Mon Mothma - Blog Posts
What in the Renaissance painting is going on here????
i cannot understate how much i adore what andor has done for mon mothma. the way this show has taken someone who before this was mostly neglected to small supporting roles, and turned her into one of the most layered, complex and tragic characters in all of star wars has absolutely floured me, not to mention how BRILLIANT genevieve o’reilly’s performance has been too 🙏
This frame from the Clone Wars episode “Senate Murders” is gold.
“We heard you talking shit.”
I now just need to sit and stare at my walls with a heavy feeling of sorrow in my chest because I will never be able to experience Andor for the first time again.
Andor having Mon Mothma’s daughter gravitate towards the oppressive practices of her family’s ancestral culture as a way to rebel against a mother that has purposefully distanced herself from them is both one of the smartest and cruelest storytelling moves that this show has done to date. Ouch ouch ouch
It’s really funny how Mon Mothma in Andor is one of the most compelling and fascinating characters in Star Wars and then in basically any other piece of Star Wars media she becomes essentially a Hillary Clinton-shaped blob of platitudes
Oh, Genevieve. Did you have any idea what a couple days of work filming (ultimately deleted) scenes in Revenge of the Sith would eventually lead to?
I am hopeful that those of you who know me will vouch for my credibility in the days to come. I stand this morning with a difficult message... ANDOR | 2.09
DELETED SCENE — THE DELEGATION OF 2,000 from STAR WARS: REVENGE OF THE SITH (2005), dir. George Lucas
DIEGO LUNA & GENEVIEVE O'REILLY ANDOR | S02E09 “Welcome to the Rebellion”
“Rules of Engagement”
Commander Neyo x Senator Reader
⸻
You weren’t what the Senate expected.
You laughed too loud, danced too hard, and didn’t mind a drink before a midnight vote. You were also scarily good at passing legislation with a hangover.
Neyo didn’t know what to do with you.
He’d been assigned to guard you temporarily—something about threats, instability, blah blah. You didn’t care. What mattered was that he had a cool speeder, a gravelly voice, and those wraparound tactical visors that made your stomach flutter in ways you couldn’t explain.
He followed you everywhere.
And you made sure to give him a show.
“So what’s your opinion on martinis, Commander?” you asked one night, leaning across the bar table.
“I don’t drink.”
“Of course you don’t. You’ve got that whole ‘I eat war for breakfast’ look.”
He didn’t respond. Just stared. Probably judging you. Or calculating your odds of surviving the dance floor in six-inch heels.
“Come on,” you grinned, tipping your glass back. “You’re always so serious. Loosen up. Life’s short.”
“Life’s valuable,” he said flatly. “Especially yours. You should treat it that way.”
You pouted. “Are you flirting with me or threatening me?”
“Neither,” he replied. “Just trying to keep you alive.”
“How noble.”
That night, you dragged him to The Blue Nova—a Senate-frequented lounge pulsing with lights and low beats. Senators Chuchi and Mon Mothma were already there, nursing cocktails and giggling over some poor intern’s fashion sense.
Neyo stood rigid by the wall, arms crossed, helmet on. You danced.
You danced like no one was watching—except Neyo definitely was. You saw the subtle shift in his stance every time someone got too close to you. Every time someone brushed your waist, he tensed. When one particularly bold diplomat tried to pull you close, Neyo was there in seconds.
“She’s done dancing,” he said coolly.
You smirked as the man scurried off.
“Jealous?” you teased.
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I hesitated to answer a ridiculous question.”
You walked up, lips close to his helmet, breath warm.
“I think you like the chaos, Commander,” you whispered. “You just don’t know how to handle it.”
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, to your complete shock—he took his helmet off.
Face sharp. Stern. Battle-scarred. Beautiful.
“I handle a lot of things,” he said softly. “I don’t make a habit of chasing Senators around nightclubs.”
“And yet…”
He stepped closer. Close enough for you to feel the war in him, vibrating under the skin.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said.
You grinned. “Good.”
He didn’t kiss you—not yet. He wasn’t the type. But his gloved hand brushed yours beneath the table, quiet and electric.
And later, when you slipped into your speeder with him and leaned your head on his shoulder, he let you.
Because even soldiers like Neyo had a weakness for bright lights, fast music—and senators who didn’t play by the rules.
⸻
You woke up on your office couch, face down, wearing one boot and someone else’s scarf.
Your stomach roiled.
There was the taste of shame, spice liquor, and possibly fried nuna wings coating your mouth like regret.
“Ungh,” you groaned, clutching your head as if it were a ticking thermal detonator. Your presentation to the Senate chamber was in—oh kriff—thirty-two minutes.
You stumbled toward the refresher, tripped over Chuchi’s shawl, and made it to the toilet just in time to vomit your dignity into oblivion.
Twenty minutes later you were brushing your teeth with one hand, swiping through datapads with the other, your hair tied back in a half-dried bun, steam curling around your face like battlefield smoke.
You were dying.
And still—you were determined to win.
A sharp knock came at the door.
“Senator,” Commander Neyo’s voice rang, low and deadpan as ever.
You staggered to the entry and opened it slightly, eyes bloodshot, breath minty, skin blotchy.
He blinked.
“You look—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” you rasped, voice hoarse.
He nodded. “Fair.”
He stepped in, glancing around the wreckage—empty drink glasses, a senate-issue heel stuck in a potted plant, a half-written speech blinking on your datapad.
Neyo exhaled slowly through his nose. “We need to go soon.”
You collapsed onto your vanity. “Then fetch the war paint, Commander.”
To his mild horror, you started multitasking like a woman possessed. Concealer. Hair curler. Eyeliner sharper than your tongue. Hydration drops. A stim tab. Robes pressed. Shoes polished.
By the time you swept out of the room, datapad in hand, a vision in deep indigo velvet with subtle shimmer at the cuffs, you looked flawless.
Not a trace of the hungover banshee who almost passed out in the shower. Not a single clue that you’d had one foot in the grave twenty minutes ago.
Neyo stared at you in stunned silence as the turbolift doors opened.
“What?” you asked innocently, breezing past.
“When I first saw you,” he said, voice tight. “You were pale. Trembling. Sweating.”
“I was warmed up.”
He blinked. “You threw up.”
“And now I’m ready to lead a planetary reform discussion.”
He said nothing, but you could feel the tension behind his visor. Not irritation—something else.
Awe, maybe. Or confusion. Or grudging admiration.
He escorted you into the Senate chamber, back straight, flanking you like a shadow. You entered to hushed murmurs from other senators. You took the platform.
Lights brightened. All eyes on you.
You smiled.
Then you spoke.
Commanding. Persuasive. Engaged. Like you hadn’t danced barefoot on a bar counter hours earlier. Like your liver wasn’t currently filing for emancipation.
When it ended, with soft applause and nods of agreement, you stepped down coolly. Neyo followed close behind.
In the corridor, he finally said:
“You’re… something else.”
You smirked. “Are you flirting or threatening me?”
He almost smiled. Almost.
“Neither,” he muttered. “Just trying to keep up.”
⸻
The hovercar ride back to your apartment was silent.
You leaned against the window, sunglasses on despite the overcast Coruscant sky, hand gripping a hydration tablet like it owed you money. Neyo sat beside you, unnervingly still, as usual.
“You pulled it off,” he said finally, breaking the silence.
You didn’t even open your eyes. “Barely. I think I lost consciousness for a moment during Taa’s rebuttal.”
“I noticed,” he replied calmly. “Your left eye twitched in morse code.”
“Did I say ‘sustainable galactic reform through bipartisan unity’?”
“Yes.”
“Impressive.”
“Also a lie.”
You smiled weakly. “I’m not a miracle worker. Just a hot mess with good timing.”
When the speeder landed, Neyo helped you out like a proper guard—but the moment the lift doors closed in your apartment building, your knees buckled slightly.
“Stars,” you groaned, pulling off your shoes like they were weapons.
Neyo caught your elbow, steadying you with practiced hands. You didn’t look at him—couldn’t. Your head was pounding too hard, your bones liquifying.
He didn’t say anything. Just supported you as you limped down the hallway.
Your apartment was clean—thanks to your overpaid droid—but still smelled faintly of scented oil, warm fabrics, and overpriced wine.
The door shut behind you.
And you dropped your datapad like a dying soldier discarding a blaster.
Without preamble, you dragged yourself to your bed and belly-flopped face-first into it with the grace of a crashed starship.
“Urrrghhh,” you groaned into your sheets. “Tell the Senate I died nobly.”
Neyo stood in the doorway for a long second.
Then—
“You forgot to remove your hairpins,” he said.
You made a muffled whining sound.
“You’ll stab yourself.”
“Let the assassination succeed,” you moaned.
But he moved closer. Carefully. Gently.
And began removing the decorative pins from your hair.
One by one.
You stayed perfectly still, secretly stunned. He was… delicate. Surprising.
His gloved fingers swept your hair back from your temple, warm through the fabric, steady and sure.
“Better,” he said softly.
You peeked up at him, mascara smudged, lips dry, eyes bloodshot.
“You’re being weirdly sweet.”
“I’m not sweet.”
“Well, you’re weird then.”
A long pause. He didn’t move away.
Then he added, almost reluctantly, “You did well today.”
You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “That almost sounded like a compliment, Commander.”
He hesitated.
Then, “Rest. I’ll stand guard.”
Your heart thudded softly against your ribs.
You didn’t respond. Just let yourself finally sleep, Neyo’s presence a silent shadow at your door.
You knew he wouldn’t leave.
And that—for once—felt like safety.
⸻
It was past 0200 when you stirred.
The sheets tangled around your legs like a battlefield, your head finally calm but your throat dry as sand. You padded barefoot across the apartment, wincing at the cold floor and the slight ache still lingering behind your eyes.
You found Neyo right where you expected him.
Standing just outside your bedroom door.
Helmet on. Blaster slung. Spine straight.
Unmoving.
“Have you been standing there this whole time?” you asked, voice low and raspy.
“Yes.”
You blinked at him. “Kriff, Neyo. At least sit. I’m not a senator worth slipping a disc over.”
“Your safety doesn’t rest well on upholstery.”
You snorted softly, leaning against the doorframe. “Still all thorns and durasteel, huh?”
“I’m consistent.”
“Irritatingly so.”
You were about to tease him more when you noticed something shift behind him—just past the window’s faint reflection.
Your eyes snapped to it. Too fast.
Neyo noticed.
Then everything happened at once.
A flash of movement—glass shattering—a stun dart zipping past your ear—
And Neyo tackled you to the ground.
The world blurred. You hit the floor, tucked under his armored weight as a blaster bolt sizzled into the wall where your head had been.
Another shot. Close.
Neyo rolled off you and into cover in one swift, practiced movement. “Stay down!”
You didn’t need to be told twice.
A figure dropped through the busted window—a sleek, masked bounty hunter, compact and fast. They moved like they’d done this a hundred times.
They hadn’t met Neyo before.
He opened fire, short, brutal bursts. Not flashy. Efficient.
The bounty hunter ducked behind a column, tossing a flash charge—blinding light filled the apartment, and you covered your head as the sound cracked through your skull.
Then silence.
Then Neyo’s voice, low, deadly. “You made a mistake.”
You peeked up just in time to see him lunge—shoulder first—into the attacker, sending them crashing through your dining table.
The fight was brutal, close-range. Fists. Elbows. Armor slamming against furniture.
You watched through wide eyes, heart hammering in your ribs.
The bounty hunter went down with a hard grunt—stunned and unconscious before they even hit the floor.
Smoke. Dust. Silence.
Neyo stood over the wreckage, breathing hard, visor glinting in the broken light.
You slowly got up from behind the couch, staring at your shattered window, your ruined table, your torn carpet… and the one thing that somehow remained miraculously untouched:
Your liquor cabinet.
You limped over.
From the wreckage and the chaos, one lonely, very expensive bottle sat upright and proud, like a survivor of war.
You picked it up reverently, uncorked it, and took a long swig.
Then you held it out to Neyo.
“Drink?” you offered hoarsely.
He stared at you for a moment—visor unreadable. Then, slowly, he removed his helmet, setting it on the countertop with a heavy thud.
He took the bottle from your hand.
Took a sip.
Didn’t even flinch.
You whistled. “Tougher than I thought.”
He handed it back. “You don’t know the half of it.”
You grinned, despite the mess around you, your pulse still racing.
“Well,” you said, leaning against the ruined wall. “If this is going to be a regular occurrence, I’m going to need better windows. And more of that bottle.”
He glanced down at the unconscious bounty hunter, then back at you.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
That shouldn’t have made your breath catch.
But it did.
⸻
You were sprawled on your couch with a blanket around your shoulders like a dethroned monarch, cradling a caf mug and trying not to move too much.
Neyo stood a few meters away, helmet back on, deep in conversation with a squad of Coruscant Guard troopers who had secured the perimeter and taken the unconscious bounty hunter into custody. One of them was talking into a datapad, another bagging evidence.
Your apartment looked like a warzone.
Scorch marks on the walls. Smashed glass. Your poor dining table in pieces. A chair impaled by a vibroblade. And somewhere, inexplicably, a boot had ended up in the chandelier.
The door buzzed.
You groaned.
“Tell them I’m dead.”
Neyo didn’t even turn.
The door buzzed again.
You hissed and dragged yourself up with the grace of a dying tooka.
The door slid open.
“Holy kriff—what happened in here?” gasped Senator Chuchi, her eyes wide, sunglasses on despite the dim lighting.
Behind her, Bail Organa and Mon Mothma followed in, blinking like the lights offended them.
Bail took one look around and sighed deeply. “Did you throw a party after the party?”
Riyo covered her mouth. “Oh stars, is that blood?”
“No,” you rasped, sipping caf. “It’s the soul of my décor, leaking out.”
Neyo, still conversing with the Guard, ignored the comment.
Riyo winced, kneeling beside the splintered dining table. “This was antique…”
“So was my liver,” you muttered.
Another Guard trooper approached Neyo. “Sir, we’ve confirmed the bounty was hired off-world. Probably just a scare tactic—or someone testing security.”
“They tested the wrong kriffing senator,” you said from the couch, raising your caf like a battle flag.
Bail crossed his arms. “You’re not staying here.”
“I can’t just vanish in the middle of a political firestorm. I have three meetings today and a vote on trade tariffs.”
“You nearly died.”
“I nearly died hot, Bail. There’s a difference.”
He looked to Neyo. “Can you keep her alive through all this?”
Neyo gave a single nod. “Yes.”
You snorted. “He’s too stubborn to let me die. It’d mess with his stats.”
The Guard filed out slowly, leaving behind scorched walls, broken decor, and the lingering smell of smoke and citrus-scented panic.
Your friends started cleaning instinctively—stacking plates, lifting fallen cushions.
Mon handed you the bottle from last night. “This survived too.”
You stared at it.
Then smiled.
“Guess I’ll call that a diplomatic win.”
⸻
The assassination attempt made the front page of every news feed.
“Assault in the Upper Rings: Senator Survives Bounty Attack in Her Apartment.”
“Corruption? Retaliation? Speculation Rises After Attack on Popular Senator.”
“Bounty Hunter Subdued by Marshall Commander in Daring Apartment Ambush.”
Your face was everywhere—mid-speech, mid-stride, mid-bloody hangover.
They didn’t know that part, of course. But you did.
In the wake of it all, security protocols were rewritten overnight. A flurry of emergency Senate meetings, security panels, and sharp-toothed reporters hunting soundbites. You barely slept. When you did, it was light. Restless. Searching for a presence that wasn’t there.
Neyo had gone back to barracks immediately after the incident. De-briefed. Filed reports. Gave statements.
And now, word had come down.
He was being reassigned.
⸻
The knock on your door was unnecessary.
You already knew it was him.
You opened the door slowly—draped in a robe, caf in hand, rings under your eyes that even the finest Coruscanti powder couldn’t hide.
Neyo stood there in full armor, helmet tucked under one arm.
“I got the memo,” you said before he could speak.
He gave a short nod. “Senate security is shifting to full internal protocol. Coruscant Guard, under Commander Thorn, will oversee protection from now on.”
“Ironic, considering you’re the reason I’m not dead.”
“My orders weren’t to stay,” he said plainly.
You leaned against the doorframe, studying him. His armor had new scuffs. He was cleaned, pressed, regulation-ready… but the quiet between you hummed with something unsaid.
“You going back to the front?” you asked, already knowing.
He nodded.
You stared at him, your throat tight.
“I’m not one for speeches, Neyo. Or long goodbyes. Or… feelings. But I’m pissed.”
That caught his attention.
“Why?”
“Because you’re walking away like none of this mattered. Like I’m just another senator on your route. Another mission. And you know what? I wasn’t. Not to you.”
His eyes dropped for a moment.
Then rose again—meeting yours.
“Of all my deployments,” he said slowly, carefully, like the words were foreign, “this was the first time I didn’t feel like I was wasting time.”
Your breath hitched.
“I didn’t know how to say that,” he added. “Until now.”
You laughed, wet and quiet. “You’ve got a strange way of being soft.”
“I don’t do soft,” he replied, mouth tugging at the corner in what might have been—might have been—a smile.
“Right,” you murmured. “Just war and discipline and smashing bounty hunters into my furniture.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“If it were up to me,” he said, “I’d stay.”
Your heart stung.
“I know.”
Silence.
Then, on instinct—or maybe defiance—you reached up, fingers brushing his cheek just beside the helmet line. He didn’t move.
And for the briefest second, he leaned into your touch.
Then pulled away.
Duty won again.
“Goodbye, Senator.”
You stood in the doorway long after the lift closed behind him.
Outside, a new Guard squad took position at your apartment.
Inside, you poured the last of the bottle from the night before into a glass.
And toasted to what almost was.
Very glad to see people who also see the vision
Was it just me, or did Cassian and Mon Mothma have... good chemistry?
Was it just me, or did Cassian and Mon Mothma have... good chemistry?