[He exhales in something not quite a laugh, his tension ebbing as a swell of gratitude rises to take its place. Though, he realizes in the next moment, he would not have minded a few probing questions, not from Astarion. In some strange way, he's already earned the right.]
Is that a threat or a promise?
[But before Astarion can answer, Fenris lifts himself up off the ledge and rises to his feet with a loose-limbed sort of grace. He cocks his head, a little smirk slanting over his lips.]
Come. That blade looks good in your hands, but it would look all the better for being used.
[He spreads his arms open invitingly (and swaying only slightly from the headrush that rising so swiftly just brought him).]
Show me you are more than just a braggart. Manage to nick me and I will break out a bottle of Celestine red for you.
I'm going to assume that's an exceptional vintage.
[Something shines in that expression when Fenris rises. And right there, slung against baked-chalk walls at risk of crumbling faster than resolve, fixed in the full measure of its conspicuity, Astarion rapidly finds out just how susceptible he is to its call— a prickling rush of heat across his neck (real, not imagined, as it had to be when surviving as a lowly spawn), splitting the reckless corners of his own grin.
He forgets he's a lover by involuntary trade, not a fighter; forgets his limbs are saturated with a sluggish night's worth of drink— that his reflexes in this form already felt misaligned to begin with, foreign as a newborn babe taking its first few fumbling strides.
Does it matter?
Oh, not for a gods damned second.
He nearly topples sidelong in his own ascension, bootheels scuffing over dustcaked stone, expression only grown more vivid in the prelude to bloodlust— or what's adjacent to it, tethered as he is to this strange, new form of fondness. Scoffing before his dagger's fully palmed. Grinning before his posture sinks.
[He laughs, bright and clear, as he darts clumsily out of the way. They're both drunk, they're both far from their best, but Astarion is still a quick thing, and that delights Fenris to no end. There's intention in the way he stabs, a surety that speaks to survival— he doesn't hesitate the way an amateur might, wary of drawing blood or causing harm, oh, no. He fights to win, and it's the most thrilling thing in the world.]
Close— it's an excellent vintage, Astarion, laid down for the likes of nobility—
[Another stab, another dodge— he's playing on borrowed time, he knows, for Astarion will manage to hit him sooner or later. Even sober, there's only so many times that Fenris can reasonably dodge, and though he makes a show of dancing out of the way, teasing and taunting all the while—]
Not bad, but not decent enough—
[—sooner or later, that blade nearly hits home.
It grazes him by a hair, by a breath, steel singing as it soars by his cheek and kisses his skin, and it's only with the greatest of efforts that Fenris manages to spin himself and twist away from it. He follows through in the next moment, fitting himself behind Astarion and grabbing his dominant arm. His fingers wrap around his wrist tight as steel as Fenris' other arm comes up, wrapping tight around Astarion's other arm and chest— locking him in place in a pinning hold, at least for a few breathless moments.]
Close.
[He murmurs it roughly against Astarion's ear, a grin in his voice. The other elf's body is cool against his own, his figure slight and yet rippling with muscles; there's tension in the way they're fit together.
And Fenris lingers for just a few seconds too long.
Then, without any prompting, he releases him, taking a deliberate step back. There's color high in his cheeks, but there's nothing but friendly competition in his expression.]
Take your shoes off. You don't need to wear them, not here, and you'll be all the faster for it.
Dizziness is one word for it, yes, but it's a threadbare one. As far-reaching only as Astarion's own wild swipes had ultimately proved: too shallow to do more than graze their intended mark— and even then, succeeding solely by relative chance, for even a mangled clock is right twice a day as the saying so oft goes.
Punctuated when that glancing nick found its way to Fenris' skin, invoking a harsher influx of returned momentum. Left reeling in the aftermath (reeling, that's the word)— barely able to breathe whilst strong arms seize him like the scruffed cub that he is in this new form. Forgetting what he needs is air— let alone common sense— let alone awareness. Such a luxury. Such an overtaking, overriding thrill, drenched through in adrenaline rather than wine.
It's not a crime to think that— with Fenris' liquored breath puffing hard across his temple, chest palpable against the sharp bow of his back in every rise and measured fall— he could stay here like this. His own head tipped back around a narrow shoulder, sucking in the most guttery of his desires. Holding them fast between sharp canines, like that might somehow count as substitute for atrophied restraint made thinner now. Made mortal, just like him.
And you know, at least when all is said and done, he isn't a poor sport. Content to swallow down his loss with grace, and bend to its assertion before it's tugged away, and—]
[Comes with a sharp glance down towards his feet— or more true to the gesture: the hewn stonework underneath it, chalky white and dusted with years of exposed erosion. Bits of ash and soot and powdered sediment, a few pebbles here and there. Likely glass or grit, too, if he had to hazard a guess, and it feels like a damning prank to look over and note Fenris' own dress at the tail end of his observations. Common for the elves of the city from what Astarion's seen thus far; noted on their first night together, yes, but—
[No, seriously, what? The thought is so out of pocket to him that for a long moment Fenris just stares in bafflement, wondering if he's missed a step somewhere. And while he's at it: is that a thing? Are feet a fetish thing that people have? He wouldn't know, not really. He has more than a passing understanding of sex and the very basics of kink, but it's akin to dipping a toe in the water when there's a whole vast ocean of understanding out there. How can bare feet be— that is to say, what exactly is the appeal behind—
And then he realizes he's been standing there silently for far too long, caught up in trying to understand the concept of a foot fetish.]
Your soles are thick enough to support you without shoes.
[This must be another difference between worlds, he realizes. A little awkwardly (and somewhat miraculously, given his current drunken state) he lifts one foot, flexing it so that Astarion might see the bottom.]
I would not advise it everywhere, but within city limits? You need not bother with them. And you will be quicker and more nimble without them, I promise you.
[He's more curious than anything else, but it still comes out a little rudely as he adds:]
Do you truly wear shoes all the time in your world?
[Wobbling slightly for lack of sober balance, Astarion lifts one foot to peer downwards, evaluating his boot-covered feet with renewed aplomb— as if somehow he might see right through thick leather and find something never before known.]
....are they....?
[Muttered to himself. Solely for a moment, and then— testament to how deeply he's imprinted onto Fenris— sits down in tangible reluctance to begin tugging off his boots.
As far as answers go, it might not be direct, but it is telling. ]
—not all the time. There's bathing, sleeping, moments like that, anyway. We're no second class citizens. [Well shit. Fantastic, Astarion. Insult the very creature you admire by inescapable proxy, that will endear him to you. Never mind that it's too late to take back now.
Perhaps the best amends he could make is a redoubled effort to yank off his shoes— which he does.]
[Dark eyebrows raise for that remark, but though Fenris doesn't necessarily look impressed by it, nor will he take an enormous amount of offense. He approaches, squatting down to be on Astarion's level, watching with curiosity to see if his feet look as elven feet ought to.]
Is the implication meant to be that all your second-class citizens wear their shoes no matter what? It seems far more unhygienic than our way.
[It's not a real inquiry so much as a retort, but there's no need to linger overlong.]
Come. On your feet. And tell me if it feels differently than what you are used to.
[He'd state his rebuff loud and clear if not for the immediate overtake of all his senses from the very moment his foot is planted on the ground— left first— feeling the dry whip of the open wind buffeting his arch whilst his sole makes peace with flaky shale pushed snug between his toes.
Suddenly he's not dressed in a poet's shirt and slacks and night-dark gloves; suddenly he's wearing only the expressive reflection of sensory dismay, apparent from the cattish drooping of his ears right down to the slouch along his spine.]
It's so....
[Then the other foot, and it feels no better in the climb towards upright status: deepening the image of a child tasting something new, unsure of what the make of it might be(— aside from wishing for a return to being back in his boots, caught against Fenris' lithe front). Behind red eyes, gears turn for a long, long while.
[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.]
[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.
[At the risk of making it sound like a fetish thing: Astarion's feet are so soft. It's not strange in the sense of being odd, but it reminds Fenris of nothing so much as the delicate hands of noble ladies. Not a callous or a cut in sight, their skin always kept safe by kid gloves and the dutiful fussing of a maidservant. He stares in curiosity for a few moments, his head cocked and his eyes soft—
[And then Astarion says that and his expression goes scrunched.]
It is not a fetish thing!
[Oh, he said that far too loudly. Loud enough that a dog nearby starts barking excitedly; loud enough that there's no way people on the street didn't hear. He didn't mean to, but alcohol doesn't do well with volume moderation.]
[Still: it's embarrassment and waspish annoyance, but not anger, for he's still gentle as he drops the other elf's foot. He rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to stave off his embarrassment (for obvious reasons) and annoyance (for being so embarrassed in the first place, is he forty-three or thirteen, that he should be so embarrassed by a bit of teasing— but it's different with Astarion). Taking two steps back, he firmly ignores the heat still flooding his ears and waves a beckoning hand.]
Now put your knife up and tell me if you're any faster, unless you find yourself too delicate to fight where your feet might be exposed to dust. And be grateful I do not ask you if it is a kink of yours, fussy thing.
[Thank the gods for that bark. Fenris', not the dog's— otherwise they'd be wading dangerously close to the end result of what a dry mouth and a palpitating heart might bring. As things are, he can already feel his pulse down thrumming deep down in his belly.
It doesn't need to go any lower.
So he can't help it that he laughs just as loudly— all teeth— slipping back into his own space wreathed in a flourish of renewed vigor: alert as only adrenaline could leave him, and trickling his blade between his fingers like a busker with a coin.]
Win, and I'll tell you what I'm into, if you'd like.
[Is such a smooth bit of subterfuge it'd likely do half his dirty work for him, provided he didn't immediately wince at the feeling of stepping on a pebble, squirming (readjusting). Rolling his ankle first and his balance second in a lurching launch forwards that carries one long, sweeping swipe from the tip of his dagger.
[Oh, he wants to know. Why he can't say, not just yet, for it's a split-second realization, a sudden lightning that he doesn't have time to explore before Astarion darts forward. He's sluggish in lurching back, his mind torn between lingering on the implications of that statement and the present, and yet—
Mmph. A slow reaction meets a lopsided rush forward: they're evenly matched in the most embarrassing way. The tip of the dagger nearly catches at his chest; he leaps back with a grin, his eyes flicking down to watch Astarion's feet. And yes, poor thing: they are delicate, aren't they? Wincing from a mere pebble and flinching from the grit of the roof, oh, no wonder he's struggling. But practice is the only way forward, and those callouses will build soon enough.]
And what do you get if you win, hm?
[But it's no fun just to play keepaway forever. He reaches back, a knife slipping into his hand: a small thing, plain and worn but still sharp, kept on hand solely for nights when he doesn't feel like lugging around his sword.
Now it's a fight. No longer purely defensive, he circles warily around Astarion, torn between watching his body (sensible, smart, trying to track his next move) and watching his eyes (which keep drawing him back, for he's eager to keep drinking the other elf in).]
Do you wish for a ranking of my favorite positions? An account of all the times I've spread another's legs?
[Is an earnest question. One that twists this way and that, trying to keep track of Fenris' location though the tax on his heels is steep (or perhaps sharp: one stubborn piece of smooth-edged glass keeps jabbing hard into his left footpad, right between his toes)— he can't waste precious seconds readjusting without leaving himself wide open to attack. Ignore the prickle of excitement arching up across his neck. Ignore the rampant rush of chemical allure grown stronger at the sight of that dagger in bright hands. Ignore the memory of one minute ago, or the climb up here, or the way Fenris' smile glittered in pub lights—
No. No, really, ignore that. His heart is underneath his chin and aching from overuse, but when he licks his lips and finds Fenris staring, too, well....
It makes it easy to ignore the sensory nightmare underfoot, and angle instead towards a scattering of advancing strikes. Light through the wrist, testing shallow waters.]
[It's a dance now. A little slower, a little easier: Astarion's strikes the first swaying spin now that they've found their rhythm. Easily spotted and dodged as Fenris does his level best to watch for an opening— but oh, it's so hard when their conversation is so interesting. Thrilling in a way that Fenris does not understand, not yet; he attributes every excitable leap of his heart to the closeness of Astarion's blade and his own near-misses.
But he tires of playing defense. He's seen how well Astarion can attack; now it's time to shake things up. The next time he strikes Fenris darts forward, ducking instead of drawing back, his knife flashing sloppily as his foot strikes out and hooks behind Astarion's own—
— and with any luck, down they both go. Not hard, not when Fenris' other hand catches Astarion's hip, slowing his fall, but still: they're both sprawled on the roof, scrambling and grappling for the chance to come out on top. Until Fenris has him in a sloppy hold; until he's panting above him, grinning as he pins his wrist to the roof (and yet not done, not yet, not when he's leaving so many deliberate openings for Astarion to turn the tides— this is too much fun to end so quickly.)]
[Enslavement was a piss poor damper: there are countless things Astarion's longed for in his long, bleak facsimile of life. Freedom chief amongst them— though the only thing his desires ever had in common was their fondness for driving him to salivating desperation in the absence of all hope.
He's no less outmatched here. Reduced to a set of recklessly soused reflexes aware of scarcely anything between swings, but even they feel the whiff of cold air cut across the edge of his blade, funneling harsh along his knuckles. Motivated swipes coming close solely by luck's slanted mercy, making him fortunate if he can manage to stay on his feet, let alone catch a glancing nick or two along the way.
And yet he's convinced he's never wanted anything more.
After all, he's already free now, isn't he? What's left but the odd new rush that starts with a sudden pitch towards the ground— punctuates itself with iron fingers laced over his hip, his wrist— and ends with the words I'll let you have both. The hands he hated never felt like this; the rote innuendos scarcely earned his anorexic focus. What he didn't loathe, he felt nothing for. What beckoned him, he hated.
He doesn't hate this.
There's a daggering flash of teeth when his back hits stone, and the feeling of the fine bones of his wrist aching in warning as adrenaline cedes to raw sensation. The air is thick with foundry smoke and soot— but he wants to win. He wants to win. (How? How, when he's too new to this body, this form, these frail synapses? How, when his opponent might be drunk, but is a hardier thing with ingrained talent? All Astarion has is his ability to perform. To lie, and cheat, and beckon with sheer falsehoods— ) ]
It takes no less than a flicker of a heartbeat for Astarion to yelp out the most pitiful rasping cry: twisting through his shoulder and angling away from his pinned wrist— as if the impact might've shattered something. Damaged something in his fragile, ill-prepared state. Bare toes scuffling in dry dust as a byproduct of the way half-trapped legs struggle underneath his companion, battling for room at all to breathe.]
In an instant he's leapt back, his expression startled as his mind whirs— he must have been too harsh. Drunk and overeager as he is, it isn't such a shock that he's played too hard, nipped too roughly: not irreversible damage, no, but still, it isn't a good look. And what an awful thing for Astarion, on his very first real night out, to suffer through a broken wrist at the hands of the elf he plans to journey with— Maker's breath, and Fenris curses himself silently as he watches Astarion writhe.
He doesn't dare approach, not when those legs had kicked and struggled so fiercely. Instead, he leans forward in a half-kneel: cautiously present without crowding, his hands held out a little helplessly as he peers at Astarion.]
What is it? Your wrist?
[Let me see, he bites back, for he would not blame Astarion for not wanting to show it to him— and anyway, what the hell does he know about treating a broken wrist?]
[Like a wounded dog, it's the sad, wet eyes that rise up first from where he's fallen, limply raising the arm that'd been held out of trust alone, no matter the pain he suffers. There, you see? And the offering is pitiful because it is a bid at magnetism— the long draw inwards where the distance between them finally begins to shrink down, concern settled at the forefront—
And the second Fenris is in arms' reach, up comes that dagger from his other hand— 'wounded' one suddenly upsurging to try and catch him by the scruff— so that the sheathed tip of his blade can pin itself against the side of the other man's throat in befanged warning. What would be lethal were this real.
Whether it fails or succeeds, he's grinning like a damned fool.]
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no subject
Is that a threat or a promise?
[But before Astarion can answer, Fenris lifts himself up off the ledge and rises to his feet with a loose-limbed sort of grace. He cocks his head, a little smirk slanting over his lips.]
Come. That blade looks good in your hands, but it would look all the better for being used.
[He spreads his arms open invitingly (and swaying only slightly from the headrush that rising so swiftly just brought him).]
Show me you are more than just a braggart. Manage to nick me and I will break out a bottle of Celestine red for you.
[You won't, his cocksure grin says.]
no subject
[Something shines in that expression when Fenris rises. And right there, slung against baked-chalk walls at risk of crumbling faster than resolve, fixed in the full measure of its conspicuity, Astarion rapidly finds out just how susceptible he is to its call— a prickling rush of heat across his neck (real, not imagined, as it had to be when surviving as a lowly spawn), splitting the reckless corners of his own grin.
He forgets he's a lover by involuntary trade, not a fighter; forgets his limbs are saturated with a sluggish night's worth of drink— that his reflexes in this form already felt misaligned to begin with, foreign as a newborn babe taking its first few fumbling strides.
Does it matter?
Oh, not for a gods damned second.
He nearly topples sidelong in his own ascension, bootheels scuffing over dustcaked stone, expression only grown more vivid in the prelude to bloodlust— or what's adjacent to it, tethered as he is to this strange, new form of fondness. Scoffing before his dagger's fully palmed. Grinning before his posture sinks.
And lunges.]
no subject
Close— it's an excellent vintage, Astarion, laid down for the likes of nobility—
[Another stab, another dodge— he's playing on borrowed time, he knows, for Astarion will manage to hit him sooner or later. Even sober, there's only so many times that Fenris can reasonably dodge, and though he makes a show of dancing out of the way, teasing and taunting all the while—]
Not bad, but not decent enough—
[—sooner or later, that blade nearly hits home.
It grazes him by a hair, by a breath, steel singing as it soars by his cheek and kisses his skin, and it's only with the greatest of efforts that Fenris manages to spin himself and twist away from it. He follows through in the next moment, fitting himself behind Astarion and grabbing his dominant arm. His fingers wrap around his wrist tight as steel as Fenris' other arm comes up, wrapping tight around Astarion's other arm and chest— locking him in place in a pinning hold, at least for a few breathless moments.]
Close.
[He murmurs it roughly against Astarion's ear, a grin in his voice. The other elf's body is cool against his own, his figure slight and yet rippling with muscles; there's tension in the way they're fit together.
And Fenris lingers for just a few seconds too long.
Then, without any prompting, he releases him, taking a deliberate step back. There's color high in his cheeks, but there's nothing but friendly competition in his expression.]
Take your shoes off. You don't need to wear them, not here, and you'll be all the faster for it.
no subject
Dizziness is one word for it, yes, but it's a threadbare one. As far-reaching only as Astarion's own wild swipes had ultimately proved: too shallow to do more than graze their intended mark— and even then, succeeding solely by relative chance, for even a mangled clock is right twice a day as the saying so oft goes.
Punctuated when that glancing nick found its way to Fenris' skin, invoking a harsher influx of returned momentum. Left reeling in the aftermath (reeling, that's the word)— barely able to breathe whilst strong arms seize him like the scruffed cub that he is in this new form. Forgetting what he needs is air— let alone common sense— let alone awareness. Such a luxury. Such an overtaking, overriding thrill, drenched through in adrenaline rather than wine.
It's not a crime to think that— with Fenris' liquored breath puffing hard across his temple, chest palpable against the sharp bow of his back in every rise and measured fall— he could stay here like this. His own head tipped back around a narrow shoulder, sucking in the most guttery of his desires. Holding them fast between sharp canines, like that might somehow count as substitute for atrophied restraint made thinner now. Made mortal, just like him.
And you know, at least when all is said and done, he isn't a poor sport. Content to swallow down his loss with grace, and bend to its assertion before it's tugged away, and—]
—my shoes....?
2/2
On this rooftop?
[Comes with a sharp glance down towards his feet— or more true to the gesture: the hewn stonework underneath it, chalky white and dusted with years of exposed erosion. Bits of ash and soot and powdered sediment, a few pebbles here and there. Likely glass or grit, too, if he had to hazard a guess, and it feels like a damning prank to look over and note Fenris' own dress at the tail end of his observations. Common for the elves of the city from what Astarion's seen thus far; noted on their first night together, yes, but—
He gestures with an index finger, stalling.]
....is this a fetish thing?
1/3
no subject
And then he realizes he's been standing there silently for far too long, caught up in trying to understand the concept of a foot fetish.]
3/3
No. I— no.
Your soles are thick enough to support you without shoes.
[This must be another difference between worlds, he realizes. A little awkwardly (and somewhat miraculously, given his current drunken state) he lifts one foot, flexing it so that Astarion might see the bottom.]
I would not advise it everywhere, but within city limits? You need not bother with them. And you will be quicker and more nimble without them, I promise you.
[He's more curious than anything else, but it still comes out a little rudely as he adds:]
Do you truly wear shoes all the time in your world?
no subject
....are they....?
[Muttered to himself. Solely for a moment, and then— testament to how deeply he's imprinted onto Fenris— sits down in tangible reluctance to begin tugging off his boots.
As far as answers go, it might not be direct, but it is telling. ]
—not all the time. There's bathing, sleeping, moments like that, anyway. We're no second class citizens. [Well shit. Fantastic, Astarion. Insult the very creature you admire by inescapable proxy, that will endear him to you. Never mind that it's too late to take back now.
Perhaps the best amends he could make is a redoubled effort to yank off his shoes— which he does.]
no subject
Is the implication meant to be that all your second-class citizens wear their shoes no matter what? It seems far more unhygienic than our way.
[It's not a real inquiry so much as a retort, but there's no need to linger overlong.]
Come. On your feet. And tell me if it feels differently than what you are used to.
no subject
Suddenly he's not dressed in a poet's shirt and slacks and night-dark gloves; suddenly he's wearing only the expressive reflection of sensory dismay, apparent from the cattish drooping of his ears right down to the slouch along his spine.]
It's so....
[Then the other foot, and it feels no better in the climb towards upright status: deepening the image of a child tasting something new, unsure of what the make of it might be(— aside from wishing for a return to being back in his boots, caught against Fenris' lithe front). Behind red eyes, gears turn for a long, long while.
Longer still, before:]
....dusty.
[:( ]
no subject
(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.]
no subject
....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.]
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no subject
It is not a fetish thing!
[Oh, he said that far too loudly. Loud enough that a dog nearby starts barking excitedly; loud enough that there's no way people on the street didn't hear. He didn't mean to, but alcohol doesn't do well with volume moderation.]
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[Still: it's embarrassment and waspish annoyance, but not anger, for he's still gentle as he drops the other elf's foot. He rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to stave off his embarrassment (for obvious reasons) and annoyance (for being so embarrassed in the first place, is he forty-three or thirteen, that he should be so embarrassed by a bit of teasing— but it's different with Astarion). Taking two steps back, he firmly ignores the heat still flooding his ears and waves a beckoning hand.]
Now put your knife up and tell me if you're any faster, unless you find yourself too delicate to fight where your feet might be exposed to dust. And be grateful I do not ask you if it is a kink of yours, fussy thing.
4/4
Is it?
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It doesn't need to go any lower.
So he can't help it that he laughs just as loudly— all teeth— slipping back into his own space wreathed in a flourish of renewed vigor: alert as only adrenaline could leave him, and trickling his blade between his fingers like a busker with a coin.]
Win, and I'll tell you what I'm into, if you'd like.
[Is such a smooth bit of subterfuge it'd likely do half his dirty work for him, provided he didn't immediately wince at the feeling of stepping on a pebble, squirming (readjusting). Rolling his ankle first and his balance second in a lurching launch forwards that carries one long, sweeping swipe from the tip of his dagger.
It's very lopsided, for the record.]
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Mmph. A slow reaction meets a lopsided rush forward: they're evenly matched in the most embarrassing way. The tip of the dagger nearly catches at his chest; he leaps back with a grin, his eyes flicking down to watch Astarion's feet. And yes, poor thing: they are delicate, aren't they? Wincing from a mere pebble and flinching from the grit of the roof, oh, no wonder he's struggling. But practice is the only way forward, and those callouses will build soon enough.]
And what do you get if you win, hm?
[But it's no fun just to play keepaway forever. He reaches back, a knife slipping into his hand: a small thing, plain and worn but still sharp, kept on hand solely for nights when he doesn't feel like lugging around his sword.
Now it's a fight. No longer purely defensive, he circles warily around Astarion, torn between watching his body (sensible, smart, trying to track his next move) and watching his eyes (which keep drawing him back, for he's eager to keep drinking the other elf in).]
Do you wish for a ranking of my favorite positions? An account of all the times I've spread another's legs?
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[Is an earnest question. One that twists this way and that, trying to keep track of Fenris' location though the tax on his heels is steep (or perhaps sharp: one stubborn piece of smooth-edged glass keeps jabbing hard into his left footpad, right between his toes)— he can't waste precious seconds readjusting without leaving himself wide open to attack. Ignore the prickle of excitement arching up across his neck. Ignore the rampant rush of chemical allure grown stronger at the sight of that dagger in bright hands. Ignore the memory of one minute ago, or the climb up here, or the way Fenris' smile glittered in pub lights—
No. No, really, ignore that. His heart is underneath his chin and aching from overuse, but when he licks his lips and finds Fenris staring, too, well....
It makes it easy to ignore the sensory nightmare underfoot, and angle instead towards a scattering of advancing strikes. Light through the wrist, testing shallow waters.]
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[It's a dance now. A little slower, a little easier: Astarion's strikes the first swaying spin now that they've found their rhythm. Easily spotted and dodged as Fenris does his level best to watch for an opening— but oh, it's so hard when their conversation is so interesting. Thrilling in a way that Fenris does not understand, not yet; he attributes every excitable leap of his heart to the closeness of Astarion's blade and his own near-misses.
But he tires of playing defense. He's seen how well Astarion can attack; now it's time to shake things up. The next time he strikes Fenris darts forward, ducking instead of drawing back, his knife flashing sloppily as his foot strikes out and hooks behind Astarion's own—
— and with any luck, down they both go. Not hard, not when Fenris' other hand catches Astarion's hip, slowing his fall, but still: they're both sprawled on the roof, scrambling and grappling for the chance to come out on top. Until Fenris has him in a sloppy hold; until he's panting above him, grinning as he pins his wrist to the roof (and yet not done, not yet, not when he's leaving so many deliberate openings for Astarion to turn the tides— this is too much fun to end so quickly.)]
If you win, Astarion, I'll let you have both.
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He's no less outmatched here. Reduced to a set of recklessly soused reflexes aware of scarcely anything between swings, but even they feel the whiff of cold air cut across the edge of his blade, funneling harsh along his knuckles. Motivated swipes coming close solely by luck's slanted mercy, making him fortunate if he can manage to stay on his feet, let alone catch a glancing nick or two along the way.
And yet he's convinced he's never wanted anything more.
After all, he's already free now, isn't he? What's left but the odd new rush that starts with a sudden pitch towards the ground— punctuates itself with iron fingers laced over his hip, his wrist— and ends with the words I'll let you have both. The hands he hated never felt like this; the rote innuendos scarcely earned his anorexic focus. What he didn't loathe, he felt nothing for. What beckoned him, he hated.
He doesn't hate this.
There's a daggering flash of teeth when his back hits stone, and the feeling of the fine bones of his wrist aching in warning as adrenaline cedes to raw sensation. The air is thick with foundry smoke and soot— but he wants to win. He wants to win. (How? How, when he's too new to this body, this form, these frail synapses? How, when his opponent might be drunk, but is a hardier thing with ingrained talent? All Astarion has is his ability to perform. To lie, and cheat, and beckon with sheer falsehoods— ) ]
2/2
Right.
It takes no less than a flicker of a heartbeat for Astarion to yelp out the most pitiful rasping cry: twisting through his shoulder and angling away from his pinned wrist— as if the impact might've shattered something. Damaged something in his fragile, ill-prepared state. Bare toes scuffling in dry dust as a byproduct of the way half-trapped legs struggle underneath his companion, battling for room at all to breathe.]
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In an instant he's leapt back, his expression startled as his mind whirs— he must have been too harsh. Drunk and overeager as he is, it isn't such a shock that he's played too hard, nipped too roughly: not irreversible damage, no, but still, it isn't a good look. And what an awful thing for Astarion, on his very first real night out, to suffer through a broken wrist at the hands of the elf he plans to journey with— Maker's breath, and Fenris curses himself silently as he watches Astarion writhe.
He doesn't dare approach, not when those legs had kicked and struggled so fiercely. Instead, he leans forward in a half-kneel: cautiously present without crowding, his hands held out a little helplessly as he peers at Astarion.]
What is it? Your wrist?
[Let me see, he bites back, for he would not blame Astarion for not wanting to show it to him— and anyway, what the hell does he know about treating a broken wrist?]
There are a few healers still open, I think—
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And the second Fenris is in arms' reach, up comes that dagger from his other hand— 'wounded' one suddenly upsurging to try and catch him by the scruff— so that the sheathed tip of his blade can pin itself against the side of the other man's throat in befanged warning. What would be lethal were this real.
Whether it fails or succeeds, he's grinning like a damned fool.]
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