Metallica one shots and headcannons

Tomboy in a Twist of Heels👠(James Hetfield one shot)

Just a little message: girls, always dress as you want and not for others, no one has the right to change. Be yourself!💕 

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I'd always been more at home with engines than I was in a shopping mall or a fancy restaurant. I loved getting my hands dirty, working on cars, and fixing whatever needed fixing. So when I first met James, it wasn't because of his fame or the fact that he was the frontman of Metallica — it was because he was a car guy, just like me. He'd show up at my garage with his collection of classic cars, and I'd spend hours helping him with whatever project he had going on. He was intense, smart, and easy to talk to — especially when the subject was cars.

We never really talked about our relationship. He'd come by, we'd hang out, maybe grab a beer after work. I didn't care about the Hollywood rock star life — the leather jackets, the wild parties, the "groupies" that were probably lingering around him at every corner. And I didn't care about all the attention he got. That wasn't why I liked him. It was the way he treated me when we were together. The way he listened when I talked about carburetors or suspension systems.

But there was one thing that started to bug me. James would always introduce me as a "friend." A friend. No "girlfriend," no "this is Y/N, she's special to me." It was always just "friend."

At first, I thought maybe he wanted to keep things low-key. After all, he was in the spotlight all the time, and he wasn't the kind of guy who needed more attention on his private life. I could get that. But after a while, it started to eat at me. I wasn't a "friend," I was his girlfriend. We'd spent months together, had plenty of intimate moments, but he never once acknowledged it outside of our little bubble. Why wouldn't he just own it? Why wouldn't he call me what I was?

One afternoon, after yet another "friend" introduction, I finally decided I'd had enough. I needed to know what was going on. If he wasn't going to tell me, I was going to make him see me in a way that he couldn't ignore.

I replayed that moment in my head. "This is [Y/N], she's a friend." The words stung, but it wasn't just that. There was something in the way he said it — like he was embarrassed. And that's when it hit me. He wasn't just keeping our relationship private. He was ashamed of me. Ashamed of me being the girl I was — the girl who didn't care about makeup or dresses, who didn't fit into the stereotypical rock star girlfriend mold. I was a tomboy — and that was what he couldn't handle.

The realization hit like a slap in the face. And it made me angry. Not because I was ashamed of who I was — but because I realized that he was.

I called up Mia, my best friend, and filled her in.

"I need a change," I said, wiping grease off my hands as I leaned against the workbench, staring at the open hood of a Mustang. "I need to make James really see me."

Mia raised an eyebrow. "A makeover?"

I winced a little, but nodded. "Yeah. Maybe if I look different, maybe if I look like someone else, he'll realize what he's missing. Maybe then he'll actually see me, instead of just his 'buddy from the shop.'"