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John and Rúben are both out injured at the same time and, despite people thinking it’s suspicious, it very much isn’t, thank you very much. The fans, of course, hadn’t taken the news well, what with City being in the middle of an injury crisis and all, but Pep figured they needed the rest, anyway.
So, here they are at 8pm on a Tuesday in Rúben’s flat for what they had planned to be a relaxing evening drinking beer and watching the match. But when Rúben said relaxing, he was lying because he’s currently gripping the remote control in his hands so tightly it might shatter.
“I can’t believe Erl’s missed a pen,” John remarks casually from beside him, shaking his head and taking a sip of his third beer of the night, clearly a little tipsy from them.
Rúben grips the remote even tighter. Sporting, out of all the fucking teams, are leading 3-1, and to Rúben it stings more than any injury he could have obtained. The cheers, the chants, the roars of victory from Sporting’s supporters through the screen feel like a salt on an open wound. He presses a hand over his face, frustrated. He forces himself not to think about the things he would have done if he were there– how he would organise the backline, how he would bark certain orders, throw his body in front of every ball.
“Oof!” John exclaims as one of their players misses another chance. Unlike Rúben, he seems far less troubled, lounging on the opposite end of the couch and injured foot propped on a pillow. John has always been the opposite of Rúben when it comes to intensity, as the older man seemingly has a gift for staying calm, laughing off what can’t be changed, things he can’t control.
Even now, John watches him instead of the match, a lopsided grin playing at his lips.
“Rubes,” John drawls, gentle but teasing. “You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack, you know that?”
Rúben drops his hand from his face and shoots him a glare.
“We’re losing 3-1 against Sporting,” he emphasised the last word like it’s poison, his Portuguese accent thicker whenever he’s upset. “These guys are–”
“Careful there, mate, they’re still our teammates.”
When Rúben doesn’t reply, John shifts closer to him, resting his hand on Rúben’s thigh.
Sigh. Rúben knows where this is headed. John tends to get ten times hornier with alcohol in his system, which is a lot considering even a sober John is always so ready to take him whenever, and wherever.
He’s not gonna give in, though. Not tonight. He keeps his eyes locked on the TV, where his– their– beloved City are desperately trying to salvage some pride, clenching his jaw and using all his might to focus on the match.
John doesn’t get the message, though, or at least chooses to ignore it because he slides his hand higher, grinning when he feels the bulge already forming in Rúben’s trousers. He is too easy. Rúben starts to stiffen as John begins rubbing slowly, the pressure just right, coaxing a reaction out of Rúben despite his best efforts to stay focused.
“John,” Rúben warns, though it comes out more clipped than he intended. He’s not sure whether he means don’t distract him or stop teasing, but either way, he knows John won’t listen. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he asks, feigning innocence. “I’m just trying to help you relax. What, you don’t like it?”
Rúben still refuses to budge, still focusing on the screen.
“You think I’m joking, John, but I’m not. Look at how horrible we’re playing! This is a disaster, it’s–” he shakes his head, unable to finish his sentence, like a taut rope on the verge of snapping.
Another missed chance, another misplaced pass, and he’s ready to throw the remote straight through the TV.
John leans in, his lips close to Rúben’s ears. “I can think of ways to loosen you up,” he murmurs, and his voice is warm, husky, and unfortunately too fucking tempting.
Rúben grits his teeth, though, still determined not to give John the satisfaction. He refuses to be derailed from the game, from what potentially would be their third defeat in a row. Besides, it’s about time he says no to John, anyway.
When Rúben doesn’t give a response again, he pulls back, pretending to pout. “Fine. I see how it is. The match is more important than me, then?”
“Yes,” Rúben replies, deadpan.
John sighs dramatically. “Okay, then,” he says, flopping back onto the couch with an exaggerated, theatrical exasperation.
It’s silent for a moment, but then Rúben hears the sound of fabric rustling. His eyes flick sideways in curiosity despite himself, just in time to see John sinking further into the cushions, the bottom of his jumper riding up slightly as his hand disappears under the waistband of his sweats.
“You’re joking.”
“What?” John says, all wide-eyed and with faux innocence.
Rúben’s eyes dart to the screen again, still intent on not giving in, but it’s clear that his attention is wavering. He swallows hard, his gaze flickering back to John’s hand which is now moving lazily beneath his waistband, his cock straining against the fabric.
The grip on the remote tightens so hard he half expects it to snap.
“John,” he growls, finally turning fully to glare at him.
John’s eyes open slowly, meeting Rúben’s gaze. “Hmm?” he hums, shifting his hips slightly, the movement slow and obnoxiously obvious. “Oh, don’t mind me. You were watching the game, remember?”.
“Are you seriously doing this right now?” Rúben demands, voice thick with disbelief.
“Well, you were ignoring me,” John says with a sigh. “I have to find some way to keep myself entertained.”
John continues stroking himself, and when he lets out a little whimper that’s a little too loud, the noise sends a rush heat up Rúben’s neck, his resolve beginning to crack.
“John,” Rúben mutters his name again. “Stop that.”
His hands only speed up as a response.
“Make me.”
With a sudden growl of frustration, Rúben reaches out and grabs John’s wrist with brute force, halting him mid-stroke. “Enough. ”
John’s eyes meet his, wild and hungry, begging silently. Rúben, in a final effort, tries to look away, desperately clinging to the match, but all he can see now is John and the way he’s looking at him, the way his slender hands are moving with expert precision alongside Rúben’s, the way his breaths are coming in shallow gasps.
Sensing the shift in Rúben’s demeanour, John smirks, satisfied. He wrenches his wrist free and slips off the sofa and sunk to his knees, positioning himself between Rúben’s legs.
Taking Rúben’s silence and inaction as permission, he unzips Rúben’s tracksuit bottoms freeing his half-hard cock. He admires the length of it again, the girth, the thickness– it doesn’t get old no matter how many times he’s done this, really–, before wrapping his lips around the head, tongue flicking teasingly.
Rúben jerks, a harsh intake of breath escaping him. John’s mouth is warm and wet, tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive underside of Rúben’s cock, and that prompts his head to fall back against the seat. John knows him all too well now, knows exactly what to do and where to tease in order to get the reaction he wanted from Rúben.
He could feel the pulse of his own heartbeat through the thick vein running around his cock. He could hear the commentators’ voices grow louder as the game progress, and he knows City’s fucked up and it feels like a dagger to Rúben’s heart, but John’s lips on him work relentlessly to pull him back from whatever’s going on on screen.
Rúben’s hands clench the armrests of the leather sofa, knuckles turning white with the effort of maintaining some sort of control. He catches a glimpse of John’s eyes, deep blue glistening with desire, looking up at him through thick lashes. There’s a shine, and, unbelievably, tears already welling at the corners.
“Focus on me.” John demands from below, but his mouth is still full of Rúben’s cock so his voice is slightly muffled. This prompts Rúben to look down fully, and the sight is dizzying: John, hair tousled, lips swollen and red, working with him with slow, methodical precision.
Rúben’s hands, trembling, find their way to the back of John’s head before curling into his hair, grabbing a fistful of John’s hair and tugging, guiding him through it.
Rúben thrusts his hips further, a pathetic attempt to fuck into his mouth, and when the head of his cock grazes the back of John’s throat, Rúben nearly lets out a needy whimper. Nearly.
He shuts his eyes, and at that moment he wants nothing more than to reach out for the remote and shut the fucking TV with all its fucking noise off, wanting to drown in the sensations John is creating instead.
John pulls out a little and the tip of his tongue then swirls around the head of his cock, tracing lazy circles. His fingers also made its way around the base, stroking in tandem with his mouth.
The game’s chaos fades, overtaken by the obscene, wet noises of John’s mouth. There was a wet slurping noise each time he pulled back, and a soft moan that escapes whenever he took Rúben deeper, and Rúben thinks he might go insane from all of this.
His hips begin to buck involuntarily then, drawn into the rhythm and the filthy noises John is making. Each thrust forward is met with John’s cheeks hollowing as he draws Rúben deeper and deeper, hot and welcoming.
The heat of John’s mouth was intoxicating and the friction of his lips and tongue sends electric jolts of pleasure, and–
“John,” Rúben chokes, his hands gripping John’s hair even tighter. “I’m… I’m close, fuck.”
John’s response is immediate. He swallows Rúben whole, his nose pressing against his groin and the sudden, intense sensation pushes Rúben over the edge. His back arches off the sofa, every muscle in his body tightening as the waves of ecstasy crashes over him.
“Fuck,” Rúben cries out, spilling into John’s mouth. Hot ropes of cum flood his throat, each pulse of his cock sending another shudder through Rúben’s body. John swallows continuously, not wanting to miss a single fucking drop, his own body trembling with the effort of holding Rúben this deep.
As his orgasm ebbs, John pulls back slowly, licking his lips clean with a satisfied smile while looking absolutely spent. His hair is a mess from Rúben’s insistent hands, eyes glassy and shining with unshed tears.
“And it’s 4-1 to Sporting! Gyökeres nets his hat-trick from the spot. Ederson guesses right, but it’s still buried in the bottom left corner of the goal! Four goals for the lions, and the Blue Moon has crumbled! Unbelievable!”
Rúben stares at the TV, stunned, then glares down at John, who’s still kneeling with a sheepish, guilty grin. Rúben grunts.
“That is your fucking fault.”