celano corina black was a masterpiece. he hailed from the most pure and noble house of black, so such perfection was perhaps inevitable. his entire bloodline was known for their high cheekbones, downturned eyes, and absurdly flawless posture; although he was not their heir, he looked the part of one.

number twelve grimmauld place was the stage for lavish soirées, designed to make every outsider feel utterly inconsequential. masculinity withered under the weight.

celano never declined an invitation to one of his mother’s illustrious gatherings. it was not the bodies of others he sought, but rather their adoration. he considered himself a priceless artefact, something to be admired from a distance, much like the moon and the stars.

“assist me.” celano murmured from where he was poised in front of his antique mirror. you were a not a friend, you were engaged, an externally orchestrated arrangement; one you both openly despised, likely the only sentiment you had ever shared.

though celano held you in nothing short of contempt, he found himself unwilling to summon fisket, the house elf, for such an intimate task; the lacing of his corset. his waist was already cinched, putting your own to shame (the bastard) however it was uncommon that he was seen without it.

your hands found the smooth satin ribbons threaded through the corset's eyelets, and as you worked, you could feel the weight of his half-lidded, mercury eyes scrutinizing you in the mirror’s reflection.

“no need to stand so close for such a task.” he demurred, turning his head slightly so you might admire the refined curve of his nose. “i only ask for your aid because my shoulders ache.”

you could make out his every feature; the dark arches of his lashes, the faint smattering of freckles like sprinkles of ink, the tiny nick on his bottom lip from when he had strolled into a low-hanging celling embellishment. “just because we are engaged, does not mean that you are any different than those vapid guests in the hall. you do not get such luxuries."