Discount Invincible (Bulletproof SI/Invincible Comics)

I was just the everyman, scrolling down the couch, sipping soda, when the world went crazy. Next thing, binge-watching Invincible, the next thing, living it. Not just observing, but Bulletproof, the champion whom I paid no attention. Insanity, huh? But believe me, like a slap with a damp fish and the words, "Surprise, you're living in a comic book!"

So, my favorite thing about this wack-ass transition is the smell of paint. Yes, paint. Because Bulletproof—and let's be realistic, Zandale—is evidently a painting nude women sort of fellow. Who would have imagined he's the nude-painting sort, huh? But here I am, trapped in this fellow's body, with the taste of oil paint and stale marijuana hanging about, and for absolutely no reason at all, it's comforting. Like putting on a pair of trusty sneaks. I look down at my hands, and sure enough, they're smudged with color. Paintbrush as fingers, here. And all the body-perfect superheroes running through my head.

But first things first, let's tidy myself up. I scan the room, and there's pandemonium. Half-complete doodled-upon pictures of the superheroine decorate the walls, and there's a painting in the corner set to be the next ass-painting Mona Lisa. TV is still going in the background, and I can't help but grin when Mark Grayson's gangling teenager's mug shows on the television. CLASSIC. Do they have selfies with him?

Talking about teen angst here, there's this bizarre buzz at the back of my skull. It's like the head's multitasking the lives of him and me at the same time. Sure, yeah, I'm sure I have his memories and all, but the mix with the love of cartoons and comics is evoking the bad "who am I" blues. And there's also this new power thing that I have to sort through. It's like having a cheat code with the power to level up when there's trouble. How awesome is that?

But before I can be an outright superhero, there is a knock at the door. It is Carla. She is standing there with this expression, like the worried expression of her having worried about her boyfriend but also sort of turned on. She's seen me be outright Bulletproof before, after all, so when the door doesn't rip from the hinges when I let her in, she suspects something. I keep the act going, pretending to be the same old Zandale. "Hey, babe," I reply, nonchalantly flexing.

"You okay?" She enters. She's sporting one of the uniforms from casual Friday everywhere else but the significant other of a superhero. Her tight blue jeans, her baggily tank with just the hint of skin exposure necessary to keep things intriguing, her boots with the strong possibility of being able to kick the shit out of me without even considering the act.

"Yeah," I reply trying to sound casual and lying. "Had a wild night."

Her smile faltered. "You weren't home last night again, were you?"

"Nah, just went through... vision questing," I pretend. "You see, in the hopes of gaining contact with my internal artistry."

Carla raises her eyebrow, and I can see the cogwheels grinding inside her head. She's suspicious, but because she cares about me, she lets the matter pass for the present. "Well, your artistic self has been keeping himself busy these days," she says, her eye sweeping the messy room. She crosses the floor, approaching the painting, cocking her head as she views the new work. "This is... intriguing."

I chuckle awkwardly, feeling somewhat self-conscious about how sloppy the drawing is. But then again, there's no pretending like she hasn't seen enough of these sort of things from me. "Yup, been trying the capture the essence of... um, power struggles through painting."

Carla nods hesitantly, likely unconvinced but doesn't press the issue. She's been keeping her own secrets as well—to be accepting of her boyfriend as a superhero. I can see the worry in her eye as she takes me in. She's been the support type all her life, even when it doesn't make sense.

"Let's talk, okay?" She flops onto the bed. It's messy, but I'm sure she doesn't care. She motions to the space beside her, and I sit down, the pounding of my heart. Does she have any idea what's going on? Does she have any clue whatsoever?

"What's up?" I ask, trying to keep the tremble from the voice.

Carla sighs, her stunning F-cup boobs heaving with the movement. Her nipples hard as rocks under her clothes, no doubt from the AC. She's a killermuffin, but I'm bringing this up because they're staring at me. Me personally. Not because they're ogling at me. Although, pre-isekai, the last thing I would have imagined was being all about the "girlfriend of the superhero thingy." But here we are. She crosses her legs, and I'm ogling her legs. Her legs are like the roadmap to heaven, but with the GPS.

"You're acting strange, Zandale," she speaks softly, her voice lighter in tone than normal. "You're hiding a secret from me."

I swallow hard, dry throat. "It's just... the painting, okay? Sometimes the painting gets the best of me."

Carla looks at me with her searching eye, searching for the truth. She is beautiful, her hair falling down her shoulders like a flame. Her skin is caramel-colored, & her ass... let's just put it this way: a work of beauty. She is the curvy beauty who makes you wish to pen sonnets and sculpt. And she is all mine. At least, as far as she is aware.

"You're tense," her flat hand pressing against the inside of my thigh. "I can work with that."

Before I can even process, her massaging is sending ripples through the length of my leg, her hand creeping higher onto the crotch. Already aroused from just the view of her, her touch is sending electricity through me. "Carla, I..." But her opening the zipper of my pants, her gaze locked onto mine.

"It's fine," she breathes, her hot breath against my neck. "I know you've been under a lot of stress. Let me make everything disappear."

Her grip is firm around my cock, already hardening with lust. It's more than the glance, more than the sensation of her skin. It's the movement of her hand. Her touch is like a soft electricity, causing me to jump and gasp. She smirks, knowing precisely how her touch is affecting me.

"You like that?" She speaks softly, her voice low, seductive. A simple nod is all I can manage. She continues stroking me, her thumb tracing the length of the tip of my cock, stroking the slit. It's like reading a book on "Getting a Man to Whimper." And believe me, she's started at the end. Her hand quickens, and I can see myself nearing the end. But the instant before I ejaculate, she stops.

"Not yet," is all she says with a sinful grin. "I want a taste first." Before I even notice, she's down at my knees, hard cock standing tall. She's smirking at me with her fierce reddish-brown eyes, and there's no more resisting the temptation of ruffling her hair. "Go ahead, babe," I breathe softly, giving her the green light.

And boy, does she just keep at it. Carla starts with a light touch at the base of my cock, her gentle mouth sending waves of pleasure through me. Then wraps herself about me, inch after inch, her heat, her opening. She's like a damn pro at this, her teeth nibbling the sensitive skin just the right way, her tongue dancing around the tip. I moan, rolling my eyes back in their sockets. She's giving me this expression upwards at me, her eyes filled with hunger and love, that makes me the only man alive.

As she gets the beat going, her bouncing her head from side to side, I just can't help but grab her ass. It's like having two handfuls of heaven. Her ass is rounded and tight, like bouncing a quarter. And her asshole, is as tight as can be. I'm aware she's the sort who isn't about all of that, but I just can't keep myself from fantasizing about sliding inside her, feeling her clutches like a vise. Her moans vibrate through the base of my cock, and God damn, if I wasn't flesh and blood, I'd probably just blow from sheer pleasure.

But just as soon as I realize I'm going to suffocate, she lets me breathe again, leaving me gasping. "What the hell, Babe?" I rumble, throat parched with want.

"I want you inside me," the woman grunts, her voice hoarse. She lurches onto her legs from the floor, tears her shirt from her body, her boobs standing there like the balls of vanilla ice cream in Zandale's daydream. And believe me, more than anyone else, I'm eager to be the cherry.

Carla unbuckles her blue denim jeans and slides them down, her ass jiggling with every motion. She's the magazine-perfect ass, but without airbrushing—all natural. Can't even wait to lick a piece of her. She slides her jeans down, leaving them in a rumpled pool at her feet, and kicks her boots away. She's also sporting a matching red-colored thong as her hair color, and her pussy is peeking through, already glistening with precum.

"You like what you see?" She spins around, standing before me with the sight which can elicit even a saint's "Oh my god."

"Fuck yes, I do!" is how I reply, tight with the temptation of spending all my wad there.

Carla laughs as she makes her way towards the bed, pushing the thong down with a taunt that stiffens my cock. She climbs onto the bed and takes the pronebone doggystyle position, her legs splayed wide with her gorgeous ass up. It is like she is inviting me to take her, and I'm more than willing.

"You're so bloody perfect," I breathe, running my hand down the length of my legendary cock. It's as if the cock is aware it's going to be the actor in a great movie.

"You're not bad at all, either," Carla replies, her gaze sweeping toward me from the corner of her eye. Her smile is the siren's call, and the ship is wrecked. I'm on the bed, kneeling at her back. She's dripping with arousal, her body ready for me, and the view is just enough to give me pause. Her vagina is a work of art—a pink, swollen thing with glistening droplets of arousal.

"Zandale," she whines, thrusting her hips backward at me. "Please."

I don't need any more convincing. I sit at her entrance, the head gliding over her folds, push into her gently but firmly. She's tight, her velvet fist shut down hard over me. I groan, overwhelmed. Her walls shut hard over me, and I feel her the length. Carla's breath is caught, her back arched, her breasts pushed up towards the ceiling. They're full of milk, ripened, the temptation there for me to sink into them and breathe no more.

"Oh, god," she moaned, her body thrust hard against me. "Fuck me, Zandale. Fuck me hard." And fuck her hard is all that I do. Wrapping her hips with my hands, pumping, the cock sliding in and sliding out of her like a piston. Drenched with fluids, blazing with heat, as if she's been waiting for this. Her ass wobbling with each thrust, the slapping of flesh through the air. Carla's eyes clenched tight, her mouth agape in a wordless shriek of pleasure. I can see the tension in her body, the tightening and the relaxation of her body with each movement. She's a work of art let free, and I'm the sculptor who holds the power to make her tremble.

I lean in close to her ear and softly whisper, "You like that, don't you?"

"Mmhmm," she moans her hot breath on my neck. "Don't stop."

So, I keep pounding her, balls slapping her clit, her moaning louder. Her vagina is a vise, clamping down tight with every thrust. I can sense her climaxing, her body clenching around me. And my new power takes the wheel at this point—I can sense myself gaining power, cock thickening. It's like the body's reacting to the challenge, like the body's aware that I have to give her the best fuckk of her life.

She looks at me with her blazing hot gaze, mouths the words, "Spit in my mouth." And no matter how much I don't even understand myself, just the same, I just do. I bend down close enough, cock still hard inside, and let a great big glob shoot straight down her expecting mouth. It's like stamping her as mine. She swallows like a trooper.

Then she is talking dirty with me, her voice all needy and breathy as she speaks softly in my ear. "You're inside me so deeply," she moans. "You're stuffing me so well."

And that's when the realization dawns. Her body clams down, her pussy clamped tight about me hard as milking every last drop of cum from my balls. She climaxes, her orgasm tearing through her like a tornado, her body thrashing with the power of it. It's like having a live "The Birth of Venus," but with more shrieking and less seaweed. She tosses her head back, her mouth wide in a soundless "O," her eyes rolling back.

I keep pumping her, her vagina closing tightly about me, her fluids saturating the bedding. And the explosion. That tension, tension from the second her hand landed upon me, tension developing in balls like a mountain about to blow as a volcano. "I'm gonna cum," the gruff voice unmistakable.

Carla's eyes widen as she looks at me, her own climax tearing through her body in waves. "Cum inside me," she whines, her voice a trembling whisper. And trust me, I would. More than anything. It's like my cock's waited its whole life for this. I slam into her one final time, balls-up, tense, and then it is there. It's as if a dam bursts, a wave of hot white pleasure starting at the base of the spine and coursing through me. A roar tears from my throat, the cock pistoning as I piston her full. Carla's eyes roll back in her head, her body trembling as she cums again, her pussy milking me dry. It is as if the world is just the two of us, animals in heat.