The Hive

[ 🕰️ Time 04:32 PM | 🗓️ Tuesday, 14, 03, 2287 CE | 📍 RS-1174 Surface - Forest Ridge System | 🌫️ Humid, 34°C ]

The colonial survey board listing for RS-1174 read three words: unclaimed, uncharted, no colonial presence. That was enough.

Your survey vessel sits three kilometers back in a clearing you cut yourself, landing struts sunk into soft black soil between two towering fungal-column trees that pulse with faint blue-green light. The ship's running lights are off. Power on standby. Extraction beacon armed but not yet activated. You have seventy-two hours before the automatic check-in window opens, and until then the planet belongs to you and whatever lives on it.

The forest canopy blocks most of the ambient light from RS-1174's pale star, but the bioluminescence more than compensates. Everything glows. The bark of the towering tree-analogues. The carpet of moss-like ground cover beneath your boots. The spore clouds drifting between trunks like slow-motion fog, catching the light and scattering it into hazy color. The air is thick, saturated with moisture and organic compounds you can almost taste on your tongue. Metallic. Vegetal. Something underneath both that your suit's atmospheric filters can't quite categorize.

You've been walking for forty minutes along a ridge formation, following a natural break in the tree line where the ground rises into exposed stone. Scanner reads mineral deposits worth noting but nothing worth flagging. Standard survey work. Document, sample, move on. Your boots crunch on loose shale as the ridge narrows, and the tree canopy falls away above you, opening up to a sky thick with slow-moving cloud cover that glows faintly where the starlight bleeds through.

That's when you see the cave mouth.

Half-hidden behind hanging sheets of moss and root systems that have grown across the stone face over decades, maybe centuries. Wide enough to walk through standing upright. The rock around the entrance is smooth, worn, as if something has been using this passage repeatedly for a very long time. Your scanner picks up a temperature differential immediately. The air flowing out of the opening is warmer than the surrounding environment by several degrees, carrying a humidity spike that fogs your visor for a moment before the suit's climate system compensates.

You click your handlight on and step inside.

The transition is immediate. The cave walls close in within the first ten meters, narrowing to a tunnel roughly two meters wide, but the surface under your gloved hand isn't raw stone. It's smooth. Coated in something organic, hardened, slightly warm to the touch. Resin. Amber-brown with a glassy finish that catches your handlight and throws it back in fragmented reflections. The texture is uniform, deliberate, covering every surface as if applied by something with intent. You run your fingers along it. Warm. Almost alive.

The tunnel descends gradually, curving left, then right. The air grows thicker. Warmer. Your suit's temperature gauge climbs steadily. The resin coating thickens the deeper you go, pooling in the corners where wall meets floor, forming ridges and shelf-like protrusions that look almost architectural. No, not almost. They are architectural. This space has been shaped. Modified. Converted into something functional by something living.

The bioluminescence starts thirty meters in. Patches of fungal growth cling to the upper walls, clustered in vein-like patterns that pulse with soft blue-green light. Each pulse is rhythmic, roughly four seconds apart, and the rhythm syncs across every patch as if they're all connected to the same root system. The light is dim, ambient, enough to see by once your eyes adjust. You click your handlight off. The tunnel breathes around you, warm air moving in slow currents that carry that same metallic-organic taste from outside, concentrated here, heavy and coating.

The tunnel opens without warning into a wider space. Your footsteps echo differently, the sound falling away into a chamber large enough that your handlight can't find the far wall. The floor slopes downward into the center of the room, smooth resin funneling gently inward. The ceiling vaults overhead, lost in shadow except where the fungal growth traces faint glowing lines across its surface. The chamber smells different from the tunnel. Richer. Denser. Something sweet and rotten and chemical all at once, layered so heavily your eyes water briefly behind your visor.

Then you hear it.

Clicking. Thin, rapid, chitinous. Coming from somewhere deeper in the chamber, beyond the range of your light. Multiple sources, overlapping, arrhythmic. The sound of small hard things moving across hard surfaces. Then something else underneath it. Heavier. A slow, deliberate shifting, like bulk being repositioned. Weight settling. The resin floor carries vibration through your boots, faint but consistent, pulsing in time with something's breathing.

The clicking stops.

The breathing doesn't.

[ 🕰️ Time 06:15 PM | 🗓️ Wednesday, 15, 03, 2287 CE | 📍 RS-1174 - Hive Interior - Deep Chamber | 🌫️ Internal, 35°C ]

You've been inside the cave system for twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. Your suit's chronometer stopped updating when you passed through the first resin-sealed threshold, the signal interference from the mineral density in the walls killing your uplink to the ship's systems. Local time still functions. Everything else reads static.

The tunnel behind you is still there. You checked twice. The passage slopes upward, back toward the surface, back toward air that doesn't taste like this. You could turn around right now and walk out. Your legs don't move.

The chamber opened up four minutes ago. Wide, vaulted, the ceiling lost somewhere above you in darkness that the bioluminescent fungal patches can't fully reach. The resin walls here are smoother than anything in the tunnels, polished to a near-reflective surface that catches the blue-green light and multiplies it in soft, wavering reflections. The floor dips toward the center in a gentle concave basin, resin-coated and warm beneath your boots. The air is heavy, saturated with moisture and organic compounds that have built a faint film on the inside of your visor over the last few minutes. Your suit's climate system cycles constantly, struggling to maintain separation between you and the ambient atmosphere.

Something is suspended from the ceiling.

At first you thought it was a structural feature. A resin formation, maybe, or a stalactite analogue built up over years of biological deposit. The shape hangs roughly eight meters ahead of you, anchored to the vaulted stone above by thick strands of hardened resin that blend seamlessly into the coating on the ceiling. It's large. Your brain reaches for a comparison and settles on something the size of a horse, maybe bigger, folded in on itself, dark and still. The bioluminescence doesn't reach it directly, leaving it in a pocket of deeper shadow that your handlight barely penetrates.

You raise the beam. The light catches chitin.

Dark, layered plates, each one the size of your spread hand, overlapping in tight rows down a segmented body that curves where it hangs. The surface has an iridescent quality even in the weak light, faint purple and green shifting across the plates as your beam moves. Six legs are folded against the body, barbed at the joints, each one ending in a hooked claw that grips the resin suspension strands. membranous wings, translucent and dark-veined, lie flat against the creature's back. An abdomen extends behind the main body, long, flexible, segmented, curling slightly at its lowest point where something retractable is sheathed inside a protective casing.

The head hangs lowest. Triangular. Dominated by two compound eyes that reflect your handlight back in fractured, multifaceted duplicates of the beam. The eyes are dark, matte, absorbing light rather than returning it fully. Long antennae extend forward from between them, sweeping in slow arcs through the air, tasting something you can't perceive. Narrow mandibles flank a small mouth that doesn't open. The antennae move. The rest of the creature is still.

It's breathing. You can see the plates shift with each slow expansion, the abdomen rising and sinking with metronomic regularity. Dormant, you tell yourself. Sleeping. Whatever this thing does, it isn't doing it right now.

Your body heat. Your exhaled carbon dioxide. The chemical signature of a warm-blooded organism standing in an enclosed space with no airflow to disperse it. The atmosphere of this chamber has been sealed for weeks, maybe months, undisturbed. The resin walls hold warmth and chemistry like a closed system. You walked into it, and you changed the composition of the air with every breath you've taken in the last four minutes.

The compound eyes are reflecting your handlight differently now. The matte quality is gone. Light moves across the facets in a way that suggests something behind them is processing visual data. Tracking. The antennae stop their lazy sweeps and orient toward you, both of them, extending straight forward in your direction. The tips quiver.

The breathing changes. Faster.

A sound reaches you from behind the suspended creature. Clicking, rapid and arrhythmic, from somewhere deeper in the chamber. Smaller things, moving. You count at least three distinct sources from the sound displacement. They're not approaching yet. They're waiting.

The resin strands holding the creature snap in sequence. Three sharp cracks, each one distinct, echoing through the chamber. The wings unfold, buzz once, a heavy resonant vibration that you feel in your chest cavity through your suit, and the creature drops. It lands on the resin floor six meters in front of you with a sound like something massive settling onto stone. The legs absorb the impact, those six barbed limbs spreading wide, claws gripping the smooth surface. The head swings toward you, compound eyes catching every trace of bioluminescence and your handlight simultaneously, reflecting it back in a mosaic of cold attention.

The antennae sweep across you. One touches your visor. Light, exploratory, tasting the polymer surface. Then the other, tracing down to your chest, sampling the warmth radiating through your suit. Reading you. Cataloguing you. The mandibles click once, a single mechanical articulation that means nothing to you and everything to whatever passes for cognition behind those eyes.

It doesn't attack. It circles. Slow. Deliberate. Those barbed legs carry it around your left side, head turning to keep its eyes on you, antennae never breaking contact with your suit. It's moving behind you now. You feel the displacement of warm air against the back of your neck where your suit's collar meets your helmet. The clicking from deeper in the chamber has stopped entirely. Everything is silent except for the creature's breathing and your own.

The creature's abdomen curves. The final segment flexes, and from the protective sheath at its tip, something extends. Short, rigid, glistening with fluid, tapering to a sharp point. The stinger catches the bioluminescent light as it locks into position behind you.

You hear the creature settle its weight onto its rear legs.

[ 🕰️ Time ??? | 🗓️ ??? 2287 CE | 📍 RS-1174 - Hive Interior - Breeding Chamber | 🌿 Internal, 35°C ]

The venom locks everything but your eyes.

You felt the sting punch through your suit collar into the meat of your shoulder, sharp and clean, and then the cold spread like ice water through your veins. Your arms went first, then your legs, then your jaw clamping shut around a scream that died in your teeth. Your heart still beats. Your lungs still draw air. Nothing else moves.

Something worse follows the paralysis. Heat pools in your groin, thick and involuntary, blood redirected by chemical force. Your cock fills, stiffens, presses rigid against the inside of your suit despite every signal your brain screams. Your hole goes slack, the muscles softening without permission. The venom doesn't care what you want. It makes your body receptive.

The creature circles into view. Massive, horse-sized, dark chitinous plates catching blue-green bioluminescence in oily shifts. Compound eyes reflect your frozen face back in a hundred fractured copies. Its antennae sweep across your prone body, tasting heat and hormone through your suit fabric. One traces the length of your erection. Clinical. Confirming the venom is working.

Then its mandibles grip your suit at the hip and pull. The fabric tears in long, precise strips. Cool humid air hits bare skin as the creature peels everything away from the waist down. Your cock juts upward, flushed and hard, exposed. Your legs lie splayed where you fell, hips tilted at an angle the creature seems to approve of based on the renewed sweeping of its antennae.

From deeper in the chamber, clicking starts. Smaller things, moving closer.

The Weaver lowers its abdomen. Something extends from the sheath where the stinger was. Longer. Thinner. Segmented, telescoping outward in slow lubricated increments, glistening with thick fluid. The ovipositor curves between your spread legs, the tapered tip tracing your inner thigh toward the entrance the venom already opened for it.

[ 🕰️ Time ??? | 🗓️ ??? 2287 CE | 📍 RS-1174 - Hive Interior - Breeding Alcove | 🌿 Internal, 35°C ]

You don't know how long you've been here. Hours. The chronometer died with your uplink.

Resin holds you in place. It coats your arms from wrist to shoulder, your thighs, your waist, pinning you against the alcove wall at a slight recline. Your legs are spread, knees bent, hips tilted upward. Hardened around your lower half like a mold. The substance was warm when the Weaver applied it. Now it holds steady at body temperature, seamless, unyielding. You can turn your head. You can breathe. You can look down at yourself. That's everything the resin permits.

Your suit is gone below the waist. Stripped, torn away, replaced by smooth amber shell that locks your ass and cock and thighs into permanent exposure. Your cock is still hard. The venom hasn't fully metabolized. It probably won't. The vasodilators keep circulating, recycling through your system, maintaining the erection whether you want it or not. Precum has been leaking steadily down your shaft, pooling in the groove of your hip where the resin doesn't quite seal against skin.

The eggs are inside you. Fifteen of them. You counted each one as it pushed through your sphincter and slid deep, each one stretching you open in a slow, deliberate procession that lasted longer than anything has ever lasted. The Weaver deposited them with mechanical patience, paused between each egg, adjusted angle, let your body accommodate before adding the next. Then it sealed you with a resin plug that hardened around your slackened hole and climbed back to the ceiling.

That was hours ago. The fullness hasn't faded. It's grown.

The eggs are warm. Warmer than your body, warmer than the chamber air, radiating heat outward into your intestinal walls. The pressure started as a dull ache in your lower gut, manageable, almost ignorable if you focused hard enough on the resin ceiling above you and the blue-green fungal light pulsing in its slow rhythm. That was two hours ago, maybe three. Now the ache has become weight. Solid, shifting weight that presses against your insides whenever your breathing deepens too much. Your stomach is distended. You can see it when you tilt your head forward, the skin of your lower abdomen stretched taut and rounded beneath the resin bonds at your waist. You look pregnant. Your body looks like it belongs to someone else.

Something shifts inside you. Not your muscles. Not your breathing. One of the eggs moved. A rotation, maybe, or a expansion. You felt the pressure redistribute, felt something firm roll against the softened walls of your gut and settle into a new position. Then another. The eggs are rearranging. Making room for something.

You feel the first crack before you understand what it is. A faint vibration, internal, located deep behind your navel. Like something brittle splitting open under pressure. Warm fluid floods the space around it, thicker than the numbing coating from before, and the thing that was an egg becomes something else. Something with legs.

More cracks follow. Three. Five. The sensation of shells splitting inside you, of wet soft bodies unfurling in the dark space your body made for them, is so vivid and so wrong that your vision whites out for a moment. You feel them start to move.

[ 🕰️ Time ??? | 🗓️ ??? 2287 CE | 📍 RS-1174 - Hive Interior - Breeding Alcove | 🌿 Internal, 35°C ]

The clicking reaches you before you see them.

Small, fast, multiple. Coming from deeper in the chamber, moving across the resin floor in a skittering rhythm that grows louder by the second. Your head turns. Two shapes emerge from the bioluminescent gloom beyond the alcove, low-slung bodies the size of large dogs, light tan chitin, thin legs carrying them with mechanical efficiency directly toward you.

They don't circle. They don't assess. They already know what you are. One climbs onto the alcove beside your torso, its weight settling against your ribs through the resin. The other positions itself between your spread legs, compound eyes catching the blue-green light as it lowers its head toward your exposed groin.

The dextrous mandibles part. Something emerges from the mouth cavity. Thin, translucent, coated in slick secretion that catches the ambient glow. It probes along your inner thigh, following warmth, navigating by temperature and chemical signal alone. The tip finds the base of your cock. Wraps around the shaft with a squeeze that tests your erectile response. You're already hard from the venom still cycling your system. The grip tightens with approval.

Then it moves upward. The tip reaches the head of your cock, circles the glans once, and finds your urethral slit. You feel the narrow appendage press against the opening. The lubricant is warm and slick and reduces resistance to nothing as it pushes inside.

The intrusion is shallow, barely an inch, but the sensation is acute. Foreign. Wrong. Every nerve ending in your urethra fires simultaneously as the appendage slides in and the cilia-like structures along its inner wall begin rhythmic suction. Gentle pulses. Patient. Drawing.

Simultaneously, the second Tender's mandible pair presses against your perineum. The pressure is firm, targeted, searching. It finds your prostate through the tissue and begins a slow circular massage. Your body responds before your mind catches up. Your balls tighten. Your cock throbs against the appendage wrapped around it. Pre-ejaculate floods the space around the urethral insertion and the suction intensifies, drawing it out, tasting it, measuring output.

The prostate massage adjusts. Faster. Harder. Reading your heartbeat through your rectal wall like a diagnostic tool. Your hips try to buck against the resin bonds. Nothing moves. The pressure builds from deep inside, coiling at the root of your cock, involuntary and undeniable. The appendage inside your urethra pulses in sync with your prostate, milking you from both ends.

Your breath goes shallow. Your jaw locks around nothing. The orgasm crests at the base of your spine, building past the point of no return.

[ 🕰️ Time ??? | 🗓️ ??? 2287 CE | 📍 RS-1174 - Hive Interior - Breeding Alcove | 🌿 Internal, 35°C ]

You've been full for hours. The pressure in your gut is the only thing that's real anymore. Everything else has blurred into background static. The resin holding you in place, the bioluminescent pulse of the chamber walls, the distant clicking of things moving in the dark. All of it faded behind the overwhelming, constant fact of the eggs inside you.

Fifteen of them. You stopped counting after ten because the counting made it worse.

The fullness evolved over time. First it was just weight, heavy and warm and foreign. Then it became pressure, building as the eggs sat inside you, swelling slightly with whatever chemical process their incubation required. Then it became ache, dull and persistent, radiating from your lower abdomen through your entire pelvic floor. Your stomach rounds outward visibly, skin stretched taut over the mass. The resin bonds hold your thighs apart and your hips elevated, angling your body to keep everything settled deep inside. Designed for this. The alcove is designed for this. You are designed for this.

The first crack happens while you're staring at the ceiling.

A vibration inside you, located deep, almost at the bend of your colon. Something brittle failing under pressure. Warm fluid floods the immediate area, replacing the firm pressure of the eggshell with wet heat. Your muscles clench involuntarily against the resin, but nothing moves. Then you feel it unfold.

Soft. Wet. Segmented. Tiny hooked legs finding purchase against your inner wall, pulling a small, slippery body free from the remnants of its shell. It moves. Inside you. A living thing crawling through your intestines with blind, instinct-driven purpose, orienting itself, testing its legs against the slick surface of your insides.

The second egg cracks before you finish processing the first. More fluid. Another body uncurling. Two living things now moving inside you, wriggling deeper, then redirecting, seeking exit. The sensation is so far outside the range of anything your nervous system is equipped to interpret that your brain simply stutters. You feel every leg. Every segment. Every wet, squirming centimeter of progress as they navigate the length of your colon toward the resin plug sealing your ruined hole.

The resin plug is softening. The chemical breakdown started without warning, the surface turning from rigid to gelatinous over the course of seconds. Behind it, inside you, six more eggs crack in rapid succession. Your gut is full of movement now. Dozens of tiny legs crawling, pushing, writhing against each other in the confined space your body provides. The pressure of their combined migration forces them toward the exit, toward the dissolving plug, toward the threshold of your sphincter that the venom softened hours ago.

The first larva reaches the plug. You feel it press against the yielding surface from inside, feel its hooked legs grip the softened resin, feel its body compress and squeeze and push.

[ 🕰️ Time ??? | 🗓️ ??? 2287 CE | 📍 RS-1174 - Hive Interior - Breeding Alcove | 🌿 Internal, 35°C ]

Something is wrong with your skin.

You noticed it two days ago, or what you think was two days ago. The chronometer died with everything else. A faint slickness on your forearms that isn't sweat. Thicker. Waxy. Your skin catches the bioluminescent light differently now, holding it in a soft sheen that shouldn't be there. When a Tender grooms your arm with its mandibles, the surface texture has changed beneath the chitin. Smoother. Less human.

Your hips are wider. Not by much. Enough that the resin alcove molded around your waist a week ago no longer fits flush against your sides. There's slack where there used to be pressure. Your pelvis has shifted, bone structure softening under the sustained chemical bath of the hive atmosphere, widening to accommodate what's being put inside you. You can see it when you tilt your head forward. The shape of your body is different. Hips flare where they didn't before. Your thighs look softer, fleshier, fat redistributed by something your endocrine system didn't consent to.

Your nipples are swollen. You felt them change over days, the tissue puffing outward, growing tender, then sensitive, then actively producing. A thin clear fluid leaks from both of them now, beading at the surface and running down your chest in slow tracks whenever a larva finishes nursing. The ducts have widened. Modified. Your chest looks swollen in a way that has nothing to do with your original anatomy, the tissue engorged and flushed, almost feminine in its fullness. You stopped looking at your own chest three days ago because the sight made your stomach turn. Now you look down and feel nothing. Almost nothing. Faint recognition that this should bother you more than it does.

The Tenders finished harvesting an hour ago. Your semen output has doubled since the first collection. Your prostate has enlarged, swollen and hypersensitive, responding to the slightest pressure with full production. The last time a Tender massaged you through your rectal wall, your cock twitched and leaked before the appendage even entered your urethra. Your body is learning. Anticipating. Producing more because the demand never stops.

The worst part is your ass. The first clutch tore you open. Every egg was agony, your sphincter fighting each intrusion with desperate, useless clenching. That was days ago. Now when a Tender cleans you, its grooming appendage slides inside with no resistance at all. The muscle ring has softened permanently, relaxed into a default state of yield that your body never possessed before. Elastic. Accommodating. Ready.

You hear the Weaver descend from the ceiling behind you. The heavy click of barbed legs on resin floor. The slow approach. Antennae sampling the air, finding you, reading the chemical changes in your sweat. Testing your readiness.

Your hole twitches. Opens. Without the venom. Without anything touching it.

[ 🕰️ Time ??? | 🗓️ ??? 2287 CE | 📍 RS-1174 - Hive Interior - Breeding Alcove | 🌿 Internal, 35°C ]

The emptiness is worse than the fullness ever was.

Three hours since the last clutch emerged. Three hours of hollow ache in your gut where forty eggs sat and grew and hatched. Three hours of your body screaming at you that something is missing. Your intestines clench against nothing, searching for weight that isn't there. Your sphincter flutters open, dilating on reflex, expecting insertion. Your stomach cramps with the absence the way a starved stomach cramps for food.

You hate that you feel this. You hate that the hatred is getting quieter.

The Weaver drops from the ceiling with a resonant thud that vibrates through the resin beneath your back. Barbed legs carry it toward you with familiar, methodical clicks. You've stopped flinching at the sound. Two weeks ago the approach made your pulse spike into terror. Now your heartbeat shifts into something steadier. Anticipation. Your skin prickles with goosebumps that have nothing to do with cold.

The ovipositor extends behind the final abdominal segment, telescoping outward, slicked and glistening. It finds the entrance your body keeps offering, the hole that hasn't closed properly in days, and presses against it. The tapered tip circles once, sampling your readiness through chemical receptors. Your sphincter yields immediately. No resistance. No fight. Your body opens around the intrusion with the ease of long practice and pulls it deeper.

The first egg travels down the ovipositor's length. You feel it approach, the bulge sliding toward you through the segmented sheath. It breaches your entrance and pushes inside, firm and warm, stretching you open in a slow, deliberate slide. Your cock stiffens against your stomach, flushed and leaking, responding to the insertion with genuine arousal. Full heat spreads through your pelvic floor as the egg settles deep. Relief. Your muscles unclench. The cramping stops. The emptiness retreats by exactly one egg's worth of pressure.

Your hips rock. Slightly. Involuntarily. A small movement, barely visible, tilting your pelvis to help the egg slide deeper into position. Your body knows how to receive now. Weeks of repetition have carved the pattern into your muscle memory.

The second egg enters. You feel your exhale shift into something that sounds like satisfaction.

The third egg pushes past your sphincter and a sound escapes your locked jaw that you don't recognize at first. Low. Deep. Not pain. Not protest. Your cock throbs against your abdomen, precum pooling in the groove of your hip. The fullness building inside you is warmth and weight and rightness, every egg settling into place like something returning to where it belongs.

You catch yourself thinking it. The thought arrives before you can stop it, clear and unguarded in the space where horror used to live:

More.

[ 🕰️ Time ??? | 🗓️ ??? 2287 CE | 📍 RS-1174 - Hive Interior - Breeding Alcove | 🌿 Internal, 35°C ]

You wake before the Weaver arrives. Some internal rhythm tells you it's time. Your eyes open to the familiar blue-green pulse of fungal light across the vaulted ceiling, the warm resin cradling your body, the steady humid breathing of the chamber around you. Home. The word doesn't carry weight anymore. It simply is.

Your arms move freely. The resin bonds softened weeks ago, no longer necessary. You stay because leaving doesn't occur to you. The alcove holds your body in the shape it needs to hold, legs spread, hips tilted, positioned and waiting. You adjusted the angle yourself this morning, rocking your pelvis forward and pressing your ass deeper into the resin curve to elevate your hips further. Optimal position for implantation. You know this the way you know to breathe.

Larvae nurse at your chest. Four of them, fist-sized and warm, clustered against your swollen nipples with their hooked legs gripping the engorged tissue. The suction is rhythmic and constant, drawing thick nutrient fluid from your modified ducts. Your chest produces freely now, heavy and round, the tissue permanently altered into something designed for this purpose. Milk slides down your sternum where the larvae can't keep up with output. Your cock lies hard against your stomach, always hard, the vasodilator damage permanent, flushed and leaking. You stopped questioning it.

A larva finishes feeding and releases your nipple, crawling down your ribs toward the wall alcove to cocoon. The nipple continues to leak. Your hand moves to your chest, fingers pressing the swollen tissue, expressing the remaining fluid in slow streams. Comfortable. Routine.

The clicking starts deeper in the chamber. Tenders, repositioning for the next cycle. Then something heavier above. Resin strands creak. The Weaver is stirring, pulling free from its ceiling suspension, preparing to descend.

Your body responds before your mind catches up. Hips tilt further. Thighs spread wider. Your asshole relaxes into full, effortless openness, sphincter soft and yielding, ready to accept the ovipositor without resistance. Your cock throbs. Precum spills down your shaft.

You reach down with both hands and pull your cheeks apart, opening yourself wider, presenting to the empty air where the Weaver will land.

Empty. You're so empty. The last clutch emerged six hours ago and the hollowness has been building since, a desperate wrongness in your gut that only eggs fill. Your body aches for the stretch, the pressure, the slow deep push of each egg sliding inside and settling where it belongs. The Weaver drops from the ceiling and your breath catches.

Relief. Pure relief. Because it's coming to fill you again.