#Radical bicep

[sidrial]

Pick 1 album and discuss.

If you don’t recognize any of these, listen to at least 2 first. I will add music 🎶 links in the comments.

#Alsmusiccafe

Episode 199

9 06 23

#Placebo #Boston #KingsX #RadicalBicep

[eclecticwordblender]

IMAGINE THE BEERBICEPS DUDE HAVING A BETTER UNDERSTANDING OF FEMINIST THOUGHT THAN YOU DO.

honestly, i do not wish to diminish some of the great points she makes and her perspectives on trauma manifestation but OMG WHAT THE FUCK DOES SHE MEAN THAT RAPE/DOMESTIC ABUSE/SEXUAL VIOLENCE IS NOT GENDERED!?!?!?! she even goes on to say that consuming pornography in moderation is okay!?! WTF!?! by her logic itself, isn’t consuming porn also violating the pornography actor, is she not getting traumatised!? she even goes on to say that domestic violence is 50-50 in terms of gender.

I AM SO PISSED OFF AND I KNOW ONLY RADBLR WILL GET WHAT I AM SAYING. PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS OKAY THANKS.

[several-forms]

I HAVE MADE A VERSION WITH ARMOR AS WELL. I HAVE LEFT ALL VERSIONS UP ON MY BLOG FOR YOU TO USE. PICK WHICHEVER ONES YOU LIKE.

[washingtonmarvel]

Trapeze artist, strongwoman, and all around badass Laverie Vallee, stage name Charmion, flexes for the camera in this (colorized) picture from around 1905. Born in 1875 in Sacramento, Charmion was a pioneer. She shocked conservative Victorian/Edwardian men with her daring "Trapeze Disrobing Act" (which was the subject of one of Thomas Edison's first films) and her insanely jacked body. But the ladies loved her, and her performances, which were viewed as practically pornographic by the extreme standards of the time period, were mostly attended by women. Throughout her career, she inspired women to exercise and to free themselves of the restrictions society placed on them. Charmion criticized the prudish attitudes of the time and told women they could be just as strong as men (this was a radical claim for that era, but her own body was the proof). A brilliant woman, she was fluent in six languages and regularly lectured and wrote newspaper articles about fitness. She was the highest-earning performer on the vaudeville circuit for much of her career, sometimes earning as much as $500 per week (equivalent to almost $20,000 today). Charmion was known to curl 70-pound dumbbells as part of her workout regimen and she could walk 12 miles without feeling fatigued. Charmion's biceps reportedly were almost exactly the same size as those of Eugen Sandow, who was widely considered the world's strongest man, and in a friendly sparring match she fought on an equal footing with the then-famous boxer Terry McGovern. She retired in 1912 and lived a quiet life outside the limelight until her death in 1949.

EDIT: I made a second post with some more info about Charmion if anyone's interested:

[transform4u]

Hey. I was preparing countless things for the pride rally in town when I got an email with a file attached to it. The email itself didn't even say anything, but the file has a very weird name 'MagaConmp3' I thought it may just be a dumb prank, but I accidentally played the file instead of deleting it.

As the MagaConmp3 file begins to play, a dull, persistent buzz starts to resonate in the back of your head. This buzz gradually builds into an invasive whisper, its harsh, cruel tone cutting through your thoughts. You glance down at the rainbow flags and protest signs around you, your expression contorting into a sneer of disgust.

Suddenly, a sharp pain knifes through your stomach, causing you to double over in discomfort. You release a huge, resounding fart that ripples through the air, the sound echoing with a strangely unsettling clarity. PPPPPPFFFFFFFT The unexpected noise is accompanied by a violent bout of coughing, each hack reverberating through your chest.

As you cough, you notice an odd sensation creeping over you—your voice deepens, taking on a new, resonant timbre. You begin to rise, but your growing height goes unnoticed. Your boyish face starts to undergo a dramatic transformation, the soft, youthful contours giving way to something more angular and sculpted. The fat of youth melts away, replaced by the sharp lines of a face carved from the very essence of bro’s bravado.

The jawline is pronounced, almost exaggerated, proclaiming “I lift weights, bro!” in bold, silent declarations. Your skin shifts to a bronzed hue, a testament to excessive tanning and an artificial glow of faux-confidence. Your eyes, now squinting through a perpetual smirk, reflect a sense of entitlement and privilege. Your hair is meticulously styled, each strand set in place with military precision, though it perpetually looks like it’s one touch-up away from perfection.

As you breathe in the lingering gaseous fart, you feel a new, unfamiliar sense of self-assurance settling over you. The voice in your head echoes with a taunting affirmation: "That’s it, bro… feel what it’s like to be a real man." This voice is both a command and a validation, wrapping you in a veneer of arrogance and privilege, as you fully embody the swaggering, self-satisfied demeanor of your new, inflated identity.

As the pale skin on your body begins to darken, the transformation is nothing short of radical. The tan spreads with a warm, bronze hue that seeps into your very being, with each passing moment, your physique morphs into an embodiment of sheer, unapologetic muscle-bound bravado.

Your chest swells into an impressive expanse of bulging pectorals, so defined and large that any shirt daring to contain it seems on the verge of bursting. Each contour and ripple of your pecs is a testament to endless hours of bench presses and dumbbell flyes, meticulously sculpted to showcase a dedication to the "jacked" aesthetic.

The six-pack abs below are equally dramatic, each section as pronounced as a topographical map, striated and blocky like granite carved by an artist's hand. They reflect a relentless regimen of crunches, leg raises, and unyielding commitment to physical perfection. Below, your bubble butt—a rounded, firm rear—radiates anatomical excellence, a result of meticulous squats and deadlifts performed with precision.

Your legs become thick and powerful, tapering into massive quads that appear ready to handle any physical challenge with effortless ease. The definition in your thighs is so pronounced that they seem to exert their own gravitational pull. The transition from your thighs to your calves is seamless, culminating in muscular calves as solid as marble.

Your arms are monumental, with biceps and triceps bulging and undulating with an impressive volume. When flexed, they form mountainous peaks that seem to defy physics, each muscle fiber a testament to relentless curling and pressing. The veins in your arms are like serpentine pathways, tracing the immense flow of blood that fuels your muscle-bound glory.

The Adam's apple in your throat stands out prominently, a thick, jutting protrusion that serves as a physical declaration of your masculinity. It seems as if the very essence of manliness has been distilled into this singular, dominant feature.

With each passing moment, you feel a surge of strength coursing through your veins, as if the very essence of masculinity has been injected into your being. Your muscles ache with a delicious pain, a reminder of the countless hours spent in the gym, pushing your body to its limits. You can almost hear the clink of beer bottles and the roar of the crowd from your college football games, the adrenaline still pumping through your veins.

As you stand before the mirror, admiring your new physique, you feel a sense of pride that borders on arrogance. You are no longer the scrawny, liberal weakling you once were; you are a true alpha male, ready to take on the world and dominate in every aspect of your life.

You flex your muscles one last time, watching as they ripple and dance beneath your skin. You feel a sense of power and control, as if you could conquer anything that stands in your way. With a confident grin, you step out into the world, ready to show everyone what a real man looks like.

The voice in your head grows louder, its presence becoming more insistent. It echoes with a tone of affirmation and command: "That's it, bro… embrace the true essence of what it means to be a real man. Relive those moments of glory, let them fuel you. You’ve earned this—every rep, every drink, every party. This is who you are now."

The voice wraps around your consciousness like a comforting cloak, affirming your new identity and the status that comes with it. It propels you forward, urging you to fully embrace this new persona, a symbol of dominance and preppy frat bro culture.

The brash voice in your head grows louder, shouting crudely with a thick southern drawl: "No homo, right bro? You ain't one of those weak, pathetic libtrads, are ya?" Suddenly, your memories of marching in pride parades vanish into thin air. The vivid recollection of that passionate kiss with the cute twink begins to morph in your mind, transforming into a slutty, thin bimbo. You're momentarily confused, your thoughts a jumbled mess, but soon a familiar warmth starts to spread through your body. Your mind fixates on the imagined curves of her breasts, and a cocky grin slowly spreads across your face. You scratch at the newly formed stubble on your chin, feeling the rough texture beneath your fingertips. "Damn, I could use a beer," you think to yourself, craving the bitter taste of alcohol.

With a newfound sense of purpose, you log onto TikTok, ready to unleash your pent-up frustrations. You start recording, your voice dripping with disdain: "Listen up, you weak-willed liberals! It's time someone set you straight. You think you're so damn woke, but all you are is a bunch of pathetic crybabies. Grow a pair and man up, for fuck's sake!" Your rant continues, spewing hateful rhetoric against the "woke" agenda. You feel a surge of pride as you embrace your newfound conservative views, the anger and resentment fueling your every word.

As you scroll through your feed, you come across a video of a scantily clad woman twerking, and you can't help but stare, your eyes glued to the screen. "Now that's what I'm talking about," you mutter under your breath, feeling a rush of excitement. You click "like" on the video, a small act of rebellion against the so-called "woke" police.

The more you immerse yourself in this new worldview, the more you feel like you're finally seeing things clearly. The fog of liberalism has lifted, and you can think for yourself once again. You start following conservative influencers, their words resonating with you on a deep level. You feel a sense of belonging, as if you've finally found your tribe.

As the day wears on, you find yourself drawn to the local bar, eager to drown your sorrows and celebrate your newfound identity. You order a beer, the cold liquid sliding down your throat with each gulp. The more you drink, the louder your voice becomes, your rants growing more passionate and aggressive. You're no longer the quiet, reserved person you once were; you're a proud, unapologetic conservative, ready to take on the world..

As you continue your rant on TikTok, your voice slowly shifts, morphing into a thick, southern drawl. You spit venom at the liberal fags, your words dripping with disdain: "You weak-ass liberals don't know the first thing about being a real man. It's time for you to wake up and smell the coffee, you pathetic excuses for human beings!"

You flex your muscles on screen, your biceps bulging as you strain against the fabric of your shirt. The likes start pouring in, thousands upon thousands of dumb chicks and thirsty fags desperate for your attention. You feel a surge of power, knowing that you hold the reins of their admiration.

Suddenly, a thick, gold cross necklace materializes around your neck, the cool metal resting against your skin. Memories of church and God flood your mind, your faith growing stronger with each passing second. You flex your muscles once again, thanking Jesus almighty for blessing you with such an amazing body. "I am a soldier of Christ," you mutter under your breath, your eyes gleaming with righteousness.

Your phone buzzes with a text message, and you see that it's from one of your horny sidepieces, a dumb bitch who is fawning all over you. She sends you a half-naked photo of herself, and you feel your cock twitch in your pants, growing harder with each passing second. You demand that she meets you at the local bar, eager to plow her tonight. "I'll make you scream for Jesus," you type, a wicked grin spreading across your face.

You sign off to your million Republican followers, your voice booming with confidence: "Catch you later fam, once again this has been Clayton Brock. Later, bitches!" You feel a sense of pride, knowing that you're part of the elite group of privileged white, Republican douchebags. You cackle like a hyena, your mind as dumb as a box of rocks, but your ego as big as the state of Texas.

You head to another bar, ready to meet your sidepiece and unleash your pent-up desires. The world is yours for the taking, and you're not afraid to claim what's rightfully yours. You're a god among men, and everyone else is just collateral damage in your quest for power and pleasure.

[sunnebeam]

"i always get the job done."

A 'PERKS OF BEING A HOUSEHUSBAND' DRABBLE.

pairing: min yoongi x reader

plot: the (mis)adventures of retired gangster min yoongi as he leaves behind the life of the mafia and navigates the way of the househusband.

warnings: the way of the househusband au, marriage au, crack, domesticity, yoongi being unironically romantic

masterlist + disclaimers.

note: tysm for all the love in the first drabble! here's more of househubby!yoongi & his badass wife,, as always, lemme know ur thoughts :>

You're stepping off the bus, having clocked out of work earlier than usual, when you see your husband strolling along the sidewalk with his signature apron on and a mesh tote bag on his shoulder.

"Yoonie!" you call out to him.

Your heels clack against the pavement as you run towards him. The bits of impact hurt your soles but you forget all about the pain when Yoongi kisses you on the forehead as soon as you reach him.

"You're early," he remarks, grabbing your hand and placing it on his bicep before walking the two of you to the direction he was going.

"Boss let us leave early," you explain, oblivious to the looks that other passersby are giving you and your husband.

("Is he a gangster?"

"He looks so scary!"

"What is he doing with that woman?"

"Is he kidnapping her?!")

It's when Yoongi leads you to a secluded alley that you realize you're not heading towards your home.

"Uh, Yoonie? Where are we going?"

Your husband smiles radically.

"You'll see."

He leads you through a bunch of twists and corners before finally arriving at an equally secluded shop. The dim lighting does nothing to deter him as he opens the squeaky door and leads you both inside.

"Ah, Yoongi," a deep rumble echoes as soon as you walk in. "You're back."

"Of course," your husband responds. "I did everything you told me to do."

Huh?

"Did you, now?" the voice taunts, and you can finally match a face to the voice when he steps into the light. "Are you sure you did everything?"

"I always get the job done. You know me, Seokjin."

The job?

The man called Seokjin sneers before nodding and heading to his shop's backroom, leaving you and your husband alone.

"Yoonie?" you call his name. "What's going on?"

"A gamble, darling," he tells you. "I'm making a gamble."

Your eyes widen. "What?! Are you—"

"Yoongi, are you ready?"

Seokjin emerges from the backroom with a big cork board in tow. The board is brightly decorated, divided into three sections each showing different...

"...prizes?" you think out loud. "Yoonie, what is all this?"

"A stamp scavenger hunt, darling," your husband explains in a no-nonsense tone as Seokjin hands him a dart. "I've collected ten stamps from ten different stores like Seokjin told me to."

Oh. Oh.

"Why didn't you just say so?" you laugh, nerves vanishing as you take a good look at the cork board. "Well, what's the prize?"

"Third place gets a cute plushie," Seokjin gives you the rundown. "Second place gets a self-cleaning robot vaccuum—"

("That's what I was hoping to get.")

"—and first place gets an all-expense paid trip for two to Jeju."

("Yoonie, forget the vaccuum. Get this!")

And so the gamble begins.

The three of you wait with bated breaths as Yoongi positions himself. His eyes are closed and he blows air on the blunt end of the dart as if it'll help. Opening his eyes, he takes a deep breath, swings his arm back lightly, then throws the dart.

It lands on third place.

"Oooooh! It looks so cute!" you squeal, taking the cute plushie from Seokjin and hugging it to your chest. "It looks like Holly!"

Your happy giggles flood the shop.

"Well, Yoongi," Seokjin tuts. "Sorry but..." He smirks. "Looks like you lost."

Your husband looks at you nuzzling the plushie in delight.

"You fool," Yoongi says, "haven't you realized by now?" Now he's the one smirking. "The true prize is seeing my beautiful wife's smile—"

"Yoonie! Stop embarrassing me!"

COPYRIGHT 2023. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

[octuscle]

Hi! I got a crush on my coach, Alex. I really wanna have a surprise for him. Can Cronivac make us grow together at locker rooms after a good workout?

Today is a good opportunity. The other lads have all disappeared already…. You're alone in the locker room when Coach Alex walks in the door. "So, Michael? Are you happy with today's training?" "Coach, there's always room for improvement. But I'll do my best!" "Good boy." Damn, can't you do better than a bit of small talk? Then I'll have to intervene.

Alex stands in front of the mirror and does a double bicep pose. "What do you say, Muchael? Not bad for an old man, is it?" You grin and say that he's hardly older than you. He laughs. "Brother, I could be your father!" "Well, you don't have much more beard growth than me, Aled." You follow Aled's example and post in front of the mirror. You can literally see your biceps growing. Aled reaches under your arms and corrects your pose. "Brother, more body tension. People can't see your hot body like that." He presses on your stomach. "And tighten your six-pack more, Muchaed!" "Coach, shall we go back to the training area? I could do with a few tips." Almed scratches his beard. "Don't call me coach, bro! And now let's get those muscles burning!"

Fuck, when did Coach get inked like that? Your family would kill you if you came up with that idea… But it looks cool on him… You look in the mirror. You two could be related. At least you look like you have the same hairdresser. The dark hair radically short. And a bushy, godly full beard. Ahmed asks you to show your thighs. You pull up your trouser legs.

"Damn Muchamed! You're an beast!" Is Ahmed getting a hard-on? That wouldn't be bad, your cut cock is already half hard. A wet spot forms in his pants. He gets down on his knees and massages your huge thighs. Your hard-on is almost painful. But Ahmad has mercy. "Fuck, Muhammed, is everything so huge with you?" You laugh. "Then start sucking the balls, brother. They're a bit smaller than what you'll have to swallow."

I'd say you've grown together, brother!

Great pic found @malesbros

[howtofightwrite]

I'm not sure if you've covered this before, but could you help me understand draw weight of bows a bit better? The concept itself makes sense, but I'm having trouble understanding it in relation to a person's strength. Does a draw weight of 55lbs. mean you have to be capable of lifting that much weight, or is there a better way to interpret it? (I'm also curious: does that strength needed to use a bow come mostly from the back and arm muscles, or is it more complex than that?)

Basically? Yes. The draw weight is the amount of force you need to use to draw (the technically incorrect term would be, “pull”) the bowstring to full power. It's not exactly analogous to lifting an object, because you are trying to pull your arms apart, but that's more of a distinction for exactly which muscle groups are getting used.

It's been a long time since I handled a bow, but from what I remember, it's a bit harder to draw at a given weight than it is to pick up a similarly weighted object. A better analogy would probably be the amount of weight you can lift with one hand in a curling motion. Most of that strain should be in the bicep and shoulder, which is part of why the explanation of the English longbow technique doesn't make a lot of sense to me, the writers said it involved the use of the archer's back, and body weight, but without further detail, I'm not sure how that would work without risking serious back injuries.

As a general safety rule: Never lift with your back. Keep your back straight, and lift with your legs. Trying to lift with your back can cause serious, or life-altering, injuries.

Also, and this is a measurement quirk, but I've never seen draw weight expressed in kilograms. You could convert the values, of course, but I've always seen it expressed in pounds, and that's probably part of the standard at this point. In fact, I've seen paragraphs that express draw weight in pounds, and relate that to maximum range in meters.

When you draw the bow, you're doing that with your index and middle finger. So, when a modern bow caps out at around a 60lb draw weight, you're pulling all of that weight with two fingers (and some assistance from your thumb.) Obviously, that can be performed reliably by an experienced archer, but it is a more significant feat of strength than it may first appear.

Personally, I always used a partial glove when using a bow. This specifically included protection for my index, middle finger, and thumb when drawing. Even with that, I did get a couple minor scrapes on my bracing arm, from being an idiot.

Now, there is one interesting exception to all of this, and it's worth knowing when picking apart the terminology in a little more detail. Modern mechanical compound bows use a complex pulley system to dramatically reduce the archer's experienced draw weight. These will feel like they're drawing ~10lbs, but the bow's rated draw weight will be around 70lbs. In this sense, draw weight isn't how much you're pulling, it's how much force is being imparted when the arrow is released. However, outside of this specific example, and crossbows, this is mostly academic distinction, and very few people would take issue with you describing it as the amount of force you need to draw the weapon.

Since I mentioned them, crossbows tend to have radically higher draw weights than bows, modern hunting crossbows frequently range from 150-210lbs. (That's not the ceiling, it gets higher than that.) There's a couple critical factors about crossbows. First, holding a cocked crossbow doesn't require continuing to hold the draw weight with two fingers. The locking design of the bow itself will take care of that. Second, you can pull with both hands, and use as many fingers as you want. So long as the string ends up locked in place, it doesn't really matter how it got there. Third, there are crossbows with mechanical assists to help with drawing the bow. This why, when I see someone mention historical crossbows with a draw weight over 1,000lbs, I don't really find that unbelievable. There are a lot of different tools that can be used to help arm a crossbow, including levers and, ratcheting hand cranks that function as a kind of winch, pulling the string back until it's ready to fire. While these numbers may sound really impressive, crossbows tend to have far less range than bows. I'm not sure why, and crossbows really aren't my area of expertise, so I can't offer too much insight onto how valuable that extra draw weight is in a realistic situation.

But, as I said at the beginning, you seem to have a pretty good grasp of what's required. It's, “like,” lifting (with two fingers), and if you're an archer you can probably lift significantly more than your draw weight, in more conventional ways.

-Starke

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[swappetf11]

Alex part 8

Part 9.

As Damien watches his partner come to, he's filled with awe at the breathtaking transformation that has taken place. The wizard and Mystic have captured the essence of the ideal physical form in a way that surpasses Damien's wildest dreams. With each glance in the mirror, Damien's partner begins to realize the extent of their metamorphosis, their eyes widening in wonder and disbelief.

As the lights flicker on, casting a warm glow over the room, Damien's partner takes hesitant steps, their new stature and weight causing them to stumble slightly. Their larger feet feel unfamiliar against the floor, their body now towering and imposing in its newfound size.

A sensation of hairiness envelops them, the sensation of coarse fur prickling against their skin as sweat beads form from the exertion of the transformation. Itching in places they've never felt before serves as a reminder of the radical changes their body has undergone.

With each breath, they feel the air caress their nearly naked body, the sensation sending shivers of excitement down their spine. Every movement is a revelation, a rediscovery of their physical form in its enhanced state.

As Damien looks on, he can't help but feel a surge of desire and arousal at the sight of his partner's transformed body. The air between them crackles with electricity, anticipation hanging heavy in the air as they both come to terms with the new reality they now inhabit.

And there stands Damien's partner, now 6 feet tall, with darker skin of Arab descent. His green eyes gleam with newfound confidence and desire, framed by a dark, thick beard that is perfectly sculpted. He's transformed into a muscular bear with a large belly, only adorned with a leather jockstrap that strains to contain the size of his new penis and balls.

In this moment of raw vulnerability and exhilaration, Damien knows that their bond has been forged anew, stronger and more intense than ever before. And as they stand together, bathed in the glow of their shared experience, Damien is filled with a sense of gratitude and reverence for the magic that has brought them to this moment.

As Damien's partner struggles to find his footing in his new body, his senses overwhelmed by the magnitude of the transformation, he feels a sense of disorientation and awe. But as the lights flicker on, illuminating the room with a warm glow, his eyes gradually adjust, revealing Damien's expression of absolute satisfaction and glee.

Their eyes meet, and in that moment of connection, Damien's partner feels a rush of reassurance and comfort. Despite the physical changes, Damien's unwavering adoration and desire remain unchanged, filling him with a sense of warmth and acceptance.

As they embrace, Damien's partner becomes acutely aware of his new stature and larger frame. He feels the weight of his muscular body, the bulging belly, solid biceps, and powerful legs, all testament to the transformative magic that has reshaped him.

His senses are heightened as he moves with newfound grace and confidence, his enlarged cock straining against the confines of his leather jockstrap, a tangible reminder of the pleasures that await them.

And as the air wafts by his large, plump, bubbly butt, Damien's partner can't help but feel a surge of desire coursing through him. With an instinctual need for connection, they lean in and share a passionate kiss, their lips meeting in a fervent embrace that speaks volumes of their unbridled passion and longing.

As Damien's partner remains in the blissful anticipation of his new form, he revels in the overwhelming ecstasy of knowing that his partner's wildest dreams are about to come true. Sensations of surrender and transformation mingle in his mind, fueling a heady cocktail of desire and fulfillment. Both Damien and his partner are on the brink of realizing their deepest fantasies, and the anticipation is almost unbearable.

As they continue to embrace, Damien's partner feels a surge of electricity coursing through him, every touch and caress igniting a fire of passion within. Suddenly, Damien begins to realize that his thoughts are shifting, his mind processing in a language foreign to him. Yet, in the throes of ecstasy, the barrier between them seems inconsequential, their connection transcending language and logic.

With a primal need for connection, Damien embraces his partner's transformed body, their kisses growing more fervent and urgent with each passing moment. 

The overwhelming desire to merge and become one consumes them both, driving them to new heights of pleasure and abandon.

In a bold display of dominance and desire, Damien seizes his partner's new large penis and guides him, turning him around with a commanding grip. Without hesitation, he takes control, plunging into his partner with a primal ferocity that leaves them both gasping for breath. 

As they move together in a frenzied rhythm, Damien and his partner lose themselves in the ecstasy of their union. The boundaries between them blur, their bodies merging in a symphony of desire and surrender. In this moment of raw intensity and passion, Damien realizes that their love knows no bounds, transcending physical form and language to become something truly extraordinary. And his partner is now the bottom, with the perfect ass. And he is not the top. 

As they recover from the intense ecstasy, Damien's partner gazes into the mirror, his reflection still a blur of unfamiliar features and sensations. The intensity of their lovemaking lingers, intermingling with the profound sense of transformation brought about by the Mystic's magic.

As he tries to make sense of the jumble of emotions and sensations flooding his mind, Damien's partner begins to speak, only to find that the words emerging from his lips are in Arabic, a language unknown to Damien. It's as if his very essence has been rewritten, his thoughts and speech now guided by forces beyond comprehension.

Despite the language barrier, Damien and Ahmed share a deep, unspoken understanding that transcends words. 

Ahmed's voice is deeper, with a hint of rasp and a slower, more deliberate tone, exuding confidence and authority as he embraces his new identity as an Arab bear of a man. Muscular, thick, and confident, he embodies the epitome of masculine allure.

In that moment of revelation, Damien's heart swells with admiration and desire for his partner. Despite the linguistic divide, their connection remains unbreakable, their bond forged in the fires of passion and shared experience.

As they stand together, their eyes meet in silent acknowledgment of the profound journey they've undertaken together. Damien may not understand the words Ahmed speaks, but he feels their meaning in every fiber of his being. And as they embrace, their love transcends language and time, binding them together in an unbreakable bond of passion and devotion

[kemch122]

Superman on steroids has become a dark and scary figure that has ceased to follow the principles of good and justice. His body has undergone a radical transformation, and the strength and size of his muscles have become incredible. Superman's character is now massive and radiates stunning power. His muscles are unnaturally huge and stretched, exceeding the boundaries of the human possible. His shoulders are so widespread that they create an unmistakable dorsal profile. Biceps are like boulders, pulsating energy and emphasizing its immense power. Superman's thoracic muscles are extremely developed, with giant muscle mounds that make him a monumental figure. His abdominal muscles are deeply engraved and make him seemingly unsurpassed physical strength. Each part of his body is covered with crawled muscles that give the impression of an unstoppable monster. Superman's legs are incredibly strong and extensive. His thighs are massive and full of muscles, emphasizing his devastating mobility and resistance. The calf muscles are also distinctive, with any detail on his feet tells of immense power. Superman stands in front of the world with contempt and in his eyes has a perverted joy of his newly found power. His eyes shine with fierce conviction of his superiority. His skin seems almost inviolable, like armor that provides unlimited protection. This Superman on steroids has become a dangerous superadouch that abuses its forces to achieve their own self -gate goals. This Superman became a corrupt version of himself, lost his humanity and plunged into darkness. His abuse of steroids caused significant changes in his physical form, but also disrupted his mental stability. His actions are now full of destructiveness and ruthlessness. Superman on steroids has now retained his incredible strength, but this power is abused to destroy and evoke chaos. His huge muscles serve as a weapon, which he uses to oppress others and promote his will. His movements are violent and destructive, and his perverted joy disgust. Superman's character is full of dark shades and his eyes ripen with anger and hatred. His skin seems to be less alive and flexible, reflecting the negative consequences of steroid abuse for his health. Its overall appearance is frightening and warns of the dangers that can occur when it falls into bad hands.

[tboyandor]

return his quiet certitude to the soil

a lil melshian tidbit. meant to write more before spring semester but woooopppsss... also I've been having feelings about Nemik and his short-lived friendship with Cassian :')

title is once again from don't carry it all by the decemberists :) I cannot be stopped!!!!!

not sure exactly when this is set or where they are, just sometime between Andor and Rogue One.

@snaggletoothblues hope you enjoooyyyy!!

read on AO3 here

--

Cassian lay his head against Melshi's shoulder, watching his face as he listened to the quiet, incisive words of Nemik coming from the little datapad on the bedside table.

Melshi had been listening in relative silence for a long while, his brow slightly furrowed in serious concentration, occasionally making a small ‘hmm’ of recognition, but little more than that.

Finally, quietly, he asked:

“How did he die?”

Cassian swallowed, took in a breath of Melshi's strong, sweet scent to comfort him, before saying, “He took a pallet of credits to the stomach.”

Melshi let out a soft wince.

“It happened when I was getting us out of the garrison, on the trawler,” Cassian continued. “We were under fire, and we needed to get out, didn't have time to lock anything down before we lifted off. I pulled us out, and when I looked back… we should have been smarter, made sure everyone was up in the cockpit with me. I don't know why we didn't. I should have…”

“Hey, don't start,” Melshi interrupted, as soon as he noticed Cassian's breathing starting to become erratic. 

He ran his hand gently along his arm, his fingers ghosting over the scar of a blaster burn on his bicep, before resting his hand at Cassian's belly, rubbing his thumb over the softness of his skin. Cassian's breathing calmed, slightly.

“It wasn't your fault, love,” Melshi said, turning his face a little to look at his partner. “You didn't have time. Shit happens, unfortunately. I'm sorry. I see now why you're so anal about making sure everything’s locked down before we take off.”

Cassian gave a small huff of laughter at that.

“Somebody needs to be,” he replied hoarsely.

Melshi smiled a little, and kissed his nose. Cassian nuzzled the side of his face, soft and rough at once.

“His writing is really good,” Melshi said, because it was true. Nemik had a way of putting things that made things click in Melshi's mind, thoughts and feelings about life under empire that he hadn't been able to put words to before.

“Yeah, it is,” Cassian agreed quietly. “All this time listening to it, it's probably what radicalized me. Along with… everything else.”

“There's been a whole lot of ‘everything else' for you, dearie,” Melshi observed.

“True, but it still helped a lot.”

“I can see why.”

Melshi stroked up Cassian's side, and down to the curve of his hip, and he let out a little sigh of gratitude for the loving touches, but the weight of some unspoken sorrow still remained in his eyes.

“I still don't understand why he gave it to me,” Cassian said after a moment. “I mean, he said I was his ‘ideal reader,’ or something, but… he never even knew my real name.”

Cassian's eyes misted over, and he closed them, and hot tears spilled down his cheeks onto Melshi's shoulder.

Melshi kissed his forehead softly, then drew him further into his arms, till Cassian was pressed flush against him, and was weeping softly into the crook of his neck.

He always cried so quietly, with rare exceptions, Melshi noted to himself. Melshi hoped that he didn't know the sound of Cassian crying better than the sound of Cassian laughing.

After a moment's consideration, he realized he knew both equally well.

Melshi pushed these questions from his mind, and focused on holding Cassian.

“Cass Cassy Kassa,” Melshi murmured in his ear, like a little loving incantation. “I love you.”

Cassian sniffled, and pressed a wet kiss to Melshi's neck.

“Rue,” he breathed softly and simply. “I love you too, so much.”

Then they both drifted off to sleep, the sound of Nemik’s voice and the meaning of his words mingling with their dreams.

[olivieraa]

Sometimes I think about how critical thinking isn't a core part of people's lives, especially adults, and I get sad. There has to be like, an activation moment. Something has to activate it. Kinda like people who say they took LSD and it opened their minds. Like that but without any dangerous drugs.

Or sometimes its not a moment, but a few small moments piled up. That's what it was like for me (and kinda anyone I've seen get into radical feminism).

In the earliest feminist days of tumblr, we'll go for 2012, like, the most extreme thing you'd see is a "men's tears" mug as the ultimate form of misandry. By 2013 tumblr was defo known as the feminist and gay rights website. By 2014 it got insanely political, it became widespread and has continued on this 10 long year journey of becoming extremely anti-women and anti-gay, which sucks bc it was the opposite of reddit. And now both sites are the same.

But to revert back to my personal experiences with it, you can see it. On the earliest pages of my blog. I reblogged things from friends and I would tag these posts with confusion. From porn, to asexuality, to religion, to kinks, to makeup, etc. I just... knew those posts felt wrong to me. But ALL my friends were reblogging them with no tags. So they either completely agreed with said posts or partially agreed. But I was the only one questioning those posts.

But also, I was also the only non-American, which turned out to be a very important difference. Like, I would reblog some things and say shit like "idk how I feel about this post... but I'll reblog it and do some research or look into it later". Americans have a.................... very hard problem doing that.

And then by actually looking into those things, ACTUALLY. LOOKING. INTO. THOSE. THINGS. you find out there's a huge problem there, actually. By using critical thinking, you realise all these "feminist" things are super anti-women. But liberal women, esp liberal American women, are so convinced, without looking into it, that they're not anti-women. And there's so much clear evidence. Like its really clear, really obvious.

Just so its not a long paragraph, I wont go into every detail on this, but to take one category - Beauty standards. Even standards in general. Lets go with those awful standards men have to deal with. The two things they claim are constantly brought up. Height and dick size. Especially height. He HAS to be over 6ft. This is brought up constantly. But then there's also so many videos debunking both those standards, and those videos (aside from one memorable one) were made by women. Basically saying shit about how most women are still dating men only slightly taller than them, and most women collectively agree that size doesn't matter.

Now the beauty standards for women. Almost every single inch of a woman has to fit a preference, from having big boobs to a narrow waist to big hips to a big ass, but also not be too big or small, but the exact size a man wants it cause weight distribution works that way. From men wanting "natural" women when you can look at any pic of man's ultimate fantasy Pamela Anderson without her makeup and everyone telling her she looks like she's sick or dying. Same with J.Lo. Men want women to look as natural as she can WHILE wearing makeup. Like, she has to look like she's not wearing it. Again, to fit exactly the way he wants it. Have long af hair but shave every inch if you bar eyebrows cause hair is very bad and ugly. To not be muscular because that's too masculine so basically don't stay at the gym too long to train those biceps, but also if a man attacks you on a night out to the club and you can't defend yourself cause you're so delicate and feminine, you just shouldn't be going out without him! Also dont get old, no greys no no. I've seen men bash cosmetic surgery while their biggest fantasies end up being women who have had cosmetic surgery, but men are so STUPID they cant tell unless its really obvious. Like women knew for a long time that Ariana Grande did a bunch of things to her face, but men thought she was so insanely hot. But would bash Kylie Jenner for what she did to her face bc the differences on Kylie were much more obvious. Ok I really could go on and on here, its way too long.

Men end up saying shit like "oh my girl likes me with a beard, she hates when I shave". The liberal feminist girlfriend, who has never heard of critical thinking, will nod her head in agreement and say, "yep, that's my preference." Oh dont worry, honey. He loves your preference. Your preferences generally boil down to him not having to do jack shit. "Oh I'm a feminist but I'd definitely be turned off if my man shaved his legs and armpits. But I shave mine because I want to!" Yes, again, no effort on his part no no. But effort on your part yes yes. Because you want to, mhmm.

So his natural state is your preference. He's totally sitting there groaning like, "Ugh I'm so good to my girlfriend! the look I'm sporting is based on what she likes. All I have to do is wake up, brush my teeth, maybe shower and boom. I'm ready for her. Again, I'm so good to my girlfriend. Oh btw she loves my effortless dad bod too. That's why I don't go to the gym. For HER obviously. I'm just so good to her. Look what I do for her."

And then her mindset is, "Oh I shave on an almost daily basis for me. Not for him. I don't conform to standards for him. I shave, pluck my eyebrows, keep my hair long and inconvenient, overdo it on my skincare, have pretty lashes and nails and dress up in cute outfits and keep in shape, buy cute lingerie, the list goes on and on. I do that for me! They happen to be his standards, sure, but its for me! Makeup, shaving, skin routines are all feminist because they're a choice! And feminism at its core is choice! It's definitely not that I'm afraid if I decide to act exactly like him and let my leg hair grow out to the point its a competition between us, or get a cute pixie hair cut so its less effort to wash, or not wear makeup and all that, that he'll then decide to look elsewhere! Definitely not! And its very un-feminist to think that I'm making these choices (where I put in an insane amount of effort for my scrub of a boyfriend who does absolutely nothing and yet I'm insanely attracted to him) for me and me alone!"

Like... You can ofc do those things. Nobody is telling you not to. The problem, the main problem here, is you are deluding yourself into this idea that every decision you've made in terms of beauty standards, was a choice you made that wasn't heavily influenced by other factors. From standards pushed on you since you were a kid. From insecurity. From fear.

I wear makeup. Almost daily. But I acknowledge it for what it is. It is absolutely not a feminist act or a feminist choice. A feminist act would be rejecting makeup and standards. But that then is considered a radical act. Thus, its a part of radical feminism. And I'm not a radical feminist for a few reasons, but one of them would be that I'm just not brave enough to believe in my natural state. I'm not brave enough to wear a dress during summer with hairy legs. I'm not brave enough to go to the shops without giving myself at least 15 mins beforehand to put makeup on.

So many women refuse to give up shaving and wearing makeup, and that's fine (not that its fine, its actually awful but I cant blame them). However, where radfems get pissed off is the "makeup is power, because its a choice!" liberal feminist bullshit. These women absolutely refuse to believe that they're conforming to standards for anyone other than themselves. That it's still a feminist action, and that they are feminists themselves!

Imagine going to a cocktail party. And there's 50 men and 50 women all dressed up. What are majority of the women likely to be wearing? Dresses. Some in trousers, sure, but mostly dresses. Let's say 40 out of the 50 women. I can guarantee you, 100% of those women have perfectly smooth, shaved legs and armpits. Every single one of them in a dress. And lets pretend 30 of those 40 women in those dresses claim to be feminists. They're still conforming to the exact same standards as the 10 women who aren't feminists. Perfectly shaved, makeup on, hair done, nails done (perhaps even made appointments for all of them). Absolutely none of these women made the choice to wear a dress but keep the legs hairy. Or wear a dress but no makeup. Why? Fear. The amount of judgement they would get in a room of 100 people. What are men doing? They showered (maybe). Possibly trimmed their beard? Yeah. That's about it.

Like why is the critical thinking so hard for them. Literally, LITERALLY, just stop and think. That's it. That's IT. Think, and question why you're about to do that thing. Like actually look into it.

This is so so hard for people, but there's nobody worse at it than liberal feminist women.

And it was BECAUSE I would see these posts on my dash for years back in the day and actually research the posts, that I got in trouble with my libfem friends for not just like, believing these posts were right and accurate and I shouldn't question them, is why I knew liberal feminism had this awful cult mindset, and these women will literally wish death on you for not agreeing with them.

Absolute crazy nonsense.

This post is so long and yet I only said a fraction of what I wanted to say on beauty standards alone. Imagine the porn talk, or the transitioning talk. I dont even think I could condense either of those as much as I did with beauty standards.

The absolute refusal for people to use their brains before making a so-called "choice" is why I have so little hope for humans in general. There's just no thinking going on in there. This is why I'm just..... so not bothered anymore about discussions. They lead absolutely nowhere because the person I'm talking to has convinced themselves of something with very little to go by. Prob just because they were told to believe a thing and they were like, "ok!"

[tojisun]

sun sun sun ! look at this i’m foaming at the mouth

ANI OH MY GOD HES SO BIG AND FILLED UP LOOK AT THE WAY THAT TOP STRETCHES OVER HIS CHEST AND BICEPS HHHHH IM GNASHING MY TEETH SO HARD MY BRACES ARE CREAKING

no because the balaclava and hat combo goes so hard i can actually feel something shifting in my brain 😭

AND THe the holsters of his guns following the shape of his body GHHHHSHWNW

THEN the tucked in compression long sleeves on that third pic is doing radical things to me. its giving dilf in a way i cant explain but im LOVING IT

[a-good-bagel]

How to be a really radical dude:

- Have a leather jacket

- Rip said jacket with your massive biceps

- Learn to sew so you can repair that leather jacket

[transform4u]

my phone started playing some shit called chavlad.mp3 when I tried to hack my Spotify for free. Don’t know what is this!

The moment your phone blared that excruciatingly obnoxious track named "chavlad.mp3" while you were furiously trying to hack your Spotify, it felt like a bolt of chaotic energy had struck you. It wasn’t just a sound; it was an electric jolt that seemed to alter the very fabric of your existence. The music—brash and aggressive, with its pounding bass and lewd lyrics—was like a sonic mallet, hammering away at your previous self, chipping away at your identity and replacing it with something grotesquely alien.

At first, the transformation was almost imperceptible, like the quiet creeping of dawn over the horizon. You felt a strange heat coursing through your body, a sensation that seemed to bubble up from within, causing your muscles to swell and harden. The wiry frame you had grown accustomed to began to change, expanding into a more robust and imposing figure. Your clothes, which had once draped limply on your lean frame, now clung tightly to newly formed biceps and a broad chest that seemed to grow with every thudding beat of the track. The process was mesmerizing and alarming; you watched in disbelief as your physique evolved into a spectacle of brute strength, the kind that exuded an overt and almost comical sense of machismo.

Your face underwent a similarly dramatic metamorphosis. The once gentle, nerdy features hardened into a chiseled, almost predatory visage. Your cheekbones became more pronounced, and your jawline squared off with an angular intensity that seemed to radiate arrogance. The once-messy hair that had been a testament to countless late-night study sessions and scholarly pursuits was now styled into a deliberately messy, yet somehow immaculate coiffure, enhancing your new, almost cartoonish bravado. The glasses, once an integral part of your identity, now seemed ridiculously out of place; you tossed them aside, reveling in the newfound sharpness of your unadorned eyes.

Mentally, the shift was no less dramatic. Where once your thoughts had flowed in intricate patterns, analyzing and questioning, they were now replaced by a constant buzz of shallow, self-centered pursuits. Your mind, which had been a labyrinth of intellectual curiosity, was now a playground for the most banal and vulgar thoughts. Conversations that once sparked deep, meaningful exchanges were now riddled with crude slang, boastful claims, and an insatiable hunger for attention. Your vocabulary transformed overnight; every sentence was laced with a brand of slang that made you sound more like a caricature from a trashy reality show than a genuine individual. The sophisticated, thoughtful responses you once offered were now replaced with loud, brash declarations that sought only to provoke and entertain.

Your wardrobe, too, underwent a radical overhaul. The practical, unassuming clothes that had defined your previous existence were cast aside in favor of an array of flashy, branded attire. The transition from worn-out graphic tees and ill-fitting jeans to ostentatious tracksuits and neon-colored trainers was jarring. The clothing didn’t just fit; it shouted for attention with every movement. Chains of gold, chunky and gaudy, now hung around your neck, catching every glimmer of light and drawing eyes in a way that was both deliberate and desperate. The formerly subdued fashion sense that had reflected a preference for comfort and practicality was now an over-the-top display of conspicuous consumption.

Socially, your new persona was a force of nature, a polar opposite to your former self. The shy, reserved figure who used to lurk on the periphery of social gatherings was replaced by a loud, brash presence who thrived on disrupting the status quo. Parties and gatherings were now stages for your performances, where every joke, every comment, was aimed at drawing attention and eliciting reactions. You were no longer an observer; you were a performer, and the world was your stage. The quiet introspection that had once been your solace was replaced by a relentless drive to be noticed, to be the loudest, the brashest, the most over-the-top version of yourself imaginable.

As "chavlad.mp3" continued its relentless, pounding loop, it was as if the music had become the soundtrack of your new life, a constant reminder of the seismic shift from a thoughtful nerd to an overtly obnoxious chav lad. The transformation was both exhilarating and disorienting, leaving you in a state of bemused acceptance. What began as a simple attempt to hack Spotify had somehow unleashed a whirlwind of change, turning you into a caricature of every stereotype you once scorned. Yet, amidst the chaos, you found yourself embracing this new persona with a mix of bewildered pride and a fierce, if misguided, sense of identity.

You stand in front of the mirror, mesmerized by your new reflection. Gone are the days of gay thoughts clouding your mind - now you're a straight chav lad with nothing but pure lust coursing through your veins. As you gaze into those piercing blue eyes staring back at you, something stirs within.

Your mind begins to wander as memories from before fade away like dust in the wind. All that remains is this moment, this powerful urge to satisfy yourself and let go of all inhibitions. Slowly but surely, images flash across your vision: buxom women strutting their stuff on stage; tight jeans clinging to toned legs; muscular arms flexed beneath tattoos depicting everything from dragons to tribal symbols - each image more arousing than the last!

Without thinking twice about it, you reach for your laptop and begin scrolling through porn sites without any idea where exactly they lead or what kind of content awaits inside those pages (because honestly who cares). Every tab opened reveals another treasure trove filled with lustful desires begging for release - women engaging in various acts both intimate and daring while men watch eagerly awaiting their turn at playtime!

And then it happens… an image so intense that every other thought flees from consciousness leaving only one clear objective behind: pleasure yourself until satisfaction is achieved! A curvaceous brunette lies spread eagle on top bed sheets beckoning seductively as she teases viewers by slowly undress herself bit by bit before finally barring all - revealing her perfectly formed breasts glistening under soft light… In response, unbridled passion consumes every fiber within resulting into uncontrollable throbbings between legs prompt immediate action which involves hastily pulling down trousers followed shortly after by swift strokes aimed directly towards achieving climax.

[influencermagazineuk]

Dua Lipa’s Glastonbury Triumph: A Dream Realized

Dua Lipa's first headline performance at Glastonbury was nothing short of a spectacle. The pop star took the Pyramid Stage by storm, delivering a powerful and dynamic show that kept the audience enthralled from start to finish. Starting her set just after 10 PM, Dua opened with an impressive sequence of five songs: "Training Season," "One Kiss," "Illusion," "Break My Heart," and "Levitating." Each number showcased her flawless choreography and energetic stage presence, maintaining an electrifying pace throughout the night. Raph_PH, CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons The night featured five costume changes, with a recurring theme of heavy studs and leather. She performed 15 top 40 hits, including "Don’t Start Now," "Physical," and "New Rules," alongside collaborations with Elton John ("Cold Heart") and Mark Ronson ("Electricity"). Interestingly, she chose not to perform her hit "Dance The Night," which was only played as a video interlude during one of her costume changes. Her distinctive raspy mezzo-soprano voice resonated beautifully through the Somerset air, especially on the ballad "Happy For You" and the sensuous "Houdini," which closed her set. The 28-year-old also paid homage to Shakespear’s Sister, one of Glastonbury’s earliest female headliners, by wearing a t-shirt featuring their album cover "Hormonally Yours." Throughout her performance, Dua frequently expressed her gratitude and disbelief at headlining Glastonbury, a dream she had nurtured long before recording her first album. She reminisced about her early days, playing to small crowds and feeling overwhelmed by the massive audience that now stretched back to Rowmead. Almost 100,000 fans gathered to watch her, and Dua’s connection with them was palpable. One memorable moment was when she ran down to the barriers to join the crowd in singing "Be The One," a scene reminiscent of her previous Glastonbury appearance in 2017. Despite being planned, her joy at interacting with her fans was undeniably genuine. In a rare unscripted segment, Dua was joined on stage by Kevin Parker of Tame Impala, her collaborator on her new album "Radical Optimism." Freed from her rigorous choreography, she simply enjoyed the moment, giving fans a glimpse of her true self. "Tonight I get to pretend I'm in Tame Impala," she gleamed. While some critics noted that the show felt heavily aimed at a global TV audience and lacked spontaneity due to its elaborate dance routines, the audience’s attention never faltered. The setlist cleverly balanced new material with familiar hits, ensuring there was always a crowd-pleaser just around the corner. Dua had promised to transform Glastonbury into a nightclub, and she delivered. Her songs were reimagined with influences from the 90s rave scene, and her breakout hit "New Rules" was ingeniously mashed up with Bicep’s "Glue." The result was a performance that felt like an exclusive European nightclub, magnified to fit Glastonbury’s grand scale. In a unique twist, Dua even performed on a second, smaller stage—a privilege rarely afforded to Glastonbury headliners. But then again, not everyone is Dua Lipa. Read the full article