#or not even that sometimes i just get that rush of elation unprompted and have to release it

[phe-purple-parade]

Child me feeling excited:

*inhale* SQUEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAALLL!!!!!!

Adult me stimming out excitement:

squeak! ... squeak! ........squawk.... squeak >:) .......... *inhale* *voiceless squealing & bilabial fricative sounds*

[effymaybe]

In this moment

Pairing: Jennie/Lisa

Jennie doesn’t like to sleep alone.

Jennie squirms annoyed under the trillion blankets covering her body from the wintry air.

She has been trying to sleep for what feels like hours already, but her desired rest, which she thought about since the very first hours of her busy morning, seems to drift away further which each passing breath.

She has a lot to do when the sun rises. Promotions, rehearsals, choreographies, smiling.

She is honestly worried.

In general, Jennie worries about a lot of things. She just can't help it. It’s part of her. Each goal she sets for herself becomes a sometimes rough journey to utter perfection, or at least the closest she can get to it without fainting due exhaustion, so she’s more than used to the unsettling feeling on her stomach that makes her purse her lips and tap her left foot throughout the whole day.

It used to be more manageable, before becoming who she is now.

When she was a kid, she could just hide in her own closet when her chest felt too full, and by the time she reached her teen years, she could even control her own respiration by means of deep inhales and short exhales to make the erratic beating of her heart find a reasonable peace.

Nowadays, however, as every single aspect of her life is scrutinized by frowning strangers, it has become more difficult to control. She has a lot of people to content.

She has a lot of people she is terrified to disappoint.

And she can’t hide. She can’t get her cheeks flushed deep red with calculated breathing. She can’t rub her hands against her eyes until the world becomes clear again.

Now, she has to deal with the weight of high expectations while being closely observed.

Jennie turns around again, then, falling flat onto her stomach, and groans.

Her incessant mind twirls along timetables, along routines, along duties. It finds short-lived solace in nice memories and then it gets dark again, with disappointed sighs and murmured words. Then, absolutely tired, Jennie lets her thoughts drift to the next room.

To the person sleeping in the next room.

Jennie’s heart tingles unprompted, but she hesitates. She really doesn't want to impose. She knows that the short-haired brunette is probably in deep sleep after the hectic day. She has seen her groupmate sweating profusely after leading a quite demanding dance practice. She has seen her smiling with glossy, worn out eyes. She has seen her mouth twitching in slight discomfort, her shoulders moving painfully, and she has seen her popping anti-inflammatory pills into her open mouth almost as if in a secret.

But now with the image of her tender features caressing her soul, Jennie can't help but to think about the feeling of her groupmate’s fingers against her skin.

She bites her lower lip and turns around again. She stares at the ceiling with a determined expression, decided. After a few more seconds, her will crumbles as her wandering mind lets her grasp the ghost of Lisa’s arms squeezing her body lovingly.

It is too tempting. She aches for the soft affection, and the goosebumps in her arms warn her that there is no way she will finally fall asleep without a sweet dose of the brunette’s love.

So she gets off her bed and tiptoes quietly to the next room, hoping to be a sneaky as possible.

And just as she thought, the finds the younger girl sleeping quietly, her plump mouth slightly open as her chest rises and falls in subtle motions.

Jennie can’t fight her smile. She looks so beautiful like that, with the moonlight highlighting her perfect features softly, almost as if enamored. Her short shiny locks spread messily against her forehead, gifting her an air of innocence that makes the oldest girl sigh in pure endearment.

It’s a delightful sight, and Jennie finds herself just standing there, without even noticing her own body complaining about the shocking lack of warmth.

Only when a particularly cold breeze hits against her face she wakes from the tender spell. She figures it is quite rude to just stare at her groupmate, and she considers that it would be equally rude to drag her away her peaceful sleep, so she decides to just sit cautiously in a little non-occupied space next to the brunette.

Then, she lies down slowly, her back facing Lisa’s front, trying her best not to startle the beauty dreaming next to her.

It’s kind of pointless.

Lisa would feel Jennie’s presence anywhere.

The short-haired brunette opens her eyes slowly, slightly confused, and bats her eyelashes in a sleepy manner. She needs only a few half-asleep seconds to recognize her groupmate’s scent.

Lisa smiles and instinctively wraps her firm arms around Jennie’s waist, pulling her in completely against her own body.

"Hi".

Jennie chuckles at the raspy voice, a nice, dizzy feeling making her stomach tickly with affection.

"Hi".

"Can't sleep?"

Lisa inhales softly behind her groupmate’s ear, and her perfume delights her senses in such a tender way that she wonders briefly whether she's still dreaming.

Jennie denies with her head.

"I'm sorry to bother you. I thought I could get here without waking you up”.

Lisa frowns and squeezes Jennie’s body in a caring gesture. She lets her long legs find their way between her groupmates’. It feels absolutely right, like a complete puzzle. Something settles in their souls, something spoken. The bond they share beyond words thrives when they are together like that, happy and free, and their chests seem to ease in complete contentment.

"You could never bother me, Jen. I always feel like cuddling with you".

Jennie smiles because she feels the truth deep in her bones and Lisa grins too because her groupmate’s elation wraps up her own heart. She sighs deeply, far gone in her joy, and drags her own lips against the oldest girl’s neck, placing soft kisses here and there and relishing in the way Jennie’s breathing hitches when she reaches the right places.

They both think, under the dim light of the moon, that they are in love.

They feel it ever growing from somewhere no one else has ever reached.

It’s raw and magical, and it explodes in a million inner fireworks when they hug, when they kiss, when they find themselves between each other’s arms even if they conventionally shouldn’t.

They should be scared, really.

But none of them are.

Their love can’t be broken. It’s too late. They have willingly submitted themselves to the beauty of their undying bond.

In a rush of affection, Jennie turns around in her groupmate’s arms, eager to melt under her doe eyes.

They look at each other for a sweet moment, their faces shadowed by the night but still recognizing each other easily.

Lisa leans forward and starts kissing Jennie's face, unable to control herself.

She kisses her forehead, and her nose, and her cheeks, and her chin. She nuzzles her nose against her jaw, eliciting a loving sound. Then, she kisses her full on her lips.

So they just lie in bed, warm and bare, kissing softly and lazily and lovingly until the tender gesture makes them feel giddy.

They pull away softly after the pale night changes its colors almost imperceptibly. Jennie yawns delicately, and Lisa imitates her just a few seconds after.

They smile at each other.

Tomorrow, their managers will look at them leaving the room with squinted eyes again, suspecting, inevitable sensing the palpable chemistry that makes it so obvious to almost everyone that there is something more there.

Each year they care less and less.

They have each other.

"I love you", Lisa murmurs with teary eyes, using her knuckles to caress Jennie’s cheek reverently.

"I love you.", Jennie answers back.

Her anxiety, her fear, her insecurities all succumbed under the immense power of Lisa’s lips against her skin.

She thinks, as she closes her eyes, that she’s tired of falling asleep alone.

Lisa’s tiny bed is big enough to hold their love.

[siswritesyanderes]

What about a Yandere Luna Lovegood with a no-nonsense s/o? "Luna, how'd you know he was even talking to me?" "Oh, the nargles told me... They're quite ugly around him, seem to take after their owner..." "Luna... You've used nargles as an excuse to threaten seven people by now. It's getting old."

(I love this. Why have I never thought of this?)

You can’t really blame her. Well, you can, and you do, but you can at least understand how things escalated: She was lonely, and you were polite. “Kind”, as she put it, but you think “polite” is a more impartial assessment.

When you first overheard the other students making fun of her, you defended her. But of course you did; they were being ridiculous and ruining the learning environment noticeably more than her weirdness ever did. And when they were gone, you exchanged a few polite words with her and carried on.

And she carried on with you.

You didn’t mind. You were glad to be of help, keeping the bullies away. At any rate, she really wasn’t nearly as annoying as people made her out to be; her airy, unobtrusive presence was honestly enjoyable. And it was sort of flattering to have someone rush to walk at your side; someone eager to keep up with you even in the busy hallways, catching onto your robe at times; someone who ate faster when she saw you were almost done (even though at this point you always waited for her to finish her meal before leaving the Great Hall).

Maybe you were a little lonely, too.

Eventually, you started conversing with one another, when the two of you were in the Library or at meals. You were somewhat impressed by the fact that, despite her whimsical demeanor, she had quite a candid streak when it came to conversation. Frank, even. She was easy to talk to. Not just easy- rewarding. Everything you said to her came with positive reinforcement. You could ask her if she understood the Charms assignment, and she would smile as if your words had singlehandedly uninvented sadness.

Uncharacteristically, it took you a while to notice something that didn’t quite make sense:

“How do you find me after all of my classes?” you asked her one day. Not all of your classes were taken with her, but still she always managed to walk with you between them.

She smiled absently and hummed a one-note song. “The nargles tell me where you are all the time.”

“Nargles, Luna?”

“Oh, yes.” Her eyes were on her hands, which were tracing invisible patterns on the table in front of her. Normally, when nargles (or whatever other creatures) came into conversation, she made direct eye contact, her tone earnest and excited. This distractedness bordering on evasion was new.

“I don’t believe you,” you said straightforwardly.

She sighed. “Most people don’t. That’s okay though.”

“You know what I mean; I’m not saying that I don’t believe nargles are real-”

“But you don’t, though.”

“I have no opinion on the subject. I’m saying that I don’t believe you’re telling the truth about how you find me.”

She smiled brightly, and now her eyes met yours. “You don’t have to believe me. You’re already the best friend I’ve ever had; trusting me might just gild the lily and make me too happy. And then where would we be?”

You were not inclined to continue the conversation.

Luna just seemed elated that you hadn’t rejected the title “friend”.

It was fine being Luna’s friend, although you worried it had adverse effects on your ability to socialize with other people. You joined a club for one of your interests, just to feel like you regularly spoke to someone other than her, which was apparently not the best of moves.

One day, Luna trotted up to you with a serene expression. “I have a gift for you,” she said.

“What is it?” If you were slightly wary, it was only because of course you were.

She held up a handful of brown hair. “I found this.”

“Found it where?”

“The nargles gave it to me. They said it’s from a boy called Orville…or Oswald…or Orson…something like that…And they said he won’t be going to your club meetings anymore.”

You were sure your expression was a delightful mix of stern, exasperated, and horrified. After two full seconds, you blinked, and the first thing you said was, “Do not give me human hair!”

“Alright.” She threw the ball of hair over her shoulder. “Just as well; I don’t think he washed it very thoroughly. Although they say the more hair you keep, the more whizmurgoblins you attract; that’s why I keep mine so long-”

“Luna,” you interrupted. “What happened to Osmond?”

“Oh, that was his name! Normally I’m not nearly that close.”

“Luna.”

“I told you, it was the nargles. You can ask again, but I’ll say the same thing. I’ve read that friends often have the same conversations over again, so maybe it could be fun.”

(You try to ask Osmond what happened, but he avoids you like the plague, and all of his friends either seem confused or give you dirty looks.)

Next time, she skipped up to you with a handful of short, pale sticks. “Another gift from the nargles!” she announced cheerfully.

“Merlin’s trousers, Luna. What are those?”

“Kimberly Penhallow’s finger bones; apparently she’s in the Hospital Wing regrowing them. And she’s quit the club as well. The nargles told me.”

“The nargles told you.”

“Oh yes.”

“Luna, are you attacking my club members?”

“I think the nargles might be. They’re awfully territorial, you know. But a lot of things are. When you value something or someone quite a lot, it makes sense to want them to be just yours.” (You suddenly recalled how your table-mate at Potions had up and moved tables one day for seemingly no reason. You didn’t even have Potions at the same time as Luna; how did she know?) “Especially when everyone else takes them for granted. Watching people fail to appreciate someone- or something -truly magnificent can be upsetting, I imagine.” She slipped her arm around yours to keep from being parted by the crowd. “But I don’t always know what the nargles are thinking.”

You didn’t shake her off, but you sighed. “Do not give me human bones,” you said.

Luna tossed the bones over her shoulder. Looking back, you saw that they had landed inside a passing student’s bag. “No more hair, no more bones.”

“Or blood or organs,” you added, because if she ambled up to you tomorrow and handed you eyeballs, you were going to be studying at Beauxbatons next year.

“No hair, bones, blood, or organs. Anything else?”

“I don’t know.”

The two of you exited into the bright sunlight of the Clock Tower Courtyard, now. The area wasn’t as densely populated, but Luna still walked as close to you as if it was. As if she might lose you.

“Can I tell you that I love you?” she asked lightly.

“No,” you said, because this was such a mad situation and she was still holding onto your arm.

“Okay,” was her easy reply.

Once you had had a night’s sleep and processed the facts of the matter, you were more exasperated than anything.

“I’ve quit the club,” you snapped at her, unprompted, the next day. “Alright?”

“I’ll have to tell the nargles,” she said, with an adoring smile. “Hopefully, I get to them in time; I already found three of Gregory Brown’s fingernails, and I suspect they’re behind it.” She held out the fingernails in her palm, looking almost as if she hoped you would be proud of her. Oh Merlin, they weren’t just clippings.

“Are fingernails not made from skin, Luna? Skin is an organ. I said no organs.”

“As a bodily structure, they’re more analogous to horns or hooves than anything. You don’t want nails either?”

You ran a hand over your face. “Why have I not reported you to Flitwick?”

“Because my attention makes you feel good about yourself, and you’ve gotten used to that.”

“You’ve been manipulating me.”

“You say ‘manipulating’ like it’s a bad thing, but the term itself is neutral. I take care of you, is all. Like you take care of me. We need each other.” She did a spin as the two of you descended a great grassy hill on the school grounds. Her face upturned to look at the sky and clouds for a second, but then her gaze returned to you as if she couldn’t help herself. She erased the distance that had been made between the two of you by her spin, both of her hands going to grip your robes even though this was the grounds and there was nobody within ten meters of either of you.

You sat by the water and did your Herbology homework: Write down ten species of plant found by the Black Lake. She wove weeds into your hair as you worked, then around your ankle, then your wrist. You glanced up from your writing, once, and saw that her lips were moving.

“Are you casting something?”

“Just talking to the nargles,” she soothed. “You can finish your work.”

Against your better judgement, you did, (in lieu of pursuing the topic) and once you were able to set your work aside, you leaned back and took in the lovely day.

Surprisingly, Luna did not lean back, but rather remained upright and cross-legged, at most seeming to take this new angle as an opportunity to stare at you full-on. Does she ever blink?

“Can I tell you that I love you?” she asked again.

“No,” you told her once more.

She seemed to ponder this, shifting position to sit on her heels. “I want to make you feel good things,” she said. “Being with you makes me feel really good, and sometimes it seems like I can never make you feel as good as you make me feel.” She finally lowered herself to the grass, then, on her stomach instead of her back, and she was resting along your side but still staring up into your face. Her nose was enfolded in your robes, and you had a suspicion that she was deliberately smelling you. “Tell me how to make you feel good things, and I’ll do it.”

For some reason, despite her unaggressive manner of speaking, this felt like a challenge; as if this was your one chance to prove that you knew what you wanted. As if your response now determined whether or not you would keep the already-tenuous control you had over her horrifying actions.

“Stop attacking people,” you said straightforwardly. “I would feel better if you didn’t do that anymore.”

She sighed, as if disappointed by your response, which did not bode well. “I don’t think you’re being quite honest with yourself, but I will talk to the nargles about it.”

“Luna, just put a stop to it. For me, alright? Could you do it for me?”

She sat up, and her eyes were wide and so focused that you felt pinned like a butterfly. “I could do anything for you,” she said, her hands going to frame your face and her thumbs massaging your temples. She sat down on your chest and leaned her face a bit closer to yours, but not yet intimately close. “Maybe sometimes it will be what you need instead of what you want, but I’d do anything for you.”

[mslanna]

Reassurance

Acts of service vs. - well what exactly? The world may never know. Why Aziraphale keeps not really asking asking for things and why Crowley keeps granting. 

aka I’d really LOVE to meta but I can’t so I fic instead...

also on AO3

They did not see each other as often as Aziraphale would have liked. Any aspiration to change that was nipped in the bud by his constant worry that heaven or hell found out about their arrangement after all. Heaven had harsh punishments for such behaviour without a doubt, but hell? Hell did not dally with punishments in such instances.

Which made deniability paramount. The thought of losing Crowley now, after such a long time, after he finally, they finally, well something was final. And Aziraphale wanted to keep it that final, thank you very much. It had taken him long enough to accept that he did indeed like the demon Crowley and not in that general angelic way of loving absolutely everything because it was your job.

Crowley was not work. Well, sometimes he was a piece of work, but not in ways that concerned Aziraphale personally. It should probably concern him professionally in his agency as angel of the Lord. But the Lord was checking on the deeds on earth even less than head office did.

It was difficult as ever to love Crowley. Aziraphale was still an angel and Crowley was still, well a demon. Things might have been somewhat easier if he had turned into an aardvark over the years.

So Aziraphale did his best to keep what concerned him about Crowley personally and what his stance was officially well apart. Or not so well. Probably very badly by now, but who was keeping score of that even any more? Nobody, that's who. And yet deniability felt paramount.

The last six years had been the most enjoyable so far. Holding down something of a day job that was not almost-book-dealing had been a challenge. In return, he had gotten so see Crowley each day. There had even been interactions. Aziraphale was loth to admit those excited him. Seeing Crowley did enough to light up any day, but interactions – oh, those were exquisite.

Seeing the end coming had not been pleasant and it had caused him some anxiety. But Warlock showed no signs at all to be evil, or good for that matter. The plan seemed to work perfectly. Which was, honesty, just another little bonus on top of seeing his demon each day.

And then it had turned out they were tutoring the wrong boy, the world was going to end after all, and Aziraphale would lose his best friend to the war if they could not find the real Antichrist. Within two days.

The prospect to lose absolutely everything within two days scared Aziraphale more than he admitted. Crowley was right about sushi and music and bookshops. What he did not say, what he did not have to say, was it would be the end of them as well. No more arrangement. No more accidental meetings. No more eating extraordinary food because he was accompanied by his best friend. No more their side.

So he had agreed, naturally, so a combined venture to find the real Antichrist and then, somehow stop the whole Armageddon business. At least Crowley remembered where to start with their search. Tadfield didn't look any more charming than any other rural place Aziraphale had had to see.

There was an aura about it though. He could about smell the love in the air, feel it hum in the ground. It was, in this respect, a very special place. The last thing he expected was an attack. From the corner of his eye, Aziraphale saw Crowley jolt backwards, then he was hit in the back.

He turned more from surprise than pain. His fingers came away from the assumed wound blue. When he looked at Crowley his fingers were red and he was making quite a face.

"It's paint," the demon stated the now obvious.

"You've both been hit!" A man in camouflage complain, as he approached them rapidly. "I don't know what you're playing at, right-"

Crowley shut the man up efficiently with his favourite hell-snake face. He dropped to the ground alongside his gun.

"Well that was fun." Crowley grinned.

"Well, yes, fun for you." Aziraphale tried to get a better look at the paint splattered on his coat. "Look at the state of this coat. I've kept this in tip-top condition for over 180 years now. I'll never get this stain out."

Crowley walked around his angel, scrutinising mostly the stain.

It was an old dance and its tune bloomed inside Aziraphale from the stomach out. With deniability as a main concern, words were not an option. You could say a lot with them, between them and even by not using them. But some things needed direct expression, no veil of words pulled over them to obscure the meaning.

Actions for one, actions spoke louder than words. A lesson that had hit home extremely painfully during the Blitz. And Crowley was a man, well demon, of action. He had always been. It had taken little prompting even back in the day to prompt Crowley into action. Aziraphale had always found it surprisingly easy. An ease he understood a lot better after the incident with the Nazis.

So it was only logical to keep finding, digging for, maybe possibly even creating opportunities for their dynamic to play out. Aziraphale loved the way Crowley would be put out by the mere thought of performing minor tasks and miracles. The fluster hidden badly under a thin layer of bluster when he thanked his demon was even better.

Aziraphale was ready to return as he gave but Crowley had, in all the time they knew each other, only asked for one thing ever. Aziraphale could not really blame Crowley for not repeating that exercise, seeing how it had taken him 105 years to obligate. The thought of the tartan thermos full of holy water sitting somewhere in Crowley's flat was still making him uneasy.

Not quite as uneasy as wondering what Crowley got out of the whole arrangement. If it had been just the successful tempting of an angel spiel, Crowley would have let off decades ago. He had not. With the same persistence he returned into orbit around Aziraphale, drawn by the same forces that kept the angel circling him.

So there had to be something in it for him. Maybe one day Aziraphale would find out. He sue hoped so because the face the demon would make when finally presented what he expected from Aziraphale unprompted and for free would be spectacular. Until then, he would keep going as they did, even if it was only two more days. I had to be longer than that. There as so much the two of them had never-

"You could miracle it away." Crowley took the second step in their dance.

Aziraphale felt radiant, ready to smile. Of course he did not. The choreography required steps, procedure needed to be observed.  Maybe it was ridiculous to still crave reassurance after all those years. Nevertheless, he wanted it. To know, Crowley cared. It was even more important than deniability.

It wasn't really asking, if Crowley still loved him because of course he did. Anything else was unthinkable. Especially in the vicinity of the demon who immediately caught on the change of mood and pried. No, this was better. Aziraphale used the rising panic at the unthinkable thought to frown as he spoke. "Yes, but, well, I would always know the stain was there." He turned the paint-covered shoulder towards Crowley. "Underneath, I mean."

The next step was taken. Aziraphale didn't take his eyes off Crowley.

The demon did the barest imitation of hesitation. A sound of objection, maybe another half one and that tell-tale tilt of the head. The dance neared its finale and it was difficult indeed to hide the knowing, happy, elated, feeling suffusing Aziraphale's whole being.

Then Crowley leaned in, actually leaned closer, and blew on the coat to miracle the paint away. He didn't have to do that. Usually Crowley just snapped his fingers to make things happen, but this was different. This was special. This was reassurance that they were still on their own side, together.

Was the stain still there, underneath? Maybe. But now it was sealed tightly under a layer of Crowley's magic that tingled on Aziraphale's shoulder. It was worth getting spray painted from head to toe for.

"Oh, thank you." Aziraphale let the dammed joy rush free. It was so good, so good, to finally smile, beam at Crowley and affirm that yes, their side, together. All the harder to tear his gaze from the demon's face, to look away from what this was all about. Aziraphale tried, failed and stole another glance.

Crowley was wearing that smirk. So it was alright to smile that brightly.  Aziraphale felt it in his toes, the warms spreading from his cheeks through the whole body. He had not asked, not really and the answer was still yes.

The renewed swagger in Crowley's walk proved that he had gotten something from this exchange as well. If not, this would have stopped ages ago, before Aziraphale even understood why it worked which would have been the greatest pity of all.  Aziraphale managed to not steal another look, or two or twenty-three at his demon as he moved on.

It wasn't much. It was not even deniable any longer. But it was tried and tested, it never failed. It was the least they could have two days before the end of everything.