Chapter 10: Calorie Confessions
Mary's fingers tremble around the iPad as she orders an absurd amount of food—enough for five people. 'No judgement, remember, Jen and I used to date' I tease, watching her punch in extra dumplings. She glares, but there's no heat—just a raw vulnerability when she mutters, 'I burn calories fast.' The unspoken 'especially now' hangs between us like the neon city lights beyond the windows. "I'm guessing you're going to stay the night then," I wager, snaking my hand under her robe to rest on her belly where my titanic load is pushing outwards against her abs.
She looks up, and I kiss her.
The kiss started soft, surprising us both. Then her hand fisted in my hair, pulling hard enough to make a normal man yelp. Steam still clung to her skin, smelling faintly of my expensive sandalwood soap under her own wilder scent. "Don't get cocky, Hardin," she breathed against my lips, but her other hand slid down my back, pulling my hips flush against the undeniable swell beneath her thin robe.
Her belly felt warm and surprisingly firm under my palm, a taut curve pushing against the silk. "Jesus, Mary," I murmured, tracing the hard ridge where my contribution pressed insistently outwards. "You look... spectacular." It wasn'tt just the physical change; it was the raw, unguarded look in her eyes, a vulnerability I’d rarely seen. "Like a damn fertility goddess carved from granite."
She snorted, a rough, inelegant sound. "Feels like I swallowed a bowling ball. A warm, squirmy one." She shifted her weight, the robe gaping slightly to reveal the flushed skin stretched tight over her lower abdomen. "Jen wasn't fucking kidding about the volume. Or the pressure." Her thumb rubbed small circles just below her navel, a gesture that was part discomfort, part awe. "How the hell is it still... moving?"
"Mutant biology," I shrugged, enjoying the heat radiating from her. "Denser everything. Including the payload. Takes a while to... settle." My own hand mirrored hers, feeling the subtle, liquid shift beneath the incredible muscle tone. "And sorry-not-sorry about the bowling ball."
She batted my hand away half-heartedly, but didn't pull back. "Asshole." A small, almost reluctant smile touched her lips. "Ordered enough dumplings to sink a battleship. Hope you're paying." The iPad lay forgotten on the marble counter, screen still lit with the outrageous order confirmation.
"Worth every penny," I grinned, stealing another quick kiss. Her skin tasted like salt and electricity. "Seeing you like this? Priceless." I nodded towards the panoramic windows, the city a glittering sprawl below. "Better view than the Chrysler Building."
"Flatterer," she muttered, but a faint blush crept up her neck. She leaned back against the counter, one hand unconsciously cradling the pronounced curve. The robe was definitely losing the battle against containment. "So… stay the night? Guess the penthouse has its perks. Big bed." Her gaze flickered towards the shadowed bedroom. "Strong enough frame."
"Among other things," I agreed, my own body responding predictably to her proximity and the memory of what we’d done. She felt it, her eyes dropping briefly before meeting mine with renewed heat. "First we need to eat though. To the couch, for dumplings and reality TV and a moderate amount of grabass," I insist.
Mary shoved off the counter with a grunt, the silk robe straining over the impossible curve of her abdomen. "Reality TV? Seriously?" Her bare feet slapped against the cool marble as she moved towards the expansive living area, the city's electric glow painting stripes across her damp skin. "Fine. But I pick, and no complaints about 'The Real Housewives of Whatever-the-Hell.' My brain needs mush."
"Deal," I chuckled, grabbing the discarded iPad and the plush black bathrobe hanging nearby. "Your chariot and your cloak, milady." I tossed the robe towards her; she caught it effortlessly without looking, the movement fluid despite her altered center of gravity. She shrugged into it, the fabric barely meeting in the front over the significant swell. It was… hypnotic, the way her sculpted abs were stretched smooth, a hard, warm globe pushing against the terrycloth.
We sank into the deep leather couch, the buttery softness yielding under her considerable weight. The low table was soon buried under white cartons – steamed pork buns, glistening shrimp dumplings, sticky ribs, mountains of fried rice. Mary attacked the food with the single-minded intensity she usually reserved for punching She-Hulk through walls. "God, I needed this," she mumbled around a mouthful, sauce glistening on her chin. Her free hand rested possessively on her belly, fingers splayed over the taut silk of my robe beneath the terrycloth.
I watched her eat, the primal satisfaction on her face, the way her throat worked. The sheer volume she consumed was staggering, a testament to the metabolic furnace her powers required, now stoked even higher. "Jen used to inhale groceries like this after a big fight," I offered casually, popping a dumpling into my own mouth. "Or… well, you know. Afterwards."
Mary paused, a rib bone halfway to her mouth. She lowered it slowly, her eyes meeting mine, crystalline blue sharpening. "So she told you about that? About… the after?" A flush crept up her neck again, warring with the defiant tilt of her chin. "How much she told you?"
"Enough," I said, keeping my tone light but holding her gaze. "Enough to know why she warned you. Enough to know why you're sitting here looking like you could single-handedly repopulate a small island." I leaned forward, resting my elbow on my knee. "She described the pressure. The fullness. Said it felt… different. Solid. Like nothing else."
Mary looked down at her hands, sticky with sauce, then back at the pronounced curve beneath her robe. The defiance flickered, replaced by something raw and unguarded. "Different doesn't cover it, Ron," she whispered, the city noise a distant hum outside the glass. "It feels… alive in there. Heavy. Warm. Like a… a fucking ocean sloshing against my insides." Her hand pressed down, the tendons standing out. "Can you feel it? From out here?" Her voice was low, almost shy.
I didn't hesitate. I reached out, my palm flat against the silk-covered swell just below her navel. The heat was intense, radiating through the fabric. And beneath my hand, the dense fluid I’d deposited hours ago shifted with a slow, heavy surge, pressing back against my touch with undeniable pressure. "Christ, Mary. Yeah." The sheer mass of it, contained within her, was staggering. "It’s… substantial."
Her breath hitched as my hand settled. Her own hand covered mine, pressing it harder against the firm distension. Her fingers were strong, calloused from a lifetime of combat, yet trembling slightly. "Jen said it doesn't leak," she murmured, her gaze fixed on where our hands joined on the impossible bulge. "Not like normal… stuff. Stays put. Holds." Her eyes lifted, searching mine. "Is that true? All of it?"
"It's true," I confirmed, my thumb rubbing a slow circle over the stretched silk. I felt another internal shift beneath my touch, a thick, liquid heave pressing outwards. "Mutant density. It doesn't just leak out. It occupies. For a good, long while." Seeing the mix of anxiety and fascination warring in her expression, I added softly, "Sue described it once as… an occupation force. Very thorough."
A choked laugh escaped Mary, rough and unexpected. "Occupying force. Yeah. That tracks." She kept my hand firmly pressed against her, her own knuckles white. We sat like that for a long moment, the forgotten TV casting flickering light over the tableau: the demolished food, the towering woman cradling her unnaturally swollen abdomen, my hand trapped against the evidence of my unique biology. The silence was thick, charged with the lingering steam, the scent of sandalwood and soy sauce, and the sheer, visceral reality of what hung between us.
Then, exhaustion seemed to crash over her. The tension bled out of her shoulders, her head lolling back against the couch cushions. Her hand finally loosened its grip on mine, but left it resting on the warm curve. "Occupying force," she repeated, a weary slur in her voice. Her eyelids drooped. "Tell them… tell them to stand down for a bit. Need… shut-eye." Her breathing deepened almost instantly, the massive rise and fall of her chest slowing into the rhythm of sleep, the weight of my body’s legacy still pressing firmly against my palm beneath the robe. The city glittered silently below, unaware of the superhuman tableau suspended above it, the air thick with spent energy and the lingering, potent scent of us both.
The city glittered silently below, unaware of the superhuman tableau suspended above it, the air thick with spent energy and the lingering, potent scent of us both. Mary slept deeply, her breathing a slow, powerful rhythm beneath the swell of her belly. Her hand had slipped from mine, lying limp on the couch cushion next to the forgotten carton of ribs. The faint scent of soy sauce mingled with sandalwood and something uniquely her – ozone and granite.
She looked sculpted even asleep, the lines of her jaw sharp against the cushion, the curve beneath my robe undeniable. Steam no longer clung to her skin, but a faint warmth radiated from her, especially from the area where my hand had rested. I watched her for a long moment, the impossible reality of Mary MacPherran – Titania – passed out on my couch, stuffed with dumplings and me. A low rumble escaped her, almost a purr, startlingly unguarded.
"Alright, Sleeping Beauty," I murmured, easing myself off the couch. The leather creaked softly. "Time for a proper bed." I moved to her side, looking down at the sprawl of her powerful form. Picking her up wasn't going to be easy, not with the added… ballast. My powers were basically defensive. Every cell in my body generated a tiny shield, and after being dosed with the Earth-91 Supersoldier serum my body became much, much denser. More cells equaled more shield, to the point where I could tank a punch from the Hulk, no problem, but I was barely stronger than Captain America. This is a long way of explaining that I picked up Titania, all 545 pounds of her and carried her to bed without hurting my back.
She stirred slightly as I slid one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back, my hand pressing against the warm, robe-covered swell. "Wha…?" she mumbled, eyes fluttering open for a second, bleary and unfocused.
"Relocating," I grunted, adjusting her weight. Her density was significant, amplified by her own powers, and the sheer volume inside her shifted, adding a strange, liquid inertia. "Carry on commanding the occupying force."
She made a vague noise that might have been assent or protest, her head lolling against my shoulder. Her damp hair tickled my neck, smelling faintly electric. The terrycloth of the robe beneath the silk was soft against my forearm, but the curve beneath pressed firmly into my abdomen as I held her close. Walking wasn't difficult, exactly, just… deliberate. Like carrying a very warm, very dense, and slightly wobbly monument.
The bedroom was cool and dark, the city lights painting faint stripes across the king-sized bed. I lowered her gently onto the crisp sheets, her weight sinking into the mattress. She sighed, a contented sound this time, and instinctively curled onto her side, one hand coming to rest protectively over the pronounced bulge of her abdomen. The robe gaped open further, revealing more flushed skin stretched taut over the hard curve.
"Cover up, MacPherran," I said softly, pulling the duvet up over her shoulder. She mumbled something incoherent, burrowing deeper into the pillow. I smoothed the cream-colored fabric over her hip, my hand lingering for a second on the warm swell where my body's legacy resided. It pulsed faintly, a deep, internal pressure wave I could feel even through the layers. Substantial, indeed. Exhaustion radiated from her sleeping form, deep and absolute. I stood there a moment longer, watching the slow rise and fall of her breath, the city’s distant hum a counterpoint to her quiet slumber. The night held its breath, heavy with the aftermath.
The night held its breath, heavy with the aftermath. The only sounds were the city’s distant thrum and Mary’s deep, steady breathing beside me. Her warmth radiated across the foot of space I’d deliberately left, a tangible force against my skin. Moonlight, filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painted silver streaks across the rumpled duvet and the impossible curve of her abdomen beneath it. The silk robe had ridden up, revealing the smooth, tight swell pushing against her skin, a stark monument to our earlier collision.
I stared at the ceiling, tracing the shadows cast by the skyline. Sue’s face flickered in my mind – the sharp intelligence in her eyes, the way her brow furrowed when Reed explained something complex, the surprising softness she’d shown me last week in her own controlled way. The sharp pang was duller than it had been yesterday, but still present. A bruise on the heart, tender to the touch. Yet, here lay Mary, Titania, my frenemy, her powerful body humming with latent energy even in sleep, filled to near-bursting with my contribution. It was… strangely grounding. A different kind of intensity, raw and undeniable. The sheer physical reality of her presence, the evidence of our connection literally bulging from her, acted as a counterweight to the ache of Sue's absence. I wasn’t healed, not by a long shot, but the jagged edges felt… padded. Smoothed over by the sheer, improbably pleasant absurdity of Mary MacPherran sleeping off a superhuman creampie in my penthouse.
So, I split the difference, emotionally. I crawled onto the giant bed, the sheets cool where Mary hadn't claimed them. Laying near enough that I could feel the heat her massive body was giving off, an almost oppressive warmth radiating from her skin and the deep, dense reservoir within her, I deliberately left a foot or so of space between us. A buffer zone. Respectful distance. Or maybe just self-preservation. Her blonde hair fanned across the pillow, catching the moonlight. One hand still rested possessively on the taut dome of her belly, fingers splayed. The sight sent a primal thrill through me, warring with the melancholy. It was a lot to process.
"You're thinking too loud, Hardin." Her voice was a sleep-roughened rasp, startling in the quiet. She hadn’t opened her eyes.
"Didn't realize you were awake," I murmured, keeping my gaze fixed on the ceiling. The heat from her side felt more intense now, as if acknowledging her consciousness amplified it.
"Hard not to be, with your brooding practically vibrating the mattress." She shifted slightly, a soft groan escaping as the movement clearly displaced the significant weight inside her. Her hand pressed down. "Fuck, it's like lugging around a cement mixer full of warm honey." She finally turned her head, cracking one brilliant blue eye open to peer at me across the chasm I’d created. "That space between us? Feels like the Grand Canyon. Regretting inviting the hungry super-villain to stay over already?" There was an edge to her words, sharp as shattered crystal, but underneath it, a vulnerability I hadn’t heard before. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe the residual intimacy.
"No regrets, Mary." I finally turned my head to meet her gaze. The moonlight caught the sharp planes of her face, the curve of her lips. "Just… thinking. About Sue. About tonight. You." The admission hung in the air, heavier than the humid city night beyond the glass. "It’s complicated."
A snort. "Understatement." She rolled fully onto her side facing me, wincing again as the dense fluid shifted audibly within her, a thick, wet slosh that made the duvet ripple over her midsection. The movement closed half the gap I’d enforced. Her expression was unreadable in the dimness. "Sue Storm. Always fucking Sue Storm." She didn't sound angry, exactly. More… resigned. Understanding, in a way that surprised me. "The brains and the beauty and the… control." Her free hand, the one not anchoring her swollen belly, gestured vaguely, dismissively. "Bet she liked being on top. Calling the shots. Setting the timer." Her gaze dropped pointedly to her own stomach, the sheer scale of the bulge undeniable even under the covers. "This… this ain't exactly controlled, is it?"
"Not even remotely," I agreed, a wry twist to my mouth. "No timers here. Just… consequences." My eyes traced the outline of her distension. "Occupying force, remember?"
She huffed out a breath, almost a laugh. "Occupying continent, more like." She was quiet for a moment, studying me. The vulnerability flickered again. "Does it… bother you? Seeing it? Seeing me like this?" Her fingers flexed on the curve. "Knowing it's yours just… parked in there?"
I considered lying. It would have been easy. But the rawness of the night, the shared intensity, demanded something closer to truth. "Bother me? No, Mary. It fascinates me. It’s… monumentally real. Honest, in a weird way." I swallowed, the memory of Sue's clinical curiosity mixing with the visceral sight before me. "Sue wanted the data point. The unique sensation. You… you just took it. All of it. No safety net." Admiration colored my voice, genuine and unexpected.
Her lips curved, a ghost of her usual arrogant smirk. "Yeah, well. Not like I had a choice with the firehose you're packing, mutant." The smirk faded. "It feels… different than Jen described. Deeper. Heavier. Like it’s… settled in for the long haul." She shifted again, a frustrated little wiggle. "Can’t get comfortable. Everything feels… pressurized."
"Give it time," I offered lamely. "Biology. Mutant density. It’ll… absorb. Eventually."
"Eventually sucks," she grumbled. Her gaze lingered on the space I’d kept between us. Then, with a determination that seemed to cost her, she slid closer. Not touching, but near enough that the heat radiating from her body, from the deep warmth of the load within her, washed over my side like a physical wave. The scent of sandalwood soap, her own electric tang, and something deeper, muskier, filled the small space. Her hand brushed the duvet next to mine. An invitation? An accident? Her eyes, luminous in the moonlight, held mine. The air crackled, thick with unsaid things – her unspoken need, my lingering heartache, and the immense, warm reality pushing insistently against the barrier of silk and skin barely a foot away. The city lights blurred outside, unimportant now against the charged intimacy pressing in from the other side of the bed.
We kissed, softly, for longer than I realized before she came up for air. Her lips were swollen, her breathing ragged. "Someone promised me a nice, slow screw," she panted, a flush spreading down her neck and across her massive breasts, visible where the robe had fallen open. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with need.
"Hmm, missionary is probably impossible until you purge all of my fluid. How about I lay next to you and spoon you and we try it that way," I offered, already climbing over her and lining myself up behind her before she had the chance to answer. My body molded against the powerful landscape of her back, my arm sliding under her neck, my hand finding her breast, the nipple a hard pebble against my palm. My cock, thick and demanding, found its place nestled against the hot, slick cleft once more. The head nudged insistently at her entrance. She arched, pushing back.
"Less talk," she growled, her voice thick. "More action. Now, Ron."