Actions

Work Header

An Apple A Day

Work Text:

Dr. Peter Hale smiled kindly, looking up at the young man seated on the end of his exam table, bright teeth nipping at the ragged edges of his fingernails as his eyes darted around the room, returning again and again to the red container on the wall that was emblazoned with a caution tag labeled Sharps Disposal.

"Stiles," he murmured, smoothly sliding his rolling stool across the few feet of space between them and settling his hand on the boy's jittering knee, squeezing lightly. "Relax. If it makes you feel better, I'll have my nurse come in and draw your--"

"No!" Stiles' hand dropped immediately to clutch at Peter's wrist, his eyes flaring in alarm. "No, I would so much rather you do it, Doc. I just…" Shoulders rising around his ears in stress, he dropped his eyes to where he was still gripping Peter and let go with a light flush. "Needles. I…" Stiles drew in a shaky breath and released it in a rush that blew sweet and sugary-warm air over Peter's face.

"It will be all right, Stiles." The calm, smooth reassurance in Peter's tone was calculated, practiced to perfection. When Stiles' leg went still beneath his hand, Peter gave it a brief squeeze and stood up, clapping Stiles lightly on the shoulder. "Excellent. Now, I'm going to start with the blood draw."

When it looked as though Stiles was going to protest, Peter stepped between Stiles' splayed thighs, hand sliding up to wrap warm and firm around the back of his neck, grounding him. It was all animal instinct, and though Peter was aware he was toeing the line of professionalism by getting so close, it went against every oath Peter had taken to let Stiles work himself into a panic.

"Just lay back, get comfortable. I'll put on some music and you can close your eyes. Ignore everything else--"

"Pretty sure that's impossible," Stiles muttered, upper body stiff as Peter helped him stretch out on the paper-covered, padded exam table. His wide brown eyes tracked Peter's hands, worry darkening the usually bright color as Peter stepped over to his desk and swiped his fingers rapidly across the touch screen, starting up a playlist at random.

Stiles barked out a laugh when he heard Lynyrd Skynyrd emerge from the speakers. "Really? Sweet Home Alabama?"

"What were you expecting? Bach? Strauss? I can put those on if you prefer. Maybe some Coltrane or Louis Armstrong," Peter teased back, gathering the items he'd need onto a metal tray and moving back to the table. When he noticed Stiles stiffening up again, he sighed heavily and shook his head, setting the tray down with the soft clang of metal on metal. "Close them," Peter murmured, cupping his palm over Stiles' eyes like a blindfold. "Think of something else. You have...midterms coming up?" Peter knew Stiles was attending Stanford, but that was the extent of it. However, it was now April, so the guess was a reasonable one.

Stiles' muscles loosened slightly as he laughed, a sharp, wicked sound. "Really? That's your surefire method to get someone to relax? Remind them of midterms?" Stiles' lips remained curved in a grin, the bottom half of his face pale against the deeper tan of Peter's hand.

Titling his wrist, Peter checked to see that the thin skin of Stiles' eyelids were shielding him from view before he let his lips curve, his narrow-eyed gaze crawling slowly over the body spread out so trustingly before him. All hint of the gentle, professionally caring doctor was gone in a blink of Stiles' eyes.

The gloves went on easy, the opening snapping tight over the cuffs of Peter's lab coat. He splayed his fingers wide, let his hand hover over the long, helpless stretch of Stiles' neck, so close he could feel the heat rising from the boy's skin.

"But no," Stiles said, continuing to prattle on, unaware of the predator that had been unleashed in the room. "Midterms were a couple of weeks ago. I'm in that sweet spot" -- Peter's lips gleamed under the fluorescent overhead lights as he licked them, thinking of an entirely different sweet spot -- "right before I have to start stress-studying for finals."

Peter reached for the length of blue rubber laid out beside his blood draw kit, not even looking at the cloth laid haphazardly over the metal tray... slightly rucked up and oddly lumpy. Lifting Stiles' lax arm, Peter's expression shifted to something rather more genially half-focused and he let out an encouraging hum as he gently probed at the bend of Stiles' elbow with two gloved fingers.

Stiles' eyes popped open, his head twitching to the side to stare in something approaching horror as Peter's purple gloved fingers searched for a good vein. His breathing went ragged, shallow, a hint of a wheeze just barely audible as he started to panic.

"Close your eyes, Stiles," Peter whispered, quickly and efficiently tying off the tourniquet.

Stiles' head jerked to stare at the opposite wall and he whimpered a little as the sound of Peter plucking up the needle reached his ears. "S-sorry," he stuttered, voice pitchy.

"Relax. It won't be but a moment." Lifting his eyes to Stiles' pale, splotchy face, Peter breathed, "Just a little sting now," and pressed the needle to Stiles' skin. As he watched, Stiles' eyes rolled up, his body going limp. "Good boy," Peter murmured, quickly and efficiently drawing some blood and packaging it up for transport to the lab.

Done with his official duties, Peter turned back to Stiles and allowed his gaze to drag over the long, lean form draped unconscious and insensate on his exam table. Peter lifted the towel from the tray, revealing a prepared syringe filled with a pale yellow liquid. Lifting it, he tapped the end and pressed the plunger, squirting the tiniest bit of the liquid from the needle, removing any air bubbles. Then he lowered his head to Stiles' arm, running the flat of his tongue over the tiny bead of blood that had risen on his skin.

The flavor of it burst across Peter's tongue, filled his mouth and had him achingly hard and throbbing in his pants in seconds. Resting his forehead against Stiles' bicep, he slid the new needle as close as he could to the place he'd punctured Stiles to draw his blood and squeezed a few drops of the yellow liquid into Stiles' arm. When he was done, he leaned up on one elbow, releasing the tourniquet and watching as Stiles' pale skin flushed with the returning flow of blood. Another bead of blood pushed itself out of the bend of Stiles' elbow, but Peter just pressed a gauze pad to it with a longing sigh; he couldn't afford to lick up any of the liquid he'd just injected into Stiles. Ingesting it would have the same effect that injecting it had, just slower acting.

Peter glanced at the clock on the wall, then began quickly stripping Stiles from the waist down. Shoes and socks first, then belt. The pants went smoothly over the turn of Stiles' heel with the ease of long practice, and the underwear barely skimmed his skin as Peter shucked those too.

The stirrups pulled from the exam table with a low screech, Stiles' legs like noodles as Peter wrestled them into place before using the attached straps to buckle them into place. When he was done with that, Peter gently eased Stiles' body down the bed until his legs were gaping wide, his ass hanging over the edge. The bed rose smoothly when Peter stepped on the foot pedal, adjusting the bed's height until Stiles' ass was right where Peter wanted it.

Snagging his rolling stool with one foot, Peter pulled it to him and sank onto it, rolling in close until he could shove his face right up against Stiles' ass. He pressed glove-covered hands into the pale flesh, spreading Stiles' cheeks wide, giving him access to… everything. With a barely audible groan, he buried his nose there, sniffing the musky odor, dragging it into his lungs and letting himself salivate for a moment, eager anticipation lighting up his nerve endings. Then Peter licked a broad stripe up Stiles' ass, from a few inches below his hole all the way to his full balls, lifting them with his tongue and opening his mouth wide around them to suckle them greedily.

From this close, Stiles' dick was a rapidly-filling blur, and Peter hummed in appreciation at seeing how responsive it was to his ministrations. Peter let Stiles' balls drop from his mouth, all spit-shiny and plump, and nosed at the length of Stiles' dick, licking and sucking at it as he panted out increasingly sharper breaths.

And then he reversed course and started all over, plunging his tongue into Stiles' relaxed hole, digging it in and in, dragging out the flavors he discovered there and rolling them across his tongue. As he did so, his own cock twitched in his trousers, pressing hard and needy against his zipper, the head trying desperately to poke out the top of his underwear. Mentally heeding the passage of time, Peter scrambled to his feet, ignoring the wheeled stool as it flew backward, smacking into the wall behind him.

Fumbling at his own clothing, he pulled his cock free and pressed the head right up against Stiles' little hole, rolling his hips to slide it back and forth, back and forth, over and over, the purpling tip occasionally catching against Stiles' rim and pressing just the tiniest bit inside. Every time that happened, Peter let out a little choked sound, reining himself in from just slamming forward and pushing all the way inside.

He didn't have time and there was no possible way that Stiles wouldn't notice that sort of lingering ache.

So Peter consoled himself with this, frotting against Stiles' bare ass, his own hand lifting and stroking Stiles' responsive cock, his thumb tugging at the slit. When Peter couldn't stand it any longer, when he felt as if his next pass would have him coming all over the pretty little ass spread so eagerly for him, he stopped. Backing away with his lower body, Peter hunched over Stiles' limp form and took his cock all the way into his mouth, gagging himself on it. Pulling and tugging with fingers and lips, he swirled his tongue around, digging it into the underside, doing everything in his power to bring Stiles off, to taste the boy as he spilled, sweet and hot, over his tongue.

When Stiles finally came, Peter had to clutch at his own cock to keep from shooting off in sympathy. Instead, he scrambled up onto the bed and forced Stiles' mouth open, shoving the tip of his cock into that lax, warm opening, his hips stuttering as he worked himself in, further and further, until his balls drew up tight and his stomach clenched, muscles cramping as he unloaded himself in Stiles' mouth.

With one final twitch, Peter slumped forward, catching himself on the bed then slowly easing his cock from Stiles' mouth and sliding down the bed until he was laid, stretched out, over Stiles' body. Lowering his head, he pressed their mouths together, letting the come he'd been holding in his mouth drip into Stiles', mingling them together in the boy's hot mouth. Digging his tongue inside, he tasted the combination of Stiles' and his own release all hot and creamy on Stiles' tongue. Licking and sucking, he slurped all the come up, wanting to bite at Stiles' lips as well, but knowing better.

The anesthetic would wear off soon.

Peter rolled off the exam table with a sigh, straightening his clothing and pulling off the gloves he'd worn the entire time. Once he was dressed, he released Stiles' legs from the stirrups and set about reclothing Stiles as well, sliding the silly cartoon-covered boxer shorts back up those long, pale legs. The socks went on next, followed by the pants, which took a bit more wrestling to get back into place. Then the shoes and belt and… Peter stepped back, eyeing Stiles critically. Everything appeared to be in order.

Maybe next time, he'd take pictures as he worked. Just to be safe.

Dropping a hand to adjust himself as his dick gave a final little throb at the thought of how those pictures would look, Peter taped a Batman band aid over the gauze he'd taped to Stiles' elbow earlier.

The boy would enjoy that.

When Stiles finally stirred a few minutes later, Peter was seated at his computer, inputting orders to the lab and pharmacy and checking his schedule to see which patients he had lined up this week. Oh, hmmm… the Mahealani boy was due in on Thursday afternoon…

"Oh my god, did I…? I'm so sorry, Doc!"

Peter turned with a smile, shaking his head a little in amusement. "Every time, Stiles. Every time. Surely it doesn't surprise you any more?"

Stiles sighed, passing a hand over his hair, his nose scrunching up as he smacked his lips. "I guess it shouldn't. Ugh, as if passing out isn't bad enough, my mouth always tastes like a-- uhh, really bad afterward."

Peter nodded, expression all concern. Plucking a penlight from his pocket, he shined it into Stiles' eyes, watching for the reaction of his pupils. "This doesn't happen often though, right?"

Shaking his head, Stiles muttered, "Nope. Only when someone comes at me with needles. Guess you're just lucky." Then he blushed, his cheeks turning splotchy as the color filled them unevenly. "I-I mean…"

Peter laughed, patting Stiles' shoulder. "It's fine. Well," he said, tucking the light away and folding his hands in front of himself, "you'll be happy to know you won't have to come back and put yourself through this all over again in a few days."

"Oh thank god!" Stiles blushed harder at Peter's raised eyebrow, and shrugged. "Sorry, Doc. You know I appreciate you. Just not… needles."

Peter smiled, allowing just a hint of the predator he was to shine through his eyes when he murmured, "No problem. I got everything I needed."