Afterparty
by hija_paloma

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"Fucking awards ceremonies." Johnny collapses into an almost obscenely ornate chair, looking more like a pirate king in the throes of post-pillage euphoria than he probably wants to know. Armani, Jack thinks, deserves a thank-you letter. From the world.

He steps in front of Johnny, carefully nudging the guitar away with his right foot after toeing off his shoes. Johnny will bitch about them asking, of course, but he loves to play, and any signs that Jack is not giving the guitar its--her--due respect will be noted and held against him.

"What's the matter, too old for the party life?" His smile is sly and teasing, like his tone, and Johnny rolls his eyes.

"Yes." He's sowed his wild oats, he's done the Hollywood thing, and it bores him to talk about it. Judging by the look in his eye, though, Jack is not boring him. More specifically, Jack's left hand seems to have caught Johnny's interest quite well.

Jack's left hand seems, of its own volition, to have reached forward and caressed the fine fabric of Johnny's white dress shirt. He doesn't remember deciding to do so, but finds his fingers skating over the slick shine of black buttons, pushing them through the coarsely-bordered holes. His hand spreads the shirt open, brushing across the implausibly smooth skin on Johnny's torso, and then presses down one side, flicking the cool buttons up as it goes. Each snap of the buttons against Johnny's chest sparks a flare in his eyes, and Jack finds himself drawn closer, kneeling before the chair.

"Exactly how tired are you?" Jack asks archly, reaching for the button on Johnny's trousers. Honestly, Armani and Johnny Depp and buttons, how much better could things get?

"Oh, I'm pretty beat. Was planning on heading straight for bed." Johnny's head rolls back against one ridiculously scrolled wing as Jack pushes the button free and opens his trousers. His smile is growing, belying his words.

"Up." Johnny lifts his hips, and Jack tugs the trousers and shorts down and out of the way. Not off. No. This tuxedo has done wonders for Jack's libido tonight, and to throw it on the floor in bits and rumpled piles would be a grave disservice. "Ah." It's a reverent sound, not quite a sigh, and reverence is exactly the right tone, as he pushes the tails of the shirt to the side, slides his thumbs along perfect hipbones. "Ah." That one is a sigh, and his breath pillows around Johnny's cock.

"Christ, Jack..." Johnny has apparently discovered a hidden reserve of energy, and he's arching his hips, flexing and stretching his hands toward Jack's head. He's obviously fighting back the urge to wrap his fingers in Jack's hair, and Jack thinks that's good. He should be losing control, should be slipping off that edge into easy abandon.

"Not so sleepy after all?" He's not expecting an answer. Not when he punctuates the question with an open-mouthed, wet and sloppy kiss to the tip of Johnny's cock. He is not disappointed with the response, with the way Johnny's breath catches in his throat and stutters out again, the way his hands form white-knuckled fists and gently, oh so tentatively, brush against the fringe that always seems to dangle in front of Jack's eyes.

He forsakes verbal encouragement for the sake of a simpler message, opening his mouth wider and pressing forward until the wiry hands are twisted in his hair, pulling gently. They guide his head closer, asking him to take more, deeper, now.

It is always quick this way. If they want slow and leisurely, there are other things they can do, but Johnny likes to take Jack's mouth fast and sloppy, and Jack likes it this way, too.

Johnny is clutching him now, thrusting awkwardly from the chair, and as he comes, Jack traces soft circles on his hipbones. Slowly, carefully, taking time to make sure it's not too much, too soon, he licks Johnny clean. He rests his head on Johnny's thigh and waits for them both to catch their breath.

Everything is hyperreal now, and Jack is acutely aware of the rich fabric under his cheek, as well as the intensely uncomfortable arms of the chair digging into his elbows.

"Johnny." He nudges Johnny's thigh with his chin.

"Mm. Yeah." Johnny doesn't open his eyes, let alone look at him, but Jack is sure he has his full attention.

"Have to get up. This furniture was not designed for this sort of thing."

Johnny rolls his head to his other shoulder, but makes no move to get up. "Go for it, man. Be my fuckin' guest."

Jack stands carefully, silently apologizing to his knees, and surveys his work. Much better. He grins.

"Fuck you." Johnny, apparently, has the ability to read minds. This no longer suprises Jack.

"Actually," he says wryly, "I had quite the opposite plan."



~~~~~
Dude, there is so going to be a second part to this. But it is so not going to be tonight, because I have patients in the hospital who need treatment tomorrow, and my eyes are all dessicated and are to normal eyes as a raisin is to a grape. So, bed now. Filthy mansex tomorrow. Yay!

Also, you must see this if you're a smut writer. If nothing else, it is through-provoking: 1001 ways to write an orgasm. Because, really.

Afterparty 2
RPS, NC-17. Johnny Depp/Jack Davenport. Voyeurism/exhibitionism OTP!. Clothing porn.



Jack regards Johnny for a moment more. There's something very satisfying about the sight of him, spread across the chair, obviously sated. The stark white lines of his shirt frame his chest, providing a bright line of contrast down to the black pants, pushed open around his softening cock. It's an invitation to sin, as clear a one as Jack's ever seen, and he's happy to accept.

"Wish I had a camera. You should see yourself." Johnny only smirks, but Jack means it wholeheartedly. Johnny is just as alluring now as he was in front of the cameras, all put together, sleek and smiling.

Jack glares at the chair Johnny's sprawled across. Horrible thing, and far too narrow to suit his purposes. He moves across the room to a small loveseat and sits down. "Come here."

Johnny looks at him for a moment, then pulls himself up out of the chair. He tugs up his trousers to cover himself, though he doesn't bother to fasten them. One hand grasps at the waist, bunching the fabric at his hip and keeping them up.

He begins to move toward Jack. It's a heady feeling, almost frightening, undeniably appealing, to have Johnny fixing him with this look. Jack is tempted to let himself get drawn in, to just go blissfully under, but that's not for tonight. Another time, maybe. Now, he shakes his head slightly and says, "Take off your shoes."

Johnny doesn't comment, doesn't, in fact, even pause. He toes at the backs of his heels and steps out of the shoes, still moving forward, still watching Jack carefully. It's almost like he's looking for something, though Jack can't imagine what.

Truth be told, Jack is finding it difficult to imagine anything at the moment. Why would he want to, when the reality he's looking at is post-orgasmic, predatory-obedient Johnny, in an unbuttoned, disheveled Armani tux, and bare feet, coming to a stop just in front of him, legs lightly brushing against Jack's knees. "Oh, fuck me," thinks Jack, "I may die."

Johnny smirks down at him as though he heard the thought. What he says, though, is "What now?"

"Off," Jack reaches for the black fabric on Johnny's thigh, tugs ineffectually, and clears his throat. "Take these off. Shorts, too."

Johnny releases his hold on the trousers, and Jack helps them slide to the floor, revealing the wiry muscles of Johnny's legs. Jack sighs, a little more breathlessly than is strictly dignified, and Johnny smiles. "The jacket?"

Jack shakes his head. He tugs Johnny closer, pulling at his thighs to communicate what he has in mind. Johnny, thank god, gets the message, and he brings his legs up onto the sofa, straddling Jack's lap on his knees. "You can leave the jacket," Jack breathes against his chest, wrapping his hands in the front of Johnny's shirt and pulling them flush together.

"Jack..." It's only his name, but there's a cautious note in Johnny's voice that gives him pause.

He smiles against black ink and golden skin, knowing that Johnny will feel it, even if he can't see it. "Don't worry, old man. I'll take it slow."

Johnny laughs, then, really laughs, and Jack grins, and scrapes his teeth across Johnny's nipple, and Johnny hisses and arches his chest against him, and Jack can't touch him enough, can't get his hands on enough of Johnny's skin. He's struck with the thought of how they must look, two aging movie stars, making out on a couch for god's sake, and both of them mostly dressed. It's a sight he absolutely must see.

Jack pushes against Johnny, gripping his arms to keep him from leaning too far back. Johnny's a study in contrast, black jacket forming sharp lines against white shirt forming sharp lines against dark, flushed skin, and under it all the bottom line--the crisp black of Jack's own trousers. This line needs to go--Jack wants no contrast between his skin and Johnny's (irrational, he knows, given how pale he is).

Jack carefully lets go of Johnny's arms and slips his hands between them to unfasten the trousers. He tries to push them off, but can't get them over his hips with Johnny's legs pinning him down. "Oh, Christ, help me," he groans. Johnny, apparently misinterpreting his squirming about, very deliberately tilts his hips forward, pressing his cock against Jack's crotch.

"Shit. Johnny, you crazy bastard, help me get these off." They're both laughing, and then Johnny's kissing him, hard, deep, like he never means to stop. There are a few mad scrambling moments in which they try to shift their weight and tug the pants down without letting go, without breaking the kiss, and then they're laughing again. "Like a couple of kids," Jack grins, and Johnny nods, does something Jack forgets to watch, and then they're pressed together again. Skin against glorious skin, and Johnny's cock is a wonderful soft friction against Jack's.

Jack feels like he'll die if he can't relieve this pressure, and it feels so good, he wouldn't really mind all that much. Johnny's asking him a question, lips against his ear, and all Jack hears is the rushing of blood, the pounding of his heart. "What?"

"No way in hell we're doing this dry." Johnny's tone is patient and amused, and Jack realizes that, once again, he can't tell exactly who's in charge here. He also doesn't give a shit.

"Jacket pocket," he gasps out, his eyes shut against the feel of Johnny's lips on his neck. He feels Johnny's hand fumbling against his side, hears the click of the lid and then his eyes fly open as Johnny's hand slicks his cock, squeezing, teasing, stroking. His heart stops for only a moment or two when he sees Orlando in the doorway, watching intently.

Orlando leans against the door frame, as yet unaware that he has been spotted. He is transfixed by what Jack is certain is the arresting sight of stark white shirt tails hanging over the curve of Johnny's unnaturally perfect ass, his thigh muscles bunching as he shifts, kneeling over Jack on the couch. Jack, whose arms are inside that shirt, his hands on Johnny's back. He's moaning and writhing while Johnny prepares Jack to fuck him, and Jack knows without a doubt, in Orlando's position, he wouldn't be able to look away, either.

The expression on Orlando's face is like a mirror in which Jack can see just how breathtaking the sight really is, and for a moment, he's almost jealous, wishes he could be watching this. Then reality hits him, in the form of Johnny pushing down onto his cock, and he thinks, "I'm fucking Johnny Depp, and I'm jealous because Orlando gets to watch?" The envy's gone, and he laughs, a choked, desperate sound as Orlando looks up at just that moment and meets his eyes.

Panic rushes into his face like floodwaters, and Orlando, blushing, turns to flee. "No!" Jack gasps out unintentionally. Orlando and Johnny both freeze. Shit.

"No what?" Johnny is puzzled, a little concerned, and Orlando looks... hopeful?

"Don't..." And what to say now? He can't say "Don't go," not without revealing Orlando's presence. "Don't stop," he says, keeping his eyes on Orlando's, hoping he's smart enough to get the message.

Johnny chuckles and relaxes against Jack. "Had no intention of stopping. What gave you that idea?"

Jack keeps watching Orlando. Finally, he turns and steps into the doorway again. "Good." It could be an answer to Johnny's statement. It's not. But it could be. "I want... want you to see us. See how good this is." Jack has to be careful, to find the line between communicating with Orlando and giving the game away to Johnny, and walk it expertly. It's a difficult task under the best circumstances, and it's not made any easier by the clench of Johnny's inner muscles around his cock.

"Kinky bastard. Saying you want to set up a camera?"

Jack shakes his head. "Mirrors." Johnny hums assent, and Orlando's eyes go narrow as he tries to understand. Jack shakes his head again, this time for Orlando's benefit, and says, "I want you--to touch yourself--want to see you come." Johnny groans against his neck, and Orlando looks shocked. He's shaking his head, but when Jack says, "Please," his hand slips inside his trousers.

Johnny's hand slips between them at almost the same moment, and Jack is shattered between sight and sensation. "God yes, just--that. More." Both men respond with alacrity, Johnny grinding harder against him, Orlando pushing his trousers down so that Jack can see the quick, slightly unsteady stroke of his hand along his cock. "So, so beautiful," Jack pants out, and Johnny ducks his head again to bite at his throat.

"You're awful fucking chatty tonight," he remarks wryly, but Jack can't bring himself to care about what Johnny's saying, not when whatever it is vibrates so warmly against his neck. Not when the sound of Johnny's voice makes Orlando squeeze his eyes shut and bite his lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Look at me," Jack hisses, and Orlando obeys. There's an oddly determined expression on his face, as though he means to meet Jack's challenge, to see this through at any cost.

"Look at me," Johnny growls, and Jack obeys. Christ. Had he thought Johnny beautiful before? His skin is damp with sweat, his eyes are somehow wild and focused at once, and his breath stutters with each stroke of his hand, each thrust of Jack's hips. Jack can hear a soft, stacatto whimpering sound, and frantically thinks how to cover the noise Orlando's making. He opens his mouth to say something--anything--and realizes the noise was coming from him.

Johnny drops his face, rests his forehead against Jack's, and for a few moments of shared breath and unwavering eye contact, Jack entirely forgets about Orlando's presence. Then Johnny is gasping and shivering, and Jack pushes his face past Johnny's, slides his lips along his cheek, and fixes his eyes on Orlando again.

"You're close, aren't you? I can feel that... are you going to come for me?" He whispers the question in Johnny's ear, but his eyes are still on Orlando, who nods as Johnny groans his agreement. "Now."

It's like a chain reaction, he thinks distantly. The spreading warmth on his belly stokes the fire inside him, he explodes inside Johnny, and when his mind catches up with him again, he sees Orlando looking at his sticky, splattered hand with a bit of a lost expression on his face. He can't hold back a snigger, and Orlando looks at him, grinning sheepishly, and makes a decidedly rude gesture as he turns and slips out the door.

"Mmmhh." Johnny sighs and nuzzles against Jack's shoulder, characteristically affectionate for the few quiet moments after. "Jack."

Again, it's only his name, only whispered against his throat, but it carries a world of warning in it, and Jack tenses at the sound of it. He clears his throat half-heartedly. "Yes?"

There's a pause, then, and nothing for so long that Jack thinks he misunderstood, that Johnny was only saying his name. Then, "That..." Johnny stops, presses his mouth against Jack's ear so that he can lower his voice even further and still be heard. "Orlando?" Jack can't speak around the lump in his throat, can only nod. "Is he gone?" Jack nods again. There's another pause, longer this time, and finally, "Think he enjoyed the show?"

Jack laughs, more with relief than amusement. "I think you could safely say that our young friend enjoyed himself very much."

"Hm. Maybe we should..." Johnny lets the question trail off unasked, but Jack shakes his head. He doesn't want that, though he can't explain exactly why. "All right." There's comfortable stillness for a moment, each of them drifting somewhat mindlessly. Johnny breaks the silence. "Mirrors?"

Jack can feel his face flushing--he refuses to name it a blush--and shakes his head. "I don't think we'll need them." They won't, as long as Johnny can watch Orlando's eyes, can watch Orlando as he sees them together again.

He's quite confident that won't be a problem.

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