Look. I have needs.
There. I said it.
I mean, sure, I'm currently partnered with a grumpy, geriatric dragon who smells like burnt cinnamon and disapproval. But that doesn't mean I've taken a vow of celibacy. He's gay. And ancient. And scaly in places I don't even want to contemplate. So when people raise their eyebrows at me like "how could you?"—I'd like them to consider the alternative.
And yes. Yes. Maybe I got a little frisky with that blacksmith.
Can you blame me? Have you seen his forearms? Man works iron like it's dough. Those arms do things. And the way he hoisted that anvil—I mean, come on. I'm only human.
Also, that milkmaid? Yeah. That happened. One glorious, sweaty roll in a pile of hay that smelled like clover and bad decisions. She had dimples. And thighs like divine punishment.
So go ahead. Call me a slut. Call me what you want.
But I bring joy. To people. I give back. I brighten lives. I spread cheer. And occasionally my legs, but that's beside the point.
Some girls collect flowers. I collect memories. Is that a crime?
And no—I didn't even charge for it.
Well, not the milkmaid.
It was just... a moment. A shared look. A hand on my hip while I pretended to be interested in dairy production. Things escalated. The hay was surprisingly soft. There was a cow watching the entire time, but I've done worse.
I was halfway through braiding her hair afterward when he landed. With that look. You know the one. Smoky nostrils. Furrowed brow. Like I'd just defecated in his treasure hoard.
"You're going to blow our cover," he said, pacing in tight, angry loops. "We are fugitives. On the run. Remember the Amazons? The ones with the griffons? They skinned my cousin. Made a wall tapestry out of his face."
"Oh gods, again with the tapestry," I groaned.
He ignored me. "We are supposed to be laying low. Extorting peasants. Executing scams. Not frolicking with every rustic shepherdess with a bucket and an ass you find spiritually moving."
"Milkmaid," I corrected. "She was a milkmaid. There's a difference."
"She had a lamb."
"She was holding it for a friend."
He snorted. "You are incapable of resisting anything in linen with cleavage."
"You're one to talk," I shot back. "You once delayed an entire heist because a bard had nice calves."
"That bard was a vision," he said, with the air of someone recalling a divine experience. Then he scowled again. "Irrelevant. We have a plan, remember? A grift. We con the village, you play victim, I play wrathful doom-lizard. We collect coin. You don't go off-script by having a sexual enlightenment retreat in the barn."
I threw my hands up. "You wouldn't understand!"
He puffed smoke. "I was young once."
"Yeah? When? The Bronze Age?"
"Excuse me for having a few millennia under my belt and the ability to control my libido."
"Oh, so now it's my libido that's the problem? Not the fact that you hoard gold like a menopausal squirrel with trust issues?"
He paused. One eye twitched. "You are impossible."
"And you're repressed."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "We need rules."
I rolled my eyes. "Here we go."
"Rule one. No dalliances while undercover."
"Define 'undercover.'"
"Any time we are in disguise, hiding, or within a five-mile radius of the last flaming village."
"That's... basically all the time."
"Exactly."
I narrowed my eyes. "What about flirting?"
He groaned. "Saya."
"What if it's strategic flirting? Like... pre-scam foreplay?"
His sigh could have extinguished a bonfire. "Why do I even try."
"Because you like me."
"I tolerate you."
"You're fond of me."
"I'm contractually bound to you."
"See? Progress."
I huffed. "Okay, look. Compromise. What if I limit it to—say—twice a week?"
He turned and gave me the look. The one with the narrowed eyes and the twitch in his left eyelid. The you-are-going-to-be-the-end-of-me look.
"Fine," I said quickly. "Once a week."
He squinted.
"And not during active scams," I added, through gritted teeth.
He grunted. "Acceptable."
"But only humans count."
His head jerked toward me. "What?"
"I mean, fairies don't count. Elves either. They're... extra-planar. Technical loophole."
"No," he snapped. "They absolutely count."
"Ugh. Really?"
"Elves count. Fairies count. Dryads count. Pixies count. Gods forbid nymphs are involved."
I blew a raspberry.
He grunted again. "And twinkies count double."
I narrowed my eyes. "That's discrimination."
"That's self-preservation. Your taste in men is criminal."
"Okay then," I said, shifting tactics. "What about dryads?"
He blinked. "What in the name of flaming brimstone is a dryad?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Ew... No."
"Fine, fine. How about... Taureans?"
He winced like I'd stabbed him with a harp string. "You're kidding."
I wiggled my eyebrows. "I'm just asking."
"You are negotiating for bestial dalliances."
"Oh, like you never had a thing with a centaur in your youth."
"That is—entirely beside the point."
"And orcs?" I asked sweetly.
He froze. "You did not."
"What? Orcs are surprisingly tender. No one ever believes me. But they are. They cuddle. They make stew. They braid your hair."
He looked like he was reconsidering his long life and every decision that brought him here.
"They are misunderstood," I added, dead serious.
He closed his eyes. "If you ever get us caught because you couldn't keep your legs closed around a sentimental warbeast—"
"I won't."
"You will."
"Not if it's stew night."
He groaned. A sound of ancient sorrow. The sound of someone who has lived too long and seen too much.
"Just once a week," I said again, gently. "No fairies. No scams. No twinkies. Final offer."
He looked at me. Looked at the horizon. Then muttered, "You are the end of civilization."
"And you," I said, grinning, "are a drama queen."
"I'm just saying," I went on, flipping a strand of hair over my shoulder with the kind of faux innocence that could melt a paladin's vow, "I can't be held responsible if I get ambushed by a very hot incubus."
He groaned.
"Or succubus," I added helpfully. "You know I swing both ways."
"I am painfully aware," he muttered.
"Or a sexy demigod. One of those lean, glowing types. With cheekbones that could slice cheese."
He turned to me with a flat, dead-eyed stare. "I am going to get you a chastity belt."
"Ooh," I said, perking up. "Kinky. Can I get a copy of the key?"
He inhaled like he was about to breathe fire purely out of spite. "That is not how it's supposed to work."
"I could accessorize it. Maybe something in gold? Little dragon motifs. With sapphires?"
"I will have the lock hexed."
"Sexy."
"By a swamp witch."
That gave me pause.
"A very old, very bitter, possibly celibateswamp witch."
I shuddered. "Okay. Ew. You win."
He nodded grimly.
I waited a beat. "But what if the succubus is already infiltrating my dreams? That's not on me."
He looked like he was about to scream. Or molt.
I grinned and patted his side. "Don't worry. You're still my favorite grumpy lizard."
"I am not your lizard," he hissed.
"You're my ride."
"I swear by all the elder gods, I will drop you into a bog."
"With or without the chastity belt?"
"Both."
I crossed my arms. "Alright, mister holier-than-thou scaly virtue. You act like you've never had your own little romps in the sky."
He froze. "Excuse me?"
"Oh, don't you excuse me me," I said. "You strut around like the paragon of restraint, but you can't tell me that in all your centuries of soaring and roaring and scaring the pants off villagers, you never got your wings tangled with anyone."
"I have never," he began, all huff and indignation, "engaged in anything remotely lewd while airborne."
I grinned. "So… on the ground, then?"
He puffed smoke. "I am above such primitive displays."
"Uh-huh. Sure you are. Then explain him."
"...Him who?"
I tilted my head, eyes narrowing. "Don't play dumb. That other dragon."
He blinked. "What other dragon?"
"The one from the mountain pass. The one that licked me."
His pupils contracted into guilty little slits.
I pounced. "Ohhh, now you remember."
"That was not—" He coughed, voice cracking like thunder in puberty. "—that was a misunderstanding."
"Really?" I leaned in. "Because it sounded like you two had history. The way he said your name. All rumbly and fond. 'Ah, the Great and Terrible One.' With that weird little pause. Like there was... subtext."
"There was no subtext."
"There was so much subtext I needed a translator."
"He was being respectful."
"He was flirting."
"He was threatening."
I grinned. "Then why did he lick me?"
He bristled. "That's just how dragons say hello."
"Is it, though?" I asked sweetly. "Because his tongue went all the way to my shoulder blades. That's not a greeting, that's foreplay."
His nostrils flared. "He was merely... tasting the air."
"Oh please. He called you 'Scaleback.' You don't give someone a nickname like that unless you've seen their—"
"Enough!" he barked, tail lashing. "There was nothing between us."
"Admit it," I pressed. "That wasn't just a casual acquaintance. You two had a thing."
He looked affronted enough to combust. "Saya, I am not—nor have I ever been—involved with that arrogant, flame-belching, overgrown salamander!"
"So you were involved!"
"I said not!"
I smirked. "Your voice cracked."
"It did not."
"It did. You're blushing."
"Dragons do not blush."
"Then what's that shimmer under your scales, huh?"
"That's—heat retention!"
"Sure it is. Must've been quite the heat you two shared."
He groaned, the sound somewhere between thunder and mortification. "You are vile."
"And right."
"I should have eaten you when I had the chance."
I winked. "Too late now, lover boy. You've got a reputation to defend."
He let out a strangled, smoky snort and stomped off toward the horizon muttering in Ancient Draconic. I didn't understand the words, but I caught the tone: Why me, why this, why her.
I grinned.
Score: Saya, two. Dragon, zero.