[Adorable— and this time Fenris does allow himself that thought. It's patronizing and belittling and he wouldn't dare say it aloud, but that's the word that slips through his mind as Astarion stares up at him so dolefully. His ears low and his eyes so wide, looking like a pup miserable in the rain: his expression woefully miserable but not disobedient.
(And what a thing it is, some quiet part of him murmurs, to be so free that dusty feet are Astarion's biggest worry. A minor inconvenience, discomfiting but not painful. That, too, he will not point out aloud, but his heart beats a little faster to know that Astarion is experiencing the wonder of such mundane inconveniences now).]
It is the ground.
[Is he laughing? Sort of. One hand rubs at his mouth, halfheartedly hiding an irrepressible grin that he only barely tries to bite back.]
There are elves who wear shoes if you truly loathe the experience. But at least see if you can move a little more quickly before that.
[He comes over, curious despite himself. It is dusty, he notices. He barely registers the ground beneath his feet anymore, too used to the softness of dirt roads or the grit of the rooftops, but Astarion isn't wrong.]
Does it feel differently than you are used to? Let me see—
[He braces one leg forward, tapping at his thigh to indicate Astarion ought to hoist his foot up. Curiosity wins over dignity when he's drunk— though his expression twists as a thought crosses his mind. His eyes dart up and back, debating on whether to say anything, but surely speaking will make it worse.
It's just that this isn't a fetish thing, and yet the surest way to ensure it becomes weird is to specifically deny that it's a fetish thing. Only people who have fetishes do that, probably. Almost assuredly. And now he's thinking about this again, Maker damn it all.]
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(And what a thing it is, some quiet part of him murmurs, to be so free that dusty feet are Astarion's biggest worry. A minor inconvenience, discomfiting but not painful. That, too, he will not point out aloud, but his heart beats a little faster to know that Astarion is experiencing the wonder of such mundane inconveniences now).]
It is the ground.
[Is he laughing? Sort of. One hand rubs at his mouth, halfheartedly hiding an irrepressible grin that he only barely tries to bite back.]
There are elves who wear shoes if you truly loathe the experience. But at least see if you can move a little more quickly before that.
[He comes over, curious despite himself. It is dusty, he notices. He barely registers the ground beneath his feet anymore, too used to the softness of dirt roads or the grit of the rooftops, but Astarion isn't wrong.]
Does it feel differently than you are used to? Let me see—
[He braces one leg forward, tapping at his thigh to indicate Astarion ought to hoist his foot up. Curiosity wins over dignity when he's drunk— though his expression twists as a thought crosses his mind. His eyes dart up and back, debating on whether to say anything, but surely speaking will make it worse.
It's just that this isn't a fetish thing, and yet the surest way to ensure it becomes weird is to specifically deny that it's a fetish thing. Only people who have fetishes do that, probably. Almost assuredly. And now he's thinking about this again, Maker damn it all.]