( there's no part of her that even considers leaving, cheek pressed on his chest, watching his fingers flex while he writes, a front row seat to exactly what she's been curious about this entire time. as it turns out, emmrich doesn't worry over words at all — he writes from the heart, with immediacy. with intention, even. it's ridiculous she ever considered otherwise, like he isn't always whipquick with his romance in conversation. of course, part of parisa knew she was shedding some light on darker parts of herself better left in the shadowy corners of her mind. this is something akin to slicing pieces of her meat on a plate for him to poke at. then again, it's nothing she hasn't made him do, so. maybe it's past time.
she snags the pen from him when he's done, using his lap to write her reply in the margins of his words. )
The making of a new world has been attempted, before. It didn't go well, if I'm honest. I wasn't present for it, but someone I cared about was murdered. It was done in opposition to what you just poised to me: the question of why, met and matched with the question of why not? Not a good reason, as it stands. A very classic tale of academic arrogance, which I believe you can understand.
So, no, I wouldn't attempt it again if not for you. But taking you out of the equation feels counter to the point, which is us being together. So, we're bargaining now. Your counter offer is the Mourn Watch — tell me what that is like. It could be ages before I was offered lichdom, isn't that right? You would wait a long time to stroke bones with your skeletal love.
I'm yours, actually, Parisa
( she leaves it on his lap, looking back at him expectantly, before leaning in to press a kiss on his neck. )
no subject
she snags the pen from him when he's done, using his lap to write her reply in the margins of his words. )
( she leaves it on his lap, looking back at him expectantly, before leaning in to press a kiss on his neck. )