goose_755
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John is all bare skin and brimming heat against him, pressed flush and unapologetic. His fingers curl back, gripping Simon’s thigh, nails digging in just enough to leave a mark against the soaked denim. A fucking mark, a claim that makes Simon's head spin. "The fuck are you doing, MacTavish?" Simon grits, voice rough, frayed at the seams.
The man hums, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that sends a sharp bolt of pleasure down the length of Simon's spine. His breath stutters, a jagged inhale at the pressure against his cock.
"The fuck does it look like, Lieutenant?"
"Brat," Simon hisses, fingers curling into the man's damp mohawk, a swift tug as he pulls John's head back toward his chest, those blue eyes clouded with a wicked intent.
"Yeah?" His voice is rough, teasing, Simon’s grip bruising tight on his waist. "And what the fuck are you going to do about it?"
Bookmarked by goose_755
14 May 2025
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Summary
A series of oneshots dedicated to the retelling of G.H.O.S.T's venture into space. A funny, crass and over the top science fiction with lasers, strange creatures, and lots of disagreements. Enemies to lovers (eventually), and all of the emotional confusion that follows whilst trapped aboard a tin can floating in deep space.
- Words:
- 8,042
- Works:
- 3
- Bookmarks:
- 17
Bookmarked by goose_755
31 May 2025
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Ghost takes one proper look at the detective through his scope and feels his heart jump in his chest. Even with his face twisted in rage he’s the most perfect alpha Ghost has ever seen. His hair is ridiculous, the mohawk completely incongruous with his position with Scotland bloody Yard, yet the way he’s commanding the men tells Ghost he’s clearly in charge of this scene. He’s good then, very good if he’s got this assignment; The Met has been chasing Ghost for years and they’ve never even got close. He’s pretty, so damned pretty and radiates alpha energy so intense that Ghost is certain that’s his designation.
For the first time in a decade Ghost’s omega perks up. A rumble pushes out of his chest and Ghost realises with a start that he’s purring.
Time to fucking go.
He disassembles his rifle with far less care than usual, throws everything into his bag and does one last sweep of the rooftop he’s been lying on. No trace. With a final glance down at the detective, who’s now ordering the scene to be closed off and tented, Ghost shoulders his rifle and vanishes back into the bustling streets of London.
Bookmarked by goose_755
02 Jun 2025