#uhf bob steckler

[yankofreak]

forgot to share ... fanfic i'm working on, on wattpad ..... 😳😳😳

[sinkwater-rat]

Am I doing this right

[battle-of-the-bobs]

Bracket 1 / Round 1 / Match 11

[fengstxr]

Hell is loving you in my sleep and waking up alone

[jestersroute66]

gyar[U]o[HF]

[rubber-garage]

GeoRGE………

[everythingisround]

i edited together a compilation of george and bob from uhf for your viewing pleasure. borge fans eat up

[bumbling-jester]

most gorgeous big brown eyes you've ever seen vs staring straight into your soul

[niixyx]

my picture ❤️dont ask about his moustache i dont have the answers

[thecedarsights]

borge enjoyers I'm cooking up an angst fic. if you all are interested

[queenrepent]

feel like these may be of use 2 the people (uhf fans)

[yankofreak]

haha borge!!!

oh ya also a silly wip because i'm still on that georg newman grind!!!!! i'll finish it after school

[nyanneoncat]

I finally finished it!!!!! Meant to post this at the beginning of pride month but I kept procrastinating it

[battle-of-the-bobs]

Bracket 1 / Round 2 / Match 38

[midtown-cowboys]

Bob if he was epic

[charnockite]

kiss me, son of god

blaming this on the fact that I keep getting videos on tiktok using "kiss me, son of god" -> makes me think about they might be giants -> makes me think about birdhouse in your soul -> makes me think about the silly little draft I have that does lurk in the back of my mind. so here's another short scene from that, taking place post-NYE. enjoy!

obligatory "this is horribly unedited" warning that goes on all my tumblr ficlets. also tagging @fredware ; thank you for being so kind about my uhf thoughts]

“What’s got you all smiley?”

Robert’s gaze flicked up, watching as Pamela hopped on the top of his desk. She readjusted her skirt, pulling at the hem to keep things G-rated, and smirked down at him like she’d caught him in the middle of some lewd act.

If she thought the way he signed paychecks was something to get hot and bothered about, he’d make sure to do hers in glitter glue. “What do you mean?”

“You’re smiling,” she repeated, sticking a finger out. Her acrylic poked him in the cheek, unnervingly close to his eye. “You used to be all sullen and mopey, but now you’re acting like you just got your di-”

“Good morning, Gloria!” Robert called out, louder than was strictly necessary. 

Pamela turned around in time to catch the high schooler’s wave. Her lips pressed together in a tight, pink smile, and she gave the girl a wave back. 

He waited for her to leave the room, then looked back at Pamela. “Please refrain from talking about that in front of the interns,” Robert said, flatly.

“Don’t walk around like you got your brain sucked out of your you-know-what and not tell me why.”

“Maybe I’m optimistic about the new year. The nineties are a new era, Pam. Anything could happen.”

“Something tells me something already happened,” Pamela said. She peered over as if she could read his secrets—aside from his banking information, of course—from his checkbook. 

He paused, laying his hands flat on his desk. “What, Pam?”

She leaned over far enough that, had he been a worse boss, he could’ve stared straight down her blouse. “Your nails are filed. Trimmed into cute little crescents, too.”

“They are.”

“You asked me what my nail file was back in October.”

Not one of his proudest moments. “That I did,” he admitted.

“Why?”

He swallowed, drumming his fingers against the check. Sweat from his palms dampened the paper, smearing the ink ever-so-slightly. “No reason.”

-

“You’re bleeding.”

“Huh?”

“The edge of your scalp,” Philo said, barely audible over the drone of his computers. He stepped forward, his hands lifting the hair from George’s head. He pulled it to the side, staring intently at the short, jagged scratch that extended from an inch behind his ear down to the base of his jaw. “You have a cut.”

“Oh, that,” George said. He laughed, ducking his head away from Philo’s touch. “It’s nothin’, Philo. No need for you to worry.”

Philo watched a flush rise on the young man’s face, his cheeks burning bright red. “On the contrary, George,” he said, “there are many things to worry about.”

“Like what?”

“The horsemen; war, famine, plague, death,” he mused. “But in your case, I worry most about the germ colonies that live underneath Robert Steckler’s fingernails.”