_{Some say you're trouble, boy Just because you like to destroy All the things that bring the idiots joy} Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?

“No” she says.

Again.

Reginald stays standing.

Again.

She speaks, and a question enters his mind, interrupting her words, festering and fluttering, an annoyed dayfly buzzing in his skull. Is she worth it? She’s not scrawny; she’s not a moron; she has a bloodlust he admires. She’s young—but that’s something she can’t help. What she can help is her arrogance—her presumption—her stubborn nature. For all her talk of brokenness, she does not seem to be as broken as she professed. For all her talk of abandonment, she does not seem to crave acceptance. Reginald feels once again the irritation with her sex; if they are not scrawny, they whine—if they are not idiotic, they act like they are. Reginald cannot fathom the female; what is their purpose? What is the need that they assuage? Why are they worth it?

“Get an empire then tell me to kneel.”

“See,” he whispers, and the tone is an amused one—for his amusement is his mockery, “you've got it backwards; that’s not how it works, Jo-ro-gu-mo.” He says her name slowly and awkwardly, for it is awkward; he makes it into a snide remark, because that is what she is. “An empire is full of those who kneel. You are either mine, or you’re not. You can’t decide later if I’m good enough to be your king—because I’ll have decided to kill you and all who tell me ‘no’. Deny me if you want—I don’t like stupid. You’re not stupid, Joro.” He breathes these words, this honesty he speaks to her. He gazes at her intently, looking into her tenacious eyes, his own iris contracted in the twilight of the cave, a serpent’s stare. “Why do you insist on acting stupid?”

He laughs—inspiration hits him. “Now I understand why your mother left you,” comes the teasing hiss, scornful of her deepest hurts, for she has given him her weaknesses. “You said you were abandoned? No. You were discarded, for your mother must’ve run out of patience with your stupid act. Or maybe you ran off blindly into the darkness, like you always do? My patience is wearing thin, Joro.” His eyes widen; he snarls; the amusement is gone. This game grows boring, and a deal must be struck. “Will you run from me this time?” Challenging, demanding, curious and inquiring. Grey speech. “Or will you let me make you a Queen? Because you can be, if you stop running.” Fangs are bared; if there were venom in his veins, he would spit it. “You can kneel.”

He suddenly eases, and he is a colt, relaxed and even-tempered, gazing at her with childish disinterest. “Or I can crush you later,” he shrugs, his tail curling idly behind him. It really is as simple as that. No girl will rule him—no female will refuse him. He has not met one yet who poses any sort of challenge to his mind, his body. They will either bow, or break, and he didn’t care which it was. It was really her choice.


@[Jorogumo]
"talk talk talk"