Metallica & friends • Imagines !

if you want blood (you got it)

AUTHORS NOTE:
hey! i read this awesome Tom x Jeff from Slayer fic by CatBones on ao3, and it is too good not to share with y'all. so please enjoy!! ( If You Want Blood (You Got It) by CatBones on ao3!!) please give some love to the author! their work is amazing.

summary: It's just Tom, Jeff, and a couple gallons of stage blood drenching them from top to bottom--and they're about to find out how nasty they can get with it.

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Saying that playing live shows gives Tom an adrenaline rush is an understatement--it's so much more than that.

There's just something about the electricity of the crowd--the raw energy of it all--that has the band firing on all cylinders, and it's the closest thing he can get to a high without actually putting something up his nose. Slayer's shows are explosive enough as is, but tonight far exceeds anything they've ever done. For their encore--Raining Blood--they somehow managed to convince their production crew that yes, they want it to actually rain fucking blood on them, and it was going to happen one way or another. A fantasy of sorts ever since Jeff penned the title a few years back, Slayer was determined to contrive this win eventually, and tonight is the night it finally happens.

As Kerry and Jeff drive feedback through their amps for those opening notes, Tom feels it--just a drop at first, then another, and another, and as he stands there at his spot in front of the mic, it comes pouring down from the lighting rig, baptising him in a wash of red. The crowd goes fucking nuts when they realise what's happening and it just drives the band harder, feeds them that energy they crave so deeply, and by the time they finish their set and strut backstage, it's all they can do to keep themselves from tearing the dressing room apart because they still have so much fire in them and they need to unload.

Kerry and Dave spend maybe two minutes each smearing the stage blood off of themselves before deciding that their top priority is getting to the post-show party as fast as possible. Not wanting to hold them up any further, Tom encourages them to get a head start and go off without him, assuring them he'll catch up in a moment. He just needs to make sure that his bass gets taken care of because who knows what this red goo is gonna do to his instrument if he doesn't get it off. The pair give him nothing past a simple shrug and take him for his word before making for the door.

He's fiddling with a tuning key on his bass when he sees him in his peripherals: Jeff, off in the corner, sparing the same love and care to his instrument--and absolutely drenched in stage blood. There's just something about the way the slick red clings to the guitarist's skin that demands Tom's attention, but he's quick to leave it with nothing past a stolen glance. It's not like he's been nursing a physical attraction towards his bandmate for the last few years, anyways, so he tries not to feed it further. But...goddamn...the way that it stains his skin, the bright red streaks that smear across his face as he brushes his bangs from his eyes with a hand, the way it contrasts so sharply with the pale blond of his hair and causes the blue of his eyes to pop even more leaves Tom feeling like he's walking on razor blades.

Of all fucking things, Tom didn't expect the sight of Jeff Hanneman drenched in stage blood to completely set him off. Of course, he's absolutely entertained the idea in the past--worked certain visuals into his head during times when it was just him and his hand in the shower or alone in his bunk on the tour bus--but he reaches for his beer and takes a noisy gulp; a distraction is all he needs.

"Hey, Araya," Jeff's voice floats across the room and Tom tries his best to push down the walnut sized lump now occupying his throat. "Do you have a string-winder over there by any chance? Mine are fucking destroyed. We're both gonna need to slap some fresh strings on as who knows what the fuck is in this shit. Probably corrosive. Even got it in my fucking pickups."