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.”
