“Telling me how to do my job? Bossy.” Astarion scolds, all mock offense and muted tone.

Even so, he waits until he’s finished binding and pinning the last of that wrapping before his hand finds its way back into place against Ellis’ side. He can feel a heartbeat through it. Sharper senses. Simple function.

Or maybe he’s just imagining that fact, like some sort of half-forgotten, predatory instinct.

Either way, knee to the floor and hand to a man’s unclothed torso, it’s more than a little restrictive as far as exchanges go. Much as Astarion likes to tease, insatiability etched into the marrow of his wicked bones, sitting like this isn’t the most thrilling way to burn waning daylight.

“Do me a favor at least. There’s a bottle of wine beside you: uncork it and fill any of the cups just there.” All of them have been used, of course— but there’s no need to tell Ellis that.

And really, who has time to wash anything anyway?

“No point in just sitting here doing nothing to pass the time while we wait.”