The thing about Parrish is that he runs hotter than normal people. Stiles is into it, he is, but he's panting for breath and the air around them is scorching. Sweat drips off his forehead and onto Parrish's back, slides toward his neck because the deputy is face down, arms crossed at the small of his back, but up on his knees, head down in the blankets. Stiles is tying his FBI 'uniform' tie around Parrish's wrists, and trying to ignore how badly the deputy wants it. Parrish is pushing his ass back against Stiles's groin, maybe trying to get Stiles inside him, even though he'd already been told to be patient.
"Please, sir," Parrish says, and it's not quite begging yet which means he doesn't get what he wants.
Stiles opens his mouth to tell him he needs to be a good boy, but there's this beeping that's driving him up the wall. He wants to focus on getting Parrish what he wants, which is Stiles to hurry the fuck up, but the beeping is getting louder, and Stiles finally gets it. He knows what's going on and it absolutely kills his boner.
"Sir," Parrish asks, and he looks over his shoulder, his eyes are absolutely begging for it, which is what Stiles had wanted until he realized he's having a dream. He knows he's having a dream because that's a skill he's never giving up. A skill that only someone born and raised in Beacon Hills would ever need.
"I know, puppy," he says, because it's okay to do that to a Hellhound in a dream. He pats Dream Parrish's ass and takes a long look because he wants to saver it, but the fucking beeping is a superb cock block.
He leans forward, places a kiss and a little nip at the base of Dream Parrish's spine, then opens his eyes. Yep. The problem with basically always being right is that sometimes the thing you're right about completely sucks. He rolls over in his childhood bed which he would have bet good money on used to be bigger and slams his hand down on the alarm clock. It doesn't turn off with one hit because that's the kind of morning he's having apparently.
Sitting up, he grinds his palm down a bit on the erection that he wished he was pleasing Deputy Parrish with rather than consoling. The air in his room is a little chilly, or maybe it just feels that way because his brain was still low-key thinking about whether Parrish ran hotter than average. He tries to wipe the sleep out of his eyes with the hand that's not doing the consoling. He'd taken a red-eye flight from Washington, but with the three-hour time change he's all turned around, not sure if he should be more or less awake.
He considers jerking off, but the air is cold, and maybe doing it in a steamy shower would put him back in the mind frame he wanted. Sliding off his bed he slams the alarm clock again because it's still beeping, notices it's a little past seven in the morning. That means it would be like ten in D.C.
Whatever, a dude needs sleep. He's naked, because that's his thing now, living alone ruined him for clothes, but he can't walk to the bathroom like that cause he's not sure if his dad's left for work yet. He picks up yesterday's boxers and pulls them on. You just didn't put on clean boxers for a walk to the shower. He grabs the t-shirt he was wearing yesterday, brings it up to his face to smell it. It's either not terrible, or it's not terrible enough for him to notice. Either way he considers that good and walks out into the hall.
He starts to turn towards the bathroom, holding the shirt in his hands still because he's not awake enough to pull it on while walking, but he stops in his tracks because yeah, that's bacon. He smells bacon. His dad, who was now officially the best was making breakfast for his first morning home. You didn't keep bacon waiting, it simply wasn't done.
Shirts are complicated, but he manages to get it sorted out by the time he reaches the bottom of the stairs. He looks down, and yeah sure, it's inside out and backwards, but who was he trying to impress? His dick is mostly under control, stomach having wrestled it into submission, which is good because his shirt isn't long enough to hide the business.
Stiles is steps away from the kitchen, and his tummy grumbles, reminding him that it should have been long past breakfast time for him. "If ever I made you feel like you weren't the best, dad, let me begin my three-part apolo—"
"Stiles is here?"
The thing about not wearing pants when you were home is that normally there weren't people you'd tricked into jerking off with you a few days ago on the internet there too. His dad seeing him in his underwear? Yeah whatever, that happens. Dudes are dudes. But Deputy Parrish was not a dude. Well, he was but—
"Yeah he got in last night," Stiles's dad is just making conversation. Conversation with a guy who Stiles almost just had a wet dream about. Fucking Nemeton, fucking telluric currents.
Momentum still carrying him forward he turns the corner of the kitchen, hand on the wall thinking maybe he can pull himself back in time to avoid the inevitable train wreck, but it doesn't work and instead he sort of stumbles into the kitchen. Pantsless. Because that's how Beacon Hills does it's favored sons, no mercy, no preparation.
"Yo, dad," he says.
His father is already in uniform, carrying freshly fried bacon to the kitchen table. He looks Stiles up and down and just sighs, shaking his head. That's totally fair, Stiles deserves that. He knows what he did.
"Really, Stiles? Did you not pack pants?"
Stiles looks over and Parrish is like chalk white, ghostly white. Dude is normally pale but like all the bloods gone out of his face, and the part of Stiles that was evil long before the nogitsune co-opted him whispers a dirty joke about where that blood must have headed. His eyes drop to Parrish's crotch, because of course they do, and he looks up just in time to see Parrish's eyes recovering from a momentary dip down too.
"Well I should probably get to the station," Parrish says, and he tries to turn and walk out except that Stiles is between him and the exit to the kitchen, so he just sort of bumps into the wall instead.
"You alright, sir?" Stiles asks, because well, he might as well go all in.
"Nonsense, Deputy," Stiles's dad says, because he's a nice guy and Stiles mentally high fives him. "I appreciate you dropping by with the witness statement before heading back. The least I can do is offer you breakfast."
"That's quite alrig—"
"Sit down, Parrish," Stiles's dad says, because he's a fucking hero.
"Yes, si— Sheriff," Parrish looks over at Stiles, and there's an accusation there, like Stiles somehow ruined the word 'sir' for him.
The accusation falls flat though because his eyes start to dip, and Stiles catches it in time to stretch his arms up above his head causing his shirt to ride up a bit and yeah, he wasn't like ripped or anything, but he knew the little trail of hair under his belly button could be of interest to some people. He let's out a yawn he doesn't even have to fake.
"Stiles set the table."
"With like… dishes?" Stiles is a little confused because when he lived here, they were paper plate people. Neither he nor his father had the time, energy, or desire to do dishes.
"Yes, Stiles. With dishes," his dad says, but like slowly, as if Stiles was stupid.
Parrish is moving towards the table, eyes locked onto the plate of bacon like it can save him, which Stiles gets because bacon is basically the only real miracle left in the world. There's empathy there, but not enough to keep him from 'accidentally' brushing a hand against the deputy's shoulder as he walks by. It's safe because his dad has turned back to the stove, getting ready to scramble some eggs.
"What to drink, Deputy?" Stiles asks, failing to get Parrish to break away from the bacon and look up at him again.
"Coffee's fine," Parrish says.
"With cream?" If Parrish is going to softball him pitches like that Stiles is going to swing.
Deputy Parrish coughs, and scoots his chair closer to the table and Stiles just barely hides the grin on his face as his father turns toward him, pushing his mug down the counter towards the coffee pot for a refill. He sidelong glances at his dad, because he's wicked smart and if Stiles is too brazen, he's going to realize something's up. Coast clear. He scoops up the mug and refills it.
"Sure…" Parrish says, and then after a moment that must have been painful for him continues, "and a little sugar."
"Yeah no problem," Stiles says, because he's a gentleman. He finishes his dad's coffee and slides it back to him, then mixes up Parrish a cup. He walks up behind him, and with a quick dad check to make sure the coast is still clear he leans over the deputy's back to set the cup in front of him, maybe brushing his torso a bit against Parrish, and holy hell Parrish's ears are red.
"Thanks," Parrish sort of mumble whispers as he picks up the cup and just gulps some of it down like it's not scalding hot right off the burner.
Stiles files that away to think about later and turns to get the dishes out of the cabinet, knowing there was no chance his dad like redid the placement of kitchen items while he was gone. Parrish doesn't look up at him when he sets a plate and fork next to his arm, but he does pull his arm away like he's afraid Stiles is going to do something to it, and Stiles is starting to think maybe he's taking this a little too far.
He spreads out dishes for his dad and himself on the table, then takes a seat across from Parrish rather than right next to him. He can't help it, he just wants to look at the deputy. Part of him is wondering where he went from guys are kind of a thing he can sometimes find aesthetically pleasing to I want to be inside one, but then Parrish looks up at him and his eyes are blue. Blue like… fuck Stiles didn't even know but he just wants to keep looking into them. A little alarm bell goes off in some small part of his brain, but he just slaps it off internally. No need to delve too deeply into that.
His dad scrapes portions of eggs out of the pan onto each of their plates, and Stiles looks up in time to see his father giving him this look. The one where he knows Stiles is up to something, but he doesn't know what but is making a promise to himself that he's going to figure it out. Stiles hates that look. Coast definitely not clear. Coast Guard on full alert. Abort.
He twists up out of his chair and heads towards the refrigerator. He's going to have juice. Juice was safe, on the other side of the kitchen from his father's all-seeing eyes. He swings the door open and leans over, pushing aside a few things to get to the orange juice at the back of the bottom shelf. He looks over his shoulder to ask if anyone else wants juice. His father's piling bacon onto his plate, too much if you asked Stiles, which his father clearly wasn't. Parrish though, he was looking at Stiles's ass.
"Juice?" Stiles asks but he's already turned back to look at the fridge, figured he'd let Parrish have a free pass on this one. Stiles did have a great ass.
"No thank you, s— Stiles," Parrish says, and now Stiles thinks maybe it's his own face that might be changing colors a bit.
He straightens up, pulling the orange juice out. He cracks open the freezer to get a bit of cold air on his face, grabs a tray of ice cubs out because he needed to invent a reason to have it open in the first place.
"Tell me you're not drinking orange juice with ice because you've gotten used to it with alcohol," his father says.
"I could tell you that dad," Stiles says, because he wants to buy time with him standing in front of the freezer and also because maybe then his dad will think the color in his face is from embarrassment, "but you told me to stop lying to you."
His dad sighs, and even though Stiles isn't looking back at the table he knows he's shaking his head. "Why start listening to me now?"
"Maybe the FBI is making him a more responsible person," Parrish says.
Parrish trying to stick up for him makes Stiles feel bad about messing with him. He closes the refrigerator and freezer, buys himself some more time with getting a glass and dropping a few cubes into it. He fills it up with OJ, puts everything away, then carries his drink back to the table. He sits down, risks a glance up at Parrish and the deputy offers him a reassuring smile, because he's like a knight, and Stiles feels like human garbage for trying to make him uncomfortable.
"I know people drink underage," Stiles's dad says, but he's looking down at his plate of bacon, and trying to act like he didn't grab more strips while Stiles was at the counter. "Just… be safe, son."
Literally every person in the world was better than Stiles. Except Derek Hale, and probably Jackson too, and Theo. Fuck, no one was worse than Theo. Existential crisis averted Stiles grabs the few remaining pieces of bacon and drags them onto his plate.
"I know it's not my place, Sheriff, but you should probably be a little more careful with the bacon," Parrish says.
"Excuse me?"
Stiles holds his breath, because while Parrish just stole a little piece of his heart for worrying about his dad, he also knows that this is a touchy subject. The deputy holds his hands up, showing that he had no weapon with which to defend himself.
"Everyone at the station knows you can hold your own, Sheriff. The guys you took down in the basement of Eichen House speaks to that, but you have to take care of yourself. You're too important to this town, to your son, to go down to something as preventable as heart disease."
Stiles is just staring at Deputy Parrish, and a glance over at his father shows him his dad is right there with him. Stiles's brain tries to raise that alarm again but Stiles just tosses the thing out the window. His dad pushes his plate away.
"Well… I was done anyway,"
Parrish leans forward picking up the sheriff's plate as well as his own and carries them towards the sink.
"You don't have to—"
"Everyone does their part," Parrish says, cutting Stiles off. "The Sheriff cooked, you set the table, I'll do the dishes. Just set yours on the counter when you're done."
Stiles just stares down at his plate. His dad stands up, looking at Stiles then placing a hand on his shoulder. He pats him once, then turns and takes a few steps toward the exit of the kitchen.
"Well I should go get my badge and gun. I'll see you later, Stiles. Thanks again, Parrish. See you at the station."
It doesn't take Stiles long to finish eating, and he ignores the way Parrish stiffens when he walks up next to him to set his plate down. Without saying anything he picks up a dish towel and starts drying the plates and cups Parrish has already finished. It takes a moment, but eventually the tension bleeds out of the deputy.
"Thanks," Stiles says, looking over.
Parrish glances over at him for a second, then back down into the soapy water. "Like I said, everyone does their part."
"No, I mean for what you said to my dad."
Deputy Parrish just nods but doesn't say anything. He finishes washing the last plate, reaches over and sets it down into the drying rack. Stiles offers him the driest portion of the dish towel he can find, and Parrish wipes his hands on it.
"Thanks," Deputy Parrish says, "I should head to the station."
Stiles watches him walk away, and yeah, it's worth it to watch Jordan Parrish walk away. It's not until the front door closes that Stiles realizes he doesn't know what the deputy was thanking him for. Stiles slams his toes into the leg of the table as he tries to rush around it to head to the front door and it hurts like a mother. He rips the front door open, and Parrish is just opening the door to his cruiser.
"Thanks, for what?" Stiles calls out. "What are you thanking me for?"
"Breakfast," Parrish says, and then he just looks Stiles up and down, reminding Stiles that he's standing on his front porch in his underwear. "And the show."
The best part is that immediately Parrish looks like he feels guilty, and it sends heat to Stiles's groin. The deputy hits his head as he basically dives into his cruiser, wastes no time in getting it started and pulling away from the house. Stiles really needs that shower, with as hot of water as he can stand. He stubs his toe again in his haste to get up the stairs, but it doesn't matter because he's so fucking hard.
