Gen woke up buried.
That was the only word for it.
Buried.
There was a wall of warm gray skin pressed against his left side, a tangle of pale limbs wrapped around his legs, and a head of red hair tucked under his chin, and it took his sleep-addled brain a solid 10 seconds to sort out which body parts belonged to which person.
Groova had one massive arm draped across his chest in a possessive claim, her breath slow and deep against his shoulder.
The aspen dryad had folded herself into a crescent around his lower body with her cheek pressed to his hip.
And Nøx.
Nøx was spooned up behind him with his chin hooked over Gen’s shoulder, completely dead to the world, snoring softly into Gen’s ear without a care in the world.
Gen’s eyes snapped open the rest of the way.
Somewhere between the shouting match at the door and now, Nøx had apparently decided that if you could not beat them, you joined them, and he had wedged himself into the pile sometime in the night and claimed his spot.
Gen had a vague, half remembered impression of the three of them having a whispered argument over his unconscious body, something about who had earned the spot against his chest, and Groova growling something territorial while Nøx argued that he had called dibs first.
The aspen dryad, based on the fresh scratch marks running down Nøx’s arm, had settled the dispute with her claws.
None of that explained why the winner had ended up as the big spoon, but Gen had learned long ago not to question the logic of anyone involved in this situation.
Nøx’s tail, which Gen had not noticed until just now, was wound around Gen’s ankle in a possessive loop, and his breath was warm and annoyingly steady against the back of Gen’s neck.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Gen hissed.
Nøx did not open his eyes.
He just smiled, slow and lazy, and tightened his arm around Gen’s waist.
“Count your blessings, human. I could have ripped off the member these dryads seem so attached to. Be grateful I settled for cuddling instead of going with my first instinct.”
Gen opened his mouth to argue, caught a glimpse of Groova’s teeth over his shoulder, thought better of it, and closed his mouth.
Nøx made a deeply satisfied sound and snuggled in deeper, mashing his face into the back of Gen’s neck with a contented little hum.
So Gen lay there.
Trapped.
Six hours of Groova’s arm slowly crushing his ribs.
Six hours of the aspen dryad’s ice-cold feet finding new and increasingly creative places to press against.
Six hours of Nøx muttering half-awake commentary into the back of his skull, most of which sounded like thinly veiled threats about what he would do if Gen ever tried to sneak off with his sister, or his father, or apparently anyone Nøx had decided he had first claim on.
Six hours of Gen staring at the ceiling, counting the beams he had installed himself, and mentally cataloguing every single decision that had led him to this exact moment.
He tried to leave twice.
The first time he got one leg over the edge of the bed before Groova’s arm tightened and hauled him back into the pile without her even waking up, straighten up NFL line backed his has back into his spot.
The second time he made it all the way to a sitting position before Nøx’s tail snaked around his thigh and reeled him straight back in, and Nøx had murmured, “Nope,” and that had been that.
Somewhere in the middle of hour 3, Groova had woken up just enough to crack one red eye, seen the arrangement, and smiled with all the smug satisfaction of a woman who had won at life (which she had), then pulled Gen’s head down onto her chest and gone straight back to sleep.
The aspen dryad had not woken up at all, but she had rolled over at some point and draped her whole body across Gen’s lap, and when he tried to shift her she had made a small offended sound and latched on tighter.
Nøx, for his part, had spent the entire night apparently conducting a one-sided negotiation with Gen’s unconscious body about terms Gen did not remember agreeing to.
So Gen lay there some more.
His left arm went numb.
Then his right arm went numb.
Then both legs went numb and he started to wonder if this was just how he died, crushed to death by affectionate monsters in his own bed, which would honestly be a top ten way to go for this world but he would still prefer to avoid it.
(coward)
When the morning finally broke through the gaps in the shutters and the cabin started to warm up, Groova shifted just enough that her grip loosened by a fraction of an inch.
Gen saw his window.
He moved with the patience of a man defusing something extremely dangerous, lifting Groova’s arm off his chest one agonizing inch at a time and sliding it gently onto the mattress beside her.
He eased the aspen dryad’s leg off his hip millimeter by millimeter.
He untangled Nøx’s tail from his ankle, held his breath, and rolled off the edge of the bed, landing on the floor in a crouch.
All three of them shifted in their sleep.
None of them woke up.
He crept toward the door on the balls of his feet, eased it open a crack, and slipped out into the morning light with the relief of a man escaping a prison he had never signed up for.
Vyxianna was standing right there. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Arms crossed.
One hip cocked.
A pout on her face that could have curdled milk.
She was leaning against the wall beside the door of the house, and judging by the worn patch in the dirt under her feet, she had been standing in that exact spot for a very long time.
Gen raised an eyebrow.
“Have you been waiting out here the entire time?”
Vyxianna puffed up, let out a long theatrical exhale, and looked down her nose at him.
“Do not get the wrong idea, human. I was not waiting for you. I would never wait for you. I simply wished to check up on this pathetic little settlement of yours with my own eyes, and now that I have, I can confirm it is still pathetic to this very day. Even with your magic, you are nowhere near as talented as Saxønilly the artificer. Not even close. Saxønilly could build circles around you while asleep.”
Something ticked in Gen’s jaw.
He had spent days carving this settlement out of a hostile forest with his own two hands, and this pint sized dragon princess had been standing outside his door pouting for hours to tell him it was pathetic.
“Oh yeah?
And how long does this “great Saxønilly the artificer” take to build a house?”
Vyxianna sighed, long and dramatic, like she was explaining something very simple to a very slow child.
“Saxønilly can easily complete a mansion in 800 years. A proper mansion, human. With gables. And a wine cellar. And a front gate that actually opens without sticking.”
Gen rolled his eyes so hard his whole head moved.
“Awww gee, 800 years. That’s soooo fast compared to my 3 days. Really puts me in my place. I’m so embarrassed I built my whole cabin in 3 days when I could have spent 800 years on the gables. You know what, tell Saxønilly I said thanks for setting the bar so high. I’ll get there someday. Maybe by the time I’m dead.”
Vyxianna’s pout deepened until her whole face was doing it.
Her cheeks flushed.
Her tail lashed behind her hard enough to kick up dust.
“Shut up! Shut your mouth this instant, human, or I swear on my mother’s hoard I will report you to my uncle Cøn!”
Gen pressed one hand to his chest and put on his best wounded, mock terrified face, complete with wide eyes and a wobbling lower lip.
“Oooooo shiver me timberrrrs.”