Discovering Fire

Starsky and Hutch are still working out the details of their relatively new sexual relationship. And the details are getting complicated.

Originally published in the Starsky and Hutch slash zine, Turned to Fire, in 1994.

Starsky sat as he had ever since they’d left the bar, eyes straight ahead, grim profile proclaiming his discontent. Same to you, buddy, Hutch thought resentfully. You fucked up the whole evening, so why’re you pissed off?

The light changed to green and he shoved the stick shift roughly into first.

Starsky had definitely been acting strangely this evening. Well, not all evening, Hutch amended. Dinner at Mario’s had gone fine, and his friend had been in a cheerful, relaxed frame of mind during their viewing of the suspenseful new Malcolm McDowell movie, “Time After Time.” Things hadn’t started to go wrong until later, at the crowded bar, when Julie and Yvette had introduced themselves and coyly asked if they could share the table. As the girls had gotten friendlier, Starsky had become sullen and withdrawn, switching from beer to whiskey, resisting all overtures from the sexy, auburn-haired Julie and making everyone increasingly uncomfortable until announcing suddenly that he was leaving. By then Hutch would have cheerfully ejected his surly comrade into the street himself, and told him to take a cab home, but their female companions took advantage of the charged silence between the cops to take their leave. There seemed little point staying, alone.

Asshole.

Realizing that his teeth were clenched so tightly that his jaw had begun to ache, he made a deliberate effort to relax. It was only marginally successful.

At last, they reached Starsky’s apartment complex. Hutch’s foot hit the brake a bit more forcefully than he’d intended, and the car jerked to a halt. He waited in impatient silence for Starsky to remove himself.

“Come on up.”

Surprised, he turned to his companion, and was struck by the sense of simmering tension emanating from the man. Not in the mood to deal with any more of his petulance tonight, he shook his head. “No. I think I’ll just go…”

“I said come up.”

It had the sound of a command, and Hutch’s hackles rose in automatic response. After a few seconds of consideration, he decided to humor the bad-tempered idiot. Manhandling the car into a nearby space, he locked it and followed Starsky, who had not waited, upstairs.

Just inside the door, his partner confronted him—clench-fisted, scowling, belligerent—clearly spoiling for trouble.

“So, what’s your problem?” Hutch asked resignedly.

“I don’t like what’s been going on lately.”

“Could you be a little more specific?” Hutch could hear the sarcasm in his voice.

Unexpectedly, Starsky looked… uncertain?—an expression quickly replaced by antagonism. “Like tonight. I thought we were going out.”

“What? We did, didn’t we? And you were slightly less fun than a smoke bomb all evening.”

Starsky sneered. “What’s the matter, Hutchinson? I cramp your style?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Those girls were definitely interested, in both of us, and all you could do was glare at everyone. Refuse to talk, refuse to dance, refuse to join in the fun…”

“The fun,” Starsky mocked. “Are you horny, lover? Were you planning on getting your rocks off tonight?”

The crudity was so unlike his partner that Hutch blinked in surprise before the deliberate provocation stung a response. Straightening to his full height, he stated defiantly, “Yes.”

Starsky nodded. “Okay. Get your clothes off. Let’s fuck.”

Hutch stared, looking for signs that this was a joke, and finding none. In all the months they had been part-time lovers, Starsky had been passionate, inventive, and… magical. Rakish, impish, lusty… But he had never been coarse. Had never treated their affair as if it was a casual lay. The boorish attitude hurt. “You’re crazy,” he said in disgust. “And I’m going home. Call me when you sober up.” Turning, he grabbed the doorknob.

“Walk out that door and we’re finished.”

Caught off guard, thunderstruck by the incredible statement, Hutch spun to confront his adversary. “Are you threatening me, Starsky?” he demanded.

The answer ricocheted back. “No, Tm telling you. You’ve been treating me like shit, Hutch, and it’s going to end. You’ve been shutting me out, like I don’t count. The way you did when we were after Joe Fitch, when you were more concerned with what was going on with Marianne than you were with the case. When Dobey and everyone else kept asking me what was going on, and I couldn’t even tell them where you were. Partner.” With a sharp gesture of his left hand, he cut off Hutch’s attempted response. “Then you’ve gotta play mind games, too. Like you did with Kira. Like you were doing tonight. Gotta show everyone what a stud you are. Well, I’m sick of it.”

Shame over the incident with Kira did battle with resentment, and lost. He stabbed at his opponent with an angry finger. “You made the rules, buddy. Don’t blame me for following them.”

For a minute he thought the other man was going to hit him. But Starsk clamped down on his temper with an obvious effort. “Shut up. You heard what I said. Now what’s your choice?”

“You’re telling me that my going to bed with you tonight will solve your problem? And if I don’t… What, exactly, do you mean, we’re finished? Are you saying that you’d… split up the partnership?” Just the suggestion plunged an iron spike of fear into Hutch’s chest.

Once again, Starsky’s expression conveyed confusion, superseded by determination. “The partnership? I dunno. The sex, yeah. Yeah, definitely.” Starsky looked as if it were killing him to say it, but Hutch knew him well enough to know he was sincere.

Why would he want to end things now? Their mutual jubilation at Hutch’s narrow escape from death after ingesting botulism-infested soup had driven them to express their years-old love in an intense new way. That first night, Hutch had felt as if they had discovered fire. High on the thrill of sharing his body with the same being who shared every other aspect of his world, he had been ready to make a commitment of eternal fidelity. But Starsky hadn’t felt the same, had steadfastly refused to agree to an exclusive relationship with a man. And Starsky had had his way. They were lovers, but continued to date women. Mystified by this sudden, unforeseen acrimony, Hutch could only stammer, “But… why?”

Misinterpreting the question—deliberately, Hutch thought—Starsky growled, “Because I want you. Tonight.”

Hutch examined the other man closely. Fervent indigo eyes, face flushed with blood heat, thick dark curls that he knew would feel like sinuous silk in his hands. Pulse throbbing visibly in his tanned throat, and the temptation of dark chest hair that vanished intriguingly into the open collar of a deep red rugby shirt. And the barely leashed strength of his whipcord body. To Hutch’s admittedly biased mind, he was incandescently desirable.

A swift glance at the crotch of Starsky’s tight jeans revealed clearly the depth of the darker man’s desire.

Unexpectedly, he felt a tingle of response from his own groin. A response he resisted. Ken Hutchinson didn’t tolerate threats from anyone, not even his best friend/partner/sometime lover.

Starsky, damn him, read his mind. “You always gotta be in charge, don’t you?” he accused. “Well, not tonight. Tonight you’ve got a choice: put out or get out.”

Incensed by the imperious vulgarity, Hutch snarled, “Fuck you.”

Starsky smiled. A snake-smile—knowing, challenging. “Not tonight. Tonight, it’s you who’ll be fucked.” The compelling eyes narrowed. “No more games, Hutch. No more excuses. You’re mine. And I want you.”

The possessiveness of the declaration caused Hutch’s heart to leap in his chest and skip two beats before resuming its normal rhythm. At the same time, his intellect protested the manifest unfairness of his partner’s attitude. Starsky had been the one so determined not to make a commitment to a man. Now he was giving orders? “Thought you didn’t want to be ‘gay,'” he protested.

While their lovemaking had always been give and take as far as who was “on top,” after that first time Hutch had never yielded in his heart, had maintained that bit of psychological distance calculated to protect himself. He’d made certain to never let Starsky get the upper hand emotionally, because to surrender would make it hurt so much more when Starsky found the woman of his dreams. As long as he never let his lover dominate him, he could maintain the illusion that he was in charge.

So why was he still here, listening to these high-handed demands? Was he seriously considering acceding to the arrogant ultimatum?

If Starsky was the cobra, Hutch was his prey. Starsky took the three steps necessary to bring himself within arm’s length. Hutch, not believing his own passivity, stood frozen while one hand gripped his shoulder and the other stroked his hair back, grazed knuckles across his cheek, caressed his throat. His mind commanded him to slap his partner’s hands away; his body had no intention of doing so. A thumb slid across his mustache, brushed at his lips until they parted. Hutch realized his heartbeat had accelerated.

“You’re mine,” Starsky repeated.

Strong hands shifted to grasp his head, drawing him closer until his mouth was claimed in a searing, possessive kiss. Lips parted, tongues twined and caressed, teeth clashed. They moaned in unison and Hutch’s arms wrapped around his companion’s waist as if to save himself from falling. They pressed together along the entire length of their bodies, as if striving to become a single entity.

Soon, though, he needed air and tried to break the kiss, but Starsky would not allow it, holding him prisoner until Hutch began to feel faint. Then he felt the tug of inhalation from the demanding mouth and understood. Through his nose he drew in a fresh supply of air, which Starsky sucked into his own lungs. Then Starsky returned the gesture and Hutch gratefully inhaled the oxygen provided by his lover. Their respirations became synchronized until they were breathing through and for one another, the new and unusual intimacy strangely erotic.

Still holding Hutch’s head, Starsky drew back to stare into his face, his expression unexpectedly tender. “Take off your clothes, babe,” he said softly.

Shrugging out of his coat, Hutch looked around for a place to put it. The Victorian hat rack was closest, and he hooked it clumsily over a peg. As he fumbled with his shoulder holster, Starsky copied his actions, stripping off his own jacket and weapon. Moving more efficiently than his shaken partner, he took Hutch’s gun from his trembling hands and disposed of it.

Hutch was wearing a dark turtleneck and jeans. Starsky appraised him through hooded, dangerous eyes. “You look good in black,” he commented. “You look better out of it.” A jerk of his head signaled Hutch to proceed.

While a small part of his mind rebelled, something deeper and unacknowledged within Hutch’s psyche quivered at the thought of yielding to his lover’s control. He resumed his strip.

Being nude in front of the man he loved excited him, and he felt himself beginning to swell and stiffen as he stood before Starsky. The dark man subjected him to a prolonged visual exploration, hot eyes roving with intimate familiarity over the naked form displayed before him, lingering at mouth and chest and genitals. Hutch flushed at the frank appraisal, but his sex hardened more in response.

Starsky approached again, hands reaching for Hutch’s chest. Hutch’s nipples showed their appreciation by rising to excited little nubs as they were thumbed and squeezed. Starsky bent forward to lick at each one, then bit them gently. Hutch leaned into the touch, his head falling back with a little gasp, ensnared once again in the web of his lover’s mastery. His own hands stroked the other man’s chest through the fabric of his shirt, moving restlessly, sliding down to rub over his jean-clad groin discovering Starsky’s manhood erect and throbbing within its confinement. He groaned in appreciation at the evidence of reciprocal need. Starsky rubbed against his hand while his mouth focused on Hutch’s chest, sucking and nibbling until his tits were dark with arousal and pebble-hard.

Finally, Starsky released him and began to remove his own shirt. Quivering with eagerness, Hutch directed his burning gaze at the graceful hands that crossed over, grasped the hem, and pulled the garment over Starsky’s head. He had time to appreciate the definition of musculature highlighted by the twisting action and the way the perfect torso tapered from strong shoulders and furry chest to narrow waist before the tousled head emerged from the folds and hypnotic eyes met his again.

Starsky dropped the shirt and began to unbuckle his belt. When he unfastened his jeans and freed his erection, Hutch realized that he was wearing no underwear. Sexy bastard.

Starsky had a beautiful cock, Hutch thought—hard and powerful, perfectly made, like its owner’s body. His mouth watered at the sight, longed to taste it. Like Pavlov’s dog, he thought.

Hands came to rest on his shoulders, pressing him down. He knelt obediently, mind captivated by his lover’s enticing shaft, now on a level with his hungry eyes. A hand tangled in his hair, pulling him forward into the nearby groin.

“Suck me,” Starsky rasped.

The cock shoved insistently at his lips, demanding entrance, and he opened for it willingly. In a single thrust it found the back of his throat. Starsky groaned above him, hips thrusting urgently, fingers shifting from Hutch’s hair to explore his ears, invading even these orifices to block his senses from outside distractions.

Hutch’s entire attention focused on the hot shaft possessing his mouth. Aroused vicariously by the other man’s need, he devoted himself wholeheartedly to his lover’s pleasure. Starsk. Starsk… Oh, I love you. Let me make it good for you…

An indeterminate period of time later, Starsky pulled away, his cock abandoning Hutch’s mouth with a wet, sucking noise. Hutch strove to recapture it, but was denied.

So intense had been his concentration on his companion that he had become almost disassociated from his own arousal. Now he became aware that his manhood was a neglected ache between his spread thighs, offering irrefutable proof of his complicity in the evening’s unconventional scenario. Aware also of the uncomfortable press of the carpet into his knees, and the stiffness of his neck as a result of the awkward position, he raised his gaze to discover Starsky looking down at him and his erection with a pleased gleam in his eyes.

It was only with difficulty that Hutch found his voice. “Can we… go into the bedroom?”

Starsky pulled him to his feet. Establishing a firm grip on Hutch’s arm, he turned toward the bedroom. Hutch hung back, suddenly uncertain and needing reassurance. Looking into his eyes, Starsky read his need and drew him into a close embrace. One arm wrapped around his waist, the other pressed Hutch’s head into Starsky’s shoulder. Hutch melted gratefully into the hug, reveling in the sense of rightness that accompanied being close to his lover. Together, they could do anything; between them, nothing could be wrong. When Starsky entwined their fingers, Hutch followed him willingly into the bedroom.

Wordlessly, Starsky pulled back the covers and dug through the nightstand drawer to retrieve an almost-new tube of KY jelly. With a meaningful look for Hutch, he set it on the nightstand and motioned him to get into bed.
Together they sank down onto the mattress. Taking him by the shoulders, Starsky gently pushed him back until he was lying supine. Then he began to make love to him, using everything he had learned during their time together to drive him wild. His knowing mouth captured Hutch’s, lips clinging, tongue exploring with wet and wicked passion. Confident hands roamed over his chest, tweaking his nipples to taut little peaks. Then Starsky’s mouth possessed his fiery cock, and he lost awareness of everything but the pleasure.

In no time at all Starsky had brought him to the edge and abandoned him there, shaking and desperate for release. Hutch’s hazy eyes searched out his companion, who knelt watching him with smoldering eyes. Starsky was powerful, wildly sensual, and absolutely mesmerizing. Hutch loved him. And wanted him. “Please…”

“Please, what, lover-mine? What do you want?” The controlling hand stroked and pulled him. Starsky was loving this, he could tell. It showed in the hawk-like hungry glitter of his eyes, the set of his shoulders, and the arrogant jut of his sex.

“Anything,” he gasped.

Starsky leaned closer. Predatory. “Wanna fuck you. Wanna hear you yell for me, make you come in my hand.” Lying close as he was, Hutch could actually see his companion’s pupils dilate in physical response as he verbalized his desire. He could only nod mutely.

Starsky reached for the bedside table. “Turn over for me.”

Hutch shifted to lie on his stomach, gasping as his hard flesh brushed against the sheets. He spread his legs, thrusting against the mattress, wanting this, needing it more than he’d ever needed anything.

The shock of cool gel made him cry out as Starsky squeezed it onto him. Intrusive fingers entered, pushing the lubricant inside. He cried out again, pushing back eagerly as the fingers spread, stretching the opening.

“Please…” he moaned.

Eyes closed, he felt his lover shift to kneel between his legs, felt the hard press of Starsky’s insistent manhood against his asshole. “Come on, babe. Let me in.” Hutch was ready for him, wanting it, squirming to meet the snub invader.

His body arched upward, head flung back with a gasp as Starsky slid in, right to the hilt, right to the heart. For a long moment neither moved, frozen there in a living still life—no motion but the heaving of their chests, no sound but their dual desperate breaths.

“Okay?”

Gasping with the initial pain of penetration, he panted, “Just… Just give me a second, will ya?” He shuddered involuntarily.

To his surprise, he felt the press of lips on his left shoulder, then at the nape of his neck, and Starsky was whispering hoarsely into his ear. “You’re mine, Hutch. You have to love me.” The last word was almost a sob.

The pleading in the rough voice struck him, reaching deep into the secret country of his soul. The words and tone set his heart ablaze. Starsky wanted him? Only him? Hutch craved so badly to be wanted, needed exclusively by the only one he wanted.

And then Starsky began to talk to him, low and sweet—telling him he was beautiful, telling him he was loved. Telling him how good it was going to be. To the whispered endearments he added the tactile lovemaking of his lips on Hutch’s shoulders and neck, and his hands running from throat to groin to pleasure the weeping cock waiting there, until Hutch’s body relaxed and accepted the invader.

“Love you, my Hutch,” he murmured. “Nobody can love you like I do.”

“Love you, too,” Hutch whispered.

With a triumphant howl, Starsky claimed him at last. They moved together in the rhythm of the ages—parry and thrust, give and take, union and withdrawal. Hutch cried out his passion, and was echoed by his companion. He was flying high, delirious, the way no one but Starsky could make him feel these days.

They made it last forever, wave after wave of paralyzing pleasure cresting and breaking over them like the rampant flames of a wildfire, Hutch submerged in and consumed by the fever-heat only Starsky could give him. Once again, the hard hand on his sex commanded him, demanded everything of him. And he gave it, shoving back eagerly to meet Starsky’s thrusts, wanting it to be perfect for him. Finally, the ecstasy was more than he could bear. His body snapped out of control, convulsing with orgasm, and he screamed his release. With a strangled cry, his lover followed him into annihilation.

At length, Starsky slid off him and gathered his sweating form into his arms. Hutch pressed close, fitting against the hard body with a naturalness that made his heart sing. He felt the rapid rise and fall of his partner’s breathing gradually slow and even out. Dark-fringed eyes fluttered open and fastened on his face, soft with wonder.

Starsky’s parted lips curved in a bemused smile and he murmured, “Jesus, Hutch. It’s never been like that before.”

Hutch’s heart swelled with celebration. I can make you happy. He tightened his arms, kissing the sweat-dampened temple, ear, and hair, delighted when Starsky turned his head to meet his lips.

They lay in sated contentment, exchanging lazy kisses, until Hutch decided that it was time to clarify some important issues. “Hey.”

“Hmmm?” Starsky nuzzled his cheek.

“What was this all about?” Feeling Starsky tense, he squeezed him reassuringly. “Truth time.”

Starsky flushed slightly and looked away, shrugging.

This time Hutch shook him gently. “Come on. You owe me.”

Clearly embarrassed, Starsky nodded. “Okay. Truth time. I was jealous.” He sneaked a peek at Hutch through his lashes, obviously checking his reaction.

Though the reluctant confession was no more than he’d come to suspect, Hutch nonetheless had to protest. “I thought you were the one who wanted to keep seeing women. The one who said, ‘We aren’t gay.'”

This time the blush was obvious. Starsky ducked his head, shamefaced. “I did. And I thought I meant it. I mean, I didn’t want to be ‘gay.’ But you’re right, it’s time for the truth, now. I love you, and I can’t give this up. And I can’t share you. I hate it when I think of you with someone else. It’s gotta be exclusive.” He met Hutch’s gaze, almost fearfully. “You… don’t mind, do you? I mean, I know you said at first you wanted it to be just us, but I was such a jerk about it…”

Having just been handed his heart’s desire, Hutch was in no mood to begrudge that it had taken Starsky a bit longer to recognize the same truth he had discovered months earlier. He hugged his worried companion again. “You always were a bit slow. But you get there eventually, so that’s okay.” He grinned provokingly.

Starsky bit his ear. “Lucky for you I’m in a good mood, so I’ll let that pass.”

“Oh, I’m so relieved…”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up. And kiss me.”

Starsky did, and the flames ignited again.