#wolfic

one very fun thing in my MSQ playthrough on Siobh'a is that I unlocked reaper on him before going into stormblood - thus creating a rather interesting timeline regarding Zenos yae Galvus --

see, Siobh'a's tattoos are made with an extremely aetherically dense ink, with sigils representing light and protection and health. It's with those same tattoos that he was protected when a rogue voidsent just outside of Haukke Manor had tried to eat him, seeing this young Viqo'te lancer traipsing about. Yet, with the magic in his body's ink, rather than supping on the young lad, the voidsent became overwhelmed - fusing with him instead. Siobh'a was none the wiser, he had simply thought he lost the fight, having awoken in Bentbranch Meadows under the care of the Serpents. He was lucky to be alive, they said. He was unarmed, save for a gardening instrument he had grabbed from the manor grounds to protect himself. Everyone knows that scythes are terrible weapons.

wolf in sheep's clothing gender !

"Wait," the archon hummed a small sound of disbelief, "don't tell me the vaunted Warrior of Light doesn't know how to read!"

--

A moment later, hands grasp each of Arkin’s wrists, one cool, one warm. The Exarch’s low voice in his ear: “Let me take care of you,” and his arms are gently pulled behind and up so his palms are resting on each forearm, wrists pressed together. The hands lift, and he stays posed obediently as he hears the soft slap of the unfurled ends tossed against the stone floor. Touch returns with the scrape of jute coiling around his wrists, and the rough twist of the first knot, practiced fingers working swiftly. 

Arkin knows well the coarseness of his rope, even as well-used as it is. But the feeling of another body so close—arm wrapped around him from behind, pulling cords taut across his broad chest, cloth and crystallized muscle pressing into his back and then abruptly leaning away to secure a hitch before reaching back in—is entirely new. Arkin is so used to tugging his own strings in this play, of being both the puppet and puppeteer, that the absence of one role, and presence of a new actor, renders him lightheaded, almost faint. 

The Exarch is embracing him again as he holds the line taut against Arkin’s bare skin, and he deftly ties the second rope to the first, tucking the knot under his ribs. Forward and back, subtly pulling the Warrior this way and that as he finally secures the last knot in the harness and then—ah—one last strong tug and the whole pattern tightens and locks, from wrists to ink-darkened biceps to the long bands criss-crossing collar, sternum and ribs. 

The river of Arkin’s thoughts slows, then stills; like a midwinter night after snow, everything falls silent, heavy, blanketed.

--

The Viera that boards the ship headed for the far west is someone other than the imperial soldier who bought the ticket.

“I know you have been in our lands more than once, spoken with quite a few of the soldiers here. Surely you’ve heard mention of a missing heir.”

It was as if his mind was being read aloud, yet still he ran from the apparent accusation at hand, “Aye, an heir who went missing some twenty winters past? Dreadful, truly, but I’m afraid I—”

“No,” the Count cut him off, his voice booming as he said that single word, then returned to his previous tone as if it never happened, “My nephew did go missing long ago, it would seem such misfortune haunts my family. I speak of my own son.”

sheep in wolf's clothing gender !

I have 2 chapters written already (I just really want to explore rope and also I don't see too many stories out there with top!Exarch which I wanted to take a hand at characterizing!) Here's a lil excerpt (from just before WoD):

--

Gathering courage, G’raha leans in, brushing fingertips across the strands running across Arkin’s front. The Warrior’s eyes widen, ears twitching. 

“Is it the tightness of it…?” G’raha murmurs. 

“Mm.” G’raha feels the response more than hears it and his tail swishes in response. “I like the feeling of being confined, aye. It’s…” He pauses, considering. “I have a lot on my shoulders. The fate of our world, if Rammbroes is to be believed, no?” G’raha feels Arkin’s warm hand cover his as their gazes meet. “Even I can’t take all that, sometimes. This helps, a little.” 

Something in G’raha stirs. He wants to hook his fingers under that knot and pull, see the Warrior’s eyes slide shut and his mouth open. He wants to erase this awful weight; wants the only fate Arkin feels the tug of to be the one right before them, narrowed to this moment. But–