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“Oh, fuck,” Saffron croaked. “Ohhhh fuck, shit, oh god, oh fuck—” “Yes, good, get it all out while you can,” Luvon encouraged calmly. “Fuck, fuck, shit, damnit, cock, bint. Go on.”
Cylvan pursed his lips before sitting on the edge of the windowsill, tipping backward and falling out of it in finality. Like a man leaping to his death. Copper could never hold a candle to the Prince of Alfidel’s dramatics.
He pawed at the flower crowns still, by some miracle, in his hair, smashing the wildflower and purple iris circlet onto Cylvan’s head, looping it under his horns. “Beautiful,” he grinned, pressing hands to Cylvan’s cheeks enough to make the prince’s mouth pucker. “You’re so beautiful. Beautiful dragon princess. My king of the forest. I’m your Mayday queen, please, do with me as you wish. I danced a lot. I drank so much. And I touched so many crystal penises.”
Saffron chuckled despite himself. “Right. I’ve learned to be careful with what words I use in front of Cylvan, too, if I don’t have the strength for an entomology lecture.” “… I think you mean etymology, but, yeah. He’s really the most insufferable person I’ve ever met, always acting like he knows everything about everything… really never shuts up, does he…
Perhaps there was at least one simple truth in the world: Saffron would forever be madly in love with Cylvan dé Tuatha dé Danann.
