Two Names on a Screwed Up Piece of Paper
Title: Two Names on a Screwed Up Piece of Paper
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: John/Roger
Time Period: Set in Houston. I think John Entwistle said it happened in 1974, but wikipedia says that they played Houston in 1975, so somewhere in there. The onstage fight occurred. The backstage stuff, probably not.
Warnings: Language, violence, sex of the faintly dub-con variety. I think that John Entwistle is a man with many sides. I like exploring the sinister one.
Disclaimer: Don’t own the Who or gain financially from this work. I do gain in other ways, though.
Summary: Sometimes the line between hatred and desire is as thin as a razor’s edge.
Roger strode down the hallway backstage, feeling the sweat of the show slowly drying on his body. He wished he could say the same about his anger, which curled in his chest like a fist getting tighter and tighter, ready to strike.
He mutedly heard footsteps coming up closer behind him through the ringing in his ears, but before he could turn, a strong, wiry hand grabbed his shoulder and whirled him around. John stood there; his face an emotionless mask, the only sign of his rage was the furrow that creased his brow.
The taller man thrust Roger against the wall, with a brutality that shocked the singer, his head striking the hard cinder blocks with a sickening crack. Astonishment turned the taut muscles in his body to water; Roger was unused to being pushed around. He tried to struggle out of John’s grip, but the bassist shifted his forearm to pin Roger’s throat and there was more powering the man than simple physical strength.
“You little fucking piece of shit, Daltrey,” John said, somewhere between a scream and a growl. “How dare you tell me what to do in front of the audience,” John paused and then continued recklessly, “As if you were a real bleeding musician.”
Roger felt the tenuous strands holding back his temper snap, as John spoke the accusation that Roger had seen in his eyes and Pete’s eyes a hundred times as they and Keith improvised on stage, full of exultation looking up at him at end of a song. We are the masters of our fucking instruments. We are gods among musicians. And what are you, Roger, but a sad little man in high heels? Your only real talent is pulling in groupies, and how many of them look at you twice once they’ve had you? Roger shook his head to clear it of the insidious voices, his curls plastering themselves across his sweaty brow. He snarled at John and pushed him back with explosive force, anger and violence once again overcoming his insecurities.
“Real musician!” Roger spat, venom in his voice,“Like a real musician would let his voice get so ravaged by drugs and cigarettes that he can barely stay in tune. If I wasn’t echoing your every word on stage, you’d sound like shit and you know it. I can’t save your ass when I can’t even hear myself sing ‘cause you’ve got your bass turned up so bloody loud!”
Roger wasn’t expecting it. John had never raised his hand to him before. Keith, yes, Pete, more times than he could remember, but John, never. So when the punch came, he was unprepared, his hands clenched in his hair in frustration.
John’s fist hit his cheekbone with a dull thud and the force of it sent him reeling. And that tiger that Roger kept so carefully caged broke free.
When they had kicked him out of the band, all those long years ago, Roger had faced what his future could be, what it had been for so many of his mates. A hard, thankless job, carousing to blow off steam, a string of petty crimes cumulating in a major crime, jail. He had looked down that road in despair and sworn to himself that no matter what they did, no matter how often they disparaged his opinion, he would not make his point with his fists. He would not strike first. But some things were too ingrained to change. On the inside, he was still a smaller than average kid with blond ringlets and the only way to avoid being bullied was to be the bigger bully. So striking second was a completely different story.
John shouldn’t have been surprised by Roger’s punch. He had watched things come to a head too many times between Pete and the fiery singer to not know how it happened. But Roger had never hit him before. John resented Pete and Roger for their struggle to control the band, but as long as Keith was around to help swing the balance, John was content to merely goad Roger, to keep his temper at a simmer.
He also shouldn’t have been surprised at the power in the smaller man. The hit sent sparks dancing across his vision and along with the lingering pain of his reckless leap from the stage after he had thrown his broken bass at Roger, John was pretty pissed off at the condition he found himself in.
Roger appeared to be preparing to throw another punch to finish the job, so John threw himself at him, landing with a grunt from the shock of the impact, again pinning Roger with the full length of his body against the wall. He was suddenly aware of every inch of the tight span of Roger’s body pressed beneath him. The singer was shaking with rage, his breath coming in great shuddering gulps. Every inch of him was taut with fury.
John should have been, and was, surprised at the sizable erection he found pressed against Roger’s thigh.
By the way Roger’s eyes suddenly went wide, John could tell he was surprised too. Then something in the other man’s hard pale eyes went liquid and John could feel the heat of his anger deepen and intensify into something else. He thought of the groupies, the girlfriends, the wives, the endless parade of flesh and how it had been so long since any of it had made him feel…well, anything. But Roger, oh yes, Roger made him feel something. Maybe it wasn’t that surprising after all.
Roger’s lips parted in a small gasp. John stopped thinking, took the invitation and kissed Roger with a ferocity that matched the rage of the punch he had thrown earlier. He twined his long fingers into Roger’s hair, a dim part of his mind knew that he was pulling that blond hair too hard, that he was shoving his bandmate too roughly into the wall, but he could feel Roger’s heart pounding against his chest and he couldn’t have stopped if he tried. He didn’t try.
Roger finally broke away, his mouth glistening in the weak light of the hallway. “John…,” he choked out, his voice breaking. And John heard that vulnerability in his voice, that vulnerability that made the fan girls go weak in the knees, that deep down made John admit that Roger was the best possible frontman for a band like the Who. Now that tremble in Roger’s voice shot straight to his cock and made him want to take the blond right then and there.
His dressing room was steps down the hall. With a great shove, he managed to get Roger halfway there, but then he stopped and turned to look at John.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Roger’s voice was high pitched and nervous, “You can’t…”
“Jesus Christ, Daltrey!” John exploded, his patience gone for good,”Do you ever stop talking? Fuck!” One more shove and Roger was through the door which John slammed behind him.
Roger’s face hardened and he responded with a shove of his own and this time it was John who landed with a crash against the inside of the door. Oh, hello there, mate, thought you wanted to leave the party early, John thought. Don’t want you getting all soft on me now. Just when things are starting to get good.
And then Roger fell on him, sucking his neck with enough force to make his eyes water. He bucked his hips upward and his aching cock rubbed against the other man’s, sending sparks across his vision for the second time. Roger broke away, his breath coming in choking sobs and John took the opportunity to push him down to the floor.
It was simplicity itself to untangle the cords on Roger’s buckskin vest and push it away. His skin tight trousers presented more of a problem, but John managed to get those most of the way off before the singer realized what was happening. Then he sat back, straddling Roger’s thighs, and really looked at the older man sprawled on the ground beneath him.
It was no surprise that Roger was gorgeous. The muscled chest that John had seen, flashing in the stage lights, so many times still looked like it belonged to a young Greek god. The narrow hips, framing the slender cock nestled in wispy golden curls, were perfection itself. John couldn’t see the tight ass from this angle, but he could picture it, Roger’s trousers typically leaving little to the imagination. I’ve always known he was beautiful. It annoyed me, it made Pete jealous as hell. But he’s never had this effect on me. Then again, he’s never pissed me off this much before either.
A faint blush had crept onto Roger’s cheeks under John’s scrutiny. He awkwardly brought his hands up to cover himself. “Oh, no, you don’t,” John rumbled. He grabbed Roger’s wrists and pinned them to the ground above his head. Roger winced as John’s whole weight fell on his arms, but he didn’t struggle. “You fuckin’ know how stunning you are, you git.”
John released him momentarily to shrug off his jacket and pull off his shirt. For a split second he debated whether to fold the clothes, it was a bloody expensive jacket after all, and that was all it took for Roger to seize his chance. He surged up from the floor and after a brief struggle, John found that he was the one pushed to the ground under Roger’s weight.
“I am not your plaything,” Roger said, his voice low and deadly. For a moment, John thought Roger was going to hit him again, but instead Roger leaned down and licked a trail of fire up the bassist’s chest, ending at his nipple and proving that singing wasn’t the only thing his mouth was good at. All too soon, Roger pulled away. John grabbed desperately for him and missed a fistful of curls by inches.
“You tease,” John hissed. But Roger had stopped for a good reason. He roughly undid John’s trousers and pushed them out of the way. He pulled closer and rocked their hips together. John saw Roger’s eyes widen as their cocks rubbed and John couldn’t stop himself from arching upward into that delicious warmth and friction. It all felt wonderful, the velvety steel length of the other man thrusting against him, Roger’s taut fingers digging into his shoulders, the hard concrete floor bruising his hips and back with every shifting movement.
“Oh God, Roger, I swear, if you don’t fuck me right now,” John growled and Roger hesitated. Through his lust, John saw Roger’s hesitation and he started to laugh. “Ah, so that’s the way of it. Don’t worry, Dip, it’s not that different from a bird.”
John sat up and captured Roger’s mouth with his own. As he deepened the kiss, plunging his tongue into the other man’s mouth, he felt Roger soften against him and his hands came up to intertwine in John’s hair. Something alien and frightening moved in the pit of John’s stomach. Something tender. Before the feeling could sink in, he pushed Roger back down and bit viciously at his lip as he abandoned the kiss.
“What do you think you’re doing, you motherfucker?” Roger shouted, hurt and shock in his voice as he pressed the back of his hand to his bleeding lip.
“Oh, Tommy, I’m doing what I want to.” And now there was a flash of fear in the self-proclaimed tough guy’s eyes and seeing it, if possible, made John even harder. He gave a wicked grin.
“I wonder if you’re a screamer, Daltrey.”
He spat on his palm and gave himself a well practiced jerk, mixing saliva and the fluid from his leaking cock into a crude lubricant. He pushed Roger’s knees up and apart and entered him with a brutal thrust, knowing full well what it must feel like to be taken so unprepared but too desperate for the tight heat of him to care.
It felt like a white hot poker was being driven up Roger’s spine. The pain of it made a black haze fall over his vision so that he barely registered the fierce pleasure that swept over John’s face as he bared his teeth into an unholy grin. Roger’s own teeth were gritted so tightly that when he heard a shrill and animal keening fill the room, he could not believe he was the one making it. But then John pulled out slightly, which made Roger feel as if the mordant bassist was removing his pancreas, and then reentered at a slightly different angle. White light burst in his brain and the pleasure was so intense it was almost more unbearable than the pain. Roger came up onto his elbows so fast that he almost knocked heads with John.
“What in the bloody hell was that?” he gasped.
John’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile, “Welcome to your prostate, Roger.” Then he pulled back and thrust again and Roger fell back against the floor with a small cry as John’s rhythm overwhelmed him.
John dug his wiry fingers into Roger’s hips hard enough to bruise and thrust into him even deeper than before. Roger’s hands scrabbled on the concrete, trying to find purchase, trying to escape the intensity of sensation that was assaulting him. Nothing that he had experienced in his life had prepared him for this. He felt as though ocean waves were crashing down on him and he was drowning.
“John…please,” he managed to gasp out through the storm of emotion.
“What, Daltrey, you want me to stop?” John hit that spot inside of him again with a brutal push. Roger felt his body arch up against his will and shamelessly he pushed himself further onto John’s cock. “You little fucker,” John said with another of his rare smiles, “I’ll have you begging for it, for me, before too long.”
Roger could take too much more. He hated that he wasn’t protesting, he hated that he was harder than he had ever been in his life, with any woman, and that it was John. How can things ever go back to the way they were before? Between us? Between the band? And then John reached down and wrapped his hand around Roger’s cock and Roger stopped thinking about anything at all.
“Oh, God!” Roger exclaimed in a strangled cry.
“More?” John asked with a wicked thrust of his hips perfectly timed with the pull of his hand.
“Bloody hell, John, if you don’t keep…I swear,” Vaguely, Roger realized he was babbling and with great effort managed to take a gulp of air. “I can’t hold on much longer…please, just please, John.”
John leaned forward, trapping Roger’s straining cock between their sweat soaked bodies, “See, I told you,” he rumbled in Roger’s ear.
Roger didn’t think it was possible, that John had been holding anything back. But the bassist had been slow and gentle before compared to the manic fury he unleashed next. His hand flew on Roger’s cock and Roger couldn’t stop himself anymore.
“Oh, fuck…hell, I can’t…I can’t, I’m coming!” he managed to gasp out and then he was screaming, a wild animal howl as his orgasm hit him like a freight train and he was spending himself in wrenching spurts, pouring himself out until there was nothing left of him but the warm puddle trapped between him and the other man. He was acutely aware of John’s strong, pulsing cock buried deep inside him, flooding him with a hot wetness, of John’s teeth buried in his shoulder, muffling his shout of release.
And then there was the slow swim back to consciousness. Roger slowly became aware of several things; the cold floor pressed against his back, the pain throughout his body that flooded in as soon as the arousal subsided. There was another thing too. John was drawing away. He pulled himself from Roger’s body with a shudder, leaving behind a deep seated ache, his face turned to the wall.
Roger watched, with difficulty propping himself up on one elbow, as John slowly pulled on his trousers, something cold and sick settling into the pit of his stomach. John carefully avoided looking at the still figure on the floor as he made his way over to the small kitchenette in the corner of the dressing room. Roger let his body fall back to the ground, a dull throb behind his eyes pushing out the other hurts.
John poured a rough shot of whiskey into a tumbler that was mostly clean and downed it in one go. He placed both hands on the counter and stared at the empty glass sitting next to the whiskey bottle, unable to turn around and face his band mate. You are a coward, he told himself, a coward and a fool.
“Look, Roger,” he said hoarsely to the whiskey bottle, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. This tour has been so exhausting, I just needed…” He stopped, sure that he wasn’t saying any of the things he wanted to say, but equally sure that Roger didn’t want to hear those either.
He heard a faint rustling as Roger slowly got up from the floor. He dug his knuckles into the countertop and winced as he heard the normally graceful and confident singer fumble with his clothes.
“Fuck you, John Entwistle,” Roger said quietly, with a quaver in his voice that made him sound like a stranger. “Fuck you.”
John turned around in astonishment and met the other man’s eyes unguardedly. He wasn’t sure what Roger could see in his face, but he saw a grim determination in the set of Roger’s jaw and how his narrowed eyes seemed to gleam a little more brightly than was normal.
“Don’t you dare apologize to me.”
John flinched but did not look down.
“I know what you needed,” Roger’s voice still shook, “You needed someone to wind you up so you could blow off all the emotions you always keep pent up.” John started in surprise. Roger had never before given a sign of being so insightful. “Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself, John. Because nothing is ever going to be the same from now on. Nothing.”
Roger spun on his heel and left the room with a slam of the door. John staggered over to the sofa in the corner and sank down, his head buried in his hands. What have I done?