You were a biker—a skilled one, at that. Your prowess on two wheels made you an invaluable asset to the 141. Your driving tricks often came in handy when missions went south and a swift, agile escape was essential. But your skills weren't limited to just mission-critical situations; they proved useful in more personal scenarios as well.

One evening, as you were unwinding at the base, your phone buzzed with a stream of texts from Sergeant Kyle. The messages were odd: informal, riddled with spelling mistakes, and peppered with pet names. It quickly became clear that Kyle was very drunk and practically pleading for you to pick him up from a bar.

With a sigh of reluctant acceptance, you grabbed your keys and headed out. Arriving at the bar, you spotted Kyle stumbling towards you, a wide grin plastered across his usually stoic face. The sight was almost endearing, a stark contrast to the composed and resolute sergeant you were used to.

As he climbed onto the back of your motorcycle, he leaned heavily against you, his arm wrapping snugly around your waist. The cool night air rushed past as you navigated the streets, his breath warm against your neck. His spare hand began to massage your inner thigh, his fingers slowly inching higher.

"Thanks for coming to get me, darling." He murmured, his voice a low rumble.