For the briefest of moments, James imagines that he sees something strange in Sparrow's eyes; a hesitancy, a flash of something dark and strange that he does not understand... But then it's covered by a grin, a slightly chiding gleam of golden teeth, and that great wild head is dipping forward and James stuffs the fist holding his shirt into his mouth to keep from crying out. Coherence ceases to exist in his brain, and any thoughts he might have had about Sparrow's eyes are taken over by the feeling of his mouth.

It's wet and hot and Jesus Christ- Sparrow knows exactly what he's doing, James can tell that right away. He's sure there's a lot going into it; lips and tongue and wonderful slick suction, but all he can think to do is to hold himself back, to keep his hand from getting too tight in Sparrow's hair, from rutting against him, fucking his mouth like he was some kind of cheap whore.

A whimper makes its way out of his throat at that thought, leaking around the fabric and his hand as he bites down hard, and his hips twitch slightly, bucking into Sparrow's mouth.

'Sorry,' he gasps out, but with his shirt and fist in the way, it is quite unintelligible.