Title: The Way You Touch, The Way You Move

Summary: Sometimes a single feature becomes a representative of the whole, all at once multi-layered and simplicity itself.

Disclaimer: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and all characters therein are © Shane Black and Co.

Warnings/Rating: T for brief coarse language and sexual content

Promptfill: "Harry/Perry. Hand kink" (also, my theme song for writing this was totally "I Like The Way You Move" by Bodyrockers, from which I got the title)

Author's Note: Okay I lied at the end of the last chapter. Here, have some PWP. At least there's sexy times in this one. (lol I actually got so carried away with that scene, I almost had to bump up the overall rating) LALALALA TOTALLY AM NOT STALLING ON LIKE 4-5 OTHER WIP'S, WHATCHU TALKIN' ABOUT?

(6-25-11 edited a portion of the second part a little)

Perry is going mad; that is all there is to it. Harry was already crazy, of course, and he's dragging Perry right down with him. He just can't stop staring… but that would be a whole lot easier if Harry would just stop moving so much.

It seems like every time Harry does something, just the slightest little motion, Perry's attention is immediately grabbed. He feels like a cat chasing a laser pointer sometimes, when he's watching Harry. The man is incapable of remaining still for more than a few minutes.

His hands are the worst - and simultaneously, the best, because by now, Perry can't even make himself want to stop watching them flying and fluttering, just as expressive as the man's face. He was so unrestrained; he had no qualms about letting everything running through his mind not only coming spilling out of his mouth, but flow from every part of his being. His hands seemed to be the highlighted outlet for this purpose.

He gestures while he talks. He gestures when he's quiet. He fucking dances to anything remotely resembling music, up to and including things only he seems to hear sometimes, somewhere in the workings of that mysterious little thing he calls a brain. He even does it while he's on the phone, with his cell or the office or home phone pressed against his ear with his shoulder to allow for the wild gesticulating despite the other person not being able to see him.

The strange part, or maybe not so much strange as simply most noticeable, is that the movements of his hands always tie directly into what he's saying so seamlessly. People take as many cues about Harry's feelings and opinions from how his hands are moving as they do from the tone of his voice or the twisting of his facial features. It would not seem so out of the ordinary had they been anywhere but L.A., where people are so false-faced that their words tie literally more into simple nothing than into communication.

Harry is completely unabridged and uncensored, and Perry has never been more attracted to anything in his life. He tries to blame L.A., but there's really no point in that. He'll never know if he would have still found Harry so compellingly real if he'd lived somewhere else. But even if he did not in this theoretical alternate setting, Perry does in the here and now. As a realist, that is all that matters to him in the end. So he accepts it, and deals with it.

It would be so easy to ignore it and carry on, if it weren't for those goddamned hands. Those graceful, thieving, careworn, elegant magician's hands, constantly moving and drawing his attention back to them, interchangeably ruggedly capable in form, and intricately playful of movement. He tries hard not to notice, and he tries not to let Harry notice that he notices, because if Harry knew some of things that Perry imagined him doing with his hands, he was certain that Harry would panic worse than he had the time Perry kissed him, back on their first case together. And the last thing he wants is for Harry to leave.

Now, as for Harry, he likes watching Perry move, and does not bother trying to hide his glances. If Perry notices and asks why the fuck Harry is staring at him, Harry's usual response is to just smile and calmly move his attention to something else for a few minutes, and then let his eyes wander back to Perry.

He can't help it, really. The detective is just so fluid and efficient, his motions all militarily precise and never, ever, wasted. He wishes sometimes that he could adopt that kind of economy in his own mannerisms. Maybe people would take him more seriously if he didn't flail around like a sugar-high five-year-old all the time.

It doesn't take him long to realize that watching the older man move turned him on, and far more than just a mild, oh-dear-maybe-I-like-men-as-well sort of way. If the idea of feeling that sort of attraction towards another man was disconcerting at all, it was swallowed up by Harry's intense and innate curiosity. Sex with a man would, of course, be very different than sex with a woman, but not necessarily in a bad way. Skin and sweat and friction was the same whether it was attached to a male or female form, after all. At its most essential basics, sex was about human contact, preferably with someone you loved.

Perry is definitely someone Harry loved. He's known that since their third case together, when Perry had smiled at him over a late night cup of coffee and thanked him for being a kind-hearted idiot all the time. He had said that he wished more people could be like Harry, and then maybe the world wouldn't be such a fucked-up place. Even knowing that Perry was pretty whacked out on painkillers for his dislocated shoulder at the time couldn't stop Harry from feeling absolutely touched, and just like that, Harry had realized he really, truly loved this man. And just like that, as though all he needed to feel attracted to someone was to acknowledge that he loved them, his body started noticing Perry's body.

In particular, Harry's eyes are constantly drawn to the older man's hands. Often, he finds himself fantasizing about those hands running over his body. He wonders fretfully, on occasion, if he is focusing on Perry's hands so that he won't be thinking of something else, something that is only associated with a male partner; because hands are hands, and both men and women alike can use those to greatly pleasurable effect.

After the first time he has this disconcerting thought, Harry begins to pay even more careful attention to Perry's hands, drinking in every fine detail. With time and thought, he is relieved to determine that no, he is not just androgynizing Perry in his mind to get around the gay factor. No, those hands are too distinctively Perry to make Harry think of a woman's touch, an allegory that Harry delights in unraveling and picking apart. And from the pieces, he begins to assemble a deeper understanding of this man, and why Harry finds him so compelling.

Perry's hands, he's taken care to notice, are large and strong; they could easily fold around Harry's fist and hide it almost entirely from view.

Perry's hands are not as dexterous as his own, a fact that Harry takes gleeful pleasure rubbing in Perry's face every chance he gets; it's not like he gets one-up on Perry very often, after all.

Perry's hands are not as habitually tactile as Harry's either. For all their assertiveness, they keep to themselves more often than not, reluctant to make contact. Often, when contact is made, it lingers, light and gentle, as though they are afraid to break as much as they are to pull away.

And, Harry has secretly observed, Perry's hands are lightly callused and neatly kept. He will treasure the memory of walking in on Perry giving himself a manicure until the day he dies. Perry's fury from the encroachment on his privacy was well worth the mockery material (Perry has no shame, or it would have been blackmail material as well).

Perry's fury was also just as well-worth the sensuous image itself, but Perry doesn't need to know about that part. He would never let Harry hear the end of it if he knew.

It continues with a look. They had been talking, arguing, or something, neither can even remember now, because when you stop mid-sentence and realize what the expression on your companion's face is saying, the sounds coming out of either mouth stop mattering so much. That expression was a concession, a confession, a permission slip to reach out and touch - finally, finally - and they both stretched out their hands at almost the same time, Harry just a little bit ahead of Perry for once, instead of the other way around.

Slight surprise registered then as well, and that odd, bashfully awkward feeling you get when you are walking towards someone, and they towards you, and you both veer to the same side to walk around, both double-take back the other way, and again, until you both grin and chuckle and finally get it right and pass without touching. Except that neither Perry nor Harry was inclined to veer to either side, and so when they both reached to cup the other's cheek, their hands instead met in midair. This has worked out better in the end anyways, because now they both hold the focal point on their respective objects of admiration, quite literally, in the palms of their hands.

Their fingertips touch first, and they freeze for a split second. Then Harry turns his wrist so that the heel of his palm comes forward to kiss Perry's, and their fingers straighten out, hands pressing flat against each other. Harry opens his mouth, and Perry is suddenly terrified that the idiot is going to make some dumb Disney Tarzan joke and ruin the moment, so he leans forward in his seat like he's going to kiss him. Harry copies the motion eagerly, and their foreheads touch and they freeze again. Perry twists his gaze away from the mahogany orbs in front of him, moving to their hands pressed against each other. He slides the pads of his fingertips down the underside of Harry's fingers, the ring finger thrown off a little from the missing phalanges on its partner, but that's okay. It even almost works as a dumb sort of metaphor, Perry thinks, and then promptly mentally scolds himself.

Their fingers are curled around each other like kittens, and Perry's palm is itching from the sensation of Harry's weather-beaten skin against his. Then Harry's fingers twitch, and opposing digits slip between each other like water, and their hands are pressed palm to palm, fingers tangled casually, lovingly.

Perry is hard as a rock and he hasn't even kissed Harry yet. From Harry's rough breathing he can tell the younger man is feeling it too, this intense awareness of the other's presence, heated and real against his palm. It is a closer and more intimate connection with another person than he's ever felt in his life… or maybe that's just the long-denied sexual tension storming up to the surface, but somehow Perry doesn't think so.

As though realizing the others are being neglected, Harry now takes Perry's left hand in his right, tangling the fingers together here too, marking the difference in texture and color and size between their hands. Harry studies those hands, and glances back at the first pair, and pulls all fifteen-and-a-half fingers, all four thumbs, all four hands, to meet in front of them, clasped between his chin and Perry's, still leaning his forehead against the blonde's. Perry is watching their hands, watching the tendons flex under the skin when Harry squeezes his palm. Harry smiles at how intent Perry is in his examinations, always so focused.

An eternity later, Perry finally looks up, meets Harry's gaze, and presses a soft kiss against the tip of each finger. He lingers a little longer on the damaged one, and Harry has to hold back a throaty moan at the sparks even this gentle contact send up the raw nerve endings there. Partly to keep from making any sounds, partly just because he wants to, and partly to avenge his gently abused finger, Harry retaliates by sucking Parry's left thumb into his mouth whole. The first reason he had for doing so is swiftly discarded when Perry swipes against the back of Harry's teeth with the pad of his thumb, and he has to close his eyes and groan heartily.

He tastes salt and laves at it, pressing his tongue against the digit. Harry lets Perry slip the other four fingers free from his, shifting his wrist to get better access to Harry's mouth. Harry bites gently at the base, and the rest of that large warm hand presses against his cheek. Harry places his free hand over it, trapping it there. Perry is the one who groans this time, even louder than Harry.

Harry slowly opens his eyes and watches Perry steadily, suckling his thumb. Perry withdraws it slowly, and the feel of that slightly rough skin running over his lower lip is enough to make him buck slightly. Perry moves from his place then, adjusting Harry on the couch so that they are facing each other properly. Harry is laying back and Perry is straddling his hips, bringing their erections into maddening proximity, but Harry's mind has fixed, as it does sometimes, onto one point: Perry's hands.

Perry's hands, which have now slipped free and are roaming all over his body, down his sides, across his stomach, back up to his chest to tweak his nipple through his shirt. Harry gasps and arches his back, but just as he's leaning into the contact it is gone, Perry's hands skittering back down his abdomen to take hold of his waist.

He no longer knows what to do with his own hands, and they twitch and flail a little in midair before finally landing on Perry's shoulders and wandering off on some territorial explorations of their own.

Harry's fingers dance across the skin of his shoulders, pulling him down in close so that their lips finally touch. The kiss is heaven, is life, is what Perry has been searching for, but Harry's hands are still moving, still very distracting. Rough palms slide up his neck, clever fingers slide into his hair, tangling into his ponytail and pulling him in even closer. Fingernails scraping lightly against his scalp make him shiver, and his grip on Harry's hips tightens as he thrusts against the brunette, tense from trying to restrain the movement.

Then Harry raises his hips, and their groins are grinding against each other. Perry is shaking from the effort it takes to keep himself raised up, not wanting to collapse on top of the smaller man and crush him. With a growl, he gives Harry's waist one last squeeze and moves his hands up to press into the couch on either side of Harry's head, giving himself better support and better leverage to thrust against him.

Harry wants to protest the loss of Perry's hands on him, but the friction down there is enough to distract him for a moment, and he finds himself pressing up harder, pulling Perry in closer, and his moan is just as much pleasure as disappointment.

His arms are starting to cramp, so he loosens up a little. His left hand lets go of Perry's hair and strokes gently against the back of the blonde's neck, caressing, gentle. His right is pulled back between them, reaching down to tug at the hem of Perry's shirt.

The brilliant idea to flip them over so that he is on top suddenly pops into Harry's head.

Before he has time to give the matter any further thought, Harry impulsively surges upwards and turns over on his side at the same time. Perry is flung off the couch, pulling away from the kiss with a startled cry. Instinctively, he grabs at Harry, trying to keep from falling, but all he does is pull Harry off the couch with him. Harry, of course, goes along with this quite happily, until he remembers the part where he has to land on top of Perry.

By then it's too late, and Perry lands on his back hard, and then Harry lands solidly on top of him, knocking the wind out of him and barely missing knocking their heads together.

"Fuck!" Perry gasps, wincing, "The hell did you do that for?"

Harry cringes and pushes himself up painfully; Perry wasn't as good of a landing pad as he'd thought. "Sorry, sorry! Ow. Fuck, that was stupid. Sorry."

Perry puts a hand up on his forehead, pushing his hair out of his eyes, and tries to glare at the brunette kneeling over him. Harry looks just as dazed as he feels, boner still heavy against Perry's thigh, and eyes cloudy with a mixture of lust and dizziness. Perry's aggravation melts away, and he can't help but burst into laughter.

Harry squints down at him, cracking a grin of his own, and Perry tugs him down closer, murmuring a fond "C'mere, dumbass," through his snickering. Harry smiles and lays down against Perry's chest, and Perry's arms wrap around him as they dissolve into hysterical giggles.

After a minute they quiet down some, and Harry tilts his head back to look at Perry, and Perry twists down a little to look back at him, and simultaneously the giggles break out again.

Another few minutes pass, and the mirth fades out enough that they can breath again. Harry stretches to plant a firm kiss on Perry's lips. Perry cups his face and pulls him into a deeper one, but the giggle fit still hasn't loosed its hold yet. They are smiling against each other's mouths, and laughing too hard to keep kissing. So they pull apart and nuzzle each other like cats, still chuckling. Harry tucks his head under Perry's chin and listens to the vibrations in his chest, and looks down at their entwined hands laying clasped together, and smiles.


Mmmm PWP. What would I do without you to keep me sane?

Oh, and if you are curious about those WIPs I mentioned at the top of the page, they include:

Sorry to Burst Your Bubble: a 24 chapter KKBB fic with Perry/Harry/Harmony and a shitload of kissing

Bricks Without Clay - my epic ongoing KKBB/SH crossover of DOOOOM

Haunted By You - a Sherlock Holmes one-shot featuring a ghostly Moriarty

Skins and Hearts - a Sherlock Holmes mythology AU, with Selkie!Holmes

If any of those sound like something you'd be interested in, then you should be keeping an eye on my profile page, or add me to your watch list, because those will be getting posted within the next month and a half; within the week on those last two! ;)