AN: I don’t even know. It’s AU, though. I KNOW Squilliam’s not a lawyer, but I thought it would be interesting to play with the concept. That, and I wanted to write some porn. Slash, people. Some fluff, language, a not-very-graphic lemon, and just…the plot is NOT logical (if this actually happened in court, I doubt you’d get away with it). But absurd things occur in the SpongeBob universe all the time. This is just a heightened level of absurdity, I suppose. And buttsex.

If someone had asked him in high school what he expected Squilliam Fancyson to grow up to be, he would have said-

Huh. It was hard to recall his former opinions on his high school rival.

Probably a musician, Squidward assumed. That would have been his top guess. Just because-and it pained him to admit it, even now-Squill had been so damn good at clarinet.

He was damn good at a lot of things, of course, as Squidward was highly aware.

Maybe he would have pictured him as a philosopher, someone full of knowledge and insight into trivial data, but useless in the workplace. Or perhaps the owner of an art gallery-he had the posture of an art gallery owner. Hell, forget the gallery: Squilliam could have supplied the art, could have been an artist like Squidward himself. Alright, so technically Squidward was a cashier, but that was only part time and he DID have an MFA, the fact that it was gathering dust in his attic notwithstanding.

He was getting off track, of course. But it was simpler to track the course of his own life, just because it made complete and utter sense. Squidward had an artistic personality. His right brain dominated. Details mattered. He couldn’t survive without creative output, wouldn’t dream of selling his ideals for capitalistic means.

Squidward had an artistic personality.

He’d gone into art (and cashiering, but again, part time).

Squilliam also had an artistic personality. True, he had gotten better grades in math and science than Squiddy had, but he’d admitted this was only because numbers were a form of art to him. 2+2=4 because four was aesthetically pleasing, because in the disjointed poetry of Squilliam’s mind it fit best. E=mc^2 because m and c were, essentially, colors which squared to create the vibrant fuchsia the world knew as energy.

Yeah, Squidward didn’t really get it, either. Better to just smile and nod as though he did, though, than to question and watch Squilliam grown frustrated and flustered.

Though flustering Squilliam did have its own set of perks.

Still, the point remained that deep down, Squilliam had an artistic personality.

He’d gone into law.

Squidward would never have predicted Squilliam Fancyson III would become a lawyer.

He also never would have predicted he’d be engaged to that very lawyer.

But that was the way things were. Case closed.

- - - - -

“What do you want me to bring you for lunch?” Ever the good wife-to-be, wasn’t he? Squidward rolled his eyes to himself, holding the phone to his head to catch the other’s words.

Squilliam sighed, tiredness clear even through the receiver. “Nothing. I wouldn’t be able to keep it down anyway.”

“What’s wrong?” Squidward bit down the urge to throw in a petname. Together or not, they didn’t have that kind of relationship. They weren’t “sweethearts” or “darlings” or “sugarpops” or any of that.

They were just gay lovers. Deal with it.

“They’re fucking me up the ass, Squiddy!” It took Squidward a few moments to realize Squilliam didn’t mean literally, and by then the other cephalopod was sputtering on, angry and lost. “How am I supposed to…ugh, it’s just so…I can’t even-“

“Calm down,” Not the most sensitive of tones, but Squidward knew it was better to derail the other now before he made himself physically ill.

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

Alright, maybe he should have been a BIT more sensitive. Squidward cringed, bothered by the snappy tone even over the phone. “I’m not. Look, Squilliam, I’ll be right down to the courthouse if you need-“

“NO!” Squilliam shrieked. “I don’t need anything. Don’t you DARE come; you’ll only make me nervous.”

Ah, of course, THAT little quirk of Squilliam’s. Squidward tended to forget just how emotionally sensitive Squilliam could be. He hadn’t seemed this fragile back in high school. Was fragile the right word for it? Perhaps insecure-but then, Squilliam wasn’t insecure about anything else. He hadn’t fretted about Squidward watching him play clarinet, for instance. Or watching him paint. Or watching him do…many other things in which Squilliam was ridiculously good at.

So it boggled Squidward as to why Squilliam grew shaky at the mere mention of Squidward showing up at his place of employment. What was there for Squilliam to worry about? That he’d fuck up? But he had a 99% success rate.

Squidward didn’t know shit about law, but he was fairly certain 99% was pretty damn good.

“Can you at least tell me what’s wrong?” Squidward perched on the edge of a chair, running his tentacle down the phone cord as he analyzed the other’s breathing. Quick pants, clearly nervous. Or angry. Sometimes it was difficult to tell.

“These people are fucking idiots,” Squilliam growled. “The jury is full of idiots, the plaintiff is an idiot. His attorney is CLEARLY an idiot. My fucking client is a fucking idiot for getting involved in all of this fucking bullshit. And-“

“I hardly think Nicholas Withers is an idiot,” Squidward couldn’t let that comment slide. The host of House Fancy may have hired Squilliam to defend him from charges of first degree sexual assault, but he could hardly be an idiot. Anyone with a television empire as large as Withers’s HAD to be intelligent, at least somewhat.

Alright, so maybe Squidward had a bit of a fanboy crush. Nothing he’d ever act on (as if Nicky would ever give him the time of day), but a crush nonetheless.

“You know, just because he makes you hard doesn’t mean you have to squeal about him to me, you know,” Squilliam almost sounded hurt, though it was probably playful. Probably. Squidward couldn’t really be certain over the phone.

He couldn’t really be certain in person, either. He knew Squilliam almost as well as he knew himself, and he still had trouble completely comprehending.

“I don’t get hard over him. Besides, YOU fucked him, remember?”

“Uh, it was a handjob, and that was a long time ago.”

“Anyway, what makes you say he’s an idiot?” Probably best to get back on track, as much as Squidward LOVED to hear about his fiancé’s prior sex life.

“Because he is,” The sentence tilted up, almost like a question, but more in a sneer, Squilliam nearly resorting to his earlier condescending nature. “He’s a fucking idiot. I mean, it’s pretty clear he’s not a rapist, but…shit, Squiddy, he’s so STUPID! If you’re going to fuck around, you have to watch out for yourself. There are all kinds of psychos that just prey on people like him. I mean, if I hadn’t been careful, there probably would have been people accusing me of rape, too.”

Squidward couldn’t help but smile. “Squill, no one could ever think you were a rapist.”

“…what’s that supposed to mean?”

Alright, how had that been offensive? Squilliam really was in a shitty mood, playing off everything Squidward said as though all were threats. “Nothing! I just mean you’re not the rapist type, that’s all.”

“Oh? And what’s the rapist type? Is it because I’m not muscular enough, hmm? Am I too gay to sexually assault someone? What exactly are you trying to say?”

“Squilliam, shut up, I’m not saying anything.”

“I think you are! I think you want me to be more masculine. I’m sorry, but your opinion doesn’t matter. You’re nothing but a-“ Squidward braced himself, waiting for the insults to fall, but Squilliam stopped there, suddenly and almost with a sob.

It was almost painful how hard he tried to be nice now. Considerate of him, perhaps, but Squidward almost preferred his insults. It clearly wasn’t easy on him to hold himself back.

“I’m sorry, Squiddy,” His voice was dull, emptied of the passion his rage had stirred up. “I’m just a little overwhelmed right now.”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Squidward forced sweetness into his tone. “You sure you don’t need anything?”

“No. I have to go convince the jury that my client isn’t a rapist. Goodbye.”

Squidward listened to the dial tone for a good three seconds before making up his mind, setting the receiver down before grabbing his boat keys.

Moral support. That’s what Squilliam needed. Though it would be hard to provide, given he couldn’t allow the lawyer to see him, what with the anxiety issues. Maybe Squidward should have thought this out more rationally but frankly, rationality was for lawyers.

And he was an artist. Better to just throw the paint on the canvas and see what happened than coldly analyze the white and argue against doing anything at all.

- - - - -

Squilliam had most certainly earned his 99% success rating.

Squidward couldn’t take his eyes off him, though maybe this was bias on his part.

No, it wasn’t bias. Had he no clue who the unibrowed cephalopod was, Squidward still would have been mesmerized. He was just so…what was the word?

Commanding. Yes, that was it. He controlled the room so eloquently. This wasn’t law. This wasn’t a struggle to prove one man’s innocence. This was living, breathing poetry.

It didn’t hurt that he looked really nice. Some people looked nice in three-piece suits. Squilliam? Looked like a fucking god.

Fucking god. How fitting. Sex and poetry, that was Squilliam, practically oozing pheromones through the black jacket, pants just tight enough to remind Squidward of the contours of his flesh against his own.

There really shouldn’t have been anything erotic about watching Squilliam work. It was a little pathetic, in fact, how turned on Squidward was right now. Maybe it was the simple fuck-you confidence Squilliam displayed. The occasional arrogant toss of his head, the slight raise to his unibrow, the casual hold on his notes as he grilled the witness. “Where were you on” blah blah blah, and “Why were you” blah blah blah, etc. etc. The words didn’t matter. His lips mattered, though, especially the slight lick of his tongue against his lips every few moments.

Aww, that meant he was nervous. Squidward held his hand to his own mouth, fighting the slight laugh. Not so much laughing at Squilliam as laughing at his own ability to judge the other’s emotions with such ease. It started with licking, then turned into biting. But he wouldn’t bite his own lip unless something-

Oh. Oh shit.

Their eyes only meant for an instant, but it was enough, Squilliam’s eyes widening the slightest bit, back straightening before he shot his gaze back to the witness.

“Um…” The lawyer laughed slightly, shuffling through his notes at a frantic rate.

Oh fuck. Squidward wanted to back out then, already feeling his stomach clench in dread. Shit. He hadn’t expected his presence to actually hinder Squilliam. Though maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“…shit,” Squilliam snarled, hands shaking.

“Mr. Fancyson, if you can’t watch your language, I’ll have the bailiff escort you out of the courtroom,” The judge was rather blasé, though his words did appear to bother Squilliam significantly.

How significant, though? Squilliam was already pretty shaken.

“Yeah, um, right. So, uh, as I was saying…” His eyes were roaming the courtroom again, picking Squidward out of the crowd once more, only making him bite his bottom lip that much harder. “Uh…he’s…right, so, like, uh,” Eyes back to the witness, “You know you’re a fucking liar.”

“OBJECTION!”

Shit, Squilliam looked like he was going to cry. Well, technically he looked like he was going to punch the plaintiff’s lawyer in the nuts, but that look of anger was almost always followed by anguish.

As if the judge understood this, he sighed, calling a brief recess.

It didn’t take long for Squilliam to start looking for Squidward again.

Of course, Squidward wasn’t an idiot. He knew better than to stick around now. He ran for the door.

- - - - - - -

“Don’t worry,” Squilliam was shredding the donut he’d grabbed into tiny pieces, spreading them across the plate in perfectly spaced pieces without looking down. He smiled at Nicholas Withers, as though his mini meltdown hadn’t occurred in the courtroom. “Everything will be alright.”

“Are you sure?” The television host stopped himself from looking at the plate of shredded pastry, forcing himself to focus on his lawyer’s face instead. “Because I-“

“You’ll be fine. You’re innocent. And I’m damn good at what I do. We’ll end this today.”

“End this without me going to jail, preferably.”

“Sweetie, don’t worry,” Squilliam grinned. “I’ll get you off.”

Obnoxious laughter behind him forced him to bristle in anger.

“Heh, hey Squill, you wanna get ME off while you’re at it? Heh heh,” Roger, part time bouncer for the Cephalopod Lodge, and apparently a bailiff (Squilliam saw him far more often in court than he’d like), sidled up to the seated cephalopod, draping a beefy arm over the back of his chair.

“Roger, are you aware how much jail time sexual harassment can get you now?” Squilliam glanced up coldly, only to sigh as he realized the other was grinding his hips in his general direction. Great. The bailiff was air-humping him. “Look, I’m dealing with my client right now-“

“How’s that sexy little slice of wifecake you got?” Roger stroked his hand across Squilliam’s face, the other jumping back and slapping his hand away.

“He’s fine, thank you. I don’t think he’d appreciate a fatass like you bothering me, though. Nor do I think your behavior would sit well with your employer.”

“I can’t control myself around you, you know that. It's your fault. You and those...” Roger's eyes fell lower, drinking in the other's form, "...Sexy little lawyer pants."

Squilliam turned away from him, forcing another smile at Nick. “See? Perfect example. Someone like Roger should be locked away. He clearly has the psychological makings of a rapist.”

“You can call it rape all you want, baby. I just want you screaming my name.”

“Seriously, what are you? Fourteen? Grow up. I’m out of your league anyway.”

Wow. He really was shook up. Usually Squilliam was able to laugh Roger’s advances off, even flirt back on occasion (though this really was more sexual harassment than flirting, as a lawyer would be well aware). Squidward’s unscheduled appearance had really done a number on him.

Squiddy. Squilliam’s teeth ground at that now, too.

What was the big deal? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t spent most of his life performing things in the hope that Squidward would be jealous (or impressed, whichever came first). What made this any different?

What made this different? Squilliam wasn't automatically the best here, for one. He cringed when people asked about his success rate, the look of admiration before the jokes set in. "Oh, where's that other 1%, Squilly?"

Yeah. As if he hadn't heard that all his life. Where was the other 1%? How was it possible that he was the best, but still not good enough?

Alright, so he had some issues, some deep rooted insecurities he had yet to work out. Probably had something to do with his childhood, though really, what did he know? He was a lawyer, not a shrink.

He was also going to punch whoever was touching him on the shoulder right now.

"Roger, I told you to get the hell away from-" He stopped, turning around to see none other than Squidward.

Squidward, with his cute little shirt and his sneer (alright, so it was a sympathetic smile, but Squilliam didn't take sympathy very well).

"I thought you might need-"

"What did you think I'd need?" Squilliam tore himself away from Squidward, breathing heavily as he backed away. "You thought I'd need a nervous breakdown? Is that what you thought I needed? As if I'm not already scrambling to get this case together!"

"You were doing amazing before you saw me," Squidward spoke quietly, reaching out once again, only to be shrugged off.

"No I wasn't. Fuck," He sat back down, only then aware that Withers was still in the room. The TV host coughed nervously, before inching out of the room.

"You need a-"

"I don't need anything! No, you know what I need?" Squilliam popped open his briefcase, pulling out a few of the files. "I need a way to make the jury doubt this evidence. Squiddy, they have everything. There's so much fucking evidence. I'm fucked! All because Nicky was too stupid to keep it in his pants."

It was just a bit hypocritical of Squilliam to preach about someone keeping it in his pants, though Squidward valued his life far too much to bring this fact up. "I thought you said it was obvious he was innocent."

"It IS obvious! I mean, did you look at him? The fat fuck, he's too docile and unkinky for violent sex, let alone rape."

"Don't you think there's a chance he may have-"

"Squiddy, I'm the defense attorney!" His eyes flashed in that pre-breakdown way. "Are you trying to fuck me up further?"

"No, I just-"

"This is exactly why I didn't want you here. God, what if he actually is guilty?"

Squilliam actually had a conscience about this sort of thing? "You got that murderer off last month, remember?"

"I know, but..." Squilliam trailed off, holding his head in his hands. "You really think he's a rapist, Squiddy?"

"Um..." How was he supposed to respond to that? "You're the lawyer, Squill. Is he guilty?"

"No," Then, looking up at Squidward, "But they have so much evidence against him. Rape kit, DNA samples, Nicky's sweater with the guy's semen coating it..."

"Couldn't someone have planted that on him?"

Squilliam glared at Squidward. "What do you think I am, an idiot? I already thought of that. But no, he was definitely wearing that shirt when they fucked. It's proven that they had sex, what isn't definite is whether it was consensual or not." Then, before Squidward could add anything. "Oh, and just because the guy came doesn't prove he wasn't raped. You can cum when you're raped, you know."

"I wasn't even thinking that," Damn, why was Squilliam so sensitive about this? "But why did he cum on his shirt?"

"I don't...I don't know what you're trying to imply. Look, I gotta go. I'll see you at home, okay?"

Squidward was certain Squilliam was angry with him, until the suited man brushed his lips against his own, sweet and loving and everything but angry. Squidward wasn't sure what prompted him to pull Squilliam closer. Probably nothing more than relief that Squilliam wasn't upset about the other's unwanted arrival, or maybe earlier horniness simply getting the better of him. Whatever the reason, he deepened the kiss, cupping Squilliam's face in one hand, holding him close by the small of his back with the other. Squilliam moaned, the parting of his lips prompting Squidward to allow his tongue to press forth, teasing at the lawyer's lips before grinding against his tongue. Squidward could feel the other shudder and heat up, arms twitching as they wrapped around Squidward's neck.

The artist pulled back, smiling at the flushed face of his lover. "Kick their asses, Squilliam," He grinned as the other's eyes fluttered open, sparkling in lust.

"Uh huh," Squilliam murmured, weak as the other guided him to the door, leading until Squilliam found the strength to walk, growing more confident with each step.

Squidward resisted the urge to follow, going back to the breakroom and preparing to return home.

Only to realize Squilliam had forgotten his briefcase.

Of course, the wise thing to do was to run down the hall and hope he could catch up, thus returning the important item to the lawyer without risking any damage to Squilliam's psyche by actually entering the courtroom.

It wasn't smart for him to look through the briefcase, analyzing the notes written in that familiar sprawling print and taking into account each and every detail of the case (especially since Squidward was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to know most of this anyway).

By the time he realized how much time had passed, it was too late to catch Squilliam in the hall.

Except, and this was the part that would make it all worth it, as an artist, Squidward had noticed a key detail in Squilliam's notes. A key detail which his fiancé, as intelligent as he unarguably was, had somehow overlooked.

Now all he had to figure out was how to pass it on to Squilliam when he wasn't even allowed to go into the courtroom.

Artists tended to deviate from rules, though. Besides, Squilliam NEEDED him. How could he stay away?

- - - -

He was in a tunnel.

That was, of course, figuratively speaking. Because Squilliam knew he was standing before the jury, butchering his way through his closing argument while knowing full well that his case was as good as lost.

Dammit. Motherfucking shit. How could he have fucked this all up so much?

It didn't help that he'd left his briefcase in the breakroom. Damn Squidward. Sure, he loved him, but he was so distracting sometimes.

Speaking of distractions, there he was again. Squilliam's words died as he watched the other walk towards him, holding the briefcase out.

“Thank you, Squidward,” He said tersely, pulling the briefcase away, only for Squidward to come forward with it. “You, uh, you can let go now.” A nervous laugh there, as Squilliam tugged a bit harder.

“I think there’s something you need to know,” Squidward said quietly.

“Yeah, kinda in the middle of something, darling.”

The fact that he used a petname like that initially lifted Squidward’s mood immensely. Of course, the sarcasm dampened it ever so slightly.

“Mr. Fancyson, if you’re done making lovey eyes with your boyfriend, could we please get back to the case?” This seemed to be all, before the judge added, “And I don’t want any of your arguments about gay rights or discrimination; you know full well this has nothing to do with that.”

“Yeah, um, don’t worry, he’s leaving right now,” Another tug, Squidward still not relinquishing the briefcase. “And if he DOESN’T leave,” Squilliam said through clenched teeth, “I can promise you you’ll never have to worry about my EX-boyfriend bothering me at work again.”

“Squilliam, listen, I have to-“

“I hardly see how the defense’s homoerotic love affair has any relevance to this case, Your Honor,” The opposing lawyer said this with a clear smirk, Squilliam’s face splotching in embarrassment and rage.

“Squiddy, let go. Right now.” He didn’t say the rest, frown clear enough. You’re embarrassing me! Squiddy, go away, you’re humiliating me!

And Squidward’s smile clearly said you’ll thank me for this.

Either that, or this is payback for band class.

Of course, if it was the latter, then that wasn’t exactly a good foreshadowing of their impending marriage.

“This actually IS relevant, Your Grace,” Squidward smiled at the judge.

“Your Honor,” Squilliam corrected, no longer pulling at the briefcase, face turning even redder. God, this was embarrassing.

“Proceed.”

“Wait, you mean right here? I just, I mean, I thought I could take him back and-“

“Proceed,” The judge repeated, more annoyed this time.

“Oh. Um…well, uh, see, Squilliam, the way I see it-“

“Squiddy, please, don’t-“

“Squilliam, just listen to me! I know how you can-“

The courtroom was tittering with whispers and slight laughter, Squilliam no longer an embarrassed pink, but now rather pale.

Stage-fright.

Looked like Squilliam was in no place to listen and form opinions on his own. Sure, maybe Squidward was an artist, not a lawyer, but he’d seen enough court dramas both to realize: A) He was completely right and B) This sort of thing may get him arrested.

But then again, he was with Squilliam Fancyson. And Squilliam Fancyson was defiance without consequences. Squidward would be fine, as long as he did this for Squilliam, surely.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, there’s no way that Nicholas Withers could be found guilty of rape, given the glaring evidence to the contrary.”

It appeared as though the other lawyer was going to object, though he appeared far too amused by Squidward’s stumbling over his words to step in.

“And maybe I’m not a lawyer, but I’m fucking one.”

“Oh god, Squiddy, please shut up,” Squilliam groaned, head dropping to the palm of his hand.

“What I mean is, I know anal sex.”

“PLEASE shut up.”

“And I know that rape is not for sexual pleasure, but as an act of dominance and power. And, uh…” This was harder to phrase than he’d expected. “Well, I guess I’m going to have to show you.”

“Show them?” Squilliam watched blankly as Squidward pulled him closer, undoing the buttons on his jacket one by one. “Show them what?”

“Yes, show us what exactly?” Squidward wasn’t sure who had said that. The judge? Someone in the jury? The ugly attorney sitting a few feet away? Did it really matter? Squidward had a visual aid to present.

He managed to completely unbutton the jacket, tossing it away and working on the vest buttons before realization clicked in Squilliam’s head.

“S-Squiddy…?” His voice choked as the other kissed him, almost harshly. Lips smashed onto lips, teeth grinding against Squilliam’s bottom lip until the other cried out, whimpering quietly as the other slipped his tongue in, tugging him forward and ripping his vest off at the same time.

“Your Honor, I hardly see how this-“ The other lawyer, clearly uneasy now, spoke up tentatively, only to be cut off by the judge.

“No, no, I want to see where he’s going with this.” He’d seen Squilliam in court before. The man did tend to resort to theatrics. This was probably more of the same.

“Squiddy, what…” Squilliam whispered as the other pulled away for breath, until to be cut off once more by another kiss, sweeter this time. Teasing tentacles began to undo the unibrowed one’s tie, the deep black fabric slipping down the white shirt achingly slow, Squidward’s hands trailing down with it, untucking Squilliam’s shirt as he pulled out of the kiss.

“Sex is all about foreplay,” Squidward murmured, not to Squilliam, but to the courtroom (no one dared speak now, as though the entire world sat at the edge of their seats for more). “Foreplay which leads to the position you ultimately choose.”

“Squiddy, ‘m at work, don’ do-“ Words were incomplete, stammered as Squidward pulled the bottom of his shirt up, kneeling and licking at his stomach, slow, teasing, nipping just beneath bellybutton.

“And it’s clear from the evidence, as shown by the angle of semen, that Nicholas Withers is fond of Cowgirl position.” His words vibrated against Squilliam’s stomach, cephalopod nearly crying now, cock straining against his pants, despite his growing humiliation. Sex equaled yes, of course, but this was work. He had to see many of these people more than once. Squidward would stop soon, surely.

“Though I know my words don’t mean much. In fact, most of you don’t know what Cowgirl Position is, right?” Squidward stood up, still no one objecting as he began to pull Squilliam’s shirt off over his head.

“Squiddy, why are you punishing me like this?” He said it quietly, just loud enough for Squidward to hear. Squidward kissed him once more, rubbing his arms reassuringly before lowering his mouth to his boyfriend’s chest, licking the slightly hardened bud of his nipple. As expected, Squilliam leaned into this, moaning despite his mouth being firmly shut, panting as Squidward’s suction cups pet at his sides, resting at the elastic of his pants.

“Cowgirl is…” He couldn’t finish, unable to be quite so clinical and rational.

It was at this point that Squilliam chimed in, lawyer voice barely overshadowing his aroused voice, “When the submissive partner in a sexual relationship is in Cowgirl Position, she or he must drape themselves over the dominant, or penetrative, partner’s lap. It is nearly impossible for one to engage in this position without both partners prior consent.”

Well hello Mr. 99% Success Rate. Nice of you to drop in.

Squidward smiled. “Right. Exactly.” Then, before Squilliam could revert back to his nervous state, before performance anxiety could grip at him, Squidward tugged his pants down, lowering the black fabric to the ground, bunched at all four of Squilliam’s ankles before the other kicked them away completely. It was at this point that Squidward turned to his own clothes, not thinking about any of the eyes on them as he removed his own clothing.

All but the shirt. The shirt was vital. He needed to remember that.

Squilliam looked nervous, shivering, still in his underwear, as Squidward could clearly see, eying the fabric hungrily.

Anything to help out his career, after all.

The fabric didn’t snap quite as elegantly as he would have hoped. Maybe literally tearing them hadn’t been the best idea, the elastic whipping back and snapping against Squilliam’s thigh with a sharp crack. The lawyer groaned at that, clutching at the wound before Squidward pulled his hand away.

“Shit, sorry, occupational hazard, you know.” He expected some laughter at that, though the fact that both men were (except for Squidward’s shirt) completely naked was probably a bit of a distraction. Squidward kneeled down once more, almost tender as he kissed the wound, before his lips traveled over, licking at inner thigh and, once more, drawing a strained moan from Squilliam. He toyed with further foreplay ideas, deciding against most as he stood up again, walking over to the jury box, sitting on top of the wooden surface before looking at Squilliam pointedly.

Squilliam hesitated, glancing at the many people crowding the courtroom, looking over at the judge (who didn’t seem to be interested in ordering the rather-fascinated bailiff to escort anybody out) before looking over at the other lawyer (who didn’t look like he even remembered how to say “object”, let alone raise an objection). Then, eyes down, he walked over to Squidward. His hands rested on top of Squidward’s thighs, rubbing softly as he climbed up, straddling the other’s lap. Still no eye contact, though, his face once again pink and shamed.

Shit. He couldn’t make Squilliam go through this.“Squill, look-“

Squilliam didn’t wait for him to continue, looking over the jury members (who had a front row view, of course). “From this position, gravity clearly overpowers the penetrative partner.” Squilliam looked down, expression unreadable. “I could destroy him from this position if I really wanted to.”

“So why don’t you?” Squidward asked, holding his breath as he waited for a response.

Squilliam’s face seemed to warm, slight smile on his face. “Because I don’t want to.”

It was probably nothing more than an inside form of logic-maybe it meant nothing to the jury. The point seemed to have shifted from something public, from rape charges, to something altogether more intimate.

Hard to create intimacy in a courtroom with hundreds of eyes watching, though. For the first time, Squidward was aware of the steady clicking of the typewriter, woman transposing each word spoken. He’d forgotten courts did that. What were those people called again? Who cared?

How would she type the sex, he wondered. Would she simply write “orgasmic moan” or would she go into further detail than that? Squidward fumbled through the top pocket of his shirt, pulling out the bottle of lube he’d discovered in Squilliam’s briefcase (not part of the evidence, he could tell, though WHY his boyfriend carried around an unused bottle of lubricant with his work things, he truly didn’t want to overthink), emptying it into his palm before coating himself, rubbing his hand down his cock and fighting back his moans.

“Squiddy, hurry up,” Squilliam growled, pushing tentacles out of the way before aligning himself, almost too familiar with the positioning. Familiar, but still satisfying, allowing himself to settle lower, weight barely touching Squidward’s cock, though he tingled at it. He could almost get off just on the knowledge that in a few seconds, he’d be inside Squilliam.

Inside him with everyone watching. And somehow the audience only made it that much hotter, that much more intimate, in a way. They were each other’s, while everyone thought this was little more than a display of evidence.

It was evidence, though. Squidward was overthinking this. Or perhaps underthinking it. He felt as though he undercredited Squilliam far too often.

And in just that instance, Squilliam lowered himself completely, Squidward’s hands gripping at his hips as he slid into his entrance. Well, not much sliding, really. It was always more abrasive, always tighter than a simple slide of organs. Squidward buried his face in Squilliam’s shoulder, breathing heavy as he felt himself fit inside of him.

Like putting his cock back in the box it came from. Eerie how perfectly their puzzle pieces fit. They were a perfect innuendo, deliciously perverse and perfect.

Squilliam quivered against him, drawing his arms tightly around Squidward’s back, gripping at the olive green shirt as Squidward pushed his hips up, pulling him up then down once more. Bouncing him almost teasingly at first, twisting just the slightest as they recalculated angles.

The wood of the jury box had been cold, though it was much warmer now, smoother than Squidward had expected. Smooth with all the laws that held this city together, and they were desecrating those very morals with one quick lay. Somehow that only made it better, Squidward almost laughing now as Squilliam pushed up and down on his dick more fiercely, eyes shut and hands roaming Squidward’s back.

“Squidward, oh god, Squidward, oh god,” Squilliam was biting his bottom lip again. Did he do that when he was aroused too, or only when he was nervous? The lighting of the courtroom brought out details the artist hadn’t noticed in their bedroom. “Oh Squidward, oh Squidward,” He’d dropped the god part, Squidward noticed. Had Squidward replaced “god” in Squilliam’s mind?

Images grew hazy as Squidward held tighter to Squilliam’s hips, pressing him up and down, almost like a carnival ride (it was doubtful that any carnival would ever have a ride quite like this, though; Ride The Dick? Not exactly “child friendly”). Faster, regaining their rhythm as the wood surface stung against his ass, Squilliam’s hands teasing at his neck now. Squidward dropped one hand from Squilliam’s hips, wrapping around Squilliam’s dick and tugging at a different rhythm, an opposing beat. A back up beat, yes, that would be the word. An accompaniment, with Squilliam’s moaning as the ultimate melody.

“Fuck me, Squiddy, oh god, fuck me, god!” He sounded like a bad porno. Squidward stopped himself from smiling, stopped himself from delighting in the fact that Squilliam still referred to him by that originally condescending nickname (Squiddy, not god), stopped himself from analyzing any of this as he pressed up, climaxing inside Squilliam (not an explosion, as popular erotica would say. More of an implosion, despite the spurts of bodily fluid), sharp and stinging, oozing against his own cock as he continued, thrusts slowed ever so slightly, a bit less steady, pressing on as he waited for evidence. Squilliam sounded as though he were whimpering once more, face even pinker, unibrow scrunched and slick with sweat as his back arched, thrusting his dick out of Squidward’s hand as he came, jizz slipping down the collar of Squidward’s shirt.

The rhythm of their thrusting had ended, yes, but it had been replaced. Squidward was drowning in the sound of his own heartbeat. No, the sound of Squilliam’s heartbeat. It was hard to differentiate the two, Squilliam falling forward and gasping for breath against his chest.

“As you can see, in order for…” Squidward couldn’t catch his breath, looking at Squilliam, though by now Mr. 99% was long gone.

Though he was pretty sure he’d found the one thing he was 100% good at. Or at least 100% happy with.

Squidward needed to half-ass some sort of closing argument for him then. Had to recall just what his purpose for this was. “In this position, it would be highly unlikely for rape to occur, and, judging from the placement of semen, this was the way they engaged in intercourse. This is why the defendant is not guilty.”

“Would…uh…” The judge cleared his throat, eyes glazed as he managed to tear himself away from the intertwined lawyer and artist, glancing at the now highly-sweaty attorney seated a few feet away, “Uh, you got anything to add?” So much for legal jargon.

“N-no, Your Honor.”

The jury was herded out to deliberate, not gone long enough for Squilliam to even properly catch his breath, let alone redress. And so they remained in their position, a blaring evidence point as the jury read their verdict.

Not guilty.

Of course.

Squilliam barely acknowledged anything after that, barely heard Nicky gush his gratitude (in a highly embarrassed “oh my god, you just had sex to prove my innocence” tone), barely saw the room empty out. He barely felt Squidward pull out of him, though this did leave him feeling much too empty for his taste, barely allowed Squidward to redress him (so mothering. He’d make a good wife, Squilliam mentally teased, despite the fact that he was in no state to actually comprehend anything, even himself.

The only thing he knew for a fact after all this was said and done was he’d have to bring Squidward to work a lot more often.

Case closed.