Nipple

“Hutch became obsessed with Starsky’s nipples the day the car broke down.”

Hutch became obsessed with Starsky’s nipples the day the car broke down.

Hot and flustered and angry and hot and late and hot they’d marched into a nearby bar to find an air conditioning unit blasting out cold, frigid, frosty air; and Starsky had melted into it with a sensuality that was obscene. He’d stood and rotated in front of it, the cool air making him gasp in a way that made Hutch somehow uncomfortable. Then, as he turned, the draught briefly caught his shirt and wafted it open for a second.

And the puckered and stiffened nipple that Hutch saw spoke to him in ways he couldn’t understand. He knew only the clench of his stomach, the sudden inhalation of breath and the flush of extra warmth that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with heat.

And though he’d pushed away the uncomfortable thoughts as determinedly as he’d pushed Starsk away from the outlet to rest his own, sweat pricked back in the cold air, they’d lingered.

So he’d found himself obsessed, sneaking glances between the buttons of Starsky’s shirt, glimpses of brown nubs peeking between enough hair to compound his confusion. There was, after all, no doubting that Starsky was all male. But the thick curls served only to emphasis the forbidden pleasure, and he imagined playing hide and seek with the buds, seeking them out with his fingers… with his teeth… with his tongue.

He’d subconsciously caress his own chest, trailing his fingers down and imagining the thrill of connecting with Starsky’s nipples even as his fingertips grazed his own.

He wanted, he needed to touch, and if it confused the hell out of him, the need overrode his worries. He’d wondered and imagined and fantasized a time when he’d get to caress the feature that crazed him so, knew how it would feel, knew the way it would ease his anxieties, knew it would be okay.

So now, as he kneels by Starsky’s side, leaning over him so close that they share the same breath, as he runs his hands through thick, matted chest hair slick with blood and presses and holds and prays for the bleeding to stop, all he can think is;

“Not like this, not like this, not like this. Not like this.”

The end.