Houston, We Have A Problem

It was quite possibly the second most awful day in Stiles Stilinski's life, which at the moment consisted of nineteen years and had amassed a more than fair amount of bad days. But this one? By far, this one topped the charts.

The blame was unequivocably credited to his girlfriend. Three months and no sex. "I need sex," She said, yesterday before this nightmare had begun, "And if you aren't serious enough about me to provide it, then maybe we should break up."

It was more than a little manipulative and even though Stiles was a virile young man who had fancied himself worth waiting for, he was now pressured into making a crucial decision.

Was this the girl he wanted to give his virginity to?

In all of his nineteen years of life he had been various combinations of 'too young', 'too awkward', 'too shy', and 'not my type'. After a particularly morose rejection he'd embraced the conviction to wait until he met a girl he was head over heels for that returned his feelings ten-fold. He did like Maya and she seemed to like him when she wasn't issuing ultimatums. So Stiles decided that this must be it, the pivotal moment, the grand event.

Only it wasn't.

There were certain... performance issues. And because of that she insisted he make an appointment to see a doctor, practically wishing aloud that he was diagnosed with something that wasn't contagious but explained why two hours of sucking, licking, and stroking didn't get him across the finish line; or very far into the race for that matter.

And so here he sat. In the office of the doctor he'd had since fifth grade; a kind old man with a wrinkly smile and an easy manner. The poor guy's opinion of innocent Stiles would be shattered after today.

However, instead of his doctor, a complete stranger walked in. A hot stranger with pitch black hair, a knife edge jawline, two night's worth of stubble, and a long white coat. His eyes were as peculiar as his presence in this room, an indecisive green and where most people's eyes act as a window to their soul, his were impassable and sharp like a sword aiming directly at Stiles.

This was definitely the second most awful day in his life.

The man looked too young to be a doctor; but maybe he just seemed young compared to Stiles' previous physician. He was a few years older than the boy, who obviously squirmed under his appraisal, and introduced himself without hesitation. "I'm Doctor Hale. I'm afraid Dr. Leif is out of commision at this time."

"Oh." Stiles said. He sort of already assumed that; although, the majority of his brain was clinging to the spark of hope that this man had come to the wrong room. Maybe he should feign a miracle recovery and leave before things got really awkward? Like this Adonis checking out his defective junk.

Seriously, Doctor Hale? How about Doctor Fuck-Me-For-The-Rest-Of-My-Life? And his voice. Fuck, his voice... Everything about him put Stiles in mind of early mornings with black coffee, bed mussed hair, and low hanging sweats, residual gravel in the morning greeting from near predatory grunts and growls during the previous night's events.

"All right, Mr. Stilinski," The man began, extinguishing Stiles' daydreams with the all too real inevitability that loomed before them.

"Stiles." The teenager interrupted, instantly biting his lip for doing so. He didn't mean to give his name. He was supposed to get the hell out of dodge and hope that guy forgot who he was before finding out why he was here-

Oh, as he was now doing. Great.

Dr. Hale scanned the clipboard in his hand, lifting the top page to survey the one beneath. He sauntered habitually over to the chair nearby and sank into it, brows pulled into a deep frown of concentration. "You're here for erectile disfunction?"