He’s laying on his couch and mindlessly watching television when the knock comes. That familiar, energetic pattern that he hates he recognizes immediately, and hates even more how his heart leaps at it. Though the--the...whatever positive feeling accompanies that jolt is clouded by panic and irritation that come from being interrupted so suddenly, and he flips through channels until he finds an innocuous commercial before settling back in and letting that irritation wash over him.
“What?” he calls, and that’s enough for Spongebob to let himself in and practically take a flying leap at him--though it resolves more gently in him flopping onto Squidward and then sinking into the crevice between him and the back of the couch, settling in as if that half a foot of space was made for him. Well, more, now, that he’s forced Squidward over.
“Hello, Squidward,” he says, in that goading, crooning way of his that makes something under Squid’s skin crawl, and wiggles up to press a kiss to the side of his face.
“Uh...hi,” he responds, flatly. It’s a miracle he managed that much, with as much as he wants to snap at Spongebob for his abrupt entrance. But he really does like having him there, deep down inside, and can admit it to himself just long enough to give the bare minimum of a friendly greeting.
Sponge’s attention is short, and finds the television immediately. “Whatcha watchin?”
Embarrassment creeps up Squidward’s spine, and he frowns it away, turning from Spongebob. “Nothing’s on,” he lies. The commercials have lapsed into some procedural drama. Sponge stretches for the remote, and Squidward raises an eyebrow, reluctantly handing it over to be free of the responsibility of finding something to watch.
Spongebob starts flipping through channels with fervor, laying over Squidward's chest (unnecessarily) to point the remote at the screen, switching too quickly to really see what's going on and repeatedly backtracking to watch a few seconds more of something he’d skipped over. It grates on Squidward’s nerves in a very particular way, and he shuts his eyes, taking a long-suffering breath.
Then, after seemingly going through every channel twice, he finally stops on something, resting his head on Squid’s chest, arm still outstretched as he decides whether or not the program has merit. Squidward peeks out to see what he's stopped on, and finds the television back on the show he was watching before Sponge had so...affectionately interrupted him. Some filming of a dance recital from years ago, with commentary from whoever. It isn't great, but he's resigned to the fact that it's the most culture he's going to get in this godforsaken town.
Spongebob lifts his head up and smiles at him. “You like this kind of thing, right?” he says, and Squidward bristles at first instinct, an imagined derision in that statement. This kind of thing. But he does like it, and maybe it won’t hurt to admit it. “Yeah,” he grumbles, crossing his arms. So Spongebob reaches over his head to place the remote back on the end table and nestles into the crevice he's claimed for himself, throwing an arm over Squidward and watching the television patiently.
Squid glances down at him and that ever present hint of a smile on his face, and Spongebob looks up, curiously--only to beam when he meets his eyes. Squid's heart constricts, but he lets himself take a deep breath and relax. He uncrosses his arms with an air of reluctance and wraps one around Spongebob, shifting to get comfortable next to him, much to Sponge’s squirming delight, though he finally settles down next to Squidward with a cheerful sigh, eyes fluttering shut.
Of course he doesn't care enough to actually watch it, is Squidward's first thought. Then, quickly following, the realization that Spongebob had put this show on just for Squidward’s sake. He frowns, because he's not sure what else to do, and runs a hand through Sponge’s hair, at least able to be affectionate in that way.
He doubts, however, that Spongebob's attention will be held for long by a program he's not interested in. A few minutes later, his fidgeting proves Squidward right.
There's something about this fidgeting, though. Spongebob is fiddling with the hem of Squid’s shirt, running it between his fingers, a fingernail every so often brushing against his skin, finding it above the hem of his pants.
He flushes, abdomen tensing at even the slight contact. He looks down again before he can stop himself, and Spongebob stares up at him, eyes wide and questioning and...mischievous.
Squidward doesn't know what to do with this. Mostly because he likes it, and Sponge is pulling his hand away and settling down again, taking the look as a rebuke. Squid’s objection to this withdrawal dies in his throat. It feels too open to say it's okay. To ask him to continue.
He sets his head back down and stares at the TV, Spongebob perfectly still beside him, which is entirely wrong, too.
He scowls, and huffs, and runs his nails along Spongebob’s scalp, gently. “You can--” he mumbles, but that's as far as he gets. Instead, he takes Spongebob’s hand and guides it back to where it was before, face growing warm as he places it at his abdomen and Spongebob giggles delightedly. He doesn't take his time in sliding his fingers back under Squid’s shirt. Even further this time, fingertips meeting skin, and Squidward glances down again against his better judgement. Thankfully, Spongebob doesn't pull away this time, just smiles. And not even Squidward can see anything deriding behind it. He's just, as always, happy to be there.
Squid sighs, and drops his head back, not really all too sure what to do with his hands. The complete lack of alarm he's feeling at this is...alarming.
“Soo...” Spongebob ventures, sliding his hand up by fractions of an inch. “Should I...keep going?”
“Yes,” Squidward says to his ceiling before he can stop himself. Sponge answers this by tracing circles on his skin, around and around, one of them brushing down and against the waist of his pants--he lets out a strangled gasp at the jolt that races up his spine, hands coming up to cover his mouth. Oh, Neptune. He's not young enough to be having this kind of reaction, but he can't seem to focus on his embarrassment with Spongebob nuzzling into his side--he can hear his grin somehow, he just can--hand adventuring under Squid’s shirt, running his nails up and dragging his fingers down.
He swallows, thickly, hair prickling at the back of his neck and eyes glued to the ceiling. He hates the idea of just leaving things here, but he can’t bring himself to follow the train of thought that leads to the opposing conclusion--that he really, really wants this. The idea of wanting something from someone else makes him feel too...vulnerable.
“Will you say when?”
He blinks, the sudden question interrupting his spiral of self-hatred. “ ‘When’? When what? ”
“When. Y’know--if you want me to stop.” Spongebob shifts, propping himself up on an elbow and kicking a foot up into the air, swinging it back and forth like a metronome. “You like telling me when to stop doing things,” he says, smiling. And this--this might have had the slightest hint of teasing in it.
Squidward scowls, but the solution at least offers a path forward that isn’t down his steep incline of shame and loathing. He'll save that for later. “Yes, fine, I’ll tell you when to stop,” he grumbles, just short of spitting out a just get on with it. That could be too easily misconstrued for eagerness. Nevermind that that eagerness is exactly what’s stewing underneath.
“Okay!” Spongebob chirps, and undoes the top button of Squidward’s pants.
His stomach drops, and there’s no longer any misconstruing his eagerness at the proceedings as his blood rushes downwards. He shifts, legs coincidentally falling open, and Spongebob is more than happy to place himself between them.
“I've been wanting to do this for a long time,” he says, cheerfully, attention wandering back to Squidward's stomach, pushing his shirt up and leaning down to trail kisses along to his waistline, placing a hand on Squid’s side and sliding his thumb downwards to slip under his pants and brush against his hip bone. Squidward whimpers, the sound cut off as soon as he realizes he's making it. “But it's so hard to tell when you actually want me to do something. I didn't want you to feel pressured or anything.”
“Uh-huh,” Squid goes, a little high-pitched as Spongebob slides his zipper down. And then, mustering all the bravery--or perhaps poor judgement--he can in this state, asks, “Is there...anything else you've been wanting to do?”
“Oh, yeah!” Spongebob admits with absolutely no hesitation. “All sorts of things. You're really pretty.” This statement is punctuated by Sponge tugging Squidward’s pants down, dragging his underwear along with them a precious few inches.
Squidward’s heart skips a beat, and he pretends it's due to his subsequently lifting his hips and shifting upwards, letting aforementioned clothes settle at his thighs. But, if he were to be honest with himself--and he won’t be--it might have more to do with being called pretty.
His shoulders meet the armrest, which means it’s not as simple to just lay his head back and stare at the ceiling anymore. So, taking a deep breath, he turns his gaze downwards and resigns himself to the view.
The view of Spongebob between his legs, idly smiling face inches away from Squidward’s half-hard dick.
He swallows, thickly, as his arousal starts peeking through his shame, offering up such observations as His eyelashes are really long and Has he ever done this before? And he’s almost starting to relax into the idea when Spongebob actually puts his mouth on him and Squidward’s head falling back results in it colliding with the unforgiving edge of his side table.
“Fuck,” he curses, clutching at the back of his head as he draws his legs up, jostling a now very surprised Sponge.
“Are you alright?” He exclaims, propping himself back up, eyes wide.
“Yes,” Squidward insists, not very convincingly, eyes screwed shut. “I'm fine.”
Spongebob still watches him, carefully, as Squidward brings one of his hands forward and looks at it, relieved to not see any blood. But, that relief quickly brings embarrassment as the pain subsides and he realizes his situation.
And then Spongebob starts giggling, which feels like a knife in the back. Squidward scowls at him, but Sponge misses it. He's ducking his head down, resting his forehead against Squidward's bare stomach as his shoulders shake, his breath ghosting against his skin. Then he gets a hold of himself--a little bit--managing to press a few kisses to his stomach between grins, shifting downwards once again.
“Are you okay?” He asks again, lightly, looking up at Squidward.
Squid blinks, and slides down just slightly, settling his head somewhere with less risk of collision. “Y...yeah,” he says, even as he looks a little bit panicked. He's sure he'll be okay once...well.
Spongebob settles back between his legs, and eagerly resumes his task. All thoughts of laying back and closing his eyes evaporate from his mind as he watches Sponge’s mouth slide over the head of his dick, his tongue pressing against the underside. Squidward grips at the back of the couch, taking deep, steady breaths and staring, transfixed, at the trail of spit left behind when Spongebob slides back up, shifting forward for a different angle.
It's undoubtedly sloppy, but the thought doesn't dare cross his mind. It’s more than he's had in years, and the fact that it's Spongebob bobbing his head between his legs is doing more for him than he'd like to admit.
Sponge presses a hand to his hip, now, tracing a circle with his thumb. Squidward's breath catches, and his attempt at steadying it results in more of a whimper, his hips twitching upwards, much to Spongebob’s surprise, squeaking in exclamation.
“Sor--” Squidward starts, automatically, though the apology falls flat the moment he realizes he's saying it. Instead, he focuses as well as he can on relaxing his legs, sliding his feet down to give him less leverage, as much as he wants to coil up as tight as a spring to keep himself from--
Spongebob slides off him with a pop, and then dives back in again, and Squidward groans, head falling back, thankfully onto the safety of the armrest this time. And, fuck, it's embarrassing, but what is he supposed to do, pretend he's not enjoying a blowjob?
Which, yes, is exactly what he was hoping he could do, but a whimper escapes him and he, finally, submits to his fate. He takes a breath and sinks into the couch, eyes closed for the few precious moments he can resist looking down and watching the proceedings; Spongebob’s thick eyelashes fluttering as he closes his eyes, dotted cheeks flushed pink, sliding a broad hand across Squidward's hip to wrap around the base of his dick.
Squidward’s breath starts coming heavier now, losing himself enough to reach down and run his fingers through Spongebob’s hair again, eliciting a pleased croon that shoots right up his spine. One of his legs twitches, and it’s a testament to his self control that that’s his only reaction. But he can tell that self control isn’t going to last for much longer.
He debates saying something, but he’s not sure he can. How would he even phrase that, how would he--
Spongebob sticks his tongue out, and runs it along the entire length of Squid’s dick, and the situation resolves itself.
Squidward comes with a startled gasp, fingers curling into Spongebob’s hair as the sensation surges through him, staring unseeing at the ceiling for those few brief moments of clarity.
Then reality creeps back up on him, slowly. First, through the realization that the television has been on this whole time. A commercial for life insurance invites an assumed geriatric audience to consider what their family would do if something ever happened to them. Charming.
The couch shifts, and he looks down to see Spongebob sit up, settling on his feet, and wipe off the trail of black ooze that’s dripping down his chin--which mostly just smudges. He looks at his hand curiously.
Squidward flushes, face burning, and sits up, hurriedly tucking himself back into his pants and making himself decent. “It’ll come off with soap,” he grumbles, zipping back up.
“Oh,” says Spongebob, unworried. “Okay.” Then he sticks his tongue--similarly smudged black--out, and curls it upwards, crossing his eyes to examine it. Squidward groans, looking away, but Spongebob just laughs.
“You’re so cute, Squidward,” he says, wiggling over and pressing a kiss to Squid’s face. Then, when he turns to shoot a glare at him, he’s kissed again--that much closer to his mouth. And, fine, it’s gross, but Squidward figures he owes him as much, and turns to kiss him back.
(And maybe, just maybe, he enjoys kissing Spongebob, too.)
Sponge leans into him eagerly, and the thought occurs to Squidward that this whole thing progressed rather quickly, as if Spongebob had come to visit with very particular intentions in mind, and how giving Squidward a blowjob probably hadn’t done anything to cool him down. Then Spongebob places a hand on Squid’s chest, urging him back down to the couch, and he complies even as panic stirs up in his stomach. What is he obligated to do, here? What if--
Then Spongebob flops down next to him and nestles into his shoulder, sighing contentedly.
Squidward freezes, hands held up at his sides. “Uh,” he goes. “Spongebob?”
He looks down at Spongebob, with his hands curled under his chin, eyes closed and mouth turned up in a pleased smile. And he realizes, once he takes a breath and that panic starts fading away, how tired he actually is, and how comfortable--how comforting --it is to have Spongebob curled up against him.
He turns the TV off, and drapes an arm around him.