God, he’s a tease. Even now, after James has conceded so much of his dignity, has kissed Sparrow as the pirate has clearly wanted him to do for how long James does not know- still he taunts him with little brushing half-kisses and smug smiles, skating sea-roughened fingers over the planes of his face.

But it’s good. Oh, it’s good. The heat in his veins curls in on itself like a contented cat, purring, urging him to continue. He leans in again, brushes his lips against Sparrow’s in a clear mockery of the pirate’s own kisses, relishing the warmth, the pressure against his skin. Sparrow makes a little noise as he does this, halfway between pain and amusement, and James realises that his right hand is still clutching Sparrow’s wrist, gripping now like a vice. He lifts a finger curiously, and finds that beneath it, Sparrow’s golden, golden skin has gone white with the pressure. A moment more, and the taught whiteness flames into an angry red; it’ll bruise later, he knows, and the sudden image of a hand-shaped bruise on Jack Sparrow’s wrist is eminently appealing.

He does not relinquish his grip, but instead pulls Sparrow closer yet, his other hand clutching at the shoulder of his shirt, twisting and bunching the fabric.

‘I’ll call you whatever you want if you bloody well kiss me properly,’ he mutters fiercely, almost a growl, his grip tightening yet further.