Genre: Romance, humor, bottle-pornish Freddie torture
Rating: R, for suggestive content, language and alcohol
Prompt: Seddie. Post high school, angst or fluff
Word count: 842
Notes:Written for the Groovy Smoothie's X-Mas Exchange for katienat.
He sips his tea and watches as the scrawny blond pours quite the healthy serving of tequila into a mug from his cabinet. The gold liquid nearly overflows before she lazily tilts the bottle back upright and sets it down next to her as she slumps into the chair parallel to him. Words never really flow easily between them, especially with Carly off at George Washington, and now he's feeling uncomfortable, like he usually does when he's alone with her.
She takes a long swill of her tequila and spills a bit onto his previously immaculately clean table. She glances over at him, almost daring him to complain about her chronic sloppiness, and because he's a self-respecting stubborn mule who isn't terribly interested in partaking in the childish games of their adolescence (preferring to engage in another sort of game with her that he both desires and fears), he keeps his mouth shut as he watches her gulp down the serving of liquor before glancing down at the mess she has made.
And he immediately becomes wholly aware of her pink tongue gliding across the smooth wooden tabletop, wasting not an iota of booze. His mind freezes and remains fixated on the sensual aspects of her lips and tongue even after she sits back up and nonchalantly brings the bottle to her lips.
No, that certainly doesn't help to repress the great flood of unsavory mental images clogging up his frontal lobe.
She releases the tip of the bottle from her lips and grins at him. "Want some?" she asks brutishly, thrusting the bottle in his direction.
It takes a moment to quell the tiny voices screaming the affirmative in his brain, because although he certainly wouldn't mind having some, he's almost certain that she was talking not about her body but the liquid contents of that glass bottle. And with these new and disturbing desires zipping around his head, he's not sure he wants to lose control.
"I'm fine, thanks," he squeaks, and she shrugs before tipping her head back and pouring the tequila straight into her open mouth.
He groans internally and sinks into his seat. His eyes appear to be working against him, too, and as he stares at the gold waves crashing into her mouth, presumably running down her throat, he finds that the whole world has slowed down enough to grant him the opportunity to mentally photograph every single detail he would have normally missed at a normal speed.
He hears the splash of the tequila against her tongue and teeth and throat. Notices a droplet trail down the corner of her mouth, down her cheek and jawbone and neck and into the unknown territory underneath her purple t-shirt. And though she begins to say something once she swallows, all he can think is Holy shit, Sam is turning me on. And he's not good at comprehension during arousal.
"Hey whizpants!" Sam yells from his side, tugging roughly on his hair. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Freddie reluctantly drags himself out of his fantasies and blanches as the small woman hovering over him leans over and meets his gaze with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I'm the one who's supposed to be catatonic right now," she raises the tequila bottle up from her side. And when he doesn't respond with more than a dizzy "Huh," she whacks him over the head with it.
That sobers him up considerably. "Whaddya do that for?"
"I come over here to celebrate New Year's Eve and get completely wasted and talk shit about my stupid ex, and all you can do is sit there like a vegetable," she explains lazily. "And believe it or not, you're even more distracting when you're exerting the energy of a fucking beet than when you're being your usual nubbish self."
"I'm not the distracting one," he mutters under his breath, but apparently she hears him and frowns before taking a second swing at his head.
Luckily for his brain cells, Freddie ducks. "Wasn't once enough?"
She brings the bottle rim to her smirking lips. "Just wanted to make sure I didn't have to actually worry about you."
And as she empties the bottle, Freddie feels like dying because he's once again aware of an overwhelming desire to pull the bottle away from her lips and replace it with his own while leading her to his room and holding her and touching her and ravishing her and loving her. He wants to listen to her gasp and moan and cry out his name over and over again and run her stubby nails down his back and bite his shoulder until it bleeds and do all sorts of crazy things he's sure she would do in bed because she's Sam, and Sam does batshit crazy things.
"No, not at all," he lies as he shoves the dangerous thoughts back into some dark, dank crevass in his mind.
The clock strikes midnight as Freddie realizes with a groan that he quite fancies his liquor-loving friend.