(no subject)
"the ladies dig the doctors," written for oxoniensis's Porn Battle. Jack/Kate with a prompt of "phone call." Current canon and spoilerific if you're not past season four.
His cell vibrates against his hip just as he puts his key in the ignition, and he fishes the phone out of his pocket and holds it up just in time to see the words missed call appear.
It's Kate's number. But why did she hang up so fast?
A quirky tone sounds, and a little icon pops up.
He can count on one hand the number of times he's gotten a picture message from anybody, but recognizing Kate's number again, he takes a look.
He's expecting to see an Aaron original: a scribbled picture of happy stick figures or a macaroni collage or a bright coloring book page. What he's not expecting to see is an angled view of cleavage, breasts buttoned into the pinstriped shirt he left at her place yesterday morning.
Another tone, another picture, another button undone.
In the stillness of the Bronco, he lets out a small laugh and shakes his head.
(But under the laugh, he wants her; under his slacks, he's already hard.)
He waits and is rewarded by a series of pictures chronicling the slow removal of his shirt until the flat of her stomach shows, until her off-white bra and panties play peekaboo underneath for him, until she strips entirely.
Anticipation keeps him sitting there in the driver's seat without turning the key in the ignition. It's like he doesn't want to miss anything, like he couldn't -- and won't -- just be driving over to her house anyway.
The next few pictures trigger a tingling heat just under his navel: there's the expanse of her now bare upper chest, freckles scattered like dark constellations across her skin; a breast cupped in one hand, the nipple pinched between her fingers; the same hardened nipple caught and twisted between finger and thumb. They make him flush and reach down self-consciously to adjust the tightened crotch of his pants.
And even that much contact feels good. For a fleeting distracted moment he thinks he could just unzip his pants and take matters into his own hands, quick and satisfying and messy. The surgeon from the Oceanic Six jacking off in his hospital parking lot with his cell phone in his hand: he'd make headlines if someone spotted him in the act.
He can wait the twenty minutes it'll take until he's pressed against her breasts and mapped out by her hands and dipped between the parted thighs she sends him a picture of next.
Barely.
His cell vibrates against his hip just as he puts his key in the ignition, and he fishes the phone out of his pocket and holds it up just in time to see the words missed call appear.
It's Kate's number. But why did she hang up so fast?
A quirky tone sounds, and a little icon pops up.
He can count on one hand the number of times he's gotten a picture message from anybody, but recognizing Kate's number again, he takes a look.
He's expecting to see an Aaron original: a scribbled picture of happy stick figures or a macaroni collage or a bright coloring book page. What he's not expecting to see is an angled view of cleavage, breasts buttoned into the pinstriped shirt he left at her place yesterday morning.
Another tone, another picture, another button undone.
In the stillness of the Bronco, he lets out a small laugh and shakes his head.
(But under the laugh, he wants her; under his slacks, he's already hard.)
He waits and is rewarded by a series of pictures chronicling the slow removal of his shirt until the flat of her stomach shows, until her off-white bra and panties play peekaboo underneath for him, until she strips entirely.
Anticipation keeps him sitting there in the driver's seat without turning the key in the ignition. It's like he doesn't want to miss anything, like he couldn't -- and won't -- just be driving over to her house anyway.
The next few pictures trigger a tingling heat just under his navel: there's the expanse of her now bare upper chest, freckles scattered like dark constellations across her skin; a breast cupped in one hand, the nipple pinched between her fingers; the same hardened nipple caught and twisted between finger and thumb. They make him flush and reach down self-consciously to adjust the tightened crotch of his pants.
And even that much contact feels good. For a fleeting distracted moment he thinks he could just unzip his pants and take matters into his own hands, quick and satisfying and messy. The surgeon from the Oceanic Six jacking off in his hospital parking lot with his cell phone in his hand: he'd make headlines if someone spotted him in the act.
He can wait the twenty minutes it'll take until he's pressed against her breasts and mapped out by her hands and dipped between the parted thighs she sends him a picture of next.
Barely.