( fortunately enough, parisa is used to a certain life of luxury. not necessarily old old money, but old enough in the sense that she’s not put off by any of the excessiveness of the upper class — quite the opposite. confusing as it is to lose time, there are worse places to lose it in, and while she has a natural trepidation about this whole situation, the dressing robe she slides on top of her slip nightgown feels good enough against her skin to make her happy enough, for the moment.

rather than head immediately towards breakfast, parisa instead pokes around her apparent room, before setting her sights on the door adjacent to hers with narrowed eyes. sharing a bathroom feels intimate, and intimate enough that investigation is required. tiptoeing to the opposite door, parisa hovers her hand over the knob, briefly sensing that there is consciousness on the other side, before opening it without knocking, and peering inside.

she takes in the room with an appreciative nod, before locking eyes on the person still in bed, head tilted. )

My room’s better.

( as it very well should be. morning, roomie. )

( a gnawing ache similar to, but not quite hunger, settles in her stomach, like some yawning, cramping expanse. running on autopilot sends her to the bathroom to be sick, but halved over the toilet with her hair wrapped in a fist, nothing comes up but an excess of spit, her gurgling stomach making a cacophony of sound in the otherwise silent bathroom. not sick, then. just hungry.

it feels primal when she leaves the bathroom — a woman on a mission, fists clenched tight at her sides, high heels snapping loudly on the ground with every spurned step. the first person she finds gets grabbed and shoved into a dark alcove of the mansion, pressed against the wall beside some bust of a long dead ancestor, parisa sinking onto her knees with quick efficiency. the important thing is their pants, shoved down, a skirt, shoved up, so parisa can nuzzle her mouth between the span of their legs, nose bumping the dip of their navel. )

Stay still.

( murmured instruction. she mouths them through whatever underwear they’re wearing, panting hot, warm breaths between their legs. tilting sideways, her lips find the fleshy length of one thigh, moaning happily to herself before her eyes flick open, watching them, her teeth catching around a fat glob of flesh before sinking in, ripping a chunk of cake from their leg. )

( anything else! feel free to hit me up with your own prompts and/or message me over pm or at trashmouth to plot something out. )