fic: better than joe, leslie/ben, r
title: Better Than Joe
author:
shornt
pairing: Leslie/Ben
rating: Hard R due to drunken sexytimes
words: ~1600
notes: Last night's episode was begging for some fic, and after the prompt "Ben/Leslie drunk sex taking place after the end of this week's episode." on parksandreckink, I couldn't resist. Thanks to Caitlin for the usual.
Suddenly they’re both three sheets to the wind, alcohol seeping over the edges of their glasses as their hands frantically wave to punctuate talking points, shoveling bites of melted ice cream sundae into their mouths like their lives depended on it.
“Her face is bad too, and like, who even uses lipstick like that?” Leslie slurs, spilling a little cocktail on Ben’s sleeve. “Sorry.”
“I never knew vodka and alcohol went together,” he says with a giggle, downing another gulp. He follows it with a fork of vanilla ice cream (Leslie’s sticking to the hot fudge and whipped cream), but when he puts the spoon down, Leslie realizes she’s seeing double.
“You got-a-lot-a appendages there,” she croaks, before her brow creases. “No. Utopia?”
“Utensil,” he offers.
“Yes! That.” She slumps over so her head lays on her hand as she stares at him, unable to hide the grin stretching her cheeks. “You’re so good, Ben. Such a good smart person. Manager of my campaign. The best! You know all the words.”
“I was shitty today.” But he doesn’t seem to mind anymore, because the words cause him to laugh and they’re both laughing, and crap she got hot fudge on her blazer, which she shouldn’t even be wearing because it’s so hot in here. Like really hot. She’s sweating.
“I feel gross,” she mumbles, and tries to pull off her blazer before it gets caught on her arms. It’s like she doesn’t even know how to use her elbows. Elbows. God, that’s a weird word when you think about it. “Who ‘nvented elbows anyway?”
Instead of helping her, Ben just pokes her in the elbow.
“Stupid.” Which is for some reason the best word she can think of to describe his face. He just smiles at her, all dopey and cute and ugh. “We should go home. To bed. By bed, I mean sex.”
“Yes,” he agrees, finishing his drink before looking around wildly. “I can’t drive. Your chart thingy.”
“Me neither.”
“Walk?”
He makes a grand show of standing and taking her hand like a chauffeur, which would be awesome if he didn’t trip over her foot. But it’s okay because standing is kind of hard so she gets to lean against him, and he’s warm and his arm feels nice around her shoulders, and he turns in to kiss her temple. But she’d like to be at her house so he can kiss other places.
Of course, they are greeted in the parking lot by a taxi driver, half asleep and holding a sign that says “Knope/Wyatt.”
“I hate that campaign bitch,” Leslie spits, but her fire quickly fizzles to guilt. “That was mean. Shouldnta said it.”
“I’ll say it,” Ben says, drawing her close. She thinks he’s going to kiss her, which would be preferable right now please, but he lowers his mouth to her ear and whispers. “She’s a bitch.”
“Stop!” she giggles, hitting him a bit with her purse. “S’not nice. For a lady. Someone’ll punch you like you punched Bowling Guy.”
“Look lady,” the cab driver snaps, “I’m already paid to drive you. Do you need the ride or what?”
--
The cab drive is full of other names for Jennifer Barkley, ranging from Ben’s “Lameifer Snarkly” to Leslie’s winning “Buttifer Fartley,” which makes them laugh way more than it should.
Once they spill into Leslie’s foyer, Ben presses her against the closed door, sliding his hands beneath her shirt. That feels really good, his palms on her skin, as he leans in kisses her neck.
“You’re still way sexier than Fartley,” he mumbles, his tongue working at her pulse point. “But so short you should be the elf.”
“Nuh-uh,” she insists, pushing him back. She pokes him in the ribs, which makes him flinch and yelp in pain. “See? Fragile.”
“In Lord of the Rings, elves are actually--”
“Oh my god, shut up right now.” Her entire world right now consists of untucking Ben’s shirt and trying to stop swaying on her heels, and he’s thinking about nerd things? God. Even drunk Ben is a dork. “Bed. Now.”
They bump into a lot of furniture and she isn’t sure where she dropped her blazer, but they somehow make it up the stairs and into the room. But despite the clothes that now lead a trail to her bed, Ben’s still wearing pants and her blouse is rumpled but still on.
“Off,” she prods, unable to work his belt buckle. Everything’s a little hazy and her brain’s kinda melty but it’s making his hands feel awesome, big and warm, and she just wants to push him back on the bed and curl into him forever. But before she can, he’s lifting her shirt off and he’s got his belt done, and they fall on the mattress together, and then he’s above her and making out with her face and life is good.
“This is why you’re small,” she says, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him down so they’re chest-to-chest, heat pressing against heat. “I can hold all around you.”
“S’not like I can’t do that back,” he insists, running his hands all over her body. “I can do this too.” One hand trails down between her legs, just teasing, before moving to her thigh with wandering fingers.
“Mean. Just mean.” She pouts and tries to move his hand back, but he holds it steady against her hip now. “Move it!”
“Small but strong,” he gloats, his smile cocky as he tightens his muscles against Leslie’s hand. But she knows his weakness, no matter how powerful his little body is, and her other hand darts to his spine and tickles. “Wait!” he squeaks, but it’s too late and he’s on his back, a triumphant Leslie straddling his thighs. That’ll teach him.
“Ah, but you forget. Centaur powers.” She flexes her biceps for him, falls forward with a hand planted on either side of his head. She smirks when his eyes travel downward, eager hands finding her breasts and kneading.
“I thought these were your Centaur powers,” he teases, easing her forward so he can kiss a line down her breastbone.
“You’re dumb.” But it feels too good to stop him, as his mouth trails sloppily over to a nipple, sucking it into his mouth and blowing cool air. Her smile turns wicked. “And you’re a pervert, Joe.”
“Can’t help that you’re so hot, Jill,” he whispers against her skin, and it makes her shiver so much that she doesn’t notice a hand slipping lower, his fingers suddenly stroking and circling. It’s perfect. He’s perfect.
“You really would make an awesome vice president,” she lets out before yanking on his hair so she can kiss him on the mouth, his hand continuing to work against her, a finger slipping inside. She moans, grinding down against his hand as a second finger joins in.
“Not president?”
“I’m president,” she says, because duh. They’ve been over this a lot. “That’s why this is hot.”
“Thought we were the Bidens.” But his finger flicks against a sensitive patch and she bucks, falling forward so her head rests against his shoulder. What did he say? She can’t even think, just pant wetly against him, kissing at his neck between breaths.
“Whatever, just put it in!”
“Romantic,” he deadpans. He must be sobering up a little or something, because he sits up and maneuvers them so she’s sitting in his lap, legs wrapped around his waist. She can feel him, hot and hard right against her, and she wiggles desperately.
“Come onnnnnn!”
He lines himself up and pulls on her waist, and with some shifting around he’s inside her. And she sighs, because this is always so perfect and he fills her so well and she needs to make out with him right now. All her limbs curl around him (See? Advantages of smallness), arms tight around his neck, and he keeps trying to push at her waist but she can’t figure out how to move right.
“This is complicated,” she whines, resting her forehead against his. “Shouldn’t be this hard.”
“Hold on.”
He pushes her forward so he can stretch out on top of her, hooking a knee over his elbow. Okay, that feels a lot better, and wow okay, really deep.
“Jesus, Ben.” He lifts an eyebrow deviously, continues to move into her, slow but strong. Her patience is wearing out though, and her hands slide down to his butt and squeeze.
“Ow!” And he’s distracted enough that she can knock him onto his back again, hands pushing against his chest as she moves above him, faster but more sloppy. Crap. How does she do this again? Maybe she shouldn’t have had that last cocktail.
Thankfully, Ben’s hands guide her hips up and down, faster and faster until he moves one to her center, and everything’s getting swirly and she has to lean into his chest, and then he’s just holding her and moving himself in and out, and then she stops breathing for a minute and everything gets even hazier, his face shifts out of focus and she shrieks.
--
Ben may be small, and he may be bony, but that doesn’t mean he’s a bad cuddler. He’s a really super awesome cuddler, in fact.
Once they get cleaned up and the room starts sharpening again, he pulls her into his arms, lets her rest her head over his heart. Bony, but comfy. They fit.
“I really am sorry about today, though,” he says with a heavy sigh.
“Stop,” she groans. “You’re great. You’re perfect and I love you and I don’t know what I’m doing either. But we’ll figure it out.”
“You’re less drunk.”
“You’re less drunk first.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
She snuggles in farther, wraps her leg around one of his.
“I love you,” he whispers into her hair, and she smiles.
“Love you, elf.”
author:
shornt
pairing: Leslie/Ben
rating: Hard R due to drunken sexytimes
words: ~1600
notes: Last night's episode was begging for some fic, and after the prompt "Ben/Leslie drunk sex taking place after the end of this week's episode." on parksandreckink, I couldn't resist. Thanks to Caitlin for the usual.
Suddenly they’re both three sheets to the wind, alcohol seeping over the edges of their glasses as their hands frantically wave to punctuate talking points, shoveling bites of melted ice cream sundae into their mouths like their lives depended on it.
“Her face is bad too, and like, who even uses lipstick like that?” Leslie slurs, spilling a little cocktail on Ben’s sleeve. “Sorry.”
“I never knew vodka and alcohol went together,” he says with a giggle, downing another gulp. He follows it with a fork of vanilla ice cream (Leslie’s sticking to the hot fudge and whipped cream), but when he puts the spoon down, Leslie realizes she’s seeing double.
“You got-a-lot-a appendages there,” she croaks, before her brow creases. “No. Utopia?”
“Utensil,” he offers.
“Yes! That.” She slumps over so her head lays on her hand as she stares at him, unable to hide the grin stretching her cheeks. “You’re so good, Ben. Such a good smart person. Manager of my campaign. The best! You know all the words.”
“I was shitty today.” But he doesn’t seem to mind anymore, because the words cause him to laugh and they’re both laughing, and crap she got hot fudge on her blazer, which she shouldn’t even be wearing because it’s so hot in here. Like really hot. She’s sweating.
“I feel gross,” she mumbles, and tries to pull off her blazer before it gets caught on her arms. It’s like she doesn’t even know how to use her elbows. Elbows. God, that’s a weird word when you think about it. “Who ‘nvented elbows anyway?”
Instead of helping her, Ben just pokes her in the elbow.
“Stupid.” Which is for some reason the best word she can think of to describe his face. He just smiles at her, all dopey and cute and ugh. “We should go home. To bed. By bed, I mean sex.”
“Yes,” he agrees, finishing his drink before looking around wildly. “I can’t drive. Your chart thingy.”
“Me neither.”
“Walk?”
He makes a grand show of standing and taking her hand like a chauffeur, which would be awesome if he didn’t trip over her foot. But it’s okay because standing is kind of hard so she gets to lean against him, and he’s warm and his arm feels nice around her shoulders, and he turns in to kiss her temple. But she’d like to be at her house so he can kiss other places.
Of course, they are greeted in the parking lot by a taxi driver, half asleep and holding a sign that says “Knope/Wyatt.”
“I hate that campaign bitch,” Leslie spits, but her fire quickly fizzles to guilt. “That was mean. Shouldnta said it.”
“I’ll say it,” Ben says, drawing her close. She thinks he’s going to kiss her, which would be preferable right now please, but he lowers his mouth to her ear and whispers. “She’s a bitch.”
“Stop!” she giggles, hitting him a bit with her purse. “S’not nice. For a lady. Someone’ll punch you like you punched Bowling Guy.”
“Look lady,” the cab driver snaps, “I’m already paid to drive you. Do you need the ride or what?”
--
The cab drive is full of other names for Jennifer Barkley, ranging from Ben’s “Lameifer Snarkly” to Leslie’s winning “Buttifer Fartley,” which makes them laugh way more than it should.
Once they spill into Leslie’s foyer, Ben presses her against the closed door, sliding his hands beneath her shirt. That feels really good, his palms on her skin, as he leans in kisses her neck.
“You’re still way sexier than Fartley,” he mumbles, his tongue working at her pulse point. “But so short you should be the elf.”
“Nuh-uh,” she insists, pushing him back. She pokes him in the ribs, which makes him flinch and yelp in pain. “See? Fragile.”
“In Lord of the Rings, elves are actually--”
“Oh my god, shut up right now.” Her entire world right now consists of untucking Ben’s shirt and trying to stop swaying on her heels, and he’s thinking about nerd things? God. Even drunk Ben is a dork. “Bed. Now.”
They bump into a lot of furniture and she isn’t sure where she dropped her blazer, but they somehow make it up the stairs and into the room. But despite the clothes that now lead a trail to her bed, Ben’s still wearing pants and her blouse is rumpled but still on.
“Off,” she prods, unable to work his belt buckle. Everything’s a little hazy and her brain’s kinda melty but it’s making his hands feel awesome, big and warm, and she just wants to push him back on the bed and curl into him forever. But before she can, he’s lifting her shirt off and he’s got his belt done, and they fall on the mattress together, and then he’s above her and making out with her face and life is good.
“This is why you’re small,” she says, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him down so they’re chest-to-chest, heat pressing against heat. “I can hold all around you.”
“S’not like I can’t do that back,” he insists, running his hands all over her body. “I can do this too.” One hand trails down between her legs, just teasing, before moving to her thigh with wandering fingers.
“Mean. Just mean.” She pouts and tries to move his hand back, but he holds it steady against her hip now. “Move it!”
“Small but strong,” he gloats, his smile cocky as he tightens his muscles against Leslie’s hand. But she knows his weakness, no matter how powerful his little body is, and her other hand darts to his spine and tickles. “Wait!” he squeaks, but it’s too late and he’s on his back, a triumphant Leslie straddling his thighs. That’ll teach him.
“Ah, but you forget. Centaur powers.” She flexes her biceps for him, falls forward with a hand planted on either side of his head. She smirks when his eyes travel downward, eager hands finding her breasts and kneading.
“I thought these were your Centaur powers,” he teases, easing her forward so he can kiss a line down her breastbone.
“You’re dumb.” But it feels too good to stop him, as his mouth trails sloppily over to a nipple, sucking it into his mouth and blowing cool air. Her smile turns wicked. “And you’re a pervert, Joe.”
“Can’t help that you’re so hot, Jill,” he whispers against her skin, and it makes her shiver so much that she doesn’t notice a hand slipping lower, his fingers suddenly stroking and circling. It’s perfect. He’s perfect.
“You really would make an awesome vice president,” she lets out before yanking on his hair so she can kiss him on the mouth, his hand continuing to work against her, a finger slipping inside. She moans, grinding down against his hand as a second finger joins in.
“Not president?”
“I’m president,” she says, because duh. They’ve been over this a lot. “That’s why this is hot.”
“Thought we were the Bidens.” But his finger flicks against a sensitive patch and she bucks, falling forward so her head rests against his shoulder. What did he say? She can’t even think, just pant wetly against him, kissing at his neck between breaths.
“Whatever, just put it in!”
“Romantic,” he deadpans. He must be sobering up a little or something, because he sits up and maneuvers them so she’s sitting in his lap, legs wrapped around his waist. She can feel him, hot and hard right against her, and she wiggles desperately.
“Come onnnnnn!”
He lines himself up and pulls on her waist, and with some shifting around he’s inside her. And she sighs, because this is always so perfect and he fills her so well and she needs to make out with him right now. All her limbs curl around him (See? Advantages of smallness), arms tight around his neck, and he keeps trying to push at her waist but she can’t figure out how to move right.
“This is complicated,” she whines, resting her forehead against his. “Shouldn’t be this hard.”
“Hold on.”
He pushes her forward so he can stretch out on top of her, hooking a knee over his elbow. Okay, that feels a lot better, and wow okay, really deep.
“Jesus, Ben.” He lifts an eyebrow deviously, continues to move into her, slow but strong. Her patience is wearing out though, and her hands slide down to his butt and squeeze.
“Ow!” And he’s distracted enough that she can knock him onto his back again, hands pushing against his chest as she moves above him, faster but more sloppy. Crap. How does she do this again? Maybe she shouldn’t have had that last cocktail.
Thankfully, Ben’s hands guide her hips up and down, faster and faster until he moves one to her center, and everything’s getting swirly and she has to lean into his chest, and then he’s just holding her and moving himself in and out, and then she stops breathing for a minute and everything gets even hazier, his face shifts out of focus and she shrieks.
--
Ben may be small, and he may be bony, but that doesn’t mean he’s a bad cuddler. He’s a really super awesome cuddler, in fact.
Once they get cleaned up and the room starts sharpening again, he pulls her into his arms, lets her rest her head over his heart. Bony, but comfy. They fit.
“I really am sorry about today, though,” he says with a heavy sigh.
“Stop,” she groans. “You’re great. You’re perfect and I love you and I don’t know what I’m doing either. But we’ll figure it out.”
“You’re less drunk.”
“You’re less drunk first.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
She snuggles in farther, wraps her leg around one of his.
“I love you,” he whispers into her hair, and she smiles.
“Love you, elf.”