#sailorgundam thank you so much for the invite to the zine I am literally so excited

[a-writing-otter]

WIP Wednesday

“How do you even know how to do this?”

“I used to have to shave.”

Karlach is standing at the bathroom counter between Astarion’s legs, chin tilted up as he goes across her jaw and cheeks with a straight razor. It’d started as an idle complaint that she always cut herself when she was shaving and Astarion wouldn’t hear of anything hurting his precious Karlach (her words, not his), so he insisted on helping her.

“You’re supposed to not shave,” he tells her, even as he drags the razor through the foam, gliding with the grain on her cheek. “It stimulates growth.”

“Yeah, but it’s fucking itchy,” she gripes, trying hard not to move too much while he’s got a razor close to her face. While Astarion would be elated to suck the blood off of her skin, the entire point of doing this is to keep her from bleeding.

She hasn’t been on testosterone long, but it’s long enough for some of the facial hair to start coming through (what can she say? Her family is hairy).

Astarion chuckles quietly, pulling back to smile and admire his work before moving to her jaw. She’s under the distinct impression that he’s more into this than she is, though she’ll take any excuse to keep him close.

Her hand settles on his thigh, rubbing the meat of it as he grooms her.

“But back to the shaving thing,” she reminds. “I thought elves didn’t grow facial hair.”

It’s rather cute the way he huffs at that, rolling his eyes.

“That’s a myth that high elves spread so that no one would question it. Sure, it’s slower, lighter growth for most, but we can still have facial hair. Admittedly, it’s considered unclean and wild for most to have it, so we shave it off, those of us who care more about appearances.”

“Have you ever thought of growing it out?”

“What? Ew, no. No.”

Karlach tries not to laugh at the way his nose scrunches up and he coils in on himself.

“I look better clean shaven.” But then he pauses, frowns. “It’s not like I can even grow facial hair anymore.”

“You can’t?”

“No.” There’s something stilted in his words and Karlach knows this is a delicate subject. “Vampires are stuck in the place and where they died. My hair was short, my face was clean, as it was and as it will remain. Whatever injuries I sustain, whatever change I make will always revert to how I was when I passed.”

Karlach wants to frown, but she knows moving her face will cause Astarion’s hand to falter. Instead, she rubs her thumb over his thighs and the quirk of his lips tells her that he understands the meaning.

“If you ever want to change things, even for a little while, I can help,” she insists. “I’ll cut your hair every day. I’ll dye it too. Whatever you want.”

There’s something thoughtful in Astarion’s gaze. His eyes flick down to hers and he smiles that small, secret sort of thing that Karlach knows is just for them. And after pulling the razor away, he leans forward, kisses her forehead before finishing the last of her shave.

“I know you would.”