#cinta caz x reader

[techunit]

Star Wars Women in Power

- PDA headcanons

Includes: Ahsoka, Ventress, Princess Leia, Mon Mothma, Bo-Katan, Dedra Meero, Cinta Kaz

x fem reader

warnings: suggestive, pda, fluff, possessiveness, intense relationship dynamics

Ahsoka Tano

Ahsoka isn’t much for hand-holding, but she keeps you close in ways that feel just as intentional. When she notices you getting a little anxious, it’s subtle, her fingers brushing yours seamlessly, a light, playful tug at your sleeve. Nothing obvious, nothing anyone else would clock. Just a quiet, grounding hey I’m right here with you, the kind that pulls you back to her without a word.

She prefers closeness that looks effortless. Leaning into you, looping an arm loosely around your shoulders, drawing you in like it’s second nature. She’ll keep you tucked against her while she talks or scans the room, like standing close is just where she belongs.

Ventress Asajj

Ventress likes to walk just right behind you. She doesn’t hold your hand, but every now and then she’ll catch the back of your shirt if you wander too far ahead.

“Slow down… unless you plan on getting lost again.”

She’s like a shadow that never really leaves your side. There’s something watchful about it, almost like she’s keeping an eye on everything around you without saying a word.

Her touch is subtle. She’ll play with the ends of your hair on your lower back, something small and secret that only you notice. And sometimes, it lingers, a gentle, slow brush down your back, fingers slipping through your hair for a second longer before she pulls away, like it never happened at all.

Princess Leia

Princess Leia is absolutely a hand-holder, she laces your fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world and rarely lets go. There’s something a little possessive in it, the way her grip tightens when someone else tries to pull her attention away, like she expects you to stay right there with her.

Even in the middle of important conversations, she keeps hold of you. She’ll be speaking with perfect composure one second, and the next she’s already turning, tugging you along with her without thinking, only to realize a step too late and glance back with a quick, breathy apology and a small, amused smile.

She takes her affection in small, stolen pieces. Quick kisses pressed to your cheek, your nose, little things she slips in whenever she can, as if she just can’t resist having a bit of you, even in passing.

She’ll pull you aside without warning, into some quiet corridor, hands already finding you like she’s been waiting for this. The kiss she steals is quick, but intense, greedy in a way that gives her away completely. And just as fast, she’s pulling back, smoothing everything over, stepping back into her role like nothing happened… except for the lingering look she gives you before she leaves, like she’s already planning the next time she gets you to herself.

Dedra Meero

Dedra walks five steps ahead of you, just one of many rules she’s set for your “mutual arrangement.” You don’t understand why she even keeps you around if she refuses to be seen with you, let alone touched in public. Her coldness remains a mystery.

And yet, you’ve somehow grown attached to her. The perfect straightness of her posture, the precision of her suit against her lean frame, the way her hair is always neatly pulled back, it all lingers in your mind. You can’t help but think of the one time she let you take the clip out, her hair falling free while your lips were locked together.

That was over a month ago.

And she’s been distant ever since.

Mon Mothma

Mon can’t afford to be seen sharing anything that personal, her role is too important, too watched. But she keeps you within sight whenever she can, her eyes finding yours across rooms for a quiet moment of reassurance, something steady just for her.

When she’s able to get close in public, it’s measured. A light touch at your elbow as she passes, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. The faint adjustment of your sleeve, smoothing it down with careful precision, like it’s nothing more than habit, but her touch is warm, intentional. Sometimes her hand settles briefly at the small of your back as she guides you through a room, subtle enough to go unnoticed,

In rare moments, between meetings, slipping away from the constant weight of her duties, she would meet you in a secluded room. Without hesitation, arms wrapping around your lower back as she pulls you close, like she’s been holding that need in all day. The kiss is deep and lingering, soft but full of everything she doesn’t say in public. When she finally pulls back, it’s slow, reluctant, her lips brushing yours once more before she presses two gentle kisses on each of your flushed cheeks, a quiet, tender habit, before she straightens herself and returns to being Senator Mothma again.

Bo-Katan Kryze

Bo-Katan has a tendency to hold your hand a little too tight, especially when the weight of everything starts closing in on her. Leadership, responsibility, it all presses down at once, and you feel it in the way her grip tightens without her noticing, like she’s grounding herself through you.

She doesn’t look at you right away. Her focus stays forward, jaw set, shoulders squared, but her hand never lets go.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you lift your free hand to her cheek, your thumb brushing gently along her skin, giving her something softer to come back to.

“Hey… you alright?”

That’s all it takes. Her expression softens, just for you. She lets go of your hand only to pull you in closer, her fingers firm at your waist. Her kiss is rough in a way that catches you off guard, not careless, but firm, deliberate. She doesn’t ease into it. One second she’s looking at you, tension still lingering in her shoulders, and the next she’s pulling you in, closing the distance like it’s something she needs.

There’s urgency in it, something unspoken and heavy, but controlled, like she’s holding the line between restraint and wanting more.

There are two Mandalorians standing guard in the hall.

Neither of them so much as glances in your direction.

Cinta Kaz

Cinta knows you’re shy, and she absolutely uses it against you. Especially when you two are on a mission on some far away distant planet where no one knows you.

Out of nowhere, she grabs you, quickly pinning your wrists behind your back as she leans in close. You barely get a second to react before her lips are on your neck, slow and seductive, finding one spot and staying there just a little too long.

“Cinta stop, right now!” you laugh through heavy breaths, but she doesn’t even pretend to listen.

She presses harder, more intentional this time, until it stings just enough, until she knows it’ll stay. Then she moves slightly, doing it again, leaving another dark mark beside the first like she’s claiming the space.

When she pulls back, there’s that look on her face, satisfied, a little smug.

And the table next to you?

Very much aware.

[techunit]

Star Wars Women in Power

headcanons - aftercare

Inquisitor Reva Sevander - The Third Sister, Senator Mon Mothma, Cinta Kaz, Lieutenant Dedra Meero

x fem reader

Warnings: nsfw, dubious consent, power imbalance, stockholm syndrome, emotional manipulation

Reva Sevander - The Third Sister

Reva doesn’t rush when it’s over. She lingers. You feel it before you see it, the weight of her gaze, sharp and searching, like she’s trying to read something beneath your skin. When her hand comes up to your face, it’s firm but not rough, tilting your head slightly to the side.

“Hold still.”

Her thumb brushes under your eye, catching the trace of tears you didn’t even realize were still there. She studies you closely, turning your face the other way, her fingers pressing lightly along your jaw, then lower, checking your neck with the same careful attention. Not gentle. But not careless either. She’s making sure to check on every mark and bruise her fingers left.

You don’t know how long it’s been.

Days blur into each other in this place. The light never changes, the air never shifts. Time feels like something she took from you too, just another thing she controls. She was supposed to question you. That’s what this is supposed to be. But she keeps delaying it. Keeps you here.

Her hand lingers under your chin, lifting your gaze back to hers. There’s something in her expression, something observant, almost… concerned. It flickers there for a second too long before it hardens again. “You’re fine,” she says, quieter now. More to herself than to you.

Her thumb moves again, slow, wiping away the last of the dampness beneath your eyes. There’s a strange kind of approval in the way she looks at you, like you’ve met some unspoken expectation. “You handled it well,” she adds. “Better than most would.”

It shouldn’t feel like praise. But it does. And she knows it. She always stays a little longer after. Never enough to mean anything. Always enough to confuse you. Long enough that the silence shifts, softens just slightly, like she’s allowing you to breathe again.

Your fingers curl around her arm before you can stop yourself. “Please… Reva,” your voice breaks, smaller than you want it to be. “Let me go home. I won’t say anything, I won’t leave town, I swear. You can still..you can still see me, you know where I live, I-“

“Stop.”

The word is immediate. Not loud. Not angry. Final.

“It’s pointless,” she says, quieter now, but colder. “You know it’s too late for any of that.” She gently, almost absentmindedly, removes your hand from her arm. Not cruel. Just… inevitable.

For a second, her gaze lingers on you again. Like she’s memorizing something. Or maybe reconsidering. But whatever it is, she buries it. Like she always does.

“You’ll be kept here,” she adds, already stepping back into herself, into the role she never lets slip for long. “Until I decide otherwise.”

Senator Mon Mothma

Mon is always warm with you.

Not just kind, but warm. Like it’s something constant, something you can’t quite escape even when you try to pull away from it. Especially after.

She notices it immediately, the shift. The way your breathing changes, how your body tenses like you’re bracing for something. The way you start to move too quickly, like you need to leave before something breaks. You never know what to do with yourself after. There’s that creeping feeling in your chest, sharp and insistent, you were too much, too careless, too… disrespectful. Like you crossed a line that shouldn’t have been crossed with someone like her. Because she deserves softness. Respect. She’s perfect. She’s… Mon.

And you.. you’re already pulling away. But her hand catches your wrist before you can get far. Not tight. Not forceful. Just enough.

“Hey,” she murmurs softly, like she’s afraid of startling you, her hand coming up to cup your face, not demanding, not intense, just there. “Stay with me.”

She doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t ask too many questions all at once. Instead, she guides you gently, sitting you down, wrapping something warm around your shoulders, tucking it around you like it’s second nature to her.

“I can see it, you know,” she says quietly. “That look you get. Like you think you’ve done something wrong.” Your throat tightens. Because you do. Because how could you not? But she just brushes her thumb under your eye, smoothing away the tension there before it can turn into something heavier.

“You didn’t take anything from me,” she continues, her voice steady, certain. “I gave it to you.”

Her hands move again, one slipping behind your neck, the other pulling you gently closer, until you’re pressed against her without even realizing when it happened. She doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t make it intense. She just ..holds you.

Slow, absent strokes along your back, fingers threading lightly through your hair, like she’s teaching your body how to settle again. “You’re safe here,” she murmurs against you. “You don’t have to earn this.”

It’s the small things.

She brushes your hair back slowly, over and over, the kind of touch that doesn’t ask for anything in return. Grounds you. Keeps you here. There’s no edge in her voice. No expectation. Just certainty.

She brings you water without asking, presses it into your hands, her fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary, making sure you actually take it.

And when you don’t say much, when you can’t, she doesn’t fill the silence with questions. She fills it with presence. Her thumb traces slow, absentminded circles against your arm. A rhythm. Steady. Predictable. Safe.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers after a while, softer now. “You don’t have to hold it together right now.” That’s the part that gets you. Because she doesn’t look at you like you’re too much. Or complicated. Or something to manage.

She looks at you like this is easy. Like taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world. And when you finally lean into her, just a little at first, she doesn’t react like it’s a big moment. She just adjusts, instinctively, pulling you closer, letting your head rest against her chest, her hand coming up to hold you there. No hesitation. No distance.

Just warmth.

Cinta Kaz

Cinta tends to you as your body still trembles from the shock. It always catches you off guard, every time. The way she softens you first, disarms you completely with her voice, with those gentle touches, those quiet kisses… and then the sharp, fleeting sting of the blade against your skin.

You never quite understood it. Why she needs this. Why it has to be you.

You’re still shaking when she pulls back, breath uneven, your body slow to realize it’s over. There’s a lingering tension in you, like you’re waiting for something else, for it to go further, or to fall apart. But she doesn’t let it.

Her hand comes up immediately, firm against your jaw, tilting your face toward her. “Stay with me.” It’s low. Grounding.

Her thumb drags slowly along your cheek, catching the faintest trace of moisture there before you can turn away. She watches you closely, too closely, like she’s memorizing every reaction you can’t hide from her.

“You feel that?” she murmurs, quieter now.

Her other hand slides down, not sharp anymore, not dangerous, just there, tracing lightly over your skin where the blade had been moments before. The same path. Slower this time. Softer.

“Nothing,” she says. “You’re alright.”

There’s something almost possessive in the way she says it. Like she’s the one who decided that.

She moves without breaking eye contact, reaching for what she needs, antiseptic, bandages, but her attention never really leaves you. Every touch is deliberate, careful, almost reverent in contrast to what came before.

And then, she leans in.

Presses her lips over one of the places she just covered with a bandage, slow and lingering, like she’s sealing it, with a kiss.

Your breath catches. Because that part always feels like too much. Her hand slides behind your neck, pulling you just a little closer, her forehead almost brushing yours now.

“Breathe,” she whispers.

You didn’t even realize you weren’t. Your fingers curl weakly into her sleeve, holding onto something solid, something real. She notices immediately, of course she does, and instead of pulling away, she lets you. Encourages it. Her hand shifts, threading into your hair, steadying you as your body finally starts to come down from it all.

“There you go,” she murmurs, softer now. “I’ve got you.”

She stays close, closer than before, her touch lingering, tracing slow, absent patterns over your skin like she’s keeping you anchored there with her. Like she won’t let you drift too far.

And maybe that’s the part that gets you the most, the same hands that held the blade, now refusing to let you go.

Lieutenant Dedra Meero

Dedra doesn’t look at you right away.

She moves with clipped precision, already fastening her uniform back into place, every motion efficient, stripped of anything unnecessary. There’s a faint grimace on her face, like irritation, or maybe something closer to disgust, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears.

You’re still where she left you. Curled in on yourself, knees drawn to your chest, the ache settling in now that everything else has faded. The silence stretches too long, too empty. You find yourself waiting, stupidly, for something softer that never comes. A touch. A word. Anything.

Her voice cuts through it.

“Get up.”

It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be.

You swallow, your fingers tightening around your arms. “Please… Dedra,” your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. “I just…I want to stay here. I’m exhausted.”

She doesn’t turn immediately. Just adjusts her belt, smooths down the front of her uniform like she’s erasing any trace of what just happened.

“Do not make me repeat myself.” Her tone is sharper now, edged with something unyielding. “Get. Up. Into position. Now.”

Not anger. Not even cruelty. Just expectation. Like your reluctance is an inconvenience she has no patience for.

You do as you’re told.

The shower sputters to life, and the moment the water hits your skin, it steals the air from your lungs. It’s freezing, sharp, biting, unforgiving. It sends a violent shiver through you, your body already sore, already worn down, every sensation amplified.

You suck in a breath, bracing yourself, arms wrapping instinctively around your middle.

Behind you, there’s the scrape of metal against the floor. You don’t have to turn to know what she’s doing.

Dedra drags a chair across the room with deliberate slowness, placing it just outside the shower. She sits, composed as ever, one leg crossing over the other as she leans back slightly, perfectly at ease.

Watching.

Not with hunger. Not even with satisfaction. With assessment. Her gaze moves over you with clinical precision, like she’s cataloging something, every reaction, every flinch, every mark left behind. There’s no rush in it. No hesitation either.

“Stand up straight,” she says after a moment, her voice calm, almost bored. “You’re making it difficult to see.”

It’s not said to hurt you. It’s said like a simple correction. Like you’re failing to meet a standard she’s already decided you should understand. Water continues to run over you, merciless and cold, but somehow it’s her presence that keeps you rigid, keeps you from stepping back, from breaking.

“Enough.”

Her voice cuts clean through the sound of the shower.

You freeze, breath catching, before reaching to shut the water off. The sudden silence feels heavier than the cold ever did.

Then you hear her stand. Measured steps. Unhurried. Certain. Dedra approaches without a word, a towel already in her hands. She doesn’t hesitate, just wraps it around you in one firm, efficient motion, pulling it closed at your shoulders. Her hands linger only as long as necessary to secure it. It’s not an embrace. But it’s the closest thing she allows.

“Move,” she says quietly, not unkind, but not soft either.

Back in the bedroom, she presses you down onto the bed with gentle insistence. Not forceful. Just… final.

The contrast of the warmth of her hands is immediate, almost startling against your cold skin as her fingers rest briefly at your shoulder, just above where the towel slips.

“You’ll stay here until I’m back from work,” she says, her tone even, controlled. “That’s an order.”