#Metallica interview

[celebswearingghost]

James Hetfield

[geffenrecords]

lars ulrich of metallica, ...and justice for all tour

[aplaceforyourhearttorest]

Blood Is Pretty ♱ Kirk Hammett (18+)

Mentions/Warnings: blood fixation, blood sharing, guided masturbation, thigh riding, kirk's labret piercing

Part Two

You always try to make sure that your blood fixation and fascination isn't too obvious. It'd started when you were a kid, and back when you and Kirk were just barely old and big enough to be able to run around the neighborhood without adult supervision. Your mom had gotten you a matching set of skateboards in a value pack, and you two were out of your childhood home before your mom was even able to fully unwrap them from their protective plastic cover. You two found an uneven and jagged curb across the street, and before you two could second guess it, you were both grinning at each other and pushing yourselves forward. The abrupt and harsh contact of the uneven and rough concrete underneath your palms and the sides of your legs had your eyes burning, but the pearl and beaded droplets of red that rushed out from underneath it made your pain a soon, distant worry. You were so transfixed on the stark contrast of red on top of your scraped skin, that you almost didn't register the sharp intake and hiss of a breath coming from behind you.

Kirk was sat with his knees cradled to his chest, and his chin was wobbling in barely concealed and discomforted pain, yet he was still beautiful to you. And so were the trails of bubbled red making their way down the bottom halves of his legs. You had rushed over and placed your hands underneath his kneecaps to try and help him alleviate some of the pressure, but your scraped skin gave way to the wetness, and you combined your guys' blood together instead. Your red mixed with dirt brown and his a more vibrant red, and your mom had to remind you to wash the mess off of your arms after she ran over once she heard Kirk's cry of pain. You were seven and a half when you were stood on top of a stool and watching the dark red hue of yours and your best friend's caked blood, slowly make its way down the drain. Small, darkened flakes remained afterwards, and you slowly picked them off with your scraped fingernails in awed wonder, somehow feeling like you two were now even more closely bonded. The next day at school, you and Kirk were sat next to each other in class with identical adhesive bands atop torn skin, and you couldn't shake the urge to want to peel his back and see how his still matched yours. And how you wanted to feel closer to him, like you had the afternoon before.

Years go by, and with each that do, another scar is added onto your guys' skin. If it wasn't from skateboarding or hopping fences to try and illegally get into concerts and cinemas without paying, they were from homemade piercing guns. More Kirk than you, but by the time you guys are graduated from high school and in your early twenties, both of your ears are pierced, and so are a few other places. Your belly button being a favorite of his to tug onto, whenever you have it visible, and your favorite being his labret. The droplet of blood that slowly presented itself through the thick skin underneath his full bottom lip made you shake when you pierced him, and Kirk had looked knowingly at you as you dabbed it away. The more than ten years in between your guys' first tumble had you ending up seeing even more friends fall near or with you, and strangely, theirs didn't excite you or invite you in like his did. It took you until your late teenage years to realize that it wasn't just his blood you were attracted to, but him as well.

The thick lips that pull themselves upward when he sees you, his brown eyes that darken whenever you two touch, his roughened and calloused hands from years of playing guitar. Blood may usually interest you in a way a genre of music would, but the raw way his would display on his tan skin would make something sing inside of you. And on the day he slits his finger open on a string of his guitar during rehearsal, something inside of both of you just rewires, and then snaps.

Kirk's cursing and lifting his guitar and its strap over his head to haphazardly rest it on its stand, before rushing towards the guys' shared bathroom. And when the sound of glass shattering catches your attention over Lars still repetitively thumping against his drums, you're running after him in worry. Yellow tinged light is beaming into the enclosed space as you hurriedly make your way in, and you halt in place at the smudge of blood in the middle of the now partially ruined and broken mirror. Heat drips its way down into your middle, and it churns as Kirk paces with his hand elevated in your peripheral. His frustrated expression turns into a grimace at the look on your face, and then it breaks away to turn into something more apologetic.

"I shouldn't have done that," he starts, and then stops himself in the middle of his sentence as he sees your lidded eyes stare down at the thin line of red resting upon his inner wrist. The flank of your back makes contact with the countertop attached to the sink as you peer at him and his cut, and he doesn't stop you as you shakily lift a hand of your own and encircle your fingers around his forearm. Using the loose grasp on him as leverage, you tug him even closer, and by the time the fronts of his shoes are nearly grazing yours, the accumulated blooddrop is about to fall from his pulse point. Your pinky finger stretches out to catch it before it can, and your breath stutters in your chest as it travels down into the small space in between your hold, and finds purchase on your palm. There's a heavy pause in time, and your irises rest on his when you experimentally look up. Amusement dances in his, and the piercing underneath his lip moves with his heavy swallow. His tone is stretched out and sounding high as he asks you, "you think blood is pretty, don't ya?"

Your heart hammers in your chest, and for a moment, you can feel yourself panic. You expect him to pull back and look at you in disgust, but you slowly start to untense yourself and your fingertips pressing themselves into his skin, when you find nothing but understanding in his gaze instead. The small gap in between your palm making almost exact contact with his arm closes in, and your tongue dampens your bottom lip when you find enough courage to answer and be honest. "Just yours." Your admittance is nothing more than a slanted whisper, yet from your guys' close proximity, he can hear you just fine. Something shifts in his gaze, and your eyes widen as he reaches forward to press the source of his bleeding against your bottom lip.

The dampness of the liquified iron welcomes itself into the pores of your lips and is absorbed, and then it spreads itself against your closed mouth's shudder. Confusion at his easy acceptance overwhelms you, until you look back and realize that he's had the same interest and fascination as you, all along. The way you two would mostly only watch horror movies together and dress up as killers during Halloween, the shared excitement over monster mania magazines, and the collection of horror movie memorabilia you two would keep over at yours for safe keeping. You slowly lax your lips until they open in a small gape, and maintain eye contact as Kirk slowly slides his bleeding index finger into the warm crevice of your mouth. The taste of copper isn't too pleasant and it's shocking against your tongue, but knowing that it's his and he's giving it to you, has you closing your lips around his second knuckle.

Kirk's eyes nearly roll into the back of his head when you apply light pressure to his incision, and he bites at his bottom lip while you suction to purposefully draw the last bead of blood from out of his cut. The heady taste has saliva pooling in your mouth, and as he slowly withdrawals his digit from in between your pursed lips, a trail of tinged liquid comes out with it. The thin and almost translucent line doesn't break until his hand is inches away from your mouth, and that's when you realize that his earlier look of understanding is a pale comparison to the hunger now painted on his face.

"Please." Is coaxed out of you, from around the iron taste in your mouth, and you're surrounded by him. By the diluted taste of his blood in your mouth, by the shared and identical scars of your legs, by the piercings in your skin. He's all around you, and now, you just want him to be inside. He's using his free hand to reach over and push the wooden door to your left to a close, before using his other, still slick with his blood and your spit, to guide your face towards his. The first wet glide of your guys' lips is wet and sticky, and you feel yourself pulsate at the realization that his blood is the substance that's slick and helping you two maneuver together. The sharpened stub of his labret piercing is pressing itself into the sensitive skin of your chin as he laps at the inside of your painted mouth, and the moan he lets out at the taste of himself has you arching yourself closer to him. The reverberation of his sound quakes and tremors in your chest, and you lick at the roof of his mouth as the hand he used to close the door, slides down to rest upon the button holding your pants upright.

A cold chill breathes itself through the small gap Kirk creates as he begrudgingly separates himself from you to talk, and the pink and reddish hue smeared on his lips has your hips lifting to plant themselves up against his. "Just mine, huh?" He questions, his voice on the precipice of a husk, and the brown of his eyes is barely even visible. The bulge of his dick pressing itself against his zipper is apparent as you make contact, and you pant as the fingers he has resting against your chin holds you in place. "What else is just mine?" His fingertips trail down the tense curve of your neck and press down along your stammering pulse, and then they rest on your right collarbone. "Tell me."

"Everything is yours." You expose, and you gasp as he abandons the button of your jeans to press you into the hard counter, before stepping back to turn you around. The small, bare sliver of your middle making contact with the cold marble has goosebumps waking on your skin, and they multiply when he rests his front upon your back. You can only make out your guys' wanton expressions over the punched in and fractured glass, and you can feel your flush spread even though you can't see it. His hands come down to rest upon your waist, and then slide themselves forward to unfasten the button of your jeans. Blown out and lust laden irises stare at you through the mirror and hold you in place, and your kissed red and blood smeared lips open in a startled moan as he presses his flattened palm against your clothed sex.

"You think I hadn't noticed when you kept staring at me as we watched all those horror movies, and the way you kept shifting when those girls would be kissed and covered in blood?" He croons, the tone in his voice redundant as his left hand carefully tugs your pants down to your knees. His still spit slick lips brush themselves against your earlobe, and your knees buckle when he bends his knuckle to press it right into your pulsing and wet middle. "Teach me how you touch yourself, when you go home afterwards and think about me."

You shakily lift your right hand from the hard surface in front of you and slide it down your front, until your fingertips run along the beginning of his, and then you intertwine. Kirk presses the back of his hand into your palm in silent reassurance, before guiding your joined hands under the cotton of your underwear, and mounts his lips against your clavicle as you cry out loud. The juxtaposition of your fingers soft pads just barely missing your clit and his meeting it straight on with the harsh skin of a callous has your hips raising, and your eyes stinging with the onslaught of desperate tears. "I didn't ask you to hump me, I asked you to show me." His words are direct and harsh, but his voice is amused, and slightly muffled as he teasingly peeks his tongue out from between his teeth. His appendage is lapping over a love bite when you carve and curve your fingers in just the right way to have his index and middle fingers press into your bundle of nerves, and you tremble as you twist your wrist in direct, and fast circles.

You're grateful for the background noise of the guys still absentmindedly and cluelessly rehearsing from less than twenty feet away, as your whines and mewls raise in volume and register. You can feel Kirk slowly grind himself against the swell of your ass, and he groans as your slick gives way to his fast motioning fingers, and as you press yourself back into his groin. The heat permeating into your skin from his still clothed dick makes your mouth water, and your eyes slam to a close as you feel the familiar lick of heat curl itself around your middle and beckon you in. Only this time, the man you always picture while you touching yourself, is pressing his fingers up right against you, and sucking bruises into your skin.

A light tsk is being breathed into the electrified air in the small bathroom, and then Kirk's forcing your hand off of his. Your heart plummets in your chest, and your eyes snap back open at the denial of your orgasm, before your lips mold into the familiar syllable of his first name. A taunting grin is raising his swollen lips, and then his hands are reaching down to spread your legs apart. A rough and clothed knee is pressing itself against you, and then calloused palms are guiding you up and down his jean clad thigh. "If you can't even keep your eyes open long enough to teach me, then the least I can do is help you use me," he drawls, and tugs your sopping underwear to the side. The fabric of your pants pool around your ankles, before sliding down to the floor as he lifts your feet from the ground. You're positioned onto his lifted thigh, and you can only grip and press your unsteady fingertips into the counter in front of you, as he guides you to ride and make a mess on his thigh. "You've been wanting this for so long, and you can't even teach me right."

The degradation would usually have you feeling offended. But right now, as his blood is still apparent on your tongue, as your pussy is roughly colliding with the dampening fabric of his jeans, as his teeth have made purple and red marks into your skin, and as his assuring and strong hands guide you back in forth, it only brings you closer to your release. You stare up at the blood smear just a few inches away from your face and ingrained in the reflector, and make the split decision to lean forward in his grip to run your tongue over it. It's dried into the fractured glass and nothing is added onto your appendage, but the visualization of you being hungry enough for more of him on your tongue has him cursing aloud behind you, and pressing the top of his knee into your sex.

You moan loudly and replant your hands in front of you as steady as you can, before pressing your weight into your forearms and circling your hips to bump and grind yourself against his limb. "That's right, sweetheart. Use me just like you need to, just like that." He's praising, and your vision whites out as your orgasm barrels into you. Oversensitivity and overstimulation makes you quake in his hold as he continues to beckon you back and forth, and he doesn't stop until you rest a hand against his and shake your head no. You're placed back onto your unsteady feet and carefully turned back around, before being lifted up onto the other side of the countertop. The coldness of the unused and glass free surface seeps into your bare backside, but you're unable to care as your head is tilted upwards and you're brought into a chaste and long lasting kiss.

Roughly swallowing around the last lingering taste of iron and panting into the welcoming heat of his mouth, you're only able to partially catch your breath, until he's leaning back with a carnivorous grin etched on his lips, and a hand is lightly tapping itself on the middle of the outside of your thigh. They shake in the aftermath of your orgasm, your chest still heaves, your eyesight is unclear, and your throat is sore and dry, but you're the fullest you've ever been. Yet, hunger reignites in you as he lowers himself in front of you to pick up your pants and realigns them with your ankles, and as he plants and sucks wet kisses and temporary marks on the expanse of your bare legs as he makes his way back up.

"I need you to head upstairs and get yourself ready," he instructs you once he is, and your pussy walls quiver emptily as you squeeze your thighs close and shut. Your head brushes against the unbroken side of the mirror as he follows you back, and your chest heaves as it sucks in your guys' shared breath. "I'm going to finish up here, and when I come upstairs, I'm going to tear you apart. Until you're crying and coming apart all over me, against me, and while I'm inside of you. That sound okay with you?" He's laughing as you needily and quickly nod, and the look he pins you with is filled with satisfactory want and anticipation. You watch unblinkingly as he licks at the fingers he had rubbing against you earlier until they're clean, and as he temporarily closes his eyes at the taste of you. When they reopen, his eyes are just as yours were when you were turned to look and face the mirror. Hungry, insatiable, soon to be fulfilled, and understood.

He's leaning back in a way that proves he doesn't want to be away from you, and then he's fully disconnecting his bottom half from yours with a heated promise, his hands trailing down your quivering sides as he takes a step back. "I'll see you upstairs. Go and get yourself nice and ready for me, baby."

[kirkybabygo]

James Hetfield interview for Music Tomato World Japan 1989 🇯🇵

Filmed on March 15, 1989 in Troy, New York

[daddy-ul]

Kirk and Cliff's culinary adventures.

(x)

or, the long history of Metallica and toasters.

[becauseallhellseeisme]

Q. What did it feel like to attend your first Metallica concert, when you were 12 years old?

A. My mom took me to the show because I was a huge fan of the band, and since we were so far away from the stage, we had binoculars. My friends and I loved Metallica, which is crazy when you look at it from the present. Every now and then, I’ll watch my husband play and think, “What the hell is going on here? I was a fan of the band!” I spent every day of my 13 years listening to the Master of Puppets album. There are times when I’ll watch them play and say, “Did I marry Lars?”

[doubletalkingmaeve]

He’s so strange

[touchd0wn-boy]

i think the interview went well

[metal-sludge]

LARS ULRICH of METALLICA (1981 - present) gets psycho analysed | RAW, September 1991.

[thearsenalofmegadeth]

"i have no idea, they're faggots, they won't tour with us, faggots." - tom araya

[the-mighty-het-speaks]

from sketch to stage - seeing the M72 stage for the first time

from lars’ SW! interview

[geffenrecords]

metallica during the recording of kill em all, 1983

[serialbxwl]

kirk hammett (again, again) cuz i think he’s so cool so awesome so adorable so wow 🤩 so slay 💅

[corroded-coffin]

Clifford Lee Burton (February 10, 1962 – September 27, 1986)

(photo source)