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[snaggleteeth]

WELCOME TO THE SALTBURNT NETWORK

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QIMIR

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cw: nsfwish, vore

[multiverse]

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. )

[snaggleteeth]

[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?

[multiverse]

( 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.

cw snakes

[snaggleteeth]

[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.)]