 |
|
|
|
|
Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R. Gunkink.
Pairing: Jack Davenport/Orlando Bloom
Feedback: Good lines, typos, etc.
Disclaimer: Completely fictional. I have no idea what these people do in their spare time. I barely remember what spare time is.
Summary: Jack and Orlando are in the Props room. Oh, look, a gun! What a convenient Plot Device.
***
“Incredible, you know. Just incredible. It’s almost as good as New Zealand. All the detailwork,” Orlando says, flipping about a pistol that looks big and heavy and, well, dangerous. He cocks his head. “What’s the matter? Fly at you?”
“What?” Oh, Jack’s flinching. Specifically, he’s flinching every time Orlando swings that pistol so its big black muzzle aims at him. Maybe James Norrington—he was so amused to see the full name in the script—feels at home around these ancient firelocks that could damn near double as lead hammers, but the biggest and baddest thing Jack prefers to lift is a beer. “Stop that. You know I hate—”
“What?” And damn. Orlando’s like a cat sometimes, and never mind the doggie metaphors about his big white grin of teeth. Put a weak spot in front of him and he can’t help sidling up along the table edge to gently prod. Metaphorically, literally, aesthetically…the end of the muzzle leaves a faint streak of oil along his chin. “Jack, come on. They’re not real.”
Except the gun is very, very real as its gleaming length drags against Orlando’s cheek, turning the brown of the skin deeper and pointing up the white that now curves narrower, more coyly between his lips. It tracks back to his ear like a lover’s finger, circling it once before coming up to rest against his temple.
“Did you check if it’s loaded?” Jack asks. He’s kneading the table-edge. He’s kneading the table-edge like some damned granny.
Click. Head tilted, Orlando caresses the gun tip down the side of his face, draws it slow across the whiter underside of his throat before propping it against his lips. “Guess not.”
“Don’t do that.” You little prick, Jack adds. The only reason Orlando’s doing this is because this is the props warehouse and it’s got a good stout door that locks, and Johnny’s busy having his dentalwork touched up. He thinks.
Sparking eyes over dull steel. Looking straight at Jack, Orlando slightly inclines his head forward. His tongue comes out and Jack knows this because suddenly a fringe of wet pink is framing the gun muzzle. Slow and snake-like, it undulates back up. Then it flicks around, slapping against the side of the pistol so hard that Jack can feel it in his crotch, pressing the weave of his trousers up against his prick that’s so hard he might be able to use it as a lead hammer. It leaves wet streaks over the metal like the hot sweat trickling down the side of Jack’s face. He’s about to snap off the goddamned table edge.
The tongue finishes its teasing curl and flicks back into Orlando’s red mouth. “Why not?”
Because Jack will take two steps forward and smack him over the table so his mouth is mashed down on a rifle, since he likes those damned things so much, and then Jack will rip down those baggy cargo pants. And Orlando might think that yes, he’s finally getting the good hard fuck his prodding’s been begging for, but Jack doesn’t. Jack thinks he’ll enjoy the heft and shape of Orlando’s buttocks first, get his fingers loosened up, and he thinks then he’ll get down on his knees and show off his own tongue. It might not be as nimble but it can do a damned good job of fucking Orlando fast and hard and not quite deep enough till Orlando’s gnawing chunks out of those guns. And then Jack will stand up, undo his fly and fuck the little bastard. Maybe.
“Do it again and you’ll find out,” Jack says, smiling. He gives the table-edge a last squeeze, then lets go. He’s watching Orlando consider this.
Flash of pink.
***