you can call me diego (he/him). iâm a bi adult man whoâs deeply in love with all things star wars! i write for the skywalker saga, andor, and rogue one.
i write sfw only at the moment and for a gender neutral reader.
requests are always open and i usually prioritize them. i love to write what you want to read!
star wars (main movies)
- kylo ren
> confession
rogue one / andor
- cassian andor
> affection hcs / surviving together / first kiss
- orson krennic
> affection hcs / given to him as a gift / you rescue him from scarif
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sorry 4 the hiatus again i was in the process of moving lol and im going to be redoing my themes so idk. keep it real forever. new fics posted weekly from now onnnn
sorry 4 the hiatus again i was in the process of moving lol and im going to be redoing my themes so idk. keep it real forever. new fics posted weekly from now onnnn
Youâve always felt the Force beneath your skin. It was manageable, forgettable, until Kylo Ren begins seeking you out. In the dark, the truth spills from his lips.
900 words. force bond / confession
The corridors of the Finalizer always hum like they are breathing. Youâre used to that sensation. Being Force-sensitive in the First Order means being aware of far more than youâre supposed to speak about.
Youâre almost to your quarters when a presence finds you.
Itâa cold, sharp, a pressure in the air that makes the hair on the back of your neck rise. Itâs him, unmistakably.
âCome with me.â
His voice is low, strained. He doesnât wait for a response. He turns sharply, cloak sweeping behind him, and your feet follow. The weight of his will presses against yours like an invisible hand.
He leads you into a meeting room, one youâve never had reason to enter. Itâs dim, nearly empty, further from the patrol routes than anything a commander usually sets foot in. Only when the heavy door of the room hisses shut behind you does he stop.
Kylo Ren stands a few paces away, shoulders tense. Usually, heâs rigid in a way that reads controlled. This feels different. Heâs bracing himself as though he brought you here because he wasnât sure someone might see.
You wait for him to speak, but he doesnât. He just stands there breathing his sharp, mechanical pulls of air that now tremble, barely.
Finally, he reaches up and removes his helmet.
The hiss of pressure release is the only sound. When the mask lowers, his eyes lift to yours. The last thing you expected to see on Kylo Renâs face is uncertainty.
âThereâs something⌠I need to understand.â His voice, now unfiltered, is quieter.
You say nothing. You donât know what he expects and he doesnât seem to know either.
He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the way your presences overlap in the Force. Itâs static meeting static.
âYou feel it.â His words come quickly. âDonât you?â
He presses a hand to the side of his head, as though the thoughts crowding him now are almost painful.
âIâve tried to ignore it,â he mutters, pacing one short, restless line before facing you again. âIâve tried to shut you out, but you keepââ He cuts himself off. His jaw clenches.
His gaze drops to your hands, then your stance, then your eyes again, searching for something youâre not sure you have the right to give him.
âYouâre different.â The words leave him abruptly. âEvery time youâre near, the Forceââ He exhales, frustrated, âIt reacts. I react.â
You still donât speak. He seems almost relieved that you donât.
He approaches again, slower this time, as if heâs afraid youâll retreat. When he stops in front of you, heâs close enough that his cloak brushes your boots.
âI canât understand it,â he admits, voice dropping to a whisper. âA connection between us. Stronger than anything Iâve felt in years. Maybe ever.â
His eyes flick down, then up again, and you feel the sharp flicker of his emotions. Thereâs longing concealed beneath layers of agitation, fear sitting like a bruise behind his ribs.
âI shouldnât want to explore it.â His breath shudders out. âItâs reckless. Unacceptable.â
Yet, heâs the one who dragged you here.
He lifts a hand and stops it midair, fingers suspended inches from your arm. The infamous Kylo Ren, unsure of whether heâs allowed to touch you.
Slowly, he lets his fingers rest just above your sleeve without making contact, hovering as if frightened to close that last inch. The heat of him is immediate.
âYou have no idea what you do to me,â he murmurs, and the admission sounds torn out of him. âI can feel you even when youâre not in the room. A pull. Calling to me.â
He swallows hard. His voice cracks. âTell me Iâm imagining it.â His eyes lock onto yours. âTell me thereâs nothing there.â
You canât. Deep down, you know you wonât. You stare at him.
His breath hitches.
The tips of his fingers tighten subtly against your sleeve. The Force flares, sharp and bright, and he sucks in a breath as though struck.
âI knew it.â His words are hoarse, almost desperate. âI knew I wasnât alone in this.â
He withdraws his hand quickly, like touching you burns him, but he doesnât step back. If anything, he leans closer, seeking something in your face.
âYou donât know what this means,â he says, more vulnerable than youâve ever seen him. âIf anyone senses what I feel, what weâre connected byâit could destroy everything Iâve built.â
He hesitates, eyes widening in realization.
âI donât care.â
The confession comes out in a rush, startled and honest. His breathing is uneven again, but not with anger.
Itâs fear. Itâs want.
âI donât care,â he repeats, firmer this time. âNot if it means losing this.â
His head lowers, forehead almost touching yours but not quite. His voice is barely audible now.
âI donât know how to do this,â he admits. âBut I donât want to push you away.â
You bring your hand to his cheek and he leans into your touch.
âStay,â he asks softly. âFor a moment.â
Two two of you are suspended in the dark room, the Force wrapping around you both in a pull neither of you can deny. Kyloâs eyes close, tension easing from his shoulders for the first time since youâve known him.
He isnât commanding now. He isnât even asking for obedience. Heâs asking, begging, not to be alone.
And you stay.
[ thank you so very much for reading! leaving a comment, reblog, or follow is the best way to support me. requests are open! love, diego â¤ď¸ ]
i am on my hands and knees Begging for more syril T_T im starvedâŚâŚ
just posted another one <3 i tried some new stuff out with my writing but i hope it fits your tastes nonetheless. thank you for your kindness and patience. hopefully you feel fed now !
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Syril Karn needs to plan everythingâ his career, manners, future. When he spends a tender date night with you, he finds himself on the edge of something he isnât able to control.
750 words. mutual pining / first kiss.
Syril Karn had rehearsed the evening three times in his head before it ever began. He knew exactly how it should unfold: efficient, measured, respectable. He had mapped out the walk, the location of the cafhouse, even the route back to the transit. Everything was accounted for.
And yet, standing outside with you now, he could feel his plans crumbling in real time.
Walking side by side down the dimly lit street, the quiet between words hovering on the edge of unbearable. He wanted to fill it. He wanted to say something clever, something to prove he had command of himself. Every time he opened his mouth, the words either snagged on his tongue or came out stiffer than intended.
He caught you glance at him once, the faintest curve at the corner of your mouth like you found his constant missteps endearing, or worse, funny. Syrilâs ears burned at the thought. He adjusted his collar, the fabric suddenly too tight against his throat.
The location had been a mistake. Too noisy, too much chatter and clatter, forcing him to lean in close to hear you. He despised the thought of being perceived as trying too hard, even if it was the truth. Especially because it was the truth.
He tried to compensate by sitting straighter, nodding frequently at your words. He caught your gaze softening at him, as though you saw through every rigid defense. He had looked away too quickly, fumbling with his utensils.
Now, the night air was cool on his face, a reprieve from the stuffy warmth inside. Your shoulder brushed him once, a brief, accidental contact, yet he jolted like heâd been struck.
Steady, he told himself. Donât ruin it.
His thoughts tangled with urgency. He wanted, needed, really, to have you see him not as a fumbling bureaucrat in a uniform, but as someone of worth who deserves to be chosen.
The silence stretched again. Syril forced out, âI hope our meal was acceptable.â
He regretted the phrasing instantly. Acceptable? Was he filing a report?
You smiled, though, and nodded lightly, the expression making his chest ache.
Syrilâs eyes kept catching on small details: the way the streetlights caught on your skin, the easy rhythm of your steps, the faint sound of your breath beside him. He saw it all without meaning to, every detail digging deeper.
He wanted you so badly it frightened him. Not just your hand in his, not just the warmth of your body near his (though he thought of that too, painfully) but the chance to prove to himself that he could hold onto something good, something not constantly slipping out of reach.
The two of you stopped near the transport station, the glow of the signage painting your features in soft light. The moment pressed in on him, heavy and expectant. He could almost see two paths before him: to say nothing, to retreat into the familiar shell of restraint, or to step forward and ask for more.
His throat was dry. His palms, despite his best efforts, had dampened. He swallowed hard.
âTonightâŚâ His voice cracked. He forced it steady. âTonight was better than I could have anticipated.â
Syrilâs breath caught. He could feel the weight of the night building around them, tension strung tight. All his carefully laid plans, all his self-discipline, wavered under it.
Slowly, he reached up. His fingers hovered near your cheek but didnât dare touch. His hand trembled and he hated that he couldnât control it.
âMay I...?â He murmured, words faltering, too intimate, too raw. He abandoned them.
He leaned in before he lost the nerve.
The kiss was awkward at first, unpracticed, tentative. He pressed his lips to yours gently. Every nerve in his body was instantly alight with the softness, the warmth, the sheer feeling of the moment. He drew back too soon, terrified he had overstepped, but your expression undid him: calm, unguarded, warm. Happy.
âIâŚâ He shook his head, words failing again. For once, it didnât matter.
You were still there. Still close, choosing not to step away.
For Syril Karn, a man who had lived his life chasing order and control and recognition, that single fact unraveled him more thoroughly than any failure ever had.
He wanted you still, so much, so fiercely it almost scared him, but for once, he didnât lunge at the want. He let the quiet remain, heavy and sweet, as the night stretched on.
[ thanks for enjoying my work!! leaving a like, reblog, or follow means a lot to me. be sure to leave a comment or send an ask as well! my requests are open. - love, diego ]
going to start writing some stuff for the main saga. any characters youâd like to see? on my current wip list are han solo, luke skywalker, and obi wan because i think theyâd be super fun
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Affection hcâs for kleya please there isnât enough love for her!! I love your work so much
just posted!! thanks for requesting and i really feel the same about her⌠my love for kleya knows now bounds and iâll write more about her in the future, so stay tuned. :]
+ Kleya isnât flowery with her language, but when she compliments you, itâs honest. âYouâre the only one I trust to handle this.â
+ After closing the gallery, she stays behind with you to catalog shipments or clean up. It doesnât matter how late you need to stay, she will too.
+ She makes your workload disappear. Finishing reports you didnât know she touched, rerouting tasks away from you when youâre overwhelmed. She doesnât tell youâshe just does it.
+ Kleya gives you things that donât seem romantic until you realize no one else would know why they matter. She gives you a metal pin she found with a gemstone the color of your eyes.
+ She praises you in front of others. Nobody will question your merit when sheâs the one defending you. Sheâs your number one supporter.
+ Once in a while, sheâll pull you aside for an hour or two to take a walk and chat in a private area or sparsely populated garden. Sheâll hold your hand.
+ In tense moments, Kleya will place a hand on your wrist or back. Itâs not just for you, it reassures her as well. Youâre her anchor.
+ When youâre about to take a mission thatâs particularly risky, sheâll pull some strings to keep you off the front line, even if it pisses you off.
+ If you ever falter or doubt yourself, she cuts in firmly with, âYou are not the problem,â or âYou donât have to prove anything.â
+ She loves a familiar routine. Sharing caf in the mornings before anyone else is awake, sitting shoulder to shoulder.
+ In private, she begins to shyly initiate hugs. Theyâre always quiet, always warm, and always feel like sheâs not holding back from you. She never will.
[ thanks for enjoying my work!! leaving a like, reblog, or follow means a lot to me. be sure to leave a comment or send an ask as well! my requests are open. - love, diego ]
You and Kleya have always operated in silence, two shadows in the back of Luthenâs shop. Something has been unraveling beneath the surface: the war, the weight of loss, and the growing, unbearable ache between you. Tonight, it all cracks open.
800 words. angst / comfort.
Itâs late in the shop again and the silence is hushed and heavy. The last customer left hours ago, but neither of you have gone home. You rarely do. The front room glows with dim light while the back is shadowy with worn-down tension.
Kleya is at the far end of the table, organizing something that doesnât need organizing. You know the rhythm by now: she works herself exhausted when her mind wonât settle. Polishes brass that hasnât tarnished. Adjusts displays that are already perfect.
You stay quiet at first, letting her work it out probably the best option, but itâs been building all week. Small things, short answers, the way she wonât look at you when your hands brush. Somethingâs coming.
You just donât know what shape itâll take.
âI rechecked the logs,â you say gently, an attempt at assurance in the form of work. âThe contact was just delayed. No breach. False alarm.â
She doesnât answer. Her jaw tightens.
âKleya.â
âI heard you.â
You look up. âThen talk to me.â
She snaps the clasp on a case shut with more force than necessary. âWhy? So you can tell me not to worry? Again?â
You sigh. âThatâs not what Iâm doing.â
âYou think just because the signal wasnât compromised, that makes it fine. It doesnât. Weâre stretched thin. Luthen is making riskier calls. We are running out of time, people, optionsââ
âAnd you think pushing everyone away will fix that?â
That stops her.
She turns to face you. âDonât,â she warns. âDonât make this about us.â
You step towards her. âBut it is about us. It always has been to you, hasn't it?â
Kleya lets out a short breath, almost a laugh, but not a kind one. âNo. Itâs about survival. Itâs about keeping the rebellion alive. And if I have to choose between that and pretendingââ
âYou donât have to choose.â
âI do!â she shouts, the words spilling out sharp and brittle. âBecause thisââ She gestures between you, eyes glassy with something too raw to name. âThis is the part that makes it harder. You being here. Looking at me likeâlike you still believe thereâs a world where we make it out. One where I donât lose you.â
Silence falls between you.
Her shoulders are rigid, fists clenched, voice dropping to something broken.
âI donât have the luxury of people,â she whispers. âNot anymore. Every time I try, they get taken. Or leave. Or I have to cut them down before it happens. And I canât... I canât go through that with you.â
âIâm not asking you to promise anything. Iâm just asking you to let me prove I'll stay.â
Her eyes shine with tears. She looks away.
âYou donât understand,â she says hoarsely.
âI do,â you say, closer now. âI understand that this fight takes pieces of you every day. You think it doesn't take pieces from me as well? You donât need to hurt alone.â
Her breath stutters. The fight in her face flickers, weakening.
âI donât know how to stop running from this,â she admits. âFrom you.â
You reach for her hand. She doesnât pull away.
âThen donât,â you say softly.
She swallows hard. Her eyes twinkle in the low light, but she doesnât blink the tears away this time. She just stands there, breathing almost too shallowly to hear.
Then, without warning, she steps forward and wraps her arms around you.
Itâs awkward at first. Her arms are rigid, unsure, her breath caught. But then she melts, something knotted inside her finally frays loose, and she sinks into you all at once.
Her face presses into your shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. You feel it, the sharp, uneven hitch of breath, the trembling exhale. Sheâs crying.
Quiet tears soaking into your collarbone, breath breaking in soft, shuddering waves.
You say nothing. You just hold her. One hand rests between her shoulder blades, the other gently cradling her head.
She doesnât pull away.
âIâm tired,â she finally whispers, barely audible against your neck.
âI know. I am too."
Her arms tighten around you.
Tonight, you are two people in the quiet, holding each other while the galaxy fights madly outside.
And for once, Kleya lets herself be held.
When she finally pulls back, she doesnât apologize.
She just lets your hand stay in hers.
[ thanks for enjoying my work!! leaving a like, reblog, or follow means a lot to me. be sure to leave a comment or send an ask as well! my requests are open. - love, diego ]
Hello and good morning to you all, and welcome once again to another Fandom Friday. As always, this is your host Coffeelorian or if you prefer, just plain Coffee, back with another round of fanfiction from around the vast fandom that is Star Wars.
Before we get started...if anyone is able to handle news about a death in the family--and more specifically, my own--please go to this link for a hot minute, especially if you're curious, somewhat thrown off, etc. as to why this entry wasn't made last week.
If not...I'm using my first of three vacation weeks as a somewhat plausible excuse, as well as the idea that I needed to rest up before the summer holiday madness took place today.
Anyways. I hope you will all still accept this (obviously late) entry and the inclusion that I wish for it to represent, and therefore...here are my picks of the week.
THE CLONE WARS
The Clone Wars Fanfiction--"One-Sided Rivalry", by @mcwulves.
The Clone Wars Fanfiction--"Isolation", by @cyarikacyare.
The Clone Wars Fanfiction--"Cross Your Thoughtless Heart: Chapter 1", by @ireadwithmyears.
THE BAD BATCH
The Bad Batch Fanfiction--"A TechPhee Approved Beach Date", by @aknightreaderr.
The Bad Batch Fanfiction--"The Apology", by @rebelbird12.
ANDOR
Andor Fanfiction--"all that's left is us", by @starwuvs.
Andor Fanfiction--"Rebellions Eat Their Own: Excerpt", by @kweenhera.
STAR WARS REBELS
Star Wars Rebels Fanfiction--"i see a darkness", by @primasveraas-writing.
In conclusion, as part of my mission to poke around the Star Wars fandom and highlight those writers who might otherwise go unnoticedâŚI hope you will check out the links I have included for yourselves and like, comment on, and reblog them, as well as also giving the writers a few more followers to their Tumblr pages.
Please also like and reblog this latest installment so that these links can be spread around to as many other fans as possible, just in case not all of them can tune in at the same time.
An additional thank you goes to @djarrex for making the divider I used earlier in this post, but still want to give credit for.
If anybody likes what they see here AND would enjoy seeing more posts like this; please drop the rock star emoji (đŠâđ¤) into the comments or reblogs, and Iâll be sure to tag you when the next update comes.
And finally, so that I do not forgetâŚthank you to my friends, thank you to this fandom, and above all else, please stay safe out there.
No Pressure Tags: @algo-o-nada @the-osborn-way @everybirdfellsilent @skellymom @totally-not-your-babe
Cassian Andor tends to your wounds in the quiet of your apartment. His touch is gentle, his presence grounding, and as the tension between you finally breaks, you realize the real ache is the thing youâve left unsaid.
The door slides shut behind you with a hiss, and for a moment, you both just stand there. You donât speak. Neither does he.
Cassianâs a meter away, but he feels closer. The room is dim, lit only by the glow from the city outside the window, reflections scattered across worn metal walls and the sparse furniture of the safehouse. Itâs late, but that never means anything in this part of Coruscant. Time is just a background hum here.
You should be collapsing. To be honest, you desperately want to. Every part of your body aches. Thereâs some blood on your shirt, not all yours, but enough of it is.
Your shoulder is tight and throbbing, ribs bruised. Youâre still upright, still breathing, the sting reminding you your heart is still beating.
Cassian watches you. His eyes never leave you, and thereâs something about the way heâs looking, like heâs making sure youâre still whole.
You try to smile. âYou gonna stare at me all night?â
He moves toward you, not with any rush. The slow, silent steps he uses when heâs hurt too but wonât admit it. His voice is quiet. âSit.â
You do. Not entirely because of the order, but because your legs are halfway to giving out.
Cassian drops to one knee in front of you and pulls the medpack from your gear bag. His hands are steady, fingers moving with calm precision. Heâs done this before for you. Youâve done it for him.
This is different.
When he peels your jacket back, his fingers brush your shoulder, and you inhale sharply. His touch lingers just a second too long.
The fabric sticks where blood has dried, and when he tugs it loose, you flinch. He immediately slows, more careful now.
âSorry.â
You shake your head. âNot your fault.â
He starts cleaning the wound. Itâs shallow but messy, just enough to need attention but not enough to slow you down. Still, the pain pulls another sharp breath from you.
His hand stills.
âI hate seeing you like this.â
You look at him. âWe both knew what we signed up for.â
His jaw tightens. âThat doesnât mean I have to like it.â
Thereâs an anger in his voice, not at you, but something he hasnât said. Not yet.
You glance at him, and for a moment, all the noise outside the room disappears. Itâs just you and him and the quiet hum of something unresolved between you and thickness of your words in your throat.
Cassian tears open a bacta patch and presses it carefully against your skin. His fingertips trail the edge of it intentionally.
You shiver.
âCold?â he asks, barely above a whisper.
âNo.â
He looks at you, eyes catching the low light, and you see itâthe tension youâve been dancing around for months. Itâs never been the right time. Thereâs always been something else to do, someone else to save, a war that didnât care about feelings.
Now, in this space somehow lovingly carved out of violence and fear, thereâs nothing stopping it.
âCassianâŚâ
He leans forward before you can finish, resting his forehead gently against yours. His hand settles over your chest, just above your heartbeat. His touch is warm. It lingers there.
âI thoughtââ He cuts himself off. âI couldnât lose you.â
Your fingers find his wrist, anchoring him. âYou didnât. You didnât, Cassian.â
The silence that follows is thick with everything youâve both buried much too deep inside.
And then he closes the space.
His lips meet yours in a kiss thatâs slow, almost hesitant. Itâs not rushed. The galaxy has taken everything from you. From him. Yet, not each other.
Cassianâs hand slides up your neck as he pulls you in just a little closer. He would never admit it, but heâs scared to let go.
His other hand still rests on your chest, feeling the thrum of your pulse beneath his palm. You kiss him back with all the fear and relief and aching affection youâve been carrying in silence.
When he pulls away, barely, his breath ghosts across your lips.
You donât open your eyes yet. Youâre afraid that if you do, it might break whatever this is. But his voice keeps you grounded.
âWeâre safe now,â he murmurs. âYou can rest.â
You lean your head against his, your hand still wrapped around his wrist. âOnly if you stay.â
His lips brush your cheek this time, softer. âI will.â
You donât ask for more. You donât need to.
When the city finally quiets and your body begins to fold into sleep, you feel the weight of his presence beside you, one arm curled around your side.
In this small moment between darkness and dawn, it feels like youâve both found something worth holding onto.
[ thanks for enjoying my work!! leaving a like, reblog, or follow means a lot to me. be sure to leave a comment or send an ask as well! my requests are open. - love, diego ]
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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When the weight of politics, rebellion, and her daughter's arranged future becomes too much, Mon Mothma finds herself in the only place she can still breatheâby your side. But tonight, silence simply isnât enough.
You find her in the garden again.
Itâs always the garden when it gets this late. When the lights in the Senate chambers flicker off, after the walls of diplomacy and performance are no longer necessary. A safe place despite the fact Mon Mothma never felt truly safe.
You hesitate at the entrance, watching her from a distance. She sits with her usual perfect posture on the marble bench, framed by delicate flowers that seem to grow towards her. The cool night breeze catches the edge of her dress.
You approach quietly. She doesn't turn, but she speaks.
âItâs very late. Please go rest. You didnât have to come find me.â
âI wanted to,â you say simply.
A small exhale leaves her lips, not quite a sigh. You sit beside her without waiting for permission.
Silence stretches between you, heavy yet not unfamiliar. Youâve shared plenty of silences with her. Some fragile. Some comforting. This one is different entirely.
âMy daughter is engaged,â she says at last.
You glance at her. âLeida agreed?â
âShe wanted it.â Her tone twists around the words like they're thorns in her mouth. âShe thinks so very highly of Chandrilan tradition. Iâm letting her believe that. The alternative means admitting Iâve failed as both a senator and a mother.â
You say nothing, as youâve learned that with her, silence is sometimes the only safety she has.
She presses on.
âShe doesnât know what it costs. She doesnât understand how much Iâve already buried beneath compromise. I have to smile. I have to make it look like this is part of the plan. But there was no plan. It was desperation.â
Her voice cracks slightly, just enough for your heart to ache in your chest.
âYouâre doing what you have to,â you say softly.
âThatâs the problem,â she replies. âEverything I do now is âwhat I have to.â Thereâs no room for want anymore.â
Her eyes flick to yours. Blue, storm-bright, always holding more than she lets slip.
And then she says, âExcept when you are here.â
Your breath stills.
She turns toward you, fully now, and you see her as not the Senator, not the figurehead of rebellion, but the woman. The woman wound so very tight, fraying at the seams.
âYou, your presence, itâs the only thing in this entire galaxy that feels like something I truly want,â she says. âAnd I have tried so hard to pretend that wasnât true.â
She doesnât reach for your hand. She doesnât touch you at all.
âIâm not asking for anything,â she adds quickly, as if afraid the admission itself might cost her too much. âI know what this is. I know what I canât give you.â
You speak without thinking. âYou already give me something. Every day.â
Her eyes shimmer with emotions that are not quite tears. The weight of too many years trying not to need anything.
âThen stay,â she says, quietly. âJust stay.â
Itâs you who reaches for her. Your fingers brush her sleeve before finding her hand. She stiffens but doesnât pull away. Slowly, she lets her fingers curl into yours, as if remembering how to hold something delicate.
âIâm not going anywhere,â you whisper.
She leans in.
Itâs cautious at first, her lips brushing yours, a breath sheâs been holding her whole life.
She closes her eyes, and for the first time in a long while, she lets herself rest beside someone who sees her and stays anyway.
You donât speak again that night. You donât need to. The stars above you twinkle. For once, Mon Mothma lets herself be held by something other than duty.
[ thanks for enjoying my work!! leaving a like, reblog, or follow means a lot to me. be sure to leave a comment or send an ask as well! my requests are open. - love, diego ]
When a mission goes sideways, you're forced to fight your way out with Cassian Andor at your sideâthe man who's always been more than just a fellow rebel operative. In heat of danger, the line between loyalty and something deeper starts to blur.
You should have known the intel was bad. Cassian had known it too. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the way he scanned the alley for escape routes before the contact even arrived. But orders were orders and when the Rebellion asked, you both delivered.
Now, pinned behind the hull of a rusted speeder, you werenât sure who was more pissedâCassian or you.
âTwo more on the roof,â he said, ducking beside you, breath ragged. âSnipers.â
âI counted,â you said, wincing as a blaster bolt scorched too close above your head. âI donât suppose youâve got a good plan?â
He glanced at you, and despite the danger, his eyes softened just a little.
âNot good,â he said. âJust reckless.â
You cocked your brow. âSo the usual.â
Another blast forced you both lower. Cassian cursed under his breath. He was injuredâa fall from earlier getting worseâand was keeping pressure on it with his left while gripping his blaster in his right. You reached to help, but he shook his head.
âYouâre getting out of here,â he said. âIâll draw them.â
âYouâre not serious.â
He gave you that look, the one so steady, infuriatingly so. âThey want the data youâre carrying. You get it back to base.â
You stared at him. âAnd leave you to die? Thatâs your idea of a good plan?â
Cassian didnât answer right away. He looked away instead, toward the horizon where smoke from the ambush still rose. âIf it means you live, yes.â
Heâd always done this, put the mission above himself, put you above himself. From the first time you were paired together, heâd been always willing to burn so others didnât have to.
âCassian,â you hissed, voice low. âWe go together, or not at all.â
His jaw clenched and he whispered your name.
âNo,â you snapped. âYou donât get to throw yourself away. Weâve gotten out of worse.â
âThatâs notââ
âI wonât lose you.â You paused. âNot like this.â
The silence between you was tense. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingered just a second too long. Then he moved.
His hand reached for yours, squeezing tight, grounding. âOkay,â he said. Just one word, but it held much more.
You both moved fast after that, covering, communicating without speaking. Cassian surged ahead after tossing a smoke charge, and you followed, blasting a path to the extraction alley.
You heard the thrum of your waiting cargo transport and barely made the leap into it, Cassian half-hauling your weight up as you stumbled into the hold together.
Heart pounding, blood still rushing in your ears, you turned to him. He was breathing hard, injured, dust-covered, but alive.
He banged twice on the durasteel wall, the signal for the pilot to get out of there, and soon the ship was in motion, speeding away into the stars.
âYou okay?â you asked, voice trembling now.
He nodded. âYou?â
âI am now.â
You both looked at each other then, the space between you barely a breath.
He raised a hand slowly, brushing a smear of soot from your cheek. His fingers lingered.
âI meant it,â he said quietly. âIf it came down to itâŚâ
âI know,â you said. âBut Iâm not letting you die for me.â
He exhaled, something a mix of relief or regret. âThen I guess we protect each other.â
You nodded.
For one long moment, under the flickering lights of the transport, the combat seemed far away. He leaned in, just slightly, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath, the pull of something between you.
But he stopped just short.
Instead, he let his forehead rest lightly against yours. âWe make it back,â he whispered, âwe talk.â
âPromise?â
His voice was soft but sure. âI do.â
[ thanks for enjoying my work!! leaving a like, reblog, or follow means a lot to me. be sure to leave a comment or send an ask as well! my requests are open. - love, diego ]