Jedao's whimpers turn into a shaky, quavering wail. The encouragement is almost all he needs on its own. The new cut feels like - he doesn't have words for what it feels like, doesn't have thoughts, but it's so much despite being so small. He's being draped in wounds or cut to pieces, he doesn't know what the cut is for or what's next, but Astarion is looking at him, wants him to take it.

His hips shudder, back arching up into it if Astarion lets him, moaning as he comes, so sudden and forceful and overwhemling that when he runs out of breath, it's a good ten or fifteen seconds before he remembers to breathe in again.