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Pretty Billy

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“You beat up that girl, Billy. Now she won’t talk to us. Since you don’t want the girl to handle our action, we’ve decided to come to you,” Starsky said, clambering into bed next to one newly-awakened and very startled enforcer of Danner’s. “Have I stated it correctly?” This last he directed at Hutch.

Billy Harkness’s face whipped back to Hutch, and Starsky couldn’t suppress the twinge of pride and desire that flared in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Hutch lounging in Harkness’s chair in the corner, blue eyes hard as ice.

“I think you should explain that we will be very angry if Mister Harkness refuses,” Hutch said. Voice quiet and even, and all the more dangerous for it.

“Oh, yes,” said Starsky, capturing Billy’s attention again and lowering his eyebrows as if he was scolding a child. “We will be very angry .”

Billy looked like a man with his fingers caught in a rat trap, sweat beading up on his forehead. Starsky smiled at him. “How much do you want?” Billy asked.

Got him , Starsky thought. “Five kilos.”

Five kilos?!”

“We’ll pay a quarter of a million,” said Hutch. “We want to deal with Mister Danner.”

“Nobody talks to Danner but me,” Billy snapped. “That’s the rule.”

Starsky threw an arm around the man’s naked shoulders. “Make a new rule. We’re prepared to handle five kilos a week. Bring Danner.”

Billy Harkness tensed under Starsky’s grip, made a comically pained face as he considered his options, and then said, “Okay. Okay.” He named the time and place for Hutch, who had leaned forward in his chair to ask.

“Pretty Billy,” purred Starsky, leaning in so close he could kiss the scum if he wanted to and fluttering his eyelashes at him. “You got yourself a deal.”

He was up and out of the man’s bed in the blink of an eye, sauntering down the hall to the door they’d jimmied open. That Starsky had jimmied open with no help from Hutch’s whispered directions. Not that Hutch wasn’t an invaluable asset during a spot of midnight intimidation. The muted smack of Hutch’s fist connecting with part of Billy Harkness -- probably Pretty Billy’s poor face -- came from the bedroom before Hutch appeared in the hall behind Starsky.

“Decide on that ahead of time?” Starsky asked lightly as they stepped back out into the night air, leaving Billy Harkness’s door ajar and heading for the Rolls parked across the street.

Hutch’s face was stony and grim, anger still simmering beneath the surface. “With what that bastard did to Cheryl he deserves worse, but… no. No, I didn’t decide on it ahead of time.”

“Did he look at you wrong?” Starsky chuckled.

“You looked at him wrong,” Hutch replied evenly, voice still in interrogation mode.

“What?” Starsky asked. In the next second Hutch’s hands were on him, whirling him around, slamming his back onto the gleaming hood of the Rolls just above the driver’s side wheel well and holding him there by his lapels. Starsky let out an astonished grunt and his right leg searched for purchase -- it was no use, his feet couldn’t reach the ground from this far up on the hood of the car, and his effort left an opening for Hutch to pin him hip-to-hip, leaning his weight on Starsky. There was no breaking free now.

Hutch’s pale blue eyes were doing that thing Starsky particularly liked. Flashing with the strength of his emotions. Hutch brought his face down and ghosted his full lips over Starsky’s jaw. His voice growled in Starsky’s ear, his breath hot and electrifying against Starsky’s skin like that of a predator.

“You’re a dirty little slut , Rafferty.”

So that’s how this was going to go. Starsky could play the game. “Fuck off, O’Brien.”

Hutch bit his earlobe and tugged until Starsky cried out, then soothed the sting with gentle suction. Then he dipped lower, biting Starsky’s neck like a mating lion. The hot, hard length of Hutch's cock pressed insistently against Starsky’s crotch where Hutch had him pinned. Starsky was suddenly aware that he was splayed out on the hood of a very expensive car directly under the streetlight across from Billy Harkness’s house, with Hutch determinedly sucking a hickey well above his collar. The light in the window of Billy’s bedroom was still on. He was probably on the phone with Danner right now, peering out his window and relaying their every move to the big boss.

Starsky ran his fingers through Hutch’s blonde hair, silvery and washed-out in the streetlight, knocking his ridiculous cowboy hat off. It landed on the hood next to them. He used his grip to pull Hutch off him as gently as possible and caught his eye. “Harkness is watching us,” Starsky murmured. He’d have put money on it.

“Harkness,” said Hutch, “is watching Rafferty and O’Brien.”

Starsky raised his eyebrows, assenting wordlessly. “And what does O’Brien want, right now? What can I do for you, baby?” He cradled Hutch’s face in his hands, running a thumb over Hutch’s lips.

“Unbutton your shirt.” Hutch punctuated the statement by flicking his tongue out to wet the pad of Starsky’s thumb.

Starsky did, pulling the red silk shirt and blue suit jacket that Hutch had bought him specifically for this operation wide open to expose his chest and stomach. He imagined the way his many necklaces must gleam under the streetlight from where Billy Harkness was standing, the gold a stark contrast to Starsky’s skin and dark hair. Hutch ran his hands over Starsky’s chest now, petting him like an animal and then tweaking one nipple and then the other. Starsky sighed, feeling his cock thicken in his pants to match Hutch’s arousal. Hutch ground himself there, rubbing every impressive inch of his erection against Starsky’s and then pulling away.

Easing off of him to give him room for the next demand: “Take your belt off and give it to me.” When Starsky’s belt was securely wrapped around Hutch’s left hand, Hutch undid Starsky’s trousers with his right and freed his cock from his red briefs. Starsky let his head fall back against the hood of the Rolls. If only they were atop the Torino… he’d bet Hutch was doing this on purpose, half-fulfilling a guarded secret fantasy of Starsky’s with a wink and a nudge.

Starsky closed his eyes as Hutch took him into his mouth, wet and warm and perfect. He couldn’t stop the loud moan that escaped his lips when Hutch sucked him down, rolling his tongue against the underside of Starsky’s shaft and taking him down to the root, cheeks hollowed, nose buried in Starsky’s prolific pubic hair. An impressive feat, even if Starsky wasn’t packing the sort of monster below the belt that Hutch was. And O’Brien had dared to call Rafferty a slut….

Hutch worked him over like the seasoned professional he was, swallowing him down into the tight sheath of his throat and then pulling up and sucking deliciously hard at Starsky’s swollen cockhead until Starsky was trembling and whining with every motion, white-hot lightning igniting in his groin and sparking out through the rest of his body. Starsky looked up directly into the streetlight above and the bugs buzzing around it, and came so hard down Hutch’s throat he thought he might die. Hutch licked him through it until Starsky’s mewling turned to overstimulated groans and he pushed weakly at Hutch’s face.

Hutch relented, pulling off. And then Starsky’s world was upended again as he was pulled up off the car and flipped over, bent over the hood with his ass out on display, Hutch’s -- O’Brien’s -- navy and white star-patterned handkerchief shoved hastily between his bare softening cock and the metal of the car, and his trousers yanked down to his knees. 

“You can have any girl you want,” Hutch growled at him. “That was our deal, Rafferty , but your ass is mine.” A stinging slap landed on Starsky’s exposed buttocks, so hard he gasped aloud. His belt in Hutch’s hand, he realized. “Flirt with another man again and I’ll tan your hide so you can’t walk, boy .” Hutch spat at him, all O’Brien’s southern drawl.

Starsky propped himself up on his elbows and pushed his ass out, ready for the taking. “You think you own me, good ol’ boy? Prove it.”

From behind him came the sound of Hutch uncapping a tube of lubricant -- cheeky, thought Starsky, for him to carry that on him. Starsky squirmed with the first intrusion of Hutch’s finger moving slick around his rim and then probing inside him, searching for--

Unh ...” 

“If you think I’ve got anything to prove to you still, I haven’t been fucking you right.” Hutch said, and added a second finger, scissoring them to open Starsky up quicker.

“So you haven’t been fucking me right,” Starsky panted. “Lucky you’re cute, O’Brien .” He preemptively bit his own knuckles to stifle the sound he made when Hutch added a third finger and crooked them just right, rubbing the bundle of nerves inside Starsky that made his knees shake. Too soon the fingers pulled out. Starsky heard the obscene sound of Hutch slicking his cock. He wished that he could see--

Too late. Hutch’s blunt cockhead pressed against Starsky’s abused rim and then inward with a barely-audible squelch. Hutch pushed in to the hilt in one smooth stroke, burning pain melting quickly into pleasure. Starsky made a sound like someone just punched the air out of him. Hutch gave him another smack on the backside, this time with the open flat of his right hand, and then kneaded Starsky’s flesh, pulling him apart to study the place at which they connected. Starsky shuddered involuntarily, goosebumps erupting across his skin.

Hutch’s first thrust was experimental, halfway out, every inch of him tortuous, and then back in with a quick, sharp snap of his hips. Starsky imagined the rhinestones on Hutch’s jacket and pants sparkling with every movement, a flashing neon sign highlighting Hutch’s rutting into him to anyone on the street who cared to peek out their windows. Starsky pressed his face into the hood of the car, drooling on the gleaming black paint. Though spent, he thought he might be able to come again like this if he could take himself in hand. Instead he focused on the sensation of Hutch’s cock moving in and out, the head of it stretching his rim almost painfully each time before he thrusted back in, all eight and a half inches spearing Starsky deep.

Starsky moaned when Hutch hit the right spot inside him, and then Hutch adjusted his angle and did it every time, right on the mark like a hustler at the pool table. Now that he’d found his mark, Hutch pumped his hips at a steady pace, pummeling a wanton, whorish noise out of Starsky with every thrust.

“Did you like him?” Hutch asked, his voice rough. Starsky made a noise amounting to huh? and Hutch repeated the question through gritted teeth. “Did you like him, or did you only want me inside you so badly you had to provoke me?”

The question wormed its way into Starsky’s brain before it made sense, and then he could almost laugh. Like Billy Harkness? In the same way he likes Hutch? A potent mix of horror and arousal and starved desperation rolled in the pit of his stomach before he remembered that this was supposed to be O’Brien asking him… O’Brien the Texan heroin dealer asking Rafferty the pimp, the both of them just horrid enough that any number of sickening actions carried out in the shadows seem a valid possibility.

“Yours,” Starsky groaned. “O’Brien, please….”

That answer seemed to be correct -- it invigorated Hutch, his movements quickening, his hold on Starsky’s hips turning painful. Starsky would bruise later: would carry the imprint of Hutch’s hands on him. Hutch’s breath came harder, undignified noises choked back as he approached his peak, fucking Starsky hard into the hood of their borrowed Rolls Royce. Starsky arched back, using what little leverage he could get on the car to fuck himself back onto Hutch, and that sent Hutch over the edge. Starsky could practically feel Hutch’s orgasm shudder up and down the man’s spine as Hutch collapsed over him, impaling him deep and spilling his seed there.

Fuck ,” Hutch gasped and pulled out, leaving Starsky empty and shivering and with Hutch’s release dripping down his thighs. Starsky wanted to ask whether that expletive was Hutch or O’Brien, but couldn’t find the words.

Hutch kissed the back of Starsky’s neck once, a wet and sloppy kiss, and then retrieved his hat from beside Starsky and set himself right, settling into the driver’s seat and turning on the car’s headlights.

Starsky clumsily dressed himself in the glare of the lights, mesmerized by the steel-hard set of Hutch’s jaw beneath the shadow of that infernal hat, and then limped to the passenger side of the Rolls. Billy Harkess’s bedroom light was out now. Starsky waited until Hutch started the engine and then said,

“I hope you know you’ve still got competition, O’Brien.”

Hutch’s face and voice were glacial. “Is that so?”

“Mm-hm,” said Starsky. “I’ve really got a thing for that Handsome Hutch, you know.”