#this was hastily written and unbeta'd

[tboybuck]

Saw someone else combine prompts and!!!

67. “Uh, am I interrupting?” &

87. “Wanna join?”

would also go so well together 👀👀👀 (Steve/Eddie/Jeff) 🫶

hi read ~ here's a lil something to come home to after your closing shift!

67. "Uh, am I interrupting?" 87. "Wanna join?" wc: 1680 | rating: e | no cws (i don't think?)

Jeff likes to think of himself as a pretty smart guy. He knows his shit, okay? That being said, Jeff cannot fucking figure out why Steve and Eddie constantly have to fuck in the common areas of their apartment when they know that Jeff is home. The amount of times he’s had to walk into the living room or the kitchen or the laundry room to find those two in… some compromising position or another is, frankly, astonishing.

Even for a guy as good at math as Jeff is. The numbers just aren’t adding up here. They have a perfectly good bed, a perfectly good en suite bathroom to do that shit in. So why are they constantly fucking around where they know Jeff is gonna walk in on them?

If Jeff were a more arrogant and prideful man, he would think that they want him to see them. But that’s stupid. Sure, maybe they’ve got a bit of an exhibitionism thing but like… c’mon guys. They all have to live together at the end of the day, and how is Jeff supposed to go about his routine when he’s concerned about walking into a room to find Steve on his knees sucking off Jeff’s best friend? 

Jeff has seen more of Eddie in the past year that the three of them have lived together than he ever planned to.

And yeah, he’s complaining, because secretly… he kind of enjoys it. Eddie’s always been hot. Ever since he grew out of that awkward lanky phase of early high school, ever since he filled out from carrying music equipment for their gigs… the guy is hot. And Steve… well that goes without saying. The dude’s got an absolute barrel of a chest, a beautifully thick patch of chest hair, and his cock looks like something out of a porno. 

And the sounds those two are always making? Jesus, it’s enough to have Jeff frantically tugging at his cock when he thinks about it. Eddie’s a moaner, a screamer, a fucking whimperer. Even when he and Steve are fucking behind closed doors, Jeff always knows when he’s coming. Eddie’s little whimpers with each wave of his climax are unmistakable for what they are, and Steve’s deep groans as Eddie’s hole clenches around him, milking him of his own release… goddamn.

It’s not that Jeff’s… into them, or anything. It’s just been awhile. He kind of hates the dating scene these days - the apps, the bar hopping, the anonymous trysts in alleyways and bathhouses. No one wants anything real anymore, and if Steve and Eddie weren’t already together and going strong, Jeff’s pretty sure those two would be having just as hard of a time getting laid as he has been.

The day it finally happens, the day everything snaps, Jeff is already feeling prickly. Those two were loud last night, going at it like teenagers until almost sunrise, and then Jeff had to get up and shower and head into work at his shitty nine to five like everything was fine, while Eddie and Steve were able to sleep in, because Eddie works from home and Steve’s on his annual summer break from having to teach smelly middle schoolers about American history. He’s been driving for Lyft and picking up some Instacart deliveries in the meantime. That must be nice, though, being able to get your fucking back blown out all night long and then sleep until goddamned noon while everyone else in the world has to actually get up and do things, including the roommate you’ve been keeping up all night with your insatiable fucking.

But no. Jeff’s not bitter or anything. No resentment here. None at all.

Not until he gets home. Not until he walks into the apartment and is greeted with those fucking sounds again. They’re on the couch. Again. 

When he walks into the living room, Jeff is greeted with a sight he will not soon forget: Eddie on his knees on the couch, his upper body pressed to the high leather back of it, his legs spread with his cock in his hand. Behind him, Steve is kneeling on the floor, his palms spreading Eddie’s cheeks open to fuck his tongue against the pucker of Eddie’s hole. Steve’s own cock is big and hard and leaking from the slit, and the noises his hand is making as he jerks himself off are wet and lewd.

“Am I interrupting?” Jeff hears himself ask.

“You wanna join?” Eddie moans, and Steve brings his open palm down to slap Eddie across the asscheek.

They’ve never asked him that before. Jeff’s never gotten so hard so quickly in his life. 

“Don’t say that,” he mutters, and he drops his briefcase in the hall before starting his trek across the living room to get to his bedroom. 

Steve rises from his place behind Eddie, and Jeff tries not to watch as he shoves two fingers into him.

“Seriously, Jeff. Join us. We’ve talked about it. You know we’ve been doing this on purpose, right?”

Jeff’s world goes a little sideways, a little hazy, and he watches Eddie’s mouth drop open in a pleasured sigh before he drops his head onto the back of the couch. 

“C’mon,” Steve insists. “Come fuck Eddie. He wants you to, don’t you baby?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Eddie whines. “C’mon, Jeffy, been wantin’ you to fuck me forever now.”

Jeff must be dreaming. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe he fell asleep at the wheel and an 18 wheeler took him the fuck out because there is no way Eddie and Steve - Steve and Eddie, couple of the year - are really asking him to fuck around with them like this. They’re roommates. Friends. Jeff and Eddie have been best friends since Jeff was still in diapers for Christ’s sake.

“You guys for real right now?” Jeff is asking, even as he’s loosening his tie and unbuckling his belt. “Don’t fuckin’ say it if you’re not for real right now, I’ve been thinking about you guys and your fucking… fucking, all day long.”

“Good,” Steve breathes. “Good, that was the point. Get over here.”

So Jeff goes to them, still feeling a little bit like he’s in a daze. Steve moves away from Eddie and pops open the bottle of lube from the coffee table, upending it over his palm as Jeff shoves his trousers down just enough to get his cock out. He stands there behind Eddie, whose hole is on display for him, gaping and slick and waiting, seemingly, for Jeff’s dick. Steve presses close, his hand coming around to stroke Jeff and lube him up to enter Eddie.

“Eddie’s been talking about it for months,” Steve whispers against Jeff’s ear. “It’s been a part of our dirty talk for -” Jeff sinks three fingers into Eddie’s hole, making him gasp and whine, “- fuck, look at him - this has been a part of our dirty talk for such a long time. Go ahead. Fuck him. We both want you to.”

So Jeff lines himself up, and he sinks inside. Eddie’s body, hot and slick inside, responds gorgeously. He flutters around Jeff’s dick, sucks him in, and Eddie’s voice is coming out in high, reedy little gasps. And it’s Jeff that’s making him feel like that for once, Jeff who’s driving into him with abandon, Jeff who’s drawing out those moans.

“More,” Eddie is pleading, “deeper, Jeffy, please please please fuck me harder.”

Steve’s mouth is kissing at his shoulder, sucking bruises into his skin that no one but them will even know are there. Steve’s stroking himself off back there, his other hand shoving Jeff’s pants down over the swell of his ass, and Jeff is getting lightheaded again. He’s speechless. He wants to beg Steve to use his fingers, open him up and make him come. He’s never had a threesome before, but there are no other people Jeff would rather do this with.

“Can I fuck you open with my fingers?” Steve asks him, his fingers already beginning to tease at Jeff’s rim.

“Yeah,” Jeff hears himself breathe out. “Yeah, please.”

He can’t fucking think, trapped as he is between them like this - Steve behind him, driving two fingers into his hole, and Eddie in front of him, crying out as Jeff fucks into him at a rhythm he’s having trouble keeping consistent. Steve’s fingers are clever and precise; they hone in on his prostate with such expertise that Jeff is crying out with it, very nearly sobbing at the overwhelming onslaught of sensation. 

He thrusts forward - into Eddie - and then back - onto Steve’s fingers - and it’s like magic. He’s coming apart quickly, about to tumble over the edge embarrassingly fast but it doesn’t even matter. Eddie’s voice is doing that thing it does when he’s almost there.

“Jerk yourself off,” he hears himself say, and Eddie’s hand is already there, stroking himself with the rhythm of Jeff’s thrusts into his body. So Jeff picks up the pace even more, the snap of his hips growing hard and punishing to bring Eddie to climax. 

Eddie spills, whimpering with each spurt of cum that splashes against the leather below him. His ass clenches down on Jeff’s cock, and Steve’s fingers press hard against his prostate and that’s it, that’s all she wrote. Jeff is coming hard, harder than he has in a long time, emptying himself deep inside Eddie’s body, shouting through it, his fingernails digging into the flesh of Eddie’s shoulders.

When he draws slowly out of Eddie in the comedown, Eddie twitches and collapses on the couch.

“Holy fuck,” Jeff breathes. He’s still not entirely sure he isn’t dreaming. “Jesus Christ, holy fuck. Am I dreaming?”

“I think this is my dream, actually,” Eddie mumbles into the leather of the couch.

“Neither of you are dreaming,” Steve says as he begins to clean up. “Congratulations on finally fucking, you idiots. Next we have to have a conversation about whether or not we get to call you our boyfriend.”

requests are closed!

[pascalispretty]

history stopped in 1936

Javi G x F!Reader

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Angst, Spanish Civil War AU, war and its horrors, brief and vague descriptions of sex, it's implied that Javi and reader are speaking Spanish the entire time, references to drinking and smoking, unbeta'd so please be gentle!

Summary: The Spanish Civil War threatens the slice of paradise you and Javi have found together. (AO3)

A/N: Hoo boy. This was written for @studioghibelli's writing challenge, and the moment I saw the moodboard, I knew I wanted to do something Atonement-inspired. You don't need to know who the opposing sides were in the war, but if you'd like to learn more, I'd recommend George Orwell's "Homage to Catalonia". The title comes from an essay of his. As always my love to @misscharlielulu for her support.

Mallorca, August 1936

Spain burns and, across the Balearic Sea, rumours are carried like ash on the wind.

You and Javier had fled Barcelona in the middle of the night, just after St Jordi’s Day. The streets had still been littered with rose petals as you had made your way to the docks, and the waiting ship. The atmosphere in Barcelona had grown tense, shimmering with electricity like the air just before a thunderstorm.

In July, your fears had been vindicated when news trickled across the sea, whispers of a violent uprising. Nobody could say for certain who had seized power – the anarchists, the communists, the Carlists, or some as-yet-unknown political spectre.

By contrast to the news reports that trickled over from the mainland, Mallorca felt safe. The ocean separating the island from the peninsula made the war feel further away, something that was happening in another world. Even when Barcelona fell or when, days later, Franco invaded with his African army in Seville - it all felt so far away, separated by miles of sparkling blue water.

On your island sanctuary, you and Javi managed to find a measure of happiness. Reminders of the war were never far away, and you were all probably smoking and drinking too much, but it didn’t matter. You could still watch movies on the projection reel he’d bought before he met you. Tucked up against Javi’s side, watching Clark Gable or Errol Flynn, you could forget the war on the mainland entirely.

It was only when the war came to Mallorca that you realised how deluded you had been.

With censored newspapers and downed radio communications, rumours run like wildfire across the island. Days after Seville falls, the stableboys hear that the Republicans have landed on the east coast – the housekeeper tells Marta that it’s Russians sent by Stalin, and the man who delivers the mail insists its Italians. There’s fighting in the streets of Palma and to the ports in the east, but nobody can agree on who exactly is fighting who.

You clean up after breakfast, a hastily made pa amb tomàquet that masks the staleness of the bread. Even for a family as rich as the Gutierrez’s, you cannot waste food anymore.

They say the fighting is in Palma, and Porto Cristo. Drawn onto a map, the Gutierrez villa would form the apex of the triangle; it’s about as far away from the fighting as you can get while still being on dry land. You try to breathe. It’s just another Tuesday morning. You’re breaking leftover breadcrusts into a bowl for the dogs when Javi appears.

“Leave that, my love. Come out into the garden with me?” He asks, wrapping a large hand around your wrist. You don’t need much convincing; you wipe your hands down on a towel and twine your fingers with your husband’s as you walk out across the patio to the greenery beyond.

The gardens are a riot of colour. In the hazy, golden light of summer, the colours seem almost over-saturated. It’s a world away from the dark, medieval splendour of Barcelona. Foxgloves and red poppies and bright marigolds fill the carefully planned beds around the pond, a riot of Technicolour hues that somehow work beautifully in concert.

In the sunlight, Javi’s curls look gilded; he glows, in spite of the anxiety furrowing his brow. A stone bench sits beneath a gazebo, and he leads you over there. The wooden structure is heavy with jasmine; the smell perfumes the air, blending with the salt of the nearby sea.

“Is something wrong, Javi? Is it Marta?” You ask, worry colouring your voice. Javi’s mother, Marta, was a complicated woman. She had loathed Lucas, her nephew by marriage, but had been unable to get out of bed for days when news had reached her that he had been taken into Montjuïc Castle as a prisoner. Even across the ocean, you had come to know that nobody came out of Montjuïc alive.

Javi shakes his head, his hand cupping your elbow as he guides you to sit down on the bench beside him. Even now, it’s unlike him to look so morose.

“I’ve been talking to my father.” This much you already knew. One of the stableboys had come to fetch Javi in the middle of breakfast: his father had requested his son ride out with him. Whatever they discussed, it’s knocked your husband’s relentless optimism, and that worries you more than anything.

You hold Javi’s hands and wait patiently for him to tell you what’s bothering him, but he seems unable to find the words. Your mind careers from calamity to disaster in his silence. Someone somewhere has issued a warrant for Javi’s arrest. The army is on the move and will reach the cliffs by nightfall. His father, Jordi, has had another heart attack.

“My father- that is, my father and I-” Javier starts. You squeeze his fingers, your heart beating a rapid tattoo in your rising panic.

“Please, Javi, just tell me,” you plead. He looks out over the cliffs and his shoulders slump resignedly.

“My father thinks you should leave.” A punch to the gut could not have winded you more. You sit there, blinking at him like an idiot, unable to understand what he just said.

“My father thinks you need to leave, and I do too.” He turns away from the ocean, cupping your face in his hand and forcing you to look into your eyes. “You need to leave Mallorca, leave Spain. Tonight if possible.”

“You want to send me away?” You manage, sounding rather more pathetic than you’d hoped. Javi shakes his head, his lovely brown eyes full of sorrow.

“I want you to be safe. And it’s not safe here, not for you.”

“It’s no more dangerous for me than-”

“It is more dangerous for you. The worst thing they do to men is shoot them.” The unspoken implication hangs unpleasantly in the air. Javi sighs and glances back towards the house. “My father thinks he can persuade my mother to leave.” You want to scream. You want to ask who made Jordi such an authority, who made him king of his own tiny dominion and gave him the power to dismiss you.

In your gut, you know Javier’s father is right. He’s been weathering the storms of Spanish politics since before you were born, a wily fox of a man who had declared months ago that the political powderkeg was about to explode.

 “I won’t leave you,” you insist, your voice firmer now. Jordi might be right; an army will come here someday. But you’d rather face them than abandon your family. “Until death do us part, Javi.”

“Please, sweetheart. It would only be for a little while. The war can’t last forever.” He manages a smile; a soft, crooked grin that wants to make you give in. You’d do so much to make him smile again.

“Your father will never get Marta to leave. She won’t leave him, and you won’t leave them.” The half-smile falls from Javi’s face.

“They’re old, sweetheart. I need to take care of them. But you – you’re strong. I know you can do this. You’ll go somewhere safe, and as soon as we’ve weathered this storm, you’ll come back.” Both of his hands are cupping your face now. Somewhere overhead, seagulls are screaming. His optimism makes you want to scream too.

“No, Javi, no, I can’t-” you start again, clutching his wrists in your hands.

“You can, you must,” he talks over you. In frustration you pull away, marching over the grass towards the house. One of Marta’s cats yowls at you as you pass it, pleading for attention, but you’re too upset to pay it any mind. Javi is hot on your heels, by turns pleading and stern. The door to your bedroom bangs against the wall as you fling it open.

You want space, but Javi won’t give it to you. He’s in your face, his hands roaming over you, clutching at your shoulders, your arms, your wrists. His rosy view of the world had been charming when you’d first met – now it makes you angry beyond words.

“I’m not leaving you,” you insist sharply, bringing your hands up to push your husband away from you. His hands circle your wrists instead, refusing to let you escape. “I’m not leaving you!” You repeat it in English, in your broken Catalan, in French. You tell him over and over in as many languages as you know, all the while struggling to break free of his hold.

The kiss takes you by surprise. He keeps one hand at your wrists; the other cups the back of your head. There’s no elegance to the kiss. He presses his mouth to yours, full lips meeting your own, your breath mingling with his. You’d almost think he’d done it deliberately to throw you off balance, if not for the surprised little intake of breath he makes.

“You are leaving tonight,” he says, once he’s broken the kiss. His fingertips grip the nape of your neck, your foreheads press together. You try to shake your head against his, but his hand at your neck grips tighter. “If I have to throw you into the boat myself, you’re leaving tonight.”

“I’ll hate you forever if you do.” It’s a childish assertion. His soft brown eyes fill with quiet devastation, and you immediately want to take it back.

“I’d rather have you hate me and survive than love me and die.” The two of you grapple again; him trying to keep his hold on you as you try to escape his grip. You have no real notion of why you want to break free – you could hardly hide in a cabinet until he gave up and allowed you to stay.

When the two of you tumble back onto the bed, it is an accident. You had tried to kick out with your legs, but had only succeeded in knocking you both off balance. His arms wrap around you as you lie on top of him, doing your best to squirm free and failing miserably.

You and Javi rarely argue. Any petty squabbles you do have are usually easily and quickly resolved. And when you do fight, you’ve gotten used to burning out that tension with sex.

So it feels like the most natural thing in the world to start pulling his shirtfront open. He takes your cue, his hands falling from your wrists and setting to work on the buttons of your dress. There’s a frantic energy to you both; for all you had been fighting him before, you can’t pull him close enough now. Your hands itch with the need to touch him, to memorise every inch and curve of him before he sends you away.

You sink your fingers into his curls and drag him down closer. It’s not making love, not the soft, slow sex that you and Javi usually have. This is something harsher, more demanding. The bedframe rattles with the force of your movements, and you know you should be embarrassed. The servants or Javi’s parents could hear, your actions unmistakable when the noise of the bed combines with the moans escaping from you both.

When you’ve both come, and are lying satiated in each other’s arms, the fire has gone out of your conversation. Javi rests his head on your breasts, humming contentedly as you play with his curls. You admire the Monet painting that faces the bed, the hazy floral landscape that you wish for all the world you and your husband could escape into. The canvas lilies almost seem to sway in the breeze with the haze of heat rising through the room.

“What if you forget me?” You say softly. As much as you know Javi loves you, you can’t deny that the thought scares you. That you will leave, but after long years of war, Javi will have moved on. He’ll find some pretty Mallorquin girl that never went into exile and never come to rescue you from your banishment.  

“I could never forget you,” Javi says, tilting his head back to look at you. Those beautiful eyes of his are so full of sorrow that you want to cry yourself.

“You say that. What if this war lasts as long as the Great War? Longer?”

“It doesn’t matter. ‘If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever’,” he says in English.

“Byron?” You ask, and he shakes his head. Of course he would quote poetry at a time like this.

“Tennyson. It’s true. I could fill the whole island with flowers, all the thinking of you I shall do while we’re parted.” Javi’s hands rest on your thighs, his thumbs stroking lazy circles onto your skin.

“Wouldn’t that be something to behold. A whole island, full of flowers. You could live four lifetimes and never run out of scenery to paint.”

“I would write to you every day, you know,” Javier manages eventually. You know he would. Javi has always had an excellent turn of phrase – there were half-drafted screenplay ideas all over your apartment in Barcelona.

“And one letter in twenty might reach me,” you retort. The postal service hasn’t exactly been running efficiently of late, never mind the inevitable censorship everything seems to be going through.

“I would keep you here with me if there was any way I could be sure you’d be safe.” He says gently, and you sigh. “And I would like you to go willingly. But you’re going either way, I’m afraid.” Even issuing orders, there’s undeniable tenderness to it.

“Between the both of us, we might fill all of Europe with flowers.” You try to imagine it; two paths of flowers creeping across the continent, growing every time you and Javi think of one another.

“The whole world, even.” Javier clutches a little tighter at your thighs, and you can hear tears thickening his voice. You hold each other tighter, and you know now that neither of you will loosen your grip until the very last moment.

****

Later, there will be a forget-me-not pressed into your hand as you and Javi say your final goodbyes at the dock. Your clothes are weighted down by the money and jewellery sewn into the hems, but it’s the flower you treasure the most. You refuse to cry as you sail away; you stare insistently at the dock, long after Javier has faded from your sight. You know he’ll be doing the same, standing on the pier and keeping a watchful eye on the horizon until the sky starts to lighten with the dawn.

Later, in spite of your denials, there will be letters. Javi writes to you often, mostly of trivial, household matters that won’t be censored. In every one he tells you how the gardens are growing. In every one, there is a flower drawn into the margin. You hoard them like a dragon hoards gold; when your homesickness makes you feel physically ill, you surround yourself with his letters and tracing the lines of his pen.

Later, there will be a screenplay. It’s smuggled off the island and brought directly to you by a man who only speaks brusque Catalan, and you nearly weep just to hear the language spoken again. The screenplay bears a pseudonym – Javier Peña – but every line is clearly your Javi’s work. It tells of a great love story flourishing in the face of a brutal war, of love conquering all. You cry over the last twenty pages, a handkerchief clasped to your face so you don’t smudge the ink.

Later, the war will end. Spain will survive, though she will not be saved. You will never walk through a garden of flowers without thinking of Javi.  

****

 “But what really happened? The answer is simple: the lovers survive and flourish.” – Ian McEwan, Atonement

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