Two Strangers, One Bench
It was a sweltering summer evening. In the park, the younger folks jogged in packs while the elderly ambled along slowly, walking their dogs. The air smelled faintly of grass, dust, and sweat.
Seated on one of the long benches, perfectly still, was a man who looked oddly formal for the setting. He wore a buttoned-up Zhongshan suit—every button fastened to the very top. His hair was neatly parted down the center, styled with the precision of a North Korean parade. His face was calm, almost blank. And his slightly round belly strained faintly against the fabric of his suit.
This man was none other than Pervert Marvel.
For the past few weeks, Marvel had made it a habit to sit on this very bench around sunset. Most people who came to this part of the park were retirees enjoying the breeze or patients recovering from illness, soaking up a little peace before dark.
But Marvel’s reason for being here… was different.
Every evening, at around the same time, a voluptuous woman would jog past this path—her sport bra tight, her pink triangle-shaped workout shorts even tighter. To Marvel, she was like a living goddess. He didn’t dare speak to her. He didn’t even dare look directly for too long.
He simply… observed. From a distance.
Until one day—everything changed.
Marvel was sitting in his usual spot when he noticed someone else settling down on the other end of the bench. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of pink fabric.
Wait—was that… her?
His heart skipped.
Slowly, cautiously, he turned his head.
It was not her.
It was a man. A massive man. His muscles looked like they had been carved from iron and stapled to his frame.
It was Dave.
Ever since his wrist had been shattered by Michael, Dave had sunk into a spiral of doubt and disillusionment. He no longer cared about fighting. His confidence had been broken clean in half.
Now, he sat there—eyes hollow, mood agitated, and a faint sadness clinging to him like smoke.
He didn’t speak. Just sat there. Quiet. Still.
Marvel remained frozen too. Two motionless figures. Two silent souls. Both staring straight ahead.
Days passed.
Marvel kept coming back. And so did Dave.
Each evening, Dave would notice the same man in the same spot, wearing the same blank expression—one that carried a subtle weight of sorrow.
And Dave began to wonder:
“Could it be… that he’s just like me?”
Same pain. Same loneliness. Same pathetic routine.
And so—one evening—Dave finally leaned slightly forward.
And quietly spoke the first words between them.
One-Sided Healing
“Looks like… you’re a broken man too.”
Dave spoke softly, his tone relaxed, almost casual—as if they’d been friends for years.
“You ever feel like… no matter how hard you train, how much you push, you hit a ceiling? And you can’t break past it? Like… the world’s a lot harder than you thought it’d be. At first, it seemed simple. But now? It’s just disappointment. Frustration. Helplessness.”
He didn’t expect an answer. He wasn’t fishing for comfort. He just needed to let the words out. To stop them from rotting in his chest.
Right at that moment, the familiar rhythm of running footsteps approached.
That same woman—the one in the pink triangle shorts and tight sport bra—came jogging past again. Her limbs were lean and powerful, her movements fluid and light. But it was the bounce—her chest bouncing in perfect, hypnotic rhythm—that locked Marvel’s full attention like a spotlight.
He didn’t move his head. He didn’t roll his eyes. But every ounce of his focus was glued to her chest.
He was utterly, reverently captivated.
And right next to him, Dave kept pouring his heart out.
He glanced sideways, catching a glimpse of Marvel’s face—calm, focused, even solemn.
“He’s really listening…”
Dave was touched. He had never met anyone who seemed to listen with such care and attention. Every now and then, Marvel would even nod slowly or murmur a soft, polite “Mm.” or “I see.”
What Dave didn’t know was that Marvel wasn’t listening at all.
He was just doing habitual response motions. A little nod here, a soft grunt there—enough to not be rude. But his mind was far, far away.
Still, Dave took it to heart.
He started talking more—about his regrets, his insecurities, his failed fights, his broken ego. Every word he’d buried inside came tumbling out like floodwater. And Marvel sat there, eyes forward, nodding occasionally, never interrupting. The perfect listener.
Two more weeks passed.
They still came to that same bench every evening.
And every day, Dave talked.
And Marvel… watched.
Then one evening, without warning, Dave turned to him and said:
“You know… I’ve never had a real friend. I’ve always been alone, always kept people at a distance. But now… I think I finally get it. The importance of friendship.”
“You might be the first real friend I’ve ever had.”
“For some reason, I don’t feel so hopeless anymore. Not so weak. Not so empty.”
“Maybe—just maybe—friendship really can help me break through my limits. Thank you.”
He paused—heart open, eyes soft—waiting in silence.
Marvel, hearing the pause, recognized it as his cue.
As always, he offered a polite response, purely out of habit:
“Oh, yeah. Sure.”
The truth was—he hadn’t heard a single word Dave just said.
Not a line. Not a phrase. Not even the “thank you.”
But Dave didn’t know that.
And just like that… their friendship was born.
That same night, Dave went back to the gym.
It had been nearly a month since he’d last stepped inside.
He grabbed a 180-pound dumbbell, lifted it with both arms, and held it high.
There was something different this time.
A spark.
A fire.
A force in his muscles he’d never felt before.
He didn’t know what it was exactly.
But deep down, he believed…
“Maybe… this is the power of friendship.”
Friendship-Powered Violence
It didn’t take long.
Dave was back.
The bruises were gone. The sadness had faded. And the old fire was burning again.
He returned to the streets like a storm—full of energy, aggression, and a strange new surge of strength.
A strength powered by one ridiculous, beautiful thing: friendship.
His fists felt lighter. His movements sharper. His confidence—reborn. And behind every punch, he felt something new anchoring him: a connection, however imaginary, that gave him momentum.
You could find him anywhere now.
In alleys, parking lots, shopping malls, rooftop gardens, even inside public restrooms.
Wherever he went, someone always ended up in the hospital—bones broken, teeth missing, faces rearranged. Dave wasn’t just back. He was on a rampage.
One afternoon, Local Hero Sean was found unconscious on the sidewalk—face swollen like a balloon, lips purple, eyes shut tight. His body twitched in a pile of trash bags, as if he’d been hit by a dozen iron bats.
Dave stood beside him, calm as ever.
He gave Sean’s shoulder a gentle nudge with his foot.
“You can’t beat me anymore,” he said softly. “Because I’m not fighting alone… I have friendship.”
Then came the church.
It was a sunny afternoon when Dave happened to stroll past a wedding in progress. Guests were gathering near the chapel entrance, music playing softly in the background. Near the doorway stood a large framed wedding photo. The bride was glowing, and the groom stood tall beside her—stoic, muscular, exuding quiet strength.
Dave narrowed his eyes.
“This guy… looks powerful.”
Without hesitation, he stepped through the doors—uninvited and completely serious.
The pianist froze mid-note. The bride blinked in disbelief. The room went still.
Dave marched straight down the aisle until he was face to face with the groom.
The groom clenched his jaw.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled. “You’re ruining my wedding. Get the f*** out.”
He grabbed Dave by the shoulders and tried to shove him toward the doors.
But before he could finish the push—
Dave reached up and tore open the groom’s stiff bowtie with one sharp yank, ripping it clean off his neck like he was unwrapping a package.
The groom flinched.
Dave’s right fist suddenly shot forward toward the groom’s face.
But the groom was quick.
He wasn’t just some fancy-suit poser—he knew how to fight. His instincts kicked in, and he raised his arms just in time to block the blow.
The punch landed with a dull, heavy thud.
Both men stepped back.
They locked eyes.
And without another word—the real fight began.
They clashed violently in front of the altar.
Dozens of blows were exchanged. Chairs flipped. Flower arrangements exploded. The bride screamed. The priest hit the ground and army-crawled away behind the pulpit.
The groom was strong. Surprisingly strong. But Dave was different now.
He wasn’t just throwing punches. He was throwing belief.
After dozens of exchanges, Dave took two steps back.
His body dropped low. Knees bent. Shoulders coiled.
His right fist pulled behind him like a loaded spring.
For a second, he closed his eyes.
In his mind, he saw Marvel standing behind him—completely silent in that signature Zhongshan suit.
Marvel’s right hand rested firmly on Dave’s left shoulder, calm and steady.
No words. No instructions. Just presence.
And support.
Dave felt it.
He felt everything.
“Friendship Punch,” he whispered. “Full release.”
He lunged forward and unleashed it.
The groom, already sensing the danger, crossed his arms in front of his chest and braced himself.
It didn’t matter.
Dave’s punch landed—and the groom’s forearms snapped like dry branches, both blasting clean off at the elbows and spinning away through the air.
But the punch didn’t stop.
A powerful shockwave traveled straight through the groom’s torso.
The fist drove forward, and the energy behind it ruptured everything inside him.
His chest exploded.
Blood. Bone. Flesh. Organs. All of it blasted outward like a firework, splattering across the stained glass, the altar, the pews, and the horrified wedding guests.
The bride fell to her knees, shrieking.
Her hands trembled, reaching out toward the bloody remains of her groom, now nothing more than scattered debris across the sacred hall.
She dropped her bouquet and sobbed—loud, ugly cries that echoed through the ruined chapel.
Dave stood over the destruction.
And smiled, satisfied.
“This… is the power I found… after discovering friendship.”
The Blush of Suspicion
It happened slowly.
Marvel began to notice something—something subtle, almost impossible to prove.
Each time the girl in the pink sports bra jogged past their bench, she seemed to glance at him. At first it was just a flicker from the corner of her eye. Then it became a real look. And then—every once in a while—she turned her head fully, staring directly at him.
Marvel couldn’t believe it. Was this real? He started paying close attention. For days, he observed her routine—her stride, her breathing, her expressions.
The pattern held. Every day she glanced. Sometimes her cheeks were slightly pink, as if blushing. It wasn’t just a runner’s flush—it looked more like the shy, fluttering glow of a girl caught in a crush.
And Marvel’s heart raced.
“Could it be…? Does she like me too…?”
He didn’t dare ask. He didn’t even dare believe. But something deep inside started blooming—hope.
One afternoon, Dave had exhausted himself after a full day of street fighting. His fists were sore, and his voice was hoarse from hours of nonstop talking—mostly monologues, as usual—while Marvel just sat there silently, nodding from time to time.
Mid-sentence, Dave leaned in too far and, without meaning to, dozed off—his head slumping onto Marvel’s shoulder.
Marvel flinched slightly but didn’t move. Dave’s drool slowly dribbled down, soaking into the collar of Marvel’s beloved Zhongshan jacket. Still, Marvel remained frozen, eyes fixed straight ahead.
He had more important things to focus on.
Because at that exact moment, the girl jogged by again.
Same outfit. Same rhythm. The familiar bounce of her chest under that unmistakable pink sports bra.
But this time, something changed.
She smiled.
Just a little. Just for a second. A giggle, maybe.
But Marvel saw it. He saw everything. That smile—playful, shy, and strangely sensual—burned itself into his mind like a spark on film.
“What… does that mean?” he wondered. “What is she trying to say with that smile…?”
And just like that, Marvel drifted off into fantasy.
In his imagination, he stood beside her in a beautiful wedding chapel. The priest stood ready. She wore a flowing white gown—pure, elegant—and underneath, still the same pink sports bra.
Marvel, of course, wore his classic Zhongshan suit.
As they kissed and exchanged rings, their happiness overflowed.
But suddenly, disaster struck.
A deranged pervert stormed into the chapel wearing nothing but a pink women’s underwear. His muscles bulged, his aura unhinged. He looked just like Dave—except his face was pixelated like a censored video.
Marvel didn’t hesitate.
He stepped in front of his bride, clenched his fist, and threw a single, explosive punch.
The pervert flew skyward, launching like a rocket into the clouds until he became a tiny star in the distance—then vanished completely.
Marvel turned back to his bride.
She smiled, safe and sound.
And in that dream world—crafted from blushes, bounces, and nonsense—they sexed happily ever after.
Confessions, Misfires, and Misunderstandings
The next day, Dave was sitting beside Marvel again—talking endlessly, as usual. Rambling about life, about fighting, about philosophy, about whatever crossed his mind. His mouth didn’t stop moving for hours.
Marvel didn’t hear a word of it.
He was distracted. Anxious.
The girl in the pink sports bra hadn’t shown up yet.
Every morning like clockwork, she’d jog past their bench—two energetic steps, that signature bounce, the rhythm he knew by heart. But today? She was late. Really late.
Marvel’s brows furrowed.
Dave noticed the expression and mistook it for emotional concern—maybe about yesterday’s troubles, or some deeper internal struggle.
He placed a hand on Marvel’s shoulder and said, “Hey, don’t overthink it. Sometimes life throws weird stuff at you. But hey, I’ve been through it. I understand. Just listen—”
Marvel wasn’t listening.
His eyes were locked on the street.
And then she appeared.
Running toward them. Her ponytail whipping. Her breath short and fast.
But something was different.
Very different.
She wasn’t wearing her usual pink sports bra.
She wasn’t wearing anything on her upper body at all.
Two full breasts bounced freely in public, unapologetically, with every step. A few bystanders gasped. A cyclist rode straight into a mailbox. Marvel, meanwhile, froze in place—eyes wide, mouth hanging open, and something else… very much rising.
She reached them, panting, and stopped directly in front of Marvel.
“I’ve been watching you,” she said, her voice shaky but determined. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for days. I’ve been building up the courage… and today, I finally did it. I stood in my house for over an hour just trying to convince myself to come. And now I’m here.”
Marvel was stunned. Happiness slammed into him like a truck. He couldn’t process it—his brain went fuzzy, his body stiff, and a trail of drool slowly slipped down the side of his mouth.
Dave opened his mouth to speak, still not realizing the girl was topless.
“Hey, I wasn’t finished talking—don’t cut me off—”
But he stopped. Halfway through his sentence. Maybe out of shock. Maybe out of rare courtesy. Maybe, for once, he felt the moment didn’t belong to him.
The girl turned her full attention back to Marvel.
“I’ve been watching you for months,” she said softly. “Every day I see you… pushing yourself… challenging stronger and stronger fighters. You get hurt, you come back. Sometimes your face looks broken. Sometimes you can barely stand. But you never give up.”
Marvel blinked. Something didn’t add up.
Still, he couldn’t help but feel warm inside.
The girl continued.
“Even when I go home late, I see you through the gym window—lifting, sweating, working those machines like a madman. There’s always a pool of sweat beneath you. People don’t understand you. But I do. I’m probably the only one in the world who truly sees you for who you are.”
Marvel looked confused. A little off-balance. But he said nothing.
Next to him, Dave sat silently.
And then—his lip twitched.
His eyes blinked rapidly.
A single tear slid down his cheek.
He didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. But for the first time in his entire loud, chaotic life…
He felt something real.
He felt seen.
He felt known.
He felt cared for.
The girl took a deep breath. Paused. Then leaned in slightly, voice trembling but clear:
“I love you… The Underwear.”
Boobs, Tears, and Betrayal
Marvel sat there frozen.
It felt like a bolt of lightning had shot straight from the clouds and cracked open his skull. His breath stopped. His chest tightened. His heart twisted as if someone had crushed it with their bare hands.
He whispered to himself, dazed and trembling:
“What…? What is this…? This has to be a joke…”
Just moments ago, those two full, soft breasts were right in front of his face—so close he could feel the warmth radiating off them, so close he thought they might be his. And now? Gone. Like a dream yanked away the second he reached for it. Like God Himself had played the cruelest joke in the world.
And while Marvel sat stunned in heartbreak…
Dave was bawling.
Absolutely bawling. Not just misty-eyed. He was crying the way kids cry when they think they’ve been left behind at the supermarket. Loud, messy sobs shaking his body. His whole frame trembled with overwhelming emotion.
For the first time in his life, he felt it—he was known. He was loved. He was understood.
The girl gently placed her hands around Dave’s head and pulled him close. She guided his face into her chest, holding him there softly, her bare skin pressing against his tear-streaked cheeks. She stroked his head and whispered gently:
“You big dummy… don’t cry.”
Her voice was warm and teasing—like honey on the edge of a laugh.
“I’ve always wanted to be like you. To walk around with just underwear on. To be proud of it. I used to imagine someone calling me ‘The Underwear,’ or ‘The Underpants,’ or even ‘The Panties.’ Anything. As long as it meant we belonged together—not just in clothes… but in spirit.”
She looked down at him, brushing some hair from his forehead.
“That’s why today, before I left the house, I hesitated. I stood there for over an hour. I couldn’t decide. But then I took off my top. And I swore I’d never put one on again. That’s why I was late.”
Dave looked up at her through blurry eyes.
She was everything he had ever wanted—kind, daring, a little crazy… and soft. So soft. He felt like his whole life had been leading up to this moment.
“Her voice… her skin… her heart… and those soft, gentle nipples…”
He turned, beaming, full of joy.
“Hey, Marvel!” he said, eyes sparkling. “Did you see? I finally found love!”
But when they turned—
What they saw wasn’t Marvel.
It was something else.
Marvel’s entire body was shaking.
His fists were clenched. His breathing was shallow and wild. His eyes were red, and his jaw was locked tight—grinding his teeth like a rabid animal. His muscles flexed like springs pulled to their limit, ready to snap.
His face… it wasn’t human anymore.
And then—they smelled it.
The air reeked of something hot and bitter. Not sweat. Not cologne.
It was adrenaline.
Heavy, raw, primal adrenaline leaking from every pore. The kind that only appears before violence. The kind that animals smell right before a kill.
The girl’s arms stiffened around Dave.
Dave’s smile disappeared.
They both stared.
And they both knew—without saying a word—
Something was about to explode.