#ceilidho

[serastonins]

AHHH MY TOP FAVE PRICE FIC EVER RAHHHHH

country roads holds a very special place in my heart and @ceilidho devoured with this series

the director said cut but they heard change lives

[bosombuddiesandsailormouth]

Duality of COD fans:

@charliemwrites @ghouljams @luminousbeings-crudematter @ceilidho

[ohbo-ohno]

ghost x reader fake-boyfriend-turned-stalker PLLLLLEASEEEEE (this is ceil)

LMAOO i read "wreck and ruin" by emma slate and was very disappointed with how obsessed with the fmc the mmc was!! he just kept letting her go!!

so the basic synopsis of this as a fic would be: you're a bartender at a seedy bar and there's this jackass who just will not leave you alone, no matter how many times you shut him down or threaten to kick him out (which you're not supposed to do). so you go up to the biggest guy in the bar and basically ask him "hey can you pretend to be my boyfriend so this loser leaves me the fuck alone" and to your (and everyone around you's) surprise, ghost agrees and stakes a claim on you to chase off the other guy

anyways!!! turns out ghost is incredibly mentally unstable and completely unwilling to pretend, so for him this is a very real relationship, and no matter how hard you try you just can't shake him off your tail.

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

hi babe (it’s ceil) ily ❄️🔪

ceil ❤️❤️❤️

❄️ ⇢ what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best?

oh shit, currently it's a CoD x res evil au with Ghoap x Reader where it's super dark and scratches a particular itch in my brain: They find her in Racoon City and keep threatening to leave her at one of the Umbrella bases they keep raiding for supplies if she doesn't play with them :////

Ideal person to write this for me: @ohbo-ohno @ceilidho @391780 @bbbby-blu or ALL of the above

🔪 ⇢ what's the weirdest topic you researched for a writing project?

nothing tooo weird, i'm afraid, but I did recently look up the kind of bruises being tied up for extended periods of time would leave on wrists - colour, how it would feel, how long it would take to fade, etc. etc.

[toobusyshrimping]

What are the slutty thigh straps ghost wears? I can only think about tommy wiseau wearing three belts to hold up his ass when i see them

[bucca2]

this is ceilidh.....go wild w that one LOL .... i don't write for konig so feel free

LMAO thank you!!! I’m obsessed with your ghoap x reader btw

[eowynstwin]

clawing at the door

ghoap x reader. jealousy. bisexual soap. bisexual ghost. emotionally constipated ghost. manipulative soap. ghost likes em thick. lightly explicit. MDNI. ao3

When Ghost first sees you and Soap together, his jealousy is hard to parse. He doesn't quite understand what he's feeling.

On the one hand, Occam's Razor. Simple explanations usually prove the truest. Soap is his boy, has been since Las Almas, and you are an interloper in their hard-won dynamic. Ghost does not absorb others into his life lightly, even less so then he allows them to strongarm themselves beneath the mask. He doesn't particularly like people, isn't really fond of their tendency toward abject mortality.

Soap's strong arms are a rare exception. And Ghost has nearly died too many times not to admire a nice round ass when he sees one—the kind that glistens and quivers beneath the weak spray of a communal shower. Some part of him has always kind of supposed the sergeant had been showing off specifically for him, too, when he dropped trousers and moaned like a whore when the hot water started flowing.

The boy certainly dogs his steps like that's the case.

Then, you: showing up on base one day, Soap's hand spread wide and possessive on the small of your back. Jewel-bright eyes following your every move. Blush high and feverish on his boy's cheekbones every time you throw half a smile his way.

So it's envy. So it's a crush, unrequited.

Simple problem, simple solution. Getting over by getting under and all that. There are apps for every heartache, and plenty of hard-bodied gym rats out there tripping over themselves to bottom for a brute like him, who can actually throw them around.

Not two minutes after making his profile (military, six-five, top), likely candidates start filing themselves into his inbox. Some part of his ego is gratified, at least. The influx of taint pics certainly confirms for him that his vanity, in fact, is justified, even if the last thing he wants to see is some random stranger's asshole.

He messages a jacked brunette with brown eyes and dimples, who led instead with a comparatively tame "hey big guy," and lets him pick the bar where they'll meet up.

And it's...fine.

The guy is fine. Equally as attractive in person as on camera, with curly hair and short stubble. He's there before Ghost, and directs an easygoing smile at him when he drops onto a stool at the bar beside him.

He doesn't even question the mask, though his eyes linger on it, half-lidded, the kind of way that suggests he's figuring something out about himself that he hadn't considered before. Not the first time it's happened for Ghost.

The problem with fine is that Ghost can't work up even much of a chub talking to him. The guy has a nasally voice and a friendly attitude that makes Ghost's teeth go numb from the sweetness. When they sequester in the dingy pub bathroom, the guy goes to his knees like an angel, and Ghost's cock actually softens more, thoroughly bored already with the notion of this random guy’s mouth on it.

The problem is, Soap would bust Ghost's balls for this.

Sure, Ghost could get him on his knees. Soap is a good boy, he'll take an order if he's given one. But he's also a fucking brat, and the moment Ghost pulled his cock out Soap would immediately start complaining about it.

Too big, too ugly, not hard enough, and when was the last time Ghost washed that fucking thing? How romantic, LT, making him suck Ghost off in a pub bathroom, hasn't he ever heard of good old-fashioned wooing?

He'd complain, Ghost knows, because he'd want, more than anything, for Ghost to just cut through the bullshit and shove straight down his throat. He'd run his mouth because the only thing he wants Ghost to do is shut him the fuck up, for once, and make him actually work for the praise they both know he's so desperate for.

And Ghost would give it. If Soap earned it. The fight isn't about winning.

This guy isn't putting up a fight. He tries nicely, licks all over the limp-hanging head and pale glans, but Ghost ends up making some excuse—Dad has cancer, Mom died, the usual—and leaving him there still on his knees.

He deletes the apps. He can invest in a fleshlight, and find some porn star another with enough of a resemblance to be functional.

Less of a hassle for everyone involved.

Problem solved.

And then he encounters you again.

You're walking out of the supermarket one night, with two huge bags over your shoulders, digging through your purse out in front of you. He has to stop you with one hand on your shoulder to keep you from running into him.

The evening is warm; your shirt is a thin camisole with little elastic straps. His palm meets your bare skin, and finds it soft and dewy with a little sweat.

You look up, startled, blinking as if caught in a bright light.

"Oh," you say, "Ghost, hello!"

"Bird," he grunts, wondering why he's surprised that you recognize him.

He pulls his hand away, and still feels the imprint of your body heat in its grooves.

"Sorry, I should have been looking," you say, smiling. It's a friendly expression, open and innocent—a daisy's petals spread on a clear day. "Johnny's making beef wellington tonight when he's off duty, so I went and got everything."

Ghost frowns. What kind of boyfriend lets his girl do so much heavy lifting?

He helps you carry the bags to your car. He's jealous, not an asshole. You thank him with a breezy laugh when he closes the hatchback—

"I'm sure Johnny wouldn't mind if you stopped by for dinner," you say, folding your arms across your ribcage. It presses your tits together as you cup your elbows in your hands, pronouncing the line of your cleavage with an uncomfortable eloquence.

"Busy," Ghost says immediately, staring very hard into your eyes. "Thanks."

You shrug, unperturbed. "Anytime. Good night!"

He stands in the carpark for a full five minutes after you drive away. He thinks he can feel his own heartbeat throbbing through the palm he touched you with.

Well, then.

Bereft of any opportunity to get to know you—as if it would even be appropriate—Ghost stalks social media until he finds you through Soap's Instagram. Your account is private, so he sends a follow request, expectations very low that you'd allow someone with a blank sky for a profile picture and only one post on their feed to follow you, "sghostriley" notwithstanding.

But—you do. And suddenly he has a decade of material to peruse, beginning with your last year of secondary school and leading all the way up to present, the most recent photo one of you and Soap at the top of some mountain, grinning at the camera in your hiking gear.

You don't post very many pictures of yourself, he finds. Instead you document interesting food you eat or make, crafts you're working on, nice scenery you caption with variations of "saw this on my walk today :)". It's all very domestic, sweet in a way without being saccharine.

Soft, really. Totally separated from the hard edges of the world he and Soap routinely throw themselves along.

And yet, honest in a way that makes your version of the world feel more like the real one, and his and Soap’s the nightmare.

Ghost hasn't been with a girl—let alone been interested in one—in years. It isn't that the attraction had ever died, exactly. Rather, it simply became so complex, so twisted in on itself and trapped beneath years of grown-over scar tissue, that he'd made an unconscious decision never to confront it. He ignored Price’s stories about his wife’s antics at home, Gaz’s perennial heartbreak after strings of failed dates—

Soap’s lurid bragging about the women he’s taken home from various pubs.

(Were you one of those pub girls?)

So, here it is now, confronting him instead. Reminding him, in a pretty camisole, just how very much it exists.

In the carpark, there’d been a bead of sweat slipping down your neck as you’d waved him goodbye. He finds himself wondering how long it would’ve taken to slide all the way down to the slope of your breast, if he didn’t catch it with his tongue first.

He continues through your Instagram. The majority of your selfies show up, he guesses, after the beginning of your relationship with Soap.

Earlier pictures of you make your discomfort obvious. You don't like the way you look, and it shows in the tension on your face when confronted with a camera lens. But later on, you gain confidence. Your expressions are softer as you show off a new haircut or glasses.

And when the first picture of you with Soap shows up, it's like seeing someone glowing from the inside.

Your head is tucked into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. The smile on your face is soft, small and lovely in how little you're clearly thinking about it.

You're happy.

It floors him. A happy girl, settled into the embrace of a man who’s made her feel that way.

Piece of work, he is. Could ogle another man's ass without shame, but present him with that man’s girl and suddenly it upends his entire sense of self.

Some old cunt psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing him.

Ghost skips the apps and, following in Soap’s footsteps, heads back to the pubs.

It’s worse.

Not that he doesn’t have options sidling up to him, that is. It seems like all he has to do is sit at the bar and wait, and women circle their way into his orbit, not really talking to him but letting him know, simply by hovering, that they’d love for him to talk to them. Batting their lashes, laughing near him seemingly at nothing.

Up to him to make the first move then. It seems to him like the rules haven't changed over his long absence from the dating pool.

Therein lay the snag—Ghost doesn't know how to talk to women. Not that way, the way one says without saying it that he'd like to take her home and bend her over the back of his couch. Say that to a man at the right bar and that was his evening sorted, but Ghost has a feeling that won't play as well among people with cat-shaped brass knuckles on their keychains.

He's not much of a talker, period. Soap yaps enough to fill in his side of the conversation whenever they're in the field. And you...well, he doesn't know about you. Ghost has the uncomfortable feeling that he'd try for you, and fail miserably.

The bartender slides a drink in front of him, distracting him from his agonizing. When Ghost gives him a questioning look, he nods in the direction of a table behind him.

One of the barflies has made the first move.

She winks at him when he raises the glass at her. She’s pretty—her dark makeup makes her eyes look angular and mysterious, and her red dress is tight, thin, and low-cut. Her exposed chest shimmers, as if she dusted some sort of powder across her collarbones before making her way here.

Sparkly and colorful, like a lure on a line. Ready to hook something and pull it in.

(Your camisole had been threadbare and lined with cheap, fraying lace. A favorite of yours, probably, something you wore when you wanted to be comfortable, and didn’t care who thought what about it.)

Ghost notices other men are eyeing the woman, and a couple of them send nasty glares his way. That is, they do before promptly averting their gazes once they see what he looks like.

He can have this, then, if he wants it. He just has to reach out and take it.

He feels your warmth in the palm of his hand again. The breeze of your laugh brushes his cheek with a soft touch.

He sends the woman one of her own drink, drops forty quid on the bar, and leaves without looking back.

Another dinner invite comes his way, this time courtesy of Soap himself.

“She told me she met you at the store,” Soap says, one afternoon when they’re in the changing room. “Really nice of you to help her out, LT.”

“You weren’t there to do it,” Ghost grumbles. Soap has been prancing around shirtless for fifteen minutes, faffing about while Ghost waits for him to leave so he can adjust his erection.

“I didn’t tell her to get everything!” the sergeant protests. “She just went and did it herself.” Then Soap’s eyes go all dreamy and stupid. “She’s grand, isn’t she.”

Ghost grumbles again, something noncommittal.

“Anyway, dinner’s at seven, and I’ll send you the address,” says Soap, pulling a thin t-shirt over his head. Ghosts watches him yank the hem down over his pecs, covering the toned plane of his abs.

Soap winks at him. “See you there, Ghost.”

Ghost grunts.

Soap does, in fact, see him there.

He goes out of resignation. Or maybe with some notion that seeing Soap and you together again will finally vanquish whatever sits on his chest so heavily whenever he thinks of the two of you.

Soap’s the one to answer the door. “There he is, the braw wee bastard!”

“Soap.”

From the looks of it, it’s your flat. It’s nicely decorated without being too over-designed, something warm and comfortable and welcoming. When Ghost steps inside, he’s hit immediately with the smell of seared pancetta and garlic.

The sergeant leads him through the flat. Ghost has a bottle of wine under one arm, having remembered at the last minute he should probably bring something along. You’re in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove.

“Hi, Ghost!” you chirp when you look over your shoulder. “Ooh, good, that’s drinks settled. Hope you like bolognese. It’s all I know how to make.”

“S’fine,” Ghost says, which he would say even if bolognese made him violently ill.

“Ach, you can make more than that,” Soap says, retrieving three long-stemmed glasses from a cabinet. “Pour a nice glass of water.”

You snatch the dish towel hanging from the oven handle and give it a snap in the general direction of Soap’s ass. He laughs and dances out of the way.

“There’s a bottle opener in the island drawer, Ghost,” you say cheerfully. You're pretty tonight, in a loose t-shirt and soft-looking joggers. Casual, like you don't have a guest over at all.

Like it's just a night in with your boyfriend.

Ghost pops the cork as Soap sets the glasses down. After he pours, the sergeant delivers a glass to his girlfriend, and there’s a brief moment of quiet as everyone sips and the sauce on the stove bubbles.

It’s all so nice and normal as to make Ghost’s hackles raise just in anticipation, although he knows there’s no reason for it. Truthfully, he almost hadn’t come. The thought of you and Soap, and Soap and you, in the same room, together, a unit, had made his stomach clench up so tight that he though he might not be able to get any food down.

But some part of him needed to come, and see this. Test out Pavlov’s theory, to see if enough negative reinforcement could break him of this borderline manic fixation. If he could associate Soap and you with romantic nausea, and nothing more, maybe he could finally stop jerking off every night to no satisfaction.

Because he had, in fact, found a porn star who looked like Soap. More tattoos, and a buzz cut rather than a mohawk, but Ghost couldn’t be picky.

The real shock had been to find that this proxy often partnered with a girl who looked enough like you to be uncanny. Too skinny, definitely, but in the one video Ghost had watched of them together, he could have sworn, as the lookalike reamed her from behind—

That it was you looking at him over your shoulder.

Looking at Soap. Or, looking at Ghost, behind him.

At that moment in the playback Ghost had come so hard, cock blazing red and raw in his hand, that the notion had liquified a little. So he couldn’t be sure what the thought had originally meant.

He hadn’t been brave enough to watch another.

“This isn’t bad,” Soap says after tasting the wine. “Nothin’ on a good whisky, mind.”

“Don’t neg your lieutenant, Johnny,” you say. “This is good, Ghost, thank you.”

Hearing Johnny fall from your lips so casually threads something uncomfortable between Ghost’s intestines. Uncomfortable, because he likes it.

Had Soap told you to call him that? Or had you decided on it all on your own? Did Soap think of Ghost whenever you said his name? Did he think of you whenever Ghost did?

“Simon’s fine,” he replies.

It escapes him before he even thinks about it. The same way he’d taken his mask off in Las Almas and looked directly at Soap, wondering in some hidden part of himself if the sergeant was impressed.

“That’s a nice name,” you say, swirling the wine in your glass. You take another sip, closing your eyes to savor it, and then, tilting your head like a little bird in thought, you pour a stream of it from the glass into your pasta sauce.

“Suits him, aye?” Soap says, side-eyeing Ghost with amusement. “Right posh name he’s got for a big scary bugger. Hidden depths, him.”

“Yeah, unlike you,” you snark, stirring.

Soap slaps a big hand over his heart. “Ach, lass, you wound me always.”

“Someone has to keep you humble,” you say, grinning. There’s a charming twinkle in your eyes.

“You gonna let ‘er get away with that, sergeant?”

He surprises himself by saying it. But something in the way you and Soap bicker—absent of the usual sugary drivel, as if the two of you have skipped over the honeymoon phase and stuck the landing right into stable commitment—invites him in.

It's magnetic, almost. It seizes the spinning needle in his brain, draws it to a standstill. Evens out the landscape, so he knows where he can go.

“You’re absolutely right, LT,” says Soap, who smacks his lips, sets his wineglass aside, and bum-rushes you.

You shriek as he captures you in both arms, lifting you off the floor and whirling you around—both the spoon in one hand and the glass in the other fling drops of red and white absolutely everywhere. And then you’re giggling as Soap wedges his face between your neck and shoulder and shakes his head like a dog, probably biting down.

Soap growls; a big smile takes over your face, eyes squeezed shut as you laugh breathlessly. The sergeant’s broad, brown forearms have yours pinned up against your chest, pressing your breasts together.

“Not fair, Ghost!” you exclaim as Soap’s growling noises turn into obnoxiously loud kisses. “No pulling rank in my house!”

“Two against one, hen, you’re outnumbered,” Soap counters. “What should we do with this one, eh, LT?”

“See if I ever cook for you two again, is what!” you protest, still grinning with delight. You kick your legs to no effect.

Soap, also grinning, slots his face back into your neck. You giggle again, complaining that it tickles.

Some incomplete circuit finally connects.

Order given. Girlfriend “punished.”

Soap making you laugh because Ghost told him to.

Not one. Not the other. Both.

“Think we can let ‘er off the hook this time,” he says, feeling dazed.

The pictures on your Instagram, with you and Soap together. The both of you, smiling together, wrapped around each other, standing at the top of a mountain and grinning what the two of you get to share.

Soap's hand spread on your back.

“Aye, sir,” Soap says, setting you down. You’re still laughing a little as you go to check the sauce, and Soap finds a towel to clean up the mess he made. Ghost reels in the meanwhile.

There’s an imprint of Soap’s teeth on your neck.

They wouldn’t be there if Ghost hadn’t sicced Soap on you.

He’s still reeling as you begin plating dinner, and Soap sets out the silverware. When everyone sits down to eat, the sergeant tops up everyone’s drinks.

“I hope you like it,” you say to Ghost, setting his plate in front of him. There's a shyness to you, a verity to your concern for his opinion.

“Oh, he will,” Soap says.

He trails the tips of his fingers along the back of your arm as he directs that jewel-blue gaze at Ghost. It's sharper than Ghost has ever noticed before—

“The LT has good taste. Don’t you, Ghost?”

And with his other hand, he raises his glass to the knowing smirk on his lips.

a/n: I can't use arse, I know it would be more accurate but I just can't I'm sorry

[cryptid-cave]

Currently thinking about a reader who, while having a full-time job and playing the part of a “real adult” pretty well for the most part, is still kind of lost and pathetic. It feels less like they’re living and more like they’re surviving, getting by on their own with just a cat for company.

Enter John Price, who’s currently on medical leave and just itching for a project. Maybe reader works at a store near his home that he shops at almost every other day, or works at the library where he goes when he needs to get out of the house. Either way, he spots this pretty little thing who clearly needs some love and guidance, preferably from a strong, gentle hand - and who better to do that than him?

Anyways, save me bossy and demanding Price with a savior complex, save me

[wordstome]

Johnny and Simon watching you turn your house upside down knowing full well even if you find that thing there’s actually nothing forcing them to return to the sea. You’re stuck with them!

…was Johnny the Selkie? The fic’s I always see they make reader the Selkie. which is all fine and good! But, I think it would be very funny to be some girl who comes down to the beach to gather seaweed for dinner and have 2 large, lumbering, male Selkie’s following after her. “You look cold! Put on my coat!” Johnny trying to coax you sweetly, showing off how good a mate he is! Put on the coat! Brings you shiny shells, fish and trinkets he found! Simon thinks it’s bullshit, just take the pretty maiden! She’s literally tiny- here! He can pick her up and wrap her in his coat! Why are you screaming girl!? When you get upset, it upsets Johnny. And when Johnny gets upset, it upsets Simon. So, he immediately tries to rectify it and sets you down. You immediately bolt off, leaving them on the beach like ‘wait, where’d she go?’ And now Johnny’s pouting. “Ye’ scared her! BONNIE COME BACK!” And he bolts after you, while Simon’s like ‘wtf, I was literally doing what I was *supposed to* when you flipped out!’ And Simon chases after Johnny AND you.

wait wait wait WAIT. you are on to something new and unique. a selkie giving his coat AWAY??? hiding it in your fucking house when you invite him over? you're stuck with them because they can't return to the sea without their coats but you can't find it anywhere. wait......wait the possibilities.........

[papoli]

finally drawing our captain 🫡

[ohbo-ohno]

ok but bo (this is ceilidh but not exposing my main) puppy soap who makes reader play puppy and kitty when she is NOT into it LMAO and when she looks to Ghost like "this is insane, right? he's lost his mind" Ghost just stares at her and tells her that kitties meow idk im losing my mind

@ceilidho!!!! kisses hello hi!!! this is hysterical LMAO thank you for sending it to me

i have an ask rn that uses the words "over spoiled purebred kitten behavior vs the over excited fully body wagging mutt" and im hoarding it for myself like a tasty treat but it fits this perfectly

it could be sooooo funny too. johnny is like fully into the puppy part of puppy play, that man will kneel and hold his hands in a little paw shape and pant with his tongue out if he's told to beg. "speak" gets a bark. like that man is a puppy idk what to tell you.

and you are not a kitten. you're not, you're just not! like sure, maybe you really enjoy the feeling of simon's hand passing over your hair (maybe even a little rub at your ears), and maybe you make little moans that might sound a little tiny bit like a purr but!!!! you're not a cat!!!! not like johnny is a puppy!!!!

johnny does not care. wants to fuck his pretty little kitty :( you gave him tiny little licks with the tip of your tongue before sucking his dick once and he just never stopped thinking about it. gives you a looong tail plug and pulls it, laughs when you yowl and jump a foot in the air, says of course you're a kitten! look at the way you act!

ghost doesn't push it but there's a time johnny begs you to meow - honest to god meow! - while he's fucking you, and when you look over at him for a little bit of solidarity he just raises an eyebrow and is like "well? it's what kittens say, isn't it?"

[luvrodite]

been thinking about soap all morning it’s getting dire guys

[moondirti]

i hope this doesn’t sound dumb but i genuinely thought you and ceil were the same person 😭😭

im ngl to you this flattered me beyond what is normal and healthy so i would never call you out on it but. poor ceil 😭 she is so talented, i could only hope to match her level one day

[cookiepie111]

Ohhh, I'm shaking I'm sick. I need desperate könig so bad, who'd beg for a bit of your attention.

[vampirekilmerfic]

IF MW3 was canon to me, and if I wasn’t completely and absolutely burnt out, then I’d write an Orpheus x Eurydice coded Ghoap one-shot where Simon refuses to accept Soap’s death. Just flat out refuses to accept that it happened. Never even goes to the funeral.

He doesn’t accept it, because he can’t believe it.

It was supposed to be him, right? How could Johnny have gone before him, in what universe was that okay?

Ghost is so desperate, clawing, grasping, fighting tooth and nail for something, anything. But first, he needs to get away. (Price looks at him with those knowing eyes. Price knows something’s not right, but what could he say?) So Ghost asks to go on extended bereavement leave and Price lets him.

And Ghost goes straight to Scotland.

Finds a crossroads.

Makes a deal.

When he wakes up in the middle of the night, Johnny’s there in bed beside him, breathing deep, looking so peaceful in his sleep. Ghost thinks it’s a fucking weird dream, only to wake up to the smell of frying eggs and coffee.

Soap seems to remember nothing about that last mission. Been havin the weirdest dreams lately, Si. Cannae believe how real some of them felt.

Something fundamental cracks in Simon’s chest at that moment. It’s real. The deal came through. Johnny’s really here.

Simon's happy to report that the rest of their life together is mundane. Even boring, to an outsider. They quit and move. (Simon takes care of all of it. Johnny never even mentions seeing Gaz or Price, but Simon never prods. It's all surreal, so what's another weird thing?) Their life together is happy.

But...

The real story begins when Simon realises that his time's up. The real story begins when Simon gets dragged to hell, goes with a smile on his face. How could he not? They'd crammed a lifetime of happiness in ten years.

The real story begins when Soap makes it his personal mission to bring Simon back, this way or that.

[imagine-shenanigans]

ouhasgdkl;asjfklajoughoughough anon ty for the compliments ily <33333

You said this was like "strange friendship" but idk if you're going by way of platonic or romantic end goal so I'll have endings for both <3333 I'm also assuming you meant a Vigilante reader?

Also side note but dear dear followers and people perusing the tag who found this, how are we feeling about Jon Bellion's song Guillotine when paired with Miguel/Reader because it came on while I was writing this and I'm feral

Side note, I wrote this awhile ago before I changed the way I write, but I'm going through my drafts and I guess i'll just drop this while I write more for tptbp, since I don't think I'll return to it, at least for awhile

Miguel O'hara Police AU x Vigilante Reader (Friends to Lovers) (Unfinished)

Rating: T for Teen (Minors Still DNI tho please)

General

Miguel has always had a strong sense of right and wrong, and he's always wanted to protect people. As a child, this was a strong sense of justice that manifested, and although now that he's older he sees it from the lens that the ends justify the means, at the end of the day all he wants is to protect the city.

Became disheartened with the police force overall after he'd been in it for a few years, his bright-eyed enthusiasm tampered by years of seeing the worst of Nueva York, both in and out of the police force itself. He's dedicated to reform in the system, and he's stubborn, and that's the only reason he takes the detective position. It's a step above the meaningless work he felt he was doing before, and at least this way he has some say over who really gets the hammer.

In any other world, he thinks to himself, maybe I would be like those vigilantes.

They're all over the news - villains (criminals, he often reminds those who use the term) that fill the streets of Nueva York like filth. Above the petty threats he and the other officers typically get slammed with, real, genuine threats that he should be investigating. Biochemical warfare, robberies that span several city blocks, bombs, and genetic testing that alters the very DNA of the other humans in the city. It results in a frankly concerning amount of human-animal hybrids, and that makes his job narrowing down vigilantes even harder. Between the genetic testing and the well-known phenomena of superpowers, Miguel is up to his eyeballs in (figurative) red yarn and pushpins.

Surpsingly, he doesn't hate the vigilantes for their work. Sure, it makes his own job harder, but if he were a little younger, or if he'd been gifted with powers, he'd have been right out on those streets with the best of them.

But he only has mercy for the ones that pass the extremely high standards he sets. He promised to uphold right and wrong, and while he'll often give the vigilantes a head start, he's never actually worked with anyone... until you.

He'd heard of you, infamous in the media, even for a vigilante. Kids want to be like you, adults are torn between wanting you brought to justice and wanting you pardoned. Villains/Criminals pray for your downfall - most willing to go to great lengths for just that (other than unmasking you - villains and criminals may be just that, but there is a certain code of ethics still upheld, and unmasking someone on purpose is a huge breach of the larger game at play.)

He becomes... just a bit obsessed.

You've got a code of ethics, a moral compass, and you yourself are willing to go to great lengths to protect the city. You're kind, and you're smart, a clever thing that is constantly evading his grasp. As much as he admires you, it's infuriating at the same time how much he hates you. You let criminals off the hook for reasons he can't comprehend, you put yourself in danger to such great lengths that Miguel isn't certain how you quite survive most of the things you do. You're snarky, and kind of an asshole, and you also commit strange, petty crimes, and while he doesn't really care when you punch one of his fellow officers and beat him bloody when you find out he was being a creep to a young girl, Miguel is still forced to at least try to bring you to justice.

But you're a fucking enigma.

If you live in Nueva York proper, he'd never know it - you don't show up on any scanners, your bio-signs are unique in costume, but the moment you're out of his line of sight he couldn't pick you out of a crowd for the life of him. No paper trails - if you're buying anything in the city, it isn't with anything but cold hard cash. He can't tell if you're living hand-to-mouth, and the system itself is hiding you from him, or if you're just clever enough that you're constantly three steps ahead of him.

Maybe it's both.

Miguel gets obsessed, quite frankly, and it's a good thing that he's better than his fellow detectives three times over, because otherwise he'd never get anything done in the long hours away from home. The only thing that keeps him from delving straight into madness is Gabi, and her needs. After she'd developed nightmares a couple years ago when he'd been absorbed in his work, he refuses to put in overtime more than once a week, and even then it's only on days that Gabi would be over spending time with his family anyway.