A close cut along the side and back of my head. But leave the front long.
[His fingers gesture, drawing lines against his scalp in indication. It's a distracted motion (he really should take the state of his hair more seriously), for his thoughts linger on what Astarion. It is not a revelation, exactly; he had known there were countless other spawn, and it makes sense that Astarion was occasionally called to tend to them. But still . . . it's odd to think of him doing something so intimate to someone he despised.]
Danarius would have me do that for him at times. When he would leave Castellum Tenebris— his fortress— on business, he trusted only me to hold a blade to his throat.
[How many times had Leto thought about killing him? How many times had his hand trembled, his eyes wide as he fantasized about what it would be to tip the blade just so, sinking into soft flesh? Ah, but of course the answer is simple. Never. Not once. He was still obedient (still stupid) in those days, his thoughts only ever filled with how best to please his master and avoid his wrath.
It's an idle fact, offered up as a sort of exchange, and Leto falls silent after he says it. Eyes closing, he allows himself the quiet pleasure of focusing on those touches. They're brief things, minute little brushes of Astarion's fingers against the back of his neck, nudging his head to tip this way and that, but oh, he savors them. Behind closed lids, he watches the firelight from the hearth dance and flicker; feels the warmth seeping into his skin, chasing away the last of the spring chill. Slowly the perpetual tension eases out of his shoulders, his guard lowering even as Astarion slides that razor near his scalp.
There's something to be said, he thinks sleepily, for trusting someone so much. Would he allow anyone else this close? Not likely. Certainly not with his back turned; he'd be on high alert the entire time, just in case. But it's always so different with Astarion, and he's beginning to notice that more and more.]
Do you call everyone that?
[It's low. Not upset, nor indeed overly pleased. Just curious, a quiet question to break the silence.]
no subject
[His fingers gesture, drawing lines against his scalp in indication. It's a distracted motion (he really should take the state of his hair more seriously), for his thoughts linger on what Astarion. It is not a revelation, exactly; he had known there were countless other spawn, and it makes sense that Astarion was occasionally called to tend to them. But still . . . it's odd to think of him doing something so intimate to someone he despised.]
Danarius would have me do that for him at times. When he would leave Castellum Tenebris— his fortress— on business, he trusted only me to hold a blade to his throat.
[How many times had Leto thought about killing him? How many times had his hand trembled, his eyes wide as he fantasized about what it would be to tip the blade just so, sinking into soft flesh? Ah, but of course the answer is simple. Never. Not once. He was still obedient (still stupid) in those days, his thoughts only ever filled with how best to please his master and avoid his wrath.
It's an idle fact, offered up as a sort of exchange, and Leto falls silent after he says it. Eyes closing, he allows himself the quiet pleasure of focusing on those touches. They're brief things, minute little brushes of Astarion's fingers against the back of his neck, nudging his head to tip this way and that, but oh, he savors them. Behind closed lids, he watches the firelight from the hearth dance and flicker; feels the warmth seeping into his skin, chasing away the last of the spring chill. Slowly the perpetual tension eases out of his shoulders, his guard lowering even as Astarion slides that razor near his scalp.
There's something to be said, he thinks sleepily, for trusting someone so much. Would he allow anyone else this close? Not likely. Certainly not with his back turned; he'd be on high alert the entire time, just in case. But it's always so different with Astarion, and he's beginning to notice that more and more.]
Do you call everyone that?
[It's low. Not upset, nor indeed overly pleased. Just curious, a quiet question to break the silence.]
My darling.