Leslie Knope discovers a lot of things about Ben Wyatt over the course of a day and some change. The first, of course, is that he has stunningly soft lips, amazingly soft hands and a sort of boyish confidence that she hadn't expected.

The second is that he wears boxer-briefs and has biceps and a stomach with abs and that he's amazingly in shape and shockingly wonderful in bed.

She finds all of this out a mere twenty-two hours from the time he first kisses her, which has to be some sort of record. Or not; she calculates how quickly it was between first kiss to the bedroom with she and Mark and then wonders why in hell she's even thinking about Mark.

If it's any consolation, just looking at Ben makes her forget Mark's last name. She feels guilty about this for all of five seconds because it turns out that Ben, wonderful, talented Ben Wyatt is also quite gifted at removing bras.

Leslie wants to ask him about that, but it would be inappropriate. So she just lets him shuck off her bra, and let's him look at her, get his fill. Which is only slightly strange because it's late afternoon and there's orange light filtering through her windows and she can see the particles of dust in the rays, settling on his shoulders.

She's sitting on her bed, topless, and thinking about Ben's shoulders and how long it's been since she's vacuumed.

"You're thinking," he says; she watches his throat move, watches him breathe and it's amazing how impossibly turned on she is. "Stop thinking so much."

"Can't," she explains simply with a shrug of her shoulders.

Ben sighs and laughs a little, "Wouldn't be you if you could." Then he's on top of her, pressing a hand to her stomach so she leans back on the bed. Ben is looming over her, a hand at her neck.

"Didn't expect you to, you know," Leslie's eyes are closed, because she's never had sex at seven o'clock in the afternoon when she can see everything and he can see everything, but she's silently, blissfully glad that she's experiencing so many firsts with him.

Ben's lips are flush against her neck, doing all sorts of wonderful things that are causing her heart to thud incredibly fast. Leslie swears, she's wetter than she's ever been, not that she's surprised. She's never wanted anything this much. When he speaks, his words thrum against her skin and it causes her to shift, pull him between her thighs, "Expect what?"

"You're kind of in great-oh god-shape, Ben," her chin meets the skin of his cheek because she bucks up into him, hard, when he settles between her thighs.

It's stunning, when he laughs, hard, his face falling into the crook of her neck and his body settling heavily against hers. They're chest to chest and it's warm and wonderful and it gives her a moment to catch her breath.

"Thanks?" he says, on the end of a breathless chuckle.

"No, I didn't mean it that way."

"Okay, no, yeah, I'm a beanpole, you'd expect me to be a beanpole, I understand-" Leslie punches his bicep (he's got defined biceps, what?) and in a stunning comeback, bites down on his shoulder.

Facetiously, he feigns pain and bites at her, against her neck. That, well, that does things to her that she loves. Leslie's legs wrap lazily around his hips as he nips again and he mouth goes slack and the sun sets outside. She can see him in all sorts of light and shadow, every contour on his face.

His five o'clock shadow.

The malted caramel color of his eyes.

She's suddenly glad that she remembered to shave her legs the other day, and wear underwear that didn't have turtles on them, and make her bed and clean her home. Leslie wants to be the best version of herself for him, even though she's one-hundred percent sure he enjoys most other versions of herself as well.

That's a really great thing too, that he knows almost all of her. And he's still willing to step inside her house. And follow her to her bedroom. And take off his pants.

Except his pants are still fastened around his waist and there's no part of her that's having that; her fingers move quickly, disengage the belt and maneuver the button until they're loose. In a stunning show of partnership, he picks up on the process flawlessly, falls back onto the bed, on his back and rips off his shoes, socks and pants.

So Ben is standing before her wearing boxer briefs. Blue ones. Tight ones. She can see him plainly through the material and dear god, all she wants it him inside of her, like, yesterday.

But Ben moves back over her, ushering her up onto the bed so that her head is resting against a pillow. And then, in a stunning turn of events, a moment that does not match the harsh tempo of her breath, or the wild gleam in her eyes, he just gazes at her.

Of course he would do that.

It's a deep red in the room, a shocking color she isn't sure she's seen before in nature. There are so many things that are breathtaking and she wants to catalog them all in that second, commit them to memory, never, ever forget.

Ben looks at her lips and instead of going in for a kiss, he fakes her out and laughs. "Your turn," he says as he tugs gently at her own pants.

"This a competition?" Leslie asks even as her fingers work frantically at her slacks.

Ben kisses her then, nips at her lower lip with ardor. "If it is, I'm totally winning." That's a compliment, sure, but it takes her thirty seconds of him kissing down her body for her to understand that. When Ben reaches her waist, he managed to rid her of her slacks and underwear in one fell swoop and she is starkly naked before him.

For the first time.

It's amazing, how many things race through her head at once: how she hasn't done a crunch in about three years, how she can't remember if she's done any downstairs maintenance in the recent future, that she's super hot, so it doesn't matter, that she's naked in front of someone that she actually cares about and that she can't move because he's staring at her so desperately that she suddenly wonders why she had any stupid doubts at all.

Because if she had to pinpoint what he looks like in this moment-and she kind of does, to herself-Ben looks like he's stunned. And maybe salivating.

"Jesus," Ben mutters and then shakes his head, as though to clear it. "Okay, so..." His body slides down, over hers and when he kisses her, it's so deep, but so light, that her breath is stolen. It slams into her consciousness, that this is happening and it feels so spectacular and kind of unlike any other time she's had sex, previously.

And they're not even really having sex yet. Which blows her mind, because if it's already this good, then well, she has no doubt...

Her hands slide down his sides as he continues kissing her in earnest, the walls of her room dimming to a lovely indigo with the dying sun. Leslie's hands slip around to the small of his back, press against him and down, urging him to lose the underwear.

Good, brilliant, smart man that he is, Ben settles back, turns around and loses the underwear.

So they're both naked.

And she's had sex before (quite a few times, actually, and oh god she thinks about that for a quick second) and she's been naked in front of men before, but it's never been quite this electric. It's never been that she needs then inside of her so badly that if he's not she might combust. Her skin is humming and her body is screaming at him and she actually nearly screams at him, "Please."

His mouth is on hers, and his hands skim her hips, her stomach and then below her waist and he feels her and hand to whomever, she's never been this turned on. Ben's fingers explore her, curl into her gently as her mouth and her eyes both fall open.

He's watching her.

She might cry.

It feels perfect, and as she's about to break, Leslie shakes her head and presses back into the bed, buries her hands in Ben's hair in order to pull his mouth to hers. "No, inside me," she begs and presses her lips to his chin.

There's only a brief moment of fumbling, of hands and lips and him accidentally biting her hair, but when he slides inside, they both have to stop. Dead. In. Their. Tracks.

So this is sex, but really, it's so much more. Ben is gritting teeth and Leslie is gasping for breath and they can't move because when either of them do, it's completely and totally over. They're done for.

"Leslie, don't..." Ben bites down again, as his eyes slam closed. "Don't move, just don't..."

She sucks in a breath, but can't help her fingers curling tightly into the muscles of his shoulders.

"Don't fucking move, please," Ben says, again, and his voice is so strained that it dawns on her that yes, this is actually amazing for the both of them. It's a solid minute or more, and she's never really known how a minute can feel like an eternity until now, before he moves, and it's gently and shallow and slowly and she's glad for it.

Leslie breathes and her hands go slack on his shoulders, and she goes nearly limp, taking him. "Okay, this is..." She can't finish the thought, because she's sliding her legs upward and he's so deep that she's lost.

His lips are everywhere, all at once, and she can't remember what she's supposed to do with her hands. She's heard it's like riding a bike (not that it's been that long) but she's certain that when riding a bike, she knows where to put her hands. His hips, his neck, his ass (his ass is really nice too), his hair.

Ben's eyes remain open, and he watches her closely, settling his weight on one hand while the other trails between them and-yeah she's never come this fast in her life. But she is, right now.

She's nearly delirious, but when Ben slams his lips down on hers, grabs her hair, presses himself so close that she feels consumed, she knows he's with him and it's such a strange feeling. Disconcerting because they're moving together and this is happening together and this is Ben Wyatt.

Person sent to town to destroy her.

And now he's "destroying her" in a different way.

Ben collapses, and is kind enough to do it half-off of her; Leslie appreciates the half-weight, though, and wraps an arm around his back.

"Hey," he mumbles against her skin, then manages to bolster himself up on forearms. "I..." Ben's eyes shift a bit and he drops his head, reconsidering.

She thinks about what he might be trying to say, but it's too soon, and it's too cliche, and she's glad when he finishes, "...don't think there's anything you can do about me falling asleep here."

Ben falls to his side and gathers her up against him even though she struggles against him a bit. "And also cuddling you, so you have to deal with that."

"Ugh," Leslie groans, slides her hand behind her to touch his hip.

"I know, your life is so hard," he jostles her a bit, his hand against her stomach. She can feel him smile against her neck and she feels... the best she's felt all night.

She smiles too, "You have no idea."

"Don't take offense," his last word is drawn out on a yawn. "But Imma fall asleep in about two seconds."

"I get it," she jokes.

Ben yawns again, curls his fingers against her skin, Ben laughs and tries for a joke, but he's just too tired, "You don't... know me."

"I do," she whispers on a giddy smile, but he's asleep.

And is clutching her, just a touch too desperately.


Leslie Knope discovers a lot of things about Ben Wyatt, like he's a twice-in-a-night type of guy, and that he doesn't snore and that he's more than happy to make breakfast for her while she tries to navigate on her sore limbs.