#crystal exarch readerinsert

“Well,” you can’t help but purr, taking in the sight with no shortage of delight.. “Aren’t you a rather eager lad?”

“I’m hardly a lad anymore.” The Exarch’s face takes on a slightly darker shade of crimson, but he huffs all the same. “Several decades too old for that.”

His hands reach forward to grip and grasp desperately at your own clothes.

“Come on then,” the man murmurs, tugging at cloth and armor alike with a desperation edging on adorable. “Don’t leave me waiting any longer than I already have-”

You feel and see a shiver move through the Seeker’s body when he takes in a breath. Something about the touch, his touch, seems to awaken something new in the air between the two of you. It grows heavier with every moment, every heartbeat, and it leaves your brain whirling around itself to realize just how far gone the man has grown in his hormones and lust.

It certainly has an effect upon your mind and body both, exacerbating the already-great feelings of want that sit like lava in the pit of your stomach. You reach out hands to grab for G’raha’s wrists, feeling cool crystal and hot flesh beneath your fingertips that shimmer beneath the dim light of the Ocular.

The man merely lets out a soft whine instead of words, question obvious all the same when piercing ruby eyes meet with your own. But your grip doesn’t fade, and instead you use the confusion of the moment to press the man back a step, to pull his hands back around his body until you’re pressing chest-to-chest, and your lips are brushing across the tantalizing expanse of his crystal-marbled collarbone.

“I said I was going to ravish you senseless,” your words are but a gentle, warm breath over his skin. “And I mean it, Raha. Let me take care of you first.”

G’raha starts to sputter some nonsensical argument, but you silence it quickly with a kiss to his pulse that leaves your lips parted and teeth gently dragging across oddly malleable crystal. There is no taste to it against your tongue, but you can’t help but feel the faintest, aching pulse, echoing in tune to the heartbeat that you feel between your chests. 

He squirms, but doesn’t fight the restriction of your hands on his wrists. That perhaps is the most alluring of it all; feeling him willingly yield, a man of such power and prestige that many regard him akin to a king. To feel him, the Exarch, G’raha Tia, vulnerable to your will in his most carnal of moments. It sparks a burning flame between your legs, a hunger in your belly--you want more .

So more you take, your lips moving over the beautiful expanse of your new lover’s throat, until you’re gently mapping out the delicate network of gold streaking through the crystal. Each kiss gets a gasp in response, a tremble through G’raha’s body until he’s nearly starting to shake like a leaf against you.

When your lips finally lift, you can’t help but glance to his face. What you find is an expression of soft pleasure, cheeks nearly as red as his hair and eyes shut tight.

With a gentle hum, you get the man’s half-lidded attention and ask, “Too much?”

Beautiful ruby eyes look away after a few moments, falling instead gently to your lips, then off towards the floor. Somewhere in it all, however, you swear that his face seems to turn a deeper shade of red. 

Adorable .

“It-... it’s not too much,” he finally whispers, tipping his head forward until your foreheads touch. “I just… I never thought your mouth would feel so good.”

A smirk curls at the corners of your lips.

“My mouth can feel even better in other places, if you want.”

G’raha doesn’t immediately respond with words, but the sharp intake of air in his nose is hardly missed. It sends a tingle of excitement down your spine.

“Is that what you want, Raha?”

Your body presses harder against his. Lips tilt forward, ghosting once more over the delightfully, though surprisingly sensitive expanse of his throat as before. You can feel his wrists pressing against your grip, lost somewhere seemingly in the urge to move and the restraint to remain still and let you take your pleasure of him. What’s even more delightful is the ongoing shape of his cock yet pressed between your bodies, aching enough for you to feel even through your layers of clothes.

G’raha’s voice eventually breaks the hot, shaking silence.

“ Please.”

“Please what?”

Your fingers finally unwrap from his wrists, though the unspoken command leaves them bound by wavering self-restraint alone behind the small of his back. 

 Words, more beg than command, spill from his soft lips like sweet honey.

“Touch me,” he whispers, eyes finally matching with your own as another shiver moves down his form. “Put your mouth all over me.”

There was little shame in the man’s gaze from the first moment you stepped into both the Ocular and into his arms, but there is but none left now. Not an ounce of it, though that’s likely because it’s pooling in his cheeks and down his body, cock still so eager despite being so woefully neglected--is that the effect of the heat he’s enduring? Logic says it’s far from the first erection he’s had since the start of the affliction, and that train of thought in itself is rather dangerous. It makes you wonder how many times he’s found release by his own hands. 

Moreso, it makes you curious how many times you can make him find it with yours instead.

Curiosity aside, however, you’re not that sadistic as to leave the man completely untouched and ignored. You offer him a mischievous grin before wrapping your arms around him and letting the two of you unceremoniously tumble down to the ground together, a tangle of limbs until you find G’raha laying beneath you, your body hovering over his in a fantastic moment of excitement and lust--not only for the body and soul of the man himself, but also in the knowledge that you are but moments away from bringing him such great pleasures and heights of euphoria.

There is little warning and less grace to the motion as you drag yourself down the front of G’raha’s form, letting hungry lips kiss a winding road down past his chest and belly until coming to the joining of his thighs and the throbbing shape between them.

A breath escapes your parted lips, and only by the careful maneuvering of your hands to G’raha’s hips does it keep him from instinctively thrusting them forward and sinking himself into the welcoming heat of your mouth.

“You seem eager enough,” you say with amusement, moreso at how he so easily obeys the gentle restriction of your touch. “Very much like the lad you seem so keen to deny of yourself.”

For as many years of life as he’s experienced, you know well enough how strong the Exarch is--how powerful G’raha Tia has become. He could very well break your hold and send you across the room if he truly didn’t wish to be pinned, but he doesn’t . Knowing that fact alone is alluring, as there’s a beauty that comes with the unspoken words of submission. How he defers so easily to the restriction even as his flushed cock throbs, aching for attention and release.

“I am b-but an old man in comparison-” the Exarch yet manages from his trembling lips, hands free to reach and gently entwine with your hair, but restrained in doing little more than anchoring himself to you. “-and h-...hardly worthy of such selfless attention.”

You huff, and hide not the noise or stern expression that falls over your eyes.

“I respectfully disagree, all things considered.”

It doesn't take much to comfortably settle yourself between his legs--you may even go as far to say that you felt rather cozy with the man’s thighs framing either side of your face, warm thighs which tremble with such a scorching heat of arousal. Your lips even press close enough to brush down the length of his cock, each word a delicate kiss of hot breath against such sensitive nerves.

G’raha can’t help but sob .

By the time that you’ve carefully skimmed back up to the tip, the man is shaking, hands gripping with such a focused restraint in your hair that you can feel it. Arousal fills up from the depth of your belly at the notion, serving only to embolden the motions to repeat again, and then once more. You’ve traced up and down the underside of G’raha’s twitching cock several times over before his soft sobs finally start to form real words again. Words vaguely snatched from the edges of his mind, which you know is already in tatters.

“Gods above-” his hips press up, desperate for more, but you press back with careful hands to keep them pinned and motionless. “M-my warrior, p-...please… your mouth-”

The press of your tongue against the underside of G’raha’s cock serves well enough to pull the words apart into their raw syllables. A trace downward pulls them into fragmented letters, and a gentle nosing to the soft balls below render him utterly devoid of language itself.

He tastes like sweat and salt and arousal. You can feel his tail thrashing like a whip beneath him as you drag a flattened tongue back up his full, eager length. It throbs weakly against the gentle assault, but it isn’t until you decide to take the tip of G’raha between your lips that you realize just how close to the precipice he truly is--

He spills weakly into your mouth, the only warning being a tug of his hands and a messy jumble of words that you can barely hear past the blood rushing in your ears. It’s a symphony of sensations. The gentle pain of hands tugging sharply at your hair, the heat of his writhing body, the press of his soft thighs against your ears and even the bitter seed spilling onto your tongue--it’s a wondrous peak of euphoria in its own right, one which you swallow down nearly as greedily as what little liquid fills your mouth. 

But nothing is quite as beautiful as how G’raha moans your name. It sounds like a prayer, fervent and desperate in all the ways that leave your belly tight and heart thudding hard against your ribs. He continues to moan it, then whisper it, and then breathe it with heaving lungfuls of hot air as you finally release him from both mouth and hands. 

“I’m sorry,” you begin sheepishly, raising a hand to wipe off what you weren’t able to swallow from your lips and chin. “I didn’t realize you were already so close, I wouldn’t have-”

You’re hardly able to get the next word out before there’s a set of hands quite suddenly cupping your cheeks and a pair of lips so gently ghosting against your own. G’raha shifts only so that he’s sitting up, with you still settled between his spread thighs.

The man hides little mischief as his tongue darts out to lap up the half-smeared drops you were about to simply wipe away with the back of your hand. 

“Do not apologize,” he purrs, entire mouth rumbling. “That was not the first time I found my peak the last several suns, and it will be far from the last.”

The pass of his tongue across your lips feels insistent, gently so, seeking permission to slip between them. Your response comes as a gentle whisper of his name, which is so quickly swallowed by the kiss he presses against you. Hungry. Passionate. Needy. Though he’s just a handful of seconds from climaxing against your tongue, G’raha’s hunger for you is but vaguely sated; like tossing but a single bucket of water into a raging forest fire, you can still feel the surging blaze within him.

“...You are still far too dressed,” the man murmurs after the kiss breaks, leaving you in his arms and settled so comfortably between his legs. 

“Would you like to remove some layers yourself?”

For but a breath, you are sure that ruby eyes look sharper than just a moment before you had spoken. Like something instinctual and feral. So when G’raha’s lips curl just far enough to see the gentle gleam of fangs in his smile, nothing can stop your heart from nearly skipping a beat.

“If I remove something of my own accord, dearest warrior, I’m afraid you would be rather unable to put it back on.”

The seeker leans forward to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, “You tempt me so. But I can be restrained enough to help you properly, if you would like.”

The grin softens after a few moments, but his words strike deep within the ever-present haze of lust and need that surrounds you, wafting from the exarch like a thick, lazy cloud of hormones. You have a feeling that the orgasm may have something to do with it, but say nothing in favor of getting started in stripping yourself down.

Since you aren’t dressed for battle, there is luckily far fewer layers to remove. G’raha seems pleased enough to watch, though there’s something about his eyes that keep your heart racing every time you catch even a glance at his face. Hair mussed, cheeks flushed, completely naked and cock half-hard between his crossed legs. How a man could look so debauched and yet retain even a miniscule amount of composure was beyond your mind’s ability to consider, especially when you so wanted to ruin whatever composure he had left.

Your upper garments come off with relative ease, leaving you free to ask, “How long have you been like this?”

“In heat?” G’raha clarifies gently, waiting only until you nod before continuing. “I would say at least three days, though unfortunately time is hard to keep track of in this state.”

“I think I can understand as much,” you murmur, carefully slipping off your pants, pausing only when the gentle click of something falling from one of your pockets catches your ears.

It catches the exarch’s attention as well, and both of you glance towards the floor to find a small, nondescript vial of clear liquid rolling to a stop between the two of you. It takes a few moments before you recognize it as the very same vial that the Mystel merchant Keel-Sai had given you but hours before.

Oh.

You had nearly forgotten about that.

G’raha’s attention is hardly missed as you lean down to gently pick it up, examining the vial genuinely for the first time since it was handed to you, though you’re yet without an answer for its contents. Though curious, you were content to tuck it back into the pocket of your pants and continue on with the sweet debauchery between the exarch and yourself,

And yet,

When you look up to meet G’raha’s eyes,

You find them wide, awe-struck, and unblinking.

Shock and surprise leaks through the heat across his face, as if he’s just heard the words of Hydaelyn herself whispered into his attentive, forward-facing ears. Like he’s hunting something.

Like he’s ready to pounce upon you.

“Where did you… get that?” he asks at last, voice quiet and body oddly still. “That vial in your hands.”

You look between the exarch and the vial in question for a few moments, trying desperately to connect the dots of the enigma for what it contains in the first place, and if perhaps taking it from the merchant had been a mistake all along. 

“Someone gave it to me,” you relent after realizing that there’s no good way to try and spin the truth otherwise. “When I learned of your… issue. A mystel merchant told me it might be useful to have.”

G’raha is peculiarly silent for a few seconds.

The silence is a little unnerving, so you apt to fill it with the noise of your words instead, hopefully to further clarify the situation. 

“She said it would help you… ‘enjoy it proper’ I believe?” the memory of the words just several hours ago sound as clear as can be. “I’m not sure what it was when she gave it to me, but I assumed it was something that could help alleviate some discomfort in your heat.”

A few more moments of silence, but shorter than before, leaving you only enough time to lift a brow in question before G’raha finally decides to unveil the secret with a growing, mischievous grin on his lips.

“It’s a vial of pheromones, rendered into a drinkable elixir of sorts.”

You blink, but G’raha seems to grow only more amused by it, tail flicking playfully behind him in a way that makes him look all-too young and alike the very man you had seen step into the Crystal Tower but months prior to your summoning to the First. 

“It’s not very common in the Source, if I recall correctly,” he continues, bringing up a hand to his chin as if lost so genuinely in memory. “But it’s surprisingly more common here in the First--I dare say it’s because many Mystel don’t naturally have regular heats in this realm from the greatly unbalanced aether. I didn’t expect you to have the pretense to obtain it, given how I tried to hide my heat so dearly.”

After a moment, the exarch tilts his head so slightly to the side, almost imperceptible if you weren’t so acutely aware of him. Of his eyes. They peer at you like a beast, hungry and so finely aware at the same time; a mixture of the young G’raha you knew and the raw, carnal instincts that wrap tight around the man who’d lived decades to see your face again.

“And it’s not for me, so to speak . ”

Your heart races on, thumping hard against the inside of your ribcage. The words, hot and haunting, echo between your ears until all you can do is gently part your lips, letting the question flow like a trickle of water though the answer is already clear in your mind.

“Who is it for then?”

G’raha smiles wide, familiar and sweet and filled with playful mystery.

“My warrior,” his words are soaked with honest adoration, the sound of reverence echoing from how his soft lips had curled around your name in the throes of pleasure. “That elixir is to help induce a heat in my would-be mate for this season. And that very mate, whom I shall ravish and wreck until we’re exhausted-”

The exarch licks the tip of his tongue over his lips.

All you can do is nod wordlessly for fear how your voice might sound otherwise. The guard pauses for a moment, then nods in return and steps over to the doors to attune his aether against the magical locks keeping them sealed tight from the outside.

It’s a familiar ritual, one of which you know little of the details. Though the Crystal Tower is but the very same you’d explored many moons before, much of its working seems to have changed in the timeline from whence this one hails. Obviously the Exarch has made it very much his home, having attuned to it in more ways than the physical imprint it’s left upon his body.

It’s difficult to see the century of time beyond your own that lays upon the structure–at least from the outside.

Only when you’re let past the doors do decades of added history become apparent; once-forgotten rooms are now clean and pristine, filled with a sense of life despite being otherwise empty of anything beyond piles of books and idle trinkets. Where halls were once desolate they are now lavish and bright, with gentle aetherical lights along the walls and guiding the way towards the Ocular itself.

You wonder idly if the Exarch had done all of the decorating himself over the slow expanse of years, needing something to fill his time with.

Did he collect all the books that your eyes find? The trinkets?

Many of the items are wholly unfamiliar to you from the last you’d set foot in the Crystal Tower of your own world, leading you to only guess at their origin. Surely there are stories behind each item; you hope to ask the Exarch of each one day, if the chance ever presents itself.

As you follow the gentle pulse of the lights along the hallway, your eyes catch sight of many twists and turns leading deeper into the tower where time has truly set its course. The Exarch has settled in only but a small section of the greater part to the tower, and you know intimately well how much there is truly to explore.

Though you cannot deny a mild, nostalgic curiosity for where they lead, all of them are blocked with a barrier similar to what keeps the Dossal Gate sealed. You know as much only because your earliest visits to the Ocular were always done in-step with a guard, if only to assure you didn’t attempt to wander off too far.

More for your own safety than for security’s sake, they had told you. Apparently, a number of creatures had long-since settled within the tower’s innermost spaces, and the Exarch had not the time to spare clearing them out in many decades.

Yet another thing to speak to him about when the time comes.

But you’re alone, having walked the path to the Ocular more times than you can count on both your hands and without the need for a guide nor protector. It’s a mercy to be without another person beside you, as you would have no words to properly explain your hurried need to speak to the Exarch nor the mind to speak them without a break to your voice.

After what feels like an eternity you finally come upon the door to the Ocular itself. It’s ornate as everything else in the tower, decorated with gold and jewels you can scarcely identify. A veil of nervousness works over your mind as you continue to stare, at last overtaking the rushed sense of responsibility that has powered you through every motion until now.

A sense of unknown lays beyond the door.

To some degree, you know what you’ll find; an old friend, caught in the center of hormones he’s likely not felt for decades if the response of Lyna and the apothecary was any indication. You’re hardly sure how it’s possible as much as you’re unsure how it’s impossible, leaving you at an impasse of thoughts that seem to all lead to the same ending.

The Exarch. G’raha Tia.

For as full of shameless enthusiasm as you had been, you’re now caught in a stillness that can’t be broken. You feel frozen to the spot, unable to move and less able to speak as a chilling question at last bubbles up past everything else:

What would he think?

So caught up in your own feelings, your own feverish excitement that yet simmers at the pit of your stomach, you but barely gave caution to the fact that such things may not be mutual. G’raha was a friend to you, one of the dearest, but you can hardly find anything to indicate if he had ever wanted to be more than that. There were idle glances, fanciful words and the occasional brush of skin, yes, but in between all the chaos of exploring the Crystal Tower it wasn’t exactly something you had the chance to extrapolate on with him–not in a way that was truly meaningful, at least.

What if he doesn’t want you with him?

Your mind plays the question over again, allowing the worry to run its course through until you can look at the situation as easily as any other: your intention is simply to aid him, your friend–if that involves leaving him alone, then so be it, you will take your leave without argument.

But if he desires your company…

If he asks for your touch…

You promise yourself that it’s a logical set of answers to a complicated, emotion-laden problem, knowing that there is truly no great way to answer it.

And so, with that in mind, you reach your hand out to knock on the door.

It’s a wonder that the Exarch can even hear the sound. Through the thick haze that fills his mind, the sharp knocks permeate the air and pull him out of his stupor to feel a wave of worry and calm both.

“Lyna?” He calls, confused why she wouldn’t announce herself.

Even in matters dealing little in his dignity she’s come to offer him warning, which the man appreciates greatly in moments when he is so greatly indisposed.

Like now.

Because he can’t stop himself.

He can’t stop the way he needs to take himself in-hand every quarter bell, or how his body yearns to be rid of the but few layers of clothing still on his body. Though clad in but a simple robe of soft linen, the Exarch still feels too hot and confined–his body yearns for the freedom of nothing suffocating his skin. It’s all he can do to stay sane while keeping a semblance of shame, even though he is the only one in the Ocular.

The fact that the Exarch’s voice does not break is a wonder, especially as a stroke of his hand but once more over a throbbing cock brings the man once more over the crest of orgasm. It’s hardly satisfying, especially not when it’s left him to but rut uselessly into his own touch, cock twitching but with nothing to spill.

It aches almost as bad as the fire itself that still smolders on in his belly, but it brings at least a vague sense of clarity to his thoughts. It’s not enough for his skin to stop crawling and his tail to mute its thrashing behind himself, but the Exarch can at least gather up himself enough to approach the door and open it.

When it does, the man looks out expecting to see the face of the militia captain to greet him–hopefully with a vial of liquid held in her hands.

But that’s not who he sees.

The Exarch all but freezes in place as his eyes take in the person before him. Though he can see perfectly fine, it’s the scent of you that hits his brain first; the sudden hammer of instinct twisting up his thoughts into a furious whirlwind that he hadn’t prepared himself for.

It’s you.

The air outside of the Ocular is thick with your delicious scent. It’s sweet and warm and a million other things that he could scarcely describe in a sober state of mind let alone right now, when his heart is beating so fast that the sound of blood in his ears is little more than a constant rush of noise, so loud that it leaves his thoughts quiet in comparison.

And, just as it had before, the man is almost overtaken by the sudden impulse to have you, to be had by you, to matematemate until he can’t even think beyond where his body begins and yours ends.

But despite the sudden weight of emotions that fall over him, the Exarch forces himself to close the door and lean his body against it, staring into the space of the Ocular with eyes blown wide with seething lust only barely contained.

How?

How?!

Though his body croons and yearns for your touch, the better part of the man’s mind can but tense with worry for what you’ll think of him if you knew–if you learn about his shame, about how many times he’s already cum with your name spilling on his lips with your relationship but barely rekindled.

“I-I’m but a little ill at the m-moment, my warrior!” the Exarch says, forcing all of his willpower into keeping his words steady. “It would n-not be wise for me to entertain y-your c-…company.”

He hopes dearly that such a weak excuse would be enough to persuade you to leave him be, to simmer in his own shame and sordid pleasures until it can all be forgotten and shoved into a forgotten corner of his memories.

Oh, he hopes.

You blink, eyes settled upon the door in front of you. For a moment you wonder if you merely imagined it, the soft peak of a familiar face from within the room–perhaps your nervousness had finally taken a turn for the insanity, pulling your mind so far down that you but thought to have seen it open and a pair of familiar ruby eyes peek out.

But when his voice echoes out from within the room, you’re assured otherwise.

“I-I’m but a little ill at the m-moment, my warrior!” you hear, voice sounding strained and shaky. “It would n-not be wise for me to entertain y-your c-…company.”

There’s a part of you that feels bad for the Exarch–for G’raha. Not only has the man yet been through so much already in his century of life in the First, but he has to deal with your renewed friendship and all of the awkwardness it may come with from his attempt to conceal his identity (though you’ve accepted since that it was necessary, grateful only in the fact you were able to save him).

After all of that, he is being forced to deal with a problem so intimate that he feels ashamed about it?

Your stomach twists in sympathy as much as it does an embarrassing amount of arousal.

“It’s okay,” you say at last, stepping close to the door in the hopes it would allow G’raha to hear you clearly. “I…know what’s really going on.”

Nothing but cold silence comes from the other side of the door.

You swallow down what feels like a small rock in your throat. Despite being able to sound so assuring and confident in moments of battle and stress, you can hardly feel like you sound the same in moments when it truly counts. “I ran into Lyna in the market. You’re…going into season right? Going into heat?”

More silence. It lingers until the air feels heavy with it, a lack of response that in turn leaves you feeling even more nervous than before.

For a few moments you even wonder if G’raha can even hear you, but his voice at last rings out softly through less than a fulm of crystal, “I…am sorry that you’ve to see me like this. P-please, I would be left alone for several days t-to take care of this issue on my own.”

“Is that what you really want?”

“…”

You step closer still to the door, until all you can do is rest your hands upon the cold crystal surface, almost willing for him to be able to feel even an onz of your warmth through it. A gentle trickle of adoring sympathy begins to press into your chest, as if you can think of naught else but taking the man in your arms and helping him through this.

To kiss him softly, to assure him that it’s okay.

That you want him.

“Please let me help you,” your words finally escape from your mind in but a soft murmur. “I can help you–this isn’t something you have to endure alone.”

There’s almost a growing desperation blooming within your chest, an ache in knowing that your old friend was suffering in a form. In truth, it was but even a longing for him, an echo of desire you could almost seem to feel in the space between your bodies, separated only by the door.

The man doesn’t respond to you, leaving you to wonder if he truly means what he says–if he doesn’t want anyone else to be with him in his vulnerable state, to which you can understand if that is the honest truth. You will respect that.

But, after a breath, a set of words linger behind your lips, a final assurance for you to turn around and hope that he will get through the coming days without an excess of discomfort. Fingers curl against the cold crystal door, until they pull into fists that tense with all the same emotions deep in your belly.

“I want to help you,” you say, the space around you suddenly feeling as if frozen in time even as you speak. “Please, G’raha, I want to help you right now–I want–…I want you, G’raha.”

Everything stops.

The air. The sound. Your heart.

Your thoughts.

For what feels like an eternity, every single thing is as if nonexistent and intense in the same breath. You can’t properly describe how you suddenly feel as if a million sets of eyes lay upon you, the star itself stopping its constant motion through the universe to turn a heavy gaze onto where you stand.

It’s unclear how many moments pass before something breaks the frozen silence. Seconds, minutes, bells–it could have even been an entire eternity, for it felt like such before you hear the gentle creak of noise that alerts you to motion.

Your hands feel the door shift, slightly, and you allow them only to drop back to your sides as the Ocular at last comes into view beyond the open entrance-

G’raha Tia stands within it, and only now are you able to get a proper look at him.

He looks, for lack of a better term, utterly debauched.

His eyes are bright, looking almost wet, echoing in color to a flush that lay thick across his cheeks.

Red hair lays loose over his shoulders, which themselves are but barely covered by what you’d hardly call clothing–it’s barely little more than a wrapping of linen around his body, hanging around his form and cinched somewhere at the waist.

It looks like something he would wear beneath the rest of his clothes you’ve grown used to seeing him wear–if you’d have enough time to stare, you might’ve even been able to pick out the subtle curves of his chest and nipples beneath the nearly-sheer fabric, shamefully pert.

He appears all manner of aroused you prepared yourself for, but it’s the scent that puts everything into desperate clarity.

The smell of sex and need, undeniable, and it hits you with all the ferocity of a punch to the gut. If you had even the strongest doubts as to what the man has likely been doing the last several days, then one breath of the mesmerizing, hot scent would put it away with the quickness a lightning strike.

G’raha looks at you from where he stands in the doorway, his body half-hidden behind the door. After a few moment of silence, his eyes begin to drift downward, as if unable to meet your gaze for longer than a breath.

Embarrassed.

Ashamed.

You feel a tug at your chest with the simple motion, a sudden influx of feelings that almost threaten to swallow you up whole. You want to reach out and touch him, hold him, kiss away the tears of frustration that threaten yet to fall down the soft curves of his cheeks.

But you restrain yourself on but a thread, jaw tight and body tense.

“Will you let me help you?”

G’raha is silent for a few moments more, and you’re scared that he might close the door again. You’re actually scared of the moment being cut short, if only now because you can see how desperately far-gone the man is in an instinctual lust he can’t stop from experiencing.

He takes in a breath–you notice how he shivers from that–and finally lifts his eyes back up to meet your gaze.

“I deserve not y-your kindness after keeping myself hidden f-….from you, my dear friend,” he sounds as if barely able to keep his words coherent and strung-together in sentence form. “I hope y-you do not…think less of me as I stand here in this sorry state, b-but….”

His lips finally twitch, slowly, into a smile almost reminiscent of the one he offered to you but suns ago–the one that freed you at last from the light coiling within your body, the one where you saved him from Emet-Selch.

The smile makes your soul feel soft and warm and everything in-between.

G’raha’s smile lingers as he murmurs, still strained, “…I would want n-nothing….more than your company right now.”

Before you can say anything, before you can even think, impulse and instinct override it all and send you at last surging forward-

Until you can grasp the man and tug him into your arms, until you can lean your face and press your lips against his own, already soft and warm and swollen from having been bitten between his own teeth.

G’raha but melts against you, placid and warm, his lips eager and hands grasping needily at your body.

“Please,” he murmurs into your mouth, his tail twisting around your hip as if to pull you closer. “Been waiting for so long for this. For you.”

Heat blossoms in your chest and belly alike, words affirming and pure in meaning more than your mind can hope to comprehend in the moment.

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.

Inside, folded carefully and smelling of jasmine, was the softest poncho he had ever beheld. When he pulled it from it’s confines he is astonished to find that it is exactly his size. He searches for a note, or perhaps a tag, to inform him of the garment’s sender but is unable to find such a thing. Perhaps Lyna had left it for him? He feels the fabric against his cheek, ears flickering happily at the softness that greets him. Obviously, it was made by hand, so perhaps his protegee had not woven this for him. 

For a moment, he considers wearing it, but the urge is quickly quelled. Whomever had gifted this to him had obviously put their heart into every stitch, yes, but it would not do for him to show favor among the Crystarium, regardless of how much he loved it.

So he stowed it away, the mystery of who had thought to give him such a thing waning in the face of his tasks. It is not until nearly a week later that the question presents itself again, as yet another package is left in the middle of the Ocular. This one is nameless and tag-less just as before but contains something much different. Instead of clothes, there are several sandwiches lined in neat rows waiting for him beneath the lid of the box. They were fresh, the meat still warm and steaming. 

His stomach growls. 

It had been decades since G'raha had felt the need to eat but it comes rushing in like so much water. He is quick to scarf the meal down, licking his fingers after each bite. There was no doubt that the food had been made with a care and precision many lacked. Why they had bestowed him with such a gift was beyond his comprehension.

He contemplates hunting down his benefactor, it would not do for them to keep leaving such gifts without his thanks but quells the thought. Perhaps it was just circumstance? And besides, if they sought to remain anonymous then he would keep to it as they did.

However, fate worked in strange ways.

G'raha had stepped from the Ocular for only a moment in the pursuit of making sure the Crystarium’s defense were up to task. When he returned from his duties he was shocked to find someone waiting for him. Well, not so much waiting for him as caught mid task. The Warrior of Light stood in the midst of his Ocular a paper wrapped box in their hands. Upon his entrance they stopped, staring wide eyed and slack jawed at him. They stammered an apology, hiding the package behind their back, cheeks burning.

“So,” He says, not lack of amusement in his voice, fingers lacing tight around the staff in his hand, “I assume ‘tis you who left me these gifts?” The look in their eyes can only be described as oddly guilty. Their ears twitch as they not, facing back and away from him. Scared.

Slowly, with hands shaking, they present their gift to him. He steps forwards, taking it gently from their grasp as if the package was made of glass. Their eyes do not meet his as he lifts the lid. Inside lay a pillow, the scent of jasmine lifting into the air as easily as it had with the poncho. It’s plush, silken, and a lovely pink color that he hadn’t seen before. It occurs to him that they must have dyed the fabric themselves. He looks to them again. Their hands are clutching at the hem of their shirt, plucking the few stray strands that poke from the fabric.

“It’s lovely,” He says, a small smile on his lips, “I only wonder at the occasion.”

They gulp, visibly, at the question managing to allow their eyes to catch his.

“Clothes to keep him warm, food to keep him fed, and a pillow to lay his head.” 

They recite it as if it’s been driven into them. G'raha cannot help but blink. The words spilled so easily from their lips and yet it looked as if it pained them to utter but a single sentence.

“I … assume this means something?"

G'raha’s brows furrow as his Warrior of Light lets out a choked sound, burying their face in their hands. "I–It’s a courting poem! I’m trying to court you!” They practically squeal.

Ah.

When he was younger he’d heard of the practices other Miqo'te partook in. He’d known that Keepers tended to court their lovers with the female usually pursuing the male in a dance of many steps and traditions. He had not payed it much mind, instead turning his attention to ancient mysteries and forgotten folklore. He curses himself for it now. 

How was he to respond to such heartfelt and painstakingly made presents?

“Then,” He says, words carefully weighed on his tongue, “Tell me, in your culture, how do I respond in kind?”

They peek from between their fingers, ears pricking at his words, “Well I suppose you could tell me you liked me back.”

He does not stop the bubble of laughter that seeps from his chest. Still holding the pillow aloft, he uses his free hand to slowly detach their hands from their face. “My Warrior of Light, there is not a world in all the fourteen shards that I would deny you my affections.”