Title: Devastating
Author: Daisy
Fandom: South Park
Setting: Skeeter's Wine Bar
Pairing: Quaid/Firkle, Filmore Anderson/Firkle
Characters: Quaid, Firkle, Filmore Anderson
Genre: Drama/Romance
Rating: T
Chapters: 1/1
Word Count: 946
Type of Work: One-Shot, Fanfiction-Friends' Weekly Writing Prompt
Status: Complete
Warnings: Gay, Slash, Yaoi, Forced Kisses, Underage Drinking, Jealousy, Unbeta'd
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Summary: Quaid had intended on getting Firkle to leave, but all he did was confuse himself further. Tonight was a disaster.
AN: Another piece for the Fanfiction-Friends' Weekly Writing Prompts! This week's prompt was Disaster, and this is what came out. xD I love these guys so much. ; u; Here we go!
This is for Quaidsilva/Filmoreandersonx on Tumblr!
Devastating ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
How many drinks had it taken to make Firkle look less like a punching bag and more like something he wanted to take home? Even Quaid had lost count, but he'd never really started, either.
It had started simply enough. Under Filmore's nose, he'd gone and invited Firkle out for drinks, mostly to intimidate the other out of dating his best friend. What he'd done, though, while he'd waited for the little goth to appear, was drink his anger down to a slow burn in his gut. When the other finally took the time to arrive, Quaid was too far gone not to want to leap on the first chance to test out Firkle's slutty reputation.
The skinny goth traipsed over, taking his seat at the bar beside Quaid, not managing eye contact with his long-time bully. Instead, he ordered himself his own shot of liquid courage, downing the whipped cream vodka quickly. He knew, somehow, that he'd need it. When his hand moved to call for another, Quaid's shot out and grabbed his wrist, and for a second, Firkle's heart skipped a beat.
For a long moment that stretched into a thousand eternities, Firkle's stormy blue eyes met Quaid's grassy green ones, and then the jock shot off like lightning. What the goth expected to be a punch, or maybe his head cracking against the bar, was, instead, a crushing kiss that left his lips bruised and breath caught in his throat. One of Quaid's big hands held the back of his head in a death grip, as if pulling away would, once and for all, announce his sexuality to the world and he wasn't ready for that step out of the closet.
Everything about the kiss was rough and sloppy, but it certainly wasn't the first time that Firkle had ever dealt with a man so homophobic he couldn't be himself. Many of the guys he'd slept with before Filmore had been the same, too afraid of what other people thought to let their freak flag fly. Some of them still were, convinced Firkle would keep their secret. And he did.
When Quaid finally broke the kiss, panting like he'd just run a marathon and glaring as though this was all Firkle's doing, the goth prepared himself for a punch. But it didn't come. Peeling open his eyes again, not quite sure when he'd scrunched them shut, he stared up at the other, watching his face carefully. There was a flicker of disgust, followed by a sneer he could have placed anywhere, and the hand still forcing pressure on the back of his head pushed him closer again.
This time, the larger man was going to have the goth at his mercy, if only because he wanted to kill him for making these stupid kisses good. He'd remembered the stories of Wendy Testaburger and Eric Cartman, how their sexual tension had been easily disbanded by a kiss. Why wasn't it working with Firkle? It wasn't like he liked the kid in his lap. He was scrawny, he wasn't good at anything, all he ever did was talk down on everyone.
Why did Filmore like him so damn much?
Another kiss, and he hoped to find out the reason. Tongue, maybe? His alcohol addled brain sure seemed to think that that was a crackerjack idea, and he took Firkle's chin in his hand helping to keep the other focused as he sunk his tongue into the other's mouth. He tasted like stale cigarettes and mint and cherry all at once, and it was straight up intoxicating. No wonder Filmore liked this little slut.
"You're a fucking whore." It wasn't the nicest thing that someone had ever said to him, but Firkle didn't mind so much. Quaid would say that about him until he was blue in the face, and the fact of the matter was, he'd had no choice in either of these kisses. He'd done what came naturally, sucked his tongue, then tried to push it back out. He didn't really kiss back either time, but Quaid was leaning in again, and he needed to think fast.
"I stopped doing that. For him." He spoke quickly, and Quaid paused; there was anger shining in his eyes, coupled with shame that the alcohol probably helped him feel. This whole thing was a disaster and a half. He had come here to try and beat Firkle out of Filmore's life. Leave him dead in a ditch, maybe. But, instead, here he was, forcing a makeout session on his best friend's boyfriend. Somehow, it sunk in that maybe this wasn't the way to go about finding out just what the Korean saw in this kid.
Letting Firkle go with a bit of a push, he growled a little and looked away. Another brandy on the rocks for him, and he downed it like it didn't scorch his insides. He should have known better than to start drinking. That was where this all went south. Firkle opened his mouth to speak but Quaid rose his hand to stop him.
"Just go, Ablah. I don't care to continue this. Go tell him for all I care. His decision is obvious." It might not have been something he understood, but it was right there, staring at him like he had a moose growing out of the side of his head. Firkle hesitated, as if he didn't know quite what to do, before simply nodding, rising, and flouncing his way out the door. Stupid slut. He'd find out somehow how to break them up. Tonight was just shaping up poorly, that was all.
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