They're sleeping now, the two of them. Ned is curled on his side, has pressed his ruddy face against Henry's sturdy flank, half-tucked into his armpit where he was snuffling into the bigger man's earthy, homely scent in postcoital bliss. Henry is on his back, his lips slightly parted, splayed out and snoring softly: his naked chest rises and falls, beads of sweat still glistening in the generous cover of his chest hair.
The room still smells like sex, but the open windows are letting in cool, crystal clear night air that carries the sticky warmth of it away. Thomas sighs into the pillow. He is so pleasantly exhausted - he's had a nice Saturday evening, cradling Henry's curly head in his lap while he lay so sweet and still for them, relinquished his lovely fat co*ck to them - but Thomas feels energized, still, woken from his own satisfied trance by the cool breeze and his odd sleep schedule and a million unformed thoughts dancing around the pleasantly empty scape of his head. He shifts, trying to get comfortable with Henry's lovely but sweaty-hot arm against his back, and sighs.
"Still awake?"
He opens his eyes to find Harry looking back at him. The man's curls - not unlike Henry's - are ruffled into disarray, some strands stuck to his forehead. His skin is glowing, still, from their earlier activities - he'd looked quite enthused, sat astride Henry's barrel thighs. His dark eyes are soft and warm in the low light.
"Mm," Thomas hums. He beds his head on his arm. Can't quite manage to get comfortable, somehow. Harry watches him try.
"Can't sleep?" he asks eventually.
Thomas, despite himself, nods. Harry's clever eyes seem to see right through him, anyway. He reaches out - an offer - and Thomas scoots closer towards him.
"Want me to help?"
They approach each other slowly this time. Harry comes towards him a little as well, and they meet in the middle for a kiss. It is a slow affair, how their lips come together for comfort, almost chastely, until Thomas deepens the kiss and Harry's hand comes to rest on his cheek, cradling him, and Thomas does the same for him. Harry tastes like the mints he likes to chew after he's sucked someone, and like skin and bed linens and a little bit - though Thomas may be imagining it - like Henry. But he feels different against Thomas, his hand much smaller, more fine-boned, his chest a firm plane when Thomas slides his fingers down to map it. Harry breathes a little gasp against his lips when he brushes his thumb over a nipple, then a content sigh when Thomas drags his fingernails down to his belly. Harry laughs, softly, into the corner of his mouth.
"Thomas. Still, now - let me."
Harry pulls him closer until they can feel the other's body heat radiating onto them like sunshine. He traces his thumb over Tom's cheek, finds the spot where his jaw feels just a little too tight, and nudges into the muscle with slow, circling pressure that sends a dull cathartic pain through Tom. His knee slides up between Thomas' thighs and brushes, gently, against his prick, which is slowly getting interested in the proceedings. When Harry kisses him again, Thomas reaches down to give himself a few lazy strokes.
Harry tuts into the kiss but lets him - at least for a moment, before he gently pries his hand away and pulls it around behind himself, tidying it away on his own lower back before he reaches for Thomas' co*ck himself. He keeps the slow pace, though, simply stroking him in time with their languid kisses.
They do this for a while. There is no time pressure, no goal - they're both still sated from earlier, not strung up or needy. It's exploratory, really, a little new, just the two of them while their respective partners are asleep. Still present, though. Thomas can hear the gentle rhythm of Henry's snores at the periphery of his consciousness, and Ned's breathing inbetween. And there is Harry's soft, low moan against his lower lip, even though it's Thomas' co*ck he is touching. It sounds pleasured, though, indulgent. Harry is enjoying the glow of this, between them. So is Thomas.
He lets his fingers follow Harry’s spine, finds the dip right above his tailbone, and scritches slow circles where he has seen Ned do it. Harry's back arches into his touch, and hid hand tightens around Tom’s shaft in appreciation. "Good?", Thomas whispers, superfluously. "Uh-huh," Harry says, and then he kisses him again, deeply. His hips shift with Thomas' touch, arching and yielding as Thomas maps his sensitive spot, and finally, Thomas slips his fingers down between his cheeks and strokes his wet hole for him. Henry is so well endowed it leaves one feeling open, pleasantly stretched like after a workout. Thomas knows the feeling well, and yet it's its own kind of thrill to feel it on someone else, to trace Harry's puffy rim with one curious fingertip, feel the slick warmth of lube and come - Henry's - and listen to the soft keen it draws from Harry. Oh, Henry did so well for them.
"He feels so good," Harry tells him in a whisper, as if reading his thoughts. His thumb is rubbing over Thomas' tip. His grip is nice and solid around him. Thomas opens his eyes - when did they fall shut? - and Harry is smiling at him with pride: of Henry, of them . There is a trickle of warmth against Thomas' fingertips. Henry comes hard and proper - Harry will be waking up still wet and sticky with it. But for now, he pushes his hips back into the touch, and goes in for another kiss with a muttered " Yes ," and Thomas slides his finger inside him with no resistance at all.
Oh, the work Henry's made of him. Thomas muffles a moan into their kiss as he sinks into the loose slick heat of Harry's body. A second finger, right away, and Harry hums contently, still far from filled out, so comfortably slack around the intrusion that Thomas strokes him inside like he would his arm; an affectionate gesture.
They fall into a kind of rhythm of their own, stroking each other. Internally, externally, hands and tongues and content sighs into the cool air. When Harry lets go of his co*ck and strokes up his chest, Thomas rolls onto his back without thinking, his fingers still within Harry as Harry gets on top of him without ever pulling away from his lips. Then Harry noses at his cheek, his neck, and trails a line of kisses along the column of his throat while their pricks are trapped between them, hot and hard again despite their earlier exploits. None of the drive behind it, though - the arousal a pleasant thrum that makes Thomas' body feel heavy and light all at the same time. He finds himself begging for Harry's attention with the crook of his fingers inside him. Wants to be kissed again, and share Harry's minty breath between them. His free hand maps the shape of him. Harry's arms, he knows, are mottled with bruises from his partner's clinging hands, his hips decorated with some humble impatient scratches, where he has been pulled deep inside of Ned where he was urgently needed. Thomas presses up into the hot space where their bodies meet, rubs their co*cks together in a lazy rolling grind. Harry's hand is at his wrist, gently pulling him from within him - Thomas lets his digits slip from his slick sanctum. A part of him wants to taste them. Harry's body, Henry's cum, his own salty skin at once, intermingled. Instead, he reaches overhead to wipe his hand on one of the towels, and under the blankets, Harry reaches for his prick.
Harry guides him to his f*cked-out hole, pauses with his tip just nudging against it. " Please ," Thomas tells him, and Harry lets him sink inside his hot, slick arse with a happy sigh. He lays down on him, Thomas buried within him, and they kiss about it all while Thomas winds his fingers into those handsome curls and wraps his other arm around tattooed shoulders, holding him closer, closer.
"So good," Harry mumbles, not the way he tells Ned he is being good , but simply an observation. He rolls his hips, just enough to make them both feel it, and gasps with delight at the feeling. Thomas feels his weight above him. He does not buck up into the sopping heat of him, feels no need to. How loose he is, still. Henry's so terribly, gorgeously big . He could fit in his fingers again, if he wanted - could probably fit Ned in with him, if they wanted. It would not take much more.
"-you thinkin' about, hm?"
Harry murmurs into his ear. He's craning his neck, trying to reach and kiss the tender spot behind it. Thomas turns his head and bares himself for him. "Nothin'," he answers, thoughtlessly, then: "could still fit Ned, I think."
Harry chuckles, right next to his ear. A low, honeyed sound laced with surprise. He kisses it then, that tender spot. He must've seen Henry do it, brushing Thomas' hair aside with his thumb to get at the sensitive skin. He follows the curve of Thomas' neck down along the muscle, mouthing at it without teeth, his hot humid breath sending shivers down Thomas' spine. Thomas lets himself sink into the pillows. Leaves Harry to his task of mapping the shape of him while he listens to the room, snores and sighs and the gentle glide of linen over skin. Harry shifts on top of him and moans, his forehead coming to rest against Thomas' sternum. He sits up slightly, seeking and finding a good angle, and groans contently when the next lazy roll of his hips pushes Thomas against his prostate. He's handsome like this, his dark curls haloed by the bit of light from the dimmed lamp on the shelf, the moonlight spilling in with the cool night air. Harry's brows are knit together in concentration, his eyes closed in deep focus on the sensation as he grinds himself down with deliberate, slow movements. His hands come to rest on Thomas' chest as he leans back further, takes his pleasure without hurry. He's lovely and hot around Thomas, clenching experimentally which makes Thomas moan in turn. Quiet, breathy sounds of comfort shared between them.
He lets his own eyes fall shut again. If he were to fall asleep like this, he would not mind - Harry could just keep going if he wanted to, or fall asleep on top of him, their bodies still joined. Waves of slow, heavy pleasure roll through his very bones.
"Mmmh," Harry hums above him, pulling himself up and sinking down again. "Mh, just there - ah, that's nice, yes."
He's talking to himself, in the absent-minded manner Thomas has seen him do while flipping through a book, looking for Ned's lost keys. He can't help but smile at that thought, and reaches to place his hand on Harry's thigh, rub his thumb back and forth where he can feel the muscle work as Harry lazily f*cks himself on him. In turn, Harry comes down to kiss him again. He kisses with a certain lack of finesse more than made up for with curious enthusiasm. Most of all, though, they are simply pressing their lips together, Harry's beard scratching Thomas' cheek - like Henry's. Harry kisses the corner of his mouth, and his cheek, and then as he arcs his back and slides him deep he utters a satisfied noise from within his chest and leans in to kiss his forehead, too, brushing the stubborn strand out of Thomas' face to do so. It does something to Thomas - something that makes him reach for Harry's hips and pull him down on his co*ck, raise his chin and clamor for his mouth again which Harry meets with a soft laugh and the encouraging press of his arse against him. He lets Thomas f*ck up into him, moans in appreciation when he gets the angle right again. He's so slick and relaxed inside Thomas feels he'll slip out if he gets too frantic, pulls back too far. Every thrust up inside him sounds wet . Harry rests his head against his shoulder and goes heavy and pliant on top of him, his prick trapped between them. For moments, or minutes, Thomas f*cks into him at his leisure. Grows tired, eventually, and turns his face into Harry's mop of hair to kiss it. "Harry," he murmurs, to see if he's awake. "Your turn. M' tired."
Harry gives a playful grumble in return. He grinds his arse on him, but does not sit up again. His co*ck is pressed against Thomas' belly, hot and hard. The friction must be glorious. "M' too lazy." Harry professes, and nuzzles against him apologetically - nothing to apologise for. He feels so good on top of him.
"Mm."
So Thomas strokes down his back - along the trail of hair that follows the line of Harry's spine, all the way from the curious patch on the back of his neck - and gropes at his arse. He's easy to knead in his palms in time with the motion of Harry rutting against him. Harry breathes against his cheek as he humps him, soon starts panting softly. He's not quite f*cking himself like this - more rubbing himself against Thomas, co*ck sliding within him. His hole, though, is twitching and flexing with the effort.
Thomas is back to lazily rubbing up against him when he thinks to ask. "Can I come in you?"
Harry's laugh tickles at his chin. "Why, I'd ask you to." He nuzzles him - fondly, almost a little like the friendly, snuffling press of Ned's nose against them that they know so well. "I'd like you to."
Thomas, for a moment, feels overcome with it. Something about it feels enormous somehow, even though they've shared bed, board, and partners, and-
"Thomas."
Harry must be smiling. He sounds like he is. He moans softly when Tom shakes off his stupor and presses him down on his co*ck. "Yes," he breathes, "yes, there," and clenches - Tom groans in return - his lips are met with Harry's again - he's clenching on him, almost possessive , but his kiss is all soft, breathing keening noises into Tom's mouth, "Ah," and "yes," and "mh, oh," and he's hot and wet and hard between them, rocking and panting, and then he's coming, and his hole pulses and twitches and clenches and Thomas holds onto him and spills, groaning, deep inside his sloppy arse.
His org*sm rolls through him in one great wave of warmth, and as he sinks back into the pillows, heavy and slack, exhaustion envelops him with welcoming arms.
Thomas lets out a sigh that feels like relief. Harry is pleasantly heavy, boneless on top of him. He's still buried within him - feeling the little twitches of his afterglow.
He wraps his arms around him. Harry squeezes his shoulder in response.
Before Thomas knows it, he has fallen soundly asleep.
