the disappointed cillian murphy

can u believe this cute little guy is now 50!!

50 and still fine wine 😩😍🤤😛

THOMAS SHELBY X OC CLARA HOLLOWAY

CLARA’S POV

His hands were never made for gentle things.

They were bloody, roughened by war, stained with sin and smoke — hands that had broken bones, pulled triggers, signed death wishes with the flick of a cigarette ash.

And yet somehow… my heart lived within them.

He held it carefully, like something fragile. Like an egg too delicate for a man like Thomas Shelby to touch without ruining. His large hands would cradle it softly, almost fearfully, as if he knew monsters were never meant to hold something pure.

But Thomas was still a man built for violence.

And sometimes, when anger curled his fingers into fists…

2015

You wake before the alarm—not because you want to, but because the bed is wrong.

Colder.

Empty on his side.

You keep your eyes closed for a second, reaching out instinctively, fingers brushing over nothing but rumpled sheets where he used to be. A quiet sigh leaves you.

Three years.

Three years since Cillian Murphy decided—reluctantly—to start dragging himself out of bed at ungodly hours for that role. The role.

You remember when it started. The groaning. The way he’d bury his face into your neck and mutter, “I don’t want to go.” Half-asleep, voice rough, clinging to you like if he held on long enough, the morning might just… stop.

He loved his sleep.

More importantly—he loved this.

Slow mornings. Tangled limbs. Quiet, shared warmth before the world got loud.

And now?

Now he’s up before sunrise, chasing a version of himself that lives on screen. Leaving you behind in sheets that still smell like him.

You roll onto his side, pulling the duvet closer, breathing him in.

“Unfair,” you mumble into the pillow.

—

The front door clicks sometime later.

You don’t move straight away—you hear him before you see him. The soft thud of shoes, the quiet exhale, the familiar rhythm of him moving through the house.

Then footsteps.

Closer.

You peek your eyes open just as he appears in the doorway, slightly damp from the morning air, hair mussed in that way that somehow makes the sharpness of his Peaky cut even more noticeable.

God.

It hits you all at once.

The last three years really hit you.

He looks… different. Broader. Defined in a way he never used to be. There’s a quiet strength in the way he carries himself now, even when he’s tired.

And he is tired.

You can see it in the slight slump of his shoulders, the way he runs a hand through his hair and exhales.

But then his eyes find you.

And something soft slips back into place.

“…you’re awake,” he murmurs, voice still low from sleep.

You don’t answer straight away.

You’re staring.

Blatantly.

Eyes dragging over him with absolutely no shame, lip caught between your teeth as you take him in like you haven’t seen him in weeks instead of hours.

He notices instantly.

“…don’t,” he says quietly, already a bit wary, already knowing that look.

You prop yourself up on your elbow, the duvet slipping slightly as you tilt your head, studying him like he’s something you’re trying to figure out.

“No, wait—” you murmur, squinting slightly like it’s serious. “Just… stand there a second.”

He huffs, dropping his gym bag by the door. “I’m not—what are you doing?”

“Cillian.”

There’s a pause.

He freezes. Because of the way you said his name.

Slow. Intent. A little too soft.

“…what.”

You sit up more now, completely unbothered by how obvious you are.

“Has anyone ever told you,” you start, voice thoughtful, “that this whole… thing you’ve got going on right now—”

You gesture vaguely at him. All of him.

“—is actually unfair?”

He groans under his breath, already shaking his head. “No. No, we’re not doing this.”

“Oh, we are,” you say immediately, sliding out of bed now, padding toward him slowly.

His eyes flick down for half a second—then away just as fast.

There it is.

That tiny, almost imperceptible reaction.

You smile.

“You’ve been going to the gym for three years,” you continue, circling him slightly, like you’re inspecting him. “Three. Years.”

“I know how long it’s been,” he mutters.

“And you’re telling me,” you go on, stepping in front of him again, closer now, “you expect me to just… act normal about this?”

“Preferably, yeah.”

You laugh softly, reaching out without thinking—your fingers brushing lightly over his arm, then lingering.

He goes still.

Always does.

Your touch grounds him in a way nothing else does.

“Cill,” you murmur, softer now. “You look…”

He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t—”

“…ridiculous.”

That makes him pause.

“…ridiculous.”

You nod, completely serious. “In the best way.”

He exhales, looking away, a faint flush creeping up the back of his neck despite himself.

He hates compliments.

From anyone else, he’d brush it off completely.

But from you?

It gets under his skin.

“You’re staring,” he mutters.

“I am staring,” you agree easily.

There’s a beat.

Then you lean in just slightly, voice dropping.

“Can you blame me?”

That does it.

He lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, rubbing a hand over his face like he doesn’t know what to do with you.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Mhm.”

You don’t move away.

If anything, you step closer.

Your hand slides up lightly, resting against his chest now, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palm. He watches you this time. Properly.

The teasing fades into something softer.

Quieter.

“I missed you this morning,” you admit.

There it is.

The shift.

His expression changes instantly—guilt flickering for just a second.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want to get up.”

“I know you didn’t.”

A small pause.

Then, softer—

“I miss you when you’re not there.”

That lands.

He exhales slowly, shoulders easing, his hand coming up almost without thinking—resting at your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer.

“You’re making it very hard to go,” he murmurs.

“Good.”

He looks at you then.

Really looks.

And there’s that intensity again—low, quiet, but there.

“…come here,” he says softly.

You don’t hesitate.

He leans down slightly, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple—then your cheek. Not rushed. Never rushed.

His thumb brushes lightly along your side.

There’s a moment where neither of you say anything.

Just close. Breathing the same air.

Then—

“…you should come with me,” he murmurs.

You blink. “Where?”

He glances toward the hallway, then back at you, something faintly playful—shy, even—in his expression.

“The shower.”

A beat.

“…Cillian Murphy,” you say slowly.

He huffs a quiet laugh, a little embarrassed now, but he doesn’t take it back.

“Just—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head slightly. “Come on.”

There’s a softness to it. Not pushy. Not demanding.

Just… wanting you there.

Your smile lingers as you tilt your head, studying him for a second longer.

Then you nod.

“Alright.”

And as he takes your hand—fingers lacing with yours, warm and familiar—you realise something simple, something steady:

It was never really about the gym.

Or the early mornings.

Or even the role.

It was this.

Always coming back to each other anyway.

—

i’m kinda scared to write smut but ill try if u guys want it?? let me know what u guys would like me to write 🎀

why is this lowkey cillian x oc !?!?

THOMAS SHELBY

HEADCANONS

married to thomas shelby

you’re mad at your husband

ONE SHOTS

STORIES

CILLIAN MURPHY

HEADCANONS

married to cillian murphy

ONE SHOTS

gym bod

He’s very much about presence. Even when he’s not speaking, you feel him. Sitting beside you, knee brushing yours, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your arm like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. Touch with him isn’t overwhelming—it’s grounding. Like he’s always checking, you’re here, I’m here.

He’s big on subtle, constant contact:

~ his hand resting at the small of your back when you walk past him

~ thumb rubbing slow circles into your palm when you’re sitting together

~ your legs tangled under the table without either of you mentioning it

~ leaning into you without thinking, like it’s instinct

And the thing is—he doesn’t make a show of affection. It’s all private. Intimate in a way that feels almost sacred.

Sharing headphones is his thing.

He’ll sit close—really close—shoulder pressed to yours, one earbud each. Sometimes he’ll play you music he loves, watching your reaction more than listening to the song. Other times, it’s just silence between you, the music filling the space where words don’t need to be.

He loves when you lean your head on his shoulder. He won’t move for ages, even if he’s uncomfortable, just so you don’t have to shift.

Your connection is deep, almost wordless:

~ you both notice everything about each other without pointing it out

~ he reads your mood instantly, adjusts himself quietly to match it

~ conversations drift from light teasing to intense, philosophical thoughts without effort

~ long silences never feel awkward—just full

He’s soft with you in a way no one else sees.

Not overly expressive, but when he looks at you, it’s heavy—like there’s a thousand things he’s not saying but you still understand.

At night, he gravitates toward you without fail.

Even in sleep, there’s always some point of contact—his arm around your waist, his hand resting over yours, your legs intertwined. If you shift away, he’ll unconsciously follow.

He doesn’t need grand gestures. His love shows in:

~ remembering tiny details you forgot you mentioned

~ adjusting things around you so you’re more comfortable

~ quiet “you alright?” checks

~ the way he listens—fully, seriously, like what you say matters more than anything

And when he does get openly affectionate, it hits harder because it’s rare:

~ pulling you into him a bit tighter than usual

~ pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple

~ murmuring something soft, almost shy, like “I missed you” even if you were only apart a few hours

With him, love isn’t loud or messy—it’s steady, intimate, and deeply intertwined.

YOU’RE MAD AT YOUR HUSBAND thomas shelby

He doesn’t handle it well at first—not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much in a way he doesn’t know how to soften.

⸻

When you’re mad at him

Thomas notices immediately.

You don’t even have to raise your voice. It’s in the way you look at him—cooler, more distant. The absence of warmth hits him harder than anger ever could.

At first, he pretends it doesn’t bother him.

Carries on with business. Lights a cigarette. Gives short answers. Keeps his tone level like he’s above it.

But inside? It unsettles him more than any threat ever could.

Because enemies are predictable.

You… aren’t, when you pull away.

⸻

What he’s feeling (but won’t say)

It’s not just irritation—it’s a quiet panic he buries under control.

He starts questioning everything he said, everything he didn’t say. Replays the moment over and over, trying to find where it went wrong.

And underneath all that is one sharp thought:

She’s pulling away from me.

That’s the thing he can’t stand.

Not shouting. Not disagreement.

Distance.

It reminds him too much of losing people—and that’s the one thing he doesn’t know how to survive twice.

⸻

How he argues

If you confront him, he doesn’t explode.

He goes cold.

Measured words. Careful tone. Almost too calm, like he’s trying to win instead of understand.

“You knew what this was,” he might say.

Or: “I did what needed to be done.”

He leans on logic. On control. On justifying himself.

And if you push harder?

There’s a flicker of frustration—sharp, quick.

Not at you. At the situation. At himself.

But he won’t admit that yet.

⸻

How he distracts himself

He throws himself into work like it’s the only thing that makes sense.

Longer hours. More meetings. More deals. Anything to avoid sitting in a room where your absence feels louder than gunfire.

He drinks more than usual.

Not enough to lose control—he never does—but enough to take the edge off the constant thought of you being upset with him.

And sometimes, late at night, he’ll pause mid-task… realizing none of it is actually distracting him at all.

⸻

The gifts

They start appearing quietly.

Not with grand gestures or explanations—just… there.

Something you mentioned once. Something you needed. Something you didn’t need but he knows you’d like.

He doesn’t attach notes.

Doesn’t say “this is an apology.”

Because in his mind, actions should be enough.

But there’s something almost hesitant in it—like he’s testing the waters, seeing if you’ll soften.

If you don’t?

It frustrates him more than he expects.

Because this is one of the only ways he knows how to say I’m trying.

⸻

Getting help (without admitting it)

He won’t go to you directly—not yet.

Instead, he’ll find Polly. Or Ada.

Not in an obvious way.

He’ll say something like, “She’s been quiet,” or “She’s upset about something.”

As if he doesn’t already know why.

Polly sees straight through it. She always does.

She might give him a look and say, “Then fix it, Thomas.”

Ada, softer but just as direct, will tell him you’re hurt—not just angry.

That’s what lands.

Not anger.

Hurt.

That’s the crack in his armour.

⸻

The moment it shifts

It’s never dramatic.

No big realization scene.

Just a quiet moment where he’s alone, and the truth settles in:

He’d rather be wrong than lose you.

That’s when the pride starts to loosen its grip.

⸻

The apology

He doesn’t over-explain.

Doesn’t give a speech.

He finds you—wherever you are—and stands there for a second like he’s choosing his words carefully for once.

“I was wrong.”

Simple. Direct. Rare.

And then, quieter—

“I shouldn’t have done that to you.”

There’s something different in his voice then. Less guarded. Less calculated.

Real.

He steps closer, but not too close—like he’s giving you the choice.

“I don’t like it… when you’re like this with me.”

Not blaming. Just honest.

A pause.

Then the closest thing he gets to vulnerability:

“I don’t like it because it matters.”

And if you let him?

That’s when his hand finds yours again—slower this time, like he understands he has to earn it back.

MARRIED TO THOMAS SHELBY is never simple, even when he tries to make it soft. The world doesn’t get quieter just because he loves you—but he does change in the spaces where it matters.

Thomas Shelby isn’t the kind of man who is openly tender in front of others. He doesn’t perform affection. But with you, it slips through in ways people only notice if they’re paying very close attention.

⸻

How he kisses you

He doesn’t kiss you casually.

Most of the time, it’s controlled at first—like he’s holding something back even as he leans in. A hand at your jaw, thumb brushing once like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re real and here.

Then he softens.

When it’s just the two of you, his kisses lose that sharp edge he gives the world. They become slower, heavier with meaning rather than urgency. He’ll pause against your lips like he’s thinking about staying there longer than he planned. Like he forgets, for a second, whatever war is happening outside the room.

Sometimes he kisses you like he’s apologising without words. Other times like he’s trying to memorise you.

And when he’s exhausted—truly worn down—he’ll press one quiet kiss to your forehead instead of your mouth. That’s when it means the most.

⸻

How he is soft for you (in his way)

He doesn’t suddenly become a different man. He just lets you see what’s underneath the armour.

He listens when you talk, even when he’s pretending to read papers or pour a drink. He remembers small things you mention once—things he acts like he didn’t store away, but did.

If you’re cold, he’ll wordlessly drape his coat over your shoulders. If you’re stressed, he won’t ask questions at first—he’ll just sit near you until you start speaking on your own.

And when he does speak gently to you, it’s almost always when no one else is around. His voice drops lower, less sharp, like he’s saving a version of himself that doesn’t exist anywhere else.

He doesn’t say “I miss you” often.

Instead, he’ll just appear in the doorway where you are.

⸻

How he spoils you (Thomas Shelby style)

He doesn’t spoil you in loud, showy ways. It’s controlled. Intentional. Almost like he’s correcting a world that has been unkind to you.

~ If you admire something once—a dress in a window, a piece of fabric, a perfume—it has a way of quietly appearing later without explanation.

~ Your home becomes warmer over time. Better heating. Better food brought in. Better protection around the house, even if you don’t ask for it.

~ He has people “look into things” for you, but never tells you unless it matters. He likes making life easier without making you feel dependent.

And if anyone treats you with disrespect?

You never even have to ask.

It’s already handled.

Not violently in front of you—he’s too controlled for that—but decisively, quietly, like removing a problem from existence.

⸻

In private moments

The real softness is in the stillness.

Late at night, when the weight of his mind won’t let him sleep, he’ll come find you. He doesn’t always talk. Sometimes he just lies beside you fully dressed, staring at the ceiling while your hand eventually finds his.

And he doesn’t pull away.

That’s the thing about Thomas Shelby—he trusts very few things in the world.

But when he’s married to you, one of them becomes your hand in his.