#stilesparrish

He has three hours left in his shift and, unless something catastrophic occurs between now and then, he plans on spending all of that time at his desk, right where he’s been perched since he arrived. The phones have been almost entirely silent, aside from some routine issues that were easily dealt with by deputies out in the field, and the bullpen is dim, lit only by half a dozen desk lamps scattered across the room. At the moment, he's the only one in the bullpen, although there are a few others scattered around the station, working on the backlog in the evidence room, grabbing a late meal or cup of coffee in the staff room, maybe even catching a nap in a storage closet.

He’s spent most of his time working on the mountain of paperwork sitting at the corner of his desk, only getting up to grab case files or another cup of coffee. He’s on his third, and the tower has shrunk down to more of a stack than anything, a stack that he might be able to complete by the time dawn (and the end of his shift) arrives.

Just as he reaches for the next form on the stack, the phone on the corner of his desk rings, the sound so unexpected that he actually jumps slightly before he grabs it.

“Beacon County Sheriff's Department, Deputy Parrish speaking.”

“Holy shit, you’re actually at your desk? I think this is a first.”

“Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are,” Jordan says, relaxing back into his chair now that he knows he won’t have to grab a notepad to scribble something down or run out the door. “What are you still doing up?”

“Can’t sleep,” Stiles replies with a frustrated groan. “Brain won’t shut up. Keeps reminding me that I have an exam in six hours. Well, four hours now. Guess it doesn’t matter that I literally spent all day studying with Lydia.”

“Guess not.” They’ve been through this enough times that Jordan knows there’s nothing he can suggest that will help; he’s pretty certain that Stiles has tried every possible remedy to silence his racing thoughts, aside from outright taking sleeping pills. Special teas, meditation, melatonin supplements; none of them have had any effect.

Talking doesn’t work either, not in the conventional way; Stiles still won’t be able to fall asleep once Jordan gets off the phone with him. But, at the very least, it’ll distract him for awhile and, as Stiles says, that’s almost as good.

“I should be able to talk for a bit,” Jordan says, pushing the paperwork away from him so that he isn’t distracted by it. “It’s been quiet here all night. I’m the only one in the bullpen right now.”

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Some of them are in the evidence room. Sleeping, maybe. Not that I blame them. I’d be sleeping too, if it weren’t for coffee.”

“In some alternate universe, we’re both asleep right now, together. But in your bed. Not in this piece of shit.”

“I offered to buy you a new one,” Jordan retorts. He’s only slept in Stiles’ bed a few times, when he was able to cash in some vacation days so that he could spend the weekend visiting him. On every occasion, he’d only be able to last one night on Stiles’ incredibly uncomfortable mattress, which was somehow simultaneously too soft and too firm; the rest of the weekend had been spent on an air mattress borrowed from Scott and jammed into the narrow space between Stiles’ bed frame and desk.

“You’re not buying me a new mattress,” Stiles replies, the eye roll obvious in his voice. “I’ll be home in two weeks, and I’ll figure something out by the end of the summer.”

“I’m sure you will,” Jordan replies, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

(He’s still planning on getting Stiles a mattress at some point and having it delivered to his apartment; it’s just a matter of keeping it a secret.)

“Seriously though, prepare yourself for when I come back. I’m going to make my dad give you at least a week off. Maybe two. We’ve got too much to catch up on.”

“Do we?” Jordan teases. “You do realize I talk to you more than literally anyone else in the world. Except maybe your father.”

“Bypassing the potential weirdness of that answer for a minute,” Stiles replies, “that wasn’t exactly what I meant by catch up.”

“I know what you meant,” Jordan says, laughing quietly. “You’re not wrong. I miss you.” It’s been a month since the last time they saw each other, since Stiles was able to come home for a quick weekend, and while they’ve been able to fit in a few Skype conversations since then, that’s a poor substitution for actually being together, for being able to feel Stiles’ long fingers travelling down his body and tugging at his hair, for being able to hear Stiles gasping and moaning and cursing underneath (or on top of) him.

“I miss you too,” Stiles says. There’s a rustling from his end of his phone line, one that Jordan associates with Stiles collapsing back onto his bed and dropping the phone onto his pillow. For a few moments, aside from his soft breathing, he’s quiet, and Jordan can’t help but wonder if maybe their brief conversation has managed to quiet Stiles’ mind long enough for him to get some sleep.

When Stiles speaks again, that thought swiftly flies from Jordan's mind.

“You know, in another alternate universe, I’m probably bent over your desk right now.”

Jordan presses his mouth shut before any potentially embarrassing sounds can slip from it. Instinctively, he swivels in his chair so that he can take in the entirety of the bullpen, just to make sure that no one has come in while he’s been distracted. Thankfully, it’s still empty, so he spins back around, fingers tightening on the casing of his phone.

“We really can’t talk about this right now,” he murmurs, clearing his throat.

“What if you don’t have to talk?” Stiles replies. His voice is lower, but there’s no mistaking the tone for exhaustion; this is the voice that puts shivers up Jordan's spine, that makes warmth flush his body. “I can do all the talking. You can just sit there, let me know that you’re listening every so often. Would that work?”

Jordan could say no.

He knows that Stiles wouldn’t push the issue if he did; he’d probably just say goodnight and hang up so that he could jerk himself off. Parrish could go back to doing paperwork, drink some more stagnant coffee, go home after his shift and get himself off while imagining Stiles’ voice speaking in his ear.

Or he could say yes. The ending would be the same, but the memories that would be playing his mind while he brought himself to the edge would be fresher, picture perfect into his mind.

Before he can make a decision either way, a resounding crash comes from the direction of the evidence room. The phone clatters to Jordan's desk as he gets to his feet and yanks his service pistol from his hip holster, keeping the safety off for the time being but keeping his thumb near it.

“Clarke?” he yells, waiting for some kind of misshapen shadow, something not quite human, to appear in the doorway leading to the evidence room. “You alright?” For a few long seconds, no response comes, and Jordan inches his thumb closer to the safety.

Thankfully, before he has to flick it off, Clarke pokes her head around the corner.

“One of our shelves just collapsed,” she says, sounding like she’s just barely resisting the urge to slam her fist into the wall. “Can I get your help for a few minutes?”

“Yeah,” he answers, sliding his gun back into his holster with a grateful sigh. “I just have to finish something up. Be right there.” With a nod, she disappears back into the hallway, and Jordan drops back into his desk chair, grabbing the phone.

“Stiles?”

“Still here. Everything alright?” Stiles asks, the sentence split in half by a yawn.

“Yeah, it’s fine. One of the shelves in the evidence room collapsed. Clarke asked if I could help her with it.”

“Those shelves have needed replacing for years,” Stiles laughs. “I’ll let you go clean up the mess. I’ll talk to you soon, yeah?”

“Let me know when you’re done your exam,” Jordan says. He glances over his shoulder again, just to ensure that the bullpen is still empty before he continues. “And Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“When you come home,” Jordan continues, “if you still want it, I’d be happy to bend you over my desk. So long as it's the one in my apartment.”

“You promise?” Stiles murmurs. He sounds tired, but that low undercurrent of desire is still present in his voice, and Jordan barely bites back a groan.

Parrish laughs, and Stiles knows he’s got him.

Derek scowls, looking between them.  ”You want to play a game that relies on bluffing against a werewolf?” he says.

"It’s okay if you’re scared," Parrish says, sliding down to sit on the floor opposite Stiles.  "I think the two of us can play just fine by ourselves.”  He looks up at Stiles and smiles, and something heats up in Stiles’s stomach, and he thinks, really?

Then Derek is elbowing him, shoving in right next to him.   ”Remember I warned you,” he grunts and Stiles jabs him back before settling into place..  

Stiles is, as much as he hates to admit it, a terrible poker player. He really shouldn’t be, because his dad isn’t, and Stiles learned young.  They used to camp during the summers, his mom, dad, him and Scott and in the late afternoons they used to sit around and his dad used to fleece them both silly.  His dad used to say that he and Scott showed everything on their face.  Apparently he still does.

"This isn’t as much fun as I thought it was going to be," he whines, clad only in his boxers.  Parrish has only lost his sweater, and Derek hasn’t lost anything yet.  

"I’m having plenty fun," Parrish says, leering at him.  Stiles sticks out his tongue, and Parrish tosses an M&M at him, hitting him square in the forehead.  

"Raise," Derek says, grinding his teeth.  Stiles doesn’t know what’s got a bug up his ass, but he wishes he’d relax, enjoy himself.  

He looks down at his hand and groans.  ”I fold,” he says.

Derek looks to Parrish, who shows his hand.  It beats Derek’s but more unfortunately, it means Stiles has lost again.

"Drop ‘em," Parrish says, and Stiles reddens, but stands up, hooks his thumbs into the elastic of his boxers and drags them down.

"Happy now?" Stiles says, and he throws himself sideways on one of the beds.  "Guess I just have to lay here until you two assholes finish."

“Maybe you should get us drinks,” Parrish says lightly.  He’s not looking away from Stiles, not even pretending not to check him out.  It’s making Stiles feel powerful, attractive.  

He stands again, doesn’t slouch, doesn’t cover himself.  “You want a drink, Derek?” he asks, brushing by him on the way to the mini-bar.

“Whiskey,” Derek says, and Stiles can feel both sets of eyes on him as he slowly, carefully bends to grab the bottle.

"We could change the stakes," Parrish says, low.  Stiles hears him, and knows exactly what he means.   A hot lick of fire chases up his spine but he doesn’t turn around, holds still until he hears Derek’s response.

"Fine," Derek says, “Stop fucking counting cards.”

“Stop listening to my heart when I bluff,” Parrish retorts.

"Oh joy," Stiles says.  "The two of you getting competitive.  Must be a day that ends in y."  But his voice is too high, and from the look on Derek’s face when he hands them their drinks, he knows Derek can smell his arousal.  

He wonders who he wants to win, who he’s rooting for.  

The game is brutal.  For all that Derek is a walking lie detector, Parrish is pretty impossible to read.  He wears that wide eyed innocent face, but he plays like a Vegas card shark.  

But it doesn’t seem to matter.  Derek’s playing like a man possessed, his eyes look a little wild and Stiles thinks he sees a hint of claw on a few shuffles.

"Jesus, Hale," Parrish says, slapping his cards down in defeat.  

Derek doesn’t look sorry.  He stands, stretches and cracks his spine, and then turns to meet Stiles’s eyes.

“You won,” he says, making jazz hands.  “Cue the parade.”

"You don’t have to," Derek says, but he draws closer, approaching the bed.  "It’s not—you can say no."

"Shut up," Stiles says.  "Just c’mere," and he reaches a hand up, tangles it in Derek’s shirt and pulls until Derek is crawling across him, settling over him.  

"I’d like to state for the record," Parrish says, moving onto the bed next to them.  "What he won was first round."   

Stiles sucks in a breath and looks between them, at Derek’s intense, hot stare, and Parrish’s wide eyed eagerness.  Parrish leans back and pulls off his boots, letting them hit the floor with a thud and Stiles watches, licking his lips.  

There’s a hand on his jaw and Derek is tilting his face away from Parrish, tipping his face back until they’re kissing.   It’s hot and wet and fierce and everything Stiles thought kissing Derek would be.  He can’t help himself from making little noises into Derek’s mouth, from hitching his hips up just a little, humping up into the air.  

“Eager,” Parrish says, tracing a finger over his hipbone.  “Better get the show on the road, Hale.  He looks like he needs something now.”

“You can wait your turn,” Derek snaps, breaking away from Stiles’s mouth.  Stiles’s lips feel a little swollen, he feels dazed and overheated.  He wants to agree with Parrish, he does want Derek to hurry up, but he’s also unaccountably nervous.  He’s slept with people now, yeah, but not more than one at a time, and not with anyone that’s looking at him the way they’re looking at him.  Like a feast, like prey.  

He lets out a shocked cry when Derek flips him, putting him ass-up in the air.   “I’m gonna eat you out now,” Derek says from behind him, calm as anything.  “Until you’re open enough that I can fuck you.  While I’m doing that, you can suck Parrish off.”

“How generous,” Parrish says, moving into position, his legs splayed around Stiles’s shoulders.

“Of course, if you come before I’m done, you forfeit your turn,” Derek snarks at him.  Parrish opens his mouth to retort and Stiles has abruptly had enough of them.  He opens his mouth and sucks Parrish in, takes him down his throat until whatever Parrish was going to say gets choked off in favor of a low groan.

Stiles feels Derek spreading him, feels the rough scrape of his beard on Stiles’s cheeks but he’s trying to concentrate on the cock cradled on his tongue, trying not to choke.  When the first press of Derek’s tongue comes, light and teasing against his hole, he almost loses the battle, almost takes Parrish too far down.

“Easy,” Parrish says, fingers brushing over Stiles’s jaw.  “Nice and easy, you got it.”

Stiles would like to answer that, would like to say that Stiles knows damn well what he’s got, but Derek’s licking him out now like a champ, sucking and nipping at his hole until Stiles can feel tears building up around his eyes as he thrusts back, grinds against Derek’s face.  He gives everything up to feeling for awhile, lets Parrish start thrusting up, fucking his face in gentle rocking motions while Derek does his magical ridiculousness, spearing his asshole open on his tongue and his fingers. 

He comes back to himself when Derek stops and he whines, desperate, around Parrish’s dick.   Derek’s still there though and he’s wrapping his arms around Stiles’s middle, lifting him up until Stiles is sitting astride Derek’s thighs. Parrish is sitting reclined against the headboard, flushed pink and watching as Derek moves Stiles where he wants him.   Stiles rocks down once against the hard cock he can feel under him, and Derek snarls, reaches between them and feeds it between Stiles’s cheeks.  

It’s good, so good being impaled like this.  Derek’s still got his forearm around Stiles’s ribs, holding him close to Derek’s chest.   Stiles can’t really move like this, forced to just take it as Derek powers up into him, hips snapping up and up and up.  But he can watch what it’s doing to Parrish, can watch the way Parrish is looking at them, loosely fucking his own fist.   

Stiles feels good, feels strong, feels like the center of everything in the way he never really does.  “Fuck me,” he hisses, and digs his fingers into Derek’s hair.

Derek snarls and moves faster, shoving Stiles down as he thrusts up and it’s like a spark being lit behind his eyes every time Derek hits his prostate.   He’s sweating everywhere, dick leaking against his stomach but he doesn’t even fight to grab it, content to let Derek hold him up, to let Derek give him all of this.  

It’s over faster than he wants, faster than Derek wants if the pained noise Derek makes as he comes is any indication.  His grip on Stiles gets almost too tight for a moment, like Derek doesn’t want to let him go, but then he does, carefully, gingerly lifts Stiles off of him.   

Stiles crawls forward, straddling Parrish’s hips.  “Your turn,” he says, lips quirking.  “How do you want me?”

“Just like this,” Parrish says, and settles more firmly into the pillows.  “Ride me.”

It’s a little daunting, but Stiles likes it, likes being on display for both of them.  Derek hasn’t gone far, is still kneeling next to them, watching.  Stiles shrugs and spreads his legs, moves into position over Parrish’s dick.

He can’t do anything but bounce, like this.  He gets his knees under him, lifts up a little and drops down, over and over, shocking little grunts out of Parrish who’s running his fingers up Stiles’s side and down his thighs.  Derek’s come is still dripping out of him on, and it’s making everything filthy, making Stiles feel dirtier than he’s ever felt in his life.  

“You’re so quiet,” Derek says into his ear.  He takes Stiles’s lobe between his teeth, presses just a little and then scrapes down until it’s tugged free.  

“Complaining?” Stiles says with a huff.  

“Not even a little,” Derek says and he gives Stiles his hand to fuck up into and Stiles is groaning as he shoves back onto Parrish’s cock and forward into the circle Derek’s fingers.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, squeezing down on one thrust so tight that Parrish tenses up, makes a spectacular noise and comes, spilling hot into Stiles.  

Derek makes a low noise and tugs Stiles down, off of Parrish’s cock, knocking him onto his back.  Stiles protests at the loss but Derek’s diving down, thrusting two fingers back into him and mouthing over his balls and taint.   It doesn’t take much, not between Derek’s fingers and hot mouth, before Stiles is coming too, crying out as his orgasm is wrenched from him.  

“Best game ever,” he says sleepily as someone swipes a wet cloth over his stomach and between his thighs.  He hears Parrish laugh as he’s turned and sandwiched between them, comfortable and warm.