#dark sw

“The chassis on that pod looks fucking shoddy.” 

“Should’ve put my money on that scrappy human from Coruscant….”

While the more technical jargon of other spectators more or less went over your head, it simply made the evening all the more enjoyable and real. To be in the shoulder to shoulder crowds of raucous fans, watching as the splayed herd of podracers hit the first corner at the start while kicking up the coarse sand of the desert…

Surely, the crowds were overwhelmingly harsh, debauched and perhaps even dangerous, but nevertheless the race remained completely thrilling and compelling, drawing you in with the impossible speeds and moments of inevitable chaotic destruction whenever a racer met an unfortunate fate. 

This, the feeling of being out from under the thumb of your father, of being able to exist elsewhere and stand on your own two feet without his heavy presence a stride away felt all too satisfying. Yes, he might be hovering above the damned planet in one of his star destroyers, tending to his own affairs, but just the illusion of independence had you aching for a more realized separation.

Not too long after the race ended, along with a grumbling flow of spectators, you left the circuit, trying to remember where you had landed the transport hours earlier. 

Perhaps it lay just beyond the outskirts? Or maybe it was a bit closer?

After such a long day spent broiling in the notorious Tatooine heat, it was difficult to think in complete strains of thought. You had been ill prepared, opting to focus on keeping your own identity swathed instead of actually accommodating for the harsh temperatures. 

Still, even heat exhaustion could not account for the complete lack of coherent thinking and proper mechanical coordination that you needed to simply walk from the circuit to your transport. This was something more precise and intentional. Each step seemed to require monumental effort, with your vision becoming blotchy, with flashes of pitch black. 

When you could feel your whole body start to buckle and sway, that familiar, all encompassing grip hastened midway along your spine and the back of your knees, scoping you cleanly off the ground with practiced effort. 

The confines of instilled slumber rendered your body and mind blissfully void of everything capable of thought, more importantly feeling, and even that woven tether to the living Force proved to be wholly useless in your dreamless slumber until the staccato beat of your father’s boots against durasteel flooring gradually roused you, with that sweet languid nature of sleep still lingering for a short while…

Your nose scrunched up as your perfectly brilliant eyes opened. That adorable little nose scrunch had been an instinctive habit Lord Vader had noticed within hours of first holding you as an infant. You had been such a chubby and tiny little thing back then, very easy to keep an eye on. There was no real concern unless you crawled a few feet away, and even then he could simply pluck you off the ground and into his arms. 

Such course of action was no longer plausible, and much to Vader’s excruciating paternal instincts that far breached the outlines of regularity, it was becoming increasingly plain that taking reasonable action would no longer have any real effect when you had proven countless times that you possessed a terrible proclivity for running off. 

Even so, you were his child. The fruit of his love, his little one and the only living being in his world that had yet to slip away into obscurity. And even in moments of steeped anger and malicious turmoil, Vader could never bring himself to inflict any element of pain outright. 

“You’re awake.”

He stated the obvious, but the words are merely intended to reintroduce you to the waking world. Vader could see your eyes flicker around the medbay room, taking in your surroundings while trying to formulate a sense of meaning before asking any unnecessary questions. His own heart started to thump with a resounding fervor as he could bear witness to your eyes trailing from the broader scope of the room, to your bed, and eventually, to the very presence of your physical being…

And how there was a jarring lack of flesh and bone to your right. 

At first your head tilted to the left, and then to the right, with your features then bearing the twisted fright that married well with profound confusion. 

“Last night.” Vader started gently, walking to the edge of the medbay bed, all while trying to keep his gait light so as to not overwhelm you. “I found you on the surface of Tatooine. Injured. All by your lonesome.”

Your mouth hung open, with newfound tears slipping over the edge of your lower lids, following the gentle curves of your lips and chin. 

“I can remember very clearly, once making you promise me not to wander. To not ever leave my side, lest you be irreparably harmed or taken from me, and now look what has happened to you ....”

Such silence from you, while not unusual, only proved to Vader how potent his own powers remained. With your memories crumbled finely and molded into something more suitable, you were teeming with guilt and more prudently, fear.

His gloved hands gingerly peeled back the thin medical bedding, allowing you to more clearly see the proclaimed ‘evidence’ of your misdeeds. When your hands pressed down against the empty space where your right leg should have been, Vader could feel his own hands clench when your precious hands found only the bedding underneath. 

“Though of your own accord, you have suffered greatly. And I see no further purpose in a true punishment. Still, I must ask of you something…” 

He tenses when your hand seizes his own, and Vader wonders if the fear he’s struck into your young mind will have consequences far beyond what he has already foreseen. Casting that train of thought aside, he gently grips your hand back. 

I’m not ready. 

I’m so scared. 

Just stop already!

If you would just stop whining and resisting, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt so fucking much!

 But no, you’re being a right brat, lashing out, barking and biting like a common street dog. 

You’ve made him become rough, bordering on unforgiving. 

There is no winning this battle. You are a but a foundling, still growing, still learning, and very much incapable of matching your usurper father’s strength. With ease, he pins you to the ground of your shared quarters as your brother turns a blind eye and closes himself into the safety of his pod. Your breaths are fervent as you push against the Mandalorian’s impossible weight and try to bite at any part of him that is not covered in a layer of Beskar. Teeth break the slivers of skin that prove to be exposed and your mouth fills with a small amount of your enemy’s warm blood. The action does little to faze him, and he grows increasingly furious at your defiance. 

For a moment you are lifted up off of the ground, only to be harshly slammed back down with enough force to knock the wind clear out of you. The thrashing stops as you wheeze and gasp for breaths of air that hardly come, giving Din Djarin the opportunity he has been waiting for. From the pouch on his belt he pulls out a small vial of clear blue liquid. With such little fight left in you, he keeps you still with a simple knee to the chest. 

One hand grips the sides of your mouth, pressing until you are made to part your lips, and the liquid is poured inside. Before you can spit the drug back out at him, Din firmly covers your nose and mouth until you have swallowed every last drop. 

Its sweet taste lingers in your mouth as the Mandalorian finally lifts himself off, giving you a chance to breathe freely. 

“Stay.” He orders, leaving to fetch a few necessities. 

Though you would have loved nothing more than to directly disobey the sole source of your anguish, every muscle in your body refuses to obey, instead remaining limp and unmoving. Upon Din’s return, his deft hands made quick work of replacing your old clothes with something more fitting for his foundling.

“You’re being so good for me now, A’dika. I really don’t ask for that much.” Din mutters, pressing his forehead against yours. “This…This is all for you. You will understand soon, I promise.”

There is little else you can do besides allow the man to carry you beyond the darkened walls of the Mandalorian covert and into the chilling evening air. 

“The little one looks…unwell.” Comes a voice you recognize all too well. “You are confident in their–”

Din is more than sure. “If I was not confident, I would not have brought them to you.”

The Armorer gives a short nod, her grip on the shining Beskar helmet becoming firm. “Very well.”

“The child,” Din starts, for the first time in a while sounding timid, “their nerves have gotten the better of them. If the creed permits such action, may I stand with them?”

She considers your altered state, the way you cannot seem to find your own footing, and shift uncomfortably in your father’s arms. It’s an unsettling sight, but not one that the Armorer seems to mind enough to help you. 

“Very well, Din Djarin. So let it be done.”

Supporting your weight with his own, Din guides you into the water at knee’s length. 

“Repeat exactly what she says.” He whispers into your ear. 

Your mind is much too muddled to find the resolution needed to resist. Each word that is directed your way is matched by your own slurred speech. Her cadence commands what remains of your waning attention and when the last of your oath has been uttered the silence that follows offers no solace. Instead you are held in place as that helmet is secured over your head, pressed down until a clicking sound is heard. 

Regaining a slight amount of control, you grasp at the edges of the Beskar, trying to pull the helmet off to no avail. No matter how hard your tug and jerk, it stays in place, thanks to a piece of metal fitted at the base of your neck. 

“Easy, easy!” Din says, guiding you out of the water. 

“No! It won’t come off!” You cry, your panicked breathing fogging up the visor. 

“It’s not supposed to. Not unless I allow it.” Your enemy grumbles, holding your hands away from your head. 

You had been progressing wonderfully. For all intents and purposes, you had become the perfect spouse. Without complaint you dutifully took care of little Grogu, keeping him safe, well fed and loved when Din needed to travel by his lonesome.

 In enough time and with enough of Din’s trust., you took to repairing and maintaining the Razor Crest, keeping it running well enough.

And perhaps the most important part of your progress…was that it had been months since your last incident. 

With enough instruction and even a bit of medication to keep you less hysterical, the two of you overcame that little betrayal. Though you were the epitome of perfection in his eyes, Din still desired a closer bond, something more permanent and less…transitory. 

You’d always tended towards being a skittish thing, nervous and afraid of significant commitment, and Din Djarin was more than willing to wait for you. But a man’s patience is only so strong. 

His mind was set and he had decided for the both of you. 

____________________________________________-

Working on the hyperdrive you heard Din entering the Crest, his boots annoyingly heavy against the durasteel. Wiping your hands off on your clothing you made your way to the main hangar, still feeling quite disoriented from taking your morning medication. 

“You’re back early,” you remarked quietly, giving Din a timid embrace, “I thought you said you would be out until tomorrow.”

The Mandalorian seemed nervous, the man was uneasy on his feet and though you could not see his eyes, you knew he was avoiding looking right at you. 

“I…the job is incomplete. For now. But I needed to come home. I needed to see you.”

Not sure what to make of such a declaration you could only offer half a smile. 

“Well, I don’t have any food prepared for Grogu yet, so I can–”

“No. He can eat later. There’s something I need to talk to you about.” 

With a few quiet words, Din dismissed the child to his shared quarters, to which Gorgu made no protest. 

“Are you alright? You don’t sound well, Din. If you want–”

Again, Din interrupted you, taking a few strides forward, nearly closing the space between the two of you. His gloved hands gripped the sides of his helmet and in an instant you knew what he was trying to do. 

Your own hands quickly moved to cover your eyes; you heard the clear sound of beskar hitting the ground. 

“I need you to look at me.” His voice was demanding your obedience, but you refused him and stepped back. 

He assumed you would respond in such a way, but still hoped you might have been more amenable to his advances. Frustrated by your refusal, Din grabbed your arms, trying to pull them away from your head and to your sides. 

You let out a litany of curses as he struggled to pin down your arms with one hand and press you against the floor of the ship. Straddling your waist it took a moment for him to render you completely immobile. Even so, you clenched your eyes shut and kept your head turned to the side. 

His hold on you was impossibly firm, giving you absolutely no leeway. 

“Din,” your voice was nearly a whisper, “please! I’m not–not ready!”

“You haven’t been ready for two years.” The Mandalorian growled. 

Din, with his free hand, grasped your jaw, applying a generous amount of pressure, enough to leave a bruise. For a minute you laid there, breathing heavily, feeling the weight of Din’s body on top, willing you to submit. Unable to resist your instincts you tried to wriggle free, only to have the Mandalorian reinforce his hold while resting a knee on your chest, knocking the air clean out of you. 

The pain in its consuming nature, you could not help but open your eyes. Din kept hold of your arms, but allowed you the privilege of breathing uninhibited. His features were worn, betraying the life of a seasoned warrior. But, oh, he was still impossibly beautiful with those hearth-warm eyes and thick locks that lay flat against the sides of his supple face (a casualty of constantly wearing a helmet). 

Waking was jarring. Your mouth opened first, lungs working to make a swift gasp for air. A second breath entered your nose as you tossed off the covers of your bed. The bare arms of your husband tried to pull you back, but were too slow with sleep to catch you. Still dazed from your slumber you stumbled through the corridors of the cottage, having several close encounters with the paltry amount of furniture scattered around the main living space. 

Seeking to relieve the itchy heat that spread all over your body, you stepped outside, allowing yourself to collapse and slide against the cottage’s siding. Letting go of the breath you had not meant to hold for so long, you simply lay in the frigid morning air. The slight breeze from the west caressed your irritated skin granting you greatly anticipated relief. 

“Running away on me again?” Din’s voice felt cracked, lacking in its wakeful precision. “I thought you moved on from that phase.”

Not in the mood for one of his rare jabs, you focused on your breathing. Keeping it deep and even, equal parts in and out; the influx of oxygen helped to calm your anxious mind. 

Nightmares were in the past, only resurfacing when something severe happened to trigger them. Your life, being confined to the inside walls of Din Djarin’s cottage left little room for such triggers. Yet, each morning you never failed to wake with a wild start. Fear from some undetectable source always found a way to rip you from slumber, sending you into a panicked state. Nightmares required a certain structure that your mind was no longer capable of. There was something to be said for being molded into an unwilling spouse; the process was especially proficient at scrambling the worn mind. 

“You know I don’t like it when you ignore me like this.”

Din, taking a seat next to you, placed a gloveless hand against your forehead, noticing not only your clammy skin, but how you resisted the impulse to flinch. 

“Dank Farrik,” he hissed, “you’re hot as hell. I’m going to go grab–”

“No, Din.” You said quietly, giving him a wry smile. “It’s fine, I just needed some air and it seems to be doing just the trick.”

It took a few minutes, but his shoulders slumped, a tell that he was somewhat relaxed, and perhaps believing you. 

When you tried to engage in further self soothing, your husband seemed to be at a loss. 

Deciding to push rather than allow you your space, Din once again broke your silence. 

“So are you going to let me in? Let me know what’s been going on with you?”

You had hoped he would have just let the matter go. It wasn’t as if your unnatural sleeping tendencies were anything new; they were almost two years in the making. And Din had his own history with nightmares. For months at a time he would wake with a violent abandon, bathed in sweat and his hands grasping for an unseen enemy. 

“Not sure if I have the words for it, Din.” Propping yourself upright, you could feel his eyes were trained solely on you. “It could be worse.” Sensing his frustration was starting to take root, you slowly leaned onto his shoulder. 

“I’ll see if I can find you something next time I’m away.” Growing comfortable with your touch, Din tucked your head close to his chest. “You scare me sometimes…”

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you instead bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. 

Din Djarin had a specific way of clenching his jaw when broaching a dicey subject, so much so that you could hear the sound click of his teeth mashing together. 

“Perhaps when my homeworld is more suitable for our family, we will be able to find some peace there. You’d like that.”

“Yes,” your voice went faint as you assured your husband, “I would.”