Blue Haze

by Kassidy


The room is dim. The torchlight creates black moving shadows against uneven stone walls.

His hands are tied above his head. He’s on a big wooden platform, rotating at a dizzying speed. He closes his eyes against the officers standing there, laughing, and the two cadets squatting naked on the floor next to them, hands cuffed behind their backs. 

With his eyes closed, the motion makes him want to throw up, so instead he opens his eyelids to slits, peering out at the whirling room. The torches merge into one long, bright flame.

Two more cadets stand beside him, laughing as he spins. Maybe they’re the ones spinning him around. “You motherfucking traitors,” says Hutch.

One of them grins, though his face looks white and tense. “We play or we pay. I’m sure as hell not gonna be stripped and tied up.  Guess that leaves you, Hutchinson, and these two on the floor. I think maybe they like it.” He grins again, like a hyena. Kicks one of them. The abuse is absorbed in silence.


What does he mean, two? “Where’s Starsky?” he asks. Mr. Hyena Face just grins harder and Hutch watches his face split in two.  He winces and blinks at the image, and the guy’s face is back to normal. He glances at the other cadet standing beside him. He looks scared and sick. Fun’s all gone. 


Hutch switches his stare back to Hyena Face, a.k.a. his classmate Lucas from the academy, and thinks of ramming a foot into his face, listening to the bones crunch. He doesn’t think about how crazy that is, wanting to hurt someone like that. His eyes move from Lucas up to the roof of the cavern, wide, blind blue, trying to focus, but he’s spinning, spinning. He wants to vomit again, but there’s nothing to throw up anymore.

The last time he ate was at the campsite. He and Richard came back from a hike in the woods to hunker down before the fire Lucas built as darkness crept up on the day. Starsky was there, staring at the popping wood as it burned and settled. Behind them, fog rose from the water, and Carlos watched over the burgers cooking on the grill.

Remembering the smell of the meat, Hutch turns his head and heaves, stomach wrenching upward. A galling liquid floods his mouth, nothing more. He settles back with a groan, wishing like hell that he hadn’t drank so much. 

He and Starsky and the guys got hammered early on, and they were determined to keep up the good work. It was a party, after all. After a while it hit their thick, drunken skulls that the booze was spiked with something pretty potent, something that made them more stoned than drunk. Not like they cared—it was just one more thing to laugh about. It seemed hilarious.

But that was a million years ago, sometime before Starsky leaned into him and plastered his lips over his own like a starving man, and the funny thing was, they fit there perfectly, as if they belonged. That was when Hutch realized how crazy they were acting. Hadn’t stopped him from shoving Starsky against the trunk of a tree and stuffing his tongue down his throat, though.

Right after, he broke away and walked off into the dark woods, afraid of that strangely perfect fit. That’s where they found him later.  Talking to a fucking tree, no less. Thought it was Vanessa, maybe, and was apologizing. He didn’t mean to like Starsky’s mouth on his; didn’t want to want it again. Felt so good.  Couldn’t help it.

He winces, remembering. Yeah, that was forever ago. He’s lucky to remember his own name now. He’s been here on this whirling table since the dawn of time. Or maybe it’s just his mind whirling, he can’t tell. Doesn’t matter. What matters is they’re trying to break him. Bits of his mind chip off like flecks of paint from an old wall. He’s almost beyond anger, floating toward something menacing, and he tries to rein it all in and think. 

It doesn’t go too well.

Where is this place? Starsky, I need help.

But Starsky isn’t here.

Strange, how fast the two of them became friends at the academy. It’s not like they had anything in common, but for some reason they just fit together. The reasons why didn’t matter.  All that mattered is that he had Starsky’s back, and Starsky had his, and neither of them questioned it.

Both of them had figured that it was just a matter of time before the new recruits were broken in. They had expected a run through the ringer, but shit, never this—over the edge, gone down a dark hole.

It isn’t something you climb out of unscathed. All of them here tonight smell it and feel it, unquestioning, a savage taint like the zing of blood in your mouth. No going back now, only forward. That’s the heart of the reason why he’s been lying here for hours, cavern walls blurring, stoned out of his mind in a blue haze threaded with jaundice-yellow sickness and anger like glowing coals.  Tomorrow the chips will fall, and those at fault will pay or flee. Tonight, he is here to stay until they finish with him.

Until she finishes with him.

He saw the first edge of violence earlier tonight in the officer who organized this little shindig. Saw the cruelties masked beneath drunken humor. But Hutch was drunk, too, in no shape to add up the answers before him, if there were any to be had. And now, strapped to this table, he has seen much more of the face beneath the mask than he ever wanted. Officer Connelly holds a fraying rope, and Hutch is on the end of it.

He knows her from the academy, of course.  She’s a good instructor. But tonight she’s exposed her dark underbelly, shown a rage grown larger through every carbon-copy day of God-knows-what insignificant insufferable shit. 

Like the contempt of her fellow officers, maybe—everybody knows how hard they can be on women on the force. Or hell, maybe her husband’s screwing around. Or maybe it’s just something stupid topped onto another something stupid, like the car keeps stalling out and the refrigerator won’t cool and the house needs painting and there isn’t enough money to pay the bills. Who knows all the reasons why?

The thing that matters is that she turned on the fresh meat at the academy, took it out on them. She’s the one that added something to the alcohol at the party tonight, bringing her students down to size. Hutch is sure of it. It’s not like it’s that hard for a police officer to get drugs.

He thinks about what the booze could have been spiked with. Maybe they’ve been fed acid?

Maybe something worse, judging by the way he wants to rip out Connolly’s throat. But Connelly’s doing the ripping, so to speak, dragging them all down the dark hole behind her where they can’t hope to climb out.

Hutch’s mind trips over all this, making connections not with thoughts but with feelings and images. He tries to keep his mind focused, to find a way out of this, but he really…just… can’t.

He doesn’t give a big flying fuck. 

He smirks. The torches glow yellow, hard yellow, hard enough to shatter bones. He can’t stop staring at them.


He blinks, looking toward that poisonous voice, that face, blurring past him, beyond him, before him again. Here’s all of him hanging out, tied down and fucked up, and not a damn thing to do about it but face the Big Time Trouble staring down at him.

Even stoned and not wanting to see what’s in that face, he sees it. Officer Connelly is looking his naked body over like it’s a perfectly grilled tenderloin steak. His balls try to pull back and hide.

“So, you could have just asked if you wanted to take me to bed,” he says, trying hard to sound casual. Connelly licks her lips and the bottom drops out of Hutch’s stomach, so he reaches for the anger again. It’s all that’s left to anchor him, which is a lousy choice because his anger is titanic and possibly insane. It makes him want to slit Officer Pervert’s throat.  Still, the anger is preferable to the cold squirming fear pushing up through the center of his spine, telling him she wants more than a good screw. She wants to hurt someone, anyone. Might as well be him, right? 


The anger sweeps out like a wave pounding the shoreline. He’ll kill the bitch if she touches him. The sheer intensity of his rage is overwhelming. He searches in his mind, touching the fragile, shriveled bones of his remaining rationale. They dissolve, just like in the horror movies Starsky insists he watch with him. Stop-motion photography. The bones just collapse into dust.

In the same way, his thoughts blow apart and scatter.

He’d been asleep, or unconscious…maybe someone had knocked him out. He remembered waking up strapped to the table, Connelly standing over him stroking his chest.  He blinked, trying to clear his vision. For a confused moment he thought he was home in bed. Then Connelly grasped a coppery nipple between her sharp nails and pressed in, pinching. Hutch yelled, eyes flying wide, and a wet mouth pressed against his, opened on him.  Connelly’s spit was cold. Mouth-breather. Hutch’s skin crawled.

He heard her whisper: “I saw you and Starsky. Outside.”

Her body pressed against him, an oven, unhealthy in its heat, and her mouth devoured his. He couldn’t breathe. He wrenched away and she smiled, swollen lips hovering over him, and then her tongue licked Hutch’s bottom lip. Her hand caressed his inner thigh, and the colors in his mind swirled gray, topped with red anger. He stared at her, transfixed. 

Suddenly a bolt of pain. She grasped his scrotum, squeezed hard, harder. He arched helplessly upward, agony radiating from his balls, pulling against the restraints holding him to the table. Enraged, he slammed his head forward into hers and then yelped at the selfinflicted pain. Connelly shrieked, whipping her head back. Something wet rolled down from Hutch’s lip. Blood. She’d bitten him. His lip throbbed, and nausea rose in his throat. 

How much time passed since then?  Minutes? Hours? He doesn’t know. He remembers only the spinning of the table after that, round and round, until he had to stop himself from screaming for mercy. But he kept silent and was grateful to hold onto at least that much.

He swims back from the memory as Connelly turns to her cohorts. “Get out of here,” she says. They stare back silently. “Out.  ’Til I tell you different. I can handle him.”

“Where’s Starsky?” Hutch asks. His voice is rough.

“Wasted. Zoned out, down in another cavern,” Lucas answers, and Connelly turns suddenly and backhands him. Lucas staggers and falls, and Hutch laughs. Each short sound bounces in the air before him like hard rubber balls. He’s fascinated by it. Lucas shoots him an enraged look as he files past, but Hutch doesn’t see it, watching the sounds fade. 

He blinks the stinging sweat from his eyes.  Gradually his eyelids flutter and close. Inside them, he watches the rubber balls grow smaller and smaller, moving frenetically, changing colors.

Connelly cocks her head, waiting in the silence. She stands still a long time, watching his eyes move back and forth behind his eyelids. She is obsessed by this man with his slim, wiry body, his coolness, his defiance, his pale eyes flashing fear and rage. She’s held her obsession to herself over the weeks, watching it grow, like a shell hiding a burgeoning pearl.  But now it’s here, out in the open. 

She leans over Hutch, stroking his forehead. “Ken?” she says softly, whispering his name. Hutch’s eyes drag open and try to focus.

“Yes,” comes his low reply, uncertain.  Beautiful woman, his Vanessa, with dark hair trailing over her shoulders. Dimples when she smiles. He ignores the question of how she came to be here. “I love you,” he says in a soft voice. His red-rimmed eyes look into her face, expectant, trusting.

Connelly smiles. Her lips come down over Hutch’s, fingers wrapping around his jaw. Just a taste of him, then she pulls back and watches his face, pondering whatever reverie he has sunken into. She smoothes blond hair from his forehead and trails a finger over his damp cheek.

“I love you, too,” she breathes in his ear. 

He looks up at her and smiles faintly, seeing what he wishes to see. The thing that loomed behind his anger overwhelms him for now. He’s shuttled down a long, dark tunnel into a place of false comfort and light. 

Still, he knows something’s wrong when he tries to move and can’t. He frowns, looking to her for an answer, and she frees his hands from overhead, though they’re still bound. He doesn’t notice. He’s staring at her, her red lips.  Her skin’s aglow, vital. Alive.


She pats his hand, then moves to his waist and rubs the gleaming skin there. Then dips further, down into soft hair, scraping her nails over it gently. Glancing around the still chamber, she licks her lips. Hutch’s eyes are closed again, murmuring something to himself.  Sweat beads his upper lip and face. 

Her fingers wrap around his cock and he hardens in her hand, smooth and firm. A warm tingle flushes through her body and she closes her eyes, savoring. Experimentally, she slides her hand up and down. Hutch groans, his back arching. She runs her hand down around his buttocks, then creeps back around him again, surrounding him, and pumps him with her fist, watching his eyes fly wide. His pupils are black and huge. He grinds against her hand.  Releasing him, she strokes down his long thighs with her hands. He pulses up toward her helplessly and she dips her head, wrapping her lips around him. She sucks him all the way in.  Harder.

His body thrusts up to meet her. The sounds he makes are orange flame, tripping one on top of another. The fingers of his bound hands stretch outward, finding themselves entangled in her hair as he thrusts again and comes, screaming her name.

Van, oh God. Van.

Her eyes roll up and look into his, her mouth still holding him. Vanessa’s hair is soft as gleaming silk. This hair is stiff and coarse.  He cranes his neck up to look at her, blinking, disbelieving. A corpse holds him in her rotting lips, tongue fluttering in lustful obscenity.

No!” It echoes through the cavern.  Gagging, he turns his head away and struggles against his bonds, shrinking from her touch.  His voice keeps shouting in his mind over the drumbeat of his pulse, denying, squirming away from the impossibility.

The she-bitch from Hell is still kneeling, a calculating look in her eyes. She smiles at him and laps his come off her lips. Gray lips sneer and her rotting, mottled skin comes to him in nightmare close-up as she thrusts her face to his. Hutch flinches back again. 

She whispers in his ear, “You know you liked it.”

God, oh God. What has he done? He thinks again of Vanessa, despairing.

“Didn’t you? You came and came, forever.” She reaches down and grips him hard.

A noise comes from deep inside him as the.pain intensifies. Gritting his teeth, he whips his head up and glares at her. “You goddammed freak!”

She grins at him and squeezes harder. The pain is growing, taking over his mind,

enormous, shrinking pain, so personal, so vulnerable that he retreats from this reality. But if that happens, if his mind floats away, what will she do with him next? What about Starsky,what if he comes looking for him? What if hesees?

There’s no escape. He makes a low, moaning sound that goes on and on, his eyes fixed on hers. She stares back, gloating. His fury breaks anew. He threatens her, curses her.  He’ll kill her. He writhes against the table.

She waits.

He sags against his bonds, and for a long moment is completely defeated. She sees it, drinks it in, holding his eyes with her own. His eyes water and he turns his head away towards the table.

He looks back at her suddenly. “So you have to force people to fuck you? Pretty fucking sad, Connelly. Is this your idea of getting lucky?”

Her eyes narrow, watching him, and then her face melts into Vanessa’s again. He swallows. “Thanks for the blow job, Connelly.” He’s not even sure who he’s talking to anymore, and it comes out in a whisper instead of the derisive tone he’d meant to deliver it in.

She isn’t fooled by the bravado and places her hand upon his bare stomach, stroking his skin idly. He flinches miserably, turning his head away, eyes squeezed together. She reaches down, nails pushing into the flesh of his inner thigh and digging harder until he begins to bleed. He can’t stop himself from crying out in pain, shrinking from her touch. 

Starsky is gone. Left without him.

His mind begins a necessary retreat.

Some time later, he is jostled insistently.  Floating in some No Man’s Land, he begins to remember and shrinks immediately away from the knowledge of what she’s done to him, of what he’s done.

“Drink,” she says, thrusting a cup to his lips. She pours it in his mouth, splashes it over his chin, where it runs down the sides of his neck. He can’t resist the cool wetness on his parched tongue and gulps greedily.  He looks up her, seeing Vanessa. If only it were her. If only he were home.  He gags at the sudden memory of tattered lips wrapping around him, and she yanks the water away. Moments later the room begins to whirl before him. Is the table moving? His eyes fly to her face—she’s grinning, and his heart sinks.

Suddenly nothing seems to matter anymore.  It all eases off his shoulders and floats off. He sighs with relief and closes his eyes comfortably, the last vision of Connolly fading blessedly away.



A quiet, calm female voice addresses him.  “Ken…time to wake up now….” He blinks, straining to see, but there is nothing. It’s dark.  The torches are out.

“I can’t…I can’t see you.” He’s still drowsy, his words a murmur. He feels a hand brush through his hair.

“It’s all right. It’s nighttime,” the voice continues reasonably, and he sighs and closes his eyes again.


“What?” he murmurs, trying to shift. He can’t move, and groans.

“What’s wrong?” The disembodied voice is gentle. It calms him.

“Van? I can’t…can’t move.” He’s confused. “I don’t know why, but I can’t move.”

“Here, let me help,” she says. He feels fingers working at his ankles, then at his wrists, and suddenly he’s free. His limbs are wooden and stiff. He turns onto his side, and his arms and legs ache as new blood courses through them. His eyes open and the darkness is tinged with shifting colors at the edge of his vision. A hand drops onto his bare leg and his own hand reaches out, groping, but the pressure lifts and he’s left snatching empty air. 


“Who else would it be?” the voice answers, amused, and he relaxes. He reaches out for her again but she steps aside and speaks again. “I need your help.”

“What?” he murmurs, clutching onto the edge of the table, trying to sit. “Turn on the light, will you?”

There is a silence, then a small torch is lit, far away from the table. A dark figure stands in silhouette before it, walking slowly towards him. He squints toward her.

“She told me you and she….” There was a pause. “She wants me to know…she wants you to tell me how it felt. Being with her.” Her voice is raw.

“Who…no. No, that’s a lie.” He feels sick. He closes his eyes.

There is a hesitation, then: “She says if you tell me, she won’t hurt me. Oh Ken, you don’t want her to hurt me, do you?”

He hears a dull roar in the back of his head and puts a hand to it, then looks into her eyes, searching. She has such a beautiful face.  Sometimes he touches her dimple with a finger when she laughs. His eyes roam down to her body. She is naked, long and slim, with pale creamy skin and breasts.

He wants to hold her now, to explain, but for some reason he can’t sit up. He has no strength. His arms and legs are no longer stiff, but useless rubber. He grapples with the fact of his helplessness, forgetting the apprehension brought on by her words. His vision doubles for an instant and he shakes his head, the room blurring crazily. Colors fly off into the darkness. Everything is so confused, he can’t make sense of it.

He’s distracted by her hand again clasping his leg. This time he doesn’t move. The hand moves upward, stopping to trace the outline of his hipbone, and suddenly cups him. A wave of pleasure crests up his spine. She smiles and her small white teeth gleam, her dimples fill with shadow. His legs fall bonelessly open. What in hell is wrong with him?

Trouble is, he really doesn’t care.

He smiles back at her in the dim light. His pupils are wide, defenseless. He touches her face, her dark hair. She shivers with excitement and slides her fingers around him, reveling, holding him stiff and hard in her hand, completely at her mercy. The shadows are deep in the cave and his skin glows in the dimness, every dip and hollow, every muscle accentuated.  She crawls up on the table, her hands roaming his perspiring skin, so smooth, so exposed. She moves up and positions herself over him, sliding down over his erection. He thrusts into her, over and over, meeting her movement with his own, smooth velvet surrounding his prick.  The cavern is silent except for the sounds they make together.

Suddenly she pulls off from him, down from the table to stand beside him. He reaches for her. “Please,” he breathes, “I want you.” His hand wanders down her hip. 

“Ken.” His eyes fixate on her. She looks down at him, saying tenderly, “I thought you loved me. You said you loved me. Tell me why you fucked her.”

His eyes darken with bewilderment and hurt. She watches, her hand trembling on the center of his chest, relishing his pain. Suddenly she lowers her mouth over his cock, laving, devouring. He jerks upward in surprise, gasping as the feeling builds higher, nearly unbearable. He comes with his head thrown back, spurting into her heated mouth, understanding the sudden sorrow of betrayal.

This is not Vanessa.

Has he known it all along?

He watches her eyes close, relishing every last throb, and his open wide as a monstrous bolt of pain follows on the heels of pleasure.  Her mouth slides from him, watching with knowing eyes.

She bit me.

He gasps and rolls over into a ball, pain roaring through his genitals, spreading outward. He pulls in uneven, hurried breaths, trying to keep from screaming, praying that the burning agony will fade. He’s afraid to look, to see what she has done to him. He’s afraid not to. He peers downward, flinching as her hand moves into his line of vision. Frantically he tries to move away from her stroking hand.  The burning subsides.

He is unhurt.

He looks up at her, eyes dull. “Why me?”

She smiles, pressing her lips to his ear, and whispers, “Don’t you know how much I love you?”

He bolts upright, throwing her off him to the floor. She picks herself up and rushes toward him.

No more!” He slams her into the stone wall, rage and panic giving him strength. She falls to the floor and is still.

Hutch stumbles from the table and doubles over, heaving. His stomach feels like it’s coming up his throat. He waits for the spasms to subside and crawls over to her, feeling for a pulse. It’s there, faint but steady. Her face keeps changing, melting from Van to Connelly to the corpse hag. He tries to swallow, but his mouth is a desert. His thoughts are wandering and confused.

He’s hurt Van.

Gotta get help. He turns and grabs his clothes, throwing them on haphazardly.

Wait. Van isn’t here. She’s at home. Isn’t she?

He shambles out of the cavern, panic snatching his breath. He can’t think—is afraid to think. Calling out for Starsky, he stumbles around in the dark, walking into walls, trying to find his way out of this hellhole. Oh God.

Need to find him. Have they hurt him?

Once he bashes his face into stone so hard that he nearly loses consciousness. He opens his eyes and Starsky is leaning over him, holding a flashlight. His hair’s gone wild, curling all over his head. There’s a scratch across his cheek and his left eye sports a dark bruise, but he looks all right. Better than all right. Real, alive.

Hutch is suddenly very tired. Tears well in his eyes.

“Hutch?” Starsky keeps repeating his name. “What’d they do to you, huh? Talk to me.” But all he can do is stare at Starsky and nod.

“Goddammit, Hutch, you’re scaring me.” Starsky pulls him into his arms, rubbing his back.

“She’s in there. Maybe I killed her, Starsk.”


“Yeah. Or Van.” Hutch scratches at his face. He keeps scratching. Something’s there, crawling.

“What?” Starsky grabs his hand. “Cut it out. You’re bleeding.”

“Something’s in there. I gotta get it out.  Starsk, something’s in there getitout—”

“Stop! Hutch. Jesus.” Starsky held down both his arms with an effort. “Listen! Listen, it’s the drugs, Hutch, you gotta stop, we gotta get out of here before they find us.” Finally he pulls Hutch’s arms together and holds them down. It’s a long time before Hutch stops struggling.

“I’m gonna go check,” says Starsky. “Don’t move.”

Hutch’s eyes go wide. “No. Don’t.”

“I’ll be right back. I promise.” Starsky gets up, stumbling. Hutch lies there in the dark and tries to remember what is real.

No, don’t scratch. Starsky says the bugs aren’t real. He tries not to panic. 

Starsky is true to his word, returning within minutes. “Hey, you. It’s okay, no one’s there.  She could be going after her buddies, though. Did they have you on that table?”

“It itches,” Hutch whispers. Starsky leans down and kisses him without thinking. Hutch wraps an arm around his neck. “She said she loves me, that bitch. I didn’t want her. I wanted—I want—”

“I thought they were hurting you, and you were fucking her?” asks Starsky. He looks away.

“No, I—” Hutch begins miserably. “There was an old woman there...and Van. She told Van what I did.” He raises a hand up to Starsky, then drops it, looking confused. “I thought they were there.”

“I’m sorry. Shhh,” says Starsky, expression softening, and kisses him again. “Listen to me, Hutch. You listening? Richard and Carlos are already gone. We got away from Connelly’s pals. Now I’m gonna get you out of this. You know I’m gonna get you out of this.” He pulls Hutch to his feet, and they stumble around behind the beam of the flashlight, looking for the way out.

Finally far ahead of them they see the faint winking of stars from the mouth of the cavern.  They reach it and Starsky peers out, watching for Connolly or her goons. The moon rides over the trees and the sounds of cicadas rise around them. Hutch starts outside and Starsky grabs him.

“Not yet.”

He yanks his arm from Starsky’s grasp. He has to get out. Now. God don’t let her get near me ever again.

Starsky pulls him back into the cave and wraps around Hutch like a warm blanket, lips brushing his ear. “C’mon babe, I’m gonna get you out of here. Just give me a sec. Gonna be all right.” Hutch is a trembling live wire beneath his hands. He rubs his arms, soothing, then turns to the mouth of the cavern again and looks out.

No one sounds the alarm. No one is there.  Starsky lets Hutch go and he barrels from the cave, picking up speed, crashing blindly through whatever gets in his way. He ignores the scratches of clinging branches and bushes, running from her voice whispering “I love you” so sweetly in his ear. And when Starsky’s hand touches his arm, he turns and swings at him.

“I’ll kill you,” he says.

“Not me,” says Starsky, and the warm arms surround around him again. “I’m going to be your partner. Already am, in every way that counts.” And suddenly Hutch’s hands are in his hair, on his head, tugging his face to him.  Hutch’s mouth is on his, a low moan like a hurt animal coming out of him. His lips are all over Starsky’s, frantic.

Starsky lunges forward, slamming Hutch against the nearest tree. It hurts but Hutch doesn’t care. His hands scramble in under Starsky’s shirt, dragging over ribs, roaming up to the nipples. He rubs with the flat of his fingers and they stiffen beneath his touch.

 Starsky’s legs threaten to give way beneath him. He pushes away from Hutch, breathing hard. Hutch opens his eyes, bewildered. 

“Naw. No. You’re fucked up, Hutch. So’m I, but I’m coming down off it. You’re on a bad trip, buddy. I need to get you to the hospital.”

Hutch stares at the ground. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m taking care of us. I’m taking care of you.”

“Not what I need.”

“What, you want to fuck me, Hutch? I’m your best friend, for Christsake! What about Vanessa?”

Hutch stares at Starsky, then rolls his head back on the tree trunk. He starts to scratch at the bugs. Before Starsky can stop him, he digs out a red tear in the skin.

Starsky’s hand grabs his hand and he looks up at him.

“You know I want you, right?” Starsky says, voice low, his breath warm at Hutch’s ear.  Hutch closes his eyes, listening to the timbre of his voice. “Want you worse than anything.  Ever since the day we met. I didn’t even think I’d like you, back then, but I couldn’t help but want you.”

Hutch opens his eyes and his pale face opens up, watching Starsky as if he’s a lifeline, and he says, “I need you. I don’t know if that’s using you or not. If I say I’m going to shake apart without you, or if I say I need you to wipe out the feel of her. Is it? I’m going to nail that bitch and her pals tomorrow, and I’m going back to Van tomorrow. But tonight I need you. If you—”

Then Starsky’s lips are on his, hot and wet, pushing his head back with the force of the pressure. Hutch’s dick stands and salutes, greeting his partner. His heart soars up out of the muck of nightmares and dark hallucination, and he remembers what he felt before with Starsky’s mouth on his.

He meets Starsky’s tongue with his own, tangling together, and pushes them violently off from the tree trunk, throwing them to the ground. The air from Starsky’s lungs leaves him in a painful rush as he lands beneath Hutch. It stops him only long enough to gasp in another breath before his hands grab and pull Hutch’s head to him. Their lips slip and push together, heat and wet and frantic movement. Hutch makes a deep sound that vibrates in his chest and Starsky goes weak at the desire in it. His lips go lower, sucking the long line of Hutch’s throat, pulling the unbuttoned shirt aside to expose the smooth, pale skin and flick a nipple with his stiff tongue, again and again. Then his tongue softens to cover it, licking and chewing, and Hutch’s chest heaves like a bellows beneath him.

They grind together, the material of their pants hot and rough and not to be tolerated. By unspoken agreement both begin struggling to pull off their clothes. Starsky finishes first.  Hutch is moving clumsily, slowly, his pants still around his thighs, when he looks up and sees Starsky naked. He falls to his knees and grabs Starsky’s ass in both hands. His mouth sinks over and down on Starsky’s straining, bobbing shaft. Starsky reaches back behind himself, but there’s nothing to hold onto and his legs can’t support him. He goes down on the ground, Hutch over him in an instant, the moonlight striking just right so that the pale blue eyes glow clear and ghostly for a moment.  “Can’t get away from me that easy,” Hutch says, smiling slowly, then lowers his mouth again, encompassing Starsky.

“Oh God, God, God,” Starsky chants, taking in huge breaths between the words. His fingers bunch in the moonlit hair as Hutch’s head rises and falls, mouth swarming over him, licking, suctioning. His head is raised, watching Hutch’s mouth slide up and down his cock.

Then he suddenly pushes off from the grass and Hutch tumbles down beneath him.

 “What the hell...?” Hutch begins, but Starsky’s mouth is covering his, forcing him back down on the ground, and Starsky’s cock is digging hot and hard into his stomach. By the time Starsky’s mouth leaves him in order to reach down and finish pulling off his pants, Hutch is speechless. He just stares up at the bits of stars and moon between the leaves of the treetops above him, waiting until Starsky’s face looms over his again.

Then he says, “Want you in me. Inside me.”

“What?” asks Starsky, disbelieving, and there’s a moment’s silence. “You ever let anyone fuck you before?”

“No. But I want you to.”

“It’s gonna hurt, Hutch.”

“I...” His face crumples for an instant, then smoothes.

“Hutch, c’mon, what’s wrong? C’mon. Is it—what’s going on?” Starsky’s face looks pale and cold in the moonlight, but his eyes are burning blue heat. “Do you want to stop?”

Hutch grabs his shoulders. “No way. Just want you.”

“What is it? Tell me.”

“I...she’s here. She’s here. In my head. Fucking bitch. Help me get rid of her.”

“We’ll get rid of her. Okay?” says Starsky and kisses him, long and gentle. His cock brushes against Hutch’s, bumping and swaying. “It’s the drugs, babe. That’s all,” Starsky whispers.

Hutch spreads his legs, and Starsky sinks down between them, lapping slowly over his skin, all the way down to his balls and then beneath them. He wets a finger, sliding it around the puckered skin below, tracing it.  Then he slides a finger in, slow inch at a time.

It’s so tight and hot. It makes Starsky shiver.

“Starsky.” Impatient.

“I gotta get you ready, Hutch—”

“Do it. Wanna feel you.” Hutch pulls Starsky up and crushes his lips to his mouth, plunging his tongue inside. “Want to feel you come while you’re inside,” he whispers and Starsky groans. Hutch licks his fingers and palm and grabs the head of Starsky’s cock, rubbing him, wetting him, and then shifts his pelvis, spreading himself and waiting. Starsky turns inside out, watching, then finally tears his eyes away. He holds himself with one hand, positioning himself. He pushes in a little.  Again.


“Wai—” Starsky says, and Hutch tugs at his straining forearms.


Starsky grabs Hutch’s cock, bobbing against his stomach, and strokes it, pushing in a little more. Hutch yelps, his ass muscles clamping down, and Starsky starts to withdraw but long legs wrap around him, yanking him closer. He slides in a little more, pumping Hutch’s big cock, watching the lean form beneath him writhe and the shadows trace the quivering muscles, outlined in moonlight. He can’t help himself anymore, and pushes in further.

Hutch makes a deep noise down in his throat and squeezes with his legs, pulling Starsky in. Starsky moves slowly at first, then faster, his body on a strange high plane where every movement and every touch shivers deep down into his skin and drives him ever higher.  The sight of Hutch’s body straining up in the dim cold light only heightens it more.

I’ll never be able to forget this.

He jacks Hutch’s cock in his fist and slams into him, fucking him. Hutch releases a quivering moan that sends Starsky into the stratosphere. He comes hard, spasming on and on, still sliding his hand hard and quick over Hutch’s cock. Almost before he’s finished he wants to touch his tongue to that cock, to slide his mouth over it, taste him. He starts to pull out from Hutch, as slow and careful as he can, and keeps on pumping him with his hand.  Hutch opens his eyes and makes a protesting sound, but he is intent. He slides out of Hutch’s body, trying to stifle the sudden crazy lost feeling that comes with it. Hutch winces, and that makes it worse.

He bends down and Hutch’s cock jerks up to meet the mouth that engulfs him. Starsky moves up and down over it, tonguing the bottom edge of the head, bumping his teeth gently over it while holding the base tight in his fist. Hutch’s spine curves upward, then higher, his body tensing, coming in deep, jolting throbs. Starsky rides up with him, feeling him pulse in his mouth, reliving his own climax all over again. When it’s finally finished, he rubs the side of his face into Hutch’s skin there, feeling the soft scratch of his hair against him.

“Starsky?” Hutch rubs the flat of his hand over his shoulder. Starsky doesn’t move.

Never will forget. Don’t want to.

“Hey. C’mere,” says Hutch.

Starsky still doesn’t move, so Hutch moves down to him a little stiffly and kisses him. 

“Starsky. Will you marry me?”

Starsky’s eyes open, startled. Hutch smiles, and it’s real and true and almost delirious.  Nothing haunts him now.

Maybe that’s enough, then.

“You’re already married, dickhead. Or,” Starsky says, watching Hutch’s reaction, “I would.” Something flickers behind Hutch’s eyes before the grin widens. Starsky leans up and kisses the smile, and Hutch kisses him back.

A perfect fit.


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