#IF SHE HAS BLUE EYES I’LL SURMISE THAT YOU’LL PROBABLY DATE HER

[emafallsinlove]

“is it over now” has me in SHAMBLES.

[watermollysugar]

‘If she has blue eyes then I’ll surmise that you’ll probably date her’ TAYLOR … are you saying Harry Styles would date me ?? Cause if so I’m gonna have to ignore everything you just said in that song besides that line …

[formerly-feckity-feckers]

Listen. LISTEN.

“Is it over now?” I’ve been listening to this and I can’t stop thinking about the first person I had sex with.

“If she has blue eyes I’ll surmise that you’ll probably date her.” This shit has me SCREAMING

[mackiinnon]

“If she has blue eyes I’ll surmise you’ll probably date her” is literally just “y’all would fuck a fence if it was white”

[voiceless-terror]

For the comfortober!!!! If you'd like to do some of them, might I request "Back to school/work"??? Picturing Jon, after being v sick, or recovering from an injury finally coming back to work, maybe recovered, maybe not?? And the crew just totally fussing over him ??

Here you are! Just in time for day 25.

The situation at hand is not ideal.

He’d been carrying boxes, heavy, cumbersome things that blocked his field of vision as he made his way to Document Storage. Tim had cast a disapproving eye; Jon’s not the most coordinated, he knows that. But the least he could do was carry a few boxes of statements to their proper filing place. 

But he managed to, in Tim’s retelling, ‘completely eat shit’ as his leg came in contact with an errant box, causing the one he was carrying to go flying and Jon to fall unceremoniously on the ground with an audible crack. 

Everything’s a bit blurry after that.

He remembers an intense pain in his ankle- he’s been here before, his bones are not the most stable structures (it’s a shame they’re tasked with holding his body together). But that didn’t make the pain any less. Surprisingly, it was Martin who took charge, showing a competence Jon had never seen applied to his research or his Latin translations. He picked him up, managing to avoid putting any pressure on his ankle and summarily put him in a cab, despite Jon’s many refutations that he was fine. 

He stopped that after Martin shot him a very unimpressed look.

He paid the cab driver and Jon let him- the pain was starting to make his brain foggy and his stomach nauseous. Martin waited the full two hours it took to get him admitted, even letting him fall asleep on his shoulder in one very embarrassing instance that he hopes will never see the light of day. The result of his clumsiness- a broken ankle, a cast, and a set of crutches that he threw into the closet as soon as he got home. He had a cane, that should be fine. 

Martin followed him to the door, making sure he was settled on the couch and fixing him a cup of tea as if Jon were an invalid. Sure, the painkillers he was on did not allow for much thinking, but he could manage to take care of himself. When Martin suggested staying a while, just to make sure he was fine, Jon found himself snapping a “No!” and breaking Martin out of his competent stupor. He shook his head a bit, turning red and letting out a nervous laugh. “I’ll uh, leave you to it then. Let me know if you need anything.” On his way out, he turned to him, face serious. “And don’t even think about coming in tomorrow.” He wasn’t- he’s not a complete idiot.

Okay, maybe he did briefly consider it the next morning. But the soreness had intensified, and he knew he probably wouldn’t be able to make it without breaking another bone.

Getting around was...difficult, to say the least. He spent most of the day on the couch, dry swallowing ibuprofen as the painkillers the hospital prescribed were a bit too strong, despite the ease they provided. God, it was so boring. He wished he had the foresight to bring work home. But his assistants’ texts ignored any query about work, only focusing on well wishes and asking if he ‘needed anything.’ What he needed was to do his job. If he was going to be motionless, he might as well be motionless behind a desk.

The next day, the train ride nearly kills him.

Jon manages to find a seat; people are generally sympathetic when they see a cane and a cast. He should’ve taken a cab, of course, but that seemed a little extravagant. He can manage a few steps.

Probably should’ve brought the crutches as well, but they seemed too unwieldy. When he tried them in his flat they’d put too much pressure under his arms, and he wasn’t sure how to go about adjusting them; he quickly got frustrated and threw them to the side. Patience was never one of his strong suits.

But the pain is unimaginable. By the time he gets into work, he’s huffing and puffing, on the verge of passing out. He’d taken ibuprofen again that morning, but it’s doing very little to help him out. As soon as Rosie catches sight of him, she makes sympathetic cooing noises and attempts to take his bag from him.

“Poor thing,” she says after he refuses for the third time. “Are you sure you don’t need help downstairs?”

Quite sure.

The stairs intensify the aching in his joints and he’s sure every one of his assistants hears the tell-tale thump of his cast landing awkwardly on each step. He’s met with three concerned stares, all tinged with exasperation and disappointment. He’s been eliciting those reactions a lot these days.

“Didn’t Elias approve a week of paid leave?” Sasha asks, immediately attempting to take his bag, just like Rosie. And just like with Rosie, he dodges her arms, letting out an involuntary hiss as he puts pressure on his injury. “Honestly Jon, you should’ve stayed home.”

“And where are your crutches, mister?” Tim’s leaning against the wall, looking for all the world like a disappointed parent. “I happen to know that a cane’s not sufficient when you’re in a cast like that. Not to mention uncomfortable, dragging it all around London. What were you doing, hopping down the street?”

“I had a seat on the train, thank you very much,” he says, attempting to hobble away as fast as he can to take refuge in his office. This was all very overbearing. 

“You took the train-?” Martin’s incredulous voice is cut short by a slammed door.

Peace and quiet. His office has always been a nice place to suffer in private.

Not that it remains so for long.

Martin comes in not minutes later, bearing a cup of tea accompanied by a few biscuits. “You don’t seem like much of a breakfast-type,” Martin surmises correctly, “And you’ll need to eat something with the medication they’ve got you on.” Jon does not mention he’s not currently on said medication. It sits in his pocket, heavy and accusing. Instead, he just grunts, barely deigning to raise his eyes from the work in front of him. The door shuts and Jon nibbles at the food before his stomach tells him this is a bad idea. 

He does eventually (and very reluctantly) call one of them in- he still wants to go through the files from two days prior, but he’s going to need a bit of help to get there. Tim doesn’t help him walk, however, instead pushing his office chair into Document Storage with surprising care, and helps him prop his leg up on a box to keep it elevated. Tim hands him the files one by one, sorting by date- it’s an easy, companionable task. Tim always was one of his favorite researchers to work with; there’s a reason he asked him to join his team. He’s wearing a jumper in a nice, deep blue shade. Jon is not immune to Tim’s charm or looks, but he’s mostly preoccupied with how warm it looks. His own button down and sweater vest are barely doing the job.

After about thirty minutes of this, his leg starts to ache- the stretch is no longer pleasant, and he attempts very gingerly to place his ankle on the ground. Needless to say, it does not work out very well. If the chair had about two more inches, his foot could dangle without putting undue pressure on his joints. Alas, the chair is already at its highest. 

Tim notices his fidgeting, zeroing in on the pain in his face. “Need a break?”

Jon sighs. “I’d rather get this box done, at the very least.”

Tim looks thoughtful at this. “Hold on- give me a sec.” He leaves the room but returns rather quickly, two pillows from the break room couch in tow. “Here- lean on me for a mo’, will you?” Jon manages to get to his feet relatively painlessly, leaning most of his weight on Tim’s shoulders as he puts the pillows down as a cushion, lifting him the desired inches he needs. “Better?” Tim smirks, clearly proud of his achievement.

“Much, thank you,” he admits, just happy to continue working. The throbbing is getting worse with each passing minute. They’re eventually interrupted by Sasha, who announces that she’s gotten takeout for everyone- Indian, Jon’s favorite. Elaborate and unnecessary, but appreciated. 

Ten minutes later and he’s sitting in the break room with the rest of them, picking at his curry. He knows he should eat; his mind registers the hunger, but it's hard to feel through all of the pain. Ibuprofen’s just not going to cut it. With great reluctance, he pulls the bottle of pills out of his pocket, unscrewing the cap. Martin notices.

“About time for your next dosage, I reckon?” he questions innocently. Martin doesn’t know he never took the first one, and Jon would like to keep it that way. He can’t handle any more thoughtfulness and care from the man. So he just nods, swallowing two pills and chasing them with water. If he can manage a few more bites of curry, it should be fine. 

What he didn’t keep in mind is his original reaction to the medication- that strange, loopy feeling that had him leaning on Martin the entire cab ride home. About thirty minutes later, it starts to hit. And all he can think about is Tim’s jumper.

It just looked so warm. Jon wants a jumper like that. Maybe he has a jumper like that? He’ll have to check when he’s home. There’s a lot of stuff in his closet- dumb things, remnants from his college days. Probably a few of Georgie’s jumpers. Maybe Georgie’s jumpers are that warm? But none of them are that nice shade of blue. Jon wants a jumper like that, yeah. In a nice shade of blue. He’s going to ask Tim where he got it from. But he’s got to be discreet. What if Martin overhears? And then Martin gets the jumper? They can’t all wear the same jumper, that’s ridiculous. He’s already going to have to coordinate with Tim, make sure they don’t wear it on the same day. Jon’s a grown man, he can’t go around matching his employees.

He lifts the phone, dialing Tim’s extension. It only rings once before Tim’s cheerful voice answers. “What’s up, bossman? Everything alright?”

“Tim,” he whispers, just in case anyone’s listening. “Tim, I need you to come to my office...immediately.” No, he has to give a reason or he’ll be suspicious. Why would he call Tim into his office? “Reports, Tim. Research. Bring...your research. Yes. Goodbye.” That seemed natural enough.

For some reason, all three of his assistants are at the door. No, that’s not what he wants. Not what he wants at all. “I only need Tim.” He’s still whispering for some reason. “The rest of you go away.”

They don’t, pesky things they are. Tim moves closer, face both concerned and amused. “What’s going on, Jon?” He beckons him closer- he’s so blurry, it’s hard to focus. When he gets within grabbing distance he tugs at his sleeve, forcing him close to his face. “Er, boss-”

“Tim,” Jon’s eyes are wide with urgency. “Tim, I need to know where- where you got your jumper.”

Tim makes a face, somewhere between amused and confused. Jon does not understand what’s difficult about this question. It’s very straightforward. “Um, sorry? My jumper?”

“Yes!” His voice gets louder, though he doesn’t mean it to. “It’s just- it looks so warm. And it’s so soft.” His voice starts to wobble and his eyes water as he runs his thumb across the fabric. It’s a very good jumper. “Such a nice shade of blue.”

“Okay, did you take one too many of those pills? You weren’t like this earlier.” Tim’s got one arm on Jon’s chest, attempting to stop his wandering hands as his eyes search the desk. “I swear to god, if you’ve overdosed-”

“Don’t be stupid, Tim.” Why won’t he let him touch the jumper? Does Tim not want him to be warm? Rather rude. “I only took two today.”

“Wait, seriously?” It’s Martin’s voice he hears next. “Oh, Jon. You must have been in so much pain.”

“Obviously, Martin!” The snap comes as naturally as breathing- Jon’s an old hand at that, after all. “But that’s not the point-”

“Whoa there, buddy. No need to get tetchy.” Tim’s got both of his hands on his shoulders, his eyes now patient and kind. “You’re high as hell, aren’t you? Think you should probably have a rest right about now, yeah?”

Jon can’t help the whine that comes out of his throat. Rest? No, he wants-

“I swear I’ll tell you where I got the jumper. Hell, I’ll even get one for you if I can. But only if you sleep.”

Jon sighs wearily. If I must. “That sounds reasonable. Thank you, Tim.” He allows himself to be led to a couch, limping all the way. Oh, that’s quite nice. Yes, that’ll do. Tim arranges a pillow beneath his head, and Jon hopes it's not the one he sat on before. His stomach growls, and a thought occurs to him; he grabs at Tim’s arm again, forcing him down to his level.

“Jon, I told you I’d-”

“No, that’s not it. I-I threw out some biscuits earlier. Please send my apologies to Martin.” 

Tim’s face is fond. “Will do, boss.”

“And perhaps you could secure me a few more for later.”

A soft snort. “I’m sure I can.”

“Tim, you are invaluable to me.”

“God I wish I had this on tape-”

A soft click sounds from somewhere in the room as if in response. Tim blinks. “Did you hear that?”

Jon doesn’t answer, already halfway towards sleep. 

“Huh. Alright, then.”

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27715163

[kumkaniudaku]

Ladies Night

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: SMUT, Language

Light chatter harmonized with the sounds of glasses and silverware clinking in the quaint West Hollywood restaurant chosen as the month’s “girl’s night” location. Around the round table situated in the back of the establishment, you laughed a full belly laugh with your girls at Tanisha’s long-winded explanation of how she planned to get her black porn streaming service off the ground.

“Girl, don’t nobody wanna see no flip phone backshots,” Yvonne laughed before taking a bite from her salad. “All you see is Toy Story sheets and a bonnet.”

“Speak for yourself, sis. Me and Aaron enjoy the occasional amateur ebony flick.”

“Hearing about my brother-in-law’s sexual escapades with my sister will never not be gross. Pass me the wine.”

The table fell into a fit of laughter as Tiana filled her wine glass to the brim with sweet red wine, taking a long sip before dramatically repeating the motion.

“You know how Tasha can get,” Devin smile over her wine glass. “She’s right past tipsy and willing to share just about anything. Tell us, Miss CoCo, when is the last time you put those jaws to work?”

“I am not tipsy.” A small hiccup interrupted your sentence, earning four accusatory looks from the women around the table. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“Maybe a little means Terrible T is on the way. You know you can’t drink!”

“Shut up, Tanisha! Tasha, answer the question. When’s the last time you gave Chadwick the ole two hand twist?”

“I can’t hear you. Lalalalalala,” Tiana sang over the conversation.

“You’re so childish, TiTi,” Taking another sip of your wine, you attempted to focus your blurred vision on Devin. “To answer your question, it was one, two, four weeks ago. Actually, Micah knocked on the bathroom door and we had to stop. Does that count?”

Assorted “oh hell no’s” rang out around the table, leaving you wide-eyed and a bit embarrassed. None of them understood the impossible nature of remaining sexually active in a house teeming with toys, annoying children’s songs about sharks, and two children that knew not, nor cared about the meaning of privacy.

There was no such thing as “mommy and daddy time” when an inquisitive six-year-old and busy 11-month-old roamed the hallways looking for trouble. After having the door nearly kicked down in the middle of the night while Chadwick positioned you over his knee to test out the new flog ended with an earlier than expected lesson on the birds and bees, you and your husband had been forced into a sexual hiatus. Chadwick had no problem waiting it out. You couldn’t say the same.

“So you tellin’ me that you and Big Dic-”

“Tanisha!”

“You and Chad ain’t done the horizontal tango in a month?!”

“Thirty-one days?”

“Four consecutive weeks?”

“Giiiiirl!”

The genuine shock etched across the faces staring back at you penetrated the wine induced haze to convey the gravity of the situation.

“Oh my God. I haven’t had sex with my husband in a month. He’s - he’s gonna leave me!”

“Aaaaand here we go,” Tiana groaned as she took the opportunity to finish off the last of the Colomé, "Estate" Malbec on the table. Catching the waiters eye, she simply lifted the bottle to gesture for another round on your tab.

Assuming her usual role as comforter, Devin rubbed circles against your back to soothe the mix of tears and uncontrolled hiccups rising from your sudden distress.

“Oh, honey, he’s not going to leave you. Christine and I don’t get to have sex for at least two weeks out of the month and we’re fine.”

“It’s not the same,” you croaked before taking a sip from your glass. “You guys are women. Women are smart and have feelings and shit. I know he wants his dick sucked. I know it!”

Your fist hit the table in a drunken rage, getting the attention of a few parties in the area.

“Oh-kay, let’s get you into a more private space,” Yvonne suggested, grabbing her purse. “C’mon, to the bathroom you go.”

“He’s probably packing his things right now. He better leave that sweater I got him for Christmas. I paid for that with his money!”

Yvonne did her best to quiet your hysterics on the way to the bathroom in an effort to save your public image. The firestorm that resulted from the Black Panther’s wife drunk and crying in Nobu would not be pretty once sobriety returned.

Once the smoke had cleared and you were reassured that Chadwick was not planning on divorcing you, you were left to rest against the bathroom sink and purse watch while Yvonne relieved herself in the stall nearby. A loud yawn left you mortified at the stale alcohol taste in your mouth. Deciding to travel light with only your wallet and phone meant no gum, and you preferred not to ask others face to face with offensive breath.

“‘Vonne, do you have some gum in your bag. My mouth tastes like despair.”

“What does that even taste like, fool?”

“Like that time you let weird Bernard from work take you to that rib shack for a date.”

An audible shudder sounded from the other side of the stall before Yvonne could respond, “Please, never bring that up again. The gum is in the left zip compartment. In the tin foil package.”

“What are you? 65?”

“How about you shut your drunk ass up and chew the gum!”

“Okay, okay,” you laughed as you rummaged through her purse. The search for gum turned into a pulling out various lipstick and gloss components to hold against your lips and decide what you would ask for later.

When the toilet flushed to remind you of your original purpose for taking a deep dive into her bag, you hastily grabbed the first package you saw and popped the bitter blue tablet into your mouth. Your quiet gag went undetected before Yvonne could round the corner to wash her hands and follow you back into the main dining area.

With the sex crisis handled, you were able to enjoy your creamy spicy snow crab with your girls and discuss more pressing issues.

“You’re telling me you didn’t cry during the last scene in Dreamgirls? I don’t believe you,” Tiana accused Tanisha across the table.

“What was so sad about it?! They were just singing, then Effie came out in that horrible ensemble. You know what, that was sad. Why they ain’t get my sis a better dress?”

“Tanisha, why are you like this,” you jokingly questioned.

“Y’all need rappers like me,” she answered, imitating Nicki Minaj’s declaration in Chun Li. “Hey, anybody have some gum? This garlic has my breath smelling like weird ass Bernard.”

“Can we please leave that in the past!”

The table fell into another fit of laughter at Yvonne’s expense and the memory of her first attempt at dating after relocating from Atlanta to Los Angeles.

“Sure, ‘Vonne, we won’t bring it up again...tonight,” you taunted, earning an exaggerated eye roll. “You don’t want any of her gum anyway, Nish. It’s bitter, chalky, and dissolves before you can even chew!”

“What are you talking about? Dentyne Ice has never given me those problems.” Pulling her hand from the depths of her bag, Yvonne waved the foil gum package to reveal contents far different from what you had ingested 20 minutes earlier.

“But...I...okay, wait.” Curious stares watched you run your hands over the front of your hair to smooth non-existent flyaways in your low bun. “If that’s the gum in your purse, what were the blue tablets?”

“Blue tablets? What are you -” Yvonne stopped herself as realization came crashing down. “T, that was not gum. Tell me you didn’t have more than one.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT WASN’T GUM?”

Yvonne rushed to quiet you down before explaining the situation. “Girl, that was,” a beat to lean closer and lower her voice. “Girl, that was Viagra.”

“What!”

“Girl, what are you doing with Viagra,” Tiana asked, raising the question that everyone wanted to ask. “Is there something you need to tell us? This is a safe space, sis.”

“First of all, everything is perfect in my bedroom.”

Tiana threw up her arms in faux surrender at Yvonne’s glare, “Okay! I’ll take your word for it. That still doesn’t explain why you’re walking around like Morpheus.”

“I pick up my Dad’s prescriptions when he and my step-mom are out of town. I swear I was just holding them for him until he came home. I must’ve forgotten to take them out of my purse.”

“Devin. Devin, look at me,” you demanded through labored breaths. “Am I going to be okay? I’m slightly intoxicated and I can feel the flames of hell all over my skin. Oh my God, there’s an itch on my back. Devin, there is an itch on my back! Help me, Devin, please!”

“Okay, calm down, Tasha. Calm down.” Devin took your face in her hands to get a better understanding of the symptoms you described. Just as she thought, you were suffering from a mild panic attack, and only marginally warmer than your normal temperature. As for the itch, she surmised that it was most likely an exaggeration. Still, she raked her fingernails across the center of your back to calm you. “You will be just fine, Tasha. Viagra comes with usually mild side effects so you may feel a headache or nausea aside from the expected arousal.”

“So, I’ll just be horny?”

“Just horny,” she assured you. “And, who knows, this could be what you need to get things moving at home. Or, you may not feel a thing. Either way, you’ll be fine.”

As you took in the information and murmurs of agreement from the group, most of your worry dissipated. The worst that could happen was a bout of nausea that you could explain away with the amount of wine you consumed during dinner. Sure, Chadwick would be upset, but it beat explaining you accidentally took a Viagra any day. The more time continued to tick away and the lights of Downtown Los Angeles faded into the tranquility of suburbia with no signs of abnormal arousal, the more you were sure that you had overrated.

A rare pothole in the neighborhood proved you wrong. The slight bump sent shockwaves through your lower half, pulling an unexpected and embarrassing moan from your throat. You were throbbing, confused, and begging for more at the same time.

“Ma’am, are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, I’m fine. Um, how much longer until we reach the destination?”

“Say about...four minutes.”

“Is there a way I can pay you extra to get me there in one?”

The driver chuckled as he turned onto your street, “No can do. This is my only stream of income right now. I just got laid off and…”

The middle-aged man’s life story faded into the background, leaving you to face the dull thump between your thighs and your nipples straining against the lace of your bra. By the time the heels of your Manolo pumps were clicking against the hardwood of your home’s foyer, you could feel the honey from your center coating inside of your thighs.

For a moment, all you could hear was your heart thumping wildly in your chest as you looked for any sign of your man. You were met with near silence and darkness in the kitchen and living room, leading you to believe that Chadwick was asleep and you would be left high and the complete opposite of dry for the night. The sound of the television in the home office down the lower level hallway gave you renewed hope that God had heard your prayers, seen your pain, and decided to end your suffering.

Removing your shoes, you tipped toed down the hallway to peek in the room, finding Chadwick sipping a beer with his feet propped on the ottoman while the Clippers game played on the projector against the wall. You let go of a relieved sigh and slowly crept into his line of vision. The blue light on his mahogany skin gave him a celestial glow to match the award-winning smile on his face.

“Look who’s home. D’you have a good time, baby? C’mere.” Chadwick opened his arms for you to join him on the couch, leaving your breath to hitch at the thought of being in such close proximity. His shirtless frame revealed a toned abdomen and sculpted chest. Cautiously, you placed your belongings on the ottoman before occupying the space on his lap. “Mmmm, I missed you. You would think I’d be able to handle a couple of hours without you in the house.”

Your nervous laughter pulled in the scent of his body wash and cologne, forcing you to stifle a needy whimper. “Well, I’m home now. How were the kids?”

“They were actually little angels. Micah helped me make tacos, Noah didn’t take off his diaper like last time, and both of them were asleep by nine. I think I’m getting the hang of this Dad thing. How were the girls?”

“You know, everyone is great. S-same ol -” Chadwick’s fingertips dragging up and down your exposed thigh put in a brief daze that you fought to snap out of.

“Co, are you okay?” Pulling away to get a look at your face, he caught a glimpse your eyes full of lust and partially covered with hooded lids. “Are you drunk?”

“Me? Drunk? Nooooooo. No, no, no, no. I’m not drunk at all.”

Your attempt at convincing your husband of your sobriety was unsuccessful, causing him to continue to press you for answers. “Yeah? If you ain’t drunk, then why you giving me the look?”

A staring contest commenced, the twinkle in his eye meeting the blank look in yours, as you cycled through various response options in your mind. You could admit to the four glasses of wine and pill or conveniently omit the latter altogether. Your therapist’s warning about half-truths still being lies picked the most inconvenient time to play on a loop in your mind, forcing you to come clean.

“Okay, so I did get drunk, but honestly what is drunk for me? You know my tolerance is low. I got a headache from all the wine and crying about you leaving me because we don’t have sex anymore so Vonne took me to the bathroom and told me to take an aspirin out of her purse except I took viagra by accident. What even is Viagra? Long story short, I’m so wet right now I might slip and fall if I stand up and I need you so bad right now! Please...help me.” Your admission came out in one breath and ended with a feeble plea for relief.

Chadwick stared back at you for a moment, confusion turning into a Cheshire smile and a light chuckle.

“You said all of that to tell me you want to make love?”

“No, you aren’t hearing me.” Pushing your body from his arms, you swung a leg over his waist to straddle his lap. His speed was no match for yours as you made quick work of cupping his face and pressing your lips onto his for a fiery kiss. His hands roamed your bottom half until he reached the hem of your dress to lift it to your waist.

Letting his bottom lip go with a whisper quiet pop, you focused your attention on his dazed expression.

“I need to fuck tonight. I want to be pounded, baby. Ruin me. Fuck. Me.”

“I think I can do that for you,” he purred, voice buzzing against your cheek as he leaned forward to nip and suck at a spot on your throat.

The feeling of his lips commanding goosebumps to prickle the skin on your arms and chest sent your mind into a fog. It was a battle between mind and body that forced you to press your palms flat against Chadwick’s chest to push your body off his lap.

“Take it off. All of it,” you commanded as you pulled the zipper down the front of your dress to reveal your lace bra and panty set. It was the first time you could remember wearing a pair of panties that didn’t cover every square inch of your ass, much less match your bra. None of that mattered as you discarded the damp item somewhere across the room.

Chadwick stood to his full height in front of you, displaying his body in all its beauty and glory.  A split second of thick sexual energy turned into an all-out race to touch and taste whatever skin was available on each other’s bodies. Chadwick settled on your lips while took a firm hold on one of your ass cheeks, kneading the supple area and groaning at the feeling. As much as you loved his sensuality, now was not the time.

Breaking the kiss, you pushed your husband back onto the couch before dropping to your knees in front of him. You were too focused on running your hands down his stomach and thighs to notice Chadwick's head fall against the back of the couch at the simple sensation of your skin on his. For weeks he’d tried his best to hide his frustration at the lack of contact, often returning to the activities of his teenage years to stay sane. When your tongue licked a long stripe from base to tip, he could’ve sworn he saw his soul pack up and walk out of the room.

You were a woman on a mission. At some point, as you used both hands to twist around his shaft in alternating directions while you sucked as much as you could fit into your mouth, you forgot he was even in the room.

Sensing he was growing weak from the intensity of your oral demonstration, you took pause to show him some attention elsewhere. Your full lips pressed against his balls to hum a made-up tune, earning hushed curses and a near painful grip on your hair.

“Look at you,” he half spoke, half moaned. “You look so pretty with Daddy’s balls in your mouth. You gon’ make me cum?”

Flickering your eyes up to meet his, you moaned a sultry “mhmm” with your lips still wrapped around him.

“Good girl. Fuck, baby, just like that.”

You stuck around for a few moments longer to lightly suck and grip until the desire to return to his dick was too overwhelming. Moments later, with his hands on either side of your head, Chadwick held you in place while he released inside your mouth.

While always game for sex, Chadwick wasn’t prepared for you to move on so quickly. He was expecting a few minutes of touching, maybe even some reciprocity on his end, but you had other plans. Taking a swipe from your slick entrance, you used your essence as lubrication to jerk his member and speed up the arousal process. It didn’t take long for Chadwick to return to his full erect length. Both of you let out loud sighs of relief and bliss as you sunk down onto his dick, taking each inch bit by bit.

Chadwick watched you in awe as you took control, switching between positions with a dancer’s grace. Your control turned him on to no end while you rode him in whatever way you saw fit, and drank in all of your facial expressions and slurred praises when he plundered you across the arm of the couch.

By the time he found himself fucking into you against the wall with distorted images from the projector danced across your bodies, he was finding it hard to give you the intensity you desired while holding your legs around his waist. Your weight mixed with his aching muscles were becoming a recipe for disaster. Still, he allowed you to bounce in his lap well past his own orgasm in hopes that round four would be the knockout round.

Your body stiffened in his arms as your cried out his name, clawing at his back and tucking your nose into the crook of his neck while hot shoots of white light clouded your vision.

“That’s it, girl, let it go,” He murmured against your skin once he felt you begin to relax. His fingertips drew soothing circles at the small of your back as you began to pepper kisses along his collarbone.

“Oh my God.” The sparks of euphoria were beginning to wane, leaving you wanting more. “I feel like I just ran a mile.”

“You should! It’s been a while since you reached that far in your bag of tricks,” A long yawn left his lips as he reached around you to steady himself on the wall so that you could have room to dismount his waist and stand on your own. When you didn’t let go, he began to worry. “Is something w-”

“More.”

Your abrupt interruption made Chadwick raise his eyebrow in confusion. “What did you say?”

“I need more. You promised, Daddy.”

Chadwick’s jaw slackened in shock as you peered up at him with pleading eyes. He’d just poured his entire being into pleasing you for as long as he could muster, and you still were asking for more. What would’ve turned him on to no end was confusing and a bit demoralizing.

“You are...a monster,” he whispered more to himself than to you.

“Oh, please don’t start the dramatics, Aaron. Just say no if you don’t want to.”

“I just gave you my best performance in months and you want more? Am I only a sex object to you?” Chadwick watched you push away from his body to gather the clothes you could find before making your way to the doorway. “Where are you going? You can’t just walk out on me after this. I deserve to be big spooned after the work I just put in!”

His childish request for cuddling was equally amusing and irritating, forcing you to choke back a smile as you turned to answer his question. “I am going to finish in the bedroom. You can either sit down here and pout or come watch me put the Rabbit to use. Either way, I’m not done. Good night.”

Initially, Chadwick felt proud of himself for making his feelings known without receiving significant pushback. It wasn’t often that he told you no, and even when he did, he would always end up relenting in one way or another. The thought of you accepting a blatant refusal to continue without so much of a pout and one-sided argument became more perplexing the longer he sat (naked) on the couch. The thought of you upstairs, sprawled across the bed while you brought yourself to climax made Chadwick’s mind race and hands roam aimlessly around his body until he was feeling a familiar stiffening below.

“Fuck,” he whispered as he slouched against the couch, fighting the urge to accept defeat and race upstairs to join you. A small moan, one he was sure he wasn’t meant to hear, sent a chill down his spine while sending his resolve out of the room. Looking down, he addressed his member. “You think you got one more in you, bro? Good. Let’s go.”

                                              _________

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[toonstarterz]

Having a lot of free time on my commute to boot camp has made me crazy enough to write an Ikarishipping fanfic. That ain’t a complaint by the way. 

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12660134/1/Empathetic

Rating: T

Pairing: Paul/Dawn

Summary: Gym Battles? Easy. Winning the Pokémon League? Child's play. Becoming Dawn's stupid boyfriend? Paul's greatest challenge.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pokémon, TPCi, or any of its properties. Bless you, Satoshi Tajiri.

~ Empathetic ~

Contrary to what people may think, Paul is not some stone-faced, unfeeling bastard. He has emotions just like everyone else. Serious. Bitter. Exasperated. That last one’s been happening a lot lately, and the cause of it comes from everywhere. His chimchar failing to meet expectations, the trainers in the corner that won’t shut up about Brandon of the Battle Pyramid, that blue-haired friend of Ash whose name alludes him that tries to get him to show a smidgen of compassion.

Paul is exasperated.

Paul’s hates useless small talk. He always answers people with only the minimum amount of words necessary–or a cold scowl if he can help it. But that girl–Dawn, right?–is tailing behind him after he exits the Pokémon Center and it doesn’t seem like she’ll leave him alone unless he talks to her.

He mentally groans. If he has to say something, he may as well be honest.

And so he talks. He talks about his dislike for Ash, his distaste for how similar the boy is to his brother Reggie, and how inane ideas like ‘trust’ and ‘guts’ annoy him to no end.

He expects Dawn to start spouting nonsense about how right Ash is, and how wrong he is. What he doesn’t expect Dawn to say is how people can have vastly different styles despite having similar beliefs, and how those contrary styles don’t necessarily make any one person wrong.

At least, that’s what she meant to be say. Her actual answer is much more simple-minded.

But the important part is that Dawn didn’t reject him like so many others, and when your training style goes against the majority rule, that’s oddly comforting.

Paul is thankful.

He runs into her again about a year later by chance. Yes, chance. He refuses to call it ‘fate’. He just so happened to be in the area following his win at the Lumiose Gym when he bumps into Dawn right in the middle of the north plaza. It’s probably his biggest surprise of the day, second only to the gym leader he’d just beaten that was also a talking robot. They exchange awkward pleasantries, and Dawn invites him over for lunch at Restaurant Le Nah. And it’s only because Paul has no excuse, and that he’s actually quite hungry that he agrees.

He plows through the double battle with just his weavile, and helps himself to an order of soup and breadsticks while Dawn enjoys her salad. She offers to foot the bill.

It’s only later that night that Paul realizes that, by pure definition, he went on a date with Dawn.

Paul is not displeased.

Paul is not fond of pokémon contests. They’re far too showy and impractical for his sake. But while he has no interest in contests, he can respect that pokémon coordinators need a mastery of skills are that are far beyond Paul’s level of understanding.

When he sees Dawn on the broadcast trounce the competition with a combination of discharge and ice beam to create a cage of electrically-charged ice, he is quite honestly impressed.

Next time they run into each other, he asks her to teach it to him.

So they set up a date, er, meeting the next day at a local park where they have a few practice battles and in no time, Weavile and Electivire have mastered the technique completely, albeit in a style more suited for battling. As a thank you, Paul offers to buy her a meal.

As they eat in silence, A girl with giant pink ringlets saunters up to them and starts giving them the third degree.

“This guy your boyfriend?” she asks, loud enough for the other patrons to hear.

“No, Ursula,” Dawn says, barely hiding the annoyance behind a smile. “This is Paul, one of Ash’s rivals from a few years back.”

Paul makes some sort of grunting noise that simultaneously says, “yes” and “back off” to this Ursula girl. She takes the hint and exits the restaurant with a satisfied smirk.

Paul is irritated.

Less than two months have passed, and word around the coordinator circle is that the esteemed Dawn is now dating some edgelord trainer named Paul.

Paul reads the excerpt in Coordinator Monthly, clicking his tongue in distaste.

If there’s anything Paul truly hated about being a pokémon trainer, it’s the publicity. Warding off reporters, kids badgering him for battling advice, that goddamned fanclub that arose when that photo of him in an undershirt leaked online. It’s why Paul travels alone, away from all the scrutiny so he can keep all his focus on training. But all of his attempts to keep a low profile were apparently all for naught.

Zoey is the first to confront him. He cooly brushes her off, simply stating that it’s mindless gossip and completely untrue. She leaves him alone after that, but not before giving him an eye that said “you try anything funny, and I’ll break your legs”.

Barry comes soon after that, demanding at the top of his lungs for an explanation lest he fine Paul for betraying him. Paul doesn’t know what he means by that, and frankly, he doesn’t care. He gives him the same answer he gave Zoey, word for word, and Barry eventually believes him.

At some point, Kenny steps up, and Paul saves the poor guy a lot of trouble by outright denying everything before he can even get a word in.

Paul is tired.

Paul excels at a lot of things. Training, battling, pissing people off, the list goes on. But the one thing he never got the hang of is being a socially functional human being.

So when Dawn invites him over to a banquet for coordinators as her plus-one, Paul is disinterested, as if trying to find some benefit to going that will help him be a stronger trainer.

“Why?” he asks far too directly, “Just ask someone else.”

“Everyone else is busy with other plans,” Dawn explains, a bit miffed. “And you’re my only friend left in the whole region!”

Paul stiffens, his mind stuck on the word ‘friend’. When was the last time anyone ever referred to him like that? Kindergarten?

“People will get the wrong idea,” he tells her gruffly. “And I’d rather not give them another reason to think that we’re dating.”  

“Since when have you ever cared about what people think of you?” she counters.

Touché. Still, he’d like to keep the pests at bay, especially now that they’ve finally started to leave him and his nonexistent love life alone. But as far as he can tell, all the coordinators at the banquet will be people he’s already explained himself to, so the possibly of another rumor spreading should be exponentially lower.

“Fine.”  

Paul is naive.

After a long day of training for the Pokémon League, Paul checks into the local Pokémon Center. Nurse Joy sympathetically tells him that they’re overbooked and that he’ll need to share a room with someone in order to stay. Not surprising, he surmises. The League challengers are always monopolizing the Center during this time. He’d much rather get his own room, but he can deal with bunking with some random trainer for the night.

As the nurse hands him the room key, it’s only then that he notices Dawn further down the reception desk, a room key in her hand marked with a number the same as his own.

That night, he glances from his book as Dawn exits the shower, clad in a white rope, and her glistening, blue hair hanging over her bare shoulders.

Paul is frustrated.

Paul is a man of routine. Wake up, eat breakfast, train, eat lunch, train, eat dinner, read a book, sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. If something were to incorporate itself into his precious time, it would have to be something of great importance.

How Dawn managed to sneak her way in there, he’ll never know.

Today, Paul is listening with one ear as Dawn laments on making the semifinals of the Unova Grand Festival. She hasn’t made it this far since Sinnoh all those years ago, and understandably, she’s nervous out of her mind.

He notices Dawn’s fidgeting hand, so he places his own ice-cold palm on top of it in an attempt to calm her down. “You’ll be fine,” he says offhandedly, not even looking up from his phone.

Dawn eyes bug out, and she goes red in the face, as though Paul has violated her in some way. When she realizes that this was Paul’s weird way of showing affection, she smiles softly, and places her other hand on top of the pile.

“Thanks Paul,” she says with a sigh of relief, “You’re a good friend.”

Paul is ignorant.

“Do you want to go out with me?”

It doesn’t show on his face, but Paul feels like he was just blown back fifty feet by a hyper beam. He swerves his body to stare at Dawn as if she’s grown a second head. He scrutinizes her, looking for some trace of teasing on her expression, some hint of humor in her body language, any sort of indication that she’s only pulling his leg.

There is none.

“Why?” he asks, with all the careful seriousness he uses in battle. “I don’t date people.”

“I know, but…” Dawn bites her tongue, trying not to sound foolish. “I really like you, you know? I mean, you’re smart and determined and not as heartless as everyone says you are.”

Paul thinks she’s rationalizing. That she must be blinded by some great desire for romance that she’s ignoring all the very obvious reasons why he would not be a good boyfriend in any respect. At least, that’s what he thinks at first. He knows from first-hand experience that while Dawn can be naive, she’s not frivolous, nor is she the type to lead people on. In that case, she must honestly have some romantic interest in him, as absurd as that may sound.

And if he’s being completely and utterly and totally honest...he’s rather fond of her himself.

Just a tad.   

“Fine,” he says curtly. “I’ll go out with you.”

A jubilent smile stretches across Dawn’s face, and she immediately starts listing off places to go on their first “official” date, while her boyfriend of three seconds grumbles in agreement.

Paul is content.

Paul nibbles down just below Dawn’s collarbone, eliciting a faint moan from the coordinator. He gently pushes themselves onto the bed, and slowly moves his tongue down Dawn’s figure while she straddles his waist.

At this moment, Piplup steps into the room and squawks in horror. In the shadow of darkness, all he can see is a big, scary man forcing himself onto his beloved trainer.

Piplup launches forward with a drill peck, and Paul screams loud enough to wake up the entire Pokémon Center.

While her boyfriend gets checked for rectal damage, Dawn takes Piplup into the hospital lobby to have a magnificently awkward talk about human relationships.

Paul is humiliated.

Paul isn’t sure how to feel at the moment. One the one hand, he’s just accomplished a huge part of his dream that many trainers could only hope for. On the other hand, he feels weak in the knees, as if all the attention on him is physically beating him down into the ground. Or maybe that’s just the solid gold trophy in his grasp.

“Congratulations, Paul,” Cynthia says to him with a tender smile. “May you carry the title of Sinnoh League Champion with honor.”

“Thank you.” Despite of himself, Paul smiles. As of now, nothing could ruin his relatively good mood.

At least until the press conference.

With the reporters and cameramen bombarding him like a machine gun, Paul resists the urge to curse them out and instead puts on a face of what he hopes is dignity.

“Mr. Champion, what’s the secret to your immense strength?”

“How do you respond to the allegations that you’ve abused your pokémon with illegal stimulants?”

“Is it true that you are dating Top Coordinator Dawn?”

“No comment,” Paul spits. “Next question.”

The next onslaught of paparazzi is even more ravenous, and after an hour of fending off the vullabys, Paul retreats to his hotel room. Dawn is there with a cup of tea and a comfy bed.

Paul is drained.

Paul hardly doubts himself. Oh sure, ninety-nine percent of things annoy him to no end, but barely anything makes him self-conscious. He’s so used to people chastising him for his harsh training methods that such things now slide off like butter. Years of being called a douche, a stick-in-the-mud, and an asshole has given Paul a lot of thick skin.

But when a young trainer actually called him a ‘nice guy’, Paul visibly bristles.

Worst yet, his former rival Ash Ketchum is there when it happened. As a precocious little boy dashes off in excitement after receiving the Sinnoh Champion’s autograph, Ash is giving Paul the most aggravating yet genuine shit-eating grin the latter has ever seen.

“A ‘nice guy’, huh?” Ash lightly teases. “I always knew you had a heart.”

Paul glares back at him as if to mentally punch him in the face. It isn’t the first time someone has accused him of getting ‘soft’, and it’s a trend that’s been bugging him for over a year now. They always say that it’s in the little things, such as the hint of warmness in his fierce eyes, or how he now compliments his pokémon about five percent more often than usual. And every damn time, they always say it began when he started dating Dawn. Paul cringes at the possibility of losing his edge to romance.

“No need to worry,” he tells the young man with the pikachu on his shoulder. “That’s just the image I have to put on as Champion. Absolutely nothing’s changed about me.”

Paul glances aside, having made his point. He hopes that Ash, is his infamous ability to take everything at face-value, will drop the subject after that. But when he sees the guy stifling a laugh, a surge of rage rushes over Paul’s body.

“What?” he barks.

Ash crosses his arms, knowingly. “You just said ‘No need to worry!’ You’re talking like her now!”

It takes all of three seconds for the the color to drain from Paul’s face. He races forward in shame, trying to hide his mortified expression from Ash’s exuberance. No amount of humiliating defeats could rival the terror that comes with adopting your girlfriend’s catchphrase. He stops in the middle of a clearing, his mind racing as Ash catches up to him.

At what point had Dawn brainwashed with all these flowery emotions? Paul considers smashing his head with a rock to self-induce amnesia and revert back to his old, happily unhappy self. But then he remembers there’s too much to lose.

Like it or not, Dawn had been good to him–like a spoonful of bitter medicine that tastes awful at first, but makes you feel better in the long run. Whenever he was doing more than his daily ten hours of training, Dawn would remind him to eat dinner. Whenever he forgot his ‘please and thank you’s, Dawn would punch him in the arm. Whenever the stress of being Champion was too much and he sentenced himself to solitary confinement, Dawn would drag him out so they could watch Cleavon Schpielbunk movies over ice cream sundaes.

Indeed, every ounce of logic was screaming that Dawn was ruining him. But in his shriveled up, raisin-like heart, he knows that Dawn is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to him. And that feeling he gets when Paul realizes that he, the man who worked through blood, sweat, and tears to get to the top, couldn’t handle the fun-loving nature of his own wonderfully imperfect girlfriend can only be summed up in the most prominent word in his dictionary.

Paul is pathetic.