#scally tf

[rubberchavkai]

WHAT YOU THINK OF THE NEW LOOK?

[baldandbooted]

You didn't even realize it. Everyone on the train was wearing the same trackies and TNs. It didn't even occur to you that this morning, you put on a nice suit and dress shoes to go meet your boyfriend at dinner, but now both of you are in grey sweats and white TNs with chav cuts and piercings. You knew when you get back home, all your clothes will look just like this: used streetwear. Fuck dinner, lets go out to the pub and watch some footie, bruv!

[feinecutasy]

On the Wall

The faint sounds of car engine and honking from above seeped through the thick layer of concrete. It had been a while since the last time Liam set foot on Cowper Street– or under it. Which was not that unusual: some parts of the city hadn’t been friendly to pedestrians since forever, and they would continue to be that way for years to come. Liam would’ve also gone some other route if his car didn’t break down that morning and circling around this subway to reach the tram stop would cost him another 15 minutes.

Dim outdoor light slowly gave in to a moodier one. Fixtures hanging where each wall met the ceiling illuminated the path, while patches of darkness sat broodingly in the corner. In a volatile and uncertain world, it’s lovely and delightful in a way to see that some things hadn’t changed much. This tunnel was one of those.

Smelly, dirty, full of graffiti, walkable.

A statistical breakdown of the area’s recent notable events would indicate that there’s nothing objectively dangerous about this place, and the worst thing that could happen would be an occasional encounter with a benign yob. Still, to Liam, there existed a risk– one of hygienic nature. A man strutting in a spotless navy-blue suit and highly-polished pair of black Oxfords, were mishap to befall him, would expose himself to certain odours that any business-minded people awaiting him at his destination will scoff at upon sensing even the slightest hint of their presence. In the best-case scenario, Liam just needed to stay away from any suspicious puddle or unidentified mass. But what if that misfortune manifested in the form of a stinky local delinquent?

Thankfully for Liam, it was a gloomy day, and, tried as he might, he could not spot any human figure within his line of sight.

As his footsteps echoed through the walkway, he had the feeling that he was being watched.

“Oi, lad”, an energetic voice boomed somewhere to his left.  

A sigh escaped his mouth. That’s his signal to keep going. That intonation, in this kind of place, built up in his mind a certain image, and struck his psyche with a certain feeling.

Not the best kind.

Liam liked to rely on stereotypes and put people into boxes, and this had often earned him uninvited snide remarks about his moral standing amongst friends. Habitually he would just reassure himself, just like in this very moment, that there was nothing questionable about his character if the people to whom he mentally assigned unpleasant descriptions all turned out to be unpleasant. And he was sure for whomever that just uttered those two syllables, that would be true as well.

He kept on walking. Or to be precise, he kept on maintaining the façade that he was walking. To any bystander, the speed at which he was lifting up and stomping down his glossy shoes resembled more that of an exhausted jogger about to finish his run. His number one rule in dealing with these types of interaction was to reduce the number of encounters to zero. And that meant getting away from this place as soon as possible.  

And then, he stopped.

Strange … where did that come from? He thought.

When he entered the tunnel, there was nobody there. Up until the point when he heard that voice, his feet were the only source of all possible sounds. Of course, there was the occasional rustling of a kebab wrapper that someone had probably left behind after devouring the content inside an hour ago. But still, that didn’t explain Liam’s befuddlement.

He looked back.

No one was behind him, and no one was in front of him, either. Discreet was not what Liam would usually describe this type of people.

“Oi”. That annoying voice again, this time right to his left – almost like its source was standing next to him. As morbid curiosity claimed victory over his avoidance tendency, he turned his head, ready to be greeted by whatever surprise that awaited him.   

… A painting?

Caught in the centre of Liam’s vision, on the graffiti-filled wall that had seen better days, was a man. A painting of one. He’s probably the same age as Liam, albeit taller and not as formally dressed. His body was covered in grey. Grey hoodie, grey sweatpants, grey Nike Air Max. The lighting and the rust on the wall had also made the off-white colour of the Stella Artois can held in his hand turn a darker grey, leaving the tiny, barely-visible red part of the emblem the only object of this painting that was not something in between black and white.

Wow, he really does look like what I’ve expected him to be. Bemused Liam.

He must admit, whoever had made this piece deserved all of his admiration. The painting looked almost like a real person. The grey colour buried amongst thousands of other vibrant, eye-catching blobs and lines nearby hid it away from his perception – the reason why he didn’t notice it right away. Every detail was immaculate, from the texture of his clothes, the contour of his bulging muscles, the toothy grin to the veins on his hands and even faint shadow showcasing what’s he got to show down under.

He stepped closer to the wall and, instinctively, looked around the painting for any camera, any teeny tiny devices that someone probably had planted to spook him and film his reaction. Maybe a whole content-creating team had tinkered with this part of the subway in hope of capturing a viral moment where a clueless corporate bloke screamed upon sighting a hyper-realistic painting of a beefy yob. It was the most plausible explanation Liam could think of.  

He looked up, down, left, right, front, back.

Nothing was found, neither had nobody jumped out to say that he had been pranked.

Weird.

Now that he'd spent some more effort to put his brain to use, the situation appeared even more unusual. He’d never considered himself a connoisseur in street arts, but enough exposure to it had acquainted him with its most typical expressions – ugly tags, political messages sometimes sprinkled with a touch of racism and football references from the obscure to the obvious. The conspiracy theorist part of him would say that this was definitely an ad, either for the shoes or the beer, but that begged the question, why the bloke in the middle? He didn't look like any famous person that Liam knew, and Liam knew quite a few. This was not some high-traffic touristy city, surely even pranksters would find no pleasure giving this third-rate hellhole their attention.   

He reached out his hand to feel the painting, right where the lad’s chest was. Not exactly flat, warm to the touch, and slightly smelly. The smell of cheap beer and body odour. Liam felt vindicated. Someone really was here just a moment ago.

The moment Liam’s fingers stopped at the tracksuit’s sleeve, an invisible force pulled him in, sealing his arm shut. The stench of stale sweat and alcohol wafted up his nose, and he heard an impish laugh bellowing out of the surface inches away from him – the painting came to life, and on the other side of the wall, Liam could feel his hand being held tightly in the beefy lad’s grip.

“Oi, calm it, yeah? It’s not gonna hurt.”

Liam’s head was racing. The situation left him no clue on how to react. If he had had a first thought, it would have been to blurt out “what the fuck”, and then scream for help as loud as possible. But there was no thought in his head, and his body acted like on autopilot. Reflexively, he tried to break free, but his effort was in vain. The mismatch between his strength and his captor’s aside, whatever substance surrounding his arm seemed to be semi-liquid– a very dense one that voided any chance of him manoeuvring around to put his body in a better counterattack position. He raised one leg in attempt to kick the other man in the balls, or just simply to get himself off and out of this sticky situation. But his opponent was quicker, grasping Liam’s foot in a split second, and pulled it into the wall with lightning speed.

“Sound move, posh lad. Why didn’t ya answer when I called?”, said the voice from inside the wall. The concrete and paint next to Liam turned semi-translucent, then a round lump started to bulge out from it. The surface broke up, and the other male’s head emerged out of it to let out a loud, cheeky laugh. The substance coating his head receded back into the wall shortly after.

With both hand and leg trapped, the well-built man quickly pulled Liam in, and, with remarkable strength, pulled the latter hard to his right side, thereby turning Liam around to face the opposite wall. Liam’s lower body had been almost subsumed into the painting, with only the tips of his shoes still jugging out. His upper half was suspended in an odd angle, where his hands were still stuck behind but chest, and stomach were free to lean forward, leaving his head slightly farther away from the wall than his torso.  

“Let me out. Please. I haven’t done anything to you”, Liam begged frantically.

“ᴇᴀꜱʏ, ʟᴀᴅ.”

Liam’s body shuddered. The word reached his ears with such deafening intensity that limbs went into panic mode, the kind that shut them all down instead of jolting them all up with electrical craze to go all-in for a fight-or-flight response. Not the kind of loud sound that blasted by some giant speaker to make you deaf, but echoing, reverberating, first to his ears, then to his psyche. He felt as though the weight of all the concrete around and above him had condensed together to lend power to that thundering command. It clapped his eardrums and struck down his psychological resistance into pieces. His mind went blank, and his movements enfeebled.

The lad’s head sticked out some more, so that it was on the same level as Liam’s. For the first time, the latter had a close look at the young man. Patchy moustache, face flushed, thick neck, prominent Adam’s apple. Emanating from him was an aura of caricatural masculinity – strapping, simple-minded, but in an endearing way. There was not even a crumb of malice coming from him, likely the consequence of being airheaded.

“Don’t get shy now, pretty lad. You’ll like it in a sec!”, the lad said while looked at him with beaming eyes. The other man’s hot breath laced with of alcohol glided on his face and assaulted his nostril. Liam couldn’t help but to breathe it in. The sloshedness was contagious, and seconds later, Liam’s mind was already in a new state. Liam looked into his glinting eyes, and the infectious fervour flowed back into him, soon also reflected in his eyes.

ʀᴇʟᴀxᴇᴅ.

“Y’alright there, posh lad?”, boasted the lad enthusiastically, wrapping his big sweaty arm around Liam. His tipsy breath continued to invade Liam’s nose, but it was enhanced by another smell – the stench of the lad rank, sweaty armpit. Bare and pure, undeodorized, accumulated from years of toiling labour, gruelling work-out and dirt-cheap fast food, suffocating Liam with testosterone. As Liam drew in his concentrated signature scent, his mind had lost its last battle against the foreign dominant personality that was breaching into his head. His brain had turned into mush, and his innermost self was now nothing but a malleable mass, ready to be reshaped into something better.

He let out a dopey grin not so different from the hunky lad.

“Sound”.  

His words were already slurring.

“Fucking sound”, he repeated.

“Aye, that’s more like it.”

The lad pulled Liam forward into a kiss. The bigger man made quick work of Liam’s tops, and in a matter of seconds his torso was already bare for the wind to caress. Once again, the strange material swelled and budged, and Liam could feel dampness and heat inches away right behind him. Soon, the gap was closed as wall of sweat and muscles slowly pressed against him, and Liam could feel the former’s growing member sliding along his ass crack. Massive, oozing.

Hand in hand, Liam’s arm was dragged out of the wall to the front, laying gently on his navel. The lad pressed hard against it, and his flesh sank into Liam’s own. His tiny office-worker hand was being consumed by the heftier, stronger one. For a short while, Liam felt like that hand was his. He felt his own digits getting bigger, rougher, tougher, burlier. He felt the itchiness on the back of his hand as a lotus tattoo slowly appeared on it. But that sensation soon stopped, and he was disappointed. He wanted more. He pressed hand arm back against the lad’s, and was rewarded with that hit of ecstasy again. His forearm thickened up with muscle, and hair started to sprout on across its length. His bicep soon followed through, ballooning to a size that far surpassed that of his puny neck. And the high, just as it came, shortly disappeared. His hand and arm were moving on its own. They had become the lad’s hand and arm, which had just begun to fondle his belly. It felt good, but not as good as before. He would give anything to reach that state again.

The lad’s other arm shot out of the wall, in its grip the beer can from earlier. He quickly transferred it to his left hand. The cold spread from the lad bulky arm up to Liam’s shoulder.

“Down it”, the lad said, patting Liam’s belly. He then promptly raised the beer can to Liam’s mouth.

Yes. He needed to gulp down his dissatisfaction. It didn’t register to him that he was being commanded. How could that be a command, if he himself had already think of it just a moment ago? It was as if he had just reunited with his best friend whom he hadn’t met for years, and they were on the same wavelength again. His friend understood exactly what he really needed.

In synergy with the lad’s hand movement, Liam guzzled half the content of the can. The cold froze his brain, and he hung his mouth agape, only for the lad to lean up and charge in with his tongue. Their hairy merged hand explored his body. Calluses reigned over his chest, stomach, and meaty palm caressed his growing bulge. The other hand unfastened his belt, then unbuttoned his trouser, and slid his pants down. As his clothing came into contact with the substance inside the wall, Liam felt every tiny inch of them being pulled away from his skin, as though the wall had disintegrated them, until nothing could be felt around his legs and ankles anymore.

The lad pulled Liam’s other hand out of the wall along with his, and began to feel up Liam’s package.

“Heh… decent cock, that”, said the lad playfully.

As the lad’s fingers interlocked with Liam’s, the latter once again descended into mania. Giving up– no, sharing his hand and arm with the lad, feeling them explode with muscle and imbued with his intoxicating scent, until the numbness settled, as the lad took control of his remaining arm. Now two mighty hands connected to his shoulders were touching every part of his body, and he was in heaven.

The lad held up the beer can again, and downed the rest of its content. A clanking sound reverberated through the tunnel as he hurled the empty can away. They kissed. Some amount of beer still left in the lad’s mouth sloshed into Liam’s. It’s lukewarm now, and mixed with his spit. Liam swallowed all of it, moaning softly as more of the lad’s essence penetrated his throat. The lad’s cock had reached full mast, and was dripping profusely on Liam’s rear, enough to form a puddle on the ground had they not been half-contained inside a wall.

One of the lad’s hands had moved behind Liam, smearing and spreading the natural lube into his hole, working it up for a grand entrance. With his other hand, he put two fingers inside Liam’s mouth. The latter eagerly suckled on them, and the lad promptly placed his digits, wetted with saliva, inside Liam’s cavity. It was a bizarre feeling. He was aware that he exerted no control over the hands that were tinkering with his pucker and spreading his cheeks, except that were connected to his shoulders, and from that angle it did look like he was playing and fingering his own bum. Every time their merged limbs touched his body, there was a brief moment where he could also sense them, as if they were still his own, and it made his brain go crazy, but soon the sensation would stop. And his mind would be screaming for more.

“Yeah, our arse’s gonna look mint”, exclaimed the lad. Liam could only reply with a loud, needy moan.

And the lad went all in.

Pleasure coursed through Liam’s veins. His body was opening up, literally and metaphorically. The lad was pouring into him, and he was becoming the lad. He was drunk. Drunk from pleasure, from cans of cheap beer, from undiluted masculinity, from the courage he had just gained to give up, and from the bliss of giving up itself – his life, his worries, his thoughts, his very own identity. Everything that was his, would soon belong the lad’s. They would share everything in this word together.

The two men moaned loudly in tandem, voices practically indistinguishable from each other. There was no delay between vocalisations, as if all regulated by one source. Each man spotted a dumb, blissful grin on their face. Their combined hands stroked the man in the front’s cock, cupping and fondling his balls.

As the lad pushed in more and more, that feeling came to Liam again. More intense. More spread out. More rapid. His chest had turned into two hairy mounds of muscles, and once more an itch spread across one pec as a tattoo of a scorpion emerged on its surface.

the lad hastened his pace, ramming up Liam’s rear with increasing speed and strength. He dug his giant, stinky feet into Liam’s petite soles, and the latter felt his own body stretching out and up to accommodate its new mass and height.

The lad’s voice was no longer behind him, but all around him and inside. It had become his own voice, booming out of his expanded voice box, bumping up and down his giant Adam’s apple every time they moaned.

Only Liam’s head and pelvis remained unfused. And he was so desperate for it. He could feel, against all physical possibilities, the lad’s cock reaching closer and closer to his cock, and the lad’s face somewhere next to his face. Not behind, not in front, just … there. Ready to share and be shared.

Then the lad became him. He screamed. And came.

His limbs were set free. His balls were churning hard. They drooped and swelled, unfazed by the amount of sperm exiting his body, as though ready to resupply him with billions more. They kept tugging at his crotch while euphoria was seizing his body.

Ropes of cum shot out of his cock that was growing with no sign of stopping. He continued to stroke it. His glorious, colossal cock, hefty and heavy in his meaty hands coated the ground with his essence.

——————————————————

“Liam” stood in front of an oddly-shaped patch of wall, sweaty and breathing heavily.

Beneath him, a thick puddle of cum glistened in the light.

His hand dipped into the wall, and pulled out a pair of grey trackies, dirty from grime and stained, possibly from a combination of potent bodily fluids. “Heh… gonna need a proper clean after this”. He quickly donned the pair, struggling somewhat to properly place his dripping monster cock and jumbo balls inside them, as, the lack of undies aside, the article of clothing obviously wasn’t made to accommodate his size.

Next came a pair of supposedly white socks. Their soles were nigh blackened, and a funky stench emitted from the cloth. His trainers, in contrast, looked relatively new.

Liam was about to reach for something else, when a loud, long and obnoxious burp escaped his mouth.

“Fuck me, why’s it boiling in here?”

He darted his eyes around, then grinned mischievously.

Trackies pulled down, his cock, hard and wet with both pre and cum, let out a stream of yellow liquid onto the strange wall.

“Fuckin’ right”, he said with an exaggerated moaning.

It took a long while for his bladder to finish the alcohol-induced number one. By then his cock had gone semi-soft. He gave it a nice shake, and pulled it back inside. The oversized member left behind a tiny wet spot on the already dirty article of clothing.

He departed, leaving behind the thoroughly desecrated tunnel with its graffiti wall.

Some days later, the city maintenance workers came over to clean up the place. The sun had evaporated the most noticeable parts of the battlefield, only a distinctive smell remained. A worker bent over to pick up an empty beer can.

On the wall in front of him, a peculiar image stood out. The area untouched by paint and dirt seemed to take the shape of a man ...

... at whose feet lied a crumpled pile of clothes.

[masterwolftfs]

Rinsing Your Top

The rain sheeted down, turning the pavement into a black mirror that reflected the sickly orange glow of the streetlights. Inside the bus shelter, the world narrowed to a wall of fogged glass and the incessant drumming on the corrugated plastic roof. Felix huddled on the narrow bench, his organic cotton jacket pulled tight around his slender frame. The air inside was cold, damp, and smelled of wet concrete and regret. He checked his phone again. 11:47 PM. The last bus was late. Of course it was.

A sudden, violent shudder of the shelter’s frame made him flinch. The door was yanked open, and a blast of cold, rain-lashed wind preceded the new arrival. He was a storm of noise and presence, instantly shrinking the already cramped space.

"Fackin' pissin' it down, innit!" the guy announced to no one in particular, his voice a loud, nasal tenor that seemed to vibrate in Felix’s teeth.

Felix kept his eyes fixed on his phone, the screen a feeble shield against the intrusion. But his senses were already under assault. The new scent hit him first, cutting through the petrichor: Stale Lager & Cigarettes - a flat, yeasty bitterness layered over acrid smoke. Cheap Body Spray - a cloying, aggressive wave of synthetic musk and fake ocean breeze, likely from a can of Lynx Africa. Wet Tracksuit – the damp, synthetic smell of cheap nylon and sweat. And underneath it all, the raw, hormonal musk of a young man who considered a quick rinse in a service station sink to be a full shower.

Out of the corner of his eye, Felix took him in. Early twenties, maybe. A wiry, coiled strength beneath a thin, grey tracksuit top with stains on the sleeve. A gold-plated chain glinted against his throat. His hair was shaved close on the sides, a matted, gelled tuft artfully messed up on top. His face was all sharp angles and defiant sneer, a constellation of acne scars across his cheeks. He was everything Felix found abrasive, loud, and utterly repellent.

The guy slumped onto the bench opposite, his knees splayed wide, aggressively claiming space. Felix could feel the vibration of his bouncing foot through the metal frame. He pulled a sleek, black vape pen from his tracksuit pocket. It was garish, covered in tacky decals. With a practiced click, a tiny LED glowed blue.

"Fackin' bus," the guy - Felix already thought of him as just ‘Chav’ - muttered, taking a long, deep drag. The device gurgled softly. He held the vapor in his lungs for a moment, then tilted his head back and exhaled.

It wasn’t a wisp. It was a cloud. A thick, dense plume of sickly-sweet vapour, the colour of cheap candy, that rolled across the small space with deliberate, invasive slowness. It hit Felix full in the face.

The scent was nauseatingly artificial. Blueberry Ice. But not the fruit itself; the concept of it, designed in a lab and pumped full of chemical sweeteners and cooling agents. It was saccharine, cloying, and cold, like a freezer-burnt slushie. It should have made him gag. It should have made him cough, wave it away, complain.

Felix held his breath, turning his face aside. But the cloud was too thick, too pervasive. His lungs, desperate for air, betrayed him. He inhaled a sharp, involuntary gasp.

INITIATION.

The effect was instantaneous. Not a cough, but a shudder that started in his throat and radiated outwards. The cold, sweet mist didn’t feel like smoke; it felt like liquid static, a chemical fog that seeped directly into his brain through his sinuses.

The world didn’t spin. It… simplified.

The complex, looping anxieties about his unfinished thesis, his looming student debt, the subtle politics of his friend group - they didn’t just fade; they were erased. Wiped clean. The humming, frantic energy of his intellect simply… powered down. A beautiful, blank silence descended in his mind.

The sensory input from the shelter sharpened into brutal, uncomplicated clarity. The drip-drip-drip of water from a leak in the roof became a rhythm. The garish orange light was just light. The smell of the chav’s body spray wasn’t cheap; it was effective. It smelled like confidence. Like availability.

He took another breath, deeper this time, actively pulling the blueberry ice cloud into his lungs. It was cold and sweet, and it carried with it the ghost of the chav’s own breath, the essence of his saliva, a direct line to his simple, uncomplicated existence.

“You alright, mate?” Chav’s voice cut through the fog. It didn’t sound loud and abrasive anymore. It sounded… direct. Honest. The accent, which Felix would have once mocked, now sounded like the only way real men spoke.

Felix looked up, his own gaze feeling slow, heavy-lidded. His carefully curated vocabulary - ‘problematic’, ‘nuanced’, ‘aesthetic’ - was gone. A single word formed in the new, empty space of his mind. It felt profound.

“Yeah,” Felix said. His own voice sounded strange. Deeper. Slower. The cadence was all wrong. It was a grunt.

Chav smirked, a flash of crooked teeth. “Looked like you was gonna choke on me cloud there.” He took another drag, this time blowing a series of perfect, smug O-rings towards the ceiling.

Felix watched them float, mesmerized. They were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. He felt a low thrum starting in his body, a warm, buzzing energy that began in his core and spread outwards. It was a physical sensation of… dumbing down. A pleasant, heavy warmth replacing the cold spark of intelligence. His muscles felt looser, heavier. His posture on the bench began to change. His shoulders, usually hunched, pulled back. His spine straightened from its scholarly curve into a lazy, confident slouch.

“S’good, innit?” Chav said, gesturing with the vape.

“Yeah,” Felix repeated, the word now carrying more weight. It was an entire philosophy. Yeah. Acceptance. Agreement. Simplicity.

The music was the next thing to go. Chav’s phone, tinny and distorted through its speaker, was playing something Felix’s old self would have derided as mindless, misogynistic drill rap. The bass was too heavy, the lyrics aggressive and stupid. Now, the thumping beat bypassed his ears and went straight to his spine. His head began to nod, almost imperceptibly at first, then with more conviction. The aggressive lyrics didn’t sound threatening; they sounded like truth. They spoke of territory, of respect, of taking what you wanted. It made sense.

“You like that?” Chav asked, his eyes glinting with a challenge. “Proper tune, that.”

“Yeah,” Felix said again, his voice gaining a rough edge. “Banger.” The word surfaced from some deep, newly accessed part of his brain. It felt perfect on his tongue.

The warmth in his body intensified, becoming a hot, liquid pull low in his gut. It wasn’t just a loss of intellect. It was a gain of something else. Something raw and physical. His gaze wasn’t on the vape anymore. It was on him. On the sharp lines of his jaw. On the way his Adam’s apple moved when he spoke. On the confident, almost arrogant sprawl of his body. The cheap chain. The stained tracksuit. It wasn’t repellent. It was… powerful. Authentic. Sexy.

A powerful, dumb attraction, thick and undeniable as the vapour itself, flooded Felix’s system. It was a pure, hormonal surge that erased any last vestige of his old preferences, his ‘type’ (sensitive guys in cardigans who liked indie films). This. This rough, loud, uncomplicated bloke was all that existed. He wanted to be near him. He wanted to be him.

“What’s your name, then?” Chav asked, leaning forward, his knees bumping against Felix’s. The contact sent a jolt of that warm, stupid electricity through him.

“Felix,” he said, but the name felt flimsy, foreign. A name for someone who was disappearing.

“Felix?” Chav laughed, a short, sharp bark. “Posh name. I’m Kian.”

Kian. The name sounded solid. Real.

“I like Kian,” Felix heard himself say. The directness of it, the lack of subtext, was liberating.

Kian’s smirk widened. He saw the change happening. He recognized the look in Felix’s eyes - the glazed admiration, the dumb want. He was used to it. He exhaled another cloud, this time directly into Felix’s open, waiting mouth.

Felix inhaled it like a sacrament. This time, the change wasn’t just mental. It was physical. The chemical mist seemed to penetrate his cells, rewriting him from the inside out.

A deep, resonant HUMMMM started in his bones. His spine thickened, vertebrae settling into a new, more aggressive alignment. His shoulders, already pulling back, began to widen, the joints popping softly. The fabric of his expensive jacket strained across his back. His arms, previously slender, felt a surge of dense, functional muscle—the kind earned not in a gym, but in street scuffles and manual labour. His hands on his knees looked larger, the knuckles more pronounced.

His face felt strange. His jaw ached as it squared itself, his cheekbones becoming more defined beneath skin that was coarsening, losing its bookish pallor. A dark, prickling shadow erupted along his jawline - not a well-kept beard, but a rough, scruffy stubble that suited his new demeanour. His hair, previously soft and carefully styled, felt coarser, darker, as if it was sucking up the gel from Kian’s head through the air.

His thoughts were gone. Completely. Replaced by a single, driving imperative. Get closer. Touch him. Be him.

He stood up. The movement was no longer graceful; it was a powerful, uncoiling rise. He was taller. Broader. He loomed over Kian, who looked up, his smirk not fading but shifting into something more intrigued, more challenging.

“See somethin’ you like, posh boy?” Kian taunted, but there was an invitation in it.

The last of Felix dissolved. The man who looked down at Kian wasn’t Felix. He was someone new. Someone better.

“Shut it,” the new man growled. His voice was a low, commanding rumble, completely unlike Felix’s soft tones. It was edged with a confidence that came from nowhere and everywhere.

He reached down, his newly thick fingers calloused and strong, and grabbed the front of Kian’s tracksuit top, fisting the material. He didn’t pull him up; he yanked him forward, off the bench and into his space. Kian stumbled against him, a laugh caught in his throat, his eyes wide with surprise and excitement.

The new man’s free hand went to the back of Kian’s neck, grip firm, possessive. The scent of them mingled - blueberry ice, cheap body spray, rain, and now, Felix’s own new scent: a raw, potent musk of testosterone and dominance.

“I said, shut it,” he repeated, his face inches from Kian’s. Then he crushed their mouths together.

It wasn’t a kiss of romance or tenderness. It was a claim. A takeover. Aggressive, hungry, and wet. It tasted of chemical blueberries and lager and pure, unfiltered want. Kian resisted for a half-second, then melted into it with a muffled groan, his own hands coming up to grip the new, powerful biceps of the man who had once been Felix.

The new man - this dominant, chavvy top - walked Kian back against the fogged glass wall of the bus shelter, the impact rattling the whole structure. The world outside, the rain, the late bus, it all ceased to exist. There was only the heat of two bodies, the taste of the vape, the sound of rough fabric rustling and ragged breathing.

Clothes were torn at, not removed with care. His expensive jacket was shoved from his shoulders. Kian’s cheap tracksuit bottoms were yanked down. There was no finesse, only a brutal, desperate urgency. The new man was a quick study, every movement instinctual, possessive, dominant. He was where he belonged. On top. In control.

When it was over, a frantic, grunting, animalistic coupling against the cold glass, they slumped together, breathing heavily in the small, steam-filled space. The new man held Kian pinned against the wall, his larger body dwarfing the other’s. He nuzzled into Kian’s neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and cheap spray—his scent now.

Kian looked up at him, his expression one of dazed, satisfied shock. “Fackin’ hell, mate. What was your name again?”

The new man thought for a second. The name ‘Felix’ was a ghost, a whisper from a dream. A new name surfaced, something solid, common, strong. A name that matched the face in the fogged glass reflection - a face with a squared jaw, rough stubble, and a hard, confident glint in its eyes.

“Dean,” he growled, the name feeling right and true. “My name’s Dean.”

Kian grinned, slapping Dean’s chest. “Alright, Dean. You missed your bus.”

Dean looked out at the raining night, then back at the boy in his arms. A slow, arrogant smirk spread across his face, a perfect mirror of Kian’s own.

“Don’t need a bus,” Dean said, his voice thick with an ownership and a dumb, happy certainty. He pulled Kian closer. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

The transformation was complete. The health-conscious student was gone, wiped away by a cloud of sweet, chemical vapour and replaced by Dean: a chavvy, dominant top, Kian’s perfect dom boyfriend. He was stronger, dumber, and infinitely more sure of himself. And as he leaned in to kiss Kian again, rough and possessive, he knew, with every fibre of his new being, that he had never been anyone else

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[octuscle]

Connor – Behind the Station

When Connor first saw the listing, he could hardly believe his luck. “Freshly renovated period flat, oak floors, high ceilings, Victorian windows.” The price was almost laughably low. There had to be a catch. But after ten years in the same white-walled apartment in the Jewellery Quarter, after countless late nights and presentations about credit risk and interest sensitivities, Connor was ready for something new.

The area behind the station was rough. Streets lined with empty shop fronts, graffiti, shisha bars, pubs with flickering neon lights. The building itself looked run-down: the entrance smelled of urine, the stairwell of cheap grease and cigarette smoke. But the flat? Absolutely stunning. The bathroom and kitchen weren’t luxurious, sure, but overall far better than his old place. Connor didn’t hesitate for a second.

During handover, something caught his eye. On the windowsill, in the afternoon light, lay a half-open pack of cigarettes. Next to it, an ashtray and a cheap lighter. The landlord, dressed in tracksuit and flip-flops, didn’t even notice. Connor had never smoked—not at parties, not at uni. But suddenly, an urge hit him: to put a cigarette between his lips.

On the way back to his old flat, he bought a whole pack of Marlboros without thinking. While packing boxes for the next day’s move, he lit his first one. At first he puffed lightly, but by the third smoke, he drew it deep into his lungs and felt… alive.

The next morning, the first thing he did was light another cigarette. The smoke scratched and made him cough, yet it felt… real. Raw life. His shirt and tie, worn out of habit, suddenly seemed absurd. So he threw his suit over yesterday’s T-shirt, still slightly damp, smelling faintly of sweat and smoke. A thrill ran through him, chest and arms buzzing—a feeling he hadn’t had in years.

When the movers arrived, he intended to just watch. But the lads—stocky, tattooed, tracksuits and open jackets—were fascinating. They laughed, swore, spat on the floor. They talked about football, the gym, their girlfriends. Nobody asked about KPIs or funds. One offered him a cigarette, another clapped him on the shoulder. Connor felt… alive.

By evening, all exhausted but satisfied, Connor casually asked, “Fancy grabbing a pint?” Kieran, the ringleader, grinned. “Sound plan, Conna, mate!” He let Connor light his cig. By then, more than one cigarette had been trodden into the flat’s floor.

Jay, quiet, solid, cap and gold chain, knew a pub just around the corner—and a MMA gym nearby. Ty, the youngest, always laughing, sharp-tongued, teased: “Posh boy really down for a pint with us?” Passing a Turkish jeweller’s, he added, “Conna needs a diamond stud and a chain, mate.” Connor glanced at Jay’s massive chest—gold chain glinting. Not his build… yet. But the chain could be a start.

He went in. The piercing hurt like hell, but it was a declaration: no turning back. In his phone mirror, he saw someone he barely recognised—and liked.

Next day, he skipped the shower. Ran his hands through greasy hair, threw on an old T-shirt, ready for another day with the lads. He’d called in sick at the bank. His boss remarked his voice sounded blocked. Connor laughed, coughed, hauled up a thick globby lump and spat it into the toilet.

The mirror became an enemy. His once-perfect haircut looked like a costume. His old clothes still in boxes. He needed something to wear—something for the new him. He went to the Turkish supermarket across the street, picked up a hair clipper, tracksuit, and a few white vests.

“Mate, want a bigger chain?” the shopkeeper asked, grinning. Connor grinned back, casual now, “Yeah, mate, sounds proper.”

At home, he buzzed off his hair—millimetre by millimetre, the old life fell to the floor. When he was done, he finally looked like himself.

Three weeks later, Connor no longer worked at the bank. Instead, he moved furniture, helped at the shop, and hit the gym with his new mates. His flat was now shared with Ty—a bare fridge, mattress on the floor, beer cans by the window. But standing on the balcony in the morning, shirtless, cigarette dangling, tracksuit bottoms slouched low, he felt something he hadn’t in years: freedom.

Connor Ward, the banker, was gone. Conna had arrived—a boy from Birmingham, one of the real ones. And for the first time in his life, he was truly happy.

[revertedakhi]

Yo, listen up, fam! Dis is me, ya proper little slag, spillin' da tea on how I serve me Chav Boss Ambrose. Innit tho? Man's a proper legend, rockin' dem Adidas trackies, gold chains danglin' like he's king of da ends. I wake up early, yeah? Brew 'im a strong cuppa tea wiv two sugars, none of dat weak shite. Den I polish 'is creps till dey shine brighter dan da sun on a council estate. Boss Ambrose rolls in, all swagger, callin' me 'is good boy' or whateva, an' I drop to me knees quick smart. Sort 'is breakfast – beans on toast, bacon sarnie, da works. Clean da gaff spotless while 'e's out hustlin', make sure da PlayStation's charged for when 'e wants to smash some FIFA. Even iron 'is Burberry cap, bruv! Evenings? Man's chillin' on da sofa, I fetch 'im cans of Stella from da fridge, massage 'is feet after a long day bossin' it. If 'e says jump, I say 'how high, boss?' An' yeah, sometimes it gets proper cheeky, but dat's between me an' me boss, innit? Loyal as fook, me. Wouldn't 'ave it any ova way. Who's got a boss like mine? No one, dat's who!

[anglowrongn]

i'll clear a spot for you

[md7tf]

Scally Boost Energy Drink

Barry was absolutely knackered. The last thing he wanted was a social obligation, but he couldn't bail on dinner now. Desperate for a pick-me-up, he’d grabbed a random can of 'Scally Boost Energy' from the newsagent before cramming himself onto the train. He just needed to wake up a bit.

The suit lay in a crumpled heap on the sticky train floor, right next to the empty can. He wasn’t 'Barry' anymore—that boring old bloke was history. Baz stretched out his legs, propping his bare, dirty feet right up on the seat opposite with zero shame. Flexing his tattooed arms, he caught the eye of a man shyly watching him and flashed a cocky grin. Reckoning he had time for a quick nosh, he jerked his chin, signaling for the bloke to come over and get on his knees.