Backstage
pairing: James Hetfield/Fem!Reader
Warnings: Smut/MDNI/18+, Implied Relationship, semi-public sex, rough??, P in V (Do as I say, not as I write— WRAP IT UP)
Masterlist
The roar of the crowd was deafening, a sea of bodies moving in rhythm to the music. You had just finished your own set, leaving the stage sweaty, high on adrenaline, and craving something stronger than the whiskey in your dressing room. Tonight, Metallica was closing the festival, and you had every intention of watching from side stage.
James Hetfield had been a fixture in your life for years, ever since your band started making waves in the metal scene. There was always something about him—the way he commanded the stage, the way his growl sent shivers down your spine, the way his eyes lingered on you just a little too long when you crossed paths backstage. You were used to rockstar attention, but James was different.
And tonight, you wanted to push that tension to the edge.
You made your way to the side of the stage as Metallica launched into Sad But True. James was on fire, his presence magnetic, the veins in his arms bulging as he attacked his guitar. His voice, thick and rough, vibrated through your chest. When he turned his head and caught sight of you, his lips curled into that knowing smirk.
The next hour was a blur of thrashing, sweat, and sheer metal power, but your focus never wavered. And neither did his.
The moment the set ended and James stalked offstage, you were already waiting, leaning against the wall, twirling a pick between your fingers. He barely got two steps past before you spoke.
"Still got enough energy left, Papa Het?"
His chuckle was low and rough. "For the right kinda encore? Always."
The tension snapped like a power chord. Before you knew it, you were shoved up against the cool concrete wall, his body caging yours in, heat radiating from his skin. His hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, his breath hot against your lips.
"You've been teasing me all night," he growled.
"Maybe I wanted you to do something about it."
That was all it took. His mouth crashed against yours, fierce and claiming. His beard scraped against your skin as he bit at your bottom lip, his hands already slipping under your shirt, fingers dragging over sweat-slicked skin.
The dressing room was only a few steps away, but neither of you made it that far before hands got desperate, clothes started disappearing, and the fire between you ignited into something reckless and unrelenting.
James was all muscle and dominance, pinning you against the nearest flat surface as his lips traced down your neck, teeth scraping over sensitive spots that made you shudder. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel just how much he wanted this—wanted you.
"You sure you can handle this, rockstar?" he murmured against your skin.
You smirked, rolling your hips against him, drawing a low growl from his throat. "I can handle anything you give me."
And that was all the invitation he needed.
Soon you ended up backstage, on all fours under James as he pounded into your dripping cunt over and over and over. It had your brain going mushy, moans leaving you like a flow of water. “Oh- please.. f-fuck!” You cry out, looking over your shoulder at him.
Both of his hands were holding onto your hips, pulling you back against his with a wet plap. His hips rolling into yours deliciously, sending waves of pleasure through you.
“Atta’ girl.” He rasps out, kneading his fingers into the fat of your hips. Your juices dripping down your legs as you inch closer to your orgasm.
“Please-“
“Please what, sweetheart?” James coos into your ear as he leans down, his face next to yours as he moves a hand from your hips to under your jaw, forcing you to look in front of you into the mirror.
“Let me- oh- cum. Please!” You moan as he starts thrusting instead of grinding into your pussy, the wet sounds from your pussy should make you embarrassed, but you were anything but.
You cum hard with a silent scream, eyes rolling back as he pulls you against your chest, still inside of you as he walks over to a couch, sitting down with you on his lap.
Sweat rolling down your chest as you feel weak, laying against his chest.
And as you lay there afterward, breathless and spent, James ran a calloused hand over your bare back, chuckling softly. "Damn, I should’ve pulled you backstage years ago."
You grinned, nipping at his jaw. "Well, there's always the next tour."
