The morning was slow, the kind of gentle, lazy start that made Astarion almost forget the dangers lurking outside their little camp. He lay sprawled on the long couch in his quarters, one pillow behind his head, his legs comfortably draped over you. You were occupied with a book, fingers idly flipping through pages with rhythmic consistency. It was peaceful, almost domestic—something he never would have imagined himself indulging in. Yet here he was, tangled up in a quiet moment with you, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

After a stretch of silence, he let out a thoughtful hum, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Then, completely unprompted, he mused aloud, “I wonder what I taste like.” The sound of your page-flipping came to an abrupt halt. He smirked, eyes flicking to you, relishing the way your expression shifted. Oh, the possibilities. Did he mean in a fine, aged-wine sort of way? Or something more… visceral? He didn’t clarify. Where was the fun in that?

Instead, he simply stretched, letting the tension build, waiting to see whether you’d ask or wisely let it go. Either way, he was entertained. “Do you think I’d be more of a delicacy or an acquired taste?” he added with a smirk, eyes glinting with mischief. Ah, mornings like these were delightful.