The Sun on Both Sides
Summary: Cassian Andor is your very close companion. He says best friend, you say pain in your ass—neither one of you are entirely wrong. But then one night you smoke some unfamiliar spice with him, and everything you once thought you knew goes sideways.
Rating: Explicit
Pairing: Cassian Andor/fem!Reader
Word Count: 11.2K
Warnings: SMUT, sex pollen (therefore DUB-CON by default), recreational drug use, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, dirty talk, oral sex (both male and female receiving), penetrative sex, me just making so much shit up honestly
A/N: All phrases in Festan are taken from other Star Wars conlangs. I don’t even know if that’s the name of the language people from Fest speak tbh. Probably not. None of this is real. Anyways this is Cassian as a young rebel pilot long before the events of Rogue One. This oneshot will likely be deemed obsolete by Cassian’s new Disney+ show but whoooooooops~
—knock knock knock knock knock—
You know that knock. It’s too quick, too rapid and annoying to be anyone else.
“I’m sleeping,” you huff with your mouth full, sitting on top of your mattress in a hoodie and sweatpants, legs crossed.
“I have gifts,” Cassian’s muffled voice asserts from the other side of the door.
“I don’t care,” you return, swallowing and shoveling more slop together with your tiny little biodegradable spork. “S’the middle of the night.”
—knock knock knock knock knock—
“Knock knock,” he beckons vocally, as if you didn’t hear it the first ten times. “Come, open the door. Please—I will get into trouble.”
It’s exhausting being Cassian’s friend. Truly exhausting. It doesn’t matter what Maker-forsaken time it is, as soon as he comes back to base from patrols, he’s at your door. You don’t know why he chose you as his sole victim to personally inflict this torture upon, but regardless of reason, he’s called you his close friend ever since you first offered to help the lanky, dark-haired six year old with his Basic and his best friend ever since your junior year of flight training. Apparently with the promotion came the lingering, severe misfortune of his present company, almost always.
“Can I put in for a transfer?” He also technically outranks you.
“Open the door and we will talk,” Cassian bargains. Bantha shit, you and him both know it. He’ll rip the papers in half before you can even finish filling them out.
You let out a dramatic groan just loud enough for him to hear, dragging yourself off the bed and padding over to the door. “If I accept your gift, will you leave?”
“If I accept your gift and trade it for the rest of this, uh,” you look at the MRE packet in your hands, “rice and shredded tauntaun meat in glockaw sauce, will you leave?”
“Good call, not as great as it sounds. What if I—”
He says your name impatiently, accented and sharp. You roll your eyes as his knuckles rap on the door once more. “Quickly, quickly—before someone sees.”
“It’s the residential quarters and it’s two in the fucking morning, Cass, nobody’s going t—”
He cuts you off once more. “Open the door and I will submit for your transfer work, yes?”
You throw your spork prong-down into the beige pouch in your hands and pop your hip, narrowing your eyebrows at the thick slab of metal separating the two of you skeptically. “No, you won’t.”
“No, I will not,” the voice behind it concedes immediately. “But for you, I will pretend.”