Vous Deux

by Cassandra

 

 

Within the voodoo society, there are no accidents. Practitioners believe that nothing and no event has a life of its own. That is why “vous deux,” you two, you too. The universe is all one. Each thing affects something else. Scientists know that. Nature knows it. Many spiritualists agree that we are not separate, we all serve as parts of One. So, in essence, what you do unto another, you do unto you, because you are the other. Voo doo. View you. We are mirrors of each other’s souls.

www.swagga.com/voodoo.htm

     

 

“Starsk? ’M cold.”

Starsky looked over at his partner slumped next to him, shivering. All the windows were open in the borrowed car, and he left them that way to blow out the antiseptic stink of Cabrillo, hoping the rush of cool night air would clear Hutch’s head a little. Apparently it hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

“Okay. Give me just a second here.” Starsky pulled the car over on the side of the road and rolled his window up, then leaned over his friend to roll up the passenger side. Intending to roll up the windows in the back, he started to get out of the car, but was pulled back. He looked over his shoulder. Hutch held his shirttail in both hands, looking up at him with wide eyes. Starsky allowed himself just a moment to take in that look, that need. So long since he had truly felt that Hutch wanted or needed him around. Not since the island.

Not since whatever happened on the island.

Starsky twisted around and patted Hutch’s hand, then pulled his white-knuckled fingers from his shirt. “Just gotta get those windows in the back. I’ll be right back.”

Hutch wrapped his arms around himself and slumped farther into the seat. “Hurry.”

Starsky ran his hand over his partner’s hair, feeling the soft, fine hair brush between his fingertips. If he had done that the day before, Hutch would have jumped or stiffened at his touch. No one would have seen it, but he would have felt it. Now Hutch leaned into his hand and Starsky couldn’t care if it was only because of the drug in his system. It felt too damn good.

“Hang tight. I’ll be quick,” he told Hutch, his voice soft.

Starsky got out of the car and walked around to Hutch’s side to roll up the window. He was driving Dobey’s car—the captain had loaned it to him to get Hutch home. Nice of him.

Starsky suddenly missed the Torino. He missed his damn car and his apartment and his clothes. All of it. Everything that said he was a sane, functioning member of society instead of a lunatic locked in the local asylum.

Though lately he wasn’t a hundred percent sure on the sane part.

A few months ago he would have laughed at his own fears, but that was before the dreams. Dreams that made him wonder about his state of mind. He didn’t know why his brain would make up such crazy shit. They scared him, scared him so much he had stopped trying to get Hutch to tell him the truth about what happened on the island.

They weren’t real, for God’s sake. His brain made up stuff to fill the gaps. Hutch told him Starsky’d tried to kill him, and that was crazy enough. He still didn’t remember. But his dreams tried to tell him he’d done more to Hutch than try to kill him. Something else, something almost as violent. But he didn’t do that to Hutch, couldn’t have enjoyed doing that to Hutch.

That was the most disturbing thing about the dreams. Night after night he woke up, gasping, sweaty, sticky, reaching for a body that wasn’t there. He got hard just thinking about it. Hutch, naked and bound beneath him . . .

A car drove by, headlights blinding Starsky in his rolled up pants and torn shirt, hair standing off his head like he’d stuck a finger in a light socket. He realized suddenly what he must look like to those people driving by.

Like he’d just escaped from a mental ward, was what.

Shuddering, he slammed the door and walked back around the car to roll up the window on the driver’s side. They’d go home and he’d forget about Cabrillo, forget the needles and the strait jackets and the barred windows. Forget lying on that table, hands bound behind his back.

Hutch beneath him, hands bound behind his back.

Hutch’s face in the window, looking in. Knowing he was going to leave him there because he deserved to be there, deserved whatever was coming.

“You’re begging for it.”  It was his own voice.

Miss Bycroft standing over him. “It’s gone too far. Too far.”

Hutch, rolling his head and muttering, “Starsky, stop this before it goes too far.”

Starsky shook himself and got back into the car.

It was over. The end. Forget it.

Before starting the car, he looked over at Hutch. “Doing okay, buddy?”

Hutch didn’t answer, just leaned against him and wrapped a hand around his thigh. His facial muscles were relaxed, unguarded, and Starsky’s breath caught in his throat. Settle down. He’s just looking for some comfort, for God’s sake. Don’t fuck up.

Taking a deep breath, Starsky started the car, throwing his arm around Hutch’s neck. “All set now. Should be warmer,” he said, his voice a little too hearty, too plastic.

Hutch lifted his head and looked at Starsky, bleary eyes searching his face. He either saw what he was looking for or decided it wasn’t there to find and dropped his head back on to Starsky’s shoulder. “Great. Let’s go home.”

Starsky steered with one hand, painfully aware of Hutch’s body against his. It’s nothing new, don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s just been a while.

It had been forever, or it seemed like forever. Too much still dividing them—too many secrets. Lies. Mistakes. Not only his mistakes. Hutch had made plenty, all female.

After coming home from the island, he threw himself into a series of one-night stands. He didn’t care what kind of girl he took home: pretty or ugly, thin or fat, smart or stupid. Almost every night there was a different bar and a different girl. He spent most of his free time at it, and it affected his job. He looked tired, run-down, and his reaction time out on the street suffered.

Starsky tried to talk to him, but Hutch wasn’t in a listening mood. He waved away his concern, said he was a big boy. Starsky tried yelling next, but hit the same brick wall. Finally, he decided to put a stop to it himself.

He went with Hutch to a bar after work one night, determined to break his streak. He told one girl that Hutch had a venereal disease the doctors couldn’t cure; told another that Hutch’s religious beliefs required that she beat herself with reeds before he could sleep with her. He offered to show another pictures of Hutch’s wife and two small children. Hutch knew he was doing something, but he hadn’t been able to catch him.

Then came the girl he couldn’t scare away. She stuck to Hutch like a parasite from the moment he spoke to her. Starsky didn’t catch her name, but she was oddly flat-faced—like one of those long-haired, overbred cats. She just might have some personality when she was sober, though Starsky doubted it.

Starsky alternately glared or frowned at her the whole time she cooed and slobbered all over Hutch. The woman was totally oblivious. Hutch wasn’t, but he thought it was funny, kept shooting Starsky triumphant little smiles. Starsky took it for the challenge it was.

When the couple announced their intention to leave the bar, Starsky said, “Great, let’s go.”

He climbed in the car with them, keeping a constant stream of chatter going on the ride to Hutch’s apartment—debating whether they should play board games or watch a late movie, speculating on whether it was too late to order a pizza, trying to engage Hutch’s girl in conversation. Hutch ignored him. The girl giggled and buried her head in Hutch’s shoulder. She left streaky lines of mascara on his sleeve and down her cheek.

Starsky walked into Hutch’s apartment ahead of the two, heading straight to the refrigerator to grab some beer. Snagging three bottles, he turned around to suggest a game of cards.

Hutch was already on top of the girl on the couch, kissing her neck and unbuttoning her blouse.

Starsky cleared his throat and opened his mouth to say something. Anything. Hutch looked up at him, his face expressionless, but his eyes were blazing. He thrust a hand under the girl’s skirt, keeping his eyes on Starsky. His hand moved under the skirt and she cried out, writhing against his touch. He didn’t look at her. He pulled his hand back to unbuckle his belt, eyes still locked with Starsky’s.

Starsky broke the stare and headed for the bathroom. He slammed the door behind him and sank to the floor, draining the beer he held in his hand. Over the next hour, he waited for the sounds in the other room to stop, trying to forget the look in Hutch’s eyes—malice and lust and something else he couldn’t even begin to understand. Finally it went quiet outside the door. He took a deep breath and stepped outside of the bathroom. Hutch and the girl were naked on the couch together, Hutch’s long body sprawled over hers. His back had marks where the girl had scratched him.

Starsky left the apartment. In the dark, he walked to the phone booth on the corner and called a cab. He felt numb. Just underneath was something he tried not to look it. Seemed he’d been avoiding looking at his own feelings a lot lately.

Neither of them ever mentioned that night, and Starsky stopped trying to slow Hutch down. He didn’t have to. Diana put a stop to it. Getting stabbed in the shower accomplished what Starsky couldn’t.

Starsky remembered calling Hutch’s apartment. Diana answered the phone, saying, “It’s too late. He’ll be dead before you get here.” He slammed the phone down and ran out, driving with his heart in his throat, hearing that bitch’s voice, mocking, hate-filled, and knowing he’d made a huge mistake, dismissing her. Maybe a fatal one for his partner. Even after Diana trashed Hutch’s apartment, Starsky couldn’t see her as a real threat.  

He can’t be dead. Can’t. He remembered thinking it, near panic.

 If Hutch hadn’t been standing right out in the hallway, bleeding . . . Starsky thought he’d have tried to choke the life out of the crazy bitch himself. Maybe some of it was guilt, but it felt like pure hatred.

She tried to kill Hutch.

Hutch squirmed against him, and Starsky realized his grip on his partner’s shoulder had grown tight. Relaxing his hold, he rubbed his arm gently. “Sorry. I was daydreaming, I guess. You okay? Going to sleep on me?”

Hutch shook his head. His eyes were soft, fogged. “Can’t sleep. My head won’t quit racing. When is this stuff going to wear off?”

Starsky sighed. “It’s gonna be a while. The doc said you’d be pretty much out of it for a few hours.” He paused. “You sure you don’t want to stay overnight at the hospital? I can still take you over there.”

Hutch looked up at Starsky, studying him again. “You don’t want me to stay with you?”

Starsky’s chest tightened. “No. I mean, yeah. Of course I want you to stay with me. I’m just asking what you want to do.”

Hutch settled back against Starsky, relaxing again. “No hospital. Had enough of that at Cabrillo.”

Starsky turned a corner. “Me too, partner.” He didn’t blame Hutch for not wanting to go to the hospital. If it was up to him, he’d never set foot in a hospital again.

Soon they’d be at his place, and he’d get Hutch settled and they could both get some rest. The first closeness he’d shared with Hutch in weeks came about only because his partner was drugged, but regardless, he was determined to keep them close, make things better between them. They had to  stop running from each other, running toward other things, other people. Like he had run to Rosey.

Rosey had been a mistake. He was tired of chasing after Hutch, trying to fix things, so he threw himself headfirst into a relationship that didn’t have a prayer of working. He wanted to feel good, needed to touch, needed to be touched. He never really felt close to her, though he tried. But in the end, she knew. 

He hurt her. He regretted that. But she was better off with her father, anyway. She needed to find someone who really loved her.

Starsky put it out his mind as he pulled up to the curb in front of his building. He untangled himself from his partner so he could turn the car off. “Ready to go in, buddy?”

Hutch sighed. “Help me?”

Starsky opened his door. “No problem. Stay put till I get over there.”

Starsky ran around the car to the passenger side and helped Hutch out of the car. His coordination was a little better—he staggered, but he didn’t lurch and stumble as he had earlier. He still seemed pretty out of it, but he was a little more aware, focused. His strength certainly wasn’t affected. Starsky was pretty sure he’d have marks where Hutch clutched him.

Starsky managed to get him in the apartment without too much damage to either of them, though he sweated and panted with the effort by the time they made it inside. Maybe Hutch was right and he should jog more.

He leaned Hutch against the end of the sofa and looked him over. He was a little flushed, but he seemed okay, all things considered.

“You want something to eat, or you just want to lie down?”

Hutch’s face twisted. “No food. Get this thing off me,” he said, fumbling with the buttons of his white uniform shirt. He couldn’t make his fingers work.

Starsky slapped his hands away. “Okay, just let me do it.” He wanted the intern’s uniform off Hutch almost as much as Hutch did. He stripped off the shirt and threw it on a chair to dispose of later. Maybe he’d burn it. “C’mon, Sleeping Beauty. Let’s get you settled,” he said, lifting Hutch once more and heading toward the bedroom. Hutch’s bare skin pressed against him—felt the warmth through his shirt and rubbed against his own bare arms. He tried to ignore it. 

Starsky maneuvered Hutch into the bedroom and eased him down to sit on the bed. “Okay, I’m gonna find you something to sleep in. You need anything else?”

Hutch gave him another of those long searching looks and said, “Yeah. I do,” then grabbed Starsky by the hips, leaned forward and covered his crotch with his open mouth.

Starsky gasped in shock. Hutch mouthed and sucked him through his pants. He was instantly, painfully hard. 

“No, Hutch! Stop!” Starsky twisted in his grip, trying to move away.

Hutch growled low in his throat and pulled Starsky forward, hard, rolling them both so that Starsky lay pinned beneath him on the bed.

“You asked me if I needed anything. I need this. I don’t give a damn if it isn’t a good idea. I need it.” He thrust his hips, grinding his hard cock against Starsky’s and smiled when Starsky moaned. “And you want it.”

Starsky squirmed, trying to get away from Hutch, and pushed at him. Hutch grabbed both his wrists in a tight grip, holding them against the bed and thrust against him, his lips dragging over Starsky’s throat.

Starsky forced himself to lie still, tried to catch his breath enough to reason with Hutch. “Babe, you’re messed up. You know you are. We can’t do this. You’ll hate me if I let it happen.”

Hutch lifted his head and looked at Starsky, heat in his eyes. He tightened his hold on Starsky’s wrists until it hurt, his eyes roaming over his face. “I didn’t hate you for it before.”

Starsky shut his eyes. Couldn’t hear this.

Hutch laughed, a short sharp sound utterly devoid of mirth. “ No. That’s not true. I did hate you. After. That night in the hotel. There you were, sleeping like a baby while I lay there in the dark. I couldn’t decide if I should beat you to death in your sleep or crawl into bed with you and beg you to do it again.” He laughed again, harsh, like gravel pouring into a metal bucket. “It’s really kind of funny. You can’t remember, and I can’t forget.”

Starsky opened his eyes and looked at Hutch. He couldn’t believe this, couldn’t let himself believe it. “Hutch . . . ”

Hutch leaned closer, his eyes intent on Starsky’s. “You know what happened. You have to, even if you don’t remember doing it. You tied me up and fucked me.”

Starsky closed his eyes again, but he couldn’t hide from it anymore, it was all true: everything he was afraid of, everything he had been denying, everything that would tear him down, tear him apart. “ Hutch, whatever happened, it wasn’t me--”

“Yes it was!”

Starsky opened his eyes, found himself staring into Hutch’s, pupils dilated, black, surrounded by thin blue rims. Bloodshot. Angry.

“ It was you. Maybe something was pushing you, but it was you. I know it was.”

Starsky looked away. It was too much, the reflection of himself he saw in Hutch’s eyes. Can’t be real.

Hutch released one of his wrists and grabbed his face, forced him to look at him. “You did it.”

Starsky pushed at Hutch with his freed arm, slapped at him, frantic. “You’re telling me that I raped you and that you want it again? That can’t be real.”

Hutch grabbed his wrist again and forced his arms over his head, drove them into the bed with the force of his anger. “Fine. Have it your way. Tell yourself it isn’t real.” He smiled, mocking Starsky. “If it’s not real, it doesn’t matter, right?” He rolled his hips against Starsky’s, grinding hard against him. “You can do anything you want to me.”

Starsky squeezed his eyes shut again. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Oh dear God, he wanted him, wanted this. Could have it. He just had to be willing to pay for it later when Hutch woke up sober and realized what he had done, what they had both done, when he woke up and had to face himself in the mirror.

Hutch beneath him, hands bound behind his back.

“You’re begging for it.”  

 “Starsky, stop this before it goes too far.”

He’d never wanted anyone so badly in his life.

Stop! You’re stronger than this.

But he wasn’t.

He opened his eyes slowly, Hutch’s face inches away. He stared into the deeply stoned eyes of his partner and spoke, heard his own voice, low and dangerous. “Let go of my wrists.”

Hutch’s eyes narrowed. He looked into Starsky’s eyes a moment longer, trying to gauge what he saw there, then released his hold. Starsky rolled them both so that Hutch lay beneath him. He reached down between their bodies and put his hand on Hutch’s crotch.

So hard. So hot. “Is this what you want?” he whispered, rubbing harder, friction warming the cheap fabric under his hand.

Hutch writhed beneath him. “Yes. God, yes.”

Starsky stopped rubbing. “What else do you want?”

Hutch moaned and pushed into Starsky’s hand. “Fuck me.”

Starsky gasped at the sound of it—Hutch asking him for it in that deep throaty whisper. He kissed him hard, all tongue and teeth, running his hands up his sides and over his body, frantic to touch him. Taste him.

Breaking the kiss, he worked his way down his throat, sliding over the smooth skin to his chest. The smell of Cabrillo’s laundry detergent still lingered on Hutch’s skin, a faint chemical echo under the smell of soap and clean sweat. Starsky ignored it, flicking Hutch’s nipple with his tongue, then gnawing at it until he whimpered and twisted beneath him. Starsky gave his nipple one long, slow lick and moved lower. His tongue found Hutch’s navel and swirled inside it. Hutch moaned, long and low, and Starsky’s cock throbbed in response. He dug his fingers into Hutch’s hips and drew a long ragged breath, rubbing his face against Hutch’s belly, stubble leaving harsh red patches on his flesh. He felt Hutch pulling at his shirt and lifted his head to look at him.

Hutch was flushed, panting. He twisted the fabric between his fingers. “Off. Take it off.”

Starsky sat back on his heels and took his shirt off. Tossing it aside, he unfastened Hutch’s pants and backed off the bed, dragging them off along with his underwear, pausing to strip off his shoes and socks as he went. He peeled off his own pants and turned back to Hutch.

Hutch lay naked on the bed, hands fisted in the blanket, legs spread wide, sweat beaded on his pale skin, eyes locked onto Starsky’s body, taking in every inch of him, lingering over his face, his chest, his cock.

He radiated raw, naked want, and it suddenly hit Starsky. He could do anything to Hutch right now. Anything. The thought left his mouth dry and his knees weak.

Starsky threw himself onto Hutch, reveling in the feel of his bare flesh against him, kissing him deep and desperate. Hutch kissed him back, just as desperate, and thrust his hips upward, rubbing against Starsky. Starsky pulled back a little, not wanting it to end too soon, and Hutch let out a cry at the loss. He grabbed at Starsky’s hips, trying to pull him closer again. Starsky resisted the grasping hands. He wanted more than just the two of them rubbing off against each other. He wanted everything.

He grabbed Hutch’s hands, threaded his fingers into Hutch’s, and held his hands down next to his head. Hutch moaned again, helplessly, and Starsky covered his mouth with his own, unable to help himself, feeling the vibration of the moan against his tongue. He kissed a trail over Hutch’s jaw to his ear, bit gently down on his earlobe, and whispered, “Slow down. Let me do this.”

Hutch gasped as Starsky moved to a spot on his neck, licking and kissing and biting. He made a frustrated sound. “You just have to be the one in control, don’t you?”

Control.

Control?

Starsky stilled against Hutch’s neck. Weeks and weeks of confusion, fear, guilt flickered through his mind. He squeezed Hutch’s hands, felt the bones grinding together, heard him yelp in pain. The anger grew, became a pulsing knot in his gut. He bit down on his neck, just shy of breaking the skin. He felt Hutch struggling, trying to move away from him.

He snapped his head up and looked into Hutch’s face. “You have gotta be kiddin’ me. Control? I don’t know what happened on that island, but I know I wasn’t in control.”

Hutch started to turn his head away. Starsky let go of his hands, grabbed his hair instead, forced Hutch to look at him. “You’re the one that’s had all the control, ever since it happened.  You knew everything. I knew nothin’, and you sure as hell wouldn’t tell me. And what about this? Who started it? Who pushed it? Wasn’t me, Blondie. It was you.” He pulled Hutch closer, close enough to feel his breath on his skin. “So don’t tell me I’m in control. I don’t have any control at all with you.”

 Hutch swallowed hard. “Starsk—”

Starsky didn’t wait to hear it. “Turn over.”

Confusion clouded Hutch’s face. “What?”

Starsky let go of his hair. “Turn over. Now.”

Hutch’s eyes widened, then went heavy-lidded as he let out a shaky breath. “You’ll have to move. I can’t.”

Starsky pushed off the bed and rose up on his knees, still straddling Hutch but no longer touching him. He stared down at Hutch and waited. Hutch gazed up at him for a moment, emotions flickering through his eyes in rapid succession: desire, anger, sorrow.

Desire won. He turned over.

Starsky didn’t move at first, just looked at the long line of Hutch’s back, his rounded ass. He leaned forward and traced the thin white scar on his shoulder, barely visible, felt the raised ragged lines of it. He’s marked. Good. He ran a finger down the back of Hutch’s neck, trailed the touch down his spine and over the line separating the globes of his ass.

Hutch moaned and rocked his hips against the bed, rubbing against the blanket.

Starsky leaned down to Hutch’s ear and whispered, “Be still.”

Hutch moaned again and reached for a pillow, buried his face in it and twisted it in his hands. Starsky waited until he was still again, then leaned over the edge of his bed, reaching underneath, feeling around blindly until his hand closed over what he was looking for.

He pulled the tube from under the bed and leaned forward. He pressed his lips against the back of Hutch’s neck, licked a lazy figure eight. Did it again.

Hutch sighed and began to rock against the bed again.

Starsky dug his fingers into Hutch’s hip. “So help me, if you don’t stop it I’ll jerk off on top of you and walk the hell away.”

Hutch groaned, a sound made of pain and craving. “Starsk, stop drawing this out. You’re killing me.”

Starsky opened the tube. “No, I’m not. I’m giving you exactly what you want, what you asked me for.”

He squeezed a generous amount of gel from the tube and spread it around in his hand, felt it warming. “This is what you want, isn’t it? Some twisted replay of whatever happened before?” The words were like strong black coffee left too long on the burner. Bitter, scalding.

Hutch turned his face toward the wall and whispered, “I want you.”

The words hit Starsky like a hammer, a physical blow right in the middle of his chest. His shoulders slumped, curling inward around the pain.

No. It wasn’t pain. Pain was sharp, clear. Pain he could deal with. This was love and lust and anger and guilt and so many other things he didn’t have words for. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe.

Hutch lay beneath him, waiting. He gripped the pillow tighter, talked to the wall again. “Do something.”

Starsky dropped the tube onto the bed, stared at his hands, at Hutch. Do what? “Hutch . . . ”

Hutch rose up on his knees and leaned back against Starsky, ass rubbing against his cock. Reaching back, he grabbed at him, pulling him tight against his back.  “You can’t stop now. We can’t go back. I need this.”

Starsky moaned and rubbed himself against Hutch, paralysis broken. Too damn good to resist. He pulled Hutch back against him, grease-slick hand sliding across his belly to stroke his cock, gently squeeze his balls.

 Hutch moaned and pulled away, falling forward onto his hands and knees. Spreading his legs, he gasped, “Do it. Do it now.”

Starsky fumbled for the tube he’d dropped, his eyes fixed on Hutch, unable to look away from him. Naked. On his knees. Waiting for him.

He was beautiful.

He squeezed more lube into his hand, then smoothed a hand over his ass, spreading him wide, and slid a gel-slick finger into him, swirled it around against the tight ring of muscle. So tight, so hot. His stomach muscles quivered.  He added a second finger and pushed deeper, found a spot that had Hutch crying out and throwing his head back. Dear God, the sound of it. He stroked over the spot again and again until Hutch’s arms gave out and he fell forward, resting on his elbows and keening wordlessly, pushing back against Starsky’s hand.

Starsky withdrew his hand and reached for the gel again, coated himself with the stuff. He stroked himself, his eyes still fixed on Hutch, ass up in the air, hips still jerking. Waiting for him.

He couldn’t stand it, had to touch him. He positioned himself against him, didn’t push into him, just slid his dick up against him. Then down, until the tip of his dick brushed the back of Hutch’s balls. He did it again, slow and deliberate, up and down, back up again. He looked down and saw his cock nestled between the cheeks of Hutch’s ass, glistening, large, the head a dark purple-red.

Hutch moaned loudly and growled, “Goddammit, do it! Fuck me!”

Starsky shuddered and pulled back. Positioning himself, he pushed. Sweat dripped from his face onto Hutch’s back as he slowly thrust past the tight ring of muscle into him. Hutch pushed back against him, impatient, impaling himself on Starsky’s cock.

Starsky clutched his hip, stilling him.

“Gimme a sec, just a second.” His voice breathless.

Hutch shivered, groaned out his name. “Starsk.”

Starsky leaned forward and kissed his shoulder. “Easy, babe. I’m gonna make this good. Wanna make it so good for you.”

He reached around and grabbed his cock, used his thumb to smear the leaking fluid from the tip around the head, squeezed the shaft with his fingers. So hard, so good. He felt Hutch clench around him, impossibly tight, pain mixing with the pleasure. Perfect.

He started to thrust, steady and shallow, as he stroked Hutch’s cock. Hutch was moaning again, pushing back against him, pleading. Harder. Faster. More.

Starsky groaned and thrust harder, fisting Hutch’s cock. He could feel Hutch’s body jerking, getting closer, his cock leaking and twitching in Starsky’s hand. Finally, he went rigid and came with a yell, fluid pumping from his cock over Starsky’s fist.

It pushed Starsky over the edge. He came hard, thrusting into Hutch’s body throughout the tremors that seemed to go on forever until he finally collapsed on top of Hutch, panting and quivering.

They lay like that for a moment until Hutch stirred beneath him. “Get off. You’re too heavy.”

Fuck.

Hutch’s tone pulled Starsky abruptly back to earth. Starsky worked to deny the abrupt letdown he felt, moving off Hutch and pulling him close. Too tired to even crawl under the covers, he pulled the bedspread up over them both and rubbed his face against Hutch’s sweaty hair. There were a million things he could say, a million he wanted to say. He didn’t know how to say any of them, so he said the only thing he could think of. “You okay?”

Hutch sighed. “Tired. Wanna sleep.” His voice was slurred, sleepy.

Starsky closed his eyes, fatigue overcoming him. “You’re going to hate me when you wake up in the morning.” The minute he said it he wished he could take it back.

 For a long, tense moment Hutch didn’t answer, and Starsky thought he had already fallen asleep. Right before he finally relaxed and fell asleep himself, he heard Hutch murmured reply.

“I hate you right now. Almost as much as I love you.”