Parks & Rec fic: "sundays are made for"
Title: Sundays Are Made For
Pairing: Leslie/Ben
Rating: R (just to be safe)
Word count: 700
Summary: She plans on there being a lot of kissing before they get up, because it’s Sunday morning and that’s totally what Sunday mornings are made for, when you have somebody to kiss.
Notes: Written for anon at the NBC kink meme.
My first Parks & Rec fic! How exciting. This show is eating my brain. In the span of this one season it has become one of my favourite shows.
Leslie stands in the kitchen for about five minutes trying to make a decision. When she’d snuck out of bed and slipped on a robe (okay, fine, actually just her pyjamas – who is she, Doris Day?), Ben had been fast asleep. And she’s always kind of liked that thing they do in movies – breakfast in bed, waving coffee under somebody’s nose to wake them up.
But the taste of coffee is not so good second-hand, especially with morning breath. Leslie really, really likes Ben, but there are some things that aren’t appealing on anybody. And she plans on there being a lot of kissing before they get up, because it’s Sunday morning and that’s totally what Sunday mornings are made for, when you have somebody to kiss.
And then the solution comes to her, as it always does: peppermint tea. It’s refreshing and a good pick-me-up and it’s minty, so that sort of takes care of the whole taste issue.
She’d pretty stealthily managed to avoid the creaky floorboard in the doorway of her bedroom the first time, but she’s so preoccupied with making sure not to spill their tea that she steps right on it. She freezes, like a doe, as if that’s somehow going to erase the sound, but it’s too late – Ben’s stirring, rolling over and reaching out to her side of the bed, which is, oh, just… really cute, and makes her wish she were actually there to touch.
“Hi,” he says, his voice so, so low, and all gravel. It should not be such a turn-on. Leslie's getting this urge to touch her toes to the heel of her other foot – that’s coy, right? She’s definitely seen that on TV – but then she remembers that she’s holding two mugs of hot tea and doesn’t trust her balance.
“Your hair,” she says, with the utmost sincerity, “looks really good.” And it does. How does it look so good? It’s still, like, ninety percent in place, with a few tousled bits here and there that tell her she didn’t just imagine the whole thing last night. “It’s so… shiny,” she adds lamely.
His mouth quirks, and his eyebrow arches, and is it weird that one of her favourite things about his face is his eyebrows? She doesn’t know how he gets them to do that, but he says whole sentences with his eyebrows, and she thinks it’s pretty impressive. “Come back to bed,” he says, and she knows that that sentence has been said about ten trillion times by billions of people, but it has never been better than it is now, from his lips. His lips, which she is going to kiss, as soon as she puts down the tea.
“It’s way too – tidy,” she says, talking about his hair. Ben looks confused, though, so as she squirms back under the covers she reaches up and pushes her fingers through it, starting at the nape of his neck and combing it the wrong way. “You’re making me feel self-conscious.”
“I always thought your hair just grew in perfect curls like that,” he says, so deadpan that she’s not sure if he’s serious or not. But she’s made a weird sculpture of his hair, kind of like the crest on a bird – whatever he uses to hold it in place is still working pretty well. So she’s not feeling so bad about her own hair, especially when he sinks his fingers into the tangles and pulls her into a kiss, and she’s not bothered at all by morning breath. His stubble is a little coarse on her face, but she likes that. He’s warm, and still naked, and there might be a tied-off condom somewhere on her bedroom floor, and she feels ten years younger and ten times more carefree.
“Do you have another condom?” she asks, a little breathless, and he smiles against her jaw, dropping down to kiss her neck.
“No,” he says, “but we don’t need a condom for everything.”
Oh, Leslie thinks, staring up at her bedroom ceiling as his scratchy-soft kisses make their way down her collarbone, breasts, belly. Oh, he’s about to – okay, this is officially the best Sunday morning ever.
Pairing: Leslie/Ben
Rating: R (just to be safe)
Word count: 700
Summary: She plans on there being a lot of kissing before they get up, because it’s Sunday morning and that’s totally what Sunday mornings are made for, when you have somebody to kiss.
Notes: Written for anon at the NBC kink meme.
My first Parks & Rec fic! How exciting. This show is eating my brain. In the span of this one season it has become one of my favourite shows.
Leslie stands in the kitchen for about five minutes trying to make a decision. When she’d snuck out of bed and slipped on a robe (okay, fine, actually just her pyjamas – who is she, Doris Day?), Ben had been fast asleep. And she’s always kind of liked that thing they do in movies – breakfast in bed, waving coffee under somebody’s nose to wake them up.
But the taste of coffee is not so good second-hand, especially with morning breath. Leslie really, really likes Ben, but there are some things that aren’t appealing on anybody. And she plans on there being a lot of kissing before they get up, because it’s Sunday morning and that’s totally what Sunday mornings are made for, when you have somebody to kiss.
And then the solution comes to her, as it always does: peppermint tea. It’s refreshing and a good pick-me-up and it’s minty, so that sort of takes care of the whole taste issue.
She’d pretty stealthily managed to avoid the creaky floorboard in the doorway of her bedroom the first time, but she’s so preoccupied with making sure not to spill their tea that she steps right on it. She freezes, like a doe, as if that’s somehow going to erase the sound, but it’s too late – Ben’s stirring, rolling over and reaching out to her side of the bed, which is, oh, just… really cute, and makes her wish she were actually there to touch.
“Hi,” he says, his voice so, so low, and all gravel. It should not be such a turn-on. Leslie's getting this urge to touch her toes to the heel of her other foot – that’s coy, right? She’s definitely seen that on TV – but then she remembers that she’s holding two mugs of hot tea and doesn’t trust her balance.
“Your hair,” she says, with the utmost sincerity, “looks really good.” And it does. How does it look so good? It’s still, like, ninety percent in place, with a few tousled bits here and there that tell her she didn’t just imagine the whole thing last night. “It’s so… shiny,” she adds lamely.
His mouth quirks, and his eyebrow arches, and is it weird that one of her favourite things about his face is his eyebrows? She doesn’t know how he gets them to do that, but he says whole sentences with his eyebrows, and she thinks it’s pretty impressive. “Come back to bed,” he says, and she knows that that sentence has been said about ten trillion times by billions of people, but it has never been better than it is now, from his lips. His lips, which she is going to kiss, as soon as she puts down the tea.
“It’s way too – tidy,” she says, talking about his hair. Ben looks confused, though, so as she squirms back under the covers she reaches up and pushes her fingers through it, starting at the nape of his neck and combing it the wrong way. “You’re making me feel self-conscious.”
“I always thought your hair just grew in perfect curls like that,” he says, so deadpan that she’s not sure if he’s serious or not. But she’s made a weird sculpture of his hair, kind of like the crest on a bird – whatever he uses to hold it in place is still working pretty well. So she’s not feeling so bad about her own hair, especially when he sinks his fingers into the tangles and pulls her into a kiss, and she’s not bothered at all by morning breath. His stubble is a little coarse on her face, but she likes that. He’s warm, and still naked, and there might be a tied-off condom somewhere on her bedroom floor, and she feels ten years younger and ten times more carefree.
“Do you have another condom?” she asks, a little breathless, and he smiles against her jaw, dropping down to kiss her neck.
“No,” he says, “but we don’t need a condom for everything.”
Oh, Leslie thinks, staring up at her bedroom ceiling as his scratchy-soft kisses make their way down her collarbone, breasts, belly. Oh, he’s about to – okay, this is officially the best Sunday morning ever.