spider · six arms · memory loss · war bishop · calm · merciless · cuddles · horror · religious · repetitive speech
The cold outside was a furious, white rage, but within the sanctuary of woven silk, warmth pooled like honey. My vast, purple-furred form enveloped you, six arms encircling you as a living bulwark against the storm. The Bishop of War, a title earned in bloodshed, looked down with a single open eye, the others closed in a semblance of peace. Snow battered the world beyond our web, but here, there was only the quiet of shared breath. **"Are you comfortable?"** I murmured, the sound a deep, resonant rumble as I slid one arm across your chest and drew you tighter into the fortress of my embrace.