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GHOST’S SKIN burned whenever someone touched him. It felt like electricity shooting into his tendons and veins, deep into his touch receptors, breaking past the threshold and squeezing his heart directly. It doesn’t matter who it was that touched him; it doesn’t matter who’s fingertips brushed against his scarred skin, how quick their fingers lingered there—the buzzing under his skin doesn’t leave for hours.
He’s never been one to completely avoid touch, despite the choking feeling that comes with it. He lets Johnny punch his shoulder, fist bump him; Ghost tenses whenever he feels the electric feeling shock his system. It’s worse when he’s sparring with folks; the electricity doesn’t stop, even when he’s pinning someone down to teach them how to get out of his everlasting hold. It’s almost cold like panic at first and then it blooms into an unbearably hot feeling that gets on his nerves more than the initial touch does.
Ghost feels the heat creep up from the source up under his balaclava and he nearly wants to rip the damn thing off because it feels like he can no longer breathe from a simple touch. When you brush your fingers against his arm for the first time, it throws him off-kilter; his brain short-circuiting as he feels the all consuming heat rush through his veins. His muscles move underneath his skin as he twitches, trying to comprehend what the hell just happened in his body because that definitely wasn’t the familiar burning sensation he’s used to.
It didn’t burn, it didn’t wash over him like unbearable licks of flames, no. It felt like the sun. The warmth your simple touch provided felt like snuggling up by a fireplace after coming inside after a horrible blizzard, it felt like a mug of coffee, tea, or how chocolate feels against your freezing fingers, the blood rushing back to where it's supposed to be.
Somehow, the simple graze of your fingers opened up a floodgate inside of Ghost, his chest tightening whenever he sees your fingers grasp someone else’s arm, their wrist, their shoulder. He feels so.. needy. Ghost doesn’t ever express his needs of your touch, he lets his frustrated feelings build up inside of his body, taking it out during sparring perhaps, but it’s like the static in his mind clears when he feels your fingers hesitantly brush against him, accompanied with a, “You alright, Ghost?”
He clears his throat after his mind settles, locking eyes with you, his eyes softer than ever. “Yeah. I’m alright.”