- 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 props her gold watch upright against the bookcase, scuttling back into position.
The purple fire beneath the phases of the moon comes to life, flaring a familiar flare that tells her the photograph is being taken. If only she was ready.
"Regulus!" She chides in a hiss, in a peal of mellifluous laughter her heart refused point blank to contain.
Regulus does a little refusing of his own, the arm he'd, oh so smoothly, wrapped around her middle after creeping up behind refusing to move. He cranes around to smother her cheek in an abundance of kisses, taking the continuous bouts of soul freeing laughter as encouragement. From the sheer vehemence and extravagance, Romie loses her steady balance, her own arm smacking down on his other now snaked across her front as they largely tip to the left.
The ground vanishes from underfoot, or in Romie's case, under-heel, but not because she's falling, plummeting to an inevitable badly bruised backside. Quite the opposite actually. Lifted. She's being lifted altogether off the ground, the polished arm previously locking her in place swooping for the sexy knee pits and effortlessly gathering her up into the carry newly weds possess a fondness for.
And the kisses are still not in short supply, Regulus couldn't bring himself to stop, not when she's giggling and smiling like this. He staggers forward slightly, feeling dizzy, feeling delirious from how insanely, out of his mind, in love he is. With this girl, who's looping her arms around his neck, happily embracing the silly, fun side he's been conditioned to brush aside his whole life.
Around in several circles, he spins them, letting her down only when the weakness of his knees becomes too great to ignore. As much as he'd like to tumble down, tangled beautifully with her, his ideal way of going isn't a high heel to the skull. And he couldn't go yet, there's ground that she still needs to walk on, ground that he needs to kiss.
Because my, oh, my.
Purple is her colour.
But black is his.
The dress clings to every curve, line and contour of her willowy figure, a fierce swerve from the invitation's request for modest. Regulus is hardly surprised by the rather defiant approach, his volcano was never one to act in accordance, especially when the affair is one she's indisposed to. That didn't limit the effort however, he's certain she's trying to bring him to his knees, ravage him. He'll let her. Willingly.
His fingers naturally gravitate towards the thigh exposed from the slit equally as sexy as the dark umbras spotlighting her eyes. Merlin. Her eyes. A whispered swear leaves him, one that he's not sure is English. Or French for that matter. It's neither, the tiny tug at her lips confirming so.
"What are you thinking?" Romie wonders, palms flattening to lapels of his dress robes. Black. They're coordinated.
Regulus blows out a shaky breath, speaking the honest to God truth, "I'm thinking of the excuse we can give for skipping"
