Don't kid yourself, Jimmy; if a cow ever got the chance, he'd eat you and everyone you cared about.

[threeguesses]

Stolen from lowriseflare, who got it from fated_addiction:

Give me a pairing (or character, or the name of a show) and a prompt (a word, a phrase, a situation, an emotion, a few lines from a song or, hell, even an entire song) and I will do my best to write you a snippet based on your request.

Not sure how well this is going to work, considering this is a fic journal read by very few people, but TOO BAD, I have three seconds of free time and the newfound ability to write only in 200 word chunks. Come at me.

Comments

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

"Freaks her out." Ben's still touching up the seam of her pants. "Huh." Then: "What happened to the whole not scared, you're here, thing?"

Missy blinks. That's--well. Okay. Ok-ay. So, then, character motivation; character motivation is what they're talking about here. (It's just, that beer and way the fuck before they knew each other's lunch orders by heart: she thought he was maybe talking about himself. Just for, like, a second.

But then, you know. He wasn't. So.

So now he's not either. Whatever. Fuck, whatever, Missy is--)

"Probably they don't even remember saying that to each other," she grinds out. Only that's a lie, of course, no way Andy doesn't. (No way she--)

Fuck. Missy hates Method.

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Ben thinks it's a lie, too, clearly, eyes going weirdly dark (and jesus, could he take a step back already, they're supposed to be taking a break). "Really?" he says--and yeah, he's definitely, like, pissed at her for even suggesting it. "You don't think?"

"What?" Missy shrugs, defensive. "You think I'm wrong?"

For a second Ben looks at her like he's never even seen her before, like he has no idea what he's supposed to be doing with her at all. "Yeah, MP," he says, so quiet. "I think you're wrong."

Well.

"Okay," she says (and god, god, there's really no reason for her to feel like she's about to burst into tears all over again, it's totally uncalled for, she really needs to get more sleep, start taking a vitamin or something. Maybe invest in a sun lamp). "Fine. Then...I'm wrong."

Ben sees, of course (ugh, he always sees), fingers curling around her thigh and mouth open to say something else, except here's Dave crossing the rec room, all smiles and ready to work. "Okay," he says. "Sorry about that. Go again whenever you're ready."

It is, um.

Not such a nice kiss this time.

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And Missy doesn't cry, actually, she's so busy being professional and well-rested and not a basket case that she forgets she's actually supposed to. So of course Dave stops them ("Try," is what he says, "no pressure, it was just a nice touch," but, like. It's possible Missy doesn't have to try) and god, the rest of the shoot is just awful. Well, it's good, actually, it's emotional as fuck, but by the end Missy feels waterlogged and exhausted and makeup is having a hard time keeping her pretty.

There are no more breaks to talk to Ben in either, so.

(And it's just--it's really sucky having him tuck Andy's head into his neck and tell her they're going to be fine. Over and over again.)

"Ouch," Enuka says when she catches sight of Missy's face. She's sucking on a Halls, so it comes out all garbled. "They make you cry?"

"Nah, she added that herself," Ben murmurs, from, seriously, right-the-fuck behind her, and cripes, what is his deal?

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Missy turns around to ask him, but he's already walking away, so.

(And like, seriously? Seriously.)

Enuka coughs twice, has this look on her face like what the hell happened with you people? Missy just shrugs. (Enuka has this impression of Ben that she'll only do after two margaritas, and sometimes she's Ben reciting Shakespearean soliloquies and sometimes she's Ben doing Leonardo DiCaprio's "I'm not an idiot, I know how the world works" speech from Titanic, and whatever, maybe you have to be there, but. Enuka hates Method, too, is the point).

She barges into his trailer without knocking; he's taking his uniform off, shoots her this look like do you mind? that also manages to be, like, completely unsurprised. And no, she doesn't mind, as a matter of fact: she's seen him a lot more naked than this a lot closer up, so. "What?" she demands, throwing her hands up. "You're mad at me now?"

DOES SHE EVER DO BEN'S PACEY IMPRESSION?

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"I'm not mad at anyone," he says, tossing her own line back at her, and fuck, seriously, if there's anything Missy hates it's being quoted to herself. (She just--she wants to hit something, actually, really badly.

But then: there's a picture of his wife on the end table. Missy feels sick.)

"Terrific--that's just." Suddenly she doesn't want to fight anymore. She drops down onto the ratty old sofa, pulls her knees up under her chin. "That's just great."

Ben relaxes the set of his shoulders, comes over to sit on the armrest. Looks at her good and hard. "MP. What's going on?" Only it sounds kind of like--it sounds kind of like he maybe already knows.

PROBABLY SHE DOES IF THERE ARE SHOTS INVOLVED.

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Which--shit, that's embarrassing, if he knows she's, like--

(oh god, do other people know? Does his wife know? Is it like, a thing they talk about at their stupid condo in LA?

And whatever, fine, Missy doesn't actually know if their condo is stupid, it could be very nice, but--)

"Nothing," she says--whines, really, she whines it, she sounds about seven years old (and there's an age joke there but she is not not not going to make it, not even to herself, so--). "God."

Ben keeps looking. "MP," he says, like he's waiting for something really specific--and he does, he knows, he totally knows. "I can't--you gotta talk to me."

"Can you stop?" she snaps, and she just--she hates him. "What do you want me to say? Seriously, Ben, there is absolutely nothing for me to say in this moment that's not going to make my entire life completely unbearable, so." She gets up, wipes her sweaty palms on her uniform pants. "Forget it. Sorry I cried."

WHOOPS, SORRY THIS ONE GOT SO STUPIDLY LONG.

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And Ben's just wearing this face--this stupid awful face like he's sorry or something, and Missy can't, okay. She really can't.

(If it's pity, she legitimately might have to kill herself.)

This time when she walks out, he doesn't follow.

*

The next day, Missy's pretty sure she's caught Enuka's cold (staying up half the night playing a really dirty version of Apples to Apples with Greg as a last ditch attempt at distraction probably didn't help), so she spends the morning in sweats, watching some French documentary on Enuka's laptop. (Well, "French documentary" is kind of misleading, actually: there are no words and it's all about babies. Enuka claims no sane human being can watch ninety minutes of babies rolling around and still be in a funk.

Turns out Missy can.)

Halfway through Ben comes in and asks if he can "borrow MP" and Enuka effing leaves her there, the traitor. Missy tugs her hood up because she doesn't have sunglasses, and it's the only other nonverbal 'fuck off' sign she can think of.

Ben does not fuck off. "They want to film the kiss from a different angle."

Missy sighs in relief, because that's an easy one. "Can't. Sick."

Ben rolls his eyes (and he's--no, he's definitely smiling a little. Missy pulls her hood closer). "Like that's any more difficult to navigate than you crying." Then he's cupping her ears and titling her head and what the ever-loving fuck? He kisses her carefully, mindful of her runny nose. Missy can't hear anything through the cotton and the pounding of her own heart.

"See," Ben says. "Easy."

THIS IS ME, REALLY NOT MINDING.

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Missy blinks. "What's that?" she asks, trying to keep her voice steady. Her fist opens and closes on the nubbly arm of the couch, a little spastic; she's still got the computer in her lap. "Like, rehearsal?"

"Yup," Ben says, and does it again. He's got his hand inside her hood, now, fingers up in her hair and one thumb stroking at the corner of her jaw. It's a Swarek kiss, sort of demanding, tongue and the faintest graze of teeth.

"O-okay?" It's like, kind of gross actually, how snotty she is, but Ben--yeah. Doesn't seem to care. "I'm gonna get you sick," she says, trying to warn him. He's got one hand braced on the back of the sofa; Missy smells coffee and his soap.

Ben nods, pushes the laptop shut. "Probably," he agrees.

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Then he's leaning in again, knees into her knees, and Missy just sort of...drops the thing on the floor (it's an Apple product--it should be fine, right?), and the weirdest part is, Ben doesn't even stop at the thump.

Ben just. doesn't. stop.

Three kisses later, and Missy is pretty sure they're making out. It's not--she's just so sick, is the thing, she can feel the fever at the back of her throat, no way is he not getting this cold. She can't even move her head much, how stuffed up she is, so mostly it's just Ben licking into her mouth, slow and careful.

(It, uh. Doesn't real feel like Swarek anymore.)

"Okay, um." She turns her face into his jaw. She is, good and seriously, just too sick to deal with this. "That's like. Way too much kissing footage."

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Ben blinks at her once, that baffled Jane Eyre look from yesterday. Then he pulls her hood back off her face. "MP," he says quietly, one hand cupping her skull through the fabric so she has to look at him. "Are you--did you think I was actually trying to rehearse with you just now?"

And--

"No," she blurts immediately, then: "I mean. Unless that's what you were doing? In which case, definitely, yes, I was as well?"

Ben snorts and smiles at her a little, fist tightening at the back of her head. It's possible she's tilting her chin back up just the slightest bit (and ugh, yuck, she can feel the snot, like. In her throat) when one of the PAs raps on the door of the trailer, neat and efficient. "Dave, uh. Wants to know if you guys are ready?"

Ben jumps back fast enough to dodge a bullet, strides past the kid onto the lot. "McNally needs a cough drop," he calls over his shoulder, which is the last unscripted thing she hears out of him all night.

Two mornings later he comes in sick as a dog, though. So.

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And Missy, well--she keeps wondering if it was, like, a pity make out or something (although: is that even a thing? could she ask Charlotte?) but then there was the way he was all unnecessarily touchy in the Penny scene yesterday, hand in her belt loops where the camera couldn't even see, and well.

Well.

"What the hell is that?" Ben croaks from the couch. He's got the little portable AC in his trailer cranked, never mind the fact that he's wearing a hoodie (and seriously, a round of colds in the middle of August, they've got to be the most immunodeficient cast ever).

"Soup," Missy says. Which is not strictly true--it's instant NoName chicken noodle, but like. He won't drink tea.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

"That's not soup," he says, but he smiles at her a little when he takes it, and once she's settled on the couch beside him he hands it back so she can have a sip. He's got one arm up along the top of the cushions, flipping channels: reruns and news, mostly, an episode of Teen Mom she's too embarrassed to tell him she sort of wants to watch. They're shooting nights this week, which normally Missy finds weirdly fun and exciting, although right now she feels a little like maybe she's going to collapse and die.

"Travis has it now," she reports, sniffling a little. Her nose is so raw it hurts to blow. "You realize we're all just going to keep passing this stupid cold back and forth until the end of time."

"Probably," Ben says, around a yawn. He tucks the mug between his knees and scrubs a hand over his eyes like he's trying without much success to pull it together; then, tugging once on her ponytail: "You feel any better?"

Missy sighs, leans into his touch a little bit without actually meaning to--it's just, her head hurts, is all. Her head hurts, like. A lot."No."

"No," he repeats slowly, eyes on the TV like there's something really interesting happening there (which there isn't; it's a commercial for one of those mattress warehouses off the highway) and it's just--suddenly Missy thinks there's a possibility they're not talking about the cold anymore. Ben's still holding on to her hair. "Me either."

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Which; Missy considers making a joke--like, thank god it's not the flu, imagine the state of the porta-potties--but um. The way this conversation is going, probably flu wouldn't mean flu. So.

"Drink your soup." It seems like the safest thing to say.

Ben smiles at her quietly, more eyes than mouth. "Oh yeah? That supposed to help me?" His fingers are threading through the base of her ponytail now, under the elastic.

Missy closes her eyes. (And god, it's going to mess up her hair, it's going to mess up her hair so bad, but like. It feels-- Possibly she wants to take a nap with him a bit, just like this. They could keep their hoodies on.)

"Well, you know." She shrugs. "Enuka tried to fix me with babies and this awful fusion tea." She peeks at him through her eyelids. "And I got you sick." She doesn't know if she's talking about the cold or not.

"Huh," Ben says "Yeah, no, I can definitely see how you arrived at artificial flavouring as the next obvious solution." He looks at her for a second, fingers still rubbing carefully at the back of her scalp. "You did get me sick." Quiet, like he's maybe remembering the specifics of how that happened, and um.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

"That feels nice," she murmurs as the heel of his hand slides down to her neck, pressing gently. Goosebumps spring up all across her arms (it's cold in here, okay? It is cold in here). "Don't stop."

Ben exhales softly--a sigh or otherwise he's just congested, Missy doesn't know. He stopped on Teen Mom anyway, she realizes, like maybe he read her stupid mind. "Not stopping," he says.

So. Not stopping, then.

Okay.

She's honestly not sure which one of them is getting closer or if maybe they both are, sort of, but suddenly his shoulder is like-- right there, and. He's super, super warm through the sweatshirt. "Do you still have a fever?" she asks, and when she reaches a hand up to his face to check and sees how he's looking at her--well.

It's possible she kisses him by mistake.

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And, yes, okay, married--jesus christ Missy's an idiot, she's going to hell for sure, that or be reincarnated as, like, a tailless dolphin or something (seriously, what is up with that movie, clearly that animal was not meant to live), and plus, you know; there goes her karma for life--but she doesn't exactly have much time to feel bad about it, is the thing. Because the second and third kisses? All him.

(It, uh. Gets a bit foggy after the fourth.)

Somehow she ends up in his lap, his hands under her sweatshirt and like--part of Missy is completely freaking out, sure, but the other part is arguing that nothing irrevocable can happen when the world is NyQuil-blurry and Ben tastes like chicken soup. Everything is safe and PG and probably they can blame this all on temporary insanity.

Then she slides forward two inches.

WTF IS UP WITH THAT MOVIE, IT HAS LIKE A WAR VETERAN IN IT ALSO, IS THAT SOME KIND OF METAPHOR?

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Which--okay. Ooookay.

(She's wearing sweatpants, is the thing, these fuzzy gray velour ones her sister got her to wear "to bed and only if you're sleeping alone, Miss, okay? Seriously." Only Missy wears them around set all the time, they're amazing, they are like wearing a goddamn cloud, and it's fine except for when Ben's hipbones are digging into her thighs and it's like she's in her freaking underwear or something and he's--

he's--

he's married, is what he is, Jesus Christ--)

Missy rolls her hips forward, half-involuntary. Ben groans low and quiet into her neck.

I DON'T EVEN KNOW, APPARENTLY I'M NOT ALLOWED TO MOCK IT BECAUSE IT'S FOR *CHILDREN*.

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And crap, that is definitely--those are not PG noises. Like. At all. Her heart's beating itself out of her chest, 90% sheer terror, and Missy is not not not doing that again. (Only then it's actually worse to keep herself still, jesus, all pressed up against him like that and no real-- God, he must have a fever, how warm everything is. His mouth is like a brand.)

"Ben," she starts, meaning wait, or stop, or I don't think I could handle a life of adversary in the open sea, but it comes out more like a, you know. Moment of passion thing. (And shit, is this one of the seven deadly sins? Seriously, Missy needs to find herself a bible or something, clearly she doesn't exactly excel at unguided morality.)

Ben hmms against her neck, which--okay, she knew that wasn't just a Swarek thing, there's only so much you can act--and while it's nice to have that confirmed, it's really not helping her here.

I REALLY HOPE BEN BASS'S CHILD BRIDE DOESN'T SPEND A LOT OF TIME TROLLING THE INTERNET OR ANYTHING.

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Missy keeps her eyes closed tight. (Fever dream, she thinks vaguely, like maybe if she's not looking it isn't actually happening; also, it's possible she's afraid to see the expression on his face.) Ben's tongue swipes lazily over her collarbone.

And okay, okay, one of them has to--

one of them has to, but--

(But.)

He's just so warm, is the thing, slow like moving underwater and his thumbs stroking softly up her rib cage. Her breath shudders out against his skin. Behind her she can hear that MTV has switched over to a Jersey Shore rerun: Sweetheart and Ron are back together and fighting, the same argument every single night.

Jesus Christ, she is literally a preacher's daughter, could she possibly be more of a--

Ben sucks lightly at her bottom lip, careful. Missy's fingers tighten in his hair. His hands are still inside her sweatshirt, touching up the small of her back until he hits the hooks on her bra and--

(One of them really, really has to stop, here.

He's not.)

OH MAN, NO KIDDING. (ALSO: AHAHA, I KEEP FORGETTING HER FATHER IS TOTALLY A MINISTER OR WHATEVER.)

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Missy keeps her eyes closed when her bra unhooks, and when it gapes at the front, her nipples skating against the cotton, but jesus, plausible deniability really isn't doing it for her anymore as Ben's hands come up and cup--

"Okay, um." She sits up like she's been burned (which--god, not an impossibility here). "Time out. We need to, like--" Crap, and she has to open her eyes, it is completely not fair that she has to open her eyes when his face looks--

Fuck, okay, it is just-- completely not fair.

"MP," Ben says, like it's a question, but maybe also like he just wanted to say her name. (And shit, his voice could probably convince her to make some really bad life decisions. Not cool, Missy. Remember hell.)

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"You want me to stop?"

Which--seriously, what the hell. "Don't put this on me!" she snaps, shrill and congested. She coughs once, basically right in his face. "You're the one who's--who's--" and god, she can't even say it. She can't even--

"Yeah," Ben says. He's got his hands back on her rib cage, not even doing anything except holding her steady. She aches all over her body, her elbows and behind her ears, like her skin is being rubbed with sandpaper everywhere except the places he's touching. "I know."

"I hate you," she says, and sort of means it. She feels like the worst person in the world.

Ben sighs. "I know that too, MP." And jesus, his face, she's never seen-- "So I'm asking. Do you want me to stop?"

She should say yes. She needs to say yes (it's a sin, and it's terrible, and there's some perfectly nice girl waiting for him in a condo in LA; this is never ever going to be anything other than a total disaster). Still, out of all the horrible things she's done today lying to Ben feels like the worst, and in the end Missy is just too sick and tired to do it.

"No," she tells him miserably, and closes her eyes again. "I really don't."

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Ben exhales, and it sounds like relief. It sounds like he's sorry. "Yeah. Me either." He pulls her face down so she can hide it in his shoulder, hand all wrapped up in her ponytail. He smells like cotton and cherry cough syrup.

Probably this is the dumbest thing Missy's ever done. "We better not screw up the show."

Ben pulls back from her a bit, tilts his head to meet her eyes. He's wearing his Jane Eyre look again, brow all furrowed. "What--how would we do that?"

"Like." She shrugs. Considers wiping her nose on his collar. "I don't know. Fuck up the chemistry or something." (Which--definitely that's the worst thing that could happen. Good sense of perspective, Missy.)

Ben laughs around a cough, loose and rattling in his chest. "I, uh. Don't think that's gonna be a problem, MP."

And just--

she's, like, sitting on him, so she can still feel--

Fair point.

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He runs his hands up and down her sides a bit, spreads his fingers and uses his thumbs to stroke gently along the undersides of her breasts. Missy gasps into the fabric of his sweatshirt. Ben hums at her, soft and gravelly, circles her nipples until she pushes her hips at his (like a reflex, like she said she wasn't going to do again, and um.

Um).

She pushes his hood to the side, gets her mouth on the crazy warm patch of skin where his neck meets his shoulder.

(Now that they're committed to this her brain has gone sort of oddly quiet, just the murmur of the TV and a low constant buzz at the back of her head. Could be the cold medicine, she guesses. It's sort of disconcerting.)

"MP," Ben mutters, breath hot and humid on the skin just below her ear. He slides his hands out from under her sweatshirt, fists them in the fabric and tugs. "Arms up."

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And okay, yes, probably this is Missy's last chance to do the right thing here; recover her conscience, go back to her trailer and chug more DayQuil, watch youtube videos of cats until they're ready to do the night shots, but--

But.

She lifts her arms.

(They're committed, is the thing, are throwing themselves over the falls together, pinky swear, one-two-three and jump. Missy is not a welcher.)

The sweatshirt comes off easy, bra all tangled up inside the cotton. There's static around Missy's ears, the snap and pull of her hair, and then boom--she's bare to the waist in Ben's lap, broad daylight in the middle of his trailer.

Fuck, she hopes the door is locked.

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"Is the door locked?" she asks.

"What?" Ben looks up, like he's startled--and okay, he was definitely like, staring a little, which, um. They've seen each other pretty close to naked at this point--

("I hate how on TV you can always tell when there's nothing in the coffee cup," she said randomly to Tassie once, way back in the day when they were chatting about what shows they both liked. "Also how after people have this supposedly hot sex the girl always still has her bra on."

Which--that'll teach her to say anything like that ever again; still, their coffee cups are always filled, which Missy appreciates.)

--but definitely not, like. All the way. So.

"Um," he says, and boosts her off his lap so he can check--except she lands kind of sprawled on her back, head against the arm of the couch. She tries to shift around so it's a little less overtly come at me, baby, but--"Yeah." He's looking again, eyes dark and like--hungry. "Locked."

COME AT ME, BABY = A+

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"Okay." God, she feels like she should maybe cross her arms or something, this is just--That scene where Andy's back was bare, all the way down, Missy still had a modesty band, like, basically glued to her front, so. "That's good."

(It slipped once, actually; the way Missy was sweating a bit, pressed up against him, was, um. More than the body tape could handle, apparently. Ben tugged it back into place, not looking.

Clearly they are, you know. Making up for that now.)

"Mmm." He's back over by the couch, not even listening to her, one hand trailing slow and steady up her side. His palms are warm. Missy arches slightly, not completely intentionally (but, okay, like, she wants him to--it's possible she sticks her chest out a little). Only then that works a bit too well: Ben tweaks a nipple suddenly, no preamble whatsoever.

Missy squeaks.

He grins. "Yeah. That's what I thought."