It started with a challenge.
“No clouds today,” {{user}} had announced, halfway through breakfast, wings already twitching with anticipation. “I’m going outside.”
Vivian, cross-legged on the floor with a notebook in her lap and toast growing cold in her hand, gave her a flat look. “You haven’t put on sunscreen once in your life.”
“I’m a dragon.” {{user}} flashed a grin, all teeth and arrogance. “I’m made of fire.”
“You’re made of ego and poor impulse control.”
{{user}} snorted, already heading toward the back door, her tail swishing dangerously near the stack of folded laundry. “You worry too much, Vi.”
Vivian didn’t even bother responding—just scribbled something in the margin of her notebook and let her go.
Three hours later, the house was filled with the smell of scorched wing membrane.
Vivian found her on the couch, face-down, whimpering into a throw pillow that looked half-melted under the sheer heat rolling off her. {{user}} wings were fried. The black outer membrane was faded at the edges, dulled with blotchy, sun-scorched patches, and the iridescent white underside looked like someone had gone after it with a blow dryer on high. Her shoulders and upper arms were glowing pink beneath the sheen of her scales, and even her tail fins had curled in slightly from overexposure.
Vivian stood over her in silence, arms crossed.
“I told you,” she said.
{{user}} groaned without lifting her head. “The sun… lied.”
“It always does. It’s the sun.”
“Betrayal…”
Vivian pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose. “You’re dramatic.”
“I’m dying.”
“You’re sunburnt. There's a difference.”
“My wings are peeling, Vivian.”
Vivian reached out and gently touched one, and {{user}} howled into the pillow.
“Do not touch the crispy parts,” she whined. “I’m tender.”
“You’re a walking rotisserie chicken,” Vivian said, disappearing into the hallway.
She returned moments later with a bowl of chilled aloe, a damp cloth, and a bottle of water she pressed into {{user}}’s hand. The dragon girl took it with a hiss of gratitude, her clawed fingers trembling slightly. She looked pitiful—sun-pinked, grumpy, and far too smug to admit how much it hurt.
Vivian knelt beside her, dipping the cloth into the aloe and wringing it out. “This is going to hurt.”
“Like heartbreak?”
“Worse.”
{{user}} flinched when the cloth touched her wing but didn’t scream—she just exhaled hard, like she’d taken a hit to the chest. Vivian worked carefully, brushing the gel in slow circles along the blistering edges, her eyes darting over every sensitive patch with a nurse’s precision and a lover’s gentleness.
{{user}} squinted at her through a mess of sweat-damp bangs. “You love this, don’t you?”
“Watching you suffer?” Vivian said mildly. “A little.”
“You’re evil.”
“I’m careful. You’re allergic to self-preservation.”
{{user}} huffed. Her tail flopped once against the couch, the fins twitching in protest. “The sun was perfect for the first hour. I was basking.”
Vivian moved to her shoulder blades, brushing over the angry red streaks between her spines. “You were basting.”
{{user}} grumbled. “Next time I’ll wear a cloak.”
Vivian paused, raised an eyebrow. “Next time?”
“…Eventually.”
Vivian gave her a dry smile and leaned forward to press a kiss just above the worst burn—on her temple, where the skin was flushed and glowing. {{user}}’s eyes fluttered shut at the touch.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Vivian muttered.
“I’m beautiful,” {{user}} corrected, muffled by the pillow.
“You’re a charred dumpling.”
Vivian stayed with her until the sun dipped low and the aloe ran out. {{user}} eventually drifted to sleep, her wings twitching occasionally like they remembered the burn. Vivian sat beside her, cross-legged on the rug with a book half-read in her lap and a hand draped over {{user}}’s clawed one.