Sparrow is always gone before dawn. And he never uses the door, which is something I don't think I'll ever be able to get used to. He takes a route out the window (past the billowing curtains) with nary more than a tilt of his head, and a cocky grin. I never quite understand the occasion he puts behind all his efforts. For all his myth and reputation, he really has done nothing more than reclining into my desk chair with the grace of a cat while I lie in bed.

And then we talk. Often, he has spoken to me for hours on end, and I lose myself in the lilt of his voice as he questions my past, and I in turn demand to know what led him down the path of piracy.

"If you are still here by dawn, I will have you to the gallows," are the first words always out of my mouth.

"I don't plan on hangin' around for the sun," is what he always replies with.

He is true to his word. A tacit agreement keeps us both safe for the night while he fiddles with my quills and the various trinkets lying about my desk, and I pull up the bedclothes to cover my body. I cannot honestly say why I let him stay the first night (although, the very first night he climbed into my window, I kept my sword a stone's throw away from him as the hours passed).

He has not made lewd requests, nor insane demands.

We simply talk.

He stumbles in through my window—tumbling in through the wind-blown curtains and floating effortlessly to the edge of my bed—the very next night, or rather... early morning. He merely smiles and curls one finger gently down the duvet as though it were a faithful and loving pet. I find that the words will not come out of my mouth as they usually do, and I am lost in a sea of thoughts—none of them proper. I am fully awake as soon as his body hits my bed.

"Why haven't you hung me, Commodore?" Jack asks bluntly, narrowing his eyes and taking off his hat gracefully. He exposes his neck in some sort of dramatic show of what I once had in my hands and had lost with the aid of an earnest blacksmith.

"Are you requesting it of me?" I ask just as bluntly as his question had been. "Would you rather I strung up the noose again?"

"Was jus' curious, is all," Jack responds charmingly, giving me a winning smile. He stretches out his body lengthwise so that he is parallel to me. He is nearly too close for comfort, and all too far away at the same time. I breathe, and it's the only sound in the room. He breathes, and it wafts all over me, invading my senses. "A man has got to be curious if he wants to keep on livin', honestly."

"And what are you curious about?" I muse, sitting upright, and allowing the bedclothes to pool around my waist, the glimmer of candles and moonlight reflecting off my skin. It is entirely too warm for clothes at night in the Caribbees, and if Jack Sparrow wants to spend his nights chatting with me then he will also endure my sleeping state.

"Lots of things! What's your name?" he starts with, twirling his moustache upwards, and shrugging. The question passes off his lips ever so casually. "Why did it take me ten years to get my bonny lass back, and what exactly did I do to make me deserve ten years apart from her," this statement is more passionate, it seems. He narrows his eyes as he looks at me. "I wondered what colour your skin would be, but that one's been answered," he says with a lewd grin. I roll my eyes.

"I was serious with my question," I retort.

"So was I, mate," he says with a wider grin—this one more mischievous and yet more innocent. "I'm curious as to why you chose the Navy, as to what you've got against pirates... more 'en the average Commodore of course. I wonder," Jack inches in ever closer to me, and my breath catches in my throat as I see the look he is giving me. "I've been wonderin' exactly what you'll do if I do..."

And then he speaks no more and lets his fingers spider-walk up my chest. Immediately, as though his fingers were weights, I slide down onto my back, and he takes this as his cue to swerve and somehow perfectly pin me down. His fingers continue to walk gently down my torso, and finally reach the sheets.

"I wonder what's down here, and whether you'll let me..." he whispers, and cocks his head to the side. There must be no mystery, because my erection is plain as day through the sheets. He simply feels so warm atop me, with his breath drifting down and pooling around my face, my neck. And god, to feel... is it so wrong to want to feel anything?

"Touch," he exhales, and the word seems to dance around, playing with my senses and intoxicating me into this lull of whatever this might be. I exhale loudly and deeply—pushing out my breath until there is simply no more—and by the time I remember to breathe again, his fingers are pushing lightly against my lower stomach and sliding under the sheets.

Quickly and nimbly, he unbuttons my breeches and with just the one hand, he edges the waist of them down. His fingers pass over, and then take a gentle grip on my erection, and my eyes flutter shut as I swear under my breath. All of this behavior, every single thing that I am doing is so unbecoming of a naval officer that the brief thought of stringing up my own noose comes to mind.

"Sparrow," I hiss, and the name comes out broken down the middle.

"What is your name?" he asks quietly, fingers drifting up and down in a slow dance that is giving me more frustration than I'd care to ever encounter. I allow my body to writhe under his touch, and I am quite aware of the way my eyes are rolling back into my head.

"Does it matter?" I get out through gritted teeth, and shock takes me as my body thrusts upwards to try and get a better touch. I close my eyes and quickly assess the situation. Sparrow is not a threat—not within these walls while the sun is out of sight. He cocks his head sideways, and gives me half of a golden grin. "Sparrow, you are a heathen."

"It matters," he says slowly, his thumb flicking the head of my cock lightly which causes me to give something that I am ashamed to admit is a tiny moan, "to me. After all, can't be havin' my hand on a man when I don't even know his name."

"Give me one good reason why I should tell you my name," I reply, refusing to give in. I am also quite proud of the even and determined manner in which my words came out. I will not give in to Sparrow, not even here.

He takes me fully into his hand and leans in slowly, his mouth and teeth sucking and pressing firmly against my neck in a way that completely stiffens my back. The only smell is rum, and it is completely overtaking all my other senses at the moment. I let out a heavy hitch of breath and swear once more. I resist the urge to beg, and this is the important thing.

"I can give you many reasons," he replies, not venturing far from my skin. He nips at my neck, and I do not yelp. As I have said, I will not give in to Sparrow.

"I only asked for one," I retaliate with a pointed expression that was not lost on him. He backs away and gives me a wide smile. I respond with a knowing smile of my own. He licks his lower lip ever so slowly, and it's only then that I realize that his hand is still firmly wrapped around my erection, which is not showing any signs of disappearing.

He does not stop smiling, and he is making no indications that he will be moving anytime soon. It seems, as it so often happens, that I must take matters into my own hands... so to speak. I study him—this pirate, this man, Captain Jack Sparrow—for a moment before swiftly capturing his lips with my own.

I refuse to give in.

I will, instead, take what I want and be the one in control. Now, he is giving in as his lips surrender to mine, going weak for a moment before pressing back with as much vigor and enthusiasm as I myself am putting into the kiss. My tongue presses against his lips and demands entrance, to which he immediately gives. His body seems to become malleable under my touch as my hands wrap around him to get a better grip. I push our lips together even closer—if such a thing is truly possible—and allow myself to truly moan as his hand begins to expertly stroke me as though he knows every inch of me, my secrets, and my body.

"Jack," I moan from behind the kiss, and he pulls away.

"What's your name?" he slowly asks again, and grins. "Trust me."

"Trust a pirate?" I respond dubiously, yet in ragged breaths as my back arches into the touch. "Christ, Jack..."

"Commodore," he chides me with childish glee, "such blasphemy!"

I close my eyes tightly and swear under my breath a great deal more as I feel my body shaking and shivering as I realize that I am about to give in to Jack Sparrow and I am going to come right into his hand.

And yet, the only thing I can think of is the pity of the situation in that his mouth isn't on my skin. I bow my head forwards and push out breath as my lips form a perfect 'o', and Jack seems to start reading my mind, because he leans in and gives me a gentle kiss just before I let out a great cry and give a violent shudder as I arrive.

The room is completely silent again, save for our ragged breaths, and I crane my gaze to look him in the eye. He is giving me a curious look, and I retaliate with a mysterious smile.

"What's your name?" he asks gently, brushing back a stray hair with the hand that isn't still on my lower body. I blink slowly and look into his eyes.

"It's almost dawn," I point out, my eyes turning towards the window and watching as the first rays of the sun peak over the horizon. Jack isn't moving though, and he runs the back of his hand down my cheek gently.

"Your name, love," he asks again, a little fiercer than last time.

"James," I whisper, and the smile he gives me this time is slow, warm, and inviting. It's enough to make me want to press him down, and push into him as I show him who exactly is in control of the situation.

"Well, James..." and he uses my name like any careful lover would, rolling his tongue around the proper places, and keeping the whole of it under soft, careful tones that only make me want to bed him more, "The sun is about to rise, and I've no will to go to the gallows."

Disappointment surprisingly fills me as he puts his hat atop his head once more, and gracefully bounds off the bed just as easily as he had fallen onto it earlier that night. He gives me that damn gentle smile again, and I curse myself for getting attached to the thought of having Jack.

"See you tomorrow night, James," he replies with a small salute before he leaves through the ever-billowing curtains.

When the last of him is gone, I find myself quite curious as to what exactly Jack is hiding, and what secrets are under that ridiculous garb of his.

It must wait, however, until night.