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It had taken less than two weeks within Ishgard’s walls for Arcelia to come to the assumption that she would never grow accustomed to the unrelenting chill of Coerthan weather. Within the city, out in the Highlands, it didn’t matter – perpetual winter was still winter, slipping past her coats and seeping into her bones, time and time again. An annoyance, but one that she at least had the modesty to bear with grace. One of the smaller burdens she’s bearing these days as Warrior of Light, if she’s being honest with herself.

So, it sits strange, some months later, when she finds herself absently picking at the sleeves of her coat, frowning as she tries to focus on whatever it is Alphinaud is saying to her presently and not the odd, suffocating feeling that only seems to grow more insistent with each measured breath she takes. The sun is bleak through the light cloud cover out in the Western Highlands, and yet its warmth has never felt more oppressive than it does now.

“Arcelia – are you feeling alright?”

Oh, no. It must be obvious then.

“Um,” she says, already off to an unconvincing start, “I, ah. I don’t know.”

“You look feverish,” says Alphinaud, concern coloring his voice.

She frowns, fiddling with the buttons of her coat. “I do feel a bit…strange. Perhaps I ate something that doesn’t agree with me.” The last part is certainly a lie — she feels ill but not in a way that makes sense. Still, Alphinaud is sincere enough to believe it, and she doesn’t bother trying to put up any kind of fight when he suggests that she return back to Ishgard to rest.

It doesn’t dawn on her what it might actually be until her feet touch the ground back at the aetheryte plaza, absently unbuttoning her coat to let in more of the cool air, anything to relieve the unrelenting heat that settles over her skin –

“Oh,” she breathes, feeling well and truly ill, now.

She starts walking towards the Forgotten Knight, pulse quickening as she furrows her brow, tries to recount her week, tries to think what would even cause her to forget something so terribly important. She’s made it too far in her life to slip up now, to slip up here, when she’s busy and has other things to worry about, like recovering her lost Scions, tracking down Iceheart and her band of heretics, trying to fathom and fight in some ancient war in order to earn her keep –

“Kitten – you’re back sooner than I would have thought.”

Oh no. Not now.

She’s barely even started down the stairs of the Knight when she hears Grinnaux’s voice, glancing over the railing to see him and Paulecrain both sitting at their usual table. She already feels itchy, every breath stifling in her lungs, and yet it escalates to unbearable as she stares at them, her mouth suddenly gone dry.

She’s trying to rationalize whether it’s too late for her to turn around and bolt out the door – she could flee to her room at the Fortemps instead, though the idea of anyone under their roof learning of her affliction is a humiliation she’s not sure she could bear. The lesser of two evils is still evil, though, and she finds herself swallowing thickly, trying to weigh options in a rapidly irrational mind.

Paulecrain’s smile settles smug, familiar if nothing else. He takes one look at her flushed face, an eyebrow cocked as he says, “What? So happy to see us?”

She’s going to have to pass them to make it to her room. She takes a deep breath – regrets that almost immediately because gods she can smell them even from here – before she descends the rest of the stairs.

She’s about to dart past their table with a mumbled half-explanation of not feeling well, sorry when Paulecrain reaches out, too fast for her to duck, snagging her by the wrist.

It saps her of all thought, his touch searing against her skin, calloused fingers warm in a way that is so distractingly pleasant, cutting through the discomfort that’s otherwise settled over her. The knot in her gut tightens, turning over as his thumb brushes over her arm, pulling her closer. She’s trying not to breathe at all, but she exhales sharply when she meets his gaze, watches as he cocks an eyebrow, his smile twitching, knowing.

She blinks, some small part of her mind screaming at her to run, trying to ignore the way her heat settles unbearable between her legs.

“Um,” she finally squeaks. “I, ah, I need to go,” and she slips free of his grasp, fleeing down the hall before either of them can press her further.

The moment her door is shut, she frantically unbuttons her coat, flinging it aside, stripping out her dress soon after as she chases some kind of relief, anything that will cool her down, distract her mind. She paces her room, tries to search for her medication between bursts of shedding additional layers – nothing helps, though, the warmth settling over her like an uncomfortable blanket, pooling low in her gut. Surely, surely she had something on hand, something Y’shtola could have perhaps passed to her back in Ul’dah that could at least alleviate things, cut this dreaded heat shorter than whatever she was already going to be stuck having to endure –

A sharp knock at her door makes her jump.

“Arcelia.” She can tell it’s Paulecrain, his voice muffled through the door – she realizes with distant horror that she can smell him even from here. “Not even a proper hello?”

Fury.

She scowls, though it's hard to tell whether its at him for not being courteous to leave well enough alone, or the way she feels a knot in her stomach coil and tighten as she imagines letting him in, imagines the other, more obvious way she could help stave off this awful affliction –

She doesn’t even realize when her hand absently slips down between her thighs, a low moan caught in her throat before she blinks, dawning horror creeping up her spine, snatching her hand away and then grimacing at the loss. Gods, gods, not now.

“I didn’t realize I owed you one,” she calls back, rummaging faster.

“Truly? You wound me.”

It’s bullshit sentimentality, she tries to tell herself – she knows from the condescension running rampant in his voice. She rolls her eyes, kicks her discarded dress to the corner of her room as she continues her search.

“Is everything alright?”

She pauses, stares down at herself, stripped nearly bare save for her underclothes.

“Um,” is all that comes out at first, her biology at war with the trace amounts of sensibility she has left in her mind. “I’m, uh, not really sure,” she finally manages, which is a mistake because now he sounds genuinely concerned as he rattles the doorknob.

“Can I come in?”

He’s almost being sweet, in a way – in his way, at least, and she wishes she was rational enough to actually enjoy it. Her bottom lip wobbles as she stares at the door. She almost feels dizzy now, the more she thinks about it – and then she must think too much because she suddenly finds herself unable to focus on what it is she wants to say, unable to focus on anything other than how she isn’t being touched right now, a hollow ache dull and insistent at her core.

“Ah.” She swallows thickly, tries to take another evenly measured breath. “I…I think – wait, wait, you don’t understand –”

The tiny part of her that can still manage coherent thought screams at her the moment the knob turns – why hadn’t she bolted the lock – watching in horror as the door swings open. Her face reddens further as he stares back at her, appraising her as she is – near bare, flushed, slick with sweat.

The concern summarily disappears, replaced with a knowing look and a demure smile that makes her shiver.

“Oh,” he says. “Is that what this is about? You could have just said as much.”

She sucks in a quarter of a breath before she remembers that he is so close, now, terrified it will send her into freefall if she does, so she stops, setting her jaw as she takes a step back, then another as he steps into the room, closing the door behind him.

“No, you – you really need to leave,” she chokes. “I’m – I –”

He takes a step closer, because of course he does, and she finally is forced to pinch her nose and turn away, holding her breath.

He scoffs. “What are you doing – do I smell that bad –”

Gods – on the contrary. She shakes her head frantically. “No – I’m just – ugh – you should go –”

Now he looks more confused than concerned, if not a bit incredulous as he crosses the room. The small of her back is pressed against the edge of the desk now, nowhere else to run, and she can only watch helplessly as he closes the distance between them, peering down at her as he frowns. He’s close enough to touch now, the heat radiating off of him, warm, inviting. She turns her face away, staring hard at the wall.

“Arcelia.” It comes out patient enough, but he reaches out nonetheless, gently snagging her wrist, coaxing her hand away from her face. “You’re being ridiculous,” which, from an outside point of view, yes, but he doesn’t even begin to understand just how ridiculous this entire thing really is, and –

His touch is more distracting this time, when he’s this close. She twitches, absently rubbing her thighs together which earns her a slight smile and a lidded gaze. Her lungs are burning now, empty as they are, and he must notice from how still she is standing; the last modicum of control that she still has at her disposal. He tilts his head, leans in close.

“Breathe,” he commands softly, and she finally, at last, does.

It’s instantaneous, overwhelming, the way it hits her – the scent of leather, the salt on his skin, the faint whisper of freshly fallen snow and smoke that seems to cling to all Ishgardians, but she’s long since learned to appreciate it on him. One tentative breath turns into another, and then another, devolving into frantic gulps for air as she drinks him in, desperate for more as she stumbles forward into him. Her hands reach for fistfuls of his shirt as she buries her face against his chest and inhales, as deeply as her lungs will afford her, fingers frantically fumbling for the buttons of his shirt, desperate to be skin to skin, to be closer.

“Can’t make up your mind today, can you?” he chuckles softly. The twinge between her thighs is unbearable.

She realizes that she owes him an explanation. At least a warning. Possibly an out.

“It’s not that, it’s – ugh –”

He’s snagged her by the chin, pulling her off of him enough that he can curl down, his mouth pressed to hers in a greedy kiss, his tongue sliding over hers as she whines. “Paulecrain,” she gasps, “please, you don’t –”

Her words choke off into a moan as his knee nudges her legs apart, still pinned between him and the desk. He reaches down, a hand skimming along her stomach, exploring further, expert fingers pressing a firm circle against her through her smalls and gods – any sane thought summarily snuffs itself from her mind as she grinds against his hand, her body singing at the touch, some small modicum of relief finally found at last. She feels certifiable, only able to afford a small amount of embarrassment when he laughs.

“You’re usually always wet, but this…you’ve never been so soaked.”

She grimaces, averts her gaze from his. Takes another dizzying, deep breath before mumbling out something about “Miqo’tes” and “heat” and “missed medication” – it's a jumble, a slur of words half of her hopes he doesn’t hear out of sheer humiliation, the other half of her too distracted by the strain in his pants that her hands greedily wander over, her fingers snagging at the ties of his trousers –

“Sorry? You’re in – in heat?”

“Um.” He’s batted her hands away, looking slightly bewildered but entirely too pleased given the situation. He’s still got her pinned, but he pulls his hand away now, leaving her untouched and desperate all over again as she squirms. “It seems that way, but I’ve never actually, uh…experienced one before.”

He’s staring at her like he’s trying not to laugh, his expression growing more wicked by the second as her resolve continues to fray. She bites her lower lip. She’s sure if the heat doesn’t take her, she might just explode from pure embarrassment instead.

“You know,” he starts, more conversationally than she expects, “I’d heard rumors about such an affliction, but I always thought that was something for the men of your tribes to deal with.”

“That would be the – ugh – the sunseeker tribes, actually – fuck –”

“So it’s the inverse for you, then? They breed, and you need to be br –”

“No – ugh, gods, don’t say it like that,” she snaps. “I mean, yes, sex certainly helps alleviate things, but it doesn’t have to…take.” She’s staring at his chest now out of pure embarrassment, but that doesn’t stop her from catching the knowing twitch of his smirk. She clears her throat. “I’ve got plenty of safeguards in place for that besides.”

“I would assume so, considering,” he says mildly, ignoring the way her lip curls in a snarl.

She wishes she had it in her to be more annoyed, but she’s rapidly becoming preoccupied instead by all the ways he’s not touching her right now, at least not in the way she’s craving. She tries slipping her own hand down for some kind of relief, but then he snags her wrist, holding it firm at her side. “And, considering, you should know that I’d be more than happy to help.”

Her bottom lip wobbles as she glances back up at him, feels a bead of sweat run down the nape of her neck as she trembles. She can already imagine how it would feel, how he would feel, a familiar, visceral stretch to address the mounting need between her legs. She swallows thickly.

“You don’t have to,” she bleats helplessly, a final offer. “You could still go.”

“And leave you like this?” He leans in close, gives her a knowing smile. “Imagine. How cruel would that be.”

“You don’t know what you’re signing up for –”

“I’m sure Ser Grinnaux will be delighted to assist as well –”

“ – I don’t even know what you’re signing up for, I’ve never –”

“Then let’s find out together, shall we?” His knee pushes up, presses against the mound between her legs as she mewls out a broken noise. “You certainly look like you could use the relief sooner rather than later.”

He’s being annoyingly insistent for how little of her own resolve she still has scraped together. And, well, she supposes there are worse ways to go about this. He could have mocked her more, yet he hadn’t, at least not yet. He’d offered to help, so. And the offer wasn’t exactly unappealing.

“Okay, well,” she manages weakly. “If you change your mind, just, you know. Tell me.”

“You know I’ve always valued open communication,” he says pleasantly, which…okay. Whatever. Everything out in the open now, then.

She expects him to drag her to the bed, even imagines him pushing her back over the desk and just taking her where he’s standing. Aggravatingly, he does neither, his smile still patient, expectant, and she realizes precisely what he’s waiting for.

“You’d have me beg, even like this?” she whispers.

“Oh, particularly like this.” He brushes her hair aside to plant a kiss against her neck, smiling against her skin when she shivers. “You’re in rare form. Expect I’ll make the most of it.”

“That’s – that’s not fair.”

“No? I thought it’d be easier this way, actually.”

To his credit, it is easier – she’s actually starting to feel lightheaded now, her mind fuzzy at the edges every moment the hollow ache between her legs goes unaddressed. Not that the embarrassment isn’t still running rampant, but it’s dwarfed in comparison to the unyielding need for relief, for release.

Fine.

“Please.” She doesn’t have to do as much of the typical mental gymnastics to get there, letting the word drop from her mouth as a strained whimper. She’s already flushed from the heat, surely her cheeks can’t redden any further from the humiliation.

“Come now,” he murmurs softly, his breath a distracting caress against her skin. “I think you know what it is that you want, hm? Open communication and all that.”

His knee is still wedged between her legs, distracting – something to squirm against but not nearly enough to get any kind of meaningful friction where she needs it. A distant part of her wonders if it is possible to become truly certifiable like this, given the circumstances.

“Please – please, I want…” Pinprick tears form in the corners of her eyes when she says it, trembling when she feels the flat of his tongue press against her throat, imagines his tongue pressing elsewhere –

She grinds against his leg, gasping messily.

“I – I want you to fuck me, please.”

He makes sure to draw away enough so that she doesn’t miss the indulgent smirk he casts her way.

“Well,” he says, shifting his knee, releasing his grip on her wrist at last. “Since you asked so sweetly.”

She presses up onto her toes to kiss him and the last of her sanity goodbye.

His shirt is easy enough to make short work of – she’d already made it halfway through the buttons before – and she quickly turns her attention further south, her hands fumbling greedily to work him out of his pants, fingers hooking into the waistband of his smallclothes to drag them down and away. His cock springs free and her mouth goes messy and wet at the sight, at the scent. She wraps a hand around him, savors the rumble in his chest when she strokes him firm, briefly considers dropping to her knees to take him in her mouth so she can properly smother herself with the taste – but then large hands nudge her back until she’s sent stumbling against the bed, letting him push her down into it, letting him pin her in place beneath him.

“I thought things were more urgent than that,” he says knowingly, a tinge of impatience to his tone that sends her reeling into compliance. Deft fingers make short work of tugging off her smalls, broad palms sliding up her thighs to part them, to hold her open, making her shiver when he settles between them. He pulls her hips up – moves her so easily, as if she’s weightless – and curls over her when he has her right where he wants her.

She feels feverish, blinking up at him blearily when he smiles in her face, more wicked than pleasant now. Shivers when he leans in close and murmurs, “Hold that pretty little cunt of yours open for me to fuck.”

Trembling, she does – slips both hands down and spreads herself open, her bottom lip quivering as she meets his gaze, her hips mindlessly canting towards him when his dick slides against her folds, the tip notching in.

“Good girl,” he praises, and then he drives himself in.

And, gods – it’s so much better, it’s so much worse. He doesn’t give her any time to adjust – he just takes, buries himself all the way down to the hilt and licks the frantic whine from her mouth as she clenches up around him. Her groan is half-wounded, half-relief as he pulls out just to push in deeper, every thrust sloppy and wet, full enough to finally scratch the unbearable itch that had plagued her since this whole ordeal started.

She’s still begging without realizing it, a hiccupy string of please please please mumbled against his neck, her teeth scraping against the skin when he nudges that sweet spot inside of her that makes her squirm, openly biting down when he hits it too hard, too fast. Grinnaux had been crude enough to call her “cock silly” once before, some sordid night some moons ago, but she feels that way now, distant in her own mind, focused only on the way it feels to be full, on being fucked the way her body craves.

He slides a hand up her thigh to pull it higher on his hip, to hold her steady, and she moans in open reverence, head lolling back against the pillow as she clenches up again, gasping. “Are you going to come for me?” His kiss is like a brand against her skin, searing to the touch. “It's okay,” he soothes – mocks, she knows better by now. “You can come. Let’s see how you fall apart.” As if she isn't in pieces already.

Her nails are sharp across his back as he grinds against her, unrelenting even as she twists in his grasp, scrambling for purchase as she tumbles over the edge at last. “Ple-ease.” It comes out choked, a near sob as she quivers beneath him, little more than a mess of a girl, mindless in the way that she continues to roll her hips to meet his.

“Oh – gods, fuck. I – I need –”

“Need?”

“Need you to come.” she begs, slurring out the words. “Need to be filled.”

“Not full enough?” he scoffs, a half joke as he takes her completely, smiles when she winces and then whines.

She shakes her head, rasps, “More.” Keens pathetically when his pace turns insistent, watches enamored as his lips part in an exhale, harsh and hot.

He reduces her to a mewling mess as she peers up at him, doe-eyed and delirious, still clenches up with every thrust. He’s close now, too, if the furrow of his brow and snarl in his chest is anything to go by.

Still – her ankles cross behind his back, as if she’s terrified he might stop.

(As if he’d finish anywhere else.)

—

They’re both sweaty, breathless messes by the end of it.

The ache finally dulls, some lingering sensation of relief soothing through her core, blooming from the inside out as she lays boneless in the bed beneath his weight. Every breath is still labored, still tinged with strain, but it’s less desperate now – more exhausted, sated.

“Better?” he murmurs. She turns her head, cheek pressed to the pillow with a steady exhale.

“Mm…I…”

She’s still seeing stars, dazed even in the aftermath, his scent lingering in her lungs and smothered across her tongue. It makes it hard to think, to properly take stock, when her senses are so acutely aware of everything – of him, in particular, as he leans in close, the corners of his mouth turned up into a demure smile. She blinks, sighs. As far as she can tell, the blaze of her hunger had certainly been reduced from a fire to a flicker, but it persisted all the same.

It is better, though, at least – she can concede that much. She nods when he finally nudges her, prompting her for some kind of response.

“I don’t think…I don’t think it’s over, though,” she whispers weakly, her words growing thick as saliva pools on her tongue – as good of a confirmation as any.

“I didn’t really expect as much,” he teases, pulling away and pulling out of her at last, watching as she winces from the loss.

“Oh. Suddenly you have knowledge surrounding my affliction?”

“I already told you,” he chides with a quirk of his eyebrow, “I’d heard rumors.”

She’s still grumbling even as he presses a kiss atop her head, sliding off the bed to stand, glancing down at his discarded clothes.

“I should go and collect Ser Grinnaux. I’m sure he’s wondering why we’re taking so long.”

“Why you’re taking so long,” she corrects, pouting. “I said I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Arcelia. With all due respect, you’re a terrible liar.”

“I wasn’t lying! I don’t feel well,” she laments. “I feel…ugh, I don’t know. Strange.”

“Aroused, I think, is the word you’re looking for.”

“No, it’s –”

“Horny, then?”

He’s laughing again. Laughing! Her cheeks puff as she glowers at him, trying to channel her humiliation into indignant fury instead. It must not have the intended effect, though – enough for his laughter to subside, but not for his smirk to fade in any kind of meaningful way.

“It’s worse,” she huffs insistently. “Just…so much worse, you don’t –”

He cuts her short with a kiss, his hand pressing firm against her chest, pressing her back down into the bed.

“Just lay down,” he says, soft, low, “and let it sit in you.”

He means his spend, she realizes faintly. She can feel her hysteria continue to mount in some distant corner of her mind.

She swallows, peering up at him as he stares down at her. Heat pools low in her belly, the knot coiling tight again as she nods her head in understanding and he smiles, murmurs a quiet good girl. She doesn’t even realize she’d been holding her breath until the door clicks shut, until she’s finally alone again.

—

The relief is shorter than she would have expected. Certainly not as long as she would have liked.

The heat has settled over her again by the time they get back, the ache renewed, an incessant gnawing at her center that leaves her feeling feverish. It’s worse even, with them both in the room – Paulecrain alone had made her dizzy before, but the scent of them both so close turns out to be near maddening, an onslaught to her senses that renders her even weaker of mind than before. She turns her head to glance at them from where she’s still sprawled in the bed, snatching away the hand she’d left absently between her legs as she blushes, bottom lip pushed out in a pout, pupils blown wide with lust.

Still. Grinnaux is Grinnaux, and she still has enough of her wits about her to frown when he looks at her, his smile nothing less than shit-eating.

“Oh, kitten. I can practically smell your cunt from here.”

She clamps her knees together and scowls.

“You are foul.”

“I told you,” says Paulecrain matter of factly, ignoring her. “And you thought I was lying.”

“Can you blame me?” Grinnaux props a hand on his hip, still leering. “What an unexpected delight.”

Fury pricks its way up her spine, sharp enough to cut past the haze that’s gradually clouding her judgment.

“Wonderful to know that my suffering makes for such great entertainment.”

“You certainly didn’t seem like you were suffering just a few minutes ago,” teases Paulecrain as her glare snaps to him next. Insufferable, the both of them. Living and breathing reminders of her questionable life choices.

“No,” she starts aggravatedly, “but I…I – ugh.”

Her bangs are beginning to stick along her sweat-slicked forehead, her breathing having long grown labored again. She grimaces and turns away, frustrated that she can’t focus on her aggravation properly the way she wants to.

“Didn’t you just –?”

“I said it was worse,” she moans. “Please just – either get out, or…”

“Or…?”

There’s a dip in the mattress that feels strangely sinister, confirmed when she cracks open an eye to see Grinnaux sneering over her.

“Ser Paulecrain even said you weren’t sure you wanted the help at first,” he murmurs. He’s so close now – closer, even, as she feels his hand slowly trace up her side.

Her cheeks redden as she averts her gaze.

“Well. It’s – humiliating,” she finally confesses, her voice oddly pitched.

“And here I thought you were fond of that sort of thing,” comes the unbearably smug reply, and gods, if she was of sounder mind, she’d kill them both for the way they’re looking at her right now –

Grinnaux’s palm is unyielding on her shoulder as he pins her in place, turning to look at Paulecrain. Her squeak of surprise comes out as more half-moan, much to his apparent delight, sneering as she squirms beneath him.

“Can you help hold her?” he asks, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “I’m assuming you’ll still need some time, anyway.”

Arcelia’s sputtering too much to form a coherent thought, to tell either of them just where they can stick it since they both want to go about things like this, but then there’s a second dip in the bed and hands pinning her wrists down, openly squawking as Paulecrain smiles down in her face, as Grinnaux simply spreads her legs apart –

And then she’s mewling instead, a pathetic noise cutting her protests short as Grinnaux’s thumb swipes across her puffy clit. “You’re a mess,” he murmurs, and yes, she supposes she would be, Paulecrain’s spend still sticky along the insides of her thighs. Somehow, she finds herself caring less and less, though, her embarrassment slowly losing the battle yet again to her biology as deft fingers spread her open, dragging a mixture of slick and cum through her center, pressing in teasingly. She twitches when he thumbs at her again, gasps when his pressure increases, when the hands holding her down prevent her from reaching down to do – something. Bat him away, hold him steady. Scramble for purchase, anything. Instead she’s left squirming in their collective grasp, helpless to do anything but ride it out as Grinnaux presses incessant circles against her, until she chokes out a noise loud enough that he feels compelled to press a palm over her mouth to stifle the sounds she can’t bite back. She screws her eyes shut when she tips over the edge – gods, it comes on so suddenly when she’s like this – still shuddering from the aftershocks when she feels the blunt of his cock replace his fingers at her cunt.

And while the orgasm is certainly welcome, it doesn’t compare to the near blinding relief of being full again – her moan is obscene, encouraging when he pushes in, canting her hips to meet him, her nails dug in along her palms as she rides him out.

“Fury.” His voice is more of a distant hiss, drifting through her frenzied mind. “You’re so tight,” and she clenches up even more as she nods, gasping as he grunts through it. It does feel different – it had with Paulecrain, too, the way she can feel each and every ilm slip into her, stretching her open, turning her malleable.

“I don’t know if I can fit it all like this,” he murmurs. “What do you think, kitten?”

His condescension settles thick, asking a question he already knows the answer to, but she just nods her head again anyway, mumbles out a whimpered please, too lost in the feeling to be properly indignant. He pushes forward another inch and she hisses out a breath between grit teeth, so full already but she knows she can take more, wants more –

She clenches around him again, more viciously this time, his resounding groan settling molten at her center. Fingers brush across her lips and she parts them without question, tongue swathing across the pads as she sucks obediently, muffling her grunt when they push in deeper –

Muffling her scream when Grinnaux’s hips finally snap forward, taking her completely.

She’s going to kill them. She’s going to die between them. Her cheeks are sticky with tears as she peers up through her eyelashes, sees them both smiling down at her, Grinnaux’s teeth glinting as he huffs out a chuckle. “Certainly more sensitive when you’re like this,” he coos, and she shamelessly lets her nails drag across his thighs, clawing angry marks across the scarred skin, but he doesn’t care – he simply slings her feet over the bulk of his shoulders, pulls her closer so he can fuck her the way he likes. Her head lolls in Paulecrain’s lap as she takes it, soft little whimpers stuck in her throat as he fills her again and again, because it’s too much, because it’s the only thing that seems to soothe the dull, hollow ache at her core.

Grinnaux’s pace turns punishing and she knows he’s close. She watches doe-eyed when his hips stutter, his grip turning vicious as he grunts, sighs, finally stills.

His release leaks warm over the curve of her cunt before he even fully pulls out, a smug smile planted on his face as he curls down to kiss her. Paulecrain brushes a thumb across the cut of her jaw as she lays quivering between them, still gasping for breath in the aftermath.

Smug, stupid. Fools, the both of them.

—

She sees the realization dawn on their faces not half a bell later; she’s curled up in the bed between them when her breath hitches, the steady rise and fall of her chest devolving into soft panting, a wounded noise caught in the back of her throat.

“Oh,” says Paulecrain.

“Huh,” says Grinnaux.

“Yeah,” says Arcelia, her face buried in the pillow. “Yeah.”

—

Despite her protests at the notion at first, they finally convince her to relocate to Dzemael Manor to ride out the rest of her affliction.

“They’re going to hear you wailing through the walls,” Paulecrain deadpans, unperturbed by the wrinkle of her nose as she scowls. “At least the Manor will afford you some privacy.”

“How would that be any different? Unless I’m mistaken, plenty of other people still reside within the Manor,” she retorts petulantly.

“Aye,” says Grinnaux with a dismissive wave of his hand, “but the walls aren’t so thin as Cloud Nine.” He leans in, smiles knowingly as her nostrils flare, her pupils dilating again. “And besides, no one will bother you if I tell them not to.”

“Threatening your family? Is that supposed to charm me?”

“Who said anything about threats?” He says it so casually, innocently, like she doesn’t know him better than that. She nearly scoffs out a laugh, but he guts her ire as he takes her by the chin, gently – firmly – tilting her face up.

“It’s meant as a reassurance, anyway,” he murmurs. “Anything to maintain your precious reputation, Warrior of Light.”

He says it snide but his thumb brushes across the scar on her cheek, the touch nearly tender, distracting enough that she decides not to snark back for once.

So, she leaves a message with Gibrillont to tell Tataru that she was under the weather and out of commission, at least for a few days. She feels ridiculous as she follows after them, her head bowed in sheer embarrassment as they escort her through the Pillars; it’s an arduous walk, the way the itch settles back across her skin, the way each and every new scent seems to smother and distract her.

None so as distracting as the two Elezen on either side of her, though.

Neither of them take her by the hand – won’t, can’t, not in public – but they’re close enough that she can feel the warmth radiate from each of them. Paulecrain does press a steadying palm to the small of her back when they ascend the stairs to the Manor, because it’s the polite thing to do, the knightly thing, but she knows him well enough by now to know that he only does it to see her shudder at the touch.

They set her up in Grinnaux’s room, which is at least…something she’s used to. She’s still on edge but the familiarity takes away some of the bite, the faint scent of worn leather and sharpened steel settling some of her ire, tightening the knot in her gut – she only really comes here for one of two things, and she certainly isn’t about to sleep – until they tell her that they’re leaving.

“What,” she sputters, more hysterically than she means to. “If I knew you were just going to dump me here, I would have stayed at the inn.”

“Sorry, kitten – just like you, we have our own obligations,” says Grinnaux, condescendingly patient. “Besides, this still ensures you some privacy. It’s a better bed than whatever Gibrillont’s offering, anyroad, hm?”

“We’ll be back in a few hours,” says Paulecrain, a touch more reassuring when she looks at him helplessly. “We’re on duty.”

“Now?”

“Aye – now.” His smile is wry but it tinges concerned as she bites her lip. “Think you can make it til then?”

Her breathing is still marked by ragged inhales, the flush long since resettled over her body. It’s already becoming more insistent, more urgent with every passing moment. She swallows.

“I don’t really have a choice,” she mumbles.

“Have some confidence, kitten,” Grinnaux teases, cocking an eyebrow when she turns to glare at him next. “It’ll give us time to recover properly, anyway.”

—

She should have stayed at the inn.

It’s what she convinces herself to be true the moment she gives up and gives in to sprawl across the massive bed, her face buried in the pillows as she inhales, breathing in the familiar scent, a whine stuck in the back of her throat. It’s like an illness, the way she feels like she can’t catch her breath, drenched in sweat, but instead of being bedridden she feels utterly restless, unable to sit still. She doesn’t know how long it’s been since they left her here, having spent the time going back and forth between pacing the room and flopping onto the bed to stare at the ceiling, to slip a hand down between her thighs to attempt to afford herself some kind of relief.

It doesn’t matter how many times she rubs herself through it – every orgasm feels hollow, a fleeting respite before the heat simply settles back over her, settles back worse as her biology wars with what she’s able to give herself in the moment. She wonders if perhaps it would have been better if they hadn’t fucked her at all, if maybe addressing her affliction had only served to escalate it to unbearable. It’s easy to cast blame when it comes to them – for having awful timing, for not leaving well enough alone.

For offering to help. For giving her a place to stay.

The knot in her gut twists sharp, a jolt of clarity, of something foreign, blooming in her chest. She starts to think about it, about the implication – but then the incessant ache in her core turns brutal again, snuffing out any dawning horrors or realizations as she groans, clutching a pillow to her chest as she curls in on herself.

(She’ll worry about the implication later, if she can ever bring herself to.)

—

They expect her to be a mess when they walk back through the door. Mess, however, is perhaps a bit of an understatement for what they return to.

She is collapsed on the bed face down, the insides of her thighs shining wet as she whimpers out a desperate sound. There’s a pillow fitted underneath her, thoroughly dampened, as she knots her fingers in the sheets and grinds down.

“Oh, kitten.”

Her ears swivel, her posture stiffens.

“No,” says Grinnaux, his voice sharp. “Don’t move.”

And so she doesn’t, other than the quiver that runs through her body.

It’s an agonizing wait. She hears the thud of discarded boots, the fumbling of buttons, the familiar hiss of a zipper, of a second. Her tail curls, flicks in impatience, in anticipation – something they must recognize, if the dark chuckle is anything to go by. There’s a dip in the bed, a hand running up the back of her calf, curving up the inside of her thigh.

“She’s usually so worried over ruining the sheets, and yet – ”

Two fingers smear through the mess of her cunt, marked by her ragged inhale as she tenses at the touch. Her eyes shut as she presses her forehead to the mattress, openly sighing out a moan as the fingers sink into her – far bigger than hers, a more satisfying stretch.

“Which do you want, then? The front, or the back?”

“She’s got a mouth, too,” says Paulecrain, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, like their words don’t send a jolt of hunger straight through her core. She clutches more tightly to the sheets as the fingers spread within her, dragging along her walls at a lazy pace.

“Well, if you haven’t a preference –”

Grinnaux’s hand slips from between her thighs and she gasps at the loss. His fingers are still wet where they come to rest against her hip, his grip tightening as she absently squirms against the pillow.

“Unless you’d rather take turns?”

They’re talking about her like she can’t hear them, like she’s not pinned trembling to the bed in anticipation. A distant part of her still wants to be indignant, but she knows better than to try – can’t even bring herself to try, with the thick fog settling in her mind, the typical fight long gone in lieu of a desperate chance at relief.

“No.” Arcelia can hear the smirk in Paulecrain’s voice. “I want to see her come apart.” There’s another dip in the bed, another hand on the small of her back, fingers trailing up her spine. “I’ll take her cunt.”

“Alright, then,” and then she’s being pulled up, braced against a broad chest, and then there’s a fist in her hair, a firm tug that has her arch her back. “Assuming you have no objections,” Grinnaux murmurs, his lips grazing against her temple.

“No,” she gasps. “Just – please.”

“So well-mannered when you’re single-minded, champion,” Paulecrain sneers as he reaches for her, laying back against the pillows as he pulls her into his lap. She just nods, far too distracted by the cock pressing warm against her soaked folds to contribute to the banter. A shift of their hips aligns them, and she wastes no time, sinking down to take him with a moan of utter relief.

Grinnaux’s already behind her; slicked fingers brush against her ass before they curl in, steadily working her open. She thinks she’s doing well enough until the bastard adds a third, until he curves his fingers just the right way to stroke at Paulecrain through her –

She’s sure they must tell her to be quiet but it’s so hard to hear past the deafening thud of her heartbeat, past the obscene noise that chokes its way out of her throat.

The fingers withdraw and she feels him reposition, feels the blunt of his cock pressing insistently against her before he’s pressing in. Hears a murmured good girl, an assured you’re doing so well as she bites the inside of her cheek so hard she tastes blood. Lets Grinnaux push her down flush against Paulecrain’s chest so that he can lean over her shoulder, so that he can catch the other man’s bottom lip between vicious teeth the moment they both hilt themselves within her and she chokes on her own scream.

“Are you full enough, kitten?”

She thinks she hears him ask the question, a breathy laugh warm against her ear, but she’s too far gone to answer.

—

She lingers long enough in the shower that Grinnaux feels compelled to check on her, Paulecrain already having fallen fast asleep beneath the sheets. He finds her where he had left her, planted beneath the running showerhead, arms crossed over her chest and her eyes closed.

“Arcelia.”

Her tail flicks to one side, her ears swiveling. It’s too hard for him to tell if her thighs rub together or if it’s just a trick of the light.

“Mm?”

It settles concerning when he catches sight of the valve, notes that it’s turned to the coolest possible setting. He clears his throat and asks the question anyway.

“Aren’t you freezing?”

She sighs, chokes out a hollow laugh. Shakes her head and says, “I wish.”

He still manages to coax her out, swaddles her in a thick towel to help her dry, watching as she wrings most of the water from her hair. He can tell she’s fighting a losing battle from the crease in her brow, the way each of her breaths are measured and shallow.

“I don’t want to impose,” she explains weakly, not quite looking him in the eye.

He considers telling her that she isn’t. Considers reminding her that it was them who had insisted on bringing her here in the first place.

Instead he pushes her over the counter and savors the way she mewls out his name like a prayer.

—

It takes one sleepless night before Paulecrain summarily decides that it is time to understand what it is exactly that they’re up against.

Initially, Paulecrain suggests the Scholasticate. Initially, until Grinnaux gives him a look, reminds him that, while the students of the Scholasticate are certainly bright enough, they're still students, and that students have a tendency to gossip, and – well. As enjoyable as it always is to watch Grinnaux shake down Archombadin, Paulecrain concedes that he perhaps, in this case, may have a point.

So, they decide to consult other sources first.

“Do any of you happen to know,” starts Paulecrain, his tone measured, “how long, hypothetically, Miqo’te heats last?”

Haumeric outright chokes on his tea, sputtering unceremoniously as he drops his tome to the table to cover his mouth with one hand. By contrast, Noudenet merely turns to the next page, not even deigning to lift his gaze from the text at first, his expression as impassive as ever.

“Anywhere from five to seven days, depending,” he says nonchalantly, outright ignoring the scowl of disgust from Charibert.

Paulecrain and Grinnaux both give him a long look, which he merely returns with a slow blink.

“That long?” Grinnaux starts to ask, before Paulecrain drives an elbow into his ribs.

Haumeric mutters something unhalonic under his breath.

“As I said, it depends,” says Noudenet, already looking back down his literature, his tone nearing disinterest. “There are edge cases, of course, depending on how effectively the heat itself is addressed, the physiology of the individual themselves –” He waves a hand. “You get the idea. There’s a tome or two in Saint Endalim’s that may have more information, if you’re so curious.”

Paulecrain hums noncommittally, ignoring the pointed nudge from Grinnaux, the way that Charibert folds his arms over his chest and taps his foot. He inclines his head, says, “Thank you, ser.” Deliberately avoids looking Haumeric in the eye as he turns to leave, dragging Grinnaux along with him.

—

They had left her with a platter of food, stacked high with an assortment of pastries and fruits, a number of which Paulecrain is certain he’s seen her favor in the previous weeks. So, it strikes him odd when they return to find her pacing the room, with the platter summarily untouched.

“Arcelia.”

Paulecrain can only assume that her affliction must get worse before it gets better, the way things are going. He can tell that she’s trying to refrain as best she can, but she’s so clearly fraying at the edges – the moment they open the door to the room she perks up, closing the distance between them to drag him down into a kiss, her other hand fumbling for Grinnaux’s shirt to tug him closer.

“Arcelia,” he repeats impatiently as he breaks away, watching as she tries to devour Grinnaux next. Paulecrain shoots him a pointed look when the other knight pulls her in closer, clearing his throat before he insists, “You need to eat.”

“M’not hungry,” she muffles against Grinnaux’s mouth – it’s hard to tell who’s nudging who towards the bed, even more horrid influences on each other than usual when she’s like this.

“You haven’t eaten at all since…I don’t even know. Yesterday? Eat something.”

“After,” she whines. “You both just left me here –”

“Well-fucked and hungry, as I recall, and yet you’ve left your plate untouched.”

Her tail flicks in agitation but he knows the noise in her throat is one of desperation. He’d call her greedy if he didn’t know that she couldn’t help it.

“I was…saving it.”

“For what?” Grinnaux finally bats away her hands, having long caught on to the withering glare Paulecrain had been sending his way. His mouth twitches as he cocks an eyebrow, teasing, “I’ve seen your pack – I know you love to hoard what you don’t need, but surely you don’t mean to tuck away a plate of sandwiches amidst all the extraneous materia.”

“No, I…”

Her brow furrows in exasperation as she trails off. Both Grinnaux and Paulecrain look at her expectantly.

“You…?”

She says nothing at first but her cheeks tint a distinct shade of red, like she’s just realized something but refuses to elaborate. She grumbles under her breath as Paulecrain sighs, Grinnaux nudging her in the direction of the platter. She’s clearly not happy about it, but she reaches for a muffin all the same.

—

Paulecrain, in the end, decides to indulge in his penchant for Dzemael familial bullying, suggesting that perhaps it may be worth it to search for the book Noudenet had alluded to. The students of the Scholasticate are sharp, and they’re certainly smart enough to not ask for details, merely directing both knights to the tome in question.

Paulecrain finally deigns to flip through it in the late hours of the evening, Grinnaux snoring beside him, Arcelia lost temporarily to her fitful sleep, still tucked away in his arms.

He turns the page and skims the words, sees mention of the duration – five to seven days, just as the mage had said. He sees something vaguely interesting about mating bites, until his eye catches something about a lack of appetite, about hoarding food, ferreting it away for later.

Nesting, the book calls it.

Paulecrain closes the book and leans back to stare at the ceiling.

—

Bitter cold seeps into his bones until he finally shivers himself awake. Exhaustion still sweeps through him, has him grumbling his annoyance and confusion both as he finally cracks open his eye.

It doesn’t take long to catch sight of her – still clearly in a state, pacing and panting, her hands pulling her hair up into a pile on top of her head, only to let it fall free again moments later. There is still a sheen that glistens along her skin, easy to see as she stalks back and forth, not a scrap of clothing on her.

His mouth twitches in a semblance of a smile, until a draft rolls in and he shivers again, violently enough to have Grinnaux grumble out some kind of expletive next to him.

“Arcelia,” says Paulecrain, his voice still hoarse with sleep. “Why is the window open?”

She starts out of her pacing, her tail bristling, her ears perked as she turns, nearly tripping over her own feet in her surprise. She’s back to how she was when he’d first found her – desperate, wild eyed, pleading.

“I – I couldn’t cool down,” she admits – whimpers, really, the way she sounds so pathetic about it. “Still can’t, I’m just –”

“Did you sleep at all?”

She mumbles out something indiscernible and he knows the answer without having to hear it. He sighs, glancing out the window.

“Okay, well. It’s actively snowing outside.”

She blinks.

“You should close the window,” he says patiently. Her face blanches.

“But, I –”

“Just close the window,” he says again, firmly this time, “and come here.”

Her cheeks redden, the tip of her tail curling over. She crosses the room and closes the window.

He pulls her in when she’s close enough, and the urgency of her biology takes over again the moment his fingers brush her skin; he hears it in the hitch of her breath, sees it in her face as her mouth falls open, the sharp points of her canines just barely visible past her puffed lips, still swollen and lovebitten from the last round. She looks exhausted, bruised all over from yesterday alone, and yet there is a sharpness to her eyes as she pushes the sheets aside to straddle him. He’s only half-hard – still half-asleep, really – but she simply takes him in hand, stroking him to a full erection until he, too, feels some sense of urgency to be inside her again.

It’s still marvelous, watching her come apart when she finally takes him, relief and agony both reflected in the crease of her brow. His hands rest lazily at her hips, pulling and pushing to maintain her pace, smirking when she strains down, a whine in her throat when she tries to take him fully to the hilt.

“You just need to be filled, don’t you?” he murmurs. “Look at you, trying to take it all so fast. So good for me.”

There’s a moment when he sees the flicker of something frantic in her face – a widening of her eyes, the slight part of her lips as she exhales sharply. He feels it, too, in the way that she clenches around him, strongly enough to have him stutter in his pace as his grip turns crushing along her hips.

It doesn’t take long to finish in her again, to give her just enough respite to try and collect herself, however barely. To give him the opportunity to tell himself that the sigh that slips from his mouth is more out of satisfaction than something more…pathetic.

He reminds himself that he’d suffered worse indignities. The grunt work of a squire, as a knight of both Fortemps and Dzemael. Simply putting up with Grinnaux, sometimes.

This should be child’s play in comparison. He simply needs time to – rest his eye, perhaps. For a moment. Plenty of time to recover before the next shift, at the very least.

—

Everything starts to blur together by day three. (Or is it four now? He can’t be sure.)

Grinnaux feels confident enough regardless – he never turns Arcelia away each time she noses him awake, her soft, pitiful whimpers something he learns to quell with fervent kisses and greedy hands, by fucking her senseless. He loves the way she looks each time he takes her, the way her body tenses at each brush of his fingers, the lovely little sighs and sharp moans that he has long since learned how to coax from her with an expert, practiced touch.

So, it’s particularly hilarious when the unmistakable sound of a soft snore is what Paulecrain earns when he’s still balls deep in her.

“Wow,” says Grinnaux. He knows that Paulecrain doesn’t have to look at him to hear the sneer, the shit-eating grin.

“Well,” he reasons – stutters, grouses. “Well – she hasn’t slept in days.”

“Is that what we’re going with?” he jeers, watching with amusement as Paulecrain pulls out of her, the noise so wet that it’s borderline ridiculous.

Still, because he can’t help himself, Grinnaux continues, “Maybe you just need to up your game.”

There’s a pause, but the indignance is already long gone from Paulecrain’s face as he casts a glance towards Grinnaux – a patient one, a concerning one.

“Is that so?”

He says it calmly, but even in the dark of the room, Grinnaux doesn’t miss the knowing smile, the way it tints infernal as Paulecrain leans in close. It’s hard to tell what guts the sneer on Grinnaux’s lips first – his own jolt of anticipation, or the hand that reaches out to grip him roughly by the jaw.

“Maybe you’re right,” says Paulecrain, his voice mild but his movements anything but, his knee already braced against Grinnaux’s chest to pin him in place beneath him. “Let’s see if you fall asleep, too.”

—

Zephirin takes one long look at them both before his mouth twitches into the semblance of a frown.

“Perhaps,” he says plainly, “it would be best for you two to retire early today.”

Paulecrain doesn’t even have to look at Grinnaux to know that he looks about as shit as he himself presently feels. His head is fuzzy, operating on so little sleep that he feels like he’s stuck perpetually blinking himself awake, sore in ways that he hasn’t been since before he can remember. Still, though, both he and Grinnaux seem to respond in unison, with how quick they are to brush aside the suggestion with a swift and curt, “no.”

Zephirin remains unconvinced, his frown deepening as Grinnaux stifles a yawn. Behind him, Haumeric bows his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stares at the ground.

“Truly, it seems as though you could both use the rest,” the Archimandrite tries again.

“I can’t imagine why,” says Haumeric, to whom Paulecrain casts a withering glare.

Because what Zephirin doesn’t know is that they could use the rest, but they aren’t going to find it at home; not when they’re only four days into this affair, not when there still seems to be no end in sight. No – it’s for the best that they stay here and keep up appearances. Besides, it’s easy enough to ignore the stares from Haumeric and Charibert both, so long as they keep their mouths shut.

Zephirin sighs. Says, “Very well. If you won’t be dissuaded.”

—

And, in truth, they’ve certainly had better sparring sessions. They certainly take more hits than any of them are used to. Zephirin merely chalks it up to their apparent exhaustion. Haumeric and Charibert both, for a mercy, say nothing.

—

“Is it bad?”

“It’s hell.”

Grinnaux strokes her hair, still half-asleep when she nuzzles her face against his neck. He already knows what’s coming, is already trying to blink himself awake – feels her teeth graze along his ear and he hums in satisfaction –

“ – well, would be hell, but you…”

She trails off like she can’t find the words. Her palm presses smooth across his chest but doesn’t slip southward like he expects, her fingers ghosting across his skin, a gentler touch than she’s afforded him in days. Desperate, but in a different way. Temporary, though, if the look in her eye is any indication.

“...why did you…?”

The words stick in her throat, mumbled against his skin. Like she can’t bear to ask it, like she can’t bear the answer.

There’s a beat of silence as he contemplates between an answer she’d hate and an answer she’d accept, how much overlap between the two either of them could realistically stand. He doesn’t feel entirely himself, either, between the pheromones and the lack of sleep, but he tells himself that he’s still not stupid. He almost wonders if she meant it rhetorically as she slows, a rare moment of hesitation.

“I thought that would be obvious by now,” he finally muses, fingers grazing along the hollows of her ribs.

It’s hard to tell if it’s the touch or the words that earns him a shiver before she stills. He thinks she might say something, realizes that he’s set himself up for her to prod him for an explanation. Instead she says nothing – merely presses her lips along his jaw, letting him roll them over once he’s shaken off the last of his lingering sleep.

It’s for the best, he thinks. It'd be a breach of their unspoken contract anyway, giving words to what this is.

—

“You don’t have to,” she whispers, but Paulecrain reaches for her regardless, a large hand curving around her waist to coax her closer, pulling her onto his lap. It’s the dead of night – she’d already nosed him awake once earlier, but it had been her helpless whimpering that had roused him this time.

“I know.” Exhausted as he is, he still spares a smile for the hitch in her breath as he fumbles in the dark, too well versed in her body to not know where to touch, where to grip, to elicit those small, desperate noises she’s never learned how to properly stifle.

Because he knows he doesn’t have to; knows she would rather her embarrassment eat her alive than inconvenience him, than to push him to an uncomfortable limit. Ever the hero, putting herself second before the rest, even in something as base as this.

But he wants to, if nothing else to see her as she is now – lips bitten to a swell, face flushed, hungry. She looks at him as if he is salvation itself, his name reverent in her mouth when she sinks over him, her nails dug in along his skin when he pulls her down, pulls her close. She’s still overly warm to the touch, but it feels comfortable when they’re like this, skin to skin. Arcelia’s always been pliant, willing to bend but never break, but it still strikes Paulecrain at how malleable she is like this, eager to comply, as desperate to please as she is to chase her own relief.

There is also the matter of his certainty that if it had not been them to help her, it would have been no one at all. It’s something that sits odd in his chest, if he thinks about it too long. Easier to file it away, something to gently tease her for later.

There’s a pinprick of pain at the crook of his neck when she bites down, a full body shudder as she clings to him, as she finally comes down. He thumbs the tears of relief from her eyes and smiles when she presses her cheek to his chest with a hoarse thank you. Lets her burrow down in the crook of his arm, the moment of relief apparently enough to send her tumbling back into fitful sleep.

—

“You look terrible.”

She groans, a pitiful, broken sound that actually nearly makes him feel bad for saying so.

“Shut up,” she whispers hoarsely.

She pulls the sheets tighter around her when Paulecrain chuckles, turning her face further into the pillow as he sits at the edge of the bed. He can’t help but think that she looks small when she’s like this, a slip of a thing beneath the hand he places gently along her side.

“Gods,” she muffles into the bedding, “I can’t believe you – you both –“

She stops, too mortified to continue.

His fingers crawl up further, soothing, coaxing her out from her curled up state as he settles into the bed next to her.

“Please,” he says, almost dismissively, if not for the soft intonation of his voice. “As if we would have done anything differently.” He pauses, before he continues wryly, “Although, I’m glad you seem to be through the thick of it. I doubt any of us could have kept up for much longer.”

“I certainly feel more clear of mind,” she mutters. “But, gods, I’m so sore. And tired. And…starving, actually, ugh.”

“Oh? Full glad am I to hear it,” he teases. “Getting you to eat anything has been hell.”

She blinks, turning to finally face him so she can narrow her eyes at him properly – her pupils no longer dilated, her face still a flushed pink, but nothing compared to what had seized her the past few days.

“There you are,” he murmurs, and smiles when her cheeks pinch, her mouth twitching as he watches her indignance melt away.

“You know,” she says finally, her finger tracing a lazy line across his chest, “you look about as exhausted as I feel.”

He gives her a wry smile. “You certainly put us through our paces.”

“You offered.”

“And you accepted.”

She pauses, dropping her gaze to his chest. “Well,” she starts – huffs. “Well. It was an offer that was hard to refuse, considering.”

“Considering?”

She pauses.

“You think I would have let anyone else…?”

“I wouldn’t dare to presume.”

“You were presumptuous enough to knock down the door to my room,” she deadpans. “And look where that got you.”

“Got us, really.” He tilts his head, gives her a knowing smile. “I still think I did the right thing, in retrospect.”

“I think you’re more presumptuous than you believe yourself to be, ser.”

He hums. “Maybe so,” is all he says, and smiles again as she just hides her face against him.

—

Grinnaux has one of the housemaids draw a bath, steaming and soothing and tinged with something that clears her lungs, stinging in a way that is not unpleasant. Paulecrain is the one who carries her in, having coaxed her out from underneath the sheets at last, and she clings to him weakly up until he lowers her into the tub, gathering her hair back over her shoulders as he slots himself in behind her, watching as Grinnaux sinks in opposite of them both.

Eventually, she speaks up. “I won’t be so negligent again.”

And Grinnaux, fool that he is, just goes, “Why not?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Paulecrain feels Arcelia still. Paulecrain feels himself still in response, in the Fury’s worst chain of consequences, because, no, surely she’s cured enough now to know better than to –

“What do you mean why not,” she strains, much too earnestly, and Paulecrain sighs in annoyance as the other man shrugs.

“I don’t know,” he goes. “I think I could do it again.”

Arcelia bristles worse. “Yeah? You think so?”

“Of course,” he says. There’s a smile on his face now, so indulgent, so self-assured. “I know so. Next month will be even easier.”

“What do you mean –”

“Don’t,” warns Paulecrain, but Grinnaux just smiles worse as he goes –

“That order from Hallinarte will actually be finished this time,” he says primly.

Arcelia stares at him.

“Not that we’d really need the help either way,” he amends.

She continues to stare at him.

Paulecrain has hopes for a moment, now that she’s supposedly clear of the affliction, that it may just simply be her knowing better now, but –

The shrillness of her voice echoes louder in the bath, despite the hoarseness. “You dragged Stephanivien into this? What happened to – to privacy – to –”

“To ‘helping a friend’, as per the insistence of both Hallinarte’s heir and the maid he insists he doesn’t –” And over Arcelia’s sputters, there’s a splash as Grinnaux lifts his hands to make quotation marks before he shoots her a dry look. “Come now, kitten, I’m being taught how to fly an airship, not craft toys for –”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

“Yeah? You wanna keep me quiet that bad?”

Paulecrain sighs and stares at the ceiling. Simply reaches for the shampoo as Arcelia takes the blatant bait and leans forward, as Grinnaux sneers in her face. Decides that he can ignore the bickering this time, because if nothing else, at least it meant that things were finally back to normal.