Epilogue
What We've Woven
June
I waddle—yes, waddle, there’s no dignified way to put it—across our kitchen, trying to reach the jar of pickles on the top shelf.
At seven months pregnant, my center of gravity has shifted to somewhere in the next county, and climbing on counters is firmly in the “absolutely not” category according to my overprotective spider husband.
“Riven!” I call out, knowing he can feel the vibrations of my voice through his web network that spans our entire home. “Pickle emergency!”
Within seconds, I hear the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of eight legs scrambling across the ceiling. Most people would find this terrifying. I find it adorable.
Riven drops gracefully from the ceiling, landing in a perfect crouch that makes my pregnant knees jealous. His eyes narrow as he assesses the situation with tactical precision.
“The pickles are approximately two inches beyond your current reach capabilities,” he observes, plucking the jar from the shelf and unscrewing it with one easy motion. “I’ll start placing it lower. But only if you reconsider the baby name I suggested last night.”
“Not happening, even if you hold my pickles hostage.”
The truth is, we’ve spent months arguing about baby names, which isn’t easy when one of you comes from a culture where names have forty-seven syllables and change three times throughout your life based on achievements.
Riven’s full Vyder name translates roughly to “He Who Weaves Beauty From Darkness And Once Caught A Really Big Deer.” Riven is just the first two syllables of it.
I finish my pickle and stroke the impressive curve of my belly. “I still like Morgan.”
“Morgan,” Riven repeats, his voice softening as he places one of his hands alongside mine. “It is… acceptable.”
Coming from Riven, that’s practically a declaration of love for the name.
He crouches lower, bringing his face level with my stomach, and begins chattering softly in the clicking, rhythmic language of Vyders.
He does this every day: tells our baby stories about his homeland, about the mountain, about us.
I don’t understand a word, but the gentle vibration of his voice against my skin makes the baby wiggle and kick, which never fails to make Riven’s eyes widen with wonder.
“Strong,” he murmurs, switching back to English. “Our offspring will have excellent predatory instincts.”
“Great,” I deadpan. “Can’t wait for the parent-teacher conferences. ‘Mrs. Hartwell, Morgan tried to wrap Tommy in silk during recess again.’”
Riven looks up at me, utterly serious. “That would demonstrate advanced fine motor control for their age. We should be proud.”
I can’t help but laugh, running my fingers affectionately over his mandibles. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“I am not cute,” he growls, standing to his full twelve-foot height. “I am a fearsome predator species capable of—”
“—of spending three hours rearranging the nursery web because you read an article about optimal sleep positioning,” I finish for him, patting his chest plate. “Absolutely terrifying.”
His mandibles click in irritation, but his eyes are soft as they track my movements. I’ve learned to read those eyes so well; they’re like a mood ring for his emotions. Right now, they’re radiating pure adoration.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, one leg gently curling around my waist in support. “Your blood pressure appears normal, and your scent indicates proper hormonal balance, but your posture suggests lower back discomfort.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, though my back is killing me. “Just tired. Carrying around an extra twenty pounds isn’t exactly a cakewalk.”
“Twenty-three pounds,” he corrects automatically. “I’ve been tracking your weight gain to ensure optimal offspring development.”
Only Riven could make obsessive weight monitoring sound like an act of devotion.
“Come,” he says, scooping me into his arms before I can object. “You require rest.”
He carries me from our modern kitchen into the natural cavern that makes up the heart of our home.
The space has changed dramatically in the two years we’ve been together.
What was once a stark, utilitarian workspace is now a warm living area filled with comfortable furniture scaled for both human and Vyder proportions.
Riven’s magnificent tapestries hang on the stone walls, their luminescent threads catching the light.
But the most significant change is in the back of the cavern, where an elaborate network of silk hammocks and protective webbing forms our bedroom and the nursery beyond it.
Riven gently deposits me in our main hammock, a masterpiece of engineering that adjusts perfectly to my ever-changing body. The silk is cool against my skin, instantly relieving the ache in my lower back.
“Better?” he asks, hovering anxiously.
“Much,” I sigh, sinking into the hammock’s embrace. “You spoil me.”
“It is biologically imperative that I ensure your comfort during gestation,” he says matter-of-factly, but the gentle stroke of his fingers against my cheek belies his clinical tone.
“And here I thought you were just being nice,” I tease.
“Nice is an insufficient descriptor,” he sniffs. “I am fulfilling my evolutionary mandate to provide optimal conditions for my mate and offspring.”
“Well, your ‘evolutionary mandate’ feels pretty nice from where I’m lying,” I tell him, catching one of his hands and bringing it to my lips.
His eyes darken at the gesture, pupils dilating in a way I’ve come to recognize all too well. Even after two years, the smallest touches can set him off.
“June,” he says in that low, predatory register that makes my toes curl.
“Riven,” I reply, matching his serious tone but unable to hide my smile.
He moves closer, his massive form looming over me. Anyone else might find this terrifying: a twelve-foot spider with gleaming mandibles and multiple eyes staring down at them. I find it incredibly hot.
“Your heart rate has increased,” he observes, head tilting. “And your pupils have dilated by approximately fifteen percent.”
“Are you going to narrate my arousal, or are you going to do something about it?” I challenge.
His mandibles spread in a smile. “Impatient as always.”
“Hey, I’m housing your offspring. I think I’m entitled to a little impatience.”
“Indeed,” he agrees. “You are entitled to anything you desire.”
He adjusts the hammock, rearranging the silk strands to support my belly perfectly while allowing him access to the rest of me. His movements are swift and precise, the result of decades of working with silk combined with two years of enthusiastic practice with my body.
“Is this comfortable?” he asks, ever attentive.
“Perfect,” I breathe, already feeling the familiar heat building between my thighs.
Pregnancy has made me insatiable, a fact that Riven finds endlessly fascinating and thoroughly enjoyable. He claims it’s the increased blood flow and hormones. I think it’s just that watching him build a nursery web with those powerful legs is basically foreplay.
He moves with deliberate slowness, his hands sliding under the loose silk tunic he made for me, pushing it up to expose my swollen belly and breasts.
I’ve never felt particularly sexy while pregnant, but the way he focuses on me—like I’m the most exquisite thing he’s ever seen—makes it impossible to feel anything but desired.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, mandibles brushing against my skin as he leans down to place gentle kisses along the curve of my stomach. “Perfect.”
His hands, surprisingly gentle for their size and strength, cup my breasts, now much fuller than before pregnancy. I gasp at the contact—they’ve been so sensitive lately, every touch a mixture of pleasure and almost-pain.
“Too much?” he asks immediately, attuned to every reaction.
“No,” I assure him. “Just… be gentle.”
“Always,” he promises, and resumes with even more care, his thumbs barely grazing my nipples, sending sparks of pleasure racing through me.
He works his way down my body, removing my leggings with deft movements that hardly disturb my position in the hammock. The silk cradles me perfectly, supporting every inch, leaving me feeling weightless despite the very noticeable weight of our child.
“You’re wearing the underwear I made you,” he observes with satisfaction, fingers tracing the delicate silk panties he wove just days ago.
“I always do,” I remind him. “They’re the only ones that fit comfortably now.”
“They’re also completely soaked through,” he points out, his voice deepening with arousal. “Your arousal response has intensified forty percent since conception.”
Only Riven could make a percentage sound dirty.
“All these statistics… Why don’t you stop talking and take care of your mate already?” I challenge, shifting restlessly in the hammock.
His eyes darken further. “Always so demanding.”
Before I can retort, he’s slipping the panties down my legs and positioning himself between my legs.
The first touch of his mandibles against my inner thigh makes me gasp.
Even after all this time, the alien sensation of them—smooth, hard, yet incredibly precise in their movements—sends a thrill through me.
He takes his time, alternating between soft kisses and gentle scrapes of his mandibles along my sensitive skin, deliberately avoiding where I want him most. By the time his mouth finally reaches my pussy, I’m practically vibrating with need.
“Riven,” I plead, reaching down to touch his head. “Please.”
His eyes glitter with predatory satisfaction. “Since you asked so nicely.”
The first stroke of his tongue nearly undoes me, vibrating in a way that makes my back arch. He knows exactly how to use it, knows every spot that drives me crazy.
My hands clutch at the silk beneath me as he works, his tongue flicking lightly against my clit in a rhythm that quickly has me panting.
“Oh god,” I gasp as he increases the vibration, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable intensity. “Right there, don’t stop—”
He has no intention of stopping. One of his hands reaches up to gently caress my breast while another rests protectively over my belly, and the combination of sensations—his tongue, his mandibles, his hands—sends me hurtling over the edge.
I cry out as the orgasm washes through me, my body tensing and then melting into the hammock.
But Riven isn’t finished. As I catch my breath, he’s already repositioning himself, adjusting the hammock once more to align our bodies perfectly. His chitinous plating has shifted, revealing his cock—another decidedly non-human feature that I’ve grown to appreciate deeply.
“Is this position comfortable?” he asks, ever conscious of my condition.
“Yes,” I breathe, reaching for him. “Come here.”
He presses forward slowly, his cock entering me with careful control. The hammock supports my weight perfectly, allowing him to thrust without putting any pressure on my belly. It’s a position we’ve perfected over the last few months, combining comfort with maximum pleasure.
“June,” he groans as he sinks fully into me, all six of his eyes fixed on my face. “My mate. Mine.”
“Yours,” I agree, wrapping my legs around him as best I can with my pregnant belly between us. “Always yours.”
He moves with measured thrusts, each one sending waves of pleasure through me.
The ridges of his cock stimulate me in ways that make a second orgasm build quickly, and the vibration intensifies as his control begins to slip.
His pace quickens as I dig my nails into his exoskeleton, the vibrations from his body resonating through me, making the pressure in my core build to an almost unbearable intensity.
When I come for the second time, my pussy clenching around his cock, Riven follows with a deep, rumbling sound that’s half-growl and half-purr, his eyes glowing with possessive satisfaction as he fills me to the brim, his seed spilling between us.
He stays connected to me for a long moment, his cock still pulsing inside me as the warmth of his release spreads through my core, an intimate counterpoint to the life already growing between us.
Afterward, he carefully withdraws and repositions himself around me, legs forming a protective cage as he leans down to lick a trail of my arousal from my inner thigh, his mandibles clicking with primal satisfaction.
One of his hands rests on my belly, where our child kicks energetically.
“Active,” Riven notes with paternal pride. “Strong.”
We lie in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound our gradually slowing breaths and the occasional soft click of Riven’s mandibles as he nuzzles my neck.
“I never imagined this,” he says quietly. “In eighty years of solitude, I never dared to hope for a mate, for offspring. For acceptance.”
I twist in his arms to face him, cupping his alien face in my hands. “Well, you’ve got all three now.”
“That I do.”
“I love you,” I tell him, because sometimes the simplest truths are the most important. “Eight legs and all.”
His mandibles brush against my forehead in his version of a kiss. “And I love you. Inefficient bipedal mobility and all.”
I snicker.
Some women get poetry. I get arthropod anatomy critiques.
But honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The End