Chapter Text
For the first time in his 34 years of life, Steve Rogers is considering paying for sex.
Well, paying for a professional rut partner. So— sex. But legal. And regulated. And perfectly normal. A service that thousands, no, millions of people use regularly every single day.
But… Steve’s only considering it.
Okay. Maybe he has a brochure open on his lap with detailed instructions about how to download the ComfortCycle app, and all the legal and financial documents he needs for the application already spread out on his coffee table. Maybe what’s he doing is less considering and more actively preparing. But nobody has to know. Not even Sam, who gave him the brochure in the first place.
It was all Sam’s idea, anyway.
Ever since Steve’s doctor had ordered him off suppressants six months ago— “You’re two months away from permanent hormone disregulation, Mr. Rogers”— Steve’s ruts had been pure hell. And hadn’t that been why he’d gone on the little blue pills in the first place? When he’d first presented as an alpha when he was still a gangly teenager his ruts had been unmanageable without suppressants. He’d damn near driven his mother insane, the way she’d have to lock him in his room and vacate the premises for an entire weekend.
Worst of all? While other alphas suffered one to three ruts a year on average, Steve suffered monthly. And ever since he and Sharon had broken up around four years ago, his ruts had only gotten worse. They’d grown stronger— making him more irrational, territorial and short-tempered in the week leading up to it. And his scent. Potent was too weak a word to describe it. After not one, but two unmated omega neighbors had moved out of the brownstone adjoined to his, he’d shelled out $5K to get his home professionally scent-proofed from ceiling to floor.
It was Sam who’d finally brought down the hammer on him yesterday, both as his friend and as the head of HR at the architecture firm, Starkitects, where Steve is a partner. While Steve had known he was more than likely irritating his coworkers with his intensity, short temper and territorial instincts before and after his monthly rut leave, he hadn’t known he was actually making people uncomfortable.
Sam, bless him, had had the tact to tell him gently, in private, in his office on Monday, knowing how hard Steve would take the news that more than one omega coworker had expressed their discomfort with him to HR.
And that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Steve could suffer through his ruts alone every month, as long as they only affected him. But knowing that it was actively harming his omega team members, enough to file a complaint? His first thought had been that he should resign— but Sam had quickly squashed that idea down.
It’s not like Steve needed another reason to dislike himself and his obscene alpha body any more than he already did.
Growing up, no one had ever thought he’d present as an alpha. He was a gangly, chronically-ill child, barely 90 pounds soaking wet. His first rut had been the biggest event of 8th grade. The shock that had rippled through his middle school at his presentation had lingered for weeks. And then he’d just kept having ruts, one after the other, every month, until he’d started on suppressants in college to finally get some relief.
“You don’t have to hate your ruts, Steve. You know that, right?” Sam had said after breaking the news about the HR complaints. He had used that gently persuasive voice that came so naturally to him. Steve usually loved that about his best friend, how unflustered he always was— solid and steady and unyielding, just like his even citrus scent— but in that moment, he had hated the calm voice. As a beta, it’s not like Sam would know anything about ruts, or even heats. It just felt condescending.
“If you’re not ready for another relationship, you can pay for a service,” Sam had continued, pulling brochures and info packets out of the drawers of his desk. “Sarah uses ComfortCycle for her heats. It’s the best one. It’s very discreet, and professional. It can be whatever you need it to be.”
“Yeah, I know. I know, Sam,” Steve had replied, aware of how much like a petulant child he sounded. But his nerves were still frayed from the rut he’d spent at home, alone, that weekend. It was Monday, and Sam was adding to the mental burden on his already addled alpha brain, and on top of all that— he felt crippling guilt and self-hatred for bringing his problems to the workplace. Especially for forcing his disgusting, hormone-amped stench on his unwilling omega coworkers, like some… knotheaded frat boy.
“I’ll… think about it. And I’ll start working from home a few days before… and after,” Steve had conceded with a sigh, scrubbing a hand down his face.
He had known coming into work on Monday that he looked and smelled like shit— bags under his eyes, rut scent lingering— even under the liberal amount of scent blocker he dutifully applied. Not even an hour long shower could really scrape off the scent of unsatisfied, virile alpha. He’d spent the unending hours of his rut last weekend jerking off, then housing protein bars, then jerking off again— face smushed into a pillow he’d spritzed with the chemical scent of bottled omega pheromones.
So that’s why after all that— the terrible rut, the even worse conversation with Sam— Steve finds himself on his couch, two glasses of wine deep and steadily working through his third, on a Tuesday night. Sam’s words run through his brain over and over and over again, the sentences on the ComfortCycle brochure he has open on his lap blurring together the longer he stares.
Steve is tired. His cock still hurts. His scent glands are still sore. His brain feels like it was put in a blender full of hormones and then poured back inside of his skull through his ears. And even worse than the physical sensations— he feels like the absolute worst, scum-of-the-earth alpha on the planet.
His ruts with Sharon had been great. No testy pre- and post-rut hormones, no bone-deep exhaustion for days afterward. He got his biological needs fulfilled for a few days, and then that was it: back to work like normal. Ruts and heats are bearable, even enjoyable, when you have a partner. It’s why cycle partner services exist in the first place.
So even though it still rubs him the wrong way, his skin prickling with the discomfort of asking for something like help from a stranger, Steve thinks, fuck it. With a few taps, he’s downloaded the ComfortCycle app and the icon is blinking at him from his phone screen. Feeling more than a little buzzed from the wine, he taps the little square icon and fills out all the necessary fields. He takes a picture of his ID and his passport when prompted, and uploads his most recent medical files and bloodwork. Before he can think too hard about it, the screen reads “Application processing!” and there’s nothing left for him to do. He drains the rest of his glass of wine in one gulp.
Take that, Sam, he thinks, with no real venom. Aspen, his 4-year-old Samoyed, seeming to sense Steve’s discomfort, pads across the room and pushes her snout into his upturned palm, giving him her huge, trademark puppy dog eyes.
“I’m okay, sweet girl,” he murmurs, giving her a pat. Aspen gives him a shrewd look, like she knows exactly what he’s just done on his phone. Steve tuts at her, then hauls himself off the couch to fetch her a treat and get ready for bed.
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Steve had drank much more wine than he thought, because he wakes up the next day with a pounding migraine that creates enough of a distraction to put the whole ComfortCycle fiasco out of his head for the time being.
He goes through the motions— feeding, walking and brushing Aspen, showering and eating breakfast, taking the subway to work. By the time he’s pushing through the glass doors at the front of Starkitects and accepting a cup of coffee with a smile from Pepper (Tony’s alpha and the firm’s office manager), Steve’s almost forgotten about the app on his phone and the awkward conversation he’d had on Monday with Sam.
Fast forward to Friday, and Steve has altogether forgotten about ComfortCycle. The workweek was stressful, what with negotiating two new commercial real estate deals, and his lingering rut hormones have flushed completely out of his system.
Which is why Steve almost drops his phone in the street when it pings with a notification saying “Your ComfortCycle application is approved!” while he’s standing in line at a taco truck during post-work happy hour.
“You good?” Tony says from his right, quirking one dark eyebrow as Steve fumbles frantically for his phone. “Because the look on your face makes me think we just lost the Vision account to Danvers, or something.”
“Yeah, no, I just— something caught me off guard,” Steve says in a hurry. He can’t give Tony anything, or else his college roommate will run with it like a dog with a bone, and he’ll never hear the end of it. Tony’s brows quirk up in interest, knowing Steve’s lying.
“I just…. got a big vet bill. For Aspen,” Steve says quickly, hoping the omega will buy the lame excuse and drop it. It’s never worked before, in all the years they’ve lived and worked together, but hey— it’s worth a shot.
Tony gives Steve a piercing look, and his familiar leather and whiskey scent grows stronger with his curiosity. Steve knows he looks tense, so he gives a weak smile and points to the menu as a diversion. “Know what you’re getting?”
Tony must not be in a prying mood, because he takes the bait easily, launching into a tirade about the pros and cons of al pastor versus barbacoa. All the while pretending to listen, Steve fights the burning urge to unlock his phone and find out what the next steps are.
Once they’re seated among the gaggle of their friends and coworkers, Steve lets himself check out, allowing the familiar scents and voices to wash over him— Maria arguing with Fury around a mouthful of shrimp taco, Sam gulping down a pineapple margarita while he gossips with Phil, Peter the intern clutching a can of Sprite with both hands and hanging on to Tony’s every word while Rhodey rolls his eyes.
Steve loves his coworkers. But right now, he’s practically counting down the seconds until he finishes his food and can head back home to check out the app.
Since when was he excited about ComfortCycle? The thought of that notification in his pocket sends a thrill through him, that primal part of his brain lighting up with a yearning that he thought had been thoroughly tamped out years ago.
“Eager to get home?” Pepper murmurs from Steve’s left. He drags his eyes away from his watch, where he’d lifted his wrist to check for probably the third time that minute.
Steve shoots her a sheepish smile, glad she was the only one who’d noticed. “Just ready to get home. Check on Aspen,” he says.
“Don’t hold out on our account,” she says with a warm smile. “See you on Sunday?”
“Of course,” he says. It’s Tony’s birthday, after all, and the plans have been written in Sharpie on his calendar for months. His business partner never does anything by halves— Steve had to get one of his monkey suits dry cleaned weeks in advance for the ostentatious venue.
He gets up to leave, but Pepper reaches out to catch him with a gentle hand to his wrist, a knowing glint in her deep blue eyes. Steve breathes in the strawberry scent of her. “Are you bringing a plus one?”
Am I really that easy to read? Steve thinks. He shakes his head. “Hardly. Unless Sam counts?” Pepper laughs, and the beta in question perks up at the mention of his name, still deep into whatever discourse he’d gotten roped into with Phil. He reaches out to clap a hand on Steve’s shoulder in goodbye, evoking a chorus of goodbyes from the rest of the crowd as Steve waves, cleans up his tray and heads home.
Aspen is lounging out in the tiny patch of his backyard when he gets home, gnawing on a Kong full of peanut butter and kibble he’d filled a few days ago. As soon as she hears Steve puttering around in the kitchen, she speeds through the tiny doggy door and skids into the kitchen, giving a little whoof of delight at the sight of him.
“Yeah, yeah, happy to see you too girl,” Steve says with a laugh, showering her fluffy form with pats. She rolls over to show him her belly, tongue lolling out of her mouth with joy. “Daddy’s going to check his phone for a bit, then we can go for a walk.”
Steve plops down on his plush grey couch, Aspen curling in a ball at his feet, and finally pulls out his phone.
The notification from ComfortCyle is still on his home screen. He taps it to launch the app, and is immediately greeted with a home screen that reads “Welcome! Choose your partner!” in a bold, red font.
Steve knows how this works, after reading the brochure. He’ll scroll through candidates that are deemed potentially compatible based on his age, designation, and preferences (of which he’d indicated very few). Then, he’ll pick a potential partner or two that pique his interest. Once he makes a choice, the app will share his photo and information with the potential partner, who will then either accept or deny his request. If they accept, they’ll meet up to determine scent and personality compatibility…. and then…. And then….
Steve swallows, his throat suddenly feeling dry at the thought of what he’s planning to do. He taps through the next few screens of the app, and then he’s prompted to swipe through a series of professional ComfortCycle partner profiles.
When Steve had filled out his application on Tuesday night, he’d indicated a preference for omegas. He realizes now, looking at the profiles in front of him, that that was a weird decision to make. He’s never even been with an omega, unless you count the time he’d drunkenly made out with Arnie Nance, captain of the rowing team, freshman year. Omegas had always… made Steve nervous. His ex, Sharon, was a beta.
Steve shakes his head, clearing the competing fog of lust and anxiety that suddenly fills his head with the thought of spending his rut with an omega. Maybe it had been the red wine.
The first profile that pops up is one of a beautiful, curly haired brunette named Charlotte. She has huge brown doe eyes and freckles, and Steve lingers on her picture for a while, before moving on. Next is Hector, an accountant with a dainty nose. Then Xie, the “flexible” yoga instructor, Adia the shy-looking art teacher, Paul the goofy-faced blonde and Shay, the redhead with a cocky smirk. He swipes through one after the other, reading each profile and continuing on, until he lands on James.
The profile caption reads: James, 31, Omega. Looking for my next mission ;).
But the caption is not what catches Steve’s eye. It’s James’ picture. In it, the man is smiling coyly, head tilted to the left, chin-length hair framing his face in dark swoops. The omega’s eyes are arresting— a pale, steel gray. His jawline is defined yet soft around the edges, cleft chin leading Steve’s eyes up to a set of plush, red lips.
Steve’s mouth literally waters at the sight of him. He’s gorgeous. Arrestingly so.
Steve is so captivated by James’ beautiful face that it’s a while before he notices the pinned-up left sleeve of the omega’s washed-out, denim jacket. He has no left arm.
Something about the sight of the pinned-up sleeve makes Steve’s chest constrict with emotion, his lungs feeling tight and his heart thumping insistently against his ribcage. Protect, his inner alpha grumbles.
He shakes the icky thought away even faster than it had cropped up, chastising himself for even thinking it. Just because James is differently-abled absolutely does not mean he needs Steve’s help or protection, or any other antiquated alpha-omega designation bullshit. Steve knows that, and he’s never bought into that macho garbage. (It’s not like he’s ever fit any traditional alpha stereotypes, anyway. At least, not until he’d hit his freakish growth spurt as a junior in college, going from 5’2 and skinny as a rail to 6’3 and shredded, practically overnight.) And he’s positive that James, like most omegas, would not appreciate that sort of mentality from him.
But Steve can’t deny that just the sight of the omega’s profile inspires a strong kind of want in both his rational and irrational brain.
Before he can overthink it anymore, Steve scrolls down to the bottom of James’ profile, where the bright red button that reads “Send Partner Proposal” blinks up at him. His thumb hovers over the widget, breath caught in his throat. Is he really going to do this?
Sam’s words echo through his head— “You don’t have to hate your ruts, Steve.”
Taking a deep breath, Steve presses his thumb to the screen. For all he knows, James will take one look at his profile and the goofy selfie he’d uploaded of himself and Aspen curled up on the couch, and reject his rut request straight away.
But for now? All Steve can do is wait.