Intro to Chemistry II – Pop Quiz                     

by Kaye



The smell of coffee let him know it was morning. The slice of sun burning into his left cheek let him know he wasn’t home. He didn’t allow even a hint of sunlight to disturb his own bedroom. He was at Hutch’s. Out on the damn sun porch. He never slept on the sun porch, complained that the very name implied that morning would come way too early out there. He cracked open his left eye to confirm his suspicion. Plants, traffic noise, sun. Yep, the sun porch. He pulled the covers over his head, trying to block out the morning. He could use an extra hour of sleep.


Starsky sat straight up in bed, though, as the events of the night before came hurtling back, sucker-punching the breath out of him. He was on the sun porch because that’s where they’d ended up. They. As in him and Hutch. As in end up.


“Son of a . . .”


He heard Hutch in the kitchen, probably making coffee. He felt hung over, but happy. Somehow, it all made perfect sense, held a certain symmetry in his mind. Another Sunday morning. Another pot of coffee. Now if he could just get over this new kind of morning-after hump. . .


Starsky tried not to think about the implications of that sentence. Probably time to have that talk whether they wanted to or not.  He buried himself deeper into the covers when Hutch walked out onto the porch.


“Morning, sunshine.” Hutch held out a cup of coffee.


Starsky peeked out from under the covers, suddenly overcome with a shyness he hadn’t experienced since he was seventeen years old.


“Morning.” He wriggled up to a sitting position and took the coffee from Hutch’s hand, not sure what to do next.


Hutch sat on the edge of the bed, looking at Starsky. “Sleep well?”


“Yeah, until that fucking sun woke me up.”


“Starsky, it’s a sun porch. Besides, you didn’t seem to mind last night.”


Starsky almost spilled his coffee. “You sure don’t beat around the bush.”


“Not anymore.” 


“Is that a sex joke?” Starsky took a big gulp of coffee.


“It’s hot, Starsk, be careful, babe.” Hutch reached over and Starsky handed him the cup, noting Hutch’s swollen lips, the way his neck curved into his shoulder, the wispy tendril of hair around his ear, and felt the ache deep. Bone deep.


Starsky saw that Hutch was watching him, waiting. He knew that he had to make the next move – the next decision.  Last night Hutch had forced their hand. This morning it was up to Starsky to deal or discard. He knew he was stalling, dreaming up poker analogies, but he was nervous.  And dizzy. And getting more turned on by the minute.


He looked up at Hutch and their eyes locked. Silent communication – this they could do. I go left, you go right. Watch your back. Watch your head. Silent communion – this was new. Starsky watched Hutch’s chest rise and fall. He felt his own pulse echo in his ears. Watch your heart. Almost a minute passed. Starsky shifted slightly, cocked his head, and lifted an eyebrow. A silent question. Hutch smiled and his eyes danced and Starsky fell head over heels in the space of a breath.  He went all in.


Hutch quickly deposited the cups on the plant table and crawled up toward Starsky, toward that look, toward the answer. Starsky wrapped his arms around Hutch and pulled him right on top of him. When their lips met, it was not the tentative exploration of the night before, but a chemical reaction that seared their souls. They both struggled to get closer. Starsky twisted his hands in Hutch’s hair and Hutch moaned against Starsky’s lips, parting them with his tongue, exploring the heat. Starsky sucked Hutch’s tongue deeper, and then began stroking it with his own. Hutch pulled himself away, panting hard, and Starsky saw the naked need he felt mirrored in Hutch’s eyes. There were no more questions. They fell together this time. No hesitation.


Hutch ripped out the blanket that was between them as Starsky ripped Hutch’s shirt over his head, and then pulled the bare chest toward his own. He felt currents rip through his body as they melted together, a perfect fit. Starsky thrust his hips upward in response to the soft skin brushing against his nipples, and found Hutch’s rigid cock, straining against the thin cotton material that held it captive. He couldn’t get close enough. He wanted every inch of his skin covered with every inch of Hutch.  He was drowning.


“Starsky, hold still.” A voice floated to him through the haze. Hutch was trying to get his briefs over his hips, and, for just a second, Starsky paused, but when he felt the air hit his cock, he was lost again. He took one hand and ripped Hutch’s shorts down to his knees, letting Hutch kick them the rest of the way to the floor, and pulled Hutch hard against him, recapturing his lips, grinding his hips, his hands pulling at Hutch’s ass until their cocks, already slick from the heat, slid together in a frenzied dance.  Symmetry and chemistry and destiny and desire swirled around them, shutting out everything except the sound of their hearts pounding together toward . . .


“Starsk . . .” Hutch’s strangled plea reached Starsky’s ears. In a small corner of his mind, he wondered if Hutch liked to talk during sex – tried to remind himself to remember to ask later – and then his hands hit the wall above the bed.


“What?” Starsky breathed hard and as his vision cleared, he saw Hutch pulling on his wrists.


Hutch murmured as he pressed Starsky’s hands against the wall, “. . . should be illegal, these hands . . .”


Starsky finally understood and voluntarily stuck them under the pillow.


“Thank you. Now lie still. My turn.”


Starsky, distracted for just a moment, felt his cock harden even more, if that were physically possible. The low timbre in Hutch’s voice had always turned him on, but in this situation . . .


“Oh, my God,” Starsky cried out as Hutch took his cock in his mouth, flicking his tongue over the tip as he enclosed the shaft, sucking and pulling. Starsky let go of the bed, twisted his hands in Hutch’s hair, and then grabbed his shoulders in a frenzied attempt to pull Hutch down and in and  . . .


“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” Starsky’s mantra matched the rhythm of Hutch’s strokes. He flung his arms over his head, banging two knuckles hard on the wall, but the pain just seemed to ignite a new level of desire. With one swift movement, he moved Hutch from between his legs, which he swung out and off the other side of the bed, forcing Hutch’s head up for a moment, and cursing all the gods in heaven that he wasn’t double-jointed, he rolled Hutch on his side, and then leaned down and to the left, capturing the cock in his hand. Hutch resumed his own task, and moaned against Starsky’s cock as Starsky’s hands began working up and down.


 The vibration of Hutch’s moans against his cock made Starsky squeeze harder, pump faster. The moans grew loud, the bodies slick, the rhythm steady. The squeak of the bedsprings urged them on.   


Hutch came first.  He whipped his head back and uttered a low keen that came from somewhere deep. Bone deep. Starsky followed right behind, shouting, “motherfucker, motherfucker moth . . . er . . . fuck . . . er,” before collapsing half on and half off the mattress. They sucked in deep breaths; Hutch patted his stomach, a familiar gesture made intimate. Starsky captured Hutch’s hand in his and laid them both on his heaving chest.


The afterglow lasted a good two seconds.


“Keep it down, up there! Jeez, some of us gotta work in the morning, ya know?”


Starsky rolled the rest of the way off the bed and Hutch cursed.


“What the hell was that?” Starsky asked from the floor.


“The restaurant. They open early on Sundays, remember?” Hutch pulled himself up against the pillows.


Starsky picked himself off the floor, his legs shaky. He fell into the bed and crawled up next to Hutch.

 “Another reason I got against sleeping out here. No privacy.” He burrowed into the crook of Hutch’s arm. Hutch reached down, grabbed the blanket off the floor and tossed it over both of them.


“We could move into the other bed,” he said sleepily.


“Nah, I’m not going anywhere.” Starsky used his last bit of energy to raise his head and look into Hutch’s face. “Ever.”


Hutch kissed the tip of Starsky’s nose. “So, you wanna talk now?”


Starsky wrapped his arm around Hutch’s chest and yawned. “Just did. No more to say.”


He closed his eyes to the sun and the traffic.  He felt Hutch slide a leg between his, settle in.

Felt Hutch’s slow steady heart beat beneath his own, his breath in his hair.


“I think I just fell in love with this sun porch . . .” he murmured as he drifted off to sleep.







Free Hit Counter
South Beach Diet Recipe