backstory: jack & johnny's first date

[_johnny]

[london, april 1994. follows this... written as aim chat, revised slightly for clarity]

Something in the back of Jack's brain worries about the shivers he feels under his fingers, in Johnny's neck, on his lips and tongue, and he backs them up against the pub's locked door, the wood rattling on its hinges. There is a small awning above them and the

Comments

[__jack]

He's known Johnny for a handful of hours and yet he's not at all surprised to hear exactly that, blunt and growled and horribly cliché coming from anyone else; but as it is, the words make Jack weak in the knees (cliché indeed) and his hands curls into drenched wool and soaked hair and he has to bodily keep himself from manhandling Johnny against the door and fucking him right there and then

[_johnny]

It's really nothing short of a fucking miracle, this man, this Jack fucking amazing man, and already in his head Johnny's adding colors and sounds and tastes and textures to his mental definition of what Jack means.

Jack means lips bruised and flushed dark red with kisses that almost hurt and make Johnny's head spin like he's sixteen again; it means big warm wide hands, not rough but not baby smooth either, one of which is yanking impatiently at Johnny's fly, the other is working its way up under Johnny's tee shirt. Jack means the taste of cool rainwater on hot skin in the place where a shirt opens, Jack means a breathless chuckle when Johnny says fuck the buttons and just yanks.

The little bits of plastic hit the floor with a soft patter that's lost in the sound of their breathing, their gasping moaning laughing loud wet kisses and Johnny thinks there's no sound like that, nothing more amazing than that sound of two people escalating toward a fuck, it's fucking beautiful is what it is

[__jack]

Johnny's head falls to the side when Jack moves to lightly press his teeth into the tight muscles of his neck, right under the rough angle of the jaw, and Jack can feel Johnny's pulse against the flat of his tongue. He squeezes the thick cock in his hand and feels the groan vibrate against his mouth, too; he focuses on it through the sharp knot of arousal tightening with every roll of Johnny's thumbs.

The waist of Johnny's boxers dig into Jack's arm and he moves again to slide both hands onto Johnny's hips and push at the intrusive fabric until Johnny's erection slides up wetly against Jack's belly. He reaches around to take two firm grips of arse and presses their hips together tightly.

Johnny's hair is all over the place, sticking to Jack's lips and face when he mumbles into Johnny's ear. "May I interest you in a blowjob?" He means it to be light and playful but it comes out heavy and sharp with the smack of spit and breath.

[_johnny]

Jack's words hit Johnny right in the fucking knees, make him stumble and clutch at Jack's shoulders, make his cheeks flame with heat. He might actually be blushing, Jesus, and he moans and he nods and he arches into Jack's big warm hand, he buries his face in the sweatyrainy crease of Jack's neck and tries to say yes yes yes oh god oh yes; what actually leaves his lips is more of a needful whine.

He lifts his mouth to Jack's again, and Jack's teeth close for a moment on Johnny's lower lip, a nip and a suck and Johnny's breath nearly stops in his chest.

[__jack]

It's the fingers curling tightly behind his neck that wring the name out of him on a rushed breath out, but it's most definitely Johnny's strangled cry and the sudden clench and bend of his body under and around him that jerks Jack that much closer to his own climax

[_johnny]

There is nothing to say or do now, there's just... this

[__jack]

Jack has to smile, laugh nearly, but he's not sure exactly what's funny; the idea of Johnny leaving right now decidedly isn't. To make sure that doesn't happen, Jack walks the rest of the way back to the bed and slides in, beneath the duvet, and against Johnny, who watches him with the disbelieving wariness of someone not used to being adored.

There's the quiet rearranging of limbs, muffled whisper of linen, until Jack rests his head by Johnny's on the same pillow, face in his hair, against his neck, inhaling a lungful of him. Johnny's hand closes gingerly over Jack's on his chest.

Jack parts his lips in Johnny's ear, feeling the warmth of his own breath. "Please stay."

[_johnny]

Despite the popular belief that Johnny Depp rarely sleeps alone, the fact of the matter is that he nearly always does, due to the simple fact that most of the people he hooks up with aren't the cuddling kind. It's nobody's fault, it's just not the way things usually happen. You fuck and you have fun and it's good, and then everybody sleeps in their own bed. It's the rules, man. It's L.A,, it's the life he's lived the past dozen years, it's just... fucking wrong that he's never really been held like this.

Jack brushes his lips back and forth over Johnny's ear, his cheek, his neck. "Stay," he says again, and his arms tighten around Johnny's chest; Johnny's chest tightens in turn.

"Yes," Johnny breathes. Yes, yes, here, now, stay.