Starsky & Hutch Drabble Times Seven
Mar. 11th, 2011 11:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
przedThe next entry in the drabble meme. This one's Starsky & Hutch for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
loyseofverlaine, and is 700 words even. Prompt: car sex.
This is actually less smutty than the previous Pros piece. Also, this is only the second time I've ever written S/H, so please be kind.
The Beach
They'd found the beach years ago, one day when they were still cadets at the Academy. A day when they'd needed to escape the city's heat. They'd driven up the coast in Starsky's old beater and found it, just up the road from a taco stand. The beach was too rocky for swimmers, the waves too small for surfers, so they'd had it to themselves. That first day they'd just eaten tacos, lain on warm rocks and relaxed.
Over the years it become a tradition: if they'd finished a hard case, one that had really kicked them in the ass, they'd head for the beach on their first day off. They'd hit the taco stand, throw rocks in the water and try not to think about the crap they'd just gone through.
John Blaine's murder had been a harder case than most, exactly the sort of case that called for the beach. So the first day they had off after catching Blaine's killer, Hutch showed up at Starsky's door and they took off up the coast in the Torino. They poked around in tide pools and risked the rocks for a swim and generally took it easy. And when the sun slipped close to the horizon, they took the Torino to the taco stand, then drove back to the beach and sat in the car to watch the sun set and eat the best fish tacos Starsky had ever tasted.
The whole day, Starsky tried not to think about John, about the hidden life he'd led, and stupidly, about what Hutch had said to him, days ago now: you're not even a good kisser. In the greater scheme of things, that last thing was not even worth mentioning, but it had bugged him at the time and it was still bugging him now. As the sun finally disappeared and a warm evening breeze drifted through the car window, Starsky finally let his irritation get the better of him.
"Hey, Hutch."
"Yeah, Starsky?"
"I'm a pretty good kisser, you know."
"What?" Hutch sat up straight and looked at him.
"You said I wasn't a very good kisser, but I am."
"Are you?" Hutch was giving him a sceptical look, and that bugged him even more.
"I can prove it."
"How?" Hutch asked, his eyebrows narrowing.
"C'mere," he said, not caring that he was about to cross a line here, because this was Hutch, and Hutch was wrong, and Starsky needed to prove how wrong he was, and Hutch would understand.
"Starsk, you can't-" Hutch started to move back against the passenger door, but Starsky slid across the bench seat closer to him.
"It'll be okay, Hutch. Really." Then he leaned in and kissed his partner. Really kissed him. He ignored the tension in Hutch's frame and concentrated on what would make him feel good. He used every piece of advice from every girlfriend he'd ever had, every technique he'd ever enjoyed.
After a minute, Hutch relaxed and started kissing back, and it stopped being about Starsky proving a point and started being something else. Something more serious. Something good. Something better than good.
Hutch was the first to pull away, his blue eyes wide in the fading light of the sunset.
"Jesus, Starsk," he said, but not like he was upset. Not at all like he was upset.
Starsky licked his lips and tasted tacos and Coke and Hutch, and didn't say anything.
"Starsky?" Hutch put a hand on his arm, tentatively. Starsky decided he didn't like his Hutch to be tentative.
"I think you're right," Starsky said.
"I'm right?"
"Yeah. I'm a lousy kisser."
"You're not-"
"Lousy," Starsky repeated. "I need more practice."
"Practice?"
"Yeah. Practice." And then Starsky smiled, a wide shit-eating grin, because suddenly everything made sense. Why John's lies had hurt so much, and why he couldn't let go of Hutch's crack about his kissing.
"Practice," Hutch said one more time, less tentatively, more confidently. That was more like it. That was his Hutch.
"Yeah." Starsky leaned in until he could feel Hutch's breath on his face. "Wanna help?"
Hutch answered, but not with words. He answered with a kiss, with his body, with everything he was.
loyseofverlaine, and is 700 words even. Prompt: car sex.This is actually less smutty than the previous Pros piece. Also, this is only the second time I've ever written S/H, so please be kind.
The Beach
They'd found the beach years ago, one day when they were still cadets at the Academy. A day when they'd needed to escape the city's heat. They'd driven up the coast in Starsky's old beater and found it, just up the road from a taco stand. The beach was too rocky for swimmers, the waves too small for surfers, so they'd had it to themselves. That first day they'd just eaten tacos, lain on warm rocks and relaxed.
Over the years it become a tradition: if they'd finished a hard case, one that had really kicked them in the ass, they'd head for the beach on their first day off. They'd hit the taco stand, throw rocks in the water and try not to think about the crap they'd just gone through.
John Blaine's murder had been a harder case than most, exactly the sort of case that called for the beach. So the first day they had off after catching Blaine's killer, Hutch showed up at Starsky's door and they took off up the coast in the Torino. They poked around in tide pools and risked the rocks for a swim and generally took it easy. And when the sun slipped close to the horizon, they took the Torino to the taco stand, then drove back to the beach and sat in the car to watch the sun set and eat the best fish tacos Starsky had ever tasted.
The whole day, Starsky tried not to think about John, about the hidden life he'd led, and stupidly, about what Hutch had said to him, days ago now: you're not even a good kisser. In the greater scheme of things, that last thing was not even worth mentioning, but it had bugged him at the time and it was still bugging him now. As the sun finally disappeared and a warm evening breeze drifted through the car window, Starsky finally let his irritation get the better of him.
"Hey, Hutch."
"Yeah, Starsky?"
"I'm a pretty good kisser, you know."
"What?" Hutch sat up straight and looked at him.
"You said I wasn't a very good kisser, but I am."
"Are you?" Hutch was giving him a sceptical look, and that bugged him even more.
"I can prove it."
"How?" Hutch asked, his eyebrows narrowing.
"C'mere," he said, not caring that he was about to cross a line here, because this was Hutch, and Hutch was wrong, and Starsky needed to prove how wrong he was, and Hutch would understand.
"Starsk, you can't-" Hutch started to move back against the passenger door, but Starsky slid across the bench seat closer to him.
"It'll be okay, Hutch. Really." Then he leaned in and kissed his partner. Really kissed him. He ignored the tension in Hutch's frame and concentrated on what would make him feel good. He used every piece of advice from every girlfriend he'd ever had, every technique he'd ever enjoyed.
After a minute, Hutch relaxed and started kissing back, and it stopped being about Starsky proving a point and started being something else. Something more serious. Something good. Something better than good.
Hutch was the first to pull away, his blue eyes wide in the fading light of the sunset.
"Jesus, Starsk," he said, but not like he was upset. Not at all like he was upset.
Starsky licked his lips and tasted tacos and Coke and Hutch, and didn't say anything.
"Starsky?" Hutch put a hand on his arm, tentatively. Starsky decided he didn't like his Hutch to be tentative.
"I think you're right," Starsky said.
"I'm right?"
"Yeah. I'm a lousy kisser."
"You're not-"
"Lousy," Starsky repeated. "I need more practice."
"Practice?"
"Yeah. Practice." And then Starsky smiled, a wide shit-eating grin, because suddenly everything made sense. Why John's lies had hurt so much, and why he couldn't let go of Hutch's crack about his kissing.
"Practice," Hutch said one more time, less tentatively, more confidently. That was more like it. That was his Hutch.
"Yeah." Starsky leaned in until he could feel Hutch's breath on his face. "Wanna help?"
Hutch answered, but not with words. He answered with a kiss, with his body, with everything he was.
