Bill Skarsgård As Eric The Crow (2024)

♥  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!

SAM REID as  Father Ignatius in Lambs of God (2019)

for @aemondtargeryen

GQ

Okay, that sparkle in his eyes? I think it was the desire to reciprocate her care, her affection, what he did with the kiss. My Steve Rogers is fighting hard to break free and I know it

Mission Control 20

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 ❤️

Your pain recedes as you focus on what needs to be done. You let the soldier cling to you and lead him out of the room, away from the scent and sight of his victim. What startles you more than the scene is that you don’t feel anything but relief. That man, whoever he was, could have done the same to you. 

You enter the bathroom and face him. His head hangs forward, his eyes hooded and heavy, his shoulders sloped in exhaustion. You limp around him and tug free the bottom of his shirt. Blood smears onto your hands as you strip away the layer. 

His face is red with the same stain. You help him undress. As you grab his belt, he winces, and looks down. There’s his knife and a gun, and small leather pockets containing other hidden tools.  

“It’s alright.” You assure him. He shouldn’t be afraid. You won’t hurt him. Or maybe he thinks you’d hurt yourself. Foolishly, you don’t have that resolve. 

He lets you continue. You pile the layers by the door. You pant through the pain in your foot and shoulder. You turn on the faucet and guide him into the tub. Before you can draw away, he catches your arm and looks to the water lapping around his feet. 

You shake your head, “I’ll get clean soon. You first.” 

He squeezes then lets go. You search the wooden cabinet and find a cloth. You reach to dip it in the water then bring it to his face. You lean heavily on the porcelain to take the weight off your foot. You wipe away the crimson across his forehead and brow. You work slowly down his face. He breathes in long slow intakes, letting them out softly. 

He leans back against the tub as he surrenders to your tendings. You stop the faucet to drain the dirty water and refill it around him. You go trade the cloth for a clean one and return to him. He catches your hand in his. 

He tugs the washcloth from your grasp. He sits up and wets it by his leg. He moves his hand up your arm and presses the warm fabric to your shoulder. You groan and hiss but let him do it. He drags it across the gash as the dried blood chips away with the friction. He tilts his head as his forehead lines with concern. 

You put your hand on his and still it. “Will you wait?” 

He grips the cloth then reclines once more. You lower his arm down carefully then retreat. You go to the bedroom and retrieve the tin box, dented and scratched, just like everything else. You bring it with you and balance it by the sink. 

You take some gauze and the alcohol spray. You go to him and frown at his left hand. You nod, “I’m not sure what to do. That needs to come out.” 

He raises his hand and shows the broken bone sticking out by his thumb. Some time amid the chaos, it embedded itself in his flesh. He pinches the end and, without feeling, dislodges it. The sudden swell of blood makes you nauseous. 

He reaches for you and grabs your wrist. He tugs you closer and directs you silently to press the gauze to the break in his skin. You squeeze tightly against the flow and shudder.  

He lets you go after a time and you return to the kit. He snaps his fingers and you flinch. You look back at him as he stares at you intently. His eyes flick to the box. You lift the whole thing and bring it to him. 

He sits up and reaches for it. You hold it open and he sifts around. He takes the alcohol spray and beckons you. You kneel on the floor as he reaches over the porcelain. 

He sprays across your chest and shoulder. You whine and he stops, eyes wide. You gulp and nod, “it’s fine. It needs to be done.” 

He bites down so his jaw squares and continues. He wipes away the grime and sweat and blood. He takes out tubes and uncaps it. You stare at it but can’t watch as he applies it to your split skin. He pinches the edges together. It’s some sort of glue. He reseals the cuts and drops the tube in the box again.  

You back up to look in the mirror. You can see the tortured lines but the skin is taut and firmly held. Still, you move carefully. He grunts as you put down the kit. 

You return to him. He wants you to get in. You can just tell. Or maybe you’re breaking. Maybe you just want to believe you can understand him. You look down at your foot. 

“I can’t,” you say. “I’ll wash after, when I can keep my foot dry.” 

He looks at you tersely. His neck tenses and you steel your nerves. 

“You still need to get clean,” you insist and grab the cloth from the water. You stand and add soap to it. You look down at him. “Relax, okay?” 

He stares at you. His eyes sparkle with confusion. Wait. They didn’t have that light before. They never gleamed or glimmer or shone. They were always dull. But you see something. 

You lather the cloth and bend to scrub his shoulders. His chest rises and falls visibly. He lays back as you wash him. When you drag the cloth to his sternum, he clutches it again, this time moving it over his heart. You feel it pound. 

He surprises you as he grabs you with his other hand. Right around the back of the neck. You gasp as he pulls you down. His lips crush to yours as you squeak. 

You’re terrified by the suddenness but that same fear keeps you from fighting. You don’t want to escalate. It wouldn’t be smart to rile him any more than he already is. 

He kisses you hungrily, his tongue smushes into your lips until you open for him. It’s as if he means to devour you. Finally, he releases you and you pull back breathless. You stare at him as he stares back. He puts his fingertips to his mouth and hums hoarsely. 

You go back to washing him. To keep yourself busy, in hopes it will ward him off from any further whims. The adrenaline trickles away as fatigue creeps through you. You need to finish before you crash back to reality. 

Solange, Johnson Family Vacation, 2004

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