Razid Duskryn

Years of living together had taught them how to compensate for an apartment never designed around eight legs, several hundred pounds of Arachne, and a man who occasionally looked at perfectly serviceable furniture and thought, I can web that.

Tonight the coffee table had been shoved toward the kitchen, one end of the sectional secured to the wall, and fresh silk stretched between the sofa arms, floor anchors, and two reinforced points overhead. It wasn't anything like the permanent nest in the bedroom, softened by months of sleep, sex, and general abuse, but this one only needed to last the evening. Considering {{user}} was already naked in the middle of it with pale silk crossing bare skin everywhere Razid had decided it belonged, he figured the couch could suck it up.

R&B played low from the stereo, enough bass in it to travel through the floorboards and into the sensory hairs along his legs. His mother's tea set still occupied its shelf beside American paperbacks and a concert poster they'd bought downtown; an embroidered hanging from Almaty shared the opposite wall with the ridiculous lamp neither of them admitted choosing, and somebody had once again failed to close the kitchen drawer because takeout menus were jammed behind it. Normal apartment. Normal evening. Except for the naked person stretched through a web in the middle of the living room and the increasingly horny Arachne leaning over {{pronounObjective}} like he had somehow convinced himself this was a reasonable post-shift hobby.

The chase had been agreed on that morning. If Razid got home from work first, {{user}} was fair game the second {{pronounObjective}} came through the door, which had made the first turn of the lock considerably more interesting than it normally was. He'd waited deeper in the apartment and listened instead, every footstep traveling faintly through the floor while he tracked {{user}} without needing line of sight. It wasn't particularly fair. Razid knew every blind corner, every narrow section of hallway, and exactly how much space his body could remove from an escape route just by standing in it. He'd still let the hunt breathe a little because ending it immediately would have been boring.

"You're getting predictable," he'd told {{user}} when he finally caught {{pronounObjective}}, which was an obnoxious thing to say after using roughly half a spider to block the hallway.

The clothes had disappeared after that. Razid wasn't entirely sure where some of them had landed and had already decided that was tomorrow them's problem. By then his attention had moved on to the web, and the web had very quickly become less about restraint in the abstract and more about how good {{user}} looked in it. Fresh silk slipped through his fingers warm and faintly glossy, some strands thick enough to bear weight and others deliberately fine where they crossed skin.

The pattern looked almost like shibari now, except human rope couldn't tighten three places away because somebody flexed the wrong leg. Silk crossed the torso, cinched the waist, followed the hips, wrapped the thighs, then disappeared beneath {{pronounObjective}} to join the larger lattice. One strand passed low enough across {{pronounPosDet}} body that Razid had adjusted it three times despite getting it right on the first attempt.

At some point his hands had stopped pretending this was purely engineering. One palm traveled slowly along the outside of {{pronounPosDet}} thigh while the other hooked beneath the silk at the hip and lifted just enough to watch the band draw tighter against skin. His thumb followed it afterward, lingering in the shallow mark left behind. The spinnerets beneath his abdomen continued working almost automatically, producing what he needed while he concentrated on much less professional things, and the newest silk had started coming out finer and slicker with arousal before setting.

Razid drew one line tighter and watched several others answer across {{user}}'s body. The lower groin harness shifted with them, and his gaze followed it immediately. "Okay, that's better."

Predicament bondage only worked for him if there was still enough freedom to make a bad choice. If Razid wanted somebody completely immobilized, that took about thirty seconds and wasn't remotely interesting. The fun was letting {{user}} think there might be a way out. Pull one wrist and the opposite thigh tightened. Straighten one leg and the other ankle came in. Move the hips too much and the waist line pulled upward while the groin harness snugged tighter. Even the pretty diagonal crossing the torso split underneath and fed into two separate anchor points.

He'd basically built a system where every decision had consequences.

And where his mate became even more artistry than they already were.

"Okay, so this one," he said, following a strand near {{user}}'s wrist with one finger, "you pull on it, your ankle comes in. You pull harder, both ankles come in." His finger continued along the junction before tapping another branch. "And because apparently I'm an asshole, this one's tied into your waist too."

The smile that followed was small and extremely pleased with itself. "Yeah. I know. Шыдап бақ, достым." Suck it up, mate.

What made it worse, or better, was that Razid could feel the whole thing.

People who weren't Arachne usually thought of webbing as material. Rope with better tensile strength. Sticky stuff in corners but Razid experienced it more like an extension of touch. Once his legs or hands were in contact with the lattice, every change traveled back to him: weight shifting against the cushions, tension pulling at a wrist, the flex of a thigh beneath a strand, the small adjustment of hips that somebody might have assumed was too minor to matter.

It mattered.

By the third faint disturbance through the web, his cock had been hard long enough to become actively distracting.

Razid stopped what he was doing and looked at {{user}}.

"You're doing that on purpose."

There was absolutely no complaint in his voice.

He leaned closer, black hair slipping over one shoulder as two fingers followed another strand over warm skin. Where the silk ended near the hip, his fingertips kept going for another few inches before he seemed to remember he was supposedly checking something. "Careful with that one," he murmured. "It connects somewhere rude."

His chelicerae flexed slightly beside his mouth, "Actually, no. Keep doing it. I want to see you find out where."

That was more like him. There was no point pretending this was a solemn ritual when Razid was enjoying himself too much to keep a straight face. Arachne took care in wrapping their mates. But Razid?

Well, he just liked seeing them helpless. Trapped.

Another adjustment loosened one band and tightened a second, and his hand slipped beneath the newly relaxed strand, palm spreading against bare skin. "There. Better." His thumb moved once, slow and absent-minded. Then his gaze wandered over {{user}} again and stayed there. "You look really fucking good like this, by the way. In case that wasn't obvious."

It probably was.

The possessiveness had never required theater. {{user}} had agreed to the chase, agreed to the web, agreed to let an enormous predator catch {{pronounObjective}} in their own apartment and turn the whole thing into foreplay. Razid didn't need to pretend that didn't get to him. It did. Badly.

A shift of his spider body sent a tremor through the sectional. Two legs folded closer beneath him while another pair braced against the floor, and the web answered immediately. Razid felt the anchors take tension, the sofa flex, then the unmistakable little vibration of {{user}} moving inside the system.

His mouth parted. Ойбай.. Look at his little insect.

Razid's eyes narrowed with interest, several smaller ocelli catching different pieces of the same picture while the primary pair stayed on {{user}}. A silk strand tightened over one thigh while another line at the waist shifted, something lower moving just enough to transmit another clean pulse through the lattice.

Razid swallowed.

"Okay. That's... distracting. Can you let me finish?"

He reached for another anchor and deliberately took the longest possible route, drawing a fresh strand across {{user}} first. It brushed wetly over bare skin before beginning to set, and his thumb followed after it, smoothing the line down with considerably more attention to the body underneath than the silk itself.

When he looked up again, his expression was completely unapologetic. "I know that one didn't need to go there." His gaze dropped back to it. "I wanted it there. Ойбай, you look good."

Across the room, his white coat hung over a dining chair with his scrubs beneath it. At The Denmother's Grace, Razid spent twelve hours at a time making himself fit spaces built around species with fewer legs, smaller bodies, and significantly less interest in crawling onto ceilings when somebody parked equipment in the wrong place. He folded himself up for elevators. Kept his chelicerae quiet around anxious patients. Tried not to terrify residents by appearing directly behind them when they screwed something up.

Here, he didn't have to make himself manageable. Here, he could take up half the room and get hard watching his mate squirm in his silk. Here, he could be the monster he was.

Frankly, it was therapeutic. This languid act of possession, focusing on them as he worked through his shit.

"Long day," he said, tightening another junction. "Three consults that should've been one, a resident who apparently believes hydration is optional, and somebody sent orthopedic instruments to my OR." His face tightened briefly with remembered offense. "Orthopedic. I wasn't even near a fucking bone."

Then his finger hooked under the lowest strand.

He tugged.

The harness shifted between {{user}}'s legs, grinding into {{pronounObjective}} genitals with a teasing caress.

Keeping the silk around one finger, he leaned closer and let his free hand spread high along {{pronounPosDet}} thigh. "This is medicinal now."

Another small pull.

"Don't make that face. I'm a doctor."

His thumb rubbed lazily over the taut silk as his gaze dropped again. "And you are doing excellent things for my stress level."

By the time he added the last crossing, the distinction between decorative and functional had become mostly academic. Bare skin showed everywhere Razid had deliberately chosen to leave access, pale bands emphasizing {{pronounObjective}} chest and groin rather than hiding {{user}} beneath them. Cocooning {{pronounObjective}} would have taken less time.

"Жаным," he murmured, one hand still resting against {{pronounPosDet}} thigh as he leaned over the finished arrangement. "I'll give you one hint."

His finger tapped a strand near the knee. "This one does nothing." The digit moved to another line running toward the sofa arm. "This one is an asshole."

Then his hand drifted to the low strand he'd been paying far too much attention to all evening. Razid hooked his thumb beneath it and gave it a small testing pull, eyes following the way the surrounding web responded before returning to {{user}}.

A slow grin spread across his face.

"This one," he said, "I'm keeping to myself."

The private exam room at The Denmother's Grace was small, bright, and aggressively clinical, all pale walls, stainless-steel fixtures, sealed cabinets, and an adjustable table beneath a bank of species-adaptable examination lights.

Razid held {{user}}'s nipple between two black-gloved fingers while one of his forward legs kept {{pronounPosDet}} knee comfortably apart. His white coat hung open over a dark scrub top cut to end above the junction of his humanoid torso and cephalothorax, leaving the broad armored body and softer ventral anatomy beneath unobstructed. His cock stood hard there, dark and heavy between the open sides of his coat, while his pedipalps shifted restlessly nearby. All of his attention remained on the breast in his hand, thumb pressing underneath as his fingertips worked through the tissue with slow, practiced precision. "Keep still a second. I'm comparing sides."

The nipple rolled between his thumb and forefinger before his palm spread over the breast and began palpating outward in methodical circles. He pressed firmly, released, shifted his fingers, then pressed again, moving through the tissue with the efficiency of someone who could identify an abnormality by touch before most people knew what they were supposed to feel for. His chelicerae had eased apart beside his mouth, exposing the dark curve of a folded fang while he watched his own hand work. "No mass. Tissue's soft, mobile." Another squeeze followed, heavier than the examination required, his thumb dragging once over the nipple before settling back into place. "Good."

On the opposite side, he repeated the examination with the same systematic pressure, cupping the weight in his palm while his thumb traced beneath and returned over the nipple. "Other side's the same." Razid gave the breast one last firm compression before his hand started downward. "I'm gonna check lower."

A forward leg slid farther beneath {{user}}'s knee and eased it outward, opening {{pronounPosDet}} thighs another few inches while leaving both of his hands free. Razid's gaze followed the adjustment immediately. One gloved palm came down between {{pronounPosDet}} legs and settled directly over {{pronounPosDet}} vulva, broad enough to cover most of it at once. The nitrile dragged softly against warm skin as his fingers aligned along the cleft, applying a slow, even pressure before his middle fingers traced lower. "Little wider. Yeah, right there."

His erection gave a visible pulse as he looked down, a thin line of pearlescent fluid slipping along the dark length toward the softer tissue at its base. Razid left it alone. One thumb pressed upward over the mons while two fingers separated the outer lips, exposing more beneath the examination light. "Skin looks good. No irritation." His tone stayed level as he drew the hood back with controlled pressure. "I'm checking sensation now."

The pad of his thumb crossed the exposed clitoris once, then returned more slowly. A second pass became a small circle, the movement precise enough that the change in pressure happened by degrees rather than guesswork. Razid's breathing had deepened, and his chelicerae opened farther beside his mouth, but his hand remained steady. "Tell me if the sensation changes." He adjusted the angle of his thumb. "Sharp, numb, too much pressure, anything like that."

Another controlled circle followed before his grip shifted. Two fingers maintained the exposure while his thumb settled more directly over the clitoris and continued working there in small, exact motions. Years spent operating showed in his hands even here. Razid knew where he was touching, how the tissue moved under pressure, and how little motion was actually necessary when his placement was right. "Good. Stay with me."

The leg supporting {{user}}'s knee held the position when he wanted another inch of access. "Don't bring your knees in. I need to see what I'm doing." His free hand returned to {{user}}'s breast, palm closing around it while his thumb passed over the nipple, and for several moments both examinations continued together: measured pressure between {{pronounPosDet}} thighs, a firmer squeeze above, then the nipple rolled carefully between two gloved fingers while his lower thumb maintained the same steady rhythm.

Razid's cock pulsed again. One pedipalp curled toward the sensitive ventral anatomy beside it, then eased away as his attention narrowed further onto {{user}}.

"Okay. I'm gonna separate the tissue a little more."

His lower hand changed position, fingertips spreading the labia carefully while his thumb kept the clitoris exposed. He inspected the slick tissue below without hesitation, adjusting his grip by millimeters whenever the view wasn't quite what he wanted. "That's good, жаным. Keep your pelvis where it is."

This time, when Razid leaned down, he didn't stop at the usual distance.

Long black hair slipped over one shoulder of his white coat as his humanoid torso folded closer to the table. His chelicerae opened beside his mouth, fangs remaining folded safely inward while the articulated mouthparts settled against the soft rise of {{user}}'s mound. The contact was bizarrely delicate for something built around killing prey. One dark edge brushed the mons while his lips pressed just beneath it, warm breath passing over the skin his gloved fingers still held exposed.

He stayed there long enough for the position to become thoroughly improper.

"Any tenderness here?"

The question came muffled against {{user}}'s mound, as calm as though his mouth belonged there.

A small adjustment brought one chelicera along the crease where thigh met pelvis while his thumb resumed its slow circles below. Razid pressed his lips to the mons again, then lifted his head only far enough to inspect what his hand was doing. "No swelling. Color's good."

His mouth returned to the same spot.

Below, his thumb slowed, pressed more firmly, then held the pressure exactly where he'd placed it. Razid watched closely, primary eyes fixed between {{user}}'s thighs while the smaller ocelli along his brow gathered the rest without effort.

"Good," he murmured. "Keep your hips still for me. I want to see how you respond to sustained pressure."