tag: don’t bring Simon to the gynecologist with you.
You’d woken up late, hair a mess, throat scratchy, body sore in that way that only meant one thing; Simon had been entirely too much the night before… like usual. Your phone buzzed that morning and Simon, already half-dressed and standing by your dresser, looked at the screen and raised a brow.
"Doc visit?" he questioned, voice deep, lazy.
You blinked at your phone and realization hit you. "…shit." You did have a scheduled appointment for today which you entirely forgot about.
He shrugged. "I’ll drive."
And like an idiot, sleep-addled and still sore from the night before, you let him come.
Now here you are, spread on the exam table like a goddamn starfish, feet in the stirrups, paper gown bunched up around your waist, fluorescent lighting making everything feel ten times worse… and Simon is in the corner, his legs spread, elbows on his thighs, and scrolling on his phone like he’s in a dentist’s waiting room.
Not one once of shame. You shoot him a look. He doesn’t even reciprocate it but just mutters, "Told you t’ put it on the calendar."
Before you can hiss back at him, the door opens.
Your gynecologist steps in, a nice, polite, middle-aged woman, all business and just stops dead.
Her eyes flick from you and your very exposed situation, then to Simon. The six-foot-something wall of tattoos and muscle, who by the way is generally not in the room. Then back to you.
“Oh!” the doctor says, pleasantly startled. “I… wasn’t expecting a guest today.”
Simon finally looks up. Nods once. “Ma’am.”
Just ma’am. Like he’s greeting a cashier.
You wish the earth would open and swallow you whole.
The doctor put on her gloves with that clinical snap that somehow made this even worse.
You stare at the ceiling like it owes you something.
Simon goes right back to scrolling.
The paper under you crinkles as you shift, cheeks hot. The doctor sits on her stool, rolling close between your legs.
“Just going to take a look,” she says. “Any pain lately? Discomfort? Irregular bleeding?”
You open your mouth to say 'no, everything’s fine' but then she hums.
“Not alarming,” she assures, too quickly, “Just… some residual bruising on the cervix.”
Your soul leaves your body. “Bruising?” you croak.
Simon’s thumb stops mid-scroll.
The doctor nods. “Yes. Fair amount of tenderness and discoloration.” She pauses, then looks at you knowingly. The doctor hums again, then says the absolute worst possible thing.
"It’s nothing dangerous, but I’d recommend you avoid prolonged, intense activity for a day or two. Especially with something…"
She paused. Looked directly at Simon. "…that big."
She does not say big casually. She emphasizes it. Bold. Italic. Underline. Triple-sized font.
The room goes silent and the air stops moving for a moment. Even the HVAC system seems to hesitate.
Simon slowly sits back in his chair, like someone just handed him an award.
A slow smirk creeps onto his face, subtle but smug as hell. He doesn’t even pretend humility. Doesn’t cough. Doesn’t deflect. He just stays, quiet and cocky.
The doctor keeps talking, clinically unbothered. “If your partner has a… larger anatomy, you need to take breaks, communicate, maybe use positions with less depth. Going too long can cause bruising or strain.”
The doctor continues, completely unaware of the war happening between you two.
“I’d recommend abstaining for a few days—”
You whip your head toward him. “Do you mind ?!” You are going to punch him.
Right here. Feet in the stirrups. Gown open and you’re going to assault this man.
Awhile after, the doctor gently removes her gloves. “All done. You can get dressed.”
As she stands, she looks at Simon again, still uncertain why he’s here at all.
“You’re welcome to wait in the lobby next time,” she offers kindly.
But Simon just stands, stretches, and says “Nah. ’m her support.”
As if he didn’t break open your insides twelve hours ago.
You slide off the table, teeth clenched, grabbing your clothes.
The doctor exits politely.
You round on Simon the moment the door shuts. “Next time you’re keeping your ass home”
He shrugs casually, taking your purse for you like the smug bastard he is. “Not my fault the doc praised my dick.”
“She did not praise your dick—”
“She said big.” He leans down, voice low in your ear “Emphasized it too.”
Simon’s eyebrows lift. “Larger anatomy,” he repeats under his breath like he’s tasting the words.
You point a murderous stare at him.
You shove his chest. He catches your wrist. Presses a kiss to your temple.
“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Get dressed. I’ll take y’ home. You can be mad in the car.”
You mutter, “God I hate you so much right now .”
