Slashy Drabble Collection

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Eleven slashy drabbles (100, 200 or 300 words), everything from pre-slash  to explicit naughtiness to schmoop.

 

These drabbles, originally written for me_and_thee_100, aren’t related to each other, but I’ve organized them in a vague chronology from pre-slash to established relationship.

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“Starsk and the Tomato”

 Occasionally they fight each other, and Starsk uses muscle to get his way, but usually? They’re a great team. Well matched, a lot alike. Fun-loving exterior, sure – but with real power beneath, and a threatening growl when needed.

They can both race, both cruise. Might boil over when the heat’s on, but mostly stay cooool. And they’re responsive to each other. Connected.

Sometimes I watch him drive, watch his relaxed, confident hands, and I think, hmm…

I’ve seen him on Sundays with chamois and soap, watched the attention he gives, the easy pleasure he gets, and I think… hey, partner…

 

“Empathy” (a missing scene from The Omaha Tiger)

 “Hey, no hard feelings, huh, Hutch? I kinda lost it in the practice ring yesterday. I didn’t mean to lean on ya, you know?”

“Don’t worry about it, Eddie. It’s okay.”

“I guess I was just all messed up, with Al wantin’ me to move on, and me not wantin’ to leave her. Uh. Leave here.”

“Eddie, I understand. Believe me.”

“Hey, look, can I ask you somethin’?”

“Sure.”

“You ever feel that way? You ever feel like…”

“Go ahead.”

“You ever feel like you want somethin’ so bad you might bust? But it’s somethin’ that… it’s… it’s someone that you can’t have – can’t ever have – and it eats at you inside until you think you might cry or scream or go crazy?”

“I’ve… felt that way.”

“God. And part of you wants to run away ‘cause it hurts so bad. But part of you knows you can’t, you can’t go, ‘cause it would hurt worse not to see that face every day. Or to hear that person say your name.”

“Heh. Yeah.”

“Well, what did ya do?”

“Well, Eddie, I – I… nothing.”

“Huh?”

“I did nothing. I do nothing. I don’t leave, don’t speak, don’t act. I just… swallow it. Swallow the want and the hurt and the fear, and when it gets to be too much, I tell myself, Jesus, wise up, cut it out, stop being stupid. I mean, what the hell do I think would be accomplished by – by – by… oh, God, I don’t even know. I don’t know. I don’t do anything, Eddie.”

“Wow. Is that… advice? Does that help?”

“No, it’s not advice, Eddie. No, it doesn’t help.”

“Then why—”

“Because it would hurt worse not to see that face every day. Or to hear that person say my name.”

 

“Marriage”

“Fun wedding, huh, Hutch? Kinda sweet.”

“Yep,” agreed Hutch, emptying wine into Starsky’s glass. “Rob looked happy.”

“Good ol’ Robbie.” Starsky drained his drink, relaxing into Hutch’s couch. “Robbie’s lucky.”

“Yeah?” Hutch stretched, draping his legs across Starsky’s lap. “Why’s that?”

“Aw, they’re a family now, him and Carrie. Bein’ together, doin’ stuff. Just… companionship, you know? Sounds nice.” He shoved Hutch’s thigh. “Hey. Get off.”

“Forget it, I’m comfy.”

Starsky sighed, patting Hutch’s knee. “Yeah, me, too. Can I crash here?”

“Sure,” yawned Hutch.

Closing his eyes, Starsky settled in. “Hutch? Wanna hang out tomorrow?”

Hutch smiled. “I do.”

 

 “Pocket Watch”

 Kathy slid her hands into Starsky’s back pockets as they danced.

Hutch, finishing his beer at the bar, had watched her do it, watched her slowly slide her fingers down and in, cupping possessively, pulling him close.

There was a faint, faded circle on one denim pocket, from Starsky’s handcuffs. There was a small, frayed tear in the other pocket’s seam; Starsk had snagged it climbing over a fence.

Kathy’s hands flexed. Hutch saw Starsky smile, saw him whisper in her ear.

“Need another?” asked the bartender.

“Yes,” said Hutch. “Give me a shot of bourbon, too, would you, please?”

 

“Kiss”

Gorgeous afternoon. They were goofing around, having fun, pleasantly buzzed from beer and sunshine. They’d brought gloves and a ball and played catch… jogged a little… ate a few sandwiches, watched the waves roll in.

Hutch reclined, catching rays, while Starsky read his trivia book. Laying a palm on Hutch’s bare thigh, Starsky said, “In Thailand they got bats the size of bumblebees. That is so fuckin’ cool.”

Hutch felt something twist inside. He sat up, leaned over, and kissed his partner’s bristled cheek.

“Get off me, weirdo,” said Starsky, smiling.

Hutch held his face still and kissed him again.

 

“TV Time”

They were laughing together at a TV cop show, joking about the lack of paperwork and due process, the upscale police station, the Hollywood-gorgeous cast.

“Lookit their swanky squad room,” scoffed Starsky. “Ours is a dump. Oughtta call it the squalid room.”

“What I want to know,” said Hutch, “is how that guy got a Farrah Fawcett look-alike for a partner, and I got stuck with you.”

“Stuck with me, huh?”

“Stuck,” Hutch said sadly. “It’s tough looking at your ugly face every damn day.”

“So look at my ass, dummy.”

“Aw, Starsk,” smiled Hutch. “You have the best ideas.”

 

“Hands on Deck”

Hutch let him talk, let him chatter on about his latest model masterpiece, a huge square-rigged ship, all sails set. Starsky named for him every single sail, from flying jib to spanker — without even snickering about the word spanker.

Hutch watched him, watched his hands fly as he talked about t’gallants and staysails, main and mizzen… Those restless, active hands had worked for countless hours — calm, capable, patient, precise — crafting something magnificent.

Impulsively, Hutch grabbed one gesturing hand and kissed the palm. Kissed the two shining rings. Kissed the skillful fingers and wound them with his own.

 

“Drive Me”

As the Assistant District Asshole ranted at Dobey about them, Hutch bit his lip to keep from laughing. Starsky, sprawled in a chair behind the pompous stuffed suit, was doing the standard schoolyard mime: You (pointing at the attorney) Drive (hands on steering wheel) Me (pointing at himself) Crazy (finger twirling by his ear).

Starsky looked over and winked. Hutch rolled his eyes and did a subtle “cut it out” hand-slash across his throat. Grinning, Starsky flipped him off, then mimed at the attorney’s back: You Drive Me To (two fingers) Drink (cup to mouth).

The ADA, hands planted on Dobey’s desk, was snarling something obnoxious at the captain. Dobey barked back at him. Their argument escalated.

Hutch heaved a mental sigh and stared at the ceiling. He was dreaming of crawling out of the room unnoticed, when Starsky kicked his ankle and gave him a smile.

You (pointing at Hutch) Drive Me To …Starsky slid one hand down to the faded crotch of his jeans and grabbed hold.

Hutch’s eyes widened. Starsky held his gaze and started over.

You Drive Me To …Starsky palmed himself again, thumb stroking his obvious length. His other hand slipped into his open shirt, fingertips circling. His head fell back.

Hutch bit his lip again, stifling a groan.

“…don’t you tell me how to handle my men!” shouted Dobey, stabbing a finger at the ADA’s chest. He slapped his desktop and yelled, “Sergeants, you’re dismissed!”

“Yessir,” muttered Hutch. He and Starsky were out of their chairs and through the door in an instant.

Hutch grabbed his partner roughly by the arm and towed him down the hall. “You crazy bastard,” he hissed. “You drive me insane.”

“Drive you to distraction.”

“Shut up.”

“Drive you wild.”

“Shut up.”

“Drive you home?”

“As fast as possible.”

 

“Blow”

“….never take heed of what pretty girls say,
Give me some time to blow the man down!”

Hutch leans in the doorway, watching. Starsky’s practically dancing with the mop – since he wears only cut-offs, it’s an inspiring show.

”Oh! Blow the man down…”

“Ahoy, matie,” drawls Hutch.

Starsky whirls, caught. His slow smile and salute are insolent. “Just swabbin’ the deck, Cap’n. Wanna inspect?”

Hutch approaches and grabs a handful of hard denim. “You’re out of uniform, mister.”

“Yeah? So demote me to cabin boy.”

“Any experience in personal service?”

“Just give me some time to blow the man. Sir.”

 

“Work For It” 

 “Fine,” grated Hutch. “You win.” He snagged a belt-loop on Starsky’s cut-offs and towed his shirtless partner away from the Torino. “We’re going in.”

“Hey!” Starsky’s sponge splashed into the bucket. “What the hell? I’m workin’ here!”

“Right,” said Hutch, shoving him toward the house. “I know how you work. Get inside. Mission accomplished.”

“What mission,” grumbled Starsky. “Shit!” His wet feet slid on the entryway tiles.

Hutch grabbed Starsky’s biceps, steering him toward the sofa. “You win, pal.” He pushed Starsky to sitting, sank to the floor between his knees, and ran his hands up Starsky’s thighs, thumbs stroking the distinct bulge behind the denim.

“Win?” Starsky asked faintly. “I was washin’ the car.”

“Right.” Hutch slid his palms up Starsky’s chest, then down, raking nails harshly over sensitive nipples.

“I was workin’,” breathed Starsky, his head falling back.

“Working hard,” agreed Hutch, pressing his hand against the well-filled crotch of the cut-offs. “Very hard.” He squeezed, and Starsky groaned.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” Hutch said conversationally as he lowered the zipper and reached in, gathering what he needed. “You come outside wearing these obscene shorts, you crawl all over the fucking tomato getting wet, getting slippery…” He bent his head, swiping his tongue over the head of Starsky’s rigid cock.

Starsky bucked, but Hutch held him down, lips grazing Starsky’s erection. “You do it on purpose, you know you do.” Hutch nuzzled Starsky’s heavy balls. “Admit it.”

“Suck me,” Starsky whimpered.

“No,” said Hutch. He felt Starsky’s urgent hands in his hair, and shook them off. “Admit it.”

“Okay!” Starsky was writhing. “Yes! I do it on purpose, I know it drives ya nuts, I do it so you’ll take that pretty mouth and – ahhh! – suck me…please…”

Hutch, smugly, set to work.

Starsky, smiling, moaned.

 

“Duet”

Hutch’s piano was out of tune, Starsky could tell that as he listened. Didn’t ruin the song, though. Somehow it suited the tune, making it seem bittersweet. Looking up from his book, Starsky smiled. He loved it when Hutch composed new music, though Hutch always seemed so shy about it.

“Hey you,” said Starsky, when Hutch’s quiet singing faded. “That was real nice. Poignant.”

Startled, Hutch turned. Then he smirked at Starsky, rudely. “Poignant, huh.”

“Yeah. Poignant. You think I don’t know that word?”

Hutch gave a dismissive shrug. Turning back, he stroked the keys with a feather-light touch, playing his song so softly it could barely be heard.

“When you’re self-conscious,” said Starsky, getting up and shoving his way onto the piano bench beside his partner, “you take little jabs at me, did you know that?”

Hutch grunted in reply.

“It’s kinda cute.” Starsky nudged him with his shoulder. “Pathetic, but cute.”

Hutch nudged him back.

Lifting a hand, Starsky began playing the rhythm part of “Heart and Soul,” the only thing he could easily play on the piano. After a moment – as Starsky knew he would – Hutch joined in, playing the duet’s melody. Together they sang the words.