Warnings: illness symptoms, hurt/comfort, mild angst, mentions of pain & discomfort, Cillian being stubborn
Summary: Cillian's been feeling off all day on set, a weird ache in his stomach. But he brushes it off as nothing. When he gets home, y/n knows somethings not right. He insists he's fine.
It was late afternoon on set, somewhere between the first signs of dusk and the golden hour that often painted the London skyline over the sets of Peaky Blinders. Cillian sat in Tommy Shelby’s iconic long wool coat, collar turned up, cigarette stub hanging loosely from his fingers. The scene had wrapped, but he lingered at the edge of the set, staring at nothing in particular.
He’d felt strange all day. Not quite sick, just… off. A sort of unsettling churn in his lower stomach, like he hadn’t eaten, though he had. He’d woken up with that bloated, sour feeling right in the pit of his belly, but figured maybe the eggs at breakfast hadn’t sat right. The usual aches from filming, cold weather, stiff suits, running lines through gritted teeth, running lines through gritted teeth, were all there. But now there was something new building behind his eyes: a headache. Subtle but growing. His skin prickled hot under his costume one minute and cold the next.
“Alright, Cill?” one of the crew asked, adjusting a light just off frame.
“Yeah,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Just tired.”
By the time he walked through the door that night, the exhaustion felt like it had sunk deep into his bones. He dropped his bag at the foot of the hallway, barely bothering to untie his boots before shoving them off. The house was warm, softly lit, the way it always was when Y/N was home first. He smelled something faintly floral, her shampoo maybe, cutting through the vague nausea in his gut.
She appeared from the kitchen, a dish towel in her hands and her brows drawn the second she laid eyes on him.
“Hey… you okay?” she asked carefully, drying her hands and walking over. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” he said a little too quickly, leaning in to kiss her soft lips but keeping it brief. “Probably just a stomach bug. Long day.”
Y/N frowned, standing in place as he moved past her and into the living room, shrugging off his coat. He dropped down onto the sofa with a sigh, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“You sure? You’re really warm,” she said gently, stepping over and pressing the back of her hand to his forehead.
He flinched slightly but didn’t pull away. “Burning up one second, freezing the next. Think I’m coming down with something.”
She studied him. “You’ve been off for days, though. Yesterday too.”
He gave a small shake of his head. “It’s nothin’, Y/N. Just need to sleep it off. You know how this time of year is.”
Y/N didn’t argue. She knew him, knew when to push and when not to. He hated fuss, especially when he didn’t understand what his body was doing. She just nodded slowly.
“Alright,” she murmured. “I was about to make tea. Want some?”
He leaned his head back against the couch, eyes shut. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”
She disappeared into the kitchen and he rubbed at his lower stomach absently, eyes still closed. The feeling was there again, that odd discomfort, like he’d been punched just under his belly button but softly, and the ache was spreading low and wide. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, but it didn’t help much.
Y/N returned with two mugs of tea, placing his on the table. “Here. Careful, it’s hot.”
He sat up and took a cautious sip. The warmth helped his throat a little, though the nausea flared again the moment he swallowed.
She sat down next to him, legs folded beneath her. “Did you eat today?”
“Barely,” he mumbled. “Didn’t really have the appetite.”
“You still don’t?”
He hesitated. “No. My stomach’s just… weird.”
Y/N turned slightly and looked at him more closely. “Headache too?”
“Mm.” He winced as if the word alone had made it worse. “Started this afternoon.”
She reached over and threaded her fingers into his hair, gently massaging the nape of his neck and up toward his temples. He exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering shut again under her touch.
“That’s good,” he murmured, nearly whispering.
“You’ve definitely got something,” she said softly. “Might be a virus. You should eat a little something, even if it’s just toast.”
He shook his head. “Don’t think I can keep it down right now.”
She didn’t press him. Just sat there, gently combing her fingers through his hair, tracing over the soft pulse behind his ear, watching as he sagged further into her side. The house was quiet except for the gentle ticking of the wall clock.
“Think I might shower,” he muttered eventually, voice rough. “Then I’ll sleep it off.”
“Alright. Do you want me to lay out your sweats?”
He nodded faintly. “Yeah… thanks, love.”
She got up to do just that, glancing back once at him as he slowly rose to his feet, moving like every joint ached a little more than it should. He pressed one hand to his lower stomach again, almost subconsciously, then let it fall as he headed toward the bathroom.
Y/N watched the door close behind him, chewing at her bottom lip.
Summary: It's your wedding day, Cillian finally sees you in your dress.
Warnings: Pure fluff.
Requested: Yes- by the lovely @elenavampire21 - Cillian and the readers wedding, he’s waiting at the alter and sees the reader for the first time in her wedding dress.
A/N: Requests are always open. Picture of the dress is linked with an underlined word within the story if you would like to see what I picked.
Hitched
masterlist
You'd spent most of the year planning your dream wedding, Cillian had propsed during a rare weekend away in Kerry, it was just the two of you snuggled up in the lounge of the holiday home you were renting from his friend.
A year later and the day was finally here, Cillian had been home from filming Peaky Blinders for two months. He had been around to help with final touches and make some decisions in your presence and not just over skype.
Your bridemaids bundled into the room at the country house you'd rented out for the night before and the wedding night, they were all dressed in the silk dusty pink robes you had got for them as presents, you were sat getting your hair done, make-up already completed.
Your sister was leaning against the dressing table, glass of champagne in her hand "are you ready to finally marry Cill?" she smiled, you looked beautiful light make-up hair curled and pinned off your face.
You bit at your lip, a small smile tugging onto your face "Ready, but nervous" you stated with a deep breath, leaning for your own glass of champagne.
Your sister smiled, squeezing your shoulder reassuringly "You'll be fine, it's your Cill" she clinked her glass with yours "Time for the dress"
You stood up, placing the glass back onto the side "I just need to change into the lingerie" you blushed lightly, grabbing the bag from the expensive bridal boutique in Dublin City centre.
You re-entered the room, your mum had finally arrived from the City having to go and pick up last minute flowers that hadn't arrived, you were relieved that she had made it in time to help with your dress.
Stood in front of the mirror, you dropped the robe, all your bridesmaids whistling at the sight of you in the delicate lingerie, the silk suspender belt, the boned and tied corset, the silk knickers that curved perfectly on your hips. "Stop it" you mumbled grabbing the slip for under your dress.
"Cillian is going to pass out when he see's you in this tonight" your friend winked as your mum helped pull your dress up. "Yeah the old man has a few more years on his ticker than you do y/n" your sister joined in.
They always loved to point out that you'd bagged yourself an older man, Cillian was 17 years older than you, meeting at a literacy festival when you were just 23 and starting your career as a English teacher.
***
Cillian was at the top of the alter, hands clasped together to try and calm his nerves, the wedding had been perfectly planned mainly by you, but he was still having thoughts of you not showing up, which his brother and groomsmen had dismissed telling him to stop acting like an eejit.
He turned to his younger brother "let me know when she's here, I can't turn round until she's here"
His brother nodded, eyes trained on the top of the alter, the back garden of the Country house was filling up, Cillian knew you were upstairs in one of those rooms with your sister, and best friends.
You were making your way across the lawn arm linked with your dad, he was talking about his wedding day to your mother, how nervous he was to be standing and waiting for her, how he'd felt the lump in his throat expand as she appeared at the top of the church alter.
Then you were at the top of the alter, your bridemaids making their way down, Cillian's and after today your niece walking down in the front with her flowers.
"She's here" Cillian nodded as his brother announced your arrival, he turned slowly with a deep breath.
His blue eyes grazed over you, the fitted bodice of the dress in embroidered long sleeve lace, the full tulle of the skirt puffing out from the waist.
You always looked beautiful, even on days when you'd spent the day lazing around the house in an oversized shirt and gym shorts, but today there was something magical about you, something so different and stunning. He felt his breath catch in his throat as you finally started to make your way towards him.
You finally looked up at him, eyes locking together as you slowly walked down the aisle, the music playing softly in the background, "you okay?" you mouthed at him with a smile.
Cillian could feel himself getting emotional, he couldn't believe that your were moments away from joining him at the alter and becoming his wife, you had actually agreed to spend your life with him.
He nodded slowly in response to your question, taking a steadying breath, then you were in front of him, your father kissing your cheek, shaking Cillians hand before taking his seat, your sister lent over to take your bouquet.
Cillian's hands found yours "You look beautiful" he sighed feeling all his nerves melt away.
You were finally pronounced husband and wife, Cillian dipping you for a kiss as your friends and family cheered and clapped from the seats.
You couldn't keep the grin off your face as he took your hand and led you up the aisle.
Warnings: illness symptoms, hurt/comfort, mild angst, mentions of pain & discomfort, Cillian being stubborn.
Summary: Cillian wakes the next morning still insisting he’s fine, despite the lingering stomach pain, fever, and exhaustion. Y/n sees right through him and gently pushes him to open up.
The next morning broke it was Saturday, their only day off, outside it was slow and grey, filtered through the sheer curtains in their bedroom. Rain tapped softly against the windows, a lazy drizzle that matched the heavy stillness in the house. Cillian had barely stirred when Y/N got up, his face pressed into the pillow, his brow furrowed faintly in his sleep like something was chasing him even in dreams.
When he finally emerged close to noon, it was with slow, uneven steps. He’d showered, thrown on grey sweatpants and a hoodie, but his skin had a washed-out pallor to it, and there were shadows under his eyes deeper than yesterday’s.
Y/N, perched on the couch with a book in her lap and a warm mug between her hands, looked up immediately. “You slept in,” she said gently, watching him move.
“Didn’t hear my alarm,” he muttered, walking straight past her into the kitchen. “What time is it?”
“Eleven forty”
He grunted in response, opening the fridge like he had any real interest in food. She heard the door shut again almost instantly, followed by him filling a glass with water. He took two slow sips before leaning back against the counter and closing his eyes.
“You’re still not feeling better, are you?” she asked quietly, setting the mug down and standing.
“I told you last night, it’s just a stomach thing,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse now. “Probably something I picked up on set.”
“You don’t look like someone who’s probably got a bug, Cill. You look like someone who’s in pain.”
“I’m not in pain,” he said, but the words were clipped—defensive. Then, after a pause, “Just sore.”
Her eyes scanned his body, how his arms were folded tightly over his stomach, the way he was subtly shifting weight from one foot to the other, like standing too long in one position was uncomfortable.
“You’re holding your stomach.”
“I’m not—” he stopped himself, catching the way her eyes narrowed.
Cillian sighed and dropped his hands. “Alright, yeah. I’ve got a bit of a cramp. It’s nothin’. I’ve had worse hangovers.”
“You don’t get fevers with hangovers.”
He let out a soft laugh—dry, tired. “Jesus, you’re on a mission, huh?”
“I’m on your side,” she reminded him, stepping closer and resting a hand lightly against his chest. “Can you at least be honest with me? What does it feel like?”
He finally met her eyes, though his were heavy-lidded, like it took effort to hold them open. “I don’t know. Like… pressure. Low in my stomach. Like I’ve been bloated for hours but nothing’s happening. I’m hot and cold. My head still aches. It’s not fun, but it’s not serious.”
Y/N stared at him for a beat, then gently slipped her hand down to his abdomen, just resting it there. His muscles tensed beneath her fingers instantly.
“Here?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Does it come and go?”
“It’s been kinda constant since last night,” he admitted, eyes flickering away.
Her thumb grazed the hem of his hoodie. “You didn’t sleep well either. I could hear you tossing.”
He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against her shoulder, letting out a long breath. “I hate feeling sick. I hate being slowed down.”
“I know,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around him. “But slowing down now means you recover faster.”
Cillian was silent for a moment, his breath warm against her skin. “I’ve got scenes next week that can’t be moved. Big ones. Arthur’s breakdown in the ring, the warehouse confrontation—”
“Cillian,” she cut in, firm but quiet, “none of that matters if you collapse in the middle of it.”
He didn’t reply. Just stayed there, head heavy on her shoulder.
Eventually, she pulled back slightly and touched his cheek. “Come sit. You haven’t even eaten.”
“I’m not hungry,” he muttered, already letting her lead him to the couch.
“I figured. I made dry toast and plain rice just in case. Try a bite.”
He groaned but sat, slumping sideways into the cushions while she disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned, she had a tray, toast, a small bowl of rice, and a fresh cup of peppermint tea.
“You’re too good to me,” he mumbled, reluctantly taking the toast.
She sat down beside him, curling up so her knee bumped against his thigh. “Yeah, well. Someone’s got to make sure you don’t fall apart.”
He managed a small smile, chewing slowly. “I’ll be alright by tomorrow.”
Y/N looked at him, her expression unreadable.
“You keep saying that,” she said softly. “But I’m starting to think you don’t believe it either.”
Cillian didn’t answer. He set the toast down after two bites, closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the back of the couch, one hand resting protectively over his lower abdomen again.
Rain still drizzled outside, and the house was quiet, save for the occasional deep breath from him, like even that was something he had to work for today.
She didn’t say anything else. Just reached for the blanket on the back of the couch and pulled it over his legs, gently stroking his arm as he slowly drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep.
