Scarlet Wars: Series Finale (Part 1: Revelations and Power Ups)

Written in collaboration with Namichwan

When Vision came back to himself he was lying on very soft grass.

Grass that was starkly different from the natural field he’d encountered the military and intelligence agency personnel upon previously. It was too even, too perfect. A manicured green carpet.

He pushed himself up, blinking away red sparks in his vision, and found that the agents and soldiers as well as the forward operating base beyond was gone.

In its place, a field of tents glowed like lanterns under the night sky.

They were not the hard shell temporary fabs that he’d detected before. They were tall and silk, heavy canvas dyed deep wine and midnight blue, ropes trimmed with gold tassels. Rich fabrics billowed in the breeze, their inner walls lined with flickering candlelight. Strings of warm bulbs crossed the open spaces overhead like low stars.

The people had changed too.

The agents and techs and soldiers that had surrounded him were still here in number, but there was not a uniform in sight. Fully nude with masks, instead. Ornate carnival masks, some feathered, some smooth and blank, all covering eyes and noses and leaving mouths bare.

And the mouths were busy.

Nearest to Vision, a cluster of masked men and women stood in a loose ring around a couple on a low carpet laid out upon the grass. The couple were naked as everyone else, bodies slick with sweat, moving with a crude, hungry rhythm that made the carpet bunch under their knees. The watchers did not touch, did not speak. They simply stood, hands clasped behind their backs or folded at their fronts, heads tilted slightly as if appraising a piece of performance art instead of two human beings grinding together.

Somewhere a violin played a precise, haunting line over a slow drumbeat that thumped in time with the bodies on the carpet.

Vision staggered to his feet.

Further out, toward what had been the nearest temporary structure of the base, a larger circle had formed. A dozen women knelt in the grass, all bare, backs straight, hair coiled or loose down their shoulders. Masks covered their faces in delicate whites and golds. In the center stood a tall robed figure swathed in dark silk, hood up, face hidden behind a glossy, expressionless mask.

The robed figure raised a hand and, one by one, the kneeling women leaned toward their neighbor and mimed a kiss, lips brushing just above skin, a slow silent relay of intimacy around the circle. Each woman received and passed it on with reverent care, like a blessing carried by the mouth alone. When the invisible kiss reached the last kneeling body it was lifted with two hands and held up to the robed figure, as if offering an unseen thing.

Height: 1.78 meters. Estimated mass: 80.2 kilograms. Characteristic forward cant to the shoulders, slight asymmetry in the left knee, identical to S.H.I.E.L.D. medical file scans.

PROBABILITY IDENTITY: COULSON, PHILIP J.- 99.87%

Vision spun up a hypothesis: Authority figures may be exempt from enforced exhibitionism. Possible hierarchy preserved in new status quo.

To test it, he widened his scan and searched specifically for Director Tyler Hayward.

He located him in 0.41 seconds, twenty-three meters away.

Hypothesis: disproved.

Hayward was on his hands and knees in the grass, completely nude, pale ass presented and trembling. A full-head black leather hood encased his skull, laced tight at the neck and fitted with tiny nostril holes and a zippered mouth: database match, 100%, to “gimp mask, standard fetish variant.”

Behind him stood a lithe, compact figure. She was mostly hidden by the white nurse-cap domino mask the Hex had given her, red cross emblazoned on it. At her hips rode a leather harness and from it jutted an exactly 33.02-centimeter prosthetic phallus, flesh-tone and perfectly rigid, the blunt, glossy tip poised between Hayward’s clenched buttocks, angled for imminent anal penetration as the Director whimpered.

Beyond them, Vision saw more groups.

Two masked men standing side by side, nude and utterly still, while a woman lay on a padded bench between them, her hips rolling slow and lazy. Another cluster seated on ornate folding chairs, beads and chains resting on their bare chests, watching a trio on the grass who were knotted together in a tangle of limbs and low moans. No one clapped. No one cheered. This was not drunken revelry. It was a ceremony.

Nude servants moved among them, distinguishable only because they wore simpler masks and carried silver trays. On the trays sat crystal flutes of champagne, dark wine, bowls of strawberries, small cakes dusted in powdered sugar. A few servants knelt beside carpets with long-necked glass bottles, refilling drinks, offering polished cigarette cases and delicate pipes. Their movements were practiced, graceful, as if this had always been their job.

“Wanda,” Vision whispered.

His voice disappeared under the music and the quiet, wet sounds of bodies rubbing bodies. None of the masked figures looked at him. It was as if he was not part of the script yet.

He felt the strange television unreality of it crawling along his synthetic nerves, every tableau framed like a perfectly blocked shot from some decadent late-night drama, every mask and choreographed moan humming with the same signature red static as his wife’s power, as if Wanda had reached into the world and rewritten it into yet another of her own perverse little stories.

He turned in a slow circle, trying to find the edge, the seam, any hint of a normal night sky beyond the glow. Instead he saw more tableaux, each with that same cold choreography.

Vision’s core hummed with alarm.

These were his would-be rescuers, his potential allies, rewritten as faceless participants in a ritual they had not consented to. Their fear had been smothered under composure, their confusion wrapped in silk and ceremony.

Vision **** his attention away, scanning desperately for a familiar anchor, anything that felt like his world.

He found Darcy Lewis. And with her, Melinda May.

Darcy had been near the outer vehicles last he remembered, arguing with an agent about helping him. Their eyes had met and he’d felt some sense of a connection between them. She had been in layers of clothes and a puffy jacket, hair in a messy hat, glasses slipping down her nose.

She wore nothing now.

Standing beside her, rigid and statuesque, was Agent Melinda May. The "Cavalry" had been stripped of her clothes, stripped of everything. She stood nude, her body lean and hard, her face covered by a simple, featureless domino mask. Her hands were clasped before her in the stance of a disciplined servant, but her chest bore a cruel modification.

Steel barbells pierced both her nipples. The metal rods glinted in the lantern light, pulling the flesh taut, marking her not as an agent, but as property. She held a leather leash.

The leash led down to Darcy Lewis.

Darcy knelt at May's feet. She was naked, her pale skin stark against the dark grass. A heavy leather collar encircled her neck, connecting her to the silent agent above. Her hair was wild, spilling over her shoulders, but it was her chest that drew the eye with horrifying immediacy.

Darcy’s huge, heavy natural breasts hung low, swaying with a hypnotic rhythm as she breathed. But dragging them down further were heavy, brass cowbells.

The metal bells were suspended from thick rings pierced directly through her nipples. They were not small ornaments; they were substantial, heavy instruments that dragged the sensitive flesh downward, elongating her breasts. Every time Darcy shifted her weight or took a deep breath, the bells gave a dull, heavy clank-clank against each other or her ribs.

It was a sound of ownership. Of livestock.

Her mouth was uncovered. It was open just slightly, lips parted, breathing slow and deep like someone hovering on the edge of sleep or something far more intimate. Her eyes behind the mask were glassy when they flicked toward him, then past him, as if he were a detail she could not quite focus on.

Vision felt an ugly twist in his gut.

“Darcy,” he said, stepping closer.

She did not answer. The cowbells clanged softly against her torso as she shifted, a discordant note in the night air.

Her gaze slid across him and fixed instead on a nearby carpet where another pair of bodies writhed. Melinda May did not move, did not acknowledge him, simply holding the leash with the terrifying stillness of a statue.

This is wrong.

The thought came through the static in his skull like a clear tone.

These people are not performing. They are being performed through.

Vision looked around again with that in mind and saw the puppet strings everywhere. The way the masked elites held themselves too perfectly composed, too unconcerned by their own nakedness. The way the servants’ faces beneath their masks were slack at the mouth, eyes unfocused unless directly addressed.

Wanda, he thought, What have you done?

Vision approached the pair.

Darcy knelt: spine bowed in a slow, aching arch, the collar tight against her throat. Her big, heavy breasts hung low, the brass cowbells chiming a low, dull note with every inhale. The metal pulled her nipples into elongated points of stress, forcing her to move with a sluggish, heavy deliberation to avoid pain.

She looked like a woman sculpted to invite touch, and weighted to ensure she couldn't escape it.

He stepped closer.

“Darcy… Darcy Lewis. Agent May. Can you hear me?”

Melinda May’s head did not turn. The barbells through her nipples caught the light, steel against skin. She remained a perfect, silent sentinel.

Darcy’s eyes tracked him, unfocused for a beat… then slid right past his face.

Instead she parted her lips and simply held her mouth open. A still, waiting O. No greeting. No recognition. Not even curiosity. It was a pose, a ritual offering he’d seen elsewhere across this field of naked humans and gilded tents. A mouth presented, patient and mindless, as if waiting for the next body to use it.

He took another step. “Darcy, it’s me. Vision. We locked eyes. There was an unspoken understanding-”

Nothing.

No shift in her breathing. No flicker behind the mask. Her jaw remained open, letting her tongue rest low and flat like she was waiting to receive something. The chain creaked when she adjusted her hips, the weight of her breasts swaying softly and the cowbells giving a faint, mocking jingle.

“Darcy, please,” he tried again, kneeling now. “You’re trapped. This isn’t you.”

This time her shoulders twitched.
A tiny break in her trance.
Then her head tilted.
The impassive stillness cracked into something colder, annoyance. Sharp annoyance, as though his voice were an unwelcome buzzing fly in her ear.

She exhaled through her nose, slow and irritated, then rolled her eyes in a gesture that was unmistakably Darcy Lewis… stripped of humor, stripped of everything but impatience.
Then her jaw snapped shut.
Her face sharpened.
She kept her eyes locked on him… and brought her fist up toward her face.
A lazy, obscene gesture.

She pumped her closed hand back and forth in a slow stroke, holding it at the level of her lips. Her mouth opened again, wider this time, tongue pushing forward to meet the phantom thrust of her fist. Then she rolled her cheek outward and pressed her tongue against the inside of it, creating a bulge as she worked her fist like she was jerking off an invisible cock into her own mouth.

Her gaze stayed flat. Bored. Irritated.
Her fist pumped harder. The tongue in her cheek bulged with every imaginary thrust. Her lips formed a sloppy kiss around air.
She was silently telling him exactly what she thought he should be doing instead of talking.

“I’m afraid I have not the tools to do such a penile feat, Darcy Lewis,” Vision explained with a dry yet somewhat somber tone, “But I believe I have now experienced the differences between the world inside Wanda’s Westview, and that of the ‘outside’ as it were. A calculation that… perhaps I can help correct.”

Darcy just remained staring. Even as the strangely coloured man reached his hands forwards. Even as his fingers began probing insde her skull. Even as reality began to-

“GUH! FUCK!” She exclaimed loudly, falling backwards onto her round posterior, “Woahly fuck! What the fuck?! Where the fuck am I?!”

“Cold cold cold- why is everything-” She blinked down at herself: completely bare, legs folded under her, wrists chained behind her back so she couldn’t cover anything. Her big soft breasts were just… there, resting against her knees, very much not covered or supported by anything at all.

She made a strangled noise and hunched her shoulders, turning slightly to hide her body a bit, sending her pendulous mammaries jiggling and swaying wildly.

“Cool. Coolcool. Cool, Vision? Is this a sex dream? Did I eat the wrong Pop-Tart? Why am I chained to-” she cocked her head to the side and took in Melinda May’s nude form standing there, “Rarr Agent May…”

She looked past the impassive Asian woman to the rest of the field, her mouth hanging open as she took in the lanterns, tents, and mask-faced elites standing around like art critics while similarly nude and masked people rutted on carpets.

“Okay so, the Eyes Wide Shut roboot is not subtle.” she muttered, “The budget’s good, I’ll give Wanda that.”

Vision gave a small sigh of relief, “It is good to hear your voice, Agent Lew…”

He crumpled so suddenly that he didn’t even realise it was happening. Kneeling in pain on the floor, he clutched at his head with a wincing pain he’d never really felt before.

“H-hey, are you alright?” asked Darcy, quickly standing up to help him, “Uhm… was it you who, you know, ‘freed’ me just now?”

“C-correct… though I fear that doing so took more out of me then I realised,” said Vision, panting in winced pain as he stood back on two feet again.

“Suppose that means you can’t change… all of ‘this’ then, huh?” asked Darcy, gesturing to the field of fornication in front of them. “ACK!”

All of a sudden, Darcy was pulled downwards again by the neck. An angry Melinda May forcing the scientist to kneel with little care of the breathing that Darcy required to live, “Back down, Pet. I have not given you permission to stand.”

Vision was quick to assist, using a tiny laser from his forehead to cut the leash that tied the two women together. Melinda lashed out, whipping out a riding crop to slap it across Vision’s cheek for disobeying her. The sexual item did nothing but phase through his body, a banal look upon his face as he tried to figure out a way to cease this interaction. “Darcy Lewis has revoked her consent for this act. Find another woman to become your pet.”

Melinda paused, looking down briefly at the scared scientist before simply walking away. Silently acknowledging the woman’s wishes to revoke consent, despite the mind controlled irony.

Darcy stood again, taking off her mask and letting it drop as she rubbed her neck, “Thanks… another few seconds of that and I think that was going to awaken a new fetish in me.”

She glanced at him, “So. You yanked me out of whatever brainwashing porn script I was stuck in. Thanks for that too. Do I want to know what I was just doing?”

“Ah. Encouraging me to engage in fellatio in point of fact.”

“Oof. Well, actually. If you still have that giant dong situation Wanda stapled onto you, I might actually be up for a ‘when in Rome’ moment after we de-cultify everybody…”

“Agent Lewis, please. I need to know many more facts and I believe you have the answers I seek…” said Vision, guiding the girl away from the lavish masked party with a sad look on his face.

“Sure, Vision. You saved me, I can tell you anything you wanna know. Shoot.”

“I suppose the most pertinent question is how much of all of this… is my fault?”

It had taken them most of the night to regroup, but Monica and America were now safely at a nearby SWORD checkpoint–thankfully positioned far enough away from the Hex for just such an inevitability. The few soldiers that had managed to escape the Hex’s expansion were huddled here. Some were trying to contact those that had been left inside or higher level superiors for backup, others were just shaken by the friends they’d had to abandon.

Monica was more focused on saving those inside. And she believed America was the key to that, if only they could figure out how to get her through the barrier.

As soon as the two landed she began organising the last members of their tiny resistance into figuring out how to get America inside. Analysing the amazonian from every angle to try and figure out why she was stuck outside the Hex.

She wasn’t the only thing rejected by Wanda. Other infiltration attempts had been wholesale shunted away. Managing to send an SUV flying like a discarded toy truck. But usually people were able to get in, they were just instantly mind controlled upon entry.

It took them until sunrise to finally come up with some semblance of a plan, though it was still met with heavy resistance.

“Fuck!” Monica yelled, throwing a pen through the conveniently placed star portal they’d been using for testing. The pen simply floated in place against the invisible Hex wall before getting fired backwards at the same velocity Monica had thrown it. “Why does it keep rejecting you?!”

“Maybe it’s racist,” suggested Jimmy Woo, yawning after such a long night of science.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” America agreed, crunching down on a bag of chips.

“Maybe we should go get some white heroes then,” said a cold Staff Sergeant Webb, “Why don’t you use your portal to summon Agent Barnes or Barton?”

America had good reason to not go sending non-mind controlled powered individuals towards Mark. She wouldn’t tell Webb that though, instead just chewing her chips loudly. “Don’t wanna. Can’t give into racist magic.”

“Are you even really here to help?”

“She saved me, that’s enough for now,” said Monica, “Wanda doesn’t want her inside, that makes me want to defy her bullshit, doesn’t it for you?”

“It doesn’t change the fact that it’s impossible.”

Jimmy wiped his face after downing his final glug of his thirteenth cup of coffee, “Cards on the table, Monica… We do have one item that could work… but…”

He trailed off, looking around at the scowl of Webb trying to get him to shut his shit up.

“What? What is it?” asked Monica.

Ignoring Webb’s pressure, Jimmy explained, “It’s a suit.”

“It’s a prototype,” Webb corrected, “and even if it wasn't, we should wait until we have more copies of the suit so we can rescue Coulson or Hayward. It's risky to trust it to an outsider. If this fails, we lose our only chance to get safely into the Hex.”

“This suit is designed specifically to reject Wanda’s magical frequency,” explained Jimmy, “Think of it like an astronaut spacesuit. It should stop you from climatising and getting controlled by the Hex. Maybe it could also help America get inside?”

“Or we could actually follow my idea,” said America.

Monica sighed, squeezing the bridge of her nose, “I’m not letting you push someone ahead of you into the Hex, America.”

“Not someone. You.”

The taller woman approached her fast enough to make Monica flinch, not expecting America to walk up and cup a hearty hand of her meat.

“Hm?! N-now’s not the time!”

“I heard about this thing phasing through your pants. It’s special.” America grinned, continuing to fondle her with little care for Monica’s groans, “Got a bit of Wanda, Mark, and Monica all wrapped up into one package. If anything’s gonna penetrate a big enough hole for me to actually get through, it’s this beast in your pants.”

“I… I…”

“No, anyone but her,” said Webb, trying to put herself between Monica and America. “I’ll wear the suit, you can push me through. Whatever.”

“Do you have phantom junk?”

“No, but-”

America clicked her tongue dismissively, “Has to be her.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yeah it does.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Sergeant, it’s okay,” said Monica, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder, “This isn’t an awful plan. I’ll use the suit, so if America still can’t get inside following me then at least I’m likely to make it inside. We have to get people out, and we can’t do that from out here.”

Webb growled in frustration, knowing she was losing her chance to talk the stubborn captain down from this idea. “Monica, every time you enter the Hex your molecules change. It’s a phasing penis this time, but what’s next? This could have massive lasting consequences for you. If you enter the Hex again… it could be permanent this time.”

Monica looked through the portal again. She thought about all the people inside the Hex still trapped. Innocents. Families caught in a single moment of grief, whose lives would be forever changed.

Her mom raised her to always do the right thing. No matter what may happen to her.

“I think I can live with that.”

Thirty minutes later, Monica was a very annoyed, very horny payload being princess-carried straight toward a reality-warping wall by a smug dimension-hopping lesbian.

Was it the world that went crazy or was it her?

Monica had been stomping in this bulky suit towards Woo’s waiting SUV for transportation back to the Hex when she was scooped clean off her feet, the world dropping out from under her as America kicked off the ground and shot upward, “Driving’s for tiny paper people, Mon! Let’s go save Mark!”

There hadn’t been much point in arguing with the ebullient sociopathic Latina but Monica hated being lugged around like a sack of potatoes in this stuffy suit. Its only saving grace being that it served as a check on the girl’s ever wandering hands.

It rankled, being hauled like cargo, but some traitorous part of her couldn’t stop cataloguing the details anyway: the clean weightlessness in her gut when America banked, the way the ground fell obediently away, the simple choice to go up and then being up. No cockpit, no engines, no countdown… just deciding you weren’t earthbound and having the sky agree with you.

Why couldn’t she be Enhanced with that power?

Soon enough Monica stood at the edge of the Hex with America floating at her side, looking completely out of place in her painted on unzipped daisy-dukes and tiny jean jacket and crop-top next to Monica’s bulky padded sex-less ‘anti-magic’ suit.

“Yes, fine, we’re here, America.” grumbled Monica, “Now remember, this may not work for you. I’m going to enter the Hex, with or without your hand grabbing my back.”

America floated down, placing both her palms on Monica’s ample suit while readying herself for pain, “It’s fine, Futa Puta. I just… I think Mark’s in trouble and I have to try.”

“Mm,” Monica hummed, feeling the intense energy of the Hex so close even through her suit, “And when you find him, once we figure out how to take down Wanda… I want you to get the hell away from this town.” She could feel America tense up, surprised by the sudden animosity after a night of working together, “I still don’t trust you, America. From what you’ve said–from what I’ve experienced inside the TV show–Mark’s influence on you, me, Wanda, and this whole town isn’t normal. Our goals align now, but I’m just using your strength to save what I can. Got it?”

There was a moment of silence. A moment where–under all the grandstanding–Monica wondered if pissing off the woman that could rip her in two was wise. But after that moment came words, “Understood, Monica,” said America, leaning in to whisper into Monica’s ear, “Let’s see if your body can handle what you’re meant to be.”

Monica’s doubts felt that one. Fear and unknowing were inches in front of her, this wall of magic could rip her apart for all she knew.

It was redder than she remembered, originally just a shimmer in the universe now looked like a protective cocoon. Wanda’s magic was morphing, stretching to its limits to contain all that Monica wanted to save. Her fingers tingled against the surface. The warnings of Jimmy and Webb were still there in the back of her mind as she watched the magic ripple gently against her touch.

She let herself take one last breath before taking the plunge.

“AHHH!”

Her hands felt like they were getting burned by reality itself. Pushing back against her presence, locking her away from the inside of the Hex.

“Monica! You know what you need to use!”

She did.

Monica thought about Darcy and her huge sexy tits. She thought about the tall curvy Latina behind her. Of Dottie, of Melinda, of Wanda… anyone and everyone she could that had given her a boner in recent memory. It was certainly working, her testicles churning as her penis thickened and pushed hard against the inside of her anti-magic suit.

But it wasn’t enough. Whatever power resided in her white flesh wasn’t enough to break through her pants yet, let alone the Hex.

She had to find some inspiration to fully push through…

A memory from her childhood bubbled to the surface. A blonde woman floating just above her. One that had saved her mom and promised to return… yet never did. Even though it turned out she was just living free in space, never aging nor caring of those that she left behind. Monica’s mom dying alone in the blip because a certain blonde couldn’t come back and help stop Thanos when the universe needed her. A woman that had plagued her taste in women for years. All those white blonde girls that had choked on Monica’s big black dick, or wailed for her to pound them harder… all with the mental image of fucking Carol Davners until she was nothing but a broken trollop licking Monica like a whore.

That was the kind of drive she needed.

Her dick remembered before she did.

The thought of Carol hit like a match to a gas line. Not just the old hurt, not just the rage, but the years of half-suppressed fantasies she had poured into every tall blonde she had railed in Carol’s place. Monica felt the response roll through her body, a deep, automatic surge, her cock thickening inside the suit with a kind of grim, familiar inevitability.

“Yeah,” she muttered under her breath. “That’ll do it.”

The thing was, this part was almost routine now. The humiliating, surreal stuff had been back in the command bay, when her anatomy had first decided to start phasing on its own. Since then, she had had time to experiment with Darcy. To learn the angles.

It turned out there were upsides to being a walking, talking density anomaly with a well hung package.

Strapping herself down under slacks and tactical gear had always been an exercise in compromise; too tight and she went numb, too loose and she printed through everything. Now, when it got unbearable, she just… stopped being there. A tiny flick of intent and her dick and balls slid right through whatever she was wearing, weightless, pressure gone.

She’d already discovered that she could do the same thing with urine that she’d managed with semen, which was mortifying and practical all at once. Sit through a three hour briefing, nod at the right slides, let the stream pass intangible through chair and concrete to the dirt below, no bathroom break, no one the wiser. It was obscene how convenient it was.

More than that, far more than that, and one of the reasons why this little venture didn’t seem completely insane was that she could actually walk through walls.

After their smash session in that storage closet, the Darcy’s scientist bonafides had been proven in spades to discover the limits of Monica’s powers. She’d made Monica “run trials” with her pants halfway up: cock through the wall, then seeing if the rest of her would follow. Erect, she could step straight through like it was a curtain. Try to back out? No go. Lead with a hand or a shoulder? Nothing. The universe, apparently, only opened doors if her hard-on went first. Soft, she was just a very embarrassed woman humping a wall. Hard, she was a key.

Now a familiar little mental switch waited for her. Density here, density not here.

“Phase,” she whispered.

Her groin shivered and suddenly her whole cock swung out, clipping through the suit as it stopped caring about fabric. Her nuts had apparently decided there was no reason to stay put either, dropping through the thick pantlegs so that the suit still looked intact, while a big, pendulous shape suddenly occupied the air between Monica’s legs and her inner thighs.

Cool air rushed in where there had been nothing but heat and compression.

She reached down.

The suit glove should have gotten in the way. It was thick, articulated, lined with insulation. Built to hold tools, not touch bare skin.

Her cock passed through it like it wasn’t even there.

Her fingers closed on warm, living flesh, no barrier at all.

Monica stared for a second, then made a small, strangled sound of disbelief. “Are you serious.”

“Problem?” America asked.

Monica rolled her eyes skyward. “My phasing is… selective.”

“Ohhhh,” America said, delighted. “Your powers simp for the Marklet! That tracks.”

“Don’t call it that!” She hissed, nerves making her babble, “If anything he’s got a plus sized Monicock…”

Her cock was heavy in her grip, erect but not a hundred percent hard. She gave herself a few firm pulls, not coy and not shy. There was no point pretending this was anything but what it was. She needed the mass and she needed the stiffness. The Hex was not going to open for a half measure.

America let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Monica Rambeau, jerking it at a magical border for the fate of the town. This is the horniest firewall breach in history. Keep going, Futa Puta, you’re about to raw-dog an entire reality.”

Monica ignored her and stepped right up to the barrier.

Even through the insulated boots she could feel the line where normal air ended and the Hex’s pressure began. It was like standing on the lip of a storm.

She took a breath, set her feet shoulder-width apart, and focused all the way down.

Her power listened when she gave it very specific instructions. Phasing was not an all-or-nothing thing. She could put it wherever she wanted, if she paid attention. She told that part of her to sit squarely in the thick organ between her thighs, to turn that intangible while the rest of her stayed solid.

Her cockhead hovered millimeters from the dense flowing wall for a moment.

Then she pushed.

There was no impact at all. Her cock slid into the Hex like it was nothing but light and fog. To her eyes, the wall simply swallowed the pale length, as if it had vanished into a hologram.

But the second she was inside, connection slammed into her.

A buzzing rush roared up her spine from the contact point. Every nerve leading out of her pelvis lit. Her breath left her in a shocked grunt and she almost planted her gloves against the field to stop herself from staggering but America chin was on her shoulder, strong body against her back, arms steadying her.

“Alright?” America asked, suddenly a little more serious.

“It feels me,” Monica said, jaw tight. The words came out breathless. “It’s like… being plugged in.”

“You’re ghosted in there, right? What happens if you actually give it something to grab?”

Monica swallowed.

There was only one way to find out.

Gritting her teeth, she began to dial the phasing back. Not all at once. One percentage point at a time, dragging herself toward solid while the Hex clung around the contact point.

The change was immediate and intense.

Monica began to glitch.

Her body outside the dome flickered, as if someone had started yanking channels on an old TV.

For a heartbeat, America saw her as black-and-white Geraldine, hair in a retro updo, body smoothed down to something wholesome and neighborly. The next blink, the color slammed back in with a lurid seventies palette: higher hair, lower neckline, breasts straining against polyester, the clear dick and balls print in her bell-bottoms.

Then Monica was suddenly far more familiar to America with bright colors, big tits, wide hips, and even longer legs. She wore her classic white-and-black costume from America’s universe: a high-cut white leotard with a large black starburst that struggled to contain her bust, long black leggings, and that signature short white cape attached at her wrists. White boots, gloves, and a domino mask framed her face, but the crotch had something new to America. Her leotard had a long, stuffed sleeve of white spandex attached at the crotch and sticking out before her thighs, every inch of her cock outlined against the fabric. Below it, her leotard had a second swollen pouch cradling her balls in a tight, drooping hammock.

Then Monica was back in the bulky S.W.O.R.D. suit. Only now her outline kept stuttering, her solid body going half-transparent and then made entirely of cascading red Hex static, flickered in and out. From America’s perspective it was like the wall had grown a Monica-shaped extension on this side, the ghostly red version still tethered to the barrier by the thick cylinder of her fat cock buried in it while the “real” Monica shimmered around it, already halfway claimed by the same signal she was trying to break.

America was encouraged, this definitely seemed like the way to go. Like she’d found the perfect piece in this fake world to solve this particular game-like puzzle. She held on tighter to Monica keeping her in place so her soon-to-be real bestie and magic key could finish the job. “Got you. Don’t fall into the horny TV, babe. That’s my job! Just open the door!”

Monica barely heard her. The Hex was talking.

Images pressed up against her mind: black-and-white living rooms, laugh tracks, suburban lawns, the false comfort of canned applause. Then that shifted to the hippy compound, flower crowns, bodies tangled on blankets, the phantom taste of Wanda’s orgasms. Geraldine’s borrowed giggle. Geraldine’s fake moans.

The wall tried to slide that persona back over her like a glove. You were softer here. Simpler. Let’s go back to that. Let’s melt.

Her grip tightened.

“No,” she snarled, under her breath.

The Hex didn’t like that.

The field around her cock thickened. Static condensed. The energy stopped feeling like fog and started feeling like flesh made of lightning; it clung, wrapped, gripped. The field cinched down in a pulsing rhythm that was unmistakable: the wall had just turned itself into a tight, greedy sleeve around the part of her it could reach.

“Oh,” America said, sounding equal parts impressed and aroused. “She made an energy pussy. Of course she did. Of course the witchwall is a thirsty bitch. I woulda fingerfucked you earlier if you’d let me, pared cachonda!”

Inside the red static, visible only to Monica’s wired in brain, a shape coalesced.

It was Wanda. A grotesque, hyper-sexualized caricature formed of angry red light. She loomed over Monica’s point of entry, absurdly busty, her massive, translucent energy-tits hanging heavy and threatening in the void. Her face was twisted in a sneer of pure, maternal disdain.

“Mine,” the apparation hissed, her voice vibrating directly into Monica’s cock.

It lunged.

Monica screamed, a choked, **** sound, as the spectral Wanda sank onto the white shaft. It wasn't just energy; it was a perfect simulation of a hot, wet throat swallowing her whole.

“Slurp... Gulp... Suck...”

The sensations were overwhelming. Wanda bobbed her head, taking the entire thirteen inches down her energy-throat, then pulling back to smother the shaft between those massive, heaving tits. She was titfucking Monica’s phasing cock, squeezing the meat between cleavage made of pure magic.

And then the whispers started.

“Look at you,” the busty red ghost sneered, sliding her tits up and down the shaft, milking it with a predatory rhythm. “Who do you think you are, little girl? Trying to wield this?”

Monica’s head fell back, her eyes rolling up into her skull in a humiliated ahegao, tongue lolling out as she panted. Her hips bucked involuntarily, fucking the ghost tits, fucking the energy mouth, completely out of control.

“This isn’t yours,” Wanda whispered, swirling her tongue around the frenulum inside the wall. “This is MARK’S cock. A real man’s cock. Big. White. Heavy. And you?”

The ghost leaned in, her face passing through the barrier to loom right in front of Monica’s head, eyes glowing with malice.

“You’re a little black girl playing dress-up.”

The shame hit Monica harder than the pleasure. Her knees knocked together. She squeezed her ass cheeks tight, **** to stop the inevitable.

“You shouldn’t be sticking this in anything,” the ghost hissed, tightening her spectral cleavage around the glans. “You know your place. You know how you got your rank, don’t you?”

The reality warp twisted the knife. Monica’s memories shuddered and broke.

Jesus, this isn’t even my dick, she thought, teeth gritted, sweat beading on her face, I’m not built for this! I’m not some big white bull, this is some alpha quarterback fuckboy’s cock, this is… fuck, I’m just Monica. I’m a black woman, I’m supposed to be sucking these, not carrying one like a fucking battering ram!

Her breath shuddered as she tried to control it, fighting not to lose the battle before it started, fighting not to just bust like a rookie the second she plugged in. Her thighs were shaking. Her sack, big and glossy, was tight up under her, cum already welling up, the urge to cum so sharp she whimpered aloud.

Suddenly, she wasn't remembering flight school or exams. She was remembering knees on carpet. She was remembering the heavy, musk-scented offices of NASA supervisors and directors, stuffed under desks, head bobbing. She remembered looking up with wide, submissive eyes at a succession of big, fat, white cocks, just like the one currently attached to her body.

“That’s right,” the ghost cooed, reading her rewritten mind. “You sucked your way to the top. You were a good little diversity hire. You opened your mouth and let the corn-fed white boys use you as a jizz-rag, and that’s the only reason they let you fly. You don’t wield the meat, Monica. You serve it.”

“No... nngh... stop!” Monica whimpered, but the memory felt so real. The phantom taste of crusty dickcheese and salt filled her mouth. She felt like a fraud. A pretender.

Her balls, her heavy, low-hanging cumtanks, instantly boiled. This Wanda knew exactly what buttons to push. By making Monica feel small, she triggered the biological panic.

The pressure was catastrophic. She could feel the thick, churning spooge roiling inside her nuts, frantic to get out, rising up the tubes like a tidal wave. It was brimming at the tip, stinging and hot.

She was going to blow. Instantly. Prematurely. Pathetically.

“That’s it,” the ghost cooed, twisting her tits around the shaft, grinding her energy-nipples against the veins. “Spill it. Ruin yourself. Show everyone you can’t handle a man’s weapon. Leak that thick creamy baby-batter you don’t deserve into the wall and run away.”

“I can’t... I can’t hold it!” Monica cried out, tears stinging her eyes.

Thick, ropey strings of precum were already leaking, floating and disintegrating into the red static of the Hex. The semen was right at the gate. Her cumtanks were contracting, tight and painful, ready to empty a quart of baby-batter into the void.

****, Monica’s gloved hand shot down. She grabbed the very tip of her own cock inside the wall, and squeezed. She clamped her hand over the urethra, physically trying to hold the explosion in, **** her own dick in a panic. She squeezed her ass cheeks so tight they cramped, her legs shaking violently.

“Monica!” America yelled from behind her.

America couldn't see the ghost. She couldn't see the titfuck. But she saw Monica trembling, making a face of pure, brain-broken ecstasy, holding her own junk like she was trying to keep it from exploding.

“Don’t let that Witch steal it!” America roared, pressing her chest against Monica’s back, her hands gripping Monica’s hips like vices. “She’s trying to drain Mark dry! She wants to waste his gift on the ground!”

Witch. This wasn’t her. It was Wanda.

The words rattled in Monica’s skull, fighting through the shame.

“That is Mark’s power!” America shouted. “Don’t you let that bitter housewife milk him away from us! You use it! You punish her with it!”

The white cock throbbed against Monica’s clenched fingers. It was arrogant. It was heavy. It wanted to be used. It want to fuck this feminine like apparition, not spill it’s load like a chump.

The Ghost-Wanda laughed, a cruel, echoing sound, rubbing her face in the leaked pre-cum. “You can’t stop it. You’re just a holster. Empty yourself, slut.”

For one terrifying second Monica felt herself tipping into exactly what the wall wanted: small, ashamed, on her knees in some mental rerun of every power imbalance she’d ever swallowed just to get through the day. The “Wanda” wrapping around her, purring poison into her head, felt too real. It knew the right buttons, the right memories, the right humiliations.

Something snapped in Monica’s chest.

The sheer indignity of it. The idea of ending up as a jizz-rag for a ghost.

Then something snagged.

Not in her thoughts, but in that same weird extra sense that had let her read Darcy like a circuit diagram. That new “pussy radar” flared, only this time it wasn’t locked on a single woman’s body. It was everywhere.

The Hex lit up around her.

She felt it like a map made of nerves: a skin of red energy draped over the entire town, humming and flexing. Threads of intent, loops of compulsion, big swollen knots of sitcom logic and pleasure and fear. Underneath the moaning, taunting “Wanda” wrapped around her, she could feel the pattern that generated her.

This wasn’t a mind.

It was code.

A reflex. An immune response. A horny, hostile firewall shaped like Wanda Maximoff because that’s what the core witch had poured into it, but there was no real person on the other end of the line. No will aimed specifically at Monica. Just an automated system trying to identify an intrusion and smother it in whatever override had the best chance of working.

And now that she was buried in it, jacked straight into the wall, Monica could read the subtext as clearly as she read Darcy’s arousal patterns.
PRIORITY: NEUTRALIZE THREAT
METHOD: OVERWRITE SELF-IMAGE
PATTERN: “YOU DON’T DESERVE THIS.”

The fake Wanda’s voice blurred, lost some of its sharpness. She saw it as a construct, a looping script. The insults weren’t revelations. They were functions being called on repeat.

You’re small.
You’re a fraud.
This shouldn’t be yours.

Monica’s fingers clenched.

“Right,” she panted, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re not her.”

The construct faltered. Just a flicker, but she felt it.

“You’re her damage,” Monica said, the realization slotting home like a key in a lock. “Her guilt. Her shame. Her idea of how power is supposed to work. But you’re not Wanda. And you sure as hell aren’t me.”

The red ghost bared its teeth, pushing back, trying to lean harder into the narrative, trying to drown her in it, but now Monica could see the seams. She watched lines of **** feeding into the illusion, watched how they branched off into the rest of the dome. Every time it told her she didn’t deserve what she was holding, she saw a corresponding loop buried in Westview: neighbors convinced they didn’t deserve to leave, lovers convinced they didn’t deserve better, an entire town convinced this was all they were allowed to have.

The Hex wasn’t just trying to humiliate her.

It was trying to make her match the setting.

“Bad move,” Monica growled.

Half of her was still human flesh shaking in a bulky S.W.O.R.D. suit, knuckles white, jaw locked. The other half, the part that kept glitching into red static, leaned in.

If the wall could rewrite her, she could push back on the rewrite.

She focused on that ghost-Wanda’s hands, the way they were clinging to her, the way they were trying to pull her into some preset role. Under her new senses it wasn’t skin, it was a string of conditions. IF intruder, THEN ****. IF resistance, THEN intensify.

“New rule,” Monica whispered into the red.

She didn’t know exactly how she did it. It was less like hacking and more like deciding she belonged in the system. Like the same instinct that let her walk through matter was now letting her walk into code.

The world tilted. The Hex shuddered around them.

IF intruder, THEN… amplify.
IF resistance, THEN… evolve.

The ghost’s sneer flickered. The grip changed. What had been an attempt to reduce her started feeding her instead, pouring raw power back along the connection. Every time it tried to push her down into a smaller, humiliated version of herself, she redirected that shove into the opposite direction, riding it up instead of under.

She was half Hex now; she could choose which way the current ran.

Outside, America felt the shift. The red outline around Monica brightened, not like it was swallowing her, but like it was radiating from her, the wall responding to her instead of the other way around.

“C’mon, Mon,” America grinned, hugging her tighter. “That’s it. Make that pussy wall listen to you.”

The Hex thought it was being clever. It was built out of Wanda’s longing, Wanda’s grief. It knew what to do with unrequited love.
PRIMARY ATTACHMENT: CAROL DANVERS
DESIRE: BE NEAR. BE EQUAL. BE CHOSEN.

The “Wanda” script tried once more to drag Mark into that slot, to shove him into the center. Tried to stamp:
SOURCE OF POWER: MARK.

The code hit resistance.

Where it should have slotted, there was already something there. Carol’s silhouette, in flight. Carol’s hand on her shoulder, steadying her. Carol’s cocky half-smile when she said “I’ll be back before you’re grown.”

The rewrite juddered, then took the path of least resistance.

Fine, the Hex decided, if this is the template, we’ll use this.

Red bled into blue.
SOURCE OF POWER: CAROL.

Not the news-footage Captain Marvel, not the distant savior. Her Carol. The woman who used to drop into the Rambeau house like a meteor with a smile, tracking starlight and jet fuel in her wake. The one who’d ruffled Monica’s hair, called her “Lieutenant Trouble,” and filled every room she walked into with a hum that made the air taste electric.

The scene reframed itself in obscene detail as the hex, instead of draining power and character, pushed both directly into Monica, the story of where they came from being written in real time with every surge.

The ghost-Wanda stroked harder at the connection, smirking, certain she was reducing Monica to a caricature, and every mocking touch just pushed more data into the mold Monica’s own subconscious had shoved forward.

Monica didn’t choose the details. Her id did.

It wanted to be Carol’s equal, not her shadow. It wanted to stand toe-to-toe with her in the sky, not stare up from the ground. It wanted a body that made sense of all the years of secret hunger, all that frustrated, buried lust.

So the story the Hex wrote for her was simple and obscene and perfect:

Monica Rambeau had been born different. Her mutation had always shown at a glance, big as life and impossible to hide. By the time she’d been tall enough to look Carol in the eye, she’d already had a piece of anatomy that made every teenage boy in school avoid the showers and every girl stare a little too long, swallowing hard.

People had whispered about it since Annapolis. Some said it was a joke the universe played. Some said it was proof she was meant for something off-world, not built to fit into earthbound expectations. Some, less kind, gave her nicknames that half-appalled and half-thrilled her.
White Cock Monica.
The woman with the mutation no one forgot.

Images now bloomed in her mind, but not as new memories. As old ones, finally in focus.

Locker room tiles, cold under her bare feet. The way other cadets’ conversations had faltered when she’d stripped down, trying to act like it didn’t faze her. The heavy, pale weight between her legs that didn’t match the rest of her, a glaring inheritance from the day Carol had fallen, glowing, into her life and soaked her childhood in Infinity Stone radiation.

Her mother, closing the door, sitting on the bed, squeezing her hand and saying: “You’re not broken, baby. You’re special. You hear me? Don’t you ever let some man make you feel small because you scare him.”

The first time Carol had come back glowing.

In the old memory, Monica had been a kid, gawking. In the new one the Hex was stitching together, she was… aware. Young, yeah, but old enough to recognize the heat flushing into her cheeks, the tug low in her gut, the way everything in her body oriented itself toward that woman like she was north.

Carol bent down to hug her and the Space Stone’s stolen light rolled over Monica’s skin, soaked into her bones.

And lower.

The Hex magnified that part, zoomed right in on the way that energy settled in her lap. In this version of her life, there had always been a tingle in her balls when Carol was near. Not pain, not anything she could complain about, just a low, pleasant buzz, like they were tiny reactors being topped off whenever Carol walked through the door.

The ghost-Wanda chuckled obscenely, stroking that memory like she was rubbing the head of Monica’s cock, happily running its little humiliation script without the slightest clue it was also cranking Monica’s power up.

“You just stood there,” the phantom sneered, voice syrup-thick. “Little hanger-rat with a crush. Letting that space stone-bitch soak your nuts for free.”

Monica gasped, hips lurching against the wall-pussy’s grip. Even in the here-and-now she could feel it, those same cumtanks humming with familiar power. The Hex slid more code in on the back of that sensation.
CORRECTIVE: THIS HAS ALWAYS BEEN TRUE.
MONICA’S SACK SOAKS LIGHT.

The timeline rewrote itself in a stuttering series of jump-cuts.

Carol back for a weekend, still half-burned from whatever the Air **** and the Kree had thrown at her.

She hugged Monica and ruffled her hair, and that warm, buzzing weight between Monica’s legs swelled, hanging lower in her shorts when she went to bed that night. She’d stared at herself in the bathroom, at the way her cock lay thick and pale along her thigh, balls bigger than they’d been last month. She’d chalked it up to puberty.

The Hex tagged the moment, dropped a new label over it.
GROWTH EVENT: CAROL-PROXIMITY.

Carol again, back from space this time, really shining, eyes and veins full of bottled sun. Monica remembered sitting on the porch steps with her, pretending not to lean in, pretending that every little laugh didn’t make her dick twitch. The warmth in her lap had been unbearable by the end of the night, and later, alone, she’d had to jerk herself raw in the shower just to bleed off the ache.

In the new continuity, she also remembered waking up the next morning, dropping her shorts out of habit, and staring at herself in the mirror.

Cock thicker. Veins more pronounced. Balls heavier, hanging lower, skin satiny-tight over the swollen cumtanks. She’d cupped them with both hands and felt the faint, fizzy burn inside, like someone had poured starlight into her and it had gone straight to the most indecent part.

She’d always known. On some level. That when Carol was around, her dick-level went up.

“See?” the red ghost Wanda cooed around the barrel of her power, tongue made of static lapping at the slit as she deepthroated her. “You were always a little reactor for her. Soaked up every drop she didn’t want.”

The shame didn’t land the way it was supposed to.

Because the more the Hex leaned on those memories, the more another feeling bubbled up behind them: ownership.

Not of Carol. Of what she’d become because of her.

Of what lived between her legs.

Her cock pulsed, thick and needy inside the wall’s tight grip. It liked this story, liked the idea that it had been carved by proximity to a cosmic woman. That it hadn’t come from random mutation or some anonymous lab fluke, but from years of basking in a sun no one else got full access to.

“You think that’s an insult?” Monica grunted, teeth bared, sweat running down her temples as she rode the sensation. “That my cumtanks remembered her?”

The ghost ignored her, doubling down, because it couldn’t do anything else. New data flashed, the construct just shoveling more fuel into the engine it thought it was starving.

Current-day Monica, older, alone in her childhood house after the Blip, cleaning out closets that smelled like her mother and dust. She’d found a metal footlocker in Maria’s old room, tucked under the bed, plastered with mission patches and lame in-jokes. Inside, folded flight suits. Photos.

And under that, at the bottom… a heavy, gunmetal-gray case.

She saw her fingers snap the latches.

Inside, nestled in foam, a monster.

Twelve inches of silicone molded into a perfect, brutal cock, faintly sticky with old lube.. It had the same arrogant curve she saw every morning between her own thighs now, the same thick crown, the same fat vein running along the underside like a live wire. Only this one was stylized, slightly exaggerated, all shining white like some fantasy version.

The Hex let her see the whole scene: Monica sitting there on the bedroom floor, heart pounding, fingers stroking over slick silicone, realizing that Carol Danvers, save-the-goddamn-universe Carol, had been absolutely wrecking herself on this thing between missions. That this was the shape she’d chosen, the size she’d needed.

And then, because the system was lewd and cruel, it synced up that memory with another: standing naked in her own bathroom later, measuring herself out of sheer masochistic curiosity. Lining that toy up against her shaft. Watching tip align with tip, curve with curve, girth with girth.

It wasn’t perfect. She was an inch longer, thicker at the base, heavier, real flesh instead of silicone. But the match was close enough that her knees had gone weak, her balls pulsing with a hot, possessive thrill.

Wanda moaned into her, grinding those spectral tits down the length of her embedded cock, trying to turn the memory into more shame.

“You stole her perfect toy,” the ghost sneered, still preening, still convinced it was winning. “You want to pretend this is yours when it’s obviously for her? You’re just walking around with Carol’s personal fuckstick dangling between your legs.”

Monica laughed.

The sound came out raw, unhinged, but it was laughter all the same.

“It is her perfect dick,” she panted, feeling the wall’s own programming stutter in confusion. “That’s the point.”

Her balls, her glowing, overfed, Space Stone–marinated cumtanks, throbbed in agreement. They had always tingled around Carol. They had always grown after she left. Every “random” growth spurt had lined up with some cosmic-powered homecoming. She’d known, deep down, that this thing was a gift forged in her shadow.

Not something she stole. Something she’d been shaped into.

Her cock swelled, the bulging veins under the pale skin along the shaft brightening with a clean, blue-white glow. The Hex felt it and tried one last angle, shoving more of the Wanda-phantom down around her, pouring more red into her to compensate.

“Then act like a toy,” the ghost snapped, **** now, grinding faster as if she could milk the charge out by speed alone. “Come for me. Waste it. Blow all that spoiled space-spooge into my barrier and go back to being a nobody on the ground. You’re not a partner. You’re not a mate. You’re a repository.”

The insult ricocheted and hit nothing. Because the rewrite was already complete.

This wasn’t some stranger’s borrowed dick she couldn’t control. This was the gun Carol’s accidental radiation had loaded and the Hex had chambered. This was what her body had built, year after year, waiting for something impossible to point it at.

Her first real crush, her oldest wound, her wildest fantasy about being Carol’s equal… all the things she’d never admitted, never said out loud, they all lined up like lenses now. Focused.

If Carol was the star, if she’d been crafted in that light, then of course her power looked like this. Of course it was white-blue and obscene and too big for a flight suit. Of course it looked like something that would make Carol’s eyes roll back when she finally took it.

You want to be her mate? The universe whispered, through the Hex, through the lingering taste of Carol’s energy in her bones. Then be her equal. Fire like she does.

The Wanda-ghost realized she’d lost the thread a second too late.

Monica looked it dead in the eyes, even as its mouth was wrapped around the unseen length inside the wall.

“You want me to cum?” she rasped, voice low and guttural, every word punched out of her by the swell in her core. “Fine. Enjoy the jizz-laser, bitch.”

Fire.

The charge snapped forward.

The world narrowed to a single rushing, explosive release that had nothing to do with bodies and everything to do with raw, weaponized energy. Where flesh met Hex, an orb of blue light bloomed, tiny as a pinprick at first and then swelling, swelling, swelling. It pushed the red back, peeling the Hex away in ripples, growing to marble sized, then baseball sized, then larger, every micron of expansion fueled by the flood she refused to let dribble away into the wall.

Monica heard herself roar, a ragged, animal sound she barely recognized as her own. She’d never fired off a blast this high-energy before.

The ball hit critical mass and snapped into a beam.

It punched through the Hex like a spear through paper, a straight, searing column of blue-white energy that drilled a perfect tunnel into the town beyond, dispersing the Wanda ghost like fog and vaporizing scarlet static along its path. On the far side, the beam shot up into the sky, arcing harmlessly into atmosphere, spent starlight streaking out into the dark.

Monica sagged in America’s arms, body shaking.

“Dios mío, Mon…” America whispered. “You just fired a literal **** star laser out of your Marklet…”

America’s brain did a full system reboot when she looked down and realized Monica’s bulky S.W.O.R.D. suit was just gone. In its place the Hex had redressed her in something that looked part flight suit, part swimsuit, part starship. Sleek black clung to her torso, white lines arrowing down her front, arms and thighs bare, and her ass literally out, a single white strap vanishing between her two cute firm little brown cheeks. There was some kind of hard, angular white frame around her cock and something that looked like armored pods between her thighs, clearing containing her balls.

Monica wasn’t empty even after that titanic blast.

The laughable post-nut bonelessness that magic Wanda echo had almost hypnotized her into did not arrive. She didn’t wilt. She didn’t sag against the wall like a drained battery.

The engine in her nuts hummed on, steady and bright. The urge to fire again tickled the back of her brain.

The Hex around her breach seethed, furious, but the hole stayed open. The edges of the energy wound twitched and clawed, but they couldn’t quite close over the path she’d burned through.

“Come on. We don’t have time to play around. This might close at any second.” Monica said.

She pushed away from America and leaned in over her rock-hard cock, wrapping both hands tightly right behind the fat cockhead. Not for the first time, she wished that she could fly with her cock encased in the Barrel Shroud of her S.W.O.R.D. designed flight suit; one would think she might be flying on some high-tech flight-rig if that were the case, instead of the undeniable reality that she was piloting her own glowing genitals.

Inside its armored cradle, her sack lifted on command from her mental HUD. The big orbs cinched up under her, heavy reactor-balls snugging into the seat of her ass until she felt that delicious, firm push of pressure under her hips, an invisible grip shoving her skyward by the jizz-tanks.

Her boots left the grass with all the inevitability of muscle memory.

“Uh, Monica?” America’s voice edged from smug to fascinated. “You’re… hovering on your dick.”

“I know,” Monica said, voice cool again, the roughness of orgasm still ghosting the edges. “On my six.”

She rose on a narrow column of **** centered on her cock and balls. Her ass settled back into it, her sack pushed up between cheeks and suit like she was literally sitting on her own loaded batteries. Every tiny shift in her hips made the lift field wobble, then correct, then steady as she flew through the breach and into Westview.

It felt indecent and comfortable, like slipping into an old habit she usually saved for when no satellites were overhead. She had been doing this since the first time she realized the same energy that made her cannon kick could hold her up. Sneak flights above cloud cover, solo test hops over dark oceans, long lazy circuits over empty Nevada test ranges with her dick as the stick and her balls as the engine.

And though America raced ahead in front of her screaming out “Mark! Mark!” for her stolen beau, Monica was just as focused on her own mission.

To take down whoever was behind all this.

Then go fuck Carol Danvers.