Okay, seriously? I have the self control of a mosquito and I’m excited and I want everyone to seeeee.

Quocllif belongs to DawnHerald and she posted THIS and I had to draw him in response because he’s A BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL BBY.



i’m not calling for a second chance, i’m screaming at the top of my voice.

Born alone amid flame. 

One son and his mother perishes in childbirth; his first victim. His father passes away months later. Mistress’ whim. The father now so much less interesting than the son– his purpose has been fulfilled. He created for her a new plaything.

The first blow falls when he’s four years old. The starving begins long before that. The emotional abuse, the psychological torment even earlier. He’s terrified of the dark. Stay in the dark, she says. Let it shape you. Make you strong

He weeps. She keeps him there for months. He emerges changed. 


Crimson hands around a blue throat as he chokes the life from Mistress’ body. His second victim. Her last breaths are his very first. Freedom feels like a baptism.

Reborn alone.

The Empire doesn’t know what hits it; he becomes a Darth. Red skin long since gone white. Victims number three through one thousand. Freedom smells like lightning; tastes like blood. 

A wife. Sons. Slaves. Pets. Lovers. Allies. Enemies. Rivals. Betrayals. Love

He loses them all, somehow. Holds on too tight until they break in his grasp because you cannot teach a man who had nothing how to have anything. 

Dies alone amid snow. 

His final victim was always destined to be himself.


a slave owns nothing yet the lightning is his.

doesn’t need to touch to kill and that’s what makes it so sweet, so unbelievably satisfying; chokes the life from the blue body with bare, pale hands and doesn’t laugh, doesn’t chortle even as the chiss flops about the table like a pitiful guppy. 

bolts and jolts and currents of electricity run through the sith, through the agent; quocllif feels nothing but ecstasy– the lightning is his, his to own, his to control, to command and each shock brings the chiss back to life only for long enough to nearly tip him over the saccharine-sweet precipice leading from torture to death. 

the lightning is his, bends to his will, curls around his arms and legs like a lover– the only one he’s truly allowed to keep.



“He’s rather pretty, when he isn’t being a pathetic little bitch.” A clicking noise created by the object in Her hand and the pureblood boy knows he’s meant to move, meant to crawl over to Her, to lay obediently by Her feet but he doesn’t. Can’t. Can’t bring himself to move from his corner. It’s safe here, he thinks. 

She can’t touch him here.

He’s wrong.

(warning for mentions of child abuse)

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No one understands how much Quocllif loves him. 

It’s sick; twisted and horrific and wrong and he doesn’t know, never learned how else to love. Twell’s voice is raised in agony more often than pleasure for the first little while but it changes, changes as Quocllif makes a mistake, as Quocllif falls and he hates so very much, hates himself, hates Twell, hates that he loves Twell, hates– hates– 

He’s in love and it’s awful, makes him feel as useless as he ever was and it’s always blue hands holding him captive, blue fingers squeezing too tightly around his heart, his soul and he wonders if Twell knows, if Twell even considers the possibility that Quocllif has long since become his pet.

No one understands how much Quocllif loves him.

You don’t break the toys of a man who has no comprehension of what it even means to have something that’s yours. Slaves own nothing and Quocllif owned, owns less; throws away credits and gifts because it’s all nonsensical trinkets in comparison to people.

Twell is his– his lover, his pet, his whole everything and when he sees the agent, purple faced and cold, detached and professional and so obviously hurt, Quocllif snaps. 


No one understands how much Quocllif loves him.

He’s going to find who did this and then– then they’re going to weep as he writes Twell’s name across the floor with their intestines. 

That’s love.

this is the way the world ends

he kisses the back of draagon’s hand, wraps tired old arms around wyvernn’s broad shoulders and kisses his cheek. you both made me so proud.

kisses right next to sansya’s mouth, fatherly and full of a love that’s so pure it still terrifies him. kisses his grandchildren, lifts them even though they’re too heavy, even though it pains him but they’re worth it, the broad smiles and shrill giggles numb the ache until it’s just another distant memory.

he kisses the side of klue’s head, musses the hunter’s hair and disregards the pleasantly surprised ‘what was that for, handsome?’. loves him more than he can say so he doesn’t because he can’t.

he kisses twell in the dead of night, careful not to wake the zabrak by his side. pale red fingers slip through deep navy locks that have long since began to grey, lips still too soft to be anything other than pure temptation still yielding to him, still, even after all these years.

this is the way the world ends 

he kisses those he’s loved, kisses friends and rivals and kisses the men and women in his cult like it’s some sort of blessing, as if his touch is worth more than the whisper of a dying old monster. 

he kisses ashara, though she doesn’t know him anymore; kisses andronikos, and both are equally surprised, tentatively flattered. he’s just a confused old man, the poor thing– probably mistook them for someone he once knew. 

this is the way the world ends

he kisses sean like he never will again, slow and tender and deep and if the man feels him tremble, he doesn’t let it show. holds him and holds him up, his support, his strength, more than a crutch because sean is the very foundation upon which he built his happiness and the kiss burns on his lips long after the starship has departed for hoth.

not with a bang

he kisses the snow like it’s welcoming him home, like the end is a blessing and in a way, it is. it’s been so long since he allowed himself to rest.

just close your eyes, quocllif. just for a little while–

but a whimper.