Clandestel sighed, rolling his eyes and curling his tail over his waist. He'd heard it once, he'd heard it a million times; he was too picky. He was too idealistic, and his mother wouldn't wait forever. She'd supported him, after all, let him do as he would and go as he might, but she wasn't getting any younger. He wasn't getting any younger.

How long was he going to wait? He was her only child, after all, and she didn't have the energy to raise another; yet he knew how much it meant to her. Didn't he want children? He taught people every day! He could make such a difference to his own little one's lives!

And grandchildren for her; he knew that was her only desire, no matter the angles and wheedling that she attempted. He huffed, leaning forward and stirring a lump of sugar into his tea. Wasn't she the one that had drilled into his head how important romance and a proper, singular partner was? And yet now she was doing naught but harassing him, her own clock ticking into trying to force his hand!

Fine, he thought to himself, a smirk pressing across his lips. If she wanted grandchildren so much, he could oblige - with a stranger. He wondered what the look on her face would be when he told her he'd visited the clinic! What would the perfectionist queen think about mixed children with someone he didn't even know? It was cruel, perhaps, to desire to create young in order to enact a lifetime's worth of revenge, but ...

She was right, after all. He would make a good parent. Much better than she would a grandparent, he wagered.