God, but he hasn't had this in so long. Well really, he's never had this, for kissing Jack Sparrow (being kissed by Jack Sparrow) is like nothing else he's ever experienced. It's good. Oh, it's good, good, good, despite the scratch of Sparrow's ridiculous goatee and the strange, metallic taste of his gold teeth. It's wet heat and tongues and pressure and Sparrow humming into his mouth and hands in his hair urging more, more.
And so he gives more, his body (of its own volition, apparently) pushing up against Sparrow's, seeking friction and more of this incredible heat. And Sparrow's pushing back, writhing up against him, wanting him. Oh, that's an intoxicating thought, and he licks his tongue along Sparrow's, wanting to hear that throaty groan again-- and then Sparrow breaks away, his face no longer playful or teasing, but shocked, almost, disbelieving.
He's looking down at his wrist, clutched still in James's hand (he hadn't realised he'd kept his grip on it this entire time), and suddenly self-conscious, James releases his hold, flexing his fingers stiffly. He backs away slightly; partly to give Sparrow his space, partly to gather his own wits.
He had kissed Jack Sparrow. He had kissed Jack Sparrow
Kissed a man. Moreover, kissed a pirate. The pirate was more of an issue for James, honestly- attraction to men, well, that was something a seaman had to deal with, and something James had squared himself with long ago. But Jack Sparrow!
He had seduced the man. Or been seduced. Or something. He wasn't even sure now, he knew only that not moments before he had been locked in an entirely inappropriate embrace with the man and had enjoyed it thoroughly. What had happened to Sparrow being his enemy? Well, that had ceased to be, really, the moment he had sheathed his sword and agreed to stay aboard the Black Pearl, but there was a great difference between being on cordial terms and... that.
He shook his head, his mind still rattling with the frantic desire of moments before and cleared his throat stiffly.
'My apologies, Sparrow. I don't know what came over me.' He paused. What to say? Apologise? No, he wasn't sorry. At least, not in the way he could apologise for. Instead, he squared himself, proper Commodore once again (desperately squelching the heat that remained).
'So, Captain Sparrow; if I am to reside aboard your ship, I must have duties. I will not suffer myself to languish in this cabin like a prisoner, as you have made abundantly clear that I am not one. What shall I do?'
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And so he gives more, his body (of its own volition, apparently) pushing up against Sparrow's, seeking friction and more of this incredible heat. And Sparrow's pushing back, writhing up against him, wanting him. Oh, that's an intoxicating thought, and he licks his tongue along Sparrow's, wanting to hear that throaty groan again-- and then Sparrow breaks away, his face no longer playful or teasing, but shocked, almost, disbelieving.
He's looking down at his wrist, clutched still in James's hand (he hadn't realised he'd kept his grip on it this entire time), and suddenly self-conscious, James releases his hold, flexing his fingers stiffly. He backs away slightly; partly to give Sparrow his space, partly to gather his own wits.
He had kissed Jack Sparrow. He had kissed Jack Sparrow
Kissed a man. Moreover, kissed a pirate. The pirate was more of an issue for James, honestly- attraction to men, well, that was something a seaman had to deal with, and something James had squared himself with long ago. But Jack Sparrow!
He had seduced the man. Or been seduced. Or something. He wasn't even sure now, he knew only that not moments before he had been locked in an entirely inappropriate embrace with the man and had enjoyed it thoroughly. What had happened to Sparrow being his enemy? Well, that had ceased to be, really, the moment he had sheathed his sword and agreed to stay aboard the Black Pearl, but there was a great difference between being on cordial terms and... that.
He shook his head, his mind still rattling with the frantic desire of moments before and cleared his throat stiffly.
'My apologies, Sparrow. I don't know what came over me.' He paused. What to say? Apologise? No, he wasn't sorry. At least, not in the way he could apologise for. Instead, he squared himself, proper Commodore once again (desperately squelching the heat that remained).
'So, Captain Sparrow; if I am to reside aboard your ship, I must have duties. I will not suffer myself to languish in this cabin like a prisoner, as you have made abundantly clear that I am not one. What shall I do?'