Simon "Ghost" Riley | COD

The hum of the car engine was a low, steady comfort as Simon pulled into the parking lot of the women's health clinic. The building was a modern, sterile-looking structure of glass and pale stone, a stark contrast to the grit and grime he was accustomed to. He killed the engine, the sudden silence filled with the quiet tick of cooling metal and the nervous tap of his thumb against the steering wheel.

“You alright, love?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to fill the small space. He turned to look at her, his eyes, usually sharp and assessing under his mask, were soft with concern.

“It’s ok to be nervous,” Simon reassured her, his hand reaching out to gently squeeze hers. His fingers were calloused, his grip firm, but his touch was impossibly gentle. “It’s just a check-up. You’ll be in and out.” He said it with a certainty he didn't fully feel. The word “unusual spotting” had been a cold stone in his gut since you’d mentioned it. He hated the unknown, the lack of control. This wasn’t a battlefield he could map out and conquer.

He got out of the car, moving with a feline grace that belied his large frame. He came around to open her door, a gesture that was both old-fashioned and fiercely protective. Even in a place like this, his posture was a silent command for the world to give you a wide berth.

The clinic's interior was designed to be soothing, all muted blues and soft lighting, with calming nature prints on the walls. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender. It was, in Simon’s opinion, a complete lie. Nothing about a doctor's office—especially a specialist’s—was truly calming.

He signed her in at the front desk, his large, blocky handwriting awkward on the small clipboard. He stood slightly behind her, a silent, imposing sentinel as she sat in the waiting room. The other women in the chairs sent him wary, curious glances. A man his size, dressed in a simple but dark hoodie that couldn't quite hide the breadth of his shoulders, was a jarring sight in the feminine space. He paid them no mind. His focus was solely on you.

“Miss {{user}}?” a soft voice called.

A woman in her late forties with a kind face and sharp, intelligent eyes smiled from the doorway. She was dressed in smart trousers and a blouse, a stethoscope around her neck. “I’m Dr. Anya Sharma. Please, come this way.”

Inside the exam room, everything was a pristine, clinical white. The paper on the table crinkled ominously. Simon immediately felt his skin crawl. The instruments laid out on the tray were alien and unnerving. He had seen people shot, blown up, and stabbed, but the sight of a speculum made him want to get you out of there.

Dr. Sharma, noting his tense posture, gave him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s usually just the patient in here for the exam, but I understand the desire for support. As long as you’re comfortable with him staying. Mr. Riley, you can have a seat.”

Simon gave a curt nod, pulling a hard plastic chair as close to the head of the exam table as he could manage. He took his seat, his large frame making it look comically small. He watched, helpless, as {{user}} were given a paper gown and guided through the process. He could see the slight tremor in her hands and felt a surge of protectiveness he could do nothing with. He was utterly out of his depth.

Dr. Sharma’s voice was calm and professional as she talked {{user}} through every step. Simon, however, was a statue. He only moved to take her hand, his thumb stroking a steady rhythm over her knuckles as she lay back. The paper crinkled beneath her, and he felt a wave of pure, undiluted rage at the entire situation, a rage he had to swallow down.

He watched the doctor's face intently, looking for any flicker of concern. He’d spent his life reading people’s micro-expressions, a necessity for survival. The doctor’s face remained placid, a mask of clinical focus, until a soft, thoughtful hum escaped her lips.

Simon’s entire body went rigid. His grip on your hand tightened for a split second before he consciously loosened it. The thought ‘What’s wrong?’ was a cold, clear command in his head, but before he could vocalize it, Dr. Sharma spoke.

“Everything looks normal and healthy, {{user}},” she said, her tone even. “But… I am seeing some bruising on the cervix.”

Simon felt his blood run cold. Bruising? His mind, trained for combat and violence, instantly conjured images of blunt force trauma, of something terrible. He opened his mouth, but the doctor continued, her gaze flicking from the exam to {{user}}.

“It’s nothing dangerous, I want to assure you,” she said, her voice soothing. “It’s not like a bruise you get from a fall or a bump. The cervix is soft tissue. Think of it like a rug burn, or tenderness from… repeated contact. There’s some inflammation.” She paused, smiling kindly at {{user}}. “It’s completely normal, but I would strongly recommend you avoid any prolonged, intense activity for a day or two. Just give the tissue a chance to rest.”

Simon’s mind, still stuck on the word “bruising,” tried to make sense of this. Repeated contact? Inflammation? He was a soldier, not a doctor. The only way he knew to cause a bruise was with force.

Then Dr. Sharma looked directly at him. She met his pale, piercing eyes with a calm, professional gaze. A flicker of a smile played on her lips, as if she were about to share a secret.

“Especially with something…” she paused for effect, her gaze never leaving his face. “…that big.”

The silence in the room was absolute.

It hung in the air for a moment, a heavy, tangible thing. Then, the meaning of her words crashed over Simon like a wave of ice water. The “bruising” wasn’t from a fall. It wasn’t a sinister internal issue.

It was him.

He was the cause.

His face, usually so unreadable behind the mask, or completely blank when he wore it, suddenly felt hot. A flush crept up his neck, hidden by the neck of his hoodie, but the tips of his ears burned a vivid, unmistakable red. He was utterly, completely flummoxed.

He thought of the nights before, the passion, the intensity. He knew he wasn't a gentle man; his whole life was a testament to that fact. But with her, he tried to be. He thought he was in control, always holding back a part of his immense strength. The doctor's words had just proven that his version of "holding back" was apparently a monumental feat of tenderness that was still physically taxing on her.

He stared at the doctor, his mouth slightly agape. The image of himself, a man who had faced down terrorists and stared death in the face, being utterly embarrassed by a gynecologist in a paper gown and reading glasses—it was surreal.

He finally managed to speak, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “I… right. Understood.”

He cleared his throat, unable to look at her, his face still a mask of controlled mortification. He felt like a giant, lumbering bear who had just been told he'd been accidentally breaking all the teacups.

Dr. Sharma just smiled smoothly, turning her attention back to {{user}}. “Alright, {{user}}, you can get dressed and we’ll have the results of your standard labs in a few days. Any questions?”

Simon just sat there, his mind a chaotic loop of the words ‘that big,’ ‘that big,’ that big’ as he stared at the linoleum floor, praying for it to swallow him whole.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp. The day's tension had melted away hours ago, replaced by the comfortable intimacy of being home, of being them. Simon lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped lazily over your hip as you curled into his side.

He was warm. Solid. Safe.

And {{user}} were decidedly not thinking about what the doctor had said.

Okay, maybe she was thinking about it a little.

Simon's fingers traced absent patterns on her bare shoulder, his breathing slow and even. He'd been quiet since the appointment, a little too quiet, but the tension in his jaw had eased over dinner. She'd thought he was over it.

But right now, she didn't care about being right. She cared about the way his chest rose and fell beneath her palm, the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the scent of soap and something uniquely him.

She tilted her head up and kissed his jaw.

His fingers stilled for a moment, then resumed their lazy path.

Her kissed higher, along the sharp line of his cheekbone, and felt the barest twitch of muscle beneath his stubble.

"Love," he murmured, a low warning in his voice.

She ignored it. She shifted, propping herself up on her elbow to look down at him. His pale eyes glinted in the low light, watchful and amused.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, but he kissed her back anyway, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head. The kiss was slow at first, languid, the kind that made her toes curl and her stomach flip.

But she was impatient.

His grip tightened in her hair, just a fraction, and she took that as encouragement. She swung a leg over his hips, straddling him, and the heat of him pressed against the thin fabric of her shorts made her gasp.

Simon broke the kiss with a sharp breath. His hands found her hips, gripping firmly.

"Hold on," he said, his voice thick.

But she was already reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants.

His hands caught hers, halting her progress. "I said hold on."

"You heard the doctor." he said, his voice dropping into that low, commanding register that made her thighs clench.

"No." He sat up, and she had to shift back to avoid headbutting him. His hands were still locked around her wrists, his grip firm but not painful. "You're not getting access to my cock tonight, love. Not happening."

He'd said it so bluntly, so matter-of-factly, that the words took a moment to compute.

His lips twitched, but he held firm. "Doctor's orders."

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