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mpreg jackrry, part 1
Oct. 28th, 2017 10:27 pm[haha, this was a series of asks i sent to liz a couple of weeks ago so i'd forgotten about most of it when i did that post about part 2. it also reminds me that there are some earlier inbox posts on her blog from the same verse, i think i wrote one where pregnant and fabulous harry insists on accompanying jack to his office holiday party???? ANYWAY, here is a series of asks that make up part 1...]
Ok, here we go. All I remember about this au is that Jack has some tech-lite job like software sales. He’s at happy hour with his tech bros, at a tall table in some crowded trendy German-style beer hall with six stories of new condos above it, when Harry trips and catches himself with his hand in their basket of fried pickles. The basket tips over in Jack’s lap. Harry apologizes profusely and tries to clean the pickles off of Jack’s lap, which is super awkward and Harry gets even more flustered.
Barry finally shoves a boot of beer into Harry’s hands and demands that he drink. Harry tries to decline, tries to leave the boot on the table, and all the tech bros yell at him because you’re not allowed to set the boot down until it’s empty. So Harry gamely takes a drink (only spilling a little). “Your turn,” he says, plucking Jack’s ID badge off his chest and peering at it, “...Jack.” He tugs on the lanyard the tiniest bit, just enough for Jack to feel a bit of tension. “Nice picture.”
(Obviously the dunkirk boys are Jack’s tech bros. Barry’s a brogrammer type, Tom has some high-level marketing position, Aneurin works on some top-secret next generation initiative, and Fionn is also a programmer, of the socially awkward variety, and he honestly doesn’t understand why his coworker Barry seems to have made it his personal mission to get Fionn out of the office and get him drunk and laid.)
Anyway, so Jack notices Harry’s short shorts and headband and t-shirt with a kickball league logo on it and asks if he just came from a game. Yes, Harry says, beckoning toward a table of other dudes in the same t-shirt, but I only played tonight because my friends’ team was short-handed, I’m pretty awful. (The kickball team is ot5. Niall’s the one who made Harry play.) The boot goes around the table a few more times and Harry keeps leaning closer against Jack and fiddling with his lanyard.
Eventually Harry leans in so close that Jack puts his arm around his waist because there’s literally no place else to put his arm, and Harry’s hand migrates down to Jack’s thigh, and Barry orders another boot and insists that they’re all going to finish this one in half the time, and everything seems warm and bright and Harry’s lips catch just under Jack’s ear before he whispers, “You live around here?”
Jack does indeed live a few blocks away in another nearly identical condo building. They stumble their way there. Jack is surprised to discover that for a lousy kickball player with grass stains on his knees, Harry’s pretty goddamned athletic. Or at least pretty flexible, like it’s crazy how his legs bend back. In the morning Harry doesn’t offer his number and Jack doesn’t ask. Harry gives him a lingering, scorching kiss on his way out the door and Jack’s not sure the whole thing wasn’t a dream.
TIME PASSES. Three months, to be exact. Jack sees Harry's kickball team at the bar from time to time, but he doesn't see Harry again, which only contributes to his ever-increasing sense that the best sex of his life was all a crazy dream, rather than something that happened in reality to him, Jack Lowden, on a Friday in May.
His phone lights up one evening in August, from the number that means someone's at the door of the condo building. "Hi," Harry says, hesitantly, and Jack recognizes his voice immediately. "It's Harry. Sorry to bother you at home, but we should probably talk." Jack buzzes him up and he can't figure out what to do with his hands. Should he hug him? A fistbump seems weird. He's not going to kiss him, not unless Harry kisses him first at least. Which Jack would be totally fine with, for the record.
Harry's got on a hawaiian shirt and skinny jeans, sunglasses pinning back his hair. (Jack remembers twisting his hand in that hair, how it made Harry whine. His fingers twitch.) Harry apologizes again. "Sorry to just show up," he says, raking his fingers back through his hair and replacing his sunglasses. "But I didn't have your number, and you ought to know that I'm pregnant." Jack says nothing, nothing at all, while his brain reorders itself and his stomach claws its way back up from his knees
"It's yours," Harry finally says, unnecessarily. Jack still doesn't say anything. He can't think of any questions. "First ultrasound's next week." Harry's hand drifts to his belly, fingers splayed loosely. He doesn't look pregnant. Maybe somehow this isn't actually happening. "I thought, if you wanted..." Jack's face must not look like he wants anything. Harry drops his hand. "Look, never mind. Just, now you know. I won't bother you again." He's out the door before Jack can think to stop him.
Ok, here we go. All I remember about this au is that Jack has some tech-lite job like software sales. He’s at happy hour with his tech bros, at a tall table in some crowded trendy German-style beer hall with six stories of new condos above it, when Harry trips and catches himself with his hand in their basket of fried pickles. The basket tips over in Jack’s lap. Harry apologizes profusely and tries to clean the pickles off of Jack’s lap, which is super awkward and Harry gets even more flustered.
Barry finally shoves a boot of beer into Harry’s hands and demands that he drink. Harry tries to decline, tries to leave the boot on the table, and all the tech bros yell at him because you’re not allowed to set the boot down until it’s empty. So Harry gamely takes a drink (only spilling a little). “Your turn,” he says, plucking Jack’s ID badge off his chest and peering at it, “...Jack.” He tugs on the lanyard the tiniest bit, just enough for Jack to feel a bit of tension. “Nice picture.”
(Obviously the dunkirk boys are Jack’s tech bros. Barry’s a brogrammer type, Tom has some high-level marketing position, Aneurin works on some top-secret next generation initiative, and Fionn is also a programmer, of the socially awkward variety, and he honestly doesn’t understand why his coworker Barry seems to have made it his personal mission to get Fionn out of the office and get him drunk and laid.)
Anyway, so Jack notices Harry’s short shorts and headband and t-shirt with a kickball league logo on it and asks if he just came from a game. Yes, Harry says, beckoning toward a table of other dudes in the same t-shirt, but I only played tonight because my friends’ team was short-handed, I’m pretty awful. (The kickball team is ot5. Niall’s the one who made Harry play.) The boot goes around the table a few more times and Harry keeps leaning closer against Jack and fiddling with his lanyard.
Eventually Harry leans in so close that Jack puts his arm around his waist because there’s literally no place else to put his arm, and Harry’s hand migrates down to Jack’s thigh, and Barry orders another boot and insists that they’re all going to finish this one in half the time, and everything seems warm and bright and Harry’s lips catch just under Jack’s ear before he whispers, “You live around here?”
Jack does indeed live a few blocks away in another nearly identical condo building. They stumble their way there. Jack is surprised to discover that for a lousy kickball player with grass stains on his knees, Harry’s pretty goddamned athletic. Or at least pretty flexible, like it’s crazy how his legs bend back. In the morning Harry doesn’t offer his number and Jack doesn’t ask. Harry gives him a lingering, scorching kiss on his way out the door and Jack’s not sure the whole thing wasn’t a dream.
TIME PASSES. Three months, to be exact. Jack sees Harry's kickball team at the bar from time to time, but he doesn't see Harry again, which only contributes to his ever-increasing sense that the best sex of his life was all a crazy dream, rather than something that happened in reality to him, Jack Lowden, on a Friday in May.
His phone lights up one evening in August, from the number that means someone's at the door of the condo building. "Hi," Harry says, hesitantly, and Jack recognizes his voice immediately. "It's Harry. Sorry to bother you at home, but we should probably talk." Jack buzzes him up and he can't figure out what to do with his hands. Should he hug him? A fistbump seems weird. He's not going to kiss him, not unless Harry kisses him first at least. Which Jack would be totally fine with, for the record.
Harry's got on a hawaiian shirt and skinny jeans, sunglasses pinning back his hair. (Jack remembers twisting his hand in that hair, how it made Harry whine. His fingers twitch.) Harry apologizes again. "Sorry to just show up," he says, raking his fingers back through his hair and replacing his sunglasses. "But I didn't have your number, and you ought to know that I'm pregnant." Jack says nothing, nothing at all, while his brain reorders itself and his stomach claws its way back up from his knees
"It's yours," Harry finally says, unnecessarily. Jack still doesn't say anything. He can't think of any questions. "First ultrasound's next week." Harry's hand drifts to his belly, fingers splayed loosely. He doesn't look pregnant. Maybe somehow this isn't actually happening. "I thought, if you wanted..." Jack's face must not look like he wants anything. Harry drops his hand. "Look, never mind. Just, now you know. I won't bother you again." He's out the door before Jack can think to stop him.
