THIS! Like, I Know He Leads His Career In A More Professional Way, But His Lack Of Charisma On Social

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.

Mission Control 23

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

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 let your hands drift down to the soldier’s neck. You’re shaking. Stop thinking. That hasn’t done you any good. It can’t. They say when you’re in life and death moment, your body takes over. That’s what you need to do right now.

You touch his high collar and feel along the front of his arm. You press your hands flat to his chest. He takes a deep breath as his hands hover around your hips. He toys with the light linen as you trace the straps of his harness. He lets you unbuckle one side, then the other.

He does stop you. He is entirely still but for the tilt of his head. He watches you strip away the leather harness and then his belt. He doesn’t react as you hand catches the pistol. Even if you were fast, you’re not a marksman and by the scars on his body, it wouldn’t be that effective.

You set it aside as his arms fall straight. You go back to him and remove his body arm, a piece at a time; shoulders, forearms, chest, thighs, calves. You didn’t realise before how much he layers on. You stack it all then take his hand. You bring him to the couch and have him sit.

You get down to undo his boots. It’s another task to keep you busy. One piece at a time. That’s it. Like counting. You set his boots aside and peel off his socks. You hiss at the sight of his bruised toe. He doesn’t flinch.

You tuck the fabric into the top of the boots and turn back to him. You stand and unzip his jacket? Shirt. It’s thick, a layer of mesh over something heavy. The high collar splits and you pull down the tab to reveal his muscled chest. You push the sleeves down and he brings his arms slightly back to help.

The weight of his gaze drapes over you. You stop and frown, touching the black and blue chafed around his shoulder, a slender gash at the center. You daintily flutter your fingers over the edge.

“Ouch.” You look at him and he blinks. You’re not sure he can feel even that.

You finish taking the jacket off. He shifts on the cushion as you lay the fabric over the rest of his things. As you return to him. He stands and tears open the front of his pants. You gulp. He’s bulging to escape.

You near and he reaches for you, keeping one hand on his fly as he squeezes the back of your neck. You whimper and grasp his wrist, patting his stomach at the same time. You show your teeth in pain.

“Ow, hurt,” you say. “Soft.”

You spread your hand over his and he slackens his hold on you. He stretches his fingers across the back of your head instead and you slide your palm up to his chest. You reach for his other hand and move it away from his fly. He resists but lets you take over.

You tug his pants down little by little. He exhales deeply and you push the fabric past his thick thighs. It catches at his knees. You look down and gently brush along his swollen length. He twitches and clutches your hair even tighter.

“I’ll be nice if you are,” you say.

He doesn’t react. Not that you expect a vocal answer. He just stands there, still. You reach to move his hand from your hair and urge him to sit with a careful nudge and finish removing his pants.

He is rigid and upright. You rub along his chest and shoulders. You feel his heart beating. You lightly push until he leans back.

“That’s good,” you tell him, “relax.” You meet his eyes again. They cling to you. You trail your hands down and his stomach clench. You hush and coo at him. “I said relax.”

He tenses then slowly, you feel him easing. You trace along his pelvis and thighs. He flexes but quickly shakes his head and grips the muscle along his legs as if to force them to release. You bring your hand up along his shaft and tickle up his length.

You’re alight in that moment. Do or die. No thinking. Keep going.

He goes stiff again. You put your other hand on his shoulder. You tell him again, “relax.”

His jaw squares as he watches you stroke him. Your gaze falls to the easy motion of your hand. A raspy noise rises in his throat and he pulls his hand back to brace the couch cushions.

You lean in and lift your knee onto the couch, then the other. You straddle him as you keep yourself above your hand, pumping him as he grunts. He rips his hands from the cushions and grabs the front of your dress.

He stops himself from tearing it open and instead, plucks the top button carefully. He continues down the front until your chest is exposed. He spreads a large hand over your tit and kneads. His breath rises and falls shallowly. The feel of his rough palm against your nipple plucks at you.

You balance on your knees and yank up your skirt. He keeps his hand on your chest, fondling eagerly, as his other frames your hip. He urges you down and you lead his tip along your folds. You bite your lip as you push him to your entrance and lower yourself little by little.

His fingertips dig into you and a strangle sound catches in his throat. You sink down as you drone, your nerves unwinding as you give into instinct. You clasp onto his thick arm as you take him as deep as you can and blow out between your lips.

You tilt and moan. He’s big and you’re not quite wet enough. You put your hand over his and move it from your hip along your pelvis. You guide his thumb to your clit and wiggle it, letting out a squeak at the flicker of heat. He presses more firmly and you slip your hand up your stomach.

You rock your hips and push your head back as you let the rhythm coax you. Your eyes roll into your skull and you sigh.

There is nothing but the promise of relief. No unanswered questions, no bloodstains on the floor, no wailing winds or desolate house. There is only that fleeting release that will let you feel anything but horror, if only for a split second.