Fic: Not That Sneaky: The Sequel (4/?)
Title: Not That Sneaky: The Sequel (4/?)
Pairing: Ben/Leslie, Ann/Chris (this part)
Rating: R
Word Count: About 1700 (this part)
Setting: Sometime after Jerry's Retirement (this part)
Summary: A sequel to this fic. In other words, five more times Ben and Leslie were caught/interrupted during sex.
A/n: Man, I cannot believe I haven't posted fic since January. So why not jump back into things with some smut?
Prologue || Part One || Part Two
Ann pushes Chris' back into a door, her hands tugging at his shirt, fingernails scraping just under the waistband of his pants, desperate to come in contact with any skin she can. He's kissing her as fervently as she needs him to: hot and willing and eager as fuck, and it's enough to push any thought of how inappropriate this is right out of her mind. She can already feel him, pressing insistently against her stomach, and his arms wrap around her back, pulling her closer, close enough that she can feel every inch of his body against hers.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It has been much too long since she's felt like this. Totally absorbed, totally lost, totally consumed by a man.
By Chris.
She can't help herself. It's the only explanation. The only possible reason that she has him pinned against April and Andy's bedroom door, ready to do unspeakable things to him with a party raging in the background.
Chris' hands slip from her waist to her ass, his thigh slipping between her legs with just the right amount of pressure, and holy fuck, if she doesn't get him naked and inside of her now, she's going to die.
She fumbles for the door handle, groaning as Chris suddenly turns her around. He slams her against the door, hard, but Ann doesn't even register the pain. She pulls back from his kiss, still trying to open the door, but his lips move that spot on her neck and she can't concentrate on anything but the way every nerve in her body feels electrified under his touch.
It's Chris who finally manages to open the door, and they nearly fall into the room.
It's a mess (of course it is), and the bed is unmade, and Ann really doesn't want to think about the things April and Andy do in here, so she doesn't. She just kicks the door shut and stumbles toward the bed, hands tearing at Chris' pants in an effort to get him naked. He takes over just as she gets the belt undone, and Ann goes for her own clothes, pulling her sun-dress up and over her head, and then practically clawing at the clasp on her bra.
Chris, who has always had a knack for getting naked in record time, moves to pull down her underwear, but before he can, Ann shoves him back onto the bed and crawls on top of him.
"This is crazy," she breathes just before she kisses him. Her right hand slides down his torso to his dick, and she strokes him, her thumb running along the head of his cock. He pulls back, groaning, and Ann presses her legs together in an attempt to feel some friction.
"Remind me again why we stopped doing this?" pants Chris.
"Because you're an idiot."
Chris nods, leaning up and capturing her lips again-one, two, three, four quick kisses. "The biggest idiot."
They continue to make out, Ann's hand moving somewhat distractedly; not that Chris seems to notice that her own arousal is preventing her from giving this hand-job one hundred percent of her attention. It's easier this time: easier to get caught up in how she feels, in her own pleasure, in not worrying so much if she's meeting some expectation Chris may or may not have.
They're on equal footing now, and Ann's not sure she's ever felt so comfortable in her own skin during sex.
Eventually, she pulls back, sitting up and grinning as she finally gives him her full attention. He's fully aroused, and she's more than ready, but she can't help drawing this out, teasing him just past the point of pleasure.
"Fuck," he hisses. He reaches for her, but she stays out of his grasp, and his hands fall to her thighs, fingers pressing into her skin. His eyes meet hers, dark and desperate, and fuck, she needs him inside her. Now.
But that's not what happens.
The thought no sooner runs through Ann's head than they're interrupted. A clatter, something that sounds like an avalanche of boxes, draws her attention, and her hand stops, her heart suddenly beating a mile a minute for reasons that have nothing to do with Chris. Anxiously, she cranes her neck toward the closet, and at the sound of a second, decidedly noisy thump, and she draws the sheet around her shoulders. Chris, either deaf or dumb, sits up and begins kissing her neck again as if nothing is happening. Annoyed, she pushes him back on the bed.
"Didn't you hear that?" she mutters. She tugs the sheet around herself more tightly and scoots off the bed. "Someone is in the closet!"
"I know," says Chris, reaching out and cupping her elbow. When she doesn't respond to his touch, his brow furrows. "Wait, does that bother you?"
"Yes, it bothers me!" She steps away from him, drawing the sheet up as she goes so her feet don't get tangled. "Whoever is in there can see everything out here through the slats in the door!"
Chris blinks. There's confusion etched in his face, but Ann is pretty sure it doesn't stem from lack of comprehension. Of course Chris doesn't care about voyeurism. He was in a nude production of Cats, for gods sakes.
"It could be Orin," she says, voice rising a bit in exasperation. "It could be Jean-Ralphio. Oh god. It could be Jean-Ralphio taping this on his phone." And before Chris can say anything else, she turns and stomps toward the closet door, more than ready to berate whatever pervert is in there. She can hear the heavy breathing, another louder thump, a moan-
She freezes.
It's not one just one pervert in the closet.
It's two.
And they are definitely having sex.
It's like a bucket of cold water has been thrown on her, quelling the overwhelming desire she felt just minutes before; the effect is immediate and unwelcome, and she cringes, more than ready to find her clothes and make a beeline to the door. Before she can so much as turn, though, Chris is up and at her side.
"Excuse me!" He taps on the closet door, as one might when politely inquiring if a bathroom is free, and tips his head to the side. Desperately, Ann reaches up and grabs his forearm, tugging at him, but Chris is planted firmly on two feet. He smiles at her, as though this is not at all horrifying. As though he's not interrupting two people in the middle of having sex who interrupted them in the middle of having sex.
Ugh.
There's more noise from the closet, and Chris shakes his head. Without warning, he reaches for the handles on the doors and pulls them open. Ann flinches, averting her eyes just far enough to the right to realize that Chris is still stark naked.
"Ben! Leslie!"
Without thinking, Ann jolts, eyes flying from Chris' bare ass back to the closet, only to get an eyeful of her best friend and her husband. They're both sweaty and disheveled, clothes partially removed and askew, and even in the dim light of the closet, Ann can make out the distinct scratches across Ben's back where Leslie's nails have been. Leslie's legs are wrapped tightly around Ben's waist, feet pressing against his ass, her body pinned between her husband and the wall, and Ben's very clearly still inside of her, and still it takes Ann a full thirty seconds to comprehend what she's seeing.
Her eyes catch Leslie's, just for a second-just long enough to register Leslie's half-apologetic, half-unrepentant expression-and then Ann drops her head, pressing her forehead to her hand.
"Well this is unexpected!" says Chris, like they've just bumped into their friends at the grocery store or something rather than having sex in a closet.
"Chris, do you mind?" asks Ben. Ann struggles not to roll her eyes at the annoyed undertone in Ben's words, as though he and Leslie are the wronged party in this situation. "Can you, uh, give us a second?"
"Absolutely!"
"And maybe put on some pants?"
God, yes, she thinks. This situation is awkward enough without Chris walking around proud as a peacock, his very obvious erection apparently unperturbed by these events, and yeah, Ann definitely does not want to think about what that means. If the words let's take this foursome up into the stratosphere come out of his mouth, she's moving to Taiwan.
Ann turns and goes back to the bed, sitting on the edge as Chris tugs on his boxer-briefs, definitely not watching as Ben and Leslie try to make themselves presentable. This has got to be one of the most mortifying situations she's been in. And that includes the time she and Andy tried to make a sex tape.
"Ann," says Leslie. Her hand touches Ann's shoulder, and Ann looks up, eyes flitting over Leslie's face, still flushed, her hair mussed from where Ben's hands must have run through it. Vaguely, it occurs to Ann that she probably looks equally disheveled, and she's suddenly reminded all over again that she and her boyfriend and her best friend and her husband were all having sex in the same room at the same time.
"We were-you know-And then we heard someone-you-in the hallway, and we panicked, and then you came in and you were-And Ben and I were-"
Ann shakes her head as Leslie continues to babble a mile a minute. She's only half-listening.
She already has a pretty clear idea of how this happened.
"-and really there's no reason to be ashamed," Leslie rambles. "I mean, look at you two-"
"Okay!" interrupts Ben. He steps toward Leslie, setting his hands on her shoulders, but Ann can't quite bring herself to look him in the eye yet. "I think we should go."
"Ann?"
The way Leslie says her name (the same way she always says it when she's worried), is enough to make her smile. Or at least for her mouth to twitch up in the corners for just a second. Instantly, Leslie's face softens with relief.
"Right," says Leslie. "Yep. Let's get out of here. And you two, you know, can go back to making a baby. Or whatever."
Ann groans.
Pairing: Ben/Leslie, Ann/Chris (this part)
Rating: R
Word Count: About 1700 (this part)
Setting: Sometime after Jerry's Retirement (this part)
Summary: A sequel to this fic. In other words, five more times Ben and Leslie were caught/interrupted during sex.
A/n: Man, I cannot believe I haven't posted fic since January. So why not jump back into things with some smut?
Prologue || Part One || Part Two
Ann pushes Chris' back into a door, her hands tugging at his shirt, fingernails scraping just under the waistband of his pants, desperate to come in contact with any skin she can. He's kissing her as fervently as she needs him to: hot and willing and eager as fuck, and it's enough to push any thought of how inappropriate this is right out of her mind. She can already feel him, pressing insistently against her stomach, and his arms wrap around her back, pulling her closer, close enough that she can feel every inch of his body against hers.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It has been much too long since she's felt like this. Totally absorbed, totally lost, totally consumed by a man.
By Chris.
She can't help herself. It's the only explanation. The only possible reason that she has him pinned against April and Andy's bedroom door, ready to do unspeakable things to him with a party raging in the background.
Chris' hands slip from her waist to her ass, his thigh slipping between her legs with just the right amount of pressure, and holy fuck, if she doesn't get him naked and inside of her now, she's going to die.
She fumbles for the door handle, groaning as Chris suddenly turns her around. He slams her against the door, hard, but Ann doesn't even register the pain. She pulls back from his kiss, still trying to open the door, but his lips move that spot on her neck and she can't concentrate on anything but the way every nerve in her body feels electrified under his touch.
It's Chris who finally manages to open the door, and they nearly fall into the room.
It's a mess (of course it is), and the bed is unmade, and Ann really doesn't want to think about the things April and Andy do in here, so she doesn't. She just kicks the door shut and stumbles toward the bed, hands tearing at Chris' pants in an effort to get him naked. He takes over just as she gets the belt undone, and Ann goes for her own clothes, pulling her sun-dress up and over her head, and then practically clawing at the clasp on her bra.
Chris, who has always had a knack for getting naked in record time, moves to pull down her underwear, but before he can, Ann shoves him back onto the bed and crawls on top of him.
"This is crazy," she breathes just before she kisses him. Her right hand slides down his torso to his dick, and she strokes him, her thumb running along the head of his cock. He pulls back, groaning, and Ann presses her legs together in an attempt to feel some friction.
"Remind me again why we stopped doing this?" pants Chris.
"Because you're an idiot."
Chris nods, leaning up and capturing her lips again-one, two, three, four quick kisses. "The biggest idiot."
They continue to make out, Ann's hand moving somewhat distractedly; not that Chris seems to notice that her own arousal is preventing her from giving this hand-job one hundred percent of her attention. It's easier this time: easier to get caught up in how she feels, in her own pleasure, in not worrying so much if she's meeting some expectation Chris may or may not have.
They're on equal footing now, and Ann's not sure she's ever felt so comfortable in her own skin during sex.
Eventually, she pulls back, sitting up and grinning as she finally gives him her full attention. He's fully aroused, and she's more than ready, but she can't help drawing this out, teasing him just past the point of pleasure.
"Fuck," he hisses. He reaches for her, but she stays out of his grasp, and his hands fall to her thighs, fingers pressing into her skin. His eyes meet hers, dark and desperate, and fuck, she needs him inside her. Now.
But that's not what happens.
The thought no sooner runs through Ann's head than they're interrupted. A clatter, something that sounds like an avalanche of boxes, draws her attention, and her hand stops, her heart suddenly beating a mile a minute for reasons that have nothing to do with Chris. Anxiously, she cranes her neck toward the closet, and at the sound of a second, decidedly noisy thump, and she draws the sheet around her shoulders. Chris, either deaf or dumb, sits up and begins kissing her neck again as if nothing is happening. Annoyed, she pushes him back on the bed.
"Didn't you hear that?" she mutters. She tugs the sheet around herself more tightly and scoots off the bed. "Someone is in the closet!"
"I know," says Chris, reaching out and cupping her elbow. When she doesn't respond to his touch, his brow furrows. "Wait, does that bother you?"
"Yes, it bothers me!" She steps away from him, drawing the sheet up as she goes so her feet don't get tangled. "Whoever is in there can see everything out here through the slats in the door!"
Chris blinks. There's confusion etched in his face, but Ann is pretty sure it doesn't stem from lack of comprehension. Of course Chris doesn't care about voyeurism. He was in a nude production of Cats, for gods sakes.
"It could be Orin," she says, voice rising a bit in exasperation. "It could be Jean-Ralphio. Oh god. It could be Jean-Ralphio taping this on his phone." And before Chris can say anything else, she turns and stomps toward the closet door, more than ready to berate whatever pervert is in there. She can hear the heavy breathing, another louder thump, a moan-
She freezes.
It's not one just one pervert in the closet.
It's two.
And they are definitely having sex.
It's like a bucket of cold water has been thrown on her, quelling the overwhelming desire she felt just minutes before; the effect is immediate and unwelcome, and she cringes, more than ready to find her clothes and make a beeline to the door. Before she can so much as turn, though, Chris is up and at her side.
"Excuse me!" He taps on the closet door, as one might when politely inquiring if a bathroom is free, and tips his head to the side. Desperately, Ann reaches up and grabs his forearm, tugging at him, but Chris is planted firmly on two feet. He smiles at her, as though this is not at all horrifying. As though he's not interrupting two people in the middle of having sex who interrupted them in the middle of having sex.
Ugh.
There's more noise from the closet, and Chris shakes his head. Without warning, he reaches for the handles on the doors and pulls them open. Ann flinches, averting her eyes just far enough to the right to realize that Chris is still stark naked.
"Ben! Leslie!"
Without thinking, Ann jolts, eyes flying from Chris' bare ass back to the closet, only to get an eyeful of her best friend and her husband. They're both sweaty and disheveled, clothes partially removed and askew, and even in the dim light of the closet, Ann can make out the distinct scratches across Ben's back where Leslie's nails have been. Leslie's legs are wrapped tightly around Ben's waist, feet pressing against his ass, her body pinned between her husband and the wall, and Ben's very clearly still inside of her, and still it takes Ann a full thirty seconds to comprehend what she's seeing.
Her eyes catch Leslie's, just for a second-just long enough to register Leslie's half-apologetic, half-unrepentant expression-and then Ann drops her head, pressing her forehead to her hand.
"Well this is unexpected!" says Chris, like they've just bumped into their friends at the grocery store or something rather than having sex in a closet.
"Chris, do you mind?" asks Ben. Ann struggles not to roll her eyes at the annoyed undertone in Ben's words, as though he and Leslie are the wronged party in this situation. "Can you, uh, give us a second?"
"Absolutely!"
"And maybe put on some pants?"
God, yes, she thinks. This situation is awkward enough without Chris walking around proud as a peacock, his very obvious erection apparently unperturbed by these events, and yeah, Ann definitely does not want to think about what that means. If the words let's take this foursome up into the stratosphere come out of his mouth, she's moving to Taiwan.
Ann turns and goes back to the bed, sitting on the edge as Chris tugs on his boxer-briefs, definitely not watching as Ben and Leslie try to make themselves presentable. This has got to be one of the most mortifying situations she's been in. And that includes the time she and Andy tried to make a sex tape.
"Ann," says Leslie. Her hand touches Ann's shoulder, and Ann looks up, eyes flitting over Leslie's face, still flushed, her hair mussed from where Ben's hands must have run through it. Vaguely, it occurs to Ann that she probably looks equally disheveled, and she's suddenly reminded all over again that she and her boyfriend and her best friend and her husband were all having sex in the same room at the same time.
"We were-you know-And then we heard someone-you-in the hallway, and we panicked, and then you came in and you were-And Ben and I were-"
Ann shakes her head as Leslie continues to babble a mile a minute. She's only half-listening.
She already has a pretty clear idea of how this happened.
"-and really there's no reason to be ashamed," Leslie rambles. "I mean, look at you two-"
"Okay!" interrupts Ben. He steps toward Leslie, setting his hands on her shoulders, but Ann can't quite bring herself to look him in the eye yet. "I think we should go."
"Ann?"
The way Leslie says her name (the same way she always says it when she's worried), is enough to make her smile. Or at least for her mouth to twitch up in the corners for just a second. Instantly, Leslie's face softens with relief.
"Right," says Leslie. "Yep. Let's get out of here. And you two, you know, can go back to making a baby. Or whatever."
Ann groans.