Even if the pressure comes from the flat of the blade, Fenris tips his head back and realizes it gets his mouth closer to Astarion's. His lips remain parted even as his breathing gets deeper, steadier. A hand closes around his wrist and Fenris immediately forces tension, pulling against the hold without immediately trying to break it.

"No," he growls in answer, and the single word carries a heavily implied make me. Fenris is intent on ignoring the rush of heat pooling low in his body, the threat of desire for something other than a fight. Or something with fight.

He lets the blade he holds shift, still pressing dangerously against Astarion's ribs but no longer in danger of slipping between them if either of them makes a quick movement. As riled up as he is, Fenris does not want to end this fight needing to tend a punctured lung or worse. With another quiet sound of frustration, Fenris tries to move his other leg, not quite sure he can get it up enough to plant it on Astarion's chest, not with the way they're positioned and not with his current injuries already burning with warning.