Fenris tries to kick, but it's pointless with the way the other man has settled close and tight between his thighs. Evidence of sparked arousal now trapped between them, he can feel heat creeping into his face and down his neck as Astarion leans low.

The sound of Astarion's voice does not help his condition, the sheer desire pressing him down as surely as the body above him. For that alone he might yield, for the promise in that smooth voice dripping wickedness. The next time he moves, his hips cant towards the pale elf. Through it all he is keenly aware of the sharp edge near his throat and he's quite certain he's cut Astarion, who seems undeterred despite the sting of a shallow cut. Lips part to breathe and his blood is singing.

He considers his position and the likelihood that he can press his luck without risking Astarion changing his mind. It is unreasonable how quickly the rush of adrenaline has shifted from fight to--this. His pulse pounds and yet he cannot bring himself to just yield. Nor will he beg. So he shifts his hips again with a far more deliberate rock, grinding up against Astarion as he keeps his eyes on his opponent's face.

"I'm not sure you've earned my concession," he breathes, voice heavier than he thought it would be when he finally musters the words.