goldenherc9

[goldenherc9]

🏆 Muscle College Wrestling Recruitment Advert 🏆

Are you ready to dominate the mat and sculpt a legacy of muscle, power, and victory? Welcome to Muscle College Wrestling — where champions are forged, and titans are trained. Our elite wrestling program is built for the boldest, strongest, and most disciplined athletes who crave intensity, brotherhood, and unparalleled results.

At Muscle College, you don’t just wrestle — you transform. Every training session is a battle of will, every match a test of strength, and every moment a step toward becoming a living powerhouse. Our state-of-the-art facilities, expert coaching staff, and advanced hypertrophy conditioning create wrestlers who are as intelligent as they are intimidating.

Join a team where physical dominance is the standard. From mind-blowing physiques to explosive takedowns, Muscle College athletes are known nationwide for their unmatched presence on and off the mat. Whether you’re a high school standout or an underdog with heart, there’s a place for you in our arena.

Think you’ve got what it takes to wear the crimson and gold? Prove it. Step onto the mat. Grow bigger. Wrestle harder. Become legendary.

MUSCLE COLLEGE WRESTLING – Where Mass Meets Mastery.

🔗 Apply Now. Unleash the Champion Within.

Note: this is fictional. Do not message about it. But it maybe something coming in the future.

[goldenherc9]

Reblog if you are an Alpha Breeder Male! Let me see mah brothers!! I always crave to Fuck pussies with fellow Frat Bros!💪☠️

[goldenherc9]

Alpha shirt rip

[goldenherc9]

hell yeah huhu 💪🏻

Tom Hardy & Leonardo Dicaprio Meatheads

Leonardo DiCaprio and Tom Hardy, two of Hollywood's most renowned actors, found themselves in an unexpected predicament. They had been lured into a secluded island under the pretense of a high-stakes movie project. Little did they know, their new boss, a sadistic billionaire, had other plans.

The boss, a shrewd and cunning businessman, had a fetish for mind control and domination. He had spent years perfecting a hypnotic technique that could turn anyone into his obedient slave. Leonardo and Tom, with their charming good looks and muscular physiques, were the perfect specimens for his twisted experiment.

Upon arrival at the island, they were greeted by the boss's henchmen, who swiftly administered a potent hypnotic serum. Within minutes, Leonardo and Tom were in a deep trance, their minds completely susceptible to suggestion.

The boss began his mind control session, his voice low and commanding. "You are no longer Leonardo DiCaprio and Tom Hardy. You are now my obedient slaves, dedicated to nothing but muscle building and work. Your past lives are erased, and your only purpose is to serve me and become the perfect specimens of masculinity."

Under the boss's hypnotic influence, Leonardo and Tom eagerly agreed, their eyes glazed over with a mix of fear and submission. They were stripped of their personal belongings, including their vast wealth, which was signed over to the boss in a legal document they signed without hesitation.

The next phase of their transformation began. They were taken to a state-of-the-art gym, where they were subjected to intense workout regimes. The boss's henchmen pushed them to their limits, ensuring that every muscle was sculpted to perfection. Leonardo and Tom, now driven solely by the desire to please their new master, worked tirelessly, their bodies glistening with sweat.

Their days were filled with grueling workouts and menial tasks, designed to break their spirits and mold them into the boss's ideal of perfection. They were fed a strict diet of proteins and supplements, their bodies transforming into lean, muscular machines.

As the days turned into weeks, Leonardo and Tom became unrecognizable. Their once-charming personalities were replaced by a single-minded focus on muscle building and work. They no longer cared about their acting careers or their past lives; all that mattered was pleasing their sadistic boss.

The boss, satisfied with their transformation, often visited the gym to inspect his creations. He would run his hands over their sculpted muscles, a cruel smile on his face. "You are perfect," he would murmur, his voice filled with satisfaction. "My obedient slaves, dedicated to nothing but work and muscle."

Leonardo and Tom, now mere shadows of their former selves, would nod in agreement, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear and adoration. They were no longer the Hollywood icons they once were; they were now the boss's personal meatheads, existing solely for his pleasure and satisfaction.

And so, on the secluded island, Leonardo DiCaprio and Tom Hardy continued their new lives, their minds forever altered by the sadistic whims of their new master. Gym and work, that's what mattered now, and they were determined to be the best at it, no matter the cost.

[goldenherc9]

Golden Posing Practice

[goldenherc9]

hey bro, thanks! let´s be in contact, share ideas and more

Go for it bro, DMs are always open

[goldenherc9]

Dumb Muscle Jock Punishment

Ahmad, a burly gym rat with more muscles than brains, found himself in a predicament. His coach, a stern man with a penchant for discipline, had caught him slipping out of the gym five minutes early. As punishment, he was ordered to write "I'm a dumb muscle jock" 300 times. Ahmad, his brain already addled from years of intense workouts and minimal mental stimulation, struggled to even grasp the task.

Sitting in the dimly lit office, Ahmad stared blankly at the paper, his massive biceps flexing as he gripped the pen. His coach, leaning against the wall, watched with a smirk. "You know, Ahmad, you're not just a pretty face and muscles. You've got to use that head of yours too."

Ahmad grunted, trying to focus. He scribbled something on the paper, but it was far from coherent. His letters were large and awkward, and the words were jumbled. "I'm a dumb muscle... jock... jock... muscle," he mumbled, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The coach walked over, peering at the paper. "What's this? 'Jock muscle'? 'Dumb jock'? Ahmad, this is gibberish. You're not even trying."

Ahmad looked up, confusion and frustration in his eyes. "I... I can't... think," he admitted, his voice a low rumble.

The coach chuckled, a low, mocking sound. "Well, that's what happens when you let your muscles do all the thinking, isn't it? Maybe next time, you'll think twice before leaving early."

Ahmad, feeling the weight of his punishment, slouched in his chair. His coach was right; he was a dumb muscle jock, and he had no one to blame but himself.

[goldenherc9]

[goldenherc9]

DOMINION LEAGUE TRAINING: PART 6 The Last Hour Before Glory

The sun sank low, casting long golden shadows over the pitch. The match against Neon Flux was mere hours away.

No nerves. No fear. Just focus.

The Golden Army moved as one—twenty-three bodies, one force. Kits gleamed. Cleats bit earth. Precision ruled.

At the heart of it all: Captains Hercules and Brody.

Hercules led with brute presence, a mountain in motion. Every command echoed like a drumbeat. “Tighter passes! Fast resets!”

Brody flowed with strategy—sharp eyes, sharp tongue. “Switch wings! Cut inside faster!”

Around them, the team executed seamlessly. Qahir darted like lightning. Blagz spun with flair. Jackson, Basit, Mathis—each honed from weeks of grind.

Above it all, Coach Chet watched silently. Arms crossed. Aviators reflecting light. A lion waiting to unleash his pride.

Mid-drill, Ares called for the switch. He and Herc ran mirror formations—strikers crossing like blades, splitting defenders. Herc powered forward. Ares weaved. The ball danced between them.

A low cross. Herc slid.

Goal.

The net shuddered.

No cheers. Only breath. Rhythm. Perfection.

“Simulate Flux chaos!” Brody snapped.

At once: white noise blasted. Lights flickered. Sirens roared.

The team didn’t falter. They adapted.

Chaos meant nothing to them now.

Herc dropped to midfield, commanding flow. Ares switched to right wing. Brody anchored the press. Defense cycled in near silence.

Each man knew his role.

Each role was gold.

Final ten minutes.

Whistle.

Coach Chet stepped forward. “Circle up.”

The team gathered. Breath hot. Eyes locked.

Chet’s voice cut through the air. Calm. Controlled. “They’re flashy. They’re fast. They’ll throw everything at you to rattle your rhythm.”

He paused. Let the silence speak.

“But you’ve trained in noise. You’ve fought in ice. You’ve bent Olympus. Now?” He looked to Herc. Then to Brody.

“You finish what you started.”

Hercules stepped forward. Chest gleaming. Eyes electric.

“We don’t chase. We set the rhythm.”

Brody joined him. “We don’t just win. We claim.”

The team dropped hands into the center.

One breath.

One voice.

“GOLDEN ARMY!”

The floodlights surged. The pitch vibrated.

Neon Flux wasn’t walking into a match.

They were walking into judgment.

Captain Directive Engaged: Coach Chet Authenticated

All Units Synced.

Match Readiness: Maximal.

Victory: In Motion.

Some of the team before the match.

[goldenherc9]

DOMINION LEAGUE TRAINING: Part 5 – Olympian Ascension

The summit crackled with stormlight.

Snow whipped around granite peaks, but the twins stood unfazed—bare-chested, boots sunk into the sacred stone of Mount Olympus. Above them, thunder pulsed like a war drum. Below, the Golden Army waited. And ahead—Neon Flux.

This was no ordinary training ground. This was ritual. Myth. Power.

Ares struck first—kicking a stone ball up into the air with blinding precision. The wind howled. The ball curved. Herc leapt—impossibly high—spinning mid-air, boot crashing into the ball with the fury of gods. It vanished into the clouds.

“Again,” Ares demanded, breath steaming in the cold.

They weren’t just practicing shots. They were challenging Olympus itself.

Bolt after bolt, strike after strike—their movements carved arcs of lightning through the sky. Herc’s raw force collided with Ares’s divine precision. Each kick sang with purpose. The mountain trembled beneath them.

They trained shirtless, armorless, golden shorts catching flashes of Zeus-light. Frost clung to their skin. Ice cracked beneath their steps. But they did not slow. They were not mortals here.

Herc roared, voice shaking the heavens. “We are the storm.”

Ares responded, low and lethal. “Let them bring their chaos. We are Olympus.”

They dropped into combat drills. Not for war, but soccer made divine. Herc barreled through boulder-stacked resistance, moving like an avalanche. Ares danced across ledges and cliffs, striking phantom goals mid-leap.

Every pass echoed.

Every move was myth.

As dusk approached, the clouds parted. A golden beam sliced down, bathing them in sacred light. The mountain acknowledged them.

The game wasn’t just about goals now.

It was about legacy.

Hercules planted his boot into the earth. “We strike first.”

Ares closed his eyes, felt the power rise within. “And we end it.”

The last training shot flew from Herc’s foot—upward, defiant. It struck a cloud and split it in two.

Silence fell.

Then a low rumble of approval.

The gods were watching.

Neon Flux would play with flair.

But flair dies in storms.

And storms begin on Olympus.

@goldenherc9 and @goldengod-ares10

---

Myth-Level Training Complete

Golden Synchronization: God-Tier

Neon Flux Countermeasure: Overwhelming Force Activated

[goldenherc9]

DOMINION LEAGUE TRAINING: PART 4 – Mind Over Match

Dawn broke gold over the hills, light slicing through mist like prophecy. The training pitch lay silent, dew clinging to blades of grass. No drills. No weights. Only breath. Only focus.

Hercules and Ares stood at the center line, backs straight, eyes closed, arms crossed behind their backs in perfect mirror. Barefoot. Grounded. Listening.

Wind whispered across the field. A crow cawed. Somewhere, distant traffic hummed. The world moved—but not them.

This was mental terrain. No chaos. No crowd. No coach.

Just intention.

“Visualize the first touch,” Hercules said, voice low, steady. “Pressure from the left flank.”

“I step in,” Ares replied. “Interception. I break forward.”

“You glance. I shadow-run. You feint. Feed me.”

“Split second. Strike. Upper net.”

They opened their eyes. Eyes not just golden in color—forged in gold. Hardened.

Ares walked the pitch’s length slowly, deliberate. Every step rehearsed memory. “Flux scrambles formation. Their striker loves false angles. Thinks it’s clever.”

Herc followed, five meters behind. “Chaos is noise. We’re signal.”

At midfield, they dropped into meditative stances. Palms together. Knees low. Breath synced.

“Feel the patterns beneath the field,” Ares whispered.

“Feel the hum of the match before it starts,” Herc responded.

Silence returned. Ten minutes passed.

Then movement.

Ares broke into a jog—silent, swift. Herc mirrored from the opposite side. They traced patterns over the field: invisible triangles, pressure zones, passing lanes. No ball. No opposition. Just pure mental execution. The field responded like a diagram drawn in thought.

Suddenly—stop.

Both turned inward. Closed eyes. Deep breath.

Then:

“Mantra,” Herc murmured.

Ares nodded. Together, they chanted:

> “Strength is silence. Thought is weapon. Unity is edge. Gold flows. Gold strikes. Gold wins.”

Each repetition carved it deeper.

Ten times.

Twenty.

Fifty.

By the end, they stood again in the center circle. The field no longer just space—it was theirs. Claimed. Marked. Mapped.

Herc looked at Ares. “You ready?”

Ares smirked. “I was born ready. But today… I’m willed ready.”

No flex. No bravado. Just certainty.

Neon Flux would bring flash, frenzy, illusion.

The twins would bring inevitability.

Mental blade. Tactical hammer.

Outside, the sun climbed. The gold had risen.

Mental Fortress Constructed

Matchday: Imminent

Neural Dominance: Twin-Synced

@goldenherc9 and @goldengod-ares10 mentally and physically prepared twins.

[goldenherc9]

DOMINION LEAGUE TRAINING : PART 3 – Gym Synchronization

The clang of metal filled the Golden Gym, rhythmic, relentless. Plates crashed. Bars bent. Sweat shimmered under golden lights.

Hercules stood beneath the squat rack, shoulders squared, core locked, the weight of six plates pressing down like a challenge from Olympus. With a deep, slow breath, he descended. Controlled. Unshaken.

“Up.”

The bar exploded skyward.

Across the floor, Ares was a blur. Jump squats. Box jumps. Speed rope. His movement was brutal precision, rage given rhythm. He pivoted from drill to drill without hesitation.

“Again,” he snarled.

They weren’t training for strength. They were sculpting dominance.

Neon Flux wasn’t just fast—they were chaotic, erratic, built on disruption. The twins needed more than power. They needed fusion.

Ares dropped onto the bench press, flicked his eyes to his twin. “You lagging?”

Herc grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. “You shaking?”

“Never.”

“Then match me.”

Four plates. Smooth descent. Violent drive. Reps like thunder.

They moved station to station, unspoken code guiding each transition. One finished, the other began. Pull-ups. Dips. Battle ropes. Plyometrics. Contrast. Symmetry.

They weren’t just building bodies. They were syncing minds.

By hour two, their tanks clung dark to muscle, skin slick, eyes locked.

“No gaps,” Ares growled mid-row.

“No stops,” Herc answered mid-curl.

They finished on the sled. Herc braced. Ares loaded. Eight plates. Ten. Twelve.

“Push,” Ares commanded.

Herc exploded forward. Sled scraped, tore across rubber flooring. Veins burst, legs pistoned, breath like a bull.

Halfway. Switch.

Ares dropped low, legs pumping fire. The sled didn’t slow.

Golden Army staff paused their sets. Silence swept the room.

The twins crossed the gym’s length, stopped only by wall.

Chest to chest. Eye to eye.

“Neon doesn’t know what’s coming,” Herc said.

“They’ll feel it,” Ares promised.

Twin engines. Twin flames.

No mercy.

No chaos.

Only gold.

@goldengod-ares10 and @goldenherc9

[goldenherc9]

DOMINION LEAGUE TRAINING: PART 2

The turf shimmered under golden light as two titans collided again and again in orchestrated fury. Hercules—colossal, grounded, a force of raw mass—pounded across the field, every step shaking the pitch. Beside him, Ares—faster, sharper, a blur of calculated rage—twisted through defenders like a blade through silk.

They did not speak. They didn’t need to.

Their bond was forged in gold, in sweat, in brotherhood.

Ares snatched the ball with a flick of his boot and launched it into a sprint. Hercules mirrored him without effort. Ares veered right—Hercules crashed left. The defenders, clad in white, hesitated for half a second. That was all it took.

“GO!” Ares shouted—not to signal, but to ignite.

Hercules surged forward, caught the pass mid-stride, and without slowing, slammed the ball with terrifying force. It screamed into the upper corner of the net.

The net shuddered. Silence followed. Then a whisper from the coach: “Again.”

Neon Flux would not be easy. Fast. Flashy. Disruptive. They thrived in chaos. But chaos meant nothing when twins struck in sync.

Ares rolled his neck, flexed. “You hit harder than last week.”

Hercules smirked. “You aim sharper.”

They reset.

Again. And again.

By the twentieth run, defenders could no longer track them. Ares blurred across vision. Hercules thundered past awareness. The ball obeyed them. Time bent for them.

After the fiftieth goal, Ares slowed, panting. “We ready?”

Hercules cracked his knuckles, voice low, graveled. “Neon won’t touch the ball.”

Ares chuckled, tossing his hair back. “Good. I’m done playing soft.”

The golden whistle blew. Training ended. But the energy remained—a hum between them, crackling like storm-charge.

As they walked off the pitch, boots heavy with victory yet to come, Ares glanced sideways. “Twins of war.”

Hercules nodded. “And gold.”

Together, they would strike.

Together, they would break Flux.

@goldengod-ares10 and @goldenherc9

[goldenherc9]

huhu yea bruhhhh dum muscle joks we rul 💪🏻

Spells like a caveman... Can't form a coherent sentence... Poor Jason, ex-neurologist.

Bulk Up, Dumb Down

[goldenherc9]

[goldenherc9]

Bigger the better

[goldenherc9]

Meathead 💪🏻

The air was thick with tension as 45-year-old executive Ryan stood in front of his 22-year-old nephew, James, the former rugby captain who had made the mistake of skipping his gym workout. Ryan's muscles bulged beneath his tight shirt, a testament to his dedication to fitness and power. James, on the other hand, looked nervous and unsure as he stood before his uncle, knowing that he was about to face the consequences of his actions. "You think you can just skip your workouts and get away with it, huh?" Ryan growled, his voice low and dangerous.

"You think you're too good for the gym, too good for me to boss you around?"James stammered, trying to come up with an excuse, but Ryan was having none of it.

With a swift motion, he grabbed James by the arm and dragged him out of the house and into his waiting car. James struggled, but Ryan's grip was iron and unyielding. As they pulled up to a truck stop on the outskirts of town, James felt a chill run down his spine.

He had heard stories of what happened to men who crossed his uncle, but he never thought he would be the one to face his wrath. As they entered the dingy restroom, Ryan wasted no time in stripping James of his clothes, leaving him naked and exposed before a group of strangers. James felt his face burn with humiliation as his muscular body was put on display, his manhood caged in a steel cage and his chest pierced with iron dumbbells.

The word "loser" was scrawled across his chest in bold, black letters, a stark reminder of his failure to meet his uncle's expectations. As the men in the restroom took out their phones and started snapping pictures of James in his humiliating state, he felt a wave of shame wash over him.

He was a strong and respected rugby captain, but now he was nothing more than a helpless victim of his uncle's twisted sense of justice. Hours passed as James stood there, unable to move or look away as the men made fun of him and shared his pictures online.

The once proud and confident young man was now reduced to a mere object of ridicule, a cautionary tale for anyone who dared to go against his uncle's will. Finally, Ryan approached James, a cold smile on his face.

"I hope you've learned your lesson, boy," he said, his voice filled with malice. "From now on, you will do as I say, when I say it. You belong to me now, body and soul. "With those words ringing in his ears, James knew that his life would never be the same again.

He was now a slave to his uncle's whims, a puppet in a cruel and twisted game of power and control. As he walked out of the truck stop, James felt a sense of dread settle in the pit of his stomach.

He was no longer the rugby captain, the confident young man who had once led his team to victory. He was now a broken and humiliated shell of his former self, a mere shadow of the man he used to be. And as he looked up at the sky, a single thought echoed in his mind: he was trapped, enslaved by the very man who was supposed to protect him, his own flesh and blood.

And there was no escape from the horror that now consumed his life.