( 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. ]
( tension otherwise unnoticeable in parisa's body seeps out — she's used to the pain of a constant headache, used to overcompensating for the hurt of it, so being wholly without a migraine is. strange, definitely, but also relaxing, in a way that parisa almost never relaxes. her head tilts, a pleasured sigh falling from her lips, eyeing shadowheart as if she found a piece to a puzzle she just completed, something new to mull over, to try and fit into place. a small smile fits its way to parisa's mouth, something rare for both her alternate self and herself self, both who usually only smile like there's a joke being whispered directly in their ear. the smile she dons now is a little awed, a little touched, a little warm given it's from the ice princess herself.
her hand shifts, almost bracketing shadowheart's throat, but falling more to the place where a diamond necklace might rest — her pointer finger resting on one side of her collarbone, her thumb on the other. )
You don't have to trust me, to let me do this.
( this, a prophecy foretold, parisa leaning in with all the graceful trepidation of a cat about to pounce, in order to press her mouth against shadowheart's, teeth dragging across her lips. )
[ Shadowheart's cheeks warm at that smile, surprised by her own response to it, accustomed as she is to the full spectrum of gratitude for her healing. Some in an adventuring party treat a cleric's help as a given; it's rare for anyone to care much about the lifting of smaller pains, moving from battle to battle in a day as they do.
But it seems to make a difference, for Parisa. Shadowheart watches, feels her tension ease, doesn't manage to get in a word before Parisa is kissing her. It's not their first, of course. But it also is, in a way: Shadowheart's first as herself, whomever she may be.
Both of their laps are slightly sticky, from the spilled wine. Shadowheart shuts her eyes, kisses back, smells grass and dirt and perfume, tastes the wine and Parisa's lipstick. Bites a little, because she's not so tender as her other self was, one hand still at her nape and the other finding her hip. ]
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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.
no subject
her hand shifts, almost bracketing shadowheart's throat, but falling more to the place where a diamond necklace might rest — her pointer finger resting on one side of her collarbone, her thumb on the other. )
You don't have to trust me, to let me do this.
( this, a prophecy foretold, parisa leaning in with all the graceful trepidation of a cat about to pounce, in order to press her mouth against shadowheart's, teeth dragging across her lips. )
no subject
But it seems to make a difference, for Parisa. Shadowheart watches, feels her tension ease, doesn't manage to get in a word before Parisa is kissing her. It's not their first, of course. But it also is, in a way: Shadowheart's first as herself, whomever she may be.
Both of their laps are slightly sticky, from the spilled wine. Shadowheart shuts her eyes, kisses back, smells grass and dirt and perfume, tastes the wine and Parisa's lipstick. Bites a little, because she's not so tender as her other self was, one hand still at her nape and the other finding her hip. ]