- ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜs ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ғᴀɴғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ
"You. Me. Hogsmeade. Tomorrow" Romie demands, leaving no room for objection.
Regulus slowly lifts his head from his book, briefly wondering if he's managed to land himself into a similar alternate dimension,
"Come again...
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꧁✧✧✧꧂
𝕽omie stirs, shivering at the frosty serenade from Winter.
The strange absence of nice, cosy, burrow worthy blankets certainly isn't helping, nor the sculpture of cold ice she's currently pressed against. She attempts to persevere, mind chanting a mantra to herself that, no, she's not cold, despite the frightful feeling that her toes are about to drop off, and a true shame that would be considering she rather likes having toes.
Afraid for their well being, she caves, opening her eyes, startling a little, as her eyelashes flutter against, not translucent cold ice, but skin. Supple skin, pale skin, easily marked skin. She freezes like an ice sculpture herself, suddenly becoming increasingly aware of whose supple, pale, easily marked skin this is, and that the flutter of her eyelashes is of minor significance in comparison to what else is touching.
Not just touching, that would be too nice, too easy, the universe is too evil for that. Fucking flush together is their doom, Romie practically laying on top of him, head fitting inside the crook of his neck like the puzzle piece missing for sixteen years. Exhaling shakily, she slowly but surely uncurls the hand she subliminally had wrapped around his neck, pausing on the retracting journey when she feels her shoulder blades, miraculously both at once, being squeezed.
Only does the tight hold relax when Romie lets fall her hovering hand, naturally, happening to land over his sleepy beating heart. And because Romie's already rudely awoken him once, she decides against adding to the tally, simply lying there, entwined with, irrefutably, the most alluring boy on the planet. Her eyes slide back shut, from both the wave of tranquility washing over her and the obnoxiously good aroma clinging to his skin. The skin that's touching Romie's.
She sighs a little and nuzzles further into him, chasing after what's clouding up her head. She hears it clearly though, through the warm fog and clouds, the quiet hitch of breath when the tip of her nose brushes a particular spot of his throat. A sweet spot. And beneath her palm, the pace of his heart kicks up to fast, staccato thuds, raising goosebumps on Romie's skin for reasons other than the cold, which she was no longer feeling whatsoever.
She expected it any second, Regulus rousing to consciousness, realising what's happening and shoving her off him without a moment's hesitation. Because, Romie's a halfblood, has traces of filthy muggle blood coursing through her veins, the lowest of the low compared to the superior purity that makes up his. He's made it distinctly clear over the years, the night previous too, his hand pressed against his stomach exhibiting his repulsion towards her.
The hand cupping her shoulder blades glides upward, consuming all of her thoughts. The caress against the nape of her neck is fleeting but leaves tingles that don't stop until he's instead cupping the back of her head, ever so slightly pushing. Pushing her further into him again. Releasing the breath she didn't realise she was holding, she ever so slightly noses the spot just above the newly discovered sweet spot, and then, carefully wets her parting lips—
