{ Seboriley } - Blog Posts

seboriley‌:

“Dude, I’m kidding,” Sebastian assures, a little laugh bubbling up his throat as he tries to soften the blow. “What, they don’t bust your balls in Europe like they do in the good ‘ol U-S of A? We still got that on ‘em?” He offers a clipped but not insincere thanks, grabbing the handle of the knife and working it through a lime. “Well, might as well have some. No point in wasting a perfectly good lime. But if we’re going all out, we gotta find the salt…” He starts pulling open cabinets with reckless abandon, finally catching sight of a shaker and pulling it out. “’Kay. Lick your hand, Benny boy.”

He was always a wound up drunk. He did things he wasn’t supposed to and got angry at useless things. However, he was going to laugh this one off. “No one in Europe even has a sense of humor,” He joked. He waited patiently for the salt that Sebastian was looking to discover. “Too bad we aren’t taking body shots.” He hadn’t done that in years. It seemed like a younger Ben thing to do, especially when he was crossfaded. “To the New Year,” He cheered before he moistened the back of his hand. He poured the salt on his hand and licked it, realizing that his hands were probably pretty gross. Oh well. Germs take a break on New Year’s Eve. He threw his head back as he took the tequila shot. He then began to suck on his lime. “I’m ready to do another one, not gonna lie.”

seboriley‌:

Sebastian decides to roll his eyes in lieu of dignifying the accent comment with a response. He has more pressing matters to deal with than perfecting his fake accent that is an awkward mish-mash of the loose-lipped slur of Rupert Grint’s accent and the prim, articulated poshness of Emma Watson’s. Not that prioritizing has ever been Sebastian’s strong suit. “I’ll stop complaining so much when you give me less to complain about, how ‘bout that?” Sebastian retorts just after a little scoff jumps up his throat. “Got ‘em,” Seb cheers, snagging a bag of lemons and limes from the bottom drawer of the fridge. “Find me a knife?”

“For the record, no one’s making you talk to me.” Ben was over pleasing everyone around him. He did that when he was under the Vanderbilt rule, which caused him to virtually live a double life. He didn’t care about pleasing Sebastian or giving him things to complain about. He started digging through Arlo’s kitchen, hopefully, he wouldn’t mind. Finally, Ben hit the jackpot and handed the knife over to Sebastian. He didn’t trust himself to open a bag at this state. “Are you going to have a lime too or just let the tequila burn your mouth?”

seboriley‌:

“That is what I’m here for, my friend,” Sebastian assures, clapping his hand down hard on Ben’s shoulder blade, tapering it off with a couple more pats as he prepares a couple of the aforementioned shots with two easy pours. Well, easy if you didn’t pay too much mind to the little puddle forming beneath them, slicking up the bottoms of the glasses. “I’m a lot younger than that tower,” Seb mocks, feigning a cheap English accent he’s definitely learned from Harry Potter marathons. “Ugh. Can’t it be your New Year’s resolution to take shots without a chaser or something? I’m getting very tired of tracking them down for you.” His temper dissipates just as quickly as it forms, though, and he’s already turning towards the kitchen to start a hunt for limes, shot glasses balanced between his thumb and forefinger on either hand. “But, since it’s the holidays, I’ll make an exception.”

He wanted to be as drunk as Sebastian was at this point. A shot or two would for sure send him that way. “You need to work on your accent.” Ben could probably do a better accent than him at this point.  “Can it be your resolution to stop complaining so much? I’m asking for one thing. It’s good that you’re exercising that brain of yours.” He teased. If Sebastian was going to tease him, he was going to do it right back. “I’ll take pretty much anything at this point, my regard for taste is going out the window.” 

seboriley‌:

Sebastian stares… and stares… and stares some more. Finally, he works up enough energy to blink his eyes—more a harsh squint, like he’s trying to recalibrate—and maintain a pained expression on his face. “Okay,” he says finally, raising his palms as if to seize the moment with the gesture. “It is way too early in the night for you to start getting philosophical—wait… What does being American have to do with understanding time? Is it because we don’t have Big Ben staring us in the face like they do in Europe? ‘Cause we’ve got a big Ben of our own.” With that, he delivers two swift, feather-light jabs to Ben’s gut, grinning and chuckling to himself before reconnecting some… now awkward eye contact. “You want some tequila shots?”

Was he getting theoretical already? Someone should tell Ben that he wasn’t Aristotle. “Fuck, stop me. Don’t let me start telling you shit until I’m a few bottles in.” He was dead serious, Ben only wanted to be a philosopher when he was wasted. He then stared at Sebastian, wishing that he had made a different pun. No one joked about the Big Ben like that in England. “I’m a lot younger than that tower.” He had a dry sense of humor for the most part, and really only laughed at the expense of others. "Do you have any limes? I’m not sure my mouth can handle tequila without it.” Say what you want but that shit hurt.