Janet Montgomery Gifs

Virgil with his sweet fam after the match 🧡💔

IM CRYING

😳⁉️

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reblog or fav if you save it.

@kellavill on twitter.

How is this the cutest thing ever😌

THIS! Like, I know he leads his career in a more professional way, but his lack of charisma on social media is ridiculous! him being spontaneous and so funny really wins over when he decides to get out of robotic mode in interviews. I wish his media team knew how to be creative. They are very square and harm an online future. Even if it were to make him talk more about video games, that would bring him closer to the younger audience. You see other players his age always trying to have their own/personal tone on their social media and then we have Virgil

The way Virgil(‘s media team) is always posting until he loses a game is so fucking hilarious, man. Idk who handles his social media but it genuinely needs a revamp in so many ways. Aside from the fact that it’s robotic and soulless (like people who bother following you in person aren’t here for freaking official training pics we can get that anywhere), the whole mostly disappearing when you lose thing screams scared/shying/avoiding people’s comments. I’ve always had that impression about him anyways and the fact that he completely left the platform after he had a single bad season where he got shat on on twitter a lot really sealed it for me. Obviously he can do whatever makes him comfortable and isn’t obligated to give anyone anything, but if you want to be smart about your media presence and set yourself up for your post-playing career, whatever you got going right now AIN’T it.

"Cut, Casper. That's a wrap." — SCREAM (1996) dir. Wes Craven

sorry to be deluli, but right now he wants her to be quiet, but at some point he'll be mesmerized by hearing her talk about the most unusual situations she's ever been through at the mall (after forcing her to speak)

You ever think Captain Hydra is just being a good listener?

WHAT DID I JUST READ? the bloody scene was so visceral that my brain stopped imagining his actions lost in blood and more blood. But I'm not afraid at all, this man is already called a monster, he has to become a beast to defend his girl! His eagerness to destroy the intruder's body and the fact that the man didn't say a word when he saw him, he already knew he was doomed.

I'm glad our girl fought so hard, went beyond what her body would allow to defend herself. She couldn't let herself be violated again just because someone wanted to hurt her initial abuser. And in the end she stands up to stop the carnage and asks for cleansing? just WHOA.

Love THAT! You are an artist!

Mission Control 19

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

EXTRA WARNING. THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS EXTREME GORE AND VIOLENCE. DO NOT READ IF SENSITIVE TO THESE DESCRIPTIONS.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You kick with your good foot. The man deflects it easily. He chuckles. It’s like sand, gritty and dry. He hits your other foot so you shriek again and a surge of bile floods your throat. You swallow it back as you continue to thrash. 

The man crawls up your body as he wrestles with you. He grabs your wrists as you fight to resist him. He’s much too strong. As you bounce on the stiff mattress, a wash of futility overcomes you. It’s exactly like before, when it was another man on top of you. 

He chuckles as he brings your hands together and traps your arms in his grip. With his other hand, he reaches to his belt. He pulls free the snap on a sheath and slides free the long blade. You whine as you open and close your fingers desperately. 

“Please, you don’t have to do this. Please. I don’t know him. I’m not... not his. Please, just let me go,” you beg through your teeth. 

He’s only amused by your pleas. He twirls the knife in his hand and admires the groove in the silver. His dark eyes flick down to you and he smirks. 

“That man doesn’t know what suffering is,” he taunts. “You want to have some real fun...” 

He lowers the knife and traces across your collarbone. Your heart pounds and your breath clouds painfully in your chest. He hooks it under the left strap of your night gown and slices through. He does the same on the other side. 

He turns the knife the draws a slow line toward your throat. The skin splits around the metal and you cry out. He cackles and flicks it so it digs in a little deep. You kick the bed, huffing and howling with each throb of your injured foot. 

Adrenaline floods through you as you tug on your hands and write. This can’t happen. It can’t. You survived this far, you won’t go down without a fight. Even if it is a losing one. 

You manage to wrench a hand free. He slips and the knife cuts across your shoulder. You whine but ignore the gash. You twist and bite down on his sleeve. You pinch until you feel the firm muscle of his forearm. Tighter and tighter until you taste iron. 

The crack across your cheek has you reeling. You fall back against the bed and throw your hand out. You grab onto the blade of the knife, the metal searing your skin as blood seeps out around it. You squeeze and throw all your body weigh in the opposite direction. 

You dislodge the knife from his grip and it hits the bed. You don’t hesitate. You grab it with your other hand and swipe at him. It deflects off his body arm but leaves a tear in his sleeve. You swing again and let out a beastly snarl. You miss and he hits your hand so the blade flies from your grasp. 

You don’t care. You hit him. Over and over. Even if it doesn’t hurt. Even if it hurts you more. 

“Noooooo!” You shout, “no! Get off!!! Fuck off! Fuck you!!” 

You’re like an animal. All pain, all fear dissolves and there’s only one thing left. Survival.  

Your vision clears you see his grin. You hate him. You hurl your fist at him but before he can smack it away, he lurches backward. He flies off of you and hits the wall with a startling force. 

Another rasping breath blows through the room. Deep pants through nostrils as the soldier stands glaring at the intruder. His fists ball up as he steps closer to the dark-haired man. You dizzily sit up and watch as it all happens at a speed slower than reality. 

The other man raises himself on his knees but doesn’t make it further. The soldier, the captain, whoever, whatever he is, grabs him by the scruff and smashes his face into the walk. Bone mulches as the dark-haired man croaks and spits up crimson and ivory. 

The captain drags him by his neck as he searches the room. He finds the knife on the floor and throws the man onto his back. He plants his foot on his chest and looks at the blade. He turns his head to glance at you. His eyes are dilated and dull. 

He drops his chin to consider the man on the floor. He slips his foot off of him and falls to his knees. He straddles the man, knees on his arms to keep him from resisting, and he traces along the man’s hairline. The man roars and gnashes his teeth. 

The soldier continues the path around the man’s face until he’s sliced around cheekbone, jaw, and temples. He stabs the knife into the floor so it stands on its own. He runs his fingertips along the blood incision and you watch in horror as he peels the skin away from the bone. As he skins him with his hands alone, you cover your mouth and wretch. You can’t look away. 

You see every nasty detail. When the man has no face, his eyes are plucked out next with thumbs, crushed in fists, thrown down like gobs of chewed gum. Blood pours into his hair and down his neck. His breath is sickly and wet. 

Then the soldier strips him of his clothing. He shreds it with the knife but he destroys the man’s body with his hands. He breaks every finger, bending them back until they meet his hand. He twists his joints around until the crack and snap, he buries his nails into the skin until he can wrap his grip around his ribs and tear them out. 

The man’s blood stains the soldier. You see it slicken his black clothing, shining, stinking as the body of the intruder gurgles on the floor. The soldier doesn’t stop. Not even when he’s dead.  

You sit and watch him splitting sinew from bone, his eyes narrowed, almost hypnotised by the undoing of his enemy. You can’t take anymore. The smell of it, the sound, you can even taste it.  

You slide to the edge of the bed and stand. You whimper at the horrible pulsing in your foot. You hobble across the floor as the soldier is distracted in his work. You steel yourself and touch his shoulder. He winces as you lean on him but he doesn’t stop. 

His hands are red but with his blood as much as the man he murdered. He has cuts on his knuckles, a splintered bone juts out by his thumb. He doesn’t feel any of it. 

“You’re hurt,” you point and gulp back a wave of nausea. “Please, stop.” You bring your hand up to his chin and he finally stills. He lets you turn his head and he looks up at you. “If you don’t clean that, it will get worse.” 

He raises his hands and examines them. You tormented shoulder throbs and your foot radiates with heat. You gently touch his thick fingers.  

“Safe,” you say to him. “Like you said.” 

He stares at your hold on him then softly moves his hands to take yours instead. He stands as his pupils shrink. His eyes wander to your shoulder and the blood dripping down your chest. 

“We both need to clean up,” you look down. “Don’t we?”