Call me, call me any, anytime!

[buckingham]

the phone sex +
sexting meme

what it says on the tin. leave a blank comment, include your preferences or a starter, it's all good. reply to others with a text, a dirty picture (please link all nsfw things!), misfires, misdials, drunk filthy voicemails, whatever your heart desires.

Comments

it's a precarious build up okay eheheh

[nexubait]

[ Typing, typing, typing … maybe this is where the ‘no’ comes in? Too dangerous after all? No feasible way to fit it into their itinerary? Anything at all that could begin to tug on the threads of doubt? One glance in his direction is all she allows herself, and then it’s back to acting as if she’s more invested in the business of mingling than she is in waiting for his official answer. When it does come, and her attention flies back down to what it had never really left in the first place, the simplicity is enough to leave her breathless. Now? ]

Oh, yes! Let’s go!

[ What adventure, after all, has ever been more tempting? And when will she ever have such an opportunity again? Escorted by a real Jedi on a search for a lightsaber crystal – the excitement is radiant. Doubly so when the set of coordinates that arrives in her hands is here, on Naboo. As if the stars have, as they so rarely do, and never more than metaphorically, aligned. ]

I can’t believe you’re really going to take me. Are you even really allowed to?

[morghon]

Don't you want to change into a proper crystal scavenging attire first?

[ Sorry, he can't resist teasing. He can almost feel her excitement from where he's standing, and he can't help looking through the crowd, at her, and smiling softly. ]

Allowed to what? Teach you how to use a lightsaber? Help you make one? Why not?

[nexubait]

[ Well… he might be right. What she’s wearing right now was designated for one occasion, and crystal-hunting is certainly another. Which begs the question: what does one wear for crystal-hunting? The options are dazzling and manifold, which is terrible, because if she gets caught up deciding what to wear, they might not ever go at all. ]

I appreciate your concern, but I think this will work, won’t it?

[ Sure it will. It can’t be too rigorous of an adventure, can it? And she’s still distracted, anyway, by whether or not this particular adventure is condoned in the first place, even if she’s already beginning to politely remove herself from the current gathering. ]

Because I don’t really have a need for one, not like you do. I don’t want to disrespect it, or the Jedi, or you.

[morghon]

Guess we'll just have to wait and see.

[ It could work, he supposes, since he's going to be there do any heavy lifting for her anyway, but... it's still a very distracting attire.

What she says next gives him pause, though. She's thoughtful, truly; even in her excitement she manages to consider such things, and he appreciates that about her. ]

Many Westerosi Houses have lightsabers for their ancestral swords. It will not be a disrespect.
Besides, you'll know if you're not meant to wield one. The crystal won't call out to you.

[nexubait]

[ It'll work. It's plenty breathable, and that's probably important while clambering through a cave, right? Plus, maybe she's enjoying the way he's been looking at it.

She is, however, concerned about his generosity now bringing him dishonor in some way later. That's not something she's willing to accept, and if it means sacrificing the possibility of ever constructing a lightsaber of her own, then it's the price that will be paid.

But that isn't what she's hearing, and the explanation she's provided is met with a tilt of her head. She has no ancestral claim to the revered weapon, either, but if the real test is whether or not the crystal itself will call out to her, then she will trust it. Something she can lightly tease about as she meanders her way back over to where he stands. ]

I do hope I'm worthy, because I think I'm going to need several crystals.

[morghon]

[ Excuse you he's not been looking that much, anyway.

But who said she had no claim? If she'd been born a Westerosi, she would've been from a noble family, and they would have had a lightsaber, passed down from one generation to the next, even if no one would actually use it. Just as his family had one, just like the saber he's currently carrying.

He makes a face at her for that last comment, though his fingers continue to type up and eventually send his response. ]

One in every color, I'd imagine.

[nexubait]

[ It's a success if he ends up making a face about something, right? Or maybe it's just always amusing to see, even if it is over something that's really not up for debate. If she's going to find a crystal of one color, how can she be expected not to search for one in every color? How are any future ensembles including a lightsaber supposed to function if they don't - and it should be obvious - match? Something he understands, based on his response, sarcastic though it may be.

An issue to be addressed face to face, once she reaches him, letting her gaze wander swiftly down his wonderfully green figure before finding his face again, not without the exuberant smile that has been lingering there ever since this impromptu mission was given official clearance. ]

"There's no rule against that, is there?"

[morghon]

"Having a lightsaber? Not in Westeros." He can't speak for the rest of the galaxy, given that the Westerosi have almost entirely isolated themselves from the mapped worlds, building their own culture and traditions, and, well, he's aware that there are at least some key differences between the Jedi Order and the Night's Watch. "Having one in every color..."

He offers his arm to her, a gesture that's so second nature by now that he doesn't even really think about it, his attention almost completely on her bright smile — and the possible color combinations she must be thinking about by now. He might still pretend to huff about it some days, but he's learned more than a few things from the fashion education she's generously granted him. "I should ask Sam if he's read anything about that." Because if there's anyone who has that sort of information, it's Sam.

Then he glances at her with the faintest hint of a smirk at the corners of his lips. "You'll have to prioritize, or we'll never make it out of the cave." His free hand seems to distractedly go to the hilt of his own saber, fingers closing around the wolf's head. The best swords have names, he'd once told her; his was called Longclaw, and it was a silver-bladed beauty. "If I find a black one, will you give me your blessing to use it?" he teases.

[nexubait]

The lightsaber is, like so many other tales he’s told her, so steeped in mystery that she almost can’t imagine how it will feel to have in her hand, nevermind the fact that he always carries one. The same way she can’t imagine a direwolf’s coat – coarse or plush? – or a blizzard raging against castle walls. It was something she could, for now, only dream about, and so she was naturally dreaming of a saber in every color. But the aesthetics of matching and complementing colors wouldn’t be a problem for someone who chiefly wore black. A habit she was slowly coaxing him away from; the green really was marvelous. It was a shame he didn’t have an emerald saber to go with it.

She brings her fingers to his arm – as reflexive and effortless as a heartbeat – and her eyes wander down to the saber at his hip. The one with a wolf’s-head hilt, with a name, even, which was a detail that still fascinated her. But it made sense; why shouldn’t a cherished weapon have a name? She would have to think up several, now, if her ambition to acquire a rainbow of crystals was realized. “I can’t be the only person to have ever asked,” she assures them both, and it has to be true, right? Surely there has been someone in the history of Westeros with a desire to match their saber to their professional gown, their gala down, their retreat gown, and their nightgown?

When she lifts her gaze back up, she finds the ghost of a smirk on his lips, and she scoffs softly at the veiled warning. “You ought to know by now that art can’t be rushed,” particularly the art of creative fashion, and the collecting of crystals needed to bring it to life. Would there really be anything so terrible about disappearing into a glimmering cave for a little while? Something flickers across her shoulder blades at the thought.

And then comes the question she should’ve expected, and while a despairing sigh is ready to answer, she is abruptly taken by a different, not entirely unpleasant vision. Two glossy black crystals, two obsidian blades, for igniting on rare, star-crossed occasions. There’s something magnetic about that, and she already has a name for her own supposed black blade, hiding a small, secretive smile. “Yes, and one for me, too. I’ll call it Softspar.”

[morghon]

He chuckles softly at her comment — that she can’t be the only person to have ever asked — because he's sure that nobody, at least in the North, would've thought of that. The Northmen are cold and dreary and austere like the planet they live in and the name of the House that rules them. Although perhaps Sansa would have, that is if she's ever recognized the value of a saber beyond combat; she's always dreamed of being a Southern belle, with all their colors and fineries. Maybe she and Padmé would've gotten along, too, even if it's just in that regard.

Art. That's what it is to her, really, and having been in Naboo for a while now, he's come to understand and appreciate her views better. Dressing up is not vanity or an endeavor simply for the lack of anything better to do; it's almost tactical, the way she employs her wardrobe, making her clothes work for her, helping her get things done. Like how she's successfully managed to distract him with that sweet smile and those excited eyes and that strip of smooth, pale skin along her stomach. Seven hells, and they're heading into a cave, just by themselves? He's not that dumb to not realize how that is making him feel, how his body is tensing up in anticipation, and he has to take a deep breath to steady himself.

Only... what she says next catches him so off-guard that he doesn't really know how to react. He doesn't stop walking, but his head turns to look at her, catching the look in her eyes and that small, secretive smile. "Softspar," he echoes, and he's surprised that he's laughing. Because until now, neither of them has ever made mention of that night, or even alluded to it; he'd even left before she could wake, dreading her reaction after sleep had dulled the effect of all that wine, though he could almost swear that she had already been awake then. In any case, there's the slightest tinge along his jaw as warm memories of that night flood into him, and he licks his lips absently as he's reminded of the way she'd glowed in the moonlight. "And here I thought you don't approve of black."

[nexubait]

A lightsaber was a perfectly acceptable accessory, wasn’t it? And, like any accessory or textile worth its weight, it served a tactical purpose. Like fire-resistant Karlini silk, or the buoyancy of waterweave. Adding a lightsaber to the carefully-constructed arrangement of such a wardrobe? Her excitement went on unfading, interrupted only by the words she herself had spoken. Without much forethought – how could a midnight blade be called anything else? – but as she feels his gaze on her face, it becomes more than a lighthearted quip. There’s nothing teasing or careless about the memories that promptly go cascading through her head: they’re vivid and warm, a rush not only of images, but a physical rush, directly across her skin, and the tinge that appears on his jaw also finds a place on her cheeks, catching the corner of her lip with her teeth, like she might’ve liked to take the words back.

Because after the night had come the morning, and that had been something worse than brief: he’d vanished, or so he might’ve liked her to believe. Because he’d wanted to vanish? To make the whole thing disappear by removing himself from it as quickly as possible? An onslaught of shame and regret, as she’d suspected might happen once the wine evaporated from their senses? Suspected of him, anyway – she’d never been so lost to the wine that waking up in the morning made it seem as if the night had belonged to someone else. It had been her breathing his name in the moonlight, and it had been her blinking slowly awake in a slant of sunlight. Only to feign still being asleep, just long enough to feel him lifting himself away from her side, and then never speaking of those lost hours again. Until now, like this, lightly. That heartbroken lapse of silent morning, spent alone, wondering if he wished he could take it all back, was more than enough to convince her to lock it away.

But now he’s laughing about it, and echoing the name the same way he’d fondly echoed ‘softly sparring’ that night, so there’s a flutter of relief following the shiver of shadow. There isn’t anything more to say about it; it’s like stepping onto unsteady ground or bumping into something fragile, so she slips along the edges of breathless memories that make her heart quicken for a moment longer before schooling her attention back onto the original issue. Color versus black. The merits of black. Why she hadn’t ever been partial to it, and why she should continue to be now, if things were to remain uncomplicated. It’d be wiser, and she tips her chin to align herself with that wisdom. “I approve of it when and where it serves its purpose.”

Before she can be concerned about whether or not a black crystal has a place in her imagined collection, however, they have to make it to the cave, a thought which flickers like a cauldron of color. “When it calls to you, how do you know?” Or, a more worrisome question: “What if I can’t hear it?”

[morghon]

They would never really know, would they, unless they dare speak of it? Until then that night would simply be a memory, perhaps even a figment of their imagination; not because it hadn't been real, but because they refuse to make it so. Reality, after all, had complications. Reality was the fact that he was her protector, and ought to be nothing more. Reality was the fact that she was a Senator, and he was a Jedi. Reality was that he'd made an oath in front of a heart tree, vowing to put duty first above all else. How could a soft spar in the moonlight fit into that reality, even if it had felt so incredibly right?

Truth be told, he hadn't wanted to get up at all. He'd wanted her to breath his name in the light of day. He'd wanted to hold her without it having to be under the pretense of defense or the cover of darkness. He'd wanted to kiss her mouth and down the length of her body. Those are the thoughts that have haunted him since. Among many others. So is it too much to hope that she's been thinking about that night, too? What else could that smile mean, if not to hint at a secret? One that they both share, and would be safe in each other's care?

But then she's jumping right back into their discussion of fashion — one that's becoming more frequent, though he can't say he doesn't like the way her eyes twinkle when she gets all excited like this — and he's prepared to counter her lamentations about black as a color when her tone turns serious. Worried, even. Enough for him to reach out with his other hand, resting it over the one she has on his arm. No gloves.

"You'll hear it." And he says that with a certainty that leaves no room for debate or aggressive negotiation. "It'll be... it'll feel like home. Something that's yours."

[nexubait]

Once the question has been asked, and once the thought takes root, it becomes increasingly dire. What right did she have, after all, to find a kyber crystal? Because she had no practical reason to ever carry a saber, why should she have anything to do with the crystals that made them? If it was a matter of hearing them, why should she ever expect to be granted that ability? Wouldn’t it be like speaking a language she didn’t know, and couldn’t be taught? In much the same way that she could never be taught to feel the Force - it was a gift she hadn’t been born with. She despaired to realize that the thought hadn’t crossed her mind until now, with an impromptu plan already in motion. ‘What if’s never gave her pause before, but somehow this felt different. This failure would sting more than a failed bill or scrapped piece of legislation. Something about it was already in her heart.

It was almost a blessing, then, to have her thoughts diverted – his hand coming to rest reassuringly atop her own drew her gaze down. No gloves. She might have resisted for half a heartbeat, but it was futile; memories rained down like sparks. Bare fingers finding their way past tightly fastened fabric to land hot against her skin. Bare hands vying with silver moonlight to rove in wonder and desire over her body, and his body. Bare palms inscribing unspeakable devotion over every inch of her until the moonlight was forgotten and she was wrapped in rhythmic flame. No gloves.

She surfaces again at his words, glancing pointedly away until reason chases out simmering memories, wondering what sort of certainty there is. For someone like her, probably none, although the sureness of his voice is like the sun and she can’t help a flick of a smile at the advice she’s given. Simple and straightforward, with his unique brand of tenderness. She gives his arm a small squeeze.

“Wordless, intuitive certainty? That’s not easy for a politician to accept,” because wasn’t it always words and argument and hard deliberation that decided what was true and what wasn’t? The exceptions to that were few, but maybe they did exist. Maybe she’d already discovered that. “But I’ll listen.” Besides, wasn’t she already home?

[morghon]

He might not be reading her mind, but he can sense the overflow of her worry nonetheless, seeping out of her like sweat and tainting her excitement. So he's glad when she eventually squeezes his arm and gives him a small smile. What right did she have not to find a crystal? There are plenty in Westeros who carry sabers without deserving them, and there are plenty who haven't been granted the gift of the Force at all yet wield those special blades anyway. She, of all people, is more than worthy of such fine weapon — and it strikes him suddenly that it's perhaps something he can leave her with, a memento of this time they've shared together, so she can protect and defend herself should he no longer be around to do so.

It's a thought that quiets him for a moment. He'll never admit it, but he's dallying as much as he's allowed; he's regularly checking in with the Lord Commander, yes, but he's made no effort to hurry in transporting the Senator out of Naboo. Aside from his prejudices against the Lannisters and the fact that the rest of the Watch are currently occupied with their expedition for there to be anyone to summon him back to Westeros with urgency, he's simply finding it more and more difficult to be away from her. To even think about it is... distressing, to say the least.

So if she wants to go looking for a lightsaber crystal, then they'll go looking. They'll search, and maybe it'll take a while since she's not Force-sensitive. Then they'll have to actually build her saber, and train. It'll be a while yet, really, before she'll be ready to head to the edge of the galaxy and disappear into obscurity. There might be more moonlit nights and soft spars yet. Or so he foolishly dares to hope.

"Why? You don't strike me as someone who isn't intuitive or observant." Traits that are advantageous for politicians. And for anyone who might want to use a lightsaber for a personal weapon. "And if nothing calls out to you, we can search in another cave." It happens, after all. "The crystals in this one might not be your color," he attempts to joke, grinning stupidly at her, if only so she wouldn't lose her confidence. An idea that's almost inconceivable. But he refuses to take chances.

[nexubait]

There’s worry surrounding the success of the spelunking adventure itself, yes, but she is also quickly realizing that she’s concerned about more than that. For as fretful as she is about being able to find a crystal at all, she is also worried about the moment they step back out of the cave. Because what, then, will be the reason for staying on Naboo? She’ll need someone to help her fashion the crystal into the heart of a lightsaber, that’s true, but will he be the one allowed to do it? When will they finally be punished for their slowly-spent time? Maybe they won’t be; but that is, even for her, too idealistic a view to take. Someone will call him back at some point. Someone will demand to know that she’s securely in her cage at King’s Landing eventually. Her worry about what that eventual moment will feel like is responsible for her quiet panic now.

But among the many practical skills she’s been trained in, maintaining her unruffled composure is one of them. Not an ability she has always excelled at, as keeping her passion muted, in any scenario, is not something that comes naturally. There’s also the blunt fact that he’s Force-sensitive, and she’s not sure what all she’s scattering into his perception at the moment. What does that feel like, anyway? Turbulent water? Flickers of electricity? She almost wants to ask, but she also doesn’t want to admit that her excitement is so closely woven with anxiety. Perhaps it’ll be easier to forget once they’re in the presence of the crystals.

And, as he’s reassuring her, there are other caves to search, right? It’s not a matter of trying once and potentially failing forever. The fact that they’re soon going to disappear into crystal-lit darkness at all keeps her fingers tight around his arm in anticipation. Then she’s rolling her eyes up skeptically at what must be a joke, though she’s also charmed into a laugh by the grin that goes with it. It could be true, after all.

“If you’re purposefully taking me to a cave full of black crystals, Jon Snow, justice will be swift and merciless.”

[morghon]

It's not the response he expects that he actually bursts out laughing, a sight that might just be as rare as finding her an actual crystal. Or perhaps it's not so rare anymore, for he's certainly less broody now than when he'd first started in her service. Less black, no gloves, more smiles. As though he's finally learned how to live, or that he's found a purpose beyond just making the best of the life he's chosen for himself in the Night's Watch. "Why, I would never upset your artistic sensibilities in such a manner, my Lady," he huffs, pretending to be offended by her insinuation. Not that he isn't thinking about doing that on purpose now that she's given him an idea? What would black crystals even look like? Would they be dark slabs, like coal, absorbing all the light in their midst? Or will they be translucent, like shafts of distilled moonlight trapped under the earth?

He catches himself following that trail of thought and he ducks his head a little in embarrassment. He's imagining. It's... something he doesn't do a lot, at least not since he'd taken up his watch at the Wall. What else was there for him to imagine, anyway? Day in and day out, the asteroid belt had looked the same, a collection of tumbling rocks against a vast backdrop of nothing. He's heard all the warnings, all the stories, yet nothing worrisome had really come from beyond the Wall. But she's opened up a whole new world to him, one that's bursting with color and beauty and possibilities. Now there isn't a day when he doesn't imagine what sort of clothes she might take to wearing. Now there isn't a day when he doesn't think about her smile, her laugh, the way she glows when she wins an argument, the way her eyes shine when she sees something of artistic value. Now there isn't a day when he doesn't go to sleep thinking back to that night they'd stolen from the moonlight, how beautiful she'd looked and how wonderful she'd felt.

He punches the codes to their ship and gestures for her to enter first. It's not a large shuttle, just enough for two, but anything bigger would've been less intimate anyway. He'll never admit it, of course, but he likes having to squeeze past her if he has to go through the main hold, or that when he's in the pilot seat she's close enough for him to reach out a hand to touch her. "I feel the need to remind you, however, that this is your planet, so if that cave turns out to be full of black crystals after all, you're the only one to blame."

[nexubait]

If wandering mistakenly into a cave that was made of nothing but black crystal meant that she got to have this - his unburdened laughter – then she would willingly go. Not that she planned on saying so, her gaze lingering for a moment on the lifted lines of his face that made room for that rare smile. The one that reached his eyes, the one that brought a bright shine to everything he was made of, however fleeting. But it felt, actually, like those moments were becoming less fleeting. Like they stayed a little bit longer each time, and she was powerless over the feathered, fluttering warmth that filled her chest when it was because of something she’d said. A transitory delight that she could give him, that could be shared. It was as lovely to behold as the color green on his broad chest, or his hands without gloves. Little things that she found herself looking forward to.

Then his sheepishness returns, with a duck of his head, as if those merry moments give him trouble. As if they don’t quite fit with who he’s supposed to be, and she flicks her gaze away, hiding a small smile. Reasonless joy is becoming harder to deny. They flicker up like intoxicating little bubbles in a glass. They shouldn’t, because nothing should transpire between them without reason. There should always be a boundary erected there instead. Their assigned responsibilities, and common courtesy outside of that, but nothing more. ‘More’ begets more. More is deceptive. More is one moment more, or one word more, or one night more. More is moonlight lapping over moonlight until ‘more’ is not enough.

Then they’re at their shuttle, which was made just big enough for two, and she releases his arm in order to duck inside. Too crowded a space for some, maybe, but she’s never raised any concerns about their traveling arrangements. She’s simply steered her thoughts away from the fact that he’s close enough to touch, and that they often do, with a brushing of elbows or shoulders, as happens sometimes when he’s maneuvering the shuttle. Close enough that turning to speak to him would’ve brought them close enough that she could practically feel the reverberation of the words he spoke in return. As it is, she sits back with a scoff, smoothing her hands over the tops of her knees. “If that cave turns out to be full of black crystals, then someone has clearly sabotaged my best efforts to purge the world of poor taste, and I will expect you, the defender of my safety and my sensibilities, to prosecute them accordingly.”

[morghon]

He's still grinning when he slides into the pilot's seat, already so used to performing the pre-flight sequence that he doesn't need to look at the controls; instead his gray eyes are on her, and they're shining with reasonless emotions. Reasonless amusement. Reasonless mischief. Reasonless joy. Who cares about boundaries and walls when they're trapped together in a space so intimate as the cockpit of their shuttle? Who cares when no one else is really looking? "And do you, my Lady, already deem me appropriately dressed for such an important mission? I cannot be a hypocrite and prosecute poor taste without reflecting your fine sensibilities." It's said with a mock seriousness that even he can't believe himself. What has she done to him? Who is this person he's become because of her? It can't just be because of a shift in his wardrobe, can it? Green instead of black, no gloves?

He doesn't actually wait for her reply, dropping the coordinates into the nav computer and guiding their transport out of the hangar, but he stays quiet to allow her to respond accordingly. He'll let her have her flights of fancy again, though he'll never admit to the delight she now stirs in him whenever she does so. Yes, he used to dread being the object of her so-called fashion experiments; he can still remember that first time she'd brought him to a clothing shop, and how the colors and the fabrics and the accessories had overwhelmed — no, frightened —him. But if it means having her attention, having her fuss over him like there's nothing and no one else more important, well, he'll gladly take it.

"Have you seen volcanic crystals, though?" he asks once their ship takes to the air, the pristine scenery of Naboo exploding like a prismatic canvas around them. "One of King's Landing's moons, Dragonstone, has caverns of volcanic crystals so beautiful, they're said to silence the Others and send them skittering back into the darkness. The locals call them dragonglass, but the ancient Valyrians called them frozen fire."

[nexubait]

He may be, actually, appropriately dressed for the first time in his life. He’s been honorably dressed before, that can’t be argued – wearing black leather when it was demanded of him, a representation of the order he stood for. It was practical for a bodyguard to wear black. It was practical and proper to wear gloves. It was practical to blend into the background of any event that he accompanied her to. But practicality could be painfully dull. The green that he has chosen today, then, continues to dazzle her. In much the same way that his smile does, and his spirited gray eyes, and she’s not sure she’s ever seen them dancing quite like they are now. With feeling, undisguised, shameless emotion: amusement, mischief, joy. Is it any wonder that the cockpit of their shuttle has become one of her favored places to be? It’s one of the few spaces where there’s nothing between them. There’s a reasonless giddiness in her own eyes, and chiming in her voice when she praises his uncharacteristic color scheme.

“If I didn’t deem you appropriately dressed, do you think I would be allowing you to pilot us anywhere right now?” The green is, in fact, rather flattering, and she wouldn’t mind him standing at the helm of any mission, currently, dressed as he is. Any Naboo-bound mission, anyway, because that’s where shades of green are most fitting. Different hues and cuts will be called for on other planets. But he is reflecting her fine sensibilities, and it is a joy to see him dressed in color. It is also a joy to see him so mirthful, grinning, playful, lively. Happy, even if it is reasonless, and that happiness is infectiously close to her, and she’s delighted by this impromptu escapade, and even more delighted by his delight, and for a moment she is so charmed and overcome with simple joy that she leans across the negligible distance between them and places a kiss on his cheek.

Quick, just a dusting of lips against skin, too sudden and fierce an impulse to resist. But it can still be called a courtesy, right? A not-completely-informal gesture of affection? It’s an explanation she silently allows herself as she rests back, making a point not to linger too long in that silence. To make it feel as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Because that’s the truth, isn’t it? It’s nothing extraordinary. Speaking draws her attention away from the sheepish flutter in her chest, if nothing else.

“Volcanic crystals?” And her fascination is genuine, because the images that come to mind are vibrant and flickering and captivating. Volcanic? So, glimmering with searing reds and ashy silvers? A molten glow, with the power to repel evil? Oh, and the things she could wear – searing reds and ashy silvers. “Dragonglass, that’s lovely,” she fawns aloud, although so is ‘frozen fire.’ It is, without question, something she must see. Touch. “They must be highly sought-after, and dangerous to reach. Protected by dragons, too, I’m sure.”

[morghon]

Happiness must be infectious, truly, because he can't seem to stop himself from smiling, even if his thoughts are currently in a jumble, a state that would normally send him brooding as he tries to figure things out and quietly come to terms with whatever is going on. But, no, he simply allows things to continue as they are. Their playful banter, which had gone from his commentary on her outfit to her commentary on his outfit. Their impromptu excursion to a cave, driven by a sudden top-priority mission to find her a lightsaber crystal. Their talk of the merits of black and purging the galaxy of poor taste.

He doesn't even fight the kiss to his cheek. It should have given him pause, but it happens so naturally that there doesn't seem to be any need to draw unnecessary attention toward it. He feels a warmth on that said cheek, of course, and it quickly spreads to the rest of his face, but he doesn't say anything to that, either. What he does next instead — and it feels absolutely nothing out of the ordinary that he doesn't even really think about it — is reach an arm out to find one of her hands, lacing their fingers together. Just a courtesy, right? A not-completely-informal gesture of affection?

"Aye, in ancient times, before the last of the dragons died out." He glances at her, a little nervous that he's touching her at all, but she doesn't seem to be pulling away. So he doesn't, either. "They say most dragonglass is black," he says, and he can't help the cheeky grin that forms on his face, "but there's also some green, and red and purple. Several squadrons of the royal fleet are stationed at Dragonstone, which makes it difficult to obtain the material other than for official, sanctioned reasons. Especially now, with the Lannisters in power." His accidental mention of his House's enemies makes him fall quiet for a moment, but then he shakes his head. "It'll be easier to acquire them in the black markets of Essos. How good are you at negotiating?" he asks as if he doesn't know, and he turns his head to regard her again, grinning.

[nexubait]

It’s just a courtesy. Friendly instances of human contact don’t need to be interpreted as anything more. That feels like a fact that can be defended. In how many cultures, after all, is a peck on the check taken as a sign of good-will? Peaceful and amiable intentions? No one would give it a second glance. At least not in a formal setting. But this isn’t wholly informal, is it? They have to travel by some means, after all, and a small, close-quarters shuttle is the most practical. There’s nothing to keep it from being a courtesy between two officially-assigned associates. They can’t be expected to be aloof toward one another at this point, anyway, right? This bubbly, spirited energy is only to be expected. So maybe his hand reaching over, and his fingers lacing between her own, is only to be expected, too. A natural progression of camaraderie in a professional relationship. It suddenly occurs to her that she might actually be able to talk herself into anything. Politics really was a true calling.

She keeps her gaze wandering out beyond the window, curling her fingers gently as if it’s nothing more than instinct, like the warmth that blooms in her palm and all the way up her arm and probably clear to the tops of her cheeks is nothing remarkable. There are important matters to discuss, anyway, and she rolls her eyes back over to his face at the mention of black, which sounds suspiciously like a victory. “I suppose you’ll tell me all the dragons were once black, too,” which she would categorically refuse to believe, though the mention of the House she is destined for brings a faint wince across her face. She won’t let her thoughts slip in that direction, however, and she doesn’t enjoy imagining them in control of something so marvelous that it’s called ‘dragonglass,’ anyway.

His question rekindles her smile, however, even if they both know the answer, and so a saucy smile appears before any words do. “I’ve dealt with enough brigands and pirates to know how to navigate a black market,” and there it is again, a black market, and so she feels compelled to put forth another option. “I’m not fond of such drab markets, though. Have you heard of cryovolcanoes? I’ve read about them,” though she hadn’t ever had cause to set out on an expedition to see one. But, until recently, she hadn’t ever had cause to consider a great number of things. “Ice volcanoes. I’m sure the crystals around those would be brilliant shades of aqua and pearl. And I bet they’re unguarded, by Lannisters or dragons.”

[morghon]

The look on her face and her commentary about dragons probably being black once make him realize that... yes, there really is too much black in their conversation right now. A very belated thought that occurs to him because he's distracted by the simple fact that they're actually holding hands. Her fingers are soft and smooth and warm and he's suddenly reminded of so many things that involve their hands: her examination of Westeros' map as he held the holoprojector for her, the sands of Corellia's gold beaches, slow dancing in a crowded room, her hands unbuttoning his shirt and tangling in his hair and running along his chest—

"Have you been to a black market? It's anything but drab." There it is again, black, but he too feels compelled to expand on the suggestion. Because Essos, at least, seems fascinating, with worlds that make Westeros' planets look drab in comparison. And, well, he needs a distraction from the warmth on his face and in his body, a heat that doesn't seem to be going away. But then she's talking about something else entirely, about cryovolcanoes, ice volcanoes, and he blinks in realization. Well, he'd wanted to have a reason to make a stop at Winterfell, didn't he? He chuckles softly. "Oh, they're guarded. By wolves," he clarifies, glancing away from her and back to what's in front of them, smirking. "I suppose you'll be persuaded to visit Jelmor now."

The Gallo Mountains, where the Crystal Cave is nestled in, actually aren't that far given that they're going by ship, so they arrive even before their conversation is over. Not that their conversation has to end, or that it has ever really ended. He finds a clearing and lands their ship with practiced ease, though he reluctantly has to let go of her hand to complete the deed. "Well, here we are. May Naboo not disappoint us," he says with mock seriousness, bringing a hand to his chest as though in prayer.

[nexubait]

There’s little room in her head to be thinking of black markets. There’s little room for anything in her head that isn’t the stark, speechless sensation of his hand in her own. Simple, yes, but also somehow overwhelmingly intimate, which explains the heat flowering in her face. Which in turn explains why she’s keeping her attention out the window, determined not to be completely overcome by something so harmless. People held hands, didn’t they? The reason why a protector and his charge would need to link fingers might be a little more troublesome to try and explain to any onlookers, but once again, to her great satisfaction, there were none. They owed an explanation to no one. There was nothing to keep her from simply letting their hands rest exactly as they were, each holding the other, with a warmth that was like cupping a tiny flame. Wrong and right. And as long as it was only the two of them, it could be as right as it felt.

“Is this you inviting me to a black market?” She arches a brow as she glances his way, although really, there’s no reason why she wouldn’t accept. Because she hadn’t ever been to a bonafide black market before. She hasn’t been allowed, even if her curiosity had always been piqued. There were political reasons to divert to a black market, weren’t there? The answer was yes, if she could assemble a formal, sensible request that he could not officially deny. It was becoming a theme, and it had always worked out beautifully. Also on that list of sightseeing is a cryovolcano, which she should’ve known he would be familiar with. Just as she should’ve guessed that they would be guarded by wolves, and she greets the idea with a new glow of enthusiasm. How will they ever find enough time? And why did he think she hadn’t already been persuaded to visit Jelmor? “I hope you’ve taken all of these detours into consideration when making our flight plans, because you can’t disappoint me now.”

Just like their current escapade could not disappoint her, and as soon as the ship was touching down in the clearing he had deemed landing-appropriate, she leaned for a better view of the rocky range they had come to. With a crystal cave tucked somewhere nearby. Naboo, as far as she was concerned, had never disappointed anyone – and that was even before she’d known of its hidden treasures. His theatrical declaration along with the theatrical gesture earn a tickled laugh, and it’s only for the sake of disembarking the ship that she allows their hands to separate. “If this cave is not yet fully-developed,” because she will gladly defend all of Naboo’s natural wonders, “then you will take us to another, and so on, until the mission is complete.” And, less officially than that, she was anxiously anticipating the discreet delight of slipping into a dark cave with him, forgetting time.

[morghon]

"More detours," he says with an exaggerated groan, accompanied by a mock wince that he makes sure she catches before he turns to complete powering down their ship. Well, they have done a lot of detouring, haven't they? She always manages to come up with a formal, sensible request that he can't officially deny, and now with her having taken particular interest in lightsaber crystals, she's bound to make so many more of those. On the occasions he's considered saying no... somehow she manages to talk him into changing his mind, deliberately or otherwise. It's just some harmless sightseeing. And what's the rush, anyway? They weren't exactly given a deadline, and with the Lord Commander occupied with business in Coruscant, Jon's not been hurried to get her to King's Landing, either. That and he can always blame her for the numerous changes to their flight plans. He's but a bodyguard and a pilot, after all, subservient to a lady and a senator and an esteemed colleague of the Supreme Chancellor.

If he's to be completely honest, however, he is also stalling. Why rush when every detour is an opportunity to spend time together? Alone, for the most part, sometimes even alone under the moonlight. And now exploring caves, slipping away from the world and forgetting time and just being with each other in relatively dark places? It's a delightfully dangerous adventure that he finds himself arguing against the voice of reason and sense in his head. Of course she has every right to have a lightsaber. Of course he's going to help her find an appropriate crystal, and because she won't be content with one, they're not going to be done anytime soon. Of course he's going to help her build her saber, and make sure she doesn't accidentally injure or cut herself. Of course this is all allowed; she needs protection, she needs to be able to protect herself, she's from a noble house that in Westeros would've warranted an ancestral weapon. Excuses, and he'll gladly make up a hundred more to justify this excursion and its consequences.

Like the fact that he's standing up and holding his hand out for her to take. They don't have to hold hands, do they? She can walk just fine. She's not some child who requires assistance in getting off a ship. But it had felt good to hold her hand, felt good for their fingers to lace together, and he'd relished in the warmth that had blossomed between them. "We're not stopping until you have crystals in every color, I know," he teases, smiling at her. "We better get started, then."

[nexubait]

Maybe detours have been one of the defining features of their trip, but it hadn’t brought them any real trouble, had it? And it hadn’t resulted in any true delays – her Chancellor was not badgering her for not yet being installed in a gilded cage in King’s Landing, and her defender’s Lord Commander wasn’t chastising him for taking such a long, meandering route to deliver his charge. They had, for the time being, seemed to escape the galaxy’s notice, and she wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to continue riding that liberating wave for as long as they could. And if anyone asked, this particular detour had a reasonable foundation. It was, as was everything else between them, safety-related. A respected figure in the Senate was deserving of a weapon, right? Who better to facilitate the creation of that weapon than a renowned Jedi? She felt prepared to defend their detours if need be. And they both knew who was at fault if it really came down to it. “My pilot is unpredictable and impetuous, and what’s a passenger to do when he starts flying us deep into the Gallo mountains?” She can be sure he loses that argument.

Only in theory, of course, because she is delighted to be complicit in each detour they make, and she is especially delighted by this detour, because it is so far removed from civilization. A cave, a true, dark cave, lit only by the glimmer of crystals, with no one to catch any glimpse of them or eavesdrop on anything they might say? And the dark – the last time the dark had felt so tempting was in her own apartment, with wine making the moonlight shiver in bands of silver, sliding in shadows over muscled arms, and the slope of a lean back, bewitching every murmured word into a secret mantra of desire. Maybe every dark was tempting. But the opportunities to disappear into it were not always present – not like this, now, with an actual cave waiting to shield their impulses from the world.

Not hesitating to reach back out and take his hand, she links her fingers smoothly there and can feel the flame of her palm meeting the flame of his, keeping her attention lifted to the escapade waiting to unfold before them, as if this affectionate joining and rejoining of hands does not need to be officially noted. It doesn’t, not officially. But she has a full litany of unofficial details from their officially-sanctioned trip stored in her head, and in the tips of her fingers, and in the pattering of her chest. Things that are natural and acceptable and can go on unsaid, right? Just like this undertaking is natural. Only them and the mountains and the cave hidden somewhere within them. It’s acceptable. And she’s glad to hear that he knows they’re not stopping until she has crystals in every color, mirroring back a chipper smile before using their linked hands to begin tugging him out into the waiting world a little more energetically. “Thank you for being apprised of the heart of the mission. But another reason we should hurry up and find this cave is that it looks like it might rain.” An honest reading of the play of the clouds above them? Or just a wish spoken aloud? Either way.