#boundbyhonour

@boundbyhonour || just two soft bois being soft

    Runaan has, from the moment he first PERMITTED star-entangled digits to come close to contact, been to Aaravos what a canvas is to its artist. Enough centuries by his lonesome, his own long tendrils have been left UNATTENDED in the wake of what can be seen as monotonous, interest WANING. He cannot remember the last time he has made something of his FLYAWAY hair—of anything beyond the freedom of wisps framing his face (and perhaps he PREFERS the latter: that some semblance of him be free while the rest is not). But the universe bestows him this gift (among many) with which to EXPERIMENT, and oddly intimate is an exchange where his hands are weaving braids upon another’s crown rather than his own.

    —though this “other” being the moonshadow elf seated patiently before him forges a lot of where the AFFECTION may come into play.

    He has paused, for the present moment, stooping around to find his subject’s face and scrutinize his work from a different angle. While the other elf patiently watches him, Aaravos pays an impressive little mind to the SOFT eyes skittering over his visage; indeed, only when a hand lifts to brush TENDERLY along his cheek does the archmage find Runaan’s stare for a breath in which he hasn’t the time to REACT. At least before he’s guided (willingly, mind you) to a pair of lips that offer a GRATITUDE that needn’t be expressed in words.

    Between them, nothing ever is.

    And he finds it a COMFORT, less likely to recoil when there doesn’t exist a WARNING in his chest that he explain what he knows he surely cannot. As simply as one breathes, Aaravos complies and melts into the touch; he returns the gesture with a balance of delicacy and fervor—one who wishes to give so much and yet maintains hold on that tiny thread of care that he not OVERWHELM himself.

    As if he hasn’t been already by his moon’s presence on its own, but can’t help caring LESS and LESS about the consequences. What is the point of pride, after all? He DELIGHTS in this far too much.

The Last Unicorn (1982) starters. || @boundbyhonour

   Silhouetted in what little light the stairwell offered shown pale white on the stone floor of the dungeon, turning skins of purple to lilac and illuminating a face of easy features. How the moonshadow prince ever found his way to the pits of the keep was beyond any sane notion she could come up with, nor the fact that he had been an elf barely hidden among humans. One would only need to brave the dark to discover his existence as she had, though, a certain maegi who frequented travel here had come to mind. Mayhaps, he had found comfort in this foreign invader – a bed warmer with horns. It made little difference with what or whom Verin chose to spend his time with, only that he had kept his part in their political arrangement.

   She had found that he was no easy company despite their common ground being of shared heritage as he lacked any interest in anything further than the weathered walls of his cell. Highborn, and yet, he would allow the world to crumble around him; a waste. Lips were hard pressed into a neutral line as he voiced what he thought of attempted peace with Xadia would accomplish. It was the same tune that all spoke; war and desolation with no hope and ending all the same as it began.

Unabashed snicker snatches away any semblance of silence once coating Runaan, yet it punctuates the snatching and downing of the fresh glass of whiskey placed in front of him minutes prior. Pause had before seemed prudent; best to stop and take note of just how inebriated he was – but apparently tonight, he was a little easier to goad into drinking than typical. That’s what supportive friends did, right? Got shit-faced drunk alongside their partner the night said partner’s divorce was announced?

“Please. The day I tolerate so little alcohol is the day they bury me.” Yet, eyes remained – if ever so subtly – upon Viren, taking note of how well the man was handling everything. Buzzed, approaching drunk as he was, he was still the same concerned friend as always.

“Question is… You aren’t going to leave me drinking by myself are you?” Not that time enough to answer came before another round was ordered and placed before them – though this time, some forethought had gone into it, and whiskey was replaced with a pina coloda. Idly plucking off his drink’s fruity decor, it became quite the palate-pleasing snack, if expression were anything to judge by.

It was a mild comfort, actually--to know that there was no one waiting for him at home tonight. They had sent Claudia and Soren to stay with his--well, he supposed as of today, former in-laws out in Brighton. His ex-wife had been the one to suggest it, and it had been perhaps the one thing they’d agreed on in months. Tense as things were at the house, both of them finishing up separate moves, it seemed easier and less painful to send the children away for a few weeks. This was hard enough on them without subjecting them to the sight of the home they’d grown up in, packed up and hollowed out. 

It would be an adjustment for them regardless, when he picked them up next week. Viren was satisfied enough with the apartment he’d found--close to the precinct, a reasonable drive to Soren and Claudia’s school, and priced... decently enough. Still, it was certainly different from their home in the suburbs. Smaller, for one. No backyard for Soren to sprint around in, swinging a stick like a sword, attacking Viren’s legs and declaring him a vanquished dragon. No more evenings spent in the quiet nook in their living room, the one Claudia had adored, when she would sit in his lap and drift off to sleep as he read to her from whatever magical theory text he’d been studying from. 

It was what it was. They would grow accustomed to it in time. 

For now, Viren didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think about the long drive to his ex-wife’s parents’ house next Saturday (they’d never liked him), didn’t want to think about Claudia’s sullen expression or Soren’s brave smile and attempts to cheer his sister up, didn’t want to think about the legal bills he still had to pay, or the strain a three-bedroom apartment in the city along with private school tuition for two children would be on his salary, definitely did not want to think about Harrow’s warm, sympathetic hand on his shoulder, his unprompted and discreet assurances that “I’ll see what I can do about that promotion--you two would’ve probably made detective by next year anyway.” 

He’d only wanted the relentless spin of the world to stop--for a day, for an hour, for a moment--that he might regain his bearings. And it had stopped here, at this bar, the lights low, the drinks strong, and his partner on the stool beside him. 

It was genuinely the most relaxed he’d been all week.

“Does everyone in this realm carry big bad weapons with them wherever they go?” 

Height Comparison | 

You’re secretly the old fuck you’re just hiding it from us. But tumblr knows your sins

I’M ONLY THIRTY-TWO!!! 

“Harsh words do come easy to you, but again--you’re mistaken. I am far from soulless. Merely prepared to do what must be done. Is the same not true for you, who came here prepared to bloody your blades with my king’s head?” 

He took a step forward into the corridor, the soft strike of his staff upon the stone floor echoing with weighty intent. 

“Protection wards,” he explained, an answer to a question the assassin had not asked. “Designed so that I will know if and when anyone other than myself enters my workshop. As I regrettably cannot be in all places at once, it really is only a matter of prudence. There are a good many secrets in my study. It behooves me to know if someone might attempt to sneak in.” He leveled a cold stare at Runaan, eyebrow raised. “Or out, as it were.” 

Viren had expected this may happen sooner or later. The assassin was capable, certainly, and no doubt trained in ways of escaping bondage. The flash of pain that had struck him up in his rooms--like a thread snapping inside his mind--had been jarring, but unsurprising.