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mypoisonedvine · 6 months

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𝘀𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺 | ghostface!darren (pig) x reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 | he probably wasn't even invited to this party, because who would invite him? but he came anyways... just to torment you. far more than you could've imagined, in fact.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 | 2.5k

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 | NONCON DARK SMUT 18+ ONLY!!, public sex, degradation, pain kink, knife kink, a bit of predator/prey, blood kink, smoking, unprotected sex/implied risk of pregnancy, darren is kind of an incel lmao

It was a pretty traditional high school party— overcrowded, loud and sweaty, bad music and worse liquor— but at least the sea of costumes, ranging from scary to silly to sexy, added at least some new layer of interest to the whole thing.

You hadn’t tried very hard with your devil costume— more accurately an attempt at a ‘sexy devil’ costume— but you put on horns and heels with a tight red dress and nobody can really complain. You weren’t really here to get into the ‘spooky spirit’ or whatever anyways, just an excuse to drink and maybe chat with some people you’d been missing.

The person you ended up chatting to right in that moment, though, was exactly the last person you wanted to talk to.

You didn’t even know there was someone behind you until you felt him press up to your back, suddenly hovering right by you. “Want a drink?” he asked, shoving a cup towards you, but you were too busy nearly jumping out of your skin to care— you almost knocked the drink over, actually some of it did splash onto another partygoer, but she was too drunk to notice.

“Fuck!” you yelped, turning to see the gangly boy behind you. “Christ, Darren, do you have to always sneak up on a girl like that?”

He just smiled and tried to offer the drink to you again.

“M’already holding one,” you pointed out with a frown, “didn’t ya notice?”

“O-oh yeah,” he mumbled, lowering the cup finally. “Costume looks good.”

“Thanks,” you shrugged, though you suddenly felt the urge to tug down the bottom of your dress.

“You’re not worried what the boys are gonna think with you dressed like that?” he asked, and you glared at him as you shoved his shoulder.

“Don’t you think before you open your fuckin’ mouth?” you spat. “What are you, anyway?”

The black robes didn’t really tell you anything— not until he reached behind his head and pulled a Ghostface mask over his face.

“Oh,” you snorted, “not the most original, is it?”

“Don’t like t’movie?” he wondered as he pulled the mask back again.

“I mean, it’s pretty good,” you relented, “but—”

“You wanna fuck ‘im, don’t you?” he insisted suddenly with a lascivious grin.

“What?” you squinted.

“Ghostface,” he clarified, “you’re one of the girls who thinks he’s fit, yeah?”

“Why are you always such a creep?” you asked him with a grimace, but then you decided to change the topic quickly. “Kinda thought you’d be a pig or something,” you admitted, “with the nickname and all.”

“Nah, that’s stupid,” he rolled his eyes, crossing his arms— which made you notice the prop knife in his hand. It actually looked pretty good, shinier than most plastic costume knives.

Just then, Jimmy O’Doyle sauntered up beside you, slipping his arm around your shoulders. “Ay, little devil,” he greeted, flicking the red horns on your head as you smiled sheepishly.

He hardly acknowledged Darren, spare for a quick nod, but Darren was staring at Jimmy for a little too long before he looked at you again.

“Thought you said you didn’t want a boyfriend,” Darren said sharply, glowering a bit.

Jimmy scoffed and you shifted uncomfortably; Darren tended to be… what’s the word… desperate? Clingy? Overall bizarre? He certainly couldn’t take much of a hint.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you said first, though that didn’t really matter— you didn’t need any reason to reject Darren, outside of your natural self-preservation instinct. He actually wasn’t bad-looking, but it was hard to tell past those leering eyes and the uncomfortable smile. He wasn’t smiling now though… he looked quietly enraged, sipping pointedly on his drink as he glanced away for a moment.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” Jimmy smirked at you, hardly waiting for your nod before disappearing back into the crowd.

Suddenly, as you felt Darren’s livid gaze from awkwardly close, you decided that you needed a little fresh air. And by that, you really meant a cigarette.

Not wanting to tell Darren that you were going outside for a smoke, you instead mumbled some excuse about going to the loo— somewhere he was just sane enough not to follow you to— and bumped through the crowd until you found a door out into the neighbourhood.

There was a slight drizzle still going outside— more of a misting, really— that made everything all foggy and grey, spare for the yellow-y glow of the streetlamps dotting the way. It wasn’t a full moon, as cool as that would be, but near to one… regardless, it wasn’t visible behind low, dark clouds, leaving the night starless and dreary. There wasn’t much to look at in the alley as you lit your cigarette and took slow drags from it, so as you stared blankly forward at brick walls with chipping whitewash, your mind wandered a bit. Nothing of great merit: upcoming assignments, the possibility of an afterparty, the lingering hope you could find a steamy hook-up for the night… you didn’t just put this outfit on for the pictures.

Before you could get too far into your imagination, you were startled by a distant sound, jumping slight as your head turned towards it— but it was just the dark alley, not much to see. You squinted, trying to make out movement in the shadows, but for quite a while you couldn’t see anything.

Only when you turned your head back forward with a shrug was there any sign of what you’d heard, just a shift in the corner of your eye. You looked at it again, and you hated to admit it, but your heart froze up for a second when that white face emerged from the darkness.

Of course, you gave your best unaffected scoff when you actually processed what you were looking at.

“Quit it, Darren,” you warned, willing your voice to sound stable as you shouted down the road towards him, “you’re not gonna scare me.”

You watched him move closer, stepping into the light so you could see him better, and tried to ignore the way the hairs on your neck stood up. If he knew he was getting to you, he’d just keep doing it; you rolled your eyes and took a drag through your cigarette to try to seem nonchalant… but you had to stop your hand from shaking just a bit. Only because it was chilly out, surely…

You thought it was a joke— a stupid joke, but still just a joke— until he dragged his knife along the brick wall as he stalked toward you. The sharp, high-pitched screech of metal against stone was unmistakable… and that was how you realised it was a real knife. A very sharp, very real knife; he’s going to actually kill me, you thought, just before you let out a primal and instinctive scream.

Turning on your heel, you ran as fast as you could. Each rapid pulse of your heart pumped adrenaline through your veins, and you felt so shaky that you worried the light night breeze would knock you over.

These were far from running shoes, though— they were pretty excruciating to just stand in, actually— and it was only a few blocks of a chase before you tripped. Yelping in pain, you tried to scramble up or even crawl forward… but just as you rolled over and winced from landing on your hip, you saw him stalking forward into the flickering light of a streetlamp.

He was probably just going to take the mask off and laugh at you, right? Reveal the whole thing was a silly prank and the knife was fake and that he just wanted to prove you were scared of him. Yes, that would be the most sane thing for him to do at that moment, even after being so not-sane by chasing you with a knife. Instead, as you tried to crawl back, he just tilted his masked head curiously at you, and with his free hand reached down and palmed at his groin. He was hard— you could see the outline of it through his costume, his hips rocking forward slightly into his palm as you heard a muffled hiss from his mouth.

He knelt down and grabbed your kicking legs, roughly yanking you closer and hovering above you menacingly. “C’mon and scream for me,” he ordered with a delighted purr, pulling his mask back, laughing when what came out of you was more of a wail or sob instead. “Louder, y’little whore—”

“Get off me!” you shrieked, trying to fight him away, whining as he laid down over you instead and licked your neck. You turned your head with a grimace, shuddering as his weight pinned you against the slightly-damp pavement.

“G’na show Pig how tight the little hole gets when you’re scared— aren’t ya, fuckin’ slut?”

“Be serious, Darren— s’not funny, get away from me!”

You struggled less when he flashed the knife; as little as you could, in fact you actually nearly froze as he teased you with it, running the tip down the front of your dress with just enough pressure to pop a few sequins off, making you whimper in terror. He laughed, though— a small, dark, chuckle. “Quiet now,” he noticed. “Don’t make a fuss, sweetheart.”

You had to bite your lip to hide a shout, though, when a gloved hand up slipped under your short dress, grabbing greedily at your lacy panties. He licked his teeth, bared by his grin, as he stared at you with those haunting eyes of his. “Wet, aren’tcha, girl?” he taunted— not that he’d be able to feel it through his black gloves, but past your own groaning you could almost hear it (though you tried not to).

“You’re such a creep!” you spat, though you tried to regulate your tone as you glanced at his knife again, held against you by one of his hands on your arm; maybe part of you still thought he would stop and admit it was a joke, but the darkness in his stare made you doubt that more and more. The gravity of the situation still hadn’t really set in yet— sure, you were coursing with fear and had goosebumps all over, but it didn’t totally feel real.

“Won’t take too long,” he promised with a sigh as he hastily tugged his costume out of the way, still pinning you down with one hand (if not as effectively). When he roughly yanked his cock out, proudly brandishing it between your legs as your eyes went wide… that’s when it felt real.

“Don’t,” you gasped instantly, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “Don’t, Darren, please— you can’t—”

“Shh,” he hissed quickly, “s’good— gonna feel good, alright?”

He gasped loudly as he pushed inside you, eyes shutting tight before he dropped his head down onto your chest. “Fuck, girl— what’s a whore cunt so tight for?”

Not wasting any time, he pulled his hips back and roughly thrusted forward into you again, making you choke on your cry.

“S’for me, isn’t it?” he decided with a sick sort of grin. “Want Pig to feel good? Like t’squeeze the thick cock, don’t ya?”

“I— I fuckin’ hate you,” you whimpered, shutting your eyes tight, in disgusted disbelief that this was happening— that it was him inside you, holding you down. But you couldn’t forget it, not with him moaning and purring above you, mumbling stuttered praises… and the feeling of it, it was impossible to ignore, as much as you hoped to somehow. It was a deep stretch, each thrust making your chest tighten out of more than just fear.

“Mmf, fuck,” he grunted, holding onto you tighter— another reminder he still had that fucking knife. “Pretty— it’s a pretty thing… it’s warm inside…”

Grimacing, you hated the way your body responded to his lewd comments about it; your walls clenched on him slightly, you could tell by the way you felt even more sore inside than before.

He pressed the knife up against your neck, growling in amusement at your wince of fear. “Think Pig’s gonna slice you?”

“I… I don’t know,” you stammered out your answer, eventually.

“Waste of a pretty face, no?” he smirked, moving the knife up and caressing the side of your face with it— not that it could really be called a caress, all rigid and cold like that… “Say please.”

“Huh?”

“Say please,” he repeated, “beg me not to hurt you.”

“Already are,” you sneered at him, but he pressed the knife to your neck with a little more intention— a little more pressure, a wild look in his eyes suddenly— as he insisted again.

“Wanna hear you beg,” he spat. “Do it or Piggy might hurt you worse.”

“Please, please,” you whispered shakily, shutting your eyes. “Please don’t, Darren…”

You gasped sharply as he pressed the knife down just enough to draw a thin line of blood, only to pull the blade away and lick hungrily at the wound. Feeling dizzy and sick, you winced at the sting of his tongue lapping at your pierced skin, lips wrapping around and suckling as teeth dug painfully into your pulse.

He thrusted faster, recklessly so, and bit down on his lip as he breathed heavier. You were too focused on how painfully deep he was going to really process anything when he started to slow down— that is, you felt that he was slowing down, and didn’t think for a minute about why he was slowing down.

His loud, low groan gave it away; you snapped back to reality and looked up at him in a new kind of fear. “Fuck, Darren, did you just—?!” you whimpered, squirming harder as you realised what he’d done.

“Shh, shh,” he soothed you sharply, hissing as he grabbed a tight hold of your hip. “Stay fuckin’ still, girl— fuck, I’m still coming—”

You yelped and tried harder to fight him off, but he kept you pinned down easily, even forcing you into a rough and sloppy kiss.

He sighed into it after a second, relaxing on top of you until it was a little hard to breathe under his weight. You whined and tried to break away, but the hand with the knife still in it held your jaw, the cold metal pressing threateningly against your face.

Whimpering and blinking up at him, you met his icy gaze and he smiled proudly down at you. “Little devil, eh?” he smirked as he toyed with your horned headband, which had become quite dishevelled from all the running and struggling. “Your blood matches the outfit— poor whore, red all over…”

“Darren,” you choked, fighting a sob of disbelief as you felt him pull out of you with a hiss— a steady, sticky leak giving away how much he’d come. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Don’t be fussin’, girl, like I said,” he rolled his eyes, though he was still grinning wide. “Ready to go back to the party now? Or do you just want Pig to take y’home, sweetheart?”

#darren pig x reader #disco pigs #cillian murphy x reader #darren pig smut #darren pig dark!fic #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy dark!fic

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luluartpop · 27 days

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Cillian Murphy in so many theatre productions in Galway, including the original rehearsal scripts for Discopigs.

Source: @UniOfGalwayASC on twitter

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy young #90s photography #disco pigs #cillian murphy theater #theater #galway

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skintyfiia · 4 months

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it’s a sad old town, ay Runt?

#archiving from twitter #my art #digital art #fanart #cillian murphy #elaine cassidy #disco pigs

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c-i-l-l-i-a-n-m-u-r-p-h-y · 2 months

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🕯️Oscar winner Cillian Murphy🕯️

#Cillian Murphy #cillian murphy gq #Cillian Murphy Oscar’s #Oscar’s #disco pigs #breakfast on Pluto #28 days later #oppenheimer #on the edge #Batman begins #red lights

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cillianmesoftlyyy · 5 months

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So New | Cillian Murphy x fem!reader

Summary | She's been having nightmares for a while. One night back from college, she has a night terror. Thankfully, her (almost) stepdad runs to her rescue and soothes her back to sleep.

Warnings | age-gap (nothing sexual), step-dad cillian, nightmares, cuddling, daddy-core, lots of fluff.

Moon Song- Phoebe Bridgers 🎶

Put Me Down- The Cranberries 🎵

So new- Cillian Murphy (Disco Pigs) 🎶

word count: 1342k

Not proof read- sorry folks!

Her heart was beating rapidly when she woke up with a start. She gasped loudly and sat up quickly in bed, grabbing the blankets around her to her chest like a frightened child. She was drenched in a sticky, cold sweat and she shivered. Her brain scared her with images of the undead, ghosts, or dead men. In her dream, they were in her room with her, beneath her bed where she couldn’t see them. The face of the creature had been terrifying and her brain convinced her, even though she was awake, that it was still there somewhere in the room. She glanced frantically around her and whimpered in the darkness. The curtains blocked any light pollution from the outside and the rest of her mother’s house was silent and dark. She tried to lie back down, tucking the blankets beneath every limp to create a cocoon. She closed her eyes, her chest still heaving with fear, and she started to fall back asleep. She slipped once again into a bad dream, this one more terrifying than the last because she couldn’t see what threatened her. Her body knew that she was in danger but refused to show her, so she tried to wake up but her body went numb. She tried to scream but her jaw stayed shut. She hyperventilated in her sleep, trying to fight the paralysis but it set in deeper, forcing her to face whatever it wanted to show her. She shook as she tried to move, to wake herself up, and in doing so, she managed to scream. It came out as a strangled release of air but as she fought, the scream became stronger, more desperate. Footsteps came thundering down the hall, slipping in the dark against the wood floor. Cillian stumbled inside the bedroom, the bedroom door slamming against the wall. He gripped the doorframe and panted, his eyes flying around.

“What is it? What happened?” He asked urgently. She still couldn’t say anything, her sleep paralysis prevented her. She seemed to cry again with the same breathy yell, her body shaking with effort. He came over to the bed and saw her trying to speak or move, anything and pressed his palms into her shoulders.

“Oh, I see- it's ok. You’re ok. I’m right here.” He rubbed his hands across her shoulders through her wet nightshirt. He sat on the edge of the bed and shushed her, petting her softly. “It’ll be over soon. Just breath, girl.” Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, allowing the light to settle on his face and his beautiful eyes which looked gray in the dark. She tried to breathe evenly and started to regain feeling in her fingers and toes. It spread through her body until she felt that she could truly breathe again. Once she could move she sat up quickly and clutched her stepfather in a desperately frightened hug. She started to pant again from anxiety and he rubbed her back affectionately.

“You’re alright, girl. It was a really bad dream but it's over now.” He whispered and cupped her face to look into her eyes, glistening with tears. “You’re getting too old for these night terrors,” he smiled gently and pulled her back into a strong hug. “Who's going to be there to hold you after you get like this when you go back to university?” He mumbled with his chin resting upon her head. She shivered from the vibration of his voice and shook her head weakly.

“Thank you for coming.” She sniffed, trying to keep herself from crying. “I’m really embarrassed. I don’t know why I keep getting these.” She felt the cold air chill the beads of sweat on her body.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he shrugged casually, “it's not your fault.” He pulled away from her and patted her leg beneath the sheets. “Better now?” He asked, his face wrinkling slightly around his bright eyes.

“A little.” She mumbled, still shaken.

“Then I should get back to your mother.” He smiled and started to stand but she threw herself around him once again.

“Please don’t leave! I’m scared it will happen again if you leave now.” She started to cry against his shoulder, her face pressed against his chest. She could hear his heartbeat quicken.

“Just for a little while.” He whispered against her ear and patted her head. He pulled her arms off and pushed her gently down onto the mattress. “Scoot over.” He nodded to the bed and slid under the sheet to lie beside her. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and let her rest her head on the large joint of his shoulder. She wiped her eyes, ashamed at how needy she’d become and nestled as close as she deemed appropriate. Cillian turned over onto his side to face her and wiped a tear from her lips.

“It must’ve been pretty bad to get you so worked up, eh?” His eyes softened as he watched her try to compose herself. “I’ll stay as long as you want, ok? I’m not leaving until you’re ok.” He promised and laid back on his back with a sigh.

“Could you please hold me?” She whispered with a stifled sob and he looked down at her, the loose skin of his neck creasing.

“Ah ok, c’mere.” He wrapped his other arm around her and held her tight. He was facing her now, though his head was a few inches above hers on the pillow. She slowly started to calm herself down inside his strong arms.

“Thank you.” She whispered and put her nose against his sleepshirt, soft with sleep and washing.

“No problem.” He said unemotionally and shifted in the bed, finding a comfortable position and cleared his throat. Her hair ticked his nose and he smoothed it down, releasing her back for a second and she tensed. “Shhh, it's ok. Still here.” He soothed as if she were an animal and he almost smiled. He liked being able to take care of someone like this, to hold them and offer them safety. Her mother hadn’t asked him for affection in weeks, claiming he was too ‘distant’ while filming his new movie. He’d always wanted children, namely a daughter. A little girl to care for and protect. He’d found that in his fiance’s daughter and while she wasn’t so little anymore, he still felt a need to protect her like a father, like her father. Completely innocent… right?

Her breathing slowed into a relaxed state and he rubbed his thumb against the soft jersey of her nightshirt. It was very warm under the blankets but he didn’t dare move and risk waking her up again. He hummed softly a song he’d had stuck in his head from his first film Disco Pigs. She slumped further into his chest, falling asleep, drooling slightly on his chest. He smiled as she did so and risked a quick kiss on her head.

“I’ll keep the nightmares away.” He promised her as she fell asleep and slipped into a dreamless slumber, full of his scent: old timber and spice. “You’re safe with me.” He repeated over and over again as she slept, her chest rising and falling against his. He continued humming the lullaby softly against her head, beginning to fall asleep himself. Her hands held onto the fabric of his shirt, locking him into the place beside her. His elbow relaxed on the soft dip of her waist, her shirt riding up slightly and he pulled it back down to cover her completely. His jaw clenched and released as he watched her sleep against him, buried inside his arms.

He’d never felt this way about her mother. Not this sense of need and responsibility, nor a sense of usefulness to a woman. This girl made him feel needed, necessary. He thanked her silently and pulled her closer, resting the crook of his nose against her warm forehead.

“You’re my girl and I’ll always keep you safe.” He promised her and she mumbled something in her sleep, and he smiled. “Goodnight, darling girl.”

#cillian murphy x reader #cillian x fem!reader #cillian murphy #cillian x reader #cillian x y/n #cillian fluff #cillian fanfic #cillian fic #disco pigs #fluff #fanfiction #peaky blinders

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possession · 1 year

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CILLIAN MURPHY as PIG DISCO PIGS (2001) dir. Kirsten Sheridan

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cillianistic · 3 months

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「 Cillian Murphy - Fable Magazine, 2001 」

#cillian murphy #cillian #young cillian murphy #cillian murphy photoshoot #lana del rey coded #Cillian Murphy 2001 #magazine photoshoot #disco pigs

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cilldistilled · 5 months

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awww cutie pie

#disco pigs #cillian murphy #peaky blinders #thomas shelby #cillian murphy edit #tommy shelby #oppenheimer #peaky blinders quotes #tommy shelby quotes #peaky fookin blinders

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vintagepvssy · 5 months

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(Mostly) NSFW Headcanons Part III

Disclaimer: Slight spoilers so be warned. Just covering movies I have seen or characters I know enough about to judge. This is just for funsies, just my own personal opinions, so it’s totally okay if you disagree. Fully aware how much of an ass I’m being. Horny hater at my core.

Disco Pigs (2001) | Enda Walsh, Kirsten Sheridan - Darren

• starting out strong with THE freak of freaks

• not to state the obvious but.. possessive, dominating, jealous asf but also loyal asf

• Incel ass behavior, would definitely have a Reddit account, frequent user of 4chan.

• would jerk off to hentai titties if he could

• would probably ask you to do the ahegao face during sex…

On the Edge (2001) | John Carney - Jonathan Breech

• as much as he would hate to admit it.. hopeless romantic. Super devoted but would have an annoying tendency to flirt with other girls to see if you’d get jealous.

• honestly.. great first bf to have. Would absolutely destroy your perception of what love should be.. but hey isn’t that first loves?

• heavy breathing and moaning in your ear. Loves to give hickeys.

Sunburn (1999) | Nelson Hume - Davin McDerby

• oh davin… dead beat baby daddy fr.. loved his character arc regardless tho

• ngl probably absolute shit in bed. He screams premature ejaculator..

• has a porn addiction, but would hide it from you

• would pick up edging and would talk about your sex life very openly with “the boys”

• loves sending nudes and nut vids if he had the chance

Intermission (2003) | John Crowley - John

• he has no qualms about saying it: you’re a whore 😌

• probably feels the need to be in charge and take control but really.. you’d be the one calling the shots mostly

• definitely the type to make stupid jokes during sex

• whiny, would definitely triple text if you didn’t respond fast enough

• still a cutie ofc

• jealousy is his middle name

Girl with the Pearl Earring (2003) | Peter Webber - Pieter

• breeding kink but not in the fun way. Breeding kink in the way where he would wanna fuck like rabbits and procreate like rabbits.

• would want you to have like 6 of his kids is what I’m saying

• acts like he’s touch starved half the time, really handsy, likes to tease and leave kisses all over you

• knows how to handle his meat

At Deaths Door (1999) | Conor Morrissey - Young Reaper

• this one is just for shits and giggles

• it’s giving virgin, inexperienced but passionate

• shy asf, again you’d probably have to make the first move

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy characters #cillian murphy headcanons #cillian murphy gif #davin mcderby #sunburn #reaper shit fr #on the edge #disco pigs #darren from disco pigs #girl with a pearl earring #butcher taking care of business #enda walsh #intermission movie #forgive me for I have sinned #okay I’m done rambling now #thank you for reading you’re a doll

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darerendevil · 2 months

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Cillian Murphy: band & theater

Links: X X X X X X

#Cillian Murphy #Eileen Walsh #Disco Pigs #Young Cillian Murphy #Enda Walsh #Padraig Murphy #Sons of Mr Green Genes

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pinguwrites · 6 months

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Kinktober 2023 | Day Twenty — Darren/Pig + vanilla, riding

Pairing -> sub!pig x dom!reader

KINKTOBER 2023 MLIST

Warnings: mild degradation, mention of masturbation, pig's sorta innocent, reader takes runt's place, reader's lowkey a little mean, very very mild dub-con (just in case 'cause they're bold with touching and not asking, but they both are into it), sorry for the shitty accent I tried, if it was really bad let me know and I'll try to make it better

Disclaimer: Disco Pigs characters, plots, quotes, etc. do not belong to me and belong to the rightful owner(s). This is only fanfiction and this is just for fun.

Pig looked at you miserably, feeling a sense of shame wash over him like a cold bucket of water. He hadn’t expected you to hear him, hear his monologue of how he wanted to have sex with you. He should have kept it all in his head, or made sure you weren’t in your room. How was he supposed to know you were on your bed, listening through the hole in the wall?

“Well?” you snapped. “Whaddya have to say for yourself?”

“Sorry!” Pig cried, lower lip wobbling. “M’sorry, Runt! Jus’ wanna express myself.”

What if you decided you didn’t want to be friends anymore? What if you left him? Found him disgusting and dirty? What would he do if you were gone? You were his everything. He would do anything for you. How was he supposed to convince you to stay?

“You couldn’t jus’ tell me?” you said, sitting down on the bed beside him. When he looked away you grabbed his hair and forced him to face you. “You had to be all secret-like. How many times you’ve done this before? Tell me.”

“Few times,” he admitted, trying not to stare at your lips. “Can’t stop thinking about it—me and you, Pig an’ Runt, moaning an’ touch, with my hand ‘round my cock—”

“Touching yourself, Pig?” you asked, a little surprised, but delighted nonetheless.

If possible, Pig looked even more miserable. “Yes, ma’am.”

You almost wanted to laugh. Pig only called you “ma’am” when he thought you were mad at him, which, to be fair, you were making it seem like you were. It was just so fun teasing him, the poor little thing. You couldn’t resist.

“Show me,” you demanded, looking down at the area between his legs. “I wanna see your cock.”

With no questions, he immediately unzipped his pants and pulled it out. It was thick and white, soft at the moment, but you could see it growing hard in his hands. You touched it, without asking for permission—he would’ve let you, anyways—and tugged on it, making him whimper.

“Ah, be nice, won’t ya’? Please, Runt.”

“Am being nice. Wanna see me, too?”

Pig’s eyes widened with excitement. “Yes, yes.” His hands went to your skirt and he pulled it up, shoving your panties down so quickly and smoothly you were sure he’d thought about doing this before.

He bent over and took a whiff, then pressed his finger through your folds. “Smell good,” he commented. “Feel good, too. Little hole.” He wiggled his finger right above your entrance, but you pushed him away, making him frown. “Still mad? No, don’t be mad. Said sorry, yeah? Said sorry and you feel okay now. Right?”

He tried to push back inside but you pushed him away again, and this time, to make clear he got the message, tugged on his cock again. “Just wanna put my finger inside Runt’s hole! You up an’ teasin’ me . . .”

He pulled away completely, accepting your decision. He didn’t dare go against you a third time, not when he was so vulnerable in front of you, so embarrassed, with tears wetting his eyes.

“Crying now?” you laughed, not bothering to keep it in this time.

“Too much,” he whined. His cock was now fully hard, with some liquid leaking out the top.

You shoved him down on the bed, making it slap against his stomach. He waited to see what you were going to do, almost worried, but then you sank his tip into your pussy, and he moaned, lips spread wide in happiness.

“Yes! S’nice. Warm,” he choked. “Need’a see Runt’s tits.”

He groped your chest, feeling for your tits. You didn’t stop him. You were enjoying his touch, and was far too focused on easing the pain you felt as you sunk yourself deeper onto his cock.

Eventually, the stinging feeling subsided, and you started moving, slowly and sensually, with your hands on his body, eyes fluttered shut in pleasure.

“Should’a done this sooner, Pig,” you said. “Could’a felt ya’ inside me, all big an’ hard.”

He nodded, dazed.

You rode him, without a care in the world that his mom could walk into his room at any moment, without caring that the bedroom window was cracked open with the lamp inside turned on. All there was was him and you—Pig an’ Runt, the way it was meant to be.

Taglist:

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#darren pig x reader #darren pig x you #darren pig x y/n #disco pigs #darren pig #cillian murphy #fanfiction #pinguwrites #kinktober 2023 #kinktober

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luluartpop · 2 months

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"I photographed Cillian Murphy in 1999 in London for Himshelf Magazine, he was probably touring with #discopigsbyendawalsh. A thoroughly decer & likeable Cork man, as well as a truly great actor"

--Paul Maccarthaigh from Instagram

#cillian murphy #disco pigs #cillian murphy young #photoshoot #Paul Maccarthaigh

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hello-god-its-me-sara · 6 months

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the swiftification of cillian murphy

#cillian murphy #the swiftification of cillian murphy agenda #taylor swift #jonathan breech #patricia kitten braden #breakfast on pluto #disco pigs #raymond leon #in time 2011 #jonathan crane #dunkirk #robert fischer #inception #jackson rippner #neil lewis #watching the detectives

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texaschainsawmascara · 4 months

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denimbex1986 · 10 months

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'If Peaky Blinders made the Irish actor a household name, will Christopher Nolan’s nuclear blockbuster send him into the stratosphere? He talks about extreme weight loss, hating school and why his next character won’t be a smoker.

Cillian Murphy is struggling with what he can and can’t say about his title role in Oppenheimer, the latest Christopher Nolan epic, such is the secrecy surrounding this film. Murphy is under “strict instructions” not to talk about the content. Which is awkward when you’ve flown to his home in Ireland to interview him specifically about playing the physicist who oversaw the creation of the atomic bomb, later detonated over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It’s not clear who issued these instructions. Nolan? The studio? The US government? All I know is that as well as Murphy being gagged by hefty NDAs, I am not allowed to see it (“bit unfortunate”, he concedes).

So, yes, here we sit in an empty upstairs room of a restaurant near his house in Monkstown, Dublin, working out how to do this. The room is dark, the sun shining through a solitary Velux lighting his features like a Géricault. The only background noise is the low hum of a wine refrigerator. Murphy loathes interviews, looks visibly tortured at points. But he relaxes when I ask if he’s pleased with Oppenheimer. “I am, yeah,” he says. “I don’t like watching myself – it’s like, ‘Oh, fucking hell’ – but it’s an extraordinary piece of work. Very provocative and powerful. It feels sometimes like a biopic, sometimes like a thriller, sometimes like a horror. It’s going to knock people out,” he adds. “What [Nolan] does with film, it fucks you up a little bit.”

Nolan wouldn’t disagree. The director recently told Wired magazine that some of those who’d seen it were left “absolutely devastated … they can’t speak”. Which sounds like a bad thing, but is related perhaps to the thought of the 214,000 Japanese people, overwhelmingly civilians, who lost their lives when the bombs were dropped. Kai Bird, the historian who co-authored American Prometheus, the 2008 biography of J Robert Oppenheimer upon which the film is based, said he was still “emotionally recovering” from seeing the film, clarifying that it was “a stunning artistic achievement”.

Murphy’s portrayal is said to be astonishing (“Oscar-worthy” is the buzz). This is not unbelievable. While Hollywood might not know him as a leading man, this quietly intense actor has long been celebrated in the UK and Ireland, most notably for his nine-year stint as Tommy Shelby in Peaky Blinders. When he first appeared on our screens, looking like a renaissance painting of Saint Sebastian – chiselled head contrasting with translucent blue eyes – it was impossible not to be distracted. He appeared first on stage in Enda Walsh’s Disco Pigs, then the screen adaptation. Then 28 Days Later; Intermission; Ken Loach’s The Wind That Shakes the Barley. Previous collaborations with Nolan include the Dark Knight trilogy, Inception and Dunkirk, “significant milestones in my career,” he says, adding that Nolan “might be the perfect director”.

It was Nolan’s wife, the producer Emma Thomas, who called Murphy one afternoon at the home he shares with his wife, artist Yvonne McGuinness, and two teenage sons. Nolan doesn’t actually have a telephone, or an email, or computer for that matter: “He’s the most analogue individual you could possibly encounter.” So, Emma said Chris would like a word and passed the receiver, then the director came on the line. “Cillian, I’d love you to play the lead in this new thing,” he said. Murphy tries to recreate his response to this news. “I was lost for words. But thrilled. Like beyond thrilled.” It is characteristic of Murphy that the modulation of his voice barely changes as he expresses this. He was so stunned, he had to sit down. “Your mind explodes.”

In the absence of the three-hour feature, I scrutinise Oppenheimer’s three-minute trailer. It’s a rush of snapshots against the crackling of a Geiger counter. There’s Murphy, short back and sides, lifting 1940s eye goggles; blue and red atoms coming at him fast; orange light; white light; blackout; silence. Massive explosion against the backdrop of space. Overlaid is Murphy’s narration, “We’re in a race against the Nazis / and I know what it means / if the Nazis have a bomb.” There’s Matt Damon looking porky as army general Leslie Groves, director of the Manhattan Project: “They have a 12-month head start.” Murphy, pointing with cigarette: “18.”

He has put back on some of the weight he lost for the part, I’m relieved to see; his skin isn’t quite so taut over his skull and there are freckles over those eagle-wing cheekbones. He was determined to nail the scientist’s silhouette “with the porkpie hat and the pipe”, testing himself to see how little he could eat. “You become competitive with yourself a little bit which is not healthy. I don’t advise it.” He won’t say how many kilograms he lost, or what food the nutritionist told him to cut out. NDA? “Ach, no. I don’t want it to be, ‘Cillian lost x weight for the part’.”

Then again, the hurtling speed at which Nolan worked, crisscrossing the US, made it easy to skip meals. Murphy began to forget about food in the same way he began to forget about sleep. “It’s like you’re on this fucking train that’s just bombing. It’s bang, bang, bang, bang. You sleep for a few hours, get up, bang it again. I was running on crazy energy; I went over a threshold to where I was not worrying about food or anything. I was so in it, a state of hyper …” he gropes for the word, “hyper something. But it was good because the character was like that. He never ate.” Oppenheimer subsisted on little more than Chesterfield cigarettes and double-strength martinis, rims dipped in lime. “Cigarettes and pipes. He would alternate between the two. That’s what did for him in the end,” Murphy adds, a nod to the scientist’s death from cancer in 1967. “I’ve smoked so many fake cigarettes for Peaky and this. My next character will not be a smoker. They can’t be good for you. Even herbal cigarettes have health warnings now.”

I raise method acting and Murphy tilts his head and frowns. “Method acting is a sort of … No,” he says, firm but with a half smile. Oppenheimer had many defining characteristics, not least walking on the balls of his feet and a vocal tic that sounded like nim-nim-nim, but Murphy didn’t want to do an impression. Nolan was obsessed with the Brillo-texture hair, so they spent “a long time working on hair”. And the voice. The real question for Murphy was what combination – ambition, madness, delusion, deep hatred of the Nazi regime? – allowed this theoretical physicist to agree to an experiment he knew could obliterate humankind. “He was dancing between the raindrops morally. He was complex, contradictory, polymathic; incredibly attractive intellectually and charismatic, but,” he decides, “ultimately unknowable.

“Listen, it’s not like a spoiler,” he says, checking himself before he leans in, “but there are incidents in his early life that were quite worrying; very erratic.” They are in the film and the book, he steers. I suspect he is referring to Oppenheimer’s postgrad at Cambridge in 1926, when he placed a poisoned apple on the desk of a tutor towards whom he harboured complicated feelings of inadequacy and jealousy. Arguably, this was attempted murder. But Oppenheimer’s rich New York parents rushed in to bundle him into psychoanalysis. He was diagnosed with “dementia praecox”, a term describing symptoms associated with schizophrenia.

Murphy likes these complex characters; they’re his meat. People that don’t necessarily follow the – yawn – traditional transformative arc of storytelling. Not villains, exactly (although he’s played a few, including Scarecrow in Dark Knight and Jackson Rippner in Red Eye): “Villains are good if they’re well written, but if it’s one note or a trope, then they are dull.” He likes a script to stretch leisurely into all corners of the human condition, “all the shades”. At the same time, you have to understand his exceptional ability to portray interiority, physically manifesting intense human emotion without a word, radiating fierce, consuming energy. Which he does today, actually, when I stray off track.

Although Nolan is usually, shall we say, antiseptic in his approach to romance, Oppenheimer represents a significant shift. He told Wired the love story aspect “is as strong as I’ve ever done”. It features prolonged full nudity for Murphy and Florence Pugh, who plays Oppenheimer’s ex-fiancee, as well as sex, and there are complicated scenes with Emily Blunt, who plays his wife, “that were pretty heavy”. Murphy turns coy: “I’m under strict instructions not to give away anything.”

He asks if I’ve heard of chemistry tests. “They put two actors in a room to see if there’s any spark, and have all the producers and director at a table watching. I don’t know what metric they use, and it seems so outrageously silly, but sometimes you get a chemistry and nobody knows why.” This is a roundabout way of saying his scenes with Blunt and Pugh conjure this magic. His established bond with Blunt (they co-starred in A Quiet Place II) meant “the audience gets something for free”, he says. “You can be immediately vulnerable and open, and try stuff. There were moments where I remember saying, ‘I couldn’t have done that if it wasn’t with you.’”

Murphy, 47, grew up the eldest of four in Cork. His father was a civil servant, his mother a French teacher. They were a middle-class family, musical; his father “can pick up any instrument”, his brother played piano, and they regularly got stuck into “traditional Irish sessions”. Bookshelves were stuffed with literature, the radio often on, the “shitty” TV set not so much. Home life was busy but his parents taught him French and Irish, and sent him to an all-boys academic, rugby-playing private school. “I got all the education” he says, drily.

The story of how much he disliked the Presentation Brothers College, the hard-drinking masculine emphasis, how he found solace playing guitar in a band, is much rehearsed and he says today he doesn’t want “to slag the school off. I hear it’s great now.” Something about this experience seems nonetheless unsettling. He had one friend, who is still his best friend, “so I wasn’t, like, an outcast”. He played rugby for the first couple of years, but abandoned it “because everyone was all of a sudden towering over me.” Was it an unhappy time? He shifts. “It was OK. I was a bit of a messer, like I’d get in trouble and say nothing. It wasn’t the ideal school for me.”

He enrolled in and dropped out of a law degree at University College Cork, which created some friction with his parents (when I ask if his own sons will go to university in Dublin, he says, “Whatever they want”). He continued with the band, his first creative love but the one that got away. When they were offered a contract with Acid Jazz records, he turned it down for a number of reasons, he says, crucially that he didn’t feel good enough. He still writes and plays at home but, no, you won’t be hearing any of his recordings, ever, he says.

It’s a funny thing talking to Murphy. He’s at once garrulous (on the craft, or literature, or ideas) and reticent (pretty much anything else). I sense in previous interviews that he skates over issues close to his heart – such as the expression of emotion in Ireland and the need to teach empathy in schools. But when I try to drill in to these topics, get to the root, he clams shut, emitting energy like a nuclear reactor.

Later, in a different context, he will tell me a truth: “I’m stubborn and lacking in confidence, which is a terrible combination. I don’t want to put anything out that I don’t think is excellent.” But he clearly hates the pantomime of publicity, asking why I am returning to certain topics and repeating lines I’ve read elsewhere. I can almost see him at home with its views towards the Irish Sea, complaining to his wife as they tuck into supper: “Another one, asking the same fucking questions.”

If he could get out of going to Cannes, of standing on red carpets, dressed as is his habit for a funeral, hair shellacked, hands in pockets; if he could turn his back on the coloured-foam mics thrust in his face, he would. He really would. No, it dawns on him now, there’s something even worse than the red carpet; there’s the talkshow rounds. The very word “talkshow” comes out of him like a pain from his ribcage, as if the parcelling out of amuse-bouche anecdotes, offering them up to the forced laughter of that false god of show business, the studio audience, is in itself the most cheapening experience known to mankind.

“I do them because you’re contractually obliged to. I just endure them. I’ve always found it difficult. I’ve said this so many, many times.” Then there’s the double wince of realising that, yes, he’s done it again. He’s laid into the industry that feeds him. His hands raise slowly in surrender. “I want to just caveat this by saying, I’m so privileged. I’m so happy to be doing what I love. I’m really lucky. But I don’t enjoy the personality side of being an actor. I don’t understand why I should be entertaining and scintillating on a talkshow. I don’t know why all of a sudden that’s expected of me. Why?”

There’s an awkward silence. I say that he reminds me of Naomi Osaka, the tennis player who refused to talk to journalists after the French Open in 2021. He says he feels “100%” sympathy with her, “because why should she have to perform?” Then he relents. “But I get it. I get it’s a kind of ecosystem where the film feeds the publicity which feeds the talkshows which goes back and feeds the film, so, like, that’s how it works. I suppose I’m just not good at it. At interviews, at this stuff,” he gestures at me. He says after he leaves me today he’ll be going down the stairs thinking of all the things he’s said and worrying it’s come across all wrong. “Do you know what Sam Beckett said? ‘I have no views to inter.’ I love that. That should be the interview.”

We return to his art, the tension falls away and he’s back to his charming self, charged air evaporating. Since Oppenheimer, he’s also wrapped Small Things Like These, an adaptation of Claire Keegan’s brilliant novella set in 1985 in a small Irish town on the edge of which is a convent and “laundry”. Murphy is a huge fan of Keegan. He remembers reading her 2010 novel Foster on a train and having to pull his hoodie over his face because he was crying so hard. Anyway, he’d wanted to work with the Peaky Blinders director Tim Mielants and they were throwing ideas around in his sitting room when Murphy’s wife suggested Small Things. “No, there’s no way,” Murphy said. “That’s going to be gone already.” But when he called the agent, he found it was available. “I went, ‘No, you’ve got to be fucking kidding.’” Murphy pitched the idea to Matt Damon, who has set up a studio with Ben Affleck. “From there it all just happened really quickly.”

Murphy plays Bill Furlong who, funnily enough, is a man of few words. Keegan’s light-touch writing is everything he loves in art – the sense that you are not being bashed over the head by an idea. That’s how he tries to act, he adds. “I’m always trying to cut lines in scenes, because I feel like you can transmit it. Like when you see a person on a train thinking, or driving a car, and you are purely observing someone and feeling the energy that is vibrating from them. That’s the sort of acting I love. In a lot of film and television, they want to cut those bits to go to the action. I like films that pose the big questions and then leave it to the audience.” Perhaps this is at the heart of his reticence in interviews? That he doesn’t feel the need to explain.

He still finds it “nuts” that the last of the Magdalene laundries closed in 1996, that it was illegal to buy condoms in Ireland until 1985, that divorce was made legal only in 1996. He remembers vividly thousands of people still going to see moving statues in Cork when he was growing up. “Crazy. But, like, how far the country has come since then, we’re so socially advanced now compared with where we were. But you must look back. And art is a better way of doing that than reading all these reports [into the laundries].” (Afterwards, he emails me: “The nation is actually dealing with an unresolved collective trauma. Who knows how long this will take to heal, but I feel strongly that art, film and literature can help with that process. It’s a kinder and gentler sort of therapy. I hope that our movie can help with that in its own little way.”)

Because he’s a nice man, because he doesn’t want me to feel bad about our encounter, and because he’s generous and hospitable, Murphy finishes by telling me some of the best places to visit in Ireland. He and his family are staying here for the summer. They’ve had it with air travel and his home town of Cork is only a couple of hours away. He supplies me with other recommendations: a great book he’s just read, Brian, by Jeremy Cooper, oh, and there’s the Francis Bacon studio exhibition I should catch on my way out.

But before I go, what has he learned from playing Oppenheimer? Foremost, he says, that scientists think differently. He knew this already from playing physicist Robert Capa in Danny Boyle’s Sunshine (2007) and hanging out in Cern, home of the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva, for research. “I had dinner with all these geniuses. I’ll never understand quantum mechanics, but I was interested in what science does to their perspective.” He sought their opinions on subjects that matter – love, politics, our place in the universe, “infinity, or whatever the fuck. Because they have a completely different way of taking in information than we do. I remember one scientist saying, ‘I don’t believe in love. It’s a biological phenomenon, the exchange of hormones between the female and the male. That’s all. Love is a nonsense.’” Murphy taps the table with his hand. “I couldn’t go along with that, obviously.”

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