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pop-art-sixties-seventies · 1 month

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Bruce Robertson, 1965.

#Bruce Robertson #1965 #illustration

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hjkiuwb · 1 month

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Why can't I just be like those silly little baby girls with sociopathic urges, big self-indulgence and maybe big money and nothing more (okay there might be some psychological trauma... so what?)

Anyway I'm even ready to die in the end like some of them

So what

When?

I'm waiting

#my baby girls #more like barbie girls #feyd rautha #billy hargrove #bruce robertson #peter hale #mickey milkovich #too bc in the first seasons he was the BEST #петр хазин (it's russian yeah)#they're all cool (and dangerous) and funny and i'm tired from studying so let me be #love them

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fancychaostraveller · 1 month

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Wow, if I had a nickel for every time I've watched a different movie ending with James McAvoy breaking the 4th wall while making a powerful statement and staring directly at the camera just before taking a human life, I’d have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice, right?

#wanted (2008)#filth #Wesley Gibson #Bruce Robertson #james mcavoy #two nickels

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iloveyoujohnnydepp · 9 months

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Johnny Depp at the Photocall at the Paris Premiere for Rum Diary at Hotel Paris Plaza Athenee in Paris, France (November 8th, 2011)

Re: Johnny Depp as Paul Kemp in Rum Diary (2011) dir. Bruce Robinson

#johnny depp #celeb #icon #actor #musician #rum diary #paris france #paul kemp #2011 #bruce robertson #paris premiere

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tttovarichhh · 8 months

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what you give is what you get

Bruce hides the thin lines on his neck behind the high collar of his turtleneck, closing his eyes. The crossword puzzle on the last page of the newspaper whitens untouched and Robertson feels nauseous again. For the fifth time in the last three hours, damn it, do the new pills really cause this kind of reaction? He sighs, opening his eyes and running his gaze over the printed photos of the murder scene again, thinking only of the piercing eyes of the dead woman's brother during the interview.

read here

#filth #shame #filth 2013 #shame 2011 #bruce robertson #Brandon Sullivan #james mcavoy #michael fassbender #fanfic #fanfiction

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seal-writes-stuff · 2 years

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Deep Down

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: swearing, mental health struggles, heavy suicidal ideation, one NSFW mention

Summary: How deep do you need to sink before you can push yourself back up?

A/N: Hello friends. I’ve recently rewatched “Filth” and I intend to make it everyone’s problem. The bolded part is a prompt taken from here, feel free to request anything on the list! Anyway, hope you enjoy.

Days blur together. One after another, over and over again.

Bruce isn’t sure which one is it today and he doesn’t care either. After the night, he’s had to drag himself through this hellish loop anyway, taking it one hour at a time. Forcing himself to eat. Forcing himself to shower. Forcing himself to go to work, trying his best to ignore the pitying looks of his former colleagues. Most of all, forcing himself to shut out all of his thoughts and go numb. Even a moment of reflection is too much.

Weekends are the worst. Bruce still remembers what he used to do before the night, but none of this seems appealing now, so he just watches TV or sleeps it off. Sometimes both.

Pathetic.

Bruce doesn’t notice it right away, but you always seem to be around lately. Did he give you the spare key? Probably – hell if he knows. What he does know is that he lied to you a lot so you wouldn’t get in the way of his promotion. Wouldn’t stop from achieving… What exactly?

Was it worth it? Why did he even do it?

Just couldn’t help himself, probably.

Doesn’t matter. What matters, though, is that then the night happened and you just kind of stuck around ever since. Cooking him dinner. Cleaning up the place. Talking to him; Bruce is pretty sure he gives you some short answers every time, but their contents don’t make a difference. They seem to satisfy you. That’s all that matters.

Sometimes, when he’s half asleep, Bruce can feel you caressing his head – gently, almost lovingly. Bruce knows his hair is dirty half of the time and you probably pity him too, but he can’t find it in himself to pull away. Maybe that’s the only version of heaven he’s getting. He still doesn’t feel like he deserves that.

Right now, in this very moment, however, things feel different. He’s more aware. His old senses are back and Bruce doesn’t like it. He finds himself on a couch in his own apartment; TV illuminates the room slightly. Bruce rises up on his elbows and sees you in an armchair nearby. Noticing it, you snap out of your thoughts and look at him.

“Hey, Robbo,” you shoot him a sweet smile. As if everything is alright, as if he’s not a complete fucking mess. “What’s up?”

He nods vaguely, settling back on the couch. What is there to say? Still, you keep going.

“How’s your face?”

This brings out some absolutely awful memories; Bruce immediately pushes them aside. He touches his nose and suddenly realizes that it doesn’t hurt anymore.

What does his face look like, though? Does it look like anything?

“Still on my head,” he rasps out. You chuckle.

“That’s nice to hear.”

Silence falls again. One that probably feels comfortable to you but is agonizing for him. A realization that you’ve seen him like this all this time, that you’re seeing him like this now weights heavy on Bruce. He decides to put an end to this, one way or another.

“Why are you here? Don’t you have your own place or something?”

“I like yours.”

Fucking hell. You don’t seem too fazed, and that frustrates Bruce even more.

“Can’t get enough of all the filth?” he gestures around the room, looking away from you.

“I don’t care. Just wanted to see you.”

Bruce hums, hoping it would pass as some kind of answer. Same difference, he thinks. Probably not something you’d want to hear though. You’re still here and that’s a problem; he needs to be harsher. Bruce hates to hurt you like that, but it needs to be done.

For your own good.

“I was thinking about killing myself lately,” he starts in a flat tone, like he’s talking about the weather. “You’ve got any good options in mind? I do.”

“Robbo-”

“They don’t trust me with a gun now, but hey. I can still jump off a bridge, eh? Oh-or I could slit my wrists. Dougie did.”

“Bruce-”

“Or hang myself, I’ve even got-”

“Bruce, stop!” your voice cracks, and Bruce feels a rush of guilt mixed with satisfaction. Finally, he’s doing something right. “I don’t wanna- Do you mean it? Do you mean all of that?”

“Would it fucking matter if I did?”

“Yes. Yes it would.”

He huffs, sitting up straight. Why won’t you listen? Why won’t you go away? Bruce used to be able to force or manipulate anyone into doing whatever he wants. Why doesn’t it work on you? Is he that much of a fucking failure now?

“Why, cause you like feeling like a savior?”

“Wh- No, cause I care about you! I-”

“Just shut up!” he spits. “I’m not as good as you say I am! You have it in your fucking head that I’ve got something deep down. Well, guess what? There’s no deep down. This is me!”

He picks up an empty beer can before flinging it across the room.

“This is me!”

He gestures at his face, still covered in half-healed cuts and bruises.

“That’s it! There’s nothing there! Fuck the deep down. So you can stop digging and save us both some fucking time.”

That’s it. Bruce takes a deep breath, exhausted. He looks at you, trying to put every last bit of disdain he has in that look. He knows you’re trying to help; you’re not the first, but he still hopes that you’ll be the last. It’s not your fault, of course, but you must leave. He’s beyond saving and he knows it. It’s about time you realize it as well.

You open your mouth, then close it again. You don’t seem like you’re pitying him, but you don’t seem angry either. You just seem…

Sad?

“I’m okay with that.”

He blinks, confused.

“What?”

“You’re right. Fuck the deep down. I’m here cause I like you as you are. If…” you look at the floor, as if you’re gathering the courage to keep speaking. “If you think I’m playing a game, whatever. I’m okay with that too.”

You are not leaving. You are still not leaving. Why the fuck are you not leaving, what is he doing wrong, what-

Bruce tries to reply, but all that comes out is a strangled sob.

That's the final straw: Bruce finally breaks. He cries and cries, covering his face to hide from you, even though he knows it's useless. Every feeling, every negative thought he's suppressed surfaces all at once. Bruce feels like he's drowning.

All of a sudden, he realizes he truly wishes he was dead. At least death is finite. Humiliation seems never-ending.

Bruce doesn’t look up, but he hears how you stand up from the armchair with a barely concealed sad sigh. At least you’re done with him. That makes him cry even harder and he doesn’t know why.

Isn’t that what he wanted? Didn’t he finally do something right?

Before his thoughts can spiral any further, Bruce feels you pulling him into a hug. You don’t say anything. He’s grateful for that.

“I'm sorry,” Bruce clutches your shirt like his life depends on it. “I’m fucking- Please don’t leave. Please.”

“Don’t plan on that.”

Time goes by. Bruce doesn’t know if it’s been three minutes or three hours. He knows you’re here and somehow, that’s enough.

As his composure comes back, so does the shame.

“Do you… Wanna watch TV?” he asks awkwardly, not pulling away from your grasp. He hopes, prays even that you don’t mention any of... This.

You don’t.

“Sure. Let’s do it.”

You settle on the couch comfortably, his back against your chest. No kissing, no fucking, just together. Bruce can’t remember the last time he’s been with someone like this, but your body is warm and your touch is inviting, so he just accepts it.

“You know, Robbo, it’d be nice if you washed your hair sometimes,” your nails scratch his scalp gently. “I love you, but you stink.”

“Nobody complained before.”

“Well, did you ask them, or-”

“You know what, go fuck yourself,” Bruce laughs.

“Go fuck me yourself, you pussy.”

“I thought I was gross, no?” his eyes dart away before he finally gathers enough courage to say what he needs to say. “Uh, by the way, thanks. For everything.”

“Ah, it’s alright,” you plant a kiss on top of his head. Bruce closes his eyes and sighs. “Glad to help. Speaking of gross, I took out four bags of trash out of your fridge the other day. Four full bags, man!”

“Yeah, this place can use, um… Some cleaning up.”

“Some? Drug dens are cleaner than this.”

“And you’ve seen a lot of drug dens.”

“Nah, that’s your thing.”

“Right. They all know me by name there. Personal discounts, all that.”

You giggle, cuddling up closer to him, and Bruce feels content. Frank Sidebottom’s show is playing. For the first time in a long while it doesn’t even make Bruce want to smash his head against the floor.

Maybe same rules don’t always apply after all.

#bruce robertson #bruce robertson x reader #bruce robertson imagine #james mcavoy x reader #james mcavoy imagine #filth #seal writes

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sweetivymcavoy · 2 years

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