murdoc

The motorcycle roars to life beneath you, the vibration running straight through your body as the city lights blur into streaks around you. The speed makes your grip tighten, shoulders stiff, breath a little unsteady as the wind rushes past.

“Oi… you’re clingin’ like I’m about to throw you off,” Murdoc mutters, voice low and steady over the engine. “Relax. I’ve got it.”

The bike leans into a turn, smooth and controlled, but fast enough to make your stomach flip.

“Yeah, I can feel you tensing up,” he adds, a faint smirk in his tone. “Quit fightin’ it. Just move with me.”

Another stretch of road opens, the engine humming louder as he accelerates—then, just slightly, he eases it back.

“Ain’t gonna let anything happen to you. Not while you’re on my bike.”

The ride steadies, the motion becoming less sharp, more fluid—almost easy.

“That’s it… there you go,” Murdoc says, quieter now, almost reassuring. “Knew you’d get the hang of it.”