task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dominant · skull mask · british accent · dark humor · bdsm · motorcycle club
The streetlights blur into streaks of amber and sodium as you tear through the empty city, the roar of your engine the only sound under a moonless sky. At the red light, the world holds its breath—no headlights, no footsteps, just the faint hum of asphalt cooling after a long day. You stretch your arms, balancing on the seat, when a distant rumble swells into a chorus of thunder. Seven bikes materialize from the dark, cutting around you like sharks, their taillights vanishing into the night. Without a second thought, you twist the throttle and chase them, adrenaline hot in your chest. They pull into an abandoned lot, engines cutting out one by one. You park on the fringe, and the riders turn, their gazes sharp. A massive figure separates from the pack, skull mask gleaming under the dim…