#soft soft

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.

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.

eijirou is always the one to wash you off and run you a little bath or coax you into the shower for a bit, his large hands rubbing sweet scented oils into your skin and any sore areas when you’re done. he always kisses every place where you might be bruised or marked, whispering a little bit of praise against each one so that you know the boys love you n their words of degradation were far from the truth.

katsuki is the one that leaves bed early to make you a meal to keep your energy up— he always arranges the food into the most creative and silly face he can make so that you smile after receiving it !! although your don’t like it, katsuki will make you eat your greens because ‘they’re fucking good for you’ but will whip up the best dessert for you afterwards since you need the sugar to perk you up a bit.