Day 7: Menstrual sex
Pairing: FalseSymmetry/Pixlriffs
The archeologist is a funny man, False decided early on. He speaks in an accent vaguely similar to hers, he lives on the other side of her hill, digging and digging and digging ghosts from the hard ground. He always smells like it, too: earthy and musky and dusty, with kisses that taste like dirt. They fool around every once in a while, because everyone seems to, on this continent, anyway, and she needs some form of outlet too, and the man is pretty good at eating pussy, anyway, so she really can’t be arsed to care otherwise.
She needs it, now more than ever, and she doesn’t have it in herself to be ashamed of her situation. Perhaps because Pix never made her feel the need to be ashamed.
She just waits for him in her bedroom, naked on her bed and pretending she’s not wound up and cranky with pain and headache.
She put red bedsheets on, and towels over and under the linens, just to be safe, red and linen like the sheets, so that when Pix peeks in through the ajar door, he doesn’t notice them. He pushes the door open, reverent, eyes dark blue like a night storm shimmering with lightning roving over her bare body. She’s not buxom like Gem is, or nimble like Lizzie, or strong like Katherine: she has the strength of her corded forearms and a sturdy, scrawny shape that lets her crawl through her iron farms, and Pix looks at her like she’s seen him look at the statue overlooking his capital. He walks towards the bed and unbuttons his shirt on the way, eyes trained on the red stains on the pale skin of her thighs.
Sometimes, during these encounters, they talk: idle chat, or maybe about their day, or aimless rambling about the intricacies of mechanisms and the delicate work of uncovering the past.
No talking is needed tonight: Pix toes off his boots and gets on the bed to crawl between her spread legs, and False sighs, satisfied, and curls her fingers in his hair, dark and curly and soft, some grit on his scalp like sand caught between the strands, as he lowers himself until he’s face to face with her cunt, swollen, dripping, red. He nuzzles at it, the dusky curls hiding her clit stained with blood, and the first lick on her aching lips is heaven.
He laps broad strokes, from bottom to top, and False melts into his touch, leans back in her pillows and hooks her legs around his shoulders.
“Thank you, Pix.” she murmurs.
He doesn’t answer, engrossed in his meal. Broad lap, lap, lap, and then points his tongue to swirl it around her clit, puffy and engorged with pleasure. He’s so good at this.
And the kicker is, he never looks like he’s just doing it to please her. He just looks perfectly happy to settle between her legs, and tonight, suckling vile, foul blood from her folds, he’s pleased as punch, barely getting a breath in between—oh, he’s fucking her with his tongue now. Yeah, that’s good.
He wrings an orgasm out of her easy and efficient, as most of their sex tends to be.
They’re pragmatic people, after all.
She hums and quivers and comes with a gasp, arching into his mouth, and she can feel herself squirting all over Pix’s face and shirt—clever man, taking his shirt off—and he powers through it like a champ, drinking from her cunt like a man starved with a pleased rumble, until she’s stopped shivering.
They settle together on the bed, and False reaches a hand down to undo his pants and fish his cock out to stroke, slow and lazy.
“You’re so hard just from that?” she asks.
He shrugs. “I like the taste.”
“It’s super gross.”
“It’s kinda… metallic-y. Coppery. You know? It feels… comforting, somehow.”
She nods, even though she doesn’t really get it; he has this far-away look in his eyes that only disappears when he sighs, closes his eyes, and throws his head back. His lips, blood-stained, open in a pretty, silent ‘o’ when he comes, dribbling pleasure on his chest.
He’s pretty, like this.
For the first time in a while, she feels relaxed enough to sleep.
8 notes
·
View notes
-Recording begins-
Spider-Man: Hi folks! I’d like to give a PSA to my usual villains, and anyone else with ideas for the next two months.
Spider-Man: *holds up a brick sized lump of metal* See this? It’s titanium!
Spider-Man: *starts flattening it out and shaping it*
Spider-Man: See, we all know that I’m crazy strong, but I never wanna really hurt anybody right? Right. While that hasn’t changed, something very important does right around this time of year.
Spider-Man: *pulls off a glove and pulls a chunk into a long stem with his nails carving lines for added texture*
Spider-Man: See, this is what we like to call exam season. Anybody who knows anything about college can tell you that it drives people up the wall, and I already climb mine when I’m antsy.
Spider-Man: *starts winding the thin sheet around the stem, delicately crimping petals in place*
Spider-Man: I do wanna be clear that this isn’t a threat, okay? I’m still not interested in crossing the line, which brings me to my point.
Spider-Man: *throws the titanium rose at the brick wall behind him, stem first, and embeds it all the way through*
Spider-Man: /That/ was restrained because I could focus enough to have full control. If I’m extremely tired or otherwise distracted, there’s just as much risk of me slipping up as someone operating heavy machinery. I’m probably not going to remember what sleep is for two whole months, so remember!
Spider-Man: *pulls out a brick and snaps it like a cookie*
Peter fucking Parker: Don’t.
15K notes
·
View notes