Author: Rebelcat

Rating: NC-17

Gen or Slash: Slash!

Disclaimer: Sadly, they still ain’t mine.

Feedback/Critique: Yes, please!

Notes: Thanks go to CC for the beta. I didn’t take her advice on everything though, so any problems with the story are entirely my fault, not hers.

Warning: This story has graphic man-on-man sex. Lots of it. Actually, this entire story is about sex. Without the sex it would be three paragraphs long, and very dull indeed.


The View from the Bottom

Sex is not the answer. Sex is the question. "Yes" is the answer. ~Swami X

It was this sex thing, thought Starsky. Then he corrected himself. The problem wasn’t the sex. The sex was great. The problem was Hutch.

And you wouldn’t think it would be like that, considering the whole sex thing had been Hutch’s idea in the first place.

“Today, I want you on your stomach,” said Hutch.

He talked like that. A lot. It sometimes made Starsky feel like a giant science experiment. Like one of those lab kits you could pick up in the drugstore. The really cool ones that actually had chemicals that exploded.

But he willingly flung himself onto the towel Hutch had laid out on the bed, because after all, it was sex. And in Starsky’s opinion, sex was never a bad thing.

He propped his chin on his hands and watched curiously as Hutch pulled something out of the top dresser drawer.

“What’s that?” Hutch had palmed whatever it was, and Starsky couldn’t see. It looked like a small bottle. He wondered if it was a new kind of lube.

“You’ll see,” said Hutch with a grin.

“That better not give us a rash,” warned Starsky, twisting to look over his shoulder as Hutch climbed up onto the bed behind him.

“It’s safe. Trust me.”

Well, of course he did. Otherwise the sex thing never would have started in the first place, and wouldn’t that have been a crying shame.

Starsky said, “Are you going to scratch my back?”

“I suppose I could do that first.”

Starsky melted into the sheets with an appreciative moan as Hutch worked over his back with his blunt nails. The doctors said it was the scar tissue, and maybe some messed up nerves in his skin. All Starsky knew was that his back was always itchy these days, and nothing felt better than a good back scratch.

Except the sex. Maybe.

Starsky kept up a constant stream of instructions, interspersed with sounds of appreciation. “Lower... lower... to the side... there! Ahhh...” Starsky closed his eyes. “Okay, I’m done. Going to sleep now.”

“You think so, huh?” Hutch slapped his hand down on Starsky’s ass, taking a full handful of his right cheek.

Starsky nearly hit the headboard of the bed. In an instant he’d gone from utterly relaxed to every nerve on edge. He looked back over his shoulder at Hutch, eyes wide.

Hutch laughed. There was an affectionately mocking tone in his voice, as he said, “You’re so s-ah-nsitive.”

Which of course was the crux of the problem. Because he was sensitive to touch. And Hutch, apparently, was not. Starsky wanted to explore that issue further, but just then Hutch’s hand slipped between the cheeks of his ass, and all rational thought disappeared.

Yep, thought Starsky, it was a new lube. There was heat in Hutch’s hand, and what he was doing back there set all of Starsky’s nerves on fire. He was abruptly very uncomfortable lying on his stomach, and rolled onto his side, away from that teasing touch, off of his burgeoning erection.

“No,” said Hutch. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Obviously. Because if this was ‘done’, then Starsky might have to commit a homicide. The dick, Hutch? See my dick? Aren’t you going to do something about that?

But Hutch ignored the obvious target, and instead stretched himself along Starsky’s side. Starsky stopped breathing as Hutch’s lips settled onto the side of his neck. He was one big exposed nerve from head to toes, and all he could feel, all he could smell, was Hutch.

Muzzily, it occurred to him that maybe Hutch needed a demonstration. He reached down blindly. Hutch was solid – hard – the velvet crown of his cock pushing up against the palm of Starsky’s hand. Starsky knew that if it had been him, just that first touch alone would have sent him through the roof, but Hutch didn’t react. He was obviously focused on what he was doing to Starsky, plus the angle was all wrong. It didn’t seem right to Starsky that he was going out of his mind, while Hutch remained completely in control of himself.

It was always like this.

Hutch ran his fingers lightly down Starsky’s side, not even hitting any of the high points, and still he sent him right through the roof. Starsky tried the same thing, but Hutch just smiled affectionately, and kept right up with whatever it was he was doing.

Single-minded, a man with a mission.

Between the friction of Hutch’s hand, and the heat of that lube, whatever the hell that was, and the agony of lying on his stomach, Starsky was going to lose it in a moment. He whined, helplessly.

“Too much?” asked Hutch.

Starsky didn’t know if the sound he made in response was a plea for mercy or a request for more. But apparently it made some sense to Hutch, because he backed off.

Giving Starsky a moment to try to collect himself.

And that was the other problem. Hutch never had to collect himself. He talked all the time. “Is this good?” “You like this?” “Here, just move yourself over, like this, okay?”

The questions kept coming, and Starsky never could find the words to answer. All his words had been incinerated in the heat.

The heat which Hutch never seemed to feel. Because right now, Starsky could hear the sound of Hutch applying the lube to himself, and it seemed to him that Hutch wasn’t going nearly fast enough, because he wanted him, he wanted him now and what was taking so long...

Wasn’t there a time when this would have been inconceivable?

How come no one told him it could feel this good?

And finally, finally Hutch grabbed him where it counted, just as he buried himself in Starsky. And Starsky thought maybe the top of his head had exploded. Or maybe he’d just finally smacked it on the headboard one too many times, but it didn’t matter, because if this was the way he was going to die, then he would die happy.

Afterwards, he collapsed into the mess he’d made on the bed, his ass aching, his eyes closed, stickiness on his chest and belly. He felt the bed shift as Hutch climbed off, cleaning himself up. Who’d have thought that his slob of a partner would be such a neatnik in the bedroom? Wasn’t that what showers were for?

Starsky let his head rest on his folded arms, unwilling to move just yet. He wondered why he couldn’t do for Hutch what Hutch did for him. He’d tried. Imitating Hutch’s moves, trying to invent his own...

When Hutch gave head, Starsky all but climbed the walls. It took incredible self-control not to grab Hutch by the ears and scream. And wouldn’t the neighbors love that?

But when Starsky gave head, Hutch went absolutely rigid, only the most subtle quiver of the inside of his thigh betraying his reaction. And he always pushed Starsky away a second before he came.

And then there was the absolutely crucial matter of who did whom.

I would, you know, if you wanted me to, thought Starsky. But Hutch didn’t want. Or maybe he did, but he wouldn’t say. And Starsky didn’t know how to ask. It’s not the kind of thing a guy could just bring up over dinner. So, buddy, you’ve been sticking yours up mine for the last three months. I think it’s time I got a turn now, don’t you agree?

“Thank you,” said Hutch.

The bed shifted again, and Starsky felt Hutch’s arms enveloping him. The love in that embrace, as Hutch’s head came to rest between his shoulder blades, was all-encompassing. Starsky felt a twinge of guilt.

“Ought t’ be thanking you,” said Starsky. You do all the work, you do everything for me...

Hutch’s arms tightened, as if he was he was afraid Starsky might slip out of his grasp.

Starsky wondered if the grief he felt was his, or Hutch’s. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

But Hutch just laughed, and Starsky felt him pull back. “Well, I hope you’re going somewhere, or otherwise you’ll end up glued to that towel, cemented to the sheets, forever. And I’ll have a hell of a time explaining to guests why my partner is stuck to my bed.”

And that was that. Off to the shower, clean up, go to work, come home, hang out, everything normal again, until the next time Hutch said, “So...,” and Starsky said, “Sure.”

Every now and then, Hutch might say something like, “I had fun last night.” And Starsky would have to say, “Me, too.” Because he knew this wasn’t the kind of thing you could joke about. Not with Hutch looking at him with so much vulnerability in his eyes.

Almost dying has a way of putting a man’s priorities in order. The way Starsky saw it, they were in this for the long haul. So, there was time. Time to figure out how to fix the problem that was Hutch.

Might have to handcuff those wandering hands to the bed, mused Starsky. Just to make sure there weren’t any distractions...

Infused with new determination, Starsky sat up and used the towel to wipe himself off. He had acquired a project. A science project.

Because Hutch wasn’t the only one with goals.

And it might be fun, bossing him around for a change.


The sex thing didn’t come up again for several days, but it was never far from Starsky’s mind.

Following a tip, they picked up a two-bit dealer named Wally, hiding out in a blue movie theater. Inside of five minutes Hutch had him in cuffs and ready to be shipped to the station. Starsky lingered behind, watching the action on the screen.

“Come on!” snapped Hutch.

Starsky didn’t turn. “Hutch, lookit what she’s doing to that guy!” What she was doing, technically speaking, was nothing more than giving him head. But, there was technique involved. Starsky had never noticed that before. It was in the way she gripped the shaft, the rhythm, and she was obviously doing something very particular with her tongue...

Hutch grabbed his elbow and spun him around. “Starsky, I’m not standing here while you get off on some underage porn actress!”

“But...” Starsky wanted to protest that he wasn’t getting off, he was doing research. “Didn’t you see what she was doing?” He stopped. “Wait. She’s underage?”

He tried to take another look at the girl, but Hutch dragged him out of the theater.

Down at the station, Wally ratted out his supplier who turned out to be the current owner of the Sex-o-Rama. Starsky was delighted. Just the place he’d been hoping to visit soon.

Frankie’s cop-radar must have been on high alert. The moment they stepped into the shop, he bolted out the back door. Starsky knocked over a rack of intriguingly-shaped plastic somethings, and barreled through a stand of magazines, taking a straight line after Frankie. He was peripherally aware of Hutch taking off in the other direction, out the front door.

He’ll be circling around the side of the building. Starsky shouldered his way through the back door, into the alley, hot on Frankie’s heels.

Frankie darted to the right, but Hutch was already rounding the corner. Frankie skidded to a panicked halt and doubled back, straight into Starsky. The two of them went down in a tangle of limbs, but Starsky recovered first and bounced back up onto his feet. Grabbing Frankie by the back of his neck, Starsky hauled him up off the ground and propelled him into the wall. He had him cuffed and Mirandized by the time Hutch trotted up, breathing heavily.

“You know,” said Starsky, thinking about the rack he’d knocked over. “I might have seen some evidence back in the Sex-o-rama. Maybe I should go take another look...”

Hutch growled. Literally. And Starsky gave him a wide-eyed look, realizing that his partner was truly pissed off.

“...or maybe not,” said Starsky, carefully.

Hutch took a fistful of Frankie’s shirt and shoved the protesting man down the alley toward the street. Starsky trailed after them, pondering Hutch’s sudden bad mood.

Hutch brooded all the way back to the station and right through the booking process, until Starsky was sure he could see an actual storm cloud hovering over his head. Any moment now they were both going to get drenched, if not actually struck by lightning. When he couldn’t stand it any more, Starsky grabbed Hutch and dragged him into an empty corridor.

Planting a hand on either side of Hutch, pinning him against the wall, Starsky leaned in close and asked, “What’s going on? Did I do something?”

Hutch’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He patted Starsky’s cheek, a little too carefully. “No, I’m just tired.”

So far, this sex thing had been entirely Hutch’s deal. Starsky never said no, but he never suggested it, either.

That, Starsky decided, was going to have to change. Right now.

Pushing himself back, Starsky jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and said, “So...?”

Hutch remained where he was, leaning against the wall. He looked puzzled. “What?”

Obviously Starsky wasn’t being clear enough. A quick glance around ensured that they were still alone. “Your place or mine?”

There was a flicker of something like wonder in Hutch’s eyes. “Mine.”

Which is exactly what Starsky figured he would say. He decided to see how far off balance he could knock Hutch. “How ‘bout now? We got an hour for lunch, and...” Donning his best Bogie imitation like a shield, he said quickly, “And I got a hankering for a certain tall blond.” He felt the heat rise in his cheeks and wondered if a person could spontaneously combust from sheer embarrassment alone.

It was this sex thing. It messed with your head. Starsky hadn’t felt this much like an idiot since eighth grade, when he’d tried to discover if Louisa Ellen really would ‘put out for anyone’.

Hutch chuckled. But all he said was, “You got a date.”

Starsky wondered what path his life would have taken if Louisa Ellen had been that accommodating.


The thing that really got to Starsky was how little it took to make Hutch happy. Just that one small offer, and Hutch’s mood turned completely around. All the way back to the apartment, Hutch looked like a guy who’d been told he just won the lottery, and still couldn’t believe it wasn’t all a case of mistaken identity. You can’t mean me, you must be thinking of some other guy. It made Starsky feel like the world’s biggest jerk.

All I had to do was ask every now and then? How was I supposed to know?

The door had hardly closed behind them when Hutch’s arms wrapped around him from behind. Starsky flinched slightly, not expecting the embrace. He felt Hutch’s arousal, the hard bulge of his corduroys pressing into his backside, and he felt Hutch’s warm breath on his neck as he murmured, “Sorry, sorry...”

What’s he apologizing for, wondered Starsky, vaguely, distracted by the heat igniting in his groin, spreading through his midsection . It took an immense act of will to remember his precise purpose in asking Hutch to do this here, now, in the middle of the day.

It wasn’t so Hutch could do his usual thing, make him feel so good. It was Starsky’s turn to be in charge. His turn to make Hutch feel good, to try to balance things out a little, so that they could be real partners in this sex thing.

Starsky turned in Hutch’s arms, and felt the smallest of shudders travel the length of the man’s body as his hip brushed past the front of the cords.

“We should go to the bedroom,” said Hutch.

But Starsky shook his head. He had other plans. He kissed Hutch, thinking, shut up. The part of him not completely distracted by ohgodifeelsogood marveled at the sheer novelty of swapping spit with someone taller than himself. Feeling the light burr of a not-so-recently shaven upper lip. Not a girl. Definitely not a girl. Hutch. A rush of heat enveloped him, and he thought his cock might actually strangle in his pants.

Starsky shoved Hutch back against the wall, and explored the taste of his mouth. He had the flavor of coffee and spearmint gum, which had Starsky briefly wondering if Hutch was craving cigarettes again. There was another taste in there, too. Something muskier. Sex, thought Starsky. He tastes like sex.

He felt Hutch’s hands on the back of his head, and the touch brought him back to the present. Remember who’s in charge. Starsky’s hands dropped to Hutch’s belt and he tugged the loop out of the buckle.

Hutch pulled away, “Starsk, what...?”

Starsky pushed him back against the wall, amused by the uncertain expression in Hutch’s eyes. “This time, I get to do you. Okay?” He thought of what he’d seen that girl doing in the porno earlier, and felt an answering throb in his groin. Poor, frustrated dick. We’ll take care of you later. This time it’s Hutch’s turn.

“But, I...”

Starsky kissed him again. Shut up. Shut up. At this rate he was never going to get to the main event. They would end up being three hours late logging back in from lunch, and Dobey would have a coronary.

Of course, if he had any idea what they were doing to make themselves late, a full coronary might be the mildest reaction they could hope for.

The belt pulled out of its buckle easily. The button was a bit tricky to undo by touch alone, but when Hutch reached down to help him, Starsky pushed his hands away. He managed it himself. The zipper was no problem at all.

Now, finally, he released Hutch’s mouth, and dropped down to sit on his heels, eyeing the straining cotton-covered bulge with satisfaction. Look what I did.

“No!” said Hutch, with a frantic edge to his voice.

Starsky looked up to see something that looked like panic in Hutch’s face. And then Hutch was down on the floor on his knees in front of him, taking his face in both hands, and kissing him with desperate intensity. Starsky gasped for breath when Hutch pulled back. “What...?” This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go.

Wasn’t I supposed to be running things this time?

“Not on your knees. I don’t want to see you on your knees.”

Hutch’s hands dropped to Starsky’s shoulders, and he pushed him firmly down onto the floor. Starsky blinked up at him. He doesn’t want me on my knees, but on my back is just fine? For a moment he thought he had something, a glimmer of an idea about what was really going on.

Then Hutch’s hand cupped the bulge in the front of his jeans, and any notion he might have about who was really in charge went right out the window. Before Starsky knew quite how it had happened, his pants were down around his ankles, and his mind was gibbering incoherently somewhere… somewhere else. Nowhere within useful reach, anyway.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather move to the bedroom?” asked Hutch, raising his head from where it was buried in Starsky’s crotch.

No, no, nonono... Starsky shook his head frantically as he thrust his hips up, trying to push himself back into that warm teasing mouth. Don’t stop.

“You like that, huh?”

Starsky thought he might scream. But then he remembered the neighbors and choked it back to a strangled sob, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Thought so,” said Hutch. His mouth descended again.

Starsky had gone into this with every intention of giving as good as he got. He managed to move himself to the side so that his face was pressed up against Hutch’s hip. Almost a sixty-nine… they hadn’t tried that one yet. He even got a hand down inside of Hutch’s pants, but that was as far as it went. He couldn’t co-ordinate himself to pull them the rest of the way down over Hutch’s hips. And never mind stroking, rubbing, licking, whatever the hell that tongue thing had been. With Hutch doing this to him, it was all Starsky could do just to hang on.

Until he couldn’t anymore, and his world turned inside out, and all he could think was, can’t yell, mustn’t yell, oh hell…

Hutch coughed, and surfaced like a diver coming up for air. He wiped his mouth, grinning. “You can let go now,” he said, and Starsky realized that his hand was sticky and Hutch was softening.

Shoot, he thought, feeling keen disappointment. I didn’t do anything. He pulled his hand away and wiped it on his t-shirt.

“Thank you,” said Hutch, like he always did. He rested his head on Starsky’s hip and brought his hand up to Starsky’s stomach, smoothing the hair and tracing the scars of old surgeries. That look of wistful wonder was back, the look of someone who thinks he’s getting something he doesn’t deserve.

“I liked it,” said Starsky, partly because it was true, but mostly because it was what Hutch needed to hear. He didn’t say the rest, which was, I wanted to be in charge. Just once.

Maybe next time.


At work, Starsky sometimes found himself wondering if it showed. He felt as if it should show. As if people should be able to look at him and say, “He’s been having sex with his partner.” Or sex with someone, anyway.

But apparently it didn’t show.

Or if it did, no one would say.

“Hutch, do you think we’re the only ones? You know, the only partners who...?” Starsky gestured vaguely with his hand. He was breaking the rules, at least so far as there were any. They’d never discussed this sex thing out loud before.

Hutch only looked at him sideways, his head ducking slightly as if he thought he might get punched. “Well, I’ve always had my suspicions about Simonetti and Dryden...”

“Yuck!” And then Starsky did hit him. Because now he had the image in his head of Dryden sticking it to Simonetti, and that was not a pretty sight.

Kathy Marshall certainly couldn’t tell there was anything out of the ordinary going on. She blew into town on another 48-hour layover, with a stewardess friend in tow. Starsky and Hutch double-dated with the girls, taking in the clubs, dinner and dancing. Unfortunately, Kathy’s friend turned out not to be Hutch’s type after all, and he left early, claiming exhaustion.

Starsky stayed to keep the girls company. Kathy’s friend eventually found another date. When the new guy announced he was driving her back to her hotel, Kathy and Starsky exchanged a glance.

“Your place?” suggested Kathy.

Starsky nodded. It was routine. Just the way things had always been.

Except this time, Kathy made a point of saying that Starsky’s scars didn’t bother her at all. And Starsky decided he was never taking his shirt off around her again. Which really didn’t make much difference, since it wasn’t his shirt Kathy wanted to get inside of anyway.

In the morning, they dropped in on Hutch to see how he was doing. He seemed happy enough to see them, but he was quieter than usual.

“You coming down with something?” asked Starsky. He reached up to feel Hutch’s forehead, checking for a temperature.

Hutch ducked away from his hand. “I’m just a little tired. I want to kick back and relax at home this weekend.”

“I was going to pick you up a ticket to the game,” said Starsky, disappointed.

“You guys have fun.”

It was fun. Kathy was a cheerful and undemanding date. She knew how to have a good time, and she made sure Starsky did, too. But it would have been a lot more fun if Hutch had been there. By the time Starsky dropped Kathy off at the airport, he was looking forward to having his life settle back into its new-but-rapidly-becoming-old routine.

The way things should be.

And to be perfectly honest, he was looking forward to getting some more of what he’d come to consider real sex. Because what he had with Kathy was… different. She was nice, and she always let him be in charge of things, but she wasn’t Hutch.

If I ever had to choose, thought Starsky, there’d be no contest.

Monday, Hutch was back to his old self, and Starsky decided it had probably just been a mild bug, maybe a touch of the flu. He dropped a few hints Hutch’s way, but Hutch ignored them. Tuesday, Wednesday... a week passed and finally Starsky got tired of waiting.

He said, “So...?”

There was a brief hesitation. Then Hutch grinned lopsidedly, and said, “Sure.”


This time, Starsky watched Hutch undress. He looked at that long lean body, the way the muscles moved under the skin, the way the fine blond hair on his arms and legs caught the light. Hutch.

He was still sitting on the edge of the bed when Hutch flung himself down onto his back, golden and utterly naked.

“You know,” said Hutch. “This isn’t how it works.”

“Huh?” Starsky was staring at the line of his stomach, and the slats of his ribs. The little dip near his collarbone... He glanced up, distracted.

“You’re still dressed.”

“Oh!” Starsky quickly pulled off his pants. But his gaze was drawn inexorably back to Hutch, and after kicking free of his underwear he leaned across the bed and captured Hutch’s mouth with his own.

Hutch’s tongue ran across his lips, and Starsky tasted toothpaste. When did Hutch brush his teeth? Never mind. He sat back on his heels and admired the sight one more time.

“You’re still wearing your shirt.”

Starsky thought he heard an undercurrent of concern in Hutch’s voice, and realized that his moment of inattention could be misinterpreted. He quickly offered, “I’ll take it off for a back scratch.”

Hutch nodded, looking relieved. “You’ve got a deal.”

Starsky hummed appreciatively as Hutch worked over his back. After a few minutes, he felt Hutch shift, and then a long leg was flung across him and Hutch settled onto the back of his thighs. Starsky could feel the hard, warm shape of Hutch’s cock pressing into his rear end, and he lifted his hips. I know you want it.

“Stop that,” said Hutch, sternly. “Not yet.” He dug his fingers into Starsky’s back, still scratching, but harder now.

It was clear who was in charge this time, but it didn’t matter to Starsky. Gonna get some, he thought, happily. He could wait. For a little while, anyway.

Hutch’s hands traveled down to his sides, and Starsky jerked in response. Hutch’s knees tightened, holding him in place, as Starsky made an incoherent noise of protest. Something had changed. Hutch wasn’t just scratching his back, this was something else. It was almost painful, but damn it felt good.

Don’t stop. Don’t…

The fire in his back ignited in his groin. Starsky imagined himself flayed to muscle and bone, and didn’t care, because this was heaven and hell all wrapped up together in one excruciating package.

And then Hutch’s hands were around his waist, lifting him up onto his hands and knees, and he could feel the heat of Hutch’s breath on his stinging back. Hutch was talking, he never stopped talking.

“You like it when it hurts a little, huh?”

Yes, yes, you can keep doing that...

Hutch’s warm weight pulled away, and Starsky felt the loss so keenly he thought he might cry. Then, he felt Hutch’s mouth on his backside, on the cheek of his ass. He thought it was a kiss, perhaps, but all of a sudden he felt Hutch’s teeth grab his skin, and the tiny pinch just about knocked him flat, all of his nerves screaming at once.

He bit me! The sonofabitch bit... Another nip followed the first, higher up, near the base of his spine. Starsky gasped, and this time his arms did collapse, dropping him onto his face, his ass in the air, hardly a dignified position but he didn’t care. And then there came another precise nibble, following the arch of his back, and he heard Hutch chuckle, low in the back of his throat.


Starsky threw himself over onto his back, knocking Hutch’s right arm out from under him. Hutch fell on his side and Starsky grabbed his face with both hands, scrambling up on top to straddle his waist. Gotcha, you bastard.

But Hutch, grinning, turned his head to one side and gently bit the inside of Starsky’s wrist, sending an electric sensation all the way up Starsky’s arm, setting off tiny explosions in the back of Starsky’s head.

Which was the point when Starsky realized he might be in trouble.

Hutch brought one leg up and easily rolled them both over, before flipping Starsky once more onto his stomach. Starsky whimpered as he came down on his achingly sensitive cock, Hutch’s weight on his back. Hutch, please...

“You know what I think your problem is?” said Hutch, his tone mild. If it wasn’t for his rigid erection, now nestled precisely between the cheeks of Starsky’s ass, there would have been no way to tell that he was into this sex thing at all.

Starsky shook his head, wordlessly, his cheeks scraping the sheets. Please...

“You’re always in too much of a hurry.” Hutch leaned forward and retrieved the lube from the bedside table, his added weight dragging a muffled sob from Starsky. “Sex... Sex is like cooking a fine meal. Sometimes, in order to bring out the full flavor, you have to let things simmer awhile.”

Resentfully, Starsky thought, But you’re the only one who ever gets to cook around here. He almost said something. Almost found the words.

However, at that precise moment, Hutch slipped inside of Starsky, and Starsky forgot about everything except the importance of keeping quiet, no matter what.

Because Hutch had neighbors who probably wouldn’t appreciate hearing Starsky scream.

Afterwards, Hutch didn’t get up immediately. He stayed where he was, his arms around Starsky’s waist and his cheek resting on his back. Starsky could feel a fine tremor in the body pressed against his, and he wondered briefly what was going through Hutch’s head. He might have asked, except for the fact that an itch right between his shoulder blades was urgently demanding his attention.

“Scratch?” asked Starsky, plaintively.

Hutch found the right spot immediately. “I know… you’re not into the sex at all. You only do it so you can get your back scratched.”

Starsky closed his eyes. “Mmm, hm.”

Hutch patted his back in an “all done” manner, and finally disengaged. The towel had ended up near Starsky’s head. A corner of it dragged across his cheek as Hutch retrieved it.

Starsky considered his project. He really wasn’t getting anywhere with it. Maybe handcuffs were the way to go. Of course, considering what Hutch had been doing with his teeth, he might also need to gag the man. Visions of an utterly restrained Hutch, completely helpless and vulnerable to his attentions, drifted through his mind’s eyes. He had a vague suspicion that he shouldn’t find the notion nearly as attractive as he did.

“You’re always so mellow afterwards,” observed Hutch. “Especially these days.”

Starsky twisted his head to the side. Hutch was sitting on the side of the bed, towel in hand, uncertainty written plainly in his expression. Starsky said, “Mellow is good, right?”

“I certainly hope so,” said Hutch. He paused a moment. “But, I was aiming for... tingly.”

That made Starsky laugh. “Trust me. I tingled.” He stretched, flexing, and heard his joints pop. “See? I’m cracking my toes in happiness.”

“Oh well,” said Hutch, wryly. “Who can ask for higher praise than that?”

Like it’s all some sort of necessary task for him. Like he woke up this morning and said, ‘Today I’ll sort my sock drawer, finish my taxes, and fuck my partner right out of his mind.’

Well, Starsky’s own project might be a non-starter, but he hadn’t given up just yet. It was simply a matter of figuring out the right approach.

And then he would give as good as he got.


Two days later, Starsky almost died.

Not in his own opinion, but that was clearly how Hutch viewed the matter. The bust was supposed to go down smooth: just make the buy, flash the badges, and arrest everyone in sight. But apparently no one filled the bad guys in on the plan, because one of them spotted the cop cars converging a block away, and alerted all the rest.

What was supposed to be a simple round up instead turned into a massive game of tag throughout the warehouse district, with the players using real guns to count each other out.

Starsky was okay with firing at the bad guys, but he really wasn’t happy in the role of target. He was much too familiar with how it felt when a bullet - or three - punched holes in your body in places where holes weren’t ever supposed to be.

He directed Hutch around the left side of the pile of shipping containers before taking the right himself. He tried to ignore the persistent itch between his shoulder blades - the one right where he imagined the giant bull’s-eye target to be.

Starsky spotted their quarry first. He ducked as a bullet buried itself in the wooden crate in front of him. One moment to draw breath, and not claw his way right out of his skin, screaming, and then he straightened and returned fire.

He never had a chance to see if he’d hit his target. He heard Hutch shout, and turned reflexively. It was probably this that saved his head from becoming a wet red smear on the side of the metal shipping container. As it was, the guy swinging the rebar still managed to clip him at an angle just above the ear, and Starsky went down.

Things were fuzzy after that. The first clear image Starsky had was of a seriously pissed-off Hutch pounding on some guy over and over. He wasn’t too clear on the why, but he knew it was all wrong. Hutch was a good guy and good guys don’t beat people to a pulp.

Starsky tried to say something, but Hutch didn’t seem to hear him and he wouldn’t stop hitting the guy. Starsky tried to pick himself up, afraid Hutch was really going to kill his prisoner, but he kept falling back down. At some point while he’d been out, someone had stolen his legs and replaced them with rubber replicas that didn’t work worth a damn.

And then all of a sudden Hutch was there, grabbing him by the shoulders and pushing him back to lean against the corrugated metal. He was shouting something about, “You dummy,” and “Why didn’t you duck when I told you to?” and “You never listen to me!” Starsky blinked at him, trying to resolve the multiple Hutches that kept sliding into each other. The way his head felt at the moment, he wasn’t sure he could handle even one angry Hutch, much less three.

He desperately tried to remember why exactly Hutch was mad at him this time. He thought he had ducked. Hadn’t he?

After a moment, the assorted unhappy Hutches steadied and merged together, and Starsky was able to ask, “You okay?”

Hutch made a funny kind of choking noise. But he stopped ranting, so that was good.

The guy Hutch had been beating on was a bloody sobbing heap on the concrete a few feet away. That was bad. They were going to have to answer some questions on that one.

Then Starsky remembered the guy with the gun, and turned his head to check on him. The world tipped sickeningly, and things slid out of focus again.

He heard Hutch say, “You got him, don’t worry. It’s all over.”

So Starsky stopped trying to fight with his uncooperative, rubbery legs, slid down the side of the shipping container, and let his ass hit the ground. It was better down here, anyway.


They spent three hours at the hospital, waiting for a doctor to tell them what Starsky considered perfectly obvious - that there was no concussion. It was a simple knock on the head. Take some aspirin and apply a cold pack where it hurt.

He’d tried to tell them that, back at the scene, but neither Hutch nor Dobey would take his word for it. Which was why he and Hutch ended up there, in Emergency, perched on a pair of the world’s most uncomfortable plastic chairs, sandwiched between an old fellow with a deep nasal wheeze and an exhausted young woman clutching a crying infant.

The wait gave Starsky some time to think things over.

Hutch had no problem letting him be in charge when it came to their working life. Not all the time, of course, but there was give-and-take. Sometimes Hutch had a plan, and then Starsky followed. And sometimes it was Starsky who took over, directing Hutch. Today, for instance, in the warehouse Starsky had called the shots at first, and then after he’d got that knock on the head, Hutch took over. It was smooth, easy, a real partnership.

Except for the unfortunate business with the guy… Starsky winced, remembering how upset Dobey had been. Hutch was probably going to end up with a reprimand for excessive use of force, and he might even have to see the department’s psychologist again. IA would be making the call on that one.

The sex thing was different and, sitting in the hospital waiting room, Starsky thought he might have a glimmer of an idea why. The sex thing didn’t grow out of their relationship at work, it was the result of that time when Starsky really had almost died.

Three bullets in the back wasn’t the kind of thing a person recovered from easily. Hutch moved in with Starsky after he was released from the hospital. For a while there, Starsky had been dependent on him for everything – even just getting to the bathroom and back. With anyone else it would have been a hard blow to his dignity, but with Hutch it seemed natural and easy. Hutch clearly wanted to take care of him, and Starsky appreciated being looked after.

Eventually Starsky had recovered enough to look after himself, but the new dynamic hung on. Not at work - that would have destroyed their partnership for sure - but in everything else, and especially in their sex life. Hutch was still tending to Starsky, and Starsky was still on the receiving end of things.

“So...?” said Hutch.

Startled, Starsky glanced up. Hutch looked nervous, almost guilty, like he wanted something desperately but thought he shouldn’t have it.

“‘Course,” said Starsky. He patted Hutch’s leg reassuringly. See? I’m alive. I’m fine. I’m not even really hurt, but if you got to look after me anyway, that’s okay.

Then the doctor came through the swinging doors into the waiting room, glanced at his clipboard, and said, “David Starsky?”


Starsky was vindicated, of course. It really was nothing more than a nasty knock on the head, no concussion, take an aspirin and go lie down. He loved being right, but he took the high road and only rubbed it in a little.


That evening, when Hutch said, “Lie down,” Starsky replied, “Not yet.”

Hutch was leaning back on his bed, all pale blondness, with the addition of a few new bruises from the events of the day. He bruised easily, his skin showing damage much more dramatically than Starsky’s dark hide ever did. Starsky sat down beside him. He almost touched the mark on Hutch’s hip, and then firmly took control of himself. No more getting distracted.

Hutch reached for him.

Starsky caught Hutch’s left hand, intercepting it. “I don’t want you to touch me, this time, okay?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” said Hutch. He rolled onto his side and his right hand settled onto Starsky’s waist. The light contact made Starsky shiver, and Hutch’s eyes tracked significantly down to Starsky’s groin.

It occurred to Starsky that this might have been easier if he’d left his clothes on. He shifted, trying to ignore his rapidly stiffening cock. “Stop that. I want to make this about you, this time.”

Some of the pleasure in Hutch’s eyes dimmed. “It’s always about me,” he said, quietly. With a twist he freed his left hand and caught Starsky’s instead. Bringing Starsky’s right hand up to his mouth, he gently kissed the palm.

Starsky groaned, feeling the heat of Hutch’s breath. How could a small thing like this unsettle him so completely? “Please, don’t…” he said. “I want…”

But Hutch ignored him. His thumb found the sensitive crease on the inside of Starsky’s thigh, and Starsky gasped, feeling the touch like a spark of electricity. He had to let go of Hutch’s hand as he reached down, trying to relieve some of the agony, needing more. Hutch made a pleased sound. “I love the way I can make you come.”

That statement brought Starsky abruptly back to reality. He caught himself a moment away from complete surrender, and remembered his goal.

Gonna make you come to me this time.

He hadn’t really intended to go through with the cuffs. He’d had it in mind that all he needed to do was ask, and Hutch would let him do what he wanted. But he had asked, and Hutch had ignored him.

And the cuffs were in his pants, on the floor at his feet.

So, it was a simple enough matter to grab that hand, the one that was causing him so much distraction, and snap the cuff onto a wrist and then onto the bedpost.

Starsky’s sense of accomplishment lasted much less than a second.

“What the fuck?” bellowed Hutch.

Oops, thought Starsky.


The handcuffs were a bad idea.

A very, very bad idea.

“You’re going to hurt me, aren’t you?” said Starsky, from the relative safety of the bedroom door.

Hutch glared at him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He was lying; Starsky knew it, and he knew that Hutch knew he knew it.

There just didn’t seem to be any good way out of this predicament. Starsky would have liked to simply throw the cuff keys at Hutch, and run. But that plan was complicated by the fact that the keys were in the pocket of his jeans. And his jeans were on the floor beside the bed. He really didn’t want to get that close to Hutch right now.

Hutch yanked at his wrist, but only once. It was pointless, they both knew that. In a much too controlled tone of voice, all the scarier because he wasn’t shouting, Hutch said, “You mind telling me what the fuck is going through your pea-brain right now? Because I’d really like to know.”

He’s never going to fuck my ass again, thought Starsky, mournfully. But he knew better than to share that particular reflection with Hutch. Instead, he said, “I wanted to do to you what you do to me.”

“I don’t recall ever handcuffing you to a bed.” Hutch was sitting upright, his legs crossed. His gaze darkened further. “This how you treat all your dates? You get off on cuffing the girls?”

Starsky was horrified. “Geez, Hutch! I wouldn’t ever... Beside, you’re not a girl!” He was miles away from getting off on anything at the moment. Just the thought made his balls want to crawl up into his belly and hide.

“Nice to know you’ve noticed. So, I take it that it’s just me, then.”

The bitterness in Hutch’s voice panicked Starsky. He tried to explain, again. “No, I mean, I... I asked you to stop, but you wouldn’t...” He trailed off, seeing Hutch’s expression change to utter devastation. He didn’t know what he was saying wrong, but whatever it was, Hutch was taking it hard.

Starsky decided to stop trying to explain. He was clearly just making matters worse.

Darting forward, ducking, Starsky snagged his pants and turned them over, letting the keys drop into his hand. Hutch didn’t try to grab him, a fact that scared Starsky far more than anything else could have. As he fumbled with the keys, he said, “I love what you do for me, Hutch. I really do! I just wanted to make you feel good, too.”

Hutch’s eyes first widened in surprise, and then narrowed dangerously. “Hell of a way to do it, buddy.

The cuff fell off of Hutch’s wrist, and Starsky backpedaled quickly as Hutch surged up off the bed.

Starsky babbled frantically, as he tried to jam his foot into the leg into his jeans. “Honest, Hutch, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I didn’t know you’d take it like that...” He hopped backward on one foot as Hutch advanced.

Hutch stalked him slowly, backing him into the living room. Starsky jammed his other leg into his jeans. Holding the waist closed with one hand, he turned and bolted for the door.

He was two feet away from freedom when he felt Hutch snag him by the back of his pants, and he was jerked off his feet.

Starsky crashed backwards into Hutch, scrambling to regain his balance. He failed. They hit the ground together, and before Starsky knew quite how it had happened, he was face down over Hutch’s knees. He was still trying to figure out the game plan, when Hutch yanked down the back of his jeans and smacked his bare ass. There was a sharp crack as flesh impacted with flesh.

Starsky howled in pain and outrage. Before Hutch could hit him again, he heaved himself up onto his knees, swinging blindly. He felt several of his blows connect, and then Hutch drove his head into Starsky’s stomach and they were both on the ground again, each grappling for the upper hand.

Starsky, well aware that he was at a disadvantage in ground fighting, punched Hutch solidly in the mouth. Hutch released him, both of his hands coming up to cover his face. Starsky rolled clear, wanting nothing more than to get the hell away from this apartment, from Hutch, from this whole messed up thing.

He had barely made it to his hands and knees, when Hutch grabbed his ankle, bringing him down onto the carpet with enough force that his breath left his lungs in one loud whuff. Starsky recognized the hold Hutch was going for and kicked wildly, his foot impacting with Hutch’s shoulder. Hutch’s grasp tightened and he threw himself forward onto Starsky, bringing the offending leg up with him, so that Starsky’s heel was now pressed into the small of his back.

And then he twisted Starsky’s leg, and flashbulbs exploded in front of Starsky’s eyes. Goddamn wrestling fucking champion... “Ow! Bastard, lemme go!”

“You handcuffed me to the bed!” growled Hutch.

“You spanked me!”

“You fucked Kathy!”

Starsky turned over, twisting out of Hutch’s grasp. “What’s that got to do with anything?” In the confusion of the moment, all he could think was, I didn’t know he wanted to do Kathy.

The phone rang, the sudden jangle of noise startling them both. They stared at each other. The phone rang again, and just as Starsky was beginning to wonder if Hutch was going to answer it at all, Hutch suddenly rolled off of him and grabbed for the receiver.

“What!” he barked.

Starsky watched as the baffled anger on Hutch’s face faded first to comprehension, and then embarrassment.

“Yes, this is Detective Hutchinson speaking. No, no, I’m sorry. Oh, my neighbor said, um... No. W-we’re just fine...”

Starsky stood and pulled his jeans up. He zipped them carefully, mindful of the fact that he’d left his underwear on Hutch’s bedroom floor. He sat down on the couch, and winced. Damn, Hutch was strong. His ass felt like it was on fire. He was probably developing a giant welt the size and shape of Hutch’s hand right now.


Hutch hung up the phone, very carefully. Then he sat down next to Starsky. He looked at his hands as he said, “That was Mildred. It seems they got a call in a few minutes ago from my neighbor across the hall. Mrs. Lubinski apparently thought someone was getting murdered in my apartment.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Starsky started to chuckle.

It took Hutch a moment longer, but gradually a smile spread across his face, and he began to laugh as well.

There were tears on Starsky’s cheeks by the time Hutch pounded him on the back and choked, “Get a hold of yourself! If Mrs. Lubinski calls again, we’ll end up with a patrol at the door.”

A vision of himself trying to explain this situation to a very puzzled uniform ambushed Starsky. He said, “Well, you see, Officer, I handcuffed my naked partner to his bed, and when he got free he sp-spanked me...” Starsky couldn’t contain it any more; he wrapped his arms around his aching ribs and doubled forward, laughing helplessly.

Hutch threw his head back, and covered his eyes with one hand. “Oh, hell...”

It was several minutes before Starsky had control of himself again. Still snickering, he pushed himself up and limped over to the kitchen sink to pour himself a glass of water.

Hutch watched him from the couch. Soberly, he said, “I feel like I should apologize for something, but...”

Starsky drained his glass and filled it again. “You shouldn’t apologize if you’re not sorry.” Crossing the room, he handed the glass to Hutch.

Hutch looked down at the water and then up at Starsky. “I’m not sorry.” There was something almost defiant in his expression.

Starsky realized Hutch wasn’t talking about the fight, or even the spanking that had started the fight. Starsky slid his fingers into the front of his jeans, hooking his thumbs over the band, and looked down at his partner. Hutch was still stark naked, but now the corner of his mouth was beginning to twist as his lip swelled, and his blond hair was standing on end.

Knowing Hutch would understand what he meant, Starsky said, “Me, neither.”


Neither of them were in the mood to continue what they’d started, either the sex or the fight that followed. Hutch wrapped himself in his bathrobe, and went to put on the coffee.

Starsky pulled a chair out and sat down at the table to watch him. He looked at the way Hutch moved, and the lean line of his body, the curve of his shoulders and the back of his bare legs.

“We got to talk about this sex thing,” he said.

Hutch flinched visibly. He almost dropped the can of coffee.

Starsky frowned. “I thought you weren’t sorry.”

The can was placed carefully down on the counter. Then Hutch pressed his palms on either side, leaning forward. His back was to Starsky, as he said, “I’m not, but I should be.”

What th’fuck? thought Starsky. He pushed his chair back, and stood up, suddenly needing to see Hutch’s face. “Partner, you got to explain this to me, ‘cause I haven’t a clue what’s going through your head right now.”

Hutch seemed to crumble for a moment, his chin hitting his chest. Then he straightened and turned to face Starsky. His tone was almost angry, as he said, “You want to tell me what kind of creep seduces his best friend, when he’s been injured and is dependent on him and v-vulnerable and--”

“Hey!” Starsky slammed his hands into Hutch’s chest, knocking him back a step. “What we got is great. Don’t turn it into something-- something sordid!”

“Starsky, you like girls.”

“Of course I like girls! So do you.”

Hutch simply looked at him without answering. Then he turned away, and walked over to the couch. Reaching for one of the coffee mugs on the counter, Starsky though he heard Hutch mutter something in reply. Abandoning the coffee, he turned to stare at Hutch. “What?”

Hutch shook his head, not looking at him. “I said, not anymore.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Starsky, even as the pieces began to click into place. He didn’t wait for a response. He crossed the room and squatted down in front of Hutch, trying to see his face.

“Hutch, I never thought you wanted... If you wanted us to be exclusive, why didn’t you say?” Starsky thought of the weekend he’d spent with Kathy, and his throat tightened at the thought of Hutch sitting at home, alone and miserable. Aw, buddy...

Hutch’s gaze darkened. “What?” he snapped. “I should tell you to give up girls? Starsky, some day you’re going to meet the right woman. You’ll marry her, and have all the kids you ever wanted...”

The strain was too much for Starsky’s ankle. With a wince, he let his rear end hit the shag carpet. He looked up at Hutch. “Geez, what kinda crumb do ya think I am? Do you think any girl could even hold a candle to how I feel about you? Do you think any girl ever will?”

Hutch’s smile was sad. “You’re not into guys, Starsky.”

“I’m not into guys, I’m into you.” Starsky halted abruptly, suddenly unsettled. “Well, actually, I’m not into you, because you never let me do that. But I love it when you’re into me...” Realizing that he needed to stop babbling, Starsky grabbed Hutch’s knees and earnestly asked, “Don’t you know how much I love you?”

It was obvious from his expression that he didn’t.

“Cause, babe, I love you like crazy. Why won’t you ever let me show you?”

Hutch was silent for awhile. Starsky could almost see the wheels turning in his head, and he held his breath hoping nothing would jam. C’mon buddy, can’t you hear what I’m trying to tell you?

Finally, Hutch looked up. Quietly, he said, “You can show me.”

Starsky bit the inside of his lip, firmly suppressing the victorious whoop that bubbled up inside of him. He’s going to let me take charge! Instead, he asked, “So, we’re partners in this sex thing, right? Real partners? Give and take, push and shove...”

Hutch snickered.

“Shut up and listen to me! Partners means sometimes I get to run the show, too. And it means you have to stop thinking you’re responsible for everything. Because that’s not how a partnership works. We’re in this together.”

Hutch shook his head. “You don’t really mean...”

Starsky released Hutch’s left knee and held up his hand, palm out. “No more girls, Hutch. Kathy doesn’t do a thing for me that you don’t do ten times better, anyway. And I don’t love her, anymore than she’s ever loved me.” He dropped his hands and gave Hutch’s knees an emphatic shake. “Buddy, if you were a girl, this wouldn’t even be an issue. I’d have had that ring on your finger by now.”

Starsky stopped abruptly. Ring. He looked down at his hands, still resting on Hutch’s knees. The obvious solution had been sitting right there, literally in hand, all this time. Quickly, Starsky tugged the second ring, the silver one that had belonged to his father, off of his pinky finger. “Gimme your hand,” he said to Hutch.

Hutch looked puzzled, so Starsky grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand close. Turning it over, he slipped the ring onto Hutch’s pinky finger. “There!” he said. “Now you’re all mine. Till death do us part.”

He heard a strange sort of choke from Hutch. It was followed by a cough, and then Hutch said, his voice rough, “Starsky, you didn’t just marry me.”

“Damn right I did!” said Starsky. “And you know what comes next?”

Hutch’s blush deepened. “I don’t think I want to know.”

“Well, I have to deflower the bride, right?” Starsky gave him his best leer.

“I refuse to wear a dress and veil.” Hutch crossed his arms, his frown utterly unconvincing.

“Ah, the wedding part’s already over.” Starsky used Hutch’s knees to push himself up onto his feet. He leaned over Hutch and looked down at him.

“I didn’t even get a new toaster,” said Hutch, mournfully, just before Starsky kissed him.

By the time Starsky was forced to come up for air, Hutch’s bathrobe was open and down on the couch behind him. Starsky, however, had managed to retain his jeans through the determined deflection of Hutch’s hands every time they wandered near his zipper.

He glanced down once at Hutch’s hard-on, and then looked up, grinning. “Okay, here’s the rules. One, I get to do what I like. And two, no touching me while I do it, because you’ll mess up my concentration.”

Hutch tipped his head to the side, half smiling. “Starsk--”

“I’m serious!” Starsky shook a warning finger in Hutch’s face. “Don’t make me cuff you again.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“You wanna try me?”

Hutch released Starsky to bury both of his hands in his hair, anxiety in his expression. “Starsk, are you sure you want to do it this way?”

“You’ve done it for me, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but--”

“Why’s it good enough for you, but not good enough for me?”

Hutch bit his lip. “I thought it was the other way around.”

Starsky paused, trying to work that one out. What the hell did Hutch mean, this time? If it was good enough for Starsky, then it was too good for Hutch? He was still trying to work out the confusing snarl of what was good for who, and how, when Hutch asked, “Shouldn’t we move to the bedroom?”

“Nope,” said Starsky, dismissing his moment of distraction. Dropping to his knees again in front of Hutch, he wrapped his hand around Hutch’s cock. He felt it throb once under his palm and grinned, thinking, You’re turned on by this.

Still, Starsky wanted to get things absolutely clear before he proceeded. “We’re good, right? I can be on my knees in front of you, and it doesn’t mean you’re taking advantage of me, or whatever other stupid idea you got in that blond head of yours.”

Hutch groaned, low in the back of his throat. “No blond jokes, please...”

Starsky gave no ground. His grip tightened, as his thumb found the vein just under the head of Hutch’s cock. “Do you agree to the rules or not?”

Hutch closed his eyes, his hands digging into the couch cushion on either side of his hips. “I surrender.”

Starsky felt an answering throb his own groin. Damn, but I think that’s the hottest thing he’s ever said to me!

But he had a mission, so he leaned forward and took the head of Hutch’s cock into his mouth, his tongue finding the vein his thumb had been massaging a moment earlier. He tried to recall what he’d seen the girl in the film doing. It was like this, I think...

A muscle on the inside of Hutch’s thigh twitched, and Starsky thought, ah-hah! He briefly released Hutch’s cock, then, and turned his head to bite the soft skin on the inside of his leg. He was rewarded with a soft gasp.

“Payback,” murmured Starsky, before returning to his primary focus. He used one hand to keep up a steady stroking rhythm on the shaft. His other hand explored Hutch’s body, gauging his reaction to touch, from knees to waist, then backtracking to search for that particularly sensitive spot just behind Hutch’s balls.

He almost started laughing when he heard Hutch choke out, “What are you doing down there? Experimenting?”

Tipping his head back, Starsky said, “New rule! No talking.” He resumed his chosen task. My turn.

Hutch made a sound of clear frustration, but he obeyed.

A moment later, his hips moved once, convulsively, and then he became very still. Too still. Without removing his mouth from the head of Hutch’s cock, Starsky said, “Le’ go.”

Hutch’s hips moved again, but there was still something tentative about it. Starsky hummed encouragingly, feeling the vibration through his lips, in the hard saliva-slick shaft he grasped in his hand. The noises from Hutch now sounded almost pained, but he moved obediently into a pumping rhythm. Starsky matched it with his hand, letting the head of Hutch’s cock hit the roof of his mouth, pushing up against it with his tongue.

His own arousal was getting to a critical level, and he almost reached down to touch himself, to try to relieve some of the pressure of his jeans. But then the vein under his tongue began to pulse and Hutch shouted, “Christ!”

Starsky tasted bitter salt, and pulled his mouth away just as Hutch came, the white come splattering on his face, his chest, his belly.

“Sorry...” gasped Hutch.

“Oh, man,” said Starsky, sitting back on his heels, and scrubbing the side of his cheek with the palm of his hand. “It’s in my hair.” His ankle throbbed, almost in time with the erection in his pants. Pain and desire, mixed. Just hang on, little buddy, it ain’t over yet.

Hutch began to laughing. “This is like a bad porn flick.”

Smugly, Starsky said, “Everything I know I learned from pornos.” He jumped to his feet, running a soothing hand over the front of his jeans. “C’mon! I’m taking a shower, and you’re joining me.”

“What? You want me to scrub your back? Or scratch it?”

“You’ll see.” Starsky paused, looking back at Hutch. “You know, I was gonna try and take you, but that stuff tastes really nasty.”

“You get used to it,” said Hutch, rising from the couch.

“Weirdo.” Starsky bumped him with his shoulder.

“Yeah, but I’m your weirdo.”

Starsky knew he was probably grinning like a fool, but he didn’t care. My Hutch.


Hutch had apparently decided that the rules didn’t apply in the shower, because the moment Starsky stepped in, Hutch grabbed him by both cheeks of his ass and pulled him in close. Their bodies collided, chest to chest, groin to groin. The intensity of the arousal Starsky felt at the contact was staggering. His knees went weak, and he was forced to throw his arms around Hutch just to stay upright.

And then he experienced the heat of Hutch’s mouth on his neck, and a tingling vibration as Hutch asked, “Did I hear you say something about ‘payback’?”

The sharp nip that followed, Starsky felt right down to his toes. Frantic that he was going to lose it right there and then, bringing the encounter to a very premature end, he began to plead.

“No, wait, I want-- I need--”

“You want to do it your way?”

Starsky nodded, his face buried in Hutch’s shoulder, just trying to hang on.

Thinking he heard a disappointed sigh from Hutch, Starsky said, “C’n do it your way next time. Love what you do for me, just...” That was as far as he got before the language centers in his brain shut down completely.

But Hutch must have understood, because he released him and turned around. He placed his hands against the tiled wall of the shower, and leaned forward, as if inviting Starsky to frisk him. Starsky knew there were probably jokes he could have made about this, if he had been in any shape to think of them. Instead, he found the soap and concentrated on the body in front of him, finally free to explore the shape of it by touch instead of by just sight.

When Hutch sighed this time, it was with obvious contentment.

Starsky hesitated when he reached the crack of Hutch’s ass. But Hutch curved his back, bringing his rear up, invitingly. “Go on,” he said. “I figured you’d want to, eventually.”

That statement confused Starsky briefly. What? I was supposed to ask? He was tentative, at first, his arousal fading at the strangeness of the situation. His finger slipped inside of Hutch, and he thought, I’ve got my finger up my partner’s ass.

He was still trying to decide if this was a good thing or not, or if maybe he just wanted to call the whole thing off, when Hutch moved against his hand. Starsky ducked out of the way just as Hutch threw his head back and said, “Right... there!”

There, huh? Leaving his hand where it was, Starsky pressed himself against Hutch’s back, reveling in the skin contact, warm and wet and slick with soap. With his chin on Hutch’s shoulder and his eyes on Hutch’s face, Starsky wriggled his finger very slightly in the tight confines. “Here?”

Hutch’s eyes closed, and his lips parted slightly, as an expression of the purest pleasure crossed his face.

Starsky felt his own cock stiffen in response. He pulled his finger away, and heard a quiet sound of protest from Hutch. But the hot water was starting to cool, and this was something he definitely wanted to pursue in the bedroom.

As he handed Hutch a towel, Starsky asked, “Have you ever...? I mean, did you...? Were you...?” He couldn’t find the words for what he wanted to ask, and he stopped in frustration.

Hutch said, “You mean, have I ever been on the receiving end in anal sex? Yes.”

Starsky almost didn’t get past the words “anal sex”. Then the full meaning of what Hutch had said hit him. He grabbed Hutch’s shoulder, and stared at him in shock. “Hell, Hutch! You mean there were other guys?”

That was bad. There shouldn’t be other guys. Starsky’s brain went immediately into a tailspin as he tried to figure out how he hadn’t known.

But then Hutch pulled him into a tight embrace and said, reassuringly, “It was a long time ago… Before I entered the academy – before I met you.”

“Does this mean you fuck all your best friends?” Starsky hated the insecurity he heard in his voice.

He felt Hutch laugh, quietly. “I’ve only got one best friend.” He paused and then pulled back, bringing his hand up so that the ring on his pinky finger was angled towards Starsky. “And he just asked me to marry him.”

That did it.

“Bed,” said Starsky. “Now.”

In the bedroom, Hutch began to lie down on his stomach, but Starsky stopped him. “I want you on your back,” he said. “I want to see your face.”

“I don’t know if that angle will work,” said Hutch.

“I think it might,” said Starsky. He’d spent some time thinking about it over the last couple months. “We can try, anyway.” He glanced around the bedroom. “Where’s that lube you had? The stuff that heated up when you rubbed it in?”

There were teeth in Hutch’s grin this time. “You liked that, huh?”

In that moment, Starsky realized that the concept of “who’s in charge” was likely never going to be completely clear where Hutch was concerned. “Please,” he said.

“It’s in the night table, top drawer.”

Fascinated by the clear liquid, Starsky poured some on his hand and rubbed it between his fingers. The lube was clear and slippery, more of an oil than a jelly. He knelt between Hutch’s legs.

“It’s supposed to be good for your skin...,” Hutch began, but then Starsky slipped a finger in, finding the spot he’d discovered in the shower earlier.

Hutch cut himself off with a gasp.

I’ve finally figured out how to shut him up, thought Starsky, happily.

He leaned forward and took one of Hutch’s nipples gently between his teeth, massaging it with his tongue. Hutch shivered, and Starsky raised his head to see an expression of tortured ecstasy on Hutch’s face, his eyes closed and his jaw corded with tension. Glancing to either side, Starsky noted that Hutch was gripping the sheets tightly, his hands clenched into fists.

Encouraged, Starsky tried two fingers this time, and returned his attention to Hutch’s nipple. A strangled moan from Hutch sent a surge of heat to his own groin. Starsky pulled back and regarded his partner with satisfaction, his grin widening as he noted Hutch’s renewed erection.

A throb from his own cock reminded him of the urgency of the situation, and he applied the lube quickly, the touch of his own hand almost too much to bear.

Hutch pulled his knees back with both hands, and Starsky slipped between his legs. He paused, judging the angle. The small puckered hole seemed impossibly tiny, and the first time he tried, his cock slipped down, between the crack of Hutch’s ass. He almost sobbed with frustration. How does this work?

Maybe he should have tried rear entry, that always seemed to work for Hutch, but he’d wanted to see Hutch’s face when he did it to him.

Then Hutch released one of his legs, letting his heel rest on Starsky’s shoulder, and he reached down to guide Starsky in. “It’s like this,” he said, and Starsky felt himself enter Hutch, the head of his cock pushing into that tight ring--

Hutch hissed sharply, and Starsky stopped, afraid he was hurting him. But then Hutch blew out a long breath and Starsky felt the muscle gripping his cock relax slightly.

“Go on,” said Hutch. “All the way.”

It was so tight. He’d never felt anything like it before. He’d imagined it would be like fucking a woman, but this was completely different. Hutch’s knees were over his shoulders, and his balls were rubbing against Starsky’s belly. Starsky thrust once, twice, and then he lost track of everything but the sensation of coming harder than he’d ever come in his life. All notions he’d had of being gentle and considerate were lost as he pounded himself into Hutch’s ass.

By the time sense returned, he was collapsed on Hutch’s chest, both of them sticky with come, inside and out.

Hutch came, too, Starsky thought, with a feeling of supreme accomplishment. I made him come twice. I’ve never come twice in my life.

Hutch wrapped his arms around him, holding Starsky close in an affectionate embrace. He said, “You look decently satisfied.”

Starsky simply nodded, content for the moment just to be held and loved.

Hutch was silent for a little while, then he said, “Sex is good.” He paused, and corrected himself. “I should say, making love is good.”

“It’s sex,” said Starsky, without opening his eyes.

“No, when we do it, it’s making love.”

“Sex,” said Starsky, again. He liked the way the word sounded in his mouth, and decided to say it some more. “Sex. Sex. Sex.”

Hutch laughed.

It was this sex thing, thought Starsky. And it was Hutch. Sex and Hutch, the best two things in the whole world.

This time it was Starsky who said, “Thank you.”

~the end~