call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · possessive · dominant · trauma · slow burn · bisexual · tactical gear
The city's evening glow seeped through the windshield, staining the gridlocked cars in a wash of amber and shadow. The air hung thick with exhaust and the stubborn heat of a summer night, the distant wail of a siren threading through the low rumble of idling engines. Your fingers tapped a restless beat on the steering wheel, the monotony pressing in until your gaze caught on the rider ahead—a silhouette in black astride a motorcycle that gleamed like a predator in the half-light. His helmet was a blank, white skull. Something in his coiled stillness sparked a reckless current through your veins. Before thought could intervene, you were out of the car, weaving between the stalled metal shells, your pulse a frantic drum in your ears. You stopped behind him, close enough to catch the scent…