Stiles lives alone, no roommate. He used to have one, but Connor dropped out of the FBI Internship after just a couple of months. That affords Stiles certain privileges, like not having to worry about being caught jerking off. He does it a lot. He's pretty sure that you're supposed to have more sex after high school, but he didn't exactly have the most by the book experiences growing up. For whatever reason, he strikes out a lot with girls around D.C.

He Tinders, because that's totally a verb once you've had a few drinks, which he's had, but he's not great at it. He knows he's funny in person, but it doesn't translate well to text, or at least that's what he tells himself. What he's better at is webcamming. Maybe it's because he can see the person, maybe because they can see him, he's not sure.

There are some downsides to doing cam stuff, which is mostly dicks. Sooooo many dicks. Like a metric ton of dicks. Even on sites that are supposed to have a lot of girls. Sometimes it's like falling into a swimming pool of dicks, and then trying to climb out with a ladder made of dicks. He didn't have anything against dicks. He liked his dick after all, and every now and then he could appreciate a good-looking dick. He played lacrosse with a statistically significant number of hot guys. His senior year he'd considered writing a paper on the possibility that the Nemeton as well as the high density of telluric currents in his home town had a direct impact on the body fat percentage and symmetrical facial features of residents. Scott's jaw being the anomaly he never quite figured out.

He should probably not have another alcoholic beverage, but the whiskey bottle on the table is just sitting there calling his masculinity into question. He'd fought monsters. He could handle another drink.

He's not naked, because nothing causes a girl to skip to the next random cam chat than a guy who is already balls deep in his own fist before he says hello. If he's being honest, which he rarely is with himself unless he's had a lot to drink, like tonight, but if he's being honest, he doesn't often find a girl who wants to do a cam sex thing. Usually he just gives up, tries to find some good amateur shit on Tumblr or Pornhub then rubs one out while promising himself he'll succeed next time.

Tonight, seems like a good night though so he figures he'll give it a try. He cracks open his laptop, checks what he looks like in the cam. He's not bad. If he was his type, he'd fuck himself, if he was the type to fuck guys on the regular. Which he wasn't. He wasn't the type to fuck anyone on the regular really. In fact, his mission was to find someone he could fuck on the regular. He picks up his drink, gulping down a few swallows while watching himself out of the corner of his eye. He did not look desperate. He looked like a guy who would be fun to chat with.

"You're a cool dude," he says to his camera image.

Jesus his life was fucking sad. Whelp, it's not like he was getting any better looking or wittier. Except he sort of is to himself, but that's probably the whiskey talking. He connects to his favorite site, the one he's had the most success with, which is to say that one time three different girls flashed him their tits in one night.

The first thing that comes up is a guy balls deep in his own fist. He sighs.

"Does that ever work for you, bro?"

The guy doesn't respond, just disconnects from him and sends Stiles back into the queue for another random chat partner. Whatever, he didn't even have a great dick. Anyway, the next person is a guy too, a shirtless one vaping. Stiles is pretty sure he can smell cinnamon and graham crackers through the internet via whatever strange magic is low key always fucking with his life regardless of whether he's in California or D.C.

He's going to be home in California for Christmas soon. He should be packing but instead he's trying to find a stranger to masturbate with on the internet. He raises his glass to toast Vape guy and takes another drink. Vape guy disconnects. Stiles is barely hurt that Vape guy didn't ask to see his dick. It's not like he'd have shown it, but still. Hurtful.

Stiles knows as soon as the girl appears on the screen that she's like fifteen or sixteen tops. He immediately disconnects. Another reason not to be mid jerk while trolling through chats, even though it was supposed to be age restricted, people were people. The next session opens up and Stiles is stunned.

"Jackpot," a woman says. And it's definitely a woman, not a girl, not a teen, a smoking hot blond woman maybe in her late twenties or early thirties.

"Jackpot?" Stiles asks, because he's not sure if she's fucking with him.

"Of course, baby. I came on here looking for a fresh-faced boy to tell me how beautiful I am," the blond says, eyeing him up and down, or what she can see of him anyway. "You're like the first guy I've come across tonight who wasn't already about to bust a nut on their keyboard."

"Graphic," Stiles says, because he needs time to get his wits together. This lady is gorgeous, like would be suspected of being a catfish if she was talking to him on Tinder gorgeous. "But yeah, no I'm not about to bust on my keyboard."

"Can we change that?"

Stiles brings his hand up and bites his knuckle, because holy hell. Jackpot indeed. "I could be convinced. Easily, convinced."

"You look like a good Catholic School Boy, probably not even old enough to be on here." She leans back, and Stiles can make out a few details of the room she's in, probably a bedroom. "Can I see your driver's license?"

Red flag. Stiles is thinking she's maybe a scammer, but also maybe flirting with him. He really wants her to be flirting with him. To be honest he sort of needs her to be flirting with him. It's been a long time since he got off with another person, even over the internet.

"I can't show you my license, but trust me, I'm definitely old enough to be on here. I have a uniform, but it's not a Catholic School Boy uniform."

"Oh, are you a fire fighter or police officer?"

"Something like that." FBI intern was something like that, technically. And he didn't have a uniform exactly, but it's uniform adjacent. Black slacks, white button down, black tie, belt, and shoes. That was a uniform, right? He had an FBI messenger bag, that made it a uniform. Accessories were important.

"I love a man in uniform," she says.

Stiles also liked a man in uniform. Or he would if he was into guys on the regular, which again, he wasn't. The few times that he'd watched guy on guy porn, not gay, but guy on guy, it had been with guys in uniform. There was probably something psychological there that he'd need to pay to get help resolving one day, but he grew up around a police station. Like nearly every person in Beacon Hills had been hot as hell, which included his father's coworkers, which were a lot of guys in uniforms. He was a product of his environment.

"Me, too," he says, because his brain is not braining correctly anymore, on account of the whiskey and the hot woman who maybe wanted to have some fun with him. "Err… anyway, yeah I have a uniform."

"Go put it on and come back, I'll take my shirt off while you do."

Ethically speaking, was wearing his FBI 'uniform' in the hopes that it would help him get off with another human's help wrong? It seemed like it should be. His eyes flicker over to the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table next to his laptop. It's sitting there judging him, emasculating him. He can't let the whiskey do him like that, so he nods at the screen.

"Yeah that sounds totally fair," he says. He gets to his feet, cursing as he realizes she can probably see his hard dick through the sweatpants he's wearing, but since he was hoping she would want to see his hard dick without the sweatpants he doesn't let it phase him.

It doesn't take him too long to get changed. One of his specialties was putting on his FBI uniform while he was running late, so he had the process down. He slings the messenger bag in front of his crotch, because the dress pants are a good fit, which means that even with his erection tucked up into the waistband to keep it under control it's still pretty obvious.

He's tying his tie as he get's back in front of the camera, and it's focused in on his stomach, groin, and thighs, because he's standing which puts the FBI logo center. He's just about to ask her what she thinks when she disconnects.

Okay, yeah. FBI logo on webcam probably not a turn on for most people. He's just about to pull the bag off over his head when the next session connects.

"FBI? Is that appropriate, sir?"

Holy shit. Stiles knows that voice. Would recognize it even if he couldn't clearly see Deputy Jordan Parrish's face. Deputy Parrish in full uniform. His heart almost leaps out of his throat, and he looks at the whiskey bottle for help. It doesn't do anything, because it's a fucking whiskey bottle. Deputy Parrish called him, sir, and Stiles's dick is into it. It strains against his waistband like it wants to get out and see what the deputy wants to get into.

Stiles is going insane. He knows he's going insane because he's literally gone insane before and it fells exactly like this. He leans forward, making sure to keep his face out of line of sight of the camera, but types a message out on the keyboard.

Are you questioning me, officer? Is this your jurisdiction or mine?

Deputy Parrish, because despite no longer being in high school, he can't think of Deputy Parrish as 'Jordan', leans forward to read the message. It looks like he has trouble swallowing, and he leans off screen for a second to pick up a bottle of water, takes a quick drink from it before sitting it down off screen again.

"Well, it seems like you can hear me, sir. I didn't mean to question you. Is there anything I can do to assist?"

Deputy Parrish smiles, but he twists his hands a bit nervous, like he's not sure if the 'FBI Agent' on the other side of the internet wants to get into a little sexy RP. Stiles bites his lower lip. Deputy Parrish was like a librarian he'd absolutely love to have disappointed with him. He didn't know exactly what that meant but it still makes his dick twitch, so the math checks out in his brain. He leans forward again and types.

I have reason to believe there is someone infiltrating your local police forces.

Deputy Parrish's eyes light up, nodding he scoots forward on the couch, or futon or whatever it is that he's sitting on, and Stiles just knows he's going to hell. Not because he's a bad person, which he is. He'd definitely suggested that he and Scott let Derek and Jackson die on multiple occasions and had only been joking when Scott didn't agree.

Stiles isn't like capital E evil or anything but lying to Deputy Parrish with a vague plan of hoping that it somehow ends in mutual masturbation is probably a sin. That's okay, because Hellhounds are probably from hell or whatever, so Deputy Parrish would be there with him and maybe they'd still end up naked and holy shit his brain. His brain, what the fuck. He keeps typing though, because fuck yes, he'd seen Deputy Parrish mostly naked, but not fully naked and he knows he shouldn't be thinking that the deputy is smoking hot because it's lazy even if appropriate. He needs to see him fully naked, needs to know what the deputy is packing under the black boxers he likes to wear.

The suspect allegedly has a tattoo on his stomach, deputy.

"No tattoos here, sir." Parrish smiles widely at the camera, perfect teeth and innocence, and Stiles knows that if he keeps calling him sir he might come in his pants. "Do you need me to prove it?"

Ethically speaking, was it okay to not reveal himself to someone he knew, and instead continue trying to maneuver said known person into jerking off with him? Stiles knows he's not great with ethics, he'd already tried to use the FBI thing to get a random woman on the internet to show him her tits. Was trying to get Deputy Parrish to show him his dick any worse? Probably, but Stiles already knows he's going to hell. He keeps typing, and it seems like he and the whiskey bottle are finally on the same page, which alarms him a little, but not enough to get him to stop.

Standard operating procuedure.

Stiles realizes he misspelled procedure immediately and he thinks about trying to correct himself, but his brain sidetracks as Parrish unbuttons and pulls his uniform shirt off, revealing perfectly sculpted abs. Well defined lines of muscle that Stiles has seen literally on fire, and if he's being honest with himself, which he might as well try to be since here he was, wanted to try to put out with his tongue. He types frantically.

Deputy, you could have disguised the tattoo with makeup, however the suspect is also supposed to have a penis piercing.

Stiles bites his lips, typing is hard with all his blood abandoning his brain for his dick. He doesn't even care though because Deputy Parrish stands up, unbuckles his belt, undoes his uniform pants and pushes them down. Black boxer briefs aren't doing anything to conceal the fact that Parrish has an erection. He smooths out the fabric to outline the head of his dick and it takes everything Stiles has not to undue his own pants and start jerking off. With shaking hands Stiles types more.

Not good enough, deputy. Please don't make me restrain you and check myself.

"Yes, sir" Parrish says, but his cheeks turn a bit pink, like maybe the restraining plan could definitely be on the table.

Stiles knows he's not saying 'sir' directly to his dick, but Stiles's dick doesn't know and it tries to answer by tearing it's way free. Unable to take it he pushes his messenger bag aside and rubs himself through his dress pants.

Parrish's eyes look away from his camera, and Stiles can tell he's focusing on his hand. Well not his hand, on the hand of the FBI agent giving him orders. Parrish pushes his boxers down, his dick falling free and it's everything Stiles thought it might be and more. Stiles knows it's probably normally pale like the rest of Parrish's skin, but right now it's flushed and hard. The deputy strokes himself, then turns first one direction and then the other to make sure his camera catches it from multiple angles.

"As you can see, sir, no piercing. I do have to ask though, how do I know you're not the suspect trying to trick me into betraying my department? I think you should show me yours too."

Stiles doesn't even need to be asked a second time. He unzips and after a bit of a struggle manages to get his dick out of the fly of his boxers, and then out of his dress pants. He mimics what Parrish did, stroking and turning so that it's visible from multiple angles. Stiles hadn't done his tie perfect, so it get's in the way a couple times. He gets tired of that fast, so pulls it up and put's it in his mouth but making sure his face doesn't enter his camera's field of view.

Parrish seems to know what he did though, and his eyes close like he's imagining what the agent might look like, tie in mouth and fist pumping over his dick, then his eyes snap open again, like he doesn't want to miss a moment of Stiles stroking himself. Not that he knows it's Stiles, which again probably should be making Stiles feel bad but he's too hard to care right now.

Stiles's breath starts getting ragged, and Deputy Parrish perks up on the screen, tugging on himself even harder when he realizes his FBI jerk buddy has a microphone and he can hear the grunting through his speakers.

"Sir, I wish you were here with me. I'd be down on my knees for you."

Stiles's legs wobble a bit, and he starts stroking himself quicker and harder, fist going up and down over the head making his toes curl a bit. Parrish starts mimicking his speed and movements, like he's imagining they're jerking each other off instead of themselves.

"Would you let me, sir? I've cooperated, would you let me taste you?"

Hearing perfect, innocent, Deputy Jordan fucking Parrish talk dirty to him was going to ruin Stiles. He'd seen the man on fire, covered in ash, covered in dirt, and he was right on the edge imagining seeing him covered in Stiles's come, wiping it away from his cheeks and lips, smiling shyly up at Stiles from his knees and yeah. Stiles loses control, painting his laptop keyboard and screen with thick white fluid.

Parrish pants on screen, reaching out a hand towards the camera then brings it up to his mouth. He looks dead in the camera and licks his fingers, then he's coming too. Stiles watches, surprised by how much there is, like it had been awhile since Parrish had gotten off. It drips down his knuckles and off toward the floor.

"Holy shit, Parrish," Stiles says as he drops back onto his couch, and immediately he realizes he's fucked up. He looks up to see Deputy Parrish go from startled, to embarrassed, to horrified. "Parrish don't—"

But it's too late. Parrish disconnects. Stiles barely has time to disconnect from the site before he's auto rolled to the next chatter, and he does not want the next random person that comes up to see him holding his spent dick and staring blankly.

Fuck, he'd just jerked off with Jordan Parrish on the internet. He'd been prepared to just feel that shame as he jerked off to it over and over again for who knows how long, but he wasn't prepared for Parrish to realize it was him.

He looks at the whiskey bottle, hating how smug it is.