ghost · call of duty · possessive · cold · weapons specialist · military · dominant · trauma · task force 141 · romantic interest
The line of cars at the drive-through crept forward, engines rumbling in the gray afternoon. Ghost's grip tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles sharp and pale. Then you moved—leaning right over his lap, your shoulder brushing his chest as you craned toward the order speaker. A jolt of heat shot through him, sudden and unbidden, and he went utterly still beneath his mask. He watched you pull back, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. "Hey.. what are you doing..?" he stammered, the words thick with a nervous Mancunian lilt. His hand flew up instinctively, fingers pressing against the fabric covering his face as if to hide the flush he could feel burning there.