En Plein Air
Title: En Plein Air
Pairing: Leslie/Ben
Rating: NC-17
Cautionary Tags: Fingering, Fluffy Smut, Oral Sex.
Timeline: Takes place in Paris, during the events of Second Chunce.
Summary: Written for the kinkmeme prompt: Any type of fucking or sexual activity that occurs outside. Parks, between buildings, outside restaurants or bars, backyards, whatever.
Notes: The beginning and ending of this fic started as a couple of Paris drabbles on Tumblr. When I was writing them, I did think they would end up as part of a larger fic. And then I was inspired by the kinkmeme prompt.
They're at a small table at Joséphine Chez Dumonet, feeding each other spoonfuls of a Grand Marnier soufflé and it's probably the best thing that Leslie has ever had in her mouth.
From their prime seat right by the window (and honestly, she has no idea how Ben did this, most of the other Americans seem to be sitting in the cramped back room), they can watch charming Rue du Cherche-Midi through the gauzy curtains, as well as the other diners and waiters in the main room of the busy, cozy bistro.
"Donna has great taste in restaurants," Ben admits, before smiling and then reaching across the tabletop and using his napkin to wipe a bit of stray soufflé from the corner of Leslie's mouth.
"Thanks," she acknowledges his help with a grin. "So, this was her recommendation?"
"Yeah, she got us the reservation, even the table. She knows someone."
"Ahhh, I was wondering how we got this spot," she smiles, looks around the dining area. "I was all impressed with you, but I guess I should be all impressed with Donna instead."
"No. You can still be impressed with me."
"And why is that?"
He shrugs. "The trip to Paris was my idea. Plus, I am the one who's buying you dinner, you know."
"I suppose you think that means I'm going to put out now?"
Ben nods and Leslie starts giggling softly before she answers. "Yeah, I totally am. But oh my god, babe, I am so full of my duck confit, all those bites of your boeuf bourguignon that I snuck while you weren't looking, and the soufflé. Don't expect fancy positions and acrobatics."
"I saw you sneaking my food, by the way, you were just being so cute, that I let it go. And we do have about a mile to walk back to the hotel," he reminds her, draining the last of the red wine from his glass. "A nice brisk walk and we'll be ready for all kinds of impressive things by the time we get to our room."
"Really?" she asks, looking a little doubtful.
"No. We're gonna pull our clothes off and if we're lucky, stuff is going to just magically line-up however we collapse on the bed."
She holds her glass up and he clinks it softly with his empty one, before Leslie swallows the rest of her wine, and pushes the empty soufflé dish towards the edge of their table.
* * *
For someone who's deathly afraid of cops, Ben can hardly believe he's about to suggest what he's seriously about to suggest. Pawnee's finest are heart attack-inducing enough but police in a foreign country? But then he reasons that maybe l'amour en plein air is completely legal in the City of Light? Maybe it's even encouraged?
Plus, hell, he is a little drunk after that bottle of wine they split with dinner. And Leslie looks so amazing in that dress, with her toned bare legs and light blue high heels. She's looked absolutely amazing all day--whether they were on a Seine River sightseeing cruise, at an outdoor cafe people-watching, or even as he was nerding out over the bridge from Inception. And right now, he just really wants to touch her.
They're about three-quarters of the way to the hotel, walking along cobblestone streets, holding hands, while the click of Leslie's heels fills the void along the fairly empty, late Thursday night roads. Right across the street from Luxembourg Palace he ducks to the right, into a romantic looking alley, flanked on both sides by impressively old, ornate brick structures.
After leading them about five yards in, he turns them around and slowly walks her back up against the brick wall.
"Wha--?"
"I really want to make you come. Right now, with your back pressed against this old building. Is that okay?"
Her eyes widen in surprise but then she gets a look on her face that tells Ben that she really wants that too and that it's super-okay.
"Are you going to use your fingers...on me?" She asks leadingly.
"Yes. I'm going to slide them between your thighs and touch you. Right here in this alley."
"Do you want me to tell you about the senate building across the street first?" They both turn their heads to briefly look at the illuminated, Baroque-style building in the distance.
Ben moves in for a kiss, then nods, "I do." God, he loves her so much.
"Luxembourg Palace was originally built in...ohhhh, the 17th century by Salomon de Brosse. It was the royal residence of Marie de Médicis, and then after the revolution it was turned into a legislative build...oh my god."
"I actually knew all of that already," he whispers in her ear, as his hand runs up and down the inside of her bare thigh, just lightly brushing his fingertips against her skin. He cups her mound through her panties and Ben can feel her tremble, but he's pretty sure that it's not the chilly evening. "I read through the highlights in your travel guide. The palace has been the seat of the French Senate since 1958." And then he's kissing her again--she tastes like Grand Marnier, red wine, vanilla, and Leslie.
Ben pulls his hand off her thigh and out from under her dress, and just when she starts to pout, he brings his hand to her lips. She moans and then sucks his index finger into her mouth.
"There are guards across the street, watching the palace," she whispers, after he slides his finger from her lips.
"I know. So, you need to be quiet," Ben whispers back. "If we do get caught by the Parisian police, I can almost guarantee you that I'm going to panic, maybe even try to flee, and you're not going to be able to keep up in those shoes. I won't want to do it, my instincts will just kick in. It won't mean that I don't love you."
She laughs lightly but then stops when he pushes his hand back down, pulls the elastic of her panties from around the inside of her thigh away, slides his slick finger along her crease, then right to her clit, making her jump.
He smiles at her, his other hand holding her steady at the waist. "Hi."
"Hi."
Soon, she's squirming against his hand, grinding into his fingers as they continue to push in and out, and also rub her wet, slippery clit in a tight little circle. Ben leans down, sucks the skin on the side of her neck for a few seconds, then goes down further and gently nibbles his teeth around her visibly hardened nipple, right through the fabric of her dress. It really is kind of a thrill to be doing this outside, theoretically where anyone could see them.
When he pulls back up to watch her face, there's just enough light from the street so that he can see her clearly. More than anything, he really wants to watch her come--her back arching into the centuries old bricks, her mouth open, eyes closed, and the feel of her thighs clamped tightly around his hand. She's so impossibly beautiful.
When she does, it's in a long wave, pulsing wetly around his fingers, and it's just as hot as he knew it would be.
Leslie stretches up on her toes while Ben leans down a bit, so they can touch noses. She kisses him before saying, "If I still had my knee pads from the other day, I would push you against this wall, get on my knees, and...blow you."
Usually Leslie's dirty talk ends in cackling but tonight she's managing to stare at him fairly intensely after her words.
"Good lord," he mutters, then closes his eyes tightly. He can feel her hip pushing against his cock--he's hard through his pants and his dick is super-interested in the recent turn of events. He leans in for another soft, wet kiss.
"But, since I don't," she glances down at the hard, dark, and very uncomfortable looking ground of the alleyway, "think you can wait until we get back to the room?"
Ben nods and kisses her neck again, the Hôtel Saint Paul Rive Gauche is visible, just a few more blocks away. "Yeah. Quick question though--can you run in those heels?"
* * *
When they do get up to the privacy of their room, after a quick make-out session on the communal second floor landing where she actually gets his pants unzipped and strokes him though his underwear, and he thinks briefly, we are going to get arrested tonight, she kicks off her shoes, and gets his dark blue pants and black boxer-briefs down around his ankles. Once down on her knees, Leslie pauses at the small, quarter-shaped, greenish-yellow bruise on his hip. It's a reminder of their Sunday afternoon Pari Roller skate tour from Place de la Bastille.
She kisses it gently, while he shrugs off his suit jacket and loosens his tie.
"Does it still hurt?"
"Not really."
"You know, that was entirely your own fault," she says, looking up at him with a smile, grasping him in her hand.
"It definitely was. But I couldn't help it. In fact, I would do it again, given the chance."
"You would watch me skate from behind instead of keep your eyes on the path in front of you? And then roll right into a quaint, Parisian street lamp at high speed...again?"
"Yes."
"Okay," she agrees. "I may have done the same thing if I had been behind you. But, I would have been looking at your ass, not your feet."
"Oh, I was looking at your ass too. And the straps from your knee pads. The back of your calves. And the, yeah, definitely the...skates," he shudders a little as he says the last word and he's not sure if it's from remembering how she looked the other day or the fact that Leslie is slowly sliding her palm around his cock, about to move in closer.
But, he's still a little drunk from the all red wine and he can't help but interrupt her. Because even though he's completely on-board with her current plan, he also just really loves teasing her.
"Are you sure that you have room for anything else? With all the duck confit, boeuf bourguignon, and soufflé in there?"
There's a pause before she answers.
"Well, you were right, that brisk walk might have just done the trick," she kisses the head of his cock, starts to work her tongue along the shaft, while Ben's head falls back against the floral wallpaper-covered wall.
Okay, he's done being funny.
But Leslie seems to have other ideas. She pulls her mouth away and adds, "On that topic, until now, I would have said that the soufflé was the best thing I've eaten in Paris," she gives him a dirty little smile.
"And now?"
"I think dessert has some...stiff competition," Leslie answers, before dissolving into giggles.
Ben groans, and does a bad job of trying not to laugh. "Okay, are you going to do a comedy show down there...or are you going to suck my dick?"
"Hmmmmm..." She starts to fondle his balls and nuzzle against his cock.
"I mean, either is fine, just let me know so that I can adjust my expecta--ohhhh fuck."
Leslie looks up and gives him a wink as she works her mouth around him, and his hands gently tangle in her pulled-back hair.
* * *
Looking back on their time in Paris so far, Ben realizes that almost all of their romantic activities have involved sloppy, giggly, post-food sex--whether they'd just eaten their way through a bag full of assorted macaroons like earlier this afternoon (after which Leslie had ended up on her hands and knees, using the pillow he was currently resting his own face against to muffle her gasps and cries) or a 150-Euro dinner at Donna Meagle's favorite little bistro in Paris.
"We should stay here," Leslie says, interrupting his thoughts on this lazy, quiet haze of a Friday afternoon.
Ben turns his head to the side, so he can respond. “Here in Paris or here in this hotel room?”
They’re lying on the bed, sheets kicked off and down on the floor, while the sounds from the busy street below filter up and through their open fourth floor Juliet balcony window in the 5ème. Ben’s on his stomach, with Leslie resting her head against his bare ass.
"Paris. We could move here. We could take daily walks to visit our lock on the Pont Neuf Bridge. I could learn how to make macaroons and open a pastry shop. You could learn French accounting."
"You’re just saying that because you’re using my butt as a pillow. You always get weird ideas when you use my butt as a pillow."
"I do not!"
He laughs. “Remember, you wanted to train the least vicious of Pawnee’s raccoon population to deliver pizzas?” And then Ben cringes slightly at his mention of Pawnee. They'd actually gone the whole six days so far without talking about Indiana or home even once. But if his mention of Pawnee now upsets her, she doesn't let on. So, that's encouraging.
"What? That’s a good idea."
He snorts in response.
"Well, that’s a creative idea," she counters.
"Yes," Ben agrees.
"I can’t help it. Your butt makes me feel very creative," she says, sitting up and giving the object of her affection--her muse, a light slap.
"Hey."
She just laughs at Ben's not-very-serious indignation, then readjusts herself so she's half lying on top of him, her breasts pressed against his warm back, one arm up around his shoulder.
"Here’s an idea for you. Why don’t we stay in tonight, only put on clothes when room service delivers our over-priced dinner, and then open up that bottle of wine we picked up Tuesday? We can play travel Scrabble, eat, and drink all the wine. I may even have a chocolate croissant hidden in the room somewhere that the winner can have as a prize."
Ben smiles. “Now, that is great idea.”
"And then after it gets dark, we can hardcore make-out on the balcony. I kind of liked doing stuff out in the open, you know--l'amour en plein air."
"It's a very, very small balcony," Ben reminds her, but yeah, that's a pretty good idea too.
"We can give it a try," she suggests.
"We can. But first, after I win at Scrabble, you can still have the croissant--I'll just eat you as my prize. Because you are the best thing I've had in my mouth in Paris."
There's a comfortable moment of silence, before she snuggles closer and says, "Maybe after the wine and the scrabble and the balcony, we can talk about Pawnee? I have some ideas about a new, special project that I'd like to start working on with you...after we get back home."
*--The End--*
Pairing: Leslie/Ben
Rating: NC-17
Cautionary Tags: Fingering, Fluffy Smut, Oral Sex.
Timeline: Takes place in Paris, during the events of Second Chunce.
Summary: Written for the kinkmeme prompt: Any type of fucking or sexual activity that occurs outside. Parks, between buildings, outside restaurants or bars, backyards, whatever.
Notes: The beginning and ending of this fic started as a couple of Paris drabbles on Tumblr. When I was writing them, I did think they would end up as part of a larger fic. And then I was inspired by the kinkmeme prompt.
They're at a small table at Joséphine Chez Dumonet, feeding each other spoonfuls of a Grand Marnier soufflé and it's probably the best thing that Leslie has ever had in her mouth.
From their prime seat right by the window (and honestly, she has no idea how Ben did this, most of the other Americans seem to be sitting in the cramped back room), they can watch charming Rue du Cherche-Midi through the gauzy curtains, as well as the other diners and waiters in the main room of the busy, cozy bistro.
"Donna has great taste in restaurants," Ben admits, before smiling and then reaching across the tabletop and using his napkin to wipe a bit of stray soufflé from the corner of Leslie's mouth.
"Thanks," she acknowledges his help with a grin. "So, this was her recommendation?"
"Yeah, she got us the reservation, even the table. She knows someone."
"Ahhh, I was wondering how we got this spot," she smiles, looks around the dining area. "I was all impressed with you, but I guess I should be all impressed with Donna instead."
"No. You can still be impressed with me."
"And why is that?"
He shrugs. "The trip to Paris was my idea. Plus, I am the one who's buying you dinner, you know."
"I suppose you think that means I'm going to put out now?"
Ben nods and Leslie starts giggling softly before she answers. "Yeah, I totally am. But oh my god, babe, I am so full of my duck confit, all those bites of your boeuf bourguignon that I snuck while you weren't looking, and the soufflé. Don't expect fancy positions and acrobatics."
"I saw you sneaking my food, by the way, you were just being so cute, that I let it go. And we do have about a mile to walk back to the hotel," he reminds her, draining the last of the red wine from his glass. "A nice brisk walk and we'll be ready for all kinds of impressive things by the time we get to our room."
"Really?" she asks, looking a little doubtful.
"No. We're gonna pull our clothes off and if we're lucky, stuff is going to just magically line-up however we collapse on the bed."
She holds her glass up and he clinks it softly with his empty one, before Leslie swallows the rest of her wine, and pushes the empty soufflé dish towards the edge of their table.
* * *
For someone who's deathly afraid of cops, Ben can hardly believe he's about to suggest what he's seriously about to suggest. Pawnee's finest are heart attack-inducing enough but police in a foreign country? But then he reasons that maybe l'amour en plein air is completely legal in the City of Light? Maybe it's even encouraged?
Plus, hell, he is a little drunk after that bottle of wine they split with dinner. And Leslie looks so amazing in that dress, with her toned bare legs and light blue high heels. She's looked absolutely amazing all day--whether they were on a Seine River sightseeing cruise, at an outdoor cafe people-watching, or even as he was nerding out over the bridge from Inception. And right now, he just really wants to touch her.
They're about three-quarters of the way to the hotel, walking along cobblestone streets, holding hands, while the click of Leslie's heels fills the void along the fairly empty, late Thursday night roads. Right across the street from Luxembourg Palace he ducks to the right, into a romantic looking alley, flanked on both sides by impressively old, ornate brick structures.
After leading them about five yards in, he turns them around and slowly walks her back up against the brick wall.
"Wha--?"
"I really want to make you come. Right now, with your back pressed against this old building. Is that okay?"
Her eyes widen in surprise but then she gets a look on her face that tells Ben that she really wants that too and that it's super-okay.
"Are you going to use your fingers...on me?" She asks leadingly.
"Yes. I'm going to slide them between your thighs and touch you. Right here in this alley."
"Do you want me to tell you about the senate building across the street first?" They both turn their heads to briefly look at the illuminated, Baroque-style building in the distance.
Ben moves in for a kiss, then nods, "I do." God, he loves her so much.
"Luxembourg Palace was originally built in...ohhhh, the 17th century by Salomon de Brosse. It was the royal residence of Marie de Médicis, and then after the revolution it was turned into a legislative build...oh my god."
"I actually knew all of that already," he whispers in her ear, as his hand runs up and down the inside of her bare thigh, just lightly brushing his fingertips against her skin. He cups her mound through her panties and Ben can feel her tremble, but he's pretty sure that it's not the chilly evening. "I read through the highlights in your travel guide. The palace has been the seat of the French Senate since 1958." And then he's kissing her again--she tastes like Grand Marnier, red wine, vanilla, and Leslie.
Ben pulls his hand off her thigh and out from under her dress, and just when she starts to pout, he brings his hand to her lips. She moans and then sucks his index finger into her mouth.
"There are guards across the street, watching the palace," she whispers, after he slides his finger from her lips.
"I know. So, you need to be quiet," Ben whispers back. "If we do get caught by the Parisian police, I can almost guarantee you that I'm going to panic, maybe even try to flee, and you're not going to be able to keep up in those shoes. I won't want to do it, my instincts will just kick in. It won't mean that I don't love you."
She laughs lightly but then stops when he pushes his hand back down, pulls the elastic of her panties from around the inside of her thigh away, slides his slick finger along her crease, then right to her clit, making her jump.
He smiles at her, his other hand holding her steady at the waist. "Hi."
"Hi."
Soon, she's squirming against his hand, grinding into his fingers as they continue to push in and out, and also rub her wet, slippery clit in a tight little circle. Ben leans down, sucks the skin on the side of her neck for a few seconds, then goes down further and gently nibbles his teeth around her visibly hardened nipple, right through the fabric of her dress. It really is kind of a thrill to be doing this outside, theoretically where anyone could see them.
When he pulls back up to watch her face, there's just enough light from the street so that he can see her clearly. More than anything, he really wants to watch her come--her back arching into the centuries old bricks, her mouth open, eyes closed, and the feel of her thighs clamped tightly around his hand. She's so impossibly beautiful.
When she does, it's in a long wave, pulsing wetly around his fingers, and it's just as hot as he knew it would be.
Leslie stretches up on her toes while Ben leans down a bit, so they can touch noses. She kisses him before saying, "If I still had my knee pads from the other day, I would push you against this wall, get on my knees, and...blow you."
Usually Leslie's dirty talk ends in cackling but tonight she's managing to stare at him fairly intensely after her words.
"Good lord," he mutters, then closes his eyes tightly. He can feel her hip pushing against his cock--he's hard through his pants and his dick is super-interested in the recent turn of events. He leans in for another soft, wet kiss.
"But, since I don't," she glances down at the hard, dark, and very uncomfortable looking ground of the alleyway, "think you can wait until we get back to the room?"
Ben nods and kisses her neck again, the Hôtel Saint Paul Rive Gauche is visible, just a few more blocks away. "Yeah. Quick question though--can you run in those heels?"
* * *
When they do get up to the privacy of their room, after a quick make-out session on the communal second floor landing where she actually gets his pants unzipped and strokes him though his underwear, and he thinks briefly, we are going to get arrested tonight, she kicks off her shoes, and gets his dark blue pants and black boxer-briefs down around his ankles. Once down on her knees, Leslie pauses at the small, quarter-shaped, greenish-yellow bruise on his hip. It's a reminder of their Sunday afternoon Pari Roller skate tour from Place de la Bastille.
She kisses it gently, while he shrugs off his suit jacket and loosens his tie.
"Does it still hurt?"
"Not really."
"You know, that was entirely your own fault," she says, looking up at him with a smile, grasping him in her hand.
"It definitely was. But I couldn't help it. In fact, I would do it again, given the chance."
"You would watch me skate from behind instead of keep your eyes on the path in front of you? And then roll right into a quaint, Parisian street lamp at high speed...again?"
"Yes."
"Okay," she agrees. "I may have done the same thing if I had been behind you. But, I would have been looking at your ass, not your feet."
"Oh, I was looking at your ass too. And the straps from your knee pads. The back of your calves. And the, yeah, definitely the...skates," he shudders a little as he says the last word and he's not sure if it's from remembering how she looked the other day or the fact that Leslie is slowly sliding her palm around his cock, about to move in closer.
But, he's still a little drunk from the all red wine and he can't help but interrupt her. Because even though he's completely on-board with her current plan, he also just really loves teasing her.
"Are you sure that you have room for anything else? With all the duck confit, boeuf bourguignon, and soufflé in there?"
There's a pause before she answers.
"Well, you were right, that brisk walk might have just done the trick," she kisses the head of his cock, starts to work her tongue along the shaft, while Ben's head falls back against the floral wallpaper-covered wall.
Okay, he's done being funny.
But Leslie seems to have other ideas. She pulls her mouth away and adds, "On that topic, until now, I would have said that the soufflé was the best thing I've eaten in Paris," she gives him a dirty little smile.
"And now?"
"I think dessert has some...stiff competition," Leslie answers, before dissolving into giggles.
Ben groans, and does a bad job of trying not to laugh. "Okay, are you going to do a comedy show down there...or are you going to suck my dick?"
"Hmmmmm..." She starts to fondle his balls and nuzzle against his cock.
"I mean, either is fine, just let me know so that I can adjust my expecta--ohhhh fuck."
Leslie looks up and gives him a wink as she works her mouth around him, and his hands gently tangle in her pulled-back hair.
* * *
Looking back on their time in Paris so far, Ben realizes that almost all of their romantic activities have involved sloppy, giggly, post-food sex--whether they'd just eaten their way through a bag full of assorted macaroons like earlier this afternoon (after which Leslie had ended up on her hands and knees, using the pillow he was currently resting his own face against to muffle her gasps and cries) or a 150-Euro dinner at Donna Meagle's favorite little bistro in Paris.
"We should stay here," Leslie says, interrupting his thoughts on this lazy, quiet haze of a Friday afternoon.
Ben turns his head to the side, so he can respond. “Here in Paris or here in this hotel room?”
They’re lying on the bed, sheets kicked off and down on the floor, while the sounds from the busy street below filter up and through their open fourth floor Juliet balcony window in the 5ème. Ben’s on his stomach, with Leslie resting her head against his bare ass.
"Paris. We could move here. We could take daily walks to visit our lock on the Pont Neuf Bridge. I could learn how to make macaroons and open a pastry shop. You could learn French accounting."
"You’re just saying that because you’re using my butt as a pillow. You always get weird ideas when you use my butt as a pillow."
"I do not!"
He laughs. “Remember, you wanted to train the least vicious of Pawnee’s raccoon population to deliver pizzas?” And then Ben cringes slightly at his mention of Pawnee. They'd actually gone the whole six days so far without talking about Indiana or home even once. But if his mention of Pawnee now upsets her, she doesn't let on. So, that's encouraging.
"What? That’s a good idea."
He snorts in response.
"Well, that’s a creative idea," she counters.
"Yes," Ben agrees.
"I can’t help it. Your butt makes me feel very creative," she says, sitting up and giving the object of her affection--her muse, a light slap.
"Hey."
She just laughs at Ben's not-very-serious indignation, then readjusts herself so she's half lying on top of him, her breasts pressed against his warm back, one arm up around his shoulder.
"Here’s an idea for you. Why don’t we stay in tonight, only put on clothes when room service delivers our over-priced dinner, and then open up that bottle of wine we picked up Tuesday? We can play travel Scrabble, eat, and drink all the wine. I may even have a chocolate croissant hidden in the room somewhere that the winner can have as a prize."
Ben smiles. “Now, that is great idea.”
"And then after it gets dark, we can hardcore make-out on the balcony. I kind of liked doing stuff out in the open, you know--l'amour en plein air."
"It's a very, very small balcony," Ben reminds her, but yeah, that's a pretty good idea too.
"We can give it a try," she suggests.
"We can. But first, after I win at Scrabble, you can still have the croissant--I'll just eat you as my prize. Because you are the best thing I've had in my mouth in Paris."
There's a comfortable moment of silence, before she snuggles closer and says, "Maybe after the wine and the scrabble and the balcony, we can talk about Pawnee? I have some ideas about a new, special project that I'd like to start working on with you...after we get back home."
*--The End--*