Chapter 12: Midnight Vulnerabilities
So yeah, after that, my relationship with Mary got very confusing. Most of the time, she was her usual badass self, hosting Punch Club with Jen and Ben Grimm, taking "security" gigs that were probably just light henchman work, but twice a month she'd go visit her husband in prison, and like clockwork, she'd show up at my place that night acting like she was my girlfriend, all sweet and affectionate, hang around my place fucking and ordering hundreds of dollars a day in takeout for four or five days, then vanish again until the turned up a week or so later.
Clearly she was working through some big feelings.
Moonlight sliced across the polished concrete floor, illuminating Mary hunched over my open refrigerator. Her silhouette was colossal, framed by shelves nearly emptied of last night's Thai takeout. She froze mid-bite, a slice of cold pepperoni pizza dangling from her mouth, her eyes wide and startled in the gloom. That faint, internal luminescence pulsed beneath the thin fabric of her oversized sleep shirt, a leftover ghost-light from our last encounter.
"Don't start," she mumbled, the words thick with cheese and defensiveness. Her gaze darted away, focusing intently on the pizza crust. "Your fridge was practically bare. A woman needs sustenance." She took another defiant bite, chewing loudly, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen. Her posture screamed back off, but the slight tremor in her hand holding the pizza betrayed her.
"Mary," I said, leaning against the doorframe, keeping my voice low. "It's three AM. And my fridge was stocked." I crossed my arms, watching the unnatural glow shift beneath her shirt where her stomach curved. It was softer now, a subtle swell that hadn't been there before her last visit, testament to the sheer volume my body produced and hers couldn't expel. "Still packed inside, huh? The glow’s brighter."
She slammed the pizza box shut with more force than necessary, rattling the shelves. "Shut up, Hardin. It's just... slow metabolizing alien jizz, okay?" Her cheeks flushed crimson, clashing with her usual bravado. "Feels like carrying a damn space heater around. Makes me hungry." She avoided looking at me, snatching a half-eaten container of pad thai next. "Your demon spawn requires feeding," she repeated, her earlier snarl replaced by a grumble, spooning cold noodles directly into her mouth.
I took a step closer, the cool floor under my bare feet. The faint scent of her sweat mixed with the spices. "You don't have to raid the kitchen alone in the dark. I could order something." I reached out, my fingertips brushing the back of her hand still clutching the spoon. She flinched but didn't pull away. "Or we could just... talk?"
"Talk?" She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "What, about how seeing Crusher in that concrete cage makes me feel like my ribs are cracking? How I come here and let you fill me up like some kind of... Radioactive water balloon because it’s the only time I feel something good and solid instead of just numb?" Her voice cracked on the last word. She shoved the pad thai container back into the fridge and slammed the door, plunging us into near darkness except for the city lights and her own faint internal radiance. "I don't want to talk."
She turned, her eyes glittering with unshed tears and defiance in the dim light. The glow from her belly illuminated the sharp line of her jaw, the tension in her neck. She looked less like the indomitable Titania and more like someone profoundly lost. Her hand, large and capable, reached out and gripped the front of my t-shirt, bunching the fabric in her fist. "I want to not think," she whispered, her voice raw. "Make me not think, Ron."
Her other hand fumbled for the waistband of my sweatpants, her breathing shallow and quick. The familiar scent of her skin, clean sweat and something uniquely her, washed over me. She tugged insistently. "Please. Before I change my mind and punch a hole in your stupid expensive wall."
I covered her hand with mine, stopping the frantic movement. "Okay," I murmured, my voice rough. "Okay, Mary. Slow. Like last time?" I reminded her of her own rule, the one she'd demanded after her visit three months ago ended with her passed out and twitching on my Egyptian cotton sheets, overwhelmed. "You call the shots. You control the pace."
She let out a shuddering breath, her grip on my shirt loosening slightly. The fight seemed to drain out of her, leaving exhaustion and that raw, aching need. "Yeah. Yeah, slow." She leaned her forehead against my shoulder, the heat radiating from her glowing belly pressing against me. "Just... hold me first? For a minute?" Her voice was small, vulnerable. "Feels like I'm made of glass tonight."
I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her massive frame against mine. She buried her face in the crook of my neck, her breath hot on my skin. Her super-dense muscles were taut wires beneath my hands, vibrating with suppressed tension. We stood like that in the silent, moonlit kitchen, the faint pulse inside her a warm counterpoint to the cool ambient light. "You're not glass," I said quietly into her hair. "You're Titania."
She snorted weakly. "Right now I feel like cheap plastic." She pulled back just enough to look up at me, her eyes searching mine. The vulnerability was stark, terrifyingly real. "Don't let go yet." Her hand slid back down, not frantic now, but purposeful, finding the hard outline beneath my sweatpants. Her fingers traced the significant weight and girth through the fabric, a familiar exploration that made my breath catch. "Okay," she breathed, her voice gaining a fraction of its usual strength. "Now. Take me to bed. Climb on top of me. Fuck me nice and slow until I make noises only my husband should hear. "
Her words hung like shattered glass in the moonlit kitchen, sharp and dangerous. The desperation in her plea, the raw ache beneath the command, silenced any response I might have mustered. "Bed," I agreed, my voice gravel. "Now."
I scooped her up easily, her massive weight negligible against my strength, yet the sheer presence of her – the radiating warmth from her full belly, the tension humming through her muscles – was immense. She buried her face back into my neck as I carried her through the darkened penthouse, the faint luminescence from within her casting shifting shadows on the walls. The cool air of the bedroom washed over us as I lowered her onto the expensive, rumpled sheets.
She sprawled back instantly, the oversized sleep shirt riding high, revealing the distinct, soft curve of her lower abdomen glowing faintly amber. Her eyes, wide and dark in the dim city light filtering through the windows, fixed on me. "Slow," she reminded me, a tremor in the word. "Don't make me regret this, Hardin." Her hand fumbled for my sweatpants again, more insistent now. "Get these off. Need to feel you."
I obliged, shucking the fabric. The sudden exposure to the cool air made my own heavy anatomy pulse. Her gaze flickered down, a familiar mix of awe and apprehension flashing across her face before being swallowed by that intense, needy focus. "C'mere," she breathed, spreading her legs, the movement deliberate, almost challenging. "Do it. Like you mean it. Like you're not afraid of breaking me."
I climbed onto the bed, the frame groaning in protest under our combined super-dense mass. Settling between her thighs was like entering a furnace; the heat radiating from her core, amplified by the weird energy of my previous deposit, was intense. I lined myself up, the thick head nudging against her slick entrance, already stretched and accommodating from prior visits but still a formidable fit. Her breath hitched, sharp and sudden.
"Easy," I murmured, pressing forward with deliberate slowness, feeling her powerful inner muscles clench then yield, inch by impossibly thick inch. "Breathe, Mary." Her head thrashed on the pillow, a low whine escaping her clenched teeth. "Fuck... Fuck... it's... a lot..." she gasped out, her hands flying to my shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise ordinary flesh. "Don't stop... just... goddamn... slow..."
The sensation of sinking into her was always profound, a deep, encompassing pressure that defied description. Her internal walls were like living marble, incredibly strong yet yielding under relentless, gradual pressure. She felt impossibly full, stretched taut around my girth, her inner heat amplified by the glowing mass already within her. Her hips lifted minutely, seeking more, her breath coming in short, sharp pants.
"More?" I asked, pausing, buried deep but not fully seated. Her body trembled beneath me.
"Y-yes," she hissed, eyes squeezed shut. "Just... move. Slow... circles... or... something..." Her voice was strained, tight with the effort of holding herself together. "Make it... feel good... not just... stuffed..."
I began to move, withdrawing agonizingly slowly before pushing back in with the same glacial pace. Not a thrust, but a deep, rolling grind, maximizing the friction against her inner walls. Her reaction was immediate, a shuddering gasp transforming into a low, drawn-out moan that vibrated through her chest and into mine. "Ohhhh... god... Ron..." Her fingers relaxed slightly on my shoulders, shifting to grip my biceps instead, her knuckles white. "That's... yeah... right there..."
Her head rolled back, blonde hair fanning on the pillow, exposing the long line of her throat. The faint glow from her belly pulsed slightly with my movements, casting soft light on the sweat starting to gleam on her collarbone. Her breathing deepened, losing some of its frantic edge, settling into ragged sighs that punctuated each slow, deep slide. Her powerful thighs tightened around my hips, not demanding speed, but anchoring me, pulling me deeper into that searing, snug heat with each inward roll.
"Louder," she whispered, her eyes still closed, a flush spreading down her neck. "Make me... forget my own name..." A small, broken sound escaped her – half sob, half moan – as I angled slightly, finding a spot that made her whole body tense then melt. "Yes! There... don't stop finding that..."
We moved together in that heavy, deliberate rhythm for timeless minutes. The penthouse was utterly silent except for our mingled breathing, the rhythmic creak of the stressed bed frame, and the increasingly unrestrained sounds Mary made. Low groans deepened into guttural cries, muffled momentarily when she bit her lip, then bursting free as another deep grind hit its mark. Her usual arrogance was stripped away, replaced by a raw, unguarded vulnerability, every gasp and whimper a confession.
Her hands roamed my back, tracing muscle, gripping hard, pushing and pulling as if she couldn't decide if she wanted me closer or needed space. Her hips began to match my grinding motion, lifting and rocking with a growing urgency that contradicted her command for slowness. "Feels... too good..." she panted, her voice thick and rough. "Don't... don't let me come yet... not yet..."
I adjusted my angle again, focusing on that sweet spot with relentless precision, the thick ridge of my head dragging against it with exquisite pressure on each slow withdrawal and return. Her control visibly frayed. Her back arched off the bed, a choked scream torn from her throat, her inner muscles clamping down on me with shocking, superhuman force. "FUCK! RON! I... I can't... hold...!" Her eyes flew open, wide and unfocused, locking onto mine for a split second filled with pure, desperate surrender before squeezing shut again as the first wave crashed over her.
She shattered. Her body convulsed violently beneath me, powerful legs locking around my waist like steel bands. The sounds she made were primal, unrestrained, guttural cries that echoed in the vaulted ceiling, utterly unlike anything her husband would have ever heard – raw, desperate, drenched in a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Her inner walls rippled and clenched around me in powerful, rhythmic spasms, milking my length with impossible strength, triggering my own climax almost instantly.
Her inner walls rippled and clenched around me in powerful, rhythmic spasms, milking my length with impossible strength, triggering my own climax almost instantly. The angle, her thick legs locked like a vice around my waist, always short-circuited my control. I came, hard. A guttural groan tore from my throat as the first thick pulse surged out of me, the sheer force of it punching deeper into her already quivering core. Heat bloomed at the base of my spine, intense and unstoppable.
Mary gasped, a sharp, choked sound that morphed into a ragged moan as she felt the first hot flood. "Ohgod... yeah... fill it..." Her voice was shredded, her hips lifting off the mattress to meet each thick jet. Her inner muscles, still spasming from her own peak, greedily sucked at me, pulling more out with every contraction. The faint, internal glow beneath her skin flared brightly, turning her lower belly into a soft amber lantern in the dark room. I wasn't seeing anyone else right now. That first night after her prison visit, I always had a little extra stored up, a deeper reservoir needing release.
The pressure built exponentially, a relentless tide surging through my heavy, super-dense cock. It wasn't just volume; it was force. Each thick, viscous rope hit her deepest recesses like a pressurized hose, packing the space my previous deposit hadn't already claimed. Her moans became constant, ragged breaths punctuated by little cries as she felt herself distending further, the soft pooch hardening slightly under the relentless internal pressure. "Fuck... Ron... so much... feels like you're... inflating me..." Her hands scrabbled weakly against my back, nails scoring faint white lines even on my durable skin. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown black, fixed on the visible swell just below her navel where the glow pulsed brightest.
The bed creaked in protest as her body arched, overwhelmed by the dual sensations of her own aftershocks and the sheer, unending invasion. Her superhuman durability was the only thing preventing damage; any normal woman would have ruptured minutes ago. Sweat slicked our bodies together, the air thick with the scent of sex, exertion, and something faintly metallic, ozone-tinged – the signature of my unique biology. The relentless spurting showed no sign of slowing, the heavy weight in my balls only marginally lessened. Thirty minutes was a long damn time.
Finally, after what felt like an age, the violent spurting eased into a heavy, continuous flow, a deep wellspring emptying into her depths. The frantic tension in Mary's body bled away, replaced by a heavy-limbed exhaustion. She slumped back onto the sheets, a shudder running through her as she felt the thick, warm weight settling impossibly low inside her. Her glowing belly was visibly rounded, taut like a drum skin stretched over a small melon. A thin trickle, thick and pearlescent, escaped around the edges of where I was still buried deep within her, glistening on her inner thighs.
I stayed buried inside her, sensitive and spent, feeling the faint internal tremors as her body processed the impossible volume. My own breath came in deep, ragged pulls, the city lights catching the sweat on my chest. The silence stretched, thick and intimate, broken only by our labored breathing and the faint hum of the metropolis below.
Mary let out a long, shaky sigh. She ran a hand over the glowing swell of her abdomen, her touch almost reverent. "Holy hell, Hardin," she murmured, her voice a ruined whisper. "That extra prison-visit special really hits different." A weak chuckle escaped her. "Think I might actually float away if I tried to stand."
"Give it a minute," I rasped, carefully shifting my weight off her slightly, though still connected. The cool air hitting our joined flesh made her shiver. "Gravity helps the settling. Sort of."
She snorted softly, her fingers still tracing the luminous curve. "Settling. Right." She turned her head on the pillow to look at me, her expression unreadable in the dim light – exhaustion, lingering pleasure, and a complex sadness. "Crusher used to joke I was built like a tank. Feels like you just proved him right." The mention of her husband's name hung in the air, heavy and awkward. She quickly looked away, focusing back on her glowing stomach. "This stuff... it really doesn't burn off faster? Or leak out?"
A faint tremor ran through her as I stayed buried deep, my balls still pulsing softly. "Or leak out?" she'd asked, her voice thin. The glowing swell beneath her palm seemed to pulse in time with the faint internal trickle still pushing past her cervix, deeper. City lights painted stark lines across her strained face, her knuckles white where they pressed into the luminous curve.
I took a slow breath, the air cool on my sweat-slicked skin. Mary’s eyes, wide and fixed on her own belly, held a terror I hadn’t seen since our first violent encounter years ago. It wasn't just the physical impossibility; it was the implication, a ghost from her past she thought was buried. "Sue thought it might be a secondary mutation, but..." I began, my voice low, feeling the subtle, relentless pressure of my own biology still working inside her. "...she found 'unique biological factors' in my semen that would optimize the reproductive environment for conception."
Mary went utterly still. Not even breathing. The only movement was the faint, rhythmic pulse of light beneath her skin.
"She called it 'terraforming'," I continued, the clinical term absurd in our current state, tangled and leaking on expensive sheets. "Like how the mutants made it so they can live on Mars now. Well, my stuff kind of does that. Repeated doses seem to increase the effect." I watched her throat work as she swallowed, hard. Her gaze snapped to mine, raw panic flaring.
"I... haven't had a period," she whispered, the confession ripped from her. "Not once. Not since Doom..." Her voice cracked on the name of the man who'd granted her power and stolen her fertility. "Not in nearly ten years." Her hand, still pressed flat against her glowing belly, clenched into a fist. The knuckles stood out, bone-white against the softly illuminated skin. "Until... two weeks ago."
Silence crashed down, thick and suffocating. The glow seemed to brighten momentarily, illuminating the stark horror dawning in her eyes. The faint internal pulse against my softening length felt suddenly, terrifyingly significant. The bed frame groaned softly under our combined, super-dense weight, a mundane counterpoint to the seismic shift happening between us.
Ten years sterile. Then me. Then this. Her breath hitched, ragged and shallow. "Two weeks..." she echoed, the words a fragile, broken thing hanging in the charged air. Her other hand reached down, trembling, tracing the swollen outline beneath her navel, feeling the impossible warmth, the fullness that was undeniably more than just residual volume. Her eyes, wide pools of shocked disbelief, locked onto mine. "Ron... what have you done?"