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livesincerely · 4 years

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it’s written in bold letters, ch. 2

The Letterman Jacket fic. Chapter one here.

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The 2nd Street Diner is a popular choice for post-game meals and it’s already packed to the brim when they get there, students wedged into every available seat.

“All of our larger tables are full,” the hostess says, frowning, when they walk up to her. “We don’t have a six-seater open.”

“Is there anything available?” Katherine asks, ever persuasive. “Really, we’re not picky.”

She checks her list again. “We’ve got a booth free,” she says dubiously, “but it’ll be a pretty tight squeeze.”

“That’s fine,” Katherine assures her. “Anything will do.”

The hostess leads them back and, okay, yeah, the booth is on the small side—probably designed for four people, max.

“We’ll make it work,” Katherine says, nodding decisively. “Spot, Race, you go… and then I’ll... Crutchie you just— great! And then Jack, um, wait, maybe Jack should—”

“Davey, you’re gonna have to sit in Jack’s lap,” Racetrack says, smirking at Jack, “so that there’s room for Crutchie’s leg.”

Jack’s expression falters. Katherine’s eyes light up with unholy glee.

“That’ll work,” Katherine says, saccharine sweet. “You don’t mind, right?”

Usually Jack would jump at the chance to hold Davey in his arms for any amount of time—especially when such a good excuse has been handed to him. But by this point Jack is genuinely afraid that if he has to spend much longer in close proximity to Davey, he’s gonna have an aneurysm. Still, there’s nothing he can do about it—there’s no excuse he can come up with on the fly for not wanting to share that won’t make Davey suspicious—so a minute later they’re all squeezing into the booth: Racer and Spot nested together, then Katherine all on one side, then Crutchie, Davey, and Jack on the other.

Jack makes a note to murder Racetrack extra hard when he gets the chance.

Davey arranges himself sideways across Jack’s body so he doesn’t completely block Jack’s face, which means that most of his weight is resting on just one of Jack’s thighs instead of squarely over Jack’s lap, thank god. Davey leans against Jack’s chest like it’s no big deal, sure of his welcome, which is incredibly gratifying and incredibly distracting, and throws an arm over Jack’s shoulders to balance himself. Jack’s heart skips, then beats even harder in his chest.

Davey opens a menu and positions it so they can both look at it, but he may as well not have bothered. All Jack can think about is the way the heat from Davey’s body is seeping into his skin, how if he wanted to, he could count every one of Davey’s eyelashes.

If Jack moved his head slightly, they’re close enough that he could just—

“Do you want to?” Davey asks, and Jack has a moment of insanity where he almost blurts out, ‘for the love of god, yes,’ but he’s able to stop himself at the last second.

“...What?” Jack says, when he’s sure he won’t say something psychotic. Davey blinks at him.

“Fries?” Davey repeats. “Do you want some? We can split a plate.”

Jack attempts to get a fucking grip. “Uh, no, I’m good.”

At some point the waitress comes over and takes their orders; Jack is vaguely aware of ordering a burger or something, he’s not really sure. Davey fits perfectly against him like they’re a pair of puzzle pieces slotting together, relaxed and warm in his arms. Jack really wishes he could enjoy it more as it’s actually pretty nice, except for the fact that his dick is absolutely determined to get involved in the situation no matter how desperately Jack tries to control it.

There’s nowhere safe to rest his eyes, nowhere safe to put his hands. His only saving grace is that there are several layers between them⁠—if Jack can just keep it together a little while longer, Davey’ll be none the wiser to his… predicament. Still, Jack shifts slightly, trying to find a better, less perilous position just to be safe and⁠— nope, nope, that’s worse that’s worse.

He can feel the others laughing at him: Racetrack’s shit-eating grin, Crutchie sniggering quietly under his breath, Spot and Kath’s judgmental smirks. Jack takes a moment to flip them all an emphatic middle finger from behind Davey’s back.

You know what? Fine. It’s fine. Jack is fine.

Sure, any second now he’s gonna pop a blood vessel or six, and he can feel the rumble of Davey’s voice reverberating through his chest from where they’re pressed together, which is a soft and strange type of intimacy that Jack really isn’t emotionally sound enough to deal with right now, and every time Davey moves one of his thighs just barely, torturously, grazes Jack’s dick, which is getting harder and harder by the second⁠—

Food appears, a blissful distraction. Jack eats his burger one handed⁠—chewing robotically and tasting nothing⁠—as at some point he’d shifted the other hand up to Davey’s waist and he can’t bring himself to pull it back.

He goes to grab a napkin and makes the mistake of looking at Davey out of the corner of his eye.

Jack freezes, dumbstruck.

Davey is steadily working his way through his order of fries, which is fine, except that it’s absolutely not fine. See, ‘cause the last thing Jack needs is a reason to watch Davey⁠—he already finds Davey utterly enthralling, even under the most innocent of circumstances. But he’s only human. And the way Davey is eating those fries is fucking obscene.

Jack is staring, he knows he’s staring, but he can’t turn away. His eyes are caught on Davey’s mouth, on the pink flash of tongue behind his teeth, on how his fingers linger against his lower lip after every bite.

Davey notices his gaze and throws him a curious look. “Did you change your mind?” he asks, lapping up one last hint of salt from his fingertips with a little flick of his tongue. “You can have a taste, if you want one.”

Jack wordlessly shakes his head, throat impossibly dry. Jesus fucking Christ.

Davey just shrugs and goes back to his fries, completely oblivious to the way he’s just sent Jack’s blood pressure skyrocketing.

“Hey, Davey,” Racetrack pipes up suddenly with a sly smile, “can ya pass me the ketchup? I can’t reach it from here.”

Davey leans over and the roundest curve of his ass grinds right against the tip of Jack’s dick. Jack fights the urge to rock up into the sensation but he can’t help the sharp hiss of breath that escapes him, his hands clamping down on Davey’s hips to keep him from shifting any further.

“Oh, sorry, Jack,” Davey says, apologetic. “Did I hit a bruise?”

Jack longs for the sweet release of death. His fingers clench and flex against the divots of Davey’s hips, and there’s a moment where he genuinely wonders if it’s possible to combust from sexual frustration.

“You okay, Jack?” Crutchie asks, and maybe he’d be more convincing if Jack couldn’t hear the laughter in his voice. “That sounded like it hurt.”

“Eh, I’m sure Jack’s just sore,” Spot interjects, smirking. “You’re good, aren’t ya Jack?”

“Oh, I’m swell,” Jack says through gritted teeth.

“Are you sure?” Davey asks, biting his lip. “Because I could maybe—” and he starts squirming around in Jack’s lap.

Jack suppresses a groan, hands going vice-tight around Davey’s hips; Davey mercifully stops moving. “Dave, it’s fine,” Jack all but begs, voice strangled. “Just leave it.”

Davey looks at him, head tilted consideringly, but lets it go. He has to be suspecting something by this point⁠—Jack can only hope he buys that Jack’s hurting from the game, not aching for… other reasons.

Finally it comes time to close the check and clear out. Jack pays for his and Davey’s food: partially because it’s his turn and also because he knows that Davey’s wallet is in his back pocket (it’s digging into Jack’s thigh from where they’re pressed together) and the last thing he needs is Davey reaching a hand down between them.

Then there’s the process of getting out of the booth. It takes some maneuvering for Davey to get off of him: at one point he ends up facing Jack, all but straddling him as he tries to slide out of his lap, and there’s a moment where they’re so close that Jack can feel the whisper of Davey’s breath on his face⁠—one last hellish temptation. Jack stiffly clambers up after him; he’s spent so much effort restraining himself over the last hour that his joints have locked up in protest.

“I’m gonna run to the restroom,” Davey says. “I’ll be right back.”

Jack watches as he turns and walks away and fuck, seeing ‘KELLY’ stamped across his shoulders is no less devastating now than it was the first time. He waits a second, just to be sure that Davey is properly out of earshot, then he rounds on the others.

“You guys are fucking assholes,” he says vehemently.

“Oh my god,” Racetrack laughs, clutching his stomach as his shoulders shake, "that was the most entertaining shit I’ve ever seen: 10/10, best fucking idea.”

“Watch your back, Racer,” Jack hisses. “I know where you sleep.”

“Your— your face,” Crutchie chokes out, and of course he’s laughing too because Jack is surrounded by traitors. “Your face when Davey moved—“

“—sounded like a murdered cat—“ Spot adds, just to really rub it in

“—it was so fucking obvious—“ Racetrack chimes in again because he can’t help himself.

“—and then Davey said, ‘did I hit a bruise?l’”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Jack says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Get it all out ya bunch of dipshits.”

“This wouldn’t be an issue if you’d just get it together and ask him out,” Katherine says without a bit of sympathy. “Or, alternatively, if you had even an ounce of chill.”

“It’s Davey,” Jack insists. “What the fuck do you want from me? Christ, I’m going outta my mind⁠—I can’t stand to be around him, can’t hardly look at him. I deserve a fucking medal for the shit I’ve dealt with tonight, jesus, get me outta here before I lose it completely. Or fuck, just strike me down and put me outta my misery because I’m actually, genuinely gonna die if he so much as breathes in my direction again tonight.”

There’s a sort of stunned, uneasy silence following his rant. Then Jack realizes that his friends aren’t looking at him anymore: they’re looking at something over his shoulder.

Jack turns around, heart sinking. Davey’s standing just behind him and the expression on his face is fucking awful. He stares at Jack for a moment. Then he turns on his heel and storms away.

“Oh, shit. Wait⁠— Davey, wait!” Jack calls, chasing after him, but Davey’s got long legs and between one second and the next he’s outside the restaurant and cutting through the mess of cars in the lot, seemingly determined to get as far away from Jack as possible.

Jack catches up to him on the far side of the parking lot⁠—the empty half of the parking lot⁠—which is probably for the best: at least there aren’t any witnesses to Jack’s spectacular fuck up.

“Wait, Dave, slow down a second, let me explain⁠—”

“Leave me alone,” Davey says shortly, and he won’t look at Jack, still marching away at a steady clip, forcing Jack to half-jog next to him to keep up. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

“No, Davey, it’s not what you think⁠—”

“Save it!” Davey snaps. “Just go away! Get out of here before you lose it completely.”

Jack winces when Davey throws his words back at him: fuck, yeah, okay that sounds really bad. He tries to salvage the situation. “No, really, Dave, you’ve got it all wrong⁠—”

“Oh, I’ve got it wrong?” Davey hisses back, finally whirling around to face him. “Enlighten me then, because there really aren’t that many ways to interpret ‘I can’t stand him,’ or ‘put me out of my misery.’”

Jack falters in the face of Davey’s obvious hurt, his mouth opening and closing uselessly as he tries to think of something to say. He starts again: “Davey, I swear, I promise I didn’t mean it how it sounded⁠—”

But Davey won’t give him a chance to talk.

“You should’ve said something sooner, if I was annoying you so much,” Davey spits out, and he’s trying to sound derisive but there are tears starting to well up in his eyes. “No need to fucking suffer on my account.”

He scrubs a sleeve roughly across his face, then seems to remember that he’s still wearing Jack’s letterman jacket. He lets out a humorless snort.

“Here, I’m sure you want this back,” Davey says, gesturing down at himself, and all Jack can see is the bitter twist of his mouth, the anguished, defensive set of his shoulders, the way his arms are wrapped around his body—like he's trying to physically hold himself together. “I don’t know why you even bothered, when you obviously can’t fucking stand it, can’t fucking stand me⁠—”

His voice breaks on that last part, and that’s it for Jack. He steps closer, then reaches out and takes Davey’s face in his hands, carefully wiping away the couple of tears that have fallen with his thumbs. The suddenness of the movement seems to shock Davey into silence: he looks up at Jack with watery blue eyes, his mouth parted ever so slightly, too surprised to push Jack away.

“I don’t understand how you don’t see what everyone else sees,” Jack says, and his voice is rough with tenderness. “How you can’t take one look at me and just know, you know? Anyone else would’ve figured it out by now, everyone else has figured it out. I mean, it’s a fucking game for them at this point: how many ways can we torture Jack with his obvious feelings? How many ways can we make him squirm by dangling what he wants most right in front of his nose, knowing that he’ll never have the guts to actually reach out and take it.

“‘Course, the idiocy is all me, don’t got an excuse for that,” Jack continues, shaking his head ruefully, “and there’s no excuse good enough for making you cry. I’m real sorry about that, Davey. I’m sorry, period.”

He leaves it at that, giving Davey a second to process. As he’s been talking Davey’s hands have come up to sit on Jack’s shoulders; one them goes tight around the material of his shirt.

“I know this is you trying to apologize,” Davey says, sniffing a little, and though he’s moved through his upset, he’s still got that confused little furrow in his brow, “but I still don’t really understand what the hell’s going on so can you please just say whatever it is you’re trying to say and⁠—”

Jack closes that slight distance between them and kisses him. It’s nothing fancy, just the barest press of his lips against Davey’s, but even that brief contact sends his heart racing all over again.

He pulls away. Davey’s eyes have gone impossibly wide.

“I’m trying to say that I’m absolutely, knock-’em’down, drag-’em-out, head-over-heels in love with you,” Jack says. “It’s kind of a major aspect of my personality, and, like, my fucking life, really. Literally everyone knows, everyone can tell, the only reason you didn’t is because you’re fucking oblivious and have, like, no concept of how incredible you are which is a damn shame⁠—”

Davey lurches forward and kisses him. It’s soft lips and shuddering breaths and thundering hearts. It’s intent and heated and slow and savoring.

“You love me too,” Davey says with a delighted little laugh when they part that second time. “You really, actually…” He trails off and the smile he graces him with lights Jack up from the inside out and threatens to take his breath away.

And if there’s one thing Jack’s proved tonight, it’s that he is helpless to resist that which is Davey Jacobs. He leans back in for another kiss. And another. And another.

“Wait, if that’s what was… then what happened at the restaurant?” Davey pants eventually, and Jack would be a little offended that he’s thinking of other things while they’re making out, except that he’s got his arms thrown around Jack in a way that makes Jack suspect that he’s gone a touch weak in the knees. Jack fucking loves it. “Why were you being all weird…?”

Jack shakes his head, crushing their mouths back together. “It’s you… in this fucking letterman jacket,” he gets out between kisses. “It’s been driving me crazy, you look so fucking good in it, it’s goddamn criminal.”

“You… like me in your jacket?” Davey asks.

“I like you too much in my jacket,” Jack corrects.

Jack nips at Davey’s lower lip. Davey lets out a soft, breathy noise that Jack files away as something to be thoroughly explored later. Jack’s starting to deepen the kiss, his fingers curling in Davey’s hair for better purchase, when Davey suddenly pulls away, wide eyed.

“Wait, oh my god, that was your dick, wasn’t it?” Davey asks incredulously. “I thought it was your cell phone but it was your fucking hard-on pressing against my⁠—”

“Jesus Christ, shut up and let me kiss you,” Jack mutters, pulling him back in.

And there’s not much conversation after that.

#newsies #jack kelly #davey jacobs #javid #tease series #*editor's note #*the writing desk #*final cut #the one with the letterman jacket #take a shot every time jack says he's fine #actually don't do that you'll for sure die

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torentialtribute · 5 years

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England talisman Ben Stokes promises hostile welcome for Australia at Edgbaston

Ben Stokes offered a wry smile at the prospect of a new & # 39; spotless & # 39; Australia that behaves best when they enter the Edgbaston Ashes boiler on Thursday.

& # 39; It's weird when Aussies try to be nice to you, & # 39; said the restored vice captain of England as he sheltered Tuesday against the rain of Birmingham . "As soon as you cross the white line and get to the middle, the competitive side of both teams comes forward.

" Something always happens between the teams in the Ashes series and I don't think this will be different to be. The Ashes are where you are examined like no other. I can assure you that there will be some kind of theater. & # 39;

England takes on Australia in the first test of this year's Ashes series at Edgbaston on Thursday

Ben Stokes has promised that England will ensure that Australia an uncomfortable welcome

Stokes pointed out the value from a good start and ensured a England pick-up momentum

It was coach Justin Langer who on Tuesday was adamant that England is facing an Australian team that really learned their lesson from Sandpaper-gate.

And he could point to their undamaged ICC code of conduct since the dark days of Cape Town as proof of their improved attitude.

But while David Warner, Steve Smith, and Cameron Bancroft polished their halos before preparing for their trial at Edgbaston's Hollies Stand, Stokes warned them that England would do their utmost. to offer an uncomfortable welcome yourself.

& # 39; The first morning is when you want to stamp your authority as a team, & # 39; said the man who did so much to win the England World Cup.

& # 39; If you start well, it can flow through the series. It can be very difficult to come back if you go down 1-0.

& # 39; We don't want to give anything away to anyone. We want to let them know. Everyone in the dressing room desperately tries to get it back, because it's not good to have it. & # 39;

England is desperate to return the urn to conquer after losing in Australia two years ago

It is clear that England will focus primarily on Warner as a key figure in this battle of two teams that, with much stronger bowling line-ups than could dispute batting line-ups, a fast but short series.

& # 39; Davey Warner is a player who can take games away from you & # 39 ;, Stokes said.

& # 39; He is a phenomenal batsman, so tie him up and not let his authority be a really big plus for the rest of the series. & # 39;

Stokes was in a relaxed mood as he reflected on the six weeks of fierce fighting that lay ahead. The problems that have arisen from his notorious night out in Bristol have disappeared and instead have the release of his leading role in a home cup win.

Now official forgiveness for the turmoil caused by getting involved in street fighting comes from England in the form of the vice-captain he lost to Jos Buttler in the aftermath of his Bristol crimes.

& # 39; I have always tried to take away the small pressure from Joe Root & # 39; s shoulders, & he said. & # 39; Everything that he has to deal with as a captain is huge. That goes up by 50 percent in an Ashes series. If something happens to Joe and doesn't touch wood, I know I have a group of seniors who can help me. & # 39;

Stokes has been restored as vice captain after leaving his problems outside the field

Stokes was safe enough to ask in his own position to miss last week's unnecessary test against Ireland after I admitted that I I felt a bit deflated in the aftermath of that tumultuous World Cup final at Lord.

& # 39; I felt that I needed time, time at home, & # 39; said a man who usually can't miss a second in an England shirt. "I had to be in my own house, in my own bed and with the family to recharge my batteries.

" That helped me to wipe under the carpet what we had done in the World Cup.

"It was probably a week after Lord & # 39; s, when everything had come to rest emotionally, that I could finally concentrate on the ashes.

" Yes, I was sad then the World Cup was over. You think about how much effort you put into those four years and then lifted that cup. It was a real comedown because we can never relive that feeling of walking in the outfield at Lord & # 39; s again. & # 39;

The all-rounder helped to inspire England earlier to World Cup glory on homegrown

What he will experience instead is the unique sense of anticipation that still belongs to the Ashes. & # 39; The night before is the worst, & # 39; he said. & # 39; Sleeping pills are the best way to describe it. You are anxious, there is excitement, so when you go outside for the warm-up it is special.

& # 39; It is one of the best sports environments you can be in, the first morning of an Ashes series. It is hard to explain. You can only really understand it when you are out there. & # 39;

How grateful England will be that the restored Ben Stokes is back. It's Ashes again.

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#England talisman Ben Stokes promises hostile welcome for Australia at Edgbaston"

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