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Despite the popular idiom declaring otherwise, there were more constants to a bug's life than just death and taxes. In Hallownest, before the Infection had reared its head once more, the philosopher Immanuel Ant had once argued that all bugs had, at one time in their lives, encountered a near-death experience followed immediately after by a rapid reevaluation of every choice in their life that led them to that moment.
Currently, Lace was having one of those moments, prompted by the presence of a solid brass ceiling over her head, a bed under her body, and a certain insect next to her, sleeping more like a log than a bug. Had it not been for the occasional twitching of Hornet’s limbs, it would be nigh-impossible to tell her apart from the countless dusty husks piled high upon the roads of Pharloom, a long-standing tribute to Mother’s reign.
Alas, Hornet had put an end to that just hours earlier. As her consciousness faded in and out after her battle with Hornet, Lace had felt the world quake and groan around her as her mother was consumed by the void; the only thing that she clearly remembered was a faint, fading memory of Mother gifting Hornet, exhausted and barely standing, just enough Silk to break the two of them out of the void.
The power was only gifted to Hornet, though. Maybe it was because Lace was collapsed in Hornet’s grasp instead of standing freely, or maybe it was a final barb against her failed child. Now that Grand Mother Silk was good and dead, there would be no definitive answer to that question. Without the healing that came with her Silk, Lace would simply have to bear the many stings Hornet had dealt her in their duel.
When they both woke at the edge of the Abyss, Hornet was already half-collapsed, barely able to walk without bracing herself against her needle. It would be a lie to say Lace was not in a similar boat, given that she felt as if every individual thread holding her body together had snapped. Neither of them were particularly in the mood for idle chatter, not when the howling of the void drowned out the sound of the two of them limping to relative safety. When Hornet practically dragged herself to her bellhome, Lace was close behind, with the explicit goal of monopolizing the closest plush horizontal surface that could fit her body.
She did not succeed in taking sole ownership of the bed. Mostly because Hornet had delivered her a look that plainly said that if she did not immediately move aside, there would be hell to pay. Lace’s body was already dotted with enough aching pains and gashes from the spider that she decided that it was perhaps in her best interest to step aside and let her savior rest.
If she were to choose a single word to describe their duel in the deepest recesses of the Abyss, Lace would choose taxing. The shadows in that forsaken hellhole had taken her mind and put their own programming into it, pushing her thoughts and feelings aside, stressing her body far beyond its natural limits. She had felt her thoughts bounce around her soul, but they had been molded, shaped, directed. Under that impenetrable fog suffocating her brain, Hornet was no longer a bug trying to save her, but an intruder needing prompt extermination. She’d tried in a mental haze to pick up her pin and put an end to that miserable experience, but the void festering inside her ardently refused. It would not move, not relent, not listen until it had sensed danger in the form of a foolish, stupid, reckless little spider who would not take no for an answer. Only then did it pick up its pin.
Hornet’s needle had done its job quite diligently in their duel, and her shredded limbs were the result. Under normal circumstances, if anything in Pharloom could be remotely called normal, her injuries would have already been mended by that god she called Mother. Given that Mother was currently dead in a hole unknown to neither bug nor god, that option was permanently off the table; the only living being capable of mending her wounds right now was this strange, obtuse, foolish bug sleeping beside her.
Hornet was an unreadable enigma when it came to combat, her exhaustion only showing in split-second delays between decisions and blows that landed just a fraction of a fraction of a second too late. With a normal bug, Lace could quite easily track their exhaustion via the labored, heavy breathing in their abdomen, but that spider had denied her even that simple method. Weavers were unique in their constitution, their body not dotted with the minuscule holes in their shell other bugs used to breathe. If you asked Lace, it was positively unfair, robbing her of such a useful metric for gauging stamina. Alas!
And yet here was this conniving, combat-hardened hunter, violating every warrior’s instinct to get a moment’s rest! This strange, spindly thing laying in front of her was somehow the same stubborn bug that somehow, inexplicably, saw a broken silk marionette and decided it was worth keeping. No, not keeping, that was the wrong word — that word was used for picking up a dusty toy by the side of the road, not for diving to the bottom of an unforgiving abyss twice over, not for pushing to the furthest edges of an unforgiving kingdom, and certainly not for risking your own life and limb for a doll that had already tried to kill you twice over. Lace’s body had barely dipped itself into everlasting darkness before that fool had already made the decision to leap in and pull her out.
It was infuriating. Hornet had decided that she was worth saving. Hornet had pulled her from a living hell, from a fate of having her mind eroded by shadows until nothing remained. And then she had decided that she trusted that deadly shell of a bug enough to take nap next to her, completely defenseless. It almost makes Lace laugh. Almost.
Anything, even something as mild as a laugh would be sure to wake Hornet, after all. How did that saying go again? Six hours of sleep for a larva, seven for a pupa, eight for a fool? Given how the spider went through hell and back for somebody who could just as easily stab her in the back, she certainly needed her rest. Hell, even now, Lace’s pin was at her side as Hornet’s needle lay on the ground. It would be deceptively simple to pick up her weapon and skewer her, right here and now. To kill the thing that Mother had cast Lace aside in favor of. To kill the slumbering beast that had killed Mother in turn.
It wasn’t like Hornet was paying attention to her right now, with her cloak a rumpled mess tangled among her limbs. With how quickly she moved to get in bed and fall asleep, her cloak had ridden up on her thorax, revealing expanses of jet-black chitin underneath. The Chorus sent to capture her had described the little spider as beastly, and her appearance did absolutely, positively nothing to dissuade that notion. Old scars and fresh wounds alike blanketed her shell like flies on a rotting corpse, only broken up by bandages of silk knitted around wounds Lace assumed were particularly troublesome.
Two tiny sets of minor legs sprouted from her middle and terminated on her back, a testament to her Weaver heritage. She’d seen glimpses of them from beneath her cloak during battle as their flurry of motion patched wounds and whipped up storms of whiplike silk. Tucked away like this, close to her heart, they didn’t so much as twitch.
Had the Whiteguard doctors been present, Lace would not doubt have to physically restrain them from attempting dig their scalpels into such a beautiful specimen. The fact that her body wasn’t yet a lifeless husk would doubtlessly have turned the hospital ward into a lawless arena, with every physician risking life and limb for exclusive vivisection rights. Even if Lace, with her ageless shell, bothered to count on her claws the number of Weavers she had seen that were still breathing, she would only need a single tarsi’s worth. Those Weaver’s bodies were all limp, their limbs curled in on themselves in a decayed spiral. Their shells had dulled, no longer reflecting the fairy lights that danced above their heads like Hornet’s. Her shell was a deadly, perfect combination speed and lethality in a way that would make any sculptor beg to let her be their muse.
It was no wonder Mother took such a liking to her, with the way the light danced off her figure. In that gentle, flickering light, she looked more like a god than a bug. Back when she first met Hornet, Lace had decided that the only way Mother would get over such an infatuation would be to take Hornet’s head. If that plan failed, then the backup was to giggle as she punished, humiliated, skewered that little spider with her pin until her voice was hoarse from begging Lace for mercy. Once that was good and over with, perhaps she would pin and mount Hornet on a wall, driving needles into her joints to keep her in an eternal position of submission. Maybe, once that was over, Mother would deign to see her as something other than a worthless, cast-off doll.
Those dreams of acknowledgement had since faded. Grand Mother Silk’s husk was rotting in the Abyss, doomed never to bestow praise or affection on her again.
As if she ever did that in the first place.
The only remnant of that sadistic dream was here, splayed out in front of her, defenseless.
She doesn’t fully understand why she moves to straddle Hornet, her body moving slowly, careful not to disturb her slumber. Some long-forgotten dregs of her mind, desperate to be deemed the better at least once in her life, perhaps. Some part of her deranged ego, desperate to feel some modicum of power over this woman who had bested her thrice now.
Her brain conjures the fantasies without even trying. The Weaver at her feet, fear in her eyes as she begs to surrender. The Weaver, writhing as she’s skewered on Lace’s pin. The Weaver, tied up in submission, body shivering with equal parts pain and pleasure. Injury and desire, intertwined into every molecule of the Weaver’s body. Every scenario finds her body pulsing with some semblance of fulfillment, power, whatever the emotion was called. What the eggheads in Whiteward called it was much less important than the way the mental image of Hornet, crying out in pain, fear, pleasure, sent a jolt of something addictive surging through her psyche.
Mother had been equal parts careful and negligent in creating her. She had misstepped when creating the Weavers in allowing them the ability to reproduce, giving them the potential for mates and offspring alike. Even the potential for a child could sway loyalties away from their supreme creator and towards whatever dalliance they had decided upon.
Mother did not make that same mistake when creating Lace. Her claws had personally neutered any chance of her daughter being able to reciprocate as she weaved and threaded silk into the form of a tiny, snow-white shell. Lace was a construct, much the same as the sentinels that guarded the Citadel; any excess orifices or parts were a distraction -- worse than unnecessary, and thus removed. And yet, despite the attention given to thwarting that carnal desire that touched so many bugs, Mother did nothing to tame the raging storm of emotion Lace could muster. Perhaps she thought it impossible that a child she guarded so closely and created so carefully could ever turn against her, much less desire something besides her. She evidently was not given the gift of omniscience, seeing how Lace’s mind was conjuring up twisted fantasies of the spider in front of her as easily as her mother had conjured silk.
The visions kept coming, with Lace doing little to stem the tide. Why would she? Some part of her mind shook at the thought of Hornet gripping the sheets underneath her, squirming under Lace’s weight. Hornet trembling, desperate for touch that Lace refused to give. Hornet maskless, head bowed as Lace’s claws dug into the flesh beneath it. The object of Mother’s desires, desiring her and her alone. Each mental image has her heart racing, warmth flooding her body, even as it lacks a single unified outlet. The blankets shift under her weight as Lace leans in, until her head is almost grazing Hornet’s mask. Even as she’s careful to keep just enough distance to be able to play it off as something more innocent, something must have triggered Hornet to wake, because her body shifts once, twice, three times as she slowly wakes.
Lace jolts to attention as Hornet sizes up the construct looming over her. An awkward, extremely gravid pause ensues before Hornet seems to decide the issue is worth only a single, wayward comment.
“If you were so interested in my waking, you could have simply called out to me.” Hornet rearranges her cloak as she sits up, unjustly stealing away that lovely view of her abdomen.
“And dare disturb my savior’s rest? Unthinkable!” Hornet’s head makes a motion that Lace suspects is some sort of sarcastic gesture underneath her mask as she picks Lace up at the joints to move her aside. Except, something must’ve misfired in Lace’s brain, because when Hornet’s claws brush up against those wounds she took from their duel earlier, it feels like they’ve been struck be a hundred-volt wire. The feeling jolts through her body like a lightning strike, entering and exiting so fast that she almost wonders if she hallucinated some sort of mysterious phantom pain.
Those theories are dispelled as lightning strikes once more when Hornet’s claws pause on one of Lace’s more pronounced injuries, tracing its outline slowly, agonizingly on her shell. Whatever pain Lace might have felt at the injury is overwhelmed by a sudden, urgent pressure she feels boil up from deep inside her at Hornet’s touch. The logical half of her brain suggests that the feeling might be some unbeknown form of pain, despite…..well, everything else about the feeling proving otherwise. Lace has never in her long, complicated life wanted more of any sensation remotely labeled as ‘pain’. Neither has she ever wanted to lean harder into any implement or tool causing her pain. And yet Hornet’s claws are doing both to her, simultaneously. Her outer shell, the kind that guarded against strikes and wounds alike, don't seem to react when she brushes against it, but the second her claws press against the Silk exposed underneath that shell, that feeling rears its head.
It takes every ounce of willpower she can muster to resist the urge to lean into Hornet’s touch in an effort to get this strange, warm pressure building inside her to increase. As Hornet brings her mask far too close to Lace’s body for comfort, she lets out an anxious giggle.
“Admiring your handiwork?” Lace crosses her forelegs together as she gives an entirely fake laugh, careful not to squirm too much. The instinct to wriggle and writhe under whatever this feeling is makes for a tougher opponent than many bugs in the Citadel.
“You are injured,” Hornet replies, in a manner infinitely more direct than Lace would have liked. With a question, there could be denial, deflection, anything but a straight answer or acknowledgment. Instead of trying to deduce what the hell was going on with how a single brush of Hornet’s claws on her wounds was plunging every nerve she had into the Deep Docks, she could focus on something more important: dodging the question. Unfortunately, there was no room to respond, not without denying something that was so breathtakingly obvious to anyone with half-working eyes. Doubly unfortunately for Lace, Hornet’s eyes were very much in working order, and fixated on her.
Carefully, Hornet’s claws brush against one of her injuries again, and again she feels that wave of heat worm and slither its way throughout her body, completely ignoring her desire to not feel distracted like this while Hornet is so close. Was it a lingering side effect of being possessed by the void? No, that wouldn’t make sense, not when Hornet had been sure to thoroughly whack and stab every iota of it out of her earlier.
…How ironic, how this little spider is carefully going over her body to look for injuries she inflicted herself. She almost giggles at the irony, but swallows that laughter before it bubbles up to her mouthparts; even without her body responding like it had been bathed in lava at Hornet’s mere touch, Hornet’s concern raises her hackles. It makes her nervous, seeing her care so deeply about the safety of a doll like her. Those thoughts slush around in her head until she has no alternative but to break the mutual silence lingering over them.
“I’m sure I retaliated far more damage upon your shell than you did to me. Honestly, if not for that completely unfair ability of yours to mend your wounds mid-battle, I would have won.” In some corner of her mind, Lace was hoping the barbs would get some sort of rise out of Hornet to counteract such a serious atmosphere, but the spider oh-so-rudely ignores the taunt.
“I was not intending to wound you so grievously when we fought. Why did you not tell me?” For somebody who had personally swung her nail through the shells of hundreds of bugs, Hornet’s voice is sickeningly worried. Without even bothering to consult Lace, she flicks on some dratted Weaver implement on her desk, bathing her in what is far too much brightness for such a small bellhome. Had the Weavers no respect for others when drafting their accused instruments to focus what feels like the light of a thousand suns into one tiny beam? Even more insulting was the way the light bounced off her body, rudely illuminating every fray and tear on her shell. In daylight, perhaps some of her more minor injuries could simply be explained away by the way the light bounced and reflected off her thread. But here, every tear, abrasion, and rip was magnified by some blasted tool that seemed like it was created for the sole purpose of plunging bugs into blindness.
And even ignoring that ludicrously bright light, how did one even respond to Hornet’s question? It wasn’t like she could pick out any one thing that happened out of her blurry stream of memories of what had happened once they’d left that godforsaken void behind and underneath them; getting to safety ranked far higher on Lace’s priorities than something as mundane as “""healing""” or ""“communicating”"". Especially not with how Hornet was carrying her out of that place, as if she was some damsel in distress. Hell, shouldn’t she have noticed her wounds while she was doing her big hero move, saving her from the void? To only notice now was out-and-out negligence of the highest degree.
Given the way Hornet’s gaze was fixed on her, she must have been making up for lost time. Parts of her brain that she wasn’t even aware she had were on edge as the Weaver stared Lace down like she was nothing more than a large, particularly juicy piece of meat. Hornet’s body barely moved, but the way she kept her gaze on Lace sent a shiver of heat through the entirety of Lace’s shell.
This must be what it feels like to be a little fly trapped in a spider’s web.
Part of her wants to screw it and run, but the back of her head tells her that will only end in Hornet tracking her down like she was some particularly tasty morsel. Given how the only fix to the aches and pains plaguing her body is Hornet’s silk, this plan was tossed in Lace’s mental garbage bin about as quickly as she could swing her pin. Unless some new Weaver decided to spring to life and make herself known, Lace’s life was now permanently trussed up in Hornet’s claws.
Thus, despite her primal fear of rejection sulking about in the darkest corners of her mind, Lace’s best interests did not involve making herself out to be more screwed up and broken than she already was.
Hornet’s claws maneuver Lace into a position on the edge of the bed as she thankfully tones down the brightness on that lamp to something less obnoxiously blinding. As she catches a glance backwards, Hornet’s minor legs chitter away as they idly prepare to weave. One of Hornet's wayward tarsi unbuttons her crimson robe and tosses it aside in preparation for some sort of examination that Lace has deduced will not be a quick way out.
“I apologizes if this pains you,” Hornet says, a second before her claws brush one of her shallower wounds, once more summoning that feeling that is decidedly not pain. Pain would have her turning away, not fighting every instinct to lean into it, to pull Hornet’s claws deeper into her. There’s no word she can use to describe the feeling, except for a sudden, urgent throbbing inside her that kept demanding more.
One of Hornet’s minor legs brushes her back against what could generously be called a gash, and she feels the silk it carries merge with her body as the Weaver sews it into her. She has to curl her claws just to suppress a noise at the surge of heat pulsing through her body at the touch. Hornet’s claws brush up against her again as she finishes, and it thankfully, mercifully, doesn’t provoke a reaction. This will be fine, she tells herself. See? She already has one wound down, out of……
Lace takes mental inventory of the number of tears on her body (many). Lace contemplates how much she does not want Hornet to realize she is stoking some strange fire in her (badly). Lace considers that this may not be as easy as she expected.
Inherently, being in this position was not ideal, in battle or…..otherwise. Hornet has complete control over her, a fact that somehow spurns more warmth to slowly pulse inside her. And, with a single victory in darning one of her shallower wounds now under her belt, Hornet seems determined to begin working on the more extensive ones, judging by how Hornet’s claws have pinned her down into the sheets. She is no longer at the edge of the bed, but in its center, face down as Hornet looms over her. It should be impossible for every single connection in her brain to fire at once, but somehow, magically, Hornet has constructed from the ether some sort of ability to defy the impossible.
As Hornet’s claws carefully spread her shell, Lace has to throw out a barb, if only to suppress a the whine rising in her pharynx.
“Looking for organs to stab for our next battle?”
“A thorough understanding of your underlying constitution is required in order to properly mend your deeper wounds. I do not want to by privy to an inevitable chorus of complains if I heal you incorrectly.” She offers absolutely zero warning besides that as her claws pry open Lace’s shell, making every nerve in her body thrum. Her minor legs must be holding the wound open for her inspection, because Lace feels her claws trace the interior of the wound. She feels her body pulse and drone in what she only assumes is pleasure, as if Hornet has threaded a live wire perfectly through her.
She only lets a small noise, which all things considered, was probably drowned out by the other noises in Hornet’s bellhome.
Her body had never felt this sensitive before. Injuries would hurt like hell, but they didn’t throb, and they certainly didn’t feel like this, like she was gasping for breath when she didn’t even need to breathe. Did Hornet hit her so hard in their fight that her mind got screwed up? Maybe. It would be easy to blame Hornet for this, given how she’s currently the one her body is squirming and throbbing around.
Right on cue, Hornet’s claws actually dig into her wound a little, forcing Lace’s claws to dig deep into the blankets to stifle a reaction. It’s ridiculous how her touch is riling her up like this, making her want Hornet to touch her deeper and deeper, to dig her claws deep into her, almost as if she’s a maiden being……
Oh.
Oh no.
That’s what it was?
How on earth did Mother overlook something so…..simple? Gods above, were her thoughts concerned only with preventing her from feeling this sort of carnal desire at the uppermost layer of her shell? What kind of creator left such an odd, distasteful, literally gaping loophole? Enjoying power fantasies, perhaps ones more sadomasochistic than normal, were one thing, but this? Only being able to get off to having somebody’s claws shoved in your insides? Having to bite down as Hornet’s claws traced her wounds? It was never like that when Grand Mother Silk was alive, where her threads would magically stitch themselves into her body without any of this embarrassing moaning or squirming. None of this poking or prodding business, and certainly not at the tarsi of somebody like Hornet.
A bolt of fear passes through her midgut as she considers the possibility that this whole…..process is a step too far, even for Hornet. If she had hemolymph flowing in her veins instead of silk, she has no doubt it would have frozen solid in her body at the thought.
It’s fine, she tells herself. She just needs to stay calm and not let Hornet know. Neither of them will be the wiser. She’s strong enough that she doesn’t need frequent patching, after all. Just ignore everything that’s happening with her body for a couple moments, and you can put this behind you.
Hornet’s claws gently curl inside her.
It’s fine. She’s fine. She can ignore this. She can ignore the way Hornet’s claws are torching every nerve in her body. And the way they seem to be playing her like one of the Choir’s divine instruments, plucking every note out of her body like she is a tightly wound violin. Her muscles are tightly wound with how hard she is resisting the urge to impale herself as deep as possible on Hornet’s claws, which in her book is certainly not enjoyment.
Hornet’s claws jolt deeper, sending another wave through her.
Fine. Still fine.
……She had no idea her wound was that deep, or that a single bug’s claws could ever feel so good against her.
Against every iota of brainpower she can still muster up, she lets out a small groan. Hornet’s ministrations - her embarrassing, far too lengthy, and exceedingly cruel ministrations - pause at the noise. Lace half-turns herself over, expecting the worst, but is met with an expression that can only be described as amused. Her gaze is very much not focused on the wound, but on Lace’s reaction as she digs her claws in just enough to provoke a gasp.
“Do you really think me so naive to the world that I cannot recognize a face flushed with desire?” Hornet’s words are punctuated by her slowly, agonizingly dragging her claws out as she goes out of her way to snag them on the edges of a wound. One of the few remaining, fully functional circuits in Lace's brain fires just enough for her to realize her predicament.
Hornet thinks her plight is funny.
Somehow, in some way, Hornet being amused by this is a hundred times more worrying than her being angry. Anger might cut whatever this screwed-up performance short. Amusement, on the other hand, meant that she would drag it out far, far longer. Already, the claws of one of her tarsi have moved to flip Lace onto her back, while the other restrains Lace’s forelegs above her head.
“Answer me, child,” she demands, drawing the insult out of her mouthparts as if it is a particularly sticky piece of caramel. Lace’s brain, addled as it is, understands the demand well enough. Were you so naive that you think I wouldn’t notice? She squirms uselessly against Hornet’s grip, but is only rewarded by her shell being pressed even more firmly into the bedsheets.
It’s not like she can answer truthfully, can she? Besides, would Hornet even believe the excuse of ‘I just realized this ten seconds ago?’ Probably not, especially with her pride on the line. That would only lead her into being devoured whole by the cute little spider in front of her. She had only heard rumors of that mythical dominance drive the descendants of the White Wyrm possessed before meeting Hornet, and after seeing it in action…..she doesn’t want to provoke it any more than strictly necessary. Especially given how Hornet’s claws are positioned on her abdomen, tantalizingly close to a ripped seam.
No, no, no, she needs to purge that thought from her memory. Don’t think about Hornet’s claws reaching deep into her again. Be normal. Don’t give her a reason to throw you away like Mother did.
Her emotions whirl inside her shell far too violently for a construct who is currently getting her mind truly addled by sex for the first time in her life. The part of her that is angry that Hornet dug her up from the furthest reaches of the Abyss is feuding with the portion that is scared that Hornet will turn her back on her, like how Mother once did. But the third faction, the one that needs Hornet to touch her in the same manner that most bugs need air to breathe, drowns out the other two. As Hornet’s grasp on her tightens, silently demanding she reply, she reflexively falls back on an old, tried-and-true tactic for dealing with Hornet: teasing.
“Hmph! I only assumed a little spider like you would be aware of such a thing.” Hornet is still for a moment, as she lingers over the words like a hunter lingers over their thrashing prey still barely clinging to life. Lace already prepares herself to wince at whatever inevitable riposte she has prepared for her.
“I simply did not take your mother to be…….” Hornet’s twin sets of minor legs drum on the bed as she attempts to find the right phrasing, her claws idly, mockingly nudging against the edge of one of Lace’s many gashes. “A pervert.”
“Keep her name out of your filthy mouthparts, spider.” She feels a spike of anger flood her body with heat, but it's quickly drowned out by the sheer flood of warmth Hornet's touches provide. Lace's limbs struggle to rise from the bed to punish her for the comment, Hornet’s weight on her forces her back down onto the covers. Her traitorous mind adds insult to injury as Hornet's sudden weight pinning her down into the blankets makes her think of how good that weight would feel if it was pressing nice and firm into where she wanted it most.
“You're not in a position to dictate what I say right now, child. Tell me, was this her method of keeping you in line?” As if to goad her further, Hornet’s claws dip into Lace again, tracing tiny spirals inside her. Had she been in the proper state of mind (fully healed, mind not addled by a certain spider), Hornet would have left that conversation with no less than three (3) new holes in her shell. In her current position, however, Lace could only let out an angry hiss.
“You…….” She thrashes under Hornet, hard, enough that she feels the Weaver’s weight shift in an attempt to keep her balance overtop Lace. “Do not speak ill of the dead like that. She never resorted to such methods.”
Mother never needed to, not when her children were created on such a short leash. Despite her quite admirable honestly given the situation, Lace’s answer was rewarded not by praise, but by Hornet sinking her claws in again. Unable to pull herself deeper into the mattress to suppress the throbbing that hit her body like a wave, she groans. The insult to Mother was quickly forgotten among the various other, more important threads running through her head, consisting of:
- what Hornet's mouthparts look like
- how long and thick Hornet's mouthparts were
- whether Hornet's mouthparts could fit into her wounds
- what Hornet's mouthparts would feel like stretching her wounds past their limits
Hornet chuckles at her, which is quite rude considering how well Lace is holding herself together. She has yet to ask a single question about if Hornet has an ovipositor, after all. The claws around Lace's tarsi yank her forelegs just a little upwards, forcing her mind to attention and out of its cloud of fantasy.
“I presume, also, that you are not in the habit of sticking your claws inside your own wounds. It would be a poor explanation for your recklessness, after all.”
Ugh. If the spider’s wit was a blade, it could likely slice Pharloom in half at its very foundation. Lace doesn’t answer the question. She doesn’t need to, not when Hornet seems capable of pulling out answers from her as easily as most other bugs breathed. Barely a moment of being peppered with questions, and she’d already figured out this discovery was as surprising for her as it was for Hornet. Would it have killed Mother to at least give her a heads up? A warning? Even a simple ‘your inner shell is a whole massive erogenous zone’ would have sufficed! Anything was better than discovering this …..proclivity of her body while pinned beneath Hornet. Maybe then, her body wouldn’t be absolutely yearning for her touch like a thirsty pilgrim in the Blasted Steps longed for water!
“I do not enjoy such grotesque hobbies, but it seems you do. Tell me, is this extended examination purely for my benefit, or is it for your amusement?” Unable to gesture with her tarsi, Lace opts to jerk her head in the direction of her ruthless, cruel, merciless captor.
“You appear to be enjoying this process much far than I am,” Hornet replies dryly, her claws cruelly flexing to punctuate her argument, their tips drawing small, warm, far too pleasurable circles inside Lace. “If the feeling is unpleasant to you, I would advise you to promptly tell me, and to not pull any reckless stunts in the future.”
Hornet withdraws her claws agonizingly slowly as she hovers, as if she was challenging Lace to speak up and beg for further humiliation. Half of Lace’s brain is already making the motions to kneel on the floor and beg as the other half of her brain barely restrains the impulse. In her defense, it wasn’t like she had time to build up immunity to the feeling of having something like Hornet targeting all her sensitive spots with pinpoint accuracy. She barely had time to process that her body could feel like this, throbbing and pulsing under Hornet’s touch, before the spider started testing her limits!
One of Hornet’s tarsi stubbornly remains planted on her thorax, despite her desperate mental prayers for it to move downwards, but Hornet is nothing if not measured. Cruel, one could say, and Lace would agree. The pain of her aching wounds is nothing compared to the pain of resisting her body’s urge to pull herself against Hornet and rut like a beast in heat.
Hornet’s minor legs scuttle about, darning and mending her shallower wounds with a feather-light touch. She barely even notices the process until the feels the silk press into her skin. Infuriatingly, Hornet is nimble enough to keep her touches gentle and quick, leaving her with itchy, hungry pangs. She doesn’t dispute how having Hornet look after her like a nurse is enticing, but her staunch refusal to do anything other than lightly brush up against her shell has Lace losing her mind. Surely, she thinks, Hornet will have to move on to actually tending to something deeper, but she seems to have an innate talent for finding even the smallest torn thread on the outermost layer of her shell. The spider’s gaze is goading, as if daring her to beg for it. Lace wishes she was above such taunts, but the sheer amount of fascination radiating off Hornet moved her to speak faster than her brain could process that mouthing off Hornet in this situation was ill-advised at best.
“I simply cannot believe that you are going to leave me here, mortally wounded, to rot.” Had her forelegs been freed, she would have opted to throw one of them against her head in a gesture of exaggerated distress.
“You seemed to take issue with my initial ministrations, did you not?” Hornet’s reply is almost singsong.
“Only that you went about them in such a beastly manner! Have you truly no grace, you brute?” She feels regret almost as soon as the words leave her mouthparts, but once they hang in the air between them, they turn to mist, impossible to take back. As Hornet adjusts her posture, leering over her, Lace feels a premonition of danger that hits just a moment too late.
“So your problem was with the delicateness of my touch?” Hornet’s mask, hovering just a Silk’s width away, matches her gaze with an expression that sends shivers through her shell. As if rising to the challenge, Hornet’s claws begin to grace Lace’s body once more. Her touch moderates itself to something feather-light, ghosting over Lace’s silken shell. What had once been a gentle but delicate touch transforms into something where Lace can barely tell when Hornet is touching her and when she is hovering just above her shell. She had thought it impossible, but somehow, Hornet has engineered a way to make this unique form of torture worse. In the process of touching her, Hornet has released Lace’s tarsi, and moved to support her thorax with her minor legs, freeing not one but both sets of forelegs to ghost over every inch of her body.
To add insult to the injury she is currently suffering, her forelimbs being unrestrained forces Lace to make the conscious choice to still them; had she left it to base instinct alone, she has not doubt that she would be shoving her own claws deep into her own throbbing core. Regardless, it doesn’t stop the parade of embarrassing sounds making their way out of her pharynx and into her mouthparts as Hornet looks on, amused. The attention from her captor isn’t exactly unwanted, but each ghosting touch leaves her shell shaking.
If Hornet notices the toll it’s taking, she certainly doesn’t show it. That, or she takes some sort of sadistic glee in how easily she wears down Lace’s defenses, turning the interaction into an endurance match that could be best described as unfair in the extreme. Hornet only had to get bored, a task made impossible by how thoroughly her claws are slamming Lace with waves of heat.
“A-are you truly going to continue this cruel barrage until I relent in some fashion?”
“Your internals are quite fascinating. It is not every day that I get the chance to closely inspect silk of as fine a make as you. Your reflexes and responses to stimuli are similarly quite interesting.” As if to prove her point, her claw presses down just slightly, eliciting an embarrassingly loud whine. Had this been normal, Lace assures herself that she would never stoop to such humiliating noises, but Hornet’s rude insistence on a lack of firm, direct touch had forced her tarsus. Sadist that she was, Hornet only leaned back, denying her anything further besides that snide comment.
Her mind translates the comment: Hornet is amused by making her squirm, an action Lace very much does not enjoy participating in. It’s an odd, embarrassing form of what feels like ritual humiliation as Hornet pushes each and every button in her body in perfect unison. She’s likely had centuries to practice this craft, and to spring it on an inexperienced bug no less. Does she have no shame for the feelings she’s shooting through Lace? Is she going to torture her until she relents and submits?
She shivers at the thought, enough that one of her tarsi instinctively fly out to clutch at her wound. She has to consciously make an effort not to have her claws drift into it, press down, and grab her pleasure with her own limbs. She could easily do it, in theory. She finds her claws idly rubbing into her shell, sending weak pangs of pleasure through her shell, and she has to stop herself from going any further. At some point, she finds herself asking why she denies herself the action. Wouldn’t doing it by herself be easier? She could get herself off in full view of Hornet like this, with her infuriating gaze that makes her whole body pulse. With just a few actions, she could bypass all these strange, borderline painful teases that the spider had foisted upon her. Her tarsi idly rub herself a little harder, shooting off more waves of pleasure. It would be so much easier. But, at the same time, her eyes wander over to Hornet, to the strange gleam of expectation in her eyes.
Gods, is she enjoying this game? Being toyed with, punished, at Hornet’s mercy? Her body, rather rudely, supplies the answer with a wave of carnal hunger that almost makes her dizzy. She almost laughs at the absurdity of the situation as she leans forward. Hornet surveys her from her dominant position, waiting for a move.
A little beastly thing, waiting for an excuse to punish her. She could ask the little spider to stop toying with her, she supposes, but that thought doesn't provoke that deep-seated desire to rise through her body. She really, truly cannot believe she is considering something like this, something that would have been unthinkable merely an hour ago, but this body's desires are beginning to force her tarsus. She needs this bug in front of her to indulge her body's whims in a way she has never needed anything else in her entire life. If Hornet finds her an amusing toy, she'll give her a show. She’ll poke the beast. After all, it can’t be worse than the predicament she’s already in. Retaliation means touch, claw against shell, the possibility of Hornet sinking her claws in far too deep to be comfortable, the friction stretching her body to its limits. It means a distilled form of want and need, directed solely at her.
True, Lace isn’t exactly an expert on Weaver anatomy, but it wasn’t like Weavers suddenly evolved to have their reproductive organs at the tips of their mouthparts, right? If she truly wanted to annoy Hornet, aiming between the hindlegs was the most strategic move. She’d seen some sort of furrow between them that was as good a place to try as any. One of her tarsi hooks themselves between the spider's minor legs and around the back of her abdomen, keeping her locked in place, unable to escape. The other, with the flat of her tarsus, begins rubbing that area in slow, firm, wide circles. Hornet freezes, which Lace assumes is likely a good sign.
Hornet’s body tenses under her grasp, as if a seasoned veteran like herself didn’t count on the possibility of her prey fighting back. Lace giggles at the absurdity of it all.
“The scary little spider, defeated with a mere touch. I think you’re losing your edge, miss Hornet.”
One second passes, then two, then three as Hornet stands motionless, assessing the situation before her. Lace feels her relax a little into her grasp, before gently swatting the offending tarsus away. Given how her body doesn’t rise and fall like a normal bug, Lace wonders if the long, annoyed sigh she gives was a learned trait, picked up from the swarms of bugs she surrounded herself with over her life.
“Troublesome child.”
“I’m simply mirroring what you are doing to me, dear spider.”
“Most bugs would not attempt to test their luck with a Weaver in their prime.”
“Judging by the rather cruel way you’ve been toying with me, I would say that you’ve judged me more durable than most bugs.” With a free tarsus, she gestures as dramatically as she can to her injuries; while Hornet has tended to the minor ones, she still feels the sting - long since morphed into a needy throbbing - from several major gaping ones strewn haphazardly across her body. “Besides, I would imagine surviving a rut with a Weaver would be easier than surviving combat with one, no?”
“If you insist.” Hornet gives another sigh, but she can sense this aura of anticipation around her, the way her entire body perks up in excitement as she lets go of Lace as if she is more an overgrown flea than a hunter.
Hornet lets out a low hum as she backs away from Lace and onto the edge of the bed, as if she is a predator stalking her prey. It gives Lace a low thrill in her body as she has to judge whether or not Hornet is about to pounce. Despite her brain knowing a strike is inevitable, Hornet still keeps herself a short distance away, no doubt judging what spot on her body is best to go after. This goes on for several moments, and it’s only when Lace marginally relaxes that Hornet becomes a blur of motion, her body tackling Lace onto the bed, hard enough that the back of her head whacks the headboard.
If she had to breathe, Hornet certainly would have knocked it all the air in her body out of her. One of the few benefits of her constitution, Lace decides, along with her relatively sturdy shell. A quality that probably works to her detriment, considering how comfortably Hornet roughly takes hold of her. Her claws sink in enough to hurt, but not enough to break the shell. Lace’s reflexes aim at kick at her attacker, but Hornet has already shifted her body weight to prevent any retaliation of that sort.
Lace’s mind is so busy processing that tackle that it’s completely blindsided by the claws. Hornet’s claws go in fast, deep, and hard, scissoring deep inside of her. She tries to buck and writhe away from the pressure, but the savior of Pharloom is nothing if not relentless. That heated coil inside her flares as Hornet’s claws burrow into her. She’s pretty sure her brain is starting to physically short circuit with how fast and hard hornet is coming down on her. The spider’s claws are curling, clenching, all sorts of words she can’t think of words to properly describe other than intense. A mixture of pain, yes, but it’s dwarfed by the pleasure pulsing through her. The only real response she can muster is to dig her claws deep into Hornet’s nice mattress.
She wants more, even as she feels Hornet’s claws partially shred her back. Let her, she thinks. Hornet brought her back from the Abyss. She put up with her. She can do whatever she wants. And above all, it feels good. This bizarre crescendo of pain and pleasure as she’s pinned down under Hornet makes her feel wanted. Somebody who actually understands her, was willing to dive into the void to save a husk of a bug, who was never a bug in the first place, was willing to put up with her.
Hornet’s claws keep going, faster and sharper, until there’s no break between the waves of electricity circuiting through her body. Her senses fade white as she feels it crescendo throughout her body until she falls limp.
Lace's first observation when she comes back to her senses is that she has been quite politely tucked into bed. Her second observation is that Hornet is sitting at a desk halfway across the room, diligently writing something in her journal. Judging by the speed at which she tucks the book away when she notices Lace stir, she sincerely hope it isn’t some sort of detailed repository on ways to make her squirm.
“Are your injuries properly mended?” Hornet's voice echoes off the walls of the bellhome, her tone's aggressiveness from earlier replaced with only inquisitiveness and what Lace thinks is a trace of concern. Likewise, the dull ache from her wounds has been replaced with a slight itch in her shell where previously had been living tributes to Hornet’s skill with a needle. If not for her vivid memories of the act, she would never have thought she was pinned down to a bed moaning several moments ago.
“They’re healed. But you could improve your bedside manner, doctor spider.” Lace snickers as she cautiously stretches her limbs, one at a time. Aside from that mild itch in her shell, Hornet's stitching was flawless. As expected from a practiced Weaver, she supposes.
“Improvements in my bedside manner will only be gained if you ensure your injuries do not result from recklessness. Or a desire for bedroom activities.” Was that a trace of laughter in that last statement? Lace can’t tell.
“I didn’t know you were so driven. Is mating with me the only thing on your mind?” Her attempts to drape herself over Hornet like a rich bug would drape an expensive scarf over their thorax are surprisingly successful, given the circumstances. Hornet's only reaction is a huff.
“Says the one who was moaning all over me when I had barely touched her.”
“That was an isolated incident, spider.”
“Permit me to doubt that statement.” Hornet pauses at her notes. “That said, I would not be ill-disposed to a second bout. It was amusing watching your struggle in my web.”
“You assume your dominance against my struggle as if it is inevitable. I wouldn’t get so cocky, little spider.” Lace's tarsi form into a fist to gently rap at Hornet's mask. She manages a good two, three knocks in before her claws are caught by Hornet's. The Weaver must be getting slow, she decides. Or perhaps just cocky.
“If that is your aspiration, I would be glad to challenge it. However, I suspect it will end in my crushing your optimism.” Her mind briefly flirts with the idea of a third potential -- that for the first time in her life, Lace considers, perhaps the little spider is growing a soft spot in her shell for her. Or maybe it was already there all along, just hidden beneath her hardheadedness.
“It sounds like the little spider is afraid of a rematch.” Lace laughs, the noise echoing off the walls of the bellhome. Despite Hornet’s strange taste in decor, perhaps she could get used to this whole....situation. After all, it came with a cozy place to sleep. A consistent source of Silk. Somebody who enjoyed her company.
Plus, at the end of the day, Hornet had just issued her a challenge, and it would be rude to turn it down.