hate when people say something along the lines of "we must get along so well because you are/i am [some astrological sign]" to me. what are you fucking talking about. we get along because im fucking nice. a decision which i regret when you say shit like that
there's a really funny 3d printing controversy going on btw.
if you don't know, there's a very popular 3d printing model out there called "benchy". this is used for benchmarking your 3d printer because it's a difficult print and will help test it out.
this is so widely used that people make their own little versions of it, remixing the 3d model to make benchy look cooler and stuff. however, a new company owns the benchy license. they are sending copyright takedowns to all those who wrongfully uploaded the benchy model.
of course, this is pissing off the 3d printing community greatly. everyone loved benchy and have used it for years. so someone on reddit decided to make a new model that is designed as a 3d printing stress test. one that works a lot like benchy, and people are freely able to edit it as they please. you know what they called it?
the hetero jessica post is hands down the funniest thing ive ever seen multiple people get angry over. it's not even that mean. i promise you dont need to leap to the defense of hetero jessica.
if you wrote a drabble about drunk maul I think i’d be cured (from what I have no clue but it’d cure me somehow)
drunk!maul x reader: Affectionate
words: 2,048
summary: A member of the Black Sun tries to poison Maul during a meeting. It does not have the intended effect.
a/n: this is pure crack and i couldnt stop laughing while writing this. it was a lot of fun. i hope yall enjoy!
The meeting ends with a blaster shot through Vero Thule's thorax. The sleemo had the audacity to try and poison Maul. It didn't work, thankfully, but that leaves you with a problem.
A very drunk problem.
Maul blinks at the steaming corpse, one eyelid slightly out of sync with the other. "Was that necessary?"
"Didn't you hear him?" You slide your blaster back into the holster on your hip. "He tried to poison you."
His head turns to you like the rotation of a planet. "Well, it didn't work."
You sigh. It is going to be a long night. "Right. Well, he's dead now. So let's go."
Maul rises with all his usual precise grace, and you'd buy it if he didn't reach out to balance himself on the edge of the table. You rush to his side and offer your hand. Up close, his pupils have nearly eaten the gold out of his eyes — the skin on his cheeks flushing a darker red.
"I require no assistance," Maul says. The tip of his boot scrapes the floor and he nearly tumbles over. You catch his elbow and he doesn't shrug you off. Which is bad. Very bad.
You lead him through the doors of the warehouse and outside without incident. The speeder is parked a distance away that was a non-event until an hour ago. Maul is, at the moment, an infuriatingly tall, lean wall of muscle that refuses to cooperate. You've got your arm around his waist, and try not to think about how this is the closest you've ever been to him, and that he smells nice. Something herbal underneath the leather and oil.
"I will fly," Maul says.
"No, you will not."
"I have flown in conditions that—" He pauses. Considers, and apparently cannot remember. "I have flown in conditions."
You're trying really hard not to laugh. "Well, you're not going to fly in this condition."
He makes a noise that sounds downright petulant. "But it is my ship. You— you will obey me."
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"You are…" Maul trails off again, and you are trying with all your might to not laugh at your boss. But he's making it so difficult. "You are very rude."
It takes an act of the senate to get him in the passenger seat. You count all your lucky stars that the speeder has a roof, because the likelihood of Maul leaning too far over the edge is high.
"You handled that well," Maul says as the repulsorlifts hum to life. "You always handle things well. I have noticed this."
The dark serves as your cover for the blush on your cheeks. "Thank you, My Lord."
"I notice a lot of things."
"Yes, you do."
A few minutes of silence pass and you think that Maul may have dozed off. You really should have known better.
"Did you know," he says, leaning over the center console, "that the Falleen secrete pheromones through specialized glands? Humans cannot smell it, but I can."
You bite your lower lip to hide your grin. "And what does it smell like?"
"…Bad, very bad. Yours smell better."
Your face is so red now that the heat reaches your ears. But Maul moves on like he didn't just tell you the most horrifying thing you have ever heard in your life.
"The Nightbrothers, we have a word," he says, "for warriors who talk too much before a fight. It's— well, I cannot recall it. It doesn't matter. The…the point is that I was never one of them. I understand the value of silence," he points at you. "You should learn this."
"Sure thing, My Lord."
"Good…Good."
You want to say how rich that statement is, coming from the man who poetically monologues on the spot, but there's no point in arguing with him. Maul is trashed and a part of you is cherishing every moment.
Fifteen minutes pass, and he has covered the structural deficiencies of Black Sun's leadership and a Dathomiri hunting technique he describes in exhaustive detail and then refuses to finish. He rambles about the specs of the airspeeder — his airspeeder, he reminds you, twice.
"Do not crash my speeder," Maul says.
"I won't. I'm flying perfectly fine."
"I am an excellent pilot." He looks at his hands. "The best pilot. I can fly my own speeder. Rook would let me fly the speeder."
You snort. "No, she wouldn't."
Maul crosses his arms and stares at the viewport. He's silent for approximately ten seconds before a billboard advertising a resort on Coruscant catches his interest.
"I have been to the lower levels of Coruscant."
You hum. "Really?"
"I killed a Taozin there."
"I thought they were extinct."
"They are now." He says it like he's sharing a scandalous secret.
The hotel rises ahead. Maul narrates and criticizes your landing, even after you turn off the engine and step out of the door.
The ride up to the twentieth floor is longer than you appreciate. Maul spends it leaning most of his weight on you, staring into the mirrored wall.
"This building's security is poor," he says.
"It's just a hotel."
"They do not even have security droids."
You don't respond and watch the floor number switch from sixteen to seventeen.
"I should have brought Spybot," Maul says.
The snort that leaves you is undignified; Maul clearly thinks so, by the look on his face.
You get him down the corridor with the strength of one tired arm. Maul's ribs are warm and damp with sweat against your side, and he steps on your toes every few steps. You steer him to the bed once you're inside his room, and Maul swats at your hand.
"Let go," he says. "I am perfectly stable."
You let go, and watch him stumble and sit on the edge of the bed with the coordination of a toddler. Just as Maul attempts to pull off his boots, your comlink chimes, and you step into the refresher.
Rook's voice crackles on the other side. "How did the negotiations go?"
"Uh…" You sigh. "It's a long story. I killed Thule because he tried to poison Maul — don't worry, it didn't work. But he's…well, he's drunk."
"Drunk," Rook says after several silent seconds.
"It was one drink and he didn't even finish it."
"…Let me go get Icarus," she says, with an exasperation that almost sounds parental.
"Was the drink dark?" Icarus says after several seconds of silence over the call. "Smell like resin?"
"Yes," you say. "And he had maybe three sips of it."
"Yeah," he sighs. "There's certain compounds that Zabrak can't metabolize quickly. He's not really drunk, more like…is he being friendly?"
You smell better.
"Very."
"Affectionate?"
You sputter. "Wha— no?"
"Right," he sounds amused. "Keep him quiet and in his room. It will pass, but he may not remember tomorrow. Comm if it gets worse."
"Wait. What do you mean by affectionate?"
The channel dies. You scrub your hands over your face, take a deep breath, and open the door.
Maul is exactly where you left him -- boots off, and you watch him visibly relax when you exit the refresher.
"I'm going to head to my room," you say. "Comm me if you need anything. Don't leave."
"No," he says with a quickness that surprises you.
For the third time that night, your face flushes. "No?"
"You will stay," Maul tries to conjure his normal command, but the edges are worn off. "Until I sleep. Then you may go…wherever that is."
"My own room," you say slowly. "Next door, that's where I go."
He tries to rise on wobbly legs, then falls back down. The scowl almost looks normal, if it weren't for the pout. Stars, he is pouting. "That is too far."
"It's one wall, My Lord."
"Too far."
You should leave. Maul will be horrified tomorrow morning if he remembers, and if he doesn't, well, then you may just meet the business end of his lightsaber. But Maul, the Shadow Lord, the Sith, is pouting and demanding that you stay with him.
You, admittedly, are weak.
There's an arm's length of space between you when you sit on the mattress, which is, apparently, not what Maul had in mind. He closes the gap between you until your shoulders touch, the cool edge of one of his horns resting against your temple. You sit still like you did in childhood when your mother scolded you for misbehaving.
"You are tense," Maul observes, his eyes closed.
"I am fine." You are not fine.
"You are tense," he hisses. "I can— I can feel it. Here." Maul's hand drapes just below the back of your neck— bare. He took off his gloves and you hadn't noticed. The pads of his fingers are dry, and knead into your skin like he's trying to find something. "I am very good at this."
Whether tonight or tomorrow morning, you are going to die. It is inevitable at this point.
"You give people massages often?"
"No. I am simply good at everything," his voice dips low, the words slurring at the edges. You're ashamed of the effect it has on you. "I do not let people close. You know this."
You lick your lips. "Yes."
Maul's thumb drags up the length of your neck. "But I want you to be close."
This isn't real. Maul is drunk. You have to keep reminding yourself. He is drunk.
"I may not…remember tomorrow," his breath fans against the side of your face. "I may be angry. Do not let me be angry."
You laugh softly. "That's a tall order."
Maul hums and then he has his face pressed into your neck. He inhales and, may the Maker strike you down if you're lying, purrs. The timbre of the vibration, located deep in his chest, unmistakable. He grumbles in a language you recognize as Dathomiri, lips brushing up the skin of your neck.
Maul's breath evens out. The scourge of the galaxy, once the apprentice to the most powerful Sith Lord in existence, is asleep on your shoulder. And you let him, for now. You'll go back to your room. Eventually.
Icarus's words ring in your head.
Affectionate.
Maul doesn't wake when you leave the room. You give it until mid-morning before knocking on his door, a steaming cup of tea in your hand.
"Enter."
The sharp, steel edges are back in his voice again. You open the door and Maul is by the window, gloved hands folded behind his back. He's rebuilt himself into the Shadow Lord from the heap you left on the bed. The only evidence of last night's events is a few more lines of bloated blood vessels in the whites of his eyes.
"How do you feel?" you ask, and hand him the cup.
Maul takes it and does not answer you. He just drinks, and watches the city wake up outside.
"Report," he says.
"Thule's dead, the arrangement's off, and we came back to the hotel." You shrug. "That's all."
His fingers, the ones attached to the hand that touched you last night, flex around the cup.
"And the rest of the night?" Maul asks on an exhale.
You keep your voice light. "You were poisoned and slept it off."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing of note, My Lord."
The tension in his jaw eases slightly, but only slightly, because Maul isn't stupid and knows the difference between nothing happened and choosing not to say. You wonder what he remembers. If any of what he said had a modicum of truth.
"We depart in an hour," Maul says, eventually.
You nod and head towards the door, then stop when your hand hovers over the controls.
"You said something in Dathomiri last night," you say without turning around. "What was it?"
The silence between you stretches long enough that you think he won't answer. You press the button to open the door.
"I do not recall," he says just as you cross the threshold into the hallway.
You smile and the door slides closed.
Later, when you've checked out of the hotel and enter the landing bay, Maul says:
"I will be piloting my speeder."
tag list: @lady-aires@purechickenwing@deluliaa@shitty-pigeon-nest39@p-arapsychology@timeladymorsillon@limousinecatblog@erenstitanweave@thelilypadlounge@lady-bess @ninthqueen @weoweo8@night-erudite @anishinew@kimbasfanfics@lindseybaby@and-bone-appetit @jayleeslasher @aneccentriccatgirl
Just broke up with my boyfriend of two years for being menacing to my loved ones and myself (and trying to steal concert tickets from my niece??) can maul explode everyone's ex boyfriends please (I'm mostly kidding also I find joy in your writing, thank you for sharing your work with us)
good for you!!! if my ex tried to steal my bts tickets, id actually kill someone. i used they/them pronouns for the ex so anyone can project onto them
i hope u enjoy maul assaulting the readers ex <3
The shopping quarter came alive in the evening. Food stalls spilled halfway into the walkways, their awnings strung with cheap glow lamps and faded banners that swayed in the evening breeze. Customers haggled for the price of fried meat and sweet, caramelized dough. Buskers played their instruments on street corners. A pair of Rodian teenagers hurried through the crowd, each carrying a cone of cotton candy the size of their heads.
Maul was somewhere in the stalls behind you purchasing supplies, scrutinizing every vendor like they were personally defrauding him, which was ironic. You opted to perch yourself on the edge of the fountain in the middle of the square, content to watch the crowd bustle around you. Mist grazed your face with each spurt of the jets, cooling your summer-warmed skin.
It was, by all accounts, a lovely evening. Until you see them.
They weaved their way through the square on the east side, and you looked away so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. You dug your datapad out of your bag, pretending to be busy, praying that they didn't see you.
The Force, unfortunately, was not with you.
You cursed under your breath when they called out your name, and looked up to see them trotting up to you.
"Hey," they said, like it had been two days and not two years. "Thought that was you!"
Your smile didn't quite reach your eyes. "It's me."
"How have you been?" Their gaze dragged over you. "You look great."
"I've been alright. Busy."
They sat down next to you without asking. "You know, you're supposed to say you look great too."
You made a face and they threw up their hands.
"Relax, I'm joking." They leaned back on their hands. "So you here alone?"
Here we go.
"No."
"Yeah?" They scanned the crowd. It didn't take them long to find Maul — he was very hard to miss. He was also only four stalls down, and staring directly at the two of you. "Who's the Zabrak? A new boyfriend?"
"He's not my boyfriend." Which was technically true. You had no idea what you and Maul were to each other.
"So, you're single then?"
You rolled your eyes. "That's not what I said."
You stuffed your datapad back in your bag, calculating your exit. If you cut through the food stalls and looped around, you'd find Maul at the end of the row, and this whole interaction would dissolve into an unpleasant memory you'd complain about later.
They looked at Maul again, squinting their eyes. He turned back to the vendor, purchasing what looked to be an unnecessary turbo boost for his speeder.
"Oh." They laughed. "A Nightbrother, huh? That's certainly a choice."
You whipped your head around. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"I mean, they're slaves to the Nightsisters, right? I know you like being in control but—"
"Are you kidding me?" You shouted, turning a few heads. "He is not— I would never! I can't believe you'd say something like that! You fucking—"
You couldn't organize your thoughts into anything coherent. That made you angrier, because they didn't deserve the satisfaction of watching you fall apart over something they said.
"Relax." They touched your arm. "You don't need to be so dramatic—"
Maul appeared behind them.
You didn't see him cross the square. Neither did your ex, who didn't register the danger that lurked behind them.
"Let go of her."
They finally turned around. Up close, Maul was a lot to process. The horns, tattoos, piercing, golden eyes that radiated malice. He was a tall, lean mass of muscle and durasteel. Many thought he was terrifying, your ex part of them. You thought he was handsome, but you hadn't mentioned that out loud yet.
"We were just talking, man." They didn't let go of your arm.
Maul lifted one hand, his index and thumb pinched together. Your ex's grip vanished from your arm as they clawed desperately at their throat, gasping in wet, strangled gulps.
He held the choke for longer than necessary. You realized when their lips turned blue that you should probably say something.
"Maul, let them go."
The choke lasted for two more seconds, then your ex collapsed to the duracrete in a graceless heap of bile and spit. Maul stepped over them and walked back over to the stalls. The onlookers went back to their shopping, and chatter and music filled the square again.
You looked down at your ex, who was staring at you with watery eyes and a blotchy face. You leaned down, placing your hands on your knees.
"I'd stay down if I were you."
You caught up to Maul at the stall selling engine parts. His fingers cradled a tag listing the specifications for an intake manifold. You rubbed your arms, watching his face.
"Hey." You waited until Maul looked at you. "I'm sorry for what they said. I've never thought—" You sighed. "You're not a slave, and neither are your brothers."
Maul set the tag down.
"You did not say it."
"I know but—"
"You have nothing to apologize for."
You peeked over his shoulder while he browsed the manifolds. He stopped at one that read 'supercharged' on the tag in bright red letters.
"You don't need that," you said, nudging him with your shoulder.
Maul unhooked the tag and walked to the vendor. "That is not up to you."
can i request headcanons with where the clones like to be kissed and where they like to kiss reader? ^^
thank you, and have a lovely day/night 🫶
Clones x reader: favourite places to kiss and be kissed
warnings: might get slightly suggestive a few times but it's not much
A/N: count how many times i wrote kissed, it's too many :3
comments and reblogs are very appreciated :D
The Bad Batch
Hunter
Kiss: A heavy make-out session is too overstimulating for him but a quick kiss right on your mouth? He loves to do it so much.
Be kissed: Loves to feel your lips against his temple, especially when he was tense the entire day and can feel a headache coming on. You have a relaxing effect on him in a way.
Tech
Kiss: Doesn't initiate physical contact often but loves to sometimes take your hand and place a kiss along your knuckles in a more casual way to show his love.
Be kissed: His cheek. He doesn't know why but it's probably because it's not too intimate while still showing physical closeness.
Wrecker
Kiss: It's so hard for him to decide that because he honestly loves kissing every part of you but if he had to say something, he'd say the crown of your head because that's the easiest for him to reach at all times.
Be kissed: Loves when you kiss his mouth. It makes him feel close to you in a way he can't describe and he adores it.
Crosshair
Kiss: Loves to kiss your lips. I mean, are we surprised? This man has an oral fixation and he loves to bite your lower lip too while he's at it.
Be kissed: Will never admit it, but that space between his eyebrows that's always furrowed. It reminds him to relax sometimes and it helps with his tension headaches.
Echo
Kiss: Your nose. He loves how you scrunch it every time he does and how a smile spreads on your face no matter how much you try to suppress it.
Be kissed: There's a lot of places that are now way too sensitive but some, like his jaw or his mouth, stayed similar enough and he loves those little gestures of intimacy when you kiss him.
Commanders
Wolffe
Kiss: Your neck, though honestly, his kissing could be almost misinterpreted as biting when he kisses yout neck between love bites and the lines blur.
Be kissed: A kiss around his scar or right on it will make him shiver. It's a place of vulnerability for him and he doesn't just let anyone touch it.
Fox
Kiss: The space right under your ear because every time he comes home, he'll lean his head on your shoulder and breathe you in, placing soft kisses in that space.
Be kissed: The place in his jaw where he holds all the tension from holding back snarky remarks all day. It reminds him to stop grinding his teeth and your mouth is just a turn from his head away.
Cody
Kiss: Loves placing little kisses on the back of your neck as he hugs you from behind, and how you shiver slightly at the touch. You always and without doubt turn around in his arms and kiss him properly, making him smile.
Be kissed: The corner of his mouth. It makes him smile and he loves placing a hand on your cheek and turning your head to capture your kiss in a proper kiss.
501st
Rex
Kiss: He likes to pull you into a keldabe kiss after an especially hard battle, just to feel you, feel your breath on his face and know that you're still alive and well
Be kissed: He loves it just as much when you pull him into a kedabe kiss. Sometimes kissing is just too much after a battle and he'd rather enjoy your presence.
Fives
Kiss: Places little smooches all over your face whenever he can because it makes you smile and he gets to touch even more of you.
Be kissed: Lovesss when you pull him into a kiss on the mouth loves it even more when you complain about his goatee tickling, even though you initiated the kiss.
Jesse
Kiss: The space under your jaw that he can reach perfectly when he's pulled you into his lap and looks up at you.
Be kissed: Somewhere between his collarbone and shoulder. Loves when you run your hands over that space and give him a slight massage, especially after a hard day, and then lean down to place kisses along the space that holds so much tension.
Kix
Kiss: Either your neck or your wrist, just so he can feel your pulse under his lips. Just so he knows you're well and alive.
Be kissed: On his forehead for no other reason than he deserves forehead kisses.
Hardcase
Kiss: Honestly he just loves kissing every part but his favourite must be the places where you're especially ticklish because it makes you love and that's music to his ears.
Be kissed: When you kiss along his various tattoos. He spent a lot of time on their designs and it's what makes him unique so every time you appreciate them, he melts.
Dogma
Kiss: He's a respectcul of intimacy and likes to take your hand and place kisses along your knuckles. It's not too intimate that he gets overwhelmed but it still makes him feel close to you.
Be kissed: When you kiss him on the forehead, he melts instantly and looks at you with big puppy eyes. (Admitting he likes it is another thing)
Tup
Kiss: He's a bit shy with it at first but he loves to sneak a peck on your cheek whenever he can.
Be kissed: Super sensitive along his neck and adores when you place soft kisses on his throat and his collarbones.
Misc.
Howzer
Kiss: Super romantic and will ask every time before capturing your lips in a kiss that leave you breathless every time.
Be kissed: On the top of his head. It makes him blush slightly each time and he complains about you messing up his hair but he just adores it way too much for no reason.
Ok so hear me out, what about reader taking care of sick Maul, but like, it's Rebels Maul
maul x reader: both are true
summary: maul shows up half dead on your doorstep five years after you left him.
word count: 3,331
cw: MEDICAL GORE this is much, much more graphic that something other than pain. the reader is debriding necrotic flesh from maul. please, please be mindful if you are squeamish. very whumpy, hurt/comfort, but very little emotional comfort. devon haunts the narrative.
a/n: i want yall to know i spent like two days researching for the medical portion of this fic. my search history is. Concerning.
i also want to thank @zenosyneee for telling me about their experience with debriding during their surgical rotation as a med student. they should know what section of this fic was inspired by what they told me lmao. do yall know how cool it is that i have an actual doctor messaging me about my fics? its really cool. like, super fucking cool.
and as a disclaimer: i am not a medical professional. i cut dog hair for a living. i just have adhd and have a hyperfixation on medicine and was a vet assistant many years ago. if something is inaccurate, im sorry *cries*
this is kinda connected to something other than pain, but you don't have to read that fic to understand this one!
Five years is a long time to rehearse what you'd say. You've had whole vicious arguments with him in your head. The kind where he all but falls to his knees and apologizes because nothing stops you from your childish fantasies.
None of them start with Maul leaning on your door frame. None of them accounted for the stench of fruit left to liquefy in the sun — the too familiar sugar-slick rot that clings to the back of your throat. Not the wet pulls of his breath, nor the way his sweat dampened skin pales to the color of salmon.
"I need your help."
His weight hits you chest first. You catch him underneath his arms, the two of you staggering backwards. You're in your fifties now, and Maul is over six feet tall and everything below his waist is durasteel. Your back hits the counter, knees nearly buckling under his weight. The fever-hot heat from his skin radiates through his clothes.
Adrenaline helps you carry Maul to the clinic. He's conscious enough to lay face down on the bed, and lift himself slightly when you cut away his shirt. Webs of necrotic tissue stretched across the seam where his cybernetic chassis met the ruined landscape of his lower back. The surrounding live tissue was drawn taut and glossy from gnarled, inflamed scars.
You cared for his back for years. The graft collar was a magnet for moisture and bacteria, prone to infection and pressure wounds if Maul wasn't careful. He had always been so meticulous about his hygiene, yet some skin would still slough off from time to time. With a prosthetic this invasive, it was inevitable.
This? This is neglect, but you could be angry at him when he's stable.
You activate the medscanner, then snap on a pair of gloves. A tray clatters to the ground as you frantically gather a catheter and prep an IV pump. The scanner blares in warning as you slide the cannula into his hand, and you glance at the screen to confirm the abysmally low blood pressure and tachycardic dual hearts. At least they still beat simultaneously.
Front line opioids were not an option. His fractioned muscle mass rendered the creatine based renal calculations unreliable . If his kidneys were failing from the sepsis, morphine would build in his blood until the drug became its own poison. The speed at which you pull the Ketamine would impress any 2-1B droid.
"I'm about to give you something for the pain. You'll feel really fuzzy."
Maul lifts his head slightly. "I have become indifferent to pain."
"I know."
You watch his vitals as you slowly push the loading dose into the Y port with bated breath. For three agonizing seconds, nothing changes. Then finally, his blood pressure begins to climb.
You exhale. The rigid, defiant tension melted from Maul's shoulders, his body going slack on the bed, breath evening out. You lean into his line of sight, satisfied when you see his pupils blown wide, gaze glossy.
"How does your back feel, Maul?"
His eyes slowly drag towards the sound of your voice. He seems to stare right through you, blinking once as if his eyes were weighed down by lead.
"Can't feel it…" Maul slurs.
You nod. "Good."
With his vitals stabilizing, you move quickly to spike a bag of plasma expanders into the IV tree, meticulously calibrating the pump's flow rate — a bisected circulatory system means a much smaller fluid capacity, and a fraction too much could flood his organs. You piggyback a loading dose of Vanomycin into the line to fight the sepsis, then set a steady Ketamine drip to keep Maul sedated.
Stepping towards his lower back, you strip off your contaminated gloves for a fresh, sterile pair and organize your tray: a sonic scalpel, forceps, gauze, and a concentrated bacta flush. The chlorhexidine clashes with the reek of rot as you scrub the borders of living tissue on Maul's back.
You pick up the scalpel and begin to carve away the necrotic tissue into thin, leathery tendrils. He doesn't talk at first — the quiet only broken by the rhythmic pulse of your med scanner. Maul's golden eyes remain fixed on the wall ahead, tracking invisible phantoms in a slow, rhythmic drift.
His voice is low and raspy when he finally speaks, stripped of all cadence.
"It's…cold in here."
You strip away another section of flesh, and drop it into a kidney dish with a wet thud.
"The cold slows bacteria growth, and keeps me from sweating under the lights."
A section near the inferior serratus tunneled beyond your sight. You set down the scalpel, and gently insert your fingers into the wound. The swollen, velvet-slick tissue binds your knuckles — constricting them between the ribs and sheets of muscle along his posterior chest wall.
You move slowly, prodding to check the tissue density. The healthy, inflamed muscle resists your touch like a taut rubber band. As your fingertips sweep deeper along the underside of his rib, you brush against what feels like an overfilled balloon the size of a grape. You apply steady, downward pressure along the base, the Yankauer already in your other hand.
The pustule gives with a wet pop as the thin membrane ruptures, coating your fingers in a thick, overheated ooze. You insert the aspirator into the cavity, keeping your fingers inside the tunnel to prevent the muscle from collapsing shut. Opaque purulence streaked with black blood slurs through the tubing, the corpse-like stench strong enough to burn your eyes. You quietly thank yourself for sticking the alcohol pad inside your mask before beginning the procedure.
The suction eventually gives way to a sharp, hollow hiss as the pocket drains completely. You brush against the floor of the sack, your nail catching onto a fibrous sheet of dead tissue clinging to the surface of the muscle bed. You lay the aspirator aside and pull the ringed curette from the tray. Sliding the loop along the length of your fingers, you hook the edge beneath the slimy tissue. And with a gentle, scooping twist of your wrist, the blackened, rotten mass tears away, and finds its new home on the kidney dish.
"Devon…"
Your hand hesitates for a fraction of a second, then you keep working.
"You…you don't understand. He held you back…The Jedi." Maul's words slur together like his tongue is too thick for his mouth. "I made you strong…Don't leave. You are not finished…"
Maul shifts on the table, catching the shape of your face in the harsh, clinic light. The authority drains out of him in a single, hollow breath, the delirium flooding back in.
"You're not her," he whispers. "Where is she?"
You inhale slowly. "I don't know, Maul."
"…She left."
"Yeah."
"Why did you go?"
You don't answer. The scalpel cuts through more flesh, the metal now shiny with healthy, red blood.
"Do you think I don't love you?"
Your eyes flutter shut. He is high. It's the Ketamine talking. That knowledge doesn't make the question hurt any less. You mourn Devon, the sweet but lost girl whose life was shattered when she found out the truth of what Maul did. You mourn the version of Maul who rested his head on your stomach to nap in the afternoon. And you mourn yourself, standing here in your fifties in a backwater clinic, still cleaning up his wreckage.
"Keep your head still, Maul," you say.
You set the scalpel down with a metallic clack in the tray. Reaching for the irrigation tubing, you hook up a bag of saline infused with the concentrated bacta, and point the nozzle at the cavity of the graft collar. A pressurized stream of warm fluid blasts into the open wound, flushing out debris and dried blood clinging to its surface. The runoff spills over his hips and drains into the surgical towels you tucked underneath him. Maul mumbles something low and incomprehensible, lost somewhere in the fog of his own mind.
He mutters in Dathomiri, Huttese, and Basic — you make out the holocrons and Malachor. Something about a temple and a door that needs two to open. And Kenobi. Always Kenobi.
Maul finally quiets when you finish cleaning the cavity. The scanner shows his vitals returning to his baseline. You lay down the tubing and grab a roll of bacta-soaked packing gauze. Using long, blunt forceps, you push the strips tightly into the wound, and the gaps between the durasteel chassis and his physical body.
"You are as exquisite as the day you left me."
You don't stop this time. It's the Ketamine. It's just the Ketamine. You're in your clinic, packing Maul's tunneling wounds. It's not five years ago, when you were standing at the ramp of his ship, turning around to look at him one last time.
You, foolish even in your fifties, glance over to Maul's face. He looks at you the way he used to when he thought you were asleep. You force your gaze back to his lower back before the tears can spill over.
With his wound tightly packed, you lay a secondary absorbent dressing, securing the edges with surgical tape. You smooth the adhesive down against his crimson skin, thumbs lingering a second or two longer than necessary.
You adjust the dial on his IV pump to a low, maintenance dose. His twin hearts are still beating fast, but steady now, unlike the wild, erratic spikes from earlier. The antibiotics are still waging war with the sepsis, but his blood pressure is steady.
"You have to lie like this for a while." Your hands begin to tremble as you strip off the blood-stained gloves. "Tell me if you feel lightheaded or nauseous."
You sit on a stool next to his bed, lights dimmed to a soft, amber wash. You massage the sore abductor of your thumb — decades of surgical work and life in the Shadow Collective had finally caught up to your body. And with the adrenaline that fueled you through Maul's treatment depleted, you feel hollowed out. You should eat something; shower, maybe.
You lean your elbows on your knees and watch Maul sleep instead.
The line of his brow is smooth for likely the first time in five years. His jaw, usually clenched tight enough to crack teeth, lies slack against the pillow. He even drools a little. You refuse to allow yourself to call it cute.
You trace the crown of vestigial horns down to the hollows underneath his eyes. Maul's face had always been sharp, but there was a time when his cheeks had been almost full. When you insisted that you share at least one meal together every day, regardless of whether you were upset at each other or not.
You loved him then. Stars, you still loved the ghost of him now.
Do you think I don't love you?
It was a special kind of torment to know that question had been rotting away inside him for the past five years.
You thought of Devon. How her eyes could never fully commit to the gold that infected Maul's own. That sweet, smart girl who once dragged him half-dead to you, tears in her eyes, because she couldn't lose another master. The same girl who later pointed her lightsaber at you, demanding did you know? You didn't. But you stayed with Maul after she left, which was just as cruel. She deserved better than your complicity, and the endless cycle of violence that consumed everything Maul touched.
You place your hand over his. He doesn't wake, but his lips purse and he swallows. You reach over and gently wipe the drool away from his cheek, then caress his face.
"I still love you," you whisper. "I never stopped."
You doze in the chair, and jolt awake when the IV pump informs you that the infusion is complete with a light, yet obnoxious chime. It's when you mute the alarm that you realize Maul is awake and looking at you, the Ketamine fog fading away.
"That was your antibiotics," you mumble, and look at the chrono on the wall. "And you're due for more pain meds."
Maul swallows. "I don't—"
"Yes you do."
You're already up, washing your hands and slipping on a pair of gloves. With the TLA and Ketamine wearing off, he'd be in agony soon. And you didn't care what he went through on Lotho Minor, you refused to let him suffer like that under your care.
You swab the Y port with an alcohol pad, and push Hydromorphone, waiting every two minutes before depressing the plunger again.
"You'll feel a little warm. Your nose may itch too, but that's normal."
Maul lets out a long, shuddering exhale as the drug hits his bloodstream, flooding him with waves of pain relief from the raw flesh on his back.
"Any pain?" you ask softly, tossing the needle in the sharps container when you finish.
He shakes his head, then tries to slowly push himself up.
"No, no, lay down." You press your hand between his shoulder blades. "You vomit on my floor, you're cleaning it up."
Maul grumbles and plops back down on the bed. It's not cute. You can't call it cute. You huff and strip off your gloves, rubbing a tired hand over your eyes.
"I'll let you sit up and eat in about fifteen minutes, then I have to change your dressing."
You leave him prone while you step out of the room to warm up nutrient-dense bone broth, something your gastroparesis patients prefer to the bland, nutropaste.
When you walk back into the room, Maul is trying to sit up again. You nearly spill the bone broth scrambling over to him.
"I told you to be still—"
"I need to…relieve myself."
"Well, you can't get up yet."
You find a handheld urinal in your supplies, and Maul immediately tenses when you set it on the tray.
"No," he growls.
"Maul—"
"I will not—"
"You don't understand how fragile your back is right now." You place a hand on his shoulder and lean down. "Maul, we were together for fifteen years. I know it's humiliating, but remember I'm a doctor. And I've seen every inch of you."
His silence is how you know he relents. It takes an act of the galactic senate to log-roll Maul onto his side, but you manage, and place a pillow between his legs to stabilize him. You hand him the urinal and turn around to give him what little privacy the situation allows.
The silence is awful. You don't need sensitivity in the Force to feel the humiliation rolling off of Maul. You stare at the far wall, rolling through your thoughts to find something that isn't clinical.
"Remember when I made you bring me an enema at three in the morning because I refused to go to the medcenter? I was crying."
He is silent for only a few seconds, then slurs: "I remember when you urinated on me during sex."
You close your eyes, and press a hand over your mouth to muffle the laughter that shakes your shoulders.
"That was one time, and to be fair, I told you I needed to go."
"It was twice."
You nearly turn around. "It was not twice."
"Nar Shaddaa. You were too drunk to remember."
"Were we having sex?"
"You were trying. I wouldn't let you."
"Then that doesn't count."
"Not by my account."
You're too focused on suppressing your laughter to retort. Five years apart, a brush with death, head full of opioids, and he still remembers the specifics of the incidents.
You wipe the tears from your eyes when he's finished, dispose of the urinal, and wash your hands. When you turn back to give him the bone broth, Maul is watching you. The look is something you'd dare to call reverent, but you can't. It's the pain meds. You have to keep reminding yourself of that. Ketamine, Hydromorphone. That's all this is.
You place a straw inside of the cup to help him drink, and busy yourself with gathering the supplies to change his dressing. Fifteen years together, five years apart, and it took not even ninety seconds to fall back into the rhythm of two people who knew every humiliating detail about each other and stayed regardless.
Except you didn't.
"Your thoughts," Maul says, the cup now placed on the side table. "They are still so loud. Even with…the drug."
You lick your lips and snap on another pair of gloves.
"I need to roll you back over to change your dressing."
His eyes track you as you ease the pillow from between his legs.
"You are still…avoidant."
You can't refute it even if you had the energy to lie. Instead, you keep your hands steady on Maul's knee and hip, guiding his cybernetic legs as you gently roll him onto his stomach.
"I'm not avoidant," you say, shoving the pillow underneath his chest. "I'm focused."
"I have heard that before."
You grab the adhesive remover from the tray and soak a square of gauze, applying it to the strips of tape anchoring his outer dressing. The solvent smells sharp, a clean chemical tang cutting through the scent of warm broth and sweat.
"Did you lose your medical droid?" You ask, working the tape from his skin. "Is that why you let it get this bad?"
His muscles tense underneath your fingers.
"That is not your concern."
"It is my concern when you show up on my doorstep half dead."
You set the gauze onto the biohazard tray and inspect the wound. The bacta packing in the cavity along his lower back is intact, clean, and clotted. The coils of muscle are dark red and healthy.
"You forfeited that right when you left."
You inhale slowly, reaching for a sponge to clean the outer margins of the wound.
"I left because I couldn't watch you kill yourself." You toss the sponge with a bit too much force onto the tray. "Yet here you are anyway."
Maul remains quiet for a few moments while you open the package for a fresh dressing.
"Where else would I have gone?"
You scoff. "Don't act like you don't have a plethora of resources at your disposal."
"I don't trust them as I trust you."
You press the pad over his wound, securing them with more strips of heavy duty tape across his hot, tattooed skin.
"You knew I couldn't say no." You strip off your gloves and drop them on the tray. "That's why you're here."
"Both are true."
You turn away from the table, stepping over to the basin, and hit the water sensor to wash your hands.
Both are true.
In the reflection of the window, you meet his eyes.
"That is the cruelest thing you've ever said to me," you say, voice low over the flow of water.
"It's…not an insult." Maul slurs. "It means...you are loyal."
You shut off the water and dry your hands on a flimsi towel, turning back to face him. His golden eyes are half-lidded now, pupils pinpricks under the heavy pull of the narcotic. The tight, defensive lock in his jaw slackens again.
"Go to sleep, Maul." You step back to his side and drape the light blanket over his hips.
He grunts. "You will…still be here?"
The question is so small — so devoid of the grand, terrifying Shadow Lord he forced the galaxy to see. Five years apart, and beneath all the hatred and obsession with revenge, Maul is still afraid of waking up to an empty room.
"I'll be right here," you tell him, pulling the low stool back over and sitting down beside the bed. "I have charts to update. I'm not going anywhere."
Maul's cheek settles on the pillow. Within moments, the rhythmic beep of his twin heart slows on the monitor.
tag list: tag list : @ninthqueen @lady-bess @lady-aires @maulsboobwindow @thelilypadlounge @erenstitanweave @limousinecatblog @timeladymorsillon @shitty-pigeon-nest @desizdelusions @purechickenwing @weoweo8 @night-erudite @kimbasfanfics @lindseybaby @and-bone-appetit @anishininew @jayleeslasher @aneccentriccatgirl @ive-made-so-many-mistakes @lastmelonbc @sickasthieves @brainvomit11240 @holamor
Hey. Minors following me. Internet safety is key!! NEVER include these in your bio/byf:
Medical diagnoses - this is nobody's business but yours. You don't owe anyone an explanation for why you are the way that you are
Trauma - same reason as above
Triggers - people can use these against you! Don't give people tools to hurt you. No one has to know what tags you block. Just block tags to stay safe!
Age - age is okay for adults to include but is iffy when you're a teen. Predators want this information, don't give people more than they need. Just state that you're a minor, that's all that anyone needs to know.
In general: stay safe. If you're not comfortable with every stranger out there having access to this information, you shouldn't post it on the internet.
Play devil's advocate and ask yourself about what would happen if someone searched for your information with intent to hurt you. You do NOT owe anyone an explanation!
adding on to this post, i agree w all of OPs points, but i also highly advise against super young teens posting their face on the internet, its so easy to take peoples selfies + name and find stuff out like your school and then figure out the rough area in which you live. same with your phone number. be super careful about what you put out there. once you post it, it really is here forever.
OP already said this so I’m just reiterating to emphasize:
The golden rule of information sharing on the internet is: What would happen if someone saw this who wanted to hurt me?
If the answer is that it would make it easier to harass you, identify you, contact you, or god forbid find you, don’t put it online. You can’t fully control who does and does not see that information--not even with privacy settings.
And also: Why tell people you are a minor? It will not keep you safer. It makes you a target for predators - you've now told them that you do NOT have experience identifying them, and you probably don't have friends who know how to spot the red flags in a "friendly" DM.
Years ago, chatrooms were full of creeps whose first question in private chat was always "A/S/L" - age/sex/location.
Now you guys post that stuff in your twitter profiles so they don't have to ask before deciding if you're a good target.
a/n girl iono what this is, but here's to my first one shot (clinks glass) idk why i'm nervous (btw requests & taglist are open if you're interested)
From this dizzying height, the Undercity unfurls below. A tapestry of ethereal greens and golds, luminescence piercing through the murky haze—stark silhouettes of buildings jut upwards, defiant sentinels of black and grey amidst the swirling miasma. Its signature sickly green fog blankets the metropolis; coils around structures and seeps into every crevice, a suffocating embrace.
Your feet graze over the edge, toes curling over where solid ground gives way to a yawning abyss. The boundary between life and oblivion is razor-thin here. One small shift, imbalance, and gravity would claim you.
The wind whispers seductive promises of flight, tugging at your clothes, daring you to test the limits—it’s a heady mix of terror and exhilaration.
The precipice beckons, a siren call you’ve never heeded this far before. Each step tracked each loss that then etched into your very bones. First, it was your father, consumed by the blight. Almost expected. It was a degradation the Undercity-born was familiar with. Then, your sister, life snuffed out by an enforcer’s merciless fist. The brutes. Now, your mother, long adrift in her own ocean of grief. You’d become little more than ghosts haunting the same halls, the world’s greed carving an insurmountable chasm between you.
Logic screams that your presence here is madness. The need for comfort, for solace only another soul can provide, wars against reality. You long to bridge the gap, find someone’s warmth, spit out the bitter poison fed by the relentless suffering.
If not today, then tomorrow, or the day after—the world will take again. This grim lottery where Death deals the cards. Will it be the fist of an enforcer or the invisible killers that saturate every breath?
Are you really contemplating this?
“Bit dangerous, don’t you think?” a voice, velvet and silk, cuts blade-like through your contemplation.
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. A jolt of surprise sends you teetering forward. Heart pounding, you stumble back from the edge.
Whirling around, you fix the intruder with a glare. His dark silhouette materialised a few feet away like some spectral apparition, leaning against the roof with an infuriating nonchalance. A cigar dangled between his fingers, wisp of smoke curling around his face.
His eyes, half-moons of disinterest, survey you with the casual indifference of someone observing an insect. It makes a look that makes your spine straighten, your earlier melancholy rapidly morphing into irritation.
“Sort of the point,” you spit back, words tasting of bitterness and bravado. You slide a step away, creating further distance between you and him. The roof suddenly feels too small. Who is he? What does he want? And more importantly, how dare he interrupt your affair with oblivion?
He responds with a half-shrug, somehow making it an eloquent gesture of his impassivity. Drawing a deep breath from his cigar, he exhales a cloud of smoke that hangs in the air like a tangible manifestation of your growing annoyance.
Your mind races and falters. Is he really just going to stand there? Not that you want to be stopped, but his nonchalance was… unsettling? A highly irregular response to finding someone conversing with non-existence. Though, the idea was not novel—a common fate for many under dwellers.
You turn back to face the sprawling cityscape, trying to ignore the insidious tendrils of smoke that start coiling around your senses. The question burns in your mind: What is he doing here? This moment was supposed to be yours alone. You hadn’t anticipated a witness for your last moments.
Unable to resist, you shoot him another glare, only to find him utterly disinterested in your turmoil. He’s busy scraping something off the underside of his boot, as if the grime of the city is more worthy of his attention than your life-or-death deliberation.
Frustration boils over, and your words escape you before you can stop them. “Are you just going to stand there?” the question cuts through the silence and he looks up, meeting you gaze with those half-drooped eyes.
His face remains a mask of calm, thoroughly unaffected by your hostility. It’s a further irritant how much your obvious displeasure slides off him.
“You want me to catch you, or something?” he drawls, tone a perfect blend of sarcasm and boredom that makes your blood even hotter.
His words hang between, a challenge and a dismissal all at once.
“What are you doing here?” you strike back, impatience sharpening your words.
He takes another languid drag from his cigar, smoke veiling his face. “What—can I not be?” his voice carries a hint of amusement as he pushes off from the wall. Each step towards you is a study in fluid grace, soft and languid. “Like you, I can appreciate Zaun’s skyline. Seems we just have a point of preference,”
He halts a few feet away, gaze drawn to the cityscape below. The proximity allows you to truly observe him for the first time, the details etching themselves into your memory with startling clarity.
His eyes, a stormy blue, almost grey when drenched behind mist. They’re set in a face that could have been chiselled from marble—all sharp angles and clean lines, giving him an almost shark-like profile. Long, dark hair is gathered into a careless bun at the nape of his neck, rebellious strands escaping to frame his face, softening the harsh edges ever so slightly.
A spark of gallows humour flickers to life within you, at last a defiant flame against the dark. “Ah,” you nod, wariness still evident in the tension of your shoulders while a sardonic smile curls your lips. “Planning a dive, too, are you?”
A huff escapes him—a sound that might charitably be called laughter, but falls short of genuine mirth.
Suddenly, the name snaps you back to reality. Zaun. The word carries with it its reputation and weight. So few people use the name that it stands more so for people that had “rebel” ideas rather than what it was created for. Your eyes narrow. “You’re one of those… revolutionists, huh?”
He turns to you, face still angled downward, but his gaze locks onto yours with an intensity that momentarily catches your air. You fumble for composure, scraping together the dregs of your wit.
“Nation of Zaun, children, brothers, sisters,” you intone, bobbing your head in mock-solemn gesture as you attempt to recall the group’s motto. The words taste foreign on your tongue, like reciting a prayer to a god you’ve never believed in.
His brow shifts slightly. “Is that mockery?” the question hangs, but not accusatory, rather tinged with a gentle curiosity that catches you off guard.
You shrug. “Sure is an idea,” you mutter, words running away before you can fully process them. You’ve never given it much thought before, too entrenched in the sorrow that’s dogged your family’s steps like perpetually wet shoes, leaving its trail of misery.
This time, he turns to face you fully, his complete attention zeroing in on you. It halts you momentarily, but you push through, averting your gaze as you continue.
“Idealistic. Hard-headed,” you pause, then look up to meet his eyes, your own gaze hardening. “Unrealistic,”
His head tilts slightly, reminiscent of a predator assessing its prey. “You don’t agree with us?”
You exhale sharply, a sound caught between a laugh and a sigh. The revolutionary ideals tumble around you head like a well-worn shopping list. Independence, rid of topside’s clutches, own leadership, own government. “No, I do,” you admit, surprising yourself. Your brows furrow, grappling with the contradiction between your words and your earlier mockery. “Just ballsy, I suppose. It’s never been done, uncharted waters and all that,”
He nods, absorbing your perspective with a thoughtfulness that makes something in you quiver as if in surrender. You find yourself studying his eyes, that stormy blue-grey gaze that seems to hold secrets of their own. They flicker with an inner light as he searches for his response, and you're struck by the intensity of his conviction.
“Then how are we ever to find new land?” he says finally, his voice low and resolute. The simple statement carries an undercurrent of determination that sends a shiver down your back.
“We seem to be surviving fine,” you say, your words dripping with trying humour, a brittle shield.
His response isn't the sad attempt at laughter. Instead, his brow quirks upward, a subtle gesture that feels like a probe into your very secrets. “Then what drove you here?”
You're caught off-balance. How did he read you so easily, peeling back your layers in mere moments? Your gaze darts away, then back to his piercing eyes, discomfort radiating from every pore. “That’s hardly your concern,” you attempt a smile, but it's a weak thing.
“But I can bet it’s one of the following,” he drawls, taking a long, deliberate drag from his cigar. The smoke curls around him like a living thing as he continues. “Lung blight from working in factories, lung blight from working in the mines, or a stray enforcer who got a little too… harsh,” the smoke drifts and drowns you both, swarming your heads in a little bubble.
You inhale, feeling the intoxicating tendrils crawl up into your head, a silent song of temporary escape. Your eyes fix on his cigar, mesmerised. Does it fuel his poetic responses and that maddeningly indifferent stare? You wonder, your hands rising of their own accord, reaching to pluck the cigar from his grasp.
You rest it between your lips, inhaling deeply. The acrid smoke fills your lungs, a familiar burn that grounds you in this surreal moment. With practised ease, you exhale, your tongue crafting perfect smoke rings that float lazily between you. They dissipate against his face, a ghostly caress that lingers.
Your lips twitch, suppressing a smile as his eyes bore into yours. Is he entertained? Infuriated? His face remains an impassive mask, giving nothing away.
“Been trying to learn that,” he says, gaze flickering between the cigar in your hand and your eyes. There's a hint of something else in his voice.
You shrug, aiming for nonchalance. You hope your demeanour mirrors his earlier bored facade. “It’s all the tongue,”
His eyebrow arches slightly. “Is that so?” he murmurs. “And here I thought it was about control,”
You take another drag, letting the smoke curl around your lips before speaking. “Control is part of it,” you concede, voice low. “But flexibility is key,”
He reaches for the cigar, fingers brushing yours as he takes it. “Show me,” he challenges, eyes never leaving yours.
You lean in, forcing your gaze to fixate on the smoke and its origin. Nothing else. “It’s all about the right pressure,” you pause, your breath a ghost drifting from you, as if absorbed by him. “Too much, and it falls apart. Too little, nothing happens at all,”
He inhales deeply, eyes latched onto yours, then attempts a ring. It’s clumsy, dissolving almost instantly. “Pitiful,” he huffs, frustration and amusement colouring him.
You can’t help but chuckle. “Close,”
As if instinctively, he rolls his eyes. “Don’t be kind,”
Is that a dare? Your brows twitch in brief process. You take the cigar back. “Relax your lips, circular,” your eyes fall to his mouth, mimicking yours subconsciously. “Bend your tongue down. Tip on the bottom of your mouth,”
“Mhm,” he hums.
You demonstrate, creating a perfect ring that quivers over his shoulder.
“I see,” he mutters, watching, mesmerised. Whether by the ring or your mouth, you don’t want to know.
Nodding, a slow smile spreads your lips. “Delicate,” you raise the cigar his way.
He takes it with his lips, hooking his fingers around and taking a long drag.
You find yourself captivated by his attempts at smoke rings. As he inhales, his eyes close, a moment of quiet concentration. They flutter open to witness his handiwork—thin, frail rings that dissipate quickly in the air. The corner of his mouth twitches, a hint of a smile breaking through his stoic facade.
He tries again a few times, clearly taken by this newfound skill. His presence has shifted, no longer infuriating but almost... playful.
Emboldened, you gather your courage and circle back to his earlier question. "All of the above," you say, your words herding his attention back to you. Your voice is steady, but there's an undercurrent of pain you couldn't quite strap back. “My dad worked in the mines, and my sister... she got in with the wrong crowd. Crossed some enforcers on the wrong day.”
His eyes soften, a wordless apology that's more than enough. You've never been one for overly expressed sympathies anyway.
“And mom's been showing…” your voice trails off as your mind drifts to your mother's face, the image of her becoming more gaunt with each passing month etched painfully in your memory. It's a familiar process, one you've seen play out in countless Undercity families. Someone's mother or father always showing signs of the blight. Now it's your turn to watch it unfold in your own home. “Declining,” you finish, the word heavy on your tongue.
The light atmosphere dissipates, replaced by a shared understanding of the Undercity's—no, Zaun's harsh realities. You stand there, smoke curling between you.
“It’s never easy, is it?” he says softly, words simple but sincere. He takes another drag of the cigar then offers it back to you. "But we endure," the tone seems to challenge your earlier actions—asking, are you still thinking about it?
You accept the cigar, fingers brushing his. With a long drag, you let the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling slowly. "Guess it's just what we Zaunites do, right?" you take a step away from the edge, nearing his side.
An amused smile finally tugs at his lips.
He was a stranger mere moments ago, and yet here you are, mixing tastes and sharing ideologies. Names seem almost irrelevant. Still, you offer yours, falling from your lips like a confession.
He repeats it, sounding entirely new as his voice wore each letter in that silk tone, escaping his mouth alongside whispers of smoke.
“Silco,” he gives back, the name igniting a spark of recognition that raises your brows as you return his cigar.
The name echoes in your mind, often whispered in the same breath as 'Vander'—the two faces of the revolution. The muscle and the voice of a movement that promised to reshape Zaun's future.
“Mm,” you murmur, your eyes tracing the contours of his face with newfound interest, drinking him in. Each line, each shadow takes on new significance as you piece together the man behind the name. “Not just a revolutionist. The revolutionist,”
A short laugh escapes him, a rare sound that seems to surprise even him. He brings the cigar to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours. There's a burning in his gaze that pins you in place, making you acutely aware of every breath.
He takes a deep drag, the ember glowing bright in the dim light of Zaun's eternal twilight. As he exhales, your attention is drawn inexorably to his mouth.
A more practised smoke ring emerges, expanding and drifting between you. It's a marked improvement from his earlier attempts, a physical manifestation of how quickly he learns, adapts. You find yourself wondering what other skills he might possess.
prguitarman
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