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Tell Me to Stay (And I Will) [1/4]

AO3 Version

Relationship: WoL!Reader/Crystal Exarch

Rating: NC-17

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Summary: After the events of Shadowbringers, the Exarch is excited to rekindle the friendship you and him once had together, though fate seems to have other plans for him. When your prolonged presence around him sets off a heat well over a century past-due, he'll have to put those plans off until after his body is done with the feelings of yearning and lust that consume him.

When you learn of the man's problem however, you're far from wanting him to deal with it alone--so will this foreseen challenge break the fragments of your old friendship...

...or will it reforge them into something more?

-

There is a yearning that finds itself within the man’s chest as he looks upon you.

It is more than the sweet, boundless joy he expected when he fantasized about being able to speak to you as himself, even knowing his plan of action to save you and the First would lead to his demise–one that he was saved from in the end of course, through no shortage of luck and perseverance he did not at all deserve.

Regardless of how fate had chosen to unravel around the two of you, G’raha is left with a yearning far deeper than anything he prepared himself for. It sits deep within him, mind and body both, and blossoms like a crimson rose.

Burning. Searing. Agonizing.

The sensations hit the Seeker so hard that it’s hard for him to even think. So many years he had prepared himself for your arrival, so many years thinking and pondering and planning–how could he fall apart so easily?

It takes many days for the answer to come to the man, from memories long-past of issues he never thought he’d deal with again; the boiling in his belly, the fire between his legs, the ache in his chest that he felt with every glance in your direction and breath that he took into his lungs with the succor of your scent upon it.

A heat.

The realization blindsided the man almost as much as the physical sensations themselves–after he had merged his being with the Crystal Tower, G’raha simply assumed much of his bodily functions would alter or outright cease–and he had been correct to some extent, despite knowing precious little of what other effects the union may have on his physical form.

But he never once considered that he would feel such a burning need once more in his belly as he does for you. The raging fire of hormones that leave him wondering if he is literally dying despite all the effort you put in to save him–but he’s not, thank the goddess, and so he’s left to try and deal with himself with no shortage of confusion and long-numbed memories of what it was like to be a young Seeker taking care of his own heats.

He is grateful for the privacy of the Ocular.

As G’raha takes himself in-hand, he is so grateful that the walls are thick to deaden the noises that come within. He is grateful for that of your scent lingering in the air from your many visits in the past several days. He is so very grateful that he can but feel your touch upon his skin when he closes his eyes and thinks about it–your arms around him tight, hugging the Seeker close against you when you were finally able to have a reunion without the fear of losing one another.

Oh yes, G’raha was so grateful for it all. The man could but clutch to the thoughts as tightly as his fingers wrap around his cock, fist stroking himself over at a feverish pace to pull one orgasm after another, his lips constantly shaping around the sound of your name in a moan no less than reverent.

“My warrior,” the Exarch, the man once known only as G’raha Tia, moans shamelessly into the air of the Ocular. “My dearest warrior, I yearn for you so. Need you. Want you.”

His words sound as soft as a prayer.

As the man draws yet another messy, hot orgasm from his body, he can’t help but feel a distinct shiver run down his spine, wondering what sort of mess he would make if you were the one to help guide him through the blistering heat rather than his own hand.

For the rest of the day and into the evening, the Exarch can merely entertain himself on idle fancies and filthy thoughts, his fingers scarcely enough to satisfy the craving that lay deep in the pit of his stomach. Where he desires warm hands and wet lips, he can but barely get a fraction of the pleasure with the friction of his own hands, palms soon slick with sweat and precum, stroking himself over until he feels raw and yet needing of more.

The man has counted four orgasms by the time the fire in his stomach has finally died into a dull smolder of heat–a fifth, perhaps, if one would count the very last, with his hips too weak to thrust and his pleasure dry and cock aching even as it barely throbbed against his hand. He can spill not even a drop more of warm seed–though the Exarch has already made a sufficient mess of himself from the many wet climaxes prior, and the dry climax is a mild blessing, if not physically infuriating in how little it quells the fire.

So the Exarch sits in the ocular, in his private quarters and among the towers of books he’s read a dozen times over each. He sits on the ground, body strained and mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, leaning his head back until it hits the wall behind him.

There’s no noise in the ocular save for his gasping breaths and rapidly beating heart.

He is grateful for a lack of reflective surfaces. The Exarch can but feel how much of a debauched mess he is without needing a visual aid; hood fallen, robe open, legs splayed and a cooling stickiness coating across his lower stomach, dripping down his inner thighs. His face feels as hot as stoking coals and his fingers yet twitch, as if his body yearns for but one more orgasm, one more blissful moment of euphoria, just one more-

But he can’t. Even the raging fire of his belated heat can’t win against exhaustion, and he was caught vastly unprepared for the level of arousal that would be raging through his body. With neither the resources or lovers to take, the Exarch knew he would have but himself to deal with the issue for the time being.

In the old, distant memories he could still fathom with some stunning clarity, he recalled having to deal with the rare heat every other season. Most of the times they lasted but a single sun, mayhap two if he was particularly unlucky with his hormones. He never quite knew why he had them, only in that some Seeker males could get them even if they did not fill the role as a tribe’s nuhn. It was an issue that the Exarch–G’raha Tia–never cared enough about to bother researching.

After all, how could he find issue with feigning a terrible sickness and having a day to himself, excused in all of his shame to take himself in hand and jack off to all manner of thoughts he’d dare not to speak about otherwise?

But he was a young man then, as G’raha Tia. Now he is a leader, a man of responsibility, and he cannot afford to lock himself away for however long his body deigns to keep him locked in the hot embrace of boiling need that seems to color every thought in his mind. He can’t afford to let it linger–and there’s not telling how long this heat may last.

There was one time that the Exarch had ever managed to mute his heat, or conceal it enough that it only vaguely hindered his ability to function. He had been tired, irritable and overstimulated at every turn, but he at least did not feel utterly compelled to fuck the nearest consenting adult who would allow him the pleasure in their touch.

Or well, he still did, just….

It had been sometime after he met you. When he was still a young man with too many opinions and nowhere to set them, no shortage of goals and hardly enough time to figure them out. He wanted for knowledge obsessively, and rolled his eyes at any challenge that came between him and his exploration.

In fact, his heat was triggered in much the same way as this one–the lingering, beautiful scent that hugged you tight, the sight of you caught betwixt battles, the way you held yourself above all others. It takes so desperately little before the Seeker is left at the mercy of his raging hormones, body filled with the carnal need to mate mate mate until he can barely keep a cohesive train of thought.

Luckily, by the time you came to Mor Dhona and met with him officially, he’d already taken precautions; a well-informed Rambroes (who was the only one aware of his seasonal afflictions), a very expensive tincture from a traveling alchemist, and several hours of private time to work out enough pleasure so that the tincture could take effect.

It was not pleasant by any means. The Exarch can still recall the way his body hated him dearly for suppressing it, how he felt itchy all over and craved nothing more than to swim in the nearest body of icewater. If you had thought anything of the man in your first couple days of friendship, then the man had been blessed to be totally unaware of it–and even if you did, he hopes dearly that you’ve long-forgotten it.

But this is no Mor Dhona, and there is not a young Seeker happy to enjoy the bubbling hormones of his body. There is but an old soul who wants the mercy of peace from his traitorous emotions, if only so that he can enjoy a proper reunion with you without sullying it with what filth his mind has conjured up in multitudes.

In the brief few bells of sobriety from arousal, the Exarch is at least able to clean himself up proper and hail for Lyna. Though he is begrudged to call for anyone in such a state, he trusts her more than enough to heed his words without imploring too deeply into the details.

Because if the first day of this new heat was this bad, only the mercy of the heavens would get the Exarch through the rest–that and a tincture, if there was but even one soul who could procure it for him.

---

No matter how long you wander, the Crystarium is but a maze. There’s likely a semblance of logic to be found in the grand city’s layout, though you’ve yet to understand even an onz of it. Even Ul’dah, with all of it’s back alleys and twists in directions, made more sense to you than the sprawling settlement of the First.

It’s not without some charm though, as you’ve come to enjoy. Where you may be left wanting for a more logical sense of direction in its amenities, there’s no shortage of kind folk who are happy to set you on your way without fuss or issue. In your simple journey to the marketplace you’ve gotten turned around at least three times, and have had just as many nameless Crystarium residents help you find your way.

You step into the open room (if one can even call it that for how large it is) and begin your errands without much thought.

First, your armor and weapon need mending. The lack of attention over the last several battles had left more scuffs and scratches than you’d care to let linger, and the repairs would take no more than a small sum of gil and several bells worth of time. You get that out of the way first with no issue; the mender offers you a smile and a promise to have your items ready later in the afternoon, so you give him the same smile and move on to your next idle chore.

Restocking your potions is a more expensive task, but a necessary one. Too many times were you on the receiving end of near live-threatening attacks to be saved but by the magical effects of a well-timed potion; it’s become vital to have at least a few on your person, even if they are wholly unneeded in one form or another. The last thing you needed, of all people, would be for word to get back to the Scions that you got into a messy situation with little preparation.

You had grown familiar with the alchemists and potion masters of the Source among the many larger cities–in the First however, you’re yet to remember faces beyond the very few you’ve interacted with extensively. The constant barrage of duties left your mind in a whirlwind, so you were lucky to have even the mildest sense of direction while in the marketplace itself.

With enough gil in your pocket to by at least a few of the highest-quality health potions, you make your way over to the vendor you recall as having sold them to you before.

The market is bustling, thanks to the return of the sky’s natural state allowing merchants of all sorts to travel between Norvrandt’s cities. You can’t find a reason to be annoyed even as you try to press through the shifting crowd, a word of apology falling from your lips every few moments when you inevitably cross paths with another. By the time you come to the apothecary's stand however, you’re but mildly irritated to see that there’s someone already at the counter.

That is, until you see precisely who it is speaking to the merchant. Between her uniform and the shape of the tall, fluffy ears extending from the top of her head, you recognize Lyna with ease. You are mildly surprised to see her at the marketplace, considering that all of the resources procured for the Crystarium’s militia were sourced without her direct involvement.

You step close just in time to catch a portion of the conversation.

“You don’t understand Keel-Sai, I need this tincture,” she says, tone almost exasperated. “I have been given very strict orders to obtain it.”

“Captain, I understand that you may need it dearly, but I simply cannot make such a formula on such short notice.”

The apothecary, a middle-aged Miqo’te woman–Mystel, you remind yourself–looks genuinely apologetic. She lifts her hands in a motion to calm the unnerved Vii, though it’s obvious that Lyna cannot be soothed by mere motions and apologies.

“Please,” she says, leaning her hands onto the countertop. Her voice falls low, but you’re yet close enough to still catch the words- “…..Exarch himself asked for it….personal issues…illness….”

The sound of the man’s title catches your attention instantly, causing you to step closer and gain both women’s attention without so much as a moment for your mind to think if it was the right action to take.

“Did you say there was something wrong with the Exarch? Is he sick?”

For a moment, both of them are silent, merely staring at you as if you’d grown a second head. Lyna fumbles over some words, but it’s the apothecary who reacts first, letting out an almost jovial chuckle as she reaches up a hand and runs it through her hair, ears flicking.

“With the kind o’ tincture the captain’s askin’ for, I don’t think he’s all that ill, though I bet he’s not feeling the most comfortable right now.”

She laughs for a few moments longer before Lyna seems able to collect herself, expression somewhere between embarrassed and annoyed, though unsure whom to toss the emotions at.

“Please keep your voice down!” she exclaims, quick to throw one of her hands over her own mouth when her own words come out a touch too loud. After a moment the Vii narrows her eyes and, begrudgingly, beckons you closer.

You do so without a word, unsure whether you should be more curious, concerned or amused by the turn of events.

Nevertheless, once close enough, the captain seems content to start speaking again–her voice is hushed and soft, and you can’t help but join with Keel-Sai to lean in to listen to her.

“Listen,” she murmurs, brow drawn in worry. “I was simply informed by the Exarch that he is ill and requires this tincture; he offered no further explanation and I am not one to question him, especially in a matter obviously private.”

“Well,” Keel-Sai says, caring little to match the hushed tone of Lyna’s voice with a half-cocked smirk on her lips. “I suppose private is one way to describe what he’s likely goin’ through right now. Never thought the Exarch was able to have issues like that anymore, considerin’ his age and, well….” she makes a vague gesture with her arms upwards, and with but a moment of thought you realize she’s gesturing towards the Crystal Tower.

“What is he going through?” Lyna’s eyes narrow with the question.

“Oh honey, you don’t know what this tincture is even for?”

The Vii shakes her head after a moment, the motion as wary as the expression on her face. The Mystel apothecary looks something between amused and sympathetic as she glances towards the captain, and then finally towards you.

“…he’s a Mystel himself, am I right?”

Before Lyna can say something to avoid the question, you merely (stupidly) start to nod. Though much of the man’s personal details were lost to the entirety of the Crystarium, you knew him well–you knew G’raha Tia better than anyone else on the First, you’d even bet. If there is something ailing him, then you would rather deal with the consequences after he got the care that he needs.

Lyna is a breath away from saying something to you, but yet again the apothecary speaks before the Vii has the chance.

“Aye, then I certainly don’t have the time to make what he’ll need to quell it–even if I begun gathering the ingredients now, he’ll be as high as a Eulmore resident by the time I’ll have it done.”

When all you and Lyna can offer is a stare in Keel-Sai’s direction, the Mystel woman merely blinks.

“…traditionally, we Mystel would take this tincture in order to avoid going into season.”

Lyna blinks, staring blankly as if the words hold little meaning to her, which is a rather strange expression to see upon the face of the captain of a militia. Nevertheless, it’s a genuine look of confusion.

Keel-Sai looks as if she’s not sure whether to sigh or laugh–she eventually gives into the former.

“Honey,” she starts, speaking gently. “The ol’ Exarch himself is comin’ into season. Into his heat.”

When you glance over to the Vii, you see that her eyes are as wide as gil coins. She looks as surprised as you feel, thoughts rolling over the information you’ve taken in over the course of just a few minutes–where you had been worried about the Exarch being half-dead, you are quick to realize that the issue is far more intimate than that.

Keel-Sai seems to find the situation amusing, as she chuckles once more.

“If he’s anything like the males I’ve been with,” she quirks a brow, hands perched upon her hips. “-then he’s probably mewling away like a kit, especially if he’s got nothing to do but use his-”

“I don’t need to hear anymore about it, thank you very much!”

Lyna waves her hands rapidly in front of herself, looking far more unnerved than you’ve ever seen her in even the thickest of battles.

“I have heard quite enough to get the point–the man is like my grandfather, seven hells Keel-Sai.”

The Mystel only offers a shrug of her shoulders in apology, the smile never leaving her face for a moment. It leaves you a free moment to think about the situation at-hand. Of the Exarch–of G’raha–dealing with a heat.

And, oddly enough, the realization makes your stomach flip.

There’s something about the thought of your old friend lost in the need of carnal pleasure that sends your heart beating twice as fast as before, your chest feeling tight and the sound of blood rushing in your ears. You wonder if he’s in his room, if he’s found a comfortable place to lay himself–would he have already started trying to quell the fire between his legs? Would he have himself in hand and someone’s name upon his lips?

Is that name yours?

Hopefully you don’t look the part, because you can’t help but look to Lyna with what is hopefully an expression of concern and comfort.

“…if nothing else can be done in terms of potion, I can visit him to see if there is naught I can offer to help. Mayhap even the company of an old friend would sooth his nerves?”

You try desperately not to pay much attention to the look that Keel-Sai gives you. You can feel the gentle quirk of the woman’s lips though, allowing you some grace, she pretends to shuffle off to attend something else at her stall and leaving you and Lyna to speak with a vague sense of privacy.

The Vii holds you with a firm look. Her brow is drawn tight over her eyes, ears drawn low and, for lack of a better term, the captain seems genuinely nervous.

“…you are an old friend of his,” she says eventually, more to herself than to you. “If there is but anyone who can offer him comfort, then I suppose you are the one to do so. Just…please, take…care of him?”

You look at her for a moment, feeling as awkward as she looks.

“I mean-” the Vii stumbles over her words. “Obviously you don’t have to take care of him, but if there’s no other way than to like, take care of him then-”

She stops speaking, closing her eyes tight and raising both hands up to cover her face. With this, the woman lets out a dull groan.

“You know what I mean.”

For lack of a better response, you simply nod, trying desperately not to think about the way your stomach twists and heart flutters at the filthy thoughts of the Exarch–of G’raha–with splayed legs and flushed face and throbbing–

“Yeah, I’ll make sure he’s okay. I’ve actually been with him during one of his ah….heats.”

Lyna finally lowers her hands to eye you, expression something between confused and wary. You but lift your hands and gesture gently to save what little dignity is left within you.

“I mean, I know how he deals with them. Shortly after we met long ago, he went through one and…Likely he’ll be the same way as then.” You lower your hands, vaguely recalling the old memories of when the Exarch was simply G’raha Tia. When he spent the first few days after meeting you reclused and irritable–if he was merely the same, then you had little to worry for. “…It might be less weird for me to show up than for you without the tincture.”

A moment passes. Whether it’s your logic that wins out or the fact that Lyna likely doesn’t want to confront the man herself–the man she was nearly raised by–she nods solemnly regardless.

“Then I will allow you to the Ocular without argument,” she says at last, straightening her posture. “And will act as if I never told you this information at all, warrior. What you choose to do with this knowledge is…above my ability to stop.”

It sounds more as if she’s convincing herself of something, but you don’t have the moment to ask for certain before the captain is already walking away from you at a brisk pace, too quick for you to catch without turning heads.

You stare off into the crowd for a few moments before the noise of someone clearing their throat catches your attention back towards the stall behind you. Keel-Sai stands there, one hand pressed to the counter and the other holding something. A small glass bottle, a clear liquid visible within.

“I’m not a woman to spread no secrets or rumors,” she says, tone soft and assuring. "But I am also not one to keep my nose out of someone's business if I can all help them."

You take her words with comfort, but eventually glancing towards what is held in her hand. She smiles, holding it out to you with a certain twinkle of amusement you can’t read. Though you’re wont to take the random liquid from folks, especially in your many misadventures in the one-off tainted drink, you feel enough trust to at least hold out your hands to take what she’s offering.

“You might need this,” the Mystel says, laying the bottle in your hands and closing your fingers around its body. “If the Exarch can’t stop himself from goin’ into season, the man at least deserves to enjoy it proper.”

For a moment you think to question the woman and her mysterious gift, but Keel-Sai silences it with a wink.

So instead all you do is thank her, the words as rushed and broken as the thoughts whirling around your head, and scurry off back into the crowd as you try desperately to remember what direction you are supposed to go.

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