If perception is reality, then Hutch is Starsky’s reality.
Written for the LJ me_and_thee_100 comm challenge 122: sex.
Starsky waits in the hallway. When the bathroom door opens, he inhales the warm, steamy air.
Hutch, smelling of Ivory Soap and Pepsodent and that indescribable essence that is uniquely Hutch
Starsky’s own honest-to-God centerfold. In the flesh, so to speak. He takes in the sight, follows the vision to their bedroom.
Hutch, still flushed pink and damp from his shower, stretching out on their bed, miles of legs and acres of skin; open, ready, waiting
Starsky’s voice is almost a growl, a feral sound rather than words—but then, they’ve never needed words.
Hutch, responding in kind, a hungry call that races along Starsky’s spine and goes straight to his balls, his dick, his heart
Starsky reaches for hard, wanting flesh; his hands stroking, worshiping.
Hutch, clutching at the sheets, clutching at Starsky; demanding more and more
Starsky takes Hutch’s cock, sucks it all in, all of it….
Hutch, pulling Starsky up to meet him, plundering his mouth, his breath, his soul
If perception is reality, then Hutch is Starsky’s reality, Starsky’s world. Hutch is ingrained in him, deeper than his bones. Starsky knows it, owns it… or maybe it owns him.
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
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