He whimpers when Astarion calls him pet, hips jerking where he's braced against the cross in a way that's just a bit too revealing.

He yowls when he feels the cut open. It's not that the pain is so much greater - he could take more pain in silence if he had to, does it often enough when he uses his mothpushes on things that are too big to move without feeling like all his bones are on fire - but it feels raw, vulnerable, intimate. The pain is sharp and deep and perfect.

The blood that oozes up is black, more viscous than human blood, something with the shine of squid ink and the texture of tar. It beads up in the little wound, thick as honey, dark as the other side of the stars.