I’ll never get sick of those “Jack Zimmermann has to introduce Shitty Knight to other people” headcanons

There are rules. Like, “you must wear clothes”, and “if they’re wearing a suit, please don’t call them ‘brah’”. And then there’s his name. Because Jack doesn’t know Shitty’s real name. So he get’s halfway through saying Shitty and then tries to cover it up, ‘This is Sh…Sean. This is Sean.’

Somehow, Shitty remembers every fake name he’s been given to different people. Jack does not. Why doesn’t he use the same Sh name for every introduction? because he’s an idiot. Why does Shitty never help him out and instead try to prompt him into saying things like “Sherlock” or “Sinead O’Connor”? Because he’s Shitty

It’s all pointless anyway. Jack could leave the room for five minutes and come back to find “Sheridan” on a table making a speech to the gathered PR people about how half their audience are already women and they should acknowledge that in their marketing and merchandise. One person is halfway through calling security. Another is trying to offer him a job. Jack slowly backs out of the room again and hopes that people forget they know each other


NEW VIDEO: “Guessing Celeb Abs ft. Tom Daley” - Tom obviously knows how to get abs, so let’s test his knowledge! We played a game of “can-you-guess-the-celeb-by-their-six-pack” - let’s just say, there’s a clear winner here. Reblog if you want me to follow your Tumblr!! <3

cat-bat-batman  asked:

Writing prompt! A fight over girl scout cookies.

set in Jack’s senior year, sometime in the spring?, before he and Bitty are together; warning for homophobic jerks in the form of Lax Chads

Jack is trying to write his senior thesis – he has his bedroom door shut and locked and everything – when Shitty barges in.

That, in itself, isn’t all that suspicious because Shitty had taught himself how to pick locks at Andover and had always been pretty blatant about barging in. If Jack really needs his space, he’ll stay away but Shitty has pretty strong opinions on what constitutes as “really needing his space” and Jack’s “I am writing my thesis, Shits, don’t bother me” at breakfast had clearly been inefficient. Hell, it probably just spurred him on.

However, what is suspicious about this current situation is that Shitty is fully clothed. 

“Jaa-aack,” Shitty sing-songs. “You fucking majestic specimen of human perfection, you beautiful songbird on a crisp spring morn–”

“Shitty,” Jack says, refusing to look up from his laptop. “Whatever it is, the answer is no.”

“I don’t want anything!”

“You just called me a songbird.”

“You are a songbird. On a crisp, spring morning atop a rosebush full of the–”

“You are high.”

“As a kite, Jack, that’s why I need you.”

“I am not letting you stare at my ass again. Go bother Ransom. He’s been working out with Bitty.”

Honestly, sometimes Jack doesn’t even know what to do with the sentences he is forced to say on a semi-regular basis. 

“No, Jack, no- I need sustenance. I need… Lardo took her car and there is no way for me to get to Murder Stop and Shop without her but without food, I will die and you are the captain. You have to save me.”

“No,” Jack says. And turns back to his paper.

Ten minutes later, he’s in the car. 

Jack should have taken Samwell up on their offer to give him a single his freshmen year.


“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god– YES!” Shitty shouts as they pull into the parking lot. “THEY’RE HERE!”

“What? Who?” Jack says, though he’s not sure he wants to know. Shitty is coming down off the worst of his high but even a sober Shitty is prone to get excited over just about anything.

“THE GIRL SCOUTS!” The car hasn’t fully stopped when Shitty opens his door. “IT’S COOKIE SEASON!”

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Early one year in the 1980s…

Most of the guys in the locker room had magazine pages and centerfolds of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue ladies taped inside. Robert, or Bad Bob as he had become in the decade, had his beautiful wife in his. Seeing her in her wedding gown had been one of the most emotional and beautiful moments of his entire life (and he already had three of Lord Stanley’s Cups under his belt!) but even that couldn’t compare to how stunning the love of his life looked just a few months ago. Now in the full swing of the season, busy with games that kept him away from his best friend, he kept the picture to look at when he couldn’t see her. Sure she had hundreds of professionally taken photographs of her circling out there, but this one was special. Taken on their wedding day, during the setting sun, just an hour before they read their vows. He’d cried profusely that day, earning what he suspected would be life long chirps for it. Robert sighed looking at the photograph and reminded himself to give her a call after their game.

Hours later, he’s in his hotel room, twining the cord around his fingers while he waits for the dial tone to end, and Alicia to pick up. It’s late so he doesn’t want to keep her up, but when she picks up her first words are, “I have something to tell you.” Robert cries again that night, and the second most beautiful day of life is months later in a hospital room to the wailing of a little infant. 

dizzy-redhead  asked:

Prompt: Holsom "platonically" having sex. You know, just bros being bros (doesn't have to be explicit, I just find the concept hilarious)

AN: this is set in the Keep It series, one of the “two times” R&H have a threesome sophomore year before Holster stops it bc feelings (fair warning: this is semi-angsty)

Ransom is drunk. Holster is drunk too, but at least he remembers that Marie had giggled, kissed the both of them one last time, thanked them for a great time, and left to go walk home with her friend.

“Ooops,” Ransom says, lifting the blanket they have half-hazardly thrown over the two of them. “Holsster. Holtzy. We lost the girl!”

He devolves into laughter and Holster smiles because Ransom’s laughter might be his favorite thing. Holster loves the way his nose crinkles and he hunches into his shoulders like a little kid and–

No. Wait. He has to stop. Not now. Not when they are both lying in his tiny bed naked.

“She’s gone,” Holster agrees. “Lost. To the… the outside. ” He waves a hand in the general direction. “Gone.”

“Wait,” Ransom’s smile fades into earnest concern and he sits up. “Holster. Did Marie leave because we were bad at sex? Ohmygod, Shitty is gonna kill us. Remember his speech? Partners come first, Holtzy. Oh, shit, we–”

“Bro!” Holster says, punching Ransom in the arm. “Bro, no, she got off twice. But her friend isn’t feeling well so she is walking her home.”

“Oh, thank god,” Ransom says, collapsing back onto his back. Then he starts giggling again. “We lost Marie.”

“Yup,” Holster agrees. “She just left.”

“Now we’re just two guys. Sitting around. Naked.” Ransom still laughs as if this is very funny. Holster forces himself to smile. It’s probably time to end this. He’s going to suggest Ransom climb into his bed in just a second. As soon as his eyes stop sort of sliding shut.

Shit. He should get up and take his contacts out. 

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When the Moon, Christmas Countdown Check-In

I’m so sorry this is so late! :( As I told the anon, we were getting my sister moved into her new house over the weekend and have been having all manner of internet difficulties ever since. I tried absolutely everything to get this posted on Sunday, and I’m so sorry I couldn’t manage it. :(

Weekly Word Count: 3071

“Tell you what,” he says lightly, “why don’t you take a little break to wash and change for bed? I’ll write down all those things we just sorted out and clean up the picnic, and we can reconvene in the cuddle-nest for your story.”

“A break?” I puzzle, leaning back. “From what, cuddling?”

“That’s what I needed,” he replies earnestly, “early this afternoon, when I left the hamper instead of joining you for lunch. Touch is a need, just like warmth and food, but when you haven’t had much of it to begin with, a large portion all at once is overwhelming.”

I consider this and realize he’s exactly right. Where I’ve been perfectly content to glut myself on nips and nuzzles, Peeta – who is so determined to save my kisses for the hard or lonely days ahead – is rationing like a dirt-poor miser. “Am I – did I – um…hurt you?” I wonder, frowning at the thought, and Peeta chuckles gently.

“You did anything but,” he assures me, brushing my cheek with his fingertips. “On the contrary, I feel so wonderful, I’ve been floating in a happy fog all day. That’s why I didn’t get more done.”

I raise my brows at him and glance demonstratively between the picnic spread and his stack of sketches. “Indeed,” I say dryly. “Your productivity has hit rock bottom, you lazy thing.”

He laughs uncertainly, as though there might be a nugget of truth in my teasing criticism. “Well, I didn’t get everything done that I wanted to,” he admits. “There’s something I really want to give you but I just couldn’t get back to it today, and I feel so bad about it, especially after everything we’ve been talking about tonight.”

I regard him for a long curious moment and realize he must be talking about one of my impossible wishes. He must be making something for me – a painting or another storybook, maybe – that has to do with one of them. “Babies?” I wonder softly and watch something crumble behind his eyes, like hunger and heartache all at once.

“In a manner of speaking,” he says hoarsely. “And yes: I want to give you babies so badly, Katniss.”