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mpreg jackrry, part 3
Oct. 29th, 2017 08:57 pm[something about the dreamwidth format makes me cavalier about tossing up half-baked brainstorming, so here, have some more of the dunkirk tech bros]
Jack fishes a business card out of his wallet, which feels weird and kind of wrong, but it’s got his mobile number on it and he doesn’t have a pen and he doesn’t want to offer to text Niall. But handing the card over -- producing an unbent business card with a recognizable corporate logo and his name on it -- makes him feel a little bit more credible. Like he really is the responsible adult he sometimes tells himself he is, as opposed to a drunk fuck-up who’s possibly fathered the illegitimate child of a guy whose last name he doesn’t even know. Niall balances the card by its corners between his thumb and middle finger. “Right, I’ll give it to Harry.” He turns back to the table, where two of the girls are feeding each other bites of pretzel. Jack understands that he’s been dismissed.
[ok, it’s not relevant to our story and not something we would even know about from Jack’s POV, but this is my brainstorm and so i’m going to go ahead and tell you that Jack is at this moment looking very millennial casual Friday in jeans and a blue buttondown with a subtle check and his shirttails out and Very Nice Shoes and he looks real cute.]
“You got a thing for kickball dorks now?” Barry asks as Jack sits back down at their table.
“Fuck off,” says Jack, with no bite to it.
Barry does not fuck off. “Is that guy from last time here?”
“Harry,” Jack reminds him. “No, but I might see him again.” That seems accurate enough.
“You might?” asks Tom, sharp-eyed.
Barry saves him: “Hey, has he got a friend for Fionn? That blonde chick with the braids is pretty cute.”
“Stop pointing!” Jack hisses at Barry and slaps his hand down.
“I doubt she’s available,” Fionn says drily. “She’s literally holding hands with the girl next to her.”
“That one’s an amazon,” Tom observes. “Looks like she’d rip your throat out if you tried to hit on the blonde one.”
“Just my type,” Barry says with relish. “Think they’d be up for a foursome, Fionn?”
Fionn looks like he wants to die. Jack piles on, anything to keep the focus away from himself. “How about the one in the NASA hat? He looks like your type.”
“I don’t have a type,” Fionn mumbles, blushing in a way that makes it perfectly apparent that the dark-complected guy with a NASA hat and delicate glasses is 100 percent Fionn’s type.
Jack fishes a business card out of his wallet, which feels weird and kind of wrong, but it’s got his mobile number on it and he doesn’t have a pen and he doesn’t want to offer to text Niall. But handing the card over -- producing an unbent business card with a recognizable corporate logo and his name on it -- makes him feel a little bit more credible. Like he really is the responsible adult he sometimes tells himself he is, as opposed to a drunk fuck-up who’s possibly fathered the illegitimate child of a guy whose last name he doesn’t even know. Niall balances the card by its corners between his thumb and middle finger. “Right, I’ll give it to Harry.” He turns back to the table, where two of the girls are feeding each other bites of pretzel. Jack understands that he’s been dismissed.
[ok, it’s not relevant to our story and not something we would even know about from Jack’s POV, but this is my brainstorm and so i’m going to go ahead and tell you that Jack is at this moment looking very millennial casual Friday in jeans and a blue buttondown with a subtle check and his shirttails out and Very Nice Shoes and he looks real cute.]
“You got a thing for kickball dorks now?” Barry asks as Jack sits back down at their table.
“Fuck off,” says Jack, with no bite to it.
Barry does not fuck off. “Is that guy from last time here?”
“Harry,” Jack reminds him. “No, but I might see him again.” That seems accurate enough.
“You might?” asks Tom, sharp-eyed.
Barry saves him: “Hey, has he got a friend for Fionn? That blonde chick with the braids is pretty cute.”
“Stop pointing!” Jack hisses at Barry and slaps his hand down.
“I doubt she’s available,” Fionn says drily. “She’s literally holding hands with the girl next to her.”
“That one’s an amazon,” Tom observes. “Looks like she’d rip your throat out if you tried to hit on the blonde one.”
“Just my type,” Barry says with relish. “Think they’d be up for a foursome, Fionn?”
Fionn looks like he wants to die. Jack piles on, anything to keep the focus away from himself. “How about the one in the NASA hat? He looks like your type.”
“I don’t have a type,” Fionn mumbles, blushing in a way that makes it perfectly apparent that the dark-complected guy with a NASA hat and delicate glasses is 100 percent Fionn’s type.
