unspoken (hard core logo/bandom, joe/jepha)
Title: Unspoken.
Author: Jess (swear_jar).
Rating: R.
Fandom: Hard Core Logo/bandom.
Pairing(s)/character(s): Jepha Howard/Joe Dick.
Warning: Erotic asphyxiation.
Notes: 1. If you haven’t seen Hard Core Logo, WATCH IT. This is Joe Dick (on the left, as played by Hugh Dillon) and Billy Talent (right, played by Callum Keith Rennie).

2. No, just watch that movie. It is an amazing movie that, if you are in bandom, I’m going to say is totally relevant to your interests, you guys.

3. For apiphile. Mostly because a little while ago we had this one brief conversation I can’t find now that went something like… me: omg Joe fucking Jepha! Her: SOUNDS PRETTY GOOD. ADD SOME BILLY RELATED GRR.

4. I have disregarded the concept of timelines here. I figure when smashing together fiction and reality, timelines are the least of my problems. So HCL exist as a slightly more modern day band than in the movie, pretty much.

5. Sorry, that is definitely too many notes.
Summary: Joe is sick of this tour and sick of being ignored.

---

"Your band fucking blows," Joe says, kicking a stool over and shoving the next one to where he wants it, smacking it against the table, slopping drinks over the edges of their glasses. He sits down, takes a gulp of rapidly warming beer, fucking piss water, and slams the bottle onto the table. He wills the fucking thing to shatter on impact, exploding beer and glass shrapnel in his face, over the drunk crowd, into the pretty face of the guy opposite him, but it just teeters unsteadily for a minutes and sits still. Fuck.

Joe is sick of this tour. It's bullshit-- they do better on their own, even if they have to sleep in the van and Billy’s an endless bitch about it, and he should have remembered that, but with Billy in his ear, happy and talking money and hotels and parties and being on the road again, he’d said no, no, fucking no, then he'd caved because touring—fuck, he could never say no. It was fucked up. They do better on their own. Hard Core Logo does better on their own. They don't share well. Joe doesn't fucking share well.

At least there's ample liquor for Joe to pilfer.

Joe doesn’t look at the stage. He glares at the intact beer and then at the guy across from him, bassist for The Used, pretty, tattooed, tiny, and waits for a reaction.

Which comes as the bassist salutes him with his beer, grin glinting metal.

Pretty. Oblivious.

Well Joe isn't in the mood to be ignored. He's really fucking sick of being ignored. Joe gets up and runs his way around the table, smacking his hand down on the damp wood to the beat of his agitated pulse, out of time with the music pounding in his head and chest, leans into the guy's ear, checking out the big fucking holes in his lobes, and says: "What's your name again?"

It's something weird, Joe thinks, but can't remember what.

"Jepha," he says, and Jepha? The fuck? Jeff not unique enough for this little snowflake? Snowflake smiles the same pretty, metallic smile as before.

"Well, Snowflake," Joe says, "I said. Your band. Is a pile. Of horseshit."

Grins while he says it, leans over and gets in his face. He expects something. He gets no bared teeth, no growl, no glare, no politely contained animosity he can get his fingernails under the lid of and let out. He gets: "I heard you the first time," and a smile that's soft, plasticine, accepting, not a finger hold. "I like your band," Jepha says, then shrugs, turns around so his back’s to the table.

Smart ass. Joe turns around and follows his gaze to the stage-- ah, fuck. Fuck Billy, up on stage whoring himself out to those talentless fuckholes. Talentless. Not tonight. Ha fucking ha. Billy was only up there because he was pissy at Joe already (for nothing, Joe can’t even remember) when they asked and Joe said no, no they couldn't fucking borrow his guitarist, and that was it, of course Billy said yeah, he'd play with them.

There's a break in the song and Billy squints and spits through the coloured lights, Joe's sure Billy’s eyes are right on him when Billy smiles that fucked up vicious smile, Joe loves that smile sometimes, tonight he hates it. Billy looks away first. He sidles up to the singer as they come back in and plays plastered against his side, ignoring Joe again, like he can't feel Joe’s eyes on him.

"Dick, isn't it?" Jepha says pleasantly. Joe jolts a little, eyes tearing away from how Billy's hunched over, obscene, looking like he’s fucking the leader singer through his guitar. Well fuck you, princess, I can play with other people too. Joe wants to snarl, tear down walls and break things. He smiles.

"If you ask really nicely," Joe says. He tilts his head to the side like he's really interested. Bats his fucking eyelashes and says, "sorry," sincere with a well practiced mischievous glint in his eyes, "you know I really do respect you guys—you must have copped a lot of shit, coming out of Moron-- shit, oops," Joe covers his mouth, oh my gooooosh fake bashful, "I mean, Mormon country."

Joe lights a cigarette and puts his elbows on the table. Leans into Jepha and wiggles his eyebrows. Take a drag of his smoke, watches through his exhale how well his peace offering is received. Not very. Jepha raises an eyebrow. Yeah, okay, he's probably heard every Mormon joke in the book.

"Okay," Joe changes tactics quick, because he'd prefer to be out of here before Billy's off stage, disappear, so next time Billy looks over he’s gone. He takes another drag and blows the smoke in Jepha’s face. "Thing is, I want to fuck you. Since my drummer is catatonically stoned on your singer's weed, my bassist is currently chatting to the walls and my guitarist is ... otherwise engaged," Joe smiles extra wide and hopes Billy can feel it when he thinks being an endless cunt, "and I am just drunk enough on some piss-water beer I stole out of your band's fridge to not give a fuck if you blow me off or actually blow me, fuck subtle: want to go find somewhere dirty and do something filthy?"

Jepha blunt fingered hands pluck the cigarette out of Joe’s mouth. He takes a long drag. Joe reads ‘please’ down the side of his hand, then watches him breathe smoke out his nose. When he smiles, his piercings stick out unevenly. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Joe asks.

“Fuck subtle,” Jepha says, “and I meant it when I said I like your band.”

Joe hip checks the table as he gets up, and his empty beer bottle tilts, rolls and explodes on the floor. Joe’s isn't satisfied at all, it just jolts through him like a line-- he wants more, he wants it to last, he wants it now, he wants to destroy something else, he wants to fuck Jepha in the dirty club bathroom—

Joe doesn't look back to see if Jepha’s following him. He doesn’t look back to see if Billy's watching him leave.

---

This bathroom smells like every other dirty rock club bathroom, several kinds of piss and chemicals. Joe’s thankful for his fucked up sense of smell.

Jepha puts his back against the wall, hands trapped behind himself. Joe takes a good look under the flickering fluorescents. Hair long enough to get a good grip on, tattoos everywhere Joe can see and he’s betting almost everywhere he can’t, hips cocked in skinny emo fuck jeans and the faggiest shoes Joe’s ever seen: fucking gold sneakers. Christ.

Joe’s torn between the desire to smack him in the face and fuck him through the wall. When he looks up, Jepha’s eyes are making their own silent assessments. Joe snorts smoke out of his nose and holds his arms out, Jesus-pose, cocks an eyebrow.

Jepha rocks back and forth against the wall.

Joe flicks his cigarette at the ground, and it (honest, accidentally) lands on Jepha’s sneaker. He flicks it off before it does any damage.

“Come here,” Joe says, just so he can take that step forward with Jepha and shove him towards one of the stalls. The door slams open against Jepha’s back and Joe shuffles in, flicks the latch closed.

He puts his hands on Jepha’s shoulders and presses him back until he bumps into the tiles with a quiet thud, a puff of air over Joe’s mouth, close enough to feel him breathing now. Joe kisses him, hard. Jepha gives back what he gets, teeth and pushing, crashing lips and head bumping into the tiled wall behind him as Joe pushes just that bit harder. Jepha’s piercings bump Joe's chin. His arms don’t move from behind him, which Joe is about half a second away from snapping something about, until his open hand brushes along Jepha’s neck and a harsh, nipping kiss turns into Joe’s lips pressed against Jepha’s abruptly slack ones.

Joe pulls back and looks at him. Jepha is puppy dog limp under his hands. Joe could swear the soft hand on his throat is all that’s holding him up from sliding down the wall. Joe pushes his thumb up under Jepha's chin, Jepha's head falls back easily, exposing his throat. Joe looks, reads.

"Gasper," Joe says, raised eyebrows. It's half a question, half an observation-- he's heard shit about Jepha on this tour-- The Used's bassist this, this one dude who's into fucking anything, or fucking anything, both ways. Joe wouldn’t admit to listening to tour gossip under pain of torture and offers of free coke, but sometimes that shit was useful. Case in point: his fingers rubbing the proffered throat, and Joe pieces some shit together. Joe doesn't wait for a reply to his half-question, just grabs Jepha's wrist, presses his hand over Joe's crotch. Tugs him around, wrist here, hand there, thigh here, fits them together like a cogs in a machine, ready to go. Jepha’s pliable like plasticine.

It’s not like Joe’s never had his hands around someone else’s throat (Billy, Billy, Billy), but never quite like this.

“Oh fuck me,” Jepha says, all one long exhale, pushes into Joe’s hands, bumps his throat into them like a cat that wants its chin scratched. “Will you…?” Jepha eyes are heavy lidded and black, all pupil.

"You squeeze too hard, we stop," Joe says, pushes his hips into Jepha’s hand. Pressing him against the wall with hands and thighs and cock.

Under his thumbs (the Stones song pops into his head, he hums it rough and under his breath), under a faded rainbow of colour and a fine grating of stubble, Jepha's pulse beats, fast. Faster.

Joe's pulse beats back through the pads of his fingers, deep and throbbing, yeah, yeah.

Jepha’s breathe comes out in speedy little gasps.

Destroying something pretty.

Some smart ass pretty thing, some bitch who plays guitar and smirks--

It's not quite what he wants.

But then, it never is.

When life gives you lemons, squeeze. Joe tenses his fingers and leans into it for a minute, Jepha's breathing goes hard as his dick against Joe's thigh, and Joe relaxes again before he's even really started-- testing.

Jepha actually whines, and Joe’s fucking hard himself, Jepha’s hand squeezes against his dick, rubs through the demin. It’s not a ‘stop’ kind of squeeze, it’s a ‘more’.

Joe feels like he’s the one with hands around his throat, breathes harsh and says, “yeah?” because he wants to, he wants to squeeze the breathe out of Jepha, squeeze until he hurts, until it’s worse for him than it is for Joe.

He flexes his hands again and there’s a noise caught and strangled in the air.

Jepha’s bucking hard against his leg, and Joe’s pushing his hips into Jepha’s hand as hard as his thumbs into Jepha’s neck-- it’s not enough. Joe needs two hands to undo his fly. Jepha’s left hand is still behind his back, must be hurting now, wrist bent with Joe pushing both their bodyweight against him. Joe doesn’t want him to move. Jepha’s eyes are closed and his head is tipped back, veins stand out in his neck, pulse obscenely visible, his face is red and sweat-sheened. Instead of letting go entirely, Joe shifts, shoving his forearm up against Jepha’s neck, hard, batting Jepha’s hand away for a second, fumbling at his fly. Jepha’s eyes crack open, he breathes in little hyperventilating gasps as Joe’s says, “yeah?” and Jepha’s eyes roll for a minute before he gets himself together enough to nod, as much as he can, and with Joe’s forearm still pressing into his neck he pushes his hand blindly back at Joe’s crotch, grabs his dick again.

Joe groans, his head drops a little and Jepha draws a full, rough, ragged breath, shaking like he’s got lungs full of water—Joe lets his arm loosen up.

“Yeah,” Jepha rasps, “yeah, just don’t, please don’t stop—“

“Didn’t fucking,” Joe pushes hard into Jepha’s grip, grits his teeth and gets a hold of himself, kisses Jepha quick and hard as a sorry, “didn’t fucking mean to.”

He moves his arm and Jepha’s head stays at the same angle, Joe’s fingers easily find their places again—Joe presses his thigh up hard at the same time his clamps his fingers down. Jepha’s hips grind into Joe’s thigh—it’s got to hurt, through two layers of demin. He just pushes harder, so Joe does too. Harder all over.

--- Fuck, fuck, fuck, he's squeezing Joe's dick painfully, perfectly hard, fuck, Joe thinks, he’s so close—the door swings open and shoes squeak on the damp floor and music floods the room before being muffled by the slamming door again, thinks of Billy out there, it’s Billy’s guitar screaming in his ears, fucking whore, fuck you, and doesn't let go until he feels Jepha's hips stop pushing, feels Jepha’s fingers weaken on him, until he really really has to, until his fingers won’t cooperate anymore and he’s come all over Jepha’s shirt, his hand.

"Mother-- fucker--" Jepha coughs, sputters, elbows on his knees and sweaty hair covering his face. "You didn't stop." He comes up for air looking pretty fucking out of it, doesn’t sound angry, doesn’t sound anything Joe can read.

"You didn't mean it,” Joe looks down at Jepha’s jeans and justifies himself by small dark wet patch spreading on their front.

Joe’s not exactly expecting it, hand on the door latch, when Jepha says: “I never do.”

He turns around and Jepha smiles at him, sitting on the floor of the stall, looking up through his bangs, flushed and sweaty and fucked out.

---

Joe hands are still shaking, but when he slams out of the bathroom, slipping back into the sweaty damp wall of bodies and noise, he feels calmer. Calmer again with a smoke in his hand.

He wants to find Billy, now. Wants Billy to ask where the fuck he was, half the time Billy was onstage. Wants Billy to ask: “where’d you disappear to?”

He wants to find a bottle of bourbon, twist the lid off and drink until his lungs burn.

Maybe not in that order.