Mrs Shelby

colored by me

happy birthday Cillian and thank you for every performance, every quiet moment, every character that stayed with us long after the credits rolled 🤍

Notes : i didn't plan this to have sequel so this what my brain had to come with.

This fiction has nothing to do with irl Cillian.

Banner credit : @cillmequick

MIRRORS AND MURPHY

Part Two

Three months after the relationship became public, your life no longer felt like your own.

At first, you told yourself things were settling, the headlines slowed down slightly. People on the Peaky Blinders set stopped staring every time you walked into a room.

So when filming wrapped and you got hired onto another production in London, it felt like breathing again. A fresh set, fresh crew. People who didn’t know you before, you needed that desperately. Needed somewhere you could just be you again instead of Cillian Murphy’s girlfriend

The first week was good. Almost normal,the actors were kind, the makeup department welcomed you easily,nobody treated you strangely when you introduced yourself.

For the first time in months, your shoulders stopped feeling permanently tense.

You called Cillian after your third day nearly smiling. “I think this one’s okay.”

You heard the relief in his silence before he answered. “That’s good.”

You lay across his sofa while talking to him, exhaustion heavy in your limbs. “They don’t look at me weird.”

“They’d be stupid not to hire you.”

“That sounds suspiciously supportive.” You laughed softly. God, you loved him. “I miss you,” he murmured after a moment.

Your chest warmed immediately. “You saw me yesterday.”

“Still.”

That quiet sincerity in his voice ruined you every single time.

You smiled into the cushion. “I miss you too.”

It started with one paparazzi photo, then another, then ten. You were carrying coffee and laughing at something another makeup artist had said, completely harmless. But suddenly photographers started appearing outside the studio gates every day afterward.

At first they only waited near your car, then they started shouting questions. “Did you break up his marriage?” “Are you living together now?” “How does it feel ruining your career for an actor?”

You ignored them, head down, eyes forward. By the second week, they’d started photographing actors arriving to set beside you. Articles spun fake relationships instantly. Crew members got annoyed because photographers blocked entrances.

One morning a camera flash went off directly in an actor’s face before filming, everything changed after that. You were halfway through applying makeup to one of the lead actresses when the producer asked quietly “Can I speak to you outside?”

Your stomach dropped instantly. The producer looked deeply uncomfortable already. “We’ve had… complaints.”

You stared at him silently.

“The paparazzi situation is becoming disruptive.”

Humiliation crawled up your throat immediately. “I’ve tried handling them—”

“I know.” His expression softened slightly. “This isn’t really your fault.” Which meant it absolutely was. “We’re losing time during shoots. Actors are frustrated. Security’s becoming expensive.”

You already knew where this was going. Still, hearing it nearly shattered you anyway.

“We’re going to have to let you go.”

The words rang in your ears. For a second you genuinely couldn’t breathe properly. “I—” Your voice broke embarrassingly.

The producer looked miserable now. “You’re talented, Y/N. Truly. This just became… complicated.”

Complicated. That word again, always that word,not your work, not your talent. Just who you loved.

You nodded numbly because crying in front of him would somehow make this worse. “I understand.” The cameras caught you leaving the studio carrying your things. Of course by evening the photos were online. Y/N exits set after production tension. Mysterious firing rumors surround Murphy girlfriend.

You turned your phone off entirely after that then curled into bed at Cillian’s house and stayed there for nearly two days.

You barely ate, barely spoke. The humiliation settled deep in your chest like something heavy and poisonous, because this wasn’t just comments anymore. This was your career, the thing you loved.

Cillian tried everything. He brought food upstairs you barely touched. Sat quietly beside you for hours without forcing conversation. Played music softly when the silence became too heavy, but guilt consumed him visibly. You could see it every time he looked at you, like he was watching damage he caused in real time.

On the second night, you woke around three in the morning and found him downstairs alone in the kitchen, sitting in darkness.

Your heart cracked instantly. “Cillian.”

He looked up sharply and God. He looked devastated. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You crossed the kitchen slowly. “Why are you sitting in the dark like a Victorian ghost?”

A weak laugh escaped him but only briefly. Then his face crumpled again into something exhausted and guilty. “I’m sorry.”

Your chest tightened painfully. “Don’t.”

“I did this to you.”

“No, the media did.”

“They wouldn’t care about you if not for me.”

You hated hearing him talk like that especially because part of him genuinely believed it.

You stepped between his knees, touching his face gently. “This is not your fault.”

His eyes closed immediately beneath your hand. “Yes it is.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he whispered harshly. “You lost your job because of me.” Emotion thickened his voice suddenly, raw enough to hurt. “You loved your work.”

Tears burned behind your eyes instantly because he sounded heartbroken over it too.

“I still do.”

“You shouldn’t have to sacrifice your life to be with me. If you wanna-”

The words sat heavy between you. And suddenly you understood something terrifying. He was thinking about letting you go, not because he wanted to, but because he thought it would save you.

Fear hit you so fast it physically hurt. “Don’t.”

His eyes opened immediately. “Don’t what?”

“You’re thinking about ending this.”

Silence.

That silence told you enough. Anger mixed instantly with grief.

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

His face twisted painfully. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t want protection from you.”

“I’m destroying your career.”

“No,” you snapped suddenly. “The press is.”

Your voice shook now. “I’m so tired of everyone acting like loving you is some horrible mistake I made.”

Cillian stared at you silently.

You could see emotion building behind his eyes now too. Dangerously close to breaking.

“I lost a job,” you whispered. “That hurts. It really does. But losing you would hurt worse.”

His breathing faltered, and suddenly all that careful emotional restraint he carried cracked wide open. “You think this doesn’t kill me?” he said quietly.

The pain in his voice stunned you still. “I watch people tear you apart online every day. I watch photographers follow you. I watch you stop smiling more every week because of me.” His hands gripped yours tightly now. “And I keep thinking eventually you’ll realize I’m not worth this.”

Your heart shattered completely. Because beneath all the fame and composure and guardedness— There he was. Just a man terrified of losing the person he loved.

You shook your head immediately. “Never.”

Emotion flashed across his face so intensely it almost looked painful.

“I love you,” he admitted suddenly. “I love you so much,” he whispered hoarsely. “And I hate what this world is doing to you.”

Tears finally slipped down your cheeks. Cillian wiped them away instantly, forehead pressing against yours.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured again. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You shook your head, crying quietly now. “No more apologizing.”

“But—”

“No.” You pulled back enough to make him look at you fully. “I lost a job. Fine. I’ll get another one eventually.” your jaw tightened. “But I’m not losing you too.”

Something fragile broke in his expression then , relief , love. And suddenly he kissed you like he’d been holding himself together by threads alone. One hand trembling slightly against your face. When he pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours while both of you breathed unevenly in the dark kitchen.

hope you like it :)

NOTES :- This has nothing to do with the real Cillian , and i LOVE Yvonne. - Be kind cause i'm still figuring out how to prosses writing fanfictions.

MIRRORS and MURPHY

The set of Peaky Blinders was always loud in a strange kind of way. Not because people shouted — though they did sometimes — but because every hallway buzzed with movement. Costume assistants rushing past with pressed suits hanging from their arms, producers barking schedules into phones, lighting crews dragging cables over concrete floors.

And through all of it, Cillian Murphy moved quietly. Almost too quietly.

He liked it that way, specially because nobody noticed the one place he always drifted toward between takes: the makeup trailer. Toward you.

The first thing you noticed about him was how carefully he listened, not in interviews, not during rehearsals But On set, when nobody else was paying attention.

Most actors sat in your chair scrolling through their phones while makeup artists worked around them like invisible machinery. But Cillian always looked at people when they spoke. Quietly attentive , calm and polite.

The first real conversation you had with him happened at three in the morning. Rain hammered against the studio roof while half the crew fought exhaustion and nicotine cravings. You were cleaning brushes in the makeup trailer after touching up fake blood for the fifth time that night when the door creaked open.

Cillian stepped inside still dressed as Tommy Shelby, coat hanging from his shoulders, cigarette tucked behind one ear.

“Thought everyone had gone home,” you said.

“Could say the same about you.”

You shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”

His eyes drifted over the organized rows of palettes and powders. “Looks complicated.”

“It is.”

“I’d be terrible at this.”

“You’d definitely poke yourself in the eye with mascara.”

A small laugh escaped him unexpectedly that surprised both of you. Nobody else got those smiles, not anymore.

After his divorce, he’d become even more private than before. Interviews were shorter. Public appearances rarer. On set he kept polite distance from almost everyone. Except you.

And even then, only when nobody was paying attention.

The relationship had started accidentally. Long nights during filming. Quiet conversations after wrap. Shared cigarettes outside the studio doors while Birmingham rain soaked the pavement.

He started showing up early before scenes, leaning against the trailer doorway while you prepared products just staring at you.

You learned how he took his tea.

He learned you hummed absentmindedly while concentrating.

Sometimes he’d sit silently while you worked, exhaustion softening the sharp lines of his face.

“You’re frowning again,” you murmured once while blending bruising along his cheekbone.

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

His mouth twitched. “You always insult your clients?”

“Only the difficult ones.”

“Ah,” he said softly. “So just me.”

And somehow, without meaning to, you started waiting for those moments.

Until the night he found you outside the studio wrapped in your coat against the freezing Birmingham wind.

You sat on a concrete step smoking half a cigarette despite repeatedly claiming you were quitting.

“You hate those,” Cillian said, approaching.

“I hate everyone today.”

“That bad?”

You tipped your head back dramatically. “The continuity department wants Tommy’s dirt smudges identical in every scene. Do you know how impossible that is?”

He sat beside you ,close enough that your shoulders almost touched.

“I think you’re the only person on this set scarier than Helen McCrory when she’s angry.”

You gasped quietly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

He laughed under his breath, Then silence settled comfortably between you. The kind that only existed between people who understood each other.

You turned slightly toward him and realized he was already looking at you. Not casually. Not absentmindedly. Just… looking.

Something shifted in the air. His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.

Your breath caught as he leant in and kissed you like he'd been trying not to for months. Careful at first. Then not careful at all.

Afterward, both of you stayed silent. Breathing hard. Foreheads touching.

“We can’t tell anyone,” he murmured eventually.

“I know.”

And you really did.

After that, secrecy became second nature. No touching in public. No lingering looks if crew members were nearby. No arriving together. No leaving together.

The only people who suspected anything were the hair department, and they suspected everything anyway.

After that, the tension became unbearable. Not obvious to anyone else. But devastating to you.

His hand resting too long against the back of your chair. The way his voice softened when he said your name. How he unconsciously searched for you the second he walked on set.

“Sit still,” you murmured, tilting his chin up with two fingers as you dabbed at fake bruising along his cheek.

Cillian’s hands rested loosely on his knees, pale eyes fixed on your face instead of the mirror.

“Stop staring,” you said softly.

“I’m being professionally observant.”

You snorted. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is for actors.”

“Mm. Sure.”

Still, months passed without anyone truly knowing. It might have stayed this way too , if Daniel from lighting hadn’t started flirting with you. Relentlessly.