Living The Romantic Dream Through My Ships

His hair was right in John’s face, smelling faintly of some sort of citrus and coconut shampoo. His sweatshirt was smooth against John’s bare arm, his skin warm and softer than John ever expected it to be.

John’s cheeks flushed pink, burning behind his beard. All he could think about was Bob sitting on him. Not that someone was sitting on him, but that Bob was sitting on him. That Bob’s ass was on his thighs, that he could feel everything through the thin fabric of their sweatpants.

Part of him wanted to shove Bob off immediately but it was smothered by the instinct to hold still. He convinced himself it was because he was comfortable in that spot, because the game would resume soon and he wasn’t about to move.

“What are you doing?” John asked, embarrassment flooding his tone. His right hand shifted awkwardly, unsure where to land. It kept moving towards Bob’s waist, but he wouldn’t let it follow through.

“I found somewhere else to sit,” Bob answered. His tiny smirk was adorable in a way John couldn’t explain. “If you have a problem with it, you can move.”

Oh, John had a problem, yes, but maybe not the kind Bob was expecting. He swallowed hard and tried to focus on the TV, but halftime wasn’t interesting enough to distract him. “Nope. I’m not giving you my seat.”

“It’s my seat but whatever. I’ll just get more comfortable.”

Bob leaned back against John’s chest, ass shifting on John’s lap, and John forced himself to choke back his sharp inhale. He really, really shouldn’t have been into it but he was. Or, at least, one part of him was.

He was practically squirming underneath Bob, not because of the weight but because of the hard-on that came out of nowhere. The one that Bob was stimulating every time he moved, every time he shifted where his weight was set on John’s thighs.

“You seem a little uncomfortable,” teased Bob, and for the briefest second John feared he could feel everything. Then Bob added casually, “If you’re that annoyed, you can just move to the other side of the couch.”

“No, you’re moving,” John grumbled, legs tense. “I’ve been here for an hour. You don’t own this spot.”

“I’ll write my name on it once you get off.”

“You have nothing to write with.”

“I’ll lick it, then.”

That was the step too far. Suddenly, all John could think about was Bob’s tongue. Bob’s tongue licking the seat. Bob’s tongue licking him. He swallowed hard, his pants growing tighter by the second. What the hell was wrong with him?

Bob yelped when John grabbed him by the waist, lifted him up, and unceremoniously dropped him on the cushion. Without missing a beat, John moved to the other side of the couch and dragged a blanket over him, hiding his waist before Bob could stop laughing and notice what he thankfully hadn’t felt.

“Happy now?” asked John bitterly, embarrassment still hot on his face.

“Very.” Bob was smiling so wide he almost laughed when he said it, one hand lifting to cover his face. If John didn’t know any better, he’d say Bob was a little flushed too. “Can we watch something else?”