This girl is a gun, before you know it, it's done
And you'll be wishing that you crossed your fingers

t is such a foreign concept to Marceline: that Asmodeus' flirtations and flatteries do not seem to bear the weight of expectation. He doesn't appear to want anything in particular from her - his only desire seems to be her presence at his side. Which, she supposes, could be construed as a benefit in and of itself. Much like nyimara - whose presence here still lingered in the back of her mind - she had come to be known across the islands. Instilling a powerful companion at one's side often led to a marked increase in one's own influence. He was smart enough to realize this, and to use it to his advantage.

But even still, with the knowledge that he might only want her for her reputation prickling at the back of her mind like burr, she could not bring herself to care. Despite his blatant desires, he had never treated her like a plaything; never in his presence has she felt that she is a means to an end, an object to further his own agenda. It is odd, to have the full weight of a stallion's interest with little to nothing expected in return. For nearly her whole life marceline has been accustomed to others wanting something from her - be it power, information, intimacy, even children. He may not want it, but she would give it all, and more, to Asmodeus - if he was willing to give in return.

Marceline maneuvers to face her patch-worked companion head-on, uncaring that she has planted herself firmly in the sun-warmed shallows of the oasis, the water a balm against her aching joint. Fire scorches earth as their gazes meet, a vulpine smile upon the red woman's lips. It is the smile of a woman who is about to get everything she has ever wanted. Still Marceline does not reach for him, though the desire to press her nose against his, to drown herself in his heady scent, swells like the rising tide against the levee of her skin.

"I will gain the support of the Hills for you. You need not lift a single hoof." Her words are a low murmur, just loud enough to be heard in the narrow space between them. A weighted pause passes as she lets her words sink in, her eyes flitting across his face as she tries to gauge his reaction. "Then, when I am successful and you are crowned King of Salem, you will repay this favor by naming me your Queen." There was little question in Marceline's mind that his ascension was not a matter of if, but when. "Consider it a test of my worth, if you'd like. What do you say, mon cher?"

It would be a gamble for him to take, betting his future here on her word, taking faith in her ability to do as she has promised. Should it pay off, though, they would both get everything they desired. He, a monarchy under his name and her at his side; and she, the pleasure of not only bringing her traitorous son to heel, but of once more having a true crown upon her own head. Proud as she was of her position within the Peak, she was no queen to them. a leader, yes, but not a queen. And in the deepest, darkest parts of her soul Marceline knew she was meant to be more than a figurehead. She was meant to rule.

So she dangles the scrumptious piece of bait before him, waiting with bated breath to see if he would snatch it up as eagerly as she hoped.