I cannot stop, so have some more brooding internal monologue and some other fun stuff.
Was Cassian even part of the extraction team? I like to think: yes. But he stayed in the ship during the main event because he is Tired and Doesn't Like the Cold. (Cassian is apparently, my dog.)

Merry Christmas.

Cassian Andor stands, shower beating down on him, watching dirt swirl off him down the drain. He is overtired, nerves overwrought. The water feels like pin-pricks against his skin, his shoulders are tight, bunched around his ears so he has to consciously remind himself to roll them back every so often, crack his neck, tilt his head forward and relish in the glorious pull of muscle as it stretches down his neck.

It has been a long few days.
Hells, it has been a long few weeks.

They'd grabbed the girl (Jyn, he thinks, Jyn) and high tailed it out of there as best they could, but he was worn from the last mission. Wobani was cold, and while he can handle the cold, in short bursts, the sludge bogged him down. Metaphorically and physically. There was a smell to Wobani that cloyed his nostrils, leaving an ashen tang at the back of his mouth that he couldn't get away from. The grit of the planet stuck to his skin as much as the mud on his boots, and he can see it now, winding its way down the drain, along with all the other dirt and muck that has caked onto him since he'd last left Yavin, almost a standard month ago.

Gods his back ached.

The water helps here, some, in undoing some of the knots in his shoulders and back and neck, but the water spray on his skin was too much, his nerves are jangling, and he shuts the shower off, drying off and padding back into his bunk-room.

He pulls on pants and collapses onto his bed
... but sleep will not come easy.

He flips onto his back, hands resting easily on his belly, but his mind is alive and racing. This happens when he is over tired. Without intention, his mind flashes over the events of the day. The extraction, his first meeting with Jyn Erso. This tiny slip of a girl they had tracked and monitored for so long.

The way she had looked at him as K-2 had hauled her aboard the ship.
There was a defiant tilt to her mouth, he decided.
Eyes? ... Mouth?
Maybe it was her eyes.
Something. There was something there that he couldn't quite put his finger on.
Of course, he'd been briefed on her history, seen the file compiled on her. Impressive, to be sure. Able to scrap and survive on her own from the age of 16, set off by Saw and let loose on the galaxy; blaster strapped to her side and all his training under her belt. Saw had obviously seen something in her. More than just a simple duty to her parents.
Impressive, yes. But there was still something about her that rubbed him .. oddly.
He wasn't used to the way she looked at him. The way she sized him up, staring him down, refusing to look away.
It was her eyes.
Eyes, not mouth, then.
Blue-green and unfaltering, defiant and intelligent and framed by dark thick lashes.

Framed by dark thick lashes?

The thought bubbles up of its own accord, buzzing from the back of his mind, and his belly flinches under his hands.
Sure, he reasons with himself.
Sure, she is attractive. Attractive enough. Those eyes are ... nice, he supposes. Her lips too, a fullness to them he finds alluring. He is intrigued by the way stands her ground despite having to tilt her chin up to look at him and the way her accent is so clipped and proper -
- he shakes his head, dissipating the thoughts.

Jyn Erso a means to an ends. The end, being her father. Find her, use her to get to Saw. Use Saw to get to her father, use her father to destroy the weapon. She is merely a piece in the plan.

He drums his fingers on his stomach, knowing that sleep has evaded him yet again. He is tired, his limbs are heavy, body; heavy, but his mind wont fall into line and now, now there is a curious heat coiling in his belly. A heat that hasn't been stoked for too long, and is hard to ignore once it starts glowing.
Another drawback of his over-active mind.
He brushes his fingertips over his stomach, dipping over his naval and further below, skirting along the waistband of his pants.

That wont do tonight.

He sighs, swinging up out of his bed and aggressively dressing, cursing himself for mooning like a horny teenager over a pretty face.

He stalks out of his room and down to the small mess tent where rebels gather after-hours. Its not quite a cantina, but as close as they have on base. The council tends to look the other way, it keeps morale high. They need somewhere to commiserate losses and celebrate wins, after all. Tonight it is pulsing with energy and he squints as he ducks inside, adjusting to the lighting and scanning the crowd. Looking for one face in particular.

He stands at the bar table and accepts a glass of whatever moonshine has been brewed up in the vats out the back of their main storage shed, but he doesn't much have the stomach for it tonight.
He spots who is looking for a short time later; a young Captain sitting with the pilots, thick brown hair pulled back in twin braids, one of which hangs messily over her shoulder.
She's pretty. Beautiful even. Olive skin and large brown eyes and a neat little body he is more than familiar with.
He catches her eye and she cocks an eyebrow at him. He smiles back and inclines his head.
She and him have an understanding. Nothing serious. Just ... a chance to blow off some steam.
She excuses herself from her present company and ambles over to him, and he allows himself to follow the sway of her hips as she walks towards him.

"Captain," she says in greeting.

"Captain," he returns, pushing his half finished glass back to the bar-keep.

They make small talk, fill each other in on their recent schedules and he reaches out, runs a hand down her bare arm.
He doesn't have to say any more.
They make a quick exit from the tent, walking hastily back along the halls on hurried feet.

"Mine is closer," she says, taking his hand, pulling him down another corridor. He follows, wraps his hand around her wrist.

She palms her hand over the entry pad and he greedily pushes her inside, and his hands are already in her hair, knotting in her loosely done braids as the door hisses closed behind him. There's enough light from the florescent lighting outside her bunk streaming through the small window behind them that they needn't bother turning on a light, and either way, they are far too involved to spare it a thought.
And he is far too wired.
He bites down on her lower lip, mouth moving over her chin, her neck, tasting the salt of her skin as he drags his tongue over her collarbone, and she hums; nimble fingers pushing his jacket off his shoulders, flicking the buttons of his shirt open, hands ghosting across his chest. Her fingertips are feather light across him but it makes his skin buzz, and he shudders. Her clever hands slip lower, working to undo his belt, pushing his underwear aside as she takes him in her hand, and he is rock hard in an instant, straining, hips bucking of their own accord.
He groans into the crook of her shoulder and he pushes up the loose tank top she's wearing, breaking away from the sweet smell of her skin to pull the top over and free of her head as he palms her breasts through the flimsy material of her bra. Her eyes flash in the dim light slicing through the room, and he gasps, silencing himself by biting down on her shoulder as she slides her hand down the length of him.
His hands move lower, make quick work of her own belt, and she toes her boots off while he slides her pants down; practised routine, and he pushes them back against the bare brick wall of her bunk.
She is wet and hot when his fingers find their way inside her underwear, and it's her turn to gasp as he pushes the material aside, teasing her as he moves up to swallow up her groans, tongue tracing her lips.
She tightens her grip on him, and the heat in his belly flares - he cant hold out any longer.
He hoists her up, and in one slick movement, drives himself up and into her, pinning her against the wall and his chest.
She grips his shoulders, legs looped around him, her head thrown back, exposing the arch of her neck to him.
He sets a steady pace, and she meets him thrust for thrust, sharp little hipbones jutting into his stomach.
He screws his eyes shut, burying his face in her neck, trying to push all other thoughts from his mind, to focus on this one moment, just this. She fists her hands in his hair and it sends bright sparks of pleasure-pain shooting through his scalp, skittering across his skin, and her nails digging into his shoulder make his strung out nerves sing.

It is too much for him, too much, too much, too much, and he tries to slow their pace, hands going to her hips.

"No, Slower ... Slower, " he growls, but she only shakes her head in reply.

He digs his fingers into her thighs, gripping her hard as her feels that tension build in his stomach, gathering and pulsing.
She spurs him on, offering soft words of encouragement, and he goes; hips shuddering and stuttering against hers as he grinds out his climax.
They stay like that, catching their breath for a moment before he carefully lowers her back to the floor, and she gracefully extricates herself from the situation, gathering up her clothes and slinking away to the fresher to clean up. He pulls his pants back up, does his shirt up, shrugs on his jacket as he waits for her to return.
She does, wearing just her top and underwear, and she fixes him with a grin.

"Pleasure as always, Captain," she says easily, and her eyes are shining, too-bright, pupils shot.

He grins, kisses her goodbye, and slips away, aching for his bed, for the sweet refuge of sleep.

Once he's back in his bunk, stripped to his pants and laying back in his bed, the smell of sex still heavy in his nostrils, he replays the encounter in his mind.
Thick hair, knotted between his fingers, sweet smelling skin and soft sighs and blue-green eyes ... He stops, his own eyes flashing open.
Not blue-green eyes.
Brown eyes.
His stomach flip-flops and he rolls onto his back, eyes open, staring up at the patterns on the ceiling.

Blue-green eyes?

He groans, throws a hand over his own eyes.
He had an itch. He scratched it. He got it out of his system. So why? Why?
Infuriating.
Unconscionable.
Out of the question.
This behaviour is not allowed.

But his traitorous body has other ideas, and he feels his cock twitch at the thought of it. He tells himself this is the result of weeks on edge without a break. That his body and mind are needy and delirious, acting out, demanding things they know better to ask for. But he gives in to it, the way one gives into a nagging child, and his hand dips beneath the waistband of his pants, hoping beyond hope that this is what he needs to be able to finally give in to sleep.

He replays the encounter in his head, and although in the back of his mind he knows it's unwise, he allows himself to write over some of the features. Blue-green instead of brown eyes. Soft, pale skin instead of olive. He imagines a different voice, saying different words...

Just over-tired, he thinks.

That's all.