[Astarion wasn't Cazador's only spawn; he knows what a grin looks like (and the quirk of what lies beneath Fenris' hand implies enough that) there's a momentary narrowing of crimson eyes, peppered with toothless irritation— the tepid flicking of a cats tail once-startled, not inclined to swiftly wend back to even those it loves, now supecting them of being the perpetrator of its woes.

....but like rarely resents like. Beasts of mischief least of all.

If this is a game at his expense, he only has himself to blame for falling for it without a second, bare-soled thought: shifting over on tender obeisance (again, his movements run slow and finicky), graceless from the pads of his feet on outwards save for the agility nearly lost underneath it. The slack, steady traction of his joints, present despite any wobbling from bracing with his other foot.

Somehow, perhaps in penance for prior sin, he manages not to ask once more if this truly isn't a fetish Fenris might silently be nursing along— ]

Of course it feels different: I'm not wearing shoes outdoors in a city that seems designed to be a breeding ground for rust, old nails, broken bottles and raw smut.

[(The aged definition. Not the newer one.)]

—it'd be fine if it was a kink of yours, you know. I wouldn't judge.

[Oh. Nope. There it is.]