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

[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.)

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

In the end he doesn't finish the thought, words just hanging there like something with physical weight (and god, this is so incredibly stupid, this is so unfathomably dumb). She closes her eyes and this time he lets her. Ben eases a hand down in between. She pushes up a bit to give him room, weight on her elbows and face in the crook of his shoulder, and then--

okay. Okay.

(god, god, he feels, hefeelshefeelshefeels--)

Missy sinks down little by little, arms braced on either side of his head: hot and a little painful, a slow aching kind of stretch. His hands stroke down her damp back, palm her ass. As he bottoms out she hears a quiet sound she doesn't recognize; it takes Missy a second to realize it's coming from her.

UNPROTECTED SEX: THE FINAL FRONTEER OF COMMENT!FIC INAPPROPRIATENESS?

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

"Shh," Ben tells her, kissing her cheek messily; Missy tips her head so he can get at her mouth. "Easy honey." He tugs on one of her thighs, pulling up until she's spread a bit wider. Probably they can't blame this on the fever anymore.

"Okay," Missy mutters, as much to herself as him. She shifts her weight onto her hands, gives herself a little leverage, and--

Yep. They are doing this. Self-destruction is a go.

OH, I DON'T KNOW. I TRUST US TO CONTINUE TO FIND NEW LINES TO CROSS.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

Ben groans a bit (and god, his face, he looks heartbroken and hungry, those dark serious eyes), gets his hands on her everyplace; pinches at her nipples until she gasps and shoves down. Her head comes back, hard and sudden; Ben's mouth drags down the line of her throat.

(And the honey--that is. Well. That's new.

It's possible she doesn't hate it.)

Missy rolls her hips, keeps him deep for a second. Ben nips at the curve of her ear. He's been letting her set the pace up to now, easy, but the next time she pulls off he curls his hands around her hips and, um.

Pushes.

IT'S GOOD TO HAVE GOALS.

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

Missy bites off a whine, still oddly self-conscious, but the way her spine snaps straight--yeah. Probably indication enough. Ben grins at her, pleased.

Then he does it again.

And shit, Missy--it's working for her way too well, being yanked down like that, and it's possible she's not even really moving her hips anymore, is just letting him-- The first time he tries pulling her onto him while pushing up, she bites his shoulder to keep from making noise.

Like. Bites hard.

Ben hisses in her ear. "Jesus, MP." He's cupping her ass now, not exactly gently. "Feel good?"

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

"Mm-hmm." Missy nods into the crook of his neck, and she is--she is more than a little desperate at this point, is the truth. "Yeah, just, um--jesus, Ben, please--"

And god, he likes that, the please; pulls her onto him again, sudden and fast. This time, Missy can't keep her voice down. Ben kisses her hard to shut her up.

"Come on, honey," he mutters, once he trusts her enough to back off a little, one hand palming at the back of her skull. His fingertips dig into the place where her thigh meets her ass. "Let me feel you."

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

Which--that, plus the honey, plus the way he yanks her down, one last time--yeah. Missy arches her back helplessly, stomach grinding against his. And she's making way too much noise but, fuck, it feels so good, she one-hundred percent can't help it. Ben pulls her head into his shoulder and just lets her go (and Missy's pretty sure he likes that too; hearing her. She wants to do this again, somewhere she can be loud; wants to try that please--

Shit.

Wants to do this again.

Shit.)

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

And okay, okay, she can think about that later; for now she's sliding off almost before she's finished, reaching down to wrap a slippery fist around him (and god, between the two of them they've already made such a ginormous mess, she doesn't--). Ben pushes restlessly into her hand. Missy scoots down a bit on the couch, free hand smoothing over the packed muscle in his thigh; she glances up at him for a minute, tries not to think about what perfectly nice girls will or won't do, and gets her mouth on him, warm and messy.

Ben--well. Ben sounds well and truly wrecked.

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

She tries taking him deep a couple times, jaw relaxed and open (although okay, it's probably more about--it's possible Missy is showing off) but he's so far gone it's not really the time or place. On her third pass, Missy backs off and just sucks, fist twisting around the base.

"MP." Ben's got a hand in her hair now, gentle. He's not even resting it there really, just has it hovering in the general area. "Gonna--"

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

"Mm-hmm." Missy hums a bit to let him know she heard him. Her voice sounds like she's been swallowing sand. "That's the idea."

It happens a few seconds later, fist tightening in her hair and a groan so quiet it's almost a sigh, like something inevitable. She can feel him fighting not to push against her mouth.

(And yeah, okay, yes, that is a sound she can imagine wanting to hear again, it's--)

God.

God.

She lies there for a minute catching her breath, face against his warm hard stomach. Missy doesn't want to raise her head.

Then she sneezes.

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

Ben starts laughing, quiet and horse. The hand in her hair tugs up. Missy moves with it until he's got her back in lap, blushing. "Shut up," she says thickly. "And be thankful it didn't happen, like, two minutes ago."

Ben snags a Kleenex box off the end table, hands it to her. "I'm thankful, I'm thankful." He shifts until they're leaning against the arm rest, pulls Missy into his chest.

(And just-- he's so close, and he keeps touching her, and when Missy fusses with her dirty Kleenex he actually takes it from her, so.

So.)

She was a bit afraid he never look at her again, after. Apparently that's not happening.

(She's a bit afraid anyway.)

WE ARE FINISHING UP ALL OVER THE PLACE TODAY.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

Missy stays there for a minute, sweat cooling and the beat of his heart steady underneath his skin. Ben strokes idly through her hair. She can hear people moving around outside the trailer, the rattling sound of Travis's cough.

("Wouldn't have pegged Swarek for a cuddler," she told him, lying in bed while they lit that scene in the apartment, his knuckles warm and rough against her spine. The first three takes she kept laughing when he did it, weirdly ticklish all up and down her back.

Ben shrugged into the pillows, like she was being dense on purpose. "He loves her," was all he said.)

Well.

"MP," he starts now, but Missy interrupts him.

"We gotta go to work," she says. She honestly can't imagine what he's possibly going to tell her; her head swims a bit, fuzzy and strange. "People are going to wonder--"

Ben nods slowly. "Yeah." He looks at her another minute, then blinks. "Yeah, you're probably right."

Missy looks around for her sweatshirt, wonders when this fever's gonna break.