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Six Pack

by Dove


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


Johnny was a little confused. He’d returned to his flat early, after a short day on set, looking forward to some hot tea and a long nap. But when he’d walked into the kitchen to start the kettle boiling, he’d seen a flash of green out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he saw an empty beer bottle standing on the table. He let out a breath, tension easing a bit. For a moment, he’d almost expected… stupid.

Johnny approached the bottle, kettle swinging empty and forgotten from his hand. He circled around the table, studying the intruder from another angle, as though it were some sort of dangerous beast. He drank beer, yes, Heineken? Sometimes. But he had left for the set early this morning, and he wasn’t in the habit of drinking his breakfast. He reached out to pick up the bottle, in case closer inspection might yield further clues, and whanged the kettle against the back of the chair. The ensuing noise startled him out of his contemplation, and he set down the kettle to see who was in his flat.

“Hello?” His voice echoed down the empty hallway, returning no yield. Maybe the interloper was already gone. Maybe it was a burglar. A burglar who broke in, drank a beer, and left. Yeah. Johnny turned and stepped into the living room, peering around cautiously.

Ok. A burglar who broke in, drank two beers, and left. This was starting to make less sense.

The second bottle seemed taller, reflected in the clear glass top of the coffee table. The label had been carefully peeled off and then shredded. The jagged strips were piled meticulously next to the bottle, as though the beer-drinker had sat for some time in contemplation (of what?), but hadn’t wanted to make a mess. This was a little more disturbing, picturing this invader moving through his flat, making himself at home, spending considerable time here. Johnny shivered and backed out of the room.

He turned and walked across the hall into his den, moving to the desk to pick up the cordless phone. He thumbed the buttons, dialling the local police, to tell them… what? Officer, send someone right away, someone drank my beer? Hell, when it came down to that, he wasn’t even sure it was his beer. They could’ve brought it with them. Johnny hung up the phone again. Alright. He decided to check the house first. If nobody was there, he’d call the locksmith and have someone out in the morning. And if he found someone… well, then he’d wish he’d called the police.

Well, no beer-drinking burglar… beerglar? Ha. He liked that. No beerglar in the den. Christ. Maybe he needed a beer. Johnny took a deep breath, trying to calm his jumping nerves, and the warm, yeasty aroma teased at his nose. Shit, in here too? He looked around. There, on the other side of the computer monitor. Nice. He hoped the bastard had at least been careful not to splash Heineken all over the computer while he sifted through Johnny’s private documents.

Johnny spun on his heel, determined to find this inconsiderate, slovenly intruder and set him right on acceptable behavior. As he turned, though, he spotted a second—fourth—bottle, on his bookshelf. Angrily, he moved to snatch the offending piece of glass away. This one sat on a folded envelope, as though maybe the trespasser had actually thought not to stain the wood. Wasn’t going to save him, though. As Johnny thought about this faceless stranger sifting through his books, pawing over French poetry and English plays, trying to suss out something of Johnny’s self from his literary tastes, his anger focused to a deep-seated indignation.

He near-ran down the hall and flung open the bedroom door. Sure enough, the remaining two bottles were in immediate evidence. One sat, unopened, on his bedside table, puddling condensation dangerously close to a leather bracelet Orlando had given him for his birthday. There wasn’t so much as an envelope under this bottle, as though the (admittedly cheap) wood of the small table did not merit protection.

The second bottle was open, half-empty (half-full?), and hovering in mid-air. The man lying on the bed blinked, lowered the bottle from his pursed lips, and smiled.

“Johnny.” Johnny didn’t reply, just stared, unsure what he was supposed to say at this juncture. “I’ve been thinking.”

He couldn’t help but smile at that. “You’ve been drinking.”

Jack frowned, and closed one eye as if he were considering the possibility. “Yes. Drinking, and thinking. Saved you a beer, man.” He nodded at the unopened bottle on the table.

Johnny grinned. “Thanks,” he said, dryly. He walked to the bedside table and snagged the bottle, twisting it open and taking a long pull. “So you’ve been thinking,” he prompted, looking down at Jack.

Jack looked startled for a second, caught off-guard. “Oh. Yes, thinking.” There was another pause, and then, “I missed you, Johnny.”

Johnny looked down into the bottle he held in his hand, searching once more for clues in the beer. Finding none, he decided to go with frank honesty. “Missed you, too, Jack.”

Jack snorted. “You left, Johnny. Left me and ran away, all the way out to—where the hell are we?”

Johnny smiled sadly, setting his half-empty bottle back on the bedside table. “Wales, Jack. It’s not exactly the far side of the moon, you know?” He reached for the beer in Jack’s hand and met with no resistance when he pulled it away and set it next to his own. “I had to make a film. I’m an actor, remember?”

Jack nodded, grudgingly. “Besides,” Johnny said, taking Jack’s hands in his own, “I told you I’d be back.”

Jack nodded again. “I know. But… you left. I missed you. And London…” he shrugged. “It’s nowhere without you, right?”

Johnny smiled and lifted himself carefully onto the bed. He swung one leg over Jack’s supine form to straddle his thighs, and leaned forward, his fingers still entwined with Jack’s. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against Jack’s lips. “Let me make it up to you.”

Jack twisted his head and crushed his lips against Johnny’s. Johnny allowed himself a few moments to indulge in the sensation he’d missed so much. Almost reluctantly, then, he pulled away and looked into Jack’s soft, warm eyes.

Jack exhaled, slowly, carefully, as though afraid he would blow Johnny away with his breath.

“You missed me.”

“Rather a lot, actually.” Jack’s ability to see the humor always, whether dealing with the paparazzi or taking Johnny up against a door (and hadn’t that left marks on his back), was only one of the reasons Johnny loved him.

“Tell me about it.” Johnny loved to hear Jack talk. About anything. The man was intelligent, and his dry sense of humor was quite close to Johnny’s, and consequently Johnny was usually very interested in whatever Jack had to say. On top of that, though, was the far more visceral reason that Jack’s voice was unbelievably sexy. Warm, dark, and rich, like molasses poured over hot stone.

“I thought about you, Johnny, constantly.” The sound of his name rolling off of Jack’s tongue, the English accent wrapped lovingly around it, made him glad he’d never shortened it to “John.” Much better with two syllables to savor.

“At night? Did you think about me at night? When you were alone in bed, did you miss me then?” Johnny smiled at the sight of Jack’s eyes snapping shut. His face slackened as he visibly lost himself in what Johnny was asking him to recount.

“Johnny… you know I did.”

Johnny grinned. He dropped his voice to a rough purr, his lips vibrating just against the shell of Jack’s ear. “You know what I’m asking, Jack. Don’t hold out on me now.”

Jack licked his lips, nodded tentatively. “Yes, Johnny. I thought about you.”

Johnny nudged Jack’s ear with his nose, prodding him gently to continue. “Just thoughts? Or did you do more? Did you touch yourself while you thought of me?” His tongue snaked out to lick Jack’s neck, and he felt the man shudder beneath him.

“God, yes. Johnny…” Jack’s reply was more of a loosely-shaped moan than any sort of coherent answer. He swallowed thickly, shook his head, and opened his eyes. “Thought about you, Johnny, about your hands on me. You know—how to touch me, nobody else can do that to me. Thought about that, and I had to, couldn’t keep my hands off me.” He actually managed a chuckle at this last, and Johnny smiled again at his irrepressible humor.

He slid his hands down over Jack’s chest as he leaned back, then slipped his hands under Jack’s thin shirt. “Can’t blame you, myself,” he smirked, tickling the hairs on Jack’s smooth belly. “I’ve got to admit, I can hardly keep my hands off you either.” He slipped the bottom three buttons from their respective holes, spreading the shirt open and exposing a small expanse of skin. “Going to try, though,” he sighed, and pulled his hands away, scooting a little further back on Jack’s legs. “Show me, Jack. I want to see what you do when I’m gone…”

Jack smiled, and his breath hitched in his throat. “I—yes. You’ve got the most beautiful hands, you know. Slight and strong. And I love the way you move them over my skin. I think about the way you stroke me as you undress me…” Jack’s words were nicely illustrated by his own deft hands flicking the remaining buttons free and shrugging the shirt off.

He pushed his right hand across his chest, rubbing his nipples firmly. The long, tapered fingers of his left hand trailed slowly down over his abdomen, slipping beneath the waist of his trousers and twisting cleverly to release the button. He pushed the fabric down, revealing a patch of hair that grew gradually thicker as it approached the base of his constrained erection.

“Christ, man.” Johnny’s voice was thick, and he felt as though he were choking on something dry and swollen. “Do—show me.”

“Oh, yes. Your hands, wrapped around me—I’m so hard for you, Johnny—god, and I can almost feel it, but it’s not enough… I need… more… so I—I start slow, just—a little, and—Oh god. Johnny.” He said Johnny’s name like a statement of fact, as if all the passion had drained from his voice to his hands. His hands, which pressed against his thigh and circled his cock and stroked, quick and firm.

Johnny thought he’d probably never seen anything so erotic as the sight before him. Jack was trying, admirably, to maintain eye contact, but his eyes kept closing of their own volition. His left hand clutched and scraped at his inner thigh muscles, while his right worked his cock desperately.

Jack had been reduced to the occasional whimper and moan, and Johnny took it upon himself to pick up the narrative.

“And then? What do you imagine, Jack, while you’re squeezing and stroking and pulling? Do you feel my weight on top of you? Do you think about my mouth, about my tongue rolling around your cock?” His voice came out heavy and rough, almost unrecognizable. “Do you imagine me sucking you off, as you’re touching yourself like this?”

Jack keened, and Johnny felt his body tense and try to arch off the bed as he surrendered to his climax. “God, yes, Johnny!” The way he cried Johnny’s name gave him new reason to be grateful for it; a sigh, a moan, a scream, all in two soft syllables.

Johnny dropped onto his hands again, and crawled forward to shower Jack’s face with kisses. For his part, Jack was still trying to recover his breath, and could not return the attention. “Beautiful, man, that was absolutely beautiful,” Johnny whispered, his lips traveling over the rough, stubbled skin of Jack’s cheek. “Could see that every day for the rest of my life and never get tired of it.”

Jack laughed weakly. “Well. Good to know I won’t be tossed over for the next starlet who catches your eye, anyway.”

There was no need for reassurance; Johnny knew better, knew Jack wasn’t that insecure. Another reason to love him; Jack could give a shit about the “sexiest man alive,” he wasn’t threatened by Johnny’s celebrity or his hordes of screaming fangirls. He was happy enough to know that he had Johnny’s heart.

Johnny lowered himself carefully, stretching out half on top of Jack.

“Oh, don’t, you’ll get yourself all—too late.” Jack grimaced in distaste as Johnny wrapped an arm and a leg around him, snugging himself up close to Jack’s side.

“It’ll wash out,” he shrugged. “Hey. Jack.” At the serious tone in his voice, Jack turned his head, concern evident in his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be in London, acting in Serious Plays or something? You know, pursuing a career?”

There was a moment’s pause, and Johnny could feel Jack trying to suss out how serious he was. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure himself. Not that he wouldn’t rather have Jack here, any day of the week, but he didn’t want to be getting in the way of Jack’s work, either.

In the end, Jack grinned. “Nah. I’m between gigs now, that’s all. Besides, I don’t much mind being a kept man.”

Johnny snorted. “Yeah, well,” he yawned, “You better start earning your keep. Beer’s not free.”

Jack yawned, too, tucking his face along Johnny’s as he inched closer to sleep. “I brought the beer.”

“Oh, well, that’s ok, then.” Johnny relaxed against the warm body beneath him, pleased that they’d found a solution. “Sleep now?” Jack hummed his assent. “Still be here in the morning? Not some weird dream, are you?”

Jack chuckled, the sound low like thunder in his throat. “Remind me to ask you about the dreams you’ve been having while we were apart, if this might be a representative sample.”

Johnny smiled. “You’ve got yourself a deal, partner,” he mumbled. As he drifted off, he pressed a kiss to Jack’s temple. “Welcome home.”


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