The thing about having two boyfriends—particularly, when one was your first love who you thought had been dead for the better part of a decade and the other was your pseudo-adoptive father's pseudo-adopted son and kinda sorta way older than you—was that they tend to get competitive.
“Oh no, Marco,” Sabo groaned dramatically, on a lovely Sunday afternoon that saw the rare sight of all three of them still lounging in bed, “why do you have to keep reminding us how old you are?”
While Marco's long-since perfected the art of the poker face (that came part and parcel with running shady business deals for aforementioned pseudo-adoptive father, Ace guessed), his chest liked to go involuntarily red when he felt embarrassed. Ace was sure Sabo counted on Marco's shirtlessness as an asset in this little verbal skirmish, if not in general.
So, chest slightly flushed but still determined to play through it, Marco left his hands right where they are, folded behind his head.
“I just really don't see the need for them yoi,” Marco protested, doing himself absolutely no favors if his aim was to convince Sabo he wasn't a grumpy old curmudgeon shaking his fist at kids these days with their newfangled toys. “Remote-controlled? Fine. Bluetooth and an app? Whatever yoi, but you're pushing it. But MP3 capabilities? You really want tinny pop music playing out of your ass during sex?”
“I don't think they have speakers on them,” was Ace's two cents on the matter. Not that he was particularly in favor of either side—but he had to lean in and kiss away Marco's pout of betrayal. “I'm just saying. I think it's about the bass and the vibrations, y'know.”
“Oh yeah baby, what a sexy song, I want you to shove that dubstep bass drop right onto my prostate?” Marco asked dubiously.
“It could be sexy.” Anything could be sexy, Ace has found, in the hands (or mouths, or other orifices) of his boyfriends. He was relatively certain that if Sabo was determined enough, he would make it work on even Marco.
And—Sabo's been suspiciously quiet over there on his phone hasn't he—like Ace was a bloody mindreader—
“Well!” Sabo announced, clicking his phone off with a cat-canary-and-cream flip of his hair. “There's only one way to find out, I suppose. I think Marco's gonna tell us exactly how effective the NaughtyBod Feel the Music Vibrator truly is in about two hours.”
“I cannot believe,” Marco said, after a long beat of contemplative silence, “you got an Amazon Prime account just to prove me wrong, shattering instantly all your anti-capitalist ideals yoi—”
Now it was time for Sabo's ears to go red. It was embarrassingly easy to get him riled up about his politics, even when he knew Marco's only joking.
“It was a free trial,” he hissed, “and I set an alarm to delete it right after the package gets here—”
“And isn't that precisely how Big Tech hooks you yoi, who was it that was just telling me last night about what a dangerous addiction convenience is—”
As the bickering went on, Ace figured it was as good a time as any to get up, shower, and get his own delivery of some Thai takeout. The happy thing about being in the emotional center of this menage a trois was that it'd be fine with him, the results going either way. Either Marco has fun with EDM thumping up his butt and they all have fun with that, or Marco doesn't and they all have fun with that.
(He did start preparing for a possible third option though, when he saw Marco placing a 2-hour shipping order of his own, later on his phone under the kitchen table.)
“I really,” Marco panted, “hate you sometimes yoi.”
“Admit it,” Sabo crowed, with a cheery swat to the base of the vibrator sticking out of Marco's ass. “This is changing your life.”
“I think he's talking about the music choice,” Ace said, doing his best to stifle a giggle but not succeeding very well. He took hold of the vibrator though, just in case, and felt in his palm the same rattling beats Marco was feeling deeper inside. “Less the vibrator.”
“What's wrong with Amy Winehouse?”
Ace had been wrong; it wasn't just about the bass, because the vibrator also reacted to other percussion stimuli—like the teasing snare and the rapid tinny hi-hat keeping time all throughout this cover of “Girl from Ipanema.” Marco had really miscalculated, accepting this bet. There had just been really no way Sabo wouldn't make this as embarrassing as possible an experience for him.
...Including lavishing the most loving attention onto Marco's cock, all petting hands and generous tongue. Sabo so rarely blew Marco like that (he much preferred to blow Ace like that and make Marco watch). The song—on fucking repeat no less—made the scene wholly surreal, the crooning and the scat singing and the helpless squirming of Marco's hips but also the helpless twitching at the corners of Marco's lips.
“Fuck,” Marco finally yelped, when the song started to repeat itself for the fourth fucking time, “if I come will you turn that damn thing off?”
“Oh sweetheart,” Sabo intoned all sultry and shit, putting his hand really to work on Marco. Ace obligingly pressed the vibrator deeper in, cocked at the right angle. “That's the only way I'm gonna turn it off, so go right ahead.”
And that was that, the absolutely true story of how Marco came with an Amy Winehouse cover of a jazz and bossa nova classic shoved up his ass. Ace really wished it was the type of story that he could share with more people.
But there was a second part to that story, a delightful sequel with another happy end (two more, actually), because Marco wasn't the kind of man to just take that lying down (figuratively speaking). He had a package of his own to show Sabo (...the innuendos, they just keep coming) (and there's another!).
“Fine yoi,” Marco said, as he reached under the bed after catching his breath. “You've proven your point. But now I get to prove mine.”
“Sure,” Sabo taunted. “Pull out any old boring, battery-powered—No, you're so damn old school it won't even be electric. Seriously, what do you have against digitalization? It's the new age, and you've got an analog watch, analog clocks all over the place. I swear you're so damn analog you're gonna pull out a fucking zucchini—”
Marco pulled out the toy, and Sabo promptly shut his mouth.
“What were you saying?” Marco asked, smacking the long, stainless steel thing against this palm a couple of times. The thuds were substantial; the toy was heavy. The sleek, decisive curve of it and the two differently sized ball tips had Ace drooling too, so damn curious about how it would feel, how it would fuck. “Something about analog?”
“Hah,” Ace couldn't help but snort. “Anal-og.”
Marco and Sabo both stared.
“Just for that yoi,” Marco finally said, spinning that beautiful, beautiful wand around in his hand, “you're getting the thick end.”
(And Ace limped next morning all the way to work, but no regrets. Like he said, it really was a damn happy ending.)