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Arguments are Foreplay Too

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Perry is in the driver's seat, Harry in the passenger's, and the camera recording the cabin they're staking out is on the dashboard between them. While neither will admit it, after two hours of no activity in the house, any diversion is a welcome one.

Tonight's diversion is an argument.

It begins with what Perry says is Harry's tendency to get the shit beat out of him, which Harry protests because he can very well take care of himself—he's a great shot. But Perry counters that if you can't defend your gun, how well you shoot doesn't matter. The least Harry can do is learn to take care of himself.

Which leads to Harry's revelation: 

“You worry about me, don't you? That's why you're such a bitch! God, it makes perfect sense now.”

Without turning, Perry slaps the back of Harry's head. “The world doesn't revolve around you, idiot. Nice try though.”

Harry rubs the sore spot, but he's so used to Perry smacking him that he just grins and turns it in his favor: “See, that? That was a love tap.”

That makes Perry face him. “Yeah?” He clamps a hand over Harry's mouth and smirks. “This is a love shut-the-fuck-up.”

“That's sho shweet,” Harry says, his voice muffled. He pats Perry's arm. “Bet you do that to all the guys.”

“You imagine me with other guys? For a straight guy, you're a kinky bitch.”

Harry's brow crinkles and he manages to pry Perry's hand down enough to speak above it. “You're twisting my words. Besides, you're the one who's into gagging me right now.”

Perry removes his hand and pointedly wipes it on his slacks. “Trust me—you weren't gagging.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Clearly,” Perry says, “you don't get laid enough.”

Harry flushes red and he twists in his seat. “I—you know that's a sore spot! Harmony and I just didn't work out, okay? And all the other women here are psycho!”

Even as Perry rolls his eyes, he's already saying—for the nth time— “L.A. bitches are psychotic. That's given. Also given: You're looking for dating material where there is none.” He pauses. “Which is stupid.”

“It's not stupid; it's—it's a worthy effort,” Harry says, and then nods, eyes trailing back to the log cabin. “I mean, is it so wrong that I want more than a one night stand? Jesus. Why did I move here again?”

“Nothing's wrong with wanting more. It's just fucking stupid to expect it. You live here.”

Harry groans, throws his head back into the seat, and rolls it back and forth. “You know what your problem is, what this entire city's problem is? You're all cynics. Jaded. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy; you expect nothing but bad shit, so you get bad shit. So, yeah, I'll want more, and I'll even look for it.” He clears his throat and adds on with a shrug, “Maybe someday I'll be settled down and happy with a white picket fence, the whole fucking shebang.”

“You're the bad shit magnet, Harry—I didn't learn to expect being shot at before I met you.” Perry's beginning to talk with his hands, which is never a good sign. The chiding look, like Harry is deluded, isn't any better. “And don't talk like some kissass corporate schmuck. We investigate people with picket fences, for chrissakes.”

“It's not like you're the one getting hurt,” Harry says. “And this is L.A.; these picket fences are corrupted.”

“Don't blame the fences for your inability to see people as they are,” Perry shoots back.

“What, horrible cesspools of humanity? Oh, wait, that's just you.”

Perry snorts. “I'm impressed you used 'cesspools' correctly. Here's another word for you: 'deleterious.' As in, 'You have a deleterious effect on everyone around you, so I hope you have a good life insurance policy set up for whatever bitch you set up your fucking picket fence with.'” Perry drops the pompous tone and looks, considering, at Harry. “Maybe I should set one up in your name, in case you die first.”

Harry guffaws. “What, was that supposed to impress me? Ohh,” he wiggles his fingers, “Perry van Shrike knows big, intimidating words, ooo, he's so tough, I'm so scared!”

“I'm just surprised you recognized that as an actual word. Every fuckin' day I learn something new about you, Harry.” He clamps a hand on Harry's shoulder, but his tone is congenial despite his next words: “Today I learned you're clearly not worried enough thatI will do you bodily harm if you continue to piss me off.”

Harry snaps his head around to the window, like he's thinking of escape, but he stays put. “You'd never seriously hurt me, right? You're, like, my best friend, and you couldn't hurt your best friend. I'm just so entertaining, surprises around every turn.”

“And bullets. Surprises and bullets.” Perry does not look swayed.

“A bullet is usually a surprise. I know I'll never get used to them. I keep us on our toes, come on.” Harry glances down, a little nervously, at Perry's hand. “Uh, hand off shoulder, Perry? I think you're squeezing.”

Perry squeezes harder and then lets go. “Congratulations. Let's try for less surprises in this case, huh, Chief?”

“Did you have to do it so hard?” Harry grumbles, rotating his shoulder. “And yeah, yeah, I'll try to keep my magic to a minimal.”

“A minimum, idiot,” Perry grumbles back. Then his face twists into something suspiciously like worry. “God knows if I didn't put the fear of painful death into you every so often, you'd do even more dumb shit than usual.”

Harry grins, always one to bounce back. “See, this works out: you, me, balance. We balance each other out, like a team. You keep me in line and make sure I don't kill myself, and I keep you from becoming a complete dickhead.”

“So you don't think I'm a complete dickhead?” Perry raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Fucking great job you must be doing. Hey, here's a thought—aren't gay men supposed to be catty bitches? What happened to that?”

“Well if you insist on enforcing stereotypes I really can’t oppose you, and I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, but clearly you must shoot down every fucking thing I say, so you know what?” Harry slumps in his seat and glares at the cabin. “Forget it. Target probably already passed by anyway.”

“Actually,” Perry admits, “he left about twenty minutes ago. Specifically, when I told you to fucking shut up and had to enforce it with my hand over your flapping mouth.” Perry's smile is too saccharine to be anything but a Hollywood fake. “I take it you're ready to go home now, muffin?”

“You… What? He already—fuck.” Harry leans forward, peering through the windshield. “I missed it? Jesus Christ. I am useless.” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair before pausing and saying, “Wait, did you just call me muffin?”

Perry pats Harry's knee. “Don't worry, next time you'll get 'im.” He laughs then, and starts the car. “And yes, I called you muffin. Soft and mushy on the outside, and soft and mushy on the inside.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at the knee-pat. “Careful, you almost sound like you’re being nice to me. And I’ll have you know I beefed up a little, I am not that doughy.”

“Thanks, I have eyes.” Perry turns onto the main road and signals to get onto the highway. “I meant you're emotionally doughy. What are you, self-conscious?”

“Oh, I'm so glad you've noticed. I mean, the eyes thing—not that you noticed you have eyes, I meant the beefing up thing. Fuck. What, can't a guy worry over his appearance some? You sure do.”

“I'm gay, I work in L.A., and I like to look nice.” Then the rambling seems to register, because Perry raises an eyebrow visible in the in-and-out of the highway lights. “Did I make you nervous?”

“Nervous, me?” Harry points at himself with both hands, and he goes into wild gestures which usually go hand-in-hand with his discomfort, frustration, or anxiety. “Oh, no. Why would I be nervous?”

“You're babbling, which in this case means you're nervous.”

“Don't I always babble?”

“I thought we were best friends, Harry. Best friends are honest with each other.” His voice hardens, like he's talking to an uncooperative witness. “Why the fuck are you lying to me?”

Harry makes placating hand motions, and he says this very logically: “Lying is sort of in my track record, as you should know, being my best friend. Not that I am lying.”

“Do. I. Make. You. Nervous. It's a simple fucking question. What, are you too nervous to answer that too?” Perry's grinning like he doesn't think this is funny anymore.

“Well, you are acting pretty scary right now, with the slow-speaking and angry devil smile. I'm beginning to think you are capable of giving me serious injury—”

Perry flicks the dashboard clock. “And right on schedule—the bullshit brigade.”

“You know what? Fine.” Something in the dark seeps into Harry's face and he stares straight ahead at the road. Soon after, words rush out. “Yes, maybe you make me a little nervous sometimes, mostly when you actually act nice and touch me without it being a smack to the head or a hand to make me shut the fuck up and what was with the muffin thing anyway? I mean, don't get me wrong, it's, well, it's nice when you act nice but it doesn't happen all that often, you gotta admit, so usually I don't know how to handle it, so that might be a clue to maybe act like that more often.” He turns suddenly, thoughtful. “Did you really notice I gained some muscle? Fuck, I can’t even remember what I’m supposed to be nervous about.”

Perry waits to answer, as if Harry's words will make more sense if they sit in the air for a while. “...So you want me to act nice more, so you'll be nervous more...?” Another pause. Still no sense. So he whacks the side of Harry's head. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Fuck, ow! See! That's what I mean!” Harry grimaces. “I mean, no—that's not, I meant so I could get used to it or something, shit, forget it.”

“Sure—let's just forget it.” The number on the clock changes. Perry smirks, squeezes Harry's bicep and says, straight-faced, “Have you been working out?”

Harry looks torn between deer-in-headlights, hysterical laughter, and flattery. His voice squeaks: “Maybe?”

Perry looks surprised for a moment before his face settles into a frown. “I live with you. I work with you. I have you on fucking speed dial. I know all your friends because they're my fucking friends. I know where you like to go and what you like to do. I fucking know what you do with your time, Harry.” He shakes his head, but pats Harry before returning his hand to the gear shift. “Jesus.”

Harry looks somehow disappointed; he slouches down and looks out the window, at the buildings, the lights. He mutters to himself, “Yeah, you do, of course you do. Not like you'd actually notice—you just already know.”

Perry seems to be having an inner debate. It ends in an annoyed sigh. “Look, I noticed, all right? Congratu-fucking-lations, Gay Perry can tell you've been working out.”

For a minute, the popular Harry-is-a-puppy metaphor feels too true: if he had a tail, it'd be wagging. “That's great. I knew it was paying off. Listen, how about some fighting lessons soon? I mean, you could teach me those things, right?”

“There are classes for that. And remind me to take you back to the gun range. You need to get more comfortable with my guns.”

“Why would I take classes with a stranger from L.A. of all places when you could teach me instead?”

“Because,” Perry explains tersely, “you don't make gay jokes about strangers who can kick your ass, and you clearly feel uncomfortable when I touch you in any way that isn't fast-moving and meant to cause pain. You act like I'm trying to fuck you.”

Harry fidgets. “I didn't say it made me uncomfortable. I said it made me nervous.”

“My being nice to you makes you nervous.”

“I like to think we've established that, yes,” Harry says.

“Well, I hope we've also established that's fucking stupid.” Perry glares at Harry for longer than is probably safe while driving. “Evenyou're not that much of a masochist. But fine. Want me to be nice to you? Fine. Starting now, I'll be nice.”

Harry blinks, gives a little head shake. “Like, wait. Now? What? How—just like that?”

“Well,” Perry says, jaw clenching, “I thought I'd give you a break.”

“A break? What? From... Huh?”

“...Are you trying to make this difficult?”

Harry doesn't look any less bewildered when he says, “I do remember you saying I made things difficult by nature.”

Perry nearly misses their exit. A car behind them honks as Perry veers into the right lane and up the ramp. Perry fumes as he waits for the light, and finally says, “You know what, fuck being nice to you, too. You're clearly not ready.” He pulls onto their street and slows the car.

“What? No! I didn't—! Fuck.” Harry scrubs at his face with both hands, speaking past them. “I'm sorry, okay? Jesus, this will never go anywhere. Forget it. We're almost home.”

“Apology accepted.” Perry pulls into the driveway and turns off the car. “Now get out. We've got a mile of paperwork to do.” He pulls the memory card out of the dashboard camera and gets out of the car.

Harry sits in the car for a while longer, glowering. “Well. That went fan-fucking-tastic.” He opens the door and slams it shut, fuck Perry if he's sore about how Harry treats the car right now.

But Perry just locks the car and goes inside, frowning at Harry all the while, and waits inside the door for Harry, one hand on the knob and the other on the lock.

Harry trudges inside, removing his hoodie and tossing it into the hall closet—he'll pick it up later, whatever, Perry probably will in a few minutes; he won't suffer it on the floor for long.

Perry closes and locks the door. “Don't leave that on the floor.”

At first Harry looks like he's going to protest, but between Perry's stern voice and tense shoulders and Harry's will to survive, he always gives in—sooner or later. He picks up the hoodie and hangs it properly. “There. That all better, princess?”

“No, not all better. What crawled up your ass and died?” Perry tosses his keys in the bowl and and takes a step closer to Harry.

Harry unconsciously takes a step back, but he sucks at hiding emotions, so the nervous yet angry look is plain. “Nothing. Christ, you're the one who's anal about jackets on floors.”

“Stop being a bitch, Harry,” Perry says. “I'm not an idiot, and I'm not your mother or your fucking shrink. If you have a problem, you tell me, we fix it, we move on. Period.” With each annoyed phrase he takes a step forward, until Harry has nowhere to go but past him.

And now Harry's back is at the door, fuck. He presses into it, and why does Perry get to be taller when he's already so fucking scary? If he got any closer—oh, also, tight jeans suck. “Uh. I. Uh.”

“'Uh. I. Uh.' No.” Perry presses a hand to Harry's chest and holds him there, against the door. “Talk.”

Oh God, okay, Harry thinks. Perry's palm is really wide; he's just a big macho guy overall. If he presses hard enough, he can probably cave in Harry's chest. He can hold Harry down with just one fucking hand and a stare from hell, how fair is that? Harry licks his lips. “Could you get any more intimidating?”

“You're stalling.” Perry pulls out his phone and looks at the time. “You have thirty fucking seconds to tell the truth. Start talking.”

“Oh, Jesus, not this again. What is it with you guys and pressure?” Harry whines. “Look, I'm sorry, I'm being a bitch, I admit it, all right?” Please don't look down, please don't look down, please. “Big stressful week, L.A women are crazy, we already did that. I'm just insane right now, that's all, you'd say the same thing, and then you'd sneer and call me an idiot—you know what? Fuck it. Kiss me.” Pause. “Wait, shit. What? How many seconds left?”

Perry glances at his phone and puts it away, a perplexed frown on his face. “Eight. Come again?”

“Wow, twenty-two seconds went by quick. Say, even more's gone by now, you know what, I think my time's up. Shame, that. So. I'll just. Go. Now.”

Perry's eyes narrow. He presses his body closer, lips coming closer, closer, and finally stopping a breath from Harry's. “You want me to kiss you, Harry?”

Okay, so now Perry is flushed against him, massive chest and shoulders and all, so Harry could use that as an explanation for why he's sweating and panting now, a little claustrophobic maybe, that sounds good. But fuck, there's no way to explain away just how fucking tight his jeans are getting, and no doubt Perry feels that, shitshitshit. How did he get himself into this again? Oh, right, destiny or something like that, isn’t that what he believes in? Wait. Matter at hand? Or rather. At mouth. Very, very much at mouth. “Perry,” he says slowly, “you know how I said you make me nervous sometimes? Well, you’re making me nervous.”

Perry rocks his hips slightly, feels the length trapped inside Harry's jeans, feels his own body react. He leans forward, skimming Harry's cheek with his own to hide a smirk in Harry's jaw. “How nervous?” He puts a firm hand on Harry's hip. Under his other hand, Harry's heart is pounding. Perry's lips graze Harry's neck.

Harry's thoughts narrow to single objects: hand on chest, on hip. Fingers, pressing, gripping. Mouth, neck. Fuck! He did not just whine. Leave it to Perry van fucking Shrike to jump straight in and do that—that thing, with the rocking, and the mouth grazing and please? “Please. Please? Very nervous, like monumentally nervous. And, ahh...” Finally he reaches up, grasps at Perry's back. “You're not—going to call me an idiot?”

At the whine, Perry closes his eyes and rocks against Harry again, wanting to hear that sound. Against Harry's ear, he says roughly, “Your idiot window is closing. You wanna jump back on the straight boy track, you jump now. Otherwise...” The hand on Harry's chest creeps up to grip Harry's shoulder. His thumb gently strokes Harry's neck, and his fingers hold Harry in place as he sucks an earlobe into his mouth and lets it go with a light scrape of teeth. “Otherwise, you're going to be a lot more than just nervous.”

Well, now Harry's just being reduced to a squirming mess; he should've known Perry would be really good at this shit, and how much experience does Harry have, really? He's never done anything like what Perry is doing to him—“Oh God, oh God, oh God,please continue that sentence with 'You're also going to be fucked,' because you know that'd just be great right about now.”

Perry chuckles darkly against Harry's jaw. “You want me to fuck you, Harry?” He says 'fuck' with a hard edge, and his hand on Harry's hip slides down to cup Harry's ass, gripping and grinding Harry against him as he rocks his hips. He hums in satisfaction. “You want my cock inside you, pounding into you, filling you up?” Perry doesn't whisper the words—just says them, blunt and dirty, into Harry's skin.

The air from Perry's mouth, those words, on Harry's skin—fuck, everything tightens, hardens, his ass clenches; his skin feels like it's shrinking around him and it makes him shake. He wants to rock his dick forward into Perry's, he wants to press back into Perry's hand, he wants to do everything at once but he can't think so he just claws his fingers into Perry’s back, rakes them down while going forward, back, forward, and then slams his head back against the door with a groan-whine-whimper. “God, Perry, shit, you know, I'm fucking nervous right now, I mean really, I’m fucking scared, but God, please—please, yes, I want that, please.”

Perry presses a kiss to Harry's jaw, then brushes his lips across Harry's. Softly, he says, “It's okay, Harry.” He looks like he's going to lean in for another kiss, but stops himself. More resolutely, he says, “Bedroom. Now. I refuse to fuck you against the wall....For now.” he lets go of Harry's ass and pulls him by a belt loop, walking backward through the tidy house toward his own bedroom. At the threshold, he stops. Leans against the door frame. His gaze is intense. “If you want me to stop, if there's a problem—anything—you tell me, I'll fix it, we'll move on. Okay?”

Harry stares, captures Perry's look in his mind: Perry being considerate, Perry being nice to him, and Harry keeps it, hopes he'll see it again. With a grin, however shaky his hands are, he pushes Perry farther inside, following at the bidding of his captive belt loop. “Don't worry, I'm very verbal. If anything's wrong, it'll come out.”

Perry eyes Harry up and down, gaze settling on Harry's crotch and the straining cock beneath the fabric of his jeans. He pulls Harry with him toward the bed, stops halfway there, strokes Harry through the fabric once, and thens steps away. “Shoes and socks off.” He lets go of Harry's belt loop, turns, puts a hand on the nightstand, pulls off his shoes and socks. Shoes go under a chair next to the night stand, and socks inside them. He looks at Harry. “Now.”

Now that clothes are coming off, it really occurs to Harry just what they're going to do, just exactly want he wants—and fuck yes he wants it, but he's still scared because he wants it. This is Perry, though, and Perry definitely knows what he's doing, and luckily for Harry he's Perrysexual. He does one further than taking off his shoes and socks: he does his shirt, pants, and boxers too, and hell if he remembers where he flings them; he’s mostly worried about how the workouts have filled him out and if Perry approves, shit, why does he feel like a high school kid all over again? Too horny to think clearly, achingly aware of his awkward body, doesn’t know what to do, what his lover likes; fuck, he must be a mess.

When he sees Harry stripping further, Perry removes his sweater and the shirt under it. He hangs them over the back of the chair, worried if he takes time to fold them, Harry will get more nervous than he clearly is. Perry takes off his belt more slowly, and frees himself from his pants and boxer-briefs with his eyes in Harry the whole time. He hangs these over the back of his chair, and reaches out to cup Harry's jaw. He pulls Harry close, until they are skin to skin, and his cock is pressed to Harry's belly and Harry's is leaking on his hip. He slides his other hand around Harry's back, relishing Harry's skin quivering under his hand. “Kiss me.”

And there it is, Harry thinks: Perry’s cock on his stomach, soon to be deep in his ass. Harry trembles: how will it fit, will it hurt, didn’t he hurt his first fuck by going too fast? That was pretty awful, but nonono, don’t think about that, concentrate on Perry, Perry’s a pro. He’s got this. He’s got him. Harry frames Perry’s face in his hands, arms on the outside of Perry’s, and rubs his thumbs along along the cheekbones, flattening out the skin as they go, feeling it slide-slick. He feels Perry’s steadying hand on his back. He leans in, hesitates: and then goodbye, remnants of heterosexuality; and hello, Perry van Shrike. Harry takes the kiss slow at first, hopes that’s okay, because he likes it slow. It makes it feel like a dream.

Perry lets Harry control the kiss, lets Harry explore his lips, his tongue, his mouth. Then Perry slides away, nibbling Harry's lower lip lightly with his teeth as he lets go. He threads his fingers in Harry's hair, still unkempt despite all efforts to encourage Harry in a neater direction, and tugs gently. “Bed.” Perry turns Harry around and lightly shoves him so his thighs hit the bed, and then presses Harry onto the bed with another kiss—less dreamy and more dirty—a prelude to a fuck.

Really, Harry shouldn't enjoy being pushed around like that, or having his hair tugged, but he likes it when Perry moves him around, and he likes it when Perry is over him. It’s all that weight. It's real: it's earthy: it's sitting out in a car for hours during a stakeout and than sweating at home; it's undeniably Perry. Harry moves his hands to Perry's shoulders, so fucking broad, and lifts his hips up again because that part of him wants attention. He imagines Perry doing to him what that tongue is doing to his mouth, oh God, that thought, soon coming, both terrifying and lighting him up all over: even the covers underneath begin to scream against his skin.

Perry thrusts his tongue into Harry's mouth and relishes the way Harry moans around him, the way Harry quivers against his skin, the little thrusts he's making into Perry's stomach, like no one ever told him sex in L.A. is supposed to be as fake as the ass implants half the gay porn stars have. Harry is completely open, and Perry feels electrified by it; Harry is a livewire that Perry is trying to contain, channel, overload and watch short out with a burst of fireworks. Fuck, Perry wants to be inside him. He breaks the kiss abruptly and lifts Harry the rest of the way onto the bed, then pushes him toward the middle and climbs on after him. Then...he stops. Just...looks. His cock is red and beginning to dribble, but for a moment his expression is strangely soft.

Okay, fully onto the bed now, that’s good; but the kissing and the touching have stopped, that’s bad. Why—oh. That look. Harry has seen that look before, but only in the most fleeting of glances, like when Perry picked him up at the pink-haired girl’s house and when he was getting tortured. But now it’s just—there. This time, he can really see it. “Perry?” A whisper, trembling. “What? What is it?”

Fuck, Perry thinks. Caught. He raises an eyebrow and tries not to grin. “You have something on your face.” One hand leaves the bed and starts circling one of Harry's peaked nipples with a well-manicured finger.

“What—ah—my face? Wait, no, you’re—you’re trying to distract me—fuck, that shouldn’t feel good. I’m not a girl.”

“Well, you seem pretty sensitive to me,” Perry says with a smug grin, “so maybe your girlfriends just weren't doing it right.” He kisses Harry softly, then pushes the kiss into something rough, messy. When they break apart, Perry is breathing heavier, and Harry's lips are glistening. Perry licks and sucks his way down Harry's neck then, down his collarbone, down Harry's pec—which is admittedly better defined than when they met, not that Perry was looking. Finally, his mouth closes around a nipple. It is pebbled and hard as he sucks and flicks it with his tongue. He tries a light scrape of teeth as he twists the other nipple, and listens for Harry's reaction even as he softens the rough treatment with soothing touches.

“I’ll have you know—” Harry's breath hitches as Perry licks down his neck; that spot, it’s a good spot, and then he continues as Perry hovers over his pec. “—that I was the one doing it to them, so—” and then the nipple, “—oh, Jesus Christ, fuck, that’s notfair—” His hands rake over Perry’s bare back, because he really doesn’t know what else to do; fuck, he’s doing the nail-thing some girls did. So much for the rest of his masculinity. Every little flick of the tongue gives him a full-body twitch; the gentle and rough touches, he likes them both. “Perry, Perry—ah, you’re cruel, you know that?”

Perry chuckles, letting the air from his breath puff over the wet nipple. “If I was really cruel, I'd stop.” And for a moment, it seems like he has stopped. His hand leaves Harry's nipple, and his breath on Harry's chest and his calves against Harry's thighs are the only contact they have. Then Perry rubs a line down Harry's cock, from its leaking head to the black curls at its base—not manscaped too well, Perry notes, which figures, but he still wants to blow Harry instead of turn him into a makeover project. He licks his lips.

At the fingers a litany bursts from Harry’s mouth: “Fuck, Christ, shit, Perry, do something, please, I don’t care what, just something, don’t tease!” He squirms, actually squirms, eyes shut, thighs tensing and relaxing; fingers tapping at Perry’s back, shoulders, wrapping into his short ponytail and then releasing it. “I don’t know what to do, I’m sorry, but please, please do something?” 

So Perry does. He reaches across Harry's body and into one of the bedside table drawers and pulls out lube and a condom. He briefly contemplates the cock ring, which they can't use now even though Harry looks like he'll explode any second. Harry is pulling at him, squirming and thrusting like a bitch in heat, and that shouldn't look as hot as it does but with Harry things never work out the way they should. Perry tries to tell himself this is a bad idea—look what happened with Harmony, the so-called love of Harry's life—but then Harry wiggles against him and Perry's lips are back on his, sucking up the “please”s and dragging out the moans. He drops the lube near Harry's thighs and slides his hands down Harry's body until he's gripping Harry's thighs, then breaks the kiss and props Harry's thighs over his knees.

Harry is open in front of him. Perry uncaps the lube and slicks his fingers. “Open your eyes,” he says in what Harry calls his Don't Fuck With Me Voice. He waits for Harry to open his eyes, and then slides his lips around the head of Harry's cock.

Harry barely notices the lube coming into play, but having his legs opened and the back of his knees over Perry’s hard thighs definitely gets his attention. He finds himself wondering, as he looks up at Perry over him holding down his hips with one hand, if this is what a lot of girls see and feel: spread open, needing, and scared, but—trusting. The lucky ones have that last part. He guesses that means he’s lucky, too.

All those thoughts fly away the moment Perry slips his mouth around him. Harry’s back arches with a loud curse and he would have so been in trouble if Perry’s hand weren’t holding down his hips: he doesn’t think Perry would enjoy being stabbed in the throat. Harry keeps rattling off curses and “God” and “Jesus” and “Perry!” He wonders what he looks like, just how much of a slut Perry’s made him into. Harry doesn’t really mind so much right now, maybe later, but right now fuck it. Even that little bit of heat, just around the head of his cock, feels too good.

Perry holds Harry's hips as Harry strains against him, and when he pushes the first finger past the ring of muscle and into Harry's tight entrance, he matches its depth with his mouth, sliding his lips further down Harry's cock. They're an obelisk, Harry sliding into Perry sliding into Harry, both of them surrounded by heat and the sound of Harry's keening curses. Two fingers go in, and finally three, and Perry has tasted the salt of Harry's precum and swallowed willingly. Harry's cock is glistening and Perry has bobbed up and down its length and pressed his nose to Harry's terrible manscaping and found that it is good, it is really fucking good to be swallowing around Harry's cock and holding him down and making him beg for it, beg to be fucked. 

He raises his mouth off Harry with a slurp, thrusting shallowly with his fingers as he does, and when he has pulled off entirely, he crooks his fingers hard against Harry's prostate.

Harry has never stuck anything up his ass before, even when he was a horny experimenting teen, so the first finger feels weird, the second hurts a little but the blowjob keeps his mind off it, and the third successfully divides his attention between Perry’s mouth and Perry’s fingers. Harry’s rambling turns more into a “Ow, God, that’s good, Christ, what,” while his teeth clench, but he still makes sure to keep his eyes open because Perry wants them to be (you don’t mess with the Don’t Fuck With Me Voice; there was a reason he named it that). Harry is torn between Perry’s mouth—lips sliding down—and the fingers—sliding in, stretching inside; it hurt some, he figured it’d hurt some, but with the quadruple sensations of down-in-up-out that’s totally okay, he said he wanted it and he does does, anyway—why is Perry stopping the blowjob?

Perry hits something inside. Harry gives a strangled scream. “The fuck—is that?” he pants. 

Perry's hand sooths Harry's thighs even as he presses against Harry's prostate again. “You know,” he says, voice rough even as he tries to keep it conversational. It's hard to keep his head, watching Harry writhe, feeling him clench around his fingers and wishing it were his cock balls-deep inside of Harry. “You know,” he says again, “there are men who walk around with vibrators shoved up their asses just to feel this.” He presses again, and resumes thrusting, trying to get Harry used to the feeling, the stretch. “All the time, Harry—just walking around, fucking themselves with plastic and batteries.” He crooks his fingers again, and this time scissors them out a bit as he does, stretching even as Harry arches in pleasure. “Of course, some of them leave the vibrators in just so they'll be all stretched and ready for when their lovers come home.” He grins darkly, meeting Harry's eyes as he presses in again. “Maybe I should make you do paperwork that way. Make you sit in your chair for hours with something inside you, fucking you, making you crazy while you wait for me to come over to your desk and bend you over and bury my cock inside you instead.”

Harry lets out a long moan, which evolves into a whine as Perry talks. With each word Harry pictures it: trying to work when something like this is happening? With the anticipation that Perry would walk over at any minute and touch that spot inside him again? “I don’t,” Harry breathes out, starts again: “I don’t think I’d be very productive if you made me do that—oh, God.” And now the scissoring. Fuck it. He’s been thinking of this the entire night, trying to goad Perry into flirting with him—the goading failed fantastically; flirting was never Harry’s exact forte—and now he’s so close to it, he’s so hard, he’s tired of waiting, too drunk on the sex to be scared. He swallows and after one more keen he says, “Just do it now, please, fuck me, okay? Okay?  I’ll do whatever later, just fuck me now!” 

“Pushy little bottom,” Perry says, amusement seeping into his tone as he withdraws his hands to roll on the condom. He slicks his cock and pulls Harry's calves over his shoulders. Harry's hole, already beginning to retract, quivers with the rest of Harry's body.

Perry lines himself up, pushes past the ring of muscle, and has to close his eyes and squeeze himself because fuck Harry's burning up inside, so hot and tight that Perry's hands gripping Harry's thighs, bruising-hard, are all that keep him from thrusting all the way in. God, he can't believe he's fucking inside Harry—that Harry's the one babbling underneath him, not some fake L.A. three-shot bimbo. It's Harry.

Perry groans and pushes forward another inch. Another. Harry's body is stretching around him, gripping him. “Relax, Harry,” Perry says, making himself loosen his grip on Harry's thighs. “You're doing great. You okay?”

Being the one with his legs in the air is definitely new but nice. That is, until Perry starts pushing his way inside—there’s no way the fingers could’ve opened him up that wide. Every instinct Harry has says to tense up and fight against anything that tries to get inside. Harry’s eyes squeeze shut, his hands fist on the covers, which twist under his fingers. He tries to relax, hopes he succeeds, and whispers, “It kinda hurts, Perry—I mean, you’re not small.” He quickly adds on, breathless, “But it’s okay, no worries, just give me a little time, I’ll be cool.” 

Perry waits, barely breathing as Harry adjusts around him. Harry's erection is beginning to wilt, which is normal, but Perry licks his hand and starts slowly jacking it, half to distract Harry, half to distract himself. If it were anyone else, he'd be fucking them raw by now, but this is Harry, and Harry's never done this, and fuck if that doesn't send a rush to Perry's cock and another into his chest. He exhales roughly. “Hey,” he says, beginning to grin, “I bet you say that to all the guys.”

Harry gives a shaky laugh and then chokes on a moan, stomach muscles quivering, when Perry touches his dick again. “That doesn’t really apply to me, well, yet,” he says, fidgeting a little. “And hopefully not anytime soon, because I’m perfectly okay just saying it to you. Perry?” A long sighing exhale. “I think I’m ready.”

Perry doesn't know what to say to that, nothing that won't sound fucked up coming from him, fucked up like the rest of the damaged goods clinging to their broken L.A. dreams. So instead he pushes in the rest of the way when Harry breathes out—and Harry's body, like fucking magic, just accepts him.

“God,” Perry breathes, like a prayer, but aimed at the man beneath him, so fucking tight and hot and beginning to come alive again under his hands. He pulls out a little ways and pushes in again, letting Harry get used to the size and feel of him. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” is all Harry can say, for once actually still, eyes closed, relaxing; lying still, breathing slow, seeing nothing but darkness, he can really feel every bit of Perry inside of him. He even shuts up, if only for a little bit, even though he’s fully hard again; he wants to remember this, the first time. He wants to remember every detail, every inch of skin. He breathes. His legs, the knees over Perry’s shoulders, close down, trying to pulling Perry closer, trying to fold himself in half. He murmurs again, “Yeah.” 

“Yeah,” Perry echoes against Harry's lips, sharing his breath as Harry folds Perry into himself. Perry kisses Harry, sucks the sweat off his upper lip and presses his forehead to Harry's. The angle isn't as good though, and he wants Harry to really see what it's like to be fucked so thoroughly you fall apart. So he pulls away, thrusting faster, harder, and angles in to hit the spot that made Harry writhe.

Harry does writhe. His eyes shoot open and he gasps, jerking up, fumbling with his hands until they reach Perry’s shoulders. Makes him wonder why he didn't try this before, and just when he turned away from being completely straight—probably sometime between the first kiss during the Christmas Incident and accidentally walking in on one of Perry’s casual fucks, but that’s neither here nor now. Right now, there’s Perry inside him, Harry’s cock swollen and harder than he can remember, and the way Perry looked at him so softly before, when they first got onto the bed. Harry grips at Perry’s sweat-slick shoulders and says, “More.” 

So Perry gives him more, lets go of his cock and grips Harry's hips and pounds into him, balls slapping against Harry's ass and grunts rumbling in his chest with every thrust. Whenever Harry seems close to coming, Perry eases off, changes the pace. It's as much to see what Harry likes as it is to drive Harry crazy, bring him closer and closer to the edge so that when he finally goes over, it'll be electric all the way down.

“Jesus!” Harry cries, shoulders hunching in and toes curling. His breaths are less breaths than they are gulps of air now. Perry keeps catching him off-guard—every time there’s a rhythm that builds towards an orgasm, Perry switches to something else and leaves Harry cursing; he’s always just on the edge but not quite pushed over, and his entire body tenses up and fuck that makes it hurt a little again but who the fuck cares with the way Perry fucks him; even the balls against his ass make him whimper and Perry never fails to hit that spot, which with each time shoots through him a little more, fluttering in his stomach, and “Shit, Christ, Perry, Perry!” Harry arches up, one more time, and comes, like everything’s ripped out of him through his dick, and at the same time it’s a it’s a great relief: so great he wants to cry and he thinks he actually does a little, what the hell, is he a girl, but who fucking cares. He settles down, melting on the bed.

Perry nearly comes when Harry screams his name, clenches around him, and shoots so hard come hits his jaw. But he doesn't come, he pulls Harry's hips higher and drives in deep, like now that Harry's come, he can concentrate on himself, can really let go. And Harry looks so relaxed, so blissed out, like he doesn't mind that Perry is still going, still driving into he's just happy it's Perry.

And Perry wants to connect to that, more than just with hips—he wants Harry to always look like that. Perry lets go of Harry's hips and touches his face. The look Harry gives him is so open and satisfied, Perry's hips stutter, and he is coming before he fully realizes a look at Harry's face has pushed him over the edge, before he realizes why it is he's suddenly frozen but for his jerking hips and his slack jaw.

Then he, too, slumps, taking care to catch himself on his elbows so Harry isn't crushed by his weight. He shrugs Harry's legs off his shoulders. The bed jiggles when they hit the blankets. A drying dribble of Harry's come clings to Harry's jaw, and without thinking Perry laps it into his mouth, toys with it for a moment, and swallows.

Harry follows his mouth, gives a slow, lapping kiss, eyes still half-open and dazed, legs still bent at the knees to either side of Perry. He hums contentedly under his breath and traces his fingers along Perry’s spine, slowly smiling, quiet. 

Perry kisses back, and then sits back on his heels, slipping out of Harry's body as he does so. He removes and ties off the condom, and stretches across Harry to drop it in the trash by the nightstand. Harry's stillness is what prompts Perry to look down at him before he would do what he usually does after a good fuck, namely collapse on the pillow and go to sleep so the other person couldn't ruin his night. But Harry isn't moving at a frenetic pace, for once. The lines on his forehead have smoothed out.

Harry is happy.

Perry does that for him. And right now, the thought doesn't scare him, make him feel Responsible. Instead, it makes him happy too.

When Perry smiles it’s hard to tell: a very subtle turn up at the corners of his mouth. Harry notices, though, and it makes him think: This is it. It’s gotta be it. Destiny. Of course he won’t say any of this out loud, especially not to Perry, and Harry’s been wrong before, but this time he’s got a good feeling; this time, he really hopes he’s right. If not, well, then maybe he can make it right. “You’re smiling,” he says, and his own grin is relaxed. “Went pretty well, huh?” 

Perry rolls his eyes and thumps Harry on the shoulder, then stretches out next to him. His thigh rests against Harry's foot, and their shoulders touch. At last Perry admits, “Yeah.” Then he turns and grins, presses the back of his hand against Harry's. “Yeah. It did.”

Harry lies flat, stretching out his legs with a little groan, and then curls up half on his side, close to Perry, his cheek on Perry’s shoulder. He’s going to be sore later, he knows it. “So what happens next?” Harry asks, sleep tingeing his voice. 

“Well,” Perry says slowly, “for you, it looks like sleep. For me...” He rubs his face, and eyes the open bedroom door with annoyance. “Fuck. Stakeout paperwork, setting the alarm, turning out the lights...and eventually also sleep.”

Harry doesn’t answer right away. But then, softly: “And after that?” 

Perry doesn't know what to say. He knows what Harry wants, what he's fishing for in his typical clumsy fashion, but Perry doesn't believe in destiny. He believes that he's fucked up and Harry's a little fucked up too, and that maybe, maybe, they can make whatever this is work. So he says, “Go to sleep,” and rests his head against the comfortable weight of Harry's on his shoulder. “You're gonna need it tomorrow.”

His eyes closed, Harry sighs, long and enduring. “Sure,” he says, only a little bitter; but really, he didn't expect much. “That sounds great.” 

Perry sighs too. “What did I tell you before you came into my bedroom?” He wraps an arm around Harry...and then pinches his side.

Harry jumps, gives a noise halfway between a laugh and an ow, but settles into Perry’s hold. “That you refused to fuck me against the wall?” 

“I refused to fuck you against a wall tonight, genius,” Perry says, “Pay attention. Now, what I told you before you came in here was that if you had a problem, to tell me, I'd fix it, and we'd move on. You clearly have a problem, so spit it out—I'm tired and you're ruining the afterglow.”

Harry keeps his eyes closed. “Oh, right. Well, you’d think it’s stupid, anyway, but—you know, I really don’t need to fuck up my masculinity anymore than I already have—but I was just thinking about things, like what happens next. I mean,” he opens his eyes then, looks up into Perry’s face, imploring, “all this. It means we’re going to try this, right?” 

“Yes.” Perry says it like Harry's being stupid, because he is. “I don't fuck people I actually like being around unless I'm serious. And last time I checked, you've lived with me for...damn. A year now.” Perry whistles. “Face it, Harry—by L.A. standards, we're married.”

A big, sleepy, dopey grin breaks out on Harry’s face, and he cuddles in closer to Perry’s side: of course Harry Lockhart would be a spooner. “Married, huh? Don’t know if I’m ready for that big of a commitment yet. Don’t you think you’re rushing things a little?” 

Perry smacks Harry lightly on his side. “Rushing things would be going to the toy store tomorrow and picking out a cock ring for you. Speaking of which: sleep; you'll need energy for when I fuck you awake.”

Harry chuckles, closing his eyes again. “Best good morning ever. Night, Perry.” 

“Goodnight, Harry.” It comes out so easily, Perry wishes he could go to sleep too, wrapped up in Harry. But the lights are on, the alarm is off, and there's paperwork and stakeout notes still to do.

Which is okay, he realizes with a quiet warmth. There will be other nights and other afterglows. And in the morning, there will still be Harry.