So what if I was making out with that wood nymph by the stream?
Don't look at me like that. I've been traveling with a grumpy old dragon for weeks. Weeks. No taverns, no cities, no warm beds, no flirtations, no orgasms—just mossy rocks and his constant passive-aggressive wheezing. A girl deserves some fun. Some soft hands. Some whispered nothings in a voice like bubbling springwater and the scent of pine sap in her hair. Sue me.
And yes, she was glowing. Literally. Like moonlight trapped in a tight little hourglass of green skin and wildflowers. Was it a bit cliché? Sure. But I'm not immune to aesthetics. Especially not when they ask, "Would you like me to braid your hair or make you scream first?" in that breathy forest voice that makes your knees go poetic.
So, yes. We made out.
Hard.
It was somewhere between spiritual communion and trying to eat each other's faces. There may have been giggling. There may have been a moment where I ended up halfway into the stream because she thought splashing me was cute. I disagreed. Vehemently. But only after I stopped gasping and forgot my own name for half a minute.
Anyway.
Of course, the dragon showed up at the worst possible moment, like some scaly chaperone with trust issues.
He didn't say anything at first. Just stood there on the bank, one eyebrow raised (yes, dragons can do that—shut up), looking like a scandalized librarian catching a student defiling the poetry section.
"She's licking my neck!" I shouted across the water. "Do you mind?"
"I assumed she was trying to clean it," he replied dryly. "Possibly of sin."
"Jealous," I said.
"Of nymph spit? Hardly."
The nymph whispered something obscene in my ear. I bit my lip. She giggled and vanished into the trees like an orgasm in smoke.
I climbed out of the stream dripping and smug. My tunic was halfway downriver and the moss stuck to my ass in some compromising places, but I was feeling spiritually replenished.
Dragon didn't speak again until we were back at the campfire.
"Wood nymphs are capricious, manipulative, and notoriously unfaithful," he muttered.
"So am I," I said, wringing water out of my hair. "It's called compatibility."
He didn't reply. Just stared into the fire like it owed him money.
I smirked. "Don't worry, old man. You're still my number one grump."
"I don't care."
"You do care."
He groaned. "One more forest tryst and I'm tying a bell around your neck."
I stretched luxuriously, bare feet by the flames. "Mmm. Kinky."
He sighed the sigh of a creature ancient and exhausted by my existence. I blew him a kiss.
Hey. A girl's got needs. And nymphs don't judge. They nibble.
He let the silence stretch just long enough to make it awkward.
Then, in that insufferably calm voice of his, the Dragon asked, "Do you even know her name?"
I blinked. "Whose name?"
He stared.
Oh.
Ohhh.
"You mean the nymph?" I said, voice climbing into defensive territory.
He just tilted his big, judgmental head.
I crossed my arms. "What kind of question is that?"
"The basic kind," he said. "The kind most people ask before letting someone tongue their tonsils."
I fidgeted. "She said something in Old Sylvan, alright? It could've been a name. Or a spell. Or a very enthusiastic yes."
He snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils. "You didn't even ask. You just saw green tits and ass and went for it."
"Oh, please," I snapped. "Don't pretend you're the high priest of chaste courtship. What, you keep a little guestbook with all the names of the strapping young sky-dancers you've ever rolled around with in the clouds?"
He reared back, mock-affronted. "I'll have you know, I am very selective in my aerial dalliances."
"Uh-huh."
"I value connection. Nuance. Consent forms."
I scoffed. "You value wingspans and tight scales."
He smirked. "And conversation."
I pointed a wet finger at him. "Hypocrite."
He looked smug. "At least I remember their names."
"Fine! Next time I'll pin her down and demand a full introduction before second base, alright?"
"That would be courteous."
"I'll even ask her pronouns while I'm at it."
"Progressive."
I threw a pine cone at his tail.
He dodged with a huff, then added, sotto voce, "Honestly, I don't even think she liked you."
I narrowed my eyes. "She licked my earlobe."
"She licks to claim territory. You're probably cursed."
I flipped him off.
The fire crackled.
"Wood nymphs," the Dragon muttered, "have a habit of luring humans with their... charms. Then dragging them down into fairyland. Forever."
I frowned. "And you interrupted that?!"
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
I threw my hands up. "That could've been my ticket out. A rare chance to escape this miserable mortal coil without even kicking a bucket—and you ruined it!"
He narrowed his eyes. "It's a fate worse than death."
I leaned in, incredulous. "What, exactly, is so terrible about being the sex thrall of a gang of insatiable, sap-slicked woodland nymphs?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
I didn't stop. "Worse than scrubbing vomit out of straw pallets at a roadside inn for three copper and a feel? Worse than shaving my legs with a broken seashell because the madam wouldn't spring for razors? Worse than pretending to moan for fat-fingered pig merchants who smell like boiled cabbage?!"
He paused.
I could see the gears turning behind those ancient, golden eyes.
"Oh," he said slowly.
I arched an eyebrow. "Exactly."
"Oh indeed," he muttered.
We sat there in silence for a moment. Me—damp, moss-streaked, full of righteous indignation. Him—curled in his usual dramatic coil, looking vaguely disturbed.
Then he huffed. "I still think you'd be eaten. Eventually."
"I'm not against a little nibbling."
"Fairyland has rules. Twisted logic. No time, no mercy. You'd be trapped."
"Trapped in a mossy orgy."
"You wouldn't age."
"Even better!"
"You wouldn't die."
I shrugged. "Sounds restful."
He groaned. "You're impossible."
"And you're a joyless prude."
He stretched his wings like a yawning cat. "Next time I'll let them keep you."
I grinned. "Next time I'll leave a forwarding address."
He blew a smoke ring shaped like a heart.
Gods, I hated how much I liked that stupid lizard.