I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art
If Raza doesn’t want to stroke his ego, Jack’s got something else she can wrap her fingers around. Her thoughts came crackling through to him like a familiar hum of electricity as he came into range, and whilst the smuggler didn’t really have dick on the mind just then, it hardly took much for his higher thinking to get jostled that way. ”You’re filthy,” he told her as he vaulted a low wall to sit with her, inhaling deeply on the cigarette between his lips. ”Sittin’ out here in the gods damned middle of the day, drinkin’ and lookin’ coy as a virgin. Fuck you.”
The Ark had safely docked and her cargo (legitimate and otherwise) was well on its way to where it needed to be. For all intents and purposes, Jack was on vacation. He held out the cigarette for her, his free hand open for the rum in exchange. ”If you ain’t a sight for sore eyes I don't know what is. No one said I’d get back and there’d be a fuckin’ portal in the middle of the beach.”
The Ark had safely docked and her cargo (legitimate and otherwise) was well on its way to where it needed to be. For all intents and purposes, Jack was on vacation. He held out the cigarette for her, his free hand open for the rum in exchange. ”If you ain’t a sight for sore eyes I don't know what is. No one said I’d get back and there’d be a fuckin’ portal in the middle of the beach.”
