part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10
What we left behind (on going).
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14 | part 15 | part 16 | part 17 | part 17 | part 19 | part 20
Cillian Murphy x fem!Reader
ONE SHOTS
That’s my baby (smut/angst).
SERIES
Chemtrails over the country club (coming soon).
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11
Hunt you down (on going).
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6
English teacher (coming soon).
Tommy Shelby x fem!Reader
SERIES
Ultraviolence [complete].
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14
“Your rock and roll Your rock and roll Your rock and roll ahh-ah-ahh-ahhh Pop song of the summer boy All the way I just want your loving boy you want me right now And you want me right now ahh-ah-ahh-ahhh I’m in love I’m in love”
The courtroom was already full when I arrived: full in the way only justice can draw a crowd. The kind of full that carried its own weight. Not just press, but pain. Families who’d lost daughters, sons, time. Journalists with their pens sharpened like knives. Observers pretending to be neutral while their eyes betrayed something else - hope. Suspicion. Hunger.
I sat near the back, one row in from the wall, where the shadows were thin enough to feel safe but thick enough to feel hidden. Alfi sat beside me, small hand wrapped tightly in mine, a tiny anchor keeping me tethered to the present. He wore his best shirt, the one with the tiny blue buttons he always fussed over, and his little tie - a clip-on Rafael had helped him choose. He didn’t fully understand what this was, but he knew something big was happening. Something loud and heavy. Something that made his mama quiet and his papa serious.
And then, Rafael Barba stood. It was like watching a blade rise from velvet. Clean-shaven again, dark hair smooth, his charcoal suit tailored so precisely it looked like it had been cut into him. He stood with the calm of a man on the edge of war, and the stillness of someone who’d already bled for it.
His eyes flicked up across the room, across rows of strangers, faces, and flashbulbs.
They found mine. He gave the smallest nod.
I smiled, and I swear I saw him breathe. Then he turned back to the judge and began.
— Your Honor - he said, his voice smooth but rooted in something unshakable — The people intend to prove that Santiago Navarro’s empire was not built on business… but on blood.
The room shifted around his words, like even the air had to take a step back. This wasn’t just a trial. This was reckoning.
The case unfolds. For four long days, Rafael carved Navarro’s empire apart with surgical precision. Not rage. Not theatrics. Just quiet, relentless truth.
On the first day, he introduced the financial forensics. Graphs, ledgers, donation logs from smiling «foundations» Navarro had used as cover. Numbers that looked clean until they were unraveled like string, and revealed pipelines of laundered money fueling the movement of human lives. Children. Teenagers. Women.
He didn’t sensationalize. He didn’t need to. The data spoke with its own horror.
On the second day, he played the testimonies. Rescued children, now older. Some speaking through video depositions. Some brave enough to appear in person. Their voices steady, some shaking - but all of them piercing. Their stories weren’t just heartbreaking. They were evidence. Every scar, every silence, every remembered smell or phrase or location: they built a map that led straight to Navarro.
And on the third day, he dropped the hammer.
Evidence from Navarro’s front companies: shell businesses built to look legitimate but barely disguised. One had Barba’s forged signature on a founding document, an old attempt to ruin him. I remembered the weight of that moment in his life - how it had nearly ended his career, his reputation. I watched the way he handled that page in court, holding it like a memory you don’t cry over anymore. Just remember. And burn.
The defense tried. God, they tried. They painted Rafael as a man with a grudge. A vendetta. They said he had a conflict of interest, that he was blinded by love, revenge, personal history. But they couldn’t touch him. They couldn’t bend the facts. Because Rafael never let it become personal in the courtroom, not the way they expected.
He never raised his voice. Never snapped. Never flinched. He just moved forward - one fact after another, slow and devastating.
In his closing argument, he stood before the jury like he was speaking to a mirror that finally saw him.
— The defendant called me weak - he said, pausing just long enough to let the words settle — But what he truly fears… is not my strength. It’s my clarity. I see him for what he is. And now, so do you.
He sat down. And the courtroom didn’t move for a long time.
At home in between the war every night, after court, Rafael returned to the safehouse with a different weight in his body. Some days it was heavy. Others, sharp. Some days, I could see it in the way he turned his key slower, like even the lock carried expectation.
I learned to read the air around him before he even spoke.
Some nights we didn’t speak at all. We’d sit on the couch, swaddled in silence and the same blanket, holding hands and sharing quiet. Just letting each other exist.
Some nights, he’d go straight to Alfi’s room, still in his suit, loosen his tie, and lie beside him. Reading slowly, letting the cadence of his voice smooth over the day. He’d hold our son like he was proof that not everything Navarro had touched had turned to ash.
But some nights were different. There was fire in his eyes when he walked in. Frustration under his skin. Nights where justice felt too slow, or Navarro’s smirk had lasted one second too long. Those nights I met him at the door before he could say a word. Pressed him against the wall, kissed him like a promise. Like an anchor.
— You’re not breaking - I whispered against his skin, my hands tangled in his hair, my mouth at the hollow of his throat — You’re fighting. Not running.
His arms locked around me like a man trying to hold onto something real.
— I’m fighting for you - he breathed, voice hoarse. And in that space between grief and heat, we reminded each other that we were still here. Still human. Still whole, even if cracked.
When it was the verdict day I could barely breathe. The courtroom was silent. Even the press had stopped shuffling.
The jury returned like ghosts walking through fog. The foreperson stood.
— Has the jury reached a verdict? - the judge asked. A man nod — We find the defendant… guilty on all counts.
No reaction from Navarro. His lips twitched once, maybe an attempt at defiance. But his eyes, sharp and hollow, flicked toward Rafael with something close to disbelief. As if he had truly believed himself untouchable until the very last second.
Rafael didn’t gloat. Didn’t smile, didn’t sneer. He simply turned toward the gallery, to where I was sitting.
And he looked at me. Really looked and our eyes met. And then just barely there was a soft and quiet smile for me. And my heart broke and rebuilt itself in the same breath.
Two weeks later in the park spring had returned to the city like an apology. Soft green leaves trembling on the trees, sun dappling through branches like light learning how to dance again. There was birdsong, laughter, and the distant scent of roasted peanuts and cart pretzels.
Alfi ran ahead of us, a red cape pinned around his shoulders, flapping wildly in the breeze like it could actually carry him. He made airplane noises, knight noises, superhero sounds—he hadn’t decided who he was yet, only that he was free.
Rafael walked beside me, his hand in mine. The cuff of his shirt brushed my wrist with every step, and we moved like people who hadn’t forgotten what fear felt like, but had finally chosen something else instead.
Navarro had been sentenced to life without parole. The federal task forces had begun the dismantling. One by one, the shadows were being peeled back.
And still, part of me didn’t trust it. Part of me still scanned rooftops and windows. Old habits don’t die overnight.
— I still feel like we’re in a dream - I said quietly, watching Alfi twirl in the sunlight ahead. Rafael squeezed my hand.
— No - he murmured — We’re finally awake.
I stopped walking. Turned toward him.
— I want more mornings with you - I said — I want pancakes and courtroom kisses. I want Alfi’s terrible drawings on the fridge and you yelling at the coffee machine. I want… real.
He looked at me with something reverent in his eyes. Like he was seeing a constellation where the rest of the world only saw clouds.
— Then marry me.
I froze.
— What? - I breathed, heartbeat skipping.
But he was already pulling something from inside his coat: a small box, worn at the edges, the kind of item a man carries for a long time before he finds the right moment.
He opened it. Simple. Classic. A ring that said «I see you» instead of «watch me».
— I’ve spent too long living in fear - he said, voice catching — Now I want to live in this. With you.
Tears welled up before I could stop them.
— Yes - I whispered, laughter breaking through the tears.
— Are we getting ice cream or what?! - Behind us, Alfi yelled at the top of his lungs. Rafael laughed real and unguarded. The kind of laugh that lives in the chest and lights up the face.
He slid the ring on my finger, kissed my hand and then kissed me.
— We’re getting everything - he said. And I believed him.
Summary: «... Don't deny the animal that comes alive when I'm inside you…» He takes her away after a night shoot— into a shadowed trailer where there are no scripts, no scenes, just breath and skin. He tells her she’s his now. He doesn’t care who sees. It’s messy. Intense. Unapologetic. She’s past the point of pretending. She doesn't want to escape. She wants to be devoured. And this time, there's no camera to stop them.
Relationship: Cillian Murphy x Female Reader.
Warning: smut, 18+, age-gap, forbidden attraction, actor x actress, sexual tension, obsession.
Words: 1141
A/N: comments and reblogs are appreciated
_ _ _
The click of the hotel door shutting behind me echoed like a secret sealed in stone. Instantly, the sterile space: muted walls, the neatly made bed apologizing with its surplus of pillows, the thick blackout curtains barring the indifferent city - transformed. The air thickened, charged with an unspoken confession, a line irrevocably crossed. This wasn't just a room anymore, it was a claim staked in silence.
He moved behind me, his steps deliberate, heavy with unspoken intent. I felt the low sigh escape him before his hand settled firmly on the center of my back. Warm. Steady. Utterly familiar. Without a word, he guided me towards the bed, his palm a constant pressure, not pushing, not pulling, but undeniable. Like gravity. Like belonging defined solely by his direction. My steps grew heavier, not with fear, but with the profound, terrifying weight of being seen. After weeks of stolen looks and cavernous silences in the tent, after heat and punishment, this was something else entirely.
Possession.
He halted me at the mattress edge, my knees brushing the fabric. I stood frozen, blood roaring in my ears, breath shallow and fast. Still, he didn't speak. His lips bypassed mine, finding instead the bare curve of my shoulder. The kiss wasn't seductive, it was branding. Hot. Open. Reverent. A tremor shook me as he exhaled. His hands worked with agonizing patience, peeling my coat off, sleeve by sleeve, letting it slump to the floor, forgotten. Then, his fingers closed around my wrist. He lifted it slowly, deliberately, pressing my palm flat against the solid wall of his chest.
His heartbeat hammered wildly beneath my hand, a frantic drum against my palm, louder than our ragged breaths.
— Do you feel that? - his whisper was velvet stretched thin over steel.
I could only nod, my fingers instinctively curling against the heat, seeking proof.
— I haven’t stopped thinking about the way you looked when I was inside you - he murmured, his voice dropping lower, rougher, almost a growl. His hand slid to anchor my hip — But this… he paused, the intensity in his gaze deepening — This isn’t about needing. I don’t want fast tonight.
— Then what do you want? - I turned fully, my breath catching. His storm-dark eyes met mine, stripped bare. No mask. No armor. Just frighteningly real. His hand rose, calloused thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone as if memorizing something precious. The answer came slow, costly.
— To keep you like this - he breathed, the words a soft rumble against the charged silence — Just for me.
I dissolved. He undressed me like it was a sacrament. No rush, no tearing urgency. He removed each layer with deliberate care, each inch of skin revealed a sacred verse in a long-awaited story. His hands weren't mere hands. They were questions, promises, prayers. They charted the slope of my collarbone, the softness below my ribs, the faint edges of old scars, the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. His gaze held not just admiration, but the fierce certainty of ownership.
— You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to taste you properly - he said, voice thick with reverence. The words sank into my skin.
— You did taste me - I breathed. His eyes darkened, an animal hunger igniting within them.
— No - he corrected simply, sinking to his knees before me like approaching an altar — That was hunger. This… this is something else.
His lips found the inside of my thigh. It wasn't mere lust. It was a profound reverence, a slow-burning awe that felt like worship. Warm, open-mouthed kisses trailed upwards, dissolving my balance, making my knees tremble and breath hitch. He lifted me effortlessly, laying me back on the bed with the care reserved for fragile things. When he settled between my thighs, spreading me open with focused intent, the world tilted.
What followed wasn't frantic. It was slow, torturous perfection. His mouth claimed me with a devotion that blurred my vision. His tongue moved with devastating precision, unhurried, exploring every tremor, every gasp, every involuntary plea that escaped my lips. He didn't stop when I cried out. He didn't stop even as the first wave shattered me, leaving me shaking and undone. His lips stayed, coaxing, drawing my nerves taut again until I was trembling on the precipice once more. Only then did he rise above me, his mouth finding mine with a devastating gentleness that unravelled me more completely than any hunger ever could. He kissed me slowly, letting me taste myself on his lips. And when he whispered:
— That’s mine now.
I understood. Utterly. Because it was. All of it. He didn't rush. There was no frantic slam of bodies. This was about profound intention. About being inside me. All of him. Inch by excruciating inch, he filled me, his body a heavy anchor, his forehead pressed to mine, hands gripping my hips like a claim being irrevocably staked.
And the whispers came, soft yet searing against my skin: «You feel that?» «That’s me inside you» «No one else gets this» «No one else gets you»
I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him closer, feeling the vibrations of his words against my flesh.
— You’re all I think about, Cillian - I gasped, my voice thin and trembling — You live in my head. Every second.
He stilled deep within me, a low groan rumbling in his chest.
— I want to ruin you for anyone else - he vowed, the words a dark promise.
— You already have.
His kiss turned breathless, starved. His hips began a faster rhythm, each thrust pulling me higher, friction building into an exquisite fire. My fingers raked down his back, nails biting in. He hissed, eyes squeezing shut, surrendering to a rhythm that felt like the release of something held back for lifetimes. He moved within me as if denying this connection would cause him pain.
When the climax tore through me: shaking, gasping, begging him not to stop - I didn't care about the noise, the world beyond the locked door. There was only him.
Long after the tremors subsided, he remained inside me, his weight a grounding force. One hand rested lightly on my throat, not restraining, simply present. The other traced slow, soothing circles on my hip. His lips brushed my temple, my cheek, my mouth: soft, barely-there touches.
— You belong to me now, Y/N - he stated, his voice stripped raw. I didn't argue.
Because the truth resonated deeper than the lyric he once might have offered: «You can pretend that it was me… But baby, that’s a lie». There was no pretense left. No room for anyone else's ghost. In the dim sanctuary of that unremarkable room, marked by his reverence and his claim, the lie was obliterated.
Rafael stood in the center of the war room like a storm barely held together in a suit: sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar loosened as if legal doctrine alone couldn’t restrain the tension pulsing beneath his skin. I watched him from the corner, silent, as the rhythm of his pacing carried the weight of strategy and fury. His movements were calculated, but there was something deeper beneath the surface, something raw and almost desperate.
Behind him, the whiteboard looked like a battlefield: black ink lines connecting corporations to nonprofits to charitable “foundations” that were anything but. Navarro’s empire of illusions. His smokescreen. Each line a thread of manipulation, cruelty, and power.
— This - Rafael said, his voice tight as he jabbed a finger toward a blurry photocopy of a legal contract — This is the flaw. He got arrogant. Left a signature on an unsealed document, forged a compliance stamp from an oversight board that hasn’t existed in four years.
— That’s a reach, Barba. Not airtight enough for an arrest - Rollins squinted at the board, arms crossed. Rafael didn’t even flinch.
— It’s not for arrest. Not yet - he turned slowly, his eyes burning — It’s bait. We threaten the part of him that believes it's invincible. The part dressed in tailored suits and smug signatures. We corner him somewhere he thinks he’s untouchable, legally. That’s when he shows himself.
— So we draw him out? Publicly? - Benson, grounded and firm, met his energy with her own.
— Yes - he nodded, slow, like each step of the plan had already played out in his mind a hundred times — He’ll think we’re bluffing. His ego won’t let him resist a fight he thinks he can win.
— And if he takes the bait? - Fin leaned forward from his spot, skeptical but watching closely.
Rafael hesitated for a single heartbeat and then, softer than I expected, but no less resolute:
— Then we end it. No plea deals. No leverage. We bury him - and I believed him. But I also knew the law had limits. That monsters like Navarro slithered through cracks written in ink. That sometimes justice needed more than a courtroom. Sometimes it needed teeth.
While Barba plotted with case files and precedents, my strategy wasn’t something you could write down on legal paper. Because I wasn’t a lawyer. I wasn’t a cop. But I was a mother. A survivor. And I was so goddamn tired of looking over my shoulder, of hearing Alfi cry in his sleep because the shadows still followed us into dreams.
So I asked to meet Olivia alone. No notes. No surveillance. Just her and me, sitting across from each other in the dim hush of a precinct office that always smelled faintly of old coffee and determination.
— I want to be bait - I told her. No tremor in my voice. No plea. Just fact. Her expression hardened instantly.
— That’s not how we do things.
— It is now - I didn’t back down. There was a long pause almost too long. She was trying to read me, trying to figure out whether this was grief or madness or both. I let her look. Eventually, she exhaled.
— Fine. But we own the setup. Two units in shadows. Full surveillance. You get a panic switch in your coat, and if you even breathe wrong, we pull you.
— Deal - I nodded once. Because I knew Navarro. And I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist the illusion of control. He’d want to see me alone, unguarded. Like prey. But I wasn’t prey. Not anymore.
I left the safehouse around noon, dressed in the armor of the everyday: jeans, a simple navy jacket, sunglasses. Nothing flashy. Just the ghost of who I used to be.
I walked the familiar streets of 10th Avenue like muscle memory: past the café where I once spilled coffee on my boots, past the playground where Alfi took his first wobbling steps. The corner bookstore was still there. Same faded awning. Same creaking sign. Same smell of dust and wonder.
But this time, everything had changed. I could feel the weight of eyes everywhere. Two units behind me, moving like shadows. A drone circling high above, invisible but constant. Fin was on comms, voice low in my ear. Barba was in the van, eyes glued to the monitors like his will alone could keep me safe.
And then I saw him. Not Navarro. But one of his men. He was across the street, pretending to browse a storefront window, the mirror finish of his sunglasses catching just enough of the sun to make my stomach turn. He didn’t approach. He didn’t speak. But I knew that stance. The predator who watches first.
A soft click came through my earpiece. A camera lens, from a rooftop nearby. Confirmation. His presence logged, timestamped, fed into the system. Evidence.
I didn’t look back. But I slowed my walk. Let my shoulders slump. Let the ghosts slip into my stride again. I made myself small.
— He’s following. Stay in the light. You’re doing perfect - Barba’s voice crackled in my ear.
I stepped into the bookstore, the bell above the door jangling softly, and let the warm hush of the place settle over me like a blanket. For a moment, I let myself pretend it was a normal day. That I wasn’t the center of a trap. That I hadn’t built a snare with my own body.
I wandered toward the mystery section, of course I did. There was something poetic about that. A story about lies and secrets and twisted motives.
That’s when I felt it. Another presence. I didn’t turn, didn’t run. I heard Barba’s sharp and clipped voice again.
— There’s a second tail. East side. Not one of Navarro’s usuals.
— Pull her - Benson snapped.
— No - Barba said. Then louder. Fiercer — Five more minutes.
And then the bookstore door opened again.
I didn’t need to see him to know who it was. His footsteps were quiet, deliberate. He didn’t rush. He never needed to.
— You’ve always had good taste - his voice, smooth and venomous. I turned slowly.
And there he was. Navarro. He smiled like we were old friends, like I was a curiosity he had finally decided to understand — I wanted to meet the woman who tamed the wolf.
I tilted my head, let my hand trail along a book spine to hide the trembling in my fingers.
— You think he’s tame?
Navarro stepped closer. The space around him warped with that specific kind of power, the kind you earn by breaking people.
— I think he’s weak where you’re concerned - he said — Which makes you leverage.
— Or maybe it makes me dangerous - I lifted my chin, met his gaze without flinching. He paused, just for a moment. Just enough time to register that he hadn’t expected that answer. That maybe I wasn’t what he thought.
— Do you know what it’s like to watch a man spiral into obsession? To watch him destroy everything for a woman who was already broken? - he stepped forward again. I smiled then. A slow, quiet thing. And I reached into my coat pocket. Pressed the silent alarm.
— Smile for the cameras - I said — You’re not just baited, Navarro. You’re caught.
When the arrest took place Rafael was the first through the door. He didn’t scream. He didn’t hesitate. He just moved, swift and lethal, the way a storm moves before it breaks.
He crossed the space between Navarro and me in seconds, his hand already at the front of Navarro’s shirt.
— Don’t move - he said, voice flat and cold. Navarro turned, smug even now.
— So dramatic, Rafael.
But then Barba slammed him into the nearest bookshelf with a force that shook the entire store. Books cascaded like rain. Navarro grunted, stunned.
It wasn’t about the arrest. Not anymore. It was about everything Rafael had never said. Every sleepless night. Every unsent text. Every second he’d spent blaming himself for not getting to us in time.
— You’re under arrest for conspiracy, trafficking, and obstruction of justice. You have the right to remain silent - Benson was right behind him, badge raised, voice steel.
— You finally became the man I warned you about - Navarro turned his bleeding mouth into a grin. Barba looked down at him, breath shaking.
— No - he said quietly — I am the man who always wins.
That Night we were safe. Navarro was in custody, his smugness shredded and replaced with the truth. No bail. His empire are crumbling. I sat on the edge of the bed, Alfi curled in my lap like something sacred. His tiny hand clutched the fabric of my sleeve, even in sleep.
Rafael stood across the room, arms folded, watching us. His tie was gone, his shirt wrinkled, eyes bloodshot. He hadn’t let himself feel it yet. Not really.
— You scared me today - he said.
— You needed help. I was never going to let you fight this alone - I smiled softly, brushing a hand over Alfi’s hair. He walked toward me and pulled me to my feet, wrapping me in the kind of embrace that felt like coming home.
— I’m in love with you - he whispered, voice cracking at the edges — More than I ever was before.
— Then come home - I pressed my forehead to his. He didn’t answer with words. He just held me tighter. And in that silence I knew, this was home.
Summary: «…Maybe you think that you can hide. I can smell your scent for miles…» They’re careful on set — barely speaking now, barely touching — but it’s worse than before. The hunger grows. Every time she turns, he’s there. Watching. Every time she’s alone, he finds her. They pretend it’s still acting. But behind locked doors, it’s animal. Desperate. Addictive.
Relationship: Cillian Murphy x Female Reader.
Warning: smut, 18+, age-gap, forbidden attraction, actor x actress, sexual tension, obsession.
Words: 1724
A/N: comments and reblogs are appreciated
_ _ _
The scene never ended. Not really, not when the director said cut, not when the crew powered down the monitors, not when I peeled myself out of the white sheet and walked back into the fluorescent quiet of the makeup trailer like nothing in me had changed. It wasn’t just acting anymore. It hadn’t been, not since the moment he whispered «I’m not done with you» like it was a confession and a curse in the same breath.
Something had shifted inside me, some line burned away. And now everything felt too loud. Too sharp. Too aware. And the worst part - the cruelest part - was that he didn’t touch me for three whole days.
Not a glance. Not a stray brush of his hand. Not a whispered tease in passing. Just silence and stillness, restraint wrapped in cloth.
But I felt him every goddamn second. It was in the way he held himself across the table during table reads, back straight, fingers folded too neatly over his script, jaw tense every time my laugh came a little too quick. It was in the way he walked around me like I was an open flame he’d sworn not to touch. In the subtle shifts of his mouth when I said a line too softly. In the way his eyes lingered when I wasn’t looking, until I was and then he’d be gone. Staring at the floor. The ceiling. The weather.
He was pretending. But his body betrayed him.
Every time I bent to grab my coat. Every time I smiled at someone else. Every time I licked a bit of salt from my fingertip without thinking, something primal in him flickered. I saw it and felt it. A heat just beneath the surface, coiled like something wild and starving.
And when he walked past me once and I caught the ghost of his scent on my jacket, woodsmoke and cedar and something darker, like heat sealed under skin, I knew. I knew I wasn’t crazy.
By the time it finally happened, I wasn’t just wanting. I was starved.
It was close to midnight. The night crew was shooting a wide establishing shot, some silent war-ravaged landscape I wasn’t part of. I slipped away quietly, maybe too quietly pretending I needed something. A charger or a script revision or a reason.
I found myself in the props tent. Half-lit. Empty and hushed. Canvas walls stretched low, holding the scent of leather and dust and aged wood. Coats hung from pegs like forgotten soldiers. Rifles lay scattered across a table, metal dulled with years of paint and fake blood. The air was thick with heat from the day, a little smoky from the fog machines. Still. Quiet. Expectant.
I stood in the center of it, pretending not to tremble. Pretending not to be waiting. But my body already knew. He didn’t make a sound, but I felt him. Like a change in pressure. Like my skin knew before my eyes did. I turned.
And there he was - framed in the tent’s entrance like some dark thing summoned, all shadowed edges and restraint hanging by a thread. He was still in costume, black shirt clinging to his chest, jeans slung low on his hips. His hair looked like he’d run both hands through it, too many times, and the stubble along his jaw was darker now, like it had grown sharper with the hours.
He said nothing, he just stepped inside. And with one quiet motion, he locked the flap behind him. I swallowed. My voice came out thin.
— You’ve been ignoring me.
He stood still, breathing deeper than he needed to, like his own control was fraying.
— I’ve been trying - he said, and the words were full of something unspoken. Something ruined. He walked toward me like the air between us was pulling him forward. I could feel the weight of it. The decision. The inevitability.
— I thought maybe I imagined it - I said, quieter now — That night.
— You didn’t - he stopped just close enough that I could feel his breath on my skin. His gaze moved over my face like he was searching for the crack he’d already left behind.
— You kept looking at me - I murmured.
— I couldn’t help it - his answer came like a confession, raw and full of strain. A pause. A moment so full of heat it made my ribs ache.
Then his hand lifted slow, almost reverent and cupped the side of my neck. His palm was warm. His thumb brushed the hollow beneath my jaw, and something in my knees gave way. My mouth parted. My thoughts scattered.
— I haven’t stopped thinking about you - he said, voice wrecked now — How you looked. How you sounded when I touched you.
His words slithered under my skin like they belonged there. I tried to answer. But I didn’t get the chance. Because then he kissed me.
And it wasn’t a kiss meant for film. It wasn’t slow, or tentative, or careful. It was urgent. Rough and real. The kind of kiss that says I’ve been starving and you’re the only thing that can feed me.
He devoured me. His hands were everywhere: on my waist, my hair, the small of my back, gripping me, dragging me into him like he didn’t trust himself to stay away unless I was held down. His mouth moved like he needed to erase the time we’d spent apart, tongue and teeth and breath crashing against mine.
I whimpered into the kiss, my hands fisting in his shirt. I could feel the tension in his body, the way he was already hard against me, the way he trembled at every sound I made.
He pulled back just enough to growl.
— Turn around - and I did. No hesitation. No questions. My palms pressed to the wall of the tent, the canvas rough under my hands. His breath was at my neck, hot and fast. I felt him behind me: close, burning, restrained in that terrible, perfect way.
He pushed my coat down from my shoulders. It fell in a slow slide. His hands dragged under my shirt, across my ribs, over the delicate lace beneath. One of them flattened between my shoulders, nudging me forward just slightly.
— Stay still - he murmured. I did. And when I felt the shift in his breath, the way his forehead dropped against the back of my neck, the slow groan from somewhere low in his chest. I knew he was losing it, too.
There were no cameras. No audience. No stage directions. Just the two of us, buried in the quiet of a half-lit tent, coming undone. And even without the words, I could feel what he meant with every touch, every breath and every time he leaned in like he needed more of me just to breathe.
— I can’t stop thinking about you - he whispered again, his lips brushing the shell of my ear — Even when I try.
I turned my head enough to look at him, eyes half-lidded, voice soft but steady.
— Then don’t.
His gaze locked on mine. And for a moment, it was like the whole world narrowed to that: just his breath, my heartbeat, and the fire sparking in the space between.
His mouth found mine again, this time slower, deeper, but no less hungry. He kissed me like a man sinking. Like he’d fought it too long. Like he was done pretending.
And I kissed him back. Because I was done, too. He bunched my skirt around my hips, yanked my underwear down, and let them fall to my knees. Then I felt him behind me unzipping. He spit in his hand. I heard it.
A moment later, his hot, thick and pulsing cock pressed between my thighs He dragged the tip through my folds, slow, teasing, collecting how soaked I already was for him.
— Fuck, you’re wet - his voice was ragged now — Is this for me?
— Yes - I nodded, breathless.
— Tell me.
— It’s for you - I moan louder.
— Say it again.
— It’s for you, Cillian. God! I’ve been thinking about this, about you for days - I tell him begging and he growled low in his throat. And then he slammed into me. I cried out sharp and choked, my fingernails scratching against the tent wall. He was huge, stretching me open, fucking me deep with no hesitation. The sudden fullness punched the air from my lungs. His hand wrapped in my hair, yanking my head back.
— You take me so well - he breathed against my ear — Like you were made for it.
His hips snapped forward, again and again, hard and fast. Each thrust jolted me forward, but his arm locked around my waist, dragging me back into him. Skin against skin. Sweaty. Desperate.
— God, I missed this pussy - he snarled — Tight little thing can’t even take all of me, can you?
— I want it. I want all of you… fuck, don’t stop… - I moaned, shaking.
He didn’t. He kept pounding into me, the slap of our bodies obscene in the quiet tent. His other hand snuck down between my thighs, fingers circling my clit, rubbing tight and fast.
— Come for me, baby girl - he ordered — Right now. Let me feel it.
I cried out, body convulsing around him as my orgasm tore through me like a scream. My legs buckled. I would’ve collapsed if he wasn’t holding me so tight. He kept going.
His thrusts grew wild. Staggered. He buried himself as deep as he could go. And then he spilled inside me. Hot, thick, endless.
He stayed there panting and holding me. His cock pulsing inside me, sweat slicking our bodies together. His mouth pressed to the curve of my neck.
— You’re mine - he whispered — Do you understand me?
— Yes - I breathed — Yours.
— You walk around like you don’t fucking know what you’re doing to me - he pulled back slowly, then leaned his forehead to the back of my shoulder — I can’t stop thinking about you.
I turned slowly. Kissed him once, softly this time.
Why do I have so many ideas for fics in my head when I don't have time to write? I’m currently trying to write my final work and write fics. That’s so much good ideas in my head. I feel like I’m tearing apart🤯
Summary: «...Baby, I'm preying on you tonight. Hunt you down, eat you alive…» It’s time to film the sex scene — brief in the script, tender in tone. But once they start, everything shifts. His hands are rougher. His voice lower. Their movements become real. The room is quiet, but the tension screams. When the camera keeps rolling and no one calls cut, something primal takes over. And afterward? Nothing is the same.
Relationship: Cillian Murphy x Female Reader.
Warning: smut, 18+, age-gap, forbidden attraction, actor x actress, sexual tension, obsession.
Words: 1520
A/N: comments and reblogs are appreciated
_ _ _
They cleared the set with quiet efficiency, like they knew, every one of them, that something sacred or dangerous or both was about to happen, and the fewer people bearing witness, the better. Only the essentials remained: two camera operators, expressionless but focused. John, tucked behind the monitors, headphones already over his ears, jaw tight with intent. Elise, the intimacy coordinator, calm and composed and almost invisible in her stillness; and us. Me and Cillian.
I heard the soft snap of the tent zipper as it was pulled closed behind the last crewmember, sealing us in like some last breath of air had been exhaled from the world outside. Inside the bunker, everything had changed. It was lit differently now: not the cold greys and muted blues from earlier scenes, but something warmer and stranger. Candlelight flickered from iron holders bolted to the walls, casting shadows that trembled when we moved. It made the metal look softer somehow. Made the air feel heavier. Made every sound feel louder.
The cot had been stripped and re-dressed with fresh white sheets, clean and rumpled just enough to look real. Just enough to look slept in. Lived in. Loved in. But there was nothing clean or soft about the way my body tightened when Cillian stepped into the frame beside me, his presence dragging my breath from my lungs like it belonged to him.
He didn’t say a word at first. He didn’t need to. He looked at me once, just once, and the weight of that single glance pressed into me like a vow already spoken. There was no asking this time. No space left for maybe. Only inevitability.
It’s happening. And there’s no going back. Elise approached us with the same calm she always carried, her voice quiet, grounding.
— We’ll keep the top half mostly covered - she said, speaking gently but clearly — Shoulders, backs and skin, we’ll see some, yes. But this isn’t about the body. It’s about longing. Memory. The way Emmett held onto the feel of her. You’re choreographing your own rhythm within the beats we set. If anything crosses a line: tap, pause, red word, whatever you need.
She looked between us. And then he spoke, his voice rough, deep, just above a whisper.
— We’ll know.
Elise’s expression didn’t shift. She nodded. She knew, too. Something was already thrumming beneath the surface. Something unspoken but felt in the marrow.
She stepped back. John stayed at the monitor, eyes shadowed under the brim of his baseball cap. The room fell still.
— Rolling - came the quiet cue from behind the camera. And then — Action.
We were already beneath the thin blanket, the sheet pulled just low enough to expose the curve of my bare back, the slope of my shoulder. I was half-draped across him, my torso aligned with his, my legs folded into his thigh: his jeans rough beneath me, the button still fastened, though I could feel how taut the denim had become beneath my body. I was straddling one of his legs, barely. Not moving yet. Just hovering in that electric kind of stillness that precedes a storm.
His hand rested lightly on the curve of my hip, his thumb brushing small, hypnotic circles there. His skin was hot, rough with the faint rasp of hair. The kind of texture that felt real, like the memory of touch never fully faded.
And when his eyes found mine: steady, storm-dark, full of something I couldn’t name, I forgot for a second how to breathe.
— This is the scene - I told myself. But there was no comfort in that lie. Nothing about the way he was looking at me felt rehearsed.
— I forgot what your skin felt like - his voice, low and uneven, caught in the space between us. It wasn’t in the script. Not in any version I’d read. But it tore something open in me anyway.
I lowered myself until my lips hovered near his jaw. I spoke the truth back to him in the voice of the woman I was supposed to be but it felt like mine. All mine.
— Then remember me - his hand slipped up my spine, deliberate, unhurried, like he was mapping a path he thought he’d lost. His other hand cupped my cheek, pulling my face toward his until our foreheads rested together, breath mixing, skin brushing. And for a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t kiss me. Just breathed me in like scent. Like heat. Like something he hadn’t allowed himself to want in a very, very long time.
And then slow and reverent his mouth met mine. It started soft. Almost innocent. Like we were strangers again, remembering how to be familiar. The first touch of lips, warm and open and almost tender. But then something changed. Something inside both of us pulled taut and snapped in the same breath. The kiss deepened. Tilted. Tilted again. His mouth opened against mine, and mine responded before I even knew I was moving.
His tongue traced the seam of my lips, slow and deliberate, and I parted for him without hesitation. My hands, until now obedient and still slid up his chest, palms flattening against warm skin and muscle, fingertips tracing every sharp edge and hollow.
He made a sound into my mouth. A breath. A groan. I couldn’t tell. But I felt it in my stomach, low and heavy.
My hips shifted once. A quiet, instinctive motion that sent fire curling through me. He stilled. Just for a breath. And then his hand gripped tighter at my waist, anchoring me, like he needed that contact to stay grounded.
The kiss turned desperate, no longer shaped by the story but by some deeper, darker hunger. My hands slid into his hair, fingers tightening. His thigh flexed beneath me, and I gasped at the pressure where our bodies met, clinging to the heat of it. He was hard. Unmistakably. And I was soaking.
I tried to pull back, just slightly, just to breathe but he followed me. Pulled me back down with a sound that bordered on a growl, his voice low and cracked with need.
— Don’t - he said — Don’t stop.
It wasn’t Emmett speaking. Not anymore. It was him. And whatever boundary we’d kept between character and reality had vanished like mist in firelight.
He held me tighter. Pressed against me harder. And I gave in. Let my hips roll again. A little deeper this time. His breath caught, sharp and unfiltered. His hand slid slowly from my waist, trailing under the blanket, fingers tracing the dip of my lower back, grazing the curve of my hip. When they found the edge of my underwear: thin, damp fabric clinging to my skin he paused.
His fingers brushed the seam of my underwear: I was still wearing them, thank God, thin and cotton and soaked through. I gasped when he pressed the heel of his palm there, grinding slow and hard, lips still on mine.
— Fuck… - I whispered, broken. His voice was a low, hungry rasp.
— Say it again.
I moaned instead, hips rolling into his hand. My body had stopped caring about the cameras. The scene. The world. All that existed was his. The way he touched me like he owned me. The way his mouth devoured mine like he was starved. And then his mouth brushed mine again, voice hoarse.
— I’ve been thinking about this since the first rehearsal - that broke me. I whimpered against his mouth, hips moving, desperate for more friction. My body was trembling now: open, aching and completely unguarded. And I didn’t care who was watching. Didn’t care about the camera. All I knew was him. The way he moved. The way he touched me. The way his voice sounded when it unraveled.
He held me like he was the only one allowed to. Like I was the only thing he wanted to remember.
I gasped into his mouth, grinding harder, losing myself entirely. My legs shook. My core clenched around nothing, desperate for more. And he knew. He fucking knew.
His fingers pushed the fabric aside just slightly and he stroked me. Bare. One perfect slide through the wet heat of me. And then…
— Cut - the word landed like a slap of cold water. Reality roared back into the room.
We froze. Breathing hard. Still touching. Still tangled. My lips were swollen. His chest heaved beneath me. No one said a word at first. Just the soft, clinical sounds of headset movement and a quiet murmur from John that we had what we needed.
Still, Cillian didn’t let go. His forehead rested against mine, breath still uneven. When he finally spoke, his voice was raw silk.
— You okay?
— Yeah. Are you? - I nodded. He pulled in a long, ragged breath. Exhaled slow. Then his mouth brushed mine again gentle this time. Possessive. A kiss meant for no one but me.
— For now, - he said, the words against my lips — But I’m not done with you.
When I asked “What do you think about being forbidden or having your freedom restricted?”
And he said “I'm not controlling you, I'm just taking care of you”
But my fiction man said “Control you? No, baby. That's not what this is about, not for me. What I want is to stand beside you, to support you, to love you with every fiber of my being. I want us to be partners, equals in every sense of the word. Your spirit, your fire, your incredible strength - those are what drew me to you in the first place. I would never want to dim that light, to clip your wings. Besides, darling, l've seen the way you handle yourself. You're no delicate flower, waiting to be plucked and possessed. No, you're a force to be reckoned with, my love. Strong-willed, intelligent, passionate. I don't want to control you, love. I want to unleash you. To watch you soar, to support you as you take on the world”
Summary: «…Yeah, you can pretend it's meant to be. But you can’t stay away from me…» They rehearse scenes. Talk between takes. Learn the beats of each other’s bodies in slow motion. Cillian stays distant, professional - but the looks grow longer. One night, they shoot a particularly intense dialogue scene. When the cameras stop, he still doesn’t look away. And she doesn’t either.
Relationship: Cillian Murphy x Female Reader.
Warning: smut, 18+, age-gap, forbidden attraction, actor x actress, sexual tension, obsession.
Words: 1626
A/N: comments and reblogs are appreciated
_ _ _
The next morning had a texture to it - like the air itself had changed, like the atmosphere was somehow heavier, not visibly different but undeniably altered. It wasn’t anything I could name, exactly. The sky still hung in that overcast hush the crew had gotten used to, low clouds pressing soft and grey against the tops of the trees, as if trying to muffle the world beneath. The ground still glistened faintly from the night’s dampness, and the chill in the air still reached for my skin with familiar fingers. But beneath the layered clothing and faux dirt makeup and studio-issued thermals, I felt too warm. Like heat had taken up permanent residence somewhere beneath my breastbone. Like I was carrying something inside me I hadn’t meant to take home.
My thoughts, sluggish and slow to obey, kept spiraling. Looping back to the previous day. To the tent. To the cot. To him. To the exact moment his thumb had traced the curve of my lip like a question. Or a dare. To the part of me that hadn’t flinched, hadn’t leaned away, hadn’t done anything at all to stop it. Because it hadn’t felt like acting. Not really. Not in the ways that usually mattered.
I’d walked out of that rehearsal with my heart rattling behind my ribs like it had been left somewhere it didn’t belong - and even as the trees swallowed me up again and the cameras were shut off and the shadows went back to being just shadows, I had the strangest feeling that I was still being watched. Or maybe haunted. I wasn’t sure there was a difference anymore.
— Hey, tent six for touch-ups, then rehearsal again at ten - someone said. A PA, maybe. Her voice was low and efficient, the sound of someone used to repeating herself. I blinked. Nodded.
— Thanks - I said, already walking, my body moving ahead of my mind. Like maybe if I kept walking, I’d outrun whatever strange, electric pull was following me.
The makeup trailer was warm and bright in the way backstage places always are - too much fluorescent light above mirrors, the smell of setting powder, palettes stacked like ancient texts, and the soft, patient clatter of brushes against metal. Conversations here were always half-whispers, the kind that felt like they could be secrets or just the residue of long hours.
— Just some continuity touch-ups - the artist murmured as I took my seat, already reaching for a sponge — Aging you down slightly again, more flashback-y.
Her fingers worked with gentle precision, patting and dusting and blending as she went.
— We’ll soften the lines, tweak the lips, add a little more warmth under the eyes - I nodded, obedient, my gaze skimming the mirror but never really settling there. I wasn’t paying attention to my reflection. Not really.
I was thinking about him.
About Cillian. About how his hand had touched my cheek like it was remembering something. Not discovering it for the first time, but recalling it with aching detail. The way he sat so still beside me, close enough that his silence had a shape. The low gravel of his voice, how he always spoke as though he hated wasting words. How every syllable from him felt like a gift he didn’t give often.
And how, when he looked at me, it didn’t feel like acting. It felt like a secret being told through a stare.
I hadn’t known - hadn’t realized, truly - that I wanted to be looked at like that. Not until I was. Not until someone looked at me like I was a hidden truth they were desperate to keep for themselves.
Blocking that day felt different the moment I stepped onto the set.
There was a kind of charged stillness hovering around everything, like the world was holding its breath. The props looked the same. The same cot, the same tattered supplies strewn about, the same thin slant of light cutting through the cracks. But there was a tension now, something humming below the surface. A thread that had been pulled taut.
— The scene’s unscripted - John said as he approached. His voice, calm and curious as always, was edged with something exploratory today — We’re trying something new. Another memory beat. Nothing defined. Just you two... existing together. Whatever comes naturally. It’s tactile. Quiet. A stolen moment.
He looked between us with that same sharp director’s eye: relaxed, but watchful.
— Move how you want. Feel it. I’m just going to watch. No cue, no action. Let it live - let it live. That word settled in me like an echo. Cillian didn’t speak. He didn’t ask a question or clarify the goal. He just gave the barest nod: economical, deliberate and then turned away from John and walked into the frame. Into our space.
I followed. Slowly. Measured. Like I was being pulled on a thread I didn’t remember tying.
There were no marks. No cue to start. Just the silence between us, expanding and vibrating like a drawn bowstring. And then he turned to me.
It wasn’t dramatic. There wasn’t some cinematic crash of music or shift in lighting. It just happened. He reached for me like we were already in the middle of something. Like the moment had started without either of us noticing.
His hand touched my forearm gently, reverently. His fingers skimmed along the fabric, finding the skin just beneath the sleeve’s edge. The contact was minimal. Barely anything. But it still burned. It still lit something in me that had been pacing for hours.
And then he moved closer. Close enough that I could feel him. Not just the heat of his body, but the weight of it. The gravity. The way his presence crowded out the air between us until breathing felt like something I had to remember how to do.
His fingers trailed higher slowly and deliberately, until they reached the curve of my shoulder. There they paused. His thumb began tracing a slow circle against my collarbone, idle and devastating. I stood still. I let him. Not because the scene demanded it, but because I didn’t know how not to.
I looked up, because I had to. Because that’s what the memory asked for. But what met me in his eyes wasn’t the hollow longing of Emmett.
It was something hungrier. Want. Quiet, feral, honest. It sat there in his gaze like a secret, but it wasn’t hidden. Not anymore. And the silence between us? It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t restful. It felt like something about to break.
He leaned in, only barely, just enough for his mouth to come near my ear, for the warmth of his breath to cut a path along the line of my jaw.
— Okay? - he whispered. The word slipped across my skin like heat. I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice. Not with it trembling against my teeth like that.
His thumb shifted again. Slower. Pressing just enough to be felt. His other hand rose slower than the first like it needed permission. He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from my face, tucking it carefully behind my ear. And then his fingers lingered there. Light against my neck. He was still looking at me.
He hadn’t blinked. Neither had I.
— You remember this? - he murmured. His voice cracked just slightly: low and raw, jagged at the edges like it had cost him something to ask.
It wasn’t a scripted line. Not even hinted at in the notes. I answered before I could think. My voice caught the rhythm of the moment.
— Every second - his jaw tightened. I saw it. I felt it. The subtle twitch of restraint, the telltale shift beneath skin that said he was battling something. His eyes dropped to my mouth. Not quickly. Slowly. Like he wanted me to see it. Like he needed me to know. And I did. I knew.
His hand drifted lower, resting at the base of my throat. Not forceful. Not possessive. Just present. Like he was anchoring the moment. Or maybe himself. Or maybe me.
I don’t know what would’ve happened if we’d had five more seconds. But we didn’t. The tent flap opened. The moment shattered. A production assistant coughed awkwardly.
— Uh… John wants to look at playback - Cillian stepped away in a single, silent movement. All the softness drained from his face. The warmth that had been there retreated like smoke curling back into the dark.
And I stood there. Still humming. Still burning.
We didn’t speak for the rest of the day. He disappeared into a VO booth after lunch. I wandered aimlessly between crew tents, pretending to look at set dressing, pretending I wasn’t glancing over my shoulder every few minutes. Pretending I wasn’t waiting for him to come back.
When he finally did - long after sunset, his silhouette framed in that darkened corridor between trailers, he didn’t look at me.
He just passed me. But as he did, his hand brushed mine. Just barely. No one saw. No one could’ve seen. It wasn’t enough to be called a touch. But it was skin on skin. Intentional. Deliberate. The inside of his wrist sliding against mine for half a breath before he moved on without a word.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. But I felt it. Like a pulse. Like a promise. Like a warning. And I carried that touch with me, hours later, when I curled into myself in my trailer and tried to make sense of the sound my own heart was making against my chest.
Because it wasn’t just a scene anymore. It wasn’t just chemistry. It was danger. And I didn’t want to be safe. I wanted more.
Summary: «…You can start over, you can run free. You can find other fish in the sea…» Y/N is cast as Emmett’s lover in a quiet but emotionally charged role. Nervous and unnoticed, she drifts through set — until she meets his eyes for the first time. Cillian is quiet, composed, intimidating. But there’s something else in the way he looks at her — something that lingers. She starts to feel it too. An undercurrent. Something more dangerous than just acting.
Relationship: Cillian Murphy x Female Reader.
Warning: smut, 18+, age-gap, forbidden attraction, actor x actress, sexual tension, obsession.
Words: 1620
A/N: comments and reblogs are appreciated
_ _ _
It wasn’t the kind of quiet I had imagined - no, not at all the gentle hush that cradles a forest at dusk or the solemn silence of an empty chapel at midnight. This was a different kind of silence. Heavier. Denser. It pressed in on me like fog made of memory, the kind that doesn't drift lightly through the trees but settles into the cracks of every root, every rusted hinge, every forgotten crevice of a world that had been left behind. It was a silence that clung to the bones of the set, that lived in the grain of old wood and the cool edge of steel. A silence that whispered something had happened here - something too sacred or too devastating to speak of now.
It was my first real film. A real film. «A Quiet Place Part II».
Not a student project. Not a day-player role where I handed someone coffee or stood awkwardly behind a hospital desk with no lines and a name tag that said «Nurse». This was different. A few scenes, yes. Small. Quiet. But intimate in a way that demanded something honest from me. Vulnerable. I was the woman Emmett once loved. That was all the script said - no name, no backstory. Just «her». A memory. A ghost. A soft echo in a man who’d forgotten how to feel. Still, it was more than I had dared to dream of booking at twenty-two. Especially opposite him.
Cillian Murphy.
Even thinking his name sent a jolt of something tight and electric down my spine. I’d watched his work like a student studying sacred texts - freezing scenes from «Peaky Blinders», dissecting the tension in his stillness, the way his jaw set like it was holding something back. The way he barely moved his mouth when he spoke, like his words weren’t for anyone but him. But those eyes - those impossible, sea-glass eyes - somehow made it feel like every syllable mattered. Predatory. Not in a dangerous way, but in that instinctual, deeply human way that made you feel like prey in the most exquisite sense. Not hunted. Chosen.
And now, here I was. Standing in costume, script pages fluttering slightly in my shaking hands, about to walk onto set and rehearse a scene with him for the first time. My stomach was an animal in its own right, pacing, circling, waiting to be unleashed. I tried to breathe slow and steady, but my palms were slick and hot and defiant.
The set was tucked into a clearing just beyond the edge of town, built to look like it had always existed there. It was more than set dressing - it was a character in itself. A graveyard of forgotten things: rusted tools, battered blankets, shelves lined with faded cans and crumpled paper maps. Emmett’s bunker looked less like a sanctuary and more like a bruise beneath the earth, a space worn down by grief and the slow erosion of hope. Everything was in shades of rust and mud and dim, aching blue. It smelled like metal and dirt and the faint, bitter trace of smoke that clung to everything like sorrow.
I tightened my jacket around me - half from the chill, half to keep from folding into myself - and stepped into the tent. He was already there.
Cillian stood in the shadowed corner, one hand in his coat pocket, the other loosely holding the revised script pages, though he wasn’t looking at them. He stood with that effortless kind of posture I’d seen only in people who didn’t need to prove they belonged - slouched, yes, but poised in a way that made him look like he could move fast if he wanted to. Like a wire under tension pretending to be still. His costume was simple but lived-in: thick, scuffed boots, layered clothes in shades of brown and grey that hung in weary folds. His jacket was open just enough to reveal the darker shirt beneath, sweat-darkened at the collar. And then - the beard. God, the beard.
It changed him. It unmade the polished versions of him I thought I knew from screens and premieres. This was not a man carefully curated. This was someone who had let the world weather him. It made him look older, yes - but also more real. More dangerous. Like kindness was something he'd once held in his hands and then let slip through his fingers. Like softness had been a choice he stopped making a long time ago.
His eyes lifted when I entered. That first look, it didn’t feel like anything from a movie. He didn’t smirk, didn’t tilt his head like a flirtatious villain. He just looked. Steady. Intent. Like he was measuring something only he could see. Like I wasn’t just someone walking into a room, but someone he’d been expecting.
— Y/N - he said. My name in his voice landed low and rough, like gravel ground under boots softened by a pour of whiskey. It wasn’t performative. Just...real. Too real.
— Hi - I managed, but the word caught on something in my throat. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I pushed them into my sleeves like a child hiding cold fingers, and immediately hated myself for the gesture.
— You saw the rewrite? - he took a few steps toward me, eyes flicking to the papers I held. I nodded.
— Yeah. It’s... - I trailed off, looking down at the new lines — It’s a lot more physical.
— It’s more emotional now. Emmett sees her in a dream. He misses her. Needs her - his gaze stayed on mine, steady and unreadable. The way he said it: the cadence, the weight made my skin prickle. I knew he was talking about Emmett. About the scene. But something in his tone made it feel like more. Like the truth was buried under the lines.
— And there’s the kiss - I swallowed, my voice quieter now.
— Mhm - he murmured. Then his eyes dropped to my mouth. Just for a second. One second. And it was enough to steal the air from the room.
John Krasinski entered then, quiet as dusk, his presence commanding without ever trying to be. He greeted us both with the calm of someone who already knew what he wanted to see and trusted us to give it. He started walking us through camera placement and the emotional beats, but the words melted into background noise.
Cillian had stepped closer. Our arms brushed just barely but the contact was enough to rewire the atmosphere. Suddenly everything was louder. His breathing. Mine. The hum of tension pulling tight between our bodies.
— We want it to feel intimate - John was saying, somewhere to my left — Not sexual, per se. It’s not about that. It’s about comfort. Emmett’s trying to remember love. What it felt like.
My heart beat against my ribs like it wanted out. Comfort. Right. Sure. I could do that. I could pretend this man beside me wasn’t making every nerve in my body light up like static on dry skin.
— Are you both good with the contact? Hands, face, the kiss? - John looked between us.
— Whatever she’s comfortable with - Cillian didn’t glance at me. His voice was smooth, steady.
— It’s fine. I’m okay - I nodded. My voice betrayed me: too soft, too breathy, too aware. I wasn’t sure if either of them noticed. But Cillian looked at me again, and I knew.
We sat on the cot. Edge to edge. Close, but not touching. Not yet. Our knees nearly kissed in the narrow space. The kind of proximity that feels charged, like any accidental contact would mean something. Would start something.
— This is the memory - John said quietly — The moment before it all goes to hell. It should hurt to remember.
Cillian turned, his profile carved from shadow and focus. Then his voice, softer than before: — Can I touch your face in this bit? - the question knocked something loose inside me. Not because he asked, but how he asked. Not out of habit. Out of care. Out of some quiet understanding that this moment mattered.
— Yes - I breathed.
He lifted his hand - slow, reverent - and let his fingertips find the line of my jaw. They skimmed upward, light as breath, along my cheekbone. His touch was warm, callused. Real. Not staged. Not practiced.
Something deep in me tipped forward, just slightly, leaning into the contact like a plant toward the sun. I couldn’t look away from his mouth. God. Was I supposed to be this close? This attuned to his every movement?
His hand fell after a second, but the space between us felt different now. Something had shifted. Neither of us said a word. And John… he didn’t interrupt.
— Let’s run it once more - he said finally — No dialogue. Just eyes. Let it breathe.
So we did. And this time Cillian’s thumb traced the corner of my mouth. Just once. Deliberate. Barely there. But everything in me caught fire.
That night, I lay in the narrow bed of my trailer, staring at the ceiling like it might blink back at me. The silence was no longer a void. It was full of him. I could still feel the warmth of his touch like an afterimage on my skin. I could still smell the dust on his coat. I could still feel the way his eyes didn’t leave mine, even when the director called cut. Even when it was over.
He hadn’t said goodbye. He just watched me walk away. And I didn’t know what that meant. But God help me, I wanted to find out. Even if it ruined me.
🎀🌸 My routine is so simple 1 hours with study. 11 hours for looking at photos of cillian murphy and feeling happy. 6 hours of writing fanfics with him. 6 hours of dreaming of cillian murphy and thats all 🌸🎀
