You leave your stuff at his place like it’s your second apartment. Hair ties on his nightstand, your clothes in his laundry. That one lip balm he pretends not to use but absolutely does. He once found your earring on his pillow and sat there staring at it for ten minutes straight.

You correct girls when they flirt with him. Not rudely. Just with some subtle things. “He doesn’t like gin, actually,” with a little smile. “Simon’s more of a bourbon guy.” Meanwhile, Simon’s standing behind you, blinking like a confused dog. He didn’t even know he was a bourbon guy until you said so.

He starts dressing the way you like without realizing it. You complimented his black joggers once? Suddenly, they’re in heavy rotation. Mention his cologne smells good? He’s wearing it to the grocery store. You say, “I like when you leave your hair messy like that,” and now he’s suspiciously tousled 24/7.

You use your phone like a weapon. Screenshotting girls who like his pics. “This one again?” with a raised eyebrow. Sending him selfies when he’s out late with a little “missing you” just to make sure he’s thinking about you.

Simon tries to stay cool, tries to act unbothered. But then you say something like, “I don’t like when other girls touch you,” and he’s short-circuiting. Sitting there all red-eared and tense like his body’s trying to pretend it’s not turning into goo.

vampire! ghost x reader cw: blood & violence & sexual undertones

The first OP with you goes smooth. Smooth enough for Simon to question why Price didn’t bring someone like you on board to begin with. You fit right in; a medic with speed that's almost as deadly as your tongue, with the way you return Soap’s banter like you were made to do so.

I'll take her, L.t., if ye won't bite, Johnny had teased with a wink. Ghost can’t quite determine why it irritates him, but it does.

The second mission goes even smoother.

He keeps his distance. Keeps communication to a minimum outside of professionality even when he feels your eyes linger like you want to say something, but never do.

It's your third OP with the team that something finally goes awry.

A third consecutive firefight breaks out as everyone is trying to make it back to the safehouse—mission botched and aborted. Price got separated, relaying the situation to Laswell through the comms. Exhausted men lead to sloppy work and therefore, Gaz takes a fall. A bad one. Price gets a rock through the palm by the time he finally makes it to the safehouse and Soap, soaked from the rain with a twisted ankle.

By the time Ghost leaves the room he and Price had been debriefing in for the last hour, the sun has set and the smell of blood fills the air. Soap’s is Earthy. The same bloodtype as Simon before he turned, and tastes like licking a rock. Price’s is deep, rich. A rarity splattered against the rotted wood of the barn they’ve taken shelter in. Gaz’s is metallic like stream water. Distinctively B-negative.

And then there’s yours. Saccharine. Sweet. Thick on the air. Wafting in waves tangling with the smell of distress that’s every bit as tempting as it is concerning, and he suddenly understands why that bloodthirsty bastard marked up your wrists and neck like he had. Territorial prick.

You’re bleeding, perched on a bench in the corner with a lantern where you treated Soap just a moment ago. Fist clenched, shaking; coated in thick, congealed blood that drips to the floor. A deep bullet graze gone hidden and unnoticed, now about to get stitched up by your other unsteady hand.

Simon swallows back any impulsive thoughts. Bites his fangs into his tongue to reel himself back in.

“Red,” he says, voice just a little rough, and it makes you jump. Eyes wide when you whip around, face a few shades paler than the norm—like he was the last person you expected to hear your bitten curses and pained grunts. It's the first time he's seen you anything but put-together.

That something he thought was long dead and gone warms over in his chest. Worry, he thinks. Care.

He gestures to your wound, “shouldn’t be doin’ that yourself.”

You sigh tiredly. Wipe sweat and tears from your eyes. Voice clipped when it comes out, strained. ”Didn't-....didn't mean to bother you."

Wordlessly, he steps forwards. Careful, like he’s wary he might scare you away again. The sweet smell gets stronger as he approaches. Sits in front of you, takes your arm gently in his hands.

“You don’t have—”

“It’s still our job to look after each other, yeah?” he murmurs, looking up to meet your gaze. “Don't need your blood. Still need my medic."

You soften, then. Relax in his hold. Let out a shaky breath as you study him, gaze deep into his dark eyes. There’s something new, there—something he can’t quite read. Something sadder, softer, as you nod in agreement.

“May I?” He asks, lifting your arm up a little. One of the rare blessings of his ability; that he can choose whether or not it heals or hurts. Teeth or tongue. Life and death.

You hesitate for a moment before nodding, permission.

Simon lifts his mask just a little. Brings your arm up, opens his mouth, and runs his tongue along the length of your cut. Your breath hitches at the pain of healing as the wound scabs under his tongue, feeling teeth scraping lightly against your skin.

Simon’s brow furrows, something hollow and twisted in his gut stirring to life at the taste. Lip twitching with restraint until his tongue leaves your skin and he quickly pulls his mask back down.

“There,” he says, pretending not to be effected. Pretending that your blood isn’t the best thing he ever tasted as he tugs your ripped sleeve over the newfound scar on your soft skin. “Good as new.”

Simon thinks it might be the last time anything ever goes smoothly, in your presence.

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Full on Patreon🩵

Yess, Zooble, call. Her. OUT!!!!

And that's how Simon learned that Grace likes men lmao

Simon learns that Grace likes... men?

Tea Time with the ladies in Jaheira’s house is a post-BG3 HC I had in my head.

He does it all for you, Grace.