For your 500 followers celebration! 12:45 pm the Haus porch. Shitty and Jack or another bestie pair
Lyrics "We can do this every night You can be my ride or die And we can live this way every day Go out like dynamite, I'm living life, ride or die Gonna live this way every day" the Knocks "Ride or Die"
I'm at this handle on AO3 also.
HELL YES JACKSHIT MY BELOVED BFFS
a genuine pleasure to write them, thank you for the prompt and all your lovely comments the past few years :D
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🏒🏒🏒🏒
12:45pm, haus porch
“Jackabelle!” Shitty calls up the stairs. “Get your perfect, gravity-defying ass down here!”
“I’m still unpacking!”
“Unacceptable reasoning—motion denied.”
“On what grounds?” Shitty can hear the amusement in his best friend’s voice.
“On the grounds that that’s stupid, and I’m down here, waiting for you so we can celebrate a new year.”
Shitty punches the air in triumph when he hears Jack’s feet crossing his room, refuses to look at all contrite in the face of Jack’s faux-disapproving glare as he comes down the stairs.
“I really should unpack—”
“Absolutely fuckin’ not. Time for that later. Or you can get the frogs to do it,” he says, shepherding Jack out onto the porch. “Right now is best friend time, no more arguments.”
“Fine, fine.” Jack sounds all put out, but Shitty catches the way his lips quirk up at the corner and knows he isn’t actually bothered. If he really didn’t want to come downstairs he wouldn’t have played along with Shitty’s jokes earlier.
“Sit down, Jack-o, it’s Best Friend Porch Swing O’Clock.” He hip checks Jack in the direction of the swing before grabbing two drinks out of the cooler he packed twenty minutes and one of his own suitcases ago.
“Cheers to the best year ever,” he says, pushing one of the bottles into Jack’s hand and flopping down, more onto his best friend than the swing.
“Shitty, I don’t—”
“It’s non-alcoholic, J.”
“Oh.” Jack picks at the label with his thumbnail. “Thanks.”
“Got your back, bro,” Shitty says, shrugging. The motion sets the swing swaying wildly and they both have to grab hold of the wood armrests for a bit before Jack gets a foot on the porch floor to steady them.
“My hero,” he says, fluttering his eyelashes, mentally cheering when Jack huffs out a laugh.
“Anytime, Shits.”
“Now, cheers! To a new school year, and a new hockey season with the best damn captain Samwell Men’s Hockey could ask for!”
Jack clinks his bottle against Shitty’s, but he’s not smiling now, just staring out at the street, brow furrowed, full Hockey Robot mode.
“You are the best captain we could ask for, you know.”
Jack exhales hard, takes a swig of his drink. “The other guys only voted for me because of my last name.”
“Yeah, probably,” Shitty says, blithely.
That startles Jack into actually looking at him.
“Your name’s your name, Jack—no getting around it. Well,” he says, “I guess you could change it, but that’s a lot of paperwork and everyone would still know who you are, so probably you should just leave it. But you’re gonna absolutely smash it as captain this year. Not because of your dad, who is admittedly, pretty great, or because of your fucking stellar stats.” Shitty makes sure to look directly into Jack’s eyes, willing him to hear Shitty this time. “You’re gonna be a great captain because you care. You care so much about what happens to this team, and you want us to be the best we can. And the others will see that and get in line.”
Shitty lets his speech sit in the still-humid air around them, lets Jack sit with those words while they drink in silence, watching the occasional car drift by.
“Thanks, Shits.”
Jack presses their shoulders together firmly, a non-verbal I appreciate you that Shitty learned last year.
“‘Course. Now can we fuckin’ celebrate? Because I’ll bet the tub juice fund for the year that you haven’t yet.”
“Yeah, go on then,” Jack says, his smile actually visible to the average human now, and not just Shitty, who has put in the ten thousand hours to become an expert in Jack Zimmermann’s expressions.
Shitty punches the air again, and yells, “FUCKING BEAUT OF A CAPTAIN RIGHT HERE!” loud enough to echo around the street.
The LAX-holes across from them immediately shout for him to shut the fuck up, brah, but Shitty ignores them in favor of savoring Jack cracking up next to him, worries wiped away for now.
Their laughter sounds like windchimes. When the wind pushes my hair into my eyes I hear them. They show me that the clock on their bracelet has stopped. I feel my long skirt wrap around my legs. The clouds boil above us. Nevertheless smiles. The wind smells like snow and iron. They ask why it smells like pine and damp when they only see me on the hill. I ask if they think this is a tumulus or a barrow. We sit on the flat headstones and wait for the first drops of rain.
29- Make Me Feel, Janelle Monáe (shoutout to @hotcocao for starting the Hot Shitty train tonight)
The thing was, underneath the goofy mustache and the ripped jean vests and the casual nudity, Shitty was actually really fucking hot. Like sure, he was smart, and nice, and all of that, and he probably would’ve seemed way less hot if he was an asshole, but he was just objectively hot. He had a six-pack, and a great ass, and hands that were kind of rough and kind of soft at the same time in a way that gave Lardo goosebumps whenever he touched her. Like he was touching her now.
“Just like that,” she breathed. “So fucking good.”
Hey. I remember you said you had a tbi Rough. I used to work with families of people who had had tbi. I hope you were able to recover fully from yours and I am glad you don't play contact sports anymore (2x more likely to have a 2nd tbi after 1st one)
yea recovery took a long time. It’s why I had to defer my frosh year of college. I had some speech problems and hearing loss that I had to work on and learn to cope with (I still stutter way too fucking often tbh). one of the reasons I like talking online, tbh, is I don’t have to worry about auditory processing or anything.
