#Muscle building USA

[dreamfly-fitness1]

mental health awareness

[sarms-info]

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[hotmentransformed]

Team USA

The city of Paris was alive with excitement as the 2024 Olympics drew people from around the globe. Among the crowds of tourists and athletes was Jesse, an American traveler with a love for adventure. Fascinated by the event and the athleticism on display, he felt an irresistible urge to experience the Olympics from a closer perspective. He had always been a rather meek man but had envied the raw athleticism and power that these athletes embodied. After saving up since the previous games, he was finally able to afford a trip to Europe for these games. Driven by curiosity and a sense of mischief, Jesse decided to sneak into the Olympic Village, to get close to the Olympians he had admired for so long.

Knowing this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be in proximity to his idols,  he had to make sure he made the most of this trip and didn’t fuck it up. Despite his meek statute, his confident demeanor and clever deception got him beyond the security, and he managed to enter the facility, blending into the vibrant atmosphere of the athletes' quarters. He wandered the village, soaking in the energy and marveling at the athletes he admired from afar.

Word of his entry got around, and soon guards were searching for him. As he heard French men shouting down the hall, he knew he needed to hide. Jesse twisted the nearest doorknob to him, and surprisingly, it was unlocked. Pushing it open, he threw his body inside and closed and locked the door behind him. Inside, the lights were dim. Now that he was safe from the guards, the adrenaline he had been riding was starting to wear off, and fatigue began to set in. Looking around the space, he noticed that the room was incredibly simple, with two beds with Paris 2024 sheets, a fan, and a clothes rack.

Exhausted from his adventure and his narrow escape, Jesse lay down on one of the beds to rest and regain his energy before making his daring escape. But the makeshift mattress was surprisingly comfortable, and even though the guards were still probably looking for him, Jesse quickly lulled into a deep sleep. 

As Jesse slept, a peculiar warmth spread through his body, enveloping him in a comforting embrace. His limbs felt heavy yet relaxed as if they were being gently molded by an unseen force. His breathing deepened, his chest rising and falling with a steady rhythm. The sensation was soothing, yet beneath it was an underlying intensity, a pulsing energy that coursed through his veins.

His body began to change. His hands, once ordinary, grew larger and more defined, the fingers thickening with callouses. His arms swelled with muscle, biceps and triceps becoming well-defined, veins standing out against the skin. His shoulders widened, giving him a more powerful and athletic build.

His chest expanded, pectoral muscles firming up as his heart beat stronger and more steadily. His abdominal muscles tightened, forming a sculpted six-pack that spoke of strength and endurance. His legs, too, transformed, becoming muscular and sinewy, the calves and thighs bulging with new power.

Jesse’s jawline became more pronounced, his cheekbones higher, giving his face a more chiseled appearance. His skin, once pale from his travels, took on a healthier glow as if he had spent years training outdoors under the sun. 

When Jesse awoke, he felt a strange surge of energy and vitality coursing through him. He sat up, blinking in the morning light, and noticed the gymnast's uniform hanging neatly on a chair, adorned with the letters USA. Confused but intrigued, he stood and moved towards the mirror.

The reflection that greeted him was stunning. Jesse stared, eyes wide, at the image of a powerful, athletic man. The person in the mirror was undeniably him, yet also a stranger. His body, now sculpted and strong, moved with a grace and ease that felt both new and familiar.

As Jesse struggled to understand what had happened, the door opened, and a young man in a Team USA singlet walked in. "Hey Brody, you're up!” the man said casually as if everything was perfectly normal.

Brody blinked, trying to reconcile the confusion in his mind with the reality before him. “You’re running late! The competition starts soon… you’d better get dressed!”

 "Yeah, okay,” Brody with an unfamiliar deep voice.

The other man closed the door and Brody picked up the singlet. He pulled his now-massive thighs through the spandex and pulled the outfit over his muscular body. His bulky arms flexed as he held the singlet open for the rest of his body to enter. The spandex hugged his abdomen, displaying his six-pack through the fabric, and his pecs pushed against the top and he held the shoulder straps. 

He let go of the straps of the singlet that he had been holding. With a snap onto his broad shoulders, he remembered everything: growing up in Tennessee, waking up early every morning to work out and train, enrolling at Stanford to compete, and qualifying for the Olympics.

Now knowing that he earned his right to be here, Brody strutted out of his room with a newfound bravado and through the Olympic village towards the shuttle to the gymnastics complex. Within the hour, he was there, on the mats warming up to compete for the gold in front of the world.

He was representing the best country in the world. He was the best of the best, and he was going to give the world one hell of a show.

[octuscle]

Catalan internship

Michael was overjoyed. He would never have dreamed that he would be accepted as an intern at the renowned architecture firm in Barcelona. Normally, world-class offices only accepted seniors as interns. And Michael was a sophomore. And he barely spoke a word of Spanish. To be honest, he had lied a bit on his CV. But the internship didn't start for another three months. Until then, he would learn Spanish and learn so much that it wouldn't even be noticeable that he had only just started his studies.

When he was on the plane to Barcelona three months later, Michael didn't speak a word of Spanish and had gained a lot of experience in frat house parties over the past few weeks. The internship was going to be a debacle… And indeed, he didn't understand a word on his first day. And even if he had spoken the language, he would have had no idea what they wanted him to do. Michael cursed the decision to apply for this position. He was only happy when he was finally in the office. He googled "Spanish now". A list of language schools and language apps came up… Boring stuff… That didn't help him now either… And then, already on page 2, came "Become Spanish in just a few moments". Chronivac… Never heard of it… "In-app purchases possible." Never mind, Michael had his dad's credit card….

"Spanish architecture student in his final year". That was all the effort Michael put into his prompt. That was enough work for today. Michael spent the rest of the day looking for trendy bars for tonight.

Miguel wasn't overly punctual when he came into the office the next day. Why the hell didn't he understand anyone here? The language sounded like a gibberish of Spanish, French and a few more languages. Fortunately, everyone here actually understood Spanish. And for a reason Miguel couldn't quite explain to himself, Miguel spoke fluent English. This made it easier to flirt with the other interns from Germany, Poland and the USA. Unfortunately, Miguel quickly realized that everyone else here was far superior to him professionally. Despite his advanced studies, Miguel was a complete layman compared to his colleagues when it came to creativity, structural engineering and building technology.

"A young Spanish architect". And "Enter".

Miguel hated his small apartment in the suburb of Barcelona. He designed the most beautiful houses, the most spectacular skyscrapers. And he lived in this shoebox. Okay, to be fair, Miguel didn't actually design anything. Miguel drew staircases. Staircases for the most beautiful houses, the most spectacular skyscrapers. Buildings that someone else in the office had designed. One of the big bosses who were in the limelight, who were celebrated in the press. The stars of the Catalan architecture scene. Miguel could puke. In itself, he could have been satisfied. He wasn't earning too badly. He was a good-looking man. But he spent ten to twelve hours a day in the office. He had never seen one of his construction sites. He left his home at 06:00, he came home at 19:00 or not until 20:00. Sport? Going out? Meeting friends? He was already happy if he managed to finish a ready meal in the microwave. Didn't he have this app? He felt like he had last used it years ago. "One of the big boys in the office," he wrote. Tomorrow he wanted to be one of the bosses.

As a Spaniard, Miguel was used to having to earn respect. The cursed Catalans always thought they were better than everyone else. That was one of the reasons why Miguel almost lived in the gym. Sleep, gym, office, gym, sleep, gym… Getting his muscles to burn was more important to him than being successful here in the office. And with the muscles, success somehow came automatically. In meetings, he was always looked at when a question was open. Miguel knew that he wasn't actually the most talented architect in the office. But thanks to his impressive physique, he had managed to carve out a reasonably decent career. He earned good money, he had a summer house in Mallorca, he fucked the interns. And he was sometimes allowed to suck off one of the gods, the bosses of the office. No more. No less. His career had come to a natural end. He was just 42 years old. Damn it, it had to go on somehow. But as a Spaniard in Catalonia? Not a chance! He searched for this app… What was it called again? Chronivac. What should he enter as a prompt…? "My own master. And Catalan"

Miquel got up at 05:00 and immediately started lifting weights in his carpentry workshop. As a self-employed man, he didn't have a minute to lose. His apprentice and his two fellow carpenters arrived between 06:00 and 06:30. Most of his neighbors could set the clock so that the circular saw would start howling at 06:30. This did not necessarily make Miquel and his workshop popular. But his father and grandfather had already built cupboards and tables here for the neighborhood. The family had made a small fortune. And Miquel was a celebrity in his neighborhood. They called him "the Catalonian Arnold". And indeed, he was not much less imposing than his great role model. When customers came to his workshop, he always went out of his way to flex his muscles. Many of his customers attached great importance to him personally installing the furniture. And it was not uncommon for customers to have the air conditioning turned off. No matter. As a rule, he worked bare-chested whenever possible anyway.

Miquel was a good craftsman and not a bad self-promoter. But as a businessman, he was a failure. His accounts were constantly empty, the demands of social security and the tax authorities constantly hovered over him like a sword of Damocles. How he would love to simply chisel iron and work with wood. His two passions. In fact, he felt like an accountant. He wrote "Be free" in this strange app.

It had been a few years since Miquel had sold his workshop and the house in Barcelona. He had never been back since. But he had heard that Japanese-Chilean tapas were served where he had once assembled cabinets. Although he had received an indecent amount of money for the property by his own admission, he would be able to eat there for maybe a year and then he would be broke. But the last thing he dreamed of was eating Japanese-Chilean tapas in Barcelona.

He no longer worked for money in the village where he had bought an abandoned carpenter's workshop. He worked when he felt like it. Or when someone asked him to. Of course, after just a few hours, his muscular body made him a household name. But first and foremost, the few remaining inhabitants were happy that there was a carpenter in the village again. And what a carpenter. Good with the plane. And good with the tail. Miquel had nailed everything there was to nail in the village. His cock was in a jockstrap encrusted with cum and precum. He stank of sweat and musk. If it bothered anyone, Miquel would press their face into his armpit. Either he was rid of the annoying troublemaker afterwards. Or he had a new victim to fuck. Everything was actually perfect… But something was missing.

Miquel hadn't had a cell phone for years. Anyone who wanted to reach him could reach him. He wasn't a hermit. He had internet in the former sheepfold that he converted into his last home. His supposed last home. Who would know that?

He still remembered the moment when he switched off his last phone for the last time. He had used Chronivac for the last time shortly before that. "A contented man in his prime". Damn, that was him.

[waynewifey]

dear mr. wayne — b.w

part one: dear mr. wayne

part two: aftermath

part three: aporia

epilogue

summary: it’s not easy being a politician’s wife. it’s even harder to love a vigilante. months of negligence make you an easy target to his enemies.

pairing: bruce wayne/battinson x reader

genre: angst romance & dark action

warnings: swearing; smoking; kidnapping; violence; a bit of gore; “you” is she/her; bruce is the worst husband ever btw

word count: 2.8k

A/N: i wrote this back in january 2022 when the batman movie had just premiered, so kinda off the hype here. i hope you enjoy it anyway. already working on part 2, let me know if you guys would like it! also, this has taken a path way darker than i had in mind so i’m sorry if it’s too much. comments are appreciated!

gotham city, USA.

it's late.

you have no clock nearby, but you feel it in your bones. in your muscles too. it's too late and bruce should be home already. laying in the sofa, only half conscious, you regret telling alfred to go to bed. at least you wouldn't be alone. of course, being married to the batman you knew he would patrol at night often. you were okay with it. but lately bruce had been too focused on his other, and recent, goal: running for mayor. at first it seemed out of character, he was never good with the public or the press. but he stared at thomas wayne's painting in the hall in such painful façade, it made sense all off sudden. you were supportive of it. you showed up to every event just to stay by his side, to show the people the lovable man he was. the man you loved. the man who couldn't even be home for dinner.

the penthouse's elevator dings, opening its doors at the end of the hallway you see perfectly from your seat. your head doesn't lift instantly, like in the first week. instead, a long sigh escapes from your lips as bruce reaches the living room.

"hello, darling." he says, still in motion as he walks the stairway up to the room you shared. not a single kiss, or a hug. you follow him, because what else is there to do? you need to go to bed anyway. by the time you get there, slowly, his suit is already on the floor and he's taking a shower.

"how was the meeting?" you ask, knowing he usually did his Wayne Enterprising meetings — which consisted of hanging out long hours in bars with business men — at night. recently, he started a complicated relationship with a real estate company he wanted to invest in.

"the usual." he stopped fully answering these questions three weeks ago, making the only time you ever talked even shorter. the city has gotten more violent than ever since his batman duties were put on standby.

"any closer to sealing the deal?" you sit on the bed, watching the open bathroom door.

"probably." it's not like he's being rude. well, maybe a little bit. he just doesn't want to talk any more, it's clear on his tone. but it's 2am and you brain isn't working too well.

"when is this gonna end, bruce?" you finally say, as he puts his boxers on. "when are we ever having dinner again? or going on a date? when are you gonna stop treating me like i'm some sort of home decor?" you almost vomit out the words that have been stuck on your throat for days. surprisingly, the heartache doesn't softens. instead, it gets worse. it's like admitting your abandonment.

six months ago, you started trying to get pregnant. it hadn't always been a dream of yours, but the idea of having an heir to all you've spent your life building is charming. you realised you were in the right time to do so, you had just turned 28, bruce was 32, and both had stable careers. a month later, bruce announced his candidacy. and so soon you gave up. you told yourself once he won the election everything would be fine. you would try again. but, realistically, being a mayor was already a lot of work on itself. he wouldn't want a pregnant wife or a child to take care of. after the four years, who knows? he might as well have a new life project. and your family would always stand on the side.

"i don't know what you're talking about..." he doesn't look into your eyes. hell, he barely looks at you. that feeling, the negligence, is enough to trigger the tears. you take a deep breath, making an effort to look composed.

"don't you, though?" your voice is shaken. look at me. look at me. look at me. look at me. he doesn't. "bruce." you call, finally getting his attention. however, the boredom on his face knocks you off your feet, legs trembling in pain and anger. "i just want you to make an effort on us..."

"really? cause that's all i ever done." he's leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed in a way you would find attractive in other circumstances. but now he's yelling and you fight back the urge to shrink into the mattress. "do you think i wanna have a kid on this fucked up town? i'm tryna fix this. fix everything!" his faces turns red-ish. something inside of you makes you want to leave the room. you've always been an avoider, that is one of the reasons you hadn't really had couple fights. so, basically, this is very new. "i've got the weight of the fucking world on my back."

"let's leave then" you manage to say, replacing the you chose this. it was true, however, that he was the one to put himself in this position. bruce wayne could've gotten his entire life without working if he wanted to. but he always needed to save everyone, to suffer for other's happiness. he was a giver. sometimes you wondered if he needed to be saved instead.

"you know i can't do that." he mumbles, in a defeated tone. a sigh escapes from his lips, suddenly the tiredness takes over his face. it's almost enough to make you let it go, to internalise your distress again. he really can't, you know that. he feels that the city is his liability, because it was the only thing he had since he became an orphan. but he had you, too. he just didn't acknowledge that.

"and i can't stay like this." it sounds like an whisper, but it's a plead. choose me. please. he seems to read it in your eyes, face contorting in agony when he realises what you're asking for. me or gotham? it's stupid to think he would ever choose you. but you hoped, so desperately, because you would choose him. always.

"let's not do this tonight, okay? i have to be in the office by the morning." tears instantly fall as he turns off the lights and lays on the bed, turning his back to where you slept. for a moment, you're static. his words were final. were you ever in control of something in your life? why were all of these decisions being made for you? mechanically, you stand on both feet and walk to the door. you don't even notice your movement until you're on the elevator. your husband didn't intervene either. this neighbourhood is one of the safest in town, which honestly isn't much but you had to get out. anyway, nowhere is totally safe at 3am.

you walk two blocks, clinging to the fluffy sweater you wore. the depressing air of gotham slows your pace, to a point you start wondering if it was really necessary to be aware. you could feel the city devouring you, starting with your hope. the blue 24h sign lights up the street, in a way that isn't welcoming, but you know the place well enough to not be scared to get in. a bell sounds over the door and wakes up the male behind the counter. he's got long black hair and seems to haven't seen a good night of sleep in weeks. same,you think.

"hi. can i get the blue one?" you point at the camel's behind the man. he nods, quickly putting a pack on the wooden board. the prices pops up on the cashier's display. you pay and go outside. smoking was an bad habit from your college days, when pressure got too excruciating. every now and then you would treat yourself to some cigarettes, for the confidence it gave you. the sense of control to be the one, for once, ruining yourself. the smoke burns your throat on the first inhale and you hold back a cough. you're too entertained by the cigar to notice the black van approaching. it stops right in front of you, and everything happens too quickly for your brain to process. it's all dark.

he's in a meeting, the boring kind.

the kind that has him seated in silence while a representative talks to his employees, who never get to listen to their actual boss. there's a chart being shown on a large tv on the other side of the room. he's not listening, though. he's writing down ideas for a thanksgiving speech. a head pops into the conference room.

"mr. wayne." it's one of the new assistants, hired especially for the election season. he didn't care to memorise her name, because temps usually don't last long. if she hadn't called him, he might've not even looked up. but the room is silent, expecting eyes on him. the girl at the door looks terrified. "you're urgently required outside, please."

he sighs as he gets up from his leather chair. the second the door closed behind him, chatter is heard again. in the corridor, the woman conducts him to his office and they get in. there's a bit of a commotion, four men lounge around his table, all their faces tense.

"mr. wayne, i'm afraid we don't have good news." the head of the marketing team speaks, a man called robert vance. he's probably said the same phrase to bruce about seven times this month, so that doesn't do much. the assistant approaches with an ipad, unpausing a video. "we received this from an anonymous email about forty minutes ago. we weren't able to get the ip address just yet."

the video starts with a black screen, zooming out to show a woman with a bag over her head. she has her hands on her back and is kneeling on the ground. bruce's heart skips a beat noticing the hair falling down her shoulders.

"bruce wayne..." an eerie voice whispers from behind the camera, breathing heavily. "i've robbed an egg from your basket, and you haven't even noticed!" there's a disturbing chuckle and the video shakes a bit. bruce doesn't move, eyes stuck on the screen. no one in the room has done anything other than breathing. someone gulps. "it's been long hours, but we're having fun, aren't we, darling?" a gloved hand reaches for the bag, pulling it out. her face - your face - is dripping blood. you're biting on a fabric, still in your home clothes. bruce's jaw clenches. you're crying, face beaten, in this degrading situation. your eyes pierce the screen right into his. suddenly, a gun is tapped on your forehead and you close your eyes into a sob. your lips mouth please. "i'm running out of patience here, you're running out of time. let's do business, shall we?" he laughs, knocking the pistol on the side of your head, making you fall laying on the floor, unconscious. the spot bleeds. "here's my proposal: you come clean about your father's deal with carmine falcone and maybe i don't shoot little mrs. wayne... or i do both. it's your choice, really. the clock is ticking. tick tock, wayne."

the video stops, the sight of a gun pointed at your unresponsive body burns into his mind. bruce is panting, the adrenaline rushes into his brain. there's a million of plans being built, but none of them seem viable.

"don't let media get this." he managed to say. one of the men in suits says it's too late. the tv flicks on showing a news report on the video. he kicks the side of his table, the contents being thrown across the room. "FUCK! you bastards wait forty fucking minutes to show me this?" he screams, no one can look him in the eyes. a hand runs through his black hair. "meanwhile my wife is out there with a gun on her head! and what have you done? i swear to god, if i don't find her alive and well i'm killing everyone in this goddamned room with my bare hands."

he storms out of there, reaching to his phone to call alfred and noticing the multiple missed calls. fucking silent mode. the sun is setting.

"i got the address." the butler says, instead of hello. a 'ding' sounds in his ear.

there has been pain for so long. you try to remember before the pain. but all is pain. he has to make it stop.

the floor is cold cement and you feel so small in this huge warehouse. the man in the mask knows you can't run. not only you're tied up, but the will had left you long before getting dragged into that van. he sees it in your eyes. so he strolls around, always in that ridiculous dark green overall. then he beats you up for fun. no cameras. just you and the devil himself. you find yourself praying, after all these years. you don't pray to get out, no. you pray so that it ends soon. you pray that the stab wound in your abdomen will get you an infection. you pray that when you close your eyes, you never have to open them again. but the divine has left you in the cold cement.

there's an explosion. your eyes open. there's smoke and dust taking over one of the walls. you're seeing everything horizontally, cheek on the floor. the man in green is just as scared as you were.

bruce wayne busted that fucking wall down. he expected a full team of psychopaths and maybe some more security. there was just one coward in the warehouse. the thing stares at him coming out of the smoke, fingers fidgeting. the batman steps forward. the freak steps back. then turns around, runs to a half broken wardrobe and grabs a gun from it. bruce walks slowly. there's a struggle loading the gun. he takes the opportunity to run and throw the thing on the floor. he bangs his head on it. the vermin screams. he takes one punch. two. tries to reach for the fallen gun. bruce steps on his hand and the loud crack echoes in the room. he screams again. three punches. the mask is taken off. his nose is bleeding. more punches. he holds the neck. the head is turning purple. oh how he wants to kill this little shit. bruce wayne will kill him. it will just take a few more seconds...

"baby, no" at first he thinks he's imagining it. it's so soft, so weak. but he looks up and there she is. his hands loose. right on the corner, chains on her legs. her face is ruined from blood and dirt. her wrists bleed too. the motherfucker chained her. hell is too good for this thing.

bang. on his shoulder. he looks down and the blood is dripping on the freak's face. he’s pushed to the side, holding the wound. tiny white dots obstruct his vision. he grunts through the pain. the man gets up and runs towards you. bruce can’t move. he arches his back, trying to roll and lay on his chest. it feels like he can’t move his arm anymore, like his bones had detached. when he finally does so, the man is escaping through a window. his hand searches for the adrenaline-boost in his belt, grabs it and quickly injects on his leg. it takes a second to get his blood rushing again. he crawls up and jumps through the window, which leads him to a metal balcony.

you’re almost standing, but he holds your chains and a gun to your face. the shooting sound had scared you awake. you can’t believe how close to bruce you finally are, but the conditions couldn’t be worse. you can hear water running below your feet, you don’t need daylight to show you the violent river you’re standing above. this is not good.

bruce has his hands up in the air and is holding himself back to not do anything stupid. the man’s face is contorting into the creepiest smile. no.

everything happens so slowly, yet he’s not quick enough to grab you in time. you’re falling in the air and he jumped after you. for a moment, the world is air. you can’t hold out your hand. your hair is flying in your face, he does not want to die without seeing you one last time. his cape holds him back and the distance between you only increases. you’re gone. the impact comes.

part two

[zachfoxx121]

Okay so I really really really like Russell Adler

Here are some of my favourite headcannons for him. (Featuring other cold war characters)

Alright so first up is his past!! Bro was born in 1937, between WW1 and WW2. He knows both German and Russian, so I like to think either his mom or dad (hell, maybe both) are immigrants from around those areas of Europe. To push that, his file doesn't say where he was born, just the date he was born. And a language is arguably easier learned if its in a household than in a book. Pronunciation and all that. Maybe his parents/one of them were Jewish too, and thats why they immigrated to the USA? It's also debatable if he was even born in the USA, since as I before mentioned, his birthplace isn't filed.

This headcannon is kinda borrowed, I cant remember who I original saw say it, but due to Adler's scar he has trouble/can't smile. It happened after 1968, but before 1981. When you ask him how he got his scar, he doesn't give a truthful answer, like Parks had said. "Oh I had trouble with a girl," "missed and fell," or "a tiger got me." My biggest guess, just from how it looks like a shrapnel wound, is its probably embarrassing. I like to think it was from a mine, maybe even a helicopter accident. But due to its position, it mightve damaged some facial muscles, and makes it hard to upturn a side/both sides of his lips. With scars, depending on how deep, nerve endings get fucked up and make it hard to move certain muscles, yknow?

This ones a bit silly, and has to do with Bell (I always play Bell as male, so sorry if I say "he" instead of "they" as their pronoun.) because I'm such a sucker for their relationship. Since Bell just kinda gets dumped on him, and their about the same build/height, I like to imagine he just dumps all his old/unwanted clothes into Bell's closet. In his file people he works with have described him as fashionable, and I don't know how good he gets paid, so he might go through clothes pretty fast to keep up with the times.

(Also for fem Bell, I imagine it's the same as this but with Park's old/unwanted clothes.)

Building on that, hes probably fashionable so wherever he is he doesn't seem out of place. With his scar it may be a bit difficult to blend in, but if he wears stylish enough clothes thats probably what grabs people attention more. "That guy had such a nice jacket," "did you see his shoes?" Even the difference between his '81 look and his new '91 do good to show his ability to keep up with fashion.

This headcannon is a bit more for Bell, but depending on which occupation you give them (CIA, MI6, ex-KGB) I like to imagine thats the accent they have post brainwash. With CIA, he has Adler's accent, and MI6 he copies Park's. With ex-KGB just a russian accent, which would probably be more realistic since it can be difficult to literally change an accent, but bro was experimented on so much it could have!!

I mention Adler in that because I like thinking of Bell saying a word and everyone being like "why'd they say it like Adler", because even in the USA theres so many accents!! Like even Mason and Woods have slightly different accents, especially if you think about the og voices in bo1.

This headcannon is a bit sad (and a big spoiler for the end of the "Good Ending"). After Adler shoots Bell, I think he stayed to make sure Bell was really dead. To make sure they bled out. In that though, I think he let Bell have one of his cigs, even smoked with him while he died. "Least I can do for you, kid." He didn't let Bell die alone. I really think it was hard for him to kill Bell, but he just had to shut the feeling down because it was (most likely) an order. Even though its probably more likely he shot Bell in the head, better than Arash did.

Anywho thats all I feel like typing out rn have fun with these some of them are constantly playing in my head!!!! :)))

[avkizi]

my mha/bnha dr intro ⋆.˚

hey guys!! this is just kinda my intro for my mha/bnha dr, just so y'all can get a feel for me (WARNING I am a certified yapper and this will be a long ass post bc Im gonna TALK also some translations may be wrong bc despite me literally being Japanese I was born in the USA 🦅🇺🇸 so I am using a combination of google translate and a Japanese baby name meaning site anyway bye) ♡︎

basics

first name: Akitsu (亜希津), goes by Aki (亜希) last name: Takami (高み) birthday: 06/04 (15) pronouns: she/her occupation: UA first year, class 1-A ethnicity: japanese

appereance

hair color: brown & white hair type & length: 2a, medium length eye color: gold (but my pupils & irises are enlarged kinda like a cat or an owl so you really only see those) skin tone: medium/lighter tan height: 5'0 body type: hourglass, lean & sleeper build notable features: tufts of feathers around ears and two on head (think great horned owls), owl wings, small scar across nose bridge and burn scarring on right shoulder, upper arm, back, and mid-thigh.

hobbies + skills + talents <3

drawing & painting pole dancing (the workout kind NOT stripping I am a minor 😭) contortion, acrobatics, & gymnastics volleyball makeup singing crocheting & sewing vlogging & social media fashion & thrifting & shopping (I'm just a girl frfr)

quirk

quirk name: owl a lil self explanatory but basically I can do anything an owl can, my quirk gives me owl wings, talons, enhanced hearing, sight, & night vision, vocal range, etc. quirk type: mutant strengths: already kinda explained but wings, advanced flexibility, speed & stealth, enhanced senses. drawbacks: -since my wings etc are part of my body permanently, they work like a muscle, so I can't fly for too long without getting tired (like walking or running). -to be able to fly, I have hollow bones, which are a lot easier to break, and have to stay on the lighter side, which means I have an incredibly hard time building bulk & muscle mass -i am affected a lot more by loud sounds & overwhelming stimuli bc of my advanced senses -i have to eat raw meat & eggs as well as normal/human food, and I will get sick/malnourished if i'm not able to -i get seasonal molts & shedding, leaving me unable to fly and function much for about a week during that time

random shit/trivia (help girl idk)

-favorite color is pink -has to take medication to maintain normal sleep schedule -kinda obvious by the name, but she's hawks' (keigo takami's) younger sister -cuts wing holes into all her tops w scissors -loves marine bio, hates swimming/getting wet

thats it ig lmk is y'all want more, please please ask me questions about my dr or ab mha in general i love yappin dude

im prolly gonna post a kanji/name meaning analysis bc I gotta talk about that I put sm into it help !!

[miguelswifey04]

boxer! miguel o’hara x doctor! reader (part 1)

summary: where you’re the new doctor at the boxing gym and you meet miguel o’hara, the famous and most strongest boxer. will you and him both explore the depths of your desires or keep it professional?

🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱

you were hired to be the new doctor of the UFC gym where the famous boxer, miguel o’hara, was part of. being a well known olympic-level doctor for the USA women’s gymnastics team the UFC immediately hired you on the spot since you wanted a chance of scenery. it would be a lie to say you didn’t miss the bonds and friendships you created with the women on the gymnastics team but you needed to do this. you needed to expand your horizons.

now after the first fight of the new season, miguel o’hara had become victorious but was definitely battered up. he was sent to you after his win to be fixed up but lo and behold he wasn’t expecting to see a pretty doctor like yourself to be the new doctor around here. his eyes widen for a moment as he sees you. “oh, you must be the new doctor..." he says with a weak smile. he was beaten up pretty bad and was furrowing his brows due to his exhaustion. you glanced at him and smiled sweetly, “yes! i am.” you fixed your doctor’s coat and went to put on gloves. miguel’s eyes wandered to your figure taking in your slim and muscular build. he was a little curious to see that you were athletic and in shape but he quickly looked away when you turned around to face him with that pretty smile of yours.

standing tall, his muscular form showcased his battle-worn physique. his brown skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, testament to the demanding match he had just endured.

tightly bandaged hands, speckled with patches of dried blood, were evidence of the brutal punches miguel had delivered. despite his injuries, the aura of authority clung to him, radiating an air of confidence and power.

he approached the doctor, his steps slightly unsteady from exhaustion. taking in the your slightly shorter stature, curvy yet athletic figure, his eyes roamed over every delicate curve with a mix of appreciation and desire. miguel’s gaze lingered on the doctor's mocha skin, drawn to its inviting warmth, contrasting with his own deep brown eyes.

“mmm, a new doctor, huh?" miguel’s voice was hoarse, a result of the intensive match. it carried a hint of a rugged charm, overshadowed by a layer of weariness. "you’ve got your work cut out for you, doc. gonna need some tender loving care after that fight."

the ache in his muscles made a massage seem tantalizingly appealing to him, but miguel wondered if the doctor's touch had the potential to ignite a different kind of fire within him. nevertheless, he needed to maintain his professional demeanor, at least for now.

“name’s miguel o'hara, but you can call me migs," he introduced himself, granting the doctor permission to address him as such. "so, doc, what do you think? can you patch me up and get me back in fighting shape?

you nodded your head as you patted down the bed where’d you needed him to sit on, “yes of course! nice to meet you, migs. my name is dr. y/n but you can just call me y/n.” you smiled sweetly as miguel followed your instructions and watch him situate himself on the bed. “likewise, doc.”

“this isn’t something i can’t do after all i have experience as i used to work with olympic gymnasts.” you carefully touched him.

he extended his bruised hand towards the doctor, seeking their touch. the injuries inflicted upon his hand during the fight throbbed gently, acting as a reminder of the intensity with which he fought. miguel’s eyes never left the doctor, his gaze filled with an intensity that could rival the fire burning within him.

“but let's put those skills to the test, doc," Miguel continued, a subtle grin playing at the corners of his lips. "my hands might be a little roughed up, but i’m sure you can work some magic and bring them back to life."

he leaned forward, his toned body shifting slightly as he closed the distance between them. the scent of sweat and adrenaline clung to his skin, mingling with the subtle allure of his natural musk. the enticing combination teased the air between them, heightening the small space that separated their bodies.

“as an olympic-level doctor, you're not afraid of a little challenge, are you?" miguel’s voice dropped to a low and seductive tone, his eyes glinting with a mixture of playful challenge and raw desire. "because I could use a little TLC, doc, especially from someone as skilled as you. think you can handle it?"

miguel obediently took a seat on the bed, his body relaxing under the doctor's gentle guidance. the softness in your voice soothed him, creating an atmosphere of trust and comfort. though he was used to handling situations with authority and dominance, in this moment, he allowed himself to surrender control and place his well-being in the doctor's capable hands.

his dark brown eyes followed the doctor's every move, studying your grace and precision as you prepared to tend to his battered hands. miguel’s hands were strong and calloused from years of training and fighting, a visual representation of the skill and power he possessed in the ring.

as your nimble fingers began to unwrap the bandages, miguel’s senses were immediately heightened. the gentle touch against his skin sent a shiver of anticipation coursing through his body. he fought the urge to lean even closer, wanting to immerse himself in the doctor's touch, in their essence.

“you’ve got quite the touch, doc," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "feels like you know just how much pressure to apply, how to bring out the healing without sacrificing sensuality."

his gaze never wavered, their eyes locked in an unspoken understanding. miguel’s fingers twitched involuntarily, as if craving the doctor's touch, wishing to trace the contours of your body, to imprint the sensations on his fingertips.

he leaned back slightly, exposing more of his hands to your tender ministrations. as individual strands of bandage fell away, his injuries were laid bare for inspection. bruises and cuts painted a vivid picture of the relentless battle he had endured.

miguel indulged in the anticipation, wondering how the you would heal him, wondering if your touch would ignite a new fire within him, a different kind of intensity. he relished the moment, knowing that in the your hands, his body would be both vulnerable and safe.

———

a/n: i need to stop with these AU’s 💆🏽‍♀️

this is definitely going to be in parts <3

tags 🏷️: @kairiscorner @dracuilina

[blessphemy]

Thinking about the social and legal construct of Wilderness (USA edition)

Motorized vehicles cannot be used in Wilderness backcountry ��� trail-building in Wilderness uses human muscle and livestock to carry supplies.

“Untouched” or “Unspoiled” wilderness. The (false) idea that human hands have never affected parts of Nature. The notion that human influence fundamentally takes away from the Naturalness.

Contrast these Touches for a moment: the Hetch-Hetchy dam, which provides water to the 39 million-population human city of San Francisco, whose creation was fought bitterly by conservationists. The desert razed into half-empty speculative rows of suburbs around Las Vegas, sprawl in an area inhospitable to human life. Food forests and Native American agriculture that supports a higher load of animal and plant life/diversity a century after it was left unattended. Invasive species control. Wildlife rehabilitation. Farming. Ranching. Ecosystems tended and bent by human hands.

Leave No Trace

Controlled burns. Firefighting.

The Wilderness Act of 1964 states that namelessness is an aspect of wilderness. Basically this means the namelessness of things must be preserved, and you can’t just go naming mountain peaks and rivers and stuff in places that are designated Wilderness.

Zion National Park has a valley which the native Americans who lived there called “Mukuntuweap.” Some still do call it Mukuntuweap. “Zion” is a name Mormons gave it. It is an oasis in the desert, a place where humans performed agriculture on the river and hunted animals. Today the valley is subject to millions of human visitors from all over the world. There is no farming or hunting, though native Americans are Permitted to harvest some for personal use. The land is, in the NPS fashion, preserved in a ‘natural’ a state as possible.

In Capitol Reef National Park, another Utah oasis, there is an orchard of fruit trees fed by the water. You can camp there today. The orchard was created by Mormon settlers, and there are historical installations about it.

I’m not against conservation, Leave No Trace, or the works that National Parks or forest service has done in the USA, but, listen. This too is a form of deliberate design. It’s an expression of human ideas of how the Ecosystem should be. Wilderness is to an extent a concept and ideal of human imagination. We have the power and responsibility to shape our shared environment.

I think. There exists among some people a squeamishness and embarrassment about existing as humans. How dare we take up space. Look at all the destruction our indiscriminate self-centeredness has wrought on the natural world: suburbs, strip-mining, fallow fields. But these industrial-scale extractive endeavors are recent.

And we are also part of the world. To live and die is to consume and rot. We are part of the wild. We take of it and we tend it.

[dreamcast641]

SCP OC: Claire Ekaterina Makarova

I decided to make an actual detailed post about Claire, finally. I created her in august 2018 and I got a lot of time to develop here and I'm really, really satisfied of how she turned out to be.

--------------------------------------------------------

GENERAL INFORMATIONS:

Full Name: Claire Ekaterina Makarova

Aliases/nicknames: Stoat (callsign), shortie, shortstack

Age: 26-30 years old

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/her

Sexual orientation: Demiromantic/demisexual and pansexual

Date of birth:November 2nd

Place of birth: Unknown but it's somewhere in the USA

Current residence: site 5c

Nationality: American with slavic origins

Spoken Languages: American English (main), Russian ( ONLY with her dad) and American sign language (ASL)

Affiliations/organizations: SCP foundation

Occupation: Mobile Task force Beta-7 ''Maz hatters'' operator, virologist/biologist when not on field, ISD (internal security department) agent.

Rank: unknown

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

APPEARANCE

BUILD: A bit chubby

— Claire is a buxom woman who has curves all over her body, wide hips and a slight bit of fat in her tummy.

— She particularly cares about her image, especially when it comes to taking care of her body.She trains regularly in the small gym made available by the site 5c, focusing on arms and legs, parts of the body that are fundamental to her for work. It takes muscle to hold a rifle that weighs almost half her weight on her so as not to wobble on the recoil.

-----

SCARS: All over her body

— Claire has many, if not too many, wounds all over her body. From cuts to bruises to burns and even gunshot wounds.

— Her little patient behavior and her indifference has led her over the years to participate in many fights, whether they are initiated by her or are part of her job, when it comes to fighting she has always been in the front row. Not caring about the size and danger of whoever is in front of her. This has led Claire to have countless wounds on her body, many of them being stab wounds, a gunshot on her right shoulder, a large burn on her left shoulder and as many bruises..

------

VOICE: silvery/soft spoken

— slow spoken and not too high voice but at times decisive when needed.

— It's almost as if her voice doesn't match her body. With her character like hers, those around her expect an annoying redundant high-pitched voice to split the eardrums. Hers is an almost calm voice, not too high and maternal.

-----

EYES: Grey/blue

— blue eyes so undersaturated they look gray.

— she inherited light eyes from both parents, but the mother's gene seemed to dominate between the two. Both have blue eyes but Claire's are less saturated, almost gray as opposed to her mother's, blue as ice

-------

FASHION: casual

— casual, doesn't really care for fashion.

— When she's not working, claire usually wears the first thing she finds in her closet, preferring loose-fitting clothes that don't show too much of her body shapes.

------------

More about her aspect:

-Claire has mixed vitiligo all over her body. It started when she was just 5 to 6 years old and it spreaded everywhere;

-Her vitiligo not only affected her skin but also her hair, eyelashes and eyebrow;

-She is only 5'1 ft or 154 cm in height.

FAVORITES

-Color: Black

-Food: Raw Salmon

-Drink: Chamomille with honey

-Song: Ecoute Cherie (vendredi sur Mer)

-Flower: Nightsky petunia

-Hairstyle: messy bun

------------------

PHOBIAS

-Autophobia: also called monophobia, isolophobia, or eremophobia, is the specific phobia or a morbid fear or dread of oneself or of being alone, isolated, abandoned, and ignored;

-athazagoraphobia: When a person has this condition, there is an extreme fear of being forgotten, or of not remembering someone or something. It may also include a fear of being ignored or replaced;

-Atychiphobia:is an intense fear of failure

-Arachnophobia: fear of spiders

-------------------------------------------------

PERSONALITY:

-Moral alignment: Chaotic Neutral

-Myers-Briggs: ENTJ-T

POSITIVE TRAITS

- Serious and efficient but also considerate in the role she covers inside the foundation walls: She makes everyone feel included in her squad no matter what. She is always willing to help them, no one is left behind.

-Observant...a bit too much. If there is something that her training with the ISD thought her is to be aware constantly of her sorroundings. No details is going unnoticed in her presence.

-Gentle and caring with close ones. She pours her heart with who she loves.

-Practical smart. Let's say that she is good at improvise when needed.

-Respected without using fear

NEGATIVE TRAITS

-Claire's past and experiences have led her to be inconsiderate of herself, and those closest to her tend to see it for how expressive she is, without needing her to be alone to show how she really feels. she is a woman with a thousand complexes, her self-esteem has been destroyed and under her feet. She can't be really sure about anything she does especially if it affects those around her too. She refuses any leadership position, unwilling to take responsibility for any deaths that may occur under her leadership.

-So low is her self-esteem that she can't even see the value of her life, risking it every day to protect others at the expense of her own. She has seen death right in her eyes so many times that she no longer fears it. She is not afraid to die but at the same time the idea of being forgotten and replaced, as she has already seen happen to her other deceased colleagues, puts a shiver down her spine.

-Claire gets heated pretty easily, leading her to not think straight when she is outraged.

-She tends to distance people from herself due to her trust issues. It really takes time for her to open up to someone.

-Absolute stubborn. Claire does not listen when she is convinced of something.

TRIVIA:

-She absolutely love when her friends makes hand-made stuff for her. She keep them like it's the most precious thing in the world;

-It happens that Claire goes for some days to negaseattle to visit her adopted brother Ira and helping him with the clone kids (check more on Raddagher's author page on the wiki);

-She has a yellow ringneck parrot named banana. He is her emotional support animal;

-BPD (bordeline personality disorder) that she is getting treated for and is under enough control for her to be operative;

-She loves reading almost everything especially if it's related to her job;

-One hell of a cook. She is very, very good in the kitchen;

-She smells like peaches and chocolate;

-Aggressive and very skilled in combat. Knife is her specialization;

-Uses stealth, skills and the enviroment over the strenght;

-Good swimmer, loves using water to her advantage in fights by drowning or exhausting people;

-Survivor's guilt.

SUMMARY OF HER STORY (STILL NOT SO DONE)

It is not known for certain where Claire and her twin brother Dmitry were born, it is only known that they came to light somewhere hidden in the United States of America.

Raised in the hostile environment of the foundation but with the loving care of their mother Mandy Ross, a former nurse in the US Navy. Their father? Locked in the same site where they were born, metal walls separating this potentially dangerous man due to the toxic, potentially lethal nature of his body.

In the early years of their lives, the twins immediately reveal themselves as curious troublemakers, always looking for other children like them to socialize with and will end up bonding closely with one of them in particular: Ira Watts, whom they will consider for life as a brother.

Mandy, for reasons still unknown to them, decides to leave them and the foundation to join the GOC. it was this event that unleashed in her an immense fear of abandonment. Left to their own devices, Claire was the one she had to mature early to take care of her two brothers.

At just 14, the three were separated by the foundation to be introduced to their respective careers.

While Dmitry continued his medical and psychiatric studies, Claire had to stay on that site with Ira to begin her training to join one of the mobile task forces.

''Mobile Task Forces (MTFs) are elite units comprised of personnel drawn from across the Foundation and are mobilized to deal with specific threats or situations that sometimes exceed the operational capacity or expertise of regular field personnel and — as their name suggests — may be relocated between facilities or locations as they are needed. Mobile Task Force personnel represent the "best of the best" of the Foundation.''

And with this clarification, let's say that the training Claire had to undergo was hard and exhausting. She pushed to her limits so many times by her serious and rigid mentor that she was assigned to reach high, real high expectations.

To be ''the best of the best'' she had to shed all of her blood and her will. She failed many times but thanks to this she also managed to learn from her mistakes and correct herself, perhaps becoming probably one of the best students on the site...if not for her rebelious behavior.

Training wasn't Claire's only focus in those years: she was studying biology and virology because of the task force she decided to join, the beta-7. Her knowledge will prove to be fundamental in the future.

Her training and studies ended as soon as they began. At just 22, claire was already serving as a member of mobile task force beta-7 at a different site.

During her years at the site, now with her brother Dmitry, the two were approached by a man from the Internal Security Department (ISD) who was determined to recruit them as they were loyal members of the foundation. The two naively accepted and it was that meeting and that assignment that led them to site 5c where they still reside nowdays.

SITE 5C STORY LINE

(coming soon)

[muscledemon666]

BEHOLD THE RISE OF SATAN !

Hail my brothers of Satan. I wanted to pause my postings for a while. Sometimes it’s better to sit back and let you all observe the power of HIS workings. It gives all of you a chance to see for yourselves how the world is changing, literally preparing for HIS ACCEPTANCE world wide. So many are losing hope on the “ other side “ . Literally viewing all they had believed in crumbling around them. Like a river cascading out of the mountains after a thunderstorm HIS tide is rising…sweeping away everything in its path! Feel the uneasiness you have felt these past months building, stronger and stronger! You sense…KNOW, that something is coming! So big & powerful that the world will never be the same. Your lust is consuming you. Your hungers becoming unbearable. Sone of you ( who are just now awakening ) are suddenly…OVERNIGHT…consumed by the thought of turning to SATAN! Even though you’ve been Christians or another religion all of your lives…out of nowhere you are now filled with HIS needs and craving HIM! Millions are experiencing the same as you. This is the power of Satan. He can literally invade your mind as HIS GLORY calls to you. ACCEPT HIM! PRAISE HIM! WORSHIP HIM! Use your Cock, Seed and Muscle to honor Him. Tempt others with your lust that they might know HIS POWER! I am here to guide you, free you, empower you and help you not fear, but accept your new found freedoms. No more guilt, shame or judgment. Only acceptance of you and your hungers. HE is guiding me and I will help you understand and accept your New Powers. Reading my words you feel HIS CALL, knowing me you will know HIM! Come home to the true one and be reborn. I ask all who read this to spread & share all of my postings. On X or any other sites your on. Contact me directly on her or TELEGRAM: @darkdemondar666, INSTAGRAM: darkdemondar666, you may also go to SoundCloud under Satanic Prayers and listen to my FREE audio tracks under DAR or The Darkside Rises…there are 5 tracks. Finally when contacting me please always state your FIRST NAME, AGE and LOCATION. Join our rituals all over the USA.. I am Dar..I speak for SATAN!

[myers-meadow]

Letter by letter. Thomas Hewitt x f reader

Title: Letter by letter

Pairing: Thomas Hewitt x fem reader who is not from the USA.

Summary: As part of a school project, Thomas starts exchanging letters with a penpal from oversees. With her, he finds a freedom to be himself, to express himself fully, and his longing to have her near grows ever more. One day, an unexpected guest shows up at the doorstep of the Hewitt's.

Warnings: sfw. canon-typical allusions to the murdering and cannibalism. Implied kidnapping at the end. Written in third person. No name used, written as a reader-insert.

It was years ago that the letters started. One of those projects of the school Thomas went to back then; to have an international pen pal. Some young pupils never got beyond the first letter, shoved the reply in a drawer and forgot about the entire thing, but not Thomas. Despite struggling with writing sometimes; the cramped fingers, the ink stains, the messy handwriting, and his shyness; he pushed through, letter after letter.

It started with that postcard of Fuller he sent with his introduction, purchased from his mama’s store, and his dearest pen pal sent one back of the city she lived close by. Told him some cool history about the buildings in the picture.

When he hit his growth spurt, earlier than the other kids, he quit school and started working at the meat plant. It was a relief to be away from school and the other students, and the work provided him with a sense of purpose. To her, he was able to write about the butchering, about how it felt. About his skills with the cleaver, how he could feel himself grow stronger, that he was so good at it that he could cut through bone with ease, that he could make just as many clean finished chops as his established colleagues. He left out what they called him when they thought he couldn’t hear.

It was exhilarating to Thomas. His dear pen pal, an entire sea away, didn’t know anything about him. The freedom he felt to express himself to someone who knew nothing of the ridicule he faced, who wasn’t able to see what he looked like, didn’t know anything about him other than what he told her. He grew into himself when he wrote to her, free and true.

The money for the expensive international stamps he squirreled away from his salary at the meat plant – shrugging his shoulders when the family made a comment about it. None had tried to touch this aspect of his life. Luda Mae especially saw his excitement as a new letter arrived and was glad for it.

She was named after a love song, she said, and she was just a year younger than him. Her birthday was on the cusp of spring into summer and each year it was as if he felt the approach of it like a flower emerging from its bud. He was fifteen when she wrote that he could call her a nickname – even if it may be because he kept misspelling her long, foreign name, it didn’t matter. She was a writer, a poet, after going to school for as long as her parents could afford to send her, she worked as a typist at a firm she never named. She often sent him little excerpts from stories she was working on, which he praised even if he didn’t understand entirely what they were about. After all, she took the time to translate them into English so he could read them. It made him feel special. Appreciated. As if his opinions really mattered to her.   

Even despite his struggles to word himself, it seemed she understood him. He knew it was impossible, but wanted desperately for it to be true. His daily life couldn’t be further from hers. After all, she wouldn’t feel the same satisfaction when cutting a bull’s throat, or feel the ache in her muscles, the words echoing in his head, after a day of work. At the same time, he doesn’t have hands stained with ink or broken nails from the force he hit the keys of the typing machine with.

The frequency of the letters increased and by now Thomas must be one of the only ones keeping Fuller’s postman in business. There were flowers in ink around his name in the greeting of the newer letters. After he was done reading a verse from the bible before bed, he read with her most recent letter to commit it to memory, as he did with them all. Did she reread his letters to her too? He hoped so. And as he laid down in bed, curtains still open so he could stare at the stars, he thought of her. Of a warm body beside his own. What would her voice sound like, her accent? How would his name sound on her lips?

It was barely a week later, and the postman handed him a new letter. Thomas ripped it open, reading it as he stood on the lawn, thinking that the work could wait. After all, the tourists were already dead. Their firsts… And there was no going back now. It meant many things for Thomas and the family – one of which was: no more work at the meat plant. No more insults. His eyes racked over the letter greedily. His confidence had grown since taking his first human life, and he felt he could do anything. He couldn’t wait to tell her that things had changed – leaving out the unsavoury bits, of course. Stalking inside and up the stairs, he sat down on his bed to write his response.

The day after, the doorbell sounded just after noon. Unlikely to be a neighbour as there weren’t any for miles. Tourists then? Thomas grunted as he remembered he was the only one home, and slammed the cleaver down into the wooden table. Wiping his hands on his filthy apron, he threw it off as he marched up the stairs. As he swung the door open, the most unlikely sight stood in front of him. It was her. How did she get here? The angels must have blessed him. Just to look at her, to have her close enough to touch was more than he’d ever hoped for. He stared and stared, eyes wide, as she introduced herself. Voice sweeter than honey.

She said her name, pronounced differently from how he’d said it in his head, and then: “I’m so sorry to be a bother, but is Tommy home perhaps? I’d love to see him.”

It fell silent, as he stared at her, expecting her to fade like a mirage. As he saw her falter, he scrambled, gesturing to himself. Out of his back pocket he grabbed the recent letter, he liked rereading it so he kept it with him, and showed her. Then pointed from his name to himself. Regretting how gross he must look, hands not even washed, tie crooked, sweaty from the heat in the basement. Not that she looked any less sweaty, but she still looked like an angel.

“Tommy, it’s you!” she said, instead, and hugged him. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited for this moment. Is it unexpected? I sent you a letter but it may not have arrived yet. Can I come in?”

Of course, he let her, with his heart beating out of his chest. Now that she was here, there was no single possibility in his mind that she’d ever leave again.

[bookishbrigitta]

Worried about the USA elections? Take care; Be prepared.

Like many of us, you might be worried about the outcome of the USA presidential election. Consider these ways to manage your worries and protect your well-being.

Important tips

You don't have to watch the coverage. Results will be the same regardless. If it makes you more anxious, turn it off.

Find things to do (see below)

Be in a space that is physically comfortable/comforting

Remember to eat and drink! Whatever appeals and doesn't upset your stomach is fine.

If you use medication to support your mental health, make sure you take your maintenance meds and don't be afraid to take your "rescue" meds if you need to. (This is advice given to me by my psychiatrist, who I must say for legal reasons isn't your psychiatrist, but still.)

The national mental health crisis hotline is 988.

The American Psychological Association has a list of various crisis numbers including ones for violence, abuse, and substance use.

The outcome of an election is not the outcome of the rest of your life. There are always more options and always ways we can make things better.

Activities and distractions

Fidget toys

Cooking/baking

Cleaning/household tasks (laundry, etc.)

Paint your nails

Stretch

Go for a walk

Work out

Have a personal dance or karaoke party

Take a shower or bath

Do your hair ~fancy~

Jewelry making

Games -- Cards, board games, tabletops

Puzzles

Journal (picture, collage, found objects all count, too)

Coloring

Build something (like Lego)

Sketching/doodling

Painting

Knitting/crochet

Embroidery

Felting

Low-stakes phone games

Crosswords/Wordle

Sudoku

Origami

Read or listen to a book

Listen to podcasts

Watch a show or movie that won't be interrupted by newscasts

Managing acute emotional dysregulation and distress

Do "square" breathing (breathe in 4 seconds, hold 4 sec, out 4 sec, hold 4 sec, repeat)

Do progressive muscle relaxation

Do a guided meditation

Use your 5 senses to focus on something small

"Shake out" your body

Say a mantra, poem, phrase, prayer, etc.

Change your body temperature: Use a heat pad to relax tense muscles or an ice pack to get your attention quickly and reduce inflammation

Smell something distinct or comforting

Eat something with a sharp flavor, like mint or something spicy

Think of imagery that makes you relaxed, like a calming beach

Scream into a pillow

Plan something you will do in the future

Drink water

Use a fidget toy

Hug a plush toy or pillow

Massage tense muscles

[octuscle]

Hello is this Chronivac Support? I've been trying to use your app to become a really beefy and big russian bodybuilder but I can't seem to get past the changes page. I always wanted to be like the ones in the movies that speak no nonsense and get shit done all the time while looking like I rip through t-shirts on the daily and as a russian american myself I'm a bit envious of their looks...

But then you obviously have the right genes, so something can be done. I can't quite understand why nothing has happened so far… Probably your change requests were not formulated precisely enough. I have now formulated it as follows: You become one year younger every day. And every day you have lived one year longer formally in the gym. Since the invasion of Ukraine in the Ukrainian village in Chicago, before that in Sevastopol. There you had your own gym, now you use your good contacts to different laboratories to bring more or less legal substances to the USA. You yourself are clean, all natural!Just lie down and relax, I'll activate the transformation in 15 minutes! Now lie down and relax, I'll activate the transformation in 15 minutes!

When you wake up the next morning, not much has changed. Except your bed. It is now in a small boarding house in Chicago. You turn on the television. Russian news. Even though it's nasty propaganda, it's still a piece of your culture. There's something Russian in you, too. To wake up, you do a few push-ups. And then off to the gym. Before you open the training area, you want to lift some iron yourself. You still feel a little lost among all the bulks. But the training is starting to have an effect, and in your mid-30s you still have a good chance of achieving a lot. Besides, you like the guys here. Many refugees from Ukraine. But also young guys from Russia who fled the war effort. All with their hearts in the right place. And most of them good customers when it comes to nutritional supplements…. After you've cleaned up and wiped through, you stand in front of the mirror and do a few poses. Yes, you're starting to see something. You are quite satisfied.

The next mornings always the same routine that you had since the hasty departure from Sevastopol. It was actually quite a good idea, as a Russian-born man, to set up a business there. Nobody could have guessed that war would break out after such a short time. Now you are building up your new business here and you are actually quite satisfied. For the Russian-Ukrainian community, especially for the young men, you have already become a central point of contact. And you yourself have been able to make good use of the year and a half here to put on some muscle. You are definitely no longer one of the little boys here. And the really big boys come at lunchtime to eat your special protein pirogues. You just have to be inventive to build and keep clientele. And with you, necessity was the mother of invention.

After one week, the transformation is complete. You are still living in the boarding house where you moved in after fleeing from the Crimea. But in the meantime it belongs to you. Fortunately, you were able to sell your well-functioning gym in Sevastopol through straw men and continue a good part of your import and export business. You miss Crimea. You are 28, at the age of 21 you returned to your parents' homeland to seek your fortune. And in the end you found it in your old homeland. Even though you have a heavy Russian accent, you were born here. Even though you met most of your friends here on the Black Sea, it was emigration to the USA that really brought you together.

And even if you are officially American, no one can get the Russian out of you. No one is more of a man than a real Russian!

[she-who-the-river-could-not-hold]

marcid [a Clarke-centric ficlet]

marcid - incredibly exhausted [from this prompt list] Clarke-centric, found-family references | setting: zombie apocalypse AU, the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia, USA | wc: ~850

Clarke wiped the sweat from her brow, breath haggard and muscles sore.

It was coming to the end of their prep time. Lists were crumpled and covered in smudged pencil marks, crossing off each crucial item as if it was as simple as a grocery list��–instead of the very items that would protect their small pocket of humanity against the encroaching invasion. The long hot summer days were a blessing, even if it didn’t feel like it when you were in the trenches of the humidity. But it gave them more daylight, more time to get things moving and taken care of before night fell. Being able to see for miles was a gift, even if the threat still hadn’t fully reached their outpost in rural Virginia. 

The large yellow farmhouse wasn’t originally meant as a safe house for a zombie outbreak.

But here they were.

Biting her lip, Clarke glanced back at the house. It rose up on the grassy knoll, golden in the late afternoon sun. For now, the doors were wide open as people traversed in and out of it. A wrap-around porch, one she’d imagined painting on in the mornings, was lined with wooden white slats that she’d barely had a chance to finish repainting before everyone’s priorities shifted. Unseen, deep below the house, was the sprawling basement, now-turned bunker.

She was, no matter what, glad she’d purchased the house. She just wished it could be for the reasons she’d first had. 

But at least there was comfort in its new abilities.

A place where Madi would hopefully be able to grow up, when (if) all of this was over. Remote enough to hunt and grow their food, less needs to go into town and increase risk of infection. Plenty of storage for Octavia and Niylah as the latter taught the former all that she’d learned growing up even deeper in the area, down in the depths of Appalachia. Crucial skills that would help provide for them as they prayed for a day when things would hopefully return to normal. Even from here, down near the front edge of the property, she could see Murphy running Picasso around as he wore him out for the impending evening. 

The house would hopefully be a fresh start for more than just her now.

The thought left a bruising ache on her heart.

Fuck, she was tired.

She’d spent so much of her early twenties running. Running from things and people, all situations that now feel so trivial to think about. Sure, the whole hindsight-is-20/20-thing. But that type of growth had been accelerated the moment the news broke out on the TV. Clarke was just glad she’d been able to say goodbye to her mom before shit hit the fan. That they’d been able to bury the hatchet before she’d passed away.

It was the image of her mom in her mind’s eye, giving her one last comforting smile, that pushed Clarke to get back to hoisting the jugs of water out of the back of the truck and into the wagon she was filling. It was better to save on gas for now, do more heavy work by hand, than have it go extra mileage it didn’t need to. Better––certainly not easier. 

Clarke was an artist with a trust fund; her experience with manual labor had been limited to the single horse camp she’d gone to in middle school. She’d chosen debate club over sports in high school. Now, she’d spent the last couple weeks repairing the house, the garden, and the fence around the property. She and Bellamy climbed up onto the roof to fix it themselves. Hauling rocks to help Raven build the well. She held Madi tightly at night when the young girl had panic attacks, the soreness of her muscles nothing compared to her need to soothe her newly adopted daughter. Her brain hurt from planning and worrying. Her eyes dry from late nights with Bellamy, counting and counting and counting once more to make sure that their supplies would cover them for at least a little while.

Choosing to survive felt like a thankless task. One that some days she wasn’t sure she was cut out to do.

But as the news had grown more bleak each day, scientists pleading with the public to do what they could while cures were tested and chaos attempted to remain at bay, Clarke had felt something else.

A stirring determination to make it through. To live, not just survive.

She knew that there were no promises for tomorrow. The hoards coming over from DC would be upon their lands sooner than later. The valley was still lush in pockets and she could only hope it would give them enough cover.

It was hard to imagine she’d ever feel this tired again. Muscles sore and aching, arms fighting to not shake as Bellamy carefully taught her how to shoot.

But she knew she had to keep going. Push through the exhaustion and remind herself of the hope for the future.And she’d do everything she could to make sure they all made it there.