Notes: This story was inspired by the episode "iGet Pranky", and Sam's 'little crush' on Spencer. This chapter has brief reference to "iCarly Awards"

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Pride and Cheese

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She just whips off her shirt, all pride and cheese in her grin. And, yeah, well no one would blame her for that. I'd be proud too, if I went from a small B to a small D over the summer, and I'm staring, a little slack jawed at her sudden…topless-ness. The product of puberty causing her chest to strain against a black silk bra.

"Sam!" I yell, a little unable to get past my one word scolding. She doesn't even look at me, just leaning towards the coffee table in my living room, both of us sitting side by side on the couch.

"What?" She asked, completely not caring, because I'm not barbeque ribs, and right now that's all that matters to her. She starts to put a generous portion on her plate from the foil wrapped platter sitting on the table. She leans over farther, and I'm sure—almost positive that she's going to fall out of her bra.

"You took your shirt off." I reply, sounding like an idiot. Just staring at her, like an idiot.

"Uh, yeah. I'm eating ribs. It's what I do."

I know that's what she does, when she's at home and not in my living room.

"Uh, yeah." I mock; my initial shock wearing off, allowing me to gain some sense back, but the shock just kind of turns into this flipping in my stomach. "But can you not do it out in the open like this."

She takes a bite out of a broken piece of ribs, still ignoring me, but I'm not entirely surprised. Not a lot of things can distract her from meat. I just sigh, resigning in how easy it is for her to win anything with me. Besides, we were the only ones in my apartment right now, and will be for a while. I delicately place a few ribs on my plate, and grab a stack of napkins for my lap.

Sam hates napkins. Apparently.

I make the mistake of looking over at her, and see half her plate empty already and barbeque sauce smeared all around her lips. I should be marveling at how she could possibly eat that fast, but I'm not. I'm marveling at her lips that are now occupied by sucking on each of her fingers, one by one.

I stare at the scene of food foreplay that's being created in front of me, and try to shake myself out of my thoughts a bit. Or a lot.

"You…You know, if you ruin that bra, I'm not giving you one of mine." I say it, looking down on my lap at my untouched ribs, picking up a piece and nibbling on it a bit. I try to keep my eyes busy, because they were more than ready to move back down to her chest. I hear her let out a little laugh.

"Why not?"

Now I laugh a little.

"Don't think it'd fit."

Why did I think this train of conversation was going to distract me from Sam sitting next to me in a bra? I'm an idiot.

"It's not my fault they keep growing." She's a little indignant, but mostly playful. I pick at my food, not looking at her.

"Yeah, that must suck."

My voice is quieter than I meant for it to be, and I can feel her looking over at me. I take another bite of barbeque meat.

"My eyes don't exist to all males on this planet." Sam claims, in all its injustice. I smile into my napkin as I wipe the corners of my lips. "That's practically half the population." That's a shame, really, because her eyes are one of my favorite things about her. All blue and oceans and drowning.

I remember one afternoon over the summer where I just stared at her, thinking of all the things her eyes reminded me of. There was a pressure building in my chest when she looked back at me, but she didn't say anything, just let me stare, staring right back.

The pressure comes back at the memory, and I move to look at her again, thinking that there was no harm in it. I can look at her eyes, because she's still looking at me. As soon as I do, I'm immediately distracted by the still stained lips. All smirks and sticky sauce. Which in turn makes me notice the same dark brown sauce that has dripped and taken residence on…her chest. The spot on the top of her right breast kept my gaze for a moment, until Sam laughs quick and hard. It jolts me a little, bringing my eyes back up.

"See what I mean? Why do I even have eyes?" I blush at that, almost used to the feeling of heat rising in my cheeks, because with her it just happens a lot lately. I look forward anyway, breaking contact. I almost tell her that she's the one who decided to start stripping in my apartment, so really it's not my fault. I don't though, because the spot of sauce on her chest looked almost ready to migrate south. I really don't want Sam to ruin her bra and decide she doesn't need to wear that either. I really don't, I say to myself again, as if that would make it true.

"You have barbeque sauce on your chest. That's what I was looking at."

I see her look down and back at me.

"Yeah, sure. I never heard that one before." Sam's voice is all teasing and playful. "What, this little spot?" She asks, and I see out the corner of my eye her left hand pointing to it. I blush more, like it's just automatic almost every time she looks at me with a teasing grin.

I know she's baiting me. She knows I'm easy to bait.

I look over, determined to keep eye contact, and almost instantly failing miserably.

When I get my sight back to the spot on her chest, she moves her finger from pointing position, to run along the top of her breast, collecting the sauce on her fingertip along the way. She's purposely moving slowly, a light trail of barbeque smearing across her chest. Then she brings her finger to her lips, taking it in her mouth and sucking all evidence away.

Is it harder to breath in here, or is it just me?

Over the summer, Puberty-Clause gave her curves and legs, and a very distracting torso. All it gave me was a hormone tumor in my brain that makes me think about curves and legs, and a very distracting Sam. My body reacts too easily, I blush too hard, and everything Sam says is flirty and sexual. Even though I know it's not. It's just my tumor.

But this isn't my tumor. She's being flirty and sexual, and I flush at it, feeling my stomach drop a little. Or a lot.

"You still have sauce all over your face." My voice only cracks once and I'm so proud of that.

But not as proud as her, pride and cheese with that grin, leaning closer to me. Instinctively, I lean back just enough so her chest doesn't touch me.

"Where?" She asks, her voice a lowering a little.

"Your mouth." I whisper, looking hard at her licking her lips.

"Do you mind?" She whispers back. I crease my eyebrows a little at the question; not really knowing what she's asking, but almost positive that my answer will be 'no, I don't mind'. Before I can ask for a clarification, she picks the napkins out of my lap. Sam leans back against the couch, wiping her mouth roughly, and it takes me moment to catch up and breathe again.

I put my plate of ribs back on the table, not having an appetite for them anymore.

"Do you want a soda?" Sam asks me, after she makes her face as clean as it's going to get.

I sigh a little. "Sure."

Right when she's about to get up, I hear the rattling of the lock on the front door. I feel a rush of panic run through me, because I know its Spencer, and he isn't supposed to be home for at least another hour. I hit Sam lightly, pointing at the door with urgency in my eyes, and she just hits me back a little harder and shrugging. I'm about to sternly tell her to put her freaking shirt back on, but it's already too late, the door's opening, and Sam's shirt is still somewhere behind the couch.

I stand up quickly, not really knowing why. We weren't doing anything wrong. Just eating ribs.

"Hey, guys." He greets us, looking down as he put his keys back into his jean pocket.

"Hey, handsome." Sam says back, standing up and walking toward the kitchen. After a moment, I hear the fridge open, presumably getting us soda's. I don't look though, because I'm watching Spencer stare at Sam's movement's with a slack jaw. His eyes are wide, and Sam might as well not have a head, because Spencer really wouldn't have noticed. I feel my stomach tighten and I think I might smack him in a second if he doesn't stop, but when she's out of sight in the kitchen, his shocked stare turns towards me. He points to her, and I walk up to him a little.

"We were eating ribs, and Sam doesn't wear a shirt when she eats ribs." I don't deliver that sentence with any kind of confidence, and he just raises his eyebrows at me. I kind of wish he would just say something.

"I didn't think you'd be home early." My voice is quieter, and more sincere.

He glances back to the kitchen then flinches away again, probably regretting the decision to look again. After taking a few steps closer to the couch, he gives me a look I don't see often.

"I'm going to my room. Tell her that she needs to keep her clothes on." Spencer is all kinds of serious when he says it. I mean, like 'dad' serious, and it makes me cringe like I do when I'm in trouble. But that's all he says, and then much to my relief, he retreats to his room.

I move to the back of the couch and grab the yellow tee shirt, and storm over to the kitchen. Sam is leaning against our butcher block table, avoiding eye contact.

"Sorry." She says, apparently hearing all that was said a minute ago.

I sigh a little, then toss the shirt toward her, watching her catch it easily.