... Yeah ... I had to write this – I know it's been done one-million-times-over since the premiere of iOMG – but, I had to do it – I know I have at least four some-odd multi-chapter fanfics to update, but as previously stated:
I. HAD. TO. WRITE. THIS.
What kind of Seddie-er would I be if I didn't huh?
ooo
Well ...
You've done it Puckette.
You've more-or-less admitted to loving the guy you claimed to hate for the four years you've known him.
How does it feel?
Well ... the kiss felt ... nice.
You weren't entirely sure why you'd done it. Maybe it was the explosive result of all those sappy nubbish "chick flicks" that Melanie used to drag you to when you guys were younger.
Yeah ... you'd sit through two-and-a-half hours of sappy speeches about dreams, and love ... and dreams about love (based purely on the promise of bacon-flavored butter for your popcorn) and watch the obvious romance play out between heroine and hero as the film's delirious and dream-stuffed Dingo princess sang her way into a "happily-ever-after" timed just before the credits rolled.
Or ... maybe ... just maybe it was the internally glaring fact that, despite every wedgie you've ever given him, despite every punch, kick, slap, insult, and potential electrocution you may have caused the poor dork ...
Well ... you've really always had some kinda un-Sam-ish little hope that maybe the stub-rag that was Freddie Benson would see that he didn't hafta be afraid of you – that even as tough as you were; and still are; you still felt that you sorta deserved that Dingo ending for yourself – riding off into the sunset with Prince Dork-ing at your side.
But said "prince" wasn't responding. Here you were, risking everything based on the advice of your clueless best friend and pure girl-ish extinct.
Benson was supposed to love you back. He was supposed to respond accordingly to your affections, and literally sweep you off your feet in his arms; spinning you around like some over-excited child just before a thunderstorm hit and drenched you both in freezing cold water that you were both too ... warm to feel.
There were supposed to be fireworks from both of you. He wasn't supposed to stand their like an idiot in an impression of a cardboard cutout and wait for you to pull away!
You'd made a move – this wasn't how it was supposed to be!
You pulled back. Suddenly forgetting that you're Sam Puckette, forgetting that you like fried chicken, and hardcore MMA fights, and that you're not supposed to be ... scared.
"Sorry." You mumble, feeling like you owe the guy enough to at least look in the eye for something as groundbreaking as a Sam-stated apology.
And he's just standing there, looking at you with raw confusion in those eyes that just a few moments ago were filled with genuine caring – and, the color had reminded you of a perfectly charred steak, and non-expired Persian Chocolate – and then, you kissed him, willing those Persian-steak-chocolate eyes to close.
"S'cool." The idiot blurts.
And you're left flushed, and wondering where to go from here.
This wasn't the ending you'd been expecting.
But maybe things'll work out.
