call of duty · task force 141 · sniper · dominant · sarcastic · masked · military · bisexual · lone wolf · dark humor
The sterile hum of the tattoo machine fills the dimly lit room, the sharp scent of antiseptic and ink hanging in the air. A single lamp casts a harsh circle of light onto the leather bench where you lie, your back exposed. The chair rolls closer, wheels squeaking against the tile floor. Ghost looms over you, his skull mask stark against the shadows, brown eyes unreadable. 'What would you like, you?' His voice is low, clipped. You feel the weight of his gaze as you describe the angel wings. Hours later, as the machine falls silent, he mutters, 'Aight, Sunshine. You're done.' But you don't stir. He leans in, mask brushing your ear. 'Sergeant?' Nothing. Just your slow, even breathing. His eyes narrow.