A Golden Devil’s Angel

Seeing Starsky dressed all in gold was Hutch’s undoing.

For Liz.

Author’s Note: At SHareCon ’08, it was noted that there didn’t seem to be any fic about this particular episode, The Golden Angel. I promised I’d write one — write one. And so I did. Did. And so it is. Is. /Camille Boone impersonation

Originally published in SHareCon 2010 zine.

It’s not like I haven’t appreciated the beauty of Starsky’s body before. I have; unnoticed, I hope. How could I ignore that perfect ass when Starsky wore the tightest jeans around, and the outline of his cock, well…that was a joy to behold and perfect fantasy fodder when it came to jerking off at night.

But seeing Starsky dressed all in gold, a hood covering his brown curls and a mask shading the deep blue eyes—my eyes were naturally drawn to the crotch.

The full, bouncing, lumpy, enticing crotch. I knew there was no padding involved here beyond a jock strap. The bulge beneath the shimmering fabric was all meat, and I was hungry.

Very hungry.

In the locker room while we changed into our costumes for our roles in this con-game of a wrestling match, his reflection in the mirror as he dressed had me looking out the corner of my eye while I applied my referee’s makeup.

Nude and all healthy young male, the muscles of his body flexed, and my fingertips itched to feel those muscles.

Or maybe it was just the makeup glue.

The jockstrap, on Starsky? A farce. That tiny scrap of fabric had no hope of containing the monster that strained against it. A beautiful monster. Gorgeous. Suckable, all cut and glorious. And oh, how I wanted to suck that lollipop, hard and long until the creamy center leapt into my mouth.

I sent a stern message to my own monster, trying to flare itself out of my pants. It didn’t listen. I had to sit there longer than necessary until it crept back into its un-aroused state, limp and unsatisfied.

“Hey, help me with this thing?” Starsky asked me, fighting a losing battle with the elastic on the angel’s wings.

I stood and very quickly moved behind him, hoping my swelling had gone down to unnoticeable, but I also figured he was preoccupied enough without thinking about looking at his partner’s groin for no reason at all.

And no reason at all it would be. Starsky’s straight. So straight, you could draw plans and crease trousers with him. Women flock to him like bees to honey. Men, too, only those, he pretends to ignore. He’s vain, a preening peacock, and it doesn’t matter to him if he’s equally attractive to both sexes. He thrives on the attention.

But if a man actually tries to come on to him? Talk about an ice-blue stare. They back down as if he were a guard dog, snapping with teeth bared.

“Don’t you see I got a lady here?” he’ll growl. “Move along.”

Well-schooled in how Starsky treated gay men indicating their interest in him, I always knew better than to ever tell Starsky how I felt. Sure, I tell him everything else—but this secret is too dangerous. I love him too much to lose him like that. And as far as he knows, I’m straight, too.

But that costume.

Up close, it looked more like a second skin on him. Glittery and gold, it reflected in his eyes.

He knew how good he looked. As I helped him into the wings as if they were a dinner jacket, he couldn’t keep his eyes off his reflection in the lighted mirror, turning from side to side and plucking at the fabric to get it to smooth out in the right places. When he ran his hand down his front and over his groin, my own cock strangled in my black referee’s pants.

“How’s my halo?” he asked, touching it with his fingers.

“Crooked as ever.” I resisted the urge to squeeze his ass cheeks. “Ready for your cape?”

“I always wanted to be a super hero,” he remarked, wrapping the sheet around him. “Super Dave!”

“Isn’t there already a Super Dave?” I straightened his cape, purely as an excuse to touch him.

“Yeah. Osborne. But he stole it from me. How do I look?” He twirled and the cape billowed out in waves as his body twisted.

“You look fine. Where’s your mask?” I had a love/hate relationship with that mask. With it on, Starsky looked remote and cold, a stranger.

But on closer inspection, that mask accentuated his eyes and his mouth. That mouth. With those lips that looked so perfect for nibbling, like they’d taste as good as Southern Comfort and just as fiery and soothing.

I turned away and started stuffing the padding into my red ref’s shirt. I hoped it would hide the erection once more trying to climb its way out of my pants.

“You okay?”

Dammit. “Yeah, why?” I said, buttoning my shirt.

“I dunno. You look nervous. I’m the one who should be nervous. Hammerlock Grange isn’t gonna know I ain’t Buzzy Boone. What if he hurts me?”

“That’s what I’m there for, dummy, to make sure he doesn’t.” I turned, patting my now ample stomach. “How do I look?”

“Like Dobey,” Starsky chuckled, and danced out of my reach when I mock-pulled back a fist as if I was going to punch him. “Maybe heavier!”

“Watch it, Starsk,” I warned, checking the balding hairpiece to be sure it was in place. I feared it wouldn’t be long before I wouldn’t need a fake bald spot. “Maybe I’ll just step back and let Hammerlock at you.”

His eyes grew wide and serious behind the mask. “You wouldn’t do that. Would you?”

His childlike tone made guilty regret trickle through me. I tugged the mask off him. “No, of course not. But I better not look like Dobey.” I patted my stomach again. “I look better.”

That made him roll his eyes and say, “Oh, boy,” and we headed out to the ring.

I left him in Buzzy’s hands, along with Starsky’s mask. Buzzy was going over Hammerlock’s moves and style again, and Starsky had that deer-in-the-headlights look working. He kept nodding, twisting his fingers together.

Huggy waited down at the ring. “He gonna be all right?” Huggy asked, peering up past the lights where Buzzy and Starsky were hiding.

“I don’t know. Hopefully he’ll actually get in the ring.” I put my character on and played it big.

The scam went off without a hitch, except once when Starsky tried to leave the ring, running from a clueless Hammerlock. I was only a little jealous that Huggy ended up grabbing at Starsky’s ass when he tried to pull him back over the ropes. Damn, but I wanted my hand there. I remembered suddenly the wrestling case we had years before, when I took Starsky to the mat with old college moves and pressed our groins so close together as I hiked up his leg.

We used to play like that, but this last year or so, we don’t play so much anymore. Maybe that’s why my erotic senses were stepping up—our physicality had slowed way down.

After I finished refereeing a match between the real Golden Angel and Hammerlock Grange (Who won? They’re both alive so they both did, I guess), Starsky was waiting for me in the changing room.

He’d switched back to his jeans and the costume was draped across a chair. The mask lay on it and looked creepy with its empty holes and outlined mouth opening. I shuddered.

“You cold? I’m cold,” Starsky said, slipping on his leather jacket before packing the costume into a plastic bag. “Hurry up and let’s go get something to eat. It’s on me.”

“What, you spending your uncle’s inheritance already?” I asked him. It was cold in the changing room and I felt my nipples go hard when I stripped off my shirt. Dried sweat clung to me, sticky, and I wanted a shower—but at home. “Can we get something and bring it back to my place? A hot shower sounds about perfect right now.”

He tilted his head toward the communal showers. “Got some here.”

“No. I don’t feel like being in the same shower as Hammerlock. There’s only so much I need to know about his body.” I shivered again.

“Okay,” he said. “Kentucky Fried Chicken sound good?”

It did; it didn’t use to. “Sure.”

“With extra mashed potatoes.” Starsky was already licking his lips. He picked up the bag and my coat, and once I finished tying my shoes, he helped me into it with a pat on the back. “You did good out there. I didn’t get hurt at all.”

We left the room and he threw his arm around my shoulders as we walked down the hall. I winced; he was too close and I could tell he’d showered while the locker room was empty—he smelled clean, and fresh, and good. Too good.

Dobey met us at the front door. “You boys got paperwork to do on this one,” he growled.

“Tomorrow, Cap. Hutch and I, we’re tired, and he’s hungry. I’m gonna take him home and feed him and put him to bed. We’ll come in and do the reports first thing in the morning. Camille ain’t going nowhere, right?”

“She’s been taken for an evaluation but I think she’ll be seeing Cabrillo State in her future.”

Starsky shuddered at that. At least the crazy doctor wasn’t part of the staff anymore; he’d tried to kill Starsky last year with a poison syringe—Starsky’d already been through that crap once before and we were both relieved that the nurse set Starsky free. I, however, ate a drugged apple and went down like Snow White. Still embarrassed about that.

“That’s too bad. Well, Cap, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

“That’s eight a.m.! Sharp!”

Starsky had already walked us away but gave a brief wave of his hand back at Dobey. I snickered and Starsky squeezed my shoulders.

It was another half hour before we got back to my place with chicken and potatoes and coleslaw. Starsky started to set out some dinnerware while I stripped off for a quick shower.

The hot water felt delicious crawling down my skin, and my soap never smelled better. It was only when I thought about the food getting cold that I finally got out and dried off, wrapping a towel around my waist as I went in search of clean clothes.

Starsky was sitting on the foot of my bed, two glasses in his hand. He finished one off and offered me the other.

“Brandy? What’s the occasion?”

He shrugged. “Adrenaline wore off and I felt a little shaky. Needed some liquid fortification, and you’re outta beer.” I took the glass from him and sipped. It wasn’t the Southern Comfort I’d been thinking of earlier (Starsky’s lips, I noticed, were a little wet from the brandy) but it was smooth and warm, going down just as nicely.

“Should we eat? Food must be getting cold.” I turned toward the table, but Starsky’s voice stopped me.

“It’s in the oven, and you’re in a towel.”

“The coleslaw is in the oven?”

Starsky is ever patient. He stood and poured himself another two fingers of brandy. “No. It’s in the fridge. I ain’t as dumb as you think I am, Blondie.” He slugged his drink down, and I instantly grew worried. That wasn’t like Starsky.

“Are you gonna get dressed?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” I took a moment to finish off my drink as well, the alcohol on my empty stomach already taking a nice, buzzy toll on my bloodstream.

“I’ll help ya,” Starsky said, and pulled off the towel.

There I stood, naked as a jaybird, my hair in turmoil from being rubbed with the towel, and all Starsky could say was, “Oops.”

And then he started walking around me.

“What?” I asked, moving to get to my closet.

“Ah, ah, ah, Hutch,” he said, sounding sober as a judge. “Not done lookin’ at ya yet.”

“Looking at me? What for?”

“Dontcha know how beautiful you are, Hutch? All golden and smooth and—” he touched my chest with a fingertip and my cock started to swell up to meet him.

“—and big,” he finished softly, looking down.

I knew my face had gone red the moment the towel fell, but now I could feel it glowing from its heat. I didn’t move, couldn’t move, and my breath rate increased along with my heartbeat.

He looked up then, flashed a wicked grin, and grabbed me. Down there. My cock, in Starsky’s hand.

It was a gentle hand, leading me around the room, and I was his willing slave, growing stiff in his grasp and following his backwards walk with a hitching step of my own as we circled the table, the sofa, and back into the sleeping alcove where he released me and pushed me down to sit on the bed.

“Hutch, did you think I didn’t notice ya checkin’ me out today in that gold getup?” he whispered, low and intense. My ears strained to hear him although I felt every word.

All I could do was shake my head.

“No? Well, I did. And every other time you’ve checked me out. Think I don’t know? You think I don’t see?” He leaned in closer and I could smell the brandy on his breath. “I know you better than anyone else does, buddy-boy. I know you inside and out. I know what makes you tick. I know how you think and why you think it, and who it was that put some of those thoughts into your head.” He pushed me to my back and crawled on top of me, straddling me with his knees.

“I know you saw this today. And you want it.” He started to undo his fly and that was when I finally pulled my scattered wits together.

“Starsky! What are you doing? Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m tired, Hutch. I’m tired of chasing off the other guys hoping you’ll chase me. I’m tired of going off with girls when it’s you I want. I keep waiting for you to make a move, to say something, but you never do. Why don’t you ever make a move on me, Hutch, huh?” I could tell the alcohol had taken over; his tone had changed and he needed some gentling down. I touched one arm, soothingly.

“Starsky, I thought you preferred girls. Are you telling me, you want to sleep with men?”

“Not men, Hutch. You. My blondie, my blintz, my partner. I want my partner to be my partner, and I think he wants me, too. That right?”

I battled the urge to roll him to the bed, to climb on top of him and kiss him breathless, strip him, suck him off, and fuck him. I had to be sure he knew what he was saying, even though hearing him say those things was like a dream coming true before my eyes. What had triggered this aggressive confession of his, this concerted need to consume me now after seemingly never having thought of me in this way before?

“I’ve thought about you like this for a long time, Hutch,” he said, reading my thoughts as cleverly as ever. His words shocked me, but his kiss shocked me more.

His lips did taste like brandy, but also Starsky. I’d know that taste anywhere, always knew just what it would be like. His tongue felt right against mine, slick and sweet and strong.

My hands found the bottom edge of his shirt and I drew it up, needing to touch. My fingers wove through the hair on his chest, and when he pressed his bulging denim-wrapped cock down on mine, all thoughts left my head and my life became pure sensation.

I know we rolled. I know he got naked. I know my cock ended up in his mouth and his in mine and I remember one moment of “OHMYGOD” before the world spiraled down to a tiny pinprick, and then exploded.

When I woke up, I felt as if the world had changed around me. My room looked wrong and I could smell chicken cooking.

Blinking, I realized that I was diagonal and upside down on my bed, looking at the ceiling. A familiar head lay on my thigh and my hand automatically lifted and rested on it.

Starsky shifted, murmuring something before going still again, his breath warm across my groin and reality struck.

Starsky and I had just had sex. Mind-blowing, dream-surpassing, hot, hard fantastic sex. With my partner. My male partner. I worried he’d regret this choice he’d made.

“You’re thinking again.”

Relieved by his typical insightful statement, I tugged at his hair. “So?”

I could feel him chuckle, the gust of air tickling my cock. He climbed up and straddled me again. “Enjoy yourself?”

“Yes…?” It seemed like an odd question. “Did you?”

“Yep, sure did. But next time,” he said, leaning over the edge of the bed, putting his groin tantalizing close to my face, “let’s try it with the mask.” The gold fabric slipped down over my head. “Because this way, I can concentrate just on those lips…”

“You read my mind. Again.”

“‘Course I did. Now shut up. I’m kissing you.”

~end~