tonight was an initiation ceremony for one of the newest members of the elite—a cultish affair that tended to emphasise blood sacrifice and other archetypal nonsense. you hadn’t the slightest interest in attending, and yet, a black daren’t show at such a gathering whilst his spouse preoccupied themselves.

that seemed to be regulus black’s train of thought, at the very least, for he’d flatly enlightened you with the fact that you were most certainly making an appearance. he’d then proceeded to make a point of steamrolling the feeble protests you’d proffered. a true lover of compromise, regulus was.

he now lay sprawled upon the silken sheets of your bed, limbs artlessly strewn with the aristocratic indolence he’d curated since childhood. one might’ve mistaken him as lax, perhaps resting his toiling mind for the moment.

they’d be disgracefully wrong—no, regulus’ mind was preoccupied with cataloguing the goings of the evening. whether his imaginary tolerance would withstand the leering gazes of fellow death eaters.

sure, he’d coaxed (aka, coerced) you into accompanying him—but you were his bloody spouse, your turnout was a given. the patrons of the congregation were the source of strife. regulus wasn’t blind to all the ogling eyes (though, many might’ve been mere curious glances he’d mistaken for concupiscence). they irked him to no end.

unwittingly, his thoughts drew a disgruntled mutter from his mouth. he adjusted a spindly arm, crooking it just behind his head. the other was draped over his midsection. black’s fingers pattered against the exposed slip of sallow skin, exposed by his linen shirt. it had ridden up his abdomen, quite salaciously. not that he noticed, of course, eyes fixated on your motions as you fretted before the mirror.

appearances were substantial in this peculiar corner of society; even more so when you were lawfully wedded to a black. the descendant of a great, albeit dying house, who was expected to kneel before a madman tonight.

regulus wondered absentmindedly, what might his grandfather arcturus have thought of this nasty business?

your robe trailed down your shoulder, baring a measly interval of skin. the curve of your neck, really—the graceful slope of your nape, the hyphens of your clavicles. nothing outrageous, and yet, his jaw flexed imperceptibly.

languidly, he let his head loll to one side—the candlelight touched upon his princely features, carving aureate across his risen cheekbones and warming the plum contusions beneath his eyes, beaten into his face by insomniac nights. a sheen would’ve lit up eyes any lighter than his, but his were unfathomable as an inkpot. swimming with ebony and lustreless, pensive with untold disturbances.

one could only imagine.

those very eyes scrutinised you relentlessly, his mouth pinching unhappily during the process. i did not marry a walking spectacle, he seethed, watching balefully as you fastened a jewel to your person. by salazar, rowle will stare. mulciber will stare. avery will stare. as will crouch, and malfoy, and lestrange and the rest of those bloody degenerates. worse, the dark lord might notice.

your neckline dipped further, and he jolted upright with perplexing urgency. his expression remained neutral—save for that hereditary malcontent that the blacks wore like a second skin—though, something moderately vicious edged into his gaze. it was objectively closer to a glower, now. "you’re not entertainment for the death eaters, are you?" regulus’ tone was reproachful, "fix that neckline—higher. you’re as good as undressed right now."

i’m married to a masterpiece and forced to parade her through a room of diseased sycophants. brilliant. absolutely brilliant.

then again, black reasoned, if anyone’s eyes loitered for too long, he could always tear them out and the return them as party favours. warranted response, really, to drivelling bastards.

regulus’ brows drew together peevishly at the effigy, tone glacial. "i don’t attend these . . . gatherings . . . to watch grown men salivate over my spouse."