#not based on anything real

[cillianmurphysdimples]

A female Y/N / Cillian fic. (Part Four)

Absolutely not based on anything real at all, all totally fictional, fanciful, and is all total bollocks.

Warnings for sexual references and language. Adult themes so not intended for under 18s.

We Got Issues

Part Four: Y/N knows how much it means to Cillian to see his sons, and she feels for him when the day doesn't entirely go as he'd wanted it to. Something he says stirs yet another concern in her mind, but she's keen to do as he says and not focus on her anxiety. Not only that, but she's desperate to ensure he knows he's got her support. By the time her birthday arrives, he shows her in a sweeping gesture just what she means to him. [Bonding/domestic chapter, nothing sexual]

@remembering-angels @dragonsneversharetheirtreasure @aesthetic0cherryblossom @lavender-haze-01

.....

“Back!” From the kitchen you have a clear view to the front door further down the large space, and you look up from the hob as Cillian closes the front door with Aran trailing beside him.

“Hiya,” you call out. “How's it going, Aran?” You ask as he walks slowly towards you.

“Yeah, alright,” Aran replies with a slow nod. God, he's getting like his father more and more each time you see him, you think. He stands at the edge of the kitchen island with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie.

“Your Dad said Malachy’s at his girlfriend's?” You raise your eyebrows, looking for anything to make conversation with the lad. He'll take his time warming up to being here - he always does.

“Barely leaves her these days,” Aran says quietly but there's an amused smirk on his lips.

Cillian laughs as he reappears, having been throwing his coat and shoes into the under stairs cupboard. “What's her name?” he asks, standing beside Aran in an almost identical stance.

“Aoife,” Aran says.

“What happened to Laura?” Cillian raises one eyebrow and Aran cracks a genuine smile.

“They only went on a few dates,” he says. “Anyway, I know Aoife. She's alright. Her sister's in my year at school.”

“Youse didn't fancy double dating?” Cillian teases and you can see the slight awkwardness that takes over his son's face.

“You've plenty of time for girls, Aran.” You say gently. “Do you want a drink?” You offer, “Help yourself in the fridge.” You gesture behind you. “We got those water things you like.” You always feel awkward for the first little while when the boys come around, and you know they do too, but by the time it came for Cillian to be driving them home again, you were all usually slagging and teasing like the best of friends. “Cill, where's the gravy jug?” You ask, peering around in the cupboard above your head. Before you've even turned to look at him, Cillian draws up behind you with his hands on your hips, and his head on your shoulder, and he stares into the cupboard along with you. “Two heads are only better than one if the other one looks elsewhere.” You joke, tapping against his cheek with the flat of your hand. “It isn't in there.” You nod towards the cupboard.

“Must've gone into a different press last weekend.” Cillian suggests. He turns to kiss your cheek before releasing you. He wanders the kitchen, opening doors and searching for the aforementioned jug.

As you close the cupboard door you catch Aran's expression and feel bad - he looks out of place, somewhat disgusted even, and you know it's because Cillian had been affectionate with you. You take a deep breath and turn to lean on the island countertop, smiling as you catch Aran's eye. “How is Malachy, and your mother?”

Aran's shoulders twitch up slightly, “Fine,” he says. He's not sharp or rude, but just very blunt.

“And Adam?” You press on in trying to dispel the awkwardness.

He raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, fine.”

He doesn't make it easy for you, even after all this time, but you remind yourself he's a teenager, too. You smile, false though it is. “That's good.” You turn your eyes to Cillian, who is crouched down at the cupboard beside the oven, digging around for the jug still. With his back to you, he doesn't know your eyes are silently begging him for help. “Don't stand on ceremony, Aran.” You say gently as you look back at him, “You're as at home here as you are with your mother, you know that.” You smile. “Help yourself to anything, go and put the TV on if you want, just make yourself at home. I think your Dad left his iPod on the speaker in there, too.” You nod towards the living room space.

He looks back at you blankly. He's a quieter lad, you know, but he's bordering on rude and standoffish at this point. “Dad?” He calls, and Cillian rises to his feet, brandishing the lost jug, and raises his eyebrows towards his son. “Can we do this next week, or during the week or something?” He asks and you look at Cillian instantly.

Cillian's face is a mix of confusion and disappointment. “What's wrong?” He asks, walking towards the island. He sets the jug down and keeps his eyes on his son.

Aran shrugs his shoulders, “Please, Dad?”

“Did I say something wrong, Aran?” You ask nervously. “If I did, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.” You feel Cillian's arm around your back and his hand cups against your hip.

“Dad?” Aran's eyes are fixed on his father and you get the sense you've put your foot in it, even though you don't know how.

“If you want to go, I'll take you home, but I'd like to know why first.” Cillian says. His voice is calm - a more gentle form of parenting had been his style from the start - but it is still authoritative enough to command respect. “Sure you were grand in the car.” He pointed out. “Just explain what's going on, will ya?”

“Mam told me she talked to you this week.” Aran says slowly, and Cillian nods his head.

“She did, yeah.” He says.

Aran looks at you for a moment, then back at his father. “She said you two were looking at houses back over in London.”

You frown instantly, “Aran, we're not looking at houses in London.”

���I told your mother I've to go over to England for a while, for work. I think I said it would have been handy to have our old place, maybe, but I didn't say we were going to be moving over there or anything.” Cillian refutes the claim immediately. “Son, why didn't you mention this before? Have you been stewing over this all weekend?”

Aran shrugs his shoulders, “She said you were looking at places there. And she said that youse are talking about having kids.”

“Aran, why didn't you ring me? Or send a fucking text? Why sit going over all this and worrying your head over it?” Cillian removes his arm from around your back. He leans his arms on the island countertop and looks at his son with a gentleness in his entire expression. “We're not moving to London, I couldn't do that. I'll be there for work, but this is home. I wouldn't move a plane ride away from you two, you should know that.” He turns his head and glances at you, then looks back at Aran. “And Y/N and I talked a bit about things, yeah, but there's been no plans made to have more kids. I have you and Malachy, and Y/N knows how important our relationship is to me.”

You appreciate the diplomatic way he words his replies, and you smile softly when Aran looks at you, and you notice how much more comfortable he looks having been given his Dad's explanation. “So you're not pregnant?” Aran asks you, eyebrows wrinkled between his nose.

You laugh as you shake your head, “I am not pregnant.” You reassure him.

Cillian stands straight again and holds his hands out at his sides, “So are you staying, or what?” Aran nods his head. “Good,” you watch as he smiles brightly at his son and part of you wonders why he wouldn't want that same feeling again with a child with you. You remind yourself that children aren't everything, but does that mean you're doomed to be on the outside of something that clearly means a lot to him as a father?

It is almost seven pm when Cillian returns from dropping Aran back at Yvonne's house. He comes through the door with less gusto than he had earlier on and you know he's feeling the distance between himself and his kids. From the sofa, you call out to him as he rustles around by the front door. “Cill?”

“Hmm?” He hums back.

“You okay?” You ask.

He appears around the wall, hands in his pockets and face a little firm. “Yeah,” he nods.

“Aran get off okay?” You ask, swinging your legs down from your lounged position. You sit up, and open your arms out to welcome him in for a cuddle. He walks slowly towards you and drops onto the sofa dramatically, instantly resting against your shoulder. You wrap your arm around him and place your cheek on the top of his head.

“Yeah, flew in. Adam was there, Malachy was back but, um, he didn't come out.” Cillian says quietly and you feel your heart drop a little.

“Oh, love, I'm sorry.” You say softly, and you move your fingers up and down his arm lightly. “They're teenagers, they're supposed to be avoiding their parents and locking themselves in their rooms.” You say, “Go and call him - Malachy - and just talk on the phone. Just touch base with him. Especially if he's got the same worries in his head as Aran had.”

Cillian scoffs. “Why would she say we were looking at moving to London?” He tuts and sighs loudly. “I didn't say anything like that. It just feels out of character for her to even lie like that, but there's no way that Aran would be in that mood if she hadn't, nor would he make it up.”

“She probably just misinterpreted what you said to her.” You rationalise his fears like he so often does for you. “It's easy to mix up conversations at times.”

“I want to…” Cillian trails off and you frown.

“You want to what?” You press, encouraging him to speak up.

He shakes his head, “Ah, nothing.” He sighs and extracts himself from your arms. “Drink?” He offers as he gets to his feet.

“No, thanks,” you smile softly as he stands at the edge of the sofa, looking at you. You can see he feels lost, sad, and you know it's something he has to work through, but you hate it. “Unless you want to open a bottle of wine, early birthday celebrations?” You suggest, raising your eyebrows playfully, hoping he takes your lightness not a disregard for his feelings but as a way of being sweet.

“You've work tomorrow,” he reminds you, but there's a smile tugging at the left side of his mouth, pushing in a dimple on his cheek.

“It's just one bottle!” You laugh, “Between the two of us. Go on!” You coax and then, pushing on your best imitation of his softened Cork accent you add, “Sure it'll be fun!”

He scoffs, but it's a genuine smile that takes over his face afterwards. He rolls his eyes and sighs, the smile still there, and when he nods his head you know you've at least lightened his mood a little. “Red or white?” He asks as he walks towards the kitchen.

“You choose,” you say, picking up the remote control to the TV. “What are we watching?” You call back to him. “Film or series?”

“Can we not just put on some music?” He asks, his voice raised slightly as he digs in the cupboard in the corner of the kitchen for wine glasses.

“Music and wine,” you tease, “What are you proposing, Mister Murphy?” You giggle.

“Not marriage,” he mutters, but you hear it clearly.

You take a moment to work out if you're offended or not, if there's true intention behind his words or if it's another of his satirically delivered lines. You can't hear him shuffling about in the kitchen and you know that he's waiting to see how his words have landed. You let it fly, but you file it away in your mind bank, vowing to bring it up should you need to. To let him off the hook of tension you know he's poised on, you say, “I'd say no if you asked, anyway. Sloppy seconds husband? No thanks.” When he laughs, you know his intentions clearly. Flippant and silly, that's all it was. Don't take it to heart, you tell yourself. It's just your mind. You look around as he returns with two glasses of red wine in his hands. You take the one he offers you and hold it tightly to prevent it spilling as he flops onto the sofa beside you. Without a word, you hand him the remote control to the TV before you reposition yourself on the sofa, turning so that you're lounging comfortably and are able to throw your legs across Cillian's thighs. Instantly, he places his free hand out across your limbs. It's comfortable, loving, and exactly what you want. But he's quiet again and you feel the tension without even searching for it. “Go and ring Malachy,” you say, moving your legs from his lap. “Cill?” You raise your eyebrows when he doesn't move.

He sips his wine and when he draws the glass from his lips, he turns his head to look at you. “I was outside the house and he didn't come out.”

“You didn't go in,” you counter.

He sighs, “No.” He concedes.

“So go and ring him, ask about his dinner with his girlfriend and see if he got the same story as Aran. If he did, put him right.” You look at him seriously for a moment, then give him a gentle smile. You sit forwards and set your glass down onto the floor carefully, tucked in by the sofa to avoid a spillage. “I'm going to hop in the shower. Ring him, and then when you've made sure he's okay and you feel better, you can come upstairs and you can take me to bed. If you're lucky I'll let you you fuck me into my birthday.”

You watch his cheeks flush slightly, and he fights a smile but cannot hold it off. He looks at you, shaking his head, then stretches closer to you and presses his lips to yours. As he sits back, he swipes his tongue over his lips and nods his head. “G’on up and get your shower,” he says with his eyebrows raised. “I'll call this lad and then I'll come up.”

……..

It's your alarm ringing loudly that wakes you at seven am on Monday morning. The bed is empty, but isn't it always when he's close to working again? Cillian will be out running, or hunched over a mug of coffee in the kitchen. You groan as you reach over to the nightstand to silence the buzzing and singing phone, and begrudgingly you sit up on the edge of the bed. The room feels cold in contrast to the duvet and you groan again as you search for your slippers and hoodie to pull on over your pyjamas. Yawning, you make your way down the stairs with heavy, sleepy steps, and the sound of the TV playing gets louder as you reach the bottom. So, he's home at least. You shuffle your feet across the floor as you approach the kitchen island and smile softly. With his back to you, even if he was paying attention, Cillian's full attention is on whatever it is he's doing at the cooker and you know that when you speak you'll make him jump. But he does turn, clearly he's heard your movement, and his hair is mussed and his face is sleepy but he smiles at you sweetly and holds out his hands, offering a plate of buttered toast and a mug of coffee.

“Morning,” he says, huskily, and you realise he's only been awake a few minutes before you. “Happy Birthday.”

You smile back softly, “Thank you,” and walk towards him. He sets your breakfast items onto the island and instead wraps his arms around you. He kisses you softly, first on the lips, then on the forehead as he hugs you close. You keep your head against his chest, and while he initially goes to draw his arms away, he tightens them around you again when he realises you're searching out affection.

“You want your present?” He asks, his chin resting on the top of your head until you move a little, looking up at him.

You smile, like an excited child, “What is it?” You allow him to extract himself from your warm cuddle and watch as he disappears into the laundry room at the back of the kitchen. You reach for the coffee and gratefully sip at it, watching the doorway for his return. When he reappears, he's carrying an envelope, a small wrapped gift, and a pale blue helium balloon. You smile at the cute offering - he's such a romantic. He places everything in front of you on the island, and the balloon immediately floats slowly up towards the light. You set your coffee back down and reach first for the envelope, you feel awkward as he stands staring at you, his own mug of coffee beside him. Drawing the card out from inside of the red envelope, your eyes scan over the front. It's clearly been made to order, with a photograph of yourself and Cillian on a trip in Rome the previous year. You feel your stomach twisting at the nostalgia of the trip, and you open the card to read the inside.

“Mo ghrá, you've been everything I never thought would come in these last few years and I cannot thank nor celebrate you enough for everything you've brought to my life. I love you, you deserve the happiest of birthdays. - Cill. X”

“Oh, you big softy,” you look at him, sticking out your bottom lip. “Thank you.” You lean forwards and gently kiss him, your right hand cupping his cheek. He looks a little embarrassed, but smiles at you lovingly. “I love that photo,” you say, looking back at the front of the card. “That was such a lovely week.”

“It was,” he nods his head. “Open your present there.” He points at the small, wrapped box before you.

For a moment your mind runs over the possibility of it being an engagement ring - it's the right size, the right shape, but surely not? You smile at him as you reach out for it, and you carefully remove the wrapping paper from around it. Discarding the wrapping, your heartbeat quickens in your chest. It's definitely jewellery of some kind. You look up at him, frowning slightly, then slowly lift the lid on the small box. Inside, sitting on a navy velvet base, is a silver ring with a crystal blue stone set in the centre. Your eyes dart back up to him again. “Is…this…,” you stammer.

“It's not an engagement ring,” he says, softly and gently, “But it is…I don't know, a promise ring? I had it bought before Friday, but especially since the weekend I want you to know I love you, and whatever happens or doesn't happen, or whatever plans we have or change, I need you to know that I love you and I don't want to find any reason, ever, for us to change who we are, what we have, what we've been building these years.” He sounds nervous, timid, and like he might be scared he's saying the wrong thing but every word lands with love and gentle reassurance against your heart.

“Oh, love…” you feel the heat begin to rise in your eyes as tears start to pool in your lower lids. You set the box down and open your arms, moving towards him. “Thank you,” you whisper against the crook of his neck as you hold one another tightly. “It's beautiful, you're beautiful. Thank you.” for a moment, the back-burning resentment of the weekend falls away almost entirely. Almost.

[merrigel]

I want it back = I drag its dead weight forward

[sieluritari]

A lot of us with ADHD are familiar with the concept of time blindness, but for anyone who isn't: it's a neurological inability to have a consistent sense of the passage of time. If you put me in an empty room, gave me a button and told me to press it when I think it's been 15 minutes, I might press it after..... idk, anywhere between 3 minutes and 2 hours? And if we repeated it the next day the result would probably be wildly different!

But something I've only seen mentioned in one (1) Reddit post, which took some extensive digging to find, is the same effect extending to ALL things measured in numbers. Distance, weight, length, height, amount, space, volume, percentage... For me, small numbers are a bit easier, I could approximate a centimetre probably, but a metre would be much harder and 10 or 100 would likely miss the mark by a lot. Also, anything that can't be easily measured with a ruler or a measuring tape (like weight or volume) is even harder since I don't encounter reference points (like a 1kg hand weight) for those as frequently as I see visual representations of specific lengths.

It's not dyscalculia or anything like that, I'm decent at math (and the OP of the Reddit post was a math major) and I have no other difficulties with numbers, it's just a disconnect in translating real life experiences like sensory input into numbers (and possibly also inconsistent processing of sensory input? Like how the same sound volume is okay one day but hurts my ears the next?), which I think is basically the same thing as what happens with time blindness. For now I've been calling it "measurement blindness" since I've never seen a name for it anywhere, but maybe "quantity blindness" could also work?

I've talked to other people with time blindness to see if they experience this too, but so far none of them have known what I'm talking about. I'd really like to know how many of us are out there and if anyone knows literally anything actually scientific about this very inconvenient phenomenon!

Tl;dr: bc I am wordy:

It's like time blindness but for all things measured in numbers

Not dyscalculia or caused by it

Pretty much never seen it talked about anywhere

Please tell me if it sounds familiar and/or you know something about it, thank

[trixxedheart]

It is amazing how the "people that love and uplift transwomen" website will instantly fucking maul a transwoman if she even remotely insinuate that using radfem rhetoric harms trans people

[puppppppppy]

id fumble him so bad

[canon-gabriel-quotes]

Transcript:

COME ON MACHINE, FUCK ME LIKE AN ANIMAL.

Audio source

[egophiliac]

Sorry, most likely my memory being poor, but I thought Malleus' mom (don't know how to spell her name and too lazy to check how to spell it) was already an adult when Lilia ""proposed""?? Like I was always under the assumption that it was like a one-sided child crush on somebody completely out of your league you tend to have as a kid 💀

I don't think they say how old she was? although it's entirely possible I just misunderstood; my Japanese is...shaky. :') the actual line is "幼い頃に私に求婚したのは偽りか?", which I read as "isn't it true that you proposed to me as a kid?", and took as her being older than him, but not necessarily an adult (like, I was thinking of Lilia as being not quite a preteen and Mel being preteen/young teen). although I don't know if there's a connotation or something I'm missing that implies a bigger age gap, if that makes sense!

(and of course, I might also just be forgetting some other line -- if someone else knows, then please correct me! I need to know which headcanons need adjusting 👀)

BUT YEAH in a canon-y sense, Malleus is 178 and around the third-years developmentally. which makes me think that even though dragons have a way longer lifespan, they go through childhood at about the same rate as most fae (or at least the kind that Lilia is) and just kinda...slow waaaaay down once they hit adulthood. so it makes sense in my brain that he and Meleanor could've basically grown up together!

...it makes it angstier that way, anyway. :)

[sergle]

had another consult w Dr. Boobs about my reduction to check on my healing progress, and I continue to get a good grade in boobs

[dykedvonte]

Honestly a sorry from Curly would mean nothing to Anya.

I’m not saying she wouldn’t want to hear it, it’s a hollow vindication. She told him and he couldn’t hear her. He saw it and he couldn’t understand it. They both experienced it and he should apologize that it took that for him to get it. She already knows he’s sorry but what’s the point if neither of them can do anything about it? It’s earnest but at the same time what she wants an apology for is what Curlu can’t apologize for.

He can’t be sorry for what happened to her even if he is. Even if he carries that guilt with him until the day he dies it’s not all his to bare. The most heinous parts aren’t his weight even if he tries to balance it. A part of her bitterness is the fact he can’t be sorry for it all. She can’t just direct it all towards him even if she wants to. She was failed in so many ways by all of them. It hurts with him the most cause he had the power but they all did nothing in the grand scheme of things.

The one person who should apologize would never and could never, it’s not something you can be sorry for. She wants an apology, she needs one but what would it fix?

[edwinisms]

it’s actually so wild to me that this fairly quirky YA type show gave both of its main characters deaths that can, in one way or another, solidly be considered hate crimes. they were both flat out murdered as a result of being A) gay and effeminate or B) brown (south asian, specifically) and you could argue whether or not those kids thought of it that way in the moment or whatever but the bottom line is that they would not have been in the situations that killed them if they weren’t of their respective minorities. like legitimately that is a ballsy choice for this kind of netflix show, let alone for the two Main Characters, and i respect it big time

[sweepingboy]

usually feng xin drives pretty safe but not with mu qing around. he swears their argument are always the reason he gets a fine or even ends up in accidents! still he picks him up each time he asks.

"you really never learned to drive? your parents never even let you try?"

"no", mu qing is fixing his look in a little mirror.

"why?"

the other man side eyes him, "mum has never had a car and i never thought i'd afford one"

feng xin bites his tongue.

"but what if your partner has one?" he says after some time, "would you like to learn?"

"i suppose" mu qing answers after a brief pause.

"... would you like me to give you a lesson?"

mu qing stares him in the eyes as a faint blush roses up his cheeks. the moment between them is beautiful and fragile.

then feng xin crashes into the bumper of another car.

[aesthetic-gem]

so the american streamer decided to teach the brazilian egg about the american school system, so then the brazilian egg in turn decided to teach him about the brazilian school system, and in the middle of that the french egg showed up and decided to teach the both of them about the french school system. that’s what qsmp is all about baby

[ra-vio]

this blog is 11 years old now 🎉

I drew the siblings ever to celebrate as usual

[novelconcepts]

It really frees up so much mental real estate when you start thinking of sex as just: a thing people sometimes do. Some people are super into it! Some aren't! It's for fun! It's for intimacy! It's the deepest connection some people will ever feel and totally meaningless to others! It's hot! It's boring! It helps some people sleep! It exists as an exciting construct solely in fantasy for others! What it isn't is some complicated moral ground that needs to be fought against at every turn. It's just A Thing. Which means people who have a lot of it, or none of it, or whatever in between are all worth the same. Which means stories that have a lot of it, or none of it, or whatever in between are worth the same, too. Smut isn't less valuable than "clean" stories. People who have a high "body count" aren't less valuable than those who have never had sex at all. It's just A Thing. Making peace with sex as just A Thing that is natural to consentingly have or not have, want or not want, really is a great adjustment to your brainspace.

[tinseltina]

trying to make fanart of leona from @kiame-sama's humans are extinct twst au (warning it is a yandere au and 18+ so minors DNI)

[puppppppppy]

beep beep im a sheep

speeddraw below the cut (audio warning)

song: "Cult of Dionysis" by The Orion Experience