#cillian murphy gifs

[safeanclsound]

Cillian Murphy as Jonathan Crane in Batman Begins (2005)

[storiesforallfandoms]

extreme jealousy ~ thomas shelby;peaky blinders

word count: 2075

request?: no

description: in which she’s finally had enough of thomas shelby when he supposedly kills the man she’s been having a fling with

pairing: thomas shelby x female!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of death, use of y/n

masterlist (one, two, three)

Tommy was in his study when he heard the sound of his front door slamming shut. He knew exactly who it was. He had left the door unlocked for her, anticipating her appearance.

When she appeared in the doorway, her jaw was clenched and one of her hands was balled into a fist. Tommy simply glanced up from his paper work at her. “Hello, (Y/N).”

“You absolute fucking prick,” she sneered. “You fucking killed Alfie?!”

Tommy sighed, as if (Y/N)’s outburst was an inconvenience to him. “(Y/N) - ”

“No!” she cut him off. “I don’t want to hear whatever bullshit you have cooked up to tell me to try and justify what you did.”

If she was pissed off upon her arrival, then (Y/N) became furious when Tommy took off his glasses and placed them on his desk, then stood and calmly walked to his assortment of liquor. He picked up two glasses, without asking (Y/N) if she wanted one. He knew she’d just continue to throw profanities at him anyways. He dropped two ice cubes each into the glasses and poured them a glass of whiskey each.

Tommy didn’t have to ask how she found out about Alfie so quickly, because he had sent someone to tell her. The moment he knew he would have to kill Alfie, he called for Johnny Dogs to come with him. Johnny was confused at first, thinking Tommy was requesting backup for his meeting. However, when they arrived, Tommy explained he wanted Johnny to witness what was happening, and once it was finished, he wanted Johnny to go tell (Y/N) what had happened.

The news would’ve gotten to her either way, he knew. The smallest kindness he could give her was to make sure she knew right away, and that she knew the truth.

Mostly the truth.

When he offered her the glass, Tommy didn’t expect her to simply take it. He figured she would’ve hurtled the liquor at him, the glass too. He didn’t expect the offering to go well. To his surprise, however, (Y/N) looked at him for a long time before snatching the glass from his hand. She downed the contents in one gulp before handing the glass back to Tommy. Despite his amusement, Tommy knew better than to smile or chuckle.

“Alfie betrayed us,” he explained, as he handed (Y/N) his own glass and went to pour more whiskey into the empty glass for himself. “He gave Changretta information that led to Arthur almost getting murdered. You know I could not let the betrayal go, but especially not when my family’s life is on the line.”

(Y/N) scoffed. “You put your own family’s lives on the line all the time.”

“I never make them do something that could kill them. I calculate very move - ”

“Oh, bullshit,” (Y/N) cut him off. “I’ve known you long enough, Tommy. You don’t calculate shit. You send anyone out into the line of fire, and you get lucky enough that no one gets killed.”

There was a tense silence. (Y/N) had a moment of realization about what she said. She let out a heavy sigh and uttered a soft, “I’m sorry.”

Tommy simply took a sip of his drink. (Y/N) mirrored him, drinking this glass much slower than the last.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” she finally said. Her tone was a little more calm, but Tommy could still hear the anger.

“I had to prove a lesson.”

“You could’ve done that without fucking killing him, Tommy!”

“There’s no other way, (Y/N). If I just wounded him but let him live, it would put out a different message about me and about the Peaky Blinders. It would let everyone know that you can betray us and get away with it.”

(Y/N) was shaking her head. In the dim light of Tommy’s office, he could see tears welling up in her eyes. He had to look away from her so she didn’t see how much her upset was affecting him.

“It’s not just the betrayal,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “I know it’s not. You were looking for any reason to get rid of Alfie since you found out about us.”

Tommy’s hand tightened around his glass.

It had been merely a month ago that Tommy had walked into Alfie Solomon’s office and found him with (Y/N) on his lap. Luckily, their clothes were still on and nothing indecent was happening. If he had shown up a few minutes later they probably would’ve been, but all he walked in on was the two of them making out. (Y/N) was quickly off Alfie’s lap and out the door after Tommy’s interruption, muttering something about seeing Tommy later. Alfie nonchalantly explained to Tommy that he and (Y/N) had been fucking around for a while now.

Even now, Alfie’s explanation made Tommy angry. “Fucking around”, not even “seeing each other”, which would’ve indicated that Alfie saw (Y/N) as more than just someone to call for a quick fuck. And Tommy thought she deserved more than that.

Not that he’d ever say that out loud.

“It has nothing to do with you,” he told her.

“Bullshit!” (Y/N) snapped. “You need to have control over everyone in your life. You never liked Alfie, even though you two are exactly alike. So when you realized you were losing control over me because I was with Alfie, you wanted a reason to get rid of him! It’s not fucking fair, Tommy! You can’t keep controlling everyone just because you think you’re fucking God! We are all human beings, we are not your playthings!”

As she ranted, Tommy approached (Y/N). He grabbed hold of her shoulders and forced her to look at him. “(Y/N), Alfie isn’t dead!”

(Y/N) stopped talking abruptly. She furrowed her brows at him, as if she didn’t believe him. “But...Johnny Dogs came to my place. He said he was there, he said he saw you shoot Alfie in the eye. He said...he said you left him on the beach.”

Tommy sighed. He hadn’t planned on telling (Y/N) the truth, that he hadn’t actually killed Alfie. The more people who thought Alfie was actually dead, the better. Just like with their plan to fake Arthur’s death. But he couldn’t stand to have (Y/N) here yelling at him over Alfie’s fake death any longer. He thought he could convince her it was the right thing to do, but the more angry she was, the more he was afraid he was actually pushing her away.

“The shot missed,” he admitted. “It grazed Alfie’s cheek instead. After I sent Johnny Dogs to your place, I went back to check for myself. Alfie was still breathing, albeit he was bleeding out quickly. I made some calls, had some people go get him and patch him up so he wouldn’t die. And I sent a message to him to get the fuck out of Birmingham once he was fully recovered. I may have let him live, but he still betrayed us and my message still needed to be heard.”

(Y/N)’s eyes were searching Tommy’s face, trying to see if there was a hint of dishonesty. Finally, she asked, “Where is he?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Fuck sakes, Tommy!” She broke away from him, her anger ignited again.

Now, Tommy was starting to get frustrated as well. He thought telling (Y/N) would mean she would drop the subject. That she would stop getting angry with him and they could move on from Alfie. So, he also snapped, “I don’t want you to see Alfie anymore!”

“Why?!”

“Because I’m in love with you!”

The whole room fell still. (Y/N) literally took a step back at Tommy’s outburst. He wanted desperately to take it back, but it was out there now. He turned away from her and went to filled his glass again, which had managed to go empty in the last few minutes.

(Y/N) finally broke the silence to say, “So...did you kill - try to kill Alfie...because you were jealous?”

Tommy let out a humorless laugh. “I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t part of the reason.”

“But...but Lizzie...”

Tommy sighed. Indeed, Lizzie.

The woman who was currently carrying his child. The woman who he held such a high regard for. The woman he had used when he was missing Grace a little and was heartbroken after seeing Alfie and (Y/N) together. A brief moment of vulnerability that resulted in a child.

“I intend to marry Lizzie,” Tommy admitted. “I have to. I respect her too much to let her give birth to a bastard child.”

“But you don’t love her.”

Tommy shook it head. “She doesn’t love me, either. We’ve both established that. We accidentally created a child together, and the right thing to do in this situation is to be married so that Lizzie isn’t a mother out of wedlock and the child isn’t a bastard.”

Tears were welling up in (Y/N)’s eyes again. “Well then, you’ve managed to break my heart twice in one day, Tommy.”

(Y/N) had turned and left his office before Tommy would comprehend what she had said. He was quick to put down his glass and race after her. She was taking quick strides to get to the door before he could reach her, but in the end Tommy was faster. He took hold of her shoulders again, stopping her in her tracks and turning her to face him.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Just let it go, Tommy.”

“No. (Y/N), what do you mean I broke your heart twice?”

She was crying now, unable to stop the flow of tears. She looked up into Tommy’s eyes and said, “The first time you broke my heart was when you sent Johnny Dogs to tell me you killed Alfie. The second time was when you told me you loved me and made me think I had a chance, before telling me you intend on marrying another woman.”

Tommy could hardly comprehend what he was hearing. There was no way (Y/N) was admitting to loving him back. It just seemed impossible. Moments ago she was screaming at him for killing the man she was seeing (”fucking around with”), and now she was telling him that he had broken her heart by telling her he intended on marrying Lizzie. It just seemed too good to be true.

“Can you let me go?” she asked, her voice small. “I don’t think I can be here with you anymore, Tommy.”

He didn’t let her go. Instead, he pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers. It was an impulsive decision. He couldn’t let her leave like this.

When she pulled away, he let her. He let go of her, even though it risked her running off. He wouldn’t force her to stay there if she didn’t want to, but he couldn’t let her leave thinking that she had no chance of being with him.

But she didn’t leave. Instead, all she said was, “Lizzie...”

“I can work something out with Lizzie,” he said. “Maybe not marriage, but something. It’s my child she’s carrying, she’s got personal connections to the Peaky Blinders. Even if I don’t marry her, I can still make sure she is protected and respected.”

“But you just said - ”

“(Y/N),” he cut her off. “If you want me, then you will have me. There will be no one else. All you have to do is say the word, and it’ll just be you.”

A chuckle escaped her lips. “Of course, Tommy.”

Tommy wasted no time in taking (Y/N) into his arms and kissing her again. This time, she leaned into him. She let him envelope her in his embrace and hold her completely to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close.

“I’m still a little mad at you for making me believe you shot Alfie,” she mumbled against his lips.

Tommy chuckled. “It’s part of the job, love. You’ll have to get used to it.”

“As long as you’re no the one getting shot in the face, then I think I can be okay with it.”

He kissed her again. He never wanted to stop kissing her.

[heeahheeya]

The King of Birmingham with glasses👓🔥

Thomas Shelby with glasses 🎀

[luluartpop]

Cillian Murphy for Red Eye interview by Leo Quinones

[cillianmurphysdimples]

A female Y/N / Cillian fanfic (Part Twelve)

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

Gif credit - @remembering-angels

Warnings for sexual references and language. Adult themes. Not suitable for under 18s.

We Got Issues

Part Twelve: Cillian arrives back in Dublin for a mere two days for the Dublin premiere of Small Things. Y/N doesn't get the reception she'd hoped for, and the tip of the iceberg of their issues is aired. They're a united front for the event, and a force back home. [Adult themes. Sexual scenes.]

@remembering-angels @dragonsneversharetheirtreasure @aesthetic0cherryblossom @vivianleighwishesshewasme @meister95 @meadowshelby @lavender-haze-01 @strangeions

Cillian had barely been home an hour when mortal war broke out.

The Dublin premiere is hours away, and he is in the foulest of moods. Nothing you say is right, nothing you do is right, and God forbid you look at him, because that's wrong too. Standing in the bedroom doorway, with your arms folded across your chest, you try to work out in your head how you've gone from throwing your arms around him at the airport, to watching him right now as he paces the bedroom, arms swinging and face contorting, as every curse word and hateful comment he can find spills from his lips. As far as you can work out, all you'd done is ask if he'd spoken to his sons to tell them he was here and arrange a takeout night here at home tomorrow. You don't see a problem with that question at all, but clearly something about it is rubbing him up the wrong way. His eyes are expressive and his accent is thicker, clipping his words and sharpening his tongue. “Ah, don't be standing there with the face on you, looking at me like I'm fucking being a prick.” He roars, but is finally standing still. Albeit he is standing before you with a venomous look.

“You are! I just asked you a question.” You snap back, unlacing your arms from your chest. “A fucking question, Cillian! I just asked if you'd talked to the boys, that's all. I'm sorry that I thought it might be nice to have them over for a fucking Chinese or something.���

“That's not all you fucking said though, Y/N, is it?” He shakes his head. “The little added fucking ‘so they get to see you for a bit’ was un-fucking-called for.”

“You're back in England in two days, Cillian, until nearly fucking Christmas. I thought it would be good for them to see you. And good for you to see them.” You shout loudly back at him. “What did I say that's so fucking wrong? I want you to invite your kids over. What is bad about that?” You're really struggling to see what you've said so out of line, but you can see there's clearly something happening here. He's livid, completely enraged, and there's a shake to his hand when he thrusts it towards you.

“You think I don't know about the amount of time I'm away? You think that I don't know about how fucking little I see them? Y/N, I don't need reminding of what a fucked up situation I have with my kids!” He yells.

And there it is. He hasn't taken your question, or suggestion, as that at all. All he's heard, in his terrible mood, is a criticism of his availability for his boys and of his parenting. You know those misconstrued words, mixed with your call a couple of days ago, his very poor sleep, a busy working schedule, his brain being at least half overtaken by his role, and whatever else is flooding through his head that he doesn't speak about, has exploded completely. Unfortunately, you're in the blast zone. You close your eyes and sigh, and when you open them he has sat down onto the edge of the bed.

“I didn't say anything to deliberately make you feel bad, Cill. It was just a suggestion of something to do, a question if you'd already done it. It wasn't a joke, or a dig at your parenting. You're not just away and not bothering with your kids, you're working. It isn't the same as just leaving them. You have them here every Sunday for dinner, you get Aran from school whenever he asks if you're home, you drive Malachy around all the time. You're not in a fucked up situation - you're a working parent. I wasn't criticising you.” You insist, staying put in the doorway even though he did seem a little bit calmer. You'd wanted him to come home and for it to be soft and calm, for you to have the time with him you'd needed days earlier. But this was your lot. “I didn't want this.” You say, and you realise that the emotion is creeping into your throat. “I wanted you being here to feel good. I've missed you, and I've fucking needed you, and I've wanted to know that…that were okay, and we can be okay.” Your words catch and you swallow around the painful lump in your throat. “I'm sorry you thought that I was getting at you - if I said it wrong, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it.”

He lifts his head from staring at the floor and he looks at you directly. His eyes are still sharp, and you can see the fast rising and falling of his chest. “I didn't want to come home like this either.” He says, more measured and quiet. “I really overreacted.” He admits and for a moment it shocks you. “I'm in the worst fucking mood, and I'm taking it out on you and it isn't your fault.” He sighs and casts his eyes back down, suddenly seeming to find his hands very interesting.

“Why?” You ask carefully, trying to control yourself from full upset. “Why is your mood so bad?”

“I'm fucking wrecked,” he says, raising his head again. “I'm so tired, I'm fucking juggling so many fucking balls.” He shrugs. “I hate boredom, but it's still hard. I miss you, I miss the kids,” he licks his bottom lip. “And I fucking…I fucking felt so relieved when you said the test was negative, but I know that it hurt you to get that result. I feel bad that I don't want what you want here, and that I didn't tell you sooner. I'm sorry for that night in London, I'm sorry for not understanding that I was fucking with your head.” You stand rooted to the spot in the doorway as he gives his confession. Cillian is stubborn, and often holds onto his core or close beliefs regardless of your suggestions. Hearing him letting down walls to tell you he's wrong feels like you've switched though to an alternate dimension. “I wanted to come home and put my fucking arms round you like you needed, I wanted to do that. I didn't. I should have. I know you said you can accept I changed my mind, but I'm not stupid enough to think that means you'll change yours back too, at least not right away. I know you've got to a place where you're ready for a child.” He sighs. “We need to talk about this properly. We need to make decisions together properly.”

And though you know it might start the row again, you can't help the words that fly from your mouth. “Yes. Decisions together. Being you and me, not Yvonne.” When he looks at you with a sharpening to his eyes, you wait for the bomb to go off. But you also proceed. “Your sons matter, too, but your ex wife isn't part of our choices. It's me you should be talking to about what goes through your mind, not her. Whether we do or don't decide that we're going to have a baby, in the small time period we have before were too fucking old, it cannot be determined by her. You say I'm anxious about you going back to her, but you don't assuage that at all when you're calling her for a fucking chat about whether or not I'll be getting pregnant!”

He stares at you and his tongue swipes quickly over his lips. “I know.” He says quietly. You suspect he wants a further chance to discuss this, but you both can feel the depth of the row is passing.

“I know you don't want a baby, I know your mind has changed. And as much as I'd got my head around the idea and was hoping for a baby soon, I can accept that and I can take the time and reconcile. I can.” You mean what you say, despite the multiple conflicting feelings. You want him more than a child. “We don't have to have a child. But I don't want us to not have a child because it's what she wants. It isn't about her. So if that's why your mind changed, then we really need to look at who's in this relationship.”

He sighs loudly but he doesn't argue further. “Y/N,” he says quietly.

You are soft and calm as you speak once again. “I love you, Cill. I want you here for the rest of my life, I want us here, together, happy and proud of our life together. After tonight, after Christmas…whenever, we need to talk about what it is that you really want.” You can see by his expression he is a little knocked back by your words. Does he think you're suggesting a break-up after all this time? Is that what you mean? You walk into the bedroom fully and stop in front of him. He looks up at you, and instantly he places his hands against your hips. He needs the touch as much as you do, you can see easily. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and your hand takes up its habitual spot near the base of his neck, still missing the flicky curls to toy with. “We don't go out there tonight mad with one another.”

“No, of course, I don't want that.” He says, very calm.

“It's a big night here for you all - this film, this story, your work finally showcased here, at home in Ireland. I'm so proud of you, I love you, and I want you to enjoy this as much as you can.” You say as you move your face closer to his, bending a little at the waist. His hands stay on your hips. You kiss his full, pouting lips softly. With your forehead against his, you dance your fingers at the nape of his neck. “I love you.” You say softly.

“I know,” he whispers back. “I love you, too.” he rests his head against your belly as you stand straight, your hands still around his shoulders and neck. “I'm really sorry,” he says quietly. “I overreacted, I'm so sorry.”

“We draw a line under it, okay.* You say calmly. You can appreciate the concoction of pressures he's feeling, even in your own unmet need for the intimacy of his arms when he got home, and you know his sorry and probable guilt are genuine. “Tomorrow, or when you're finished in England, though, we'll have a real talk. Yeah? Get everything laid out in the open and get everything clear in our heads. We don't need to agree on everything, but we need to know we want enough of the same things. Especially the important things.*

He lifts his head a little and peers up at you, long lashes tickling against his cheeks as he blinks slowly. The freckles on his face are standing out more and his eyes are glistening and accentuated in the light overhead. “Yeah, definitely.” He says with a little nod. The conviction in his voice makes you feel seen and heard. “I'll ring boys before we leave, and arrange something for tomorrow evening.” He says, and you smile softly; that's all he had to say earlier, you consider, and this could have been avoided. But you consider the air cleared, too, and that's not a bad thing.

-

“Y/N?” Cillian calls out loudly.

In the bedroom, fastening your necklace around your neck before the full length mirror, you drop your arms down and cast your eyes over your full reflection. “Yeah?” You call back. He's downstairs, dressed and ready to leave, and you know he's both excited for the night and the reception, and anxious about it. When he doesn't respond you call out again. “What?”

“Are you fit?” He shouts again, “We've to go.” You reach for your phone to check the time. Shit! It's later than you thought, and you've not even fixed your hair or found your shoes.

“Yeah. Two minutes!” You yell back to him, and your stomach twists with a little apprehensive anxiety when the stairs creak a little as he begins to walk up them. Running your hands through your hair as you look back into the mirror, you turn your head when the bedroom door moves from halfway open to all the way, and you give a coy smile when you see Cillian standing there with one eyebrow raised.

“Two minutes?” He questions. “You've bare feet, Y/N,” he smirks. “C’mon,” he encourages gently, “The car will be here in a minute. They'll be waiting on us.”

You let your hair fall as it will, and dig around in the wardrobe for your black knee-high boots with the kitten heels. Wearing opaque black tights, a detailed pinafore with a deep red polo neck top beneath it, you feel wintery but chic, and you know that Cillian likes the above-knee length of your pinafore. “Looks okay?” You ask, sitting on the edge of the bed to zip up your boots.

“Grand,” he nods, “But sure you'd look good in a bin bag.” He smiles, and you smile brightly. As you stand up, he looks at you with a soft smile, his head tilted slightly, and he swipes his tongue across his lips. “You look beautiful.” The deep burgundy-brown shade of his shirt and dark blazer over the top is a clean and classy look, and somehow it makes the silvery sheen to his hair and the crystal blue of his eyes stand out more. He's beautiful, too, you think. “Will we go?” He asks and hovers his hand over the light switch in preparation to turn off the light as you leave the room.

You grab your phone from the dresser, mentally remind yourself that your coat is downstairs, and give him a nod of agreement. “Let's go.”

He plunges the room into darkness and proceeds down the stairs with you following closely behind. You find your coat in the cupboard in the hallway and pull it on over your outfit. It's part of the look, and you feel confident enough in your choice. You take your handbag from the banister and throw your phone and a set of house keys into it. Peering inside, you ensure you have ‘the essentials’ - a strip of paracetamol, emergency period products for any unexpected arrivals (because being female is unpredictable), Tic-tacs, and a cereal bar with a battered up wrapper that's been in there for weeks, because Cillian was hungry and grumpy one day so you'd grabbed two in a local shop and now you just carried the spare one around - then throw the strap of the bag up onto your shoulder.

“Jays, girl, your two minutes takes a fuckin' half-hour.” Cillian teases, shaking his head, with his hand in the handle of the front door. He's deliberately thickened up his accent, and he knows it makes you smile.

You chuckle to yourself as you fix the collar on your coat, “I'm ready!” You say, eyebrows high on your forehead.

“Right so, c’mon,” he says, pulling open the door. As the door is dragged wide, the car pulls into your driveway. You let Cillian step out as you set the alarm and lock up. He waits patiently, though, and insists with a smile that you get into the car before him as he holds open the door.

It's busy when you arrive. Enda and Eileen greet you both in a familiar and friendly way, and you’re pleasantly overwhelmed - if that's possible - at the reception everyone is greeted with. While the basic experience and expectations are the same as in London, somehow here it feels different. You feel more excited for him this time, and he seems to be brighter in himself. It's home, in the place this all began, and it's like he feels even prouder to be standing here tonight than he has of the entire project so far. You admire his passion, and that of Eileen, too, as they deliver speech after speech to camera after camera and person after person. You hide as much as you can, but you stay within his sight lines, and you notice he looks for you frequently. It warms your heart, especially after the events back at home, and you can't help smiling every time your eyes meet.

As soon as he gets the chance, after ensuring he can see you among their people, Cillian approaches after bidding goodbye to the string of journalists. Eileen isn't far behind him, nor is Emily, and suddenly you're not standing unassumingly alone. The eyes following Cillian, Emily and Eileen are on you now, too, as you're ushered inside the building at last. Cillian takes your hand, lacing your fingers together immediately. “This is mad,” he whispers, smiling as you walk together. He's not quiet enough that Eileen doesn't hear, but you're sure nobody else has.

“Isn't it class?” Eileen turns her head over her shoulder briefly, then looks ahead again as you all continue inside the doors.

“Will Aran have photos for you from tonight, I wonder?” Cillian smirks, and you smile at the suggestion.

“Thank you for that, by the way,” you say, raising your voice from the private whisper when you clear away from all the people at last. “They cheered me up.”

“Sure it was his idea,” Cillian says as he glances around, then looks at you. “He sent me the yoke and asked if he should send it to you too.” He smiles, cheeks pushing high up under his eyes.

“What does a woman have to do to get a drink?” Emily laughs, rubbing her hands together. “I'll forgo the tea tonight, I think.” She smiles brightly.

You laugh, “I was just about to ask!” You shift your feet on the spot, waiting for the next instruction, and keep your eyes on Cillian even as he steps away to speak to Eileen. Knowing where he is, and how he is, seems to make you feel calmer. If he's good, in this situation, then you know it's all okay. “How was your flight?” You make polite conversation with Emily, and listen intently as she engages with you brightly. You'd grown fond of her in the small interactions and meetings you'd had, and you kind of hoped there'd be at least a distant friendship to remain in the future. You peer over Emily's shoulder briefly as Cillian laughs, his head back slightly, and you wonder what Eileen has said to elicit the big reaction. Looking back to Emily, you smile politely as you realise you have missed what she'd just said. To make your ignorance less awkward you look around you again then stop her, “Sorry, I'm not ignoring you,” you lie gently, “Can you see the loos?”

Emily smiles, “Behind the stairs,” she turns and points behind Cillian and Eileen.

You dip away, simply to avoid embarrassing yourself, and feel a little like you're drawing attention to yourself as the only one moving when your boots clip off the tiled floor beneath you. You seek out the door to the ladies in the direction you've been led and disappear inside. You walk to the sink and stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment. Your makeup has stayed well, despite the damp weather, and you feel pretty tonight. You fix your hair a little and take a deep breath, your eyes still on your reflection, and when the door opens to the left of you it makes you jump. You whip your head around, and fix a smile to your face as Eileen steps inside.

“Oh, you're here. And himself looking for you out there,” she laughs then disappears into one of the stalls, locking the door as she enters. “He was telling me there about filming all night recently,” she calls out.

Lingering at the sink, you feel a little awkward. “Oh, yeah, poor guy isn't getting much kip.” You reply, not sure you particularly feel comfortable talking to her while she's in there! “I'll go out and find him then if he's looking.” You say, and without waiting to hear her reply, you quickly exit through the heavy door. It bangs behind you, signalling your arrival back into the large lobby, and you're convinced your cheeks are pinker than your lips as people you don't know turn to see what the noise was. To your relief, Emily is laughing a little at your discomfort, and oddly it's comforting, and just to her left are Cillian and Enda, looking at you, and you know it's more due to your awkward walk of shame than the noise of the door. You walk slowly towards Cillian, and immediately hide yourself in his neck as you hug into him. “Fuck sake,” you whisper, half laughing.

He laughs into your ear, then wraps one arm around you as you stand up straight beside him. “What's up with ya?” He smirks.

“Eyes,” you shrug. “I can't get used to being seen!”

He clicks his tongue, “Ah, you're alright,” he drops his arm from around your back and instead he takes your hand. “There's Eileen, now. Here, we'll go on in there,” he nods his head in the direction directly in front of him. He looks at you for a moment, reading your anxiety clearly. “C’mon,” he raises his eyebrows. “You're grand, I'll mind ya, c’mon.” he smiles and it's cheeky, playful even, and you're soothed by it. You allow him to lead you fully, and leave yourself at his mercy as you grip his hand.

-

It's late when you arrive home, via taxi, and you're both a little bit drunk. Neither had gone overboard, not with the knowledge that Cillian's boys were coming over tomorrow, but you'd both enjoyed a few drinks after the premiere with Eileen, Enda, and Emily in the bar of the hotel Emily was staying in. You stand at the front door, fumbling with your bag for the keys, whilst Cillian is no help at all as he hugs you from behind, nuzzling kisses into your neck and cursing the collar of your coat every other second for getting in his way. With a moan, you blink in the hopes of clearing your wine-fuzzy vision and dig around in the bag again, giving a quiet cheer when you finally get them out and you wave them about, laughing a little as the jingle in your hands.

“You've a rake of keyrings on that and you still couldn't get it?* Cillian chuckles, and annoyingly doesn't remove his hands from your waist as you step closer to the door to push the key into the lock. He steps awkwardly with you, catching the rounded toe of his shoe against the back of your boot, and curses your shoes then, too. “Fuckin’...” He mumbles, as he pushes his face close to your neck again. “Are you opening that or caressing it?” He asks, his lips moving against the skin on your neck, and laughs at his own joke.

It's him finding himself funny and giggling that makes you laugh, and you shake your head as the key finally slips into place. “You're not helping, you drunken git.” You tease him, pushing down the door handle to finally get inside. You pull the keys out and begin to walk, and only then does Cillian release you. You step inside and turn on the light, and swiftly disable the alarm before resetting it again once you lock the front door. Leaving the keys in the lock, you drop your handbag down and stand awkwardly as you unzip and drag off your boots. When you look up, Cillian is seemingly struggling to get his fingers to coordinate and unlace his shoes. “Did you have a few extra glasses that I didn't see?” You ask, laughing to yourself, as you pull off your coat. You lay it over the banister, instead of hanging it in the cupboard, and mean against the balustrade as you watch Cillian with a smirk.

He's still cursing at every minor bother, and drops down onto one of the steps of the stairs with a bit of a thump. “Fuck it, anyway!” He scoffs, and abandons the laces of his shoes in favour of toeing them both off by the backs. He gives each shoe a bit of of force and all but kicks them across the hallway, where they land in a clatter beside and on top of your boots respectively. “Not a bad shot though.” He laughs, and looks up at you, standing to his right, with your eyebrows raised and your lips in a tight line, trying to decide if you're going to smile at his behaviour or consider the implications of the amount he's had to drink.

“Were you and Enda taking shots or something?” You ask, only half serious, watching him get up from the stairs with a groan. He takes off his blazer and places it over your coat, and you move aside a little to allow him access to the banister. “Or did you two sink a few extra when I waited with Eileen for that fucking taxi?* The taxi had been cancelled twice before finally being assigned and sent, and you'd stayed with Eileen out at the front of the hotel for a good thirty minutes. You feel lightheaded and can certainly tell you've had a few drinks but it's amusing to you just how wobbly and loose Cillian seems to be.

“One maybe,” he stands before you with a soppy smile. His habitually sleepy eyes are even heavier, and when his smile broadens, what is visible of the blue in his eyes sparkles a little bit. “Enda’s a bad influence.” He smirks.

He opens his arms and wraps them around your waist and pulls you to him, closing the tiny distance between your bodies. The kiss he plants is soft and languid, but at the first touch of pressure from you kissing him back, he turns more fervent. He keeps one hand at the base of your back while the other moves a little higher. His breath huffs from his nose and each time he goes to apply more pressure with the kiss, his jaw stays open hungrily, his face touching yours, eagerly awaiting the feel of your mouth again. You know what he's after and you're willing to give it - even a few short days without him makes you long for him as much as he seems to long for you. You're not necessarily shagging every night, but when there's been a lack of hugs, kisses and gentle touches due to distance, sex is always on the cards as soon as it's an option. You want to stop him for a moment, just to remind him that the condoms aren't going to magically appear down here in the hallway, but it's him who stops first. He's lustful in his expression and he takes your hand and brings you towards the sofa. His hand is hot in yours and you know the arousal has built rapidly for him. Reaching the sofa, he pulls you to him again using your hand, and immediately kisses you deeply. His tongue slides against yours and his hands now cup around the sides of your face, keeping you where he wants you to be. Turning your head a little, you break the kiss and, potentially, the passion.

“Cill, love,* you say, and you watch him frown. “Either we need to take this upstairs, or one of us needs to go and grab a condom.”

“Not needed,” he says, shaking his head slowly. He releases your face and takes both of your hands. For a brief moment before he speaks again, you want to punch him at the possibility he's about to tell you he's changed his fucking mind. But he doesn't. “Get the tights off, and the underwear.” He says and there's a sudden huskiness fuelled by whatever he's planning igniting further arousal. “And get on the couch.” Your stomach flutters. Your eyebrows twitch as he tugs your arms a little, guiding you closer to the sofa. When you make no movements to do as he's instructed, you all but gasp when he uses both hands to push up the skirt of your pinafore and begins pawing at your arse and lower back in search of the waistband of your tights. You don't help, and instead you reach out your hand awkwardly between your bodies and cup your fingers around the bulge at the crotch of his trousers. You can feel the heat, and a small spot of moisture, and the infrequent twitches that tell you he's painfully hard. He achieves what he wants to, though, and you can feel the skin of his hands against your arse cheeks as he slides your tights and knickers down together. Even though he's occupied with his task, you don't miss the small thrust into your hand he gives before he bends abruptly, bringing your tights and knickers down to your ankles. Couched down, he reaches up one hand and lightly pushes you against your abdomen. You take the hint and fall back with a flop into the sofa. Once you're off your feet, he pulls the clothing away and throws it aside. He stays down, but moves onto his knees instead. Before he moves closer to you, he unfastens the button and zip on his trousers and pushes them down. With his knees planted on the floor, they can go no further than gathering there in the bend of his legs. The red boxer shorts he's wearing are teasingly dampened in a single but sizable spot, and tented pleasingly while the fabric moves a little as his cock twitches at the sight of you before him, knees wide and cunt on show.

You watch him intently as he reaches into his underwear, still uncoordinated from the alcohol, and withdraws his penis. He pushes his boxers down enough to move the waistband away from being restrictive. His balls sit tight on top of the red material and black waistband while, once released, his cock stands proudly with its ever-so-slight upward curve. Your eyes wander over every inch of his manhood, and you find yourself biting your lower lip in desire. You watch as he wraps one hand around himself, stroking slowly, then wordlessly arches his back down and sinks his face into your most intimate area. Skillfully, and immediately drawing a gasp of shocked delight from you, he runs his tongue up from your vaginal opening to your clit in a slow and teasing stroke. His hand is planted in your thigh and you know by the movements of his shoulder that his other hand is working his cock. He swipes his tongue down and up again, keeping it slow, and cups his lips around your labia with a soft sucking action. His tongue continues to move, up and down, in torturously wonderful, slow, sweeping movements. He takes his hand from your thigh, leaving the skin where his warm hand had been to be assaulted by the comparatively cold air that hits it in its absence. He's not aggressive but he doesn't hold back as he instantly inserts his index and middle finger into your lovingly moistened opening. With your vagina breached by his digits, moving in and out at a slowly increasing rate, he keeps his tongue entirely for your clitoral pleasure. After a moment to lick his lips, he speeds up his fingers as he licks and sucks against your clit. His lips surround your labia as his tongue moves in a controlled flicking back and forth. Your hands are on the back of his heads both guiding him and pulling him back when you feel like he's too quick - you don't want this over too soon. You can barely keep your eyes open as his fingers glide in once against and then he hooks them upward. Your hips rise up and he speeds up his tongue. He strokes and sucks and licks in such a teasing unison that your mind is black and your eyes are seeing stars before you're even on the edge.

You can feel the huffed breaths of air through his nose against your skin and you know that he's working his hand on himself equally as fast as he is his entire availability of tools on you. You're enjoying this too much - your hands through his hair and your cunt thrust against his face - but you're desperate for then orgasm he's teasing you with and you know he isn't far from decorating the sofa’s edge with his own excitement. You remove one hand from the back of his head, not sure what you're even planning to do, then slam it back down as he turns his tongue over your clit in some magical manner that makes your hips buck into him, thrusting your pussy into his whole face. You give up caring about savouring now and grip what you can of his hair as you grind your cunt into his face. He speeds up his fingers whipping in and out of your dripping entrance and your mouth falls open as you groan at the growing intensity of everything.

“Shit, Cill…” You breathe out loudly. “Fuck, Cill…fuck…fuck…” you cry out, “Jesus! Cill…!!!” You gasp loudly as his tongue works impossibly quickly, rolling and flicking and licking amazingly. “I'm c…shit, Cill, I'm….” you stumble and stammer your breathy words before you moan loudly, your jaw slack, and your walls tighten around his fingers as you cum against his face. You squeeze your thighs together involuntarily and keep his head locked in for the pleasure for a minute.

It's a mere few seconds later when the fingers he had inside of you are now planted on your thigh for stability as he strokes himself to orgasm, up on his knees, huffing quick and soft gasps and moans from the open mouth of a face that is slick and coated in you. He cums with a shudder, his fingers digging into your leg as you lie sated before him, and you don't mind as the act itself is achieved against your pubis. You've left your mark upon his face - your pubic hair can take his in return. You lie in a pile of limbs that are too heavy to move as he drops back, first sitting on his feet as he releases his very slowly softening penis, before he draws his own heavy legs out from under him and sits in an awkward tangle of limbs and clothing on the floor.

He sits with his hands held out like they're toxic for a minute, and if you weren't so woozy from the orgasm and the alcohol combining to make your eyes flutter, you might laugh. He looks a sight with your fluids all over his face, his trousers at his knees and his boxers placed funny, and you're sure his flaccid penis hanging over the waistband isn't as appealing now. But then you're sure you look a damn sight worse with your pinafore hitched up under your bust, your knees still spread wide and your pubic hair coated in his rapidly cooled semen. And then the laugh you couldn't muster falls from your lips, a sudden giggle that shakes your upper body a little. Cillian frowns at you and it only makes you laugh more.

“What's the matter with ya?” He asks, blinking his heavy lidded, drunken eyes slowly.

“We look disgusting.” You say, and your laughter starts again when Cillian's response is raised eyebrows and his mouth downturned, whilst actually looking at you, then himself, then back at you. You take a deep breath. “Wash your face, you dirty knacker!” You chuckle, and when Cillian smiles it makes your stomach tighten. God, you love him. In all the shit, in the good and the bad, you love him. You're comfortable to sit with your vagina on show and your bodies coated in one another's ‘leftovers’ and still your tummy flips when he smiles. You love him, and you can't see that ever going away.

“I'm a dirty knacker?” He says. He groans as he is the first to move, and he suddenly seems a little more sober - until he nearly falls over himself. “You've spunk all over you, you whore!” His accent thickens up and you know he's doing it to ensure you're aware he's joking when he calls you a whore. He looks at you as he tucks himself back into his underwear and, wobbling a little again, pulls up his trousers. As he fastens the zip he smiles at you softly. “Actually, you taste too good to be a whore.” He says and you're floored by his sexual openness. He isn't shy in asking for sex, nor in getting what he wants, but he is a passionately sexual person, not a kinky kind of sexual person, and hearing him talk like he just did and being party to his actions tonight, shows you a whole different side of his character when he dared enough. You wonder if it's all due to being Tommy again, or if he's finally showing you different places within him after all this time.

"You're so drunk." You chuckle.

He smiles sleepily then draws his lips in to a tight purse, one eyebrow raised high. "Yes." He nods, and it's so comical you can't help laughing harder. You're in deep with this one, you realise, and you're going to keep it that way even if it's a fight.

[sugar-petals]

Hi again caro 🌟 you know how cillian murphy is being compared to yoongi and vice versa (they share aries/ashwini placement in their big 3 in vedic ), the ketuvian eye / deadpan look but actually being softies on the inside . Plus cillian's face is 100%female and 100% male got me wondering if he's a classic type (same amount of yin /yang) or maybe a gamine like yoongi cause that man always looks young ! Thanks !

cillian's kibbe type | analysis

i endlessly deliberated on his image ID way before, too, he's such a tough case — but hear me out: i'm nominating soft classic.

TR and FG being his only other options of highly androgynous types imo. i'll narrow it down ("crossing out" method, below) maybe we can find some consensus. so:

he consistently dresses pure classic off the screen, at least that i am sure of. symmetrical, standard tailoring, mid-contrast colors. goes in the right direction. well-fitted, puts emphasis on his face. not THE spectacular outfit, sometimes too stark, but pure classic works for his body shape. reversely, C does not fit pure romantics and all naturals because of their rounded/blunt shoulders bulking out the sharp edge. but for cillian, the standard tux, easy. the more dapper, the better for him.

CROSSING OUT: R, FN, SN, N. (9 possible types left!)

2. now, he got famous for characters that dress dramatic classic (peaky blinders, scarecrow, oppenheimer...), but i think those lines are too long/drowning from a distance and without movie magic. yes, the warm tone of the right coat contributes as clashing since he's cool-toned. but proportion-wise, and at 5'7, all yang-dominant types disqualify for him anyway. too large, wide, boxy.

CROSSING OUT: D, SD, DC. (6 possible types left!)

3. then again, cillian being such a renowned classic dresser and directors agreeing says something. nolan always shows him as a C! it is his thing. but: we have to accommodate that cillian's not in a yang height range, and an androgynous face calls for androgynous fashion. put him in a masculine-coded Natural styling (scruffy beard, loose outfit & hair, bulky fabric), it's a disaster. proves how we crosses out N for him early. it needs more yin.

4. puzzlingly... he can do some dramatic lines, even as a smaller guy. that means he's either TR, or an FG, or some classic that can handle a tailored silhouette. Cs are notoriously style chameleons as long as a frame is kept. see my dilemma? 😭 it can go either way.

he looks awesome in that matrix-type dramatic ID fashion, hair sleek, colors dark, sharp edges. maybe he's a true winter or true summer, that's why D colors are fine with him. at least we can exclude pure gamine and soft gamine because they crave the line break and more pizzazz. pure C is also overwhelmed by anything that goes off balance. subtypes are more flexible.

CROSSING OUT: C, SG, G (3 possible types left!!)

finally, why are TR, FG, SC my top 3 picks? because they all combine shorter height with a mix of "feminine and masculine" essence/lines. he has to be among these 3.

5. i see why any gamine is a viable option generally, cillian being short. but i think it's too much for him to pull off, and people hardly perceive him as petite and cute and moon-faced. for yoongi, that's immediately obvious. most SGs have a face like a young romantic type. worlds apart from cillian's insane jaw/cheekbones.

cillian looks too sophisticated, mature, structured, sexual, otherworldly for SG. not sweet, baby-like, cute. classics age gracefully and especially "like fine wine" as well, it's not limited to G types. much like D becomes more dignified with age and truly grows into their severe, tall look, or N types gain even more rugged charm, etc.

style-wise... G color blocks, stripes, details, all seemingly turn him into someone else. the gamine hair chop is unflattering, too. patterns transform him into another person. gamine fashion is a mixed bag on cillian, while soft classic never misses.

CROSSING OUT: FG

6. cillian's height does say G or R, and yes i know, many type him TR. i could agree with it; but still, his figure isn't full/soft/fully rounded (R) or compact (G) enough in my opinion. TR does have some chiseled D characteristics like him, but you have to see softness and curve first, as with all romantics.

compare jimin or billy dee williams (R), such a different vibe! R and TR are sexiness machines. more rounded thighs, nothing works without waist emphasis, rounded chest area, figure 8 body, more rounded nose and romantic curls, the list goes on! cillian's body type is also short like that, but not as curve-dominant, but balanced (shoulders, legs, waist all line up and are straighter = balanced = classic).

question is, does cillian's extreme dieting interfere here so he's harder to type? styling-wise, i do think TR clothing is something else on him, but it steals the limelight or overdefines his face. i also feel like waist definition isn't 1000% paramount for him. plus, kibbe writes for TR: "Stiff fabrics, straight lines, and geometry are to be avoided at all costs!" — While Cillian easily dresses best in exactly that 😂 (WOW!)

imo TR also ages him unfairly, and all you look at is the ornaments, not him. soft classic is still a romantic-influenced subtype, yes, so it does flatter him, below is a memorable look, don't get me wrong. but it takes the focus. i only see how fantastic the garment is, while cillian is secondary, and his face is suddenly too stark, devoid of definition. it's too high glam. i wish we'd have more pictures of him dressing TR to compare, that might be another problem.

7. SC is the only type left to explain his mysterious looks. recap: he's successfully classic-dressed, has a yin height plus a face that combines yin and yang, his silhouette is balanced not curved, all his huge movie roles are C image typecastings, that's SC.

i do think the polished, soft, but shapely elegant character of this type is expressed in him. SC is a highly androgynous type for men, think ATEEZ yeosang. but SC men are so well-dressed in controlled hairstyles and very masculine period or past fashion, ironically, because the fabrics are soft, plush, symmetrical, and tailored. that definitely applies to cillian 10/10. his face simply pops.

cillian looks best dressed minimally, always symmetrical, slight wave in the hair, head to toe theme > mixing styles, understating, no color experiments, basics > overdressing, his signature for a reason. symmetrical coat plus soft woven fabric underneath sounds like it. puts the focus on him while at the same time being well-styled. he was born for timeless, subtle fashion.

and in general... who could dress classic so impactfully, anyways?

give this beautiful, stylish man every available award for what he does so well!

[kikimurphys]

I just can’t

One shot.

Warnings: Cheating, Smut.

" We shouldn't be doing this," you murmured between breathless kisses, your fingers clutching the fabric of his jacket as his hands roamed your body, gripping your waist and pulling you closer.

"I know," he whispered, his lips grazing the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of heat down to your collarbone.

"I'm engaged," you gasped, the words tumbling out like a confession as your hands clung to his shoulders, desperate and trembling.

"I know," Cillian replied, his voice low and rough as his fingers found the hem of your dress, pushing it higher. He cupped your ass, his touch igniting sparks that made you moan softly. "This is the last time."

"The last time," you echoed, though the words were more for you than for him, a fragile attempt at convincing yourself. Your resolve crumbled as you pulled him into a searing kiss, your hands sliding beneath his jacket, shoving it down his arms.

You always told yourself this would be the end. That you'd finally walk away. But it was a lie, and you both knew it. Something about him, about this, always pulled you back in—no matter how hard you tried to resist. You were already engaged when you met Cillian, but the heart is never bound by logic. It wants what it wants, and yours wanted him.

Before you met Cillian nearly a year ago, you were certain your future was exactly what you wanted. You had been with Greg for almost a decade—your first love, your only love. Or so you thought. You didn’t know any different. You didn’t know what real happiness or love felt like until you saw it reflected in the most captivating pair of pale blue eyes.

It was at a birthday party for a mutual actor friend. You’d slipped out onto the balcony for a cigarette, shivering as the biting Irish cold seeped through your short black dress and into your bones. The thin fabric offered no protection, and your high heels didn’t make standing out there any easier. You weren’t used to this kind of weather, and it showed.

Then he appeared, stepping outside with an easy confidence, a faint smile on his lips. He shrugged off his coat and offered it to you without hesitation. “You’ll freeze out here,” he said in that unmistakable accent, his voice a low murmur against the wind.

You took it gratefully, wrapping yourself in his warmth, and in return, you handed him a cigarette. That exchange led to a conversation that lasted the rest of the night.

You’d known who he was, of course—Cillian Murphy, the actor. But meeting him in person was entirely different. There was an effortless magnetism to him, an intensity in the way he listened, his pale blue eyes fixed on yours as though they were the only thing that mattered. And when you said his name, you swore his gaze darkened, his lips curving slightly at the sound.

“I’m engaged,” you had confessed at some point, the words feeling strange in the open air between you.

It didn’t seem to faze him. He leaned in just enough to blur the lines between casual and intimate. “Maybe we could have a drink next time you’re in town,” he said, his tone as light as the smile he wore, though his eyes hinted at something far heavier. He gave you his number, and you kept it, telling yourself it was harmless.

A few weeks later, you were in Dublin again. You texted him to meet for a drink at your hotel bar. “Just a friend,” you’d told yourself. You even planned an early night.

But you never finished your drink. Before you knew it, he was following you back to your hotel room.

Since then, the two of you had been entangled in a secret affair, hidden in the shadows of your work. You were filming in Dublin, and he made every excuse to be near you. It wasn’t just sex—it had long since stopped being about that.

Cillian cooked you dinner and took you to places he thought you’d like, his thoughtfulness surprising you every time. In turn, you brought him little tokens, things that reminded you of him, things you knew would make him smile. You were like any other couple, except it was a secret.

He nipped gently at the sensitive skin of your neck, his breath hot against your ear. “You know what would make this easier,” he murmured, his voice low and weighted with meaning.

Your fingers clenched his shirt instinctively, your body betraying your inner turmoil. “What?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his pale blue eyes searching yours. “If you’d leave him and come with me.”

Before you could respond, his lips captured yours in a desperate, consuming kiss, as if silencing the words he couldn’t bear to hear. He already knew your answer—it was always the same.

“I can’t, Cill,” you gasped when you finally pulled away, your voice trembling. “I do love him… just not the same way I love you. It’s confusing. I can’t—I can’t—I just can’t.”

Your words spilled out in a frantic rush as his lips trailed down your chest, grounding you in the intensity of the moment.

The truth was, you were terrified. You always had been, and Cillian knew it. You had been with Greg for half your life, and those years meant something to you. Every time the subject came up, he could see the battle in your eyes—how your mind drifted to the memories you shared with Greg, to the times he made you laugh, to the comfort of the life you’d built together. Those thoughts were like an anchor, pulling you back from Cillian every time.

But Cillian wasn’t ready to let you go. He had a plan, one that simmered quietly in his heart. If he could make you laugh more, love more, feel more alive than you ever had before, maybe—just maybe—you’d choose him. If he could create more joyful memories with you than Greg ever had, then one day, you might see that your place was with him.

And if it took time, he was willing to wait. He would wait a lifetime if that’s what it took. Because he believed, deep down, that if he made you happier, you’d come to him. You had to.

His hands slid down your sides, steadying you as your knees threatened to give way under the weight of his words and his touch. “You don’t have to decide now,” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing the hollow of your collarbone. “But you’ll have to decide eventually. You can’t keep living like this. We can’t keep living like this.”

You hated the truth in his words. Every stolen moment with Cillian brought you closer to the edge of a decision you weren’t ready to make. Your mind kept returning to Greg—the man who’d been there for you through everything. He was dependable, stable, good. You loved him, you did. But then there was Cillian, who made your heart race in a way Greg never could, who saw you, really saw you, in ways you didn’t even see yourself.

“You say that, but you’ve stayed this long,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of guilt and longing. “If it’s so unbearable, why haven’t you walked away?”

He stilled, his hands resting on your hips as his forehead came to rest against yours. For a moment, there was only the sound of your mingled breaths, the silence between you heavy with unspoken truths.

“Because I can’t,” he finally admitted, his voice raw and quiet. “Because when I look at you, I see everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I didn’t think I deserved. You make me believe I’m more than just… me. You make me feel like I’m alive.”

The vulnerability in his voice broke something inside you. Without thinking, you pulled him into a kiss—a kiss that spoke the words you were too afraid to say aloud. It was deep, desperate, and full of the emotions you kept locked away. Tears slipped from your eyes, spilling down your cheeks and onto his as your lips moved together.

Cillian cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the wet streaks, his touch as tender as his kiss was consuming. “Don’t cry,” he murmured against your lips, his breath warm and shaky. “Please don’t cry.”

You couldn’t stop. The weight of everything—your love for him, your fear, your guilt—was too much. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

He shook his head, his forehead pressed to yours. “Don’t be sorry. Just be here. With me.”

Before you could respond, he scooped you into his arms, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping you afloat. He carried you to the bed, his movements deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours.

As he laid you down, his hands traced your body with a reverence that made your heart ache. You reached for him, pulling him closer until there was no space between you, just the heat of your shared breath and the rhythm of your hearts.

“Make love to me, Cill,” you whispered, your voice trembling but steady, your green eyes locking with his. They were filled with a quiet plea, a desperate need to lose yourself in him, to forget everything else.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Cillian stood and stripped himself bare, his movements unhurried but deliberate. He kicked his pants aside and returned to you, his body warm and inviting as he hovered over you. Your lips met his again, a fiery, unspoken connection passing between you as your arms and legs wrapped around him, holding him close.

His hands moved with practiced ease, peeling your dress away and tossing it carelessly to the floor. He unclasped your bra, his eyes drinking in the sight of you as his lips descended to your skin. He kissed down your chest, lingering at your breasts as his tongue flicked over your sensitive nipples. The soft nip of his teeth sent shivers through your body, your back arching in response to the exquisite sensation.

As he continued his slow, deliberate descent, his hands found the waistband of your panties. He slid them down and off in one smooth motion, discarding them without a second thought. His fingers brushed over your wet folds, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips as pleasure coursed through you.

He looked up, his blue eyes dark and hungry as he watched your reaction. The corners of his lips tugged into the faintest smile, one laced with satisfaction.

“Please,” you gasped, your voice breaking on the single word, your hips instinctively bucking against his hand.

He captured your lips again, his kiss deep and consuming as he pushed your legs open, his hands gliding down to caress the sensitive skin of your thighs. One hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin, while the other moved to position himself at your entrance.

Cillian pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes dark with desire but soft with emotion. Without breaking eye contact, he rolled his hips forward, entering you with a slow, deliberate thrust. You both gasped at the connection, the air between you electric. His forehead rested against yours, and for a moment, everything else faded away.

Your eyes locked, your breaths mingling as he began to move. Each thrust was unhurried yet powerful, his body pressed firmly against yours. His lips brushed yours in fleeting, tender kisses as your heels dug into his back, pulling him closer, deeper.

The pleasure built quickly, your body responding to his every movement. He groaned low in his throat, his head tilting back briefly as his eyes squeezed shut, lost in the sensation. The bed creaked beneath you, the sound mixing with your gasps and the rhythm of your bodies.

His hand found your breast, his grip firm as he squeezed, drawing a moan from you. The skin of his hips slapped against yours, the intensity rising as you felt yourself nearing the edge.

As the tension reached its peak, his movements slowed for a brief moment. His hand came to cradle your cheek again, tilting your face upward. “Look at me,” he whispered, his voice rough with passion and emotion.

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze, and time seemed to still. His blue eyes bore into yours, filled with a depth of feeling that made your heart ache. “I love you,” he told you, thrusting deeper.

“I love you too,” you responded, your voice trembling as you felt yourself climbing higher and higher toward your orgasm.

The connection pushed you both over the edge. His hips quickened, and you cried out as waves of pleasure crashed over you, your body trembling beneath him. His jaw tightened as he groaned deeply, his eyes never leaving yours as he followed you into release.

Breathing heavily, you clung to each other, your foreheads pressed together once more. Your heart thundered in your chest, matching the rhythm of his, as the world slowly came back into focus.

Cillian’s hands were still gently resting on your body, as if unwilling to let go, even in the aftermath. He looked at you with an intensity that sent another wave of emotion rushing through you. His voice, hoarse and raw, broke the silence.

“Please, Y/N, come with me. I can’t share you anymore.”

His words hung in the air, both a plea and a promise.

You looked into his eyes, searching for the sincerity, the depth of what he was asking. And there it was—no more doubts, no more hesitation. Just love, raw and unapologetic. You felt a warmth spread through you, the decision that had been weighing on you finally becoming clear.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice breaking with emotion. “I will.”

tags:

@mamawiggers1980 @xsweetcatastrophe @galactict3a @thistheivyseason @cillianmurphyvevo @sweetcheesecakesblog @cillianmurphyfanatic @meadowshelby

[enidsinclair]

#the cutest red-nosed reindeer

[jokerous]

BARBENHEIMER (2023)

[deathviaroses]

THE VISUALS IN THIS MOVIE AHAHHSUQIAOSJQIQJIWK2KWKWKWKOSHSHSJSJSIS

Inception (2010)

[ayo-edebiri]

#Can't wait for Barbenheimer

[tomcriuse]

Batman Begins (2005) dir. Christopher Nolan

[mydear-corinthian]

phone call

synopsis - tommy receives a phone call in the middle of having sex with his wife.

pairing - tommy shelby x reader / thomas shelby x reader

warnings - SMUT +18, rough sex, use of foul language, breeding kink, praising kink, creampie, just full of porn, unprotected sex, p in v

notes - short (w.c <850), gif and picture isn't mine, divider is mine

main masterlist | peaky blinders masterlist | cillian murphy masterlist

His hands explored every inch of your sensitive body with a satisfying touch that sent shivers down your spine. There was an irresistible affection between the two of you that was endless. Your breath caught as his dominant, wild hip thrusts into yours, causing hectic, unrestrained moans with every thrust.

"Oh my God- yes, Thomas!"

As he pushed you farther into the mattress, his weight and heat surrounded you as you lay beneath him, your bodies linked. He drew closer as your legs coiled around his hips, stretching you in the most delicious way as he slid deeper with each thrust. Tommy started to breathe hard, his chest heaving as sweat collected on his forehead and trickled down to mix with the heat from your smooth skin. He met your gaze with lust and something deeper than that.

"Yes, baby.. fuck- you take me so well.. so fucking well," he praised on your ear as he rested his head on your neck, his deep thrusts not stopping.

The telephone on top of the nightstand beside your shared bed rang loudly. Your husband stopped, looking at the phone near him.

Who the fuck is calling at this hour?

Tommy picked the phone up, not leaving the bed.

"Thomas Shelby." he answered.

You expected him that he would draw away and stop, especially when the phone rang. He stopped and reached for it, and you felt upset. Tommy, though, chose to stay still and answered the phone with one hand while tightening his grip on your waist with the other and suddenly thrusting his hips forward once more.

His thrusts continued to shock you, causing your body to tense in surprise, but before you could respond, pleasure took over. His cock sank farther, each malicious movement finding that exact spot. You ended up speechless by both of his soothing phone voice and the way he caused your body to react to him.

"What ha-happened?" Tommy asked over the phone, his breathing heavily telling each question with a struggled and unsteady voice. He attempted to keep his composure, but the force of his motions made it almost impossible as his chest rose and fell quickly. As he tried to concentrate on the talk, you could feel his heart thumping against your body and his breath rapid and hot against your skin.

Tommy looked at you, a smirk painted on his face. With his free hand, his fingers toyed with your hardened nipples, brushing them and squeezing it.

"Tomm-" you covered your mouth immediately as you nearly moaned his name out loud, afraid of whoever is on the phone hearing that Tommy is fucking his wife at the moment.

"Yeah, I'll handle that tomorrow morning," his voice was deep making you feel wetter and wetter. A familiar feeling coiled down through your stomach.

"Tommy, I'm so close," you quietly moaned. Your fingers gripped the silk bedsheets tightly as you felt your high coming.

The room was filled with the constant sound of your bodies meeting, the heat between you growing with each slap of flesh on skin. Your thoughts were taken over by the intense pleasure that was shooting through your entire body as your eyelids fluttered closed, buried in a fog of ecstasy. You vaguely heard Tommy drop the phone somewhere in the distance, but it didn't really matter. The way he grabbed you closer and pounded your hips with such merciless pace that every thrust sent shivers of pleasure through your entire body was all that mattered. Heavy intakes of breath from him, merging with your groans as he pushed you both to the edge.

"Good girl, yes, yes.. Finish on my cock."

Tommy experienced the same closeness as your cock clenched all over it. With a deep moan, he raised your right leg to his shoulders. He treated you like the most precious gemstones that thieves like him could take. Tommy groaned and praised as his head rolled back.

"D'you want me to cum inside you? Breed you? Make you mine?"

"Yes, yes! Fill me up, sir! Please!"

His back was scratched by your nails, and in a few hours, scars will definitely begin to appear. You groaned, breasts bouncing and the bed creaking with every pound.

And then, after a few more thrusts, he smashed deep inside of you until he poured all of his seed into your abused and tight walls. It was warm and filled. Tommy groaned loudly and pleased, then rested his head on the side of your neck to inhale yourself. He waited until every last drop of his cum filled you before pulling out.

As soon as he pulled out, a mixture of his and your load leaked outside your throbbing pussy. Tommy got up, grabbing a box of tissue and cleaned the both of you up.

"Who was that?" you asked.

"Just the betting shop asking for me to check on something."

"You think they.. heard me?"

"I'm sure they did and I'm glad so that they know how much I fucking please my lovely wife." he chuckled before planting another kiss to your lips.

You gladly kissed him back but the kiss deepened and the both of you know what that means.

Another round.

[ml080504]

somebody: what do you like about men twice your age?

me: where do i start?

[cillianmurphysdimples]

A female Y/N / Cillian fanfic. (Part Thirteen)

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

Warnings for sexual references and language. Adult themes. Not suitable for under 18s.

We Got Issues

Part Thirteen: Cillian's sons spend the evening with them, with a takeaway, and Y/N can see he loves their presence. But when their plans to have 'the talk' are thwarted, Y/N gets confirmation from Cillian that the love is there, their relationship is enduring, but that he knows they have issues to discuss. [Fluff/Comfortable - no sexual scenes but some sexual language]

@remembering-angels @dragonsneversharetheirtreasure @aesthetic0cherryblossom @meister95 @vivianleighwishesshewasme @meadowshelby @lavender-haze-01 @strangeions

“Ah, shut up!” Aran sticks up for himself as Malachy makes yet another joking dig, and you can see Cillian's face as he tries not to laugh. The rarely used dining table is awash with cardboard boxes, half finished pizzas, and the greasy but somewhat addictive smell of takeout fries that always taste better than homemade food. You lean back into your chair, holding your glass of Coke, and splutter a laugh over the mouthful you attempt to sip from it when Aran follows up his moan with a skillfully hidden middle finger directed towards his brother, that Cillian failed to catch, and Aran is grinning as he looks across at you when you laugh. You wink at him with a smile over your shared secret.

It falls quiet for a moment, but for the music coming from Cillian's Spotify playlist pulled up on the TV, and it's in that quiet moment that Malachy switches from their playfulness into something a little more serious. “You're flying back over to England in the morning, Dad?” He asks.

Cillian is sitting with his elbows on the table and his chin resting in the palm of his right hand. He's been fiddling his fingers in and around his mouth for a while - it's often a mindless sort of idiosyncratic quirk, but there are times you've watched him soothe himself this way when anxiety is high. He straightens a little and drops his arm down. He's wearing his glasses and he looks a mixture of blissfully happy at the family chaos and utterly exhausted by life in general. You are both a little hungover - and you'd finally gotten from him that morning the extent of his and Enda's additional drinks! - and you can tell he's still feeling it compared to you feeling better. “Eh, evening flight.” He answers and there's a smile that forms that is sweet. “I've a week or so then I'll come back for a few days, and then I'll be there until, um, a week before Christmas. And youse are welcome to stay when I'm back, you know that. Sure youse can stay here if I'm not, it's your house too.” he says with conviction and Malachy nods his head. Right then, you can't tell if the young lad is melancholic or just not particularly expressionistic. “I'll ring your Mum myself, but did youse mention Christmas to her at all?” He asks.

Aran nods, finishing a mouthful of pizza before he replies, wiping the side of his mouth as he speaks. “She said it's up to us.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“I don't want to not see either of you for Christmas.” Malachy says, and you decide, by the tone of his voice, that he is fairly melancholic. “If we stayed with Mum, though, you'd come over or something?”

“I would, of course,” Cillian nods and he's frowning earnestly behind the specs. “I'll be here, like, and we can see one another whenever youse want. If you want to stay with your Mum, then do, it's fine. We can pick another day, and cook here or get a table somewhere. Honestly boys, it's fine. Same as last year.” He's reassuring them, you know, but you can see that same battle in Cillian that you know for sure the boys are having - their own feelings versus everyone else's.

“There's plenty of time off school and work ahead, you'll be able to come and go as you please,” you say quietly, and Malachy gives you a genuine smile, even if it is small, that you take as a thankful acceptance of your words. There's a quiet that falls again and you awkwardly look from one Murphy man to the other. Cillian's playlist seems to fall silent for a minute too, but when it restarts, it seems much louder. It booms the folky guitars of Lemon 7s by ‘A Lazarus Soul’, and you can see Cillian slowly and silently mouthing along.

“There's a video of you being passed around, Dad.” Aran speaks up and you know it's going to both amuse and disinterest Cillian to learn about it.

“Is there, yeah?” He raises his eyebrows and brings his glass to his lips. As he draws it back, he licks his lips and nods in Aran's direction. “G’on, what is it?” He humours his son.

“Ah nothing strange, just from last night, saying about us studying the book. Obviously it's way before you got locked.” Aran says offhandedly, and Malachy laughs at the declaration.

Cillian smirks and shakes his head. “I was not locked.” He weakly defends himself, but laughs a little when he looks up at both boys who are both making faces either at him or pretending to be ridiculously drunk. Malachy had picked up on his Dad's obvious delicate temperament the moment he'd got into the car when Cillian had picked them up, according to both boys, and had been slagging him on it ever since. Aran just found the idea that his Dad was hanging to be delightfully amusing.

“Even Y/N agrees,” Malachy continues his slagging, and gestures across at you. “Was he pissed last night?”

You chuckle as they all turn to you, and Cillian's subtle wink is amusing and also a sign that you're fine to slag as much as you like and he'll not get arsey over it. “Out of his mind,” you tease with a laugh. “Nah,” you say, “I mean he wasn't sober or anything, but there wasn't any falling asleep at the island with his shoes as a pillow.”

Malachy's eyebrows rise up and Aran's head whips to his Dad with gleeful expectation at your breadcrumbs for a story. “When was that?” Malachy laughs loudly.

“Easter last year,” you laugh. “We went to a birthday thing for a friend in Balbriggan, I think.” You smile as you look at Cillian, and you're glad he's smiling. “He learned his limit on the beer that night, and for three days after.” You laugh. He had been in a bit of a state the days after this particular party. While he had a drink or two fairly often, it was rare when he let the alcohol be the guide, so times like this one, while good for slagging and remembering, weren't anything you'd ever use as a resentment or a punishment.

“Oh! I remember, we came for dinner the next day.” Malachy laughs and points his finger towards his Dad playfully. “Y/N picked us up, she said you weren't feeling too good but you wanted us here for dinner still. Whole time we were here you were on the sofa there.”

Aran looks at you, then his Dad. “That when you were being sick upstairs when we got in the door?” Aran asks, laughing, and Cillian gives them the embarrassed reaction they want by covering his face with his hands, but as he drops his hands back down, he's laughing at the jibes. “You need a downstairs toilet.” He laughs.

“That's the one,” you say. “I don't think you went near any food for two days.” you laugh, and reach out your hand across the table and pat his hand. As your hand lifts off his, he turns his palm over and lovingly captures your fingers, holding you there.

“Laugh now,” he says and looks at his boys in turn, “When youse are out with your friends and coming rolling back home to your Mum, you'll be on your arses the next day yourselves. And, sure I'll laugh!” He says lightly, chuckling. He rubs his thumb back and forth slowly across your fingers in his hand. “You all done, or still eating?” He asks, and he releases your hand as he stands up. He pushes his chair back with his legs and starts collecting together the empty containers on the table.

Both boys begin pushing away half finished food and empty boxes, sliding them towards their Dad. You get to your feet and help with the clearing away, “No, stay there,” you say as Aran goes to stand up and help with the cleaning. “Finish your drink.” You smile.

“Ah, give over, the two of you get up there now and help,” Cillian says with amusement. “It's your home, you help with the jobs. C’mon. Mal, will you bring the empty glasses into the sink there? And eh, Aran, grab a dishcloth in the kitchen and give that table a wipe.” He says, piling the pizza boxes and containers into a neat stack. He's light hearted, but he is keen, as he always has been, that the boys are helpful around the house when they're here. Not that he'd have them scrubbing or anything, but it isn't the first time at all that he's had them clear up after dinner. “I'll throw these out in the outside bin,” he says, glancing at you. As he takes the tower into his arms, he peers around to see where the lads are, and leans towards you for a gentle kiss. You smile as he steps back again, “Dessert.” He says, cheesy and tacky and smiling like an idiot. You can't help smiling back, then you shake your head as you watch him head toward the front door to leave the containers into the recycling bin.

“Thanks, you two,” you say, entering the kitchen, where you find both boys loitering after finishing the tasks Cillian had set for them. “Slave driver, your Dad.” you joke and Malachy offers a smirk but you suspect it to be one of pity. “School tomorrow?” You ask, looking between the boys. Aran was approaching his leaving cert and Malachy was in a college you didn't know too much about.

“Study day tomorrow,” Malachy replies, and pulls his phone from his pocket. “If Dad isn't leaving early then tomorrow, can I stay here tonight?” At the age his was, Cillian did expect to see a little less of Malachy these days even if it hurt him, so hearing that he actually wanted to spend the night was a surprise.

You raise your eyebrows. It's been a long time since Malachy stayed over. You don't want to tell him no, but your stomach drops at the suggestion for one reason - that morning you and Cillian had agreed that you'd sit and talk this evening, and you were desperate to get it done. But turning Malachy away was the last thing you'd do, and you push a smile to your lips. “Yeah, I don't mind. I'm sure your Dad'll be happy.” You say, “You can stay too, Aran. I can always drive around and collect your things for school tomorrow from your mother, and Cill will drive you in the morning." Like summoning the devil, Cillian arrives in the kitchen, pushing up the sleeves of his thick jumper, and looks at you all in turn. “Cill, Malachy wants to stay,” you say, your eyes following him as he walks to the sink to wash his hands.

With his back to you all, he turns his head over his shoulder to his eldest son. “Grand, yeah, stay,” he smiles at him. “Sure I can drop you home before I leave tomorrow, or earlier if you want.”

“And you'll take Aran to school in the morning if he stays too, yeah?” You ask. Disappointed that your conversation is now on hold, you replace the feeling with the joy of the boys staying over for the first time in a long time, and the wonderful mood that you know it'll put Cillian in.

“I will, yeah,” Cillian says, turning off the tap. He turns around, drying his hands on the dish towel, and looks at Aran. “Do you want to stay or go home?” He asks, noticing he's a little quiet.

Aran shakes his head, “I'll go,” he says quietly. “I didn't finish some homework,”

“I can go out to your mother's and pick your things up.” You repeat your earlier offer.

Aran shakes his head again. Cillian reaches out and claps his hand onto Aran's back, “No bother, it's grand. Sure whenever you're ready I'll bring you home. You want to go now?” He asks and you can see a little bit of preempted separational upset creeping into his expression. Aran nods his head, indicating he's put up his walls and it's ready to return to his mum. Your anxiety questions whether it's something you've said or done that's suddenly seen Aran close up, but you can't think what. Cillian nods his head slowly. “Okay so,” he says quietly. “Let me get my runners on and I'll drop you home.”

By eleven pm, you and Cillian are curled together in bed, with the just audible sound of the TV in Malachy's room carrying through the upstairs. You lie with your head on his chest, in the region of his heart, and his arm is wrapped around the back of your shoulders to pull you in closer. His free hand is up on the pillow beside him with his fingers moving back and forth through his short hair. You keep your palm flat on his pyjama covered chest, but move your fingers a little, caressing against him gently. It's quiet and comfortable, and you're both exhausted, but you don't feel able to turn away and fall asleep.

“Sorry we didn't get to talk this evening,” Cillian says quietly, his voice a husky whisper.

You shrug your shoulders a little, “It's alright, Malachy being here is a good excuse to hold off.” You say, and consider that it is perhaps the only reason you two wouldn't talk tonight, knowing it was important.

“I didn't want to say no, it's rare he's about these days,” he continues and you agree fully. "And he's been gas craic there this evening, can't get over him and Aran growing up so fucking fast."

You hum softly at his sentimentality, and move your fingers softly against his chest again. “No, it's okay, I completely understand. We can talk another time.” You say with a soft sigh.

“It's important.” He says and you're glad he feels that way. “You were right with what you said yesterday, we need to talk about it all.” Despite wanting him on board this much, you also allow your anxieties to win as you wonder why he's so eager. What could he possibly have to say now? “Sure it's not like it's a discussion on splitting up, or that we don't love one another, fuck sake,” he says, “But I know it's a discussion that we both need to have and get united on.” You admire his confidence, and you sincerely hope that this is the case - reaching a point when you and Cillian feel the need to separate was a daunting idea - and you're so glad he understands that this needs to be aired and done properly. His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer in against the left side of his body. He smirks into the darkness of the bedroom but you can hear the small breathy laugh that accompanies it.

“What?” You whisper.

“Just after getting a flashback of last night,” be says and you can hear by how his words form that he's still smiling.

“Which part?” You ask, though you're sure you know well. You tap your hand against his chest where it rests and he laughs a little more. “Could it be the part where you couldn't get your fucking shoes off, or are you being filthy minded?”

He laughs again and it vibrates against your ear pressed to his chest. “I think that's one for the memory bank.”

“The wank bank you mean!” You tease. “If you pull yourself off in a hotel to me, spread-eagle on our sofa, I'll die of embarrassment!”

“Sure I'm away a long while sometimes,” he says, once again tightening his arm around you. “Can't expect me to walk around with the horn.” You laugh a little too loudly, and he shushes you even as he laughs too. He sighs as you both settle and you feel a wave of sadness that once again, tomorrow he'll be gone.

[animusrox]

Cillian Murphy sweeping + Bradley Cooper aging 10 years in 2 months during the awards season