SEMI-HIATUS | READ PINNED | Jay, she/her, 25 | Barry Sloane, CoD, Tom Hardy & (Paranormal) Romance Writer. 18+ ONLY! CoD ML | Richard Armitage ML | Tom Hardy ML | AO3
The Daily Possibilities of Our Lives (Simon Riley/Ghost x Reader)
CoD ML
Every morning it’s the same for him. The same damned noises of traffic jams threatening to happen and footfalls of those headed to the office or the station to catch the first train to Liverpool or Leeds. He doesn’t understand the relaxed chatter of those opting to have a moment together in a coffee shop, how they have the time to pay for an overpriced coffee and wait for it to be served. Neither does he comprehend how they have the minutes to spare to maybe even eat.
Hood pulled up to conceal his face and earphones as high as they can go, the man sets a fast pace to the nearest Sainsbury’s. Not a Tesco Express, which is always too fucking cramped. Moreover, it takes ages for people to decide on what they want from the Costa machine and whether they want a pastry or not. At least his franchise of choice always offers enough space to any customer without obstructing others.
Cup placed under the spout, he quickly taps the ‘hot chocolate’ and ‘regular’ buttons. Impatient with the slow machine, he taps his foot. Behind him people keep streaming in. His heartbeat rises.
Why can’t the bloody machine get a speed upgrade?
A queue has formed in the bakery section. Whatever, he never eats breakfast anyway. So he storms to the self-checkout and out the door.
But there’s one thing Simon adores about the morning.
Head kept low and focused on the music, he navigates the roadworks and traffic lights towards the only spot in town where there seems to be a perpetual quiet. Where he can sit for hours, left well and truly alone.
However, maybe he doesn’t crave being by himself as much here.
Over the course of the last few weeks, Simon has worked his way from a chair for customers in the thriller section on the first floor further upstairs towards the café. It started when he first saw her over the rim of his notebook. She was a vague figure passing by, nothing to be bothered by.
He shouldn’t have been. Being distracted doesn’t help when you’re trying to complete a manuscript that you hope will be the backbone of a back-up career. Why write down countless ideas in the notebook he always has with him only to never do anything with them?
Why bother with someone else?
Two weeks later, she was helping a colleague sort through the new books that had come in and stock the shelves.
And he couldn’t stop staring.
He should’ve had his eyes on his screen. Used his fingers to write down the vivid imagery going through his head while he was in the flow.
But the flow had stopped. It was replaced by an insatiable urge to pluck novels out of her hands when she needed to put them on the highest shelves. To tell her to let him do the heavy lifting.
Yet, he sat there. Barely restrained and pleasantly frozen in a fantasy he didn’t knew he had.
Only when she looked at him did he snap out of his reverie.
She saw him.
Saw the scars on his lips and cheeks.
Saw the familiar walls rebuilt before her eyes.
She shouldn’t have seen him.
He doesn’t want her to see him.
Doesn’t want her to see Ghost.
Nevertheless, he can’t show her the man beneath the battle-hardened persona. He doesn’t know how, can’t remember where the one starts and the other ends. Although, perhaps he’s one and the same.
Maybe Simon Riley will never return.
Maybe he’s always been Ghost.
Yes, merely here to observe the world without being able to be part of it. He’s still debating on a pen name, though the name on the long since expired passport starts to sound like one the more days pass by.
But then, who could he be to her?
No, fucking hell, he shouldn’t be.
He won’t.
She’s a stranger, someone he doesn’t know.
Nonetheless, he knows she wants to open her own bookshop one day. One with a nice little café where customers can read and work on their own creative ambitions.
Knows she wants to move somewhere quieter than Manchester, preferably somewhere a bit desolate. At least somewhere with way less people.
And he knows he wants to go where she does.
Until then, he sits there, laptop open and a fresh page before him.
About to work further on the story imprinted in his mind. A concept he hasn’t been able to dismiss easily, unable to shake off because it keeps coming back in dreams, thoughts, and memories his chaotic mind seems to deem true and not invented. They’re not warped by trauma, not by the beatings and battles he’s endured.
They’re an echo of a time and place he cannot name. It’s all covered in mist and water, decorated with the gleam of something shiny in sunlight.
The Daily Possibilities of Our Lives (Simon Riley/Ghost x Reader)
CoD ML
Every morning it’s the same for him. The same damned noises of traffic jams threatening to happen and footfalls of those headed to the office or the station to catch the first train to Liverpool or Leeds. He doesn’t understand the relaxed chatter of those opting to have a moment together in a coffee shop, how they have the time to pay for an overpriced coffee and wait for it to be served. Neither does he comprehend how they have the minutes to spare to maybe even eat.
Hood pulled up to conceal his face and earphones as high as they can go, the man sets a fast pace to the nearest Sainsbury’s. Not a Tesco Express, which is always too fucking cramped. Moreover, it takes ages for people to decide on what they want from the Costa machine and whether they want a pastry or not. At least his franchise of choice always offers enough space to any customer without obstructing others.
Cup placed under the spout, he quickly taps the ‘hot chocolate’ and ‘regular’ buttons. Impatient with the slow machine, he taps his foot. Behind him people keep streaming in. His heartbeat rises.
Why can’t the bloody machine get a speed upgrade?
A queue has formed in the bakery section. Whatever, he never eats breakfast anyway. So he storms to the self-checkout and out the door.
But there’s one thing Simon adores about the morning.
Head kept low and focused on the music, he navigates the roadworks and traffic lights towards the only spot in town where there seems to be a perpetual quiet. Where he can sit for hours, left well and truly alone.
However, maybe he doesn’t crave being by himself as much here.
Over the course of the last few weeks, Simon has worked his way from a chair for customers in the thriller section on the first floor further upstairs towards the café. It started when he first saw her over the rim of his notebook. She was a vague figure passing by, nothing to be bothered by.
He shouldn’t have been. Being distracted doesn’t help when you’re trying to complete a manuscript that you hope will be the backbone of a back-up career. Why write down countless ideas in the notebook he always has with him only to never do anything with them?
Why bother with someone else?
Two weeks later, she was helping a colleague sort through the new books that had come in and stock the shelves.
And he couldn’t stop staring.
He should’ve had his eyes on his screen. Used his fingers to write down the vivid imagery going through his head while he was in the flow.
But the flow had stopped. It was replaced by an insatiable urge to pluck novels out of her hands when she needed to put them on the highest shelves. To tell her to let him do the heavy lifting.
Yet, he sat there. Barely restrained and pleasantly frozen in a fantasy he didn’t knew he had.
Only when she looked at him did he snap out of his reverie.
She saw him.
Saw the scars on his lips and cheeks.
Saw the familiar walls rebuilt before her eyes.
She shouldn’t have seen him.
He doesn’t want her to see him.
Doesn’t want her to see Ghost.
Nevertheless, he can’t show her the man beneath the battle-hardened persona. He doesn’t know how, can’t remember where the one starts and the other ends. Although, perhaps he’s one and the same.
Maybe Simon Riley will never return.
Maybe he’s always been Ghost.
Yes, merely here to observe the world without being able to be part of it. He’s still debating on a pen name, though the name on the long since expired passport starts to sound like one the more days pass by.
But then, who could he be to her?
No, fucking hell, he shouldn’t be.
He won’t.
She’s a stranger, someone he doesn’t know.
Nonetheless, he knows she wants to open her own bookshop one day. One with a nice little café where customers can read and work on their own creative ambitions.
Knows she wants to move somewhere quieter than Manchester, preferably somewhere a bit desolate. At least somewhere with way less people.
And he knows he wants to go where she does.
Until then, he sits there, laptop open and a fresh page before him.
About to work further on the story imprinted in his mind. A concept he hasn’t been able to dismiss easily, unable to shake off because it keeps coming back in dreams, thoughts, and memories his chaotic mind seems to deem true and not invented. They’re not warped by trauma, not by the beatings and battles he’s endured.
They’re an echo of a time and place he cannot name. It’s all covered in mist and water, decorated with the gleam of something shiny in sunlight.
“writing fanfics is something I do in my free time for fun. I will not treat it like a job and will instead treat it like a hobby because that’s what it is.”
The thought of werewolf!Simon asking you to put a collar on him.
CoD ML
Just imagine this rough-looking imposing figure awkwardly approaching you with a collar in his big scarred hands. His palms are marred with traces of all the fights he’s gotten into, but the worst of them betray he’s gone Feral.
Yet Simon tries so hard to stay with you as long as he can.
Despite the terrible craving to let the Wolf take over completely forevermore and vanish.
Before he hurts you in a way that wants to make him eat silver until his lungs rot with the stuff.
“Y/N?” For a moment he hesitates, but he knows it’s too late when your eyes fall on the thick black leather band lined with silver studs. “Collar me.”
“You sure you want that?” You’re more than aware how much pride your recently returned husband puts into being a Wolf. Moreover, collaring is a very intimate experience, almost on the same level as mating. It’s binding.
A level of commitment neither of you had expected him capable of. Yet, Simon craves it even more than the ring on his finger.
That’s what his human side wanted.
But the Wolf wants this.
Needs this.
“Yes.”
He picks you up and plops you on the counter, secretly pleased with the way your boobs bounce ever so slightly as you land on the surface. Also, he simply enjoys displaying his strength so he’s prone to sweeping you up whenever he feels like it.
Simon leans in to give you easier access to his neck. Eyes closed, he loses himself in the way your nimble fingers put the collar on. A low growl escapes him when he hears the click of the lock, the leather flat against his skin.
“I can take it off,” you offer, alarmed by the swift snarl that passes over his face.
“No. Just gotta get used to it yet.” Simon’s features soften as his calloused fingertips brush your cheek. It’s in moments like these, when he notices the sharp sting of anxiety in your scent, that he barely has the courage to touch you at all. “That’s all.”
His eyes wander to the empty pill box behind you. “Need to up the dose.”
“Ah,” you murmur. It’s all you can say, haunted by the visions of him hanging over the loo, sickly and pale. Unfortunately, there’s no other way to keep him here.
Either hope to remain human enough through ingesting wolfsbane mixed with silver only to vomit your guts out or go Feral and lose yourself to the Wolf.
“So it’s getting worse again.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the last estimate they gave you?”
For how much longer will you be here?
The thought hangs heavy in the air, haunting the silence in your kitchen.
For both your sakes, Simon ignores your question. As per usual whenever his remaining time comes up, the only kindness he can show you is carrying on casually. “I’ll drop by Johnny later. Get the proper prescription.”
“I’ll write a memo.” Lest he forgets.
As he tends to do often nowadays.
“Y/N?”
“Hm?”
Simon takes your hand and hooks one of your fingers beneath his collar. Making use of your puzzlement, he cups your cheeks and gently presses his lips on yours in a tender kiss. “This means something. Fucking everything. I love you.”
friendly reminder to everyone that first draft just needs to exist.
it doesn’t need to be good, it just needs to be there. stories go through so many different drafts that nobody is gonna care if your first draft is a little messy.
you can’t edit and clean up something that doesn’t exist, so make it exist!
Aromantic person realizes the reason they don’t read romance without smut is because they find romance boring, and not because they’re a disgusting pervert.
- you don't have to write sex scenes. Tolkien didn't
- you don't have to write romance. Lewis didn't
- you can write very close friendships that have nothing romantic nor sexual in them. Scott Lynch did
- you can write sexual relationships that don't involve romance. Sapkowski did
- you can write romantic relationships that don't involve sex. Pratchett and Gaiman did
Don't let anyone tell you that some kinds of relationships are impossible or that a story must contain some themes. It's your story, write it the way you want
Simon Riley fucking you like this, Simon Riley fucking you like that… okay, buy what about Simon Riley making love to you.
He can be a kind person sometimes. Just imagine it. Missionary position and soft thrusts and him moaning in a low tone. He would say that you’re so perfect and gorgeous, how long has he waited to have you like this…
He is a normal human being, he would like to experience pleasure like all of us. Some days it can be gentle and sweet and some other days he would fuck like it’s his last day on earth.
Just some intrusive thoughts I had, I dislike almost all of the hard porn about ghost in here.
Why I Stopped Writing Tom Hardy Fiction | Retirement Statement
‘Ello my darlings,
As you may or may not have noticed, my blog/writing has shifted towards Call of Duty. At first, I thought I’d be able to combine this new focus with my TH fiction. However, seeing the degree of engagement soon made me decide otherwise.
You see, my CoD works get way more engagement in 24h than my other works did in a day, weeks even. No one from my tag list interacted whatsoever, which didn’t help either.
Also, I find more joy in writing for Task Force 141 (and especially John Price & Simon Riley) than I do in writing for Tom Hardy and his characters.
This is the reason behind the lack of TH content. In fact, I’m fairly certain I can say there won’t be anymore. So consider me retired.
The play was so well-written and the acting was top notch. I feel like the story is still relevant today as many people are struggling with finding and keeping a job that provides enough to get by. Moreover, it talks about generational differences and parents trying, and failing, to understand their children. We’re all still only looking out for the nr 1, the employer, rather than ourselves first.
Alright, I’m gonna simp here for a bit because while his acting was stellar, it’s still Barry we’re talking about here. And let me tell you…
HE’S HUGE!🙀😻
(My size and d- kink were definitely activated. Kept it in check, of course!)
No, but, like, seriously. Man is muscular, towers over everyone, had a few intimidation scenes that got me kinda hot under the collar, and his eyes looked even more blue under the stage lights. The moustache has now also grown on me. Still don’t fully like it, but I don’t hate it as much as I did at first.
Also, he inspired a few missing elements in some concepts I’ve been thinking about. Lowkey makes me wanna write.😏
John always chimes in when you’re listening to jazzy music like Frank Sinatra’s and Michael Bublé’s.
Despite claiming otherwise, he’s guilty of giving many a home concert when he thinks you’re out the door. So more often than not, it’s you catching him singing.
John loves singing to you while slow dancing in the kitchen. The most stupid grin will break out on his lips when he does. But, honestly, can you blame him? He’s on Cloud Nine whenever you’re in his arms.
(Or balancing on his toes as he guides you through the dance)
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley
Ghost leans against the fridge while watching you quietly sing to yourself. Usually it’s him cooking dinner, but after much debating you finally managed to convince him to let you do it (for the first time in two months).
Now, the only time Simon will allow for Ed Sheeran is when you’re singing along to his songs like this evening. Although, he also doesn’t turn off your music when you’re listening to the singer-songwriter while cleaning the house (another daily debate because he’s actually a bit of a neat freak).
He likes it better when you sing something else, however. In fact, a proud warmth spreads in his chest when he notices you’re singing along to one of the playlists he’s made for you. Sure, he doesn’t expect you to scream your lungs out during certain parts of songs by Sleep Token or Bad Omens. But he does like that you’re listening to and evidently liking the songs he likes.
It’s difficult for Simon to express himself and to communicate with you (at times). However, he’s glad he’s found a way via music.
Little do you know how much your voice comforts him, puts him at ease.
It’s his guide to you.
And he wants to hear every single note.
Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick
Gaz immediately joins you in song, phone in hand and iTunes on if he doesn’t know the lyrics. Fight me on this, but I dare to bet he kinda sounds like Pharell Williams.
Kyle flat out refuses to participate in karaoke, though. Simon knows not to pressure him any further when he does (he’s lost microphone rights after one song the first time you and the lads went), but Soap and John don’t take ‘no’ for an answer as easily. Eventually they do… after you’ve told them off for the third time. He’ll never admit it, but Kyle’s glad you come to his aid. Although, he’s not so sure the men would listen as well out in the field. Then again, he still recalls the furtive glances around the table the first time he introduced you to the task force and you asked them to come over for dinner.
He still doesn’t know how you did it, but whatever magic you worked to keep things lowkey, casual, relaxed, and civil (not a single swear word or cuss to be heard the entire night) was impressive.
To be fair, you’re always enchanting to Kyle.
And as enthralling as a siren when you sing to him
Soap McTavish
Most of the time, he’s the one initiating a veritable home concert. Or, rather, musical.
Yes, you read that right.
MUSICAL.
Johnny loves musical songs and you often catch him watching replays on YouTube of Hamilton, Phantom of the Opera, or some other show in the West End (Boys from the Blackstuff, anyone?). That being said, though, if he’s on leave, he’ll occasionally book a weekend in London for the two of you so he can drag you along to one of the many theatres. Of course, to repay the kindness, he takes you out for lunch if the show is in the early afternoon or a nice restaurant for dinner.
Now, you tagging along is a given which wouldn’t need compensation whatsoever. Nevertheless, Johnny feels guilty about making the days down south about his passion and fun rather than yours. So the least he could do is treat you.
Though his company is already enough.
The shared moment, away from the battlefield, away from army life, seated in a theatre to immerse in a play, is enough.
Your man being Johnny McTavish rather than Soap is enough.
