bakerstreet | Call me, call me any, anytime!

Entry tags:

Call me, call me any, anytime!

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

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.”

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."

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.”

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.

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.”

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.

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.

"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."

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.

He takes a moment to look up at the sky, his fingers tightening a little as they lace together with hers. He hums noncommittally, then says, "You're right, it does look like it might rain." An honest reading of the play of the clouds above them? They do look a little heavy and gray, don't they? And who knows better about the weather and climate of Naboo than her? With that he looks back to her, smiling — knowingly, impishly, as though they're exchanging a secret — before he lets her lead the way to their destination.

It's not hard to locate the yawning mouth of the cave, and he helps her make the climb; she's tiny and nearly weightless that he can practically just toss her over his shoulder and carry her all the way inside like a sack of potatoes. He doesn't, of course, not wanting to insult her or rob her of the experience, especially since she's insisted that she's dressed in the appropriate cave exploration attire. As they traverse the rocks to the entrance, he uses the Force to clear the path ahead of them, making sure there aren't any predators lurking about or other dangers that might spring up on them and put her at risk. This might be an unofficial detour, and here and now they might not be senator and Jedi, but that doesn't mean he's any less her protector, her defender.

The sight that greets them after they cross the mouth of the cave is so stunning that even he stops to take a moment to breathe and take the view in. He's been to a crystal cave before — there's a one near Winterfell, behind a waterfall — but it hadn't been anything like this, as though the earth had swallowed up the night and transformed it into shards of moonlight. "Not black," he declares triumphantly, turning his head to grin at her, because he has to. This location had been his suggestion, after all.

It could rain – Naboo was full of surprises. The sky could open up and unleash a downpour upon them, or a quiet, gentle sprinkle could begin without warning. Thunder could crack and shudder through the clouds. Anything could happen. She hardly cares what sort of weather is going to serve as the backdrop for this expedition, anyway, trying not to stay stunned at the fact that their fingers are still laced, that they’re keeping this contact as if it’s ordinary and meaningless. Or as if its meaning doesn’t flout the code of formality they’re supposed to be abiding by. She’s not going to be the one to retract her hand first. Flicking a curious glance up to gauge his reaction, either to their comfortable intimacy or the weather, she’s charmed by that knowing, impish smile she finds, returning a cheerful smile of her own. “No time to waste, then.”

There’s the threat of the rain, after all, and the threat of this stolen time disappearing just as easily as they’d found it, so she takes her role as leader swiftly and surely. The cave they’re after is easy to find, thankfully, even if there is a careful climb involved. One that she’s not quite dressed for, but that has never stopped her before, and so she doesn’t balk now. He’s there to help her, anyway, with a steady hand and a gentle strength, and it does cross her mind that she could just as easily climb onto his back and allow him to do the clambering for both of them. But there’s something to be said for the light exertion it takes to reach the cave, and there’s no dulling her wonder when she bears witness to another display of the Force, even if it’s only to clear a safe path for them. Invisible energy that can be commanded by a human hand to lift physical objects; how could she ever not stand in awe?

The mouth of the cave is an invitation to things unseen, of course, so it’s with bubbling excitement that she finally crosses that threshold, not yet releasing his hand. She does release her astonishment with a gasp, however, because while ‘crystal cave’ calls to mind all sorts of vibrant imagery, it couldn’t have prepared her for the sight glowing before them now. Luminous crystals, exactly as she’d hoped there would be, but she couldn’t have imagined that they would look like this. Like the cave is made of night sky and the shining, softly burning crystals are made of moonlight. Captured flames of color, stones made of starlight, an incandescent hideaway right here on Naboo. She doesn’t have time to regret how much of her life she’d lived never knowing the cave was here, too infatuated with the fact that it’s here now, tugging her taller counterpart along and holding a speechless breath as if breathing might extinguish the glow of the light-infused stones. There’s only room for a dazed whisper. “Are these real?”

The mouth of the cave is an invitation to things unseen, true, but it's not the crystals that hold his attention. They do, fleetingly; they're startlingly beautiful, after all, like moonlight distilled into tiny, human-sized stars. He could stare at them forever... but he doesn't. Instead, his gaze flits to her face, easily, thoughtlessly, naturally, drawn by the excitement in her eyes and the happiness radiating off her like the warmth of a sun. She loves it here, as he'd hoped she would. And he made it happen. How strange, for him to feel this way, and more and more each day? He's found himself wanting more of that smile, more of that laugh, more of that wonder, and the thrill it brings him to know that he'd given her some happiness, that he can be more than what everyone back in his homeworld had said he could only ever be.

"They're real," he answers, grey eyes still not leaving her, even she tugs him forward, deeper into the cave. He won't let go unless she does. Because he wants to see if one of the crystals is calling out to her. Because he wants to keep an eye on her and make sure she stays safe. And simply because he wants his hand to remain in hers, fingers laced together, an impossible tangle that under ordinary circumstances should not be sanctioned. "I'm... not well-versed in crystal lore or science," he admits. "But I know that they are real." He does know something, occasionally. "Go on, you can touch them. You're safe."

He feels a curious ping somewhere further into the cave, a melody that's sad and haunting but eerily beautiful, and it surprises him not because he can hear it, but because he's not expected to find himself attuned to more than one crystal. Because that's what it is: a crystal calling out to him. Could it be possible, then? What she'd said, about having lightsabers in every color? She'd be delighted if that were true, and he can already see the changes to their flight plan, the detours taking longer, more roundabout, their stopovers growing in number. He also realizes the implication of that, as selfish as he knows it is. More time. Borrowed, stolen, however it is. But more of it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Call me, call me any, anytime!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(๑˘︶˘๑)