( this amuses her, and the twist of her mouth says as much. sure, there have been times she wished she wasn't a median — when the headaches hurt too badly, when people's thoughts are too filthy — but parisa can't honestly say she'd ever exchange power for a life of monotony. telepathy keeps her alive, even if it's a little bit like an illness, the eternal rucksack on her nomadic shoulder. it does also get her trouble sometimes, like now. probably.
frank doesn't strike her as especially self-loathing, but she supposes you can't really assume anyone who fucks like that is whole in their own right. there are decayed part of him, things flaked off like the hard blood of a sealed scab — blankness, at parts. a severance. parisa's head tilts, although the look on her face isn't harmless or coquettish, because she doesn't think the act would work well on him. it is, instead, some mirror reflection — a viper looking at a viper, waiting to see which will strike first. )
Why? Is humanity so desirable?
( she snorts, a little. the truth as parisa knows it: she lives in the minds of humans, hundreds of humans every single day, dozens in every hour. humans are no better than the monsters in their history books, in their folklore, hiding under their bed. she sees no real difference between herself and frank, besides the color of their skin and his apparent gun kink. )
no subject
( this amuses her, and the twist of her mouth says as much. sure, there have been times she wished she wasn't a median — when the headaches hurt too badly, when people's thoughts are too filthy — but parisa can't honestly say she'd ever exchange power for a life of monotony. telepathy keeps her alive, even if it's a little bit like an illness, the eternal rucksack on her nomadic shoulder. it does also get her trouble sometimes, like now. probably.
frank doesn't strike her as especially self-loathing, but she supposes you can't really assume anyone who fucks like that is whole in their own right. there are decayed part of him, things flaked off like the hard blood of a sealed scab — blankness, at parts. a severance. parisa's head tilts, although the look on her face isn't harmless or coquettish, because she doesn't think the act would work well on him. it is, instead, some mirror reflection — a viper looking at a viper, waiting to see which will strike first. )
Why? Is humanity so desirable?
( she snorts, a little. the truth as parisa knows it: she lives in the minds of humans, hundreds of humans every single day, dozens in every hour. humans are no better than the monsters in their history books, in their folklore, hiding under their bed. she sees no real difference between herself and frank, besides the color of their skin and his apparent gun kink. )