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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R
Pairing: Jack Davenport/Orlando Bloom/(Johnny Depp)
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: How Jack Davenport signed up for the sequels.
***
Jack’s dying. He’s burning. He’s in bloody England and just beyond the gray arch of the doorway it’s pouring rain, and he’s hot enough to burn granite. His knees are puddles and his bones are just about the same way, his hands are shaking madly and thank God cell phones come with earpieces now because otherwise that’d be a very expensive mess of broken electronics on the ground.
*We’d really miss you,* Johnny’s saying. Warm laugh. *Hell, we already do miss you.*
Orlando bobs his head as if he can hear and agree, only that can’t be the case because he’s on his knees in front of Jack and he’s the reason Jack’s ripping his nails to shreds on the stone around them. God knows whose doorway this is—he hopes it’s some heritage property that’s closed on weekends. He thinks he might have seen a brass plate just before Orlando had tackled him by the mouth and just sucked all the resistance, if there’d been much anyway, out of him.
*Have you seen the contract they’re offering for the sequels? Or the script? My friend, they did you and Norrington proud. I’m impressed with Disney.* There’s music, a guitar strumming as Johnny rambles on. He’s fiddling around, not really making a tune, but the chords he puts together slink low like steam curling around Jack, like the flat of Orlando’s tongue on Jack’s prick.
“I—” Jack gasps. His trousers are riding lower and lower down his legs and he makes a half-hearted grab for them because there’s water pooling on the ground. He gets the fabric, but Orlando rises at the same time and Jack doesn’t get the part about straightening up afterward because slump has become his new credo. He flails till his hand slams into his mouth to block his moaning, all his muscles trembling in time to Orlando’s deep swallows.
Mist coming in. It blurs everything so it’s only Jack in a haze, barely anchored in place by Orlando’s mouth, as Johnny’s voice crackles and snakes around him. *Come on, man. Say you’ll do it.*
And Jack sure as hell does something. He’s blind and he wrecks himself, a sudden crash that rattles his skull and shivers his bones.
When he comes up, he’s tasting salt in Orlando’s mouth. Soon as the kiss is over, he says shakily into the phone, “All right. All right, I’m coming.”
*Good,* Johnny purrs. Someone else’s slur slips into his voice. *Knew you’d see it our way, mate.*
***