April (april_lirit) wrote in deppenport,

FIC: Don't leave me high and dry (Part 2/3)

Rating: R (Drugs, language, salacious man-groping)
Word Count: 3,401
Summary: Johnny breaks Jack's cannabis cherry.
Disclaimer: This all came out of my imagination. But have heart, that doesn't necessarily mean it didn't happen.

Quote: Johnny lights the zippo [with its flamboyantly large flame] and plunges it into the rim. The leaves quicken, smelling like, like…a sweet, musty brush fire in a locker room
“Now suck. Suck, bitch!” he commands, in a deep, demonic voice.

Author's Notes: Remember when my last post said part one of two? Yeah, well, I can't sneeze in less than 500 words. Yeah, that quote was pilfered from artaxastra, but it best describes how I write. And the beginning with the French goes as follows: the french is in normal font, and it's translated in italics below. Anything else? Oh yeah, I just realized this is practically a pot "how to" (or rather, "how not to") manual, so I'm hoping the DEA doesn't come after me for this.

Previous Chapter: Part 1

“Je vous accueille à chez Paradis et Depp. Voulez-vous une boisson? Peux-je prendre votre manteau?”
Welcome to the home of Paradis and Depp. Would you like a drink? May I take your coat?

The use of the formal (and thus distant) “vous” chafes him a bit, but Jack plays along with the game. It’s the one time he can use those five years of instruction in French.

“Non merci et non—je ne porte pas un manteau. Nous sommes en Californie alors il fait chaud toujours. Il y a deux saisons ici—l’été et le Noël. Mais—je voudrais fumer du…pot.”
No thank you and no—I am not wearing a coat. We’re in California, so it’s always hot. There are two seasons here—summer and Christmas. But—I would like to smoke some …pot.

“Du pot? Comment fumeriez-vous un pot?”
Pot? How would you smoke a pot?

“Dans un pipe.”
In a pipe.

“Une pipe ? Un pot n'ajusterait pas dans une pipe.”
A pipe? A pot wouldn’t fit in a pipe.

“Mais une pipe ajusterait dans un pot.”
But a pipe would fit into a pot.

“Vous êtes fous.”
You are insane.

“Tu es beau. Je veux que tu soit venu dans ma gorge et puis, dans mon cul.”
You are beautiful. I want you to come down my throat and then, into my ass.

To come?

“Oui, venir...it means ‘to come’, n’est-ce pas?”
Yes, to come…it means ‘to come’, does it not?

“Yes, as in ‘I came from the grocery store’, or ‘please come to my humble abode.’ But you just said, ‘I want you to come down my throat’ as in you want me to come a-walking down your throat. I don’t think I’d fit.”

Jack thinks of a quip to the tune of ‘well you’re already so practiced at jumping down my throat, so it shouldn’t be such a traumatizing transition’ but that would:
1. be counter-productive
2. be a petulant over-simplification. Jack often feels like Johnny’s criticizing him, but he conveys his disapproval far more subtly—head-shakes and sighs rather than telling-offs and shouts. Somehow, Jack would prefer the latter. At least when someone yells at you, you know that they’re expelling all of their anger in the moment, but when they just sigh and ignore you, you wonder if they’re just storing it away in an ever-accumulating mass of resentment that one day is going to amount to something weightier than the “pros” of remaining in the relationship. God, Jack wishes Johnny would jump down his throat more often.

Instead, he settles on a wry smile and a, “Well, that’s never been a problem,” with a pointed glance at Johnny’s crotch.

“You speak French in that perfect Parisian accent. Let me guess, learned it at some fancy all-boys boarding school where you wore pin-stripes and engaged in group masturbation.”

Jack isn’t quite sure if Johnny missed the insinuation or is just neatly ignoring it. “Hey, I was engaging in a time-honoured English tradition. It would have been unpatriotic not to. And anyway, it made it easier to play a navy bloke.”

“Rum, sodomy and the lash?”

“Exactly…Erm, are we going to move beyond the doorway?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry man.”

“No problem.” Johnny leads Jack to the living room, or is it the den…Jack’s never quite known the difference. Well, at any rate it’s large and positively reeks of Vanessa’s chintzy decorating tastes. Louis XIV—yuck! The kind of extravagant interior decorating that reminds you why his grandson lost everything from the neck up. Purple velvet plush chairs decorated in the chestnut arms with hand-carven faeries, pans and all of that ostentatious Greek mythological crap. Oh look, it’s Zeus—Vanessa, did you know that he raped a woman whilst in the form of a swan?

A six-armed, gilded chandelier. A grandfather clock [how did it get that name, anyway? Invented by the fine Swiss engineer Jacques Grandfather? Used to store grandfathers before the advent of retirement homes (could a grandfather fit in there…well, old people are quite small), so that families could dust them off every year at Christmas and have them put the kids to sleep with stories about growing up in the old country—and every year he was even more economically disadvantaged. We didn’t have these newfangled circulatory systems when I was growing up. We had to hand-pump our own blood with bicycle pumps. Sphygmomanometers? Ha! We used tire pressure gauges and we were grateful for it.…]

Ok, that was a touch over-the-top. No, not the grandfather thing, the furniture.

Marble covered tables. Terra-cotta urns. Why they hell does she need urns? Unless Vanessa’s got the carbonized remains of what was once a loved-one in there, then she doesn’t need a goddamned urn in her living room. They’re so…superfluous! [But God Jack must be more of a poufter than he’d previously imagined, because he can now recognize ‘terra cotta’ as a colour.]

And tapestries!—Jack had been expecting a few ostentatious, baroque oil-on-canvasses, but God can does this exceed his (admittedly low) expectations. You can’t tack a blanket to the wall and call it stylish. You know, there have been some marvelous innovations in picture mediums since the fourteenth century, such as…Oh, I don’t know—try PHOTOGRAPHS!

“Something wrong?” Jack realizes that he’s worked up a sweat abusing the furniture.

“Yeah. Fine. Just admiring the décor.”

“Well thanks, I picked it out myself. Since we’re almost never here, Vanessa gave me free reign. She said it’s fine because she won’t have to ‘long endure my tawdry taste in interior decorating.’”

Johnny settles onto the couch—the upholstered, white, gilt, varnished baroque couch. He runs a hand through his long, gold-flecked, sweat-slick hair. Jack knows better than to mistake that for vulnerability. Still, he takes his opportunities where he finds them…like a scavenger. Scavenging for Johnny’s affection. Because fucking isn’t affection. It’s fucking.

He settles down beside Johnny, “Tired?” his hand crawls onto Johnny’s knee, like an icy-white crab.

“Yeah, Gore ran me ragged with the fencing sequence.” He doesn’t acknowledge the hand, and Jack is aching for an indication one way or another.

“Wait, wait—fencing? As in, proper fencing?”

“Uh, yeah. Haven’t you read the script?”

“They only give me my scenes…which are few.”

“That’s what happens when you’re going to die.”


“You haven’t heard? Oh man, sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Look on the bright side—at least you get to do a death scene.”

Jack’s looks at the floor with a stomach-churning sense of vertigo. They’re killing him? Does this mean he’ll be finished early? What if his scenes will be done by next week’s end? This is the last film (a blessing and a curse)—when will he see Johnny next? Not at the Oscars. Jack wouldn’t even get a People’s Choice award nomination. [Sad because People’s Choice awards are only one intellectual step above the ‘World’s Greatest Grandpa’ award—if that was even a real award.}

“Why the bloody fucking hell didn’t Gore tell me?” His jugular is jumping out of his neck.

“Whoa, Jack, I’m fucking with you.”

“Oh.” He slams the brakes on his panic attack, screeching resonating in his chest. “I was just, er, afraid that, erm, they’d cut my paycheck.”

“Dude, that’s absurd. Disney couldn’t change what’s in the contract.”

“I know. I…” The fight-or-flight reaction has drained the blood from Jack’s higher reasoning faculties, and he’s just too parched of words to salvage this one. “Let’s just smoke, eh?”

“I’ll tell you again, I don’t think you should do this.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Hey, that’s not just for you. I really don’t want my buzz to be blown by trip-sitting. And not to mention, I’m going to be high as a kite and I can’t promise that I can protect you from yourself.”

Fight-or-flight—Jacks feels like he could kill a wild boar with a stick and a rock, but he really can’t deal with a cross-examination from Johnny.

So he fucking kisses him—kissing so hard its fucking, smothering Johnny’s mouth so fierce that their teeth crash like snow-white train cars derailed and his stubble’s probably making a mess of Johnny’s face and neck but he doesn’t care—he just doesn’t care, and he forces his sweaty hand between jeans and lily-white ass cheeks thinking about how bad he wants to paint this hideous, French-upholstered couch with come—on both sides of the cushions so Johnny can’t just turn them over and that’s fucking that—and Jack’ll come into him with a force that you have to measure in megatons, and when this ugly fucking living room’s a smoking crater under a mushroom cloud yawning toward God he’ll anoint Johnny’s forehead with his semen and where the fuck is his mind and why the fuck is it so fucking beautiful that his cock could weep!?

Two hands. On his shoulders. Pushing. And Johnny’s rigid as plywood in his arms. “Whoa, hey. Hey. You’ve got to come down by 10:30, so if you want to smoke, we can’t waste time like this.”

If Jack hadn’t seen otherwise, he’d assume that Johnny had no balls. Though Jack hasn’t personally fondled Johnny’s heart in his palm, so maybe he just lacks one of those. Well, he hears the implied out. Johnny’ll let Jack fuck him, but then they can’t smoke. Eye on the prize.He can fuck around with Johnny, but what’ll he accomplish—a five-second muscle spasm and come trickling out of his anus like a leaky faucet for days. But if this will pry Johnny open, if only for a second…he just wants to know what Johnny feels—if he feels. Even if Jack can’t prize that from his clenched fists, then at least he’ll have a moment where he knows that Johnny isn’t brick-walling him out. Reluctantly, he falls back, feeling like he’s had a cold bucket of water thrown over his head. “All right. Let’s do it.”


Johnny slides open the drawer of one of those infuriating marble-topped tables, and a fat bulge of dry, green leaves pops up, like the quivering fur of a trapped animal. Well, an animal in a ziplock bag.

“Oh my God!” Jack’s a little startled that Johnny keeps it right there and in such felonious quantities. That quantity surely merits, “possession with intent to sell.” All of a sudden he’s nervous about being in the same room as it and its potential (extensive) criminal consequences.

Johnny smiles, apparently amused at Jack’s shock. “Don’t worry, it won’t bite you. This here is a full O.”



“Ah.” It looks like a metric ton.

Johnny reaches into the shadowy depths of the drawer and draws out a bulging, emerald green, velvet pouch. He fishes out something that Jack recognizes and something he does not. The first is a tobacco pipe, that’s certain, but the other one is apparently a pipe, except it’s made of glass, looks as if a four year old has decorated it with puffy paints and—somewhat resembles a toilet. He doesn’t have to wonder long. Johnny picks it up between his thumb and forefinger and turns to him.

“Wondering what this is?”

Jack nods.

“This is a bubbler. Since you aren’t used to the throat-scorchingly transcendent essence of weed, then I’m afraid you’re going to need to use this. The water in the base makes it go down much smoother. It’s like using a potty-trainer—hell, it even looks like one.”

Well, that sounds like a challenge. For no rational reasons Jack feels like he’d be one-downing himself by smoking from that…thing—because then he’d be admitting that he can’t take it. And that’s a good way of losing respect…stupid male politics. That tobacco pipe looks much less…absurd. “You know I’ve smoked before. I can handle the tobacco pipe.”

“Ok. To each his own,” he says, in that nonchalant, you’re-the-author-of-your-own-suffering tone. “And since we’re breaking your cherry, you take the first hit.”

Johnny pinches off a dime-sized morsel from the larger body and stuffs it into the tobacco chamber.

Suddenly Jack realizes that he’s about to smoke a psychotropic substance whose effects he is completely unaware of, and maybe there was something to Johnny’s dire warnings about a trip to Hell and right now it’s taking all of his willpower not to piss himself—well, it’s too late to look back now, as Johnny is pressing the pipe and a rather large, silver zippo into Jack’s sweat-slick palms.

“You know how to do this, right?”

“Yeah. Of course.” Shouldn’t be too difficult. Light imposingly large zippo, ignite psychoactive herbs, inhale.

He clicks the wheel with his thumb—and a five-inch flame roars up inches from his eyes and he yelps, dropping it on the tiles.

“Fuck!” Johnny scoops up the lighter and blows out the still-burning flame.

Luckily, the floor’s tile, but the lighter has left an ugly black scar in the floor.

“Damn it, don’t be such a pussy. You’d better hope that Windex will get this out”

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—Wh-what the fuck just happened?”

“I disabled the regulating ring—“

“The wha--?”

“Never mind. Try again. Don’t burn the house down.”

He gets up, walking toward (what Jack assumes is) the kitchen. Jack stares after his ass (covetously) as it shrinks into the distance. He’d give Johnny a rim-job if he’d ask. He told Michelle that there are places where the human mouth just wasn’t meant to go—but he’d go there for Johnny.

“Well, have you at least got another lighter?”

Johnny fishes a black, grocery-store lighter out of his pocket and tosses it to Jack. Ah, much more manageable.

He holds the pipe in his left hand, and ignites the lighter in his right. He turns the lighter ninety degrees, hovering the flame over the bowl. “Ouch! Fucking damn it!”

He stuffs his burnt fingertips in his mouth and floods them with saliva. It brings little relief.

“That bad?”


“Must’ve been bad. You’re sucking your thumb.”

“Fuck off.” The statement seems to lose its sting, given that it’s muffled by the fingers in Jack’s mouth.

“Not tonight, darlin’.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“Need help with that?”

“I’m fine.”

Fingers ache-shaking, Jack lights the flame, dips the lighter toward the bowl, “Fuck!”

Johnny leans back, “I can watch you be macho about this all day.” Course sprigs of underarm hair fan themselves out as he stretches his arms back, lacing his fingers behind his head. Jack inhales his underarm musk, wanting.

Loathe as he is to have this done for him like an infant being fed mashed carrots, he hands Johnny the pipe and lighter.

Johnny holds the bowl, pointing the mouthpiece toward Jack. Jack briefly considers taking the whole stem into his mouth, then slowly withdrawing his lips until they tantalizingly brush against the tip. Then again, he doesn’t feel nearly sexy enough to pull that off. In fact, he rather feels like an unmitigated ass.

He puts his lips to the bit. His heart’s climbing stairs in his chest.

Johnny lights the zippo [with its flamboyantly large flame] and plunges it into the rim. The leaves quicken, smelling like, like…a sweet, musty brush fire in a locker room

“Now suck. Suck, bitch!” he commands, in a deep, demonic voice.

Obediently, Jack sucks, hastily drawing in a lungful, embers airborne like confetti scorching at the tender lining of his throat like fire with claws and he tears away from the pipe and coughs and coughs and coughs raking the coals smoldering in his mouth and stripping the tattered rags of his throat and coughs and he feels them burning all the way down and it’s ridiculous but he’s coughing from the pit of his stomach.

He feels Johnny lightly plucking the pipe from his hands, “Hey, don’t leave the cherry burning like that.”

He lifts it to his lips and smoothly inhales, his thumb tapping the side of the bowl, where Jack notices a tiny hole has been drilled. He exhales, of course, in smoke rings. Jack wouldn’t be surprised if he could blow a smoke-dart through the bulls-eye of concentric smoke rings. [And he looks so…cool doing it. Relaxed and effortless and footage of this should never reach the eyes of young, impressionable minds, because if Jack was a fourteen year old kid and he saw it, he’d want to smoke cannabis too so that he could look cool like Johnny Depp. But no one’ll look as cool doing it as Johnny does. The trick is confidence. That’s why Johnny probably looks cool taking a shit, because he probably does it confidently. Not that Jack knows personally or anything.]

“This--*cough*--fucking--*cough*--hurts *cough* *cough* *cough*!”

Johnny’s unmoved. “So are you ready to try the bubbler then?”

“*cough* What? *cough* More?”

“Yeah man, you don’t just take one hit.” Another hit is low on the list of Jack’s things to do—somewhere below having a porcupine forcibly inserted into his anus. But he can’t quit now. *cough*

Jack nods. Talking’s such a fucking strain.

Johnny picks up the bubbler and fills the chamber at the base with some water from a half-empty Evian bottle. He packs the bowl and offers the bit to Jack.

“Hold it in this time, OK? And don’t suck it in all at once. Breathe it in slowly, and take it into your mouth before you inhale into your lungs.”

Jack nods, taking a tentative hit from the pipe. As he inhales, the water bubbles powerfully, sounding something like a fish tank filter and slurping the last dregs of soda from the bottom of the cup. And Jack’s loath to admit it, but it goes down much more smoothly—but his trachea’s still on fire from the first hit and it takes every ounce of his resolve not to cough but he feels like he’s got a flaming hedgehog in his throat bristling, burning his trachea.

Meanwhile, Johnny takes another languid hit from the tobacco pipe, looking somewhat like a professor—at Berkeley, Jack amends.

Twelve seconds pass and Jack coughs out the smoke and his throat’s probably rags by now.

“Keep coughing Jack, it gets you off harder.”

It does.

They repeat the process thrice more until the leaves are cashed, Johnny lighting for Jack and Jack struggling through each hit, but Jack realizes that it’s becoming steadily easier as the initial shock of the first begins to fade until, to Jack’s pleasure, he only feels a minty cool tingle at the back of his throat as air rushes against it. It feels wonderful, and Jack is certain that it’s making his breath fresher. He puckers his lips into an o-shape, and draws in air to further freshen his breath.

Johnny’s laughing. “What are you doing?”

“Freshening my breath. Marijuana’s something like sage, yeah? A bit minty.”

“Nah. It actually makes your breath kinda pungent. Come here.”

Johnny puts a hot hand on the back of Jack’s neck, making every hair on his body prickle like cactus needles, and kisses him. His lips are rough and more richly textured than Jack’s used to and they make his own lips buzz on the contact, and Jack’s tongue is sluggish and when he runs it along Johnny’s teeth it feels like he’s pushing piano keys, but Johnny’s breath is a little rank from the drugs, but in a wet grass soaked in sweet and sour sauce kind of way and he realizes with embarrassment that his mouth has been completely still for the past…several seconds.

“But my throat feels minty. Like I’ve just rinsed with mouth wash or something.”

“Well, I think that’s cuz you’re high.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not…” Curiously, the cool marble tabletop feels wet under his fingertips.

Johnny’s smile is so broad, you’d think his face would crack. “Not what?”


“You were just saying that you’re not high.”

“I’m not…” maybe it is wet but thick like…mercury…looks like a bad animation …Jack’s hand’s moving like a bad animation…not enough frames per second…not high.

“I think you’re high.”

“’m not—“ Jack coughs, and suddenly his head deflates and slowly fills with…cough medicine. All floaty, and what was he just…can’t——where—what was I just—floating—can’t—stomach climbing echelons—can’t breathe—can’t—


R&R! It's encouraging. Oh yeah, and concrit always accepted, nay, appreciated.

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