The instinct is very much to twist and flinch out of the way, but she holds it together, forces herself to sit still while he washes out her wounds. It's such a...caring act. It leaves her feeling more exposed, all bare skin and raw emotions, than any form of sex might have.
She lifts her head, meeting his gaze in the middle, right after he's distracted her from the pain with compliments about her (cleverness and books, Astarion, hardly the leader that you all think I am) abilities to herd this bunch of feral cats.
She lets out a huff of laughter, low and soft, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I know," she murmurs, "you were not exactly subtle about it the first time." She immitates a posher, more old-school accent, trying to sound like him when she says "Oh, chase down that awful boar for me, darling, and pay no attention to the dagger behind my back."
In his defense, she hadn't. He'd asked for her help and she'd started thinking of spells that would stun or kill a boar immediately, realising too late that it was a honeypot trap. Realising it when she was on her back with his dagger at her throat, her heartbeat thunderous in her chest, not out of fear of him, but from the memory of a different time, a different witch, a different dagger. He'd thought her easily fooled and small enough to take down single-handedly.
And now look at him, cleaning her injuries with a gentleness she knew he had in him.
Her mimicry ends, her smile softens. "I do like hearing that I'm quite impressive, though," she admits, with a bashful murmur. She might like praise a little too much, truth be told. It's an effective painkiller.
no subject
She lifts her head, meeting his gaze in the middle, right after he's distracted her from the pain with compliments about her (cleverness and books, Astarion, hardly the leader that you all think I am) abilities to herd this bunch of feral cats.
She lets out a huff of laughter, low and soft, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I know," she murmurs, "you were not exactly subtle about it the first time." She immitates a posher, more old-school accent, trying to sound like him when she says "Oh, chase down that awful boar for me, darling, and pay no attention to the dagger behind my back."
In his defense, she hadn't. He'd asked for her help and she'd started thinking of spells that would stun or kill a boar immediately, realising too late that it was a honeypot trap. Realising it when she was on her back with his dagger at her throat, her heartbeat thunderous in her chest, not out of fear of him, but from the memory of a different time, a different witch, a different dagger. He'd thought her easily fooled and small enough to take down single-handedly.
And now look at him, cleaning her injuries with a gentleness she knew he had in him.
Her mimicry ends, her smile softens. "I do like hearing that I'm quite impressive, though," she admits, with a bashful murmur. She might like praise a little too much, truth be told. It's an effective painkiller.