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—]
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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....?