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Fusion

by Dove

 

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

 


Oh, well enough for them. Johnny's a pirate. Not only is he allowed to be tan, Gore expects him to be actually brown. Orlando's skin seems to hold on to the same golden sheen irrespective of exposure to sun. And Jack, who is forced to wear that ridiculous wig, who is not allowed to crack a smile on set, is also not allowed outside any more than is absolutely unavoidable. He must maintain his sickly pale skin, one more marker of Norrington's standard English repression.

Thus it is that, on this beautiful day in the Caribbean, Jack finds himself nursing a flat beer and reading a book of French poetry while Johnny and Orlando are up on the deck, sunning and drinking and, who knows, slathering each other with oil.

He doesn't speak French.

He's only just decided that his life is absurd when Johnny appears in the doorway. "Bored yet?"

Jack grins and shakes his head no, then says, "Painfully so."

Johnny moves into the room, and Jack can feel the sun on him, even inside. He's radiating an aura of heat and light, and a cool sweat breaks out on Jack's pale skin.

He's always a little surprised to find that Johnny's touch doesn't burn. It ought to. Still, he must be comparatively cold, because Johnny shivers when Jack slides his thumbs over the sharp lines of Johnny's hips, and he positively quakes when Jack's tongue finds the little divot over his breastbone, between too-prominent ribs and muscles that are only just starting to stand out appropriately.

A quiet cough, startlingly close by, reminds Jack they're not the only two on board.

"Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt..." Orlando looks at the floor, abashed. His skin is pink with chagrin and a burn that will fade before the morning, and for a moment, Jack is sure he's actually going to scuff his foot and say, "Aw, shucks."

Half a moment, maybe, and then Orlando looks at him, and his gaze--yeah, it's trite as hell, but his gaze smolders with the same lazy burn that's inside Johnny. It's like they've not just bathed in the sun, but somehow absorbed it, and brought it inside for Jack.

Being pressed between them is like being wrapped in soft fire, and it's far too hot for that, but Jack isn't going to tell them to stop. It's all very messy and confused--the clash of teeth, two mouths grasping for his own, finding each other, the sticky, skidding slide of sweat-slicked skin, the bunch and pull of muscles not his own--Orlando's are smoother, Johnny's more corded, and somewhere in the middle of it he loses track of whose arm goes where and all he worries about is now, yes, there.

When evening comes, it's safe for Jack to go up on deck, safe for him to enjoy the fresh air and (slightly) cooler breezes. He's reluctant, though, to leave the warmth of the sun that's so conveniently come inside and wrapped itself around him.
 

 

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