June 19- Orally Fixated by exbex

Hutch is looking down at Starsky, and he has the strangest look on his face, as if he can’t decide between irritation and confusion, and this causes Starsky’s own sense of irritation and confusion. Hutch shouldn’t be that surprised that he’s eating something that’s not junk food, or that he’s gotten on the floor to pick up the mess he’d made when he’d inadvertently knocked a stack of files to the floor.

Starsky is just about to ask Hutch what his problem is, when it comes to him. He’s on his knees on the floor, and Hutch had entered the room at a moment when Starsky had himself a face full of banana, with one hand scooping up the files and the other keeping the banana from falling to the floor.

Starsky finishes chewing and swallows before flashing his flirtiest grin at Hutch. Hutch simply makes some sort of strangled noise in his throat and then leaves the room.

Challenge accepted.

It’s the first really hot day of the year, and Starsky sneaks glances at the droplets of sweat gathering at Hutch’s hairline. Starsky imagines them trickling down Hutch’s forehead, his face, meandering along his neck, imagines Hutch laid out on clean white sheets, tilting his head back so that Starsky can run his tongue along his neck.

Starsky has to attack his strategically purchased popsicle with fervor in order to pull himself back to the present.

Hutch gives a derisive snort. “Enjoying yourself?”

Starsky removes the popsicle from his mouth with an audible pop. “Feels good sliding down my throat.” He doesn’t even try to hide his smirk as Hutch grips the steering wheel more tightly than is strictly necessary.

An otherwise uneventful day ends with a drawn-out 211, trickier because the criminals aren’t particularly smart, but are especially desperate. They’re both famished by the time they manage to leave the station, and little is said as they polish off their hamburgers. The silence is more companionable than it’s been all day, and Starsky has nearly forgotten about his little game, until he finds the pickle at the bottom of the bag.

This time he gives Hutch a wink as he slides it into his mouth, and Hutch says nothing, doesn’t even give a look, just attempts to be casual as he starts up the car and pulls into traffic.

Starsky is concentrating on the contrast between the olive tint and dark hair of his legs and the smoothness and cream-color of Hutch’s shoulders. He really had thought that their positions would be reversed, but Hutch had pulled some kind of bait and switch on him once he’d locked the door to his apartment, pouncing on Starsky, pushing him backward until he fell onto the bed, pulling his jeans off of his body as if he were starving. Starsky had considered protesting, but his train of thought had quickly derailed as Hutch slowly enveloped his cock with his mouth. Starsky had fully expected Hutch to keep him on the edge, draw it out to make him crazy, but Hutch only slows down enough to savor, or to make Starsky’s toes curl, or maybe both.

The sun has set and there’s a cool breeze wafting through the open windows. Starsky is aware of his fingers tangled in the sheets, gripping tightly with each one of his partner’s thrusts.

“Starsk, look at me.”

Starsky opens his eyes slowly to see Hutch looking feral, with an expression that says, mine. The expression morphs as Hutch shudders, his orgasm softening his countenance.

Starsky feels the loss keenly when Hutch pulls away, and wonders if he should be slightly worried that he counts the number of seconds it takes for Hutch to walk to and from the bathroom to retrieve damp towels for the two of them.

“You give ‘tease’ a whole new meaning,” Hutch murmurs after they’ve cleaned up and are laying sleepily side by side.

“It was a slow day; had to give you something to look forward to.”

It’s too dark to see the skin of the corners of Hutch’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, but Starsky can picture it. “It’s not as if you have to try to be sexy, you know.”

Starsky just smiles in the dark and listens to Hutch’s breathing even out.