fic: DRINK AWARE!
DRINK AWARE!
rpf; amy poehler/george clooney; hardish r.
play it cool, poehler.
THE NIGHT BEFORE.
“So,” he starts, when Amy settles down next to him. This is nominally scripted, of course, but still, she laughs sincerely when he murmurs close to her ear, “how about a lap-dance? What would that score on the official drinking game?”
Her laugh is throaty with whiskey and adrenaline, “Drink responsibly!” She says, quirky.
“Fuck that.” He counters, and they’re both laughing now. The cameras train themselves too them, and yes, this was perhaps planned, but his hand was never supposed to be sliding between her legs as she raises him a toast.
She breathes his name through her smile, and he responds with ventriloquist flair. “Play it cool, Poehler.”
She does not play it cool.
She spends the first half-hour of the after-party actively seeking him out, and when she finds him she blushes a frankly alarming shade of pink. Tina asks her if she’s got this and she has, yes sweetie, she’ll be just fine here.
“What the fuck were you playing at?” She will ask, “We were live on international television.” She will inform him, “People saw!” In a stern voice with her hands planted on either side of her hips.
She will say none of this. She kisses him, instead, full on the mouth.
George gapes like a fish for a second or so when she pulls back. “Fuck,” he says, and she cocks her head.
“Only if you want to.”
He does want to, it transpires. They are in the bathroom, crammed into the cubicle next to someone who sounds suspiciously like Tina but she’s trying super-hard not to think about that right now because, well, George fucking Clooney’s head is between her thighs and her hands are curling in his hair and jesus christ.
“Amy,” he says against her clit, and she has to bite her own hand to keep from crying out.
“Just fucking fuck me, already.” She spits, pulling him up by his collar. Her legs fit neatly around his hips, the tips of his fingers pressing into her thighs harshly when he slides inside her. It’s awkward, for a moment, the cubicle tight and small around them and their rhythms a fraction out of sync. She laughs, feels him chuckle too and they finally figure it out. One of his hands braces beneath her leg, the other knotting itself in her hair and she finds purchase between his back and the starched white shirt.
She’s too busy kissing him to speak, but he manages to spit out a fuck me when he comes and she smiles against his chest.
THE MORNING AFTER.
George Clooney smokes. Only two people in the world knew this before now. Now there are three.
She wakes groggily, mouth dry and head beating. His free arm is holding her close to his chest, and it takes her a second or two to notice that she’s not been sleeping on a pillow.
“Oh,” she says, brushes her mussed hair out of her face. She’s naked, save for her jewellery, but her mascara’s smudged and there’s a smear of her lipstick on the hotel sheets. “Hello.”
He takes a drag. “Good morning.”
It’s been a long time since Amy’s smoked, and when she pulls a drag she splutters and coughs like a middle-schooler.
“Sorry,” she says, but he’s laughing.
“Fucking amateur hour over here.”
She kisses him just to shut him up.
They fuck the way lovers always do in the morning: slow and languid and without expectation. He hasn’t showered and neither has she, his cock taking on a bitter edge on her tongue when she sucks him off. She’s buried deep within the sheets, too hot and too hungover to do a good job. “Amy,” he breathes.
“Sorry,” she laughs, when he pulls her lips to his. “Off my game.”
She positions herself directly above him, and his lips are pressed flush to her earlobe when he pushes inside her. “Fucking can’t wait to see you on your game, then, Poehler.”
This is how it happens:
She begins on top, her hips rolling slow and her hands planted on his chest.
Then he rolls them, her hair catching in his hand and brief whimper. An apology follows. “No,” she breathes. “Don’t apologise.”
He bites down on her neck in response, moving to brace himself on his elbow and slides his right hand between their slick bodies. Her back arches up and he groans her name. “Amy Amy Amy…” he repeats, half a prayer.
Afterwards, she rolls off the bed. The search for her clothes is half-hearted, perhaps, and she can tell that he’s enjoying the view when she bends to pick up her jacket.
Her hair spills over when she leans to look at him. “Are you checking me out?”
He chuckles. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes. I am checking you out.” He laughs properly, now, the sound echoing through the room when she rifles a hand through her hair. “I’ve been checking you out for twelve straight hours now.”
She lets herself grin wide. “You’ve been asleep for at least five of those.”
“It’s a fucking talent, I tell you.”
“I’m gonna go now.” She says, gestures to the door. Her head ducks, “Ehhh…thank you, I guess? For a great night.”
He shifts up the bed, an expanse of chest and dark skin against white sheets. He raises her his glass of water. “Anytime, Poehler.”
end.
rpf; amy poehler/george clooney; hardish r.
play it cool, poehler.
THE NIGHT BEFORE.
“So,” he starts, when Amy settles down next to him. This is nominally scripted, of course, but still, she laughs sincerely when he murmurs close to her ear, “how about a lap-dance? What would that score on the official drinking game?”
Her laugh is throaty with whiskey and adrenaline, “Drink responsibly!” She says, quirky.
“Fuck that.” He counters, and they’re both laughing now. The cameras train themselves too them, and yes, this was perhaps planned, but his hand was never supposed to be sliding between her legs as she raises him a toast.
She breathes his name through her smile, and he responds with ventriloquist flair. “Play it cool, Poehler.”
She does not play it cool.
She spends the first half-hour of the after-party actively seeking him out, and when she finds him she blushes a frankly alarming shade of pink. Tina asks her if she’s got this and she has, yes sweetie, she’ll be just fine here.
“What the fuck were you playing at?” She will ask, “We were live on international television.” She will inform him, “People saw!” In a stern voice with her hands planted on either side of her hips.
She will say none of this. She kisses him, instead, full on the mouth.
George gapes like a fish for a second or so when she pulls back. “Fuck,” he says, and she cocks her head.
“Only if you want to.”
He does want to, it transpires. They are in the bathroom, crammed into the cubicle next to someone who sounds suspiciously like Tina but she’s trying super-hard not to think about that right now because, well, George fucking Clooney’s head is between her thighs and her hands are curling in his hair and jesus christ.
“Amy,” he says against her clit, and she has to bite her own hand to keep from crying out.
“Just fucking fuck me, already.” She spits, pulling him up by his collar. Her legs fit neatly around his hips, the tips of his fingers pressing into her thighs harshly when he slides inside her. It’s awkward, for a moment, the cubicle tight and small around them and their rhythms a fraction out of sync. She laughs, feels him chuckle too and they finally figure it out. One of his hands braces beneath her leg, the other knotting itself in her hair and she finds purchase between his back and the starched white shirt.
She’s too busy kissing him to speak, but he manages to spit out a fuck me when he comes and she smiles against his chest.
THE MORNING AFTER.
George Clooney smokes. Only two people in the world knew this before now. Now there are three.
She wakes groggily, mouth dry and head beating. His free arm is holding her close to his chest, and it takes her a second or two to notice that she’s not been sleeping on a pillow.
“Oh,” she says, brushes her mussed hair out of her face. She’s naked, save for her jewellery, but her mascara’s smudged and there’s a smear of her lipstick on the hotel sheets. “Hello.”
He takes a drag. “Good morning.”
It’s been a long time since Amy’s smoked, and when she pulls a drag she splutters and coughs like a middle-schooler.
“Sorry,” she says, but he’s laughing.
“Fucking amateur hour over here.”
She kisses him just to shut him up.
They fuck the way lovers always do in the morning: slow and languid and without expectation. He hasn’t showered and neither has she, his cock taking on a bitter edge on her tongue when she sucks him off. She’s buried deep within the sheets, too hot and too hungover to do a good job. “Amy,” he breathes.
“Sorry,” she laughs, when he pulls her lips to his. “Off my game.”
She positions herself directly above him, and his lips are pressed flush to her earlobe when he pushes inside her. “Fucking can’t wait to see you on your game, then, Poehler.”
This is how it happens:
She begins on top, her hips rolling slow and her hands planted on his chest.
Then he rolls them, her hair catching in his hand and brief whimper. An apology follows. “No,” she breathes. “Don’t apologise.”
He bites down on her neck in response, moving to brace himself on his elbow and slides his right hand between their slick bodies. Her back arches up and he groans her name. “Amy Amy Amy…” he repeats, half a prayer.
Afterwards, she rolls off the bed. The search for her clothes is half-hearted, perhaps, and she can tell that he’s enjoying the view when she bends to pick up her jacket.
Her hair spills over when she leans to look at him. “Are you checking me out?”
He chuckles. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes. I am checking you out.” He laughs properly, now, the sound echoing through the room when she rifles a hand through her hair. “I’ve been checking you out for twelve straight hours now.”
She lets herself grin wide. “You’ve been asleep for at least five of those.”
“It’s a fucking talent, I tell you.”
“I’m gonna go now.” She says, gestures to the door. Her head ducks, “Ehhh…thank you, I guess? For a great night.”
He shifts up the bed, an expanse of chest and dark skin against white sheets. He raises her his glass of water. “Anytime, Poehler.”
end.