beside the aasimar. She did not dare whisper, hardly dared to breathe. Instead, Foxglove held up one hand, and prayed the aasimar would forgive her for making her wait to slay Ketheric.
“How could she?” Zevlor remarked mildly. “You have betrayed everything she knew and loved. Her mother, her goddess. And you, yourself. Her father, from hero to villain,” he said quietly. Foxglove did not look back, but she hoped the tiefling had a hand on his sword, prepared for the injury his words would provoke.
Ketheric roared, a broken grieving sound of madness and anger.
Foxglove laid her hand on Nightsong, breaking her bonds the same way Shadowheart had in the Shadowfell.
And the Hells broke loose.
There was a whirlwind of movement as Foxglove’s invisibility dissipated. Karlach burst forward from behind Zevlor, unending rage propelling her beyond the normal bounds of her physical capacity. She dove headfirst for Ketheric, the Blood of Lathander swinging like a comet around her.
Halsin disappeared in a flash of golden light, launching himself as an enormous, tusked cat towards the gaggle of intellect devours clamoring between him and the platform Foxglove stood on now. Gale slipped through the Weave to appear behind the mindflayer Foxglove had slinked past, offensive magic flying.
And Nightsong stood, wreathed in brilliant moon-white light. The woman cried, a broken sound of fury. Something in Foxglove cracked as she heard it, in recognition of her pain, her grief, her unending suffering and endurance through torment.
Foxglove reached out a hand, but Nightsong was already gone, aloft on her feathery wings and soaring straight for Ketheric, moonlit sword appearing as if summoned. Cursing her own lack of wings, Foxglove extended a finger towards Nightsong’s target.
“Flagra,” Foxglove hissed, reveling in momentary satisfaction as a golden beam, tinged Ilmater’s rust-red, shot for Ketheric, He barely flinched, but Ilmater’s divine radiance floated around him, making him a beacon for Nightsong’s fury.
The battle did not last long - how could it, Foxglove thought, with their own skill sharpened from months of daily battle, with a divine warrior empowered by a godly parent, with a hero of legend who’d cut his teeth in an eternal, Hellish war?
Only - only it did not end, not as it should have. With horror, Foxglove watched a man who should be dead turn to face the stinking, divine pit behind him, and pray.
“Myrkul, Lord of Bones,” Ketheric cried, spitting blood. “Hear me. I am here. I am ready,” Ketheric panted. He stretched out his arms, taking small steps forward.
He turned back, for just a moment, to look at them. Nightsong knelt next to Foxglove, breathing hard, nursing her own wounds and weakness. Foxglove was dimly aware of the others around her: Halsin, still wildshaped; Gale and Karlach, leaning on each other, come to watch this man perish; Zevlor, solemn and alive, miraculously, at her own shoulder, Helm’s magic running hot through his veins.
Ketheric bared his teeth at them, at all of them. “You have met your end, as I have. May the gods have mercy on you.”
And he let himself fall, backwards, down into that bottomless crater at the center of the room. Foxglove felt the heat of the steam rising from it, carrying the stench of death like the breath of a carrion crow. She blanched, feeling the others’ tension and confusion.
“What the f*ck,” Karlach groaned. Foxglove held out a hand, impatient, terrified, as she felt that looming shadow of death intensify. It had been here the whole time, as the other gods had been, but now - horribly - she felt it on her own shoulder, like the claw of her own death had come to claim her.
“He’s coming,” Foxglove ground out, the fearsome power of Myrkul threatening her, to her very bones. “We are not finished. Prepare yourselves.”
It was all she had time to say. The light leached from the room, carrying hope and wonder with it. All that was left was the shadow of death, a slowly rising dread like smoke from a smoldering ruin.
The Avatar of Myrkul rose from the pit, summoned by Ketheric’s yielding to his third, and final, master.
Foxglove swallowed her anxiety, her fear, and her doubt, focusing instead on the righteous fury her Lord had gifted her. This was an avatar of a god, yes. But a god who had once been mortal, who had been shunted from His domain, who was grasping for domination by usurping the illithid’s plans.
Death was inevitable, but death by Myrkul was not.
Foxglove searched for the presence of her Lord and was unsurprised to find Him hovering, His warmth like a cloak on her shoulders. She thought that, for once, it felt more like armor, more like a leathery hide wrapped tightly than a comforting fur, but she would not complain. His presence, His defense was welcome, however it appeared.
She had no doubt the other gods, those who had joined them on the rooftop, were watching, as well, but Foxglove did not have time to seek them. Lathander’s birdsong or Silvanus’ beating heart or Mystra’s crackle could have been present, but it was all Foxglove could do to keep feeling Ilmater’s warmth, to let it guide her and empower her as they - as she, a would-be Chosen - faced the remnants of Myrkul’s favored and Myrkul Himself.
It was an onslaught of damage in the first few moments - each of them, weapons and magic primed, railing against the giant, decaying skeleton that rose from the pit. He was not all bone, unfortunately - flesh was melting off His frame, stringy and horrid, and it was a wonder none of them had been rendered frozen, terrified, or vomiting at the sight of Him.
Foxglove dared to hope this would be a quick victory. Six capable fighters against a half-life divine? It was more than possible.
The burgeoning death, and the necromites He summoned, changed things.
Foxglove grunted in frustration as she braced against Myrkul’s scythe, thanking her Lord for His steadiness against violence and the solidity it granted her. Behind her, Gale huffed as he lanced another firebolt towards a necromite, each of them racing to be the first to sacrifice themselves for Myrkul.
“We have to get rid of his summons,” Gale yelled, sweat dripping into his eyes. He blinked furiously, wiping one hand against his face even as he pointed with his other, several bright motes of light swerving out from his fingertip before detonating as they found their marks.
Foxglove nodded, breathing raggedly through her mouth, as she swept her eyes over her companions. Gale could certainly snipe the necromites, but only one at a time - and that would be too little, too slowly.
Halsin could attack several times, but was more effective in this form, wildshaped and close to the enemy. He’d already been knocked out of his shape once, had stopped for only a moment to breathe and spit blood and fury before shifting again, the gold of his changing tinged red by his own blood as it sloughed off of him.
Zevlor and Nightsong, paladins both, needed to be close to Myrkul, and would be unpersuaded from that frontline, regardless. Karlach had some range - and deadly aim - but as a target before the Lord of Bones, she was capable of withstanding far more damage than the rest of them. Foxglove was loathe to think it, but leaving her friend in front of the biggest source of damage made sense, vile as it was.
And then, as if whispered to her by Someone else, Foxglove found a solution. With a grim smile, she called on her Lord, His rust-red magic already hanging in the air like fine mist around her.
“I’m on it,” Foxglove yelled to Gale, before launching herself from the platform towards the ground below, and a dozen or so paces away, where two necromites had gathered around one of the ghastly cocoons they emerged from.
“Ilmater defendat me, ira et dolor,” Foxglove whispered, a prayer and a plea to the Crying God. His screams came swiftly, a shrieking reverberation of the sound of battle around her.
As you wish, child mine, He responded, solemn. Foxglove almost laughed.
He abhorred violence, but He found it often, and was known to appear in places of great torment, to those undergoing unbearable torture, with improbable odds of survival. There were stories, every few years, of the Broken God lending His divinity to a sufferer an inch from death, His presence an empowerment; a final destructive force to grant a victim justice.
Most did not survive such a visit from Him.
This, she was sure, was no such visit. This was the Crying God overflowing with fury, Foxglove an instrument of His will, and even she incapable of containing all of His righteous anger. He was with her, godly hands guiding her with soft touches to her shoulder, and now, His magic, flying from her in shades of gold and rust red, as the divine guardians they together conjured formed an aura.
Foxglove ran for the necromites, ran through the necromites, forcing them into the aura and subjecting them to Ilmater’s fury and magic, she His conduit.
They crumbled, ashes.
Foxglove did laugh, then. She felt His satisfaction, might have heard Lathander’s charming laugh, the Morninglord’s own hope bursting from her lungs. Breathing deeply, doing her best to keep an eye on her companions, Foxglove spent the next several moments sprinting, making a lap of the room as she dashed for the necromites, dwindling their numbers until Myrkul’s regeneration and sacrificial empowerment was, at last, stifled.
She was still on the ground, below the ledge surrounding His pit, when Karlach, the Blood singing in her hand, made the final blow.
Foxglove watched as the Avatar of Myrkul crumbled. A faint green outline of a man appeared, wreathed in divine flame, and cursing, Foxglove shoved her way back to the ledge.
She was breathing hard, but she was there, Ilmater’s divine protection still spinning around her like a twister, as Ketheric reappeared, falling to his knees. Blood leaked from his nose and eyes.
“Impossible,” Ketheric said, dazed and dying. “Death cannot take me. I am its master.”
“You are not,” Foxglove replied, finding within her an uncovered well of mercy, of forgiveness. This was her Lord’s doing, she was certain, still with her as He was. “You will be judged, as all souls are, Ketheric Thorm. We deliver you to the Lord of the Dead, once more.”
Ketheric whimpered, defeated. “My Lord,” he cried, tears mixing with the river of blood that streamed down his face. “Hear me. Please.”
Foxglove shifted uneasily, stepping forward to kneel before him. She heard Nightsong’s scoff of anger, and felt the tension of her companions, uncertain as they were of her actions.
Foxglove only hoped she’d garnered enough trust to be given this space. The Rack-Broken Lord pushed her forward, a gentle guiding hand at her shoulder once more.
Softly, she asked, “Do you seek forgiveness, Ketheric Thorm?”
Ketheric met her eyes. Foxglove tried not to flinch at the sight of him, gruesome and moments from death. Begging for death.
“Yes,” he croaked. “Yes. I am forsaken. I am nothing. Isobel…my girl.”
She felt no satisfaction at Ketherics’s impending end, at this resounding victory. Ilmater must have taken it away, and the battle-rush, too, and instead granted her the clarity of heart to feel instead this overwhelming grief, for a man who had done the unthinkable - great, terrible things - first to escape the pain of loss, then to bring back his daughter; his heart, outside of his body.
Nightsong let out a low, keening sound at Isobel’s name as it fell from Ketheric’s lips. Foxglove did not have time to think, to understand - the General was slipping away, but Isobel’s mention had elicited intense reactions, across the spectrum of feeling, from the aasimar now three times.
Swallowing hard, Foxglove laid a hand on Ketheric, unsurprised to feel the coldness of a body that had long been dead. This was a spirit she was speaking with - his tangible self was long gone.
“Lord of the Dead,” Foxglove prayed, invoking Kelemvor. She felt the holy taut-bowstring tension of the divine, and knew someone attended her prayer. Whether it was Kelemvor Himself, or Ilmater, or another, she could not tell. “Know this man has committed great crimes, untellable wrongdoing. Know he kept within him a twisted heart, marred by grief but sown with love, for his wife, for his child. Know he seeks forgiveness. Know the most compassionate, our Martyred Father, extends His grace. Know these things as you weigh his soul, in your eternal wisdom. So mote it be.”
Smoke, then light, then flame came from Ketheric’s mouth and eyes, The body disintegrated, the spirit called to the Fugue Plane, leaving armor and items, but no sign of the dead.
Foxglove fell back on her heels, Ilmater’s protection fading as His presence seeped away. Her eyes fell closed, her heart and mind and spirit a mix of fury and sorrow, a grief so deep she did not understand it, threatening to rend her in two-
There was a clamor of noise, and twin sounds of surprise and anger from Halsin and Zevlor-
Foxglove felt the sharp, cold metal of a blade laid flat against her neck.
Nightsong, wreathed in divine light, still moon-white despite the thin coating of blood-red spattering her skin, her wings, her armor, stood before Foxglove, seething hatred.
“How dare you grant him peace in his death?” Nightsong yelled, her voice echoing in the cavernous room, now still, save for the six of them. “He deserves eternal torment. He deserves to be tortured, to suffer as he wrought my suffering. He deserved… he deserved-” she broke off, sobbing fury.
Foxglove sat very still, her eyes never leaving Nightsong’s face. This, too, was grief. Nightsong’s fury was the product of untenable anguish, of a century and a half of direct torment.
She was a moment away from speaking when she felt a deep vibration and a tenseness that sucked the oxygen from her lungs; hallmarks of the thinning of the barrier between planes.
Foxglove chanced a look down, understanding confirmed when she saw her runes brightly glowing with godlight, gold fully eclipsing the familiar rust-red of His magic.
And then there was a warm - no, hot - hand on the top of her head, smoothing over the fly-aways from the practical braid she kept her hair in. A thousand screams blew past her, like a rough desert wind, deafening for a moment before quieting to a background din.
“Lower your sword, Daughter of Selune. Your suffering is witnessed. Your pain is known,” Ilmater rumbled, voice kind but unyielding, commanding obedience.
And she did. Nightsong gasped, a sound echoed by the others around her, and stumbled back a single step before regaining her footing, her free hand a fist over her heart as she bowed her regal head in deference.
Foxglove took a deep breath, neck no longer at risk of being cut. As her head moved, she felt a blistering line of pain - a burn, from the divine flame that wreathed Nightsong’s sword. Grimacing, Foxglove did her best to ignore it, focusing instead on her companion’s reactions to the presence of her Lord.
Behind Nightsong, Karlach and Gale stood with wide eyes, following suit a beat later to lower their eyes and bow their heads. Foxglove could not see Halsin or Zevlor, had only heard their outrage as Nightsong threatened her, but she did not doubt they were mirroring a similar supplication, their understanding of the gods a full and familiar knowledge.
“Foxglove,” Ilmater said, her name like an indulgence. “Faithful girl, you are ever my servant. Kelemvor will judge Ketheric Thorm for the man he was and the monster he became.” Then, sighing, He stepped around Foxglove, still kneeling, to hobble towards Nightsong.
He peered at the aasimar with kind eyes, humming. “Aylin,” He sighed. Foxglove almost smiled - of course she had a name, something beyond the instrument the Sharrans and Ketheric saw her as. “Your pain will not end with Ketheric Thorm’s death. Subjecting him to your torment would not remove it, either.”
Foxglove saw the warring emotions on Nightsong’s - Aylin’s - face. Aylin wanted to argue, wanted to redirect her anger, but even her half-divinity was not enough to resist the godly command Ilmater was laying at her feet.
“Mercy, bestowed on others, is a gift to ourselves,” Ilmater continued, the kindest of sermons. “It is not for them. It is for us, to release us of the bonds of servitude that hatred weaves.”
Shuddering, Aylin granted the Broken God a sharp nod. She tucked her wings in tight, holding herself tall. “Your wisdom, I am sure, I will understand in time, your grace,” she bit out. “Forgive me for my brashness - the pain is sharp, the wounds fresh.”
Ilmater nodded. “Yes. I feel it, too,” He added, rubbing His own chest. “But I did not come to lecture you, Daughter of Selune,” He said quietly, leaning in with a conspiratorial smile. “Your beloved awaits you. She lives.”
“No,” breathed Aylin, eyes wide. “Yes? Isobel lives?”
Ilmater laughed, then, a croaky, thin noise that brought equal measure of joy and pain to Foxglove’s heart.
“Yes, child. Above,” He pointed one crooked finger at the ceiling. “Do not keep her waiting.”
There was a rush of wind as Aylin shot up from the ledge, glorious laughter and moonlight following her as she flew upwards, then out from the chamber they’d entered through, and beyond. Foxglove was unsurprised an apology was not sent her way. She understood Aylin’s anger - she did, as she often saw herself a tool of vengeance more than His mercy - and she could not see herself granting such forgiveness to Wisteria’s murderer, could not dream of offering anything but a bloody end to that white-haired woman who’d stood on this ledge minutes ago, Bhaal’s servant-
Ilmater’s crooked fingers were extended towards her, drifting across her brow as Lathander’s had done merely a day ago.
“Child mine,” He cooed. “Rise. I cannot stay. I could not let her end you, as she desired to,” He admitted, voice lowering so only she could hear him. Foxglove stood on shaking legs, distantly fearful of her own lack of deference, lack of quivering supplication in the physical presence of her Lord. “Your quest evolves, and it does not. End the Bhaalist uprising, and free this plane from the illithid design. Go with the gods, my child.”
Ilmater softly patted Foxglove’s cheek, a fatherly benediction, His hand warm and soft despite the scars and gnarled shape of His fingers. He did not bother to look over the rest of her companions before He slipped back through the thinning between planes.
With her Lord’s departure, air and sound flooded back into the room, though it was almost quieter, without the background shrieking of His thousand screams.
Foxglove laughed dryly, finally taking stock of her companions around her. Karlach looked amused, and Gale was grinning too - though Foxglove wondered if that had more to do with their victory, with his survival after reaching the Heart of the Absolute.
Zevlor was coated in blood, sticky and wet and glossy against the already-red of his skin. His jaw was loose, his eyes wide.
Halsin’s gaze was zeroed in on her, at the spot on her neck where she knew a line had blistered, likely ugly, red and raised.
“Well,” Foxglove said faintly. “The gods are invested. But we already knew that,” she winced, flashing a weak smile at her friends before staring down at the armor that once protected Ketheric.
Karlach snorted, unable to hide her laughter. “So we’ve met Gale’s grandad, was that yours?”
“Excuse me,” Gale choked, incredulous. “My grandad? Do you mean Elminster Aumar, the greatest wizard of this age? That man is a legend, a hero, and a Chosen-”
Karlach laughed again, a joyful, brilliant sound, and wrapped one arm around Gale, squeezing him into her side. “I’m kidding, magic man. Relax. Anyway - after Myrkul showed his ugly mug, what’s one more god showing up?”
Foxglove grinned despite herself. “That reminds me - Lathander welcomes your prayers. I think His words were, ‘if she would give me any.’ He likes you.”
Karlach laughed again, but Foxglove was distracted by the sound of Zevlor coughing, almost choking. It was instinct to turn, to lay a hand out in defense, in support, but Zevlor had taken a step back, fingertips delicately placed on either side of his head, disbelief the only thing on his face.
“Zevlor?” Halsin asked quietly, turning to the tiefling. “Are you well?”
Zevlor hummed noncommittally, gaze focusing on Foxglove as he spoke. “I would never dream of such insolence before the gods, or about them. What in the Hells has gotten into you?”
“You get used to it,” Halsin huffed, amused. Foxglove smirked, heart light, despite their surroundings. “The ones she talks to don’t seem to mind.”
-*-
They had done it. They had won. Ketheric Thorm was no more, and the land was healing. Already, Thaniel’s wounds were closing, fading to memory, as his realm was reawakening after a terrible nightmare.
And whatever restraint Halsin had clung to in the tenday prior had snapped, a fire raging in his veins. Foxglove could feel the heat of it.
Honestly, she had expected something else from him, something quieter, or more solemn. But Halsin ebbed and flowed, following his desires and instincts as nature called him to do. In the wake of a victory Halsin had been working towards for a century, his body sought release: tangible pleasure.
Foxglove had no intention to deny him that.
She had her own muddled feelings to work through, about the rise and fall of the man under the monster they just slayed. About the reappearance of her worst nightmare, a Bhaalist servant dripping rubies of blood. About Aylin and Isobel, and Zevlor, and poor Art Cullagh. About Karlach's history with the Banite, about Gale's bucking of Mystra's will, about Duke Ravengard's fate and Wyll's pact. About the appearance of her Lord, a second divine intervening to save her life, and the brief - but telling - visit from Ironhelm, his first appearance outside of the Prism, beyond her dreams.
But Foxglove was exhausted. Letting those questions wait, and turning instead to thinking with her hands rather than with her brain sounded very, very good right now.
All of those problems would exist later, or tomorrow, and with any luck, so would she.
The look Halsin sent Foxglove went straight to her core, a low burning where her hips met her torso. Intense and hungry, Halsin stared at her like he was a man starved, and she was a hero’s feast on a gilded table.
He closed the distance between them in two steps, his strides swallowing up the ground. Foxglove was of average height for an elf, but still, Halsin loomed over her, his frame an exquisite and exquisitely large thing to behold.
Foxglove pushed a bloody strand of hair from Halsin’s face, rubbing at the streak of blood it left behind. Halsin grinned, eyes soft.
“Perhaps a bath first,” Halsin said quietly, reaching for her hand. Foxglove let him have it, amused and uninterested in hiding the bubbling joy. Halsin pressed her into the cold stone of the wall behind her. “If I can rein myself in.” He nosed up Foxglove’s neck, his breath soft and warm against her skin.
Foxglove hummed, carding her fingers through his hair, careful of the tangles that emerged over the course of the battle below.
“I can’t believe it,” Halsin laughed, a breathless thing.
“I can,” Foxglove intoned, voice intent behind the forced lightness she spoke with. It was a near thing. She was still reeling from the reality of what they'd done - slayed a god's Chosen and fought the reawakened avatar of an unholy divine. Shoving down that thought - it was for later, not now - Foxglove continued. “The Curse is broken, Halsin. You succeeded.”
Halsin sighed again, disbelief rolling off him in waves. There were a million other words to say, Foxglove thought, about what they had achieved and won and avenged, but none of it mattered as much as this:
“Thaniel will heal. You rescued him from the claws of darkness. Your druids’ spirits will rest. And balance has been restored,” Foxglove whispered kindly. “You can rest now, Halsin, whatever that means.”
Halsin looked up at her, then.
“I have no desire to rest,” he said. “I desire to walk along the next path with you, to lend you my capabilities in battle, to lend you my body in respite, and my magic throughout, Foxglove,” Halsin breathed, hungry. “I can rest later tonight, in my bedroll. Or not at all,” he grunted, pressing her further into the stone wall and caging her there with one arm.
Foxglove lifted her free hand to his bicep, fingertips taking in the bulk of him and the contours of his muscle.
“Bath first,” she reiterated, swallowing hard. “A moment of privacy, like this, I see no harm in stealing after what we accomplished. Bath first, well- duties first, then bath, then you can have me, as I will have you,” Foxglove said, groaning as Halsin’s lips found her throat again, his featherlight kisses a distraction.
“Halsin,” Foxglove said firmly, regretfully. “We must see to our allies, gather the dead- we have,” she gasped. “We have-”
“I will return you to our duties in a matter of minutes,” Halsin laughed gruffly. “You have my word. I beg a boon of you, my heart,” he breathed. “A gift in the light of our triumph. May I take my victory in your embrace, your lips on mine?”
“Gods, yes,” Foxglove sighed, eager and willing to lose herself in Halsin, truly, wonderfully, for just a few stolen moments more, before returning to the hard-won victory, surrounded by loss and the ever-unnerving smell of blood and divine-burning flesh.
-*-
Shadowheart took one look at Foxglove and tutted, pulling her to sit on a stone bench in what had become a throne room, what might have been a chapel, when the Towers were constructed.
“I saw you sneak off with him,” Shadowheart said slyly, sobering as she took in Foxglove’ bloody, dirty state. “Did your druid not see to you?” Shadowheart asked, hands wringing. There was no gods-magic, nothing tinged plum purple or godlight-gold. Foxglove’s lips twisted into a frown, but she shook her head.
“He did,” Foxglove remarked, tired. “I need a bath and a hot meal, but there are no other wounds to heal.”
“What’s on your neck, then, you dolt?”
Foxglove conjured a real smile, this time. “Aylin - the Nightsong - thought about beheading me. A god showed up, put a stop to it,” Foxglove shrugged, affecting nonchalance for the fun of it, knowing it would irritate her friend, her sister. “I told Halsin to leave it. I want Aylin to see it, to know I remember.”
It was true - but it wasn’t meant to be petty. Foxglove knew Aylin’s anger was born of grief, of loss, and in a way, retaining this scar was a way of honoring the visceral truth of Aylin’s experience. To be so driven by loss, to madness, to violence towards an ally - it echoed Ketheric’s story, it was almost Aylin’s, and it was a warning to Foxglove herself, about the snapping anger that reared its head, pulled to the surface by the Curse.
“Which god?” Shadowheart asked, swatting Foxglove’s shoulder.
“Mine.”
“Well that’s a relief,” the other cleric grumbled. “I was worried you meant Selune. Not sure I want to witness that mother-daughter reunion.”
Foxglove’s answering smile felt more like a wince. “Me neither. I would not speak ill of Her, but I have sensed the Moonmaiden has a light touch with Her devoted. Makes me all the more grateful for Ilmater’s direct involvement.” Foxglove eyed Shadowheart’s hands, devoid of that divine magic. “Has She spoken to you?”
Shadowheart tilted her head, considering. “Not really, no. Isobel had a message for me from Her, evidently, but it was vague and unappealing.”
Foxglove swallowed. Shadowheart’s magic had sputtered, like a dried up well, after they left the Shadowfell. Shar’s abandonment at Shadowheart’s disobedience had major consequences - more than just being outcast, but stripped of power.
If Shadowheart desired continued service, she would need to find a new god. It was a crass thought, to shop around for gods, but none could look at Shadowheart’s life and argue her an unfaithful servant, at least until that final moment.
“My Lord would take you, you know,” Foxglove murmured. She was not afraid to say the words, but worried how Shadowheart might take them. Foxglove knew it to be a compliment, but the wound was still fresh for Shadowheart.
There was a moment of tense silence, Shadowheart’s eyes focused on her own hands.
“More than anything, I seek knowledge,” Shadowheart whispered. “I think I need to speak with Nightsong - Aylin,” she frowned, the aasimar’s name unfamiliar in her mouth. “But I have considered whether continued clerical service is the right path for me. Or if something else might better serve me.”
Foxglove nodded her agreement, her bloody fingers tapping on the stone bench. “You might speak with Withers. He’s… something else,” Foxglove admitted with a wry grin. “He can probably offer perspective, if not options.”
Shadowheart nodded, consumed by her own thoughts. Foxglove was content to sit another moment in quiet, ever grateful for whatever peace could be enjoyed, whether it was stolen, earned, and borrowed.
-*-
Foxglove’s private moment with Shadowheart had ended abruptly as others regrouped in what was Ketheric’s throne room. The ringing joy of victory mixed with wails of grief for the loss, tired sighs abound as everyone took stock of their lives, their bodies, their friends.
The world around them was about to rapidly change, and there was much work to do in the meantime. Bodies needed collecting, rites needed saying, supplies needed gathering. Friends needed comfort, bellies needed filling, wounds needed mending. Gods needed thanking, plans needed drawing, and victory needed celebrating.
And Foxglove desperately needed a bath, and a moment alone.
She’d promised conversations to Wyll, to Zevlor, and to Aylin and Isobel, but she was fried. The fleeting moment Foxglove had stolen with Halsin in the corridor, his lips bruising hers, had worn down the edge of her own reaction, stunting the mourning and the horror and the loss and even the joy until it was all rote movement, simple flashes of feeling instead of the tidal wave that loomed over her now.
It was, to Foxglove’s wry amusem*nt, Lae’zel who bought her what she needed.
“You are useless like this,” Lae’zel sniffed. “I am fetching the druid, and I do not wish to see you again until you have regained both your brain and your spirit.”
Foxglove ghosted a laugh. “Confirmed,” she teased, mirroring Lae’zel’s own frequent response. Lae’zel narrowed her eyes, but nodded sharply. She barked Halsin’s name across the room, standing with a severe expression and arms crossed.
Halsin’s head snapped up from where he was speaking with Art and Zevlor, gentle camaraderie flowing through the three men. Lae’zel jerked her head at Foxglove, who smiled thinly and lifted a hand in a weak wave.
Halsin smiled softly, making excuses and patting comforting hands on the shoulders of his companions before he weaved through the room to them.
He stood before Foxglove, his body eclipsing her view of the rest of the room.
“Her will has weakened. Restore it,” Lae’zel commanded, matter-of-factly. But she did not move until Halsin extended a large hand to Foxglove, until Foxglove herself took it and let herself be lifted from the stone bench.
“Thank you, Lae’zel,” Halsin murmured, soft humor on his face. “I will take care of our cleric.”
“Good,” Lae’zel growled, satisfied. She walked away, as swiftly as she had appeared, leaving Foxglove and Halsin to themselves, hands linked, orders received.
Halsin peered at her before gently tugging on Foxglove’s hand. “Not much tact, but a great deal of care,” Halsin remarked, a smile playing about his lips. “Come, Foxglove.”
It was like the night after Rosymorn, over again. Foxglove let herself be led through her friends, each of them like trees in that forest, tall and strong and proud and alive despite all odds. Halsin led her down the front steps of Moonrise, out through the massive gate, murmuring to her all the while.
“The Harpers are setting up a new stronghold here, behind the protection of the moonlanterns. A party was sent out an hour ago to recover the remaining refugees from Last Light and bring them here,” he explained. “I suspect we’ll pass them on the road.”
Foxglove looked up at him, hand still loosely clutching Halsin’s, as he quietly led her through a silent Reithwin.
“Where are we going, then?” she asked, clearing her throat.
“To Last Light. To a bath, and then to bed. If we’re lucky, someone will have left some stew behind,” Halsin teased, granting her a playful smile.
Foxglove clenched her jaw, torn between letting Halsin lead her away from the others, from all that needed to be done, away from his conversations and his victory, and digging in her heels and demanding he turn back, to let her wear herself to dust trying to keep everything together.
“You don’t have to do this,” is what came out of her mouth. Foxglove winced as she said it, hearing the self-shame and frustration she didn’t want to share leaking through.
Softly, Halsin replied. “Do what?”
Foxglove grit her teeth. The words felt like lead in her mouth, but she opened her lips and they fell out, anyway. “Care for me. Leave Moonrise and your victory behind. I don’t want to pull you away from them, just for me.”
Halsin sighed. “We need to discuss your self-worth, my heart. I sense now might not be a conducive time, but it seems to be a running theme.” Halsin squeezed her hand, still laced with his. “Is it so difficult to believe I want to do this, to be here? That I might have been waiting for an out, or the right moment, or for you to call to me? To walk away from that killing field for a moment, or more, with you?”
Foxglove hummed, a wordless apology. Halsin squeezed her hand, an acceptance.
“All I ask tonight is that you be honest with me, and let me care for you,” he said quietly. They were past Reithwin now, traversing the still, well-worn path between the town and Last Light.
“Okay,” Foxglove said, licking her dry lips.
“Okay,” Halsin responded warmly, satisfied.
-*-
A hot bath did wonders for Foxglove’s mood and general disposition. She’d known it would, but still smiled sheepishly at Halsin when she emerged from the tub they’d relocated to a private room, skin bright red and steaming.
“I get moody when the blood dries,” she offered as explanation. “It flakes off my skin, and it’s itchy, and- ugh, it’s terrible.”
Halsin let out a laugh that lit a fire in Foxglove’s chest; warm, burning affection. He was lounging near a crackling fire, sprawled across a bed he’d dragged closer to the hearth.
“I’ll remember for the future,” Halsin teased her, eyes twinkling with amusem*nt and promise. Foxglove had no doubt he would - that that knowledge would become relevant again, likely soon with the way they seemed to count hours by battles waged and won.
The spark in his eyes remained as Foxglove stepped quietly, intentionally towards Halsin, the rough linen she’d used as a towel dropping from her hands.
“I believe the deal we struck was duties first, then bath, then you could have me.”
Halsin’s exhale was heavy, a protracted, low groan of approval following it.
“That is my recollection,” he smiled wolfishly, hands fisting at his sides as he turned to fully drink in her approaching form. Foxglove matched his smile, a hungry heat forming in her abdomen, joining the nervousness that knotted in her stomach.
Halsin’s smile gentled as he asked, “Is that still what you desire, Foxglove?”
“Yes. Gods, yes.”
Leisurely, softly, Halsin murmured to her. “Come here to me.” He held out a beckoning hand, and Foxglove lengthened her strides, eager to feel his warm, broad hands on her blessedly clean, bath-warm skin.
Halsin lifted himself and swung his body so he was seated on the edge of the bed, feet flat on the floor. He, too, had shed bloody clothing and armor, had scrubbed efficiently at his skin and hair until he was clean. Foxglove had watched him dry, laid out on furs before the fire he’d started, with growing interest and desire, feeling and presence returning to her each minute she sat in the bath.
He did not bother redressing. He’d lain in the bed they’d requisitioned, eyes drifting between watching the dancing flames and watching Foxglove’s expression melt from apathy back to interest.
Now, Foxglove slipped between his parted legs, letting her own legs brush against the insides of his thighs. Halsin kept his gaze on her face, open and wanting, as he steadily laid his hands on her hips, fingertips brushing along the curve of her.
“Is this okay?”
Foxglove hummed, nodding. Halsin leaned forward, lips almost ghosting along the planes of her stomach. Foxglove could feel his breath, warm and soft.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes,” Foxglove groaned, fighting her own impatience.
She felt Halsin’s lips curve into a smile as he pressed them against her skin. He dropped kisses over her hips, rising upwards over the firm muscles of her abdomen, up until his nose brushed the underside of her breasts.
Halsin pulled back, eyes finding hers again as he held his lips an inch from her breast, his breath rising gooseflesh on her sensitive skin.
“Ask me,” Foxglove begged. She could not wait, did not want to sit in suspense any longer. It was like all restraint had eddied out of her mind, leaving only desire and eager impatience. But she knew Halsin would demand her active consent.
He laughed, and Foxglove moaned, surprised by the exhalation of his breath as it ghosted over her skin. She jerked, and Halsin’s hands tightened on her hips, steadying her and trapping her there.
“Is this okay?”
“f*ck, yes,” Foxglove panted, carding her fingers through Halsin’s clean, damp hair and fisting at the back of his head, pulling his mouth to her body, gasping as his tongue and lips and teeth made contact with her breasts.
The sound Foxglove made was involuntary, a low keen she could not control and did not wish to.
“Yes, my love,” Halsin groaned, lips moving against her nipple and sending little shockwaves of feeling, somewhere in the space between hypersensitivity and unimaginable pleasure. “So sensitive. Don’t hide.”
Halsin curled his lips around the bud of her nipple, adding pressure without using his teeth, and it was so good, so much, Foxglove twitched away from him.
Halsin hummed, tongue wetting his lips as he pulled away.
“Okay, my heart?” he asked, eyes intent on hers. Foxglove nodded, gasping an affirmative.
“It’s so good,” she whined, eyes screwed shut. “I’m just - you’re right, so sensitive. I can’t-”
Sentences no longer existed, it was just words falling from her lips. He’d hardly touched her, and Foxglove was nearly incoherent, lost in her own pleasure and the tangled, complex mix of unimaginable want and apprehension.
“You can’t what, Foxglove?” Halsin asked her, his voice brushing against her like crushed velvet.
Foxglove shook her head, her hand still gripping Halsin’s hair. “I can,” she tried. “It just has been a very long time,” she panted. Halsin’s hands slid up her sides, shifting to cup her ribs where they rounded from her spine.
“I’ll be gentle.”
Foxglove turned her face towards the fire, warm orange and yellow light dancing across her vision. “I’m nervous,” she laughed, breathless despite the clean air.
“I’ll take care of you, my love,” Halsin murmured, his lips still brushing against her breast, his breath first a teasing warmth, then a secondary coolness.
“I want you so much,” Foxglove said, voice a high whine.
Halsin pulled back, then, and Foxglove’s hand fell from his hair, coming to rest instead on his cheek, fingertips tracing the lines of his tattoo.
“I cannot begin to describe my desire for you, Foxglove,” he said roughly. “I cannot count the nights I laid alone in my tent, aware of you resting mere paces from me, and considered abandoning all pretense and falling before you to beg,” he groaned. “To beg for just a taste of you.”
f*ck, she was going to combust. Foxglove could not contain the surprised moan that fell from her on the exhale, her breath stolen by the picture he painted.
“Do you like that, my heart?” he teased, voice still rumbling and rough. “The idea of me begging for you?”
“f*ck,” was all she managed to say. His laugh was breathy, pleased.
“If it would please you, I will beg for you next time. But not tonight. Tonight I will have you under me, hazy with pleasure. All you will know is the connection of our bodies, the rightness of our coupling,” he whispered to her, a promise.
Foxglove was nodding, words gone. Halsin hummed a low laugh, and gently pulled her, shifting to make room for her to lay down on the bed, warmed by his body and the nearby hearth.
“I do not wish to beg this time, Foxglove,” Halsin began, the length of his body slotting over hers. “But I will ask. And you may always say no. Do you understand?” he asked, solemn for a moment.
“Yes,” Foxglove nodded, her hands running up his biceps, over the bulk of his muscle. Halsin’s responding smile was brilliant, and hungry, and sent a shiver through her.
“Good,” he breathed, a controlled exhale. Halsin’s eyes flashed gold - a warning, a promise. Foxglove felt herself gulp, her body recognizing the dark, predatory want in him. “My control is waning - if I begin, I will struggle to hold myself back. I want- I need to taste you. May I?”
“Yes,” she repeated groaning, as Halsin moved himself backwards, and lower, settling on his stomach between her legs, fallen open to make space for him. One hand rested across her lower stomach, spanning far more than half the width of her torso.
“Gorgeous,” Halsin murmured, and Foxglove flushed, realizing the word was pulled from his lips unbidden, not meant for her to hear. An observation, a truth in his reality.
Whatever sense and thought Foxglove had grasped fluttered away as Halsin dipped one finger into her slit, slipping through wetness that pulled a satisfied moan from both of them. Foxglove let her eyes shut, focused on the sensation of his breath and skin and fingers and heat and weight and-
-tongue, Halsin’s tongue came next, flat and wide as he licked at her core, a long, slow drag from her opening to her cl*t.
Foxglove wound the fingers of one hand through Halsin’s hair, and the other gripped the sheets, a tethering she needed against the once-known, but long-unfamiliar, incredible sensation of her lover’s mouth against her.
Halsin devoured her, his lips and tongue smacking as he drank from her, lazily switching from sucking on her cl*t to lapping at the whole of her, his tongue dipping between her lips and into the tight heat of her puss*, probing at the tight circle of nerves and muscle that made up her opening.
Foxglove could not control the sounds escaping her. She did not even try, content to let the gasping breaths and unchecked moans spur Halsin on, to let her reactions help him learn her body.
The tight coiling of pleasure grew slowly, wonderfully, and then suddenly faster - a surprising sweep of tenseness and shuddering pleasure that prompted a string of yes, please, please please, don’t stop from her lips, like the words had always been waiting to spill from her.
Foxglove was distantly aware of her legs shaking, her fist pulling on Halsin’s hair as he feasted on her, his eager moans joining her own as she chased the org*sm he was driving her towards relentlessly.
“Yes,” Halsin hissed, as all of her muscles locked up, as Foxglove’s back arched, and a strangled cry escaped her. Foxglove panted, stars shimmering behind her tightly-closed eyes.
Halsin slowed his movements, gentling as she came down from her high, his tongue making long, thorough passes over her slit as Foxglove regained a sense of self, of body.
“Gods above,” Foxglove groaned, eyes finally sliding open to stare dazedly at the ceiling. “You… you wanted me hazy with pleasure?” she asked, laughing. “Consider that accomplished,” Foxglove slurred, finally releasing her grip on Halsin’s hair and the linens, dragging her fingertips instead across his scalp with affection.
He hummed, mouth still pressed to her. Foxglove shuddered, unable to do anything but enjoy it, but persist.
When he finally pulled back, Foxglove had flung one arm across her eyes, keeping herself contained by limiting her senses to just feeling, just hearing.
Halsin chuckled, and his hand found her forearm, gently prying it away from her eyes.
“More?” Halsin asked, voice warm. Foxglove’s eyes fluttered open, delighted to see him lounging over her again, his body a wonder. She smiled up at him, matching his warmth.
“Please,” Foxglove begged.
“Ask me.”
Her lips parted, face flushing as she sought the words. She wanted more - she wanted all of him, to feel him inside her, to remind her body of the natural, incomparable pleasure sex brought.
“Give me more,” Foxglove whispered, a command. “I want to feel you inside me - I want you to fill me, complete me,” she moaned, ignoring the heat of her face and the kernel of embarrassment.
It helped that as soon as the words left her mouth, Halsin let out a low snarl, an eager noise of approval. That golden sheen returned to his eyes, a flash of light in the dim room. Still holding himself over her, Halsin shook his head, a slow back and forth.
“I feel I am dreaming,” he groaned. “You are my undoing.”
Halsin lowered himself, lips finding hers. Foxglove tilted her head back, pressing upwards to match his intensity. It was the kind of claiming, needy kiss that left her wide-eyed and flushing, and when Halsin pulled back, he shivered, eyes all gold.
“I am losing the run of myself,” he said quietly, lowly. Halsin hesitated, then pulled back, sitting on his heels. Foxglove shifted herself up to her forearms, chasing him and his heat.
He was perfect. His hair curled gently in the warm room, still damp. The low light cast shadows over him, deepening the contrast, the hills and valleys of his body. The coarse hair on his chest was stark against the shiny, sweat-slicked, skin of his torso. A frown of concentration pulled down his face, and gently, Foxglove reached up, her fingertips trailing soft over his lips.
“Halsin?” she asked.
His eyes drifted open at her touch, at her calling his name. He stared at her, through her, eyes still bright and glittering gold, his magic rising to the surface as he struggled to rein himself in.
“I’m sorry,” he said roughly, leaning into her touch. “Desire is… the animal part of me, the ways in which I am untamed. It does not understand restraint, as nature does not deny itself. It is difficult, now, when you are so close, the tight heat of you within reach,” he said, turning to nose against her wrist, her palm.
His words sent a lancing heat through Foxglove. The man was feral for her, his desire so vast it was unhinging the sense and restraint, uncontainable.
“Then stop denying yourself,” Foxglove whispered. “I am here. I am offering, I am asking. Please,” Foxglove whined, already lowering herself back to the bed, her body and words an invitation. “Please.”
“Oak Father, preserve me,” Halsin groaned, low and long. His eyes stayed glassy gold, but he drank her in, the curves and softness and and strength of her body. “I promised I’d be gentle,” he said through clenched teeth, almost a complaint.
Foxglove laughed, then, a breathy sound. “So be gentle, until I don’t need you to be anymore. I trust you, Halsin.”
“As you command,” Halsin said, tensing as he fought with his instincts. He took one last moment to gaze at her, wonder and desire equal tenants on his face, before he kissed her again, lips and teeth clashing. “It will be untamed, vigorous,” he said against her lips, kissing her all the while.
Halsin pulled back, and Foxglove barely caught her breath before he grinned at her, wicked and promising. “And large.”
Foxglove almost laughed. Large, of course he was large, the whole of him was. She’d known that when she offered herself to him, when she begged him to give himself to her, to fill her.
“Please,” Foxglove murmured. “I need you, I want you.”
Halsin pulled back, arranging himself between her legs. He pressed on her knees, encouraging her to fall open even further, to bare herself to him. Foxglove watched as he fisted his co*ck, the shaft a deep, wanting red.
He was large. Larger than she imagined, but not comically so. Thick, and long, and glorious, all Foxglove wanted was to feel him inside her, to feel the initial burning stretch of him, carving a path through her body that nothing else would ever match.
Halsin’s fingers found her calf, lifting one of her legs to rest on his hip as he lined the head of his co*ck up with her opening. Foxglove moaned, hissing encouragement, as he pushed in, even just the first inch of him spreading her, unaccustomed as she was to the stretch.
Halsin kept moving, murmuring praise and reassurance as he inched himself forward, pulling out slightly to push farther back in, shallow, slow thrusts wetting his shaft and easing the slide. Foxglove was aware of her heavy breathing, of the effort it took to lay there, relaxed, as her body tried to fit him.
When at last he was fully sheathed in her, Halsin leaned himself over her again, his body caging hers in. He was rolling his hips, barely moving, as she keened under him, puss* fluttering as she relearned what it meant to take someone like this.
There was nothing like it. There was nothing like the fullness of this kind of pairing, nothing she could do that would ever feel as good as this, as him.
“Move, please,” she moaned, eyes closing. He did not wait for her to even finish the request - at the first sound, Halsin was thrusting, his hips drawing backward then snapping forward and pressing them together. He set a slow, steady pace, each thrust offering her the fullness she sought.
“Perfect,” Halsin uttered. “You feel perfect, unimaginable.”
Foxglove could only moan in response, little breaths and ohs and puffs of air leaving her lips as he f*cked her, each thrust, each time their hips connected. It was a struggle to keep her eyes open, to watch him, but she wanted to - needed to see the desire and enjoyment as it rolled off of him.
Halsin’s gaze was focused, intent on her. He gave her a wild grin, a savage smile as he thrust sharply, eliciting a surprised gasp from her. Her eyes wide, she grinned back.
“More,” Foxglove commanded, needing to feel him take her. He had been gentle - had given her time to acclimate to the size of him, to the feeling of his body inside of hers. She did not desire that gentleness anymore - there was a fire growing inside her, burning and burning and she needed him to slake it, to remove all sensation and thought except him, his body, his name.
Halsin did not need more urging, changing his angle and pace to drill deeper. One of her legs was already hiked up around his hip, but he grabbed the other, encouraging Foxglove to wrap both legs around him, to keep him locked closer to her body.
“That’s it,” he panted. “Hold me to you, my heart. Just like that.” And she did, heels digging into his back, forcing him to f*ck her faster, with shorter thrusts, his co*ck buried so deep in her she could feel it in her lungs, her throat.
“Halsin,” Foxglove moaned. His name became a chant, a prayer. Halsin smiled, pleased, then with a wicked glint rolled them over, so she sat astride him, impaled on him. “Oh,” Foxglove moaned, a weak sound, as she rolled her hips, finding new angles and spots, and- “Oh.”
“Oh,” Halsin responded, teasing, shifting his hips to thrust into her. “I will never get enough of you. You are so beautiful under me - take me so well,” he grunted, lips parted as he breathed heavily through them. “But couldn’t reach you - wanted to see you come undone.”
And then he placed his thumb flat against her cl*t, and Foxglove bucked her hips, gasping surprise at the bolt of pleasure that shot through her. Halsin grinned, all teeth.
“Yes,” he cooed. “Yes, move against me. Want to feel you come around me. So tight, dripping for me,” he groaned, and Foxglove could not stop the matching noise she released, his words and hands and intention so strong she felt she might break under it, in the best way.
She did as he asked, grinding her hips against the friction of his thumb, sharing the reins of her pleasure. He continued to f*ck into her, his co*ck still stretching her in the most glorious way. She could feel herself getting tighter - the tensing, gripping warning of a pending org*sm, as her body clutched Halsin’s.
Halsin bit his lip, the flesh turning first white then berry red as he released it. “So good, Foxglove,” he moaned, and the noise spurred her on, now erratically rolling against him. “You feel so good, beyond what I could imagine. I am yours, I am devoted,” he mumbled, rambling now as he watched her chase her high with unguarded lust. “Come for me, my heart, and I will, for you.”
Foxglove gasped, a breathy shriek her exhale as she came, the world blanking out, ears ringing for a moment as her soul fell through space and time. Halsin grabbed her hips, his fingertips pressing in so hard she wouldn’t be surprised to find bruises, as he chased his own release, f*cking up into her.
She could feel her body shaking, trembling as she struggled to contain the feeling - the pleasure of being so lost, so found, so split open on him.
Foxglove fell forward onto his chest as Halsin’s thrusts grew sharp, the head of his co*ck so deep it almost hurt, that pain and pleasure twining.
“Yes, yes,” he hissed, stilling with a short cry. Foxglove felt the release of him, felt his co*ck pulsing inside her. She shuddered, her puss* fluttering against him, drawing a moan from them both.
“Perfect for me,” Halsin mumbled, hazy from his own high. He thrust lazily into her, and Foxglove whimpered, then laughed at herself, at her undying need. Halsin drifted a hand across her back, warm and soft. “Good?”
“So good,” Foxglove whispered, cheek pressed against the coarse hair on his chest. “Tired.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Halsin teased her, dryly. Dragging his fingertips over her back, he hummed. “Rest here, a while. I won't let you fall asleep,” he promised. Foxglove started to nod, faintly amused he did not disconnect them, that he was content to stay inside her as she drifted.
“I’m not finished with you. Now that I’ve had a taste, I must drink my fill,” he said quietly, a dark, sultry promise.
Foxglove grinned, half-lucid. “f*ck,” she sighed. “I’m - you’re. More?”
“More,” Halsin confirmed, fingers still trailing lazy circles over her back.
