Work Text:
Aesop Sharp has always loved the ritual of shaving.
Each morning he wakes up and stumbles sleepily over to the washbasin, splashing cold water onto his face to bring him quickly to consciousness. After a quick assessment of his face - mostly confirmation that the frown lines and increasing number of grey hairs are indeed still there - he lathers his face and gets to work.
The first move is always the most satisfying. He takes the flat blade of the razor and places it at the base of his throat, caressing his neck with the sharp edge before flicking up to kiss his jaw.
Rinse, dry, repeat.
Scrape, flick. Scrape, flick.
There is something oddly therapeutic about the steady movement of the blade going up and down. Centering.
Yet unusually, today is the first time he has shaved properly in three days. Reaching up, he runs his hand over the now soft skin and remembers the last time someone touched his jawline…
He had you pressed up against a wall, pressing fevered kisses to the hollow of your neck. You were whimpering his name, face pressed up against his as he peppered open-mouthed kisses to every bit of skin he could reach and worship with his lips.
When the sensation proved too much you dragged his head up so you were eye-level and declared that the scratch of his beard drove you wild.
Wiping away the memory with the final traces of soap, Aesop puts away the shaving kit knowing that it won’t see use for a couple of days. He can’t help the grin stretching across his face, reflected back at him in the mirror.
How could he deny you when he knows how much you like that five o’clock shadow…