pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C
word count: 2.4K
chapter summary: Marathel sees the beginning of her end.
warnings: (18+, MDNI), rape, violence, physical abuse, allusion to child abuse and SA, Mando'a and English cursing
Marathel sat on her steps in the sun, waiting. The Bounty Hunter had promised he would come back, he promised. She knew the Bounty Hunter to be a man of his word; she had seen his character and believed him to be a good man since she had stood before him on these very steps and invited him into her home. She had not expected him to move into her heart as he had, but she was willing to let him take up residence there, so long as he came back to her.
He would, he would. He promised.
She did not know how long she had been waiting; time didn't seem to matter much to her anymore. But she was willing to remain here in the sun, in her gown of blue, until she saw him heading back to her.
And there, coming through the tall grass, she could see his helmet of beskar glinting in the sun. The grass seemed to part itself as he came through with long purposeful strides that brought him closer to her with every step. And now here he was, walking across the yard towards her, all gleaming beskar, his ragged cape billowing behind him, the dust puffing up with every heavy footfall, and she, smiling at his return, standing to greet him, failed to notice his large, gloved hands curled into fists as he came up to the hut.
"Fucking WHORE!"
His first words to her slammed into her gut harder than she had ever been hit when she lived in the Hold. He followed his words with a swinging backhand that was more punch than slap, and it sent her sprawling against the steps.
"Brazen CUNT!"
He grabbed her by the neckline of her blue gown, pulling her up until her face was even with the visor of his helmet, and her eyes were already leaking tears and her nose was bleeding, and she was bewildered, why, why, are you hurting me?
"You couldn't keep your legs closed, could you?"
He slammed her back down to the floor, keeping his hand wrapped around her throat. He squeezed hard enough that she couldn't get any air, and she scrabbled at his hand, trying to pull his hand off her throat, only succeeding at scratching her own face. I can't breathe, I can't breathe! But no words came from her; only a raspy gurgle as he began beating her head against the floor with every horrible word he uttered to her.
"I'll teach you to treat me like shit! Abandoning me, running away! Spreading out your pussy to some criminal when you were supposed to be mine!"
He threw her head down one last time with a resounding thud, but it meant that he had released his grip on her throat and she could finally breathe again, and she rolled to her side, gasping, trying to crawl away from this beskar-clad monster who had so gently stroked her body to ecstasy just so recently, but when, she could no longer remember.
"Where do you think you're going, you stupid fat bitch?"
He grabbed her by her ankle, then her blue gown, pulling her by the garment back to where she had just been, right back onto her back, and he ripped away the front of the blue gown, exposing her breasts.
"You want to be a Belwhyn so bad, you bitch, you cunt, you whore? I'll make you a Belwhyn when I'm done with you!"
He put his knee in her gut to hold her down, knocking her breath out of her, and ripped the rest of her blue gown away. He grabbed her ankle and pushed her leg up to her chest, holding it there as he forced a gloved finger inside her vagina, but she still could not scream.
"You're ready for him, you were waiting for his cock, but you ran away from me? I'm not waiting for you any longer, pretty girl. You were mine from the moment you were born."
He undid his breeches as he said this, and all she could do was whimper soundlessly and try to roll over into a protective position, but he pulled her back and forced her legs wide with his own and drove himself into her.
And now she could scream.
She screamed, she fought with ineffectual blows against someone so much stronger, she begged him why? WHY? over and over as he defiled her, tears streaming down her temples, his beskar armor bruising her skin as he grunted over her, crushing her with his armored weight.
"You'll fuck a bounty hunter before you'll fuck me, pretty girl? You're being a good girl now though, right, good girl? You think I made you do horrible things before, baby girl, just wait until I cram thatDilimgau into your thieving, whoring cunt."
Why, why, are you doing this to me, Bounty Hunter?
"I AM NOT YOUR BOUNTY HUNTER, whore."
She opened her eyes, and he removed his helmet, and his face was the face of The Bishop, and she knew then the Bounty Hunter had been lying to her, he had deceived her, he had betrayed her.
He had lied to her about the color of his eyes — not brown, but the grey of dead flesh — lied to her about coming from somewhere else — there were no other places called planets, just here, just the Hold — lied to her about his religion, his Creed — it was all a ruse to deceive her and retake possession of her.
She felt her heart not break, so much as it dissolved away to nothing, and she fell silent. There was no point in screaming.
She surrendered to his bestial ministrations, willing herself to be immobile, to not react as she lay there as he filled her with his horrible poison seed. There was no point in fighting.
"No, no, baby girl, you can't get away with laying there like mud, I'll make you scream and fight like the good girl you're supposed to be."
He withdrew from her and flipped her over, dragging her hips up and forcing her into a kneeling position, and her face scraped against the floor as he drove himself, still hard and searing hot, into her rear entrance.
She began to scream anew.
Din was floating in blackness. He had the sensation that he was slowly sinking into an abyss where there was no light. No light above, no light below, only darkness. Was he in space? Was he in water? He could only feel coldness and dread, but he let the darkness take him down, down further.
Far below him, a pale figure came into view, floating in the dark. A pale female figure, with long silver hair floating about her head, wrapped in long lengths of woven pale blue fabric like a shroud that twisted in undulating waves around her. He made his way down to her, knowing that it was Marathel. She was still, not moving, her eyes closed, her face slack, but still so beautiful as she lay suspended in nothing.
He reached out to touch her, and as his hand touched her exposed skin, it split open in a thin line, her blood seeping out in a cloud around her, and her mouth opened in a silent scream. Panicking, he tried to take her hand, but the lines on her palm slowly ruptured, adding to the blood already floating around her. She began to writhe, her shrouds floating away from her as she continued to sink into the darkness. He began to hear her screaming, but the sound did not come directly from her mouth, but somewhere far away, muffled, reverberating. As she twisted and struggled, the light blue shrouds took on the color red as blood continued to flow from her splitting skin, filling the abyss with red.
He struggled downward, still trying to reach her before she disappeared. Stretching as far out as he could with both hands, he was startled to find that his hands were not his own. He knew his own hands, of course he did. His hands were broad in the palm and thicker through the fingers; sometimes well-fitting gloves were hard to find. These hands were long, thin, with spindly fingers and knobby knuckles, skin as pale as dead flesh. Still, he reached out to take hold of her, to take her back with him to the surface, to take her away from wherever this was. He just barely grazed her shoulders with the hands that were not his, and her skin split right down her spine, flaying itself into two wings that spread out from her shoulders, and she emitted the most soul-chilling shriek that continued unabated as she disappeared into the abyss.
He cried out, reaching for her, but as she continued down, it seemed that he was being pulled up by some unseen force, and something was pummeling him as he went, ineffectual blows against his body, and his arms went up to block the blows. Then he had the sensation of being hit very hard against his thigh, reminding him that he was not wearing his armor, and he reached out to stop his unseen assailant, wondering why he could not see, when he could hear thrashing, cries, and shrieks.
"Marathel … what the …". He knew it was her crying out, but he was still only half-awake, trying to shake off the remnants of his own dream, when he remembered that he had switched off the low light vision capabilities of his helmet, and he managed to get hold of one of her flailing hands as he turned the vision back on. Marathel came into view, thrashing wildly, pulling on his grasp upon her. He took hold of her shoulders, giving her a shake, shouting, "Marathel! Wake up! You're dreaming!"
She continued to shriek, pulling away from him, managing to fall out of the bed tick, and scrambling away from him, screaming, "NO! Don't touch me! NEVER TOUCH ME AGAIN!"
Din crawled after her, fending off her thrashing hands, wrapping his arms around her to capture her fists against his chest as she continued to wail. "Marathel, wake up, no one is hurting you! It's just a dream, mesh'la!"
Marathel screamed, "NOOOOOOO!" and got in a good punch right into Din's throat. She escaped his grasp and cowered next to the table. "You lied to me; you betrayed me …" She buried her face in her hands and wept.
Din held his throat, coughing. He took a moment to catch his breath before moving closer to her. "Marathel … mesh'la … you were dreaming. No one is hurting you."
"You were hurting me," she sobbed, still trembling, still not quite fully awake. "You struck me, strangled me, and you removed your helmet, and you were the Bishop!"
Din reached out to touch her arm, and she shrunk away against the table. "I'm not the Bishop, Marathel, you know who I am."
"No, I don't."
"Mesh'la …" He knew the easiest way to assuage her fear was to remove his helmet, but he couldn't, he just couldn't, he was barely holding on to his own sanity on this nowhere planet of hers. He rarely dreamed, at least dreams he could remember — beyond the typical vague chase/be chased and the fuck/be fucked variety — and right now he wasn't even sure if he was awake or not. "I put my — the Bishop put his hands on you in your dream?" She nodded, still wrapping herself tightly with her arms, hiding her face. Din pulled off his gloves and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. "You know the Bishop's hands, you seen his hands …" He held his hands before her. "These are not his hands, are they? These are my hands, right? Marathel?"
There was such a plaintive and unstable tone in his voice that Marathel looked towards him. Tentatively, she reached out towards his outstretched hands.
"Please, please, mesh'la, my ma'mwsh ha'laa, tell me these are my hands, and not the Bishop's."
Marathel's shaking hands reached his, trembling as well, and as their fingers interlaced, she knew now it was only a dream, a horrible dream, the Bounty Hunter would no more hurt her than she would ever willingly wear a gown of blue. She slid on her knees over to him and wrapped her arms tightly around him, feeling his rapid heartbeat against her chest. "You dreamed, too, Bounty Hunter?" He nodded against her shoulder.
"What kind of horrible place is that Hold, Marathel?"
She sighed. "It is … just the Hold."
Din pulled away from her, still somewhat panicked, pushing up her sleeves, inspecting her arms, her hands. "You're all right though, right? You're not bleeding?"
"No, no …" His strange agitation was upsetting to her. "No, I'm not …"
"Mahr? Patu?"
Both Din and Marathel spun around to see Grogu standing there, rocking back and forth on his feet, crying pitifully.
"Oh, ad'ika …"
"Cwriad …"
Din swept up the boy in his arms, and Marathel wrapped them both in hers, crooning, "My little Godynferth, did we frighten you? We had bad dreams, my baby, nothing more."
"Gar morut'yc, ad'ika, gar morut'yc, you're safe, we're all okay," whispered Din to Grogu as he stroked the boy's ear. To Marathel he said, "I think he had a nightmare, too."
"Oh, cwriad," she said, gently wiping the tears from Grogu's face. "We are all safe." For now. "We are all tired, and we should rest. Come with us, we will snuggle together against bad dreams." Marathel stood and supported Din as he got up with Grogu wrapped tightly in his arms. All three went back to Marathel's bed and resettled, Din and Marathel lying on their sides facing each other, creating a barrier with Grogu in between. Marathel stroked Grogu's back, Din continued to stroke the boy's ear, and the exhausted little boy fell asleep almost immediately. "Okay?" she whispered to Din.
"Yes." He pressed his shins against hers, desperate just to hold on to some part of her. "You?"
"Better."
"Good." He cupped her jaw and pressed his helmet to her forehead, kissing her in his way, for that would have to be enough for him. "Gar morut'yc, mesh'la."
"What does that mean?" she whispered.
"'You're safe.' What does cwriad mean?"
"'Beloved'."
"I should have guessed. It sounds very much like cyar'e." He sounded as exhausted as he felt. "Sleep now, mhi morut'yc."
Marathel felt his hand relax on her face as he fell asleep again. She was the furthest thing from safe; she would never be safe again, not after tomorrow. Day Seven of her knowing the Bounty Hunter would be her last, and he would leave, while she would never leave this world alive.
But she allowed herself a few tears of pure joy; her once impossible dream had come true.
She had her own family. For now.