Look. I know. I know. I don't need the Dragon or that judgmental raven or any more tavern rumors to remind me.
I have horrible taste in men.
Truly catastrophic.
Like—"light your tits on fire and run through a temple during High Mass" levels of bad.
Let's review, shall we?
Bollo. Gods. Bollo. The walking slab of Taurean beef with all the charm of a concussed ox and just enough brain cells to grunt my name when he came. Did he treat me well? No. Did he even speak? Debatable. But did he make the bed creak like a dying war drum? Yes, yes he did. And that apparently was enough for me.
Then there's Gregory. Literal demon. Has horns, tail, and zero impulse control. Also owes me a goat. Long story. His idea of foreplay is biting. Not gently. And yet, somehow, I let him back in every time he slithers by smelling like brimstone and bad decisions. What's wrong with me?
And oh—Sir Odran. That smug, shiny, sword-swinging tower of hot disappointment. I have hate-fucked that man more times than I've had decent meals. I know he's a human golden retriever with a concussion, but the abs. The jawline. The way he says "wench" like it's both a threat and a compliment. I hate him. I want him. I hate that I want him. And then I want to hate-fuck him again. It's a circle of sin.
And then—gods help me—there's the Dragon.
Let's not even unpack that.
Ancient. Cranky. Aromatic like a forge. Gay as a Seebulban sailor on moon festival night. And somehow still manages to make my thighs tense with just a smirk and the way he says "pathetic." It's not even sexual—it's just... him. His voice, his wings, his smug superiority. I want to kiss him. I want to strangle him with his own tail. I want to spoon him and call it tactical heat conservation. I don't even know anymore.
So yeah. When I say I have a type?
My type is: a fucking disaster.
If there's a red flag, I will not only ignore it, I will wear it like a silk sash and ask if it makes my eyes pop.
But sure. Let's all pretend I'm the dramatic one.
At least I'm self-aware. That's gotta count for something, right?
Right?
…Shit.
Because clearly, I have a type.
No, worse—I have a pattern. A self-destructive, pants-down, dignity-out-the-window spiral of terrible, crotch-led choices dressed up as men.
Tall. Smirking. Dangerous. Charismatic in that unstable, knife-in-the-boot, "I don't do attachments" kind of way.
You know the type.
The kind that broods near fireplaces. The kind that has a mysterious past and no savings account. The kind that says "you're not like other girls" right before disappearing with your coin pouch and your favorite underwear.
Every. Damn. Time.
And I see it coming! I know it! Somewhere deep in my brain, a tiny rational voice goes: "Hey. Hey, maybe go for the kind one this time. The one with steady employment and a soft laugh. The one who makes breakfast and asks how your day was."
But no. Nooo. I shush her. I tie her up and gag her with lace panties.
Because kind is boring. Kind doesn't set your thighs on fire. Kind doesn't throw furniture during arguments or make you feel like you're the eye of some feral storm. Kind doesn't whisper filthy things in five languages and then forget your name.
And don't even get me started on ambition.
Apparently, all it takes is a half-formed dream and a dangerous glint in his eye and I'm ready to ruin my life. He says he wants to conquer the coast, or reinvent mercenary ethics, or start a wine brand for orcs, and I go all soft and wet like it's noble.
Doesn't matter that he has no plan. No map. No clue. I hear "ambition" and I spread like warm butter.
Meanwhile, the sweet ones? The soft ones? The ones who'd actually treat me well? Pfft. I get itchy. Like allergic. Like kindness gives me hives. He could be rock hard, emotionally available, good with his hands and his words—and I'll still flinch and mutter something about needing "space."
I left a guy once because he brought me tea before I woke up.
Tea!
He meant well. He cared. Which clearly meant something was wrong with him.
So here I am. Again. Broke. Half-dressed. Probably infected. And trying to pretend I haven't made this exact mistake twelve times before.
Gods. I don't need a man.
I need therapy.
You know what? I blame it on my upbringing.
No, seriously. Let's trace the rot.
My father? Which one? Even my mother probably didn't know. Could've been a sailor, a pickpocket, a passing bard with a half-decent jawline. Whoever he was, he left faster than a fart in a sandstorm. So no paternal role model. Just a gaping absence and a vague suspicion I inherited my taste for chaos from him.
My mother? Oh no. Don't even start on that bitch.
The most nurturing thing she ever did was not sell me. And I'm pretty sure that was just an oversight. She once told me love was a fool's game, then turned around and cried over some stonemason who gave her a shiny rock and a fake name.
And the "aunties"?
Dockside whores, the lot of them. All perfume and bruises and broken dreams. Teaching me how to paint my lips before I knew how to read. Telling stories about Prince Charming and dangerous men with hearts of gold while giving handjobs behind the tavern for a bowl of stew.
That was my education.
That was my curriculum.
Romance 101: He might hit you, but if he buys you soup, it's love.
And when that mess didn't kill me, I ended up in the Temple of Bleeding Hearts. Gods. Don't make me laugh.
Priests with sweaty palms and vows of poverty they broke behind every curtain. Telling me purity was divine while staring at my tits like they were decoding scripture. Teaching obedience, silence, and that a woman's virtue lies somewhere between her thighs and her ability to shut up.
So yeah.
I never had a blueprint for healthy love.
No cozy hearth. No decent example. Just a carousel of lechers, zealots, and street philosophers with crotch rot and bad poetry.
So is it really my fault that now, every time some morally questionable man with a tragic past and a dangerous aura walks into my life, my panties stage a coup?
No. It's not.
It's conditioning.
It's inherited stupidity.
It's the combined weight of generations of women handing down bad advice like it was heirloom jewelry.
And here I am. The latest disaster in the lineage.
Romantically feral.
Emotionally constipated.
And still thinking maybe the next smirking bastard will be different.
Maybe he won't lie. Maybe he won't steal. Maybe he won't leave.
Maybe.
Probably not.
But maybe.
Gods help me.