Unpleasant responses

“Dr. Storm,” Roberta began, her voice soft, modulated to convey calm amidst the chaos, yet with a subtle vibration that resonated in Susan’s chest like a distant echo. “I’ve processed your initial inquiries and environmental readings. This is not Earth. You have been displaced to an alternate dimension known in my residual databases as Gorathar: a multiversal nexus that acts as a repository for fragments of destroyed realities. The Baxter Building you see around you is a physical remnant dragged along with you, or perhaps brought from another universe. There are no records of Messrs. Richards, Grimm, or Storm on the immediate sensors. The building has been empty for indeterminate cycles.” The words fell like cold drops in the heat of her despair, each syllable lingering in the heavy air, causing Susan to take an involuntary step back, her bare heel crunching on a dry leaf that cracked like a broken bone. The emptiness. The confirmation of utter loneliness. Her blue eyes filled with tears that hadn't yet fallen, held back by a will that was slowly crumbling, while cool sweat beaded on the back of her neck and trickled down her spine in a slow river that disappeared into the curve of her buttocks.

"Gorathar?" Susan repeated, her voice hoarse, vibrating with a mixture of disbelief and growing terror, the strange name on her tongue like a bitter taste. "How... how do I get out of here? Is there a portal back? Any way out? Reed always found a way out... there must be something, an energy residue, a quantum signature..." Roberta blinked, processing, the light of her form intensifying for an instant and casting dancing shadows across Susan's half-naked body, illuminating the transparency of the soaked suit, the pink nipples visible like points of vulnerability, the flat stomach that contracted with each deep breath.

"Full scan indicates no active portals within detectable range. The energy signature that brought you here dissipated at the close of the Galactus event. No known return route is recorded. Gorathar seems designed—or evolved—to retain what arrives. Earth fragments like this building are absorbed anomalies, not portals." The weight of those words settled on Susan's chest like a hot stone, making her breathing quicken, her breasts rising and falling with more urgency, the damp tissue brushing against her sensitive skin until a treacherous heat spread downward. She instinctively hugged herself, her arms crossed beneath her breasts, pushing them upward, the translucent white bra tightening even more, but the gesture only accentuated her vulnerability, the chill of abandonment mingling with the warmth of her own flesh.

“And… those monsters,” she finally whispered, her voice trembling with a hint of shame as she recalled the shouted obscenities, the musky scent that still seemed to cling to her skin. “Those green men… tall, strong, with fangs and tongues… they tried to attack me. They chased me like… like I was prey for… Who are they? What are they?”

Roberta tilted her head again, the digital expression softening into something resembling compassion, though her holographic eyes remained cold.

“The native inhabitants call themselves Gorak. Humanoids adapted to this primal environment. A hierarchical tribal culture centered on conquest and reproduction. Females from other worlds—called ‘fallen’—are considered highly prized trophies. Their rituals involve capture, collective sexual domination, and **** breeding to strengthen bloodlines. You, Dr. Storm, represent the first recorded individual with metahuman abilities.” Her arrival triggered heightened hunting patterns in the nearby city.

Horror spread through Susan's body like a slow, hot poison, making her knees buckle, a damp, involuntary heat pooling between her thighs as she recalled the deep voices promising to open her, fill her, impregnate her. Tears finally fell, hot on her cold cheeks, while Roberta's hologram waited silently, the blue light pulsing like an artificial heart in the growing gloom.

The silence that followed Roberta's words was so dense it seemed to have physical weight, a cold, blue veil that fell over Susan's bare shoulders and clung to her skin like a second layer of moisture, mingling with the sweat that still beaded on her exhausted body and with the river water that dripped from the platinum blonde strands plastered to the nape of her neck and the inner curve of her breasts. The hologram's light pulsed softly, casting dancing shadows across the cracked walls of the penthouse, where ivy had penetrated like possessive, green fingers, curving slowly around lifeless consoles and skeletal furniture, as if the jungle itself were caressing the remains of a civilization that no longer belonged to it.

Susan stood motionless for a long moment, her arms hanging limply at her sides, her hands trembling slightly as hot tears streamed down her cheeks and onto her chest, slipping between her breasts until they disappeared beneath the clinging fabric. Shock was a living thing inside her, a burning knot in her throat and another lower down, in her belly, where horror and loss mingled with a raw awareness of her own **** flesh. She couldn't keep running. Not now. Her body begged for respite with an urgency bordering on pain: muscles burning, lungs ablaze, her mind clouded by exhaustion. If she faced those... Gorak again, she needed to be whole. She needed her powers to respond without fail.

With an effort that cost her a low gasp, she turned toward what remained of the penthouse kitchen. The cabinets were half-open, some drawers sagging, but the reactor had restored basic power. She found intact packages of freeze-dried food—emergency rations that Reed always insisted on keeping—and a portable stove that still worked. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as if each gesture weighed more than usual: opening the package with clumsy fingers, pouring water from a dusty bottle, waiting for it to boil while the steam rose and fogged her face, making strands of blond hair stick to her parted lips. The smell of the food—something neutral, proteinaceous, comforting—was the first truly human thing she had smelled in hours, and she inhaled it with a hunger that embarrassed her. She ate standing up, leaning against the broken countertop, the spoon trembling slightly between her fingers.

Each bite was a deliberate act of survival, but also a reminder of her body: the way the warmth of the food spread through her empty stomach, the way the damp fabric of the suit brushed against her nipples with every movement of her arm, the weight of her own breasts swaying gently as she leaned forward.

When she finished, she set about finding clothes. Something to cover her half-naked body, something to give her back even a semblance of dignity. She wandered through the penthouse closets with slow, heavy steps, opening creaking doors that revealed only dust, cobwebs, and scraps of damp-rotted fabric. The drawers were either empty or filled with useless objects: yellowed papers, broken devices, a lab glove that had disintegrated in her fingers. Nothing. Not a T-shirt, not pants, not even an intact sheet. Resignation washed over her like a warm, bitter wave, making her shoulders slump and a trembling sigh escape her lips. She was alone with her own skin.

With mechanical, almost ritualistic movements, she undressed. First, the tattered blue Fantastic Four jumpsuit, that symbol of her past life that now hung in dirty, soaking shreds. She slid it slowly over her shoulders, feeling the clinging fabric peel away from her skin with a wet, obscene sound, revealing her full breasts, which rose freely into the air, her nipples hardened by the contrast between her body heat and the room's chill. Then the white bra, the lace cups sliding over her sensitive skin until they fell to the floor with a soft thud. Finally, the thong, the tiny triangle of fabric that nestled between her buttocks and folds; she pulled it down her thighs with a deliberate movement, feeling the weave brush against her swollen clitoris before releasing, leaving her sex completely exposed to the air, her pale, slightly parted labia majora glistening with the residual moisture from the river and her sweat.

Naked, completely naked for the first time since waking up in this green hell, Susan felt a vulnerability so intense it stole her breath. The air in the room caressed every inch of her skin: her heavy breasts swaying slightly with each breath, her pink nipples hardening until they ached, her flat stomach contracting, her smooth mons pubis glistening in the hologram's bluish light, her sensitive inner thighs rubbing together with every step. She gathered her clothes—the ripped jumpsuit, the bra, the thong—and carried them to the washing machine, which, miraculously, was still working thanks to the reactor. With trembling hands, she put them inside, added the powdery detergent she found in a cupboard, and pressed the button for the full cycle: wash and dry. The machine's hum was a comforting, almost domestic sound, an echo of a normal life that no longer existed.

While she waited, she sat on the cold floor, her knees drawn up to her chest, her breasts pressed against her thighs, her blonde hair falling like a curtain over her face. The nakedness was absolute, humiliating and liberating at the same time: there was nothing between her and the world now, only her skin and the air heavy with dark promises.

When the washing machine finished, she took out the clean, dry clothes, but didn't get dressed yet. She was too exhausted. She found the old mattress, dragged it to the center of the main room—near Roberta, near the blue light—and collapsed onto it naked. The rough fabric brushed against her back, her buttocks, the inside of her thighs, sending little shocks that she ignored. Sleep came quickly, deep, restorative.

When she woke up several hours later, the light outside was a deep twilight, almost night. The reactor hummed steadily. Roberta floated serenely. Susan sat up slowly, still naked, her skin prickling in the fresh air, her breasts swaying freely, her nipples hard, her sex exposed to the air as she stretched with a low moan. She dressed in the clean jumpsuit—though it was still torn, at least it was dry—and the white bra and thong, feeling the clean fabric brush against her sensitive skin in an almost erotic way.

That's when she saw it.

On a dusty side table, half-hidden beneath a torn folder, sat a digital frame that the reactor had partially reactivated. The screen flickered faintly, displaying a still photograph: a seven-year-old boy, his black hair as messy as Reed's, his eyes bright and mischievous, and a girl of the same age—twins, perhaps—with platinum blonde hair like hers, unruly strands framing a wide, confident smile. They looked so much like what could have been that her breath caught in her throat.

She approached with slow steps, her heart racing, taking the frame in slightly trembling hands, wiping the dust off with her thumb. The boy had Reed's square jaw, the girl her own delicate nose. They were… perfect.

"Roberta…" he whispered, his voice husky. "Who are they?"

The hologram gently turned toward her, the digital smile softening.

"They're your children, Miss Storm." Franklin Richards and Valeria Richards. Seven-year-old twins at the time. The photo was taken a few months ago.

The frame trembled in her hands. She pressed it against her bare chest beneath the open jumpsuit, as if she could suck those children in through the cold glass. The shock was visceral: a sudden heat in her gut, tears welling up unbidden, a stifled sob escaping her throat. She already knew this Roberta wasn't hers, but this… this was cosmic cruelty.

Back home, she and Reed had talked about children many times. Long nights, bodies intertwined, whispering names as he traced slow circles on her flat stomach. “Someday,” they had promised. But Galactus came first. And now that future was dead.

The irony struck her like a burning whip: while in another reality she had been a mother, carried twins in her womb, given birth to them, and raised them… here she was being hunted by a horde of green savages who wanted exactly the same thing, but in the most brutal and degrading way possible. To impregnate her. To fill her with thick seed again and again until her belly swelled not with love, but with tribal conquest.

The thought made her tremble all over, a treacherous and shameful heat building between her thighs as tears fell onto the frame, onto the smiling faces of Franklin and Valeria that would never be hers.