Suppliant, NC-17, Leslie/Ben
Suppliant, NC-17
Parks and Recreation, Leslie/Ben
2100 words
"It’s not so much the razor’s edge as something much more blunt. Dangerous still but without imminent threat. They never take it that far; there’s no need. Ben knows this, the exact manner to set his teeth into her skin, the extent of her ability to beg."
Contrary to popular belief, there are some things (many things, really) that Ann Perkins does not know about Leslie Knope. Whether due to simple omission or overlooking the obvious or purposeful withholding, Ann doesn’t know everything about her. How could she?
There are things, that if Ann asked her about, she would casually skirt speaking of.
When they talk about sex (and they do, not often, but enough) Leslie is sure to placate any notion that she is displeased in bed. On the contrary, her world, as it were, is generally rocked three to four times a week. Ann knows this, knows the frequency that she and Ben get down and dirty. Leslie has also told her about the way he likes to bite her in the shoulder sometimes, not because she finds it weird but because it turns her on.
And does a man biting her shoulder turn Ann on, too?
But Ann doesn’t know what kind of condoms they use (come to think of it, Leslie isn’t sure she herself knows) and she doesn’t know what they like to do in the bedroom. Not really. Not all of it.
Some of it, sure, the more mundane things Ann knows.
The rest of it, the darker things, the things that sing along her veins, diffuse her blood and cause her pupils to cloud in delight only Ben knows. Only Ben can tender, only Ben can bank. Only Ben can see her like this, vulnerable, needy, wanton for something more dangerous, something a sliver more wicked.
Leslie likes to be held down, Ben’s wrists around her own against the sheets, held down until her skin pinkens, until she’s sure it will bruise. Her skin is like fresh linen, expensive cardstock that allows the ink of his touch to bleed just the slightest bit. It hadn’t taken much to convince him the first time she’d asked and now, now it’s sweetly anticipated.
Sometimes he makes her writhe, beg for it until her throat is raw from wanting.
Other times, he’ll wind a skinny tie between her hands and keep hold of it all the while. With his head between her legs, or when she’s perched on all fours, Ben won’t release the tether in those moments because it’s too much. It’s almost overwhelming, this connection they share.
Leslie knows all about losing herself, losing herself in Ben. The delirious, heady sensation of being pressed beneath and against, her breath coming short and labored. She knows about losing herself too in Ben’s panted breath against her nape, the slide of his body, in, in deeper. When she feels like she’s being crushed, when he’s heavy on top of her and pressing her into the mattress she likes to let her breath go; it feels so beautiful that she dreams that they could become something more, together.
Ben tries to wash her out, each time, bring her back as something different. “I want to hear every sound you could possibly make,” he’d said to her the first time they’d made love and he’d meant it. And now when they fuck, he’ll leave half moon imprints on her inner arms and then scratch down and away to see what she’ll do, how her hips will cant and if her throat will close on a moan. Ben will experiment with the speed of his hips and denying her kisses and drowning her in kisses.
Even the way he lays her out against the bed, every time, it’s different. He doesn’t take control because he doesn’t have to, it’s given over willingly with a glance, a brush of finger over his shoulder, a lingering kiss to the jaw. It’s given because Leslie needs this and Ben is the only one who can provide it, is the only person she’s ever trusted enough.
“Make it hurt,” she gasps into his neck, tongue against his carotid as she goes up onto her knees, unhooks her bra with a hand and tosses it aside. “I want to feel it,” Leslie says plainly, a sincere, almost serene smile on her lips. “Tonight, make it hurt tonight and... I want to feel it tomorrow.”
“You will,” Ben promises and helps her out of her panties and then with careful, steady hands shoves her back onto the bed. She watches, reclining as he takes the time to unbutton his shirt, move to the closet and hang it up. “Don’t move, don’t move a muscle,” he says quietly, looping his belt over a chair. He takes his time removing his pants, making sure they crease properly and folds those over a hanger as well.
Ben saunters back to the bed, somehow manages to remain graceful as he climbs back up. With one knee on either side of her hips, Ben beckons her to sit up and she comes willingly, fluidly. He’s over and around and when he cups her cheek to come in for a kiss it’s like the calm before the storm. Lips are bruising against one another, forceful, teeth sliding against skin calling the ghost of pain.
She lies back and let’s him have her, allows the pads of thumbs to press into hipbones and blunt teeth to scrape over nipples. There’s the casual nip, quick and sharp and it calls to her baser instincts. Leslie’s hips just, pressing her pelvis up into his. Hardness meets softness and she groans, long and low and needy and he withholds indulging in the pressure. Ben huffs a breath through his nose, allows his eyes to slide closed for a moment. “None of that now,” he bites out, teeth grinding together as he forces himself back under control.
Still, she grins. He may be in charge but she does so love testing his boundaries. Leslie recalls with an obscene kind of glee the time she’d pushed him so hard he’d pressed the palm over her hand to make her quiet down. That hadn’t worked and the skinny tie meant for her hands had to be tied around her mouth. Not too tight, but enough to remind her who was in charge.
If she shifts her teeth just so she can almost taste the phantom cotton and silk blend on her tongue.
Now she quiets of her own volition, watches as he sits back on his heels, stands and removes his boxers. It’s dark in the room, the ambient light the castoff from the streetlamps, peeking through the blinds and the lamp in the hallway. The shafts of light are warm, golden and splay against his back as he climbs back onto the bed, settles himself slowly between her legs.
This is where he belongs. Every time, every time she thinks this, that the vee of her thighs is where he belong, always and forever. Tucked into her, tucked away. That’s where Ben Wyatt belongs.
Leslie sighs languidly as his cock aligns with her clit but he applies no pressure, just leverages his hips so there’s a spectre of pressure, just to remind her that he’s there. “Get on your knees, on all fours.” The slap he gives to her behind is palm-up and stings so delightfully that she shivers, giggles, complies easily and instantly.
It’s not so much the razor’s edge as something much more blunt. Dangerous still but without imminent threat. They never take it that far; there’s no need. Ben knows this, the exact manner to set his teeth into her skin, the extent of her ability to beg. Ben knows it all about her and he uses that, tests her, teases her, makes her need it so badly that she can finally remove herself from her own thoughts.
Just want.
Just need.
Leslie presses her forehead down onto the pillow in front of her and listens. There is the shuffle of skin against fabric and the sound of a door sliding open. A pause. A door sliding closed. She smiles into the pillowcase, shimmies back, offers herself up to him.
“No,” he says, “Not like that.” Two fingers trail through her wetness, front to back. He’s not teasing any longer.
It takes a moment but eventually he seats himself just behind her, sitting on his heels and loops an arm around her midsection. “Up now, up.”
She takes too long.
“I said sit up,” the edge in his voice just enough to command, not enough to reprimand. There’s a difference there.
Leslie sits up and Ben guides her back, arm slung up between her breasts, his grip purposeful. His other hand slides between them. He presses up while pressing Leslie down and then together. They always stop like this, just when they join; they stop and wait and imagine all of the possibilities, where the night can go from this point alone. The possibilities spiral out, endless, dark or bright.
They never end where they think they’ll end.
Her hips press all the way back and he gathers her up, one arm braced hard across her collarbones, the other twined around her midsection, holding her hard to his chest. “Not... not one word,” he growls into her ear, teeth capturing the lobe. Her head lolls back against his shoulder as he moves, her palms heavy, sweaty on her thighs.
She knows not to touch.
“All night, Leslie, I could make this...” His breath is humid as it curls around the crest of her ear. “Take all night, all night. Is that what you want?” Leslie doesn’t know, she can’t say what she wants, not really. So she leverages back against him and twines her arms around as best she’s able, grabs at his hips as they move.
Together.
“No, not tonight.” He doesn’t say why, but he does drag his teeth along the back of her neck, digs his fingers into her sides. His upper arm unwinds and moves back, up, his handle tangles in her hair and tugs, hard. Leslie arches back with a gasp and as she does Ben drops his other hand, slips two fingers down, around.
Her lips form his name but she doesn’t give voice to it; she needs this tonight, she needs this now. It builds within her quickly, coiling at the base of her spine and it’s as though Ben can feel it too. The chuckle that escapes him is deep and dangerous and he promises, “Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll have you for hours, every way I want you.”
She does her best to nod in agreement, but it’s just a boneless lolling from side to side as he drives her to the edge, his fingers working over her clit but then he pulls back, stops moving, licks up the side of her neck.
“Say something,” he says. It’s not a demand, it’s just him and it throws her for a moment.
“I.... please,” she keens, slides her hand up until it twines around the back of his neck.
His cheek presses against the side of her face as best as he can, the left side of his mouth just grazing her cheekbone. “Love you.”
“Hmmm,” she hums as he finds her centers again, circles lightly and then brings her to the edge easily. “Ben, Ben,” she stutters when she comes pressing him in as deeply as she can. And he knows what she needs in that instant, gathers her up and squeezes her until she can’t get a breath into her body.
It takes him only a moment and he’s there with her, securing his mouth to the side of her neck and pressing his teeth in.
The way he bucks into her causes her thighs to scream; she will feel this tomorrow, she’ll feel this for days. She’ll feel this and remember the noises that Ben makes and the way he steals her from her racing mind when she needs it most. She’ll see the bruises on her hips and know that he put them there because she needed him to, needed to feel him as close to the bone as he’s able.
When they’ve separated and the sweat has cooled on their skin, Leslie who is the one who gathers him up, presses them chest to chest and lays an ear to his throat, can hear the distant, distinct thud of his heart.
Ann wil ask her why she’s walking the way she is tomorrow and Leslie will make some sly comment but she won’t tell her that Ben is the only thing that can quiet her mind and when he holds her down until she can’t breathe it’s the most bliss she’s ever experienced.
Because it hurts so brilliantly.
Parks and Recreation, Leslie/Ben
2100 words
"It’s not so much the razor’s edge as something much more blunt. Dangerous still but without imminent threat. They never take it that far; there’s no need. Ben knows this, the exact manner to set his teeth into her skin, the extent of her ability to beg."
Contrary to popular belief, there are some things (many things, really) that Ann Perkins does not know about Leslie Knope. Whether due to simple omission or overlooking the obvious or purposeful withholding, Ann doesn’t know everything about her. How could she?
There are things, that if Ann asked her about, she would casually skirt speaking of.
When they talk about sex (and they do, not often, but enough) Leslie is sure to placate any notion that she is displeased in bed. On the contrary, her world, as it were, is generally rocked three to four times a week. Ann knows this, knows the frequency that she and Ben get down and dirty. Leslie has also told her about the way he likes to bite her in the shoulder sometimes, not because she finds it weird but because it turns her on.
And does a man biting her shoulder turn Ann on, too?
But Ann doesn’t know what kind of condoms they use (come to think of it, Leslie isn’t sure she herself knows) and she doesn’t know what they like to do in the bedroom. Not really. Not all of it.
Some of it, sure, the more mundane things Ann knows.
The rest of it, the darker things, the things that sing along her veins, diffuse her blood and cause her pupils to cloud in delight only Ben knows. Only Ben can tender, only Ben can bank. Only Ben can see her like this, vulnerable, needy, wanton for something more dangerous, something a sliver more wicked.
Leslie likes to be held down, Ben’s wrists around her own against the sheets, held down until her skin pinkens, until she’s sure it will bruise. Her skin is like fresh linen, expensive cardstock that allows the ink of his touch to bleed just the slightest bit. It hadn’t taken much to convince him the first time she’d asked and now, now it’s sweetly anticipated.
Sometimes he makes her writhe, beg for it until her throat is raw from wanting.
Other times, he’ll wind a skinny tie between her hands and keep hold of it all the while. With his head between her legs, or when she’s perched on all fours, Ben won’t release the tether in those moments because it’s too much. It’s almost overwhelming, this connection they share.
Leslie knows all about losing herself, losing herself in Ben. The delirious, heady sensation of being pressed beneath and against, her breath coming short and labored. She knows about losing herself too in Ben’s panted breath against her nape, the slide of his body, in, in deeper. When she feels like she’s being crushed, when he’s heavy on top of her and pressing her into the mattress she likes to let her breath go; it feels so beautiful that she dreams that they could become something more, together.
Ben tries to wash her out, each time, bring her back as something different. “I want to hear every sound you could possibly make,” he’d said to her the first time they’d made love and he’d meant it. And now when they fuck, he’ll leave half moon imprints on her inner arms and then scratch down and away to see what she’ll do, how her hips will cant and if her throat will close on a moan. Ben will experiment with the speed of his hips and denying her kisses and drowning her in kisses.
Even the way he lays her out against the bed, every time, it’s different. He doesn’t take control because he doesn’t have to, it’s given over willingly with a glance, a brush of finger over his shoulder, a lingering kiss to the jaw. It’s given because Leslie needs this and Ben is the only one who can provide it, is the only person she’s ever trusted enough.
“Make it hurt,” she gasps into his neck, tongue against his carotid as she goes up onto her knees, unhooks her bra with a hand and tosses it aside. “I want to feel it,” Leslie says plainly, a sincere, almost serene smile on her lips. “Tonight, make it hurt tonight and... I want to feel it tomorrow.”
“You will,” Ben promises and helps her out of her panties and then with careful, steady hands shoves her back onto the bed. She watches, reclining as he takes the time to unbutton his shirt, move to the closet and hang it up. “Don’t move, don’t move a muscle,” he says quietly, looping his belt over a chair. He takes his time removing his pants, making sure they crease properly and folds those over a hanger as well.
Ben saunters back to the bed, somehow manages to remain graceful as he climbs back up. With one knee on either side of her hips, Ben beckons her to sit up and she comes willingly, fluidly. He’s over and around and when he cups her cheek to come in for a kiss it’s like the calm before the storm. Lips are bruising against one another, forceful, teeth sliding against skin calling the ghost of pain.
She lies back and let’s him have her, allows the pads of thumbs to press into hipbones and blunt teeth to scrape over nipples. There’s the casual nip, quick and sharp and it calls to her baser instincts. Leslie’s hips just, pressing her pelvis up into his. Hardness meets softness and she groans, long and low and needy and he withholds indulging in the pressure. Ben huffs a breath through his nose, allows his eyes to slide closed for a moment. “None of that now,” he bites out, teeth grinding together as he forces himself back under control.
Still, she grins. He may be in charge but she does so love testing his boundaries. Leslie recalls with an obscene kind of glee the time she’d pushed him so hard he’d pressed the palm over her hand to make her quiet down. That hadn’t worked and the skinny tie meant for her hands had to be tied around her mouth. Not too tight, but enough to remind her who was in charge.
If she shifts her teeth just so she can almost taste the phantom cotton and silk blend on her tongue.
Now she quiets of her own volition, watches as he sits back on his heels, stands and removes his boxers. It’s dark in the room, the ambient light the castoff from the streetlamps, peeking through the blinds and the lamp in the hallway. The shafts of light are warm, golden and splay against his back as he climbs back onto the bed, settles himself slowly between her legs.
This is where he belongs. Every time, every time she thinks this, that the vee of her thighs is where he belong, always and forever. Tucked into her, tucked away. That’s where Ben Wyatt belongs.
Leslie sighs languidly as his cock aligns with her clit but he applies no pressure, just leverages his hips so there’s a spectre of pressure, just to remind her that he’s there. “Get on your knees, on all fours.” The slap he gives to her behind is palm-up and stings so delightfully that she shivers, giggles, complies easily and instantly.
It’s not so much the razor’s edge as something much more blunt. Dangerous still but without imminent threat. They never take it that far; there’s no need. Ben knows this, the exact manner to set his teeth into her skin, the extent of her ability to beg. Ben knows it all about her and he uses that, tests her, teases her, makes her need it so badly that she can finally remove herself from her own thoughts.
Just want.
Just need.
Leslie presses her forehead down onto the pillow in front of her and listens. There is the shuffle of skin against fabric and the sound of a door sliding open. A pause. A door sliding closed. She smiles into the pillowcase, shimmies back, offers herself up to him.
“No,” he says, “Not like that.” Two fingers trail through her wetness, front to back. He’s not teasing any longer.
It takes a moment but eventually he seats himself just behind her, sitting on his heels and loops an arm around her midsection. “Up now, up.”
She takes too long.
“I said sit up,” the edge in his voice just enough to command, not enough to reprimand. There’s a difference there.
Leslie sits up and Ben guides her back, arm slung up between her breasts, his grip purposeful. His other hand slides between them. He presses up while pressing Leslie down and then together. They always stop like this, just when they join; they stop and wait and imagine all of the possibilities, where the night can go from this point alone. The possibilities spiral out, endless, dark or bright.
They never end where they think they’ll end.
Her hips press all the way back and he gathers her up, one arm braced hard across her collarbones, the other twined around her midsection, holding her hard to his chest. “Not... not one word,” he growls into her ear, teeth capturing the lobe. Her head lolls back against his shoulder as he moves, her palms heavy, sweaty on her thighs.
She knows not to touch.
“All night, Leslie, I could make this...” His breath is humid as it curls around the crest of her ear. “Take all night, all night. Is that what you want?” Leslie doesn’t know, she can’t say what she wants, not really. So she leverages back against him and twines her arms around as best she’s able, grabs at his hips as they move.
Together.
“No, not tonight.” He doesn’t say why, but he does drag his teeth along the back of her neck, digs his fingers into her sides. His upper arm unwinds and moves back, up, his handle tangles in her hair and tugs, hard. Leslie arches back with a gasp and as she does Ben drops his other hand, slips two fingers down, around.
Her lips form his name but she doesn’t give voice to it; she needs this tonight, she needs this now. It builds within her quickly, coiling at the base of her spine and it’s as though Ben can feel it too. The chuckle that escapes him is deep and dangerous and he promises, “Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll have you for hours, every way I want you.”
She does her best to nod in agreement, but it’s just a boneless lolling from side to side as he drives her to the edge, his fingers working over her clit but then he pulls back, stops moving, licks up the side of her neck.
“Say something,” he says. It’s not a demand, it’s just him and it throws her for a moment.
“I.... please,” she keens, slides her hand up until it twines around the back of his neck.
His cheek presses against the side of her face as best as he can, the left side of his mouth just grazing her cheekbone. “Love you.”
“Hmmm,” she hums as he finds her centers again, circles lightly and then brings her to the edge easily. “Ben, Ben,” she stutters when she comes pressing him in as deeply as she can. And he knows what she needs in that instant, gathers her up and squeezes her until she can’t get a breath into her body.
It takes him only a moment and he’s there with her, securing his mouth to the side of her neck and pressing his teeth in.
The way he bucks into her causes her thighs to scream; she will feel this tomorrow, she’ll feel this for days. She’ll feel this and remember the noises that Ben makes and the way he steals her from her racing mind when she needs it most. She’ll see the bruises on her hips and know that he put them there because she needed him to, needed to feel him as close to the bone as he’s able.
When they’ve separated and the sweat has cooled on their skin, Leslie who is the one who gathers him up, presses them chest to chest and lays an ear to his throat, can hear the distant, distinct thud of his heart.
Ann wil ask her why she’s walking the way she is tomorrow and Leslie will make some sly comment but she won’t tell her that Ben is the only thing that can quiet her mind and when he holds her down until she can’t breathe it’s the most bliss she’s ever experienced.
Because it hurts so brilliantly.