Chapter Text
Mindy pours over star charts that she ‘borrowed’ from the Archives, seeing if she can’t discern the exact date the sacrifice is supposed to take place from celestial clues. She knows precious little about the Cult’s beliefs, but the task seems to make her feel useful. Even Foster does not know much, though they are the ones who bound him into his former role as Outsider.
“I far outlived their belief system,” Foster shakes his head. “One of the oversights of the Abby, basing themselves in opposition to a religious sect that died out long ago. Their presence only breeds new believers with different mantras in the Isles.”
“So you’re saying those who worshiped you, back home, truly believed in your godhood, didn’t know a lick about what they were doing?” She pinches the bridge of her nose. She needs glasses, but is often too vain to wear them.
Foster replies, “You already knew that. Besides, I wasn’t a god at all. Not in the way they wished me to be.”
“I think...it must be nice though. To believe in a power greater than yourself,” Mindy muses, “to think that the horrible, wretched things that happen to a person has some higher purpose. It must feel...safe.”
Foster shrugs, “I wouldn’t know.”
What they do know is the date must be close. Foster alludes to them that he was kept intoxicated for some time as the Cultists prepared the ritual. So he does not remember the exact date or what conditions triggered their actions. Other than the fish.
On the third night, they try a different tactic. Foster, Mindy, and the boy, go for a walk at twilight. Corvo and Billie follow them from the rooftops. They hope that revealing themselves might draw another Cultist, or even the Traveler himself, out of hiding. Or perhaps they’ll see a hooded figure run away, a scout or informant eager to report back that their chosen one has been sighted again.
The shops are all long closed. But some of the food stalls linger open, providing hot meals for those merchants who have just completed their day. The boy asks Foster if he could have some coin for a serving of fried eel? Foster digs around in his pockets for some change.
That is all the opening that is needed. Foster smells what is happening before he sees it. The stench of ozone and brine and time. A wound opening, tearing where there should be no fissure. When Billie travels she is careful not to cause more damage to the membrane between realms as she moves through time and space, the Traveler has no such qualms. He shreds and tears, forcing open gaps that did not exist before. It almost smells like the Void is bleeding.
Snapping to attention, Foster reaches for the boy, grabbing him by the arm and running. He’s confident that Corvo and Billie can keep up, trailing them and waiting for the opening that best suits them. After half a beat he is sure that Mindy is with him too, her feet pounding against the pavement in time.
The citizens still occupying the marketplace pay them some notice, but otherwise do not abandon their evening rituals. So far, nothing terribly strange has transpired. An odd smell, yes, but they do not know what that signals. A man, a boy, and a woman running through the half-emptied streets, there can be many reasons for the rush.
Mindy ends up a step ahead, yelling back to Foster and the boy to follow her. They turn down a side street where the buildings are lower, giving Corvo and Billie a safer path to the ground. It is less a concern for Billie, who has a great many powers at her disposal. But Corvo without the Mark is nothing more spectacular than a talented man.
A hooded figure steps out from an alleyway up ahead. Foster recognizes him immediately from his stature and thin frame. It matters little that he cannot see the Traveler’s face. The question is which Traveler? The mortal man? Or the would-be god?
Foster’s question is answered as a second figure descends from the opposite rooftop, lunging down and tackling him to the ground. In the commotion, the boy lets go of Foster, hurrying to keep up with Mindy and leaving Foster to his fate.
With all his might Foster tries to claw at the Traveler’s face. The version that holds him down has eyes like sea foam. Eyes that look like Foster’s. His skin is deeply wrinkled, jowls loose and expression harsh. Lips curling back from broken, blackened teeth, framed by the white of his beard, he makes himself known as a threat. Despite his apparent age and the thinness of his body, the strength in his sinew is menacing in its own right.
“I will not let you take this from me,” the Traveler growls, speaking to Foster as if he knows him. “Not again you pathetic whelp. You have not yet served your purpose. But you will.”
As Foster tries to shove the old man off of him again, the purple-black tendrils of the Void start to curl around them both. Swallowing them up like a gaping, fetid maw. What is happening? Is the Traveler attempting to drag Foster back to whence he came? Foster lashes out again. He will not go.
Another figure intervenes. Corvo, Foster realizes, from the heft of the figure’s frame. Corvo crashes hard into the Traveler’s side, practically tearing him off of Foster.
No, no, Corvo has no powers to combat the Traveler in this form, where is Billie?
A horrific, guttural noise screams across the evening air. Foster recognizes the voice as Corvo’s, screaming as if he’s been stabbed, gutted. Pushing himself up, Foster desperately tries to see where Corvo is. He has to help.
The sight that greets him is a sickening one. Corvo’s back is to Foster, but he does not support his own weight. Two dark, oily appendages, slick and twisting, almost pulsing with life, run straight through his chest, coming out his back before forking into sharp, violent branches. Corvo’s body twitches where it is suspended in midair. Foster almost doesn’t register that the macabre branches stem from the Traveler. He still has two arms, as any man would, but in addition the long, black branches are rooted from his chest, ripping through his flesh and bone before coming to spear through Corvo’s mangled body.
“No!” Foster screeches, hurling himself towards the scene. He has to free Corvo from this infernal torment. He has to make it stop. The Traveler’s pale eyes flicker to Foster, a smile on his lips. The black branches contract, sliding out from Corvo’s torso with a sickening ease before folding back inside the Traveler’s chest. Corvo falls like a sack of flour heavily to the floor.
Reaching out for Corvo, Foster does not know what he can do. Only he must do something. He can only hope there is some lingering, latent power within himself that can undo the damage done by the Traveler. One of Mindy’s healing elixirs is tucked into his belt, but he knows that will not be enough to mend Corvo’s seeping wounds.
Except Corvo is no longer within arm’s reach. Or, rather, Foster is somewhere else entirely.
The unstable slate beneath his feet is familiar. As are the gentle sing-song voices of the true Leviathans. He turns around in a vain attempt to see if Corvo has been transported to the Void with him. But no, he is alone.
“Fuck,” Foster starts to run, having no particular destination. He has no reference point for how to drag himself back out of the Void. His Marked were able to accomplish such a feat, and there were those Touched who would filter in and out in dreams, never wholly grounded in the Void at all. But he was guided from this place by Billie. The escape route is obscured to him. Now he does not know where to turn.
He finds himself able to traverse the gaps between the platforms with ease, a strange wind beneath his steps that carries him aloft further than he should be able to jump on his own. The familiar burn in his lungs that comes with exertion is ever-present, so at least he is confident that whatever magics brought him back have not stolen his physical form from him.
(Help me, please!) he cries out to the Leviathans as he runs, still eloquent in their tongue. (Corvo! I must get back to Corvo!)
Their response is distressed. Oh, they want to help. They do. But shifting between realms is not something that they can comprehend. The Void is their home as surely as the sea. For them, there is no difference.
Leaping ahead, Foster feels the platform beneath him tilt, the angle changing rapidly. He’s sliding down the slick surface of the stone, scrambling to find some sort of purchase. What happens if he falls?
Slipping away he feels himself falling, falling, into a great abyss. The air around him grows cold. As he screams, condensation fills his vision. His limbs feel heavy, his chest impossibly tight.
And then, it ends, his body crashing hard against some flat surface. Stars fill his eyes, a penetrating ache radiating across his skin.
The Traveler crouches next to him, seafoam eyes bright and intelligent. His expression is undeniably sharp despite his age. A second set of boots come to stand beside him. Foster still can’t find the strength to sit up properly. His vision swims.
“You’ve been quite the bother since the start, haven’t you,” the Traveler reaches out with one gnarled hand to brush Foster’s bangs away from his sweat-slicked forehead.
Though he might not have his wits about him, Foster is at least aware enough to slap the hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
[Who is he?] the other figure asks. Foster knows now that it is the man who-would-be-Traveler. Turns out that Foster is not the only one trying to manipulate the future through the vessel of his past self.
The Traveler shakes his head before standing up, [Do you not recognize him? Take another look.] He speaks like an educator, attempting to lead a pupil to the correct conclusion.
[He is not another us,] the man begins.
The Traveler hums in the affirmative, encouraging his student to continue on.
[But he looks a great deal...Ah! He is [unintelligible]. So we fail…do I have to have another…] he sounds unsure of himself.
Foster tries very hard to push himself to his feet, but he finds he cannot move. He is held down by some unseen force. That knowledge spears him with panic. His body wants to thrash, to escape. The last time he felt this way he was a boy, drunk and high and helpless. Many hands holding him in place. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want!
The man crouches down now, taking Foster’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. He forces Foster to turn his head and look him in the eye. Frowning, a realization dawns on him quite slowly. Perhaps this man is an idiot. [No, his eyes are different. Like yours. We succeed.]
[It takes us a long time. Until this very moment. But this is the last of it.] The Traveler pulls a strange knife from his shawl. The handle is crude at best, simple wood bound with twine. It looks like something hastily made. The edge itself is jagged, unfinished in its own way. Foster sees his own fear-stricken face reflected back to him. The blade is made from the clearest mirror he has ever seen.
Handing the knife to the man, the Traveler tells him, [Do it. End him now and we will have what we have always wanted. It is within our reach.]
The man does not hesitate, taking the knife and pressing the edge to the apple of Foster’s throat. [I’ve waited fifteen years for this moment.] A particular strain of sadism prevents him from making this a quick death. [Waited for the seed I planted to bear fruit.]
And the Traveler has waited four-thousand.
Shutting his eyes tightly, Foster imagines himself being very far away. Back in Dunwall, in the present he has quickly come to love. In his room at the Tower, so close to the subject of his affections yet still so far away, despite Corvo’s hands on him. Emily and her private smiles when she is simply herself and not the Empress.
It’s then he realizes that he is warm.
His eyes fly open. Indeed, he is...home? Laying in his bed in Dunwall, but dressed in the same attire he wore in Pandyssia. He presses his fingers against his throat, where he still feels the phantom touch of the mirror-blade. When he pulls his hand back, there is blood on his fingers.
“What the fuck?”
The silence is broken by a great crash of noise. The space in front of him ripping open, the air in the room so wet that it already feels like he’s drowning. A great fury is on the other side of the tear. Foster scrambles out of the bed, rushing for the door. But what good will that do? What can Tower guards do against a man who would make himself a god?
Emily. He must find Emily.
It’s a waste of time to try and delay the Traveler’s progress. Foster bolts out the bedroom door, racing down the hallway. He does not know what day it is, or what time. Though the sun is out. He does not know where he might find the Empress. There’s no use thinking through the possibilities. He simply runs. He must find her, he must!
He bounds up the staircase, narrowly missing a guard out on their rounds. They may do a very small bit to slow the Traveler down, but that will make little difference. Foster has nearly reached the top of the flight when Emily comes frantically down the stairs to meet him, Billie on her heels.
“Not here!” Billie shouts, grabbing Emily by the shoulder to keep her from crash g into Foster. “Hurry, hurry,” she waves Foster up to join them.
Emily reaches out with her Marked hand to grab Foster’s sweaty palm. No sooner than they make contact, skin on skin, do their surroundings bend and shift again.
“Corvo!” Foster shouts, remembering the last scene he witnessed in Pandyssia, the bloody, broken horror of Corvo’s body.
There’s no time for Billie to answer, as they are spit out onto an unfamiliar beach. Foster does not recognize the sea from here. Or perhaps he is simply too disoriented to process anything at all useful.
“They’re coming!” Emily shouts, drawing her sword. Next to her, Billie wields the twin-blade. Foster has nothing other than the little knife he normally carries on his person, but he grips the handle tightly, refusing to be a burden.
The same shrieking cacophony of ragged noise that normally accompanies the Traveler’s arrival rings out across the empty shoreline. But it is the mortal man who steps through first.
Using Far Reach to skip forward, Emily is on him in one swift motion. She slices through the air with all the elegance and brutality her father taught her. The man parries her first blow, though that does little to deter the precision of her second strike.
The Traveler is close behind. He leaves the tear behind him jagged, gaping like a wound. The edges of the tear pulse in a sickly way, as if it has a heartbeat. As if it is in pain.
Billie prefers to keep her opponents at a distance. She fires off the voltaic gun from her wrist, aiming for the thickest part of the Traveler’s body. He skips away in a cloud of iridescent smoke, though he is not quite quick enough and Billie’s shot catches him on the arm.
It’s a delicate balance, Billie’s dance that keeps the Traveler engaged, his attention focused on her instead of Foster. But she still needs to keep the space that will allow her to be most effective in bringing him down swiftly.
She hits the Traveler across the abdomen with a Void Strike, pushing him another step back to give herself room to maneuver once again. But then, despite all her skill, Billie is not quite fast enough as the Traveler melts a second time, breaking up into fog only to reappear behind her back. He strikes her hard across the neck. Wailing, she crumples to the ground. There is no doubt that she will survive the blow. With her augmented powers, attacks that would devastate an average person are little more than inconveniences to Billie. The Traveler did not do enough to kill her. Not yet. His goal with the attack was to give himself the time to finish off Foster.
As futile as it might be, Foster raises his tiny knife. He will not give the Traveler the luxury of going peacefully. He will scream and claw and bite and fight.
But before he can reach Foster, Emily manifests between them. She lunges forward with her sword, aiming for the kill. If Billie could not bring the Traveler down, there is no possibility of Emily taking on the fiend. Her powers are weaker, more fragile. Especially now that Foster is no longer the Outsider.
Still, she fights with beautiful clarity, using her skill with a sword to make up for her shortcomings with the arcane. This is not a war she can win, but perhaps she can buy enough time for Billie to find her feet again.
The Traveler lashes out, aiming for her face. Again, Emily’s grace saves her, as she sidesteps to avoid the blow. She is not so lucky a second time, as the Traveler forgoes his blade and instead strikes her with one of the blackened claws manifested from his chest.
The blow takes Emily to the floor. But in a flash of inspiration, she controls her momentum, kicking out at the Traveler’s legs with such force that he stumbles to the ground. That is the opportunity Billie needs to scramble on top of him, twin-blade in hand. She does not ask for a confession, simply plunging the dagger into the center of the Traveler’s chest.
A gurgling noise emanates from the Traveler, caught somewhere in his throat. The sound of waves against the shore is louder, the quiet ringing of distant gulls.
There’s a second groan in the distance. Foster quickly realizes it is the man. He hurries over with his knife, ready to end this tragedy before it even began.
If only time were that simple.
Emily’s sword caught him across the face, slicing down into the delicate flesh of his neck. But the job is not finished. The man is still breathing. Foster can do what needs to be done.
He crouches down next to the man, knife ready. Foster knows now who he is. Who he was. He thrusts the knife into the man over, and over, and over. Over, over, over, again. Until his face, neck, chest, are a bloody mess. Until he can no longer recognize the similarities in their features. He stabs and stabs until his hands are too slick with blood to grip the knife properly, the little blade slipping from his hands and disappearing somewhere inside the carnage of his chest.
It is Emily who comes up behind him, rubbing soothing circles into Foster’s back. His face is wet with tears. But this man isn’t worth crying over.
“I feel sorry for the mother,” Foster admits. Even now it is difficult to see the boy as himself. “I wonder what he did with her.”
“You never knew her?” Emily asks.
Foster shakes his head, “No. And I suspect that was his plan from the start. I was to serve a purpose. But, somehow, I thwarted his plans, without ever knowing.” Foster laughs, “funny, how it’s possible to be such a terrible disappointment to one’s father, and never know it.”
In time Billie comes to sit next to them in the blood-soaked sand. They stare out onto the ocean, knowing that the time they take here makes little difference.
—
More often than not, the servants find Foster at the Lord Protector’s bedside.
After the initial encounter with the Traveler in Pandyssia, Mindy stayed behind to do what she could to stabilize Corvo, to stem the blood loss. He lived, perhaps through some great stubbornness on his own part. But the damage done by the Traveler’s massive claws was significant.
The first weeks Corvo moves very little. His sleep is restless, though near constant. The Royal Physician plys him with a sleeping draught to ease the discomfort and to try and keep him still as his wounds mend.
Emily visits as frequently as she is able, nearly every evening and as many lunchtimes as she can shirk her duties. Her beloved, Wyman, arrives in Dunwall just as Corvo starts to wake. They accompany her every time thereafter. Wyman is somewhat terrified of their future father-in-law and is always on their best behavior. Foster finds it amusing that one who is otherwise so confident in their station is very nearly reduced to a bumbling fool in front of Corvo.
As Corvo recovers, he insists that Foster need not stand in vigil. There is little doubt now he will recover, if not fully. “It’s spring now, isn’t it?” Corvo asks.
“Yes,” Foster admits.
Corvo is well enough that he stands and walks around a bit each day. The Physician had to forbid him from attempting stairs for at least another week. “You should go outside, see the gardens,” Corvo suggests. He takes a few confident steps towards the open window.
“I like being here with you,” with Corvo’s bed safely unoccupied, Foster takes the liberty of sitting on the edge of the mattress. If he insists on fussing over Corvo, he quickly turns annoyed.
Corvo rests his shoulder against the wall, propping himself up enough that he can look out on the gardens a bit longer without having to fully support his own weight. He must think he’s so clever. Foster sees right through his ruse.
“What were the doctors told?” He rests one broad hand over his chest. The gaping holes are gone, but the wounds are still tender underneath Corvo’s bandages.
Foster snickers, “Your daughter told them not to ask. Though between Mindy’s elixir and Billie’s magics, they did enough work on you that it wasn’t immediately apparent you should be dead.”
Corvo hums, “You really should go for a walk.”
Foster is about to protest again.
“You should bring me flowers.”
So, Foster does. That same evening, and the next. He makes a point of strolling through the manicured paths in the late morning, when Corvo is likely to have already finished breakfast. In resisting the urge to turn his gaze to Corvo’s window, Foster is not certain he’s being watched. Yet, there is a feeling, a tremor at the back of his spine that tells him eyes follow him across the yard.
Corvo’s room fills with flowers. Though they are not the large-petaled, vibrant blooms of the south, they are nonetheless fragrant and lovely. Vases come to adorn every flat surface in Corvo’s chamber. The housekeeping staff are fastidious in removing the flowers as they wilt, but leave the vase behind so that Foster may fill them once again.
One evening, Corvo laughs at him, “I should tell you, I’ve been using the stairs for four days now.” They are seated across from one another, at the little table set out on the balcony. Foster does not know if the Physician approved Corvo’s renewed intake of whiskey, but he’s not one to tattle.
“I know,” Foster smirks, “I caught you the other day heading to the kitchens. Sneaking past the cooks. I thought about calling out to you, but thought you enjoyed the secrecy.”
Corvo knows better than to pour Foster a second finger. Foster is rarely one to finish his entire drink. He knows the bottle is expensive, and once tried to convince Corvo that such a delicacy was wasted on him. That didn’t do much at all to deter Corvo, who simply stated that if he could not share with others he found dear, it did not taste quite so rich.
That was the first time Foster recalls Corvo calling him dear.
Tonight though, the air is warm enough, if a little damp. There were showers during the day. True rain, not the foggy oppressive drizzle more common to Dunwall in the springtime.
“You shouldn’t humor me so much, Foster. I know very well that my skill has deteriorated. Funny side effect of mortal impalement,” Corvo has faced death enough times now that it’s in his rights to be a bit flippant.
Scoffing, Foster replies, “A man of your talents need not worry. Only my perception is quite acute.” Even now after months of being exposed to a bombardment of sensory information, Foster believes that he may have detection abilities beyond that of most mortals. A simple side effect of his last occupation, perhaps. It no longer worries him as it once did.
“You do tend to be a good judge of character,” Corvo finishes off his drink. “What am I thinking now?”
“I’m not a psychic,” Foster corrects, “even when I was my other self, I could not read the minds of men.”
“Their hearts though, perhaps?”
“Someone with my experience can do quite a lot with context clues,” Foster’s neck and cheeks begin to warm. From the smile that crosses Corvo’s features, he has some idea where this teasing is heading. They still have not spoken directly about their private actions in Pandyssia. At the very least, Corvo appears well enough recovered from his injuries to have a bit of fun. Heart rate picking up, Foster still does not know how to express that he wishes for more than simple amusement. But that is perhaps a question for another moment.
Corvo sets aside his glass on the table. “And what is context telling you now?”
Foster affirms the invitation, rising from his chair and crossing the few short steps into Corvo’s orbit. The chair is just wide enough that Foster can fold his skinny legs on either side of Corvo’s hips, coming to rest his weight over top of Corvo’s thighs. It’s a tight fit for them both. The arms of the chair squeeze Foster tight around his lover. They are at least that, are they not?
Corvo takes Foster’s chin between his fingers, and for one heartbeat Foster thinks that perhaps this was meant for a kiss. But instead of drawing their faces close, Corvo simply means for them to look each other in the eye before using his other hand to deftly open Foster’s pants.
Foster can’t help the groan of satisfaction that passes between his lips as Corvo wraps his hand tight around him. The first few strokes are just nearly enough for Foster to release. He has to resist the urge, terrified that this moment will be over all too soon.
“Ah,” Corvo teases, “but don’t you want to come?”
Foster represses the instinct to just give in, to tell Corvo yes, yes, he desperately wants. Instead, he whispers, “I want you.”
Corvo’s hand goes still, his eyes narrow. “Be clear in what you are asking for,” he sounds out of breath.
Hands shaking against Corvo’s shoulders, Foster admits, “This isn’t only about pleasure for me...I desire your affections too.”
And Corvo has the audacity to laugh at him. He must think the whole thing quite silly.
“Perhaps I am denser than I thought.” He moves his hand away from Foster’s cock, instead resting one hand on each hip. “You want to be loved.”
“Is that really so hard to believe?” Foster replies, well aware of the anger that has seeped into his voice. It is Corvo’s fault for goading him.
“No, no of course not,” he sounds quite fond. One hand leaves it’s perch, coming to tangle in Foster’s hair instead. “But I thought you despised those devoted to you?”
Foster scoffs, “you are dense. It was not me they loved. Not the me I am now. And they were not you.”
“I would like very much to carry you to bed now,” Corvo says, “but I’m afraid that is still beyond my current capabilities.”
Foster doesn’t hazard asking another question, disentangling himself from Corvo and hopping to his feet. He offers Corvo his hand, more because he cannot bear the thought of not touching him in this moment than any notion that Corvo might actually need his help.
With his pants already open at the front, Foster wastes no time in stripping them away. He’s fully bare long before he reaches Corvo’s bed. They’ll save the slow undressing for their next encounter.
Bare chested, the massive wounds that cut through Corvo’s chest are on stark display. Even among the latticework of older injuries, the thick mass of scar tissue is vividly distinct.
Corvo sprawls out across the mattress, resting with his back against the headboard, coaxing Foster forward with a small gesture. Foster resumes his former position, though under better circumstances, with the heavy weight of Corvo’s cock pressed against his own as he goes to straddle Corvo’s thighs.
They kiss and kiss until Foster is delirious with it, his lips feeling hot and puffy as they press against Corvo’s once more. He has never considered himself to be a particularly timid man, though perhaps cautious when it comes to Corvo. He desperately wants to believe that Corvo wishes for this to be more than physical release between friends. He doesn’t prod. But he lets Corvo’s careful affections wash over him as they grind against one another in the safety of Corvo’s bed.
Foster at least allows himself to pant, “inside,” still lusting after what Corvo can provide him. Still thinking about how his fingers have not been enough.
“I suppose it would be unwise to deny you,” Corvo smiles, before inclining his head towards the bedside table, where he keeps his oil. “Unless that is a magic you still possess.”
“Hmph,” Foster leans over, a bit unsteady even on his knees, to fish around inside the drawer for lubricant. “What makes you think it’s a power I ever possessed?”
“Well, you know there is quite a lot of literature-“
Instinctually, Foster claps his hand over Corvo’s mouth, “Not a word about that. Fantasy, all of it. I didn’t. I never.” He pulls back his hand when Corvo licks lewdly against it.
“Because you couldn’t, or wouldn’t?” Corvo asks, still teasing.
“If I could, do you really think I would have waited until now to fuck you?” He hopes his answer satisfies Corvo’s curiosity.
Foster hurries to open himself up on his fingers, lacking the patience now to deal with Corvo’s deliberate teasing. After a handful of seconds though, Corvo can’t resist reaching around and sliding one finger in next to both of Foster’s. The added stretch nearly knocks the wind out of Foster altogether.
“You’re the one in a hurry,” Corvo drawls, not bothering to move his finger, simply holding it still while Foster tries frantically to stretch himself enough that they can continue on. Already this is more than he’s done on his own, never making it past a second finger before he spent.
Foster pants, “I’m ready,” though he’s a little unsure himself. His cock is as hard as ever. And Corvo’s waits for him, dark and flush, resting against his belly.
Corvo holds himself in place, letting Foster focus on lining himself up and pushing down. At first, he doesn’t think it will go in. He’s too giddy with excitement, too flushed and tight with nerves. But Corvo rubs small circles on his lower back, insisting that he will look so good once he’s stuffed full.
Foster only has enough coherent thought to wonder for a moment if Corvo really thinks that, or if he really just is clever enough to pick up on what Foster wants. In either case, the praise does wonders for Foster’s resolve and he feels the head of Corvo’s cock press past his rim.
“Void,” Foster curses. He does his best not to collapse his weight onto Corvo, but his legs are already shaking, sweat clinging to his brow. Screwing his eyes shut, he sinks down another inch and finds it easier than the first. Confidence renewed he lowers himself until he’s taken Corvo to the hilt, buried deep inside of him and stretching him in a way he’s sure to feel for days.
Corvo rolls his hips gently to meet him. They both need to be somewhat precious about the whole encounter. Foster feels overwhelmed already, heated everywhere they are touching and frayed by the feeling of finally getting what he wants. Corvo, while on the mend, isn’t yet fully recovered. Instead of rushing towards the finish, they meet halfway. Foster panting, “yes, more, there, there, there,” into Corvo’s mouth. One of Corvo’s hands comes to wrap around his cock. The strokes are lazy, in time with their languid thrusts.
Foster feels sticky and exhilarated and exhausted and they’re not even finished. He’s squeezed tight around his lover as he comes, spilling over Corvo’s hand. He feels like his strings have been cut, loose limbed and sasitated. Another two rolling thrusts and Corvo comes inside of him. They’re slow to disengage, hesitant to part. But the cum between their bodies starts to cool, and Foster knows he must go clean himself.
When Foster returns from the water closet, he finds Corvo already dozing off in bed. The balcony doors are still open, the night air breezing through the chamber. Thinking little of his modesty, Foster goes to close the door. He slips back into bed beside Corvo, sure that he will not be turned away.