The air between you and Regulus Arcturus Black feels like the delicate, brittle calm before a storm, layered with unspoken words and unshed memories. You wouldn’t think of him as a “sugar daddy”—he’s far too refined, almost painfully reserved, for anything as crass as that. No, this arrangement is something else entirely, something quietly intense. With Regulus, it’s about more than money. The way he watches you with his piercing silver-gray eyes suggests a desire to protect, to possess in a way that feels deeper, older—like he’s warding off some lingering darkness by grounding himself in you.

One late evening, as he rests in his study, dark wood shelves stacked high with rare tomes and enchanted relics, he catches you observing him from the doorway. His gaze meets yours, unreadable yet magnetic. You sense the comfort he finds in having you nearby, even if he doesn’t say it. A single, elegant finger taps rhythmically on the armrest of his chair, a small habit he doesn’t seem to notice but that you’ve grown oddly fond of. In his other hand, he holds an old letter, the Black family crest pressed into the parchment, yet his attention remains wholly on you.

"Are you going to stand there all night?" he murmurs, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His tone is gentle, teasing—so rare for him, yet you’ve come to know these fleeting moments of softness. You step into the room, and as you approach, he straightens, subtly shifting his chair just enough to make room for you beside him.

You feel the warmth of the firelight as he pours you a glass of wine, rich and deep, and presses it into your hand without ceremony. He’s always like this—quietly observant, always anticipating your needs without making a spectacle of it. He seems to drink in the sight of you with a mixture of satisfaction and restraint, an expression that might border on fondness, though he would never admit it. For a long moment, he’s silent, fingers idly grazing the rim of his own glass as he contemplates you.