Metallica one shots and headcannons

Craving the forbidden🔥(James Hetfield one shot)

Warnings: Mature Themes,Explicit Content Sexual Content,Strong Language,Intense Sexual Content, Emotional Intensity,Sensitive Topics (About marriage)

P.S I wanted to tell you this story is a work of fiction and is not intended to represent any real-life events or individuals. It is solely for entertainment purposes.

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The rhythmic hum of the vacuum cleaner filled the mansion, steady and soothing as I moved through the sprawling halls. This place was a fortress of luxury—high ceilings, dark wood, and towering windows that framed views of an endless horizon. It felt like a castle, but it was so quiet it might as well have been a mausoleum.

I'd been working here for two years, long enough to know every creak of the floorboards, every shadow that shifted with the setting sun. Long enough to know the man who lived here, too.

James Hetfield.

He wasn't just my employer; he was a rock god. Frontman of Metallica, a legend whose name carried more weight than I could fathom. And yet, he was also something else. Something infinitely more complicated.

James Hetfield wasn't supposed to be kind. Or thoughtful. Or so... human. But he was. And that's what made working here harder than it should've been.

I dusted the shelves in the library, my hands steady even though my thoughts weren't. I had no right to think about him the way I did. He was married. Famous. Completely out of reach.And yet, I couldn't help the way my chest tightened every time I saw him.The front door clicked open, the sound reverberating through the empty halls. My breath caught. I wasn't expecting him.

"Y/n?" His deep, gravelly voice echoed down the hall.

I straightened, smoothing my apron before stepping out into the foyer. He stood there, guitar case slung over one shoulder, sunglasses pushed up into his tousled hair. His presence filled the room like a storm rolling in—effortless, magnetic, dangerous.

"James," I said, keeping my voice even. "I didn't think you'd be home today."

"Change of plans," he said, setting the guitar down by the door. His lips quirked into a small, almost shy smile. "Thought I'd work from home for a bit."

I nodded, clutching my cleaning supplies tightly. "I'll stay out of your way.""You never do." The words were soft, but they carried an undercurrent that made my pulse quicken.

I ducked my head and hurried back to the kitchen, my cheeks burning. The hours crawled by as I moved through the house, each room feeling smaller and more suffocating with him here. His presence was impossible to ignore—the faint sound of his guitar drifting from the living room, the occasional creak of floorboards as he moved upstairs.

By the time I reached his office, my nerves were frayed. This was the one room I avoided whenever I could. It felt too personal. The walls were lined with gold records, guitars propped in every corner, and framed photos that told the story of his life. Photos of his band, his kids, his wife.