FIC: David -- Starsky & Hutch, Starsky/Hutch, NC-17, art link included.

[lauramcewan]

For enednoviel, Marion, for her hot, hot drawing of Starsky here. WARNING: NOT WORKSAFE

Written originally for the flashslash community. Took a little more than eight minutes. I had a crisis of faith part way through.

prompts: hand need block everyday

Jolting awake, summoned from the nightmare, he took a few deep breaths, reasserting his safety, Starsky’s safety, and the fact that the room around him felt like a haven.

Starsky’s place. He knew it as well as he knew his own, every book and record and trinket. The sofa that had served as his bed time and time again. A toothbrush waited for him in the bathroom; spare clothes hung in the closet and the bottom drawer of the dresser.

Those little touches spoke to how loved he was; everyday, simple gestures that said, “Hutch is my friend and he belongs here whenever he wants.”

Tonight, Starsky had needed him. Another girlfriend gone - unappreciative of the crazy cop hours and the danger he brought on himself. They’d talked into the wee hours, Starsky swearing he was through with women. Absolutely through. Finished. And Hutch, having been down this road himself time and again, simply agreed and commiserated and shared the beer late into the night.

His nightmare had involved a gunshot. One single gunshot in the dark. He knew it was Starsky who had been the target, only he couldn’t find him in the blackness.

He blocked out the frightened feelings as he rose and stepped silently to the bedroom door. After manhandling one sloshed Starsky into his bed, he’d left the door ajar. He could hear Starsky breathing; a heavier breath than just sleeping, and worried, Hutch stepped into the room.

Moonlight poured through the window, drawing a dappled path of light and shadows across the floor and over the bed. Starsky lay with his eyes closed, the sheets pushed down below his waist and one hand fondling a nipple. His other hand lay below the sheets, between parted legs.

Mesmerized, he felt a flush rise through him, the sight of his friend pleasuring himself bringing his own senses sharply to the fore. Sight filled with his partner, dark hair lit silver by the light, hearing with little gasps and groans, the scent of arousal from his own groin, tongue reaching out to wet dry lips, fingers tingling to touch Starsky’s chest as it rose and fell with increasing speed.

Starsky’s head began to toss on the pillow as he drew his knees up and apart. Hutch gripped himself when Starsky took his own cock in hand.

Get out! his mind screamed at him, but he couldn’t leave. The sight before him was far too beautiful.

Murmurs became words, lyrics and notes trilling up and down the scale, until Hutch felt his own hand moving in their rhythm. Pressing against the corduroy front, too afraid to pull down his own zipper, he rubbed in time to Starsky’s own thrusts and pulls.

Starsky tensed, then gave a short shout. As gleaming streams of semen spattered across his chest, he sighed brokenly and uttered one single word.

“Hutch.”

Hutch came, searing hot in the fabric that held him too tightly, catching himself with one hand as he fell to his knees.

Starsky jerked to sitting, his eyes dark in the moonshadow. “Hutch?”

A few hard pants. “Yeah?”

“You okay?”

He gave a weak laugh. “Yeah.”

Starsky rose carefully from the bed, and it hurt Hutch’s eyes to see him lit so softly by the moon. He wished he had a camera, an easel, a paintbrush - something with which to capture that masculine beauty. Starsky, nude, still semi-hard, skin glistening from sweat and semen, his hand reaching, reaching…

Hutch felt himself lifted up, tugged across the floor to the bed, and seated.

“You want to take those pants off? Gotta be gettin’ sticky and cold.”

Hutch could only nod. His mind reeled.

”Starsk?”

“Yes, Hutch?” Starsky’s expression was unreadable in the dimness.

“Move back into the moonlight.”

Starsky obeyed without question, shifting over just enough so the moonlight struck him in the face again.

“Starsk.”

And then Starsky loomed over him, pressing him back and down, and it was right, true and right and whole and when gentle lips caressed his, he knew that when Starsky had said he was through with women, he’d meant it.

And Hutch would follow him, down every moonlit path.