I was curled up like a bad decision. Blankets twisted. Crotch itchy. Aching. Glowing.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
A pale bluish shimmer pulsed between my thighs like some tragic fairy fire. It itched. Gods, it itched. Not scratchy-blanket itchy. Not flea-bitten itchy. Soul-level itchy. Like my nethers had offended a minor deity and were being punished with gentle, sparkling vengeance.
"Don't come closer," I growled into the bedding.
"I wasn't planning to," said the Dragon, from a safe and disgusted distance. "You're bioluminescent."
He sniffed the air. Made a face like he'd inhaled expired incense.
"Is it the imps?"
"Drop dead," I muttered.
"So… the nymph then?"
Silence.
"May you poop gravel for eternity," I snarl.
"Must be the nymph," he concluded with relish. "Honestly. She had leaves in her hair."
"She smelled like lavender and promises," I hissed. "I didn't plan on—"
"Clearly."
I sat up, wincing. The glow pulsed brighter, casting tragic shadows on the cave walls. I felt like a cursed lantern.
"Can you just… do something?" I snapped. "Heal it. Cast something. Blow on it, I don't care."
He recoiled. "I am not blowing on your cursed cooch."
"Then help, you ancient, scaled disappointment!"
He paced like a disappointed uncle at a goat wedding. "How long have you ignored it?"
I mumbled something.
"What was that?"
"Three days. Maybe five. Possibly a week."
He stared. Then squinted. "You waited a week before asking for help?"
"I thought it was a yeast imp," I barked.
He blinked. "A what now?"
"They exist! They live in hot springs and cause irritation."
He didn't dignify that with a response.
Instead, he exhaled a long puff of smoke and said, "Did you at least use protection?"
"I had the rune tattoo," I said, defensive.
He made a noise somewhere between a cough and a bark. "That only wards off lust elementals. Not whatever pollen-drenched forest floozy gave you this."
I folded my arms. "Well excuse me for trusting traditional sigil-based prophylactics."
He circled like a judge inspecting a particularly unruly defendant.
"Just fix it!", I murmured.
"I don't fix glowing genitals, Saya. That's a specialist job."
"You're a dragon."
"Not a swamp hag. Not a healer. Not a magical gynecologist. You need herbs. A ritual. Maybe an exorcism."
"An exorcism?!"
"You're radiating lust like a possessed shrine. Go see a witch. One with teeth necklaces and no sense of decency."
I glared. "You're enjoying this."
He grinned, sharp and smug. "Only a little."
The glow pulsed again.
We both groaned.
I was sulking.
Legs spread like a frog corpse in a summer ditch, blankets shoved between my thighs in a hopeless attempt to dull the burning ache. The glow had dimmed to a sad shimmer now. More pathetic than dangerous. Like my crotch was hosting a haunted birthday party.
"Fucking nymphs," I muttered, scratching the air near my groin without actually touching. I wasn't that dumb. Not twice.
"Don't," came the dragon's voice, sharp as flint, "touch it."
"I'm not!" I snapped. "I was air-scratching."
"You don't need that rash on your fingers. Or under your nails. Or gods forbid, in your mouth."
I groaned, flopping sideways like a tragic, itchy pancake. "You can't spread it that way. It's not that kind of—"
"You were riding me bareback," he interrupted, voice climbing in horror. "Bareback, Saya! While glowing like a syphilitic lantern!"
"It's not contagious to dragons!"
He recoiled like I farted fire. "You don't know that!"
"You're covered in scales!"
"And you're covered in poor decisions!" he barked. "What if it gets into the grooves? What if I molt glitter?!"
I bit my lip, tried not to laugh, and failed. "Molting glitter. That's your real fear, isn't it."
He hissed. "I have dignity."
"Barely."
"Saya, may the next time you climax be in a patch of poison ivy."
I groaned again, louder, half in pain, half in petty. "I hate my life. And my crotch. Mostly my crotch."
"Good. Maybe it'll teach you to keep it out of flower spirits with abandonment issues."
I rolled onto my stomach and buried my face in my arms. The glow now made my entire ass look like a bad magical rave.
"Just kill me."
"Tempting."
"Do you have to be this mean?"
"You're glowing. From your genitals. In my cave. Forgive me if I'm a little tense."
I sighed.
He sighed.
Then I whispered, "It wasn't even that good."
He choked. "What?!"
"The nymph," I said, groaning. "She smelled like moss and had vines in her hair. Seemed kinky. But all she did was hum and tangle my legs."
A long pause.
Then: "You absolute moron."
I buried my face deeper. "Tell no one."
"No promises."
I glowed on. Miserably.
He scooted further away. Dramatically.
And I knew—deep in my cursed, itchy soul—he was never going to let me live this down.
The dragon eyed me like I was leaking necrotic juice onto his favorite rug. His tail coiled tighter, an instinctual act of self-preservation, as if my glowing crotch was a contagious curse rather than a regrettable life choice.
"It must be the pollen," he declared, with all the solemnity of a high priest diagnosing sin. "Or the spores. You've clearly had some sort of reaction. Possibly magical. Possibly fungal. Possibly sentient."
I buried my face into my knees and let out a low groan. "It's not fungal."
"It might be an allergy," he continued, ignoring me completely. "Your body's rejecting her essence."
"She didn't spore on me, if that's what you're implying."
He flared his nostrils. "You need a healer. Or a shaman. Or—gods help us—a swamp witch. One of those creepy ones that wear teeth and walk on chicken legs."
"I'm not seeing a swamp witch," I hissed.
"Then die itchy," he snapped. "Because I'm not scraping glowing crotch rash off your bones when it spreads to your bloodstream and melts your liver."
I grumbled something unprintable and shifted uncomfortably, feeling the soft hum of whatever-the-fuck-it-was still pulsing like a cursed lullaby between my legs.
"I knew that nymph was trouble," he added. "The moment she smiled at you with those fern-frond eyelashes. You're allergic to flirting and bad decisions."
I growled into my arms. "You're allergic to empathy."
"And you're allergic to restraint."
We sat in silence, me brooding in a sweaty shame cocoon, him radiating moral superiority like a smug lighthouse.
Finally, I muttered, "I'm not going to the swamp witch."
"You will," he said. "When the rash starts whispering your sins back to you."
I grumbled louder.
And glowed.
The swamp stank of moldy dreams and regret.
I was wading through it. Alone. Because apparently glowing genitals qualify as a solo mission.
The footpath was made of old planks, slick with moss and swamp slime, creaking with every step like they were ready to snitch on me. The muck below slurped hungrily. I kept imagining hands reaching up—impish, nymphy, fungal.
Branches draped with tattered moss drooped low like gossiping crones. And hanging from the willows? Chicken legs. Actual, shriveled chicken legs. Dried. Tied with red twine. Swaying gently in the humid breeze like grotesque wind chimes.
Apparently this was how the local swamp witch advertised.
I followed the scent of nettle smoke and shame deeper in, until a shack emerged—leaning like it had opinions, roof patched with snake skins, one window glowing faintly green.
From inside: a raspy cackle.
"Come on in, luv!" a voice hollered. "Ain't like yer modesty got any mileage left on it!"
I froze.
Then pushed open the door.
The interior was exactly what you'd expect: jars full of god-knows-what, skulls used as measuring cups, a raven in a cage that muttered "tart tart tart" every few seconds, and a cauldron bubbling something purple.
And her.
The witch.
Curved like a barrel, chin hairs glittering with grease, missing three teeth but none of her judgment.
She looked me up and down like a butcher eyeing bruised meat. "Oh, you," she said, voice thick with muck. "Let me guess—itchin' down below? Glowin' like a faerie lamp?"
I nodded, sullen.
"Thought so." She sniffed. "I can smell yer sins from 'ere. 'S like wet moss an' bad life choices."
I tried to muster dignity. Failed.
She hobbled closer, poked my hip with a stick. "Was it the imps, luv? Tell Granny. Go on. 'Ow many?"
I hesitated.
"Five at a time?" she gasped, delighted. "Oh you filthy little magpie! You're gonna rot from the slit outward!"
"It wasn't imps," I snapped.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing like a toad about to pounce. "Satyr, then? Goatmen? Gods, don't tell me it was that demon with the horns. I warned 'is last one. Guts liquefied, they did—"
"Forest nymph," I mumbled.
The witch went quiet. Then leaned back and cackled so hard her tit popped out of her robe.
"A nymph?! Ohohohohoh you poor stupid flower-sniffin' tart!"
"I didn't know she was infectious!"
"They always are, luv!" she barked. "They bloom for one moon and spread spores like a dog in heat!"
She hobbled over to a shelf, grabbed a bundle of dried herbs, and tossed it into the cauldron with a hiss.
"Right. Strip."
"What?"
"No use bein' shy now," she said, already fetching a ladle. "I've seen worse. Had a lad last month with a cock that barked. Made friends with me teapot."
I sighed, defeated, and started unlacing my belt.
"Yeh," she said with a grin, "that's the spirit, luv. Let Granny sort yer sparkle-slit."
Somewhere in the corner, the raven snickered.
"Tart."
I lay naked on a bed of soggy moss, knees apart, legs in stirrups made from twisted willow branches and rope that smelled like mildew and broken promises.
The swamp witch was humming.
Humming.
Some cheery, off-key tune that made the whole thing worse.
She stood between my thighs with a smoldering bundle of herbs in one hand and what looked very much like a carved turnip in the other. The air stank of garlic, sage, and vague threat. I had second thoughts. Then third thoughts. Then a deep, aching shame that settled somewhere under my sternum and refused to leave.
"Now hold still, luv," she said, in that godsforsaken Cockney drawl. "This bit tingles. If it burns, just scream."
"Burns?!" I shrieked, jerking.
She slapped my thigh. "Still! You're squirmier than a greased sprite on market day."
"I didn't agree to anything burning!"
"You agreed to the treatment," she said, poking my lower belly with the turnip. "Now hush, yer aura's trembling."
"I think it's trying to escape," I hissed.
She shoved the smoking herbs under my nose. "Inhale. Helps with the purification."
I coughed. Eyes watering. It smelled like old feet and overcooked cabbage. The witch muttered something in a guttural swamp dialect that may have included the word "hoo-ha." Then—without warning—she dabbed a handful of cold, purple sludge directly onto the affected area.
I screamed.
She cackled.
The raven—yes, still there at the time—shouted "SINNER'S SOUP!" and fell off its perch laughing.
The witch kept smearing. "Now this bit's made o' crushed lily bulbs, bat milk, and a hint o' hag's moonshine. Kills the spores and resets yer lust field."
"My what?!"
"Lust field," she repeated. "Yours was sparkin' like a brothel on payday. That's how the nymph got in."
I covered my face with both hands and whimpered. "I want to die."
She patted my shin. "Oh don't be dramatic. I once had a lass come in with a wood elf infection. Bark rash, mushrooms growin' in the folds. Took weeks. You're barely glowing."
I peered out through my fingers. "You're enjoying this."
"Luv, I haven't had this much fun since the troll twins with matching ringworm."
I groaned.
And then she began to chant. Loudly. Off-key. Rhyming.
"Glowin' bits an' mossy slit,
By fire's light and swamp hag spit,
Be gone ye fey and horny rot—
Leave this lass, and itch her not!"
"I'm leaving my body," I whispered.
The raven sang backup.
When it was finally over, she handed me a jar of ointment, a talisman shaped like a screaming vulva, and instructions to abstain from "seduction, self-fiddlin', or any man with leaves in his beard" for at least two weeks.
I staggered out of there more raw than cured.
The real cure, it turned out, was shame.
But the itch was gone. So. Worth it? Probably.
Just don't ask me to make eye contact with anything feathered ever again.
I was halfway through pulling my tunic over my head when the witch squinted at my shoulder.
"'Ere now," she said, pointing a crooked finger. "That rune. On yer shoulder."
I froze. "What about it?"
She hobbled closer, eyes narrowing. "That's not a ward. That's a Morean rune."
"A what?"
"Morean. Old brothel mark. Inked on pleasure girls to keep 'em drippin' and desperate. They put it on the girls what couldn't fake it no more. Helps with enthusiasm, yeh?"
I stared at her. "You're telling me… that's not for protection?"
She snorted. "Protection?! Luv, that thing's practically a lust funnel. You've been wearin' it like a blessed chastity seal while yer aura's been hollerin' for orgies."
I looked down at the mark, then back at her, mortified. "No one told me that!"
"They wouldn't," she said, smug. "Yer pimps were probably havin' a laugh. It does look fancy, I'll give ye that."
I groaned, loud and long.
The raven—still alive at this point—snickered from the rafter: "Taaaart with a cheat code!"
"Shut up!"
The hag cackled so hard she had to brace herself against the table. "Oh sweetie. You've been riding into magical misadventures with a walking arousal rune on your skin. No wonder the nymph jumped you like spring equinox."
I slumped. "Can it be removed?"
She shrugged. "With fire. Or a ritual. Or maybe a particularly dry season of celibacy. But let's be honest…"
I didn't even answer.
We both knew I wasn't surviving a week without sex, let alone a season.