In Plain View
Fandom: PoTC RPS Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Johnny Depp/Jack Davenport/Orlando Bloom Full Header
The sight of Orlando, backlit by nothing but stars and sipping a glass of Johnny's smoothest red, is oppressive in an entirely different way.
"Sorry," Jack murmurs quietly, so as not to startle him, "I thought everyone had left."
Orlando turns and cocks an eyebrow at him. "Everyone but you, you mean?"
It's no accusation, there's no implication at all in the question, just gentle ribbing. Still, Jack blushes and can't quite meet Orlando's eyes. Stupid, that he should feel like the intruder here. This isn't Orlando's place, any more than it's Jack's--this is Johnny's house, and there's no reason why he should feel like apologizing again and backing away.
No reason, but that's what he's doing when Orlando's hand curves against his side and stops him.
"Jack--" It's definitely a surreal experience, sharing his name with Johnny's character. For a half moment, he's on a balcony with Will Turner. They both shake their heads, and, noticing, exchange a grin. Orlando starts again. "Jack, are--is everything alright? You've been..."
Orlando's far too sweet to say it, too careful with other people's feelings, so Jack spares him the effort of finding a nice way to say it. "A bit of a bastard? Somewhat removed? Entirely ridiculous?" Orlando can't even allow himself to nod, but his sweet grin makes Jack smile. "Sorry, man. I, er... Johnny straightened me out." That's not exactly what happened, but what did happen doesn't even make sense to Jack, and how could he explain it to Orlando? Johnny noticed me. And then it hits Jack--Orlando noticed him, too. "Oh."
"Oh?" Honestly, people slag on Orlando's acting abilities, but the man's face alone is more expressive than most people's entire selves. This particular combination of smile, smirk, twisted eyebrow, and a healthy dose of projection on Jack's part, clearly conveys amusement, confusion, insight, empathy, and a layer of smug satisfaction that makes something inside Jack itch to scrape it off.
He's in the Caribbean to play the great pirate hunter, but he doesn't much feel it as Orlando gives him that look. In fact, what he feels like is prey. It's a definite improvement over invisibility, and Jack is starting to wonder exactly where his head has been during this shoot, because he's obviously been operating in an entirely different plane of reality than Johnny and Orlando. A plane in which nobody even sees him, let alone... looks at him like that.
Jack becomes suddenly aware of two things. The first is that the pause in their conversation (such as it was) has just crossed into "awkward" territory. The second is that Orlando's hand is still on his side, resting lightly just below his waist, just above his hip. And Orlando's thumb is tracing small circles on his belly, dragging his sweater up and letting it fall again, over and over. There's a heat building in his gut that probably isn't a direct result of that friction, and Jack feels the need to say something, anything to break this tension.
"Oh, to hell with this," Orlando says, and steps into Jack with a light kiss that is at once a question and an invitation.
There's only one answer that Jack can think of, and Orlando's mouth is wine-sweet and eager. Eventually, he pulls away with a question of his own. "At Johnny's house? Really?"
Orlando shrugs, and his grin could definitely be called cocky if Jack didn't know him better than that. "Not like he's going to throw us out." He pulls Jack close again, heedless of their surroundings, the circumstances, of the thousand objections trying to surface in Jack's mind. Time passes, marked only by the soft click of teeth learning their way around each other, the quickening of Jack's heart, the repeated passes of his hands through Orlando's curls.
When he feels Orlando's hands shoving and tugging his sweater upward, Jack lifts his arms without thinking about it. The sweater comes off, and suddenly he's half undressed in a distressingly public place. He makes a feeble attempt at panic, but it's impossible to focus on the fear with Orlando's hands dark and golden against the pale skin of his belly.
The tips of Orlando's fingers just brush against the sparse dark line of hair, and Jack's muscles flutter in appreciation. And why not--with Orlando's tongue curling under his jaw, behind his ear, teeth on his neck and hands everywhere, Jack's feeling particularly appreciative. Perhaps it's as a show of gratitude, then, that Jack's niggling conscience finally surrenders to his intoxicating desire.
Jack surges forward, pressing Orlando against the balcony rail, grinding against him, mouth on his neck, and Orlando's hands scrape up Jack's back, punctuating each desperate moan with a convulsive clutching. Orlando thrusts against him, striving for friction, and Jack gives it to him. He pushes one leg between Orlando's, spreading his thighs, and Orlando immediately begins to press his cock against Jack's thigh.
There's a moment where the absurdity of the situation--he is half naked, on Johnny Depp's balcony, and Orlando Bloom is humping his leg--threatens to overwhelm Jack. Just a moment, and then sensation takes over, and Jack is thrusting against Orlando's hip with similar alacrity.
"Johnny," gasps Orlando, and before Jack can correct him, he elaborates. "Cleaning up... any minute... Jack... see us..."
"Right," Jack murmurs against Orlando's ear, with a composure he truly does not feel, "Then may I suggest we make this quick?" Orlando mewls and hooks one leg behind Jack's knee, shifting the angle between them such that his cock rubs directly against Jack's. Directly, that is, except for a few too many layers of cloth, but Jack is not nearly far enough gone to strip down and fuck Orlando on Johnny's porch. Not yet.
The taste of sweat and skin at the corner of Orlando's neck is irresistible, and Jack doesn't want to leave a mark, but doesn't care enough to stop licking and nibbling the spot. It's too perfect, as fucked up as the entire situation inarguably is, this much at least is perfect, and when he gives a particularly enthusiastic bite to the taut cords there, Orlando stiffens and cries out, clutching at Jack to anchor himself.
He has wondered--in light of Orlando's casual, easy sexuality, he imagines it's impossible to work with Orlando and not wonder what he will look like in this moment. And now he knows, the way Orlando gasps and shivers, the way his eyes snap open and then closed again, the way he murmurs Jack's name like a wish, as he spends himself against Jack's thigh.
Not giving Jack a chance to react, Orlando shoves him back just a fraction and wedges an arm between them. Jack hasn't come in his pants since he was fourteen, but Orlando's hand grips his crotch, squeezes and strokes through rough fabric, and dignity is the furthest thing from Jack's mind. He muffles a groan against Orlando's shoulder, and this time he knows he's left a mark.
He doesn't move for a moment after, just stands with his face buried in Orlando's neck and a sticky mess rapidly cooling in his trousers. He's wondering where they go from here. Home? Whose? And how the hell do they get out of here without Johnny seeing--well--everything. Their condition would leave no doubt in anyone's mind about their recent activities, let alone someone as perceptive as Johnny.
Jack feels, as much as hears, Orlando's sudden intake of breath, and raises his head to search Orlando's face. Before he can ask, strong, wiry arms slip around him from behind, and the familiar dark, smoky voice breathes in his ear, "That was beautiful, man. But, uh, maybe next time you should come inside. Wouldn't want to scandalize the neighbors too much."
Jack is surprised that he feels no panic, no sense of having been "caught." "Johnny," he says calmly, "you haven't got any bloody neighbors out here."
"True enough," Johnny replies, "but I'm 40 years old, and that's frankly too fucking old for dry-humping on the porch. Are you coming in?"
Jack looks at Orlando, who only smiles at him. "Yeah," he says, and Orlando
nods. "Yeah, we're coming in."
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