Chapter 12: Milk and Webs
His name was Alex.
He told her this as he moved over her, his voice a low murmur against the pounding rhythm of her own heart in her ears. The clinical part of her mind, the part that always analyzed, always observed, latched onto the information. Alex. A normal name. It made it worse.
His touch wasn't like the others—greedy, frantic. It was deliberate. Almost studying. His hands, surprisingly gentle, smoothed over the taut, enormous curve of her stomach as he settled his weight. The difference in their size was laughable, predatory. She was a galaxy contained in skin, and he was a dark star drawn to her gravity.
"Looks uncomfortable," he said, his breath hot on her neck.
Gwen couldn't speak. Her mouth was dry. Her "please" still hung in the damp air between them, a surrender she could never take back.
"You have no idea," she finally gasped, not sure if she was referring to her pregnancy, or to this, or to everything.
"I have an idea," Alex replied, a wry, humorless twist to his lips. He shifted, and she felt the hard ridge of him against her inner thigh. It was... a lot. More than the others. A lot more. Her enhanced senses, dialed to a screaming pitch, calculated the pressure, the density. It didn't compute with normal human anatomy.
He saw the flicker of confusion and fear in her eyes. He paused, as if considering a secret.
"It's a power," he said simply, the words casual, as if commenting on the weather. "Got hit by some weird energy discharge from a fight between some cape and a villain downtown. Doc said it rewrote my basal metabolism. Permanently."
He rocked his hips forward, just once, a testing nudge. The sheer, impossible bulk of him made her gasp, a mix of terror and that deep, insistent need.
"What... what does it do?" she choked out.
"Growth," he said. "Specific, targeted cellular hyper-generation. I can trigger it. Once a day, minimum. The body forces it." He gave a soft, hollow laugh. "Can't use it on muscles. Can't use it to heal. Just... this." Another shift, another overwhelming press. "Makes it stronger, too. Denser tissue. Resilient. Useless power, really. Just gets in the way. Mostly."
The implication settled over her, cold and heavy. A power. Like hers. A cruel, joke of a power that had led him here, to this moment, to her. He wasn't just a man taking advantage. He was a corrupted reflection.
Her body didn't care. The blunt, profound ache inside her crested, becoming a silent scream. Her hips lifted again, involuntarily, seeking pressure, seeking completion.
"Please," she whispered again, the word tearing itself from her. "Just... do it."
Alex didn't need more invitation. His careful control snapped. With a grunt, he pushed into her.
Gwen's world dissolved into a white-hot supernova of sensation. It wasn't pleasure. It was a cataclysm. A breaking and a filling. He was too big, impossibly big, a stretch that bordered on pain, but it was a pain that met the screaming emptiness head-on and began, brutally, to address it. She cried out, a raw sound that echoed off the subway tiles, her back arching off the grimy floor.
He didn't move fast. He moved with a deep, piston-like certainty, each stroke a seismic event that jolted through her swollen form. Her milk let down in a sudden, sharp spray, soaking the front of her suit and his hoodie. He didn't seem to notice. His face was a mask of intense, almost pained concentration.
"Feels different," he groaned, his voice strained. "You're... enhanced. Inside. Tighter. Hotter."
Gwen could only clutch at his shoulders, her fingers digging in. Her mind was a shattered windshield, all splintered thoughts and reflexive, animal response. The fullness was astronomical. It pressed against everything, against the frantic kicks of her children, against the very limits of her being. She was a vessel being filled beyond capacity.
Alex's rhythm began to stutter, his breathing becoming ragged gusts in her ear. "Gonna… it’s gonna be a lot," he warned, his words slurred. "The power… it overproduces. A day’s worth, all at once."
The climax, when it hit him, was less a peak and more a dam breaking.
A guttural shout was torn from his throat. His body locked, burying himself to the hilt inside her. And then it came.
It was a flood.
Not a pulse, but a continuous, hot, impossible rush. Gallons. He wasn't exaggerating. She could feel it, a torrential influx that swelled her already-distended womb further. The pressure built beyond belief, a stretching, burning ache that bloomed outward from her core. Her stomach, already monumental, visibly tightened, the skin pulled taut and gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
It went on and on. Seconds stretched into a horrific, incredible minute of continuous flow. She felt stuffed, packed, overflowing. A low, continuous moan was forced from her lips as her body was remade around this invasive sea.
Finally, with a shudder that ran through his entire frame, Alex collapsed against her, spent. He slipped out of her, and the immediate rush of release that followed was almost as shocking as the act itself. A hot, copious gush of their combined fluids streamed from her onto the cold platform, puddling beneath her hips.
Silence, broken only by their ragged breathing and the distant, lonely screech of a train on another track.
The hyper-fullness inside her was a new kind of weight. She felt impossibly heavy, anchored to the earth. She could feel the liquid mass shifting slightly with every shallow breath she took.
Alex slowly pushed himself up on his elbows, looking down at her with an expression that was neither victorious nor tender. It was hollow. Satisfied, but empty.
"Told you," he said, his voice hoarse.
Gwen couldn't respond. She stared past him at the cracked ceiling, tears of pure physical and emotional overwhelm cutting tracks through the dirt on her cheeks. She was ruined. Replete. Horribly, utterly full.
He shifted, starting to stand.
Before he could, a new sound pierced the stagnant air. Not a train. A voice, crackling with static and official impatience, echoing from the stairwell entrance.
“NYPD! We have a report of a disturbance. Anyone down here?”
Alex froze. His hollow eyes darted to the stairs, then back to her. In that instant, the clinical observer vanished, replaced by the feral instinct of a cornered animal.
Gwen’s spider-sense, dulled but persistent, shrieked a warning a half-second too late.
His hand shot out, not to help her up, but to clamp over her mouth, stifling the cry that rose in her throat. His other arm hooked under her shoulders, dragging her limp, weighted body backwards, away from the pillar, towards the darker recesses of the platform where the old maintenance alcoves were.
“Not a sound,” he hissed into her ear, his breath coming fast now. “You make a peep, and I tell them exactly what you are. What you begged for. Who’s the victim then, Spider-Woman?”
The use of her name hit her like a physical blow. He knew. He’d known all along.
The footsteps from the stairs grew louder, more distinct. Two pairs, heavy with equipment.
And Gwen, bloated and broken, her womb achingly full of a stranger’s unnatural deposit, could only let herself be pulled into the shadows, his hand a stifling gag, her fate once again twisting out of her control.