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

- dedra meero

> affection hcs / platonic love

- syril karn

> affection hcs / first kiss

- mon mothma

> her confession

- kleya marki

The corridors of the Finalizer always hum like they are breathing. You’re used to that sensation. Being Force-sensitive in the First Order means being aware of far more than you’re supposed to speak about.

You’re almost to your quarters when a presence finds you.

It’a cold, sharp, a pressure in the air that makes the hair on the back of your neck rise. It’s him, unmistakably.

“Come with me.”

His voice is low, strained. He doesn’t 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 you’ve never had reason to enter. It’s 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, he’s rigid in a way that reads controlled. This feels different. He’s bracing himself as though he brought you here because he wasn’t sure someone might see.

You wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t. 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 Ren’s face is uncertainty.

“There’s something… I need to understand.” His voice, now unfiltered, is quieter.

You say nothing. You don’t know what he expects and he doesn’t seem to know either.

He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the way your presences overlap in the Force. It’s static meeting static.

“You feel it.” His words come quickly. “Don’t you?”

He presses a hand to the side of his head, as though the thoughts crowding him now are almost painful.

“I’ve tried to ignore it,” he mutters, pacing one short, restless line before facing you again. “I’ve tried to shut you out, but you keep—” He cuts himself off. His jaw clenches.

His gaze drops to your hands, then your stance, then your eyes again, searching for something you’re not sure you have the right to give him.

“You’re different.” The words leave him abruptly. “Every time you’re near, the Force—” He exhales, frustrated, “It reacts. I react.”

You still don’t speak. He seems almost relieved that you don’t.

He approaches again, slower this time, as if he’s afraid you’ll retreat. When he stops in front of you, he’s close enough that his cloak brushes your boots.

“I can’t understand it,” he admits, voice dropping to a whisper. “A connection between us. Stronger than anything I’ve felt in years. Maybe ever.”

His eyes flick down, then up again, and you feel the sharp flicker of his emotions. There’s longing concealed beneath layers of agitation, fear sitting like a bruise behind his ribs.

“I shouldn’t want to explore it.” His breath shudders out. “It’s reckless. Unacceptable.”

Yet, he’s 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 he’s 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.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, and the admission sounds torn out of him. “I can feel you even when you’re not in the room. A pull. Calling to me.”

He swallows hard. His voice cracks. “Tell me I’m imagining it.” His eyes lock onto yours. “Tell me there’s nothing there.”

You can’t. Deep down, you know you won’t. 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.

“I knew it.” His words are hoarse, almost desperate. “I knew I wasn’t alone in this.”

He withdraws his hand quickly, like touching you burns him, but he doesn’t step back. If anything, he leans closer, seeking something in your face.

“You don’t know what this means,” he says, more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him. “If anyone senses what I feel, what we’re connected by—it could destroy everything I’ve built.”

He hesitates, eyes widening in realization.

“I don’t care.”

The confession comes out in a rush, startled and honest. His breathing is uneven again, but not with anger.

It’s fear. It’s want.

“I don’t care,” he repeats, firmer this time. “Not if it means losing this.”

His head lowers, forehead almost touching yours but not quite. His voice is barely audible now.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “But I don’t want to push you away.”

You bring your hand to his cheek and he leans into your touch.

“Stay,” he asks softly. “For a moment.”

Two two of you are suspended in the dark room, the Force wrapping around you both in a pull neither of you can deny. Kylo’s eyes close, tension easing from his shoulders for the first time since you’ve known him.

He isn’t commanding now. He isn’t even asking for obedience. He’s asking, begging, not to be alone.

And you stay.

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. Syril’s 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 he’d been struck.

Steady, he told himself. Don’t 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, “I hope our meal was acceptable.”

He regretted the phrasing instantly. Acceptable? Was he filing a report?

You smiled, though, and nodded lightly, the expression making his chest ache.

Syril’s 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.

“Tonight…” His voice cracked. He forced it steady. “Tonight was better than I could have anticipated.”

Syril’s 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 didn’t dare touch. His hand trembled and he hated that he couldn’t control it.

“May I...?” 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.

“I…” He shook his head, words failing again. For once, it didn’t 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 didn’t lunge at the want. He let the quiet remain, heavy and sweet, as the night stretched on.

+ She makes your workload disappear. Finishing reports you didn’t know she touched, rerouting tasks away from you when you’re overwhelmed. She doesn’t tell you—she just does it.

+ Kleya gives you things that don’t 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 she’s the one defending you. She’s your number one supporter.

+ Once in a while, she’ll pull you aside for an hour or two to take a walk and chat in a private area or sparsely populated garden. She’ll hold your hand.

+ In tense moments, Kleya will place a hand on your wrist or back. It’s not just for you, it reassures her as well. You’re her anchor.

+ When you’re about to take a mission that’s particularly risky, she’ll 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, “You are not the problem,” or “You don’t have to prove anything.”

+ 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. They’re always quiet, always warm, and always feel like she’s not holding back from you. She never will.

It’s 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 doesn’t need organizing. You know the rhythm by now: she works herself exhausted when her mind won’t settle. Polishes brass that hasn’t tarnished. Adjusts displays that are already perfect.

You stay quiet at first, letting her work it out probably the best option, but it’s been building all week. Small things, short answers, the way she won’t look at you when your hands brush. Something’s coming.

You just don’t know what shape it’ll take.

“I rechecked the logs,” you say gently, an attempt at assurance in the form of work. “The contact was just delayed. No breach. False alarm.”

She doesn’t answer. Her jaw tightens.

“Kleya.”

“I heard you.”

You look up. “Then talk to me.”

She snaps the clasp on a case shut with more force than necessary. “Why? So you can tell me not to worry? Again?”

You sigh. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“You think just because the signal wasn’t compromised, that makes it fine. It doesn’t. We’re stretched thin. Luthen is making riskier calls. We are running out of time, people, options—”

“And you think pushing everyone away will fix that?”

That stops her.

She turns to face you. “Don’t,” she warns. “Don’t make this about us.”

You step towards her. “But it is about us. It always has been to you, hasn't it?”

Kleya lets out a short breath, almost a laugh, but not a kind one. “No. It’s about survival. It’s about keeping the rebellion alive. And if I have to choose between that and pretending—”

“You don’t have to choose.”

“I do!” she shouts, the words spilling out sharp and brittle. “Because this—” She gestures between you, eyes glassy with something too raw to name. “This is the part that makes it harder. You being here. Looking at me like—like you still believe there’s a world where we make it out. One where I don’t lose you.”

Silence falls between you.

Her shoulders are rigid, fists clenched, voice dropping to something broken.

“I don’t have the luxury of people,” she whispers. “Not anymore. Every time I try, they get taken. Or leave. Or I have to cut them down before it happens. And I can’t... I can’t go through that with you.”

“I’m not asking you to promise anything. I’m just asking you to let me prove I'll stay.”

Her eyes shine with tears. She looks away.

“You don’t understand,” she says hoarsely.

“I do,” you say, closer now. “I understand that this fight takes pieces of you every day. You think it doesn't take pieces from me as well? You don’t need to hurt alone.”

Her breath stutters. The fight in her face flickers, weakening.

“I don’t know how to stop running from this,” she admits. “From you.”

You reach for her hand. She doesn’t pull away.

“Then don’t,” you say softly.

She swallows hard. Her eyes twinkle in the low light, but she doesn’t 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.

It’s 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. She’s 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 doesn’t pull away.

“I’m tired,” she finally whispers, barely audible against your neck.

“I 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 doesn’t apologize.

She just lets your hand stay in hers.

The door slides shut behind you with a hiss, and for a moment, you both just stand there. You don’t speak. Neither does he.

Cassian’s 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. It’s 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. There’s some blood on your shirt, not all yours, but enough of it is.

Your shoulder is tight and throbbing, ribs bruised. You’re still upright, still breathing, the sting reminding you your heart is still beating.

Cassian watches you. His eyes never leave you, and there’s something about the way he’s looking, like he’s making sure you’re still whole.

You try to smile. “You gonna stare at me all night?”

He moves toward you, not with any rush. The slow, silent steps he uses when he’s hurt too but won’t admit it. His voice is quiet. “Sit.”

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. He’s done this before for you. You’ve 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.

“Sorry.”

You shake your head. “Not your fault.”

He starts cleaning the wound. It’s 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.

“I hate seeing you like this.”

You look at him. “We both knew what we signed up for.”

His jaw tightens. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

There’s an anger in his voice, not at you, but something he hasn’t said. Not yet.

You glance at him, and for a moment, all the noise outside the room disappears. It’s 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.

“Cold?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

“No.”

He looks at you, eyes catching the low light, and you see it—the tension you’ve been dancing around for months. It’s never been the right time. There’s always been something else to do, someone else to save, a war that didn’t care about feelings.

Now, in this space somehow lovingly carved out of violence and fear, there’s nothing stopping it.

“Cassian…”

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.

“I thought—” He cuts himself off. “I couldn’t lose you.”

Your fingers find his wrist, anchoring him. “You didn’t. You didn’t, Cassian.”

The silence that follows is thick with everything you’ve both buried much too deep inside.

And then he closes the space.

His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s slow, almost hesitant. It’s not rushed. The galaxy has taken everything from you. From him. Yet, not each other.

Cassian’s hand slides up your neck as he pulls you in just a little closer. He would never admit it, but he’s 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 you’ve been carrying in silence.

When he pulls away, barely, his breath ghosts across your lips.

You don’t open your eyes yet. You’re afraid that if you do, it might break whatever this is. But his voice keeps you grounded.

“We’re safe now,” he murmurs. “You can rest.”

You lean your head against his, your hand still wrapped around his wrist. “Only if you stay.”

His lips brush your cheek this time, softer. “I will.”

You don’t ask for more. You don’t 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 you’ve both found something worth holding onto.

You find her in the garden again.

It’s 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.

“It’s very late. Please go rest. You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I wanted to,” 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. You’ve shared plenty of silences with her. Some fragile. Some comforting. This one is different entirely.

“My daughter is engaged,” she says at last.

You glance at her. “Leida agreed?”

“She wanted it.” Her tone twists around the words like they're thorns in her mouth. “She thinks so very highly of Chandrilan tradition. I’m letting her believe that. The alternative means admitting I’ve failed as both a senator and a mother.”

You say nothing, as you’ve learned that with her, silence is sometimes the only safety she has.

She presses on.

“She doesn’t know what it costs. She doesn’t understand how much I’ve 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.”

Her voice cracks slightly, just enough for your heart to ache in your chest.

“You’re doing what you have to,” you say softly.

“That’s the problem,” she replies. “Everything I do now is ‘what I have to.’ There’s no room for want anymore.”

Her eyes flick to yours. Blue, storm-bright, always holding more than she lets slip.

And then she says, “Except when you are here.”

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.

“You, your presence, it’s the only thing in this entire galaxy that feels like something I truly want,” she says. “And I have tried so hard to pretend that wasn’t true.”

She doesn’t reach for your hand. She doesn’t touch you at all.

“I’m not asking for anything,” she adds quickly, as if afraid the admission itself might cost her too much. “I know what this is. I know what I can’t give you.”

You speak without thinking. “You already give me something. Every day.”

Her eyes shimmer with emotions that are not quite tears. The weight of too many years trying not to need anything.

“Then stay,” she says, quietly. “Just stay.”

It’s you who reaches for her. Your fingers brush her sleeve before finding her hand. She stiffens but doesn’t pull away. Slowly, she lets her fingers curl into yours, as if remembering how to hold something delicate.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

She leans in.

It’s cautious at first, her lips brushing yours, a breath she’s 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 don’t speak again that night. You don’t need to. The stars above you twinkle. For once, Mon Mothma lets herself be held by something other than duty.

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 weren’t sure who was more pissed—Cassian or you.

“Two more on the roof,” he said, ducking beside you, breath ragged. “Snipers.”

“I counted,” you said, wincing as a blaster bolt scorched too close above your head. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a good plan?”

He glanced at you, and despite the danger, his eyes softened just a little.

“Not good,” he said. “Just reckless.”

You cocked your brow. “So the usual.”

Another blast forced you both lower. Cassian cursed under his breath. He was injured—a fall from earlier getting worse—and was keeping pressure on it with his left while gripping his blaster in his right. You reached to help, but he shook his head.

“You’re getting out of here,” he said. “I’ll draw them.”

“You’re not serious.”

He gave you that look, the one so steady, infuriatingly so. “They want the data you’re carrying. You get it back to base.”

You stared at him. “And leave you to die? That’s your idea of a good plan?”

Cassian didn’t answer right away. He looked away instead, toward the horizon where smoke from the ambush still rose. “If it means you live, yes.”

He’d always done this, put the mission above himself, put you above himself. From the first time you were paired together, he’d been always willing to burn so others didn’t have to.

“Cassian,” you hissed, voice low. “We go together, or not at all.”

His jaw clenched and he whispered your name.

“No,” you snapped. “You don’t get to throw yourself away. We’ve gotten out of worse.”

“That’s not—”

“I won’t lose you.” You paused. “Not like this.”

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. “Okay,” 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.

“You okay?” you asked, voice trembling now.

He nodded. “You?”

“I am now.”

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.

“I meant it,” he said quietly. “If it came down to it…”

“I know,” you said. “But I’m not letting you die for me.”

He exhaled, something a mix of relief or regret. “Then I guess we protect each other.”

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. “We make it back,” he whispered, “we talk.”

“Promise?”

His voice was soft but sure. “I do.”