Operation Walburga’s Arbitrary No Kissing Ever Rule - wip [Jegulus] [estiamted wc: 80k] 10 Things I hate About You Jegulus AU [“Excuse me, you what?” “I want you to take Regulus out on a date,” Sirius repeats casually as if he hasn’t just said the most absurd thing ever, watching the Snitch that had escaped James’ hand the second he had made the ridiculous request the first time.]
…at this point i’m sorry to introduce…the egg spoon.
Even better news about German egg related gadgets… the Eierköpfer (it also has a super long German name), for when you need a guillotine to open your egg neatly
No offence to Germany but why are you guys so fucking insane
nothing to see here. Just normal feelings about egg.
here’s another lil snippet for ya from a random spot later in the fic :))
There was an ease there - a playful tactility - the comfortable reassurance that everything which transpires between them is…weightless. But James had that sunlight in his eyes again, the kind that gilds every surface, burnishing them in warmth. Regulus had always felt that this light had rendered him brighter, that in James’ presence, he glowed. But Lily sparkled all on her own, fierce and strong. She doesn’t need him the way that Regulus fears he might, Lily Evans is already shining.
James is in the middle of a sketch, muttering excitedly as the page comes to life beneath his capable hands. The charcoal whispers against the page, underpinning the intimate quiet that languishes in every corner of the secluded studio as his thumb brushes the lighter contours into place. He looks up as Lily cuts him off slightly, but only to suggest an alteration. Regulus watches as James melts, shaking his head like the suggestion had been plucked from his own brain. He replies with a goofy smile on his face and Lily isn’t having any of it, swatting him away. James swats back and the notebook falls to the ground, completely forgotten in the pantomimic struggle that shatters the idyllic tableaux of an artist’s process. Forgotten are the hands gently arranged in the afternoon light, pressed and moulded with the silent reverence of a pagan altar. The studio is alive with laughter and playful scolding, the thud of skin against knit jumpers as they grapple, reaching for loose sheets and the promise of closeness.
Sequestered in a cool corner, swaddled in breeze and shadows, Regulus can’t help but think that this scene is…simpler. That if he could write himself out, paint himself into the corners, linger in the familiar, unforgiving clutches of marble - live for the glimpses of light that scatter between entwined figures - the world could continue to turn as it always has and he could bask in the afterglow of James Potter smiling. It could be enough. He could survive off that, even if it would feel like his organs were collapsing under the weight of his ribcage and his heart was slowly caving in. So long as there was space for one vein and one artery to keep his blood moving and his chest heaving, he would lean into the pain. Regulus would press his finger into the wounds until he felt something, anything at all. Anything to convince him that the choices he was making were the right ones, while still allowing himself the excuse to remain in the low light, always watching. Always there. Never to be seen.
