Disclaimer: Don't own APH.

A/N: Hi, it's 11/2016, and I'm putting the full fic back up here. This was originally inspired by an audio I found off 4chan or something, but the link's broken, so you'll just have to make do with my writing, haha. Thanks for reading.

Pairings: Main Germany/Prussia.

Warnings: Second-person POV.

:::

Doctor, Doctor.

You hate magazines almost as much as you hate American beer. Both are boring and overrated (and enough to kill boners singlehandedly) and often found in places where you can't fuck shit up without being thrown out, like in grocery stores or libraries.

Or doctors' offices. Maybe you should make appointments instead of walking in like this, because half the time the damn doctors're too busy to see the awesome you. Even though you're, like, awesome. As the case is, your iPhone's dead, you forgot your PSP, and you've not even got a Rubik's cube to keep you busy, so instead you're pawing through the glossy magazines on the coffee table and scowling as you wait for the doc to see you.

Hence your inner monologue on how terrible magazines are.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt? Doctor Kaltherzig will see you now," announces one of the receptionists in a crisp British accent. You yawn, standing and stretching your arms up above his head before following the same blonde who called for you (whose name tag reads KIRKLAND, ARTHUR) over to the scale. Arthur takes your weight down on papers clipped to a horridly pink clipboard that looks like something from Toys-R-Us, and leads you into one of the examination rooms, asking the standard questions (headache? Backache? Stomach problems?). He motions to the exam couch in the middle of the room. You swallow, but try to hide your discomfort.

"Prostate exam, eh?" snickers the blonde, shooting a malicious grin at you. "Have fun. I'll send Kaltherzig along." He leaves, closing the door behind him, and you take a seat on the long, thin couch and twiddle your thumbs.

Ludwig Kaltherzig isn't your primary doctor - no, your primary doctor is a well-endowed Ukrainian woman you've known for years and whom you'd never be able to ask to give you this sort of exam. Out of the several dozen doctors in the city, Kaltherzig is one of the few who offer to do prostate exams, and the only German one out of those few. You've got a preference for European doctors, mostly because they're less likely to be invasive and less likely to strike up stupid conversations, so as soon as you saw Doctor Kaltherzig's last name you punched his clinic's address into your iPhone navigator (which killed the damn thing's battery because you forgot the dock charger for your car) and drove off.

The door opens, and you look up. A tall blonde man in a white coat and black slacks steps inside, with the same horridly pink clipboard from earlier in his hands (his large hands, you note with a slight pang of anxiety) before glancing up at you.

He hardly looks a day over twenty five, with light hair (that's not got even a single strand of grey in it despite the fact that he looks like a workaholic) slicked back from his hard, angular face. His eyes, behind expensive-looking square-framed glasses, are clear and calculating, a deep royal blue that bores right through you. His features are so very German, and if he'd been around in Hitler's time he'd have been the poster-boy Aryan. Damn, he's gorgeous, and you gnaw at your lip as he closes the door behind him.

"So, Gilbert?" he says, smiling at you just a tiny bit - like he's not used to the action. That's totally possible, considering his no-nonsense personality. "Seeing that this is your first appointment with me, I'd like to introduce myself. Ludwig Kaltherzig." He extends a hand, and you shake it, wincing slightly at his strong grip.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt," you reply with a smirk. "Good to meet you, doc."

"So, what brings you in here today?" Kaltherzig, leaning against the counter, flips through the papers on the clipboard. "A prostate examination? Is there any specific reason for it? Pain or such?" He has a German accent, a fair bit stronger than yours, that provides a sexy - uh, interesting lilt to his words.

You shake your head. "Nah. I'm not really sure why, but Coach said I should probably get a check-up before tennis season starts. She's a weirdo, though."

Kaltherzig frowns. "Well, there's no real reason for you to get one." He takes his glasses off and sets them on the counter.

"Liz'll flip a bitch if I don't, though," you groan. Liz isn't your coach (thank heavens), but rather your hilariously horny faghag of a roommate who's bent on you taking it up the ass. She's kind of scary.

His frown deepens, but either way he motions to the chair. "Well, then, I'll assume that this is your first prostate exam. Don't worry, it's hardly as bad as people like Arthur would have you believe. You will need to remove all clothing beneath the waist and lean over the examination couch. I'll instruct you what else to do from there."

Sighing, you reach for your belt buckle and undo it, shimmying out of your skinny jeans and slipping off your Converse. After you've gotten out of your deathtrap pants, you fold them up and set them on the counter, wondering if you should've worn boxers today.

A smacking sound draws your attention and you look up in surprise. Kaltherzig's just pulled on a pair of those off-white latex gloves, and he gestures back to the couch. "Right, now you'll need to bend over." You flush as you realize how awkward you must look, standing there totally pantless and staring at the guy. "Just put your hands on the examination couch, and spread your legs."

You grimace and turn around, setting your palms against the paper-covered couch, and bending over it almost completely. "Spread your legs a bit more, so I can see your anus - ah, that's good," says Kaltherzig, smooth voice sending shivers down your spine. "Since this is your first exam, I'll tell you what I'm doing so you're not lost with the procedure." You hear a soft click, and twist around to see the blonde spreading lube over three fingers with a slightly amused expression on his face.

"I'm using lubrication so it's easier on you," explains Kaltherzig, waggling the three gleaming fingers. "And I'm going to put one finger inside now. It'll feel a bit strange, but it won't hurt."

He rubs your entrance for a second, smearing lube over it, before slipping in one finger. You tense involuntarily and yelp when he whacks your thigh lightly. "Relax," he orders, and you can imagine the smirk on his face. He leaves his finger there for a few moments before moving it, and the sensation is so weird but not necessarily bad.

...not bad at all, actually.

"Hmm. I'm going to add another finger now." The slight pain of stretching, plus the gnashing squelch of latex and lube, makes you grimace, but then Kaltherzig starts scissoring his fingers and you twitch a little, gripping at the plush couch and biting your lip.

"So, you know how this works, right?" asks Kaltherzig, voice calm and low. You nod, not trusting yourself to sound normal (because dammit son, it feels good) and Kaltherzig smiles - or at least, you think he's smiling, because he chuckles and it's kind of hard to chuckle without at least smirking. Maybe he's smirking. That's also a possibility. "Well, I'll need to insert another finger to stretch you out. You were really squeezing on my fingers earlier, you know...and oh, don't be alarmed by the thrusting. It's loosening your muscles so the test is easier on you."

Loosening your - that's bullshit. And yes, he's definitely smirking, because barely five minutes into the exam he's got three fingers up your ass when everyone on Yahoo answers said that the doctor'd only use one, and he's practically finger-fucking you instead of looking for your prostate, and you curl and uncurl your toes and try to keep from bucking as he continues his assault.

"That should be enough," he says, slipping out his fingers, and you thank the Lord that he stopped. "The actual test requires just one finger, and will be relatively quick."

The invasion now is, embarrassingly, still rather pleasant. You exhale deeply as Kaltherzig probes about, waiting for him to -

Fuck. You gasp and arch, crying out softly as Kaltherzig presses his fingers against something and oh, oh, that feels amaaaaazing.

Then he laughs. "Oh? What was that, ah, lustful cry?" Your face gets impossibly hotter, but he keeps stroking over your prostate and you rut into his finger. "Feels good, hmm?"

"Y-yeah," you whimper, breathing hard as he pushes another finger inside and scissors again. He runs one hand, the ungloved one, over the back of your thigh, and his palm is surprisingly cool compared to your feverish skin.

"I know you do," he says very matter-of-factly, gripping your thigh and rubbing his thumb in small circles. "You're rock hard and dripping wet, just from a few fingers up your ass." He traces the vein on your dick with his ungloved hand, all the while thrusting his fingers lazily. You groan and push back into his hand, burying your face into the couch. "Is this your first time having your prostate stimulated?"

You nod jerkily and squirm a little, bouncing on his fingers.

"You know what feels even better?" leers Kaltherzig, pulling his fingers out slowly. "Getting fucked by a nice, thick cock." The words aren't sexy or romantic in any way, but his voice - his damned, smooth, silky, boner-inducing voice - makes them sound more enticing than beer. German beer.

He pulls you from your stray thoughts with another blasted chuckle. "As it happens, all this made me hard as well. So what do you say? Want to try it?"

And you're twitching and gasping and horny and yes you fucking want to try it so you choke out a yes and he pulls his fingers away and you whine, before he slaps your thigh again. "You made the right decision," he smirks, standing and undoing his fly. A few moments later, the telltale sound of a condom wrapper fills the silence (why, precisely, there are condoms at reach in a doctor's office, you don't know and you're not entirely sure that you want to know) and he seems to be moving as slowly as he can just to piss you off. But when you reach around to jerk yourself, he smacks your thigh again. "Don't touch yourself," he commands, and you whimper.

"W-why not?"

(Bleh, you sound like a girl.)

He doesn't answer, but eventually (finally) he comes and stands directly behind you, whacking his cock at the base of your spine a few times, and he's big and you swallow in slight worry. "Brace yourself," Kaltherzig announces as he positions himself and slides inside.

It feels...full, really, but it's not bad. It's not bad like the finger wasn't bad, and to you that means that it's going to get a whole lot better in a few seconds. But it's strange, and your legs give way and you're grateful for the examination couch holding you up.

"Ach, das ist schön... you're still very tight. But you feel wonderful, just like I thought." (The fact that Kaltherzig was thinking of doing this to you during that exam doesn't faze you at all, for some reason.) "I'll start thrusting now."

Ah, fuck. You groan again as he moves. It takes a few more slides of his dick inside you, but eventually you start arching back and pleading for him to go faster, even though he smiles and stays at the same agonizingly slow pace. "You like it, don't you?" he purrs directly onto your ear, crouching over your body and biting at your throat. You nod frantically, and gasp as he speeds up, fucking you hard enough to move you forward on the exam couch despite the agonizingly slow pace.

Then he angles and hits your prostate and you cry out, arching again and scrabbling for something to grip, and you desperately want to touch yourself but he said not to... Kaltherzig chuckles lowly into your ear, and you twist your head to provide him better access to your neck.

You moan all the while, and eventually he comments on how terribly slutty you are, acting like this in front of him, in front of your (ridiculously sexy) doctor. "I think you need to be punished for that, don't you?" You agree, if only because you want to see what he's got in store.

He's gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and without skipping a beat in his now-brutal thrusts, he pulls one hand away and slaps your ass hard enough for you to shout. Then the pain blends into pleasure, like a stupid tourist jumping in front of a train and getting swept away (and most likely killed but whatever), and you whimper. He spanks you again and again until you're begging him not to stop, not to stop, and he doesn't. Your stomach coils deliciously and you kick at the floor.

"I would never have pegged you as the masochistic type," comments Kaltherzig, panting slightly. "You tense up so much when I spank you, yet beg for more."

"Y-yeah, well, I tend to - to do that," you mumble, closing your eyes and pressing your forehead against the sweaty exam couch. "Ah!" You tense up, the pressure against your hips almost unbearable, before you gasp and come, shuddering and hardly embarrassed about the fact that you came without your dick being touched until Kaltherzig notes it.

"Hmm...I'm going to come," says Kaltherzig, voice still calm as ever apart from a few pants and grunts. Thank god for the condom.

He pulls out with a nasty-sounding ssssch and hands you the blandly blue tissue box. You take a few with a hoarse thanks and wipe yourself up, cock and ass and stomach, until you feel dry enough to put your clothes back on. When you turn around, Kaltherzig has cleaned himself up and is writing on that clipboard, and he doesn't look like he's just had sex in an exam room with a patient. He looks like he did when he walked in - his hair's still perfectly gelled and the pinstriped dress shirt he has on under the white lab coat isn't even rumpled. (You, on the other hand, probably look just as well-fucked as you are with that stupid smirk on your face and your hair mussed and the beginnings of a few hickeys on your throat.)

"Well, thank you," says Kaltherzig with that same slight smile he used when you walked in. "We'll mail you your results within the week, though everything seems fine."

You walk out in a daze, hardly registering Arthur's customary farewell, and go straight home. Your legs feel like Milchreis, and your ass hurts, but it's a nice hurt (not really. It kind of feels like the time you bruised your tailbone from sitting on the blacktop for too long in sixth grade) and Liz, who can apparently smell the Armani cologne on you from the moment you walk into the flat, pressures you for the story.

Three days later, you get the results of your prostate exam. At the bottom of the page (which reads that you're completely healthy) is a note scrawled in long, straight handwriting:

Everything looks good, but perhaps you should come in for a full physical check-up sometime soon.