![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
st_aurafinaTitle: Light Becomes What it Touches, Chapter Three
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating for this Chapter: Explicit (with NSFW art)
Words: 5,959
Embedded (NSFW for this chapter!!) art is by MulaSaWala, you can see her art post here: Light Becomes What it Touches Fanart
Also at the Archive
They spend a few days upstate while Harold arranges a secure apartment in New York for Grace. John worries that Grace will see this as another way Harold has overstepped his authority, making decisions for her. He mentions this when they're patrolling the grounds of the chalet safe house, and Grace shakes her head.
"There's a difference between Harold doing something I can't, and Harold controlling every aspect of my life." She holds onto her hat when the wind gusts hard against their bodies and she grins at him. "Besides, Harold really does seem to like messing around with real estate."
"As long as you tell me if he's overwhelming you," John says. He reaches to lift her over a muddy patch; she doesn't have a pair of good outdoor shoes up here. She was packing for Italy, after all, when Samaritan started hunting her.
"Oh, I'll tell him," Grace says, her expression ferocious. "I'm done letting him use politeness as a shield."
The atmosphere each day in the safe house is a little easier. John keeps catching Harold and Grace talking softly in corners. He tries to withdraw from those private moments, not wanting to intrude on the necessary repairs to their relationship. Grace will have none of that, and snags his elbow to pull him into their conversations, ostensibly so that he can back up her side of the argument, but mostly because she wants him there. Harold, not to be outdone by this tactic, does the same: catches his attention with a raised finger or a pointed glance. John finds he doesn't object to being the arbiter of their arguments because each is so delighted by the other. They might still be thrashing out the details of the past four years, but there is lightness between them, too.
On the first night after Harold arrives at the safe house, John sleeps in Harold's bed. There is a moment of awkwardness about it, defused when Harold lifts his case and winced. John carries it to his room and sets it on the bed, then Harold is there behind him.
"Are you comfortable where you're sleeping?" he asks John. "I would be glad of your company." It's a tentative question, left open for John to refuse without offence.
John rubs his hand over his chin, feel a day's worth of stubble and sighs. "I'd like that. Can't promise I'll be up for anything, though."
Harold limps to the bed and sits with a sigh. "Honestly, John, I will be happy if I can manage to undress before I fall asleep."
John laughs softly and helps Harold out of his jacket. "I think I can help with that, at least."
Harold sleeps spooned against John, and John spends the night drifting in and out of dreams of driving or running. Each time he wakes, he finds Harold in his arms, breathing slow and even. It doesn't take long for John to fall asleep again.
Quite late in the morning, one of the phones on the bedside table dings, and John's body jerks awake.
"Yours," says Harold, and yawns wide. "What time is it?"
John picks it up and reads the text. It's from Grace in the next room.
Ha ha, I have your number now, she says. I made coffee – do you want some?
"It's Grace," John says. "And it's nearly ten." Please! he sends back.
Harold makes a disgusted grimace. "Days after you learn that I'm a morning person by habit, we sleep in practically to midday." He pulls himself upright and leans across John's body, wincing a little as he grabs his glasses and puts them on. He's blinking, gazing into John's eyes when Grace opens the door with a shoulder, carrying a tea-tray.
"I brought coffee," she says. She's wearing the ridiculous fuzzy pink robe, and battered pink slippers.
Harold sniffs, but accepts a mug. John puts all the evidence together, and decides Harold might be a morning person, but he's a grumpy morning person without tea. He takes the tray from Grace, balances it easily while he shifts up next to Harold in the large bed. He pulls the coverlet aside. The mornings up here are chilly, and even rugged up, Grace looks cold.
"Ooh, yes please," she says. She kicks off her slippers and wriggles in next to John, punches the pillow into shape and takes her mug.
"I warn you; Grace has the cold feet of the undead," Harold says calmly. He has his tablet now, and is checking all the things Harold needs to constantly monitor.
Grace scowls at him. "We've gotten along perfectly well until you showed up, mister," she says. "There's no need to be mean about it."
John hides his wince when she plants her icy feet against his leg with a sigh, but Harold sees it. He laughs softly, and loops his arm through John's by way of apology.
John drinks his coffee, feels the warmth of Harold's legs against his, the fading cold of Grace's feet – how can they be so cold when she wrapped them in those huge slippers? – and wonders at the strange comfort of being sandwiched between these two very complicated people. It won't last, he tells himself sternly. This is kickback from the mission, this is emotional overload for Harold and Grace. Up here, insulated from the rest of the world and separated from their own troubles, it's safe to be recklessly happy. It's not sustainable. It's a dandelion clock sheltered from the breeze. Back in the city Samaritan will tear it apart.
Things are dicey when they are all back in New York: by necessity, Grace has to keep to the shadow map Root had developed, or risk capture by Samaritan agents. There's a lot of scrambling, a few too many firefights. For a city of eight million, Grace has a weird way of stumbling into old acquaintances. Samaritan picks up her trail more than once.
Two weeks in, though, Grace is finally settled in one of Harold's safe houses. John and Harold help her get everything set up.
"Will this be comfortable enough?" Harold, ever the over-caterer, scans the small apartment, worried. "I am sorry that your world has been restricted to a relatively small footprint."
Grace is already investigating the take-out menus that had been shoved under the door in the interim since Harold last had someone clear the mail. "This is Manhattan, Harold – there's more of the world crammed in per square inch than anywhere else. I think I'll be okay." She holds up a menu, brightly coloured in pink and orange. "Look, this place is a hardware in the front and an Indian take-out in the back – let's get dinner from there."
"You think they deliver hardware too? You could do with some more coat hooks," says John, holding three of Grace's coats and a sunhat in his arms. He's amazed that Grace managed to pack all of this into one case, but then he's getting used to being astonished by Grace.
The three of them sit on the comfortable brown velvet sofa – more battered than Harold usually allows in his safe houses, but maybe this one is attached to one of his less wealthy pseudonyms – and open take-out boxes.
"Beer. Really?" Harold holds up one of the bottles with a dubious expression.
Grace takes it from him, and reaches into the wooden bowl on the coffee table for an bottle opener. "You can't drink wine with Indian, Harold. I thought we had this all worked out." She levers the cap off with a practiced gesture and passes it back to him. "Don't worry – it's a local microbrew. It's plenty fancy."
Harold takes the bottle with an exaggerated sigh and passes it to John. "Well, as long as it's fancy," he says and reaches out for the next one.
They're slipping back into familiarity, John realises. Shared jokes and gentle mockery, as well as that common understanding of what the other likes to eat, what teasing the other will accommodate. Even when they sit down on the sofa, it's easy and comfortable: near enough that they're touching at the hip, far apart enough that they won't elbow each other in the teeth. John makes to pull one of the armchairs closer to the coffee table when Grace shifts her legs to one side so there's a gap on the brown velvet.
"Lots of room here, John," she says.
Harold rearranges the takeout and napkins so that everything is in easy reach for all three of them. John perches on the edge of the sofa, aware of his height like the peak of a mountain blocking the view for everyone, then slides to the floor. Harold and Grace immediately nestle in close to him, so that he's surrounded on all sides by legs and laps. When he leans his head back, he encounters Harold's hip, Grace's thigh, and he sighs. Then he reaches for a plastic fork. He's starving. He's carried boxes all day, after all.
The takeout boxes are empty and John holds a bottle of fancy beer slowly warming to room temperature when someone – Grace, he thinks, from the tentative touch – strokes his hair. A frisson of pleasure prickles the back of his neck. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back into her hand, and she makes a happy noise, a soft purr or sigh. John would be happy to stay like this for hours, breathing spices and the smell of old books – no matter the pseudonym, there are always books in Harold's safe houses – but after a moment, Harold takes hold of John's throat.
It's surprisingly possessive, the way Harold spreads his fingers from John's Adam's apple to the point of his jaw. John knows that Harold has a tendency towards imperious behaviour in bed, and it's never bothered John. After all, a successful career in the military means John is perfectly comfortable taking orders – maybe even likes it, when it's someone he loves and trusts. This dynamic, though, is a little more pointed than usual. John glances up to see Harold gazing at Grace with a bellicose expression, and he shifts beneath them, ready to intervene.
Grace has already shown that she has little time or respect for Harold when he's feeling defensive and controlling. She reaches out above John, brushes Harold's cheek with her knuckles. Then she mirrors his position, cupping John's chin in the same way: thumb just under one ear, little finger brushing his throat.
John isn't certain what's happening here, but when he checks in with Grace, her smile is a wicked thing. She catches John looking and twitches an eyebrow in his direction.
"Anything you can do, Harold," she says. Her voice is low, and John realises she's daring him to go a little further. It makes him grin, the way she knows Harold right to his bones. She clearly knows Harold's competitive streak, doesn't fear it in the slightest, and is unafraid to use it on him in return. John grins wider when he sees Harold smile at her. Harold knows exactly what she's doing, and he loves her for it.
"Are you going to double dog dare me?" Harold asks. The love in his voice, the humour, the amazing, impish smile – these are parts of Harold John has never seen, but which fit him well. It's like a door has opened in the house they've occupied, and the room within is both new and perfectly familiar at the same time. There's a longing in John's chest, as well as a realisation that the longing is being answered right now in front of him.
It must show in his expression, because Grace brushes his temple, worried. "You okay?"
John nods, though he doesn't trust his voice to be steady right now. It doesn't matter, because Harold is tracing the outline of John's lips with his index finger. John sighs and opens his mouth a little. When Harold moves his hand away Grace takes over, and John catches a fingertip between his teeth, worries the callused skin with the end of his tongue. Grace's breathing takes on a gratifying hitch, and John hopes she is imagining his mouth between her legs. He grins up at her, wide and eager.
Harold raises the stakes, pulling John upright by the shirt front – he can't lean down to kiss John without significant rearrangement of bodies – and John obliges, holding himself up. Grace presses in behind John, strokes the front of his chest with fingers spread wide over the muscles holding John up on his elbows. She avidly watches Harold kiss John, glancing from one to the other, then puts her open mouth hard to John's neck, using teeth where the skin is soft and pale. John groans and shivers, caught between the two of them. The small room is suddenly too warm, and his skin flushes. He can feel the relative coolness of Grace's bare arms against his shirt-clad body, as well as the taste of the microbrew beer on Harold's tongue, and he is swimming in sensation.
Harold pulls away first, gasping. He's flushed too, and his hair is rumpled, and John has never seen him this luminously happy before.
Harold opens his mouth to say something, sees the effect Grace's teeth have on John, and clearly forgets his words. "John," he says instead, as if that will have to suffice for now. "John."
"I need more room," says Grace, standing up. It turns out that Harold is not the only one who is demanding in lovemaking. Grace reaches for John, leads him into the bedroom, to the bed they'd made up this afternoon with new linens and pillows and coverlet.
Harold follows behind, walking carefully on muscles grown tight from sitting still so long. "I think this place needs a new sofa," he says absently, loosening his tie.
Grace pauses, halfway through the buttons of John's shirt. "Do not order me one from a catalogue," she says. "I'll find my own."
John slides his shoulders free from the shirt. "He won't," he says quickly. "Harold's learned a lot." Then Harold slides his own arm around John's hip, and strokes the line of dark hair on John's belly. John closes his eyes in pleasure.
"Clearly," Grace says, drily.
There's a quiet, still moment then, with John between the two of them. It would be tense or awkward if John didn't have so much trust in them. He smiles down at Grace, cups her cheek and kisses her sweetly on the mouth.
"I really didn't think this would happen so fast," he says. "I assumed we'd date. You said you wanted to date." He lands small pecks down the side of her neck, soft brushes of lips on skin, sometimes open-mouthed, sometimes not.
Grace gasps as he mouths her collarbone. "This is a date," she says in a rush. "Isn't this a date? I've had dates like this…" John encircles her waist, puts his lips to her décolletage and she strokes his hair, arching her head back to give him room.
"There's no reason you can't both date later," says Harold. He shrugs out of his jacket, unbuttons his waistcoat with deft movements and slips it from his shoulders. John can see that he's hard, just from kissing John, from watching John kiss Grace. John exhales at the sight of him, grinds a little against Grace's hip, and she laughs, a gentle, delighted sound.
Harold, his shirt hanging free, his glasses askew, traces the line of her cheekbones, drawing her close to kiss her. Now at her back, John slips the straps of her dress away to put lips to her shoulder blades. Something soft brushes his neck, and he realises Harold has eased Grace's hair free from the ponytail so it spills down in a tumble of red. John gasps and steals her away from Harold to kiss her deeply.
He and Grace kiss for a long time, slow and deep, learning the way the other moves. Grace likes to pause now and then, stopping with her nose to his cheek, smiling and breathing heavily. John's eyelids flutter as he's enveloped by her presence: the faint fragrance of cosmetics, the whisper of her hair against his arms, the warmth radiating from her skin. Harold steps close behind him, runs fingers across the small of John's back, cups his ass, strokes the back of his thighs. John aches all over with want for the two of them: he's already grinding against Grace. He could come this way, he thinks, just from their hands on his body, from the rub of his cock against Grace's hipbone. When Harold reaches up to mouth the back of John's neck, John groans and shivers.
Harold steps away, rubbing his shoulder ruefully; the angle is a strain for him. In a romance novel, this would be where they tumble effortlessly into bed, but reality is a little more awkward. Harold needs to be careful of his neck, and for all he and Grace are rediscovering old patterns, there are going to be differences to accommodate. John realises he can be the mediator there, at least. He turns to Harold, cups his face gently then kisses him somewhat less gently, to Harold's gratifyingly low sigh.
After a few minutes, Harold eases away. "This is wonderful, it really is, but I think it would be prudent to go forward slowly." His glasses are misted up and there are two pink spots high on his cheeks. "I know it was only two beers…"
"Two and half," says Grace, straightening his glasses. "Not bad for someone who doesn't like beer."
"Two and a half," Harold amends himself. "I think I'd like to be a little more clear-headed for the first time we…uh." The colour deepens on his face. For someone whose filthy, clever tongue was just in John's mouth, Harold can be ridiculously coy.
Still, it's what Harold wants, and giving Harold what he wants is largely what John lives for. John sits down and pats the coverlet, mock-coaxing. "Are you sober enough for a little fooling around?" he asks, only a little sarcastic. He's just drunk enough to be wildly turned on, and wouldn't say no to sex, no matter how ill-advised.
Harold steps in close, pushing John's knees apart and kisses him again, deep and demanding. John sighs and shuts up, gives himself over to that tongue, those hands.
"I guess that answers the question," Grace says. She peels Harold out of the rest of his suit, folds it and drops it over the back of a chair. Harold looks at the suit, worried, then lets Grace tow him to the other side. John gleefully shucks off his own trousers and shirt, throws them to the floor beside the chair, ignores the cluck of Harold's tongue at such blithe messiness, and lolls on the bed while the others find the most comfortable arrangement.
The most comfortable position is with Harold in the middle, back propped by pillows, and Grace and John on either side, their limbs enmeshed. For all Harold's primness about taking it slow, he seems perfectly happy to direct John.
"Touch her – yes, like that," he says, as John spreads one hand wide to cup Grace's breast, stroking the nipple with his callused thumb. Grace makes a sound in the back of her throat and arches upwards, grinding herself against John's thigh. John catches Harold's expression – eyes focused and glittering, cheeks flushed and mouth open – and John wants to make a similar noise. Harold closes his arm and draws Grace in to nip at her neck. John finds his own mouth moving lower: the curve of Grace's ribcage, the softness of her belly. He can see the remaining line of a two-piece swimsuit from the spray of freckles across her navel. He rests his head there for a while, watching Harold and Grace kissing, seeing the interplay of new and familiar for them. Grace seems very taken with the lines at the corner of Harold's eyes, tracing them with her fingertips, her expression wondering. Harold smiles at her, and the lines crease together. John realises how little he sees Harold smile so openly, with the whole of his face. Harold's smiles usually come in small snatches, in the tone of his voice or the twitch of his lips. It's disarming to see him express happiness so freely and it makes John's heart thump. This is clearly the safest Harold has felt since John met him. John clambers back up to touch both of them with careful hands. He can keep them safe, both of them, in this place that Samaritan cannot see.
Harold draws him in to kiss him, too, and Grace strokes her fingers through his hair like he was a big cat. For a while they take a break and curl up together in the bed. Harold dozes, or at least he closes his eyes, though he keeps a possessive arm on John's hip. John uses Harold's chest as a pillow from where he can look up at Grace cuddled in against Harold's shoulder.
Grace reaches out to brush John's lips. "You okay?" she asks.
John's smile against her fingertip feels lazy and slow, spreading like molasses in the sun. All the warmth and skin contact have made him dopey with pleasure.
"Yeah," he says with a happy sigh. "You?"
Grace traces the outline of his mouth. "Yes…" she says, drawing the word out long and ending on a questioning tone.
"But…?" John offers into the quiet. When he speaks, Grace's finger slips into his mouth, and he kisses it. When she doesn't withdraw it, he nips at it gently, plays his teeth over the tip.
"I like your mouth," Grace says, then when John closes his mouth and applies a little suction, she groans. "I like it a lot. It's pretty. And clever."
"He's very good with it," Harold says, eyes still closed. "Skilled and generous."
Grace giggles, though she doesn't take her eyes off John, who takes her finger deep in his mouth then pulls back to lavish attention on the tip again. "Harold, you sound like a Yelp review."
Harold's eyes are open now. "Five stars," he says. "Excellent service, will certainly be visiting again."
John takes this as an invitation and a command, so he scoops Grace up and pulls her over to his side. She squeaks, then settles comfortably with her back to Harold's chest. Harold's arm snakes over her belly to hold her steady, while John slides downwards.
John kisses her knee then bends her leg, crooking it upward so he can reach the soft, pale skin of her inner thigh. From this position, he can see Harold and Grace both watching him: Grace with eyes half-closed, sleepy and aroused, and Harold with that laser intensity again.
"You okay with this?" John asks in Harold's direction.
Harold reaches down to take John's hand, curls it in his and kisses the knuckles one by one. "John, I am very okay with this," he says. He weaves his fingers through John's and guides them to his own cock, hard and hot under John's palm. "Let's say I am…" his voice hitches as John moves their joined hands together along the length of him, "eager."
"Excuse me," Grace says, and cups John's head so that he is looking directly. "I believe John and I were having a moment." She is flushed and has been biting her lip; it gleams wet in the soft golden light.
Harold's chuckle – wicked and a little husky – sends goosebumps along John's spine. "I do beg your pardon," he says to her politely, and releases John.
John grins and returns his attention to the soft skin of Grace's thighs, so pale there that now she's aroused the skin is blush pink and radiating warmth. He kisses her there, gentle and open-mouthed, and she sighs, spreading her legs wider. When he reaches her cunt – wet and beautiful – he touches her softly, teasing her open, learning her contours. Then at her encouraging moan, he touches a little less softly, pressing firmly, furiously turned on by her slickness. He spreads her with two fingers, works his tongue inside her, then up to her clit. Grace moans, and throws a leg over his back, grinding his ass down into the bed with her heel. John's cock is moving with pleasant friction against the sheets and for a moment he loses himself in the situation. Grace is beautiful, spread open in front of him, watching him with intense and hungry anticipation.
For a moment, John thinks of all the things that have happened – both good and terrible – to bring him here to this place, and his head spins. Or maybe it's lack of oxygen, he's not sure, but when Harold puts two fingers at the back of his neck, John is immediately more grounded. He loves Harold's hands, loves the way he touches John, and right now, that point of contact is as if he is guiding John. Now that he can concentrate again, John doesn't really need guidance: Grace's body is a map of reactions teaching him what she likes. She's a hair-clutcher, which John does like, and she is grinding against his face, which John fucking loves. When she pulls him closer and holds him there, he hears Harold laugh softly behind him, and then John's gone. All he wants to do is make Grace come, make her feel good, and make Harold happy.
He works Grace into a frenzy with his mouth, until she's arched and moaning around him, thighs over his shoulders, humping up against his mouth. When she comes, she drives her heels into his back, pushing his cock down hard, and he nearly comes too, just from that and the sounds she's making.
When he rises up from between her legs, Grace is splayed across the pillows, one arm thrown over her head and her hair a rosy puddle against the linens. Her breath is just starting to regulate but her chest still heaves and her skin gleams damp in the lamplight.
"Oh," she says, eyes closed. "Oh, my God."
John plants a slick, happy peck on her knee, and she pulls him up to wrap him in her arms. He snuggles in and nuzzles her neck, then rests his head on her shoulder.
"That was… Thank you," she says. She's hoarse and exhausted, and John can feel that every muscle is soft and pliant. It's probably the most relaxed he's ever seen her.
"You're welcome," he says, and traces a line down between her breasts. "You're beautiful, you know that?"
"She is," Harold says, from behind them. "You are both beautiful, and I'm so happy to see you together here."
Grace laughs. She trails her fingertips along John's shoulder blade. "Does Harold look as smug as he sounds?"
John glances behind him. "Yep," he says. "Can't blame him, though. This is all because of him."
"Still," says Grace, pushing herself up on her elbows. "He's seen me all unravelled."
"I have," Harold says. "And very lovely it was."
Grace flops on her side and shimmies up to nestle next to Harold. "Wanna get unravelled with John?" She looks over her shoulder at John, sitting on his heels at the end of the bed. "How about you, John? I bet you're beautiful when you're getting fucked."
John's eyelashes dip at the words, and he arches his back, thinking of how that will feel, Harold inside him and Grace watching every expression. His cock twitches hard against his belly.
Harold is watching him now, his gaze sharp and unblinking. "Would you like that, John?"
John sighs, and crawls across to kiss him, deep and open. Harold's fingers goes to John's hair, stroking and holding him. John holds himself above Harold's body so that his weight doesn't hurt Harold's back. It gives Harold the opportunity to run his palm down John's body in light, fast strokes that tease. Harold's made a study of John's responses since they started sleeping together, and he can find all the places that make John sigh: the curve of muscle over his hip, the sensitive skin at the cleft of his ass, the pink skin of his latest scar. Each touch makes John gasp or hiss or grind down against Harold's leg. After a moment, Grace joins in, so there's an impossible number of hands on John's body, more than he can keep track of at once. Soon he's floating above Harold while a dozen hands light up his skin with gentle touch. He doesn't really notice when they guide him up and onto his back; he's concentrating on getting oxygen in between the gasps. That, and snatching a glimpse now and then of Harold's face, of Grace's, a reassurance that everything is good here, that everyone is rapt and happy.
He's not sure if it's Harold or Grace who pushes a slick finger inside him first, and that's fascinating enough to bring him back to himself with a rush. It must be Harold, because John's head is cradled in Grace's lap, and she is gently rolling his nipple while she traces the contours of his ear. The fingers – two now, and it's definitely Harold, since only Harold can find John's sweet spot with such assurance – move with upwards pressure, and John gasps with hungry, hot pleasure.
"Oh, John," says Grace, her voice low. She's turned on, he can tell. It's on every breath John sucks in, and he knows now how arousal smells on her. He scoots backwards a little, despite the small noise of annoyance from where Harold leans on the end of the bed. John wants to press his back into her, wants her draped over him when Harold fucks him.
Harold frowns, put out by this rearrangement of bodies, but he readjusts, kneeling above John's spread legs. When John pulls his legs up to make room, Grace wraps one hand around each thigh, holding him in place. It's what John wants – he didn't realise how much he wanted it, until Grace's arms make a cage to hold John still and safe. He leans back, head between her breasts, and lets his eyelids dip until he's watching Harold through his eyelashes.
Grace has her lips to his temple, and her breath moves regularly against his skin. Harold enters him, excruciatingly slow, always so slow, always demanding patience when John wants to gallop ahead full steam. John tenses up, straining forward in anticipation, wanting all of Harold now, but Grace kisses him, whispers nonsense to him: he's beautiful, it's going to be so good, she could watch him forever.
This – John in Grace's arms – is apparently the end of all Harold's stoicism, because he makes a noise in the back of his throat and pushes deep into John. John arches and whines, thrusting upwards with the sensation of it. It's so good, Harold knows his body so well, and with Grace holding him, John doesn't know how to contain himself.
On every thrust into him, John cries out. Grace leans over him to nibble his bicep and then, experimentally, gives him a nip. That makes John buck, and she moans with him.
"Again," Harold gasps. John sees the sweat beading Harold's forehead, the slide of his palms on John's chest, and then there's a sweet sting as Grace bites him again, hard. John doesn't remember anything cogent after that, just pleasure inside him, sharpness outside, and always, always being held between the two of him.
It's Grace gripping his cock, he thinks wildly, at some stage. She doesn't know the shape of him just yet, and takes a moment to adjust her grip, change the angle, before she can jack him smoothly back and forth. Artist's hands, he thinks, as he's coming all over his belly, strong and callused, different to Harold.
Harold's pace increases, and his gaze drifts from John's face to Grace's expression of concentration as she works John's cock gently through the last shudders of orgasm. When Harold comes, it's with John's name falling from his lips in a sigh or a moan, leaning hard against John's legs as his cock pulses inside John. John is raw with overstimulation at this point, but Grace thankfully lets go of his cock and nestles beside him, kissing his dry lips, his cheek, his throat. Harold withdraws gently, runs one sweaty palm along John's thigh, and takes care of the clean-up. Meanwhile John curls up against Grace, still sweating and panting and completely unable to move again.
Harold somehow finds the energy to fetch towels and damp washcloths, but John is done. He can barely keep his eyes open long enough for Harold to clamber into the bed and nestle himself carefully at John's back, and then he's asleep.
When he wakes, Grace is in the middle but she has her arms curled against John's chest and her cheek on his shoulder, breathing evenly onto his skin. John lies on his side, breathing sex and faintly the fabric softener smell of Grace's laundry. The sheets which they only put on this morning will need changing. He doesn't mind though, not when every breath reminds him of the taste of Grace's skin or the scent of old books and clean linen that hangs perennially about Harold's clothes. He shifts slowly so his head is pillowed on his arm and he can look up at Harold.
Harold has left the lamp on, and the soft golden light glints off his glasses.
"I was watching you sleep," he says softly to John. "I so rarely get the chance."
John blinks slowly and orients himself amidst the interwoven limbs that surround him. Harold hold Grace close and she is spooned into him with her cheek resting on John's chest. John reaches along Grace's back, pulling the covers up over her, and she makes an appreciative noise then burrows down into the warmth, nestled against John's arm. While she dozes, Harold gently twists curls into her long red hair, winding locks around his fingers then letting them go in a ringlet. He catches John watching him and gives him a delightfully goofy smile.
"They never stay for long," he says of her curls, faux-mournful. "Her hair will insist on going its own way. Quite representative of the whole, I'm afraid."
John takes a deep breath, slowly so as not to disturb Grace. "Would you have it any other way?"
"Think about your answer, mister," Grace says sleepily from under the covers. "That's my foot right… about… there."
Harold makes a horrified noise and shifts uncomfortably. "How are your feet still cold?" he says, appalled.
Grace giggles. "I weaponised them," she says. "I wanted to impress John."
"I'm impressed," John says, hurriedly. "Please don't use them on me."
"Mmmh," says Grace and buries herself deeper into his armpit. "You smell good," is the last thing she says before she falls asleep again.
Harold reaches over Grace's shoulder to touch John's cheek softly. There's a lot unsaid between them, but Harold's face right now is as good as a telegraph.
I love you, his expression says. I trust you with this person who is so important to me. You amaze me. I didn't know it was possible to feel this happy.
John leans into Harold's touch, then turns his head to kiss the palm. "Me too," he says, and closes his eyes.
Chapter Two // Master Post
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating for this Chapter: Explicit (with NSFW art)
Words: 5,959
Embedded (NSFW for this chapter!!) art is by MulaSaWala, you can see her art post here: Light Becomes What it Touches Fanart
Also at the Archive
They spend a few days upstate while Harold arranges a secure apartment in New York for Grace. John worries that Grace will see this as another way Harold has overstepped his authority, making decisions for her. He mentions this when they're patrolling the grounds of the chalet safe house, and Grace shakes her head.
"There's a difference between Harold doing something I can't, and Harold controlling every aspect of my life." She holds onto her hat when the wind gusts hard against their bodies and she grins at him. "Besides, Harold really does seem to like messing around with real estate."
"As long as you tell me if he's overwhelming you," John says. He reaches to lift her over a muddy patch; she doesn't have a pair of good outdoor shoes up here. She was packing for Italy, after all, when Samaritan started hunting her.
"Oh, I'll tell him," Grace says, her expression ferocious. "I'm done letting him use politeness as a shield."
The atmosphere each day in the safe house is a little easier. John keeps catching Harold and Grace talking softly in corners. He tries to withdraw from those private moments, not wanting to intrude on the necessary repairs to their relationship. Grace will have none of that, and snags his elbow to pull him into their conversations, ostensibly so that he can back up her side of the argument, but mostly because she wants him there. Harold, not to be outdone by this tactic, does the same: catches his attention with a raised finger or a pointed glance. John finds he doesn't object to being the arbiter of their arguments because each is so delighted by the other. They might still be thrashing out the details of the past four years, but there is lightness between them, too.
On the first night after Harold arrives at the safe house, John sleeps in Harold's bed. There is a moment of awkwardness about it, defused when Harold lifts his case and winced. John carries it to his room and sets it on the bed, then Harold is there behind him.
"Are you comfortable where you're sleeping?" he asks John. "I would be glad of your company." It's a tentative question, left open for John to refuse without offence.
John rubs his hand over his chin, feel a day's worth of stubble and sighs. "I'd like that. Can't promise I'll be up for anything, though."
Harold limps to the bed and sits with a sigh. "Honestly, John, I will be happy if I can manage to undress before I fall asleep."
John laughs softly and helps Harold out of his jacket. "I think I can help with that, at least."
Harold sleeps spooned against John, and John spends the night drifting in and out of dreams of driving or running. Each time he wakes, he finds Harold in his arms, breathing slow and even. It doesn't take long for John to fall asleep again.
Quite late in the morning, one of the phones on the bedside table dings, and John's body jerks awake.
"Yours," says Harold, and yawns wide. "What time is it?"
John picks it up and reads the text. It's from Grace in the next room.
Ha ha, I have your number now, she says. I made coffee – do you want some?
"It's Grace," John says. "And it's nearly ten." Please! he sends back.
Harold makes a disgusted grimace. "Days after you learn that I'm a morning person by habit, we sleep in practically to midday." He pulls himself upright and leans across John's body, wincing a little as he grabs his glasses and puts them on. He's blinking, gazing into John's eyes when Grace opens the door with a shoulder, carrying a tea-tray.
"I brought coffee," she says. She's wearing the ridiculous fuzzy pink robe, and battered pink slippers.
Harold sniffs, but accepts a mug. John puts all the evidence together, and decides Harold might be a morning person, but he's a grumpy morning person without tea. He takes the tray from Grace, balances it easily while he shifts up next to Harold in the large bed. He pulls the coverlet aside. The mornings up here are chilly, and even rugged up, Grace looks cold.
"Ooh, yes please," she says. She kicks off her slippers and wriggles in next to John, punches the pillow into shape and takes her mug.
"I warn you; Grace has the cold feet of the undead," Harold says calmly. He has his tablet now, and is checking all the things Harold needs to constantly monitor.
Grace scowls at him. "We've gotten along perfectly well until you showed up, mister," she says. "There's no need to be mean about it."
John hides his wince when she plants her icy feet against his leg with a sigh, but Harold sees it. He laughs softly, and loops his arm through John's by way of apology.
John drinks his coffee, feels the warmth of Harold's legs against his, the fading cold of Grace's feet – how can they be so cold when she wrapped them in those huge slippers? – and wonders at the strange comfort of being sandwiched between these two very complicated people. It won't last, he tells himself sternly. This is kickback from the mission, this is emotional overload for Harold and Grace. Up here, insulated from the rest of the world and separated from their own troubles, it's safe to be recklessly happy. It's not sustainable. It's a dandelion clock sheltered from the breeze. Back in the city Samaritan will tear it apart.
Things are dicey when they are all back in New York: by necessity, Grace has to keep to the shadow map Root had developed, or risk capture by Samaritan agents. There's a lot of scrambling, a few too many firefights. For a city of eight million, Grace has a weird way of stumbling into old acquaintances. Samaritan picks up her trail more than once.
Two weeks in, though, Grace is finally settled in one of Harold's safe houses. John and Harold help her get everything set up.
"Will this be comfortable enough?" Harold, ever the over-caterer, scans the small apartment, worried. "I am sorry that your world has been restricted to a relatively small footprint."
Grace is already investigating the take-out menus that had been shoved under the door in the interim since Harold last had someone clear the mail. "This is Manhattan, Harold – there's more of the world crammed in per square inch than anywhere else. I think I'll be okay." She holds up a menu, brightly coloured in pink and orange. "Look, this place is a hardware in the front and an Indian take-out in the back – let's get dinner from there."
"You think they deliver hardware too? You could do with some more coat hooks," says John, holding three of Grace's coats and a sunhat in his arms. He's amazed that Grace managed to pack all of this into one case, but then he's getting used to being astonished by Grace.
The three of them sit on the comfortable brown velvet sofa – more battered than Harold usually allows in his safe houses, but maybe this one is attached to one of his less wealthy pseudonyms – and open take-out boxes.
"Beer. Really?" Harold holds up one of the bottles with a dubious expression.
Grace takes it from him, and reaches into the wooden bowl on the coffee table for an bottle opener. "You can't drink wine with Indian, Harold. I thought we had this all worked out." She levers the cap off with a practiced gesture and passes it back to him. "Don't worry – it's a local microbrew. It's plenty fancy."
Harold takes the bottle with an exaggerated sigh and passes it to John. "Well, as long as it's fancy," he says and reaches out for the next one.
They're slipping back into familiarity, John realises. Shared jokes and gentle mockery, as well as that common understanding of what the other likes to eat, what teasing the other will accommodate. Even when they sit down on the sofa, it's easy and comfortable: near enough that they're touching at the hip, far apart enough that they won't elbow each other in the teeth. John makes to pull one of the armchairs closer to the coffee table when Grace shifts her legs to one side so there's a gap on the brown velvet.
"Lots of room here, John," she says.
Harold rearranges the takeout and napkins so that everything is in easy reach for all three of them. John perches on the edge of the sofa, aware of his height like the peak of a mountain blocking the view for everyone, then slides to the floor. Harold and Grace immediately nestle in close to him, so that he's surrounded on all sides by legs and laps. When he leans his head back, he encounters Harold's hip, Grace's thigh, and he sighs. Then he reaches for a plastic fork. He's starving. He's carried boxes all day, after all.
The takeout boxes are empty and John holds a bottle of fancy beer slowly warming to room temperature when someone – Grace, he thinks, from the tentative touch – strokes his hair. A frisson of pleasure prickles the back of his neck. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back into her hand, and she makes a happy noise, a soft purr or sigh. John would be happy to stay like this for hours, breathing spices and the smell of old books – no matter the pseudonym, there are always books in Harold's safe houses – but after a moment, Harold takes hold of John's throat.
It's surprisingly possessive, the way Harold spreads his fingers from John's Adam's apple to the point of his jaw. John knows that Harold has a tendency towards imperious behaviour in bed, and it's never bothered John. After all, a successful career in the military means John is perfectly comfortable taking orders – maybe even likes it, when it's someone he loves and trusts. This dynamic, though, is a little more pointed than usual. John glances up to see Harold gazing at Grace with a bellicose expression, and he shifts beneath them, ready to intervene.
Grace has already shown that she has little time or respect for Harold when he's feeling defensive and controlling. She reaches out above John, brushes Harold's cheek with her knuckles. Then she mirrors his position, cupping John's chin in the same way: thumb just under one ear, little finger brushing his throat.
John isn't certain what's happening here, but when he checks in with Grace, her smile is a wicked thing. She catches John looking and twitches an eyebrow in his direction.
"Anything you can do, Harold," she says. Her voice is low, and John realises she's daring him to go a little further. It makes him grin, the way she knows Harold right to his bones. She clearly knows Harold's competitive streak, doesn't fear it in the slightest, and is unafraid to use it on him in return. John grins wider when he sees Harold smile at her. Harold knows exactly what she's doing, and he loves her for it.
"Are you going to double dog dare me?" Harold asks. The love in his voice, the humour, the amazing, impish smile – these are parts of Harold John has never seen, but which fit him well. It's like a door has opened in the house they've occupied, and the room within is both new and perfectly familiar at the same time. There's a longing in John's chest, as well as a realisation that the longing is being answered right now in front of him.
It must show in his expression, because Grace brushes his temple, worried. "You okay?"
John nods, though he doesn't trust his voice to be steady right now. It doesn't matter, because Harold is tracing the outline of John's lips with his index finger. John sighs and opens his mouth a little. When Harold moves his hand away Grace takes over, and John catches a fingertip between his teeth, worries the callused skin with the end of his tongue. Grace's breathing takes on a gratifying hitch, and John hopes she is imagining his mouth between her legs. He grins up at her, wide and eager.
Harold raises the stakes, pulling John upright by the shirt front – he can't lean down to kiss John without significant rearrangement of bodies – and John obliges, holding himself up. Grace presses in behind John, strokes the front of his chest with fingers spread wide over the muscles holding John up on his elbows. She avidly watches Harold kiss John, glancing from one to the other, then puts her open mouth hard to John's neck, using teeth where the skin is soft and pale. John groans and shivers, caught between the two of them. The small room is suddenly too warm, and his skin flushes. He can feel the relative coolness of Grace's bare arms against his shirt-clad body, as well as the taste of the microbrew beer on Harold's tongue, and he is swimming in sensation.
Harold pulls away first, gasping. He's flushed too, and his hair is rumpled, and John has never seen him this luminously happy before.
Harold opens his mouth to say something, sees the effect Grace's teeth have on John, and clearly forgets his words. "John," he says instead, as if that will have to suffice for now. "John."
"I need more room," says Grace, standing up. It turns out that Harold is not the only one who is demanding in lovemaking. Grace reaches for John, leads him into the bedroom, to the bed they'd made up this afternoon with new linens and pillows and coverlet.
Harold follows behind, walking carefully on muscles grown tight from sitting still so long. "I think this place needs a new sofa," he says absently, loosening his tie.
Grace pauses, halfway through the buttons of John's shirt. "Do not order me one from a catalogue," she says. "I'll find my own."
John slides his shoulders free from the shirt. "He won't," he says quickly. "Harold's learned a lot." Then Harold slides his own arm around John's hip, and strokes the line of dark hair on John's belly. John closes his eyes in pleasure.
"Clearly," Grace says, drily.
There's a quiet, still moment then, with John between the two of them. It would be tense or awkward if John didn't have so much trust in them. He smiles down at Grace, cups her cheek and kisses her sweetly on the mouth.
"I really didn't think this would happen so fast," he says. "I assumed we'd date. You said you wanted to date." He lands small pecks down the side of her neck, soft brushes of lips on skin, sometimes open-mouthed, sometimes not.
Grace gasps as he mouths her collarbone. "This is a date," she says in a rush. "Isn't this a date? I've had dates like this…" John encircles her waist, puts his lips to her décolletage and she strokes his hair, arching her head back to give him room.
"There's no reason you can't both date later," says Harold. He shrugs out of his jacket, unbuttons his waistcoat with deft movements and slips it from his shoulders. John can see that he's hard, just from kissing John, from watching John kiss Grace. John exhales at the sight of him, grinds a little against Grace's hip, and she laughs, a gentle, delighted sound.
Harold, his shirt hanging free, his glasses askew, traces the line of her cheekbones, drawing her close to kiss her. Now at her back, John slips the straps of her dress away to put lips to her shoulder blades. Something soft brushes his neck, and he realises Harold has eased Grace's hair free from the ponytail so it spills down in a tumble of red. John gasps and steals her away from Harold to kiss her deeply.
He and Grace kiss for a long time, slow and deep, learning the way the other moves. Grace likes to pause now and then, stopping with her nose to his cheek, smiling and breathing heavily. John's eyelids flutter as he's enveloped by her presence: the faint fragrance of cosmetics, the whisper of her hair against his arms, the warmth radiating from her skin. Harold steps close behind him, runs fingers across the small of John's back, cups his ass, strokes the back of his thighs. John aches all over with want for the two of them: he's already grinding against Grace. He could come this way, he thinks, just from their hands on his body, from the rub of his cock against Grace's hipbone. When Harold reaches up to mouth the back of John's neck, John groans and shivers.
Harold steps away, rubbing his shoulder ruefully; the angle is a strain for him. In a romance novel, this would be where they tumble effortlessly into bed, but reality is a little more awkward. Harold needs to be careful of his neck, and for all he and Grace are rediscovering old patterns, there are going to be differences to accommodate. John realises he can be the mediator there, at least. He turns to Harold, cups his face gently then kisses him somewhat less gently, to Harold's gratifyingly low sigh.
After a few minutes, Harold eases away. "This is wonderful, it really is, but I think it would be prudent to go forward slowly." His glasses are misted up and there are two pink spots high on his cheeks. "I know it was only two beers…"
"Two and half," says Grace, straightening his glasses. "Not bad for someone who doesn't like beer."
"Two and a half," Harold amends himself. "I think I'd like to be a little more clear-headed for the first time we…uh." The colour deepens on his face. For someone whose filthy, clever tongue was just in John's mouth, Harold can be ridiculously coy.
Still, it's what Harold wants, and giving Harold what he wants is largely what John lives for. John sits down and pats the coverlet, mock-coaxing. "Are you sober enough for a little fooling around?" he asks, only a little sarcastic. He's just drunk enough to be wildly turned on, and wouldn't say no to sex, no matter how ill-advised.
Harold steps in close, pushing John's knees apart and kisses him again, deep and demanding. John sighs and shuts up, gives himself over to that tongue, those hands.
"I guess that answers the question," Grace says. She peels Harold out of the rest of his suit, folds it and drops it over the back of a chair. Harold looks at the suit, worried, then lets Grace tow him to the other side. John gleefully shucks off his own trousers and shirt, throws them to the floor beside the chair, ignores the cluck of Harold's tongue at such blithe messiness, and lolls on the bed while the others find the most comfortable arrangement.
The most comfortable position is with Harold in the middle, back propped by pillows, and Grace and John on either side, their limbs enmeshed. For all Harold's primness about taking it slow, he seems perfectly happy to direct John.
"Touch her – yes, like that," he says, as John spreads one hand wide to cup Grace's breast, stroking the nipple with his callused thumb. Grace makes a sound in the back of her throat and arches upwards, grinding herself against John's thigh. John catches Harold's expression – eyes focused and glittering, cheeks flushed and mouth open – and John wants to make a similar noise. Harold closes his arm and draws Grace in to nip at her neck. John finds his own mouth moving lower: the curve of Grace's ribcage, the softness of her belly. He can see the remaining line of a two-piece swimsuit from the spray of freckles across her navel. He rests his head there for a while, watching Harold and Grace kissing, seeing the interplay of new and familiar for them. Grace seems very taken with the lines at the corner of Harold's eyes, tracing them with her fingertips, her expression wondering. Harold smiles at her, and the lines crease together. John realises how little he sees Harold smile so openly, with the whole of his face. Harold's smiles usually come in small snatches, in the tone of his voice or the twitch of his lips. It's disarming to see him express happiness so freely and it makes John's heart thump. This is clearly the safest Harold has felt since John met him. John clambers back up to touch both of them with careful hands. He can keep them safe, both of them, in this place that Samaritan cannot see.
Harold draws him in to kiss him, too, and Grace strokes her fingers through his hair like he was a big cat. For a while they take a break and curl up together in the bed. Harold dozes, or at least he closes his eyes, though he keeps a possessive arm on John's hip. John uses Harold's chest as a pillow from where he can look up at Grace cuddled in against Harold's shoulder.
Grace reaches out to brush John's lips. "You okay?" she asks.
John's smile against her fingertip feels lazy and slow, spreading like molasses in the sun. All the warmth and skin contact have made him dopey with pleasure.
"Yeah," he says with a happy sigh. "You?"
Grace traces the outline of his mouth. "Yes…" she says, drawing the word out long and ending on a questioning tone.
"But…?" John offers into the quiet. When he speaks, Grace's finger slips into his mouth, and he kisses it. When she doesn't withdraw it, he nips at it gently, plays his teeth over the tip.
"I like your mouth," Grace says, then when John closes his mouth and applies a little suction, she groans. "I like it a lot. It's pretty. And clever."
"He's very good with it," Harold says, eyes still closed. "Skilled and generous."
Grace giggles, though she doesn't take her eyes off John, who takes her finger deep in his mouth then pulls back to lavish attention on the tip again. "Harold, you sound like a Yelp review."
Harold's eyes are open now. "Five stars," he says. "Excellent service, will certainly be visiting again."
John takes this as an invitation and a command, so he scoops Grace up and pulls her over to his side. She squeaks, then settles comfortably with her back to Harold's chest. Harold's arm snakes over her belly to hold her steady, while John slides downwards.
John kisses her knee then bends her leg, crooking it upward so he can reach the soft, pale skin of her inner thigh. From this position, he can see Harold and Grace both watching him: Grace with eyes half-closed, sleepy and aroused, and Harold with that laser intensity again.
"You okay with this?" John asks in Harold's direction.
Harold reaches down to take John's hand, curls it in his and kisses the knuckles one by one. "John, I am very okay with this," he says. He weaves his fingers through John's and guides them to his own cock, hard and hot under John's palm. "Let's say I am…" his voice hitches as John moves their joined hands together along the length of him, "eager."
"Excuse me," Grace says, and cups John's head so that he is looking directly. "I believe John and I were having a moment." She is flushed and has been biting her lip; it gleams wet in the soft golden light.
Harold's chuckle – wicked and a little husky – sends goosebumps along John's spine. "I do beg your pardon," he says to her politely, and releases John.
John grins and returns his attention to the soft skin of Grace's thighs, so pale there that now she's aroused the skin is blush pink and radiating warmth. He kisses her there, gentle and open-mouthed, and she sighs, spreading her legs wider. When he reaches her cunt – wet and beautiful – he touches her softly, teasing her open, learning her contours. Then at her encouraging moan, he touches a little less softly, pressing firmly, furiously turned on by her slickness. He spreads her with two fingers, works his tongue inside her, then up to her clit. Grace moans, and throws a leg over his back, grinding his ass down into the bed with her heel. John's cock is moving with pleasant friction against the sheets and for a moment he loses himself in the situation. Grace is beautiful, spread open in front of him, watching him with intense and hungry anticipation.
For a moment, John thinks of all the things that have happened – both good and terrible – to bring him here to this place, and his head spins. Or maybe it's lack of oxygen, he's not sure, but when Harold puts two fingers at the back of his neck, John is immediately more grounded. He loves Harold's hands, loves the way he touches John, and right now, that point of contact is as if he is guiding John. Now that he can concentrate again, John doesn't really need guidance: Grace's body is a map of reactions teaching him what she likes. She's a hair-clutcher, which John does like, and she is grinding against his face, which John fucking loves. When she pulls him closer and holds him there, he hears Harold laugh softly behind him, and then John's gone. All he wants to do is make Grace come, make her feel good, and make Harold happy.
He works Grace into a frenzy with his mouth, until she's arched and moaning around him, thighs over his shoulders, humping up against his mouth. When she comes, she drives her heels into his back, pushing his cock down hard, and he nearly comes too, just from that and the sounds she's making.
When he rises up from between her legs, Grace is splayed across the pillows, one arm thrown over her head and her hair a rosy puddle against the linens. Her breath is just starting to regulate but her chest still heaves and her skin gleams damp in the lamplight.
"Oh," she says, eyes closed. "Oh, my God."
John plants a slick, happy peck on her knee, and she pulls him up to wrap him in her arms. He snuggles in and nuzzles her neck, then rests his head on her shoulder.
"That was… Thank you," she says. She's hoarse and exhausted, and John can feel that every muscle is soft and pliant. It's probably the most relaxed he's ever seen her.
"You're welcome," he says, and traces a line down between her breasts. "You're beautiful, you know that?"
"She is," Harold says, from behind them. "You are both beautiful, and I'm so happy to see you together here."
Grace laughs. She trails her fingertips along John's shoulder blade. "Does Harold look as smug as he sounds?"
John glances behind him. "Yep," he says. "Can't blame him, though. This is all because of him."
"Still," says Grace, pushing herself up on her elbows. "He's seen me all unravelled."
"I have," Harold says. "And very lovely it was."
Grace flops on her side and shimmies up to nestle next to Harold. "Wanna get unravelled with John?" She looks over her shoulder at John, sitting on his heels at the end of the bed. "How about you, John? I bet you're beautiful when you're getting fucked."
John's eyelashes dip at the words, and he arches his back, thinking of how that will feel, Harold inside him and Grace watching every expression. His cock twitches hard against his belly.
Harold is watching him now, his gaze sharp and unblinking. "Would you like that, John?"
John sighs, and crawls across to kiss him, deep and open. Harold's fingers goes to John's hair, stroking and holding him. John holds himself above Harold's body so that his weight doesn't hurt Harold's back. It gives Harold the opportunity to run his palm down John's body in light, fast strokes that tease. Harold's made a study of John's responses since they started sleeping together, and he can find all the places that make John sigh: the curve of muscle over his hip, the sensitive skin at the cleft of his ass, the pink skin of his latest scar. Each touch makes John gasp or hiss or grind down against Harold's leg. After a moment, Grace joins in, so there's an impossible number of hands on John's body, more than he can keep track of at once. Soon he's floating above Harold while a dozen hands light up his skin with gentle touch. He doesn't really notice when they guide him up and onto his back; he's concentrating on getting oxygen in between the gasps. That, and snatching a glimpse now and then of Harold's face, of Grace's, a reassurance that everything is good here, that everyone is rapt and happy.
He's not sure if it's Harold or Grace who pushes a slick finger inside him first, and that's fascinating enough to bring him back to himself with a rush. It must be Harold, because John's head is cradled in Grace's lap, and she is gently rolling his nipple while she traces the contours of his ear. The fingers – two now, and it's definitely Harold, since only Harold can find John's sweet spot with such assurance – move with upwards pressure, and John gasps with hungry, hot pleasure.
"Oh, John," says Grace, her voice low. She's turned on, he can tell. It's on every breath John sucks in, and he knows now how arousal smells on her. He scoots backwards a little, despite the small noise of annoyance from where Harold leans on the end of the bed. John wants to press his back into her, wants her draped over him when Harold fucks him.
Harold frowns, put out by this rearrangement of bodies, but he readjusts, kneeling above John's spread legs. When John pulls his legs up to make room, Grace wraps one hand around each thigh, holding him in place. It's what John wants – he didn't realise how much he wanted it, until Grace's arms make a cage to hold John still and safe. He leans back, head between her breasts, and lets his eyelids dip until he's watching Harold through his eyelashes.
Grace has her lips to his temple, and her breath moves regularly against his skin. Harold enters him, excruciatingly slow, always so slow, always demanding patience when John wants to gallop ahead full steam. John tenses up, straining forward in anticipation, wanting all of Harold now, but Grace kisses him, whispers nonsense to him: he's beautiful, it's going to be so good, she could watch him forever.
This – John in Grace's arms – is apparently the end of all Harold's stoicism, because he makes a noise in the back of his throat and pushes deep into John. John arches and whines, thrusting upwards with the sensation of it. It's so good, Harold knows his body so well, and with Grace holding him, John doesn't know how to contain himself.
On every thrust into him, John cries out. Grace leans over him to nibble his bicep and then, experimentally, gives him a nip. That makes John buck, and she moans with him.
"Again," Harold gasps. John sees the sweat beading Harold's forehead, the slide of his palms on John's chest, and then there's a sweet sting as Grace bites him again, hard. John doesn't remember anything cogent after that, just pleasure inside him, sharpness outside, and always, always being held between the two of him.
It's Grace gripping his cock, he thinks wildly, at some stage. She doesn't know the shape of him just yet, and takes a moment to adjust her grip, change the angle, before she can jack him smoothly back and forth. Artist's hands, he thinks, as he's coming all over his belly, strong and callused, different to Harold.
Harold's pace increases, and his gaze drifts from John's face to Grace's expression of concentration as she works John's cock gently through the last shudders of orgasm. When Harold comes, it's with John's name falling from his lips in a sigh or a moan, leaning hard against John's legs as his cock pulses inside John. John is raw with overstimulation at this point, but Grace thankfully lets go of his cock and nestles beside him, kissing his dry lips, his cheek, his throat. Harold withdraws gently, runs one sweaty palm along John's thigh, and takes care of the clean-up. Meanwhile John curls up against Grace, still sweating and panting and completely unable to move again.
Harold somehow finds the energy to fetch towels and damp washcloths, but John is done. He can barely keep his eyes open long enough for Harold to clamber into the bed and nestle himself carefully at John's back, and then he's asleep.
When he wakes, Grace is in the middle but she has her arms curled against John's chest and her cheek on his shoulder, breathing evenly onto his skin. John lies on his side, breathing sex and faintly the fabric softener smell of Grace's laundry. The sheets which they only put on this morning will need changing. He doesn't mind though, not when every breath reminds him of the taste of Grace's skin or the scent of old books and clean linen that hangs perennially about Harold's clothes. He shifts slowly so his head is pillowed on his arm and he can look up at Harold.
Harold has left the lamp on, and the soft golden light glints off his glasses.
"I was watching you sleep," he says softly to John. "I so rarely get the chance."
John blinks slowly and orients himself amidst the interwoven limbs that surround him. Harold hold Grace close and she is spooned into him with her cheek resting on John's chest. John reaches along Grace's back, pulling the covers up over her, and she makes an appreciative noise then burrows down into the warmth, nestled against John's arm. While she dozes, Harold gently twists curls into her long red hair, winding locks around his fingers then letting them go in a ringlet. He catches John watching him and gives him a delightfully goofy smile.
"They never stay for long," he says of her curls, faux-mournful. "Her hair will insist on going its own way. Quite representative of the whole, I'm afraid."
John takes a deep breath, slowly so as not to disturb Grace. "Would you have it any other way?"
"Think about your answer, mister," Grace says sleepily from under the covers. "That's my foot right… about… there."
Harold makes a horrified noise and shifts uncomfortably. "How are your feet still cold?" he says, appalled.
Grace giggles. "I weaponised them," she says. "I wanted to impress John."
"I'm impressed," John says, hurriedly. "Please don't use them on me."
"Mmmh," says Grace and buries herself deeper into his armpit. "You smell good," is the last thing she says before she falls asleep again.
Harold reaches over Grace's shoulder to touch John's cheek softly. There's a lot unsaid between them, but Harold's face right now is as good as a telegraph.
I love you, his expression says. I trust you with this person who is so important to me. You amaze me. I didn't know it was possible to feel this happy.
John leans into Harold's touch, then turns his head to kiss the palm. "Me too," he says, and closes his eyes.