#I mean like it’s already in the original post-

[em1i2a3]

I Want You (Fever)

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: Grocery shopping turns into one of the most nerve wrecking nights that Bob has had in a long time (This is a continuation of “Plainclothes Man”)

Warnings: No Warnings only like…Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob? lol, this is just pure fluff with a hint of jealousy mixed in

Author's Note: Ask and you shall receive! I had this in my drafts this weekend and needed to do a little bit of fine tuning before I posted (I ended up throwing out the original idea and reworked it!). Hope y’all enjoy :) (ALSO WHAT A HIGH QUALITY GIF GOOD LORD)

Word Count: 4,465

Bob couldn’t take his eyes off you.

He’d been trying for the last twenty minutes, gripping the cart like it might keep him tethered to reality, but every aisle felt like a trap laid by fate itself. Every glance at you was a temptation, and every time he failed to resist it, it got worse.

It wasn’t just the sweatpants anymore–though God help him, those were doing their own slow damage. It was the way you moved in them. The lazy sway of fabric, the way the drawstrings danced against your thighs when you walked, the casual tug you gave them to keep the waistband in place. Like you’d forgotten they weren’t yours, even though that was far from the case.

But more than that, it was you in general. It was the quiet laugh you gave when he made a bad joke in the cereal aisle. The way you picked up the most ridiculous snack and turned to him with a grin, asking, “Okay, but what kind of monster thought making sour patch flavoured Oreos was a good idea?” just to keep him talking. The way you read your grocery list out loud like you needed him to hear it–like he was part of the journey. Like you wanted him woven into the moment.

You had no idea what you were doing to him, and that might’ve been the part that killed him the most, because you weren’t trying. You weren’t teasing him, you were just being yourself–open, warm, familiar in the kind of way that made his chest ache and his stomach twist into knots. You could’ve led him off the side of a mountain for all he cared and once he hit the ground he would’ve said “Thank you, now help me up so I can do it again.” You had so much power even though you weren’t aware of it.

”There’s your chips!” You said suddenly, and just like that, Bob’s brain and eyes were back to focusing directly on you.

You were a few steps ahead of him, half-turned toward the shelf with your hand already reaching up. There was such mundaneness to it, the way your fingers flexed slightly as you overextended your arm like you had done this a hundred times–which technically you had, though Bob just wasn’t around to see it. The oversized shirt lifted enough with the extension and his eyes–against his better judgement–flicked down.

And then he saw it, not just your skin, not just the soft slope of your waist. He saw the scar. He could see the faint, silvered edge of it–just a little shimmer near your lower back, peeking out where your shirt had roadie up and the waistband of his sweatpants dipped with movement. It wasn’t much, but it was just enough to remind him of it.

You’d told him about it once offhandedly, like it didn’t mean much to you anymore–but your voice had caught halfway through the story. A mission gone sideways. A blade you didn’t see coming. You had offered to show it to him, but he said no in the most polite and sheepish way he could manage.

Not because he didn’t want to see it, but because he didn’t trust himself not to reach for you. Not in a way that would’ve crossed a line–but in a way that would’ve revealed too much. That he cared too much. That seeing something that had hurt you, marked you, and almost taken you might undo him completely.

He remembered the way your lips had twitched–half-amused and touched–when he mumbled something like “I believe you. You don’t have to prove anything to me…” And you let it go.

But now, standing behind you in the aisle lit by flickering fluorescents, with your shirt riding up and the edge of the scar showing and glistening like a silver thread stitched into your soft skin, he felt like his soul was going to leave his body.

Because it wasn’t just a scar. It was proof that you trusted him enough to offer to show him it. Proof that he knew you–in ways not everyone did. And yet…Not in the way he wanted to.

And he wondered what it would feel like to press his palm there. Not to possess, nor to claim, but just to be close to you.

When your arm finally dropped, and the shirt settled back, you put the chips into the cart as if nothing happened.

”Extra crunchy plain kettle chips…I never thought these would be so popular.” You said jokingly. He opened his mouth–but he didn’t even know what he was going to say back. Maybe it was going to be something stupid, or maybe he was just going to confess right then and there, something along the lines of “You have absolutely no idea how much I want to touch you, not just because of how perfect you look to me, but because of everything that’s made you who you are.”

But the words never even formed in his throat.

”Y/N?” Your name rang out behind you, clear and surprised and full of recognition. It was a gravelly and deep voice, a man's voice. Bob could feel his stomach fall through him.

You turned first, and your smile lit up like a struck match.

”Oh my god! Connor?” The excitement in your voice almost killed him, and immediately he could feel himself grow hot with the idea of what he was about to witness.

He watched as the man appeared from the far end of the aisle–tall, sharp-edged with a little scar over his eye, clean-shaven and still somehow scruffy in that confident, ex-special ops kind of way.

Connor was already walking toward you with the familiarity of someone who used to share early morning missions and late-night runs with you. His voice was warm, loud, and confident, he was unmistakably sure of himself.

”I thought that was you!” Connor grinned, coming to a stop just in front of you, “I almost didn’t recognize you without the tactical vest and blood on your face.” You gave him a short laugh and glanced down at yourself.

”I clean up well enough, right?” You motioned to the clothes that you were wearing.

”More than well enough,” Connor replied, tone light but lingering, his eyes sweeping over you quickly before adding, “I always said you were the best-looking one in the unit.” You rolled your eyes, but the smile you gave him was real–warmed by shared history, by something friendly and effortless. Bob felt himself wanting to interject, but all he could do was stand there, and watch, like he was just part of the scenery now.

”You only said that because you didn’t want me breaking your nose during drills.” Connor smirked.

”Hey, you were always close to doing it though, you always had that elbow twitch. I remember.” And you laughed again–open, easy, head tilted back just enough that Bob saw the line of your throat, saw the way you leaned in just a little when you nudged Connor’s arm.

You weren’t really flirting, it wasn’t anything heavy and meaningful, it was like two friends catching up on lost time. But Bob felt it like a shard of glass under his ribs. He didn’t know what hurt more though–the way you smiled at Connor, or the way that Connor had so many experiences with you, and so many stories. Bob only had a few months, a few soft mornings, and one mission where he was the person they were up against. It was hard to imagine that you and him could ever be that close, and all he could feel was his heart sinking lower and lower.

Connor slung his hands into his pockets, “So, what’ve you been up to? I figured you were halfway across the world still setting fire to buildings and pissing off diplomates.” You shook your head, brushing your knuckles across your forehead.

”Took a break from international chaos. I’m with The New Avengers now. It’s a stateside thing, mostly.” Connor raised a brow.

”The New Avengers, huh? Never figured you to be the reformation type.” He commented, continuing to look at you.

”Yeah well…” You shrugged, “Figured I’d try being a little less feral, for now at least.” He laughed at that, then glanced over your shoulder for the first time since the conversation started–like he just remembered you weren’t alone.

”And who’s this?” He motioned with his chin, “Your backup?” You turned slightly to Bob, tilting your head with a small smile, waving him over like you were finally letting him in on a secret. The look in your eyes was unreadable as he approached slowly, and it made him nervous.

“This is Bob. Bob Reynolds.” You said. There were no titles, no explanations, no qualifiers, just his name–spoken like it was enough. Bob offered his hand to Connor automatically, even though his mind was already spiraling from the lack of any defining words.

The handshake was firm, yet casual.

“Bob Reynolds,” Connor repeated with a smirk, giving him a once-over, before glancing over at you, “Didn’t peg you to be someone who dates within the team.” Bob froze. The words landed like a live wire straight to his chest. His vision didn’t blur–but it tunneled. Everything around him narrowed, and went strangely quiet, like the store had vacuumed the sound right out of the air.

And then–you smiled. Not with embarrassment, or hesitation, but with this soft, relaxed kind of warmth–like the mixup didn’t bother you at all. You didn’t correct him either. You didn’t say no, that’s not what we are. You didn’t say we’re just teammates. You said nothing at all, and neither did Bob.

Because in that moment, something inside him had short-circuited, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Something about your silence felt good to him. Terrifying, yes. But…Good. Dangerous, and hopeful as well. Like maybe–just maybe– you liked the idea that people thought he was yours.

Connor chuckled, and nudged your shoulder, “Didn’t think you’d go for the soft ones, but I get it. Balances you out.” He commented, which made Bob turn a bit red in embarrassment and you shrugged.

”He grows on you.” Bob nearly forgot how to stand upright, because you weren’t joking. There was affection under those words, and just by hearing you say them, it was like his blood had turned electric beneath his skin. Like every inch had been tuned too tight, and he was about to snap in half from the tension. From the possibility.

Connor clapped him lightly on the arm, “Well, hey–good luck surviving her. She’s the reason I still have shoulder pain in cold weather.”

“I’m very proud of that,” You replied breezily, already reaching for another snack on the shelf like your words, or lack thereof, just hadn’t rearranged his. Connor gave you a small wink and started to walk off.

”Always good seeing you Y/N, you two have fun playing house.” And then he was gone, just like that. Bob stayed frozen where he stood, realizing he said absolutely nothing during the conversation. You turned back to him with a small smile, tossing a bag of popcorn into the cart.

”We still need to go to the dessert section for Walker's cinnamon rolls.” You said, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

——————-

Once you were done shopping, Bob loaded the trunk with all the bags and returned the shopping cart to the store, sliding into the passenger seat in complete silence.

The engine hummed low beneath the weight of all that was unspoken, and the grocery bags rustled faintly as you rolled down the window to let some air into the stuffy car. You pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street, glancing once in Bob’s direction.

He hadn’t said a word since Connor left, and he looked absolutely dazed.

His hands were folded in his lap, not clenched–but fidgeting. His fingers were tangled loosely together, thumbs moving over one another in slow rhythmic circles. It was the kind of motion that only meant one thing when it came from Bob: he was nervous, really nervous. Tied-up-in-knots and about to implode kind of nervous.

You flicked your turn signal and merged into the next lane.

”Are you okay?” You asked gently. Bob didn’t answer right away, his eyes just stayed locked on the road ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing it–you could tell. His mind was miles away. Still stuck in aisle seven, maybe.

You hit a stoplight.

The soft red glow filtered into the car through the windshield, casting a faint warmth across your features. It slid like watercolor across your cheekbones, deepened the shadows around your mouth, and softened the bridge of your nose. It made you look celestial, like something that was too alive to exist in a place as mundane as this.

Bob turned his head to look at you–and once he did, he couldn’t look away.

The red glow painted you like a portrait Bob didn’t think he deserved to see. Something about it made everything more unreal. More dangerous. He didn’t even realize how long he’d been staring–until you caught him doing it.

You blinked and tilted your head, eyes narrowing with something like concern.

”Bob,” You said softly, “What’s going on?” His mouth parted, but nothing came out.

And then the light turned green.

You let the car roll forward slowly, but then you took the next turn–off the main road, down a quiet street lined with trees that filtered the dying daylight like gold dust. You pulled the car over, your tires crunching softly against gravel. And then you put it in park and killed the engine.

The silence fell like a held breath, as a gust of wind blew the cool spring air into the car. It smelled like moss, with a hint of dew, like it was going to rain, even though the sky was showing to be clear.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and turned toward him, shifting so you could see him fully. His profile was tight–tense in a way you rarely saw. He was breathing, but too shallow. His jaw worked like he was chewing on glass.

“Okay,” You said, voice calm but firm. “You haven’t said more than three words since we saw Connor. You’re fidgeting so much your thumbs are gonna rub raw. And you keep looking at me like you’ve got something to say…”Bob blinked, once and swallowed the lump in his throat, as a sheen of sweat began to form on the back of his neck.

Still nothing.

“So,” You continued, leaning a little closer to him, your tone gentler now. “Tell me. What happened?” Bob’s mouth opened like he was about to finally speak—but the words caught somewhere in his throat and came out as a half-breath instead.

You watched him closely, waiting.

“I… n-nothing happened,” he stammered, eyes flicking toward the windshield like it might offer him an escape. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I mean it’s not—it’s not not fine—but it’s not, like… bad. It’s just…”

He trailed off, his voice shrinking with every word until it was barely audible.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just looked at him. Really looked.

Then you slowly shifted closer.

Your thigh brushed his. Barely. Just enough that the contact registered like a spark. And when you leaned in, the warmth of you carried with it the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg–the smell of fall during spring, and Bob’s lungs forgot how to behave.

“Is it me?” you asked softly.

His eyes shot to you like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

“I—no,” he blurted, too fast, too flustered. “No! I mean. Not like—It’s not bad. It’s just, um…”

He trailed off again. His shoulders sank.

You tilted your head. “Bob.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.

“…I don’t know how to be around you right now.”

That made you pause. Your gaze softened, but you didn’t pull back. If anything, you inched even closer–your arm brushing his this time.

“Why?” you asked. Your voice wasn’t teasing. Just curious. Barely above a whisper.

He opened his eyes and looked at you again–and this time, there was no hiding in the silence.

“Because Connor thought we were together,” he said, breathless. “And you didn’t c-correct him at–at all. And I’ve been trying not to hope for too much. Trying no–not to want that so much. But the second he said it, and you didn’t say anything–I haven’t been able to think straight since.”

You stared at him for a second, the air between you charged like a live wire.

And then…

“Did you ever think,” You said slowly, “That maybe I didn’t want to correct him because I liked what I heard?”

That made him blink–hard. His breath hitched audibly.

His mouth parted, but no words came. His hand–still folded in his lap–tightened slightly, like he was holding onto something that might float away.

You watched his lips part and close again, watched his chest rise and fall with uneven breaths, and you could feel the space between you contracting, the tension building like something was about to snap.

“Bob,” You said, softer now, “Am I the one that’s making you nervous?”

He nodded–tiny. Almost imperceptible. Then managed a whisper:

“A-Always.”

There was a beat of stillness.

Then you reached up, slow and steady, and brushed your fingers along the edge of his jaw. He flinched–not from discomfort, but from shock, closing his eyes at the sensation of your touch tracing along his stubble. Like he didn’t know how to receive that kind of closeness. Like he hadn’t dared imagine it outside of his dreams.

Your voice stayed low. Intimate.

“You don’t have to be nervous with me,” You said. “Not if you want the same thing I do.”

He could feel his heart seizing in his chest, his mouth going dry, lips parting again. “A-And what do you w-want?”

You smiled–just barely, just enough for him to see the truth in it. Something quiet and unguarded. Something only for him.

Then you leaned in.

And he felt it first in the air—how your breath brushed across his lips before your mouth ever touched his. Soft and warm, like the stir of wind before a storm. It made every muscle in his body go tight with anticipation. The space between you was shrinking by the second, his senses narrowing to the way you looked at him–like you already knew what this would do to him.

”You…That’s what I want.” You whispered. Bob swallowed hard. His pulse thundered in his ears. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. His hand twitched in his lap like it wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

And then–

You kissed him.

Your lips found his like they’d been there before in a hundred different dreams. They were soft, impossibly soft, and he swore time folded in on itself. It wasn’t rushed, or messy, or careless–it was a moment made of weightless things. Breath and longing. The quiet hum of the earth under your feet and the echo of a hope that had waited far too long to bloom.

Bob didn’t kiss back at first–not out of hesitation, but out of sheer disbelief. His breath hitched like he was afraid he’d ruin it by moving. But then your hand slid into his hair, your thumb grazing the curve of his jaw again, and something in him unspooled completely.

He kissed you back like he’d been drowning for years and only just now found air. Gentle at first–uncertain–but then a little more desperate. His fingers found your thigh where your legs were still touching, squeezing it gently, anchoring him to the here and now. He tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss by a fraction, like he was afraid you might vanish if he didn’t get closer. Like he needed to memorize the shape of your mouth, the warmth of your breath, the soft sigh you let out when his lips parted just barely against yours.

And for a moment, there was nothing else. No car. No road. No Connor. Just the two of you suspended in something delicate and golden and sacred.

He was still breathing like he’d just run ten miles when you pulled back. He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes shutting tight like he was trying to hold onto the feeling, preserving it in his chest like a light in a jaw. The windows were fogging at the corners now, despite them being open, and the air between you had turned warm and close, while every shared breath was a little shallower, a little hungrier than the one before.

You tilted your head just slightly, brushing the tip of your nose along his cheek, and he shuddered.

“Jesus Y/N…” He whispered, “I-I think I’m gonna pass out.” You smiled gently against his skin, letting your lips brush over the corner of his mouth.

“You’re doing better than you think.” You whispered, as your hand slid down from his jaw to rest against his chest, right over his heart–feeling it pounding like a war drum. He looked at you then, dazed and wide-eyed, mouth still pink and parted, and when you shifted your weight toward him, his breath caught.

“Can I…?” you asked, your voice softer than ever, your gaze flicking downward–toward his lap.

He nodded before you could finish the question. Like it wasn’t even a decision, just a reflex. “Y-yeah. Yeah. Please.”

You climbed over the center console slowly, carefully, and Bob’s hands went to your hips instinctively, steadying you like you might disappear mid-motion. The second you settled on top of him, straddling his lap, he tensed beneath you–shoulders rigid, breath shallow–but his grip never wavered.

“Okay?” you asked again, brushing your thumbs over the fabric of his shirt.

He nodded again, voice trembling. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

You smiled, sliding yours over his. “You’re already doing fine.”

And then you kissed him again.

This time, it wasn’t soft.

It was warm and slow, sure–but there was something boiling under the surface now. A spark that had caught flame. You kissed him like you’d been waiting for this, starving for it, and Bob melted into it like he didn’t know how not to. His hands tightened at your hips, not possessive, just desperate for anchoring. For something real.

He moaned against your mouth when your fingers slid into his hair again, tugging just lightly. It was a sound you felt before you heard it–a low vibration in your chest where your bodies were brushing, where your thighs pressed against his hips.

You rolled your hips once, slowly, more a shift than a grind–and Bob gasped into your kiss.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, voice trembling, forehead falling to your shoulder for a second as he tried to collect himself.

“You okay?” You murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple.

He nodded, his voice shaky and stunned. “Y-You’re gonna kill me.”

You kissed him again before he could spiral further, and this time his hands slid under your shirt, trailing up your back, like he wanted to feel every inch of you he was allowed. The smooth skin was vast, and all he realized was just how soft you truly were as he pulled your body against his. His mouth opened beneath yours, and you deepened the kiss slowly, tilting your head, tasting the warmth of him, the desperation he was too shy to say out loud.

And then his hips shifted under you, unintentionally–and the friction made you both gasp. His fingers flexed against your back, clinging. Needy. His breath came faster, rougher, and he whined into your mouth when your hips shifted again, intentionally this time–grinding against him with slow, aching friction.

“Y-Y/N,” he whimpered, voice cracking apart, and your hand found the back of his neck, holding him close as you kissed him harder. The car felt too small now, too warm, too full of air that wasn’t moving–but neither of you could stop. Not yet.

His mouth opened wider, tongue brushing yours hesitantly–like he was asking permission even now, like he didn’t know if you still wanted this. But the second you deepened it, the second your lips parted and your tongue met his with a soft, slick slide–he lost whatever fragile control he had left.

He moaned–quiet and broken–and then his hips lifted just barely into yours. You both froze at the pressure, the friction.

His fingers dug into your hips. “I-I can’t–” He breathed, forehead falling back to yours. “I’m gonna–if we keep–I can’t think.”

“Hey,” You whispered, brushing your nose against his, breathless, lips still ghosting his, “It’s okay. We can stop.”

“I don’t want to stop,” He blurted, and it sounded like a confession, “I just–I need to. I want to…So so bad, it’s just–god, I want to do it right.”

You smiled, fingers slipping up to his flushed cheeks, holding him there–trembling, dazed, burning beneath you.

“You are doing it right, Bob,” You murmured, kissing him once more—slower this time, gentler, reverent. “We don’t have to rush anything.”

His arms slid around your waist, holding you like he couldn’t let go, like if he did the whole thing might vanish like a fever dream. His breath was hot against your collarbone now, lips resting against your skin, and he nodded, finally beginning to breathe again.

“I-I just want to be close to–to you,” He whispered. “Even if it’s just like this. Even if we don’t–y’know. Yet.”

You leaned your head against his, your hand stroking the back of his neck slowly, grounding him.

“Then let’s just stay like this,” You said softly. “You and me.”

He nodded again, arms tightening around you.

“Yeah,” He whispered. “You and me.”

The windows stayed fogged, your breaths remained shallow, your lips kiss-swollen and raw. But you didn’t move.

And in the quiet heat of that parked car, it felt like something had finally started. Something that didn’t need words.

[magesofmucloch]

So iirc, different places had different rates of homeschooling, and it was by no means necessary to send your kid to a school. At this point I can't remember how much of that was our addition to the lore and how much was already the case, but it accounts for some of the disparity in catchment area sizes - certainly not all though.

So we started adding more schools.

We also set about giving names to the unnamed schools, and renaming "wizard castle", "wizard castle" and "magic place" (Castelobruxo, Koldovstoretz, and Mahokotoro) as well as the generally dodgily-named Uagadou.

Now here's the thing. This was worked on by two team members who are very interested in languages. And these schools were founded centuries ago. So why would their names be in the modern forms of the language?

Several hours down a rabbit hole of tiny dead languages from the rough area we'd set schools in ensued, using what words are still known (in most cases very few) to construct a reasonable name. Did we continue on the theme of "wizard castle"? Well, yes, a bit, but we put thought into it which is probably more than she did. We've slowed down work on it since - it's not terribly relevant to the actual story, so it's more of a side project to work on - but at present only three original school names remain (Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Ilvermorny).

Yes, you read that right, though it was probably pretty clear in the name of the blog itself. Hogwarts (which is a rather silly name, let's be real) was replaced by a Scottish Gaelic name, which I subsequently checked worked in the medieval version of the language once I started learning it (it does). Given there's a rather prominent lake in the grounds, loch seemed an appropriate element to include, and to that we added the pig (hog) only in the correct language this time. Mucc + loch = Mucloch.

Here is the current map (remember, this area of the world is still a wip, and changes are happening literally as I type this since seeing this post sparked discussion):

The school names may not be particularly readable but hopefully the areas (circled) are visible.

Population issues like Halesimjyi ("school #10") are still not fully ironed out, but we're thinking in that case specifically that they have multiple connected schools/campuses of the same school - there's a suggestion of a dividing line for if there are two of these, as an example, but again this is not a fully fleshed out idea and it may end up further divided.

Above all, we want it to make sense. Your suspension of belief needs a logical framework to be suspended from, after all.

[thefrogman]

Late Night Hosts: A Retrospective.

After the success of this post...

I noticed people seemed interested in the history and personalities of late night comedians. Especially all the youngins who weren't around yet. These hosts were a big part of my comedy training. So I thought I'd share with you what I remember of my comedy analysis and some personal context showing what made them tick.

I will be covering Johnny Carson, Jay Leno, David Letterman, and Conan O'Brien.

And if this post is successful, I will do Craig Ferguson, Jimmy Kimmel and all of the newest hosts.

Almost all of this is from memory, so a few details could be inaccurate. But I used to set up 2 VCRs so I could record Jay, Dave, and Conan each night. I watched Conan from show #1. That was 1993 (I was 12 then) and I did this for several years.

I would also get a bit of Carson Daly on the tape and just be flabbergasted someone gave him a television show.

Even Kermit was like, "How is this guy more of a fucking muppet than I am?"

I would watch my tapes and study them and take notes. I would do little comedy exercises. I tried to write a Letterman Top 10 List (I called it a "top 7½ list" because I feared the copyright police). I wrote monologue jokes about celebrities. And I tried creating silly characters like on Conan.

I was a big comedy nerd as a teenager, what can I say?

I even created an alter ego called "Bob the Frog" who was basically a ripoff of Triumph the Insult Comic Dog and Don Rickles. "Bob" wrote a comedy newsletter (I still have it somewhere) that I passed around to my classmates in junior high. This frog alter ego was my first attempt at comedy writing. (If you've ever wondered why I am "The Frogman", now you know.)

The first few were really bad. Then I got better and my friends started asking if I had written anything new. It was my first taste of making people laugh and I was hooked. I knew comedy would be a part of my life from then on.

I learned that I hated insult comedy. I felt too guilty. The only person I felt comfortable saying bad things about was myself. So "Bob" would say I was a lame dorktopus.

Eventually, I did stand-up until I was too sick to perform (1999-2003). I was just getting good so that was a very difficult period of my life. It felt like my dream was snatched away by my poor health.

On a whim, my best friend Tru McGowan convinced me to start a comedy Tumblr in 2009. At first I was really bad. I was used to stand-up where you had a new crowd each time and you could polish jokes until they were perfect. The hardest thing about internet comedy (much like late night comedy) is that everything is your *first* draft.

I'm not sure if people realize how difficult first draft comedy truly is. You can get decent at predicting what an audience will laugh at. But it is *never* a sure thing. Things you work on for days and are positive people will love... they will bomb horrifically. Things you write in 20 seconds and post on a lark... they go viral to a few million people.

But the greatest tragedy of all is when you post something with potential and it bombs. You know if you could workshop it with a proper crowd over a week or a month, you could make something amazing.

But it is already out there.

Your entire following saw it.

It is what it is.

That is some genuine 2009 Froggie comedy right there.

I just put text on a picture. I mean, this dude definitely wanted to bang that rancor and his dream was crushed just like its head. There is a joke there. And lolcat style text-on-a-picture was the comedy fad.

But "Gay for Rancors" got 15 pity notes and that was the end of my exploration of rancor fetish jokes.

Soon I started putting a little more effort into my originals. Somehow Photoshopping this bacon on a string got me 50 notes.

And I was never one to shy away from capitalizing on a current meme, so this accrued 143 notes (viral for Tumblr in 2009).

I got to know my audience. I started understanding what worked and what didn't. I did a lot of experimenting and eventually I started understanding this new comedy medium. If you are weird and put forth enough effort, people will reward you.

As an internet "first draft" comedian, I feel a spiritual connection to late night comedians. They have one day to write 15-20 minutes of material and once they send it out into the world... that's it. No second chance.

I think studying Conan and Dave helped prepare me for my blog. I still prefer polishing material over time, but I'm so glad I could rise to the occasion when circumstances demanded I "first draft" my entire comedy career.

So...

Let's get started.

Heeeeeeeeeeere's Johnny!

Johnny Carson

I missed out on peak Johnny. But I have watched a bunch of those compilation videos with highlights from the show. I mean, I used to watch the 3am infomercial for those compilation videos. So I feel like I am still qualified to analyze him as a long-time student of comedy.

I started becoming aware of comedy right as Johnny was retiring. I literally studied it like a subject at school while not studying actual subjects at school. And the late night shows were some of the best learning tools available (aside from getting stand-up specials from Blockbuster). You got to see comedy every night and a variety of comedians with different styles.

Johnny was the best at the traditional late-night monologue. It's not that the jokes were funnier. Honestly, it is impossible to write 5 minutes of stand-up in a day that can give you anything more than a chuckle. But the audience knows that and it causes something I call "forgiveness comedy." People will adjust what they think is funny depending on the circumstances. If they know you had a day to write something, the audience will consider that and be primed to laugh more at less funny material. Especially if they like the comic.

The best example is improv. An audience will forgive the joke quality just because they are amazed it is coming straight off the dome (that isn't always true, improv is more magic trick than spontaneity, but that is another post). But if you tried to perform that same improv as a polished stand-up act, it would likely bomb. The brain adjusts to context.

Johnny took advantage of this and where he really shined was in between the written jokes. His bombs were opportunities. He would react with some self-deprecating remark and get a bigger laugh for making fun of his shitty joke. Basically, when Johnny was in trouble he was at his best. His reactions were what made him so loved.

His most famous reaction-style comedy was probably the tomahawk demonstration. I think this was one of the longest sustained audience laughs in history—which, sadly, the video cuts off. I think it was 4 minutes total.

Johnny was also a very good interviewer in the sense that he knew when to give people space. He didn't try to compete with all the funny people he invited on. He was a comedy support system and only stepped in when things went off the rails.

There were also his masterful softballs. (Sorry, I should explain I came up with my own comedy terms. They may or may not be actual comedy parlance.)

A softball is an easy setup for a joke (large balls are easier to hit). A conversational premise without a punchline. If you are riffing with another comedian and you know their strengths, you can set them up for a joke and let them take the punchline. This is a thankless comedy skill because you are giving away the glory to someone else. But being good at softballs often takes more creativity and skill than coming up with the punchline. Johnny knew he was speaking with some of the funniest people on the planet. And their success was his success. So he was always happy to set people up for hilarity.

Johnny was also a good sport. His friends would come on and make fun of him and he often laughed the loudest of anyone. Or pretended to be hurt for extra laughs. Rich Little and Tom Smothers would do impressions of Johnny in front of Johnny. I think this helped popularize the Friar's Club roasts around that time, of which Johnny was a roastee.

Johnny got along with everyone. I think the most endearing thing about his Tonight Show was that he was just trying to make sure everyone had a good time. It was fun. It was chill. It was comfort after a long day, like a television version of a warm hug. Many people would joke that is how they fell asleep each night.

There was one aspect of his show I have mixed feelings about. Johnny started the career of almost every comedian performing in the 80s. He would invite the new comics on the scene to do their "tight 5" toward the end of the show. It was a poorly kept secret that if he invited them to "the couch" for an interview, they were in. He was christening them a comedy star. Robin Williams, Ellen DeGeneres, Louie Anderson, Roseanne Barr, Jay Leno, David Letterman, Steven Wright, David Brenner, Drew Carey, Garry Shandling, Eddie Murphy.

And we can't forget Yakov Smirnoff.

Johnny was basically the all-powerful comedy judge. It was seen as a huge honor to be invited to the couch. But if you had a bad night or a bad audience or just weren't ready, that could end or set back your career in a huge way.

You either got a sitcom or a job at McDonald's.

Jay Leno

Jay was known as a very good road comedian. He was a very hard worker who would perform *anywhere* just to get experience. He performed at strip clubs and crappy hotel bars and those weird corporate events where you have to come up with jokes for vacuum salesman or mortgage analysts. You have to use hyperspecific industry terms and include employees in the audience. John Mulaney recently made the news for one of these gigs.

Actually, let me give corporate comedy writing a try...

"Vacuum salesmen are the only ones who can start their pitch with how much their product sucks.

Suction, am I right, fellas? Good suction sells itself. Bob's wife knows what I'm talking about. She can hit 20 kPa, easy. Heyoooo!

She's still no Miele C3 canister vacuum with included HEPA filtration. That thing has more new attachments than the CEO's hair.

Your plugs aren't fooling anyone, Steve!"

Though Jay started out working mostly clean, so I'm not sure he would have rated the suction of Bob's wife in kilopascals. Working clean meant he could do his act just about anywhere. But don't confuse him with a "clean" comedian.

Froggie Comedy Tangent

A comedian who happens to work clean can be funny. But a "clean comedian" will make you wonder how you are suddenly in Branson sitting next to a youth pastor and his flock. If they specifically brand themselves as "clean," you're just going to get thinly veiled (or blatant) conservative comedy. It will technically be apolitical, but all the subtext is MAGA.

I call it "I remember that" comedy. Because every laugh is derived from "Hey, that's that thing I know! I remember that!"

There is a thing called "Dry Bar Comedy" and their entire deal is inviting clean comedians to do shows. The non-drunk audiences (Get it? DRY bar) are laughing their heads off and it is so confusing.

I keep going "Wait, when did he tell a joke?"

They don't have to tell jokes!

They just have to talk about the "good old days" and people will be like, "I remember Cabbage Patch Kids!" and laugh at something resembling a punchline. Or sometimes there isn't a punchline—just a declarative statement that sort of goes up at the end.

I could have a lucrative comedy career just saying things like, "Do you remember G.I. Joe? I sure do miss when toys didn't have pronouns."

*uproarious laughter*

Almost every comedian that performs at the Dry Bar has a bit about spanking and ADHD.

"Kids these days have it easy. If you talk back to your daddy, you get a time out. Can you believe that? When I talked back to my dad, he made me pick out my own switch!"

*uproarious laughter*

"We didn't have ADD back then. We just had misbehaving children and a belt."

*uproarious laughter*

Comedians like Jerry Seinfeld and Jay Leno worked clean but it wasn't a moral thing. It just wasn't necessary for their material and was more marketable for gigs. They told real jokes with a premise and a punchline. They did the work and earned their laughs.

END OF TANGENT

It's weird to think Jay was once a respected and talented stand-up. Looking back, his material was... jokes for your dad. That's the best I can describe it. Not dad jokes, but jokes dads liked. Clever observations that would make dads go, "It do be like that!" Not really my thing, but he was good at it and he still draws decent crowds to this day. I mean, they all need walkers to get into the theater, but he packs the place with geriatrics wanting to laugh at Monica Lewinsky and OJ Simpson like the old days. Spoiler, Monica was a slut and Jay thinks OJ did it.

Jay did an adequate job on The Tonight Show. He was an okay interviewer and guests felt safe going on. They knew he wasn't going to talk about anything too embarrassing (with one major exception being Hugh Grant after he was caught with a sex worker).

Jay relied on bits that he knew worked and never really strayed once he had a working formula. He would read funny headlines. He would do his "Jaywalking" remotes where he found stupid people and used deceptive editing to make it seem like everyone he talked to was that stupid. Jay is really into things showing the decline of America in relation to the WWII generation.

Jay was the status quo comedian. He never really had "moments" that stood out and became legendary. Johnny had an entire DVD business just selling old clips from his Tonight Show. They were filled with moments that were so spontaneously and authentically hilarious that they stood the test of time. But trying to find a "greatest hits" compilation of Jay Leno's run will just leave you bored.

If you search YouTube for Jay's best moments, you just get a bunch of his "Headlines" segments. He's literally just reading clips from the newspaper.

As I mentioned in my other post, when he isn't in comedian mode, Jay Leno seems like a decent guy. He treated his staff very well and his work as a car historian is near academic level. When you hear him talk about old cars you feel like you are spending a weekend with your grandpa. So Jay's mean spirited monologues just seemed out of place and I think looking back, they ruined any chance he had at a legacy.

He just took cheap shots at celebrities and politicians and people in the news. And he did it relentlessly whether people deserved it or not.

Yes, every host at the time did this. But Dave felt like he was going through the motions and doing the monologue just because it was part of the format. His heart wasn't in it and he much preferred bantering with Paul Schaffer in the band than telling jokes about celebrities he doesn't actually care about. He was more interested in getting to the desk and doing his "real" comedy.

And Conan's jokes about celebrities were more silly than mean. He'd make fun of Tom Cruise or someone and then do the string dance.

But Jay would go dark. He had a smile on his face and it sounded like he was "just joking" but after hearing about Monica Lewinsky's story, Jay Leno's "just joking" was different. I remember Jay Leno making fun of that poor woman who had McDonald's coffee burn her vagina off. He probably got a few months of jokes out of that. He was such a nice guy outside of his comedy and looking back it seemed so out of place. But I think he did cheap shots because it was an easy laugh and he figured the famous weren't "real people."

If Jay was in head-to-toe denim, he was a solid dude.

If he was in a suit, he was an asshole.

Jay never stopped doing stand-up. You can catch a show this weekend if you want. Jay really likes to pepper in some classic 90s jokes about celebrities we have mostly forgotten. As I mentioned in my other post, I've heard him do Monica Lewinsky jokes as recent as 2019. They aren't part of his written material. They are usually ad-libs and callbacks. Like if Jay was fixing a car and someone said, "We need to suck the air out of these tires." There is a 90% chance Jay would respond, "Boy, where's Monica when you need her?"

He still does the "jokes your dad would like" material in his personal act. But they are much more like his Tonight Show monologues than his old stand-up. Easy jokes without much thought. Instead of his classic clever observations, he mostly complains about modernity, ad nauseam.

Actual joke...

"Have you seen these phones on your wrist? And you thought BUTT DIALING was bad!"

Get it? He's saying people are masturbating and accidentally calling people. Which completely misunderstands... no one talks on the phone, Jay. It's 2025 and we all have anxiety. Maybe you could do wank texting?

Okay, Jay. How about this as a joke, complete with a 90s reference...

"Have you seen these people wearing phones on their wrists? I guess they finally solved butt dialing!

But after they see a sexy picture of Cindy Crawford, Apple tells them they have 30,000 steps for the day!"

A famous fun fact is that he never spent any of his Tonight Show money. He lives off the interest and income doing stand-up. While he was host of The Tonight Show he still did stand-up just about every weekend. *I* think that *he* thinks that gives him working class cred despite his enormous wealth and caravan of supercars.

I'm glad his money allowed him to become the world's greatest car historian. I'm happy there is someone like him doing proper car conservation. His restoration of the Chrysler turbine car was fantastic. That is a neat piece of engineering and car history.

Jay never had a sex scandal and seems to love his wife. He's taking care of her as she battles dementia. I do feel sorry he is going through that.

Those are the nice things I can say about him.

But I think Monica Lewinsky and Conan O'Brien should be allowed one giant kick in the nuts.

David Letterman

Conan O'Brien wasn't the first person Jay Leno screwed over with The Tonight Show. David Letterman was actually Johnny Carson's favorite guest host. But he was quirky and experimental. The network liked Jay Leno's safer style.

It was a big controversy at the time and they even made a weird movie about it called The Late Shift. Pretty much every person portrayed claims it is horribly inaccurate. The actors they cast looked like when you draw from memory.

The big joke at the time was about the ridiculous chin prosthetic. Did you know Jay has a sizeable chin? Let's get Stan Winston away from Terminator 2 to make this bigass chin.

Dave started out as a TV weatherman. But once he got popular doing stand-up, they gave him a morning show. They tried to make him Regis Philbin. But he sucked at being Regis. Only Regis could be that excitable in the morning. Dave wasn't really a "morning" comedy guy so that was quickly cancelled.

In 1982, he got the Late Night show at 12:30am after Carson on NBC. No one paid much attention to him and he realized that. I think that excited him and he was just like...

Dave and his team created some of the most experimental comedy on broadcast TV up until that point. He was basically unsupervised in a comedy laboratory for over a decade.

He wore an Alka Seltzer suit and dunked himself in water.

He wore a Velcro suit and hurled himself against a wall.

Looking back I'm realizing he did a lot of suit based humor.

He had a very long running gag with character actor Calvert DeForest who Dave called Larry "Bud" Melman. He was a bit like a sidekick.

Calvert was this cute old man and would literally do *anything* Dave and the writers asked. He had no fear. He had no shame. He would often go to random places and interview people. But he was really bad at following the scripted material and would get confused and forget the jokes. He didn't understand how microphones worked. Any segment with him would go off the rails because he never quite understood the premise. Dave loved this tiny, elderly ball of chaos. The trainwreck was the joke.

Dave helped Super Dave Osbourne get his incompetent daredevil schtick out there. He let Andy Kaufman get in a fight with someone and no one could tell if it was a bit. (10:30)

Johnny and Jay's Tonight Show was where all the normie comedians went to get their big break. Dave was where the weirdos flocked to. And some of them were terrible, but they were *always* fascinating. I don't think Frank Zappa would have his cult following without Dave.

Dave was the first to regularly do "remote" humor where he'd just go out into the world and get into trouble with real people. The segments were great but Dave struggled with social anxiety. So that eventually evolved into Dave hiding in a van and making a Chinese-American deli owner named Rupert Jee repeat awkward things said in a hidden earpiece.

Dave's interview style was erratic. He was a very good host as long as he liked his guest. He loved having a real conversation with a fascinating person. He rivaled Craig Ferguson when those conditions were present. But if he didn't care for them, things would either get very awkward or very boring.

He didn't like pop celebrities who didn't have genuine talent. Paris Hilton or Kim Kardashian would have driven him nuts and he would purposely seem bored when interviewing someone like that. Dave had trouble "faking it." And instead of Jimmy Fallon's cringe fake laughter, Dave would just appear utterly uninterested.

But if he didn't like someone and chose awkward over boring... hoo boy... it was *really* awkward. And Dave relished in the discomfort.

Madonna (who Dave acknowledged as genuinely talented) was unhappy about his monologue jokes. Essentially he alluded to her being a bit of a slut. It was typical Late Night comedy fodder at the time. I'm not endorsing it, I'm just saying everyone did it and society didn't have a problem with it at the time. She released a book about sex called... "Sex." Then she released an artistic softcore black and white erotic music video that most people felt was... more strange than sexy. She just kinda talk-singed to the same loop and made out with a dude while clips of a dancer in full body spandex came out of nowhere.

The Wayne's World parody was much better and somehow less weird.

Needless to say, people made fun of this pivot to weird erotic art.

In any case, Dave had Madonna on and she turned the weird up to 11. I think she was trying to get back at Dave, but it had the opposite effect. He saw where things were going and he just kinda... "let her cook."

He was delighted to watch the train wreck unfold.

I mean, she was right. She was being slut shamed—by everyone, not just Dave. But she was so overtly odd that it was hard for people to hear that conversation within the chaos. And the only thing the mainstream news cared about was her potty mouth.

On the other hand, he liked Drew Barrymore a lot. Drew was a very good actress and she was charming and funny. She was just as weird as Madonna, but it was not oppressively weird.

I think Dave saw her more as a daughter figure. Or maybe he wanted to and was ashamed he wasn't successful? Or she made it difficult for him to be a father figure? Because she saw him as a... umm... daddy figure? He enjoyed her company but was uncomfortable with her affection, so her interview was awkward in a different way. This was especially famous because she ended up flashing him for his birthday.

Dave was complicated. He was a former alcoholic. He suffered from social anxiety while having the world's most social job. He was the most private public figure you could imagine. He managed to have a sex scandal that no one seems to know about or talk about. He was involved with his personal assistant who regularly appeared on the show. Then her roommate tried to blackmail Dave for two million dollars by threatening to expose the affair. Dave decided to just fess up and helped the authorities with a sting operation to catch the extortionist.

Dave was self-conscious and neurotic. I don't think he liked himself for a very long time. Which is probably why he tried to blow up his life and family. But he loved his son and once that love took hold he seemed to get his shit together. He seemed like a different person. I liked Dave's comedy much more when his life was a hot mess. But I liked Dave as a person much more when he started choosing good behaviors. Much like Jimmy Kimmel, family seemed to make him a better person.

Dave pushed the late night format to the limit and inspired an entire generation of comedians. He encouraged them to try risky things and experiment and became the comedy mentor that Jay Leno wishes he was.

Also he loved his mom and sent her to the Olympics and it was the cutest thing ever.

I'm a sucker for people who love their moms.

Conan O'Brien

Conan was my comedy idol. If you have followed my comedy over the years, you might have noticed a similar embrace of... intelligent silliness.

Stupid smart?

He was a magna cum laude Harvard graduate and a clown without the makeup. He was originally a comedy writer and head of the famous Harvard Lampoon humor magazine. He went on to write for The Simpsons and SNL.

He wrote that monorail episode.

Every Conan fan who wants to share a fun fact will make sure you know he wrote the monorail episode. Kumail Nanjiani did a great bit about this during Conan's Mark Twain Prize ceremony (it's on Netflix).

After Jay took over The Tonight Show and Dave gave NBC the finger and left for CBS, the "Late Night" slot needed a new host. And Lorne Michaels decided this pale redheaded giant from the SNL writing staff might be a good choice. No one had any clue who he was. No one had any confidence in his success—including Conan.

And the only person who saw a spark of genius was... David Letterman. (2:20)

Conan just started cranking out as much weird comedy as he could. The Masturbating Bear, Pimpbot 5000, FedEx Pope. There was a pooping robot at some point.

They had a sizeable robot budget.

He was the true spiritual successor to Dave's 80s Late Night show. By this time Dave mellowed out and didn't have the motivation and hunger to innovate like he used to. So Conan filled that role.

I think the reason Conan appealed to me specifically was because I saw a lot of myself in him. I was good at a lot of different styles of comedy—I had this almost shapeshifting ability to customize my humor to the person or audience I was entertaining. But eventually I decided I just wanted to make people feel good. I had to pick a style and stick with it. I wanted to make comedy comfort food that wasn't dumbed down or patronizing. It could be stupid and corny but I didn't want my audience to feel like they were stupid for liking it.

I don't know if I'm making any sense.

Conan was a genuinely nice guy and a constant people pleaser. He didn't have an edge and he didn't need one. He could do innovative comedy without punching down, without trying to push any offensive lines, without saying fucked up shit just to see if he could get away with it.

I'm not even knocking comedians who are skilled at dancing on the line. Some of my favorites of all time played with the line. Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor, George Carlin, Chris Rock.

Louis CK and Dave Chappelle before they...

*heavy sigh*

But so many comedians at the time thought that was an easy path to success. They didn't realize you had to be incredibly funny in order to stand next to or jump over the line. You had to compensate with amazing jokes to get away with it. But that takes effort and talent and finesse. They preferred laziness and brute forcing edgelord material.

And that is how we got a gaggle of Joe Rogans.

Hmm, we need a better collective noun.

That is how we got an ivermectin of Joe Rogans.

Conan was unapologetically silly. But it had this foundation of intelligence in the subtext. And every once in a while, he'd let an Abe Lincoln fun fact slip out (he could be a legit Lincoln historian if he wanted to). He made comedy for smart people who needed to turn down the volume of their brain for a bit.

Thinking is exhausting sometimes, but you can't shut it off completely.

Conan struggled for several years to find an audience. I think he was on the verge of cancellation every few weeks. I watched him every night from the first show. I started to see what Letterman saw. It was really neat to watch him learn and grow. He taught me that comedy was a journey. And eventually people found him and loved him and the rest is history.

My favorite running gag was definitely the Walker Texas Ranger lever. He'd randomly pull a big red lever and all it did was play a clip from the show. Everyone knows the Haley Joel Osment AIDS clip, but that was not my favorite. (2:40)

Walker was an egalitarian karate pugilist.

It was such a brilliant bit that relied on Conan's setup and reaction. If he just played the clip without the antics, it would not hit as hard. It would be Jay Leno reading the newspaper.

And... I don't have the energy to fully explain Jordan Schlansky.

I wouldn't even know where to start.

The short version is... Conan doesn't quite know how to handle intense nerdy metrosexual autism and hilarity ensues.

I encourage you to go down the Jordan Schlansky rabbit hole. I promise you will start watching and suddenly it will be tomorrow and you'll look at the clock and not be sure if it is AM or PM. If you are wondering, yes, he is really like that. But he pretends not to be self aware to make it funnier.

And then there is Sona. Conan's Armenian assistant who doesn't do a lot of assisting. They are basically siblings. You can tell she became part of his emotional support system. At times she matched Conan's comedic brilliance without any experience or training. She has perfect timing and can hilariously devastate his self esteem like an emotional assassin. (2:45)

There is so much more, but you get the idea.

Conan is a brilliant, silly comedian. And he is a solid dude. Just like Leno, his staff stuck with him. He was a great boss that inspired fierce loyalty. They even moved from New York to Los Angeles for him. And when he lost The Tonight Show he started his own company just so he could keep everyone employed and paid. That eventually evolved into his successful Team Coco podcast network.

Before his TBS show, Conan was contractually obligated to not appear on television for a year. He went on a grueling tour across the country performing a live comedy musical variety show. This was mostly to maintain his staff until they could find a new TV home.

They made a documentary "Conan O'Brien Can't Stop" about this live variety show. Some people thought this revealed Conan to be a bit of a dick. But he just lost his dream job, his entire staff had no source of income, and he was going from city to city working 18 hour days, including a 2 hour, high energy stage show—all while trying to stave off his deep depression. (Also Jack McBrayer was an old friend, and that was an ongoing bit between them.)

I don't think I've seen Conan that vulnerable and that human and you could see his staff doing their best to keep him from imploding. He felt responsible for the livelihoods of hundreds of people. They loved him and knew he was doing it for them.

(And because he needs constant attention and validation, but what comedian doesn't?)

To end things I think I'd like to try one of my comedy exercises.

I'm going to do a Top 7½ list in the style of David Letterman Bob the Frog. I can only promise junior high level comedy.

(Also, if you have never seen Dave do one of these, number 1 always has a drumroll and is purposely bad.)

Top 7½ signs you are in a "clean" comedy club.

7½. The headlining comedian was cancelled for...

7. You ask for the drink specials and the waitress says they might have Diet Sprite in the back.

6. The comic was once ratio'd on Twitter after being called "Temu Jeff Foxworthy."

5. "Back in my day we had Transformers not transgenders. The Autobots' pronouns were roll/out."

4. The comic takes off his belt, holds it up to the crowd and says, "This was what we called Ritalin in the 80s."

3. Your seat has a gun holster next to the cup holder.

2. The comic assures everyone that he "found God" so there is no reason to google his name and "me too."

*drumroll*

Annnnd, the number 1 sign you may be in a clean comedy club is...

1. Thursday is "Free Tennis Balls for Your Walker Night!"

[kier-with-a-k]

ONE OF YOUR GIRLS - N. S.

A/N: IT'S FINALLY NICK'S TURN!!! IT LOWKEY FEELS LIKE A FINALE!!! Kier's angst trilogy IG! Also thank you for @thenickgirl for giving me the confidence to post this lmao!!!

Warning: ANGST!!! Not proofread

Nicks POV

I was walking down the sidewalk. Coffee in my hand. warmth which seems to calm the shrieking cold that surrounds me.

I was just out with my friends and I decided to go home early.

As I walked I heard someone yell. The voice is familiar but... I don't seem to recognize it.

"NICK!" a guy yelled... I know that guy, it's-

"FRANCIS?!" I yelled back questioning?

He's so far away yet his beaming red curly locks are very much visible. I always say to him that if I ever lose track of him I'll just look at the sea of heads and look for the red haired boy.

"Nick!" He yelled again, this time he's... Jogging- no running at me? Before I could yell back his arms were already around me lifting me into a hug.

Warm.

That's what it felt to be in his arms. So fucking warm. It's like sipping on a warm soup while you're sick, wrapped with the warmest and fluffiest blanket.

But this warmth is better than that. It's HIS. But... I don't wanna feel this warmth, specially not from him.

"Oh god! I've been looking for you man" he's nudging me now... I just smile at him, and I swear when I did smile he had a reaction to it... Like his eyes widen or his heartbeat sped up.

But I know... It's just my delusion.

Francis is straight.

I think.

No I'm SURE he's straight. He's so straight that he plays lacrosse with my brothers Chris and Matt. He's the second best player behind Chris.

We became friends after he came by ours 2 years ago. I was awkward at first because I didn't really know him apart from dating rumors.

- 2 Years Ago —

He walked in wearing that stupid varsity jacket. I think it was Matt's, or maybe it was his own, I can’t remember—either way, it fit him too well. Like he belonged in every room he walked into.

I was on the couch, earbuds in, pretending to watch some Netflix original I didn’t care about. The second I saw him, my breath stilled for just a second. I don’t know what it was—maybe the way he walked, like he had no idea how much space he took up. Maybe the way he smiled at my mom like they’d met before. Maybe how his eyes met mine and lingered... just a little longer than normal.

But I looked away first.

“Hey,” he said, stepping in. “You’re Nick, right?”

I nodded. Tried to keep my voice steady. “Yeah. You're… Francis.”

He grinned, and fuck, it hit me like a punch. “Chris said you’re the artsy one. You do photography or something?”

I shrugged. “Something.”

He didn’t leave me alone after that.

---

Present

"Where’d you go just now?” Francis asks, waving a hand in front of my face. I blink. We’re back in the street. Back in the cold. My coffee’s gone lukewarm.

“Nowhere,” I say quickly. Too quickly.

He tilts his head. “You do that sometimes. Like, disappear in your brain. I always wondered where you go.”

You. Always. I wonder if he means that the way I want him to.

I force a small laugh, letting the air fog between us. “Just spacing out.”

He nudges me again. Closer this time. Our arms touch. He doesn’t move away. And neither do I. Which is dangerous. So fucking dangerous.

"Can I show you something?” he asks, suddenly reaching into his coat pocket. “I found this old photo from two years ago. We were at the lake house. Matt dared me to jump in and you caught the exact moment I screamed like a girl.”

He laughs, handing me his phone.

I take it. It’s grainy and chaotic, but yeah—it’s him. Mid-air, mouth open, water splashing. Pure, unfiltered joy. And I remember taking it. I remember holding my breath just watching him laugh.

“I loved that weekend,” he says, almost too softly.

I don’t respond. My hand is still holding his phone, but it feels like I’m holding something else entirely. Something heavier. Like the way I’ve been holding this feeling for two whole years.

"Nick?"

I look up.

And for the briefest second—he’s looking at me. Really looking. Like I’m not just Chris’s brother or the artsy one. Like I’m something else.

But then—

His phone rings.

He pulls away, glancing at the screen. “Ah, shit. That’s Sarah. I told her I’d call back an hour ago.”

And just like that, the warmth is gone. His voice softens, for her. His smile flickers for her. And I’m standing there, still clutching the photo of him like it means something.

Maybe it never did.

---

Later that night, I’m in my room, lights off, the glow of my laptop painting me in blue.

I scroll through old photos. Some of them are of my friends. My siblings. My dog.

Too many of them are of him.

I open Instagram. Go to his page. His newest post is a mirror selfie—captioned “not bad for a Monday” with a laughing emoji. He looks good. He always does.

I double tap. Then instantly regret it.

He messages me, five minutes later.

Francis: “You up?”

My heart stutters. My fingers hover. This is how it always goes. He reaches out, late. When he’s bored. Or high. Or feeling lonely. Never in the daylight.

Me: “Yeah.”

Francis: “Wanna come over? Just chill. Nothing weird.”

Nothing weird. Right.

I stare at the message, the cold creeping in even beneath the blanket wrapped around me.

I know what he means. I know what I’ll let him do. And I know he’ll go back to her in the morning.

But still—

I type back.

Me: “On my way.”

---

Later That Night

His apartment is dim when I get there.

The front door clicks open, and he’s already smiling. Like I’m a relief. Like I’m the cigarette after a long day. Something to unwind with, not someone to hold.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. He’s wearing sweatpants and that oversized hoodie he stole from Matt once. His hair’s a mess. It suits him. It always does.

“Hey,” I say back, too quiet. Too aware.

He steps aside, and I enter like I always do—like a secret.

We sit on the couch. He puts something on in the background, some action movie neither of us will pay attention to. His knee brushes mine.

Minutes pass like that. Quiet tension.

Then his arm is around me.

Then his lips are on mine.

Then we’re tangled up and I can’t remember who started it or why I let it happen again.

---

After

It’s 2:43 AM.

We’re lying side by side. His chest is bare. His eyes are closed, not asleep, but somewhere close to it. I’m still trying to breathe.

He speaks first. “That was nice.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah.”

He turns his head, and in the darkness, his face looks softer. You’d think he meant it. You’d think he cared. But I’ve done this enough times to know better.

Still… I ask anyway. “Francis, what is this?”

He opens one eye. “What do you mean?”

“This. Us. Is it just something you do when you're... bored?”

He blinks. Sits up a little. “Nick, don’t make it weird.”

And there it is. That word.

Weird.

Not real. Not serious. Not love. Just weird.

“I’m not trying to,” I murmur. “I just—sometimes I feel like you only see me when no one else can.”

He doesn't answer right away.

Then he says, “You know I’m not like... that.”

I nod slowly. "Yeah. I know."

But it hurts anyway.

Because what he means is:

He’ll touch me. He’ll kiss me. He’ll pull me into him like I’m gravity itself.

But he’ll never hold my hand in daylight.

He’ll never call me ‘babe.’

He’ll never say it back.

---

The Morning After

---

I leave before the sun’s fully up.

I don’t say goodbye. He doesn't wake up. Or if he does, he doesn’t stop me.

Outside, the world is quiet. The cold bites through my hoodie, and I welcome it. It's the only thing that feels real.

When I get home, Matt is in the kitchen, pouring cereal. He looks up, startled.

“You’re up early.”

I force a smile. “Didn’t sleep.”

Matt stares for a beat. Then he nods, like he gets it, even if he doesn’t know the details.

I go to my room and lie on the bed, still in my clothes. I check my phone. One notification.

Francis: “You good?”

I stare at it for a long time.

I don’t answer.

I turn off my phone.

And for the first time in months, I cry.

---

Weeks pass.

---

Francis keeps messaging sometimes. I stop going. Stop answering.

Jules messages me—asks if I want to shoot with her. I say yes.

At the shoot, she looks at me closely, says, “You okay?”

I don’t lie. I say, “Not really.”

She nods. “That’s okay. You will be.”

And I think… maybe I will.

Because even though Francis didn’t love me, I did love him. And that matters.

Even if it’s just for me.

---

Francis POV

---

The Morning After

---

The space beside me is cold when I roll over.

He’s gone.

No text, no note. Just that faint scent on my pillow—something like cedar and... laundry detergent. It’s stupid how specific it is. How I know it's his.

I sit up. The room’s still dark. I rub my hands over my face. My mouth’s dry. I should brush my teeth. I should move. I should do something.

Instead, I scroll through my phone and see that picture again. The one from the lake house. Him behind the camera, me in the air, both of us laughing like we didn’t know what was coming.

God, he looked at me different back then. Not like I was something he had to survive.

---

I send a message.

Me: You good?

It’s pathetic. I know that.

I stare at the screen waiting for the little “typing…” bubble. It never comes.

I drop my phone on the floor and lay back down, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it holds some answer. It never does.

---

Flashback: Months Ago

---

It started as a joke.

A drunken dare at a party.

I kissed him in the kitchen, laughing like it meant nothing. But the way he looked at me after—it messed me up.

Because he wasn’t laughing.

And worse? Neither was I.

I told myself it was curiosity. A phase. Just something to try.

But then it kept happening. Nights I’d call him. Pull him close. Memorize the sound he makes when I touch him a certain way. Whisper things I wouldn’t dare say in daylight.

He never asked me to stay.

I never asked him to go.

---

Present

---

I walk into the locker room after practice. Chris is there. We talk about game stats, upcoming matches, protein shakes. All the regular bullshit.

But mid-conversation, I zone out. He’s talking, but I’m not really hearing.

I’m just thinking about Nick’s smile. The way it used to reach his eyes. The way it doesn't anymore.

I remember last night. How quiet he was. How carefully he moved around me, like he was trying not to break.

And I let him.

---

That night, I go through my camera roll. Scroll past all the mirror selfies, all the shots with Sarah, with the team. I don’t know why I still have that blurry photo he took—me laughing, mid-cannonball, water splashing everywhere.

He captioned it back then: "Red curls mid-flight."

I hearted it.

I never commented.

And now it’s like that photo knows something I don't.

Something I’m still too afraid to say out loud.

---

Midnight

I lie awake, staring at the same message I sent earlier.

You good?

Still no reply.

I think about calling him. About showing up at his door. About saying something—anything—to keep him from slipping away entirely.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t know how to be what he needs.

I don’t even know what I am.

So I roll over. Try to sleep.

But his ghost climbs into bed with me.

And I know this is how it ends.

Not with a scream.

Not with a fight.

Just with the sound of silence.

And someone who finally stopped waiting.

---

A/N: UGHHH I CAN'T!!! this is probably my fav out of the three!!! But yk... I wanted to make Nick the last cause I know I wanna see people's reaction to my writing first lmao!

TAGLIST: @sturnsblogs @thenickgirl @bambisturns @oopsiedaisydeer @httpsturns @emeraldsturns @sturns-mermaid @nickssidewitch @nicksprincess

Deviders by the @bernardsbendystraws

[nautiscarader]

So here is a tiny bit of language trivia: Doof's jingle in Polish.

Not counting ONE MILLION variations of it, collected here by yt user Tomek Flynn-Fletcher (outstanding work!), the base one reads (or sings):

Oto jest spółka zło Dundersztyca!

First and foremost, yes, Doofenshmirtz is Dundersztyc, originating from dunder, or donder, meaning "thunder", as in Drusselsteinian German exclamation "Donner Wetter!" which has Polish equivalents. (pl) So he really is doctor Toheckwithit.

Secondly, the evil part. Companies in Poland can have a phrase added in their name "spółka z ograniczoną odpowiedzialnością" (do NOT try pronouncing it, no, STOP I SAID, you will break your tongue), abbreviated as "spółka z.o.o." - translating as "company limited", or "ltd".

No, the z.o.o. is not pronounced as "zoo", that would be hilarious. Instead, it is pronounced as /ˈzɔ.ɔ/, as opposed to Polish zoo, which is pronounced...exactly the same, you know, this is hilarious. Okay, you are supposed to say "z-oh-oh", pronouncing the... dots, I guess, but not all of us does.

But, back to the point - Polish word for evil is zło - /ˈzwɔ/ - very, very similar, and a brilliant case of accurate and loyal translation! So it really is Heck's Evil Company! (IPA moonrunes via Wiktionary)

And I would be remiss if I didn't mention that Doof's Polish VA, Wojciech Paszkowski, sadly passed away last August. Whoever replaces him will have enormous shoes to fill.

So that's it!

Except.. uhm, I have a question for you...

For the longest time, I've been going back-and-forth on making a sideblog with trivia like these. I love good translations, loathe lazy ones, and I sometimes just want to nerd out about them.

It wouldn't be updated very often, because I do not want to present myself as an expert in this topic, nor do I want to look like an insufferable know-it-all. And it would be open for submissions, ofc. IT would be bilingual, but again, rarely updated. @noddytheornithopod has already encouraged me, and this post is kinda a proof-of-concept/backdoor pilot for it.

Soooo... what do you think? Odpowiedzi na kartkach pocztowych, proszę :)

[famouscherse]

Stop playing around and know that you are the only god! There is no god above you

If you’re out here writing spiritual posts, claiming to teach the Law, but ask god's approval, surrender to some higher power outside of you, then you are misleading people. You are not helping them awaken, you are keeping them small...

Let me sayyyy it clearly

There is no God above you.

The God you keep referring to isn’t outside of you — it’s the awareness reading these very words right now. That calm, still, silent presence behind every thought — that’s not your mind. That’s YOU. Real YOU. The one that never changes, never panics, never dies. The one that sees through your eyes, watches your emotions, and remains untouched. That awareness is the real God —not someone watching you from the sky ,not someone separate.

it is the source. It is you. Pure, untouched, eternal presence. Everything else — body, name, identity, thoughts — are just temporary roles. But awareness? It’s forever. It doesn’t speak. It knows. And when you live from that knowing, you don’t need to seek God… you embody it.

Let me tell you the fact here

The Law of Assumption says whatever you assume to be true becomes true.

So if you assume there’s an external God who needs to approve your desires, guess what? You’ve just created resistance, delay, and self-doubt. You’ve just put yourself at the bottom of your own life asking permission for what is already yours. You don't need to seek external validation the only validation is YOU

It's like you are believing your desire is far away. It means you see yourself as unworthy, separate, powerless. You are none of those things.

When you asking for approval or validation from an external force , you're not just asking — you're affirming:

"I don't have. I'm not worthy. I'm not enough. Someone outside me has the power, not me.

And that energy only attracts more lack, more waiting, more suffering.

You don’t beg when you know who you are. You command.

You’re not here to beg for crumbs.

You’re here to command reality.

You are the operant power. You don’t need to ask. You don’t need to wait. You don’t need signs, angels, or approval. You DECIDE and the world bends. Because you are the universe , the world, everything it's literally all just you everything is your extension

Reality doesn’t happen to you. It moves through you, by you, as you. Your thoughts are commands. Your assumptions are laws. Your inner world is the only cause — and everything else is an effect. You are the SOURCE. The original cause. The entire system obeys YOU.

From childhood, we were programmed to look up and never within. Society made us feel small. Religion told us God is watching, judging, rewarding ,We were taught fear, not power. We were told to beg, to kneel, to please some higher force like orphans waiting to be chosen ,instead of being raised to remember that the force is already us. This is how generations were brainwashed into believing God is “up there” and not right here — beating in your chest as your own I AM.

And now bloggers scream “just persist and affirm!” without even knowing who is affirming. They affirm from separation, they persist from confusion, and they still talk about “trusting some external Divine Plan.”

WHY? Wake. Up. You are the one. Not a puppet. Not a servant. The God-state is not something you connect to it’s who you ARE.

Yes, the Law still works even if you affirm from a surface level. But you could be living as the actual creator,not just a desperate script reader repeating lines. Wake up to the awareness behind the thoughts. That stillness behind the noise? That’s your real self. That’s the one creating. Not the mind. Not the identity. The pure awareness behind it all is God and that’s YOU.

I don’t like seeing people robbed of their power.

And honestly I don’t even want to be here on Tumblr.

But someone had to say it.

KNOW you are God.

Don’t beg. Don’t wait.

Just decide, declare, and BE.

And if this truth triggers you? If this makes you uncomfortable?

That’s fine. You’re free to scroll. You’re free to disagree.

But don’t send me hate — I just wanted you guys take your power back and live as CREATOR /GOD cause that's who actually ARE

You are infinite love, infinite freedom , unchanging awareness ,you are God

💗

[tulpagenic-help]

content warning: anon hate ask & syscourse under the cut, suggestive joke

this is actually hilarious :D

> as a traumagenic

so am i. mentioned in intro. you ignorant bigot

> i think

you what now???

> i speak for the community

wow you must be so important

> please go fuck yourself

will you watch me 🥺😳

> there's people like you who want it

no i don't want another one... i already have a dissociative disorder

> "create" alters

i create tulpas and willomates :3

> see how we feel

like a fool?

> peace and love though

oooh so avoiding responsibility now i see i see

this is why i don't engage with traumagenic community as a traumagenic system. this whole "anti evil endos" movement is just built on harassment and gatekeeping. i have no tolerance for them, their stupidity, and their lack of education

this mysterious and Very Cool And Important anon didn't even look at my blog before sending this ask, lol. the fact i don't like the word "alters" (and therefore don't create them), that i'm traumagenic as well, that i'm not rq/transID and not trying to get a disorder i don't have?

yeah, their whole goal was to upset and harass me. but they failed! i giggled and kicked my feet when i received this. because it means someone was pissed enough to just blindly click on my blog, ignore every single post and make a whole ask out of their spite. it's an achievement, in a way!

this anon's system doesn't work very well, they suffer from it and now think that everyone else must suffer the same way they do

don't worry, i won't publish any more anon hate asks if i get them. today's an exception

i'm sending actual peace and love to systems of all origins. you matter and you're valid

[grouper]

hi, your art crit tag is a very good read, i really like the way you analyze pieces it makes me want to be more observant next time i go to a gallery

that out of the way, in a previous post you said there's some artists you dislike for serious and petty reasons, and then you elaborated on some that sound pretty serious to me.. so i'd like to hear some that you dislike for petty reasons?

Dear followers...

MICHAELANGELO'S DAVID IS BORING.

^ David. Michaelangelo. Marble. 1501-1504. 17 feet tall. Yaoi hands.

Disclaimer I should put on all my art crit posts: Yeah, it's great for lots of reasons. We already study it constantly, and for good reason. It was the cutting edge at the time. Now that that's out of the way,

Here's why it sucks!!!!

1) When David arrived at the Piazza Della Signoria in Florence, Italy.....

HE STOLE HER SPOT.

This is Donatello's Judith Beheading Holofernes, which stood beside the main door of the Palazzo Vecchio in the Piazza della Signoria from years 1495 - 1506.

The Palazzo Vecchio was then, and remains now, Florence's Town Hall. Every state official entering the town hall would have had to look up at the image of the cunning Widow Judith violently beheading the corrupt General Holofernes after he forced her to enter his tent for sexual favours. Luckily, Holofernes was overcome with drunkenness and Judith took her opportunity.

Placement matters. This statue was placed in front of town hall for a reason, to remind officials and passers-by that the civilian will always be a wild card- and perhaps to think twice before harassing women.

Despite the similarity in their stories, I believe that the poised and beautiful David does not measure up to Judith's righteous fury, especially not for its placement.

2) IT'S NOT EVEN THE BEST DAVID

When people think David, they should think of Gianlorenzo Bernini. This work was created 1623, and it is simply better.

Here's why:

Michaelangelo's was meant to be viewed from the front*, while Bernini's is meant to be circled and viewed from all angles. That adds a temporal/cinematographic element, perfect for close-up viewing.

*and from far away, it was originally meant to be placed on a roof- not viewed up-close! Boo! Throwing tomatoes throwing tomatoes

Bernini's David is a short king at only 5,7" - now that you think about it, doesn't Michaelangelo's David read more like Goliath? Who ever heard of David being 17 feet tall? That defeats the entire point of the story! So Michaelangelo was a size queen =_=. Bigger is not better!!!!

Adding on to that, the Bernini's choice of life size means that viewers must stand together with David, as if he were a real man. This brings David down from his pedestal- and viewers can observe his furrowed brow, his clenched fist. This leads to my next point:

Bernini's David is ACTUALLY DOING SOMETHING. Bernini captured David at the penultimate moment of his story, right before the stone flies. Will David take down Goliath and free his people, or will they all be doomed? This is the moment of truth, captured in an instant. Thanks to Bernini, this electrifying moment has been preserved for hundreds of years. Meanwhile, Michaelangelo's David just stands there and looks pretty. In comparison, Bernini makes Michaelangelo look totally lame.

Although only a few works in history have achieved the cultural status held by Michaelangelo's David, I argue that its status is Ill-deserved in the face of its immediate competition. While Judith now stands back in her Piazza and Bernini is studied internationally, neither are proliferated to the common public on the same level. Judith came before, and still captured her story, and Bernini (and Donatello who was Michaelangelo's contemporary, and many others) told the story of David better.

Please note that while this analysis has a sense of humor to it, I mean for it to uplift other, less well-known works. Does Michaelangelo's David deserve the hype? Maybe! But so do many other artists from the renaissance and baroque era. I hope that by sharing, I can engage folks in a useful dialogue about the images we see every day and open people's minds. That said,

It's time to dump Michaelangelo. We deserve better.

[k-s-morgan]

I know you have probably been asked this already, but are planning on including the Greenwich arc in your fanfic? I know you are only doing the anime and are avoiding the whole twins thing, so are the references (him seeing his twin in a dream) make it off the table?

Another ask: I hope you're well. Now that the new season of Black Butler has come out, I was wondering if you plan to add it to your Fanfic sooner or later

Another ask: Hello! I was rereading the gentle slops that lead to hell(because what else will I be doing) and I was curious if you where planning on adding the school arc? Or really any other arc that takes place during the manga if those arcs also get animated?

Another ask: Any chance you'd consider adding the Emerald Witch Arc to Those Gentle Slopes that Lead to Hell...? I feel like there's SO much potential in this arc for Those Gentle Slopes. I don't know how much you've watched yet (so spoilers) but Ciel being cursed, Sebastian's reaction, the cauldron scene... I would die to see your take on it! And I feel like any twin-references could easily be ignored/brushed over. <3 No pressure of course, just wondering!

---

Hi! I don't think I'll be including the School Arc, but the Emerald Witch is really tempting me. I haven't watched everything yet, so I cannot say for sure now. There is such an excellent potential there, but the twin aspects + Finnie's background (it was different in S1) make things complicated.

I already came up with a way to bypass most twin references, but when Ciel is ill and lost in his past, he seems to blame Sebastian for killing real!Ciel. This is a very relevant trauma that won't fit in Those Gentle Slopes, and I don't know how to play around it because it has too much meaning.

Also, I've been thinking lately that it might be better to skip some episodes and just make a couple of references to them. If I keep sticking to canon so religiously, who knows how many years it'll take us to approach the post-canon part of events, where the relationship between Ciel and Sebastian will finally get to flourish fully.

So, I guess we'll see. Emerald Witch does have so many amazing moments that I feel eager to work with them. Maybe I'll borrow some of them and make them a part of the original arc, or I'll come up with some explanations to explore this part of canon fully. Time will tell! For now, I can't wait to watch the remaining episodes.

[crushedsweets]

Does Toby ever feel jealous about Nina? Like relationships, friendships etc

Ok . Post was written out of order cuz I misunderstood your question.

Assuming you meant jealous about her getting in relationships or friendships outside of him, sorta!

He’s very possessive of all his friends and gets really insecure at the idea of them leaving him behind for someone better. Nina is a social butterfly and constantly meeting people.

Nina clings to her friends, and Toby especially so, cuz he has a personality she’s drawn to. So he’s bound to get antsy and uncomfortable when she keeps bringing up people from work or clubs or online friends. “You realize you’re hanging out with me right” . She thinks it’s cute though, which irritates him more

Ok now for the way I originally interpreted your question cuz I already wrote it before realizing I’m dumb but I still think it’s relevant:

Yes!

Toby is a very insecure person. He’s jealous regarding about all his friends in different ways.

With Nina, he envies her ability to just… click with people. Like she just knows the right question to ask, the right thing to say, how to smile, etc. of course, she learned how to do all of that through relentless bullying - had to teach herself how to avoid it. Toby never learned, the bullying just landed him in homeschooling and his communication skills spiraled from there. He genuinely looks up to her in her social skills.

He also envies her living situation - she has a cute, albeit small, apartment in the city. She drives a motorcycle around. She can get a normal job. She has a high school diploma, no criminal record, and a passion for life and friendship that he’s desperate for

And I just realized you didn’t mean jealous of her you meant jealous about her getting with other people . LMFAO FUCK IM PUTTING THIS ANDWER AT THE END

[writer-shipper-ffreader]

Maybe not so useless after all?

(Kate Lethbridge-Stewart x f!Reader)

Chapter 2

Previous Chapter |

A/N: Chapter two of my first posted fic for Kate x f!Reader. As previously warned, I'm not really used to writing the Doctor, so it may be a weird mix of 11 and 15. This all stemmed from the prompt 'You get a notification whenever your soulmate is asleep or awake'. Any and all comments/feedback welcome :)

Warnings/Tags: Slowburn for this chapter, soulmate AU, yearning.

Words: 1,355

Summary: After a mysterious mishap with a device found in a field, can you find out what the device is and what it means for you and Kate?

It had been a few days, and you were still no closer to figuring out what the times meant. Every morning you woke up with a new time on your wrist; the time always in the night. You hadn’t yet been awake when the time had changed. You had originally thought that the times were when you fell asleep, but the times on your wrist seemed to be getting closer and closer to dawn.

Everyone else’s markings seemed to stay around the same time, yours was the only one that had changed by several hours. You’d had many theories, but none that could account for the changes. Both you and Osgood had scanned the device several times and analysed the results but had not got any further than identifying the 45th century metal.

You had locked yourself in your lab, reviewing the results once more and thinking through your theories. You should be in the control room with Kate, welcoming the Doctor on one of his random visits, but you couldn’t bring yourself to join the buzz of the rest of the tower. You were beginning to feel like a failure and that Kate had made a mistake promoting you.

The lab door opened with a hiss of air, the person entering the lab was ignored as you continued to stare at the device in front of you.

“There you are! Kate said I would find you down here.” The Doctor bounced towards you with his usual enigmatic charm. “What’s wrong?”

You looked up at the Timelord, seeing the creases of concern on his face. “Kate tasked me with finding out what this is, and other than a rough idea of when it is from and that it tattoos wrists, I’ve got nothing,” you huffed, gesturing at the device.

“This?” The Doctor picked up the device and tossed it in his hands. “I can tell you what this is!" He grinned at you.

“Really?” you asked, hope lacing your voice.

“Of course! This is a soulmate finder from the 45th century.” The Doctor smirked, running his sonic screwdriver over the device. “It looks like it was used four days ago.”

You held out your wrist to the Timelord and pointed at the time stamp. “Yep, it went off when we found it in a field. So, how does it work?” you prompted, knowing the Timelord often forgot to elaborate or went off on a tangent.

The Doctor explained that when the device was activated, everyone in its proximity gets a mark with the time their soulmate last went to sleep. It was created to help people identify who their soulmate is.

You asked how the device worked, not understanding how the time stamp was supposed to help. Or even how it knew who you should spend your life with in the first place.

Having grown bored with the device, he set it back on the table and moved to look at some equipment you had set up. The Doctor went on to explain that everyone in the universe had what was known as a soulmate. He likened it to an invisible string tying two people together through time, plucking a rubber tube from the table to demonstrate as he was talking.

“Okay, so let’s say there’s this perfect person for me out there, they went to sleep at 3 am the last two days?” you pondered aloud. “But how does that help me unless I already know them?”

“It’s doesn’t. That’s why they only lasted like a century,” the Doctor laughed. “Do you know anyone who goes to sleep at 3 am?”

“Not that I know of?” You tapped your pen against the table, thinking through everyone you knew.

The Doctor continued to potter around your lab as you thought. He had an idea of who it could be but wanted to let you get there without his interference. He’d interfered with love before, and it had usually ended in tragedy.

He was just about to dismantle more of your equipment as the door of the lab reopened. The Doctor turned to greet whoever was at the door, but the wheeze the person let out stopped him.

“Inhaler!” Kate’s voice sounded from behind the scientist. “There you are! We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Kate raised an eyebrow at the man, waiting for an explanation.

“Ah, yes, I didn’t mention where I was going, did I?” The Doctor grimaced. “You did say she was sulking down here though, so you should have assumed.”

“I wasn’t sulking!” you protested.

Osgood looked at you incredulously, while Kate just snorted, amused at your indignance. You glared at the Doctor as he added an unhelpful ‘You so were babes’ under his breath. Rolling your eyes, you went back to typing what the Doctor had told you into the report, leaving them to head back up to the control room.

You didn’t hear Kate walk up behind you, to read over your shoulder, until she questioned how you knew what the object was. You flinched at hearing her voice so close to your ear and immediately turned to face her. She apologised for making you jump, resting her hand on your shoulder as she grinned sheepishly at you.

The Doctor jumped in to rescue you, explaining how he had come across the device before and repeating what you had already heard. You were still distracted by Kate leaving her hand on you shoulder but had at least stopped staring at her.

“Say I find someone who went to sleep at exactly this time, how do I know it’s them and not someone else?” Osgood questioned.

“The time stamp changes colour when the futures of the soulmates become entwinned,” the Doctor said.

“Oh, so that’s why McGillop’s timer is burgundy instead of black?” you asked.

“Yep! He must have found his soulmate. Good for him!” the Doctor grinned.

“It’s a bit depressing that only one out of seventeen personnel have found their soulmate,” Kate murmured.

“Not really. Statistically speaking that’s higher than it should be, especially if it takes into account non-Earth beings,” Osgood stated, pushing her glasses up.

“That and humans are spread across the universe by then, not all on one planet,” the Doctor added.

“So, I’m likely to never find my soulmate?” you sighed staring at your wrist. It was silly to be this disappointed when you had only just found out about them. You would have never imagined that the concept of soulmates was real, there being no obvious scientific proof.

Osgood asked if the device took into account time zones, questioning whether the time on her wrist was in her time zone or her soulmates. The Doctor confirmed it was Osgood’s time zone, but you weren’t sure how much that actually helped.

You rubbed your thumb over the writing, thinking about how unlikely it is you would ever meet who you were destined to be with. There were too many possibilities for you to even narrow down the country your soulmate lived in.

The Doctor commented that for brilliant scientists, you were all very pessimistic. He suggested the three of you shouldn’t be with a smirk and winked directly at you as he strutted out of the lab.

Osgood hurried after the Doctor, not wanting to lose him again. They had already spent over twenty minutes looking for him the last time he wandered off. She had assumed Kate would be following her, but the blonde was still stood next to you in the lab.

Kate squeezed your shoulder once more, bringing your gaze back up to hers. “Send me that report when it’s done, but try not to get too into your head about this soulmate thing,” she said, removing her hand from your shoulder.

“No promises.” You smiled at her. “I’ll come up to the control room in about ten minutes.”

“No rush... You know, I always believed some people were meant to be together,” Kate mentioned as she walked away, stopping at the door. “I wouldn’t have said soulmates, but sometimes there is definitely a click between two people. Don’t you think?”

Tags: @freshmoneyalmondathlete @suckerforcate

[creatingnonsense]

So.. that Bad End AU that @pokemonblack3white3 made huh?

Well Sylas would definitely be alive within it but I wanted to specify some details about him in my idea of how he would fit into the AU

[Keep in mind this is following the canon line he has made for the AU so far, if he ever posts more it likely won’t work with this cause this is pretty self indulgent.]

Anyways-

Contrary to popular belief, Ghetsis is not opposed to emotionally manipulating another child. Even one that isn’t his.

So Sylas was actually caught right near the beginning of Team Plasma’s reign and taken into their containment chambers. Team Plasma was planning to kill him, but Ghetsis decided that it’d be easier to manipulate this kid.

Pulling a few strings and laying down a plan, they took a picture of Sylas’ family in the containment chambers and gave him a ‘decision’ to make. Either he join team plasma or his family dies.

Since his family means so much to him, he joined team plasma and works to watch over the original dragon in its cage.

Here’s some things though!

-He let his hair down (and let it grow into a braid) and is part of the higher ups in the team. He is still clueless, carrying a picture of his family in cages not knowing they were killed already.

-Datura was forced to evolve into a Scolipede to be a stronger defender. The original dragon does *not* like him.

-He spends most of his time isolated in the dragons chamber and every so often gets some praise from Colress or Ghetsis for ‘doing well’ (it’s really to keep him manipulated).

-He has a shock collar (weird, but it’s Team Plasma) and it kinda symbolizes his warped ideals [that he is doing this for his family] hurting him more and more. The electricity stands for Zekrom and ideals and you know.

-Sylas doesn’t know anything about the rebellion and assumes that everyone is just working under team plasma. He’s kinda crazy from being manipulated and so alone so it’s hard to reach him.

-He knows who Amarys is but the two never get to talk. The higher ups believe Amarys will tell Sylas something that will break him.

So far I’ve had an idea that one of the others, presuming it’s Drayton, attempts to break the dragon free and is met with Sylas. Sylas doesn’t attack Pokémon anymore (I mean, what’s the use if no one really has any?) so he immediately goes to attack Drayton directly. In the end the dragon is released and Drayton attempts to break Sylas free cause he is having a MELTDOWN at the fear of punishment from failing his job. The split in truth verses ideals splits the original dragon and Sylas teams with Zekrom and Drayton with Reshiram. In the end I haven’t decided but either Sylas snaps out of it and is brought out into the rebellion (although there is a lot of hesitance from the others in the group) or Kyurem just.. kills him off then and there with an ice shard and chaos ensues.

So yeah! Finally an AU where I can make my boy suffer even more

[Also if pokemonblack3white3 has their own ideas or whatever to add or change this I’m so down to listen]

[kalinara]

I love all of this so much, and I feel kind of guilty that I'm hijacking it with a tangent. (To my mutuals: read the post first. Then and only then, pay attention to my nonsense.)

The choice of "Seinfeld" for Scott is really interesting when we take into account the rolling timeline of the time period. Pardon the garbled sentence.

Per Google (I was alive for this, but not really old enough to remember), Seinfeld's actual air date was 1989-1998. It's a fairly decent chunk of time admittedly.

This issue of Champions came out in 2017. Now obviously, everyone has their take on adult Scott's actual age. Many folks like the idea of him being in his thirties or forties, and that's understandable. But the official party line, ridiculous as it is, is that Scott is about 28 years old.

So. If Scott is 28 years old in 2017. Ish. Then he was born in 1989. Ish.

Which means that Seinfeld's aired from his birth to when he was about nine years old. And while every origin gives a slightly different age for Scott during the plane crash, it most likely would have happened between 1997 and 2000.

So reruns exist, of course. But there's also the question of when exactly Scott would have had time to watch television. MAYBE the orphanage. But that's already kind of its own anachronism. (Which makes sense when we remember who ran it.) Would Sinister have been inclined to let the kids watch much television at all? Let alone something so very New York-esque?

Nothing about Jack Winters indicates that he'd be inclined to let Scott spend a lot of time in front of the television. And Xavier - well, maybe there. I don't think Xavier is mean enough to prevent the kids from watching television. But young Scott was kind of a wallflower, more likely to let the others pick the shows, and it's not terribly likely that teenagers in the late 2000s would be all that interested in a ten year old sitcom.

It's far more likely, I think, that Scott's memories of Seinfeld come earlier than that. It's not really the kind of humor an under-ten is likely to appreciate. But it IS something that maybe mom or dad would watch, while the boys played games in the same room. Maybe one last fragment of a time before everything went to hell for the poor kid.

I wonder what Alex thinks about Seinfeld...

Teen Cyclops gets hit with EMOTIONS 🫠😭🤩🥹😬🥴

AKA I get emotions too, linking and contrasting theory + my disability experience with Scott's.

Yung Cyke is loving his time away from the X-Men and the freedom it allows him to *loosen up.* Lacking context, The Champions view him as repressed and phlegmatic in the extreme. They're right, but he's not an old man - he's just a kid who went from constant trauma to a life of intense responsibility. I think Seinfeld is cringe, but I'm aware that many many people enjoyed it. Scott liking it is more a sign of his time displacement than anything else, though I do wonder if he identifies with any of the characters. Hints of Costanza, most likely. Not sure any are a great fit - what do you think? Newman?

Anyway, my point is that he is benefiting from his newly expanded social circle but The Champions are not Danger Room kids. They don't know that this IS Slim getting out of his comfort zone. A fake moustache isn't the most complicated costume, but you'd never see 'leader of the X-Men' Scott do it. He probably wouldn't even join them, assuming Chuck let them out for Halloween. Kamala and Miles want to see get inside that brain - let's see how they respond when they get their wish.

The catalyst is this jerkoff - Psycho Man. He's a long story, let's just simplify it by saying that he has a machine that fucks with people's emotions. He's using it nefariously until Scott blasts it to pieces and demands his surrender. He flees instead, but Scott has been affected by it and opens his Pandora's Box of repression.

The Champions know something is off when Scott abandons his indoor voice and starts ... acting up. When he smashed the machine some feedback hit him right in the pineal gland or hippocampus, unlocking his emotions on a primal level. Anger and adrenaline flood through him and everyone realises they're in for some X-Men shit. Well, they don't know that at all actually, but the vibe of a dam about to burst is clear and present.

Peppy would be proud.

They still let him fly the team vehicle, perhaps unwisely. Scott really enjoys the freedom of flying - 'no responsibility, no one complaining or making you feel bad.' I wonder what he's referring to with those awfully specific things. No time to worry about that because Scott leans into it and does a barrel roll, scaring TF out of everyone.

They wisely get him off the stick and Kamala brushes it off as 'goofing.' That really sets him off into a shame spiral, though I don't think they truly internalise that this bit is not exactly exaggerated. 'I'm not allowed to screw up. I can't make a single mistake ever! I can't ever let anybody down. If I do then what good am I?'

None of these people know Charles Xavier very well, but if they did they'd probably slap him. I feel like this is the moment when they connected young Slim to the guy that killed Xavier while possessed by the Phoenix. The fact that he's a nosy telepath who raised Scott exacerbates the Fridge Horror. The unhealthy mantras and the beliefs informing them had to come from somewhere, and Scott himself learning about that 'loss of control' didn't have the same shock as the rest of the O5. My reading is that he was offended and embarrassed by the idea he'd lose control - like it's a failure of character.

After seemingly getting a hold of himself and being quiet for a while, Scott openly expresses fear. The team is confused so he elaborates. He's scared of himself, scared of his eyes, scared of losing control. He's scared of killing anyone let alone his father figure. Pathologically terrified, even, and it occupies his every waking moment. He doubts their friendship while lamenting how people see him, without denying his hypervigilance and how it isolates him.

Scott wants to be social and carefree but he doesn't feel like he's allowed to. I can relate. My disability doesn't have the power to hurt people (except myself through inaction or accident) but it's isolating AF and requires hypervigilance every moment I'm awake. People, even close friends and family, don't take it seriously and that sucks. Blame and pressure exacerbate the difficulty of managing my functionality, and round and round it goes. 'What's stopping you?' is a familiar refrain, no matter how many times I explain it. It's exhausting.

Isolation is one aspect of the disability experience - it informs and intersects with exclusion, often passively. There's rarely anyone directly saying 'you can't do this thing;' it's often the way the world, society is constructed - for the able bodied. Nothing fits, or allows you to fit. I know I grieve my former degree of functionality and the things I simply can't participate in. I became disabled at 28, and I'm sure there's nuance for folks born with disabilities or that get worse over time - but I can't speak to that lived experience. No matter what though, as Scott says, 'it just takes.' His 'unable to cry' statement is one I don't recall hearing before this run, but it casts Scott's decades of emotional clodes-offness in a new light. It's a strong character beat that fits seamlessly with his established behaviour and publication history. I usually don't get so personal in my analysis but woof - this hit me HARD. The combination of resentment and hypervigilance over my body and how it is perceived is particularly close to home. So too is sharing with sympathetic friends - they get it, but they also don't.

Round two with Captain Fucko happens while Scott is still affected, and he dips the fuck out. The action is truncated by Tumblr's image limits but his love and protectiveness kicks into overdrive and manifests violently - nearly killing Psycho-Man. Kamala has to step in with the disability aid assist, though it's nice nobody judges him. After letting out all the emotions and optic blasts he has Scott is tapped and falls unconscious.

Even this act of vulnerability, putting himself in other people's hands, is fraught. I'd find that difficult without a checklist of invisible needs to consider, and that's a lot of labour to expect from someone else. Emotional AND physical. That in turn breeds guilt and resentment, as nobody can be a carer forever and negotiating any period of carer/caree relationship is incredibly challenging. The power dynamics and your needs as labor can poison the closest relationship. Nobody wants to be dependent, or even a burden, but needs are needs. Many go without.

It's a little ambiguous if Scott remembers the events of the day, but it's heavily implied he does. He's not embarrassed, per se, but The Champions didn't opt in to Scott Summers trauma dumping and giving them an out is gracious. It's his feelings and they're valid, but they were forced out of him by an attack.

I daresay the team understands what makes Scott tick a lot better, and nobody gives him shit for being uptight after this. The above panel is supplemental, but I think it fits perfectly. I believe it was an overall cathartic experience for Yung Cyke - it feels good to let out every now and then.

The flipside of never talking about it again is that it really is easier to just not engage with disability whether they're close to you or not. It's labour however you slice it and in my experience the reality of permanent disability is depressing to think about. The reality that you're not going to get better is outside context for most, fortunately. That's part of what makes it labour, work. Personally I have found it hard to not be resentful, frustrated, and jealous of having the privilege of not thinking about it. I work to not make it other people's problem, balancing that with the support that's offered.

The majority of my close friends these days are disabled themselves, and navigating that paradigm with two or more people is exponentially more difficult. Some days I don't have the energy to give and vice versa, so I definitely get it. Putting it into action is another story, but balancing needs and availability is part of any relationship. The well-meaning group conspiracy of silence in the last panel (probably) isn't realistic, but it can certainly feel like it. If you got this far, thanks for reading! This is not the post I set out to make, but sometimes it just flows out of you. I'm glad it did, as I need to apply a disability theory lens to my writing more often. The theory and the personal would ideally be further apart, but I needed to get this out. ❤️

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lan Wangji Goes To Lotus Pier AU: Part 4.5: Morning Period.

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5)

[candyheartedchy]

It’s been 4 days since I drew any of my self ships.

[m1tchgp]

some fem marc drawings, very hair centric