I hated that nose ring.
That big, stupid septum piercing. Thick bronze hoop. Like I was a fucking oxen up for auction. Like someone might tie a leash to it and parade me through the temple square yelling "Two-for-one on sacred sluts today!"
Bollo loved it, of course. Called it "earthy." Said it gave me character. He also once tried to light a fire by headbutting a flint rock, so forgive me if I don't put much stock in his aesthetic sense.
The Dragon—nosey old lizard—once asked, "How many piercings do you actually have?"
I groaned. "Ugh. That one. Then one on the side of the nose. Then lip. Left eyebrow. Tongue. Don't even start. Both nipples. Belly button. One on the clit. Yes, the clit. That bean. The pleasure pearl. My little crown jewel. My personal doorknob to heaven. You want a diagram?"
He blinked.
And I loved doing that to him. He gets this look—like the entire concept of nipples is a personal affront.
"Ears don't count," I added, waving my hand. "Those are basic. Starter pack. Temple issue. Like the sandals."
He gave me that slow dragon-blink. Judgy. Ancient. Exhausted.
"Standard Temple of Bleeding Hearts fare," I continued, stretching like I wasn't still sore from last night's 'field research'. "They say each piercing marks a passage to higher understanding. Bullshit. What it really means is: get branded, stabbed, and tagged like a prize-winning calf. You get slapped down on the altar, there's incense and moaning, and then—bam—needle through your face."
I wiggled my nose. "This little beauty? I was fifteen. Priestess said it symbolized humility. I said it made me look like a brothel cow. She said, 'Hold still.' Then stabbed me."
"No warning?" the Dragon asked, like I'd just told him gravity was optional.
I snorted. "Oh please. You think consent's part of the curriculum? They hold you down. One guy grabs your wrists, one grabs your thighs, and some bored priestess with cold hands jams metal through you. And if you scream? You get the 'bad girl' lecture and maybe a second piercing as penance. Mercy is a swig of plum brandy."
He looked appalled. I grinned.
"Told you," I said, waggling my tongue stud. "Sacred slut academy."
He muttered something under his breath. Something ancient and disapproving.
"I kept a few," I went on. "The cheeky ones. The lip ring makes kissing more interesting. The tongue's… functional. Nipple ones are just pretty. You can hang bells on 'em at festivals. But most of them? Gone. Ripped out or grew over."
I poked at my hip. "Still got a scar here. That one was supposed to be the 'symbol of selflessness.' Which is hilarious, considering they charged pilgrims five silver to touch it."
The Dragon exhaled smoke through his nose. Slow. Controlled. Like he was trying really hard not to torch the memory itself.
"You gonna lecture me now?" I teased, flashing him a look. "Tell me I've desecrated my holy temple? Defiled the sacred garden of my womanhood?"
He groaned. "I was going to say they mutilated you."
"Aw," I said, patting his claw. "That's sweet. But don't worry, old man. I was born defiled."
He didn't smile. Of course not.
I leaned in, voice dropping to a husky mock-whisper. "If it helps, I like some of the holes. And if you ever feel like getting something pierced—tail tip maybe?—I know a guy."
He covered his face with one wing.
Gods, I love breaking him.
I stretched out near the fire, bare leg half out, and sighed dramatically.
"I'm a walking wind chime of trauma and bad decisions. But hey, at least I sparkle."
He said nothing for a bit. Just watched the flames like he was trying to find a reason not to regret every choice that brought him to this moment.
Then, quietly, he said, "If anyone ever tries that again—"
I cut him off. "They won't."
"I'll burn them."
"I know, Daddy Ash-breath."
He winced.
I smiled.
Let them put rings in me. They thought it meant they owned me.
Joke's on them.
I kept the good ones.