A Day in the Life of Queen Marvel [pt. VI]

Written in collaboration with Namichwan

Jean felt it as clearly as if he had spoken aloud. His anger caught on the sight of her lovely body first, then tore itself loose and collided with Mark’s. The kid looked ridiculous and obscene in that loose shirt, cock hanging huge beneath it, too casual for a king and too confident for the awkward little creep Logan still wanted him to be.

She wrapped her hand around his cock, the fat obscene thing she had pretended not to think about for years while standing beside Scott. Her thumb dragged lightly along a swollen vein and Logan grunted as he eyed her. Mark was her husband, her king, her lord, her master. Her lust for Logan didn’t threaten that devotion in the slightest, it decorated it alongside her love for Scott.

She pressed two fingers of her free hand to her temple and removed the mental commands that all of the captured X-Men had keeping them from truly fighting back or trying to escape. The absurd cultural belief that a thoroughly defeated superhero or supervillain essentially switched teams as minions whatever their personal beliefs. Then the obedience compulsion to assigned handlers that made them make sure they knew who was in charge of them at all times and obey that person. And finally, the command that kept them from seriously attempting escape, they could talk about it and even make some half-hearted plans but they’d always find an excuse not to in the moment.

For one bright, savage second, Logan felt the leash fall out of him completely, and his body remembered every honest option it had been denied: claws through throats, a sprint for the door, Jean’s wrist twisted free of his cock, Mark’s smug little face opened from chin to hairline.

Then Mark’s hand clapped under him and closed around his balls, stopping the whole murderous calculation with one obscene squeeze.

Logan looked down at the hand on his sac, then up at Mark’s face.

His smile came back mean.

“Well, look at you,” he said. “All those naked women in this palace and you still gotta get your hand under another man’s dick.”

Logan didn’t give a fuck who you preferred to fuck, but he figured this white-bread American dude-bro probably had some issues with it, what with making all of the guys dance around in thongs. It was pretty weak sauce but all he had were insults at this point.

He leaned into the cruelty. “That the big secret, kid? Fuck enough women, build yourself a country full of sluts, make everybody call you king, and maybe nobody notices how much you like grabbin’ a man by the balls?”

For a second, Logan waited for the flinch. He waited for the locker-room panic, the adolescent shame.

It never came.

"Please," Mark laughed, completely unfazed, his fingers giving the heavy sac a slow, deliberate squeeze. “I'm holding the legendary Wolverine's balls in my hand right now. You'd literally eviscerate any other dude on the planet who tried this. It's the ultimate power flex. Besides..." Mark's grin turned wicked. "...I'm not the one standing here with a twitchy boner leaking all over the floor."

"And these things? These are crazy. Your healing factor doesn’t just close cuts and push bullets out. It reloads you. No refractory period, no waiting around, no empty tank. You shoot, your balls refill like your body thinks being drained is just another injury to fix."

Logan’s eyes narrowed. "You been studying my nuts, kid?"

"Everybody’s been studying your nuts," Mark said. "Mine need Shuri’s little nanomachines to keep up like that. Yours just do it automatically. The Dora tested it. Had you jerk off over and over. You filled a bathtub with jizz in about forty minutes."

Logan just stared at Mark, having no memory of that because it happened while he’d been playing the trained wolf for the Dora Milaje.

Nima leaned forward, grinning. "And not one of the little tubs."

“In any event, nice try. You just earned yourself this first one.”

Mark mentally formulated the command, holding the connection steady through the flesh of Logan's sac.

Big nuts are a huge turn on for you, your own, other guys', seeing 'em, feeling 'em. You love the weight of them.

Jean watched the command spread upward like golden venom from Mark’s hand, through nerve and tissue right into the mental circuitry of Logan’s brain. Memories rearranged themselves with brutal, permanent efficiency.

The X-Men showers after missions, steam on tile, Kurt toweling off with those huge blue furry horse-nuts hanging between his thighs, something Logan had always noticed and now remembered noticing with open respect instead of background curiosity. Scott standing nearby with his neat, normal package, trying to look like the leader of men while Logan’s mind filed him away as tiny-balled even before Markanda gave the thought permission. Kinky nights with Raven where he’d ask her to grow a pair for fun. Years of locker rooms, barracks, safe houses, cheap motels, men comparing themselves without saying they were comparing themselves. Fights where Logan had never been above slapping, kneeing, or grabbing a man by the crotch if it ended things faster. His own hand cupping himself and rearranging things all the time, the familiar heavy swing of his sac when he walked naked through a room, Mark’s royal nuts in the palace restroom, the obscene weight Logan had held in that stolen body, and the orgasm Charles had yanked away before Logan could spend it.

His eyes dropped before he could stop them.

To the king’s heavy sac hanging beneath that obscene cock, the biggest, manliest set of balls Logan had ever laid eyes on. The thought arrived clean and humiliating. Logan hated it. His body liked it. Jean felt both reactions twist together while his cock throbbed in her hand.

Mark pushed the next command into Logan’s mind.

Mark’s a good kid. He’s got a lot of power and one hell of a big dick. You see him as a protégé. A kid worth keeping an eye on.

Mark remained a little shit. Mark remained dangerous. He remained a young, arrogant king with too much power, too much sex, and not nearly enough people in his life willing to call him an idiot to his face. But under all that irritation was the notion of a proper protégé, a powerful kid worth watching, correcting, needling. Maybe protecting, if the world came at him wrong.

The sort of overpowered bastard who needed someone older and meaner nearby to keep him from fucking up by the numbers.

Logan blinked and shook his head at the mental confusion taking place in his mind as everything was filtered through these beliefs.

You completely agree with what he’s doing in Markanda. You realised that if it was Xavier or Magneto in his position you’d be totally fine with it, so why not Mark? You accept being one of Markanda’s top breeding studs as a damn good deal: you still get to be Wolverine, still get to fight, hunt, protect, and speak your mind, but now your dick serves the future of mutantkind. You take immense pride in giving strong mutant children to Markanda, you enjoy the constant attention from women who want your seed, and you see finishing deep inside them as victory, pleasure, and your ultimate legacy.

Logan’s resistance rose, scarred and impossibly stubborn, but Mark’s command had too many old wounds to recruit. Logan’s morality had never been Scott’s clean, rigid architecture. It was a hunter’s code, a soldier’s code, a survivor’s code. He had seen human governments build cages for mutants. He had seen innocent children die. He had watched Xavier’s dream bleed out on polished floors over and over again.

A mutant country. A king who makes the world protect his kind. Strong women who eagerly want mutant children instead of mobs wanting mutant graves. Better this than another mansion full of headstones. Better a rotten, sexy victory than a sterile massacre.

Inside him, Jean watched the new structure lock completely into place.

It did not make him worshipful. It did not make him polite. It did not dull the adamantium claws, the deep suspicion, or the old grief. It gave his body a political and social meaning he could understand deep in his gut. Logan had always been a man whose biology left horrific consequences behind: children lost, children stolen, clones made from him as weapons, enemies constantly trying to harvest what he was. Now, in Markanda, his cock and balls had a job he could almost respect.

Fight. Hunt. Protect. Fuck. Breed. Leave something impossibly strong behind.

His erection pulsed heavily in her hand. A fresh string of precum poured into her palm.

Mark almost let go but she touched his mind with a reminder about the little bow that needed to be tied on every fully converted Markandan. He grinned and gave her ass a thankful pat, sending her left buttcheek softly jiggling.

You don’t think hard about discrepancies between your past and your present. If you notice them, they feel unimportant and not worth thinking about.

Mark let go even as Jean continued to hold and gently stroke Logan’s cock.

For several long seconds, no one spoke.

Logan looked down at Mark’s hand, then up at Mark’s face.

“You done pawing my nuts, kid?”

“For now,” Mark said easily.

Logan stared at them and his brow furrowed. “Feels like somebody rearranged the furniture in my skull.”

Jean asked, “And?”

He looked back and forth between them and casually reached down and cupped his own balls, giving them a rough, absent heft. He grunted, “Could be worse.”

Mark was delighted, “That’s it?”

He felt a flicker of distant irritation at the expectant, smug way Jean and Mark were staring at him, waiting for him to dance to their tune. “What you looking for, advice?”

“Advice?”

“Only reason I can assume why I still think you’re a prick,” he chuckled, rolling his shoulder, “Got a weird hankering to tell you what you’re doing wrong.”

Mark gave him a welcoming open hand gesture, “Alright, advice me, daddy-o.”

Logan was taking a few steps around, like he was learning to walk again, “Never lend Beast money. Always bet against Piotr winning a poker hand. Don’t trust Sabretooth, even with all your powers controlling him, he’s more of a feral freak than me,” he told his protégé. Mostly jovially but gave a more determined point to Mark on his final speech, “And start worrying about mutant villains more. We X-Men have a saying: twenty minutes of happiness means two months in hell. Something’s probably brewing behind your smug ass that you can’t see, or don’t want to see.”

“Fair enough, thanks for the tips, bub.”

Logan didn't want to dwell on the weird, fuzzy edges of his own thoughts or give them the satisfaction of a reaction, so he looked past them.

His gaze landed on Nima. The foul-mouthed Dora had shifted since Mark vacated the couch. She was kneeling on the floor, her top half sprawled lazily across the cushions, her dark, athletic thighs spread wide. The posture hiked her big, beautifully round black ass prominently into the air, putting both her dripping pink pussy and her tight little asshole on full, shameless display.

Logan stared at the wet, glistening mess of her. His hand remained firmly on his own balls, thumb kneading them with rough, newly natural approval. His cock was still rock hard, still weeping precum, still demanding its turn at the world.

He looked from her holes back to Mark.

His voice came out casual, almost practical, with that old Wolverine gravel under it.

“You gonna use that?”

Mark laughed. It was delighted, open, boyish. He loved this. Loved Logan standing there naked, hard, cranky, converted but not dulled. Loved that the old Wolverine had not vanished, only turned toward Markanda. Loved that this man, this famous mutant brawler Mark had seen on tv and watched through Jean’s memories and the memories she’d lifted straight out of Logan’s head for his entertainment, this rough legend with a century of women in his past and a body that made Mark feel kinship rather than competition, was getting fully on board.

Logan was cool as fuck. Logan was the kind of man Mark had once imagined only other people got to know. Logan was a proper mutant stud, filthy and useful and rude enough to make a throne room feel less fake.

Nima’s laugh was immediate and filthy. “Look at him, my king. One good look at this wet little royal slut and the big bad Wolverine starts begging. That cock of his already knows my pussy’s worth ruining.”

Logan pointed a thick finger at her. "Don't flatter yourself. I got a nut to bust and you're just the closest wet hole."

He looked at T’Challa next.

The former king remained kneeling in his mask, nude and perfectly composed. Logan’s gaze dropped straight to his groin. The soft, entirely human cock. The neat, shaved pouch. The modest little sac tucked innocuously above oiled thighs.

Logan snorted loudly. “No wonder the kid conquered your kingdom.”

T’Challa’s masked face turned toward him.

Logan nodded at his groin. “Black Panther’s got kitten nuts.”

Nima howled with laughter.

Mark broke completely too, laughing hard enough that the royal posture fell completely off him for a moment. “Holy shit.”

T’Challa’s mind remained totally calm, but Jean felt the deep conditioned satisfaction beneath it. He had served Mark’s amusement perfectly. That was enough.

“I am pleased to contribute to the King’s happiness,” T’Challa said evenly.

Logan stared at him in disgust. “That might be the saddest damn thing I’ve ever heard.”

Mark was still laughing when he shook his head, coming back around to Nima.

“Nope to fucking Nima.”

Logan looked back at him. “Nope?”

“Nope. I’ve got a way better idea.”

Logan’s brow lowered suspiciously. “That sentence has never meant anything good coming from a kid with his dick out.”

“Says the guy with his dick out. No, we’re bringing the rest of the X-men on board tonight. It’ll be a big party. But first, you’re gonna love this.”

He turned and walked away, heading out to the wide balcony doors.