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Shame has a colour.

Since meeting James, Jason’s world has been more colourful; all the mercurial emotions that James constantly leaks, spark bright in his brain. Early morning James is a smooth, powerful, dark-purple, brightening to a pure, cool azure when he’s deep in concentration, guitar in hand. Those are the days Jason would love to dive right into him. Then there are the other days. Days when, stereotypical as it may sound, bad-mood James gives off waves of thick, enveloping black. Jason fears those days.

Until tonight his own emotions haven’t had a colour, but now they do.


A murky red, tinged with brown, eerily close to the dark blood-red roiling from James.

Never, ever had he imagined life with Metallica to involve being spread out on a chair, with his frontman watching him jack off. And even if he’d managed to imagine that far--and how fucking likely would that be?--he’d never have even scratched the surface of how twisted it was. Shame. Hate. Need. Desire. All rolled into one fucked up package, marked Jason.

But here he is. With James’s hungry eyes watching every twist of his hand, every grimace of his face, and devouring even the smallest sound that he permits to escape his lips. Bright red flashes before him each time his eyelids flutter shut--because, regardless of the mortification he’s feeling, this is also good. Damn good.


An erratic hammering woke him. He shook his head in an attempt to shake free of the smoke that still clouded it and stumbled toward the door. He cracked the door open. Cursed when it thudded against his chest and James shouldered his way in to pin him against the wall. Stale, beery breath hit his face as James leaned in and kissed him, roughly fucking his mouth with his tongue. Hard denim scraped against his barely-clad skin, awakening his senses; large hands tangled in his hair before running down his body to crush him against James’s straining crotch.

The soft click of the door closing broke them apart and James pushed him towards the armchair that sat in the corner of the room.


He sat, and clearly that was somehow wrong as James began to direct him like an artist positioning his model; one leg thrown over the plush arm of the chair, the other flat on the floor and turned out. Exposing him. Whore, his mind whispered urgently to him, through the lingering smoke-haze. But anything, anything to keep James from noticing the roaches in the ashtray....

Satisfied, James slumped to the floor at the foot of the bed, gangly legs creasing awkwardly, but his eyes still fixed firmly upon him. A slow smile formed on his lips as he spoke: “Go on then; give me a fuckin’ show, Jay.”

Dread crystallised in his chest; a small seed rapidly blossoming outwards with razor-sharp edges. A show? This newfound alarm did nothing to diminish his erection.

“Touch yourself. For me,” James said, softly. His words were a little slurred, but his eyes were predatory.

Tentatively, Jason inched his hand down his belly and with a gulp, loosely wrapped his hand around his shaft. A blush rose on his cheeks as his cock jumped in his hand and he heard a tiny hiss from James. The dread was still there; he might as well have been on stage. An extra four thousand pairs of eyes watching him jerk off couldn’t make him feel any more embarrassment. All the same, his grip tightened, and in that instant when his hand squeezed tight he needed to move. Needed that friction. Needed to be touched.

He never had these urges... these needs... before James. And he still couldn’t figure out if James gave them to him, or fanned a spark already existing deep within him. And now the four feet of carpet that separates them is oceans-wide. A gulf. With his eyes, and the curve of his body, he beseeched James to come and touch him.

James met his eyes but showed no sign of moving.

So he slid his other hand between his legs and pinched the loose skin of his scrotum, pulling it tight. A whispered yes, reached his ears and his balls drew up tight with a prickle-tingle against his hand. Pleasure pooled in his groin and he caught his lip between his teeth to prevent the humiliation of begging words tumbling out.

James leant forward and his face was naked. Full of want, need... and possession.


A moan slips from Jason’s mouth as he releases his balls and slides his fingers further back, brushing over his hole and sending a delicious jolt of pleasure to his cock. It’s like his cock is a lightning rod for all the pleasure and pain that James wrings out of him....

The only sounds in the room are their heavy breathing and the fleshy slap as his hand strokes faster. Beads of slick pre-come wet his thumb as he corkscrews his hand, squeezing hard. He’s bucking forward, fucking his own fist, eyes sliding closed, when he hears James say softly, “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Jason forces his lids apart and red-James-red fills his eyes, fills his mind as he comes, back arching off the chair.

With a slight weave in his step, James prowls over to Jason, his gaze never wavering as he looms over him. One steady hand reaches out and he draws his forefinger through the come cooling on Jason's belly. Eyes locked with Jason, he brings his finger to his mouth and slowly licks it clean. Lust--no, desire--gives his eyes a hot, bright glow. A muscle in his cheek twitches and abruptly, he's gone, without a word. Jason's eyes close as the door shuts with a soft, final snick.

Red. Red is the colour of Jason’s desire for James, and of James’s desire for Jason.

Jason sucks in a deep breath and slumps down in the chair, his mind a jumble of emotion; just when he thought that he couldn’t get any more broken, James was there to push that perfect spot and shatter him all over again. Breaking him to make him whole.