Scarlet Wars: Episode 3 (Part 3: Phasing Boundaries)

Written in collaboration with Namichwan

The air inside the S.W.O.R.D. command hab was stale, recycled, and thick with hostility.

Monica stood near the tactical map, arms crossed tight over her chest, trying to project the cool, unshakeable authority of Captain Rambeau. It was a pose she’d perfected over a lifetime of hiding a secret that would make most men crumble, but right now, the armor was cracking.

The room was too loud. Not with voices though Hayward and Coulson were currently locked in a tense, low-volume standoff about the broadcast feed but with noise that shouldn’t exist.

It was a hum. A frequency. Every woman in the room was emitting it.

The communications officer to her left wasn’t just typing; she was radiating a low, throbbing violet pulse from her lap that felt like a subwoofer pressing against Monica’s eardrums. The analyst near the door was a sharp, staccato rhythm of bright orange static. And standing just a few feet away, Darcy Lewis was a chaotic, sticky smudge of neon pink that felt less like a pulse and more like a greedy, open mouth, still buzzing with the raw, wet aftershocks of what they’d done in the med bay.

Get it together, Rambeau, she told herself, biting the inside of her cheek. You are not hallucinating pussy-energy. You are tired. You’ve been messed with by a magic-wielding Avenger. This is just… residual effects of being Geraldine.

But then there were the other sensations.

Down deep in her groin, behind the heavy weight of her dick, there was a feeling that wasn't quite biological. It didn't feel like blood filling tissue, it gave off the sci-fi feel of warp nacelles spooling up, or zero point modules vibrating against her thighs.

It was completely insane. This was the real world, not Star Trek or Stargate, and how asinine was it to compute either of those concepts with her TESTICLES? But there it was: a low, oscillating thrum of infinite, containment-breaching energy, waiting to be discharged.

And with the energy came the hunger.

It gnawed at her. Monica very badly wanted to fuck a pussy. Incredible, soul-shaking blowjobs like the ones she'd received from her apparently alternate reality bestie were one thing; it took the edge off, sure. But the phantom memories of Geraldine were haunting her. In the Hex, Geraldine had gotten to stuff a succession of white girl and Latina pussy in that hippy orgy like Monica's wildest, dirtiest fantasies come to life. But all of that, all of her time in Wanda's Hex, felt like a dream, some part of her had experienced it, but not really.

Except Monica was well aware that this urge was all the influence of Wanda's insane lust rays or whatever the hell was radiating from that town, and she was damned if she was going to give in. She refused to admit weakness. She refused to let a witch dictate her libido.

But fuck, she wanted to clap Darcy Lewis' cheeks like nothing else, more so because the snarky Thick Nerd Girl energy civilian had seen her get utterly dommed by America.

“We are cutting the feed, Phil,” Hayward said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You were right. The signal itself is a cognitohazard. My people are reporting… urges. Erratic behavior. We go dark, and we prepare for a tactical breach.”

Tactical breach? Monica wasn’t sure if he was talking out of his ass to sound in control or if Tyler actually had some ace in the hole for getting through Wanda’s perimeter safely. Given his stupid smug expression it could go either way.

“Going dark blinds us,” Coulson countered, his voice steady, though he looked tired. “We have agents inside. Deke and Elena are compromised, yes, but we can keep them isolated and talk to them remotely and keep up with what is happening in the Hex. If we cut the feed, we abandon those inside and lose all intelligence on the other side.”

Hayward sneered, glancing toward Monica. “We’ve already been compromised. We have personnel walking out of that Hex spouting the enemy’s script.” He looked at Monica with undisguised suspicion. “I don’t trust anything that’s been touched by Maximoff. Especially not when they come back… altered.”

Monica held his gaze. She didn’t flinch. She knew who she was.

“I know my own body, Director,” Monica said, her voice dropping to that command register that usually made junior agents straighten up. “And I know my mind. The Hex didn't make me a sleeper agent.”

Just then, Monica’s internal radar screamed.

It wasn't a roar like America Chavez. It wasn't that terrifying, cosmic supernova of unbridled lust that she sensed circling the perimeter. This was different.

A signature was approaching the blast doors. It was compressed. Dense. Lethal.

The doors hissed open.

Agent Melinda May stepped inside.

She looked exactly as her file described: The Cavalry. Stoic, stone-faced, the ultimate professional. But to Monica’s broken senses, the woman was a walking blast furnace behind a shield of ice.

The energy radiating from May’s crotch was a blinding, focused laser of white-hot need. It wasn't the expansive broadcast of America; it was a tight, ****, screaming hunger that had been compacted under layers of discipline until it was critical. It was the hottest thing Monica had ever sensed.

The reaction was instantaneous. The "warp drive" sensation in Monica’s groin spiked to maximum output. The massive cock tucked into her grey sweatpants didn't just harden; it snapped to attention with a mechanical ferocity that nearly lifted her off her heels.

Panic cold-washed over her. She was standing in front of the Directors of two major agencies, and she was sporting a raging, thirteen-inch erection because the Cavalry walked in the room.

Hide it. Tuck it. Move.

She’d done this a thousand times. Desperately, trying to keep her face neutral, Monica shifted her stance. She grabbed the waistband of her sweatpants through her pockets, trying to wrangle the monster. It was impossibly hard, hot, and unyielding. She tried to shift it to the left, to pin it under the waistband, to find some friction that would hold the beast down.

She pushed against the fabric, shoving the sensitive head of the penis against the cotton weave.

And then....

The resistance vanished.

A cool rush of air hit her skin. The constriction was gone. It felt… right. Comfortable. Like the fabric had simply ceased to exist in that specific spot.

Oh, thank God, Monica thought, letting out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Must have found a hole in the pocket. Or maybe the waistband rolled over. Crisis averted.

She relaxed her shoulders, relieved that the immediate crisis was averted. She looked up, ready to offer a counter-argument to Hayward’s tactical breach plan, ready to be the smartest person in the room again.

The room had gone dead silent.

Hayward had stopped mid-sentence. Coulson was staring at her midsection. Even Melinda May had stopped dead, her eyes fixed on Monica’s crotch with a rare expression of utter bewilderment.

Darcy Lewis, standing near a monitoring station with a tablet, made a small, strangled squeaking noise.

“What?” Monica asked, her voice cracking. The silence was heavy, oppressive. “Is there…?”

She looked down.

The scream died in her throat.

She was still wearing her pants. The grey cotton sweatpants were intact. The drawstring was tied.

But protruding directly through the fabric, not tearing it, not pushing it down, but phasing right through the weave like a ghost walking through a wall, her cock.

The base of the shaft disappeared into the grey material, blurry and indistinct where it intersected with the cotton, but the rest of it…

All thirteen inches of white meat were hanging out in the open air. It was fully erect, bobbing slightly with her heartbeat, the heavy, mushroomed head glistening with pre-cum that threatened to drip onto the command center floor.

And it wasn't just the dick. Her heavy, low-hanging balls, the hardware she and her mom used to laugh about in the safety of their home, had apparently decided to join the jailbreak, phasing through the fabric below the shaft to dangle freely in the cool air of the hab.

“Motherfuc-” Monica gasped.

Her hands flew down to cover herself. But her palms hit… fabric.

She could feel the rough cotton of the sweatpants.

She grabbed the cock. Her fingers closed around warm, solid flesh. She could feel the pulse.

She tried to shove it back in.

It was a nightmare of physics. Her hand pushed the penis against the fabric, but the fabric was solid when she applied external pressure. She pushed, but the pants held firm. The cock remained stubbornly outside, ghosting through the weave from the inside out, but refusing to return.

“It’s… it’s stuck!” Monica yelped, her voice pitching up in horror. She tugged at the waistband, but the erection just bobbed, phasing effortlessly through the shifting fabric as if the pants were made of smoke, yet refusing to be contained. “I can’t put it back in!”

“Jesus Christ, Rambeau!” Hayward roared, stumbling back as if she’d pulled a weapon. “What the hell is that?!”

“I don’t know!” Monica cried, staring at the appendage in betrayal.

The shame hit her like a physical blow. It was the nightmare she’d avoided since childhood, her unique anatomy on display for the world to gawk at. But layering over that shame was a deep, twisting revulsion at the color.

It was white.

Stark, blindingly, offensively white. Against her brown hands, against the dark fabric, it looked like a marble statue’s phallus glued onto her body. It wasn't hers. Her real cock, the King BBC she had grown into, the one that matched her skin, the one she was secretly, quietly proud of, was gone. Replaced by this bleached, veiny monstrosity that looked like something some porn-star white fuckboy would have.

It felt like a violation. Like Wanda had stripped away her heritage along with her dignity.

But then, she looked up. She saw Hayward’s face.

The Director of S.W.O.R.D., a man who had spent the last twenty minutes trying to belittle her, trying to question her loyalty and competence, was staring at her crotch with an expression that was pure, unadulterated shock. He looked small. He looked terrified. He looked… inadequate.

And in that moment, a dark, twisted bolt of smugness shot through Monica’s chest, cutting right through the embarrassment.

Look at you, she thought, a cruel smirk twitching at the corner of her mind. You petty, loud-mouthed bastard. I bet you’re packing three inches of disappointment in those slacks. And here I am, practically beating you to **** with a thirteen-inch bat without even trying.

It was stupid. It was primitive. It was exactly the kind of toxic measuring contest her mom had warned her about. But God, it felt good. Even Phil Coulson, a living legend who had faced down gods and aliens, was standing there with a neat, average little rise of fabric that looked almost embarrassed next to the long, pale cock phasing straight through her sweatpants in full view of everyone, thick and unignorable like it owned the room

For a split second, the shame of the whiteness receded, replaced by the sheer, overwhelming power of being the biggest, heaviest swinging dick in the room. If leadership were determined by dick alone, Monica realized with a flush of dark satisfaction, she was currently the King of the World.

“It’s phasing,” Coulson said. His voice was quiet, analytical, cutting through the panic. He stepped closer, ignoring Hayward’s recoil. “Like… Vision.”

Monica looked up, eyes wide, her face burning. “What?”

“Vision could control his density,” Coulson said, his eyes tracking the way the shaft seemed to shimmer where it intersected the pants. “He could phase through solid matter. Monica… you went through the barrier. Maybe the energy rewrote your cells, much like the Tesseract, or Space Stone, empowered Captain Marvel. Wanda Maximoff has a deep connection to the Mind Stone, and though it is gone, it was the source of her powers and Vision's. It seems these stones can impart power to people when they aren't destroying those they come in contact with.”

“Like… like Carol…?” mumbled Monica, always trying to avoid thinking about the blonde that had abandoned her mom. An aversion that paradoxically gave her a crush on the hottie, increasing her hardness while she fought against her erection.

“So, any person who passes through the Hex could become enhanced,” Hayward noted, a greedy look in his eyes.

“The Hex’s layered dome of magic has the highest concentration by far. We believe it’s what is keeping Ms. America out, but Monica is the only one to go through it more than once. But beyond that, I think you'd have to mean something to Wanda,” Coulson pointed out, doubtful. “She directly changed Captain Rambeau and then abruptly cast her out of the Hex in a moment of… um… strong emotion. I doubt every civilian in Westview has received any special enhancement.”

He turned to look at Monica grimly, “I think you’ve been Enhanced. And right now, you don’t have control over it.”

“This is a containment breach,” Hayward barked, his face twisting with a mix of fear and that toxic male insecurity Monica had spent her life managing. He reached for his comms. “Security! We have a hostile bio-anomaly in the Command Hab. I want Rambeau in the brig, now!”

Monica felt her breath hitch. She wasn't an anomaly. She wasn't a threat. She was Monica Rambeau. And she was currently out-gunning him in every sense of the word.

“No!”

It wasn’t Monica who shouted.

Darcy Lewis dropped her tablet. She moved faster than anyone expected, rushing across the room before the security detail at the door could react.

“Code Red! Medical emergency!” Darcy shouted, grabbing Monica’s arm. “She’s going into… uh… hex-shock! I need to get her to the infirmary before she explodes or… phases through the floor!”

The door to the secure storage closet clicked shut.

The silence lasted exactly one second before Darcy Lewis spun around, her eyes blown wide and glassy with the Hex’s fever. She didn’t waste time with words or seduction. She shoved her pants down to her ankles, kicking them off one foot, and practically threw herself over a stack of hardened transport crates.

Her heavy, pale ass jiggled with the impact, presenting itself like a **** offering. She looked back over her shoulder, flushed and panting, her gaze locking instantly onto the massive, ivory slab of meat swaying between Monica’s thighs.

“Okay, I got you out,” Darcy wheezed, her voice thick with lust. “Now put it in. Right now. Insert penis here.” She smacked her own ass cheek, the sound sharp in the small room. “Fill me up, Captain. I need that magic wand.”

Monica stood there, breathing hard. The adrenaline from the command hab was fading, replaced by the heavy, thudding bassline of her own pulse. Her cock was fully rigid, jutting out from her hips and weeping clear fluid onto the linoleum floor with a steady drip-drip-drip . It was eager. It wanted to oblige. It wanted to tear into Darcy and pound the madness out of Monica with that fat cunt.

But Monica Rambeau was not a man. She was something better.

She didn’t rush. She didn’t scramble. She let a slow, confident smirk curl her lip, the kind of expression that had made grown women stutter in bars from Louisiana to Cape Canaveral.

“Doctor Lewis,” Monica purred, her voice dropping an octave into that smooth, commanding register that vibrated right through the chest. “You’re making a lot of demands for someone who isn’t wearing any pants.”

“Monica, please,” Darcy whined, wiggling her hips. “It’s right there! It’s huge! Just stick it in!”

“No.”

Monica stepped forward. She didn’t grab her cock. She didn’t line it up. Instead, she sank into a deep squat behind Darcy, bringing her face level with those soft, spread cheeks.

Her erection was right there, the angry (stupidly) pink head bobbing just inches from the cleft of Darcy’s buttocks, radiating heat like a furnace. A single drop of pre-cum landed on the floor.

“You’ve been watching too much TV, Darcy,” Monica murmured. She reached out, her hands landing on the curve of Darcy’s glutes. She didn’t grab; she stroked. Long, firm, possessive glides that mapped the terrain of Darcy’s ass. “You think you just want a dick to hammer you? You think that’s all you’re good for?”

“I… yes… I need…” Darcy stammered, her hips bucking involuntarily, trying to seek out the friction. “Come on! Jane never let me threesome with her and Thor, let me get freaky with your magic dick!”

“Hush.” Monica kneaded the soft flesh, her thumbs digging into the dimples above Darcy’s sacrum. “I know what you need better than you do.”

From this close angle, the view was spectacular. Between the pale, parted cheeks, Monica could see exactly what Darcy was offering. A thick, untamed bush of dark curls grew wild at the junction of her thighs, a messy, primal patch that barely concealed the plump pussy lips beneath. They were swollen, engorged with blood, and glistening with a thick sheen of arousal that made them look heavy and eager.

And then, she saw it again.

It flared to life over Darcy’s skin, that vibrant, neon-pink spectral diagram she had tried so hard to dismiss in the command hab. But here, in the dark, without the chaotic noise of six other women and an argument between two would-be alpha males, it was undeniable.

Monica blinked, staring at the glowing overlay pulsing with a frantic, jagged rhythm.

Get a grip, Rambeau, she thought, her mind racing. You thought this was a hallucination. You thought you were cracking up.

But then she looked down at her own crotch, at the white phallus that had just ghosted through solid cotton a few minutes ago. Coulson had called it Enhanced. He’d compared her to Vision.

Monica swallowed hard. She lived in a world where her mother’s best friend was a space-faring superhero. She lived in a world where a purple alien had snapped half the universe out of existence and a wizard had brought them back five years later. There were aliens. There was time travel. There was a witch next door rewriting reality into a horny sitcom.

Monica’s idea of what was possible was clearly no way to guide her ship through life anymore. If she could phase matter, why couldn't she see erotic energy?

Maybe it’s real, she realized, a shiver running down her spine that had nothing to do with lust. Maybe Coulson was right. This isn’t my imagination. It’s sensory data.

She focused on the schematic. It was mesmerizing. She could see the energy bunching at Darcy’s clitoris, a tight, blinding knot of unreleased tension that was screaming for release. She could see the hollow ache in the vaginal canal, glowing with a needy, cooler pink light that deepened the further in it went. It was a roadmap to Darcy’s nervous system, laying out every trigger point and sensitivity.

She tested it. She pressed her thumb against a spot on Darcy’s hip where the energy seemed to flare brighter.

Darcy gasped, her back arching. "Oh god!"

Confirmed, Monica thought, a rush of power flooding her veins. I can read her.

“You’re soaking wet,” Monica observed, her voice thick with a new kind of satisfaction, the satisfaction of a pilot who just realized she’s flying a jet with heads-up targeting. She hooked her thumbs and spread Darcy’s cheeks wide, exposing the pink pucker of her asshole and the glistening, swollen lips of her vulva. “Look at you. Dripping for me.”

“Monica…” Darcy sobbed, her head hanging low. “Please…”

“Patience,” Monica whispered.

She leaned in. Her nose brushed the damp skin of Darcy’s taint, inhaling the scent. The nearness of gorgeous pussy to her face sent a fresh wave of pre-cum pouring from her cock, the shaft twitching violently between her own thighs, aching to thrust.

But Monica ignored it. She opened her mouth and dragged her tongue flat and wide from the clit to Darcy’s rectum.

Darcy shrieked. It wasn’t a moan; it was a high, shocked cry as her legs nearly gave out.

“That’s it,” Monica growled against the wet skin.

She went to work.

This wasn’t the rough, jackhammering sex Darcy had been begging for. This was precision engineering. Monica used the energy sense like a targeting computer. She found the exact spot on the left side of Darcy’s clit where the energy was brightest and flicked it with the tip of her tongue, rapid-fire. She pressed the flat of her tongue against the vaginal entrance, humming against the lips to send vibrations deep into the internal structure.

She ate with a ravenous, devastating rhythm, sucking, lapping, devouring.

“Oh god! Oh my god!” Darcy was thrashing now, her hands scrabbling against the crate for purchase. “Monica! Monica, stop, I can’t-!”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Monica mumbled, her hands clamping onto Darcy’s hips to hold her in place.

She felt the energy spike. The pink glow in her mind turned blinding white.

Monica doubled her speed, sucking the clit into her mouth and circling it mercilessly.

Darcy shattered.

She screamed, her whole body seizing as her soft buttcheeks jiggled and squirmed around Monica’s buried face, and Monica followed the blazing patterns only she could see, hauling those cheeks wider in her hands and driving in closer, mouth and tongue working exactly where every pulsing line of Darcy’s pleasure told her to be.

Monica didn’t stop. She waited for the next wave to crest, then dove right back in, finding the aftershocks and riding them into a second peak.

“No, no, I’m done, I’m done!” Darcy wailed, but her hips were grinding back against Monica’s face, begging for more.

“You’re done when I say you’re done, ‘Titties’,” Monica said, surfacing for a breath, her chin slick with Darcy’s juices. Her cock was throbbing so hard it was painful, a steel rod sticking out 45 degrees from her deep knee splayed squat, but the feeling of power, of pure, feminine dominance, was a better high than any mere thrust.

She drove Darcy into a third orgasm, this one a sobbing, trembling release that left the astrophysicist limp and gasping, her legs sliding out from under her as she clung to the crate like a shipwrecked woman hanging onto the last piece of driftwood in a storm of orgasms.

Finally, Darcy went limp and gasping against the crate.

"See?" Monica murmured, pulling back, "Now you're ready."

She stood up slowly, her knees cracking. Darcy was a mess, trembling and whining, her brain completely fried.

"No more dicks," Darcy mumbled deliriously into the crate. "No men. Only Monica. I'm gay. I'm so soo gay now."

Monica chuckled, a sound of pure satisfaction, feeling far more centered and back on her game after America’s ambush. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard some version of that line; more than a few women had staggered away swearing there was no going back after her. She grabbed Darcy by the waist and hauled her upright, spinning her around so her ass was against the crate.

“That’s a good girl,” she murmured.

She leaned in and captured Darcy’s lips in a bruising, claiming kiss. It was deep and slow, tasting of Darcy’s own arousal. Monica pulled Darcy’s hips flush against hers, grinding the hard ridge of her erection against Darcy’s stomach, letting the girl feel the sheer scale of what she was dealing with, but keeping the control firmly in her own hands.

This was her element. Not the confused victim in the med bay, not the puppet in the Hex. Here, in the dark, with a woman melting in her arms, Monica was the Queen. She was the one who could give a woman everything a man could, and then do it better, harder, and with twice the skill.

Monica didn’t let the moment linger. She wasn't done. She hadn't even started the main event.

“Now,” Monica said, leaning in close, her voice dark and smoky. She brought a hand up to cup Darcy’s heavy breast, squeezing the soft flesh with a firm, possessive grip. “Tell me what you need.”

Darcy blinked, trying to focus. She looked down at the thirteen inches of white meat jutting from Monica’s hips, then at Monica’s face, at the dark eyes, the confident smirk, the absolute command.

“I…” Darcy swallowed, her voice trembling.

“Who do you want?” Monica pressed, letting the head of her cock push between Darcy’s hanging tits, a heavy, threatening promise.

“You,” Darcy whispered, grabbing Monica’s shoulders, her fingers digging in.

With a smooth, deceptive display of strength that belied her lithe, five-foot-five frame, Monica grabbed Darcy under the ass cheeks and hoisted her up. Darcy squeaked, her legs instinctively wrapping around Monica’s waist, her heels locking behind the Captain’s back. Monica walked her backward three steps until Darcy’s spine slammed flat against the metal shelving unit.

Monica rolled her hips forward and pinned Darcy to the rack with her body weight, then shifted her grip. One hand slid under each pale thigh and hiked them higher, walking Darcy’s knees up until her calves rested on Monica’s shoulders. The shelf took part of Darcy’s weight, the rest locked into Monica’s palms. Darcy’s lower half folded back on itself, plush ass off the metal and legs flared into a soft, trembling M that framed her soaked sex. Monica sank into a squat to bring her pelvis lower. Her enormous cock dragged down Darcy’s belly in a glossy stripe, the fist-sized crown bumping over navel, slipping through the dark thatch and settling at the swollen mouth of her pussy. The contrast was obscene: Monica’s lithe brown body and that huge, ivory-white shaft, thick as a forearm, veined and drooling, cockhead shining like a glazed fruit as she nudged it against the slick, blushing lips.

"Fuck, that’s huge," Darcy breathed, eyes bright and wincing in the same beat. “Like you’re totally bigger than Thor, I mean I didn’t see it but I totally got Jane to do the, y’know, ‘show me on the air’ hands-apart thing? And she’s all ‘Darcy, that’s inappropriate, and I’m not doing that,’ but then she’s standing there in the lab with her palms this far apart.”

Darcy framed a span in the air, eyes going hazy again as she looked down between them.

Monica huffed a small laugh through her nose. “I don’t need the Thor comparison, Darcy,” she said, voice low and a little amused. “I’ve known since middle school I was… ahead of the curve.”

Inside, there was a little flicker of smug warmth she absolutely refused to show on her face. Bigger than a Thunder God. Not exactly a shocking revelation, given what she lugged around in every locker room she’d ever changed in, but still… nice to have the data point.

Out loud, she kept it cool. “What I care about,” she murmured, tightening her grip under Darcy’s thighs and pinning her a little harder to the shelving, “is how you walk out of this closet. Or if you walk at all.”

Darcy’s eyes rolled, a shivery, helpless smile breaking across her flushed face. “Okay, yeah, that’s… that’s a lot hotter than thunder stud’s whole deal,” she babbled, then snorted breathlessly. “I mean, love the guy, but five years of beer and sadness turned him into a cuddly keg without a hammer. You? You’re like if someone stripped all that down to pure god-dick energy. Jesus, Captain, just… just do whatever you want with me. I am officially a worshiper at the church of Rambeau.”

Monica didn't jab. She didn't fumble. With the slow, inexorable pressure of a hydraulic press, she began to sink it in.

The head popped through the entrance, stretching Darcy’s slit into a perfect, taut circle.

"OHGODOHGODOHGOD!" Darcy screamed, her head falling back against the metal shelf.

Monica pushed. She watched the pale white shaft disappear inch by inch into Darcy’s body. It was a magic trick. A thirteen-inch disappearance act.

"Take it," Monica growled, her face buried in Darcy’s neck, kissing as she drove her hips forward.

She sank past the point where most men stopped. And she kept going.

"YOU’RETOO… YOU’RETOODEEP!" Darcy wailed, her fingernails digging into the fabric of Monica’s sweatshirt. "TOO DEEP! YOU’RE HITTING MY SOUL!"

Monica didn’t stop until her pubic bone ground against Darcy’s vulva, her heavy, white balls swinging and rebounding off of the scientist’s fat cheeks with a pleasant plap.

Balls deep. Thirteen inches of bleached, phasing cock buried inside a sexy big tit nerd girl. Which was weird. Ten was generally what she could get inside her average woman, the extra three allowing her to do essentially every position out there including all those in the Kama Sutra. But Darcy’s thick ass was apparently deep as fuck.

So Monica began to work.

She didn't just thrust; she rolled. She ground her hips in a circular, grinding motion that utilized every millimeter of her girth to massage Darcy’s internal walls. She pulled back, slowly, agonizingly slowly, until just the head remained hooked inside, and then snapped her hips forward.

SHLLLLP… CLAP!

The sound of Monica’s pelvis hitting Darcy’s ass cheeks was loud, wet, and violent.

"FUCKINGHELL! FUCKINGHELL!" Darcy shrieked, her eyes rolling back so far only the whites showed. "I’M CUMMING! I’M CUMMING FROM THE GIRL-DICK! I’M CUMMING FROM THE MEGA GIRL-DICK!"

Monica caught the rhythm. She was an expert. She knew exactly how to angle the stroke to hit the cervix just right, not a bruise, but a deep, bell-ringing impact that sent shockwaves through Darcy’s nervous system. She rode the rhythm like a pilot in perfect sync with her machine, drawing nearly all the way out until the thick ridge of her crown tugged at Darcy’s entrance, then driving back in on a true line that made the shelves rattle.

Every long pull had that obscene, wet suction, every return stroke was a straight-line spear that made the metal groan and Darcy’s voice shoot up into glass-breaking territory.

“Captain, Captain, Captain,” Darcy chanted, then lost the word and came apart into breathless vowels. “Ah, ah, ah, ah. Yes, yes, yes, yes!”

“I am cumming, I am cumming, I am cumming so hard from your girl cock.”

Monica laughed low and delighted, breath hot in Darcy’s ear. “Good girl. Again.”

She stacked three cruel, perfect thrusts, deep kisses to the cervix that rang it like a bell, then ground in tight circles that dragged the thick crown along that swollen inner seam. Darcy’s pussy grabbed and milked, wild and greedy, pulling like it wanted to steal the entire length and hide it forever. Juices spilled down Monica’s shaft, down her heavy white balls, a glossy stringing mess that made every stroke louder.

SHLLLP. CLAP. SHLLLP. CLAP.

Darcy went bimbo-brained fast. Words tangled and fell apart, then returned as filthy little praises, then dissolved again into high, helpless squeals. Drool ribboned from the corner of her mouth. Her glasses slipped down her nose, fogged, fell, dangled by one earpiece. She laughed at nothing, then begged for everything.

“It’s too big, it’s too big, it is the biggest cock in the world,” she babbled, shining with sweat, tits bouncing against Monica’s chest each time the shelving bucked. “You are scooping my brain out through my pussy, Captain, oh god oh god!”

Monica wasn’t a man. She didn’t actually have any deep-seated need to have her dick and sexual prowess vocally celebrated and verified by her partner. She was a woman who had fought tooth and nail for respect. But that didn’t mean she didn’t viscerally enjoy the praise of her size, the shock in Darcy’s eyes, the total, irreversible surrender of a smart, sassy woman to the thick, hard reality of her body in the moment.

“Yea?” Monica murmured, kissing her jaw, her mouth, her throat between thrusts. “What are you then? What are you for me?”

“Yes,” Darcy sobbed. “Yes yes yes yes, I am your lab rat, I am your wet test subject, smash me, make me dumb, make me dumber, oh god I am so dumb for your cock.”

Monica braced, shifted her feet, and really opened the throttle. Full power. The shelf sang. It bit into Darcy’s shoulder blades. The whole closet reduced to heat and slap and slick and the rhythmic, helpless keening of a woman getting rearranged by an expert with a monster.

Darcy seized hard, then harder, then hit a rolling, thigh-shaking orgasm that would have dumped her to the floor if Monica’s hands weren’t locking her in place. The scientist’s pussy fluttered in manic pulses, sucking Monica deeper with every spasm, her clit throbbing under the tight press of their mounds.

Monica felt the coil in her belly tighten. The pressure in her balls was critical. She wanted to fill Darcy. She wanted to pump this phat white girl with cum deep into the scientist’s womb and leave her leaking and claimed. But again. She wasn’t a man. She was responsible and wouldn’t dare ejaculate into a vagina without permission. Hell, she should be wearing a condom but inexplicably her ever present stash of custom XXXL Magnums had vanished from her bags and Wanda’s Hex was making good decisions feel like distant trivia, soft and unimportant at the edge of a brain gone drowsy and stupid on sheer, overwhelming lust.

But as the orgasm crested, that strange, techy sensation returned to her scrotum.

It wasn't just biological pressure. It felt like... a menu. A switch. A digital toggle hovering in the bio-electric feedback of her nerves.

Monica’s eyes widened. The realization hit her, she had a choice.

"Holy shit," she whispered.

On pure instinct, wanting to see if it was true, wanting to know exactly what she had become, Monica mentally flipped the switch.

She erupted.

But she didn't fill Darcy’s womb.

The semen shot from her urethra with the **** of a firehose, but instead of pooling inside, the thick white fluid phased. It ghosted right through the uterine wall, through the abdominal muscle, through the spine and the ribs.

"WHAT THE-?!" Darcy gasped, her eyes snapping open.

It was a fountain.

Thick, heavy ropes of pearlescent semen sprayed out of the top of Darcy's head, geysering into the air like a whale spout. It erupted from the swaying breasts, splashing up under her chin. It blasted out of her back, splattering against the metal shelving unit behind her with wet, slapping sounds.

With every heavy pump of Monica’s pelvis, the cum shot through Darcy’s biology to explode from her skin, coating the scientist in a layer of Monica’s seed from the inside out without hurting her at all.

"Oh my god, it's everywhere!" Darcy yelped, shaking her head as the fluid drenched her hair and ran down her face, even though Monica was still buried hilt-deep inside her. "How are you doing that?! It's coming out of my tits!"

Monica groaned, riding out the aftershocks, watching the spectacular, impossible mess she was making. It wasn't just a physical quirk. It wasn't just a mutation.

"I can control it," Monica panted, resting her forehead against Darcy’s slick shoulder as the last ropes phased through Darcy’s back to hit the shelf. "Coulson was right. It's a power. I can control the density of the fluids. The density of… me…"

Darcy blinked, wiping a glob of white fluid from her glasses. She looked from the mess on the shelves to Monica, her scientist brain visibly rebooting as she came down from her own incredible multiple climaxes.

"Okay," Darcy breathed, looking at the bulge in her soft stomach and the cock still twitching inside her. "Okay. That is... scientifically fascinating, janitorily messy, and cocottelly delicious." she said after scooping a dollop of phantom jizz from the shelves in front of her and sucking it down.

Monica pulled out slowly, the phasing cock slipping free with a wet pop. She set Darcy down on her feet, steadying her as the scientist wobbled.

"We need to figure this out," Monica said, looking down at her still-phasing erection with a new sense of acceptance. It wasn't just a strange white dick. It was tech. It was power. "If I can phase this... what else can I do?"

Her eyes flicked back and forth over the plush scientist still jiggling in front of her. Monica’s gaze looked deeper, feeling Darcy’s internal energies almost an arm’s reach away. Like with just a little push she could make this juicy white girl’s womb quiver and descend for breeding with…

Darcy grinned, adjusting her glasses, looking at Monica with a mix of lust and intellectual hunger. "Well, Captain. I guess we need to run some experiments."

Mark Williams was not himself right now. When he looked in the mirror, it was not his face he saw.

This was not some deep metaphorical emotional moment of reflection, no, this was for realsies not his face.

Between this and that twat Dr Strange, Mark had one conclusion: Magic sucked.

Mark’s mind had been shunted all over the place recently. First it had been locked away in his body so that the bitch witch Agatha could wear him like a suit whenever she wanted. He’d managed to escape with his ability to touch others–floating through the ethereal television show of Wanda Maximoff’s Hex–their souls touching enough through her magic for his soul to sneak deep into her subconscious. From there, her mind was his plaything, even if he didn't realise what was happening. As Wanda fell deeper and deeper in love for Mark, ‘Mark’ was compounding the issue by railing her with his massive dick in reality. And in a moment of climax Wanda’s subconscious pushed Mark far away–aiming to put his soul back in his body but unable to overcome Agatha’s magic–with his soul landing in a weak man that they’d been planning to use for an upcoming plot point.

Ralph Bohner.

A.K.A. ‘Pietro Maximoff’

A.K.A. Quicksilver.

Ralph was originally cast by Agatha to replace Wanda’s dead brother, sewing seeds of doubt and confusion in her reality. He would have been a first class actor–ready to face an apocalypse any day of the future or past–but in his weakened mental mind controlled state Mark’s soul had completely stomped Ralph’s down to take over his body.

Of course, Mark didn’t know any of this. He just woke up with a new face, smaller dick, and super speed. He should have caught up on Wandavision, now streaming on Disney Plus!

But the time for adverts is over now. Wandavision XXX had become the default state of the show, no longer throwing back to the fluffy reality where Wanda wanted to pretend to be Vision’s housewife. The porn parody was winning.

And Mark deserved to be the star.

“Ow!” He hissed, slamming hard into the house across the street. He rubbed his arm, “How the hell do speed guys do this? Everything’s on fucking two times speed…” Mark grumbled, taking what he thought was a few more steps and finding himself slamming face first through a window of a house down the street. “FUCK! Why would anyone want super powers that aren’t mind control related?!”

He looked around the house he’d just created a glass mess in, expecting to have to explain why he’d just crashed through their window… only to see that the family inside couldn’t give less of a shit about him.

There were a few oddities that Mark noted as he stared at this family unit.

One, it was Halloween. The pumpkins yet to be carved, halloween bunting, candy bowl near the door. Wasn’t it around August?

Two, it was strange that a family of adults were celebrating Halloween. A boy in his late 20s, girl in her early 20s, and parents in that parent age where they were still clearly living life (clearly) wouldn’t usually bother with such a kiddy holiday. But they were all in costume right now… more or less. From youngest to oldest they were: sexy cat, pirate, sexy nurse, vampire. Boring-ass royalty-free store-bought costumes that lay mostly in ruin from the rough sex.

Oh yeah, three: they were having incestuos sex.

Dad and son were on the couch side by side, sister sucking her dad while mom rode son. So wrapped up in their sick thrills that they couldn’t care less about the hole that Mark had made through their window. Sex seemed far far far more important… that, and watching TV.

All of them were trying their hardest to watch the TV as much as they could. Always fucking or sucking for a few seconds before making their brains consult the screen yet again.

Mark was weirded out enough already, but he wasn’t expecting to see himself on that screen. “What the hell?! I better be getting royalties for that!” He huffed, having his priorities definitely correct. “Is that… Wanda?”

Yes, it was. Wandavision XXX is now mandatorily streaming on Westview Plus! All should be watching such an incredible piece of art. It was life changing, seeing Mark and Wanda become one was like a **** to the citizens. They literally couldn’t get enough of watching the magic show on repeat. It made them hot, it made them weep, it made them horny, it hit em right in the feels. All these reviews and more would not be given directly by the citizens as they were too busy watching their show, or fucking whoever was closest.

Still, seeing the girl he’d just invaded the mind of was making Mark more determined to find whoever was using his body this way. Turning himself around from the family to go get it.

Too bad he still couldn’t get the hang of walking.

CRASH! “FUCK!”

Had someone just said fuck?

Well, yes. Many people were screaming fuck at the top of their lungs right now. Throw a rock and you’d hit three sex havers deep in the throws of vulgar pleasure.

But what was notable was someone had just used an expletive with a negative tone.

Vision had been walking through the absolute ghost town of Westview wearing his Halloween costume in nothing more than a daze. Was this not supposed to be the holiday episode? Surely there should be throws of people lining the streets–a homely community where one could raise their children in peace with like minded individuals.

Though maybe this sexual reality was what they’d signed up for. Wanda, Billy, and Tommy all seemed so happy. They had kicked Vision out the house claiming they’d ‘catch up soon’. It wasn’t the double penetration ramming his wife was currently receiving from his sons that was bumming him out, it was the pointless lies. There was no way the three of them would actually come out for Halloween trick-or-treating, yet he was sent away anyway to follow an episode script that had long needed a rewrite. Even following a script felt foreign to him, like it was somehow the wrong way to be living life… but it just compounded all his feelings on the matter the longer he thought about it. Did he even have a place in Westview anymore, or was he just getting in the way of Wanda’s happiness as but a faded memory?

So now he was here. On a street on Halloween where everyone was too busy doing the horizontal greased-weasel tango to trick or treat. Sounds of pleasure hitting from every angle… except one.

Another expletive, and Vision spotted a blur of motion zoom from one side of the street to another. Then again. Back and forth, always swearing and crashing before bouncing back again.

“Woah! Careful there!” he said, catching the blur mid zoom. “Are you alright… P-Pietro?!”

He was bruised, a little cut up, but unmistakably a Pietro Maximoff, like he had risen from the grave like some sort of dark phoenix…

“Who?” He panted, wiping his face of dirt and shaking off the question entirely, “I don’t have time for this. I need to find my body!”

“I don’t understand. Are you not my brother-in-law, back from the dead?

“No, man!” hissed an angry Pietro, “Shouldn’t you be off fucking in front of a TV like the rest of these drones?”

Vision frowned, “I don’t have such a capacity I’m afraid.”

“Oh, sorry. Can’t relate… wait, can I even get a boner in this body?!”

Something was feeling fishy to Vision. All this strangeness had begun compiling and compiling, and this strange person felt like a huge clue that Wanda wouldn’t want him to know about for some reason. “If you don’t mind me asking, if you are not who you look like, who do you claim to be?”

After a small pause considering his options, he spoke, “Mark Williams.”

“...my neighbour?”

“What?” They both looked at each other confused, “Wait! Yes! Whoever has taken over my body must be your neighbour! Where do you live?!”

“Before I tell you, I feel like it would be pertinent to catch each other up on the situation. I feel like we have many pieces to share, and perhaps we might be able to solve this puzzle together.”

“This Agatha bitch is starting to piss me off. It was really her all along?”

“All signs point that way,” hummed Vision in agreement. “Though she may just be taking advantage of a situation formulated entirely… by Wanda.”

Mark frowned with Ralph’s face, “I dunno man. I was in her head for a while, she didn’t seem that mastermindy. Though it was strange that Agatha made Wanda fall for me…” he lied.

“That’s true, and I’d like to think Wanda does not have the capacity for this. Yet I fear her connection to the Mind Stone is the only plausible explanation to the ‘red dome static’ you were pulled through.” He explained, feeling the pit in his non-existent stomach deepen with each revelation, “And if what you say is true… then these feelings of incompleteness I have been struggling with are because I too am part of this fictional reality.”

“Yeah… sorry man. I have a, you know, my own Natasha explain to me what happened during all the Thanos crap you went through. I remember explicitly her telling me that you died, because of my powers and… yeah.” He admitted, trying to not give his own super villain nature away to the hero and how Nat said it was good that Vision was dead, “Maybe you were rebuilt?”

“Wanda used to say I was a miracle,” he replied with a melancholic smile, “I would explain to her the definition of miracles would not include the manufacturing of a machine that could hypothetically be reconstructed, but she refused to agree. I suppose that too is just another lie she told me… though I have no proof these memories of mine are even real…”

The moment hung in the air like a forgotten soggy sock still pegged to the washing line. Vision struggling with his existentialism, while Mark was struggling to empathise with another creature.

“Ah, so what.” said Mark with a dismissive shrug, “I’m basically an interdimensional cockroach living on borrowed time. Bro, do you know how many times I should be dead? From the moment I touched Ororo’s hand, that shoulda been enough for her to zap me. But I’m still fucking here!” He declared loudly and proudly, spinning around fast enough to cause a small tornado that knocked over some nearby bins, “Tell me, what do you want to do?”

Vision was a bit confused by the boy, but confusion had permeated him too long to let it hobble him, “What I want-?”

“Yeah! Sounds to me like you’ve been a side character in this TV show that has your fucking name in it! You should be out doing what you want, not sitting back and letting yourself get cucked!” “I constantly do what I want, and so far getting it has felt amazing. Like right now I’m going to punch that Agatha chick in the back of the head with super speed and then try and get my body back. What, about, you?”

“I suppose…” said Vision, pondering the question with vigor returning to his circuits, “I suppose I’d like to leave Westview. To test the limits of Wanda’s magic, and perhaps go see my friends in the Avengers once more.”

“There ya go! Up and at em, champ!” Mark clapped, not expecting him to take it so literally.

Vision started floating upwards, his fake Halloween costume fading to nothingness as he wore his red face without shame, “Thank you, Mark Williams. I will try to repay this kindness.”

“Yeah, you do you,” Mark dismissively brushed him off, watching as he flew off towards the edge of town. He wasn’t sure why he’d helped the sad sack out, maybe it was just to fuck with whoever was fucking with him or some level of empathy actually cracked through the mind controller’s soul. Either way, he was done thinking about him. With a crack of his neck, Mark readied himself up in a runners position, “I’m gonna get me back.”

“OW!”