cillian-selwyn

[cillian-selwyn]

slow down | open

Cillian sighed a quiet huff of irritation. He needed a particular book to add to his research, and his ever-growing library’s collection, but the book seemed impossible to find in any and every store he searched, or even in the Ministry's own archives, and the Unspeakable’s patience was wearing thin. It didn’t help, of course, that this bloody shopkeeper stared at him in utter incompetence as he asked for help in his search. 

“For Merlin’s bloody sake, nevermind,” he muttered bitterly under his breath, scolding himself for even bothering to rely on anyone else, already more on edge these days and finding himself growing more and more agitated as the day wore on. Grinding his molars, Cillian turned on his heel sharply and nearly collided with the person standing behind him.

[cillian-selwyn]

Cillian’s knuckles tapped a faint greeting of hello on the office door of the Malfoy patriarch. Although he’d plenty of work to get done -- he always did have plenty of work to get done, after all -- the Selwyn heir had been returning to his office on Level Nine, but figured a quick chat with the older man would do some good in clearing his head of the incidents taking their toll on his mind lately. Clearing his throat lately, his narrowed eyes inspected the room in a swift sweep. Noting the distraught expression on the secretary’s face, and the frustrated one on Abraxas’, Cillain raised an eyebrow in inquiry, knuckles still poised on the door frame. “My apologies, Mr. Malfoy. Is this a bad time?”

Damsel of Distress

He need a drink. A stiff one. He needed it to knock him on his back or else he’d have someone’s head. None of this was Ms. Putnim’s fault but the poor thing kept blundering across his path, stuttering and tittering like a nervous little bird. It was infuriating. He had a job to do, And she was making it that much harder to complete. The elder Malfoy just wanted to go home, sleep, and forget about all the paperwork and the enormous stain he now had on his dress pants from his poor, clumsy, incompetent secretary. He liked the girl, he did, but she was always underfoot. It was a wonder he hasn’t made her cry before now.

[cillian-selwyn]

[cillian-selwyn]

the-august-rook-wood:

Rookwood liked the sound of the chuckle that escaped the confines of Cillian’s mouth. Absurdly, he felt the desire to make the other man laugh again. He blamed it on his slightly dazed state, though his mind was clear enough to focus on Cillian’s presence and proximity. He met Cillian’s gaze, enjoying the way that the other man looked him fully in the eyes and held the look for a few moments before looking away, unlike usual.

Rookwood figured that there would be some pain involved in this process. But so far, the benefits were outweighing the drawbacks. Cillian Selwyn was rarely this attentive or engaged and Augustus quite liked the change. It was a difference from the usual fleeting looks he felt cast in his direction. But it was those looks that had drawn Rookwood’s attention in the first place. 

At Cillian’s touch, Rookwood inhaled, breathing deeply. The hand on his cheek was strangely comforting, but his perceptions were rather skewed at the moment. Rookwood was not the type to take comfort in much. He rarely needed it. He was usually in control of his emotions and situations.  He held his breath as he felt Cillian’s fingers clasp the end of the glass, impressed by the other man’s dexterity and appreciating the gentle touch. He nearly laughed when he realized that Cillian was holding his breath too, but did not want to mess with the other Unspeakable’s concentration, especially when he was focused on the glass stuck in Rookwood’s flesh. There was a tiny hint of a wince as the glass came free of Augustus’ skin, but he hid any sign of pain quickly. 

Rookwood was keenly aware of the hand Cillian still held to his face. He was tempted to turn his head, and press a kiss to the other man’s palm. Not in a tender gesture, but one meant to distract and discomfit and tease. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “Are you?” 

The unusual and close proximity between them tightened a flitting sensation in the center of his chest, but Cillian ignored the feeling to focus his concentration, instead, on the precision needed to remove the shard from Rook's forehead. He tried to think of other things. He thought of an incident from his childhood, the first of many times that his father's rage shattered  expensive, heirloom vases or panels of family picture frames, exploding fragments of sharp weapons across the polished parlor floor of the Selwyn estate. He thought about how he lied, days later, when a nanny asked why little Cillian's feet were bleeding through his wool socks. He glanced down at the jagged piece he pinched from Rook's head and tried to distract himself from Rook's gaze, tried to fill his mind with these unpleasant memories rather than let himself marvel at the color of the other man's irises, but -- Gently, his hand still stayed on Rook's cheek, slowly and ever-so-faintly sliding down to curve itself at his jawline as Cillian's head refused any other thought unless it involved this very moment, this very real and very wonderful feeling of his fingertips on Rook's face. He realized he'd been holding in a breath. Brows furrowing, he exhaled lightly and swallowed before he spoke. A careful smile lifted at his lips. "I'm fine," he repeated, eyes flickering between Rook's stare. "Fortunately, I'm not the one who blew up a lab and nearly myself." Voice quiet, his teasing rolled easily off his tongue, and although that strange sensation still gripped his chest, Cil found himself enjoying the ease at which it did. Touch never leaving Rook's jaw, Cil stayed silent as he cautiously worked to remove the remaining bits of glass from the wound, his lips relaxed from their usual tense and serious glower, though he still wore a steady look of concentration while he wordlessly labored onward with his healing. He surely didn't consider himself an expert in restorative spells, but he'd enough practice with them over the years that, as he held Rook's face in his palm and held his wand in the other to mend his injuries, his attentiveness easily could falter between his own actions and the handsomeness of Rook's features despite the tinge of fresh blood on his skin. He lightly cleared his throat after the job was done and his wand was replaced back down to his side. But still, his hand did not move. Instead, he decided to keep it there -- for necessary steadiness, of course -- as he inspected his handiwork, his dark hazel eyes narrowed in scrutiny even as they finally flickered once more from Rook's forehead to his eyes. The corner of his lips twitched. He lifted the handkerchief to where the gash was moments before, to wipe away the evidence of blood still splattered over his repaired skin. 

into my bloodstream | cil & rook

[cillian-selwyn]

thoroughlymoderncamilla:

Cillian had been weirdly overprotective lately, more so than his normal big brother-ness. Camilla was incredibly surprised when he agreed to join her for lunch and shopping in Diagon Alley. it was a warm day, a few weeks from her birthday and Camilla was relishing in the sunshine as she lead her brother through the shops and talked more though a lunch than she ate. As usual. He followed her dutifully from store to store as she bought things she didn’t need and spent Adrian’s money without a second thought. Cillian was quiet, more so than usual and Camilla talked to fill the silence. 

“Do you think the coral or the peach is more my color?” Camilla tilted her head, turning back to Cillian and holding up two different bags. She would likely buy both and never use either. It didn’t matter. Suddenly there was a crash, an explosion outside, the windows shook and there was screaming from the street. Camilla raised her eyebrows at her brother, and then shrugged thinking it was likely just out of control magic, an accident. “So anyway which one?”

@cillian-selwyn

Cillian rarely, rarely missed work. But since that night Camilla visited him for dinner with her friend, since that night she came over with glassy eyes and a marionette smile and he suffocated as he watched helplessly while she dangled out of her reach, her faceless puppeteer threatening to hang her with the strings he played upon his fingers -- well, since that night, Cillian decided he’d follow Camilla to the ends of the earth if that meant she’d stay safe.

So today, he trailed closely behind her as his sister skipped from shop to shop, trying to ignore his own nerves and attempting to keep the anxious edge out of his quiet voice whenever he answered any of her cheerful questions. He supposed it was easier to not speak at all. Camilla chatted and rambled more than usual to make up for his own silence as Cillian keenly watched every movement, every tiny tick of everything, everyone around them. 

Camilla stood in the middle of the shop. Cillian stood near her, glaring and peering at the activity outside of the window. He saw the sudden frenzy of chaos the second before it happened, and before Camilla even heard the first tumult of impending mayhem. When his head snapped back to his sister, his dark eyes widened and frantic, he’d no time to acknowledge or amaze over her nonchalance. Instead, he bound into action. Wand slipped from the holster within his sleeve and into his ready hand. Quickly, he stepped back, other arm stretched out in some attempt to protect her from the threat of imploding glass or darting curses. “Go!” He hissed desperately, over the harrowing and increasing thunder of screams and shattering storefronts. “Camilla, hurry -- there must be a way out in the back,” Cillian insisted as he fretfully and hastily urged her from the spot where she stood and through the racks and shelves of clothes and accessories towards the back of the shop. “Hurry, go -- I’m right here, I’m right behind you.”

melodrama / camilla & cillian

[cillian-selwyn]

#me during exam session

[cillian-selwyn]

you and me and the devil makes three | cillian, camilla, and cassius

Cillian didn’t recognize the owl that pecked aggressively on the windowpane of his study. In the middle of scouring through an ancient text from an extinct tribe, the sudden sound cause his head to whip up to search for the source of such a rude interruption. His glasses tilted on his nose from the action. Dark eyes narrowed as he hesitated, scrutinizing the angrily-staring bird rapping at the glass outside, a scroll tied tightly to its talon. Not an owl he could place, and not one that seemed one of official Ministry correspondence, but he figured that opening his window to a simple bird could do no harm. So after slipping his glasses off and discarding them on the dusty page of the text sprawled over his desk, the man crossed the room and allowed the bird to swoop inside. It settled upon the corner of his desk with a disgruntled ruffle of feathers. The sharp point of its beak nipped at Cillian’s fingers as he untied the mail from its leg despite his gentleness.

Unraveling the letter, a smile lifted at the corners of his lips with ease and without thought. Of course -- his sister, in all her relentless persistence, sending a letter to demand dinner and entertainment with another friend. He was used to this, and though he did appreciate that her love for him only prompted her to bring friend after friend to dinner in hopes that he’d fall helplessly head over heels and discover some magical happiness she believed him not to have, he wasn’t particularly in the mood to do so tonight. Nevertheless, he never could tell his sister no for answer. He tossed the rather irate owl a nibble of a treat before sitting back down in his chair to pen her a quick response:

Lou, You are lucky I love you, dear sister. I have some work to finish up first, but I will have the elves start on dinner and open a bottle of wine for us and this new friend of yours.  See you at seven?

Yours, Lilly

The few hours passed quickly, with Cillian remaining in his study while, downstairs in the kitchen, the house elves clanged and clamored with pots and pans as they prepared a feast far too abundant and far too fancy for only three. At seven, Cillian retired from his office and ran a hand carefully through his hair as he slipped down the staircase. He’d just had the chance to pour himself a glass of a vintage red -- a choice he knew Camilla would adore -- before there was the knock on the door. He shooed away the house elf that jumped to answer it (he thought it rude to not personally greet new guests), and held the full wine glass in one hand as he opened the door with another, quiet and small smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

“Camilla, I --” The smile slipped as his eyes met hers. Something was off... something about her eyes, they didn’t look right... His own narrowed in concern, sweeping over her within a swiftness of seconds, and then the smile displayed itself back onto lips once more, his eyes softening like he had not missed a beat, all an act but a necessary one at the moment before he could fully examine the situation. He cleared his throat. His gaze darted over to the unfamiliar face standing beside her, who he also offered a small smile. “I am always so pleased when you bring company. Please, come in.” Stepping back into the foyer, he held the door open for them both. 

@cassius-mulciber @thoroughlymoderncamilla

[cillian-selwyn]

the-august-rook-wood:

“What word would you choose?” Augustus asked curiously as Cillian leaned closer. He could feel the other man’s breath on his skin, warm against the slight chill probably caused from shock. He found that he very much wanted to know what word Cillian would choose to describe him in this moment if not dashing. 

He did not mind the other’s presence for some reason as much as he might have minded others. Rookwood hated to fail, but even more, he hated to be seen to fail. Somehow, though, he knew that Cillian understood that this accident had not been through Augustus’ own carelessness. He knew that Cillian was not judging him for it. It was interesting considering how competitive they were on occasion, but as they did work on different things, not totally unsurprising. 

Rookwood also did not mind Cillian’s proximity. With him sitting up like this, supporting himself on arms that only trembled a little, he quite liked Cillian kneeling at his side, bringing them to the same level. And the way Selwyn unselfconsciously leaned in, keen eyes examining Rook’s skin. He was absorbed in his task and so Rookwood could look at him. At the frown on his face that almost slipped a few times, but stubbornly remained. At the way he pushed his glasses higher on his nose, though they had not seemed too low before. 

“You can do it with your wand you know,” Rookwood replied, his voice low. His eyes looked to the handkerchief in Cillian’s hand, somehow not at all surprised that Cillian had one. “It might be more efficient.” Fingers could be dextrous, yes, but they also could be clumsy, and too large for the delicate task of extracting glass from wounds. “Before any healing.” 

The soft chuckle rolled out of Cillian’s throat, unbidden. “You’re concerned with what word I would use to describe you right now?” Given the circumstances, he would assume something so trivial did not deserve such inquiry, but the tiny smile betrayed the snark in his voice. Of course, dashing wasn’t completely off the table as an option, but Cillian refused to admit such a thing. “Pitiful,” he answered in a teasing mumble, smile still on his lips. “Concussed, perhaps, as well.” With an unusual playful gleam, his eyes caught Rook’s gaze for a long moment before returning to his forehead to inspect the bloodied damage of glass to skin.

Settling into a more comfortable sitting position next to Rook, Cillian drew his wand from his sleeve, his smile guttering with a tinge of something heavy, something fleeting and dark, before he offered the other man a reassuring look. Cillian had done this before, plenty of times. The man hadn’t a reason for concern, though he did not know it. “Of course,” he replied, but he placed handkerchief on his leg for later, to clean the blood off his face. “But there’s a rather large shard, right there. I’m worried it may break more. Once that one is gone, I can remove the rest without concern.” He didn’t expect Rookwood’s trust, and the silent acknowledgement between them palpitated an odd sensation into his chest, his breath stuttering. His eyes held Rookwood’s again. “It might sting.” It would sting. He knew that from plenty of experience. 

Slowly, he reached his free hand and rested it gently on the side of Rookwood’s face to hold his head steady. His other hand inched to his forehead. His movements, delicate, careful, meticulous, seemed to stop time itself. He held his breath. Fingers pinched the jagged piece of glass with a fragile precision. Lips tightened in concentration, he plucked the fragment out of his flesh as gracefully as he could, though he knew even the utmost tenderness could not completely dilute the bite of pain. Discarding the shard to the floor beside his knee, Cillian’s brows furrowed in obvious concern, the frown still tense on his face as his worried gaze travelled over Rook’s face, oddly unruffled by the small proximity between them. His other hand remained on Rookwood’s cheek, his jaw. “Alright so far?”

into my bloodstream | cil & rook

[cillian-selwyn]

nevercallmeteddy:

The Ministry could never seem to get his mail right. First the influx of invitations to the Greengrass fundraiser, now Selwyn getting his mail. It was almost laughable. He would have made his amusement known had it been a different situation. One look at Cillian’s expression left him pressing his lips together and glancing back down at the drawing on his desk.

“Are you certain they haven’t gotten you confused for Andromeda’s husband?” He managed to maintain a straight face while speaking, slowly bringing his gaze back to Cillian. Ted knew better than to start, but the arrogance coming from Cillian left him needing to say something to get rid of it. “We never did get around to announcing the marriage in the Daily Prophet, so I could see why your secretary is getting confused.”

Cillian’s eyebrows shot up. A rather reserved man, it took quite the instigation to receive an impressive display of reaction from him, but Ted Tonks’ seemed intent on doing just that. Suddenly piqued, his spine straightened, his stare narrowing into a dangerous glare. Despite his usual quiet and unassuming nature, the Selwyn was not a man one would want to vex. 

Lips tightened into a flicker of a scowl. “I’ve never reason to believe that they think so lowly of me,” he answered quietly, his voice steady as always but growling with menace. How dare the pathetic man that wrecked his betrothed to the Black challenge him, a Selwyn, capable of misery that Tonks could only dream up in his worst nightmares. Cillian did not flinch. He stood unrelenting, chillingly still. “Usually the Prophet doesn’t bother publishing announcements of irrelevant and insignificant persons, so I’m sure no one cared to notice the absence of your name in the paper.” Eyes darted to the drawing on the desk in front of Ted and then returned to meet his hard stare. He arched a brow, daringly in his own taciturn way, his voice low, ominous. “Of course, you could have tried a birth announcement instead.”

[cillian-selwyn]

Try to imagine a life without timekeeping. You probably can’t. You know the month, the year, the day of the week. There is a clock on your wall. You have a schedule, a calendar, a time for dinner. Yet all around you, timekeeping is ignored. Birds are not late. A dog does not check its watch. Deer do not fret over passing birthdays. Man alone measures time. Man alone chimes the hour. And, because of this, man alone suffers a paralyzing fear that no other creature endures: a fear of time running out.

Mitch Albom, The Time Keeper (via wordsnquotes)

[cillian-selwyn]

[cillian-selwyn]

darlingdruella:

Druella Black sat outside the cafe at bit down the ways from the entrance to the Ministry for Magic. Even though this was technically a muggle street, the Cafe could only be seen by those with magical blood. Personally she thought it should be limited to those with all magical blood, but that was neither here nor there. Sipping her coffee, she jotted something down in the margin of her day planner, a reminder to leave out the advertisement for the ring she wanted their anniversary on Cygnus’s desk. Perhaps they could travel soon, the winter and early spring had been busy and they’d not had time to get away. He worked so much, and her daughters were gone, Druella needed something to fill her day. She suddenly realized someone had said something, and she glanced up quickly with a smile. 

“Forgive me, I must not have been paying attention. What was that?”

His commitment to work -- and his general indifference to nearly everything else in his life -- usually meant that he very rarely left the office when the sun was still shining. But today he locked his office door and joined the other Ministry employees as they retired for the day at the reasonable hour because he agreed, or perhaps had no choice, to meet Camilla for dinner, wine, and the usual siblings’ exchange of weekly gossip.

Cillian decided on a whim to swing by the cafe before apparating home to purchase something sweet to enjoy with a coffee or tea after their dinner. The sight of his almost-mother-in-law delighting in the fresh air and warm rays of the afternoon interrupted his intention. He paused above her table, cautious not to startle her as she thoughtfully scribbled within her notebook, and put on a polite smile. 

“Mrs. Black,” he greeted in his quiet and placid voice, ever the gentleman. “What a coincidence. It’s wonderful to see you. And on such a lovely day.”

cafe au lait / open

[cillian-selwyn]

cillian selwyn & augustus rookwood

“You’ve been staring, Selwyn.”

@the-august-rook-wood

[cillian-selwyn]

nevercallmeteddy:

Ted was lost in thought, staring at the drawing from his daughter. Having picked up extra hours at work meant his missing dinner with his wife and kid for the third night in a row. The arrival of someone in the office went unnoticed until they spoke, Ted looking up in alarm. “My apologies,” He lowered the parchment, revealing a rather dramatic scene of stick figures, and met the person’s gaze. “I didn’t quite catch what you said.”

Cillian very rarely ventured beyond the ninth level of the Ministry. Business never demanded that he visit any other floor or department, but for the third time in a row, he found another letter not addressed to him in his jumble of work mail, but rather, addressed to a Mister Ted Tonks, a particularly irksome catch of coincidence. And though he returned the letters to the secretary in hopes that the problem would take care of itself without his extended and undesired effort, he picked up his mail today and discovered another misplaced letter to the man whose name, upon mere sight, vexed him. So despite his annoyance, or perhaps because of it, he journeyed to Level Three and now stood in the doorway of Ted’s office.

An eyebrow raised, his lips a tight and thin line. He did not like being ignored when it came to work matters, especially work matters that served to interrupt his much more important responsibilities of the day. “You are Mister Tonks, are you not? Your mail,” he repeated, eyes characteristically narrowed in scrutiny as he placed envelopes in front of Ted on the desk. “It appears the secretaries cannot decipher the differences in our names.” His chin raised slightly. “I keep finding letters intended for you mixed within my own delivered correspondence.”

[cillian-selwyn]

thoroughlymoderncamilla:

Camilla could not imagine the type of carnage they had unleashed among the rabble and commoners. Secretly she was grateful Adrian had not told her, and either intentionally or unintentionally make her angry enough to avoid him. Because she had been planning on surprising him at work, showing up in a cloak with nothing underneath and positioning herself on his desk such that he could not resist her. Unconsciously she shivered at the thought of being there today. Camilla had no desire for violence. “Were you hurt at all?” She tried to sound considerate, though she knew he was strong and intelligent enough to make it through unharmed. “Likely you were just annoyed to have missed work.” Camilla teased him instead. 

She hadn’t even realized what she was saying, how she’d accidentally shared her secret of loss and lies. Camilla hadn’t told Cillian back then, although she’d considered it, while alone and in pain. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it, could not admit that to him. Because if she told Cillian, she would have to have told Adrian, and she couldn’t do that. Adrian would have been crushed, and she couldn’t stand Cillian’s pity, or his feeling like he had to protect her again. Camilla kept raving, and it wasn’t until she dropped back to the couch that she realized what she had said. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Telling Adrian was hard enough, he gave her anger. But from Cillian she would get pity and concern, Camilla could not stand any more of that from him. She loved him, loved her brother and nearly worshiped him. But she did not want him to still see her as the small broken child she was all those years ago. Camilla looked up, and tried to smile at him and his soft usage of her nickname. “I know, he would not like it if he knew I told you my fears. He does not like when I accuse him. I’m being stupid, forgive me.” This was what she did, rage until her storm blew itself out, and then collapsed with a soft and conciliatory manner, willing to say or do anything to pretend it didn’t happen. 

“Lil, I am not the only one who wishes you not to be alone.” She smiled softly, voice growing quieter. “You know he will not let you remain happily unmarried much longer, he wants an heir and mine would belong to Adrian and his name.” She hated spoiling their moment with talk of their father, but she knew he would be coming down harder on Cillian now that he was approaching thirty. “Do you think yourself unloveable, my dear brother?” She smiled at him as he stepped over and sat next to her. 

He tucked her under his arm, and something in Camilla broke. Tears streamed softly down her face. His whisper was gentle, and she knew exactly what he meant. Of course her clever brother would not miss her little slip up. “No I don’t, but I need to.” She sniffed, leaning her head against his chest. “It was an accident. I was so afraid when I found out and I just needed to get away. But I didn’t know, how could I have known you weren’t supposed to apparate long distances.” She was speaking quickly, it was the only way she could get the whole story out. “No one ever told me anything, and when I got to his house in Paris, I lost it.” She let out a breath, and wiped her tears. “I am sorry I did not tell you, please don’t be angry Cillian.”

Cillian offered his sister a gentle, reassuring smile at her question, and at her following teasing comment, he breathed out a faint chuckle, shaking his head before savoring a sip of his expensive brandy. “No, not hurt,” he answered, frowning somewhat in recollection. “They cannot infiltrate the Department of Mysteries, no matter how determined they may be to do so.” He despised the thought of his department, his precious and strenuously studied research, his developing and invaluable experiments, falling into reckless, unworthy hands, hands that did not appreciate the importance of his work and were willing to compromise it for this preposterous crusade of theirs. Of course, she was correct. The thought of interrupted, unfinished work sitting on his desk bothered him immensely. But, alas, he could do nothing about it given the circumstances. “I was, yes. Though finding you safe was a bigger priority.” Within his perpetually quiet and placid voice, the honesty sounded loud and clear. As always, Camilla’s wellbeing trumped anything, everything else.

And of course, concern for Camilla’s wellbeing was a allocated one; he and Adrian shared the constant worry. Although the reservations and disdain of her husband and marriage had yet to completely dissipate, Cillian was grateful for Adrian’s unrelenting protection when he himself could not offer it. Naturally, his the inner workings of sister’s marriage were not any of business, nor were Adrian’s feelings or wishes, but he would always lend a mindful ear if Camilla needed it. He smiled to her again, a tender expression only ever seen by a very rare few. “Do not say that,” he replied with a sweet-hearted sternness, furrowing his brow at her. “You are never, never stupid. You are allowed to have fears, dear sister. Everyone does.” After all, he fled through the carnage of an attack this morning, no regard for the broken and gone among the disaster, for fear that she found herself in harm’s way. A different type of fear, he knew, but a fear all the same. Cillian didn’t know fear when it came to a relationship, to love. He protected himself from that kind of threat long ago. “But I do not believe Adrian is deserving of them.” Tight-lipped, he would never admit his relief in admitting such a concession.

Her pressing mention of his pureblooded responsibilities deepened the crease in his brow. Raised as the heir to their sacred line, Cillian always knew his duty, and once accepted that heavy burden, presuming he’d fulfill his parents’ demands with Bellatrix as his wife, and then, when he realized he presumed very wrong, accepting his fate with her younger sister who would wear the family engagement ring and give him pure, noble children to continue both of their flawless heritage. When Andromeda ran off, the Selwyns did not abate their mission of finding their son a suitable spouse. But as time rushed past and he grew older, they dwindled in their eagerness, perhaps dejectedly accepting their doom as heirless lasts of their bloodlines. He did not want to imagine the consequences if he were to challenge his father’s persistent ultimatum: marriage, soon, or no inheritance, no estate, only disownment and abandonment. Denial, rooted so deeply inside of him for so long that he did not recognize it as such anymore, allowed him to keep up his impeccable appearance as the perfect pureblooded son.

His dark eyes travelled and focused on the flames dancing within the hearth. “He will get his heir. He demands that I am engaged by this time next year, last time we discussed it. Perhaps if I try hard enough, I can make another fiancee run off and gain another period of unmarried bliss,” he attempted to joke, though a somber weighed down his words.

Did he think himself unlovable? The question sank like a stone into the pit of his stomach, hopefully drowning in brandy and therefore never able to resurrect back into his overwrought and disquieted mind. Cillian supposed he did not deserve such generous affection or devotion. Surely, he’d never known it, not like how Camilla finally got the chance to know it. He was perfectly content with that. He did not need love in his life, did not desire such a hungry vulnerability rumbling the foundation of the walls he built to guard himself from emotion, did not care if he ever discovered a match for this fragmentary, splintered heart within his chest. “Oh, do not waste your worries on me. I do not need love. I’ve never wanted it.” He took another sip of much-needed brandy. “Besides, you would not approve of any woman out there to be my wife. It is a rather hopeless endeavor.” Lips twitched with a smirk.

Next to her now, Cillian wrapped careful arms around her graceful shoulders, hugging her closer and tighter to him, as though his embrace could mend that heart-wrenching agony and grief, could glue back together the shattered pieces of her scared, mourning soul. He refused to believe that they did not share part of the same one; how did he not know of her pain? Shirt soddened with her tears, Cillian placed another soft, delicate press of his lips upon the crown of her head, not rushing her to spill out her feelings, letting her sniffle and cry for as long as she needed. When she finally spoke, he tucked her under his chin, closing his eyes as he listened. His own heart twisted from the anguish in her voice. The confession quickly rambled out, flooding the room with her shadowed secret. Gently, he brushed damp, stray strands of hair from her cheeks, her forehead, letting the silence and the rhythm of his breath calm her down before he spoke.

“No, no, no, of course not. Of course I’m not angry, Lou,” he whispered back, his words low but heated with intense sincerity. Suddenly his mind flashed to years before, younger days, a broken vase or spilled goblet, little and tiny Camilla’s sobbed, fearful apologies. He swallowed. “You did not have to tell me if you did not want me to know. That’s nothing to be sorry about. You are allowed to have secrets, dear sister. It’s okay. It’s okay.” Imagining Camilla as a mother paused him, the wonder and astonishment of such a thought a terrified stab in his chest. “You couldn’t have known how that would have affected you, or — or a child. You said it yourself — an accident. You never would have meant any harm. You do not deserve this guilt.” Staring into the fire, Cillian forced memories of their own mother out of his mind. His voice came as a calming whisper once again: “And you’ve told him?”

c’est la mort | camilla & cillian

[cillian-selwyn]

the-august-rook-wood:

“Is it?” Rookwood’s eyes rolled up a little, as if trying to see his head wound. He couldn’t, of course. “I’m fine,” he said, though his voice was a little louder than normal. He used his hands to push himself to a sitting position. “Just a little, you know,” he said, gesturing with one hand to his head. “Does it make me look dashing?” he smirked at Cillian, trying to play off the whole thing. In reality he was not at all happy with the mistake or the mess. Once his head stopped pounding and spinning, and he started feeling the pain in his hands again, he would likely be furious. Mistakes like this did not happen to him. He wanted to know what had gone wrong and who had messed with his lab.

Was it a hapless cleaner? Someone who had moved things around? Or had it been something more sinister? Someone could have intentionally switched labels on his ingredients or tampered with his supplies. Unspeakables were under pressure and Rookwood especially was competitive. He was also the one to beat. But they all had their own work. It occasionally overlapped but for someone to resort to sabotage?

Despite the rather worrying situation, Cillian could not help the twitch of a helpless smile as he watched Rookwood’s eyes attempt to lift to his forehead, where a slice of blood seeped across his skin. His concerned, narrowed eyes remained on the injury while he sat up. He nearly reached out to hold a supporting hand on the man’s shoulder, caught himself and thought better of it, and instead, rested the hand on his bent knee. “A little,” Cillian repeated dryly in a scoff, frowning at him. “You’ve shards of glass imbedded in your flesh, but, ah -- just a little.” 

But of course, leave it to Augustus Rookwood to endure a brewing explosion and troubling bodily damage with his stupidly captivating charisma intact, and leave it to Cillian to still find that damn charisma just as charming regardless of Rook’s burnt palms and bleeding head. He fought back another smile with another frown, refusing to give in, refusing to give himself away, refusing to acknowledge that there was anything to give away in the first place. “Not the particular word I’d choose,” he muttered quietly (though, yes, just a bit dashing, even with the blood) as he leaned closer and adjusted his glasses to better inspect the harm now that they sat at the same eye level. 

With at least the spilled potion cleaned up behind them, Cillian did not bother with the remainder of the mess, the catastrophe of melted cauldron and shattered vials and soaked texts spanning the work desk. Closer to Rookwood than the typical space of the typical guarded distance they preferred, he extracted a pristinely crisp and white handkerchief from his dress robe pocket, focus remaining on his lacerated forehead, the tiny speckles of light reflected by the handful of slivered fragments of vials. “All the glass needs removed first,” he said in his usual low, cautious and reserved voice, “before any healing.” Cillian supposed he ought to ask permission to heal him, the courteous thing to do rather than brandishing remedies without Rook’s discretion. So his eyes flickered down to his, brows raised slightly.

into my bloodstream | cil & rook

[cillian-selwyn]

  I think I might’ve inhaled you I can feel you behind my eyes