😳⁉️

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

Virgil with his sweet fam after the match 🧡💔

IM CRYING

I just want to emphasize how intimidated I feel while I'm reading, the way I feel her pressure and uncertainty about him.

Mission Control 13

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 ❤️

You stand shivering in a towel. The door is open to the damp chill, a grey sky peeking in. He appears again, marching through with a worn canvas knapsack. He drops it on the rug and goes back to shut the door. You hear the gears whirring as it locks on its own. 

He’s all in black again. At least his clothes are clean. The turtleneck has a hole in the elbow and the cargo pants are missing a flap along one pocket, but they don’t smell like iron and mud. His blond hair is still sleek with moisture and droops down his forehead. 

You wrap your arms around yourself and watch him. He lifts the bag over the couch and drops it on the cushions. He points and looks at you. You nod and go where he wants. 

You tuck in the top of the towel. You pull back the zipper. A bundle of clothing pushes the bag wide as it bulges through. You pull out a plaid flannel shirt. It’s thick. You peek up at him and hold it up. He jams his finger towards you. 

“These are for me?” You ask. He lowers his arms and tilts his head. “Thank you.” You look down and lay out the flannel on the next cushion.  

You pull out two pairs of rolled jeans, some tee shirts, and a pullover sweater. Each piece is plain and practical. None of it matches. You won’t complain. Only the last piece is less than utilitarian. 

You drag out the dress and it flows free. The yellow is speckled with green vines and white flowers. You grimace as you note the red splotch on the bodice and the way the trim on the neckline is separated along one side. 

He grunts. You wince and look him in the eye. You blink nervously and turn the dress around for him to see. He frowns and snatches it from you. He touches the bloody stain and exhales deeply. He balls it up. He stares at you again. 

You pick up a tee shirt and give it a sniff. It’s a bit dingy. You can manage. 

“Maybe I’ll do some laundry? You can show me where?” You suggest. 

His eyes narrow. 

“I’ll do yours too. I don’t mind. I’d like to have something to do,” you offer. You’re trying to fill the silence as much as you’re begging to distract yourself from the dread. “If that’s okay with you.” 

His eyes drift. He puts his chin down and examines the dress again. He rents it in two and stomps away. 

You pull the tee shirt on over the towel then slip into the jeans. You loose the towel and button up the flannel. It’s better. 

The door clatters open again. You go to hang the wet towel from the bar in the bathroom and as you return, he carries in a pile of white birch logs. He kicks the door shut and takes them to the fireplace. He lets them roll over the floor. He grabs one and splits it in half with his fingers. You gape. 

“Can I help?” You stay a few feet back as you watch his shoulders. “Are you hungry?” 

He clacks several pieces onto the embers and stokes the fire until it roars. He stacks the rest before he gets up. He faces you and stalks over. You shuffle back frightfully. He points to your stomach then makes a fist. 

“Not all of it makes me sick. I was asking you though.” 

His brows furrow and he snarls. He shakes his head. He’s frustrated but you don’t know why. 

You warily move back to the couch and fold up the leftover clothing. He strides into the kitchen as you place the knapsack and clothes aside. He comes back in with a large metal bucket with handles on the wide brim and a scrubbing board. You only ever saw those in museums. He drops it and it clanges as the board bounces to the other side. 

“Thank you,” you say to conceal your fear. You feel his temper mounting. You want to keep him calm as long as you can. “Will you sit down?” You ask gently. “I wish I could make you some tea. It’s the perfect weather for it.” 

He inclines his head and watches you. His cheek ticks and his eyes flick up as if trying to remember something. He moves towards you and you lurch but don’t back away. He brings his hands to the sides of your face. His thumbs stroke your cheeks and he holds you for just a second before he releases you. 

He brushes close and moves to the couch. He sits with a groan. He doesn’t show the pain but you saw the splotched bruises and the slice along his knee. 

“I’m going to boil some water,” you explain. “Is there a drying rack for me to hang the clothes?” 

He sniffs and stands.  

“You can point and I’ll find it,” you say. “I saw a closet near the kitchen?” 

He blinks and flicks his finger in that direction as he sits back down. You turn and flit towards the door you were too afraid to open. You look inside at the broom; that would have been useful before. 

You drag out a rusting folding rack and bring it to the front room. You put it in front of the fireplace. 

“Is that okay?” You turn to him. 

He waves his hand indifferently. 

You nod and go back to your task. It’s not as terrifying when you have little steps to follow. You find a pot in the cupboard and fill it with water. You put it on to boil then retreat into the bathroom. You gather up his clothes and add them to the heap of the others. 

You take the bar of laundry soap from the bottom of the tub and set it aside. As you wait for the water to boil, you find a cloth and wet it. You wipe the front of his body arm. Black and red mingle on the linen. 

You glance over at him. His eyes are closed. The fire crackles and its glow flickers over him. You put your head down and continue your work. There’s an eeriness to the sudden peace of the cabin. You only then notice how the storm has quieted too. 

Bill Skarsgård as Eric The Crow (2024)

Sophie Simnett as Samaira “Sam” Dean in 1x01 of Daybreak

↳ “Yeah, that’s right. I named my sword after her.”

STEVE ROGERS and SAM WILSON Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015) dir. Joss Whedon

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?

HERA icons

ꧏꨮۣ⿻ࣩꦽࣥۜ please, reblog or fav if you save it.

The best of Maggie Murdock: Part 2 (part 1)

Love and Other Drugs

GROTESQUERIE Episode 2