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It had been a long day.
A very, very long day.
He had had a hangover earlier. And due to that, he had quit his job. He was an idiot, he knew that, but he didn't really care. He walked across his little yard, kicking the little fern on the steps, and peeled the door out of the way. Something stunk in his house, probably the trash or the fridge. Whatever one, he didn't feel like cleaning or touching. He would rather just go to bed and sleep off being unemployed.
He yanked open his fridge and stared at the empty shelves.
He shrugged. Meh. He would go shopping tomorrow. Of course, that's what he thought every day. He took a beer in his hand with a shake of his head and slammed the fridge shut. He was glad for the alcohol for the alcohol in the world—it helped blurred all the bullshit in his life.
Shaking his head at himself, he went over to his lumpy couch and sunk into it. The bed was only a few feet away, but much too far. He wasn't sure when he flicked on the television, but it was on and some kind of Fox sitcom was on, the laughter making him feel just a bit in tune with the world.
With a sigh, he started to douse under the beer.
Ah. That was better.
And, before he knew it, he was falling asleep, the darkness sudden yet warm.
.
.
She was a sexy thing. Sly, too. Her hair was long, jet-black, and her features was sharp. She had nice blue eyes, or maybe they were grey, or maybe fucking purple. He had no idea. He just liked her rack. Her breasts were nice and fleshy, maybe fake, but enough to catch his attention earlier at the bar.
She was moaning, too. When they stumbled into his one-story home, she was arching into him and licking her painted, glittering lips, and hooking her long, long legs around him until he was closed-in, surrounded by her strong perfume and long hair. He liked long hair—it was easy to tie his fingers into, easier to fuck her harder when he had a good grip.
When he grabbed her ass, she moaned, landing face-first in the thick blankets. He didn't know the last time he'd been in bed, just to sleep by himself, or when he'd changed the sheets. Oh, well. She didn't seem to care about the sheets, she didn't seem to care about anything but getting his pants off.
He heard his belt jingle and his zipper being pulled down. He felt the long fingernails undoing his shirt and then her lips leave quick, hard kisses down his stomach. When she cupped in his palm, he hissed between clenched teeth, and she grinned up at him, saucy and giving off the scent of lemons, limes, and tequila.
He didn't mind.
She was good with her mouth, so very good. Her suction was right on target, her hands roamed everywhere, and she licked and sucked until he was coming apart right in her palm, cursing and shouting,
"Camille!"
Her mouth left him. He caught sight of her annoyed glance, shot his way. He blinked from his orgasm, even arching a brow at her when she remained quiet, still holding his almost limp cock.
"It's Cassandra," she said, perfect eyebrows perched.
"Yeah," he resisted the urge to wave his hand at her dismissively. He always screwed up with names, "Cassandra."
She seemed happy with this new development—knowing her name and all. She purred, "Yes. And you're Flynn Rider." The way she said his name made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. She dragged her nails down his abdominals, watching as they tightened. She grinned again, white teeth in the dark. Her perfect ivory skin was trembling with excitement.
"The one and only," he tried to quell her excitement, tried to give her a "Flynn Rider" grin, but he could already feel the tall-tale sensation of a hangover. Damn. He hated when something killed his buzz. And so, he tried to continue with this—he kissed down her neck, because he hated the taste of his jizz in someone's mouth. She moaned, digging her nails in his back and arching against his like a cat.
He wasted no time—it was almost like it was rehearsed. He tugged at her underwear, skimpy thongs, and threw them somewhere over his shoulder. He shredded off his shirt, and left her flirty skirt on and dangerously high stilettos. He tore the condom open, slipped it on, and then he was there, where every man probably dreamed about, but he was "Flynn Rider", and he knew exactly how to get there.
It wasn't long before he was finished and she was sated. He took a swig of stale beer by his bed and then he was falling asleep, on the far end of the king size bed. He saw her arm swing out, manicured hands searching for him in her slumber. He resisted the urge to kick her off the bed—he didn't cuddle. If she knew so much about the legend of "Flynn Rider", she should know the number one rule: don't touch him after sex.
He was glad she was an older woman. That way, she wouldn't get overly attached. He threw an arm over his eyes, and attempted to sleep. It was long before those attempts became a reality.
When he woke up, his bed was empty, his right foot was sticking out of the blanket, and his hangover had worsened. He looked at the closed blinds, bits of sunlight pushing through the slits. For a moment, he'd thought the girl had left, but nope, she was in his kitchen. He knew because something was burning and he never let anything burn in his kitchen.
He usually stuck to noodles in a cup or just some cereal. TV dinners were as close to cooking as he got, really. He searched for the wooden floor, his shirt should've been somewhere down there, but it wasn't. Tugging up some jeans, completely commando, he opened the door, only to see the girl coughing and hacking, waving her hands over something on the stove.
Of course. Every woman had their faults. She couldn't damn cook.
He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the threshold in the kitchen, "Mornin', Sunshine."
She gasped, looking at him, messy black hair fanning around her, "Oh! Flynn. Good morning. Did I wake you?"
Yes. "Nah, nah. More like the smell of burning food."
She spun back around to face the stove, grabbing onto the smoking pan. She cursed underneath her breath, throwing the burnt food in the sink and running water over it. More steam rose. Good thing his fire alarm was broken.
"Well!" He clapped his hands together, "Look at the time."
She smirked at him, as though he was offering her another quick rump, "What about the time?"
"Time for you to go," he replied. And, as usual, he watched as her expression changed from sultry seductress to broken prom date.
"So that's all it was?" she hissed, after a long moment's pause, "A one-night stand?"
"Haven't you heard, sweetheart?" He cocked his head to the side at her, watching as her hands tightened into fists. Another thing he noticed, she was wearing his shirt. He never did like when people took his shit—he would rather have it the other way around. "I'm Flynn Rider. I'm a one-time deal."
"More like an asshole," she quipped harshly. He watched as she tossed her hair out of her face, her face pinched with anger and red. She pushed past him.
Okay. He could be a little harsh, but he thought she knew what the deal was. He hoped she didn't cry. He despised tears. She disappeared in his room, snatching up her fishnet pantyhose, her underwear, and her shoes. And then she was stomping towards the door.
And though he knew it was a bad idea, he followed after her. Digging into his backpocket, he found his wallet. It was long before she was throwing open his front door and stalking out, the sun bright and uncomfortable and ruining his eyesight. He squinted, and when he blinked, she was already down the steps and bare-assed by his mailbox.
"Hey! C'mon, doll! Lemme call you a cab first."
She whirled around to face him, seething, "I don't need your help, bastard! I thought what we had was special!" Shit. She was actually choking up.
He blew out a curse. He actually thought she was older. Nah. Looked like a college kid that just left mommy and daddy. He scowled at nothing in particular. He shouldn't have had all those drinks the night before. "Look—"
"Do you even know my name, Flynn?" She demanded, throwing up her hands and nearly dropping her things.
"You're too loud!" He hissed, glancing at the houses beside his. Just as small, but with actual people.
"Answer the question!"
He went silent, crossing his arms over his naked chest as he tried to think about it. His hangover was making it even harder to remember. Shit, he could barely remember last night. Thank God for condoms. "I don't know…Corona…?"
He ducked just in time for one of her fuck-awesome high heels to launch over his head. It thudded against his wall, narrowly missing his window. Before he could open his mouth and protest, she was yelling, "That's the city, Flynn! God!"
He didn't bother trying to help out the situation anymore. Typically, when a girl threw something at you, it was time to move on. She was officially trying to kill him and he would rather live until around noon. She could kill him when he got something to eat, and some pain killers…and some sleep.
He sighed heavily, already putting away his wallet and searching for his pack of smokes, "You know me. Not good with names."
She laughed sarcastically, "I am so done." And then she spun around, fully prepared to leave, only to bump into someone else.
"O-Oh! Sorry." Another voice squeaked. Definitely feminine, and held a melodious quality. It sounded nervous too, much too nervous. Probably a bystander. "I didn't mean to…" And the voice was startlingly familiar.
He looked up, pausing on his search for cigarettes.
…What? Rapunzel?
Damn. How long had it been since he'd seen her? He supposed that was an odd question, since she lived right next door and all, but with her, he knew it was normal. Rapunzel was one of those people Flynn would never figure out, never wanted to either. It had been exactly two years since she moved into the neighborhood and when he got a look at her legs, he thought it would be a good time, but instead, he never got another look at her.
And when he did, she was either accepting some kind of grocery package or opening the door for her father, which he realized was the Mayor of the damn city. He only got her name because people in town talked about her, making up stories about a scar on her face that she was ashamed to show, or how she was trapped in a bubble, unable to go outside because of the fear of diseases, or maybe the hilarious one that she'd cut off all her hair and refused to leave her home.
None of that crap was true, but he didn't bother saying anything, since he didn't care very much for rumors or her for that matter. She didn't leave the house, that much was true. The last time he'd seen her even step out was to get the mail or sit on her steps, curled into a little ball and covered with coats, scarfs, and boots. Even when it was summer.
He came to the conclusion that she was a nutcase, just with a nice pair of legs.
"And who the hell is this?" The I-don't-understand-what-a-one-night-stand-is girl was yelling. He still couldn't remember her name. but she was gesturing her hands wildly to Rapunzel, who he looked over.
He had always liked her choppy brown hair. The complete opposite of any other girl he'd met—who kept their locks long and touching their waists. Her eyes were large and moss-green, appearing to hesitate. She was cuter than he remembered, freckles, button nose, pink lips, and sun-kissed skin—which he found odd since she didn't even go outside.
Anyway…
"My neighbor," Flynn said, and the word seemed foreign and weird coming from his mouth, since he never spoke to any of his neighbors.
"Are you sure?" One-night-stand hollered, "Because she just looks like another one!" She turned towards Rapunzel with a sardonic, harsh smile, "Don't even bother, sister. He's not even worth it."
"Lies. I'm great in the sack." Flynn said and she glared at him, hurling another shoe at him, which he dodged. And then she was stalking down the sidewalk, around the corner, and vanishing from his view. When he looked back at Rapunzel, she was standing on the sidewalk, lips parted, eyes wide and startled.
She held something in her tiny hands, maybe mail. Finally, he found his cigarettes and lit one quickly, breathing in the remedy to his building hangover and stress. Finally, her eyes landed back on him.
"Can I help you, neighbor?"
She wrinkled her nose at his tone. It made her look even tinier and cuter. "You…" her brow creased. She seemed to think about something for a long moment before shaking her head and returning her attention to him, "Your mail was in my mailbox again. I just thought—"
He arched a brow, "Are they bills?"
She blinked and then looked down at the letters. She shook her head again, "I don't think so."
"Good," he nodded at his mailbox, "I'll take your word for it. Just leave 'em there."
"Alright," he turned away and heard her fumble for a moment as she put the papers where they belonged. "And, um…neighbor," the way she said it made it adorable, but he would never admit to it. He flicked the ash, "Do you think that girl is going to be alright?"
He turned back to her, and her eyebrows were together, looking like a worried kitten. He snorted through his nose, "Should be. They all start off like that. And then they get some lady balls and actually get over it."
Her nose scrunched up again, "Ladies…have balls?"
He watched as she appeared even more confused. He snorted again, "Yeah. Some."
She seemed intrigued by that. What an odd morning. Rapunzel, the daughter of the mayor, was standing on his lawn, by the mailbox, just witnessed a one-night-stand disaster, and was asking weird questions. Where were the cameras?
"Shouldn't you be inside?" He inhaled his cigarette, watching as the end smoldered and burned.
"Yes…No." She put her hands behind her back, "Maybe. I'm not very sure." He raised a brow, wondering if she did drugs in that quiet, dark house of hers. Finally, she turned the other way, nervously fiddling with her hands, "Have a good day. Neighbor."
And then, with those legs, she was crossing the sidewalk, to her lawn, passing by her plastic lawn flamingo that glared daggers at him, and he heard her door slam after her.
Hm. For such a tiny thing, she had a nice ass.
Made her even more interesting.
But if he ever did show interest, he knew he was barking up the wrong tree.
With a shake of his head, he flicked his cigarette away and stepped on it.
Right then, he needed a nice long shower.
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How'd you like it? My first multi-chapter Flynn/Rapunzel FF? Bad, good? Don't be afraid to share your opinions. I don't really like the way I began it, but it's alright, so far. I have many ideas for this story, but don't be afraid to add your own.
And thank you Star Slightly to the Right for looking this over! I love her!
Please review. I need everything I can get!
-Abby