I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art
Relaxation Button? Jack arched an eyebrow at Phoebe, the redhead already draped over him (and his hands were doing a deal of wandering in return). But whatever mind-altering perfume of Frey’s might be waiting in the room beyond, Jack could guarantee that his inhibitions were already rock bottom. He’d need very little help with that - not that he wouldn’t give it a go. The captain would try anything once (except maybe trusting someone, that could fuck right off).
His evening in the Halenani was spent in a wash of hands and flesh and lurid thoughts, in the creak of a headboard and moans reverberating through the walls. Jack would absolutely come again (and again), and he had decided that the place reached his standards and then some as he swanned back towards the entrance.
His shirt was open to enjoy the softly falling rain outside, dark hair dishevelled, a love bite or two flooding colour against his neck. He raised an eyebrow at the conniving, traitorous cat on the counter, as if expecting it to ring the bell again and draw Phoebe’s attention so he could say his farewells.
His evening in the Halenani was spent in a wash of hands and flesh and lurid thoughts, in the creak of a headboard and moans reverberating through the walls. Jack would absolutely come again (and again), and he had decided that the place reached his standards and then some as he swanned back towards the entrance.
His shirt was open to enjoy the softly falling rain outside, dark hair dishevelled, a love bite or two flooding colour against his neck. He raised an eyebrow at the conniving, traitorous cat on the counter, as if expecting it to ring the bell again and draw Phoebe’s attention so he could say his farewells.
