He could lie. The possibility is right within his reach, affording him the opportunity to feign indifference and leave his own facade intact, rather than let Fenris check him in oh so many ways (the flex of that wrist, and how Astarion has to push forward not to let him slip free by any real measure; the roll of those hips, so damned fearless— or maybe trusting) in this little game of theirs.

But the moment those hips buck high, Astarion exhales sharply through his own nose, yanking the dagger back to keep from cutting his companion— though the laces of those trousers suffer dearly for how he's forced to draw the blade away at an angle, ceding his advantage.

His tongue clicks against the back of his own fangs, though there's such a thready undertone to his voice. The kind of sound that might hint at longing. Need.

All of it just barely contained.

"Don't push your luck," he warns, already attempting to shift back into a point of control via bearing down harder against Fenris' arm. His hips, where the front of Fenris' trousers have come completely undone, twisting his own body with serpentine fluidity.

If he can't fully pin down the marked elf caught beneath him, at the very least, he intends to come near it.

"I'm liable to bite."