Well FED

Sorry this is actually Saturday-- Mate and I needed to go birthday shopping last night for Zoomboy and I couldn't quite fit in Nano, edits, and Fanfic Friday. And Soccer Saturday.  I hope you forgive me-- and I hope you enjoy. Someone *aherm* Asked specifically for Cartinski today. I'm thinking SuperBat or Stucky next week, but in the meantime, *glares* You know who you are.

*  *  *

Carter wore his old FBI sweatshirt when they went running.

John really hated it when he did that.

Because as much as Carter made a lot out of being a dumb guy in a smart world, the fact was, John Stilinski had endured his share of the feds barging into his territory from the get go. "You! You Sheriff Stilinski! You've had six kids disappear in two months-- what kind of amateur bullshit shop you been running here in the sticks? That's okay, Sheriff, us feds will come clean it up and we'll kick some dirt over your shitty department on our way out!"

Yeah-- Stilinski didn't have a lot of good memories of the FBI, Scott McCall's father primary among them.

Schmuck.

So the FBI sweatshirt was just a reminder that Carter's job in Eureka was not your average run of the mill job, and that Carter had needed to aspire to Quantico before he'd been placed there, and that John Stilinski really was just your average run of the mill law enforcement joe.

In a town full of werewolves.

They'd been running for a good four miles before Carter said something.

"What's that?"

"What's what?"  John was proud-- since they'd been running together-- and fucking in the shower when they were done-- his wind had gotten much much better.

"Something's following us," Carter said, turning around for a second.  He was so graceful-- they were running through the cross country trail in the woods... that cross country trail. In those woods. Usually turning your back as you ran was a guarantee that you would either trip on a fallen tree branch, fall into a trap, get impaled by an arrow, spear, or Kanima spine, or get eaten by a bear.

Carter turned back around and Stilinski continued to scan their surroundings anxiously.  He hadn't written off that bear.

"You just spotted that now?" Stilinski asked, hopping lightly from fallen tree branch to rocky outcropping to forest floor. "God-- how have you lived so long?"

"In a quiet little town where quantum mechanics try daily to kill me," Carter retorted. "So stop being an ass."

"I"m just saying--" Stilinsky actually spotted the leaf covered pit this time and managed to shove Carter around the giant oak and away from it, "--quantum mechanics aren't actively seeking you out and trying to kill you personally because they don't like the way you smell."

"Was that a--"

"Leaf covered pit-- God, don't ask me what was on the bottom, that shit's serious.  Look out!"

The branch was suspended backwards, so as soon as Carter hit the tripwire it would whip back--and it was big enough to break a few ribs if that happened. Stilinski knocked Carter sideways and...

Caught the fucking branch in the side.

He went sprawling, and Jack scrambled up to help him.

"Scott!" Stilinski wheezed, too out of breath to make much noise. "Goddammit Scott!"

"Motherfucker!"  Cater was kneeling next to him, and his dismay when the red-eyed wolf who had been tracking their movements straightened into a very naked human, was almost comic.

"Sherif Stilinski!" Scott cried, running to his side.

"What in the fuck was all of that?" Stilinski panted.  He closed his eyes and took stock. Yup-- oh yeah. Those ribs were definitely cracked. He could barely breathe.

"There's a whole druid pack invasion... thing going down," Scott apologized. "I wasn't sure how much they'd done, so, you know--"

"You followed us to make sure we were safe," Carter supplied, which was good because Stilinski still couldn't talk.

"Yeah."  Scott smiled at him, that kid's goofy, crooked grin totally hiding the savvy, iron-willed leader beneath. "Nice to meet you, Sheriff Carter. Stiles has told me a lot about you."

Stilinki closed his eyes.

"Yeah?" Carter asked, sounding wary. "Like, uh, what?"

Scott sucked air through his feet. "Let's just say I know what you sound during some of the most private moments of your life," he apologized.

"Crap."

"Yeah, during then too."

Stilinski let out a gasp and then a moan. Fucking ribs. He was going to have to have them lift him up from the torso, and hope his ribs didn't pop through his lungs.  Carter gave up mentally flailing at Scott and turned towards him with that sweet little furrow between his eyes.

"Did you hear that? Your son knows what I sound like when I'm on the potty. I'm thrilled."

"You're loud," Stilinski said. "Now can you help me up or not?"

"Not yet," Scott said.  He was still naked, which Stilinski had gotten used to, given how many werewolves lived in Beacon Hills.  He hadn't realized how new it was to Carter until he saw Carter's eyes widen as Scott scooted from Stilinski's shoulder to his side, gently nudging Carter out of the way.

"Uh..." Carter mumbled in protest. "So you're naked and... uh..."

"Dude!" Scott muttered, elbowing Carter a little more to the side and burrowing under Stilinski's sweatshirt until he could place cold paws... arm, hands... on Stilinski's tender ribs.  "He's literally as old as my father."

"Older," Stilinski gasped, heat building in his side.  "By two years, goddammit."

"Yeah. And more my dad than my dad. Now shut up and let me work--"

Stilinski could feel it now. Stiles had told him Scott could do this, but until that blissful heat, that almost chemical release from pain permeated his flesh and bones, he hadn't realized what a tremendous power it really was.

The pain eased, and John felt tears slide down the corners of his eyes, his relief more overwhelming than the cracked ribs.

"Wow," he said after a moment.  Scott gave a little grunt and sat back on his heels. "That was... that was awesome. Thanks, Scott."

"Not a problem, Sheriff.  Next time, I'll try to get there before the trap goes off."

Carter glared at him and nudged him out of the way again. "Next time, how about tell us where the bad guys are setting traps, and we'll maybe run in Eureka."

Scott rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding? Stiles is experimenting with chronochromatic technology today. You could walk across a green line and end up in 1793. No thank you. I mean, seriously. I'd rather deal with the traps.  Are you okay now, Sheriff?"

John nodded and pushed himself up.  "Much better now-- appreciate it."

"Good. I'm going to turn wolf now and lead, okay?  I think I know where most of the traps are, but be alert."

Stilinski took Carter's offered hand up, and he submitted to a quick pat down to make sure he was okay, and then they were on their way.

It wasn't until they made it back to the road that would bring them home that Scott turned around and took off, presumably to contact the rest of the pack and let them know about the traps.  As soon as he was out of sight, Carter muttered, "Asshole."

"What?" Stilinski said, surprised. "He helped us out!"

"Nothing," Carter mumbled, glaring mulishly as they ran up the stairs home.

"Seriously--mmmf..."

Carter was all over him, mouth slanting over his, hands all over his body, checking-- intimately-- for anymore bruises, any broken bones, any hurts.

"I"m fine," John panted. "But sweaty-- are you sure you want to--"

Carter yanked his sweats down, right there in the hallway, and pulled John's cock into his mouth.  Stilinski groaned and threw his head back agains the wall with a thud. "Carter, I'm..."

Carter pulled him so deeply, Stilinski's cock bottomed out in his throat, and Stilinski was suddenly very, very close to coming.  Carter slid a spit-slicked finger between his bottom cheeks and into his asshole, and Stilinski beat feebly at the wall at his back.

"Jack!" he panted. "I'm going to... I"m gonna..."

Jack pulled back long enough to say, "Come. So I can fuck you. And you can come again."  And then he sucked Stilinski's cock back into his mouth, into a haven of heat and wet and pressure.  His finger stretched and twisted and white fire rushed Stilinski's spine, blinding him as he cried out in orgasm and sagged against the wall.

Carter swallowed--but not enough. Come spilled over his lips and glazed his chin as he glared up at John and ordered him to "Turn around!"

John, weak and confused in the aftermath of climax found himself facing his own hallway wall, hands out, legs spread, as Carter breached him unceremoniously from behind.

His howl of pleasure echoed off the wall.

Carter pounded him without words or mercy, thrusting hard, deep, and fast, until Stilinski was hard again, until every crash against his prostate left him white-blind and shouting, and his next orgasm threatened to burn every nerve ending in his cock, balls, and taint forever.

Then Carter started muttering. "Let that naked kid--" thrust "--fucking touch your body--" pound "--while I'm right there like I"m not a thing--" fuck "--and not think it's gonna drive me fucking crazy!"

"Carter!" Stilinski screamed, that terrible balefire of come tearing through his body and spattering against the wall.

"John!"  Carter snarled, and then he grunted and screamed and bit John's shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise for days.

Stilinski collapsed against the wall, feeling spend spilling from his body, down his cheek, down the back of his thigh.  Carter collapsed on top of him, and together they panted until their breathing stilled and talking became a thing again.

"I can't believe you were jealous," John said when he could manage it.

"I can't believe that naked werewolf touched you when I was right there."

"He's got a boyfriend. OR a girlfriend. Or both," Stilinski laughed, body liquid and boneless. "I can't keep track. And he's a kid. And he's--"

"I don't care," Carter breathed in his ear. "I'd want you if I was twenty-three and perfect. I'd want you if I was him. I finally found you-- nobody else gets to touch you."

Stilinski hooted into the wall in disbelief. "You're the only idiot who wants to touch me. I can't believe you got through Quantico with those detecting skills. Jesus."

Carter growled and wrapped his arms around Stilinski's waist, undeterred. "I got through Quantico because I don't give up easy," he growled. "I don't give up at all."

"Awesome."  Stilinski leaned back against him, content for a moment, and not even freaking out about washing the come off the wall.  "But you know, there is something you could do to make sure every werewolf for miles knows you've staked your claim."

"Yeah?" Carter asked, some of his usual humor restored. "Enlighten me."

Stilinski started to chuckle, feeling the evil in his bones. "Let me wear your jogging shirt." Heh heh heh. "It's a smell thing. I swear."  He had no idea.

Carter knew it. "You just want my shirt."

John nodded and closed his eyes, safe and secure and joyful. "Yeah. I want your fuckin' shirt. Right now I need it to wipe off the jizz off the wall before Stiles or Derek walk in."

"Shit!" Carter muttered, but he pulled the shirt off, and they made it to the showers before anybody was the wiser.

*  *  *

Derek and Stiles were actually living in Eureka, but they still visited on Sunday mornings for breakfast.

This particular morning, Stiles brought bran muffins for the old people and doughnuts for him and Derek, unaware that Derek had snuck three eclairs in the box so the "old people" would continue to like him and let him molest Sheriff Stilinski's baby boy.

"Dad! Sheriff Carter!" Stiles called, and Derek heard them in the kitchen, probably calling a greeting over coffee, but he could smell something... something...

Mmm...

He wandered for a moment from Stiles's side and snuffled the air along this stretch of hall and... mmm... Jealousy sex... right here.  

He wanted to pant.

He wanted to rut. 

He really wanted to grab Stiles by the scruff of the neck and bend him over the couch.

But... *snuffle snuffle snuffle*  Yeah. Old people sex. Didn't bother him-- didn't bother most werewolves.

But Stiles, it would bother.

He'd have to keep this knowledge to himself.  But that was okay.  That morning, he'd have the extra eclair.

That evening, he'd have the boyfriend screaming over their own kitchen table.

Sunday mornings rocked.