snaggleteeth | Saltburnt Inbox

Would you spend the night alone if you were me?

( image attached. )

I'd die at war the next day to kill that fate for you, while I'm me.

If I were you, I'd tell confirm I am Parisa from work. Hex Slip, right?

[that's star war for 'heyyy giiirl.']

It's Parisa, of the Hex Slip. You're the handsome one, aren't you?

( bad at names. a face, however? that, parisa never forgets. )

Well, then. Let's say I meant to text you.

[he should advise her to be more specific, in case. wouldn't do to be a disappointment. but the stranger has never been good at honest humility. he is fantastic at pretend, but—]

Think I felt you the other day. Like walking past a wall of knives in the dark, just close enough to feel it. You always let it hang out like that?

( ah. )

In a house full of telepaths, one can never be too careful. I felt you, too. Kitten soft. Or, was it sandpapery tongues? You really are handsome, you know.

( she reaches out — a graceful cat, chasing what she felt before. lying at the closed doors of the stranger's mind with a purr, rumbling contentedly. let her in or don't — she already has the sensation of winning deep inside her. )

[awful. he's a hard man. a rough man. mysterious. ask anyone. he's a hard, rough, mysterious man currently looking up his phone, wryly, his legs stretched along his bedroom wall, ankles crossed.

the door opens, or maybe it wasn't there to begin with. there is an astronaut standing on her moon, his handsome face turning in the distant light of a sun to place her willowy, amber-skinned figure somewhere in the endless terrain of astral space. the monstrosity of her power. he should be more scared than he is, probably. if he's a kitten, she has paws the size of hubcaps.]

I don't remember trying to lick you. Seems like something I'd remember doing. Maybe I didn't pick the right spot. Too high, too low. Not deep enough?

( perspective is an art form, and parisa takes her craft as seriously as a knight might take swordplay. his mind is intriguing in all the ways minds usually are intriguing — the forms they take up, the dark places buried in corners they want to hide. secrets, if you go digging. maybe she will, later. for now, parisa takes a seat on a planet that isn't jupiter, but isn't not jupiter-esque, the rings of it tilting with the weight of her ass. she leans back, leisurely. she is either very large, or the planet is very small — the stranger will have to pick which. )

Would you like to try again? ( one long leg crosses back over the other — a heeled foot swings back and forth. parisa tosses her hair over her shoulder and elongates her neck, showing him where she wants it. ) I could show you how to do it. If you need to a roadmap.

[oh. she's up there. dawning like the sun, something cosmic, spanning the horizon. her tits look huge, actually. but so do her eyes, the light of new galaxies luminous like glassblowing in the near-black gloss of her irises. he cranes his head back to see the shape of her uncanny slouch, rings of ice and stone haloing her hips. the cosmic column of her neck.

and in the flesh, somewhere in the mansion, he also closes his eyes. lets the phone topple out of his hand, bounce off the mattress. doesn't bother folding his legs down from the wall.]

Sure.

[his smile is tiny because he is tiny. and despite that, he leaps. a mote in the void. unconstrained by normal physics, a whisper of real ability nonetheless comes through—she'll have the impression he's done this before. or close enough. leapt further than a normal man, ushered by abilities beyond, or in tandem, to this.

paff. he lands on the tip of her knee. another bound takes him up her thigh. a third, to the crook of her elbow. he is a drop rain working reverse to gravity. onto her shoulder, next, and then there is the long, trailing trek to the promised land, the column of her throat. his shoes barely dimple her blouse. a ladybug would weigh more, in the relativity things.]

What does the map say?

Edited (why am I insane ab this already rewriting tag) 2025-12-16 16:33 (UTC)

Hm.

( despite the relativity of her size, parisa's voice is as clear as bell, as if they were speaking in a vacuum, space an otherwise silent observer to the pair of them. you have to be delicate, with ladybugs such as these — a perfectly manicured hand the size of an island sweeps up, offering a nail for the stranger to step on. one flick, and he'd be off flying through space, a certain vastness to his mind that seems enchantingly difficult, when parisa usually enforces some kind of barriers and walls on the cognitive realm. for ease's sake, obviously. now, she lifts her passenger upwards, brought up to the space between two beautiful, brown eyes, so she can get a good look at him. being blown out like this, you'd think there might be a magnified flaw in parisa to pick apart — but there isn't. some people are just perfect. at least, parisa is. )

It says in, not on.

( her mammoth mouth opens up, tongue lolling out like a snake's — forked and hissing, overly long and curved. she tips her finger downwards and dumps little stranger in her hot, wet mouth, swallowing, the muscles too strong for him to fight the pull inside her. farewell, traveler. never did intrigue taste so good.

her throat turns into a slide, guiding him to her stomach — aptly decorated as a bakery, given how many croissants parisa enjoys day by day. she's there, too. a more interactable size for him, sitting at an unquestionably french bistro table, swirling a cup of chai around a gold crusted plate. the devil is in the details. she smiles at the stranger, beckons him to a free chair. )

How does it feel to be inside me?

( (parisa can be fully conscious in the physical world, and balance their mental connection with little struggle — part of her training at l’école magique de paris, though truthfully the study was dull, something she mastered years prior. so, she lays a hand over her cunt with interest, the heat of it passing to the stranger, cupping his cock with a not-quite real squeeze. then again, who could say it wasn't?) she arches a brow, with implication. )

Edited 2025-12-29 03:18 (UTC)

[the stranger goes down. not in the usual way. a fleck of dirt down the bathtub drain. little arms flailing up, legs in a silly twist. caught first by momentum, then by the smooth grain of mucosa inside her throat. he's spent a remarkably large proportion of his life almost getting eaten by predatory species across a range of planets. he's had reason to imagine, experience to remember.

france, on the other hand, is subject to a very touristy look of skepticism. he lands and promptly spectates. left, right. at this point, he's read a map. seen articles and pictures. tasted the olive virgin oil off of lestat de lioncourt's very slick accent. eaten a piece of what is, at breakfast, referred to as 'french toast.' (?) it's probably rude to look at somebody's background rendering before their portrait, though. reasonable, that he'd be called to task with a friendly pang in his dick.

(in his room, his eyes blink open. he stares at the ceiling first. down at his groin, second. closes his eyes again with a philosophical serenity.)

what's a half-chub, besides his semi-permanent state of existence at saltburnt, really? he sets a hand on top of the chair, slowly, as if he's not confident it won't sprout sawteeth and amputate his arm at the shoulder, then fold his skin inside out onto a beach lounger in cabo, upon which she'll rest her ass. instead, he sits down. reaches over to steal her chai by the golden handle.] Are you asking because you don't know, or because you like to hear it anyway?

( predictably, there isn't anything so much as amusement lighting up parisa's features, to note the stranger's trepidation with interacting with the scenery. smart, of him — so often people forget to be scared of their own minds. to be fair, most people don't have parisa kamali, best regarded telepath in the world, poking around through their naughty bits (literally), rearranging things to fit a certain aesthetic. she relents the chai. no pâtisserie home to france could make a chai this good, which is probably a bit of overlooking on parisa's part, but she isn't trying to fool him with anything. she also isn't going to suffer a lily white angel with a blunt cut bob making her a subpar tea in a world of her own making. instead, taste iran. a little bit of home.

she leans back in her chair, unfolding and refolding her legs, stroking the metal work of the table beneath one fingertip. the smile she offers him can't entirely be called kind, though intrigue is there, which coming from parisa is about the best one could hope for. )

I'm asking because I want to know what you'll say. I'll decide if I like what I hear afterwards.

[the stranger slowly lifts the mug. watches the chai level seesaw, rich and thick. he inhales a bouquet of scents both unknown and oddly familiar. takes a sip. tastes it like a snake, trying to read more than one sense through the flavor slicking up his mouth, purling his tongue through it. he glances sidelong at her, a smile latent in his eyes, that does not quite reach his mouth. unaccustomed to being prey.

but it wouldn't do to let it on. instead, he reaches down, wraps fingers around the leg of her chair. gives it a firm yank closer. and with a sound like a rack of ribs cracking down one long, violent fissure line, the chairs meet, invert like a sternum, agreeing to couple into a loveseat.]

Like this. [he tilts the chai back at her, and in the cream is extracting itself from the cardamom clovey brown substrate. entropy reversing. white filaments squirming from the deep brown translucency, and then multiplying, thickening, viscous in a rambling spin, then resolving unmistakably into tiny, sinuous bodies, grotesquerie because humans look and expect to find head and arm and foot, cunt and tits separate from cock. order. organization. a ball of leucistic snakes mating in the mud looks monstrous. pain. predation.] Except, you have legs. And this.

[the teacup meets table. he touches her hair, a callused finger electing a single coil. (he is wondering how hard it would be for her to kill him.)]

Saltburnt Inbox

text — un: PARISA cw: nsfw link

no subject

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making some tpathy assumptions, poke me if not ok

perf!

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→ telepathy 🪐

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cw: nsfwish, vore

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cw snakes