Angst - Hilflos (Für's Team)
Aug. 26th, 2025 11:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
servena posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
120_minutenTeam: Drache
Challenge: Angst - Hilflos (Für's Team)
Fandom: Andor
Charaktere: Mon Mothma, Cassian
Ship: Mon Mothma/Cassian
Sprache: Englisch
Wörter: 1.600
Kommentar: Alternativer Verlauf von Mon Mothma's Rescue in 2x9, weil Cassian chemistry mit jedem hat.
Warnung: Andeutung von Sex, aber nicht sehr explizit.
Luthen trusts him. But does that mean anything if she doesn’t trust Luthen?
Unmoored
She leans against the far wall next to the window, and watches as he opens a cupboard in search of a glass. “You’ve been here before”, she observes.
“A couple of times.” He fills the glass from the tap and drinks in quick sips. The fingers of his other hand tap a rythm on the counter. It’s the only thing that betrays his calm demeanor.
“How long until they’re here?” She wills her voice to be steady, collected.
He just gives a half-shrug. “Could be a while.”
His accent is something she can’t place. Shorter vocals, heavier consonants than what they speak in the core. It only highlights how lost she feels.
It’s been so long since she’s been alone with a stranger. Oh, she’s been surrounded by strangers, and she’s been alone, but there had always been someone familiar around, if not someone she trusted. Like Kloris.
He had shot him with no hesitation, without even blinking. Maybe she could have stopped him. Should she have stopped him?
She still can’t say what made her choose him over the people sent by Bail Organa. Maybe it was the fact that he had seemed so wildly out of place. She had expected Luthen to send someone smooth, someone who would blend into the crowd, but there he was, with a bruised face and those piercing, intense eyes aimed at her.
Or maybe it had been how desperate he had seemed for her to trust him. Telling her about Vel, about Aldhani, about Luthen, all those things he was most likely not to supposed to talk about - throwing the codephrase into her face when she wouldn’t ask for it -
And she had gone with him.
Luthen trusts him. But does that mean anything if she doesn’t trust Luthen?
She watches his eyes dart restlessly around the room. He moves like a soldier, not rigid like imperial troops, but with a certain control over his body, a readiness for violence just beneath the surface. (She can’t get Kloris’ face out of her head.)
His body stays angled towards the door, the blaster on the table is still within his reach. The cut on his lip and the bruise on his cheek can’t be more than a day old. Suddenly the war is in a room with her and she feels small and vulnerable.
What good is she to men like these? Maybe Luthen should’ve had her killed instead.
Maybe he still might.
Suddenly a glass of water is being pushed into her hands. “You should drink something”, he says. Only when she moves to accept it does she realize her hands are shaking. He gives her a brief, searching look, and she manages to lead the glass to her lips without spilling.
“So you know my cousin Vel?”, she asks after handing back the glass. A conversation she might’ve had at a dinner party. A lifeline.
He throws a look over his shoulder as he walks back to the sink. “Yeah.”
“She never mentioned you.”
That gets her a huff and a quick half-smile in her direction. It makes him look younger, more boyish. Surprisingly handsome. “I’m not surprised.”
“You two don’t get along?”
“She’s not that easy to get along with”, he says.
His dead-pan delivery somehow makes the statement more diplomatic. She’s surprised to hear herself laugh. “That is true.”
She wants to ask where Vel is right now, but even if he knows, he won’t tell her.
He cleans the glass under the running tap, then dries it off and puts it back where it belongs. It seems startingly domestic for the situation they’re in. Then he turns around and leans his back against the counter. The kitchen lamp throws the lines on his face into shadow. He looks as tired as she feels.
“It was a good speech”, he says into the silence of the room.
She sighs quietly. “For all the good it will do.”
“You can’t say that”, he says with more force than she expected. “It matters. Everything matters.” There’s something in his eyes that gives her pause.
Puzzle pieces that didn’t fit suddenly click into place. The bruises. The desperation. “You were there.”
He doesn’t have to confirm it. The way he averts his gaze is enough.
She tries to think of something else to say, but now, facing one person instead of a crowd, words elude her. Saying something trivial would be worse than saying nothing at all.
Before she can open her mouth, his gaze is caught by something outside. He steps next to her, close to the window, eyes fixed on a light blinking rythmically in the distance.
She looks out as well. “What is it?”
He parses the code effortlessly. “There is a delay. The escort won’t make it in today. They’ll come tomorrow at first light.”
She sucks in a breath. “Will that be safe?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “They haven’t found this place yet. But better to stay away from the windows.” His eyes wander over her white clothes. “Tomorrow you’ll wear something different.”
He pushes himself off the window sill and motions to follow him. “We should try to get some sleep. The bedroom is over there. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
After she’s shut the door behind her, she undresses herself slowly in front of the mirror. It feels like taking off her skin, discarding the white robes onto a nearby chair. Without them, she looks thin and frail. The fabric of the nightgown laid out for her feels wrong on her skin.
The bed is neat and comfortable, but she knows she won’t be able to sleep. She feels unmoored lying on top of it, like a ship without an anchor slowly drifting out into the night.
A knock startles her out of her thoughts. He puts his head through the door briefly. “Better to keep this open”, he mumbles, leaving a small gap after he turns off the light. Gods, I can’t even cry in peace, she thinks.
So she desperately tries to reach for something, anything to keep her mind occupied. In the dark, she can hear the heavy sound of the blaster getting set down on a table, then the rustling of clothes as he undresses himself. She imagines him stripping out of his jacket, maybe his shirt. Wonders what he looks like underneath, whether there are any scars or just smooth, unblemished skin.
She hasn’t had thoughts like this in years. Her marriage to Perrin had been passionate once, but that fire had long since turned cold. And then there had been a spark with Tay Kholma, a spark that could’ve been something more, if she had dared… but she hadn’t. All given up for a good and proper appearance, and for what? So she could become a fugitive. She laughs so that she doesn’t start to cry.
I’m no one anymore, she thinks. Not a senator. Not a wife, not a mother. Just me.
In the darkness, she allows herself to fantasize - about what else those hands could do that are appearantly so used to holding a blaster. About those dark eyes and that boyish smile that she caught only a glimpse of so far. Her fingers dig into the sheets as her body comes alive, until she finally can’t take it anymore.
She slips out of bed quietly. Her feet barely make a sound on the cool wooden floor. But when she pushes the door open wider, she finds him already looking at her, eyes clear and alert.
“I can’t sleep”, she says, standing in the door, like a child.
“That’s too be expected”, he mumbles. His voice sounds rougher, and maybe he had been on the way to falling asleep. Maybe he could sleep everywhere. She feels incredibly young next to his experience.
With a quiet sigh he sits up and switches the table lamp on. Light cascades over his form, throwing his face into a relief of shadow and light. He’s kept the shirt on, but his arms are bare, and her eyes are drawn to the dark hairs on his lower arms and the strength of his hands. She remembers the touch of them on her arm and back as he had moved her along, shepherding her to safety.
Then her gaze rises to her face and she realizes he’s caught her looking. She feels like a school girl, glad the darkness is hiding her cheeks flushing.
“Do you have someone waiting for you?”, she asks.
He still holds her gaze. “Not anymore.”
When he rises from the sofa, she keeps herself very still. He approaches her slowly, until their chests are almost touching. He’s not that tall, but taller than her.
“Tell me what it is you want”, he says quietly.
She looks up into his face. “I want to forget.”
And just like that, the damn is broken. He leans down and presses his lips to hers, and it feels like she’s never been kissed before, like the kisses she had been missing from her youth. She gasps into it, a little breath out in surprise, before she lets it take her over. Broad hands find her hips beneath the night gown.
She had expected him to be rough, welcomed it even. But he guides her gently, very gently backwards to the bedroom, and it’s her who lets herself fall onto the bed when her calves hit the edge. From there she watches as he efficiently strips out of his clothes before crawling on top of her.
He doesn’t ask here if she’s sure and she’s glad he doesn’t, but he looks at her face for a moment imploringly until he’s satisfied before he starts pushing up her nightgown. Her manicured fingers find their way onto his broad back, finding every scratch and scar there, cataloguing them like for a map. And when his mouth moves up her inner thigh until it finally touches her where she needs it, the final thought moving through her head is: Still alive.
Still alive, for now.
Challenge: Angst - Hilflos (Für's Team)
Fandom: Andor
Charaktere: Mon Mothma, Cassian
Ship: Mon Mothma/Cassian
Sprache: Englisch
Wörter: 1.600
Kommentar: Alternativer Verlauf von Mon Mothma's Rescue in 2x9, weil Cassian chemistry mit jedem hat.
Warnung: Andeutung von Sex, aber nicht sehr explizit.
Luthen trusts him. But does that mean anything if she doesn’t trust Luthen?
Unmoored
She leans against the far wall next to the window, and watches as he opens a cupboard in search of a glass. “You’ve been here before”, she observes.
“A couple of times.” He fills the glass from the tap and drinks in quick sips. The fingers of his other hand tap a rythm on the counter. It’s the only thing that betrays his calm demeanor.
“How long until they’re here?” She wills her voice to be steady, collected.
He just gives a half-shrug. “Could be a while.”
His accent is something she can’t place. Shorter vocals, heavier consonants than what they speak in the core. It only highlights how lost she feels.
It’s been so long since she’s been alone with a stranger. Oh, she’s been surrounded by strangers, and she’s been alone, but there had always been someone familiar around, if not someone she trusted. Like Kloris.
He had shot him with no hesitation, without even blinking. Maybe she could have stopped him. Should she have stopped him?
She still can’t say what made her choose him over the people sent by Bail Organa. Maybe it was the fact that he had seemed so wildly out of place. She had expected Luthen to send someone smooth, someone who would blend into the crowd, but there he was, with a bruised face and those piercing, intense eyes aimed at her.
Or maybe it had been how desperate he had seemed for her to trust him. Telling her about Vel, about Aldhani, about Luthen, all those things he was most likely not to supposed to talk about - throwing the codephrase into her face when she wouldn’t ask for it -
And she had gone with him.
Luthen trusts him. But does that mean anything if she doesn’t trust Luthen?
She watches his eyes dart restlessly around the room. He moves like a soldier, not rigid like imperial troops, but with a certain control over his body, a readiness for violence just beneath the surface. (She can’t get Kloris’ face out of her head.)
His body stays angled towards the door, the blaster on the table is still within his reach. The cut on his lip and the bruise on his cheek can’t be more than a day old. Suddenly the war is in a room with her and she feels small and vulnerable.
What good is she to men like these? Maybe Luthen should’ve had her killed instead.
Maybe he still might.
Suddenly a glass of water is being pushed into her hands. “You should drink something”, he says. Only when she moves to accept it does she realize her hands are shaking. He gives her a brief, searching look, and she manages to lead the glass to her lips without spilling.
“So you know my cousin Vel?”, she asks after handing back the glass. A conversation she might’ve had at a dinner party. A lifeline.
He throws a look over his shoulder as he walks back to the sink. “Yeah.”
“She never mentioned you.”
That gets her a huff and a quick half-smile in her direction. It makes him look younger, more boyish. Surprisingly handsome. “I’m not surprised.”
“You two don’t get along?”
“She’s not that easy to get along with”, he says.
His dead-pan delivery somehow makes the statement more diplomatic. She’s surprised to hear herself laugh. “That is true.”
She wants to ask where Vel is right now, but even if he knows, he won’t tell her.
He cleans the glass under the running tap, then dries it off and puts it back where it belongs. It seems startingly domestic for the situation they’re in. Then he turns around and leans his back against the counter. The kitchen lamp throws the lines on his face into shadow. He looks as tired as she feels.
“It was a good speech”, he says into the silence of the room.
She sighs quietly. “For all the good it will do.”
“You can’t say that”, he says with more force than she expected. “It matters. Everything matters.” There’s something in his eyes that gives her pause.
Puzzle pieces that didn’t fit suddenly click into place. The bruises. The desperation. “You were there.”
He doesn’t have to confirm it. The way he averts his gaze is enough.
She tries to think of something else to say, but now, facing one person instead of a crowd, words elude her. Saying something trivial would be worse than saying nothing at all.
Before she can open her mouth, his gaze is caught by something outside. He steps next to her, close to the window, eyes fixed on a light blinking rythmically in the distance.
She looks out as well. “What is it?”
He parses the code effortlessly. “There is a delay. The escort won’t make it in today. They’ll come tomorrow at first light.”
She sucks in a breath. “Will that be safe?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “They haven’t found this place yet. But better to stay away from the windows.” His eyes wander over her white clothes. “Tomorrow you’ll wear something different.”
He pushes himself off the window sill and motions to follow him. “We should try to get some sleep. The bedroom is over there. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
After she’s shut the door behind her, she undresses herself slowly in front of the mirror. It feels like taking off her skin, discarding the white robes onto a nearby chair. Without them, she looks thin and frail. The fabric of the nightgown laid out for her feels wrong on her skin.
The bed is neat and comfortable, but she knows she won’t be able to sleep. She feels unmoored lying on top of it, like a ship without an anchor slowly drifting out into the night.
A knock startles her out of her thoughts. He puts his head through the door briefly. “Better to keep this open”, he mumbles, leaving a small gap after he turns off the light. Gods, I can’t even cry in peace, she thinks.
So she desperately tries to reach for something, anything to keep her mind occupied. In the dark, she can hear the heavy sound of the blaster getting set down on a table, then the rustling of clothes as he undresses himself. She imagines him stripping out of his jacket, maybe his shirt. Wonders what he looks like underneath, whether there are any scars or just smooth, unblemished skin.
She hasn’t had thoughts like this in years. Her marriage to Perrin had been passionate once, but that fire had long since turned cold. And then there had been a spark with Tay Kholma, a spark that could’ve been something more, if she had dared… but she hadn’t. All given up for a good and proper appearance, and for what? So she could become a fugitive. She laughs so that she doesn’t start to cry.
I’m no one anymore, she thinks. Not a senator. Not a wife, not a mother. Just me.
In the darkness, she allows herself to fantasize - about what else those hands could do that are appearantly so used to holding a blaster. About those dark eyes and that boyish smile that she caught only a glimpse of so far. Her fingers dig into the sheets as her body comes alive, until she finally can’t take it anymore.
She slips out of bed quietly. Her feet barely make a sound on the cool wooden floor. But when she pushes the door open wider, she finds him already looking at her, eyes clear and alert.
“I can’t sleep”, she says, standing in the door, like a child.
“That’s too be expected”, he mumbles. His voice sounds rougher, and maybe he had been on the way to falling asleep. Maybe he could sleep everywhere. She feels incredibly young next to his experience.
With a quiet sigh he sits up and switches the table lamp on. Light cascades over his form, throwing his face into a relief of shadow and light. He’s kept the shirt on, but his arms are bare, and her eyes are drawn to the dark hairs on his lower arms and the strength of his hands. She remembers the touch of them on her arm and back as he had moved her along, shepherding her to safety.
Then her gaze rises to her face and she realizes he’s caught her looking. She feels like a school girl, glad the darkness is hiding her cheeks flushing.
“Do you have someone waiting for you?”, she asks.
He still holds her gaze. “Not anymore.”
When he rises from the sofa, she keeps herself very still. He approaches her slowly, until their chests are almost touching. He’s not that tall, but taller than her.
“Tell me what it is you want”, he says quietly.
She looks up into his face. “I want to forget.”
And just like that, the damn is broken. He leans down and presses his lips to hers, and it feels like she’s never been kissed before, like the kisses she had been missing from her youth. She gasps into it, a little breath out in surprise, before she lets it take her over. Broad hands find her hips beneath the night gown.
She had expected him to be rough, welcomed it even. But he guides her gently, very gently backwards to the bedroom, and it’s her who lets herself fall onto the bed when her calves hit the edge. From there she watches as he efficiently strips out of his clothes before crawling on top of her.
He doesn’t ask here if she’s sure and she’s glad he doesn’t, but he looks at her face for a moment imploringly until he’s satisfied before he starts pushing up her nightgown. Her manicured fingers find their way onto his broad back, finding every scratch and scar there, cataloguing them like for a map. And when his mouth moves up her inner thigh until it finally touches her where she needs it, the final thought moving through her head is: Still alive.
Still alive, for now.