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Real Man Beard Trim
Getting my first real man beard trim this week after growing out my beard for a few months. Its thick and kinda untamed now, normally I just shave it all off at this point but its time to go and get a real masculine trimming to make it look right and neat.
I wonder if the barber is gonna tf me.
Hi! After being away for quite a while, mainly due to a lack of inspiration and time, I’ve decided to share some forgotten projects that I had never published because I wasn’t happy with the results or simply because I ran out of ideas…
I’ll be posting one every day.
The heat inside the truck stop parking lot was the kind that made the asphalt shimmer and the air taste like diesel and fried food. Carl had his window cracked, one beefy arm hanging out of the driver's side of his Peterbilt, the white tank top he'd been wearing for two days already damp under the pits and clinging to the swell of his gut. His jeans were dusty at the knees, and one work boot was propped on the dash while he scrolled through his phone with a thumb thick as a breakfast sausage.
He was in that sweet spot between lunch and the next leg of a run, the cab smelling like old coffee and the faint sour note of his own sweat. Not a bad life. Just quiet.
That's when the knock came.
Carl turned his head slowly, already frowning, expecting some lot lizard or a guy selling knockoff electronics out of a gym bag.
Instead, he saw a young man standing in the sun, one hand raised in a little apologetic wave. Dark T-shirt that fit him too well, showing the lean lines of his shoulders. Shorts that stopped above the knee. Clean white sneakers that had no business being on a truck stop lot. He looked like he'd stepped off a city bus and taken a wrong turn into the middle of nowhere.
Carl rolled the window down a few more inches. "Yeah?"
"Hey, sorry to bother you," the kid said. His voice was easy, friendly without being pushy. "I'm doing this budget travel thing, like a vlog thing? Trying to get from coast to coast on practically nothing. Just putting it out there—any chance you're headed toward the next town over?"
Carl looked him over. Boyish face, but not dumb. Hair a little too long, pushed back behind one ear. No luggage except a small backpack slung over one shoulder. He didn't have the twitchy look of a hustler or the flat eyes of someone looking for a mark. Just some kid with a phone and an idea.
"Next town's about forty miles," Carl said.
"That's what I'm hoping for. I'll take whatever direction you're going, honestly."
Carl thought about it, which was more than he usually did. Something about the kid's posture, the easy smile, the way he waited without fidgeting. "I'm not leaving till afternoon."
"That's fine. I can wait." The kid tilted his head. "I'm Noah, by the way."
"Carl."
Noah smiled again, and Carl unlocked the passenger door.
---
The first ten minutes inside the cab were exactly what Carl expected. He went back to his phone, thumb swiping through some video of a guy rebuilding a carburetor, and Noah sat in the passenger seat with his backpack between his feet, looking around the cab with the polite curiosity of someone who'd never been in a big rig before.
Carl answered in monosyllables. “Yeah. No. Four years. Dallas mostly.”That kind of thing.
But Noah had a way of asking questions that didn't feel like questions. More like he was just thinking out loud and Carl happened to be there. “How do you not go crazy sitting this high up all day? What's the worst thing you've ever hauled? Do you ever pick up hitchhikers and it turns out they're serial killers?”
Carl snorted at that one. "You're the one asking for the ride. You tell me."
Noah laughed, and something about the sound of it made Carl glance over. The kid had a nice laugh. Not fake like the people on his phone. Real, easy, like he meant it.
They kept talking. The phone stayed in Carl's hand, but his thumb stopped moving. Then his arm dropped to his lap. Then, without him really noticing, he set the phone down on the dash, face-up, the carburetor video still playing to no one.
Noah asked about the engine. Carl told him about the time a fuel line blew outside of Laredo and he'd had to MacGyver it with a piece of hose and a zip tie. Noah leaned forward, genuinely interested, and Carl found himself talking with his hands, exaggerating a little, the way you do when someone's actually listening.
The cab didn't feel so small anymore. It felt warm, close, and comfortable.
At some point Noah took off his backpack and tossed it into the sleeper behind them, then turned sideways in his seat, one knee pulled up, facing Carl. And Carl, naturally, shifted to face him too. The movement brought them closer.
"You know what I like about this?" Noah said. "You've got stories nobody else has. Like, actual life. Most people just repeat stuff they saw online."
"Hell, that's all I do," Carl said.
"No, see, that's what I mean." Noah's voice had gone a little softer, a little lower. "You don't even know you're interesting."
Carl felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. He couldn't remember the last time a person had looked at him like that, like he mattered.
They kept talking. Carl stopped noticing the time. He stopped noticing the phone. He stopped noticing that his body had gone loose and heavy, that his head was tipped back against Noah's shoulder, that one of the kid's slender arms was resting along the back of the seat, fingers just barely grazing the edge of Carl's tank top strap.
The voices in the cab got quieter. The space between their faces got smaller.
---
The moment shifted like the light changing before a storm. Carl was still talking, something about the best diner pie in Oklahoma, but his words were coming slower, and Noah wasn't saying anything at all anymore. He was just watching him, close enough that Carl could see the faint sheen on his lower lip.
"You're something else, Carl," Noah murmured. His breath ghosted over Carl's ear.
Carl blinked. Some distant part of him, the part that had spent forty-some years calling other men "buddy" and "pal" and slapping their backs at bars, tried to pipe up. Wait a second. This was a man. This was a stranger in his truck. This wasn't—
But then Noah's lips brushed the shell of his ear, and every thought in Carl's head went quiet.
"C'mere, Daddy."
The word hit him like a warm wave. Not a shock—not something to resist. It sank into him, made everything fuzzy and golden and right. “Daddy.” He'd never been called that in his life. Never would have wanted it. But now, with Noah's voice in his ear and Noah's arm curled around the back of his neck, Carl didn't just accept it.
He needed it.
He turned his head without deciding to. His mouth found Noah's, open and clumsy and aching. Noah made a soft sound into the kiss, and Carl's hands came up to grip the front of Noah's T-shirt, not rough, but desperate in a way he didn't have words for. Everything in him was saying yes. He'd give this boy anything. Buy him whatever he wanted. Drive him anywhere. Take care of him. Protect him. Own that word.
"Daddy," Noah breathed again, and Carl shuddered at the sound of it.
"Say it again," Carl said, his voice ruined and low, and he didn't even recognize himself.
Noah smiled against his mouth. "You like that?"
"Please."
Noah kissed him deeper, tongue pushing past Carl's lips, and Carl let him. Let him take anything. The truck cab was hot and small and the windows were starting to fog, and Carl couldn't think past the wet slide of Noah's tongue or the way Noah's hand had slipped under the hem of his tank top, palm flat against the fur and fat of his belly.
He didn't wonder how he got here. He didn't wonder why it felt so good. He just closed his eyes and pulled Noah closer, clumsy and pliant and burning with a hunger he'd never named before.
"Whatever you want, Daddy can do it," Carl heard himself say, and it wasn't even strange. It was just true.
Noah's fingers traced down over the front of Carl's jeans, lingering at the button. "Anything?"
"Anything."
Noah laughed again, that same warm, real laugh, and kissed him once more. And Carl, sweet and stupid and completely his, kissed back like a man drowning.
Some practice based on the h3.
Bad news: grok is totally done
Good news: h3 is much better than I thought! Of course, it can't compare with Sora or seedance. But hey! It's open source!
Congratulations 🎉 my friend. We will have more videos in the future.
Frankly Better This Way
Frank had seen a lot of strange things going on in New York, but he had never come across whatever the hell a telepath was. He didn’t even know why he should have cared. As far as he was concerned, a man holding a gun was a problem; gangsters and mobsters were the problem. Sure, he could see there were a few superpowered criminals around, but before they had become big problems, someone else had dealt with them. But now, it was Frank’s turn to deal with one. He had heard about a telepath who had been getting into people’s heads, their words becoming another person’s thoughts. It had been a disaster to deal with at first, finding people who had no memory but to pass off their wallets, their bank information, their belongings, all to some random thug who could hack into people’s brains. Well, enough was enough. Frank may not have had powers, but he was sure a bullet to the head would be enough to stop most freaks.
What he didn’t expect was how clever this telepath was. Frank had managed to get a tip-off from some suited schmuck who worked on Wall Street, having been robbed of his recent bonus. When he could get the guy to calm down well enough to tell him what happened, the stockbroker managed to remember more than other victims. It was insane how he was walking around when the man quite literally rushed into his arms, begging him to call the police.
Frank almost thought the man was drunk. But he didn’t smell any booze on him, and that’s when he became interested. In fact, after they had finished talking, the stockbroker was so thankful, practically shoving a necklace he had into Frank’s hand as payment. He wanted to deny it, but he knew how these people were; everything was just money to them, and so he took it. To be honest, Frank thought he should have been paying the stockbroker for his help.
The man had cobbled together enough half-put-together memories to let Frank track down where the telepath was going next, Cinder Heights. It sounded fancy, but that was until Frank arrived, and he saw that it was anything but.
The apartment complex matched its name, a tall and sprawling mess of an abandoned building that the city council hadn’t gotten around to demolishing yet.
He wasn’t even sure if anyone lived in the place; he didn’t see anyone come in or out. Maybe that was why it could’ve been the perfect place for someone hiding away.
Locked and loaded, Frank Castle approached the building like it was a military base he was to siege, thankful for the lack of civilians that were around. He quietly maneuvered his way across the street and ducked into an alleyway, which had a surprising lack of trash bags. Nobody lives here, he observed. He sleuthed his way toward the back, where a fire exit was left ajar. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought the place was just begging him to come in.
Whether that was justice trying to help him, or a criminal attempting to trap him, he couldn’t say. But Frank Castle always took his chances. He remembered what the stockbroker had said, how he heard the telepath whispering a specific number, one that had come up repeatedly in his other robberies, 26.
He didn’t know why, but apparently, they had a habit of making the people they robbed count up to 26 before they left. Not 10 or 20 or 25, but specifically 26. He wondered if it was some kind of limit, some superstition, but either way, he didn’t care. It told Frank enough, and that was how he quickly found his way to apartment 26.
The door was the only one that looked properly closed. All the others in the abandoned building had been broken down, left ajar, or had doors that Frank could instantly tell had busted locks. He took a deep sniff. Beyond the rotten wood and stale air, there was a slight musk wafting in the air.
Jackpot.
Frank tensed, the fingers wrapped around his pistol tightened, and on the count of three, two, one… He kicked down the door. The lock rattled against the floor, and Frank Castle found himself face to face with… nothing at all. At that, he looked confused, seeing no signs of life in the bare apartment, which housed only dusty floorboards and near-empty rooms. He narrowed his eyes, his prominent brow creasing as his whole face drew together in confusion.
The only sign of anything strange that he could see was an open closet with clothes lying on a hanger, and a white card on the floor. He crept closer to it, cautious and slow as if he had come face to face with a bomb. Slowly, Frank bent down and picked up the card, turning it to face him.
For a second, there was an overwhelming sense of deja vu. And before he could ask himself where he’d seen it, his mind collapsed.
There was nothing but a voice. Everything and anything flattened to background noise as Frank Castle felt a memory turn into a living thing, right inside his head.
The sense of realisation multiplied within him, as its cold grip tightened around his brain. Suddenly, the stockbroker’s voice filled his head, lips moving, but words entirely different, words that didn’t even come out of a mouth. Instead, they burst into existence behind his eyes the same way thoughts did.
You’re now going to think I’m a stockbroker who was one of his victims. You will go to Cinder Heights at 670 Marcy Ave. You will go to apartment 26. You will pick up a white card, and then you’re gonna…
Frank gasped and flinched as if plunging himself out of cold water.
“The fuck-” He drew in breaths, making his broad chest rise and fall as he looked around. Fuck. “Fuck!” The telepath had tricked him, had somehow known that Frank was on his trail. He never imagined just how much power they would have had. He assumed that if they weren’t focusing on him, that if they hadn’t met, then his thoughts would’ve been obscured. Even creeping up to the apartment, he had repeated a set of words over and over again until they drowned out all his thoughts, hoping it was enough to cloak his next move. But the telepath had gotten him.
The telepath had tricked him. The telepath… Frank blinked.
Where was the telepath?
He didn’t have his wallet.
He wasn’t sure if he had given them his bank details, but he kept most of his cash out of banks.
And even if he did tell them how to get to his base, there were enough traps there that anyone who had gotten it, even under interrogation, would’ve had a hard time getting in, by design.
Frank had no strange urges. He wasn’t forced to wait, as he looked down at himself and his bare naked body, able to move around. In fact, all he had to do…
The Punisher blinked and then stared at something, not realising what it was at first, until he forced himself to think about it. He was staring at the closet, at the wardrobe. Of course, he thought. The telepath could have been hiding there, making sure that he was obeying his thoughts or ready to spring a trap. Frank forced the rest of it open. It creaked and let out a plume of dust like a huff.
He coughed and waved away the dust. He was glad that he had stripped off his clothes so they hadn’t gotten dusty.
Though he was surprised at the lack of dust that was staining the clothes, he could see. They must be evidence, he thought, evidence that someone was living here, or why else would they have been left here? Frank’s lip curled in disgust as he looked at them: a pair of jeans, a Henley shirt, and some sandals.
Jesus, what kind of hipster dumbass wears- He blinked suddenly, and Frank looked down at himself, gasping.
“The hell-” He flinched back, seeing his member swing between his legs, half hard as he suddenly realised he was naked. Frank looked around suddenly. “Where the fuck are my-” He grunted, trying to see where his clothes were as he stomped around the room, almost tripping over a padded vest and dark shirt emblazoned with a white skull. He kicked it aside with disgust; those weren’t his clothes, but he couldn’t be here on a mission without anything to wear.
Frank suddenly looked back at the closet with an idea and grabbed the jeans. He cursed that there was no underwear, until he did a double take, catching a faint glimpse of red.
Frank paused for a moment.
Why did that colour remind him of something? He frustratedly grabbed it. It would have to do, a far better fit than whatever trap the telepath left in the clothes on the floor.
Frank pulled the red speedo up his legs, before he gasped as it reached his thighs. He blinked, curious that his lower legs had suddenly started to look smoother. The dark hairs that had grown over his muscular calves and legs were gone, shaved off like the speedo was a razor that had taken away each and every hair. He blinked again, wondering why he wasn’t concerned by it.
He should have been.
Should he?
It got harder to answer the question, as he remembered something about his hair, a voice mentioning hair, but he couldn’t think about it. Instead, his hands automatically pulled the speedo up, slowly watching as the speedo somehow sliced away the hairs from his thighs, leaving them smoother.
The skin took on a sheen as they grew slightly tanned, more sun-kissed as if he had come back from vacation. A distant memory of a trip down to Florida with some of his fellow soldiers on leave came to mind. But he scoffed. That wasn’t right.
Jesus, was he getting old?
That was a beach trip with his bros from Spring Break. He almost smiled at how he could forget something so simple, especially considering it was only a few years ago. Frank pulled the speedo up and, with a hesitation, let it snap back onto his crotch.
As soon as it did, he let out a moan. How could he not? His legs had become bronzed and smooth with the faint sheen of lotion applied to them. That was enough to make him gasp in pleasure. But something else had made him moan, the sudden sensation that the speedo was growing tight. It squeaked like a balloon, as Frank reached back with one hand, and then another, and then took a moment to realise what he was doing.
He was massaging his own ass, he was kneading it like they were made out of clay as he gasped again, surprised at just how big and sensitive they were. He didn’t know why he was so surprised; he was always known as a bubble butt amongst his friends, and he was glad too, because it meant a lot of the ladies liked him.
“Ladies?” Frank scoffed. Alright, alright, he may have lied to himself all through high school and told himself he liked girls, and that he liked to spend so much time at the beach because he got to see them in their bikinis. But he was old enough to cut the bullshit.
He was blushing whenever his guy friends were the ones to talk to him about his massive butt, how they would tease him when he ran across the beach because of how much the cheeks jiggled and bounced with each step. Frank took it all in good fun, but for some reason, he couldn’t believe just how much more sensitive it was feeling, as the speedo was threatening to slip between both bulbous cheeks.
In fact, Frank could have sworn that the more he was gently massaging his butt, the bigger that it was growing, like his touch was air to the inflating balloon that was his hot bubble butt. He moaned, a twitch travelling down his member as he glanced down at his bulge too.
One hand came to the front, giving his crotch attention as he massaged and pawed at the speedo. He didn’t know why he didn’t just put his hand in. Something told him that was wrong. Instead, he fruitlessly just continued to keep playing with himself, touching and pawing at his own length, whilst that too felt like it was growing bigger.
Yet that made more sense than imagining his own ass was thickening up, since Frank knew his seven eight-inch python was definitely what got the ladies' attention, and sometimes he swore some of the guys couldn’t help but look down at his bulge. It filled the front of his speedos and tight shorts with its thick girth, making him look like he had the body of a model.
Frank blinked.
Oh fuck, his body!
He couldn’t believe what he was doing, how he was standing here wearing some speedo, rubbing his member, and his ass. What the hell had gotten into him? He drew his hands back at once, cursing to himself how he could let himself get so distracted.
He had jeans to put on. Frank scoffed at his stupidity and went to put on the jeans, thankful they were here, they would have been far better than the weird… Kevlar (at least he thought that was the word) pants he saw laying on the floor.
The telepath wouldn’t trick him; he was too strong. That, and he heard a rumour that weed was a great way to like stop all the superheroes from getting inside your head. He was glad then that he could smell the faint traces of weed from the jeans, telling him that they must have been his. Frank chuckled dumbly, of course the telepathy dude he ran into didn’t consider that.
As he pulled the jeans on, it felt strange, though. They had felt tight, and somewhere in the back of Frank’s mind told him that this waist was slightly too tight for him, after all his military training, he had been through meant his muscles had always been big. That was why his quads had been so massive, and why he would have a… a…
Frank rubbed his temples again, feeling like a shard had just exploded behind his eyes, before his hand went to nurse his crotch, and he let himself melt from pain into pleasure. He hadn’t done any of that gym bro lifestyle stuff, especially training. He preferred natural growth; all things were within nature for humans to have, not cooped up in some gym or worse, some man-made authority like the Army. That stuff was completely bogus.
He knew that the jeans were so tight because of that, because his muscles had grown from how much time he had spent playing volleyball or running around on the beach. He was sure that he just naturally got the muscle for it, and his naturally thicker ass probably didn’t help.
Plus, it didn’t matter anyway. The jeans were thrifted, like most of his clothes. He could remember that better than any military training, as he scoffed as he’d just found out he was dreaming. If he were in the military, then like, why didn’t he have any scars on his legs? They were completely smooth, not even a hair had grown on them.
If there was anything that was ill-fitting, it was the sandals. Frank frowned at them, remembering that even those weird combat boot things he found on the floor looked like they’d fit his feet better than these sandals. He put them on, letting his toes slide to meet the strap, only to then chuckle at his own stupidity.
How much weed had he been smoking today? The sandals fit fine, in fact, they fit better than fine. Frank blinked, and he swore that he must have smoked today, because it looked almost as if his feet were stretching to fit the sandals.
The ankles pulled backwards, somehow not marking the realistic sound of bones shifting and tendons lengthening, but instead were almost cartoonish in their growth. The back of both feet stretched like they weren’t made of flesh, but clay or rubber, easily able to just fill the empty space that his feet weren’t able to before. At the same time, his feet felt flatter.
The soles widened slightly, less like they were being pulled and almost as if they were melting softly, helped by the fact that they gleamed much like his legs. They looked as if they were made out of pancake mix and widened as softly as one melting in a pan, just a half inch enough to properly fit the sandals comfortably.
His toes popped one by one, stretching themselves similarly to the back of his feet, whilst the space between them grew. Frank’s breath hitched, his eyes fluttering at what had to be some drug-induced hallucination right as he-
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, he slapped his brow as he realised.
He suddenly remembered reading a study or something about how surfers had wider feet and toes because of all the time riding on the board. And that made complete sense, because after all, Frank Castle was a surfer.
He wriggled his toes, giggling to himself at how stupid he must have sounded, how his heart suddenly relaxed like it always did when he was listening to the tide or taking a smoke or getting hugged by one of the dudes. All this worrying, thinking his feet were somehow growing for nothing. He couldn’t believe it. In fact, it must have been this telepath that had him worried, though he wasn’t sure why. He just didn’t like stuff reading his thoughts.
I bet it’s some government agent, like, they’re already hacking into phones, the man must be trying to hack into our minds, man. He scoffed and quickly fished out the Henley, smiling wider to himself. Of course, this was his shirt; Frank loved wearing things like this.
His closet was full of Henley shirts and vests, and even a couple of Hawaiian shirts, but that was only because he got them on his holiday during Spring Break, which he had almost forgotten. When he wasn’t shirtless or wearing a wetsuit, of course, he would be wearing something like a Henley.
That stupid telepath dude didn’t even know what I wear, Frank thought as he scoffed at the obvious bait on the floor. Black padded vest and a white skull? Please. Frank yanked on the Henley at once, as he suddenly moaned. A strange feeling itched at his scalp, making him want to scratch it at once, but he ignored it as he yanked the shirt on, recognising it as yet another one of his Henleys he got from the thrift store.
Just as Frank smiled to himself at being back in his clothes, he frowned, looking down at himself. Something was missing, and it wasn’t the hemp band on his wrist; he could live without it. But it was his necklace, his lucky charm necklace that he wore every day, for every surfing contest, at every party. He never went anywhere without it, except when he absolutely had to. This was not a time he absolutely had to.
Frank panicked.
“Fuck fuck fuck man, oh shit, aw shit don’t tell me he…” Frank wondered.
Had he met the telepath? Did they steal his necklace?
He was sure he heard they stole things, but he couldn’t remember where. Wouldn’t any average guy with those powers steal things?
His necklace was priceless, and he quickly began rooting through the apartment, ignoring any questions of why he was even here or what he had been doing.
Instead, his mind narrowed down to finding the necklace, as his feet slapped in the sandals whilst he scurried about everywhere. He searched the room, he searched the closet, and he even went to look at the weird black clothes left on the floor, in case his necklace was amongst them for whatever reason.
The longer he went without the necklace, the more Frank panicked, as he felt it drowned out any of the other thoughts inside his head that were annoyingly questioning what was going on. He didn’t have time to stop and think. He suddenly had to find his necklace.
Frank did a double-take when he realised there was one room he hadn’t searched, and as he quickly ducked into it, he saw it was a bathroom. There was nothing in it besides the basics, a toilet and shower that probably didn’t work, and a sink.
He opened up the toilet to see there wasn’t even any water, looked in the shower, and then went to the sink, where he found it. Relief washed over him, and giddily, Frank fished the necklace out of the dirty sink, wiping it away with his thumb before he quickly clasped it over the back of his neck.
The necklace was special, a multi-strand silver necklace with key-shaped charms hanging from it. He had actually gotten it from a little trinkets shop that was by the beach one summer before he won his firrrrrrrrsssssssssssstttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt-
“FUCK!” Frank Castle yelled as he pushed back off the sink so hard he thought he’d add more cracks to the damaged porcelain. His eyes were wide, and his face flat with no other expression except pure shock. He was too stunned to be anything else, like all other emotions had been left paralysed, like his mind just was.
In the blink of an eye, he had gone from standing at a closet in an abandoned apartment, realising he was naked… to suddenly standing in front of a dirty mirror wearing clothes he had never worn before.
The creeping realisation that he had seen the clothes before came to him as he looked down at himself, at his wider, longer feet in sandals, his prominent bulge in jeans, even his ass that felt thicker in the denim like another fat bulge behind him.
He was panting, unable to draw his breath and keep it there as Frank panicked and looked around, wondering how the fuck this could have happened. Where the hell was he? What had even happened to him?
As he looked at his heavy-set face, scarred by age and by life and by war, he looked ridiculous, like some old man who was going through a mid-life crisis with his young attire. His eyes traced over every crevice of his face, every tell of his age, trailing up finally to his brow at his receding hairline and forehead wrinkles.
It wasn’t just horrifying that he couldn’t remember putting on these clothes; it was sad, too. For a moment, as the mirror flattened his features and some of the stains smeared across his face, he could almost picture this as some alternate self, one that never signed up for the war.
The war.
The war.
The war.
The word rebounded as if it had bounced off his skull. Frank stared transfixed, eyes wide as the stockbroker’s voice whispered in his mind.
Tell me what’s one thing you regret, that you’re embarrassed to admit, one thing nobody knows.
Frank’s brain racked through things, ignoring the first answers that sprang to mind because those were regrets that people knew. Instead, he went back to one that he quietly admitted to himself, and hid away so well that it took him a while to get the answer out of his own head.
The war. Regret signing up sometimes… military.
Good. Good, Frank. Now, let’s repeat what you’re going to do, just so you remember. After everything that happens, you’re going to strip naked…
Frank blinked.
You’re going to put on the speedo…
He looked down at his jeans, remembering the speedo that was underneath his pants, hugging his fat bulge and thick bubble butt.
You’re going to wear those jeans…
Frank swallowed.
You’re going to put on those sandals…
His toes wriggled.
Dress yourself in that nice Henley…
His breath hitched.
Find your necklace in the sink…
Frank touched it.
And when you remember everything, you’re going to look in the mirror, see how good you look and remember what I just said. Remember… and then realise what you’re doing…
Frank furrowed his brows. What was he doing? He was just-
He gasped.
Oh no.
Oh fuck.
He was-
Rubbing your-.
Stroking.
And…
No! He was-
Come your brains out.
“FUCKKKK N-” Frank blasted as his hand stroked his member through his jeans, and a finger rubbed the pearly tip in his speedo. His mind shattered as he felt himself explode in pleasure, turning his thoughts into shrapnel as the wave of bliss shot through him like lightning. It was an internal explosion, one that no matter how hard it tried, couldn’t get out. It couldn’t burst through his skin or break out of his body, and so it just ricocheted, bouncing throughout every clenched muscle, every rush in the bloodstream, every single cell that burned through his body. The pleasure was vast and drowning, like he was hit by a tide that had actually been a tidal wave, filling every orifice with its wet pleasure as Frank Castle came, and then came again, his member throbbing and twitching as he continued to rub himself through one wave of pleasure into the next.
As it did, thick stands of hair grew out of his scalp, as if both his heads were ejecting something. Thick and luscious brown locks trailed out of him into a crown of wavy curls that fell to the back of his neck, framing his smoother, younger face. The more that he came, the thicker the hair grew, soft and sensitive against the skin as he swore even one stroke through it would be enough to send him over the edge and come all over again.
Ropes of pearlescent seed shot through into his speedo, threatening to drip down his leg, to stain his jeans as all resistance disintegrated, and Frank Castle basked in the otherworldly pleasure that came out of him. Even as he looked down just in time to see-
“Aw man, Frank jesus!” Laughter came from nowhere and everywhere, as it was the first and only thing Frank could hear before he blinked. Suddenly, he was plunged into a crowd, the voice of clinking glass and laidback chatter all around him, so foreign it was the only thing he could think of.
That was until he got a grasp on his own body, rooted to the ground and standing in the middle of a warm apartment, stuffed to the brim with people who were enjoying beers and wines and conversation.
Music flowed smoothly somewhere from a radio or speaker he couldn’t see, and beyond its size, it looked like a regular New York apartment. He was standing by a couch filled with different coloured cushions, eyes fluttering as a meaty hand touched his shoulder.
“Dude, you drunk already?”
Frank blinked, wondering where he was. He looked down at himself and could see that there was a wet patch on his jeans, and then he looked to the beer bottle in his hand, the tip still dripping. He turned to look at the unfamiliar face that greeted him, a shaggy-haired man in a vest and shorts as he’d just stepped off the beach, his long hair tied back into a manbun. He gave a pearly white smile to Frank.
“Uh, sorry dude, my mind was on like Mars bro,” said Frank in a relaxed and slow drawl, saying words he didn’t want to say. What he actually wanted to say was- “Hey, I’m sorry Jess, hope I didn’t get some on ya.” He said to the woman on the couch, who smiled up at him, smiling wider when he sat down to check on her.
“All good, don’t worry about it,” Jess shrugged. “As long as you don’t get any on my couch.” She joked with a smile, as Frank let out a lazy chuckle and took another sip. “Oh, so you can drink without spilling everywhere?” “Allegedly,” joked Frank as he let himself be led away by his best buddy Kai. “Okay, okay dude I’m comin’...” The names and faces slotted into his brain easily, as one look told him exactly who they were and why he was here. Kai was the one who invited him to the party after all.
“Come on, man, I want you to meet my friends,” Kai sounded more drunk than Frank, but that was to be expected. His boyfriend was always a lightweight. The thought made him blush, like he suddenly realised just how tightly Kai was holding him. Boyfriend? Did that sound right? Frank was gay, but he… Wait, was he? Hold on, something was… “Drew! Sarah! This is the guy I was talking about. This is Frank.” Kai stumbled a little, making it look like he was almost shoving Frank towards his friends like he was really showing him off.
The couple greeted Frank politely as Frank shook their hands.
“It’s Frankie, actually, not Frank,” he told them as he took their hands. The both of them just nodded, exchanging a look before it was Drew, a bronze-skinned, handsome man who gestured at Frank, no, Frankie.
“So uh, where did you two meet, you from California too Frankie?”
Frankie chuckled lazily again as he grinned from ear to ear. Of course, he was from California, born and raised, as the realisation came to mind, and he shrugged.
“Yeah, man, born and raised, I’m a surfer too, just like my boy here,” said Frankie, delighted when Kai hit him with a you know it and kissed him on the cheek. Frankie laughed; he always loved showing off that he was a hot surfer, and he couldn’t wait to tell the couple all the details of how he got into it, how he met Kai at college, and their fun fling at Spring Break. It was a far better way to spend the night than most people in the city.
Some people liked to stay in, didn’t have any friends to go out, or didn’t even bother to try. Even worse, some people were crazy enough to dress up and act like vigilantes.
Thank god for Frankie that he preferred just being a slow-minded surfer dude.
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