It's good. With his hands where they are, he can feel the shaking release through the shift of muscle as much as he can in the throb and pulse in his mouth. He swallows reflexively, trying not to choke as Astarion spills without pause or hesitation. Without warning, even, but Fenris can forgive that.

The intensity passes and Fenris drops his head back against the bed as Astarion withdraws. He's panting for air and his hands go weak, sliding down the other man's legs until they too hit the bed. Eyes open as the weight above him shifts, and suddenly the presence is gone entirely. Fenris lolls his head to look at Astarion, vaguely aware of how he must look: slick mouth, flushed face, utterly boneless. He swallows again, easier now with his mouth clear.

There are no words, no immediate attempt to speak. Nor is there any reaching from the body leaving his, but is in part from the deliciously heavy feeling spreading through him.

He doesn't know if he should speak, if he is expected to. There are no words on the tip of his tongue, only the taste of lilac and come.