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On the couch, he sits in the middle, on his side, one leg tucked under him, giving Astarion the choice to sit facing him, or behind him with continued access to his back.
Astarion sits behind him, keeping close, gently rubbing one hand up and down his arm. The other gently traces a fingertip along the welts and circles the bruises, bringing their sting up fresh.
"Tell me how you're feeling, my sweet?"
"Feeling...quiet? Good quiet. A little floaty." He's still hard, too, but there's nothing urgent about it. After a good thrashing his brain shuts up and there's nothing urgent about anything. It's a wonderful relief.
"Should I warn you that I'm gonna keep the gloves on?" he asks, teasingly contrite, as he cups Jedao's neck to run a thumb up the already well-kissed tendon there.
"You minx. Hakkai told you, didn't he," Jedao accuses, between whimpers.
"M-Maybe. What're you gonna do about it?" he huffs out, and it doesn't sound as much like as a challenge as it does a begged question. "'cos- maybe I wanna take you to pound town too."
"Better do it fast or you won't get to touch it," he mumbles, and he's letting go of Jedao to try and squeeze past his thighs to start working on his own belt.
Because he's helpful like that.
"Too mean?" Jedao asks, somewhere in between gentle and teasing.
A part of his brain that's not completely driven out by his horniness makes him pull back as Jedao sheds his jacket, glancing down at his own dick in the mild confusion of ongoing sensation there. "...oh, right. You're like, telekinetic or whatever."
"So - shirts? No shirts?"
"None of them hurt or anything," Jedao promises him. "They're just...a lot."
Astarion doesn't know of any word for what Jedao is feeling, and he's never experienced it himself, but he's encountered it in other people. It sounds nice. A temporary escape.
He knows better than to do anything much to disturb him, though eventually his hand falls away from his back, the other just resting lightly on an untouched patch of his shoulder.
"How about you?"
"I feel...wonderful, actually. Better than I have for a long time."
Being able to drink his fill, finally, is a highlight of his time here that nothing is likely to eclipse. But this is so close that it doesn't feel like more than a white lie.
"I don't think I've ever met someone who hurts as beautifully as you do."
And that is true.
"I was made for it, maybe. I can never decide if I want that to be true or not. But I'm glad you like it."
He twists and shuffles a little, turning around to lean back against the arm of the couch, squirming and shuddering a little as the grain of the upholstery scrapes the fresh welts on his back. He beams lazily at Astarion.
"Is the whip your favorite?"
"I don't know that I've really had the luxury of developing a favourite," he admits - a comment with similar grim undertones. "I'm more used to using a crop, or a belt when I had nothing else."
And a variety of other tools, for reasons that had everything to do with pain and nothing to do with pleasure.
"But I do like a whip. The versatility of it, the - performance."
"Anyway, you're marvelous."
"Thank you, darling."
It's an easy compliment to accept - the kind he's been given many times before, albeit often by people who were about to die, or so he'd thought.
"Is there - anything I can do for you?"
Aftercare isn't his strongest suit - see 'about to die' - but he's read books, he knows it's a thing?
"Will you promise me something? Promise me, if I ask for something you don't want to do, you'll tell me no."
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