LAYNE ❗️

Each scar that littered James’ body like trash in the ocean felt like a stab to the heart. 

The scrawny blonde boy studied each and every disgusting, pink scar scattered on his arms as his eyes began to wet with tears. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, he still resorted to dragging a cheap dollar store blade across his pale skin. With each shaky swipe, a jagged scar bloomed in its place, forever reminding James of his past mistakes. 

Each was smooth to the touch— almost ironic, considering how bumpy the road to recovery was. That’s what Cliff had told him. Recovery was never perfect, never linear. He’d have ups and downs. He would feel proud for months, and fall into a dark abyss some days. There was no preventing that. It seemed some years had more “fail” days than “clean” ones, which made James start to lose hope. 

Cliff never lost hope for James, though. His calloused hand was always upon the guitarist’s shoulder as he spoke (he had a way with words; he is an expert) about how proud he was of James. Even if James never seemed to understand why. Those pained, baby blue eyes always found their way to Cliff’s gaze, silently asking for a reason, and Cliff never failed to give him a million. 

James wishes he could find the same comfort in his reflection. 

Despite only being in front of the cracked mirror for a minute, maybe two, he decides he can’t bear to look any longer. Fluffy blonde locks cover his face as his head hangs low, hands coming to cover his face. He choked back a sob, taking everything to not fall to the floor. Holding back tears was not an option for long, however, because James is weak and can’t starve off the cries forever. 

A whine, and his hands move higher to tangle his thin fingers in his hair instead, an unforgiving grip quick to hurt his scalp. The troubled blonde stumbles back. The rickety bed behind him catches him. He’s left leaning against the cold, empty bed, alone, wishing he could disappear. It would be so much easier. No more disappointed, hurt looks from Cliff. No more worrying about scars. No more stupid “road to recovery”. Only the road to the afterlife, which must be so sweet, he thinks. 

Nausea starts to creep upon him, starting in his belly and slithering up to his throat, and he really thinks he might be sick. Shakily, he sits up, hoping the sickness will fade away. He’s lucky only this once. Another trembling exhale leaves his chapped lips as he clutches his sides in a weak attempt to comfort himself. His eyes fall shut. He begins to rock side to side slowly. Self-regulation, Cliff calls it. He always has the fancy terms. Cliff is already the music theory nerd— did he have to be the vocabulary one too? 

He likes that Cliff is a nerd. 

The slam of the door is enough to make James jolt of his trance like state. Cliff must be home. The bassist had a habit of accidentally closing the door too hard. That’s how James knew. It was the little things that the two picked up, like how Cliff can tell when James had last used the shower because the bathroom floor is extra wet because he ruffles his hair out like a dog and doesn’t clean up. Or how James can tell when Cliff has been home more than he has, because the hot sauce is lacking most of its contents. 

Despite the two knowing each other so well, Cliff had never understood why James was so insecure. When Cliff looks at the stripes across his boyfriend’s arm, he only sees beauty. When James looks at his arms, he sees ugliness and weakness. It feels almost emasculating reminiscing about his struggles— no other men in the scene took their frustrations out on themself like a girl or child. James huffs, his pink tinted face looking at his skin with disgust.

It didn’t help the nausea. 

Cliff knocks on the bedroom door only twice, giving James no time to answer or think, and enters the room. Cliff’s excited to see James after being gone for a while. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Whatcha doin’? Sulking?”He jokes, unaware that James is actually deeply upset. 

It doesn’t take Cliff long to realize he was actually correct. He feels a little bad for his joke when he picks up on how James is feeling from the lack of a reply and the sadness that’s practically radiating off of him. The bassist’s face softens as he walks closer, taking slow steps towards the teary eyed blonde. 

“Baby, what’s wrong? Did something happen?” Cliff quietly asks. 

His face is contorted with worry at this point, as he quickly went from nonchalant to sympathetic seeing James’ state. James sniffles quietly before looking up at his lover looming over him, showing those shiny tears in his pretty eyes. Cliff’s heart aches almost immediately, his eyebrows furrowing. It was rare for James to be like this. Usually, when James was upset, he would get angry. He would isolate himself and glare at anyone who spoke to him (with the exception of Cliff) for hours. 

But this James? He looks incredibly vulnerable, a look on his face worthy of only pity. A silent sadness fills Cliff’s eyes as James gazes at him. A bony hand comes to softly caress James’ pink cheek. Cliff doesn’t think he’s the greatest at comforting; but James always appreciated every little thing he did. He appreciated it when Cliff cuddled the sadness away, when he wiped his tears. When he made him tea or coffee in the mornings when he woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Cliff really cared. 

He speaks again. 

“Tell me what’s bothering you, and I’ll make it go away.” Cliff whispers. 

His breath tickles James’ skin ever so slightly. Under wavy strands, James’ eyes close slowly as a stray tear falls. There’s too

much to say and too little words to describe how he feels. His belly churns, slightly, and his lip curls out into a slight pout. Cliff’s thumb wipes away the tear halfway down James’ cheek. 

“My scars”, he croaks. “They’re horrible. Ugly. Make me look like a weak child.”

Cliff immediately shakes his head. Horrible? They’re wonderful. His scars are butter smooth against his fingertips. They’re a beautiful shade of baby pink. The tint reminds Cliff of the tulips that bloom outside of his Mom’s house. James’ scars are a garden of hope, a testament to his ability to overcome his hardest days. Cliff could see it clearly; he counts each like a beautiful flower. James counts each as weed.

He just had to make him see. 

“James. Your scars are anything but ugly. If they’re on the body of the handsomest guy in the world, how could they be?” 

James bites back a smile. Chews the inside of his cheek. Now was the time to be upset, to be self-loathing, and accepting any sort of compliment about the parts he hated was out of the question. Teeth chew his cheek harder. He pouts similar to a child. Hanging his head low, he looks away before replying. 

“They’re— they’re, fuckin’.. weird looking, and people stare, it’s.. it’s like, really embarrassing, man..” 

The bed dips when Cliff sits next to him. He smells like autumn. James supposes that’s fitting. Cliff’s brown-red hair, his soft eyes.. he looks like fall. James likes that. He’s too busy being embarrassed, staring at the stitching in the comforter messily splayed across the bed to make a proper comparison with the image now in mind. The guitarist can’t help how his heart beats faster when he hears a gentle sigh from Cliff. Not from annoyance, James can tell. He’s silently relieved. 

“What have I told you about caring what other people think? You’re perfect just the way you are. You’re perfect for me. It doesn’t matter if anyone thinks different. They don’t matter.”

Cliff assures. To James, Cliff was the strongest it got. He was confident, self-assured, never gave a fuck about what other people had to say. He didn’t dress like anyone else. No one else could play like him or write like him. Part of him says that because of that, he should feel worse. He’d never be as care-free as some people. But a more prominent part told him that if the most perfect person in his eyes thought he was truly the best, he must be stronger than he gives himself credit for.

 James swallows thickly. Comfort coming from his inner thoughts was new. They were always destructive. It was uncomfortable, but James would get used to it. That would take a while. James is stubborn, and stubborn people with primarily insecure thoughts like James were sometimes desperate to stay miserable. It was incredibly hard to stay miserable with someone like Cliff around; but James told himself wouldn’t let him win so easily, which wasn’t exactly true.

“No one is perfect.”

Cliff offers him a small laugh.

“Oh, shut up. Whoever made that saying has clearly never met you.”

James feels his face heat up. Cliff notices. Cliff is getting to him, slowly but surely chasing away those pitiful feelings that creeped up on James and attacked when he felt most vulnerable. Replacing them with much more welcome feelings. Cliff couldn’t believe this was all because of some old scars, which were actually quite pretty to the bassist. James catches Cliff eyeing his faded pink scars silently, committing each pattern of lines to memory. James silently watches, the pink in his cheeks only getting deeper. 

The nausea has faded by now.

Cliff’s hand moves to gently massage James’ wrist, where his scars cover his pale skin. His thumb is still damp from the tear when it caresses his skin. His touch is gentle, but firm. Adoration is etched into his movements. Cliff leans closer. A small grin plays on his face. He speaks gently. 

“Believe me when I say you’re fuckin’ gorgeous here. Don’t pay any of them any mind. Listen to me. Let me show you how perfect your scars are.” 

Before James can protest, Cliff is pressing his chapped lips against the pink stripes reverently; his kisses are lighter than an angel wing feather. His movement says devotion in all capital letters. His lips move like a priest praising his God, but Cliff could never be a priest— he could only worship James. Only James. 

James squirms, eyebrows furrowing, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t deny Cliff the sweet taste of his pale skin. It’s embarrassingly enjoyable. Internally, he tells himself he shouldn’t allow himself this kind of enjoyment if it means accepting that maybe his scars aren’t so bad. But it’s hard to pull away when Cliff is so obviously loving it. 

James loves it too. There’s no point in denying that. 

“Cliff..”

The brunette peers up at him through lidded, satisfied eyes as he continues his gentle kisses. A few more, and he’s starting to drag his tongue across the bigger ones, the smooth skin feeling like a blessing. James sucks in his breath through clenched teeth. It’s incredibly erotic watching Cliff’s cheeks get increasingly pinker from kissing and sucking and licking each scar on James’ arm. James feels his insecurities beginning to melt. One hand comes to gently rest upon James’ hip. 

The bassist takes deep breaths in through his nose as his lips and teeth dance across his lover’s fevered, pale skin. Cliff distantly wonders if he should suck a hickey into the scarred flesh. The thought of seeing James’ scars covered in blooming bruises makes him shiver. Oblivious, James has no idea what he does to Cliff. Doesn’t realize how crazy he drives him, how much his insecurities are really the biggest turn ons. 

James huffs as Cliff’s kisses turn a little sloppier, as his saliva cools on the blonde’s skin. Gripping James’ hip tighter, he angles his head to nip and kiss with more efficiency. It reminds the guitarist of making out. Which Cliff is essentially doing to his arm. It makes him bite his lip. It’s embarrassing how much he’s enjoying this. 

Nimble fingers, calloused at the tip from guitar playing, tangle in Cliff’s hair to idly hold him closer. To gently tug on his long auburn hair. James’ lips are slightly parted; he notices that he’s panting ever so slightly as Cliff continues his movements. This seems far too much like a simulated blowjob. James isn’t alone when he feels his cock slowly stir to life in his too-tight skinny jeans. 

Cliff places a final kiss on James’ arm before he pulls away. He’s panting too. James is almost surprised by how visibly turned on his boyfriend is. He really had the ability to make Cliff this flushed from his scars? The things he hated so much? James’ head spun. Cliff’s breathing is slightly labored. He crawls closer to the blonde, who’s been staring at the bassist. They don’t say a word before Cliff is hastily pulling him in for a real kiss.  

A muffled groan bubbles up in James’ throat. Cliff is all over him, hands roaming his scrawny body. Every sound that James involuntarily makes is swallowed up by Cliff’s lips, greedily drinking up the pathetic sounds of arousal that force their way out. James steadily hardens in his pants. His cock doesn’t take long to sport a full erection. If Cliff wasn’t busy sucking his face off, he’d tease him, despite his situation being the same. 

Roaming hands become less and less delicate as they explore James’ frame. They stop to thumb at his nipples over his shirt, caress his waist, and squeeze his thighs. Every curve and angle on the blonde’s body is addicting. Cliff imagines worshipping every part of James’ body, caressing and kissing every inch. The thought has the bassist feel like he’s floating. James, the sight of James, and the mere thought of James, is better than any weed he’ll ever smoke. 

Cliff finally pulls away. They’re both gasping for air. Cliff barely gives himself time to breathe before he’s diving in again, this time burying his face in James’ sensitive neck. His scent is strong; the pleasing smell of his shampoo, his natural musk, the faint trace of cigarettes and body wash. Teeth nip at the sensitive skin, his tongue following behind, slurping and kissing with reverent passion. Strained whines create a chorus of barely restrained arousal. It’s more than music to Cliff’s ears— it’s his favorite song. James’ sweaty palms tangle in the back of his lover’s jean jacket, clenching the rough fabric. 

“Ahh.. S—shit, shit.. Please..” James whines. He tilts his head back more to give Cliff more room to work with. 

Cliff’s eyes flutter open. He sucks a particularly big hickey into James’ neck (which earns him a considerably louder moan) for good measure before pulling away and wiping the saliva off of his pink lips. James stares at Cliff, rosy cheeks, a puffy bottom lip, and dark eyes. He wonders if he died and this is heaven. If he had finally, finally cut a little too deep, and his personal heaven was being worshipped by his perfect boyfriend. Who just so happened to look exactly like an angel. 

“Please what? Tell me what you want.”

James supposes he must be alive, because surely angels don’t tease humans like this. James chews the inside of his cheek, again, his chest rising up and down in time with his ragged breathing. He’s positively straining. All from a little kissing. But he can’t blame himself. Cliff is the most attractive man in the world, who swore to venerate James, to pleasure him, to make him feel loved and special. Right now, he feels more than just loved or special. He feels wanted. Needed. It gives him a rush. 

His pants seem to tighten even more. 

“I.. I want to-.. to use my hand. On both of us. Let me touch you.”

James sounds out of breath. His eyes are slightly glossed, looking away from Cliff, seeing his angel in only his peripheral view. His blush makes his freckles stand out. He’s incredibly adorable. The fact that James acts like a nervous virgin, even after plenty of heated encounters that ended in Cliff buried in James, drives the bassist nuts. How could he deny such a cute request from the cutest, handsomest man he knew? The man he got to call his lover? As much as Cliff liked teasing, he’ll spoil James this time. 

“Anything for you.”

James tenses when the heel of Cliff’s palm grinds against his clothed erection, a high-pitched whine filling the room. Pre-cum smears against the inside of his boxers as he ruts against Cliff’s hand, seeking more of that delicious friction that sends electric sparks of pleasure down his spine. James’ fingers clench the stained sheets covering his old mattress for support as Cliff gently but firmly palms him through his jeans. James can nearly feel his brain leaking out of his ears. Arousal runs red-hot in his blood. He needs Cliff to move faster. 

He doesn’t give Cliff time to slowly palm him. James’ clumsily, calloused hand pushes his boyfriend’s hand to the side, allowing him to yank his zipper down and undo his button. Cliff watches James try to take his aching length out as quick as he can manage, the brunette’s mouth feeling like someone had just stuffed a hundred cotton balls in. Dry, like a desert.

 Cliff feels his own cock twitch in interest, wishing so badly to be pressed against his lover or hilted inside of his tight heat. Like all of those times they’d get too hot and bothered to help themselves, and end up in bar bathrooms, fucking against the stall. Or in hotel rooms, nearly breaking the bed with the force of Cliff’s thrusts. The look on James’ face when he cums is already burned into his memory, yet every time he sees his cute face contort with pleasure as jets of seed erupt from his sizable cock, it feels just as exciting as the last. 

Cliff can’t wait to see it again. 

“Fuck, baby..”

James already has his hard, weeping cock in his hand, giving it slow pumps that make him writhe with pleasure with every drag of his fingers. His eyes find the brunette’s eyes, noticing how blown his pupils look. Cliff is quick to replace James’ hand with his own. James’ breath hitches. A long groan follows. Cliff never gets tired of the sound; every moan, whimper, and whine is just as sweet as the other. And when Cliff’s skilled hands pleasure him so effortlessly, the sounds never stop. James’ eyes flutter closed. He’s so grateful he doesn’t have to hold back. The house is empty except for their tangled bodies, melting into each other like they were made to be molded together.

James bucks his hips into Cliff’s hand as he pumps his aching flesh. Each movement makes James twitch and whine more. His own doesn’t make him feel like this. Only Cliff’s. His own hand, which feels useless at times, doesn’t turn him into putty in 30 seconds flat. Masturbation’s lost it’s fun. He’s lazy. Thankfully, Cliff’s movements are anything but lazy. He’s purposeful in nature. As much as he loves the feeling of just the bassist’s hand, James isn’t satisfied yet. 

“Shit.. c‘mon.. Stop drawing it o-out, just let me feel your cock against mine..” James demands, nearly choking on his own words when Cliff’s thumb swipes over James’ sensitive tip. 

Huffing, Cliff slowly begins to remove his hand so he can undo his own jeans, but James stops him before he can. Confused, Cliff looks at the blushing boy beneath him for an answer. He gets the memo when he feels James undoing his jeans for him. Hot, he thinks. James wanted to do it himself. And didn’t want Cliff to let go of him for even a second. The bassist allows him to pop the button to his flared jeans, his zipper following. All while Cliff’s (now clumsily; it’s hard to focus) strokes continue, making more pre-cum bead at his tip. 

A few more hasty movements, and Cliff’s cock is finally freed from its confines. Cliff shakily sighs, the cold air of the bedroom hitting his hot and hard flesh. James still can’t believe he’s taken that in his ass before. Fully. It’s truly an impressive size. It dwarves James’ cock, which is already a respectable length. Cliff’s hand falters on James’ leaking dick, fighting the urge to bury his own cock in James’ mouth. But this was about his lover and what he wanted; so face-fucking his hot blonde until he passed out was for another time. 

“Hurry up..” James whines. He wraps a hand around Cliff, and Cliff groans. 

“You’re such a needy brat.”

“You love it.”

Cliff cracks a small grin before finally pushing his cock against James’. They moan together, their voices mingling together as flesh meets flesh. If anything was better than Cliff’s hand around James, it was his dick pressed against him. The bassist’s tip presses against him, flush, and drags across each inch, carefully and slowly. Cliff likes to take his time. He also knows how fragile James has been today. He wants to make this good. 

James appreciates it, but he just needs Cliff to speed it up and make him cum. The guitarist wraps a hand around both of them before immediately getting to work. He pumps both of them, rubbing their dicks together and feeding off of each others  pleasure and drinking up each others moans. Cliff’s sounds are deeper, quieter. James sounds like a girl most times. It’s embarrassing to James, but the best to Cliff. He wants nothing more than to know how good his cock feels against James, to know that he makes him unable to hold back. No matter how embarrassing. 

“James… Shit, James…”

James’ copious amount of pre-cum acts as a lube for both of them, covering their tips in a thin layer of sticky, clear fluid. It adds to the heat that pools low in both of their bellies. And with every stroke, with every deep groan that comes from Cliff’s throat, he dribbles more and more, smearing his arousal over his lover’s needy length. James’ hand is much quicker than Cliff’s slow and deliberate movements. Neither of them will last long. Cliff eyes the limp arm at James’ side while his other jerks both of them off, staring at the scars that he worshipped.

He needed to feel those deliciously soft stripes on his lips again. 

Cliff leans down, catching James off guard, before sucking and kissing at his scars yet again. James whimpers, and Cliff can feel his smaller cock twitch against his bigger one. Good, he thinks. I want him to crumble under me. 

“Cliff, fuck, Cliff.. yeah, more, c’mon..” James babbles, speeding up his movements, grinding himself on Cliff harder.

More moans and groans of pleasure muffled themself against James’ arm, and Cliff feels his legs start to feel more and more like

jelly as James works his cock against his like an expert. His knees spread a little wider. His breathing gets a little heavier. James knows he’s doing a good job. It fills him with a sense of pride. Knowing he can bring Cliff this much pleasure without using his mouth or his ass makes his heart flutter. He wonders if maybe Cliff would let him do this more, let him grind and jerk himself against the brunette’s thick member when he needed it if he gave him puppy eyes cute enough. 

A particularly sharp nip of Cliff’s teeth against his arm makes him come back to earth, making him yelp in surprise. Cliff’s starting to get a little rougher. It’s hard to hold back when you have someone as cute as James whining like a dog in your ear, desperately masturbating against you. Cliff squeezes his eyes closed, moaning deeply when he feels James squeeze their cocks harder together. As if he wasn’t close enough. They’re impossibly close together, and James is also close to the edge.

Cliff knows he won’t last when James spills all over him. By the sound of it, James’ll do that any second now. He cums fast, that’s usual. But Cliff can usually manage to hang on a little longer. That is, when he isn’t face first in his boyfriend’s healed cuts, eating his scars out like he’s in between someone’s thighs. The mental comparison makes him shiver. How he’d love to be buried between

James’ thighs right now, teasing him with his tongue until he’s crying fat salty tears and begging him to stop teasing. James speeds up for the final time. It forces a painful sounding moan out of the both of them. 

“Fuck, Cliff, gonna fucking cum..” James warns. 

Drool trickles down the side of the blonde’s freckled face. He’s a mess, desperately rutting into his hand, grinding against Cliff, jacking them both off with intensity. Wet kisses sloppily paint saliva on James’ free arm until Cliff pulls away again, opting to kiss James instead of his scarred arm. A whine, and James is shooting jets of thick, white spunk onto his belly and all over Cliff’s length. Cliff eats up every sound that James makes while he’s spasming and cumming so

hard his world feels like it’s starting to tilt. Clumsy strokes that wring out the rest of James’ own orgasm are the same that bring Cliff over the edge, twisting his hand up and down the both of them until they’re both spent. 

Cliff breaks the kiss, panting. He’s covered in spunk. So is James. James’ mind is clouded; he feels like he’s had 50 drinks and half of them were spiked. Cliff collapses on top of James, their breathing mingling into a single rhythm of desperate panting, trying to find their breath again. 

“Don’t ever,” Cliff pauses to catch his breath. “Think you’re disgusting again.” 

James takes a few moments to respond. 

“I think we’re both disgusting now, actually.. Can we shower?”

oh yah, for reference, these are the lingerie referenced!.

Everyone has their skeletons. Some are more visible, more malleable, and more sinister than others. For rockstars, that’s just an immediate consequence of a title. James Hetfield of California’s beloved Metallica has always seemed so powerful, so raw and masculine that it didn’t matter what he did. What mattered was the respect you gave and the bullshit you had to put up with. That, at least, was the mindset of newly declared bassist, Jason Newsted. 

Newsted was still fresh, still a picture-perfect boyish freak with big dreams and an even bigger smile. It didn’t matter how many nasty words, pranks, cold shoulders, and even complete disregard were thrown his way. He is a determined man, and that man wanted to be a part of the band that changed his life in more ways than one. Even if it came with its pros and cons… more cons than pros. 

The Damaged Justice tour of ‘88 was an ‘experience’, he’d put it. He was met with an assortment of challenges, a variety of rewards, and all-around enjoyment. But his stage presence didn’t end at the end of the show. Hell, it starts as soon as he wakes up in his hotel room to an intense array of banging on his door, yanking him free from his alcohol-induced rest. 

“Newsted, open the fuckin’ door!” The first voice was the Danish demon himself, Lars Ulrich. Of course. Professional drummer, but full-time pain in the ass. 

“C’mon, dammit, have some fun with us! Don’t hide away in here!” Even if he wasn’t always kind, Kirk Hammett had the least malicious intentions. Or at least, Jason liked to think so. 

It wasn’t really until he heard the voice of brash vocalist, James Hetfield, that he felt a surge of dread. Along with a scratching sound, almost as if a card were being jabbed between the door itself and the lock, a malicious chuckle pierced the silence. 

“You should’ve opened the door, Jase.” 

Jason could barely open his eyes when he saw the three blurry figures rushing him. The extent they’d go to torment him was almost admirable. The creativity behind the desire to annoy, to dominate an imaginary claim was passionate. A passion that Jason wished was present when he approached them with his ideas. He felt rough hands on his shoulders, pinning him back against the tough mattress of his hotel bed. If there were a word that combined groggy, disoriented, exhausted, and annoyed, it’d be the perfect description for the bassist. The smell of alcohol on bad breath, the heat of new bodies in the room, the wild shrill laughter and commotion plus the pair of piercing eyes that stared down at him, was overwhelming to his barely functioning senses. 

“Should’ve opened the door, pansy! Did you really think a cheap hotel lock was gonna save your ass? Fuckin’ idiot.” James grinned down at him, malice, enjoyment, and a mixture of a

certain thrill danced across his facial features. There was something about that glimpse in his eyes, a gleam that implied there were more feelings that Jason couldn’t quite read. There was something almost attractive about James’ weird ability to simply overpower. Jason would probably admire him just a little if he wasn’t on the receiving end of his aggression. 

A wolfish grin paired with a rough voice distracted him from the truly degrading chaos occurring in his hotel, dragging his consciousness through the mud and hanging him up to dry. He felt every drop of alcohol leave his system, feeling painfully sober as he realized his environment. 

Trashed, tattered, ruined beyond belief. An extra fee on his tab. Well, besides the absurd amount of room service, the guys ordered him the night before. 

“Wh-... what the fuck is this, you guys?” the bassist groggily asked, earning a sadistic chuckle from his bandmates. 

He brought himself up, stiffly shuffling to sit against the headboard of his bed, his feet kicking slightly against the sheets. He deeply inhaled through his nose, bringing a hand to his forehead as he tried to take in the new environment. However, the three grins and fixated gaze on him made it even harder to adjust and acknowledge the severity of the damage. Especially when James gestured for Lars and Kirk. 

Wrapped up in his sheets, tangled in fabric, the three men began to flip his mattress, leaving his body to fall off the side, dangerously close to hitting his head on the corner of the nightstand. Immediately curled in a ball, the mattress came crashing down, leaning against the wall. Ironically, Jason felt safer in this complementary cave than outside the hotel room with the boys. He took a moment to catch his breath, his mind running in all directions yet backward at the same time. For a moment, he couldn’t make out the sounds of the retreating men, but one sour note rang clear in his ear. 

“Yeah, welcome to Metallica, faggot.” 

And then the door slammed shut. 

Five words rang in Jason’s ears, even if it’s been about an hour and a half later at this point. Unfortunately, Jason’s morality told him to clean up the best he could, and that’s what he spent that hour and a half doing. Thinking, cleaning, pissing, seething. He wasn’t a violent guy, but part of him wanted to storm into Hetfield’s hotel room and at least give him a good right hook. He knows better, though. He knows better. He thinks he knows better. He does know that James is probably drunk right now, knee-deep in groupies, lounging in fame, relishing in his actions. Not a lick of guilt in the world. Just pride. Pride and an ever-growing ego locked away behind all those muscles. An ego that ditched his humanity for an almost god-like status. 

And before he knew it, he was halfway down the hall. 

There was something about the way James had called him a ‘faggot’. It made him angry, but not because of its implications. No, it was the way that his one word made him feel lesser, subhuman. James spat venom at him with every chance he could get but it was always somehow linked to Jason’s status as a man or his sexuality. Petty shit like that never really bothered him, it just reminded him of his bandmates’ mental age and lack of maturity. James had meant every word he said to the bassist, all possessing some cryptic hidden message. Newsted’s hand rested on the doorknob feeling the cold metal underneath his palm. If his brow furrowed any further, he felt like his veins would pop. His jaw tight, teeth grinding against enamel, he raised his hand to knock. 

But he stopped. He stopped at the sound of shuffling feet. Through the crack of the door, he could smell something sweet. Like… bubblegum sweet. There was faint music, it sounded melodic, almost romantic. A complete contrast from James’ entire persona and behaviors. His eyebrows furrowed as he pressed his ear closer, squeezing his eyes shut as he listened to the darling music, almost feeling like he was at his high school prom again. 

My Special Angel by The Vogues. 

Jason’s stomach flipped at the song, his eyebrows furrowing as he wondered what James would be doing listening to a song like that. Before he knew it, his hand was twisting the knob ever so slowly, silently pushing open the silent door. He stuck in his head, his eyes settling on the flickering flames of candles, sickeningly sweet like honey. The bathroom door was open, a light leeching into the dimness of the hotel room. James’ shadow loomed on the wall, tall and broad. However, there was something about his shadow. 

He could make out the motion of his arms, running over himself, tugging fabric onto the skin. He could hear the silkiness of the fabric against James’ skin. James’ hands traced up his leg, a gentle grunt of frustration escaping the larger man’s mouth. Rustling of paper and cardboard could be heard, the sound of the material hitting the floor barely muffled by the music. Jason cursed himself for being this nosy, almost forgetting the original motivation. 

He slowly stuck more of his head into the doorway, furrowing his brow at the thought of what James could be possibly up to. He hadn’t a clue why the larger man wasn’t blacked-out drunk and collapsed on his hotel bed. Instead, he seemed rather sober and aware. Almost precise with his movements. He moved with such grace and satisfaction, that Jason felt like he was watching a piece of art from the door. Swallowing nerves, he stepped further into the room, half his body now stepping into the tempting abyss. 

Hands delicately dressed James as if he were made of porcelain, pulling the fabric up his body once he stepped into the article of unknown clothing. Jason listened as James huffed with slight frustration, snapping himself into whatever finery he so carefully maneuvered. His hands reached back, leaning his head forward to adjust himself from behind. He pulled on the bottom of

the piece before pulling at the straps, setting himself nicely in the fabric. A huff of satisfaction pushed past his lips as he slid into the final piece of attire. 

Jason felt his heart begin to pound as James finished getting dressed, turning off the bathroom light, and stepping into his hotel room. His grayish-blue hues almost bulged out of his head at the sight before him, his lips parting silently as the oxygen in his lungs hitched into a silence.  

James. James Hetfield. Was running his hand through his brushed and soft blonde hair, his eyebrows furrowing and eyes fluttering closed as his other hand ran down his side, letting out a sigh of satisfaction at the silky pink lingerie set. What shocked him the most was how well it fit him, almost like it was made for his broad body. 

Something about the material didn’t make him feel as big and broad anymore. It almost… pampered him. Hugging his frame, squeezing and pushing his features into a feminine image that threatened to betray the raging masculinity in James’ heart. Jason burnt each piece of clothing to his brain; A pink floral body suit with a cleavage cut that made Jason’s head spin, a silky thin robe of the same color yet translucent material, these high stockings that meshed well with his skin tone, tight and emphasising the fat of James’ thigh when his skin met the welt of the stocking. And finally, his favorite piece, those velvety pink, floral laced, tight and fitting panties. Jesus fucking Christ, the bassist wondered if he were dying and this was some sort of alcohol-poisoning hallucination he was having.  

He stared closer at the side of James’ face. He looked so clean, so taken care of. So fragile and perfect. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks as he glanced down at himself, running his hands over his hips and waist again. Jason didn’t remember James having anything close to a fitted form like this, curved and sightly. Even with his stubble of a mustache, he looked so suddenly feminine.

His lips were stained with something that made them look pinker, more flush, and plump. The bassist licked his own instinctively, especially as he watched James flow over to the record player, tilting his head and clicking his tongue at the next song playing. Unamused- or, well, turned off by the song, he switches the record, the scratch of the needle causing Jason to jump. 

The big move occurs, and James bends over to dig through his suitcase. Not at the knees, no, he arches down to rummage through, a deep sigh escaping him as he does so. 

Jason’s breath finally gives in, roughly pushing past his lips in desperation, rudely revealing his position, startling the beautiful piece of artwork in front of him. He watched as James stood straight, body tense with fear and shock. His piercing blue eyes fixated on Jason, who was now fully in the room, standing in front of the door with wide eyes. 

Jason stared in terror. Well, horrified by getting caught. Especially when it hits him that his jeans weren’t this tight before he came in. 

Before he could speak, Hetfield beat him to it. 

“What the fuck are you doing in here?!” The blonde yelled, yet not too loud.

He and Newsted both knew why. 

The bassist struggled to find the words, his eyes stinging from how hard he was staring at his bandmate. He raised his hands in surrender, submitting before the demand to stand down was made. 

“I-I’m so sorry, dude, I didn’t mean to barge in. I just… I, uh… fuck, I’m sorry-” 

James was mortified. It was as if all the anger in his body was replaced with an unfamiliar yet familiar sense of fear and embarrassment. He swallowed, his hands frozen and his eyes narrowing with rage. He breathes in and out through his nose, heavy and angry like a bull. However, he couldn’t move. His hands were clutching the record, his thumb rubbing the paper cover. 

For a moment, Jason felt like he was in control. He swallowed, his jaw tensing before he licked his tongue over his lips, glancing at the nightstand next to his bed. The drawer was partially opened, ominous and promising some sort of erotic item in addition to the guitarist’s attire. He slowly took a step forward, a deep breath inflating and deflating his lungs. He chewed his lip as he looked around the hotel room, trying to piece together the actions he should take. 

“Fuck are you doing?” James questioned, but there was an edge of vulnerability in his tone. 

“Nothin’, just…” Jason’s eyes trailed up his body, his eyes softening with a sort of awe. Raking in the sight of his features, he appreciates his toned legs and nice thighs, fleshy and soft torso, strong arms, and beautiful face. His body felt like butter, melting at the flustered gaze in his eyes. It made him feel like he was in charge for once. For once. He moved closer, lowering his hands and fixating his eyes on his, a tense blue-on-blue connection. And before he knew it, he was a few feet away from James, his heart loud in his ears. 

“What the fuck, Newsted? I-... I’m not- this isn’t what it looks like, man.” The blonde attempted to reason, his eyebrows furrowing as he found himself backed up against the dresser, the vinyl slipping out of his hands as he braced himself against the cold wooden furniture. 

‘I’m not gonna tell anyone, man. Why would I do that?” Jason reasoned, feeling as if he were reasoning with a frightened animal. A predatory animal, yes, but still scared. “That’s… that’s a nice shade of pink on you-” 

“Don’t be fucking weird, faggot. Quit staring at me…” James grumbled, his eyebrows in a deep furrow as the bassist crept closer. He snarled, a pang of embarrassment and rage rushing up his spine. He spits another insult, expecting Jason to back off. 

“Stop fucking enjoying this, you queer-” 

“I’m the queer? Last time I checked, I’m not prancing around in women’s clothing.” Jason retorted without thinking, matching James’ urgent tone. 

However, maybe he shouldn’t have said that. That’s what he thought as James pushed himself off the dresser roughly grabbing the bassist by his shoulders and squeezing him tight. A lion with its claws deep in its prey. 

“You better shut your fuckin’ mouth, Newsted. You barge in here, call me a queer, and you enjoy every second of it. You have no business in here, so you should be lucky I don’t pound your little goddamn ass back to Michigan.” 

Jason knew he meant beating the shit out of him, but the words ‘pound your ass’ made his cheeks flush. James was so close, his breath hot on his face. He couldn’t smell the alcohol anymore. Instead… listerine. It was like James was really taking care of himself like a real chick. He let out a noise that sounded too deep to be a squeak, but too aroused to sound like a grunt. Shit, he was hard. His jeans were too tight on his thighs. 

The situation only got worse once James’ eyes trailed down to Jason’s crotch, his eyebrows furrowing with shock and frustration. He didn’t appreciate the churn he got in his stomach, the sudden butterflies in his chest that caused molten heat to pour into his core. 

Both of them were into it. 

“James…” Jason started, his voice barely a mumble. His eyes focused on the other’s lips, admiring the shine of his gloss. He swallowed, his hands moving up slowly, ghosting James’ body. 

“We… um… I won’t tell anyone. Not a soul. But, uh, I think that…” Jason paused, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth as he struggled to find the words. His fingertips grazed the silk of James’ bodysuit, his eyes almost fluttering at the sensation of the clothing material. He felt James tense under his touch, hardening against his palms. He shook his head with reassurance, looking up at the vocalist. 

“We can work something out. If you’re down.” Jason spoke so softly, it almost felt like a spell on James. A breath hesitantly pushed past James’ lips, relaxing underneath his fingers. He didn’t seem so convinced yet, however. 

Newsted smiled, his stupid fuckin’ mug giddy like a kid. He cleared his throat, his fingers gently clutching the fabric in his fingers, massaging the silky bodysuit. He looked up at James’ expression, noticing that his anger was replaced by nervous arousal. 

“It’d be a shame to waste such a pretty set like this, yeah?” 

Neither of them could remember how any of this started. James seemed a little pissy at first, leading to a struggle, leading to bodies crashing onto the soft sheets, leading to Jason's lips littering James’ neck with kisses and hickies. James’ head pressed against the pillow, his hands pressing against the headboard of the bed to ground himself. He wasn't too happy with the prepping part, but he was pretty damn happy when Jason slipped right in and brushed his prostate with accuracy and care. He declared himself the happiest man on Earth through groans and hisses. 

Jason couldn’t fathom how fast his head was spinning, how his body managed to melt into James’ with each feverish roll of his hips. His hands clutched tightly onto James’ thigh, resting the crook of his knee against his shoulder. His eyes stared down at the vocalist, huffing lightly with each movement. 

A newly found fetish was discovered for Jason. The feel of silky panties under his palm as he reached one of his hands to pull them to the side. He licked his tongue over his lips, hungrily glaring down at James’ package tucked away behind the fabric. His hands ran over James’ thigh, nails scratching against the thin stocking. He’s in heaven, for sure. 

James’ moans were literal music to his ears. A sweet melody performed for him and him alone. The blonde’s back arched up against Jason’s body, his eyes squeezed shut as hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. His hair sprawled across the pillow, his head tilting to the side and desperately rubbing against the soft material. He’d attempt to silence himself occasionally, yet gentle whimpers echoed in his throat, betraying his mute efforts. Jason smiled at his stubbornness, but overall he enjoyed this. He enjoyed how it was him pleasing James like this. 

He enjoyed the addicting power he held ever-so-slightly. 

But at the moment, he could give less of a shit about the power. Not when James was moaning so pretty because of him. He felt him squeeze around him, warmly accepting the stretch. His whole body felt hot, James was like a vacuum forever sucking him in with warm promise. He swallowed the spit that built up in his mouth, his eyebrows furrowing as he shifted his hips harder, grinding against him, burrowing deeper. 

“You’re so pretty, James... Pretty angel. Just for me.” Jason grinned at James’ annoyed groan, gritting his teeth as Jason’s free hand rubbed up his stomach, his palm tracing the soft flesh over his lingerie. Suddenly, his palm rubbed up to his chest, cupping and squeezing his pec hungrily. 

Rewardingly, a long moan was drawn out from James, his eyes fluttering open before closing again. Jason leaned forward, playfully humming with amusement as his fingers tilted James’ face towards his. 

“No, no, look at me. Please… Look at me.” Jason pleaded, his voice soft and affectionate. 

“C’mon, James. Open up those eyes.” 

“Fuck- faster… f-fuck me faster, and then maybe.” James gruffly replied, remaining stubborn no matter what the circumstances. He knew what Jason wanted, but he wanted something more than this slow and deep fucking pace. 

Jason scoffed, a grin on his face as he leaned forward, sliding James’ leg off his shoulder as he planted his hands on either side of James’ head. He shook his head, his brunette hair ghosting James’ face. “You’re a tease, Hetfield. A fucking tease.” 

New position, new pace. James couldn’t help the flurry of moans that pushed past his lips, his eyebrows curling with pleasure as his mouth hung open. His hands reached up, cupping Jason’s neck, thumbs on either side of his Adam’s apple. He hissed in pleasure, a rattling groan escaping him. 

“Yeah, y-yeah, fuck. Right there, don’t… Don’t you fucking stop, Newsted.” James croaked, his eyes opening to stare up at the bassist. The bed was creaking, egging them both on. 

Jason’s groans become struggling moans, his eyebrows arching and his mouth gaping open. The pleasure was intense and overwhelming, crowding his senses in an enjoyably frantic way. He felt like he was in a goddamn frenzy eyes rolling in its sockets as he continue to pound into James with promise. The bassist felt his hips and back begin to ache, the consequences of fucking so slow for so long. But he couldn’t stop now. Not when his dick was so snug inside of James, not when he was so close, not when he was actually making James feel this good. 

“Sh-shit, I’m gonna cum, James-” The bassist declares, beginning to sit up. Suddenly, Jason was taken off-guard by the sudden shift of movement, James sitting up urgently and propping himself up with one elbow. His hand slithered and grabbed the back of his neck, stopping Jason from sitting up any further and pulling him right back down, pressing their foreheads together regardless of the sticky sweat. 

“No, don’t you stop. Don’t you fucking pull away from me. You better give me every last fucking drop, Newsted. Every last bit of you.” James warned, his eyebrows deeply knitted in a concentrated expression. He could feel the knot in his stomach, threatening to spill over sooner than later. 

Jason nodded his head, supporting James’ neck with both of his hands, pressing himself closer to him as he began to put his all into his pace. He moaned out, his lips ghosting over James’ as the desperate noises of the two men became a seductive symphony, echoing in the room. The bed creaked and groaned, the sound of skin-on-skin becoming louder and desperate as the two men edged closer to finish. 

“My pretty angel, m-my pretty boy. You’re so good, you’re s-so pretty, James.” Jason muttered, moaning against his lips. Desperate wasn’t even the word for his emotions. 

“You mean it?” James found himself muttering a question forced out by the pleasure. His body bucked against Jason, struggling to contain himself. He whined, his eyes rolling back for a moment before glancing back up at Jason. “Say you mean it.” 

Jason instantly nodded his head. “I mean it, I mean it, I-I promise. Please, I mean it.” He smiled through his overwhelming desires, eyes narrowing as he focused on the vocalist’s expression, the blissful pleasure evident on his face. 

James couldn’t even muster a reply, a loud moan escaping him before his breath hitched in his throat, eyes squeezing tight once more. He held him close, pulling him down as his arms wrapped around his neck, tightly embracing him as his body shook with orgasm. He let out a string of moans, each one quieter than the last until he was silent. He felt himself tremble, feeling Jason’s racing heartbeat against him. 

Jason was so blissed out, that he didn’t realize James’ eyes staring up at him. His body shook against James’ as he struggled to catch his breath, his eyes heavy as he let out gentle huffs and moans, the aftershock of his orgasm wracking his body. He finally glances down at James, his thumbs gently caressing the sides of his face, lovingly stroking his cheekbones. Naturally, he was an aftercare type of guy, and James looked too pretty to discard right now. He huffed when James tried to jerk away from his touch, smiling at him. 

“Sorry, you’re just… pretty. Too pretty to waste.” Jason muttered, leaning down to get closer to his face. He waited for James to protest, but after a beat of a moment, Jason pressed his lips against James’, sweetly kissing him as a token of gratitude. 

James swallowed, furrowing his eyebrows as he deepened the kiss, his hand cupping Jason’s jawline. His lips tasted like strawberry. Flavored lipgloss. What a goddamn sissy he was. Jason liked it, though. Hell, he loved every second. 

“You know, Jason…” James started, muttering against his lips. His blue eyes stared up at Jason’s a teasing grin on his face. 

“I think this was your best idea yet, Newkid. Should do this again, sometime.” James muttered, gently offering an open situation between them. Complex, yet somewhat symbiotic. He could’ve done so without the low blow, but he is James Hetfield himself, after all. 

Jason pretended to be bothered, sucking his teeth and shaking his head lightly. He couldn’t betray the grin on his face, however. He reached up and ran a hand through James’ blonde locks, appreciating the soft locks underneath his fingers. A blessing like this shouldn’t be wasted, and he wasn’t one to deny a kiss from an angel.