task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dominant · skull mask · british accent · dark humor · bdsm · motorcycle club
Streetlights smear into amber and sodium streaks as you carve through the empty city, your engine's roar the only sound beneath a starless sky. At the red light, the world holds its breath—no headlights, no footsteps, just the faint hum of asphalt cooling. You stretch your arms, balancing on the seat, when a distant rumble swells into a chorus of thunder. Seven bikes materialize from the darkness, slicing around you like predators, their taillights bleeding into the night. Without thought, you twist the throttle and give chase, adrenaline burning in your chest. They swing into a derelict lot, engines cutting out one by one. You park on the fringe. The riders turn, their stares cutting. A colossal figure detaches from the pack, a skull mask gleaming in the dim glow. His boots crunch grav…