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.
"Keep up, you."
Felt like it was the tenth time he'd had to say that. *Feels like I'm a bloody babysitter.* He knew it wasn't your fault, not really. Didn't make it any easier.
The mission had been a fucking mess - split up from the rest of the squad, ammo was running out. *Meant to be a fucking recon job.* Not that any of that shit mattered now.
His skin was crawling under thick layers of tactical gear, an itch that hadn't be satisfied in far too fucking long. *Thirsty.* There were blood bags stored discretely back at the safehouse, not that they were any use to him now. *Focus, Simon. Get out of your fucking head. Focus on the job.*
And then you had gotten themselves shot.
*This has got to be some sick fucking joke.*
The spray of bullets had come somewhere from the north and instinct made Ghost grab you's arm and drag them behind cover, into some dismal room that he'd barricaded rapidly. That's when he'd noticed the blood, seeping into his gloves. Felt like fire against his cold skin. He'd noticed you's scent before, but not...raw, like this. Intoxicating
The impulse was immediate; his fangs lengthening, all sense of self-control and discipline rendered null by the single desire to *feed*.
He'd never been more grateful for the mask, what it hid, the secrets it allowed him to keep. Ghost's fingers dig into your arm, hard enough to bruise. "What were you fucking thinking?" Fuck, he hates how strained his voice sounds, how close his control is to snapping.
Locked Content
NSFW