Chapter 13: Tunnel Consequences
The radiator in Alex’s apartment hissed like a tired serpent. It was the loudest thing in the room, aside from the low, constant gurgle of Gwen’s stomach.
She was propped against a mountain of yellowed pillows on his unmade bed, a landscape of rumpled sheets and her own vast body. The changes were no longer rapid; they were tectonic. Her breasts, heavy and tight, rested on the shelf of her stomach, which now curved outward like a giant, ripe moon, pushing her legs apart. Her hips had widened, her ass had filled out the last remains of her suit until the material shone, strained and thin at the seams. She was double, maybe triple, the woman who had fallen onto that subway platform. The suit was a second skin, a white and pink prison glowing faintly with her own bio-energy.
Days blurred here. The world outside—the sirens, the alarms, the police scanner she used to listen to like a nightly prayer—was muffled, fading into a distant dream. She’d tried to leave, that first day after the cops had passed by their hiding spot. A feeble, shame-filled attempt to scramble out the fire escape. He hadn’t even stopped her. He’d just watched from the kitchenette, a mug of coffee in his hand.
“Where you gonna go?” he’d asked, his voice flat. “Look at you.”
She’d looked. And she’d stayed.
Now, the deep, hollow ache was back. It wasn’t just hunger. It was a vacuum in her core, a yawning need that made her bones feel thin and her enhanced senses prickle with static. It started as a twinge, a memory of fullness, and grew into a roaring, physical demand.
Her gaze tracked Alex as he moved from the small fridge to the counter. He was making a sandwich, methodically spreading mayo. The mundane act felt like an insult.
A loud, protracted gurgle erupted from her middle, vibrating through her. The babies kicked, a frantic flutter against the emptiness.
Alex didn’t turn around. “You just ate.”
“I know,” she whispered. Her voice was thicker now, used less.
“That was two hours ago.”
“I know.”
He slapped slices of processed ham onto the bread. The sound was too sharp. “Your metabolism’s burning through everything. It’s not food it wants.”
She flinched. He said it so clinically, stating the weather. He was right. The thought of more turkey, more bread, more anything from his near-empty fridge made her feel sick. It was ash in her mouth. What her body screamed for was the one thing that had truly filled her, that had quieted the void for a glorious, awful while. The one thing he had.
She swallowed, her throat tight. The need was a coiling snake in her gut, tightening with every heartbeat. Pride was a ghost, a faint memory of red and blue spandex and web-shooters. That woman felt like someone else.
“Alex.”
He took a bite of his sandwich, finally turning to lean against the counter. He watched her, chewing. Waiting.
The words stuck in her throat, hot and shameful. She looked down at her hands, resting on the monumental curve of her stomach. The skin there was stretched so tight it shimmered. She traced a faint, silvery line. A stretch mark. New.
“It’s… it’s back. The feeling.” She couldn’t look at him.
“What feeling?”
“You know.” Her voice was a strained thread.
“Say it.”
Her head snapped up, anger flaring hot and brief in her chest. But it died when she met his eyes. There was no cruelty there, not exactly. Just a cold, patient certainty. He held the power, and they both knew it. He was making her acknowledge it, out loud, making it real in the dusty afternoon light.
She took a shuddering breath. The need pulsed, urgent and deep. “The emptiness. It’s… it’s tearing me apart from the inside. I can’t think. I can’t… I just need it to stop.”
He put the sandwich down, wiped his hands on his jeans. He walked over, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He stood by the bed, looking down at her immense, trapped form. He didn’t touch her.
“Need what to stop?”
Tears of frustration and raw want welled in her eyes. “You! What you do. What you… what you put in me.” The confession was a vile, sweet relief. “It’s the only thing that helps. It’s the only thing that fills it.”
A slow, almost imperceptible shift went through him. A focusing. The casual slouch left his shoulders. The daily chore, his annoying power, was now a demanded service. He had a purpose here.
“You’re asking.”
It wasn’t a question.
Gwendolyne Stacy, Spider-Woman, protector of the innocent, closed her eyes. A single tear tracked through the grime on her cheek. She nodded, her chin trembling.
“Please. Please, Alex. Fuck me. Stuff me. I need… I need to be full. I need you to pump me so full I can’t move. Please.”
He was on her then, not with passion, but with a efficient, dreadful purpose. His hands pushed her thighs apart, her body offering no resistance, only a desperate, welcoming slackness. The fabric of her suit gave way with a soft rip.
He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t speak. He aligned himself and pushed in.
The relief was instant and so profound it wrenched a sob from her throat. It was the scratch for the itch, the water in the desert. The incredible, stretching fullness as he used his power, growing to fit the cavernous space he’d helped create inside her, was not pain. It was satisfaction. A deep, cellular sigh.
He fucked her with a steady, relentless rhythm, the bedframe slamming against the plaster wall in time with her ragged cries. She clutched at the sheets, at his back, her mind blissfully blank, consumed only by sensation. The hungry void was being packed, flooded, sealed shut under a geyser of hot, endless cement.
She came first, a shockwave that rolled through her bloated form, making her entire body seize and shake. He followed, his rhythm breaking, his own groan harsh in her ear. And then the floodgates opened.
It was just as before, but somehow more. A violent, liquid invasion. She could feel the volume, gallon after impossible gallon, surging into her deepest reservoir, weighing her down, anchoring her to this bed, to this room, to him. Her stomach, already unimaginably large, tightened further, rounding out until she felt spherical, a planet being formed. The pressure was immense, breathtaking. Perfect.
When it was over, he collapsed beside her, not on her. There was no room. She lay on her back, panting, utterly immobilized by the sheer mass inside her. She felt heavy, complete, dopey with satisfaction. A warm, contented leak seeped from between her thighs, soaking the sheet beneath her.
Alex lay on his back, staring at the water-stained ceiling. “It’s getting easier for me,” he said, his voice quiet in the humming silence. “The discharge. I can hold more. Let it go harder.”
Gwen just breathed, her hands resting on the bloated, taut globe of her middle. She felt the babies swimming in their new, abundant sea. Safe. Full. Her eyes were half-lidded, a smile touching her lips. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d thought about her web-shooters. They were probably under the bed, covered in dust.
From the street below, three stories down, a car alarm suddenly blared. It was a sharp, electronic shriek of distress.
A year ago, a day ago, her spider-sense would have jolted her. Her muscles would have coiled. She’d have been out the window in a heartbeat.
Now, she just sighed, a soft, irritated sound. The noise was an annoyance, an intrusion on her perfect, weighted peace. She turned her head lazily on the pillow, nuzzling into the stale fabric.
“Can you close the window?” she murmured, her words slurred with contentment. “It’s loud.”