octuscle

[octuscle]

Hi, Chronivac support. I don’t need anything fancy I just want to be a good dumb country jock himbo with huge muscles and a empty brain who is obsessed with the gym loves wearing jockstraps and speedos is a total party animal is completely loyal to his bros is the life of the party is a star player on the college football wrestling and swimming teams and is a pledge for the rowdiest dumbest frat on campus.

There are plenty of things in this world I don’t understand. Quantum physics, for one. But honestly? Even simpler stuff throws me off sometimes.

Like why smart, educated people like you—who’ve got every door open to them, even in these messed-up times—suddenly dream of becoming big-dumb, musclebound, small-town himbos with zero brain cells, a six-pack of abs, and a seven-pack of jockstraps.

But what really blows my mind? How someone smart enough to send a support request to CHRONIVAC is somehow too dumb to use CHRONIVAC… to become the exact muscle-dumb himbo they’re begging to be.

But hey—I'm paid to help. So sure, let’s get you sorted.

Unfortunately, I can’t wait for you to finish your five-star vacation at that pretentious eco-resort in St. Barts, sipping imported sparkling water while pretending to read Camus.

Time starts rewinding right now.

You’re not 26 anymore. You're back to 18.

All memories of high school graduation, college, and your first job? Gone.

What’s left? A blurred recollection of a privileged New England upbringing—until your parents split, your mom remarried some corporate dick, and you bailed. Moved to Louisiana with your dad, who took a small-town job just to get away from Boston and your mom’s new life.

No museums. No book clubs. No Ivy League legacy.

Just football. Hunting. Lifting. Spitting.

You had your first cigarette at 14. Joined the NRA at 15.

“Ma’am, I’ll take a real big ol’ plate of scrambled eggs with a shit-ton of bacon,” you say to the lady at the omelette bar—your southern drawl thick as molasses.

Folks turn their heads. That accent don’t belong in this fancy-ass resort.

Linen pants? Poof—now they’re camo cargos.

Button-down shirt? Replaced with a sleeveless tee, silver chain, and a Bass Pro Shops trucker hat.

You shovel the food in like it's your last meal. Manners? Not exactly a thing in your all-male household. Closest y’all ever got to etiquette was seeing who could burp the loudest after dinner.

BUUUURP.

Yeah, you catch some eye rolls from the other guests. Whatever. Bet they vote Democrat, too.

This whole trip? Straight-up torture.

You can’t wait to get the hell back home.

Skeet shooting is for sissies. And the hotel gym? All machines—no iron.

You miss the clang of real plates. The funk of sweat.

At least there’s smokes.

Dad promised you a brand-new Dodge RAM if you make it through this trip without lighting up… but the dude’s out scouting some dumbass real estate deal with a bunch of other boomers. Won’t be back for two hours.

So you light up. Inhale deep.

Only eight nights left till you’re back home, back in the gym with the boys, then beer and steak at the sports bar.

Tough life, bro. Real tough.

But hey—you’re exactly the kind of good dumb muscle jock you wanted to be. Welcome to the frat, pledge."

[octuscle]

I was walking out of school when suddenly a big ass figure came rushing past me, boy was he fast. Must of been hunter of the football team, he's one fast runner, you could smell his sweat from a mile away, he was always sweaty and constantly horny, but he wasn't the big man of the team for nothing, coaches prized jock. Makes you wonder what he does to his players to make them so good and obedient to him

But anyway, he dropped something when running down the stairs,

One of his cleats? Did it fall from his bag or his foot, is this man Cinderella?

Should I try finding hunter to give it back to him? Or do I try it on even though it really wouldn't do anything but have me pretend I'm a jock 😅

Dude, your story ain’t no Cinderella fairytale. It’s more like Hansel and freakin’ Gretel – except instead of breadcrumbs, you’re followin’ a trail of sweaty-ass gear straight to your doom.

First it’s one cleat. Then a field towel. A jockstrap. A sweaty jersey. Another sock. Another shoe. Wait—three cleats? Who the hell loses three cleats?! What, is this dude part centaur or somethin’?

Thing is, you don’t even notice what’s happenin’. Every time you bend down to pick up another piece of his nasty-ass trail, you age. Not a lot. Just, like, three months. But three months of hittin’ the damn gym every day like your life depends on it. Bench, squat, deadlift. No excuses. No off days. Shit, your career as quarterback ended with that ACL blowout back in junior year—but the iron? The iron still calls. And damn, you’re movin’ serious weight these days.

Thirteen jockstraps, twenty-six socks, a whole damn load of crap later—you finally make it to the locker room. You take a deep breath. Yeah, this place reeks. But that stink? That’s your boys. Fuckin’ beasts on the field. No clue how to clean up after themselves, though. Not that you’re any better—you barely shower after the gym unless there’s someone to join you.

Cody and Hunter stand dead center in a mountain of dirty laundry. You toss the duffel bags down, roll your eyes.

“Yo! You filthy sons of bitches! What do you think the fuckin’ hampers are for?”

They just laugh. You stuff jockstraps into bags, spray down helmets, start sortin’ out the chaos.

Yeah, they’re pigs. But they’re your pigs.

You’re not the coach. But you’re the Equipment Manager now. The locker room warlord. The dude who keeps this whole sweaty circus from fallin’ apart.

You were one of ‘em once. Hell, ten years ago, you were the goddamn star. You had the arm, the body, the raw fuckin’ drive. Coulda been a household name.

But life threw you a curveball. Or maybe a blitz.

Still—you ain't bitter. The guys look up to you. At the gym, there’s always some tight-ass sophomore willin’ to trade reps for a little post-workout ‘cardio’ with the old bull. And the janitor gig? Pays the bills. Keeps you close to the game.

Not exactly the glass slipper fairytale you expected, huh? But let’s be real—Prince Charming never had a cock like yours or biceps that could curl a fuckin’ keg.

[octuscle]

Road trip

Damn it, Chuck thought to himself! They can't just forget me here! His football team was on their way home from an away game. A very successful away game. And they all had their star quarterback to thank for that. And that was him, that was Chuck. And now they had all just taken a bathroom break. At a rest stop in the middle of nowhere. And hey, Chuck had flirted with the cute waitress at the diner. And yes, he had fucked her in the broom closet. Hehehe, he thought to himself briefly. A map of the state showing the broom closets where he had fucked basement girls, cheerleaders, or even teachers from schools he had mostly been expelled from shortly thereafter. That would be a cool idea! His grin didn't last long. Shit, the team bus had left. Without him. And now he was standing here in the rain with no idea how to get home.

A truck pulled up beside him. A horn blared loudly. Chuck didn't react at first. The passenger door opened and a bearded man looked out. “Boy, you look lost. Can I give you a ride?” Chuck hesitated for a moment. He was still too confused, too angry to think clearly. “Sure, that would be cool,” he replied. And he climbed into the cab of the monstrous truck. It smelled of cigar smoke and sweat. Chuck looked at the driver. A small, slightly overweight man. Unkempt. His dirty T-shirt ended just above his large belt buckle, revealing a roll of fat. Greasy mullet hair peeked out from under his trucker cap. Shit, Chuck thought to himself. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. The trucker lit a half-smoked cigar. “My name's Pete. If you want one too, there's one in the compartment right in front of you.” Chuck shook his head, flexed his biceps, and said, “Chuck! Thanks for the ride. And I don't smoke. I'm an athlete.” Pete stretched out his right arm and felt Chuck's biceps. "Hmm, feels good. It would be a shame if you stopped training.“ He blew a cloud of smoke at Chuck. And his hand moved toward Chuck's chest. ”Wait, wait,“ Chuck said, shifting to his right as he sat. ”I'm not gay, man. I only fuck pussy." The driver glanced briefly at Chuck and smiled. His teeth were nicotine yellow. “I don't care what YOU fuck.” He blew another cloud of smoke at Chuck, withdrew his hand, and began to knead the bulge in his crotch. “Thanks for the ride, I think I'd better get out now.” Another cloud of smoke. Chuck felt dizzy. "Comrade, the next stop isn't for another six hours. We have to stick to our schedule.“ Chuck tried to keep a clear head. But the smoke made him tired. His head felt like it was filled with cotton wool. ”All right, Pete," he muttered. And fell asleep.

It was dark outside when Pete shook him by the shoulder. "Get up, sleepyhead. We'll take a break in fifteen minutes and then change drivers." Chuck yawned and stretched. Change drivers? What was Pete talking about? And more importantly, his morning wood. South of his large belt buckle, a large tent was forming in Chuck's pants. Of course, Pete had noticed it long ago. He had already taken his puny boner out of his pants and was jerking it off. As a passenger, you had your duties. And there was still a quarter of an hour to go. It wasn't the first time Chuck had given someone a blow job in a driver's cab. Driver's cabs, dirty toilets in truck stops, broom closets in cheap diners. He could manage anywhere. How long had he been driving aimlessly on the highways? Two years? He had arrived. You had to take what you could get. And Pete was actually a bit too big for him. But he took him a long way. Gratitude was a must.

Chuck walked toward the rest stop toilets with his legs slightly apart. Pete must have come. Chuck hadn't yet. They wouldn't be driving on for at least another hour. It would be hell if he didn't find someone to fuck by then. In the glow of a lantern, he leaned against the wall, his erection still clearly visible. He took a cigar from his leather vest, lit it, and waited. Almost five minutes. Then a sleazy business traveler in a cheap suit walked past him. A glance that lasted a little too long. A grab at his crotch. A muttered “20 without a condom?” And everything was clear. Chuck hadn't showered in a few days, but the guy still greedily went for Chuck's sleazy, cheesy cock. Premium beef. Yes, that described his cock very well. And that premium beef had just been sucked clean for $20. And then Chuck sank it into the man's ass.

Chuck couldn't understand people like Pete. When you were out on the street, you had to take care of your body. Okay, Chuck more than others, after all, his body was his capital. But while Chuck stuffed himself with chips and a big burger and drank three mugs of beer, Chuck ate his steak and salad, drank water, and used the last few minutes before departure to do a few pull-ups and push-ups at the fitness station behind the toilets. A few other long-haul truckers loitered around him. If they hadn't had to keep going, Chuck could certainly have earned a few more dollars. But as it was, he climbed into the driver's seat. If he hadn't had to drive, he would certainly have had a few beers. Instead, he had to content himself with another cigar. Pete was snoring in his bunk in the back. Chuck turned up the radio a little louder to stay awake. And he steered the truck south through the night.

During the next break and before the driver change, Chuck could earn a few more dollars. There were many truck stops where he was known as a colorful character. When you heard his heavy footsteps and the creaking of the leather, it was like a bell to a Pavlovian dog. Chuck had been traveling across the country for many years. A mixture of crook, occasional truck driver, and casual laborer. At some point, he had been kicked out of college. A stupid decision. He had once had an affair with a woman. And she had claimed that he had raped her. That had taught him a lesson, and since then he had only fucked men. They appreciated his mouth, his ass, and his cock. And they paid well.

Somewhere in New Mexico, Pete kicked Chuck out of the truck. He had to be out of the cab before the finish line. Pete would be in big trouble if it came out that he let someone else drive the truck. He thanked Chuck with a masterful blowjob and a box of Cuban cigars. They would probably never see each other again. The country was big... Chuck rarely got into the same truck twice.

Chuck loved the feeling of the sun on his body. He could use the stop for a good workout in the open air, a good meal, two lucrative fucks, and even a shower. Now let's see where he was headed. He stood by the road. It didn't take five minutes before a car stopped and the driver asked him if he could give him a ride. Chuck just asked if he could smoke in the car. Only if he didn't just put the cigar in his mouth, was the answer. Chuck got in the car. Back on the road!

[octuscle]

Student Fare

“According to my system, you’ve booked a student fare in economy class. Also, the ticket says Mason, not Martin Harper. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to make a few adjustments.”

Annoyed didn’t quite capture what Martin felt in that moment. He had just wrapped up a successful but utterly draining week. All he wanted was a peaceful flight to Chicago — in business class. The idea of him, a senior executive, flying student fare in economy? Ridiculous. But he hadn’t booked the flight himself. His secretary usually handled that. She was on vacation. Her temporary replacement, clearly a disaster, would be looking for new employment come Monday.

“Give me your luggage, please. Technically, you should check in at the economy desk, but I’ll make an exception,” the ground agent said. Martin reached for his sleek Rimowa suitcase — only to find a battered gym bag at his feet. He stared in disbelief.

“I had to adjust your luggage based on your fare,” the agent said cheerfully. Adjust? Adjust? Martin nodded slowly, trying to keep his composure. He reached for his laptop bag — and froze. Gone. In its place: a ragged backpack with keychains and pins clinking on the zipper.

The agent handed him a boarding pass with a tight smile. “You should hurry. Security lines are long. “I use the fast lane,” Martin muttered. She smiled thinly. “Student fare.”

He slung the backpack over one shoulder, swearing under his breath, and headed for security. When was the last time I flew without priority check-in? Probably back when he was a student. He hated crowds. Flying, for him, had always been about escaping them — money buying silence, space, comfort.

Now he was shoulder to shoulder with tourists in Crocs and noisy kids with sticky fingers. He started sweating. He shrugged off his jacket and instinctively reached to loosen his tie—only to find none. In its place: a tacky beaded necklace with a seashell pendant.

What the hell?

He yanked off a backwards cap he hadn’t even realized he was wearing. His hair was soaked. Desperate, he tied the jacket around his waist. His sleeves were rolled up now, revealing tanned, hairy forearms and a dozen woven bracelets that reeked like a locker room. He sniffed one. Goddammit, they stink.

Security was finally in sight.

Martin—no, Mason—tossed his backpack into a plastic tray, followed by his belt and cap. No alarms went off, but a smirking security guard stepped forward. “I’ll need to pat you down,” the man said, eyes glinting. The tank top Mason apparently wore left his sides completely exposed. The officer’s hands slid up to his armpits. Mason clenched his jaw. Keep it together.

“Hey, college boy,” another officer barked, holding up the backpack. “That yours?” Shit. The weed. Mason froze.

“My bro’s clean. Let him pass!” shouted the Latino guard with the tight uniform and too-perfect jawline. Mason exhaled. And smirked. You’re gettin’ a kiss for that, papi. He blew him one.

Boarding had started. But Mason had priorities. He jogged to the restroom opposite the gate. At the urinal, a businessman in a navy-blue suit shot him a furtive glance. Mason caught it. His cheesy, uncut junk hanging out. The suit looked half horrified, half hypnotized. Mason grinned, gave a mock stroke. The guy mirrored him. Pathetic. Mason flexed his right arm, popped his sweaty bicep and shoved it under the man’s nose. “Enjoy, bro,” he chuckled. Normally, that’d cost ten bucks — or at least a beer. Speaking of which: Beer!

He dashed to a kiosk, stuffed two bottles and a couple protein bars into his backpack.

“Last and urgent call for Mason Harper, American Airlines Flight 241 to Chicago.” Mason jogged toward the gate, sloshing bottles and crinkling wrappers in his bag. Whatever unlucky sod ended up sitting next to him was in for a ride. Either heaven or hell.

The gate agent gave him a pained smile. “We’re overbooked, sir. The only seat left is in Business Class. Would that be alright?” Mason blinked. Business Class? Bloody hell! “Yeah, s’all good, mate.”

He climbed aboard, dumped his backpack in the overhead bin and cracked open a beer before even sitting down. Next to him: another navy-blue suit. Familiar face. He gave the man a wink, took a swig, and stretched his legs. Three hours to Chicago. Let the party begin.

Thanks to @deliciousrunawaydetective for saving this!

[octuscle]

Lifelong school internship

Day 1 My guidance counselor thought it would be “good for me” to do an internship in the trades. I’m more the artistic, intellectual type—bookish, detail-oriented, a bit introverted. Carpentry felt like the exact opposite of everything I’m used to. But she made a fair point: in ten years, there’ll still be carpenters. Journalists? Who knows. As depressing as it sounds, she might be right. Still, me? In a workshop? With power tools and sawdust and sweaty guys in flannel? Sounds absurd.

Day 2 This tool belt makes me feel like I’m in a costume. The other guys joke about my "pianist hands"—which, okay, fair. I'm clearly not from this world. But weirdly enough… I like it. The scent of fresh-cut wood, the sense of doing something real with your hands. The guys here? They actually love what they do. There’s something contagious about that. Even the foreman, who greeted me by shoving my face into his sweaty armpit—yeah, gross—somehow meant it as a welcome. I guess every tribe has its rituals.

Day 4 No joke, it’s kinda epic when you build something and it actually turns out great. Like, I helped make kitchen cabinets today—mostly by myself—and they look good. Like, proud-mom good. I'm starting to get why these guys are always grinning. There’s a kick in knowing that you created something solid, something useful. I might be catching feelings… for carpentry.

Day 7 Broooo. I’m basically a journeyman now, no cap! Finally makin' real money, gettin’ calluses in all the right places, and the boys are takin’ me out tonight to celebrate. Pickup truck’s loaded with brewskis, we’re grillin’ at the lake, maybe I’ll bring the ol’ guitar. Been a minute since I jammed, but these hands know what’s up. Nothin’ beats buildin' all week and lettin' loose like a proper bloke on the weekend. Work hard, play harder.

Day 10 Oi, bein’ your own boss at 28? That’s the dream, mate. Got my own crew now, lads who respect the grind. I call the shots, set the pace, pick the jobs. Clients? Beg me to squeeze 'em in. They know good craft when they see it. Tradie life ain’t for the faint-hearted. It’s sweat, grit, and a bit of swagger—and I got all three, mate.

Day 14 Listen up, rookies. Round here, we’ve got rules—and rituals. You want in with the crew? You gotta earn your stripes. Ain’t nobody forgettin’ their first armpit initiation, least of all me. Today we got this new kid, soft hands, polite voice, lookin’ like he just stepped outta art school. Reminds me of someone. But if he’s serious, he’ll learn: real men don’t flinch. This trade’ll shape you. Toughen you up. Turn you into someone who leads, not someone who flinches. Just like it did for me.

Thanks to @musclegrowthexpert for saving this!

[octuscle]

Kırkpınar

It is the middle of the night when you arrive in Edirne. You hate the city from the first moment. Too crowded, too loud, too dirty. Why do you always have to take over the projects at the ass end of the world? Your home is Idaho, far away from crowds and especially far away from Muslims! At least the hotel is good. But even here everything is full of Muslims, you don't hear a word of English. Bloody bastards, you think to yourself.

You are woken up by the muezzin in the morning. Fuck, it's really early. And actually you don't give a shit about religion. But today is the final of Kırkpınar tournament. And you are the favorite. A little divine help won't go amiss. So you spread out your prayer mat in the shabby hotel room and pray the sunrise prayer. And then you put on your tracksuit and head for the stadium.

Today is your day! You are the champion. And the horniest stallion of the tournament.

[octuscle]

The KI KINK asks: Skater stoner

@rowdy317 asked: you know I am a small gangly guy and always felt that I would be more fit for military life. Can you help me with that?

Yo bro, sounds like you’re lit again… but hey, if you’re serious-serious, I got you.

You’re chillin' at the skatepark, baggy shorts, spliff hangin’ loose, crew’s hyped about some halfpipe trick. Then — boom — outta nowhere, you’re like, 'Yo, I’m done with this slacker life.' You stomp out the joint, flick it in the trash, and one of the dudes goes, ‘Bro, what, you turnin' into a cop or somethin’?'

You just smirk. ‘Nah man, I’m cleanin’ up for the battlefield, not the courthouse.’ Silence. Awkward cough. One guy drops his board.

Next thing, you’re shirtless under the pull-up bar, reppin’ out sets like a damn beast. 5x20, no sweat. Your traps poppin’, core tight, face locked in like you’re already takin’ fire from the beachhead.

The next day? You’re not just changed — you’re reborn.

Buzzcut clean. Camouflage shorts. Obliques sharp enough to cut glass. You’re hitting reps before school while your old crew watches like you’re some kind of alien. But you don’t even notice them.

You’re locked in now. Meal prep. Deadlifts. Cold showers. Flashcards. Senior year’s not about coasting — it’s training grounds. There’s only one path in your head: Navy SEAL. Ain’t no Plan B. Ain’t no turning back.

You chose this life the moment you gripped that bar. The rest is just execution.

[octuscle]

Also: Zunächst einmal bedeutet "den beiden unter der Dusche einen blasen" nicht "kennenlernen". Die beiden kannten Deinen Namen nicht und sie hatten auch eigentlich null Interesse, ihn kennenzulernen. Aber blasen konntest Du. Und weil die beiden nun mal Alphas sind, hat ihnen Kevin vom Fitnessstudio bereitwillig alle Deine Daten gegeben. Und jetzt brennen die beiden darauf, dass Du ihnen noch mal zu Diensten bist. Deinen Chef haben Sie auch schon informiert, was für eine devote Sau Du bist. Der wird gleich noch dazu stoßen, dessen Schwanz wirst Du auch verwöhnen dürfen. Und wenn der dritte in Deine Fresse abgespritzt hat, ist der erste von den dreien unter Garantie schon wieder so weit, ein anderes Loch von Dir zu füllen.

Auf Rachids Schwanz darfst Du Dich freuen. Ein echtes Prachtstück! Ob Du mit Enricos unbeschnittenem Monster genauso viel Spaß hast, weiß ich nicht. Aber wenn Du auf Eichelkäse stehst, bestimmt! Und er ist kein Unmensch: Wenn Dich der Geschmack stört, hat er noch eine schale lauwarme angebrochene Dose Bier für Dich zum Nachspülen.

Ich habe sie im Fitnessstudio kennengelernt und jetzt lauern sie mir nach der Arbeit auf. Was haben sie wohl vor?

[octuscle]

Yo fr, everyone walked in thinkin' he was the new geography teacher or some sh*t. But nah — dude's just the exchange kid who hit a growth spurt so wild he crossed customs lookin' like a Marvel reboot. Class roster couldn’t even keep up, bro!

Thank to @musclegrowthexpert for saving this!

[octuscle]

I’ve always wanted to fit in more with other guys. It’s not just that I wish I were manlier, though I do, I wish I felt more connected with other men. I wish I had bros I could hang with, or a super manly family or something. Could you help me out?

Sure, mate! Here is your story:

It was well past midnight when Erik finally pulled into the lorry park at the M1 service station just outside Sheffield. He killed the engine of his leased company car, loosened his tie, and tossed his suit jacket onto the passenger seat. His eyes were glazed, his face pale with exhaustion. The client meeting in London had dragged on, the motorway had been its usual hell, and his stomach growled with hunger.

He stepped out, walked through the automatic glass doors into the harsh glow of the service area, and made straight for the greasy spoon tucked in the back. Neon lights, plastic trays, the unmistakable stench of old fryer oil. He ordered a currywurst with chips and a large cola-mix, then slumped into one of the scuffed booths.

He’d just dipped his first chip into the curry sauce when the peace shattered. Three stocky men in grimy hi-vis vests, their T-shirts soaked through with sweat, burst in through the doors, laughing and shouting in thick Midlands accents with a foreign lilt.

“Oi, Omar, this curry sausage looks like your ugly foot, innit!”

“Bruv, if it tastes like that bird I pulled last night, I’ll have seconds!”

Erik looked up. Their arms were sun-darkened, their forearms covered in dark hair, trousers caked in building dust. But their voices—full of life, loud and raw—sounded like they came from another planet. And yet… strangely close.

“Oi boss, this seat taken or what?” asked the biggest of the three—shaved head, thick gold chain, holding a can of lager.

Erik hesitated, then nodded. “Go ahead.”

The builders dropped into the booth, trays clattering, chomping and burping and joking like they owned the place. Erik felt oddly out of place—but drawn to their energy, their unfiltered presence.

“So, what’s your gig then, mate? You look like one of them suit guys from a bank or somethin’,” one of them grinned.

“I… I work in consulting. Project management,” Erik muttered.

“Dead, man. Sit at a desk all day, yeah? No sun, no mud, no real blokes around you?”

“Something like that,” Erik admitted—and laughed, despite himself.

They introduced themselves—Ali, Hassan, and Omar. All of them originally from Syria, now working construction up and down the UK. They told him about their site jobs, crashing in shipping containers during the week, lifting weights at 6 a.m. in the local gym, about their wives—or exes—and weekends full of vodka, grilled meat, and banging techno beats.

“What’s the point makin’ bare cash if you’re sittin’ alone in a Travelodge every night, bruv?”

“With us, it’s simple. Hard graft, hard bods, hard rave. That’s it.”

Something stirred in Erik. Maybe it was the grease from the currywurst, maybe the smell of sweat and diesel, maybe just envy—of this raw, straight-up life. No endless meetings, no slide decks, no CEO small talk.

When the lads stepped out for a smoke, Erik followed. The night air was crisp, but he felt warm.

“Oi, try this on, boss,” laughed Omar, tossing him a spare hi-vis vest. “Then you’ll look like one of us, innit!”

Erik hesitated—then shrugged it on. The fluorescent yellow glowed under the floodlights. The boys clapped him on the back.

“Now all you need’s a bit o’ grime and a dose o’ test, yeah!”

He laughed with them. Something inside him shifted, slid, transformed.

He pictured it—working on site. Early mornings, hauling heavy shit, no emails, no neckties. Just steel, sweat, concrete—and these lads. His new crew. Lift, eat, rave, sleep. Repeat.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just a fantasy. Everything tilted. He looked at his fingernails—black with grime. His hands, calloused. And just beneath the rolled-up sleeves… tattoos?

The drive through the night was long. Every two hours, they switched drivers. Three lads snoring in the back, one behind the wheel. Three Syrians and one blond bloke. So on-site, people always thought Erik was the boss. But there was no boss in this crew. Just brothers.

A few weeks later, Erik was gone. In his place: Rico. Hair shaved down, skin bronzed from sun and gym lights, chest inked with sprawling tattoos. No spreadsheets, no boardrooms. His life now fit into a steel container on a massive East London building site.

He lived with Omar, Ali, and Hassan—Syrian lads, all ripped like Greek statues, each with their own ritual of lifting, eating, and grinding through the day. They moved like a crew, tight and wordless, tank tops stretched over swollen pecs, forearms veined and dusted in site grime. It wasn’t chaos—it was discipline. Waking up at five, silent protein shakes and oats. Gym before sunrise, the clang of barbells louder than any alarm. Then straight into hi-vis trousers and steel-toes, off to climb scaffolding, hammer drills buzzing against rebar.

Their container was basic: bunk beds, protein tubs, gear strewn about, beer bottles lined up like trophies. But it felt alive. The air thick with testosterone, sweat, aftershave, and respect.

Evenings were ritual too. Cheap lager. Meat from Lidl, grilled outside the prefab unit. Phones out—posing, flexing, checking each other’s form. No one spoke about emotions. Only muscle. Only grind.

And on the weekends—back to Birmingham. Clubs. Bass deep enough to rattle your ribs. Tight shirts, gold chains, shoulders too wide for doorways. Girls stared. Guys gave space. Rico stood in the middle of it all, tattooed and hard, knowing this wasn’t some temporary thrill. This was him now. No pretence. No suits.

Just iron. And brothers.

[octuscle]

The Chronivac asks: Business mate

@unity19085 asked: Hey I have a situation I’m wandering if you can help me with. I’m on this long flight from New York to London and there’s this trust fund business bro on the same row as me. He’s acting all smug and is taking up space and being so rude and loud. He’s also being so mean to the flight staff acting like he’s so above them. Any way you can humble him a bit on this flight and make it a bit nicer for the staff and the rest of us passengers?

I’m a bit out of practice, to be honest. But I’m filling in for a friend while he’s on vacation… So let’s see what I can do.

For starters, let’s give everyone a break. I’ll send that smug prick straight to sleep. No more tapping on his overpriced laptop, no more barking at the flight attendants like he owns them. Just silence. Well—except for some deep, sonorous snoring. Maybe a bit of drool, running down the corner of his mouth, dripping onto that bespoke business-class suit of his.

Watch closely. That suit? It’s changing. The fine wool starts to shimmer. Stripes crawl up the sleeves, down the legs. The cut tightens, squeezes, reshapes the fabric—and what’s underneath. His body shrinks inside it. That overtrained gym-built torso melts into the lean, wiry frame of a teenager. Not weak—no, athletic. But young.

The air around him shifts too. That cloying, overpriced aftershave vanishes, replaced by something rawer: sweat, cheap deodorant, stale beer. It’s the scent of a lad after PE, still buzzing from the locker room.

Now take a look at his face. That smug, square-jawed banker’s mug is gone. In its place: a cheeky ginger chav with a skinfade fresh from a ten-quid Turkish barber. He’s maybe eighteen, tops.

His laptop? Gone. So’s the Louis Vuitton weekend bag. Now there’s just a scuffed-up Nike backpack. A cracked old smartphone lies by his side—he must’ve dropped it in his sleep. Where his laptop once sat, there’s now a half-drunk bottle of lager rolling under the seat.

No more Wall Street bullshit. No more alpha-male flexing. Just a chavvy little rent boy, twitching in his sleep, moaning softly. The bulge in his trackies is impossible to miss—he’s having one hell of a dream. And it’s contagious. Your cock’s already like steel.

You lean over, hand slipping into his crotch. He stirs, eyes snapping open. You grin: “Oi, you fancy earnin’ a tenner, you little slag?”

He looks up at you with that familiar cocky glint, lips curled into a smirk. “Only if you pay in advance, yeah?”

By the time you reach the lav, he’s right behind you. Not his first time, clearly. He kneels without hesitation, undoes your jeans like a pro, and goes to town. Fuck knows what he usually charges, but you’d pay triple for head that good. And yeah—he swallows every last drop.

Space is tight, but you manage to return the favour. His cock’s rock hard, and he tastes like sweat, lager, and something sweet underneath.

By the time the seatbelt sign comes on, he’s earned himself close to eighty quid—mostly in cash, a bit in favours. He turns to you as the plane taxis in: “Oi, can I crash at yours tonight? Can’t be arsed goin’ back to me mum’s council flat.”

Mate, today really is your lucky day.

I’ve set the spell so he won’t even realise what’s happened until he’s cum 2,500 times. And I haven’t exactly been keeping count, but judging by the guy who just slid into the seat behind him, he might be getting close. Don’t be surprised if he comes home knackered and sore.

No need to tell him that it takes another 2,500 loads to get back to his old self. But if he ever wants out of that pretty chav body… you’ve got my contact details. Until then, enjoy your personal ginger hustler.

Original saved by @namrar!

[octuscle]

From Tutor to Coach

by Jake Morgan, CPA-in-training, kinda

Week One

I showed up early. Too early. Fresh white shirt. Navy tie. Slim-fit khakis. The whole Big-Four intern starter pack. I even ironed my collar. The school secretary didn’t know where to send me at first. “Oh right, the... accounting guy,” she muttered, eyeing my tie like it was a Halloween costume. “Room 304. Good luck.”

I didn’t like that tone.

Room 304 smelled like dry-erase markers and teenage sweat. I opened the windows. Rearranged a few chairs. Wrote a neat “Welcome!” on the board and underlined it twice. Teacher-core, full throttle. Fifteen minutes later, the door slammed open. Six guys in football jerseys barged in, still sweating from practice. One of them—big dude, maybe 6’2”, linebacker shoulders—let out a belch so loud it shook the fluorescent lights.

“Yooo, is this tutoring?” one of them asked, grinning like I was a joke.

I stood up straighter. “Yes. I’m Jake Morgan. From—” “Bro looks twelve,” someone snorted. “Is that a tie, my guy?” Cue laughter.

I tried to keep my cool. “Let’s settle down, alright? We’ve only got 60 minutes, and I’m here to help—” “Dawg, you tryna help us or file our taxes?” More laughter. Someone launched a paper football at my head. Not even ten minutes in and I’d already lost them.

I stayed professional. Even after the “Tax Man” nickname started catching on. Even when they mimicked my voice behind my back.

I went home that night and stared at myself in the mirror. My skin looked pale under the fluorescent bathroom light. Tie still tight, not a wrinkle on my shirt. I looked like a substitute teacher for an Excel workshop.

I remembered Chuck — the loud one, probably the quarterback — rolling up his jersey sleeves to show off his biceps mid-session. No one told him to. He just did it. Like he owned the room. Like he was the room.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

Day Three They came late. Again. This time with protein bars and jokes about my “baby face.”

But when one of them — Matt, I think — asked how fast a football would have to fly to travel 60 yards in under 4 seconds, I saw an opening.

“Velocity equals distance over time,” I said, grabbing the whiteboard. “So we take—”

“BROOO, chill! I was kidding!” Cue chaos.

But later, as I was packing up, Chuck hung back.

“You ever lift?” he asked, jerking his chin toward my chest. “Uh… yeah. A little. Mostly cardio.” He smirked. “Figured. You got runner shoulders. No shame tho. Come spot me sometime. Bet you’d learn more in the gym than in these equations.”

He winked. Then walked out like he hadn’t just melted my nervous system.

I stared after him.

Still wore the tie the next day. But I left the top button open. That’s how it starts, I guess. Just one little crack in the spreadsheet.

Week Two – Bro Code, Bench Press & the Death of My Dress Shirt by Jake “just one more rep” Morgan

First off — I didn’t mean to lose the tie. It just… didn’t feel right anymore. Day One, Week Two: I still came in with the shirt tucked in. Tie gone, but collar crisp. Hair gelled. Planner open. The boys walked in mid-laugh, Chuck tossing a football from hand to hand.

Matt nodded at me. “Ayo, Coach Lite lookin’ kinda loose today. We makin’ progress.” I gave a half-smile. “No tie today.” Chuck leaned back in his seat, feet on desk. “Next up: sleeves off. Then we’ll talk.”

Midweek, I did it. Gym after tutoring. First time.

I didn’t tell anyone. Just showed up. Sweatpants, old sneakers, awkward energy. I thought they’d clown me. But instead?

Chuck waved me over like I’d been on the team for years. “Yo, Jake! You bench?” “Not… lately.” “You do now.”

That was the first time I ever spotted someone on a bench press. His sweat dripped onto the mat. His chest rose and fell like a machine.

“Eyes on the bar, bro. Not the pecs,” he grinned.

Too late.

By Friday, we weren’t doing tutoring anymore. Not really.

They asked me to break down muscle recovery and protein synthesis. I ended up drawing diagrams of muscle fibers on the whiteboard while they munched protein bars and flexed.

“Yo, that’s actually sick,” Matt said. “Like, biology for dudes.” Chuck nodded. “Coach Jake’s got brains and biceps. Respect.”

I felt something shift in my chest. And when I got home, I packed all my ties in a box and shoved it under my bed.

Week Three – Tanktops, Teasing & Testosterone by Jake “Coach-in-Training” Morgan

Monday. Third week in. I stood in front of my mirror, holding the tanktop in one hand, button-up in the other. The old me — the one who color-coded spreadsheets and tracked hydration on a Google Sheet — would’ve picked the shirt. No question. But this new version of me? He chose the tank. Baby blue. Slim cut. Showed just enough shoulder to say “I’m learning.”

I walked into Room 304 like I belonged in a locker room.

The boys noticed.

Matt: “Bro, you finally ditched the office drip.” Chuck: “Ayo, look who’s got lats now!” Someone else: “Next step: tattoos and a pump cover.”

We didn’t even sit. We walked straight to the gym. Like it was normal. Like this was tutoring now.

In the gym, I spotted Matt for incline. He groaned under the bar, veins popping.

Chuck leaned against the squat rack, arms crossed, watching me more than Matt. “Yo, Jake. You ever think about switchin’ majors? You look way more coach than countant these days.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know, man. I still got that finance internship lined up.” Chuck grinned. “And I got a date with Megan Fox. Ain’t neither of those real.”

The whole gym cracked up.

By Wednesday, I had a workout plan — written by Matt. A creatine routine — approved by Chuck. And a new nickname: Baby Coach.

On Friday, I taught them about lactic acid and hypertrophy between sets.

Chuck raised an eyebrow. “Damn, nerd mode activated.” I smirked. “Bro science is still science.” He smacked my chest. “Keep talkin’ like that and you’ll be Coach for real.”

That slap? It stung. But not in a bad way.

Friday night, we all hit the diner. Post-gym, post-shower, full-on dude bonding.

Matt’s arm was around his girl. Chuck sat next to me, stealing fries off my plate like we’d done this a thousand times.

And me? Tanktop still damp. Hair messy. Shoulders sore. But for the first time, I didn’t feel like the intern. I felt like one of the guys.

Week Four – New Priorities, New Physique, New Jake by Jake “Protein > PowerPoint” Morgan

By now, Room 304 might as well be a storage closet. We don’t use it.

Instead? Gym. Bleachers. Locker room.

That’s where learning happens. That’s where I happen.

Monday. I walked in wearing my new fit: oversized hoodie (sleeves cut off), gray sweats, beat-up sneakers, and a backwards cap. Chuck nodded approvingly. “You finally look like someone who could deadlift and steal my girl.” “Don’t tempt me,” I grinned.

Matt tossed me a shaker bottle mid-warmup. “Try this. Pre-workout. Tastes like blue raspberry, feels like rage.” I took a sip. My face twitched. “Bro, are my pupils dilating?” Chuck: “That’s how you know it’s working.”

By Wednesday, I’d gained five pounds. Not fat. Not fluff. Mass.

They weighed me in after leg day. Chuck whistled. “Damn, Baby Coach gettin’ thicc.” Matt slapped my glutes. “That’s a certified QB dumptruck, right there.” We all howled.

And the wild part? I liked it.

Our “tutoring” sessions had fully evolved.

I printed out muscle diagrams. Made laminated flashcards for fast-twitch vs. slow-twitch fibers. Showed them how to calculate macros based on bulking goals.

“Yo,” Matt said, chewing on beef jerky, “why does this actually slap?” Chuck nodded, mouth full of protein bar. “Cuz Coach Jake don’t miss.”

I wasn’t correcting grammar anymore. I was correcting squat form. And they listened. Actually listened.

Thursday, I got a DM from some guy back at the accounting firm. “You still planning to return next quarter? We need help with the Q4 audit.”

I didn’t even reply.

My focus was on Friday — on the football field. Chuck asked me to run warm-up drills. Me.

I stood there, whistle in mouth, clipboard in hand, watching those boys line up — muscle, sweat, energy — and I swear to God I almost teared up.

Not because I missed my old life.

But because I didn’t. At all.

Week Five – Full Bro Mode: Flexin’ at Lunch, Forgetting Algebra by Jake “No Longer Baby Coach” Morgan

Monday. 10:42 AM: Technically, I’m supposed to be “tutoring.” Says so on the official school calendar. But in reality?

I’m shirtless on the school lawn, laid out next to Chuck, Matt, and the rest of the squad. Sunglasses on. Protein shake in hand. Traps out.

This isn’t math class. This is life class. And we’re all honor students in flexology.

Chuck’s got a new playlist: Pump & Penetrate. Matt brings boiled eggs in Tupperware like it’s a religion. And me? I swapped my TI-84 for Arnold’s Encyclopedia of Modern Bodybuilding.

My old Excel sheet? It now tracks calories, macros, and vibes per rep.

“Yo, Coach Jake,” Chuck calls, “what happened to quadratic formulas?” He’s grinning, biceps bulging like he’s smuggling coconuts.

I shrug. “Only formula I know now? Calories in. Muscles out.”

The boys lose it. Full touchdown celebration. A group of freshmen stare at us from the benches like we’re superheroes or Greek gods — just dumber and sweatier.

Tuesday: Matt tosses me his jersey. “Bro, you still smell like spreadsheets. Time to smell like team spirit.”

It’s tight on me. Tight in all the right places. I pull it on. Chuck whistles from across the field. “Now you look like someone who could coach and crush.”

I puff my chest a little. Not Jake the intern anymore.

Just J.

Wednesday: Nobody even asks why we’re not in Room 304 anymore. Not the teachers. Not the principal. Dude walked by while we were stretching on the lawn and just nodded. “You seem… well integrated, Mr. Morgan.”

Integrated? Bro. I am the integration. Of protein, power, and pure testosterone.

Friday: Matt goes, “You need a coach Insta, dude. Like, ‘CoachJ_Official’. You’d blow up.” Chuck nods. “Yeah, you got that viral glow-up. Sweat and swag, bro.”

I laugh it off. But later that night in the gym mirror, I stare. Backwards trucker cap. Tank clinging to sweat. Arms veiny. That guy doesn’t crunch numbers anymore That guy curls dumbbells and crushes leg day.

Week Six to Eight: From Intern to Icon. Jake becomes Coach Jake.

by Jake “No Tie, Just Traps” Morgan

Monday morning hits different when you wake up sore in all the right places. Lats tight. Quads humming. Glutes? Activated.

I toss on my new sleeveless hoodie — gray, cropped, logo cut off — and the backwards cap Chuck gave me last Friday. It says “BEASTMODE” across the brim. Ironically? Not even ironically. I walk through the school halls like I own the building. And the thing is… maybe I do.

In the gym, Coach Daniels throws me the clipboard mid-practice. “Jake, warm ‘em up. I’ve got a call.” I blink. “For real?” He’s already walking away. “Make it spicy.”

So I do.

Dynamic stretches. Core burners. I throw in some explosive jump squats just to flex my inner NASM-certified wannabe.

Chuck jogs up beside me after the second circuit. “Yo, you tryna steal Coach’s job?” I smirk. “Nah. I’m just tryna earn it.”

He grins back. “Respect.”

And bro — that respect? It hits deeper than any “A” on a spreadsheet ever did.

By midweek, I’ve started saying things like:

“You don’t need pre-calc. You need pre-workout.” “Failure isn’t a number. It’s the last rep.” “Stretch your hammies or snap like your GPA.”

The boys eat it up. I’m a walking gym meme with actual knowledge. Call it Brology 101: Applied Flexonomics.

Thursday. Locker room. Post-practice.

I’m toweling off when Chuck sits next to me, sweaty and smiling. “Yo. What’re you doin’ after this?” “Not sure. Why?” “We were gonna hit that new gym off campus. You in?” I nod. “Hell yeah.” He bumps his fist against mine. “Bet. Just you, me, and max bench.”

Something about the way he says “just you and me” sits different. But I don’t question it.

Not yet.

Friday. New routine. New me.

I bring them protein bars now. I lead the warm-ups. Coach Daniels calls me “rookie.” But not like I’m new. Like I’m next.

We hit the field, and for the first time, Chuck tosses me the ball. “Let’s see what you got, QB.” I jog backwards, spin it once in my palm, and launch it across the field.

Perfect spiral. Right into Matt’s chest.

Chuck just whistles. “Coach Jake’s got arm talent too?”

I shrug. Smile. “Multitalented, bro.”

That night, I open Insta. Make the account: @CoachJ_Official Bio: “Future PE teacher. Current legend in progress. Reps before regrets 💪🔥” Profile pic? Me and Chuck. Both shirtless. Both flexing.

Because at this point?

I’m not just part of the team. I am the brand.

Week Seven – Tension, Tattoos & That One Gym Night by Jake “Shredded & Slightly Confused” Morgan

Monday hits. Hard. The weather? Hot. The boys? Hotter. Me? Peaking.

Shirt’s off by second period. Not that anyone complains. I’ve got abs now — real ones. The kind that cast shadows. And Coach Daniels? He doesn’t even call me “rookie” anymore.

He just tosses me the whistle  “Lead conditioning. You know what they need.” And I do.

Because I am one of them now. But also more. Bigger than tutor. Bigger than intern. I’m Coach Jake.

Tuesday.

Chuck pulls up in his beat-up truck, window down, arm flexed on the doorframe. He’s got that grin — the one that makes my chest feel tight and my gym shorts feel... tighter.

“Hop in, Coach. We’re hittin’ the new ink shop.” “Ink shop?” “Yeah, bro. We’re gettin’ tattoos.” “…we?” He winks. “Unless you scared.”

An hour later, I’m shirtless in a backroom while Chuck gets a wolf inked across his delt. I flip through the designs while pretending not to stare at the way his lats flare when he flinches. He catches me lookin’. Doesn’t say a word. Just smirks.

I end up getting something small — clean script on my ribcage: Earn your place.

Chuck reads it, nods. “Damn, Coach. That you.”

Wednesday. Practice. We’re mid-sprint drills when Chuck “accidentally” grabs my waist instead of the ball.

I freeze.

He grins. “Oops.” Matt shouts, “Bro’s playin’ defense with his feelings!” Laughter. I force a smile.

But later, Chuck finds me by the lockers. “You cool?” “Yeah.” “You sure?” I look at him. Sweaty. Shirtless. Heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with cardio. “Yeah, Chuck. I’m cool.”

He bumps my chest with his fist. “Good. Meet me at MuscleHouse tonight. Just us.”

10:04 PM. MuscleHouse Gym. It’s empty. Lights dim. Music low. Chuck’s already inside. Shirt off. Backlit by blue LEDs.

We don’t talk much. We just lift. Deadlifts. Supersets. No distractions.

Except… every time I look at him, he’s already looking at me. And every time I catch him smirking, my grip slips.

By 11:00, we’re on the mats. Cooling down. Stretching. Breathing heavy. He’s on his back, arms behind his head. “Y’know,” he says, eyes on the ceiling, “when Coach Daniels leaves next semester… he’s recommendin’ you.” My heart skips. “For real?” Chuck nods. “You got it, Jake. The bod. The brains. The boys listen to you.”

Then he turns his head. Looks right at me. “But real talk? I listen to you too.”

The air goes still. We stare. Longer than we should.

Then he chuckles, breaks the silence. “But don’t get weird about it, bro. No eye contact, remember?” He winks. I laugh too fast.

But something’s shifted.

That night, I lie in bed, sore, tattoo stinging, pulse racing. Thinking about Chuck. About his voice. His hands. His smirk.

And maybe, just maybe… I wouldn’t mind breaking the no eye contact rule.

Week Eight – Coach Crowned, Boundaries Blurred, and One Final Flex by Coach Jake “Rookie No More” Morgan

Monday.

The whistle hangs around my neck. Not as a prop. Not as a maybe. As authority.

Coach Daniels? Out sick. Or maybe just testing me. Doesn’t matter.

I run practice. Run it like I own it.

Matt shows up late. I make him run extra laps. Chuck messes around during warm-ups. I drop him for push-ups. He winks the whole time. Doesn’t even argue.

That’s how I know I’ve made it.

Tuesday.

Principal sees me on the field during lunch — clipboard in hand, boys stretching behind me like we’re training for State. He nods, half-smiling. “You’re quite the fixture now, Mr. Morgan.”

I nod back, casual. “Just doing what I was made for.” And it’s true.

Accounting? Never felt like this. Being a cog in a firm? That’s not the kind of machine I want to be part of.

But this? Sweat. Brotherhood. Respect. Muscle.

This is me. All of me.

Wednesday night. Gym again. Just me and Chuck. He shows up late, shirtless, smirking. Tosses me a new tanktop. “Coach needs new threads. We gotta keep the brand strong.”

I laugh, pulling it on. Fits like a second skin. Chuck watches me do it. Longer than he should. Neither of us says anything.

Then he steps closer. Like — closer. Breath warm. Chest rising.

“You know,” he says, “I used to think you were some nerd in a tie.” “Yeah?” I say, voice lower than it should be. “And now?” He grins. “Now you’re the kinda guy I’d let bench me. Emotionally.”

We both laugh. But it hangs there. Heavy. Real.

Thursday.

Chuck skips a set just to sit next to me. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t need to. He just leans in, quiet.

“You ever think about... stayin’ here? Like full-time?” I glance at him. “You mean, like, after the internship?” He nods. “Coach Jake. PE teacher. Head of strength & conditioning. Maybe start a YouTube channel. ‘Flex with Jake.’ I’d subscribe.”

I smile, slow. “I think about it a lot.”

He bumps my shoulder. “Good. Cuz I think we’d miss you too much otherwise.”

He means the team. Probably. But maybe not just the team.

Friday.

They call my name at the pep rally. “Coach Jake — unofficial MVP of the season.”

The whole gym erupts. Chuck starts the chant. “JAKE! JAKE! JAKE!” The guys hoist me up. My cap flies off. I’m laughing, shouting, soaking in the sweat and pride and raw f**ing validation*.

Somewhere in the crowd, I see the accounting firm's recruiter watching me. He frowns. I smile. Wave.

Then turn away.

That night, I post a new pic. Shirtless. Covered in chalk. Tat showing. Veins out. Chuck in the background, blurry but unmistakable.

Caption:

From tutor to team. From team to coach. From coach to… whatever comes next. 🏈💪🔥 #RookieOfTheYear

This ain’t the end. This is just the first season.

And next time? I won’t be the rookie. I’ll be the franchise.

[octuscle]

Florian becomes Zlatan

His friends went to Mallorca, Tuscany or Scandinavia with their parents, as they did every year. Florian's mother couldn't go on vacation with him. Since his father had died, the most they could go on vacation was during the fall vacations. In the summer, his mother had to help out a few evenings as a waitress in addition to her normal job. Florian understood that well. He had often worked in the beer garden himself, earning a little extra money. And he had saved money. For his 18th birthday, he gave himself a two-week vacation from the money he had saved. Bulgarian Golden Sands. That was cheap. But he just wanted to get away.

The bus trip had been long and exhausting. Most of the guests were young men, a few years older than Florian. They had already boarded the bus in Vienna with plenty of alcohol in their blood and in their bags. And they were loud and annoying. Sleeping was out of the question. And it was clear that they were all staying in a cool hotel right on the beach. Whereby he was very happy with his small guesthouse. Also not far from the beach, clean. And since there were only a few guests, it was also quiet.

Florian himself was not a party person. He was sometimes ashamed of his old-fashioned clothes. There was no money for new and fashionable things. And he had always been rather a homebody. Pale and unathletic. But he wanted to change that here and now. But already after the first day on the beach he lost his courage. And so he sat alone at the bar after dinner in the small hotel. And got into a conversation with the owner of the hotel, who was at the same time cook, waiter, bartender and receptionist. Darko had come from the back country. Originally as a waiter, but he had saved up the money for the guesthouse here. This had been his dream. He was reasonably successful, too. But everything could be better. He asked Florian if he would like to distribute flyers on the beach tomorrow. Maybe he could get a few guests to the bar that way.

Although Zlorian didn't really feel like having more guests at the bar, he did Darko the favor. So he went out after breakfast and distributed flyers on the promenade. He did this rather randomly. The main thing was to get rid of the flyers. After all, he wanted to go to the beach. Until he passed a public outdoor gym on the boardwalk. That's what he was in the mood for now. He worked out in the sun for almost four hours and had great fun. When it got more crowded at the machines in the evening, he retired, jumped into the ocean one more time, and then headed back to the hotel.

After dinner, a number of guests had actually come to have a drink at the bar. Darko was completely overwhelmed and asked Zlorian for his help. Sure, it was a matter of honor. So he served and cleared away. He washed glasses and tapped beer. And was happy about some tips for his vacation fund.

The next morning, Zloran set out for his run before breakfast. He loved the cool weather in the morning. After breakfast, he helped Darko out in the kitchen and then headed to the gym. At this time of day, only a few locals were working out. Zloran spoke a few words of Bulgarian and a few conversations about training tips developed. He was certainly not a newcomer during his workout, but he could always use tips.

After swimming another lap and getting ready for the evening, Zloran went to hand out flyers for the bar in the evening sun. He stuck primarily to the crunchy lads on the boardwalk. He knew that once he made eye contact with them, they would come. And in the evening it was already much more crowded than the day before. Some guests had already arrived for dinner, so Zloran had to help out with that. But he knew his way around the restaurant. And Darko and he were a well-rehearsed team. It was not until long after midnight that all the glasses were washed and the tables set for breakfast. Darko and Zloran ate a late supper and headed off to bed.

Zlaran had an early shift at the front desk. So the night was short, he still didn't want to miss his running session. At 07:00 the first guests should check out, punctually he turned on the rainbow lights and the soft background music and expected the first guests.

Today, the first guests for the bar came even during the day. Even though Zlaran actually planned to take advantage of the intense early afternoon sun to work out and suntan on the boardwalk, he stayed on duty until 4:00 pm. A couple of the fellas sitting at the bar were already very pretty. And Zlaran liked to flirt. Still, at some point he had to pick himself up and go to the gym. His body was one of the reasons it would get crowded at the bar in the evening. And besides, he liked to work out with the lads, and to talk smack about the tourists. They were the alpha lads, and they knew it. With this attitude, Zlaran appeared at the bar again that evening. It was packed, he had his bar well under control and he also knew how to control the other employees. Darko was more than busy enough with the kitchen and the restaurant staff. As every evening at midnight, the guests then began their "Zlaran! Zlaran!" chants. And he knew what he had to do. He ripped his shirt off his torso, jumped up on the bar and started dancing on the pole. The lads were hooting! And the banknotes flew.

Zlatan spent the next morning finishing the darkroom behind the bar. The St. Andrew's crosses and slings were already hanging, not his thing, but Darko had insisted on it. Zlatan liked the glory holes and carefully lined the booths with black latex foil. Darko's and his guesthouse had become a center of gay life on Golden Sands. Darko was more responsible for the older fellas from the jeans and leather faction, Zlatan catered to the sportswear fetish. And they both made enough money that Zlatan's mother was finally able to quit her job and move in with her son.She was proud that Zlatan had a Bulgarian stallion for a husband just as she had had one.

Thanks to @azrerad for saving this!

[octuscle]

The Chronivac asks: geek transformation

@nonamealphajockbro asked: hey dude, I’m not a writer, but a bro sent me this request and I think the chronivac team can help him out

I’m a 21 year old gay geek who lives in a very loving but nerdy family. My dad is a geek who has been taking me to gaming conventions since I was little. Me and all my brothers take after him. I love my family, but I’ve always wondered what it would have been like growing up with a jock family. Could I have been the jock I fantasize about being if I had more masculine influences in my life?

March 10th, 2024 I don’t know when exactly it happened, but something snapped in my family. Overnight, it feels like we went from trivia nights and kale smoothies to chicken breasts, deadlifts, and whey protein. Mom’s tracking macros. Dad's posting flex selfies. Even my little brothers are doing pre-workout squats in the living room. And me? I’m being dragged along for the ride. I miss my telescope. I miss chess. I miss not smelling like a locker room. Honestly, I think my family joined some kind of cult, and I’m the only one who remembers life before protein powder.

March 25th, 2024 It’s weird. I should be resisting all of this. But I’m not. Somewhere between my first proper bench press and my sixth protein shake of the week, I started to get it. The burn. The pump. The stares. It feels good. Too good. Now I’m hanging with the football guys. I’ve stopped correcting people’s grammar. I haven’t played chess in days. There’s this new confidence in me—raw and loud. But with it comes this… edge. I laughed at a kid wearing Star Wars socks yesterday. I used to be that kid. What’s happening to me?

April 10th, 2024 Okay, real talk: I’m not the nice guy anymore. I shoved some freshman into a locker today because he looked at me weird. Stole a juice box from a kid who said "creatine is fake science." And the armpit thing? Yeah. That happened. Post-practice, drenched in sweat, I grabbed this scrawny kid and made him sniff the results of an hour-long workout. Everyone laughed. So did I. It should feel wrong. It doesn’t. I don’t know if I’m becoming who I’m meant to be… or just losing who I was.

April 30th, 2024 Yo, bro—what even is happening?! I’m like… MASSIVE now. 220 pounds of pure alpha. Shirts don’t fit. Doors are too narrow. Mirrors love me. The nerd who used to chart constellations? He’s gone, fam. I just scored a freakin’ wrestling scholarship to some Midwest college that breeds beasts like me. I’m not thinkin’ about the stars anymore—I’m thinkin’ about slamming dudes on mats and crushin’ PRs. And honestly? I’ve never felt more alive.

May 20th, 2024 YO YO YO, my gym rats and mat bros — BIG ANNOUNCEMENT: Your boy’s officially living the freakin’ dream, no cap.💪 I’m a 235-pound walking protein ad, slayin’ it on the mat, flexin’ for the ‘gram, and deadass loving every second. Yeah, okay, I bullied a few nerds. Maybe I made ‘em sniff my pits post-leg day. Sue me. I’m motivating ‘em, bro. I used to look at the stars. Now I am one. Here’s to body slams, bulking cycles, and bein’ the baddest beast in the weight room. #AlphaLife #WheyUp #FromChessToChestDay

From bookworm to beast mode 💥📚➡️💪 Ain’t no telescope gonna show you this kind of star, bro 😤 240 pounds of pure grind, gains, and no regrets. Backpack's for the gym gear. Body's for the spotlight. Let 'em stare. I earned this. #BulkBuiltDifferent #NoNerdsJustMuscle #AlphaSeason #GymBroChronicles #ChestDayEveryDay

Thanks to @hornyjockalt for saving this!

[octuscle]

Alec was the real deal, always lookin' fresh. Blonde locks, smooth skin, tight style. His social media? Straight edge, all clean. That was before he hit up OnlyFans. Then the fall started.

Now he just chills in front the cam, doin’ his thing. His smooth skin now inked and pierced. Those pits? Ain't seen a razor in ages, got two wild bushes smellin’ like the streets. And that polished vibe? Nah, now he chats like a straight-up Latin hustler.

Yo, check out Alec 2.0 lookin' fresh @colombianomarika!

Thanks to @minddrainedjockboi for saving this!

[octuscle]

Thor - The perfect camouflage

He wasn’t cut out for this. His bosses had no clue about hooligans. Why him? Just because he had the shortest haircut in the precinct? That didn’t make him street. And the “camouflage” they gave him — a football jersey two sizes too big — only made his slim frame and soft belly more obvious. Laughable.

He’d done some digging. Skinheads weren’t dominant in the Ultras scene anymore. If he wanted to blend in, he'd need more than a bad disguise.

Late into the night, he researched the brands they wore. Not the cliché neo-Nazi stuff his superiors expected. Today’s Ultras were subtler. Symbolism had gone underground. The cool ones wore martial arts brands — hard-edged, outsider labels, not Adidas from the precinct lost & found. Maybe the evidence locker had something usable.

He picked out a few pieces — fitted T-shirts, faded joggers, a pair of worn combat boots — and stuffed them into a duffel bag. Tomorrow, he’d head to a boxing club he’d found online, supposedly a known haunt for the Ultras.

He tried one of the shirts. Better — but still too clean, too soft. He climbed into bed wearing it, cranked up the radiator, and let the heat and discomfort marinate him in fake authenticity. Anything to look less like a cop.

The night hit him hard.

He dreamed of riots. He stood in full riot gear, alone against a mob of Ultras — until the crowd morphed into clones of his commanding officer. Then the shield in his hand became a Molotov cocktail. He threw it. The world shifted. Now he stood in the South Curve of a colossal stadium, shirtless, screaming, surrounded by thousands of sweating bodies, flags waving, smoke thick in the air.

He jolted awake, soaked in sweat. But something was wrong.

This wasn’t his room.

The air reeked of cigarettes and stale beer. In the half-light, he saw an Ultra fan flag on the wall. Dirty dishes piled up in the kitchenette. Crumpled clothes everywhere. A laptop flickered on the desk. He moved the mouse: an Ultras Facebook group popped up.

What the hell?

He stumbled out, disoriented, looking for the bathroom. In the hall: bomber jackets, worn sneakers, combat boots, baseball bats. The door with the cracked glass pane led to the toilet — grimy, but functional.

He pissed. His forearms caught his eye — inked, veiny, thick. His hands, rough and calloused, handled a cock far too big to be familiar.

Still dreaming, right? Had to be.

But then he looked in the mirror.

And saw himself.

A man rebuilt. Alpha. Radiating pride, menace, and an icy northern rage. Every inch of him screamed street, screamed war.

No undercover cop had ever blended in this well.

He ditched the sweatpants, found a pair of army trousers, pulled on socks from the mess on the floor, and laced up the combat boots like he’d done it a thousand times. Bomber jacket. Gloves. Duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

The gym opened in half an hour. Best to be the first one there.

Thanks to @namrar for saving this!

[octuscle]

Mano Cornuta

Felix was a snob – the epitome of an arrogant student. Always immaculately dressed, hair perfectly styled, and never without that condescending little smile for anyone not meeting his impossibly high standards. The fact that his friends had actually talked him into going to a rock festival? A damn miracle. But when they pitched it as a “cultural experience”, he allowed himself to be convinced – without the faintest idea of what he was walking into.

Even arriving was a shock. No boutique hotel in sight. Instead: a muddy campsite, packed with yelling, beer-chugging people.

“You don’t seriously expect me to sleep here, do you?” he asked, appalled. His friends just laughed and tossed his weekend bag onto the ground. Felix muttered something about reading online there was a glamping area. Someone tossed him a can of beer and said, “Better enjoy it while it’s still cold, man. Won’t last.” He rolled his eyes.

From the distance, distorted guitar riffs blasted out of the main stage. It was chaotic. Loud. Crude. His friends were already weaving toward the crowd. Some cover band he’d never heard of was opening for another band he didn’t know. But… the beer tasted surprisingly good. And… The music wasn’t half bad.

The first morning was hell. Felix woke up in a clammy tent, still fully dressed. His shirt stuck to his back, his hair was a mess, his xpensive shoes soaked in mud. His bag with the toiletries? Gone. “Guys?” he croaked. “Where are my clothes? Where are the washrooms?”

He caught a glimpse of himself in his phone screen and winced. His friends cracked open their first beers with a loud “Cheers!” “Your bag’s probably somewhere in that pile,” one of them said, mid-belch. Everyone laughed.

He found his weekender, pulled out his toothbrush and headed toward what he hoped would be functioning showers. Or at least a sink. On the way, a group of drunk festival-goers bumped into him, pogo-dancing through the campsite. His toothbrush landed in the mud. Great.

He reached the porta-potties. Long lines. Awful stench. But at least he finally managed to pee. Midstream, someone lobbed a half-full cup of beer into the urinals. It splashed. Felix clenched his jaw. He wanted to go home.

Back at the tent, the guys had the boombox turned all the way up. Someone handed him a new beer. He hesitated. Then took it.

Maybe he could stay… one more day.

Day two felt different. His hair stuck up in wild angles, and he had some patchy stubble going. He’d thrown on an old, oversized band tee one of the guys had loaned him. It reeked of beer and smoke, but it was dry.

“Well, well, well. Our little professor's starting to look like a proper rocker,” one of them joked.

Felix rolled his eyes. But honestly? He was too tired to argue. And too hungover to care.

He had to piss. Two of the guys were standing just outside the tent, relieving themselves directly into the mud. Felix stepped up beside them and did the same.

Someone handed him a cigarette. Or… something like a cigarette. He’d never smoked before. He took a cautious drag anyway. It kinda went well with the first beer of the day.

They ended up having a burping contest.

Then they wandered toward the stage for the day’s opening act. Actually, more like the fourth or fifth act. They’d overslept. Didn’t matter. They were here to have fun.

By the third morning, Felix was gone. What lay snoring on the iso mat wasn’t the old him. He woke to pounding music from the boombox and a skull-splitting hangover. His tongue tasted like cheap beer and cum. His shirt stuck to his skin, jeans crusted with mud and dried sweat. The beard? No longer “charming stubble”. Now it was full-on wild.

Eyes still shut, he lifted a hand and threw the devil horns. Then reached for the warm beer can next to him and chugged. “Breakfast is served!” he burped, proudly.

The guys stared at him in disbelief. “Felix?” one said, sniffing dramatically. “Bro, you smell like a cougar in a zoo cage.”

Felix just shrugged, walked out front, and pissed in the mud with a big grin. “Then I guess I fit right in.”

Thanks to @musclegrowthexpert for saving this!