#soft soft

[halfway-happyyy]

okay, but the intimacy of sitting across from frank at a busy table and all you can think about is falling into bed with him later on. not necessarily sexually, but just to be close to him again after a couple of busy hours.

i'm a wreck.

[orpheusdrinkinga40inadeathbasket]

[ripk0l]

petnames from the leah: big bother or kol the troll >:)

petnames meme.

" only you and hope gets to call me troll. never let the others find out. " is he embarassed? he know he should be but if it is only her and his niece who calls him that, then he is sold.

[iiryoku]

He doesn't mind at all and is smoothly wrapping his arms around his big sister, soaking in the feeling of that warmth, which she provide with such tender affection.

[thenightmarketofdathomir]

Dear Wishmonger, your writings are a gift and a comfort to so many. May I ask, for my own self, how would a reader with a Neurological chronic illness be cared for by the brothers? Symptoms that seem frightening, painful and unpredictable to the outside observer leaves one wishing for a safe place to land until well again.

Twins smile upon you, friend. I hope this finds you well.

Title: Rakghoul Plague is way worse Pairing: Darth Maul/Reader (she/her) Rating: PG Warnings: Described symptoms of a hemiplegic migraine dramatized for effect (hurt/comfort), space medicine references

The first time Maul witnesses an episode that leaves you crumpled in a corner, half your body stricken with paralysis, your features twisted into a rictus of pain and totally unresponsive, he thinks its an attack: someone's infiltrated the Dawn, a spy on Dathomiri soil, in his home, among his kin... Biological warfare, certainly, targeting him at his most vulnerable though no one would ever dare call you a weakness --

But Maul knows that only the tender parts that remain unguarded are the most susceptible to attack.

He feels your pain in the twist of your legs, the curl of your fingers, and in your head when he reaches in with a gentle gesture so careful that any other adept might damage what's precious with less finesse, and he sees what you do against the dark canvas of your mind, familiar in that peculiar way that returns him to memories of a windowless durasteel cell and the droid that repaired him.

The particulars are unimportant. Broken bones can be healed many times over, but the feeling that remains is a lesson that can be imparted given the right incentive to recall it with renewed purpose:

He would not want you to make the pain a weapon.

He would spare you that study with every ounce of his being, knowing its intricacies with the intimacy of a lover taught these rituals of suffering.

The light changes: dark to white, and you remember the particular feeling of being cradled between cybernetic legs is an acquired taste, but maybe not to much of a comfort. His rough hands are careful with your body when he lifts you, balanced against the solidity of his chest as the world sways gently with each click and whirr of his servo motors as he carries you to the privacy of his quarters -- to his bed where he draws the curtains where no one but the Spirits can see the way he bows over you, protective.

Peace is a lie, but with your nose pressed into the hollow of his throat, you might be persuaded otherwise as his presence in the Force and in your body sifts away the aches and strain, and eases the tensions of your body.

When he withdraws his influence, he takes some of the tension that holds you in its grip with him as if it was a burden he opted to carry the moment you bruised your knees on Dathomiri stone. He watches you blink back to clarity from blindness, confusion registering because there's a twitch over his right eye that reflects the feeling of abating numbness mirrored beneath your own skin -- siphoned from you to him.

"My Lord? What happened?"

His answer is a cup pressed to your lips with cool water to soothe the sting of a dry throat, and a warm hand to your forehead, and then wrapping the back of your head, so soothing that your eyes flutter shut again as warmth suffuses the lingering tension. He squeezes his fingers, and you melt into the strength in his grip knowing that he'd never hurt you.

His murmur against your temple rolls through you like the promise of a hard rain after thunder, washing away those lingering discomforts that pulled you away from him for too many moments, "Needless suffering is hardly productive, my dear."

Your smile cuts through the dim, and he stiffens -- the firebright glare of his gaze narrowing.

You've scared him -- this unshakable, determined, angry creature.

Somehow, that comforts you: to know how important you are to him, even if he can't put it into words.

"I'll try to remember that next time," you tell him.

He glowers a moment longer, his frown deepening to create furrows over the furrows. He leans in, furious in a way that makes you want to cup his cheek, to offer comfort as he seethes, his grip on you unrelenting but no less careful.

"Never again," Maul promises.

You don't believe him, at first, so you kiss his cheek in a way that's meant to diffuse his brooding -- but none have the same connections as your lover, nor the resources, nor the talent... and definitely not the determination of a former Sith intent on guarding what's his from anything that hurts her.

For Maul -- he'll remind you again, forever, later -- the first time is the last time he'll see you suffer.

[serpulalacrymans]

You have black and white furr now !

૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

- busting bunny

mmhmm~!

[rockingrobin69]

Perpetual motion, golden-bright

(1234 words, also on AO3)

Autumn came early that year; drizzling droplets of amber and ruby, sprouting golden and bright-yellow-green in the shrubs around their building. Outside the windows of their little flat the world was shaking, wet-dogged-like before an exhale: ready, ready. Draco wasn’t. Stirring a cup that might have gone cold, staring at the one branch of reddening leaves sway with the wind.  

A shuffle: at the kitchen door, impossibly lovely, sleep-crusted face scrunched on a frown. Harry, in his old jumper and boxer shorts, in, infuriatingly, only one sock. All at once it rushed in Draco’s belly, gushing and tight: affection so large it barely even fit, surging hot and fierce right through him.

“What are you doing,” Harry grumbled, “out of bed?” coming to collect him, two arms wrapped around his waist. Forgot to put on his house coat, forgot he was cold. Forgot that this was breathing, in, out, with the guiding rhythm of Harry’s chest.

“The appointment,” he remembered to say. “It’s, we don’t have much time. To prepare.”

“What’s there to prepare?” a huff of a laugh, warm and slightly moist on the back of his neck. “You ridiculous creature. It’s not even seven.”

“And we need to be there by ten,” admonishing, but gently. “I have your clothes ready.”

“Do you.”

“With a tie, and so help me, you’ll wear it. We need to make a good—impression. If we want…” a helpless look up and then down to the floor. Colour rising high on his cheeks, warm-warm and telling.

“Darling,” Harry breathed. Pressed a small kiss to the back of his head. “It’s going to be fine.”

“But what if—” turning in his arms so he could valiantly—no, hide in the crook of his neck: “What if it goes wrong.” The problem, as always, was jumping ahead of himself; the problem was he was already in love with the place. With the ivy on the walls and the copse of trees at the back, with the window that looked out onto the burn and a faint, persistent smell of lavender that lingered in the eaves. That it could be theirs, this little dream. Draco’s never allowed himself…

Gentle fingers in his hair; his eyes closed on their own. “Nothing’s going to go wrong. We’ll get the loan approved, and the house is ours. Mrs. Tinsberry said—”

“I know,” tightly. “I know what she said.” Heard himself swallow under the rustling of the wind. “It’s only, I can’t help but think—” the words jagged in his throat: “I wasn’t meant for such loveliness.”

His parents’ estate with its neat garden, rigid, clean rows of perfect blossoms; rooms that were so scared to move even their air froze still, beautiful things that were to be looked at and never-ever touched. Straight-backed chairs and tall, lean windows that offered magnificent, manicured views of a world that wasn’t real, never could be. And Draco inside it, so frightened to breathe too loudly or speak at the wrong turn or make the slightest deviation, the most miniature of mistakes, and ruin everything.

Had ruined everything. Should not be rewarded for cowardice or for cruelty. And the little house on the burn with its wilderness of a garden, with its crooked corridors and bright curtains and wonky chimney, with its nooks and cheerful cabinets and tiny attic, it was—it was perfect, and not for him. For Harry, yes, with someone good and beautiful and sweet, someone who could keep him safe and take care of him the way he deserved. For… the words stung in his chest: for Harry and his family.

Resolutely: “I—” but he wasn’t ready for those green eyes, for the look that went all the way from his lip (trembling) to his nose (sniffling) to his eyebrows (frowning) to his forehead (scrunched).

“Draco,” Harry said, “you idiot,” and proceeded to crush him so tightly it robbed him of air, of reason. Draco let himself melt into the embrace the way he always did, and forgot what was still crushing in his windpipe.

(Read more on AO3 or under the cut)

Harry’s hand on his chin—fought it on instinct and lost. Gulped a bit, miserably, at the determination on Harry’s face. “Silly creature,” he said in a thick voice. “You deserve all the loveliness. You—no, you absolute goose, look at me. This is our life now. You and me, do you hear? We’ll get the house and we’ll be so fucking happy in it, together, and I won’t—I’ll never let you forget just how much loveliness you deserve. Draco, it’s all of it.”

Whimpered, fought to be released, to bury his face in Harry’s jumper and never have to see him again, pretend he didn’t hear the words. In his heart he knew he’ll ruin this too, ruin anything good, and also, in his heart, he knew this: Harry won’t let him. Insufferable Harry, brave and generous and too kind, stupid and loving and gorgeous and soft.

Draco shook, and the smell of the jumper (lemony-sweet and wool) and the warmth of Harry’s skin seeping from under it and the pinch of cold air on his exposed shoulders—this early morning and all of it, all of it, stuffed so tight and humming, incessant, relentless.

“All right,” he surrendered, as always, “all right, enough. We have to—Harry, let go, we have to get ready. The car! We need to pack the car. And the biscuits still need to go in the oven. Please, darling, I have to do this or I’ll drive myself crazy.”

“Er,” Harry grinned. “Crazier.” But he petted Draco’s cheek, once, and took a step back. “You’ve made more biscuits.”

It wasn’t a question. Draco still answered, “Mrs. Tinsberry seemed to like them.”

Laughing: “Sweetheart, she already agreed. You don’t have to try so hard.”

“Of course I do. And it’s not all… I’m not trying to bribe her. I simply—” embarrassment sizzled in his throat, made him cough. Harry, for once, was merciful, and didn’t ask.

“I’ll go pack the car. And make sure we have all the printouts.”

“Thank you. Would you also mind—”

“Boots? Already cleaned. Honestly, love, you don’t need to worry. We’ve got this.”

Something burst inside him, impossibly bright, terribly tender. “Thank you, Harry,” in this rasp of a voice. “You’re—” something he couldn’t put into words. Harry smiled.

“Go on, get the biscuits ready. You already know I will pinch some.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” said Draco, who planned to make a whole tin just for Harry.

With a wink, Harry disappeared behind the door, in his one sock and his face and his hair. Once he managed, Draco turned to the kitchen counter, to the bowls he’d prepared and promptly forgot about.

It was autumn already although it was August. Perhaps every morning is a little bit autumn, this early on: from blinking warmth to fresh, crisp cool, to a hint of something coming, something big. Outside the windows of their little rented flat the shrubs had gone golden-yellow, and the trees up the street had turned, drizzling amber like teardrops onto the pavement.

Autumn came early, and with it this—yearning. For something he knew he shouldn’t have, that he longed for with all of his being. That Harry won’t let him shy away from. Something warm like a jumper and sweet, and too-close and unbearable.

Draco breathed it in. Ready, he thought.