you an' me an' a bottle of wine

I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art

Their lips touch and Jack's magic ignites with everything Raza has on offer; thoughts, feelings, the whole fucking shabang. The intensity of it swamps his senses, something the captain succumbs to willingly. Honestly, if he's ever going to get killed, it's probably going to be when he's having sex and his telepathy is too busy helping him enjoy himself to care. But it's probably not going to be tonight, given that he already knows it's sleepy and silent outside, empty within the bar but for the two of them, and Raza wants this as much as he does.

So it's a safe time to be vulnerable, and Jack dives into it dick first. An appreciative groan rumbles in his chest at the touch of her hands and the signals given by her body, and the fraction of space she creates between them isn't wasted. Pulling off his shirt in one fluid motion, he lets her work on his belt buckle while he helps to strip her top half, Jack dropping down to let rough hands enjoy her curves, to take one dusky nipple between his teeth and lavish it with a tongue warmed by whiskey.