His Hips

So, the thing about Spencer was that they had been best friends since they were cognizant enough to realize what that meant. Objectively, Ryan knew that Spencer was good looking but it was more along the lines of noticing that Spence had dropped a bit of baby fat, grown a few inches taller and got a better hair cut.

Ryan had never thought about Spencer lustfully. Then he'd been trapped in an elevator with the secretly crazy intern that would. not. shut. up. about Spencer's hips. Listen to someone whine about your best friend's curves and how well he fills out jeans and how he has a better S-line (whatever the hell that is) for an hour without distraction and your mind just goes there, okay.

And the thoughts would not fucking leave Ryan's head. Every time Spencer did that bitchy hip-cock, or swung his legs across Ryan's lap, or after sound check when Spencer would stand up to stretch and his jeans had rode down, his shirt rode up and his fucking hips were on display. Right there, practically begging for Ryan's hands to stroke-linger-bruise.

Ryan was completely obsessed. It was getting worse and he couldn't even say anything. Seriously. How the fuck are you supposed to tell your best friend you want to rub off against his hips until they're covered in cum and then you want to sign your name with a sharpie in the hallows?

-END-

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