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cillianmurphysdimples · 2 days ago

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

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 really designed for under 18s but not overly graphic.

We Got Issues

PART ONE: Y/N was the other woman at one point, but life had been sailing along well since Cillian's divorce. Y/N had reached a point where she knew where she wanted their life together to go, only to find a spanner in the works when Cillian admits his mind has changed...

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You wake up and instantly realise how cold it is.

The bed is empty and the sheets are thrown back. You reach for your phone on the nightstand to check the time - 2.40am. You clear your throat and glance to the chair in the corner of the bedroom, strewn with discarded clothes, just in case he's sitting there. But he isn't. The room feels empty and you suddenly feel that same emptiness dump heavily in your stomach. You sit up and throw your legs over the side of the bed. As you stand, you reach to the floor for your discarded knickers and vest top, pulling them on as you walk around the bed. “Cillian?” You call into the darkness, wondering if he's in the bathroom. “Cillian?” You reach for the slightly ajar door and pull it open. The landing is dark, but at the bottom of the stairs there's a shred of light coming from the open plan kitchen below and you know it's been one of those nights for him once the sex was over and sleep had claimed you. You walk barefooted down the carpeted stairs, your hands on the wall for stability, and step onto the cool laminate of the floor below. You stand a moment, taking in the large room around you with a small, if a little tired, smile. You still feel a mix of emotions in your gut, but the love is stronger.

The kitchen island is illuminated by the artsy hanging lights above and there's a faint smell of coffee in the air. It's chilly, and you wrap your arms around yourself as you begin to walk towards the island. He's sitting on the middle stool, his back arched as he leans forwards with his elbows resting on the counter top, and there's a steaming cup of coffee to his right whilst both of his hands are wrapped around an open book. His grown out fringe is down over his face, which has to be annoying, but he doesn't move it. His checked pyjama bottoms are loose around his legs and they swing a little as he bounces his right leg up and down, foot resting on the bar of the stool. This movement is both absent minded and a sign of him feeling uneasy - you don't know which it is, but you assume it's the latter. His glasses are perched on the edge of his nose and still he hasn't looked up. Then you notice his phone, laid on the counter, with the long, white wire of his earphones connected and trailing up beside his arm. He'll be playing that album again, you're certain, and his mind will be a mixture of John Lennon and whichever of the six books he's chosen this time.

You don't want to startle him - hell, you hardly want to bother him at all, he looks so absorbed and ridiculously adorable and you still can't make up your mind if you're mad or you want him - but it's that adorable absorption that makes you want to disturb him, too. You walk closer, your feet silent on the floor, and you unlace your arms as you reach the island. You place your hands onto the marble top and wait a moment, just in case he sees you out of the corner of his eye. But he doesn't budge, and you smirk to yourself at the studious look on his face. God, it's only been a couple of hours but you'd have him again if he offered it. You slowly push your left hand across the counter and wiggle your fingers, hoping the movement will draw his attention so you don't have to make him jump. It works - sort of. He startles slightly, looking to his right as your fingers do indeed catch his attention, and he drags his earphones out with a catch in his breath.

“Fuck!” He shakes his head, placing down the book. He reaches his hand out and taps pause on his music. He sets the earphones down in a messy pile beside the phone.

“Sorry,” you smile a little as you draw back your hand.

Removing his glasses, he shakes his head. “No, you're alright.” He whisperers but neither of you know why. Nobody else is here. He sets the glasses down beside his coffee, the arms of them still stretched out, and turns on the stool to face you properly.

“Couldn't sleep?” You ask him as you reach out for his coffee to take for yourself. He doesn't protest, but smiles as he rolls his eyes. He should have known you would do it - you always did. He sighs and rolls his eyes slightly again as he shakes his head. He reaches up with his right hand and pushes his hair from his eyebrow. He looks tired, and as you sip his coffee you want to ask what's on his mind. “Are you alright?” You settle on. Not sure you are fully ready for a lovey-dovey conversation but not at all wishing him unrest. It's been an argument, that's all.

“Grand,” he flattens his mouth into a thin line and raises his eyebrows. A lie, and an obvious one. He knows he isn't fooling you, and he knows you'll press him for answers, but this is the dance he does. Every time.

“Cillian.” You raise your eyebrows as you place the mug onto the counter. You lean forwards, resting your forearms onto the cold marble, and fix him with the eyes you know break him eventually. “C’mon.”

“Just couldn't sleep,” he says. He puts his left elbow on the counter and rests his head in his left palm. “Didn't want to lay up there and disturb you.”

“You feel bad now, for tonight and Friday?” You ask him. You can't quite believe yourself for speaking up, for chancing another argument, but you need to get it out.

Friday had been horrendous. You'd argued in the restaurant, he'd hated the attention it drew when the attention was already there. He'd begged you to lower your voice, but that had only made you angrier. He'd been in touch with his ex-wife that day - that itself was not unusual, they have children - but when he'd brought it up that he'd spoken with her, it had been half way through you slowly opening up about your readiness, now, to be more committed, to start the family you'd been nervous about starting. He shut it down, the whole line of conversation but what hurt the most was he'd shut it down by talking about her. The row had continued in the taxi home, and at the front door, and even louder once the door was shut. There'd been insults and old hurts thrown in one another's faces, and you'd reminded him that you'd been the other woman at one point, so how could you trust him? You'd hated yourself for it, but it had flown from your mouth in total anger and once it was out there, you'd not been able to take it back.

Now it was the early hours of Sunday morning and Saturday had been about ignoring one another, before finally he'd broken and forced you both to sit at this very island and talk. You'd apologised for what you said, for your loudness in the restaurant and he'd apologised for his timing and shutting you down. You'd cuddled on the sofa for an hour, paying little attention to the film he'd selected, and had continued to try to make one another feel loved again. But he still hadn't welcomed the conversation about children, and you'd let it go. By eleven pm he'd taken you by the hand and, with a half-lidded look and a soft smile had guided you up the stairs. The sex had been slow and sensual - all hands over the body and languid kisses; as vanilla as it got but it was so soft and loving that zero complaints had arisen. That was until he'd reached into the nightstand drawer for a condom and you felt your heart flutter angrily. But you'd said nothing, and you'd wrapped your arms around his back as he fucked slowly into you with his face close to your ear and his soft, gentle huffs of breath against your cheek. He'd cum - you hadn't. You weren't angry anymore, but you felt unheard. He'd laid beside you, his hand on your hip as you turned your back to him and curled into the sheets. You'd wanted to cry, such a mix of intense love and horrible rejection, and you'd kept your face away from his as you'd fallen asleep.

You keep your eyes on him and realise you're probably a little stern faced, but you can't shift it entirely. He nods his head against his hand. “I'm sorry,” he says quietly, “I know we'd talked about things before, but I can't…start again like that.” The Ts at the end of his words are smudgy and soft - his accent was always thicker when he whispered - and it gives you the same tingles it always has.

“So why ever tell me you would?” You ask. He'd talked you round, persuaded you that a family would be a good idea. And then he shuts the talk down when you raise it, and grabs a fucking condom?! “You wanted a baby six months ago.” You point out, “But she calls and all of a sudden it's changed?”

“I've two grown kids, Y/N, it just feels like it wouldn't be fair on them.” He sniffs, and you absorb the words. The excuse. “I know they're not babies, but Y/N, I'm still their Dad.”

“Oh so it's about the boys? It's not because you've changed your mind about me?” You ask, almost nervous. There's contempt in your tone and his eyes flash at the sound of it.

“Ah, stop it.” He becomes more animated. “No. I have not.” He insists. “Y/N, would you drop the face? It's been three years, for fuck sake!” He raises his head from his hand and those crinkles around his eyes deepen and he frowns and squints. “I'm sorry I mentioned her and the kids when you were talking. I wasn't trying to end the conversation, I swear. Sure, it just came into me head. I dunno. And I'm sorry about the fucking condom, alright?”

“It's just a bit fucking funny, isn't it? You're apologising for going back on things you said, and you do so by going back even fucking further.” You throw your arms out to the sides. “Don't fucking roll your eyes at me, Cillian.” You warn as his blue eyes settle back and he quirks up his left eyebrow. The attitude is back in him now, the temper people rarely see. So calm, so well mannered - that's the Cillian he presents. But you've been party to the fierce rows and heard the drunken anger, and you know it intimately.

You watch him shifting, and he drops his feet to the floor and stands up off the stool. The large pyjama t-shirt is miles too big for him and too short at the same time, but in it and his bottoms he looks comfortable and pleasingly domestic. The life you wanted was just this - comfort, familiar, familial. He scrubs his hands over his face and forces his hair back. He holds his hands on his head for a moment then drops his arms, and his hair slowly flops back down onto his forehead again. “What do you want me to fucking say, Y/N?” He asked, spreading his arms wide beside him. “I can't go back and change things.”

“No, you can't.” You say, shaking your head, “But you use a condom for the first time in weeks right after I tell you I'm finally in the place you wanted me to be? And now you're looking at me like I'm holding you accountable for something you don't deserve.” Your anger is back, but the look on his face is stirring your stomach. You hate yourself for knowing you'd let him take what he wanted if he turned this into something sexual. You want him to know he's hurt you, with his fucking flip-flopping, but you love the love so much you'd let it go if he begged the right way. “You couldn't have found time at all in the last little while to tell me you'd changed your mind?”

He pushes his hands into the pockets of his pyjama bottoms and it pulls them tightly around his crotch. He shrugs his shoulders and he doesn't look forty-eight at all. “I didn't want to hurt ye,” his accent is thicker still and you can tell he is going over many emotions in his mind. “I know I pushed ye, I know I brought it up, but this last few weeks, I dunno, I think I've just changed what I want with us.”

“You talked with her about it?” You ask him, your fears coming out of your mouth before you even knew you'd thought them. They had history, he and his ex-wife, of course they did - the years they'd been married, their children, their experiences, how could they not still have ties and links that you'd never understand? But you weren't the other woman anymore, and he'd persued you…

He shakes his head, “No I fucking didn't.” He insists and you believe him - immediately.

“So what do you want with us?” you ask and you're almost scared to hear the answer.

“Us.” He says quietly. “Jesus, Y/N. I want us. I want the fucking softness and-and the love. You and me, for fuck sake.” He draws his hands from his pockets and walks towards you. “Y/N, I don't have regrets, I don't, and I need you to believe that. But I can't start all over again with the babies, and-and the fucking…” he trails off and he reaches his hands up, cupping them around your biceps.

Your skin puckers in goosebumps at his touch - it always does - and those fucking eyes stare into yours as you study his face. Every line, every freckle, every speck of stubble - you've stared at this face for so long now, making every conceivable expression, that you know it more than he does. He's sorry, you know, and he's ashamed of his actions but you can see he means what he's saying too. He has changed his mind, and it hurts you that he couldn't have just said as much. “You asked me to let you know when I knew what I wanted.” You whisper, eyes flicking side to side as you struggle which eye to settle on. “And when I do, you're not there.”

“You took too long.” He says and you can see he regrets the words as soon as his full lips have allowed them to escape.

You shrug off his hands and step back, shaking your head. “You prick.”

“Y/N that's not what I meant.” He insists.

“Of course it is! I took too long to be ready to have a baby, and now the novelty has worn off and you've changed your fucking mind.” you growl at him - anger is winning again.

“Novelty…” he mutters and shakes his head. “You want a fucking baby, we'll have a fucking baby.” He's angry now and you feel your heartbeat quicken. You know he doesn't mean it, but it makes you feel validated for a mere second. “You want me to fucking cum into you, I'll fucking cum into you. Fuck sake, Y/N. This isn't about you being ready, or me changing my mind - this is about you constantly battling with a woman I haven't been married to for three fucking years.” He rages, and the Cork accent is so thick he's clipping words and deepening his voice left and right, and if you weren't so fucking angry you'd take off your knickers and hold him to his promise. He's pacing and you watch him hungrily. “You've no idea what you want, girl, and I've no fucking clue how to keep up with ye. You don't want a fucking baby, and now I've got used to that fact and rearranged my view on our fucking future, you've done a fucking u-turn and now you fucking want a baby? I don't fucking know what you fucking want, but I'll tell you what I don't want, and that's the constant fucking feeling of you waiting on me going back to her.” he jabs out his left hand. “I've two sons, Y/N!” He yells, “And I've to show them that you can leave a relationship if it's not working, but by fucking Christ, boy, you don't leave your kids and I've realised while you were making up your mind that if we have a baby, then what does that tell the boys? Eh? It tells them I've moved fucking on and replaced them. Doesn't it?!”

“No!” You shout. “They love you, they know we're happy, and they'd be happy for you if we had a child. And I don't think you'll go back to her - I don't.” You insist. But you did, at least at the start of all this. You'd been fearful he'd change his mind about the woman who'd been his bit on the side and realise he'd made a mistake. He hadn't, and you'd gotten over it, but he clearly still saw something in you that made him think those thoughts hadn't left you.

“So why's it so much of a fucking problem that I changed my fucking mind?” He asks, and slowly the anger is reducing and his accent is still thicker but the volume is lower.

“Because you didn't tell me.” You say. “You waited for me, and you didn't tell me that you didn't want that anymore.” You feel hot and frustrated, and you're fighting with the want to drag him to the L-shaped sofa and to slap him around his sharp cheek. “You're warm and sweet, you're attentive and fucking loving, but you don't let me in your fucking head half the time, Cillian. I can't read your bloody mind! And it's not that you changed your mind - I can take that, I swear, a baby isn't fucking everything. But you cut our conversation and your apology fuck included a fucking condom.”

He drops back his head, staring up at the ceiling, and his hands are on his hips. When he straightens up again, his eyes are closed and you just want to see them to know what he's feeling. When he opens his eyes, his pupils are wide. “I'm sorry,” he offers again and he flicks his head slightly to move his fringe from his eyes. “I know, okay?” he sighs. “I'm sorry.”

“I know,” you say quietly. This argument is stupid, and you know it, but you feel hurt that he didn't just speak up sooner. You told your arms under your bust and sigh. He crosses the small distance between you again and he wraps his arms around you tightly, holding you in against his frame. You unlace your arms from between you and wrap them around his shoulders and back, inhaling the smell of his skin from the crook of his neck. He's still whispering his sorries as he holds you tightly and you close your eyes as he sways your body slightly. You reach up your right hand and cup the back of his head - his hair is soft and growing out nicely. At the softness of your affection, he squeezes you tighter and you sigh against his skin and softly press your lips to the curve of his neck and shoulder.

“Still mad?” He asks softly into your ear, his arms not loosening at all.

It takes you a moment to consider your emotional stance. “No.” You whisper against his skin, and you smile a little as he holds you impossibly tighter. Slight though his physique is, his arms possess a warming strength. And then he slowly loosens his hold, prompting you to drop your arms, and you stand close and staring at one another.

“I'm sorry I didn't talk to you before now.” He says with an intensity in his eyes that holds you captive.

You nod slowly. “I know you are.”

He raises his right eyebrow and you know that's the side he raises when he isn't in the brightest of moods. “You know I am?” He says, and quirks his head slightly. “Sure, it's not the response I was expecting.”

“You want me to say it's okay? Or that it's all forgotten?” You shrug. “I can't. I know you're sorry, Cill, I know that. But it doesn't erase it.”

He tenses his jaw and the action purses his full lips. “Right,” he raises both eyebrows and his attitude is clear - he's angry, and perhaps he too has that right, but you feel as though you're in the right this time around.

This is going to keep going in circles.

You sigh deeply and instinctively fold your arms under your bust. Rolling your eyes, you turn towards the stairway. “I'm going back to bed.”

“No,” he calls out, and you hear his feet pad against the hard floor beneath. “Y/N! Don't be ridiculous,” he says. For a moment you're held by how he says the word - ridi’clous, dropping the middle U. You stop, a single step away from reaching the bottom of the stairs, and as you turn back to him you drop your arms at your sides. He's flustered and disheveled as his hair falls back into his eyes, and you wonder for a moment if you've punished him enough. He holds both hands out before him, gesticulating wildly as he stammers over his words in that way of his - he has a point to make, and he's keen for it to be unable to be misconstrued. “I did talk to her.” He says, and you can see the pain on his face as he admits his actions - and his lie. “Yvonne, I talked to her - a-about changing my mind, about not-not knowing what I wanted anymore, and then when I did fucking know, I talked to her about that, too.”

Your brows knit together at the bridge of your nose as you listen to every stumbled word and softened T, and you feel a gust of butterflies in your stomach. You swallow and it hurts your throat. “So,” you pause and wet your lips. “You talked to her about it, the woman you left three years ago, but you couldn't find five fucking minutes to tell me, the woman you've been fucking sleeping with, living with, all this time?” You shake your head and you're desperate not to cry. Your eyes sting and your throat constricts, and if you were the type of person to do so, you'd have slapped his face twice by this point. “You fucking…,” you laugh, shaking your head, absolutely certain that you look maniacal. You sniff as your resolve not to cry weakens as the tears pool hot in your eyes. “And here was me, wondering if I was being too techy.” You say, and you bit your bottom lip in anxiety. Releasing it, you shake your head again. “Why?”

He's staring at you, eyes sad and serious, and the crystal blue is darkened somehow. His hands are back in his pockets and he shrugs his shoulders slowly. “I don't know. She was on the phone. We were talking about the kids, we were…just talking. And I just talked.” He sighs and it shudders in his chest.

“So you have changed your mind about everything? About me?” You ask, nervous for the answer now that he seems able to be honest.

“Ah, Y/N, no.” He insists earnestly. “God, no. No, I haven't. Jesus, I love you. You know this.”

“But you couldn't tell me all of this, and instead went back to her.” You raise your voice, hand jutting out to the near distance to signify ‘the ex wife’. You couldn't even bring yourself to say her name. You look past him to the large clock on the wall above the cooker in the kitchen area behind him, watching three am tick in just at that moment. “I'm going back to bed.” You repeat your earlier sentiment and place your hand on the banister before looking him dead in the eyes. “Don't you fucking dare follow me.”