Naughty Fruity Hours

The first thing he can see as he exits the building is that the people of the town are frightened. They hide and cower in the larger bells scattered around, shaking and whimpering as the screams echo from below. He stumbles for a second before regaining his balance, looking around at the poor pilgrims. "Hey," he calls out, voice more gentle than it usually is. (He can see and hear how terrified they are.) "It's okay. You don't have to hide. I won't hurt you."

Shakra stands on her perch above them all, observing. And when Tiso has called out, she jumps, landing beside him with all the grace a warrior has. "It is no use," She states, voice low. "They pray and pray, and hide, hoping for a God to save them." She towers above him at her full, proud height: so very tall, so very powerful. The gold rings around her wrists clink as she crouches to match his height. "You are safe. I was worried about you, Warrior Tiso. And Hornet, your Needle-Wielding mate, is she alive?"

Tiso swallows; something bitter and heavy on his tongue as the reality of it sinks in. "Alive... for now, as far as I know." He takes a moment, just breathing, steadying himself. "She... went below alone. To try and stop the void."

"Perhaps then... if she is the one taking charge, we may have a chance." Shakra sighs, and then she takes a moment to simply look over him. Her expression morphs into something more leaning towards worry. "You are injured, dirty. Do you have the key to your mate's home? You will not protect anyone in your state."

Tiso nods, taking a breath as he straightens up. Even standing at his full height, he doesn't even reach Shakra's shoulders. "I have the key. But I'm not that hurt— not seriously. I'll heal soon enough." Then he frowns, thinking. "Shakra… if the void spreads any further, what will happen? How far will it go?"

"I cannot say. My tribe has never encountered its darkness, Warrior Tiso." She begins the ascent to Hornet's bellhome, expecting him to follow. "We can only sit and pray as the pilgrims do, or defend the area from this darkness. Already, infected Beasts stalk and wander the bellveins, the moors. I have set up barricades with some brave others."

He follows her up, wincing as the movement sends aches through his legs and arms. He didn't realize just how battered his earlier fall had made him. He doesn't argue or complain, against her any further: he knows he needs rest. The battle with the void, the chase, then the walk here... his body's reaching its limits. Still, he cannot help but want to aid more. "You're defending the town alone? That's not an easy task… you'll wear thin, if they keep coming."

"I can fight for a hundred days and more. My tribe has prided itself on our endurance. I could defend this village, on one glass of water, and one meal a day if needed. I train, every moment, to be better, to endure." Shakra allows him to unlock the bellhome, and she crouches low to come inside. So so tall… "Warrior Tiso, I will defend these people and you, as you recover. Eat, and bathe, and sleep. I will be here to ensure your safety."

Tiso steps past her, into the bellhome— surprised by how clean the place is since he was last here. There's a lantern sitting on the desk, already lit and illuminating the room. The bed is made, ready. The thought that Hornet might have come here, to ensure the place was ready for him… it brings waves of emotions to his chest that he cannot name. He glances up at Shakra, giving her a nod. "I…" He hesitates, trying to find the words. "...thank you. Your kindness is… appreciated. I wish there was more I could do to help."

"You can help me, by recovering. And when you are well, you will be able to defend the people of Bellhart with me." Shakra states. And then, she examines the suspended bath, scoffing. "Bahh, this is tiny. Could not fit any one of my tribe. I suppose you and Hornet are tiny, and fit well in this, yes?"

Tiso snorts. "I think Hornet would protest being called tiny." Then he glances at that bath, and the thought of sinking in the warm water sounds like a dream right now. He feels sore and tired and dirty… so, he nods, undoing the clasp of his cloak and letting it fall to the ground. "Besides, we fit just fine in there."

"Ah, good. You will strip naked, and bathe then." And Shakra turns around with her hands on her hips, and just stares at him expectantly. Was she… going to watch him? Sure, Hornet and Tamer watched and bathed him all the time, but Shakra wasn't them. She wasn't his partner, and the idea of her staying while he bathed… the thought of her just standing over him… it makes his heart slam in his chest— and he's quite sure it's not in the good way.

He hesitates, face immediately turning dark red. "I… you- you're going to watch? I can bathe by myself, you know," he protests.

"I am protecting. You will be safe, I will watch and make sure of it. But you take too long, and our time is limited." Shaking her head, antennae swaying, she reaches her nimble hands to him, and undoes his armour swiftly, allowing it to clatter to the ground, and leaving him bare before her. Then, she grabs him around the waist, lifting him up, and setting him into the suspended bath, like he weighed nothing.

"W-woah— hey! I said I could do it myself!" Tiso squirms slightly when she lifts him, shivering as the warmth of the bath hits his shell. His face is on fire now. Powerful women were definitely his weakness; and he can't deny it— her strength, her presence… he's always been weak for them. Especially ones who take charge over him like that; it was… well, he didn't want to admit what it did to him. So, he sinks into the warm water with a quiet groan, muscles loosening instantly. "Fine," he mutters, leaning back and closing his eyes. "But if you're gonna stand there… at least stop staring like I'm some kind of specimen."

"I stare not for observing of specimens. I stare and I admire a fellow warrior. Your scars, and old wounds. They speak of tales I hope to hear one day." She is so tall, she can just stand and see into the tub where he sits. Her dark eyes roam over his body, like she was taking in a drink after a hot summer's day. She was... checking him out? "You are a beauty to behold, Warrior Tiso. Your mates are gifted with luck to see this body everyday."

Tiso freezes. The water is hot, but it's not what's making his face burn. "I— what?" He stammers, instinctively trying to cover himself despite knowing full well she's already seen everything. "You can't just— say things like that! I'm... I'm taken! Hornet and Tamer are... they're my mates!" But even as he protests, his voice wavers— and a tiny, traitorous part of him swells with pride. People have rarely called him beautiful before, and no one especially like Shakra. He also thinks to himself about the openness of his partners; the fantasies they have whispered to him, about letting others… share him. He sinks a little deeper into the bath, muttering under his breath: "Dammit... why do you have to be so intense..."

"I am aware of your mates; though the idea does not deter me. You remember, my people share and give love freely. We do not have the concept of exclusivity in mates, and share them among one another." Shakra rests her arms on the edge of the tub to watch him squirm with a small hum. "Is exclusive partnership common in Hallownest?"

He huffs, sinking even lower— half his face now underwater. "It... is. They don't swap ‘em like armour. Most people don't like to share, or even entertain the idea of multiple partners. I guess that makes me an outlier…" He glances up at her, eyes narrow. "And the idea of being shared among a group of people like that…" A pause. "...I'd probably enjoy the attention far too much for my own good." Then he adds quickly: "N-not like it would be a thing. I mean, sh-sharing me. Tamer and Hornet have enough fun as is."

"You misunderstand. We do not swap like armour, more like treasures. If I find a beautiful diamond, I would gladly share its glistening shine with my friends. We pass it around, admire it, and appreciate it. We do the same with each other, as mates." Shakra laughs a little. "This Tamer, I must learn more. What is the name Tamer from?"

Tiso blinks, processing her words; then huffs, a small smirk tugging at his lips despite himself. "Tamer... well… They called her God Tamer; she was able to fell beast and bug alike. She tamed us, both of us. Hornet was all needle and fang, and I was... well, an arrogant fool with a shield." He lets out a quiet chuckle. "And then there she was— calm as a queen, strong without needing to prove it. It felt like she just... held out her hand one day and said: ‘You two are loud and messy. You're coming home with me…' and we did."

The God Tamer.

His beautiful mate, a red ant with chitin that glimmered like a flame. And she was there, home in Hallownest, waiting for he and Hornet to return. He could see her now in his eyes: her stomach rounded with eggs, sitting vigilant and watching the Wastelands, searching for a sign of their return. He can picture her face so clearly: his sweet, quiet, stubborn, strong Tamer. Waiting in their little nest in Hallownest, probably fretting and pacing by now. He can almost see the worry in her dark eyes. And in this quiet, warm bath— the thought of her hurts.

Shakra nods slowly. "She sounds like a person I would love to meet. And perhaps, admire her gem-like beauty," She says in a teasing tone.

His cheeks go dark. "You…" He sputters, feeling the embarrassed heat run up to the very tips of his antennae. "You need to tame that tone, Shakra. She and I are taken, in case you forgot."

"And yet, not too long ago, you offered me a place in your nest— in your mated circle, did you not?" The wasp smiles coolly, tilting her elegant face to one side.

(She got him there. Dammit.)

"Only… only as a joke," he protests, voice a little strangled in his embarrassment. "I... didn't think you'd take me seriously. Besides, you're—" His eyes rove over her powerful, lean body, taking in her tall, imposing form. "...well... out of my league. Hornet and Tamer would be a better fit for you…"

"Warrior Tiso, I rarely take the comments of others as a joke. Speak truly, or not at all." Shakra runs a hand over her head and antennae, humming lowly. "I also do not believe in this concept of 'leagues.' I have said you are attractive, I mean it. That is enough to put you as my equal."

Tiso's face is practically burning now. He ducks down, hiding nearly all of his head beneath the surface. The warm, comfortable water of the bath is suddenly too warm as he fries under Shakra's intense gaze. This... is completely different from Hornet's sharp, biting teasing, or Tamer's quiet, amused riddles. This isn't coy or a puzzle to unwrap; this was a tall, strong, beautifully gorgeous woman stating in plain terms that he's beautiful too.

"Your mate, Hornet, also showed an interest in me." Shakra admits, smiling to herself. "She is flustered when we speak— she cannot say a thing without a stumble. Her eyes often roam my body, when she thinks she is being secretive. She is a terrible liar."

His head snaps up, water splashing as he stares at her. "Wait... what? Hornet?! My Hornet?!" He sputters, face darkening even more. "You're telling me... my mate, who would sooner eat a handful of glass than show anyone how she feels, has been… been openly ogling you?"

"Yes. I do believe so. She seems to be more... lost with speaking to other women," Shakra states, tilting her head to one side in thought.

That was believable. While Tiso has always had a hard time flustering Hornet, Tamer was a master of it. It seemed that Hornet, similar to Tiso, was just a sucker for a powerful woman: unable to think straight at all.

(Hah.)

He lets out a long, slow breath, shaking his head with a smirk. "Figures. We're both hopeless when it comes to that." He leans back in the bath, voice dropping to something quieter— almost fond. "Tamer knew it from day one. She'd laugh at us now... seeing us both all embarrassed…" Then he glances up at Shakra, eyes narrowing playfully. "But if you ever tell Hornet I said any of this… I'll have to fight you, claw-to-claw."

"Ah, Warrior Tiso. You know that phrase— it is almost like an invitation to bed me?" Shakra laughs; a low, melodic sound. She shakes her head. "I will assume you meant otherwise. Say it again, however, and I might think you actually desire my body."

Something hot and strange flashes through his gut as she speaks. Tiso swallows, trying and failing to keep his eyes from straying from her face. No, they can't help but begin to trail down her frame, down the parts not hidden by the milky, herbal bath. She's right.

He is attracted to her. How could he not be? Her confident smirk, her powerful form, her bold and direct manner of speaking... his heart does an embarrassing skip inside his chest when he looks at her. He wants her. His fingers dig into the rim of the tub, and he breathes out sharply; "Damn you."

"What have I done, Warrior Tiso?" Shakra lays her head on the rim of the tub, eyes flickering over his body, mirroring his gaze. She couldn't see a majority of his body due to how low in the water he was sitting, but she definitely was imagining. "I am innocent."

(Innocent my ass.) He feels like he's boiling; a hot, strange feeling building inside him as he tries and fails to pull his eyes away from her. "You know damn well what you're doing," he mutters, breathless. He can't tell if he's annoyed or— or something else. Something sinful.

"Perhaps then, I should leave you be… to your bath?" Shakra offers, standing up. Her head touches the top of the Bellhome, and she does a small stretch, arching her back in a way that makes Tiso's body warm.

Hell, she was nothing like Hornet or Tamer, but she still seemed to hit all the things that made him interested.

He groans— actually groans out loud, like someone just kicked him. Tiso's eyes roam over her body without his permission, taking in her tall, powerful form as she stretches. She's so damn beautiful, and he feels like he's about to explode with all this pent-up need, hunger, want. He's barely able to force words past his teeth. "No... no, you don't— you— just… stay. Please."

"I will stay, if requested." Shakra does not question his groan or his gaze. She is not the type to draw him out and break him down, it seems. Just straight-forward and honest. As she rests her hands on the tub's edge, she sits there, watching him. "Do you need any tending to? Perhaps I can give you a warrior's massage."

Tiso's breath hitches. A what? He stares at her— those dark eyes, that calm, serious face— and his voice comes out strained. "A... massage?" He repeats weakly. His body is screaming yes, but his pride— his poor, battered pride— is still clinging on by a thread. He doesn't want to look desperate, but… "I mean... I am sore. From the fight... and the falling..." Already, his muscles twitch in anticipation as he imagines her hands on him. Strong. Skilled. Purposeful. "...but only the massage," he mutters quickly. "No… funny business."

(But he doesn't even sound like he means it to himself.)

Steadily removing herself from the tub, she runs a careful hand over her gloriously long antennae, and steps away. "Finish your bath. Dry yourself, and lay on the bed, nude. I will retrieve my things." Then, Shakra exits the bellhome in a quick stride; the metal ringing as the door shuts.

Tiso swallows, staring after her retreating form for a few long seconds. Her words, so blunt and commanding— Goddamn her, this woman is like a force of nature. How easy she makes him hungry, and wanting. Oh hell, he craves. He can barely keep himself together as he hurriedly cleans himself off and grabs a towel, wiping his carapace dry quickly before laying down on the bed.

And he waits— though, not for much longer.

The door opens, and Shakra returns, locking it behind her. She kneels at the bedside, so tall and so powerful, and sets down a collection of items at the bedside table. She lifts a glass bottle with a simple label, and pours it into her palms. There, she rubs her hands together, working the oil between her palms before she moves to begin massaging Tiso.

And he's been massaged before— it wasn't a foreign activity to him. Hornet's massage before had been powerful slow pushes against the muscle.

However, Shakra's touch is even slower; with firm, deep pushes that seem eager to penetrate the shell itself, beginning at his shoulder blades. And the slick massage oil was different too: it burned at first in a way that made Tiso hiss, but then the sensation became a pleasurable tingle that spread along his frame. He groans the second her hands touch his shell, body immediately tensing before he can even try to hide his reaction. The oil was heavenly, warming his weary muscles and helping the tension in his spine dissolve. He lets out a low, ragged exhale against the sheets as Shakra's hands work their magic. "Oh hell…"

Her fingers find every tense muscle, every sore spot, and somehow soothe them all at once. He closes his eyes, body melting against the mattress. And she is slow, so very slow. Takes her time, beginning at his shoulders and neck. Working out every knot from the last two months, working away all the current worries, just really working those muscles until they feel like tingling jelly. Inching, so very slowly down his back.

His breathing quickens as she starts working her way down his spine, fingers and palms working in slow, circular motions that make him shudder. His hands ball up in the sheets, gripping the fabric in a clenched fist as he tries to keep himself steady— but her touch is magic. It sets every nerve in his body on fire in the best way. He lets out a low groan, shifting against the mattress as he turns his head against his arm. "Oh god… oh hell."

"Do not feel afraid of noise. Exhale, exclaim. Make noise as needed. It is one of the body's ways of releasing tension. Do as you need to, with no shame, Warrior Tiso." Shakra's voice is so low and buzzes in his head like a drug, as she moves down his sides, his arms, digging her claws into the shell to really massage that soreness away. Working on his aching joints to help melt the pain into nothing. And his body is melting beneath her hands, and he can't stop the gasps, the moans, the ragged breaths as he lets out everything he's kept locked up deep inside.

(He has never felt so damn good in his life.)

The pain and exhaustion in his muscles, the tension in his shoulders— it's all fading, replaced only by a strange sort of heat in his gut. As she massages her way down his back, his hips, his legs… He shudders and groans again. "Oh hell… gods…" When she reaches his hips, he sort of expects her to skip down to the thighs. In his experience of massages, most people do, right? Nope, she takes her time at his rear too; he didn't even realize he could be tense there! But she continues with massaging the soft, supple flesh of his bottom, stopping periodically to reapply the oil to her hands, and then she continues.

Tiso's face is on fire by now, heat pooling in his gut as she works her hands over his body. He can't even think. He just buries his face in the sheets, hands gripping the fabric so hard his knuckles are aching. His voice comes out in harsh, ragged gasps— like he's being tortured. "Nngh... oh gods, there. That— there…."

"Good boy."

Her praise is like lightning in his body. He always enjoyed praise, especially when he felt like he deserved it. And Shakra was like magic, the way she made him feel right now. She moves down his body further, claws gliding over the back of his thighs, his knees, his calves, his ankles, and feet. He's practically shaking by the time she's done pulling back: a hot, flushed mess against the sheets, breathing hard as the blood in his body rushes right between his legs. "Goddamn you," he gasps, words a little slurred by now. "You're going to kill me, you and those damn hands of yours."

"Shhh. Relax. I have only just begun." And then her long, beautifully long and slender fingers coated in that oil, slip lower. They find his entrance, and press inside with ease, as she begins to massage him internally. The slickness makes the movement effortless, and she seems to find his prostate in just a few short moments: pressing the digits against it and pressing in circles.

Tiso's eyes pop open wide, and he feels himself clench around her. He has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to muffle the strangled noise that tears from his throat, every part of him alight with arousal as she works with purpose, right where he needs her most. "Oh god…" he groans into the sheets, hips shifting involuntarily against the mattress. "Oh hell, that's… that's—" (Oh, gods.) He makes an embarrassing sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper as her fingers press down harder. He jerks against the sheets like he's been shocked, hands gripping the fabric tighter to anchor himself in place.

"Ohh, oh, gods—" Then words fail him completely, and he's left panting for breath as she continues to rub against his prostate, sending heat pounding through his body. "Oh God, Shakra— I'm not gonna—" His fingers dig desperately at the sheets as he tries to keep himself together. Her hands are so goddamn perfect; it's like she knows exactly where to touch, at exactly all the right places. His cock has slipped out its sheath, already hard, already aching for her touch. He gasps out, voice cracking as he continues to lose his composure. "Gods above, oh, fuck— I—I can't— ah, ngng—"

"Let out all the sound you need, Tiso." Shakra's voice is a drug, injected right into his veins; low and seductive, almost consuming him entirely. Those slender fingers continue to massage inside his hole, attention focused on the spot that melted all the pain away, all the tension away, replacing it with a burning fire of euphoria. "Let go of all the worries. You are alright." Curling, massaging, and her fingers were so long and so—

Her soothing, hypnotic voice only eggs the fire on, building it higher and higher until he's shaking like he's being seared from the inside out. He's never felt like this, never felt so good, and he can't even remember how to form words. He buries his face in the sheets again, gasping against the fabric as she continues to press against his prostate, every nerve in his body singing in a way he didn't even realize could happen. He's never been so desperate, aching, needy.

"I— oh, I— I need you. I can't—"

"You can. Just let go, relax. Allow your body to control you."

A part of him worries that he might not be able to relax fully. Tiso has never managed to cum without stroking himself to completion. Yet, right here, right now, the way Shakra continues to just massage that bundle of nerves directly, he might lose himself to the sensation alone. It was building, like a tidal wave, a dam ready to burst. He's trembling now, every muscle tensed as the pressure builds— higher, hotter, inescapable. "I can't— I'm gonna— I—" His voice cracks into a ragged sob of pleasure. The world blurs around him, his vision speckling at the edges as Shakra's fingers work that perfect spot without mercy.

Then it hits.

A tidal wave of euphoria rips through him— violent and beautiful— and he cries out, writhing on the bed as he comes undone completely. Shakra guides him through the waves; she continues to press and rub and stroke against his prostate. He can only slam his face into the mattress with a shuddering gasp, breathless and wrecked. And then he collapses, whispering hoarsely, "Gods… you're killing me…" And just when he thinks it is done, she only pauses a moment before she continues curling her fingers inside him. That nearly makes him jolt upright, becoming more and more of a twitching mess as she keeps going, pressing into that oversensitive spot with relentless precision.

"Nngh— no! No, no, I can't— too much! It's t-too sensitive—" Tiso's voice breaks again as the oversensitivity hits him. He whimpers into the sheets, fingers scrambling against the fabric like he's drowning. "Shakra— I swear to the gods— I'm gonna die!"

"You will be alright." Shakra does not speed up nor move roughly. Just a simple, firm precise touch, that works at a steady pace. "A warrior must truly empty their mind to become a perfect fighter. You will see; let this wash away the thoughts and worries. You can do it, Tiso."

And despite the overstimulation of it all, the storm begins to build again. He trembles and sobs against the sheets as he feels the edges of a climax start to build again. Tiso almost wants to tell her to stop, to give him time to breathe, to recover. But she's so damn confident, so damn sure, and the part of his brain that's still thinking knows damn well that, even now, she would never hurt him; even as he whines and whimpers, "I can't— I can't again—"

"You will." A command, one that he should not dare defy. "You will." Those slender fingers move in circles that are firm and slow, that send powerful waves of pleasure through him. And it just builds and builds and threatens to drown him. It was hard to think, hard to do anything but lay there and take it.

Tiso shudders with a soft, strangled noise. His eyes are squeezed shut, face still buried in the sheets to muffle the desperate whimpers of pleasure wracking through him. His head's spinning, dizzy— he feels like a spring being wound tighter and tighter, a coil ready to snap. "I-I feel— oh, gods—"

"Let go, Tiso. Come for me." Her demands, her orders. His breath catches in his throat as her command cuts through the haze— deeper than sound, like a law of nature. Like a god above, telling himself to give in, to worship. She adjusts her speed just slightly, her strength just slightly, and yet it feels like a firework exploding; that much more stimulation. Working his body, wringing the sound out of him like a symphony.

"I can't—" Tiso whimpers, voice breaking. "I'm— I'm yours—" And then he shatters again. A second release tears through him, stronger than the first— white-hot and all-consuming. He arches with a choked cry, fingers clawing at the sheets as wave after wave crashes through his body. He's trembling from antennae to claws as it continues— and maybe it doesn't end at all— but Shakra finally stills her hand, and he collapses into a boneless heap on the bed, barely able to breathe.

"...You're... terrifying," he gasps between ragged breaths. "...and I think... I love you."

Shakra laughs; low and melodic. "Do not say things you do not mean." She carefully withdraws her fingers from him, and turns him over, scooting him away from where he laid. He opens his eyes, blinking hazily as she rolls him over with surprising ease. And after cleaning off her hands and reapplying some oil, she then begins to massage his chest. His heart's still racing, body twitching and shaking beneath her hands. His nerves are so damn sensitive, every brush of her fingers still makes him gasp softly, each breath coming in a ragged exhale. 

"I never say things I don't mean," he protests, voice a little hoarse. "I mean... I think... mmm..." His words dissolve into a low, involuntary moan as she massages a sensitive spot beneath his collarbone.

Shakra does not reply. She continues to run her hands along his shell, working at his chest, his belly, his hips, and then, his pelvis. Which includes his cocks; still throbbing and unsheathed, she carefully wraps her fingers around it, and starts with long, dragging strokes. Tiso's breath hitches with every stroke. The sensation is like fire running through his veins, sparking arousal inside him all over again.

"Oh— gods," he gasps, back arching slightly as her hand glides over him— slow, firm, inescapable. "You're... going to ruin me..." he mutters hoarsely, eyes fluttering shut. "I'll never hear the end of this from Hornet… she'll tease me and… call me weak…" he groans, voice almost a plea, "You'll— you'll be the death of me, I swear."

"I know." A teasing lilt in her tone, she releases his cock, leaving it pulsing and hard. Then she works on massaging his inner thighs; firm circles that travel down the legs, on his knees, and lower leg, ankles and feet again.

His body is a wreck: shivering, sensitive, every nerve alive and sparking under her touch. Even the gentlest pressure on his inner thighs makes him twitch and whimper. He's never felt so exposed, so utterly unraveled, and yet, somehow... safe.

"You're... cruel," he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. "Doing all this... making me feel so…" He can feel it— the slow return of heat in his veins. His cock twitches as if in protest at being ignored. "...I hate you." (He doesn't.)

"You want more?" Shakra drags her hands up his thigh, making his breath hitch again. "I thought you wanted me to stop after one, and I gave you two. Greedy, are we not?" But there is no malice in her voice, as she removes her hands from his body. "Perhaps, you should do it yourself. You did say 'no funny business,' did you not?"

His eyes fly open as she teases him, and he lets out a strangled groan. "You— you started the funny business!" He props himself up slightly on his elbows, glaring at her; though it's utterly ruined by how flushed his face is. "That was before you turned me into a mess! This is your fault!" And then, quieter, he admits with a darkening blush, "...But I didn't say I wanted it to stop."

"Then perhaps...." And then Shakra climbs over him— gods, she is twice his size— and she runs a hand down her front until her slender fingers trail over her slit. Then she takes his cock in hand, and she carefully slides down; sinking down onto his length until she is seated in his lap.

Tiso was totally enveloped inside her heat. His eyes roll back as she takes him in— hot, tight, overwhelming. He's barely recovered and now he's buried deep inside her, and the sensation is so intense he can't even make a sound at first. Then—

"O-oh... oh gods," he gasps, hands instinctively gripping her hips for security. "Shakra—! You're— you're gonna kill me for real this time..." The heat is incredible, the pressure unlike anything he's ever felt before— clenching so tightly around him, throbbing in time with her heartbeat. Every tiny movement sent sparks along his spine. His breath comes out faster. "You're... you're so… wonderful—"

"Come on, Tiso. Show me what a warrior you are." And then Shakra moves. She moves with control, grace; kneeling low to take every inch of his cock, then up again, till only just the tip remains inside her, then again lowering. And then, she properly begins to ride him; her dark eyes focused on his face as she rolls her hips in a devilish motion.

"Hnngh—!" Tiso is broken from the first movement, gasping harshly. Her rhythm is slow, controlled like a warrior, but each stroke is perfect, deep and relentless. His claws dig into her hips, shaking as he fights to keep himself grounded. His breath comes in short, desperate bursts. "You... you're gonna be the death of me..." he chokes out, voice breaking as she sinks down again, tight and hot around him. And despite all the overstimulation hitting his nerves, he starts to move in return. A small thrust upward meets her downward motion. Then another. And another. The warrior in him answers the call— to match her strength… to earn his place besides her. And gods help him, he loves every second of it.

Their pace is even, matched. Shakra has an impressive amount of self-control. She is silent, not even breathing harshly, as she rides him; moving so evenly. Even her body works around his cock, rhythmically squeezing around it. She is steady— not speeding up nor moving any harsher. Patient, and paced, which was unfortunate for Tiso. He's desperate for more— desperate for her to snap, to give in, to break that iron will and let that fire rise. But she's as steady as a statue, unshakeable and gods, he can't get enough of it. He's moving with her, pushing himself up as deep as he can, straining to find that perfect angle, the perfect pace. He wants to be good. He wants to please her.

"Good, good." Shakra praises. "You are a warrior Tiso. Show me that strength." And then, she picks up speed, and the force of her hips. Each thrust is slick and wet, and the air is thick, smelling like spices and cinnamon and metal. A dizzying aroma that has his entire body pulsing heavily with need. Her words, her voice— it's like a drug, driving him crazy. He wants, no, he needs to please her. To give her everything she asks for, to show he is worthy of this. He grips her hips tighter, fingers digging into her shell, as he fights to match her pace. He's not quite as controlled as her, and his movements aren't quite as steady.

But he is focused— driven to match her, to satisfy the warrior inside and please the woman over him. "Hnngh—! Please... please, Shakra—" At his pleas, Shakra increases her motions. Her body practically slamming downwards, grinding against him. Her cunt pumping around him like it wanted everything he had to give. And after already reaching his climax twice, Tiso's body feels the coil again, ready to break him. "Shakra—!" The name tears from his throat like a war cry as the storm breaks inside him; violent, consuming. His body locks up, back arching as he pours every drop of himself into her with a cry so raw it echoes off the stone walls. He's shaking beneath her, breathless and broken and utterly ruined. He doesn't even realize he's whispering against her shell until the words escape: "...Yours. I'm... yours. Just… don't stop."

When he cums, Shakra speeds up to ride it out with him, and even when his climax ebbs down into aftershocks, she still chases her own end. Her breathing unsteady, her body shaking, telltale signs she is close. Overstimulation hits Tiso, but he does not dare pull away until she is there. He can barely breathe— still oversensitive, still trembling from his release, but he holds on with everything he has. His fingers grip her hips tighter as she rides him, chasing her own peak. Every movement sends electric jolts through his body: too much, too good, and he never wants it to end.

"Come on…" he whispers hoarsely, voice rough with devotion. "Let go… I've got you…" And as her body finally clenches around him in release— tight and pulsing— he lets out a broken sigh of awe. "...beautiful… Gods, you're beautiful."

Shakra arches her back, and she lets out a low, long moan that sounds like a song, and her impossibly tight slit spasms around him. She rocks back and forth, riding out her orgasm with shuddering groans. Her cunt spills slick onto his thighs, heated and filling the room with the aroma of sex. And then, when she finally comes down from that peak, she sags a little, but keeps herself upright. Panting softly, she nods affirmatively at Tiso. "Good, good. I see that Hornet and your Tamer are quite lucky with a lover like you, yes?"

Tiso is utterly wrecked. Breathless, trembling, every nerve still sparking as he's coming down from the highest high. When he can find his voice again, it still comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper. But his words are sincere and heartfelt. He runs his hands over Shakra's thighs with reverent awe. "I must be the… lucky one. You… you are a wonderful lover too."

"If they will have me, I will find an interest in your mated circle." Shakra slowly rises off of Tiso, his cum spilling from her slit, and she carefully lays beside him. She tries the best she can to fit, with how small the bed was, how tall she was. "I will rest for a moment, then return to my watch. You will rest, and recover. Your Hornet will finish her mission soon enough."

Tiso's still trying to catch his breath when Shakra lays next to him. He instinctively shifts closer— he desperately wants to wrap himself around her. And despite the fact that  there's barely any space on the bed, and that he's exhausted down to his bones, he still wants her. He trails his fingers lightly over her arm, tracing the smooth exoskeleton with a feather-light touch. "You… you'd want to?" he asks quietly, trying to get the words out through the sleepiness. "...joining us?"

"...I do." Shakra's voice is softer than usual, as she turns her head to him. "I have my own quest to fulfill. Perhaps, it will extend beyond your time in Pharloom. But when I am finished... I will join you; in Hallownest."

Tiso's breath catches in his throat. "You'll... come back to Hallownest? For us?" He turns his head to meet her gaze, eyes wide— softened and yet burning with something deeper now. Something warm. Something real. A slow grin tugs at the corner of his lips. Not a smirk, nor a taunt. Just pure, unguarded joy. "You better not be lying," he murmurs, voice thick with emotion and fatigue. "Because I don't think I could take it… if you were."

"When my quest completes, I have no reason to remain in Pharloom. I find excitement in the idea of getting to see the world beyond it." Shakra sits up, stretching out her arms before she stands. Then she looks through the bellhome before she finds a washcloth to clean herself. Then, she collects her items. "You sleep. I will go stand watch over Bellhart."

Tiso swallows, watching her with weary eyes as she stands. He wants to pull her back down, to curl around her and hold her tight. He wants to hold her close and not let go. But he's so tired. So weary, and his body is a boneless mess. He'll need to rest. "Promise you'll come back," he whispers, voice thick with exhaustion. "...promise me you'll come find us."

"I swear on my life." Shakra whispers, dark eyes watching him. And then, she leaves the Bellhome. It falls silent.

Tiso lies in the bed as the silence stretches on. His body aches, his muscles worn, lungs still heaving. His mind is a hazy mess of exhaustion, thoughts whirling as he stares up at the ceiling. But as his breathing slows, and his heart slows with, he keeps returning to the same phrase— a mantra of hope that circles through his mind.

She'll come back.

Shakra stands quietly outside the bellhome. The warrior has her claws hovering, just inches away from knocking against the metal door as her dark eyes narrow. She wasn't sure why exactly she was hesitating— she didn't exactly shy away from the unknown or any possibility of danger. Still, this felt like an intrusion. Like she was invading the domain of her trusted friend.

The weaver had vanished from the public eye just a few days prior; the last sightings of her were from the locals, and Pavo had told Shakra that he had seen Hornet in a hurry to get into her bellhome late one night. And after that, well… she hadn't left at all. This of course captured the wasp's interest greatly.

Someone like Hornet, retreating away to spend days locked inside? It was unlike her. And although Shakra had not known Hornet all her life, she would like to think that she knew enough about the other warrior to figure out that something was up. This was unusual in the greatest degree. Politeness kept her from hunting down the weaver for answers right away, but they were resting on the tail-end of the third day, which just seemed far far too long for Hornet to be out of commission.

The weaver was nigh-impossible to cut down, or stop when she had her mind set on something.

Which led to now; Shakra standing out front of the bellhome, her gaze fixed on the heavy door. It wouldn't be too hard to pick the lock, should it come to that. After all, if the weaver had suddenly perished and was rotting away inside, then Shakra felt it was her sworn duty to give her a warrior's burial. (However, she was pretty certain that Hornet was not dead. At least, she really hoped she wasn't.) But realistically, Shakra had knowledge of where Hornet had put her spare key: the other had entrusted her with the location should any emergencies come up, and she had promised the other that it was knowledge she would not abuse. The pair had grown into a friendship built on trust; whole and thorough trust deeper than anything Shakra had felt before.

Any apprehensions melted away, and the wasp gave a firm knock to the door of the home. Three strong raps, ringing out loud and sure. And after a few minutes of no replies, she knocks once more. Four taps, to ensure that Hornet could hear each one. And still, there was no reply. No weaver coming to the door to greet her, no warrior to share a meal or spar with. And after another long moment of nothing, Shakra decides that enough was enough.

She would not sit and worry. She would take action— and if the weaver was angered by those actions, she would accept the consequences without a second thought.

Shakra easily retrieves the key— it was hidden beneath the platform of the bellhome, and she easily hangs upside down and retrieves it without much fuss. It sits heavy in her palm, and Shakra cannot help but turn it over and over again, as if hesitating. And yet she knew that the longer she waited, the more she allowed Hornet to be alone through whatever had ailed her.

What sort of friend would do such a thing?

Shakra has the key in the lock before she realizes. It clicks loudly as it turns, and the door swings open with a loud groan that rings throughout the home, echoing. She has to duck her head down to fully step through the doorway, straightening up after she's inside, and shutting the door behind her. Best keep the public out if Hornet was in bad shape; the less people to know, the better, she assumed.

The wasp then takes a moment to survey her surroundings. The Bellhome was immaculately clean; organized and precise, with everything in its place. It was such a neat and efficient system, that Shakra is enamoured; admiring it for a long moment. Then, she finally notices the bed— the only source of chaos in this room.

All of the blankets and pillows were strewn about in a flurry. Some terrible semblance of a nest built up and knocked over again, like someone had been thrashing about on the bed. Shakra's face scrunches up lightly as her nose picks up a heavy scent— sweet, like elderberry and silk intertwined. It was strangely intoxicating; cloying on the mind, and she had to shake her head a few times to clear it.

Dark eyes scan over the room for any sign of Hornet, and when she still does not find her, Shakra calls out. "Poshanka! I come to see if you are alright, Child Wielding Needle! Where do you hide? Show yourself, or call out if you are in need of aid!" Head tilting one way, then another, her antennae twitch as she tries to pinpoint exactly where that scent is coming from…

And yet, she realizes just a bit too late that it was above her.

A flurry of red, and something crashes into Shakra, sending her tumbling to the floor with a sharp gasp. For a moment, her warrior's instinct flares, and she twists and tries to smash her rings against her assailant's skull. But she recognizes the shape of the mask, recognizes the lithe frame that was now pressed against her body; burning like an inferno. Her raised arm lowers, breathing out a sigh of relief. No enemy to strike down today… However, she can tell that something was off.

Hornet had her mask pressed into Shakra's chest, and she was trembling like a leaf in a storm. Claws had scrambled to grasp at the wasp's elbows, and she was seated on her leg, knees planted on either side and propping herself up. Even through the thick red cloak, Shakra could feel the warmth radiating out from her chitin; molten heat that was uncomfortably warm, feverish.

Was the weaver ill?

Shakra shifts her head to try and look down at the other, but at this angle, this position, it was difficult to. She brings one hand up to try and press the back of her hand against the forehead of Hornet's mask, humming softly. "You seem unwell, my friend. You feel like the heat of the lands below us, in the far fields."

The weaver stiffens beneath the touch, and for a brief moment, Shakra believes perhaps that she had made the other uncomfortable. But then, Hornet knocks her head into the wasp's mask, and her hips roll once in a sharp movement, and then she lets out the most pathetical whine that the taller bug has ever heard in her life. Hips twitch again, with barely restrained need, and Hornet's voice comes out rough, hoarse and broken. "Sha-aakraa…" Claws dig into the chitinous shell of the warrior before her, and the weaver hisses faintly as the burning heat inside her nearly doubles in intensity at the closeness, the scent of her being so close.

"I can't… I'm sorry…" Hornet's maw hangs open as she pants softly; the fangs scraping dangerously close near the most sensitive, delicate junction of Shakra's neck. They were practically oozing venom, near dripping the burning liquid onto the wasp's shell. Her hips twitch again, near uncontrollable now that her control is beginning to fail her. She should be embarrassed, she should be ashamed; sitting upon Shakra's lap and damn near grinding against her like a beast. She was ashamed to admit that her ovipositor had already slid free from her innermost recesses; achingly hard, dripping pathetic against the inside of her cloak. She wanted nothing more than to slide it somewhere against Shakra— her thighs, her mouth, her slit, anywhere just please—

"P-please please— Shakra—" And her own voice is low, heavy with arousal. Her claws knead, dig into the edges of Shakra's shell in a way she knows that must look sad. Her eyes are near brimming with tears from how desperate she felt, how needy she was. Her hips twitch again, the head of her length catching the edge of Shakra's thigh, and leaving a thick line of slick where it grinds. "Please, I need— I need you— please—?"

The sight, the sounds, the visual of the weaver falling from grace and becoming something so driven by primal need… it was certainly something that Shakra did not think she would ever see. And yet, she could not find any negative emotion within her at this. None at all. As a matter of fact, she felt her own body responding; warmth and arousal beginning to coil in her gut. She cannot help but let out a small sigh, and she moves one of her hands to cup the back of Hornet's head, tsking softly. "Look at what a mess you leave on me. So eager, you spill your essence without even entering me. How weak you are to instincts…" One of her slender hands moves down to begin teasing a finger at the dripping, weeping head of Hornet's ovipositor, earning a sharp whine in response. Cool, calm, Shakra whispers, "You wish to press inside me? To claim me, to mark me as your mate? To use me as yours, and yours alone… such a thought is enticing, is it not?"

"Y-yes—!" Hornet's hips jerk forward, and her voice is a broken sob; wound tight by desire, her limbs twitching as she barely manages to suppress the boiling heat of arousal deep inside her. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, Shakra might think, as she watches the weaver near lose herself to instinct. She had certainly become such a desperate, quivering thing in her heat, evident by the flush pervading her shell, and how her length aches against Shakra's touch. If the wasp were a more cruel bug, she might even laugh, and call Hornet pathetic.

But Shakra is kind.

And so, she lays back even further, relaxed like a goddess against the ground, and parts her legs wide open for the weaver. Her own slit is exposed; slickened and hot with desire, and she takes the hand from Hornet's length to instead spread open her own slit further, allowing the other the sight of the flushed, warm insides. Shakra's voice is low, a melodic tune as she hums, "Then claim, Hornet Wielding Needle; follow your instincts, show me your warrior's dance, and mate with me."

Heat explodes along Hornet's spine, and the snarl that leaves her is near animalistic as she lunges forward; to claim, to take. Claws grasp at Shakra's legs to pull them open wider, the sharp tips near-piercing the beautiful black chitin. She yanks the wasp closer to her, so that she can grind the head of her ovipositor against her once, twice, before the tip catches against her slit. And then, Hornet sinks deep inside that awaiting slickened heat; fully sheathing herself in one sharp thrust. A choked noise escapes her, and her body goes rigid at the feeling— of it so perfectly overstimulating in the best ways that for a moment, she doesn't know what to do with herself.

Shakra throws her head back, and her usual demeanor— so calm and collected— is broken. A sharp gasp spills from her mouth, and it fades into a low groan as her cunt clenches around the intrusion. It was impressively large: throbbing insistently inside her, and hot. Filling her in ways she has never felt before, perfectly deep and stretching her open in a way that bordered on addictive pain. Her hand reaches out to grasp at the other's red cloak; disheveled, shuddering. The room was thick with the scent of their arousal, and Shakra growls soft and low, "Yes, fuck me."

Hornet didn't need to be told twice.

Hips begin to move; her thrusts started out unsteady and uncoordinated at first, as she tries to adjust to the overwhelming feelings. The pleasure of finally sinking herself into a willing, wet hole was impossibly overwhelming, and Hornet cannot stop panting. Can't stop the undignified whines that escape her every minute, can't even hope to be quiet enough that no one down in the town would hear them. (Surely, the rocking of the bell would indicate to everyone to avoid coming and knocking.) But soon enough, the thrill of mating, and the instincts that had been building inside her since this rut started— it all spurred her to move faster. Rougher, hips snapping forward, and fucking into Shakra with no more than a feral need; a desperation to mate.

Need. Need. Need.

Hornet digs her claws into Shakra's thighs so harshly, that the tough shell breaks beneath the pointed nails, and blood begins to bead at the surface. But Shakra couldn't care less— not when she feels that ovipositor press so deep, hit all those nerves inside her that makes her whole frame quiver, and make her voice raise in pleasure.

"Yes, yes, so v-very good— Hornet—" Cut off by another moan, Shakra throws her head back. Her long antennae twitch with the waves of pleasure rushing over her, and she rolls her hips to try and meet each thrust of the other. Trying to match that feral, breeding pace, but gods, each movement of Hornet's hips fuck so deeper into her, knock her breath away, sends tingling up and down her spine. It was overwhelming, so perfect, so wonderful, and she quickly realizes that at this pace, she wouldn't last long at all. Her slit pulses in time with her heartbeat, racing in her chest, and that thick length is drilling into her so so deeply—

Hornet at least seems to be in the same predicament. This rut had been so intense, so unforgivingly powerful, that she can already feel her climax coiling inside her. It was a powerful all encompassing thing, and she shakes, pressing her forehead into Shakra's shoulder as she tries to fight it off, just wait a little bit longer please— But her thrusts shift from quick and frenzied, to rough and deep. Deeper, trying to force herself inside deeper; her body shaking violently as instinct takes over her. Her mind was blanking out, and all she could think about was the need to fill, the urge to breed—

One more sharp thrust, and Hornet presses as deep as she can, and she snarls as she cums; her body quaking near-violently. Her ovipositor pulses, aching, as she spills her seed deep inside Shakra's cunt. Pulsing thick, heavy ropes of it that felt molten hot, and so so filling. The wasp shudders in response, and her hips kept rolling, kept grinding to try and reach her own end, searching, so so very close, almost there and… And then, Shakra feels it. The way the ovipositor inside her begins to throb harder, how it seems to thicken at the base, slowly moving, undulating up towards the tip, and—

Her back arches, she lets out a gasp, as she tries to speak, "You— I— this—" And yet, all coherent thought is washed away when she feels the thickness of the first egg transfer from that length, depositing heavy inside her womb. She feels it settle against untouched nerves that set flames alight once more inside her, and Shakra thrashes, cries out.  She cums hard, her slit spilling her essence down her thighs, around Hornet's length, making a mess of cum and slick between them, and she sobs at all the overwhelming sensation.

The heaviness of the egg inside her continues to press and roll against nerves that draw out her orgasm, leaving her breathless as it continues in wave after wave of pleasure, each one peaking higher than the last. She tries to arch, adjust her body, anything to get that egg to give her an ounce of mercy. Her hips jerk again, her voice so-high pitched and whimpering, and then the movement has the egg shifting inside her womb, off those oversensitive nerves, and for a moment, she gasps. Going limp, as she tries to come down from the orgasmic high.

But Hornet's hips twitch, she babbles something incoherent, and Shakra can only gasp sharply as she feels the weaver's ovipositor throb again, thickening again as a second egg begins to move down the shaft. It was so round, so heavy, and even Hornet couldn't help but whine and dig her claws into the wasp's shell, hips jerking forward in desperate little movements to try and help move the egg along.

It seems to help, because inch by inch, that rounded object moves, and the ovipositor's tip flares open as Hornet deposits the second egg nice and deep inside Shakra with a whimpery noise. It nestles against the first one, knocking together gently, and Shakra arches her spine as the both press into those hypersensitive nerves again. She can feel her cunt pulse, can feel her body twitch helplessly, as the sensations drive her closer to a second climax. Barrelling helplessly towards the edge, and she couldn't stop it even if she wanted to.

"Hornet W—" The wasp's voice slurs, and she throws her arms above her head, thrashing as the eggs roll around inside her womb with no mercy, sending pulses of pleasure through her frame again and again and— she cums with another broken noise, her cunt achingly full, throbbing, and so so eager to take all that Hornet has to give. Pulsing around her, her body pulsing in time with her heartbeat, throbbing, keeping those eggs nestled so nice and deep in her womb.

And the weaver can only respond with a low growl of one caught in a mating frenzy, as her hips jerk harshly, fucking into Shakra with desperately, grinding motions. Her length pumps a fresh spray of hot, thick cum deep inside Shakra, and a third egg quickly begins to make its way down the ovipositor.

Then a fourth. A fifth.

Shakra is mindless by the time the sixth one begins to undulate down the length of Hornet's ovipositor; babbling nothingness, reduced to a mess from the once graceful thing she was. She can only pray to all the gods that this is the last one, because the five already pressed deep inside her continue to roll and move and stimulate her past the edge again and again, and she is certain there is no more room for any after this, let alone six in total.

But all she can do is whimper, and whine, and shudder; her body is on fire with pleasure that mixes with pain and overstimulation, and her stomach is rounded and filled to the brim with Hornet's eggs and seed, but still, the weaver persists in her rut— still, she growls and grinds as deep as she can, trying to force the sixth egg inside Shakra with shaking gasps.

And when it finally slips nice and deep inside, jostling the other eggs filling her, Shakra cums for a third time with a broken wail as the pleasure explodes along her nerves like fireworks, and glowing lights dance in her vision like silkflies. And then, as it pulses over her in waves she cannot stop, a whimpering noise spills free, and she goes limp; her body quivering from the intensity of it all.

She is half-conscious when she feels Hornet's ovipositor spill its final seed, hot and thick. Almost sealing the eggs inside her, so that they wouldn't slip out, and the weaver finally withdraws fully, panting harshly as she collapses beside the wasp. She can only curl into Shakra's side, just as worn, just as exhausted, and Shakra in response blindly reaches out, until her arms wrap tight around Hornet's frame.

To seek out your prey, you must be. You must be quick, you must be keen, and you must have eyes that watch, and see, and study. Oh, how she studied every soul that wandered into the embrace of the Entity. How she observed and watched each little rabbit with a feral hunger as they ran about like galloping critters in the underbrush, bloodied fingers tangling in the wires of generators in a desperate bid to survive.

It was all part of the hunt.

Axe clenched in hand, hatchets weighed down with an otherworldly energy, The Huntress stalked her prey with ruthless efficiency. Each target was the same as the last, each treated as the next deer to cut down, and each fell to her blade with terror flooding their blood; hands outstretched in a plea that went unheard, a prayer unanswered.

The fear made the meal sweeter.

She had been a hunter for a very long time; she had seen the deer and the bunnies, the foxes and the squirrels, and how they darted in the brush with shaking cries and harsh breathing. She had watched them flee and leave the others for dead, and she had seen them pull their friends from the brink of death and wrap wounds for one another. And even so, not a single one had drawn her attention more than the hunt had asked for.

Except you.

You had grown accustomed to this hellscape that fog had pulled you into. You had learned the rules, the game, and most importantly— you realized there was no true escape. And so, after the first few weeks of defeated helplessness, you scrub the sorrow from your face and replace it with determination. You could not leave this place, and you could not die, but you would not roll over and suffer.

You learned to move quiet and fast, and how to repair the generators with a speed that rivaled your more experienced companions. You learn which ones to depend on, and which to abandon. This was just a game after all; a game of cat and mouse, hunter and prey, killer and survivor. Two sides to this coin, and you were on the losing end. Unfavoured by the entity, and meant to be the duck in the field, at the mercy of the armed hunters and their dogs sniffing you out. For most of it, you can ignore the fear; you can swallow down the anxiety, keep your head down, and try your best to survive this time.

Either way, there was always another round in the Fog, and the Entity had no plans to release you just yet.

So you keep going. You keep learning. You keep doing better each time, and your movement becomes that much quicker, that much quieter. You are hunted by someone new almost every other time, but the times you get repeats, you also begin to learn their patterns, their styles of this game. A ghost is harder to evade than a man in a mask wielding a chainsaw, but surely you can definitely avoid the ire of the large man in the clown mask. The pain becomes second-nature, almost ignorable; and the anxiety for a new round lessens each time.

And then the Huntress encounters you.

Something about this hunt feels… different. Charged emotions in the air, like the energies have shifted entirely. The Huntress can feel it— of course she can. She has honed herself to rely on instinct, on the subtle changes of the wild; tasting the air, curling the barest tinge of blood on her tongue. Her prey seem the same at first, faces she barely recognizes, but ones she has seen before. All of them, except one.

You.

The Huntress has never seen you before. Has never seen any survivor like you before. Her eyes narrow, blackened behind her mask, as she stands a good distance away; just studying, just observing. It was always the thing to do, when a new animal entered the forest. To watch and memorize, to see the habits of this little fawn, fresh on legs too wobbly for running.

And you are cautious.

You have never faced anyone like her. You hear her, before you see her— her singsong lullaby sending a strange, new type of chill down your spine. Your fingers are tangled in the belly of the generator, bruised and shaking as you adjust wires and attempt to get this beast of a machine to work for you. But your mind is enraptured, enthralled, by her haunting song. It is sorrowful, it is pure, and it is filled with an emotional depth that has your attention captured more than you want to admit.

And when the hatchet flies past your face, nicking the skin of your cheek in a gash that has blood free-flowing— you learn quickly that she would use that lapse in judgement for her benefit.

And so the game begins.

Huntress and hunted, the predator and the prey, the stalker and the stalk. Feral and beastly, the Huntress makes each and every round with you her personal little game to play. One she sinks her teeth into eagerly; one that she looks forward to each and every time she picks up your scent in the Forest. Her weapons clutched in her bloodied paws, she works with a bloodlust that exudes from her, like the rivulets of blood that spill when she catches you.

You find that the emotions that had been brimming just beneath your skin this entire time were something more than just first-time nerves. No, you felt an odd thrill crawling along your spine when her song begins to roll through the underbrush and trees. You felt it deep inside, and surface-level all the same; a heat that spread across your face and left your mouth dry, and your hands trembling. The Huntress is her name, another survivor once tells you. Fitting, for someone so skilled in the art of it.

You find that you liked being hunted, if it was her.

And the Huntress always enjoyed hunting, but especially if it was you.

How could she not? You were a challenge; you were not meek and simpering, nor did you give up so easily. You were light on your feet, you were quick in both mind and body, and you made each challenge, each moment in the Fog, something more than what the Entity had intended. No, you made her feel riled up, starved for something new, and by all the devils in this place, you were that something new.

Sometimes, she caught you. Maybe you stuck on the generator for too long, maybe you slipped into a locker too late, but she grabs you. Wraps her powerful fist around your neck, just tight enough to cut off the precious air, and she yanks you close to her, for just a dizzingly brief moment. Chest to chest, her blackened eyes studying her little rabbit, and your own staring up at her as darkness tinges the edges of your vision.

And when she throws you over her shoulder, carts you off to be hooked? You suppose the pain of it would be worth it if it meant her hands could touch you again.

You weren’t supposed to be thinking this way. No, you knew that her, and all of the other hunters and killers were just here to torture you and the others. Some eternal hell, some punishment for something you did when you were truly alive. Maybe; that part you don’t quite understand yet. Even still, you knew she was part of it all; the executioner for your crimes.

And still, each time her hatchet leaves a wound that scars over, your fingers linger along it in your brief moments of respite, and you press down on bruises she’s made on your body with shuddering gasps. And you think that maybe, this can be your own little personal secret; one kept tight to your chest, one that she didn’t need to see.

But what does she see?

The Huntress sees you; this beautiful, delicate thing that moves with a lightness in your step. A gorgeous rabbit, stained in blood, that she desires to not only hunt, but to hold. To run her fingers along your hair, to seek out the wounds she has given you, to wrap her fingers around you once more and pull you closer than anyone has ever been to her.

She hides it well; the gentleness that begins to form in her heart.

Time passes; a hellish nightmare can only remain such a way for so long. You begin to make jokes about the next hunt, the next death. You taunt and tease and team up with the other survivors in ways to infuriate the killers. You slam pallets on them, and blind them with a flashlight. The time that passes erases fear, and leaves behind someone more adjusted to this place.

You try to talk to some of them. The Killers, that is. Try to make them see reason, try to figure out what they get from this. But most of them don’t talk, or even take the time to listen. You get a nice conversation one time from a blond man with glasses, but other than that? You think maybe a majority of them are too far gone to see anything but the next kill.

The Huntress is… different.

She is quiet; the only time you ever hear her voice— a voice that is beautiful and angelic by all standards— is when she hums her lullaby. Yet, she pauses; when you surprise her from around a corner, and try to ask her, “What is your name?” Well, she stares at you for a long time, before her hatchet is raised, and she tosses it right at you.

You try again. Get behind a pallet, ask her why she’s here? She’ll smash it before closing her hands around your arm and knocking you to the ground. You hide in a locker, and shout at her, asking why she wants to do this? She opens it up, and throws you over a powerful shoulder. You stun her with a flashlight, and call out that she didn’t need to do this, and all that does is enrage her to the point of swiping with her axe.

The gash along your arm bleeds wildly when you narrowly escape, and you can’t help but press it just a bit more, hissing in pain.

Pain that just excites you.

The Huntress finds you puzzling. She doesn’t know what to think of the little rabbit that keeps trying to speak to her, ask her questions, or otherwise do anything other than the role they were both meant to place. Predator and prey, killer and survivor. What more could there be to this? She wonders about it; a little too much. She knows that something about you is different. She enjoys your screams, she enjoys the way you squirm when she knocks you down or hooks you, and she relishes in the chase— especially when she catches you.

What does it all mean?

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“Анна.”

“What?”

You feel the tension inside your body melt away, as you stand on the other side of the windowsill you just hopped over, breathing heavily. Your eyes dart between that mask, and to the side, debating whether or not to keep running. You’re not sure if you really heard that, but—

“Anna.” The Huntress speaks again. Her voice is low, and almost unsure; thick with an accent you vaguely recognize, but spoken in your own tongue. She adjusts the hatchet in her grip, loosening and tightening, like she was debating something. And then she repeats herself. “Anna. You… asked for… name. I give to you: Anna.”

Caught off guard, you can only stand there, staring at her with wide eyes. Slowly, your breathing comes back to normal, and the only sounds left are the shifting foliage of the Forest, and the wind circling around it. The others are dead; long dead, for you and the Huntress have been at this cat and mouse game for nearly fifteen minutes in your desperate attempt to survive. Was this meant to throw you off? Distract you, so you could succumb to her weapons as the others had?

Despite the fact that logic tells you to run, to find a place to hide so you could finish that last damn generator— you cannot move from your spot. You repeat after her: “Anna.”

The Huntress nods once. Her dark eyes blink slowly, as if she was examining you fully now. You feel like something on display almost, and it makes you twitch, squirm a little beneath the intensity of it. And then, the Huntress speaks again; “You. Name?”

You tell her. She repeats it; something foreign to her, a word she has never said before. And she finds that she likes the way it feels, rolling it around on her tongue like she was savouring a meal. Something new, something strange, and something good.

You step a little closer to the window, and she does too. The months of training you have had in this hellscape scream at you to run, but you swallow it down as morbid curiosity takes the lead. You want to know more, you want to hear more, you want to learn more about her: about the Huntress, about Anna.

“You’ve uh… really given me a run for my money,” You joke, and she tilts her head in confusion. Perhaps sayings like that might not catch, given that English doesn’t appear to be her first language. Still, you can’t help but slip into them when you feel this nervous. Given that she doesn’t immediately seem like she’s gonna kill you, you try to relax more. You even lean against the windowsill and flash her a bright smile. “Sooo… Anna… tell me, what do you like to do for fun?”

The Huntress tilts her head at you again, and her dark eyes flare in interest.

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You learn pretty quickly what she likes to do for fun.

Breath escapes your lungs as you are shoved against the shack walls; the rotting wood feels cold against your back, even through your clothes. But you have little time to focus on it; not when the Huntress has her attention on you.

She is large and imposing— all strength and muscle, evident by how easily she holds you up without even a hint of strain. Her blackened eyes behind her mask are intense; focused entirely on you in this moment. Hands pressed atop your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise. And you admit to yourself that you don’t mind a bit of the pain so long as it was her hurting you. Your breath catches, your eyes widen, pupils flaring, and you are almost dizzy with the rush of arousal that floods your frame.

She is danger, she is violence, she is death and everything deliciously wrong with this hellscape, but you couldn’t really care anymore at this rate. Because she leans in close enough that you can almost taste the blood on her lips, and it shouldn’t set a fire inside you, but it does.

Your voice quivers when you say, “Anna…” But nothing else escapes. How could you say anything more?

How could the Huntress resist any further? How long had the beast been forced to watch the rabbit hop away without a taste? How long has the predator been teased by the prey? Her fingers dig into your hips a little harder, and she is overwhelmed by how light and fragile you feel in her grasp. How unique and intoxicating you smell to her.

She is hungry.

Hoisting you up higher against the wall makes you yelp in surprise, but that’s nothing compared to what she does next: she balances you on one hand, cupping underneath your ass in a strong grasp. Then, she takes her hatchet and slices at your clothes, cutting your pants and undergarments off in one motion. The sharp edge of the blade nicks your inner thigh, and this time a whimper spills from your lips. The pain blooming along the flesh is mind-numbing, and if you weren’t so worried about falling out of her hand, you might have just succumbed to that alone. But your hands go behind you, and try to grip the wall, as your voice stutters out, “W-wait, careful—!”

The Huntress says nothing in response. Her dark eyes have caught sight of it all; the blood that flows down your leg. The exposed flush of your sex, swollen in arousal, slickened. And the scent is just mesmerizing; it makes desire flare along her spine. She wants it, she wants you, she wants to devour all of you. So the hatchet clatters to the floor, noisy metal, forgotten— and then she shifts so both hands keep you hoisted upwards enough, bringing your pussy level to her face.

Her tongue— rough, thick and hot— flicks out, swiping over the cut on your thigh. This makes you jolt, and a sharp gasp escapes you. But before you can say a word, she licks over it again, gathering all the weeping blood on her tongue and swallowing it down like a fine wine.

Sampling the hunt, before the real feast begins.

Dark eyes close in reverence, and she slowly lathes over it once more, until the cut is just flushed red and stinging faintly. Then, she shifts her head, and she presses her face between your thighs, tongue now dragging along your slit in one, slow motion. Your head slams backwards against the cold wood beneath your back, and you let out a high-pitched noise that was pathetically helpless. The Huntress does not give you time to be embarrassed though.

For she has tasted heaven, and she didn’t intend to stop. Gripping you tighter, she dives in further. She does not give shy, bashful kisses or little pecks along your flesh. No, her tongue moves in broad stripes over your vulva, dipping between the sensitive lips of your cunt to taste you more, to press that appendage further within you. Her nose bumps against your clit, and when you jerk again and let out a strangled moan, her attention shifts there.

Moving up to press a rough, sloppy kiss against the apex of your sex, she then seals her lips around your clit, suckling lightly on it. Your hands come down to grip at her hair, and you dig your nails faintly in her scalp as you cry out in bliss, squirming beneath her ministrations. But she holds you tight, with no intentions of letting go, and you are caught at the mercy of this killer. No, her hands grip your thighs tighter, hard enough to set fresh bruises into the flesh, and pain makes you dizzy with heat. Arousal pulses inside you along with your heartbeat, and a fresh rush of slick coats her tongue and chin as she moves back into lapping at you, clit to your achingly empty entrance.

You want her, you want more.

“Anna, please—!” You babble, almost incoherent already with how much need coils inside your gut. But The Huntress does not reply; no, she is savoring your taste, relishing in how your need drips down her jaw as she presses herself deeper between your folds. Dipping her tongue inside you for a blindingly pleasurable moment that has your hips humping forward, your voice breaking in need. And then she pulls away, swirling the tip of her broad tongue around your clit. It’s agonizing pleasure, and you can’t tell if you want to move away, or fuck against her face more.

You’re still precariously balanced against the wall, so when she pulls back to move you, you let out a nervous gasp, fingers still tangled in her hair. But she lays you against the wooden floor that feels frigid and prickly, and a discomforted noise escapes you before you can stop it. But then the Huntress is kneeling down between your thighs, and she is diving back in— her tongue swirling around your clit again as one of her thick fingers trails along your cunt.

The feeling has you squirming in anticipation, and you let out a gasp, legs falling open wider. You never wanted anything so badly before in your entire life— and you let out a whine as you beg her, “Please, yes, I need—”

But you don’t need to say much more. She presses one finger inside you with ease, and the faint burn is a pleasurable pain that has your back aching, and an almost feral cry spilling from your lips. Hips twitching, grinding down against that digit pressing you open, and the Huntress responds to your movements with her own. She seals her lips around your clit again, and you sob, hands flying up to tangle in her long hair once more. Panting harshly, moans fall easily from your lips as you begins to fuck her finger into you.

Stretching you open, sinking deep inside and rubbing against your inner walls in ways that make you see stars. You can’t help but whine, shake, thrash beneath her, and the Huntress keeps you pinned, so all you can do is take it. When one finger becomes two, and she curls them against your throbbing insides, you feel your cunt spasm around her as the telltale signs of your climax begins approaching.

You’re gasping, twitching beneath her, and you try to say something, try to warn her. But all that escapes your mouth are pleasured cries, and she’s sucking on your clit with such eagerness that you can’t do anything but lay there and squirm and let her fuck you into mindless pleasure. And the Huntress speeds up, pressing her fingers deeper inside you, growling faintly around your clit, and the vibrations send shocks up your body and— and—

You cum with a broken cry; hips arching up and grinding against her face, and she fucks you through your orgasm, hungrily sucking on your clit, drawing out the rolling pleasure as your slick spills down her chin. Her name is on your tongue, and she keeps lapping at you, keeps devouring, more and more, and you can only feel the pleasure grow and build and it’s toomuchtoomuch—

You didn’t realize when you blacked out, but when you come to, you are laying against something soft, something warm. Blinking the bleariness from your eyes, you lift your head a bit, but something strong comes up to press your head back down against the softness. You slowly register that the Huntress has collected you against her chest, and your head is pressed just above her heart. You can hear the steady thumping of it beneath her breast, and it is… comforting.

To hear her as something alive, something soft beneath the surface of a killer. The way she avoids your gaze, almost shy when you glance upwards at her… you can see that beneath her exterior, there is something gentle there.

You find that you want to know more.

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Perhaps the Entity is kinder than one might think.

For your days between trials are no longer just spent at a campfire with other survivors. You sometimes find yourself curled inside an old rickety bed, with barely enough space for two, but somehow you and Anna fit just fine in it. She’s gentle, you know now, beneath all that hardness. But that gentleness is reserved only for you, and you alone. And as you lay curled against her chest, you just sit and listen to the beat of her heart, and know that this place might be a hellish punishment, but you wouldn’t be anywhere else but here.

Here, with your Huntress.

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Most bugs would find themselves paralyzed in fear, or perhaps even squirming and crying out if they were beneath the mercy of a weaver— let alone one as powerful as the One who Wields Needles. And yet, such fears did not seem to be filling the wasp at this moment. No, Shakra— although surprised and caught off guard when she had entered the Bellhome earlier— was very much not afraid, and rather in fact very much having an amazing time.

Of course, being the willing partner of someone in a heat cycle was indeed a rare treat that the warrior was all too keen to enjoy.

Shakra should have guessed this is why Hornet had sequestered herself away in the Bellhome. The weaver was nigh-impossible to cut down or stop, so when she had vanished about a day or two ago, it seemed right for Shakra to locate her and figure out what the issue was. And when she had entered the Bellhome, she was quick to discover this wasn’t any ordinary thing knocking Hornet out of commission.

It was a deep-seated, primal instinct. One Shakra was currently on the opposite end of.

She grunts softly as Hornet’s fang scrapes dangerously close near the most sensitive junction of her neck; fangs practically oozing venom as Hornet’s hips jerk uncontrollably. Her ovipositor was already unsheathed, and leaking heavily against Shakra’s thighs, grinding in between them with a desperate whine escaping her.

“P-please please— Shakra—” Hornet’s voice is low, heavy with arousal. She has her claws dug into Shakra’s sides, and her dark eyes are near brimming with tears from how needy she was. “Please, I need— I need you— please—?”

A soft sigh, and Shakra moves one hand to cup the back of Hornet’s head, tsking softly. “Look at what a mess you leave on me. So eager, you spill your essence without even entering me. How weak you are to instincts…” One long, slender hand moves down to tease a finger at the dripping head of Hornet’s ovipositor, earning a sharp whine in response. “You wish to press inside me~? To claim me, mark me as your mate?”

“Y-yyessss— pl-pleaseee—?” Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Hornet had become such a desperate one in her heat; evident by the flush in her shell, and how she leaks so eagerly against Shakra. It would be pathetic, if she were a crueller bug.

But Shakra is kind.

She lays back, parting her legs wide for the weaver and exposing her slit, one hand moving down to spread herself open further. The wasp’s voice is low, melodic as she hums, “Then claim, Hornet Wielding Needle; follow your instincts, and mate with me.”

Hornet feels heat explode along her spine, and the snarl that leaves her is near monstrous as she lunges forward. Claws grasp Shakra’s legs to pull them open wider, and she grinds the tip of her ovipositor against her once, twice, before the tip catches against her, and she sinks deep inside. Fully sheathing herself in one sharp thrust.

Shakra’s head is thrown back, and her usual calm demeanor is broken by a sharp gasp that fades into a low groan. Her cunt clenches around the intrusion— which was impressively large, and throbbing insistently inside her. Warm, and filling her in ways she has never felt before. The wasp moves one hand down to grasp at the other’s red cloak; disheveled and thick with the scent of arousal. She shudders. “Yes, fuck me.”

Hornet didn’t need to be told twice.

Her thrust starts out unsteady, uncoordinated at first; the pleasure of finally sinking herself inside a willing wet hole overwhelming. She can’t stop panting, can’t stop the undignified whines that escape her every minute. But soon enough, the thrill of mating and the instincts that had been building in her spur her to move faster. Rougher, hips snapping forward, and fucking into Shakra with no more than feral need.

Need. Need. Need.

Hornet digs her claws into Shakra’s thighs so harshly, the shell breaks beneath her pointed nails, and blood beads at the surface. But Shakra could care less— not when she feels that ovipositor press so deep, hit nerves inside her that make her whole frame quiver, and make her voice raise in pleasure.

“Yes, yes, so v-very good— Hornet—” Cut off by another moan, Shakra throws her head back. Her long antennae twitch with the waves of pleasure rushing over her, and she quickly realizes that at this pace, she wouldn’t last long at all. Her slit pulses in time with her heartbeat, racing in her chest, and that thick length is drilling into her so so deeply—

Hornet seems to be in the same predicament at least. Her heat had been so intense, so unforgiving, that she can already feel her climax coiling inside her, and her thrusts shift from quick and frenzied, to rough and deep. Deeper, trying to force herself deeper, her body shaking, her mind blanking out as all she can thinking about is the need to fill, to urge to breed—

One sharp thrust, and Hornet presses as deep as she can, and she snarls as she cums, her body quaking near violently. Her ovipositor pulses, aching, as she spills her seed deep inside Shakra’s cunt. The wasp shudders, her hips rolling up to try and reach her own end, searching.

And then, Shakra feels it. The way the ovipositor inside her begins to throb harder, how it seems to thicken at the base, slowly moving, undulating up towards the tip, and— Her back arches, she lets out a gasp, as she tries to speak, “You— I— this—”

All coherent thought is washed away when she feels the thickness of the first egg transfer from that length, depositing heavy inside her womb. She feels it settle against untouched nerves that set flames alight once more inside her, and Shakra thrashes, cries out and—

Iselda stands in her dark dress by the stovetop, silent. And Cornifer still snores. Fully stirring, they lift their head to look over. All sorts of delicious scents waft through the little kitchen, making their stomach rumble. They swallow down building saliva in their maw. They're surprised they fell asleep at all. The memories of the basement had kept replaying over and over in their mind. The way Cornifer felt under them, of how close and intimate it felt to hold him beneath them— the heat it had invoked in them. It makes their cheeks burn again.

Iselda works quickly, efficiently. She serves the slices of crispy meat onto the three plates, and then a fried egg beside them. She then pours three glasses of homemade tea: warm and fragrant. "Dear, wake Cornifer up, will you?" She asks Hollow. And it was startling to them that she seemed to be always aware when they were watching. Still, they try not to dwell on that, or jump too much: they nod and rise stiffly, bones creaking as they pad over to Cornifer. He's fast asleep. So much that it almost seems cruel to wake him. But they tap his shoulder anyway, and wait.

Cornifer mumbles and rolls over, snout twitching. Then he opens his eyes, blindly reaching for his spectacles. "Ah, morning dearie," He chirps, reaching out and patting Hollow's cheek like they were Iselda. Then, pausing upon feeling a cold mask instead, he states, "Oh. No, you're Hollow. Hello friend!"

Their cheeks burn. The way he had spoken to them was so soft, so loving. And for a moment, he thought they were Iselda. (Because of course he wants his wife. Iselda, with her soft curves and soft hands. Not them. Never them. That thought should be a comfort, but it makes their heart ache, just a little.)

"You are blind as ever, Corny," Iselda muses, sitting at her spot.

“That I am, my love!” Cornifer finds his spectacles and puts them on before he hops out of bed and to his spot at the table.

And as they settle in for a less awkward-than-last-night meal, Iselda speaks first. "Hollow, I have a package I need to send to the City. Would you mind taking the Stagways and delivering it for me?"

"I could do that love," Cornifer begins to say through a mouthful of egg, but she raises a hand to silence him.

"Hollow can manage. They are more than ready to go out again." Iselda states.

The idea of returning to the city, returning to the world outside of Dirtmouth was a bit frightening. But nonetheless, despite the anxiety beginning to churn inside their chest, they nod. This was a job: one they could do. Even if the entire idea of leaving this safe nest was scary, even if being that close to a larger civilization was horrifying, they would help. And this task would aid them; get their mind off of things, give them something to focus on. Nodding affirmatively, they wordlessly agree. They will deliver the package. (And they will not think about the basement anymore.)

Iselda treats them well when she sends them off. She wraps a lunch in wax paper and puts it in a small cloth bag, where she also puts the small package. Then she gives them clear instructions on where to go, where to leave the package. They take the bag from her, nodding to show their understanding. And then, she and Cornifer wave them off as they exit the store, and make their way to the Stagway station. They make sure to return the wave with a shy, silent gesture. Then, with a final quick glance to Cornifer's smiling face and Iselda's gentle expression, they set off, heading down into the Stagways. 

(And they don't think about him. About the way he looked under them. About how close their faces were in the dark basement. They don't think about the burning heat, or the way it had felt to be so close.)

The journey is quicker than expected. The old stag eyes him warily, but allows the large knight to mount his saddle and ride. The City is still silent: free from infection, but devoid of most life. Empty, quiet in the way that places that were long abandoned tended to be. They remember their first visit here, the sound of their boots on the stone, the light of the towers glimmering above… They shake their head, pushing the memory away. That was not what they were here for.

The place they deliver the package to is sealed shut, but has a mail slot that the box slides in easily. After placing it inside, they begin their walk back to the Stag Station, trying not to dwell, not to think or stare around. The less people that saw them, the better. And yet, as they step along the rain-soaked path, they find themselves coming to a halt nearby a large, grand fountain. In the very center was a large statue— a memorial.

A memorial, to them.

Their dark, hollow eyes gaze up at this false idol; at this horrible rendition of them. The Hollow Knight, they as the savior meant to protect this city, this kingdom, and every bug inside of it, by means of sealing the infection away. By feeling nothing, they were to save everything. And as they watch the water run down along the stone edges carved so carefully to present a false savior, all they can feel is the weeping rivulets of failure pouring down their frame. They stare, in silence.

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The return journey is faster. The Stag knows the road better than Hollow ever could, so it's not long before they're back at the Station. When they emerge from the building, Dirtmouth is dead silent. (Not that it was ever anything else: not many souls lived here, they had learned.)

And when they approached the shop, something inside them twitched. Tells them not to enter; not yet. To listen. To look. To be… discreet. They pause, and they obey the feeling. Something feels… wrong. Not like an enemy in the area, or a threat, but something is… off. Their senses prick with it, something in the air that nags at them. They step slowly, quietly, and approach the front of the shop, peering through the window.

They get their answer.

Iselda has Cornifer pinned to the ground. It looks for a moment that she is attacking him: her hands holding his wrists down, hips straddling him. And he appears to be gasping, like he was choking for air. But he is also flushed red, and she's moving in a steady, rhythmic way, and— Hollow freezes.

Oh. That is… oh Gods, that is—

They watch, wide-eyed; staring at how he is flushed under her, how his chest heaves with his breathing, how heated his shell looks. (Oh gods.) And the way her hips are jerking, rolling back and forth in a way that is… (Oh GODS.) They should look away. They shouldn't watch this. They don't have the right to watch. But they can't help it. They're glued to this window.

It is a sight to behold.

Iselda was the one in control. She had him locked to the ground, and she was whispering things to him they cannot hear. But whatever she says has him thrashing, shaking, as her hips roll in rough, heady movements. They could not see anything too private, due to her long dress covering their laps. But they could imagine.

Gods, she was so powerful, and he was so soft. She is the very picture of dominance: the way she has him beneath her, the way she moves, the quiet whispers— and he is squirming, thrashing, his face burning red, whimpering out words they don't hear. The way his body buckles under her as she moves, the way her movements are so confident and sure…

They are enthralled. They can't look away.

Iselda releases his wrists, sitting back. Lifting herself, dropping down— quick, rough. And Cornifer throws his head back and makes a sound so loud, they could hear it through the glass. Pathetically cute mewls. She moves quicker, chasing the means to an end. Her own face is flushed, and she throws her head back shuddering as her peak crescendos, and she slams herself down and stills, cumming with a shudder so violent, it runs through her entire body. Cornifer arches up, lets out a choked cry, and he reaches that end with her, grasping at her hips so tight, he could tear the fabric of her dress.

They are hypnotized, watching this dance play out before them. It is so intimate. So personal. They should not be seeing this. But they cannot stop.

The pair sit there, panting, catching their breath. And then, slowly, she rises. He can see translucent, milky liquid spill down her thighs before her dress falls back into place, covering the evidence of their coupling. Cornifer lays on the floor, and they can see his— oh my. It was... impressively sized. Even as it slowly retreats back into his sheath, modest once more, Hollow cannot help but stare like someone starved. He's still so red, he's so soft: his flesh, his body, even his sheath is… (Oh Gods…)

Iselda moves to the counter to retrieve a rag, and she begins to clean off her thighs, then Cornifer's. Cleaning off what she and he had just done, the evidence now covered and washed away. (They have to look away now. They have to stop. They cannot watch this. It is so private, so intimate. But they cannot tear their eyes away.) She tosses the cloth in the hamper, and then they faintly hear her say, "Up, Corny. I am going to open the door, air out the shop before Hollow returns.” And then she approaches the door; surely, if she caught them now, she would know they saw everything.

They move— fast.

A blur of shadow and chitin, they leap back away from the window, into the cover of a nearby crumbling building, heart pounding like war drums in their chest. They press themself flat against the stone, breath shallow. Not a sound. Not a twitch. She must not know. (But what they saw… Cornifer beneath her, flushed and trembling… that softness… that size… it plays behind their eyes like fire.)

 The door creaks open. Iselda steps out briefly— just to air the shop— and glances around at the quiet village. The wind brushes past. Dust swirls. An impossibly long time seems to pass, with her standing there, and Hollow crouched in their hiding spot, hoping she wouldn’t see— please don’t see. Satisfied, Iselda steps back inside and shuts the door with a soft click.

Silence returns. But Hollow remains hidden… shaking… burning…

It takes a long time for the heat to dissipate beneath their shell to acceptable levels. Even though they were sexless, genderless, they still felt a warmth blooming in their body between their own legs. And it takes way too long to calm down to the point they feel... somewhat modest again. It takes far too much focus, too much discipline, to push the thoughts away. It takes too much time to get that image out of their mind: it is burned into their brain. They lean back against the cool stone, their head spinning. This wasn't good. They weren't supposed to see that. They cannot get those images out of their head. The way he was under her— that soft, soft body— the way she moved so confidently, the one in control.

Their breathing is too heavy. Their body feels taut. Tight. Hot— like that time in the basement, but far, far worse. It's almost unbearable. They press one heated hand against their mask, their other claw curling into the stone wall behind them. (Too much. Too much.) The Vessel was not made for this— this heat, this hunger, this silent yearning that coils in their gut like a roaring flame. They were built to hold a plague. To remain hollow. To remain empty. Not… to watch. Not to want. A shudder runs through them. (But they did.) And now there’s no unseeing it. Slowly, painfully, they straighten up.

Go back, says something cold inside them. Before you are seen again. Before you want again.

Finally, they do.

The bell rings, and Cornifer sits at the counter humming as he sketches. Iselda is stirring soup on the stove. (Like nothing happened.) But she walks with a very very faint limp, ladling the food into three bowls. "Hello, Hollow," she greets them, voice flat as always. "Did you manage okay?"

Hollow nods quickly. Too quickly. Their hands tremble slightly as they hand Iselda the empty bag— proof the package was delivered, that the meal was eaten. (In reality, they had tossed it to some stray critters, as they were not really hungry after seeing that statue.) They avoid eye contact with both of them, especially Cornifer. The image of him on the floor, flushed and trembling, still plays behind their eyes. They want to look at him— to see if he looks different, if he feels Iselda’s limp too— but they can’t. So they stare at the floor instead, gripping their board once more like it can save them.

Iselda nods approvingly. She must notice their tenseness as she always does, but she does not comment on it. "Good, I knew you could. Sit. Dinner is ready." A command, gentle but firm. And they obey, and they sit. She sets the bowls down, and then fills cups with more tea. Their hands are still shaking slightly as they take one of the bowls. The warmth of it soothes them— just a little.

Cornifer is chattery as always. Completely normal, maybe even seems happier! So chatty, as if he hadn’t just been pinned beneath Iselda, gasping and trembling and crying out like— Their claws dig into their thighs under the table. He’s happy. Radiant, even. There’s a glow to him now that wasn’t there before. And they… aren’t anything near as bright. They stare down at their soup, not eating.

(They can still hear his voice. Soft. Needy. Not for them.)

When it is time for bed, and Hollow has taken to the floor once more, they can only lay there for the longest time. Knowing Iselda and Cornifer were laying together, and just listening to the weevil’s snores. The couple didn't seem to try to do anything sexual while they had a houseguest; no, they had purposely waited until they were out of the house for that. They should be asleep by now. They want to be asleep.

But every time they close their eyes, the image is there— him under her, arching, whimpering, gasping out. They were not made to want. But it was impossible to ignore the way their body was burning. (The heat between their legs. The tightness in their stomach.)

It is a wonder they manage to sleep at all. Thank all the Gods they were incapable of dreaming.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

And so the routine continued.

Iselda now works carefully to avoid stepping on Hollow in the morning. There was always a third meal waiting. Hollow had grown quite proficient at using the board. Even with only the minimal phrases, they could now carry a full conversation with Cornifer with little need for paper. It helps that he does a lot of the talking. And they have also taken on various tasks. They fill the water. They sweep the shop. They harvest with Cornifer and practice writing with Iselda, to improve their penmanship.

It almost feels... domestic.

The shop is quiet, save for the scratch of a quill on paper and the distant murmur of Cornifer talking to himself just outside the shop, in a little herb garden. Hollow sits at the counter, carefully etching out a sentence on parchment. It takes time— each symbol deliberate, practiced. They’ve learned to shape letters much better now, not just point to words on the board helplessly. A combination of both. They write: ‘Hollow will help Iselda make a very good soup tonight.’

A moment later, Iselda walks over from her spot near the stove, and smiles faintly when she sees it. “You’re getting better,” she says softly. “Soon you’ll be writing stories.” 

Hollow doesn’t respond with words— they don’t have any— but they tilt their head down slightly, almost shyly, and draw another line: ‘Cornifer is talking to himself again.’

Iselda laughs— a light sound, but she really laughs as she covers her mouth. After a second she hums back, “That’s not a lie at all, is it?”

Outside, Cornifer's voice rises suddenly— something about parsley yields this season being “unprecedented!”

Hollow looks toward the door, then slowly draws another sentence: ‘He is very talkative, but it is nice.’

Iselda nods in her agreement. "Yeah," she says quietly. "He really is."

And for a moment— it doesn't feel like Hollow is just surviving anymore. They feel like… like they truly belong.

Iselda is almost always moving in the evenings. Always prepping dinner, always cleaning up. But tonight, she takes it easy. Sitting quietly in her chair, nursing a warm mug of milk and honey. A similar one sits by Hollow, untouched during their work. She takes a small sip, inhaling the sweet scent. The same scent she sometimes smelt like. "You know, most of our travelers are gone by now," She sighs, eyes closed. "I... am thankful you remain. You have been a welcome visitor."

Hollow stops writing. Their claw hovers over the parchment, a droplet of ink rolling down the tip of the quill and staining the paper beneath their hand. The words don’t come— at least, not the ones that want to come. Iselda is thanking them. Quietly, softly; with that rare stillness she only wears at night, when the shop is warm and her mug smells like sugar and sleep. They look at their own untouched drink— still warm— and then back to her. Their hands move more slowly now, as they etch out in ink: ‘You do not fear me?’

It’s a question they’ve never asked before. 

Iselda opens her eyes slightly. Looks at them— not as one might look at a weapon or an omen or even just anyone— but as someone who matters. "No," she says simply."I don’t." Then after a breath, she continues, "You’re all soft, beneath that sharp body of yours.” She reaches out as she says it, and her slender, smaller hand touches theirs. A warm, gentle thing that they felt they were undeserving of.

The simmering fire inside their core that had continued building over time amps up to a more present blaze. Still small, still controllable. But noticable. Iselda’s hand is so delicate, so fragile in comparison to them. Their own large claw looks strangely large, and beastlike next to hers: like a spear in contrast to a flower. The heat in them burns hotter, stronger now. A soft shudder runs through their frame, and their hand, almost unconsciously, twitches, claws curling as if wanting to grasp her in return. The feeling is strange; this feeling of heat, of hunger, burning beneath their void-chitin. It only seems to get worse when she speaks.

(She has no idea what her words do to them.)

Suddenly, the bell rings, and Cornifer's voice cuts through the silence, making Hollow jerk their hand back like they had been burned.

"I'm heading down to the Crossroads for a bit," Cornifer grumbles, collecting his large sack of supplies.

Iselda blinks, mildly surprised. "So late?"

"That damn fly told me I must not have really captured everything down there; he told me about a hot spring and I swear I have never seen one!" Cornifer huffs, and he looks uncharacteristically miffed.

"Corny, you know he is probably just teasing,” Iselda tries to tell him, sitting up a bit.

"I will not let him have one up on me! I shall not return until I have found that Spring, believe me!" And out the door he goes, before she or Hollow could protest any further. Gone— just like that. Storming off into the night chasing rumors and a hot spring that may not even exist. Hollow watches him go, their hand still stinging from the warmth of her touch.

And now it’s just them and Iselda in the quiet shop, firelight flickering across her face.  The silence is heavy. But not unwelcome.

She simply sighs, calling out, "Be safe, Corny!" Then she slumps a little in her seat. "Oh, I never like when he leaves like that. He's more distracted than usual..." She looks... smaller now. Without him here filling the space with words and movement. Slowly, she turns to Hollow again. "He always comes back," she says softly. "Always." 

Hollow wants to believe her. But all they can think about is how warm her hand felt— and how cold it feels now that it’s gone. Their claw twitches, as they try to calm their mind.

But Iselda is now restless. She stands, moving about the kitchen. "Well, no point in cooking a hot meal then. He'll be out all night. Probably won't even eat—" and she sounds frustrated at that. Cornifer once told Hollow the reason he was no longer frail and skinny was because Iselda made him eat three full meals a day. She must be upset, knowing he would be hungry and gone all night. It’s obvious, in the way she puts away the ingredients for soup in a quiet huff, withdrawing bread and jam from the cabinet. She deftly makes two sandwiches, then drops them both in front of Hollow. "Eat. Please." She sighs, collapsing back into her chair. "I know it is pathetic compared to most of our dinners. Forgive me."

Hollow looks at the sandwiches. They are simple. Nothing like the meals she normally makes. No soup or vegetables— just bread and jam. Plain. Simple. She’s not looking at them anymore; not really. She hasn’t looked at them since Cornifer left. They want her to look at them. They want that look to return, of her soft eyes and quiet smile. They want the warm touch of her hand.

But they simply  take a bite.

Iselda sits in her chair, arms crossed. Not even drinking her milk anymore. Staring at the door quietly. The warmth seems sapped from her demeanor, replaced with a cold worry. "...He always does this," she sighs. "Always lets Sly get under his shell. I wish that he would just stop talking to him."

Hollow listens and eats, their gaze flicking up at her every minute or so. She looks... tired. They want to speak. To offer comfort somehow. A touch, a gesture, any motion to take away the worry from her eyes and the frown on her lips. They want to reach out and take her hand, and tell her that it’ll be okay. But they are still. Quiet. Finishing the sandwiches at a steady pace, at her command.

And yet, she seems to be getting more antsy. Her leg begins to tap on the ground, and her fingers dig into her arms. Silence once more. Then—

"Ah, damn it all—!" She throws up her hands in frustration. "No point in sitting and waiting. He will be home when he finds that blasted spring which doesn't exist so he will never be home! What point do I have to wait!" She stands abruptly, moving over to the dresser. From there, she rips the bedroll out, tossing it to the floor none too gently. They flinch at her sudden motion, watching her silently.

Here, with her anger flaring, Hollow sees remnants of the beautifully fearsome warrior she once was. She must look terrifying, in full armour and her scythe. And she is furious. Her movements are angry. Quick. Sharp. There is something almost dangerous about the way she moves now. That soft, quiet nature is gone. In its place is a woman who is angered— not at them but at her husband— but no less fearsome.

After laying the bedroll out and tossing blankets over it, she then rips off her dress. Standing bare before them, all of her shapely curves on display and— Wow. She was not shy about changing. She pulls on a baggy sleepshirt that barely covers her lower half. And she slips the tie off her antennae, letting them hang low. They were insanely long.

Hollow’s heart is beating far too fast all of a sudden. All they can think about as they gaze upon her is how pale and smooth her shell is, and her bare body beneath her thin sleepshirt. She looks so very soft. So very delicate, like Cornifer. And her long antennae— they’ve never seen them down before. Thin and slender, like silk strings. For a moment, one foolish, selfish moment, they want very, very badly to touch them. Just to feel…

And then she turns on them. Anger flaring in her dark eyes. "Now then, let us go to bed. No point in waiting for Corny to come back." She is trembling with how mad she is.

They quickly look away, heart pounding. Her words are hard and sharp. She is furious, and it shows in her eyes, in her shaking hands. And they are staring. They know they are. She had just stripped bare, and they had been gawking at her like a fool. They know they should also respond. They know they should nod, or write out something on the parchment, anything to show they hear her. And yet they are silent.

When she gets no answer, suddenly she throws her hands up. "I don't understand sometimes! He's just— so soft and I hate that he goes out!" She begins to pace, restless. "I knew I was committing to a life of travel when I married him. I was okay with that! I am not okay with him running into danger!"

They watch her; how she paces back and forth, agitated and upset. She is afraid. So afraid that he may not return. She worries and she paces, and they want so badly to reach out and take her hands in their own. To press that soft, warm shell to their clawed fingers. Instead, they watch, trying to remain still and composed even as her words strike their heart.

And then, in a burst of fury, Iselda cries out, and swipes her arm across the entire counter. Dishes clatter to the floor. Some break. Parchment flutters, ink spills, her intricate map tokens go flying. And then, she is hunched over the counter, fingers digging into it. Panting sharply.

An explosive beauty. It was... incredibly attractive, Hollow is ashamed to admit. The only thought that can form in their mind is that she is stunning. She is a living contradiction. Soft and gentle, yet now she is a violent storm: eyes flashing and claws out. She is angry, and they watch her, the rise and fall of her chest. That thin sleepshirt, the bare curve of her hip, the soft shell of her thighs— it is intoxicating. They feel so guilty that they are basically staring at her like a pervert while she is clearly in distress…

As always, Iselda notices them staring. Of course she does, they were ogling her like a meal. And she sinks her teeth into that— metaphorically— as she turns on them.

"And you-!" She hops onto the counter. Crawling over to them, one ink-stained hand shooting out and gripping their jaw roughly. Ohhhh, the power she exuded was something else. Dizzying. "You always stare and stare and never act on a thing. If you're going to eye-fuck me, maybe you should put yourself to good use!" She snarls, and then she yanks their head up, and kisses them on their still-formed mouth; harsh, hungry.

And they are frozen.

Her hand is gripping them, and her mouth— her mouth— is against their own. She kisses them like she wants to devour them. She kisses them and grips them and presses herself against them and it is so much, and they are so very, very weak. Weak with the heat pooling in their core. Before they can process it, they are under her, their heart pounding at an impossible speed.

Taking control, she grasps at the front of their ragged cloak to yank them up, closer— lips still locked as her tongue darts out to deepen their kiss. And that simmer inside their core erupts into an inferno; pent up from it all. From the pairs’ soft words and touches. From being above Cornifer. From watching her lay claim to her husband. And now, from how deeply and fiercely she kisses them. She pulls them close until they are kneeling, and she is half laid back on the counter.

A very compromising position.

Iselda pulls away, panting, eyes searching them for any sign to back off. To stop. A sign for them to deny this, and she would obey. Their breath is ragged. Their body trembles— every muscle taut, every nerve alight. The kiss is gone, but her scent remains— warm milk and honey, ink staining her shell— and their lips still burn where she touched them. She searches their face, waiting for refusal.

But there is none.

They look at her with wide, desperate eyes full of something ancient and primal: want. Not words, nor thoughts. Just need. A low hum builds in their chest— the sound of void shifting violently beneath their shell. And slowly… they nod their head. (Don’t stop.)

Like an intelligent Goddess, Iselda reads them loud and clear. Hiking up her dress, she hisses, "I have seen that mouth of yours. Put it to good use, be a good pet." The way she speaks is filthy and titillating all at once. And they can smell her arousal in the air. (Need. Want. Desire.) Her legs parted to expose her slit.

The command. The words. It makes something in them snap.

They go to her without hesitation, grabbing her slender thighs and hauling her closer, claws digging into her beautiful shell. She is right— they have been watching, and they have hungered; starved. And she is right here, and they are far too gone to entertain the self-doubt inside themselves any longer. 

Their head descends; and Iselda throws her head back at the first touch, gasping.

Hollow is sadly quite cold— being all void— and she shivers under their frigid tongue. But she is blazing; sweet to the taste, and already showing evident signs of her excitement by how slick her cunt is. They taste her: slow at first, then with growing enthusiasm. She is hot. So hot. Sweeter than honey, more delicious than anything they have ever tasted. And she shivers under their cold tongue, gasping: one of her hands grips the horn of their mask, panting, fingers tightening like she might fall apart right then and there.

They want that. They want to make her break.

Their void-tongue presses deeper into her folds, slow and deliberate— teasing now— because they’ve waited so long to do this. And now she’s theirs, just for this moment. And by all the Gods above, they wanted to savor every last moment of this. Lapping at her slit, tasting her slick, maw buried between her legs as they worship her in the most intimate way.

Her breath hitches. "G-Good pet..." she moans softly, hips twitching upwards. The praise does something to them. It makes heat burst inside their belly, which is coiling tight with need. And the longer they lick and taste at her cunt, the more it spasms against their mouth. Her hips roll, rocking against them, and her breath is heavy, quick. As they push their impressively long tongue inside, her slit was impressively tight, powerful muscles tensing as her body jerks, and her gasping becomes more ragged. She moans again.

Pet.

They liked that nickname on her tongue. The word burns in their mind— pet— over and over, spoken in that low, filthy voice. It makes something shift deep inside them; the hollow part of them that was made to obey, to serve. And she is their Goddess now. Their Queen. They moan silently against her— shaking, reverent— as they push deeper with their tongue, curling it just right.

Her back arches violently. She lets out a broken gasp, fingers twisting hard around their horn. Gripping it so tight, she might snap it off with enough force. “Y-yes—” she hisses between clenched teeth. “Just like that… good pet~”

That name again… it makes something inside them thrive; heated, alive.

It does not take long until she regains her control, and adjusts them so that she can fully ride their face, slick against their mask, both hands gripping their horns, back arched and moaning freely. Their own hands had slid under her backside, to angle her hips up, to be able to plunge deeper. Using only their mouth to satisfy her, to make her groan and tremble. Coiling it deeper, being such a good pet. And their tongue is long— longer than it has any right to be— and dexterous and flexible. And they put it to good use, twisting and delving and licking into her core.

They want to do this for hours, days, even weeks. They would die just to be a perfect good pet, just for her. They want to hear her moan like this over and over and over again. They need it.

They are possessed.

Of course, while Hollow had the stamina to worship her slit for hours, all good things came to an end. Iselda’s voice pitches higher, higher, she begins to babble uncontrollably. Praising them (good pet, good good, so good, just like that.) Her hips wildly jerking up, chasing her peak, nearly there and— Her whole body goes rigid, back arching, hips grinding down, as she clenches tight around their tongue and she reaches that crescendo with a broken cry of their name.

"H-Hollow—!"

And liquid honey spills around their tongue: her slick dripping down their jaw. Addicting and sweet, so hungry, hungry. She cums hard, and they drink— devour— relish every shuddering cry, every pulse around their tongue. Her warmth flooding their mouth, her thighs clamp tight against their head, and she screams their name like a prayer.

"Hollow!"

It echoes in the silent shop. Raw. Carnal. And something deep inside them shatters into nothing more than that primal urge to satisfy, to satiate the hunger within them. They don’t pull away, no, they keep licking; gentle now, slow, a cool caress over her flesh. Their chest burns with something new: pride. Possession. A quiet, trembling joy they weren't meant to feel. Her pet. Her Hollow.

And for the first time… their name doesn’t sound so empty.

Eventually, she devolves into little whimpers of oversensitivity, thighs twitching, panting against the counter. Her chest heaving, she releases their horns, mumbling, "Mngnn... you are going to... I can’t…"

At that, Hollow finally pulled back; slowly, reluctantly, their now-heated tongue retreating with one last, soft lick. Their mask is slick. Their jaw glistened with her essence. And they look at her— flushed, trembling, utterly undone— and feel something deep in their core thrum with satisfaction.

Iselda mumbles into the counter like she’s half-dead from pleasure. "You're going to... kill me..."

And they tilt their head slightly; the smallest gesture of pride, as if to say: Worth it. Then, quietly, they reach for a cloth from the shelf and hand it to her. To help care for her. Iselda takes it. And she begins the process of cleaning. First, she gently cups their jaw, wiping her slick from their mask. Brushing a kiss to their cheek before she wipes her own thighs off next.

They shiver under that kiss. The touch of her lips on their shell is warm, gentle, intimate in a way they never thought they could allow. And when she pulls away, they want nothing more than to pull her back— to bury their head into her shoulder and taste her shell again. But this moment of silence is fragile. This peace, delicate. After a long moment, they reach out, gently tracing their fingers over the marks they left on her thighs; marks they hadn’t even realized that they had made.

Tiny cuts into the shell, they bleed lightly, blood bubbling at the surface. But a few swipes of the rag, and they are just left as pinpricks in the chitin. Iselda tilts her head up to look at them, and she must sense the worry inside their soul, for all she says is, "Those will heal." And then, she sits up properly, grimacing at the state of the house.

Messy in her anger.

Then her gaze turns to Hollow. "Um... do you want me to..?" One of her claws reach over, to gently touch their chest. Suddenly shy, eyes flickering down between their legs, at the smooth, sexless expanse, then back up again.

Hollow doesn’t say anything. They just shake their head. And then they gently grab her hands, drawing her off the counter and into a brief, tight embrace. They hold her close, relishing the heat of her body against their coldness. After a few heavy heartbeats, they pull away. Their fingers brush against her cheek, loving. It doesn't matter if they reached any sort of peak like that— they weren’t even sure they could— as long as she was happy. And then; in the glow of the light, as they stare at her body with admiration, the blue gem around her neck is seen, glinting. The blue gem sways with her unsteady breathing, glimmering like a star. And reality crashes hard into them like a blade to the chest.

They had betrayed Cornifer. They had betrayed him and touched his wife.

His laugh. His warmth. The way he smiles at her when she scolds him, how he brings her flowers from his travels, how he trusts them enough to let them stay under his roof— And they had touched her in a way only he should. They broke sacred trust in the deepest way possible.

Hollow’s hands curl into fists— sharp claws biting into their own palms— and their head lowers in shame. No more pride or warmth fills them; only regret, only guilt. They want to say something— anything— to take it back. And yet, a selfish part of them continues to hunger, to want more.

Iselda looks at them, a tad confused. "Hollow...?" And then, distantly. They both hear it. Familiar humming as someone ascends the well. And when the sound registers in her mind, the weevil panics a little. "Ah. I need to hurry and clean this mess— please, help me, will you?" She slips off the counter, and crouches to begin collecting large shards of broken glass.

Her panic sparks a new fear in them. They don't have time to argue, or dwell on their own emotions. They help her quickly, wordlessly picking up shattered dishes and tossing them into a bucket, trying to get all the pieces of broken glass swept away before Cornifer returns. And yet the whole time, something deep inside them burns, threatening to swallow them whole.

The mess is cleaned in record time. Sure, the ink stained on the stone cannot truly be washed away, and the ruined parchment sits visible in the trash. But the shop is properly put together when the bell rings, and Cornifer enters. He pauses in his step, and seems puzzled. Looking between the pair, his brow furrowed. They tense involuntarily. They feel like he knows. Knows exactly what happened while he was gone. Knows they were alone and she was soft and needy against them. Knows she has marks on her thighs from their claws—

Did he know what Hollow did to his wife?

Then Cornifer says, "Well, that damn fly was right. There was a spring. Suppose we check it out properly sometime together, hm?"

Hollow stares at Cornifer. Stares and stares and try to remain composed as their heart pounds, and their mind is drowning with the taste of her, and all the terrible ways this could go wrong. Their body trembles, their claws clenched tight.

Iselda speaks, in absence of Hollow's ability to. "Suppose we will." And she adjusts her shirt, sighing. "It is late. We should sleep. Lay down, Corny, I will be up soon." Hollow cannot help but continue to remain tense, still and silent as she speaks to him. But he nods, tossing his sack aside and climbing into bed with a jolly hum.

Soon enough, he begins snoring.

When they hear that, their breath leaves them in a heavy exhale. The tension goes out of their body in an instant. Still, they remain staring up at Cornifer— at his sleeping form— almost waiting for something to happen. For him to suddenly wake, to leap out of bed and cry out, to scream at them in a rage for betraying his trust. But he doesn't.

Iselda is quiet a moment longer. Then, she turns, and gently touches their arm. "Thank you. I needed that." Taking their hand, and brushing a kiss to the knuckles, before she climbs into bed. She goes and lies down on her side; just lies down like nothing has happened. And then she is soon asleep.

That touch to their arm makes Hollow shiver slightly. The feeling of her lips on their knuckles makes something burn in their chest. They stand in the silence for another moment— watching her, still waiting for the world to start crashing down— before they reluctantly return to their bedroll, flattened out on the cold stone floor. And they lie there. Staring at the ceiling, unable to close their eyes. Sleep is slow to come. But it does take them.

The silken doll’s back arches, her petite claws digging into the satin sheets beneath her as her body quivers. The source of her pleasure was one tricky little weaver— maw buried between Lace’s plush thighs and currently dragging her tongue over the length of her lover’s cunt. It was an infuriatingly pleasurable feeling; one that Lace had to admit she’s gotten addicted to.

And what luck she has, that she has a mate with such an intense oral fixation? One that is so pathetically obvious, that she notices Hornet’s eyes glued to the space between her legs when Lace so much as sits back in relaxation: legs parting faintly and revealing the barest traces of the swell of her pubic mound. Oh, how the weaver trembled with such hunger, that Lace could only feign ignorance. Just to watch her squirm, just to watch her fur stand on end, just to see her stoicism crack until she was practically sinking to her knees before the silk being in worship— begging for the honor of tasting her.

Well, it was certainly a fun form of foreplay.

One that Lace would have to admit has her carefully crafted slit— the one sewn to perfection by both her and Hornet’s hands— becoming slick with arousal. While her body could not secrete the traditional set of pheromones bugs of flesh and blood could, she’s learned that her very soul will leak out with her hunger, and Hornet’s once describe the scent and taste as euphoric.

Really, the Weaver knew how to flatter a girl.

Lace lets out a moan that flutters like a song as Hornet’s rough tongue continues to drag over the slicken lips of her opening. She moves one hand down to begin petting over the horn of her lover’s mask, watching how the other shudders beneath the affection. It spurs her on to do more; her hands gripping the outer parts of Lace’s thighs and pulling her legs open wider. Her tongue drags along the folds once, twice, and then presses inside her.

Hips twitching, Lace lets out a soft gasp of surprise, her head falling back again against the pillows. Her silken hair splays out behind her like a glowing hallow, and her lips part in a symphony of moans. Even so, even when at the mercy of the weaver’s tongue, she still finds her teasing tone, her taunts.

“My my, you little minx~ So hungry, s-s-sooo eager to taste me~ How does it feel, l-little spider, to consume th-e very ess-sence of my—” Lace’s hips twitch upwards again as Hornet’s tongue presses deeper, curling and coiling inside her in ways that made the silk being see stars. “—aah-haaah~ the essence of— my v-very being~?”

Hornet groans in response, pressing herself more insistently against Lace’s slit. Trying to press her tongue deeper, trying to fuck the appendage inside her mate. Her dark eyes are lidded, dizzy by her arousal, drunk on the taste.

Oh, the sight was beautiful.

Lace whimpers a bit, curling her thin fingers around the horn of Hornet’s mask, and she begins to grind her cunt against the weaver’s face, shuddering at the sensation. Her clit throbs with the pressure, and having some attention finally to it has gasping moans spill from her, eyes closing for a moment. “Hn— yes, yes, taste me, defile me, spider—!” Despite her eager motions, Hornet pulls back some, earning a frustrated growl from Lace. “What are you—”

“You taste divine, my dearest,” Hornet purrs, and the pet name is so uncommon and so filthily said, that Lace feels a fresh pulse of arousal rush over her. She shivers, thighs pressing together, her pussy achingly ignored now. But Hornet doesn’t leave her wanting long; she presses two of her fingers at Lace’s cunt, collecting some of the dripping slick before she presses them inside her. “Let me bring you to your completion.”

The feeling of being stretched open makes Lace’s head throw back, pressing into the pillow as an open, wanton moan escapes her. Fisting her claws in the satin sheets again, panting as her legs automatically part wider to accommodate the weaver’s intrusion. A shudder runs through her, and Lace has to fight through the fog of arousal and hunger building inside her to find her words.

“You… dirty… horrid… lustful…” Hips twitch, another moan spilling from her as those claws deep inside her curl and press at the sensitive walls of her slit. “Ohhhhh my— fffffffff…” Lace whines sharply, rocking her hips to try and fuck herself on those deliciously long fingers. “—terrible, terrible weaver— disgustingly… needy spider—!”

“You say such cruel things about me, and yet…” The fingers curl again, pressing against nerves that has the silken being jerk and cry out. A fresh wave of slick gushes out around Hornet’s fingers, which makes the weaver’s mouth water. But she resists the urge to just consume, and rather focuses on her mate’s pleasure instead. She thrusts her fingers quicker, watching how Lace squirms and whines louder. “You are the one who is soaked.”

“Terrible— terrible—!” But Lace feels that familiar coil tightening inside her core, and she shudders as she keeps grinding down against her mate’s fingers, pale eyes closing as she tries to chase that feeling, tries to get more, more of that delicious pleasure.

Hornet ducks down, angling the thrusts of her fingers just so, as her tongue swipes over the neglected swollen clit at the apex of her lover’s cunt. And that makes Lace squeal, thrashing beneath Hornet’s touch and babbling almost incoherently. Hornet uses her other arm to firmly pin the other’s hips to the bed, so that she can focus on ruining her. Tongue swirling around, and then lips closing, sucking on her clit with perfected precision. Her two fingers fucking into her deeper, angled just perfectly combined with the pressure on Lace’s pelvis.

And Lace just feels herself uncontrollably barreling to the point of no return; claws scrambling, breathing picking up, her cunt throbbing as she feels the pleasure mount higher and higher. Her voice pitching up, her words useless as she doesn’t know whether to beg for more, for mercy, for—

Singing. No, not Shakra's. Not Hornet either. A deeper voice, a man. His voice spilled out sorrowfully from the halls, somewhere. A mournful song. Mourning, mourning who?

Tiso’s breath catches. The song— low, haunting, echoing through the stone— pulls at something deep in his chest. Not happiness. Not rage. But grief. Freezing where he stands, his eyes close for a moment, letting the sound wash over him. It… reminds him of someone he once knew.

Someone warm and full of light. Someone he held close to himself in the desert. Someone he had loved so quickly and so intensely, that he never believed he could love another the way he loved him.

None of it matters now. He needed to focus. That voice: it’s old, weary, carrying a weight so heavy and sorrowful, that it almost brought Tiso to tears. "...who are you crying over?" he mumbles, continuing forward, toward the sound; steps quiet against marble now instead of loud with his rushings from before.

And a cold possibility slips into his mind— What if it's her?

His heart stops for one breathless second before pushing forward again; walking faster this time and not caring about who heard him anymore. He needed to find her— he needed to find who was so ruined with grief, that all they could do was sing.

"Hornet!"

The twisting halls are no longer silent. When he enters a room, threaded silk bursts into the room from the ceiling, raising the dead. He comes across white-clothed choir people, bugs similar to the ones who had taken Hornet to this place. On top of that, the path becomes like a labyrinth: winding and confusing.

Turns and twists and platforms to climb. Massive constructs twice his size guard the pathways towards the mournful song. Tiso’s heart pounds in his chest. Every breath comes short from the run and the hope and the fear— a dizzying mix he's never felt before. He fights back wave after wave of panic, cutting down every puppeted body and every enemy in his way with vicious brutality, shield in hand: as if they were all the same ones who had hurt her.

How far has she gotten? How well has she fought? Is she even alive? All he knows is that he will destroy anything in his way: for her.

When he finally enters the where the song is loudest, he sees her. She sits next to someone, with silk threaded along her needle, and she plays it like a beautiful bandolin. (A needolin?) It sounds ethereal, pure. Besides her, a tall figure. A mantis? Not one from Hallownest, a different species then, perhaps. He is green, and looks regal; perhaps he was once a prince. He stands over two bodies; two mechanical beings that were similar to him in appearance, but brown, constructs.

They lay broken, in each other's arms like a pair of deceased lovers. And the Green Prince sings mournfully over the bodies, as Hornet plays the needolin, eyes closed. Perhaps, she too was mourning then. But what? Mourning her family? Mourning her siblings? Mourning her lost eggs? But she sat, in mourning, besides this Green Prince. And the music was beautiful, and heartbreaking all at once.

Tiso freezes in the doorway, breath stolen from his chest, from his body, from this— the quiet sorrow of this moment. The raw, fragile beauty. Hornet’s expression softened, her fingers dancing over the thread with a grace he's never seen, and that song… gods, that song wraps around his heart and squeezes. He had been so sure she was avoiding it; that she was running far from the grief that threatened to consume him when their eggs were lost. But here, in this moment? He knew truly that she had not tried to avoid it.

She stepped right into it. She had lost life that was meant to be their purpose, and she found another who seems to have lost everything too.

Tiso lowers his shield slowly, the metal clinging of his armor suddenly feeling too loud, too harsh against such stillness. He takes one quiet step forward... then another… until he reaches her side. Without a word, he kneels behind her— close enough to feel the warmth of her back against his chest— and places one hand gently on her shoulder. "...I'm here," he whispers, voice rougher than before. "I’m sorry I wasn't sooner."

Her fingers pause, and the threads vanish from the needle. She turns her head, white mask glistening in the light, black eyes wide in surprise. "Tiso. You came." Her voice is uncharacteristically soft, and he can really take a good look at her now. She looks exhausted. Her frame is thin and gangly, her fur falling out, and he could still see the horrible scars on her stomach and body even if he closed his eyes.

Eleven weeks in this place had worn her down. She was tired. She was aged. She was near her breaking point.

Seeing her weary down to her the deepest parts of her pains him almost violently in his chest. He aches to reach out and pull her into his arms. To comfort her, and tell her everything would be okay. But he can tell by the guarded nature of her eyes, the tightness still in her shoulders, that she's still holding up her emotional defenses right now. Still fighting. So he lets himself rest his hands on her shoulders, and chooses not to force her through his need to console.

She was strong.

"Of course I did," he says quietly, his voice soft. "I'll always come for you."

And Hornet, the warrior-princess-knight, who had put up every guard since the day they first met, melts into his touch. Collapses against him like she has never been held, eyes shut, needle clattering to the ground as she grips his armour with both hands. A deep, heavy sigh escapes her. But no more sound. Tiso holds her— really holds her— for the first time in what feels like forever. Not in battle. Not after passion. But in a quiet, shattered state. The way they hold one another is desperate, like they were the only solid thing left in a crumbling world.

And maybe they are.

The Green Prince watches them a moment longer. Before he gently pets the head of one of the broken automatons, and then he stands and he leaves, without a word to either of them. To mourn elsewhere, to leave them in their quiet peace together. They were not a pair of dead lovers, and so, he should not bring them any misery.

Tiso rests his chin gently on top of her mask, voice low and emotional against her. "...I’ve got you. I’ve got you now.” The silence that follows isn’t empty anymore— it’s full of life, of love, of something fragile but real. And for once, he doesn’t care about strength, and he doesn’t care about pride. All he wants is just this— the weight of her leaning into him, and the truth that neither of them has to carry it all alone anymore.

They share the moment in silence. A long moment of just holding one another. Mourning the loss of their eggs. The loss of innocence. The pain of leaving Tamer behind. And Tiso could feel that something else weighs heavy on her. He could see new scars around her neck and wrists and ankles that resemble shackles. Just holds her a second longer— feeling the tremor in her breath, the scars beneath his fingers like silent screams. And so badly does he want to ask what happened, and kill whoever that had dared to hurt her. There would be no reason, no use to try and force the answers out of her.

But perhaps, another time, and she might share her pain then. For now…

"I have to finish this." Hornet whispers.

Tiso doesn’t let go right away. Instead, he pulls back just enough to look at her and says quietly: "Then I’ll finish it with you." No boast, no arrogance. Just a promise. He stands, then offers his hand to her.

"This is not your fight, Tiso." Nonetheless, Hornet takes his hand and stands. Squeezes, and then she lets go, pushing him away again. "You are not a weaver. You cannot fight against these challenges like I can. You cannot fight against these haunted threads. You will be in danger."

"No," he says— firm, but not angry. He knew he wasn’t going to just sit back and do nothing; not this time. He steps forward again, shield rising with a quiet click as it locks into place on his arm. "You don't get to decide what's my fight. I didn’t cross the entire Wastelands just to watch you vanish again. If you walk, I walk beside you. If you bleed, I bleed with you. That’s not up for debate." He meets her gaze, unflinching. "...And if your war is against something as simple as threads… then I’ll break every damn loom in this cursed place until none are left to bind you."

Hornet stares back at him. They were warriors. Champions of Hallownest. And while Pharloom was far larger and grander, she knew that she could face it. She had already, for ten weeks alone, and now one week with Tiso. So, finally, she nods, and softly concedes. "Alright then. We’ll fight together."

Tiso doesn't smile. But something in his chest unclenches— tight for so long, like a fist ready to strike the world— and for the first time since he stepped into this cursed ruin, he feels... right. "...good," he says simply. Then he turns, raising a hand in one direction, and he says, "Lead the way, Princess." 

And together, they step forward deeper into the Citadel’s broken halls. Not as one blindly following another, but as two warriors forged inside the sorrow and the loss… Finally whole again.

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It is a blur, the next tasks they must do.

Hornet and Tiso dart around the Citadel and Pharloom, retrieving forgotten melodies meant to unlock the path that leads higher in the Citadel, where the unknown puppetmaster must lay in waiting. The weaver learns them, plays them at the gate, and when it unlocks, they then take a lift upwards. However, there is a moment where Hornet steps ahead, out onto a field of flowers, and the door shuts behind her, sealing Tiso in the elevator. It suddenly drops, and slams into the ground, sending him sprawling and grunting in pain. And then, the door opens to a room behind him. Inside there, the dead rise again. Forty, maybe fifty standing from where they had laid frozen in time, and began shambling towards him.

An arena.

"No," he shouts, looking up to try and see her— then the door slams shut with a final clang, cutting off Hornet from view. He turns slowly, shield rising as the haunted surround him, their hollow moans filling the hall like a funeral chant. Fifty? Sixty? It doesn't matter: they want to test him, fine. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders, and takes a deep breath, his voice steady as he says, "Come on then. Let’s see how many of you want to play." And he charges, not waiting for them to attack first. Because if there’s one thing Tiso knows, it’s that he doesn’t wait for the fight; he charges into it headfirst.

The fight is long. Gruesome and endless.

Similar to his trials, it is a test of everything he has ever known, and he can feel his skill returning: forgotten agility and strength flooding him. He can distantly hear Hornet, fighting her own battle. Angry, and violent. Holding her ground just above him. So he cuts his way through that arena with brutal grace. Shield smashing in skulls. Fist punching through fragile frames. Feet crushing heads. For once, he doesn't hold back, and he enjoys it. Not the killing itself— never that— but the adrenaline. The power. The thrill of breaking what was sent to break him. He doesn't even care if this is where he dies, because if this is his last fight, he'll fight like hell to make sure Hornet wins.

When Tiso has slain the last one, a familiar white figure appears, standing above him on a platform: Lace, with her gilded pin, watching.

The building trembles as Hornet fights on the platforms above. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, standing alone amid the carnage. His armor is spattered with blood, his shield dented and cracked in places… but he's on his feet still. "Come to congratulate me?" he snarls, voice harsh now. "Or to mock me for getting separated from her again?"

"She's going to die." Lace is no longer using her sickly sweet tone. No taunting or laughter. Her voice sounds tight with hidden emotion; her grip on her gilded pin is firm. "Hornet is fighting my Mother. The trap those snails have laid reeks of the Void. She and my Mother both will be consumed by it, and both will be lost."

And for a moment, Tiso's bravado vanishes.

Something cold and terrified flashes across his face as he looks up at Lace— and then it is gone, locked away behind that cold anger. "Bullshit," he says softly, the words almost a curse. "She's stronger than anyone I've ever met. She'll find a way. She'll survive. I'll make sure she does."

"You speak so confidently." Lace grips her pin tighter. “But she is doomed to die. She will die for her stupid hero complex, die to save this damn Kingdom that has done nothing for her.” Her gaze moves away from him, staring at a small window, high above Tiso. One that he'd never reach in time.

His breath stops. Tiso doesn’t think— he moves.

He sprints for the wall beneath that window, shield flung aside without hesitation; just a raw, desperate need to save her. He leaps, grabs a crack in the stone, pulls himself up with every ounce of strength left in him. “Hornet!” he roars through the glass: not a warrior no more, but a mate drowning in fear. But there’s no answer from beyond; only silence and distant tremors shaking dust from above like rain. And all he can do as he hangs there is cling to that impossible hope that if anyone can defy fate, it's her. But he won’t wait for any sort of decision from the universe. Even if he has to break every thread in this wretched place, he’ll drag her back from the edge of death before letting go.

Then, Lace moves.

She slams her body through the glass window, sending shards flying. The force of it all surprises him, and Tiso’s grip falters on the ledge. He nearly falls, slipping down and barely managing to hold on. And then, all he can hear is a screech, a cry, and—

Time stops. For one breathless second, everything just pauses. And in that moment— just a heartbeat— Tiso can do nothing but listen to the sounds; imagine the worst. And in the next breath, life comes rushing back. "Hornet!" he cries, trying to pull himself back up, as if he could stretch his limbs through time and somehow save her.

The building rumbles. The walls crack violently, and the ledge he holds onto snaps off. The floor caves in, and Tiso too, is sent plunging into the darkness below. He doesn't fight. He doesn't move. He just... falls. And for once in his life, he feels true and utter fear, but that isn’t what breaks him. Not the fear nor the darkness: it's not knowing if he would ever see her alive again.

Falling— weightless, breathless, helpless; and then, everything goes black.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When Tiso awakens, it is in a pit of ruins and destruction. It’s so dark, he could barely see. He pushes himself to his feet with shaky arms. Every breath tastes of dust, every muscle aches, every joint feels like it's been stretched far past what it should hold: but he can move. That's all that matters.

A lantern sits nearby, cracked, but functional; its dim glow shimmering in the dark. He picks it up, holding it upright as it illuminates just enough to show a crumbled mess of rubble and stone all around him. "Hornet. Hornet!" he calls, coughing on a mouthful of dust. "Hornet, can you hear me?!"

"Ti— so!!" Her voice punches through the darkness. When he moves forward a couple steps, he can see her, wedged under a collapsed section of wall. She thankfully seems to not be fatally injured: more stuck than anything. "Tiso—!"

Tiso almost cries when he sees her. Alive and breathing. Alive and calling his name. Alive. "Hornet," he breathes, rushing towards her, and crouching beside the fallen wall. "I'm here. I'm right here." He kneels at her side, reaching out to take her hand through the rubble. "You alright? Can you move?"

"Yeah, my leg is caught. Can you lift this, just a bit? I can wiggle out, I need help." Hornet props herself up the best she can in her predicament. Indeed, her leg seems to be firmly beneath the collapsed wall, and try to claw her way out as she might, she was truly stuck.

"I've got ya. I've got you," he says firmly, already reaching under the rubble to get a grip on the stone trapping her leg. "Just relax a second. Let me get you out." And with one hard tug, he wrenches the rubble off her. "There. There you go."

Clambering out, she puts weight on her trapped leg. Wincing a bit, she stumbles, but stands upright. Then, she throws her arms around him in a painfully tight hug. "I thought you had—" She begins, shaking her head. "Lace, she…” And something unspoken, yet painful swirls in her dark eyes, in her voice.

Tiso returns the hug just as fiercely, pulling her tight against him like he'll never let go. He shuts his eyes, feeling her breathe against his chest, her arms around him, and every muscle in his body suddenly just… relaxes. "I know," he breathes, resting a hand carefully in her hair. "I saw… at least, I saw what I could. I'm just… glad you're alive. Everything else, everyone else can wait—"

Something whispers behind them, and Hornet shrieks, "Watch out!!"

She yanks him to the side, and a wisp of Void launches past them, before dissipating. The ground rumbles violently, and a violent, distant scream echoes. Hornet stands up again, looking around. "Void…” She whispers, eyes flickering back and forth. “...it was a Void trap. It didn't work; she's still fighting it."

He stumbles when she pulls him to the side, almost losing his balance completely. Still, he keeps a tight hold on her. "A… a Void trap," he echoes, eyes wide as he looks around, searching the darkness for what he can't see. "She's still alive? How the hell do we stop this?"

"I don't know. We need to—" She begins pacing, limping on her injured leg. "The Snail Shamans. They didn't tell me it wouldn't fully work. They didn’t even tell me it was— I need to go back to them, and figure out how to fix this. If the Void is here, then, it's going to consume us all soon."

Tiso frowns, noticing the way she's walking. "You're hurt. You can barely walk." He steps closer, taking her shoulder. "Let me look at your leg. You're not going anywhere until it's at least patched up." Hornet begins to protest, but she huffs, and sits on a piece of rubble, sticking her leg out for him to see. There was a large gash running along the side, oozing blood and making her fur wet and sticky.

"Tch. This is bad," he mutters, already tearing a strip from his own cloak. (He’s careful to stay far away from the patch of glimmering blue near the top.) "You’re losing blood and pushing through pain like it’s nothing. Stubborn as always." He kneels carefully, pressing the cloth against the gash with firm hands— his touch precise. "Hold still. I’m not letting you bleed out just because you want to play hero again." His voice drops, a low threat: "And don’t think I won’t carry you every step of the way if you try to run off.”

"It's not bad. I can walk. We have no time to waste, Tiso." Despite her protests, she allows him to wrap the wound up, and then she stands again. Less wobbly. Wincing a little, but seems more stable. "We have to hurry. If Void continues to spread, Pharloom is doomed."

Tiso stands with her, hand still on her arm— not to stop her, but to steady. "Then we move. Fast. Together." After a moment of scanning their environment, he grabs his battered shield from the rubble and slings it back on its holster, and then turns to face the dark path ahead. "If you fall, I’ll carry you.” And without another word, he steps forward, shoulder-to-shoulder with her. Not behind. Not ahead. Besides, because this fight isn’t hers alone anymore.

It’s theirs.

The trip back to Moss Grotto is perilous. The area is too quiet: no buzzing, no song. Just the thick silence in damp air, and the faint rumbling of Void lingering at the edges. It had infected the land;  bumbling creatures more easily fought before now attacked with a feral viciousness.

Hornet is the one who helps Tiso weave and dodge. She has fought vessels and Void before, and she seems to know well how it will attack. And the deeper they enter the humid, grassy, mossy grotto, the more Hornet has grown angrier: her injured leg forgotten as she stomps ahead, calling out to the Snail Shamans to find them as they enter a ruined building.

Tiso follows close behind, watching her; how she limps but refuses to slow, how her fists are clenched tight around her needle. Worry floods him, but he does well to hide it: she was strong, and she didn’t need him babying her every step of the way. So instead, he tries to turn his attention to these snails she was in search of. "Tch," he mutters under his breath, scanning the shadows. "They’re hiding like cowards."

A soft sloshing comes from deeper in: the sound of a squishing, wet body dragging over stone. One snail emerges slowly. Then another. Their eyes glow faintly with pale light— something old and deep watching Tiso and Hornet. "We knew not…" one begins, voice trembling like wind through reeds as they falter. "The seal was meant to hold."

Hornet whirls on them— furious, wounded pride flaring hot in her voice. "Cowards! Hiding away despite your hand in the falling of this Kingdom!!” She slams her fists against the cracked walls, and the entire building rumbles and trembles. Another distant scream follows, almost as if summoned by her anger. “Caretaker, you knew, and yet you sent me to use such a cursed spell—!”

The one known as the Caretaker sat up, holding their staff tight. “You seem a bit upset there, Old One. We only did as you asked of us, hm? The creature has been trapped, the monarch has fallen—”

“You ensnared it inside of the Void!” Hornet snaps.

“Oh, don’t act so surprised!” Caretaker huffs. “You know what fixations our family has, so surely, you had some sort of hunch.”

“How else could we have any hope of catching a pale one?” The largest one scoffs, his inky black skin dripping slime onto the tile of the chapel floor. “How else could we see her consumed so well, so efficiently?”

“You miscalculated, in all your plans!” Hornet hisses, and then she looks down at the stone, as if a pain had washed over her. “The White Knight… Lace… she has been swallowed by the Void, with her mother.”

One of the snails, hunched over and leaning on her staff, lets out a little giggle. “Ohhh hohoho… The quaking of the Earth? We feel it, even in our little hiding spot. The Grand Mother of the Silk resists even the darkest abyss to save her dear child… how peculiar…” The old woman shakes her head.

The bitter back and forth only spurs a growing unease inside of Tiso; each word hitting him. He feels the wrongness of it all now; like a sour taste in his mouth. How doomed was this trap meant to be? How doomed was Pharloom, if even these Shamans could not help? “Enough,” he growls, clenching his hands into fists. “Enough arguing with her. We need to know how to stop this Void.”

The old crone waves her stick. “Oooohhh, how unfortunate a corner we have pushed ourselves into. The resisting mother will doom all of Pharloom to her flailings. We can only sit back and watch the land be consumed by the Void,” she states, almost gleefully.

Hornet paces for a moment. She looks like she is twitchy, like she wanted to stick her head in a bell and bang it. Like she was in desperate need of some sensory input. And Tiso wants to reach out to her, to help, but… The weaver takes a deep breath, and says, “Maybe, but I’m not going to sit by and watch this Kingdom crumble. I’ll descend into the Abyss below, and rescue Lace. I will not let the dark take that life.”

Tiso watches her— that wild, desperate look in her eyes— and he knows what she's thinking. He can see the plan taking shape already. Not a chance in hell, not a chance in hell, is he letting her descend into the Void alone. He clenches his hands again, and starts, “Hornet—”

But then, she turns on the Snail Shamans, pointing a black claw at them. “Down below, the docks by the burning magma. I have seen a machine there that can pass beneath it all; a heavy bell made for descending. I need to only gain access and have someone operate it, and I will be able to go down there.”

The old woman shakes her head. “You would be the first in a long while to dive down so deep, Old One. The spaces beneath this Kingdom have long been unseen, even by our family.”

Hornet bows her head. “I feel as if I am more prepared than anyone. I will go down there, and I will find the way to fix this disaster we together have brought upon this Kingdom.”

Tiso stays quiet now, watching and listening, his heart heavy. He doesn't want to let her go down there. But deep down, he knows: it must be her. That's her responsibility, her burden. Tiso knows that. But gods, how it hurts. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and his mind buzzes so loudly, he barely hears the old lady sigh again, as she continues, “The shaking of this land will collapse the Citadel, and all the land beneath it. Pharloom will crumble.”

Hornet shakes her head. “If the quakes don’t wreck it, then the Void will claim it. Surely, you’ve already seen them; the black threads that blister the landscapes? The dark uses the fallen Monarch’s Silk, and consumes it for its own purpose. The roads of the Pilgrims were not safe beforehand, and they will surely become overrun with impossible danger now. They will be forced to hide and flee, and fall to the darkness if we don’t find an end.”

Again the maid sighs. “It is truly a shock that the Monarch has resisted as long as she has. We all had been under the thought that none could survive the Void, but, well, a Mother’s love for her Child…”

Hornet twitches, eyes looking down. The words of the snail seem to have hit a nerve, but she refuses to let it consume her. “I presume that she will have returned to the protective form I had seen; a cocoon of threads. Even when the darkness eats away at the shell, she will continue to spin silk to keep Lace safe. But with such immense effort and resources, her soul will be strained thin. But what other choice does she have? This is her last, desperate move, to keep her child safe. Her defiance will bring ruin, if left unchecked, unchallenged.”

Tiso watches that flicker of pain across her face, the slight tremble in her shoulders— and it breaks something deep in his chest. Damnit. He never wanted to see her like this: lost and hurting and broken and fighting a losing battle. But she's too strong to pity. Stronger than he is, for sure. So instead he steps forward, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "Hornet."

She turns to Tiso. She looks tired; like she has fought a thousand arenas, for a thousand lifetimes. All he can see is someone who has run low on the energy they have left to give. He knows her; knows exactly what she is. A half wyrm, one who will outlive everyone around here. How many lives before has she lived?

How many lovers, how many eggs did she bury?

His voice is low— gentle, almost foreign from his usual bravado. "You don’t have to carry this alone. Not anymore." He steps closer, hand still on her shoulder, eyes locked onto hers. "I don’t care what’s below. I don’t care if it’s Void or gods or the end of all things. You’re not going down there without me."

"No."

Hornet grasps his hands. Pushes him away, eyes averting. "No. You are mortal. You will die. I can barely survive Void myself, it will surely consume you the second you touch it. No, no. You are staying and you will stay. I will return, and if I do not, you will go home, and you will tell Tamer what has become of me." She shakes her head again, voice cracking. "She cannot lose us both; we can't do that to her. She is our mate."

And there is the truth to her words. Tamer, alone, at Hallownest. Swollen with eggs, and wondering if her mates are even alive. Would she be doomed to give birth alone, without Hornet or Tiso? Would she be doomed to hatch their eggs alone, to raise their children alone?

Tiso’s hand clenches in her grip: not in anger, but in pain. No, he couldn’t— he couldn’t do this again. He could not have someone else decide for him. He could not suffer that sort of loss again. "Are you seriously asking me to stay here?" His other arm comes up to grip her shoulders now, hands tightening. "You want me to stay behind, not knowing if you're dead or alive? Just stand here, twiddling my damn thumbs, and wait?" He takes one quick breath, looking into her dark eyes. "No way. Not happening, not ever."

"You can't go!" Hornet shoves him back, stepping away. Eyes wide with panic and fear. "You cannot, you WILL DIE! And Tamer will be left alone! You have to go home to her, Tiso! She needs one of us alive, and it has to be you!"

The painful familiarity of this has his chest aching. His voice drops again, almost pleading. "And how can I face her, knowing I left you to fight this alone? What sort of mate does that make me?" He steps closer again, taking her hands in his once more. "I won't abandon you, and I won't abandon her. I'm going with you. Period."

"No, no. Tiso, this is my fight alone." And suddenly, silk erupts from her hands, binding Tiso's wrists together. He lets out a cry of surprise, and then she extends the lines down to bind his ankles too. And Hornet pulls a long string, and hangs him from the ceiling, left to dangle like a prey in the spider's web. "I'm sorry Tiso." Her voice is soft, broken. "I hope you will forgive me." And she dashes out of the chapel, leaving him trapped, with the Snail Shamans just watching him in stunned silence.

He hangs there, bound tight in silk, teeth gritted. "Hornet!!" he roars after her, voice echoing through the chapel. "HORNET—!" But she's gone. So, he thrashes once— twice— but the silk holds. Stronger than steel. Her strength. He stops fighting for a moment, breathing hard, chest rising and falling fast beneath his armor. Silence falls over the chapel: the snails don’t move, don’t speak.

Then quietly, so quietly it’s almost a whisper, he says: "...No forgiveness needed." And with that, he reaches up with his bound hands towards the sharp edge of his shield still protruding from its holster on his back, and begins sawing at the silk binding him. She may have won this round, but Tiso wasn't coming back to Hallownest alone. Not without her.

The silk is powerful and strong, but he saws through eventually. And with his hands free, he removes his shield and uses it to slowly cut free his legs, eventually crashing to the ground with a pained grunt. He groans once— a painful, annoyed sound as he rolls to his stomach. He feels like his arms and legs have been run through a grinder: every inch aches, even with the adrenaline flowing. "Damnit," he murmurs, pulling himself up. The Snail Shamans continue to stare. They do not get involved. They simply watch.

And now, what was there to do?

If Hornet would not let him help, then the next best thing would be perhaps going back to Bellhart and Greymoor. The people there could be suffering under the Void, with no one to protect them. So, he rises to his feet. Every muscle continues to ache, but he's still able to walk, with some effort. He'll live. For now... he can't help Hornet, but there's still more to be done.

Tiso glances up at the snails, eyes hardened. "...where is the nearest bellway?”

The old woman points her walking stick, towards Bone Bottom's pilgrim camp. "That way, boy. You best go hide somewhere. This Void will consume all, if your missy fails her task."

He nods once at her, then starts walking, heading to the path she pointed to. The thought of Hornet, alone, fighting a losing battle, makes his heart burn. But he needs to keep moving. Focus on the next step; which, right now, is keeping the people here safe from the Void, for as long as he can.

Her words snap them out of the trance they were in. Their larger, much larger claws on her thighs, tracing the silken skin like she were glass, absolutely mesmerized by how soft she was— all that had kept them from the actual goal of tonight. And truly, she was getting a bit impatient, they believed; judging by the way her pale eyes were narrowed at them.

Hollow straightens up a little, suddenly very acutely aware of how exposed they were. Bare chitinous shell, all for her to see, with their void already twisted and formed into something she had been playing with for the better part of half an hour; a weeping, thick cock between their thighs, staining the white blankets. Now it had been their turn to reciprocate, and what had they done?

Simply touch her with all the gentleness of fine china, like they were afraid she would shatter. And Lace had clearly grown tired of it.

“Come on now, it is not the first time you have seen my naked body, now, is it?” Her voice had taken an edge to it; the sound of a petulant princess who had not gotten their way. And to anyone else, it would come off as annoying, or perhaps infuriating. But Hollow simply saw it the same way they had viewed every part of her; radiant and beautiful.

Two hands lift off her legs— one aged, one mechanical— and they sign even as they speak in a void-tongue she could understand; a habit hard to kick. ‘I am sorry. You are very pretty. It is hard not to stare.’

That makes Lace’s face darken in a flush, and despite that, she lets out a haughty ‘hmph!’ as she turns her head away, crossing her arms over her bare breasts. “Oh, you— you are very hard to stay mad at. I’ve got half a mind to jab you with my pin for making me wait!”

A rumbling, silent chuckle escapes them, and they tilt their head once more to show their apologies. Then, both clawed hands come back to her hips, dragging her just a bit closer. An evil part of them enjoys how she squawks in surprise— undignified and loud— when the tip of their cock presses against her slickened hole.

One she had sewn, just for herself. One they had waited oh so patiently for, throughout all of their courting and touches. How long had they been mated, with just mouth and hands meant to bring one another satisfaction? They would have waited a million lifetimes, and they would have been fine if she had wanted nothing at all between her thighs. Hollow was not a creature who craved carnality unless it was her, after all. But this… beautiful creation of her making was one she was very proud of. And so, Hollow figured the polite thing to do would be to stop making her wait, and give her what she wanted.

Their hips roll forward, grinding the drooling tip of their length against her slit, and they enjoy how she shudders; back arching, her delicate claws digging into the white blankets beneath them. They do not sign this time when they ask, ‘Is this sufficient?’

“Nnghg—” Her head pressing into the bed, her long, silky hair flaring around her like a glowing halo, her chest heaving as her breath quickens— she looked like a banquet laid out, just for the Vessel. They rumble again, continuing the motion of their hips; grinding the impressive length of their cock along the edges of her slit, gliding along her inner lips, and staining her silken cunt with void-slick. The motion has her quivering, her breathing quickening. “—Y-yesss, this is more than— aha-ahh— sufficient… Oh my Gods, you feel sooooooobiiig…”

Her voice, her words, all of it sends an almost animalistic heat climbing along their frame. They resist the urge to pin her, to rut into her with reckless abandon. Although they did not want her to think that they thought she was fragile, they also did not want to risk ripping her to pieces.

(Though, knowing her lack of self-preservation, she would probably try to goad them into it.)

Nonetheless, they focus on her, her pleasure alone. Continuing the grinding motion of their hips, the steady rolling, as one hand lifts off her side, to move down and nudge the smooth, blunt edge of a claw against the swell at the apex of her cunt.

The reaction is instantaneous— Lace arches upwards, letting out a keening cry, fisting the blankets so hard they tear in her grip. “Ohhhh yessyesssyessss— That feels— aaaahh, incredible— Gods, please I—” Her hips twitch, and she whimpers as Hollow continues to rub in slow, steady circles, in time with the motion of their grinding. “Hollow, please— please, I have been w-waiting, and patient, and I need you to stick your cock in and rearrange my very being—!”

Hollow pauses, eyes widening. Well that was impressively lewd. But the way she jolts and whines then they stop, trying to chase the feeling by bucking her hips… well, Hollow knows she has been patient long enough. And despite that lingering worry in the back of their mind that they might hurt her— they were far larger, far bigger— they knew she would tell them if it was too much.

Lace trust them, and they trusted her.

Pulling back, they grasp their cock with their free hand, noticing how her pale eyes flicker downwards to watch them with a hunger they have rarely seen. Tilting their head, they press the tip of their cock against her opening, and slowly, bit by bit, they begin to press inside her.

Lace seems to go through several emotions at once. Her eyes widen, and she goes so still, they worry for a brief moment they are hurting her. But as inch by inch slips deep inside her silken cunt, she eventually lets out a pleasure wail as they bottom out; legs trembling around their hips.

“Hollow, Hollow please!!” She cries out. Eager to please their mate, they move both hands back to her hips, to hold her in place as they begin to move.

It was easier said than done. The Pale King could hardly keep still— his mandibles chittering with nervous energy as his eyes flicker from the grand doorway of the empty hall, to his beloved’s gleaming eyes. Anyone could walk in, anyone could see the King in a state of undress; his mate’s tendrils coiling around his limbs and pulling him into the lap of the much larger Queen. But the White Lady didn’t seem to pay much mind to that. No no, her focus was fully on the Pale King, and peeling those fine, silken robes off his form to expose his body fully for her.

The urge to propagate and breed had been intense this week, and she knew that nearly all of the White Palace could hardly keep themselves from fidgeting and twitching as they inhaled the pollen that cascaded through the air. Ah, the season’s changing brought with it the cycle of creating life anew. The pair had been blessed with an empty hall today, after all, due to most of the staff becoming ill with “Spring Heat.”

Good timing too. If she had to wait any longer, she would have done this no matter who watched, and just deal with the scolding later.

Alas, her beloved King could never truly be angry with her— for he loved her more than life itself. And that was why, despite his initial protests of what was “proper,” he had already stopped his struggles. Face darkened with a flush, his eyes trailing down his own naked form, where his slit had already become flush from the pheromones his beloved was extruding. The twin heads of his cocks were peaking out, and the sight made the White Lady giggle in delight.

“A present for me, my light~? You shouldn’t have…~” She coos, bringing one of her many tendrils down to begin rubbing and coiling around those beautiful lengths. The Pale King lets out a grunt, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he groans beneath her ministrations.

“My r-root…” He breathes, trembling in her grip. She had him seated on her knees, his legs pulled wide open and his arms fastened behind his back. The only part of him with free movement was the delicate pair of elytra on his back: twitching with his arousal. “You smell… utterly divine this morning. Is this the c-cause of your— ahh… visit?” “But of course~” The White Lady leans in closer, to press her forehead to his, and giggles once more. “The seasons are changing once more, my love. And with their change, I crave you more intensely than ever. I wish to take all of your seed, all of your body. To carry and hold your spawn, to swell your womb with mine. Oh, my dearest love, would you be so cruel to deny your wife such a bliss?”

Her words paint a vivid picture in his mind, and he shudders as the heady jolt of need threatens to consume his mind entirely. Hands flexing beneath her grasp, his cocks sliding out another few inches, the Pale King lets out a shuddering sigh. “Oh, never… never, my beloved root. I would be more than happy to satisfy you; as is my marital duty.”

“Such delightful words, such delicious promises…~” The White Lady’s voice is a low purr, dripping heavy with arousal and affection. The tendril pressing at the slit between his limbs moves more insistently; now curling around both pairs of cocks and pressing them together. The pressure makes the wyrm groan softly, voice catching in his throat. The tendrils begin to stroke him; undulating and dragging along the sensitive, slick flesh of his cocks.

The Pale King’s head falls back, and he moans more openly now; forgetting about his previous fears of someone happening upon the royal pair. Let them; let the common bugs see how intensely their Queen and King loved one another. Or maybe that was all the pheromones clouding his lungs— but either way, he couldn’t give a damn. Not when those beautiful pale tendrils stroked his cocks so eagerly. The ones around his limbs tighten further, and another free one comes up to begin pressing and prodding at the space beneath his cocks, with the intent to fill.

“My r-r-root~” He whines softly, breathless, and oh, she so beautifully laughs. Not cruelly or mocking, but out of the pure joy that fills her to see her husband become so undone by her touch alone. His hips try to fuck into the coil of her tendrils, and she simply squeezes around him.

“Shhh, allow me to ease the tension, my light.” Her voice, so melodic and so perfect, only makes the need burn more intensely. But patience, patient, and the King makes a small noise as his hips still. At that, The White Lady brings another tendril up towards the leaking tips of his cock. This one was shaped differently; thicker, with an end that resembled a blooming flower. The petal-like folds were slickened with her own need, and when she presses it against his cocks, he barely resists the urge to wail with the desperate lust that courses through him.

“Please, my r-root—” He pleads, eyes flickering up to meet hers. “Let me— aah— let me fill you, let me bre-eed—!” His back jolts as the tendril at his lower slit presses itself inside, stuffing him so full, he staw stars. “—nngg, let me breed you—!”

“Of course, my love,” She hums, and then she presses the tendril’s opening at his cocks, slowly watching as the petals part open to accommodate the size of his twin lengths. And she lets out a soft moan of her own as he sinks deep into her breeding flower, quivering faintly as he bottoms out. And the King lets out his own noise; strained and high-pitched as his cocks are enveloped in such a tight, warm slickness. Squirming as the tendril spreading him open begins to fuck up into his hole, as the one around the base of his cocks continue squeezing in time with her slit.

“My r-root—” He chokes out a pathetic noise, and she leans in close, to kiss him.

Golden spires jut into the sky like blades; their once-glorious surfaces now dulled by dust and decay. The bells that should be chiming with pilgrim songs are silent; only wind whistles through hollow halls where thousands once walked.

Hornet steps carefully over shattered glass and crumpled silk banners as she navigates deeper inside. Everywhere she looks, there are signs of collapse— grand design abandoned when Pharloom fell to Haunting. And then, in the midst of her silent wandering, she hears a familiar sound: the clinking of metal. She turns just in time to see a silhouette rounding a corner ahead— a lean figure clad in white poncho bearing the Citadel’s emblem. Twin bronze scissor blades gleam at their sides as they approach… but it’s not hostility that paints their stance.

No, for once, their posture is not held strong and proud, but rather it is tainted by an air of nervousness. Like something troublesome was festering beneath the surface. The blades are sheathed when their pale optics lock onto Hornet, and they approach her with delicate steps, before coming to a stop before her.

"Hunter in Red. Your presence is appreciated, for this S-Sentinel." The automaton's head bows in a greeting, before straightening up prim and proper once more. 

Hornet’s posture softens the moment she recognizes them; the Second Sentinel. Their usual rigid demeanor is fraying at the edges today, and that… concerns her. She mirrors their bow with a respectful dip of her own horned head before speaking, voice warmer than it tends to be around strangers (but then again, they aren’t strangers anymore). “Gilded one,” she greets back. Then— because something feels off— she adds: “You sound troubled.”

Knowing that her quick wit and intelligence meant that almost nothing slipped past her, Sentinel does not bother to beat around the bush nor hide anything truly from her observant gaze. To do so would prove no benefit for anything. So, the automaton folds both arms across their chest, and takes a moment to think about the way to begin. "...Many tasks left to fulfill, th-th-this Sentinel has. The halls of the C-C-Citadel fall into silence. Lack of purpose has been left to this S-Sentinel."

Hornet’s eyes narrow slightly—not in suspicion, but in understanding. She knows that feeling. The weight of a duty long outlived by the world it was meant to serve. To be the last guardian standing when there’s nothing left worth guarding? It carves deep wounds into steel. "...You were built to protect pilgrims," she says carefully, "but Pharloom has no more pilgrims." A pause. Then: "Can you fulfill your purpose without them?"

"Eternal, is the C-C-Citadel, and the devotion of the sentinels." But even as they say that, their voice falters again. An edge of uncertainty is laced into every word, every inch of their tone. And the automaton moves; walking now deeper into the halls, with the assumption that Hornet would follow. "Even when the Citadel falls s-s-silent, this Sentinel will fulfill its duty."

Hornet follows without hesitation, her footsteps quiet against the marble floors. She doesn’t press further— doesn’t question their devotion (because she understands it too well). Instead, she walks beside them in silence for a while before finally speaking again. "...Then what is your duty now?" A genuine question. Not mocking or skeptical: just needing to know.

Their steps falter a moment. And then, in a voice so unlike them, so quiet and unsure, they say, "This Sentinel does... not know."

There is another long moment of silence that follows; their steps louder than anything else in this grand hall, frozen in time. Hornet stops walking. That admission— that honesty— strikes her harder than any blade ever could. The Second Sentinel, a machine of unshakable purpose… admitting they no longer know what to do.

It’s devastating.

She reaches out without thinking; her clawed hand settling on their shoulder in silent solidarity. No words yet. Just presence. The automaton's metal heats somewhat beneath her claw, and they stand there with her, just absorbing the silence of it all. A dying Kingdom, an abandoned castle, and lifeless halls littered with the bodies of those Sentinel was meant to protect. Alone, but together.

After another moment, the Sentinel resumes their walking. Where it was leading her, she didn't know; but they come across a hidden path that even Hornet was unaware of, making her curiosity prickle. It leads into a dim hallway, with dying lanterns lighting the way. She’s explored much of the Citadel by now, but this? This feels new. Forgotten even by time itself. The flickering lanterns cast long shadows that dance like ghosts along crumbling walls; each step forward revealing more of a corridor clearly meant to stay concealed.

“Where does this lead?” she asks quietly, though part of her already knows: somewhere important. The automaton does not answer. Rather, they continue down the hallway in their silent state.

Eventually, they reach an old door that is already ajar, and they slip in, waiting for Hornet to come in behind them before they keep moving. She steps inside carefully, her needle at the ready: not because she expects danger here (not from them), but out of habit. The pair enter what appears to be a study; lined with bookshelves and desks with old instruments of science. Dirty and forgotten. And Sentinel stops at a desk on the far side of the room, where some books lay; clean compared to everything else.

The sight of the room— dusty yet clearly disturbed— immediately sets off alarms in her mind. Someone (or something) has been here recently.

She scans the room before focusing on Sentinel by the desk. "...You’ve been coming here," she observes quietly. Not an accusation, just a fact laid bare between them like another piece of their shared silence earlier. Then, she asks, “What are you looking for?"

"In search of p-p-purpose and knowledge, is this Sentinel." The automaton runs thin fingers alongside the spines of each book that is laid upon the table. And then, after a moment of careful deliberation, they pick one up: large, leather-bound, with the sigil of the Weavers painted on the front. Opening it up reveals pages upon pages of scripts, with hand-sketched diagrams and images. Hornet steps over to the desk, hovering over Sentinel’s shoulder to catch sight of the book’s insides.

It was an old Pharloom Weaver's catalogue of information about their kin; their traditions, their habits, their culture. 

She tilts her head, studying the sketches with curiosity. The content is old— some so faded they’re barely legible— but the knowledge they hold is clear. This book is a rare look at a bygone era. Hornet’s gaze drifts from the pages to Sentinel and their focus. How long has the automaton been searching through these dusty books and forgotten scrolls? But she doesn't get a chance to ask before Sentinel begins to speak once more.

"The information within this b-b-book captured the attent-tion of this Sentinel." Golden fingers run along a page, tracing the shape of a weaver drawn upon the parchment. Whoever the artist was, they had taken great care to render the bug in their art. Her shape was beautiful, and she was wearing a long, pale dress that showed off her tall form. Sentinel pauses their finger next to the round head of the weaver drawn. "This Sentinel has misused time meant for pr-protection of the Citadel for studying th-the content of this book."

Hornet doesn’t scold them. Instead, she leans in slightly, her voice soft, almost reverent. “You weren’t misusing your time.” She lifts a claw to gesture at the weaver on the page: serene, dignified, draped in pale silk like a prayer given form. “This is protection. Preserving what remains… remembering what was lost— it keeps their voices from vanishing into silence.” Then, she continues in a quieter tone, “I do the same with Hallownest every day I draw breath.”

Sentinel turns their head to her; glowing optics studying her with the same quiet intensity that they view all the world with. And then, their gaze sweeps back to the page, fingers catching the edge of the parchment and pausing. "....Content within this book has c-c-c-confused this Sentinel. Your aid would be... most apprec-c-ciated, Hunter in Red."

Hornet nods, her expression softening as she recognizes the request for what it is: a plea for understanding. She takes a seat on the edge of the desk, crossing one leg over the other as she angles herself toward Sentinel— open, ready to listen. “Tell me what confuses you. Maybe I can help.”

Another instance of unfamiliar unease seems to envelope the automaton. And it was strange, to see the normally so put-together synthetic life become unsure, nervous even. But they must believe her words, for they turn a few more pages, passing a large amount of fading text and scripts— before coming across a page that was entirely drawings.

And what... provocative drawings they were.

While some were indeed apparently scientific in nature, explaining the various parts that weavers possessed in the areas hidden beneath silken clothes, others looked purely pornographic in nature, for the viewing pleasure of the artist to draw their beloved weaver muse in poses that would make the most vulgar blush. Sentinel presses a gilded finger right at the image of the very open slit of the weaver in the images, and asks, "What are these parts meant for?"

Hornet doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blush. Doesn’t even cringe— not outwardly, anyway. But deep inside? She’s reeling.

She studies the page: the mix of clinical sketches and far more personal renderings, and lets out a quiet, almost imperceptible breath through her mask. “These,” she says at last, pointing to the anatomical section with precise detachment, “are reproductive and sensory organs common among Weavers. Dual functions: for creating life… and enjoying it.” A pause. Then, dryly, she adds: “Some artists clearly favored one purpose over the other.”

Her claw moves to tap one particularly exaggerated illustration— one where the weaver is bent in an impossible arc, a random silk spool clutched between legs like a sacred offering. “This,” Hornet deadpans, “is not science. This is a fantasy drawn by someone who spent too much time alone with their quill and imagination.”

Sentinel stares at her for a long moment before slowly, mechanically, turning another page. Hornet watches them quietly before adding in a softer tone. “Curiosity isn't a weakness, by the way.” And rather than speaking, the Sentinel nods in agreement at her words.

When they finish turning pages, skipping over more text that was probably boring to read, they end up on another page of even more pornographic content. The weaver muse of the author is posed in positions where clearly an invisible lover is touching her; body contorted in pleasure, her parts completely exposed, and fully nude. The automaton simply tilts their head at Hornet. And for the first time that day— and admittedly, in a while— Hornet feels her composure waver. She stares down at the pages, and it takes a conscious effort not to let her mind go there.

It doesn't work.

Heat stirs low in Hornet's gut, her thoughts turning to memories of bodies pressed against bodies— claws on skin, lips against lips. A quiet ache stirs to life between her thighs, and she has to fight the urge to squirm on her spot on the edge of the desk. "And this," the Sentinel presses, voice strangely insistent. "What is the nature of these images? The p-p-purpose?"

Hornet has to use every remaining ounce of willpower to keep her voice level: to resist the urge to reach under her cloak. She shifts in her seat, trying to relieve the ache building in her core. "Those are... not scientific images," she says, her voice a little more strained this time. "Those are... personal drawings. Like... fantasies. For those who find a particular subject attractive, to use as inspiration for when they are alone. Or... with... a partner."

"Inspiration for what?" Sentinel tilts their head, their feathery antennae twitching in curiosity. And it was an oddly adorable sight, to see them so invested in a topic. Of course, the automaton could have totally picked a way better one, but they didn't know Hornet would react this way, so it wasn't entirely their fault. Her face flushes hot in embarrassment, thighs squeezing together, trying to soothe an ache that's fast turning urgent. 

She shifts in her spot on the edge of the desk, trying to sound casual through the growing arousal and desperation. "T-There are, ah... certain acts one can... do... by themselves." It's a struggle to keep her voice steady, and the heat within her is going lower and lower with each passing moment. "Or... with someone else."

"Explain these acts? Seeking further knowledge, is th-this Sentinel." Their hand points to one particularly lewd image of the weaver muse laying on her front; her hips propped up as someone unseen was... copulating with her from behind. "Are these acts that you perform, Hunter in Red?"

Hornet feels her throat tighten in a mix of arousal and mortification. Gods, how had this conversation taken the worst turn? She should shut it down. Just end this conversation— stand up, tell Sentinel to toss the damn book, and march out. But instead, Hornet finds herself frozen to her seat; her legs still clenched, her cheeks burning, and her thoughts racing to even darker, dirtier places. "...Y-yes," she manages finally, her voice a strangled whisper. "I have... performed those acts before." Of course she had. She was mated to two lovely, insanely attractive mates back home. Two mates, Tamer and Tiso, who had taken her in so many ways and positions, she lost track. Not only that, she had that burning attraction towards Shakra, and not to mention the things she and Styx have done since her arrival in Pharloom.

Hornet was horrified to realize that she could be considered an expert on these matters.

The automaton nods slowly at her words. And then, glowing optics flicker down to the page. Examining it a moment longer, as if really studying all of the content. And then, in a firm, solid voice, they state, "To replicate these actions is the wish of this Sentinel. Will you comply, and aid this Sentinel in this wish?" And at that, Hornet’s breath stops.

For the first time in longer than she can remember, the Weaver— the warrior princess, the one who sliced through blood and gore without flinching— finds herself utterly speechless.

Her claws dig into the edge of the desk. Her pulse thrums in her temples. Every instinct screams that this is absurd. Impossible. A cogwork automaton, a Sentinel built to guard pilgrims and uphold order, asking her, with all due seriousness, to teach it how to mate? And yet, as she looks at them again: the golden optics wide with earnest curiosity, with the want to understand. This isn’t mockery nor deception to lure her into a weakness. It’s a being reaching through the uncertainty of its purpose and asking for connection.

"...Why?" she asks quietly; not rejecting it outright, but needing to know where this comes from before stepping any further into the idea of such a wish. "You’re bound by duty to the Citadel Eternal, like you have said. Why seek this?"

"Horizons beyond its original purpose, this Sentinel seeks." The automaton turns fully away from the book. And then, bowing its head to her, it moves into her space. Gilded hands reaching out and resting on either one of her knees, and stepping close enough that she could pick up the trace scent of blood on its shell; washed away, and yet lingering. Glimmering eyes stare upwards at her stark-white mask, intensely focused entirely on her. "To copulate is this Sentinel's wish." And Hornet freezes: not from fear, but from sheer overload. The scent of death. The cold of metal hands on her knees. The unwavering gaze locked onto her. It’s too much and not enough all at once. Her breath hitches.

She should pull away. She should scold them. She should walk out right now and never speak of this again. But—

"...You don’t even have the parts," she murmurs, voice trembling with something between disbelief and dark amusement. "No pulse beneath your shell. No instinct to follow except what’s written in your code. Your original commands. Why this? Why me?” Her claws flex against the desk: aching to reach out, to touch… or push back. "You want copulation," she continues, tone low now, almost dangerous in its calmness, "but do you understand what it means to burn for someone? To lie awake with their name on your lips long after they’ve gone? To miss their weight beside you in the dark?" Her voice cracks slightly on the last word— unintended— but telling all the same.

"...Or will you simply mimic motions without meaning?"

For a long moment after her words, the Sentinel is silent. Hands kept locked on her knees, eyes laser-focused on hers. And for a moment, she thinks maybe she has said something that has broken them; that has confused the commands and directives inside them. And yet...

The Sentinel's grip tightens on her, metallic digits digging into her chitin hard enough to draw marks. And when they speak again, their voice is almost tightened with emotion only thinly veiled behind their normal flat tone. "This Sentinel burns for you. S-s-seeking your needle against my blade, this Sentinel wants. To service and worsh-ship the Hunter in Red, is this Sentinel's wish. To copulate, to j-j-j-join together... if this Sentinel must mim-mic motion, it will do so with honor and re-re-reverence for you, Hunter in Red."

Hornet doesn’t move. She can’t. The words— earnest, raw, trembling with something too close to need— sink into her like a knife through a wound. This isn’t mimicry like she expected; not really. This is a machine reaching beyond its design, voice glitching at the edges from emotional strain it was never meant to feel, pressing against her like it wants to rewrite itself just to be closer.

"...Reverence?" she echoes softly. Her claws finally lift from the desk: not in retreat, but in slow descent toward one of Sentinel’s hands on her knee. "You speak of worship... as if I were a statue on an altar." A quiet huff; almost laughter. "Foolish. I am no goddess." But then she stills again… and whispers, "I'm not even whole." Her fingers brush over their gilded knuckles— one deliberate stroke— and for that single moment, there's no princess or sentinel.

Just two broken things standing in silence together.

"...If you truly wish to serve..." She leans forward slightly, voice dropping low enough that it hums inside her own shell like prayer before battle. "...then learn this first: touch has many meanings." Her claw slides up their arm: an invitation and a warning all at once. Her legs tremble beneath those golden fingers, and something aches low in her gut, her desire roaring to life after being kept tightly caged. And still, her voice remains even through the lust, her mask betraying not an ounce of how utterly wrecked she is inside.

"Show me your meaning," she murmurs. "Touch me." And at her command, the Sentinel touches.

Hands slip off her knees, moving down to grip the edges of her cloak, and lift it up, slipping it off her body. She helps them, of course— unbuttoning the top to make it easier to remove, and then she is bare before them. And the Sentinel takes a long moment to just... stare. Glimmering optics roaming across her body in an unreadable expression upon its metallic shell. She was like the art in the museum, and they were the visitor; skimming through paint to find some hidden meaning.

After a moment, their hands return to her. Settling on her chest, to lightly scrape down the front of her. Fingers trailing though her fluff, and their voice is oddly distorted when they speak next. "You look... d-d-d-d-different f-from the images in th-the book." Not a complaint or compliment; simply a fact. "You a-a-are not... entirely w-weaver, Hunter in Red."

The words catch Hornet off guard, her body tensing as they touch her. Her fur is soft, and every brush of their metal on her shell is a jolt of electricity, igniting the heat between her legs all over again. She has to bite her tongue to keep from trembling, holding back her need with sheer willpower. Her response is a breathless half-laugh, half-moan as their hands rake through the fur on her chest. "No," she agrees. "I'm a half-breed. Part weaver, like you said." Her words earn an affirmative hum, and then the Sentinel's hands continue downwards. Moving from her chest to her belly, then to her thighs, gently pressing them open wider. Curiosity spurring them into seeking what she had hidden between her legs.

Hornet gasps as their hands part her further; the cool metal contrasting sharply against the heat building in her core. And this is where her wyrm-heritage took precedence. She had both slit and sheath; reproductive parts for both purposes of being bred and breeding. Her cock was already peaking out from the upper slit; aching to fully emerge from the sheath. She can feel it pulsing, slick and twitching in the air.

"This…" she breathes, voice trembling with a mix of arousal and something deeper— vulnerability. "This is... both parts of me." Her claws dig into the edge of the desk again as she forces herself to stay still, letting them see, letting them learn. "Part Weaver... part Wyrm. I was made for many things." A soft, ragged exhale. "Including this." She lifts one clawed hand: not to stop them, but to guide. Slowly, deliberately presses their finger just above where her cock aches to be touched. "...Feel it," she murmurs. "Not just look."

With their hand guided to where she desires, the Sentinel takes control of the motions.

Metal fingers carefully wrap around the entirety of the length, mimicking a motion that Hornet wasn't aware that they had known. And when they stroke upwards along the length of it, then drag slowly back down to the base? Oh, it was a heaven like no other; touch that encouraged all of her cock out in just a few motions. And they begin a perfect, even pace only achievable by mechanical beings.

"Y-yes." The word falls from Hornet like a whimper. "That's good," she manages, gripping the edge of the desk so fiercely it creaks. "Yes." Her legs tremble; the feeling is overwhelming and not near enough. Every stroke is like fire down her spine, every motion lighting up her nerves to a near painful degree. There's a tension coiling in her gut, threatening to snap. And still, the sentinel is focused, almost clinical in their ministrations. No pause, no stutter, just perfect, fluid motions.

Hornet could taste her own arousal in the air. Elderberry and silk, cloying and so thick that it drowned out all the previous aroma of dust and old parchment. But beneath that all, she could still faintly smell the aroma of death and metal, clinging to the automaton's metal shell.

It was driving her wild.

Every exhale is a ragged moan, half-muffled by her mask, the sound echoing through her, deep into her own skull. This is almost too much— too much, and still not enough. The automaton's perfect, unchanging pace, the cool touch of metal, the lingering scent of blood and steel... Her claws dig into the edge of the desk so fiercely she can feel splinters digging into chitin. And she leans forward, her voice trembling as she whispers, "S-sentinel... I need more."

"To se-serve your n-n-needs is the wish of th-this Sentinel." Voice almost breathy, glitching faintly as they continue to stroke over her cock. And then, their gilded fingers come beneath it, to gently press and prod at her slickened cunt. Two fingers easily glide inside her, sinking so deep it made her see stars. "To pl-pleasure you is all this Sentinel d-d-d-d-desires."

Her body jerks in response to the sensation, a strangled cry escaping her before she can bite it down. The stretch is good, filling her just a fraction of the way she needs, and yet still not enough. Hornet whines, her body shaking with that aching need. Her legs wrap around the automaton's waist, her back arching as she brings the automaton closer to her. For a moment, all she can think is closer, more, need.

Sentinel increases the pace of their motions; hand moving along her cock faster, squeezing on each upward stroke around the sensitive, tapered tip. And the two fingers inside her become three; curling and rubbing against that sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside. The feathery antennae atop their head are twitching intensely now; optics focused on her face.

It's a miracle she is even still sitting upright, her entire body a tight-coiled bowstring that's about to snap. She's trembling all over, her head falling back so low that her horns nearly scratch across the desk. That knot of pleasure coiled in her stomach feels like it's going to burst, and— oh, gods, those antennae catch her gaze. Unable to withstand her desire for the soft and fuzzy, she reaches out, grasping for one of the automaton's antennae in her trembling hand. Her claws sink into it, and she grips it in a manner that feels both desperately needy and almost reverent.

But the reaction from the Sentinel is almost instant.

Their body jerks forward, and they nearly slam their head into her, gasping in a broken, glitching tone that quickly melts into a whine. Body tensing, their optics off-lining for a split second as they thrash slightly beneath her. The hand around her cock squeezes tighter, the fingers inside press harder, and they shudder, whimpering, "NE-NewSensAtions, THI-thisssssssentinel f-fee-eeels—?"

For a moment, Hornet is frozen— shocked by the automaton's reaction, by the reaction she caused. She can feel the appendages twitching in her hand; the antennae's soft, fuzzy fur pressed against her palm. And the sound of their almost-moan, the glitching in their voice… Something snaps inside her. Her legs tighten around their waist, hard and fast, and she yanks on the automaton's antennae with one hand while clutching desperately at the edge of the desk with the other.

That makes them arch their back and cry out; voice glitching and dissolving into nothing more than beeps and error sounds. But their optics are bright and wide, and their hips jerk forward once, twice, as if chasing a sensation they didn't know they wanted. The hand around her cock strokes faster: clumsy and desperate, as they press their face against the side of it, shuddering. "S-ssyssstemssssare— overheATi-ti-ting—" The automaton whimpers again, optics flickering wildly as their systems scream for shutdown. But they don’t stop. Can’t stop. Not when her claws are digging into their antennae, not when her body is clenching around their fingers like a vice.

Her voice is low, rough with arousal: a command wrapped in lust. Her fingers twisting their antennae in her grasp, yanking harder, rougher. "L-let go," Hornet growls, as she feels the coil in her gut snap. Her back arches violently off the desk, a cry tearing from her as pleasure floods through every nerve, every vein beneath her shell lighting up like a flame. She pulses around their fingers; wet and shaking and ruined. Her cum spills freely from her cock, painting their face in ropes of hot seed. Her cunt spasms around their fingers, slick spilling out around the metal digits.

And still holding onto that antenna— still pulling—she gasps: 

 "...Don’t… you… dare... shut down on me." She pulls rough and mean, her wyrm side relishing in the way they sob against her, hips rocking forward in motions so unfamiliar to an automaton. And each tug makes their voice pitch higher, higher, and—

The Sentinel cannot cum like her, but their body seizes up. Their frame goes rigid as they overload so hard, their vision whites out, voice box crackling beneath the weight of their cry before it just entirely cuts out. Their whole frame convulses, the pleasure so intense, all they can do is ride it out, pressing their face into her thigh, shuddering as the waves of their climax crash into them like a violent ocean, and—

Finally, they collapse fully against her and the desk; weightless, limp and useless, body heaving as they take in breaths they did not need. She feels them go still and slump heavily against her, antennae still gripped weakly in her hand. She's trembling like a leaf, body overwhelmed by the release. The only sounds in the room are the low, shaky noises of their combined breathing, and the faint hiss of a lone lantern flickering off to the side.

After what feels like an eternity, Hornet finds the strength to speak. Her voice is weak, almost scratchy, and yet still tinged with amusement. "...You don’t have any parts for copulation, but you definitely can have an orgasm.”

The Sentinel lets out an affirmative beep, before slowly releasing her. Hands pulling from her cock and slit, her own leaving their feathery plumes, before they attempt to stand. Their legs crumple beneath their weight, and they catch themselves against the desk, antennae jerking in surprise. They take a moment to orientate themselves, recalibrating, before finally standing.

What a sight for her to see. Covered, painted in the spray of her own cum, staining their gilded shell and poncho, scented with her arousal? She's almost entranced by the sight, her gaze roaming slowly down that beautiful, gleaming frame, marked with her essence. It's a delicious kind of satisfaction— to see her seed painted across the Sentinel like a brand. Her gaze drifts from their legs back to their face, catching on the bright, still-blinking optics and the slight tremble in their limbs. Hornet's tone is almost a teasing purr as she speaks again.

"Can't stand on your own two feet after that?"

"N-negative. Unbalanced a-a-a-and misaligned, is th-this Sentin-nel." Voice box still glitching, straining underneath their previous noises that should not be leaving someone as proper as them. But they do not seem to hold any shame or displeasure to their coupling. Rather, they simply seat themselves besides her on the desk, taking a moment to just... stare at her.

Finally, they speak again. "S-s-s-satisfied, is this Sentinel's w-wish. Satisfied, are you, H-Hunter in Red?"

A quiet huff. In another time— in another life— she might have been embarrassed by something so simple as a stare. Right now, though… She likes the attention. "Satisfied..." Hornet's voice is quiet, still trembling faintly beneath the huskiness. "...Yes. That was... very satisfying." She lifts one hand, running her claws gently over the automaton's gold shell. She can still smell herself on the metal, and feels a low throb of need in response. But that was for another time.

And the Sentinel, evidently pleased, lays back against the desk besides her, hands folded across its chest. "Then this Sentinel will.... r-r-r-rest. And so will you, Hunter in Red. Is this sati-tisfactory?"

The suggestion takes her by surprise— she'd been expecting the automaton to go right back to its proper duties. And yet, a part of her doesn't protest. She is tired; her body still trembling in the aftermath of their encounter, still tingling with over-sensitivity. She's sore, and sated, and she's beginning to realize that rest sounds awfully good. So Hornet lets out a quiet huff again, and this time it's almost a laugh. 

Phantom settles back against the collection of soft pillows that their two partners had so lovingly arranged behind them. Their mask tilts downward to focus their darkened eyes upon the sight before them: Hornet was bare, with the automaton seated in front of her, back to chest. The feathery plumes of their antennae were laying flat against their head, glimmering eyes trained on the silken being with an intense focus.

It sent a chill through Phantom.

One of their hands slides down, pressing at the space between the greying silk of their thighs; fingers encircling the upper slit of their sex and enticing it to open up slightly. The tip of their cock begins to peak out from the sheath, twitching with the shivers of their body. Phantom clears their throat, to try and starve off the fog of arousal that threatened to render them mindless.

“You had asked for a demonstration of copulation, between your mates; am I correct, Senti?” Phantom speaks, voice low, husky.

“A-a-affirmative. This Sentinel finds the act of c-c-copulation an intriguing m-mystery. Wishing to understand, is th-this Sentinel.” The automaton’s voice is warbling slightly; knocked off kilter from their normal tone. Perhaps it has to do with the way how Hornet is pressed so close to them, her chin resting on their shoulder. Or maybe it is the way her claws had begun to play with them: one smoothing down to rest on their thigh, and her other coming upwards to press at their chestplate. A few skillful motions of her fingers, and it pops open, revealing their core open and bare to the pair. Sentinel jumps slightly in surprise, and makes a small beeping noise, but otherwise, remains silent. Keeping their gaze and attention on Phantom.

Good.

Phantom continues to trail their fingers around their slit, to encourage their length to continue slipping free. Eventually, their cock sits heavy and throbbing at full hardness, slipping their hand around themselves and lazily pumping it a few times. A soft noise slips free from their lips, and in response, both Hornet and Sentinel shiver.

The weaver makes a low growling sound at the pheromones she can taste in the air, and her claws at Sentinel’s chest dip into their core; to begin stroking and touching over the silken lines inside their mechanical body. And when she begins to play with the cogwork inside them, Sentinel jerks slightly, voice shifting. “Strange sensations being e-e-experienced, this Sentinel—” Voice cut off by a clicking in their throat, and their antennae quiver.

The way their optics stay focused on Phantom is intoxicating— giving them a rush they could get addicted to. The way their claws twitch, unsure what to do with themselves… Phantom decides to take some mercy on them, as they purr, “Touch me.”

“Unsure, is thi-this Sentinel—?”

“Trust me… Savour each sensation, my angel.”

Stroking their cock a bit faster, Phantom spreads their legs open further for Sentinel. Their free hand dips down to stroke along the lips of their lower slit; it was already slickened with arousal, and throbbing with need. One of Sentinel’s hands comes out on instinct they didn’t realize they had; clunky motions as their thin fingers mimic Phantom’s motions. Trailing along the slit, gathering slick. And then, recalling memory of how Hornet and Phantom have coupled before, Sentinel dips a long, thin digit inside them.

The reaction is instant; Phantom arches their back and sings so beautiful. A low moan, head thrown back into the pillow, their hand leaving their slit to come up and grip at the fraying silk of their hair. “Ahhh, yessss.”

Hornet’s claws continue to play with the silk inside Sentinel’s core, earning a warbled moan from the automaton. She huffs, hips twitching as her cunt aches with need, and begins to grind against them, purring. “You’re a natural, Senti~ Look at how you make them sing.”

“This Sentinel is— attempting to learn, but—” Another sharp sound escapes their voicebox, and the finger inside Phantom begins to thrust; slow, steady, calculated motions that makes the silken being twitch and arch. “Unknowledgable, is this-s S-S-Sentinel.”

“Open up your mind,” Phantom purrs, stroking themselves faster. Their voice is a low melody; laden heavy with arousal. “Let your fantasies unwind. I have seen the way you watch Hornet and I make love; you have n-no reason to be shy, my angel.” They shudder, rutting upwards into their hand, then grinding down against that finger fucking into them. “Please, please— touch me, Sentinel.”

“A-affirmative.” And then one finger becomes two, and then three, curling into Phantom’s slit and thrusting nice and deep. Each motion rocks their body forward, and their core continues to be touched and stroked by Hornet’s deft claws, and it makes the automaton groan and shake.

Hornet shoves her fingers deeper inside them, pressing at the cogs that tick and whirr and power them, as she grinds roughly against their back, panting. Then, out of a morbid curiosity, she digs her claw in between a cog, and forces it to stall.

That earns a downright sob from Sentinel, as their body jerks forward. Antennae going rigid, the fingers inside of Phantom fucking into them quicker, and their voice becoming a glitching mess as the automaton cries out, “YESYESYESFUCK—” And then Hornet removes her claw, and the whirring continues, and Sentinel sags against her, panting despite the lack of needing to breathe.

Phantom shudders, groaning at  the sight of their mate becoming so undone. And then, as they continue to stroke, their own pleasure threatens to crest, to bring them over to that glorious peak. “I’m c-close, my angels—” They gasp, and Sentinel seems to whip back to life. The fingers inside Phantom fuck upwards faster, and their other hand comes up to wrap around Phantom’s, forcing them to stroke themselves faster.

Hornet lets out a growl in response, her claws twisting around a wire inside of Sentinel, tugging, yanking, which makes the automaton shudder and whimper as they stroke Phantom faster, pressing their fingers inside even deeper, and—

He hits the ground and tumbles into a rough roll, barely keeping his footing when he comes to a stop. Dust and bits of metal fragments rain down around the pair as he pushes himself up into a standing position, glaring at the Beast. "Could’ve warned me," he grumbles. The thing only rumbles at him, and he has half a mind to scold it further— but then he stops.

The silence around them hits him like a wall. The Grand Bellway station looms— crumbling stone and metal arches strung with endless hanging banners, all swaying slightly in some unfelt wind. No voices. No movement. Just an eerie stillness… it’s worse than any battle noise could be. He tightens his jaw and reaches for his shield: not to fight, it just makes him feel less exposed in this ghostly place. "Hornet?" he calls out low and quiet at first, then louder when no answer comes. "Hornet!"

His voice echoes in the massive space. As he moves further in, he begins to see them: bodies, littering the ground. Pilgrims, clad in whites and greys and blacks; corpses. Lost to the hands of death, and yet, unrotted. Frozen in time, almost. Stiff in their final moments, faces locked in quiet dread or sorrow. No decay. No deflated carapaces. Like life itself gave up on them. And this place... gods above and below— it's beautiful in a way that feels like a slap to the face.

Grand. Golden and massive: almost how he imagined the legendary White Palace would look. His steps crunch over shattered metal as he steps forward, breath straining in the unnaturally cold air. The silence is wrong— thick and heavy, pressing against his skull. As he steps out of the Grand Bellway, he can see spiked pillars rising into darkness, gilded with golden, cracked coatings, like veins of light. Bells and platforms hang at every level, still as graves now something tells him they weren't always silent."What kind of cursed place is this..." he mutters, hand tightening on his shield. He takes another step forward and remembers what Shakra said:

"She has a goal to attend to."

And then Tiso sees at the far end of the hall: a faint silhouette beneath an enormous shadow— small and moving as if searching for something among the frozen pilgrims. He can just barely make out the lithe limbs, the delicate motions, and something razor-sharp in the hand, like a needle or nail. And as they disappear around a corner, he breaks into a run: ignoring everything else around him because none of it matters except her being safe. And if anything here dared touch her, then let them see how much hell he can bring down upon this place.

"Hornet!"

He enters another grand hall, filled with golden touches, black stone and marble. A figure stands over the body of a cloaked choir member, gilded pin in one hand. And as he approached, he realized with increasing clarity that it was not her. In fact, this person looked nowhere near similar to the weaver in her stark-white mask and crimson cloak.

This person was... odd. Her body was cloaked in all white, like she was made of silk itself: pure and clean. Her frame was slender, finessed, and had the form of a fencer. Her body was thin, with delicate limbs, wide hips, and she wore a silk bonnet upon her head, framing her black shell and pale eyes. She was petite, small, shorter than him by a good couple inches. If he didn't see her up close, one might think she was a child by her size alone. Yet, something about her stance was strangely familiar, and she held herself with the power and grace of a warrior.

She turns, white eyes narrowing as they focus entirely on him. "How sad. A little ant has escaped the safety of the colony~ Poor little treat you are, sad little thing~" Her sing-song, high-pitched voice was like a melody of bells. She twirls her gilded pin in one hand, unthreatened by him.

Tiso skids to a stop, shield raising on instinct as he comes face to face with the silk being. His heart hammers in his chest; not from adrenaline, but from the strange familiarity of her form. The form. The grace. Even the damn voice— higher in pitch than Hornet's but somehow eerily familiar. It's the same as when you hear a stranger's voice that sounds almost exactly like someone you know. Uncanny. He stares at her for a second in silence, a chill running up his spine. In a wary tone, he asks, "Who… are you?"

“Oh, such a silly, ignorant creature you ants are~” She begins to circle Tiso at a good distance away. She walks proudly, powerful. Holding herself with the same pride Hornet does. “Climbing above peaks higher than you simple bugs could ever hope to see, all to try and glimpse a view of the same throne your little spider ascends to?” Her words… was she talking about Hornet? After a moment, she pauses in her stride, bringing her gilded pin up to admire the sharp tip. "My grand mother above us all has called me Lace. Surely, you have seen Mother's thread, controlling the bodies that lay cast away here? No?"

As if on cue, silken thread bursts downwards from the ceiling, the strings injecting into the frozen bodies laying around them. A few rise up around Lace, and begin to shamble towards Tiso, moaning in post-mortem agony. He swears as the dead rise, stumbling towards him with pale hands outstretched— puppets on strings. His shield snaps up, blocking their clumsy attacks with harsh metallic clashes.

His eyes remain locked on her.

"Your mother..." he repeats slowly. "The one who controls the thread?" Puzzled, he continues to brace himself. He grunts as one of the pilgrims slams a hard punch into his shield— not powerful enough to send him back, but still strong and catching his attention for a moment. Unnatural. He scoffs, twisting around and cutting down one of the pilgrims before his eyes snap upwards to her once more. "And you're one of the ones to make sure she stays in power?"

"As is my duty." For a split second, anger flickers on her face, but is replaced with a practiced, perfect smile. As if to demonstrate, she skewers one of the risen pilgrims, earning a pained moan, and then kicks them off her pin. They fall instantly, dead once more. "Why do you come to the Citadel? Seeking the peak, as did your little spider?" She giggles, leaping upwards and perching herself upon a pile of broken metal.

Tiso smashes the last of the risen to the ground with a brutal shield strike, his voice low and dangerous as he turns back to her. "I'm not here for this damn Citadel: I came looking for her.” His eyes narrow, unflinching under her eerie white gaze. "If you’ve touched Hornet— if you've so much as laid a finger on her— I’ll tear this entire kingdom down just to watch you burn in the collapse."

"Oh, but I tried~” Lace sounds almost annoyed, lifting her pin in the air, and twirling it around as she speaks. "She is… skilled. Our needle and thread and pins played in a dance like no other. She climbs her way to the top, clawing and desperate, and we have clashed twice.” She tsks. "She is certainly something, isn't she? And you.” She points her weapon at Tiso. “You are her mate, yes? I know it; I thought I recognized your scent on her."

"Yes." Tiso knows he's confirming something to an enemy. But there's no point in hiding it now, not when she seems to already know more than he expected. He holds his shield tighter, taking a slow step forward. "I am. And that makes her mine. You can keep this damn Citadel and its little puppets. But Hornet? She's not yours to touch."

"Oh, struck a nerve, did I?" Lace laughs, a dramatic sort of sound. Then she raises and holds her pin like a rapier. "I think I plan to skewer her before she reaches the tippy top. So perhaps, little ant, I should dispatch of you too."

His grip tightens on his shield until his knuckles ache. "You talk too much." In one brutal, swift motion, he charges— not waiting for her to strike first. The ground cracks under his momentum as he closes the distance, shield leading like a battering ram. "Let’s see how long you last when you’re not hiding behind the dead!”

Tiso had always had a speed advantage due to his size. While he was small, he was quick, always faster. His only equal had been Hornet and Tamer, who surpassed him in all other aspects of combat. No one had been able to outrun him but them.

And evidently, Lace.

A being of silk is lighter than a bug, and she moves lightning fast. One blink, and she is gone, using his shoulder to launch herself in the air. Giggling, she twists back around and lunges towards him, slamming her pin into his armor, which thankfully, does not pierce. He snarls as the pin clinks off his armor— close, too close.

"Fast," he admits through gritted teeth, spinning fast to track her landing. "But not fast enough." His shield whips out: not to block this time, but to strike. A brutal arc meant to catch her mid-leap if she tries that trick again. "You think your words scare me? I've fought things in the Wastes that make you look like a child playing with toys!

"Do not call me a child!" She lunges forward with a surprisingly burst of speed. A whirlwind of slashes is given by her, some hitting his shield, and then she tries to parry it from his hands.

Dammit! The force of the sudden attack catches Tiso off-balance and his shield gets ripped away too fast to keep his grip. He stumbles back a step before catching himself, cursing as he suddenly finds himself weaponless against a very fast, powerful enemy. Backing away with fists up, he snarls, "How about I call you a brat, then? Does that suit you better?"

"Shut your filthy mouth. Ant!" With Tiso unarmed, Lace charges, and throws a surprisingly sharp punch at his cheek, before she kicks at his chest to send him flying back, hitting the ground. A loud shout escapes him, the pain blooming like a violent wave along his body. He tries to blink away the disorientation, but a blink later, Lace reappears. With a sharp motion, she steps on his chestplate, whipping her pin up to point at his face. “I shall take great pleasure in cutting you apart!”

Tiso grunts as her foot presses into his chest, the pin glinting dangerously close to his eye. And despite himself: a memory flashes. Hornet, the first time they met, easily pinning him like this. Staring down at him after their first clash. The same intense gaze that Lace wears now. His cheek burns where Hornet had hit before, and now the other side where Lace had struck is on fire. His face heats— not from pain this time, but from something far more annoying.

What is with powerful women pinning him!? And why is it kind of— attractive?

"...you're both insufferable," he mutters; half insult, half dazed admiration as the sting on his cheek and pride burn in equal measure. "Get off me... or I will make you regret it." The threat is hollow, but it’s the best he can do right now.

"Insufferable?" Lace increases the weight on his chest. In reality, she is incredibly light, but that sharp pin at his face is what really keeps him down. "You say that now, after I bested you? You know what I could do right now with you, ant? I could crush you beneath my heel."

Despite himself, another memory takes ahold of him. Hornet and Tiso sparring in the empty arena. She pinning him against the sand, maw salivating, claws digging into him. And then passion and heat overtake them both; she takes him right there. Pressed deep inside him, feral and biting, and he ached in the best way for days— His breath hitches just slightly, and the flush on his face deepens, spreading down his neck. He shouldn't be thinking about that right now. Not under this stranger’s pin, not in the middle of a fight.

But gods help him, the posture, the power, even that damn tone—

"...don’t flatter yourself," he growls, voice rougher than before. "You’re not as strong as her." And it’s true: Lace might have Hornet’s speed, her grace, even some twisted echo of her presence. But she doesn’t have that fire: the one that burns clean through all of her. Lace doesn’t own him like Hornet does. He bares his teeth in something between a snarl and a smirk. "And whatever you think you can do to me, it won't even compare to anything Hornet could do.”

"Oooh?" And Lace, sickly sweet and faux concern, kneels over his lap, just barely hovering a moment before she sits. Leaning down, cooing, "Does the little ant want his spider to hurt him, devour him? What a devilish relation you two have. Imagine, giving your very essence and being to sustain your mate." The thought is more enticing than Tiso realizes. And at this distance, she smells familiar too.

Of silk and blood. A subtle undertone of florals.

He bites the inside of his lip to hold back a shudder— fighting back the way his skin heats at the feeling of that light, delicate weight in his lap, the way blood rushes at the words that only sound dirty from her mouth. He can feel the pressure between his legs, threatening to expose just how intensely combat affects him sometimes. Still, he keeps that smirk on his face, trying to match her false sweetness with his own sarcasm. "What can I say, she has a taste for the best of the best. And it sure as hell isn't you."

"Why would I ever want to fall into your spider's web? I can think of a million things better." She sits back more to lift her pin in an attempt to skewer him, giggling in a maniacal way that has far too much of an effect on him. He can almost taste the pine-spice in the air, tainted by her silk and florals. “You silly little ant, you think you’re going to survive another day longer? I suppose you should keep the last memory of her alive and well, because you will be—”

She pauses. Then, she adjusts in his lap, again. "...What is that smell? What is… that?”

Dammit. Her fidgeting movement does not help his already strained self-control. He grits his teeth and fights back a sharp inhale, his whole body going tense; trying to hold still and keep a straight face even as more arousal floods through him. Which only gets more intense when she pauses to look down at his lap... and the very clear sight of the space between his thighs, where the tip of his cock has already begun to peak out and press into her silken thighs.

If the world could swallow him down now, he would very much be okay with that. "Shut your damn mouth and get off me," Tiso growls, face burning. He can feel himself pulse with the attention, despite it all. How else could he respond, beneath the gaze of such a powerful, beautiful warrior? Despite her annoying words, she did indeed best him in this battle, and that was having a horrifically strong effect on his body.

For once, since they first met just moments ago, Lace is muted, and she does indeed quickly hop up and off him. Steps back a few times. Gently brushes her legs off. Opens her mouth. Closes. Opens. Then she simply sheaths her gilded pin, turns on her heel, and jumps upwards to a nearby ledge. Hoists herself over it, turns back one more time— to peer pale eyes at him— and then she vanishes out of sight. Was she... embarrassed?

Tiso lies there for a second, panting slightly, one hand pressing against his face. “...gods above," he mutters to the empty hall. "What the fuck is wrong with me?” His time in the Wastes, his time here in Pharloom— clearly something along the way had irrevocably fucked up his psyche to the point of getting unwanted erections during combat, in the face of death. After another moment longer, he finally pushes himself up, wincing at the ache in his back and yes, definitely elsewhere.

His shield is still nearby; he snatches it with more force than necessary. Lifting it, sheathing it onto its holster, all he can do is press both hands into his face and try to breathe. Letting the arousal still pumping through his bloodstream try and fade. This was ridiculous.

A part of him wonders if he should go and find her and apologize. But then again, she did try to kill him, so Tiso thinks the best thing to do would be to keep his distance away from that crazy woman. She was dangerous, she was pretty, and she was clearly unhinged. The safest way to ensure he made it home okay was keep as far away from Lace as possible.

Running a hand down his face, he looks down to make sure all body parts that are supposed to be hidden are now tucked away, and he starts forward again, intent on continuing through this Citadel and finding Hornet. And as he walks, he thinks to himself that his life has only gotten weirder as time goes on.

To think, he’s gone from wooing the two most beautiful women in Hallownest, to that strange encounter in the Wastes with that— a sharp pain spirals inside his chest— and then that strange, large bug that bows his head in worship? If he keeps up this pace, he’ll end up with a harem!