Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

Past Performance Is Not Necessarily A Guide	By : MeltyGirl Category: Individual Celebrities > Cillian Murphy Views: 4436 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Cillian Murphy. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
Author's Notes: This chapter begins with a prelude: a note on hotel stationery from Naomie to Cillian; to see it in full HTML with the hotel letterhead and Naomie's crossouts, go to melty_girl.livejournal.com. Also, the Leo mentioned plays a soldier in the film, Danny is the film's director, and Chris plays the ranking officer of the platoon. In real life, Cillian has said that he often listened to Radiohead's Kid A during the making of an earlier film; if you own the album, it might be fun to listen to it while reading this chapter.
Disclaimer: Entirely a fictional product of my sex-crazed mind! I don't know these actors and I'm not making any money from this story. All lyrics from songs composed by Thom, Ed, Phil and the Greenwood brothers.

*** Many thanks go to my NEW beta, Lilith, for her incredible insights and immeasurable talent as an editor. ***

White Hart Hotel, Salisbury

C,

I thought you should know that I ran into Leo on my walk of shame down the hall this morning. Unfortunately, he found my key in the pub. He made a pointed remark about how I was wearing the same clothes as last night. I told him that you were taking care of me because I was so drunk I was yacking up, and that I crashed out on your sofa. He found it all very amusing and made insinuations... but I didn't take the bait. I just matter-of-factly told him what I told him, and then shot off down to my room.

I'm really sorry about this. [crossed out: I didn't mean to]

It makes me feel so guilty to say it, but it would probably be best to make sure we have our stories straight... so that you're ready if (when?) our intrepid soldiers interrogate you. It would probably be pointless for you to deny that I made a move on you, given my stupid drunken flirting at the pub. Admitting that will give them something juicy to be right about -- but then you can joke about how my sick was all over the place, etc. and casually dismiss the talk of anything untoward having gone on. Just tell them I'm mortified about how drunk I got... that's

(flip page to read the back)

the truth anyway. I think if we aren't defensive and don't give them anything new to chew on, then everyone will probably just let it go. I suppose we need to make sure that we don't act too uncomfortable around each other as well... I do hope we can find a way to be relaxed around one another.

I'm sorry I ran out earlier when you were [crossed out: tryin] wanting to talk. [crossed out: I just couldn't] I don't really know if I should say anything else about what just happened between us. [crossed out: I'll admi] Somehow it seems cold not to say anything... and my feelings for you are quite the opposite of cold. I don't need us to have a big talk. I just want you to feel OK about all this. Well, maybe OK isn't the right word... I just don't want you to feel bad.

I want you to understand that I don't expect anything from you. I would never get in the way of your career or your happiness. And I really don't want a reputation as a homewrecker to dog me, or for gossip or weirdness to leave a bad taste in people's mouths. We both need to be careful -- this film could be really important for both of us... and this last month of night shoots is going to be tough anyway.

[crossed out: But I should] God, I wish I could honestly tell you that now that I've scratched the itch, you're out of my system, but I

(switch to second sheet of paper)

don't want to lie. It's all I can do right now to push away the sense memory of your mouth on me... and when I close my eyes, all I see is that gorgeous drowning look you get on your face when you come.

I know that my door shouldn't be open to someone [crossed out: who] in your situation... but I'm too weak not to confess that if you want me, I won't turn you away. It's up to you... I'll leave you alone. I won't walk around giving you the glad eye -- and you don't have to worry about any more lagered up come-ons... I'll not be drinking like that ever again.

The bottom line is that no matter what you decide to do I won't be angry with you. I can't promise I'll always be bright and sunny, but I'll be doing my damndest to be positive. I knew what I was getting into, so how could I be angry? Whatever happens -- or doesn't happen -- it was worth it, to me.

This sure ended up being longer than I intended. Yeah, right -- I didn't want to talk, did I?!? I guess it would have been more accurate to say that I'm not keen to hear what you'd probably tell me. I don't need you to explain yourself -- I don't want you to explain, OK?

~ N

Clad in army fatigues, Cillian sits waiting for the call that Danny and the crew are ready to shoot his one-on-one scene with Chris. Thank god Naomie's gone back to London for a few days. She was turning me into a walking hard-on. Very fucking inconvenient.

Luckily for Cillian, the scene they'd shot immediately after last week's crazy drunken sex adventure was the dinner party at the soldiers' commandeered mansion. That way his inconvenient erections had been hidden under the table. The scene was long, and his character really only had to react to the dialogue of others; as they kept shooting an endless succession of takes, his mind wandered dangerously. He kept thinking back to their spontaneous tryst in the back of the pub, and how Naomie's whole body had jumped when he made her come, how her rib cage heaved as he clutched her to his chest, how her arse had jacked back against his hard cock. And he kept fantasising an alternate ending for the encounter, daydreaming how it would have felt if just then he'd crushed her pliant body up against the wall, pushed his eager prick inside her dripping, spasming cunt, and fucked her hard and fast...

Thinking about it all, Cillian would start to feel so aroused it was all he could do to keep from surreptitiously touching himself under the table. Knowing that a slight skittishness was appropriate to the character's situation anyway, Cillian anxiously struggled to stay in the scene, to deflate the recurring pup tent in his camo pants. The next night's shoot was just as bad. He would find his eyes stealing glances at Naomie's lovely brown neck and lose himself in fantasies of exploring every inch of her soft skin, of his mouth finding the hidden places that make her shiver. He'd remember the heady taste of her hot clit under his tongue and the utter abandonment that suffused her yelp of "Please, please, please..." when he'd had her teetering on the precipice.

But forget that -- today she's gone. Forget her, forget your idiotic lapse in judgment. Focus on the work.

Cillian snaps Radiohead's Kid A into his portable CD player. Deep, rich major chords ooze from his headphones, the sounds so familiar and comforting. The album always helps clear his mind and prepare to work. OK, that's right. Back to business, man. Today's scene could be a real high point. Put her out of your mind. Close your eyes and breathe.

"Everything... everything... everything... in its right place," Thom Yorke chants into Cillian's ears from within an electronic cloud. He fidgets uneasily in his chair. The song's lyrics had seemed so intriguingly malleable in the past, but now they sounded like a sarcastic barb. "In its right place, in its right place, in its right place." For the umpteenth time this week, Cillian asks himself what the fuck had happened to his brain, his will, his heart. He hadn't felt so out of control since he was a reckless teenager always scaring his parents. For years now, everything had been so easy, so simply happy. Everything in its right place. Now he was struggling to get his head back to a space where he knew what he believed in. Back to a time before he'd cocked up in such an uncharacteristic way. A time before his body was conscious of the true nature of its growing rebellion.

"There are two colours in my head... There are two colours in my head..." Cillian chuckled bitterly at this lyric. Naomie was such a contrast to his girlfriend, but it wasn't just colour, obviously. Yes, Naomie wasn't a familiar Irish girl like all the girls he'd ever dated. So yeah, he was curious about getting involved with someone from such a different cultural and class background. But he also had a whole different set of things in common with her and the nature of his attraction to her was different, volatile, separate, new. He didn't think he wanted Naomie instead, he wanted her also, and that it was possible for him to feel that way astonished him, even as it shamed him. And unbelievably, she might be OK with that -- or might think she's OK with that. But she's so gorgeous and's got so much to offer... she cannot really want to be my dirty little secret, can she?

"What... is... that you tried to say?" Thom sang. "What... was... that you tried to say? Tried to say... tried to say..." Naomie had had the front desk deliver a note to his room a few hours after she left his hotel room that morning. Over the past week, he'd read it and re-read it dozens of times. She'd been surprisingly protective of him, making sure that they had their stories straight to cover up their dalliance. She was very careful to say that she didn't expect anything more to happen, but at the same time, she'd made it plain she wanted him. Now, thinking of the most tender part of her letter, Cillian pictures the shine in her breathtaking brown eyes when he'd held her on his lap that morning, her warm aura lovingly bathing him until he spoke the truthful words that had shut her down, and she'd gone.

Since that eventful night and morning last week, his body has been playing at insurrection, rising up to betray him at all the wrong times. He was somehow regressing back to age 15, wanking all the time while picturing a forbidden woman. But now the shame was tinged with deeper colours. He wrestled with whether or not he should confess his unfaithfulness to his girlfriend. How could I even think of lying? But this will wreck her. How could I have done what I did even once, much less three times within eight hours? Jesus, I'm such a fucking cliché, doing the dirty on my girlfriend with my co-star. She'll probably throw me out if I tell her -- I can just picture the disappointment in my parents' faces. How can I tell her what I've done? Even if she doesn't break things off, how is she going to deal with me working with Naomie down here for the rest of the shoot? But now he realises the main reason why he doesn't want to come clean: Even if she forgives me, it'll mean that I'll have to promise not to fool around with Naomie again.

Suddenly Cillian's headphones are pulled up to sit above his ears, and he opens his eyes on Chris's bemused face. Chris leans in, says discreetly, "So, young Cillian, have you and your lovely co-star located the precise foundation of your characters' motivation? The boys are speculating about your rehearsal methods."

Momentarily caught off-balance, Cillian's cheeks flush red, but he quickly retorts, "Ha, ha. Yeah, I wish."

"Oh?" Chris smiles patronisingly. "Have you a girlfriend? Or... boyfriend?"

"Girlfriend." Cillian nods.

"Well, then. Never forget," Chris notes wryly, "you are paid to lie, and to lie artfully. Perhaps this is another chance to test your skills."

"Very funny. But I've got nothing to lie about."

"Ah, there you go -- that's better. I almost believed you. Keep practising."

Cillian sighs. "C'mon, man."

Chris laughs.

"Really -- I'm getting tired of explaining that night to everyone. Think what ya want." He gives a sidelong look at a couple of crew members walking through the room. Their attention is otherwise occupied.

"No offence intended, mate." Chris still looked smug. "They're well behind schedule out there. How about running the scene in a few minutes?"

"Sounds good. Fifteen minutes?"

"I'll be out in the garden."

"OK." He slides his headphones back into place. Gentle beats and coiling synths curl around electronic mumbles, the lyrics blessedly indistinct. Cillian relaxes into a surge of faux strings.

But then that fuzzy bass starts its ritualised falling from the third, the drums start to gallop and pop, and Thom lays into him again: "Everyone, everyone around here... everyone is so near... What's going on?" Everyone thinks we're having a fling, Cillian frets. Might as well do it anyway then. Fuck, what am I thinking? Am I not the person I thought I was? Am I really going to do this? I already have done it... well, almost. At least we didn't fuck. And not fucking her was fucking incredible. Jesus, she told me I could do anything to her, and the offer is still open...

He remembers exactly when she'd said it. He'd been sitting atop her hips on the bed, leaning over her while his fingers teasingly explored everything he revealed as he undressed her. Naomie's luscious mouth whispered the words that rang in his ears every day since: "You can do anything you want to me." It was driving him up the walls thinking about everything that "anything" could mean. She certainly has a hint of the bold about her, and for god's sake, she's an actor too -- we could probably come up with some tremendously wicked scenes to play. And it's not only the things I could do to her -- what about the things she could do to me, things I've never asked for before?

The rhythm section in his ears is relentless, the lyrics taunting, "Everyone, everyone is so near... everyone has got the fear. It's holding on... It's holding on..." Cillian thinks back to the first time he saw Naomie after she'd left his hotel room that morning. It was when they and a few other actors had gotten a lift in a crowded car down to the mansion location in the evening, and it had been torture to sit next to her. In the first moments, he'd felt intensely claustrophobic, exposed, ashamed -- just waiting for all the piss-take accusations from the lads. He'd mentally rehearsed what he was going to say, but it had been hard to say much of anything because the moment Naomie slid up next to him, his breathing had ramped up, and he'd had to work to conceal it. He managed to laugh along as she gracefully handled the ribbing about her drunken behaviour. When Leo winked at him, Cillian rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Despite his jangly nerves, he'd thought he'd made it through the drive and into wardrobe and on to the big dinner party scene without giving away anything. He couldn't resist his sexual daydreams, but he easily avoided actually talking to Naomie. The second night, while he was still careful not to be alone with her, he did manage to send a few friendly, if sheepish smiles her way. She seemed to be following his lead, giving him space, but he longed to know if she felt as erotically tortured as he did. The third night, it seemed like there were fewer jokes, as everyone started to become distracted by the ill effects of working all night and trying to sleep during the day. But that night they were shooting a less populous scene, and he was paired with Naomie and working overtime to act like nothing had changed, to be nonchalant and easy with her like before. On the inside, he was boiling over with desire and hating himself for it.

Between takes, they made careful small talk about the food, the cold weather, then the scary things going on in the world since the horrific attacks on the States six weeks before. With a rising intensity, Naomie spoke of the tragic irony of the U.S. inevitably killing civilians by bombing Afghanistan to avenge the murder of American civilians, and he nodded, starting to lose himself in her fired up eyes. She trailed off after noticing the lust in his stare. He felt his face flush and he looked down, letting his eyes travel the distance to the floor by way of her beautiful body. Naomie said very softly, "Have you pictured me... like I asked you to?"

Anger and passion coursed through him. Still looking down, he spluttered under his breath, "Don't... don't do that. Why did -- Jesus -- do you really think if you don't remind me...? Are you trying to fucking kill me?" Naomie didn't speak to him for the rest of the night, and he felt like shite.

The fourth night, she was all coldly polite smiles, making Cillian feel contrite and lonely. Pained by her distant attitude and keenly feeling the isolation a liar feels, he took a stupid chance right on location. Dinner break came at midnight and he saw her quickly walk off alone in the opposite direction to catering. They'd both been roughed up quite a bit in the scene -- a week ago, if he'd seen her go off by herself after such a physically demanding scene, he would have immediately followed to make sure she was OK, but now he hesitated. He took a Powerbar out of his pocket and quickly wolfed it while taking a reading of his surroundings: no one was paying him much attention. He went to find Naomie.

Nervous energy crackled through his body as walked down the long, dimly hall after her. Once out of sight, Cillian sped up, walking fast, faster, then jogging, but no Naomie. Just as he was beginning to wonder if she didn't want to be found, he reached a T, stopped short to look both ways, saw her standing a ways down to the left, looking out a window at the moonlit grounds. He strode toward her; she heard his footsteps and turned around -- seeing it was him approaching, she folded her arms across her chest protectively. He came to stand before her, heart beating fast, not knowing what he wanted to say. She said nothing either, chin turned away slightly, as if her head was considering making a run for it, but her body just couldn't leave. He noticed a tightening at the hollow of her throat, saw that her breathing was shallow, and his cock stirred in his trousers.

Cillian broke the silence. In a low voice he asked, "Are you OK?"

"I'm grand," she replied crisply. "Are you OK?"

He didn't answer.

Naomie softened her tone a touch. "I just feel tired and banged up."

"Yeah."

They watched each other uneasily. Cillian laid his hands on Naomie's folded arms and she clenched her jaw, turned her chin a nudge further away, eyes darting up.

Cillian muttered, "I'm not... OK," watching his hands nervously tighten their grip on her forearms. "I can't stop thinking about you. I feel so..." Cillian trailed off.

Her eyes widened, but she didn't say anything.

"Naomie?" He half-slid, half-clutched his way to her elbows, her upper arms.

"Just... just don't -- " she said, shoulders tensing.

His mind reeled: Don't? He cut her off, blurted, "I'm not sure I can stay away from you -- it's not working -- I, I feel out of fucking control."

She sighed. "What I was going to say was, just don't take it out on me. Don't be a prick. It's not much to ask, yeah?"

He nodded guiltily, a nervous fire flaring under his skin, the heat spreading up his neck.

"That stupid note I wrote didn't mean you can walk all over me and still -- "

"I know, I know. Jesus, I know. I'm... I don't know why I lashed out at you like that last night. I've just... I've just been trying so hard not to let myself -- "

"Try harder, then!" she snapped, a tremulous edge of pleading lacing her sarcastic words. Cillian's dumbstruck mouth dropped open. "Don't, then -- don't!" Her arms struck out and abruptly shoved his hands off her.

"Hey..." Cillian murmured, immediately grasping at her shoulders.

"Leave it out!" Naomie threw his hands off her again and started to walk around him.

Desperate to hang on, he grabbed her by the waist, and firmly pulled her back, easily resisting her hands' pushing at his chest. "Hey now..." Quickly, he backed her up against the wall. Feeling confused and aroused, he asked, "Is that what you really want?"

Breathing angrily through gritted teeth, Naomie relented, let her arms slacken, but turned her head to the side. Looking out the window, she quietly challenged him: "Does it matter what I want?"

It's a fair question. Cillian felt like he should answer her with something romantic and reassuring, like "Of course it matters. I'll give you everything you want and more. I won't hold back anything." But that just wasn't true. It felt like everything he might say was fatally stained with rationalisations and circular reasoning. He no longer knew which end was up, didn't know what was right, what was real anymore. Day was night and night was day and his mind was coloured in irrational want and need and red hot impulses to touch Naomie, kiss her, lick her, devour her, see her brilliant cinnamon body tremble while his cock pulsed inside her...

So he answered her in the only way that felt honest. Eyes focused on her every little reaction, he traced a shaky finger along the hairline of her lovely face, from her temple, past her ear, to her jaw, and down the slope of her neck. His other hand was still on her waist, and when a shiver reverberated up from her hips, he felt a flip in his stomach race to speed through his stiffening cock. With two fingers, he mapped the lines of her sinuous neck and delectable throat. "Is this what you want?" he whispered hoarsely.

Still looking away, Naomie started, "I thought I could just... I thought... But you, you don't -- you only..." She drew a jittery breath, mumbled, "We should go back."

Cillian swept his hand from her throat to her collarbone, down around the swell of her breast, down her side and back to her waist. "Is this what you want?" he whispered again, as both his hands caressed her hips.

Naomie's mouth dropped open and she held her breath.

He ducked his hands under her shirt, shivered to feel her soft skin quiver under his hands, ran his fingers along the bottom edge of her bra. She finally turned to look at him, her eyes dark pools of desire swirling with apprehension. He found himself stammering a declaration of sorts: "I wa- want to be... what you... what you want."

"What I want?" she said mournfully. "You know you are. But it's your rules, your... your limits, innit?"

"I don't know... I can't... " Cillian's hands held her waist, thumbs sweeping under her waistband, not able to stop exploring.

"Damn it," she sighed. "I didn't want to talk about this."

He chewed his lip, ran his fingertips inside the tattered waistband, slid his hands in further down over the rise of her backside; her eyelids drifted shut.

"Cillian," she whispered, "I want you so badly," and put his right hand down the front of her pants.

"Oh Jesus, fuck," Cillian groaned when his fingers found her hot, wet lips. Eyes squeezing shut, he yielded to a shudder, his cock swelling hugely with a fiery jolt.

Naomie's hand guided his hand to her hard nub, moved him into a stroking rhythm, unfastened her pants to give him more room, then took hold of his wrist as if to ensure that he didn't stop. He opened his eyes to see that hers were closed, her graceful eyebrows twisted in erotic anguish, her sensuous mouth open in a silent cry. Cillian quickly leaned forward, slipped his tongue deep into her mouth. She returned his kiss so hungrily it made his thighs weak. She twitched and swayed under his hand, but she still didn't make a sound. And the hand not holding his wrist didn't touch him.

Chest heaving, hard cock straining underneath his trousers, Cillian stopped kissing her so he could watch her response to him as he stroked her clit faster. She didn't open her eyes, just threw her head back, arched her back away from the wall, breathing faster. He slid his left hand up to caress her breast, found her nipple, tweaked it hard. She squirmed silently, turned her head to the side, eyes still closed, left hand sliding up his forearm, right hand flat against the wall and making no move towards him. Well, I suppose I have made my "limits" clear enough. But maybe...

"Naomie, we should at least find an open room."

"Ohh..." she breathed.

"Like eh, let's go." Cillian drew his wet fingers back slightly.

She quickly grabbed his wrist again to rake his hand over the fire. "Don't stop now -- I don't care if someone -- "

"You do care, I know you do."

"Please," Naomie whimpered, turning her face to him to make a direct plea.

Cillian manoeuvred to slide three fingers up inside her, finally eliciting a moan from Naomie, whose eyes widened. He gasped at the intimacy of staring into her eyes while the walls of her cunt hugged his fingers. Resting his forehead against hers, gazing into her eyes, he moved his fingers back out to swirl a few circles around her clit, then back inside her.

"So you think I'm trying to kill you?" she gasped.

Cillian couldn't help but grin at that. At last, Naomie smiled too.

Overcome with need, he took her right hand from the wall, and gently brought it underneath the bottom of his long, oversized shirt to palm the hard-on that throbbed under his pants, and she whimpered at the contact. She explored the contours of his cock, as he rubbed her clit. His balls felt so tight, so ready to explode.

"We'd better be careful. What would the wardrobe girls say if you came all over these clothes?"

Cillian moaned as she stroked the seeping tip of his cock, which was now peeking out of the top of his fatigues. "Keep doing that and we'll find out right quick."

Her hand crept away from his dick and up under his shirt, lingering over the tight ripples of his muscular abdomen. Cillian choked out a groan at the loss of her hand on his cock.

"We'd better get back," she said, but her hand urged him to keeping rubbing her swollen, hot clit.

He pulled his wet hand away from her pussy, moving his other hand to stroke her face. "Let's go find a bathroom, so," he begged.

"No time -- we can't risk it," she panted, leaning in to kiss him, grabbing his arse and pulling his body to hers.

As she kissed him more frantically, Cillian realised that she was touching herself and knew she would come soon. He pulled away from her lips and held her face in both hands, stared into her eyes, ground his aching erection against her hip, chanted madly to her, "I wish I was inside you right now, I wish I was inside you fucking you so deeply, driving so hard inside you and it would be so brilliant so fucking good 'cause I want you so much. Don't you close your eyes!" -- Naomie clutched at him and struggled to keep her eyes on him as she felt the incredible hot rising tension of right before climax -- "Jesus god I want to fuck you right here 'til we can't stand up anymore, until you come so fucking hard you think you're going to break apart, 'til I'm coming inside you, pouring into you, melting inside you, fucking you until there's nothing left of me..." Naomie began to shudder and come, and he kissed her hard, thrusting his tongue deep into her helpless mouth.

A minute later, Naomie buttoned up her pants, saying, "We really have to go back." She kissed his cheek softly, then added, voice quavering slightly, "Give me a couple of minutes' head start? That's how you like to do it, right?" She walked away down the hall.

His heart had sunk, shame choking his throat, his cock impossibly hard against his stomach. Well, she got me good, didn't she? I guess I deserved that. Fucking limits, fucking wardrobe, fucking stupid risks, fucking not fucking, you fucking liar.

The Radiohead horn section in his headphones rudely blows raspberries at him, startling him out of the memory. Shite, how long has it been since Chris went outside? In a hurry, Cillian takes off the headphones and puts his CD player in his pack. Fuck, I've got to stop thinking about her. I'm going to bollocks this scene up if I don't stop it.

It's then that he notices the flashing voicemail symbol on his mobile. He rings up his voicemail. It's Naomie. She didn't really go back to London. She's checked into a different hotel nearby. She wants him to come by her room after they finish shooting. No matter how late it gets, she says. Or Friday -- in fact, she'll be there resting through the weekend. But he was supposed to take the train home to see his girlfriend in London on Saturday.

"...If you don't come, I'll understand. I feel badly about the last... I didn't... Look, maybe we should just let ourselves find out what this is..."

An excited panic sweeps through Cillian's flesh. A jagged piece of him is breaking away and somehow he'll have to find a way to hold himself together.

The next song, the Kid A track that had just been about to start, plays in his mind:

"That there,
That's not me.
I go where I please.
I walk through walls,
I float down the Liffey.
I'm not here,
This isn't happening.
I'm not here... I'm not here...

"In a little while,
I'll be gone.
The moment's already passed
Yeah, it's gone.
And I'm not here,
This isn't happening.
I'm not here... I'm not here..."
- 5
- 6
- 7
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Past Performance Is Not Necessarily A Guide