I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art
In a ship filled with horny men, Eloise's errant masturbation fantasies were a fucking breath of fresh air, truth be told, but Jack only graced her with a roll of his eyes. As for how practiced he was at keeping a poker face? Well, given that he'd been doing this for some time before she came along, he had high hopes for himself. "You may as well make yourself comfortable," he informed her. "It ain't like you'll be goin' back to your bunk tonight."
As for his headache? "Still there - what of it?" he said, raking a hand through his hair. "I get 'em often enough. As luck'd have it, it's not as bad as earlier, so I could follow you down into the Fingers." And the rest, as they say, was history.
As for his headache? "Still there - what of it?" he said, raking a hand through his hair. "I get 'em often enough. As luck'd have it, it's not as bad as earlier, so I could follow you down into the Fingers." And the rest, as they say, was history.
