nicknames/mottos (a more truthful version): countries

As a Scottish person I can confirm that this is 100% accurate

As an English person I can confirm that this is 100% accurate

As an American person I can confirm that this is 100% accurate.

This isen’t a post, this is an experience 

yall hate wolverine origins but “your country needs you” “im canadian (drives away)” is the greatest moment in cinematic history

Drabble Challenge!

Repost this. Followers/Readers send numbers to your Ask. You write a fic/drabble using that line in your piece. Have fun! Expect a ton of requests!! 

Visit @prompt-bank for more prompts!!

Choose a line and send it to me in ask, for fic prompts.

CHOOSE FUNNY/WEIRD/CRAZY ONES, make it interesting.

I have something in mind 😎 quite experimental, if you will

“expect a lotta requests” as if but i’m still willing to do it, my writings kinda slacking lately

OH PLEASE YOU GUYS, I NEVER TRIED TAKING REQUESTS BEFORE!!!!!

if you’re american and coming to australia, I’m gonna go ahead and say that you should be 100 percent way more worried about being king hit by a dude named “dane” in a bintang singlet than any fucking spiders that exist here

what does this say in english

“Good sir, if you are a resident of the United States of America and coming to visit the sunny land of Australia, allow me to inform you that you should be rather more concerned about being sucker punched by a gentleman named ‘Dane’ who is likely to be seen wearing a wifebeater with a beer company logo on it than by any of the dangerous spiders that exist on this lovely continent”.

ok so what does it say in american

“You’re more likely to get sucker punched/cold-cocked by an asshole than you are to be bitten by a spider”.

thank you

Well rattle my spoons, that don’t make a lick of sense. Wot in tarnation does this hootenanny say?

“If ya mosey on by Australia, you best be fixin’ to get to some fisticuffs more'n checkin fer spiders.”

This is a Rosetta Stone for a single language

@bran-loaf

HAHAHA I REBLOGGED THIS NOT LONG AGO

WHY DIDN’T TAG ME THEN LMAO

really the most fun thing is taking any ridiculous text and imagining snape reading it

like imagine snape reading out excerpts from my immortal

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HE MENTIONED IT AGAIN TODAY THIS BOY IS SERIOUS HOW DID I GET SO LUCKY

listen. l i s t e n. listen. kudos does not equal quality. popularity does not equal quality. i have read some “fandom classics” that i could barely fathom how boring or terrible i - personally - found them, and i have stumbled across some absolute gems that didn’t even break 100 kudos. 

what is good doesn’t always get the recognition it deserves. it’s sad, but true. just because you haven’t - or possibly never take - off in fandom doesn’t mean your work isn’t astounding and beautiful, it doesn’t mean you should stop writing; it just means that a very select corner of the internet missed the diamond in the rough. 

fanfiction is flooded with content, there are so many of us out there producing it these days, and having a fic that takes off is almost as much about luck as it is about talent. never let a few artificial numbers on the internet dictate to you what is and isn’t worthy writing. 

additionally, you don’t have to read or enjoy fics just bcs they’re big. i cannot count the amount of times i’ve read the first paragraph of something fandom adores and immediatly exited out of it.

just… do what makes you happy. write what you wanna write, read what you wanna read. understand that while we all want recognition - and some deserve it more than others - we did not get into fanfiction for that recognition.

recognition is good, but sometimes we get all tangled up chasing it and stop enjoying writing and reading and fandom as a whole along the way. be careful of that, please, or you’ll burn yourself out.

Twenty-five years in fandom and it doesn’t get truer than this. You absolutely CANNOT predict what will be popular and what won’t. It’s due to coincidence and timing and who happens to hit reblog and yanno…it’s a mystery. Write for yourself, read for yourself, this isn’t a job.

enemies with benefits | roger taylor

summary: Roger Taylor and yourself are not exactly the closest of friends, something Freddie Mercury blames on sexual tension. And he might just be right.

pairing: roger taylor x fem!reader

word count: 2.9k+

warnings/tags: smut ladies, hate fucking, a bit of dom!roger (blink and you’ll miss it), foul language

a/n- this has a nonsensical, shitty plot and i hate it but we’re going to ignore that and focus on the smut okay! if this flops cardboard ben hacked me bye

It was no secret that you and Roger Taylor weren’t particularly fond of each other. It was difficult to pinpoint the exact reason for the distaste the two of you shared (and the only thing you agreed upon); it might have had something to do with how you caught him getting head in your bathroom that one time, or his generally utterly obnoxious attitude that left him unable to get his head out of his arse. His immature personality left him unable to leave you alone for more than five minutes, always prepared with a snide comment or cocky glance.

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Taking Care of His Girl

Summary: Takes place in the Sugar Daddy John verse’.  You’ve been laid up in your apartment for a week with an injured ankle, and John decides to distract you from your cabin fever

A/N: For my girl @rogers-sweatbands who hurt her ankle the other day, and wanted smutty sugar daddy Deaky.  Also, I do plan on writing the back story to all of this, including how they met and how they ended up in this arrangement, so you have that to look forward to!

Warnings: This is straight up 1.3 K words of (possibly poorly written) smut folks, featuring John’s talented hands, overstimulation, and a good old hefty dose of daddy kink.  Please smut responsibly.

Tags: @princessleiaqueen | @deacytits | @deacydeacy | @rogerscupboard | @depressedpolishgirl | @instantezra | @bestiaryyoumeanbeast | @rogertqueen | @strangeandwonderfulconcepts  Please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future fics!

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woman: *talks about equality in any way*

men every time: so i can hit you, right? i can beat the absolute shit out of you? it’s equality :)

Men =/= Women

Women can have equal social standing when they make an equal contribution and half of our infantry are women.

William. You are so brave for talking shit when you look like this. How many layers of inbred are you? Is your family tree more like a family donut? I can see that you tried with that hairstyle, but you shouldn’t have. You see, Billy Bob, you can’t just take the shavings from your head and sprinkle them on your top lip and call that a mustache. That hairline is trying to run away from your bad opinions. Your eyebrows aren’t even on speaking terms. Every level of your development as a human has been another mistake. And here you sit, on your porn blog, explaining to human women why we can’t be equal until we’re half of the infantry… are you? I find that really hard to believe. Is that what you think makes a person worthwhile? Being a meat shield? Cleetus, if that’s all you aspire to, I’m so sorry. Look at those shoulders. You wouldn’t even be a good meat shield, because someone could shoot at you point blank and still miss

What contribution have you made to society? The largest cumsock collection in all of Alabama? Most Cousins Fucked 2k15? How many confederate flags do you own, exactly?

Billy bob. No one wants to be equal to you. We can do so much better than that.

Every line had me screaming

C L E E T U S

I’m Gonna Crawl-John Deacon x Reader

Summary: Working at a failing clothing store doesn’t have many perks until you make a promise with a rock band too poor to afford the stage costumes of their dreams–which is how Roger and Deaky find themselves both smitten by you and in a silent competition to win your affections. 

Word Count: 9.5k+

Warnings: Slow burn, frustration, Roger is a fucking cockblock, filthy sex, dirty talking

You squinted as you thumbed a paper tag woven through a silk sleeve of a shirt you were convinced was too flamboyant and too expensive for anybody to ever purchase. The sleeves were pleated, and the buttons on the back were sheathed in the same silk, pulled taut over them. The sleeves flared out, and hung much lower than the narrow bodice of the shirt did; you wondered who could even fit comfortably in such an awkwardly shaped garment.

But apparently someone thought they had a chance of fitting into and liking the shirt, (which you had to admit was pleasingly soft to the touch), because your quite authoritarian boss commanded you to put it on hold.

“We got a call for an item to be put on hold, Y/N.” He gave you a tight-lipped smile, a pen bobbing from in between crooked teeth as he punched numbers into a desk calculator, the buttons worn away from use in excess. You had offered to bring your own in, but he insisted that this one was a better model–whatever that meant. He was the quintessential model for a type A personality: controlling, neurotic, overly-aggressive. So gently lifting the velvety grey hanger from a hook in an abandoned dressing room, you noted how his personality was antithetical to this free-flowing shirt that you still couldn’t fathom the idea of somebody wanting.

“He’s coming around at three,” He said, jotting a number down onto a yellow legal pad, sighing as he capped the pen. You cringed, noting how the shaft of it was coated in his spit. “He said his name is Freddie, so remember that. I’ll be gone by two-thirty; I have a meeting with corporate about our sales.”

You nodded, looking at your chipped nail polish; the white varnish was almost shaped like a heart, jagged on the edges. “Alright.” You slipped behind the front counter and carefully hung some crisp button-ups on a metal clothing rack next to a cash-register, the pads of your fingers cold against the silver rod on the top. But he was silent, and when you looked up to meet his beady eyes, his eyebrows were raised, as if he were awaiting your prying response. You really didn’t want to feed into his belligerence; if you even mentioned something that faintly annoyed him, he’d spit in your ear for twenty minutes, complaining about lunch hours and corporate and his wage–which was almost double of yours. But you sighed, tongue-in-cheek, as you straightened up the pens that scattered the tabletop; for being so anal, he was awful at organization. “What’s up with the sales? Negative, I take it?” You mindlessly opened a small drawer in-between two cash-registers, pulling out a faded green nail file to distract yourself enough so you wouldn’t be forced to look at his face.

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Some of you did not grow up with parents who heavily influenced a love for Classic Rock and it shows

“Roger and Deaky together were such an immensely powerful block to build on. Nobody can quite do it the same. They became inimitable, both of them. John in particular had a very lyrical style and was able to do things which people had never thought of doing particularly with his high notes. Very cheerful, very lyrical, but also absolutely locked in with Roger. And Roger of course has a very unique style — Roger is one of the world’s greatest drummers, without a doubt he is. And he’s one of the very few drummers who you can hear and know who he is. Roger has so many little trademarks. I remember when I first heard him I was quite amazed.”—Brian May

fuck it until you make it

gather round, folks, that i may pass down the tale of Fuck-It Jonn, because that dude is just the GREATEST FUCKING CONMAN in the WORLD, and he WASN’T EVEN TRYING. he absolutely fucking STUMBLED ON ACCIDENT into THE SCAM THAT WOULD DEFINE HIS ENTIRE LIFE. the lie that transformed his ENTIRE EXISTENCE out of SHEER RANDOM BULLSHIT.

and his sole motivation was to EAT FINGER FOOD.

consider:

in the Wayback Days™ before i was born, the people who would later become my parents had this friend named… yeah, let’s say jonn. i’d rather not say his real name. bitches not snitches, and all that.

so. france in the late 80s. jonn and my parents had just finished school and all found jobs in computer engineering. (not that they STUDIED computer engineering, mind you. no, they were all studying how to become fish farmers or some shit. but those were simpler times, when knowing how to turn the fucking screen on got you a comfortable salary at the ripe old age of 24 years old.)

except that jonn, who was a chill hippie kind of dude, was bored to death by his desk job. so bored that he decided to just up and quit. “fuck it”, was basically jonn’s motto. fuck it, he’d find something better! fuck it, and things would work out! EXCEPT (as you may have guessed) THEY DIDN’T. for months and months he didn’t find another job. and so he ended up depressed, struggling, and eating dinner at my future-parents’ tiny apartment, three times a week, so he wouldn’t literally starve.

time went by. jonn was still unemployed. so before his resources hit rock bottom, jonn did the only logical, reasonable thing. what’s that, you ask? begged for his old job back? went back to school? crawled home to his parents? ha ha! obviously you do not share jonn’s ADVENTUROUS AND ENTREPRENEURIAL SPIRIT. and also you lack his BIZARRE LOGIC AND PLAIN WEIRD APPROACH TO LIFE.

what jonn did was: say “fuck it” (again) and leave for thailand.

because you see, thailand was cheap by french standards. so cheap that even a penniless dude on unemployment could live there for weeks on end, spending much less than he would have in france, as long as he didn’t mind roughing it. and jonn didn’t mind! “fuck it”, he’d said. and by god, he would stand by his words!

so jonn gamely scrounged up the money for the plane ticket and then… yeah. basically bummed it out in thailand. for two months. seeing the sights. sleeping on the street. making new friends.

and one of these news friends turned out to be very adept at FORGING PAPERS.

huh, jonn said to himself (probably high at the time) this sounds not at all shifty and more like a ONCE IN A LIFETIME OPPORTUNITY; what could POSSIBLY GO WRONG. my new thai best friend is even offering me a FAMILY DISCOUNT. for fake papers. fuck it! let’s have some!

as far as i can tell, jonn… didn’t even need fake papers?? like, he was literally just trying not to pass up on an opportunity here. so he smoked some more weed (i can only assume) and got A BRILLIANT IDEA. fake ID card? LAME. fake driver’s licence? HACKNEYED. fake medical degree? PEDESTRIAN. no! jonn got himself a fake press card.

but why??

well, OBVIOUSLY, just so he could get into cultural events for free - conferences, art premieres, etc - and eat all the finger food. that was his grand plan. stroll into press-only events, wave his poorly-made card around, and gorge himself on canapés. no more going hungry! ever! jonn would live off tiny slices of toasted foie gras and flutes of cheap champagne for the rest of his life!

so now jonn, Very Obviously Fake Journalist™, is back in france and he’s DOING THE THING. and guess what? this was before google. before facebook. before linkedin. impersonating a journalist was very easy. if people asked where you worked you just said you were freelance, then steered the conversation to current politics and stealthily devoured the entire buffet while everybody was busy debating.

and so. this is what jonn is doing. his monumentally stupid plan is actually working. this is how he eats. with thai-made fake papers and sheer fucking confidence. and of course people start noticing him eventually! jonn is always fucking there! at all and any events in paris! because, again, THIS IS HOW HE EATS! but it’s always the same people running around in these circles, anyway. so nobody’s surprised to see the same dudes popping up over and over again. jonn blends in! and jonn is very good at making friends. and changing the subject. and eating canapés.

and then ONE DAY

one of jonn’s newfangled journalist friends (a REAL journalist, mind you, who has NO IDEA that jonn isn’t What He Seems) basically goes: “dude i’m so swamped rn. everyone wants everything all at once. fuck. shit. are you swamped too?”

“oh, for sure,” jonn says through a mouthful of his twenty-ninth serving of canapés that night. “not a second to myself”

“god. fuck. tell me about it. shit. i’m just so damn swamped.” Real Journalist shakes his head. “if i could only find someone to cover for me on this one article.”

now, i know i said before that jonn was smoking weed. but i must confess now i said it for humorous effect. i have no idea if jonn’s ever been within five hundred yards of a blunt his whole life. but what you must understand is that jonn is Chill™ on like. a soul-deep level. his whole mind is one long exhale of smoke followed by the words “fuck it”. this is a man who left his job for no reason, lived in thailand on a tourist’s visa for two months, got fake papers there for the lol of it all, and is now living off press-only events in paris. jonn was BORN HIGH.

SO. when RJ asks him: “dude. jonn. you said you were working freelance. i know you’re busy but don’t you think you could maybe cover for me? just this once?”

jonn NATURALLY answers: “fuck it. sure”

then goes to an unemployment center and applies for one of their free one-week classes. on journalism. jonn spends ALL OF ONE WEEK learning How To Write An Article Like A Real Journalist With A Real Press Card. then writes the article. basically bullshitting his way through that thing. half-assing the life out of it. faking his heart out. because why not? FUCK IT.

i have NO IDEA if he actually did a good job or not. but it was in fact good enough for RJ who really must have been truly swamped, and was so truly grateful that he told all of their mutual journalists friends. who were ALL SWAMPED. i’m given to understand it’s the natural state of the journalist in the wild.

and so jonn is now REGULARLY COVERING FOR ALL SORTS OF JOURNALISTS.

not making much money i assume. but still, not bad for a dude who studied journalism for five whole days.

and well, it’s kinda fun! better than moping around at home waiting for the next free canapé press-only premiere. so jonn keeps at it. and eventually it occurs to him that hey! he spent two months in thailand. why not make an article out of that? so he writes himself a lil paper, retelling his Bumtastic Adventures in the Land of Thai People, Cheap Living and Forged Papers (That Last One Having Nothing to Do With Him Personally of Course). and he’s kinda proud of it. so much that he gives it to his journalist friends. can they maybe pass it around? see if anybody would be interested in publishing it? for a modest fee and some more canapés?

and yeah. someone was in fact interested in publishing it. and that someone was:

THE

NATIONAL

GEOGRAPHIC

(french edition.)

so jonn got a REAL press card. got a FULL-TIME JOB at the national geographic. and spent the REST OF HIS WORK LIFE traveling abroad for six months, then going back to paris the rest of the year to write about his wacky journeys. he’s retired now, having published several books full of his articles and photographs. he’s bought a b&b in the french countryside with all his money. and continues to say “fuck it” to any problem that comes his way like the absolute fucking legend he is.

as far as i know, none of his journalist buddies nor his boss ever found out about any of this.

it’s 2019 and it’s just another year I’m gonna spend talking about harry potter