Work Text:
You are a simple meat packer who works on sand whales, seasonally. It is barely enough for you to buy parts to repair your vaporators, a crucial component of life on Tatooine, but you honestly no longer have enough life in you to care. You go to work, cut and prepare squares of sand whale, listen for the end-of-day whistle and travel home to your cave.
On good days, you go out and sit at the edge of the Jundland Wastes, and you watch from afar as a little blond boy begins to grow into a man. On bad days, you curl up on the floor of your cave, listen to the sound of the sandstorms howling outside, and wish it had been you burning from the inside out on the lava flow on Mustafar.
You are a man who has lost everything. Your name, your home, your family.
Anakin.
You dream of him every night. Some nights, the dreams start with his face—just his face, with those angelic bronze curls and piercing blue eyes, his lips curled into the smallest, shyest smile you can imagine. Sometimes, he just sits there, and you pretend like you’re sleeping so you can rest your head on his shoulder. Sometimes, you have to teach him something new, and he absorbs the information like a sponge, frighteningly quick for his age in all matters relating to the Force. Sometimes, phantom hands touch you, between your thighs, rubbing at your flesh until you feel hot and throbbing and wanting.
But all nights, you dream of Mustafar.
His smile turns to a hateful grimace, and his eyes flicker from blue to gold. His hands move up to your neck—
And he burns, and screams, and breaks.
And your heart breaks with him, every single night.