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Achilles' Heel

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They had just escaped the airtight chamber at DePew's Meat Plant when the bomb went off. The explosion threw his partner toward him, and suddenly Hutch's arms were full of Starsky's warm weight pressed tightly against him by the power of the blast. They held onto each other a little too long, and to Hutch's utter surprise he felt a surge of heat and an alarming hardness growing in his groin. Hastily, he set Starsky back on his feet.

Starsky made a wisecrack but seemed a little dazed, whether from the shock of the explosion or an awareness of Hutch's predicament was unclear. Hutch played it the only way he could, giving Starsky a rough shake as if to say, You okay?

Affecting unconcern, Hutch coughed out some of the dust and turned away at Starsky's dumbfounded nod to brush the soot and grit from his clothing before cautiously moving toward the exit. The groan and creak of falling debris gave him a new worry to cut his mind's teeth on, and the other, more surprising event faded to the background.

Later, after the arrival of the fire crew and the arson investigation team, he leaned against the side of the ambulance, holding an icepack to the bump on the back of his head, watching carefully as the medic checked Starsky's hearing. While Hutch attended the proceedings his wayward eye charted the strong back muscles and the slope of Starsky's ass filling the close-fitting jeans. Hutch averted his eyes at a tightening once again in his balls. Oh, God. What am I doing?

A few minutes later he felt a touch on his arm. "Let's go," said Starsky.

They went.


It took all night but they solved the goddamn case. The last few rounds in the ring had almost done Hutch in, while his partner had just stood grinning and watching. Exhausted, and communicating only in grunts and few words, Hutch made Starsky take him straight home afterward. Starsky was equally taciturn as he drove Hutch to his cottage.

The familiar surroundings somehow looked strange to Hutch's eye upon entering, as if he were in some new reality. Perhaps he was. Though he'd tightly boxed his new awareness, the echoes of it reverberated in his mind, like the aftermath of the explosion that he still carried on his clothing, in his hair, and as a faint taste of smoke in his mouth. Wearily, he stripped and cataloged his aches and pains as he stepped into the shower and turned on the faucet full blast. He soaped himself from head to toe, his hand lingering momentarily on his cock and the semi-erection he was still carrying. Had been carrying, all day, as if his cock had a longer memory than he did. How could he want Starsky that way?

And yet, was it so improbable? So impossible that the person who meant everything to him could mean this, as well—this aching need in his groin, in his gut and bones?

Two memories of the day stuck in his mind like pieces of a puzzle, waiting to be fitted into the whole. The first was the moment he found himself flat on the wrestling mat at the end of his decidedly non-Greco-Roman match with Eddie. The wrestler's beefy forearm had been lodged under Hutch's chin, the chokehold cutting off his air, Eddie's huge bulk holding Hutch immobile. And then Starsky had barked Eddie's name in warning, in a voice unlike anything Hutch had yet heard out of his partner. Not that the tone was unfamiliar; Hutch had heard that steely grind countless times before on the streets. It was the quality of deadliness, and the overtone of ownership, fierce and uncompromising, that were unique. Somehow, in that one word warning, it was as if he were proclaiming something.

Hutch stayed in the shower for too long, the water splashing against his forehead and running down his face. It was somehow comforting, as if he could hide behind the stream. Finally, when the water chilled, he got out and dried himself absently, pulling on his robe and moving to sit on the couch, still lost deeply in thought.

The second moment was, of course, the explosion and the feeling of Starsky's body upon him and the fire of his sudden, urgent need. Almost unaware of the action, Hutch pulled open his robe, exposing his full erection to the air. He grasped himself and began to stroke his cock, reliving the moment, imagining that weight upon him, now unclothed, the soft hair of Starsky's chest rubbing against his own skin. The iron sound of Starsky's voice in the gym resounded in his head, only this time he was saying Hutch's name with the same unyielding demand. The fantasy expanded to Starsky's knees forcing his legs apart, Starsky's cock, as uncompromising as his voice, pressing up underneath his balls, seeking….

Eyes open, Hutch came into his hand, watching the ribbon of semen rise and fall as he shuddered with pleasure, the pieces falling into place.


Hutch rose from the couch and walked on wobbly legs to the bathroom to clean himself off. He was leaning against the sink, drying his hands, when he heard a knock at the door.

Shit. The familiar rap was unmistakable. He hastily pulled his robe together, cinching it tight about his waist like armor, the soft terrycloth brushing against his still-tender cock. He went to open the door a crack.

"Starsk." He let his surprise color his voice, along with a tiny bit of displeasure.

Starsky stood on the landing, looking oddly as if he had just been dragged through a hay mower. His shirt was haphazardly buttoned, gaping in spots, revealing his chest and belly, the tails hanging out over his jeans. The cuff of one leg was tucked up into a sock, and his shoes were untied. His hair was a damp, disheveled mop, sticking every which way, dripping moisture onto his forehead. His eyes were wide and red in the corners, his mouth open and loose. He looked, in other words, like he had flung himself here in a high storm.

Here, to Hutch. Why?

Hutch made no move to let him in, still conscious of what he had just been doing, the object of his fantasy standing suddenly on his doorstep, filling him with embarrassed confusion and longing.

"Starsky?" Hutch said again, adding a questioning lilt.

"Hutch." And there it was, again, that demanding steel, but the edge tempered this time by a hint of doubt.

Hutch took a breath, letting it out harshly as he felt his cock stir obediently at the metallic sound like a dog to heel.

At the sound of his exhalation, Starsky's eyes narrowed suddenly and he stepped directly forward, forcing Hutch to give ground hastily or risk body contact with his partner.

Starsky stalked into the living room, kicking the door shut behind him, and Hutch gave like a leaf in a gale until he finally turned and walked purposefully to the kitchen in a more calculated retreat. He opened the fridge and grabbed a couple of beers, then turned to find Starsky not twelve inches from him, staring up into his face.

The cold glass almost dropped from Hutch's suddenly nerveless fingers. He held onto both the bottles and his composure with the faintest grip.

"Starsk?" Hutch tried to add a 'what the hell are you doing?' subtext but failed, his voice coming out on two broken tones like a guitar string snapping. He swallowed.

Starsky spoke at last. "Tell me I imagined it, Hutch," he said hoarsely, his eyes boring into Hutch's.

Hutch swallowed again and opened his mouth to put out a disingenuous deflection, but Starsky cut him off.

"Don't. Don't even try." Starsky continued in a strange whisper, his voice rumbling like a sonic trail under the too-soft overtone, "You covered pretty good, you know? But you were just a second too late, Hutch. Just one second and I wouldn't have known, wouldn't have believed it. But I felt it." Starsky reached out and casually took the beer bottles from Hutch's hand. He set them deliberately on the counter by the fridge, his arm stretching behind Hutch, effectively trapping him.

Hutch held still, trying not to betray anything further, trying to control the rise and fall of his chest.

"All day I kept wondering if maybe I just imagined it, Hutch. I've wanted it for so long . . . " Hutch blinked, and Starsky's voice dropped lower. "But I didn't imagine it, did I?"

Starsky leaned in a little bit closer. The change in distance was the subtle one between an invitation and a threat, and Hutch lost his battle and started breathing faster, his heart beginning to pump at an insane, throbbing tempo.

Starsky inhaled deeply through his nose, and smiled. Hutch's bones liquefied under that shark's grin, and suddenly his new challenge was staying upright.

"You know what you smell like, Hutch?" Starsky gestured with his chin.

Hutch shook his head numbly.

"You smell like come."

The trembling in Hutch's knees was echoed in his shaky gasp, and he started to sag. Starsky's strong arms were suddenly bracketing him under his arms, bracing against the sides of the fridge. He moved the last inches forward and his body pressed against Hutch's from the stomach down, holding him upright. The pressure of his warm belly against Hutch's groin acted like an incendiary device, lighting the fuse to his balls and cock, which rose, crawling stiffly upward in the scant space between them. Hutch felt it and moaned in part hunger, part despair. Starsky pulled back and looked down. Hutch's eyes followed the taut gaze.

Hutch's erection had cleverly navigated the opening in his robe and now stood proudly exposed. At Starsky's glance, a single clear droplet pooled in the slit and glistened there. Panicked, Hutch looked up at Starsky's face, catching the movement of his tongue as he licked his lips.

Starsky shifted his hips forward and Hutch's cock fit neatly through the gap in his shirt to nestle against his warm, furry abdomen. Hutch closed his eyes and felt each individual hair as it brushed against his sensitive crown with Starsky's breathing.

"Ohhhh." Hutch closed his mouth but the moan continued, his lips vibrating with it. He opened his eyes to find that intent stare locked on his face, and he flushed deeply.

"What I thought. What I hoped for, for so long. Christ, Hutch," Starsky said harshly. And then he was dragging Hutch's robe open with a jerk.

Finally, Hutch found a protest on his lips, his idiot brain catching up in slow motion, and just as Starsky's palms ran across his bare chest, Hutch bolted, stumbling away, pushing past the gate of Starsky's arm to the safety of the living room. He pulled his robe closed and went to the window to stare out at the mundane normality of the street outside his house. He sensed Starsky following to stand behind him.

"Not too close," Hutch whispered. He heard Starsky's breathing in answer, quick and eager, as after a chase, with Hutch as the criminal. And he was. He shook his head, but the truth was undeniable. Take the best thing in your life. Now see if you can fuck it up. Lay it as sacrifice on the altar of your boundless need.

Hutch rested his hands on the windowsill and bent his head.

Behind him, Starsky laughed softly. "Oh, babe." Hutch heard a creaking step and he stiffened, his head lifting to attention. He sensed the frozen mid-motion and breathed silently, mouth open, ears attuned.

"Say it, Hutch. Just say it."

Hutch shook his head again, a bid for time. Give me a second.

Starsky did. Hutch could feel the patience behind him like a shield-wall, protecting him from his encroaching fears. He breathed deep, letting himself listen to their complaint while Starsky held them at bay. There were a lot of them. A flock . . . no, a clamor. A clamor of fears. There were so many it was hard to make sense of them, but when he pulled back they all coalesced into one, the deepest and unthinkable: that this would make Starsky stop loving him.

Did Starsky even understand what a mess he was buying into? Starsky was so pure in his passions, so sure of his place in life. He was without price, for nothing so perfect could ever be earned. And so how would Hutch later be made to pay?

Could Starsky stop loving him?

Hutch tugged at the tatters of his courage, tying them into a knot in his gut, and said it.

"I can't lose you," he said shakily, then turned to look at his partner, catching a broad smile growing even broader, gleaming in the lamplight.

"You're right. You can't." Starsky looked at him, truth in his deep blue eyes.

For Starsky, things could be that simple. And Hutch could almost believe it, that if he himself couldn't be trusted not to hurt what they had, he could at least rely on Starsky to save them both from any shit he came up with. Hutch wanted so desperately to be convinced, but it wasn't his nature to accept such a gift on faith. He sighed, and watched two broad hands rise to take him by the shoulders, tugging him to fall forward into a strong embrace.

Starsky's rough cheek brushed against his as he affirmed it. "You can't, ever," he said, low, the certain steel in his voice, making Hutch shake anew, but this time not with fear.

Then Starsky pulled back and, slowly this time, spread open Hutch's robe to rest his hands on Hutch's chest. Hutch could feel his heart pounding against them as if an earthquake were shaking his body. The hands moved, stroking him with a new, sensual touch, invoking needy tremors that traveled down to his groin. Fear had softened him, but was now easily vanquished by Starsky's rough palms, and then his strong fingers teasing his nipples. Hutch inhaled deep, his chest expanding against the tugs and twists, and he moaned softly on a near-endless exhale.

Through eyes half-closed he saw Starsky grin ferally, his face mostly in shadow. The one source of light glanced on the plane of the muscle that traveled from cheek to jawbone, giving him the look of a statue, displaying him like an ancient Greek bust with classic warrior lines, the still-damp ringlets curling against his forehead in an unfamiliar style. Too unfamiliar, this look and touch and those eyes, predatory and strange.

"No," Hutch murmured, fear rising again, loss imminent.

Starsky cocked his head but ignored him, pulling his robe wider, the belt coming loose to drape over the jutting branch of Hutch's erection. The soft touch of the terrycloth tore another moan from him. No, he whispered, but this time only in his mind, his limbs and lips frozen.

Starsky seemed to waken from his sensual absorption. He looked down and the predatory grin flashed again. He took the end of the tie and flipped it around Hutch's cock, until only the head peeked out from the wrapping. Hutch made a sound of protest that truncated when Starsky gripped him, squeezing the soft material around Hutch's cock, his thumb resting on the crown.

Hutch groaned at the combination of intense and muted sensations.

Then Starsky dropped to his knees. Hutch watched in utter fascination, eyes tearing up from his failure even to blink, as Starsky's tongue came out to touch the peeking head and claim the droplet of liquid standing as offering in the slit.

Hutch cried out sharply. The tongue dipped again, and then swooped delicately on the exposed flesh. Starsky's eyes rose to lock on his through the long, dark lashes, and the hunger within them threatened to take Hutch's knees out from under him.

Then Starsky closed his mouth over the crown and sucked gently.

"Oh. Sweet Jesus," Hutch said on too little breath, his head falling back against the glass behind him. He was going to come, from nothing more than a few gentle strokes of Starsky's tongue and the closing of his lips around Hutch's flesh.

But a sharp tug broke the spell. His head snapped up in surprise as Starsky tucked a knot into the belt, choking his cock in its own blood supply. Hutch barked his displeasure.

"Not yet. Not yet." Starsky stood. Using the free end of the tie, he pulled Hutch away from the window. Hutch had no choice but to follow, led by his cock to the alcove where his bed waited.

In a minute, he would complain, would stop this, take control, make it clear in no uncertain terms that he wouldn't accept being led by his cock.

In a minute, after he had given Starsky anything, everything he wanted of him.

Starsky tugged him to the edge of the bed and then pushed him down until he lay, splayed and open, his captive cock pointing to the ceiling. It ached. Starsky straddled Hutch's thighs and efficiently untied his tortured member. Hutch gasped with relief.

Holding the length of belt between his hands, Starsky looked into Hutch's face.

"Give me your wrists." Starsky's voice was harsh, but his eyes so very gentle as they looked into Hutch's. Hutch's breath caught at the implication.

Starsky shook his head with mock sadness. "I'm sorry, Hutch," he reached down and captured one of Hutch's wrists. Hutch watched in stunned paralysis as Starsky tied a loop around it. "Sorry it has to be like this, this first time. But I don't think you can be trusted." Starsky took his other hand and matched it to the first, knotting a figure eight as he continued speaking. "I mean," he said calmly, his voice matter-of-fact, "don't get me wrong—I trust you with my life." Starsky raised Hutch's hands to his lips and, to Hutch's surprise, kissed his bound wrists before raising them over Hutch's head. "—just not with yours." He shifted up and suddenly he was straddling Hutch's groin, his crotch rubbing against Hutch's erection with his movement.

Any second now. Any second I will stop this . . . craziness. But Hutch only listened mutely to Starsky's speech, his arms limp and unresisting, even as the tugs and jerks signified his hands were being tied inextricably to the bedstead.

"The thing is, Blintz—no offense—but you're too smart for your own damned good. And I can't trust you not to run away from what you need. From what we both need." Starsky finished his task and backed down, sliding his knees into the vee of Hutch's thighs to kneel between them.

Eyes closed to hide from that intent look, Hutch tugged experimentally at his bonds. He heard Starsky laugh a little, low.

Hutch opened his eyes and his mouth, preparing to say something, anything. This had gone too far. But the words tangled in his throat when he saw Starsky raise his hand to his mouth to suck on his middle finger. He watched, mesmerized, as Starsky lowered his hand to nudge Hutch's balls, the slick digit sliding below until it found his anus. It circled there. Hutch jerked and widened his eyes, as if trying to force himself from a deep sleep.

"This is what I need, Hutch. What you need."

Hutch felt his face flame hot, and he whispered unevenly, "No."

"No?" Starsky tilted his head. "That's twice you've said that, Hutch. Consider very carefully, 'cause three times is the charm. Is it 'no'?"

The wicked finger had continued its massage, making his anus tingle, and now it penetrated him, and Hutch gasped with pleasure, his knees spreading of their own volition.

"Ah. Ahhhh," he moaned as the finger moved within him.

"That's what I thought," Starsky said softly.

But that wasn't my answer, Hutch thought wildly, and then thought abandoned him completely as the finger stroked deeper inside, and a shock-prod touched Hutch's balls like a live wire.

"God! Starsk!" Hutch looked up at Starsky, barely able to focus. "W-wait . . . I need . . . ." Hutch's voice choked off as he felt the stab of pleasure again. And again.

Starsky smiled, still moving his finger in and out. "I'll tell you what, Hutch. You can say 'no' all you want. But if you ever, really, really want me to stop, you have to say . . . jalapeño."

Hutch stared up at his partner in disbelief until the meaning finally sank in. I can say 'no.' All I need to. Hutch felt himself sag with relief. Then, suddenly, Starsky was gone, sliding off the bed and standing next to it with his back turned. He shed his rumpled shirt and pants, his ass flexing as he leaned down to tug off his socks and shoes. Then he straightened and walked over to the nightstand to begin hunting through the drawer there.

Hutch's eyes followed, looking at the bent form. The Greek bust had become a statue—the Discus Thrower—Starsky's powerful muscles flexing over his ribs in sharp relief. Hutch's eyes dropped lower to the beautiful curve of his hip and the fold of muscle there. Crest of Ilium, Hutch thought dreamily, dragging the term from his long-ago pre-med days. His eyes followed its path down to the blood-thickened cock rising proudly from the heavy balls, and Hutch felt his face go slack as he thought, He's going to put that in me. Inside me.

Hutch began to pull frantically at the bonds on his wrists, struggling hard against the knots. But they were well tied. Starsky knew how to subdue a criminal. And, if Hutch was the perp, wasn't it right that he be punished? Only Starsky didn't promise punishment, but pleasure, unbearable and undeserved. Hutch struggled harder, his body arching on the mattress, the bed frame creaking with the force.

Starsky made a sound and Hutch's eyes flew to his partner, who was looking at him sharply. He nodded. "Go ahead, Hutch. Fight it all you want. Get it out of your system."

Hutch grunted and pulled mightily a few more times before he collapsed, panting and sweating, his wrists sore and his head swimming from the rush of blood in his veins. He heard a husky laugh, and shivered deep at being so well understood.

"Ah, I knew it." Starsky held up his sought-after prize, a tube of lubricant. "I knew you liked to do it 'Greek.'" His expression turned dead serious. "Only now you're going to be a true Greek." His voice had dropped low as he eased back onto the bed with tube in hand. He uncapped it while Hutch watched, fascinated, eager and appalled all at once.

Starsky knelt up and forced Hutch's legs apart wide, settling between them, and reintroduced his now-lubricated fingers into Hutch's anus, sliding them slowly in and out, making him wet, making him ready. Making him want it, to want to know that thick slide of cock—of Starsky's cock—inside him. Hutch groaned as the skilled fingers toyed with him, and even as his hands continued to tug at the bindings, he knew he was destined to fail.

Starsky was his one true weakness.

For when had Starsky ever asked for something that Hutch hadn't then given him? And when had Starsky ever hesitated in giving Hutch what he thought he needed, even when Hutch didn't?

And now Starsky wanted to give him . . . everything, forcing it on him, knowing that what Hutch needed most was to fight it.

He watched, panting slightly with fear and desire, as Starsky pulled his fingers from inside him to smooth the thick lubricant thoroughly on his own cock, his lids half-closed with pleasure. He pulled his hand off his glistening dick and met Hutch's eyes.

"I should turn you over on your belly," Starsky said thoughtfully. "Only, I want to watch you, Hutch. See what it does to your face, when I put my cock inside you."

A deep tremor ran through Hutch, rattling his limbs, shaking the wrists bound to the brass rail. "Oh, God," he moaned, a breathless whisper of sound.

Then Starsky shuffled forward on his knees, reaching below Hutch to lift his hips onto his strong thighs. When he was satisfied, he raised Hutch's legs, pushing his knees up and apart. He looked down at what he had exposed.

"Say 'no,' Hutch," Starsky whispered darkly.

"N-no. No. Oh, please." Hutch gasped as he felt Starsky position the head of his cock against his anus. Hutch clenched tight. "NO."

"Yes," Starsky said, and pushed that hard flesh and steel past Hutch's stubborn will, spreading him wide.

"Oh. My God," Hutch whispered in shock. The physical pain was a deep ache as the implacable head of Starsky's cock opened him. But his mind welled with joy at being taken like this, by Starsky, by his need. He felt his heart ripped open even as his muscles gave under the insistent, inexorable pressure and Starsky moved into him.

In me. Starsky is in me. He heard Starsky groan wildly, then felt him pull back momentarily before pushing in again.

"Sweet Jesus," Hutch gasped, and his eyes, which had squeezed shut at the penetration, now opened to see Starsky staring down at him as promised, the planes of his face rigid with control, his eyes glowing passionately. He thrust again, and Hutch felt the insidious pleasure of it, and moaned softly, disbelievingly.

"Yes," Starsky repeated, groaning, and he thrust again. Hutch felt his eyes bulge at the new depth, his ass muscles protesting.

"Please," Hutch pleaded, not sure whether he was begging Starsky to stop, or to continue this terrible, beautiful conquering of his body and mind. Then Starsky's thick cock moved against his prostate, and Hutch cried out. Starsky's lips curled back from his teeth and his hips moved out and then in at the same angle, and Hutch cried out again, his voice a ridiculously high whimper as the sensation assaulted him.

"That's it, baby blue," Starsky whispered, and suddenly Hutch was afraid. He twisted his hands in the ties, and then pulled against them, struggling to escape the merciless intensity. He arched his back as he yanked, and only succeeded in impaling himself more deeply onto Starsky's cock. He froze.

Starsky groaned long and low. They stared at each other a long moment, both panting with exertion. He can't possibly go deeper, Hutch thought, but was afraid to test the theory. It felt as if a bronze pike were reaming him through. He felt himself tremble around the bulk of Starsky's shaft, and watched Starsky's eyes close.

Then Starsky pulled back a little, releasing his hold on Hutch's knees. He carefully lifted Hutch's legs over his shoulders, still remaining within him.

The new position was a relief to Hutch's cramped thighs, but made him feel even more vulnerable, leaving him nothing to push against. He looked up into Starsky's face.

Starsky turned his head to softly kiss the inside of Hutch's leg, and then he reached down between them. A sly finger traced the aching rim of Hutch's anus, and he twitched, groaning, his muscles clenching involuntarily at the stimulus.

"Me in thee," Starsky said in a rough whisper, and did it again, sliding his fingers along the sensitive tissue that was stretched tight around his cock, making Hutch gasp and yelp. Then Starsky's hand moved to grasp Hutch's erection.

"Ohhh, God. Oh. Starsk," Hutch moaned helplessly as the strong hand stroked him firmly, working his shaft. His cock and ass responded eagerly, and Hutch moved his hips into the stroke, realizing even as he did so that Starsky was playing him like an instrument for their mutual pleasure.

They moaned together now, and Starsky pistoned shallowly as he continued to pump Hutch's cock. "Hutch . . . babe. So beautiful . . . your face," Starsky said hoarsely as he started to jerk Hutch more quickly.

Hutch groaned, feeling his orgasm rise within him, fearing its power. Starsky's cock was pushing gently against his prostate, but he craved more, harder pressure. He arched his back again, this time with intent, and lifted himself to drop down on the thick cock pleasuring him. He did it again, grunting with rising excitement. Starsky's hips started moving faster, accommodating his rhythm, and then Hutch was there, toppling over into the abyss of ecstasy, and he shouted out loud, "YES! Starsk! Ohhh . . . Ohhhhhh." His cock spewed thickly, a rope of semen landing on his chest and stomach, his muscles grabbing at the bulk inside of him. Distantly, he heard Starsky groaning his name in response, but Hutch's ears were roaring and his head was swimming from the waves of pleasure consuming him.

Starsky's hand left his cock and suddenly Hutch was bent in half, his partner leaning low over him as he started to pump hard. The power of Starsky's thrusts lifted Hutch's hips higher, and he shouted as the stiff cock rammed his prostate again and again, Starsky pounding into him in pursuit of his own completion. Then his movement stilled abruptly, and Starsky rumbled low as he came, his cock pulsing within Hutch's ass. Hutch clenched his muscles tight, watching as Starsky's face seemed to come apart, his eyes rolling back and his lids fluttering against his cheeks. He let out a strangled whimper, and then collapsed on top of Hutch, his cock already softening inside Hutch's channel.

The weight of his partner was unbearable, especially to his bound arms, and Hutch let out a small whimper of his own. Starsky mumbled something and pulled out, releasing Hutch from his hold. Gratefully, Hutch dropped his stiff legs to the mattress, grimacing at the feel of cold semen on his belly and dribbling from his ass. But his body was still trembling from the terrible pleasure, the tremors coming in cycles. He lay quiet, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulders and the tenderness of his abused ass.

The bed shifted, and then Starsky was leaning above him, staring down again, but this time from a mere foot away. Hutch looked into his eyes, fearing a possessive, triumphant look, but Starsky's expression was achingly soft, and with great tenderness he pushed the damp hair from Hutch's forehead.

"Hello, Blintz," Starsky whispered, as if just finding him there.

And, in a way, he was, because Hutch felt like a newly discovered country. He moved to speak, but his throat was locked tight. He stared back into the deep blue.

"Kiss me?" Starsky asked, his voice unwontedly hesitant.

Hutch nodded, smiling. And then Starsky's lips closed on his.

Maybe they had gone about this in entirely the reverse order, but somehow the kiss was the sweeter for what they had just shared. Maybe this kiss could never have even happened, if Starsky hadn't forced the love into him, and out of him.

And Hutch felt it. So damned much love, pouring from his lips and into Starsky's mouth, ambrosia returning on Starsky's tongue. He felt Starsky grin against his lips, and joy arrowed into his heart.

"Oh, yes." Hutch knew he had said it aloud only when he heard Starsky's answering laugh.

"Yes, Hutch."

Starsky's hand dropped to his upraised arm, and Hutch made an involuntary sound of pain. Starsky's smile changed into an expression of guilty consternation with comic suddenness.

"Shit, let me untie you." He shifted up.

Hutch almost laughed, but his breath caught. "Better not," he said, almost strangling the words.

Starsky halted and looked down, puzzlement crinkling the beloved face.

"If you do, I'm gonna turn you into a Greek." Hutch bared his teeth.

"I'm counting on it, partner. I'm counting on it," Starsky replied, his smile as wide as the sea.

Casually, he reached for Hutch's bonds, and set him free.


May 2005
San Francisco, CA