I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art
Jack rolled his eyes and grinned, moving to sink down on his bunk - the covers were still untidy from where he'd been laying around earlier, and the bottle of rum she had left was empty now. "Bed her if you want to bed her, I don't care," he said, leaning down to unlace his boots before pausing to rub at his eyes, clearing vision that had tried momentarily to blur. Theoretically, if I was thinking...
The smuggler straightened up at that, brow furrowing as he gazed across at Eloise. Quite what she was getting at he couldn't tell - those thoughts were buried too deeply - but he could absolutely enjoy the images dancing through her mind. If she was expecting him to be flustered she would be sorely mistaken, and he tilted his head as if to ask what she rightly thought she was going to do with thoughts like that.
"I could, is what I said," he murmured. "If it were an inappropriate time, I would. Luckily enough, I've nothin' else planned right now but our conversation."
The smuggler straightened up at that, brow furrowing as he gazed across at Eloise. Quite what she was getting at he couldn't tell - those thoughts were buried too deeply - but he could absolutely enjoy the images dancing through her mind. If she was expecting him to be flustered she would be sorely mistaken, and he tilted his head as if to ask what she rightly thought she was going to do with thoughts like that.
"I could, is what I said," he murmured. "If it were an inappropriate time, I would. Luckily enough, I've nothin' else planned right now but our conversation."
