My Snake, My Head: Erotic Slay The Spire Smut For All Your Sensual Needs
Hey there, my name is Reptomancer. You may know me from the video game “Slay the Spire.” Well, that’s kind of like my day job. I love love love dancing, more than anything I love dancing, and my Japanese karate sensei taught me how to fight with knives. That’s how I got the job: the famous character Time Eater was looking for a dancing-knife-type girl to guard the final floors. But that’s just a job, it’s not really who I am. I lost my passion for belly dancing, doing it day and day out. Capitalism? More like crapitalism. I never wanted to work for a living, I never even asked to be born. Still, I have benefits and, what can I say: I love the chachinga.
Almost all the money I have after paying for rent and my diet of mostly pomegranates goes toward my collection. It’s my pride and joy. To this day I’ve purchased 52 Funko Pops—I’ve got them all recorded on a Google Sheets document. My dad taught me how to use it to organize my collection. I have date of purchase, name, factory at which the figure was produced, the particular model number, and any defects listed. I’m a collector, but I like to use my collection. I’m not one of those freakazoids that just keeps their Funkos all boxed up. Lame as hell, right!? Where most people put a TV (ew), I have a wide shelf made of oak I picked up used from Gremlin Nob after his divorce. There I display my treasure trove. My favourites are my Marilyn Manson (I don’t care that he’s cancelled, don’t talk to me about that), my Darth Vader, and my Harley Quinn, which is my absolute most favourite because of the way she’s got her leg kicked up like a dancer. I think it’s very fetching.
That night I needed all my Funkos to give me support. I looked at my Curious George for encouragement. I go to him when I need to be brave, because even though he’s a monkey and also a toy of a monkey he always tries so hard. A Tinder date was on his way at that very moment, crazy I know, and I was so so scared because he was late. Already 30 minutes late. Because it was Saturday I wanted to get clapped out and watch The Avengers while a stupid boy fell asleep at my feet, and I was afraid it was gonna be all ruined. Sad face. Perfect day go garbage, am I right?
Wrong! Finally, I heard a knock at the door. I opened it up and there before me was a huge head made of stone. At first I was disgusted because he had misled me. In all of his pictures he had a torso, and looked so big and buff and tough. Still, he was pretty handsome laying on his side like that.
“Hi,” said Giant Head. “I’m sorry I was late. I’m really slow because I’m a giant head made of stone. I can only move by kind of sliding on the ground, it’s really hard for me sometimes, especially if the surface I'm on has lots of friction. I’m sorry.” He spoke kind of stoically, like it was hard for him to express himself.
I invited him in, but because he was so huge he got stuck in the doorway. Luckily, I had purchased a tub of Imperial margarine at the Metro just that morning. After greasing him up, he slipped in without an issue. There, deep in my loft, he smiled like he fit perfectly.
“I would’ve brought flowers,” he scanned the room, hovering over my lil Pops, “but I don’t have hands.”
Ugh. If I was ableist he would have so been out of there, but I couldn’t yet think of a reasonable excuse to banish him into the rainy night.
I poured some wine into glasses.
“Hey, uh,” he hesitated for a long time. “Could you go in my backpack? My brother packed a bottle with a straw. It’s really heavy so I won’t accidentally knock it over. It’s easier for me to drink with that. I’m really sorry.”
Ugh.
Well we started drinking and just kind of talked about life. I put on The Life of the Show Girl and I saw him kind of moving his head a bit.
“When you used to have a body did you ever dance?” I figured, fuck small talk. I want to talk about deep stuff like galaxies and trauma.
He blushed. “It’s embarrassing but,” he paused for one minute, but I waited without interrupting because Elizabeth Taylor was playing and I love that song. I looked at my Swift Funko and grinned. “I was too scared. Because I’m made of stone and really big it’s hard for me to move around a lot. Back then, everybody always looked at me because I was like 11 feet tall. I got too nervous. I tried classes for a while, with my ex, Nemesis. Uh, we were doing the tango.” He looked down—well, he looked to the side, I guess, because he was propped to his side, but in any case he looked at the floor. “They kept emasculating me… ‘Why do I have to lead? You’re supposed to be the man.’ Then they’d turn intangible, so even if I cried and tried to hold them all there was to grab onto was invisible contempt.” After finishing he quietly apologized to himself. He thought I couldn’t hear him over the T. Swift blaring from my Creative MUVO speakers, but I could. I really could. The way he whimpered to himself kind of gave me pity hornies.
“I love dancing,” I said. “Well—I used to. It’s not the same for me anymore.” I could tell he was a little upset that I had one upped his sad story with my own, so I kept going. “When I was a young girl dancing was everything to me. To be a dancer, to do ballet at the Met—that was all I ever wanted. I was good. Really good. But my parents were poor and we could never afford the lessons. I saw the really talented girls saut de chat ahead of me, but I just stagnated. Without any hope, I decided to try something new after I had finished high school. Contemporary ballet relies on state funding, so it’s hard to find a way to make a living doing that unless you’re one of the best. I decided I would get good at really sexy belly dancing, dress up like a snake, and draw in huge crowds. It kinda worked—on social media you can do anything if you’re hot enough and dress up in a cool costume. I was a dancefluencer, for a while”
I finished my glass of wine, and poured us another round. I filled the cups way up to the top and waited.
“What happened?” he asked. He passed my test; I wanted to see if he would change the subject back to himself.
“Well it’s just not steady work, there’s no benefits, I didn’t know how to incorporate myself, I was scared of doing my own taxes, and there’s just so much pressure to be a specific way all the time, you know? You have to be perfect—actually, listen.” I cupped a hand around my ear. “It’s like Taylor says:” I started to sing along, “it's easy to love you when you're popular. The optics click, everyone prospers, put one single drop, you're off the roster. Tone deaf and hot, let's fuckin' off her." I put both hands on my head, and shook it back and forth. “Ugh! She was so real for that.”
“Yeah,” Giant Head agreed. “I never really listened to Taylor Swift before but she’s got some really clever lyrics. I bet her parents are real proud of her.”
He slurped up a bunch of wine from his sippy cup, and gestured with his eyes for a refill. Before I sat down he stopped me. “Wait. Could you, um, dance for me? It seems, uh,” he paused for fifteen seconds, “really sexy. I actually really love your old videos, haha. I’m kind of a fan.”
Woah. I giggled because I suddenly got nervous.
“I know your dreams didn’t really work out,” he said. “I can relate: look! No legs… Or arms! But maybe… just for tonight… I can be your Met.”
Okay girl, I thought to myself, now it’s time to heat things up. I turned off all the lights except the green string lights and (Sorry Taylor) changed the music to CupcakKe’s best song, One of My Bedbugs Ate My P***y, and began to shake my hips for daddy. I started slow and sensual, gave him a little hiss like a cobra about to strike a midwit mouse. Then I stripped one, garment, at, a, time: beneath I had an ultra cunty super hot set of silky lingerie I bought on sale from Victoria Secret. I started to twerk right on his massive stone face. I wanted him to sniff me, without being able to touch me. When I flicked my hair back, I saw how his eyes were bugged the fuck out, like I was the sexiest little cretin to ever crawl out from the baseboards. I loved the way he looked at me, the way he adored me.
Suddenly, the all black eyes of the Funko Pops on the shelf felt vapid. Sometimes, while I spun beautiful under the lights, I caught their empty gaze. A Funko Pop will never be a human. I wanted to escape these thoughts, so I made up something horny to say to Giant Head.
“Are you a bad boy,” I asked, “or a good boy?”
“Guuuuuuuulp,” he said. Then he rolled his head away from me and looked to the ceiling. The mood became dire. I regretted trying to have sex. All I wanted in the world was for him to watch me, him immovable. “I—I lost my penis.” He had limited means to express himself, so closed his eyes for want of other options. “When the missiles hit, I was severed at the neck.” A small smile, a sad one, curled at the left side of his lip. “Today has meant so much to me, you—”
“Shhhhhhhh.” I interrupted him, and straddled his neck. “I already know that sweaty,” I said ‘sweaty’ as a joke, but then I felt weird about it. “I mean sweety. Look, you were there when the first spire was hit. I know. But…” I made my voice sultry like Catwoman from Batman series, “there are other ways for a man to please a woman.”
“Guuuuuuuuuuuuulp,” he said. His limestone face turned red as brick. “Okay… Okay… I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’m sorry—”, he said all this quietly to himself. “Brian De Palma… I’m Brian De Palma…”
“What?” It was starting to get a little weird, because he seemed a bit too traumatized. I wanted something deep and weird and horny—not that weird.
“Can you do something for me?” He would’ve looked at me if he could, but from where I was positioned he could only see me if he strained his eyes really hard. “Just call me Brian De Palma. It’s really important.”
I surveyed my Funkos. Nope. No Brian De Palma there. I’d never heard of this guy. I averted my gaze from the plastic figures, and looked at the hunky statue under my legs. I leaned over to one ear. “Yes… Brian.” It was then I learned that statues can shiver.
“Sit that pretty pussy on my face,” he said. His sudden confidence enthralled me. I felt myself drip… with… y’know… I slid my sexy Victoria Secret panties to the side and sat on top of him. He teased me with the porous stone of his tongue.
“Oh God yesssssssss, Brian De Palma. Yesssssss,” I was ecstatic, but still he teased me. I turned up CupcakKe and took a hit of shatter from my dab pen. I blew the vape smoke all over myself, and felt up my chest. “You like when baby vapes all over her fat titties?”
He spoke, his voice muffled underneath me. “Yes, Brian De Palma wants you high like Scarface; I want to think of you in parts, my Black Dahlia: I want to lick you up like cunnilingus Carlito’s Way.”
“Ohhhhh,” I said, like I was crazy like Harley Quinn, “sup upon my juices Daddy De Palma.”
“Only if you’re really really good…” His teasing was starting to piss me off, and at that moment I considered he couldn’t actually do anything to stop me from getting off his face and taking control myself. “Recite a math equation!” He yelled, so that his booming statue voice reverberated up my pussy walls. “Do it! Do it whore! Do it!”
Woah! That’s weird, I thought. “Uh, four times four.”
His tongue flicked lightning fast in the shape of a one then a six. My whole body shuddered, like I was a Moped in a mortal battle against its own limits to keep up with the vehicles on the autobahn, while I did the mental math: four times four equals sixteen.
“More! More! My juicy little pretzel! I will gorge myself on numbers! More!”
“Shut up!” I yelled. “I can’t think while you’re yelling—ummmm—what’s the square root of 28?”
I still think of this moment. CupcakKe was still doing her thing, so I ground my hips down in time with the music, while he cunnilingized in the shape of five point two—he did it again, again, again, more. I wanted more—I became a little slut goblin for math genius Brian De Palma.
“Unnnnggggghhh,” I said weakly, “give me pi, give me pi: and don’t be lazy—I want every decimal in sequence you sexy Palma.” I still don’t know who Brian De Palma is.
The three was like a silver eel flashing across my clit; the point a punch—it was deep and weird, it didn’t feel good; one a little silver of golden moonlight; four was sharp, harder, rigid in its turns; one again, but from bottom to top—long like a lick of an icecream cone; five made me feel so alive; nine he did in these broad broad strokes, so that my head did a quarter turn and looked right into the eyes of Funko Pop Jack Sparrow; two he kinda missed my clit; but six brought it right back around, alllll the waaaaaay arooouuuund; five again but it was fast—like greased lightning; three, at this point, made me nostalgic for the beginning of this odyssey; then with the next five I came. I couldn’t help myself, I couldn’t make it to the end of the pi sequence. CupcakKe finished the instant I did. I fell, exhausted, beside Giant Head and started to spoon him.
“Thank you,” I must’ve repeated that a thousand times. I kissed him all over the side of his head that was his body. I thought he’d say something, but he was just silent. Then, he started to cry and whimper.
He wouldn’t say anything, it got really really weird. “Brian?”
“Don’t!—sorry, just Giant Head is okay now,” he wouldn’t look at me anymore, and his voice got really shy. “Brian De Palma is like… my Super Saiyan form for when I’m scared.”
I didn’t feel like comforting him, especially after he said something so weird and needy. Because he was made of cold stone he was terrible at making me feel warm and loved during aftercare, which is a big sign of a narcissist. “Is it okay if I put on Avengers: Age of Ultron?”
“Yeah.”
He silently sobbed, but I felt pretty happy because I got to see Captain America saving the world. Talk about a win!