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The thud of shed boots and a winded exhale from the doorway announce her return from the hunt, as the final traces of sunlight bleed past the horizon.
“Don’t rush to get up,” Santala teases, striding over to stoke the hearth fire with a gentle conjuration of flame. Astarion remains resolutely recumbent on the sofa, lounging on the shabby pillows with legs outstretched. He has a book in hand, as usual, whenever a free moment presents itself.
His eyes flick up, and he pulls himself out of the world he had been lost in for the last couple of hours while working his way through a bottle of a peculiar liqueur. Santala sets her spoils on the counter to begin preparations for dinner.
Since losing the protection of the tadpole, Astarion was starting to shift to a more nocturnal schedule again. He emerges from his trance and breaks his fast around the time that Santala has her evening meal. She offers herself graciously, when possible; otherwise, there tends to be enough wild game and the occasional unlucky brigand in their environs to sustain his appetites. However, the coming winter threatens to be harsh, with snow already falling heavily though the solstice is still some time away. He’s finding prey to be scarcer as the nights grow longer.
The nature of domesticity initially felt quite foreign to both of them. Santala had traveled for the most part in solitude after departing from her druid circle, but that was before the mind flayer business upended every sense of normalcy. As deeply as she cherished the dozen or so new friendships made on the strange journey to the Gate, there was a bone-deep ache within her to return to the wilderness again, with the uncomplicated tranquility of having the stars above as her only companions.
For Astarion, being chained to that suffocating palace and its lord meant he never knew a moment’s quietude. No thought or action ever belonged wholly to himself for two centuries. He sometimes felt unbearably agitated even in his newfound freedom, with dread and fury blooming from behind his sternum and threatening to erupt into full panic without warning. Occasionally, he was able to return to reality by recalling the weight of the dagger plunging into Cazador’s chest, the echo of footsteps in the tourmaline halls as his fellow spawn made their way to freedom. It remained difficult to convince both mind and body that the events of the recent past had actually transpired and that it wasn't all a bizarre dream.
The pair had begun their ambitious exploration of the Sword Coast on a grand tour of the land, taking in the sights of industrious cities and the magnificence of nature alike. They'd discussed paying a visit to the freed spawn in the Underdark eventually, but both were quite happy to delay doing the responsible thing until they felt recuperated from the chaos that the Absolute affair had left in its wake.
Astarion deferred to Santala’s wisdom of waiting out the worst of the cold before continuing their travels. She managed to secure these lodgings by happening upon a farmer and his livestock being beset by hungry gnolls on the road. She made quick work of the monsters and healed the minor injuries he sustained. In the man's profuse gratitude, he had offered her this cozy one-room cottage to stay in for as long as she liked. It'd been his daughter and her husband's home, he said, before the two moved closer to the city to seek out better fortunes. It was hard to turn down a real, warm bed considering the current conditions, so she humbly accepted.
Both would be restless soon enough, but playing house for the time being feels novel. Though they'd only been here for a tenday or so, settling into a comfortable pace had gone more or less smoothly. The demons of the past blessedly remain in their rightful place on this particular evening, leaving the two souls within it to tend the saplings of an existence together with equal parts trepidation and tenderness.
Astarion yawns and stretches out. His legs extend out, interlaced hands resting on the back of his head as he tips back to watch Santala consider the fruits of her labor.
“What manner of fell beastie have you slain today, my dear?”
She pulls two rabbits from the netted game bag, joined by a few rust-hued mushrooms and a handful of wilted, fragrant herbs.
“Scrawny ones. I don’t think we’ll get much more fresh meat until spring,” she says, laying one of the animals out to dress. The tender skin of the underbelly gives way effortlessly to the tip of her blade, the hide peeling off the carcass like a glove. Nimble hands carefully remove the organs without puncturing them, lest they spoil the meat.
“It probably won’t be worth the energy to try to outcompete the other predators once the cold hits. It’ll be dried venison and goodberries for a couple months unless we get lucky.”
Astarion scoffs. “Just because you can survive off meager rations doesn't mean you should, lady of the woods. Believe it or not, I can absolutely taste the difference in your blood when you've had a proper meal versus, say, some highly questionable cheese you found in a crate. I insist on making a trip to town for supplies as soon as the weather permits."
Listening to the fire’s soft crackling and feeling the heat radiate from the hearth, he lets his eyelids fall heavy. The raw, metallic smell wafting from the kitchen was making him salivate a little.
Santala sighs. Though there isn’t a bite to his words, this is another of the growing pains of their new relationship, adjusting their own habits until they could come to a compromise. Friction is to be expected between a hinterlander of the wilds and a fussy aesthete of the city.
"I'll consider it," she says mildly. She sets her knife down to consider the piece of offal pinched between her fingers and goes to where Astarion is lounging on the sofa. “May I offer you something to whet your palate in the meantime?”
Astarion peers lazily through his lashes, trying to discern the small glossy red object dangling above him, but his lips part on instinct in the proximity to bloodscent. His tongue grazes the pad of her fingertip as he takes the morsel.
Succulent, tender flesh surrenders to piercing teeth, the unctuous rabbit liver coating his palate as he chews thoughtfully. He savors the way the flavor complements the spice in the sip from his goblet. Remarkably, it’s one of the few drinks he’s had since being turned that didn’t taste entirely of swill. He hums in approval.
Cloudy curls brush her face as Santala leans down to plant a peck right below his hairline. Astarion shifts, and she feels his hand cradling the nape of her neck to hold her there, faces almost touching.
“Delicious, darling. I am very much looking forward to the main course,” he says, with a wicked smile that shows the barest hint of fangs.
“Down, boy,” she chides, lingering in his cool touch for a moment longer. She returns to her task, putting the hunks of rabbit meat, mushrooms, herbs, and some potatoes found in the cupboard into a pot on a low simmer. The meat will take time to tenderize, and in the meantime, she is eager to clean herself up and rest her legs after trudging for hours through the woods.
They spend some time in companionable silence as Astarion returns his attention to the book. Water splashes in the washbasin from behind the paper screen. Santala strips bare and runs a washcloth across her dark wisteria skin, relishing the feeling of being cleansed from the day’s grime. She emerges, much more comfortable in her linen robe, tied at the waist. He breaks the quiet first.
“Hm. I can’t find your surname here,” he says absently, fingers tapping an idle rhythm down a page in the back of the volume.
She blots her ears dry with a towel and unties the scarf holding back her hair. Fine, violet-silver strands tumble loosely down her shoulders, releasing a faint scent of earthy forest damp and lavender soap. Santala motions for Astarion to move his legs and finally sits down with a relieved sigh. He stretches out again, using her lap as an ottoman.
“I really need to put you to work, if you’ve resorted to reading census records to pass the time,” she says, her hand lightly brushing the top of his foot.
“Not quite,” he replies, holding up the book.
Emblazoned on the cover in gaudy metallic lettering is Menzoberranzan: City of Intrigue (Revised Edition), accompanied by a borderline sacrilegious illustration of Lolth, Queen of Spiders, looking rather… buxom. Santala gets the impression that the text is not meant so much to inform as it is to titillate. In a manner of speaking. She lets out a barking laugh.
“Gods, where did you even find that? Don’t tell me you paid for it.”
“It was left behind at the quaint little tavern we stopped by on the way here. These backwater places can attract some eclectic clientele. Interesting drinks, though.”
He refills his cup. There is an effervescent quality to it that he can’t quite name, and swallowing the next mouthful makes his vision twinkle pleasantly in the periphery.
“Anyway, I was hoping to find some family history of yours here since you haven't told me much. I’d love to know where you’d rank in the grand power struggle between the noble houses of your people.”
She quirks an eyebrow at the phrasing. Her people.
“Ugh. I’ve got nothing to do with the spider worshippers who would jump at the chance to slit my throat. They’re no more 'my people' than yours,” she says scornfully. She has a cursory taste from his cup, the richness of its contents enticing her to take a much longer draft.
“And besides,” she continues, “Moonfire isn't a real drow name. My mother wanted to rid everything of her old life after she fled Menzoberranzan. She took on that new name to honor Eilistraee, and she's never told me what it was originally. That makes both her and me traitorous surfacer scum, so to answer your question, dead is where I’d rank.”
Dwelling on the subject of her race had the potential of bringing up a complicated mix of emotions. Gratitude, of course, for her mother's courage in escaping a brutally oppressive and hierarchical society, providing her the opportunity to pursue her own path in life. It also meant that she didn't quite belong, no matter where she went. Most surface dwellers assume the worst of her with a single glance, whereas the Lolth-sworn consider death a better fate than exile. She rarely had the occasion to come across fellow Seldarine drow. Hers was a strange and sometimes lonely place to occupy in the world, so she avoids ruminating on it since there isn't much she can do.
Astarion furrows his brows in annoyance at her premature conclusion of his fantasy. “Should’ve known you’d be a spoilsport,” he sniffs. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it. You don’t draw the most flattering attention up here, I’ll admit, but in the Underdark, you could’ve been a priestess of a high house. A matron, even!" he says, expression lighting up. He gestures with an air of grandiosity, arms sweeping upward. "Think of what you could accomplish with an army of assassins at your disposal, dark psionic powers–”
“–riding lizards, naked bloody rituals, giant spider orgies, that sort of thing?” Santala supplies, rolling her eyes. The topic of conversation was starting to rankle.
He sits up, tucking his legs and leaning close. “Darling, don’t be sour. I only meant it as a compliment. How well you wield authority and beauty in one perfect package,” he coaxes. The expression on his face is pulled into a working approximation of contrition, but wide pupils glinting in the firelight implore: play with me. Santala stares at him, thinking about whether to steer this potential disaster of a conversation elsewhere or abandon it entirely. But then again, she could be persuaded on occasion to indulge his diversions, and, well… the racial sensitivity conversation could be deferred to a time when he wasn't more than halfway through a bottle of drink.
Santala takes the goblet and sips, deliberately slow and long, holding Astarion’s gaze all the while to let him flounder. To his credit, he waits patiently until she finishes and allows her the first word.
She leans in, curious as to where this may lead but careful not to betray her interest too much. “As you like it then,” she says coolly, setting down the cup. “Lavish your ridiculous ‘compliments’ on me, Matron Mother Santala of House Moonfire. Do tell, what else is at my disposal?”
Astarion takes his own time to answer, taking hold of her wrist with a delicate touch. He presses a soft kiss to it, lips trailing up her forearm, stirred by the delicious sound of her quickening heartbeat.
“I had in mind,” he says, voice low, with another kiss to the inside of her elbow, “the beautiful elven consort you might have in your company.”
With a deft and graceful movement, he swings his leg over to straddle her lap. He reaches down to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, flirtatiously twirling the end of it around his finger.
“Is that so?” she murmurs. She basks in his touch, her hand traveling up his thigh to find purchase on his waist, but it stalls as apprehension creeps into her thoughts. She looks up.
“Um, you should know... Consorts – I mean, a lot of the men – are slaves. I don’t mean to kill the mood, but…” she trails off, searching for the right question to ask.
“It could feel like… familiar territory for you, I guess,” she finishes awkwardly. She winces, certain that she definitely just killed the mood.
His eyes crinkle in fondness at the concern on her face.
“Thoughtful as always, my sweet, but I hope you don’t think me so uncultured that common knowledge like that would escape me. You can rest your do-gooder heart knowing that I’m offering myself to you willingly.”
He pauses, a sensation welling up within compelling him to say more. He looks around the room as he considers his next words.
“This… you… are what I want to be familiar with.” He's quiet, voice unusually free of the typical affectations that deflect, disguise, and guard. He hesitates again.
“There are times when I still feel as if I’m back where I was before we met.” Ruby eyes flick back to meet hers. “But all of me is here with you now. Body and mind. I wish I could always be so present, but I’ll take it when I can get it. And for the times when I’m not… thank you. I know it isn’t always easy with me.”
His hand slides into hers, entwining their fingers together. Santala squeezes in unspoken understanding and reassurance. Her heart aches tenderly, that she can witness the baring of his soul, that he trusts her above all to care for him. A little touch of the divine, to know and be known.
He clears his throat. Moments of vulnerability come somewhat easier these days, but he doesn’t exactly relish them.
“And,” he continues emphatically, eager to lighten the mood again, “it wasn’t empty flattery, what I said earlier. Authority and all that. Those idiotic bards will make you out to be another stuffy, valiant hero, but I can attest to your more, ah, sadistic tendencies. Given the right enemy.”
The flirtatiousness in his voice has returned, as has the smirk spread across his pale face. He resumes winding through the ends of her hair, his icy fingers moving to graze her collarbone. The tension on Santala's face dissipates with his touch.
“I do miss seeing it, you know,” he says, eyes roaming to the collar of her robe, the curve of her chest below. “And now that we’ve no cultists or monsters to slaughter, where does that aggression go, I wonder?” he teases.
Santala interrupts his wandering by gripping his wrist, tugging him down with sudden force to pin him to the seat. The fingers of her free hand find the curls at the back of his head.
“Are you saying I’ve been too nice?” she asks, testing his insinuations. The smile and hiss of pleasure she elicits by tightening her grip on his hair assuages the doubts in her mind. She laughs softly at his reaction.
“You want to be my new pet, is that it? So precious. Shall I fuck you over the Clawrift?” she asks with a menacing lightness. The hand in his hair tugs backward, forcing Astarion to tilt at a precarious angle. “I’ll use you up to my liking and let you fall into the abyss when I’ve had my fill. How’s that sound?”
She loosens the grip on his wrist ever so slightly to leave him less on which to anchor himself. It surprises her how easily the nastiness in her words tumbles out, how little it takes to rouse her.
Santala leans further before his silver tongue can reply. For a split second, he braces, thinking she really is about to let go. Instead, she grips under his hips with a quick surge of upward motion, rising to full height all at once. Astarion’s limbs cling to her tall frame, and he finds himself being lowered onto the bed on the other side of the room with a few quick steps.
She stands at the foot of the bed, towering over his prone form. Sensing the lust growing in the wild spark of her silver eyes, he props himself up on his elbows to gaze at her. He parts his legs just so, coyly displaying the outline of his growing arousal under his trousers.
Santala tears her eyes away from the apex of his legs. Food tastes better once you’ve played with it, and she intends to savor the night, not gorge herself too early.
“How did you find yourself in my bed, little elf?”
“A wrong turn in the Underdark, I suppose. Took a right at the giant deadly poisonous mushroom instead of left.” His hand snakes downward, palming his erection through the fabric of his pants.
She climbs into the bed on top of him, ignoring his goading gesture. Reaching forward to trace his jawline instead, she grasps Astarion roughly by the chin and turns his face, as if in evaluation.
“Hm, I remember now. My raiders did well to bring you to me. On your way to your summer palace, noble city brat, and look where you’ve landed.”
He raises his eyebrows in amusement. “I’ve been kidnapped? I should count myself lucky. I’ve been made to understand that your kind kill mine on sight.”
“Generally, yes.” Her fingertips brush down languorously past his Adam’s apple. “But rumors of my exotic taste in bedwarmers must’ve gotten out. May I?” She fiddles with the top button of his shirt.
He sighs. “If it pleases you,” he assents with feigned nonchalance, betrayed by the subtle arching of his chest toward her touch.
Santala works torturously slow, warming the iciness of his skin when she plants a kiss after every button undone. As she unfastens the last one, her lips hover, breath tickling the fine, snowy hairs at the hem of his waistband. Her tongue swipes across to land at the sensitive spot above his hip, baring her teeth to nip lightly at the skin there. Astarion clenches his jaw, suppressing the sound that threatens to escape.
“Look at you,” she marvels, pulling away to admire her lover lying beneath her, half exposed, breath shallow.
“I see why they spared you, pretty thing. Like moonglow,” she muses, as her hand slides down his chest, grazing his peaked nipple, earning her a small hitch in his breath. “I’ll have to hide you from the other matrons. They might get jealous.”
He chuckles. “And do they also praise their playthings so generously?” Truthfully, her reverence stirs a part of him he thought long dead before their meeting. He almost feels shy in its presence.
More pressing matters demand attention, though. His graceful hand wanders back between his legs to nimbly untie and loosen the laces on his pants.
She watches, allowing him to fully undress and take his cock – gorgeously flushed, with moisture beading at the tip – properly in hand for a few slow strokes, his sensuous expression trained on Santala, daring her to take him. She’s sorely tempted, as the heat of her arousal pools, senses urging her to devour him.
She stops short of giving in but pounces, forcing his arms above his head and pinning him down in earnest this time with the support of her weight. She scowls, her face a hair’s breadth from his.
“You forget your station, brat. My kindness lasts as long as you mind your manners, which you’re obviously lacking." This is turning out to be quite fun, she realizes. It’s been some time since she’s played this role with a lover. "Your looks won’t save you. Ask the pretty fools whose entrails I’ve strung in my foyer.”
Astarion grins, intent on provoking her even more. “Ah, I noticed that earlier, I was going to ask –”
He's cut off with a strike across the face with her open hand. The sound of it startles him more than it hurts, and it does the job of silencing him momentarily. She wraps her hand around his slim, pale throat, exerting just a touch of pressure.
“I’m tired of your chatter and insolence, little elf. Let’s learn some rules,” she says. “First, your hands – and any other part of your body – are to be used for my pleasure, not yours. Second, you will not speak unless spoken to, and third, you will address me with due deference. If you so much as breathe in a way that displeases me, you’ll be tossed into the abyss, and your replacement will be summoned here in the same minute. Understood?”
“Perfectly, mistress,” comes the reply from lips still smiling, though perhaps a hint less smug. Santala wonders if she’s playing too roughly, but her answer comes in the form of his pupils blown wide in want and anticipation.
Her thumb on the side of his throat shifts to glide over his bottom lip, worrying the soft pinkness there. Astarion’s lips part readily, his wicked tongue lolling out obscenely, catching and caressing and suckling her finger with whorish enthusiasm.
Santala swallows, faltering with his lewd display. She repositions herself toward the headboard, knees bracketing his face, hovering over him.
“Let’s put that pretty mouth to use, hm?”
He slides his hands under the thin fabric of the robe, grabbing her by the hips to lower her down. He starts dotting the delicate skin on her inner thigh with kisses and little licks, not getting far before he feels a hand in his hair guide him impatiently toward her center.
Astarion obliges. Hooded eyes blink up to make contact with hers, and he drags a broad stripe along her labia, tasting her slickness and ending with a quick swirl on her clit. He dives in, the heat of her cunt warming his tongue as he slots it into her, curling and lapping relentlessly. Santala rolls her hips in rhythm with his tireless mouthwork.
“Not bad,” she pants raggedly.
He takes it as a challenge.
A jolt courses through her with a sudden pressure, his lips circling her sensitive pink bud, the vibration of his moans amplifying the wave that’s threatening to crest if not for the irregularity of suction and release, pushing and pulling her from the edge.
Her willpower wanes with the increasing intensity of the friction, and she lets go, grinding down onto writhing wetness while he digs his fingers into the jutting of her hips, tugging, as if he could bring her any closer. Her body holds taut at the breathless apex, and all at once, the tension breaks. A sharp cry tears from her, legs shuddering from the waves of release rippling through.
Astarion slows and coaxes her through her climax, drawing out the aftershocks with gentler swipes and finishing with a tender kiss, before surfacing. He’s a beautiful, debauched sight — breathing heavily through lips plush, glistening from traces of her.
She shuffles back down to face him. Their mouths meet, and she tastes her own heady scent on him as she kisses him harshly, nipping at his lower lip. He yields to her, supplicant. Muscled arms coil around and caress her body reverently, his pale skin appearing all the more luminescent against her own, like an evening star cradled in the inky night sky.
He’s achingly hard now, twitching in desperation for contact. He chances a subtle bucking of his hips while attempting to distract her by peeling open her robe. Massaging the pillows of her breasts in his hands, he brings his mouth to a peaked nipple. Her body pushes against his at the stimulation, and she grinds into him, an impatient whine unwittingly escaping from Astarion at the briefest reprieve.
It’s taken away all too soon again when she pulls away. She sits back to look him over, smirking.
“What was that, pet? Use your words.”
“Nothing of your concern, mistress,” he replies demurely, attempting to still himself. He’s underestimated her ability to play this out, assuming they wouldn’t go far before she gave in to his teasing. He hopes that acquiescing to her now will grant him release sooner, rather than playing the brat and risking prolonged torture. He hopes.
She hums in response. “How far you’ve fallen, proud little lordling. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to be good for me.”
Santala grabs his cock, giving it a squeeze and a tug, her thumb tracing a vein on the underside. A choked gasp. Wanting. Needing.
“And will you be good for me?” she asks sweetly. They both know it’s rhetorical.
“Yes – fuck,” he hisses, as Santala folds over and kisses the tip, tonguing his slit and catching the beaded precum there.
Shifting back further, she wets her palm with spit and starts stroking his silky length at a languorous pace. He’s panting wantonly now.
“Enjoy your reward, pet, but don't cum until I say so,” Santala warns.
He nods wordlessly, eyes closed, biting his lip in an effort to divert some of his attention from the sweet warmth and grip of her hand. He ruts against it, walking the thin line of wanting more but not so much that it undoes him entirely.
He’s tested again when he feels another sensation lower down and opens his eyes. She’s nudged a knuckle from her free hand to his opening, pressing against it gently.
“Do you like being filled up?” she asks, hoping her intuition hasn’t led her astray.
A couple of her past lovers enjoyed it, but the circumstances of Astarion and Santala's relationship have thus far prevented them the luxury of exploration. After all, the constant threat of horrible death at any moment as well as the lack of sufficient privacy from their many campmates were not exactly conducive to such activities.
“Sometimes,” he answers, swallowing. “Lucky for you, this would be one such occasion.”
He’s astounded that he can still form a coherent sentence, given that he’s trembling with anticipation.
Santala retrieves a small bottle from the bedside table, slicking her index and middle fingers with its contents. She experimentally circles his rim with the pad of one finger, and his reaction does not disappoint. He inhales sharply as she teases him, tenderly working the first joint in, breaching him slowly. He’s wrapped incredibly tight around her. They lock eyes.
“Still with me?”
“Mm. Been a while,” he murmurs. “Keep going. Please.”
She continues – lovingly, patiently – sinking the next joint in, coaching him through it with honeyed words.
“You’re doing so well, sweetness,” she encourages, burying her finger entirely in him now. She pauses, letting his muscles relax and adjust. She presses the tip of the second digit against him, glancing at him in silent question. He gives the smallest of nods to assent, determined to keep from coming apart at the exquisite pain and pleasure of taking her in.
Santala takes the time to acclimate Astarion, and he begins rocking a little to create friction once she’s sheathed completely inside. Crooking her fingers to find and push gently at his prostate, she’s rewarded with a decidedly undignified, lustful utterance, his hips bucking up at the sudden sensation.
“Ah–! Gods above, Tala,” he chokes out. His nails scratch into the threads of the sheets, toes curling.
“Stay with me. You’re gorgeous like this,” she says, feeling her own clawing impatience at the mounting pressure between her legs.
Astarion’s eyes well up. It's not as if she's stingy with praise, but in this moment, it reverberates singularly like a bell within the warm darkness consuming him. The world is blurring – everything around him fading save for her voice and touch.
“Please,” he rasps. His eyelids flutter.
“Lovely thing. Just a little longer,” she says, addressing her own frustration as much as his.
He’s beginning to lose control now, squirming, letting her stroke that delicious spot inside, while trying to thrust his cock into her hand. It’s mindless, far from graceful, but he’s beyond that now. His moans are strained, all pretense and artifice gone.
Astarion gasps in anguish when she withdraws her fingers, leaving him empty and desperate.
Giving in to her desire at last, Santala wastes no time in moving to straddle him. She lowers herself onto him until he’s buried to the hilt. She takes a breath to savor the feeling of her walls clenching eagerly around his shaft.
And then she rides. Hard. Rutting and grinding with abandon, air hissing between bared teeth. It’s artless and brutal, their bodies creating obscene, slick noises. The punishing pace and animalistic aggression make it sweet all the same.
Moans turn into throaty cries, sweat gathering on their brows. They’re drunk on each other, her lush, velvety cunt so tight that it’s resisting the downstroke of his thrusting with its pull. He claws in desperation at her waist, her back, reaching up to beseech the closeness of his love.
She’s dangerously close. Santala swallows hard, panting, and lays a hand on his cheek with all the tenderness her lower body is lacking at the moment. Astarion, a thoroughly ravished mess beneath her, can only manage a soft whimper in response. White curls are splayed in a rough halo around his face, his ears pink at the tips.
A tear forms at the corner of his eye from the overstimulation and the effort to keep his release at bay. She swipes it away gently with her thumb, caressing the hollow of his cheekbone. He meets her gaze at the precipice, her silver piercing through his ruby down to the core of his very being.
The words issue from her parted lips at long last.
“Let go for me, my love.”
He pumps into her arrhythmically, hips stuttering as a strangled groan rips from him. Rapture rushes like lightning through his veins at his undoing. She climaxes as his cock spasms inside her, her walls pulsing to milk the rest of his seed in the aftershocks.
Astarion grits his teeth through the final convulsions of his body, stars exploding behind eyelids screwed shut. Air empties from his lungs in a sharp exhale, a string pulled taut to its limit finally snapping.
Santala’s broken moans fade as the ripples of her orgasm subside. She listens to Astarion’s quick, shallow huffs, interspersed with whispers, she thinks, but she can’t make out a single word. She bends forward, stroking Astarion’s hair lightly as his breathing evens out, planting a tender kiss on his forehead.
After a minute, she shimmies her arms underneath him and flips them both over so that she’s on her back with him slumped on top. It tickles a bit when he slides out, their warm spend trickling out from her.
Astarion nuzzles into the crook of her neck, utterly wrung out and unmoving save for the rise and fall of his back. She’s idly petting and carding her fingers through his locks, awash in post-coital euphoria.
“Star?” she inquires after some minutes of silence, wondering if he’s gone straight into a trance.
The response is a single muffled grunt of acknowledgement.
“You alright?”
He lifts his head with some effort, blinking narrowly, like a cat disturbed from its nap. He shifts to lie on his side, looking up, contentment written all over his tired face.
“More than,” he says. “Didn’t know what I was getting into. Didn’t know you could do that.”
“You’ve never asked,” she chuckles.
He buries his head again to hide his face.
“I hope I never stop discovering your wonderful surprises,” he murmurs, his lips brushing up against the edge of her ear.
She blushes and turns her head, capturing his lips softly and quickly, before he can wriggle his way out of the moment. Just like he’s doing now. He stretches away from her with a loud, exaggerated yawn.
“I need something to wash down the taste of that one,” he says, not quite managing the snide tone he's aiming for. Santala's unfazed by his poor attempt at distancing himself from sincerity, smiling serenely.
“Speaking of which, I’m absolutely starving,” he declares dramatically, propped up on his forearm. He grins, fangs exposed, eyes wide. He plays at bearing down on her neck, but she bats him away, and they both collapse into weak giggles.
Santala rolls onto her side, pulling him close to spoon. He curls against her, feeling the reassuring cadence of her heartbeat at his back. Her stomach chooses that moment to let out an embarrassingly loud growl. Astarion snickers.
“You can eat after I do,” she groans.
The long-forgotten rabbit stew sits patiently in the hearth, cooling in the dying embers.