♖: Having their hair washed by the other. Ashaad/Seamus
Saemus is a little nervous, to say the least. And he feels completely justified, because he’s never seen Ashaad trim those claws of his. No, they’re nails. Beasts have claws, and he is not a--
Freezing water floods every single thought into oblivion as Ashaad empties a bucket over his head. He is seated quite comfortably behind Saemus in the makeshift bathhouse, perhaps once part of an old ship. Bow and mast and flank has become a wooden refuge from the heat and outside dust, with long tubs and leather buckets and whatever else the Qunari use to keep clean. Something is being worked into Saemus’ damp hair. It smells of salt and some flower he cannot recognise from any Hightown parlour.
“Tilt your head back,” Ashaad says, tapping the pad of one finger on his forehead. “This may sting if you are not used to it.”
He complies, one arm bumping up against his companion’s towel-wrapped thigh as he shifts. Then Ashaad starts scrubbing, with the nails, and--oh, they are not too long after all, filed straight at the tip and scraping delightfully against his scalp. He lets out a little moan, then a slightly louder one when Ashaad’s large thumbs swoop twin trails down the back of his neck.
“Parshaara, imekari,” he grumbles, but there is quiet affection in the words as the massaging and shampooing continues. The nails scrape and the fingers work and Saemus nearly falls asleep under such firm ministrations. The world falls away and there is only the smell of the flowers and the sky, the feeling of Ashaad’s fingers against his skin, carding through his hair. “There. Close your eyes.”
With barely a second further of warning, another bucket of freezing water assaults Saemus, then another. He shakes his sodden hair out of his eyes, splattering Ashaad copiously, and grins. His scalp tingles.
“I must look very different to you right now,” he says, barely able to keep the laughter out of his voice: skin gleaming, tousled hair plastered flat against his head, drops of water caught in his eyelashes, eyes clear and bright.
“You look clean,” Ashaad says, and throws a dry towel over his head.
