New Fic: Jet Lag - a sequel of sorts . . .

[peg22]

So due to popular demand and my own need for some smutty goodness (seriously, I don't know what came over me), here is the sequel of sorts to the  two snips of the past week.



It's slash
It's sex
It's baked goods and blow jobs. 
It's the boys being . . . well, boys.
It''s way longer than I anticipated - snerk.

Here are the links for the two pieces that inspired this one. 
Thanks to all who wanted more. Good idea. Really good idea.

Starsky's Rant:  http://peg22.livejournal.com/19728.html

Ken Hutchinson - The Original Emo Boy: http://peg22.livejournal.com/20132.html#cutid1


And onto the big finish . . . so to speak.

Jet Lag

by Kaye

 

They made it just inside the door. Starsky walked through first, dropped Hutch’s bag, turned, and shoved Hutch backwards, closing the door with a bang, knocking the aluminum foil off the plate of lemon squares Hutch had been clutching tight since he’d appeared through the arrival gate. Hutch managed to set them on the piano bench before Starsky took his hands and pinned them above his head against the door.

 

His protest over the baked goods went unnoticed as Starsky swooped in, teasing Hutch’s lips open and slipping his tongue into his mouth, his hips pushing against Hutch’s crotch, which had been in agony the whole ride home, since Starsky had decided to use only one hand to drive . . .

 

“Hey . . . hang on . . .” Hutch managed between gasps of air. The gasps soon turned to a low moan when Starsky reached down and squeezed the bulge in Hutch pants, massaging the hardness beneath the fabric. “Starsk . . . bedroom . . .”

 

The suggestion was ignored, so Hutch pushed against him, which only made Starsky push back, and Hutch’s head hit the door hard. He wasn’t sure if they were fucking or fighting. There was something urgent in the way Starsky kept pushing, kept thrusting. Hutch managed to get a hand loose and grabbed Starsky’s hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him close and then pulled him away. The sudden movement broke the contact and they stood, panting, staring.

 

“Welcome home,” Starsky wheezed.

 

“I guess you missed me.” Hutch ran a hand through his hair.

 

“Are those lemon squares?” Starsky reached toward the piano bench.

 

Hutch grabbed the squares and held them above his head. “Oh, no you don’t.”

 

“Hey, I’m sure Mama Hutchinson sent those back for me. You hate lemons.”

 

“I don’t hate lemons – but you can’t come at me like a freight train and then head for the cookies.”

 

Starsky smiled and moved closer to Hutch.  “I’d like to head for your cookies . . .”

 

Hutch just lifted the plate over Starsky’s head and made for the kitchen, avoiding Starsky’s hands. He put the squares in the refrigerator and turned back to see Starsky disappear into the bedroom.  He leaned over the sink and gulped water from the faucet, wiped his mouth with his hand, the hardness in his jeans getting more painful with each passing moment.

 

“Hutch.”

 

The growl in Starsky’s voice almost finished the job, but Hutch gripped the side of the sink and swallowed hard. “What, Starsky?”

 

“Get your ass in here.”

 

Surprisingly, his legs still worked and carried him around the corner, where the sight of Starsky, naked, sprawled on his stomach in the middle of the bed, actually took a leg out from under him and he had to grab a piece of driftwood to stay upright.

 

“I got some wood you can hang onto,” Starsky purred from the bed and turned onto his back. “Can you get the hell over here and put me out of my misery?”

 

Hutch smiled, but didn’t move.  Starsky was so damn cocky. Literally. He knew all he had to do was toss out a few bad porno lines, and Hutch would be on his knees. Maybe Starsky needed some lessons. In patience.

 

“I should unpack first,” Hutch said, but took two steps toward the bed. “I wouldn’t want my whites to wrinkle.” He undid the top button on his corduroys, slipping down the zipper, giving himself some relief. No way could he tease Starsky to tears with the sensation that his own dick might explode.

 

Starsky’s eyes closed slightly. “God, I’d hate that. Just get the fuck over here.”

 

Hutch smiled and gently wriggled his pants down his hips until his dick peeked out. He stopped himself from reaching down and massaging himself. He thought for a moment this might not be a good idea. He would suffer right along with Starsky, whose own hand had wandered down and was gently pumping his shaft.

 

“I just got off the plane, Starsk – I should take a shower. Go through my mail.”

 

Starsky’s sigh was audible. He shoved a pillow under his head, spread his legs wider. “Hutch, if you don’t get over here and suck my cock, I’m going to do it myself.”

 

Hutch laughed. “I’d like to see that.  You can barely bend down to tie your shoes, buddy.”

 

Starsky responded by gripping his dick harder, a small moan escaping his lips, his eyes never leaving Hutch’s face.

 

Which made Hutch even harder. He slipped a hand inside his underwear and the contact of skin on skin made him dizzy. His eyes rolled back and he reached behind  with the other hand, steadying himself on the wall.

 

Starsky continued to work on his dick, his hips rising off the bed with each stroke. Hutch tugged his own swollen dick out of his pants and matched Starsky’s rhythm. Starsky turned a little so that Hutch had a full on view, and Hutch leaned against the wall, wondering who was teaching who. Whom. Whatever.

 

Starsky suddenly stopped and his back arched and his eyes rolled and his head jammed against the headboard. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . .”

 

Hutch’s hand stopped, lost in the sight of Starsky completely out of control. Writhing, shouting, magnificently out of his mind. It should have made him come in an instant, but instead, it made his chest hurt. His stomach flip. His eyes water.

 

He wanted to wrap himself up in that moment. Dissolve his entire body into the midst of Starsky’s orgasm, disappear into Starsky’s bones, his body. His heart. The feeling suddenly terrified him.  When had he become so dependent on Starsky? Not in the “I got your back, buddy, I’d take a bullet for you,” way, but in “I can’t take a breath without you exhaling, If I don’t touch you every day I will die,” way.

 

He slid down the wall, erection forgotten. Fuck.  He always knew he loved Starsky, loved to fuck Starsky, but he never fully realized how much he needed Starsky. How was he supposed to deal with that truth in the midst of the whole world trying to kill them on a daily basis?

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

 

Starsky’s voice jolted him. He looked up to see him grumbling into a sitting position on the side of the bed.

 

“I’m all ready for some post-coiled second round slow sex, and you’re sitting in the corner, looking like someone just told you the Beatles broke up.”

 

“It’s post-coital, Starsk.”

 

“Yeah, well, from the looks of your sorry dick, it’s not post anything. Did you start thinking about starving children in Africa? Dead puppies? Bigelow?”

 

Hutch scrubbed a hand over his face. “No, I just . . .”

 

Starsky slid off the bed, landing on his knees between Hutch’s legs. He took Hutch’s dick in his hand. “Do you know how much I missed you, you asshole? Been waiting for days to see you, touch you, tell you everything that happened between the time I let you off and now?”

 

He massaged Hutch’s dick with one hand, slid his other hand up Hutch’s chest, and fingered a nipple. Hutch gasped and pulled Starsky’s head to his lips, sucking his tongue down his throat, thrusting up against Starsky’s hand.

 

Starsky broke the kiss and whispered in Hutch’s ear. “The only thing needs to be in your head is my name when you come.”

 

He slid down and lifted Hutch’s dick into his mouth, his tongue teasing the tip. Hutch moaned, his head falling back against the wall, his hands twisting in Starsky’s hair. Starsky reached down between his own legs and he sucked harder and Hutch banged his head against the wall, thrust his hips off the floor and came with a shout. Starsky followed a second later, and then the world grew dim and they melted into a puddle of boneless flesh.

 

Hutch drifted out of the fog to the sound of Starsky’s stomach growling. He shifted a bit and Starsky lifted his head off Hutch’s stomach.

 

“Damn.”

 

Hutch smiled. “You just came twice in ten minutes. I think it’s more than damn.”

 

Starsky rolled over with a groan. “Yeah, well, I missed you.”

 

Hutch leaned down and tweaked Starsky’s nipple. “So you say.”

 

Starsky rose up on an elbow. “You wanna go for the trifecta?”

 

His stomach drowned out a response.  Hutch rolled onto his knees and stood. “I think we’d better feed you first. You might mistake my dick for dinner.”

 

Starsky tucked his hands behind his head and lifted his hips off the floor. “Want an appetizer?”

 

Hutch shook his head. “You are forbidden from watching any more bad porn when I’m gone. You’re like an x-rated Soupy Sales. Not a turn on, Starsk.” He headed into the kitchen. “Want some eggs?”

 

Starsky pulled himself up and sat on the bed. “I want those lemon squares. And any other goodies you got. Your mother promised me something delicious. And her son’s dick doesn’t count. I know there’s at least a bundt cake in your bag.”

 

Hutch reappeared with the lemon squares and two beers. “Here. And I will waive the no eating in bed rule – for today. Because I missed you, too.”

 

Starsky scooted over and took a beer and two squares. “I know you did – who wouldn’t?”

 

Hutch joined him. “Your smugness really turns me on.”

 

Starsky downed half the beer. “Man, I was thirsty.”

 

Hutch got lost in the way Starsky’s throat moved as he sucked in the lemon square. He felt his dick twitch and shifted a bit, crossing his legs.

 

Starsky’s eyebrow arched. “Already?”

 

“No, not already. I’m just getting comfortable.”

 

“Yeah, okay.” Starsky sighed loud and long. “This is the life. Beer, your mom’s lemon squares, your dick within easy reach.  As long as you don’t start fantasizing about Bigelow again, we’re perfect.”

 

“I wasn’t fantasizing about Bigelow – I was just . . . well . . .  sometimes . . .”

 

Starsky laid a hand on Hutch’s chest. “I know. I know. Sometimes this thing gets a little . . . intense. Like when you’re gone I realize I’m not good at anything I used to be.  Like I don’t want anything to happen, cuz I want you to be there when it happens. And then something happens, like that fucking goon doing a dive off the bridge, and I turn to you and you’re not there and I get . . .”

 

“I know.” Hutch laid a hand on Starsky’s thigh. “I get a little nuts when you’re not around. And then I start thinking about what we do every day and how it’s crazy and how one bad corner could fuck it all up and I  . . .”

 

“And then you can’t get it up and I have to suffer.” Starsky shoved the rest of the lemon square into his mouth. “Scheriouschly, Hutschtch – you gotta learn to turn it off in the boodware.”

 

Hutch chuckled. “Scheriouschly? I do?” He sighed. “I know I do. But it’s hard. You said it – this thing gets intense. So what do we do?”

 

“We fuck each other’s brains out, that’s what we do.”

 

“I think that’s your answer to everything.”

 

Starsky reached over Hutch and grabbed another lemon square. “Hey, it’s a good answer.”

 

Hutch took the lemon square from Starsky’s hand, put it back on the plate, and shoved him down onto the bed, moving up and over him. His dick brushed against Starsky’s leg. “I’ve got another answer.”

 

Starsky reached down and stroked Hutch’s dick. “Feels like the same answer to me.”

 

Hutch moved directly above Starsky, his hands on either side of Starsky’s head. “Here’s my answer. This just may be the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and if you fuck it up by getting killed, I will never forgive you.”

 

Starsky thrust his hips and his dick rubbed against Hutch’s. “And if you fuck up what may just be the best thing that’s ever happened to me by thinking so much that neither one of us can get it up – I will never forgive you.” He moved his hips, sliding his dick up against Hutch’s. “And I love you, too, by the way.”

 

Hutch dipped and teased Starsky’s mouth open, moving his hips, sliding and thrusting and Starsky wrapped his legs around Hutch’s, jamming his heels into the back of Hutch’s calves, digging his fingers into Hutch’s shoulders, rocking and moaning. Hutch threw his head back and thrust harder, panting with the effort, his breath matching Starsky’s as they fell into a world that was only skin and heat and friction and this time when Hutch came, he couldn’t speak, just a raw jagged growl escaped from his mouth as Starsky stopped rocking and pushed up once shouting, “fuck me, fuck me, fuuucccckkkk,” and then shoved Hutch hard away from him. Hutch slid off Starsky, and landed on the floor, surprised, sated, and unable to move.

 

After a moment, Starsky peeked over the edge. “You okay?”

 

Hutch lifted a hand in response. He let the hand drop on his chest and tried to catch his breath. Starsky disappeared from view, but Hutch could hear him sucking in air.  And then Hutch saw Starsky’s fingers in front of his eyes. Three fingers.

 

“Gotta be a record.” Starsky wheezed from somewhere above him.

 

“Uh huh.” Hutch tried to lift his head, but decided the floor was just fine.

 

They stayed that way for a while. Hutch drifted somewhere between unconscious and really really relaxed. Starsky kept sighing, his hand hanging over the side of the bed, the three fingers still displayed. Hutch wondered how long he would have to hear about that. Starsky’s trifecta. The triple play. The third “coming”. The holy trinity of orgasms . . .

 

A loud growl startled Hutch. And then a sigh and Starsky’s head appeared again. “I’m hungry. For real.”

 

Hutch closed his eyes and smiled, knowing the double wrapped brisket sandwich he had tucked into his bag just for Starsky was going to make him very happy. And grateful.

 

And that made two of them.