ext_6538 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
alee-gothphyle.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
crack_van2004-07-11 06:14 am
alee-gothphyle.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2004-07-11 06:14 am
Entry tags:
Count the Ways, by Jat Sapphire (PG)
Fandom: STARSKY AND HUST
Pairing: Starsky/Hutch
Author on LJ: unknown
Author Website: http://www.geocities.com/jat_sapphire/
Why this must be read:
Drunken dialog, dim lights, and the sharp perception that only comes through alcohol glazed eyes and loosened tongues: that's what this story brings, and brings magnificently well. There's humor, and poignancy, and the painful honesty that shines through when the boys have a little too much drink in their blood, and too much emotion in their hearts. The words are delicious, and the imagery is incredibly evocative. Case in point:
"Huh," Hutch said brilliantly. Now Starsky lay in the best light in the room, cast obliquely through the kitchen archway, and Hutch stared hard at the red shirt open to the button above the waist, the movement of Starsky's chest as he breathed, the line of his throat as he tilted his head back to rest on the floor, the dark curls, the hollow between the tendons of his wrist and the slightly cupped hand. He looked half-erect in those tight jeans, legs splayed carelessly apart. "How you look."
"How?"
"Like .... " This was why Hutch hadn't wanted to answer before: because he knew words would always fail him. The berry-red shirt drew his eyes. "Like ... delicious. Like sweet and salt and bitter. Like laughing and ... not laughing." He took a deep, swift breath, and blew it out. "God, Starsk."
Count the Ways
Pairing: Starsky/Hutch
Author on LJ: unknown
Author Website: http://www.geocities.com/jat_sapphire/
Why this must be read:
Drunken dialog, dim lights, and the sharp perception that only comes through alcohol glazed eyes and loosened tongues: that's what this story brings, and brings magnificently well. There's humor, and poignancy, and the painful honesty that shines through when the boys have a little too much drink in their blood, and too much emotion in their hearts. The words are delicious, and the imagery is incredibly evocative. Case in point:
"Huh," Hutch said brilliantly. Now Starsky lay in the best light in the room, cast obliquely through the kitchen archway, and Hutch stared hard at the red shirt open to the button above the waist, the movement of Starsky's chest as he breathed, the line of his throat as he tilted his head back to rest on the floor, the dark curls, the hollow between the tendons of his wrist and the slightly cupped hand. He looked half-erect in those tight jeans, legs splayed carelessly apart. "How you look."
"How?"
"Like .... " This was why Hutch hadn't wanted to answer before: because he knew words would always fail him. The berry-red shirt drew his eyes. "Like ... delicious. Like sweet and salt and bitter. Like laughing and ... not laughing." He took a deep, swift breath, and blew it out. "God, Starsk."
Count the Ways