SAM REID As  Father Ignatius In Lambs Of God (2019)

omg, he's even managing to stress me out! I think the fact that he doesn't speak to her, verbally express how obsessed with her he is, is really creepy. 😵‍💫 But I also believe that when he starts talking and feels "comfortable" with her, knowing that she won't leave, he won't stop anymore. I feel like he sees her as a reward for whatever he does, something that's just his, like a pet. I want to know at what other times he watched her, accompanied her without her knowing

LOOKING FORWARD TO MORE, I'M OBSESSED

Mission Control 6

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, 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 ❤️

As the man comes toward you, you can’t react. He grabs your jacket, splitting the zipper, and rips it down your arms. You whimper as he strips the fabric away and lets it drop. His hand recoils to his belt and he unsheathes a long hunting knife. You take a step back and he catches back of your head and tuts as he closes in once more. 

He fists your hair in his hand and tugs until you tilt your head back. He pokes the tip of the knife against your chin and drags it down your neck. You quiver as his eyes blaze down at you. His pupils dilate as his gaze falls to the blade and turns it in his grip. He hooks the slightly curved point under your shirt and rents through your shirt. 

He slices so easily through the fabric that it leaves you breathless. You don’t move, terrified of being gashed. He cuts up your bra in quick succession, then your jeans, and your panties, leaving you only in your beat-up sneakers and socks. You’d feel ridiculous if you weren’t so scared. 

He stands straight and raises the knife, showing it to you in a silent threat. He twirls it and slides it back into the sheath on his belt. He looks down as you try to cover yourself with your hands. You shift on your feet and slowly bend to untie your shoes. 

He turns away. You peek up as he goes to the wall and pulls a framed painting, opening the hidden compartment behind. He takes the pistol from his belt and puts it away. He unstraps the harness from around his chest and another blade from his leg. He reveals a few more weapons from under his clothing before he shuts the door; gears whirring to lock it in place. 

Even without a blade, he’s dangerous. You know that much. That he disarmed himself shows that he’s just as aware of the imbalance. You slip free of your shoes and socks and stand, a hand over your pelvis and an arm over your chest. You gulp and search the room helplessly. 

He nears and grabs you by the back of your neck. He marches you across the room and through another door. Within, a bathroom is lit by the flip of a switch. He shoves you towards the tub and reaches to crank on the faucet. The scour of water makes you wince. 

He snaps his finger and points inside. You step over the porcelain wall and he yanks the curtain shut between you. You shiver even as the water steams hotly and pours over you. 

The heat should feel nice but you only shake as it spatters down. You look around. You take the fresh bar of soap and scrub yourself. It smells like rose and vanilla. You set it back in the dish and rinse the lather. 

You glance over. His shadow is gone. You inch towards the curtain and peer around it nervously. He’s not there. 

You retreat and face the showerhead. You turn off the faucet as the water only agitates your skin. You stand shivering, arms crossed, waiting. 

The door clicks open and he stomps back in. He tears back the curtain and shoves a towel against you. You hug it. 

“Thank you,” you look up into his scarred face. “Sir, why...” 

He lifts a single finger and pushes it against your lips. He shakes his head. You close your mouth and unfold the towel. He pulls his hand back as his eyes drift again to your body. You’re self-conscious as you fumble to hide yourself behind the towel. 

He grabs your arm and drags you out of the tub. He takes you out of the bathroom, back into the front room, and through yet another doorway. It’s a bedroom. It’s lit by a ceiling light, dimmed to amber, and a bed stands, draped in grey plaid flannel. 

He points again and let you go. You go to the bed and stop at the foot. It’s then you notice the plain white night gown. You look over your shoulder. He dips his chin down. You turn back and reach for cotton. 

You trade the towel for the nightgown and the door slams. You turn. You’re alone. You sway on your feet and examine the room. The walls are dark wood, rippled with knots and rings. The decor is sparse. The bed, a tall armoire, a shelf in the corner. 

You near the shelf slowly, not sure you’re seeing what’s there. The wall above it is plastered with pictures. Of you. Of your apartment. Of the tea shop. Every aspect of your life documented. Below, the shelf is cluttered with various objects; your possessions. The brush you thought you dropped out of your bag and replaced, several tubes of lip balm but you never finish those, a bracelet you forgot about, and an old journal you thought was still in your closet. 

You back away. This man didn’t just find you, he’s been following you. For a long time. You retreat to the bed and sit on the end. Again, you’re paralysed in futility. 

He returns and you gasp as you look up. He has only a towel at his waist as he barges in. You cower with wide eyes as he walks to the shelf and sets down something in the small glass tray with your bracelet. Your shank of hair. You cover your mouth in horror. 

Is he going to kill you? He’s some deranged murdered and this is his kill room or some weird stuff like that. You stand and clutch the towel. 

“Please just tell me if you’re going to kill me. I’d like to know at least,” you say, quavering. 

His back tenses. Scars crisscross his muscles as they strain beneath the skin. He pushes his head back before he faces you. His expression says nothing. He comes to you, stopping just in front of you. 

He grabs you by the neck and you tense. You try to prepare yourself for death but you won’t ever be ready. Your eyes well up and your heartbeat hammers in your chest. With his other hand, he strips away the towel. You yipe against his firm grip. 

He spreads his hand over the left side of your chest. You can feel your heart more clearly. His palm is hot like fire. You shakily reach to clasp onto his wrist, begging him with your eyes. Not to let you go, but for mercy. Make it quick. 

He squeezes your throat, not enough to block your breath, but enough to make you nervous. He lifts your neck and, without much effort, or care, hurls you back onto the bed. You splay over it as you exclaim and bite your tongue.  

What he intends to do, might be worse than death. 

2x2 | 2x3

CHRIS HEMSWORTH Marvel Studios' Assembled The Making of Thor: Love and Thunder

(requested by anonymous)

Bill Skarsgård as Eric The Crow (2024)

“Don’t leave me alone in the darkness. This place where we both exist, yet serve different callings.”

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ  ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ― Sarah J. Maas , Catwoman: Soulstealer

You smell a m a z i n g.

—Lana, Smallville, “Thirst”

I feel really awake. I don’t recall ever feeling this awake. You know? Everything looks different now. You feel like that? You feel like you got something to live for now?

GEENA DAVIS as Thelma Thelma & Louise (1991) | Dir. Ridley Scott

Fav if you save

♥  I C O N S  F A M A L E  ♥ Please, like or reblog if you use. Don’t claim as your own and not repost. Thank you, babe!