#truck driver lifestyle

[artisticdivasworld]

Celebrating NTDA Week: Honoring the Backbone of America

Next week is National Truck Drivers Appreciation Week (NTDA Week), and I think it’s a good time to take a moment and reflect on what truckers really mean to all of us. You might not think about it much, but the reality is, without truck drivers, we’d all be in a pretty tight spot. From the food in your fridge to the clothes in your closet, truckers are the ones making sure it all gets to where it…

[mortiskiller]

Pignapped

Content warning: Contains violent language, physical harm, non-consensual feedism and other acts. This is just a story, don't be weird.

A commission for @collegefatty10

He was on the way back to the car after grabbing a pizza. It was routine at this point in his life. Eating all day without regard to his ever-increasing weight had led to some interesting eating habits. A breakfast sandwich in the morning had become three sandwiches with hash browns and two doughnuts. Lunch steadily grew into a multi-hour affair with trips to multiple drive-thru visits, door dash orders, desk drawers filled with snacks, and not to mention a new habit of pre-gaming before dinner. Driving to get his pizza led to stopping for fries, or nuggets, or a combo meal, or all of that, before he picked up his next greasy calorie bomb. This routine made his day predictable, pigs are simple after all. The same places and employees watched him fatten from the low 300s to his heaving 430 pounds. Day after day, pound after pound he kept ordering more. As his waddle slowed, his gut hung lower and lower, his face getting red and sweaty from the 20-foot walk from the car to the pizzeria, he was an easy target.

I had seen him months before on a lunch break. My eyes shot open as saw a hanging lard pile of a man puff his way into McDonald’s. It was a passing horny thought that I would see him again, maybe add it to my mental bank of images and memories to jerk off to later. Yet, he kept coming to the same places again, and again, and again till it was too much to resist. I mapped out his route, timed him as ordered, and ate his feasts. Noted how he favored his right leg as he waddled, his arms struggling to carry the ever-increasing amount of food he ordered. As I watched him, I couldn't help but notice the way his right leg bore the brunt of his weight, the limp a constant reminder of his indulgent lifestyle. I wondered how long he had been living like this, how many times he had ordered a pizza and not once thought about the consequences. I knew he would be easy to take. Easy to keep docile, dumb, and growing.

I waited till the moon was just a sliver in the night sky outside his favorite pizzeria. Checking my watch, as it ticked over to 8:40 pm, his sedan pulled into the parking lot, the front driver’s side sitting low as my soon-to-be pet pig drove. I watched from my hiding spot as he struggled to haul his massive frame out of the driver's seat, grunting and wheezing with the effort. The scent of greasy pizza wafted through the air as he waddled towards the entrance, his heavy footfalls reverberating on the pavement.

Once he was safely inside i made my move, slipping silently into the shadows and following him at a distance. Inside, he placed his usual order - a large meat lover's pizza with extra cheese and a side of garlic knots. His eyes gleamed with anticipation as he paid for his meal, oblivious to the predator lurking in the darkness behind him.

As he turned to leave, I struck swiftly and silently, wrapping a thick cloth bag over his head. He struggled weakly for a moment before I pushed him back to the car. With ease, I kicked his right knee from the back and watched as he tumbled into the truck. His muffled moans of confusion and fear barely registering over the hum of the engine. He was mine now, another victim added to my collection.

I paused for a moment, considering my next move. He was a strange yet fascinating addition to my collection, and I relished the thought of having him under my control. I could see him squirming in the back, his heavy breathing and muffled cries a stark contrast to his usual confident demeanor.

I parked the car in a secluded spot, away from any prying eyes. The moon now a hazy glow, bathing everything in a sickly light. I approached the car, opened the rear door, and lifted my newest prize out of the vehicle.

He was heavier than he looked, his bulk making it difficult for me to handle him. But I had experience, and I was patient. I carried him to a nearby abandoned warehouse, the cold metal of the hinges echoing as I pushed open the door.

Once inside, I placed him on a table, still wearing the cloth bag over his head.

"Hey, buddy," I cooed to the pig, my voice low and sinister. "You know, you're not going to like what's going to happen to you. I've got some pretty wicked plans for you. I'm going to fatten you up, relentlessly, until there's barely anything left of your dignity or self-esteem. You see, we're going to use you, and we're going to pleasure you in ways you can't even imagine."

The pig let out a soft grunt, the sounds muffled by the cloth bag still securing his head. I chuckle, a dark and twisted sound that reverberates through the cold, empty warehouse. Taking a step closer, my shoes scraped against the rough concrete floor.

"I've been collecting things like you for years," I whispered, running his hands over his captive's plump body. "I've come across so many of your kind, just like you, loving your comfort and your food. And I've had my way with them all. Oh, I've had so much fun, and you're next on my list."

As I approach the pig, who is still covered in the bag, he lets out a soft whimper and shakes his head, trying to free himself. His body wobbles with each attempt as he struggles against his bonds. Belly aching with his last meal the movement causes an unintended blech from beneath the bag. Swiftly, I remove the bag from the pig's head, revealing a face red, sweating, and fearful. The pig's eyes are wide and terrified as he stares up at me, taking in his new surroundings - cold concrete walls bare of any decoration, a king-sized bed next to a small bathroom, and a large full-body mirror.

"Look at you," I say with a hint of disgust mixed with fascination, "just look at what you've become."

"You know what you are now?" I ask quietly, “You are my plaything, a toy, a fat weak blubbery toy!” my digs deep into his belly hang, bringing a painful whine from the pig’s mouth.

"You are mine, completely and entirely," I continue, my voice growing menacing, "and I'm going to do whatever I want with you at my command." The pig tries to struggle again, but his movements are weak and pathetic. "Oh, but first things first," I say, walking over to the bed where I had left a set of handcuffs.

I restrained the pig on the bed, at once reluctant and terrified to yield to such volition.

"You'll get used to it, trust me," I say, my fingers tracing curious paths over his bulging form. "Maybe then you'll even enjoy it."

With the pig cuffed to the headboard and footboard, I began to study him, taking in every last curve and fold of his form. He looked so helpless and vulnerable like a lost child in desperate need of a firm hand to guide him.

Noticing the glaze that had settled over his eyes, I thought, 'Now we're getting somewhere.'

Methodically, I began to examine him as if he were an exotic creature, taking note of each flaw that had been revealed by my rough handling.

He would be my plaything, my plump and innocent pig. And I would use him, treat him, and abuse him in ways that would break him completely. I would fatten him up and weaken him until his body could no longer bear the weight of his own flesh. I would use every inch of this vulnerable creature, making him my own personal toy.

As I stood over him, watching him squirm pathetically on the bed, my mind raced with all the ways in which I could degrade him. My hands moved over his flesh, feeling him shake beneath my touch. I could feel the warmth of his skin, the softness of his fur, the weight of the fat that filled his body. It was all so delicious, so intoxicating, that I found myself growing hard at the thought of what I could do with him.

My fingers brushing feather-light against his skin, teasing him with every passing second. It was then that I decided upon the next part of his degradation. With a smirk playing on my lips, I retrieved a bucket from the floor, its contents sloshing against the sides with every move I made. It was filled to the brim with a half-gallon of lard-filled slop, designed to both fuel his growing hunger and make him feel even more vulnerable in his restraints.

As I drew closer, the pig let out a small whine, his eyes widening in fear and anticipation. He knew what was coming. I brought the bucket towards his mouth, and with a practiced hand, I tilted it so that the contents would flow easily. A funnel was inserted into his mouth, and with a cruel smirk, I watched as the slop began to pour down his throat, filling him to the brim.

End of Part 1.

[sansaorgana]

If the both of you were hurt in a accident, I can see Benny, even if he’s all battered and bruised, jump out of his hospital bed to see how you are 😍

hello, sweetheart! oh, he definitely would do that 😅💗 thank you for your request 😇 I got a little inspired by the movie Easy Rider when it comes to the accident 🙈

requests for benny are open 🥺🎀

Benny was a skilled motorbike driver and he knew when he could go faster and show off – he felt the motorbike like a part of his own body at this point. And as much as he loved to show off his skills in front of you, he would never do that when you were actually riding with him. No, when you were sitting behind him, clutching to his sides, he wouldn’t even speed up too much – just a little bit above the limit. Benny would never want anything bad to happen to you.

But Benny couldn’t control other people on the road. He could only control his motorbike but not the cars and trucks that were all over. Some of their drivers had a problem with the bikers – in the country that loved freedom so much, the ones who lived truly free remained the outcasts. And it was one of the truck drivers who made sure that Benny’s bike would lose its balance and end up in the ditch. Just like that, without even caring about the lady sitting in the back. He drove away. If he wanted to kill you two, then he could consider himself unlucky because Benny was too skilled to lose control of his motorbike completely and he managed to avoid the worst.

He had a slight concussion and his arm was twisted from putting it behind to soften your fall and make sure to at least protect your head. The nurses were trying to calm him down and make him rest but he couldn’t as he kept asking about you.

“Why isn’t she in the room with me?” He asked for the tenth time and the woman sighed, giving up.

“Women don’t share rooms with men,” she explained.

“I gotta see her,” Benny shrugged her off as she just finished putting a bandage over his twisted arm to make sure it would stay in one place now. “I gotta see my girl.”

“Mr. Cross, you’ve had a concussion. You should rest now,” the other nurse tried to make him lay down but he pushed her hands away.

“Not before I see (Y/N),” he gave her a deadly glare. “Why don’t you want to tell me what’s wrong with her?”

“You are not a family member,” the woman looked him up and down. He knew why they treated him like that – because he was a biker. A dirty bum and they didn’t approve of that lifestyle. In their eyes, it would be better for the society if he had died there.

“Just tell me the room number,” he mumbled but they looked at each other and left him, closing the door behind.

Benny was pissed. He was fine, after all. And he needed to see that you were, too. So, he jumped out of bed, feeling a little dizzy but ignoring it completely as he limped to the door. His legs were not broken but they still hurt badly after the fall.

He opened the door and found himself in the hospital’s corridor. He approached the small board with all the important information about the facility and he found out that the rooms for women were on the floor under his. So, he went to the emergency staircase – where no one would see him – and he slowly limped down with greeted teeth to handle the pain better. He was determined to find you and only then he would be able to rest properly.

He was planning to peek inside every room until he’d find you but at the sight of the woman at the end of the corridor, he realised he didn’t have to. He swallowed thickly as he approached your mother. She gave him a very dirty look but he also spotted some sympathy in her eyes when she saw the way he limped.

“Oh, Benny. I would beat the shit out of you but I don’t beat cripples,” she crossed her arms.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. (Y/L/N),” he looked down. “How is she?”

“She’s gonna be fine. But if I see her once more on that goddamn motorbike of yours, I’m gonna kill you, boy,” your mother threatened and Benny looked up to give her puppy eyes like a beaten dog.

“Can I see her?” He asked, quietly.

“Go on,” your mother shook her head and pointed at the door on his right.

Benny pushed them softly and smiled at the sight of you sitting on your bed. You were reading a magazine and stuffing yourself with chocolates your mother had surely brought you. You had a scratch on your cheek and a bandage on your arm as well.

“Hey,” he greeted you awkwardly and you looked up. Your heart skipped a beat to see him so weak and hurt.

“Oh, baby! They told me you had a concussion, you should be in bed!” You protested.

“They told you, huh? They didn’t want to tell me shit about you. Had to see with my own eyes,” he admitted with a chuckle as he limped to your bed to sit on the edge. “You okay, baby?”

“Well, I’m worried ‘bout that,” you pointed at your cheek. “I’m worried it’s gonna stay. The scar, I mean. What they gonna call me then? Scarface?” Your lower lip trembled. “And I’m gonna be ugly.”

“You’re never gonna be ugly, stop it,” Benny dismissed it with a shake of his head. “And how’s your head, dollie?”

“I don’t even have a concussion!” You told him with a smile. “All thanks to you.”

“I’m glad. And the arm? Why is it bandaged?” Benny pointed his finger at it.

“I might have scars there, too. But that I can cover, right? It just got pretty bloody and some glass got inside but it’s not infected, thankfully. They stitched it up a little, so yeah,” you explained and shrugged your arms. “Gee, baby, that was so scary. Why did that redneck do that? We were just riding, weren’t we? What problem did he have with us?”

“I dunno,” Benny shrugged his arms, too and he looked down. “But your ma’s right, you shouldn’t ride with me anymore.”

“Don’t be stupid, I already told her there’s no way. If it was your fault, I’d consider it but it was not! And in fact, I am alive thanks to you,” you grabbed his hand to squeeze it. “Now, give me a kiss and go back to your room to rest,” you ordered and Benny cracked a smile at you.

He loved you for your spirit and devotion. He leaned in to place a gentle kiss upon your lips and he traced gently the scratch on your cheek.

“If it stays, it’s gonna look badass, dollie, I’m tellin’ ya,” he whispered and you giggled.

“When you say that, you’re making me want for it to stay,” you admitted. “Now, go rest.”

“Can’t I rest here?” Benny asked, giving you puppy eyes.

“You can,” you nodded and moved slightly on the bed so he could lay next to you. You went back to reading your magazine and played with his hair gently to soothe him.

He was dozing off when two old nurses opened the door to your room rapidly and you looked up at them, confused.

“For God’s sake, there he is,” one of them said. “Mr. Cross!” She approached Benny to wake him up.

“Let him stay here, sister,” you pouted.

“Absolutely not!” She shook him and he opened his sleepy eyes to rub them.

“You shouldn’t shake him like that, he’s had a concussion,” you pointed out and pushed her hands away.

“He should be in his own bed,” she snapped at you angrily.

You didn’t like the way they were treating him. He was your sweet Benny, your lovely boyfriend, the love of your life. And they were treating him like a piece of shit – worse than a dog.

You gave her a dirty look and caressed Benny’s face gently as his hazy eyes focused on you.

“Hey, baby, I think you should go now,” you spoke to him softly. “But don’t worry, we’re going out tomorrow, yeah? And I’m gonna take you home with me, no matter what my mum says. And I’m gonna take care of you,” you promised. “Now, go, sleep it off,” you encouraged him to sit up slowly and leave your bed as the two angry nurses took him by his arms and nearly dragged him out of your room. “Be careful!” You shouted after them but they ignored you.

MASTERLIST || BENNY MASTERLIST

[disniq]

Hi so uhhhh, not actually making any sort of relevant point about anything but I saw you guesstimating Jason's kill count and I have to justify the fact that I went panel by panel to hand count his kills SOMEHOW so like have the data please!!

Skipping dear Filipe's moldering corpse due to uncertainty, we start with Lost Days

Human Trafficking Truck Driver Ian, Egon, Steel Beam mercenary crew estimated at least five strong, three more of his teachers, eleven nameless russian mobsters, a cousin and a running buddy of a russian mobster: 23 people

Under the Red Hood

Eight heads in a duffel bag, four thugs with Freeze (Freezy boy does not die), Two confirmed on panel delivery man kills (Five-ten more suspected but we won't count em), Ten goons in the doorway when he swings the minigun on them as he and Onyx retreat, five more goons, Rocket launcher blast kills "most" of a security team with at least three members left alive so we'll call that three kills (far more deaths are implied), shoots a guy holding a lit molotov catching him on fire, then kills Captain Nazi (yay), forces Black Mask to kill six of his men, forces Some Guy to fight Black Mask to the death for him, and finally dear old Black Mask's PA is thrown through a window (his cycling class will miss him dearly): 42 people

(So, yeah, your ballpark of about a hundred give or take sounds about right, he's only got ~65 on panel, confirmed notches on his knife by the end of UtRH, and the implications seem to imply between 20 and 75 kills off screen)

That Time He Kidnapped Mia

Short and sweet, he only ices a pack of "brain donors": 5 people

Brothers in Blood

Two human traffickers, three more drug runner goons, two more goons later on: 7 people

Red Haired Foolishness Phase part one

Starting the running with two cops, lightning bug assassin, six mobstery big wigs, a guy, Flamingo: 11 people

Red Haired Foolishness Phase part two

Littleman Beaver's brother and his brother's fourteen goons, fifteen of his fellow inmates, then the grand poisoning of eighty-two people (well he poisoned more but we only get eighty-two confirmed as dead): 112 people

This is not even slightly a complete list, so consider this final number a lowball of:

Two Hundred people even!

as Jason's body count... at least pre-new52, don't ask me what's going on over there in modern canon, idk

Hope this was entertaining/useful to you in some way!

Best wishes -redhoodinternaldialectical

This is an amazing reference, thank you so much for sharing!!

I can fill most of the later stuff, because there's tragically little of it.

Nu52's attempt at giving Jason a concrete kill count was laughably low;

Red Hood and the Outlaws (2011) #21

Rebirth was mostly non-lethal, with the notable exception of the gang Jason uses to establish his new edgy loner lifestyle after the famous rhato 25 beatdown from Bruce.

RHATOs (2016) #26

I count 11 of them, and I think it's safe to say they're all dead.

But then he teams up with Batwoman, and then Bunker, and then becomes a teacher at Lex Luthor's school for potential supervillains so it sort of tapers off again.

And then... there's the piece of shit dad he killed in Cheer in 2021.

Batman: Urban Legends (2021) #1

As far as I'm aware, that's the last time he killed in main continuity.

When will my son return from the war

[littlemisscuddles]

I am his

The conclusion to a very long and difficult talk. The bedrock of what has the potential to make or break our relationship.

I have been aware of my submissiveness for many years, but he has only dabbled in the lifestyle for as long as we’ve been together. His confidence in himself as a dom waxes and wanes. My subby self goes into hiding for months at a time as our dynamic comes to a halt, but inevitably bursts forth kicking and screaming. Will she always have to hide?

“Are you ready to have a difficult conversation?”

“….yes” 🥺

“What if I can never be the dom you want?”

The words hit me like a truck. The reality of my submissive side, what sometimes feels like the truest part of myself, having to exist only in my mind is unthinkable. To not be able to share it with my person is even more so.

His engagement in this lifestyle which constantly tests his confidence and resolve becomes lost in the noise of life’s complications. Work. Family. Mental health. It all becomes too much to bear and I could never blame him for it. I am his no matter what.

Yet… there is a spark there that can’t be ignored. I am his and not in the traditional way. I belong to him. He possesses me and he likes it that way. Sure, life has its ups and downs, but that one fact will never change even when our dynamic does. We don’t need to give up on d/s, we need to evolve. Find ourselves again. Be willing to approach things differently. Carve out a path.

Too often we have tried to mimic what I see working in other dynamics on Tumblr. This time we are boiling it down to the basics and truly making it our own, with him in the drivers seat.

[plutonic-rage]

My neighbors refuse to let me sleep so here's a few more rusty head canons.

1. He became more antisocial after the candy cane incident. Feeling as though he's too vulnerable outside of his truck, house and quiet channels.

2. Never worked out a day in his life, his strength came naturally with his lifestyle. Who needs expensive workout equipment when you can just chuck some dead people around.

3. Has nothing connected to his family, no photos, names or numbers. Everything he has to who he is has all been made up and faked.

4. Can't express joy outside of maniac laughter and intense shaking.

5. He thinks smoking calms him, it doesn't.

6. Enjoys a nice fat glass of plain white milk every day if he can do it.

7. Falls asleep in the driver's seat before he can even think about going into the sleeper after pulling off for a rest.

8. Cold and dead stare master. Makes his victims feel like victims before he does anything physical with them just by just staring at them.

9. One finger texter. Took him forever to even figure out how to type. Fingers baaaarely register against the screen.

10. Snores like a mother fucker.

[walker-extended-universe]

Welcome Home

Relationship(s): August Walker & Stella Walker, August Walker & Cordell Walker, August Walker & Liam Walker, August Walker & Sadie Yoo, August Walker/Sadie Yoo

Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe, Military, Post-Military, Post-Canon, Insecurity, Disability, Physical Disability, Amputation, Recovery, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: August came back from his time in the military, but he's not the man he once was. Can his family help him get back to his old self or is he too far gone?

Written for @augustofwhump Day 11: Scars, Insecurity

A/N: I know August didn't go to the military after season 4 but I already had AUs cooked up and I'm not letting them go now

Taglist: @theladywyn, @ihavepointysticks, @klaatu51, @itsjessiegirl1, @neptunium134

----------

August had thought about the day he came home from the military for good a lot. He’d imagined himself leaving after a few years and transitioning into a more sedate lifestyle, maybe with Sadie by his side. He’d imagined himself going full career military and passing on a legacy of government benefits when he eventually bit the bullet. He’d imagined himself getting a hero’s funeral, remembered in pictures and funny stories until no one was around to tell them anymore.

In all his imaginings and daydreams, he’d never pictured this.

“Your recovery is coming along very well,” his assigned physical therapist told him. “Have you given any more thought to if you would prefer a prosthetic or crutches?”

“Crutches.” He’d made his choice soon after the amputation surgery. He’d seen the options and recovery schedule for a prosthetic. It was pricey, cumbersome, and something that would probably only lead to confusion and disappointment when he was wearing long pants. Crutches were cheaper and a lot more upfront about his baggage.

Crutches also meant he’d be going home sooner, but you can’t always get everything you want.

“Are you sure? We can-”

“I’m sure."

She blinked at him and nodded. “Alright. You’ll have to learn how to use them before we can release you. I’d also like to talk to your family about accommodations you might need at home. Is there a number I could call or….?”

August sighed. “My sister will be here in two hours. You can talk to her about all that.”

“Okay, we’ll do that then. Let’s just finish up your exercises and then I’ll come back to talk with your sister. Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

“No. Let’s just get this over with.”

August could do the whole exercise routine by himself at this point, but it was definitely easier with someone else helping him. Having someone to help him balance made it easier for him to keep his eyes away from the scar he was left with. The phantom pains were bad enough; the ugly stump was just another unfortunate reminder.

He really just wanted to get his crutches and get back to moving on his own again, but he knew that would be a journey. A journey he wasn’t really looking forward to.

Especially not a journey he wanted to go on with his family.

He was glad Stella had taken the mantle of dealing with all his hospital stuff. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle it if the rest of the family was constantly hovering around him during this. He didn’t need their sugarcoated praise or unnecessary optimism. He didn’t need Gramp’s war stories or Dad’s constant assurances that this wouldn’t change anything. He didn’t need Mawline’s smothering or Liam’s assembly line of therapists to “heal his mental state”.

He just wanted to get on with the rest of his pathetic life.

—------------------

The road had been cleared before they went on it. Or, at least, they thought it was. Not that it was August’s job to worry about that. It was their Sergeant's job, or at least the drivers. He just got on the truck he was told to get on and zoned out during the drive to prevent himself from thinking too hard about their mission. He much preferred scouting to sniping, but he didn’t get to make those decisions.

He hated trips like this, but it’s what he signed up for. Literally.

Maybe he should’ve listened a little closer to his grandfather’s war stories before he committed to this. A little late to complain about it now, so he didn’t. Not to his fellow soldiers, not in his letters home, not even when he was drunk on leave. Bottling things up was the Walker Way and after a few years at it, August was a professional.

The explosion came from right under his seat. There was another one as the driver tried to regain control of the vehicle.

And then the ambush came.

August didn’t remember much after the first gunshot. He just remembered the smell of blood and the sound of someone screaming.

Later, his sergeant would commend him for his “bravery in the face of adversity”. If August hadn’t just heard that the infections in his leg wounds were too severe for the field hospital to handle and amputation was the best route, he probably would’ve punched the man.

August got a medal for his bravery. He got to shake the governor’s hand and his face was plastered on the front page of The Austin Chronicle and The Daily Texan.

The other 19 men in the truck with him died. They got no awards and their families got meager compensation. He spoke with one of the wives, tried to tell her he was sorry. She just smiled and patted his remaining leg and told him to say “hi” to his mother for her.

The more he practiced “walking”, the closer he got to going home, the more he dreaded it. He didn't want the welcome home party or the accolades of a “successful” military career. He just wanted to move on, forget how he ended up here.

But that would never happen. He could never be that lucky.

—-------------------

“So I did tell them you didn’t want a big party but-”

August groaned. “Just tell me how many people are going to be there.”

Stella sighed. “I managed to talk them down to Dad’s work friends. And nobody got plus ones. Oh, and Sadie will be there.”

Sadie. He hadn’t seen her since last Christmas. Knowing the first time she would see him again was like this made his stomach twist into knots.

Last time he’d seen her, they kissed under the mistletoe. It had gotten them laughs, but it made him want more.

One more tour, he’d told himself back then. Just one more and then he’d be good enough. His family would be proud of him, he could get great benefits on top of whatever job he picked up, and maybe he could finally ask her on a date. She might even say “yes”.

Fat chance of that happening now.

“I already told everyone you’ll probably be tired and you don’t need to be overwhelmed right now so the extra guests probably won’t stay for more than an hour. If you need me to, I can be the bad guy and kick everyone out early,” Stella promised.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “But I can deal. If I let them get all their hovering out of the way now, maybe they’ll chill for a bit.”

Stella snorted. “Yeah, right. Dad’s been excited to show you all the renovations they made for you and Liam really wants your opinions on his new ‘inclusive’ therapy plans for the rescue. And I’ve lost track of how many times Mawline’s asked me if I was absolutely sure you don’t have any new dietary restrictions.”

August groaned and slid down in his seat. “And they wonder why I wanted to stay at the hospital by myself….”

“You know it’s because they care about you. I know it’s clumsy and overbearing but they’re trying.”

“I know that but…. I just wish they wouldn’t make a big dal out of it.”

Stella gave him a side eye. “Auggie, you lost a leg. That’s kind of a big deal. I know you don’t want a fuss but it’s an adjustment for everyone. Just- I talk to them but you may just have to ride this out. They’ll calm down after a couple months and then you can go back to pretending this isn’t a big deal, okay?”

He sighed. She was right, to an extent. He’d had a lot longer to adjust to his new situation than his family did. And they did care, even if he didn’t appreciate the way they showed it.

“I can put up with the party for an hour and I’ll try not to rush Dad through his tour but can you ask Liam to hold off on the therapy stuff for a bit. I’m just- not ready to think about that.”

She nodded, smiling. “I can do that.”

Done with the conversation, August turned on the radio and closed his eyes, letting the music carry him away from reality for a bit. He would take any break he could get.

[ghostismybbygorl]

Ahem

WHERES WHAT 141 DRIVES AND HOW THEY DRIVE

Price

So price has two cars a land rover for transporting things from base or if he's taking the team out for some gathering

He also has this baddie a old ford bronco that he refurbished. This car is his baby he only takes her out when its nice and warm

He drives like a old man.

Both hands on 10 and 2 or on hand on the steering wheel the other smoking a cigar.

Definitely drives the speed limit and obeys the traffic laws. He hasn't had a speeding ticket in 15 years

Ghost

So this mans drives a fast car and i will die on this hill. Have you seen him drive in las almas this man does not know how to drive a truck

He drives stick too

So i see him driving a subaru brz in black or maybe pink

I saw the pink one and i love the color of it

Also think id be funny if he just pulls up and everyone thinking its this frilly girlie pop but then this 6'4 man wearing a skull mask pop out of the car like its nothing

(I really want the pink car)

If you ride with him youre a survivor of his driving

This man drives FAST one hand on the wheel starbucks in the other. He ALWAYS drives with one hand and he's madly good at backing in and parallel parking.

Dont let him on the autobahn or he'd go as fast as his car can go

He has multiple speeding tickets its insaine that he still has his license

Hes a pro car weaver too if anyones going too slow hell pass them at

Soap

Since he's an outdoorsy guy i kinda see him drving a toyota 4 runner

Its got all the bells and whistles and he loves to take it mudding after a good rain storm

He's a pretty chill driver he drives with one hand on the steering wheel and the other out the window.

He listens to his music on full blast so you can hear the rumbling of the speakers if your behind him

He does the california roll on stop signs

He goes ten over the speed limit but if hes on highways he usually goes 20 over

Gaz

Jeep lifestyle

He loves his wrangler and he'll go off roading with soap on their days off

Very chill driver he'll drive like 5-10 over 20 if hes in a rush

His hand position on the steering varies sometime its at 10 and 2 other times he drives with one hand

He's never gotten a traffic ticket and would probably cry to price if he did

He's gotten in a wreck before and it didnt leave a scratch on his jeep

[communicationthroughlyrics]

I Like Your Blood On My Teeth Just A Little Too Much - 11

You’re a former military, career oriented security executive who has made quite the living for yourself- but it has always been lacking. Your non-committal attitude has led you down a playgirl lifestyle, never really settling. What happens when your new boss throws you a curveball, and as a result? You end up hopelessly involved with a Hollywood starlet.

3.6K Word Count

Ch 11: Army Green Was No Safe Bet

It was now just after 5pm, and you were just leaving Scarletts house after having a VERY long, probing discussion of everything that has been happening to the woman since this ‘mystery man’ has shown up- and quite honestly you couldn’t say you were shocked. You knew Steve well enough, you knew his tactics, and he was going to mentally wear someone down till they made a mistake, and that’s when he’ll capitalize. He was like a goddamn shark in bloody water.

You were sitting in your truck at the base of Scarletts driveway, finishing up a text to Kris to let her know you were coming back to the office, and then a text to Jim about your discussion with Scar today. You were still surprised at how Steve would expose himself enough to be seen at any event that fans are allowed. But then again, he is sick and twisted enough to let you know he is there. Just as you were readying yourself to leave, buckling your seatbelt and starting the truck, you heard a click to the passenger side. Your gaze shifted to the door, taking note of a silhouette on the other side. You unholster the gun underneath your seat, and reach for your door handle. 

You can tell the figure isn’t Scarlett, its too tall. You look back, noting the lights still on in the house at the end of the driveway. “Fuck.” You think to yourself. You open the drivers door, pistol at the ready and you lock the truck, never breaking eye contact with where the silhouette had been standing. A deep chuckle caused the hair on the back of your neck to stand up. 

“Oh, Y/L/N, save us whatever this is,” Steve waved his hand in your direction, then leaned against the truck, lighting a cigarette, promptly blowing the smoke in your direction. “Let’s just save the catch-up chit chat, and the not-so pleasantries. You can probably imagine why I’m standing in front of you, again, talking to you.” He punctuated the fact that this wasn’t the first time, reminding you of your run in at the store back in Idaho. The mans appearance was a stark contrast to the almost nerdy appearance he had the last time you saw him. 

You lower your gun as you wrapped around the rear of the truck, leaning up against the back of it. You wanted to keep distance between the foul being in front of you.

“I always knew you were doltish, Waters, but this? This is a new low, even for a slop sucker like you.” His smile faltered as he took in your words, turning towards you, his cold, dark eyes locking onto yours. 

“That’s rich, coming from a true sucker like you. Pretty pot-kettle, if you ask me. Last time I saw you, you were pretty handily taking me in full.” He smirked, looking at the last of the stick in between his fingers, before refocusing on you. The sheer thought that this memory of you came up so freely for the man, as the feeling of your skin crawling and the ghost of his hand on the back of your head made you want to throw up. “We wouldn’t want that to come up, now would we? I suppose it would be fairly easy for me to paint you as the bad guy, make up some victim-card story, like how you ruined my promising military career, made me loose all my benefits, and tarnished my family name to fuck your way to the top.”

“Well, the last time you saw me, you were fake drooling over my credit card and my car. But I do seem to remember J.A.G. and the MP’s doing their bit. No one asked for you to try your own conversion therapy, Waters.” You spat. 

He approached you getting close enough to where you could smell the lingering smoke on his breath. “A little slut like you? You were practically begging for attention, and no one was willing to give you what you wanted. I gave you what you needed. And then you had to run and cry to your little friends. You probably turned them too, the little heathen you are.”

“Maybe I could have, had they been around long enough.” You respond, pulling the dog tags out of your shirt, one tag was your fathers, one was your grandfathers. The other two? Those were Nikki and Cams. They had been sent out on a tour of duty shortly after you were found that night in the showers, and coincidentally, were sent out with Steve as one of the commanding officers. The last you had heard, he made their lives hell- which was no small feat when you get shipped to the middle of nowhere, tasked with protecting some local villagers who knew the whereabouts of a high ranking terrorist group, but he made it his secondary mission to ensure your closest confidants were miserable. In doing so, their judgement and focus faltered, and Nix was killed in an ambush, and Cam couldn’t cope with the guilt.  You helped to have a funeral for the pair, as both of their families couldn’t, and in turn, their families gifted you the dog tags of their fallen loved ones. 

“Maybe you should have taken the punishment for what it was, then. Maybe they’d still be here.” He sneered, and it took all of you to not throw this man down onto the ground. 

“What. Do. You. Want.” You punctuate every word, having already been over his antics the moment you saw him by your truck. 

“Well, sweetheart. I was supposed to work on ridding the world of the little vermin that your client has proved to be, amongst others- but now you’re in the picture too. So this is…kismet, as they say.” He narrowed his eyes at you, and it immediately sent you back to your last day in his office. “Now, I can make your life hell too, and maybe I will get rid of one of MY problems…” he continued, but all he said slowly faded to black as your mind wandered to all the times you were in the unfortunate presence of this man. Eventually, you had collapsed during the memory lapse, at the foot of Scarletts driveway. The man laughed, leaning over your body and grabbing hold of your chin, whispering a “pathetic” before he kicked your unconscious body, and spit on you, stomping on your injured hand and crushing it into the pavement before stalking away. 

You were awoken by a few quick slaps to your face, and three concerned faces above you. Kris, Jim and Paul were huddled around the sofa in your office, where you now were laying. Jim was leaning directly above you, and had been the one trying to snap you out of what trance you had been in. 

“How did I get here?” You question, trying to sit up, only to be pushed back down to the sofa by Kris. 

“Well, we knew you were having a meeting with Scarlett, and decided to do a security sweep anyways.” Jim answered, settling himself next to your legs. “I noticed that damn car sitting a few blocks away, so I knew he was somewhere. I came up the driveway and saw your truck, and didn’t think too much of it at first. I was about to turn around, thinking you were still inside, but then I saw the outline of an arm, and realized a body was against your truck. I got out of my car, and ran up to where I found you, slumped against the back tire of the truck.”

You groaned, placing your hand on your forehead. “No one else noticed?” You asked, not directly stating that you were concerned if Scarlett had seen you. 

“Not that we’re aware of. We haven’t had any reports come in, at least.” Kris answered, kneeling down next to you. There was a deep look of concern in her eyes. “What happened, Y/N?”

“Paul, can I speak to you-alone?” You ask, turning your face away from Kris. She huffed, and both her and Jim stood from their respective places, Jim moving to stand next to her. 

“Come on, Kris, let’s let her discuss. Give her some space.” Jim placed his hand on the small of her back, turning her away towards the office door. He turned back to you briefly, shooting you a reassuring look. You knew that he was full aware of what happened. Once you heard the click of your office door, you began to put your sentences together. 

“Well, Y/L/N, this isn’t a scenario I ever would have foreseen when I hired you. What’s going on?”

“Timmons, do you remember the redacted portion of my military file? You had asked me if I knew what it was about?”

“Yes? Why?”

“The redacted portion of my file is the reason we were hired to protect a celebrity. The man that has been following her, and harassing her, he was my C/O for a period of time. A military grade bloodhound, if you will. He’s a dishonorably discharged Ranger, turned militant.” You sit up, wincing at the pain from your hand and chest. You look down to notice deep bruising and more fresh cuts on the already damaged flesh. 

“Well, Y/N, it sounds like we have the right person to help her then. You’ll know him better than anyone.” He placed his hand on your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I know you can handle this. God knows we’ll need to before her big red carpet run.” He smiled at you, and you shot him a questioning glance. 

“Red carpet run?”

“Her group informed us this afternoon of her upcoming schedule, and there is a fair share of red carpet appearances scheduled. They’re adamant about her going, especially due to the interviews and appearances she’s had to cut short or cancel because of this guy. It’s set to start in the next few weeks.” Paul looked down at you, before sitting in the chair next to yours. 

“We’re going to have our hands full then. This guy is a pain in the ass.” You look away, staring out the window of your office to the night sky of the bustling city below. “He is going to require some extreme resources, boss.” You turn and look back at him. 

“You and Grange seem to know what you’re dealing with. Just let me know what you need. I’ll get it for you.” Timmons says, placing his hand on your knee, shaking it before standing and walking away. One the door clicked shut again, you leaned back in the chair, wincing at the pain stemming from your side. “Rotten motherfucker.” You grumble to yourself, before trying to sit back up, and groaning in pain. You hear a shuffle behind you, and a pair of hands on your upper back as Kris swung herself into your line of sight. 

“Y/N, what the hell happened?” She whispered softly as you winced in pain. She had seen you in pain after handling a situation, after fighting with someone who decidedly ignored your warnings and got frisky at a bar, but not like this. 

“Fucking Waters, that’s what happened.” You respond, wincing once more as you pushed yourself out of the chair, and walked towards the bathroom. You needed to get out of these clothes, and take care of whatever injuries you had. She followed close behind, a strong look of concern still present on her features.

“What do you mean? You know him?” She asked, wincing herself when she watched you struggle to unbutton your shirt with an injured hand. She rushed over to help, but her efforts were thwarted by you batting her hands away.

“Yeah, you could say that.” You inhaled sharply as the fabric slid off your shoulders, and you had to wiggle slightly to let it pool at your feet. Kris picked the shirt off the ground, and when she turned, she saw the bruising on your side and chest, with a perfectly visible footprint centered in the injury. 

“God, Y/N/N, what did he do to you?”

“I would guess he kicked me. And stepped on my hand.” You said, looking down at your injured hand. 

“Guess?! You don’t know what he did?” The infliction in her voice was that of disbelief. 

“No, I really don’t. I… I think I blacked out.” You rested your good hand on the edge of the sink, looking in the mirror to the reflection of the woman lingering in the corner.

“But, you haven’t blacked out since before we were together. You said you only did that when…”

“When my PTSD flares? I know, Kris.” She just stared, like she was trying to figure out what to say next.

“You’re not taking the medicine, are you?” She looked at you, stepping closer, shirt still in hand. “You need to be taking the medicine they give you. It helps.”

“Kris, I haven’t taken it in over a year.”

“Why? Is that why you blacked out?” You laugh a sardonic laugh, turning to look at her face to face. 

“No, Kris. No, it isn’t.”

“Well, how can you be so sure? If you had been on the meds…”

“The meds won’t help with this, Kris.” You cross your arms across your chest. “This goes beyond just the PTSD. This is the cause of it.” Your gaze steels, features hardening as the realization hits you that the control that he still manages to hold over you is the sole cause of your vulnerability- and you hate him more for that than anything.  Her face shifts to one of confusion, not full grasping what is being said. 

“Y/N, being obtuse right now isn’t helping. How is this…” she gestures to your bruised body, “… the cause of it?”

“Honestly, Kris. That’s for me to know.” She huffs at your response, shaking her head.

“Typical, Y/L/N.” She threw your shirt on the counter behind you, knocking some of the items off the counter into the sink. Your gaze shifts down to the floor as she steps even closer, pulling your face up to look you in the eyes. “When you quit being so goddamn self-contained, let me know. Maybe we can have a conversation about what the fuck is going on with you.” She turned on her heel, walking away briskly, and slamming your office door. 

“Not likely, Kris.”  You mutter to yourself, before stripping yourself of the pants you were wearing today, and grabbed a pair of gym shorts and a tank top to wear to the gym. You had some pent up frustrations you needed to work out before bed, even if it caused more pain. Making sure to wrap your hand carefully, you grabbed a hat, placing it backwards on your head, and walked out of the office towards the elevator. Pushing the button, you stood by waiting for the carriage to arrive, and noticed a faint light from Kris’s office, and realized she was still here, sitting at her desk staring at the darkness out the window. The ding from the elevator brought her attention to you, as you stepped in and went down to the floor where the training center and gym were housed. 

The dull thud of the punching bag echoed throughout the empty floor, the rhythmic thump of your fists striking the canvas. You had no idea how long your were down there, but your boxing glove was internally saturated with a combination of sweat and blood, and you were absolutely dripping in perspiration as you continued to beat the bag into submission. Your efforts seemed unyielding, but a calloused hand on your shoulder stopped you. 

“While I have always admired your allegiance to fitness Y/N, you need to rest. ” Jim said behind you, his voice offering you some sense of calm. 

“I can’t Jim.” You let your shoulder slump, your head hanging as you stared at your feet.

“You have to. Tomorrow is a big day. Technically, it’s actually today, in a few hours. It’s 2 am, Y/N.” You turned to face the man, your face devoid of any emotion, eyes empty after the endeavors of the previous day. 

“Why, why is it a big day Jim?” Your arms flop at your sides, emphasizing your frustration. 

“First, we have a meeting with Scarlett, but then we have to follow her to a few interviews. I have already coordinated the security.” He looks in your eyes, trying to decipher any emotion or tell as to your thoughts. 

“Cool, that sounds like something for the team, not me.” You state, maintaining the blank stare. 

“Actually, it’s not. You have been requested to be there, by Mrs. Johansson herself. We have received direct threats to her at these events, you will be following her directly.”

“Great. That’s fucking lovely.” You finally show a shred of emotion, albeit anger and frustration at the situation you found yourself in. You were more upset that there was an anticipated threat and you weren’t in the greatest of conditions to handle it. “Fine. I’ll shower and rest up. What time is the meeting?”

“0700. Paul and I will be briefing the rest of the team at 0630, so take a little bit of extra time for yourself, even if it’s only a half an hour.” With that, Jim turned and started to walk away. He suddenly stopped, turning on his heel and facing back to you. “Y/N/N, you need to take it easy on yourself. I know this isn’t easy. But this plays directly into his hands, with you not taking care of yourself. Kris called me a little bit ago, reasonably worried. I know you wouldn’t tell her what’s all going on, but you need to talk to someone. You can always talk to me.” His gaze softened, and he smiled, before circling back on his heel and walking out of the gym. You shook your head, and made your way to the showers. 

You struggled pulling off the glove, but were finally able to work it off of your hand, which was even more swollen than it had been prior to your ten round match with the heavy bag. The tape and gauze you had wrapped your hand in was tinged red and pink with blood, mixed with sweat. You hesitantly unwound the wrapping, grimacing when it got down to the portion making contact with the angered skin. “Fuck. How the fuck am I going to work with this?” You mutter to yourself. Before taking the other glove off, and then ridding yourself of your clothing and hopping into a scolding hot shower.

The familiar screech of your phone alarm alerted you to the fact that it was almost time for people to start arriving back to the building. You don’t even remember getting back to your office, let alone falling asleep. You were just glad is was a dreamless, devoid slumber that had no flashbacks or memories attached to it. You sat yourself up off the sofa, wincing in pain, realizing that you had been so tired you didn’t even bother to pull down the bed, you had just fallen asleep here.  You slowly worked yourself upright, and made your way over to the bathroom, so you could take some medicine for the inevitable pain your would become inundated with. You swallowed the pills dry, before getting an outfit out for work. You knew that it had to be somewhat professional, but if there really was a threat, then it needed to be tactical enough to move around in. 

You opted for a simple black long sleeve, some of your slightly loose black pants, and a black leather bomber, so you could easily access and dress your injuries from yesterday, and keep them reasonably hidden. You gingerly glued some of the deeper cuts to your chest shut, placing small butterfly bandages along them to hold them closed. Turning your focus to your deeply blackened hand, you thought it best to wear some cut off gloves, that way the majority of the injuries were hidden. Combing your hair, you carefully styled your hair before reaching over to spray yourself with cologne, then scooping the coat and gloves to reenter your office. You threw the gloves and coat behind your office chair, carefully sitting down in your chair, and opening your computer to complete some tasks on your laptop.

“Morning, Y/L/N.” Your head snapped up to see Jim popping his head into your office. “Did you get some rest?”

“Yeah, I did Jim. Thanks.” He smiled, turning and walking away from your office, the door latching soon after. You continued to watch the hallway as more people showed up to begin their day. Kris finally appeared out of the elevator, and you anticipated her walking into your office. She didn’t spare so much as a glance in your direction, and went straight into hers, removing her jacket and settling into her chair, presumably beginning to go through her emails. You felt a pull to go and apologize, but were pulled out of your thoughts by your phone. The familiar ringtone called to you from the table in front of your sofa, and you stood yourself up, walking over and trying to hide the shot of pain you felt as you bent over to pick up the device. At this point, you were certain you had at least a couple bruised ribs. As you went to swipe the screen to answer, the call ended. “Seriously? Fucker, fine I didn’t want to t…” you start, before receiving a text from the same number. 

6:23 AM  UNK- “I hope you’re feeling better. You’ll need your strength for today.”

Fuck.

CHAPTER 12

[mariacallous]

A Russian disinformation campaign is deploying everything from high-ranking lawmakers and government officials to lifestyle influencers, bloggers, and powerful state-run media outlets to stoke divisions in the United States around the Texas border crisis.

WIRED has also obtained exclusive access to data from two separate disinformation research groups that demonstrate a coordinated Russian effort on Telegram and X (formerly Twitter) to sow discord by pushing the narrative that the US is heading for civil war.

The disinformation campaign began in earnest in late January, and expanded after Russian politicians spoke out when the US Supreme Court lifted an order by a lower court and sided with President Joe Biden’s administration to rule that US Border Patrol officers were allowed to take down razor-wire fencing erected by the Texas National Guard. Days later, when Texas governor Greg Abbott refused to stand down, former Russian president and prime minister Dmitry Medvedev, who is currently deputy chairman of Russia’s Security Council, claimed that the Texas border dispute is “another vivid example of the US hegemony getting weaker.”

“Establishing a People’s Republic of Texas is getting more and more real,” Medvedev added on X, claiming the situation could lead to “a bloody civil war which cost thousands upon thousands of lives.”

Others chimed in: “It’s high time the American president, following in his predecessor Obama’s footsteps, declares ‘Texas must go’ and assembles an international coalition to liberate its residents in the name of democracy,” Russian Foreign Ministry spokesperson Maria Zakharova wrote on Telegram. Russian lawmaker Sergey Mironov even offered Texas help: “If necessary, we are ready to help with the independence referendum. And of course, we will recognize the People’s Republic of Texas if there is one,” Mironov wrote on X.

After these comments, state media, influencers, and bloggers quickly got involved. Over the past two weeks, state-run media outlets like Sputnik and RT have called the dispute between the Texas governor and the Biden administration a “constitutional crisis” and an “unmitigated disaster,” while one Sputnik correspondent posed a video on the outlet’s X account, stating: “There’s a big convoy of truck drivers going down there. So, it can very easily get out of hand. It can genuinely lead to an actual civil war, where the US Army is fighting against US citizens.”

On Telegram, there were clear signs of a coordinated effort to boost conversations around the Texas crisis, according to analysis shared exclusively with WIRED by Logically, a company using artificial intelligence to track disinformation campaigns.

“The idea of targeting highly contentious US domestic issues and amplifying them via their own channels—it’s the standard Russian playbook for disinformation,” Kyle Walter, director of research at Logically, tells WIRED.

The channels on Telegram include those run by TV presenters, bloggers who report on Russia’s military, and social media influencers, each of whom have hundreds of thousands of followers. One of the accounts, belonging to Russian TV personality Vladimir Solovyov, has more than 1.2 million followers, and he claimed the “the US was close to civil war.”

When I'm trying to identify disinformation operations in the wild I need to understand the initial signals and ideas that Russian state media and influencers are sharing,” Walter tells WIRED. “Russian Telegram channels just blew up overnight, and started really dialing into messaging specifically about the possibility that Texas could be an independent state, the possibility that there could be a US civil war.”

Russian state media echoed these claims, and published a flood of articles with headlines featuring phrases like “Civil War 2.0.” They also spread conspiracies claiming that “US elites will keep the border wide open.”

Last week, the Russian Telegram channels and state media also began to boost the ‘Take Our Border Back’ convoy led by far-right extremists, sovereign citizens, QAnon adherents, and anti-vaccine conspiracists who traveled from Virginia to the border in Texas in support of Abbott. “Fears of FBI Spying on ‘Take Our Border Back’ Convoy Show US Democracy Dying,” one Sputnik headline read last week.

The convoy’s official channels on Telegram were also infiltrated by Russian accounts, though some were removed or called out by the US-based members of the group. “They are in every single group on any social media,” one member who calls themselves ‘Eat Putin’s Heart’ wrote on Telegram in response to a question about why Russians were members of the group. “They want a civil war/chaos more than anything. What’s bad for America is great for Russia.”

Researchers at Antibot4Navalny, a Russian anti-disinformation research group that has been closely tracking a Russian disinformation network known as Doppelganger on X, shared data exclusively with WIRED that shows a network of bot accounts previously linked to the Doppelganger campaign has been deployed online in the past week to discuss the Texas issue.

While previous Doppelganger campaigns shared links to fake websites designed to look like legitimate ones but with fake articles, this campaign linked to websites run built and maintained by the Doppelganger operatives to push narratives to suit their needs. One article, for example, appeared on a fake site called Warfare Insider, and stated that Texas “has become a battleground symbolizing the clash between state and federal authorities.

In recent days, the bots have also been responding to posts unrelated to Texas by referencing the situation at the border.

Some experts have been linking this campaign to previous Russian disinformation campaigns. Already, it echoes the incident when Russian operatives were accused of organizing an anti-immigrant rally and a counterprotest event to their own rally in Texas ahead of the 2016 election.

Caroline Orr, a behavioral scientist and postdoctoral researcher at the University of Maryland who tracks disinformation online, wrote in her newsletter Weaponized that the term “Free Texas” in Russian was being “used extensively [on X], and nearly exclusively, by Russian accounts associated with the notorious Internet Research Agency, which housed the 2016 election interference operation.”

The IRA was a Kremlin-linked troll farm launched in St. Petersburg that gained notoriety for its role in attempting to interfere in the 2016 US presidential election. It was run by Yevgeny Prigozhin, a close ally of Russian president Vladimir Putin who also ran the Wagner mercenary group until he died in a mysterious helicopter crash last year.

There also appear to be a number of Russian accounts on X posing as pro-Texas groups, in another echo of 2016 when an account that claimed to be run by Tennessee Republicans was outed as Russian-run.

One of the suspect accounts is the Texan Independence Supporters, which has already been called out for spelling errors and constantly referencing Ukraine and Russia. On Sunday, the account claimed “we are a Texan organization, not Russian. We can definitely assure ya’ll [sic] that we’re not Russian.”

Before this, Russia had already been accused of dipping its toe in the 2024 US presidential election—including boosting Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s campaign—but Walters says the effort to push the Texas crisis narrative marks an escalation in the Kremlin’s efforts.

“This is the first thing that I see as a potentially significant concern to look out for, because I think it is an area [where] they could fairly easily cause more divide in the US,” he says.

[artisticdivasworld]

Managing Stress on the Road: A Guide for New Truck Drivers

If you bought it, a trucker hauled it. As we celebrate National Truck Driver Appreciation Week, it’s important to not only acknowledge the hard work and dedication of drivers but also to address the challenges they face on the road—especially the stress that comes with the job. For new drivers, adjusting to long hours, unpredictable schedules, and the isolation that comes with being on the road…

[traveldom66-2]

58yo WM and experienced Dom that travels the US as a truck driver. Looking to meet others who are interested or into the BDSM Lifestyle. NSFW, please no one under 21.

[savorypink]

I have to say I love gas stations sm but I disagree with you on truck drivers bc my dad is a truck driver and most of his co workers are slimy old men who are into way younger girls. I’m talking so young it’s almost borderline pedophilic… that 8 on the 18 is really saving their asses… AND they aren’t even cute either they are old as all hell with beer bellies and gray hair or have a wild smoking + drinking problem.

gross :/ i wouldn’t say i’m interested in the ppl who drive the trucks, more so the lifestyle of being a trucker; i’ve been viewing it under rose colored lenses mainly bc of tik tok but thanks for informing me on one the gross realities of it

[kitty-mactabbysh]

Being a truck driver is a lifestyle. Late night hours, truck stops, the stress, the loneliness...

Here in my backyard traveling around is a matter of days depending on the destination because it's a huge chunk of land. We even had a TV show called "Travel Well, Trucker" documenting their lives on the road and I was obsessed as a kid.

So trucker Ghost (or trucker Soap) living the dream when he picked up a handsome stray traveler on the road and that's how the story goes.

Or maybe he had to deliver something dangerous for the government, and was assigned to this pretty SAS guy who would protect the cargo and all.

Possibilities.

Running late for college in a personal manner ♡

[offrikter]

( jensen ackles, cis man, he/him ) 𝐑𝐈𝐊𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐌𝐀𝐍 : the 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐘𝟓 year old resident that's been around the 𝐒𝐄𝐀 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐅 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐀 for 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒. when the infected swarmed the streets the first night, RIKER really proved how 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐓 + 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 they were. however, many would argue that they can also be quite 𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂 + 𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄. five years has passed since their old life ended and the new one began, developing skills that have helped them become a 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐒𝐒 within their group. it makes sense to see them thriving at the job because of their 𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 + 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐊𝐍𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐒.

full legal birth name: redacted ( before the government collapse ) full known name: rikter avery hoffman. nickname(s): [I like to have them develop as we progress but a few could be...] riker, boss man, ruthless bastard, captain. feel free to give him some. gender identity: cismale ♂ | he/him pronouns. romantic / sexual orientation: demiromantic bisexual, preference for women. physical age / birthdate:  forty5 (45), (11/05) november 5th. zodiac sign:  scorpio ♏︎ religion:  non-denominational. now agnostic. birthplace: redacted. current whereabouts: unknown at any given moment, he's a very hands on leader and isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. home base is the sea cliff marina.

physical: jensen ackles height: 6’3” (six feet, three inches). weight: APPROX. 215 pounds (lbs / 97.5kg). hair color / style: sandy brown, often a beard and facial hair, ginger-tint. eye color: mesmerizing sweet greens, that seem to peer into your soul. domineering. build / skin tone: mesomorph / fair-medium, with freckles all over his body. dominant hand: left-handed, slight ambidextrous. blood type: rh-null

moral alignment: chaotic neutral. marital status: widowed. significant other(s): redacted. (deceased wife, they were separated)† children: redacted.† name tba, deceased daughter. siblings: redacted. undetermined at this time.

former occupation: member of the national guard. civilian job of truck driver. NOW: RAIDER BOSS.

short background: rikter hoffman, a man of stoic demeanor and hardened resolve, once served his country in the national guard. his life was a simple one, filled with the quiet routine of family and duty. he married his high school sweetheart, and they had a daughter, whom he adored. however, the peaceful life was shattered by the outbreak. he lost his wife and daughter to the virus, a tragedy that left him broken and utterly alone.

five years ago, rikter found himself surrounded by fellow survivors, many of whom were members of his old national guard squad. driven by the need for survival and fueled by his grief, he turned to the brutal reality of the raider lifestyle. he quickly established himself as a capable leader, relying on his military experience and unwavering determination to build a powerful and organized raider base at the sea cliff marina.

appearance: rikter is a tall man with a solidly built frame, evidence of years of military training and physical labor. his face is weathered, with lines etched around his eyes and mouth, a testament to the hardships he has endured. he keeps his beard neatly trimmed, reflecting his disciplined nature. his attire usually consists of practical, worn-out clothing, sometimes camouflaged, with an occasional worn leather jacket, bomber jacket, or military style jacket thrown over it. he carries a variety of weapons, ranging from a reliable bolt-action rifle to close-quarters combat blades, a testament to his versatile combat skills.

personality: a man of few words, his past trauma having left him emotionally guarded. he appears stoic and unflinching in the face of danger, but beneath the surface lies a deep well of sorrow and regret. while he has hardened himself to the realities of the post-apocalyptic world, he still carries a flicker of humanity within him, albeit a deeply buried one. his leadership style is strict and demanding, built on discipline and loyalty. he values competence and strength above all else, and fiercely protects his raiders, especially those who remain from his old squad.

strengths:

leadership: a natural leader, commanding respect and loyalty with his quiet authority and unwavering determination.

combat experience: he possesses years of military training, making him a skilled and deadly fighter.

strategic mind: rikter understands the importance of planning and resource management, essential for the survival and success of his raider group.

toughness: he has endured unimaginable hardship and loss, forging an unbreakable resolve and a willingness to fight for what he believes in.

weaknesses:

emotional distance: rikter's grief over the loss of his family has made him emotionally distant, hindering his ability to connect with others on a deeper level.

guilt: he is haunted by the choices he has made as a raider and the violence he has been forced to inflict.

potential for self-destructive behavior: the internal struggle between his humanity and his hardened raider persona creates a potential for self-destructive tendencies if his emotions are not controlled.

tentative goals:

survival: rikter's primary goal is to ensure the survival of his raiders, providing them with a safe haven and the resources needed to thrive.

power: he recognizes the importance of power and influence in this new world. he seeks to expand his raider base and secure a dominant position within the region.

redemption: deep down, rikter yearns for some form of redemption, a chance to atone for the violence he has inflicted and find a way to honor the memory of his lost family.

[smilesobrien]

i’m SO curious about the dragon riders of west melbourne lore please tell us more!!

the lore is ummm... trucks and dragons are cool....!!

HAHA in all seriousness. some rambling under the cut. here's a doodle of a familiar face as a preemptive reward.

the tentative beginning of all this is as such: similar to how 'fish' means 'animal with gills that lives in water', 'dragon' is a word for 'animal with mechanical components, derived from an ancestor with digging and flying phases of its lifestyle'. different classes of dragons might be as related to one another as, for example, hagfish and humans. different groups of humans encountered and domesticated different groups of dragons through history, selecting for different functions; in the modern day, you may find them used as we use various heavy machines in our own world.

clear as mud?! sorry. as you might imagine, history, engineering, biology and so forth are EXTREMELY different over there. but don't even worry about it! for your average working class person on the ground, they're just a fact of life. about 0.8% of the australian population are truck drivers; a similar statistic applies to people who fly transport dragons, like my hypothetical doodle of b'elanna up there. obviously this correlates with class position- if you're working class, you probably know a truck driver, or know someone who knows a truck driver, yeah? it's like that here. expanding the statistic to all heavy machine operaters is a bit trickier and i've already gone down enough rabbit holes, so that's good enough as an analogy. hope you enjoyed this brief ramble!