The noise that escapes him is part-gasp, part whimper. He hadn't expected the sudden forceful thrusts or for them to stop so quickly, and he almost fails their game, almost reaches up for Nate. The scarf's slipped some from the half-lift of one arm, but it's still barely on both wrists and Anders gives Nate a pleading look. He's trying. Maybe it won't count, because he'd be pulling at things if he was held.

"I know how you love to take me, Nathaniel," he purrs, being as persuasive as he possibly can. "And I love the way you fuck me, Nate." There could be less words. He could try to push Nate to desperation, try to see the archer lose control, but the submission here is more fun.