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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
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@azrerad

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The trip to Muscat
Felix, Georg and Michael had been best friends since childhood. They had had countless adventures together, but as they grew older, they longed for something new, something they had never experienced before. One day, they decided to take a trip to Muscat together to experience the exotic atmosphere of the city they had heard so much about, and with a sense of adventure and anticipation of sun and sea, they boarded the plane and flew to Muscat. After landing, they were overwhelmed by the beauty of the city. The endless beaches, the turquoise blue water and the magnificent buildings left them in awe. They spent the first few days relaxing on the beach, enjoying the sun and the sea and leaving their worries behind.
One afternoon, they decided to explore the city and do a little shopping. As they strolled through the narrow streets and browsed the colourful markets, their eyes fell on a magnificent mosque shining majestically in the sun. The friends were fascinated by the architecture and decided to visit the mosque, where they immediately felt a deep sense of calm as they entered. The scent of incense filled the air and the gentle murmur of prayers echoed through the vast halls. As they walked around, they noticed a strange change in themselves. Their skin seemed to take on a warmer tone, their features became more prominent, and their hair darkened. It was as if they were gradually turning into Arab youths.
While they were still pondering this mysterious change, a young man about their age approached them. He introduced himself as Ahmed and spoke to them in a friendly manner. Ahmed noticed their confusion and offered to help them. He led them to a nearby shop where they could buy new, traditional Arabic clothes. The friends were curious and tried on the clothes, unaware that this would speed up the transformation process, and when they looked at themselves in the mirror, they hardly recognised themselves. Their transformation was almost complete. But instead of feeling fear, they felt a deep connection to this new identity that they could not explain. Ahmed, who clearly understood their transformation, suggested that they return to the mosque.
Back in the mosque, Felix, Georg and Michael felt a strong spiritual pull. They sat down, closed their eyes and listened to the prayers. At that moment, they experienced a deep inner clarity. They realised that this journey was not only a physical one, but also a spiritual one. They decided to follow the call of their hearts and embrace Islam, and Ahmed helped them choose their new Muslim names: Felix became Farid, Georg became Jamal, and Michael became Mustafa. They spent the rest of their journey learning more about Islam and Arab culture as their transformations were completed both externally and internally.When the time came to return home, they were no longer the same people they had been when they left. Farid, Jamal and Mustafa returned to their homeland filled with a new spiritual strength and deep conviction. They now lived as devout Muslims, carrying the wisdom and peace they had found in Muscat in their hearts.
💚 Mashallah
Montgomery, part I
Montgomery lived the kind of life most people would kill for – if only they could get past the gates.
The estate alone spanned more acres than some European monarchies, with a circular driveway wide enough to land a private jet – not that Montgomery would ever allow that. It would ruin the gravel. He hated gravel being ruined.
He had everything. Not metaphorically. Literally. Money, beauty, bloodline, influence. His smile could open boardroom doors, his surname could close deals. He wore silk like other people wore excuses.
And then there was Julian.
Julian, who brushed Montgomery’s hair when he was hungover. Julian, who preheated the car so the steering wheel would never be too cold. Julian, who remembered every tiny preference – no garlic, no pleats, only dark chocolate, and never, under any circumstance, call before noon. Montgomery didn’t need to ask for anything. Julian anticipated.
People liked to say that Montgomery had it all. That wasn’t quite true. He didn’t have Julian.
Julian gave himself willingly.
And Montgomery accepted.
With a smirk.
Montgomery opened the door with the reluctance of someone summoned by peasants.
The courier—a man in a cap and synthetic polo—stood there holding a small brown parcel. No monogram, no ribbon, no taste.
Montgomery frowned. “I wasn’t expecting anything today.”
The courier smiled. “Private delivery, sir. Scheduled.”
Montgomery snatched the package with a dramatic sigh. “Scheduled for eleven-fifteen. It is now”—he glanced at the Cartier on his wrist—“eleven twenty-two. Fascinating how linear time is still such a challenge for some people.”
The courier said nothing. Wise.
Montgomery rolled his eyes and turned the box in his hands. “I assume it’s the cufflinks,” he muttered to himself. “Although I asked for white gold, not silver. If they got that wrong again—”
He took a breath, clearly already rehearsing the complaint email in his head. It would be laced with condescension and cc’d to far too many people.
Then something caught his attention. The box was too light.
He narrowed his eyes.
Not cufflinks, then.
And the label—handwritten?
Absolutely unacceptable.
He looked back at the courier. “Who exactly sent this?”
The man just smiled. “Enjoy, sir.”
And walked away.
Montgomery stood there, package in hand, lip curled in suspicion. For a second, he considered tossing it straight in the bin.
But curiosity, for once, outweighed arrogance.
He stepped inside.
And opened it.
Montgomery stared into the box as though it had personally insulted him.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper that looked offensively cheap, lay a thick gold chain and two matching bracelets. Heavy, vulgar, impossibly shiny. The kind of accessories worn by third-rate footballers or influencers who reviewed protein powder in their bedroom mirrors.
He lifted one bracelet between thumb and forefinger, holding it as far from his body as possible.
"What on earth is this?"
He turned the box over. No card. No brand. No receipt. Just the chain. And the horror.
“Absolutely not,” he muttered.
There were only two explanations. Either Lloyd’s—Lloyd’s, for God’s sake—had suffered a mental breakdown and started peddling club bathroom jewellery… or this was yet another tragic attempt by some admirer to impress him.
Which was, frankly, worse.
Montgomery had made it abundantly clear on multiple occasions that he did not do gold. Or bulk. Or anything that might reasonably be described as "bling."
Still, someone had paid for a private courier. Someone had wanted to make a statement.
He rolled his eyes.
Then smirked.
“Ridiculous,” he said aloud, tossing the bracelet back into the box with a flick of his wrist. “But flattering.”
He stood, stretched, and rang the bell. Time to have Jasper trace the delivery route. Discreetly, of course.
It would be fun to find out which fool had dared.
And even more fun to put him in his place.
The boutique door clicked shut behind him with a sound so soft it felt like silk. Instantly, the world recalibrated: the lighting was warm and flattering, the air scented with cedarwood, cashmere, and the faintest trace of oud—discreet, expensive, dignified. In other words: reality restored.
Montgomery exhaled. A little spending would do him good. Not as an act of consolation. As an act of principle.
That thing with the gold chain? Unspeakable. Tacky beyond reason. He’d felt almost contaminated when he’d lifted the bracelet out of the box. Who even made jewelry like that? People who needed to spell out “status” because they didn’t look like they belonged anywhere near it.
No—he needed refinement, reassurance. A sartorial palate cleanser.
He drifted between the shelves, hands in the pockets of his ivory trousers, gaze sharp and slow. A pale blue roll-neck in Sea Island cotton? Maybe. A camel overcoat from Loro Piana? Closer.
A sales associate approached. Elegantly. Silently. Competently. As one should.
"Mr. Montgomery," she said with the smallest, most respectful smile. "How lovely to see you again."
"I’ve been assaulted," he said coolly. "By taste. Or rather, the lack of it."
She nodded. As though she’d already guessed.
“May I suggest the Vicuña suiting we’ve just received? We have a bolt reserved exclusively for you.”
Montgomery raised an eyebrow. Vicuña? Now we were speaking the language of civilization.
“Wrap it,” he said. “And bring me something that reminds me culture still exists. I nearly drowned myself in Eau de Nil in the ladies' powder room.”
The associate smiled. “The Italian tailor is in residence today. Shall I have him brought to you?”
“Immediately,” Montgomery replied. “Before I remember that the world sent me gold chains this morning.”
Balance, at last, was being restored.
He looked down.
And froze.
For a second, reality didn’t compute. His brain refused to register what his eyes were clearly—clearly—seeing.
Nike. TN. Max Plus.
White. With black gradients.
And his trousers—his trousers—were stuffed into white sports socks. Nike socks. Ribbed. Pulled high like a common trackside jogger.
Montgomery staggered back a step. No. No no no. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening. He didn’t own sports socks. He didn’t wear sneakers. He donated athleticwear to the club’s seasonal charity drive. He sponsored a squash player. That was as close as it got.
His hand shot out for the nearest wall. The sales assistant blinked.
“Sir—are you quite alright?”
“I…” Montgomery stammered, looking like a man just informed that his blood was being replaced with Mountain Dew. “I… am wearing… trainers.”
He said it the way one might say: I am possessed.
The assistant opened his mouth—then thought better of it.
Montgomery yanked at the socks. Nothing. They were snug. His legs were cooperating. His trousers—crumpled—like Lycra.
“GET. THEM. OFF.”
He stumbled into the fitting room, half-horrified, half in disbelief.
Somewhere, in the distance, a man laughed.
And Montgomery knew: Someone was playing a very dangerous game.
Montgomery ran.
Not walked. Not strode. Ran.
Out of the boutique, past the sales assistant calling after him, past the horrified looks from two women in linen and pearls. He didn't care. He couldn't care. His breath came in tight, shocked bursts, and still—still—the nightmare worsened.
His trousers. They squeaked.
He looked down mid-stride and nearly tripped. The fabric… it shimmered. Not the crisp, matte texture of high-end cotton. No. This—this was synthetic. Nylon, maybe. Or PVC.
What had started as a minor style mishap had now evolved into sartorial terrorism.
The fabric clung to his legs in odd ways, catching light in a way no gentleman's trouser ever should. And the shoes. The shoes! Loud, plastic, impossibly white with air bubbles in the sole. Nike Tn.
"Help," he whispered, almost inaudibly, as if someone in the marble-floored mall might hear the existential dread behind his breath.
What was happening to him?
Where were his pleats? His pressed seams? His dignity?
He made a promise to himself right then, as his Nikes slammed against polished tiles:
Whoever was doing this…
…was going to pay.
Montgomery dropped to his knees. Right there, on the pavement. In front of the mall. In public. In broad daylight.
In his hand: a pack of Marlboros. Red. Stark. Vulgar.
He stared at it like it had insulted him personally. What was it doing here? What was it doing in his pocket?!
He hadn’t bought cigarettes. He didn’t buy cigarettes. He didn’t even handle them. He had staff for that kind of thing—if ever, if ever there was an occasion for it. Which there wasn’t.
And yet— Something stirred in him. A pressure, low and hot in his chest. He could almost taste the cigarette. That dry, acrid pull. The throat burn. The way it would hit his lungs like a velvet hammer.
It made him sick.
It made him hungry.
He looked down at himself. Gold chain. Shining. Plastic-looking pants—shiny? Nylon?! Nike TNs? Who even wore those? His jaw clenched.
His hand trembled. Not with rage. With craving.
He looked around. No one was watching him.
No. That wasn’t true. Someone was watching. Someone wanted this.
He had them in his pocket.
And worst of all— he couldn’t remember when.
The park was quiet. Green. Calm. Montgomery had come here to breathe. To get away from it all. From the mall. From the shoes. From the pants. From himself.
And yet— he stood there, slightly hunched, lips parted in shock.
A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Already lit. Already smoked halfway through. He hadn’t lit it. Had he?
His fingers twitched. His pulse throbbed, loud in his ears.
And then—he felt it. Not just the cigarette.
The weight.
Around his neck. A thick, heavy gold chain.
It wasn't just vulgar. It was definitive.
He reached up slowly, as if afraid it might growl. But no—it just lay there, like it belonged.
A sick realization bloomed in his chest.
He hadn't taken it off. Not when he fled the boutique. Not when he knelt with that cursed red pack in his hand.
Montgomery froze mid-step. His hand trembled as he stared down at his leg.
The fabric was no longer crisp ivory. It was black. Black and shiny. And it swished.
He tugged it up in disbelief— three unmistakable gold stripes.
Adidas. Chile 62.
“No,” he breathed. The cigarette bobbed at the edge of his lip. “No, no, no...”
This was not bespoke. This was not Savile Row. This was—street.
His reflection, had he seen one, would’ve shown more. The earring glinting at his lobe. The thick chain pulling at his collar. The smoke curling from his mouth.
Something inside him—his upbringing, his pride, his pedigree—screamed.
But his legs shifted. The pants swished again.
He gasped.
The shirt now.
A football jersey—bright red, clinging tight across his chest. Liverpool FC. He didn’t even watch football.
Gold chain heavy on his neck. Gold bracelets on both wrists. Cigarette dangling from his lips like it belonged there.
His stomach turned. Not from the cheap nylon swishing around his thighs—he’d somehow accepted that. But this?
This was identity collapse.
He lifted the shirt to confirm the horror. Yes. Elastic waistband. Drawstring. Branded boxers.
He looked like... like one of those lads. He was Montgomery Fitzwilliam Lennox.
And yet— the smoke tasted good. His pulse raced. His gold chain caught the light.
And something in him whispered, Just go with it, bruv.
He stood still in the middle of the street, heart thudding.
The jacket—where had it come from? Black, shiny, the golden Adidas stripes catching the morning light like they belonged on royalty. Liverpool crest gleaming. Matching the chain. Matching the track pants. Matching the vibe.
Montgomery blinked. Slowly. People passed. No one stared. No one laughed. Because this look—it wasn’t irony anymore. It fit.
But that made it worse.
"Where the hell am I?" he whispered. The buildings around him looked normal. Shops. Cafés. But something was off. Too quiet. Too… local. A kebab place across the street. A betting shop. A barber advertising "fresh fades & fire trims".
This wasn’t Mayfair.
This was… Croydon? Lewisham? Bootle?
And the cigarette? Still lit. Still in his mouth.
Montgomery Fitzwilliam Lennox didn’t smoke.
But someone else—someone new—apparently did.
He stared at the mirror. Then at the barber. Then back at the mirror.
No. No, no, no, no, no.
Who the hell is that?
Montgomery blinked hard, as if the reflection might correct itself. But the buzzed scalp stared right back at him—shiny, brutal, and terrifyingly authentic.
His hand shot up, fingertips grazing the short stubble. Gone. His perfect, sculpted, windswept crown. The hair that cost more than most people’s rent. Now? A cropped dome fit for a street soldier.
«You said you wanted the Scouse Special, bruv.» The barber’s voice echoed behind him. Calm. Casual. As if this butchering was somehow normal.
Montgomery tried to stand, stumbled back into the chair. His rings clinked against the armrest. His wrists gleamed—chunky gold. His shirt clung to his chest like it had always been red. He looked like a Liverpool fan who meant it.
But he wasn’t. Was he?
The horror settled in his gut. Somewhere—somehow—someone was doing this to him. And worst of all?
A part of him... didn’t entirely hate it.
He grabbed his shaved head with both hands, the gold chains around his neck clinking against the collar of his shiny tracksuit. “What the f— no, no, bruv, this can’t be ‘appnin’, innit. This ain’t me. I ain’t one of them, am I?” The cigarette trembled between his lips.
Montgomery—Monty, posh Monty, heir of Wetherleigh Estates, the kind of bloke who never touched public transport—looked down at himself. Adidas. Nike. Chain thick enough to tow a Bentley. And his voice—his voice!—he barely recognised it.
“Gotta go. Gotta find 'im.” He bolted upright. “Jamie’s on the bleedin’ golf course. Still wearin’ them daft plaid trousers. Poor git don’t even know what’s comin’.”
He stormed out the hotel room.
“Oi, if anyone’s gonna save that toffee-nosed tosser from this madness, it’s me. I mean—look at me! I’m already halfway gone, mate!”
The hallway echoed with every stomp of his TNs. Monty didn’t know how or why this was happening.
But one thing was clear: Jamie needed saving. And Monty was gonna leg it across London in full scally drag to do it.

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What was I doing? I was just about to do something before my roommate slapped that cap on me
Err huh wasn’t I about to go study? – But that can’t be right. I can’t go out like this. I’m shirtless aren’t I? Too embarrassing
Maybe I was going to take off my glasses… But… – no that’s a weird idea, I don’t even wear glasses to begin with.
Strange but maybe I was thinking of growing taller – Ha but that’s silly. How could I even do that? Besides I am already a good 6′1.
Huh… but my twiggy frame. Was it that I was about to bulk up? Work on those arms maybe…? – But I have some good upper and forearm definition already … and those veins starting to run down my biceps…
Had to be my shoulders or back then – Wrong wrong. My shoulders are alrieady wide and I have some decent traps and flarring lats
Chest? – Nah not that either. My pecs are already swelling up really nicely- not to mention my sensitive round nipples and those abs…
Yeah come to think of it, with this body… I was probably just about to become more confident, be a little cocky even. – Ughh but no way. I’m so fucking hot, I cant get enough of myself. Who could resist? With these muscles and dreamy face, I’m one hot smart sexy fucker…
So maybe I was about to dumb down? Like really forget all that school crap and like totally lighten up. Be some dumb ass jock muscle head. Huhuhu. – But like already so dum huhu. Hot dum bro yeah huhu
Nah like it had to just be that I’m gettin so fuckin hot and horny and… yeah always so fuckin horny… and… mmmm… was gonna grow a thick massive cock. – Uhhh but fuUUcK… so horned up all the time. And my cock, yeah my fucking fuck rod, I’m fingering that piece of meat in my shorts, its so fucking big. Like its always stiff and massive just thinking about my next fuck-
Fuck- that’s it! Huhuhu yeah, I’m so fucking dum, its my fucking cap. I gotta turn that thing around duh. Like get my hot pumped bod naked and cap on backwards, thats the way my bro likes to fuck. And my roomie, he’s already fucking waiting
Waistband Wednesday

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A straight dude and his friend both stumble upon a gay bar "accidentally", one turns into an absolutely submissive twink bottom and the other a dominant gay jock
Devin (left) knew there was something up with Jake (right). The two had been friends for years- played videogames together, played on the same baseball team, drank together, acted as each others' wingmen, went to bible camp together growing up- really just two bros living their best life. Yet Devin thought there was something off about Jake. He never had a girlfriend, never really seemed interested in the women at the bars they frequented, and Devin swore he'd catch Jake checking out a guy in the locker room after a work-out. Was his friend gay? Maybe that question had crossed his mind. Was there anything wrong with that? Not necessarily. Yet Devin had to admit it made him uncomfortable. He'd never say he was homophobic, but growing up down south and going to bible camp each summer certainly left their impact.
So when Jake and Devin went to hit the bars that night, he knew he shouldn't have been too surprised when Jake stumbled towards the only gay bar in town. Devin followed his tipsy friend closely, grabbing him by the shoulder.
"Bro, you do know this is a..."
"I know." Jake replied, not even making eye contact with his friend, "I mean... they don't skimp on the alcohol here."
"You've been here before?"
"No!" The denial came a bit too fast, "Just uh... heard through the grapevine that this place is the shit."
So that's how Devin found himself sitting in a gay bar. Cautiously looking over his shoulder for guys he figured must be checking him out and wondering if this is how women felt. He looks over at Jake, who is clearly staring a little bit too obviously at the bartender.
"Jake, what's wrong?"
"Nothing." He says a little too quickly.
"No seriously, what's up?" Devin can see Jake getting frustrated, turning away, tears prickling in his eyes.
"Drank too much." Jake replies taking a deep breath, turning towards his friend, "Look, I... I don't know how to say this but...I'm..."
And before he can get the words out, Devin feels a tap on his shoulder. And when he turns, he sees two guys looking at them. Concern etched on the shorter guys face, a devilish smile on the taller one's.
"We couldn't help but overhear your conversation." The taller one said, "My name is Paul by the way."
"I'm Leo." The shorter one said, voice quiet, "We don't mean to overstep but..."
"We know it can be difficult." Paul continued, "Hell, we were once in a similar place as you two. Confused, uncertain."
"Wh-what are you talking about?" Devin raised an eyebrow, "We're just..."
"I was once as oblivious as you were. Unable to meet my partner's needs." Paul looked at Leo lovingly, "Really not in tune with Leo at all. And he wasn't in tune with me." He smirked and pulled his boyfriend in for a kiss, "But that all changed and now we've been together for years."
"Wait. Jake and I aren't..." Devin winced as Paul placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Let's talk. You and me." Paul smiled, "And Leo, why don't you talk to Jake for a bit."
As Paul led a protesting Devin away, Leo slid onto the barstool next to Jake, leaning in close. "Hey there, handsome. I know this was sudden, but we couldn't help but notice all the tension between you and your boyfriend."
Jake's eyes widened in surprise at being called 'handsome', a light blush dusting his cheeks. "Oh, um, thanks. And he's not really my-"
Leo waved a hand dismissively. "Paul and I were in the same boat. God, he was so dense, and I was so… well uptight." He smiled, "But that all changed and now we're so much more compatible."
"Wait… I think there's been a…"
_______
Paul guided Devin to a quieter corner of the bar, placing a firm hand on his lower back. "Now Devin, I can see the strain in your relationship with Jake. Believe me, I've been where you are."
"Hold up, I think you got this all wrong. We're not-" Devin started, but Paul cut him off smoothly.
"Every relationship needs its dynamics. The give and take, the push and pull." His eyes locked with Devin's intensely. "We can help you two find the proper roles." Devin opened his mouth to protest once more, but Paul pressed on, voice low and persuasive. "I know it seems like everything is falling apart now. The fights, the misunderstandings… But trust me, this is a crucial turning point."
______
Meanwhile, across the bar, Leo leaned in close to Jake, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "You know, Jake, every relationship needs clear roles. I didn't realize what I needed, and neither did Paul. When Paul and I first got together… we were lost. Fighting all the time, on the verge of breaking up." He sighed, "But then we met a couple who showed us what we were missing." Leo continued, "See, Paul needed to be a real man. The dominant one. A real top, you know? Muscular, confident, hairy - the whole package."
As he spoke, Jake began to shift uncomfortably on his barstool. Leo noticed and smiled encouragingly, noticing as his muscles began to swell slightly, definition becoming more pronounced beneath his shirt.
"A proper top, confident and strong. Hairy in all the right places." Leo's eyes roamed appreciatively over Jake's changing form. "That's the kind of man Devin needs you to be, Jake. Take control, assert yourself."
"No, wait, I don't think…" Jake protested weakly, even as dark hair sprouted along his forearms and trailed up his neck.
-------
Across the bar, Paul had Devin pinned with his intense gaze, voice low and hypnotic. "Distinct roles, Devin. That's the key to a successful relationship."
He placed a hand on Devin's hip, thumb rubbing slow circles. "When Leo and I first got together, we were both trying to be dominant. Fought constantly." Paul shook his head, "But then we realized - Leo was meant to submit. To be my perfect little bottom boy."
As he spoke, Devin felt strange tingles spreading across his skin. His jeans suddenly felt tighter around his ass and thighs. "No, I don't…" he protested weakly, even as his body began to change.
His muscles started to soften and deflate. Proud pecs, arms, and lats shrinking in on themselves, all while his hips widened subtly.
"And that's exactly what you're going to be for Jake. A bottom eager to please."
Devin opened his mouth to object, to insist he wasn't gay and definitely not Jake's boyfriend. But the words died on his tongue as unfamiliar submissive urges welled up inside him.
His voice came out small and timid, "But I'm not…we're not…"
Devin tried to summon some of his old fire, but felt helpless under Paul's dominant presence. Devin whimpered, overwhelmed by the foreign sensations and desires flooding his body and mind. He knew he should resist, should correct Paul's assumptions...but the urge to submit was rapidly overriding his better judgment.
--------
Meanwhile, Leo watched as Jake's body morphed before his very eyes. The changes were subtle at first - a ripple of muscle here, a sprinkle of hair there. But soon, Jake's physique had transformed dramatically.
His arms bulged with lean, sculpted muscle, dark hair thicker and coarser than before. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, creating a classic V-shape. Jake's chest heaved with each breath, now covered in a pelt of coarse hair.
Leo licked his lips, eyeing Jake like a prime piece of meat. "God, look at you," he purred, reaching out to trail a finger down Jake's newly furry pecs. "A real man. Dominant. Powerful."
Jake shuddered at Leo's touch, electricity seeming to crackle across his skin. His cock throbbed in his pants, achingly hard and straining against the denim. New thoughts flooded his mind - raw, primal urges he'd never experienced before.
Mine… Gonna fucking wreck Devin… Make him my bitch…
The words echoed in Jake's skull as his hands clenched into fists, muscles flexing involuntarily. His pupils were blown wide with lust, gaze zeroing in on Devin across the bar.
"Wait... no... I don't..." Jake's voice was rougher, dripping with lust. The world around him shifting, his perception of himself altering as he looked down at his hairy chest, proud muscles, and thick bulge.
"Shhhh..." Leo smiled, "You know what you are now."
A cocky smirk on his now bearded face. Jake stood abruptly, towering over Leo.
"Fuck yeah, this is who I am," Jake growled, voice dripping with newfound confidence and aggression. He grabbed his crotch roughly, palming his massive erection. "Can't wait to stuff this fat cock in my slut's tight little ass."
Leo grinned, "Mmm, I bet he'll look so pretty stretched around your huge dick."
Jake rumbled approvingly, drunk on power and newfound lust.
-------
Back in the corner, Paul loomed over Devin, his imposing presence overwhelming the smaller man. Devin squirmed as strange sensations washed over him, his body betraying him. Soft curves replaced hard angles as Devin's features gentled. Puffy lips, delicate cheekbones, wide innocent eyes - he looked like the perfect pretty boy ready to be used. Devin's protests grew weaker, his voice pitching higher.
"N-no, this isn't right…" Devin whimpered, even as his plump ass pushed out, straining against his jeans. He couldn't meet Paul's piercing gaze, feeling exposed and vulnerable. "I'm n-not gay, and Jake is just my friend!" He bit his lip- it felt so wrong to be assertive, to voice his own opinion without being asked.
"Wait, what?" Paul raised an eyebrow.
"We're just bros! We're just..."
Before Devin could say more, powerful arms encircled his waist from behind. He yelped in shock as he was pulled flush against a hard, muscular body. Jake's newly deep voice rumbled in his ear, hot breath ghosting over his neck.
"Mmmm, look at this sexy little bottom bitch." Jake growled in Devin's ear, voice dripping with lust.
Devin gasped, shivering at the feel of Jake's hot breath and scratchy stubble. His own traitorous body molded against those powerful muscles. "Ja-Jake, w-what are you doing?" he squeaked.
"Gonna make you mine." Jake bit his earlobe, causing a moan to escape Devin's puffy lips.
He knew he should fight this, push Jake away and insist this was all a misunderstanding. But as Jake's large, calloused hands roamed his body possessively, Devin found his willpower crumbling. He arched into the touch- enjoyed it. The masculine scent of Jake - sweat, musk and pure, potent maleness - invaded his senses, short-circuiting his brain.
"Yes, s-so big and strong," Devin mewled breathlessly, hips rolling back shamelessly to grind against Jake's fat cock.
"Fuck yeah, gonna ruin this tight little ass," Jake snarled, gripping Devin's plush cheeks hard enough to bruise, "Come on, lets get home."
Paul and Leo watched as Jake led Devin out of the bar, drinking in the sight of their handiwork.
"Mmmm, they're perfect for each other," Leo purred, palming his own erection.
"Kind of..." Paul mused, thinking about Devin's words, "At least they'll be happy together."
"Babe, everything okay?"
Paul roughly grabbed Leo's ass, imagining what Jake was doing to Devin, "Maybe we should get home too..."
Waistband Wednesday
Waistband Wednesday

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“God already? I just bought these like a month ago!”
Elliot tossed his headphones aside, annoyed. When he had bought the gaming headset, he had expected them to be excellent. So many other gamers had recommended the pair, but now they would not even connect to his monitor. Seeing that they were cordless, they were practically rendered useless.
Desperate, a risky idea suddenly popped into Elliot’s head. His older brother Trent had a decent enough pair that he could borrow. The plan was a fool’s errand if Elliot was caught; his brutish, jock brother could wipe him out in seconds for entering his room. And already loaded with emotional ammo on numerous accounts (being smaller, having intelligence, liking boys), Elliot was sure to end up at least hypothetically dead.
But Elliot also knew that Trent was not coming home that night. He was over at his current girlfriend’s place, meaning all Elliot had to do was replace the headphones exactly as he found them. Enjoying the sense of danger, Elliot mischievously tip-toed out of his room–despite no one else being home–and carefully approached Trent’s door. His brother’s room was not any different from the stereotypical straight man’s quarters: sparsely decorated besides a poster of bimbos with a rock band, dirty clothes and foul-smelling shoes scattered on the floor, and an American flag on the far wall.
Carefully avoiding the piles of empty beer cans, Elliot held his breath, hoping to not let any of his brother’s potent body odor enter his system. He eventually reached his destination, taking a seat at Trent’s desk and pushing aside anything that could dirty his bright-colored polo and shorts. It was easy to log into his brother’s computer and bypass the security functions, but Elliot had not expected to run into a problem with the Bluetooth compatibility. Until he disconnected the headphones from a specific site, Elliot would not be able to use them. It was a simple task, until Elliot realized it was a webcam site.
“OnlyFags?!” Elliot gasped. He would have never guessed Trent, the prime example of a cocky homophobic hetero alpha, would have been involved in OnlyFags–let alone a creator. The webcam site was practically known worldwide as a hate group–straight men teasing desperate, horny gays to make money. It was horrific, and yet it had somehow consistently exceeded expected profits.
Trying his best to ignore this discovery and get back to the task at hand, Elliot logged into his brother’s OnlyFags account, hoping to be able to disconnect the headphones once and for all. The loading screens were long and annoying, spirals that seemed to go on for longer than necessary, but eventually Elliot navigated to the devices page. Instead of disconnecting his headphones however, he accidentally reconnected his brother’s camera.
“Oh no…please no,” Elliot squirmed. Before long, people hopped onto his feed, commenting about this new arrival. Elliot nervously tried to escape the program but every attempt appeared to fail, only booting up the loading screen once more without ever reaching an end destination. Elliot quickly put on one of his brother’s caps and held his head low, hoping the audience would think it was Trent until he was able to exit. His panic was rapidly rising, but out of the corner of his eye, something caught his attention. One of his unfortunate viewers had a request, stating that he should flex.
A sudden calm befell Elliot, and although his musculature was not visible, he surprisingly felt comfortable posing for the webcam. The timid act was not much, but it garnered a reaction from the viewers. Another requested for Elliot to flex from a different position, and he obliged, his slim frame gaining a small but fair applause from the gay audience. After succumbing to a few more requests, Elliot was soon hooked, continuously switching between the loading screen and listening to his fans. It did not take long until he started receiving messages requesting to start stripping, and to his own surprise, Elliot fulfilled them.
When one of the viewers typed that he wanted to see Elliot show off his “mammoth arms,” he willingly struck a pose. He did not hesitate to prove the next commenter wrong, who insisted his legs could not be “hardened with muscle and bloated out like massive logs of meat.” Elliot immediately tossed his legs up unto Trent’s desk, showcasing what one member of the audience guessed were Size 13 feet. The shirt was removed after Elliot had to prove his “hard six-pack,” the shorts already off before he was told to showcase the “classic bubble butt only these guys have.”
Soon, the comments were less focused on requests and more so just stating observations. Elliot went back and forth between his live webcam and checking in on the spiral, although his panic had long subsided. “An abundance of body hair,” “Exudes arrogance and privilege,” “Only wants to play, get laid, and look good.” Eventually, Elliot even began to relish in the attention, becoming excited as his audience grew more vocal and engaged. This attention soon had Elliot massaging his member, his thick hands pumping the growing meat. It took his roused audience moments to realize this, yet Elliot was no longer afraid to respond to their excitement.
“You like that, don’t you?” Elliot’s voice oozed all-American jock. The crowd went wild, calling him irresistible, a pure stud. One viewer daydreamed what he was jacking off to, but another replied before Elliot could. “Probably cheerleaders or sorority chicks, these guys are all the same.” Elliot was about to reply differently, but a quick check in with the loading screen flashed a new image through his mind.
Tits. Touching them, motorboating them, and then finding his way down to the pussy. These images, these memories, made Elliot moan. The words almost left his mouth, but he knew his viewers would not be turned on hearing about his new and yet natural desire to breed and seed every chick he saw. No, he knew what they wanted to hear.
“That's it, you dumb horny faggot. You like this, don’t you?” Ethan smirked, continuing to pleasure his giant cock. OnlyFags terms and conditions were simple, but ironclad. Upon starting an account, creators had to “verify” they were straight, users endured the same sign-up requirements. “Blow your faggy brains out to a straight alpha like me, right now. Spend that useless cum, waste it on me.” When the system had detected Trent’s account had broken this agreement, the issue was immediately resolved.
Quickly, a sudden rush of pleasure overran the new man. “Oh yeah BROOO!” Ethan shouted, white goo spilling forth just outside of the camera’s view. He did not want another dude–especially a homo–to see his dick after all, which was slowly dropping back into its still large flaccid state.
Ethan, now just another dumb, homophobic, straight jock, found himself content with his work, taking pride as the tributes started rolling in. Thanks to Trent's and his system–while one got laid the other was pumped live–the twins were making bank. And why would they ever stop working if they got paid to do what they loved? Jerking off and fag-bashing had never been better.
“Tune in tomorrow, fairies,” Ethan licked his lips as he prepared to sign off. Cockily, he began grabbing at his pec. “Tomorrow’s sesh will be seeing a little more of this…” He then brought a hand back to down his massive cock. “and a lot more of this.”
Game Changer
It was a crisp autumn afternoon in the heart of Texas, where the Friday night lights shone down on the roaring crowd of Clearview High School. The championship game was just a few days away, and the team’s star linebacker, Brick “The Tank” Thompson, was at the center of the action. Brick wasn’t just known for his bone-crushing tackles—he was infamous for something far more sinister. His farts.
Not just any farts. Not the kind that made people wrinkle their noses in mild discomfort. No, Brick’s farts were a different breed. They were biochemical weapons disguised as bodily functions. It was said that a single whiff could cause memory loss, temporary blindness, and an intense craving for cheap gas station hot dogs.
Brick had always used his “gift” sparingly, saving it for pranks or moments when he needed his personal space in the locker room. But on this particular day, something truly bizarre was about to unfold.
At the other end of the field, stretching by the bleachers, were two new recruits: Jason and Ethan. The two had just transferred from a rival school, and while they weren’t exactly football material, Coach Stevens had insisted on giving them a shot.
Jason and Ethan were inseparable. They had been dating for two years, and while they had little interest in sports, they figured joining the team would help them fit in at their new school. But Brick? Brick wasn’t having it.
“Football ain’t for fancy boys,” he muttered under his breath, cracking his knuckles as he watched them from across the field. “It’s about grit. Strength. The art of strategic flatulence.” That’s when he got an idea.
The Plan: Deploy the Stinkbomb
After practice, Brick waited until Jason and Ethan were alone in the locker room, toweling off from a light workout. They had been trying to run passing drills earlier, but their skills were… questionable at best.
Brick stomped into the room, his cleats clicking against the tiles. He had been preparing for this moment all day, consuming a potent cocktail of protein shakes, hard-boiled eggs, and expired chili from the gas station down the street. His stomach was a bubbling cauldron of pure destruction.
He positioned himself between Jason and Ethan, stretching his arms as if he were merely loosening up after practice. Then, with the force of a hydraulic press, he let loose.
PPPPPPPPPFFFFFRRRRRRBBBBBBBBBTTTTTTT!!
The walls trembled. The metal lockers groaned. The overhead lights flickered as the sheer density of the fart warped the very air in the room. Jason and Ethan had no time to react before the first wave of pure, unfiltered biological warfare hit them. The fart seeped into their nostrils like an invading force, burrowing deep into their sinuses, setting fire to every neuron in its path.
Jason staggered back, clutching his face as if he’d just been maced. His mind screamed at him to run, to escape, but his legs felt like concrete. Ethan gagged violently, hands gripping his knees, his stomach lurching. “What… is that?” he choked out, his vision blurring.
It wasn’t just a smell. It was an experience. It had weight, a presence, as though the air itself had thickened and taken on a personality—an aggressive, unshowered personality that drank expired protein shakes and believed deodorant was a government conspiracy.
Jason’s heart pounded in his chest. Something was happening to his brain. Thoughts he had never had before began creeping in, whispering, clawing at the edges of his mind.
Gotta run… gotta—
Then, a second wave hit.
PPPPPPPPPPFFFFFRRRRRRRRRBBBBTTTTTTTT!!!
The sound was inhuman—somewhere between a motorbike stalling out and a bear growling into a megaphone. The air vibrated with the force of it, the sheer density of the gas causing the locker room tiles to groan under the weight of their own suffering.
Jason stumbled, his knees buckling. His head swam. His thoughts were slipping. He tried to hold on—to remember who he was.
“I… I like art,” he whimpered, his voice barely above a whisper.
A new voice, deep and stupid, growled back in his head. Nah, bro. You like lifting weights.
Jason gasped, shaking his head violently. “No, I—I like poetry, and, and indie movies with good cinematography.”
The voice laughed, cruel and dumb. Indie movies? What, like game film study?
Jason clawed at his temples. The stench was everywhere. Inside him. Changing him.
Ethan wasn’t doing any better. He had slumped against the lockers, his breathing ragged, pupils dilating as his entire world shattered and reassembled itself into something stupider.
“I love musicals,” Ethan groaned, fighting through the fumes, trying to ground himself in something familiar. But the gas was relentless. It seeped into his memories, corrupting them like a virus.
He thought he remembered sitting in a theater, enjoying a Broadway show… but the image warped. The stage disappeared. The actors were replaced by sweaty, hulking football players slamming into each other at full speed. The dialogue was gone, replaced by grunts and phrases like “GIT SOME, BABY!”
“No…” Ethan whispered in horror. “No, no, no—”
Another voice—deeper, dumber, louder—echoed inside his mind. Bro, what if… instead of musicals… you just watched highlight reels of bone-crushing tackles for three hours straight?
Ethan’s hands gripped his skull. “Stop—stop talking! This isn’t me!”
The new voice sneered. Ain’t about “you” no more, bro. It’s about the team.
Jason twisted on the ground, his body drenched in sweat. “Ethan—we gotta fight it!”
Ethan gasped, his breath ragged. “I—I can’t—I’m—”
Brick stepped forward, hands on his hips, grinning as he watched them writhe in football-induced existential agony.
“You boys holdin’ up okay?” he said, flexing his biceps. “Don’t fight it, man. Just let the game in.”
Jason groaned, his fingers curling into the tiled floor. His chest ached—not in pain, but in something else. His muscles… they were expanding. Tightening. His arms, once slim, were becoming bulky, carved like they had spent years in the weight room.
“No,” he muttered weakly. “No, I—I’m not like this.”
But he was. His fingers twitched involuntarily. He wanted to clench them into fists. He needed to hit something. Ethan gritted his teeth, still resisting, still clinging to the last shards of himself. He tried to recall his love for classical music, for literature, for deep, meaningful conversations. But all he could hear was the sound of whistles blowing. Coaches yelling. Helmet-to-helmet collisions. And farts. So many farts.
BBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRFFFFTTTTTTT!!
His stomach growled. A pressure built deep inside him, something alien, something awful.
Jason’s eyes widened. “Ethan… do you feel that?”
Ethan clutched his gut, shaking his head violently. “No—no, I won’t—I won’t let it—”
His body betrayed him.
PPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFRRRRRRBBBBBTTTTTTTTT!!!
The locker room shook.
Jason’s eyes went wide as the scent hit him. “Bro… that was…”
Ethan gasped, his eyes blank and empty, his mouth hanging open. He knew what had just happened.
It had begun.
Jason felt the pressure growing inside himself too. Something dark and terrible had awoken. His stomach churned, filling with unnatural gases.
No, no, no, NO! he screamed internally.
But the new voice in his head just laughed.
Let it rip, bro.
Jason squeezed his eyes shut. “I—I can’t…”
Brick patted him on the back. “You can, bud. You just gotta let go.”
Jason took a deep breath. His stomach contracted. The pressure built.
And then—
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAOOOOOONNNNNKKKKKK!!!
The sound was unholy. The locker doors rattled. A poster of an inspirational quote fell from the wall. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off.
Jason gasped. He felt… free.
Ethan looked at him, his face slack-jawed, his breathing shallow. “Dude… that was sick.”
Jason grinned. “Yeah… it kinda was, huh?”
Ethan stood up, rolling his shoulders. He no longer felt weak. His arms were huge. His brain, once filled with critical thought, now throbbed with primal urges: Tackle. Sweat. Lift. Fart.
Brick clapped his hands together, beaming with pride. “Welcome to the team, boys.”
Jason and Ethan nodded. They understood now.
Football wasn’t a sport.
It was a way of life.
And so was farting.
BBBBBBRRRRRRRROOOOOOFFFFFFF!!
Jason and Ethan laughed as their stomachs gurgled, ready for more.
They were home.
The night of the big game arrived, and Clearview High had never seen a more aggressive team. Jason and Ethan were now football-obsessed, tackle-hungry machines with no thoughts beyond scoring touchdowns and delivering nuclear-grade farts upon the opposing team.
By the third quarter, the rival team had collapsed on the field, their senses overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of Clearview’s combined stench. Paramedics had to be called. Gas masks were distributed to the referees.
Coach Stevens watched from the sidelines, shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t know what happened to those boys,” he muttered, “but God help us all.”
As the final whistle blew and Clearview secured the championship, Brick, Jason, and Ethan stood together, arms around each other, basking in the rancid fumes of their own creation.
It was the birth of a new dynasty.
A dynasty of brotherhood, football… and farts.