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Approach at your own risk... smut = * extra smutty=**
Warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, cheating, smoking, age gap, fingering, sex (p in v), oral sex (f receiving), creampie
Words: 4.9k
Author’s Note: I couldn't tell you why my mind needed to take this detour, but it did and it was FUN! This fic was inspired by: Ellie Goulding's "Lights" (hence the title,) as well as Melissa Lozada-Oliva's poem "I'm Not a Virgin, But..."
Cross posted on ao3 HERE!
They stop in a nondescript area of the city.
“They expect us to go straight to our destination,” Cassian explains as he parks the stolen limospeeder in an abandoned alleyway. Mon studies his movements carefully, noting how confident he is in every little thing that he does, from parking the vehicle, to exiting smoothly, to opening her door and offering her his hand. “But we don’t want to lead them there. We need to switch vehicles, and hide out for a bit to throw them off. Okay?” Some people walk through life as if every step is an accident, like life is happening to them; Cassian is not one of those people. He walks as if every minute twitch is a conscious decision he is making, like life is an amalgamation of his determination and commands. So when he offers her his hand, she cannot help but think this is on purpose. He wants to touch me. The thought coalesces in her head too solidly for her to evaporate it away.
His hickory brown eyes pour over her face like syrup, slowly and sweetly and sticking in a manner unbecoming of her to indulge. Still. She lingers, her hand hovering just above his for more seconds than necessary so that she can soak up his sympathetic attention. Her life has been spent confronting steely daggers, obnoxious gawking, pointed glares, ominous orbs, unctuous glints; she has never been looked at with the warmth Cassian radiates, even when he is all business. If his eyes are this warm, how warm is he? “Ma’am?” he asks, raising a concerned eyebrow. She nods, then lets her hand drop into his. When it drops, she isn’t the one touching him- it’s just a product of gravity. This is how she reasons her way around the flutter she feels when her skin comes into contact with his. It’s not her, it’s gravity. When her hand stays firmly planted against his, it’s simply the unavoidable magnetism of his pull. “There’s a spot just around the corner. Our contact will meet us there,” he says, leading the way. He does not drop her hand. This is by design. He wants to hold me close. She makes no attempt to shake the thought out, no matter how inappropriate it is for her to think. What would be the point? A few hours ago she blew up her life. As far as she can reason it, who she was is no longer who she is. She is not a Senator anymore, she is a Rebel Leader. She is not a wife anymore, she is simply a woman. A fact she is all too keenly aware of as she trails closely behind Cassian and finds herself wondering what parts of himself he’s given up to be here. Everyone has paid a price to be a cog in the rebellion’s machine. What was his?
He turns to check on her, and he must recognize the look she is giving him because he blushes faintly. His eyes flit between hers and her lips, as if he is considering what her expression is suggesting, but before either can act his face drops almost in shame. “Just right here,” he says gruffly as he pulls her forward and in front of himself, ushering her down a different alleyway. She gets her answer right then- he belonged to someone, once; now, he is only a memory honoring a past he will never get back to. She doesn’t know how she didn’t see it before. The confidence of his movements is not because he commands his life, but because he has already ended the life he once called his. He is a ghost, a dreamlike phantom guiding her to the next life. How long will it be before she is a ghost too? She catches a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the technicolor puddle on the concrete beneath them and considers she is already one. She has been since the day she came to Coruscant.
“How long do we have to wait here?” she asks. What she wants to ask is how long will I have you for? but she hasn’t the bravery for that. Her courage has been spent on grander endeavors, and it would be amusing if it wasn’t so tragic that none of them will ever be brave for themselves again, that any bit of courage that remains is to be used for the bigger picture. She knows this. And yet.
“Shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes, maybe,” Cassian says, scanning the two different exits this particular alleyway has to ensure they are safe. He turns his attention back to her, eyebrows furrowing as he looks at her shaking hands. “We should take care of that, calm down your adrenaline system.” He reaches into his pocket, procuring a cigarette and a lighter. He holds out the cigarette to her. She shakes her head.
“I don’t smoke,” she says.
“Neither do I,” he replies as he brings the cigarette up to his mouth and lights it. With a wink, he adds, “but it will give us something to do while we wait.” What he means to say is it will keep our hands and mouths occupied. At least that’s what she thinks he means. “And it will help your nerves,” he says, gesturing towards her hands.
“Alright,” she murmurs. He takes a quick drag of the cigarette already in his mouth, then passes it to her, his fingers gingerly brushing hers as he does so. His eyes don’t leave her face as she brings the cigarette up to her mouth, slowly wrapping her lips around the paper so that she can relish the distinctive taste of him. She musters a half smile as she inhales, tilting her head at him as if to ask is this really the closest we’ll allow ourselves to be? He shrugs. She exhales. The shakes are gone, but she would not say she is calm now. On the contrary, her nerves feel more concentrated in their tingling, seeming to vibrate at a frequency he is unknowingly dictating. Gravity, she reminds herself. One cannot help but fall.
He pulls the cigarette out of her mouth, fingers lightly caressing over her lips as he does so, and says, “see? Better, right?”
No, not even remotely, but the words that come out instead are, “yes. You were right.”
He nods, placing the cigarette back in his own mouth as he moves to lean against the wall opposite her, placing distance between them. Not that it helps. Now she can stare unabashedly. Perhaps that is the point. Unlike most men she meets, Cassian does not shirk under her gaze. He seems rather emboldened by her attention instead, taking each glance as a challenge to rise to.
“What was it like?” he asks.
“What was what like?”
“Standing up there. Speaking the truth,” he replies, his voice growing more passionate by the second despite how low he keeps it. “Forcing everyone to confront what they want to hide from. What was it like?”
“Honestly? Heartbreaking.” She looks towards the crowded street at the end of the alleyway as she tries to find the right words. “It shouldn’t…” she shakes her head, trying to keep her voice from warbling, “People used to care about each other. Or at least there used to be a pretense about caring for one another. When something bad was happening in the world, we used to be able to agree upon it. And even if no one did anything, there was never an argument of what was right and what was wrong.” The images from Ghorman replay in her head. “It shouldn’t take me saying something in order for everyone to wake up to what is happening in our world. It’s heartbreaking.”
Cassian shakes his head. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Pardon?”
“People never cared enough to pretend,” he says. “And we never agreed on right and wrong.” He rubs his thumb across his bottom lip as he studies the myriad of colors in the puddles around them, contemplating how best to say what he thinks. He looks up at her. “It’s just that now, everyone agrees that what’s wrong is actually “right.” Survival demands complacency.” He scoffs, giving the cigarette another flick as if to punctuate his point. “They know it’s wrong, but they don’t care. They have themselves, their own families to worry about. So it’s easier to keep their heads down and not resist.”
“So you’re a cynic then?” she asks, somewhat appalled. “You don’t believe people are good enough to stand up against what’s wrong once they know it’s wrong.”
“I’m a realist,” he replies pointedly. “I believe choosing to stand up is a luxury most people cannot afford.” Mon braces herself for the judgment she thinks is inevitable, given the life she has lived. But as he’s done since she met him a few hours ago, he surprises her. He smirks, his eyes now twinkling with what she thinks could be awe. She’s not sure, it’s not an expression she’s ever seen before in the eyes of any person who’s looked at her, but it is an expression she’s dreamed of receiving more than she would care to admit. “That’s why what you did today was so impressive,” he says, voice brimming with tenderness. “You put everything on the line for us.”
Mon blushes, then laughs because she is blushing and cannot remember if she’s ever been red in this way before. “I don’t know if I would call doing my job impressive,” she replies with a smile that fades as she considers seriously where she’s failed. “One could argue I waited too long, let…” she looks up at the sky as she gestures around, “all of this go too far before taking a real stand.” She meets his gaze directly, her eyes misting over. “How many lives could have been saved if I had spoken up sooner?”
Cassian smiles softly at her, and says with a quiet chuckle, “You’ve still got it wrong.”
“Is that so?”
“How many lives did you save by staying quiet? How many identities did you protect? How much funding were you able to pour into this operation by waiting for the right moment to speak up?”
“Anyone could have done those things.”
“No,” Cassian scoffs, “that’s just it. No one could’ve. It’s why Luthen chose you.”
“Don’t tell me the realist fell for the lines of a con-man about being a special and important part of the rebellion,” Mon teases.
“I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t,” he replies simply. Her breath hitches. Special. He thinks I’m special. “Anyway, It’s not always about who we lose. Sometimes, it’s about who we manage to save so that more can be protected and have a chance.”
“I suppose you could be right.”
“There’s no supposing,” he says with a smirk. “I am.”
He takes a drag of the cigarette, and Mon finds herself hypnotized by the red glow. Would the embers dangling between his fingers have the ability to light her skin up and turn her into a burst of endless sparks that never fizzled out? As she watches him take another long drag, she imagines what it would be like to be the sharp, certain burst of light held firmly between his lips. She imagines what it would be like for someone to want to take a long drag of her. It has been too long since she has been the desired taste on someone’s tongue, though as pieces of her past flicker in the smoke swirling around them, she is painfully aware of the fact that she has never been desired like that. Not really. Not truly in a way that counted. She wonders if Cassian could be the one who counts.
“They should’ve been here by now,” he says, more to himself than to her. “We should keep moving.” He flicks the cigarette to the ground and smothers it with the ball of his foot, then gestures with a tilt of his head for her to follow him.
Or, if she let him light her up, would his flame snatch her up spectacularly and reduce her to smudges of ash on the ground beneath his feet? She’s not entirely certain she would care either way. She thinks, as they make their way out of the alley and onto a crowded street, that maybe being burned could be the closest she could get to being loved. Then she would exist in a way that mattered. Then, after one sparkling moment aglow, she could easily accept being a ghost.
He weaves them effortlessly through throngs of people. She should be scared about being seen, but it turns out he was right- people have more important things to worry about. No one seems to notice her. They make it to the outskirts of the city, to a well-hidden ship. “If this was here the whole time, why did we wait?” she asks, confused about what charade they’re putting on exactly.
“This is backup,” he explains, shepherding her onboard. “Just in case our contact fell through.”
“Yes, but-”
“We get nowhere if we can’t learn to rely on one another,” he says. “It’s not about what we can do for ourselves, it’s about what we can do for others. Someone had a chance to help us. Someone wanted to help us. And we take what we can, when we can. We don’t stick our nose up at any hand.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest…” Mon shakes her head. “It’s just that it’s too many people risking themselves for me. They didn’t make it which means-”
“Nothing we can concern ourselves with at this moment.” He approaches her, and places his hands on either of her shoulders, driving her body backwards until he is pushing her down into a seat. He crouches, stares into her eyes, says simply, “you’re a good person. That’s an asset.” She has a hard time listening, focusing instead on the assertive pressure of his hands upon her. She would like to feel that pressure elsewhere. “But it’s also a liability if you aren’t careful.” His fingers are perfectly curled around each shoulder, and she finds herself wondering why the phrase has their hooks in you ever got such a bad wrap because the digging of his fingers doesn’t feel like a trap, it feels like a promise she wants to hold him to. “Things are different now. I know you’re used to being in control, but…” That snaps her to attention. “You’re going to have to find a way to live with the things you can’t control.”
“Have you learned to live with it?” Mon asks with a scoff.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not exactly a paragon of peace,” she replies, her eyes narrowing harshly at him. “You put on a good show, but I can see it in your eyes.” She leans forward, their noses just barely brushing now. “You’re just as scared as I am about what happens next.”
He dryly laughs, but he doesn’t pull back. Instead, he stays steady in front of her, his breath warmly wafting over her face. “You don’t know me.”
“Nor you I.”
And it’s true. He does not know her anymore than she knows him. But he knows what her shallow breathing, and the way her eyes are fluttering between his own and his lips means; and she knows what his persistent proximity and his lingering touch means.
He smirks. “I know you better than you think.”
“You know my type, you mean,” Mon replies with a smirk of her own. “I could say the same of you, though I doubt seriously any preconceived notions I have about a young, jaded, cocky rebel would accurately describe who you really are.”
No. They do not know each other. But they both know what the other wants. It’s as clear to each of them as the fact that they will never go back to being who they were. There is only who they are now. There is only Cassian’s firm hands on her shoulders, and Mon’s sweet breath on his face.
“I’m not that young,” he says pointedly, letting his eyes drop to her lips. She wants to laugh. Of course that’s the only adjective he would want to dispute.
“Just jaded and cocky, then.” She arches a brow at him.
“Cocky is unearned confidence,” he smoothly replies, his face morphing into a new facade and she realizes this is why he is so good at his job. This is why everyone trusts him- because he can play the part you need him to on a second’s notice. It startles her to realize he knew what she needed before she did, but it does not make her want this any less. On the contrary. “My confidence is more than earned.”
“I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it,” she murmurs, tilting her chin up and daring his mouth to make a move.
He shakes his head, leaning in closer. “You don’t have to. You could find out for yourself. If you wanted to.”
“It would be terribly inappropriate for me to want to,” she wavers, shirking his hands off her shoulders.
“I think we’re well past worrying about propriety,” he quips, and before she can even think of a reply his lips are on hers.
Like everything else today, there are minutes that pass too quickly for her to even be sure they happened, and seconds that pass so slowly she can feel specific details hand-carving themselves into the crevices of her memory. She cannot figure out when they made it to the bed near the back of the ship, nor can she quite recall when they disrobed. She can, however, perfectly recount the swinging, assertive way his tongue dances upon hers, not so much gently leading as it is insistently commanding that she follow, and she does. She does not understand how she ended up on her back, or how he ended up on top of her, legs tangled around hers. She does, though, catalog the exact pressure of Cassian’s right-hand fingers frantically digging into her hip, contrasted with the soothing combing of his left-hand fingers through her hair, and she knows in the years to come she will trace over those spaces with her own hands to replicate the feeling in moments of need.
One of his hands drags roughly against her body as it makes its way down, slipping between her legs. She should be embarrassed by the fact that his hand literally slips in, she is impossibly slick given nothing has truly happened between them. And yet, and yet… so much has happened that she does not now, nor will she ever, have the words for. Only sparks, only tiny bursts of light. She jolts, gasping as one finger begins lightly tracing the outline of her folds, teasing her. “Cass-”
“No,” he gruffly cuts her off, eyes searing into her own severely as his hand stops moving. “I’m not…” She exhales, relieved he has no words for it either, but she understands his meaning regardless. They are not who they thought they were right now. If they were, she would be embarrassed; and he wouldn’t be touching her as if he was eager to believe he was someone else. She nods.
“Okay,” she whispers, her hands finding their way up his neck and into his hair to pull his face closer to hers. She slides her tongue into his mouth, sloppy and panting as two fingers slide into her, pumping in rhythm with the way he is grinding against her, his cock heavy and leaking on her thigh, the stickiness of his precum an odd contrast to the silkiness of the hot skin sliding against her. His calloused thumb begins padding at her clit insistently, the sudden pleasure of his touch sending a ripple of tinglings through her body that leaves her electric, inspires her to believe she is someone else too. She grips both sides of his face as she pulls herself up to meet him, and sucks on his tongue for a nasty second before biting his lower lip and fucking herself down onto his hand with a fervor she’s never had for anyone else before. She wouldn’t say he wrings a climax out of her, so much as it pours out of her as easily as his ragged breath washes over her from above. There is no real build up with him- there is only on and off, and under his hands she is always on. His fingers strum another orgasm out of her, accompanied by the wondrous lapping of his tongue at her breasts, his teeth grazing her nipples then biting right at the moments she thinks she can’t handle anymore from him. He balances her pleasure and pain so finely, understanding better than anyone that the two are best when they’re hand in hand. Nothing feels so good as pleasure earned, and nothing hurts so bad as the pain you ask for. They’re both asking for it.
She pushes him by his shoulders, rolling them until he is the one on his back and she is the one hovering over, impatient and greedy and desperate to forget, to remember to forget and let go and move on however best she can. Bracing herself on his chest, she sinks herself down onto his cock, both of them groaning at the contact. She rocks, gasping each time she slides forward and his pubic hair deliciously scratches at her clit, moaning each time she slides backward and he thrusts up to meet her, his hands clinging to her hips so harshly she knows she will bruise. She will bruise and it won’t matter. No one will ever see her this way again. No one else will ever allow her to be this selfish and free. Her hands find their way to his, pressing over him and pushing him harder into her skin hoping that the worse it hurts, the more it will count, the more who she is at this precise moment will be real and not just another apparition that fades into the void of the forgotten. He understands her as well as she does him, squeezing life into her as her movements become jagged and sloppy. He thrusts into her, harder and harder, unforgiving until she screams out, her weak legs clinging to his hips in a vain attempt to hold on and stretch out the moment as she chases after the lingering high.
He lifts her off of him, flips her over so her stomach is flat on the bed, her face is smearing itself into the sheets. He leans back on his knees, lining himself up with her, pushing her down flat when she tries to arch herself to meet him. He presses his cock into her, stretching her anew as the angle makes everything tighter, despite how slippery they both are now. He slides himself up the back of her body to lay flat against her, his tongue licking its way up her back as he does so, his hands grabbing hers and stretching them forward and out in front of herself. He’s not fucking her anymore, so much as he is rocking with her, clinging to her as though she is a raft and the bed is an ocean and they are both so lost the only thing they know for certain is each other. When he sucks at her neck harshly, she idly wonders if he’s hoping to drown here too so that they don’t have to face tomorrow. All she can hear is his grunting, her moaning, the sharp, tawdry slapping of his sticky skin against hers echoing through the otherwise quiet ship. He moves, rolling them back onto their sides so that he can guide one of their interlocked hands down to circle her clit, his finger guiding hers to touch herself until she is coming once more. He follows closely behind, spilling into her, thick, hot spurts of cum bursting into her. Before she can enjoy the essence of him filling her up, making her feel like the kind of woman she never got to be and never will be, he is sliding down her body, manhandling her body until he is shouldering her legs wide open, his face peaking up at her from between her legs. He laps at her once to test, to make sure she isn’t too sensitive, then remembers that’s not something he should care about in regards to her. He licks more aggressively at her and his spend, sending cold shivers down her sweaty spine as he eats away the evidence of what’s happened here.
“I told you it would help,” he says, nodding towards her hands to point out that they have stopped shaking. “You’re calm now.”
She laughs. “I’m not sure that was entirely the smoke’s doing. I think, perhaps, there were other variables at play there.”
“Perhaps,” he chuckles, shyly grinning. The tips of his ears blush pink as he looks up at the sky.
“Who was she?” Mon asks, skewing her lips to the side and carefully blowing the cloud of smoke away from Cassian’s direction. She offers him the cigarette. It’s his turn to take a drag.
“Who was who?” He’s careful to keep his gaze up at the stars, but the way his fingers stutter as he takes the cigarette from her gives him away.
She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, and smiles softly. “Surely, we’re past these pretenses now, aren’t we? Or are we still meant to be pretending?”
“Can I be honest?”
“Please.”
“I’m not sure I’m still pretending,” he says quietly, turning to face her. “This is who I am now.”
“This is who you have to be for right now, but it’s not who you have to be forever.” She turns to face him in kind. “And it doesn’t have to erase who you were.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Why? Because I’m not a realist like you?”
“Because you were never in love like me.”
Mon smiles sympathetically at him. He’s not entirely wrong, but he’s not right either. She watches him stiffen defensively, and sees it clearer now than before- the flame is not the cigarette, it’s him. He is all fire, sparking, combusting, and dissipating too quickly to amalgamate into a staying presence. This must be what Luthen liked about him, the easy way with which his being burns and leaves the dust behind. “For a moment there, I really did forget how young you are.” She chuckles.
“So the optimist doesn’t believe in love, then, is that it?” he asks defensively.
“It’s not that. It’s just that the young are the only ones afforded the privilege of romance,” she explains, pulling the cigarette from him for herself. “You have these very pure ideas about love being strictly a union between two souls, but it’s so much more than that. It’s the last goodbye you get to give someone you care about deeply. It’s walking away from your life because there are things more important in the world than yourself and what you think you need. Love is the memories you’re allowed to keep, that grow brighter the further away you get from them. When you stop saying the names is when you really lose them.” She looks deeply into his eyes, urging him to absorb what she’s saying. “You haven’t learned that yet. Godwilling, you will one day and it won’t be too late.”
“Being sentimental is not a luxury we can afford right now.”
“No, it isn’t,” she agrees, holding the cigarette back out for him to take. “But that’s all the more reason why it’s important to be. The risks we take? Fighting, speaking up, pushing back, remembering? That’s what separates us from them.”
“I can see why you were such an effective politician,” he chuckles, easing up. “You’re hopeful when you have no reason to be.”
“The foundation of who we are is built on hope,” she says simply. “How can we expect others to believe, if we don’t first?” She doesn’t say anything more. There’s no need to. She shifts herself to look back up at the stars, trying to commit the pattern she sees at this exact moment to memory. She believes that if she can do so, she will preserve the moment itself in the sky so that the next time she loses hope, she only has to look up to find it once more.
“Bix,” Cassian whispers quietly. “Her name is Bix. And she was… everything.”
“Was?” She eyes him curiously.
He half-smiles at her, melancholy marring his features. “I thought we were done pretending?”
Mon attempts to half-smile back, but it falls before it even has a chance to really rise. She shakes her head. “There’s really no going back now, is there?”
“No,” Cassian replies, looking straight at her with his real face. Gone is the adrenaline, and the magic of maybes. They know definitively now what comes next. She is not a woman, and he is not a fighter; they are just two burned out suns, beings that died eons ago and left traces of dust for some new hopefuls to follow. His expression is a haunting mirror of her own. “This is life now.”
dividers by @/sweetmelodygraphics
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cassian: ms mothma sorry i said welcome to the rebellion to you earlier i guess i was going for relatable and it sounded cool in my head but i could totally see how it would come off as patronizing to one of the founding members of the rebellion. to be honest, i've been questioning whether this whole rebel thing is for me, so it was a pretty weird thing to say. i hope we can start over and have a mutually respectful working relationship
mon (huddled in the fetal position at the back of the speeder): uh
genevieve o'reilly's performance as mon mothma is, quite possibly, my favorite performance in all of star wars. she has brought such life and depth to this iconic character, who, when she first appeared in the original trilogy, hardly existed at all. genevieve o'reilly has been playing this character for two decades now, and before andor, she had been given crumbs, and those crumbs were largley cut, and still, even then, she brought such incredible grace and power to this role. it's truly remarkable, and she deserves all the praise in the world
mon mothma meeting cassian andor literally a transcendent experience. mon has spent the last seventeen years utterly trapped in her life, able to trust no one, fighting the long fight, frightened and alone and waiting for something to snap and when she’s just done the most direct thing she’s ever done and she knows she will in all likelihood be killed for it she meets a man whose primary trait is Making Things Happen. oh this man has been hounding your steps for the last five years? he is now dead the instant he is close enough to shoot. and suddenly all at once instead of dying or rotting in an imperial cell mon is riding away from the life that has suffocated her slowly, free and unmoored, terrified and elated and grateful all at once (her hair mussed!). and cassian…liked her speech fine.
honestly my favorite thing about andor was how important the women were to the rebellion. you don’t have luthen without kleya. their main agents are vel and cinta. you don’t have aldhani without them. you don’t have cassian without bix and maarva. you don’t even have the alliance without mon. none of this exists without the women and that’s so so important.
Her Laugh Stole My Heart From Reality… @cissyenthusiast010155 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
