#but with this particular kind of anxiety and need to give it absolutely NO quarter | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonknightly · 3 years

Text

and i cannot get you out : poe dameron x reader

Word Count: 2.8k+

Excerpt: “He’s watching you closely and he catches the exact moment you register that he’s so far from okay, and the look in your eye makes his heart shatter. You’re terrified.”

Warnings: Sad Poe, angst, panic attacks, anxiety, heartbreak, small mention of blood, cursing, uhhh I think that’s all?

Poe’s never liked the quiet. It makes him feel trapped, makes him feel claustrophobic and panicked. It makes him feel like a kid again, gives him the same sense of fear he remembers having when he was only five years old, like the monsters out of his worst nightmares will manifest into real life terrors the longer the silence drags on.

He can’t stand it, can never sit in it for long, not without succumbing to the thoughts and memories that he’s always kept buried behind stacks of bricks in his mind, under lock and key where they can’t touch him, can’t hurt him.

But silence is the only thing he has now, the only way he can get himself to experience something other than the hollow feeling that has made a permanent home in his chest, and he’ll take it. He’ll take the fear over the numbness, he’ll take it over and over again just to feel something real. He welcomes it.

It’s almost like a distraction. A distraction from the glass shards poking through the muscles of his heart, a distraction from his fragmented ribs wailing with each inhale he takes. A distraction from her.

That’s a complete lie, that’s just what he likes to tell himself. Poe’s never stopped thinking about her.

Another lie — the mornings are easy, she hardly crosses his mind at all. He’s stopped waking up and turning his head to the side, looking at the empty spot next to him and wishing it were all just a dream. He’s stopped reaching over to touch the sheets in search of warmth. Now, he just swings his legs over the side of his bed and gets on with his day. He showers, he eats breakfast, he does his duties and never falters, never loses focus.

But she always slips her way back into his mind as the day drags on, and by the time night falls, she’s taken over his every thought, relentless in her assault. He still untucks the blankets on what was once her side of the bed before he goes to sleep.

Poe doesn’t know how long he’s been laying there now, alone in their- his bed, staring at the ceiling and willing sleep to find him and carry him away into a dreamless slumber. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sniffing the air, searching for a hint of her perfume but it’s had to have been hours now. He’s tired, he’s so so tired and he just wants to sleep. He needs to sleep.

He thinks maybe the silence is doing more harm than good, for the first time he thinks he might prefer the numbness over his incessant thoughts about her.

He really doesn’t know which is worse.

He doesn’t even know if he’s right about what he’s feeling or isn’t feeling and when, it’s all so jumbled now. He’s a fucking wreck.

And he’s scared it’s going to affect his ability to do his job effectively. He’s scared it’s going to cause him to make a stupid decision that costs him his life, or worse, someone else’s. Poe’s so fucking scared and the silence is weighing heavy, he feels like his chest is getting ready to cave in on itself. He can’t take it.

His entire body feels like it’s on fire.

Poe sits up and throws the covers back from his body in a haste, each hand finding the opposite arm as the invisible flames lick at his nerves, and he scratches. He scratches and scratches and scratches and he whimpers when it doesn’t stop, when it doesn’t even help. It hurts. It hurts so much and he just wants her out of his head, out of his veins. As long as she’s there he can’t fucking breathe, he can’t-

“Poe?”

He forgot that he wasn’t alone. You’d fallen asleep on the small couch in his quarters and he hadn’t had the heart to wake you and send you to your own room.

He hears your footsteps growing closer, but he doesn’t look up, he just keeps his eyes tightly shut.

“It won’t kriffing stop.”

His voice cracks, he hates the way it cracks.

You’re immediately by his side, hands hesitating before you reach out to touch him, not sure if that’s what he needs or if it would only make him worse. He notices, and he’s thankful for it, because he’s not sure either.

His chest is so tight. He’s spiraling. He’s watching you closely and he catches the exact moment you register that he’s so far from okay, and the look in your eye makes his heart shatter. You’re terrified.

“What can I do?” you ask, your own voice wavering, and he hates that it’s his fault. He hates that you’re upset, that he’s the one making you upset. You don’t deserve it, you’re the last person who deserves it and he feels like absolute shit.

He shakes his head, still scratching at his skin, blood collecting under his fingernails from one particular drag. That’s what finally makes you reach out and grab his wrists, and it’s as if everything stops. His racing mind, the burning, everything. There’s just silence.

Silence he can stand, that doesn’t feel like the end of the world or a nightmare. Everything’s just so still and calm and he can breathe again, he can think again. His skin tingles where your fingers touch, and it’s the best thing he’s felt in weeks.

But his chest is still heaving as he comes back down and you’re still scared, so you don’t divert from the plan that had quickly entered your mind. You pull him up and he doesn’t protest, doesn’t have the energy to, and you lead him towards the ‘fresher. He still doesn’t protest when you pull him in fully clothed, still doesn’t make a noise when the first blast of water is ice cold, but his shoulders do relax after you twist some knobs and the hottest water on base comes spraying down on you both.

You’re staring at him, he can feel your eyes on him even as his own are closed. He can still feel the worry radiating off of you and he still hates it. He doesn’t deserve to have someone like you concerned about him and you don’t deserve the kind of panic he can sense.

You don’t deserve it.

He’s still hung up on a girl who left him completely shattered and you’re in love with him, he’s known that you love him for months now, ever since one drunken night where you both had one too many and you kissed him in an empty hallway, confessing your feelings to him while he could only stand there and stare. He remembers thinking he should’ve been angry, he’d still been with her at the time. He should’ve pushed you away and he should’ve yelled but instead the only thought that ran through his head had been kissing you again, becoming more familiar with territory he so desperately wanted to get to know. He’d wanted to explore every part of you that you’d allow, like he’d wanted to do from the moment you crashed into his life and turned it upside down in the best possible way.

He wanted you. He still wants you.

You didn’t seem to remember anything the next morning though, and that was fine. That was fine because he still had her and that was enough but now she’s gone and all he can think about is your damn lips and the way your chest looks through your soaking wet t-shirt and he doesn’t deserve you. Poe doesn’t deserve you. You don’t deserve to have him shatter you.

And it’s only been minutes since the thought of her sent him into a blind panic, but now, as he’s standing there under the boiling water in his cramped ‘fresher with your face just inches from his, he realizes that it’s not her stuck in his veins, but you.

His nightmares where he’s left completely alone and broken on the floor, it wasn’t her face he saw, but yours. It wasn’t her he screamed for when he woke up at three o’clock in the morning, sweating and shaking. It wasn’t her perfume he loved, but yours. It wasn’t that he was strung out over missing her, it was that he was scared you would come to the same realization that she did and leave him too. You were going to realize that he’s not enough and you were going to leave and then he’d really be all alone.

Poe doesn’t want to be alone.

And like you can read his mind, you reach up towards his face, hesitating again so he can pull away if he still doesn’t want to be touched but he doesn’t. He lets you cup his cheeks, he leans into it even, and your touch is so gentle, so soft all he can do is let his eyes flutter shut at the feeling of your fingers on his skin once more.

He wants to kiss you again.

He doesn’t deserve you.

“I’m sorry she did this to you,” you mumble, letting your thumb stroke along his cheekbone. “I’m sorry I can’t fix it.”

But you can, he wants to tell you that if anyone can fix it, it’s you. He wants to tell you it’s not her, he wants to get down on his knees and beg for you not to leave him, to stay with him even though he’s broken and weak and only a shell of his former self. He wants to-

“I’m sorry I’m not her.”

That makes his eyes widen almost comically, and he’s immediately shaking his head, grabbing onto your wrists to keep you there when you try to pull away.

“Stop it.” His voice has it’s normal edge to it again. “You’re better than her.”

“But Poe-”

“No.” His grip tightens. “Don’t you dare even start comparing yourself to her.”

Little did he know that’s all you’d been doing since you met her.

“You’re everything she’s not.”

“Poe-”

“You’re the one I want. It’s you, it’s always been you.”

His words take no time at all to register, he can see the shock written across your face the moment they leave his lips, but he doesn’t stop there.

“I cannot get you out of my fucking head and it scares the hell out of me.”

You’re quiet, and the expression on your face shifts into something he can’t quite place, can’t read. You just stand there and stare at him, unblinking, unmoving for what feels like centuries before you finally reach behind you and shut the water off. His heart sinks.

You reach for a towel, holding it in front of him, turning your head away. “Take your sweats off, let’s get you back in bed. You need to sleep.”

He shakes his head again, but your eyes are closed and you miss the hastey movement.

“Please don’t make me, kriff, I don’t want to be alone. I can’t-”

The panic is immediately present in his tone. It makes you look at him again, and now you’re the one shaking your head. “I’ll stay. I just want you to get some rest Poe.”

He takes another moment to watch you, as if he needs to validate your sincerity — not that he doesn’t trust you, Poe has always trusted you with his life. He’s just scared.

“Okay,” he finally mumbles, nodding his head. You nod once as well, and then hold the towel back up.

He pushes his sweats down his legs then wraps the towel around his hips before doing the same for you, and he’s the one to guide you back into his room. He doesn’t offer you clothes, you don’t ask for them. You both just want to lay down.

The silence is still present, but just like before, Poe can stand it. He can stand it because you’re lying next to him and you’re there and you’re not her.

He’s staring at you, and he doesn’t care if it’s creepy or weird. He just wants to make sure you’re still there, he’s so scared you’re going to leave him. Everyone leaves, his mother left him when he was only eight years old and no one has stayed since. He needs you to stay.

But you don’t seem to want him anymore. Not like you used to.

That doesn’t matter. He’ll take you in any way, any form he can get. That will be enough.

“I should’ve told you I love you.”

His voice is hardly above a whisper but he knows you hear him, he can see the look in your eyes shift again, though he can’t quite place it.

“When you kissed me, I should’ve pulled you closer, I should’ve told you I loved you then. I should’ve been with you the whole time.”

You’re quiet for a moment and just like that Poe can read you again. He recognizes shock with maybe just a hint of embarrassment. “You remember that?”

He nods, reaching for your hand so he can intertwine his fingers with yours — he always holds your hand, it’s not uncommon, isn’t out of the ordinary but it feels different this time. He’s not sure why.

“I thought you were the one who didn’t remember anything.” He squeezes your hand once. “I should’ve told you.”

You squeeze back automatically, so used to the little exchange, but before you can speak again he’s squeezing three times. It makes you freeze.

Three times for three words.

You shake your head.

“You’ve been telling me for a long time Poe.”

He knows, he knows exactly what you’re talking about even though it was something he’d never thought about, it was just instinct. It was just something that felt right but now it made sense.

“Please don’t leave me.” He’s still whispering. “I want you. Please don’t go.”

You’re quiet again, and he can tell that you’re battling with your thoughts. He wishes he could actually read your mind, see what’s going on up there in that beautiful brain of yours. He wants to wipe the worry away, he wants to take any fear or doubt and wash it right down the drain where it belongs.

“You need to sleep.”

That’s not what he wants to hear. Now he’s the one who’s quiet, for several long moments, his stomach flipping with nerves and a kind of anxiety that he wasn’t used to — the bricks he’d put up so long ago were breaking down.

“But-”

“We can talk about this in the morning,” you interrupt, shaking your head from side to side. You move closer to him, and Poe’s thankful for the warmth your body offers, both physically and mentally. “This isn’t a conversation we should have when we’re both tired.”

“I just-”

“Poe please.” Your voice cracks like it did earlier in the night, and he’s not sure why. “Can we please just talk about this later?”

He looks at you, really takes a moment to just look at you and try to figure you out, but again he can’t decipher the expression on your face, the emotion in your eyes. You look hurt, and Poe just can’t understand.

“Will you still be here when I wake up?” he finally asks, trying to push down the lump in his throat. He wouldn’t cry in front of you, not now. He doesn’t want to upset you any further.

You don’t hesitate to answer him, and that’s another thing he’s thankful for.

“I’m not going anywhere Dameron.”

He believes you, Maker he believes you.

Poe reaches out and lets his fingers find your hip, and he pulls you even closer, wanting more of your warmth that felt so much like home to him, something he hadn’t realized before, when she was still clouding his vision and taking him over.

And that’s what scares you — the sudden realization, how quickly the switch seemed to flip in his mind. How eager and ready he was for you when she’d been all he could think about. It scares the hell out of you.

You need him to wait, you need him to make sure that you’re really what he wants, because there’s no way you could take it if he dangles his love in front of you only to revoke it when he isn’t tired or panicked, when he’s not hurting. You need him to be sure.

Poe’s never been more sure of anything when he wakes up the next morning and you’re still right there, pressed into his side just like you’d promised. He’s never been more sure of anything when he inhales deeply and catches your familiar perfume.

He’s never been more sure of anything when he kisses you, and the feeling of his lips on yours is the only reassurance you need.

#poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron fanfic

276 notes · View notes

melzula · 4 years

Note

hi ! i don’t know if this counts as a whole prompt, but could i request some iroh ii ? maybe their reunion when kya’s daughter went back with bumi to the fire nation and their whole reunion to wedding story ?

a/n: I just did the reunion part of this because it would be hard to cram the whole timeline into one piece aha but nonetheless enjoy!

*based off of these hc’s

The cool breeze of the ocean air does little to calm your nerves as you fidget with the beads that wrap themselves neatly around your wrist and stare out into the open water. The Fire Nation docks are fast approaching, and you foolishly wonder if everything will be the same as it was when you left it behind all those years ago. You wonder if he is still the same, fearing for a moment that perhaps he has forgotten you after being apart for so long, but you don’t have time to dwell on your anxieties when a firm clap on your shoulder breaks you from your thoughts.

“Why the long face, kiddo?” Your Uncle Bumi grins. “I thought you’d be happier to be back here.”

“I am,” you reassure him, “it’s just I’m a little nervous is all. I haven’t been here in so long...”

“Well I’m sure the royals will be happy to see you,” he says. “You were Lord Zuko’s star student after all, and General Iroh is always asking about you.”

“He is?” You gasp, doing your best to quell the excitement that bubbles up inside of you at the news. You always brushed off your infatuation with the General as a silly childhood crush, but if that were the case then the mere mention of him shouldn’t have made you as cheerful as it did.

“Of course! Why do you think I brought you out here with me? Some good old nostalgia would be perfect for you!”

“Uncle,” you say with a pointed look. Bumi grins sheepishly.

“You could use a friend, y/n. And so could Iroh.”

You don’t get the chance to argue or insist that you’re fine, that you’re perfectly okay with the fact that your best friend is your Gran Gran, as the ship pulls into the docks and Fire Nation guards arrive to escort you to the palace. None of them are familiar to you, most of the men you’d known as a child having retired by now, but they still greet you with the same kindness as always, a perk of being the Avatar’s granddaughter and the Commander’s niece.

“I have to prepare for the meeting,” your uncle says as you reach the front gates and are permitted entry to the palace, “but if you want to head off and look for some old friends or even just explore your old playing grounds go right ahead.”

“Good look with the meeting, Uncle Bumi,” you reply before gifting the man a kiss on the cheek and parting ways with him for now.

You find yourself wandering into the gardens, admiring the blooming fire lilies and enjoying the refreshing breeze that blows cooly against your face as you reminisce on the memories you hold in this very spot. If you look hard enough you can almost see yourself sitting underneath the shade of the tree with Zuko and his grandson studying fire bending scrolls and enjoying cups of tea. Life had been so quiet and simple then, so peaceful. Maybe Bumi was right about needing a friend; you’d never felt lonelier in your entire life than you did now looking upon old childhood memories.

“Y/n?” A voice calls almost hesitantly, void of the confidence he’d always held, and despite the fact that your heart catches in your throat at the sound of his voice you will yourself to turn around and face the man you never stopped thinking about.

You can’t help the way your mouth hangs agape at the sight of him; he’d always been a good looking boy, but over the years Iroh had grown into the handsomest man you’d ever seen. He was beautiful with his strong jaw and shimmering gold irises, and despite how much he’d changed over the years he still held that same boyish grin you’d taken comfort in many times before.

“Iroh,” you finally say, heat crawling up your neck as you smile shyly. He’s rushing towards you in an instant, pulling you into his chest for a tight hug and laughing with pure unadulterated joy.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” he admits with a sheepish grin, hands resting on your shoulders as he pulls away and looks you in the eyes. You don’t know it, but he’s just as taken back by your beauty. He was used to seeing you running around in your pigtails with your wide smile and a few teeth missing; you were absolutely radiant, your features maturing with the time that had passed, but your eyes still held that same twinkle they always did.

“It’s so good to you, old friend,” you say, smiling fondly as you rest a hand upon his cheek. “I’ve missed you.”

“So have I,” he replies, and you don’t miss the way he seems to melt into your touch. “I have a meeting to attend to, but perhaps you’d like to accompany me to dinner tonight? I want to hear about all of your adventures.”

“Dinner sounds lovely.”

“Perfect,” Iroh grins, “I’ll see you then.”

He parts from you then with a kiss on the cheek, leaving you with a dazed smile alone in the gardens as you watch him walk into the palace.

“We’re having dinner,” you murmur quietly to yourself, an excited smile pulling at your lips as you rush towards your assigned quarters to prepare.

~~~

“A date with the General, huh?”

“It’s not a date, Uncle Bumi,” you remind him as you sit before the vanity and slip on your favorite pair of earrings, a pair your mother had bought for you once during your travels, “it’s just dinner.”

“Sounds like a date to me,” he teases with a knowing grin. “You know, I always had a feeling about you two.”

“You said the same thing about Uncle Tenzin and Aunt Lin,” you retort only for Bumi to grimace.

“I never said it was a good feeling.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you shrug nonchalantly. “We’re just two old friends who want to catch up with each other.”

Oh, but it actually is a very big deal for you. You can’t remember the last time anyone has taken you out to dinner or the last time you had actually dressed yourself up for someone else, and frankly you don’t know why you’re so nervous. It’s Iroh, after all, your childhood friend, why should you be nervous?

“Oh, I’ll walk you out!” Your Uncle exclaims excitedly once you put the finishing touches on your ensamble, and before you can even get up from your chair Bumi is yanking you onto your feet and dragging you out of the room towards the front gates where Iroh is presumably waiting for you. “I only wish your mother were here to see this!”

“Uncle,” you groan in quiet embarrassment, “you seem more excited than I am.”

“What? That’s nonsense!” Bumi scoffs. “Can’t I just appreciate the romanticism that comes with seeing old friends?”

“I see you’re a poet much like your father,” a third voice intrudes, a smiling Iroh startling both you and your uncle. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“No, not at all!” Bumi says before you can so much as open your mouth to reply. “In fact I was just leaving. You kids have fun! Oh, and uh, bring her back home safe and sound and all that protective Uncle junk I’m supposed to say.”

“Of course, Commander,” he says with a slight laugh before turning to you. “Are you ready?”

“I am,” you smile, making sure to give your Uncle a chaste kiss to the cheek before taking Iroh’s outstretched and following him out the front gates. Your Uncle watches your retreating forms with a faint smile and a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Phase one of my matchmaking plan is complete.”

~~~

The royal plaza is beautiful at night. Lanterns hang from the skies and bathe the streets in their golden hue. The restaurants and shops are bustling with customers as lovers, families, and friends all spend their evenings out on the town. No one seems to notice your presence— Iroh had insisted that no guards were needed to escort you both— and for that you are grateful.

“Hungry for anything in particular? I know you were especially fond of dumplings when we were children,” Iroh notes with a chuckle.

“I’d love anything spicy. As much as I enjoy sea prunes and seal jerky, nothing in the south really has that same kick to it that Fire Nation food has.”

“I know the perfect place,” Iroh says, and you have to fight against the way your stomach seems to summersault when he takes your hand in his own and weaves you through the streets.

You end up in a quiet little restaurant together where the food is fresh and the hostess is the sweetest little old lady you’ve ever met, though she brings you way more food than you ordered. You’re eager to scarf down the spicy noodles and steaming buns, so eager in fact that you don’t notice the love stricken way in which Iroh watches you practically inhale your food.

“How’s your family?” He asks behind his cup of tea.

“Good. Gran Gran has been training the new Avatar and my mother helps where she can. My Uncle Tenzin and Aunt Pema just had a new baby not too long ago, a son named Meelo.”

“That’s amazing,” Iroh smiles, “congratulations on your new cousin.”

“Thank you. Our family is certainly growing,” you say with a slight laugh. “And how are things with you and your family?”

“I have to admit, I haven’t really been home much to know,” Iroh chuckles. “This visit is also my first time back in a while. Mother is a gracious ruler and the people love her, my sister is still living her quiet life with her husband out on the farm, and my grandfather comes back and forth all the time. Everyone seems to be happy.”

“And are you happy?”

“I like to think so. I’m the youngest General in the United Forces which is a great accomplishment, and I’m having dinner with a friend I thought I’d never see again, so yes, I’m very happy,” he notes with a wink. You can’t help but roll your eyes at his slyness, a small huff blowing past your nose.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” you tease.

“Really, y/n,” Iroh says, all features void of his previous humor as they morph into a more tender nature. He reaches across the table and rests a hand across your own, a faint smile on his lips. “I’ve missed you, and I’m so happy you’re here.”

“Me too,” you admit with a tiny smile. “It’s been hard without you, friend.”

“Friend,” Iroh repeats with a small sigh, but his smile never falters. He pays for your meal and offers you his arm to guide you back to the palace; you talk about old memories and new ones, your adventures during your time apart, and your excitement to create new ones together. You’ve never been happier, and for the first time in a long time the loneliness that normally gnaws at your spirit is nowhere to be found.

“Can you find your room okay?” Iroh asks as you reach the front doors of the palace.

“I can,” you nod with a smile. “I’m actually staying in the room I had when I was a kid.”

“Go figure,” he laughs softly before gracing you with a sweet smile. “Thank you for accompanying me to dinner tonight. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“You will.”

“Good. I look forward to it,” Iroh says. “Sleep well, y/n.”

“Goodnight, Iroh,” you utter with a small smile, making sure to gift him a kiss on the cheek before disappearing inside. Stunned, the General stands frozen in place with a dazed smile on his face. He hasn’t felt this way about anyone in such a long time, hadn’t felt such genuine excitement and joy, and he had to admit that it somewhat intimidated him. He’d always seen you as the girl he’d grown up with, the one he’d spent his time with stealing desserts from the kitchen and running through the hallways, but now...

“Spirits,” Iroh exclaims with a breathless laugh. “I think I’m in love.”

In the gardens sits the trio of adults who watch the scene unfold before them, knowing looks exchanged among them as they sip their tea and watch Iroh disappear into the palace.

“They make a handsome pair, don’t they?” Zuko notes offhandedly to his daughter. “I give them a month.”

“A month?” Bumi snorts. “No way! Three weeks maybe, but not a month.”

“I have more faith in my son than that,” Izumi says with the shake of her head. “One week.”

“One week?!” The Commander exclaims with a laugh. “Oh, you’re on!”

“Betting over the love life of my grandson and my former student was not how I pictured spending my retirement,” Zuko sighs, but there’s a smile on his face as he considers his grandson courting the granddaughter of his best friend. Life has a funny way of working out sometimes.

And it was going to work out for you and Iroh.

| iroh/atla tags: @nataliahaslosthershit @zukh03s @rainteslerrrr @simpinforsukka |

#iroh ll #general iroh #iroh #general iroh x reader #general iroh imagine #iroh ll x reader #iroh ll imagine #iroh x reader #iroh imagine #kya #kya x daughter!reader #bumi #bumi x reader #the legend of korra #lok #lok x reader #lok imagine #atla #request

426 notes · View notes

fettsvette · 3 years

Text

Never Worn White (Part One)

Cloud City, Bespin. Boba Fett is on the hunt for a casual fuck before he cashes in on Han Solo’s bounty. You’re a naïve virgin, saving yourself for an adolescent fantasy… and it just so happens that he’s in town. Upon encountering the object of your infatuation though, you didn’t expect he’d be so willing to help you out.

Pairing: Boba Fett x Reader Words: 2.1k Rating: Explicit Warnings: Loss of virginity and unprotected sex

Can be found on Archive of Our Own here.

Boba Fett was in town.

There had been rumblings around the city for the past several days. Something big was happening, but nobody seemed to be sure of exactly what. You’d overheard people at the Shadow Market saying there was a beautiful woman who matched the description of Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan - well, formerly of Alderaan, now - staying in the guest quarters of the Administrator’s Palace, with a motley crew of attendants that included, of all creatures, a Wookiee. There were whispers of the famous spice smuggler, Han Solo, having been sighted as well, and even quieter mumblings concerning something called a ‘Skywalker’ (whatever that meant). An Imperial Garrison had been installed earlier in the week with no sign of leaving anytime soon, and the Baron Administrator himself, Lando Calrissian, had allegedly been seen meeting with Darth Vader himself.

Or so your roommate claimed.

“That big scary guy who works for the Emperor? The one with the magic powers who sounds like he breathes through a gas-processing vane?” You had asked skeptically when they’d burst into your shared flat with the news, the normally relaxed Aruzan acting infuriatingly bubbly at finally having gotten hold of the hot gossip in the neighborhood before you had.

The very same, they insisted; and the Baron hadn’t looked too pleased to be hosting such a powerful representative of the Empire, either.

They hadn’t seen anything themself, no - they’d heard it from one of their coworkers at Pair O’ Dice, who’d claimed their cousin’s friend’s uncle had seen them together, walking across the Apex Overlook with a squadron of armed stormtroopers trailing behind them… the amount of parties involved in this city-wide game of Comlink Operator seemed to go on and on and on. You couldn’t decipher what was true, and what was just garbled rumors and hearsay. And you couldn’t make sense why such a varied amalgamation of the galaxy’s most well-known creatures would choose to congregate at a mining colony so far away in the Outer Rim.

There was one thing you were absolutely certain of, however.

Boba Fett was here, in Cloud City.

You’d never been so sure of anything in your life. You knew it was true.

Because you’d seen his ship yourself.

It had been two days ago. You hadn’t been able to sleep, even after a long night waiting tables at K’cri’s Café, and you’d decided to take a walk down by the landing platforms in the wee hours of the morning, dawn still only a pinkish-orange smudge barely visible above the thick clouds. Whatever the time of day or night, there was always some action going on there - ships arriving constantly, bringing tourists from all over the galaxy looking to try their luck at one of Cloud City’s various casinos. You enjoyed watching the multitudes of different creatures disembarking off their various means of transportation - sub-aquatic Mon Calamari, blue-hued Chiss, reptilian Trandoshans; you’d even seen some gargantuan Hutts a few months ago, with their retinues of slaves and hangers-on, making their sluggish way across the concourse towards Yarith Bespin. It sometimes seemed that this city never truly slept.

You’d been about to finally call it a night, still not particularly tired but knowing that you should attempt to go home, draw your curtains against the burgeoning light of the sun, and get some shut-eye before your next shift the following evening, when a bizarre sound from above snapped you out of your reverie.

You’d heard the Slave I long before you’d seen it.

The ship’s engine gave out a strange whining noise, unlike anything you’d ever heard in a transport. It reminded you of a gigantic buzz-bug, and you resisted the urge to swat at the air around your ears out of habit, squinting your eyes against the hazy morning light to see what kind of damned contraption could be making such a racket.

The ship came into view as it banked around the clouds, beginning a slow descent towards one of the nearby docks, and you felt your heart give a walloping jolt from the shock of what you were witnessing.

‘No… it can’t be… not here…’

The ship was an ugly, mottled thing - a retired Firespray model of Old Republic make, the paint faded red and greenish-grey, much of it scraped away and adorned with deep gouges and obvious carbon scoring from firefights over the years. It had seemed to glide almost effortlessly through the air as it swept towards the docks, and as the transport grew closer and its image became more clear, your eyes widened, your blood screaming in your ears, your heart threatening to jump up out of your throat and flee from your frozen form. Its strangely vertical craft had suddenly rotated horizontally in the air, hanging momentarily as if suspended by a fine thread, and sank down to settle on one of the nearby landing pads, steam from the thrusters billowing around its now motionless form.

You knew the ship well, although you’d never actually seen it in real life. It was all over the HoloNet almost every time a huge sum of credits were posted on a well-known fugitive’s head, their eventual capture usually accompanied by footage of that very same transport leaving the scene. It was called the Slave I , and was owned by a man who wore a ragged suit of Mandalorian armor, and who made his living by hunting down and - sometimes killing - those who found themselves on the wrong end of a particularly influential creature’s business dealings.

Rooted to the spot, trembling from excitement, you’d stood on your toes and craned your neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the pilot as they exited the durasteel behemoth. When the boarding ramp had finally extended, however, you’d turned and ran back to your apartment, a wave of anxiety at possibly seeing the owner - and them seeing you - having overcome your senses. And there you’d hid for the rest of the day, pacing the floor of your living quarters and periodically peeking out the window, expecting to see the old Firespray taking off into open space from the vicinity of the dockyards across the city. But as far as you knew, it was still there. You could feel in your guts that it was.

That was how you’d discovered that Boba Fett had come to Cloud City.

The deadliest and most effective bounty hunter in the entire galaxy, in your town.

And you wanted to meet him. You needed to meet him.

It sounded almost dirty, to acknowledge that maybe you had a bit of a crush on Boba Fett. Although merely calling it a ‘crush’ was quite an understatement.

You were infatuated with him.

You’d followed his career almost obsessively since your early teenage years, when he’d first erupted onto the bounty hunting scene and began making headlines thanks to the clean, efficient work he’d make of marks who’d been unfortunate enough to cross his path. He was highly dangerous and had a nasty reputation for being a ruthless killer, focused only on bringing pain to the creatures that could earn him as many credits as possible. On top of that, he had exclusive hunting contracts with both the Empire and the Hutts, which didn’t garner much support from communities sympathetic to the Alliance to Restore the Republic, such as your own. Much of the galaxy considered bounty hunters to be the lowest of scum, on the same level as the criminals and other dregs and vestiges of the civilized universe that they were famous for capturing. It was difficult to admit that it wasn’t the gorgeous Falleen who lived down the hall that you fantasized about sweeping off your feet and charming the Corellian hells out of you, but Boba Fett.

You couldn’t fully explain it, even to yourself let alone your exasperated and befuddled friends, but there was just something downright sexy about him. You felt weak in the knees whenever you saw his visage broadcast on the holocaster in the café, and your ears always tingled and burned when you caught his name being mentioned in a snatch of overheard conversation. You spent hours scrolling and typing on your holopad, searching for any and all information you could discover on this enigmatic figure who wore the regalia of an ancient warrior race. You’d made it a point to haunt the local nightclubs and bars on your nights off, always seeking out information on Boba Fett’s whereabouts in the galaxy, his latest jobs, encounters that the creatures constantly flowing in and out of the local entertainment establishments may have had with him during their travels. You’d heard how good of a lay - and a generous tipper - he supposedly was from several of the go-go dancers who worked at the Zero-G Club, and the idea of Boba Fett himself getting a lap dance in a seedy topless bar always sent liquid heat pooling to your core. One of your most prized sources of intelligence concerning Boba Fett was Rystáll Sant , the half-Theelian backup singer for the Max Rebo Band, whose frequent sets at the Blue Petal Bar you never missed for this express reason. Lyn Me and Greeata Jendowanian had their own Fett stories, but Sant in particular became very talkative about her famous conquests while touring the galaxy - always after a couple spotchkas, which you were more than happy to share with her.

Rystáll Sant was adamant that she’d had a casual physical relationship with Fett for years, and that he was, without question, the best fuck of her life. She hadn’t seen, let alone hooked up with him, in several months, no, but the band had a long-term residency at Jabba the Hutt’s palace on Tatooine coming up, and she was looking forward to finally reuniting with him there. He was one of Jabba’s favorite hired guns, after all. You always came away from your conversations with Rystáll feeling flushed and woozy, in a way that had nothing to do with the copious amounts of alcohol you both consumed while chatting. You’d always been too shy to grill her on any of the specifics of her dalliance with Fett, even though you knew she’d be happy to give them to you - what kind of a lover he was, if he was gentle or rough or a delicious mixture of the two, what he sounded like when he moaned, what he looked like both underneath his Mandalorian helmet and that mysteriously dented codpiece - but those unasked questions haunted you endlessly. You wanted to learn the answers yourself, somehow.

In short, you were helplessly drawn to Boba Fett, and found everything about him to be intoxicating - from the danger associated with his chosen career, to the mystery of what dashing good looks he had to be hiding behind that black-visored helmet… and the fact that he was experienced.

Because you’d never been with a man before.

Ever.

You were a virgin in every sense of the word.

You didn’t consider yourself a prude, or anything close - you just felt you’d never met the right person who you’d want to share that part of yourself with. Your virginity was something sacred in your eyes, something you wanted to give to someone special, not to just waste on a drunken, spiced out tryst after a night partying. Your prospective admirers on Bespin bored you to tears, and you found yourself constantly daydreaming of being whisked away off-world by a masked man in a shining suit of armor; one who would take you on exciting adventures and carry you bridal-style back to his ship afterwards for a romantic, passionate night together.

You’d never admit it to anyone, knew you’d be laughed out of the social circles you’d managed to cultivate during your years living and working in Cloud City, but Boba Fett’s was the only name that ever came to your lips as you laid in bed, your hands between your legs, bringing yourself to climax twice, sometimes three times during one of your nightly sessions. Just the mere thought of him drove you wild in a way that no other person ever had, and you constantly fantasized about him claiming your innocence for his own, leaving you trembling and mewling underneath him.

And now, like a bolt out of the blue, he was actually here , located in Cloud City on some unknown business, possibly entangled in whatever Imperial affairs that’d had the entire colony holding its collective breath over the previous days.

It almost seemed as if it were meant to happen, that you were supposed to seduce and sleep with him, despite your initial panic at his unprecedented arrival. You knew how it sounded. If anyone found out about what you were planning, discovered the details of your deepest fantasy, the one thing you truly wanted above all else, they’d have you admitted to the psychiatric medcenter at Cloud City Central.

It was true.

You were saving yourself for Boba Fett.

You were on a mission to fulfill that adolescent promise to yourself, consequences be damned, and you had no idea what you were getting yourself into.

#boba fett #boba fett fanfiction #boba fett x reader

52 notes · View notes

kylorengarbagedump · 4 years

Text

Little Bird: Chapter 39 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 38 here. Part 40 here.

Summary: The WHO probably doesn't recommend you do any of these things while pregnant.

Words: 9900

Warnings: tw: graphic depictions of big time violence, both physical AND sexual, DUBIOUS consent, voyeurism

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Hello, welcome back to my horror show! Hahaha.

Thank you very much for your patience in me waiting to get this chapter out. As you can tell, it is a beast. I genuinely hope you enjoyed it as apology for the long wait.

Cannot thank everyone's kindness and thoughtfulness enough. Your comments always, always brighten my day. I love y'all with my whole heart.

“So the plan is to flank them.”

“We’ll flank them here--Kuruk, Ap’lek, and you will take the east side. Cardo, Trudgen, and myself will take the west.”

“Where do we pull over, then? We won’t be able to get the Buzzard that close.”

The Night Buzzard was split into three sections--the front third was dedicated to food and supplies storage and an imitation of livable seating, the second third designated entirely for weaponry. The rear of the bus consisted of four stony, stripped bunks, beds in function only.

The Knights Templar--save for one, who was driving--had spent the past hour out of the six-hour journey at the front. They crowded over a map, debating their strategy while you watched, perched on the tiny couch across from them. Your Commander loomed beside you, silent, the knife of his gaze occasionally slipping over you, so sharp it slit you through his mask. He had hardly spoken a word since you’d boarded; the quick, piercing glances were the only evidence you had that he remembered you were there--a feat while stuck in close proximity on an armored bus.

“A five-hundred foot perimeter is typical.”

“Five-hundred feet gives them too much opportunity. The Buzzard has jammers.”

“Jammers don’t mask the sound of the engine, ‘Shar.”

“All right then, Vic, but the more space we give them, the greater chance they have of escape.”

Kylo Ren turned to them. “The primary objective is to destroy the subversives. Flank the encampment, salvage what documentation you can, kill any that cross your path.” He paused. “Leave Pryde to me.”

His voice was cold, even through the modulation. You sulked into the corner of the couch, anxiety knitting in your chest. To be near your Commander brought you a sense of peace, but the unanswered question of your future--your child’s future--left you lurching. You longed for a moment, two moments alone with him, an opportunity to search his eyes and find liberty in his response. Perhaps in a hormonal, pregnant haze, you’d imagined it like a prophecy: his large hands, curling around yours, his lip trembling with fear, his silence a concession. And you’d imagined the words swirling into your ears, granting you everything you’d grown to need.

I’m choosing you, he’d breathe.We’re free.

But staring at him now, hidden under a helmet, armored, toting a rifle and pistol, you weren’t sure where the man in your prophecy might be. You weren’t sure if that particular man had ever existed at all.

The bus shuddered, striking into rough terrain; beyond the tinted windows, you could make out a field blanched under the quarter-moon, wild maize exploding through the grasses.

“We’re about half a mile out,” called the driver--Kuruk, you thought.

At this, Kylo opened a cabinet and grabbed two devices--they beeped and hissed when he turned them on, and he fiddled with them both in a sort of calibration before crouching to be level with you. He pushed one into your hands, stowing the other one on his hip.

“This frequency is full-duplex. We will hear each other at all times. If someone unfamiliar to you even glances at the Night Buzzard, you will call for me.” He pinched your chin between leather fingers, angling your eyes into the void of his mask. “Do you understand?”

Your cheeks burned. You swallowed. “Yes, Commander.”

He huffed--static in the mask--and patted your cheek. “Good girl.”

As you blushed, he stood and crossed to the Knights. They steeped themselves in hushed discussion until the driver signaled their arrival. With a rumble, the Buzzard slowed, coasting to a stop behind a smattering of trees, and through the darkness, you could spy a collection of distant glowing lights, cold and artificial. One of the Knights murmured something about cutting a generator, and Kylo nodded. A brief, mustered agreement, and the doors opened, the soldiers filing out, leaving their leader behind. He turned to you a final time.

“The exterior is bulletproof. The door will lock.” His presence was heavy. You wished you could touch him. “At even a glance.”

“I know.” You gazed at the transceiver, its power light blinking like a heartbeat. “I will.”

Kylo held you under his stare for a lingering second before stomping down the steps and exiting the Buzzard. With everyone now gone, the air seemed stale. Empty. Sighing, you rose to your feet, dragging yourself to the driver’s seat and plopping into it, cradling the radio in your lap. The only noise filtering through the speaker was muffled static.

Though you could only see from several hundred feet away, the camp seemed unassuming, composed of a couple dozen military vehicles and a bunch of pitched tents that appeared half-packed away. They’d said the encampment was moving tonight--the Buzzard’s dash read 10:42 PM. Bodies bustled under the lights, Angels in black uniforms and armed with rifles carting indiscernible armfuls to store them on trucks. You scanned the fields, searching for your Commander, but found nothing. Kylo Ren and his men had disintegrated into the dark.

It started with a flicker--the camp’s lights fluttered like a flame--and a black veil swallowed the outer ring of the perimeter. The men in your sight seemed confused, not concerned, spinning to examine the issue, creeping forward. And then one dropped with a crack, the items in his arms tumbling free, his body folding into itself as it hit the ground. With firecracker panic, the camp erupted, soldiers revealing their rifles and whirling in sloppy formation, only to watch other comrades smack the dirt, shot dead in random, bloody heaps.

A coordinated effort was abandoned, and the Angels scattered, rifled roaches under dying halogen lights. But their attempts to hide were futile--the second they found shelter, another layer of lighting winked out, and they scuttled to the center, shooting volleys of gunfire in no particular direction. It was only then you caught them--the Knights, cutting through the camp like raven razors, collapsing tents and impaling bodies as they passed. A pair was back to back, twirling as one clotheslined two Angels and the other emptied a clip into an approaching squad. A third covered those two, winding around them and unleashing a full automatic round into the camp.

Then a sharp bang, white fire--you winced--the men in the camp stiffening in temporary paralysis. In their stupor, the other three Knights descended, sharks consuming a helpless meal, rending their prey into paper shreds. One Knight slit a man’s face from ear to ear, a crest of blood in the dirt, and twisted his knife into the back of his mouth. The man screamed into the sky, so loud you heard it from the Buzzard, and then through the transceiver, followed by echoes of furious voices demanding order in new, terrible chaos.

The horror picked up the pace of your heart--this was different than the times you’d watched Kylo. Their savagery was almost sadistic; a thought confirmed when two Knights paused their spree to watch an Angel wriggle like a split worm, kicking him as his blood clumped mud under his chest. You swallowed, tearing your eyes away as another section of lights died, plunging the entire camp into darkness. Shouting choruses of strained voices ripped through the radio, the only sign of activity the sparks of muzzle fire and shifting shadows under the moon.

Staccato pops pierced the speaker, and you jumped, focus darting between the device and the absolute nothing you could see beyond the bus. And then a voice, familiar--the man you remembered as Pryde.

“Took you long enough, Ren.” Another round of gunshots. “Three weeks to pin us down?”

Two shots, louder, closer. “Easier to find rats when they have nowhere to hide.”

“You’re willing to bet on that.” A single pop.

“Betting implies faith in the outcome.” A pause. “I don’t have faith. I have knowledge.”

A cacophony of shots staticked the speaker, and you clapped your hands over your mouth, silencing your squeals. You glanced out the window, still seeing nothing but the twinkles of the Knights’ massacre. Like dust, the exchange settled, someone panting over the channel. From the clarity of breath, it didn’t sound like Kylo.

“Impossible,” said Pryde. “There are cells that you can’t possibly--won’t possibly ever know about.”

“You’re willing to bet on that.”

Something crossed through a shaft of starlight, moving toward the Buzzard. You blinked, inching toward the dashboard. It was difficult to see in the darkness.

“You pushed Gilead too far.”

“I’m improving it.”

“Your improvements are borderline treason.”

“You’re heading a coup.”

Explosions of noise through the radio, a growling scrape--your throat tightened. The shadow was definitely human. It was definitely coming closer. Running.

You grabbed the transceiver, holding it to your mouth. “Um. Commander?”

The only response was static, a party of bullets through the speaker. Fear stabbed your chest, your pulse in your ears.

“It will never be treason to restore Gilead to God’s word.” Another crackle. “I’m righting your mistakes.” More gunfire. “This isn’t a coup, it’s retribution.”

“Commander,” you said, a little louder. “Sir.”

“You’ll need the support of the Council.”

It was an Angel. He was rushing the Buzzard with something, some sort of bag in his hand. It looked, maybe, wiry. It looked, in your mind, like a bomb.

Your heart careened--why wasn’t he listening, why wasn’t he answering--and you fumbled the radio, sending it tumbling onto the floor of the bus and under your feet. The light stopped blinking.

“Fuck.” You tried to kick it toward you, managing only to knock it under the seat. “Fuck! Kylo! Kylo!”

Of course, there was no response.

“You think you have the support of the Council? You’re no Snoke. You never will be.”

You scrambled to the floor, knees scratching metal. Reached for the transceiver.

“I killed Snoke.” A clatter of metal--you snagged the device and flung it toward you. “This is my destiny.”

Turning it on, you screeched, “Kylo please there’s someone running with a bag please help!”

The sound of a gunshot. An inhuman snarl. And the radio went dead.

“Kylo?” you said. “Commander? Sir?”

A shriek of fire erupted in the camp, spewing dirt and smoke into the air, and you screamed, shouting nonsense into the transceiver, as if this would summon him to your side. The explosion guttered in seconds, flames trickling to death, fog fading. There was no sign of the Knights. Or your Commander.

Your heart thudded. Something could’ve happened to him. He could be dead. But there was no time to process or consider it. You were alone in the Buzzard. With the Angel only coming closer. One hundred possibilities reeled through your mind--he could be escaping, defecting, taking this chance to denounce his chains--yet the only one you could consider was the one that involved him blowing you and the bus to whichever afterlife actually existed. Running wasn’t an option, if he did blow up the bus, with you being in the middle of nowhere and with no places to hide. There was only one other choice. Before anything and everything else, you needed to survive.

Steeling your jaw, you scrambled toward the second third of the bus, threw open the weaponry cabinets and stared at the assembly of rifles, shotguns, pistols, and other deathbringers. There was no leisure to figure out how to use a new type of gun--you barely knew how to use one. You snatched a pistol, testing its weight in your palm before fussing to find the safety. Your fingers found the magazine release instead--it popped out, revealing a full clip, and you silently thanked whatever divine being allowed that to happen, because there was no way you would’ve checked to see if the stupid thing had bullets. The safety was already disengaged. Swallowing, you wiped your palms on your robe and tramped to the exit, chin quaking while you flipped the lock and opened the door.

The summer air stuffed your lungs, and you wheezed through it, stumbling into the dirt. Holding your breath, you sidled up to the Buzzard, spying the Angel sprinting through the grass. Your hands shook, stomach churned. There was no way you’d nail this shot. Unfortunately, you had to try.

Teeth gnashing, you tugged back the slide and raised your arms, elbows locked, fixing the sight of the pistol on the shifting shade. To account for delay, you led the barrel in front of his path, following him for one second, and two. You pulled the trigger.

Rattled by force, the bullet went wide, whizzing into space, and you gulped, watching as the Angel paused, searching for its origin. You hunted for oxygen, but the air was thick, ears shrill with terror. Adrenaline drunk, you threw your arms forward, aiming again. Fuck it. He still wasn’t moving. This time, you wouldn’t miss.

Lip curling, you fired, wrists flung back, and the Angel yelped, dropping a knee. You had only seconds to celebrate before he turned straight toward you, and your blood froze. He struggled to his feet, hand moving at his waist--you panted, unable to stop the rapid vibration wracking your joints as you tried to aim again. In a zombie shuffle, he leveled his own pistol and sent off a shot, pinging the steel next to your head.

“Fuck!”

You clung to the side of the Buzzard, heaving now, clenching the gun in your hands. You wanted to get it together. He still had that bag in his arms, and now he knew you were here. You needed to get it together. With his injury, he was holding his gun one-handed--the recoil recovery would be your chance. Every pulse of your heart clouded your sight--you drew in a slow, deep inhale through your nose, ignoring the flighty feather of thought in the back of your mind:

Where the hell was your Commander?

Shaking it off, you adjusted your grasp and spun the corner, moving to aim--another shot glanced off the bus, and you shrieked, falling to your knees. Growling, fight-or-flight flaring, you tracked the Angel, determined to win, and pulled the trigger.

And nothing happened.

“What the fuck,” you said, and smacked the gun, like this would help. You tried to shoot again, but nothing. “What the fuck!”

Your failure was the Angel’s opportunity--you glanced up, his arm already raised.

Pop.

Wincing, you waited for the pain. But none came. You blinked, peering into the grasses, and spotted the Angel, crumpled to the ground.

Commander Kylo Ren broke through the night, a cyclone through the fields--relief flooded you, fleeing your lungs--he was alive. He was here. And he was charging you like a tank.

“Kylo,” you breathed, and clambered to your feet, pulling your lips in over your teeth. But he didn’t respond. Your fight-or-flight stalled in his approach.

Palms wet, your grip slipped and the gun smacked the dirt, shooting a round into the grass. You flinched, neck hot, made to grab it, but before you could reach, a gloved hand gnarled your hair and whipped you back, hauling you onto the Buzzard.

You yipped in pain. “Kylo!” Tugging at his fingers, you tried to pry free as he yanked you up the steps, but he tightened his grip, wrenching you forward and tossing you onto the couch. “Will you--”

His mask snapped with static--he seized your face, pinching your cheeks. “You seem to have a penchant for bullets,” he said. “If you’re so interested, I’ll put another one in you myself.”

You glared at him, pushing him off. “Are you kidding?” you said. “I thought he had a bomb!”

Kylo grabbed your face again. “He was carrying documents. And your solution was to begin a shooting match.”

“Who cares?” you spat. “You’re the one who didn’t respond to the radio!”

He growled. “You may care little for your own life, but you are--”

In the distance, tires squealed, a vehicle spinning into the field--his head snapped toward the front, and he pushed you free, striding to the driver’s seat.

Without a word, he revved the engine and threw it into gear, slamming on the gas and peeling through the grass, speeding in the other vehicle’s direction. You jolted with the terrain, seeking purchase on the couch, but he jerked the shift into low gear, motor wailing as he plowed through the plains. Thrown forward, you grappled with the table across from you, peering through the windshield, watching Kylo barrel into the night.

You knew that he was in pursuit of Pryde. But your conversation didn’t feel finished. In the back of your mind, alarms blared: evidence, evidence of your inevitable fate. The man in your prophecy was a stranger. The one in your reality hadn’t come when you’d called him. He seemed reluctant to choose you at all.

The Buzzard roared, its acceleration impressive for its size, chasing the speeding sedan, catching its rear in its headlights. Focused, Kylo shoved the gearshift forward, and the engine howled, flinging you back to the couch with a yelp.

“Stop moving.”

You frowned. “It’s not like there are seatbelts back here.”

The sedan cut to the left, zooming toward a highway, and Kylo growled. “Get up here.”

Gripping the sides of the aisle, you pulled yourself toward the driver’s seat, and when you met the back of the chair, Kylo reached around, wound an arm around your waist, and dragged you on his lap. You squeaked--before you could adjust, he hit the brakes and jerked the wheel; the Buzzard whined, teetering in protest, and Kylo tugged you to his frame, shifting under you to keep you both from hitting the floor.

Your face burned--despite your frustration with him, he was large and warm underneath you, his chest steady at your back. Swallowing, you grabbed his thighs, hoping to steady yourself, and if he noticed, he didn’t care, letting you cling while he focused on the hunt. The sedan bumbled across pavement, sliced through the highway, back into the fields--Kylo smashed the gas, and the Buzzard flew over the asphalt with a smack, bouncing you on his lap, sending heat to your cheeks. The distance from his prey was negligible, now; the car was some type of black Volkswagen, the license plate glinting in the glare of headlights.

Kylo stiffened and lowered the window, buffeting you with gusts of syrupy air, and grabbed your hands, tacking them to the wheel. “Steer.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait--”

He brandished his pistol and stretched out--you jostled over his thighs--lining up a shot as you bore down on the car. Gritting your teeth, you kept the Buzzard straight as it rumbled over the dirt, and he tensed, firing two shots, blowing out his target’s rear tires. The Volkswagen whirled, a tornado in the grass spiraling toward you, set to collide with your front-end; you thought to do nothing else but swerve and spin the wheel. The sharp curve pitched the bus off of its side, and you cursed, the both of you thrown toward the steps.

A strong arm barred your waist, catching you and wresting you back, and a leather hand encompassed yours--Kylo slammed the brakes, righting the tires as the bus screeched to a stop feet away from the car, rocking you both into the driver’s side, his hold buffering you from injury. You panted, face and flesh hot, head airy; in the grass, Pryde scrambled from the Volkwagen into blinding light, a crimson streak through his scalp. He ducked, took cover behind his car and drew his pistol, lodging two shots in the windshield. You yelped--there was no chance to speak before Kylo pushed you off, his own pistol in hand as he shouldered his way through the bus door and into the glow of the Buzzard’s headlamps.

Pop, pop--the fire stalled your Commander’s advance, and he shielded himself with the bus’s body. Emblazoned with righteous furor, Pryde shot again, burying a bullet in the frame.

“You’re an idiot, Ren. You’ll do this forever. I won’t be the last.” From your height, you could see Pryde fussing with something. He must not have known you were there. “As long as you go against God’s plan, you’ll never win.”

Then he tossed whatever was in his hand, covering his eyes--a stabbing flash eclipsed your sight, its detonation drowning your ears, and you gasped, seething, curling at the waist. When the noise died, you groaned, rubbing the artifacts from your vision, peering into the field. In the seconds you’d been stymied, Pryde had disappeared. Your Commander shot into the car--nothing--and crept through the grass, head on a swivel.

Spits of gunfire from the driver’s side of the Buzzard, and Kylo juked back, landing them on opposite sides of the bus in a stand-off. You chewed your lip. Pryde definitely didn’t know you were there. And there was still a cache of guns in the cabinets. Turning, you snuck through the aisle--but when you reached the storage, a hail of bullets crackled from the Buzzard’s rear. Despite being inside, you bowed, heart in your stomach, pulse pounding with fear. You needed to keep going.

Swallowing, you threw open the door to the cache, plucking another pistol from its hook. You remembered your near-follies earlier: magazine, check. Safety, check. Slide pulled back, check. More sweat on your palms. Cursing to yourself, you wiped them on your robes again, shuffling to the front--and then another blast, another searing light. You hissed, knees buckling, gunshots echoing through your ringing ears. A grunt escaped you, your jaw tense, and you shook off the pain, forcing yourself to look through the windshield. Your eyes adjusted, unfuzzing, just in time to see Enric Pryde raise his gun and shoot your Commander twice in the chest.

It happened in split seconds. Kylo staggered, impact hampered by his bulletproof vest, his gun falling into the grass; you trapped a scream, your muscles burst with adrenaline. Bungling the pistol in your grip, you scaled the driver’s seat, blood soaring, brain baffled--you were doing this again you were seriously doing this again--and leaned out the window. Pryde approached, raised his weapon, training it on Kylo, and in that instant, your mind cleared, annoyance and worry and terror swallowed with rage, all of it coalescing into a single, solitary thought:

That’s my child’s father, asshole.

You steadied your arms, pulled the trigger--your ears trilled, elbows bowed--and Pryde howled, knee slamming the dirt. Pinching your lips together, you fought the urge to tremble, preparing to shoot again, but Kylo had already recovered. He lunged, tackling Pryde to ground, the other man’s pistol sailing into the air and disappearing into the dark.

Pryde twisted underneath your Commander’s weight, trying and failing to throw him off. “God doesn’t make exceptions, Ren!” Kylo clocked him in the jaw, and he choked, sputtered. “Gilead will never accept you making a whore your--”

Kylo’s fist clobbered his face, striking him over and over and over, blood spewing from his mouth, his nose, over his chin. You couldn’t sit down, something strange tingling your neck under the knowledge that the mention of you made him snap: a sick glimmer of affection, of hope. A disgusting delusion that, perhaps, he really could choose you. Bone cracked, Pryde’s cheek collapsed, and Kylo stopped, heaving, arm reeled back.

The older man wheezed, skull pulverized to a mess of meat. “Go ahead and kill me, Ren. But there’s no such thing as destiny. The longer you try to fight God’s design, the greater you’ll lose.”

“Interesting theory. But God doesn’t design Gilead.” Kylo glanced at you, still bent out of the Buzzard. Your heart fluttered--without him having to say it, you knew what he was asking. With an underhand, you lobbed him the gun, and he snatched it from the air, jammed it against Pryde’s broken chin. “I do.”

Pryde gagged, red drool dribbling from his lips. “You’re the devil.”

“Yes.” Kylo’s voice was mechanized malevolence. “I am.”

Pop. Blood spattered his visor, Pryde’s head lolled in the grass. At the same time you exhaled, slumping into the driver’s seat, your Commander’s shoulders bunched, then fell. He hung there, hovering over his victim. Silent, he stared for a moment before he rose, pistol in hold, and crossed to the bus.

You should have felt relief as the door opened and he stepped onto the Buzzard--his enemies vanquished, a victorious soldier, your body the spoils--but when he towered over you, your ribcage constricted with dread. Pryde’s words looped through your mind.

You’ll do this forever. I won’t be the last. The longer you try to fight... the greater you’ll lose.

They nagged you, clawed at the wrinkles of your brain. Because despite their origin, you knew--despite not wanting to know--that they were very, unfortunately, true. And if you knew that, then part of Kylo had to know that, too. Part of him had to know how shallow this victory was.

He flicked a switch on the dashboard, and picked up a wired transmitter, spinning a knob until static fizzed from the Buzzard’s radio. “Target eliminated,” he said, and reported a pair of coordinates. “Your status.”

Another voice came through the speaker--one of the Knights. “Documentation obtained. Encampment neutralized. En route shortly.”

Without a word, he flicked the switch and replaced the transmitter.

“Um. So.” Shifting in the seat, you gazed at him, seeking his eyes through the visor. “Will this ever stop?”

A tired hm was all he offered.

You sighed, pulling the robe closed over your chest. “I mean, will you always be fighting just so we can be together?”

He stood, solid, staring. Or not staring. It was too difficult to tell. Either way, he said nothing.

“I know that’s what you want.” You shrugged. It was easier to look at him when you didn’t know if he was looking back. “For us to be together. But this isn’t going to work.”

His head tilted a single millimeter. “Work.” It was more of a question than a statement.

“If this is what it’s going to be, then it won’t work.” The words hung, heavy in the air, and you paused, waiting for his response. You received none. So you continued. “There’s another way, though.” Leveling him with your gaze, you held your breath. “We can just leave.”

Kylo snorted, turning into the aisle. “We don’t need to leave.”

“We do.” You shook your head. “He’s right, Kylo.” You crossed your arms. “I hate to say it, but he’s right. You have to realize that you can’t make this perfect. It’s broken.”

“Of course it is.” He returned the pistol to the weapons rack. “It’s broken because I’m not finished.”

You frowned. “Well, it really doesn’t matter what you do,” you replied, “if it involves Gilead at all, then I don’t want it.”

He spun on his heel. “You don’t want it?” he asked, voice rising. “Is this not enough?”

Raising a brow, you caught a laugh in your chest. “Of course it’s not enough! How could it be? I told you--I’ll always want more.”

“More? More than what?” Kylo stalked through the aisle, heel-ball-toe. “Haven’t I kept you safe?” He was a black condor, cornering you in the driver’s seat. “Fucked you well?”

Heat seared your face. “It was because of you that I was in danger anyway!” Shaking your head again, you allowed your chest to puff out in indignance. “None of it is enough when you’re free, and I’m not.”

“No,” he said, “you were in danger because of imperfection. People assigned to the wrong roles. People failing to fulfill the roles they were meant to fill.” He edged closer. “Freedom is inconsequential under perfect design.”

“Your design is bullshit, your roles are bullshit!” You jumped to your feet, bumping his breast, and his shoulders tensed--but you ignored it, and pushed past him into the aisle. “As long as you try to force things on people, they’ll never be happy.” Flustered, you gestured toward him. “Hell, you’re not even happy! I know you aren’t!”

The prophecy seemed distant and comical, now. But the inevitability of this reality was almost too painful to admit--the fact that despite your pregnancy, he was still unwilling to forgo his stance. The facts were that you would never be with Kylo Ren, he would never know his child, you would never be allowed to have him, and he would never understand your needs.

Dozens, hundreds, thousands of nevers welled in your throat, flooded your eyes, nevers that never should have been, and nevers that never would be. Never whispering his name, never waking up in his arms, never seeing him cradle his child, and never falling asleep next to him in a future where he was your home and your family, a future where you would feel his lips on yours, naked in your shared bed, feeling safe, feeling secure, feeling loved.

Your throat was tight. “I’m… I’m pregnant, Kylo. I don’t want to raise my child in a world where it can’t know choice. I don’t want to fulfill whatever you believe my role is!” Scanning him, you stiffened your jaw, and his fists tightened, his leather gloves squelched. “I want to be with you. I do. But it can’t be like this.” Steel sharpened your tone. “As long as you have Gilead, you’ll never have me.”

You pivoted, stepping toward the back of the bus--but a leather-bound hand grasped your neck and whipped you back, curled you against his chest, a metal muzzle at your face. Frowning, you squirmed, and he halted you with ease, subsuming you in his strength.

“That’s where you’re mistaken.” The sound coming from the mask was not one you recognized. “I already have you.” His free hand skated down your stomach. “I’ve already won.”

“Get off of me, Kylo.” You moved again, but he shook you in his hold.

“You said it yourself,” he replied. “You wanted this. You wanted my child.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Your skin tingled from his proximity, from the electric silk in his voice. “You have my body. That doesn’t mean you have my mind.”

“So you say. Yet you pulled a gun on Pryde. You helped me end his life.” He huffed, a human rumble in his throat. “Who would do that other than someone who wanted what I wanted, too?”

You tried to shake your head, stuck in his grasp. “I don’t want what you want.” Something flickered low in your abdomen. “I don’t want to fulfill a role.”

Kylo shifted, his hand sliding from your neck into your hair, coiling around it. “You already are fulfilling your role.” Every word forced you to resist the urge to whimper. “You want to be mine. And you want it so badly that you’re willing to forsake everything to have it.”

Shame streaked through you, hotter than hell itself, and you cried out, shoving him back, only for him to grapple you and flatten you along the pantry chest first, smothering you, stoking horrified heat under your flesh. He wrenched your arm behind your back with ease, his boots framing your feet, his hips pinning your backside.

“Don’t deny it,” he said. “You know I’m right.”

“No.” Most of you was sure he wasn’t right. But the tiny twinkle that shivered at the thought of forever being his, no matter the cost, agreed. Your chin trembled. “You’re wrong.”

Another rumble, deep in his chest. “Am I?” His pelvis pressed against you. “You’re willing to deceive Johana. Manipulate the Resistance.” One hand wagged your scalp, the other holding your hip as you wiggled under him. “You’re willing to watch others die. You’re even willing to kill.”

“Stop.” You panted, hating the rush of excitement to your thighs, hating that his words were making sense. “That’s not--that’s not how it is.”

“But this is how it works.” A slow exhale left him. “Neither of us have ever had choices. You realize that, now. This is who we’re meant to be.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not.” Kylo’s fingers dug into your hip. “You’re meant to be mine. And I’m meant to own you, to own all of this.” He inhaled, the noise hollow in his helmet. “You’re never escaping me.” His weight compressed you along the cabinet, shortened your breath. “And I’m never letting you leave.”

Terror exploded into wrath. It couldn’t be true. “No!” You writhed underneath him, but he weighed on you like a boulder. “Fuck! Get off of me!”

A low, quiet noise of amusement knocked in his throat. “Poor thing. You want to avoid it. But this is what you want.”

“No, it’s not!”

“It is.” He nuzzled his helmet against your head. “You’re as much me as you ever were. The only difference…” He hummed, hand at your hip massaging the flesh. “I admit who I am.”

Desire thickened your throat, your heart crumpled in despair. How dare he, how dare he make you believe he cared for you--then reveal it was a ploy to land you exactly where he’d wanted. And nothing he said had been wrong. Despite your best intentions, your earnest efforts, there was still no one’s life you cared to save--outside of your own--other than his. You tried to steady your lungs, ignoring the rising urge to have him even closer.

“I know who you are,” you said. “I know you’re better than this.”

“You do?” Kylo Ren snickered. “You’re mistaken, angel. Didn’t you hear what he said?” His muzzle, cold carbon, met your ear. “I’m the devil.”

A surge of lust swirled in your belly, and you screamed, thrashing, trying to throw him off. He ceded an inch, and you shouldered him back, only for him to wrap his hand around your throat and spin you, back smacking the cabinet. One arm framed your head, the other driving into your chest, and you swallowed against him. Scowling, you stared into the empty facade of his mask.

Even in his assuredness, you would never tell him how deep you’d fallen--it was the final thing he couldn’t take. After all, every other line you’d meant to draw had long been washed by the waves of your selfish hunger. Hunger that, even in this moment, barked with greed.

His mask tilted, dipping over your figure--your robe was askew, revealing half of your breast, your stomach peeking through the gap--and his grip on your neck tightened, fuzzing your pulse. Your knees weakened, even as you hoped to raze him to the floor with your eyes. Kylo huffed with restrained excitement.

“Mm. You’re trembling.” His thumb stroked your wild heartbeat. “You’re hot.”

“Fuck you,” you said. “You’re disgusting.”

“Perhaps I am.” The hand above your head slipped under your robe, leather skimming your skin. “But we both know how you love to revel in filth.”

Air caught in your chest--this bastard--you rolled your tongue in your mouth, jaw tense, and you sucked in a breath, spitting a fat glob straight onto his mask.

Kylo hissed, lifting you by the neck until your feet dangled, slamming your skull into the cabinet. You grunted, digging the heels of your palms into his shoulders, kicking his stomach--but he was a mountain, immune to your timid storm. His sheer size neutralized your effort, and he leaned close, flattening you along the pantry, paralyzing your limbs.

“If you know what’s good for you,” he purred, deadly soft in the mask, “you’ll clean that up.”

Hunger wasn’t barking, now. It was howling. And you wanted to stoke its appetite.

“You’re right,” you replied. “How rude of me.”

Smirking, you gathered another wad of spit at the top of your palate--and after a long, obvious scrape of your throat, you hocked it at his eyes.

Hurled through the air, you crashed into the aisle, feeling footsteps quake the floor. You spun onto your ass, scurrying backwards on your palms, Kylo chasing you in long, livid strides. You heaved, heart pounding, crawling until your back connected with a metal frame. One of the beds. Before you could think to dodge, he ripped you up by your hair and onto your knees, slapping you hard across the face.

“Nasty little bitch.” His grip curled at your scalp, his other hand groping his now-obvious arousal. “You must have forgotten what your mouth is for.”

You sneered. “I’m fairly certain it’s for cursing you.”

White pain whacked your cheek, and he shook you back to reality, your vision swimming. He’d undone his belt, and pulled free his angry, erect cock. “Drop your jaw, little bird,” he murmured. “Before I break it off.”

When you hesitated, Kylo drove his thumb into your mouth and hooked it behind your teeth, tugging it down to receive his length. You stared at him, contempt simmering in your eyes, exhilaration careening through your blood. Of course you were infuriated with him, but this only seemed to incense your passion, rather than dampen it--perhaps, in that way, you were like him, too. As his cock slipped over your tongue, you let loose a soft moan, and he released you, allowing you to seal your lips around his thick, heavy shaft.

Both hands shot into your hair, holding you still while he rocked into your mouth, and you hummed, gazing into his visor, wondering what he looked like behind the mask. Your tongue pressed to the underside of his dick, earning a growl from his chest, and he jerked your neck back, sliding in deeper.

“Use your hands,” he said. “Unless you want me to fuck your throat.”

You rolled your eyes--but encircled the base anyway, struggling to fully wrap around his girth. Groaning, your lids fluttered while you drooled onto him, slicking your saliva down his length, bobbing your head while you struggled to keep your attention trained on his face. His cock filled your mouth, the tip poking your soft palate, and you sucked, revealing in his sharp intake of air as you tightened your grip. Even if you never did this again, having him in your mouth was a feeling you’d take to your grave--the hot silk skin at your lips, the pulsing on your tongue, the sore stretch to your jaw--all of it made you throb, made you ache for more.

“Mm, that’s right.” He adjusted his grasp, urging you back and forth on his cock, making you gag. “Much better than hearing you speak.”

Narrowing your lids, you pulled your lips back, letting your teeth catch on his shaft--Kylo grunted and jerked out of you, backhanding you in the jaw. You wailed, your sight spun with pain, but your cunt was soaked, dripping and clenching with your escalating need.

“Fuck y--” you began, before he yanked your head back and shoved his dick down your throat.

You retched, choked, vision flooding with tears, but with him handling your hair like reins, he trapped you there, your mouth a helpless hole for him to fuck. He snapped his hips, his dick bulging in your neck, his breath labored with the pace of his thrusts. Sweat spilled down your back, and you retched again as his cock twitched on your tongue, cranked your jaw wide, plunged in and out of your throat.

“You pretend to fight.” The words were husky under modulation. “But you love it. You’re a slut for my cock.”

Under the noise of your groaned assent, you heard it: beyond the perimeter of the Buzzard, an unmuffled motor, advancing fast. The Knights had arrived. A thrill lit up your spine; perhaps it was the anger with your Commander--a spiteful need to make him jealous--or the fact you were more aroused than you’d been in weeks, but the thought of being caught by them, just like this, flashed fire at your neck and between your legs. You whimpered with anticipation.

But if Kylo had noticed, he didn’t seem to care--he clutched your head, reveling in the wet warmth of your throat as you swallowed around him. Voices echoed in the stark night air outside of the bus, growing closer, and you imagined them seeing you as they walked in fresh from battle: a moaning, wanton whore on her knees, sucking their leader’s cock.

It was too much--your fingers dipped between your legs, and you teased your clit, sobbing in pleasure. Your Commander growled and pulled out, tucking himself away, and you sputtered, both hands bracing the floor while you gulped down oxygen.

“Dirty fucking slut.” He crouched, elbows on his knees, and grabbed your face. “You want them to watch me fuck you.” His thumb traced your swollen lower lip. “Don’t you?”

The doors to the bus opened. And your smirk drew up in a sneer.

“If you think you can handle other men looking at your property.”

Kylo Ren seized you by your hair again. “I can do more than handle it.” Standing, he hoisted you to your feet. “I’ll order it.” He tossed you into the aisle with such force that you stumbled, knees scraping the floor.

The Knights ascended the steps, stopping mid-board. Humiliation scorched your nerves, you strangled a moan at the thought of how you must appear--robe splayed open to reveal your underwear, your face moist, hair mussed--and how obvious it would be to them what you’d just been doing. You swallowed your desire as the half that had climbed onto the bus now stood in silence observing you, a broken-wing bird, at the mercy of her ravenous Commander.

“Get on. Sit down.” Kylo’s voice was eerily calm behind you--the Knights filed in, stuffing themselves together around the tiny table and couch. “This is your entertainment, tonight.” His boots resonated with his approach. “If there’s even an inch of movement toward her, I will bleed you dry on the Buzzard and leave your body for worms.”

They nodded, but did not reply.

“Now.” He wove his fingers through your hair again, and you winced, scalp tender. But he whirled you around anyway, shoving your nose into his crotch. His cock strained against his pants. “Where were we?”

You bit your lip, sliding your hands up his strong thighs. “I don’t remember, Commander.” What you were doing was incredibly devious, and certifiably insane. But the thought of embarrassing him in front of his men was a small salve on your fury. And the temptation of the consequences had your body demanding more. “It must not have been very... impressive.”

Kylo snarled and slammed your back to the weapon cabinet, grinding his covered cock into your face. “What was that?” he said. “Answer carefully.”

Heartbeat in your ears, you mouthed at the fabric of his pants, gazing at him. “I said,” you replied, nuzzling the bulge with your cheek, “that it must not have been very--” you dragged your tongue along the length, “--impressive.”

“Hm.” His hand drifted from your head to your throat. “That’s what I thought.” He clamped down, knocking your skull on the cabinet and compressing your artery, and you wheezed, pressing your thighs together. “Strip.”

You stared into his mask, blood beating at your temples--you wanted to speak, but found no words.

“Hurry,” he said, “before you pass out.” The pressure increased. “Or I’ll have to do it for you.”

Now woozy, the back of your brain dared you to let him do it, but you figured passing out wouldn’t be smart to do while pregnant (getting slapped, thrown, and choked, however, apparently fine). You shuffled your robe down your shoulders, vision blurring while you unlatched the hooks on your bra and shimmied it onto the floor. The last articles were your boots and underwear, which required you to wriggle in his hold, the movement eating the edges of your sight--and then they were gone, and he released you, waiting as you collapsed, naked, against the storage.

The Knights’ heads were aimed toward you--and to your surprise, at least two were already rubbing themselves through their pants. Your cunt pulsed.

“Now.” A gloved hand slid into your hair again, leather tugging at the strands, while his other hand wrestled free his hard cock, the tip gleaming with pre-cum. “Where were we?”

He rammed into your mouth, and you shuddered, ignoring the urge to vomit, your delighted moans hiccuped by the vigor of his strokes. Drool doused your chin, coated your lips, and your bleary focus wandered to his soldiers, one of whom had leaned back, his chest rising, another palming himself faster. They were watching you, watching you get throat-fucked by the man who owned you, watching as you bloomed a film of sweat, watching as you loved it, your pleading, wretched face begging to be abused.

“See how badly they want you,” he muttered. “But you’re mine. It’s all--fuck--all for me…”

Another reminder--Kylo Ren was going to keep you, he did not want to let you go, and would never, ever see you as you saw him--but you ignored it, choosing to suffocate yourself in desire instead, to stave off this stupid fucking reality where you were a stupid fucking slave in stupid fucking love with her stupid fucking Commander.

Eager to dust away the cobwebs of your misery, your hand snuck between your legs, ghosting over your folds to tease your clit, and you groaned, eyes rolling to the back of your head. Kylo snickered.

“Look at you,” he said. “Such a whore for me. Willing to--to make yourself cum in front of a group of masked men.” He jammed his dick deep, pressing your nose to his pubic bone, and you flailed, choking on him. “Is that what you want, slut? For everyone to know what you look like when you cum?”

You tried to nod, or to agree in any way--because yes, fuck yes, you wanted his men to watch you cum for him, to have them envy you and him and have them stroke their cocks and spill their seed while they dreamed of fucking your pussy and--

Perhaps pregnancy hormones were more powerful than you’d initially thought.

Kylo slipped out of you again, and you gasped, panting, wiping the sheen of sweat from your forehead, smearing the spit from your mouth. It had already dribbled onto your tits. Every part of your body felt swollen, and every part of your body wanted release. A leather finger tilted your chin toward his visor.

“Then we’ll make you cum.”

He laid you out on the aisle and spread your legs, and you craned your neck back, meeting a wall of the Knights, seated in a half-circle, all focused on you. You licked your lips, hoping to entice them--and then two gloved fingers pried open your folds, and before you could brace, they drove in, filling your pussy. Crying out, you shivered, clenching around him, hips gyrating to seek more of his touch.

Kylo’s breath quickened, his thumb circled your stiff clit, pleasure sweeping over you, and you twisted your neck, wanting a better view of the front of the bus. One of the Knights was guiding two digits up and down his shaft, another working himself free, the rest now prepping themselves, waiting to touch their cocks. The sight shuddered you, made you writhe, made your core throb and your flesh burn.

“Desperate whore.” He swirled your nub faster--you throttled a moan. “See what I do to you.” His fingers curled and twisted inside of you, petting your walls. “You’re ready to cum for faces you’ve never even seen.”

“Jesus.” Three of the Knights were stroking themselves, now, one of them fully fisting his shaft, pumping it in rhythm with Kylo’s hand. Heat blazed your thighs, forcing you toward ecstasy. “Fuck. Commander…”

Kylo grunted, a needy noise in his throat. “There we go,” he said. “Who else can make you cum like this?” He snapped his wrist, a third gloved finger pushing inside of you, his thumb tracing your clit, and you whined, back arching, air cycling faster in your lungs. “Tell me you want to stay.” You heard a soft shuffle beyond your waist--you knew he was jerking off. “Tell me, and I’ll let you cum.”

Flames flicked your neck, ire popping your bubble of bliss. Did he think he was winning? You swiveled to meet his vacant gaze. “I can cum whenever I want.”

Switching motions, he scissored you wide, drawing zig-zags on your throbbing clit. “Don’t test me.”

You snarled and rolled, his hand pulling out when you staggered to your feet. It didn’t matter, in that moment, that you were naked and he had the capability to pulverize you under his heel--you wanted to piss him off, wanted him to feel even a fraction of the frustration that you felt, wanted him to destroy you as desperately as you wanted to destroy him.

Kylo stood, his arm shooting toward you, and you slapped him away, spitting at him again--he snagged your wrist and thwacked your cheek, and you howled, daggering your knee into his thigh. A feral noise tore through the mask; he clasped the back of your neck, lifting and smashing you into the weapons cabinet, massive chest pinning you there.

“Get off!” You pounded your fist into the helmet, pain echoing to your elbow. “Fuck!”

He grunted, collected your wrists in one hand and pinned them above your head, the other shoving two fingers into your mouth until he reached the back of your tongue. “Be good,” he said, “or I’ll do whatever I need to do to make you.”

You leered at him, steeled your jaw, and bit down on his hand.

Before you could breathe, that hand crushed your throat, and he knocked your thighs apart with his knee, impaling your cunt on his cock. He drove into the hilt with a growl, and you sobbed in pleasure-pain against his grip, a sharp sting, your pussy stretching for his thick, hard length. Kylo pumped into you, ruthless, primal, his chest swelling with rapid air, as if he was possessed, every thrust pushing shaky noise from your lungs.

“That’s right.” His hips collided with yours, thumb toying with your pulse, his voice ragged with desire. “Now you’ll behave, won’t you?”

Whimpering, you gasped, the unsteady bloodflow buzzing your lips and cheeks. He flattened your wrists to the cabinet, grinding your joints to the aluminum, his weight compressing your ribcage, his strength holding you still. The drag of his dick inside of you was enough to make you wail, but the ferocity, the animalistic savagery in his thrusts had your cunt throbbing, spasming, ready to cum without him touching your clit. In seconds, he’d tamed you, drenched you in sweat, submerged you in ecstasy, dangling you at the edge of submitting to his authority.

Kylo eased off your neck. “Look at them.”

Straining, trembling, you did--and met six men, all huffing, all enraptured. Two had stood, hunched as they stroked their cocks, others leaned back, fucking into their fists, another one trailing his palm up and down his shaft. You ruptured with lust and groaned in satisfaction, throwing your legs around Kylo’s waist, taking the brunt of his fast, vicious thrusts.

“Fuck, yes.” He brutalized your cunt, hammering into it. “They want you. They want what I have.” Like a spark, you felt it--his gaze meeting yours from behind the mask. "They envy me. Am I not enough?”

You wheezed, drawing in quickened air. “N-no,” you said. “And you--you alone n-never will be.”

His fingers bit your flesh--he lifted you from the wall, supporting your ass and cradling your skull before he crushed you onto the aisle, sliding his cock deep into your wet cunt. Kylo hissed in pleasure as you sheathed him to the base, gliding out and driving in, skin smacking while he tugged you into his heaving, rabid frame.

“Fucking whore,” he muttered, burying the muzzle of his mask in your neck. “Why do you want to leave?” The words were pins through his teeth. “Why do you always want to leave?”

You wanted to respond, but the pace of his hips stole your breath, your words, your jaw dropped with pathetic whines. All you could do was let him fuck you into the floor, body bouncing with his force, elated to exist as a loyal, greedy hole.

“I’m going to destroy you,” he growled. “I’m going to split this pussy wide, and I’m going to pump you full of cum.” He groaned, shivering from his own words. “And when I’m done, my men will cover you in it, bathe you in it--fuck--like the filthy, vile slut you are.” The hand at your head grasped your hair, scraped your scalp, the other slipping between your legs, expertly rubbing the engorged bundle of nerves. “Now beg to cum.”

“God!” You squirmed in delight, orgasm swelling inside of you, begging to gush out over your flesh. But you wanted, needed just a little, tiny bit more. “Fuck you!”

Kylo leaned up, bolted one hand to your waist, while the other reeled back and cracked you like lightning across the face--your mind went black, your eyes went white, and inside of your mouth, your teeth went red.

“Beg for it!” He pummeled your pussy, stroking your clit, jerking you into each snap of his hips. “Fucking beg!”

“Christ!” At the edge of your sight, you could see the Knights, their cocks pink and throbbing, all ready to cum, all ready to shower you with it. “Please, please Commander, please make me cum!”

His hand shifted, a gloved seam skated your nub--you shattered, back lifting from the aisle, limbs trembling as euphoria burst into your blood. The pain, the violence, the passion, all of it needled into your climax, stretching it through your skin, crumbling into powerful aftershocks as Kylo pounded you through it. Then his hips stuttered, a low, bellowing sound escaping his mask; he thrust once, twice, three times, cock twitching at your core as he came, spilling his seed inside.

Through his panting breath, he pulled out, barked an order. “Cum on her face. Paint her like a whore deserves.”

Still floating to reality, your gaze strayed from the floor, only to be met with six men tromping to encircle you, jerking their dicks with feverish focus. You blinked, whined, biting your lip--and they broke, cursing and choking in bliss as they splattered your face with load after load of cum. Hot, sticky streams roped over your forehead, your nose, your mouth, a particularly hard shot splashing down your neck and across your tits. They gasped as their climaxes left them, cocks bobbing with the tail-ends of pleasure, viscous drops dripping onto your skin.

With the final adornment of seed, they collected themselves, muttering under their masks--likely for their own benefit, rather than yours--as they tucked themselves away and meandered back to the front. In the death throes of your exhibition, you were quaking, overcome with a sudden, desperate need to sleep. Your mind plummeted into a hole, exhaustion overcoming you, actual, real-life ramifications trickling into your consciousness.

Your scalp throbbed, your face burned, you ached at every exposed joint. You swallowed--your mouth had bled, too, a bit. Making to move, you winced, finding it too difficult, resigning yourself to curl up on the Buzzard’s floor. To any observer--and perhaps, in a way, even to you--Kylo Ren had just beaten and fucked the shit out of you. And yet you couldn’t imagine, in just this single moment, being any more sated or satisfied.

Large leather hands lifting you up tore you from your reverie, and you grunted out a sigh, adjusting as your Commander gathered you in his arms. The latent pain in your heart rejected this--you didn’t want his faux-affection, didn’t want him to pretend he cared. Not when you knew he refused to let you go.

Yet you could barely summon the energy to move yourself, and the drying globs of cum were wearing out their novelty. So you relaxed, plopping your head onto his shoulder.

Kylo carried you to one of the beds and sat, supporting you on his lap, shifting until his back was along the wall and your legs splayed over the mattress. He grabbed a towel that was folded over the bunk divider and wiped you clean, guiding the thin cloth over your semen-stained face. The movements were slow, tentative, swiping away the drool, sweat and cum, pausing when he passed a tender point of tissue. His breath was steady and even, the mask offering you nothing but an empty, vacant, stare.

Kylo Ren’s eyes had been the only way you had been able to know, or begin to guess, what was rolling through his mind. Now they were shielded, a barrier cleaving your connection in half. And denied his eyes, you were blinded, blinded from hope and joy and the open door to shared escape, left with a mockery of the man you knew.

You were going to fight the tears--there would be no crying now, not tonight or in future nights, for someone who did not want to see you free. But his strength was soothing, his hands a comfort, his presence more intoxicating than any other substance you’d known. He maddened you, pitted you, shimmered in your mind like a faraway star; he was your monster and your warrior, the eye of his own typhoon.

Every thread of your being was sewn irrevocably into his skin. And you when you shredded them clean, the both of you would bleed, pouring from patterned holes until you drowned in the pools of your own foolish dream.

Once he was finished, he sighed, that knife-stare slitting through you a final time before he rolled you off of his lap, leaving the bed while he guided you onto the mattress. You laid there, gazing at him in the dim bus light, one thousand heartbeats in your flesh. Kylo stepped away to grab your robe, and then returned, draping it over your tired frame before stopping to stare again. You wished he would hold you. You knew that he couldn’t.

“You’re not keeping me,” you whispered, “or our child.” You met his invisible eyes, unafraid. “I’m going to find a way to leave.”

Kylo tilted his head and crouched low, tucking away a lock of hair that had stuck to your forehead. He studied you, cupped your cheek in his palm, thumb caressing the bone, before releasing you, rising to his feet.

“We’ll see, little bird.” His voice was quiet, wickedly certain. “We’ll see.”

As he returned to the front, your lids fluttered shut, the night sweeping you into its embrace. Your cheek tingled, glittering with the ghost of his affection, your mouth fighting the smile that was sneaking onto your face.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #kylo trash #little bird #fanfiction problems #handmaid au #tw: violence #tw: dubious consent

138 notes · View notes

megabadbunny · 4 years

Text

Of Turns and Tides (Or: One Time The Doctor Was A Giant Arse About Rose's Pregnancy, and Five Times He Wasn't)

Because I don't necessarily think Rose and the metacrisis Doctor would have any children, but if they did, I can't imagine it would go quite the way it's portrayed in The Turning of the Tide. SFW version on FF.net.

Also this fic is dedicated to @davinasgirlfriend, whose patience with me is a blessed fucking virtue. Go read her stuff. She's an absolute doll. <3 <3 <3

***

It’s not like they weren’t careful—Rose has got her shot, after all, and honestly after everything the Cannon put her through, she’s sort of surprised everything still works in there, reproductively-speaking—but it’s just her luck that he would have some sort of Time Lord supersperm in addition to everything else.

“I’m pregnant,” she replies when he asks, in that sometimes-perfunctory way of his, how she’s doing this morning, amidst the bustle of making his tea and his toast and poring over the reports streaming into his mobile. He’s fully dressed (of course he is, bloody morning person) but Rose is still in her pyjamas (if one qualifies one of the Doctor’s tee shirts as her pyjamas, which she does), watching him as he drifts about with his eyes glued to his phone. Rose sits very still, clutching the pregnancy test, has been ever since it cheerfully gave her its diagnosis a few moments prior, and she’s trying not to think about how gross it is, really, that she’s more or less sitting at the kitchen table with a wee-stick in hand, even if it is dry by now. She reminds herself to scrub off extra hard in the bath, give everything in the kitchen a good solid wipedown later.

“How about you?” Rose asks, tapping the test nervously against her thigh.

The Doctor nods. “Good, good,” he says, in a way that very much suggests he is not listening to her even a little bit.

“I went ahead and scheduled an appointment in a couple days, to see how far along things are,” says Rose. “Maybe about seven weeks, going by my period.”

“Mm-hmm, excellent, excellent.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna have to start having regular checkups and such.”

“Uh-huh.”

“To make sure everything’s going like it should.”

“Well, naturally,” the Doctor replies, staring at his mobile.

“You know. With the pregnancy.”

“Of course.”

“Yep,” Rose says mildly, throwing up her hands. “Not every day you give birth to a lizard, after all. Did I tell you I volunteered for the lizard-mother-surrogate program in Chiswick?”

“Mmm.”

“Yeah, it’s been in the works for a few years in this universe, human-lizard surrogacy. Big market for it over here. Mum’s had six. Pete’s in line next. Just lizards, lizards all over the place. Like Biblical-plague levels,” Rose continues, staring at him. “It’ll be toads next. I guess I should have asked which you prefer. Would you rather have a lizard or a toad in the nursery, Doctor?”

“Yes,” says the Doctor.

Sighing in frustration, Rose waits. She waits and watches the Doctor as he pulls the toast from the pan (too hot, he burns his fingers on the first try but it doesn’t stop him trying again anyway) and pours his tea (and promptly forgets about it) and removes the jam from the fridge (and promptly forgets about that as well) and shoves the unbuttered, un-jammed toast between his teeth before grabbing his coat and calling out an absentmindedly muffled “Meet you at the car!” around a mouthful of food as he darts out the front door.

The flat is, as always, very quiet without him in it.

Rose sighs again, but she only has half a moment to feel deflated before a soft squeal lets her know that the front door is opening again, slowly, this time. She looks up to see the Doctor popping back in, pulling the toast out of his mouth, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hesitantly. “You’re what?”

Rose nods. “Pregnant, yeah.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Well, probably cos it’s true,” Rose replies, holding up the pregnancy test, its reading displayed on the screen for the whole world to see.

“Ah,” says the Doctor. His stare loses focus, fixed on nothing in particular.

Rose waits, forcing herself to be patient. Not to fidget.

“Well, that’s,” says the Doctor, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s. Hmm.”

Rose frowns. “Are you all right?”

“I’m—yes, of course,” the Doctor says, shaking his head and blinking just a little too fast. “Always am. You?”

“I’m a little worried about you, to be honest.”

“Oh, well, no reason to be, everything’s fine,” says the Doctor as he yanks on his coat, struggling to pull his sleeve over a fist wrapped around crumbling toast. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m perfectly all right. Why wouldn’t I be? Everything’s fine. Everything’s dandy. Fantastic. Molto bene—”

Concerned, Rose rises from the table. “Doctor—”

“Only I’m running a tad late, though, so I’ll just—I’ll hail a taxi, shall I, and let you get to HQ on your own time?” says the Doctor, backing away as he shoves the remainders of his toast directly into a coat pocket. “Sounds good to me, practical resolution, useful all around. I’ll see you at work, then, shall I?”

And with that, he takes off running out the door, before Rose can get in another word.

With a great heavy sigh, Rose tosses the pregnancy test in the bin before plonking back down at the table, shoulders slumping. She can’t say she’s surprised by his reactions; it’s all more or less what she expected, or what she would have expected, had she ever anticipated the possibility that things might fare this way. But still. She’d sort of held out hope, in the ten or so minutes since she’d seen that plus flashing across the test screen, that he would be happy. Rose has never felt that deep urgent desire to have children of her own—goodness knows she likes children, and of course she loves Tony, but becoming a mother has just never been an entry on her list of priorities—but now that the very real likelihood of having a child is staring her in the face, Rose finds she’s warming up to the idea quite quickly. The thought of building a family with the Doctor is nice. Rose is surprised by just how nice that thought feels.

It’s less nice to know that he may not feel the same way.

Shaking her head, Rose chides herself. He had a family once before, she knows, and while she may not be privy to many of the details, she’s sharp enough to know he lost them. She can only imagine the sort of scar that would leave, the sort of bone-deep hurt that would haunt a person after something like that. This is probably quite a shock to him, she reasons. He just needs a little bit of time, and space, and support, and then he’ll come around. He always does. Well, he usually does. Well, the jury’s still out on a few items. But she loves him, and he loves her, and that’s what really matters. Right? And in a few moments, Rose will finish washing up and getting ready for work, and when she shows up at UNIT, things may be a little tense and stiff with the Doctor for a little bit, but he’ll relax back into his usual self before either of them knows it. Neither of them can stay awkward or uncomfortable with the other for too long. No reason for this to be any different. But they’ll get to work in their adjacent departments and the Doctor will loosen up and Rose’s nerves will settle and then things will be fine.

Right?

(Except when Rose arrives at UNIT, the Doctor’s not there. No one’s seen him. No one’s heard from him. There’s no sign of him in UNIT at all, not for the rest of the day; texts go unanswered and calls go straight to voicemail. And when Rose returns home that evening, frustrated and bewildered and hurt, the flat is dark and empty, the Doctor nowhere to be seen.

Well. Fuck.)

Despite the low background hum of panic buzzing nonstop at the back of her brain, Rose does a marvelous job of not-vibrating-out-of-her-skin-with-anxiety during the next several days, in which the Doctor deigns to make precisely zero (0) appearances. In fact, she does such a marvelous job, it doesn’t even occur to her to jump when he bursts in on her obstetrician’s appointment without warning.

“Doctor,” Rose says amidst the sounds of Jackie’s indignant “Oi, what do you think you’re doing, barging in like that?” But the Doctor ignores them both, proceeding immediately to the nurse’s clipboard where she left it, flipping through the notes with an intensity that borders on the manic.

Rose knows she should feel relief at seeing the Doctor here, now; he may look a bit pale and wan beneath the fluorescent lights, his scruff a little longer than usual, perhaps a little less kempt, but he’s safe, he’s not injured, he didn’t get himself into some kind of stupid trouble, somehow. (Didn’t run away, didn’t just leave her here. Not that she’d ever entertained such a worry. Except when she did.) But once the tide of anxiety ebbs, Rose realizes what she feels now is mostly anger.

A lot of anger.

“And where the hell have you been, eh?” Jackie demands; in lieu of a reply, the Doctor reaches into his pocket for his spectacles, slipping them on as he pores over the nurse’s paperwork.

Rose stares stonily at the Doctor as Jackie tuts with impatience. “Hey, mister. I asked you a question—”

“Height’s off,” announces the Doctor, procuring a pen so he can write over the nurse’s notes with his own. “Too short by 2.3 millimeters. Weight’s off, too, missing a quarter-kilogram or so, they really should get their scales fixed. And the age listed doesn’t account for the disparity between time rates in your original versus current universes. Incompetent twenty-first century medicine,” he adds under his breath. “Might as well be living in the Stone Age.”

Rose’s jaw clamps so tightly she’s surprised she doesn’t crack any molars. With a huff, Jackie reaches for the clipboard, but the Doctor backs away out of reach without even looking. “Don’t they even test for Hepatitis B surface antigens in this universe?” he scoffs.

“No, cos we haven’t got any of the Hepatitises in this universe, have we?” snaps Jackie. “And none of this is any of your business anyway, not until you apologize to Rose for up and disappearing on her. How long’ve you been gone, now, without so much as a word? Three days? Four? I mean really, how could you do that to her, putting her through the wringer like that? And right after she tells you she’s pregnant, too!”

“Yes, yes, I’m very sorry,” says the Doctor absently with a dismissive wave of his hand, his gaze still fixed on the clipboard in front of him, “but we’ve got more pressing things to attend to, so let’s just go ahead and get this over with, shall we?”

“Get what over with?” asks Jackie, as Rose’s fists clench the examination table beneath her, the pleather squeaking under her fingernails. “No,” Jackie continues, pointing an accusatory finger at the Doctor. “Until you apologize to Rose—and I mean apologize properly, you daft alien twat—the only getting you’re doing is out. So send in the actual physician,” she snarls, and now her finger is jabbing toward the door, “and then get out.”

“No can do,” quips the Doctor as he darts away to rummage about in the room’s cabinet-drawers. “Your so-called actual physician’s gone home for the day—seems someone might have hacked his calendar and reassigned his last patient today to one visiting Dr. James C. Noble, a.k.a, me.”

The Doctor ignores Rose’s eyes widening in alarm and Jackie’s splutter of indignation as he pulls out a stethoscope and drapes it about his neck. “And as you know, your actual physician is booked rather full right now,” he continues, withdrawing a blood-pressure cuff and other assorted equipment. “So if you want your checkup done any time in the next three weeks, here’s your one and only opening.”

Hands balled into fists, Jackie draws a deep breath and opens her mouth to hurl forth what will be, undoubtedly, a scathing stream of insults and outrage in an eruption that would put Mount Vesuvius to shame, but she stops when Rose places a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Mum,” says Rose, with a calmness she certainly does not feel. “Would you give the Doctor and me a few moments, please?”

Jackie’s mouth clamps shut as she glances between Rose and the Doctor, lips twisting in disapproval. The Doctor either can’t meet their gazes, or he won’t. Just as well; if eyes could truly shoot daggers, Jackie would be gutting the Doctor right about now.

“Mum,” says Rose again, softly, and Jackie relaxes a little, though she’s still eyeing the Doctor with a healthy amount of disgust.

“All right, sweetheart,” says Jackie with a sniff. “But don’t let him off too easy, yeah? You let someone hurt you like that once, they’ll just keep doing it. And you deserve better than that.”

Her eyes flicker meaningfully toward Rose’s belly. “You both do,” Jackie tells her, and sweeps out of the room with a flounce and a huff.

It’s just Rose and the Doctor in the exam room, now. The quiet is loud enough to suffocate. But the Doctor still won’t look at her.

“Well, now that that’s all out of the way, shall we proceed?” says the Doctor, snapping on a pair of medical gloves as he steps briskly over to Rose. “See if we can pick up on the fetal heartbeat, take a few other readings—”

“No,” says Rose.

“—and check on your vitals,” says the Doctor, ignoring her as he plugs the stethoscope into his ears and presses the bell to her sternum, through her shirt. “Seeing as they are, you know, vital—”

“I said no,” Rose tells him, firmly.

“—and naturally, one must always be prepared for all possibilities, like preeclampsia or fibrinogen deficiency or aortic insufficiency, for example,” the Doctor breezes on as if he didn’t hear her, shifting the stethoscope on her chest, “which reminds me, I should order an echocardiogram, just in case. Of course, there’s always the chance it won’t adequately visualize the ascending aorta—”

“Nothing’s wrong with my heart, Doctor.”

“—but even rudimentary tests are better than no test, though an echocardiogram might not be necessary after all, since the auscultation of the stethoscope combined with my superior auditory capabilities means I can probably detect and diagnose any murmurs without visual aid of any sort. However, the added strain of carrying a pregnancy to term could place undue stress on the host’s cardiac system, so one must diligently keep an eye out for any symptoms of myocardial infarction or peripartum cardiomyopathy developing in the patient’s—”

“No,” Rose shouts, smacking the Doctor’s hand away. “God, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

The Doctor’s face is pinched in discomfort and Rose realizes the smack must have been terribly loud for him, amplified greatly by the stethoscope, but she doesn’t much care right this second. Her blood is rushing in her ears and boiling in her veins and her sinuses are so full of pressure from four-days’-worth of unshed tears (because he ran away, she told him she was pregnant and he ran away, he left her, and even if he came back, it still fucking hurts) that Rose feels like her head is going to burst.

“I’m not some bloody patient,” Rose tells the Doctor, her breathing rough and ragged, “and I’m sure as hell not a fucking host. I’m me. I’m Rose. I’m your partner.” She feels her expression harden. “Or at least I thought I was.”

The Doctor doesn’t reply, the stethoscope-bell still grasped in one hand, the ends still plugged in his ears. His face is carefully blank, now. That just makes Rose even angrier.

“You left,” she tells him. “The second things got a little serious, you left me.”

“I was only gone for ninety-three hours, Rose,” he argues softly.

“Only,” Rose scoffs. “That’s four days I haven’t heard from you, haven’t known if you were dead or alive or hurt or kidnapped or ever coming back—”

“Your faith in me is truly inspiring,” says the Doctor drily, removing the stethoscope so he can drop it on the counter. “Would you have thought any of that about the real Doctor?”

“Don’t you dare,” snaps Rose, springing up from the examination table. “We settled all that ages ago. I know who you are,” she says, jabbing a finger into his chest, “and you do too, and you are not going to drudge up a petty old row from two years back just so you can use it like a shield against me. I’m angry with you, properly angry, and I’ve got every right to be. You got that?”

The Doctor’s expression doesn’t change, except that he might purse his lips a little in frustration. “Got it,” he says tonelessly, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Blinking furiously in an effort to hold back her tears, Rose draws in a deep, steadying breath. “You need to talk to me. You need to tell me what’s going on. I know you don’t want to, but you’ve got to. That’s part of what being a couple is about. That’s one of the rules. One of the biggest.”

A runaway tear rolls down her cheek and Rose angrily scrapes it off with the heel of her palm. “I might not always understand what you’re going through right away, but I’ll always listen. Cos we’re in this together. Right?”

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice clipped.

“Aren’t we?”

A pause. “Yes.”

Another tear escapes and rolls sluggishly down Rose’s cheek, leaving a cold and sticky trail in its wake. Rose doesn’t wipe it away this time, no matter how much she hates crying in front of others (no matter how much she especially hates crying in front of him). “Look at me, please,” she says, her jaw set, and slowly, the Doctor obeys, his eyes meeting hers properly for the first time in days. Only now does Rose notice the dark circles under his raw and red-rimmed eyes; god, he looks tired.

“I know you’ve probably got complicated feelings about all this,” Rose tells him, forcing the words out no matter how much they want to stick in her throat. “And that’s okay. I’m still sorting out how I feel, myself. But you can’t just run away when something’s bothering you, now. Not anymore.”

The Doctor glances away from her.

“Please just talk to me,” Rose says, willing her voice not to tremble. “Just tell me what’s going through your head. Please.”

Eyes sliding shut, the Doctor just exhales, his breath leaving his lungs with a shake. “I don’t…” he starts to say, and stops. He licks his lips nervously. He falls silent. Rose waits for him to try again.

Decades and centuries pass between them.

“I’m not sure how I feel,” the Doctor confesses quietly. “I want to be excited. I want to want this. But I just—I can’t…”

He swallows. “I’m just so afraid. And that fear is drowning out everything else.”

Rose nods, stepping closer to him. “Okay. What are you afraid of?”

The Doctor barks out a harsh laugh. “Is Everything a comprehensive enough answer for you?”

“What’s bothering you, specifically?”

“Really, I should’ve known better, taken better precautions,” the Doctor mutters, more to himself than her, Rose suspects. “I can’t let my guard down, not for anything, not ever. I promised myself I’d never go through any of this ever again. Never again. I can’t. I just can’t.”

“Any of what?” Rose asks patiently.

“Having a family,” the Doctor replies, the words almost choked, like he’s wrenched them out of his chest. “Being a father.”

“You’re afraid of losing your family again.”

“Of course I am,” the Doctor says brokenly. His hands push beneath his specs to rub at his eyes. “Can you really blame me?”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“What difference would it make?”

“Because you’re acting like this is something you’ve got to face all on your own, but you don’t,” Rose tells him stubbornly. “I don’t just need you right now, Doctor. You need me, too.”

The Doctor opens his mouth like he might protest, but Rose doesn’t give him a chance. “You said you want to be excited,” Rose tells him. “Just a minute ago, you said you want to want this. If you take the fear away—easier said than done, I know, but bear with me—how do you feel, underneath all that? Be honest, please. What do you feel when you think of me being pregnant? When you think of us having a family?”

“It isn’t exactly us, though, is it?” the Doctor says, pushing a hand through his hair. “It’d be your body doing all the work. I haven’t got any right to tell you what to do with your body.”

“True,” says Rose, as the ghost of a smile threatens to quirk the corner of her mouth. “But you’re not telling me. I’m asking you.”

She pokes his chest again, halfheartedly this time. “Don’t get used to it.”

The Doctor flashes a weak half-smile her way. “I don’t know, Rose,” he says, and the smile fades like it was never there. “Honestly, it shouldn’t even be possible. It never really occurred to me that this might happen, because it isn’t supposed to. It can’t. Time Lords haven’t reproduced like this for eons. The human DNA shouldn’t be enough to override that basic programming, shouldn’t have been enough to render me anything but functionally sterile.”

He sighs, raking his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. If things were different—if we knew more about the embryonic genetic makeup, if I’d read up more on human-Time Lord crossbreeding when I had the chance, if the TARDIS were full-grown and we had access to anything more advanced than twenty-first century medical equipment, if I felt like I could trust the physicians here properly, if the infant-mother mortality rate wasn’t what it is in this day and age—though I suppose at least we’re not in America, can you imagine?—then I might...”

Shaking his head, he grunts in frustration. “But then I start thinking about how defenseless you’ll be, especially in the later months, and as soon as word gets out, who knows what sort of attention that might attract, everything from overeager paparazzi to potential kidnappers to opportunistic extraterrestrials looking to make a quick buck harvesting rare hybrid children—and that doesn’t take into account anything that could happen to either of you after you’ve given birth, there’s just so much out there that could hurt you, our life together is just so hectic and so dangerous and so much, but even removing those factors from the equation there’s still plenty that’s ready and waiting to kill you right in your own home, and—there are just so many confounding factors, Rose, so many unknown variables, literally anything could happen, and I might not be able to stop any of it, not anymore. And that’s just for the stuff I’m not actively screwing up all on my own—”

“Fine, so don’t go swanning off for days on end next time something freaks you out,” Rose bites back. “That’s half the battle right there.”

“Rose, you’re not hearing me—”

“Yes, I am,” Rose retorts. “You’re scared. Of course you are. I’m scared, too. Anyone with half a brain cell is going to be at least a little bit scared over something like this. So you acknowledge that you can’t control everything, make plans where you can, and learn to roll with the punches where you can’t. You don’t fucking desert the person you said you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.”

“But I just needed a bit of time, Rose, I never meant—”

“It doesn’t matter if you meant for it to feel like that or not,” Rose snaps back. “That’s how it felt, Doctor. It was like you left me, after telling me you never would again. After you promised. And it hurt.”

The Doctor doesn’t reply to that, just watches her, mouth working like he wants to argue, but the words won’t cooperate. Tears start welling up again in Rose’s eyes, fat and blurry and thick; the Doctor seems to crumple a little at the sight.

“What if I lose you again?” he asks, defeated. “What if something happens, and I lose you both?”

“I don’t know,” Rose tells him honestly. “But we’re safer together, aren’t we? And better together, too.”

At that, something in the Doctor seems to give way. “Yes,” he agrees, his voice hoarse, his face as open and vulnerable as Rose has ever seen it. “I’m sorry,” he adds.

When Rose can’t make any words come out, too busy fighting back tears, whatever resistance remains in the Doctor seems to drain away and he reaches out to pull her close, wrapping his arms around her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear. “I’m sorry,” he tells her, tightening his hug when Rose starts to shake, unable to staunch the flow of tears any longer. “I’m sorry,” he says again over the sounds of her sobs, muffled against his chest. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he repeats, over and over, holding her tight while she cries into his shirt. “I won’t leave again. Ever again. I won’t. We’re in this together. I promise,” the Doctor tells her, holding her close. “I’m sorry, Rose.”

Rose clings to him even harder as she cries.

They’re both exhausted by the time they climb into bed later that evening (later, but still early, for them), but that doesn’t stop Rose from turning in the Doctor’s arms to press a hungry kiss to his mouth. It’s a claim that leaves no room for question, and even though Rose knows he wants to—We don’t have to, I’ve been an idiot, I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve you; she’s heard it all before after a row and she’ll likely hear it all again—the Doctor doesn’t argue. Not this time. This time he meets her kisses in kind, urging her mouth open with his and grabbing her by the chin so he can take bruising control of the kiss.

Relief surges through Rose as he kisses her fiercely, clutching her close. Looks like she’s not the only one who’s starved for comfort tonight.

The Doctor breaks away so he can press a searing-hot kiss to Rose’s jaw, her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast. Kissing a line down to her navel, the Doctor hooks his fingers in the waistband of her pants and pulls them off, discarding them; a familiar ache swells between Rose’s legs at the sight of him between her thighs, and she slickens at the sensation of his tongue darting out to taste her, but as delicious as that sounds (and as good as it feels, fuck), it isn’t what she wants right now, isn’t what she needs. She urges him back upward so she can feel the reassuring weight of him pressing against her, his cock stiffening between them, his heart hammering against hers.

They don’t always have time to take their clothes off before sex—two years on, and sometimes the need is still so urgent, they’re too impatient to remove anything but the barest essentials—but tonight the Doctor pulls off his boxer briefs and Rose pulls off his tee shirt and they work together to untangle her from her sleep-shirt and it’s such a fucking relief when they slide together, skin-to-skin, Rose’s nipples scraping sharply against his chest, that Rose can’t help but hum in satisfaction. She needs to feel him, needs to feel all of him, her tongue plunging into his mouth as she wraps a hand around his cock and strokes him hard. He pants against her lips and leans his weight to one side so he can slide a hand between them, his fingers plunging slickly inside her as she grinds her clit against the heel of his palm. It’s only a few moments before Rose is urging his cock inside, wrapping her thighs around his waist and arching needfully upward. She doesn’t give either of them time to adjust, but immediately rocks against him, clenching and rutting and clutching at his back as he thrusts into her, swearing under his breath. It doesn’t take long for the climax to start building low in Rose’s belly so she reaches down between them, intent on urging the Doctor along, but he grabs her hand and pins it to the mattress, her fingers gripped tight and slick between his as she comes with a shout and he follows shortly after.

If there’s something a little desperate in his touch tonight, neither of them mentions it.

***

After several days and many many hugs and kisses and apologies and promises and two lush bouquets (picked and purchased by the Doctor, one for Rose (for obvious reasons) and one for Jackie (lest she slap him back into the other universe)), Rose is leaving the obstetrician’s office once again, this time having attended a full and proper appointment (also negotiated by the Doctor, as part of his ongoing penance). But this time, when Rose leaves, she’s armed with a series of diagnostics (all of them proclaiming the absolute normalcy of this pregnancy, no matter how the Doctor scrutinizes them) and a couple of recommendations (to up her iron intake, among other things), and her mother is only glaring at the Doctor the usual amount (which is to say, about 25% of the time). With Jackie in the lead, Rose and the Doctor lingering a few steps behind, Rose isn’t half-tempted to make a joke about the Doctor maintaining minimum safe distance from her mum after the events of the other day, but she knows it’s less about that, and more about how aggressively excited Jackie has allowed herself to become, now that the Doctor’s stopped being a giant prat.

(Excited might be an understatement.)

“Oh, sweetheart. This is all so brilliant. I’m so happy for you,” Jackie squeals over her shoulder at Rose, beaming through sparkling tears that threaten to fall and ruin her makeup. “You’re gonna make such a good mum, I just know it! It’s gonna come to you so natural. Well, I mean, there’s books and things to help out with all of that, and they’re good and all, but it’s about instinct, too, and you’ve got that in spades.

“And I absolutely can’t wait to start buying you things. Are you gonna ask about the sex? No, you don’t care about that,” Jackie says dismissively before either Rose or the Doctor has a chance to reply, which is just as well, as this conversation hasn’t actually involved anyone besides Jackie for some time now. “Oh, I do hope the little one likes girly things, though,” she continues. “Lord knows I love your brother, but he’s a bit rough-and-tumble, isn’t he, and I sort of miss all the ruffles and princess things. Don’t get me wrong, he loves a good princess movie just like you did, got all the dolls and stuff, but he’s not much on the dressing-up, and I would just adore the chance to buy some cute little dresses again, and, oh my goodness, Rose, I just can’t believe it, I’m gonna be a grandmum, you’re gonna have a baby—”

Jackie rounds the corner ahead and Rose is surprised to feel a tug on her hand the second Jackie disappears from sight. It’s the Doctor, of course, pulling her back toward him, but when Rose turns to look at him, a question hovering on her lips, he just pulls her gently forward so he can wrap his arms around her, trapping her in a snug embrace.

Her heart pounds in her chest, but not unpleasantly. Emotion swells in her throat as her arms wind back around him, fists clenching in his shirt. His arms tighten around her, almost uncomfortably so. Rose feels rather than hears his breath leaving him, long and slow and measured and just short of reverent. Like a man in prayer. After a moment, he spreads a hand between them, palm over her belly, like it’s just now occurring to him exactly what’s happening, what they’ve started together here, the sheer enormity of it all. He plants a kiss against her head, burying his face in her hair after. Rose tries to remember if she’s ever seen him act quite so tender as this, before.

The moment is over almost as quickly as it begins; soon enough the Doctor is springing away and tugging Rose along by the hand, propelling the two of them toward Jackie, like nothing just happened. But when Rose squeezes his hand (in comfort or solidarity or reassurance; she’s not sure and she’s not sure it matters anyway), he squeezes back, tightly.

“...and oh, do you remember that little garden dress you had once upon a time, the pink gingham with the roses, and the little white patent shoes?” Jackie is saying now, as she waits for the lift in front of them. “You were a vision, Rose. An absolute vision. All the other mums thought so. You were such a pretty little girl. A pretty baby, too. You know how some babies are ugly but no one talks about it? Sort of look like creepy little Gollum types? Well that weren’t you, to be sure. And just look at you now, you’re already glowing and everything, did you know that?” she asks, glancing back at Rose once again with a smile. “Pregnancy’ll do wonders for your skin. Did for me, anyway. Beverly wasn’t so lucky—d’you remember how she puffed up like a walrus, got the eczema all over? Not you, though. You look like one of them Renaissance paintings. Or like an angel, even!”

“Oh my god, Mum,” Rose laughs. “That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Well, someone’s got to say the cheesy things. Lord knows he won’t,” says Jackie, fixing the Doctor with a meaningful stare.

“I’m just waiting for the right moment,” the Doctor replies pleasantly. “As, for instance, the half-second you stop talking long enough to draw breath.”

Jackie flashes a dirty look his way and Rose laughs.

***

Everything is proceeding normally for a standard human pregnancy (almost painfully normally, really, even as the Doctor checks and double-checks and triple-checks everything from Rose’s sodium levels to the babyproof latches he’s already installed on all of the cabinet doors to the ambient temperature in each and every room Rose enters because You’re basically a greenhouse, Rose, a greenhouse growing a person instead of plants, and everyone knows greenhouses have to be kept at the optimum temperature in order to flourish), right up to the first day Rose notices her belly, by way of trying to fasten her trousers over it. They do not, of course, fasten, because see above, re: belly.

“Welp,” she says, slouching into the nursery with a sigh. It really is a lovely nursery, if a bit yellow, but the Doctor has insisted that yellow is the optimum color for budding baby TARDISes and larval humans, and this is a hill Rose is perfectly content to not-die-on. “I’m officially getting fat,” Rose announces.

The Doctor tuts in disapproval but doesn’t look up from his task, carefully pruning wayward growths on the TARDIS coral in front of him. “Three additional kilograms hardly qualifies as getting fat,” he says mildly, “although even if it did, and even if you were, it wouldn’t be cause for concern unless there was a non-pregnancy-related underlying health condition we needed to address.”

“Just the condition of my fat,” Rose replies cheerfully.

The Doctor spares his focus just long enough to roll his eyes, the motion even more comical and exaggerated than usual thanks to his work-goggles. “You’re incubating a whole entire person inside of your person, Rose. That’s bound to put on some extra weight on you, even before you start taking into account things like fluid retention and nutrient stores.”

“Fluid retention and nutrient stores. Way to pique a girl’s appetite,” teases Rose.

“Now that you mention it, I am a bit peckish, myself,” the Doctor admits as he works. “What are you thinking? Takeaway? Pizza? Your mum’s fish pie is in the fridge but I’m not certain that qualifies as food so much as kindling.”

Rose chuckles a little. “You really don’t mind?” she asks, scuffing a bare foot restlessly over the floor.

“Not at all. Getting rid of that pie would be doing the world a favor.”

“No,” Rose laughs, the sound more genuine this time. “Not that.”

“What, then?”

“You know. That I’m gonna get all…”

The Doctor piques an eyebrow in suspicion, and rather than risk another lecture by uttering the word aloud, Rose finishes her sentence in pantomime, outlining a large belly in front of her. He stares at her blankly in response, eyes blinking owlishly behind their protective goggles.

Rose sighs. “I’m gonna get big, Doctor,” she says. “Like a big belly. Maybe really big.”

He nods. “Probably. Your point?”

Suddenly unable to look him in the eye, Rose focuses on her foot instead, tracing invisible patterns over the floor. “Just, you know,” she says softly. “Other blokes haven’t cared for it all that much, when I gain weight.”

“That’s because other blokes are idiots,” the Doctor announces, all smiles and bouncy cheer. “Fortunately you’re not stuck in this with any of them,” he continues, pulling off his goggles. “You’re stuck in this with me. And I happen to have very correct opinions about that sort of thing.”

“Oh, yeah?” Rose laughs, something loosening in her shoulders, the release of tension she wasn’t even aware was there.

“Oh, yes,” he says, sauntering over to Rose with his hands shoved lazily in his pockets. “All excellent opinions, each and every one of them. Many of them even backed up by science!”

Rose grins at him. “And when my belly gets so big that I can’t tie my own shoes anymore, or shave my legs?”

“Then we’ll just have to get you shoes that don’t need tying, won’t we? Or I’ll tie them for you. And a hairy leg or two never hurt anyone, but if it would make you feel better, I can always shave your legs.”

“Really?”

He shrugs again. “Really. How hard can it be?”

Shaking her head, her grin broadening until she can’t take it anymore, Rose pushes up on her toes to plant a kiss on his lips. The Doctor lets out a happy little hum against her mouth and his hands leave his pockets to grasp her by the hips, his thumbs tracing a path to the front of her waistband, where the zipper-teeth won’t quite meet and the button only barely won’t latch.

“Yeah,” says Rose, glancing downward. “I’m gonna need new trousers soon.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I quite like them like this,” replies the Doctor, pulling the zipper down until the top of her pants peeks out. “It’s like a little preview.”

“Cad,” Rose teases.

“You’re not wrong,” the Doctor says thoughtfully, before looking back up at her, his eyes full of mischief. “I am, for instance, thinking about how much better your trousers would look on the floor.”

“Oh, yeah?” Rose asks, a shy smile blossoming across her face. His grin, by contrast, is long and slow and wicked, like a bolt of liquid warmth sent straight between Rose’s thighs.

“Oh, yes,” says the Doctor, and he kisses her.

It’s really a very convincing argument.

***

Roughly twenty weeks in, and really, Rose can put up with most of this nonsense—granted, the dizziness isn’t fun, the headaches aren’t enjoyable either, the ever-swelling belly makes dressing for the day officially A Challenge™, the heartburn is bordering on intolerable, the morning sickness is more of an any-part-of-the-day sickness, and the leg cramps are no walk in the park either (although a walk in the park does at least help a little)—but what she really can’t stand are these intermittent bursts of bloody awful hormones.

“What’s wrong?” the Doctor asks in alarm the moment she steps through the front door, sniffling and snuffling and trying to hide her tears and her gross blotchy face from the Doctor and doing it very, very badly. “Rose? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she sniffles as she shucks her boots, fully aware of how pathetic she sounds, and hating herself for it.

“Are you sure?” asks the Doctor, his face pinched in concern.

“Yes,” she grumbles, but the Doctor doesn’t seem convinced.

“Are you, though?” he presses, following her as she slumps her way into the kitchen, lowering herself into a dining-room chair. “You’ve been crying. That indicates distress. You’re not hurt, are you? You’re not injured? You’re not sick?”

“I’m fine,” Rose mutters again.

“Are you certain? How’s your temperature? When did you last eat? What did you last eat? You didn’t ingest any deli meat or sushi or come into contact with any cat litter or anything else potentially carrying toxoplasmosis? Are you experiencing any unusual aches or pains? Fluctuations in heartrate? Changes in vaginal discharge—?”

“I said I’m fine!” Rose snaps at him.

The Doctor’s eyes widen, but he stops talking, stops fretting. “Right, you did,” he says quietly, scratching the back of his neck. He steps back and away, his face carefully blank. “Sorry.”

Guilt crashes into Rose like a freight train and just like that, the tears start welling up in her eyes again. “No, I’m sorry,” she says, lower lip trembling, voice watery. “I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m sorry. I just…” she tries to say, and cuts herself off with a sniffle. “I just…”

The Doctor watches her from a safe distance. “Do you need to talk about it?”

“No. I don’t know. It’s just—god, it’s just stupid stuff, but it’s like my brain is going absolutely mad over it,” Rose blurts out. “Just stuff like, they were working on the lift, so I had to use the stairs, and I spilled my tea on the way back down, spilled it all over my shirt—” and she gestures at the front of her blouse, which is indeed no longer pale pink, but now light brown with the ghosts of teastains past— “and that was right before we had that big meeting with Ripley’s team and the French delegates, and I didn’t have anything else to change into, so I had to go in to this big important meeting looking like a total nightmare, and the meeting went on for so fucking long, it was hours, I had to get up to wee like five times.”

She absentmindedly rubs her growing belly-bump, trying to calm herself. “I really liked this shirt,” she continues, sniffling. “One of the only maternity shirts that doesn’t just look like a horrid flowery muumuu. S’like, you get pregnant, and you’re not allowed to try to look pretty any more. You’ve served your purpose, you’re not a woman anymore, now you’re just a whale on a one-way-train to Frumpy Town. Not like I care what other people think but I still want to look in the mirror and be happy with what I see, you know? And god, the taxi smelled so badly of smoke I thought I was going to vomit. That sort of thing never used to bother me, but so many smells do, these days. And I’m a puffy horrid mess, and my hair’s doing funny things, and everything aches, and I know nothing’s wrong, not really, but sometimes it’s like there’s this high-pitched squeal in my head screaming that everything’s bad and awful and scary all the time but I can’t take my anxiety meds anymore cos of the pregnancy—and—and—”

She can feel her face crumpling with effort, straining not to burst into the world’s ugliest wettest snottiest tears right now. “—and I just remembered I ate the last of the raspberry lollies last night,” she says plaintively, her mouth twisting in abject misery. “So we’re out.”

“No, we’re not.”

Rose hiccups, thumbing tears off her cheeks. “What?” she asks thickly.

“We’re not out,” says the Doctor, gesturing to the fridge. “I picked some up on my way home.”

Blinking rapidly, Rose bites her lower lip, hardly daring to hope. “Really?”

“Yeah. I thought you might like a lolly or two after dinner, so I made a stop.” He walks over to the refrigerator, pulls open the freezer door, and plucks out a lolly, extending it her way. “D’you want one now?”

Now Rose’s eyes are filling with tears for a completely different reason, her vision growing suddenly blurry and wet as she fights back the pressure with a sob. Through the haze, she can just barely make out the worry spreading across the Doctor’s face.

“Rose?” he asks, panicked, like he’s afraid he’s done something wrong.

“I love you,” bursts out of Rose’s mouth. She launches herself out of the chair and toward the Doctor, snatching the lolly out of his hand and ripping off its plastic wrapping so she can take a huge bite. And oh—

Oh.

Oh god, it’s good.

The scent of sweet raspberry hits her nostrils, first, with an ice-cold bite that predicts the joys to come. She bites into the treat and her eyes shutter at the delicious tartness of the juices, the cold of the ice, the satisfying crunch-slush of it all. Sweet and tart and cold all sing a delightful harmony in her mouth, washing away the dregs of the unhappy world outside, soothing her aches and pains, painting her mind with calm. Another bite floods her veins with sugary pleasure and cool relief in equal turns, and Rose chokes back tears of pure, unfettered joy.

“I love you so much,” she sobs.

“Just to be clear,” says the Doctor, a small smile spreading wryly over his face. “Are you talking to the lolly right now, or me?”

“Yes,” says Rose, before taking another bite.

***

She doesn’t know if she’s ever seen his eyes grow so comically wide before.

“No,” he chokes out amidst the sirens wailing all around them, waving smoke out of his eyes as he heaves himself up from the debris-strewn floor. “Rose, you shouldn’t have—”

“What?” Rose shoots back, hoisting the giant gun high on her hip. “Come to save your skinny arse?”

“You shouldn’t have risked yourself for me!” the Doctor snaps. “Especially right now!”

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have surrendered yourself to hostile forces, so I guess neither of us got what we wanted, huh?”

The Doctor glares at her. “I did what I had to! You, on the other hand—”

“Look, can we argue about all this later?” Rose interrupts, rolling her eyes. She gestures to the door behind her (rather, the “door” she just forcefully improvised thanks to a blast from her giant gun). “My back’s starting to hurt,” she complains.

“Which is precisely why you should have stayed put!” the Doctor retorts, anxiously running his hands through his hair. “I told you this would happen, Rose. I told you people would come after you and the baby—!”

“So what, you decide to offer yourself up instead? Without even talking to me about it?”

“Yes!” he shouts, glaring as he stands over her. “I will do whatever I have to if it keeps you safe, and I don’t require your approval and I sure as hell don’t require your permission! Do you underst—”

An explosion rocks the ship, knocking the Doctor flat against the wall behind him. Her belly big and heavy as it is, Rose’s low center of gravity keeps her pretty well-grounded; she doesn’t budge.

“Right,” she says, as nonchalantly as she can while the ship burns and shakes all around them, “d’you want to keep arguing, or would you maybe like to escape the burning spaceship with your very, very pregnant girlfriend?”

He’s still glaring at her, but there’s a smile threatening to tug at the corner of his mouth now. “Fine,” he says grudgingly, pushing off the wall. “But only because you’re very compelling at eight months pregnant, with a giant weapon.”

Rose laughs, swiveling the gun out of the way so she can plant a hard kiss against the Doctor’s lips. He tastes like soot and dirt and sweat and god, she’s so glad he’s all right. That he’s going to be safe, soon. With her.

“I love you too,” she says, and she grabs his hand, and they run.

***

It isn’t like they show it in the movies—or it isn’t quite like that, rather. It takes so much longer, and it’s so much messier, and it’s loud and then quiet and frantic and then calm and there’s sweat and blood and pain but there’s elation, too, even before the nurses place the baby in her arms. It’s all compounded when Rose looks down, seeing her child for the first time, all red in the cheeks, ten little coiled fingers and ten little pruny toes and eyes screwed shut and mouth crying out against the harsh light and sound of this strange new world. Rose holds the wailing baby close and her heart swells so much she’s almost surprised her ribcage isn’t cracked from the force of it.

Tutting through her happy tears, Jackie rubs the baby’s back, murmuring words of reassurance, much like she has been throughout the last several hours. Not for the first time, Rose is immensely grateful for her mother’s attention and support. Jackie was surprisingly calm throughout the entire ordeal. She’s surprisingly soft, now, in a way Rose isn’t sure she’s ever seen her before. Being a grandmother suits her, Rose thinks.

Slowly, the baby quiets and relaxes, heavy and solid against Rose’s chest. She smiles. It’s almost too much to bear, all the love that fills her at the sight of this child. She wonders if the Doctor will feel the same way.

(She is not upset that he’s late. He’s been doing so much better about all this sort of thing these last few months; he wouldn’t miss this without a good reason. It’s simply a matter of when he arrives, she tells herself. When. Not if.)

Rose has half-started dozing off when she finally hears his voice.

“Where is she?” his voice echoes loudly in the hall outside. “Is she all right? Did I miss it? Did—”

The door swings open and there stands the Doctor, mouth open and hair mussed and clothes totally disheveled. Rose watches as he frantically takes it all in—the hospital bed, Rose in the hospital bed, Rose in the hospital bed with a tiny new baby slumbering heavily in her arms.

“You’re here,” Rose says, smiling, her voice dreamy and soft.

The Doctor’s mouth closes and his throat constricts, Adam’s apple bobbing with emotion. His eyes flicker up to Rose’s, and he’s sorry, he’s so sorry, she can see it written across his face as plain as day—but he doesn’t seem able to push the words out. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, nervous and unsure.

Next to the bed, Jackie pats Rose’s hand. “I’ll leave you two to it, shall I?” she says, kissing Rose’s forehead before she rises. On her way out the door, she stops long enough to give the Doctor a quick hug, pecking him on the cheek for good measure afterward. “Congratulations, dad,” she says, her voice fond.

The Doctor can’t seem to respond, can’t even seem to move, his feet glued to their spot on the floor for several long seconds after Jackie leaves. His gaze lingers on the baby, like he’s not quite sure what he’s seeing, somehow, or maybe he just can’t believe it.

“Come on in,” Rose teases. “Stay a while.”

Shaking himself, the Doctor starts. “Rose, I’m so sorry,” he rushes. “I had to deal with these people, these bloody water pirates, and they had all these warships and I met this robot worm and he knew who I was somehow and I got dropped in the ocean and I lost my mobile and I had to steal a boat and I might’ve shot a pirate in the foot and—”

“Doctor?” says Rose, patiently.

“Yes?”

“Tell me about it later?”

“Of course.” He grimaces. “Rose, I really am sorry.”

“I know.” She smiles. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not, though. I should have been here.”

Her heart breaks for him a little. “You should have been out saving the world,” Rose tells him gently.

He looks very much like he doesn’t believe her.

“You didn’t miss much, anyway,” Rose adds. “Just the gross stuff. I actually don’t mind you missing that bit, don’t much fancy you seeing me bleeding everywhere or pooing the bed.”

“Are you all right?” the Doctor asks, pushing a hand anxiously through his hair, which only serves to muss it even further.

Rose nods. “They gave me drugs for the pain. I think it’s the loveliest I’ve ever felt.”

The Doctor laughs humorlessly. “But overall, you’re all right?”

“Yeah, Doctor. I’m fine. I’m gonna be sore for a while. But I’m okay. Really.”

“Okay. Okay. Good. And—”

The Doctor swallows hard, his gaze flickering between Rose and the baby. “And, the child...?”

“Also fine. Would probably like to be called something besides the child, though.”

Relaxing a little, the Doctor laughs again and the sound has a little more warmth this time. “I seem to recall that I generated a good deal of names, only for each of them to be shot down,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.

“It’s got to be something people can pronounce. Human people,” Rose adds before the Doctor can interject. “From Earth. In this century.”

“Cassiopeia’s a perfectly pronounceable name!”

“It’s a mouthful,” Rose laughs.

“And it lends itself very well to diminutives. Cassie, Cass, Cas,” the Doctor continues, counting off a finger for each. “Peia. Cassio.”

“Whatever. Just shut up and get over here, yeah?”

The Doctor smiles. “Yeah,” he says, and he bridges the distance between them, dipping down so he can frame Rose’s face in his hands and pull her in for a kiss. It’s only a little desperate, his hold on her, the slight tremor in his hands; Rose answers by pouring as much love and reassurance into the kiss as she possibly can.

She’s surprised to realize she’s shaking just a little, herself.

After a moment, the Doctor breaks the kiss, one hand cradling the back of her head, his forehead pressed to hers. “I really am sorry,” he says softly.

Nodding, Rose thinks that this would be a good time to reassure him again, let him know he’s forgiven, that what really matters is he’s here now, and he keeps being here. That she knows he needs her, and that’s all right. She needs him, too.

“Hold me?” she says instead, her voice small.

Wordlessly, the Doctor shifts back, lowering the siderail of the bed. Rose expects him to simply lean over the side for a little half-cuddle and is pleasantly surprised when he toes off his shoes and clambers into the bed with her instead, propping himself up on one arm so he can snuggle up against her side, pressing fully against her. The weight of him next to her is comforting, soothing any residual uncertainty or anxiety that might have been lurking in the corners of her mind, and Rose nestles into him gratefully, relishing his solid warmth. She watches him as he reaches out, almost hesitantly, to touch the baby sleeping on her chest, safe and snug between them both.

He gently strokes the baby’s head, his face alight with a quiet wonder, not unlike the expression he wears when stepping onto the surface of a new planet for the first time, Rose thinks. But his gaze is so much tenderer than she ever saw it, any of those times. Soft and open and a little afraid but still so, so full of wonder and awe.

God, she loves him so much.

“You almost forget how small they are,” the Doctor says softly, reaching down to one of the baby’s hands, inspecting five little tight-coiled fingers. “Can you believe all the potential packed inside that tiny little body?”

“It’s pretty incredible,” Rose agrees.

If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was blinking tears out of his eyes as he turns to bury his face in her hair. “You’re incredible,” he says, his voice thick.

Happy contentedness fills Rose’s head like a candyfloss-cloud. “You’re not so bad, yourself,” she says sleepily, and the Doctor chuckles, wiping his eyes.

He loops his arm around her and the baby both, holding them close. He’s unusually quiet as he watches the baby sleep, and Rose wonders if his thoughts are anything to match. Maybe he’s cataloguing everything about their child, about the downy-soft head and warm red cheeks and little button nose, filing every detail away in that massive memory of his, his mind already racing with revelations about the past, how they’ll inform plans and ideas for the future. Or maybe he’s just allowing himself to be present, for once, in the here and the now, with Rose and the baby, no ghosts or worries or unspoken nightmares haunting him for just a handful of moments. Maybe he’s allowing himself these rare few minutes of quiet calm, before the world starts spinning again.

“How long are you gonna stay with us?” Rose murmurs sleepily, and the Doctor’s hold on her tightens.

“Forever,” he says.

******

Find me on AO3 ♥

116 notes · View notes

panharmonium · 3 years

Text

more scattered naruto thoughts now that we’ve finished season 8 -

[spoiler policy disclaimer first, as always: I am watching naruto for the first time and have only gotten up to the end of season 8 (after pain destroys the hidden leaf village). i am trying to avoid spoilers, so please don’t interact with this (tags included, because the notifications now show them to me automatically) with any spoilery commentary, including even general things like “oh i love this show but it gets less good after X point” or “X season is better than Y season” or any general assessments of quality/likability/etc re: future seasons. Thank you! <3 ]

- i like the way S8 ended. i know that in real life maybe it wouldn’t be so feasible to just talk your enemy back to the light, but honestly, i don’t care. i love that shit. i love stories when people refuse to hurt the people who hurt them first, and then their seemingly inconceivable choice to refrain from striking back creates a connection (it’s the ‘return of the jedi’ effect, folks). i understand that it doesn’t work like that in real life most of the time, and i don’t recommend it for real life people trying to defend themselves, but i do love it in fiction. i LOVED how naruto went in pursuit of nagato to talk to him, not fight him. even though naruto says straight-up “i can’t forgive you” / “I want to kill you so badly i can’t stop shaking” - he still recognizes that his enemy is someone who’s been victimized, and he has enough compassion to feel pain on their behalf even when he himself is reeling from having his entire home destroyed and both of his teachers murdered by the person he’s confronting. his choice to control his (valid) rage and extend a hand in compassion is ultimately what changes the outcome and saves everyone who would have died, reversing the damage that was done, and i love that shit.

- absolutely adore yamato abandoning his own mission and taking off at a run to try and help naruto when he senses that naruto is losing control over the nine-tails. this man thought he was just a substitute teacher for a while there, but he’s become part of the family while he wasn’t looking.

- HINATA. oh my god i couldn’t even enjoy this incredible moment because i was so stressed out (and angry, at the time, because i really thought they were going to kill her, and that would’ve crossed my line). i want to watch this again knowing that she’s fine, because my anxiety over ‘fuck fuck fuck they’re actually going to kill one of the kids’ precluded me from even appreciating it appropriately.

- there’s been a lot of talk on this show about how sakura doesn’t have as much chakra as naruto or sasuke, but she heals people non-stop the entire time Pain is attacking and doesn’t show any signs of running dry. SHOW HER SOME RESPECT.

- CHOOOOOOOOJIIIIIIII! omg. i was so afraid that his father was actually dead, and SO RELIEVED that he was okay. you can’t do that to choji!!!

- also relatedly, how much do i adore choji for caring so much about kakashi? <333 i mean this kid is there sobbing over his dead body, and then he bursts out crying when kakashi comes back to life - i really appreciate these little ties between characters who aren’t always in close quarters but who do have a relationship. kakashi has been a teacher to ALL of the kids, and team 10 especially feels indebted to him - the respect and affection they all feel for him is very real.

- first time i actually thought ‘ok he’s cool’ with regard to minato was when he talked to the nine-tails so unfazed like “he’s a loudmouth. let’s go somewhere more quiet.’ i’ve been kind of so-so on his character so far, but i liked this.

- also later in that scene - the (rare) scenes we’ve seen where naruto totally breaks down absolutely kill me. it happened once when gaara was dead, and then there’s another moment in this episode when he’s talking to minato - whoever voices him does just incredible work in those moments, and it is SO PAINFUL to me because naruto is always such a happy kid the rest of the time and eternally optimistic and positive and excited and popping back up every time he falls down, and so when he cracks it is just devastating to see. i hate seeing him cry like that.

- similarly - that shot of sasuke at the end of the itachi arc wrecked me. naruto’s breakdowns are upsetting, but at least he allows himself to have them - when he gets pushed past a breaking point, he explodes. he cries and yells and spills every single thought in his head in front of everybody who’s around him, and after it’s done, things get better. he’s with people who care about him. he’s venting and making himself understood, and he always finds his equilibrium again.

sasuke, though, has been completely locked down ever since we saw him sneak out of the hospital to wander around the scene of his community’s mass murder, and he’s still locked down now, even crying all alone at the edge of the ocean. this moment isn’t cathartic. it isn’t a release. this is barely even a sliver of what this kid has going on inside him, and it looks like it’s agonizing for him to even let that much out.

- the scene where naruto is about to give up and give in to the nine-tails’s power...that exchange!!!!!!!

i don’t know. it hurts. i hate this. i don’t know. what should i do. i don’t know anything anymore. someone...please help me. give me...an answer.

destroy everything. erase anything that causes you pain. give me your soul, your spirit, your vital essence. give it to me, and in exchange, i will rescue you from your pain.

this whole exchange is amazing. the way naruto says ‘it hurts’...this is one of those scenes that expands to cover so much more ground than just what’s onscreen at that moment. what naruto overcomes here is precisely the trap that sasuke has not been able to escape. sasuke has never had any framework for dealing with pain that isn’t about pursuing vengeance. it’s the only way he thinks he can free himself from his pain - by putting all of his energy into destroying the people who hurt him.

but it becomes an endless cycle, because he never succeeds. itachi dies and sasuke feels worse than ever, so he turns his attention to the hidden leaf in an attempt to finally kill what’s hurting him. but even if sasuke were to raze the entire village to the ground, his pain would still be with him, and he’d then have to turn his attention to yet another target, because the alternative would be to recognize that he can’t escape his pain by destroying the things that hurt him, and that’s not something he’s able to accept right now. he’s spent half his life fixated on the idea that revenge can rescue him from how terrible he feels, and abandoning that idea now would mean that nothing can save him. it would mean that he’s going to hurt like this no matter what he does.

kakashi tried to warn him about this. he tried to tell sasuke that even after getting his revenge, sasuke wouldn’t feel better, that he’d only tear himself apart trying to achieve something that would leave him feeling empty - but sasuke was too entrenched in his own warped thinking to believe it. and ever since then, sasuke has been in the company of people who are happy to let him dig himself deeper and deeper into a self-destructive hole as long as it benefits their agenda. they don’t care if he’s hurting himself. they’re happy to see him suffering. his pain is a tool they can use.

- a note re: kakashi, when it comes to this topic -

i think it’s relevant to remember that kakashi never tells sasuke not to pursue revenge because it’s “wrong” or ethically questionable. he never delivers any moralizing speeches in the vein of “if you kill someone who victimized you, you’re just as bad as they are.” kakashi doesn’t think it’s wrong if itachi dies, and if sasuke were in a better state of mind, he probably wouldn’t even mind if sasuke were the one to kill him. that’s why kakashi is comfortable helping team 10 pursue asuma’s killers, after all - because they’re not unbalanced by rage or making self-destructive decisions; they’re acting with clear heads and pursuing a course of action that needs to be taken anyway (asuma’s murderers are on their way to the leaf to capture naruto - they need to be dealt with regardless). team 10′s kids can handle that mission - they’re thinking straight. they’re comfortable accepting adult guidance. they’re grieving, but they’re okay.

sasuke is not. sasuke has been deeply traumatized since he was a very young child, and encouraging his quest for vengeance is equivalent to validating all of the fucked-up thought patterns that are hurting him so badly - that it was his responsibility (as a seven year-old child) to protect his clan, that he was weak and cowardly for running away, that he needs to take itachi down as penance for failing to save his family, that killing itachi is the only way for him to justify his childhood survival, that killing itachi will free him from his pain. for kakashi to encourage any of these false convictions would be irresponsible and, ultimately, harmful to the child he’s supposed to be looking after. if sasuke gets his revenge on itachi, he’s just going to be left with the horrifying realization that his pain hasn’t lessened even the slightest bit, except that now he also has to deal with the additional trauma of killing someone he used to love.

kakashi doesn’t discourage sasuke from revenge because Revenge Is Morally Bad and You Are Morally Bad For Pursuing It; he discourages sasuke from revenge because in this particular case, sasuke’s fixation on revenge is hurting him. it’s unhealthy for him, and it will cause him worse pain in the future if he allows it to continue driving his life. sasuke is never going to feel better if he doesn’t stop distracting himself from his pain by focusing solely on vengeance. if he’s ever going to actually be rescued from his pain, he needs to face (and FEEL!!!) his grief, which is precisely what staying fixated on revenge allows him to avoid.

- relatedly: i just. am SO sick. of all these horrible people. getting their hands on sasuke. and using him for their own ends. when he has already been manipulated and victimized all his life. it makes me wanna SCREAM!!!! and i know that’s the point; we are supposed to be frustrated by this - but - hrnghghgnh

and like - it’s not like sasuke doesn’t know it’s happening! he’s not stupid! he knows the people around him are using him, and he just tries to use them back and play them before they play him, and he accepts that this is what his life is going to look like, and because he survives, he thinks he’s in control, but he has NO IDEA how far over his head he’s in now. and besides, he never stops to think that maybe his life shouldn’t look like this. he has no conception of ‘someone should be taking care of me.’ he’s never seen himself as a child who needs protection - he’s never seen himself as a child, period. it’s why he’s such a brat to the other kids, and it’s why he never calls kakashi ‘sensei.’ he thinks of himself as an adult. he has adult problems. he can’t connect to children his own age because he can’t connect to the idea of childhood - his childhood was stolen from him, and with it went any conception of refuge or safety or the fact that relentless self-sufficiency and a constant cycle of using/being used by other people isn’t in fact what his life is supposed to look like.

i am continually infuriated by all of these people who have abdicated their responsibility as adults and chosen to exploit an already exploited kid, one who is too messed up to save himself or let anybody else help him. none of these people care about him. they all want to use him for something. they’re happy he’s in pain, because his pain is what enables them to manipulate him.

the people who DO truly want to help him are the same people he’s desperately trying to avoid. the only adult sasuke ever had a meaningful and non-manipulative relationship with is the same adult he keeps running away from. and the only two people his own age who ever actually knew anything about him or cared if he was okay are the two people he keeps pushing away.

there is, perhaps, a lot to be said about how sasuke continually runs away from the people who actually care about him and instead affiliates himself with people he’ll never have to worry about forming a connection with. “having too many ties in this world just holds you back” - sure, and having no ties protects you, too. nobody to love you, nobody to know you, nobody you can ever lose.

#naruto #pan watches naruto

15 notes · View notes

delcat177 · 3 years

Text

We DIDN’T Start the Fire: Introspective

I’m actually feeling a little more validated by every shitty message, as contrary as that seems. I really do care a lot about kids, I have a clutch of niblings in my chosen family, I plan on having tads myself someday, and more than that, I sincerely do believe that children deserve MUCH better protection online. Kids deserve best. That’s a tag, you can check it.

But back when I got called out, I was in a very vulnerable place, trying to figure out my own head, and despite having an absolutely inverse reaction to kids in any kind of intimate fashion (I mean, except familial I love you platonic...would you call it intimacy, making stegosaurus pancakes, Christmas morning, warmth is what that is I think I DIGRESS),,

It freaked me. They were saying the same horrible things about how my fiancé was gonna get hurt, kids were gonna get hurt, I was enabling rapists and pedophiles, I should go eat shit and die (from someone who told me they got horribly triggered by the phrase ‘eat shit’ and guilt-rolled me endlessly for it, at that).

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t stop checking myself going “am I being Bad, am I being Gross, oh no I can’t Netflix and chill because if I’m in my intimates and a kid shows up I am basically molesting that child”, like. It has been BAD. I don’t think it’s inherently wrong to be mindful of what you do, the discomfort from seeing a kid on TV while I’m having a saucy couch day is genuine gross-out because it crosses wires I don’t want crossed, but it’s also only hurting me.

Last month I nailed down the realization proper, after talking with a good friend--like the religious paranoid who is constantly vigilant and terrified by intrusive thoughts of blasphemy, or the parent paranoid who is constantly vigilant and terrified by intrusive thoughts of killing their new infant, I had developed into a prospective-being-around-kids-person who was constantly vigilant and terrified by intrusive thoughts of “if I am a sexual being in the same universe as a child it will hurt them”.

Hashtag actually OCD.

I used to be the religious paranoid. The idea of Doing The Worst Thing is so gut-wrenchingly disturbing that you can’t block the idea out, and if you don’t realize that mechanism, that it IS the Worst Thing, you turn into a mess of WHY DO I THINK SUCH TERRIBLE THINGS (for reference, this is not thinking about children sexually in any way, which would be the actual worst thing, but, again, my private adult sexuality somehow harming children who aren’t even present in the same state as me, who have no idea I even exist). It was the same damned song and dance as when I used to pray nonstop because I thought I would go to Hell otherwise.

I genuinely only realized this in mmmmmmmMarch

so it’s actually really timely to be bombarded by actual kids in my inbox and going “oh, yeah, no, all I want to do here is shoo them off so they don’t read my bondage fics”. I don’t want to interact with them. I definitely don’t want to *interact* with them. I just want them safe.

It’s been a very freeing realization, that I’ve been stuck with policing myself militantly when I believe in neither of those institutions and that there is absolutely no way I’m harming anyone by thinking about smooching while watching Stranger Things, even if the true object of my heart is only onscreen sometimes...

(doki doki Demo <333) (”stop having feelings for monsters”) (HARKNESS TEST MY DUDE)

...because I am not a pedophile. I have no interest in children. I have so un-interest in children that I’m haunted by the idea of GETTING an interest in children, which is just not how it works. I don’t feel sexy when the kids are onscreen, I feel YEAH YEAH YOU GO GUYS GET ‘EM Dustin you’re my favorite don’t tell the others. I want to give them big bags of quarters for the arcade and maybe while they’re gone see about romancing an eldritch abomination. THAT is what I am about at my core.

Honestly? I don’t think I even want real-world sex. With anyone. For now, at least, I would have to go through some very deep and targeted therapy to up my self-indulgent...self-indulgence to include another person because of how I was traumatized, and a spotter for anxiety attacks. I don’t know if it’s entirely out of the question, but it’s not a question I’m asking. People think sex is the biggest thing out there. It ent. It’s a hobby. A fun one, for me, alone, solo. I’m good. I’m covered.

So here we are, landed in the worst case scenario--kids coming into my private space--and I didn’t even think of harming any of them, because of course I wouldn’t, why did I think I ever would?

If there’s a moral here, it’s even if you think your OCD is under control, you should always be aware of your inclinations towards your particular brand of obsession and compulsion, know how to deal with intrusive thoughts and habits, and don’t let people convince you you’re what you absolutely aren’t because they hate your guts and slash or they’re bored.

can we please put this in a time capsule and send it back to when I needed it in 2015

no?

FINE I’ll just live my best life jeez

(demmy-san, won’t you help me dust the shelves? You’re so big and strong, and I just can’t reach~) (”you are impossible”) (damned straight I am)

#about me #we didn't start the fire 20xxk #lamp tag #recovery #slice of monster fucker life #wow that's a tag i have #kids deserve best #psychology #trauma #ocd #actually ocd #intrusive thoughts #i may write more on this thread later #the intrusive thoughts part #as much as i kid about gorgie i don't think i feel comfortable with it #just a little bit too low on the communication scale #YES I ACTIVELY THINK ABOUT MONSTER CONSENT #DOESN'T EVERYONE?

3 notes · View notes

twilightofthe · 4 years

Text

Anakin Skywalker Has ADHD. Here’s Why:

I’ve noticed during my time as a neurodivergent person in the Star Wars community that Anakin, a favorite character of mine, displays a lot of neurodivergent traits. Other people have noticed this too; in particular, @bpdanakins has made a really in depth and detailed post explaining how Anakin having BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder) makes a whole lotta sense. I’ve got ADHD, so this post is gonna be about how I as an ADHD individual see Anakin Skywalker as having ADHD too!!!

Note: Symptoms of ADHD include inability to focus and disorganization. I have ADHD. This post is gonna be a wee bit disorganized and I probs won’t be the best at citing a million sources cuz I do not have the mental focus to do that right now. Thank ye.

So, what is ADHD? (Complicated. The answer is complicated.) (If you don’t want the general ADHD lecture, just scroll down to where I start talking about Anakin particularly).

ADHD, or Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, is a neurological disorder that impairs the brain’s executive functions. People with ADHD have trouble with impulse-control, focusing, and organization. Basically, ADHD is a developmental weakness in how the brain manages itself. I like to picture it like a filing cabinet. Everyone else’s brain has a neatly sorted, labeled, and organized cabinet full of drawers that contain typical brain executive function commands. ADHD people’s brains have a monkey in them that runs around screeching loudly, ripping labels off drawers, rearranging stuff, throwing the files everywhere, eating the papers and generally making a gigantic mess, so whatever you need to go to the drawers to look for something, it takes you ten times longer to find the mental command you need to do if it’s even still there-- and also the monkey is biting your leg the entire time.

People tend to say that this monkey infestation is a gift because sometimes, occasionally, the monkey will rearrange the papers in a different, special way that makes a beautiful picture that no one’s seen before and you can share it for the world to enjoy and everything’s great, you’re just quirky! People tend to forget that it can be like that, but 90% of the time it’s more like the monkey has decided to take a massive shit all over the one specific paper you needed really badly and then put it in front of your foot so you step in it and don’t notice until people point out you’re tracking monkey shit paper everywhere. Anyway.

ADHD is a complex condition and difficult to diagnose because it has so many different varying symptoms, and one person who has ADHD may experience none of the symptoms than another person who also has ADHD does and vice versa because there is a lot. ADHD also tends to go unnoticed because it overlaps symptoms with a LOT of other mental illnesses an individual might have, so you might not even know you have ADHD if you’re also, say, autistic or bipolar, or again vice versa, because there’s a lot of “same hat” stuff going on there.

ADHD also can have its own subcategories of mental illness that can also stand on their own, like ADHD-induced anxiety or ADHD-induced depression. It can be really confusing to know everything going on in your head and put a label on it; for example for me, my doctors and I think I’ve got a separate anxiety disorder that works on its own that my ADHD makes worse, but that the depressive episodes I can suffer likely stem from my ADHD, and don’t need to be tackled individually or say that I have depression.

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) has previously identified three subtypes of ADHD:

Primarily Hyperactive-Impulsive type: Mainly have impulse control problems, tend to be impulsive, impatient, and interrupt others. They fidget, hate sitting still/need to be in constant movement, tend to blurt out what’s on their mind or do what they feel like without thinking it through. They’re constantly up with the thoughts in their head and have difficulty focusing on a single task unless they’re in hyperfocus mode (explaining more later)

Primarily Inattentive type: Are easily distracted and forgetful. Tend to be daydreamers who lose track of memories and personal items with regularity.

Primarily Combined type: Tend to display a mixture of both symptoms. I was diagnosed as a child with the combined type but leaning more towards inattentive.

Anakin and Signs of ADHD:

SO. For starters, I see Anakin as primarily combined type with heavy leanings toward hyperactive-impulsivity. While this type is used to describe the stereotypical hyper little boy media tends to paint ADHD people as, adults can have it too and I see it a lot in Anakin. ADHD magazine ADDitude gives examples of adults with h-i ADHD as people who find difficulty in waiting around for anything, interrupt others in conversation, make impulsive decisions, and have reckless driving skills. Sound at all like someone we know?

Now Anakin absolutely checks all of the above boxes, but it’s way more than that, though. I looked up Healthline’s basic signs and symptoms of Adult ADHD, and I am going to run down the list to show how basically all of them apply to Anakin Skywalker in one way or another. Let’s begin!

Anakin and LACK OF FOCUS: ADDitude suggests that saying ADHD people don’t have attention might be a bit misleading. More accurately, ADHD people have tons of attention, we just can’t harness it in the right direction at the right time with any consistency. In canon, it is made very clear to us very early on that Anakin has issues with some of the more spiritual aspects of Jedi training, like meditation, because he does not possess the focus necessary to concentrate. We get other times when Anakin’s on missions with Obi Wan, where it is made clear Anakin has read the mission brief, but he hasn’t done a good job on it as he’s overlooked something. He gets distracted while in diplomatic situations and Obi Wan needs to tell him to pay attention. Palpatine is able to pull sketchy shit because he knows how to slip under Anakin’s radar while he’s not too focused on him. Anakin isn’t always aware of his surroundings, seeing as how basically everyone who knows him knows about Padmé because he’s not good at being subtle; he’s not good at reading a room. Canon has established that Anakin, while brilliant, has a very flighty attention span and unless it’s something that is deeply important to him or made glaringly obvious, his brain has a tendency to skip over it, and makes him less aware.

Anakin and HYPERFOCUS: The flip side of ADHD focus issues. While our brains don’t always want to pay attention to important rules or other peoples’ emotions or basically anything presented to us that we find boring in any shape or form, if we find something we like, we LATCH. ON. And we cannot stop concentrating on it, up until the point that we lose track of time and ignore others around us. In canon, it is shown very easily what Anakin hyperfocuses on. He’s described in several SW books and is shown in show and movies to completely go into a zone when in combat mode. He’s good at it, he enjoys it, and saber skills is easily something that he can concentrate and get lost in. Another obvious one is mechanics. We see briefly in TCW and bits in the movies where when Anakin is fixing something or piloting something, he kind of drifts away from reality-- he’s got an ear on the situation if there’s danger of course, but he goes just solidly into Tech Mode where all he concentrates on is whatever he’s fixing/piloting at the moment, and that’s why he’s so skilled at what he does. It’s also possible to hyperfocus on specific ideas or opinions, which you can see in basically every argument Anakin ever gets into with someone. He’s like a dog with a bone on a topic he wants to discuss Right Now This Very Second and he will not let it go, nor will he allow you to either, because when we hyperfocus, our fixation can bleed into conversation until it takes control of the conversation, without us even knowing we’re doing it, so it can be surprising/embarrassing when someone points out we’re doing it.

Anakin and DISORGANIZATION: ADHD people basically struggle with organizational skills. While we don’t see much of Anakin’s living spaces, we can see from the brief TCW snippets that his living quarters are a little cluttered. However, he does run a relatively neat army-- though we don’t know how much of that has Rex, Ahsoka, Obi Wan, or someone else to thank for it. In Anakin, most of the disorganization we see is in his mind. Priorities can be an issue for ADHD people, and Anakin tends to prioritize the wrong thing at the wrong time at certain points. He doesn’t always know what to say or how to say it, making him awkward and not very eloquent when speaking.

Anakin and TIME MANAGEMENT PROBLEMS: An issue that goes hand-in-hand with disorganization. We have trouble using time effectively. We procrastinate on things we don’t want to do, show up late, ignore things we consider boring, and the idea of the future or the past is overwhelming and or scary to us and can cause panic-- we need to focus on the now and the now alone because if we try to cross that bridge before we get to it, we might end up burning it. All throughout TCW, we get Obi Wan in particular, but others as well, harping on Anakin for showing up late. And, uh, he kinda does. He makes it, he always does, but it’s always at the last minute just when everyone’s worried he’s not gonna show up. He sometimes doesn’t go to important meetings. He puts off paperwork. Lots of people use all of this to make fun of him, be like “ah, he’s a bad Jedi, he’s lazy”, but like, that’s standard ADHD time management issues. And fear of the future? Hoo boy... Anakin may handle his fears of the future in the literal worst way possible, but that overwhelming anxiety that everything’s rushing at you so fast and holy shit, you don’t have your shit together NOW, what the hell are you gonna do THEN, holy shit holy shit everyone’s gonna DIE PANIC PANIC DANGER PANIC-- Like, I get that. I really do. Fear of the future and inability to manage time overlap a lot.

Anakin and FORGETFULNESS: ADHD have a tendency to forget important stuff, but here is where I remind y’all that not all ADHD people experience all the same symptoms, because Anakin actually has a really damn good memory. Boy is sharp, he recalls really obscure stuff, and if you piss him off/do him a favor, he’s remembering that to his deathbed. Anakin, however, does display what is common in ADHD people, having a selective memory. This goes hand in hand with our attention issues. We remember what we focused on and that sticks in our mind: hopes, fears, interests, stuff like that. Anything else? Eh, if we didn’t notice it then, we’re not noticing it five years from then, or even five minutes from then. That you can see in Anakin, where people like Ahsoka and Obi Wan have to teasingly remind him of important stuff that he tends to just shrug off like “oh yeah that thing that I didn’t care about then and don’t really care about now”, or he feels guilty cuz “oops I didn’t notice it then so now I’m lost”

Anakin and IMPULSIVITY: Aight y’all, this probably requires the least amount of explanation for Anakin Skywalker cuz the Star Wars narrative calls him impulsive like every ten seconds xD ADHD people with impulsivity can be socially inappropriate (Anakin, always managing to say the wrong thing at the wrong time, king of escalating tense situations because he blurts out whatever he feels like), interrupt others (something Padmé and Ahsoka have both canonically called him on doing, he does it to plenty of others as well, Vader does it all the damn time by just force-choking people silent), rushing through tasks (”Oh Anakin, always on the move”. He does not wait, he makes up plans as he goes, he’s constantly in motion), ACTING WITHOUT MUCH CONSIDERATION TO THE CONSEQUENCES (Examples: The entirety of Star Wars episodes 1-6, Star Wars: The Clone Wars)

Anakin and EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS: Alright, maybe THIS is the one that requires the least amount of explanation, haha. ADHD peoples’ emotions seem constantly in flux. We get bored easily and need constant entertainment. (Anakin running off doing crazy stuff seemingly for fun) Small frustrations always feel like the end of the world because it takes over our entire brain. (Anakin being “overdramatic/overreacting”) The slightest sense of rejection or negativity towards our ideas or anything we do can read as total hatred (this is called Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, it SUCKS) so we’re oversensitive about criticism of basically anything. RSD also means we’re paranoid that we’re not noticing other people’s emotions, so we always tend to worry everyone else hates us or our friends are going to leave us-- we have serious abandonment issues. (Basically all of Anakin worrying about the Jedi’s image of him, worrying about Padmé and Obi Wan loving him, freaking out over Ahsoka leaving, etc.) Our mind is focusing on a million things at once so our emotions run super quickly, causing what looks like mood swings because in the time it takes someone to get surprised, we’ve already gone through surprise, confusion, realization, betrayal, fury, and sadness and are now “randomly” crying in front of you (Anakin and his mood swings). Focus issues make us not realize that something we’re doing is upsetting/bothering someone unless they flat out say it, so we may seem mean/inconsiderate/careless (ok, not excusing that part of Anakin’s personality is that he’s just kind of a dick lol, but other stuff that he does seems accidental; he doesn’t want to hurt anyone he loves).

Anakin and POOR SELF-IMAGE: HOOOO BOY THIS IS GONNA BE FUN! So adults with ADHD are often hypercritical of themselves, which can lead to a poor self-image. I do this a lot, and I can’t really explain why, just that I am frustrated with myself and need validation from outside sources. Anakin verbally expresses this to Padmé and Palpatine in Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith especially with all his “I’m not the Jedi I’m supposed to be” bits, how he constantly puts pressure on himself in the novels to be “the very best, I have to be better than everyone, I SHOULD be”, the conflict with that Chosen One label and whether he believes it or not and the pressure he feels from others to fulfill it, to be the Hero With No Fear when he’s fucking terrified all the time. He’s relentlessly hard on himself for his failures and is always looking for an insult in others’ words (Like if Obi Wan gives him gentle concrit, Anakin will subconsciously tear it apart to turn it into how Obi Wan has found an error with all of him and hates him and Anakin sucks). For all his pride in his abilities, Anakin really does not like himself, poor dear, and seeks outside validation in Padmé, Palpatine, and Obi Wan.

Anakin and LACK OF MOTIVATION: Also ties back to focus issues again, if we don’t like it, our brain won’t focus on it, and we can’t convince ourselves to do it. We can see this in times where Anakin has to be gently (or not so gently) prodded by Obi Wan or Ahsoka or someone into doing some Jedi business Anakin considers annoying.

Anakin and RESTLESSNESS AND ANXIETY: It’s described as our “motor won’t shut off”. We always need to keep moving and doing things, and we get frustrated when we can’t do something immediately. There are also bodily tics with fidgeting or frequent hand movements. We see this several times with Anakin during wartime, where he’s practically vibrating over having to play the long waiting game instead of rushing in and getting the job done immediately (See: on Naboo where Anakin is pacing a hole into the floor and Obi Wan is telling him to kindly chill pls). Part of his issues in ROTS happen when he’s worked himself up into a frenzy over sitting not knowing what to do over what’s scaring him so he jumps the gun and goes with the first available (awful) option. I don’t remember if this is Hayden or if this is me projecting, sorry, but I always feel that when I watch Hayden in the movies, he always portrays Anakin as vaguely squirmy/fidgety, not really ever sitting PERFECTLY still, like he’s always moving some body part, fiddling with something in his hands or on his clothes. In TCW and the OT especially, we see how hand-wavey he is when he talks, especially when he’s pissed, then the Finger Wag Of Doom comes out, but his hands are ALWAYS in motion.

Anakin and FATIGUE: It’s as the word describes it, we feel tired. All the craziness in our head is overwhelming and we just. Feel. Tired. We don’t see this as clearly in Anakin because all the Jedi seem fatigued, they’re fighting a fucking hopeless war, but it’s definitely there. He has sleeping problems with his dreams and nightmares that spawn from his anxiety that could easily be ADHD-induced; they’re there.

Anakin and HEALTH PROBLEMS: Long story short, it’s basically all your ADHD issues making you neglect to take care of yourself. We see how Anakin has unhealthy coping mechanisms, neglects sleep, and throws himself into reckless, dangerous situations. He does not take care of himself very well at all.

Anakin and RELATIONSHIP ISSUES: Ruh roh... Aight, so all of the symptoms above can very obviously prove to be hurdles in professional, romantic, or platonic situations. We can see how all the above examples in Anakin have in one way or another caused an argument between himself and basically everyone he loves (Obi Wan, Padmé, Ahsoka), people he has to work with (the Jedi council, anyone he gets assigned to on a mission), and anyone else. He’s not called a human disaster for no reason, his actions can make him rub people very much the wrong way, and being kind of lonely and awkward and with not many friends is unfortunately a common occurrence in the lives of ADHD people (It happened to me, and I would consider myself much more of a pleasant individual than Anakin (no offense, hon), other people who met me just thought I was “strange” and that was that).

WHEW. So yes, all of the above state my reasons why I think Anakin Skywalker has ADHD (as well as anxiety, but that’s another post). Please remember once more that these are MY EXPERIENCES AS AN INDIVIDUAL WITH ADHD and that once again, NOT ALL ADHD PEOPLE SHARE THE SAME EXPERIENCES/SYMPTOMS

I will give the two articles I bothered fact-checking with below, the one from Healthline and from ADDitude

If y’all wanna talk more about ADHD!Anakin or any other ADHD Star Wars characters or just neurodivergent Star Wars character headcanons with me, my inbox and DM’s are always open, I love talking about this!!!!!!!!!

#long post #morai musings #one (1) hot mess #star wars #sw stuff #sw meta #adhd #Anakin Skywalker

316 notes · View notes

sithsecrets · 4 years

Text

Empress ⁂ Part 2

Engaged by her father to Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, a princess navigates the dynamics of her new marriage while discovering her own power as a member of the Order.

----

5.4k words

Mentions: sex, swearing

----

You wake up early the next morning, alone in a cold bed. Sitting up almost in a stupor, you hold your head in your hands, still floored by the fact that this is your life now. You’re married to the Supreme Leader of the First Order, and you sleep in his bed now. You’re an empress now apparently, for fuck’s sake. How did all of this happen?

Even though you’re still overwhelmed and a little shaken from the day before, you force yourself to get out of bed, force yourself to get dressed. Your life may be out of control, but you still have to push on.

Once again, you don one of the dresses that the Order made for you, happy to see that it, too, is made of warm, thick fabrics. Two nights on the ship has made you realize that its halls and rooms are absolutely frigid, and that layering and dressing appropriately is a must. Satisfied with your appearance, you stand in your room and peer around, wondering what to do next. No one’s told you what you can and can’t do in general, let alone specifics like where to take your meals and who to ask for things.

Walking into the living area, you consider stepping out into the hall to find another droid like the one that helped you last night. He had been helpful enough showing you to your room, and you were sure that that wasn’t the only function of machines of their kind. But then you spot a datapad stashed on a side table, and you go to it, thinking that it might be helpful in some way.

Mercifully, it is. The thing is simple enough to use, and in no time, you’ve ordered breakfast for yourself. No options were given to you, but at this point, you’re just relieved that you aren’t doomed to wander the ship until someone finds you dying of starvation off in a corner somewhere. You hadn’t eaten much the day before because of your nerves, but you’re ravenously hungry now.

Within ten minutes, a droid much like the one that showed you to your quarters comes rolling into the room, a tray of hot food in hand. You thank the machine immediately, relieved to see your meal. There’s a small table and chairs off to one side in the living room, and you drop down there, already cutting into your eggs.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Empress?” the droid asks you expectantly, peering at you with its light-up eyes.

Out of habit, you almost dismiss the machine, but then think better of it.

“Yes,” you say slowly, trying to approach the subject carefully and with tact. “Do you… what do you know about what I’m allowed to do on the ship?”

“You can do anything,” the droid replies simply, almost as if this should have been obvious. You turn to look at him, very sure that the machine doesn’t mean what he’s said. Not even on your home planet did you have absolute power and freedom— there had always been rules and conditions.

“What do you mean by that?” you ask, still eating steadily despite your shock.

“Well,” the droid begins, contemplative, “you are the Empress of the First Order now. You outrank everyone except the Supreme Leader himself, and he hasn’t given any orders regarding how you should behave or where you can go on the ship, at least not to anyone or any droid that I know.” The droid pauses for a moment, seemingly still processing. “As of now, it would seem that you can do whatever you want, so long as the Supreme Leader doesn’t stop you or say that you can’t perform a particular action or task.”

Mostly finished eating now, you can’t help but feel a little stupid. Of course you have freedom on this ship. You do outrank all of these people, save for Kylo Ren, and you should have recognized that. It’s not like you plan to galivant around doing absolutely anything that you want, but you’re certainly allowed to go out and entertain yourself for the day.

Or maybe you did know all of that. Maybe it was just nice to hear someone else say it.

“Are there any other questions I can answer for you, Empress? I am quite knowledgeable about the ship.” The droid is still positioned near the table, still waiting to help you, so you ask all of the things that you can think to ask.

Where else can you eat? If you want or need new clothes, where do you get them from? How do you order things that you need? You ask the droid those questions along with many more, and he answers all of them dutifully. When the conversation’s finished, you feel like a weight’s been lifted off of you. Knowing a little more about how to do things in your new home is comforting, and it feels good to be able to rely on the droids for information.

“Thank you so much,” you tell the droid, completely earnest, and he simply moves to roll out of the room.

“You’re very welcome, Empress,” is all that the machine says before he leaves, the blast door sliding shut gently behind him.

You find yourself alone again, but you’re not so anxious and upset this time. Taking a deep breath, you slide on a pair of shoes (also new, and strangely well fitted) and step out into the hall, looking left and right for a marker of any kind. That’s the last thing you need to do: forget where your own quarters are. But there are none. All the doors look the same, and the hallway has no signage or adornments. Anxious once again, you almost duck back into your room and swear off going out altogether, but you force yourself to start walking somewhere, anywhere. It’s going to be a long day if you spend it cooped up in your room with nothing to do and no one to talk to.

----

By midday, you’ve managed to wander into more common areas of the ship. You find the bridge at one point, and there, you meet a redheaded general by the name of Hux. His face is twisted in a mild sneer as he addresses you, but he gets down on one knee to show deference to you anyway. That was common wherever you went on the ship, the kneeling, and it discomforted you immensely. You of course were a princess on your planet, and you were accustomed to being regarded with respect, but not so formally as this. At home, bowing and kneeling were reserved for ceremony and special appearances; on the day-day-day, you were used to servants and nobles alike addressing you with casual familiarity and kindness. You felt disruptive and embarrassed, but you didn’t have the heart to tell such large groups of people to stop regarding you this way.

You skipped out on a midday meal even though you were hungry, not feeling comfortable enough with everyone yet to grab some food from the simple canteen you stumbled upon during your solo exploration of the ship. Besides, you were kind of having fun poking around everywhere.

By evening, though, the luster of spelunking through the ship has worn off. You’re tired, and very hungry, and you can tell that the ship is shifting into what must be a sort of evening mode. Everywhere you go, there are less people milling about, and you catch snatches of conversation regarding dinner plans here and there as you walk.

But it seems that you’ve made a mistake somewhere along the way, because you find yourself hopelessly lost about five minutes after you decide to come back the way you came. You suddenly feel eons away from any familiar path or major common area, and as your anxiety spikes, all of the hallways begin to look the same. You pad aimlessly down corridor after corridor, looking this way and that way at every intersection to see if you can find a familiar marking, a droid, a person— anything or anyone to help you— but to no avail. The only helpful thing you can see is a red border that’s painted along the walls of the hallways you’ve just turned down; but not even it is all that comforting, seeing that you don’t know what it indicates.

Mercifully, not long after you start following the path of this one and only lifeline, a woman walks your way. She has on a plain red uniform that matches the color of the stripe on the wall, and she’s busy looking over something on the datapad in her hands. Utterly relieved, you take longer, quicker strides, trying to meet her halfway so you can finally get some directions back to a place that you recognize.

“Excuse me,” you say kindly, and the woman about drops the datapad in fright, starting violently at the sight of you. You’re nearly in front of her now, close enough to catch the sleeve of her shirt when she goes to drop to her knees in front of you. And maybe it’s because there’s no witnesses to hear you or see you do it, but you huff tiredly and say, “Please don’t do that, it’s so strange.”

Obviously worried she’s offended you, the skittish little thing nods vigorously and stands up straight again. “I apologize, Empress,” she blurts, clutching her datapad to her chest. You sigh heavily, miffed that your very presence is enough to make people nervous just because of who your husband is. That’s something you’d ascertained throughout your travels today as well: everyone is fucking terrified of Kylo Ren.

The woman tells you that you’re near the medbay (that’s what all of the red was about), and then she gives you directions back to the bridge. Exhausted, you start hiking back, hoping against hope that you won’t get lost again. And thankfully you don’t, because you’re back in the common areas of the ship within no time, though everyone still drops to their knees in your wake as if you’ll kill them where they stand if they don’t.

You begin to celebrate in your mind, proud of yourself for making your way back without a hitch. But then you realize that you don’t know how to get back to your own quarters from here, and your good mood deflates almost instantly. It’s so depressing, you think, to live somewhere and not even know how to find your own fucking bedroom.

Contemplating good places to cry alone, you begin to walk off into a random corridor, thinking with a morbid sort of humor that it might be best if you just got lost and died on the ship somewhere.

“Empress,” chorus two electronically filtered voices behind you, and you turn, eyes landing on a pair of stormtroopers. Their blasters are holstered and of course, they’re both on one knee before you, heads bowed in reverence.

“What is it?” you ask, not in the mood for more ass-kissing at this point. You had your fill when you met a group of high-ranking officers earlier in the day, and you don’t have time for these two if they’re trying to climb the ladder as well.

“The Supreme Leader requests your presence in your shared quarters, Empress,” offers one of the troopers, and a feeling of mild surprise hits you. But hey, they said your quarters, so you’re satisfied.

“Take me there,” you command, and they do.

(You force yourself to mindful of the path they lead you down the whole way to your rooms.)

The Supreme Leader is waiting for you when you arrive, just as you suspected he would be.

Kylo’s seated the little dining table in the living room, and he jumps up almost immediately after you come through the blast door. You breeze in, trying to be pleasant, trying to not let your hunger and exhaustion get the best of your attitude. In truth, you’re still a little unsure of yourself after the events of last night, and a more childish part of you is slightly angry that Kylo never so much as offered to show you around the ship. Sure, he didn’t tell you to go wandering off like you did, but he didn’t exactly help you out, either.

Still, though, you need to try with him. Making him dislike you would be a fatal mistake.

“Hello,” your husband says, seemingly still subdued and mildly unnerved like he was last night.

“Hello,” you reply, making sure to smile at him. “You called for me?”

Kylo seems to remember himself in that moment. “Oh, yes, I did,” he begins, glancing behind him at the dinner table. “I… I thought we could take our evening meal together.”

You hadn’t been expecting that.

“What?” And you hate yourself for blurting that out, but your hunger is clouding your brain.

“If you don’t want to eat together, I understand. I can eat on the bridge instead.” Kylo moves to walk past you as he talks, and you catch his arm gently.

“No, no,” you say quickly, horrified with yourself at this point. And to think you had thought yourself a decent diplomat on your home planet… “I’m just hungry, I’m sorry. I wandered around the ship all day, and I got lost, and…” You trail off, shy under the intensity of Kylo’s gaze— even if he is still acting like you could detonate any second.

You still have your hand on his arm, something you realize just a second later than you probably should have. Withdrawing it, you break your husband’s stare and sit down.

----

The food is delicious, and you eat with vigor. Yourself and Kylo spend most of the meal making short, uncomfortable eyes contact, offering a comment here and there. You compliment the meal, Kylo says that he’s glad you like it. Past that though, almost nothing of substance is said, and again, you find yourself wondering if the great Supreme Leader of the First Order has ever been alone with a woman. Or anyone he wasn’t bossing around, for that matter.

“I walked around the ship today,” you say, even though you already mentioned it earlier. The awkward tension in the air is too much, and you figure innocuous conversation is the best way to go about breaking it.

“Where did you go?” Kylo asks, looking at you like he’s yearning to connect just as much as you are, or at the very least, be cordial.

That makes you feel slightly relieved about the state of things.

“Everywhere, really.” You toy with a pile of some sort of vegetable on your plate, the one thing you really didn’t care for. “I got lost, though. This ship is massive, almost too big.”

“You could have had someone escort you,” Kylo says simply. Flushing with embarrassment, you curse yourself for not thinking of that. Why hadn’t you thought of that?

“I don’t know why I didn’t,” is all you offer in reply, still toying with the last little bit of your food. Without thinking, you say something quietly under your breath, almost to yourself. “I don’t know anything about what I can do here, really.”

Catching yourself, you look up at Kylo for a reaction. He looks apologetic, eyes fixed on his plate before they come up to meet yours. “I probably should have told you.”

You want to tell him that he’s absolutely right, because he is. He should have told you so much, should have explained more about your place here, but he didn’t.

Mind reader, mind reader you remember, forcing yourself to focus, to play the game. Be sweet, be appealing, be pleasant.

“Someone told me I can do anything I want, but I don’t know if that’s true. I think some of the officers may not like the idea of having to listen to me.” You laugh lightly, trying to play the whole thing off as a joke. But Kylo isn’t laughing, isn’t even smiling—two things you haven’t seen him do in the few days you’ve known him, if you think about it. His demeanor has shifted completely, and the look on his face is suddenly hard and convicted.

“You’re my wife,” he states, and for the first time, you see something akin to the version of the Supreme Leader that everyone says so much about. “You can do whatever you want, whenever you want because your title as Empress is an extension of my power as the Supreme Leader. If someone tries to stop you from doing something you want to do, no matter how highly they rank, I will take care of them swiftly.”

Watching a man who was acting like he was mildly afraid of you five seconds ago speak this way is startling to say the least, but you can’t help but feel a little giddy at the thought of being uninhibited on this ship. While you had power on your home planet, so much of your life was controlled. You had to talk to the right people, dress a certain way, do things to please your parents— here, apparently all you have to do is keep your husband on your side. The notion of that is refreshing.

Having dealt with serious, no-nonsense types before during your diplomatic relations, you feel infinitely more comfortable with this version of Kylo Ren. And besides that, you’re still desperate for information about your place here. If he has to be righteous and vaguely angry to talk to you about that, so be it.

“Okay,” you say, moving subjects quickly, “but what can I… what can I ask for? What can I have?”

Kylo answers you immediately, completely serious, regarding you with a look in his eyes at you can’t place. “Anything you want. The First Order controls nearly the entire galaxy. If you want anything from anywhere, all you have to do is ask.”

Gone now is your drive to have this man view you as a sweet little woman. This is a cutthroat drawing out of terms, plain and simple— except this time, you’re dealing with a man who possesses actual power, not some small-time nobleman who thinks that he does. That almost makes it more exciting, if you’re being honest.

“And what if I wanted something from a place that was not yet under the control of the Order yet, hm? What would happen then?”

You’re pushing, and Kylo knows what you’re doing, you can see it in his eyes. For a hot minute, you think that maybe you’ve gone too far, overstepped yourself. But then something in his face shifts, and you know then that the two of you are truly operating on the same level now.

“Then I would conquer that place and have whatever you wanted brought to you with haste.”

A thrill shoots through you at the sound of that, but you know better than to be satisfied. As exciting as all of this newfound power is, as much as it turns you on to hear a man speak about you this way, you know good and well that relationships are a two-way street. Four days ago, Kylo Ren chose you to be his wife, and not because he was lusting over you like an idiot— last night made that much clear. You have a purpose on this ship, and you need to know what that purpose is.

“Why? We’ve been married for less than a day. What do I have to offer you that would make you want to treat me so well?”

Your question hangs heavy in the air for a moment, and you watch as Kylo bites the inside of his cheek, pauses, thinks about his answer.

“You’re a gifted diplomat, and I am not,” he states, almost like it took a lot for him to admit that. “People either fear me too much to take the risks that I need them to take, or they think I’m a child and refuse to respect me altogether. I need someone like you to help me keep things in check as the Order expands.”

“I’m from a planet the size of a speck of dust,” you retort, narrowing your eyes a little. Yes, you had been complimented on your negotiation skills over the years, but Kylo Ren is a fool if he thinks that you’ve ever done business with anyone of real substance.

When Kylo locks eyes with you again, “You’re the right fit, I’m sure of it.” He pauses, cuts his eyes to the side. “The Force told me so.”

That answer intrigues you, makes you sit back in your chair and give Kylo a once-over. You know, of course, that your husband has been trained by both Jedi and Sith masters. You know that he can invade the minds of others, that he can throw people around like ragdolls without touching them. You see the lightsaber at his side, you understand the significance of him even having one in his possession. If anyone else had told you some mumbo jumbo about just knowing it, you would laugh in their face. Gut instinct in an emergency situation is one thing, but you appreciate the art of thinking things through when you have the time. And while you know that Kylo Ren has some impulse control issues of his own, you also know that he hasn’t gotten this far by being a moron. So fine, the Force chose you— you can live with that.

“You want me to help make nice with people. Shaking hands, kissing babies, and all of that?” You can tell by the way Kylo’s eyes narrow in mild confusion that what you’ve just said must be common phrasing on your home planet alone. “Never mind. So that’s all you need from me— my diplomatic prowess?”

“And your loyalty.”

You can tell Kylo’s serious about that one, it’s something in his tone. And you can do that, you think, you can do loyalty. All Kylo’s really done is take you away from your home, and while you were upset about that in the beginning, you can see now that maybe that was for the best. It seems that you have potential in the Order, potential as the Supreme Leader’s wife. Potential as the empress.

You have one question left, but you bite your tongue. It’s not worth ruining the mood for, and you think you already know the answer anyway. So, you save it away in your mind and allow yourself to relax, looking over this new husband of yours. He becomes shy again under your gaze, looking at his hands and glancing up at you nervously, but you don’t mind it. That line about being able to do whatever you want still rings in your head, and you begin to think that this marriage may have been a good match after all.

----

Kylo leaves a little while after the two of you finish eating, says that he has to brief the Knights of Ren about an upcoming mission before the morning comes. You let him go easily, happy to have some time to yourself, some time to think about everything that your husband said.

Pacing, you consider your new role as chief diplomat for Kylo Ren. He must want you to be a kind of barrier, you think, someone to shield people from his more abrasive nature. You’ve seen how he can be here and there, heard snatches of him barking orders at the people who work under him. During your travels around the ship today, you overheard more than one person speaking about how Kylo was wound tight, prone to flying into a rage at the simplest inconveniences. Keeping your husband calm and level-headed during any sort of negotiations will be your main objective, that much is clear to you now.

Still, even though you’re happy to know why you’re here, you can’t help but wonder about the timing off all of this. It was your understanding that the Supreme Leader requested that the two of you be married with haste, and you can’t help but feel there’s a reason for that. In hindsight, it may have been a good question to ask Kylo while you had him fired up and open to you, but no matter. You’ve always had a knack for coaxing men into making themselves vulnerable with you, and it’s a skill that’s served you well. Kylo Ren may be the Supreme Leader of the First Order, but he’s also just a man— you’ll draw him to you eventually, you’re sure of it.

Overall, you’re just relieved that you managed to have a breakthrough with your husband. Sure, his moment of openness was short-lived, but you got him to speak to you, to really speak to you, not just sit there and say something polite. This bodes well for things moving forward, for you and Kylo’s relationship as a whole. And as much as you hate to admit it, it was a turn-on to hear Kylo speak about you the way that he did. The power, the willingness to serve you— you feel intoxicated by all of it, drunk off the idea of actually being able to live the way you want to live without anyone telling you no. Your parents can’t control you anymore, the nobleman you used to deal with aren’t here to scrutinize your every move, and you already feel freer because of that.

It’s strange, but in just a couple of short days, you’re beginning to see how unfulfilling your life at home had been. When you first boarded this ship, you thought you were being transported away from any chance at a happy life, but that’s just not the case. You thought getting married would weigh you down, but in reality, it’s set you free.

Of course, though, there’s only been words spoken so far. Kylo hasn’t actually done anything to support the idea that you’re free to do what you like here, and you haven’t exactly pushed any boundaries yet. But still, it’s a nice sentiment to hear. Still, you can’t help but feel Kylo that meant it, really meant it. It was something about the look in eyes, the set of his jaw— he’s put you in power, and he’s fine with you acting like it.

Eventually, you decide that it’s time to mentally table all of this thinking until tomorrow. You try to unwind, lazing about in the bathtub for a while as you wait for your husband to return. The warmth of the water relaxes you, and you let your eyes flutter shut, tired from everything that’s happened today. It’s mental exhaustion more than anything, but the way the heat soothes your muscles is still nice.

You dress for bed in another one of your new nightgowns, deciding that you might like some more clothes as you put it on. The ones the Order made for you before your arrival are lovely, but you think that you might like some prettier things to sleep in now that you’re married. Kylo isn’t exactly jumping all over you, and you certainly don’t intend to throw yourself at him, but you know good and well that this marriage must be consummated eventually.

(And besides all of that, who doesn’t like to feel pretty in their night things?)

Kylo comes back to your quarters not long after you get out of the bath, and when he sees you, it’s almost as if he’s surprised you look the way you do. You’re dressed of course, wet hair plaited down your back to keep it neat.

You don’t see anything special about your appearance, but your husband must, because he’s quite flushed as he announces that he’s going to shower before he comes to bed. You watch him walk into the ‘fresher, almost laughing to yourself a little. Gone are your worries of upsetting him; now all you can do is marvel at how one man can be so confident (and in Kylo’s case, frightening) in one aspect of his life, and yet so awkward in another.

It’s strange how comfortable you feel with Kylo now that you know your place in the Order, in his life. Of course, you don’t want to offend your husband or make him think that you’re an impulsive child, but you no longer feel like you have to walk on eggshells around him. He respects you, that much he said himself, and you have a suspicion that he may admire you for other reasons as well. Still, though, you’re going to play it safe, for your sake and for his.

Kylo emerges from the ‘fresher dressed in a plain shirt and pants, clothes that look far more comfortable than what you normally see him in. You’re sure he went to bed in something like this last night, it was just too dark for you to see. He looks good—clean, soft in the way that everyone is when they’ve just bathed.

You’re already in bed when your husband comes out, and you watch him idly as he moves about the room, straightening some things up and dimming the lights without turning them off completely. He’s a neat person, you observe, and you decide that you like that about him.

When he gets under the covers, Kylo faces you, quiet as the two of you look at each other in the dim light. All of this feels so different from the awkward tension of last night. The two of you aren’t exactly comfortable now, Kylo especially, but you can’t help but feel that you’re making progress.

“What do you do during the day?” you ask softly. It’s not that late, and you genuinely want to know. Not once did you see your husband on the ship today, and you think you covered pretty good ground.

“It depends,” Kylo answers with a shrug, and he acts as if it’s strange to talk about himself. “Some days I go out on excursions to planets that need to be searched, others I stay here and handle the day-to-day operations. I usually meet with the generals and commanders a few times a week to receive updates about the Order’s progress in various parts of the galaxy.”

You nod, thinking that talking would feel more natural if the two of you were closer. Still, you stay on your side of the too-big bed. “What did you do today?”

Kylo proceeds to tell you about how he visited a smaller planet that’s in the Order’s possession. When he got back, he met with his commanders and generals, and then he spent some time training. And then, of course, he briefed the Knights after the two of you ate.

“We’re getting ready to receive some liaisons from Valdera next week,” Kylo explains, and you nod to show that you’re listening. “I’m… I’m going to need your help with that.”

And that’s it— that’s why Kylo insisted that the two of you be wed so quickly.

Valdera is a decently sized, mineral rich planet not far from your old home. Its parliament members are notoriously arrogant, and you had the “pleasure” of meeting some of their diplomats last year. You held your own and got the job done, but you wanted to tear your hair out in the process. The notion of tangling with them again makes you want to huff in annoyance, but at the same time, you know full well that you can take whatever those assholes want to give you and the Order.

“I’ll need to review their customs and the organizational structure of their leadership. I’ll also need a comprehensive report on who’s coming, what they do, and any other pertinent information about them that could help me get them to cooperate.” You tell Kylo all of this with a slight commanding edge to your voice, and he simply nods, saying that you’ll have what you requested by the next afternoon.

“I’ve dealt with Valderan imbeciles before,” you say, rolling your eyes as you settle yourself more comfortably in bed. “They all think they’re tough until you dare them to rise to the occasion. I’ll work something out and then let you know what I think is best.”

“All right,” is all that Kylo says, and you can’t tell if he’s impressed or a little affronted by you taking charge easily. But after he says thank you, you settle on impressed over offended.

“You’re welcome,” you tell your husband. “Goodnight.”

And with that, you roll over and fall asleep.

#kylo ren #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren x reader #star wars #star wars imagine #my writing

159 notes · View notes

loveafterthefact · 4 years

Text

Love After the Fact Chapter 70: Making Long-Distance Calls

Tfw you haven’t heard from your kid in a while and part of you is really worried and the other part of you wants to kill him yourself to save your enemies the trouble… and then that mf just says he ‘forgot’.

First Previous Next

“Okay, so do you two see each other?” Lance asks.

“I see a Balmeran.” Thace cocks his head curiously. “Quite different from the race that I am familiar with- Ulaz! Get out! Patient confidentiality!” There’s a snicker in the background, followed by a door opening and closing.

“Excellent!” Lance chirps, typing in another code, waiting for it to pick up. “Tavo, are you there?”

“I am here. Hello, your Majesties. Crown Prince Lancel, I've heard the kings are quite bitter that they have not heard from you.”

“Oh, fuck.” The prince pales, then brushes it off. “I need to call them anyway. They can scold me for spending too much time in the sun or not wearing socks.”

Keith glances at his mate, noting his darker complexion, the little brown spots creeping from underneath his skin. An Altean, blessed by Daibazaal’s sun. It’s perfect. He’s perfect.

Keith really needs to reboot his brain.

“So what are we here for, then?” Tavo asks, pulling his chair closer to his desk.

“We’re planning on having a kit,” Keith says, cutting right to the chase. He’s already done too many of these calls this quintant.

“I see. How soon do you expect to conceive?” Tavo accesses his desktop, fingers sliding over the glass table.

“I go into season in a few quintants- Shut up, Thace.” The medic scowls, shaking his head in silent disapproval. “I will hopefully conceive sometime in the following movement.”

“Understood. What are your concerns?” The Altean medic casts his dark eyes around the group.

“Nutrition, complications at any point during pregnancy, and predicting needs of the kit once born,” Thace clarifies. “Your majesties, we can carry this conversation without you.”

“You can,” Lance agrees. “But you won’t.” Keith smiles, delighted by his mate’s enthusiasm. “All we want, for today, is to make considerations regarding how we help Keith -and the baby- stay healthy. Starting with nutrition.”

“Right. Excellent.” Thace pulls up several holographic panels. “In your particular case, your Majesty, nutrition is definitely where we need to begin. Your metabolism is extremely fast for a Galra.”

“Is it?” Hunk asks. “Alteans have high metabolisms, but I’ve just been making as much as Keith will eat.”

“Your average Galra consumes roughly one sixth the amount of calories that Kei- Prince Yorak requires to maintain his current condition. That amount in turn does not account for growth spurts, season, pregnancy, or any increase in muscle mass. Basically, anything more than the normal amount of physical output creates strain upon his body that our species is not naturally equipped to deal with.

We’re meant to go for a long time on nothing. Prince Yorak goes for a short time, and only on a great deal.”

“Basically, how do you keep me and a fetus alive and healthy without stuffing me like one of those weird birds you people always eat,” Keith clarifies. “I’ll be stuffed enough.”

“Damn right you will,” Lance snickers. Keith promptly whacks him with the back of his hand with a scolding, while Thace chokes on a laugh and Tavo shakes his head in disappointment.

“Well, my wife is going into labor any dobosh now, so let’s get to work on some meal ideas and then I’m gonna duck out.” Hunk grins. “Your Majesties must come visit once he’s born.”

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Keith promises. “Let’s get to work!”

“Okay! So for the sake of this discussion… Let’s divide nutrient sources into three categories: proteins, fats, and carbs. Carbs should further be divided into starches and cellulose. During pregnancy, you may require more fruits and vegetables as Alteans are primarily vegetarian, so we’ll need to ensure a balanced diet both for you and a your hybrid fetus-”

It takes two vargas to come up with some kind of meal plan, which will probably change a million times anyway, but at least it gives them something to work with -and gives the princes headaches, but whatever-. It’s worth it, and Lance knows it will relieve some of Keith’s anxiety.

“Well, if we’re done, I’d better head out. Rosie is being an absolute monster today, so-”

“Just one thing.” All eyes fall to Keith. “We’re keeping this quiet. There are too many risks to say anything until we’re sure there’s a chance of having a viable fetus. Basically, all of this is a secret until I say otherwise.”

“Understood.” Hunk bows his heads. “We look forward to seeing you home, your Majesties. Farewell.”

“Farewell,” the princes chorus.

“On to complications, then.” Thace decides. “Complications include embryotic miscarriage, fetal miscarriage, stillbirth, birth defects, underdevelopment, excessive bleeding, parasitic placental syndrome-”

“I’m sorry. What did you just say?” Lance leans forward, visibly horrified. Tavo lifts an eyebrow. Apparently, the Altean royal physician hasn’t heard of this either.

“Parasitic placental syndrome. It’s a condition in Galra where the placenta takes an excessive amount of nutrients from the bearer, resulting in malnourishment, miscarriage, premature stillbirth, and extreme malnourishment. Basically, the placenta starves the bearer until they eventually cannot support the fetus.

“In Prince Yorak’s case-”

“It could be fatal,” Keith finishes. “Which brings us to a touchy subject: If it comes down to it, do you save me, or the kit? The answer is me.”

“You’re sure?” Tavo asks.

“Yes. It’s selfish to die for one life, when I have the potential to carry many more.” Keith looks to Lance for his opinion, if the Altean wants to give one. Lance just kisses his cheek.

“Up to you, beloved. But I’d like to have you as a part of my family if at all possible.”

Keith smiles at his mate, brushes a bit of starlight hair away from his face. “Me too.”

“You guys are so cute,” Thace sighs. “Also, total dorks.”

Tavo frowns. “Your Majesties, is this man some kind of prince, to speak so informally to you?”

“No, that’s just Thace. He has no respect for authority unless Daibazaal is in crisis mode.” Keith rolls his eyes, even as his lips curl with the edge of a small smile.

“Bitch, I have five kits. I am the authority.”

“FIVE?” Tavo chokes. “Five children???”

“Oh, yeah.” Thace smirks, clearly enjoying messing with the Altean medic. “Granted three of them are triplets, but… I think that just makes it more impressive.”

Tavo turns to the princes. “Your Majesties, surely this… degenerate is not the only reproductive authority on Daibazaal.”

“No, but he is the best. And my species is suspected to have at least four kits within the span of a decaphoeb, and encourage to have between six and eight. Some have even more.” Keith smiles. “Thace is the best in his field, and he has an intimate understanding of my growth disorder. There is no one I’d trust more with my life during such a critical time. And…

“I’ve not spent much time with you, Tavo, but I know your reputation well, and trust me when I say that you both have a great deal to learn from each other. I can see you two doing amazing things together.” The smile turns to an imperious stare. “Regardless, I expect you both to work together and be nice to each other. If I hear otherwise, I’ll kick your asses.”

The two medical professionals grumble their assent, Thace insulted and Tavo wary but abashed.

“Right,” Keith sighs. “Now, back to our discussion… There’s not really a whole lot to be done about any of those things.”

“Yes, but you should understand the symptoms,” Thace explains. “Bleeding, cramping, contractions, gastrointestinal distress, pain in the lower abdomen, fatigue, rapidly increasing fatigue, etc., etc. I’ll send along some resources on general self care and rearing that you both should read as.”

“Naturally.” Lance grins, puts his arm around Keith's shoulders. “We’re learning together. Right, beloved?”

“Absolutely.” Keith smiles. “Thanks for your time, guys. Thace, we’ll see you quite soon. Tavo, I imagine we’ll see you in a few movements.”

“Indeed you will, your Majesties. You’ll need to receive a health check upon your return from Daibazaal anyway before you are exposed to anyone on Altea. Our planet has far more stringent protocols for entry than Daibazaal does.”

“Understood. We’ll see you then.” Lance waves as the Altean signs off. It’s just them and Thace.

“I’ll come by your den when you return. I want to give you a once-over before your season. Which is extremely close, by the way. I recommend you return here by tomorrow night.” Thace looks Keith up and down. “You seem relatively relaxed, so I doubt it’ll be tonight.”

Keith nods, agreeing with his medic. He feels relaxed, now that his problem with Lance has been resolved. But before long, he’ll get restless, and generally uncomfortable, and he knows it. But he also knows he has Lance, and Lance will help him keep comfortable and safe. Everything will be fine.

As they say their goodbyes to Thace, however, he braces himself for an entirely different kind of conversation.

“So.” Coran sips his tea. The aging Altean’s sitting sideways on the loveseat in their quarters, legs thrown over his husband’s lap. It’s been a habit of theirs almost as long as they’ve been together. “What excuse will they give?”

“Hm…” Alfor pretends to think, massaging Coran’s knee, moving in circles to help ease the pain. Old injuries are the worst, especially when you get old yourself. “Probably ‘We were busy’ or ‘We just forgot’.” The king sighs. “I didn’t expect them to call, to be honest.Our boy’s grown up.”

“He’s been grown up for a while now, dearest.”

“A person’s not grown until they act grown. But I suspect Lancel has been grown for a while now, and just didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Probably.”

A long pause of silence-

“I’m going to call them.” Alfor gently removes his husband’s legs from his lap, reaches for his datapad.

“Darling, don’t you think-”

“I should let them be? No, I do not. They are on Daibazaal, a planet crawling with enemies-”

“Dear…”

“... Crawling with people who are not fond of my family, including and perhaps especially our son and heir?” Alfor types in Lance’s comms code.

“Better.” The red-haired man smiles at his husband, appreciative of his efforts.

“Father! Believe it or not, we were just about to call you!”

“Hello, son!” Coran smiles at the happy face before him. He’s missed his child. Alfor has too, though he hasn’t said it. “Good to see you’re both still alive!”

Alfor, for once, chooses the softer approach. “You look well. Both of you.”

They do indeed. Keith seems a little taller now, his frame a bit more robust. Lance’s skin has darkened, freckles creeping over his nose.

“We’re doing quite well here,” Keith agrees. “I’ve touched base with several contacts from within the Compound and surrounding villages. Lance has established himself as a respectable mate and warrior, thanks to his excellent conduct and impressive displays of mettel.”

Coran raises an eyebrow. “So… You’re as well-behaved as we would expect you to be, and you’ve also managed to get into some trouble. Sound about right?”

“Pretty much,” Lance admits, slightly sheepish. “I am every bit the model guest, and I also squared off against a kronil and saved a dying wolf cub with alchemy. Y’know, normal stuff.”

“A kronil. Really?” Alfor leans back. “Well now, that is impressive.” Especially given his boy’s struggles with combat and alchemy. Alfor smiles, proud of his son, delighted with the giddy pride on his son’s face.

“Now.” Alfor settles back next to Coran, throwing an arm over the back of the loveseat. “I was calling to guilt you for dropping off the edge of the star system. Why were you calling?”

The couple exchanges a glance. “We’re not… entirely sure. We’ve found something, and it could be nothing at all, or something very serious,” Lance explains.

Alfor frowns. It must be serious if Lance wants to tell him about it. There’s really only one thing he knows more about that his son: violence. “I see… What have you found?”

Keith explains the various falsified ship inspection records, where the shipments came from, and what it might mean. Alfor listens, nods. It’s a serious matter, and the boys are taking it very seriously. Both of them.

“So let me see if I understand this correctly,” he says when they’ve finished. “These ships with extra cargo bypassed inspection somehow, and come from planets that help supply the Galra with food, medicine, and raw materials?”

“Yes.” Keith leans forward, brushing a lock of loose hair over his shoulder. “These shipments could be one of two things: smugglers, looking to make a profit by supplying the Galra on Daibazaal with resources not typically available to them in large quantities, or they’re supplying a militia that may be looking to overthrow the Imperial family and name a champion, and/ or invade Altea.

“Neither of our peoples want this,” Keith stresses, staring earnestly at the king. “My people want peace. They have already chosen Lotor as their Champion upon his father’s death or retirement.”

“What exactly does it mean for him to be the Champion?” Alfor asks, unfamiliar with the term.

“Well, you know how there’s the Kral Zera?” Keith asks. Alfor nods. “Even though anyone can participate, the people can petition to choose a Champion, at which point most challengers would back down and allow the Champion to light the flame unhindered.”

“So Lotor is… the Successor Elect?” Alfor clarifies.

“Yes. He argues for strengthening and uniting the empire, instead of continuing to expand. This means more resources available to the commonwealth both here and abroad, as well as better foreign relations with conquered planets and external societies.”

“I see… Some would take issue with this?”

Keith nods. “Some are bitter that my uncle agreed to this alliance. They feel as though they have been cheated. Your people are comparatively few, but formidable. They are one of the reasons that same sex coupling is currently illegal. They don’t produce kits, and so would be considered traitors. Others are simply angered that the atrocities they were ordered to commit came to nothing, that their sacrifices and losses did not lead to victory.”

“So you believe these shipments are supplies being moved by rebels staging a coup?”

“We believe…” Keith rolls his lips between his teeth, tugs on the ends of some of his hair. “We should be prepared for every eventuality. Please understand,” he whispers. “I want so badly for this to never be our problem, but I love my people, just as surely as you love yours. I would do anything for them.”

Alfor sighs through his nose, nods. “I will begin working on plans should Daibazaal face a threat from within. In that case, we would need to split our assets between defence and military assistance, followed by relief efforts. When you return, we can look at them together.”

“Speaking of which, when do you intend to return? Some time this decaphoeb, perhaps?” Coran asks, still a little miffed that his son hasn’t kept in touch.

“Three movements. Keith’s about to go into season, and Thace wants us to stay two movements to keep an eye on him. Just in case of any complications.”

Lance lies so smoothly, Alfor almost doesn’t see the excited glint in his son’s eyes. He chooses not to mention it. He’ll let their life together be as private as they like. Nothing else ever is for a royal couple. Instead, he smiles.

“You’re both doing wonderfully. Keep up the good work, and we’ll see you in a few movements.”

Lance bows his head. “Thank you, Father. Dad.”

Coran waves away his thanks. “Just come home, lads. That’s all we ask. We love you.”

“We will,” Lance affirms. His father signs off without another word, only a fond smile -a small miracle in and of itself-, and Lance throws himself back against the tree with a loud huff.

“I agree,” Keith murmurs, settling against him with a yawn.

Lance puts an arm around him immediately. “Is this normal sleepiness, or season-related sleepiness?”

“Not sure, but we’re just gonna go with it, okay?”

Lance smiles, brushing a thumb across Keith’s cheekbone. The Galra sighs, settling in to sleep. “Sometimes I think the only reason you’re keeping me is to have something to lay on.”

“Hmph. Bed’s never poked me with it’s dick-” Lance gasps, playfully scandalized. “-so that’s definitely not it. I keep you because you're cute.”

“I have never felt so betrayed in my entire life,” Lance teases.

“Shut up and cuddle with me,” Keith grumbles, wrapping his tail around Lance’s waist as he curls up against his chest. Lance chuckles, wraps him up in his arms. “Alfor still sucks. Just so we’re clear.”

“I know. Thanks for behaving.”

“Of course I behaved. He’s your father and you love him.”

“Yeah… I think he loves me, too.” The fact that Lance barely seems to believe it breaks Keith’s heart a little.

“Of course he does. And so do I.”

“I love you too.” Lance kisses his forehead. “Get some sleep.”

“No need to tell me twice.” Keith yawns, settling in to sleep through the warmth of the afternoon.

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #voltron legendary defender #vld

11 notes · View notes

raisedbyfandomwolves · 4 years

Note

Prompt: Kara takes Mon-El to a museum for the first time :)

This one got REALLY long but that’s just what your prompt did to my brain and if I get into any kind of trouble for this I’m blaming you. Also this was supposed to be set in show canon but some of my own writing slipped in so... yeah.

---------

The idea comes to her out of the blue, and the longer Kara considers it the more sense it makes.

She hasn't been a great mentor to Mon-El, she's willing to admit as much, but now that she's aware of it she's trying to make up for her past mistakes and do it right from now on. Of course, sheer determination only gets her so far and she ends up getting kind of stuck pretty quickly... that is, until an innocent little pamphlet in her mailbox gives her some unexpected but brilliant guidance.

“We're going to the museum,” she announces with a bright smile and more than a fair amount of enthusiasm the next morning when she visits him in his quarters at the DEO.

Predictably, he does not share her excitement and simply stares at her with a perplexed look on his face. “We are? Why?”

Uncharitable thoughts about Daxamites and their blatant disregard for higher learning fill her mind and all but erase her jubilant mood but she fights to keep her irritation from showing. Deep breaths, Kara. You promised yourself you'd be patient with him. It's too soon to give up just yet. “Because if you're going to fit in on Earth, you need to know more about it and unless you want to attend school for the next twelve years instead, this is a pretty good alternative.”

Maybe it's her prejudice speaking but she expects him to refuse because it doesn't sound fun. To her pleasant surprise, however, he barely waits a second before he shrugs casually. “Okay. When are we going?”

“Oh. Um.” Caught somewhat off guard by his almost immediate agreement and maybe feeling a little guilty at having prejudged him – again – without real cause, she flounders momentarily. “We could... go now? If you're free?”

Once again, he just shrugs and puts away his phone – a loaner from the DEO, like pretty much everything else he has – before getting up from his bed where he had been sitting. “Sure. Lead the way.”

He's similarly compliant throughout the journey to their destination, never once giving the impression he doesn't actually want to do as she suggested, and because of that she lets herself slowly believe the trip is going to be a resounding success.

Of course, he proves her wrong pretty much the second they set foot inside the first gallery which happens to be focused on human evolution.

“This is what the first humans looked like?” he asks a little too loudly for her liking as he scrutinises the Neanderthal models in the exhibit with a raised eyebrow. “How long did they take before they started resembling us?”

“Shh!” she hisses at him with a mix of panic and anger as she throws furtive glances around them to check if anyone has overheard his incredibly suspicious questions. “Not so loud! And you talk as if there's no chance your distant ancestors didn't look anything like this!”

Her counterargument naturally fails to have its intended effect because he just turns to face her with that infuriating grin of his. “Nope. Not a chance. I mean, look.” He angles his head so that it's somewhat aligned with that of the Neanderthal model and gestures between them. “There's no way this-” he points at his face, “-could have come from this,” he finishes as he points at the face of the model.

She doesn't really know why she's letting it get to her so much when it's clear he's just fooling around – how she's so certain about that is something she doesn't want to think too much about – but instead of just dropping the matter, she feels compelled to keep the argument going. “So you're saying Daxamites were perfect or something from day one?”

His grin widens as he steps closer, and she gets the distinct feeling she's walked into a trap without realising it. “Why, do you think your ancestors looked like that once upon a time?”

There's no two ways about it; he's got her cornered there, and the realisation makes her grind her teeth with so much force she's almost sure the sound is echoing inside the mostly empty gallery. “Just keep moving,” she finally growls when she decides that responding to his question won't work in her favour and all but bodily drags him towards the next gallery.

True to form, Mon-El is just as insufferable at the next exhibit and every single one after that, making dumb comments and even dumber jokes that she absolutely was not going to laugh at no matter how much he insists otherwise. By the time they're approaching the last gallery, she's one stupid wisecrack away from tossing him into the river and calling this plan an utter failure.

As they come to a stop in front of the dinosaur fossils on display, Kara mentally braces herself for yet another barrage of questions and statements designed to piss her off. Jokes about the T-Rex's tiny forearms most likely, for starters, and maybe some ridiculous comparisons between the triceratops and whatever creature he's seen on another planet.

Instead, he stands statue-like as he stares up at the ancient bones that make up the exhibit in complete silence with an expression she's hesitant to name.

All the irritation she felt before vanishes and she suddenly feels like she's intruding on an extremely private moment even though she can't quite understand why.

“Do you miss them?” he asks apropos of nothing, unreadable gaze still fixed firmly on the fossils.

Restlessness turns into confusion in a heartbeat as she frowns at him. “Dinosaurs?”

He still doesn't look at her. “The dragons.”

Oh.

It clicks then – that almost lost expression, that look in his eyes that suggests he's not really seeing what's in front of him but rather something far in the past, that uncharacteristic quietness... She knows them all too well because she still catches herself doing all those things even now.

He's thinking about home.

“The prince had a dragon, you know,” he says softly before she can figure out how to break the silence although she wonders if he's talking to her or no one in particular. “She was called Nes'th; it means 'swift' in old Daxamite.”

They're the only ones here and he's not being too loud which means there's no need to worry about being overheard. Besides, it doesn't feel right to tell him to stop so Kara steps closer and keeps her tone respectful and gentle. “What was she like?”

A ghost of a smile curves his lips, whispering of fond memories and heartbreaking sorrow, and it's so unlike the Mon-El she knows that she finds herself irrationally and inexplicably hating it. “She was beautiful – the most beautiful dragon to ever grace Daxam's skies. The way her black and blue scales glinted under Rao's light... It was like she was the night sky in physical form.”

“You sound like you really cared about her,” she comments carefully. It strikes her as a little strange why a simple guard would be so attached to a dragon belonging to the prince but this seems like a terrible time to ask about it.

“I helped look after her,” he answers her unvoiced question before he finally meets her gaze with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes – eyes which she notices with some disquiet are presently a dull grey instead of their usual colour. “Sorry, could I just... have a moment?”

For a moment, she wants to insist on staying – to tell him that she's here for him and he can talk to her or something along those lines – but stops herself before she actually does it. This is about him, not her; he needs space right now – has openly asked for it, even – and the best thing she can do for him not just as his mentor but also as... a friend, if she dares to use that term... is to give him that. “Sure.”

Kara stays long enough to mumble a soft 'you're welcome' when he thanks her before she does as she'd promised, wandering off until she finds herself in the gift shop of all places. Unsure how much time she should wait before she goes back for him, she browses the souvenirs on sale with no real intention of buying anything until she spots it: a small pterodactyl figurine. It's obviously a toy meant for kids but something compels her to pick it up and take note of the price.

Mon-El's uncharacteristically sombre expression surfaces in her mind and she makes the purchase before she can think twice about it.

Even so, her stomach is in knots for reasons she can't figure out as she goes back to find him and all but thrusts the little gift bag out for him to take. “Here.”

That melancholic expression of his is gone – whether it's because he's gotten over it or buried it under that happy-go-lucky facade of his is unclear – and he looks confused even as he accepts the bag from her. “What's this?”

Her stomach churns as she watches him pull out the toy in slow motion. “It's not a dragon, I know, but it's all they had.”

He stares at the little figurine in his hand like it's the most precious thing in the universe for Rao knows how long and her anxiety just keeps growing until he finally lifts his head and gives her a smile that lights up his entire face. His eyes, she notes somewhat idly, are more blue than grey now too, and it's strangely a relief to see them that way. “Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

Like magic, the knot in her stomach disappears and her heart does a weird flip-floppy thing. “I'm not going to buy you another one if you break it,” she says just to stop herself from saying... what exactly escapes her.

Instead of being offended, he just smiles that little bit brighter and her heart does that weird flip-floppy thing again. “I'll take really good care of it, I promise.”

(When he moves in, the pterodactyl figurine – still in perfect condition – occupies a special spot on one of her cupboards.)

#karamel #prompt fic #facepalming-since-chernobyl

12 notes · View notes

silyabeeodess · 4 years

Text

Fallout Shelter’s pretty much my one and only tie to the series because it’s the only game from it that I’ve personally played and only for a little less than a week now, but who’s up for an overthought, super dark theory?

So, you know how most of the Vaults were used to experiment on people? Based on some of the dialogue and the nature of the gameplay, I feel like the Vault you play in the game was established to test a cultish, hive-like society with human subjects--with the Overseer taking a kind of “god” role to manipulate its inhabitants.

I know that strong loyalty to the Overseer is already encouraged based on looking up the questions on the G.O.A.T. test, but hear me out:

To begin, let’s start by covering the dialogue. Most of the chats between your vault dwellers are quirky and normal. They’ll talk about their day, make quips at each other, etc. Every now and then though, you’ll see them talking about the Overseer (you, the player). Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to get screenshots, but this is some of kind the dialogue I’ve caught between my vault’s inhabitants from memory. If anyone can provide screenshots or has caught similar dialogues during their own playthroughs, please let me know:

“Rumor has it that I’ll be the next Overseer!” “Fine by me. I’ll follow anyone with blind authority.”

“Have you ever met the Overseer?” “No, I haven’t been deemed worthy.”

“Do you think the Overseer is watching?”

What we can infer from these types of conversations is that the Overseer is placed in a position of absolute reverence over the Vault’s inhabitants--more so than that of a typical leader. Seeing the Overseer in-person is treated as an honor. They have a predominantly “blind authority” over the inhabitants, to the point that when it’s time to pass the torch, they’re likely to just accept whoever is chosen without question. And then there’s this idea of the Overseer constantly watching them, knowing their every move and dialogue, which as players, we of course can do. Being only human, however, the Overseer can only do this by heavily monitoring their Vault.

We see that the Overseer is capable of monitoring the Vault from a single space from their Control Station, which features three screens that match up with your energy, food, and water meters in-game. What we don’t see, however, are the Overseer’s personal quarters. This holds no importance from a gameplay perspective--especially since it’s unnecessary for the kind of game Fallout Shelter is--but if we were to look at it from a story perspective, it also encourages this theory. We know that the Overseer isn’t sharing living quarters with the ret of the Vault’s inhabitants due to the fact that they’re rarely seen, meaning that they’re more likely to have their own, hidden quarters somewhere else within the Vault--locked away and out of sight, where they can give orders and keep in contact with everyone else behind the scenes. This is a stark difference to other Vaults in which the Overseer may have a secretary and you can personally meet them, or when they take on more advisory roles than authoritarian ones.

The really creepy thing is the Vault dweller’s awareness and acceptance of this fact: They don’t only know that the Overseer is playing this role, watching their every move, they’re totally fine with it as we can tell by the dialogue. Why though? Well, this brings up some of the gameplay. Maintaining your dwellers’ happiness is just as important to the game as keeping up with their basic needs. You’re rewarded on a grade-scale for it and it effects their production. New, adult dwellers introduced to your Vault--be it whether they grow up there or are brought in from the Wasteland--start out at 50% happiness, but can easily be increased to a 75% in a short time if you already have a high average. In effect, a happy worker with their only alternative for survival being facing the Wasteland alone isn’t going to have much of a reason to argue. And the Overseer is the one with total authority to throw any of the inhabitants out when it suits them.

Furthermore, the game encourages breeding rather than accepting newcomers from the Wasteland after a certain point early on in the game. Sure, you can use the radio station, but the chances of finding people are slimmer. It’s much easier to pair dwellers together and wait for the child to grow up. This is important story-wise because a child molded in this environment would be much easier to control than someone pulled in without exposure to your Vault’s screwed up society anyway.

Then there’s the total dependence the dwellers have on orders. At least when I’ve played, there’s no default for their behaviors besides ‘idle.’ If you don’t give them a role, they won’t do anything--the game slating them as having a “coffee break.” Again, for this kind of game, it makes more sense to be that way. However, there are other games in this style--such as Oxygen Not Included--where the characters do still tend to their own needs. The fact that the Vault dweller’s don’t and instead need orders for every single thing they do, even against their own happiness meters, shows an incredibly high dependence on the Overseer. They have living quarters, they have diners, they have rec rooms, the game even has a day-to-night system in real-time when you look out at the Wasteland from the Vault. However, they don’t go anywhere without being told besides when they’re wandering around in an ‘ idle’ state--and only then travelling from room to room if they’ve come on from the Wasteland or have just grown up, indicating a sense of being lost without commands. The only exception is when they’re forced on their own back in the Wasteland, when they haven’t been given a particular quest and survival is their main goal until the Overseer calls them back.

This position is heavily in the Overseer’s favor as a ‘leader of their hive,’ but going back to what I was talking about on that state of keeping separate from the rest of the Vault’s inhabitants and really only interacting with them through monitors, let’s talk about how this could affect the Overseer as a character rather than as the player. The Mysterious Stranger has been a reoccurring character in the Fallout series, and while I can’t say anything much on him outside of this particular game, I find it interesting that he can only be interacted with as this disappearing/reappearing figure. Yes, we get rewarded when we find him in a certain timeframe, but his presence can be really off-putting. You hear that jingle and suddenly you’re in a scramble hunting through every room in order to find him before he vanishes. This would seem to match a mild sense of paranoia/anxiety from an individual placed in severe isolation for long periods of time, who could possibly be hallucinating about this figure since there’s no one else they can truly interact with--meaning they’re being experimented on almost as much as the rest of the Vault through a test against their own sanity.

Kinda just spewing out thoughts on this, so I don’t really have a conclusion that wouldn’t just repeat what I’ve already said, but thanks for reading this overthought mess.

#fallout shelter #video games #fallout #theory

2 notes · View notes

kondo-hijikata · 6 years

Text

Pairings: Established Kondo/Hijikata Rating: T Summary: He’s a demon and he’s committed and he loves the commander...but something tells Hijikata that these things alone could never be enough. [AO3]

This story takes place after episode eight of Reimeiroku, when Hijikata and Sannan return covered in blood from fighting the ronin who used their name to extort money. The prompt was patching each other up.

for @sabinasanfanfic

.*Enough*.

He sat in seiza beside his desk with slumped shoulders and languid posture.

The reflection in the silver-framed looking glass Hijikata held was unsightly, and not just from the augmenting bruise that defiled an ever flawless complexion. His eyes narrowed at their own image, staring beyond the mirror and searching so much further—so much deeper—than that which could be superficially perceived. Fingertips absently raised while he sized up his soul, applying pressure to the wound and drawing out the sensation of pain.

...It stung where he’d been struck, radiated right from the center of his cheek and prickled further and further across sensitive nerves to make the afflicted area seem even larger. And while anyone who wasn’t a glutton for punishment would withdraw his hand at this mounting discomfort, Hijikata proceeded to press steadily further.

In truth, it wasn’t that he wanted or needed to feel it.

He deserved to.

That the action even hurt at all was unnecessary evidence, and yet it was evidence all the same: of once distant nightmares transforming into harsh, tangible reality. He’d dreamed of this particular horror, of approaching the point of no return, on more occasions than his memory could accurately serve. But all they had been were just that—dreams; figments of anxiety running rampant about his subconscious to jolt him awake with tense muscles and a brow beaded in sweat.

Now, however...

Despite how Hijikata wanted to pull his eyes away, he kept them dutifully trained to his reflection...to the darkening purples and reds serving as actual proof and reminder—of insult and failure, of shame and things that were best left unspoken. Yet no matter his wishes and no matter how well guarded he remained, there his misgivings and inadequacies all were, physically written on his face and exposed to any passing glance tossed in his direction.

His hand let up from further exacerbating the injury and dropped to the tatami with a thud.

This wasn’t about him, at least not directly. And that was precisely why the bruise felt more like a raw nerve against cold air.

Whether anything was physically evident or not on Hijikata was moot, as the facts themselves were indisputable either way. The Roshigumi reputation had sunk so far that any kind of refuse could claim it for their own immoral purposes; a band of thugs using their namesake to demand money from merchants hadn’t caused anyone to bat a damn eyelash in question—not the merchants themselves, not the people here in Kyoto. It was likely that not even Aizu would doubt the validity of such a story.

And speaking of their sponsoring overlords, how quickly had the news of extortion reached them? Surely, Matsudaira-ko's¹ inner circle was already privy to it at this point. But if more bad news reached the Protector of Kyoto himself, then...

A choppy exhale left Hijikata's lips.

He hadn't bothered removing his haori, still stained in blood that both was and wasn’t his own...hadn't bothered removing the hachigane² from his forehead or treating the consequently acquired bumps and scrapes; trifle tasks, each of them, when pitted against an engrossing cocktail of dread and failure. And culpability. ...And remorse.

The list of emotion wavered and wore on and on, but the situation in hindsight was certain. Hijikata should have stopped the ronin, made examples of them, sent a damn clear message. Sannan and he had been outnumbered, yes, but that might have been different if they’d agreed to Kondo’s earlier overly cautious suggestion of ramping up patrol numbers. Still, no matter the odds, to fail at protecting the most precious thing of all was...

Disgrace welled further within him, along with the lump in his throat. To fail where it was most dire was unforgivable. Certainly, no one ever wanted to return in defeat, but this was about something infinitely more complicated than wounded pride, or victory or vanquish. What had been at stake was their name and that name, no matter how sullen, was all the Roshigumi had at this point.

Yet, in its simplest form, all it was was a name. If the group became forced to dissolve, everyone in this tight-knit circle of brotherhood could let go and move on with his life—or almost everyone, that was. Surely, the farewells and partings wouldn’t be easy, and Hijikata knew that his current anguish could be empathized with at the surface level. However, no one around him would really understand the true depths of it, or why it now consumed him to a point where it was difficult to breathe.

...Except for one, perhaps. Indeed, there was one capable of fathoming it, just as he fathomed all the other ugly and mysterious pieces that Hijikata kept locked up inside himself. And he was the very same individual who would drag that marred name of Roshigumi, of Miburo³, chained to his ankle for the rest of his life should this campaign end in catastrophic failure.

Naturally, this was about the Roshigumi’s future—as much as it was about Aizu and Kyoto, about Tokugawa loyalty and the greater good that was the state of this beloved country. However, while the tendrils of guilt rose and entwined about each of these dire components, for Hijikata, the seed was rooted in something much more personal than any one of the aforementioned reasons.

It grew from the very fabric of his essence: from celestial soil comprised of vows and loyalty, of ambition and another feeling so profound he couldn’t bear to speak of it openly.

He had referred to it in proxy, though.

"I swear that I'll lift you up and make you this country’s most exalted samurai."

But what arrogance, to have made such a promise without any guarantee or secondary plan...

“I won’t rest, I won’t give up until I see you claim your rightful place as a daimyo.”

And what naive hope, what childlike faith, that if he'd only worked hard enough, then Kondo-san could...

Hijikata’s teeth clenched.

Kondo-san would...

“Kat-chan, I bet my life on you. We’re going to Kyoto. But only if you lead us there. You’re the only one who can.”

He sucked a deep breath and finally jerked his face away from the offensive image in the glass; studying it any longer was as intolerable as it was agonizing, and the situation was already torturous enough.

Everything that had gone wrong tonight served as a painful reminder of how the Roshigumi’s reputation was directly linked to Kondo’s. Serizawa acted on his own accord, had created his own infamy and had absolutely nothing to lose—which made protecting their name more dire than ever. Still knowing that, though, Hijikata had somehow allowed this treasure so precious to slip through his fingers like sand in the wind.

He wouldn’t be the one to ultimately pay for that carelessness, however. That’s what hurt most.

Swallowing hard, he stared across the space of his quarters that had long begun yielding to darkness with the setting sun and wondered.

How much longer could this go on? The rules were put in place to control Serizawa and his lawless faction, but they came too little too late. Damage had already been extensively done by that point and the consequences, exactly like what had occurred this evening, still continued to plague them in the present.

So, how many more chances, how many more miscalculations, how many more blunders could Kondo waltz their way out of with Aizu? How much more dishonor could their name possibly bear until it was beyond salvaging and they were sent back to Edo in disgrace?

...Before Kondo was sent back to Edo in disgrace?

Hijikata’s insistence had done nothing except recklessly raise the stakes of someone else’s life, someone who was dearer to him than any other. It wasn’t as if Kondo needed him for that; he’d already been coined the jewel of Tama before this whole grand scheme took flight, so to even consider his having to face return with dishonor... To think that Hijikata, himself, could be to blame for that...

His forehead met his palm with an unsteady breath. He would fix it, he would fix it all. Hell, he’d kill Serizawa in cold blood if it solved anything. But first and foremost, Hijikata needed to regain his mental bearings and recreate the face he showed to the world, even if that face was currently tarnished from injury.

And as if things couldn’t get any worse, that was when the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears. Familiar footsteps. The kind he’d often be very pleased to hear, but now dreaded.

In a quiet panic, Hijikata’s hand jolted to deposit the mirror back into its drawer beside his desk.

Of course, he would come. Of course. But why now? Why so soon? Surely the group which converged on their dramatic return from patrol hadn’t disbanded with such haste. Hijikata had used that assumption to his benefit, purposely slipping off while Sannan allowed Yamazaki to treat his wounds and relayed further detail of their encounter to Kondo.

A tightening throat indicated necessity to be alone, to get his emotions under control. Being surrounded by so many observant eyes was perturbing when Hijikata was up against this much mental distress; it’d been imperative to gather his thoughts, and not to mention himself, before he could face anyone properly—especially the man he’d let down most of all.

...especially the man who mattered most.

Hijikata barely had time to smooth out his disheveled attire and rise to his feet before the door slid open without so much an inkling of announcement.

Colors of dusk invaded the inner space immediately, bleeding a jagged strip of light from the entrance to the opposite wall. And there, casting an ominous shadow over that intrusive glow, stood Kondo. The backdrop of sunset obscured the finer details of his features, but Hijikata could clearly make out the clenched jaw and tension in his figure.

“...Toshi.” Despite the harshness of his appearance, Kondo’s voice betrayed it by falling breathy and reverent. He was concerned.

And upon recognizing it, Hijikata felt an overwhelming sense of shame flood through him. It was to be expected. Still, his cheeks burned with mortification and his mouth parted, but all he could manage to do was avert his gaze.

“Sorry for taking off.” The apology left Hijikata quickly, before too much time passed and this exchange became even more awkward. “I was just—”

“—standing around in the dark.” Kondo was fast when he wanted to be. The shoji clapped shut after he stepped over the threshold. “I know.”

For someone who had no formal experience with the trade, the commander made a damn fine politician. Raising a hand, Hijikata idly ran it through his hair and swallowed. Even as dusk settled within the room again, he still couldn’t bring himself to look at the silhouette converging on him. “I needed to clean up. To get myself—”

Hijikata’s breath caught mid-excuse and his eyes widened as Kondo lashed out, with heavy palms hitting his shoulders and fingers curling inward to seize. A forceful haul had him stumbling forward and colliding directly with a strong chest, while warm arms immediately wrapped him up.

Hijikata’s lungs stilled and his back went ramrod straight. “My uniform,” he rasped, pushing against Kondo to put space between them, but found himself only embraced tighter. “There’s blood on it, you’ll—”

“I know,” Kondo stressed. “I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I do.” A beat. “About what’s important.”

And that was what finally had Hijikata’s voice breaking into a soft whine, what had the ice in his veins melting and his tenacious defenses disintegrating to dust. “...Kat-chan.” He’d meant to say more afterward, but a soft hush whispered into his ear made Hijikata settle for otherwise, at least in the meantime. His hands lifted and took purchase of Kondo’s haori, fingertips flexing into the material while staring across the ever-growing darkness.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Kondo breathed and nuzzled him. “We’ll get through it. I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to worry.”

Hijikata’s eyes closed tightly and he held his breath again. Nothing about this was even remotely fair. How had he gone from wayward despairing to the comfort of Kondo’s embrace in a matter of seconds?

Though personal risk existed, Hijikata wasn’t the individual who had everything on the line here. So why should Kondo be the one soothing him now and saying all the right things? Why was Kondo always the one to clean up all the messes and run around doting on everyone, with warm arms and gentle smiles and kind words?

And he always knew, too, what Hijikata needed to hear and when he needed to hear it, without so much of a tiny verbal clue.

These thoughts kicked him back into form, gave him the slap he needed. “Kat-chan, please.” Hijikata began to push away, but stopped before their eyes could meet. “This is—it’s my—” A pause, and he finally settled for, “I’m sorry.”

Kondo’s reply was immediate, and rumbled deep within in his chest. “Don’t be.”

“You don’t even...” Hijikata’s chin lifted so they could finally see each other. “You don’t even know what the hell I’m tryin’ to apologize for.”

Pursing his lips, Kondo shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” His hands wandered up to undo the white knot of the hachigane and he pulled it free from Hijikata’s forehead. “There’s no injury to pardon...unless.” Kondo licked his lips, and then added softly, “Unless we’re talking about this one...” His thumb gently grazed over the bruised cheek and Hijikata turned his face to the side.

“You didn’t let Yamazaki-kun treat your wounds.”

“Kat-chan.” Hijikata’s tone was dry and serious as he kept his focus on the shoji—and the conversation on topic. “I really let you down tonight.” When he felt Kondo shift, presumably to offer protest, he insisted, “I did.” Hijikata’s gaze snapped back and with resolve, he shook his head. “But never again.”

Kondo remained quiet for several moments, before he relented with a gentle nod. “All right. If that’s what you needed to say...but, Toshi...” He hesitated and looked down to the point where their chests touched. “For what it’s worth, you never have.” The scoff went ignored and then Kondo’s attention lifted to his again. “And I know you never will.”

Silence permeated the room as the inner corners of Hijikata’s brows raised and he simply stared. “How can you just...say that?” he demanded over an incredulous breath. “After tonight when I clearly—how—?”

“Because you always try so hard. You always do so much.” Kondo stroked over the uninjured cheek, brushed loose hair away. “And you always, always blame yourself, especially when you’re not at fault.” He drew Hijikata into another embrace. “It’s all enough, Toshi.” After remaining like this for several moments, Kondo hugged him just a little tighter. “I promise. You’re enough.”

At that the air was stolen from Hijikata’s lungs once more, and he stared unblinking and stiff over a broad shoulder. Only after withdrawing far enough to press a kiss to his slightly parted lips had Kondo finally released him.

...And before Hijikata could manage crafting any semblance of a coherent reply, which wasn’t guaranteed anyway, the topic was immediately switched.

“So, how about this? We get that lamp going to have some light in here. You get out of those clothes.” A hand ran down Hijikata’s sleeve and gave a tug. “Meanwhile, I’ll go find something to treat that bruise of yours. And then...” Kondo’s lips twitched upward and almost pleadingly, he asked, “you’ll help me come up with a speech filled with valid excuses and lots of praise to deliver to Matsudaira-ko in the morning?”

After a few pensive seconds, Hijikata blinked and his chin fell with a single nod. That reply he’d lamented over not having earlier still hadn’t presented itself by this point either. So, with that, they both set off into their respective assigned duties.

The dirtied garments were stripped free like physical manifestations of guilt, leaving Hijikata’s body as the blame left his soul—and with each blood-stained piece removed, he felt lighter and lighter.

Certainly, the barrage of negative emotions which engulfed him earlier hadn’t disappeared, but his strength rebuilt itself to fight them back into their dark corners. Who had time to brood when Kondo believed in him so strongly, when Kondo needed him in top form now more than ever?

As Hijikata tied fresh hakama about his hips, a kaleidoscope of feelings battled for his attentions but the one that screamed loudest was determination; therefore, that was the inner voice he decided to listen to, when everything else was just...noise.

He was enough, after all.

The straps were given a strong yank.

Roshigumi.

Hijikata would fight to protect this name and all it stood for. He would fight to protect the man it represented. And he would love that man with all he had—love him so much that it would turn him into a daimyo, no matter what the hell happened here in Kyoto or anywhere for that matter.

Just as Hijikata finished smoothing out the clean attire he’d donned, Kondo returned with a towel tossed over his shoulder. A tray with three onigiri and tea had been balanced on a shallow basin, and he shut the shoji with his foot.

“I know you were too busy before to eat, what with hanging out in the dark all alone.” Kondo placed dinner on the desk, and Hijikata could hear him trying not to laugh while he spoke. “...so I took the liberty. In any case!” He turned back with a grin. “Lemme tend to that wound, yeah?”

“You know, Serizawa’s mouth is never gonna stop if you insist on running around like a servant instead of a commander...Commander.”

To that, Hijikata barely heard Kondo mumble in response, but it sounded dangerously close to, “heh, that’s my Toshi.” An unaffected shrug followed. “Let him.” Kondo pulled the cloth off his shoulder and held it out with another soft twitch of his lips.

Hijikata observed the growing smile aimed directly at him until his lashes fell, along with his chin. He could argue further and object, continue to voice complaint and lecture on and on about setting examples. Or, he could boot Kondo out and attempt working through his misgivings alone with a clearer perspective.

But if only for now...if only for this moment...

Hijikata’s eyes opened and he relented with a dramatic sigh. “I can’t best you, can I?”

They both fell into seiza.

“Not sure about that,” Kondo offered, submerging the towel and then wringing it out. “In any case, I prefer you right here. Next to me.” He even possessed the gall to look up after that declaration.

Lashes went wide and blush heated cheeks. “Sh...Shut up.”

Alas, at Kondo’s side was exactly where Hijikata remained.

And when the next morning bathed the world in fresh sunlight, his knees hit the tatami in time with his commander’s, directly before Matsudaira Katamori.

“I understand the situation,” Matsudaira said with no disapproval or anger in his tone. “Kondo, raise your head. I would give you something. Perhaps it helps.”

A scroll was handed to an attendant, and the attendant placed it in Kondo’s waiting open palms. When given permission to look, he carefully unraveled it. And there on that paper, in the Protector of Kyoto’s own penmanship, was a new name.

Shinsengumi.

The breath left Kondo’s chest, and he simply marveled before rolling this invaluable gift back up and clutching it with possession. Lowering his head, his voice was rife with emotion when he promised, “I will defend this name’s honor with my life.”

And still bowing beside him, Hijikata made a silent vow all on his own—something similar to Kondo’s, but also a little deeper than what could be seen at the surface.

Such was his way. That was how he loved. And some might’ve found that difficult to swallow.

But where it truly mattered...Hijikata’s lashes parted and he stole a glance at Kondo. It was enough.

Thank you for reading! I’m no authority on anything but here are some footnotes, just in case:

¹ -ko: honorific to address people in very high positions of power, like Matsudaira ² Hachigane: metal helmet ³ Miburo: derogatory term for the Roshi/Shinsengumi, mashup of Mibu + ronin

#uss enterplaid #toshisami #hakuouki #t1 #writing on plaid paper #long post

29 notes · View notes