- 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 from her slumber, nose twitching as something puffs against it.
Puff is underplaying, the big bad wolf's huff and puff gusty enough to blow the little pigs houses down a better, fitting description for the air persistently hitting her skin. She's about to move away, wriggle well out of the contact zone when second thoughts having her doing the inverse. Nearer, she worms, not missing the way the powerful, strong gusts begin to falter moderately, like there's something else materialising that adds a difficulty. Not missing the way it's warmer than a head inside a thick, woolly hat.
Eyes remaining closed, in an outstanding performance of casual sleepiness, Romie stretches the arm and hand that's nicely curled beneath her chin, drifting in the direction of the warm air. The destination isn't the source though, skipping over the narrowing area for a flying visit to the fairly smooth skin on the left hand side of it, then up into the locks of hair. Hair that's crisp and relatively crunchy and a plain sailing glide beneath her palm.
The powerful gusts morph into almost giddy, hot pants. Giddy, hot pants morphing into a combination of a hiss through teeth and sigh of disappointment when her fingers sink beneath the styled strands in a move significantly softer than the tight grip she very suddenly takes for growl she makes,
"Get out of my bed, Rosier"
A terribly short moment's silence, then,
"Technically, it's not your bed"
Romie's eyes snap open, the intensity of her violet as ruthless as the punishing grip on his blonde hair. It doesn't take a long time for Evan to draw to the conclusion minor, smart arse technicalities matter not to the fierceness that is Romie Lupin. It takes him less time to crack that dazzling toothy grin you can count on him to wear whatever the weather. Though, unbeknownst to Romie, this one has a purpose, this one has motive.
A grumpy frown works its way onto her face, unable to bear his bright, chirpy efforts so soon after waking up. Unfortunately, that only makes the grin stretch and broaden, like he's chuffed, made up at the presence of the said grumpy frown. The string of protests and threats too, when he decides, horrifyingly, the face to face position isn't enough and the solution to that is draping the length of Romie over the top of him.
She surrenders significantly sooner than the both of them expected, squirms and flails packing in exchange for a limp droop into his chest. In her logic, the sooner she caves, the sooner he'll be over whatever the hell this is and grant the freedom she failed to break free for. She could have succeeded, would have succeeded, easy peasy, if she really wanted. The mere thought has him respectfully squeezing her frame tighter, crooning happily to the audible little huffs.
It's not two minutes later his muscles relax and his hold loosens, allowing more than enough room to wiggle out. Romie doesn't move a single muscle, unable to really at this moment in time, because then, grazing her head, not a sing song announcement, not a cheer it could be argued he's after old sweet tooth Ambrosius Flume and the rest of the loyal residents of Hogsmeade village to hear, a whisper. An oddly quiet whisper, an oddly emotional whisper.
