He's So Tall And Handsome As Hell 🙄

OMG IM DYING 😭😭😭

triumph

{virgil van dijk x reader}

in which virgil wins a trophy and celebrates in the best way ✨

warnings: unprotected sex, semi!public fuck with hold the moan vibes. no rhyme or reason except that this man deserved a bit of celebratory love.

To the roar of a blazing crowd, he lifts his first trophy as captain gloriously over his head, and although you know you should be paying attention to that shiny silverware that he and the kids worked so hard for, you’re staring at his biceps instead - the defined, hard line of muscles there, the veins that run across the length of his arms - entirely lickable, biteable even, how they seem to almost stretch out his sleeves.

You cross your legs to repress the ache that grows between them, as his gaze searches the crowd and lands on you - the only one he looks to for approval and love, and you blow him a flirtatious kiss that makes his smile grow wider, his eyes sparkly with the thrill of victory, of being on the receiving end of your love.

He eventually has to hand the trophy over, to your disappointment that his arms are no longer on display. But this sadness immediately vanishes when he runs to you so he can lift you up in his arms now, as if you were the real prize all along. You cup his face and plant a kiss on him that curls your toes, between his whispered gratitude and his hands stroking through your hair. The crowd behind you goes wild at the display of affection, but Virgil doesn’t care. In fact, he doesn’t seem to even notice them. He drags you into the tunnel, away from the roaring chaos, and in this relatively quieter space, you can talk freely now. 

“Later,” he murmurs into your ear, his hand wandering up your back, “I want to celebrate properly.”

You nod, already seeing the glint of excitement in his pretty eyes. Your eyes are drawn to his mouth, and the bead of sweat that trickles over his neck and throat, down to the neckline of his jersey. “How… exactly?”

His gaze locks on yours - intimate, enthralling. “Going to have you strip off all these clothes for me - slowly. I know you’ve got some pretty underwear on, don’t you?”

Your cheeks heat up. “Maybe.”

He grins. “Maybe I’ll take them off with my teeth then. Have you lie there, wrists tied to my bed with my jersey… so I take my time with you and do anything I want.”

“Virg…” you warn, but he just carries on - voice growing lower now.

“Or maybe…” he glances around, trying to evade suspicion. “We don’t even have to wait to go home to celebrate.”

You blink slowly at him, the thought making you want to shiver - it’s too much, too naughty. “I… you want to… now?”

He winks. “If you can be quiet… I don’t see what’s the problem.”

-

It is a problem, actually, when he’s dragging you into an empty room barely a few meters away from his team’s actual celebrations - one kiss blaring out triumphantly. His hands make quick work of your jeans, practically ripping the zip and swearing at how tight they are, groaning with relief and need when he finally touches bare skin instead of denim. You peel his shirt off and indulge yourself with kisses along his neck and collarbone, sucking along the smooth skin until he’s letting out soft moans of his own. His body practically flattens you against the wall, hands already slipping into your underwear - red, lacy, and he groans at the sight of it. Still, he’s impatient to do more than just look - and so his fingers take to stroking and teasing you until they’re soaked, and you’re gripping his bare back, desperate to be filled with him.

“Fuck, I need you,” he groans, and you’re not doing any better, whining and rutting back into his fingers like you’re starved (and you are).

“Please, Cap,” you beg, and it turns him on when you call him that - when he gets to hear how desperate you are for him. 

“Fuck. You want it bad, huh?” He kisses the moan of approval from your mouth, as you cup the impressively thick bulge of his cock, his hips grinding back into your touch. He feels so rock-solid and you’re not able to wait - shoving his shorts down, his underwear, letting him hoist you up with your legs around his hips so you can position his cock perfectly where you need it.

The first press of him against your entrance makes you moan, until he has to cup his hand over your mouth and chuckle (unsteadily), “shhhhh… they’re going to hear you, sweetheart.”

But that reminder only turns you on more, and you whimper against his hand over your mouth, as he fucks slowly into you now, rocking his hips into your wet, aching cunt. It’s good - it’s always so good with him - this aching stretch and the way your walls clench around him, possessive almost. But what seals the deal is his mischievous eyes full of excitement and love and everything in between - the grin he makes, the freckles along his pretty cheeks, his hair no longer neatly combed back in a bun but a little unruly, messy even. You struggle away from his hand over your mouth so you can kiss him again, and this time, you suck on his bottom lip, moaning his name, letting him know how wet he makes you, how fucking good his cock is. You feel him pick up the pace, his breaths ragged and intense and you need him closer, so much closer, even though you’re pressed up against him with not an inch of space left. 

He gets so wild, actually, thrusting into you, calling you all sorts of pet names and struggling to stave off his orgasm - but you’re clawing at his back now, making him go guttural, feral, fucking into you with boundless energy. “Virg… I’m going to come,” you gasp, the confession shuddering from your lips. 

He leans his forehead against yours, and you share a breath as your orgasm slams into you, making you clench around him in spasms, and it’s too tight and wet and hot for him to hold off any longer. He makes those final few pumps inside you and moans long and loud into your mouth, and you kiss the sweet surrender from his lips, feeling him spill into you, deep and good.

He laughs in disbelief and delight when letting you down from the wall, sliding past his body and so he can give you one final kiss. He squeezes your bare ass and you giggle into his sweet mouth, “haven’t you had enough?”

“With you?” He smirks, daring to spank you now, “it’s never enough.”

-

oh my god. how insane was yesterday?

wrote this weeks ago with someone else in mind, but it never quite stuck for me. I realised today that this is why - fate had intended for this fic to work out for virg after all.

for my captain’s series! and because a trophy win demands a celebratory fic (it’s tradition).

lots of love, ivy

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

Love and Other Drugs

GROTESQUERIE Episode 2

I just know she will find her hair when he drags her to his place or even find out that he keeps it in his pocket ☠️

Mission Control 2

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 ❤️

“Height?” The officer taps the nib on his notepad. 

“Ugh, tall. Er,” you keep your hand on your head. It still throbs. “Um, six foot something? He had to be bigger.” 

“Right,” he squints. “Blond, blue eyes, and a scar. Dressed in all black...” he reads it over. “And he didn’t say anything?” 

“No, sir, I told you. Did you check with security? There's cameras--” 

“Nothing there. Checked all the footage. Some glitch. Guy’s not sure. Not his problem, I guess. Paid minimum wage to sit in a room,” he scoffs. “We can file the report but we can’t do much else. No footage, no proof--” 

“No proof? Look at my head. He ripped my hair out!” You whine. 

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen worse. Should count yourself lucky he left you alive,” he says. 

You shake your head and drop your arm, “uh... thanks, I guess.” 

“Look,” he exhales. “I really don’t have much to go on but this guy sniffs around again, call. File another report.” 

“Right,” you agree glumly. “Thank you, officer.” 

He shrugs, “have a good night. You want me to stick around while you lock up.” 

“It’s fine, I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your time.” 

You sniff and turn around. You’re not surprised by his indifference or his answers. You have friends who had men pounding on their doors and the same reaction. You saw police arresting drunk girls instead of the guys who cornered them in the bathroom. There isn’t much anyone can do, it seems. Especially not you. 

You go through the closing list. You know it by rote but that night, you’re uncertain. You check the clipboard that hangs behind the counter. You’re fractured. The whole world feels like it’s strewn before you. Nothing fits together. You feel like you’re disconnected from your own body. 

God, your head hurts. 

You stop and open up the front camera on your phone. You look at the bald patch again. Near the back. You can’t really see it head on but it’s there. Or not. He just... did that? He took a part of you. 

You close your phone and put it in your pocket. You pull on your jacket and hike your bag onto your shoulders. As you do, the Pom Pom falls onto the floor. You tossed it on top but didn’t hook it on. You pick it up, quivering. That man... did he find it or take it? 

You squeeze it and grab the keys from the hook. You pull the gate across the store front and lock it. You turn to face the empty mall. 

The idea of going out into the dark and waiting for the bus is the same as scaling a mountain with your bare hands. You make yourself move. The longer you wait, the more likely you’ll miss it.  

Your steps echo around you. You flinch and glance over your shoulders, back and forth, even spinning to make sure you’re alone. 

How are you supposed to do this? After what he did to you. Did he just see you on the bus and decide to mess with you? How did he track you to the store? You had your jacket on, he couldn’t see your name tag or uniform. You didn’t have your badge out. 

You can’t figure any of it out. Would it matter if you could. 

You slow down as you approach the doors. You look out and see the bright signs for the businesses housed in the mall and the other plazas close by, headlights shining along the street. You push through the first door and stand in the vestibule. 

You still have the fluffy pom pom in your hand. You unhook your bag from one shoulder and hook it on. You trade the store keys for your house keys and poke one out between your fingers. You’re on your own. 

You walk out into the night. You don’t stop. You almost jog across the lot out to the bus stop by the road. You duck into the shelter, the lights keeping you safe in their glow. Or so you hope. 

The bus pulls up only a few minutes after. Your relief flows out of your chest as you scan your pass. You find a seat at the back and sit. You want to see everyone else. 

The tires grind the gravel and veer back onto the road. They slow again at the next stop around the corner. You watch the passenger turn and you know him in an instant. He stalks down the center of the bus and climbs the steps up to the back level. He does just as he did that morning. 

He sits beside you. You can’t move or speak. You can’t believe it. 

He must know that no one else cares. He’s counting on it. You’re breathless as you shake, your ribs wracked as adrenaline burns through you. 

“Why?” You quaver weakly. He doesn’t answer. You lean away from him and touch your head, grazing your tender scalp. “Please, why me?”  

Still nothing. 

“Why are you doing this?” You whimper. 

He closes his eyes and lifts his chin. His hand moves from his leg onto yours and he squeezes. You tremble as his fingertips dig into your flesh. 

“Please, stop!” You cry out and slap his hand. 

No reaction. What is wrong with him? You wriggle and look at your other hand; the key poking out from your fist. You bring it down towards his hand but he’s fast. He retracts his touch and the key sinks into your thigh muscle. You screech, and he reaches across to tug the cord. 

“What’s going on back there?” The driver hollers back as he stops. 

The man stands and marches away. He doesn’t answer the driver or look back. He steps off the bus and you watch him through the window. He almost fades into the dark as he delves into the shadows of the buildings.  

“Knock it off,” the driver warns as he puts his foot on the pedal. 

You puff between your teeth and look around at the other passengers; deafened by headphones and ear buds, engrossed in their screens and pages. There’s at least ten other riders yet you’re all alone. 

You look down. You quaking as you let go of the key and it sticks out of your leg. You cringe and grasp it as tight as you can. You hold your breath as you rip it out. Argh.  

That officer was right. You’re lucky he didn’t do worse. 

THE ULTIMATE DADDY

Alternatively titled:  Daemon finally gets the son he worked so hard for

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

for @aemondtargeryen

Brother May I Masterlist

summary: Sarah was the sister he resented, Wheezie was the sister he adored, but even after years in the Cameron household, you still didn’t know how Rafe felt about you.

Keep reading

Alexandra Daddario Gifs

In this pack you will find 123 HQ GIFS of Alexandra Daddario as Summer Quinn in Baywatch.

All of the gifs were made by me for roleplaying purposes. Feel free to use them as sidebars, reaction gifs or include them in your gif hunts, but don’t forget to give credit!

DO NOT repost them or edit in any way.

A like or reblog is always appreciated! ♥

Continuar lendo

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. 

GQ