Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A gramophone sang out from an open window, turning heads of the bugs that have not yet been haunted.

They knew the place the sound came from quite well; you were an entertainer with quite a collection of voices - strings gathered from the necks of lovely performers. A shudder went through those who knew.

You invite people over for numerous of reasons; unfortunately, the bug in front of you did not know if your intentions were malicious or not.

Oh, thy gaze was striking. The sparks stirred in his gut.

Trobbio, the Master of the Stage, the Brush and the Voice, was quite taken aback by the sight of you as the door slid open. He was invited into a place of dark velvet, cozy, no, claustrophobic when he fully saw you.

Despite being a presence of great fame, you kept yourself hidden from the unworthy, those who refuse to sing, inviting the outstanding ones with letters made of purest petals; the ones which you yourself had harvested from the Shellwood.

Yes, you were quite like the muses in tales and fables that bugs fought themselves for death over.

Yet it seemed at the same time that you'd rather immerse yourself in the said violently passionate act than have others do it for you.

Trobbio felt a sense of camaraderie, but also unease. 

The scented candles hanging off the chandelier gave you an aroma of threat, danger. You intentionally moved in a slow way that forced others to stay alert.

Perhaps, you were a skilled actor, a thespian artist.

Or a skilled hunter.

As the crimson performer sat on the loveseat covered in pillows, he noticed that you towered right over him - holding both strength and grace in each little movement as you looked through a cupboard to find a special bottle.

It seemed like the world had been bent to your being as his attention was all on you.

There was no struggle visible as you pulled out the cork. A thick pop of the air signified that it was a drink of the highest quality. The dark liquid poured from the dark glass bottle, pinning the butterfly; pressuring him to stay in your presence until the wine glass, or himself, was finished. Not that he’d leave before this had happened.

The air shifted once more. You sat right next to him, handing him the drink. It felt like an invitation for a dance; the most macabre dance one might participate in.

Trobbio accepted the glass.

He took a visibly hesitant sip, and you followed after him, watching the butterfly closely as you savoured the light sweetness that broke through the bitterness, like curtains drawn for the show. This was likely the most extravagant drink the male bug had ever tasted, the taste lingering much longer than anticipated, while not being too overwhelming.

His antennae raised a bit in a shy, blind hope.

Surely, you wouldn't offer a prey such high quality drink, the butterfly decided, his wings relaxing just a tiny bit.

“My, my, my. To have such a famous performer, such a voice, such presence, enter this humble abode of mine,” your silky voice swirled around the air like the wine in your glass, “I truly, honestly, wanted to hear thy enchanting voice, converse for just a few moments.” Unknowingly to him, you shifted your voice and speech to suit the thespian artist.

“Why, I feel quite humbled by such a rare invitation,” he did not lie, “but is a chat all that you have wanted of me?” The butterfly felt bold enough to ask, despite how sharp your appendages looked up close. A shiver, not fully of fear, passed over his thin wings.

“I had heard that most performances of yours have been kept as secretive as possible, carrying other entertainers and legends to an untimely demise in search of beauty and art, ah, and fame.” You were not wrong, each reason you listed was correct; the search for art and fame is a dangerous one, requiring a sacrifice of many bugs, whose deaths were far from pointless, each served a purpose - for art is not without a spill, be it paint or blood.

“If you had wished to join, why not attend yourself, dear…” he paused, voice trailing off, the bravado not present, at least not in your home.

A chuckle filled the space in the air he had left devoid of sound.

“Ah, I have forgotten to formally introduce myself, right,” you poured yourself another glass, “the name I've been given is long… lost, thus you can call me however you see fit.”

“Very well, dear host. Allow me to ask, why have thy not joined me in search of art upon the stage?”

“To be fully honest, dear Trobbio,” his wings gave a light flutter, “I'd like to put on a performance, yes, but one on a larger scale. A trial for fools. You do understand, don't you?”

Trobbio took a pause to think, a hum leaving him as the butterfly crossed his lower legs.

A defeated sigh left him, “I’m afraid that you have left me quite stumped…” he admitted.

“In my younger, quite younger, days I've been a part of the audience for a great show where fools had thrown themselves to prove their greatness,” you reminisced fondly, taking slow sips of wine between pauses, “going through trials to survive. When I heard the tales of your performance… well, it has brought me back to those times.”

“Yes?” You were unaware, or maybe not, but your leg touching one of his own made butterflies stir in his gut. The praise you had given was a good touch as well.

Even if you told him to give up on performances, he'd listen to you; a mere second with you was more thrilling, exciting and dangerous than any of the previous acts with those lackluster bugs.

“I wish to put on a similar challenge, a similar performance, but I have realised that organising such a thing would be… more difficult than I had previously thought. Not to mention that I need a famous individual to spread the news around, help me out. You know where I'm going with this, don't you?”

His antennae wobbled up and down as he quickly nodded.

“I believe I understand completely. Very well, I am quite willing to see your vision for such a spectacular show,” a coy response left him. A great artist doesn't give in so easily, …even if he really wants to.

“Thy have no idea how much the agreement pleases me.” You refilled his glass, the wine taking on a more pink hue as the light of the candles in the room shifted in colour.

As he took another sip, you lowered your tone, leaning more into his space, the air becoming more tense, more intoxicating. A whisper brushed through his entire being, “say, dear Master of the Stage, may I be so bold if I were to ask for a private show of thy captivating performance?” His wings gave a quick flap behind him in surprise.

The showman put the glass down to ground himself before turning your way.

“What would this captivating host have in mind?” You let out a hum of appreciation, the sound that would be stuck in the deepest part of his mind for centuries to come.

Trobbio swallowed more wine as you quickly refilled his glass once more. Most guests don’t have enough taste to appreciate a drink from a different land, especially one that doesn’t intoxicate the body, but the soul itself. It fills the body in strength beyond their usuality.

Not long after, the butterfly had learned that the stifling sitting room had a secret entrance to an arena, red lanterns illuminating the room in crimson hue. Music of unknown land became louder as you snapped your fingers, copying an old acquaintance of an old friend of yours. You were not a higher being of any sorts, but you’ve learned a lot throughout your life.

It was a grand performance, one in which the grand finale would have been his own demise… yet Trobbio had been spared as your sharp claw-like appendage moved from his throat to brush through the crimson fluff.

Then, he was let go. You parted with few words, too little to satisfy a newly developed fascination, no, longing.

“I had not danced around with such a lovely partner in so long,” you had whispered at the very end.

He had known, it was a dance with death itself.

Thinking back to it, you seemed to enjoy the lightshow he had put on. It pleased Trobbio that you resigned from attacking him to watch the performer glide across the air, almost captivated by the confidence in his art. Yes indeed, since you seemed to appreciate the ‘dance’ enough to spare him.

The butterfly thought back once more to that moment as he laid alone, touching where no other had touched before, his other appendage holding where you had squeezed - restricting his breathing, yet trying to gasp out pleasured noises.

Trobbio’s wings shivered under him, a light graze of his fingers felt like a burning sensation when your face was in his thoughts. He envisioned your strength as you led him towards the climax of such a sinful show.

How scandalous he had felt for imagining such things, for wanting them to become true.

An artist taken by the danger and attraction. Weak for the touch of the violent, yet alluring hunter. Wanting to be more than just a piece of the collection you had amassed. He’d not dare touch you, yet you could do whatever your heart desired of him.

Ah, how a great one could fall. Yet, it also had not felt disgraceful as he felt beauty in the act of this newly discovered devotion. Trobbio wished to be at the mercy of thy hands, he was sure of that.

“Oooh,” his low voice tore out from his vocal cords, head thrown back as he imagined you holding him firmly. In the buzzing head of his, your voice told him to hold up.

He had not listened to the imaginary order. In reality, you’d surely punish him for that.

His abdomen buckled up, beastly base desires flaring up as he pleasured his now disgraceful self, genitalia throbbing as the imaginary entertainer, your graceful self, told him to stop, to prolong it.

It felt ecstatic. Pleasure inflamed. Mind both haunted in a rush and blank in sin. Excitement coursing through.

His tiny, jerky movements sped up. Chest tightened. A flurry of butterflies stirred in his abdomen once more.

He let it out.

“TROBBIOOO!”

Chapter Text

The warrior had finished packing for the journey. She did not know how long it would take, but the search must begin today.

She was almost ready to leave, there was just one more thing left; the most important one.

“Must you leave?” There it was, there was her partner standing behind her, posture shrunken by hesitation and sadness, limbs wrapped around your own form, holding those emotions back as much as one could in such a moment.

Shakra knew this would be difficult for you both.

For those unaware, you were of a lower rank in the tribe, yet you've earned the favour of this warrior through persistence at housekeeping work. Despite the struggles you had endured, the inability to fight, you still did your best to add something to your community, help out in some way, any way truly.

The ones at top, the ruling ones, had taken pity on you, Shakra’s Master being one of them. As the two warriors trained together, you made sure to do all the chores to the best of your ability, rest only at the end of each day.

At some point, you and Shakra came together, base desires meeting feelings of affection, attraction and appreciation. A night where she had taken you, a caress so gentle it made tears gather in your eyes; that’s the night you became her mate to protect and care for.

Then, her master had departed, no words leaving the skilled warrior bug.

Shakra had insisted on following after, and so here you were - begging her to reconsider.

“She'll surely return, please stay.”

“That hope is based on no evidence,” you had an inkling that Shakra sounded exhausted and so you came closer, hands held together in worry.

“Oh dear warrior, are you in any peril over Master’s disappearance?” A question you already knew the answer to, yet still asked, needing her to voice it. Your dear mate had been toughened by the master’s training, but hearing her honest thoughts was an important thing to you.

The bag of supplies was lowered onto the dirt ground.

“Being honest… this had taken a toll on me, but that only tells me that I must journey out to search for the reason behind this distress, to find my Master and ask,” had you been fully arrogant, selfish in the adoration you held for this bug, you would've not relented, but you didn't - you understood her.

You understood your partner well; possibly from the very start, as you had begged in a lukewarm way, not fully coming to terms with the upcoming separation.

It was quite obvious, this turmoil inside her would not end if she stayed behind.

“Seeing this, it's hard to not ask you to stay,” you reached out your hand to place upon her cheek, she closed the distance herself, laying it and her saddened agitation down, her flesh pressed against the comforting palm, “yet, I understand. Had I been a warrior, I'd make the same decision. Go, but don't leave me with words alone.”

She looked upon you in an unguarded way, letting you feel her as she feels you. Truth laid out bare as she grasped your forearm and delivered a tender kiss against the inside of your wrist.

A gasp escaped you, too soon, as another followed upon her next action. Shakra pulled you in, lifting you up and carrying inside the Master's home, her cold bracelets digging into your lower limbs. Almost instinctively, a shiver of pleasurable anticipation traveled throughout your being, right to the very core of your soul.

The limbs wrapped around the warrior.

Your room was not too far from the young warrior’s, the two weren't that different except for one minor thing - the bug carrying you had no need for a bed as she preferred a stable surface. This time however, she needed a soft surface to lay you down on. You bruised way too easily compared to the rest of your tribe, not that she had ever mated another. You were the one that broke through her thick shell with your pure sincerity.

She was leaving behind something very precious, but not forever.

Gentle, slow kisses were peppered along your neck as she kneeled down, laying you carefully on the mattress filled with soft cotton-like buds.

Shakra always led the shared nights with care and responsibility, taking on a role of leading partner, bringing you to the point of breathless ecstasy and a sweet, pure relief. This time, she planned to make it sweeter, to make this one last in memory.

The bug leaned over you. 

Her hands gently trailing around your limbs, abdomen, fingers circling around both sensitive and ticklish spots. Giggles and sighs escaped you, just loud enough for her to hear, pride and fondness stirring in her chest.

A strong hand held a lower limb of yours up, gliding to the inner side, but never arriving to touch your deepest spot. Cold bracelets brushed over the skin, stirring sin in your core. The kisses followed after, at each spot that the hands have touched, a reminder of the previous excitement.

Passion renewed, strengthened.

Bliss filled your head, as she never touched your core of desire, only leaving you at the very edge.

Her hands worked around your hips, thumbs running circles at your abdomen as breath hit your lower part. As if your nerves were lit ablaze. Your core stirred. The hips held tightly, unable to move. Abdomen rolling in circles for any stimulation.

She placed one, carefully placed kiss - right above the sensitive nub. The back of yours arched at that moment as there it was.

Like a drop falling in a full pot, pleasure overflowed.

You reached the peak. A quick yell, or rather groan, left your sore throat.

The essence of passion spread across the sheets, all limbs shaking, heart racing.

Your mind ran a million thoughts at once, yet none at the same time. This was a pleasure like you had never received before from your dear partner.

Shakra grabbed a rag, instantly tending to you after. 

She had wanted to make a tender goodbye, to see her lover not in pain, but affection as she left them. The warrior knew she could not take you with her, the rumors of the place her master traveled to were not filled of peaceful lands and caring lords ruling over them, but of treacherous paths filled by haunted beings.

Thankfully, the act of Shakra’s devotion had left you exhausted to the point of drifting off into sleep. A coward’s escape, she had called her decision. A braver bug would leave you with so much more. She’ll return a more worthy student of her Master and a much more worthy mate of yours.

The warrior bug laid a sheet over you, pressing the last kiss on the palm of your hand, sealing a promise to return.

Shakra gave one last look back, hoping to engrave your peaceful expression in her mind, so that she may see it every time she closes her eyes during this dangerous search.

Chapter Text

The melodious headwear sat quietly on the desk, left for another day as its owner was laid out on a bed.

Pavo was a fair one upon the sheets, his body and voice responding positively to the pleasure, yet he desired his partner to take charge.

You kneeling at the very edge of the bed, caressed him with honest care, dutifully opening him up to your acts of devotion.

Much like a devoted one to their divine idol of worship.

Though quite sharp, the claws of yours had been dulled by the work on yet another collection of bells, so there was no threat to your darling partner.

The male bug sang poetics in language of passion as your mouth enveloped him, the warmth making his senses ascend to divine gates.

His lower limbs trembled as you took him whole, the noise of the obscene act sounding like sin incarnate, yet feeling like complete bliss.

You ignored the quiet pain of kneeling on the cold ground, as the bliss from passionate unification was much stronger.

A sigh escaped you as you felt his body thrust, unable to keep the desire at bay.

The song of passion spread in this little bellhome, yet remained only for the two of you to hear. Pavo let himself whimper louder, filling his adoring partner with motivation to keep at this momentum, to serve until the release.

Your claws traveled to his abdomen, tracing invisible decorations, as if he himself was a product of your devoted craft.

He was lovelier than the bells you create however, much softer, much more preferable to pour your love into. No bell could compete, the sounds, the glimmer, they all lost when compared to him.

How grateful you were, to the red maiden, for allowing you to return to your precious partner, for saving the Bellhart and for allowing your love to be everlasting, even if shells wither and depart from living.

The flesh hardened more as you teased the salivary muscle around it. Upper limbs caressed his body, feeling for any wounds or impacts from the silk strings.

Leaving for Citadel had been a mistake, even if you would not have had the strength to save him. Each day and night, you'll keep making his life a more glorious one, as for a bug of art, no art is more beautiful than love itself.

Pavo must have felt your prayer, your promise, and released himself, the pearly liquid spilling as you pulled away, painting his abdomen.

Yet it wasn't you who stood up first, no, fair Pavo himself, despite the pleasurable release, stood to retrieve clean towels, against your hurried reassurances.

He pulled you up on the bed, cleaning any messes, tending to bruises and resharpening your dulled claws.

See, as much as you have devoted yourself upon the return, so has your partner. The bug was joyous upon the reconciliation, and so made a similar promise to himself.

To love and care, everlasting devotion to one another.

Chapter Text

The tiny flea on your lap yipped and woofed a happy tune as your comb brushed through the thick fur.

Traveling with your fellow fleas has been a joy, yet the next destination was sure to be quite a dirty one.

You're well aware that Varga will stay inside his own carriage, as that one was very averse to any form of dirt or grime. Unfortunately, you will not have the same opportunity, as the fleamaster had asked of you to care for the newly arrived fleas.

The skills you possessed, especially around maintaining fur quality, were indeed quite needed by a caravan of fleas, who unlike other bugs, relied on their fur for protection, whether from the elements or hunting predators.

You felt the wheels of the caravan bump the carriage as it all moved forward. The red maiden was sitting right by you, though much more covered in fleas. 

A chuckle escaped you, earning a side eye from the bug, though any threatening looks were undermind by the cute little flea who fit between the horns of her mask.

This hunter has been great help, more than great, although she did rush forward, sending over more fleas than that place could handle. At this pace, you'll need to move once more, but you're hopeful that a perfect spot is just around the corner.

You also appreciated the sharpness of her needle, it seemed well cared for.

With the third brushed out flea, the caravan arrived at its next destination. Before you knew it, the cloaked bug ran forward, but you paid her no mind.

She'll return soon, and so you hoped that the little trinket you've found will be enough to repay your gratitude for clearing the way for other fleas.

Fleamaster hurried you to return to work as they'd found a grand piece of food that was drowned in the water not that far away.

So went the day by…

More fleas flew in, but then an unexpected one arrived.

A carriage, though its shape was quite peculiar, rolled in with a flea leading it, one who did seem rather odd, but you welcomed him in just like any other flea.

“My, my! Though I may not be the leader of this caravan, I welcome you in, dear flea. The journey must've been quite a dangerous one, I presume.” The flea you had addressed did not respond right away, he had instead looked you over; not as if you were a threat, but as if he had not seen another flea in ages.

You would not blame or be mad at any flea with such a response, as you do understand your own looks. There is no arrogance, more acceptance as you often view yourself in the mirror, in fact you strive to pull other fleas into the same amount of care and cleanliness.

Then, and suddenly, came a suspicious looking grin, as well as a low satisfied chuckle.

“Oh my, heh, heh. What a warm greeting. I am truly pleased that such a wonderful little flea had invited me in from this dark and dreadful outside,” he twirled the little hairs on his furried face, looking rather pleased. “Are you sure your leader won't mind, fair flea?”

“Quite certain. The Fleamaster would welcome any flea in, though he is quite busy now with carving away at meat for the stew,” you would not get close to such an unamusingly unmoving body to cut at it, so leader Mooshka had to take over.

You've abandoned violent acts long ago, yet cutting up fresh food still worked to lift your spirits.

“Oho! How glad and lucky am I then! Dear one, how about I let you take a dip in my carriage free of charge… to show how grateful I feel… indeed…” You stepped closer to the carriage, one of the smaller fleas resting stop your head as you took a peek through the door he had opened.

“Could this be a sauna?”

“Heh, heh!” Kratt seemed pleased that this piqued your interest. “Dear one, you're so close! A special hot spa-carriage that I maintain on the regular. Oh! Allow me to warm it up for you…”

Yes, this new flea seemed rather shady, but an individual, especially a flea, should not be judged on the first introductions. One could be quite eager to know other fleas after a longer period of solitude. Plus, you do want to refresh yourself after such a long trip, as it's been a while.

Armoured in easily extended trust and a thin fabric, you later went into the carriage.

It seemed worth it, trusting this flea, as the steam enveloped your figure like a silk cocoon, the warmth seducing you into the water as you abandoned the only fabric shielding your flesh.

An exhausted moan left you as you came to realise just how much you have overworked your body; each muscle tense and tender as you lightly swam around.

A pair of eyes crept up, much to your oblivious self.

Even a quick swim worked wonders for you, as you felt nearly rejuvenated. Resting on the edge, your body fully in water, you rested your head back, bliss filling the skull.

No thoughts crossed your mind as you lightly combed through your fur, reworking any usually hidden knots in your path.

It was the calmest you've felt in years… until your hand traveled lower.

A simple brush startled you awake from relaxation. You looked at your hand in shock, deaf to the gasp outside.

Even if you had cared for your fur during this journey, there were certain activities that you had no time for. No time because of all this work.

Your mind passed you a suggestion, a very desire driven suggestion that made light guilt well up in your gut - you could take care of yourself here, in the privacy of an enclosed spa.

There was no hesitation, the guilt washing away in this spa water almost immediately.

Shivers went through you, much how they did as you first entered the water, but this time they sparked at your core. Not guilt, but anticipation teased at your brain once you caressed your abdomen.

How truly shameful, you've been on the edge of suspecting the flea outside of being odd, yet you yourself are pleasuring yourself inside his caravan.

Well, how truly oblivious of you, to not notice as that same flea watched the show in disturbing fascination, holding back his own sounds of satisfaction.

The water splashed lightly as you lowered your arm deeper under the water, stroking at yourself in a slow, testing manner. It's been so long that you've forgotten what movement brought the most pleasure, but you decided to go with the flow, allow your hand to figure it out.

Stifling gasps did little as the bug outside was in total ecstasy, having his dirtiest of desires come to life and with such a darling looking flea. Kratt could not hold his hand back from traveling down himself.

He mimicked the speed of your fingers with his own, satisfying himself with the thought of his fingers being your own and the opposite.

Fantasies, they all ran across his mind, bringing him an inch closer to release.

Then, you stopped at once.

It was not guilt, but responsibility that stopped you from dirtying the water any further. The fleas outside need your help, and you've had plenty of time to relax now.

Yes, a release would've been nice, and your mind begs for it… yet, it won't convince you to mess up the water of a flea that so graciously invited you to hop into.

A thick groan startled you even more awake, as you quickly looked to the source, a panicked flea moving quickly out of sight…

Perhaps, you had trusted too easily.

Clothing yourself in fabric, you stepped out of the carriage to see a guilty looking flea, rubbing his hands like a no good fly. How fortunate for him, you long abandoned blades.

How fortunate indeed...

You let him stew in shame as you silently approached, judging him with no words.

Kratt nearly jumped up as he noticed you standing right in front of him, a not so welcoming look upon the face.

“It's been… a pleasant stay. Thought, there seems to be a draft,” you voiced slowly, not outing him just yet.

“Oh my, I’ll...!” How nervous he seemed now, wondering if you had noticed him. “I'll tend to it right now!”

“Please do that,” a mother flea once taught you to act with grace, even when anger boiled at your insides. “And,” you leaned in closer, a cold whisper cutting sharply at his ear, “if you do let a draft open up again, without me knowing, you can forget about seeing anything ever again.”

“Yes, dear one! Of course! This one will do just that for you!” You let him be, his knees shaking, but unharmed. There were benefits to letting a bug indebted to you live.

No, you were not that angry at the voyeurism, but the broken trust you had previously given the flea. You could've told Mooshka who'd instantly send the shady one away, but that spa carriage was a big upgrade to the quality of living.

So, how lucky are you to not need any rosaries to enter? 

And despite the intimidation, the shady one still seemed to ogle at you outside, which had given you an interesting idea for the future.

How lucky of him.

Chapter Text

Drops of tears dripped down like rosaries from a string. They were the beginning.

Your usually insightful mind in turmoil over the hauntings in your land.

Them? Unable to tend to the mind of another living being. Second Sentinel was left standing there, looking at your crouched form as you held your recently departed friend.

The being of metal had no choice, this one was a threat to your living self, but their core did stutter in an unusual way as they heard your yell.

The two of you just met, you travelling with your nearly haunted companion, and their hunting for the haunted. In their artificial mind, they had every right to strike down the one who was swiftly taken by silk, their claws turning at you.

And yet…

Second Sentinel did not depart to continue cleansing the Citadel, they stayed; looking as conflicted as one might be.

Your quiet sobs, the shivering shell - it all impacted Sentinel in a new, terrifying way.

A broken-sounding whisper was barely caught by their audial receptors, “know that I do not blame you, metal one. I knew their end was near. Still, a pilgrim never loses hope…”

“...” A sound, a word, anything would've been preferable to the silence, but Second Sentinel could afford nothing but silence.

“I just wished it had happened in Shellwood, in a place where they could be respectfully buried, instead of leaving their shell to rot in the golden halls,” you kissed both cheeks of your companion and then their forehead, suggesting a deeper, perhaps familial, bond.

Second Sentinel kneeled, a new act of respect for the departed, which you seemed to appreciate with a soft look their way. That look itself made the cogs inside the artificial life turn in a stuttering way.

You seemed thankful, yet tears still fell down onto the cold floors.

The metal being took you and the departed pilgrim away from that place, leading you to Songclave.

In an unfamiliar act, they took the body, promising you to rest them in a peaceful spot.

While their purge must not be stopped just yet, they had asked of the warrior clad in red to bury the pilgrim in Shellwood, among the flowers, as it seemed like a fitting location to the living bugs.

It wasn't until the next battle that metal warrior thought of you again.

The blades hit against the shells, withdrawing strings of silk, their eyes sharp as steel, calculating.

Your sobs echoed along the cogs, words trembling their screws open, soft eyes stirring the energy in the cogheart, each piece vibrating.

They took a slash to the back, painless, but dangerous. The enemy fell down at the retaliation of their own weapon.

Second Sentinel moved on from the fight, the mind of theirs not so stable as before. It was akin to the moment when they realised their own judgement could be wrong, when the horned needle wielding bug had spared them. 

Yet this was an unknown, no straight explanation to what they might be experiencing.

The being of metal, unknown to themselves, had started to exhibit more than an imitation of life. 

They did not breathe, nor eat, nor sleep, but there was something that separated them from others at the Cogwork Core, and while the warrior did suspect that from the beginning, this time it was close to certain.

The next few battles had them on autopilot, fighting as a machine would, yet their mind was different, diving deep into thoughts, living, thinking.

It was no surprise they sought you out next, words jumbled in a mess that no machine could decipher, but you nodded, leading them inside the bell structure, ignoring the surprised looks of other pilgrims.

An easy thing it was, to let you inside their thoughts as you sat beside the Sentinel, bodies leaning against each other.

As the time passed, with the red warrior taking her time rising to the top of the Citadel, taking more and more time to know the bugs around, so did the Second Sentinel slow down their purge of the silk-infested. They took time to rest, despite no need for such things, all by your side.

“You have a truly one of a kind soul, dear Sentinel. I thank you for keeping me company during my loss, yet I hope that you'll continue to visit in the future.”

You did things no other could - no warrior, no pilgrim, no machine, you made the cogheart beat, as if the creators of the Sentinel put a bell inside to mock their creation for wanting to live.

It was true, honestly, the beating was low, yet they could feel it in every part of their metal shell.

So, they came to one who listened, you.

“An infraction of this shell… an unknown… ringing on the inside of the chest plate…” The explanation did not give you a single clue as to what might be ailing your new companion.

There was no choice other than a direct examination, though you were no doctor. “May I feel it?”

The question physically startled the metal being, as if attacked by an invisible deity.

“Touch… this Sentinel? Such action…” Once again, the cogheart began to stir, as if it were your voice, no, the suggestion you've made.

“Worry not, you know I mean no harm. I simply wish to see if I might be able to feel this beating through your metal shell, dear Sentinel.”

The touch upon its shell was a surprising sensation, feeling like setting their entire being aflame. A burning malfunction in their artificial brain, surely, yet it was not unwelcome.

Would you feel the same way if Second Sentinel were to touch the shell of yours?

As you seemed to inspect their chest plate, the metal being’s focus was on your hand, your face and the focused eyes.

A welcome oddity in its life you were, it decided. They wanted to know more. Would their entire self collapse if they were to embrace you?

“May… I?” They tried to copy your request, nearly overheating their core as you looked up into their eyes.

“May you… feel your own chest?”

Sentinel quickly corrected their request, and your surprise was overshadowed by their own as you then agreed.

Warm, soft, tender… the metal fingers unknowingly teased your shell, feeling any ridges and bumps in fascination.

You were so much smaller than them, much more vulnerable, yet it overwhelmed the warrior of metal so quickly.

A complex living bug had charmed this artificial being.

Oblivious, they were as the sharp fingers of theirs scratched at your skin, especially at the most sensitive and ticklish spots. It sent mixed signals into your core, lower limbs squeezing, as you withheld yourself from searching pleasurable friction.

Slowly, your eyes became glassy as the Second Sentinel didn't stop their exploration at your body, yet you said no words. You had not stopped them, despite the full pain.

Your throat was as sensitive, and you held a flinch back as they ran over it.

The tears were noticeable to both of you, yet this time Sentinel knew what to do. They gathered them up, as if they were precious pearls, comforting you with a single hand of theirs while the other stripped off the pilgrim clothing off your shell.

They did not know what compelled them to continue, perhaps your silence, which was infused with shy anticipation, was just enough, or maybe it was the tears themselves which were of a different kind.

There was no sorrow in your expression, that they knew, and so they desired to see the source of it all.

Running off of instincts alone was tricky, if not harmful, yet the Sentinel realised that your body was quite responsive to their touch.

It was much like an act of mating between bugs, but a metal being exploring what their precious living bug was truly like, laid out bare and honest.

Your own hand came to rest on their wrist, pulling them to the core where your tears grew sweeter, sounds more difficult to stifle.

Their eyes never left you, observing, taking, giving the entire attention all to you.

The act had taken much longer of a time than your shell could withstand, falling into deep sleep, resting in the lap of your Second Sentinel, leaving them once more to ponder alone.

The tears you had spilled upon the first meeting were as much of a curse as the silk haunting the land, but the tears poured out in pleasure or happiness were a blessing, a true joy to an artificial mind.

No matter what the future holds, as they explore the difficulties of truly living once the silk is purged, they'll never let you cry in pain, only bliss.

Chapter Text

Plasmium, the miracle cure, and yet few were eager to test out the effects of such a substance.

Alchemist Zylotol, as well as his own master, were the only ones to truly partake, to risk it all. His master is long gone, but her legacy shall never be forgotten.

He praises her and the salt-stricken waters that this cure to everything had come from. The bug of science also did his best to push the experimentation forward, despite the already stellar results.

Especially since he had captured a bug from those lands, intrigued on how one can live with such a divine cure right next to them, yet still have their species be endangered.

It was you.

Zylotol had kept you at his laboratory, finding your mind to be as sharp as those scholars from distant lands his master had spoken of long ago. You were an intelligent one, yet your rejection of plasmium and its miraculous effect was so frustrating.

You let him ramble on about it, not truly listening and playing around with the appendages growing from his head. How much they looked like the sea coral, how amusing!

The playfulness of your constant actions made him drop his guard. An agreement you had managed to form with the bug of science, allowing him any tests on you, not involving plasmium, so long as you had a shred of freedom, to be able to roam. Naturally, he had seen it as a progress in convincing you towards the liquid cure, while you saw it as the opposite.

Unfortunately, the tests that he had done only revealed that your species had been immune against the plasmium, which you called a true miracle. What the doctor did want to see, the truth of your infected land, was the reason behind the endangered species. You were possibly the last one of your kind, others had not escaped the infested land in time.

Then one day, you went out on your usual stroll around this… less than safe place.

The effects of the cursed liquid, you saw clearly around this area. 

Glowing cocoons sprouted more and more, while some bugs bore children that looked and behaved very differently. To have such an immediate effect on nature was a frightening thing.

You headed to Zylotol, laying out your findings to him in hopes of getting through.

He didn't hear you, mind obsessed with the substance, his bliss, yet his curse. 

How saddening, you had once hoped to clear his mind, to break him from this state.

It was soon time for you to leave this place. 

You were immune to this plasmium itself, but not the aggression of the bugs infected by it.

Despite coming to know one another in such a strange way as being kidnapped, or rescued, from a dangerous land, you did come to admire the bug. His shell was a strange looking one, but the mind behind it was truly a fascinating one, at least in the first stages of infection.

Back when you first met, plasmium wasn't the most spoken word of his and the glasses covered eyes didn't look away from you. Yes, back then you noticed how much your own being and shell fascinated him to the same degree if not with slightly different feelings.

You had ignored the stares, the touch that lingered too long during examinations. You wish you hadn't.

So, to say goodbye before putting an end to the infection of this one, you led his plasmium infested body to the bench.

He was close to unresponsive, an intoxicated mind at best, a controlled husk at worst. There had to be at least a shred of Zylotol in there, and so with an unwilling mind, you drank from a small cocoon. You hoped that a sip would be enough to reach him in that deep, deep water.

The vines sprouting from his back made it difficult to pull off the coat, but your mind responding to plasmium made the struggle a lot less physical, mind just lighting drifting.

The addicting part of this substance was the bliss, the heightened euphoria, the floatiness of mind. Even those strong in will could fall to this hypnotizing reaction on both the brain and body.

Lifeblood, for that is the name you knew this liquid as, had often been much stronger in its effect than one might think as your immunity was not as strong as you'd hoped. What Zylotol and many others didn't know is that a single dip could be enough to doom one completely.

Your kisses along the haunted face, and fingers lightly going over the head appendages, each one was a sorrowful goodbye.

An act of desire had transformed into one of grief, as you pulled the bug into you, feeling drops of lifeblood cover your skin.

This horrifying moment of physical gratification had not brought a single strand of pleasure, yet the plasmium of his made you feel connected, more connected than before.

Then, Zylotol had reciprocated in the act, hands weakly holding onto your shell, the lifeblood veins seemingly acting at his will as they wrapped around you.

Too long, did this moment last as your broken sobs conflicted with the bliss of mind.

At his peak, the substance spread, filling your core by the most detested, by the cursed, but nothing mattered at all as you grabbed the dagger under the bench.

You thanked the warrior who brought it, Hornet, before plunging it down.

Chapter Text

Metal shackles dug into the skin with cold cruelty, yet pain had never arrived.

You were kept in a chilling anticipation, blindfolded; the one who works around and inside your body will stop once a signal is given.

Engineering based on knowledge from nature is an extraordinary skill, is it not?

The bugs of Pharloom had learned so much from the environments they lived in, making quite big inspirations for their contraptions. Examples that are most banal to explain would be harpoons, modelled after less intelligent fauna, and flora as well, which shoot out their own spines at prey or predators. Another would be the needles used to inject substances into the body, similarly modelled after bugs who poison those around them, storing the poison in a separate pouch inside their shell.

You yourself were a bug of nearly extinct species, as intelligent as the citizens of the Citadel, though more impervious to being haunted by silk. The pure petals of yours protecting you from the cursed strands like fur does from low temperatures.

Through your journey across this land in search of a secure home, you ended up in the belly of the Underworks.

A being of metal, an Architect, had allowed you to become a guest of hers, so long as your shell would be open for a nonintrusive examination. Her hands worked fast, using cloth and metal scrap to create a spot for rest, but she was unable to procure food for you.

You had reassured her, finding your own sustenance, non perishable canned food hidden away by the worker bugs before they became haunted.

So how did you end up strapped to an examination table like that? No, it was not the first examination that had put you in such a position.

Throughout time, one which was longer than a lifespan of flowers in Shellwood, and enough to dull a newly created bell, you had worked closer and closer with the Architect, earning your keep as both an assistant and a patient.

Unfortunately, the being of metal was unable to learn anything from your shell, no more than she could learn from other bugs, but there were still things that she had found surprising. 

Ones which were so foreign to her, yet so natural to you. The emotions that come with a nature-born shell, the same ones that seemed to not fill a shell of the Architect.

How fascinating. Like watching a metal bug get crushed in cogs, led only by their hostility, right into their doom.

So, she asked for an examination of a different kind to sate her curiosity. You've been given an out in the form of a signal, a safeguard to keep you from panicking, and from any harm that the Architect might not notice.

You've been strapped to a metal surface, her metal fingers poking and prodding at the nerve endings that had previously made you squirm.

Your thorax as it was gently teased, your abdomen as shapes were traced into the flesh. The reactions of yours were even more heightened by the ability to see being cut off.

Despite the restraints, you bend and arched, away and towards the metal touch, craving the cold teasing.

Her curiosity was far from satieted.

In fact, it was far from curiosity at this point, her own core twirling as she kept her fingers above your own nub of pleasure, the little point where the sensitive nerve endings gathered. The little flower bud that asked to spread the petals out, dive into the sweet nectar and allow this metal Architect the taste of true nature. The primal and the raw, the desires pushed them to kiss right above the spot, on the lower abdomen itself.

A half whine, half gasp was pulled right from your throat, coming out strained as if you had not allowed yourself such pleasures before.

You inability to see a thrilling thing for the both of you.

The possibility of being each other's first experiences of passion was an unusual one to Architect, but the exclusivity did seem appealing.

She placed another kiss, feeling it become more familiar with each press of her lips upon your shell, metal arms elongating to undo the straps. The Architect wondered if the blindfold added onto the feeling of pleasure inside her, the unsaid secrecy of it all made the metal being wonder if she had opened a new door, a new possibility for the future. 

Enough to push her inner motors to speed up just slightly, new hope beginning to awaken.

The touch of metal fingers at your lower lips sent shock right to the centre of your brain, the hit of a startle was like hitting the ground from a long fall, a fruit from a tree.

Then, the bliss of the intimate act spread around the brain, consistency transforming into mush, no, cotton, as it was soft, cloudy, filling. She pulled you from the operating table onto her workbench, the tilted surface nearly having you sit up.

You couldn't see what she was going to do next, but this self satisfying examination had turned more into a moment of passion between lovers, her touch much more than clinical.

The body responded in sync with the mind, fully responsive, fully open, fully at the mercy of her newly discovered passion.

She spread open your inner flower, metal risking rusting in the future as she spread your nectar around. A shame she had no taste receptors, as you tempted her so.

Your soft lower limbs squeezed around the metal, caring not for the scratching as you rubbed the arm around, fingers moving inside, a metal thumb finding the little nub atop, a whine pulled out.

The blindfold was both an excitement and a nuisance, the desire to see your adoring Architect too irresistible, yet it was something that could not be at this time.

Each little movement sent a shock through the flesh. The peak coming soon. The point of release. A gasp. A sigh. 

The Twelfth Architect wanted more. And so she pulled more from you, fingers working deep, yet slow. 

Each thrust deliberately pointed, each twirl of thumb over the sensitive bud light, as if tickling.

It was like a drop of water hitting the deep green of a leaf. A hit, a break at the point of maximum tension.

The nectar spread out, documents below your body soaked, yet the Architect didn't care for that.

The sight, the view in front of them was one others would search for their entire time.

That thick blindfold had you see nothing but bliss, your chest falling up and down in an exhaustion.

Right, the bliss, which came as your first peak with another had been reached, almost forced out as you had no control over the pressure or speed, leaving it all to the curious Architect.

Your petals soaked as much as her own papers, wetness spread at the inner flesh of the lower limbs.

The metal met flesh in secrecy of those she had served, and it had given her hope.

This hope, and adoration of the bug laid out in front of her had awoken a new determination. The Twelfth Architect had felt rejuvenated, body having reset, cogs and motors working in a new way.

As if finding a way to live and follow a nature's desire was the answer to surviving for the metal one.

Her metal fingers stroked your cheeks, before pulling the material off, a sudden kiss from you surprising her into a mechanical jerk.

Architect’s life renewed by your side.