[Deft hands nudge Leto’s head forward a few degrees more, mostly by way of the edges of his knuckles— little and ring fingers guiding him as the others stay curled around tarnished shears that somehow aren’t ruined with rust.
This’ll be easier now that he’s not allergic to scorched by water, and there’s careful time taken to wet and align and comb back slickened strands as he talks, towel used to keep trickling paths from snaking down underneath Leto’s collar, which would only make the experience uncomfortable otherwise. The weather too gross for errant spots of wet cloth and clammy skin, being far away from summer still.]
Oh. Far longer?
[He asks, his mind immediately flitting towards Thranduil’s flowing locks, cascading like a sort of waterfall about his back and shoulders. The mental image of Leto like that, though...
Hm. Hard to accurately picture. Either he must’ve looked shockingly regal (and handsome, but he’s not acknowledging that right now, thank you very much), or he looked a half-step away from communing with the wilds and wiggling his toes through dew-touched earth. Or both? Maybe both.
A small section of silver strands are combed out before he makes his first cut. The softest little snip of a sound.] And I did, yes.
For my master. For his guests— and the other spawn, too, though that was only ever when ordered to on occasion, as I never cared much for those wretched creatures.
By which I mean at all.
[Snip snip— the soft little plops of falling pieces of damp hair as they land across Leto’s shoulders.] We were like squabbling dogs, most days. Envy practically lived beside us, brought on by Cazador’s games and cruel favor alike.
It was only survival, in a sense. [Harsh necessity.] But that doesn’t mean we pitied each other, either. [No, not pity. They were only cutthroat. Resentful. Mean. hounding one another surely as their master and his ilk hounded them— and Astarion wasn’t any different.]
Awful beasts. I hope they’re rotting at his side.
[Anyway—
He leans slightly forward there, just across the edge of Leto's shoulder.] Just how short did you want this, my darling?
no subject
This’ll be easier now that he’s not
allergic toscorched by water, and there’s careful time taken to wet and align and comb back slickened strands as he talks, towel used to keep trickling paths from snaking down underneath Leto’s collar, which would only make the experience uncomfortable otherwise. The weather too gross for errant spots of wet cloth and clammy skin, being far away from summer still.]Oh. Far longer?
[He asks, his mind immediately flitting towards Thranduil’s flowing locks, cascading like a sort of waterfall about his back and shoulders. The mental image of Leto like that, though...
Hm. Hard to accurately picture. Either he must’ve looked shockingly regal (and handsome, but he’s not acknowledging that right now, thank you very much), or he looked a half-step away from communing with the wilds and wiggling his toes through dew-touched earth. Or both? Maybe both.
A small section of silver strands are combed out before he makes his first cut. The softest little snip of a sound.] And I did, yes.
For my master. For his guests— and the other spawn, too, though that was only ever when ordered to on occasion, as I never cared much for those wretched creatures.
By which I mean at all.
[Snip snip— the soft little plops of falling pieces of damp hair as they land across Leto’s shoulders.] We were like squabbling dogs, most days. Envy practically lived beside us, brought on by Cazador’s games and cruel favor alike.
It was only survival, in a sense. [Harsh necessity.] But that doesn’t mean we pitied each other, either. [No, not pity. They were only cutthroat. Resentful. Mean. hounding one another surely as their master and his ilk hounded them— and Astarion wasn’t any different.]
Awful beasts. I hope they’re rotting at his side.
[Anyway—
He leans slightly forward there, just across the edge of Leto's shoulder.] Just how short did you want this, my darling?