The gentle pet and little yank on his hair almost does it; the glorious mean precision lashing across his feet and the bright line of fire across his shoulders crackle through his mind like lightning. Jedao yelps and bends forward, groaning and jolting as he comes. It feels like the the pleasure has been speared out of him, like the pain in his feet and shoulders has made a white searing box to hold the rest of it, like he's a glass ornament full of pain finally smashing.

It's perfect.

He drifts back into his body, still burning and aching, in an ungainly little hunch on the floor, ass still striped bright red, gulping breaths in between soft simmering whimpers, come splattered over the floor and his own chest, with the way he's folded up.

He feels scraped clean, despite the mess, like a leather hide stretched and scoured by a methodical tanner. He did ask for it, and Astarion gave it to him. "Thank you," he mumbles, slurring only slightly, when he's gathered a few thoughts back.