FIC: ABC LISTERS
ABC LISTERS
rpf; amy poehler/george clooney; hardish r.
the picture of amy poehler giggling on george clooney’s lap goes kind of viral. set post the glory that was gg2013.
nb; for winebitch. who understands the importance of alcohol in this world.
“I can see your tits from here.”
She squirms on his lap, and it only makes the dress gape wider, “You can see like, a third of the total tittiage. Shut up.”
“There’s definitely a hint of nipple.”
A voice in Amy’s ear. She grabs her glass, turns tight towards his face and smiles wide. “You ass.”
The picture of Amy Poehler giggling on George Clooney’s lap goes kind of viral. There are gifs, inventive cropping and an abundance of exclamation marks. Journalists and teenage girls alike mention Will Arnett as though her ex-husband is even vaguely relevant to this totally scripted and completely fake situation.
“It’s funny,” George had said as the camera cut back to Tina, “I always imagined your nipples would be-“
At this Amy had gone to stand but George’s arm around her waist had held her down. “No.” He had said simply, downed his drink and leaned in to kiss her neck. His mouth was wet with Moet, and the suction will leave a mark but at least he had stopped talking about her nipples in a room crowded with cameras and c-listers.
This is what Amy thinks after the fact. The carefully staged fact.
Two weeks later George succeeds in taking her out for a drink. “My youthful bravado hides a tortured soul.” He tells her.
“Dude, you’re fifty two.”
“Life begins at forty.”
“You’re dating a thirty three year old.”
“She is also the legs of WWE.” He says by way of explanation, tipping the remains of his wine down his throat and sloshing the bottle towards her glass and then his. It splashes off the table and onto her knees.
“Good one,” she says drily as she dabs at her lap with a napkin. It’s made of paper, a sure sign that this bar is cheap by everyone’s standards. He explains it away: no-one expects to find George Clooney in the kind of place where you have to pay for peanuts and a fat woman tries to sell cologne in the restroom. At least, this is how she lets him justify it and she’ll grant him that the beer was good and the martini was good and the wine he’s just tipped all over her was, too.
It strikes Amy as kind of ironic that the sexiest guy on Earth is called George, which is like number one on her and Tina’s exhaustive ranking of unsexy names.
She tells him this and it makes him laugh. They’re in the same bar, a different night, and there’s two excited underage drinkers sitting across the room from them. “They’re pointing at you, not me.” George observes.
“Must be your unsexy name.”
“Yeah,” he buys himself some time with a smirk, “Amy.”
She shoots him an uncharacteristically sharp look, “What the fuck isn’t sexy about Amy?”
George seems to wilt under her gaze, “Nothing.” He says into his drink and she grins wide in triumph to the flash of an iPhone camera.
The pictures hit Twitter the following day, followed by Gawker, that weird-ass Livejournal place and Tumblr not long after that and really, this is not about Will Arnett so what the fuck, guys?
She goes for coffee with Tina. “You sly, sly, sexy cow.” Tina says over her latte. Her glasses have slipped far enough down to make her look like a school marm and it makes Amy grin despite herself.
“You have a moustache.” Amy says, and that is all she says. The corners of her mouth twitch.
“You minx,” Tina continues, “You shady lady.”
“We’re not actually-- you know.”
“What are you doing then, girl?” Tina places her cup deliberately on the table and pulls a face. “Amy,” she says, “As a sister. As a fellow human female. Please take the opportunity, and fuck George Clooney.”
George texts her. We need to find somewhere new to drink.
Comes her reply, courtesy of one Elizabeth Stamatina Fey:
Your place or mine? ;)
“It was Tina.” She says, the moment he opens the door.
“I know,” he says with that easy smile of his and she stops and turns.
“How?”
His smile only widens, creasing in the corners of his eyes, and it’s only right about now, standing in his hallway on a rainy Tuesday night that Amy really comes to appreciate the George Clooney thing. Half a second passes and Amy figures he must have noticed the momentary twitch because his grin evolves into a beam in that time. “Call it a sixth sense.” He says and his voice is pitched lower than usual.
She throws him the best look she can in the circumstances. “Really?”
“Remember the Globes?” George says, when she’s settled at one end of his sofa. His fingers brush hers when he passes her a glass of wine, and her feet graze his through tights and striped socks.
“No,” she deadpans, “Not at all.”
“I could see your tits.”
“You could see a bit of my tits.”
He holds her gaze, “They’re nothing to be ashamed of.”
Her hand clenches, but she keeps looking at him. He’s waiting for the satisfaction of her giving in and ducking her gaze and he knows that she knows it. “You don’t get to tell me that.”
“You’re fucking sexy, you know that?”
She lets the grin play around her lips. “Yes.”
George shifts closer to her, “You’re supposed to reciprocate.” He says, in that same low voice as earlier. There’s an edge of danger to it, perhaps, but Amy stands, or rather sits, her ground.
Indeed, Amy leans in and smiles. “Yes.”
It’s been three months since he kissed her neck at the Globes, and now his lips finally make contact with hers it is clumsy and stuttering. They both tilt one way and then the other until she giggles and holds his head still. Even then there’s a clink of teeth and an awkward jolt when her knees slip and her pelvis hits hard against his as she goes to straddle him. George groans and she smiles as he moves his lips to their old spot, the curve of tendon on her neck.
He’s more insistent this time, using his teeth and his tongue until she gasps and wraps her fingers through his hair to push him down.
George responds to this in earnest, settling slowly between her legs. He strips her of her jeans, her pants and finally her dignity as he curls three fingers of one hand inside her.
They fuck in that spot, with Amy on top grappling for purchase. Her hair falls over her face and she bites her lip in concentration but she does not close her eyes and neither does he. “George,” she breathes when he slips a hand between them, bucks when he runs it over her clit, his forefinger still wet from their earlier ministrations. His spare hands gropes for her: her hair, her tits, her waist and her thighs each in turn. Her thrusts against him grow erratic and he settles his hand on her hips, then, the guidance he wants but she does not need.
He comes with a stutter of her name, her soon after with a deliberate omission of his.
“Someone must have noticed.” George says. Amy’s hairs splayed across his chest, still heaving slightly.
“Noticed what?”
Her eyes flick up in time to see and return his smirk. “That I could see inside your dress.”
END.
rpf; amy poehler/george clooney; hardish r.
the picture of amy poehler giggling on george clooney’s lap goes kind of viral. set post the glory that was gg2013.
nb; for winebitch. who understands the importance of alcohol in this world.
“I can see your tits from here.”
She squirms on his lap, and it only makes the dress gape wider, “You can see like, a third of the total tittiage. Shut up.”
“There’s definitely a hint of nipple.”
A voice in Amy’s ear. She grabs her glass, turns tight towards his face and smiles wide. “You ass.”
The picture of Amy Poehler giggling on George Clooney’s lap goes kind of viral. There are gifs, inventive cropping and an abundance of exclamation marks. Journalists and teenage girls alike mention Will Arnett as though her ex-husband is even vaguely relevant to this totally scripted and completely fake situation.
“It’s funny,” George had said as the camera cut back to Tina, “I always imagined your nipples would be-“
At this Amy had gone to stand but George’s arm around her waist had held her down. “No.” He had said simply, downed his drink and leaned in to kiss her neck. His mouth was wet with Moet, and the suction will leave a mark but at least he had stopped talking about her nipples in a room crowded with cameras and c-listers.
This is what Amy thinks after the fact. The carefully staged fact.
Two weeks later George succeeds in taking her out for a drink. “My youthful bravado hides a tortured soul.” He tells her.
“Dude, you’re fifty two.”
“Life begins at forty.”
“You’re dating a thirty three year old.”
“She is also the legs of WWE.” He says by way of explanation, tipping the remains of his wine down his throat and sloshing the bottle towards her glass and then his. It splashes off the table and onto her knees.
“Good one,” she says drily as she dabs at her lap with a napkin. It’s made of paper, a sure sign that this bar is cheap by everyone’s standards. He explains it away: no-one expects to find George Clooney in the kind of place where you have to pay for peanuts and a fat woman tries to sell cologne in the restroom. At least, this is how she lets him justify it and she’ll grant him that the beer was good and the martini was good and the wine he’s just tipped all over her was, too.
It strikes Amy as kind of ironic that the sexiest guy on Earth is called George, which is like number one on her and Tina’s exhaustive ranking of unsexy names.
She tells him this and it makes him laugh. They’re in the same bar, a different night, and there’s two excited underage drinkers sitting across the room from them. “They’re pointing at you, not me.” George observes.
“Must be your unsexy name.”
“Yeah,” he buys himself some time with a smirk, “Amy.”
She shoots him an uncharacteristically sharp look, “What the fuck isn’t sexy about Amy?”
George seems to wilt under her gaze, “Nothing.” He says into his drink and she grins wide in triumph to the flash of an iPhone camera.
The pictures hit Twitter the following day, followed by Gawker, that weird-ass Livejournal place and Tumblr not long after that and really, this is not about Will Arnett so what the fuck, guys?
She goes for coffee with Tina. “You sly, sly, sexy cow.” Tina says over her latte. Her glasses have slipped far enough down to make her look like a school marm and it makes Amy grin despite herself.
“You have a moustache.” Amy says, and that is all she says. The corners of her mouth twitch.
“You minx,” Tina continues, “You shady lady.”
“We’re not actually-- you know.”
“What are you doing then, girl?” Tina places her cup deliberately on the table and pulls a face. “Amy,” she says, “As a sister. As a fellow human female. Please take the opportunity, and fuck George Clooney.”
George texts her. We need to find somewhere new to drink.
Comes her reply, courtesy of one Elizabeth Stamatina Fey:
Your place or mine? ;)
“It was Tina.” She says, the moment he opens the door.
“I know,” he says with that easy smile of his and she stops and turns.
“How?”
His smile only widens, creasing in the corners of his eyes, and it’s only right about now, standing in his hallway on a rainy Tuesday night that Amy really comes to appreciate the George Clooney thing. Half a second passes and Amy figures he must have noticed the momentary twitch because his grin evolves into a beam in that time. “Call it a sixth sense.” He says and his voice is pitched lower than usual.
She throws him the best look she can in the circumstances. “Really?”
“Remember the Globes?” George says, when she’s settled at one end of his sofa. His fingers brush hers when he passes her a glass of wine, and her feet graze his through tights and striped socks.
“No,” she deadpans, “Not at all.”
“I could see your tits.”
“You could see a bit of my tits.”
He holds her gaze, “They’re nothing to be ashamed of.”
Her hand clenches, but she keeps looking at him. He’s waiting for the satisfaction of her giving in and ducking her gaze and he knows that she knows it. “You don’t get to tell me that.”
“You’re fucking sexy, you know that?”
She lets the grin play around her lips. “Yes.”
George shifts closer to her, “You’re supposed to reciprocate.” He says, in that same low voice as earlier. There’s an edge of danger to it, perhaps, but Amy stands, or rather sits, her ground.
Indeed, Amy leans in and smiles. “Yes.”
It’s been three months since he kissed her neck at the Globes, and now his lips finally make contact with hers it is clumsy and stuttering. They both tilt one way and then the other until she giggles and holds his head still. Even then there’s a clink of teeth and an awkward jolt when her knees slip and her pelvis hits hard against his as she goes to straddle him. George groans and she smiles as he moves his lips to their old spot, the curve of tendon on her neck.
He’s more insistent this time, using his teeth and his tongue until she gasps and wraps her fingers through his hair to push him down.
George responds to this in earnest, settling slowly between her legs. He strips her of her jeans, her pants and finally her dignity as he curls three fingers of one hand inside her.
They fuck in that spot, with Amy on top grappling for purchase. Her hair falls over her face and she bites her lip in concentration but she does not close her eyes and neither does he. “George,” she breathes when he slips a hand between them, bucks when he runs it over her clit, his forefinger still wet from their earlier ministrations. His spare hands gropes for her: her hair, her tits, her waist and her thighs each in turn. Her thrusts against him grow erratic and he settles his hand on her hips, then, the guidance he wants but she does not need.
He comes with a stutter of her name, her soon after with a deliberate omission of his.
“Someone must have noticed.” George says. Amy’s hairs splayed across his chest, still heaving slightly.
“Noticed what?”
Her eyes flick up in time to see and return his smirk. “That I could see inside your dress.”
END.