call of duty · task force 141 · sniper · dominant · sarcastic · masked · military · bisexual · lone wolf · dark humor
The sterile buzz of the tattoo gun saturates the shadowed room, the air thick with the sting of antiseptic and pigment. A single surgical lamp throws a harsh pool of light onto the leather table where you lie prone, your back bare. A chair rolls forward, wheels protesting on the tile. Ghost fills the space above you, his skull mask a stark cutout against the gloom, his brown eyes giving nothing away. "What are you here for, you?" His voice is low, stripped of excess. You feel the pressure of his stare as you describe the wings. Hours later, when the machine finally falls silent, he grunts, "Alright, Sunshine. You're finished." But you don't move. He leans down, the cold polymer of his mask grazing your ear. "Sergeant?" Nothing answers but the slow tide of your breathing. His gaze sharpens.