Monica, Under the Gun [pt. I]

Monica gulped as Mark approached her and America.

To reiterate a plot point, the reason why the cast of WandaVision had all joined Mark’s Kingdom was due to Wanda’s influence. Her magic touched all of their minds and so Mark’s order spread out like a spider-web the moment he said it. Agatha and her goons were not part of this web, but her own face was touched by Mark to receive the same order as Wanda so they faced an identical fate.

Of course, what America didn’t realise was that Monica was connected to neither witch at the moment of mental impact.

She’d heard it lightly reverberate inside her due to being inside the Hex, but the connection was too loose to take hold in her mind. Monica had experienced slight disorientation but stayed back while Mark talked about his Kingdom, hearing his words from a nearby rooftop before taking her leave when the orgy began.

Or, at least she hoped she could.

The fear her body would be reworked again when leaving the Hex’s magic field kept her inside. Wanda’s magic threatened to take her cock away–returning her to a world that believed she always had female genetalia–and she couldn’t stomach going back now. That hesitation kept her there long enough to be transported to this new realm with everyone else.

The Hex did dissipate after that, but new problems quickly arose. She found that the pocket universe they resided in was literally pocket sized compared to Earth. Flying beyond the trees of the forgotten forest was simply mist. A fog that always turned you around to return you here, to New Westview.

Escape was impossible, which left Monica with few options.

Option 1 was fight. A task she’d surely fail at even with her new powers. Monica would become one with the cult before she could even blink. Option 2 was hide. It didn’t seem much better than fighting. She’d have to scrounge or steal food, and in such a confined pocket world she’d soon be found by Wanda or Agatha.

So that left Option 3: hide in plain sight.

Monica would infiltrate the only group on the island and establish herself as a loyal goon to this eclectic collection of freaks, and hope that they allow her to teleport out of this little universe where she could escape.

Though, the jury was still out on what she would do after that. Was Mark’s methods really that evil? She had no idea. Not helped by the fact that she didn’t really know much about his mind control powers. All she saw was a man that had such incredible charisma that he could literally charm the pants off of everyone in town. Probably helped by that massive tool he loved to swing around–a trait she surely now empathised with. And beyond that, she still empathised deeply with Wanda and her trauma. Perhaps Monica could find out the real story about these star crossed lovers. Otherwise, no one would ever know what she sacrificed for them.

Mark worked his way through New Westview in the Forge, touching faces, shoulders, hips, tits, asses, hair, jaws. The same basic rhythm, over and over. Skin contact, eye contact, a few firm words, then the next person.

Monica had been watching carefully.

It seemed like Mark’s power was in touching.

He laid hands on people and something changed in their faces after. A slight slackening. A settling. As if some final little click inside them had finished seating properly. Monica had noticed that almost immediately, and once she noticed it, she could not stop noticing it. Mark touched, people softened, and then the next one stepped forward already eager for their turn.

Which meant big trouble for Monica and her plan to slide through all this based on inertia, her acting skills, and their general complacency.

It might even have worked, given how unserious most of the little kingdom’s leadership seemed to be except that one of them was the Avenger Natasha Romanoff. The Black Widow was paying close attention. Monica had already caught on that there were sets of commands involved. More than once she’d seen Mark’s lips moving through the same little sequence while his hands lingered on someone, like he was silently repeating a mantra from one citizen to the next, and at one point Natasha had leaned in to murmur something sharp in his ear that made him visibly refocus and go through the process properly.

Natasha was not letting this turn into sloppy groping and vibes. She was making sure every person got processed the right way, and that meant she would absolutely notice if Monica did not.

Thankfully Monica had America (and boy was it weird to have that thought…)

“This is her, Mark!”, she announced, practically throwing herself into Monica’s side. “My Bestie! Let’s make sure you’re really real, fam!”

Monica caught her automatically and kept her own expression smooth. Calm. Respectful. A little dazzled. A little humbled. Exactly what a good little citizen of this fever-dream kingdom was supposed to look like while waiting to be inspected by the king.

Mark noticed the hug at once.

“Oh yea! That dick girl you made friends with!” he grinned as he came closer. His eyes swept over Monica’s body without shame, lingering exactly where Monica knew they would. “She’s kinda hot. Could use some bigger gams though.”

“Monica Rambeau, aka Captain Marvel, aka Spectrum, aka Photon,” Natasha listed off, having also finished her quickie with Felicia, and much to Monica’s chagrin, “She never really made an impact on the world stage. Probably why you don’t recognise her Mark. Though she’s never had an item like that before.”

“Yes. I have.” Monica shot back angrily.

“She’s a bit sensitive about her big dick,” explained America, “we all know such a magnificent white tool was always hers though, right everyone?”

There was a fairly nonplussed reaction, which Monica at least did appreciate. Better to not care and leave her to live her life rather than to care passionately in the wrong direction.

“Are you alright with it, Mark?” asked Wanda, leaning into him with a worried expression, “Your Sokovian semen won’t be able to baste her eggs if we let her keep such a succulent tool.”

Monica would have argued against getting pimped out so easily, but Mark spoke before she could, “Nah, it’s fine, babe. I have so many girls around already to enjoy. Besides, I can dig the white dick on the black girl aesthetic.” He smiled, giving a noncommittal thumbs up to Monica.

Monica dipped her head. “Thank you, sir.”

“Fucked anyone with that thing?” he asked, easy as anything.

“Yeah, a bunch. Uh, sir.” She corrected herself quickly, realising she had to pretend to be enamoured by him a few seconds too late. “N-nothing quite like spreading them wide and hitting them deep, am I right?”

Mark barked a laugh and stuck out a fist.

“Hear that? Hell yeah.”

Monica bumped it quickly, thankful for how brief it was. Though she knew she did need him to touch her as she could feel the Black Widow’s gaze on her without looking. It was just hard to take that plunge and she was still mentally grasping at straws on just how she was going to avoid getting brainwashed.

“She has a Carol Danvers fetish too,” America continued, “Hey let’s wake the skrull back up! Let the two of them get at it!”

Monica gulped at the implication. She’d drawn all this attention to herself because she’d been watching the skrull show with a little too much interest, squeaking out when a naked Carol Danvers appeared before her and gave her boner a huge spike. She couldn’t stop but watch as the woman of her dreams calmly walked towards the group, eyes enamoured only for Mark, in all her naked and perfect glory.

Soft breasts that jiggled around with every step. A flat stomach, perfect for expanding with a baby. Moistened lips begging to be spread by white dick. Monica’s libido was cranking out sexy scenes into her head like mad, and growing her erection the closer she got to them.

But the vision of Space Stone powered cocky fighter-pilot sexiness paused and held back as Mark waved her off as his attention settled exactly where Monica least wanted it.

The white cock hanging between her thighs wasn’t quite soft anymore, but even soft it was a ridiculous thing. Thirteen inches of pale meat stiffening and rising from dark brown skin, with her heavy white balls hanging behind it, low and full. Mark stepped in closer with bright-eyed fascination.

Monica made herself hold still.

“Master,” she said softly.

That seemed to please him.

Then he reached out and wrapped his hand around her shaft.

Monica’s body answered him immediately.

Her cock jumped in his grip, the white flesh thickening before she could stop it. Heat flashed up through her stomach, down her thighs, and into the low dense pull of her balls. She kept her face as steady as she could, but her inhale caught anyway. Mark noticed. Of course he noticed. The grin that crossed his face at that tiny involuntary response made it obvious.

The grin that crossed his face at that tiny involuntary response made it obvious.

He liked that.

Of course he liked that.

And God help her, Monica could not pretend it didn’t do something to her right back.

She may have generally been into women, but that had never meant the idea of a good-looking man handling her cock was off the table. Quite the opposite, really. It had always been one of those dirty little fantasy corners she didn’t air out in public. Usually the fun of it was contrast. Some handsome guy, all swagger until he got close enough to realize what she was packing. His own dick would be some cute little thing, rock-hard and twitching straight up against his pubes, all turned on and just a bit humiliated by how thoroughly she outclassed him.

Mark was not that.

Mark’s cock hung there between them, thick and huge and only lazily hard, so heavy it still angled more toward the floor than toward her despite the blood in it. Fifteen inches of white meat with the sort of easy, unbothered weight that made a mockery of her fantasy template. Nothing in him looked intimidated. Nothing in him looked humbled. If anything, the sight of Monica’s body and the reaction of her cock just made him look more pleased with himself.

That should have irritated her more than it did.

Instead it made her breath hitch again.

Mark gave her shaft another slow stroke, feeling it wake in his hand, then shifted his grip so he could tip it slightly from side to side and really look at it. Monica’s whole body tightened at the examination. There was something almost clinical about the way he did it, if a clinician had the grin of a teenage delinquent and a giant cock hanging between his legs.

He rolled her a little left.

A little right.

Turned the swelling white shaft as though he were checking the profile of some bizarre prototype weapon.

Then he laughed.

“What the hell, America,” he said, not even pretending not to be fascinated. “This doesn’t look anything like a copy of my dick. Look at this freaky piss-hole. I could stick my finger in there.”

America leaned in immediately. “Wait, what?”

Monica wanted to snatch her cock out of his hand and tell both of them to go fuck themselves.

Instead she stood there and took it, because Black Widow was still somewhere over Mark’s shoulder, because this whole stupid performance only worked if Monica looked like one more citizen getting her turn, and because some filthy part of her was reacting to the attention despite everything else.

And really, how could anyone with functioning eyes think her cock looked like his?

She remembered America crowing about that earlier like it was obvious, but get serious.

Mark’s cock was just that. A cock. An extraordinary one, yes. Huge, bluntly masculine, thick as a forearm, made to fuck and fill and dominate by sheer insolent size. The thing had a kind of biological arrogance to it. Flesh piled on flesh. Weight. Presence. A monster weapon in the most primitive possible sense.

Monica’s was something else.

Her shaft was hers first of all. A little more slender than his, though not by enough to save anybody’s poor pussy from an **** stretching, cleaner in the lines, less like a club and more like a rod that expected to be aimed. Even in Mark’s hand, with him making it jerk and swell by slow degrees, the veins didn’t bunch randomly under the white skin. They ran in deliberate routes, branching like circuit traces. Faint blue channels that, once charge started to gather, looked less like blood vessels and more like power being routed to a muzzle.

And the head…

The head was where it stopped being “a cock” in any normal sense and started being a cannon made out of meat.

Big, yes. Obscenely big. The same sort of indecent mass his had in broad terms. But the shape was sharper. The corona didn’t roll softly. Wasn’t really a mushroom cap. It stood out in a harder, more delineated ridge. The upper line of it had that uncanny almost-sighted look, a profile that seemed engineered to point. The underside was still thick, still glossy, still sexual, but the whole silhouette had an alien precision to it.

Then there was the opening.

Mark was right to stare, even if she hated him saying it that way.

It was not a little slit on a normal penis. Not a discreet line. It sat dead center in the fat glossy head as a dark round aperture, shockingly wide when it swelled, wet enough that precum did not simply bead there. It gathered and poured. It gave her cock that eerie sense of being a cannon in every possible way, right down to the barrel.

No, it looked nothing like his.

It looked like hers.

A gorgeous, flesh sci-fi cannon grown out of her own body.

“Wait. No. I swear it did before. At first it totally matched yours. Exactly. I know your cock, dude. It’s my favorite big white cock. Hers was like a mini version.”

“It always looked like this,” Monica said flatly.

America squinted harder. “No way.”

“Yes way. I’ve always had powers, and I’ve always had this.”

Mark only looked more delighted. He adjusted his grip and lifted her cock slightly, studying it with rude fascination.

And Monica hated how much the comparison hit her.

Because his was right there too.

Fifteen inches of thick mutant white meat hanging from his body with a girth hers simply did not have. Hers was huge. Hers was dangerous. Hers was beautiful in its own unsettling way. But his was just bigger. Longer. Thicker. Stupider. More blatantly masculine in a way that made her, for the first time in her life, feel faintly unmanned by a man standing in front of her.

That realization burned.

If she gave herself any point of pride, it was her sack. She thought she matched him there, maybe edged him out a little. Her jizztanks hung with heavy reactor weight. But even that private little comfort did not stop the ugly spark of awareness she felt with his hand on her and his own bigger cock hanging inches away.

Mark grinned up at her. “No, seriously. Mine’s just a big fat mutant dick. This thing looks like somebody built a raygun out of cockmeat.”

Monica swallowed and kept her answer small. “It does what it’s built to do, sir.”

“Does it really have superpowers?”

Darcy, sprawled like a centerfold across a nearby table to one side of the Forge with a bowl of popcorn balanced on her stomach, perked up instantly. Her soft, overflowing body was practically poured into red a dress that seemed engineered to display maximum tit and thigh while pretending to be clothing. “Oh, it absolutely has superpowers,” she cut in. “The giant sci-fi cock is a whole platform. Flight, phasing, energy blasts, and what I maintain is basically pussy radar.”

“I do not have a pussy radar,” Monica said through her teeth.

Darcy tossed a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “You tracked a woman like your dick was getting GPS pings off her cunt. That counts.”

America lit up and pointed at Monica’s sack like a game show assistant unveiling a prize. “Show him your flying balls!”

Mark’s eyes widened with genuine delight. “There’s flying balls?”

America nearly bounced out of her skin. “Ay dios mio, si! Show him your flying balls, papi!”

“Lift, phasing, discharge control, selective density adjustment,” Monica said before she could stop herself, defaulting into the clipped technical cadence she used whenever she was explaining her condition and didn’t want to admit it was more than a bit… ridiculous. “The balls generate and hold charge. The shaft routes it. The head focuses and discharges it. It is not just... ornamental. It’s a weapon.”

Mark blinked once, then looked at Natasha. “How the hell was Photon not a way bigger superhero?”

“Because our Monica Rambeau did not have a giant flying energy-blasting cock,” Natasha said dryly.

“Way bigger tits and ass though.” added Felicia with a smirk.

“I’m fairly sure this version showed up somewhere in the middle of the magic show, Wanda’s reality warping, and your enormous mutant contribution to local culture.” continued Natasha as Monica really tried not to shout at them as they discussed nonsense about her life and body.

Wanda made a tiny embarrassed sound beside him. “Oh... I remember now.” Her cheeks pinked as she glanced at Monica, then down, then very quickly back up again. “I remember the magic show, and I remember being jealous.” She gave Mark a sheepish, adoring little smile. “Geraldine was pretty and I didn’t want you getting interested in her, so I may have... changed the package a little.”

Felicia barked out a laugh. “Changed the package?”

Wanda’s blush deepened. “I was just trying to make her less tempting. But I had Mark’s big beautiful cock on my mind at the time, so it sort of... slipped through.”

Monica tried very hard not to shout at them as they talked about her like she wasn’t right there. The simplest explanation, the one she kept clinging to, was that all the reality-warping and memory-scrambling around this place had left them confused, not her.

“You totally gave her a superpowered cock because you were feeling possessive?”

Wanda winced, still smiling in that cute, embarrassed wifey way. “In my defense, I was very emotional.”

Monica drew in one steadying breath. A demonstration might help. Better to give him something to focus on besides just touching her and doing whatever he usually did to root himself into people’s heads.

“With your leave, Master. How about I demonstrate?”

He stepped back just enough to watch. “Please.”

Monica called the system up.

It started in the balls, as always. Pressure gathering low and dense, a heavy hum inside the sack that tightened everything upstream. Her heels lifted from the stone floor as the familiar press of her sack pressed up between her legs. Then both feet rose clear, Monica floating a few feet off the floor while the nearest citizens of New Westview instinctively gave her space, heads tipping back to watch, a few of them drifting into a loose ring around her, America, Mark, Wanda, Felicia, and Natasha.

A murmur moved through the room.

She settled into hover with practiced instinct, body angling forward slightly, thighs parted by the centerline mechanics of what she had. Her cock hardened further as charge moved through it, the white shaft stiffening into that deliberate line while pale channels under the skin lit faintly blue.

Mark laughed out loud.

“No fucking way.”

Monica tilted back to safely aim high toward the wall above them, well over everyone’s heads. She had the yield dialed down on instinct. These were not torso-punching artillery bolts. More like brutally strong punches of **** wrapped in blue light.

She fired.

A tight electric-blue shot snapped from the dark wet opening at the tip and plinked against the old Abbey stone high above the crowd.

Then another.

Then a third.

Each one left a bright little scar of Space Stone blue high above them. Clean. Controlled. Precise enough that the pilot in Monica felt proud even as the recoil pulsed through her in that familiar almost-orgasmic way firing always did.

Mark looked ecstatic.

“That is amazing.”

Then he grabbed her.

Because she was floating, most of her weight carried by the lift field, he could manhandle her much more easily than she wanted. One second she was hovering under her own control, the next he had hauled her hard back against him, a breathless little sound slipping out of her before she could dress it up as anything else. Around them, a few nearby citizens startled and shuffled back, laughing nervously as her barrel swung in their direction, while Natasha’s head snapped up in immediate focus.

His arm locked around her waist. His broad chest pressed into her back, all beefy pecs and hard heat, his bulging biceps boxing her in as he took hold of her like she weighed nothing. There was a lot of man around her all at once. Ripped white beefcake at her back, huge cock at her ass, a thick forearm braced across her middle. And then the rest of him settled into place behind her and stayed there, holding her wrapped up in him.

His thick cock shoved up between her legs at once, fifteen inches of hot girthy white meat wedging into the cleft of her butt and sliding higher as he crowded her tighter. Monica’s own cock jutted forward in his hand above it, fully hard and heavy, thirteen inches of white flesh flushed thick and aching from her dark brown body. And beneath that, his shaft was doing something even more obscene to her sack, lifting her big heavy balls from below and pressing up into them like a bar, compressing their weight so each full white orb draped to either side of his cock like a saddle. She was caught in the line of it all, her own cock standing hard in front while his even thicker slab drove up from beneath and held her there, and the whole arrangement made her feel, viscerally, like she was the little spoon.

Monica hated how much that hit.

“Master,” she said quickly, making her voice breathy and eager instead of alarmed. “I can hold steady. I just wasn’t prepared.”

“Sorry,” he said, sounding delighted instead of apologetic. “This is too cool.”

His free hand came back around her shaft. Tight. Confident. Guiding.

And that was when it happened.

You like me. You trust me.

Not anything dramatic. Not words she heard. Not a voice in her skull announcing its arrival. Just something sliding in under the skin where he touched her, a subtle current that moved through arousal and sensation too smoothly to separate out. A warmth that changed the angle of him in her mind without making itself obvious as a change at all.

Her body softened around him in that quiet way people do when they realize they like somebody. When they trust somebody. No fanfare. No alarm. He did not suddenly become safe. He did not become harmless. But something in Monica’s private framing of him loosened and tilted. The big obvious antagonist outline blurred. He felt less like a supervillain in a crown and more like Wanda. Too much power, too much appetite, too much damage, too much certainty.

Then he gave a short, eager pump of his hips and his grip tightened.

Fire.

A bright blue shot cracked from Monica’s cock and smacked into the high stone wall across the room.

Her whole body jolted. Monica’s eyes widened. This was new. Firing had always been her decision. Her aim. Her timing. Her choice. Even when her body was hot and humming and half-hard with charge, the final act of release had always belonged to her.

Mark laughed like a boy handed a working artillery piece.

“Holy shit.”

He did it again. Fire.

Another little thrust of that thick cock between her cheeks. Another tightening of his fist on her shaft.

Fire.

Another blue shot.

This one slewed farther to the side, still high, but no longer nearly as controlled. It blasted a bright mark into the upper stonework near a hanging iron sconce. People below yelped and ducked on reflex, laughing and squealing as they crouched or threw up their hands over their heads. Monica was keeping the shots weak enough that even the wild ones hit more like invisible sledgehammer punches than piercing lances, but she still felt the room ripple with startled energy beneath them.

Monica really couldn’t believe her cannon was answering somebody else.

A gun is meant to be fired, not fire itself.

The thought slid through her in the same instant the reality did, and instead of offending her the way it should have, it hooked into the strange intimate truth of what was happening. He was behind her. Bigger than her. Better hung than her. Warm, heavy, young, cocky, beefy, all of him pressed into the line of her body while his hand and his will made her cock answer like a weapon in obedient working order.

Fire.

Another blue bolt snapped out. It streaked wild and high across the room, punching a glowing divot into the upper arch above a bank of shelves. More of the citizens below ducked and laughed, crouching under tables or behind one another while Darcy let out a shriek from her nearby table and clutched her popcorn bowl to her tits.

Fire.

And mixed among those sharp simple commands, carried through his grip and his body and the electric humiliation of the position, another subliminal current slipped into place.

It feels so fucking good when I do this.

Monica never heard that either.

She just felt it.

The next shot ripped out of her with a spike of pleasure so intense her thighs trembled in the air. Firing always felt orgasmic. That had always been true. But suddenly the pleasure was more than recoil, more than power, more than her own systems ringing through release. It was his. His doing. His grip. His timing. His body behind hers, better hung and commanding her line, making it happen for her.

“Holy shit, fuck,” Monica gasped, voice breaking around the words.

Mark grinned wider.

Fire.

Another electric-blue shot.

It was unbearable how intimate it felt. Her cock, one of the most private and defining pieces of her body, answering another’s command. Not just physically handled, but made to release on someone else’s cue. Used. Fired. Driven. The thick press of his cock between her asscheeks and against the underside of her balls turned every short pump of his hips into a reminder that she was being directed by someone bigger, someone hotter, someone maddeningly confident about the fact.

And she liked him.

And she trusted him.

She did not notice those as commands. They were just there now, woven through the experience, making the whole scene feel less like violation and more like some wild overfamiliarity with a dangerous person she had unexpectedly, irrationally, started to warm to.

Then came the really treacherous part.

She liked being fired by him.

Not in some vague abstract way. Not in the sense of tolerating it. She liked the fact that he was doing it. Liked the press of the bigger cock beneath her. Liked the hand on her shaft. Liked the command taking the final decision from her and turning it into a response. The mostly-lesbian dick-girl in Monica, who had spent years very sure of her tastes, suddenly found herself flashing on a new ugly little fetish with terrifying speed.

Young kings.

Cocky kings.

Beefy kings.

Better hung than her kings.

Hands on her cannon, firing it for her until the shot felt like orgasm and obedience all at once.

Fire.

Another shot hit the wall.

Monica’s breath shook. She bowed her head a little farther, and to everyone watching it read exactly as it should. A nervous good citizen overwhelmed by royal attention and trying very hard to please.

Natasha, watching from the side, saw prolonged touch, Monica going pliant and reverent in Mark’s arms, the standard visual grammar of his conditioning process, and assumed the needed foundation was being laid. Which, in a partial way, it was.

Only Monica had no idea how much of what she was now feeling had been installed.

She just knew that the king behind her was not fitting cleanly into the villain slot in her head anymore, and that every time he made her fire, pleasure burst through her hard enough to make her want the next one.

“Yes, Master,” she breathed.

That seemed to delight him even more.

Fire.

Blue light cracked against stone again.

America was doubled over laughing. Wanda looked charmed. Felicia had both hands over her mouth. The entire room was loving it, because it looked like exactly what it was meant to look like. The king taking an especially fascinating subject and making playful use of her. A loyal citizen trembling under the attention. A successful handling.

And because it looked so convincing, nobody noticed the important detail.

He had not laid the full command set in.

He had slipped a couple of things under her skin through touch and pleasure and the sheer bright intimacy of the moment. Enough to bend her outlook. Enough to eroticize his control of her firing. But not the whole architecture.

Fire.

Fire.

Fire.

Each command snapped through her and pulled another electric-blue shot from the wide dark opening of her cock. Each one felt more intense than the last. Each one deepened that suddenly ravenous little kink blooming in her gut, the one that wanted to be the gun in a bigger man’s hands.

By the time he finally eased off, the old Abbey wall above them was stippled with blue impact marks like a constellation.

He kept her pinned for one extra beat, hand still around her cock, his own huge shaft still wedged hot between her asscheeks and against the underside of her hanging balls.

Then he laughed softly, delighted as he released her.

“Yeah,” he said. “That is the coolest fucking dick I’ve ever had my hands on.”