#A Quiet Place II | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pedropascallme · 1 year ago

Text

People Worth Saving

Pairing: Emmett x f!Reader

Summary: "You bit the bullet and wandered closer to the dome, quiet footsteps aided by your worn-down sneakers and a strong will to find some security in this new space. Before you managed to lean down, to open the hatch and slide down into the waiting abyss below, something grabbed your jacket and pulled you back. The urge to cry out was tamped down by your will to live, and by the hand that quickly covered your mouth."

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI) age gap (reader is 19-20), p in v sex, oral (f receiving), mentions of death, child loss, general Quiet Place II angst, you know the drill, etc, etc. If I missed anything please let me know!

You had distant memories about your childhood, and the hammock that your father set up in the front yard between the two tall trees that had been there longer than the neighborhood had. He had gotten lazy, setting it up one summer and then never taking it down; it sat through sleet and snow and sunshine in the same spot.

Even if it got wet, you didn’t mind. You loved that hammock.

You realized early on that if you swung your legs over the side and swayed back and forth, you could use it as a swing. Pumping your legs hard and building up momentum only to leap off at the last second and fall in a heap at the end of the lawn. It drove your mother crazy with worry about skinned knees and concussions, but you were so full of joy in the moments of adrenaline leading up to the landing.

In the fall, when the leaves changed and fell and the trees became dormant, your father brought out the rake to clear the driveway and the path to the stairs. He piled the leaves high, and you always managed to completely destroy his hard work; swinging in the hammock and launching yourself into the dry, dead leaves, you created an explosion of autumn colors around yourself, feeling the solid crunch under your body. You’d laugh and laugh, and when your father had seen what you’d done, he would laugh, too, raking the leaves back up to repeat the cycle again.

You didn’t even care that for the rest of the day you found small twigs in your Pippy Longstocking-style braids, or that the leaves made your clothes smell musty until your mother threw them in the wash. You were too young to care about anything but having fun.

Now dry leaves terrified you.

Walking through the field felt like a death sentence, and every step you took was carefully calculated to avoid detection. Your heel would land softly in a patch of dirt, then your opposite foot would land sideways on the grass surrounding an obvious booby trap. You had no idea if it was still operating, if whoever had put it there was still checking it or if they were even still alive, but you didn't want to test any theories.

You longed to crunch the leaves under your feet, to feel the simmering nostalgia under your skin come to a boil and create your own pile to jump into—to feel free again from the burden of the world and of survival.

You made it to the entrance, concrete and dry, and you breathed a sigh of relief. Though the building was huge and likely easy to hide in, and the interior was empty enough to create a dull echo with every step, you still found solace in solid footing. Part of you wanted to scream out a greeting, to see if anybody would reveal themselves—perhaps the creator of the traps outside, or someone who had found said creator and done to them what most people do now when they come across an unsuspecting second party.

Screaming was off the table, for obvious reasons, but that didn’t stop the voice in your head from repeating hello? Over and over until you couldn’t remember if you had said it out loud or not.

You took several light steps to explore your surroundings. It had been a factory, maybe, or a foundry; it was mostly machinery and empty space, but you could imagine the people that must have once taken up space on the now-empty floor around the large pillars and appliances.

You couldn’t imagine that many of them were still breathing.

There was a dome shaped trap door on the far end of the building, and you felt the urge to explore further; it had been too long since you’d been able to rest in a sturdy, isolated place, and the itch to know what was behind the hatch made you feel unreasonably confident in finding safety with whatever it was. A bed, maybe. Something soft and warm and capable of helping you forget the constant state of fear you lived in.

You bit the bullet and wandered closer to the dome, quiet footsteps aided by your worn-down sneakers and a strong will to find some security in this new space. Before you managed to lean down, to open the hatch and slide down into the waiting abyss below, something grabbed your jacket and pulled you back. The urge to cry out was tamped down by your will to live, and by the hand that quickly covered your mouth.

You breathed heavily into the warm hand that now sat on your lips. The other hand of the person who now held you captive tightened around the base of your jacket, pulling you further from the promise of any dream you had created that lay beyond the underside of the trap door. You couldn’t turn your head, relying now on your eyes quickly darting side to side, trying to use your peripheral to catch a glimpse of whoever the hands connected to.

“No.”

It was a man’s voice, shaky and frightened but clearly attempting to reprimand you. You kept breathing, trying to find a way out of the situation, or at the very least a way out of your current position. You slowed your breathing, trying to still your body, making yourself malleable and light in his hands so that he assumed you would submit. You felt his hand loosen its grip on the fabric around your back, and in the same moment you swung your leg back, digging your heel into his shin as best you could from the angle before stomping on his foot when your leg came down.

His hands flew to his face, covering his own mouth in an attempt to silence his yelp at the sudden pain in his leg. You turned around, grabbing his wrists limply and forcing your fingers into his short hair to pull him down to you. You saw him wince under the handkerchief he wore across the bottom half of his face, bright blue eyes, worn down and tired, narrowing at you. You stared at each other until he gathered his bearings, straightening his legs and overcoming the pain you had caused him.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” You whispered as menacingly as you could, refusing to become a shrinking violet in the presence of this stranger after everything you had gone through. He moved his hands slightly, as if to shrug, before you realized you had him trapped with his palms over his face and thus left him unable to speak. You dropped his wrists, and his arms fell to his sides, but you kept a vice-grip on his scalp.

“Get out.” He kept his sentences short, you noticed from the three words he had spoken, and you understood why.

“Why?” You weren’t going to make this easy for him.

“You can’t stay here.” Four words. New record.

“Why?” You pressed, bothered that he seemed to think he had a right to the entirety of the building despite its size.

“It’s mine.”

“Don’t see your name on it.” He rolled his eyes at you, and you tightened your grip on his hair, earning another pained look from him. “And you don’t seem to be in any position to be giving orders.”

“Took me by surprise.”

“Yeah, you and me both.” You were dry, not wanting to give in to any banter he might try to pry from you. “Look, I haven’t eaten in two days, haven’t slept in three, and I don’t think either of us wants to make a scene given the current climate,” you nodded your head toward the door, implying that you’d leave him for the wolves if you had the chance. “Let me stay. One night. Then…”

“One.” He repeated, not bothering to acknowledge your sob story or the implication that this would be a fight for later. “Can you let go of me now?” You let go of him, pushing his head slightly as you loosened your fist. He straightened to his full height and rounded you. “Were you followed?”

“If I was, we’d be dead by now.”

“By people?”

“If I was, we'd be dead by now.” You persisted.

He let out a long exhale before nodding, bending to open the hatch and offering a hand to help you into the room below. “Ladies first.”

You exhaled sharply, biting your cheeks, and grabbing his outstretched hand before lowering yourself into the fluorescent lighting that awaited you. You retracted your hand as soon as you made it down one rung of the ladder.

It was small. Not small—it was actually bigger than most rooms you’d slept in for the past few months, but it was built like a classroom; high ceilings and minimal furniture, the lights flickered above you and you jumped when you heard the hatch close with a loud creak and crash.

“S’alright,” the man dusted his hands off on his jeans, “can’t hear us down here.”

There was a tunnel built into the wall, and you noticed a rag tied to the handle.

“What’s this?” You fiddled with the fabric before he came over to brush you off of it.

“Even quieter in there.”

“How’d you figure that out?”

“Trial and error.” He said simply before turning his back to you and slumping into the couch that lay in the middle of the room. He removed his handkerchief, sharp features only slightly hidden now by his unkept beard.

You wandered around, taking in the meager furnishings and the machinery. You had no idea what this room was meant to be in the building’s prime—maybe some sort of safe room, some sort of storage area. Who cared, really; now it was just another waste of perfectly good silence.

“So,” you started, still speaking softly out of habit and mild distrust, “are you going to, uh, get me to let down my guard? Kill me in my sleep?” You picked at the paint that was peeling off the wall.

“Not as long as you’re out by tomorrow,” he almost smiled, “and for the record, I’d only kill you if you were awake. Only fair that you see it coming, at least.”

“Cute,” you huffed, “And now that I’m down here what makes you so certain I’ll leave?” You were testing him, trying to see if there was any truth at all to what he was saying. He didn’t look like a killer, granted neither did you before day one; he was tall, compared to you, at least, and lanky. He clearly hadn’t had access to a razor since he’d been down here. He folded his arms where he sat on the couch, pleasant-ish small talk paired with closed off body language. You couldn’t see any weapons within arm’s reach, and if you had to guess you would say he only learned how to use whatever gun that he owned—if he owned one—when everything went to hell.

“Guess I’ll leave it up to trial and error again.” You liked his eyes, you decided, and the way the blue of his irises was so pronounced against his pale skin and brown hair. Maybe you even thought he was handsome, and if the circumstances were different, you might let him buy you a drink and see where it took you. You kept walking in circles around the room in silence, figuring that if he had anything worth saying he would come out and say it.

You stopped at a small table, something your mother would’ve gawked at in an IKEA as if she would actually ever buy it after looking at the price tag. There were pictures, hand drawn sketches and scribbles and faces in black and white. Some of them had color, faded, and worn by time, but still clear as day in the part of your brain that bothered to register the details.

“These are nice,” you were first to speak again, “you draw them?”

“No…” he looked like he was struggling to find the words to say what he wanted to, “My—my wife…” He trailed off, and you knew immediately that she was no longer in the picture, whether it had been before or after the invasion. Still, you felt a twang of disappointment; maybe for him, for his lonesomeness—or maybe for you, for your own.

You picked up a sketch that looked to be of two young boys, and even on the washed-out paper they looked like the man behind you. You turned, paper in hand, unsure of whether you wanted to speak to him about it, dredge up his memories.

But what's a little friendly conversation between new anti-companions?

“Yours?” You leaned over the back of the couch, holding the sketch in front of you so he could see what you were talking about. He reached for it, and you noticed a slight tremor in his hand before he took the paper from you.

“Yes,” he breathed, “yeah.”

“Look like you.”

“Better looking kids than I ever was,” he chuckled, low and solemn, “better behaved, too.” You watched on as he studied the picture, before he stood up and placed it back on the table behind the couch. “I was—um…y’ever seen the movie The Mist?”

“Yeah…” You wondered what exactly he could be building up to.

“When they—my sons—they…the first day…" You could feel his breath, not because of proximity, but because you knew the same pain. "And I was so, so scared that I would wake up on day two to find that everything had returned to normal, and everything was going to be ok, but they would still be…like at the end of that movie.” He folded his arms again, “but now I, I mean this is—god, I guess I’ve never said it out loud, uh…maybe…it’s good they didn’t have to see…this.”

You nodded, remembering how that movie ended; your parents had let you watch it, not knowing what it was about. You had nightmares any time it got foggy until you were ten or eleven. “Yeah,” you looked at him, making eye contact for a solid few seconds before averting your gaze. “I—my parents, and…my brother…” you didn’t know how to phrase it, feeling as though he had already said it all, “I get it.”

You didn’t tell him you had turned 19 in the week leading up to doomsday, that you had been sitting on the hammock that shaped your childhood and thinking about the joy of being small enough to jump into the leaf pile your dad was raking when you saw the first meteor strike town, or that the last words your mother screamed were “I’m sorry.”

It just didn’t seem right; sometimes grief is better explained through the silences.

“I’m Emmett,” he broke you from your thoughts, “And I’m…sorry for—if I scared you. Up there.”

You said your name, realizing it was the first time you had introduced yourself to anybody in over a year. You reached out your hand and he took it in a firm shake. “Pleasure.”

He smiled, a genuine, full smile this time. You decided it suited him well.

“You sleep on the couch?” You broke free from the way he was analyzing your features, trying not to focus on what he might think of them.

“Usually, yeah,” he leaned against the arm of the sofa, “but I’d be ok to sleep on the floor if you want.”

“No—that’s nice, but no, you don’t have to.” You hoped he saw through your lie, how desperately you wanted to rest on something soft. “I’m only here for the night, anyway, remember? Don’t want to…shouldn’t get too comfortable.”

“You can…” Emmett looked at you, then over his shoulder toward the couch, “I’m sorry.” He ran a hand over his forehead, lifting his messy hair before trailing down to stroke his beard, “you can stay, I just—can’t be too careful, you know? And I didn’t, I was worried you were—”

“Gonna kill you?” You smirked, and he smiled again.

“A little, yeah.” He looked at you, and you realized how close you’d gotten to him over the course of your conversation, “Stay as long as you want.”

“Does this mean I get the couch?”

“I think that’s fair.” He moved, grabbing several pillows from the couch, and dropping them on the floor underneath it; his makeshift bed would, at least, be mildly comfortable if he could help it. “You got here when the sun was setting, I’ve been up since it rose,” he sat amongst the pillows, trying to lay them out in a manner suitable for him to rest on, “So, if you don’t mind, I’m about ready to get some sleep.”

You nodded, dropping yourself onto the couch and grabbing the thin blanket draped over one of the cushions; it was threadbare, and fraying, but you didn’t care—too focused on the fact that you’d be able to sleep in a quiet, comfortable spot. You watched Emmett flick a switch in the corner of the room before he returned to his mess of pillows, and the lights dimmed. If you squeezed your eyes shut you felt like you might be able to hear your parents watching television in the other room, like you were in your own bedroom eavesdropping on their hushed conversations; safe, known.

But it wasn’t any of that—not really. In the back of your mind, you worried about the lack of exits in the room, the fact that you still didn’t know whether or not Emmett had a weapon, the looming threat that remained just above you. You looked at the ceiling when you opened your eyes, wondering if anything had followed you, wondering if they would figure out how to unscrew the hatch and find you in this echo chamber of a building.

“Emmett,” you managed to whisper through your anxieties, “Are you awake?”

“It’s been five minutes,” he sounded tired, and you realized that the dryness of his voice wasn’t due to any disinterest in you, but lack of use. “I’m still awake.”

“How do you know this is safe?” You picked a loose thread from the blanket and watched it unwind in your hands.

“It’s safe.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

You tried to drop it after that, ignoring the fears that you carried with you from past encounters where you were assured of your safety, only to wake up and find that you had to keep running. “And they can’t hear us?”

So much for dropping it.

“They can’t hear us.” You heard him turn over on the floor, and you shifted to face him. Even in the darkness, his eyes were piercing, and you had no trouble finding them with your own. “I’m certain. I promise.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be,” he shook his head, “only fair to be nervous.”

You nodded, lying back down, and pulling the blanket to your chin. It didn’t really do anything, and the chill of the room seeped into you even after you shifted to make yourself more comfortable. Maybe it was because you kept moving, or maybe he felt it too, but Emmett addressed you again.

“Cold?”

“Yeah,” you didn’t bother hiding it. Once the world went to shit there was no real reason to keep up the niceties of denying discomfort to your host. At sleepovers hosted by your friends, you would’ve said no, I’m perfectly comfortable, and breathed into your hands until the sun rose, and your mother picked you up with a sweatshirt and a bagel fresh from the toaster. Now? Fuck it.

“Would’ve been warmer in here when the building was still in use,” he began to ramble, and you thought it was so dad of him to feel the need to explain the history of the building you slept in when all you really wanted was some comfort, “machines and bodies moving, and, I mean, the heat generated from these things would’ve been crazy.”

“Emmett,” you cut his monologue short, your face peering over the couch cushions and down at him, “are there more blankets?”

“No…” He seemed embarrassed, almost like he was worried he was disappointing you.

“Are you cold?”

“Not really.” He closed his eyes.

“Emmett.”

“A little.” He sighed; his eyes opened again.

You sat up and patted the couch, unsure of why exactly this was the solution you had landed on, but feeling like it was worth a shot. “Come.”

“Are you sure?” He hardly seemed hesitant, moving to join you almost immediately, but still trying to gage whether or not it was an empty offer.

You nodded, moving to make room for him behind you. When he first settled onto the couch, you recognized that this was the first time in ages that anybody had touched you—that anybody had come close to you. Heat radiated off of his clothed body and you couldn’t help but inch closer to him, bodies tangling together on the small sofa, trying to find peace. You wondered if he felt the same catharsis that came with sharing a sleeping space; if he was just as in awe as you were at how perfectly your bodies seemed to fit together, curving to appeal to the needs of each other and your individual comfort. Emmett’s arm draped over your abdomen, his hand brushing the hem of your shirt, and you sighed, unable to hide your content at the feeling of him shielding you from the wider world.

“When was the last time you…” you whispered, trailing off when you realized how awkward the question would sound.

“Hm?” His response was muffled, his face all but buried in your hair.

“When was the last time you touched somebody?” You but the bullet.

“I…must be months, now.” He didn’t think too long about it, “What about you?”

You turned in his arms, careful to not disturb the cushions too much under your weight. You were face to face with him now, with little room to do anything but breathe. “I don’t remember.”

You didn’t mean it in any sexual sense; really you were just curious as to how much physical affection anybody was getting given the current state of things; how long had it been since any two people had the time to just hold hands? And really enjoy the touch and weight of the other’s hand in their own, fingers interlocked? But deep down you knew there was an implication to your words, a desperate implication that you hoped he would pick up on, and that, if he did, he would understand your want, and fulfill it wholeheartedly.

Emmett’s hand strayed from your waist to brush your cheek, the back of two fingers caressing your skin, and your patience broke; you held his wrist with both hands, a parallel to the way you had trapped him earlier when you considered him a threat, and lowered it to your lips. You could feel the callouses he had built up, the roughness of his palm versus the soft skin of the back of his hand. You gave each finger a delicate kiss, waiting for him to break away, waiting for him to move back to the floor and tell you that you absolutely had to leave tomorrow, to hell with what he had said earlier.

But he didn’t.

He watched, transfixed, as you slid one finger into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip and releasing it with a quiet pop. You let go of his wrist, and looked up at him with hooded eyes, half-expecting a look of disgust.

His mouth was open just enough to see the edges of his top teeth, eyes focused on your lips, and you felt that his breathing had picked up, though that could have been a trick of the surrounding quiet.

“You like that?” No, he was definitely breathing harder. You could hear it in his words.

“Yeah,” you sighed, relieved by his words, the bright eyes staring back at you in the dark room seemed entirely untroubled with your actions, “Do you?”

“Yeah.” His fingers moved to trace the shape of your face before landing on your chin, lifting you slightly higher to allow him access.

No time was wasted in the moments that followed; his mouth attached to yours in one natural movement, and he immediately granted your tongue access to him when you began licking gently at his lower lip. You felt spit and teeth, and you could hear your heart in your ears, its rhythm in your face as he nipped gently at you, your lips getting puffy from use.

Arms wrapped around your waist again, this time to haul you up and over Emmett’s body, his motion encouraging you to straddle his waist. You planted your hands on his chest before reconnecting your lips to him, determined to explore every inch he offered you from your new vantage point. His t-shirt, stretched and worn, exposed a sliver of his chest, and you were quick to suck marks onto his collar bones and just below them. He groaned at the contact, hands traveling lower down your body in order to undo your jeans.

“Work with me baby, c’mon,” Emmett clumsily undid your fly as you licked over any skin you could reach. He pulled at your hair to bring your line of sight to his, and the stinging pressure on your scalp made you moan, “Help me out here, I’ll give you what you want.”

You straightened out above him, grinding your hips into his as you stripped down; jacket, shirt, and jeans following once you had made enough room for yourself to remove them. You returned to your rightful place on his lap, continuing to grind down onto him to relieve the building ache in your core. The friction he gave you was just right, and it helped to hear him groan when you dragged your hips up and down at just the right pace, his cock twitching in his pants at the weight and the angle.

His hands came up to paw at your chest, squeezing the tender skin before leaning forward to wrap his lips around your nipple. Your back arched, and you could only guess how pathetic it looked, coming so undone, so easily, for a man you had just met, clearly more than ten years your senior.

It was desperate and needy, and you didn’t care; you deserved this. Both of you deserved this.

You felt teeth brush against your pebbled skin, making you grind down harder atop him, letting the tip of his clothed cock catch your naked cunt and relishing in the sensation. He removed his mouth from your nipple, pulling you down to him to reconnect your mouths and give you a deliberately sloppy kiss full of tongue.

“Off,” you pleaded between gasps of air, fingers skimming the edge of his pants, “Take them off.”

Emmett huffed, and you sat back on your knees, giving him the space to sit up and remove his shirt, before he stood to take off his jeans. You waited for him to rejoin you on the couch, to continue what he had started there, but he kneeled in front of you instead, pulling you legs apart and holding them wide open.

“God,” one of his hands fell forward, gently placed low on your stomach, his thumb toying with your swollen clit and puffy lips, “Fuck.”

He dove into you, mouth open and wanting; you felt him come into contact with your hole and you jumped, head back and eyes closed as genuine pleasure washed over you. You placed a hand on the back of his neck to stabilize yourself as he began to fuck you with his tongue. The muscle lapped up your slick, pushing back into you, and repeating the process, his thumb still massaging your clit.

“Yeah, like that,” you whimpered, back arching off the couch. The hand still on your thigh ensuring that your legs would stay open for him reached up to squeeze one of your nipples; it was rough, and all the movement and friction he was giving you was utterly relentless. The overstimulation left you reeling, and you put your own fingers in your mouth to muffle the screams you wished you could let him hear. “Just like that, Emmett.”

You felt yourself teetering on the edge, one breath and you were a goner, bound to free-fall.

"I feel you," he let a trail of spit fall over your cunt, and when he spoke you could feel the prickly hair of his beard against your thighs, "squeezing me so tight—cum for me, baby, c'mon."

He sped up his movements on your clit ever so slightly, and you felt your legs begin to tremble, body light and head full of stars. You came with ease, the most relaxed you’ve felt in ages was with Emmett’s face buried in your cunt, lapping up what dripped from you like it was his only water source.

You nearly had to pry him off of you, fist in his hair while you came to from your high as he continued to enjoy himself vicariously through your pleasure.

“Come,” you steadied your breathing, “come here.” And he listened, but not before allowing himself a final taste, dipping his tongue into your center, rising to meet you face-to-face in another deep kiss. You could taste the sweet tang of your cum on his tongue, and it only drove you further into the fucked-out fugue state you were experiencing; you gripped his shoulders, pulling him closer and moaning into his mouth.

There was no rush, no bell to beat or timeframe to fit into, but you wanted so badly to see him come undone for you; you raised yourself up on your knees, and you felt them dig into the couch, the pattern of the fabric marking your skin as you pushed Emmett down. He sat, beckoning you to straddle him. You felt a shred of embarrassment, clambering to position yourself on top of him, an awkward feeling you hadn’t felt since high school, but it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered right now except him.

“Slow,” you finally settled, feeling his length brush against you from below, and with your head resting against his shoulder you could feel your own breath rebound against your nose. “Need you to go slow.”

“I know, baby,” he cooed, reaching down to fist his cock and line himself up with your entrance, “Don’t worry, I got you.”

You began to lower yourself, the feeling of his swollen head nudging your hole made you suck in a sharp breath; you bent your legs further, taking more of him, letting him fill you completely on your own terms, and he guided you every step of the way with his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, breathing hard against the crown of your head.

Maybe it was because of the tension, or because you so craved the connection—to hear him respond to you and what you alone were doing—but you dropped down quickly on the last few inches, feeling him deep and rough against your cervix, earning a choked groan from Emmett in your ear.

“Fuck, good, baby, that’s right.” You preened at his words, holding your position for a while longer to get accustomed to the stretch you felt before finally raising yourself up slightly just to inch back down his shaft again.

You felt full, stretched out and used—but in a way that was so positively welcomed; it had been too long since you were able to enjoy yourself in any capacity, but this act was certainly the most fun.

“Feel good? Like riding me like this?” Emmett tilted his head back, grabbing a handful of your hair to pull you from the crook of his neck. You stared at him, and he at you, hellbent on watching as you liberated yourself from the nerves and anxieties of the world around you—he craved your bliss as much as you did.

“Yes,” you squeaked, still bouncing on his cock, legs getting sore at the exertion in such a tight space, “So fucking good, Emmett.”

He moaned, eyes fluttering closed and hands moving to grip your ass. You could feel his blunt nails dig into your skin, and you expected—hoped—that there would be bruises to show for it tomorrow.

“Getting tired?” He whispered when he noticed the short breaks you took between moving up and down on his cock to simply grind down onto him, moving your legs around his chest awkwardly in an attempt to shift your weight. You nodded, thighs burning from exertion, and he sat up, kissing your forehead before lifting you gently off of him and moving you to lie back on the couch. Emmett took his time crawling over you; he kissed your thighs, your stomach, the space between the plush skin of your breasts, before finally he had you completely engulfed underneath him, giving you soft kisses as he slid himself back into your warmth. You lifted your hips to meet him, moaning at how he fit with you, how you could memorize every ridge and vein of him like this.

And then he started really moving.

You felt him pull out, the slight pressure of the tip of his cock pressed gently against your entrance, taunting you, before he slammed himself back into your waiting cunt. It was deep, and rough, and you clawed at his bicep to ground yourself to him.

Emmett let out deep moans, forehead pressed against yours while he drove his cock as far into you as he could, and your logical side went completely out the window; you whined, yelped at the pleasure coursing through you, mewled for him louder than you should have, but neither of you seemed to care.

“That’s right,” he closed his eyes, focusing every part of himself on you, “give me another one, let me feel you.” His fingers latched onto your clit, watching intently at the way your face contorted at the friction combined with the feeling of his cock inside of you. He drew tight circles over the bud, letting you buck your hips up into him to signify how much pressure you needed at a given moment.

“Gonna—I’m gonna cum,” you whispered, then, louder, “Emmett, I’m gonna fucking cum.”

He didn’t say anything, just applied more pressure to your clit and gave you longer, slower thrusts. He watched as you began to tremble, your mouth falling open with small whines of his name. He sat up, cock still buried in your heat, thrusts slowing as you opened your eyes to the white-hot satisfaction of your orgasm. Overstimulated didn’t begin to cover it, but you didn’t want this to end.

His thrusts were getting sloppier, not in the sense that you could feel his rhythm falter, but his hips stuttered slightly every time he was fully sheathed in you, and you could tell he was holding back, trying to make this more about you than about his own release.

You pulled him down, nuzzling his neck and placing sloppy kisses on his pulse point as you whispered to him: “Want you to cum,” your lips grazed the shell of his ear, “Please, Emmett.”

You were proud that it seemed to only take your pleading whispers for him to lose himself to the finish he longed for; his hips snapped rough against you, and you could feel his chest heave against your own when he allowed himself one more moment inside of you before pulling out to finish in his fist.

His cum was warm, a perfect contrast to the sweat cooling on your skin, and his growl of your name was music to your ears. He fell forward, head cushioned by your breasts while you both focused on your breathing. Your fingers found the hair on the nape of his neck, thumb brushing the part of his beard that curved just under his ear.

You were in the perfect space between tired and satisfied.

“Thank you,” Emmett murmured into your skin, punctuating his words with soft kisses.

“Thank you,” you echoed, unsure of what to say now that the heat of the moment had passed. “I…I needed that.” You paused, “I liked that.”

“Me too,” he whispered.

“I don’t want it—I don’t want this to be the only time.” You felt immature for some reason, all but begging for this to happen again when you didn’t even know if you’d see next week.

“Doesn’t have to be,” he whispered, “we don’t have to leave,” he looked up at you, tracing your features with his eyes, “You don’t ever have to leave.”

You grabbed his hand and squeezed it gently. He squeezed it back.

You fell asleep without a care, thrilled to be in the position you were in, in every sense of the word; Emmett stayed on your chest, the weight of his body on yours only adding to the reassurance and calm you felt.

You had a dream that you raked your own pile of leaves, and jumped into them.

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy x you #a quiet place #a quiet place part ii #a quiet place ii #a quiet place 2 #emmett #emmett x reader #emmett x you #emmett a quiet place #emmett fanfiction #emmett smut

426 notes · View notes

beastofburdenxo · 1 year ago

Text

Stay Still

You want to try something new, but Emmett has other ideas. ✨️Smut✨️ Cockwarming, p in v sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk.

"Stay still for me, okay?" You ask Emmett as you are perched in his lap, filled to the brim with his cock. He was originally excited when you wanted to try something new, but now he's not so sure. "Baby, are you seriously going to just sit there? What in the hell is this?" You stroke his beard wearing a teasing smile. "This is cockwarming, Emmett. Isn't this fun?"

Emmett groans as he feels you flutter around him. "Well I may be nice and warm, but this certainly isn't fun for me. Will you please move?" He pleads. "Nope, now hush and sit there." Emmett rolls his eyes and rests his forehead on your shoulder trying to gain composure. You hear his heavy breathing and cursing under his breath. You are so full and warm and comfortable. Emmett on the other hand, has had enough.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but this is bullshit." He stands up, still inside you, and quickly has you underneath him. He wastes no time, and starts moving in and out at a quick pace. "Now, isn't this more fun?" Emmett asks, now having you be the immobile one, hands pinned above your head. "Thinking it's fun and cute to tease me like that. You should be ashamed. So warm and wet and I'm supposed to just sit in it? Fuck you." His thrusts taking the wind out of you, no response can be made. You have to admit to yourself, this is more fun.

He looks down at you, knowing your body and that your are very close. "Nope, dont you do it. Just sit there, remember? See how you fucking like it. Don't you dare come." You cry out in frustration. "Emmett please!" He slows to a snails pace, "Nope, just stay still remember?" Isn't this fun?"

#emmett a quiet place #emmett x you #emmett smut #emmett x reader #a quiet place ii

119 notes · View notes

queenshelby · 2 years ago

Text

THE FUTURE (PART TWO)

Pairing: Emmett (A Quiet Place) x Original Female Character

Warning: Age Gap, Forced Procreation, Past Sexual Abuse, Angst

Words: 2,677

Emmett brooded alone in his rustic cabin, his weathered face contorted in a scowl. Evelyn's plea weighed heavily on his mind, an oppressive burden dragging him into the depths of frustration. "Why should I bring a child into this forsaken world?" he muttered to himself, the words escaping his lips as a hushed whisper. It wasn't just the lurking danger beyond their sanctuary that deterred him; it was the guilt that haunted him from his past.

As if on cue, Evelyn entered the room, her wide eyes searching for Emmett's gaze. She understood his mood without the need for words, instinctively sensing the turmoil within him. "Have you made a decision?" she asked, eager to know if Emmett was prepared to be paired with Caitlyn for the program.

"Yes, Evelyn, and the answer is no," Emmett replied firmly, causing Evelyn's eyebrows to furrow in concern. "I understand," she said, taking a seat beside him, her presence a comforting balm. She watched as he shook his head, her empathy flowing freely.

"Do you truly understand?" Emmett questioned, a flicker of anger igniting in his eyes. "Bringing a child into this world... It's a perilous gamble. I lost my family once, and I cannot bear the thought of losing another. Pretending to go along with the program while secretly abstaining will only result in Caitlyn being paired with someone else after months or even a year of fruitless attempts." Emmett's words were laced with painful truth, and Evelyn knew he had thoroughly considered this choice.

Evelyn's expression softened, and her hands reached out to gently touch his arm. "That's why I understand, Emmett. I am grateful that I am too old to participate in this program. But, despite the odds, we have a chance to create something beautiful here."

Emmett met her gaze, realizing the depth of her understanding and compassion. "I will inform the Council of your decision," Evelyn finally said, leaving Emmett to his solitude, knowing he desired it.

Meanwhile...

Caitlyn stood alone on the edge of the island, her heart heavy with the weight of her resolve. She had made her choice. Like Emmett, she couldn't fathom bringing a child into this harsh and dangerous world. It seemed a futile endeavor, only amplifying the vulnerability of the human race. And so, she had decided to leave.

With determination in her eyes, Caitlyn hastily scribbled a note explaining her intentions. "I cannot remain here," she wrote, the words stark against the paper. With a sigh, she pinned the note to a prominent post, aware it would be discovered soon enough.

As luck would have it, Evelyn stumbled upon the note during her leisurely stroll back from Emmett's cottage. She usually took the scenic route, collecting naturally growing food along the way. Her eyes widened as she read the words, her heart pounding in her chest. "Dear God!" Evelyn cursed, hastening her return to Emmett's cottage.

"Emmett!" she called out upon approaching, her voice echoing through the lush landscape. "You won't believe what I found!" Emmett came running towards her, rifle in hand, fearing the worst.

Startled, Emmett's rugged face etched with concern. "What is it, Evelyn?" he asked, worry creeping into his voice.

Evelyn caught up to him, the wind whipping her hair around her face. "It's Caitlyn," she said breathlessly, thrusting the note into his hands. "She's gone."

Emmett's eyes narrowed as he scanned the note, the words sinking like stones in his chest. "I'm not surprised," he muttered, a mix of anger and worry brewing beneath his gruff exterior.

"Nor am I, but I must find her, Emmett. The boys need her, and she has already endured so much," Evelyn pleaded. However, Emmett shook his head, his mind made up.

"No, I will go after her. You are needed here," Emmett declared, his voice a solemn whisper. With a determined glint in his piercing blue eyes, Emmett embarked on his perilous mission to find Caitlyn and bring her back, regardless of the cost.

***

Meanwhile, Caitlyn had already found herself on the mainland, her footsteps silent against the cracked pavement. She had always been a daring adventurer, but this was an entirely new level of peril.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she cautiously navigated the desolate streets. Her deafness was both a blessing and a curse in this soundless world plagued by creatures drawn to noise. Caitlyn couldn't afford even the slightest sound. She had witnessed firsthand the horrors these creatures were capable of, and those memories haunted her dreams.

As she walked, Caitlyn's thoughts drifted to Emmett and Evelyn, both of whom she considered dear friends. They had always been there for her, a steadfast pillar of support. Emmet, in particular, was a mentor and friend to her, even if he was twice her age and had a tendency to be grumpier than a bear with a toothache.

It was for the better this way. Caitlyn knew that Evelyn and Emmett would look after the boys for her, and she knew that she had made the right decision, namely to leave. She couldn’t even imagine the heartache of having a family would bring to her in this unkind world and forced procreation with someone she despised was even worse. It was Caitlyn’s worst nightmare. Much worse than the creatures themselves.

***

Meanwhile, Emmett trudged onward, his face etched with determination and worry. He had always been a protector, but this felt different. It felt... personal.

Days passed, but Emmett never faltered, following Caitlyn's inadvertent breadcrumbs. He had a hunch that she was heading to the abandoned factory in the heart of the town. With his survival instincts guiding him, he navigated the dangerous path, avoiding the roaming creatures that lurked in the shadows.

As he approached the centre of the dilapidated worker's township, the silence grew deafening, and fear hung heavy in the air. The creatures ruled this place, and one wrong move could mean certain death.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Emmett spotted Caitlyn in the distance. She stood frozen amidst the ruins of a forgotten city. Relief washed over him like a cool wave, but he knew better than to rush to her side. He had to be patient, cautious - the silent hero.

Emmett approached Caitlyn with utmost care, his eyes never straying from the lurking creatures. Caitlyn turned towards him, her eyes widening in surprise, her hands trembling slightly. She had hoped someone would come for her, but seeing Emmett now, a mix of emotions flooded her.

"I didn't expect you to come," Caitlyn signed softly, her fingers uncertainly grasping at the air.

Emmett offered her a small, understanding smile. “We're friends, remember?" he signed, a confession he had never made before. In his world, he believed he had no friends.

Caitlyn nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. Never had she valued friendship more than in that moment.

“Come, I know where it is safe,” Emmett motioned for Caitlyn to follow him. She nodded, knowing he had a plan to keep her alive.

From the moment she met Emmett, she had been captivated by his resourcefulness and resilience. He understood the creatures' nature, communicating through sign language that he had learned from Regan.

As they walked side by side, silence enveloped them. Each step was cautious, every breath held in anticipation. In their world, noise was the enemy.

Finally, they reached the edge of the dense forest, where Emmett had established a hidden sanctuary during one of his supply runs.

Emmett led Caitlyn to a small cottage, but before they could reach safety, a sudden crack of a branch shattered the silence. Fear gripped Emmett's chest, his heart skipping a beat.

“Hide!” he gestured frantically, urging Caitlyn to find shelter. He pulled her towards safety as the creatures charged through the vegetation, their terrifying presence shaking the very foundations of their being.

"Quiet," Emmett mouthed, his hands steady. Caitlyn held her breath, her wide-eyed gaze fixed on the creatures as they passed, their instincts focused on the noise that had momentarily disturbed their stillness.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, the creatures moved on, unaware of Emmett and Caitlyn's presence. Caitlyn released a shaky breath, her body trembling with fear. Emmett reassured her with a pat on the shoulder, relief evident in his eyes.

***

Eventually, Emmett and Caitlyn entered the cottage. Every rustle of leaves, every whisper of wind made Emmett's heart race, fearing the return of the nightmarish creatures.

The events of the past few days had left Caitlyn physically and emotionally drained. She needed rest before continuing her journey, and Emmett understood that.

For hours, they sat on the cold ground, Caitlyn lost in fragmented memories. Fear, pursuit, and the haunting faces of the creatures consumed her thoughts. But amidst the chaos, there was a glimmer of hope - Emmett, her beacon of strength in this relentless nightmare.

“You have two choices now, Caitlyn," Emmett signed, guiding her face towards his.

“We can venture to the factory together, leaving the safety of the island behind for good, or we can return to the island where it's secure," Emmett signed, allowing her the space to process the overwhelming events and emotions.

“I cannot return to the island, Emmett!" Caitlyn signed, as a gentle rustle of leaves outside caught his attention. He turned to face the sound, his heart quickening once more.

“Yes, you can. I'll move in with you, and together, we can pretend to comply with the authorities' quest to repopulate the planet," Emmett joked, eliciting a smile from Caitlyn, though she shook her head.

Caitlyn scrutinized his countenance, searching for even the slightest trace of deception, yet all she discovered was an unwavering honesty etched into every crease. Reluctantly, she replied, "And what reason do I have to place my trust in you?"

Emmett's hand quivered imperceptibly as he clenched his fists, his words intermingling with the distant roar of creatures. "Because I am present here and now, am I not? Despite everything, I have morals that prevent me from allowing the Council to coerce you into something you do not believe in," he whispered and expressed through his hands to the best of his abilities.

A heavy silence descended upon them as Caitlyn contemplated Emmett's proposition. She weighed the risks, the potential for security, and the immense responsibility of bringing another life into this daunting world.

Breaking the stillness, Caitlyn signed, "If we feign our alliance, what will happen if we are discovered? The consequences could be catastrophic."

Emmett nodded, fully comprehending the gravity of her concerns. "It will be risky, yes, but perhaps my willingness to partake in this charade will grant you some respite, at least until we can find a more viable solution."

A faint smile curved Caitlyn's lips, her hands conveying both apprehension and hope. In the eerie hush of their surroundings, Emmett's offer lingered in the air, awaiting Caitlyn's decision. The weight of their future bore down upon them, threatening to shatter their fragile aspirations.

Caitlyn's hands moved deliberately, contemplating her response. With each measured gesture, her decision began to take shape. Finally, she signed, "I will accompany you back. For now."

Relief washed over Emmett's face, though it was tinged with caution. He knew their journey to the island would be arduous, and their trials far from over. Yet, together, perhaps, Caitlyn stood a fighting chance.

205 notes · View notes

dbnightingale24 · 2 years ago

Text

Getting Lost In The Silence With You

An Emmett Lovestory

Surprise, and Happy Halloween!!

I just wanted to make something fluffy and loving, since I'm always giving you guys angst and despair 🙃 anywho, I hope you all enjoy this little story, I hope you're enjoying one of the best days ever, and please be safe! As always, thank you to @fuckingbyefor the amazing moldboard, and for just existing. Alright, enough of my rambling, enjoy!

Like always, Tumblr is on it's bullshit, so I'm only gonna post part of it here, and leave the link to my AO3 if you wanna read all of it.

Word Count: 15,618

Warnings: SMUT (18+ Minors DNI), Swearing, Drinking, Heartbreak, Dealing with Loss, FLUFF, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Self Doubt, A Bit of Self Loathing, uhh...I think that's it?

Song(s) That Inspired This Chapter: You Are The One I Waited For, I Knew It All Along

I do not give permission/consent for my works/stories to be posted elsewhere.

You keep your giggles quiet as you feel something tickling your toes.

Emmett.

‘Happy birthday,’ he smiles down at you after your eyes finally open.

This has been routine for the past three years now, and you can’t help but smile at the fact that you and Emmett have had each other to lean on. You wonder how something so beautiful came from such an ugly turn of events.

When Emmett found you, you were both wary of one another. He hadn’t meant to find you, and you hadn’t meant to find him. He stumbled across where you’d been hiding, searching for materials to stock up on. The second he found you hiding, you both pulled your guns on one another. While you were more than sure that he could see the fear in your eyes, you saw the emptiness and despair in his. Yet the longer he looked at you and the more you shook, the softer his features became.

He held a finger against his lips, a sign for you to be quiet, and slowly led you out of the closet. You warily grabbed the few of the things you had and followed him. You’re not sure why you followed him to this day.

“What were you doing there?” he asked softly, once you two had reached where he was hiding out, putting away the few supplies he was able to scrounge up on his trip.

“The same thing everyone else who’s alive is trying to do. Hiding.”

“That’s a terrible hiding spot.”

“It worked out just fine for me for the last two months.”

“Are you alone?”

Silence.

He turned around to see you standing there, eyes watering as you tried to look anywhere but at him.

You’d been alone for a year at the time. There hadn’t been anyone you’d confided in, and you didn’t find yourself wanting to know anyone. The last person in life died in your arms and you’d decided to keep to yourself from then on out. It just felt like the best idea; the safest in this world surrounded by danger.

“I don’t mean to be harsh, you just...that spot was dangerous. Even more so if you’re alone. Have a seat. Have you eaten today?”

“Don’t eat much,” you mumbled, taking a seat at his table, looking around the empty space. “I don’t hunt unless I have to.”

“I’ll get you something, just sit tight,” he told you softly.

You looked around and saw the different drawings, a few pictures, and wondered how long it’d been since he lost everyone.

“Th-thank you,” you told him softly, pulling out a bottle of wine and setting it on the table.

Seemed like a pretty decent peace offering.

“Where the hell did you get that?” he half smiled, coming over and picking up the bottle in admiration.

“Some of it’s self made, others are from...before.”

“How old are you?”

“What’s the date?”

“October 31st.”

You smiled and shook your head, wiping away a few tears, “I’m 27 today.”

He offered a sympathetic smile, “happy birthday.”

And that’s how it started. You never intended on staying with him, and you’re more than sure he never meant to let you stay, but you both soon found that you enjoyed the company of each another. It’d been a long time since either of you had people in your lives, and it just felt nice to have someone around.

Even if you two didn’t say much to each other for the first few months.

Every once in a while, he’d hear you crying and sit by you, softly placing his hand over yours and you’d squeeze it softly. Other times, he’d have restless nights, tossing and turning for hours, and you’d just sit by him and take his hand until he felt at ease. In exchange of him getting food, you taught him how to make his own wine and vodka. You would share books, and every now and again you’d both go to the nearby falls together just to hear something.

This stayed a constant for months until he found you listening to your iPhone one day.

“How do you still have one of those?” he marveled, putting a plate of venison in front of you.

Deer was his specialty.

“My best friend figured out to make a battery one night,” you laughed softly. “She was drunk as shit, but real determined to make it work. She refused to lose all of the comforts from the way things used to be. It was the last gift she ever gave me. I’m not the best when it comes to things like that, so I try not to use it often. I don’t wanna end up breaking it and being fucked,” you finished with a scoff as you pressed ‘pause’ and set it aside.

“What’s special about today?”

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Explains why it’s so damn cold,” he muttered, and you laughed softly. “Anything good on there?”

“Depends on what your definition of good is,” you smirked, pouring the both of you a cup of wine. “Being a Jersey girl, there’s a lot of Springsteen on there-”

“You’re from Jersey?” he questioned before he realized he cut you off, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...”

“No, it’s okay. We’ve never talked about it. Um yeah, I was born and raised in New Jersey. My parents moved to Millbrook after I went off to college. I was here visiting when...when everything happened. Got stuck,” you chuckled humorlessly. “At least I don’t have to worry about paying off my college loans,” you muttered as you cut up your deer and Emmett laughed.

It was the first time you’d actually heard him laugh.

You can read the rest here.

taglist: @autumnrose40

#fanfic #fan fiction #fan fic #fanfiction #A Quiet Place 2 #A Quiet Place II #Emmett #emmett x reader #emmett x you #cillian murphy character #cillian murphy characters #Emmett x Y/N

95 notes · View notes

denimbex1986 · 2 years ago

Text

'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.”

187 notes · View notes

editfandom · 11 months ago

Text

A QUIET PLACE PART II, 2020 | Emily Blunt as Evelyn Abbott

26 notes · View notes

cillirishan · 2 years ago

Text

Emmett icons | A Quiet Place II

#icon #icons #a quiet place #a quiet place ii #a quiet place 2 #cillian murphy icon #cillian murphy #cillian murphy icons #a quiet place icon #a quiet place icons #a quiet place emmett #a quiet place emmett icons

48 notes · View notes

idksmtms · 1 year ago

Text

Cillian Murphy Masterlist

Cillian Murphy

Oneshots

Cillian Murphy & Y/n L/n | Actors on Actors - (Cillian Murphy x young actress!reader - coming soon)

The two biggest movie stars of the summer sit down to discuss all things acting, the success of their movies, and... possibly flirting with each other?

Golden Globes - (Cillian Murphy x reader)

Written from the perspective of press and viewers of the golden globes; how cute are Cillian Murphy and his girlfriend Y/n L/n?! From the red carpet to his acceptance speech, look at what a mesmerising couple these two make!

Was it Just the Movie - (Cillian Murphy x young actress!reader - coming soon)

While filming a dark romance movie with Cillian, the line between costars and lovers begins to blend. Do you really love each other or is it just the movie?

Meet the Kids - (Cillian Murphy x younger!reader)

It's finally time for the kids to meet Dad's new girlfriend. Cillian thinks they don't even know that he's started dating again, and decides to sit them down for a conversation. The kids already know who it is and more. How is this going to go?

Series

Year Abroad - (Cillian Murphy x younger!reader) - coming soon

After a last minute accident, the Murphy family decides to host a pair of University year abroad students as a favour to a friend. Neither Cillian nor Y/n is expecting to find such camaraderie in someone so different to themselves. (I promise it's better than the summary makes it sound...)

evermore series

1. willow 8. dorothea 12. long story short

AUs

Don't Jump in the Mushroom Ring - (Fairy King!Cillian Murphy x human reader - coming soon)

There's a reason people tell their children not to jump into a mushroom ring. They say it's a portal into the world of fairies. The only way out? Judgement handed by the king. You were curious. You jumped in...

A Gift from the Sidhe - (Hurt Human!Cillian Murphy x fairy!reader - coming soon)

After a dog walk in the woods ends with Cillian hitting his head and passing out, he wakes up a few hours later fully rested with not an injury in sight. Something doesn't sit right with him, and he returns to the spot the next day, happening upon something he only knew from Irish folklore...

Plié, Jeté, Relevé - (Ballet Master!Cillian Murphy x Ballerina!reader)

You may not have been the best ballerina in the company, but you worked hard. Ok maybe the last couple of weeks weren't the best evidence for this but in your defence, there's a lot going on in your life! And maybe Mr. Murphy doesn't appreciate lazy, slacking, ballerinas...

Emmett - A Quiet Place Part II

Silence - (Emmett x younger!reader)

Who cares about propriety? Everything is gone.

Tommy Shelby - Peaky Blinders

Request: The Comeback - (Tommy Shelby x reader, Tommy Shelby x Grace Burgess)

After Grace shoots Detective Campbell and runs away, Tommy ends up marrying you to further Shelby Company LTD. He doesn't expect life with you to be as amazing as it is. Nor does he expect Grace to return...

Jonathan Crane - Batman Begins

(Coming soon)

Raymond Leon - In Time

(Coming soon)

Robert Fischer - Inception

(Coming soon)

Jim - The Delinquent Season

(Coming soon)

Lenny Miller - ANNA

(Coming soon)

446 notes · View notes

fyeaheddiemunson · 6 months ago

Text

#joseph quinn #joe quinn #jq #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things 4 #a quiet place day one #a quiet place #les mierables #les mis #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #emperor geta #geta #enjolras #eric

1K notes · View notes

florals-cardigan · 6 months ago

Text

Me @ people switch on Joseph Quinn by thinking he's hot after hating him in 2022

#posting this again after i post it when a quiet place movie comes out #Joseph Quinn #joe quinn #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #gladiator #emperor geta

633 notes · View notes

saintmuses · 1 year ago

Text

❝𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙, 𝙨𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙩❞

Pairing:

Emmett x Babysitter!Reader

Summary:

Emmett shouldn’t go into her bedroom, but he did.

Warning(s): SMUT. Age gap (Reader in her almost mid 20s and Emmett in his mid 30s). Reader does not share any scenes with him, but he’s fantasizing about her. Stealing a shirt and seeing something else. Handjob on Emmett’s part. Implied infidelity (emotionally? Since he hadn’t cheat on his wife physically?) Minors, DNI!

Word Count: 1.2k

The brick wall reverberated after a sledgehammer was knocked into it with such force it broke into chunks.

“A wrecking ball has a better chance than this.” As if Emmett was disgusted by how weak the metal tool is whenever it made an impact on the brick wall. He propped the tool next to the wall that was untouched.

His friend sighed, wiping the sweat off his brow. “Tell me about it, that’s why I asked for help.” He muttered before dropping the sledgehammer onto the floor. The tool clattered as it hit the ground.

Emmett lifted his dark t-shirt to wipe off the sweat that was dripping down his face. “Where’s Y/N?”

“She’s babysitting Sullivan Eobard’s kids right now while he’s testifying at the court.”

His eyebrows arched in surprise. “Oh, the one where his wife was brutally murdered?” He inquired as he walked over to the table where beer bottles were set up.

“Yeah,” his friend nodded, sighing. “Y/N said he did not kill his wife, and her gut says he didn’t, but there’s more to it than what he had mentioned to the court apparently.”

“Her gut is rarely wrong,” Emmett reminded him, taking a swig of fermented beer from the cool bottle before placing it back on the table. “I have to go to the bathroom, mind telling me where it is?”

“Sure, the one in living room isn’t working right now so use the bathroom upstairs.” He told him, gesturing the stairs that was down the hallway off the kitchen before lifting the sledgehammer by the handle.

“Alright, thanks man.”

Emmett just finished using the bathroom, closing the door behind him as he stepped out into the hallway.

His footsteps were soft as the boots hit the carpet; he observed the photos in frames on the walls as he passed by them. His eyes landed on the door that was slightly ajar from the doorframe. Out of curiosity, he peered in the bedroom after pushing the door open slightly.

He raked his eyes around the room, observing the knickknacks scattered on the dresser. He could tell it was his friend’s daughter because her room is very feminine and pristine especially her nightstands.

He froze when his eyes landed on the laundry hamper, lone in the corner beside the walk-in closet.

He shook his head, fighting the curiosity to peer inside the hamper.

No.

Before he could convince himself to leave the room, to return to downstairs to help to knock the rest of the brick wall down. he found himself standing in front of the laundry hamper, reaching for her thin white shirt.

He curled his fingers into the soft fabric, he knew it was worn overnight due to how strong the scent was wafting from the cloth.

He brought it to his nose, inhaling slowly to savor the scent, and it bombarded his brain into a slight frenzy as if his primitive self was itching to go and find her.

Bend her over and make her take his aching cock.

His eyes snapped open with a soft groan, not realizing he had his eyes closed. He then clenched his jaw when the urge to shove the shirt into the pocket of his jeans arose.

He looked down momentarily and froze at the sight of soft pink panties lying innocently on top of the clothes that were thrown in for a laundry day. It must’ve been under the shirt he’d just took out of the laundry hamper.

Fuck.

He could feel himself hardening at the sight, craning his neck backward as he inhaled sharply. He squeezed his eyes closed tightly as his jaw clenched.

No. No. N-fuck.

Exhaling as he ran his hand over the bulge in his denim pants before sitting down on her bed where the scent of her aroma radiated strongly. He grunted quietly, leaning back until his back met the pastel comforter of her bed.

Emmett knew his friend wouldn’t come up for a while since he could hear him starting the task again of trying to knock the brick wall down.

His fingers had a mind of their own when they gripped the buckle, minding the coldness from the metal as he pushed the leather from the miniature pin that held it in place before he pulled it out. Leaving it unbuckled, he then pushed the button through the opening.

He then tugged the metal zipper, hearing the metal grind against metal as he unzipped his jeans slowly.

He slid his hand, separating the fabric from his skin as he inhaled the aroma radiating from the soft thin sleepy t-shirt she wore.

“Y/N,” he grunted quietly in the room as he glided his fingers onto his dick, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as he gripped the base, giving it a hard squeeze. It was primitive, but it was the only way he could handle without spilling too soon.

It was her hands he imagined pumping his cock, he hissed through his teeth at the intense sensation as he drew the head of his cock across the skin of his hand, painting his palm with his pre-cum. It caused his eyes to momentarily roll back in his head. His fist soon began moving erratically up and down. His harsh panting filled the silence of her room, his grunts coming deep from his chest. Fuck, he wanted her. To be inside her.

Her pretty eyes glistening in arousal. Wild in her desires as her body quivered for him. Aching for his touch, desperate for the warmth of his skin to press against her.

He groaned into the fabric clutching in his hand, fingers tightening around his thick girth. “Fuck!”

Having thoughts about her had made him extremely sensitive, shudders began to wrack his frame as he arched his hips slightly as he pushed his cock into his tight fist. Trying to mimic her cunt in his fantasy. Even though he had never experienced the warmth of her pussy, he knew for sure it would be heaven between her thighs.

He craved her, her presence is something he looked forward since he met her three years ago at his friend’s cookout. It was unfortunate she was his friend’s daughter and his babysitter for the boys. That he was still married because if he had met her while he was a free man, he wouldn’t hesitate to snatch her right up and make her his.

“Fuck. Fuck,” he mouthed, his jaw straining against the pressure of the pleasure trying to drown him.

The sensation of tingling running down his spine, the tightening in his balls as he chased his orgasm. He arched his back and his teeth sunk deep into his bottom lip piercing the skin as her name ripped from his lips.

 He shuddered as a burst of heightened pleasure made his vision go haywire. Thick spurts of his cum coated his hand and the fabric of his underwear as he continued to groan out his release.

“Fuck,” he scrubbed a hand over his face after releasing the t-shirt from his grip, defeated as he was trying to slow his breathing and calm his rapidly beating heart.

He was thirty-six years old and felt like a dirty old man while acting like a teenage boy dealing with a boner for the first time. However, he couldn’t help it when it came to Y/N.

His sweet girl.

#emmett x y/n #emmett x you #emmett x reader #a quiet place ii #cillian murphy x reader #a quiet place 2 #Emmett

289 notes · View notes