- 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's heart can't hold back the purrs it's making.
Whether for the dark cast defining the given name, the shockingly cold temperatures or the world of creatures ruling the lake-bed, scores of witches and wizards in their time at school held a certain unease for the great lake the castle overlooks. Romie wasn't part of the score. She doesn't mind the black, doesn't mind the cold.
In fact, she finds it calming to its deepest, darkest core, but nowhere near as calming as she finds carding her fingers through the hair spilled over her lap. Nowhere near as calming as she finds counting in her head the dim breaths leaving the slightly parted lips of the snoozing boy the hair is attached to, as she finds watching the subtle flutter of his eyelashes.
He'd been reluctant, resisting the suggested idea of a short sleep during their free period, but as soon as his head settled against her thighs, he was out like a light. A prediction Romie would've bet Evan's whole life on, and confidently. Brooding was a lake itself, both a drowning and draining affair and Regulus was knee-deep in it, being pulled in deeper. What was in the water was the mystery to Romie, one that she reckons will clear up, surface in the foreseeable future. Avoidance and closed lips isn't their style. Not anymore.
Using the forefinger of the hand not tangled in his hair, she delicately traces his other-worldly features, purrs growing louder. She doubts she'll ever get used to this, still to this day finding it hard to believe. Him being the sleeping draught for her is one thing, her being a sleeping draught, the sleeping draught for him was another. Especially considering his detached and distant and exhaustively guarded past. He's promisingly affixed and closer than her own spirit and wide open to pander to the fit of her entity, exclusively.
Her hands lift, suspend in the air when, after making a sleepy noise through his nose, he leisurely rolls over onto his front. The vital concept of breathing doesn't seem to be a prime concern of his, a stark contrast to the face burying into her thighs, as much, as deep as humanly possible. It proves to be difficult and the face he turns to display is the definition of disapproval. Even with his eyes shut, Romie can clearly see his dislike for the long nun skirt keeping him from her smooth skin, augmenting. Too bad.
It's probably for the best anyhow, there's not a single doubt in her mind if her skirt was the previous length he took it upon himself to charm it to, a simple bury would be the least of his endeavours. The most tame of his endeavours. Distracting herself so she doesn't recklessly reach for her wand to enable such untamed and indecent acts for him, she lowers her hands and begins stroking her fingers through his curls again, biting back a laugh at the speedy rate in which his disapproval revokes.
Replacing its domination, complete and utter bliss that has his eyes soft and melted when they finally flutter open, zeroing in on hers immediately. Watching as they dip south, to the tug at his lips, the gentle curve to articulate the fluent words murmured,
