Work Text:
Romantic relationships have never been Astarion's forte. They come with a multitude of nuances and expectations that centuries of doomed one-night stands left him ill-prepared for.
To be frank, the Astarion of a few months ago wouldn't have bothered wasting his time on such trivialities. He'd been too wrapped up with his own demons and scrabbling to survive to bother focusing on anyone but himself.
But now… now things are different.
It's taking some getting used to.
Curled up with his cheek pillowed on one arm and fresh from his reverie, Astarion is content to watch the human still sleeping at his side. He's still not used to the sight. Who would have thought that a broken creature like him would end up enamored by a person such as this?
Barry is—well, frankly, they're ridiculous. A right numpty, in fact, always acting the part of a clown now that they've warmed up to their equally absurd group. But they're also a werewolf, and it's only right that monsters stick together, especially when both monsters have a history of being subjugated by evil arseholes.
Plus, Barry is sweet. Dependable. Protective. All things that Astarion hadn't been the focus of in centuries.
Cazador would have had his head if Astarion tried bringing a mark like Barry to the palace. There's nothing conventionally beautiful about them, for starters; they're far too short and portly for the Master's tastes, and gods forbid any of the spawn bring back someone as obnoxious as a bard .
But perhaps that's part of what makes Barry so appealing: the fact that they're everything Cazador didn't want. No one like Barry ever pawed at Astarion or harmed him during his thrall, for he had never given them the chance.
A loud, vibrating rumble breaks through the slow, downward spiral of Astarion's thoughts, and he has to bite back a laugh. His Master might be dead now, but the memories can linger on like the lingering stench of rot, and Astarion is grateful for the distraction. "I suppose it's that time of the month again, isn't it, love?" he whispers, ghosting a few slender fingertips over Barry's plump belly, still sounding its displeasure at its pre-shift emptiness. The flesh has a tantalizing give to it that Astarion never tires of exploring. "My poor little pup, already riding so close to the full moon… you must be starving ."
The knowledge sparks an idea in Astarion's head, a thought he'd have been reticent to entertain until recently. Rather than waking his lover, the vampire silently slides out of bed, dresses, and slips out of the room into the dawn's early light to set his plan in motion.
Morning has fully arrived by the time Astarion returns to their rented room at the Elfsong Tavern, a covered basket under each arm and an impish smile gracing his lips.
"Oh! There you are, hon!" Barry's voice pipes up the moment the door creaks open, as dulcet and soothing to his ears as ever. They've already emerged from bed and dressed while Astarion was out, now clad in the comfortable linen trousers and sleeveless shirt they often wear around camp. Seated in their room's corner armchair, they're casually strumming out a few chords on their lute with their glasses hanging low on their nose, a picture of relaxation. "I was beginning to wonder where you'd gone off to."
"I thought we deserved something special today, considering that we've just thrown off the rusty shackles of bondage," Astarion replies, carefully dropping the baskets to the floor and toeing off his boots. "And because I know that someone's on the cusp of going delightfully fuzzy."
"Oh." There's a hint of hesitation in Barry's voice, a flush of blood to their cheeks, both of which Astarion is fairly sure have more to do with anticipation rather than any form of embarrassment. "What… exactly did you have in mind, Star?"
Astarion can't blame them for being cautious. His penchant for stirring the pot and causing chaos and mayhem isn't exactly a secret. But that doesn't mean Astarion can't find pleasure in more mundane things—even if the extent to which they'll go to might seem a tad unusual to some.
"I mean that I have negotiated for a day off from our usual tadpole-related nonsense," he preens, artfully placing a hand on one cocked hip and striking an alluring pose. It hadn't been particularly difficult to convince the others to leave them behind today, actually, considering that both he and Barry had recently been through the proverbial ringer while tearing themselves free of wicked masters. "We deserve the chance to take a little time for ourselves, don't you think?"
Barry's face brightens almost immediately, the lute coming to rest on their lap. "Oh, most assuredly!"
"Especially with the full moon just around the corner, threatening to throw my beloved werewolf's metabolism out of whack and leave them so very peckish." Astarion stalks forward until he's standing right between the thick pillars of Barry's outstretched legs. Long, pale fingers glide over the front of Barry's shirt, giving an appreciative stroke to the curves of tantalizingly veiled flesh. "So I brought us both a treat to give you a head start on things. Well, the treat's technically for you, but I get to enjoy it vicariously, so I'd say it still counts."
Those stormy blue eyes light up in a way that sends a jolt of anticipation straight through Astarion's insides.
With a playful tap to Barry's lips, Astarion returns to his covered bounty and draws the covers off with a showman's flourish. The air is instantly awash with the scents of honey and fruit, of chocolate, coffee, and sweetened cream—released by more freshly baked pastries than Astarion could ever hope to name.
"I have it on good authority," –it turns out that Wyll is good for something after all– "that the shop I procured these from makes some of the best confections this wretched city has to offer. So, how about we start our day off with a spot of breakfast, hmm?"
Cazador stole so much from Astarion: his life, his liberty, his dignity, his ability to say 'no'. Even the most mundane of life's pleasures seemed alien to a near-feral vampire spawn during those first few days of freedom.
Well, fuck that. Fuck him . Cazador is dead (well and truly this time), and Astarion is selfishly seizing every facet of existence he can sink his claws into. After two centuries of starvation and exploitation, he's enjoying things on his own terms, godsdammit.
So, if anyone views the way he's reclaiming his sensuality as 'unconventional'? Well, fuck them, too.
Right now, he's splayed across the plush cushion of Barry's lap, lounging against a soft, rotund belly and watching them eat. Astarion feels a bit like a prince draped atop a pile of the most luxuriant pillows, only his happens to be human-shaped, warm, and smells positively decadent.
For someone who doesn't eat in the traditional sense, Astarion never expected to enjoy watching others partake. Specifically, he enjoys watching Barry do it—especially when they're eating right out of Astarion's hand.
Yes, he's feeding his lover. And he loves it.
Ruby eyes take in every movement of their jaw, every bob of their throat, the way their lips part to accept each new morsel nudged against them by Astarion's fingers. Pointed ears twitch in interest with every smack of Barry's lips, every soft groan, every sigh of delight. From the first crunch of teeth through a crisp pastry crust to the last rhythmic swallow, Astarion is positively spellbound.
"That's my dear," Astarion murmurs, brushing a couple of stray crumbs from Barry's lower lip before reaching for the next sweet treat. "We simply can't have you wolfing out with an empty belly, so you'd better eat up."
"Of course," Barry chuckles in return, already opening their mouth to accept the vampire's next offering. This one is more tender, with multiple layers of golden dough rolled around a thick layer of strawberries. A bit of the filling oozes out mid-bite, smearing Astarion's pallid fingers in fruity ichor.
Clucking fondly, Astarion waits for Barry to swallow again before pressing his sticky fingers between the other's lips. "Tell me. What's this one taste like?"
Barry's tongue curls briefly around the cool digits before sucking them clean and letting them slip free. "The pastry is rich—buttery, with a hint of nuttiness. And the filling is sweet and perfectly tart." But of course, the bard can't let the moment pass without an impish nip to Astarion's fingers. "You add a touch of salt, too."
"Cheeky little thing," Astarion titters, plucking the next pastry from its hamper and waving it before Barry's face. "I know I look scrumptious, but that doesn't mean I'm meant for eating. Now be a good boy for me and open wide, hmm?"
With Astarion's help, Barry finishes the first basket with ease. Their momentum starts to slow several pastries into the second, but Barry doesn't seem interested in stopping, and Astarion certainly isn't going to end things before his lover is ready.
Each decadent mouthful passes between Barry's lips with rapacious enthusiasm, like they treasure every single morsel. Astarion can't recall all the nuances of what eating feels like, or how the different flavors might blossom across his tongue, but there's still a certain thrill he gets by doing so vicariously through Barry.
Bite. Chew. Swallow. A brush of fingers against lips, over the finally textured surface of a tongue. Every sound Barry makes, every movement of his human body as it obtains nourishment… gods if it doesn't push all of the right buttons for Astarion.
"I'm not sure how much more I can manage," Barry eventually says, sounding happy but a bit resigned at the limits of their own stomach. "You brought me so many."
His mouth curling in a performative little pout, Astarion drops his cheek to rest against Barry's shoulder, one slightly sticky hand rubbing over the other's bloated middle. "Well, that feels simply thankless," he says with a petulant moue. "After I went through all of the trouble of providing for my darling pet, and they can't even finish what I've brought them?"
Barry groans, slumping even further into the armchair. "You are positively incorrigible," Barry mutters under their breath, though their eyes are fond beyond the gleam of their glasses. "I do have my limits, you know."
"I am very well aware." They've played this game before, and Astarion knows how to recognize when a fun level of discomfort is starting to edge toward actual distress. They simply aren't there yet. "But I also know that you love pleasing me."
The bard lets out a long-suffering sigh, their gaze flickering over to the remaining baked treats. There's a longing in their eyes that neither of them can deny. "Fine. But only if you promise to eat, too."
"Oh darling—with relish ."
Three more pastries. Barry consumes sweets adorned with drizzles of golden honey, freshly roasted nuts, and thin slices of apricot with slow, careful bites. All the while, Astarion finds his attention shifting between the sight of his lover's compliant gluttony and the steady thrum of blood pumping just beneath their skin. When Barry struggles to finish their final mouthful, Astarion is already nuzzling along their collarbone, whispering gentle words of encouragement. And when he feels the last, laboring bob of Barry's throat as they swallow, the vampire bares his fangs and sinks them into that warm, thick neck.
Flavor explodes over Astarion's tongue, rich and metallic and alive, a promise of heat and sustenance that he'll never grow tired of. This is his own favorite meal, one he'd gladly gorge himself on if he could. The blood of thinking creatures is a luxury all of its own, but Barry's is a hedonistic nectar that far surpasses any other.
He feels a hand come to rest at the nape of his neck while he feeds, broad fingers tangling in his meticulously coiffed curls, and Astarion shudders against his lover's soft body as he lets out hushed, whimpering sounds of pleasure that he'll vehemently deny later.
Gods, they really are ravenous for each other, aren't they?
"Star?"
"Hmm?"
There's a clear snicker from somewhere farther up, but Astarion chooses not to acknowledge it. He's far too busy lounging atop his shifted werewolf lover, burying his face into the plush pillow of Barry's chest. It's at times like these that he's truly thankful that he doesn't need to breathe.
"Are you enjoying yourself?"
Ugh, fine . Astarion surfaces with a facetious scowl, crossing his arms and pillowing his chin atop them as he cocks an eyebrow. "We have spent tendays upon tendays sleeping in ragged tents, on threadbare bedrolls, in some of the coldest, dampest environments I've ever encountered in my bloody life. Now I'm in an actual bed, relaxing upon my furnace of a lover, who currently happens to be even furrier and softer than usual. What do you think?"
A pair of fur-covered paws curl around Astarion's upper back, with just enough pressure behind the touch for him to feel the tips of Barry's claws through the fabric of his shirt. "I suppose I already know the answer, then."
Astarion snorts in response. Impertinent whelp .
Below him, the mound of Barry's belly is still taut from their earlier play. It's not quite as comfortable to lie on in this state, but just knowing that he's the one who filled it so full, that he could provide for another as a show of affection… Astarion has never known another feeling like it.
He squirms a little further down until he's able to press his cheek against the other's prominent stomach, so very different from his own. Astarion doesn't need sharp elven hearing to catch the way it rumbles around its heavy load of sweet breads, the faint sounds of digestion novel in their own right. "You did so well earlier, pet," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to that swollen abdomen while his fingertips dance along the curve of it. "Devouring every last crumb for me with nary a complaint. I'm afraid you'll leave me quite spoiled if you continue being so pliant to my whims."
"'Pliant'?" Barry bursts into a round of chuckles that leaves their belly jiggling pleasantly. "And what about me, hmm? If you keep insisting on feeding me like this in our downtime, what's gonna happen after we take care of the Netherbrain?"
"Then you'll become the very picture of overindulgence," Astarion murmurs, his hands sliding around the pudge at Barry's waist to give it an affectionate squeeze, "and everyone who looks at you will know that you're adored."
Barry lets out a whine of mock protest and snaps their teeth, embracing Astarion a bit tighter.
"And I will never be left bereft of something soft to lie on."
The werewolf sputters and swats reprovingly at Astarion's arse, though there isn't any heat to it. "Oh my gods, babe! "