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]

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?

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

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*.

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

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.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

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.)

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

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.)

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

"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."

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

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.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

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."

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

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.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

"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+

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

"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."

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

"Ugh." Missy flings an arm over her eyes, weirdly embarrassed. "Can you just--" She grabs for his wrist and yanks until he gets the message and comes, stretching out on top of her on the couch. Her legs open up to make space for him, an instinctual thing. She likes feeling his weight. "God."

"Don't get shy," Ben says quietly. He's got himself balanced on one forearm, ducks his dark head and licks a little. Bites. "It's just me."

"I'm not." And she's not usually shy, is the thing, but like--it's Ben. It's Ben, and her hips are doing all kinds of unforgivable things, and. Jesus. She pushes him up by the shoulders and gets her fingers in the hem of his hoodie, tugs it over his head. "That's better." This part is familiar, the hair on his chest and the muscle underneath, how solid he is against her hands.

(She wasn't actually particularly attracted to him, the first time they met each other. She's always liked prettier guys.)

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

(She doesn't even really know when it happened, Pavlovian response or something, this is your love interest. God, it would be super embarrassing if this whole mess was just the result of Method.)

Ben ducks his head again, starts paying some serious attention to her breasts. Missy isn't doing so hot with the whole breathing thing anymore. And yeah, part of it's the cold, sure, the way it feels like every inhale is being dragged through a wet blanket, but--

(Ben leans in closer and sucks, his messy hair stupidly soft under Missy's fist, and jesus christ, he is like, looking up at her, all this fucking awkward eye-contact, Missy just wants to--)

--you know. Part of it is not.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

"Okay," she gasps out, tugging at his hair a little to get his attention--it's just, if they're going to do this they need to do it, Missy's pretty sure, or she's going to totally lose control of herself and all her stupid feelings, detonate like some kind of improvised bomb: glass and shrapnel everywhere, no survivors (and she's not, she's not the kind of girl who cries during sex, god, but she just--she's not the kind of girl who messes around with other people's husbands, either, and she doesn't trust herself right now). She gets her hands down in between them, works the button on his jeans, and--

"Jesus, MP." Ben groans when she wraps a fist around him, forehead falling forward against her shoulder (and shit, he is like. He is warm); he bucks a little bit against her palm. She uses her free hand to push at his waistband, impatient. Ben shifts around to help her out.

So, yup. Okay. They are in business.

...APPARENTLY SHE REALLY IS MCNALLY IN MY BRAIN.

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

He only gives her a minute of leeway, tops, head ducked down close to hers while she feels him out, learns a couple things (he's breathing slow and purposeful, like he's trying to--yeah). But then he's catching her wrist, palming her sweatpants down and off, and--

And nothing. Missy is not shy.

"Nice underwear," Ben says in her ear, low and amused.

Ugg, nearly all of her thongs have inappropriate shit written across the front and--whatever, whatever, Missy does not even care. (Over, they just need to get this--like ripping off an band-aide.) "Shut up."

"True, though," Ben continues, skimming them down her legs and spending way too much time doing it, like he likes the view.

(They say hot stuff. In sparky script. So.)

WELL, THAT'S METHOD FOR YOU.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

"Yeah, well." Missy rolls her eyes at the ceiling, scrubs a hand through her hair (and god, it's a rat's nest up there at this point, she has no idea how she's going to explain--). "You know me."

Ben's gaze flicks up to her face for half a second, unreadable. "Yeah," he says. "I guess I do."

Which like--okay, but not what she meant, exactly. Also she didn't mean for him to get her pants off and like, stay down there, stroking up her thighs and higher, thumbing her open like he's going to--

"Ben," she starts. She can't relax: it's freezing in here without her sweats on, goosebumps springing up all across her arms and torso and her nipples so hard they almost sting (which, okay, that last thing is possibly not from the cold, whatever, who the fuck knows anymore). Her fist opens and closes against his shoulder, a little desperate. "Seriously--"

She's not actually sure what she's seriously going to tell him to do, but in the end it doesn't matter because he's sliding a finger inside her, careful, pressing his tongue against--

Missy gasps.

Um.

Loudly.

EVERYTHING IS METHOD'S FAULT.

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

And god, she doesn't mean to, it's just--it's Ben, is the problem, with his stupid messy hair and one hand on her thigh, hot and a little sweaty. It's way too much, basically, and Missy is in no way equipped to handle this, needs to go have a good cry in her trailer and examine her life decisions, but none of that is going to help her right now because fuck, she needs--

"Shh," Ben says, turning his head to suck a mark in the crease of her thigh. "MP, you've gotta--" Only then he works his tongue alongside his finger, licks up until he's got her gasping, and just--she tries to be quiet. She does. She damn near hyperventilates anyway.

(She's never normally this skittish, jesus, it's ridiculous. That hand on her thigh alone has her--well. Not actually, but. Almost.)

"Easy," Ben murmurs; two fingers now, the wet press of his mouth. "Nice and slow."

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

"Yeah." Missy swallows thickly, tries to calm down. Ben strokes a soothing thumb across her hipbone. He flattens his tongue a bit, pushes his fingers deeper, and this could, um. Could really, really work for her, conceivably--

("Apparently Swarek's real good in the sack," she told him, when she got the script for that one episode last year; they were splitting a pack of peanut M&Ms, Missy picking out all the blue ones which are her favorite.

Ben only smirked. "You surprised?"

Which--no, actually. She wasn't.)

--but still, it's like--weirdly lonely up here, or something? She doesn't know--he's right there, so there's no reason--fuck.

"Okay," she manages, around another truly embarrassing intake of breath. "Okay, okay, can you--can we just--?"

Ben grins right between her legs, she can feel him. "Can we just what, exactly?"

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

Missy screws up her face, tries to get it together (but--yeah, nope). "Ben." And her throat's a little dry, actually, so it comes out all-- "Up."

He lifts his head to meet her eyes, puzzled (and shit, that's really--looking down at him like that is just--), only Missy must be telegraphing something, like, serious, because another moment and he's crawling up her body, fever-warm slide of skin.

"Better?" he asks when he hits her mouth, quiet. He's still got his fingers between her legs.

Missy swallows. (God, she just--she doesn't even want to know what he read in her expression just then.) "Yeah."

"Good." Brisk, like they're agreeing on something. Then he's rolling them, tight and close on the narrow couch; Missy ends up sprawled on his chest, a leg on either side of his. "Now--" Ben runs his free hand through her hair, works the elastic out. Crooks his fingers, slow thumb rubbing over her clit. Missy whines. (And crap, he's totally watching, he's--) Missy tries hiding her face in his neck, but he nudges at her with his chin. "Come on, MP. Let me see."

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

So.

She, uh.

Lets him see.

(God, it happens stupidly fast like this, sharp and splintering and bright, one knee pressing into his hip while she works herself down and forward, pressing against his thumb. Ben's free hand palms at the back of her skull, pulls her close--wet tongues and chapped lips, that vague sick taste at the back of her throat. Missy keens a sound into his mouth.)

"Um," she says, after a minute--and ugh, she's shaking a little bit, vibrating against his skin. "So. That worked."

Ben laughs a little bit, quiet; when she glances up at him again he's got that expression on his face he gets when they nail a scene on the first try. Only, you know. Not like that at all. "Yeah," he says softly. "Looked that way."

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

And dammit if that doesn't make her blush (god, just--she is a ridiculous human being, apparently). "Yeah well." She boosts herself up slightly, swings a leg over so she's straddling his hips. "We have chemistry." Low and sing-songy, parroting maybe every interviewer ever (which--shit, interviews, how are they going to--?)

"Yeah," Ben says again, still with that odd smile. She can feel him against her thigh, twitching a little. It's, um. A lot.

"Really committed to the job," Missy continues, trying to make a joke out of it (because seriously, she is not going to cry here, okay? She is not).

Only Ben's shaking his head. "MP." Quiet, like he's trying not to spook her. "That's not why."

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

Well then why, she wants to ask him (wants to ask him all kinds of things and wants, just as badly, to never ever know the answers). Missy feels her eyebrows knit together. She must have that look again, the one that got him up here in the first place, because Ben pulls until she's stretched out on top of him, her chest pressing down against his. It's weirdly comforting, actually, all that skin on skin.

He gets both his hands on her face and kisses her for a good long time, one leg wrapping around her calf like he wants to keep her exactly where she is.

And where she is, there is definitely, like...contact happening, which, um.

Um.

(Shit, they are going to need a condom.)

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

"Ben," she gasps, because his hips are shifting and-- "Do you have a--?"

(Only he doesn't, of course he doesn't, she can see it all over his face, which: duh, he is a frickin' married man, perfectly nice girl off in LA, so why would he--

Why would he?

There are a lot of questions Missy wants to be asking here.)

She closes her eyes, just for a bit, just so she can think better. They're inhaling each other's air, warm and close because neither of them can breathe through their nose. Ben's hips have stopping moving, like pressing pause; he's hot, right up against her, and for a second Missy feels like a high school boy; I'll only put it in for a minute.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

But she's not in high school, is the thing. She's not a boy. She's also not an idiot, though you'd never know it to look at her these past few days, and furthermore if ever there was a sign from the universe that even Andy McNally could understand with little to no room for interpretation--

(god, she doesn't care, she doesn't--)

She opens her eyes and Ben's looking at her, patient. It feels like she's got glass in her throat. She's sweating all over her body and he's still, like, impossibly hard, and the question, then, she guesses, is how committed are they here to complete and total self destruction?

(Committed, apparently.)

Missy tips her hips at him, infinitesimal. Ben hisses out a shaky breath.

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

"MP..." he starts, not a question or a warning but something in between. He tips his hips back, just slightly; it could be involuntary, what does Missy know. (It's not, though, she knows it's not; his leg's still wrapped around the back of her knee, warm and heavy, like they're stuck in a holding pattern, but now her thighs are splaying open, slow slow slow, as wide as the couch will allow, and jesus, they are definitely--they are actually going to--)

"Ben," she whimpers. She's pressed up against the whole length of him now, one long wet slide, and fuck, she can't--she is not going to be the one to line them up. She is not.

"Okay," Ben says, and god, both of them just sound-- "Okay, we need to--"

(Seek psychiatric help, is how that sentence should end. Missy doesn't say it.)