And how, how do I know, frankly, that you’re not sleeping with him? Maybe you are. Maybe you’re trying to throw me off. Hmm. Check and mate. This is an outrage! Who do I call?
I cry every single time Ben Wyatt proposes to Leslie Knope. Every. Single. Time.
4.10 citizen knope / 5.22 are you better off? / 6.19 flu season 2
Together
It was as if Ben’s hands were programmed to remember the curve of her waist; the way her blouse floated around her stomach, the way her suit pants hugged her hips, the way she groaned as he slid his hand up her leg like that.
Her coat was a red mess on the floor, discarded.
This house smelt familiar, kind of like home, which was ridiculous because he’d never lived here. It smelt like her.
She was unbuttoning and biting her lip and holding his gaze.
His cold hand pressed against her flesh and she flinched, before melting into his touch. He pushed her onto the bed, gently, his hand slipping behind her back to support her.
He could feel a warmth radiating from her skin as he kissed her. She pulled her head back, and looked at him with warning.
“You’re still my boss.”
“You’re still running for City Council.”
They both nodded.
And then they moved together, reached together, found peace together, fell asleep together.
Together.
Two birds holding hands So much better than one
I just need you to be in my life. You’re too important to me. (insp.)
“I love Leslie. I want to be with her and I don’t want to hide the way I feel about her anymore. So yes, it was worth it, because I’m in love with Leslie Knope.”
Leslie, maybe it isn’t meant to be. Let Jerry go home and then we can go home and drink wine and play Connect Four.
“I’m thinking about my future.”
Two people who start out by disliking each other but slowly begin to fall in love is my kind of OTP
tv meme [1/5] favorite ships: ben wyatt & leslie knope
“He loved her in a subtle kind of way. It wasn’t the kind of love you see in movies, with swelling music and giant gestures and running through the streets to catch a departing train. It wasn’t the kind of love that Byron or Shakespeare wrote about, with flowery language and hyperbole and iambic pentameter. It was still and deep, like water you might mistake for shallow if you just watched the surface. It was entirely his, not dependent on her own feelings for him, and it would still be there whether she, or him, or everyone else on the world disappeared. It was a subtle kind of love, but it was true. And she loved him just the same.”
This is how I feel, how do you feel?