Steve hates his bi-annual checkup.
“Mr. Rogers?” Nurse Grace calls, and he inhales sharply before standing up to follow her into the back.
He answers the standard “how are you doing today?” and “is there anything you want to mention to the doctor?” questions, and he tries not to fidget, but it’s hard to keep still.
He’s just getting so wet.
He doesn’t know why he’s like this. His omega friends all roll their eyes when they talk about their checkups and complain how uncomfortable they are, or how cold the doctor’s hands are, or how invasive the whole thing is, but Steve …
“Please take off all your clothes and put this on with the opening in the front,” Nurse Grace says, handing him a flimsy robe, and it’s all he can do to look her in the eyes as he nods and smiles awkwardly. “Dr. Stark will be in in a few minutes.”
As soon as the door closes, he gets undressed, hiding the dance belt he specifically bought for this in his jeans and then detaching his heat pad as quietly as possible before wrapping it in paper towels and throwing it into the biohazard waste. He can’t believe he has to wear a pad to his checkup, but he would literally leak through his clothes otherwise.
He sits down gingerly, the paper crinkling underneath him, and he makes sure the robe is loose around him so he won’t have to move it for the first part of the exam. Then he tucks the sheet around his waist firmly and waits, determinedly refusing to look at the tray of sterilized tools off to the side and trying not to think about how he’s dripping onto the table, about the pool of wetness he’ll find and futilely try to mop up later. It’s worse than his erection, even though they’re both proof of how much his body likes what’s happening, but at least he can tell himself he gets hard all the time; he can’t lie that the leaking is normal.
He only gets wetter during his heat. He doesn’t get this wet during sex most of the time. At least, not since he started seeing Dr. Stark.
He flinches when he hears the knock on the door, his heart rate picking up, and when Dr. Stark enters the room, Steve feels another burst of wetness, his ass contracting helplessly.
“Good morning, Steve,” Dr. Stark says, smiling and unfairly appealing with his lab coat all buttoned up and his tie framed by the collar. Steve wants to reply, but he can’t swallow past the lump in his throat, can’t do anything but twitch his lips and curl his fingers into the cloth of his robe.
Dr. Stark is just so handsome. Gorgeous really. Panty-meltingly hot are the words Sam used, although Sam was mostly teasing, since he knows Steve has a type. It doesn’t make the description any less true, though, and Steve has the worst crush on him.
It started during their first meeting when Dr. Stark had paused as Steve filled up the room with the smell of his arousal, shoulders hunched up in shame, and instead of joking about it or about how wet Steve was, or saying anything dismissive about omegas, Dr. Stark had kept going like nothing had happened. He hadn't acted like it was weird or that Steve was something to be gawked at, hadn't assumed that since Steve reacted physically it meant he wanted anything sexual from him—although he does, now, very much—nor has he ever. He treats Steve like any other patient with his own particular brand of idiosyncrasies, and he just takes care of Steve, respectfully and gently.
Steve had fallen for him like a ton of bricks, and it’s only gotten worse since.
The next minute or so is taken up with questions, but luckily, Dr. Stark doesn’t ask anything that requires more than a nod or a shake of his head. He had the first time they met, had tried to strike up an actual conversation that had resulted in stilted answers and long silences, but he’s learned since then, for which Steve is incredibly grateful. He can’t even begin to imagine what Dr. Stark thinks about him, never lets himself wonder—except for the times he can’t stop himself, when he’s riding his favorite toy and remembering the feel of Dr. Stark’s fingers pushing into him. Then he can’t help but dwell on what kind of thoughts Dr. Stark must have about the omega who spreads his legs so wide for him and who tries so desperately not to make any kind of noise when the speculum opens him up; who fails every time.
Finally, Dr. Stark moves on to the exam itself, and it’s torture to have his hands on Steve’s neck, his back as Dr. Stark tells him what to do. He’s standing so close, and Steve shivers and presses his thighs together, trying to hide his scent as long as possible, because once he moves, it’s going to permeate the entire room.
“Alright, why don’t you lie back, and I’ll examine your chest.”
Steve twists around carefully, making sure to keep everything in place as much as he can before lying down. A waft of scent rises up nevertheless, and he has to turn his head to the side, because it feels like his head will explode if he looks at Dr. Stark.
He honestly doesn’t know if it’d be better or worse to have Dr. Stark move his robe to the side—both, it’d be both—so Steve does it himself, tugging the robe so his chest is bare, his nipples tight and tingling.
There’s a quick moment of silence where Dr. Stark doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything, and Steve wonders if he’s looking at how his nipples are standing at attention, if he can see Steve’s cock, lying hard against his stomach under the sheet, but then Dr. Stark steps up to the table, and Steve has other things to worry about.
He closes his eyes as Dr. Stark touches him, trying to focus on the reassuring stream of chatter instead of his fingers, the occasional brush against Steve’s nipples, the scrape of his lab coat against his skin. Dr. Stark has always been completely professional, but it doesn’t stop Steve from wishing he wouldn’t be, that he’d rub his perfectly trimmed goatee against Steve’s chest and roll and pinch Steve’s nipples until Steve was crying from frustration.
He can feel another surge of wetness, his ass empty and throbbing, and he has to grab the edges of the table before he does something he’ll regret.
“You okay, Steve?” Dr. Stark asks, lifting his hand so it’s no longer touching him but still close enough that Steve can feel its warmth. He lets out a breathy sound that he desperately hopes Dr. Stark will take as an affirmative, because he’s incapable of anything else.
Evidently, Dr. Stark does, because he picks up where he left off, and Steve manages to control himself for the next part of the exam—until he hears Dr. Stark pull out a stirrup, and then Steve releases enough slick that he semi-seriously wonders if it’s going to start sliding across the leather because of how wet he’s making it.
“Alright, Steve, if you don’t mind scooting down to the edge of the table …”
He does mind. He minds so, so much, because he wants to do it, wants Dr. Stark to strap him down and make Steve take his fingers, his cock, he wants Dr. Stark to come inside of him and then slide the speculum in and watch all his come leak back out—
But Steve can’t say any of that, so he does what’s asked of him instead, opening his eyes and staring fixedly at his legs as he maneuvers himself until his hips are as far as they can go and he’s lying in his own slick, the robe clinging to the wet spots, the smell of his arousal hanging thick in the air.
It gets infinitely worse when he puts his legs in the stirrups, when he’s spread open, the sheet barely a nod to modesty, and Dr. Stark stands in between his thighs in his damn pristine lab coat, all too gorgeous and impossible to look at. Steve doesn’t know if he’s been this turned on even during a heat, and it’s mortifying how much he’s looking forward to Dr. Stark putting on his gloves, but it’s one more drop in the sea of humiliation he’s drowning in, and he breathes and breathes and promises himself he isn’t going to orgasm as soon as Dr. Stark touches him.
“I’m going to move the sheet out of the way now,” Dr. Stark says, and Steve wonders if it’s his imagination that Dr. Stark’s voice is raspier than it was a second ago, but he wants and he hopes …
“Steve? Is that okay?”
He realizes Dr. Stark is waiting for his permission, so he nods hastily, trying to relax, and then Dr. Stark begins rolling up the cloth, higher and higher, past the tops of Steve’s thighs and his testicles, which are drawn up tight against his body. He finally sets it down across Steve’s lower abdomen, and it covers the upper half of his cock, which flexes at the proximity of Dr. Stark’s hands, completely without his permission. Steve’s gaze flicks to Dr. Stark’s face right in time to see the tip of his tongue wet his lips.
Steve gets the mental image of that same tongue enthusiastically eating him out, and then a moment later, there’s the sound of liquid dripping onto something metallic. It takes him a second to figure it out, but when he does, he slams his thighs shut as much as he’s able to with his feet still in the stirrups and sits up, crying, “Oh crap, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” because he’s making so much slick that he’s leaking onto the step beneath him.
“Steve! Hey, it’s okay, you’re fine,” Dr. Stark says, crowding close and reaching out to stop him from getting down and cleaning up his mess. It’s not okay, though, it’s not, there’s something wrong with Steve, because all he can suddenly think about it is that with the way they’re positioned, they could kiss while Dr. Stark finger fucked him, and he forces himself to collapse back onto the table before Dr. Stark actually touches him and Steve tries to make that a reality.
He doesn’t say anything, simply covers his eyes with his hands.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Really. All it means is that your glands are doing what they’re supposed to.”
And maybe that’s true, but why do they have to work quite so well in front of Dr. Stark?
“Can we just …?” he says, trailing off miserably, humiliation prickling across his skin, and it should smother the arousal, but it really, really doesn’t.
“Yeah, of course, Steve. Let’s get back into position,” Dr. Stark says, and Steve hesitates slightly before parting his legs once again.
“Can you move down a bit more?”
Dr. Stark tugs gently at Steve’s hips, and Steve’s glad for his hands over his face, because he’s just barely able to catch the gasp behind his palm, and he’s leaking worse than ever now. It’s as if hearing the splash against the step has encouraged his body to produce even more slick, needing to show Dr. Stark how much he affects him, rejecting even the possibility of denying it.
“That’s good,” Dr. Stark says absently, and Steve shivers at the indirect praise, wants to hear more of it, wants Dr. Stark to tell him how to be even better. “Open your legs a little wider for me, please.”
Steve tries to ignore the rush of pleasure that accompanies that order, but it’s hopeless, he’s hopeless, and Steve does what Dr. Stark wants, spreading himself wide and then wider still because there’s something about obeying, about offering himself up for whatever Dr. Stark intends to do to him that feels so right that he even drops his hands by his sides, not wanting to hide any part of himself.
Not that there’s anything to hide at this point, the robe barely even covering his shoulders with all the moving he’s been doing, the sheet against his stomach and under his cock. Steve is completely on display, and he feels exposed and defenseless and so turned on that he aches.
When Dr. Stark grabs his stool and sits down, when he turns on the light and points it between Steve’s legs, Steve’s ass clenches down so hard that he panics for a second that he’s about to orgasm—but then the feelings passes, leaving Steve trembling and breathing harder than he should, his fingers digging into the leather.
“You still alright, Steve?” Dr. Stark asks, and honestly, how is he supposed to respond to that?
Steve gets ready to say … something … who knows what, but then he makes the mistake of raising his head to look at Dr. Stark—only to realize Dr. Stark is looking at him, is peering up along his body, past his obnoxiously obvious cock, past his heaving chest, is looking him directly in the eyes, and it’s amazing Steve maintains his erection with how much blood floods his face just then.
He manages to mouth a “yes” by some miracle and then lets his head drop onto the table, wishing he were anywhere but there, wishing he never had to leave and that Dr. Stark would touch him and never stop.
He can hear Dr. Stark pull out two gloves from the box on the wall, and he doesn’t look, he doesn’t look, because looking is going to be the end of him. Steve knows what comes next, and even with how embarrassed he is, it’s all he can do to keep from squirming in anticipation.
“Okay, I’m going to start with one finger to relax the muscle,” Dr. Stark says, and Steve grits his teeth together to keep from making any noise when Dr. Stark slides into him. It’s not enough; it’s nowhere near enough.
But he’s in real danger of coming all the same, just from knowing it’s Dr. Stark’s finger inside of him, from getting this one thing he’s been so desperately wanting.
Tony, he thinks, even though he never refers to Dr. Stark by his first name, would never. It’s too personal, a line he can’t cross—although who knows why he’s picked this boundary, when he’s demolished all the rest.
Maybe it’s because he goes to Dr. Stark, knowing he’s going to get naked and be examined and that he’ll end up collecting fodder for all the long nights in between visits; if he went to Tony, however, he’d go wanting to be held, and since that’s not going to happen, he stops himself before he can get started.
“Okay, one more now,” Dr. Stark says, and Steve shoves away his thoughts, lets himself get lost in the burn of being opened up for larger things, the sounds of his own strained breathing and the faint squelch of Dr. Stark’s latex-covered fingers ramping his arousal higher. He wonders if his slick is leaking down Dr. Stark’s glove, if the scent-blockers Dr. Stark wears are enough to cover up the cloud of Steve’s desire, so thick that he can taste himself on his tongue, and if not, how Dr. Stark stands it.
He knows Dr. Stark is an alpha, has signed the release forms that say he doesn’t need another omega or beta in the room during the examination with him, and he doesn’t understand how Dr. Stark holds himself back when an omega like him comes in, someone who wants so much, who’d welcome Dr. Stark with open arms and even more open legs, who’d let Dr. Stark knot him over and over again, until he was too fucked out to even—
”I’m going to go ahead and check your prostate now,” Dr. Stark says, putting words to action, pressing down and rubbing, and Steve doesn’t mean to do it, never means to do it, but he’s been on the edge for so long, and the way Dr. Stark touches him …
It’s not the first time Steve’s come on Dr. Stark’s table, his breath trapped in his throat and his back curved off the table, and it’s probably not going to be the last.
“It’s alright, it’s alright, Steve,” he hears, head swimming, his heart throwing itself against his chest, and it takes a long time to realize Dr. Stark is carefully wiping at his torso with the sheet.
If he were in his right mind, he’d probably be humiliated down to his very bones, but at that moment, all he feels is good. Floaty.
Oh, the mortification will come later, and Steve will convince himself he’s not ever going back to Dr. Stark’s office, will refuse to go out with his friends on the off chance he sees one of the staff members in public …
But it never lasts, and before long, he’ll start counting the days until his next appointment all over again.
He’s not quite certain how much time has passed, his body still limp with pleasure, but he knows Dr. Stark is proceeding with the exam; he just isn't concerned beyond enjoying the occasional touch, wishing they'd last longer. His head is finally starting to clear when Dr. Stark says, “Okay, last part now," and Steve goes from dazed to alert just like that.
Oh. He raises his head and catches a glimpse of Dr. Stark reaching for the lube and the speculum, the first of which isn't necessary, the second of which definitely is. He drops back onto the pillow. Oh.
There's a buzzing in his ears, and he doesn't really process what Dr. Stark is saying, doesn't even react when he touches his thigh and moves upward, too focused on what he knows is in Dr. Stark's hand. He can’t actually see it, but considering how excited he is from the anticipation alone, that’s probably a good thing.
"Deep breath now,” Dr. Stark says as he puts the fingers of one hand against Steve’s perineum and pushes the speculum into him, much more easily than it has any right to go.
It’s cold and strange, not quite uncomfortable but far from pleasant, and it causes Steve’s hips to lift up and elicits a shuddery moan that makes him want to die a little bit and shove further down a whole lot more.
Dr. Stark knows better by now than to stop and keeps pushing the speculum in, deeper and deeper. The stirrups clack with how much Steve’s trembling, but he can’t help it. It feels too good for him to stop.
“Go—go slowly,” he gasps once it’s all the way in, and Dr. Stark murmurs something, but Steve can’t focus enough to pay attention.
He’s already come once, but he wants to do it again, wants Dr. Stark to fuck him with the speculum, to force him as wide as he can go and leave him like that until he’s begging for mercy.
Dr. Stark doesn’t, of course. All he does is exactly what Steve’s asked, stretching him open carefully, waiting until the tension leaves his body to lock the speculum in place.
Steve can feel tears pooling in his eyes at how exposed he is, at knowing Dr. Stark is looking inside of him, and he wants to touch his cock so badly that his fingers are cramping. He doesn’t, though, barely even twitches when Dr. Stark swabs his cervix, and it’s not what Dr. Stark is doing so much as the possibility of what he could do with Steve in this position that has him teetering on the brink of another orgasm. He just feels so helpless right now, completely vulnerable to Dr. Stark’s whims, and it’s glorious.
Until it isn't anymore, the speculum sliding out of him with another gush of slick that no longer seems sexy at all, and Steve feels cold and small as Dr. Stark turns off the lamp and moves away, peeling his gloves off.
Steve sits up hurriedly, closing his legs, and once again, Dr. Stark asks, “Are you alright, Steve?” his voice devastatingly kind, and Steve wants—
He just wants.
But all he does is nod and manage a semblance of a smile, pulling his robe around him and lowering the sheet over his legs, his ass empty and faintly throbbing and Dr. Stark halfway across the room. The shame from everything he’s done finally catches up with him, and there's a reason Steve hates his checkup so much.
For a second, it seems like Dr. Stark is going to say something—but then he sighs quietly instead and all that comes out is, “I’ll leave you to get dressed then.”
Steve nods and stares down at his lap, but he can’t help stealing one last glance out the corner of his eye at Dr. Stark as he’s reaching for the doorknob, since Steve’s not going to get another one for six months.
He looks … sad. Wistful almost. But he’d seemed fine during the exam, so why—?
It can’t possibly be because of Steve, can it? Dr. Stark has never acted like he’s been interested in him, beyond a reaction to the obviousness of Steve’s attraction anyway, and considering Steve’s come multiple times while Dr. Stark has had his fingers or a speculum inside of him, Steve had assumed that meant Dr. Stark didn’t return his feelings.
Sure, he realizes it’d be completely unprofessional for Dr. Stark to ask him out, but once again, Steve has literally come on his fingers. He’d think Dr. Stark would at least smile more warmly at him, let him know he feels differently about him than the rest of his patients somehow, but he’s always been a little distant more than anything, nothing at all like the way he acts around … everyone else …
But that can’t—
Steve watches the closed door.
Dr. Stark doesn’t—
Steve takes his time getting dressed, wiping at the inside of his thighs and his buttocks and lower back in order to get the worst of the slick off of him. He puts paper towels on the step so whoever comes in to clean will know he left a mess there and then tidies up as much as he can. His thoughts are focused on Dr. Stark the whole time. It’s not really different than usual, but what is different is how he’s thinking about him.
Steve has seen the way Dr. Stark interacts with his staff and with other patients, and he knows he’s funny and smart and kind. Steve also knows that he’s unbearably attracted to him and that no matter how inappropriately excited Steve might get during an exam, he’d want to talk to Dr. Stark even if he weren’t in the medical field. What he doesn’t know, however, is how Dr. Stark feels about him.
What if the reason Dr. Stark acts the way he does is because he doesn’t want anything to do with him?
Except Dr. Stark has never been cold, just a bit reserved. As if he were being careful to keep himself under control.
Although that’s probably Steve making things up, because he wants Dr. Stark to like him.
But … what if Dr. Stark does like him?
Isn’t that possibility worth something?
Isn’t it worth a whole damn lot?
Steve is so busy arguing with himself that he doesn’t realize he’s made his way to the front desk until Nurse Grace greets him.
“Do you want to go ahead and set up your next appointment, Steve?” she asks, and he opens his mouth to automatically agree—
“Actually,” he says slowly, unable to stop thinking of the glimpse he’d gotten of Dr. Stark’s face, “no. I’m going to … I think I’m going to switch doctors.”
One eyebrow goes up, but she doesn’t look surprised. “Really? Do you mind telling me why?”
“Well,” he says, swallowing and rubbing sweaty palms on his jeans, “I can’t very well ask my doctor on a date now, can I?”
Her eyes crinkle as she smiles, bright and wide. They both hear a crash in the back followed by a hoarse, “Did he just—?”
“No. You can’t. See you soon, Steve.”
“I hope so,” he says as the door to back area slams opens and Dr. Stark … Tony appears, his eyes wild and hair all over the place.
“I know so,” she says, and the dawning wonder on Tony’s face is better than anything Steve could've imagined.