Title: Rainy Night, Sunny Morning
Author: jat sapphire
Disclaimer: Starsky and Hutch are not mine, and this story is purely for free, very free, entertainment. Men having sex with each other here, so if you don't like that, the Back button is your friend.
Another day when the bullets came close, but not too close, when they'd guarded each other's backs well enough and got the perps. Another hot summer evening, buzzed with adrenaline as well as beer, at The Pits. And a thunderstorm that soaked them on the way to Hutch's car, drove warm wet fingers through the weave of their clothes, soaked their hair as if they'd been in the shower. They were already so wet that Starsky started a "Singing in the Rain" routine in front of his apartment, and Hutch leaned against the car and watched, arms folded, both giving in to the water as they would to few forces in the world except each other.
Then a nearby crack of thunder, and they shared a glance that said, 'we do know enough to come in out of the rain,' so they did.
Towels were the first thing on their agenda; beer the second. They stripped to briefs, and Starsky considered dry clothes but really it was too hot, especially with the windows barely cracked. They sat on the couch together with the TV on, not really watching, not really talking much, almost too tired to sleep though they were yawning tremendously together every minute or so. Eventually they shared much the same look they'd traded in the rain, and went to bed.
They'd been in the same one before. They went there only for sleep. But in the night the temperature changed and they had only the sheet crumpled around them, their clammy briefs still on, their sleep disturbed by cracks of thunder that, awake, neither would have mistaken for gunfire but that startled them almost out of sleep over and over, made them seek the living warmth of the other body in the bed. Too exhausted to wake up. Too subliminally unsettled for deep sleep. Too used, in an occasional way, to having another person with them to hold against the less comforting visions of the night.
By morning Hutch had curled around Starsky, and Starsky turned under his arm, elbows bent between them so that one hand rested in the gully between pillows and the other with its fingertips below Hutch's throat, where there was a little pale fur, not much to see but plenty to feel. Hutch's free arm lay across the high puffed side of the pillow, fingers just tangling in Starsky's wild hair. Their legs tangled closer. They woke very slowly, spending a long time in the foggy-minded, vein-shot dark behind their eyelids, knowing only that the skin they touched felt good. Hutch rubbed Starsky's side, down to the damp waistband of the briefs and up to the bump of the lowest rib, feeling breath lift in and ease out. Starsky moved his hand down Hutch's chest, backs of the fingers down to his stomach, fingertips slipping underneath, where Hutch was ticklish enough to squirm a little, in a sleepy way.
Each man felt the sensations in isolated snatches, like flashes of imagery in dreams: fingersonmyscalp, ribundermypalm, overtotthehollowofthespine, underwheretheskinandbedarewarm, haironhisthighsonmine, hardheatagainstme, good, all good.
Starsky, to whom somnolence was never natural, woke with a long breath and rolled over onto Hutch, pressing his whole body to the bigger one below. Hutch, also waking and feeling their erections rubbing together through the still-damp cotton, closed his arms around his partner with intention, and then slid his hands down to the round butt, massaging it through the cloth.
It was not the first time they had done this, either. Hutch in boarding school and Starsky in Nam had done the usual semi-coercive, rather sordid things. With each other it was different, it was easy and all the pleasure was shared. There was tenderness and no regret.
"Take 'em off," Starsky murmured, and Hutch worked his fingers under the constricting elastic, slid the briefs carefully down, Starsky lifting his hips to help. The big warm fingers slid with tantalizing slowness down the smaller man's flanks, dragging the briefs gradually. Starsky's hard-on fell against Hutch's and they both jolted, and Starsky rubbed his forehead and then his face against Hutch's nearly-smooth chest. "Oh, yeah."
Underwear still around his thighs, he moved his hips up and down, side to side, making Hutch writhe and at last rise like a big trout, turning them both in the air, dumping Starsky on the mattress and then hauling the briefs roughly from his legs. Starsky laughed and Hutch smiled, and knelt up on the bed to make a show of taking off his own underwear. Starsky reached for them and had his hand slapped away, so he settled back. No trouble to watch the big hands on the trim body, stroking his own stomach and down to outline the bulge that was already pretty tightly confined, and it was a nice game to sneak his hand closer and closer to one broad knee, just brush it, stroke again, while with his other hand he stroked himself too. No point in making the show one-sided, and he could see Hutch's enjoyment in his darkening eyes.
They didn't kiss. They'd never questioned it, never agonized over it; it just didn't happen. They used their mouths elsewhere, as Hutch bent to do while he lifted one knee, then the other, to get his briefs finally off, meanwhile capturing Starsky's nipple in his lips, an arm strong as a pillar behind Starsky's back. A murmuring sound from Starsky that was half protest—he liked to watch the briefs come off—and half pleasure at the pulling wet warmth on his chest. He pulled at Hutch's shoulder so he could nip the curve of muscle there, and his fingers found Hutch's cock.
They settled against each other again. They were still sleepy, not up for vigorous sex, and they moved against each other languorously, skin slicker against skin as the movement excited them. Starsky lifted his chin and closed his eyes. Hutch buried his face in Starsky's neck. Nothing sophisticated this morning, they were like kids getting each other off any way they could, and the feeling of the two cocks together was so hot. Hutch straddled one of Starsky's legs and Starsky raised the other to rub more closely against Hutch, and they both spoke but didn't listen to each other or themselves. "Babe. Buddy. Good. There. Yeah, oh, yeah, good, you're sweet."
Now they were almost frantic. Hutch was sucking Starsky's nipple again, Starsky pushing his fingers into Hutch's scalp and through his hair and along the tendons of his neck. Squeezed his shoulders while Hutch squeezed his butt. Those big warm hands were better than almost anything, Starsky thought at times like this. Hutch nibbled a rib and then put his tongue in the navel, Starsky's hard-on pushed aside along his neck and seemingly ignored, and Starsky pushed harder against the broad shoulders, but Hutch was on his own timetable. Starsky sighed and worked his hands around to tease Hutch's armpits, chuckling when Hutch jumped. Then he grabbed a hank of the fair straight hair and pulled a little. "Go on. Dammit, go on!"
So Hutch did. Neither of them were big deep-throaters, the cocks in question being so large, but they both knew where to touch, how to suck and lick to make the other one jump, arch, babble in pleasure. That spot just under the head where Hutch's tongue was now always made Starsky crazy, and now was no exception. He was still pulling Hutch's hair without knowing it, and his cock swelled still more in surges, bobbing in Hutch's mouth, and when Hutch teased Starsky's tightening balls with his fingers, moving through the tense thighs from underneath, Starsky bucked and it was over. Hutch pulled back and was spattered with pale drops, wiped at them idly with his fingers, grinning.
Starsky was still energized, and he pushed Hutch onto his back and pulled his legs apart until the big blonde body lay where he wanted it, and then he ducked his own head and nuzzled the testicles. Hutch groaned at the sensations of curly hair and hot tongue and eager lips, and Starsky tickled Hutch's inner thighs and rubbed fingers into the ass-crease and licked where he knew it would do the most good. Hutch wasn't much of a talker during sex, but his fingers reaching for Starsky's head and the movements of his hips and straining cock were enough. Starsky teased the broad, red, weeping tip with one lick, another, unpredictable pauses, now a swirl, later a swipe with the slicker underside, and Hutch groaned again. Starsky blew up and down the wet cock and held Hutch's thighs when he squirmed. With a kind of happy growl he took the cock-head in his mouth and sucked, sucked again, and Hutch gave it up, grunting himself and jerking his hips. Starsky, who liked the pulsing of the cock in his mouth but not the viscous feel in his throat, spat into the messy sheet and then lay down on the other side, and Hutch rolled halfway to meet him, and they held each other while their breathing calmed.
Not too much later, Hutch rubbed his chin back and forth in Starsky's hair and said, "Shower?"
"Yeah," said Starsky. "You go first. I'll get food."
"Cold pizza?" Hutch asked with distaste.
"Only for me. I got some sort 'a healthy shit for you. Carrot sticks? Or just sticks?"
Hutch cuffed him on the shoulder, but the angle being what it was, the impact of his hand was hardly more than a caress.
Or maybe it wasn't just the angle. Starsky hugged him hard and then got up. Hutch didn't move right away, and so Starsky said, "Lazy lug," and slapped his shoulder. "We gotta strip this bed." Hutch just grinned.
The translation was 'I love you' and they both knew it.