marcie-self

[marcie-self]

AU where I’m not in love with fictional characters, but real, living people who actually exist.

[marcie-self]

sweetheart if you’re older than 21, you gotta start movin out from your daddy’s moola

I make my own money, which is funny you assume I don’t considering you don’t know me outside of a singular post.

[marcie-self]

I would love to go to a Metallica concert with my dad but there’s a few things wrong with that picture….

1) my father is a cheapskate and would never dish out that kind of money even for his own ticket.

2) I’d be losing my mind over James and that would be uncomfy because James is literally old enough to be my father. There’s only a two year difference.

3) it’d be like my 21st bday where my MOTHER took me to a strip club and I wasn’t able to properly enjoy myself because I felt like I had to filter myself in front of my parent.

[marcie-self]

This has to be the hottest eyebrow raise ever

until the neighbours know his name

[marcie-self]

𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃

⋆ ★ 𝙹𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚝𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍

" 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐... " ✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . " 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 "

»»———-　story by 30-3am　———-««

⋆ ★ dads best friend!james hetfield x younger!oc

⋆ ★ smut, angst, fluff, dub-con, age gap

[coming soon]

[marcie-self]

Top Gun Top Two

Rooster is such a babe, hottie, hunk, etc. Chefs kiss! He’s amazing. BUT Robert “Bob” Floyd… 🥰🥰🥰 he makes me wanna giggle and kick my legs like a school girl!

[marcie-self]

Flightless Bird

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw X Wife!reader

Summary: Rooster gets injured during a mission and must be grounded.

Warnings: near death accident, some angst, MOSTLY FLUFF

———————————————————————

You just finished your shift at The Hard Deck and your phone rings as you’re unlocking your husband's light blue Ford Bronco. Rushing to set your bag down and dig for your cell phone, you almost miss the call catching it on the very last ring. The voice on the other end of the line confirms who they're speaking to before introducing themselves.

When you hear the word hospital, your heart drops into your stomach. You knew Rooster was going on a mission today, he assured you that it was low intensity and he was more than confident everything would be fine. Tears filled your eyes as his condition was calmly explained to you.

He was in surgery to repair a major artery in his leg. Turns out a missile got his jet luckily he ejected just in time, but a piece of shrapnel got him on the way out. You struggle to keep yourself together and get through the phone call.

“Mrs.Bradshaw, I wish I could tell you it was something small. It's quite bad, but he has a very high chance of surviving.” The woman's voice was soft and reassuring.

You sniffle and let out a small laugh. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just, that’s what he told me this morning when he left. Um, anyway, I’ll be there soon. Thank you for calling!”

You set your phone down and with a shaking hand start to put the key in the ignition. When you drop the keys you silently curse to yourself and sit back for a moment. Taking in several deep breaths, you manage to collect yourself and get the car started.

You didn’t grow up with religious parents so you didn’t spend much time praying except now. The entire drive was spent holding back tears and begging whatever higher power was listening to do just this one favor for you. Driving to the hospital was the easy part but making yourself get out of the car and walk into the building felt impossible.

When you walk in you immediately spot Maverick. He stands up to meet you and the panic finally starts to set in. Tears stream down your face and your breathing quickens suddenly unable to form words.

The older pilot pulls you into a hug attempting to calm you. “He’s going to be fine, you know he’s too stubborn to give up now.”

You manage to catch your breath enough to speak. “I appreciate the sentiment Mav, but I don’t need the empty promises.” You were thinking worse words than that but couldn’t bring yourself to say them at the moment.

“You’re right. Let’s go to the waiting room.” He showed you the way to the room full of seats and got her settled in.

Mav did what he could to take care of you and keep you calm. At one point you were completely zoned out staring at the old and worn out carpet under your feet. Your leg was subconsciously bouncing with anxiousness, you didn't snap out of your trance until you heard your fairly new last name get called out. The nurse with a clipboard in her hands motioned you to come out into the hallway. You wasted no time and Mav followed close behind.

“Your husband is in recovery. The surgery went just fine, but he’s going to need to do physical therapy for his leg. I’m afraid he won’t be able to fly anymore.” The nurse led you back into recovery to be with him until they could get him a room.

The sight of your unconscious husband bandaged up broke your heart but he’s alive. Your prayers were heard. At this point Mav had gone home and you stayed by his side watching over him like a hawk, any movement or groan he made had your full attention. It seemed like forever until they got him into a room.

He was finally starting to wake up when they locked the hospital bed into place. His words were jumbled and started to frantically look around. “My, my wife. Call-“ Rooster groaned and let his head fall back into the pillow.

“I’m here Roost, right here.” You stood at the foot of his bed out of the way of the nurses but in his view.

Once he saw you he let himself relax and fall asleep again. The nurse assigned to take care of him pulls you aside and goes over his medications and what needs to happen to speed up the healing process. Finally you feel like you can breathe again.

That night, you fell asleep in an awkward position in the chair next to his bed and no matter how you moved in your sleep your hand stayed on his. The sound of the bed creaking and fabric rustling woke you, Mav was right he is too stubborn. Bradley was trying to get out of bed, luckily he didn’t want to wake you so he hadn’t made much progress yet.

“Honey, what are you doing?” You jump up out of the chair and meet him on the other side of the bed to keep him from falling.

Rooster sighed and looked up at you like a puppy. “I just wanted to get out of bed.”

You sit on the bed next to him and hold his hand. “I don’t even think you’re supposed to be sitting up like this right now.” You softly chuckle at his eagerness.

He turns to you and kisses your forehead. I’m so sorry baby.”

“Sorry for what? You did what you were supposed to.” You watched him try to decide what emotion he should be feeling.

“You’re stuck taking care of me now.” He twinged when he attempted to move the injured leg.

“I married you, remember? I read the terms and conditions in full detail.” A soft smile sends a wave of comfort over him. “I’m just so happy I get to be here with you right now and not planning a funeral.”

You both silently laugh at the comment. “So please, for me, do what you need to do to get better. I’d love to get you home as soon as possible too.”

“Since you asked so nicely.” He smirked and kissed the back of your hand.

Eventually, Rooster got sent home and did everything he was supposed to do. You and Mav already had a talk with him about how his condition prohibits him from flying again. He didn’t take it well at first. After giving him a day or two to calm down he came to you with a serious look on his face.

He looked like a scared little kid, your first response was to hold your arms open for him. He quickly accepted and held you close. “I think I’m going to take Mav up on that offer, if I can’t fly them I at least want to work on them.”

You smile softly down at him and play with his hair. “I told you that was a good idea. Think about all that will open up for you in this position. We could finally start a family.”

He lifts his head up excitedly. “You mean it?” When the conversation came up before your marriage you were on the fence about having kids just because you knew what Rooster went through.

“I don’t want you to give up what you love, but it’s hard enough as is for me to keep myself together worrying about what’s going to happen to you when you leave every day. I can’t even imagine having a kid.” You both stare at each other as the words echo in your heads.

“Yes baby, I mean it.” By the time you finish your sentence Rooster has pulled you into a deep passionate kiss.

[marcie-self]

Harry Potter Thoughts:

I want to know how the wizard economy works in Harry Potter. Like do wizards only get wizard jobs? Or do some of them end up in a muggle career? How many different wizard professions are there?

[marcie-self]

it's 3 am and he's high as fuck

[marcie-self]

Rockstar!Eddie on Viva la Bam - send tweet

Rockstar!Eddie on Viva la Bam and being bffs with the band HIM as well.

He's got this tatoo

[marcie-self]

They found the fanfics 👀

What are they reading? Wrong answers only

[marcie-self]

Teenager James Hetfield would be completely in love with Hayley Williams or at least her music.

[marcie-self]

Does anyone else just randomly remember that Billy Hargrove has Metallica’s “Kill Em All” poster in his room? Cause at least once a week I think about it.

[marcie-self]

Despite being in an 8 year long relationship at the moment, I still relate to this so strongly. I asked him out, he didn’t ask me. The day I asked him out I was ready to give up completely. He didn’t fully realize we were on a date until halfway through said date. I’ve never had the words to explain to him and friends the way I feel about myself but this is every word I ever needed.

These words perfectly describe the nagging pain I’ve felt since puberty started. This hurts so much.

I’ve never really been on a date.  

No one has ever really asked.  

I’ve tried to ask.  

Twice, to be exact.  

No, twice isn’t a lot in a twenty-seven-year lifetime.  

But it is twice more than I’ve been asked.  

I’ve been rejected.  

Twice, to be exact.  

No, twice isn’t a lot in a twenty-seven-year lifetime.  

But it is one hundred percent of the times I’ve asked.  

At the end of the day, neither of those rejections has been a tragedy.  

Sure, I was sad after both, but time confirmed the bullet-dodged with one 

And the other was a fleeting hope that wasn’t resting on anything tangible anyway.  

But that’s not the point.  

The point is that I’ve never really been on a date.  

No one has ever really asked.

The point is that I’m twenty-seven years old and no one has ever really asked me out on a date.

My mom tells me I’m pretty.  

My dad tells me guys are intimidated.  

My sister tells me men are trash and who needs them anyway.

My friends tell me I’m hot and anyone who doesn’t see that isn’t worth my time. 

And I love them all for saying those things, I really do.

But I don’t believe them. 

I don’t believe them because how could I?

How could I believe any of those things are true when they are so clearly not?  

If I were pretty, someone would have taken me on a date at least once.

Even if I was intimidating, someone would have been brave enough to take me on a date at least once.  

My sister is right, but it’s hypocritical when she has a man that she loves.

My friends are supportive, and so clearly blind.  

I don’t believe them because pretty girls get dates.

I don’t believe them because funny girls get dates. 

I don’t believe them because every girl gets dates.

So why not me?

What is it about me that makes me so unlikeable?  

What is it about me that just isn’t pretty enough for anyone?  

A logical part of me tells myself that I’m not ugly.  

But there’s a much louder voice saying, “Think again!”

Because I’m twenty-seven years old and I’ve never been asked out on a date.  

I must be too fat.

I must have too broad of shoulders.

I must have too dumb of a laugh.  

I must smile too big and make my eyes too small.

I must have too large of thighs.  

I must have too much stomach.

I must be too much and not enough all at once.  

There’s this feminist desire in me to be completely fine in my individuality.

There’s this feminist desire in me to be completely fine sustaining myself because

I can.

And yet --

There’s this feminine desire in me to be surrounded by male love.

There’s this feminine desire in me to have a guy look at me and say,

“You.  I choose you.”

To look at me and say,

“You.  You’re beautiful.”

To look at me and say, 

“You.  You.  You.”

I’ve never really been on a date.

No one has ever really asked.

And at this moment in my life,

I truly don’t believe they ever will.  

[marcie-self]

[marcie-self]

List of “they’re fake dating but are crossing way too many lines to be considered fake anymore” prompts

Character A’s arm around Character B’s waist, subconsciously keeping them close; glaring at people who try to get close to Character B. 

Heart twisting uncomfortably in Character A’s chest when they see Character B’s eyes lighting up when they’re talking to someone else, so much so A has to tear their eyes away to calm themselves down. The reminder of fake, fake, fake repeats in Character A’s head. 

Seeking for Character B’s hand subconsciously, intertwining their fingers, palm pressed against palm; snug and warm, the feeling of never wanting to let go almost overwhelming. But this is fake be damned — for now, it’s all about the comfort. (It becomes a habit.) 

Drunken kisses. God, the drunken kisses, with Character B’s fingers in Character A’s hair and Character B perched in their lap, kissing them with no restraint; things getting heated, Character A’s hands slipping under Character B’s shirt and earning a slight shiver from them. All the while, Character A could only wish Character B would kiss them like this when they’re sober. Character A lets that thought linger until they both fall asleep in each other’s arms after kissing way too many times to count because they can’t seem to get enough of each other. 

Late night phone calls or endless text messages at two in the morning, never wanting the conversation to end. It makes Character A wonder, but they stop themselves before these thoughts spiral out of their control. 

The thoughts of wanting Character B in a way they can’t have them becomes more frequent. They know it’s only going to break them by thinking like this, but they continue to entertain the idea of it; of how it would be like to call Character B theirs, for real. (It’s unhealthy, so fucking unhealthy, but they can’t help it.) 

Kisses becoming longer; more desperate, more passionate, with no need for alcohol. It burns to have Character B kiss them like they mean it; like there’s supposed to be something there, but they push it down because this is fake. It’s fake. This is all an act. (Character A convince themselves, at least for a little while more.)

Gazing at each other like they’re in love with each other, even though the both of them know they’re not in love with each other (or maybe denial is more blissful than they realise?). 

Fighting with each other hurts more than it should; it dissolves into tears, doors slamming shut and heart aches that wouldn’t have happened if they didn’t agree to this stupid fake dating thing. 

And then it all comes to a head one day, tearful and angry confessions on the tips of their tongues. (And by God, are they so dramatic about it, too.) 

B: “Why are you doing this to us? We— we were doing so good—” 

A: “Because this is supposed to be fake, but I’m falling for you and I’m fucking terrified I’m never going to be able to catch myself. Because I’m falling for you and you don’t feel the same and everything in me screams for me to run away, but I can’t because it’s you.” 

B: “…And who the fuck says I don’t feel the same?”