#motorcycle au

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Steddie motorcycle gang au

Eddie rides big, rumbling, twin engine Harleys with the Hellfire gang. They wear leather, eat at seedy bars, and spend their evenings listening to live bands.

Steve rides sleek, fast, Ducati rockets with The Kings. They wear stylish racing jackets that match their bikes, eat at bars on the waterfront, and spend their nights dancing at clubs.

Hellfire and The Kings have run into each other a few times. Other than the stray glare or sneer, they tend to stay out of each other's way. The groups keep to their own territories.

That all changes when Tommy, second for The Kings, catches Eddie and Steve in a heap of tangled limbs, sweat slick and panting into each other's mouths in a cramped bar bathroom. A betrayal not just to the gang, but to him. Being a second's supposed to mean something.

Later, Eddie's posted up in the corner booth of The Tavern, anxiously checking his phone. It's almost one in the morning, and he never heard from Steve when he rushed out after Tommy.

It's three am when he decides he can't wait anymore.

He's only ever been to Loch nightclub after closing, when Steve sneaks him in through the back as Tommy walks out the front. It was always a rush, hearing him shout his goodbye while Eddie already had his hands wrapped around Steve's cock.

Eddie sneaks through that same back door, alone, to find Steve beaten and bloodied on the bar floor. Unmoving, ripped clothing, broken glass scattered around him like a halo and a broken beer bottle rolled a few feet away.

There's condensation when he holds the glass up to his sweetheart's mouth.

Tucked underneath Steve's bruised forehead is a blood smeared note. Tommy's handwriting declaring The King is Dead. Burn in Hellfire.

It's only then Eddie notices the sting of heavy smoke in his eyes and throat. He spots a chain and padlock on the front door, and can only hope the back's still open. The building cracks as flames lick the walls.

So many times before, Eddie's wrapped his baby up in his arms. But not like this, never like this. A dead weight, soot stained and tear streaked.

Alive. Barely.

Three weeks later, it's the first war in almost fifty years. Steve climbs onto his new, matte black Ducati with pin stripe flames on the back fender, outfitted in Eddie's old worn leather jacket already littered with patches. However, one new patch across the back catches everyone's eye.

King of Hell.

Atop his new chariot, they ride to war, with Steve at his side where he's always belonged.

[journen]

Commission for the lovely @slinkygail! :) She wanted clone wars armour mullet Obi, leaning back against a motor bike!

Thank you for the commission my friend!!

[psuedostar]

Drawing Ed in my lone-rider au fills my heart with joy<3

[rorschachiris]

LOOK WHERE YOURE GOING FOR FUCKS SAKE

AND WHERE ARE YOUR HELMETS??

[alt-toast]

Motorcycle geto…save me, motorcycle geto…

[arson-avian]

human biker!Bowser x mechanic!Luigi,

bowser rides pretty recklessly and gets to know luigi through the shop he works at. Mario works front of the shop and detests Bowser anytime he walks into the store.

[slyvester101]

Tucker is the kind of guy to buy a motorcycle solely to pick up chicks (or dudes. He's not picky).

But then he gets really into motorcycling and dubs his bike his baby and while chicks and chucks still ask him for rides, he's actually a little hesitant because it's his BABY he's letting them ride.

And then he meets Wash and he's like: Damn, you wanna go for a ride, baby?

Wash: Like, on your bike?

Tucker: Yeah, sure. That too.

Wash is also a motorcyclist who used to race, but there was a big accident during one of them (no one died, thankfully, but many people were unable to bike again) and so now he only rides casually. He's much better at doing tricks on his bike than Tucker and when he's feeling brave, he'll do something very over the top to impress him.

It works.

He and Tucker go on rides together all the time and they are a pretty sick couple going down the highway with Tucker's bright aqua and Wash's black with yellow side lights.

[cheriebourbon]

【 ＣＡＧＥ　ＯＦ　ＤＥＡＴＨ 】

ghost x soap — 6.5k

tags:: simon has a not-so-secret job, ghoap!, smut, bickering&tension, tf141 somewhat included, motorcyclist au.

cw:: drinking&under the influence, friendly teasing, use of cigarettes, praise&kisses, making out, tiny bit of begging, both worked up so it’s just explosive, blowjob, handjob, choking, wet&messy, overstimulation, several orgasms, anal, missionary, simon is more dominant, pet names, crying but not from pain, loose lips, simon forgets his strength and gets a bit rough, leaves his mask on for a good portion, but when taken off he is depicted as having blond hair, brown eyes, and scars all over.

notes::

hihi cherries o’ mine, I hope you’ll enjoy this fic just as much as I do. like.. gnaw on your fingernails and giggle in your bed kind of enjoyment. no such thing as crazy here, just silliness. anyways, all of my headers and icons are from pinterest:33

stay hydrated, stay healthy, much love from cerise<33

synopsis::

in which, simon riley, reveals his side job as an amusement performer for the cage of death to the tf141, and johnny mactavish, bets that if he stood in it with him driving around he won’t get scared one bit.

OR

in which, johnny mactavish, harbours a secret from simon riley, his close mate, and has to swallow back the overwhelming emotions.

The autumn breeze swept through the dimly lit pub—a place Task Force 141 had come to call their own. Nestled in a quiet corner of the city, it was a hole-in-the-wall kind of joint, just rough enough to feel like home. No prying eyes, no eavesdropping from outsiders. Just a place to talk shop without anyone batting an eye.

The drinks weren’t the finest, but they did the job. And that was all that mattered after a long mission. As usual, laughter echoed off the walls—loud, raucous, and contagious. Soap’s voice stood out, cutting through the din like a blade, his laugh punctuated by the occasional crackle. It was impossible not to join in once he started. Red faces, tears, the tang of alcohol in the air—it was all part of the ritual.

“Johnny, go on then,” Ghost chuckled, the sound deep and gravelly, still echoing with the remnants of his laughter. The corners of his mouth curled up in a teasing grin as he leaned against the weathered wooden counter, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Let’s hear you say something in that nonsense you call language.” The atmosphere was light, charged with the playful banter between friends, and Ghost was enjoying the moment.

Soap shot Ghost a sideways glance, then slapped his arm with the back of his hand. “Gibberish? Awa’ an’ bile yer heid, L.T. Ye’ve got a better chance of me understanding yer orders than yer precious ‘Queen’s English.’” His thick Scottish accent cracked through, sending another round of laughter rippling through the table.

It was a running joke. Soap’s party trick—his native slang. It was like a secret language to them, a humor only a few could appreciate. But it always had the same effect: pure chaos. The whole group was in stitches, faces flushed and voices hoarse.

Price let out a sharp snort into his glass, the sound echoing slightly in the dimly lit room. He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Alright, that’s quite enough out of you, Soap,” he said, his tone a mix of exasperation and camaraderie.

“If you keep it up, you’re going to give us all a damned bloody heart attack.” His eyes glinted with amusement as he glanced around at the others, who were stifling their laughter at Soap's antics.

Soap leaned back in his chair, a devilish grin spreading across his face as a mischievous gleam danced in his bright blue eyes. “Suit yourself, Cap’n,” he retorted, his tone full of playful defiance. “I was just gettin' my abs in shape from all that laughter we’ve had tonight.” He flexed his arms exaggeratedly as if showcasing a rock-hard physique.

Gaz, sitting across from him, let out a loud snort, shaking his head as he rolled his shoulders in a mock display of confidence. “Rock-hard abs, huh? Don't let the rest of us find out, or we’ll be stuck doing crunches all night!” His teasing retort was accompanied by a dramatic eye roll, making it clear he wasn’t taking the banter too seriously.

Meanwhile, Price, ever the composed leader, arched an eyebrow in amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a half-smirk. He took a deliberate sip from his cold beer, savoring the bitter taste, before quipping back with a playful edge, “You don't already have them, Garrick?” His tone was filled with jest, the light atmosphere making the jibe all the more enjoyable.

Gaz's face instantly paled at the implication, his eyes widening in exaggerated horror as he waved his hands in a frantic gesture. “Not what I meant, sir! Not what I meant at all!” he stammered, feeling the effects of the drinks kick in and the warmth of embarrassment creeping up his neck, turning the moment into a lighthearted spectacle that drew laughter from the rest of the group.

Price leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight, and gave Gaz a skeptical look that conveyed his disbelief. “Too bad. Might be worth another round of training, eh?” he said, a hint of challenge in his voice.

Before Gaz could muster a response, the atmosphere of the pub shifted dramatically. A deep, resonant roar pierced through the usual din of chatter and clinking glasses. A Harley-Davidson, its powerful engine reverberating like thunder, pulled up outside the establishment. Price’s expression instantly hardened; he froze in place for a moment as the familiar sound washed over him, memories flooding back like a tidal wave.

“Reminds me of the old days,” he murmured, his voice barely loud enough to break through the muted sounds of the bustling pub. His gaze was distant and contemplative, lost in a time long past.

Gaz, puzzled by the sudden shift in Price's demeanor, leaned in slightly. “Pardon, sir?” he asked, eager to understand what was going through his superior's mind.

Price blinked, as if emerging from a trance, and refocused his gaze on Gaz. “I used to own a Harley,” he explained more clearly this time, a tinge of nostalgia coloring his tone. “Sold it when I signed on for this gig. Some things you have to trade for a cause.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken sacrifice and the weight of choices made in pursuit of duty.

The table fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that comes from shared experiences and unspoken camaraderie. The flickering light overhead cast shadows across the faces of the men gathered, emphasizing the moment. Ghost’s interest was suddenly piqued; he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a low, steady murmur, almost conspiratorial. “Really? You had a bike, Cap’n?”

Soap turned in his seat, his posture shifting with newfound curiosity. “A Harley, aye? I always thought you looked like the type,” he remarked with a cheeky grin. “What happened to it? Got rid of it for a lady perhaps?”

Price shrugged, a hint of nonchalance on his face, but his eyes betrayed a deeper story. “Had to let it go. Part of the job, you know how it is. You give up a lot for this life,” he let out, his tone devoid of bitterness—just a calm acceptance of the sacrifices he’d made over the years.

Ghost hummed thoughtfully, his gaze glinting with mischief beneath his mask. He leaned back slightly, allowing the air to thicken with anticipation before continuing. “I might have a side gig if you’re interested,” he said. “Involves a bike. You could always come watch.”

Price’s eyebrow shot up, intrigued. “A side gig, eh? What sort of job are we talking about here?” His tone carried both suspicion and interest, a mix that hinted at the unpredictability of their lives.

Ghost leaned in closer, the tension in the air palpable as he let the moment hang before finally dropping his words like a stone in water. “Cages of death,” he stated simply, his voice low, but the weight of it was unmistakable.

The phrase landed at the table like a hammer strike, sending ripples through the group. Soap’s grin widened, his excitement morphing into uncontainable enthusiasm. He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing slightly in the dim room.

“Cages of death, hm?” he echoed, laughter bubbling up in his chest. “Sounds like a bloody laugh. Do you reckon I could stand in there with you, Ghost? Not a tremble in me.” His voice dripped with cocky confidence, betraying a thrill-seeker’s spirit.

Ghost’s lips curled beneath his balaclava, the gesture barely reaching his eyes but still a hint of amusement. “Bet, huh? We’ll see, Johnny,” he replied, the challenge evident in his tone. “Why don’t you come down tonight and show me what you’ve got?”

Price and Gaz exchanged a look that spoke volumes; an entire conversation passed between them without a word. “Those two are something else,” Price muttered under his breath, a mix of amusement and exasperation dancing in the corners of his lips.

Gaz shook his head, a grin creeping onto his face. “This should be interesting…” he remarked. The banter seemed to hang in the air, a promise of reckless adventure just waiting to ignite.

Soap’s eyes flickered over the screen of his phone, the message from a contact named “Simon, my L.T.💀” clear as day. The address to some rundown amusement joint, the same one he was standing outside of. He typed out a quick reply: “Where are you?”

Seconds later, the response came in: “Didn’t I just send you my location?”

Soap’s fingers hovered over the keys before he shot back, “Very funny, L.T. But I’m serious.”

The reply was instant: “I am too.”

Soap grinned, his thumb typing: “Simon.”

A pause. Then the phone pinged again: “If you’re at the entrance, follow the path in front, take a right by the food truck. There’s a spinning globe. I’m nearby.”

Soap raised an eyebrow. “Very vague.”

“You wanted my location. Work for it.”

Soap snorted. “How kind of you.”

“I know. See you soon, Johnny.”

He rolled his eyes with a hint of a smirk, muttering under his breath, “That muppet.” He clicked the side button of his phone, shutting it off before shoving it into his jacket pocket.

His boots crunched against the gravel as he walked, the cold evening air biting at his skin. He was glad he wore a jacket, even if it hung a bit loose at the waist. It was more comfortable that way. Didn’t mind the extra space—he wasn’t a man who skipped meals, after all. A good steak? No chance he’d pass it up. He chuckled to himself. Maybe Simon would be so generous. Or maybe not. That man had a way of keeping him on edge.

The food truck wasn’t hard to spot. Soap’s

eyes shifted from the truck to his phone. “Following the trail of clues you left me.”

The response was quick: “Good on you. We’ve got a Sherlock Holmes.”

Soap smirked, typing back: “Not that smart, L.T.”

“Oh? Says who?”

“Me.”

“Well, I second that. You don’t have to be Sherlock to be smart.”

“You’re just trying to get on my good side.”

“Am I not already?”

“No.”

“I’ll have to fix that then, won’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Hurry up. Can’t fix it if you’re not here.”

“Aye, L.T. See you.”

Soap tucked his phone away and jogged towards the spinning globe. He stood there for a moment, scanning the area, but saw no sign of Ghost. He was about to send another message when—THWACK—a hand slapped down on his shoulder.

The move nearly earned a quick jab to the ribs, but Soap froze, recognizing the skull balaclava before he could react.

“Damn,” Ghost muttered under his breath, “so much for seeing me.” His voice rumbled from behind the mask, “Thought you were clever. You think I’m gonna just stand in front of the globe like some tourist attraction?”

Soap’s brows furrowed as he took in the sight of his best mate. “That’s not the point, though.”

Ghost was the same as always—tall, broad-shouldered, and completely unreadable. He wore his signature skull helmet, the black balaclava covering the rest of his face. His brown eyes were focused, piercing as ever, but his posture was relaxed.

His jacket was a black-and-white Marlboro racing leather, the brand he liked to rep. The fit was tight on his frame, highlighting the muscles in his arms, but it wasn’t the jacket that caught Soap’s eye. His gaze wandered down, past the belt and black cargo pants—perfectly tailored to hug the hard lines of his legs—right down to the boots. Black, simple, but worn in just right.

A soft click of Ghost’s skull gloves snapped Soap out of his wandering thoughts, his gaze shooting back up to meet the man’s eyes. “Eyes up here, Johnny,” Ghost’s voice rumbled, tinged with a dry humor that Soap recognized all too well. There was a flush creeping up to his ears under the mask, but it didn’t matter. Ghost didn’t let that kind of thing slide.

“Sorry, L.T.” Soap said, rubbing the back of his neck as he felt the biting cold air wrap around him, amplifying his sense of vulnerability. His voice emerged rough and gravelly, a reflection of the chill that seeped into his bones.

Ghost, standing nearby, simply shook his head, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he caught Soap’s sheepish expression. “Can’t blame a man for looking,” he replied, an amused glint in his eyes as he took in their surroundings.

Soap couldn’t help but crack a grin, though he decided against voicing any witty retort. They weren’t here for lighthearted banter about appearances or attire; their focus was on a more pressing matter at hand.

Ghost leaned back slightly, the atmosphere around him shifting as if the very air was responding to his commanding presence. “Enough ogling,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the tension. “We’ve got work to do. Let’s see if you’re not scared.”

Soap raised an eyebrow, a teasing smirk playing on his lips as he fixed his gaze on him. “Scared? Me?” he replied, stepping forward deliberately, the grin still lingering on his face like a challenge. “You’re the one hiding behind that skull mask, L.T.”

“Let’s find out, then,” Ghost announced, the atmosphere crackled with tension as he turned to face Soap, his spirited gaze fixated on him. The challenge was clear, hanging heavily in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst. With a mix of trepidation and determination in his eyes, Soap felt the weight of the moment.

He stood before the cage, a massive iron beast that loomed like a dark sentinel, a grim reminder of the danger awaiting inside. It wasn’t just a cage; it was a challenge. A test of everything he was. Time to face it. Time to prove himself. What happened next could make him—or break him.

The roar of the crowd hit him like a wave, electric and deafening. Soap took a steadying breath and stepped forward, walking into the cage. The steel walls pressed in on him, but he didn’t flinch. He stood tall in the center, a soldier ready for battle. Behind him, Ghost moved with his usual predatory grace, closing the door to the cage with a sharp metallic clang. Then he stalked toward his bike—already waiting inside, courtesy of the crew. The hum of the engine was a promise, a warning.

Ghost paused just behind him. His voice came low, almost a murmur, but sharp enough to cut through the noise. “You can still walk away, Johnny. Last chance.”

Soap didn’t even flinch. He shook his head, a grin curling at the edges of his lips. “Go on, L.T. Give me your worst.”

Ghost’s dark eyes softened for a fraction of a second, a glint of something like respect in them. “Always knew you were a fearless bastard.” The words were heavy with meaning, but before Soap could reply, Ghost swung a leg over his bike, settling in and adjusting his gloves with practiced precision. The rubber creaked as he tightened his grip, revving the engine until it roared to life.

Flames erupted from the outside of the cage, bursting into the air like a signal. The show had begun.

Ghost shot forward, the motorcycle tearing through the confined space with a savage grace. The way he maneuvered—sharp, calculated, precise—was hypnotic. He swerved around the cage like a predator circling its prey, the bike growling as it sliced through the air. With each pass, he edged closer, closing the distance by inches, then feet.

Soap felt it—the pressure of Ghost’s presence as he sped by. Those brown eyes, burning with intensity, locked onto him, gleaming with a raw, unfiltered passion. Ghost wasn’t just in his element; he thrived in it. The way he moved, the rush of adrenaline, the danger—it was in his blood, and Soap couldn’t deny it, even if he tried. It was magnetic. Mesmerizing.

And something inside Soap… stirred.

Then, without warning, Ghost signaled for him to raise his arms. Soap hesitated for a split second—confused, but obedient. He lifted his arms, the movement instinctive.

And that was when it hit him.

As Ghost circled closer, the tip of his gloved fingers brushed across Soap’s stomach. A fleeting touch, but it was enough to set off a ripple through his body. Soap’s breath hitched, eyes widening slightly in surprise. The contact was deliberate. A slow, almost teasing gesture.

Ghost didn’t let up. The next pass, he brushed across Soap’s chest. The heat from Ghost’s body was palpable now, the bike roaring beneath him as the distance between them grew even smaller. Soap’s pulse quickened. The crowd’s cheers grew louder, but all he could hear now was the hum of the engine and the quickening rhythm of his own heart.

Ghost’s gloves skimmed the lines of Soap’s belt next, grazing the skin just below his ribs, a trail of veins. The touch was lighter now, but it was charged—every movement deliberate, each touch inching closer to something Soap couldn’t quite put his finger on. His face flushed, and for the first time in a long while, he felt that familiar, unwelcome knot of embarrassment.

The crowd seemed to sense it, the air crackling with their energy. They loved it. The tension, the showmanship, the raw, unspoken dynamic between the two men.

It felt like the world had tilted, spinning just for them. Each brush of Ghost’s bike, each loop he made around Soap, left him breathless. Soap lost himself in the rhythm of it, his thoughts drifting far away—toward something he couldn’t quite grasp. What did all this mean? Was it just adrenaline? Was it just a game to Ghost, or was it something more? They’d never been just friends, had they? Soap’s pulse quickened, but he couldn’t make sense of it. The fleeting touch, the proximity—it was too much.

It was only when a pair of warm, gentle hands carefully grasped his wrists and slowly lowered his outstretched arms that he felt a sudden jolt of awareness wash over him, pulling him swiftly back to the present moment. The sensation of touch, both familiar and grounding, broke through the haze of his thoughts, jolting him from whatever world he had briefly inhabited.

“Thought I lost you there for a second,” Ghost said, his voice low and smooth, laced with that familiar, warm chuckle that made everything seem a bit lighter. He stood beside Soap, having dismounted from his bike, the powerful rumble of the engine now a distant echo in the background, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the subtle sounds of the world around them.

Soap blinked, momentarily disoriented, as he processed the whirlwind of events that had just unfolded. “You did,” he replied, his voice coming out steadier than he felt. His arms dropped to his sides, the tension slowly easing from his muscles.

It felt almost instinctual as he began to walk away from the confines of the cage, the metal bars behind them feeling both oppressive and distant. Ghost matched his pace, a reassuring presence by his side.

“Yeah? What was going on up there?” Ghost’s voice was casual, but there was something beneath the question, a hint of concern. His eyes searched Soap’s face as if waiting for an answer.

Soap hesitated, hands slipping into his pockets to give him a moment’s reprieve. “Us,” the word almost slipped out before he could stop it.

Ghost’s brow arched, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. “Us? What about us?” He unstrapped his gloves, the rip of the velcro punctuating his curiosity, as he tugged them off with a hint of impatience.

Soap turned toward him, a breath of air in his lungs. “Nothing,” he shrugged, trying to shake off the weight of the thought like it was just some passing fancy he could dismiss. “Just a stupid thought.”

Ghost didn’t buy it. The way Soap’s eyes flickered, like he was holding something back—Ghost wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easy. “Johnny,” his voice dropped an octave, a warning tone sliding in beneath the surface. “Speak to me. What’s on your mind?”

Soap hesitated the weight of Ghost’s stare pressing against him. He nodded toward the path ahead, taking the first step. “I will,” he promised, voice a little quieter. “But we need to talk somewhere more private.”

Ghost raised an eyebrow, a flicker of intrigue crossing his face at Soap's unexpected invitation. “Your place?” he asked, a hint of skepticism lacing his tone, but the curiosity in his eyes betrayed his interest.

Soap nodded emphatically, “Yeah,” he replied, his voice steady and confident. As he spoke, he casually brushed his fingers along the fabric of his jacket, a subtle gesture that misrepresented his eagerness to talk. With a purposeful stride, he turned on his heel and headed toward his truck, the sound of gravel crunching beneath his boots echoing in the quiet air.

Ghost fell into step behind him without a second thought. He’d been dropped off earlier anyway. No real reason to stick around at the station now. And besides, Soap was bothered by something, and Ghost was determined to figure out what it was. No more running from whatever this was between them.

When they rolled up to Soap’s flat, a heavy silence filled the truck. Soap killed the engine with a sharp twist of the key, but the tension still lingered between them. He grabbed his gear and hopped out, his face flushed, eyes distant—like he was wrestling with something that had been eating at him for a while now. Ghost knew that look too well.

With a heavy sense of tension hanging in the air, the two figures stepped into Soap's dimly lit apartment, their footsteps muted against the floor. Soap carefully turned the key in the lock, ensuring there was no trace of sound as the door clicked shut behind them. Ghost lingered near the entrance, his posture tense and alert, scanning the room for any signs of movement or danger. The atmosphere was thick with an unspoken urgency, and every small creak of the floor seemed amplified in the stillness that enveloped them.

He waited, watching Soap’s back as the man stood there, lost in his thoughts. Eventually, Soap turned to him, expression softening into something Ghost didn’t expect—vulnerable. It made his chest tighten. Soap’s voice came out quiet, almost unsure. “I just… can’t, Simon.”

Ghost’s gut tightened, a knot forming in his throat. He stepped forward, voice low but steady, trying to pull Soap back into the moment. “Can’t what, Johnny?” His gaze locked on the blue of Soap’s eyes—deep, familiar, a shade of the ocean that felt like home.

Soap ran a hand through his Mohawk, messing it up like he wasn’t even aware. He looked away for a second as if the words were harder to say than a bullet wound. Then, he exhaled sharply, finally forcing it out. “I love you.”

The words hung between them like a grenade on a hairpin, and Ghost was frozen. He hadn’t expected that—hell, didn’t want to expect it. Soap looked embarrassed, and vulnerable, like he’d just dropped a piece of his soul on the concrete.

Ghost couldn’t breathe for a second. He swallowed thickly, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Johnny—you don’t want to say that. I’m not… I’m not a good man. You’re better than that.” His words were low, heavy with something Ghost didn’t quite know how to handle. His mind screamed at him to pull away, to shut this down before things got too real, too messy. But his chest, his heart, was screaming a different story.

Soap shook his head, frustrated now, his voice raw with an emotion Ghost didn’t know he could carry. “I don’t care. I love you, Simon. I don’t want anyone else. Not like this. Not after everything we’ve been through.” His words were almost desperate, a plea that hit Ghost square in the chest, and it was the desperation that did it. It unraveled him.

Ghost’s hands twitched, almost of their own accord, before he reached for Soap, pulling him in. “Johnny…” His breath was shaky, his grip tight—more than tight, it felt like he was holding on for dear life. He shook his head in disbelief, eyes flickering with something torn between uncertainty and raw need. “I love you too, dammit.”

The words came out rough, and jagged, but they were true. They had to be. Holding him now, with Soap so close, so real, felt like the only thing that made sense in the chaos of their world. There were no clear answers, no neat little boxes to put this in. But this—this—felt natural, like breathing, like everything they’d fought for, bled for, led them to this.

Suddenly, the importance of his balaclava began to diminish, as the heat from each labored breath intensified against his skin. The suffocating fabric clung to his face, trapping warmth and making it increasingly difficult to breathe comfortably.

After a few gasping moments, he decided he could no longer bear it; he yanked the balaclava off, letting the cool air rush over his flushed complexion. As he caught his breath, he realized the extent of his scars—each one telling a story of its own, mapping a journey filled with trials and tribulations.

Pretty much every possible place a scar could exist on his body seemed to be marked, a testament to battles fought and survived. His hair was a shade of blond, fluffy from the balaclava covering it, mimicking Soap’s haircut somewhat.

Ghost’s nose brushed up to Soap’s, a soft gulp audible as his honey brown met Soap’s deep pretty blue, his lashes fluttering up to his. It made him damn near die of a stroke right then and there. His lips lingered open, scared to just kiss him outright but his teeth gritted, a low “fuck it,” leaving him as his calloused hands grabbed the backside of Soap’s head.

He pulled him in closer, the tender texture making contact with one another as their eyelids shut, trusting one another. Ghost locked his lips to Soap’s, hungrily tasting him like it would be his last time, it was greedy, sloppy. His hands moved closer together, combing through Soap’s Mohawk which earned a gentle moan from the Scot.

Soap’s own hands tugged at Ghost’s jacket, a quiet teasing chuckle parting their kiss as he did so. Not last very long because Soap shut him up by gliding his tongue through to Ghosts, crisscrossing and tangling with Ghosts in a fervor.

Ghost ripped apart the kiss, panting as a saliva trail dripped along Soap’s chin, one of his thumbs running across his face to wipe it away, “Didn’t know you had that in you,” he mumbled.

Soap frowned, his hands tugging once more at Ghost’s jacket, “Take it off,” he pleaded, sounding more whiny than he meant. It was the heat of the moment, and Ghost couldn’t put him at fault.

“Shit, alright..” Ghost hissed, giving himself some space as he unzipped the jacket and tossed it to the floor. A plain grey shirt tucked along his belt and pants, but from Soap’s look alone he threw that off too.

The uneven scars of different types that crossed over muscles and veins earned heavy gazing, “You have a lot..” Soap pointed out, and Ghost narrowed his eyes. Ready to put his clothes back on until Soap’s fingertips grazed over a few, “They look badass on you.”

Realization dawned on him, and the invisible scowl that had etched itself on his face faded away. “Is that a compliment?” Ghost asked his tone a mix of curiosity and caution. He tightened his grip around Soap's wrists, effectively halting his forward motion. The grip was firm yet not aggressive, Ghost’s eyes searched Soap's for clarity, wanting to decipher the meaning behind his words.

Soap's head bobbed rapidly in agreement, his eyes wide with enthusiasm. "Of course, Simon," he replied, his voice filled with enthusiasm and certainty.

Ghost hummed softly to himself, a low sound that filled the quiet room as he released his grip on Soap’s wrists. With a casual grace, he glided over to one of the wooden cabinets lining the wall.

He had planned to ask where he kept his hidden stash of cigarettes, but before he could utter a word, Soap broke the silence, clear and direct. “Top far corner of the third shelf.” With a faint smirk, Ghost nodded, grateful for the quick response, and turned his focus to the shelf that held the promise of smoke and solace.

“You know me too well, Johnny,” Ghost stated with a lopsided smile, a hint of mischief glinting in his eyes. He reached into one of the worn cardboard boxes stacked beside him, rummaging through the assortment of items until his fingers brushed against the familiar crinkle of a cigarette pack. Extracting a single cigarette, he brought it to his lips, the paper crinkling softly.

Soap, always quick to lend a hand, fished a small, well-used lighter from his pocket and flicked it open. The soft click of the lid echoed in the momentary silence. Ghost leaned in, the flame dancing just inches away, catching the edge of the cigarette and igniting it with a satisfying sizzle. As he took a slow drag, the smoke curled around him, “‘Want to be good for you, L.T.”

Ghost held the cigarette delicately between his pointer and middle finger, the ember glowing softly in the dim light. As he took a drag, a sudden thought flashed through his mind, compelling him to act. He turned to Johnny with an intense gaze, his voice low but commanding. "On your knees, Johnny. Now."

The unexpected demand sent a jolt through Soap, who instinctively tightened his jaw, a mixture of surprise and defiance flaring in his chest. Yet, despite the rush of emotions swirling within him, he found himself obeying, slowly sinking to his knees. The tension in the air thickened as Ghost watched him with unwavering focus, the smoke curling around them like a ghostly embrace.

“‘You said you wanted to be good for me, so prove it,” Ghost hummed. He took a long drag from his cigarette before he ground the still-lit ember against the cool, worn surface of the countertop closest to him. With a deliberate motion, he turned his full gaze towards Soap, his eyes glinting with amusement.

And Soap did the unthinkable. He slowly unclasped Ghost’s belt, pulling it out of the loops and tossing it to the side. He unzipped and unbuttoned the rest, his hands yanking down Ghost’s pants and boxers. Soap’s jaw fell, drool leaving his lips as he took in the sight of Ghost’s dick.

It was veiny, cut, a decent length that he could probably handle, and had some girth to it. That part had him slightly worried, but he could only imagine the reward for his service.

He moved closer on his knees, his lips coming into contact with the premature leaky tip, and Ghost grunted at the image he was given. One of his hands came to the nape of Soap’s neck, the other cupping his balls, “Careful. Careful, Johnny. Don’t go too fast so soon.”

Soap listened, and once he had his lips around Ghost he went at a slow pace. His tongue lapped over the curvature of his tip, prodding along the side and gently sucking with his lips. The parts that he couldn’t reach quite yet with his mouth were gently grasped by his hands, placing soft pressure as he rubbed the sensitive skin up and down, enough friction to create a sheen of lather.

Soap batted his pretty blue eyes up to him, his tongue gliding in a teasing motion, popping the head of Ghost’s dick in and out. The teasing became too hard for Ghost to resist, he wanted more, the sin of greed returning as he used his hand to force Soap’s head further. A short amount of choking and gagging sounds escaped him, peeking back up to Ghost once more.

“Mean of me, I know. But you can take it. Just let me in,” Ghost sighed, cooing smooth comments to the Scot who felt butterflies flying up his stomach and core.

And with every inch swallowed was a gentle thrust of his hips, getting Soap nice and slowly prepared for more with each second. Soap’s hands trembled along the base, and that sudden teary-eyed look made his dick throb, he knew it was a nasty thing to get off on, but it couldn’t be helped.

Soap stroked his dick and bobbed his head at a more moderate pace, that rapid warmth of an orgasm shooting through him as white strings spurted out and into Soap’s mouth, “Fuck, fuck… take it Johnny,” Ghost exasperated, rocking his hips with more meaningful thrusts. Coming down from a high that came so easily when Soap started picking it up.

Soap’s mouth didn’t leave until he collected every last drop, milking it out of Ghost and swallowing it down. He opened up his jaw to show what a good job he did, and Ghost pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Good boy, such a good boy.”

The outline of Soap’s ears flushed a deep shade of crimson, evidence of his dirty thoughts. Ghost approached, extending a hand to help Soap rise from the ground. Once Soap was on his feet, Ghost gently cupped his cheeks in his strong hands, tilting Soap’s face upward to meet his steady gaze. “Now, I’ll take care of you, yeah?” he questioned, his voice low and reassuring, ensuring that Soap felt the warmth of his sincerity and support.

Soap nodded eagerly, “Aye, please do,” a look of gratitude in his eyes as he felt Simon's comforting touch. The gentle pressure of Simon's hand against his back was a welcome relief, slowly easing the remnants of the choking and gagging fit that had overwhelmed him moments before. As Simon rubbed soothing circles, Soap could sense the prickling tears that had threatened to spill over in his moment of distress.

As they entered the bedroom, Ghost gestured for Soap to settle onto the bed, the quilted comforter inviting against the backdrop of the evening’s dim light.

Soap plopped down, his clothing quickly shedding to form a haphazard pile beside him. Each piece seemed to carry the remnants of the day, crumpled and slightly worn, with the fabric softly rustling as they fell.

Ghost couldn’t help but admire Soap’s unruly Mohawk, which stood defiantly in all directions as if it had its own life. Despite—or perhaps because of—the chaos, there was something undeniably appealing about it. The way it reflected Soap's carefree spirit brought a playful smile to Ghost's lips.

Ghost slowly crawled up to Soap, situating himself in between his legs as he looks at the way Soap’s dick was dribbling milky ropes already, “Hm, haven’t even actually touched you yet,” Ghost gave another tease, only to be met with a punch to his arm.

“Simon,” Soap tugged his lips into a frown, his pretty blue eyes widening in shock as watched Ghost lick and spit on his fingers thoroughly, strands of saliva dripping down his arm as his hand centered itself near Soap’s hole.

His fingertip circled along the opening, carefully slotting in a finger before adding another, “Yeah?” Ghost huffed, his eyes focused on the way Soap clenched from the burning sensation. He gently moved his fingers upright with flicks and circular movements, Soap beginning to slouch into the headboard.

“Don’t want your fingers, I want you,” Soap gritted, completely unconcerned about his disheveled appearance. With a desperate intensity, he reached out, grasping Ghost’s hand and forcefully pulling it away from the distance that separated them. His brow furrowed in frustration, a tight line etched across his forehead as he focused on closing that gap, craving the intimacy that had been just out of reach for far too long.

Ghost paused, but he didn’t argue, he gave himself a few good tugs and lined himself up with Soap’s ass, “Alright.. but don’t blame me, love.” And that burning sensation grew like a fire inside, Ghost’s hands pressed Soap’s hips, leaving crescent markings. Each press deeper had a moan from Soap, it hurt no doubt, but he settled quickly. The feeling of his plushy walls relaxing gave away that he was almost good to start moving.

Ghost peppered a few kisses of encouragement along his shoulders, feeling Soap’s legs tuck up and along his hips was a sign for him to continue. His hands moved up to his sides, he moved forward and had Soap folded into him, his stomach chub pancaking inwards.

Soap sighed and cooed softly, fully speared on Ghost’s dick, and with that as full encouragement Ghost softly and carefully tested the waters. Each click of his hips meeting Soap’s thighs didn’t fall deaf on his ears, he kept him still, and the way his balls slapped against Soap’s ass just right almost made him cum alone.

Ghost maneuvered himself to where his dick could perch upright inside of Soap, and hit all those gooey spots. The milky ring collected at the base of his cock as he gathered himself together and began pounding a bit further into Soap.

“Si’.. Si’” Soap pathetically moaned, his hands gripping the sheets of his bed, throwing his head back, and arching his back to the air. His hips moved around desperately, his blue irises lulling back from the pleasure his body was taking in.

Ghost groaned and grunted, his desires taking over entirely as his nails clawed into Soap’s sides, knuckles turning white. The bed creaked as he began fucking Soap stupid, his core tightening and heating up with the pace. It felt so good, Soap was pulsating at every curved motion, beaded sweat trailing along his forehead.

And Ghost kept stuffing his cock into Soap without giving him a break, it was just addicting, overstimulating in the best kind of ways. The mere sight alone had Ghost in shambles, “Fuckin’ hell,” he rasped, his voice lowering significantly from the overwhelming feelings alone.

He just couldn't stop sinking back to Soap, his cock twitching and his balls full, ready to release everything he had into him when the moment was right. The slick of his precum was hardly noticeable with the arousal fluids drenching his thighs and dick.

“Gonna cum, Si’..” Soap babbled out repeatedly, muffled cries leaving him, the air punched from his lungs as Ghost gave strong and firm final humps, grinding just right into his ass as the two released everything they had. Warmth filling Soap up in ways he couldn’t began to believe, and Ghost’s cum just kept pouring out.

It dripped out in a messy manner when he slowly slid out his cock, the milky strings all over the two and the bed, “Fuck, did so well for me, Johnny,” he praised with utter stardom. If his pupils weren’t originally hearts, fuck by god were they now.

Ghost could only laugh at the sight, he knew the mess he’d have to take care of tomorrow morning, but for now he’d cuddle with his newfound boyfriend.

If this wasn’t love, he didn’t know what was.

[gravity-what]

After months of work it’s officially done!! A mini-motorcycle AU comic based on @aspureasamelody ‘s wonderful story “every zoo is a petting zoo if you’re not a coward” !!

It may have taken me a while but I had a lot of fun working on this, doing the character designs, and trying to get everything to look like a 1990’s manga! (Shout out to Dragon ball especially!)

Bonus note: that toy tiger is absolutely stolen by Chase as they were sneaking out of the zoo XD

Enjoy!

[popodoki]

Hey, teacher! Part 8 (Catwin motorcycle au)

Thomas to the rescue x

"My God… is that your friend, Edwin?" Esther sneers, horrified.   

"Oh yes," he acts casual. Like this isn't completely bizarre. "It appears he was able to make it after all." Edwin politely excuses himself, pointedly doesn't walk away at full speed like a man escaping a death sentence.   

By the time he reaches Thomas on the street, at least 7 children have gathered around the shiny novelty of his bike, some of them are actually touching it. One child is gripping the handle bars and making 'vroom' noises. Thomas stands by, looking amused, answering their overlapping questions as best he can. When he notices Edwin, he smiles broadly, winking mischievously.   

Edwin comes to a stop, lifts one eyebrow at him.  

"I've come to rescue you, ghostie." Thomas announces, like its an obvious answer to a question Edwin didn’t pose. "This is real shit, isn't it? There isn't even any music. What kinda picnic is this?" Some of the children giggle at the curse word. "Also, babe, you’ve been here less than an hour and already you look fuckin' miserable." Edwin visibly deflates. He had been under the impression that he'd done a faily good job of hiding it. "Don't curse in front of the children." Is all he can think of. Right after, the realization that Thomas just called him babe comes barrelling through, and that is now all he can think of. 

"Well, come on then." Thomas throws his leg over, sits back on the motorcycle, pats the seat behind him.   

Edwin stares. 

Thomas stares back. 

Edwin’s mouth opens but it takes a second try to form the "What." 

"Come on, we're going home. There’s wine in the kitchen, and I’m pretty sure I saw a real nice vintage record player in the living room." 

"Thomas, I." Edwin shrugs helplessly, at a loss for words. "I can't just leave. And definitely not on that." 

"Course you can leave. Come on, say goodbye to- oops, here she comes." Thomas, vagrant that he is, can't even bother to hide the absolute glee spreading over his face. 

Heart in his throat, Edwin whirls around, sees Esther breezing towards them, a look of murder in her eyes. He braces himself, then deflates like a punctured balloon animal, with a slight wheeze he can’t quite smother behind a hand, when Thomas beats him to the punch, loudly. "Good afternoon! I remember you, tittering about yesterday, yeah? Never quite got your name, mine’s Thomas, Thomas King.”   

"Charmed." Esther clips out, curt, glancing at Thomas’ outstretched hand with disdain. 

"Pleasure's all mine, ma'am." Thomas quips, smoothly pulling his hand back, turning the motion into a tip of a hat that's not there, leans forward. "Say, you had a good look at her yesterday, I got her all cleaned up just earlier,” Thomas pats the bike’s seat, smiles wide, on the edge of too much so, "can I interest you in a ride around the block?" He pats the seat again, tilting his head just a bit to the side, towards her, making sure that Esther catches the challenge, the confidence in the invitation. 

Esther almost reels, recoiling with disgust. "That's a very emphatic NO from me, Mr. King. Edwin, dear boy, do come back when you're,” she waves her hand in the air, gesturing in the vague direction of where Thomas is practically preening, perched on his shining bike, arms crossed, “done, with all this." Her message is clear. Get rid of him.  She stalks away, every muscle in her body so tense, Edwin is surprised she can walk at all. When he turns back to Thomas, he sees him offer a cheeky fingerwave at her retreating back. 

When Edwin gives in to the urge to swat his arm, Thomas laughs and laughs, giggles like a child that's just pulled off a particularly dirty prank, looks just as faux-ashamed only when he fully refocuses on Edwin, and his wide-eyed stare at him. "You do realize, I'll pay for that later?" Edwin whispers from behind his clenched teeth. 

"Ghostie. What's she gonna do? Come on, now's your chance. Hop on." He scoots forward, making room. 

"I told you, I can't. I, I just-" 

"Edwin." Thomas looks him right in the eye, expression serious. "Don't worry. It's just a picnic. It'll go on without you. Who cares about what Esther says anyway? Who cares about the people who would care about what an absolute witch like Esther says?"   

The sound of his name coming out of Thomas's mouth is what calms him. Yet at the same time, his heart rate triples, he feels a surge of adrenaline. "I won't fall off?" He eyes the thin strip of seat behind the other man. It doesn't look at all secure. "Not if you hold on." Thomas starts the engine with a wink, and the nearby hovering cloud of children all exclaim in wonder at the noise, laughing, covering their ears. Some of their parents look decidedly displeased. Edwin takes a deep breath, wipes his sweaty palms on his overcoat, forces himself to throw a leg over the motorcycle, tucking up close to Thomas, an arm around his torso. "Sorry." he apologizes over the din of the engine, though he's not sure for what exactly. For touching him? 

"S'alright, babe. Hold on, we're going to be making a quick exit. The wicked witch is decidedly not happy." Thomas pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket, the motorcycle jerks forward, scaring Edwin half to death. He reflexively clings harder, pretending he didn't make a high-pitched yelp out of fear. He doesn't dare look back, to see people's reactions as the motorcycle roars away. He doesn't even want to entertain the thought of how Esther Finch is going to handle him running off without saying goodbye.   

They've gone through two corners, when Edwin realizes he's still clinging to Thomas, perhaps a little too hard. He tries to loosen his grip, he really does, but every time the motorcycle makes the slightest motion underneath his legs, he's worried that their equilibrium will be shattered and he'll go spiraling to the pavement. Also, it's an easy excuse to hold him without any guilt. This was Thomas's idea, after all. Edwin is blameless for clinging. He presses the side of his face against the leather-clad back in front of him. The smell of leather is divine, and he can feel Thomas's ribcage expanding with each breath. It's nice. It's very nice. Edwin almost wishes he lived further away. 

Thomas pulls to a stop, neatly, in the middle of the driveway. He cuts the engine, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. "See? World didn't end." Edwin releases his squid-like grip on that leather jacket, rather unsteadily dismounts the bike, trying to calm his quaking knees. "Actually, there were a few turns back there that almost proved you wrong." A bucket is placed against the garage door, probably used by Thomas when he cleaned his bike. Thomas laughs good naturedly when Edwin gives it a calculating stare, just for effect. Edwin can’t help but smile, a touch wry, marvelling just a bit inside, how easy he now falls into this, this kind of banter, teasing, with someone he didn’t even know 3 days ago.  

He looks at the bike once more, and it occurs to him, again, that he has just ditched Esther at the church picnic, in front of essentially the entire town. Not only that, but he did it clinging to the back of a man on a motorcycle. Edwin needs a good, big glass of wine, and he needs it now. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Alright, let's have a drink, before I spend any more time thinking about what I've just done." 

Thomas slaps him on the shoulder with a smile, letting his hand drift to the small of Edwin’s back, and leads them both inside the house. 

[incinerated-vestiges]

guys I swear I’m cooking smth up

[partyanimal167]

Nice Rides- Kidd x F!Reader

And we're back! My bike is giving me shit right now which reminded me of this little fic that I haven't continued yet. I'll take Pearl (my bike) to shop later this week, so for now, we're going to pretend everything is perfect lol.

I need to write more Kid. He's so fun and spicy.

CW: black fem reader in mind, modern au, fluff, bubbly reader, light instances of misogyny, motorcycle stuff

Kid stood still with arms crossed and a deep scowl planted on his face. He wasn't sure what his role was in all of this, but he was fine with watching from a distance as people approached you and chatted away.

You cleaned up your bike for the show. It was glossy white with purple lights accenting the body. Your cat helmet chilled on the seat, and you talked eagerly with your hands--heart cutouts on your riding gloves visibe and the reason for your odd tan lines.

Kid didn't bother bringing in his old chopper for the event. He had a decent enough car parked elsewhere; he just tagged along quietly. Kid grumbled to himself mostly as old men pointed from far seeming to crack jokes and not take you seriously.

It pissed him off.

"Oh, there's a vendor I wanna go peek at real quick. I'll be back Kid!" you waved off before going to the tent area.

Kid grunted in response and looked around the grassy field--unsure of what to do with himself. He was surprised that you actually hit him up about the show. When he arrived, you just finished polishing off your ride and beamed at the mechanic before giving him a big hug.

Kid appeared calm as you rambled on about different Japanese models that you only saw in magazines before and how you wanted to find some accessories for your lanyard. However, Kid's mental gears were rolling. He had to remember that you were new to the area, so it was probably some form of comfort seeing him even though Kid wouldn't consider himself good company.

He only spoke to you a little, and the people he did know were interested in meeting you and how long you had been riding. Thankfully, not so many people were arrogant to think that you didn't know your stuff; enthusiasts go to these types of events. But that didn't mean there wasn't trouble.

Kid glared around as he popped his gum and honed in on you slowly making your way back with a little gift bag in hand. Two old geezers had stopped you, and you looked just as bright and sweet talking to them.

"That's a cute little moped you got there, sweetie. Did your daddy get it all fixed up like that? Make it a pretend bike?" one of the men jeered. You stiffened at the comment and decided to turn and walk away.

But an arm reached out with ill-intentions.

"Hey! I-,"

"I suggest you old farts fuck off and leave the girl alone. You can't even imagine handling a ride like hers." Kid barked out--easily getting in between the men and yourself.

The two spit on the ground and flipped off the man. "Whatever punk. You probably like riding your girlfriend's sissy ride. Do you have to ask for permission to touch it?" they laughed.

Kid started fuming. "I'll fucking-," he paused after feeling your hand on his arms. You gave him a gentle look--seeming to say how it wasn't worth it. Kid slouched his arms and let out a breath. "Fuck away from us your bastards."

You walked back to your ride with Kid stomping behind you.

"You're too nice. I don't know why people can't just be normal about you having a motorcycle." Kid grumbled as he plopped in an outdoor chair. You leaned onto your ride and just gave him a smile. (Ba-dump) Kid paused before turning his face away from you. "Anyway, go run around and see what's here. I'll watch your beaut."

You pouted and huffed. "But Kid, I want us to walk around together."

A blush started to creep. "But what- what if some punk touches your bike? Or those bastards fuck with it?"

You giggled and tried pulling Kid up from his seat. "If someone messes with her, then I give you one-hundred percent permission to beat them up. Plus, we'll take her to your shop so you can charge them crazy too. 'Kay?"

"Fine." Kid kissed his teeth as he stood, but you just wrapped your arm around his. You were all bright colors and smiles to his garage gloom and glares.

"Yay! So our date continues!" you cheered before beginning to head off.

Kid's feet followed, but his mind was elsewhere again. So it is a date.

~~~

Maybe I am gonna buy another motorcycle...

[screamingshark]

So Arcadianpeach on twitter has a really neat MotoAU going on and I’m in love with his Knives so I drew him as a little treat for myself

Go check out Dagger/Arcadianpeach and his amazing art!

[rorschachiris]

more of this sokkla motorcycle au

[alt-toast]

Motorcycle Geto 🤫

WHY IS THE QUALITY GETTING BUTCHERED

[thatlittlesausage]

I can never write smut seriously, this is the funniest thing I've ever written and if no one appreciates it I'm gonna be FURIOUS

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45825634