A/N: Hey guys, RockaRoller88 here! I know I haven't written in a story in a loooooong long time, but with the long string of a disappointing lack of Seddie in recent iCarly episodes, I got this idea and started to run with it. Prepare for swearing, lurid guy talk, and a healthy dose of Seddie at the end of this story!

Disclaimer: I own nothing that could potentially get me sued!

And to think, it all started with a guy's night out. You know, Hanging Out with the Boys, having Guy Time and talking about Guy Things like football and cars and boobs and stuff. Things like that aren't supposed to be confusing. They're not supposed to make you feel stuff, other than maybe machismo or rage. And yet, here we are. Way to go Freddie, you managed to turn hanging out with your male friends into something girly. Yeesh.

One hour earlier:

Gibby takes a deep draw from his Peppi Cola and sets it down with a smirk. An eyebrow climbs up Chuck's forehead as he stares me down, an unmistakeable look of incredulity written on his face.

"Freddie?" he asks, the word dripping with sarcasm, "This Freddie?"

Gibby cuffs me a little too hard on the shoulder as his grin broadens. "Dude! I'm telling you, this guy has seen some shit!" he whispers conspiratorially. I rub my shoulder lightly.

Chuck's smirk starts to melt into a sneer and his eyes suddenly shift into condescending looking-you-up-and-down mode. I lean back in my chair, the creak of the worn wood doing some of the protesting for me.

"Nah, not really. Gibby's full of it. I'm sure you've done crazier things than I have," I insist, really not wanting to get into a pissing contest with this guy. Unfortunately, Josh, similarly clad in an obscenely pink polo shirt basically falls into the seat next to Chuck, swilling beer drunkenly from his plastic red cup. Josh is Chuck's go-to buddy: he follows him around like a lost puppy, often carrying the alcohol and spray-paint cans.

Now, before I keep going, I suppose I should tell you a little bit about the infamous Chuck. Chuck is an asshole, but I mean that in the best possible way. At six-foot-two and about 190 pounds, he's the pink-polo shirt, plaid shorts wearing funny-guy of the football team. His jokes are merciless and occasionally heartless, and he regularly manages to piss off just about everyone he comes into contact with. He is notorious for inviting anything that has two legs and girl parts up into his bedroom and lying about who he's reeled in and who he hasn't. But, there's just something about the giant douche that pulls people to him. He's genuinely fun to be around, and he is generally good-natured enough to make friends with just about anybody, including me, a guy that avoids his "type" of people like the plague. So, when he invited Gibby and me to his annual Spring Break party, we both shrugged at each other and even looked forward to it. I should have known that Gibby would take up Sam's slack, since she's out with Carly doing girl things tonight.

"Dude!" Josh slurs, "You got to make this shit into a drinking game! Freddie says he's done crazy shit, you think of something you've done and he thinks of something he's done, and the loser does a shot!"

"No, Freddie does not say that. He emphatically does not say that!" I explain hastily, raising my hands in surrender, but it's too late. I'm going to drink, even though I promised Mom I wouldn't, and this whole party is going to turn out to have been an awful idea. And all I can really think is that I should have seen this coming.

"Dude, Freddie, don't be a wuss!" Gibby pleads, clapping me on the shoulder again, "I promise you, you can beat this guy. Here: for every shot you have to take, I'll distract Sam when she's after you."

Now it is my turn to lift an eyebrow. "Gibby, man, that's like saying you'll take a bullet for me! How drunk are you?"

"Gibby, that's insane. She's a fucking tornado," Chuck adds, but Gibby lifts a hand, silencing him.

"No offense man, but I think Freddie makes you look like a six year old in terms of crazy shit," he says, his voice brimming with confidence that I absolutely do not feel, "And I'll take every shot that Freddie does, too. I bet you can't beat him once."

"Gibby..." I whisper warningly, my jaw hanging open. "Don't do this. You'll never recover from the hangover."

"I got this, bro," is all he says.

"Motha' Fuckin' Drinkin' Contest!" Josh screams into the party. I swallow hard.

Chuck lifts a bottle of Jager onto the table, and I can tell from the glint in his booze-tinged eyes that the contest is on, whether I like it or not. He smiles, and I can tell we've got an easy one coming up first.

"When I was fourteen," he starts slowly, "I got pushed off of a second-story balcony by a girl I tried to hit on. I landed into a pile of leaves, but it hurt like hell. Nearly broke my wrist."

Silence pervades the air as I start thinking. Luckily, I've got a similar story that one-ups him immediately flash through my mind. I guess I've got Sam to thank for this one. And any other crazy stories I might have.

"When I was thirteen, I snuck into detention on the third floor of the middle school to do a web-cast of iCarly. Sam pushed the ladder with me on it off of the window, and I went down hard into a pile of bushes. Three stories," I point out, flashing three fingers for the room to see, thankful that I don't have to drink that Jager puke first.

"No shit!" Chuck admits, giving me a small nod of respect. He upturns the green bottle, watching the deep brown liquid swirl into the plastic red cup. He stops as it fully covers the bottom, and downs it in one big gulp. It returns with a loud crack as he slams it onto the table, giving me another challenging smile that makes my stomach turn. I just know I'm going to end up sick off that stuff.

"I told you!" Gibby shouts, clapping me yet again on the shoulder, "Freddie's crazier than any of you know!"

"It's just round one, man!" Josh says, matching Gibby in volume and energy, "Haven't heard anything yet!"

"You got that right," Gibby shoots back as Chuck throws another story our way. He doesn't know how right he is.

Thirty minutes later, thirteen crushed red cups litter Chuck's side of the dining room table, and he is barely keeping it together. He swoons drunkenly in his chair, glaring at me from across the table. I sheepishly try to worm back farther into my seat, feeling decidedly uncomfortable amidst all the shocked open mouths aimed in my general direction.

"Fuck!" Chuck shouts, slamming his fist on to the table, "No fucking way!"

"Freddie, even I didn't know about that one," Gibby admits with a whistle of amazement.

"Wait," Josh starts, "So she called it what?"

I sigh, hanging my head in shame. "The Puckett Surprise. It's got its own entry on urban dictionary now. She says it's her 'crowning achievement', whatever that means."

"And you two threw how many?" Gibby this time.

"Thirty-six."

"And she said what to the cops?" Chuck now, his eyes drifting in and out of focus.

"God, I don't even want to repeat it!" I say, shuddering at the memory. "I had to spend three hours hiding in a pipe underneath a bridge. I didn't get home until six o'clock the next morning. I swear, I've gotten PTSD from that girl!"

A stoic silence drifts across the room, but I feel deafened. The looks on their faces, the slack-jawed expressions of unmitigated shock and amazement just hammer home how stupidly chaotic my life is. I'm just a normal tech-geek! I like computers and cameras, and order and simplicity! But that blonde-headed demon has drawn me into her anarchic life like she had a hook in my nose. I don't even know how she does it, I just intrinsically end up following her through all her weird adventures. Something I don't understand draws me to her, and frankly, it's pretty fucking annoying.

"Ok," Chuck slurs, a very serious expression written on his uneven drunk face, "So how many times?"

I shoot him a look. "How many times what?"

"How many times," he starts, "have you gotten into her pants?"

It suddenly feels like I'm the one whose had thirteen shots of Jager. The breath whooshes out of my lungs like a punch to the gut, and I feel a furious heat begin in my cheeks. My mouth drops in surprise, though I can't tell if that's a conscious action on my part or not.

"What? Never!" I shoot back at him. "It's Sam! We hate each other!"

"Oh bull shit!" Josh chimes in, a stupid ape-like grin blossoming on his face. Here it goes, the lackey following the leader. "She's brought you with her on all of this crazy pranks and stuff and you've never gotten her naked?"

I reel backwards in my chair, gaping in slack-jawed amazement at the faces around me. My gaze shoots over to Gibby, pleading for some help as the discomfort in my gut stretches into my throat.

"It's Sam for chrissake!" I insist, "We. Hate. Each. Other! Gibby, tell them!"

But Gibby only stares at me, an infuriatingly inquisitive expression etched into his eyes. I suddenly realize that my best guy friend is not going to come to my aid this time.

"Really?" he asks, resting his chin on his hands, "Dude, I'm surprised. I always figured something was going on. You mean you've never even... thought about it?"

"No!" I shout back, trying to force my embarrassment into an expression of disgust, with mixed results. "It... Jesus, it's Sam!"

"Oh come on!" Chuck says angrily, "Can you at least admit that she's hot?"

The beginning of a "no" starts from my mouth, but Josh quickly cuts it off with a loud, painful "Duuuuuude!"

I look back and forth desperately for some help, but realize that none is coming. "Fine!" shoots through my gritted teeth. "Sam is cute-"

"Cute fuckin' nothing-"

"Alright!" I all but scream, feeling the heat rise further up my cheeks, stirring up pressure behind my eyes, "She's hot. I know she's hot. It's not like I've never looked before." Mortifying images of Sam's hotness flow through my mind, gilded locks, delicious curves and mischievous smiles, but I choke them down. "That doesn't change anything. We hate each other. We have our whole lives."

Chuck puts his head in his hands, exasperation dripping from a sigh that escapes his interlocked fingers. "Freddie, I swear to freaking God, you are the stupidest fucking smart guy I've ever known. She totally wants to jump your bones. How do you not fucking see that?"

Just like that, all of my embarrassment, all of my mortification evaporates like it never was and all I feel is confusion. My shoulders suddenly relax, sore as though they had been bunched up for a long time. A vacant stare creeps up on my face as my thoughts begin to wander. What would make him say that? She couldn't... she couldn't have... feelings... for me, right? What would that be like? Maybe.. maybe I've been enjoying it a little more than I realized when she'd tackle me, or smile at me, or drag me on those crazy stunts that always got me in trouble...

But, no! It's Sam! They can't be right!

"There's... there's no way," I say lamely, but Gibby cuts me off.

"Come on, Freddie," he says, almost consolingly, "Sam drags you around everywhere. She doesn't even take Carly to do the crazy stuff anymore!"

I wave that off dismissively. "No, she drags me along because she knows I hate it and she knows that no one else would put up with it!"

"My God!" Josh sighs, "Are you serious? Dude, I would kill to be able to do all that shit with a smokin' hot chick like that! Any of us would! But she takes you. She wants you. She totally wants to wreck your ass."

I feel suddenly dizzy, and reel back in my chair, nearly leaving the ground. This is all just too.. weird! It's Sam! I mean, yeah, she's hot, and yeah, I can admit that we're pretty close friends (by Sam standards, anyway), but its still Sam and this just doesn't make any sense. I live in a world where Sam hates me, and thoroughly enjoys making my life miserable. That's what makes sense. That's what feels real.

So why have you stuck around her like this?

I'm struggling to think of something to say, when an all-too familiar muffled female voice penetrates the walls of the house. It's a little distant, but its clearly her, and rocks drop back into my stomach.

"Freddie! Time to stop being stupid with all your nubby little boyfriends! We've got shit we need to do!"

I hazard a quick glance at Chuck and Josh and see their arrogant little grins before getting up and walking over to the window. Sure enough, Sam's standing out there, crazy golden curls askew and pure evil in her oceanic eyes. She screams more profanity at the house, and I suddenly notice that she's pulling an honest-to-God Red Ryder wagon behind her, filled with all sorts of contraband I vaguely recognize.

"Freddie and Sam sittin' in a tree!" Josh shouts in a sing-song voice, "F-U-C-K-I-N-G!"

I run a tired, worn hand over my tired, worn face and sigh dramatically, realizing that she's going to kick my ass over all of this.

"Freddie, I swear to God I'm going to start throwing shit at this house if you don't come out the fucking front door!"

Chuck's voice suddenly gets serious. "Dude, get out of here. I can't deal with any Puckett Surprises."

With that, I'm out the door.

"What is it, Sam?" I sigh at her, crossing the grassy lawn to where she's standing. She gives me a trademark smirk, and all the questions I have about her shockingly weird arrival just start pouring out of me. So many questions. "Is that a Red Ryder wagon? Why do you have a Red Ryder wagon? How do you have a Red Ryder wagon? You didn't steal it, did you? And please tell me that those aren't the ingredients for what I think sitting in it. And please, please tell me you didn't walk all the way here. You live like six miles away. And please, please please tell me you didn't take that wagon from a little kid-"

"Can it, nub!" she snaps, clapping a hand over my mouth. Despite myself, I notice the warmth of her smooth skin. "I need you to drive me over to Mrs. Brigg's house, so I didn't have time to let you play grab-ass with the other boys or whatever other gross things guys do. Let's go."

Another, still more dramatic sigh blows through my lips as I realize that, yet again, I'm going to follow her on another stupid crazy prank. Like a hook in my nose. But as I step forward, beginning the trek to my car, I hear the sound of my own death stream from a newly opened window on the second story of the house.

"Get in there, Freddie!" Chuck screams drunkenly, "Go for home plate you fuckin' stud!"

"At least steal second base!" Josh chimes in, once again following his Lord and Master in everything.

I am pretty sure that my eyes reach roughly the size of saucers as I see Sam's expression shift from general mischievousness into predatory danger-mode. Her eyes narrow angrily, etching wrinkles into the pale skin of her forehead, and her smirk disappears.

I swallow. Hard.

"Sam, it... Uh... It's not what you think?"

Chuck and Josh choose this exact moment to start showcasing their singing talents, as a bad acapella version of "Let's Get It On" by Marvin Gaye starts streaming from the house. Josh provides the "Wah wah wah's" of the guitar while Chuck sings "I been really tryyyyyyin' baby, tryin' to hold back this feeeling for sooo looooong."

Thanks, guys. Seriously. I have time to wonder if Sam will have enough mercy to leave enough of my body for an open-casket funeral when she suddenly breaks the silence.

"Why do I feel as though I need to punch you in the stomach?" she asks. Ah, but I know this one. Rhetorical.

"When do you not feel as though you need to punch me in the stomach?" I counter, knowing this won't save me.

Sure enough, her fist embeds itself into my gut, wrenching me over in sudden, explosive pain. I gasp for breath, trying desperately to pull air into my panicked lungs, but thankfully, she lets it go at that.

"You've got a point," she says, and walks for my car, dragging the old squeaky wagon behind her.

As I shoulder my way into my old, beat-up Plymouth's car, I rest my hands on the worn leather of the steering wheel and sneak a sideways glance at Sam. She's curled up like an animal on the fuzzy seat, propping her now-bare feet up on the dashboard, ignoring the seatbelt, chaotic sunflower hair glinting brightly in the harsh light of the street lamps, smooth skin gently curving down the lengths of her cheeks, eyes gazing at nothing, full of thought, full of energy, full of life. She focuses those enormous gleaming eyes on me and my breath leaves me faster than any punch to the solar plexus could hope to achieve.

"What are you waiting for, Fredamame?" she asks, "Your balls to drop? Start the damn car!"

Despite myself, a big grin blossoms on my face, and I crank the ignition.

A/N: Well that was fun to write! I just have a couple of questions for y'all about the writing and all that. First off, I know that the language was pretty strong in this fic, but I felt like it was necessary to realistically portray the guy talk that serves as this fic's base. If anything, the language is a little toned down, but once again, sorry if it offended anybody. I just thought it would be interesting to portray this type of story from Freddie's perspective; there are a lot of stories about Sam's feelings being revealed to Carly, but not a whole lot on the other side of things, so that's what I was going for.

The other big question I have for you awesome reviewers is: what did you think of that stream of consciousness description of Sam in the car? To be honest, I kind of like it, but I worry that it comes across a bit awkwardly, or it doesn't read as poetically as I intended. Please, let me know in a review! I appreciate it!

Well, this might be my last foray in iCarly as I start searching for another fandom. I haven't decided yet, but iCarly has just sort of stagnated in my opinion lately. However, if this fic gets a lot of reviews, I wouldn't be close minded to starting an multi-chapter story or writing another oneshot. Any feedback I get is appreciated!

Thanks so much!

RockaRoller88