It hurts less, where the whip hits him through his pants, but it's also more surprising, somehow; he squeaks and twitches each time. Somehow, whatever alchemy makes Jedao appear human is flawless until the skin is actually broken. His welts are white and red, even though the blood beneath them isn't. His bruises look human; his raw skin even smells faintly of iron even though there's no hemoglobin below it.

"More," he pants, half-hard against the wood of cross. "Want...want to bleed a little," he confesses, face hot, voice low and nervous and hungry. A cold stone of fear settles in his stomach, rough and bitter and poisonous as a peach pit. He's asking too much, he always asks for too much, he knows his blood is even more disgusting to vampires than it is to most people. But he feels loose and open with pain, his mind gone slippery instead of careful and calculation, and Astarion asked.

"If...if that's okay, please..."