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Past Performance Is Not Necessarily A Guide	By : MeltyGirl Category: Individual Celebrities > Cillian Murphy Views: 4435 -:- 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
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Author's Notes: This story imagines a behind-the-scenes affair on the set of 28 Days Later. Two other real people referred to are Danny Boyle, the director, and Brendan Gleeson, a supporting actor.
Disclaimer: Completely fictional! I don’t know these actors and I'm not making any money from this story.

Stumbling into the bathroom, Cillian curses under his breath, "What the fuck?!?" He finishes the question in his head, ...am I doing flirting with her like that?

He takes a piss, washes his hands. Take it easy, you idiot, he thinks, scolding himself. You have a girlfriend. An amazing girlfriend. Cillian hadn't had to remind himself of this fact in years, and he operated on the fundamental belief that he was the kind of man who would easily keep it that way.

But tonight his boundaries are absolutely, positively fucked up. Some of the cast and crew from 28 Days Later had decided to go to the pub. They'd been given most of tomorrow off, and for the better part of the evening he'd been chatting up his incredibly lovely co-star, Naomie. They'd always got on well, but tonight, somehow, he'd crossed the line. It was undeniable. Ah, but it's harmless fun -- she's probably not taking you seriously. You're both just plastered and out having a laugh with everyone. It's meaningless.

He feels a simultaneous rush of giddiness and apprehension remembering the moment it began. Somewhat buckled after a few beers, Cillian had been kidding around about their upcoming kissing scene. Only mock flirting, he'd said, "I hope that this time you'll be able to recover yourself afterwards." Just then, he'd been interrupted by a hard shove. He swiveled round to see that more friends had arrived and wanted to squeeze into their booth. Still chuckling at his own joke, he'd turned back quickly, sliding towards her to make room. That was when he collided with that look: her face was flustered, edgy, subtly heated. He'd felt his grin slide into his stomach.

A moment later, she'd expertly wiped her expression clear. "Oh, right," she laughed sarcastically, then rolled her eyes. "Last time I was just beside myself with lust for days!" They'd both laughed and quickly picked up their pints. Awkward.

Cillian splashes his face with cold water, and watches in the mirror as it runs down over his sharp, alcohol-reddened cheekbones. The dripping down his neck feels strangely far-off, yet sensuous all the same. That look. An unsettling, acutely tantalizing flash of possibility seemed to have been let loose. It wasn't the Selena character, it was Naomie. It had just been a flicker, but it had burned almost painfully through his wiry body. Jesus, I hope I wasn't blushing out there.

That look. He'd felt another jolt of nervous heat when he realized that he wasn't going to stop himself from trying to rekindle it. Brendan elbowed him to move over some more and as Cillian shifted, he put his arm around Naomie, pressing his leg and hip against hers. She'd giggled. They joked and flirted, mock-hitting each other playfully, drinking and nestling closer, the ever louder surroundings being the perfect excuse for close talking, their conversation flowing magically with drunken assurance. He'd noticed how slender and perfect her fingers were, and felt a throb of desire envisioning those fingers curling around his cock. Keenly aware of the crush of her breast against his side as he leant in to talk to her, Cillian breathed in her enticing scent and found that the arm around her was sneaking back so his fingers could stroke her neck.

Or at least that's what he had realized his hand was poised to do when a stab of fear pierced his drunken haze: he was about to make a fool of himself and fuck up the rest of the shoot. Pulling back without meeting her eyes, he'd turned and announced to the folks sitting on the outside of the bench that he needed to visit the bathroom -- they'd have to move.

It's meaningless, he reassures himself again, raking a hand roughly over his nearly shaved head. No one at the table seemed to notice anything, right? Because isn't it normal for co-stars who play characters who fall in love to grow to have a certain camaraderie? We don't even have private trailers, because Danny doesn't believe in it. So we've been together all the time. Everyone knows that we get on, and nothing's really going to happen anyway...

But my god, Naomie is fucking hot. Smart, funny, an inventive actress. Flawless, sumptuous bronze-brown skin I'd love to touch and taste...

Walking over to grab some paper towels, Cillian is surprised by how wobbly he is on his feet. Why did I drink so much? He dries his face, and admits it to himself, Because being pissed can be my excuse for what I'm doing. I'd better stop acting the fool before I do something that can't be taken back.

A pang of guilt hits him. He has always been loyal to his girlfriend, and everything is fine in their relationship. They're married in every sense except the legal one, and he depends on her presence in his life. Don't be an asshole, he tells himself. Don't fuck everything up.

He had never allowed himself to feel a real attraction for a co-star, much less fooled around with one. It was a sign of immaturity when actors confused work with reality. Obviously, Naomie was beautiful -- she wouldn't have gotten the lead in 28 Days if she weren't -- but that was just the nature of the industry. Of course it had been exciting to kiss her, and yes, that kissing scene had entered into his repertoire of masturbatory fantasies, but that was harmless enough. Still, they were the same age, both at the same place in their careers, both excited about what a Danny Boyle movie might do for them, and they had just clicked, really clicked, right from the start. And now that look of hers had stirred something in him, maybe something that had loitered just below the surface for some time. Ah, but I'm drunk. Who knows exactly what that look meant? I can't trust my judgment right now.

Cillian sighs heavily and walks out into the hall. Drunkenly misjudging a turn in the dimly lit hall, his shoulder hits a wall and he stumbles. He stops to steady himself against the opposite wall, then closes his eyes and turns his face into the crook of the room, resting his dizzy forehead against the cold wallpaper, putting himself in the corner like the dunce he is. OK, get it together, man.

He listens to the roar of the crowd and the loud music pouring down the stairs. Then he hears Naomie's voice from a short distance. "Cillian?" she says softly.

"Shite," he mumbles, and turns around, not answering her. He just stands there, sucking in his cheeks and twisting his mouth nervously. She's walking towards him. What the fuck am I going to say?

She comes to stand in front of him, her questioning look changing to an expression he can't quite suss out. She looks him steadily in the eyes, waits. Cillian starts, "I, uh... I, uh... uh..." Then trails off, beginning to chew his bottom lip nervously.

Naomie gives the hint of a smile. She takes a step closer to him and with those perfect brown fingers she begins to lightly trace the line of his lips. Cillian holds his breath, his heart pounding as he watches her. Slowly she brushes her fingertips from the corner of his mouth, across to the full centre of his bottom lip, and as she approaches the part he's biting, Cillian lets go, his mouth falling open slightly. His gaze falls to her pink mouth and he lets the tip of his tongue graze her fingers, provoking a tiny gasp from Naomie; she teases a finger into his mouth. He shudders, feels himself harden, and his head involuntarily jerks away from her touch, then tilts to rest against the wall dejectedly.

Cillian hasn't felt so sexually overwhelmed in such a long time. But he's paralyzed, his brain hesitating to commit treason. With a desperate stare, he searches her deep brown eyes, his mouth widening to speak but saying nothing. Then he closes his eyes and presses his lips together, lifts his head, sighs, looks down.

Naomie takes a small step back. He looks up to see her excitement and self-assurance shrinking into blankness. Abruptly, she turns and strides past him toward the restrooms.

The impending loss panics him – he makes a split-second decision and lunges, grabs her wrist, mutters gruffly "No…" Yanks her back more roughly than he should. Whispers "Sorry, sorry," still clutching her. Naomie glares at him and he sees that rattled, excited look in her eyes again, this time laced with anger. She tries to pull her wrist away, but he holds tight, flashing her an anguished look. Swiftly he takes her by the shoulders and spins her around into the corner until her back hits the wall. He leans lightly against it, rests his fist against the wallpaper behind her, trapping her with his arm. Her glare has become an enticing expression of surprised lust. She's stunning, ravishing. He has the ridiculous urge to shove her skirt up and fuck her against the wall right there. What the hell is possessing me to think with my dick like this? Don't do this. He moves in closer, swallows hard. Someone walks by them and chuckles, but they don't break their stare to see who it is.

Finally, Cillian's shaky hand moves from the wall to caress her face. He exhales sharply, his shoulder muscles clench at the shock of touching Naomie's skin, her soft cheek, the curve of her neck that he aches to taste. Naomie's breath quickens, her hand slides up his lean chest.

He feels raw. He wants to run. He wants to watch her succumb the first time he makes her moan. He says, "Naomie, I... I can't," but his voice is low and ragged and his hand is stroking the nape of her neck insistently, his eyes devouring her.

"But you are." Her hand is descending down his chest, gliding across his taut stomach, around to his back.

"I just..." His hand tightens in her hair, his crystal blue eyes wild. "I don't know."

Now both her hands are on his lower back, and they gently nudge, suggesting that he close the gap between them. Trembling, he clutches her waist and rocks his hips into hers, watches her eyes close and her throat tighten as the hard bulge in his jeans pushes against her. He eases his palms down her hips, around to her high, plump little bum, and thinks: Of course I know. I know, I know, I know...

Naomie whispers urgently, "Well, bloody well kiss me then." Cillian smiles faintly, feeling lost, and surrenders.
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Past Performance Is Not Necessarily A Guide