Chapter 15: Intervention
Felicia moved through the city like a scalpel, cutting through the night’s soft underbelly. The image of Gwen—that vast, shocked silhouette against the stained sheets—was burned into her mind. It wasn’t the pregnancy. Felicia had seen, and caused, weirder things. It was the vacancy in her eyes. The surrender.
She couldn’t do this alone. Whatever that was, it was beyond a simple extraction. It smelled of biology, of compulsion, of something sticky and deep. She needed a reader of minds, not just locks.
The psychic’s apartment was in a deceptively quiet part of Tribeca. Jean Grey answered the door in sweats, her auburn hair piled in a messy bun, a cup of tea steaming in her hand. She took one look at Felicia’s face and the tension lining her shoulders.
“Let me get a jacket,” Jean said, her voice soft but absent of surprise.
They rode in silence in Felicia’s stolen sedan. Jean stared out the window, her fingers pressed to her temples. “The static around her location is immense,” Jean murmured. “It’s not a shield. It’s… noise. Physiological white noise. Pain, pleasure, need—all dialed to eleven and screaming over everything else.”
“Can you get through it?” Felicia asked, knuckles white on the wheel.
“I can try to calm it. Enough for her to remember herself. If there’s a self left to remember.”
The climb to Alex’s window was silent. The latch was now reinforced with a heavy-duty bolt. Felicia’s claws made short work of it with a screech that felt too loud in the sleeping alley.
They slipped inside.
The room was darker, hotter. The fan was off. The only sound was a low, rhythmic suckling. Gwen was propped on a mountain of pillows, a figure knelt between her legs, his back to them. Alex. His shoulders moved with a steady, practiced motion. Gwen’s head was thrown back, her eyes closed, one hand absently tangled in his hair, the other splayed on the breathtaking curve of her stomach. She didn’t notice them.
Felicia felt a wave of nausea. Jean’s breath hitched.
“Gwen,” Felicia said, her voice slicing through the thick air.
Gwen’s eyes flew open. Alex froze, then slowly pulled back, turning to face them. His expression was one of annoyed intrusion, not shock.
“You brought a friend,” he said flatly, wiping his mouth.
“We’re leaving,” Felicia stated, stepping forward. “Gwen, get up. Now.”
Gwen shook her head, a panicked, drowsy movement. “No… Felicia, please…”
“Her body can’t support its own mass,” Jean said, her voice clinical, trying to override the visceral shock. “Her skeleton, even enhanced, is under tremendous stress. We need to move her together, carefully.”
“You’re not moving her anywhere,” Alex said, rising to his feet.
Jean’s eyes glowed faintly. “Sit down.” Her voice was a telepathic sledgehammer.
Alex froze, a marionette with cut strings, then crumpled back onto the edge of the bed, his eyes glazed and distant.
Felicia was already at Gwen’s side. “Come on, honey. We’ve got you.” She slid an arm behind Gwen’s shoulders. Jean took the other side, her touch gentle but firm.
“You don’t understand,” Gwen whimpered, but she allowed herself to be levered upward. The movement was agonizingly slow. As they shifted her weight, her swollen breasts, free under the thin tank top, jostled violently.
A sudden, sharp spray of warm liquid shot from her nipples, an uncontrolled, milky jet that arced across the space between them.
It hit Felicia across the cheek and mouth. It splashed against Jean’s neck and collarbone.
The effect was instantaneous.
It wasn’t just a smell, though the scent was profound—sweet, rich, metallic, and deeply, fundamentally nourishing. It was a signal. A direct line to the lizard brain. A ache Felicia never knew she had erupted in the core of her being, a hollow, screaming need that obliterated every other thought—the mission, the danger, the friend.
She saw the same raw, hungry shock reflected in Jean’s wide eyes. The psychic’s composure shattered. The shared, desperate glance between them lasted less than a second.
With a shared, guttural sound that was neither word nor scream, they lunged.
Gwen cried out as their hands, no longer gentle, grabbed at her, pulling her back down onto the mattress. Felicia’s mouth found one nipple, latching on with a frantic, suckling urgency. Jean seized the other, a low moan escaping her as the first thick, warm drops hit her tongue.
Rationale dissolved. Purpose vanished. There was only the feed, the profound, chemical satisfaction flooding their systems, more addictive than any drug. Gwen’s initial protest became a choked gasp, then a shuddering sigh. Her hands, which had pushed weakly at their heads, now tangled in their hair, holding them closer. A deep, humming vibration of pleasure-pain radiated from her core, swamping the last whispers of resistance.
They fed. The room filled with the wet, rhythmic sounds of their desperate consumption.
Time became granular, measured only in swallows.
The door clicked open. Alex stood there, a paper grocery bag in his arms. He’d been out. The psychic command had worn off.
He took in the scene: his property on the bed, being claimed by two new, ravenous mouths. His eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in calculation. A dark, possessive smile touched his lips.
He dropped the bag. Cans rolled across the floor.
He walked to the bed, his movements deliberate. Felicia, lost in the feed, didn’t notice him until his hands were on her hips, yanking her black suit down. She tore her mouth from Gwen’s breast with a wet pop, a snarl on her lips, but it was a reflex without force. The need was still there, a fire in her veins. He pushed her forward, onto her hands and knees beside Gwen, and entered her in one rough thrust.
She cried out, but the sound melted into a moan as he moved. The physical sensation merged with the chemical bliss from the milk, a feedback loop of overwhelming stimulus. She reached back, her claws digging into his thigh, not to push him away, but to pull him deeper.
Jean, sensing the shift, lifted her glazed eyes. Alex met her gaze and jerked his head. Wordlessly, she shifted her position, bracing herself on the mattress, offering herself to him as well. He switched between them, a brutal, efficient rhythm, while both women continued to drink from Gwen, their suckling growing more frantic with each of his thrusts.
Gwen watched, her mind a soft, warm puddle. She saw them—the fierce Black Cat, the powerful psychic—reduced to this, to animals fighting for a taste of her, for him. A twisted, swollen sense of power bloomed in her chest, hot and dark. This was her world now. Her ecosystem. She fed them. He fed on them. It was perfect. It was balance.
She felt a familiar, deep tugging inside her, a pressure building beyond the milk and the sex. Her hands flew to her stomach. A tight, hard cramp seized her, then another, more intense.
“Alex…” she breathed, the name a plea and a command.
He paused, pulling out of Jean, who whined at the loss. He moved to Gwen, his own arousal fed by the spectacle. He pushed Felicia aside, not ungently, and positioned himself. As he entered Gwen, the release was immediate and catastrophic for the other two women.
Spurred by the intense contractions, twin jets of milk, thicker now, sprayed across Felicia and Jean’s faces. They scrambled, not for cleanliness, but for more, licking it from each other’s skin, from their own hands, their addiction reforged and deepened in an instant.
And as Alex finished inside Gwen, something changed. The usual warmth spread, but it didn’t stop. Felicia, still lapping milk from Jean’s chin, felt a sudden, bloating pressure in her own abdomen. She looked down. Her sleek, toned stomach was distending, softening, rounding outward under the black latex.
Jean gasped, clutching her middle. A subtle curve was already forming beneath her sweats, a visible swelling.
Alex pulled back, watching with a panting, feverish intensity. He saw it. The transfer. The propagation. His essence, catalyzed by Gwen’s supercharged biology, wasn’t just seeding life in her. It was rewriting the others, binding them to the same fate, sparking a grotesque, rapid mimicry within them.
He looked at the three women on the bed—Gwen, massive and complete; Felicia and Jean, just beginning to swell, their eyes wide with a terror that was already being subsumed by a new, hungry craving. The cycle was no longer contained. It had found new vessels.
He smiled, running a hand over Gwen’s heated flank.
“See?” he whispered, his voice thick with triumph. “Now you’ll have some help.”