Work Text:
The entire parks department is out of paper. The printers are empty; there's no spare box in the supply closet; and Ben has to cut thirty percent of the Pawnee budget by the morning. He'd say the lack of paper is a sign of the parks department's commitment to frugality, but he knows for a fact that Tom spilled something called a designer cappuccino on their remaining supply last Wednesday, and April, who's in charge of reorders, spent the whole week ignoring work to look at the website of some artist who makes sculptures out of mangled plastic dolls.
As usual, Ben's the one who has to clean up the mess.
He takes to pacing.
City Hall is mostly empty. It's just after ten at night, and the halls are eerie under the dim emergency lights. He could cut Sanitation; that wouldn't be so bad. But then there's schools, and people hate you when you cut schools, even if all you're taking away is that one creepy clown who does the say-no-to-drugs assemblies. There's Animal Control, of course... Ben sighs. This would all be so much easier if he just had somewhere to scratch out some calculations. He'd consider using the men's room wall, if it weren't already covered in writing: Tom Haverford is dope. Mouse Rat RULEZ. Gayle is a wonderful woman and I treasure her every day.
Then Ben passes Ron Swanson's office, and the door swings open.
“Gah!” Ben jumps a foot in the air. “Ron, what are you still doing here?”
Ron leans back in his chair. “I understand you're cutting the city budget. I'm here to enjoy the carnage.”
Ben stares at him. “You stayed—” he checks his watch, “—five hours after the end of the workday just because you like budget cuts? Do you have any idea how stressful it is to actually cut the budget?”
Ron smiles, his upper lip disappearing under his mustache. “Ben,” he says, nodding toward the chair across from his desk. “Come sit down.”
There's a weird feeling in the air, suddenly. Maybe it's just the anxiety Ben feels every time he has to make big decisions, but he's read enough fanfiction to get other ideas about what it might mean when a taciturn colleague stays after hours and opens his door to you, clicker in hand.
Ben sits.
“What,” Ron asks, “seems to be the problem?”
“I have to submit a proposal to reduce spending by thirty percent by nine tomorrow morning.” Ben feels himself start to babble. “But I can't cut the health department, or the press will skewer me, and if I cut schools, they're going to run me out of town.”
“Ben,” Ron says, holding up a hand. “You're in charge. You can cut anything that needs cutting. Which is, as I understand it, the entire city government.”
Ben frowns.
“You're in charge,” Ron repeats slowly, and there's something in his voice. “You can cut whatever you like.”
It's true, Ben is in charge. He's the assistant city manager. “Okay,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Can I just talk through this?” It's not as effective as writing things down, but it's probably better than pacing.
“Of course,” Ron answers. “I'm here to help.”
“So I'm thinking I take twenty percent out of libraries,” Ben starts, “and fifteen out of animal control.”
“Mmm,” Ron says, nodding approvingly, and for a second it sounds like... But Ben puts the thought out of his mind; something about being in Ron's office is making the task come to him more clearly. “And then I can cancel the annual Sanitation picnic.”
“Mm-hmm,” Ron says, in that same odd tone, and this time, when Ben glances over at him, Ron catches his gaze and holds it there. Ben feels his breathing quicken, and, okay, that thing he thought was happening is definitely actually happening, and he thinks he might even be into it, but his budget proposal is due at nine in the morning and he is maybe going to seriously freak out.
He looks away, wondering if Ron can hear that his breaths have gotten quicker.
“Ben,” Ron says, and Ben can't help but note that Ron is a little bit out of breath too. “I would like to help you with that budget in any way I can.”
“Okay,” Ben says slowly. He is just barely keeping himself together.
“Do you hear me?” Ron asks, raising a single eyebrow. “I would like to help you with that budget in any way I can.”
“You're coming on to me,” Ben clarifies.
Ron lets his eyebrow fall back down. “Yes.”
“You want,” Ben says, stalling for time. “You want to have sex with me.”
A slow smile creeps across Ron's face. “What I want,” Ron says, “is for you to continue to slash that budget, which I will enjoy, and then I want to express my appreciation in any way you deem fit.”
A series of images flashes past his mind's eye: Ron naked on all fours, and Ben in the desk chair resting his feet on Ron's back as he works. Ron holding stock-still as Ben crunches numbers. Ron—actually, there's an idea.
“All right,” Ben says. “Stand up and take off your clothes.”
“Yes, sir,” Ron answers, and he strips himself with almost military precision. His body is covered in hair.
Ron stands unflinchingly as Ben inspects him: chest pushed forward, shoulders back, hand to his forehead in what Ben suspects is an automatic salute. For a moment, Ben's too self-conscious to look further down, but, no, he's the man who controls the Pawnee city budget. He can look at Ron's dick however he likes. And there it is: thick, hairy, and standing almost as stiffly at attention as Ron himself. Ben draws his eyes slowly back up Ron's body. He thinks he can see the effort Ron's making to stay still under his gaze. It feels good.
The thing is, Ben likes power. At least, he likes it when he's confident he can handle it. He likes being the one to decide how Pawnee's money is spent. And he likes knowing Ron is standing there on his orders, hot for the power Ben wields. He steps forward into Ron's space.
“I could cut the whole Sanitation department,” he says in a low voice in Ron's ear. “I could give half the city's tax revenue back to the citizens who paid it.”
Ron moans, a low sound like a bullfrog.
“Or maybe,” Ben adds, circling behind him, speaking into the other ear now. He can feel the heat of his own breath as he exhales into Ron's ear, and Ron gives the faintest of shudders before straightening himself up again. “I could eliminate the entire city government with one document.” Technically, it would take a document, a court case, a referendum, another document, and a signature from the governor, but there's no need to mention that now.
Ron clutches at Ben's shoulder. “For the love of god, man,” he growls.
Ben snickers. “You said you'd help me do calculations.” He's leaning into Ron's face now, his mouth just inches away from Ron's cheek.
“Anything you want,” Ron chokes out with effort. His mouth, Ben sees, is slightly open, and his face is leaning towards Ben's, and does Ron Swanson want Ben to kiss him?
Well, Ben thinks. He doesn't so much want to kiss Ron as to control him. He cups Ron's cheek in his hand, dragging his thumb along the coarse bristles of Ron's mustache. “What I want,” Ben says, his lips close enough to Ron's that he can feel the moisture of Ron's breath, “is you, face first against that wall.” And then he closes the distance between them, swiping his tongue for a brief second across the space between Ron's parted lips. It's less a kiss than a gesture of dominance: Ben deserves to invade Ron's hot, earthy-tasting mouth, deserves the pleasure of shoving Ron's hairy shoulder a moment later, sneering at Ron's look of surprise.
“I said,” Ben repeats, “I want you against that wall.”
And then, Ben has the great pleasure of standing and watching, shallowly breathing and fully clothed, while a naked Ron Swanson scrambles to follow his orders.
It's a shame, in a way, to have Ron's front half disappear, his cheek and his palms pressed against his office wall. But Ben has a job to do before he can enjoy this fully, and if he has to spend the night scratching out calculations, he'll be better off avoiding the distraction of looking at Ron straight-on.
Ben finds a red ballpoint pen in a jar on Ron's desk. He uncaps it with his mouth, lets the cap rest between his lips as he strides back to where Ron is waiting.
“Now, stand still,” Ben commands, fitting the cap back onto the pen and pressing the pen's point against Ron's left shoulder blade. “I wouldn't want to slip and raise taxes by mistake.”
Writing figures on Ron's back isn't the most efficient way of calculating the budget, but it's probably the best use Ben's ever made of the power vested in him by the City of Pawnee. Ron growls at the scratch of the pen-point against his skin, holds perfectly still as Ben considers cost-benefit analysis, tapping the pen against Ron's shoulder. Finally it's done: Ben doesn't like all of the compromises he has to make, but he likes the feeling of resolution that comes from getting the job done, and he sure as hell likes the idea of what comes next. Pressed against the wall, back covered in red scrawl, Ron looks... well, he looks like a man who's been used for a purpose. Who could maybe be used for a few purposes more.
“Done,” Ben says, stepping back from the wall. “You've been very helpful.”
Ron grunts in answer. “I'm pleased to be of assistance.”
Ben puts the pen back into the jar on Ron's desk, not sure what to do now. Then Ron clears his throat. “Do I have your permission,” he asks, “to take matters into my own hands?” He nods down toward the lower half of his body to make his meaning clear.
Ben pauses. He'd been starting to have visions of fucking Ron against the wall, but he didn't exactly come prepared. “All right,” he says. “Turn around.”
“Thank you,” Ron says, turning to face Ben and wrapping his hand around his dick.
What happens next happens almost in the blink of an eye. Ron's hand moves in an almost cartoonish blur, and moments later, he lets out a swift grunt, relaxes his shoulders, and drops his hand.
Ben stares at him.
Ron looks up, wiping his hand on his thigh. “If a man can't bring himself to orgasm in less than twenty seconds,” he begins gruffly.
Ben swallows. “Could a man... bring another man...” He winces. “Sorry, I've been writing too much Data/Picard.”
Ron eyes him suspiciously. “I have no idea what that means.”
“Oh,” Ben says, brightening. “From Star Trek? The Next Generation?” But Ron is looking pointedly at the crotch of Ben's pants, and Ben takes a deep breath, finds the sensation of power swelling in his chest, and manages to look Ron in the eye. “It means I want you to jerk me off.” He studiously doesn't add Captain.
“Yes, sir,” Ron answers.
It ends almost as quickly at it began. Ron gets Ben's belt open and his pants down, and then his hand works the same magic on Ben's dick that it worked on his own. Ben finds himself coming in what feels like a whirlwind, letting out a cry that's half pleasure and half surprise.
“Well,” he says afterwards, zipping his pants back up. “Thanks for your help.”
Ron gives a brief, decisive nod as he buttons his shirt. “I'm always glad to help destroy city government.”
Ben looks at Ron curiously. Is he offering to do this again? “Next time I need to downsize something...” he begins tentatively.
Ron sits back down in his chair and looks up at Ben. “I'll be in my office.”
Ben feels another surge of power shoot through him. “I'll be sure to stop by.”
Ben walks slowly back to his office to enter his new calculations. It's a long walk back, and there's something peaceful, he thinks, about City Hall at night. Something almost illicit, too, and it's not just the satisfaction of having scratched out figures on a naked man's back. For a moment, Ben worries that he shouldn't be here, that he shouldn't make a habit of late-night work. But no, Ben reminds himself, with a new swell of pleasure. He's the assistant city manager. He can slash budgets. He can make Ron Swanson stand at attention on his orders. And he can certainly, easily walk down this hall any time of day he likes.