[Fic] arriving at destination
Pairings/Characters: Ben/Leslie
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "It strikes him as oddly fitting that although they are hundreds of miles from home, they’re back to doing what they do best: surreptitiously making out in governmental buildings." Leslie visits Ben in DC.
Word Count: ~1K
Spoilers: set early season 5
Author's note: Happy Parks eve, you guys! Thanks to saucydiva, who originally refused to beta this because it didn’t contain the phrase “throbbing member.” First time writing smut, so concrit is welcome.
Ever since he’d landed in DC it’s been a frenzy of early mornings and late nights, days blurring into weeks in a neverending litany of phone calls, meetings, events. Ben hadn’t realized how comfortable he’d gotten with Pawnee’s slow crawl until the bustle of DC and the sharp voice of Jen Barkley had jolted him out of his complacency.
But as Leslie barrels into his office and all but launches herself at him, he feels the knots in his shoulders begin to loosen and he lets his face relax into his first genuine smile in weeks.
A quick tour of the office later, she’s sitting in his lap, twisting paper clips into wire hearts as he desperately wills the assistant he’s on hold with to pick up the phone and accept his fax so he can call it a day and go to dinner with his girlfriend.
She shifts to get comfortable, aligning her back with his chest, and even through the many layers of fabric he can feel the heat of her, warm and solid. She’s recounting a story about one of Tom’s failed exploits, and he’s still got the phone cradled in one ear, but he’s lost in the heady scent of her shampoo and the smell of her.
“Hello? Earth to Ben?”
“Sorry,” he mumbles, setting the phone back on the desk and rubbing at his eyes with a hand. Screw it; the fax can wait until tomorrow.
“You smell nice,” he replies instead, steadying her with a hand on her hip as she twists around to peer at his face.
Her oversized smile crinkles the corners of her eyes. “You smell nice too,” she breathes, leaning in, and then she’s kissing him, or maybe he’s kissing her, and it’s slow and sweet as he reorients to the familiar feel of her tongue on his.
A small smile is tugging at her lips when they separate and he feels his lips lift in response. She’s shifted so that she’s partially facing him, one leg curled up under her.
“I missed you,” she says, the pad of her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. He answers her with a string of kisses down the column of her neck, feels her pulse jump under his touch.
It strikes him as oddly fitting that although they are hundreds of miles from home, they’re back to doing what they do best: surreptitiously making out in governmental buildings. There’s something about it that’s so uniquely them, he thinks.
And then he’s no longer thinking as she tugs him closer, their lips colliding, latent need on both sides flaring to life. He feels the familiar heat pooling low in his stomach as his tongue strokes against hers and she rakes her nails lightly over his chest.
When they break apart, both gasping for air, he finds himself with one hand under her blazer and the other tangled happily in her hair.
“We should stop,” he mumbles against the silken strands. “I’m done, we can just go.”
“Yeah, this is totally a bad idea,” she replies, tugging his shirttail out of his pants and starting on the buttons. “Please tell me your door locks.”
“It-,” he struggles to form words, watching as her nimble fingers work the last buttons loose, “it’s locked. Does that automatically when it closes.”
“Good,” she says, and there’s a dangerous glint in her eye, the kind she gets just before she pulls down her pants on live tv, and she’s drawing him close, capturing his mouth in a slow kiss before running her teeth over his bottom lip. Arousal skips through his veins, coiling low, but before he can do much about it she’s pushing off him with one hand and untangling herself from his lap.
His hands flex unconsciously as he mourns the loss of her, but then she’s shucking off her pants in one fluid motion and he watches in rapt fascination as the slacks pool around her feet. She huffs his name and he jolts into action, trying to keep up with her as they race to throw off the rest of their clothes.
She climbs back into his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips, and his fingers dance across the smooth expanse of her stomach as she sinks down onto him and they both groan at the sensation, as the soft curves of her body fit tightly to the sharp planes of his. For a moment they’re still, lost in the feel of each other, and then her hands are everywhere, blazing across his skin as she grinds down hard against him and oh, she’s going to be the death of him.
He uses what little leverage he has to meet her stroke for stroke; steady her movements with one hand on her waist as the other maps her ribcage, her collarbone, her breasts. The chair squeaks obscenely under them and he thinks that shouldn’t do it for him but it does. Everything does when she’s flushed and glowing above him, panting low against his ear, gripping his shoulders so hard she might leave a mark.
He’s feathering kisses along the hollow of her throat when he feels her breathing quicken, watches in awe as she strains toward release, the intensity startling, as it always is. Her hips rock against his as she arches back, changing the angle slightly, and he takes advantage of the newly-created space between them, fingers tripping down her abdomen to rub tight circles against her.
“Faster,” she grinds out, more demand than supplication, and he does what he can, the unsteady staccato of his heartbeat a guide. She’s radiant above him, all taut muscle and supple skin, her expression wild. He couldn’t have dreamed her up if he tried.
And then she’s cresting, arching into his touch as her fingers struggle to find purchase on the sleek leather back of the chair, and he really should stop, give her a moment, but he’s too far gone, his rhythm faltering as he stumbles toward completion, and it’s all he can do to follow her over the edge, exhaling her name on a ragged breath.
When he comes back to himself, she’s tracing aimless patterns on his flushed skin. She unsticks her forehead from his chest and smiles up at him, sated and lazy.
“Doing it all over Washington, part one - check.”
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "It strikes him as oddly fitting that although they are hundreds of miles from home, they’re back to doing what they do best: surreptitiously making out in governmental buildings." Leslie visits Ben in DC.
Word Count: ~1K
Spoilers: set early season 5
Author's note: Happy Parks eve, you guys! Thanks to saucydiva, who originally refused to beta this because it didn’t contain the phrase “throbbing member.” First time writing smut, so concrit is welcome.
Ever since he’d landed in DC it’s been a frenzy of early mornings and late nights, days blurring into weeks in a neverending litany of phone calls, meetings, events. Ben hadn’t realized how comfortable he’d gotten with Pawnee’s slow crawl until the bustle of DC and the sharp voice of Jen Barkley had jolted him out of his complacency.
But as Leslie barrels into his office and all but launches herself at him, he feels the knots in his shoulders begin to loosen and he lets his face relax into his first genuine smile in weeks.
A quick tour of the office later, she’s sitting in his lap, twisting paper clips into wire hearts as he desperately wills the assistant he’s on hold with to pick up the phone and accept his fax so he can call it a day and go to dinner with his girlfriend.
She shifts to get comfortable, aligning her back with his chest, and even through the many layers of fabric he can feel the heat of her, warm and solid. She’s recounting a story about one of Tom’s failed exploits, and he’s still got the phone cradled in one ear, but he’s lost in the heady scent of her shampoo and the smell of her.
“Hello? Earth to Ben?”
“Sorry,” he mumbles, setting the phone back on the desk and rubbing at his eyes with a hand. Screw it; the fax can wait until tomorrow.
“You smell nice,” he replies instead, steadying her with a hand on her hip as she twists around to peer at his face.
Her oversized smile crinkles the corners of her eyes. “You smell nice too,” she breathes, leaning in, and then she’s kissing him, or maybe he’s kissing her, and it’s slow and sweet as he reorients to the familiar feel of her tongue on his.
A small smile is tugging at her lips when they separate and he feels his lips lift in response. She’s shifted so that she’s partially facing him, one leg curled up under her.
“I missed you,” she says, the pad of her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. He answers her with a string of kisses down the column of her neck, feels her pulse jump under his touch.
It strikes him as oddly fitting that although they are hundreds of miles from home, they’re back to doing what they do best: surreptitiously making out in governmental buildings. There’s something about it that’s so uniquely them, he thinks.
And then he’s no longer thinking as she tugs him closer, their lips colliding, latent need on both sides flaring to life. He feels the familiar heat pooling low in his stomach as his tongue strokes against hers and she rakes her nails lightly over his chest.
When they break apart, both gasping for air, he finds himself with one hand under her blazer and the other tangled happily in her hair.
“We should stop,” he mumbles against the silken strands. “I’m done, we can just go.”
“Yeah, this is totally a bad idea,” she replies, tugging his shirttail out of his pants and starting on the buttons. “Please tell me your door locks.”
“It-,” he struggles to form words, watching as her nimble fingers work the last buttons loose, “it’s locked. Does that automatically when it closes.”
“Good,” she says, and there’s a dangerous glint in her eye, the kind she gets just before she pulls down her pants on live tv, and she’s drawing him close, capturing his mouth in a slow kiss before running her teeth over his bottom lip. Arousal skips through his veins, coiling low, but before he can do much about it she’s pushing off him with one hand and untangling herself from his lap.
His hands flex unconsciously as he mourns the loss of her, but then she’s shucking off her pants in one fluid motion and he watches in rapt fascination as the slacks pool around her feet. She huffs his name and he jolts into action, trying to keep up with her as they race to throw off the rest of their clothes.
She climbs back into his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips, and his fingers dance across the smooth expanse of her stomach as she sinks down onto him and they both groan at the sensation, as the soft curves of her body fit tightly to the sharp planes of his. For a moment they’re still, lost in the feel of each other, and then her hands are everywhere, blazing across his skin as she grinds down hard against him and oh, she’s going to be the death of him.
He uses what little leverage he has to meet her stroke for stroke; steady her movements with one hand on her waist as the other maps her ribcage, her collarbone, her breasts. The chair squeaks obscenely under them and he thinks that shouldn’t do it for him but it does. Everything does when she’s flushed and glowing above him, panting low against his ear, gripping his shoulders so hard she might leave a mark.
He’s feathering kisses along the hollow of her throat when he feels her breathing quicken, watches in awe as she strains toward release, the intensity startling, as it always is. Her hips rock against his as she arches back, changing the angle slightly, and he takes advantage of the newly-created space between them, fingers tripping down her abdomen to rub tight circles against her.
“Faster,” she grinds out, more demand than supplication, and he does what he can, the unsteady staccato of his heartbeat a guide. She’s radiant above him, all taut muscle and supple skin, her expression wild. He couldn’t have dreamed her up if he tried.
And then she’s cresting, arching into his touch as her fingers struggle to find purchase on the sleek leather back of the chair, and he really should stop, give her a moment, but he’s too far gone, his rhythm faltering as he stumbles toward completion, and it’s all he can do to follow her over the edge, exhaling her name on a ragged breath.
When he comes back to himself, she’s tracing aimless patterns on his flushed skin. She unsticks her forehead from his chest and smiles up at him, sated and lazy.
“Doing it all over Washington, part one - check.”