#I mean like it’s already in the original post- | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

em1i2a3 · 2 days ago

Text

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.

848 notes · View notes

magesofmucloch · 1 day ago

Text

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.

#mages of mucloch #and that's the story behind the name!#professors aces ♠️#map by #professor tally 🌋

11K notes · View notes

thefrogman · 2 days ago

Text

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.

youtube

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)

youtube

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.

youtube

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.

youtube

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.

youtube

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)

youtube

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)

youtube

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.

youtube

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)

youtube

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!"

#long post #comedy #late night comedy #conan o'brien #jay leno #david letterman #johnny carson #the tonight show #late night #Youtube

90 notes · View notes

kier-with-a-k · 2 days ago

Text

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

#kier writes #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #nick sturniolo #christopher owen sturniolo #sturniolo #the sturniolos

75 notes · View notes