Not to wear, not as a true accessory. But he always turns out like a little clown when he tries to put it on himself, and I want to teach him how.
[There almost certainly has been a moment where Astarion jumpscared himself in the mirror and wailed about seeing a clown haunting the Moulin Rouge.]
He'll want to learn it sooner or later . . .
[His gaze strays out towards the beach once more. At this distance Astarion all but disappears against the brilliant white of the sand, but Kanan can just make out two arms waving around theatrically. Hiss favit, he can almost hear, and some part of his heart twinges in nostalgia.]
But perhaps only needlework. At least this year. He's only nine.
[Ah. On second thought, it makes a great deal of sense put that way. Part of why Fenris took so well to their sparring sessions is because the boy already knew all the basics when he came slinking sheepishly to shelter under Zevlor's wing.
(....which now begs the question of whether or not he'll begin waking up with rouge on his cheeks once Kanan starts granting permission for his son to start touching compacts and kohl liners, but as with all things: one step at a time.)]
No one in the Realms knows desire like you do. Not even Sharess herself. [Turns their fingers over, trapping the sleek silver outline of a simple wedding band between his own index and thumb.] If you're convinced that's what Astarion is going to start asking for, then I'd stake the deed to the Moulin Rouge on it.
[There's a small, sudden shriek as the process of a preliminary seawall has unearthed a horseshoe crab, sending Astarion bolting away from his brother on hands and scrabbling feet.
And even then, it's more movement than sight: the poor boy's whiter than milk on marble.]
[Oh, their poor son. Their poor fussy, overwhelmed son, so easily startled and disgusted it's a wonder he's managing this trip at all. Kanan purses his lips, hiding a smile.]
He likes the attention, love. [Not so unlike his father, Kanan thinks with a pleasant shiver; he could get used to these outings for the chance to flirt alone.] And, perhaps, the chance to dress up. I suspect he'll want to be an actor— less about desire and more about being admired.
[Or maybe that's his own wishful heart, longing for an easier path for his son than his own has been. Though on the other hand . . . there's the way Astarion has drawn to a halt as Fenris scrambled after him, not to torment nor drag back, but rather to clumsily fuss over. There's a lot of awkward patting, there, there, you poor scared pitiful thing.]
He . . . will adapt to the outside sooner or later, do you think? [he adds uncertainly.] Maybe we have kept him in too much . . .
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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[There almost certainly has been a moment where Astarion jumpscared himself in the mirror and wailed about seeing a clown haunting the Moulin Rouge.]
He'll want to learn it sooner or later . . .
[His gaze strays out towards the beach once more. At this distance Astarion all but disappears against the brilliant white of the sand, but Kanan can just make out two arms waving around theatrically. Hiss favit, he can almost hear, and some part of his heart twinges in nostalgia.]
But perhaps only needlework. At least this year. He's only nine.
HISS FAVIT ;;
(....which now begs the question of whether or not he'll begin waking up with rouge on his cheeks once Kanan starts granting permission for his son to start touching compacts and kohl liners, but as with all things: one step at a time.)]
No one in the Realms knows desire like you do. Not even Sharess herself. [Turns their fingers over, trapping the sleek silver outline of a simple wedding band between his own index and thumb.] If you're convinced that's what Astarion is going to start asking for, then I'd stake the deed to the Moulin Rouge on it.
[There's a small, sudden shriek as the process of a preliminary seawall has unearthed a horseshoe crab, sending Astarion bolting away from his brother on hands and scrabbling feet.
And even then, it's more movement than sight: the poor boy's whiter than milk on marble.]
HISS FAVIT!!!
[Oh, their poor son. Their poor fussy, overwhelmed son, so easily startled and disgusted it's a wonder he's managing this trip at all. Kanan purses his lips, hiding a smile.]
He likes the attention, love. [Not so unlike his father, Kanan thinks with a pleasant shiver; he could get used to these outings for the chance to flirt alone.] And, perhaps, the chance to dress up. I suspect he'll want to be an actor— less about desire and more about being admired.
[Or maybe that's his own wishful heart, longing for an easier path for his son than his own has been. Though on the other hand . . . there's the way Astarion has drawn to a halt as Fenris scrambled after him, not to torment nor drag back, but rather to clumsily fuss over. There's a lot of awkward patting, there, there, you poor scared pitiful thing.]
He . . . will adapt to the outside sooner or later, do you think? [he adds uncertainly.] Maybe we have kept him in too much . . .