#stoncy

*

Steve has a reputation for a reason, but this is new even to him: a girl in his lap, a guy looking on, both letting him boss them around like the “expert” he is. Which he definitely isn’t. But he’s got more experience than the two of them combined—considering he is Nancy’s experience, and Jonathan is Jonathan. And if there’s one thing he’s learned about himself, it’s that he’s shockingly adaptable.

So adapted he has.

Nancy is hot against him, where her ass presses into his crotch and her shoulders into his chest and where his hairy legs wrap around her sculpted ballerina ankles to hold them still and open. Even her fingertips, normally cool from her lousy circulation, are warm where they dig into his forearm; he’s wrapped it around her midriff, tucked under her breasts and firm on her ribs.

He’s got his game face on, that confident, expectant, unflappable guy with the good nature and smooth lines—the one who charms, who wins. People like that guy. That guy moved through the world with an ease that he’d never fully appreciated until he finally ran up against things that tore through it like tissue paper: man-eating monsters, for one, and Nancy Wheeler’s iron will, for another. So it wasn’t that guy who’d walked into his bedroom with the rest of his monster-hunting gang trailing behind him—not him who’d found himself faced with Nancy’s big, wide eyes as she asked if she could have them both, if they could all have each other—but that’s the guy who’d taken over as Nancy and Jonathan had turned endearingly shy. The guy who’d taken Jonathan’s face in his hands to guide him through a deep, searching kiss, then turned him toward Nancy for another, and stripped out of his clothes with all the poise of a jock who’s spent years changing and bathing in front of decent guys and assholes alike.

But not Jonathan, a year below him in school and not on any teams and still a mystery under his clothes. Steve has seen a lot of naked guys and never given it much thought, but for the first time, he’s curious. Wants to unwrap him with his hands up under his shirt, fingers plucking his belt open and diving into what Steve is guessing are worn elastic briefs to find the prize inside, just like he’d dived into every cereal box in the early seventies.

Maybe she can feel his heart pounding in his chest, even over the steady rise and fall as he breathes her in, out, in again, the floral scent of her shampoo as familiar and comforting as the softness of her hair against his cheek. But she’s only got eyes for Jonathan, who, to be fair, has an absolutely stellar view and his tongue practically lolling out of his mouth. Steve isn’t sure what exactly they’d gotten up to in Chicago, but he’d bet that it wasn’t this.

She’s squirming against him; even without seeing, he can just imagine the way her cunt is twitching, waiting and throbbing and needing. He’s seen it enough times—felt it against him, around him. Just the memory makes his briefs tighter.

“What do you want?” he asks. He almost murmurs it just to her. But he wants Jonathan to hear, wants him involved, so he pitches his voice as low and intimate as he can make it and still have it carry.

“I want—Jonathan…”

Steve’s brow furrows. He’s not even sure if she’s saying she wants him or just getting distracted. But it’s cool. This is what they’re here for. He can roll with it—he is, after all, the one pressed against her.

“You heard her,” Steve says, clear and firm, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Come over here.”

If Jonathan has an opinion on being ordered around, he’s keeping it to himself. He looks so conspicuously out of place in Steve’s neat room, where nothing is worn, not a scrap where it doesn’t belong; his mother’s personality and his father’s overbearing need for order more on display than anything that speaks of Steve himself. But Jonathan’s all carefully patched clothes and visibly repaired belongings that must have been used when he got them, scuffed shoes and unstyled hair that his mom probably cut for him just because it was getting too long. He’d walked in self-conscious, glancing around from beneath lowered lashes, hands in his pockets and elbows tucked in close to his sides like he was afraid to touch anything. Like maybe he was worried that he’d get mistaken for a creep casing the place, instead of what he actually is: a wanted, invited guest who’s there to touch and be touched and touch some more.

He’s got that look now, too, but his shoulders are set and he moves on steady feet. His shoes and jacket are off; that’s the progress so far. But he’s still fully dressed. Had watched but not moved as Steve had pulled Nancy’s sweater over her head, slipped her pants from her waist down her legs, and pulled her to him where he sat on the edge of his bed.

He approaches without a word, but not without a sound. Even over his heart in his ears, Jonathan’s soft breaths reach Steve in the quiet of the big room, his jeans shuffling with each step.

*

What he didn’t fully appreciate until the moment he’d locked eyes with Jonathan over Nancy’s slender shoulder was just how much he’d want Jonathan there, too. He hadn’t really thought too hard about it—hadn’t thought about Jonathan that way before, not really—and he’d be surprised if Jonathan had thought much about him. No one is under any illusions here, as far as he can tell, that this isn’t a product of their love for Nancy. But now that he’s here—now that he’s breathing, moving, existing in this new context, a part of Steve’s sexual world whether they touch or not—now that he’s real in this way…

Steve can fool himself about a great many things, but he’s not enough of a fucking liar and not a good enough actor to pretend that he doesn’t want Jonathan now, too. Just for himself, in ways that Nancy has nothing to do with, couldn’t understand.

He’s gripping Jonathan’s hair a little too tight, even though that’s not normally his thing in either direction. He’s not into rough handling. He can take it, of course—it certainly doesn’t ruin things for him. It’s just not his thing. He’s more into the romance—sweet, tender moves; smooth grace and softness. That really works for him.

The things he wants to do to Jonathan aren’t romantic in the least. Or most of them aren’t, anyway. He wants to hold him in place, push him around and see what he does, keep tugging at his hair until he whines. Steve could make him whine, probably; he’d like it, definitely, if the way his eyes are closing and his throat is working are any clue, responding to every jolt, every push.

Steve notices these things. He stores them all.

*

Jonathan has this way of seeming above it all. Some kind of residual pretension and superiority—though Steve is mature enough, by now, to recognize that that’s probably something he’s bringing to the table, not Jonathan. Still, he’s not going to pretend that seeing Jonathan down at this base, human level—a physical creature after all just like the rest of them—isn’t satisfying. But he can make it even more satisfying.

“Tell Nancy you want to lick her cunt,” he says.

A ripple goes through Nancy. She doesn’t love that word—he’d never say it around her outside of very specific sexual situations—but occasionally, when she’s so wet her thighs are shiny with it, it makes her hotter. She likes the dirtiness.

Jonathan’s eyes are huge, open all the way instead of that half-lidded stare or slitted in thought. “I want to lick you, Nancy.”

“Uh uh,” Steve says. He’s not chastising; his voice is level, casual if a little firm. “Say it.”

Steve’s eyes have maybe never been so intent on the sight of a tongue in his entire life, but when Jonathan’s flicks out to wet his lips—not even sexy, just an instinctive thing, maybe a nervous gesture—it gets harder not to grind his dick into Nancy’s back.

“Nancy,” he breathes, eyes big and wide and so earnest it hurts a little just to look at him, “I want to lick your cunt.”

Steve chooses not to be jealous of the reaction that gets from Nancy. After all, he’s getting a little hot under the collar himself.

*

He lets Steve push him around, does what Steve says—and that’s not just heady, that’s downright ball-tingling, utterly intoxicating like the triumphant high of shotgunning half a dozen beers in a row before everything goes sideways. But, slowly, an equally fascinating creativity starts to arise. And, yeah, maybe Steve’s pegged him for some kind of virgin, but it’s clear that he’s got thoughts in his head. Maybe seen a stroke book or two. Hell, maybe even read the articles. Wherever he gets it—instinct or not—he starts to reach and stroke and explore on his own as a tentative confidence takes hold.

And Steve gets to watch it happen. Gets to see this sexual light turn on in his brain—that energy channeling right through him, into Nancy, even up to Steve.

*

“You know what they say about going down on a girl,” he says, amused with the knowledge that there’s a very good chance Jonathan knows no such thing. “If your eyelashes aren’t wet, you’re not doing it right.”

“That can’t be true,” Nancy breathes out. “Is that true?”

Steve grins, full to bursting with affection.

*

Maybe it’s excessive to be this thorough. Maybe it’s decadent, downright hedonistic, all that Roman shit from the history classes Steve had actually managed to look up during because the word orgy floated by his ears. But how often do they get opportunities like this? When will they get the chance again to make sure that everyone walks away not just satisfied, but absolutely fucking wrecked?

And it’s not his imagination that Nancy is just as eager to wring every drop of desire out of Jonathan as he is. Nancy and Steve have spent a year getting to know each other sexually. It’s Jonathan who’s different—Jonathan who’s holding secrets, making everything new again.

*