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whatsupsonnyboy · 1 month ago

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Drunk in my mind | Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Joe and you (actress!reader) met during the filming of a romantic thriller, you two struggle to keep your undeniable chemistry professional. But when intimate scenes push your limits, the line between acting and reality begins to blur.

wc: 5.9K

warning: fluff, slow burn, co-stars to friends, friends to lovers, mentions of sex, swearing, overthinking, angst

a/n: heeeeeey, i know it's been ages, so sorry, but you know how life could be! anyway, i recently got lot of free time so i decided to pick up writing this precious man. This one just got on my mind while listening a podcast, originally it was going to be a one shot... looks like it's gonna be more parts to this! Hope you enjoy it 😌

Feedback is welcomed <3

request are open | masterlist

part I | part II | part III

He was feeling really excited about the whole thing. The whole project was kind of a dream if he was honest, the story was captivating, the arc of his character was interesting and challenging and the chance to work with Mark as a director was more than anything he could have dreamt of. He felt like the whole universe was playing on his favour, as if it was saying “hey, here you have, you deserve it”, and that could only make him feel grateful and lucky.

He had known since the very first moment he accepted the role who his co-star was going to be. He remembered how worked up he felt—the incredible chance to work with such a talented and young actress, someone with that kind of range. It was exciting, a little intimidating even. The thought of it made his heart race a bit. So when the two of you finally met, he couldn’t help but like you instantly.

And he had noticed that you liked him too. The chemistry between you two was undeniable, something neither of you had tried to hide. It wasn’t just about the physical attraction, though there was plenty of that. No, it was something deeper, a connection that he couldn’t quite put into words. There was an admiration there, something rooted in the way you thought, how you carried yourself, your mind… it fascinated him. And he felt that same spark from you, even if neither of you dared to acknowledge it fully. In an environment like that—so close, yet so professional—it was delicate. Neither of you wanted to be the first to cross a line that could jeopardize everything.

The first few days of filming were a blur of getting to know each other on screen, but it didn’t take long before it was clear you two clicked on a deeper level. Not even two weeks into the filming, and you had found yourselves spending almost all your breaks together. The quiet moments during meals, those late-night chats after a long day of work, felt like they meant something more than just passing time. You'd wander around the city on free days, both of you enjoying the shared silence between laughter and conversations that didn’t always make sense, but that somehow felt significant.

Joe would sometimes catch himself watching you when you weren’t looking, studying the way your eyes lit up when you spoke about something you were passionate about. He’d love to listen to you for hours, about everything and nothing, and that feeling of connection lingered in the air between you. The way you made him feel heard, understood… it was rare. And judging by the way your gaze would linger on him, he could tell you felt the same.

But there was always that unspoken tension—the fragile balance between admiration and attraction, and the fear that crossing that line would change everything. Especially there, in that professional environment, where neither of you could afford to lose focus.

The more time he spent with you, the more he liked you. He found himself continually impressed by the way you worked—the passion you poured into every scene, the incredible talent you demonstrated even in the smallest moments. It wasn’t just your skill; it was your intensity, your energy, the way you approached everything with such genuine depth that it left him captivated. He couldn’t recall ever feeling that way about anyone else. Sure, he had admired colleagues before—he could still remember how stunned he had felt working with Denzel back in Gladiator, or the first time he shared a scene with Lupita. But none of that compared to what he felt now. This was something different, something unexplainable. And it was delightful. Getting to do a romance thriller for the first time while working with someone like you made everything feel effortless.

He found himself looking forward to every scene with you, not just because of the professional challenge but because of how naturally the two of you clicked. You seemed to challenge him in the best way, pushing him to reach new emotional depths, yet there was always this lightness between you both that made working together seem easy.

He had even forgotten about the sex scenes —the very thing that had made him hesitate when he first agreed to the movie. He had done intimate scenes before, of course, but this was different. When he had read the script, he had known it would be a whole new level of vulnerability. But as the filming drew closer, it felt almost like an inevitable tension was building between you two. It wasn’t just physical; it was mental, emotional, a strange but undeniable connection he couldn’t quite put into words.

Edith, the intimacy coordinator, had talked to both of you, together and separately, several times already. At first, it had made him feel calm, safe, almost like everything was under control. But the more time he spent with you, the more that sense of control started to slip away.

The idea of the two of you being semi-naked on a bed, pretending to have sex, sent a shiver down his spine. Not a bad one, not a good one either. No, it was something far more complicated. It felt… unprofessional, and yet it was so much more than that. The goosebumps that had run through him when you kissed him during the first take a few days ago… they had lingered. The memory of that kiss wasn’t just physical; it had settled deep in his stomach, making him question everything. And the worst part? He was afraid to be the only one who felt it.

He couldn’t let this happen. He liked you, of course… as an actress, as a co-worker, as a friend even. But that was all, right? He couldn't allow his body to suddenly want you in a way that went beyond professional respect. Oh God, he was feeling ridiculous. He was supposed to be a professional, and that’s how it had to stay. But how the hell was he supposed to act casual about you being above him, with nothing but a thin piece of cloth separating your bodies? Your breasts close to his face as your eyes locked with his, looking at him as if he was the only man in the world. How was he supposed to resist that?

He could certainly tell the difference between reality and acting. But how was he supposed to teach his body that distinction? The worst part was the guilt. Guilt because of how unprofessional he felt. Guilt because he had let this go so far without acknowledging what was happening inside of him. It had been so easy to let his guard down around you. He had felt so comfortable with you from the start, so at ease in your presence, that he hadn’t even stopped to question his own feelings. Now it felt like he’d jumped into this situation without looking at the consequences.

But now it was too late to undo those feelings. The scenes were scheduled to start early next week, and he had no idea how to handle this newfound tension between you. How was he supposed to manage those feelings—this raw attraction—within the next two days? He didn’t know if he could control it. Production had given the entire crew the weekend off, and he was left with two options: spend the weekend with you, in town, facing the intensity of his growing feelings, or retreat to London and try to pretend none of it existed.

He could already feel how difficult it would be to run away from this. Because it somehow felt like he was running, but taking a little space felt like the best, he could still book a flight, go back home and try to clear his head. Joe wasn’t sure that it would work, but at least he had to give it a try.

It wasn’t something weird of you to appear out of nowhere in his hotel room with a pretty nice plan that would immediately convince him to get out of the hotel. But that night he was going to force himself to do things right.

“What do you mean you can't?” you asked in a laugh.

Joe tried to stop you at the door, but it was worthless. He couldn’t even articulate a word at the look you gave him as you made your way in his room.

“You leaving?” you asked then. “Where you off to?”

You looked at the carry-on luggage on the bed. All what he needed for a weekend out was already packed.

“Home” Joe simply answered and the inquiring look in your eyes made him go on. “I thought it’d be nice to see my mum and friends”.

“Oh, I see”.

You seemed disappointed, and Joe felt like there was something else you wanted to say so he remained silent.

You didn't.

“I’ll be here on Sunday night”.

Why had he said that? It felt like he was explaining himself, he needn’t, you hadn’t asked for it either.

“Have a good weekend Joe” you said, with fake sympathy and left the room afterwards.

He couldn’t explain how awful he felt the moment he heard the door closing, or even why he was feeling that way. But he was not going to stay and figure it out, he would let that to Monday Joe.

You couldn’t understand a single thing. It was nonsense. One day he would treat you like you were the most beautiful and fascinating creature in the entire planet, the next, he would run back to London without a single explanation. Not that he owed you one, because you two were nothing but co-workers. Explanations were for people who were romantically involved, weren’t they? And Joe and you were nothing like that.

Because spending every single moment of your free time with him didn’t mean you felt anything for each other. It just meant, you liked each other, as co-workers. You just enjoyed each other's company in a job environment full of unknown people.

It was nice to have him around. Somehow, it made you feel like you were just hanging out with someone you hadn’t seen in a while, as if your paths had crossed before, in another time, another place. Talking to him about anything felt effortless, like catching up with an old friend, which was a rare gift. He had that gift.

You had heard the rumors, of course you had. Almost everyone who had come across Joseph Quinn always used the same words: “nicest of the guys,” “damn funny,” “witty sense of humor,” and “incredibly sensitive.” And all of them were spot on. But it was more than that. You couldn’t help but admire how much he made you feel seen, how, despite the attention and praise that followed him, he managed to make you feel like you were the only one in the room when you spoke.

At first, you were simply delighted by how everything had aligned so perfectly. The chance to film a movie with Mark, one of the most promising directors in the current industry, was already a dream come true. And then there was Joseph Quinn, the charming, talented British actor whose reputation had already preceded him. From the very beginning, everything was going better than expected. Mark’s direction was an experience in itself—eccentric and demanding, but exciting and fulfilling all the same. But Joe… Joe was everything you could’ve dreamed of and more.

From the moment Heather, the casting director, introduced you to him, you felt a spark. That dreamy look in his eyes, the sunglasses perched atop his head, holding back the honey curls that were starting to grow long again, and that stupid, adorable accent that made your heart skip a beat. He was effortlessly charming, but it wasn’t just his looks or the humor he carried so naturally; it was the way he made you feel at ease, the way he seemed genuinely interested in getting to know you, listening to you as if your thoughts were as valuable as his own.

You could clearly remember the way your stomach flipped the first time he asked you how you were feeling after the first day of shooting. You had felt terrible, after a night of no sleep. Leaving home for a long time was always kind of torturous, especially when it meant sleeping in a bed that wasn’t yours. Such a small, silly thing, yet it had made everything feel off.

But you were sure your lack of sleep and the consequent irritability had gone unnoticed. Or at least you had thought so, until Joe insisted that something was wrong. You hadn’t expected him to notice —especially not so early, not after just one day of filming. But he had, and the way he looked at you, like he really cared, made you feel like you owed him a little real kindness in return. After all, he was the only one who’d truly seen through your facade, despite all your efforts to hide how miserable you were feeling that day.

You two had ended up in his room, ordering the fanciest food you could find on the service menu, and watching the first Netflix blockbuster you both could find on the smart TV. There was something calming about it.

You had fallen asleep quickly, almost immediately after a few spoonfuls of the seafood rice Joe had ordered. The need for rest was bigger than your hunger. And strangely, falling asleep in Joe’s bed had been incredibly easy, a stark contrast to the nightmare it had been to even try to fall asleep in your own room the night before. Maybe it was just exhaustion, maybe your body was begging for rest—maybe it was the warmth and scent of him next to you that made it feel like you were safe, like you weren’t alone in this strange place.

You remembered waking up to the sound of Joe’s alarm blaring, and the embarrassment quickly rushed through your body as you realized you had fallen asleep in the bed of a stranger who also happened to be your co-star. It felt like the worst possible thing in the world at that moment, but Joe didn’t seem to care at all. He emerged from the other side of the room, where there was a sofa-bed, and you realized he must have let you sleep alone while he stayed there, keeping his distance. His smile when he looked at you was warm and soft, the kind of smile that made you feel... something you couldn’t quite name. He asked if you had a good night, and you could only nod, still blushing a little, but now, with a hint of warmth spreading in your chest.

However, the night he disappeared you weren’t feeling delighted at all. You had almost felt abandoned. Absurd, you knew, but couldn’t help it. And that really pissed you off. Because you didn’t even have the right to feel like that. Joe was just your co-star, your almost friend maybe. So all the rage and the frustration were useless.

You didn’t want to waste more time feeling like that, and you knew that if you stayed at the hotel the whole weekend, it would turn into endless hours of overthinking. So you fixed yourself internally, as if you had just gotten up from a fall and texted Sam.

She was one of the supporting actors in the films, and she was really nice and fun. She loved being out so it meant you’d probably get no rest for the next 48 hours, but that was better than to go over and over the same thoughts in the loneliness of your hotel room. Alcohol and loud music seemed like a better choice.

It hadn’t worked. He knew it the moment he was back to the filming location, he probably had known a long before he entered his hotel room, but opening the door of the suite made it land hard on his chest. There was that feeling all again, as it had never left, just had gone undercovered for a few hours. The terrible urge to go running to your room and kiss you, hold you, run his fingers through your hair as you rested your head on his chest.

He was done. He was finished. All the repressed feelings and unsaid words were pressing on his chest like a ton of rocks, making it hard to think, to breathe. It was like the world had shrunk, and all that mattered was this impossible attraction, this desperate need to be near you. He couldn’t even remember feeling this helpless about anyone before. It was almost unbearable.

He hadn’t said a word about it back home, maybe he should have talked about it with a friend, could have helped… but he had been so determined to be distracted about the whole thing, that going over the matter hadn’t really been an option. It had probably been a childish choice, but regretting it then, in the loneliness of his hotel room, within a few hours to go and face reality, was pointless.

Someone was knocking the door just a couple hours after he had finally been able to fall asleep. Getting to sleep decently had turned into an impossible mission with hundreds of intrusive thoughts constantly hunting his mind. And now, he would not only feel miserable, he would look like it too. Edith instantly pointed it out the moment he opened the door. Not helping at all.

She was there to talk to him before getting to the set, Joe knew she was going to be there, he also knew he was going to talk to you after. Another talk for you two was awaiting the moment before entering the set. So he kind of knew he could still do something… maybe he could talk about how not exactly comfortable he was feeling about the sex scenes, but how was he supposed to do that. First, those scenes weren’t exactly the problem. Second, then what? What was he expecting to happen?

Joe ran again through every single fake scenario that had haunted him for the last weeks while he was showering and getting ready. Edith was waiting in the living area of the suite, and as soon as he heard Joe out of the bathroom she started with the questions.

“How was your weekend off?” she politely asked.

“Mm, great” he simply replied. He knew the small talk was her way of not jumping straight into asking about being ready to get naked in front of a camera. “How about you? You get some rest?”. He asked, trying to not be a dick with her.

Edith explained how she hadn’t fully taken the days off, though she’d rested a bit. She spent most of the time working on the shooting protocol and handling some logistics. She told Joe they were aiming to wrap up everything in one day, two at most. She mentioned details about the environment—how she’d been adamant about lighting, the silence during the shoot, and limiting the crew in the room.

Despite knowing she was saying all those things to make it look like a friendlier scenario, it just had the opposite effect on Joe. When he entered the room Edith was in, she didn’t even try to hide the concern in her face at Joe’s appearance.

“Are you feeling alright, Joe? If you feel sick or something we could talk to Mark and postpone everything”. Her tone was soft, and for a second Joe really thought about it.

He could play sick. He could try to slip out of the situation for at least two or three more days… maybe he could fix his mind. Try to put in order some thoughts and see things in a different way. But that wouldn’t work unless he talked to you about it. That was what he had to do. Confront his feelings about you and explain how fucking nervous, no. How fucking sick it made him the idea of getting an erection in the middle of filming, and how violent it would be for you and for him, and for everyone in the damn room. Maybe you would be comprehensive. Maybe you would even laugh about it. Or maybe you would think that Joe was a complete idiot, an unprofessional guy who couldn’t take control of his own body for a few hours.

“No”. He hissed, almost unconsciously. “No, I… just need to eat something” he lied. “I’m fine”.

Edith raised an eyebrow, skeptical. It was like she could hear every word of his internal struggle. She pressed on, asking if something was worrying him. Joe shook his head, offering no further explanation. She didn’t want to push, but he could feel her concern. She then mentioned she’d be there for the whole shoot, that he could ask her for anything he needed to feel more comfortable. She even casually suggested a jockstrap if that was something he was worried about.

Before leaving Joe’s room he specifically mentioned how she knew that these scenes could be stressful, and sometimes even awkward, but that he could totally trust her about anything he didn’t really feel like doing. He also told Joe that lots of actors have a hard time about getting unwanted erections, but that was something really natural, because despite him being an actor, his body didn’t necessarily acknowledge that. She concluded by assuring him that everything was going to work just fine and left Joe to go to your room.

Joe didn’t really know how to feel about that information, it somehow made him feel better and at the same time made him more anxious to become one of those actors she was talking about.

Saying Joe looked terrible was an understatement. He looked sick, pale, distant. You’d tried asking him, but he responded with nothing more than a monosyllabic grunt, eyes averted. The coldness, the avoidance— it rattled you. What had changed? Why was he acting like this now?

First, the sudden withdrawal, and now, the silent treatment. It made no sense. Especially now, when you were on the verge of exposing yourself in front of him. It made the whole situation even more uncomfortable. You needed this to be over, more than ever.

Edith offered a few more directions, calming words, and encouragement before the two of you stepped onto the set. The space was intimate: Edith, Mark, a few techs, Laura and Henry —just the essentials. The air buzzed with anticipation, but it didn’t throw you off. You’d done this before. You’d been through much more explicit scenes. And Mark and Edith had been nothing but professional and supportive, so the only thing that made you nervous was Joe.

Neither of you exchanged a word while Mark ran through the sequence, explaining the shots and movements. You nodded in unison, your eyes never meeting his.

Minutes later, you were pinned against the wall, Joe above you, his body hovering just an inch from yours, his hands firm but cold—one gripping your arm, the other on your hip. His touch felt distant, almost mechanical, and when your eyes met his, you caught a flash of something you couldn’t quite place—nervousness? Anxiety? But you couldn’t bring yourself to ask.

You both stood silent as Mark called “ACTION.” Joe delivered his lines. You laughed on cue, and then he leaned in for the kiss. This time, his lips found yours with such intensity, it startled you —a hungry, almost desperate kiss that stirred something deep within your stomach. You didn’t have to fake it. The chemistry was still there, you could feel it, even if you both had to keep up appearances for the crew.

But the more you kissed, the more strained his body became. His hands were tense. The roughness in his touch grew harder, sharper. It wasn’t like before. It wasn’t like how he used to kiss you, with that mix of admiration and passion. It was stiff, forced. Something was off.

The rest of the scene went downhill. Joe seemed to withdraw further as the shots progressed. His body, rigid as a board, betrayed every word he spoke. The tension was palpable. When it came time for the bed scene, the air felt suffocating.

You straddled him, your torso barely covered by the robe. His gaze never left your body, but his eyes held no warmth, no connection. Instead, they were guarded, cold. As you lowered yourself onto him, he swallowed hard, his whole body stiffening beneath yours.

You couldn't ignore it anymore. His discomfort was suffocating.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, despite the growing unease.

He nodded, a faint, bitter look crossing his face before he turned his gaze away from you.

Before you could speak again, Mark gave the signal to get into character. The cameras rolled, and you tried to keep your focus. But God, it was so painfully obvious.

You shed your robe, and when Joe let out a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh, the silence in the room felt deafening. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The whole scene felt like it was falling apart.

You repeated your lines, but Joe’s response was hollow, distant. He ran a hand over his face, visibly frustrated, but still unwilling to acknowledge what was happening.

"Sorry, sorry," he muttered, his voice low but lacking conviction. "Let’s start over, I—I wasn’t ready. My bad.”

You did it again, hoping that maybe, this time, things would fall into place. But when you leaned in for the kiss, he was stiff—his lips barely responding, his movements robotic. The chemistry was gone, replaced by an uncomfortable stiffness that everyone in the room could sense.

Mark stopped the scene, his face a mixture of confusion and frustration. "What the hell is going on? This is not the energy we’ve had for weeks. Where’s the chemistry?" His voice cut through the tension like a knife.

You both stood there, silent, trying to navigate the gap that had appeared between you, both of you utterly confused by the growing chasm between your previous connection and the awkwardness that now stood between you.

You tried again, but after a couple of failed attempts, the scene became more and more artificial. Joe’s responses were mechanical, his body unyielding, the chemistry as absent as it had ever been. Mark, now visibly frustrated, demanded answers, but neither of you had any to give.

By the sixth attempt, Joe couldn’t take it anymore. He shoved you aside, freed himself from your hold, and pulled his robe around his body. His face was twisted in anger, his frustration spilling over as he muttered under his breath.

"This is ridiculous," he spat, walking away, leaving you and the crew behind, still trying to understand what the hell had just happened.

Mark instantly followed Joe out of the set, maybe to try to talk to him or to calm him down, but it was clear that something had broken. Everyone in the room fell silent, watching as Joe stormed out. It was like the tension in the air was a living thing, pressing down on everyone. You felt paralyzed for a moment, unsure of how to react. He wasn’t like this at all. You had never seen Joe like this—nervous, frustrated, and overwhelmed. It was as though he had completely closed off from you, and you couldn’t understand why.

You stood there, holding your robe, feeling utterly exposed in every way. It wasn’t just the physical vulnerability of the scene—it was emotional too. Joe’s behavior had sent a confusing signal, and suddenly the chemistry that had felt so natural seemed impossible to grasp.

Edith was quick to approach you. “Take five,” she said softly, gesturing towards the corner of the set. “We’ll give him some space. Let’s reset.”

You nodded silently, walking away from the set as the crew murmured among themselves. They were all so professional, but you could tell they were uncomfortable. It wasn’t just the awkwardness of the scene anymore—it was Joe, and the way he was falling apart in front of everyone.

You found yourself in the small lounge area, sitting down, trying to breathe through the confusion. What had happened? What was wrong with Joe?

It wasn’t long before Edith came over to sit beside you. “You okay?” she asked, her voice full of concern.

You wanted to tell her that you were fine. You weren’t. But you didn’t know how to explain what was happening.

“Do you think he’s okay?” You finally asked, your voice tight. “I mean… is he...?”

Edith hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said gently. “He’s been off the whole morning. He seemed like he was pushing something down, but I didn’t want to pry.”

You bit your lip, frustration bubbling up again. This whole situation felt so... off. Everything was supposed to be smooth. The chemistry, the camaraderie, the work—it had all been seamless until now. And now, it was like a wall had gone up between you and Joe, and you had no idea how to break it down.

“We’ll talk to him,” Edith said, after a moment. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out. Just try to take a break. Don’t overthink it.”

You nodded, but your mind raced. It didn’t make sense. What was going on with Joe? Why couldn’t he just talk to you?

After a few minutes, Mark came in, looking more serious than ever. “We’ll have to reschedule for tomorrow,” he said, eyes scanning the room. “Take a break, everyone. I’ll talk to Joe, and we’ll figure out where we go from here. I don’t want to push this.”

With that, the set slowly emptied, leaving you alone in the quiet of the lounge. You felt a sinking feeling in your stomach. Something was wrong, and you had no idea how to fix it.

On the way back to the hotel Edtih tried to talk to you again but you weren’t feeling like it, so you politely refused and went to your room alone. You needed to rest for real. You needed a shower and to hide under your bed until it was 2026. You were feeling ridiculous, exposed, frustrated… you were not even sure why you were feeling like that, no one, not even Joe said that any of it had been your fault, but yet you were feeling responsible.

And that overwhelming feeling made you more upset if it was possible, because it was truly unfair. You were not irrational though, you knew you couldn’t blame Joe for the way you felt, but at the same time he had been a dick for the last 72 hours or so… how could you not feel as if you had done something wrong. Maybe you had, you could deal with that, but why wouldn’t he come clean about whatever the hell was upsetting him?

You couldn’t stand being in your room all alone chewing over the same thoughts, you needed answers, so if Joe wouldn’t be brave enough to talk this out, you were. You put on some jeans and a hoodie and with your hair still wet you left your suite and walked to Joe’s.

Maybe he wasn’t even there, he should have since he had claimed to not be able to keep up with the shooting. But it didn’t matter, you were determined to talk to him even if you had to wait there for hours.

He gasped your name when he opened the door, eyes widening in genuine surprise. He didn’t look as bad as he had this morning —but he still wasn’t quite himself.

"We need to talk," you said, but Joe didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

"Joe, seriously."

"I… I wouldn’t even know what to say," he confessed. At least this time, he looked at you.

"Well, I do. So at least you're going to listen."

He didn’t argue. He just stood there, silent, watching as you walked past him into the living area. When he finally followed, he sat on the armchair across from you. Something about that —his distance, his passiveness— made your anger flare.

"You’ve gotta be kidding me, Joseph Quinn." Your voice was sharp, cutting through the silence.

Joe opened his mouth, but you didn’t give him the chance.

"How dare you? What kind of psychopath makes me believe he cares, that he's comfortable with me, that we're friends—only to turn around and act like none of it meant anything? What was it, Joe? Just a game? A fucking joke?"

"I care about you," he whispered, but you weren’t done.

"Oh, you care? Funny, because all I see is someone who’s been acting like a complete asshole for days. And for what? I don’t even fucking know. But you know what I do know? That this —whatever the hell this is— is cruel."

Joe stared at you, his expression unreadable. Not a single word. No excuses. No explanations. It was infuriating.

"And now, you just sit there like you have nothing to say? Nothing about the filming, about this morning, about how I fucking feel?" Your voice was rising, the frustration pushing you past your breaking point. "How could you do that?"

Joe finally stood up, his movements restless, his frustration mirroring yours.

"You want me to talk?"

"Of course I fucking do!"

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the room, looking as torn apart as you felt.

"Then you should know—I was never pretending. Never," he shot back, his voice raw. "I do fucking care about you. You're important to me, okay?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "Then act like it."

Joe exhaled sharply. "I don’t know how, alright? I already told you—I don’t know what to say. What do you want from me?"

"The truth, Joe. That’s all I fucking want." Your voice cracked, and for the first time that night, it wasn’t anger driving you. It was exhaustion. Defeat. "I just want you to be honest about what’s wrong with you. With us."

Joe looked away. His silence was worse than any argument.

That was it.

Your chest ached as you turned to leave, blinking fast to keep the tears at bay. Joe said your name in a whisper, but you didn’t stop. He called it again, louder, but you kept walking.

You were almost at the door when you felt his hand wrap around your arm. Firm, but not rough. Desperate.

"Let me go, please," you whispered, voice shaking.

Joe didn’t move.

"Joe, please."

He heard it then—the way your voice broke completely. The way you were crying, whether you wanted to or not.

"Look at me," he begged. "Please."

You couldn’t. Instead, a quiet sob escaped, and your body gave up fighting. That was all Joe needed to pull you in, his arms locking around you. You didn’t resist.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, again and again, his voice breaking as he held you tighter.

You turned in his hold, but instead of meeting his gaze, you buried your face in his chest, hands gripping his shirt. He cradled the back of your head, his touch tender in a way that made it worse.

Because he still wouldn’t say what you needed to hear.

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edenspoem · 7 months ago

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𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬)

summary: your suspicious encounter has given ellie her five minutes and her knife—but can she truly measure insincerity? reader discretion advised: seattle!ellie x fem!reader, angst (with comedic and romantic undertones), reader is a stranger, reader has a sibling, inevitably changes the trajectory of the canon storyline, inherent tensions, interrogation tactics; knife (obviously), drawing blood, smacking, punching, collectively getting beaten to a pulp. ellie has ran into someone who matches her energy, maybe even dominates it. whew. lots to interpret. memo: this came to me in a daydream!!! yay for getting beat up!!! footnotes: word count (4.3k), masterlist, palestine masterpost, read this, proofread by the lovely @caraphernellie!

It is an aching, scathing thing: this world.

In the mornings, the most godless sounds awaken. Salvation takes pitiless dances with self-righteous societies, and the meek have inherited the earth.

If you have a bounty—an idea of revenge—you must be fain to bleed every happy accident dry of information, and bleed yourself.

“Where's Abby?”

You are a happy accident. Urging for an alibi, your appetite stared down the barrel of several guns. The soldiers of this hospital you sought out on eroding patience were not helpful. If anything, lethal. They seemed guilty of selling out; failing to fulfill their scrap of the bargain, dodging explanations and lily-whiting themselves with some careless, out-of-the-blue, bullshit argument for why the agreement changed, why they acted against the inertia. All these sour months, yet nothing to compensate for time. Just conflict.

You were owed fifteen guns from this deal. Fifteen!

The debate fired in a deep corridor, right above the bowels of the hospital. Some bitch—Nora, you think, plated the verdict first and coldly before making off someplace else. Almost like you weren't really there. Still bleeding for clarity, you had everyone else in the hospital browbeaten, interrogating one after another, interrupting their plans to clear out the place. You used the threats in your mouth and the appetence of your revolver to show them you meant blood and business, simultaneously. Some heads went rolling.

Then, the place got infiltrated, making you an emergent exfiltrator. Like fire in a timber house of innocents, death caught quickly. Gunshots cracked at a singularity. A couple fired, then there would be a pause, muffled commotion, a horrifying scream, and a shallow rain of bullets come again.

It became instantly understood that it was a single person; a party would bring more noise. Frightened seconds became bodies on the floor in minutes, the melody of throats choking on blood padding the halls, and like time in a nutshell, one note of that melody played right outside the room you lurked in.

You recall a muttered echo: “Fucker,” which taunted the loud gurgles of blood, and rang as a sign that it was too late.

Her narrow and thorough eyes had the emptiest and deepest rooms flipped upside without warrant. Not even the silent take-outs, blind-covered windows or the secrecy of your location evaded interest. She craved some of that action.

You interrogated one room of stubborn people, only to be interrogated by a trespassing 'nother. Fucking coincidence, right?

God, and this girl is just terrible at cross-examination! Don't let her in a courthouse, of any quarantine zone. If they exist.

Ever.

It has gone on for a minute now. She continuously asks these redundant questions and tries cheap intimidation tactics her daddy probably demonstrated on several unlucky incidents like yourself—or maybe it's improv. Sure fuckin' sounds like it. And, not to mention, an extravagant amount of profanity that even the devil himself would blush at.

Fingers snap in your face. “Hey,” she barks. The table beside you is one of her foresaid tactics. It gets slammed. “Where is she?” Her wrathful gesture makes you glance only by a virtue of instinct. Clearly, this hand gets all the action.

Simmering reds from all that yelling have curled up her cheeks, painting her in a flit of desperate, pathetic rage. She is a strange clash of auburns and browns. In eerie-black rivers, bleeding up the walls, she is a darling brunette. But in the closeness of light, it washes into a gutsy auburn. Blinding and fiery. Those eyes have you engrossed too, damn: a penetrating, cat's-eye green you could fuck up in the sightline of. Her mother give her those?

Whatever. Why she needed to find this girl, you have no clue. Where this girl in question is—you still have no clue! This is useless. In fact, to her pursuit, you are useless. Files would better serve her mission, which thousands upon thousands sit in this hospital waiting to enlighten the blood-hungry half of the population with information. Surely she knows how to fucking read, right?

Yet, your sun of escape had set indefinitely, predestining you to writhe and mope in this tangle of uncomfortable ropes for however long until she was satisfied—or suffocating you. Fight, fight, and fight all you want; there is no abdication in negotiation.

“Did you ever think to ask the guards before slicing their throats?” You cock your head, sassy, contemptuously, without a care. It's an easy antidote for you to suggest given your mental innocence to the horrors outside that door. The prelude to this tangle of ropes is an interpretation of screams and guzzles—your favorite! “Too late now, though. Oops.”

Annoyance rolls from the pit of her teeth “Oh, my fucking..” She sounds irritable, eager to snap, and she turns her back to you for the sake of her sanity.

There is a faint sound of her fingers, squeezing on the mechanics of her lovely handgun. Maybe, just maybe, she'll knuckle under now; abdicate in the sweetness of another murder? Shut your trap by boring a bullet through it?

“Do you ever quit it with the snark?” She swings back around, hunching arms-crossed.

Nevermind.

You chart your own thoughts for a possible half-genuine, mostly clever answer, eyes rolling up. “Hmm..” Checking if it lives on the ceiling, like a perfect spring apple, ripe and pendant for picking. “Not recently, no.”

That strikes a nerve. “Oh, great,” she bluffs, that empty ink of doubt rich in the short, artificial reply. Certain smilings you often earn from fed-up someones. “Guess I'll have to try harder to get it outta' you, huh?” Her face fades, broadcasting something a little more serious, though those hooded eyes are the least daunting thing.

“Oh, so hard—”

Bam! Nailed right in the cheek. No sign, no second-rounds needed. The faithfulness of four knuckles pulled through your jaw, your teeth. It aches, and your sense of vantage is knocked for a moment, flopping your head back from where she clocked it.

You swish your cheek against the throbbing, staring with provocation. She stares, too. Through the old, grimy light above, you see her conscience emptying out: upper lip snared up, brows pulling to meet a center, heavy breathing. You believe judgment exits through every exhale.

“I saw you in here, rummaging through files and shit. You know something.” Her chin becks to you, foregrounding you as the first pawn of evidence. “Where'd she go?”

“Up my ass, bitch.”

Her mouth flinches at your immature fulmination. Offended, or disgusted. Rigid cords accentuate in her neck. “You smart-mouthed cunt!” she seethes, and her angrily mumbling that leads too smoothly into another blow to the maw, getting all up in your twisted face. “Where?”

You sling back. “Clearly not right in front of you, damn it!” Spitting the blood stilling in the pockets of your gums, you damn her; aim for the tip of her converse. Panting, you bring your eyes up slowly to glare. “Who shit in your rations?”

“We don’t—hmph, I don’t do rations.”

Throwing a joke put a cork in her incursion, slipping up her words. You have to laugh. Furrows pinch between her brows, then she scans you up and down, face contorting into slow inspiration. They widen, discern; something you said alludes.

What is she thinking?

”Are you FEDRA? Undercover soldier?”

Your smile fades. “What? No.”

She motions to the bodies entrailing the floor. “Then why'd you kill them?”

“Got in my way.”

Her lips press into a line, and she huffs. Appraisal demanded conjectures, and you weren’t giving her anything. Things that may nail the target right in the eye, or miss by a small mark. You came here for one thing and one thing only, and that's none of her business—but, she wants to make it her business. Clothing you in warfare made it psychologically easier to absolve herself.

Two can play at that game. “Are you an undercover soldier?” you spin the question, blood in your mouth stirring a grudge. This situation might fall more into place if tongues point to yes. “Which zone hired you for reparation? Or would that be the Seraph—”

“Not a soldier.” Her interruption is resolute. She holds something harsh in-between the teeth, a stiff rehash, unable glarings. “I'm not FEDRA, I'm not a Scar..” The floor seems to interest her eyes. “Actually, what I am is none of your goddamn business.” She only looks up at you at the end, eyes narrowed.

“Neither am I yours.”

For smart-mouthing, you expect a third kiss of violence to erupt your gums—nostrils, perhaps—and she relents. Silence perverts the room, leaving an uncomfortableness to stretch from her stare. Gulps, blinks, and breaths that invocate. She expects you to give her a thesis, glaring like a hawk. A glare that depicts, “You are my damn business.” without ever having to gorge a throat.

You watch her right fist fumble together, blanking out on the earth-stained nooks. “Just assumed someone so blood-hungry would be an undercover soldier that has it out for rebel militia groups trying to battle authority. Maybe you wanted to snuff out the Firefly legacy? Once and for all?”

The coarse skin of her tattoo looks storied. Covered in things you lack context for.

But are you not self-same?

“Ex-Fireflies are finicky fucking people,” you begin to rasp in the vowels, clearing your throat. “Fuckin' hate them.”

Nothing is said on her end. Nothing of solace, nothing of condemnation, not even a different opinion. She traces all the lines quietly; squints at your lowered face, weighs your scars, conjecturing what your reputation must be to wear wounds like these. They must be gorgeous enough to ignore, because she prowls closer and slips into her back pocket, pulling a switchblade. Mahogany, and storied indeed. Fresh blood, old blood.

You peek up when you hear it flick. “Last chance,” the rigid-lipped girl warns. And like she has experienced an earnest, diabolic and pardoned shift in mind, her eyes look prepared to see you choke. “What's it gonna take?” She would slice you if it meant bleeding the infinite resolve out of you.

Fingertips dance on the handle of it. Pitifully, agitatedly dancing under the shadows. “Reasons, maybe?”

“Yeah? Wanna be like that?” She braces an arm on the chair, caging you, leaning in. Warm, arrowlike words hit you. They smell of breath. “Someone was hunted, tortured and killed, right in his own fucking town. Planned attack, too.” The cold, keen edge of the blade is pressed against your pulse, provoking a swallow through you. Tight in freckled hands, bloodspill is ensured. “That enough for you?”

“Oh,” you chuckle unamusedly. “Revenge doesn't solve shit.”

“Then why the fuck are you here?” The growing pressure of her hand leaves a thin, immaculate cut, no drippage. Your subtle stonewalling escalates the tension in her, and so, she slowly buckles under; teasing the knife with a little taste.

Muted pain hisses from you. “Not revenge,” you plume, showing her your eyes. “Wolves got somebody I know held hostage and is unfairly expending them for their work. They won't let 'em off as agreed.”

Eyes reveal lies.

“Bullshit.”

You disengage from the delicate stinging on your neck, confounded by her. “Okay, and what makes your excuse more plausible?” Either you wear an embittered smile, or it wears you. Her cynicism is almost predictable. “I was owed shit from these assholes.”

“Which assholes?”

Of course, every detail is of the essence. You get her, to a degree; she is enraged justice in the form of a girl, but is overwhelmingly that. Rage. She spreads her pawns inside out and envisages a judging of gospel in their exposed guts. Interpreting the files, the conditions, the realisms of things said. Was that soldier truly vulnerable? Did they die weaponless, fearful, and innocent? Is innocence even a condition, given the crimson in her eyelines?

She looks lost in all the blood.

The temporary break opens to your heavy sigh. “Think her name was Nora.” Lasting throbs from the punches minutes before worsen as you speak. You crinkle your face against them. “'Dunno, don't care. Just want my brother back.”

You cannot tell if your answer brings satisfying insight, hearing only her inhales go in, and out. Knife laying inert, you receive no pain for it, but no freedom from it, either. She opens her mouth a bit, and bloomed breaths fan over you, like a response is meant to come out. Then her bloodied, bottom lip folds in, rubbing against her top, brows set low, and you know the contents of her mind are crafting a narrative.

Measuring your high-stake sincerity.

“Is that enough for you?”

Her eyes are sharp when you ask.

The weight of inflection, the material of fluency. Both are determiners. You, for the past five minutes, have acted a soft and blunt manner in the face of one jury. Maybe facetious, too, but it changes little.

She picks herself up from her wander-faced brainwork, and concentrates outside of her mind. “'Kay,” she drones, cocking her head. “Where is Nora, then?”

You sigh. “Probably upstairs.” The fight for life continues. Behind the chair, your wrists contort quietly for a weak knot. “Or gone. Depends how long you take to untie me.”

One corner of her lip crooks. “Huh, you really think it's that easy?” Her face compliments the eerie line perfectly. She slides the blade past your collarbone, without pressure, and pierces it into your sleeved arm. Slow torture of twisting. “Tell me where, exactly.”

Gouging torments worse than simple incisions. With cuts, you can leave ugly reminders. But with a debased conscience and an end goal, she hopes to wind the information out clean; create a perpetual torture that loosens your tongue. She does not flinch, does not glance with hesitation while the tip draws a sweet, ugly, crimson vortex above your inner-elbow. Those steady eyes bore other holes into yours. Lingering, reading your pain.

Your windpipes fill with a groan, and you clutch at the bundle of knots behind you. “Fuck!” The pain does torture you. She is exacting in the way that it does. Torturing your skin, your thoughts. It forces a puncture of annoyance in your gut for not having much else to say while she bleeds you for it. You try to fathom her situation at large.

“Fuckin' lucky I haven't slit your throat yet.”

Then, it clicks.

“Come on, where?” Her impatience hits home.

You know where the blind spots are in this situation. Context shines clearly. “It's not just some random guy you're getting revenge for, huh?” Struggling under knifepoint, your words slip out with the violence of a tear. Scratchy, compressed.

But the gouging technique of her fingers stop, saving you a second.

“What?”

Her face and voice incarnate offense identically. There had to be some nasty reason backing your statement, another round of your clever inaction to distract a sure demise. Yet, it still chokes. She wants to finish this, but you are by far the most thought-provoking victim her switchblade has ever laid infliction to. You can make a girl hesitate pretty damn well; it frustrates her. Makes her culpable, a gilded conscience whispering in low tones to let it back in. Reverting her to one of the many things that Seattle made her find fucking sickening: empathy.

Thinking.

She slaps a band-aid on those exposed nerves, keeping her heart small, and begrudgingly narrows her eyes into confrontational lines. The knife softly listens.

You continue. “Obviously, this someone is special,” attesting brashly, not so formally as a court would mandate. Just loud enough to film over the sound of your binds loosening. “Who goes all this way for somebody they don't share blood with?”

Regardless of how bold, how unoriginal this shot in the dark is, the revenge-high girl drops her lip. She's trying to pin a conceivable falsehood to your words, but it conflicts with the perfection of them; you aren't entirely wrong.

An irritated sigh claws open the air.

Forget it—she isn't looking to be mutual. She didn't chase a rumor to carve sympathy. Histories shall keep to themselves. “So? Don't play fucking stupid with me,” she reproaches you, introducing the pressure of her knife down on your thigh. “If she's gone, you're gonna show me right where she's headed.”

You watch her empty hand reach back. “Then?”

The sounds of paper halt. She frowns at your strange cross-questioning. “Then—I'll let you go.” Her reply is reluctant, so full of an unsure breath. “But only on the condition that you aren't fucking bullshitting me.”

The hand once-empty arcs from her back pocket, unfolding an outdated map of Seattle before your eyes. Damn, does she need an exact time too?

“Where?”

Hence that, the knife eases silence with pain again. There are tense cords on the crest of her palm from pushing it in. You almost absently and sullenly admire the true beauty of the flesh wallowing in contemplation; chances are, you may know too much now, and could cause wounds in her plan if let go. Providing her the intel she thrives for won't save you—it will kill you.

So, while so much as a long wince takes up your throat, you think of something else.

“Come on,” she nags, twining the knife into your kneecap. You counter with a cry, the vulnerable, warm shine threatening to paint your undereyes. “Could be done with this already. Eyes up here.” It crept up so quick.

But before you succumb, the roughness around your wrists becomes a nothingness, and your fingers grasp for light. Reprieve, a pardon to injury; you take it into your own hands.

The scene shifts like rain. Shock jerks her eyes wide when the chair clatters, and you drive her backwards—heels scattering, hands thrashing in a flit of desperation—and her special switchblade is suddenly against her. You swipe it tracelessly, catching her off-guard and cursing. Threatened palms puncture you repeatedly in the shoulders, trying to shove you off as she is slammed into the wall, knocking out the incentive she held so dearly like a candle.

Her hand dives below where you can see, definitely headed for the leather gun holster that clasps her thigh. She struggles to unload it. Before she can even wrap a finger, your reflexes are a step ahead, ridding her of that precious, immediate solution. You bash the damn thing into her nose.

“Fucking cunt!” she shouts with her lip snared down, the raging shape of her teeth evinced. Her hips struggle against you, palms now reaching to eclipse your sockets, both in a desperate fight to recapture her authority. Careful, she might bite!

Everything transpired so quickly. You feel whiplash as you toss the gun, brace her arms and show her precisely what lies ahead—scratching the surface, knife on her pale pulse.

Struggle exists no longer; the weapon buys you surrender. She focuses her lingering energy on catching air, slack under your fingers.

“Well, shit!” Your chest opens with a degrading laugh, one she abhors. Screw looking at you. “Guess it really was that fucking easy, huh?” You begin a soft dint in her neck with the pricked end, inciting her to swallow a lump.

It does not fall quietly. She cracks open her lips and blood from her nose weeps in. “Please, stop,” she pleads, loud and clear. Instead, she is entrusted meekness as a desperate measure. That flesh you loom could be wool, a startled wool, and she would be a lamb. An innocent condition. Either fits her, since either way, she is tense and looking at the inanimate space behind you. Guiltily, flinchingly.

Only one curiosity will complete you. “Name?”

“Ellie.” It rushes like another life is at stake. Since when is she soft with a heart that can break? Whatever it is, it got her in this pretty predicament. “Why?” she raises, tone wary.

“Harder to kill somebody with a name.” Cute name for a murderer.

Her teary eyes narrow with confliction.

Ellie all but understands you. Your enigmatic nature has brought her to enmity and pity thus far—and on the precipice of murder—but now you're offering complete mercy? That's a hard thing to want to accept. People these days almost prefer, by an all-embracing scale, the venom, the simplicity, and the diabolical origins of the ethos of this apocalypse. Sometimes, it comes easier up and down the throat. Belonging eroded, and this country is a skeletal memory of itself, nothing will endure. Ellie understands that; she was born into it, and so, it is her and that is eternal.

So why you choose to spare her, has her scrunching her nose and pinching those signature frown-brows. Though, in the lurid light of her being that somebody with a name, she appears more strangely relieved, even if death sits at her throat still. Getting her to end this was your why and wherefore. You don’t care, you don’t have the time. So, you let the sun set.

Her eyes quirk up, and meet an equilibrium between her and you. They look dimensional with intrigue, somewhat proportionate to almonds. Gentle, springtime in the middle. “You're not gonna kill me?” Eyes you won't harm.

“No,” you announce it like it is solace, hard-fought. Tucked eyes and no strings attached, you sure are serious about this. “You aren't an issue to my efforts or some soldier telling me to come back tomorrow or to fuck off, so.. yeah.” The switchblade flicks back into the shell. You hold it out to her, and that itself sells the deal. “Congratulations.” A simple resign.

She lets it slip into her palm. Hugs the weight, rolls the wood on the curls of her knuckles. “Hm,” she hums timidly. Feeling it now, eliminating you would have changed nothing. If anything, weighed on her conscience in the dells of nightfall.

But she still lacks information. She needs to get it somewhere, somehow.

Thoughts begin to trickle: if her fingers can do such fragile things as plucking a guitar, should they be considerate?

Should she start now?

After a silent break, and a wipe of her bloodied lip, she decides to try. “Is your brother with them?” Wearing some sympathetic face absent of a smile; you're too preoccupied to notice if she does. “Sounds tough what you're going through.” Yeah, she cares enough to try.

You recess from looting. “The Wolves?” Crouching low.

“Yeah.” Her voice cracks, involuntarily.

God, this girl is a paradox of hypocrisy. First, she doesn't want your sympathy, and now she is a fraying thread of it. Loosened seams all over. You grin at her, rooted tall to the floor several feet away, but you are too in favor of doubt to look grateful now. “Oh, so now it's not bullshit?”

“That was before,” she laughs tentatively, traipsing closer. You leave her fidgeting, the natural gravity of her hand not knowing what to do, where to fall to. Debris crunches under her converse as she stands stock still before you, her stillness an invitation.

Again, she says nothing. Nothing as you aimlessly stare and travel over her little chafings. Waiting on your reply, your movement, your hitches of breath. Hidden languages of the body. There, you would make this mutual, or tell her to fuck off.

Maybe she believes you can benefit her still. Benefit each other.

Yeah, right.

Nothing promising sprouts from what is uncomfortably introduced.

It makes you scoff. “If you’re proposing some sort of win-win deal, then..” You heave briefly from your chest lugging up your backpack as you stand. “I've had my fair share. No thanks.” Telling her to fuck off, cordial as possible.

“Yeah,” she rethinks. “Dumb idea.”

Seeing her face shift is quite the telling. An easy withdraw. Whatever she wanted to do, it wouldn’t work in the long run.

The steel door is guttural when you push on it. Groaning in the hinges, it instills a tension over your shoulder; she is still back there, reloading her guns, probably watching you. It gets you thinking, your hand hesitating. You may have no clue where to go yourself, but it would snip your thorny curiosities if you knew her destination. You know a small something.

“Check the operations base.”

Her shotgun clocks open. “Operations base?”

“Near the stadium. Think Nora is heading there,” you disclose, to entice, glancing over your shoulder. She needed that. “Be careful though, you’re public enemy number one now.”

She collapses her gaze. “Yup.” Her hatred was safely disposed of, so she takes your concern gently.

After all, you remain strangers.

“Hope you get where you’re going.” The shotgun locks back in place.

Now is when you say nothing. You leave, without a spontaneous prayer or hope for her future.

Better to forget this ever happened.

“She wasn’t in any of the polaroids.”

Day closes inside the theater. Abdication takes place in the far-back dressing room, where wounds are dressed, and afterthoughts are festering. Ellie thinks restlessly about it.

What were the chances?

Ellie takes the needle into her riven skin without a flinch. The back of her lungs fill into, with long breaths, the tender palm of Dina, who asks, “Did she have information, at least?” as the suture threads through.

“She could've killed me.” Her fingers creep up her neck, feeling at her collarbones. The thought makes her mind turn. “But..”

Dina finishes with a knot on the carnic reminder. “But you're okay,” she conveys her gratitude. To higher powers, to luck, to you—whoever. She collects the hand from her collarbone, shielding her own over and embracing it against Ellie's abdomen. “Scratched up, obviously, but here. Safe.”

The gesture is fragile. Ellie clutches softly at her own stomach, grooving trails of her fingers. She wants to say something, but her mind everlastingly obsesses over your intel. “She said Nora's stationed in their operations base.” Her arm kindly slips from Dina and ravels into her shirt, tossing it over her head. All this bloodshed has given her a one-track mind. “Somewhere west of here, near a stadium, uh—think that's site two on our map.” She stands and smooths the crinkles. “Thanks for the help, babe.”

Dina can only hope well. “Mhm.” But she loathes this metamorphosis. Day after day, it leaves her feeling secondary. “Just be careful tomorrow, okay?” She has to continue physical contact to keep herself above, rising after Ellie. “We're rootin' for you.” Pressing a smile into her warm neck.

It repurposes itself onto her lips. “Yeah, like my groupie?” Certain smiles Ellie tends to forget she can share, and kiss, even if fleetingly. Thought fades all.

Hard to forget what happened.

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isthemedia · 8 months ago

Text

Mini idea I may draw or write sometime.

Wade has his “days” where he just sorta is hunkered under the blankets. Doesn’t come out or anything. It’s a combination of his cancer, that his brain won’t shut-up, and just everything feels like static.

Vanessa explains to Logan that he’s not necessarily irritable like this, just he doesn’t really want do much. She also shows that there’s the “yoink area”-demonstrating it by setting some snacks in said area for Wade to just snatch and bring under the blankets.

Logan gets use to this and feels like it’s the least he can do since Wade is always ready to help when he has to deal with his nightmares.

Insert one time, Logan sitting on said bed during one of those moods. Vanessa and Laura over talking and to check on Wade. Only for Logan to lean back juuuust enough into yoinking range-

And with no hesitation Wade tries to drag him under.

Laura and Vanessa cracking up at it cause it happened so fast and a quick “I forgot!” from Logan as he pulled under.

#ooc #poolverine #deadclaws #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool #wolverine #vanessa carlysle #laura kinney #wade wilson #logan howlett #just give these men domestic bliss #Logan and Wade both go through so much shit in the comics they deserve ONE universe to be happy #also WE STAN A SUPPORTIVE AND CARING VANESSA ON THIS PAGE #Might touch on some ideas with her and her comic back story but that’s another time

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onehundredelevven · 4 months ago

Note

Homicipher lads reaction to getting Christmas presents! I think it would be cute tbh!! It could be anyone honestly idc I just want some fluff

Hello anon ! Here's your request !! I had fun writing this(⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠) but do excuse me as I might not capture their character correctly. It's been so long since last played it;((

A Present for Me?

Homicipher characters x reader

content: pure fluff

☆☆☆

Mr. Hood

Mr. Hood sat stiffly on your couch, his massive frame making the furniture creak ominously. You handed him a neatly wrapped gift, his shadowy form tilting slightly in confusion.

“...What this?” he asked, tilting his head.

“It’s a Christmas present,” you explained. “You open it like this.”

He watched intently as you demonstrated on another gift, mimicking your motions with his clawed hands. When the paper fell away, revealing a hand-knitted scarf, he froze.

“...Warm?” He held it up, the dark tendrils of his body brushing against the fabric.

“Yes, you wear it like this.” You wrapped the scarf around his neck, the contrast between the soft material and his eerie figure almost comical.

“...Thank,” he said simply, his deep voice carrying a hint of something softer. He didn’t say more, but he wore the scarf for the rest of the evening.

---

Mr. Crawling

You knelt down to meet Mr. Crawling at his level, holding the gift out for him. He tilted his head, his expression managing to convey curiosity.

“Me... smell?” he asked, leaning closer to the package.

“No, silly, you open it.” You gently guided his hands to the wrapping paper.

He tore into it with a mix of clumsiness and enthusiasm, his long fingers working quickly. When the gift was revealed—a pair of gloves—you saw his body stiffen slightly.

“...What this?” he asked, carefully running his fingers over the fabric.

“They’re gloves. For your hands. I thought they’d keep you warm.”

“Warm?” His voice was soft, almost disbelieving, as he slipped them on. He flexed his fingers, his movements awkward but endearing.

“Good?” you asked, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Good. Warm. You... care for me?” His voice cracked, filled with a mix of awe and gratitude.

“Yes, of course,” you said with a smile.

Without warning, he leaned forward, gently nuzzling his head against your shoulder like an oversized, awkward puppy. “Me love you. You good. Me lucky.”

---

Mr. Silvair

Mr. Silvair sat cross-legged, watching you intently as you presented him with a gift. You could feel him scan the wrapping paper with suspicion.

“This... tradition?” he asked.

“Yes. Open it.”

He carefully unwrapped the paper, his movements precise. Inside was a journal and a fountain pen. A small, almost unnoticeable smile on his lips, his fingers brushing the cover.

“Write... me write. For... learn?”

“Yes. I thought you’d like to practice human writing,” you said with a smile.

He nodded, his stern demeanor softening. “Good gift. You... know me.” He hesitated before adding, “Thank you. I... like.”

---

Mr. Machete

Mr. Machete crossed his arms, watching as you handed him a gift.

“Why? What this?” he asked gruffly.

“It’s a Christmas present. Just open it.”

He frowned but complied, his strong hands making quick work of the wrapping paper. Inside was a simple, durable knife you thought suited his style, though it's nothing compared to his machete.

“Knife. Good,” he said, inspecting the blade.

“Thought you’d like it,” you said with a shrug.

He gave a low chuckle, his sharp teeth flashing in the dim light. “You know me good. You... strong gift-giver.”

---

Mr. Gap

You left Mr. Gap’s gift near the crack in the wall he usually appeared from, unsure if he’d even show up. Moments later, his face peeked out, his eyes narrowing at the package.

“For me?” he asked, his voice echoing slightly.

“Yes, for you,” you said, smiling.

He reached out, pulling the gift into the gap with him. You heard the rustling of paper before his voice rang out again. “Book, me here! I like!” It was just a book with ghost sighting, of him. But he really loves it.

“I see me in book. Good... Me like.” He grinned, disappearing back into the gap, only to reappear moments later with a small trinket for you. “Me give back.”

---

Mr. Chopped

You placed the gift box in front of Mr. Chopped, his eyebrows raised curiously.

“What this?” he asked, his cheerful tone brightening the room.

“I'll open it for you and see!”

He watched with utmost focus, the paper falling away to reveal a small comb and a reindeer hairband. His eyes lit up.

“For hair?”

“Yes, I thought you might like it.”

“Me love! You think of me,” he said, beaming. “Me look cute always now!” He laughed, wanting to try them on already.

---

Mr. Scarletella

You weren’t sure if giving Mr. Scarletella a gift was a good idea, but you did it anyway. He appeared in the doorway, his piercing gaze locking onto the box in your hands.

“For... me?” he asked, his voice low and hesitant.

“Yes. Take it.”

He stepped forward, his movements deliberate as he unwrapped the gift. Inside was a silk ribbon in a deep crimson shade with his name printed on it, nothing much. He stared at it for a moment before tying it around his wrist.

“You... thoughtful,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual. “I... keep always.”

Then he added, "Me want know your nam—" but didn't get to finish when you immediately closed the door. (Poor guy)

#111dumps #homicipher x reader #homicipher #mr chopped x reader #mr chopped #mr crawling #mr scarletella #mr silvair #mr hood #mr gap #mr machete #文字化化

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moonmaiden1996 · 4 months ago

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Sanji reacting to his crush wanting him really bad and seducing him? Might be a perverted girl🔥👀

Sanji was used to the chase. The gentle words, the sweeping gestures, the flowers and the meals crafted with love — all carefully designed to win the favor of beautiful women. That was how it was supposed to go. Him wooing, them swooning. But this? This was uncharted territory.

It started innocently enough. He had handed you a plate of perfectly seared fish one evening, his usual charming smile plastered across his face.

“For the loveliest member of the crew,” he said, his voice dripping with honey.

You had taken the plate with a grin and, to his surprise, leaned in just a little too close.

“Thanks, Sanji,” you murmured, your voice low and smooth. “You’re the best chef I’ve ever met.”

His heart had nearly leapt out of his chest at the compliment, and he’d spent the next five minutes in the pantry, clutching the wall and willing himself not to faint.

But that had just been the beginning. The soft compliments started to flow more frequently:

“Sanji, I don’t know how you do it. Every bite of your food feels like falling in love.”

“If I had half your talent, I’d never leave the kitchen. Then again, I wouldn’t mind if you never left it either.”

Sanji’s reactions ranged from flushed stammering to hurried dashes to the galley for “stock taking.” But when you turned up the heat, the real fun began.

xxxxx

One day, as he handed you a cup of tea, you leaned in, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered:

“You know, Sanji, I’d love to see what else those hands can do besides cooking.”

“If I said I was craving something sweet, would you feed it to me… or let me taste it off you?”

“I’ve heard your knife skills are unmatched. Care to demonstrate by cutting right to my heart?”

“The way you move in the kitchen is intoxicating. Do you move like that everywhere?”

“Sanji, you’re so good with fire… How do you handle it when it’s burning between two people?”

The cup hit the floor, shattered into a million pieces, and Sanji excused himself for the rest of the afternoon.

xxxxx

The moment that truly shook the ship came in the communal showers. You could let the opportunity to get a little payback, after all the time you had found the men ogling you. The crew was used to the occasional antics, but they hadn’t been prepared for you.

The men’s startled yells filled the steamy air as you casually strolled in, a towel slung over your shoulder. Nami and Robin stood at the entrance, arms crossed and grinning as they watched the chaos unfold.

“Don’t mind me, guys,” you said breezily, your eyes sweeping the room. “Just wanted to browse.”

Your gaze landed on Zoro first. “Looking good, Zoro. I had no idea you had such an impressive fourth sword.”

Zoro choked on his indignation while the others roared with laughter. But your eyes didn’t linger long. They slid over to Sanji, who was frozen mid-scrub, his face as red as the lobsters he loved to cook.

“Sanji,” you said, your voice dropping into a sultry purr. “You’re definitely a meal I’d like to taste… forever, if possible.”

The chef let out a strangled noise before collapsing in a heap, bleeding profusely from the nose. Franky declared an emergency meeting to install locks on the shower doors while Nami and Robin cackled in the background.

xxxxx

From then on, you went all in. Small gifts started to appear in the galley: a flower tucked into his recipe book, a neatly folded handkerchief embroidered with tiny hearts, and the occasional cheeky note:

“Just in case I give you another nose bleed again. xo”

“Sanji, you’re hotter than the flames on your stove.”

“If you ever need a taste tester, I’m available. For food or anything else. ♥”

Sanji, for his part, didn’t know what to do with himself. On one hand, you were incredible — sweet, kind, and undeniably attractive in your own way . On the other hand, he was used to being the pursuer, not the pursued, it was his role as the man after all (sorry but I feel that Sani view of romance comes from fairytales and trashing novels). His world felt turned upside down every time you so much as smiled at him.

Then came the incident with his clothes. You’d “borrowed” one of his shirts, claiming it was the perfect thing to wear on a chilly evening. Seeing you in his clothes had nearly done him in, but when you’d coyly asked for help taking it off later, he’d required immediate medical attention from Chopper.

And then there was the deck. Oh, the deck. He’d found you sprawled out one sunny afternoon, wearing nothing but a pair of panties and a mischievous smile. You’d waved him over, patting the spot beside you.

“Care to join me, chef?”

He’d fainted on the spot, blood gushing down his face.

xxxxx

Now after the whole Fishman Island incident Chopper needed to ensure they had a continuous supply of blood on hand but unfortunately for him the supply run through your veins. When Sanji regained consciousness, it was to the sound of Chopper muttering something about “idiots and hormones” while you, curled up beside him on the small cot, your head resting on his chest.

Sanji’s face turned crimson as he realized you were half draped over him, your warm breath tickling his neck. He opened his mouth to protest but was silenced when your hand lazily slid across his chest, and you mumbled, “Glad you’re okay, chef. I was worried I might’ve gone too far this time, I defiantly need you in one piece for what I have planned.”

Chopper threw up his hooves, screaming. “That’s it! I’m locking the door. Whatever happens in here, happens. Just don’t come crying to me later! The thing are in the draw, make sure you clean up after yourselves”

With that, the doctor stormed out, locking the door behind him, leaving the two of you alone. Sanji’s heart pounded as he glanced down at you. Your eyes fluttered open, a sly smile spreading across your face.

“So, Sanji,” you murmured, your voice dripping with mischief. “What do you say we make the most of this… private time?”

Sanji, for once, was at a complete loss for words. But as your lips brushed against his, he lost all power of thought.

Thank you for all the asks and likes! Keep them coming

Please remember to like, leave a comment or request

#one piece #opla x reader #opla #sanji x reader #sanji #black leg sanji #one piece sanji #vinsmoke sanji #op sanji #straw hat pirates #straw hat crew

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peaxchydreams · 11 months ago

Text

the unseen heart

y/n has feelings for bakugo, but he seems oblivious or uninterested, causing emotional turmoil.

----

you sighed as you watched katsuki bakugo from across the classroom. he was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, his usual scowl plastered on his face. despite his rough exterior, you couldn't help but be drawn to him. there was something about his determination and raw strength that captivated you.

"y/n, are you even paying attention?" your friend, mina, whispered, nudging you with her elbow.

you snapped back to reality, your cheeks flushing. "sorry, what did you say?"

mina rolled her eyes playfully. "i said, you're staring again. when are you going to tell him how you feel?"

you glanced at bakugo again, then quickly looked away. "i don't know if I can. he probably doesn't even see me that way."

mina frowned, concern in her eyes. "you won't know unless you try. besides, bakugo might surprise you."

you nodded, though doubt gnawed at you. the bell rang, signaling the end of class. you gathered your things and headed out, determined to push your feelings aside and focus on training.

later that day, you found yourself alone in the training grounds, practicing your quirk. you were so absorbed in your routine that you didn't notice bakugo approaching until he spoke.

"you're doing it wrong."

you spun around, startled. "bakugo! what are you doing here?"

he crossed his arms, eyes narrowed. "what does it look like? i'm here to train. and you're going about it all wrong."

you frowned, a mix of irritation and embarrassment bubbling up. "i'm doing just fine, thanks."

bakugo scoffed. "fine? you're wasting energy with unnecessary movements. watch."

he demonstrated a more efficient technique, his movements precise and powerful. you couldn't help but admire him, even as your heart ached. it was moments like this that reminded you why you fell for him in the first place.

"see? that's how you do it," he said, turning to you.

you nodded, trying to mask your emotions. "thanks, bakugo."

he grunted in response, turning back to his own training. you watched him for a moment, then resumed your practice, trying to ignore the pang in your chest.

days turned into weeks, and your feelings for bakugo only grew stronger. each interaction with him, no matter how brief, was a bittersweet reminder of your unspoken love. you laughed at his snarky comments, cherished his rare moments of praise, and supported him during difficult missions. yet, he remained oblivious, or so it seemed.

one evening, after a particularly grueling day, you found yourself sitting alone on the dormitory rooftop. the cool breeze was a welcome relief, but it did little to soothe your troubled heart. you gazed at the stars, wondering if you'd ever have the courage to tell bakugo how you felt.

"hey, y/n.."

you turned to see mina standing behind you, a concerned look on her face. "hey, mina. what's up?"

she sat down beside you, her expression softening. "i wanted to check on you. you've been acting kind of distant lately."

you sighed, resting your chin on your knees. "it's just… bakugo. i can't get him out of my head, mina. but he doesn't seem to notice me that way."

mina gave you a sympathetic smile. "have you tried talking to him? really talking?"

you shook your head. "i don't think i can. what if he rejects me? what if it ruins everything?"

mina placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "you'll never know if you don't try. and even if it doesn't go the way you hope, at least you'll have closure."

you pondered her words, feeling a mixture of fear and determination. maybe it was time to finally tell bakugo how you felt, no matter the outcome.

the next day, you decided to take mina's advice. you found bakugo in the common area, reading a hero magazine. taking a deep breath, you approached him, your heart pounding.

"bakugo, can we talk?"

he glanced up, his eyebrows raised. "what is it?"

you shifted nervously, trying to find the right words. "i… i have something i need to tell you."

he set the magazine aside, giving you his full attention. "well, spit it out."

You took another deep breath, your hands trembling slightly. "bakugo, i… i've had feelings for you for a long time. i know you might not feel the same way, but i needed to tell you."

for a moment, there was silence. bakugo's expression was unreadable, and you feared the worst. then, he spoke.

"y/n, i…"

before he could finish, the alarm sounded, signaling a villain attack. the moment was shattered, and bakugo's expression hardened. "we'll talk later. right now, we have to go."

you nodded, pushing your feelings aside as you prepared for the mission. as you followed bakugo out, you couldn't help but wonder what he was going to say. but for now, you had to focus on being a hero, even if your heart was breaking.

the mission was successful, but the conversation with bakugo never happened. days turned into weeks, and you couldn't bring yourself to bring it up again. you continued to fight alongside him, hiding your feelings behind a mask of professionalism.

but every now and then, you'd catch bakugo looking at you with an unreadable expression, and you'd wonder if maybe, just maybe, he felt the same way. until then, you would keep your heart guarded, hoping that one day, he might see you as more than just a teammate.

#bnha #mha #anime #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #katsuki bakugou #faithfulren

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extinctlesspains · 5 months ago

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hiii i love your writing!! what about terry silver's daughter reader and sensei wolf? 👀 some tension and flirty rivalry could be fun 😳 thank you so much!

𝑆𝑖𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝐿𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔: 𝑆𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑖 𝑊𝑜𝑙𝑓

𝐵𝑦 𝑒𝑥𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠

»»——⍟——««

𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: 𝑆𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑖 𝑊𝑜𝑙𝑓 𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: 𝑅𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒.

𝑆𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: 𝑇𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑆𝑖𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑟'𝑠 𝑑𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑆𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑖 𝑊𝑜𝑙𝑓 𝑛𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑔𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑦, 𝑐𝑢𝑙𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑊𝑜𝑙𝑓 𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑠𝑘 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑒.

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: 𝑇𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑓𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐵𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑: 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑆𝑖𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑟'𝑠 𝑑𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑟! 𝑇𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑒𝑘𝑎𝑖 𝑇𝑎𝑖𝑘𝑎𝑖!

■□■□■□■□■■□■□■□■□■■□■□■□■□■

The dojo gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, every surface polished to a pristine shine. It was a reflection of Terry Silver’s vision—order, discipline, perfection. You leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching Sensei Wolf spar with one of the more advanced students.

Wolf’s movements were sharp and calculated, a mixture of power and fluidity that commanded attention. His strikes landed with precision, and his footwork was deliberate. He radiated confidence—too much confidence, if you were being honest.

He caught your gaze mid-spin kick, smirking as if he knew exactly what you were thinking. The audacity of that smirk made your fingers itch to wipe it off his face.

"Enjoying the show, princess?" Wolf asked, stepping back as the student staggered to his feet. He tossed a towel over his shoulder, his tone teasing but laced with challenge.

"Hardly," you replied, pushing off the wall. Your arms remained crossed as you approached him, refusing to let him see how much his presence unsettled you. "I’ve seen better form from a beginner class."

Wolf chuckled, the sound low and irritatingly smooth. "And yet, here you are. Front and center. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you couldn’t get enough of me."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Don’t flatter yourself. Someone has to make sure you don’t embarrass the Iron Dragons legacy with your sloppy technique."

He tilted his head, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "Sloppy? That’s rich coming from someone who hasn’t stepped onto the mat all day."

You stepped closer, your chin tilted defiantly. "Maybe because I don’t waste my time showing off for an audience."

His smirk deepened, and he took a deliberate step into your space. The air between you crackled with unspoken tension, his presence overwhelming in a way that made your pulse quicken.

"Showing off?" His voice dropped, quiet but sharp as a blade. "If you want a demonstration, all you have to do is ask."

Before you could respond, your father’s voice rang out from his office.

"Wolf! Y/n! Quit standing around and get back to work."

The moment shattered, the tension retreating like a wave. Wolf stepped back, his smirk never wavering as he picked up his water bottle.

"Looks like Daddy’s watching," he said, his voice dripping with mock innocence. "Wouldn’t want to disappoint him, would we?"

You glared at him, your hands curling into fists. "Careful, Wolf. Keep pushing, and I might decide to show you what sloppy technique really looks like."

"I’d like to see you try," he replied, his tone playful but his eyes dark with challenge.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of training and frustration. Wolf’s voice seemed to follow you everywhere, throwing out comments that were just shy of crossing the line.

By the time the dojo emptied, you were ready to leave. But as you grabbed your bag, Wolf appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame.

"Heading out already?" he asked, his smirk replaced with something softer, more genuine.

"Unless you have another sparring session lined up," you replied, hoisting your bag onto your shoulder.

"Actually, I was thinking..." He scratched the back of his neck, a rare hesitation creeping into his voice. "How about a truce?"

You raised an eyebrow. "A truce?"

"Yeah." He stepped closer, his usual confidence tempered with something more earnest. "No biting remarks, no flirty jabs—just one evening where we don’t drive each other crazy."

You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. "And what exactly does this ‘truce’ entail?"

"A date." He met your gaze, his smirk returning, but this time it was softer, less cocky. "Dinner, maybe. No dojo, no Sekai Taikai. Just us."

You studied him for a moment, searching for any hint of a joke. But there was none—just a quiet vulnerability that made your heart skip.

"Alright," you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. "But don’t think this means I’m going easy on you in the dojo."

"Wouldn’t dream of it," he replied, his smirk widening into a genuine grin.

As you walked out together, the tension between you shifted, no longer sharp and combative but something warmer, something new. For the first time, you found yourself looking forward to seeing where this rivalry might lead.

#cobra kai #cobra kai x reader #karate kid #sensei wolf cobra kai #sensei wolf x reader #cksenseiwolf #lewis tan x reader #lewis tan #sensei wolf #ckxreader #ck #karatekidxreader

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theonion · 6 months ago

Text

In an update that will require those sitting for the exam to demonstrate the full range of skills necessary to take part in American civic life, government officials announced Monday that a newly revised citizenship test asks immigrants to name every U.S. state where they’re not welcome. “We want to ensure our newest citizens know what they’re getting into, so going forward, they’ll need to display a deep understanding of which parts of the country it’s really not safe for them to live in or maybe even visit,” said Ur Jaddou, director of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, who explained that after pointing on a map to the places where they’ll be met with cold shoulders, veiled threats, or open hostility, test takers will also be expected to detail the gross misconceptions held about people of their ethnic origin. Full Story

#the onion #news #politics

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neurospiczzzziee · 4 months ago

Text

Blitzø is actually really good at Art

From an Art Educator Perspective

Okay so I saw some posts on Blitzø actually really enjoying art and that being his passion other than horses. I don't know if in the fandom we have had this consensus or if this is a hot take on my part, but Blitzø is actually really good at drawing.

You may ask why I know this and why I am so confident?

My credibility: I literally specialize in it.

I am a professional artist. I am a High School Art Teacher, who got their degree in art education and attended a well acclaimed art school.

(Self-taught artists are extremely valid and you do not need to go to art school to be an "actual artist". I am bringing up my background to show that I have a lot of knowledge of the development of fine motor skills and the ranges of art abilities and how to further improve them.)

As an educator, if Blitzø was a student and I saw Blitzø's drawings/doodles I would automatically recognize that he was actually advanced in abilities. Based on looking at his drawings I can tell if he were to actually take his time and focus on something he could create really beautifully detailed/rendered artwork.

You may ask how I know this??? I'm glad you asked.

THE AMOUNT OF LINE QUALITY THAT IS DEMONSTRATED IN BLITZØ'S DRAWINGS IS INSANE.

✨Art Lesson time✨

Okay so everyone learning to draw goes through the necessary stages of development

I'm just going to give humans as an example because obviously this is a fictional demon we are talking about.

Generally everyone goes through these stages as they grow and work on learning to draw. (Prodigies are extremely rare and I've only seen one once)

Art skills are like a sport. You need to train in order to develop fine motor abilities and control in your hands. The more you draw and do art the more you gain control of your muscles. It takes a lot of time and years of work to improve.

When a person's fine motor skills aren't as developed their lines tend to be shaky and they have less control. The more a person draws the better their line control becomes.

(Think of when you were little and you were first learning how to write)

The way I can tell how advanced Blitzø is, is through his line quality.

Now what is Line Quality?

This is a screenshot from this wonderful article

So in Blitzø's artwork he very much illustrates good Line control, force, thickness, and fluidity.

Okay first of all I want to Mention

THAT BLITZØ IS DRAWING IN PEN. You can tell this because different parts of the Calendar are crossed out with his scribbles. Also anybody with a calendar knows you have to write with a pen.

LOOK AT HOW CLEAN, FLUID AND CONFIDENT THESE LINES ARE DESPITE THAT HE IS DRAWING IN PEN!???

My assumption is that Blitzø is not using a reference for these drawings. You could make the argument that he has photos for M&M, Loona, and Stolas; however, he definitely does not have a photo of Striker.

I want to mention how dynamic of a pose he is drawing people in. He isn't avoiding hands at all. All of the hands are relatively accurate (Strikers especially).

In these drawings you see variation in line weight meaning parts of his lines are thicker to thinner. So Blitzø is purposely pressing harder and lighter to show variation and depth. His lines are very clean. I don't see repetitive Stokes and lines for the shapes. He is really confident with his mark making and you can tell because his lines aren't shaky at all.

By looking at his line quality and how clean it is you can tell he drew it quickly.

Not to mention he actually has a huge range of items he can draw confidently including and not limited to horses, weapons, leashes, cars, demons, and of course genitalia.

Blitzø isn't what you call a one trick pony 🐴 when it comes to what he can draw.

You can see this skill demonstrated in his other doodles.

You can even see this ability demonstrated in his drawings on the whiteboard

Okay anybody who has drawn on a whiteboard knows that they are difficult to draw on.

Whiteboards smear and are very streaky. In this photo you can tell where Blitzø made a mistake or changed information. Notice that none of his drawings have any smears. That means he did these drawings in literally one take.

I also want to mention his drawings in spring breakers. He is speed drawing directions and illustrating a plan perfectly to his employees.

HE IS LITERALLY RAPID FIRE SPEED DRAWING HERE

His drawing of Veroskika which he DREW FROM MEMORY.

Demonstrates the following:

Line control, Line Confidence, Line Fluidity, Variation in Line weight, and still has relatively correct proportions!?

Basically shut up MOXIE?!!! He did a good job!

Why have we not seen more detailed Blitzø artwork?

Okay so I as we know in the show Blitzø puts his doodles everywhere. So if he is good at Art why isn't he showing his artwork he spent a long time on????

The answer: he's insecure

Showing someone your art is a very vulnerable action. This is especially true if you spent a long time on it.

If someone doesn't like or makes fun of your doodle you can brush it off and be like well it's only a sketch and I did it in under 5 min.

It's a lot easier to show someone a silly little horse drawing you did than something you poured your heart and soul into.

We already are aware that Blitzø is insecure and has self-esteem issues. He literally covers his face in the photos of himself throughout his apartment. He is a very guarded individual. Of course he wouldn't show people the art he spent hours on. What if people reject them? They judge him for spending that much time? What if they see how much he actually loves them?

Blitzø feels like the kind of person who would crumple up or destroy his art that he spends long amounts of time on. It's a way of self-sabotaging yourself and further self-loathing.

Now do I think he has these hours long art pieces/drawings????

ABSOLUTELY

My guess is that Blitzø most likely has a hidden sketchbook. Artists tend to draw their loved ones and especially their children and partners.

There is no doubt in my mind that Blitzø hasn't been doing long observational drawings of Stola's especially when he is sleeping.

He has most likely been drawing Loona all the time. Why do you think he takes all the photos? Those are his references. He has probably been drawing detailed artwork of his loved ones this whole time (and of course horses too lol).

In conclusion

Blitzø actually can draw really well because his doodles demonstrate high levels of skill in line quality.

Going forward I would really appreciate if someone actually finds Blitzø's sketchbook or portfolio of his artwork he spent large amounts of time on. It would be really cute. It would be adorable if Loona or Stolas found them.

Blitzø could gain more confidence and put is artwork he really cares about on display 🥺

I also just want Moxie to find out and eat his words. (Guys I swear I don't hate Moxie 😂)

Thank you for joining me here today on my Ted talk on how I think Blitzø is actually a talented artist. I'm just an art teacher who has problems with how much helluva boss lives in rent free in my head.

#helluva boss #blitzø #helluva blitzo #stolas #helluva theory #stolitz #blitzo is an artist you cannot tell me im wrong #blitzo doodles #helluva boss lives rent free in my head #art teacher analysis #Could you argue that they are good drawings because the artists who made the show know how to draw? yes. but this is a way more fun idea #YOUR GOING TO LOOK AT ME AND TELL ME IM WRONG??!!#Neurospizzzziee Helluva Analysis

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