#and would be significantly better if there were no toilet humour :')

[c00kietin]

@ghosty-0w0 AND MANY MORE OF MY MOOTS AND FOLLOWERS!

EVEN IF YOU AREN'T A FOLLOWER OF MINE,

Settle down with me, dear friends, and let me tell you the tale of:

THE OWL WHO COULDN'T SLEEP by 7/8 year old me :D

HEADS UP! Fart jokes (I hate them) and I copied some concepts from other medias lol

And that is the end. :')

Alas, if you couldn't read my handwriting (which is perfectly understandable), I shall type it for you, errors and all:

Once there was a Lovley forest called Leafcottage. There lived cute animals that loved to climb and run aroud. One day, the animals and the birds came together for a great festival. There was a Owl there called Hoot Hoot. He Was at the candfloss stand. He just Can't resist the rainbow flavour. While he was about to sit down, A wasp called Rocko Was flying side to side on his chair. When Hoot Hoot was sitting down, He felt something.

"OOOOOOOCCCCCHHH!" Hoot Hoot shouted. Hoot Hoot jumped up so high he nearly went to space. "What's the raket!?" Glowie said. "Glowie, a million Pardons," Said Hoot Hoot. "But I did'nt toot," Glowie replied in a truthful way. "I don't mean that" Hoot Hoot said. (I forgot, Glowie is a Glow Worm). "What's the Big Bum!" Shouted Rocko. That nearly Made Hoot Hoot Jump.

"That hurt's really badly" cried Hoot-hoot. When they finished the talk, it was soon Midnight. They Saw two glowing eyes. It was Claws the tiger. "You should be in Bed!" she shouted. They stomped away (exept Hoot-Hoot, He flew away). When He saw the Sign "Home Sweet Home", He karate-kicked it. "Silly Rocko, little eejit!" He thought.

Now this time, Since He was So angry, He Did'nt have any Dinner! Hoot-Hoot Stomped up the stiars Moodly. He farted so loud that the Whole town Smelled it too! [I cringed while typing that sentence] "Pooh ee!" Bertha the Bat Said. She flew over and shouted: CAN YOU STOP FARTING! (it is in Big capital letters Because she shouted). Hoot-Hoot did not listen, But stopped.

Talking in picture: "OMG He smells!" "Eww!" "Pee ew!" "That is even smellyier than me!"

"You need to sleep" Bertha said. "But I Just can't, There are Cupcake Wasp's flying around my Head." Oh No!

Talking in picture: "OMG means "Oh my God" cool right?"

"Like that one?" asked Bertha. "Yeah" answerd Hoot-Hoot. So Bertha Called a Yoga teacher, Mr M (Moose) and Music Players. "This Will ease your pain and calm you down" Mr Moose said.

"Ok!" Hoot-Hoot yawned, He farted agian. Claws watched. Oh no!

Talking in picture: "t-shirts can Be any colour. cool right?"

No! Lets go back to the story. "So where are we?" asked Hoot-hoot. "in the garden of William shakeshpere" Mr moose replied. "Hey, I was weeing here!!" A dog said. "forget him." Mr Moose said. The sun rose shine at dawn. Mr Moose had enough. He had a can of Beans. But they Were evil Beans. this is what they siad: Evil Beans: "Mwa Ha Ha!" Cupcake Wasp: "these are scary! Cool right?"

"I quit," A music player said. then everyone Did. Exept Bertha and Claw's. "Wait, you can say sorry!" said Claws. Hoot-Hoot heard every single Word she said. "Do not even think about singing a song!" he laghed. They went to Rocko's home. They knocked quietly. Rocko came out, Holding a cup of tea.

"You disturbed my Episode 159, but yes?" Rocko asked. "Well, I'm sorry that I was angry" Hoot-Hoot replied. "I fixed up your sign" said Roko. "YaY!" Hoot-Hoot said. Soon they were frenids. What about Glowie? He's on Mount Everest.

The End!

[himbohunnicutt]

I Wanna Live with Common People like You - A Gwilym Lee Britpop AU - Chapter 1

A/N: Hello! Here’s the Bohemian Rhapsody Britpop AU absolutely nobody asked for! The article at the end was mostly written by the divine @brianmaysleftclog so I cannot claim that. Enjoy!

RATING: NSFW!

https://open.spotify.com/user/ddjtlove/playlist/2HzYf5lWhrJREv1i9MPyba?si=1KqGZpGnRwuPO9ju_ttAgQ (A playlist to listen to)

MASTERLIST

Heidi Saunders walked into the venue just as the band were starting to play. She got a pint and added it to her ongoing tab at the bar. She looked over to the stage and began to bop along as the crowd started getting more and more into the song the young men were playing. She had a good look at the band for the first time, and consulted her cheat sheet that Melody Maker, the music magazine she worked for, had given her. 

First there was Rami Malek, the singer. Small, almost slight, but with immense stage presence. He could hold an audience like nobody. 

Then, Ben Hardy, the drummer. He was the fan favourite. Blonde, strong, and hot, he was always surrounded by a gaggle of girls.

The bassist Joe Mazzello then finally came into view. A contrast to the quiet and stoic bassist trope, he engaged the audience in little asides when not singing. 

Last, but certainly not least, was the guitarist, Gwilym Lee. Standing significantly taller than his other bandmates, he was something of an enigma to Heidi. 

Rami worked the crowd, getting them more and more riled up and more and more into the music as they drank more and more alcohol. The crowd only calmed when the band played an acoustic number, featuring Gwilym on vocals. His voice was much softer and folkier than Rami’s, but he engaged the crowd immensely nonetheless. 

The gig finished with an encore, and slightly sarcastic bows from the men on stage. Heidi made her way through the crowd and flashed her Melody Maker pass, getting through to the backstage area with ease. She found the large room the band had claimed as a dressing room, and walked in. All eyes turned to her as she walked in. What the band saw was a brunette young woman in thigh high boots, a leopard print coat, a stripy dress, and a pint in her hand. 

“Hello. You are?” Joe said, moving to shake her hand. 

“Heidi Saunders. Melody Maker.” She replied. Plenty of eyebrows raised as she walked into the room and sat down on the battered leather sofa where the bassist had just been sat. 

“Did they send you, or are you here by choice?” Ben asked, studying her intensely. 

“By choice” Heidi replied, as she felt an arm, Gwilym’s, lie behind her on the back of the sofa. Heidi chatted to them for a while, taking a few notes to help her write her review. Soon enough, drinks started flowing and more people began to appear. Ben’s traditional gaggle of girls arrived, fuelled on good music and white wine. Rami’s girlfriend Lucy, petite and pretty, arrived from the bar with more alcohol, much to her boyfriend’s delight. Joe joked with some of the staff and the roadies, eyeing up one of Ben’s girls with very little success. Gwilym stucks with Heidi as they drank, talking about music and poetry and books and everything both of them held dear. 

It was Gwilym who made the first move - the first sloppy, drunken kiss. It hadn’t taken long after that for Heidi to make a place for herself on Gwilym’s lap, pulling on his hair and grinding her hips against his. They were both drunk, but they knew what they were doing. They knew how much they wanted each other. Everybody around them could see it too. After a few minutes of snogging and dry humping like teenagers, Heidi grabbed Gwilym’s hand and dragged him to the ladies toilets. It wouldn’t be classy, it wouldn’t be romantic, but it would be them. 

She pulled him into a stall and reconnected their lips. He hoisted her up against the wall and pushed her dress up, pleasantly surprised at the lack of knickers. Her stockings and suspenders stayed put. Her fingers made quick work of his belt, as he bit and sucked at her neck, claiming her as his by leaving a mark. He pulled a condom from his back pocket and slipped it on, never once removing his lips from her neck and chest. He lifted her up slightly, and entered her as she came down. One hand grabbed his hair, and the other the top of the bathroom stall as Gwilym thrusted into her fast, pace ever increasing as he neared his high. He lifted one of her legs so it sat over his shoulder, allowing him better access. She moaned louder and louder as he thrusted harder and harder into her. It wasn’t long before they both reached their high, Heidi biting into Gwilym’s shoulder to stifle her loud moans and exclamations. 

Gwilym quickly got rid of the condom and pulled up his trousers, as Heidi fixed her hair somewhat in the mirror, before she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him back to the table where they’d been sat, and they resumed their teenage snogging that they’d been doing only 10 minutes before.  

They stayed like that for most of the night, only separating when they left the venue and drunkenly stumbled into a taxi directed to Heidi’s flat. They collapsed into bed, passing out before either could say a word of sense. 

Heidi woke early the next morning, the sun streaming through the open curtains. She slipped out of bed, doing her best not to wake the man next to her, and sat down at her desk. She took a deep breath and began typing her article about the band on her typewriter. 

‘Rami Malek as a frontman is unforgettable. He is young, but with wisdom and stage presence beyond his years. His voice weaves its way through the crowd with immeasurable grace and strength, it’s fragility and power clear in equal measure. He flirts with the crowd, though mainly with his girlfriend, up and coming model Lucy Boynton.

As a man, Malek is sweet, making everybody feel at home and making sure all glasses are filled before he worries about himself. He is obviously the leader of the group, and the rest of the band look up to him the way a young boy would to his father, though of course they all swear impartiality. He is staggeringly ordinary, but also extraordinary. 

Gwilym Lee - lead guitarist and resident gentle giant - is engrossed in plucking his strings. He is unimposing despite his 6'2" stature, often wetting his lips with slight flicks of his tongue. His eyes squint slightly when a particularly hard section of the song but breaks into a smile towards the audience and his bandmates when the stress dissipates.

Most importantly, and most attractively, Gwilym Lee is bashful. He has an air of humility that is so utterly endearing that girls and boys can't help but swoon at the sight of his dazzling smile that he hides with a loosely clenched fist.

Joe Mazzello is a subtle but powerful driving force. His fingers fly up and down the fret board, body following the bass line he himself had whipped up. His posture and hand position comes straight from a diagram, but his playing is something filthy. He licks his fingers, swings his bass and hips, and even sends seductive winks to the faceless sea of his admirers, accompanying each deadly move with a poisonously addicting smile. Beneath that seductive air lays a man who is nothing but soft smiles and sarcastic statements. Mazzello's humour is one of a kind; self deprecating, sly and sardonic all at once. It makes him the life of the party, especially paired with his naturally coordinated dancing that compliments music like cheese to wine.

Ben Hardy is something akin to paradoxical. Mazzello, try as he might, cannot come up to par to the raw sexual energy escaping from Hardy's every pore. He puts his heart and soul into hitting each tom, cymbal and snare exactly when needed to, flicking his hair and gasping as though every breath is his last. His muscles ripple with each mighty swing and the men and women around me drool unabashedly, mouths hung open with lust. Offstage, Ben Hardy is the most mild man I've ever met. He is often dismissal with his role, but is obviously secure about it. He shakes hands and introduces himself as simply 'Ben', striking conversations organically and leaving whenever something floats his interesting. In many ways, he could be labelled as simply dull, but a sparkle in his eyes seems to glimmer bright in the overly white lighting of the backstage area. I know for a fact that he is not even remotely drunk - tipsy at most - but the alcohol seems to have a sedative effect to his shot nerves from pure adrenaline.All in all, Ben Hardy is simply beautiful. Scratch that, all of them are beautiful.’

[footbaliimagines]

proud (an antoine griezmann imagine)

summary: atletico madrid get knocked out of the copa del rey and antoine looks to his girlfriend for comfort

You hadn’t been able to make it to the game that evening. Instead of heading to Barcelona to watch the match live and cheer Atletico on from the stands, you’d been forced to rely on Twitter, thanks to your boss insisting on holding a meeting the next morning at 9am.

If it were any other match, you would have been disappointed. Instead, you’re kind of grateful. Watching Antoine’s face fall and a sad smile grace his features as the team applauded the away fans had been bad enough through your laptop screen, and you’re pretty sure seeing it in the flesh would have been enough to make you never want to watch a football match again.

“Hey, babe.” You speak softly.

You’re sat in front of your laptop with Skype up and running, with a highlights video of the game open on another tab, your legs crossed and an array of takeaway pamphlets scattered in front of you. “Hi.” His voice is quiet and he sounds utterly broken, and your heart splinters even further.

It had been a frustrating year. Antoine gives so much, works so hard, and to be faced with disappointment again had undoubtedly been hard on him. He’ll be overthinking, blaming himself, replaying every kick and pass and shot in his brain until his head spins.

You ask, trying to keep your voice cheerful, “How are you?” It’s a dumb question, nothing but small talk, and you hear him exhale.

You look at him through your laptop screen. He’s sat alone in his hotel room, slumped forward with shoulders slouched and one hand rubbing the back of his neck, the other running constantly through his damp hair. His blue eyes are wide, blinking frequently and darting around the room, in an attempt to act blasé and put on a front, constantly twitching so that the tears that are begging to fall don’t slip out.

“Exhausted. I want to come home. I don’t think I can hack spending another night here.” He murmurs.

“Come back to me soon, hey?”

He speaks delicately, “As soon as I can.”

“I’m proud of you, Antoine. More than you will ever, ever know.”

“I know you are.”

“So, so proud.” You stress. “We all are.”

“You shouldn’t be.” He mutters, looking down, his voice low and bitter.

“Stop that right now.” You order, sounding more like a primary school teacher than a supportive girlfriend. “I am proud. Please don’t start this whole ‘I-let-you-down-why-are-you-even-proud-of-me-in-the-first-place’ malarkey again.”

He glances up and presses his lips together in an apologetic smile.

“You need to be proud of yourself, too.” You add.

“It’s difficult.”

“I know.”

Then he’s back to refusing to make eye contact, playing with his finger and fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “I feel like I’m giving so much and getting nothing back in return.”

“I know.”

Antoine sighs and looks up at you, as you feel your heart about to break. “Again and again.” He chokes out. “I’m sick of getting shot down right at the end. It’s like being able to see the finish line but slipping and falling flat on your face, over and over again. I fucking hate this.”

“So do I.” You reply tenderly.

You wish you could do more than rattle off cliche comforting phrases, but it’s as much as you can do, and you know that all he needs to do is vent to open ears.

“How’s Nacho?” He pipes up after a brief moment of silence.

Rapidly changing the subject was a tactic Antoine often employed to get his mind off things and attempt to lift his spirits, taken from Filipe who told him that talking to his daughters made a loss significantly less painful. You eagerly comply, and jump to your feet, scooping Nacho, your fat grey cat who’s now meowing in discontent and whose tail is twitching in annoyance, into your arms, heading back to the view of your laptop camera. “He’s fantastic, as usual. Think he might have fleas, though.”

“You’re sending me quite mixed signals there.”

“So is Nacho.” You whine dramatically, leaning back and letting Nacho relax on your chest. “One second he’s clawing at my face to stop me from giving him kisses and the next he won’t even let me go to the toilet in peace. ”

“Gone for two nights and I’ve already been replaced.” He chuckles.

“I think he misses his Dad.”

“We are not getting another cat-“

“I meant you, stupid.”

“I know you think it’s cute to pretend that Nacho’s our baby, but I still think it’s kind of strange.”

“He is my baby, though.”

“You are so weird.” He laughs, and it’s the first time he’s sounded genuinely positive during the entirety of your Skype call.

“Still want a second cat. Still think we’re his parents.”

“Still love you, even though you’re an absolute nutcase.”

“And I’m still endlessly proud of you, even though for some weird fucking reason you think I shouldn’t be.”

He sighs and opens his mouth to reply, but you shake your head and cut him off. “No, don’t start with that again, Antoine. I will always be proud of you, always. You could sky an easy shot at an open goal in the last minute of the World Cup final and I would still be proud of you.”

“Well, you’ve just gone and jinxed it now.”

“Stay away from empty goals, Griezmann, you hear me?”

Antoine laughs, a light and melodic sound that pulls on your heart strings and makes you grin as you pull your laptop closer. Nacho jumps off your lap with a thump. “Loud and clear.”

“Good.”

“Thank you for cheering me up, darling.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Nacho.” You smile, as Nacho flops onto his side and begins to kick the corner of the rug on your living room floor. You frown, “He’s doing that weird thing where he kicks the rug and rolls over again.”

“We have a psychopath of a cat. He’s absolutely mental.”

“Like owner, like cat. That’s the saying, isn’t it?”

“Probably.”

“I better go. Koke’s at the door and he’s just texted to say they’ve bought pizza, and if I don’t answer I’m pretty sure they’ll break down the door to make sure I’m not rotting away in my own sweat.”

“I’ll let you go, then.” You smile wistfully at him. “I love you, and I’m proud of you. I will be until the very last time you lace up your boots.”

And your voice breaks, a sudden lump appearing in your throat as you feel your eyes sting with tears. 

Fuck.

(You’re meant to be the one comforting him, not the other way round.)

“Don’t get soppy on me, now.” He teases. “You know I’ll cry if you do.”

“I’m sorry, sorry.” You shake your head and rub the tears away from under your eyes. “But you know what they say, right? That corny shit about how experiencing the lows makes you appreciate the highs even more? And how you have to deal with the rain if you want it to, uh, not rain?”

Antoine laughs. “Yes, babe, I’ve also read the ‘top 100 cheesy football quotes’, like you clearly have done.” He’s teasing you and if it were any other day you would have fired back, all guns blazing, but his eyes are sparkling and there’s a smile tugging at his features again

It’s a nice change to have humour and adoration glistening in his eyes rather than salty tears. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”

“I love you.”

——

A.N.: for the anon who requested something about antoine/atletico after the copa del ray match a few days ago. i wrote this quite quickly so i’m sorry if it’s not my best stuff (but i love antoine and will write virtually anything for him leeeet’s be honest) either way i hope you liked this!!!! 

(also i was massively inspired by my absolute weirdo of a cat when writing about nacho haha)

as usual thank you so much for everything and check out my masterlist ond my ask box to let me now what you think, come and say hi or request something!!!