Just Bros
Title: Just Bros (Or, That Time Where Freddie Decided To Stop Lying To Himself And Just Embrace His Gayness and His Epic Love For A Certain Older Man)
Author: stttmsbwa
Rating: R
Warnings: crack, boy!kissing, girl!kissing, abuse of naughty words
Pairings: Freddie/Spencer, Carly/Sam, mentionings of past Drake/Josh/Spencer
Disclaimer: Hahahahahahahaha. I am Crazy Steve. Yes, I am. I swear it.
Summary: Freddie's got to come to terms with a few things. Oh, and the lying. He supposes that should stop, too.
A/N: I decided that hitting 11K on my big bang fic was pretty awesome, so I wrote some Fencer. Because the world needs more Fencer. It's crack, but serious crack. Except not very serious at all. You know what I mean. Thank yous to my wifey, folkloric_feel, for taming my tenses and showing me that I cannot spell naughty words correctly. &hearts
There is something wrong with Freddie. He could sense it deep inside of him. Like, in his femur bone. Or maybe his fibula. Actually, the fibula is quite fitting. Because it has the word “fib” in it.
Because Freddie feels as though he’s been doing a lot of that as of late. A lot of fibbing that is. Yes, fibbing. Lying. Being dishonest. Untruthful. Deceitful. Telling lots of not-truth. Doing a lot of fibbing. Like, a lot of fibbing. Tons of it. As if every day were Fibday.
Like on Tuesday when his mother asked him what he thought of her new dress. He said it was quite pretty. (It was actually quite puke-tastic. But you don’t tell your mother that her new dress is anything worthy of disgusting bodily functions. Or any bodily functions at that. Because - just, no. Not extending this thought process.)
Or when Carly asked him yesterday if he wanted to meet up at the Groovy Smoothie after class and go over their Anthro assignment. He said it wouldn’t be a problem. (In all reality, it was actually a big waste of time because he had already completed the assignment himself. But he figured that it wouldn’t hurt to help out his friend. He’s a really nice guy like that. A nice guy who likes smoothies.)
And then there was that time last week when Sam had excitedly shoved a centerfold filled with Drake Parker’s freckle-covered face, demanding to know whether or not Freddie agreed with her on the statement that Drake Parker was indeed aging quite well. He had rolled his eyes and said that he could care less about what Drake Parker looked like at his age. (Honestly though, it was more of an evasion of the true question. Because while Freddie did indeed not care very much about the subject of Drake’s physical appeal, he couldn’t disagree that he was definitively feeling some appeal for the older man. Who had really pretty eyes, and a mischievous and still-youthful smile, and a smooth and sexy voice that made Freddie want to - stopping this train of thought now, thank you very much.)
These are only a brief glimpse at the massive fibbing that Freddie had been up to as of late. And all the fibbing has been starting to drive him absolutely batshit insane.
He seriously needs to sort the facts from all the fiction he’s been stuck in. Pacing the hallway that joins his front door to the Shay’s front door, Freddie practices the calming and slightly concerning art of speaking out loud to himself.
“I’m a twenty year old college student.” Freddie was indeed a twenty year old college student. This was a true fact. “My two best friends are crazy females with a tendency to stare at each other when they think the other isn’t looking.” This was true, too. More often than not, Sam would drop her gaze into the soft and supple peek of Carly’s cleavage, just as Carly would sneak a glimpse whenever Sam was sporting a skirt and just so happened to be bending over.
“Lesbians are supposed to be sexually exciting for males my age.” Also another fact. A fact of life. Freddie had yet to meet another twenty year old male college student who didn’t think that girls kissing girls was an instant hard on.
And yet - the sight of his two very female friends? Getting all lesbianish with each other? Touching each other and groping each other and kissing each other? Well, the thought didn’t even faze Freddie, none-the-less make him want to plant video cameras all over the Shay’s apartment in the hopes of catching them when they finally decide to act upon their burgeoning sexual desire for one another.
Although, the thought of planting a camera in Spencer’s room.
Well.
Well.
It was always terribly easy for Sam to convince Freddie that “Wake Up, Spencer!” would be a great segment.
“I’m attracted to Spencer Shay.”
Perhaps a little too easy. Freddie remembers practically frothing at the mouth, the prospect of finding Spencer in bed - potentially half naked, possibly fully nude - a little more than exciting.
“I’m sexually attracted to Spencer Shay, my best friend’s older brother.”
It kind of made sense. Maybe. Kinda. Sorta not really at all.
But then again, kind of completely and totally and utterly.
There should be reasons for this. For his inexplicable attraction for Spencer. For men in general.
Perhaps his neurotic mother drove his appeal for the female form right out of the window. Because who would honestly want to spend the rest of their lives living with that?
Or maybe all the ragging and teasing and the beatings he’s taken from Sam over the years - maybe Freddie just doesn’t want to have to deal with a pair of breasts and a menstrual cycle. Like, ever. Because, well, eww and Jesus Christ, just - no.
And maybe all these years of (possibly just pretending after all?) mooning after Carly, and all these years of consistently being cockblocked? Yeah, Freddie’s not brokenhearted or anything (because he honestly doesn’t know what he’d do if Carly was suddenly in his lap and, like, shirtless or something. On second thought, he’d probably just call Sam and ask her to take care of the situation. And then he’d probably grab a soda. And then reprogram his computer. And that’s kind of the point of this exercise - to realize that he just doesn’t care about girls like that.), but he’d probably be scarred for life. Or his dick would be, from all the cockblockage.
All these not-fibs, they make Freddie realize that he’s probably not straight. Because straight guys probably do not feel slight revulsion at the thought kissing a girl. Or doing a girl.
But the thought of another man? Gripping Freddie’s forearms and shoving him against a wall? Pressing rough and hasty lips against his own? Firm, flat chest and strong, thick hands? Long legs and shaggy brown hair? Playful dark eyes and a devilish smile that could make things instantaneously and unexplainably set on fire?
Oh, God. Freddie had a hard-on for Spencer Shay.
Spencer, who was funny and often hysterical and immature and confusing and caring and dorky and gorgeous and bad with women. Spencer, who was an artist and sometimes an idiot and the best big brother that Freddie had never had. Spencer, who kind of understood Freddie more than anyone else and made Freddie laugh and smile and snort and want to jump on top of him and ravage his delicious-as-pie face. Spencer, who Freddie was pretty sure was the most amazing man he’d ever had a sexual crisis over.
“I’m in love with Spencer.”
Freddie pauses his pacing, hands clenched together in a wringing motion. He raises his gaze up to stare at the familiar door of the Shay apartment. With a furrowed brow, he repeats his mantra to himself in the hopes that he’ll finally grow a pair of balls and at last go for what he wants.
What he’s always wanted, apparently.
Sighing heavily, Freddie pads over to the door and reaches out for the handle. Gripping it tightly, he turns the knob and opens the door.
“Hello? Anybody in?”
Walking in and closing the door behind him, Freddie glances around the apartment and screams.
Which leads to Carly screeching and Sam cursing. And before Freddie can be blinded by the image of Sam’s hand caught underneath the wiring of Carly’s bra, he wrenches his eyes shut and holds his hands over his ears.
“We all live in the Yellow Submarine! THE YELLOW SUBMARINE!”
He can sense the quick rustling of his two friends scrambling to realign their clothing, can feel them moving past him for the door.
And he most definitively feels it when Sam smacks him upside the head, hard enough to make his hands fall off his ears so he can hear her remark.
“Maybe next time you’ll knock, you twink.”
The door slams behind them, and Freddie doesn’t even want to know where they’re going to continue their lesbian explorations. He shudders and rubs his eyes, hoping that the image he’d beheld would just go away.
“You okay, there Fredster?” Freddie drops his hands off his face and glances up.
And, if he were a girl, he’d probably be swooning, because Spencer’s standing right in front of him, looking so handsome and fine and totally jumpable. And Freddie has never been more glad to not be a girl, because swooning would be totally not smooth.
“Hey Spencer.”
“Freddie, are you - are you swooning?”
Dammit. Freddie’s homosexuality was becoming more apparent by the second.
“Do you need to sit down? Because there’s a couch, right here, and - “ Spencer reaches out to guide Freddie towards the same couch that had just been used for -
“No!” Freddie holds his hands out in protest, but Spencer grabs his wrists anyway. “Wait! Spencer, I’m fine. I can stand, I swear. Just - not the couch. Anything but that couch.”
Spencer gives Freddie a confused smile but relents. “Alright,” he sighs. “Whatever floats your boat. What brings you round these parts anyhow? Carly and Sam left to go pretend that they aren’t sexually experimenting with each other even though I totally know they are because I’m an awesome big brother who only pretends to be oblivious when in reality I’ve known they were hot for each other for the past couple of years.”
Raising one eyebrow (which Freddie is very good at, yes indeed. He is quite proud of this skill.), Freddie carefully chooses his words. “Wait, so you, like, knew?”
Spencer nods his head. “The whole time?”
He nods more fiercely, his hair flying up and down with each nod.
“All these years, and you’ve always known?”
“Yes, kind of. Always had the thought, at least. Why?”
Freddie sucks his bottom lip in and chews on it softly. “What else have you always known?”
“Are you talking about your own sexuality crisis that you’re currently having?”
“How did you know?”
“You’re holding my hands, Freddie.”
Freddie quickly looks down and, sure enough, Spencer’s hands are tangled up with his own. When in the world had that happened? His gayness was becoming more obvious than he thought. He starts to let go, but Spencer grips Freddie’s hands back.
“You don’t have to, you know. Let go. I understand. If you want to, you know, just try it. I mean, for comfort. I’m not, like, trying to coax you into anything you’re not comfortable with. Because I’m not a creepy older man who’s been starting to crush on his little sister’s friend or anything. Because that’d just be kind of weird, you know? I mean, you’ve always been like a little brother to me - and I always tried to be like a big brother to you, too. And then you went and became all legal and stuff, and your face went from cute to kissable and I’m kind of sure that I’d like to skip through the streets of Seattle with your hand in mine, because you’re kind of all I think about and that’s a big improvement because I was sure that I’d never feel this way ever again. Because, let me tell you, being in a relationship with Drake Parker is almost as intense as being in a relationship with Drake Parker and Josh Nichols. They’re fierce in bed, you know. We used to go at it all over this apartment. Even in the kitchen. In just aprons. It was my experimental early twenties, and I was in love. But they moved to New York and we send each other sexy texts on occasion, but I know that they’re happy where they are together and it makes me sad because I don’t have that one special someone. And lately I’ve been day-dreaming that a certain guy could maybe be my certain someone, but I don’t really think you want to be completely weirded out, because I have the tendency of scaring people with my intensity.”
Spencer inhales heavily at the end of his rant. Freddie’s eyes bulge out of his head as he lets all of Spencer’s words quickly sink in.
“So, wait. You like me?”
“You know I like you.”
“Like me, like me?”
“Maybe.”
“Like, you’d want to kiss me and touch me and give me mind-blowing sexual pleasure?”
“If you’d like.”
“Like, you’re in love with me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You love me, though, don’t you?”
“Maybe?”
“You think I’m cute and smart and funny and totally wonderful?”
“Yes.”
“You love me and want to spend every day with me, preferably not wearing any clothes?”
“Well, aprons work, too. Or what about light up socks! How do you feel about light up socks?”
Freddie doesn’t really care either way about light up socks, but he does care that there has been too much talking and not enough kissing. Wriggling his hands out of Spencer’s grasp, he wraps them around Spencer’s neck and yanks the older man down.
Their lips meet quickly and gently, as if they were sixteen year old kiss-virgins who just want to know what it feels like to share such an intimate act. Freddie grunts softly and presses harder, sighing when he feels Spencer’s hands wrap around his waist to pull them flush against each other.
Instantaneously the kiss ignites into a frantic attempt to get as close as humanly possible. Freddie runs his fingers through Spencer’s hair, his tips lightly scratching at the scalp, and he gasps when he feels Spencer’s moan and then tongue running along his lower lip. Opening his mouth, Freddie becomes overwhelmed with the sensation of Spencer’s tongue glazing over his teeth, over the inside of his cheeks, along his own tongue. It’s all so wet and dirty and amazing.
They break away for a moment, both of them heaving for air. Spencer’s face is plastered with an I-got-the-candy grin, and Freddie knows that he’s mirroring a similar expression of bliss and excitement. He lets his hands drop to Spencer’s shoulders, giggling softly when he feels Spencer’s fingers playing with the hem of his shirt, sneaking upward to tickle at the flesh above the waistband of his jeans.
“So you kind of love me, too, I take it?”
Freddie smirks and replies, “Maybe. Just a little, I suppose.”
“Good. That’s very good. Mucho good-o.”
Spencer bends down to plant a kiss to Freddie’s nose.
“You know what the best part is, though?”
Another kiss, to Freddie’s left cheek, and he can only murmur a quiet “mmmm” in response.
“No bras.”
He drops another kiss to Freddie’s right ear, nipping at it gently.
“No gloss.”
Freddie bites back a groan as Spencer’s fingers yank at the fabric of his boxers and his lips fall back onto his own.
“Just bros.”
As Spencer starts to pull away to kiss another part of Freddie’s face, Freddie presses his nose to Spencer’s and adds, “No.”
The kiss is chaste - just a simple touch of lips.
“Just you.”
Spencer’s smile floods his face and Freddie feels himself be lifted into a tight hug.
“Just us.”
And Freddie knew that it wasn’t a fib at all.
Author: stttmsbwa
Rating: R
Warnings: crack, boy!kissing, girl!kissing, abuse of naughty words
Pairings: Freddie/Spencer, Carly/Sam, mentionings of past Drake/Josh/Spencer
Disclaimer: Hahahahahahahaha. I am Crazy Steve. Yes, I am. I swear it.
Summary: Freddie's got to come to terms with a few things. Oh, and the lying. He supposes that should stop, too.
A/N: I decided that hitting 11K on my big bang fic was pretty awesome, so I wrote some Fencer. Because the world needs more Fencer. It's crack, but serious crack. Except not very serious at all. You know what I mean. Thank yous to my wifey, folkloric_feel, for taming my tenses and showing me that I cannot spell naughty words correctly. &hearts
There is something wrong with Freddie. He could sense it deep inside of him. Like, in his femur bone. Or maybe his fibula. Actually, the fibula is quite fitting. Because it has the word “fib” in it.
Because Freddie feels as though he’s been doing a lot of that as of late. A lot of fibbing that is. Yes, fibbing. Lying. Being dishonest. Untruthful. Deceitful. Telling lots of not-truth. Doing a lot of fibbing. Like, a lot of fibbing. Tons of it. As if every day were Fibday.
Like on Tuesday when his mother asked him what he thought of her new dress. He said it was quite pretty. (It was actually quite puke-tastic. But you don’t tell your mother that her new dress is anything worthy of disgusting bodily functions. Or any bodily functions at that. Because - just, no. Not extending this thought process.)
Or when Carly asked him yesterday if he wanted to meet up at the Groovy Smoothie after class and go over their Anthro assignment. He said it wouldn’t be a problem. (In all reality, it was actually a big waste of time because he had already completed the assignment himself. But he figured that it wouldn’t hurt to help out his friend. He’s a really nice guy like that. A nice guy who likes smoothies.)
And then there was that time last week when Sam had excitedly shoved a centerfold filled with Drake Parker’s freckle-covered face, demanding to know whether or not Freddie agreed with her on the statement that Drake Parker was indeed aging quite well. He had rolled his eyes and said that he could care less about what Drake Parker looked like at his age. (Honestly though, it was more of an evasion of the true question. Because while Freddie did indeed not care very much about the subject of Drake’s physical appeal, he couldn’t disagree that he was definitively feeling some appeal for the older man. Who had really pretty eyes, and a mischievous and still-youthful smile, and a smooth and sexy voice that made Freddie want to - stopping this train of thought now, thank you very much.)
These are only a brief glimpse at the massive fibbing that Freddie had been up to as of late. And all the fibbing has been starting to drive him absolutely batshit insane.
He seriously needs to sort the facts from all the fiction he’s been stuck in. Pacing the hallway that joins his front door to the Shay’s front door, Freddie practices the calming and slightly concerning art of speaking out loud to himself.
“I’m a twenty year old college student.” Freddie was indeed a twenty year old college student. This was a true fact. “My two best friends are crazy females with a tendency to stare at each other when they think the other isn’t looking.” This was true, too. More often than not, Sam would drop her gaze into the soft and supple peek of Carly’s cleavage, just as Carly would sneak a glimpse whenever Sam was sporting a skirt and just so happened to be bending over.
“Lesbians are supposed to be sexually exciting for males my age.” Also another fact. A fact of life. Freddie had yet to meet another twenty year old male college student who didn’t think that girls kissing girls was an instant hard on.
And yet - the sight of his two very female friends? Getting all lesbianish with each other? Touching each other and groping each other and kissing each other? Well, the thought didn’t even faze Freddie, none-the-less make him want to plant video cameras all over the Shay’s apartment in the hopes of catching them when they finally decide to act upon their burgeoning sexual desire for one another.
Although, the thought of planting a camera in Spencer’s room.
Well.
Well.
It was always terribly easy for Sam to convince Freddie that “Wake Up, Spencer!” would be a great segment.
“I’m attracted to Spencer Shay.”
Perhaps a little too easy. Freddie remembers practically frothing at the mouth, the prospect of finding Spencer in bed - potentially half naked, possibly fully nude - a little more than exciting.
“I’m sexually attracted to Spencer Shay, my best friend’s older brother.”
It kind of made sense. Maybe. Kinda. Sorta not really at all.
But then again, kind of completely and totally and utterly.
There should be reasons for this. For his inexplicable attraction for Spencer. For men in general.
Perhaps his neurotic mother drove his appeal for the female form right out of the window. Because who would honestly want to spend the rest of their lives living with that?
Or maybe all the ragging and teasing and the beatings he’s taken from Sam over the years - maybe Freddie just doesn’t want to have to deal with a pair of breasts and a menstrual cycle. Like, ever. Because, well, eww and Jesus Christ, just - no.
And maybe all these years of (possibly just pretending after all?) mooning after Carly, and all these years of consistently being cockblocked? Yeah, Freddie’s not brokenhearted or anything (because he honestly doesn’t know what he’d do if Carly was suddenly in his lap and, like, shirtless or something. On second thought, he’d probably just call Sam and ask her to take care of the situation. And then he’d probably grab a soda. And then reprogram his computer. And that’s kind of the point of this exercise - to realize that he just doesn’t care about girls like that.), but he’d probably be scarred for life. Or his dick would be, from all the cockblockage.
All these not-fibs, they make Freddie realize that he’s probably not straight. Because straight guys probably do not feel slight revulsion at the thought kissing a girl. Or doing a girl.
But the thought of another man? Gripping Freddie’s forearms and shoving him against a wall? Pressing rough and hasty lips against his own? Firm, flat chest and strong, thick hands? Long legs and shaggy brown hair? Playful dark eyes and a devilish smile that could make things instantaneously and unexplainably set on fire?
Oh, God. Freddie had a hard-on for Spencer Shay.
Spencer, who was funny and often hysterical and immature and confusing and caring and dorky and gorgeous and bad with women. Spencer, who was an artist and sometimes an idiot and the best big brother that Freddie had never had. Spencer, who kind of understood Freddie more than anyone else and made Freddie laugh and smile and snort and want to jump on top of him and ravage his delicious-as-pie face. Spencer, who Freddie was pretty sure was the most amazing man he’d ever had a sexual crisis over.
“I’m in love with Spencer.”
Freddie pauses his pacing, hands clenched together in a wringing motion. He raises his gaze up to stare at the familiar door of the Shay apartment. With a furrowed brow, he repeats his mantra to himself in the hopes that he’ll finally grow a pair of balls and at last go for what he wants.
What he’s always wanted, apparently.
Sighing heavily, Freddie pads over to the door and reaches out for the handle. Gripping it tightly, he turns the knob and opens the door.
“Hello? Anybody in?”
Walking in and closing the door behind him, Freddie glances around the apartment and screams.
Which leads to Carly screeching and Sam cursing. And before Freddie can be blinded by the image of Sam’s hand caught underneath the wiring of Carly’s bra, he wrenches his eyes shut and holds his hands over his ears.
“We all live in the Yellow Submarine! THE YELLOW SUBMARINE!”
He can sense the quick rustling of his two friends scrambling to realign their clothing, can feel them moving past him for the door.
And he most definitively feels it when Sam smacks him upside the head, hard enough to make his hands fall off his ears so he can hear her remark.
“Maybe next time you’ll knock, you twink.”
The door slams behind them, and Freddie doesn’t even want to know where they’re going to continue their lesbian explorations. He shudders and rubs his eyes, hoping that the image he’d beheld would just go away.
“You okay, there Fredster?” Freddie drops his hands off his face and glances up.
And, if he were a girl, he’d probably be swooning, because Spencer’s standing right in front of him, looking so handsome and fine and totally jumpable. And Freddie has never been more glad to not be a girl, because swooning would be totally not smooth.
“Hey Spencer.”
“Freddie, are you - are you swooning?”
Dammit. Freddie’s homosexuality was becoming more apparent by the second.
“Do you need to sit down? Because there’s a couch, right here, and - “ Spencer reaches out to guide Freddie towards the same couch that had just been used for -
“No!” Freddie holds his hands out in protest, but Spencer grabs his wrists anyway. “Wait! Spencer, I’m fine. I can stand, I swear. Just - not the couch. Anything but that couch.”
Spencer gives Freddie a confused smile but relents. “Alright,” he sighs. “Whatever floats your boat. What brings you round these parts anyhow? Carly and Sam left to go pretend that they aren’t sexually experimenting with each other even though I totally know they are because I’m an awesome big brother who only pretends to be oblivious when in reality I’ve known they were hot for each other for the past couple of years.”
Raising one eyebrow (which Freddie is very good at, yes indeed. He is quite proud of this skill.), Freddie carefully chooses his words. “Wait, so you, like, knew?”
Spencer nods his head. “The whole time?”
He nods more fiercely, his hair flying up and down with each nod.
“All these years, and you’ve always known?”
“Yes, kind of. Always had the thought, at least. Why?”
Freddie sucks his bottom lip in and chews on it softly. “What else have you always known?”
“Are you talking about your own sexuality crisis that you’re currently having?”
“How did you know?”
“You’re holding my hands, Freddie.”
Freddie quickly looks down and, sure enough, Spencer’s hands are tangled up with his own. When in the world had that happened? His gayness was becoming more obvious than he thought. He starts to let go, but Spencer grips Freddie’s hands back.
“You don’t have to, you know. Let go. I understand. If you want to, you know, just try it. I mean, for comfort. I’m not, like, trying to coax you into anything you’re not comfortable with. Because I’m not a creepy older man who’s been starting to crush on his little sister’s friend or anything. Because that’d just be kind of weird, you know? I mean, you’ve always been like a little brother to me - and I always tried to be like a big brother to you, too. And then you went and became all legal and stuff, and your face went from cute to kissable and I’m kind of sure that I’d like to skip through the streets of Seattle with your hand in mine, because you’re kind of all I think about and that’s a big improvement because I was sure that I’d never feel this way ever again. Because, let me tell you, being in a relationship with Drake Parker is almost as intense as being in a relationship with Drake Parker and Josh Nichols. They’re fierce in bed, you know. We used to go at it all over this apartment. Even in the kitchen. In just aprons. It was my experimental early twenties, and I was in love. But they moved to New York and we send each other sexy texts on occasion, but I know that they’re happy where they are together and it makes me sad because I don’t have that one special someone. And lately I’ve been day-dreaming that a certain guy could maybe be my certain someone, but I don’t really think you want to be completely weirded out, because I have the tendency of scaring people with my intensity.”
Spencer inhales heavily at the end of his rant. Freddie’s eyes bulge out of his head as he lets all of Spencer’s words quickly sink in.
“So, wait. You like me?”
“You know I like you.”
“Like me, like me?”
“Maybe.”
“Like, you’d want to kiss me and touch me and give me mind-blowing sexual pleasure?”
“If you’d like.”
“Like, you’re in love with me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You love me, though, don’t you?”
“Maybe?”
“You think I’m cute and smart and funny and totally wonderful?”
“Yes.”
“You love me and want to spend every day with me, preferably not wearing any clothes?”
“Well, aprons work, too. Or what about light up socks! How do you feel about light up socks?”
Freddie doesn’t really care either way about light up socks, but he does care that there has been too much talking and not enough kissing. Wriggling his hands out of Spencer’s grasp, he wraps them around Spencer’s neck and yanks the older man down.
Their lips meet quickly and gently, as if they were sixteen year old kiss-virgins who just want to know what it feels like to share such an intimate act. Freddie grunts softly and presses harder, sighing when he feels Spencer’s hands wrap around his waist to pull them flush against each other.
Instantaneously the kiss ignites into a frantic attempt to get as close as humanly possible. Freddie runs his fingers through Spencer’s hair, his tips lightly scratching at the scalp, and he gasps when he feels Spencer’s moan and then tongue running along his lower lip. Opening his mouth, Freddie becomes overwhelmed with the sensation of Spencer’s tongue glazing over his teeth, over the inside of his cheeks, along his own tongue. It’s all so wet and dirty and amazing.
They break away for a moment, both of them heaving for air. Spencer’s face is plastered with an I-got-the-candy grin, and Freddie knows that he’s mirroring a similar expression of bliss and excitement. He lets his hands drop to Spencer’s shoulders, giggling softly when he feels Spencer’s fingers playing with the hem of his shirt, sneaking upward to tickle at the flesh above the waistband of his jeans.
“So you kind of love me, too, I take it?”
Freddie smirks and replies, “Maybe. Just a little, I suppose.”
“Good. That’s very good. Mucho good-o.”
Spencer bends down to plant a kiss to Freddie’s nose.
“You know what the best part is, though?”
Another kiss, to Freddie’s left cheek, and he can only murmur a quiet “mmmm” in response.
“No bras.”
He drops another kiss to Freddie’s right ear, nipping at it gently.
“No gloss.”
Freddie bites back a groan as Spencer’s fingers yank at the fabric of his boxers and his lips fall back onto his own.
“Just bros.”
As Spencer starts to pull away to kiss another part of Freddie’s face, Freddie presses his nose to Spencer’s and adds, “No.”
The kiss is chaste - just a simple touch of lips.
“Just you.”
Spencer’s smile floods his face and Freddie feels himself be lifted into a tight hug.
“Just us.”
And Freddie knew that it wasn’t a fib at all.