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The dream kept recurring.
Most times, it was an infant swaddled in your arms, a tuft of dirty blonde hair on its head and his father’s electric blue eyes peeking at you from the blanket. You wouldn’t be able to guess its gender, although something inside you told you it was a boy. His cheeks were puffy, but not from crying. A healthy colour in them, his round face peaceful, he looked so much like him that it made your heart swell with raw emotion. Pride. Joy. Trepidation. Happiness. Exhaustion. Exhilaration –
Fear.
You hadn’t had a chance to tell Orson anything about your suspicions before he had disappeared, spirited away from you by his monstrous project.
You had always thought that a first sign would be missed monthly, tenderness of your breasts, general ache in your body – symptoms you had heard about from other wives. Yet it was a persistent sickness that had made you think, to count and recount the days, to question every contradictory sign your body was giving you. To suspect – the dream and the mornings spent vomiting.
“I believe that congratulations are to be given, Lady Krennic,” the doctor had said, “your baby seems healthy, its development consistent with twelve weeks of pregnancy.” His voice was ringing in your ears for hours; even when the entrance door closed with a hiss behind you, trapping you inside the dark apartment where only distant lights of Coruscant filtered through the windows.
And on the top of all the mess, a thought didn’t want to go away, no matter how hard you tried to banish it.
Tarkin, that spunkpuffin behind all this misery, won.
Except you had conceived before he had trapped you on his ship, humiliated you in front of his officers and put a slave collar around your neck.
Your clammy hands trembled when you reached for your comm, suddenly feeling trepidation over having to make a certain call, and it slipped from your grip, falling on the tiled floor of the hallway. You cursed so loudly that the haunting echo inside the empty space startled you.
---
In the end, you had left him a message he would probably never read –
Reconciling with this fact was easier when you kept yourself busy –
At least you hadn’t heard back from him until you had been summoned to Naboo – the Theed Palace Space Vessel Engineering Corps request had circulated through the official channels, stating that you were to work on a project personally commissioned by the Emperor. Which, although raising questions in Kuat Drive Yards, ultimately led to extended leave from your employer. And hushed rumours whispered in haste behind your back.
Donta Gesset personally welcomed you in Theed spaceport, frowning at the humble spacecraft you arrived in. His behaviour towards you was cordial, but he let his displeasure over your ship be known. “You deserve better than this trashcan, my dear,” he said, frowning.
“I’m an engineer, not a senator,” you shrugged, laughing it off. “Besides, it’s more practical.”
“Seems that you enjoy some level of security, at least.” The dark-skinned man eyed warily the droid that was now walking down the ramp of your powered-down craft. You had to admit that his height was rather impressive; he easily towered over both of you, the imperial crest on one of his shoulders emblazoned in gold, marking his enhanced status. And his photoreceptor cells glowed an unnerving red.
“K-4D8 has been accompanying me from time to time. Orson’s orders, I’m afraid.”
“So he can keep an eye on you, you mean,” Gesset scowled.
“He’s a busy man, governor, otherwise he would probably prevent me from coming whatsoever. Anyways, it’s the better option, compared to a warrant on my head,” you smiled sadly. “Although I imagine this thing will attract some attention here, and not all of it might be wanted.”
“Do you expect an attempt on your life, my lady?” the man rose an eyebrow questioningly.
With whatever your husband was currently up to? Definitely. “You tell me.”
“Well, I believe that Agent Bhrea might be more informed in that regard. He will contact you once he returns from his mission,” the governor of Naboo gave you a polite nod before motioning for you to follow him out of the spaceport area. Maybe he didn’t notice how, for a fleeting moment, you stroked your stomach protectively, scanning the thinning crowd on the tarmac and hesitating to obey. However, you were too painfully aware of the potential risks your condition now posed, cursing Wilhuff Tarkin under your breath.
---
Working for the Engineering Corps turned out to be a delight. Days came and went, easily morphing into weeks you didn’t notice because your mind was constantly challenged, transforming your small world into a series of beautiful equations. Your calculations and calibrations ensured that the vessel’s capabilities easily met the parameters required by the Imperial Palace. The yacht was almost complete, its polished chromium hull gleaming in the artificial lights of the open hangar. You just finished checking on its latest hyperdrive statistics, walking away from the ship with a datapad in hand and a happy tune on your lips.
Recently, you had started feeling the baby in your womb move. You had even visited a local physician, and had watched the ultrasound in wonderment, deciding to send the recording to Orson with hope that he would see it at some point. That you would finally hear from him…
Your disappointment over his lack of responses was drowned in work that let you forget about it for a while, and you were glad for it. Because the hormonal changes your body was currently going through could effortlessly drive you mad with want. You craved Krennic’s presence. His touch… the physicality of it… His cock.
If anything, the sexual desire for your husband would be driving you insane. A single thought about him bedding you made you incredibly wet –
You would have to take care of your needs later…
Blushing slightly at your sinful thoughts, you handed the datapad to young engineering apprentice that had been shadowing you the whole time with a smile and polite nod, then started walking towards your much larger shadow that was waiting for you, observing, reporting. The end of your shift was near, and you were looking forward to some rest.
And some alone time.
None of your colleagues noticed anything out of order that day –
The explosion was deafening.
Curled in on yourself, the ringing in your ears made you nauseous. K-4D8’s body was wrapped around you in an instant, shielding you from further damage as pieces of ship’s hull flew in all directions, propelled by the blast – although you couldn’t hear the shrapnel clinking against him, you saw them embedded in the soft material of various crates holding supplies that were stacked beside you. The droid didn’t remove himself.
It seemed like an eternity before your hearing returned as hollow sounds in the background while that ringing refused to fade. Then, cries of those fortunate enough to survive were torture.
---
A diode on his console was flashing annoyingly to the point he couldn’t ignore it anymore, signalling a high priority message. Orson Krennic had been so immersed in work that he hardly found time for private matters; however, this one came from his KX-series security droid, and he knew that the droid wouldn’t contact him directly unless it was urgent.
But what he read now made his blood boil.
There was one person he trusted coming to his mind, someone competent enough to investigate, because he had his hands full with Poggle the Lesser – again. And that was now the least of his problems, as there was also a complication with the latest shipment of Wookie slaves that were supposed to arrive at the construction site. “Partagaz,” he barked immediately after the connection was established, not heeding the tired and dishevelled appearance of the older man that appeared on the projection.
“Director Krennic,” the major bowed slightly. “Isn’t it a bit late for –“
“I’m not making a social call. I don’t care,” Krennic growled, bracing his torso against the console. “What is the situation in the capital of Naboo?”
Major Partagaz let out a heavy sigh. “The initial reports just started coming in, we don’t have many details yet. But it looks like the insurgents bombed the Theed Palace Space Vessel Engineering’s facilities.”
“Casualties?” Orson pressed on.
“No names yet. It’s a chaos,” the ISB man frowned.
“Do you have any agents available in the area?”
“Why does it matter now?”
The director tried to take a calming breath but failed. “Y/N was there, Lio. I need to know she’s safe,” he whispered, not trusting his own voice. If he didn’t hold himself upright, he would slump against the panel. He decided not to identify the emotion nagging at him right then, afraid of what conclusion he could come to.
“I’ll do what I can, Krennic,” Partagaz nodded before the connection was terminated.
---
Out of some twenty engineers and mechanics from your shift, five had died in the explosion and two more wouldn’t make it to the hospital – not to mention many severely wounded. There was blood, scorch marks on various things and pungent smell of burnt flesh and electronics hanging in the air, making you gag as you were helped to stand. When you took a cautious glance towards the crown jewel of projects, the thing that stood there did not resemble a luxury yacht at all. Half of it had morphed into a heap of scrap metal, its gnarled fingers reaching towards the ceiling that didn’t look stable – in fact, part of it was on the verge of collapsing onto the leftovers, dousing the flames with crumbled duracrete and stone. Firefighting unit was quickly retreating from the danger, opting to leave isolated areas of fire to die on their own, fire retardant preventing their spread.
And those bodies… covered by canvas too small to conceal them entirely.
You became to know most of them personally, albeit superficially, and it stung.
All materialised into endless loop of interrogations, and you were caught in the middle of it. Before you knew it, you were ushered into the first room available after the medics patched you up – which didn’t happen until the more serious cases were tended to and all that remained was disposing of the dead and cleaning the debris.
Now it all shrank into a brightly lit room, and you were thankful for the seating, still dizzy, trying to process the carnage you had witnessed. When the door opened again, a member of local security entered, a grim expression on his face. A man in his late forties if you had to guess, with face riddled by old scars. “Y/N Krennic, I presume,” he stated coldly, assuming the seat on the opposite side of you.
“Yes.” Your voice sounded meek, and for now, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him properly.
“What was the purpose of your presence in the hangar?”
“I was in charge of the hyperdrive adjustments.”
“What adjustments?”
“As per the specifications requested by the Imperial palace on Coruscant,” you said, barely above whisper. “Their purpose was to make the ship faster and manoeuvrable like a light spacecraft. Judging by the latest results, we were close.”
“Could those destabilise the core?”
A long pause reigned the room, during which you finally met the man’s eyes, a rather dull shade of brown. With a dismissive snort, you shook your head. “If that was the case, the unit wouldn’t be installed in the first place.”
But he pressed on the same note, continuing his efforts to blame you indirectly, as if he wanted to convince you that you were responsible for what happened. Defending yourself ceaselessly, you felt your energy diminishing, adrenalin leaving your system like an expired stim shot. The weaker your denial became, the more he bore down on you, not heeding your complaints of feeling unwell. Ultimately, only the appearance of Agent Bhrea shut him up, and even that didn’t mean that you would be left in peace because people needed answers you couldn’t provide.
---
Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin was a busy man. It wasn’t until later, when his agenda allowed, that he checked the messages you had been sending to your husband. Those wouldn’t be in his possession unless he had had a slicer plant a little useful virus in your personal datapad, though, and he briefly thought about appreciating that scrawny little creature with barely a single hair growing on his chin more. Although most of your correspondence was rather brief, there was one hidden gem he had been after…
His sour mood was greatly improved after this; he could start plotting his revenge, completely ignorant of the leaked HoloNet News that the censorship and propaganda departments deliberately tried to silence from the start.
---
Your dreams were plagued that first night in the officers’ barracks, as both the medics and Agent Bhrea had strongly advised you against retreating to the Lake Country. And the engineers’ accommodations were out of question, as the investigation – still at the beginning, really – did not reveal the motive. You name was big enough that a scenario of failed detonator timer was considered.
This time, you were caught in the blast much closer to the detonation, body twitching and jerking in your sleep, yet you didn’t feel a thing besides a general dull ache lingering in your limbs and torso since the interrogation, which left your mind confused at first – it seemed so insanely real prior to the realisation that you were supposed to feel nothing while dreaming.
It was a sharp pain shooting up your abdomen that made you wake up abruptly. And then another, stabbing you in the guts over and over, robbing you of air. Before the dawn came, you were curled in a ball, a whimpering mess covered in cold sweat and tangled in sheets soiled by blood.
That was how they found you in the morning, barely conscious.
“I am so sorry,” Donta Gesset paid you a visit later, shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously beside the hospital bed, his face sombre. You had to be a pitiful sight, patched up. “We will find them, I promise.”
“That’s not going to make things better,” you whispered, tears flowing freely down your cheeks while your hand remained resting on your stomach – now empty, lifeless. You turned your head away from him, but it didn’t stop the governor.
“We now know that the Amidalans are responsible for the terrorist attack. It’s only a matter of time before they are caught and tried for their crimes against the Empire.”
“Your security team seemed hellbent that I was responsible for it,” you said bitterly to the pillow.
“I apologise deeply for their careless mistake, Lady Krennic.”
Your head snapped towards the man again, and he glimpsed a fire in your eyes. When you spoke, your voice was cold and accusatory. “Incompetence, governor. If they didn’t focus on framing me as a saboteur so much, the culprit could have been in a brig already. But instead, it cost me a life of my unborn child and bought them time to escape.”
Gesset suddenly looked very uncomfortable. He had been a gracious host and a rare friend among the krayt dragons that were governors appointed by the Empire. He probably didn’t deserve your wrath, but such was your current situation when your emotional pain was suffocating you – there was simply no space left for compassion, even though you knew that next days would put him under immense pressure.
“I’m requesting a transfer,” you muttered, fight leaving you, “I’ll be returning to Coruscant.”
“As you wish, my lady,” he bowed respectfully.
---
Krennic arrived late at night, but it didn’t matter much for Coruscant never slept. The air traffic above his head was as heavy as ever, and its sounds died only after the blast doors of the private landing pad closed after he entered the building. He marched purposefully towards the turbolift bank, not followed by his personal guard for once, and only after he pressed the floor number did his shoulders, held proudly until then, sag.
The apartment was silent; you had fallen asleep on the couch in the living area. Your form was illuminated by the soft light of the lamp, and only when his eyes landed on it, noting your chest rising and falling with every breath you took, did the nagging fear go away.
You were alive. Safe.
He lingered at the threshold, taking it all in: the plaid thrown haphazardly over your legs, a half-empty glass of water on the low table together with your discarded datapad and a bottle of painkillers you hadn’t been bothered enough to screw shut and replace in the cabinet. A healing bruise on your forearm and a scrape over your eyebrow, stitched and patched properly – something that K-4D8 hadn’t informed him on. You quavered in your sleep from time to time, not woken by his approach. Still, he moved slowly, careful to make as little noise as possible before he scooped you in his arms gently, intending to carry you to bed.
In the hallway, you clung to him, still asleep.
When he laid you down, you began to stir.
And once he sat beside you, your eyes opened slowly, glassy and unfocused from your slumber.
“Orson,” you finally whispered, making him turn his torso towards you. You sought his hand blindly, grasping it in yours and squeezing it weakly, too tired to transform the relief that washed over you into words.
But he seemed to understand despite your muteness. “Rest,” he muttered, tucking you in. You closed your eyes, and he waited before he left, leaving the door open. You didn’t hear the clanking of glass as he brought a tumbler and a full bottle of whiskey back to the living area.
Sometime later into the night, you woke up, too hot and engulfed by a smell of alcohol. Your man was lightly snoring behind you, his warm breath tickling the back of your neck. You tried to scoot away from him and get rid of the blanket, but your fumbling in the dark only roused him. His hands wove around your torso more tightly, one of them snaking towards your neck in a possessive gesture. He mumbled something half-drunk and incoherent, pressing into you more. Freezing on the spot, you could only wait until he conked out again.
Instead, Krennic became fully alert.
He rolled you on your back and was over you in an instant, nudging himself in between your legs, spreading them forcibly with his. His lips, cracked by prolonged exposure to dry recycled air, latched onto your neck. He licked and sucked, his cock stirring with want.
And you wanted to let him – but you couldn’t.
His hands trapped yours on each side of your head, and he did not intend to let you go, grounding his hips against your clothed core, groaning complaints about too much fabric being in the way.
“Orson, please…” you whined breathlessly when he attacked a particularly sensitive spot below your ear. “I… can’t…”
“Why not, doll?” his voice rumbled in his chest.
“I can’t… I beg you… not tonight,” you tried again, shaking like a leaf under him.
You had never denied him – until now.
The desperation in your voice made him stop. He was now watching you intently, a reflection of Coruscanti nightscape filtering through the curtain illuminating his dark eyes. “I provide for you, Y/N. Is it too much to ask for this in return?” His words were strained with suppressed arousal and a hint of growing anger. “I gave you shelter, education and opportunities, and you, in turn, agreed to my terms,” he hissed. “Tell me a single reason why you’re resisting me right now.”
You couldn’t bear holding his gaze any longer and turned your head away.
“Look at me!” he shouted suddenly, making you flinch in fear that he would strike you. When you didn’t obey, he forced you to. “I said. Look. At. Me. You pathetic whore,” he spat, droplets of his saliva spraying your face.
Gulping, you opened your eyes reluctantly.
“Good. Now, wife, tell me why I shouldn’t enjoy your body tonight,” he continued in a milder tone, grinding against your core leisurely.
Shaking your head only made him more aggressive in his demands, pressing until you snapped.
“I… I lost it.” Your words were barely audible.
The incomprehension written over his features made you pause. Reluctantly, he released you from his hold, sitting back on his haunches. His eyes slid down from your face, now glistening with freshly shed silent tears, towards your stomach, a brow arched in unspoken question when he finally dared to move his hand towards your midsection. Orson hadn’t noticed anything out of order when he had carried you from sofa to bed… The fabric of your camisole crumpled between his fingers now, but he couldn’t bring himself to remove it.
“You… didn’t you read any of my messages?” you asked incredulously.
“What messages, Y/N? I didn’t get any!” his tone was bordering on accusatory. “All I knew was that you… Naboo… That it was official, sanctioned by the palace,” he briefly looked out of the window, at an early dawn behind the drawn curtains, as if he could see the Palace District from here. Once he turned back to you, his jaw muscles were working. “Then K-4D8 alerted me of what happened, but all it said was that you were out of immediate danger…” he trailed off.
You stared at him in disbelief, processing what he just said. It took you a moment before you covered his hand with yours over your stomach in a tender gesture. “Your droid saved me, but he couldn’t save us both,” your voice broke, tears flowing freely. “I was far enough from the explosion… Gods!” you took in a shuddering breath. “I even sent you the ultrasound, hoping that it would please you… I was twenty weeks pregnant, Orson.”
“You miscarried.” His expression hardened.
Your arm trembled when you reached for him. But before you could touch his skin, he was gone. You only heard the door, presumably from his office, closing behind him.
---
He couldn’t bear hearing you cry, convincing himself what a pitiful creature you were and fleeing to his only sanctuary inside this apartment like a coward he was. On any other day, he would probably take the grave news in a stride – he would learn of them from his little birds prior to hearing them from you at least –, but now? How come he hadn’t known?
Orson was pacing the space like a caged loth-wolf, thinking furiously before he barrelled to the living area, snatching your datapad from the table you had left it on. An idea occurred to him, and he was intent on investigating.
Overriding your security proved more challenging than he anticipated, his slicing abilities rather rusty from years of disuse.
But eventually, the logs showed you had been telling the truth.
They also showed something else, though –
The incoming holocall acted as a cold shower, cutting off his train of thought.
“Ah, Director Krennic,” Tarkin’s electronically distorted voice sounded pleased when the old fossil materialised above his console. “I believe congratulations are in order. You finally managed to knock up that feisty little bitch of yours.”
“Seems your network of spies is not very capable, after all,” Orson said drily, turning his back towards the Grand Moff briefly to pour himself a generous amount of a liquid amber.
“I don’t think my information is inaccurate,” the man smirked.
“Yes, because all those private messages addressed to me actually went directly to you, Tarkin,” Krennic growled, voicing his suspicion. “How long have you been connected directly to the source, I wonder?” He took a sip of alcohol, thus creating a dramatic pause. “Oh, let me guess: since you held her a fucking prisoner on the Executrix.”
“Those are unsubstantiated claims, Director,” Grand Moff scoffed.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Orson held your datapad just so the projector would catch it. When Tarkin saw the thing in his hands, annoyance flashed through him, quickly masked by indifference, but just enough for a trained eye to catch it. And if anything, Krennic was trained to recognise and exploit other people’s weaknesses. He smirked at the facial betrayal of his opponent.
“There is no need to be overdramatic,” Tarkin sighed theatrically.
“Doesn’t matter. Your information is not complete.”
Moff’s eyes narrowed, studying him like an insect for a moment. “You’re drunk.”
“And you are delusional,” Orson saluted the holoprojection with the dregs in his glass, downing its contents quickly.
“Your behaviour should better improve soon, Krennic, if you want to consider yourself a father. Judging by the circumstances, I’d guess you have approximately less than twenty weeks.”
“I’m not going to be a father,” he spat.
“Then your spawn might end up in one of those programs for abandoned and unwanted children,” Tarkin stated, irony heavy in his intonation. “And Maker knows what would become of it.” The man left a threat hanging in the air.
“You do that, and I’ll let Y/N to tear you into bloody pieces.”
“Very unlikely.”
“Sometimes I wonder how much can get through your thick skull, you old fuck,” he drawled. “By ‘I’m not going to be a father’, I mean there is no child growing in Y/N’s womb anymore.”
“Then Lady Krennic found yet another way to dispose of it, I take it? Doing so, if proven, could bring some unpleasant legal charges upon her head,” the holoprojection smirked – the grimace could easily frighten a less seasoned man, but not Orson. If anything, it only riled him up more. A sound of broken glass reached the Grand Moff from the distance.
“Keep her name out of your vicious mouth, Tarkin,” Krennic snarled, his voice, barely above whisper, dripping with raw venom. “You will NOT soil her name with your pitiful accusations.”
“But surely –“
“No ‘but’, Grand Moff,” he cut the old man off immediately, his voice dangerously low, full of unspoken threats and repressed fury. “If the Empire did its job properly, my wife wouldn’t be a victim to insurgent attack that triggered her miscarriage. She’s been devastated while you’re sitting there, in the safety of your big ship and even bigger ego, thinking how to blame her for your failure. If anything, you are the reason behind her distress. You have no right to accuse Y/N of anything untoward, you prick.” He knew that his rival was hardly responsible for the attack on some mediocre mid-rim planet, well out of his competency. But gods, right then it felt good to blame him for everything.
His monologue left the other party speechless for some time, yet the connection was terminated by neither of them. Instead, they were studying each other.
“In that case, I offer my condolences,” Tarkin backtracked after a pregnant pause, his tone measured.
“Fuck your condolences,” Krennic grumbled, looking for another glass he could fill. Internally, he was already looking forward to his next call to a certain governor – and he did not particularly care about how much rage would be left in him. With Tarkin, he felt like the well inside him was bottomless.
“Let us remain civil, Director. No need for your anger issues,” the Moff scowled, his face sour.
“Says a man who couldn’t even wank off to me sheeting my wife properly,” he shot back. “Instead, you crawled back into that hole of yours.”
“You’re childish.”
“Did your cock even stand when you watched us on the camera, hmm? She moaned my name because I was balls deep in her delicious cunt while you had to use your hand.” He emphasised his words with a rude gesture. “Do you keep the tape only for your personal needs, or did it leak out to some porn site already? I haven’t had time to check.”
Tarkin sighed heavily. “That was enough, Director.”
But Orson wasn’t done yet. “Your guidance was useless. Your methods wouldn’t arouse a rock, Tarkin, much less a living, breathing female. Are you sure that you are a father to your children? That your missus didn’t seek any kind of emotion in another man’s embrace?”
“You’re overstepping,” the Grand Moff hissed in warning. A slight darkening of the holoprojection betrayed his face reddening with anger.
“If I need any more of your advice in the future, Tarkin, I’ll give you a special signal – which will be me sectioned under the kriffing Mental Health Act.”
The sun was rising outside when the call was terminated.