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peg22 So I started tossing lines at Susan, kind of what Hutch REALLY thinks about Starsky moving in and she told me to "go write that down right now" so I did.
Takes place some time AFTER hers
(found here: http://sjames-centre.livejournal.com/36593.html)
It's more than a double drabble - well, because Hutch does tend to go on and on and on and on . . .
Never Mind the Sherpa, We’re Gonna Need A Chiropractor
by Kaye
You would've thought I was asking him to cut off his dick. But c’mon, what grown man needs 32 identical pairs of blue jeans? And I’ve never even seen him sit in that wicker torture chair. But now all of a sudden my couch is not good enough for his precious ass. Granted, he has a fine ass, but apparently it needs to perch on leather. Fine Corinthian leather. Whatever.
And did you know he saved the beer caps from our first official date? And the ticket stubs from the first movie we made out in. I mean, I’m all for romance, but a stained menu from the Bucket of Grub is not my idea of a cherished memento. And did you know he made me buy silk sheets? Silk! And the bed? It’s soft alright. If you like sleeping on a marshmallow. A slick marshmallow. First time I tried to give him head in that bed, I almost suffocated. And then I almost slid out the window. I’ve spent more time on the floor lately than I did after my back surgery.
So I’m watching him carry in another box, wondering exactly what nook I’m supposed to magically create for his “important items” and he lifts his arms and I glimpse the raised edges of his scar and I watch him grimace when his post-Gunther muscles attempt a pre-Gunther maneuver, and my heart seizes up and I take the box out of his hands, and I grab his gorgeous blue-jeaned ass, and I lift him up and carry him out the door and back again, over the threshold. My back’s screaming and he’s wriggling and calling me a sentimental dumbass, and then I stumble over to the bed and he slides out of my arms, off the edge and onto the floor with a satisfying thump. I walk over to see if he’s still breathing and he pulls me down on top of him and reminds me why I asked him to move in with me in the first place.
The next night he brings home a bottle of champagne and a key to a storage locker. I save the cork in a box marked vitamins. He'll never look in there.
Takes place some time AFTER hers
(found here: http://sjames-centre.livejournal.com/36593.html)
It's more than a double drabble - well, because Hutch does tend to go on and on and on and on . . .
Never Mind the Sherpa, We’re Gonna Need A Chiropractor
by Kaye
You would've thought I was asking him to cut off his dick. But c’mon, what grown man needs 32 identical pairs of blue jeans? And I’ve never even seen him sit in that wicker torture chair. But now all of a sudden my couch is not good enough for his precious ass. Granted, he has a fine ass, but apparently it needs to perch on leather. Fine Corinthian leather. Whatever.
And did you know he saved the beer caps from our first official date? And the ticket stubs from the first movie we made out in. I mean, I’m all for romance, but a stained menu from the Bucket of Grub is not my idea of a cherished memento. And did you know he made me buy silk sheets? Silk! And the bed? It’s soft alright. If you like sleeping on a marshmallow. A slick marshmallow. First time I tried to give him head in that bed, I almost suffocated. And then I almost slid out the window. I’ve spent more time on the floor lately than I did after my back surgery.
So I’m watching him carry in another box, wondering exactly what nook I’m supposed to magically create for his “important items” and he lifts his arms and I glimpse the raised edges of his scar and I watch him grimace when his post-Gunther muscles attempt a pre-Gunther maneuver, and my heart seizes up and I take the box out of his hands, and I grab his gorgeous blue-jeaned ass, and I lift him up and carry him out the door and back again, over the threshold. My back’s screaming and he’s wriggling and calling me a sentimental dumbass, and then I stumble over to the bed and he slides out of my arms, off the edge and onto the floor with a satisfying thump. I walk over to see if he’s still breathing and he pulls me down on top of him and reminds me why I asked him to move in with me in the first place.
The next night he brings home a bottle of champagne and a key to a storage locker. I save the cork in a box marked vitamins. He'll never look in there.
