Surprise Visit Part 2, a Moon/Fish crossover fic

 So, woke up at four a.m. to see Mate off at the Folsom airport, got up at 5:40 to take Chicken to the Sacramento airport to go fetch her friend (she's in the middle of roommate swap--joy!), and then got back at 7:00 a.m. in time to get the kids to school and take the dogs for a walk.

You may believe me when I say I slept for two hours and it still wasn't enough.

Anyway--I'm going to post a tiny transition segment of the Surprise Visit fit, and hope you forgive me for how short it is. I"m up at six in the morning again and oi, I do not sleep well when Mate is gone!

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Surprise Visit--Part 2

After Burton left, Ernie wandered around disconsolately, fed the cats, cleaned up after baking, and then, as always happened when Burton left on business, his feet led him back to Ace and Sonny's.

"How long's he been gone?" Ace asked good naturedly, feeding Ernie the last of the tamale pie Ace had made on his night to cook. Ace had muscles like cannon shot and a handsome good-ol-boy face with a dent in his chin. He didn't look like he'd even admit to having a boyfriend much less cook for the one he had, but Ace was surprising that way.

"Left this morning," Ernie said, huffing out a sigh. "Ellery Cramer's mother is in danger. He got her to go to Sacramento so he's going to watch all three of them."

"Jesus," Sonny  muttered. "Are we even supposed to know shit like this?"

"Course we are." Ace sat down and sipped his after-dinner coffee slowly. "We're invisible. Like, nobody even knows we're here."

"How do you even say that?" Sonny demanded. "We make more noise than a sonic fucking boom. We blew up an army base Ace. How does nobody know who we are?"

Ernie snickered. "Because me and Burton and Jackson and Ellery and even Ellery's mother, I think, have worked very hard to make it that way," he said, surprised that Sonny hadn't realized this.

Judging by the blank look on Sonny's face, Sonny hadn't realized this. "Why would they do that?" he said in a small voice.

Jai--who was there because it was Tuesday night and apparently Jai appreciated Ace's cooking too--smiled softly at Sonny, but Ernie wasn't fooled. Jai's tightly held torch for Sonny Daye had changed to an out and out fondness, a soft spot that would never heal, but that didn't pain him anymore. He'd lied to Ernie about having a booty call that he met camping--oh yeah, he had the booty call, all right, but they guy wasn't married, and Jai did like him, and even though Ernie knew the truth, he was highly curious as to what had caused the lie.

"Because they see the value you have free to work on cars and not locked in a cage," Jai said, and Sonny looked at Ace with trouble still in his eyes.

"That sounds like charity," he muttered stubbornly.

"It's more like love," Ace said bluntly. "And it keeps my criminal ass in the free and clear, so I'm really fucking grateful. Do you know how long he's going to be gone?" Ace asked, obviously to change the subject, but also because he wanted to know if he should prep Burton's old room so Ernie could stay there.

Ernie thought about it. "A couple of days," he said, not sure what prompted him but trusting it just like he'd trusted his urge to make apple fritters. "And yes, thank you, I would very much appreciate a place to stay until he gets back."

Ace nodded. "Sonny, stop pouting about people taking care of you and help take care of Ernie. Also, one of you may want to take Duke for a walk--you know how excited he gets when Ernie comes over."

Back in the days before Burton had committed, Ernie had taken Duke wandering the desert at night. Duke had enjoyed their little forays--and probably missed their time together now--so Ernie made sure to come take him for a walk once or twice a week just for old times sake. When Burton was there they'd go together and talk desultorily about the way the desert smelled and what the stars could possibly mean, but without him, Ernie's brain--and therefor his psychic ability--tended to reach out into th e vasty world and bring back things Ernie was never sure what to do with.

There was nothing he could do to stop a bus crash or bank robbery. He told Burton, and hoped for the best. Occasionally his brain came back with stories of the serial killers he'd been asked to assess when part of Karl Lacey's illegal behavior modification project to create the perfect soldier. That he reported immediately, via text if Burton wasn't home, and Burton always told him when his contact with the "bugs" as he called them, because their brains were crawly twisted places, panned out.

So far Ernie was eight in eight for being a reliable bug catcher, and he was glad he could help, but really hated stumbling into a bug's brain when he was all alone and unprepared.

"I'd love some company," he said a little desperately, and Ace tilted his head like he heard the things Ernie wasn't saying.

"Jai, go with him," he said, and while Ace was their friend as well as their boss, it was obvious this was an order.

"Da," Jai said, not even bothering to complain.

They were about a mile out from Ace and Sonny's place when Jai said his first words. "You haven't said anything."

Ernie knew what he was talking about. "About your friend in the mountains? No. You lied to me so I wouldn't know, and I figured that meant you didn't want everybody else to know. Why not?"

Jai shrugged. "George is... he's a nurse. A good guy. I am not."

Ernie snorted. "That's hilarious," he muttered.

"No, no--I have--"

"Killed people. I know. You don't understand. I keep running into serial killers in my mind. It's why I wanted your company you know. Their brains are awful. Like bug warrens. Like little shit beetles crawling through their head."

"Lovely," Jai said, shuddering with revulsion. Jai was well over six feet tall with a shaved head and a black goatee. Watching him shudder was a treat in itself.

"Yeah. Well, I've known you for a while now, and your brain isn't like that. Your brain is all these neat little boxes. Well, one of your boxes has a guy named George in it, and he's bursting the box's seams. You're going to have to share him with Ace and Sonny or he's going to break your brain."

Jai groaned. "Ugh.  Could we go back now? I don't want to think about this right now."

"Sure." Truth tell, Ernie didn't want to either. He wanted to think about Burton, under the same sky he was under, looking out into the cloud mottled stars and thinking about Ernie like Ernie was thinking about--

"Burton's going to have to pull that thing," Ernie said, suddenly right back in the present. "And yell at Jackson to duck. And Jackson's going to duck and roll and there's going to be a crash and the music will explode and then Burton can come home."

Jai was staring at him.

"What?" Ernie said, shaking himself all over.

"That was the fucking creepiest thing I've ever seen."

Ernie groaned. "Well, keep into yourself, okay? I"ve got to text Burton so he knows what's coming."

"How on earth can he know what's coming from that?" Jai asked in wonder.

"Same way I knew how to make apple fritters, Jai. Shit just comes to us."

He typed as fast as he could and when he was done, he let out a breath.

Thanks kid.

Now some boyfriends would blow him off--but Burton had learned to trust him in the past six months.

And now they had to wait.

For his part, Ernie was very curious as to what it all meant.

SuperBat--Batman's Hot Cousin Part 2

So, it's the lazy part of winter break, where the kids play all the games and chill all they want, and I go out of my mind because there is SOMEBODY THERE all the time.

Mate and I are going on a date tomorrow night--that's exciting.

Anyway-- it's time for some SuperBat--and I feel dumb because I have written some SUPERHOT sex in my fanfic before on this blog, but there's going to be girl parts here.

Most of my readers will deal, I know, but... *rolls eyes*  Here's your warning. Imminent vagina.

Anyway-- enjoy the hot girl sex and some angst.


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Batman's Hot Cousin, Part 2

If Bruce had ever thought about it, he would have assumed there would be something different while kissing someone as a woman instead of a man. There was certainly something different about kissing a man or kissing a woman--but Clark's mouth felt the same as it always had.

Hard, demanding, tender, responsive.

Bruce pushed the kiss like he ordinarily would and twined his arms around Clark's neck, only a little frustrated because he felt so... so delicate.

He was still strong, still muscular, but the manhandling he usually indulged in because Clark could take it didn't feel appropriate. And then Clark reached gently for his breast and massaged, thumb on the nipple in the classic "boobs are good" maneuver.

Bruce's nether-parts gave a tremendous throb and he let out an audible gasp.

"What's wrong? Did I hurt?"

Clark pulled his hand away and Bruce grabbed it back. "That was great. Don't stop." It came out as a command, in his flinty Batman voice, but about two octave's higher and sort of whiskey soaked.

Clark's eyes all but rolled back in his head and he lowered his mouth to the edge of Bruce's tightly-clenched towel.

"Wha?"

"You thought that felt good..." Clark said, lips quirking like he was battling a smile.

Bruce moaned and gave up the towel, and there they were, boobs, and a slender waist and lush hips and plump, muscular thighs.

"Damn," Clark said, pulling back and smiling slightly. "Bruce, my beloved, my man, you are built like a brick shithouse!"

"I'm a horny brick shithouse!" Bruce complained. "Now do that thing... that  thing with your mouth you just promised! I need to not feel like this so I can think!"

Clark laughed throatily, and Bruce's uterus practically caught fire. "You can think fine when you're horny," he said before licking a circle around Bruce's aureola. "You do it all the time. You once ordered an op when I was balls-deep in your ass!"

Bruce moaned, the thought turning him on far more than it should--and damn Diana for making an off-coms override for emergencies.

"But I know how those parts feel!" he panted. Clark closed his mouth over the whole pink-tipped sugar mountain and it was all he could do not to squeal. "Right now everything is a surprise--flick your tongue! God yes, like that! No, don't stop--yes!"

An earthquake went off in his lower parts. That was the only way he could think of it--everything below his navel clenched and quivered and practically pranced with joy.

Without thinking about it, Bruce leaned back and pulled his feet up to the edge of the infirmary bed, opening up the whole area to exploration.

Clark chuckled. "God, this is fun."

"My... my... oh my God I don't even know what to call it anymore! It's on fire!"

Clark laughed some more and Bruce could swear his uterus exploded.

"Jesus--lick that or something!" he begged.

"You know, it is your pudendum. You can call it anything you want!"

Except he couldn't, could he? He was still a man underneath that glistening labia. He still didn't have the right to claim that naughty word, even for erotic use, did he?"

Confusion swirled around his brain and then Clark very carefully swiped his tiny erotic button with a rough tongue and confusion went to fuck itself because Bruce was in need.

"OH dear God fuck that thing!"

But Clark just licked again, this time the aching area between his spread lips, and he must like doing this for women as much as he loved doing it for Bruce because he buried his face in there and really went to town.

Bruce lost time.

He was wandering in a sexual havoc, Clark's tongue, his fingers, his surprising expertise sending him into the stratosphere, so high, so intensely, that he barely noticed the two fingers of intrusion until the faint twinge of pain.

"Hello..."

Clark gave him a heated glance over his new playground body. "Sorry sweetheart--it appears you have a hymen."

Bruce wiggled his hips, impaled on Clark's fingers, and pushed down. Another twinge of pain, but he didn't care. He wiggled some more and Clark spread them and stretched him a little and the pain bit a little bit deeper, and then faded.

"Not anymore," Bruce panted. "Fuck me."

"One more minute."

Clark's tongue on his clitoris was no joke and Bruce didn't even have a brain cell to question it. The two fingers inside him were wonderful--but not enough, not when Bruce knew what would fit perfectly in there, and then, oh God, one gentle, tentative finger, slick with juices he didn't ordinarily have, knocked on his back door.

This time the orgasm was enough to make him scream.

Clark lunged up over his body, driving inside of him and claiming his mouth at the same time.

For a moment, Bruce was caught up in sharing girl juices with his male lover--his taste on Clark's mouth, different, sweeter, ear-to-ear--and then he realized oh my God where is his penis and oh wow it really fuckin' fits there doesn't it!

He wrapped his legs around Clark's hips and screamed. "Don't! Stop! Don't! Stop! Don't! Ever! Fucking! Stop!"

Clark drove into him so hard Bruce could swear he tasted cum in the back of his throat, and then, oh dear lord, the big one, the 10 on the  Richter scale, the orgasm that split the foundations of the world, washed over him, clenching around Clark and taking them both over.

The infirmary table gave out underneath them and collapsed in a puddle of useless chrome with a mercilessly uncomfortable mattress.

And Clark was still buried inside him, hot and pulsing and amazing.

"Can you," Clark panted, collapsed on top of him, "think any better now?"

Bruce chuckled, and then chilled. Clark inside him felt right--but everything else felt... empty. He closed his eyes and ran his hands along Clark's familiar muscles, along his back, down his spine, at the same time feeling his breasts squashed under Clark's chest, his vagina parted and welcoming--when usually it would be a penis, thrusting and deflating. The aftermath to sex felt much the same--except for the loneliness that swamped him.

And, oh fuck, fucking estrogen levels, rising.

His eyes burned.

"It was wonderful," he whispered. "You were exactly right. You feel exactly right. I wouldn't have you any other way."

"Sh." Clark kissed his temple, where the first tear slid. "I may feel right. But you don't."

"That was amazing," Bruce said, trying to make it clear. He'd wanted it--wanted everything they'd done. Would want it again, and again--although hopefully now that he knew how it felt, it wouldn't consume his brain. Diana and Barbara and the other women functioned perfectly well with bodies like this--he was pretty sure it was just the newness that had overwhelmed him.

"But it wasn't you," Clark clarified.

And the tears wouldn't stop. "I want my body back," he said, feeling foolish. "I...you feel great, and the sex was awesome but it wasn't me."

"Or not the you you're happy with," Clark said, kissing his temple. "Believe me, Bruce. I knew exactly who I was fucking. It wouldn't matter what the parts were--I'd know who you were in the dark. But it's not my body we're talking about. It's yours. Now that we're both thinking again, tell me about the rest of it."

Clark rolled off him and grabbed a blanket from the bottom of the broken bed. He pulled it up over both of them and Bruce rested his head on Clark's chest, bitterly aware that they often traded back and forth, who spooned whom.

And then he told Clark about the virus that infected his chromosome, and how he could stay a woman forever, probably, and be fine, or he could not re-infect himself and maybe die and maybe go back to being the person he'd worked so hard to be.

"So," Clark said, and now his eyes were red-rimmed and his voice was raw. "You'd really rather die?"

Bruce was pretty sure the tears now weren't just a matter of estrogen. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. But yes. Oh God. I want myself back. I want you to hold me as I am."

Clark nodded without words and held him tighter, and Bruce sobbed into his chest.

Jai there! Part 2

Hey all-- first of all, I can't guarantee how long this will be, or how many installments--but I WILL keep writing them every so often.

Second of all, I don't think it's going to be a novel--but, like with Scorched Haven or some of the other ficlets it WILL end up somewhere, either on Instafreebie, OR as part of Fish 4 when it's done.

Third of all--DON'T forget to check out the new version of Regret Me Not in January, because I did the same thing and that's where all the extras went.

That being said, a little more of Jai/George. (I may keep calling this Jai There! because I'm just that big of a nerd.)

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Jai crawled into the tent about an hour after George fell asleep. George was tossing, and still feverish, so Jai woke him up with some ibuprofen and crackers--and water, that was very important. By the time Jai had stripped down to his boxers and a T-shirt, George had stilled and was sleeping like the might-maybe-live.

Jai spent a few moments curled on his side, staring at the lump of his sleeping bag in the darkness. Such a sweet man--protests of a misspent youth aside. Kind. Funny. A nurse.

No. George may have liked men, and had the yellow hair, but Jai had killed people. He was not a nice man.

Still, he would enjoy hearing another person's breath in his space, just for the weekend.

That soothed, he fell asleep.

He woke up with a man-sized heating pad vibrating against his chest.

"George?"

George whimpered and shook some more, and Jai grunted, feeling his head. "And you need more medicine."

"Is that it?" George asked pitifully. "God. I'm going to get you sick. Shit. All you've done for me and I'm going to get you sick."

Jai gently pushed him aside so he could reach to the space above him for the bottled water and ibuprofen. "Here," he mumbled, helping George sit up. "Take some of this."  George swallowed convulsively, and Jai realized the moon must have been up and shining directly on their tent. "Now crackers."

George grimaced. "Are you--"

"Or your stomach will cramp some more. I could give you the medicine another way, but that is a little personal, you think?"

George took a cracker, eyes wide in the dark. "You're pretty persuasive," he muttered, swallowing. He took another pull of water, and then, voluntarily, another cracker.

"I am not a nice man," Jai said seriously. "I do not wish to hurt you."

"You realize those two statements don't fit together," George mumbled, finishing off the cracker. He waved the rest of the package aside. "I don't want to get sick again."

"There is a pot next to you--you see it? I set it there when I came to bed."

George chuckled weakly. "You have the instincts of a first class nurse."

"Or a world class mob enforcer." Which he had been. "Or an auto mechanic who cannot hold his sushi."  Which he most definitely was.

"Augh! Don't say sushi." George tried to wrap up in the fleece again, making so much noise and commotion that Jai sat up and turned on his flash light. "What are you doing?" George asked after collapsing miserably in a pile of fleece and tangled sleeping bag.

"Planning my attack. Stay still, small man." Jai unzipped the sleeping bag, ripped the fleece off, and laid it flat. Then he lifted George onto the fleece again like a child in a bunting, and wrapped him first, then got in the bag next to him and zipped it all up."

"That was impressive," George mumbled, sounding dazed. "You should be a nurse."

"Mob enforcer."

"Or an army medic."

"Auto mechanic."

"Hey, it's my fantasy." George rolled over so he was facing Jai and snuggled into his chest. "I might as well make you somebody I see every so often."

"I am no man's fantasy," Jai told him sadly, smoothing his sweaty hair back from his head.

"Tonight you're mine," George said with some dignity. "A guy who will take care of me. And make me smile."

Jai chuckled, the sound rumbling through the tent like thunder, and George rested his head against Jai's chest.

The next thing Jai knew it was morning, and George was snoring softly, huddled under the fleece still but not shivering.

Jai tested his forehead and while it was clammy, it wasn't burning up.

Good. His new friend was feeling better.

After quickly dressing so he could run to the nearby bathroom, Jai resurrected the fire and started boiling water for soup and hot chocolate. He made a coffee mug of chocolate for himself and a small thermos of broth, which he planned to take inside the tent. Just as he was twisting the cap, he heard George call his name in a rather small voice.

"Yes?"

He turned around and saw George, poking his head out.

"I need help to the head, man. Can you get me some sweats from my car?"

Jai grunted, squatted down at the tent's entrance and scooped him up, fleece blanket and all. He was not a small man, but still, no more heavier than he had been the day before.

"This is so embarrassing," George mumbled, but that didn't stop him from wrapping his arms around Jai's neck and resting his head against his shoulder.

"There is nobody awake," Jai said. "The campground is not full this time of year."

"That's cause it's fucking freezing," George muttered. "What brought you out here?"

"It was a place to come where my boss and his boyfriend didn't have to fuss over me, one that did not look like my apartment."

George gave a short laugh. "I was recovering from a breakup."

"Bad?"

A shrug and a bitter sound. "Stupid."

"What is stupid about it?"

"I said exclusive, and he said threesome. I said no way, and he said, 'Fine, Gary and I will find someone else.' And I said, 'Gary?'"

Jai couldn't help it--he laughed. Full fledged, from his stomach--from his toes, if the truth be known. "That is too bad. You thought he was your man?"

"I thought we were at least on the same page," George muttered dispiritedly. "I figured I'd come camping, since it was something Harvey never wanted to do--"

"You were dating a man named Harvey?"

"Don't start."

"No, no--I think it is fine you were dating a man named Harvey who wanted to have a threesome with Gary. So it would be Gary, Harvey, and George."

George groaned into his shoulder. "We can't all be giant Russians named Jai!"

"Which is probably a good thing," Jai said, to calm his ruffled feathers. "We are here. It is freezing in there--can you make it to the toilet alone or--"

"No," George muttered. He was shivering already.

It was strangely intimate, moving the blanket up to his shoulders and stripping his boxer shorts down. Jai left him alone for an appropriate time and returned to help him to the sink. When he was done, he scooped George up in his arms again, wrapped tight in fleece and took him to the tent. George was still tunneling into the sleeping bag when Jai appeared again with the broth.

George drank it gratefully. "You're really good at this. I think you were wasted as mob muscle."

"Possibly, but I am a very good mechanic."

"Do you like your boss better?"

"Yes. He is a good man. I have been helplessly in love with his boyfriend for over a year, and he has been nothing but kind."

George choked on his chicken broth. "In love with--"

Jai shrugged, used to it by now. "He is... small. And perfect. And I like yellow hair, like yours. And..." He frowned, not sure he could say this right. "He needs Ace. Like I need oxygen and large sized boots. I would very much like to be needed like that. But I was too late for Sonny."

Jai was sitting cross-legged on top of the sleeping bags as George sat up inside his end. George reached out then, and stroked his hand gently. "It's good to be needed," he said softly.

Jai shrugged. "I have always been the biggest, and the strongest. I've always had the scariest smile. My friends, they have hidden behind me, and my lovers have depended on me for protection--and for pleasure. It is a thing I am good at." He frowned. "Fixing cars too. Which makes me needed again." Suddenly he smiled. "I will work on your car while you rest. That way it will not die after you decide to live."

George nodded and put the lid back on the thermos. "I can't stop you," he sighed. "Maybe someday you'll find somebody you need as much as they need you."

Jai grunted. "I would not like that. It sounds terrifying. I think it's why I've had such a hard time finding a man as it is. Who wants to need somebody who could break them like a twig?"

"But won't," George said, yawning. "It's the won't that's very important. Don't go yet. Stay there."

"Why? What am I doing?"

"I need you here while I fall asleep. I'm sick and I'm sad, and I would have been all alone and freezing to death at the lake's edge if you hadn't stepped up. Just sit here and let me need you."

Jai grunted and made himself comfortable on his side. George curled up into the shelter of his body again, and Jai, good and settled now, pulled out his phone so he could play a game. George's breath settled, and he was asleep soon enough, but still, Jai didn't move.

George said he needed Jai.

Even for this moment, while George was recovering from what had apparently been the mother of all stomach bugs, it was a nice thing.

Jai would lay there and keep George warm and appreciate it while it lasted.

Hiding the Moon--Part 2

So, to catch folks up, I'm writing the third Fish Out of Water, and like the second, there is a crossover with Racing for the Sun. This is part 2--and I hope you enjoy!  (For those who usually enjoy my family stories, I'll be posting them on FB and Twitter on the days I'm doing this. Otherwise, suffice it to say dogs/kids/taxi service oh my!)

Oh! We're putting together Volume 3 of the newsletter--be sure you've signed up, and if you've already signed up and didn't get Volume 2, we're working on that!

Oh! And I'd like to add something here--

Blogging is and has always been a seat of my pants endeavor. There's no editor to catch me, no fact checker. When I put these things together for instafreebie or, in this case, probably put the whole series in the back of Fish 3, I'll be able to clean it up a little. But this is writing dirty--please forgive me for typos and errors on the whole. If you say something nice about a fact I got wrong, I'll fix it during the cleanup, but... *lip quivers* Please be nice, okay? Like, seriously, me and Wikipedia are good friends at this point, but I've been keeping the pages on military dress and chain of command open for the last week and I am no closer to knowing those mysteries. I don't know how the military guys memorize that stuff--it BOGGLES me.

Hiding the Moon--Part 2

Gah! Phoenix sucked in July! The day's temperature had been 113 fucking degrees, and in the city, all that heat just sat and baked into the juicy asphalt and the stoic brick and adobe. Yeah, sure, most places had air conditioning on the inside, but Burton was on a rooftop, covered with a tarp and trying not to hallucinate about Fallujah.

Fallujah had been bad. He'd been with his first Marine unit then, and the guys were the best. Well trained, smart as hell, they goddamned had your back if they had their next breath. But bad intel was bad intel, and when you find yourself facing a preschool through the scope of your gun, that intel was as bad as it got.

One spooked kid, a new recruit, hadn't held his wad. They'd been told the place was full of chemical weapons and everybody had their fucking phobias.

Burton would have taken any assignment after that--any goddamned one--to not have to look at another dead four-year-old and know that he'd been part of the team responsible.

His CO knew that. So his next assignment had been the guy leaking them the bad intel.

It had been a shot much like this one--covert, from a building top, down into a crowd. Burton hadn't hesitated. One kill shot, no collateral damage.

It had all felt so neat and simple then.

This was not neat and simple.

Tracking Ernie Caulfield hadn't been a cakewalk so much as it it had been a walk through cake. The kid was working at a bakery at the moment, and he'd get home at ten in the morning, sleep through the hottest part of the day, get up at eight, eat sunbeams and rainbows for all Burton could see, and go dance at his favorite club--appropriately called The Flower Child.

He'd dance his heart out for hours. Fucking hours. Yeah, he'd take a tab of X--Burton could see that--but he wasn't an addict. Burton had camped out in opium dens--he knew what addicts looked like getting their fixes.

That was not the look on his face by a longshot.

Ernie took that tab--always handed to him by a sweet little girl wearing a tie-dye dress who worked at The Flower Child-- with the expression of someone who suffered from chronic headaches downing their first Motrin of the day. Like the X was soothing him, keeping the pain from making him crazy.

So Burton had sat watch from the building top for three days, watching Ernie through a sniper's scope, trying to figure out what this kid's deal was.

He seemed to do okay at the baker's. Burton had gone in for a donut on the first day, and Ernie had been happily involved in the back, probably mixing up dough for all Burton could tell. The bell had tinkled, he'd called up, "Don't worry, Max--he's good."

"Thanks Ernie. Gets tetchy at four a.m.."

"Yeah--don't worry about this one. And tell him the crullers are about twenty minutes from done, so if he can have a cup of coffee, it'll be fine."

Burton had blinked but Max--paunchy, grizzled, fifty-ish--didn't even look up. "How many crullers would you like, sir?"

"Are they good?" he asked, because that had been a really specific guess and he was a little but unnerved.

"Donuts fresh out of the frier. How bad could they be?"

Well, yeah. "Three," he answered promptly. Sugar and water--it was all a growing boy needed in this temperature. "And cream for the coffee."

He hadn't seen Ernie that morning-- the kid had stayed back and baked or whatever. But the crullers had been delicious and the coffee beat Starbucks by a mile.

But he'd scoped him out that night across from his apartment, when he'd gotten up, opened the window and let in stray cats from all over the neighborhood and fed them. He'd shooed them out on his way out the front door as he'd headed for the club, and Burton had trailed him in the shadows. The kid didn't... move like other people moved.

He swayed, he wandered.

Burton had watched him disappear into alleyways and then pull himself back, looking surprised to find himself in that part of town. The block was four blocks, and it took him half-an-hour. Burton was a breath away from grabbing the kid by the back of the neck and steering him toward the club.

And now, Burton was up on the roof across from the club, watching as Ernie windmilled his arms harmlessly in a mash of bodies bopping to a song Burton had never heard.

Just watching them made him feel old, but watching Ernie-- that made Burton feel whole other things as well.

"Okay, little hamster boy," Burton murmured, watching the boy's gyrations. "Why do you do this every night? I am highly curious."

But Burton wasn't the only one.

From his vantage point, Burton saw two distinctly disturbing things.

One was God's gift to all gay and bi boys, who had latched on to Ernie's back and was dancing with him with way too much familiarity.  Burton couldn't look at the guy without growling, because even if Ernie returned his interest, it was damned hard to tell when the boy was as wasted as he appeared to be.

No, smarmy dance kid shoving his hand down the front of Ernie's pants was not even acknowledged, and Burton was a heartbeat away from going down there, grabbing the kid by the ear, and hauling him away from the fucking club, just because somebody should, dammit!

The other thing was potentially much more dangerous than smarmy dance kid.

"Who are those guys?" he asked himself. They were trained. That was the first thing he could tell. One had point, the other had follow up and the one in the middle was scoping out all the angles. They also moved their lips, indicating ear pieces and military-esque technology. Burton could spot their weapons--the obvious ones--tucked into shoulder holsters and hidden by sport coats, and he got a lot of bitter satisfaction about how easy they were to make and how much they must have been suffering in all that gear.

They ranged themselves throughout the club, moving from the bar to the corners and back again, but generally forming a net around Burton's very own sweet-eyed stoner boy.

It made Burton twitchy.

A part of him very dryly noted that how dare they stalk the guy he was supposed to kill--but most of him had given it up from the moment he'd scoped out Max's Pastries and Coffee.

If this kid was a threat to national security, Lee Burton was President of the United States and a Russian traitor to boot.

"Seriously," he mumbled. "Who are those fuckin' guys!"

He studied them again, but when he went to check on their position relative to Ernie, he'd disappeared.

"Fuck!"

The logical thing to do was to remain up top. The club didn't have a back entrance, but it did have a side entrance which led to an alleyway and the outdoor access restrooms. Logic--Burton's friend since his first A in math--dictated that he stay up top on that building and scope out the goings-on with the full weight of his very expensive government issue personally modified sniper's rifle at his beck and call.

99% of the time, Burton relied on that part of his brain. It functioned very well, thank you, and he credited it for keeping him alive in some very hairy shit.

But the 1% of his brain that stayed friends with guys who knew him in the military that nobody knew he knew--that part of his brain was the part that was running the show.

Burton found himself charging down the fire escape of the old brick warehouse at full-speed, the heat forgotten in his need to be on the ground, in that alleyway before smarmy dance guy got Ernie into the dark and shadows where military ops guys could do worse things.

Scorched Haven-- Part Two

Okay-- the trip to the museum was a success, and there will be pictures tomorrow :-)

And I have good news! The Green's Hill Werewolves are moving to DSPP. This is very generous of them-- and I'll be so happy to have all of The Little Goddess at home with my DSP family. So yay!

And in the meantime, it's Ficlet Weekend (Or Fanfic Friday, but on a Saturday and Sunday, you know, for alliteration) and away we go!

Oh-- a note on "Lipsky". A long time ago when Rhys Ford read Racing for the Sun, she said, "Where in the fuck is Victoriana?  I didn't know there was anything but fucking desert east of Santee."

I said, "Victoriana is in Racing for the Sun. That book is the only place in the world you will ever find anything but fucking desert east of Santee." Thus it is with Lipsky and this story.

*  *  *

Someone was wandering into the cabin.

Zeb woke up, still in his wolf form, when he heard the voices.

"Dude-- you're sure no one's up here?"

"Naw, man. My grandpa died two years ago-- no one's used this place since."

A rough guffaw. "Someone's used this place."

"Oh, gross! Seriously! If you're going to get laid, maybe take your rubber with you!"

The floorboards creaked and the voices assumed a sudden intimacy. "Why use rubbers, dude?"

The smack that rejoined this remark was surprisingly satisfying. "Because STD's, moron. When I put out, there had better be rubbers involved."

Oh. Oh dear-- Zeb was apparently underfoot a romantic rendezvous of the two-peened kind. Well, at least one of them had a modicum of sense--because young people? Not always carriers of that particular disease. Zeb was living furry proof.

"Are you saying I'm an AID's baby? Fuck you, man!"

"Aw, Jesus Denny-- don't be a douche. I'm saying safety first."

"Yeah, well, whatsa matter, Colton--you afraid of getting knocked up and stuck here?"

"Well, not knocked up," Colton muttered. "I'm just saying--I thought, you know. Making out in my grandpa's old fishing shack should maybe not change our lives!"

"So, I'm forgettable? Geez, thanks a lot!"

"No! I'm not saying that--c'mere."  Colton's voice sank to a cajoling tone, and Zeb thought No, Colton, don't do it. He just wants to get you to give in so he can fuck you and leave you and not have to feel like a jerk because he forgot rubbers and lube!  Well, some of Zeb's first sexual experiences hadn't been... pleasant. And Colton sounded like a smart kid.

"No, man," Denny sulked. "Cause what? You give me a blow job like always, and don't put out, and then you're on the first train outta Lipsky? And it'll be okay with you, right? Cause nothing 'life changing' happened here, and I'll just be some guy in your rearview."

"No!" Colton said, legitimately hurt. "I, you know, thought we could bail together."

Nope, Colton-- this kid's got small town myopia. Wherever the hell "Lipsky" is, he's sure it's the epicenter of the universe quake. 

"Man, you know that ain't happening. Junkyard'll never allow it!"

"Well who in the hell is Junkyard and why does he suddenly get a say in our lives?"

Suddenly Denny's voice sank, because uncertain and quavery--a child who had been disappointed in his elders. Reluctantly, Zeb felt some sympathy. "It's... I mean, unless you go to one of Junkyard's meetings, you don't get it. I mean, it's not fair, but... but we just need to listen to him, that's all."

There was some squeaking overhead, and the voices grew closer together. Suddenly Zeb got the sense that these two boys had known each other for a very long time. In that moment, Denny wasn't the villain and Colton wasn't the hero-- they were just... boys. Boys trying hard to deal with life in a nowhere town somewhere to the west of the Grapevine in the Tehachapi Mountains.

"Denny... come on. He's a guy. He's sort of the bully who ran the junkyard, right up until last Christmas. Why should that change? Why's he suddenly got hold of us like this. We should be able to come and go as we please, right? I mean, we're twenty years old! Why's he get to say whether we get to go to college or not?"

"Because he just does."  Denny's voice had the hint of tears. "And now I can't leave this place, ever. And you're planning to leave me!"

"Denny!"

Zeb smelled it then. Oh, man-- he hadn't smelled it before. Maybe because his own blood scent had been so strong, and maybe because he'd needed to recover, but he smelled it now.

There was something wrong with Denny's scent.

It was werewolf--definitely werewolf--with a little bit of ick thrown in. Oh. Oh man--this is what those wolves had smelled like last winter. Including the one who'd gotten his heart ripped out and who'd carried his switchblade in a plastic bag up his ass. 

Zeb hauled himself up to his feet and slunk to the edge of the porch, looking around. Had these kids come alone?

He smelled exhaust and cocked his head.  Car-- old Nissan sedan--a college student's car.

"Denny? What are you doing? Man, that looks painful... oh my God!"

Of course. Denny wanted to keep Colton with him-- what better way than to give him the eternally furry clap? Not the act of a sane man, but then, those boys who'd shown up from SoCal and threatened Green's Hill hadn't been sane.

Zeb didn't have time to think--he should have thought, because what he was about to do might kill him, but he'd gotten invested in the characters of the little peep show in the fishing shack. Denny loved Colton in that wholly selfish way that young men had. Colton wanted to raise them both up, but Denny would rather drag Colton down. Except this was scary, it was for real, and it was irrevocable, and if someone had been there to rescue Zeb from his first shot of heroin, he would be forever grateful now.

He woofed.

Colton's voice inside the cabin rose to a frightened shriek. "Denny!"

Zeb heard the rattle of claws on the floor of the fishing shack, heading for the door and knew Denny had taken the bait.

Balls out, no holds barred, Zeb started running.

*  *  *
As tired as he was, he was also full grown. And smarter. And he knew how to use water and he knew how to think through a problem.

He escaped hot pursuit by jumping in the lake, swimming to an inlet, and running back around to the service road the kids had used to find the fishing shack.  He stopped for a rabbit then, because starving, but after that it was just a matter of following his nose to the car by the shack.  

And, huddling on the porch, peering into the falling darkness, he found Colton.

"De--Denny?"

Well, hell. Zeb got a little closer so the kid wouldn't have the dark as an excuse, and changed.

"Oh my God!"

"Kid, look-- don't be so loud. I think he swam by  me in the lake and hopefully has another six miles to go, but that guy was going to bite you and we don't have much time!"

"You're naked."

Zeb gaped for a moment. "That's what you're worried about?"

The kid's jaw snapped shut, and Zeb got a chance to actually see him. Not a bad looking kid--about 5'7", powerfully built. Not a waif like the conversation had implied. In fact, he probably weighed more in sheer muscle than Zeb, who had a few more inches on him. Zeb had an impression of dark hair and dark eyes in tanned skin, and, well... a stunningly male handsomeness to him.

Zeb hadn't expected that. This kid was fully blown hot, and, well, surprise!

"What-- where's Denny?" The kid's jaw trembled. "Did you... did you eat him?"

Zeb curled his lip and wrinkled his nose, knowing the gesture was more wolf than human. "No. I just... eluded him. But it won't last for long! Who's car is that?"

"Mine," Colton replied, and Zeb shook his head.

"Then what in the hell are you still doing here?"

"My parents won't let me go away to school-- they think it's too dangerous."   This said with big, guileless eyes and a vulnerable quiver to his full lower lip.

Zeb couldn't hardly stand it. "Kid, you are killing me."

Colton seemed to pull himself back to where he was supposed to be. "Denny is my friend-- I mean... I can't just leave him!"

Oh hell. "Look, Colton? He's... he's sick. I mean, the kind of werewolf he is. There's something wrong with them. I..."  He grimaced. "The blood on my shirt? Most of it's mine--because there was a werewolf running through the brush shooting at me with a rifle-- how's that make sense?"

Colton gaped. "I don't understand."

Off in the distance Zeb heard it--the bay of a wolf who had just caught his scent.  Fuck.

"Kid--look. Do you have a gun?"

"No!"

"Good--so you can either hop in the car and take me to fucking Bakersfield, or I can throw you over my shoulder, lock you in the trunk and drop you off when we get there."  Way to go, Zeb! Scare the kid to death!

"Why Bakersfield? Is that where you live?"

"No-- but that's the outer edge of the turf war you just got involved in. What's it gonna be?"  Denny bayed again, and fuck if that kid wasn't making time.  Zeb knew his werewolf strength and speed, and he had some control after three years as a wolf. While using wolf-speed to zoom closer to the building, he closed his eyes and fixed turned only his claw. With a swipe of his paw he took out the railing of the fishing shack porch and then looked at the kid, knowing his eyes flashed gold.

"I don't want to steal your car, kid," he growled. "And I really don't want that fucker to bite you--but either way, I've got to get back to my turf and warn people that shit's about to get real."

Colton's eyes grew huge, and he unconsciously wet his lips. "Bakersfield?" he asked, voice high. "Is that as far as I can go?"

"What?"

"Wherever you're going--take me. Or I"ll take you. I'll get out, right now--just say I can tag along."

Zeb almost laughed. "You make that call when we get there," he said urgently. "But right now?"

Colton was nodding when Zeb heard another wolf bay, this one from slightly further away. Oh fuck.

"Kid, fucking move!"

They were in the Nissan, speeding up the trail when Zeb looked behind him and saw four wolves breaking into the clearing with the shack.  All four of them sniffed the air, probably smelling Zeb and Colton in the car, and howled, and Zeb's heart threatened to throttle him with the pounding in fear.

"Faster," he whispered. "Faster, kid, faster..."

Colton didn't respond, but the car jolted ahead and gave a slight fishtail. Zeb heard something bump on a divot in the road and he wondered if they were going to have to steal a car on the way back across the fucking state.

And then all he could focus on was relief as they hit actual road and sped away at faster-than-werewolf speed.

Fanfic Friday: Knotty-- Cartinski

Okay-- I'll be honest. I put out a vote for who wanted what fanfic, and the results were frighteningly even.  The choice was Stucky, SuperBat, and Cartinski, and let's just say… split. Like a trident. So, my deciding factor?

Has nothing to do with the vote.

I'm writing a category romance for Dreamspinner Press-- a Dreamspun Desire.  And the thing with these is it's all about the simmer, and when I get to the sex, well, it's got to be three flames at the hottest. No raw animal rutting for my sweet tamale boy and his gentleman caller, no-- it's all going to be washing languorously onto love's transcendent shore.

I really needed to write some serious fucking.  Which left me with SuperBat or Cartinski.  And since the last SuperBat left us in a place where I needed to actually plot in order to get to the sex, I'm going for the Cartinski.  If you may recall, John had just fled Beacon Hills because it was the full moon and he didn't want to see mad raw-dogging all over the backwoods.

So he fled to Carter's house--and to a man blissfully unaware of what most shapeshifter writers have to grapple with all the time.

It's sort of a knotty problem, actually… *runs screaming from all of the spit wads flung after that horrible pun*

*  *  *

Carter liked the way John handled his children.  He was kind to his oldest--the boy who wasn't his but whom he'd raised like a son for the last six years--and sweet and adorable with the little girls.  He asked them all earnest questions, and when he got answers way above his pay grade and IQ, he didn't even raise his eyebrows.

Well, Stiles had a job in Eureka-- odds were good he was used to being baffled by offspring by now.

But finally-- finally--the kids were in bed, and Carter had a chance to talk to the house.

"Sarah?" he asked cautiously, leading John into the bedroom.  "Sarah--are you here?"

"Yes, Jack," Sarah said, her voice warm and seductive.  John gave a little gasp of surprise.  "Is there someone with you tonight? Someone not Allison?"

"You know there is."  Carter kept his voice firm. "Sarah, this is John Stilinski--we're dating."

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days," Sarah said primly.

"No, Sarah, the kids are calling it sex, and we'd like to have some-- but without the kids being able to hear us do it. Can you make sure that happens?"

There was a sullen silence. "But Sheriff, your relationship with Allison may not be completely severed. There is still hope. Nathan may possibly have changed after his time as nothing but anti-matter, and there is no guarantee that she'll be able to live with him--"

Carter groaned and rubbed the back of his neck.  "Sarah, what is Allison doing right now?"  He knew the damned house was tracking her across town-- because she'd given him updates on the night that Allison had decided to go back to Nathan.

"Allison's respiration is accelerated by thirty percent, her endorphins are high, and she appears to have blood flowing to several erogenous zones upon simulation… oh."

"Yeah, Sarah. My ex-wife is getting lucky. Any way I can get lucky too?"

"No sound will leave the room, Sheriff, but if the children are alarmed or need you, I will allow you the option of answering."

"Thank you, Sarah. So, unless it's an emergency--"

"I shall pretend I'm not here."

"Perfect."

Carter usually stood and looked up at the ceiling when he was talking to the house, so he finished up and turned to see how John took his relationship with the sentience that watched over his family.

John was under the blankets, fully clothed, with the covers over his head.

"Uh… John? Stilinski? You okay?"

"The house will see me naked," he said, like this was something Jack hadn't thought of at least a thousand times over the last ten years.

"Yes, but she doesn't judge," he said kindly. "And I will get to see you naked too, so there's that."  He liked John naked. John Stilinski took care of himself-- he was a little stocky in the chest and a little knobby in the knees, but mostly, he was serviceable muscle.  Carter liked that in a male lover-- just like he enjoyed a smile and a sense of play and the ability to switch hit.

"Nobody is ever going to see me naked ever again," John said, like he'd just decided. He remembered to kick off his boots though, before hauling his knees to his chest under the comforter, so Carter took heart.

Quickly, he stripped off his clothes and kicked off his shoes.  "Let me in," he demanded, pulling the edge of the blanket up.  "C'mon, let me play in the blanket fort-- it's cold out here!"

"Sheriff, it's 78 degrees inside the house-- if you would like me to heat it up--"

"Not now, Sarah, you're missing the point."

"I shall refrain from speaking, sir."

"Now you understand."

"That house sees us!" John mumbled, sounding a little hysterical. "There are werewolves fucking all over Beacon Hills and a house is going to see me naked!"

"Well, she's getting a load of me naked, so could you let me in the blanket fort?" Carter begged, and he reckoned John did love him because he held the blanket open just long enough for Carter to dive in.  "Thank you," he mumbled as John closed the blanket over the other side of his hips and made sure they were both tucked in like mummies.

"I need to lose ten pounds," John said seriously.  "And work out more. Lots more. LIke two hours a day. "

"Hon," Carter said, stroking his cheek in the close space of the blanket fort, "you're fine."

"Carter, the house is going to see that I'm fat! Can't you hear her? She's going to say, 'But Sheriff, your current partner is far less desirable than your last one. Can you not see that he has at least ten pounds more body fat and is closer to a heart attack than Allison so you should probably not ever have sex with him again!"

Carter buried his face against John's stubbled neck and giggled.  "Seriously?  You're going to let a house tell you not to get laid?"

"Sheriff Carter, your current partner can't get an erection right now, perhaps you'd like me to play some mood music. Does Sheriff Stilinski enjoy smooth jazz?"  John's voice cracked at the end of a rusty impression of Sarah's measured tones, and Jack pushed himself up on John's chest and started unbuttoning his official uniform shirt.

"Would smooth jazz work?" he asked sliding the shirt off John's shoulder.

John rolled under the fort and helped him out a little.  "I hate smooth jazz. Who can get laid listening to the saxophone?"

"Well then, there will be no smooth jazz played here tonight," Carter soothed.  He started working on John's belt, and was relieved when John grudgingly lifted his hips to let his khakis be pushed down to the bottom of the bed.

"Small mercies," John grumbled.  Carter slithered back up under the blanket fort and then rolled right on top of John, knowing that John Stilinski could take his weight--and anything else dished out to him.

"John Stilinski?" Carter said, undulating his hips so their bodies could get familiar and hard.

"What, Jack Carter?"

"I'm glad you're here tonight."

"I wish we were in Beacon Hills," John said honestly. "But we wouldn't be having sex there either. There is literally a wolf howling and fucking on every street corner."

Carter laughed--not because he didn't believe him, but because it was a funny thing to be afraid of. "Well then-- who says we're not having sex here?" he asked.

John glared at him--but he also brought his hands to Jack's hips and held him tight so they could buck up against each other.  "I think we have to be nak--"

Ah, Carter had been dying to kiss him again, since that first one outside in the car. John opened for him, warm and male and a little bitter--the pizza had been burnt.  Carter plundered anyway, and lost himself in the hardness of John's hands against his ass, the strength of John's chest, and the no-bullshit way he accepted the reality of two male bodies mashed together.

Carter was getting hard--but so was John--and Carter rolled off of him in order to scoot down and shuck his boxers down past his knees.

"Guess what?" he asked playfully, peering at John under the blanket.

"I'm hard," John muttered, knotting his fingers in Jack's hair.

"And naked," Jack said, lowering his head and slurping, hard, and the pre-cum leaking from John's cock.

John bucked, sensitive, probably, surprised into sudden arousal and easily ramped higher.  Or maybe--the little slut-- Jack's big male lover sort of secretly got off on knowing they were being watched, and was just afraid of knowing that about himself.

Which made him even more dear.

Carter lowered his head and raised it, sucking hard and squeezing at the base and teasing the slit with his tongue, gratified when John groaned.  Oh yeah-- one of the best things about John--when he was ramped, he was greedy and unashamed about it. When John bent his knees and spread his thighs, begging to have all his parts played with, Carter took that for what it was. He dribbled spit on the two fingers wrapped around John's cock and then shoved them none-to-subtly where the sun doesn't shine, and was thrilled when John came.

Judging from John's shocked cry, he was thrilled too--and maybe over his knowledge that the house could hear them too.

Carter swallowed, slimy and sweet, and continued to suck, until John was hard again, but oversensitive.

"John?" he said clearly, still stroking John off.

"Yeah?" Oh good-- he sounded loopy and relaxed and still aroused. Perfect. 

"I'm going to throw the covers back and grab the lube from the drawer, okay?"

"Lube?" he asked, still sounding a little  out of it.

"Yeah," Carter said, practically purring. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't see straight, okay?"

"The house…"  John muttered, but Carter thrust his fingers into John's orifice again, and he forgot what he was going to say as he arched his hips off the bed and beat feebly at the mattress.

Carter was already in the open air and reaching for the lube. "The house can't have you," he said, meaning it.  Just a little bit of lube, there we go, right along Carter's shaft.

He shifted on the bed, kneeling between John's knees, and thrust in.  John threw his head back about the pillows and screamed-- loudly--in pleasure, and Carter didn't monitor his own voice as he thrust forward and grunted from his gut.

Ah, Gods, yes. Loud sex--it was almost more of a turn on than sex with the lights on, because he and John spent so much time trying not to disturb the werewolf with hyper hearing who often was having sex in the same house.

Carter took a lot of joy in pounding into John Stilinski's ass, throwing his hips forward, letting his orgasm build at the base of his spine.  When John finally gave another whimper and scratched at Carter's shoulders, Carter's climax hit him like a storm.

His cry of pleasure cracked through the room like thunder.

The comedown was awesome too, and Carter pulled the blanket up over both of them in deference to John's returning sensibility that the house was watching.

"Hey," Carter said, sliding until they were chest to chest, the blanket pulled over their shoulders.  "What's knotting?"

John actually stopped looking wildly around the dimly lit room. "Knotting?"

"Yeah-- you said the werewolves were knotting when you drove up.  What does that mean?"

John dug deeper into the bed and stopped looking around the room completely. "Nothing," he muttered. "Not a damn thing. Are you ready to go yet? I'm ready to go again. Who's gonna top? I say you. You're good at topping--"

Carter stopped him with a kiss, one that was designed to rev them just a little bit more.  "Okay," he mumbled. "I got it. You'll tell me some other time."

John hummed and kissed him harder. "Yeah, fine," he said. "Maybe I'll top this time."

*  *  *

"Ouch," Stiles said.

"I'm sorry," Derek muttered, burying a mortified face into the back of Stiles's neck.

"Ouch."

"I don't know what to say-- it'll take twenty minutes to go down."

"Ouch."

"Stiles, I wanted you to top--"

"I was wrong. Jesus, Derek, can't you think of anything that will make it go down quicker?"

"No-- I've tried everything. Sports scores, saggy butts, kittens--"

"Well look at it!" Stiles begged. "Isn't it going down a little."

Derek didn't even try to look at it. He just groaned into Stiles's back some more. "Baby, looking at it gets me hot again!"

"Oh God. Derek, what's going to happen if my dad gets home and we're still stuck here?"

Oh… oh God. Derek's sweaty embarrassment turned to sweaty panic just that fast.

"Oh no," he whispered.

"Oh yes!" Stiles crowed, slithering out form under Derek as quickly as he could now that the swelling at the base of Derek's cock had gone down.

"Oh thank God," Derek murmured, rolling to his side. He glared at Stiles. "Next time," he threatened.

"Yeah," Stiles said, nodding fervently. "I hear you. Next full moon, I top!"

.. or Was it Left? (The rest of yesterday's fic)

And we start with our intrepid heroes right before poor John gets put in the hospital, shall we?

* * *

 John thought that, if she hadn't ripped Carter's heart out, he might actually have liked Allison, Carter's ex.

Or at least she would have been his type.

"I'm sorry, Carter," she said acerbically, "you want me to what?"

"The alternative energy whatsis ," Carter said bluntly. "You need to drop it. One of our guys is out there with some sort of weapon, and his son and his son's friends can't protect themselves with it up."

The pretty woman with the amazing dark eyes and lovely dark skin frowned. "But the only way that thing would be a problem for anybody is if…"  She frowned at John.  "Your son's a supernatural being?"

John grimaced. "Not since his junior year in high school," he said apologetically. "But all his friends are werewolves."

"And his boyfriend," Carter said helpfully.

"Yeah him."  John didn't even want to think about his uneasy friendship with Derek Hale right now.  "They're running for their lives-- can we maybe take down the barrier so they can get away?"

"And figure out who's got a laser that converts to plain old bullets when it passes the barrier," Carter said, all business. "This guy is trying to kill innocent--"

John made a noise.

"They're innocent," Carter insisted, "People!"

"Well," Allison said with an indulgent smile, "since you're worried, we can put someone on it. But remember, this is Eureka, Jack-- we don't really get casualties here."

"Yeah, well people drop like flies in Beacon Hills," John snapped, "so maybe we could get a move on!"

Allison's head snapped back liked he'd hit her, and suddenly she looked actually concerned.  "Oh… yes. You're right. I'm sorry… here…"  She hit a button at her desk. "Fargo!"

Five minutes later, John was standing in a situation room with green X's and red X's and Carter and Allison standing together and finishing each other's sentences.

Fucking wonderful.

"So," Carter said tersely, "this spot here is the power source for the cross-preternatural-atom-smasher thingie--"

"And it's not working well,"  Allison muttered. "It wasn't well designed. It may just break down by itself--"

"Well we can't count on that!" John protested. "You people may have that kind of luck, but believe me, it doesn't run in Beacon Hills!"

"I hear you," Carter said distractedly. He was busy tracing the line with his fingers. "Okay-- that's the barrier, and it's part of his defenses-- if we destroy that--"

"But you can't just destroy it, Carter," Allison said, her tone lecturing and familiar at once. ""You have to shove something in here-- see?  This part right here?  That will complete the circuit.  And then get out of there because it won't take much to overload and short out. Now, Peterson--"

"The werewolf employee you fired," Carter supplied helpfully.

"Hey-- we didn't fire him because he was a werewolf--"

"But he didn't know that, so now he wants to kill all the fucking werewolves to prove something to you--"

"I'm sorry!" Allison exclaimed. "Look-- we had no idea there were so many of them. We didn't expect that barrier to catch anything, you understand? We're going to have to hire the guy who designed it back--we thought it was nuts!"

"We live forty miles away," John snapped, out of patience with their banter. "Forty goddamned miles. Somebody could have looked up our crime rate to see if maybe there wasn't something there. So right now, we've got to go put a… what? Something non-conductive in there, and we've got to do it before the… hey-- wait-- what's that?"

"That's Peterson," Allison said, assessing the infrared scans. "And he's tracking something."

"That's it!" John turned and stalked to the doorway. "I am going to go commandeer a goddamned car and get out there. That is my son he's tracking, and if it's not my son, it's his friends or his boyfriend, and basically kids I've known my whole life. So you people stay here and design kill jars for Tinkerbell, and I'm going to go save my kids."

He was halfway to the opulent elevator that would take him to the equally impressive atrium/foyer of the company when Jack appeared at his elbow.

"Jesus, John-- way to make an impression!" Carter laughed.

John cast him a sour look. "Are you sure she's gone back to her first husband? Because you two were pretty freakin' cozy. Maybe you can man the situation room and watch me become a little dot on the screen too.  Wouldn't have to move away from this madhouse if your boyfriend's a little dot on the screen, right?"

"John…" Carter soothed. "You know it's not--"

"Yeah. I get it. Not that easy. You've got kids. I get it. I've got kids, and your people are trying to kill them, and I'm not happy about that."  The elevator dinged and the two of them trotted down the steps and toward the entrance.  "I would really love it if nobody ended up dead, because believe me, it doesn't always go that way in my corner of the hell mouth, okay?"

Carter bumped shoulders with him. "Yeah, John. I get it. Let's go save your kids."

*  *  *

Stiles jumped his bike over a tree stump and around a big tree.  Behind him, he heard the weapon fire, and a bullet-- or laser bullet or whatever--ripped into the giant redwood he'd just used as shelter.  Another shot sounded, and he heard a yip of pain.

"Derek!" he shouted, just as Derek rounded the corner, barreling full speed. God, he wasn't sure how long the two of them could keep this up.

Sometime in the last hour, Scott and Liam had recovered their werewolf powers and for a moment, they'd distracted their pursuer while Stiles had tried to gain ground.  But he'd heard the gun report, and a couple of yips, and then silence, and his heart was pounding in his chest with worry.

God-- not Scott. Not Liam. They were probably just healing-- right?

Derek seemed to be able to shake the plain lead bullets that the laser was shooting, so they should-- right?

The barrier that had crippled Scott and Liam at the beginning had been fading in and out-- it was weird. It was like the power source was malfunctioning, and Stiles was beginning to hear a fluctuating, piercing whine as they ran.

But beyond the worry and the hope, there was the other worry and hope, and that was that they were being herded somewhere. There was a destination in mind. That was good, because Stiles knew his dad was coming to help. If there was a destination in mind, that meant his father wouldn't just be blindly wandering the woods trying to find running kids and wolves and asshole with a weapon, his dad could find them. 

It was a hope.

It was a hope that bloomed full grown when he steered the bike out into a clearing--and then turned and  stuck to the inner perimeter of the forest, because any idiot knew he was a sitting duck in the middle of the clearing.

The clearing was full of long grasses, with some sort of big machine whirring in the middle.  Oh, yeah-- probably the power center for whatever the barrier was. They were going to have to destroy that thing in a hot hurry, weren't they?  Stiles tried not to hit trees and brush while he scoped out the big scary machine, and it wasn't until he got about a quarter of the way around the perimeter--debris being shot around his head, that he realized that Derek was pretty fucking wily.

As soon as they'd burst into the clearing he'd sunk to his stomach, and while Stiles was dodging bullets and debris--

Derek was stalking their attacker-- but Stiles wasn't sure it was on the safe side of the barrier. What would happen if the thing went up-- would Derek be rendered helpless and naked for a few vital moments, like Scott had been?  God, what would happen if their attacker got caught in the barrier if it fluctuated up while they were struggling.

Oh hell-- not attacker-- he wasn't alone like they thought.

Attackers. 

Derek lunged at the guy with the gun and they both heard a "Don't worry, Dad! I'll amp up the barrier! He'll never live!"

Stiles panicked.

Wolf sounds and gun sounds were echoing throughout the clearing, and Stiles steered his bike through all of that deadly openness---

And was almost broadsided when a little electric police car burst in through a barely-visible dirt road.

The car screeched to a halt in front of the cement block holding the freaky machine, and Stiles's dad jumped out of the passenger side of the car, holding…

A baseball bat?

"Dad!" Stiles called out. "Dad-- what are you--"

The weapon fired-- but it was aimed inside the barrier, so a very effective laser shot out and cut the electric car in half.

"Aw crap," Carter muttered. He pulled out the weapon in his holder and went running in the direction of the trigger happy sonofabitch who killed his car.

"Stiles get down!" John called. "And call Derek off that guy-- Jack'll get him. He's a--"

"Dad!"

They could all hear the full snarling cacophony of a full-on werewolf fight.

"Dad, you're one of them!"

"Oh Jesus, save us all," John muttered.

"Crap!"

John and Stiles both looked up in time to see a kid in his late teens pick up the fallen weapon by the struggling furry bodies of Derek and a werewolf John had never seen before.

"Derek, no!"  Stiles cried out, and at that moment, the fluctuating whatever it was next to John gave a giant fuzzy red throb.

The two struggling werewolves because two struggling naked men, and Carter drew up short, exclaiming, "Oh that's not pretty!"

And the kid with the gun stood there with his finger on the trigger, his chin quivering. "Dad…"

Okay.  John recognized an opportunity when he saw it. He grabbed his bat-- Stiles's bat, actually, it was in the back of his car-- they'd passed it on the way.

Stealthily he made it to the power thingie, which was designed pretty much like any bad-guy's machine ever, with a big sparking gap in the middle that would fit a baseball bat perfectly. (John wondered if maybe Eureka wasn't a giant supernatural node exactly opposite of Beacon Hills's energy signature, because if this had been in Beacon Hills, it would have A. Looked a lot less simple and a lot more sinister, and B. Been guarded by something deadly that John had never heard of. No wonder Carter thought he could do anything-- his town pretty much cake-walked the hard stuff.)

He drew near the hydro-atomic-preternatural-energy-whatever and pulled out the bat, never taking his eyes off the kid.

Who apparently had gotten over his shock at finding out his father was a werewolf and had decided to kill them all.  And Stiles was the person closest to him, so that's where he aimed.

"Hey, asshole!" John called, and he couldn't miss the panicked look Carter gave him, or the way he stopped sneaking up on the kid and looked from John to the kid in back in agony. Tackle him, or shoot him? Tackle him or shoot him?  What a terrible choice.

Maybe John could save him.

"Look! You may want to take cover," John called out, edging closer to the reactor, "Because I don't know what this is going to--"

He shoved the bat into the space, and then hauled ass--toward the kid with the gun.

"Mister, what did you do?"  The kid asked in a panic.

"Michael, run!"  said his father, naked and disoriented on the ground.

"Don't talk to me!" Michael shouted. "You told me they were horrible, and you're one of them?"

The gun leveled toward Derek and Peterson on the ground again, and Stiles threw himself in front of both of them.

Jack leveled his weapon at the back of Michael's head and said, "Michael, put the gun down!"

MIchael looked behind him to see what the new threat was, and John shoved Stiles out of the way, hissing, "Get Derek out of here before that thing goes!"

Stiles grabbed Derek, who was staggering now, wobbling on his two feet, and looking behind him in confusion. Together they started shambling toward the forest, and just as John heard Stiles shout, "Scott! Liam! Get out of here, we don't know what's going to happen when that thing goes!", Michael leveled the weapon at John…

And the generator for the barrier shorted out, sending a shockwave of preternatural and hydro-atomic energy rocketing around the little clearing.

And the gun went off.

And that was the last thing John could remember.

*  *  *

And now he was loopy in the hospital, and everybody was taking responsibility for the fucked up kid and the dad who didn't want to be a werewolf.

And John just wanted Carter to stay.

"Scott's okay, you know," Carter said quietly, when John wandered off.

"Yeah," John smiled. "You said. Love that kid like I love my son. Don't want the werewolves to get killed. Is that so bad?"

"No."  Carter held his hand up to his lips.  "You know… Allison was by while you were out."

Ick. "Wonderful. Did you practice reading each other's minds and trade parenting pro-tips?"

"No," Carter said again. "We talked about how easy it would be to pave a road between Eureka and Beacon Hills off the main drag."

"Why would you do that?" John asked suspiciously. "Don't you have a talking house or something?"

"Yeah," John conceded. "And Sarah really loves my family. But.. you know. I could, maybe, hang out there when it's my turn with the kids, but…"

John swallowed. "So… like shared custody. I get shared custody of you with your stupid electronic town."

"Do you not want any custody at all?" Carter asked, and John looked up and saw his blue eyes held the same expression they had when Carter had propositioned him in the bar, those months ago.

They held hurt.

"Of course," John muttered. "Full custody would be nice. Full custody would be…"  Suddenly he started to chuckle, low and evil. "So that talking house," he muttered. "Would that be… you know… vacant, when you're not there with the kids?"

"Yeah?" Carter said doubtfully. "Why?"

"Cause I bet a werewolf and his boyfriend could live there. What do you think."

Carter nodded, and relaxed. "I think that sounds really good."  He closed his eyes then, and held John's palm to his cheek. "Almost as having you better sounds. You ready to get out of here? They say you can go home tomorrow."

John rolled his eyes, falling asleep already. "You're gonna make a shitty nurse, Jack Carter," he said distinctly.

"You're the idiot who's putting himself in my care," Carter murmured. "You have only yourself to blame."

Of course he did.

John closed his eyes and dreamed of waking up next to a man, an equal, a partner.

Dreamed of making love to that person at night.

Dreamed of making a life and a home in a way he'd never suspected.

Dreamed of Jack.


*  *  *

Okay-- probably not next week, when I'll be at GRL, but the week AFTER, we'll see Jack nursing John back to health.

And Then the Wolf Zigged Right

 Okay guys-- I was hoping I'd finish this installment tonight, but it's been something of a day, on the tail end of something of a week. I'm going to hit you with my best shot and hope for the best, okay?  (Turns out my best shot was not much. Sorry!  Maybe I'll add more to it tomorrow.)

*  *  *

"It was not," John Stilinski said muzzily from the hospital bed. "Not Jack's fault, not Stiles's fault…"

"Dad!" Stiles said, at the same time Jack squeezed his hand.

"znice," he mumbled. "So nice my son loves me. Would be even better if there wasn't such a big fuss everyone trying to get killed. That would be real frickin' nice."

"I'd have to agree with that," Derek muttered, sending Stiles a dark look.

"I was not trying to get killed!" Stiles retorted. "What I was trying to do was keep a certain werewolf from getting killed!"

"So was I," John said happily. "Me too! Scott--I was trying to keep Scott from getting killed."  He sobered, all business.  "We know Scott," he said, looking at Carter like Carter would find this totally okay. "He's Stiles's best friend-- good guy. Alpha werewolf. Lost his girlfriend in high school, very sad."

"Not as sad as him trying to date all those women when he's nuts bout Liam," Stiles muttered.

John shook his head like he was trying to wave that way. "I don't want to know about Scott's sex life," he begged. "I know way too much about yours."

"Well right backatcha," Stiles snapped, and Derek was a dear and smacked him on the back of the head.

"That's your fault,"Derek hissed. "Now let's make sure your dad's alright so he can talk to Carter!"

John smiled at his son, feeling like the whole world was a big balloon, and nodded. "Fine," he said, still stoned. "I like Carter. He's okay."

Stiles grunted and glared some more, but Derek nudged him meaningfully.  Stiles sighed and kissed his dad on the cheek. "Get better, Dad. We'll check with you a little later, okay?"

Sheriff Stilinski nodded, and then stared at Carter for a moment.  "You're staying, right," he said, eyes big.

Carter pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "You asked," he said after a sigh-- but he was still squeezing John's hand.

"You like me," John said loopily. "Can't ditch a bozo who likes me."

A corner of Jack's mouth quirked up. "Yeah, neither can I--but I'm telling you, Johnny boy, it's a rough sell when you jump into a hydro-electron atomic capacitor with nothing more than a baseball bat."

John nodded. "I'll be honest-- I was going for the guy with the gun."

"Yeah, I figured when the capacitor went off. You were damned excited about running in font of that thing, do you know that?"  Jack shuddered, and it was John's turn to squeeze his hand.

"We'll have to agree to disagree," he slurred, but Jack shook his head.

John groaned inwardly. He had the feeling Jack was not going to forgive him easily for how it all went down.

* * *

You Ask Him

P.S.-- I'm calling this fandom John/Jack.  Since nobody else seems to have thought about it or named it, I'm going to claim that in the name of Amy Lane!

For those of you who didn't tune in LAST Friday, this is John Carter from Eureka and John Stilinski from Teen Wolf with a side of Sterek!  Enjoy :-)

(P.S. Yaoi-Con pix tomorrow!)

***

That part where Stiles resolved never to think about what his father did with Jack Carter was a total lie by the way.

After breakfast, during which Jack offered Stiles a career on a plate--and one nearby, so that he wouldn't have to move away from Derek, because sex with Derek was getting to be a staple of his existence-- Stiles and Derek spent a lazy Sunday morning in the living room, reading each other funny memes from the internet.

During a lull in the conversation, Stiles decided to broach the subject.

"You ask him."

"Ask who what?"  Derek was making lazy circles with his big toe on Stiles's ass through his sweats. Stiles wiggled, hoping his Dad and Jack would be gone long enough for them to have Sunday day sex, which was probably as awesome as Saturday night sex.

"Ask my dad."  Duh. Derek couldn't possibly tell him that he didn't think about it too!

"Ask your dad what?"

Stiles rolled over and looked at him, because it was obvious he was just being dense.

"You know. Who tops."

Derek got up and left the room.

* * *

The conversation had not changed as John had driven them from the bar.  They bantered, they talked about their jobs in law enforcement, they told their funniest/weirdest cases, and even, when the silences between them grew ruminative, their wives.

But John pulled the car up next to his son's battered jeep in the driveway--and next to Derek's sports car--and killed the engine. The silence between them fell thick and heavy.  John stared straight ahead and felt the heat radiating from Jack's body.

He thinks we're going to have sex. 

In his mind's eye he saw that homely/handsome face, and his heart and stomach clenched. Would it be hard to touch that face? To feel that mouth on his? Would he reject this man who would be nothing but kind to him, out of a moment of old inhibitions that he'd never believed were valid anyway?

The thought of Jack Carter hurt, faking it like he had in the bar--that made John ache in a whole different way.

He turned to look at Carter and saw the other man studying him in the light.

"You know," Jack began, "this doesn't have to hap--"

John kissed him.

His logical Sheriff's brain kicked in.

Lips: soft as a woman's.

Heat: Hotter, all encompassing.

Texture: Stubble rough against my jaw and cheeks. 

Neck beneath my hands: Skin a little tougher, but still sensitive.

Tongue: INVADING MY MOUTH!!!

Jack took over the kiss.

John found himself shoved back against the car seat with Jack's broad chest covering his, Jack's big, rough hands holding his biceps under his sports jacket.

HIs mouth on John's demanded a blunt, no-bullshit return for the solid domination of cheeks, lips, and tongue.

John returned it, stroking Jack's cheeks with his thumbs and keeping his eyes closed against the alien thought of a man doing this to him.

Although he wasn't kidding himself at all-- Jack Carter tasted like all man.

Jack pulled away from him and John opened his eyes, gasping in surprise.  Jack's hands cupped his cheeks, and his blue eyes--colorless under John's flickering self-installed street light--bored into John's.

"How you feeling?" he asked soberly. "Do you think you can do it aga--"

John kissed him again, this time dominating, pushing Jack back against his seat rest, and upping the game. The texture fascinated him. What would Jack's stomach feel like under his shirt? The skin was silky against John's palms, the muscles hard and compact. The hair was silky too, and his pecs were hard and heavy.  Oooh… solid muscles, John loved that. He kneaded them, warming his fingers against that silky skin, and then, oh, wait, there they were, against his palms, against his fingertips…

Nipples!

Tiny, pointed nipples. He rubbed circles with them as he continued to drive his tongue into Jack's mouth, and then, as they grew erect under his fingers, he pinched them both.

Jack groaned, and John felt strong fingers grasping the short hair at his crown and tugging.

"I was trying to go slow!" he gritted.

John paused, saw the toughness, the vulnerability, the basic decency of this plainly pretty man. He pulled Jack's hand from his shoulder and kissed the knuckles, letting his tongue trace the scars that had come from a life lived between civility and violence, between law and insanity.

"I don't need slow," he said decisively. "I need these hands--hard hands--on my body--augh!"

Jack had let go of his hair and had started squeezing his cock through his pants--he was as hard as he could ever remember being, harder than he'd ever thought to be again after his wife died.

"You need to tell me if I need to be gentle," Jack cautioned.

John traced his lower lip with a thumb. "I will take whatever you think I need," he said, closing his eyes and ceding his body and his pleasure to this other human--at least for this night.

Jack nodded, and he sealed the bargain with short, chaste kiss.  "Not in the car," he said, grimacing. "Aren't we a little--"

"Old to be in the car," Mr. Stilinski finished. "Yeah. Just… you know."

"Embarrassing."

"Right?"

They both separated and got out of the car, as efficient and utilitarian in their movements as they both were probably in their day to day lives.  John led the way to the side door, pausing before he unlocked it.  "You know, I really liked the kissing part," he said frankly. "Does the rest of it live up to that?"

Jack cupped one cheek and pulled him into another one.

"One way to find out."  He pulled up a corner of his mouth and John rubbed it with his dumb.

"Looking forward to it."

John preceded him through the door.

* * *

Stiles lay, naked and limp, under Derek's invading body. Derek watched, still thrusting, as orgasm rolled through Stiles's slender body, and his long, slender cock spat cum over his pale stomach.  Stiles gasped and opened his eyes, still panting.

Derek leaned forward, mindless of the mess, of his own full to bursting cock, throbbing for release in Stiles's ass.  His kiss was slow, languorous, and soulful.

When he pulled away, Stiles's eyes were still closed, and Derek's orgasm pulsed upward, from this thighs, stomach, and groin.  His erection, hard and clenched tightly, beat in time to his thundering heart as he groaned and fell forward.

Oh God, even a slow, lazy fuck, brought him to his knees.

He collapsed against Stiles, panting, hips still twitching as the climax vibrated out through his cock.

For a moment, there was nothing in the room but their hearts beating in time.

"Stiles," he said after a moment, careful because this was something they hadn't said before.

"Yeah?"

"YOu know I love you. I mean, you know that, don't you?"

He felt Stiles smile against his stubbled cheek. "Yeah, Sourwolf. Love you too."

"I mean, I really love you."

He pulled back and looked deeply into those playful, bitter gray eyes, hoping Stiles would see what he was trying to say.

"Yeah--I really love you too. What's up?"  Sudden panic almost flailed the both off the bed.  "You're not breaking up with me, are you?"

"No," Derek said decisively. "But we're not officially boyfriends, and not 'hooking up' like you told Scott the other day, so know that."

Stiles nodded.  "Yeah, yeah-- I hear you. I just didn't want to--"

"You're not jumping the gun. I love you, this is real, and you need to know that."

"Good--I"m glad I kn ow that.  Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do I need to know right now?"

Derek swallowed and touched foreheads with his beloved.  "Because. Stiles, I'm not asking your father who tops when he's with his new boyfriend."

Stiles smiled under his lips. "Yes you are."

"No."

"Yes."

"No!"

Stiles kissed him, hard, and not playfully at all.  Derek, who had thought he was replete and done with sex for the day, began to get hard while still in Stiles's body.

"Yes," Stiles murmured, and Derek groaned and kissed him silent.

And tried really hard not to think about what he was going to have to do after Stiles fucked him into submission.

* * *

Okay folks-- We'll see what John and Jack actually did in the bedroom NEXT week!