Jedao moans, soft and continuous, the sound spiking up into soft cries as he savors the last two strikes. He shudders and pants for breath as he hangs on the cuffs in the quiet afterward, not fully trusting his knees if he lets go, twisting his head a little to glance back over his shoulder as much as he can, punch-drunk, loose-limbed and beaming at Astarion as he approaches.

"So good," he murmurs, not quite slurred, but definitely in a lazier, more contented tone of voice than usual.