[ Shadowheart unlaces her sandals, toes them off and leans back in the grass just as Parisa reaches for the flower. From her wrist, or the elegant stretch of her throat, the warm scent of saffron and amber. Shadowheart blinks momentarily, brought back to the Parisa she knew: sun-drenched on Gale's arm at the vineyard, breathless between Armand and Emmrich under cold starlight, elegant fingers on Shadowheart's tongue. She'd smelled different. Less floral, more fresh.
She perches her sunglasses on top of her head, considering her. ]
Gale and I didn't even make it to the altar. That puts you a rung above me on the marriage front, I'd wager.
[ Maybe a simpler shared history to broach than the other. The obvious reason Shadowheart's never gotten close to anyone was Shar's tenets of detachment, which makes her ill-equipped for this: an inability to cleanly shake off her feelings from that other life, when there's so little of her own to fill in the gaps.
She takes a longer pull of the wine, torn between touching the obvious or delaying it--though where she does land isn't a lie. ]
I wanted to share a bottle of wine or three with a pretty girl. And get to know you outside of the illusion, maybe.
( smiling, parisa steals the bottle again, swallowing heavily. pretty girl is a title she dons frequently and successfully enough, though she imagines shadowheart could stumble into one magical room of the manor or another and find someone equally as available to relieve her loneliness for a time. outside of the illusion? a curious glimmer, in that one fundamental difference — parisa would never call it an illusion, no trick of the light, no magician's gamble. it all happened, is the thing. even memories that feel half-baked now, gooey centered when brought out in the sun, they're still there, no forgetting them. part of her will always love gale. thus is the consequence of brains — she's spent the time since june re-cataloguing the mess her alternate self made of her mindscape, days of swollen, pounding headaches, making changes, re-familiarizing herself with the decor. it's all new. it'll all be different, touched by armand, gale, shadowheart. an illusion it is not.
can she blame shadowheart for not knowing that? no, not at all. the previous month has left a cherry flavored fondness for her spool out in the warm corners of her brain, familiar and not, eager to learn and remember. shadowheart has already crossed the most important threshold for befriending parisa kamali: she is interesting, she captivates. she's not boring, thank god. when parisa watches her swallow, there's a memory parisa wouldn't toss for the world — sitting on her chest, feeding her the moonstone length of an artificial cock, instructing her, suck, praising her for a job well done. )
What would you like to know?
( an open question — the mind can't help but wander. while she isn't safeguarding the front door, parisa uses a fingernail to pry open the gate, letting herself abruptly inside. only —
her school teachers would scold her in viperous french, you forget your first lesson, mademoiselle. never enter someplace you don't have the exit plan to, never enter a playing field you don't know the rules of. something lives inside shadowheart — physical? mental? — some protection that lashes out with a thousand little razor sharp teeth, digging into her brain, protective, damaging. it could do some real work on her if she wasn't the telepath that she is, so it's more of a nuisance, an irritation, an immediate, pounding headache. parisa cringes, pinching the bridge of her nose. )
[ The intrusion catches Shadowheart off-guard, different in tenor from the sticky web of shared memories in the gallery, different even from the involuntary hook of two tadpoles when they first meet.
This is intentional. If Parisa feels anything, apart from the lash of the tadpole, it's a flare of anger: and beneath it, in the moment before Shadowheart slams the sliver of connection shut, a mind that's tender and guarded, a long stretch of shadowscapes where memories should be.
Shadowheart has her on her back before either of them can think. Her knees squeezing Parisa's thighs, hands pinning her wrists on either side of her head. The wine bottle spills into the grass, getting both of them wet, and Shadowheart's skin is flush with fury, chest rising quick with her breath. ]
Don't ever look in my head without asking, Parisa. [ Tight, eyes narrowed, holding her gaze. ] It'll be the last thing you do.
( she makes a kind of harrumphing sound as she pinned, head rattling against the dirt below, although beyond the initial twitch of instinct to free herself, she falls limp under shadowheart. it's not an argument — physically, she is outmatched by almost everyone who crosses her path, and shadowheart is lean in a way that begets muscles hidden just under feminine curves, as evidenced by the strength pinning her wrists down. she twists them, just to test resistance. none such beast.
well. there's no telepath alive who hasn't felt the fire from their own abilities. it is, at heart, an invasion. parisa knows this. shadowheart knows this too, clearly. )
Well. ( a chronic migraine haver, she knows a bad one when she feels it. parisa's eyes shutter closed, groaning softly under shadowheart. ) That's not — something I have an interest in reliving. The pain, I mean. Your brain wasn't bad, otherwise. Are you curious about what I was looking for?
( she grins suddenly, in a way that is slightly manic, mostly just because parisa almost never smiles without it seeming like a secret, something given and never earned. she tells her anyway, thanks to the belief that shadowheart likely won't want to ask, because why would she? even now, she's thinking i wanted to trust you, and you betrayed me. and so she did. on the other hand — if she wants to get to know parisa in truth, this is not an insignificant part of her. )
I adore you. I adored you then, I adore you now. I wanted to see if you were worthy of all this affection I have for you.
( there's a lot left unsaid in that. parisa, being who she is, looking how she does, is used to being more of a currency than a woman when it comes to the desires of people. for women it's always been different, more likely to hate her on principle than give her a chance. shadowheart, like that, is an anomaly. like emmrich. sometimes, you get so used to being treated like a dog purse, you forget the intentions of others aren't always determined by your treatment in the past. )
[ Shadowheart expects a fight, physical or otherwise. She has no idea what Parisa's powers might be, beyond the finger that nudged her mind open, and she knows better than to make assumptions. Assumptions get you killed. Her chest heaves, and for a moment, she remembers: Lae'zel pinned beneath her in the dark, but also a flash of herself, younger, scrapping in the dormitories with girls bigger and stronger than she was.
Instead, Parisa catches her off-guard. I adore you. It flashes across Shadowheart's face in a twist of wide-eyed hurt, because her instinct is that this is another trick--to keep her vulnerable, to pry her back open.
And she wants it not to be. She wants to trust Emmrich, though she hardly knows him now; she wants to trust Parisa, too. If Shadowheart were looking to break someone's defenses, their other selves would have been the perfect in, wouldn't they? Make someone soft for you when you don't know them at all. Make them love you.
Her thumbs press at the pulse points of Parisa's wrists, tender veins and delicate bones, and then she relents, sits back on her heels. ]
I'm not her.
[ Jenevelle Volkarin. That woman who ultimately believed in the rightness of the universe, the goodness of others. And the same thing she'd said to Emmrich, the morning after her memories returned. Shadowheart keeps a loose hold on Parisa's arms, but Parisa could break that hold, if she wanted. ]
I was a cleric of the goddess of loss. [ Details she only would have divulged to people she knew could keep it secret, once. But Shar has forsaken her; secrecy no longer matters. ]
She took my memories, my family from me, and I betrayed her. And now I'm--
[ A sharp intake of breath, vulnerable despite their positions. No one, a part of her supplies. Instead, Shadowheart firms her jaw, despite the shine of emotion in her eyes. ]
I don't know who I am. I'm learning it.
You won't find whether I'm worthy by snooping. You'll only find it right here, with me.
( to say it's not a trick wouldn't be entirely accurate — parisa has no interest in suffering, and would do any foul thing to see herself come out on top. but, it's also a lesson she's learned from years of seducing, of listening to minds both deranged and stable and learning how to nudge them in the direction she likes: the most successful notions are always based in truth. so, it isn't a lie. she does adore shadowheart, from moonlight-infused water baths and sandy-toed walks down venetian beaches, to splashes of wine seeping into the expensive fabric of her dress, shadowheart's bruises on her wrists. it's not a question of either and or, but more where and how far. where do their other halves start and end? how far are they willing to go to bridge the gap?
the pin loosens. parisa waits some amount of time to see if shadowheart will brain her again, before slowly sitting up, balanced on one palm. the other hand moves with all the grace of a falling leaf, to cup shadowheart's cheek. she doesn't get the kind of feigned softness parisa might offer someone else — instead, her expression is of impassivity, nonchalance. a woman who has already made up her mind, and doesn't mind defending it. )
And I was a whore. Still am, truthfully. I was a bright little telepath who had the unfortunate ability to read my older brother's mind in the dawning ages of my puberty, so I married his best friend and ran away, and now I live in perpetual motion, always running from the past. ( she shrugs, pushing some hair behind shadowheart's ear. ) I never committed myself to a goddess, or some falsely noble cause — it sounds like things went a bit tits up in that department, if you don't mind me saying so. I've always acted selfishly, for my own benefit. That is who I am.
Or who I was, at least. You say you're different — so am I, Heart. I'm different from who I was six months ago, even. I died, that changed things. Then I met Emmrich, and that changed things, too. ( a face she pulls — waned smile, even tired, trailing the tips of her painted fingernails against shadowheart's chin, upwards to tap the tip against her mouth. ) Anyway, I did find it, your worth. I know when you put your lipgloss on this morning, you imagined someone licking it off. Me, potentially. I know you're lonely, and searching, and I believe I understand your intentions. ( another shrug, more hapless. parisa can't apologize for wanting to protect herself — and is only sorry in hindsight, since shadowheart is proven, in her eyes, to be genuine. ) Do I think you can be an asset? Yes, I do. You're strong, clearly, and smart, and most importantly, would look beautiful strewn out on my sheets, which are silk and wine red and perfect for your skin tone. I wouldn't picture you there if I didn't think it a worthwhile investment — and I wouldn't say as much if I was trying to win you over. I want you to form your own opinions, as I've formed mine, with the benefit of telepathy. So — you get my honest truth, since I've wronged you. That's all.
[ There's another twist behind her ribs when Parisa calls her Heart, more tender this time--both in the sense of bruising and the sense of longed-for sweetness.
Parisa's upright shift means Shadowheart is settled in her lap, more or less, knees still bracketing her thighs. Lets Parisa touch her cheek, her lips, holding her gaze all the while, expression wary. ]
I don't know if I can trust you. [ Her other self did, because she trusted everyone; because they had a long stretch of history together. For a moment, she imagines the history they might build now, a future that feels as hazy and improbable as her lost memories. ] I'm not terribly good at trust, after everything. But I'm willing to try.
[ Shadowheart lifts a hand to the nape of Parisa's neck, spreads her fingers to cup the occipital bone. She murmurs something, and there's a bloom of warmth and pale light from her fingertips, easing whatever pain is left from the tadpole and from Shadowheart pushing her into the grass. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
She perches her sunglasses on top of her head, considering her. ]
Gale and I didn't even make it to the altar. That puts you a rung above me on the marriage front, I'd wager.
[ Maybe a simpler shared history to broach than the other. The obvious reason Shadowheart's never gotten close to anyone was Shar's tenets of detachment, which makes her ill-equipped for this: an inability to cleanly shake off her feelings from that other life, when there's so little of her own to fill in the gaps.
She takes a longer pull of the wine, torn between touching the obvious or delaying it--though where she does land isn't a lie. ]
I wanted to share a bottle of wine or three with a pretty girl. And get to know you outside of the illusion, maybe.
no subject
can she blame shadowheart for not knowing that? no, not at all. the previous month has left a cherry flavored fondness for her spool out in the warm corners of her brain, familiar and not, eager to learn and remember. shadowheart has already crossed the most important threshold for befriending parisa kamali: she is interesting, she captivates. she's not boring, thank god. when parisa watches her swallow, there's a memory parisa wouldn't toss for the world — sitting on her chest, feeding her the moonstone length of an artificial cock, instructing her, suck, praising her for a job well done. )
What would you like to know?
( an open question — the mind can't help but wander. while she isn't safeguarding the front door, parisa uses a fingernail to pry open the gate, letting herself abruptly inside. only —
her school teachers would scold her in viperous french, you forget your first lesson, mademoiselle. never enter someplace you don't have the exit plan to, never enter a playing field you don't know the rules of. something lives inside shadowheart — physical? mental? — some protection that lashes out with a thousand little razor sharp teeth, digging into her brain, protective, damaging. it could do some real work on her if she wasn't the telepath that she is, so it's more of a nuisance, an irritation, an immediate, pounding headache. parisa cringes, pinching the bridge of her nose. )
Well, fuck.
no subject
This is intentional. If Parisa feels anything, apart from the lash of the tadpole, it's a flare of anger: and beneath it, in the moment before Shadowheart slams the sliver of connection shut, a mind that's tender and guarded, a long stretch of shadowscapes where memories should be.
Shadowheart has her on her back before either of them can think. Her knees squeezing Parisa's thighs, hands pinning her wrists on either side of her head. The wine bottle spills into the grass, getting both of them wet, and Shadowheart's skin is flush with fury, chest rising quick with her breath. ]
Don't ever look in my head without asking, Parisa. [ Tight, eyes narrowed, holding her gaze. ] It'll be the last thing you do.
no subject
well. there's no telepath alive who hasn't felt the fire from their own abilities. it is, at heart, an invasion. parisa knows this. shadowheart knows this too, clearly. )
Well. ( a chronic migraine haver, she knows a bad one when she feels it. parisa's eyes shutter closed, groaning softly under shadowheart. ) That's not — something I have an interest in reliving. The pain, I mean. Your brain wasn't bad, otherwise. Are you curious about what I was looking for?
( she grins suddenly, in a way that is slightly manic, mostly just because parisa almost never smiles without it seeming like a secret, something given and never earned. she tells her anyway, thanks to the belief that shadowheart likely won't want to ask, because why would she? even now, she's thinking i wanted to trust you, and you betrayed me. and so she did. on the other hand — if she wants to get to know parisa in truth, this is not an insignificant part of her. )
I adore you. I adored you then, I adore you now. I wanted to see if you were worthy of all this affection I have for you.
( there's a lot left unsaid in that. parisa, being who she is, looking how she does, is used to being more of a currency than a woman when it comes to the desires of people. for women it's always been different, more likely to hate her on principle than give her a chance. shadowheart, like that, is an anomaly. like emmrich. sometimes, you get so used to being treated like a dog purse, you forget the intentions of others aren't always determined by your treatment in the past. )
no subject
Instead, Parisa catches her off-guard. I adore you. It flashes across Shadowheart's face in a twist of wide-eyed hurt, because her instinct is that this is another trick--to keep her vulnerable, to pry her back open.
And she wants it not to be. She wants to trust Emmrich, though she hardly knows him now; she wants to trust Parisa, too. If Shadowheart were looking to break someone's defenses, their other selves would have been the perfect in, wouldn't they? Make someone soft for you when you don't know them at all. Make them love you.
Her thumbs press at the pulse points of Parisa's wrists, tender veins and delicate bones, and then she relents, sits back on her heels. ]
I'm not her.
[ Jenevelle Volkarin. That woman who ultimately believed in the rightness of the universe, the goodness of others. And the same thing she'd said to Emmrich, the morning after her memories returned. Shadowheart keeps a loose hold on Parisa's arms, but Parisa could break that hold, if she wanted. ]
I was a cleric of the goddess of loss. [ Details she only would have divulged to people she knew could keep it secret, once. But Shar has forsaken her; secrecy no longer matters. ]
She took my memories, my family from me, and I betrayed her. And now I'm--
[ A sharp intake of breath, vulnerable despite their positions. No one, a part of her supplies. Instead, Shadowheart firms her jaw, despite the shine of emotion in her eyes. ]
I don't know who I am. I'm learning it.
You won't find whether I'm worthy by snooping. You'll only find it right here, with me.
no subject
the pin loosens. parisa waits some amount of time to see if shadowheart will brain her again, before slowly sitting up, balanced on one palm. the other hand moves with all the grace of a falling leaf, to cup shadowheart's cheek. she doesn't get the kind of feigned softness parisa might offer someone else — instead, her expression is of impassivity, nonchalance. a woman who has already made up her mind, and doesn't mind defending it. )
And I was a whore. Still am, truthfully. I was a bright little telepath who had the unfortunate ability to read my older brother's mind in the dawning ages of my puberty, so I married his best friend and ran away, and now I live in perpetual motion, always running from the past. ( she shrugs, pushing some hair behind shadowheart's ear. ) I never committed myself to a goddess, or some falsely noble cause — it sounds like things went a bit tits up in that department, if you don't mind me saying so. I've always acted selfishly, for my own benefit. That is who I am.
Or who I was, at least. You say you're different — so am I, Heart. I'm different from who I was six months ago, even. I died, that changed things. Then I met Emmrich, and that changed things, too. ( a face she pulls — waned smile, even tired, trailing the tips of her painted fingernails against shadowheart's chin, upwards to tap the tip against her mouth. ) Anyway, I did find it, your worth. I know when you put your lipgloss on this morning, you imagined someone licking it off. Me, potentially. I know you're lonely, and searching, and I believe I understand your intentions. ( another shrug, more hapless. parisa can't apologize for wanting to protect herself — and is only sorry in hindsight, since shadowheart is proven, in her eyes, to be genuine. ) Do I think you can be an asset? Yes, I do. You're strong, clearly, and smart, and most importantly, would look beautiful strewn out on my sheets, which are silk and wine red and perfect for your skin tone. I wouldn't picture you there if I didn't think it a worthwhile investment — and I wouldn't say as much if I was trying to win you over. I want you to form your own opinions, as I've formed mine, with the benefit of telepathy. So — you get my honest truth, since I've wronged you. That's all.
no subject
Parisa's upright shift means Shadowheart is settled in her lap, more or less, knees still bracketing her thighs. Lets Parisa touch her cheek, her lips, holding her gaze all the while, expression wary. ]
I don't know if I can trust you. [ Her other self did, because she trusted everyone; because they had a long stretch of history together. For a moment, she imagines the history they might build now, a future that feels as hazy and improbable as her lost memories. ] I'm not terribly good at trust, after everything. But I'm willing to try.
[ Shadowheart lifts a hand to the nape of Parisa's neck, spreads her fingers to cup the occipital bone. She murmurs something, and there's a bloom of warmth and pale light from her fingertips, easing whatever pain is left from the tadpole and from Shadowheart pushing her into the grass. ]
That's my honest truth.