imagine you transmigrate into the invincible verse and first thought is literally — fuck, i’m cooked. fast forward, you realise you possess a character that does not exist in the main timeline, you are an anomaly. the anomaly who suddenly disrupts the story and makes the actual main character, mark grayson, fall in love. how? because love at first sight or however the saying goes. the moment you’ve entered his life, he knew you were different. special.
you cherished him like no one else, you were great with all his friends as if you’ve known them for a long time, you have been different since the start. you were your own bubble of energy — always believing in him, always appreciating him when no one did. he feels so understood through you.
and after that, you might as well skip to the several variant arc because around that time, you noticed that this was your biggest mistake. you should’ve put your fingers out of the story. is this the so called butterfly effect?
“—and you are?” his stare burns through your skin, sweat slowly forming on your neck while swallowing down your biting remarks.
“GET AWAY FROM HER!” you could hear mark’s desperate, bloody scream from behind as he tried to fly towards you.
“w-well, i’m mark’s best friend.” you answered carefully, and took a step back as soon as the variant approached you.
“as far as I remember, I only had one good friend in my universe, whose name I can’t remember. the other me’s never mentioned you. what’s your name?” you can read the pure curiosity mixed with amusement off his stiff posture.
summary: You're just Mark's forgotten human friend, left aside after his life turned upside down. But was that really all you were in the main universe, and what about in others?
author's notes: Hi everyone, how are you? I hope you're all well! Here's another chapter, this one was rewritten twice because I accidentally deleted it lol... wow, I hope you enjoy it! Happy reading!
PREVIOUS CHAPTER: 01
❝ YOUR EYES ❪ COLOR ❫ widen as you try to process the scene in front of you. The sight of two Marks (or Invincible) leaves your mind slightly hazy, as if that couldn’t possibly be real.
As if it were just some kind of sick joke. You try to back away from the situation, but the white-suited Mark is faster, his arms sliding around your waist until he grips your hips with extreme force:
That Mark Without Lenses laughs, his dark eyes devouring your face as if you were a work of art ── his pupils dilate, licking his lips:
"Oh," he laughs. "I see you had the same idea as me, Mark," the Mark Without Lenses exclaims, landing atop the debris of the broken wall. Your dorm room had turned into pure chaos, everything shattered, scattered, and covered in dust. "After all... we’re the same person, with the same goal in the end, aren’t we?"
"Shut up," Mark snaps, grinding his teeth. You try to break free from his grip, but his hold is firm, as if he refuses to let you go. "Stay still," he says with unusual seriousness.
"Oh, so you didn’t tell her?" the Mark Without Lenses approaches, laughing mockingly. "You know we’re not the only ones who had this idea... it’s only a matter of time before all the others show up," he smiles maliciously. "And when that happens, the real war will begin."
"Others?" you ask, confused. Your eyes widen as you feel the white-suited Mark tense beside you.
"It doesn’t matter." Mark’s grip tightens painfully on your hip, making you gasp. "I’ll kill them all, without exception. Anyone who lays a hand on my woman will die." He says it so casually it sends chills down your spine.
"My woman?" the other Mark mocks. "You’re stealing from another Mark and still calling her yours?" He bursts out laughing. "How arrogant, Mark Viltrum," the smug grin on his lips is terrifying.
Suddenly, he stops, staring at you as if you were nothing more than prey:
"Sweetheart... close your eyes, I don’t want you to see so much violence... yet." And in an instant, using his super speed, the one without lenses lunges at the other Mark, raising his fists.
Mark Viltrum shoves you aside, and you stumble, falling hard onto the ground. The scene before you is terrifying ── the two colliding, blows clashing as Mark Viltrum blocks with precision.
And the building trembles.
Your breathing becomes uneven as you scramble to your feet in panic. From the corner of your eye, you catch the moment Mark Viltrum lands a punch on the other, making him spit blood... yet he laughs.
And groans. Asking for more.
It’s sickening, and you quickly back away, your steps unsteady, dust rising around you. Taking advantage of the moment when neither of them is paying attention to you, too consumed in a fight that seems endless.
The hallway is empty, and with every strike, the building shakes.
Your mind races as your body pushes toward the emergency stairs ── there’s no way you’d take the elevator in a situation like this.
Who were those two? And why did they look so much like Mark?
You try not to dwell on it, especially not on the fact that there were others. Other Marks? Other copies? And why were they coming after you? Where was the real Mark in all of this?
He definitely wasn’t worried about you. He probably didn’t even know his identity was being stolen by idiots with his same face, voice, and body.
Your steps are desperate as you rush down the stairs from the 7th floor toward the ground level. The building shakes like jelly, the walls starting to crack apart.
Your eyes lock onto the number: 4th floor. You were close. Just a bit more and you’d reach the ground floor, finally escaping this nightmare.
Your steps halt when you notice a man standing at the bottom of the fourth-floor staircase. Tall, slightly muscular, wearing a black and blue suit that covers his entire body, along with a mask.
You freeze halfway on the stairs, your hands trembling as you realize he stopped as well, his shoulders tense as he speaks quickly:
"I’m not here to hurt you," he says calmly. "I came to help you... I won’t hurt you like the others." His voice sounds like Mark’s, though slightly muffled by the mask.
The masked man steps closer ── or tries to ── because you immediately step back, slipping and falling onto the step behind you:
"DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!" you shout, eyes wide. He raises his hands in surrender:
"I won’t hurt you," he repeats gently, using the same tone Mark always used with you in tense moments. "I’m not like them... I just want to take care of you."
His shoulders tense even more when he sees how scared and withdrawn you are:
"I miss you," he begins, his voice dropping. "In my universe, you were killed by Omni-Man... and..." He swallows hard, as if on the verge of tears. "But I won’t let the same mistake happen twice... I won’t let anyone hurt you."
Your brows furrow:
"What the hell are you talking about?!" you snap, standing up and gripping the railing. He steps closer again, and you retreat further.
"I’ll protect my mother... and you..." He moves toward you, his steps heavier now. Your eyes widen, your breathing quickens, and you think you’re about to be kidnapped again by some lunatic.
But then the building shakes violently, the structure cracking. Pieces of concrete begin to fall, and you shut your eyes tightly, bracing for impact.
You feel hands grabbing your waist, pulling you away. Your eyes try to focus on something, but the dust—along with something that feels like fabric completely covering you—keeps you from seeing anything.
You stifle a breath, your hands pressing against a strong chest. The wind brushes softly against your face, and panic begins to rise as you try to kick whatever is holding you.
And suddenly, clarity returns to your vision—slowly, you look at the strong arms holding you, noticing the chaos surrounding the campus.
Destruction. The college buildings were ruined, but your building was now reduced to nothing—blocks of concrete where you had once spent so much time.
Your eyes widen in confusion, and you swallow hard as you realize you're in someone’s arms, being carried through the air.
Shit.
Your head quickly turns to the side, your expression shifting when you notice another guy who looks like Mark—but wearing a mask and a pathetically red-and-white uniform.
With Omni-Man’s symbol.
Omni-Man.
Your brain short-circuits, registering those last words. Your arms struggle weakly against the muscular chest, light tears forming in your eyes:
“LET ME GO!” you shout, but that “hero” doesn’t obey. His hands tighten around your waist, as if reminding you who’s in control.
“Don’t be rude,” he says, his voice once again similar to Mark’s, making your stomach twist. “I’m the one in charge here…” His grip becomes firmer. “Maybe I should remind you who you belong to.”
GDA HOSPITAL
Amid all the chaos, Mark stands beside Eve—who lies unconscious in bed, her leg broken, in a light coma.
The world outside was falling apart.
Several variants causing destruction beyond anything seen before. All thanks to Angstrom, who seemed extremely amused watching this dimension crumble into ashes.
Cecil enters the room alongside Donald, who carries a tablet in his hands.
The older man crosses his arms, sighing:
“Mark.” His voice echoes through the room, where only the beeping of Eve’s vital monitors can be heard. “You should be out there, helping other heroes who are dying because of pathetic copies of you.”
“I’m not leaving,” he snaps, clearly frustrated, looking at Eve. “I can’t leave her here alone.”
“She’s in one of the most guarded hospitals… It’s unlikely your variants will find us here,” Cecil explains, while Donald starts scrolling through something on his tablet.
“No.” Mark growls. “I won’t.”
“Your mother, your friends… would you let the world fall into chaos? When Eve is stable?” Cecil presses, growing irritated. “You’re our only available weapon against those monsters.”
“No,” Mark growls again, refusing to look at him.
Silence falls, and Cecil sighs, glancing at Donald, who seems to understand immediately.
Images of destruction project from Donald’s tablet. The college campus… your campus.
It’s like something snaps inside Mark as he sees it.
“We deployed small drones across Chicago… the situation is bad,” Cecil begins, arms crossed. “They left the big cities and came here.”
“There are 25 more heading there… Some were killed, others intercepted… but—” Donald pauses. “They all have one thing in common.”
Mark freezes, letting Eve’s hand slip from his fingers as he stands abruptly, though still tense.
“What?”
“❪ name ❫.”
The silence that follows is terrifying. Cecil knows he’s hit a nerve.
He inhales deeply, adjusting his tie as the image zooms in—you, struggling in Omni-Mark’s arms.
“And there are more heat signatures heading there…” Donald continues. “They probably want something from her, since they haven’t hurt her—and are even fighting each other.”
Mark goes still, eyes locked on the projection. You—defenseless—while Omni-Mark holds you with possessive force.
He feels it. He notices the way the other Marks are looking at you… at what is his.
“I figured you’d want to know that… your childhood sweetheart is in the hands of those maniacs, and she could—”
Cecil is cut off when Mark grabs him by the collar.
“Where… where is she?!” he demands, rage rising through him. He looks like a different man now, almost shaking, fists clenched.
“University campus in C-Chicago!” Cecil answers quickly.
Mark releases him, grabbing his mask from the counter and putting it on.
As he’s about to leave, he glances once more at the projection—at you—and feels a burning urge to destroy that pathetic version of himself.
But the image suddenly glitches and disappears.
“Someone must’ve… taken out our surveillance drone,” Donald says.
Mark clenches his jaw and leaps out the window, flying toward the campus.
Without looking at Donald.
Without looking at Cecil.
Without looking at Eve.
Without looking back.
Flying toward you.
Because he’s tired of pretending that staying away from you was enough.
Tired of pretending that becoming a side character in your life was the right choice—that you’d be safe.
But he was wrong.
Because leaving you alone was enough for dozens of versions of him to come after you—to claim you, to kidnap you, or worse.
He wouldn’t let you slip through his fingers again.
That Mark—this version—would not lose.
He wouldn’t leave you again.
He would run, fly, and kill every single one of them—
I'm free from school... Break..! I finally whisper.. as I'm dragged to a one-month trip.... // Again,, mohawk and lensless very inspired by louisdoner69 on twt :happy:
Pink clouds, wrong winds, a shimmer at the edge of the horizon that no one could quite explain. People said it was a storm system, or some satellite malfunction, or whatever else made them feel safe enough to still walk their dogs.
But on your little suburban street, the world was still pretending to be normal, birds still sang, the mail still came, and you still sat cross-legged on your bed flipping through a fashion magazine, pink gloss glinting in the dying light.
You didn’t care much for the details, you just liked how the sunset made your nail polish look extra shiny.
You had no idea that a god was coming for you.
He’d torn through dimensions before.
Through worlds that looked almost right, that felt almost right, universes where his name was still Mark Grayson, but the air didn’t taste like home. Where there was no you.
In his world, you’d worn the crown of Viltrum at his side. You’d been the only one brave enough to touch his blood-stained hands and call them human. The only one who could calm the storm that lived behind his eyes. And then you died, flame, light, silence. He’d held your body and sworn the stars themselves went dim.
So when Angstrom Levy whispered that you was alive, somewhere else, that he could bring him to you… Mark hadn’t hesitated.
Now he stood above your neighbourhood, his cape torn, his armour dark with dust and smoke, staring down at pastel rooftops and cherry-blossom trees.
The air smelled like sugar and summer rain.
It didn’t make sense. None of this did.
Until he saw you.
You, sitting there on your bed with your magazine, hair catching the light, a smoothie straw between your glossed lips.
So normal. So heartbreakingly alive. You weren’t wearing a crown now, just a baby-blue skirt and a soft sweater, legs crossed, flipping through a magazine.
A sound, not thunder, not exactly, rolled across the sky, deep enough to rattle picture frames. Your head snapped up. For a second, everything went still, too still. Then a shadow passed over your bedroom window.
Something, someone, moving too fast to be human. He landed without a sound. The air rippled. The pages of your magazine fluttered.
You pressed to the glass, heart skipping. He landed on the street like a meteor, pavement fracturing beneath his boots. Blood, dust, and red armour that gleamed even in the fading light. Not your Mark. Not quite.
This one’s shoulders were broader, movements sharper. His eyes, same hazel brown, but harder, swept across the quiet neighbourhood like he was searching for something.
He was standing at the end of your driveway. And then he looked up.
Right at you.
You froze, your breath catching like static. Because even from behind the cracked windowpane, you saw it, that flicker of something raw in his face. Recognition. Relief.
Before you could even blink, he was gone from the street. Then—
A rush of air. A thud on your balcony.
You stumbled back as your curtains fluttered. And there he was.
Mark, but not your Mark. His hair darker, his suit stained with someone else’s war. A faint scar sliced across his cheek. He looked like every nightmare version of someone you loved. And yet…
He looked at you like he’d been holding his breath for centuries.
“...You’re alive,” he said, voice low, disbelieving.
“I—” you managed, clutching your magazine like it was a weapon. “I think you might be looking for someone else?”
Mark just stared, he shook his head, slow and certain. The name he hadn’t spoken in years trembled on his tongue.
"No. I found you."
You blinked. “Me?”
The way he said it, soft but heavy, like a vow, made your heart stutter. He stepped closer, eyes drinking in every detail like he was memorising you. The gloss on your lips. The oversized college hoodie slipping off one shoulder.
“You died,” he murmured, like he couldn’t believe the words. “Back home. Angstrom said— he said he could take me somewhere you still existed.”
You blinked, mascara fluttering. “I— I don’t even know who Angstrom is. I’m— I’m just a college student! I have midterms, and— and a boyfriend—”
His jaw tightened at that word.
“You’re his,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was pure disbelief, like the universe had betrayed him twice.
There was something broken in his voice, something that made your chest tighten even though you had no idea who he was.
“I’m… not yours,” you whispered, though your voice didn’t sound convincing even to you.
He exhaled shakily, and for a moment, the world outside didn’t exist, just the two of you, the air thick with something unnameable. You’d never seen eyes so broken, so hungry, so sure.
“You don’t remember me,” he said, more to himself than to you. “But I remember every version of you.”
Your heart tripped over itself. And somehow, you believed him.
Maybe it was the way he said it, not cruel, not possessive, but raw. Like he was speaking to a ghost.
And when he finally spoke again, it was almost a whisper. “I crossed universes to find you.”
You didn’t mean to let him in. But somehow the balcony door was open, and somehow you were sitting on the edge of your bed again, knees drawn to your chest while he stood in your room, this stranger with the same face as someone you knew, tracking every corner like it hurt to see how small it was.
He didn’t touch anything.
Just looked. At the perfume bottles on your dresser, the stack of magazines, the clutter of makeup everywhere. “You always filled rooms with colour,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
“You talk like you’ve been here before,” you murmured.
His gaze dropped to you. “Not here. But… everywhere you were felt like this.”
You swallowed. “You keep saying that. That I’m her. That I died.”
He nodded once, slow. The light from your window caught the edge of his ruined cape. “We ruled together,” he said. “Viltrum was colder than this world, but when you laughed, it felt like spring. You used to tease me for how serious I was. You’d tell me I looked better when I forgot the crown.”
Something in his voice, hoarse, reverent, made your stomach twist. “What happened to her? To… me?”
His jaw clenched. “A rebellion. I was too far away. By the time I got back, there was only smoke. I buried you myself.” He glanced up again, eyes gleaming with a grief that seemed to stretch across galaxies. “I thought time would dull it. It didn’t.”
The room was too quiet. Your fingers twisted in the hem of your sweater. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“You don’t have to be,” he said. “You don’t remember it. But I do. Every word. Every look.”
He told you things then, half-memories, half-fairytales. How you’d once stood beside him in white armour, how you’d scolded him for being late to your coronation, how he’d learned to braid your hair because Viltrum had no maids and you refused to cut it. His voice softened when he spoke about the way you’d calm him after battles, how you’d touch his face like he was something human.
It was impossible, all of it, yet you found yourself listening, eyes wide, pulse thrumming. The details were too small, too tender to be inventions.
When he finally stopped, the silence between you felt fragile. You looked down at your hands. “That doesn’t sound like me,” you said, half smiling, half terrified. “I can’t even remember to water a plant.”
His lips curved, just barely. “You would’ve said that then, too.”
The smile faded into something heavier. “You don’t have to believe me,” he added. “But I needed to see you once more. Even if you never remember, I needed to know you were somewhere safe.”
The ache in his tone cracked something in you. You reached out before you could think, your fingers brushing the scar along his cheek. “You look tired,” you said softly.
He caught your wrist, but gently, as though afraid you’d vanish. “You always said that,” he murmured. “Right before you’d tell me to rest.”
Your heartbeat thudded in your ears. “Then rest,” you whispered.
For the first time, the tension in his shoulders eased. He lowered himself beside you, just enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. The world outside still burned with distant battles, but your little room felt suspended in its own quiet orbit.
You didn’t know if he belonged here, or if you belonged anywhere near him, but you found yourself wanting to keep listening, to the stories, to the way he said your name, to the soft disbelief in his voice when he looked at you.
Maybe it was madness. Maybe it was fate.
But when he smiled again, tired and almost human, you felt it, that dangerous pull of falling, even across universes.
He leaned closer, slowly, as if testing the air between you. The scent of ozone and distant smoke clung to him, mingling with the vanilla lotion on your skin. His forehead brushed your shoulder, a shockingly tender gesture. You froze, breath catching as his lips pressed softly against the curve of your neck.
Warmth bloomed where his mouth touched, sharp and electric, making you gasp and jerk backward instinctively. His arms tightened, holding you still for a heartbeat too long before letting you pull away.
"Don't—" you choked out, fingers trembling against your throat where his kiss lingered like a brand. His eyes locked onto yours, raw desperation clawing through the exhaustion.
"This might be the last time I see you," he rasped, voice cracking. "Your face… your laugh… I need to remember it right." The yearning in his gaze was a physical weight, heavy enough to bend the room around you both.
He didn't move closer again, just watched you with that fractured intensity. Your boyfriend’s face flashed in your mind, Mark, your Mark, texting about dinner plans while this stranger bled universes onto your rug.
The guilt coiled hot and sudden in your stomach.
Yet, when he reached out, brushing a stray hair from your cheek with knuckles scarred and rough, you didn’t flinch. His touch was gentle, deliberate, mapping you like uncharted territory. "In my world," he murmured, thumb tracing the line of your jaw, "You’d already kissed me by now."
The words hung between you, charged and dangerous. You saw the manipulation then, subtle as a knife slide, the grief weaponised, the loneliness offered like a bridge you couldn't help but cross.
Your pulse hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of confusion and something darker, sweeter. The magazine lay forgotten on the floor, pages splayed open beside his cracked boot.
His thumb still traced your jawline, rough skin catching on your softness. The accusation hung in the air, you’d already kissed me.
It wasn't just a statement, it was a challenge wrapped in velvet grief, a lure cast into the turbulent sea of your confusion. You saw the manipulation, the way he wielded his loss like a key to your sympathy, but the ache in his eyes felt real, terrifyingly real. It resonated somewhere deep and forbidden.
He leaned in again, slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving yours.
This time, his lips didn't seek your neck. They brushed yours, a feather-light contact that sent a jolt through you. It wasn’t your Mark’s familiar, easy kiss. This was desperation distilled, a question asked with trembling pressure.
Ozone and iron, the scent of alien battles, filled your senses, overwhelming the vanilla of your room.
You meant to pull away. You should have pulled away.
But a sound escaped you, a tiny, breathless gasp against his mouth. And then, inexplicably, impossibly, you were kissing him back. Your lips moved against his, tentative at first, then with a sudden, shocking hunger that mirrored his own.
It wasn't gentle. It was collision, a frantic claiming fuelled by centuries of loss and the dizzying, terrifying pull of recognition you couldn't explain.
Your fingers tangled in the torn fabric of his cape, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself against the vertigo. The taste of him, salt, smoke, something metallic and ancient, flooded your mouth.
Your boyfriend’s name screamed silently in your mind, drowned out by the roaring in your ears and the frantic beat of your own traitorous heart. He groaned, low and deep, the sound vibrating against your lips.
One hand slid into your hair, cradling your head, while the other pressed firmly against the small of your back, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his armoured chest.
The kiss deepened, turning fierce, possessive. It wasn't tenderness, it was a drowning man dragging you under with him, a reclamation of something he believed was irrevocably his.
His tongue swept against yours, demanding, exploring, mapping the contours of your mouth with a familiarity that stole your breath and twisted the knife of guilt deeper. You clung to him, lost in the storm he carried, the magazine pages fluttering uselessly on the floor beside his boot, forgotten relics of a life that suddenly felt impossibly small.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your jaw, your throat, leaving a path of searing heat. "Every universe," he murmured, voice thick against your skin, rough with reverence and something darker.
"Every single one. You're always perfect." His hands slid down your sides, fingers finding the hem of your soft sweater. He pulled it up slowly, revealing the smooth skin of your stomach, his gaze worshipful.
You shivered, not from cold, but from the intensity of his stare, the sheer certainty radiating from him. He nudged you backwards gently, guiding you onto the bed until you lay against your pillows.
He followed, settling between your legs, his weight a solid, anchoring presence. His eyes never left yours as his fingers hooked into the waistband of your baby-blue skirt. He slid it down your hips, the fabric whispering against your skin, joining the discarded sweater on the floor.
Then his fingers traced the delicate lace edge of your panties. "So soft," he breathed, his touch achingly slow as he peeled them down your thighs. "Always so soft for me." His calloused fingertips brushed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making you gasp.
Then, finally, he touched you there.
A slow, deliberate circle around your clit, the pressure perfect, maddeningly light. Your hips jerked involuntarily.
"Shh," he soothed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your core. "I remember." His thumb pressed down, rubbing slow, rhythmic circles, each stroke sending jolts of electric pleasure radiating outwards. He watched your face intently, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every bitten lip, every hitched breath.
Unlike your Mark, eager, sometimes clumsy, wonderfully flustered, this Mark moved with devastating precision.
Every touch was calculated, expert, honed by experience you couldn't fathom. He knew exactly how to draw the tension tight, how to make your body sing for him alone. He leaned down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss just below your navel.
"You taste like sunlight," he murmured against your skin, his thumb never faltering its slow, torturous rhythm. "Even here. Even now."
The contrast was dizzying, the raw, cosmic yearning in his eyes, the gentle, devastating skill of his hands, and the terrifying knowledge blooming within you: he knew you better than anyone, even yourself.
He pulled back slightly, his gaze locked onto yours.
With deliberate slowness, he began to unfasten the clasps of his battle-scarred Viltrumite armour.
Metal plates slid away with soft clicks, revealing the powerful musculature beneath, broader shoulders, thicker cords of muscle straining against his skin, littered with scars your Mark didn't possess.
Then, his fingers moved lower, freeing the final clasps at his hips. The armour fell away completely, pooling at his knees on your rug. Your breath caught. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already fully erect.
It was impossible. It wasn't just longer, it was thicker, harder, veins standing in stark relief against flushed skin, a brutal testament to Viltrumite biology pushed to its absolute limit.
A visceral shock ran through you. Your Mark was strong, powerful, but this… this was primal, overwhelming.
Every inch of him radiated raw, untamed power, a physical manifestation of the centuries of war and loss etched into his soul. He saw your wide-eyed disbelief, the flicker of apprehension mixed with undeniable fascination.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, possessive, knowing. "Stronger," he rasped, his voice thick with need. "In every way." He ran a hand slowly down the thick length, his knuckles brushing against your trembling thigh. "Built to rule worlds… and ruin you."
He didn't ask. He didn't hesitate. He gripped your hips firmly, lifting you effortlessly, aligning himself.
The blunt, massive head pressed against your slick entrance. You braced yourself, biting your lip, expecting pain, invasion. Instead, he pushed forward with agonising, controlled slowness.
Inch by impossible inch, he filled you, stretching you wider, deeper than you'd ever been.
A choked sob escaped you, not pain, but overwhelming fullness, a pressure that bordered on exquisite agony. He groaned, deep and guttural, his head falling forward, dark hair brushing your forehead.
"Gods," he breathed, his voice ragged. "Tighter than I remembered." He stayed buried to the hilt for a heartbeat, letting you adjust, letting the sheer, impossible size of him imprint itself on your senses.
Then he withdrew, almost completely, before thrusting back in with that same devastating control.
Each slow, deep stroke dragged against every sensitive nerve, igniting sparks behind your eyelids. His eyes burned into yours, intense, possessive.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough velvet. "Look at me while I take what's mine." His hips rolled, a powerful, relentless rhythm that stole your breath and shattered your thoughts.
Your boyfriend's name dissolved into meaningless static, replaced by the pounding of your own heart and the slick, obscene sound of him moving inside you. He filled the room, filled your world, leaving no space for anything but him, his strength, his claim.
Tears blurred your vision, hot and unbidden.
"T-Too big," you gasped out between shuddering breaths, your fingers clawing at his scarred shoulders. "Mark… please… it's too much…"
The words were a whine, thick with overwhelmed sensation and a dawning, terrifying pleasure. He chuckled darkly, low and vibrating through your joined bodies. He leaned down, catching a tear on his thumb before bringing it to his lips.
"You used to beg for it," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot. "Beg me to fill you just like this." His thrusts deepened impossibly further, grinding against a spot that made stars explode behind your eyes.
A ragged cry tore from your throat as your back arched off the bed. He smiled, a feral, possessive twist of his lips. "See? Your body remembers." His pace remained torturously slow, deliberate, each powerful thrust designed to maximize friction, to make you feel every ridge, every vein.
He watched, enthralled, as tears tracked down your temples, mingling with sweat. "Cry for me," he rasped, his own control fraying, his breathing harsh. "Cry because you know you belong here. Under me. Filled by me." The words were manipulation wrapped in velvet grief, a poison you drank willingly.
He shifted, hooking your legs over his forearms, spreading you wider, sinking deeper still. The angle was brutal, perfect. Your whimpers turned into desperate moans, your hips lifting to meet his punishing thrusts despite the overwhelming stretch.
"That's it," he growled, approval lacing his voice. "Take it. Take all of me." His gaze dropped to where you were joined, watching himself disappear inside you, slick and glistening.
The possessive hunger in his eyes was terrifying, exhilarating. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a fierce, claiming kiss, swallowing your cries, his tongue mimicking the relentless thrust of his hips.
Outside, the wind howled louder, shaking the windowpane, a distant echo of the storm he carried within him.
Inside, your small room was filled with the sounds of skin slapping skin, ragged breaths, and the soft, broken sounds of your surrender.
He moved with the precision of a conqueror reclaiming lost territory, every stroke a declaration: You are mine, in every universe. His hand slid down your trembling stomach, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing tight, insistent circles.
"Come for me," he commanded against your mouth, his voice thick with need. "Show me you remember." The dual assault was too much, the deep, stretching fullness, the sharp friction on your clit.
Pleasure coiled, impossibly tight, then shattered. You screamed into his mouth, your body convulsing around him, clamping down on the massive intrusion.
He groaned, deep and triumphant, his thrusts turning frantic, losing their careful control as he chased his own release, buried impossibly deep inside you.
He pulsed within you, hot and thick, filling you with a possessiveness that went beyond the physical. His body shuddered above yours, muscles locked taut, breath ragged against your sweat-slicked neck.
For a long moment, there was only the frantic drumming of your hearts and the fading tremors of your climax.
Slowly, reluctantly, he withdrew, leaving you feeling achingly empty and impossibly marked. He stayed close, propped on one elbow beside you, his gaze tracing the flush spreading across your chest, the tear tracks drying on your cheeks.
His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip. "Mine," he murmured again, the word softer now, laced with a profound, weary satisfaction.
The unnatural pink glow had deepened outside. A low rumble, distinct from thunder, vibrated through the floorboards, another universe tearing at the seams.
He tensed, his head snapping towards the window, the lover instantly replaced by the warrior. His jaw tightened. "Levy's portals are unstable," he said, voice hardening. "They won't hold."
He looked back at you, the raw yearning crashing back into his eyes, sharper than before. "I have to go back."
You stared at him, the impossible reality crashing down: the taste of him still on your tongue, the ache between your legs, the lingering scent of ozone and sex.
Mark, your Mark, would be checking on you soon. Panic, sharp and cold, sliced through the haze of spent desire.
He sat back, breathing hard, the heat between you fading into something quieter, heavier. You reached for his hand, gripping it tightly, afraid that if you let go he would simply dissolve back into the impossible light that had brought him here.
The air around you hummed, faintly electric. The walls trembled.
Another portal was opening.
“Mark,” you whispered. You didn’t know which version of him you were calling to, the one from your world or the one who had crossed galaxies to find you. Maybe both.
He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb tracing your knuckles. The battle-hard calm returned to his features, but underneath it, something softer flickered, a grief so old it looked like love.
“If I stay,” he said quietly, “your world unravels. Levy’s fractures will spread until there’s nothing left of either of us.” His eyes lifted to yours. “I can’t lose you again… even if it means I have to walk away.”
The sound of the portal deepened, a low thrum that made the windows shake. Light spilled through the cracks, violet and gold, painting his face in colour.
You shook your head. “Will I ever see you again?”
He smiled, that same half-smile your Mark sometimes wore when he was trying to be brave. “Every universe has a version of you,” he murmured. “Maybe someday, when the stars line up just right… you’ll love me.”
You wanted to say something, anything, but the words caught in your throat. So you did the only thing you could: you leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his. The warmth of him, the smell of smoke and sky, seared itself into your memory.
When the light flared, you had to close your eyes.
And then he was gone.
The room was silent again, the air still humming faintly, your curtains fluttering with the echo of his departure. Outside, the sky had returned to an ordinary blue-grey. The world, impossibly, went on.
You sat there for a long time, tracing the spot on your hand where he’d held you, half-expecting to wake up from the whole thing. Then your phone buzzed, your Mark, texting to ask if you were okay after the war outside.
You typed back, yeah, all good, though your heart still felt full of stars.
And when you looked out the window one last time, for just a second, you thought you saw a streak of red against the horizon, disappearing into the clouds.
