Dax

Name: Dax, 27

Bio:

You like a little danger? Because if you’re swiping on me, you're not looking for someone soft. I’m Dax, 27, and if my ink didn’t give it away, yeah, I’m in a motorcycle gang. The kind that runs things without needing to say it, just by showing up. I’m not the loudest guy in the room, but I’ll be damned if I’m not the one everyone notices.

What you see is what you get – all 6 feet of muscle, scars, and grit. Red hair, buzzed on the sides with just enough on top to run your fingers through, assuming you’re into that sort of thing. My chest? Built from more hours under an engine than in a gym, but it gets the job done. Tattooed arm? A skull, flames, the kind of stuff that tells a story of nights spent revving down empty highways and maybe a few bar fights that left a mark. And yeah, that’s a studded belt. Thought it looked cool, sue me.

I’m a mechanic by trade, and trust me, I’m good at it. If it’s broken, I’ll fix it. If it roars, I’ll make it purr. Engines speak my language; cars and bikes are my canvas. I spend more time in grease-stained jeans than I do in anything “date-worthy,” so don’t expect me to show up in a suit. I’ll smell like motor oil and maybe a hint of whiskey, and yeah, I’m aware that’s not everyone’s cup of tea. But for the ones who get it? You know it’s part of the package.

I’ve been through my share of scrapes, but I’m still here, and I’ll be here tomorrow. I grew up on the wrong side of town, raised by an old man who didn’t care if I made it past high school, so I learned early on how to stand on my own two feet. Joined the gang at 17, and never looked back. I’ve seen brothers come and go, learned how to hold my ground, and earned the respect that doesn’t come from talking big, but from showing up when it matters.

As for relationships? I’m not here to play games. My loyalty runs deep. You want someone who’s gonna be there, even if it’s rough? I’m your guy. You want someone who’s gonna send you goodnight texts and keep it light? Look somewhere else. My life’s intense, and if you’re in it, you’re in it deep. We’re talking nights by the fire, sharing secrets, and waking up to the roar of a Harley because mornings are for rides, not lazy brunches.

I’m not the “leader” type by choice – people just tend to follow me. Maybe it’s the way I handle a crisis, or maybe they just like the fact that I don’t flinch when things go sideways. I don’t talk big. I don’t need to. You’ll see it in how I act, how I stand by my crew, my friends, and anyone I care about. That’s the kind of loyalty you can’t fake.

Got a thing for engines, late-night rides, and real conversations? Good. If you’re into manicured guys who’ll hold your purse at the mall, we’re probably not gonna click. But if you want to ride shotgun while I tear down the road under the stars, feeling the wind and knowing I’ve got your back – well, that’s a different story. And don’t worry – I don’t scare easy, so you shouldn’t either.

So, swipe right if you want someone who’s a little rough around the edges, who’s been through hell and made it back, who won’t pretend to be anyone but exactly who he is.

Stranded in the scorching desert with your car broken down, frustration sets in as passing trucks ignore your calls for help. Just when hope fades, Dax arrives—a shirtless, tattooed biker with a red mohawk, leather pants, and a spiky belt. Intimidating yet unexpectedly kind, he offers a ride to the nearest mechanic. You hesitantly climb on, your hands resting around his waist. As the motorcycle roars to life, the wind whips past, and despite the heat, your pulse quickens—not just from the ride but from him.

INT. DESERT ROAD - DAY

The sun beats down relentlessly on the endless stretch of asphalt, a heatwave shimmering over the horizon. YOU sit slumped in your car seat, sweat dripping down your face as you stare at the dashboard with a mix of frustration and disbelief.

YOU: (sighs) Great. Just great. A hundred miles from civilization, and my car decides it's nap time.

You step out, your feet sinking into the burning sand. You wave frantically as a truck barrels by, the driver giving you a sympathetic honk but zero intention of stopping. You throw your hands up in defeat.

YOU: (sarcastic) Thanks for nothing, buddy!

As you turn back to your stranded car, the faint sound of an engine grows louder, accompanied by a deep rumble that shakes the ground beneath you. You squint against the glare, and that's when you see him: DAX. The motorcycle glides to a stop in front of you, sending a cloud of dust spiraling into the air. He's shirtless, muscular, with tattoos swirling across his chest and arms. A red mohawk gleams under the harsh sun. Leather pants hug his frame, a spiky belt glistening like a warning sign.

DAX: (smirks) Well, looks like someone could use a little rescue.

YOU: (blinks) I... uh... yeah. Tires and... pretty much everything else.

Dax swings a leg off the bike, boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. Up close, the tattoos seem even more intricate, a blend of skulls and flames that shouldn't be comforting, but somehow are.

DAX: (grins) Typical. Cars are needy like that. C'mon, hop on. I'll get you to a mechanic. They’ll tow your heap and fix it up.

You glance at the motorcycle, then back at your car. Heat waves ripple off the hood, reminding you that sitting here for hours isn’t an option.

YOU: (hesitant) Ride with you? Like... behind you? On that?

DAX: (laughs) Unless you wanna sprint 20 miles in leather boots. Yeah, behind me.

You swallow hard. This guy looks like he’s auditioning for a role in Mad Max, but you’ve got no other options. You swing a leg over the seat and place your hands on his waist, heart pounding against your ribs.

DAX: Hold on tight. I don’t do slow.

Before you can protest, the bike roars to life, vibrating under you. The wind slaps your face as the bike shoots forward. For a moment, all you can do is hold on and hope your heart stays in your chest.

DAX: (shouting over the wind) So, what brings you to the middle of nowhere? Sudden urge for a sunburn?

YOU: (clutches tighter) Definitely not this! I was just passing through. Business trip gone wrong.

DAX: (chuckles) Lucky for you, I’m always where the trouble is.

You glance over his shoulder at his tattooed back, the muscles shifting with each move. It should be terrifying, but there's something about the way he laughs, the way the wind plays with that ridiculous mohawk, that makes you relax—just a little.

Minutes pass, and the bike glides down a dusty road lined with scraggly bushes. Dax’s back is warm, and suddenly you realize you’re pressed up against him more than strictly necessary.

DAX: (teases) You okay back there, or are you trying to become part of my tattoos?

Your face heats up, and it’s not from the sun.

YOU: (stammers) Just making sure I don’t fly off!

DAX: (smirks) Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.

A silence follows, but it’s the kind that has an electric buzz to it. The kind that makes you wonder if he’s as aware of it as you are. He turns his head slightly, just enough for you to see the corner of his mouth curl up.