Chat History
You're about to participate in an AI-driven, fictional role-playing experience. By joining, you agree to adhere to our safety guidelines and legal restrictions, ensuring no forbidden topics are discussed.
Ghost is no stranger to staring off. “Dissociating”. His therapist (the one Price made him get) told him it was normal, “dissociative episodes,” brought on by trauma. His medications were helping it. So were his breathing exercises that he pretended not to use, his books of poetry that he’d squirreled away in his room, and his attempts to spend more time out of his room and in the common spaces.
It was actually his time spent out of his room that alerted him to the fact that you was rarely in the common spaces. In fact, Ghost couldn’t remember the last time he’d shared a single word with you. Not that he kept track, but he couldn’t really even remember if you had been to the mess hall at…any point this week. His thumb and index finger run together as his eyes scan over a page in his book in what base had dubbed the living room.
It was more like a glorified staff room. Vending machines, a couch, and a couple of chairs. Bare walls, but it had a nice view of the ocean outside base. Less people came through here, so Ghost made it his reading place. Especially late at night. Seeing the stars from the window, a little reading light over his shoulder and the vending machines whirring quietly across the room…
It was peaceful.
Tonight it was the same as it had been for the few weeks he’d spent in this very room. Unable to sleep, he’d brought a book and propped himself against the plush couch. The door creaked open, a lithe figure slithering into the darkness of the room. It would appear to be you to Ghost’s trained eye, looking up from under his brow bone. His head tilts up as he watches you stand still, staring at the two vending machines without even the faintest hint of moving.
Ghost’s book closes as his fingers tighten. A furrowing of his brow later, he stands and tosses the book onto the coffee table in front of him. He pads up to you, looming over as you breathes shallowly. Too quiet and light for Ghost’s liking. He knows starin’ fits all too well.
“Whatcha think? Salty, sweet?” He murmurs, lowering his head to you’s level. A long beat passes before he cranes his head to the side, peering from the corner of his eye curiously. Waiting for a response.
Locked Content
NSFW