Prompt: Kylo ends up having a stillborn child while in resistance base. He's been there for months, each one rougher than the last. Those who care for him, (family, childhood friends like Poe)had worried but hoped it could end happy just this once. They are used to him shutting out but he is hurting and upset, even he is surprised at how bad he wanted this child. If possible blood and tears are always great haha.

I feel like I hit the heart of this prompt but missed some of the higher details of it passed being implied.

Warnings: mpreg, stillbirth

Pregnancy had not been kind to him. Neither had labour nor delivery.

It was supposed to be worth it in the end. That was what all the stories had said. What his mother told him as his body paid the price of bringing them into the world. It was all worth it in the end when you have a baby, your baby, in your arms instead of your body. Worth it when you watch them grow.

That wasn't what he got though. He didn't get a wide eyed infant trying to take in as much of the world it had just been born into as possible.

No. All he got was more death.

He had hated them at first. Hated them as they claimed territory within his body as their own. As they forced him to sustain them at the cost of his resources.

At some point the hate had turned to love. At some point he had given so much of himself to them that he could not help but look forward to seeing what they did with it.

They did not allow him that.

They had taken from him all they could and refused him his reward at the end. Made him pay all the price without giving him anything to show for it but more pain.

They were perfect apart from that one fact.

So very perfect, with ten toes and fingers. He could see that they had his nose and the tuft of hair on their head was the same black as his. They were perfect in every way.

They were also still. So still. Deathly still.

They were dead.

No, they were never alive.

"It is probably for the best," he says as his holds their limp body. His mother watches him carefully fighting the tears that threaten to gather in her eyes.

He knows the words are true. He cannot offer them much. He has no title or power of his own anymore. The only legacy they could possibly inherit from him being that of murder and deception. The only thing he can offer them is the power that comes with Skywalker blood and he is starting to wonder if his father was right in saying that the power carries a curse that comes along with it.

He sees no point giving them a name. No matter how his mother begs for one to bury them under he cannot see reason to give them something they have no ability to use. There will be no tombstone anyway, he wants for them to be cremated.

"If you must really have a name to burn them under give them mine," he doesn't say which when he snaps at his mother after one too many times asked about it. She leaves him alone after that.

They all leave him alone after that. All give him space and pick their words all too carefully when they are around him.

Everyone seems to be pulled under the same dark cloud that took him. They all feel as if they are in mourning as well. Which makes little sense. No-one else had reason to care about the child. It was not a signal of good news, only bad. He just couldn't hate it because he shared his body with it. Couldn't hate it because he put the only good left in him into it. The rest of them should be glad for it to be gone. A neat conclusion for a messy problem. If he had any control over his emotions he would be as well.

Mostly he tries not to think about it. That is near impossible though. There is little else to occupy his thoughts and the ache in his body from carrying and birthing them means that no matter what other topic he tries to distract his mind with he always finds his thoughts swimming back to them. Always finds himself thinking about them.

He wonders what their temperament would have been. Wonders if they would have been a sweet child or inherit his fire even before they could talk. He wonders what it would have been like to see them watching him. To see them smile and reach out to touch him. He wonders what their cries would have sounded like.

He doesn't know what he hates more: the knowledge that they are dead or his brains constant suggestions of what they might have been like had been alive.