Jon doesn't notice until it's too late. He's too wrapped up in the puppet show, and it is a show, tuned as much for the Beholding's benefit as the Web's. Beautifully crafted to exactly sate the Archive's appetite while stoking his worst personal fears. But the show is also a warning, a signal, a metaphor: the delicious horror Jon drinks down is ultimately no different than the tiny spiders Francis pours into their own vulnerable throat.
There are no hooks, not for Jon. There's not really a need for them when he's standing rapt (wrapped) in the aisles of this strange theater. The threads that bind him are soft and dry and he does not know they're present until they start to move his hands.
Shrug off his coat. Unfasten his belt. Push his trousers down into a clumsy pool around his ankles.
He's as aware of what his body is doing as he is of anything else outside the nightmare. The narration spills out of him, fills his conscious mind, and everything outside that is a dim shadow, easy to ignore. Martin had to slap him, back in the Desolation flat, but Martin is not here now, and that would bother Jon if he were aware enough to even notice it. The cool air of the theatre on his thighs, on his chest as he unbuttoned his shirt - this would bother him if it were capable of breaking through the torrent of someone else's suffering.
Kick off shoes, that almost does it -- he stumbles and wobbles trying to free his feet from the combination of trousers, socks and trainers -- it's a sufficiently physical moment that snags his attention, just a little. Enough to confuse him, but not enough to break his full attention away from Act 48,068.
Not until his underwear is sliding down his legs.
Not until he's pulled.
There's a sickening swoop as he rises in the air, a sudden jerk that roots him back in his body. All at once he's agonizingly aware: not just of his nudity, but the silken webs around his wrists and ankles, chest and thighs. How long had they been there? How long had he been there? Where was Martin--?
Jon finds himself hoisted to just below the level of the stage lights. To any other monster they would be blinding, but Jon cannot be blinded. Nothing can hide the net of thick webs that close beneath him, strong enough to take his weight but woven loosely enough to pose the threat of a long, brutal fall if he leaves their tenuous safety. Not that Jon can leave, of course. The same strands that hauled him up with such inexorable power hold his hands behind his back now almost delicately; he wants to kick and thrash, but instead he kneels unsteadily where he's put, frozen in place.
He can scream, though. He thinks, perhaps, that only makes it worse.
"Martin! Martin!" It's a foolish hope -- how would he even get up here? What could he do, when Jon's own body was rebelling against him? -- but it's the only hope he has, and Jon screams himself hoarse in the vain hope of hearing some distant reply. He could break his vows and try to Know--
But just when the thought crosses his mind, he feels a subtle vibration in the webs around him. And now it is far too late for hope, or help.
The spiders are in all shapes and sizes, irrespective of species: here's a silvery orb weaver the size of his hand, there's a brown widow the size of a dog. They traverse the threads to gather around him, above and below and on all sides, and Jon is nauseatingly confident that they're not going to eat him simply because that would be too quick.
The larger specimens hang back, for now. The ones that crawl forward are normally sized, or at least he thinks so, but that's small comfort as they skitter up his body, ascending from thighs to belly to chest to neck --
There's one last thing he can try. He has targets, now, not just the silken strands but the things that pull them. He opens his mouth for the incantation that's getting familiar, Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze--
But impossibly quick, there are legs skittering on his face, and a sharp stab of pain on his tongue. That's all it takes; he flinches away, tasting blood, but in seconds his whole mouth feels numb and sluggish. He tries again to speak, but can only produce wordless moans, long vowels in search of a consonant.
Now, now, something whispers in his ear, or perhaps in his mind. Be a good boy for us, Archive. No playing rough with the little ones.
Jon groans, and his eyes fall shut. Not that that means anything, now.
The spiders roam his body freely, and some are adding their own silk to that first set of threads. Bands that hold his legs bent, thigh to calf; a sheath that binds his arms wrist to elbow. It tightens, and Jon's shoulders are forced back, spine arched uncomfortably. There's another team of them working across his groin, between his thighs, and at first Jon's not sure what they're doing except threatening the most sensitive parts of him.
Then a loop of web pulls snug around his cock and balls, and Jon shrieks. It's a compound violation, to be touched so intimately by something so vile, when he can hardly stand to be touched there at all —
You always wished you could just be normal, though, that same low whisper says. You wanted to be able to do this so many times, with so many people. We're just trying to help.
Jon shakes his head furiously because he can't say no. Not that it matters, of course. He can feel heat building in his belly, feel his cock hardening despite and because of the tiny legs hurrying up and down it. Something bites his chest -- no, his nipple, directly in the center of it, but instead of spreading numbness there's only a strange, hot ache. First one side, then the other.
By the time the little ones leave him, Jon is immobilized twice over. His legs are spread obscenely, showing off the erection that curves toward his belly, and his back is arched in a way that makes it obvious how stiff and pointed his nipples are. His mouth is also a little swollen, and he is aware that he is drooling, but it's still too numb to do anything about.
The voice in his head coos, What a pretty picture you make, Archive. Now, be a good boy and we'll make you feel so lovely.
As it speaks, the larger spiders close in.
They have the strength to pick Jon up, turn him over, inspect him like artwork with their multitude of eyes. One hairy paw brushes against the length of Jon's erection, and he moans, as much from the unwanted pleasure zinging up his spine as from the horror of its source. That, unfortunately, only encourages them. Long segmented legs stroke his body, hunting for reactions that he's helpless to hide. They find his cock first, and then his chest: every scrape across his nipples sends foreign pleasure knifing through him. He doesn't want this, has never wanted anything like this, but the silken threads apparently have the power to rewire his libido as much as they'd renovated his will.
He doesn't want this, but he can't seem to stop whimpering as the dry exoskeletons of the spiders catch on his most sensitive places and set them aflame.
One spider moves between his splayed thighs and raised its furry pedipalps away from its mandibles. For a dizzying moment, Jon wonders if it's going to eat him after all -- but no, at the moment that sort of violence would actually be an improvement over this intimate torture. It fondles his cock with its pedipalps, and something warm and slick oozes out of the tips, mingling Jon's own pre-come. It eases the motions of the spider, lets it stroke faster, and Jon hates it, and Jon would be thrusting up into the friction if he could move.
(The whisper in his mind again, but this time it's Martin's voice, from so long ago: Did you know most spiders mate with their mouth parts?)
The other spiders seem to work out the same trick right away: they extend their palps and rub their slick into his skin, over his chest, into his slack and unresisting mouth. It tastes salty and acrid, and he wants to spit it out, but the only movement available to him is to swallow it. At least the palps in his mouth somewhat muffle the whorish moaning he can't contain, as the friction on his cock intensifies to an unbearable crescendo.
They don't stop when he orgasms, of course. But something whispers in his head, Good boy.
As his cock goes soft, the spider between his legs shifts its attentions. It prods and rolls his balls, then leaves a sticky trail behind them. Whatever slick substance it's spreading drips down Jon's crack, and then two clawed paws are pulling his cheeks apart to let the palps explore his hole.
No, no, no, Jon thinks, deliriously, to whatever god rules this place as he feels tentative pressure and the unpredictable prickle of hair. Then a tiny, stabbing prick, not unlike the spider bites on his chest earlier (minutes ago? Hours?). A similar ache lances into him: his flesh, at least, wants to be touched, and he knows it will feel incredible, even if the size of the palps pushing at him feels like it will tear him apart.
The spiders are patient, though. When his cock begins to fill again, another spider takes over stroking it, in a dizzy counterpoint to the one trying so methodically to shove a palp into his arse. Jon isn't sure which sensation is worse, the brilliant slide of exoskeleton against his erection or the slow, inevitable stretch of it as the bulbous organ at the end of the palp slowly enters his body. One of the spiders on the other end gets the idea to try the same thing with Jon's mouth, pushing its palps to the soft flesh at the back of his throat, and then past it. Tears stream from his eyes, but along with everything else, Jon can no longer gag.
He can clench down, though, as the other spider seats its palp entirely within him. It feels as wonderful and awful as he knew it would, and then it begins to thrust gently, and that's somehow better. The palp withdraws from his mouth to let him cry out, over and over, as the one in his arse glides against his prostate. It's too much sensation, inside and outside, cock and mouth and hole and nipples, but not so overwhelming that he can ever stop knowing what's exactly is inflicting it. Their hairy, clicking bodies jostle around him, jockeying for more skin to stroke, more holes to invade, and Jon can only take it, and take it all in.
Another orgasm comes over him, different to the first one, almost a full-body spasm. The spider fucking him doesn't stop. The pleasure turns sharp, too much for his over-stimulated nerves to process, but the spiders don't stop. Please stop, Jon wants to beg, and for a moment he finds his mouth almost cooperating with him: "Ple. Plzzz."
The spider nearest his head rears up, showing its fangs. Thick venom drips onto Jon's face, into his mouth, and it's not the kind that numbs. There's immediately another palp shoved against his lips, rubbing it in, creating yet another source of overwhelming pleasure.
Jon's mouth opens, and he's not sure if that was his choice or not.
One palp in his mouth, stretching his lips and rubbing against the back of his throat. One in his arse, stretching even more, pushing deeper with every thrust. They're not synchronized, the waves of sensation, and he can't brace himself again either pleasure or pain. He can only take them both, take what is given to him, and when he feels something like another orgasm coming on it's almost a relief.
So of course, that's when they stop.
Jon wails as both palps are withdrawn, painfully fast. His cock is hard again, the sort of recovery time he thought he'd left behind in adolescence, and slick is oozing from his stretched-out hole. He's left hovering on the edge of release, and worse, he wants it: any touch, any friction, even from the things that are once against lifting him and turning him about.
He ends up on his front, arse in the air, face aimed into the dark voice below. Wasn't there a theatre there, before? Is Martin down there now, wondering where Jon's gone?
The large spiders are skittering away. Something else is coming along the webs. Something even larger.
Fill 1/2: Mr. Spider but make it sexy (Jon/Web, noncon, bondage, oviposition)
Jon doesn't notice until it's too late. He's too wrapped up in the puppet show, and it is a show, tuned as much for the Beholding's benefit as the Web's. Beautifully crafted to exactly sate the Archive's appetite while stoking his worst personal fears. But the show is also a warning, a signal, a metaphor: the delicious horror Jon drinks down is ultimately no different than the tiny spiders Francis pours into their own vulnerable throat.
There are no hooks, not for Jon. There's not really a need for them when he's standing rapt (wrapped) in the aisles of this strange theater. The threads that bind him are soft and dry and he does not know they're present until they start to move his hands.
Shrug off his coat. Unfasten his belt. Push his trousers down into a clumsy pool around his ankles.
He's as aware of what his body is doing as he is of anything else outside the nightmare. The narration spills out of him, fills his conscious mind, and everything outside that is a dim shadow, easy to ignore. Martin had to slap him, back in the Desolation flat, but Martin is not here now, and that would bother Jon if he were aware enough to even notice it. The cool air of the theatre on his thighs, on his chest as he unbuttoned his shirt - this would bother him if it were capable of breaking through the torrent of someone else's suffering.
Kick off shoes, that almost does it -- he stumbles and wobbles trying to free his feet from the combination of trousers, socks and trainers -- it's a sufficiently physical moment that snags his attention, just a little. Enough to confuse him, but not enough to break his full attention away from Act 48,068.
Not until his underwear is sliding down his legs.
Not until he's pulled.
There's a sickening swoop as he rises in the air, a sudden jerk that roots him back in his body. All at once he's agonizingly aware: not just of his nudity, but the silken webs around his wrists and ankles, chest and thighs. How long had they been there? How long had he been there? Where was Martin--?
Jon finds himself hoisted to just below the level of the stage lights. To any other monster they would be blinding, but Jon cannot be blinded. Nothing can hide the net of thick webs that close beneath him, strong enough to take his weight but woven loosely enough to pose the threat of a long, brutal fall if he leaves their tenuous safety. Not that Jon can leave, of course. The same strands that hauled him up with such inexorable power hold his hands behind his back now almost delicately; he wants to kick and thrash, but instead he kneels unsteadily where he's put, frozen in place.
He can scream, though. He thinks, perhaps, that only makes it worse.
"Martin! Martin!" It's a foolish hope -- how would he even get up here? What could he do, when Jon's own body was rebelling against him? -- but it's the only hope he has, and Jon screams himself hoarse in the vain hope of hearing some distant reply. He could break his vows and try to Know--
But just when the thought crosses his mind, he feels a subtle vibration in the webs around him. And now it is far too late for hope, or help.
The spiders are in all shapes and sizes, irrespective of species: here's a silvery orb weaver the size of his hand, there's a brown widow the size of a dog. They traverse the threads to gather around him, above and below and on all sides, and Jon is nauseatingly confident that they're not going to eat him simply because that would be too quick.
The larger specimens hang back, for now. The ones that crawl forward are normally sized, or at least he thinks so, but that's small comfort as they skitter up his body, ascending from thighs to belly to chest to neck --
There's one last thing he can try. He has targets, now, not just the silken strands but the things that pull them. He opens his mouth for the incantation that's getting familiar, Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze--
But impossibly quick, there are legs skittering on his face, and a sharp stab of pain on his tongue. That's all it takes; he flinches away, tasting blood, but in seconds his whole mouth feels numb and sluggish. He tries again to speak, but can only produce wordless moans, long vowels in search of a consonant.
Now, now, something whispers in his ear, or perhaps in his mind. Be a good boy for us, Archive. No playing rough with the little ones.
Jon groans, and his eyes fall shut. Not that that means anything, now.
The spiders roam his body freely, and some are adding their own silk to that first set of threads. Bands that hold his legs bent, thigh to calf; a sheath that binds his arms wrist to elbow. It tightens, and Jon's shoulders are forced back, spine arched uncomfortably. There's another team of them working across his groin, between his thighs, and at first Jon's not sure what they're doing except threatening the most sensitive parts of him.
Then a loop of web pulls snug around his cock and balls, and Jon shrieks. It's a compound violation, to be touched so intimately by something so vile, when he can hardly stand to be touched there at all —
You always wished you could just be normal, though, that same low whisper says. You wanted to be able to do this so many times, with so many people. We're just trying to help.
Jon shakes his head furiously because he can't say no. Not that it matters, of course. He can feel heat building in his belly, feel his cock hardening despite and because of the tiny legs hurrying up and down it. Something bites his chest -- no, his nipple, directly in the center of it, but instead of spreading numbness there's only a strange, hot ache. First one side, then the other.
By the time the little ones leave him, Jon is immobilized twice over. His legs are spread obscenely, showing off the erection that curves toward his belly, and his back is arched in a way that makes it obvious how stiff and pointed his nipples are. His mouth is also a little swollen, and he is aware that he is drooling, but it's still too numb to do anything about.
The voice in his head coos, What a pretty picture you make, Archive. Now, be a good boy and we'll make you feel so lovely.
As it speaks, the larger spiders close in.
They have the strength to pick Jon up, turn him over, inspect him like artwork with their multitude of eyes. One hairy paw brushes against the length of Jon's erection, and he moans, as much from the unwanted pleasure zinging up his spine as from the horror of its source. That, unfortunately, only encourages them. Long segmented legs stroke his body, hunting for reactions that he's helpless to hide. They find his cock first, and then his chest: every scrape across his nipples sends foreign pleasure knifing through him. He doesn't want this, has never wanted anything like this, but the silken threads apparently have the power to rewire his libido as much as they'd renovated his will.
He doesn't want this, but he can't seem to stop whimpering as the dry exoskeletons of the spiders catch on his most sensitive places and set them aflame.
One spider moves between his splayed thighs and raised its furry pedipalps away from its mandibles. For a dizzying moment, Jon wonders if it's going to eat him after all -- but no, at the moment that sort of violence would actually be an improvement over this intimate torture. It fondles his cock with its pedipalps, and something warm and slick oozes out of the tips, mingling Jon's own pre-come. It eases the motions of the spider, lets it stroke faster, and Jon hates it, and Jon would be thrusting up into the friction if he could move.
(The whisper in his mind again, but this time it's Martin's voice, from so long ago: Did you know most spiders mate with their mouth parts?)
The other spiders seem to work out the same trick right away: they extend their palps and rub their slick into his skin, over his chest, into his slack and unresisting mouth. It tastes salty and acrid, and he wants to spit it out, but the only movement available to him is to swallow it. At least the palps in his mouth somewhat muffle the whorish moaning he can't contain, as the friction on his cock intensifies to an unbearable crescendo.
They don't stop when he orgasms, of course. But something whispers in his head, Good boy.
As his cock goes soft, the spider between his legs shifts its attentions. It prods and rolls his balls, then leaves a sticky trail behind them. Whatever slick substance it's spreading drips down Jon's crack, and then two clawed paws are pulling his cheeks apart to let the palps explore his hole.
No, no, no, Jon thinks, deliriously, to whatever god rules this place as he feels tentative pressure and the unpredictable prickle of hair. Then a tiny, stabbing prick, not unlike the spider bites on his chest earlier (minutes ago? Hours?). A similar ache lances into him: his flesh, at least, wants to be touched, and he knows it will feel incredible, even if the size of the palps pushing at him feels like it will tear him apart.
The spiders are patient, though. When his cock begins to fill again, another spider takes over stroking it, in a dizzy counterpoint to the one trying so methodically to shove a palp into his arse. Jon isn't sure which sensation is worse, the brilliant slide of exoskeleton against his erection or the slow, inevitable stretch of it as the bulbous organ at the end of the palp slowly enters his body. One of the spiders on the other end gets the idea to try the same thing with Jon's mouth, pushing its palps to the soft flesh at the back of his throat, and then past it. Tears stream from his eyes, but along with everything else, Jon can no longer gag.
He can clench down, though, as the other spider seats its palp entirely within him. It feels as wonderful and awful as he knew it would, and then it begins to thrust gently, and that's somehow better. The palp withdraws from his mouth to let him cry out, over and over, as the one in his arse glides against his prostate. It's too much sensation, inside and outside, cock and mouth and hole and nipples, but not so overwhelming that he can ever stop knowing what's exactly is inflicting it. Their hairy, clicking bodies jostle around him, jockeying for more skin to stroke, more holes to invade, and Jon can only take it, and take it all in.
Another orgasm comes over him, different to the first one, almost a full-body spasm. The spider fucking him doesn't stop. The pleasure turns sharp, too much for his over-stimulated nerves to process, but the spiders don't stop. Please stop, Jon wants to beg, and for a moment he finds his mouth almost cooperating with him: "Ple. Plzzz."
The spider nearest his head rears up, showing its fangs. Thick venom drips onto Jon's face, into his mouth, and it's not the kind that numbs. There's immediately another palp shoved against his lips, rubbing it in, creating yet another source of overwhelming pleasure.
Jon's mouth opens, and he's not sure if that was his choice or not.
One palp in his mouth, stretching his lips and rubbing against the back of his throat. One in his arse, stretching even more, pushing deeper with every thrust. They're not synchronized, the waves of sensation, and he can't brace himself again either pleasure or pain. He can only take them both, take what is given to him, and when he feels something like another orgasm coming on it's almost a relief.
So of course, that's when they stop.
Jon wails as both palps are withdrawn, painfully fast. His cock is hard again, the sort of recovery time he thought he'd left behind in adolescence, and slick is oozing from his stretched-out hole. He's left hovering on the edge of release, and worse, he wants it: any touch, any friction, even from the things that are once against lifting him and turning him about.
He ends up on his front, arse in the air, face aimed into the dark voice below. Wasn't there a theatre there, before? Is Martin down there now, wondering where Jon's gone?
The large spiders are skittering away. Something else is coming along the webs. Something even larger.