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Afterparty

by Dove

 

Fandom: PoTC    Rating: NC-17    Pairing: Johnny Depp/Jack Davenport    Full Header

 


"Fucking awards ceremonies." Johnny collapses into an almost obscenely ornate chair, looking more like a pirate king in the throes of post-pillage euphoria than he probably wants to know. Armani, Jack thinks, deserves a thank-you letter. From the world.

He steps in front of Johnny, carefully nudging the guitar away with his right foot after toeing off his shoes. Johnny will bitch about them asking, of course, but he loves to play, and any signs that Jack is not giving the guitar its--her--due respect will be noted and held against him.

"What's the matter, too old for the party life?" His smile is sly and teasing, like his tone, and Johnny rolls his eyes.

"Yes." He's sowed his wild oats, he's done the Hollywood thing, and it bores him to talk about it. Judging by the look in his eye, though, Jack is not boring him. More specifically, Jack's left hand seems to have caught Johnny's interest quite well.

Jack's left hand seems, of its own volition, to have reached forward and caressed the fine fabric of Johnny's white dress shirt. He doesn't remember deciding to do so, but finds his fingers skating over the slick shine of black buttons, pushing them through the coarsely-bordered holes. His hand spreads the shirt open, brushing across the implausibly smooth skin on Johnny's torso, and then presses down one side, flicking the cool buttons up as it goes. Each snap of the buttons against Johnny's chest sparks a flare in his eyes, and Jack finds himself drawn closer, kneeling before the chair.

"Exactly how tired are you?" Jack asks archly, reaching for the button on Johnny's trousers. Honestly, Armani and Johnny Depp and buttons, how much better could things get?

"Oh, I'm pretty beat. Was planning on heading straight for bed." Johnny's head rolls back against one ridiculously scrolled wing as Jack pushes the button free and opens his trousers. His smile is growing, belying his words.

"Up." Johnny lifts his hips, and Jack tugs the trousers and shorts down and out of the way. Not off. No. This tuxedo has done wonders for Jack's libido tonight, and to throw it on the floor in bits and rumpled piles would be a grave disservice. "Ah." It's a reverent sound, not quite a sigh, and reverence is exactly the right tone, as he pushes the tails of the shirt to the side, slides his thumbs along perfect hipbones. "Ah." That one is a sigh, and his breath pillows around Johnny's cock.

"Christ, Jack..." Johnny has apparently discovered a hidden reserve of energy, and he's arching his hips, flexing and stretching his hands toward Jack's head. He's obviously fighting back the urge to wrap his fingers in Jack's hair, and Jack thinks that's good. He should be losing control, should be slipping off that edge into easy abandon.

"Not so sleepy after all?" He's not expecting an answer. Not when he punctuates the question with an open-mouthed, wet and sloppy kiss to the tip of Johnny's cock. He is not disappointed with the response, with the way Johnny's breath catches in his throat and stutters out again, the way his hands form white-knuckled fists and gently, oh so tentatively, brush against the fringe that always seems to dangle in front of Jack's eyes.

He forsakes verbal encouragement for the sake of a simpler message, opening his mouth wider and pressing forward until the wiry hands are twisted in his hair, pulling gently. They guide his head closer, asking him to take more, deeper, now.

It is always quick this way. If they want slow and leisurely, there are other things they can do, but Johnny likes to take Jack's mouth fast and sloppy, and Jack likes it this way, too.

Johnny is clutching him now, thrusting awkwardly from the chair, and as he comes, Jack traces soft circles on his hipbones. Slowly, carefully, taking time to make sure it's not too much, too soon, he licks Johnny clean. He rests his head on Johnny's thigh and waits for them both to catch their breath.

Everything is hyperreal now, and Jack is acutely aware of the rich fabric under his cheek, as well as the intensely uncomfortable arms of the chair digging into his elbows.

"Johnny." He nudges Johnny's thigh with his chin.

"Mm. Yeah." Johnny doesn't open his eyes, let alone look at him, but Jack is sure he has his full attention.

"Have to get up. This furniture was not designed for this sort of thing."

Johnny rolls his head to his other shoulder, but makes no move to get up. "Go for it, man. Be my fuckin' guest."

Jack stands carefully, silently apologizing to his knees, and surveys his work. Much better. He grins.

"Fuck you." Johnny, apparently, has the ability to read minds. This no longer suprises Jack.

"Actually," he says wryly, "I had quite the opposite plan."
 

 

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