ordinarypersoninthisworld

Latest Posts by ordinarypersoninthisworld

You’re not depressed. You just need $250,000 in your bank account.

reblog to give your headache to elon musk instead

Ghost is just mad he's losing at Mario Kart

Best picture ever

Oh.. the things we would do..

Simon cracks you open

CW: pregnancy discussion, smut, angst, hurt no comfort

Masterlist 🦊

How does he tell you?

Certainly, not like this. 

Not now as you're spent, draped over him like thick wool. Itching in spots, where your fingers still draw abstract circles at his sides. Warm in others, where your breath puffs over his sweat-slick skin.

There's no way around it, no way that won't crack you open. Leave you bare like a carcass in the woods, ready to be eaten by greedy vultures, peckish wolves.

He can kiss you to alleviate the blow, he can fuck you until you're sated. Full. Perhaps leave an everlasting piece of him within you—with you.

Just a heartbeat at first, then a piercing cry. Utter joy crafted in a perfect patchwork of you and him, and crammed into a tiny, tiny thing who will grow to have your eyes, he hopes.

Like he promised. 

A family. You and him, and two more feet padding down the hall. Small hands holding onto thumbs. Lips babbling tender nonsense. His hair, your nose.

Like he promised. 

To see your running out of the bathroom and into his arms, plastic stick in hand. Beaming like sunlight, showing two faint lines peeking from that small window carved into the thing—the most beautiful view, the most beautiful landscape.

A pipe dream.

Instead, his hand snakes between your bodies, curls at the base of his softening cock. It's sticky with him, with you. He's not sure he can go again, physically speaking, but he'll bloody well try. 

"What are you doing?" You slur, eyes half closed as you rest on his chest. 

"Gimme one more, baby," he breathes a sigh, hand pumping a slow rhythm around his shaft. "Jus' one more."

You comply, despite murmuring something about being sleepy, something about him being insatiable, almost greedy.

His cock isn't hard enough when he pushes it inside of you, slipping in easily just because you're still wet, just because there's still his spend dripping out and pooling at his pelvis. The overstimulation is enough to shock his muscles stiff; he feels it, the needle-sharp pain piercing his forehead. Shivers trickle down his spine, a glorious mixture of pleasure and burning pain.

Pain he deserves, so one he takes. He takes every spark that ignites the fire, he takes every blister it'll leave. Every painful twitch of his fingers, dimpling the fat on your hips. Every groan that leaves him when you squeeze around him.

Trembling fingers reach for your clit as you ride him in selfless bliss, sliding up and down to make him feel good instead of you—unbeknownst to you, beautiful girl, that every movement you make is like the crack of a whip. Leaves him bleeding, drowning in pain so good he's not sure whether to curse or pray. 

"Fuck," he croaks, perhaps doing both.

He anchors you, then. Flattens his palms in the creases of your hips, where the sharp bone softens at the fat of your thighs, and pushes down. Breath is knocked out of you, head thrown back at the sudden shock.

His cock is hard now. He's felt it grow full of blood as you rode him, engorged inside of you until your cunt turned into a tight fit. Still, his tip feels raw, like he's just dipped it into a fire. And with how dutifully you're taking him, like that's what you were fucking born to do, it just makes it worse. 

Maybe it isn't even the overstimulation that weighs him, that turns each stroke you deliver into absolute, searing pain. 

It's the guilt. 

He starts drawing slow circles on your clit, as his voice instructs your next moves. How to angle your hips and grind them in the way you like. That he wants to see you roll your eyes, pant his name, feel your fingernails rip his chest into shreds.

"Don't want ya to fuck me," he rumbles. "I want ya to fuck yourself on me, alrigh'?"

You follow suit, docile like those soldiers who trailed behind him when he was on the field. 

All dead, they are. All of 'em, every single one. Ghosts that haunt him, ghosts that linger in the corner of his eye, gurgling as they choke on acidic jealousy. He's alive, they aren't—why? Their teeth grit constantly, corroded by anger—strident like nails on a chalkboard, constant tinnitus in his ears. 

Those days feel so far away, ever since he turned his back to the Crown's wishes, preferring to fulfil yours instead. Give you the life you deserved as he selfishly got the life he's secretly always wanted.

And yet it was all a lie, wasn't it?

You drag your hips along his pelvis, swollen clit right under his thumb—soaked, throbbing, as the skin wrinkles on his pad. 

Crescents grow on his chest, left in the wake of your hunger, of your obedience. Perfectly placed, as if you already know where his scars lie—what parts of him you can mark that aren’t already torn.

He hears you curse. A breathless "Shit," that inevitably grows in frequency, rises in pitch. Your brows tighten, jaw hanging open, eyes squished closed.

Telltale signs. He burns it in his retinas, pins it to his brain. 

My beautiful girl.

"Yeah, that's it." He breathes. "Go on, love. That's it."

You whimper something, speech too slurred for him to discern what it is. Only when you repeat it does it click.

"'m gonna cum," you moan.

He hums a groan deep from his chest. "Mhmh?"

Your reply is a muted scream that never makes it through.

Your orgasm hits you beautifully. He sees it rise from your thighs to your cheeks, like a rushing river replenishing the soil and branching all the way to your eyes, rolled back.

"There we go." He can only praise you, thumb steadfast on your clit. "Fuckin' gorgeous."

It takes Simon a few jerks of his hips before he's cumming too, while you're still rippling around him in the aftershock of your own bliss. 

Though his orgasm isn't as satisfying as yours: to him, it feels like he's drowning in mud instead of syrup. Like he's breathing in sulfur instead of the scent of peaches that he so often associates with you. 

You collapse on him, lips finding each other in a clash. He's still inside you as you kiss him, panting in his mouth. Breasts flush to his chest, searing hot and glistening with sweat.

"I love you," you say, 

just as he whispers, 

"I gotta go."

Horrible timing. Life’s cruel joke. It took everything from him, but it never managed to tear his loyalty from his grasp. A loyalty he longed to swear to you, but had already offered to a greater cause—one that would most likely leave him to bleed out, just another nameless corpse.

He sees it, the flicker of terror in your eyes, masked by the resolve you steel your shoulders with. 

"What?"

"I gotta go, swee'heart." He whispers, knuckles to your cheek. 

You move away, leaving his hand cold and his heart frozen. 

Your eyes are glossy with a sadness so unfathomably deep he can feel it spill inside of him. Yet you don't give it a chance for it to surface—a salted lake utterly vaporized by boiling anger. 

Not as gently as he entered you, you pull him out. His dick flops pathetically on his belly, as you crawl backwards and sit between his legs.

Your knees come to touch your chest, and you hide from him, curling your arms at your shins like a shield. 

That same body he's touched, kissed, worshipped, now foreign like that of a statue: carved in beautiful marble, made to admire, but not his to touch anymore. Never warm to his fingers again, forever distant. Forever cold. 

"You said you were done." You spit his own words back at him, those he told you months back. 

And fuck aren't they as sharp as your eyes.

Simon bleeds.

"I did." He nods, seemingly unperturbed. "Price called—"

"Fuck Price." You bellow. Your voice cracks. "You promised—"

A promise you set in stone. If only you knew how brittle the fortress he built for you was. 

If only he knew.

"I can't—"

"—you handed over your guns—"

"Love—"

"—you said you'd stay for good. I put my life on hold for you, you—"

"Listen—"

"—bastard! You fuckin' bastard!"

There, he sits up. Quick like lightning. 

His fingers grapple your forearm and he yanks you forward until you're kneeling between his legs. 

His nose brushes yours, but not in the tender way he remembers: you're not smiling, you're snarling. Your eyes aren't beaming, they're crying.

Still glorious in your fury. 

My beautiful girl.

Of loss.

It happens in a handful of seconds, perhaps even less. He screams in your face, like a roar that could shake the earth.

"I can't!"

His characteristic composure vanishes, giving way to a thunder that crackles with frustration. With fear.

You bite back with the same vigour. 

He thought he'd gotten used to it. But truthfully, Simon knows you never really do.

You. Wonderful, resilient you—stronger than he's ever given you credit for. 

"You can!" You snarl. "There's always a choice Simon, and it's about bloody time you make yours."

Time stills. 

Even the clock seems to notice, each ticking subdued. 

Rain patters against the window. Thunder cracks somewhere in the distance, flashing light through the room. 

He imagines the crackles of a tree burning as it's split open—life exacerbated from it, ashes falling like snow. 

"I'm sorry," is all he says.

Your eyes glaze over. A veil drops heavy, thicker than any wall he's ever built. It's exactly like he'd imagined, if not worse: the blood around you and your heart beating raw. Your chest cracked open and the vultures he left you to.

"You never are."

The world shatters—his world does. Ripped open by his own hands, soil under his fingernails as proof. 

You leave. 

But Simon's not alone, no. He never is. Doomed to unwanted company: the ghosts in each corner, and the Ghost that he is.

bed time <3

— identity

Dog Tags

AN: Just a little blurb before bed, got this idea during the Super Bowl and I couldn't stop thinking bout it. I won't lie this idea made me tear up earlier so i only felt good if i could make other people feel the same way :)

Warnings: blood, death, angst

You were exhausted from running around, patching up soldier after soldier, not having enough time to even look at the dead one's faces before her watch pinged you of someone else needing help.

Right now, you were sprinting through tunnels underground, this one farther away than most. Dead bodies littered the halls, none you recognized in your quick passing.

The 141 had teamed up with the local forces to stop Makarov's forces from blowing up the tunnel. There had been more troops than expected, turning into a massacre, you having to watch your step to avoid all of the bodies.

As you were nearing your destination, you could see a clearing between two tracks, instantly recognizing one of the figures as Ghost. His mask making him easy to identify.

Your stomach dropped. One of the 141 was hurt. Was it Price? Gaz?

You sprinted faster, slowing as you saw them surrounding a body on the ground, the all too familiar face of Soap, your Soap, looking blankly at the sky.

The men instantly parted for you, guilt flashing in their faces as you could see your soldier clearly.

Nonononononononononono.

You dropped to your knees next to his head, desperately feeling for a pulse even though you knew there wasn't one.

Tears blurred your vision as your hands fumbled around, trying hopelessly to find any source of life from the man lying in front of you.

You felt someone's hand touch your shoulder and heard Price's gruff voice, "M' sorry but he's gone hon'."

Shaking your head, you cradled Soap's head in your lap, his beloved mohawk squished and covered in blood from where the bullet was shot into his head.

It wasn't possible, maybe it was just some prank. Maybe he'd suddenly blink and laugh and brush away your tears while holding you to his chest, apologizing for how dramatic he was.

But the longer you stared into his empty baby blue eyes you knew he wasn't going to blink.

You knew he'd never give you that beautiful smile that lit your whole world up. You knew he'd never laugh so hard he'd clutch your shoulder, crying. You knew he'd never carry you to bed after falling asleep watching a movie. You knew you'd never wake up with his arms around you, his face nestled into your neck.

Letting out a choked sob, you pressed your face into his bloody shirt, not paying attention to your pinging watch. They didn't matter anymore. No one mattered anymore. Not when your soldier, your love, your life was gone. No one else deserved to live when he was gone.

The men let you grieve as long as possible, keeping watch for any enemy soldiers, any that threatened to take you, knowing they already failed their brother in arms once, they wouldn't fail him again by letting you go with him.

You didn't know how long you stayed there, your body shaking with sobs before Ghost picked you up, Soap's body being taken away to somewhere else. Somewhere away from you.

Price was kind enough to tuck Soap's dog tags in your hand, your fist immediately grabbing hold of them and tucking them into your chest.

You didn't feel the rumbling of the car as you took off, didn't feel Ghost carrying you out, didn't feel him putting you in your bed.

No.

You felt the dig of the metal dog tags in your hand. You felt the cool sheets, normally warm from Soap's body.

But most of all, you felt the absence of him. The absence of your other half, forever.

Really? Someone who traffics humans for a living is a sexual predator? I would have never guessed.

"Innocent man and father of two young children."

Why are those words never used to describe someone who died because they couldn't afford healthcare?

subscription-based brain, memories stored in the cloud. making them say ads without even knowing it. slowly decreasing their awake (streaming) time unless they upgrade to the next tier, and making their current tier more and more useless..... black mirror we're so back

Just some wholesome cuddles for you guys 💗🥺

i just sighed

Simon Riley with a s/o who hates themselves and has major body dysmorphia issues. Pure angst, hurt with no comfort.

Actually WITH comfort, lots of comfort from him, but you can't accept it due to self-hatred. 🙂

Anyone?

dead poets society (1989) / looking for alaska - john green

Based on your 2nd, 10th, and 18th most recent emojis, how will your weekend go?

Disabled people have to live somewhere poor people have to live somewhere you cant just exclude us from everywhere