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Yes, I might use my charm, but it’s only so I can gain a favor here, a connection there, and a shag everywhere.
It’s by no means to gather superfans and dreamy-eyed girls.
In fact, I’ve only ever played with others so they’d fall into the exact spot on the chessboard where I want them to be.
Force is for brutes who don’t have the capacity to use their head. And while I relish the occasional bursts of violence, it’s not truly my modus operandi.
Trapping a certain mouse in a corner, however, definitely is.
The insolent, insignificant little troublemaker who managed to bathe me in blood in my own house sits opposite me in a position that’s an excellent imitation of a Greek statue.
Or, on second thought, maybe a Roman one. Those are more stilted and pack more of a punch in the details.
One difference, though—her eyes. They tell a different story from her posture. The muted blue is worlds apart from mine, nearly explosive in its color. Fierce, too, like a volcano that’s buried in the depths of the ocean.
While it might remain dormant for years, it’ll bring on a deadly tsunami the moment it erupts.
Or maybe they’re the color of deep-blue wildflowers. Crushed by harsh nature but defiant. Proud and pretty yet temporary.
Her skintight dress offers a modest view of the curved slope of her round tits. Add the illegal amount of ribbons and the glasses on top of her heads, and she looks like one of Satan’s favorite fangirls.
A goth Barbie without the pretentious makeup.
The rook remains suspended in midair as if the world has hit Pause.
Only, it hasn’t. And I get to watch the intriguing change in her expression from arrogance to absolute horror.
Taking my time to fully investigate the incident these past couple of days was worth it. I could’ve gone a completely different route with this—which would have included violence and newsworthy mayhem. And while the thrill would’ve been enjoyable for a few seconds, it wouldn’t have lasted. And it certainly wouldn’t compare to the picturesque scene in front of me.
Plump pink lips, slightly parted, revealing a hint of perfectly white teeth. Rosy cheeks and neck. Eyes so stunned, I’m wondering if she can even still see me.
In conclusion, this round is a checkmate to yours truly.
“Hello?” I wave a casual hand in front of her face. “Are you still there, mouse?”
She blinks once…
Twice…
I see the exact moment she goes in for the attack. It’s like when she had the audacity to hit me under my own roof. The only difference is that she’s less guarded now and doesn’t seem to be contemplating the option of amateurish seduction.
She balls her fist, but before she can punch me, I grab it in my palm and effortlessly twist it to the side.
“That’s not very wise, now, is it? We both know I’m stronger than you and could squash you like an insignificant insect if I choose to, so don’t let me choose to.”
Her face contorts with either pain or rage—I’m not sure which. Hopefully, it’s both.
I love watching people flounder in a pool of their spineless emotions before they wither and drown.
As rumor has it, I’m nothing less than a gorgeous anarchist with a penchant for sadism.
“We’ll negotiate my terms now, shall we?” I drop her hand and it’s only after I release her that I register how small that hand is. In fact, all of her is, from her tiny nose to her petite features. She’s not short, but she’s not that tall either.
A height that can comfortably fit in a casket.
Crikey. I’ve done it again.
Imagining people dead. If I get to witness her funeral, I vote for her eyes to be kept open. So what if it creeps everyone else out? As long as I get to enjoy it, the world can piss off.
