#mw plots

[bacchuschucklefuck]

a totem pole of hopeful idiots

[temeyes]

laswell and price go watch final destination bloodlines

[cqsuanla]

say smth nice to me honey // i love you please i-

pairing: (dark?)nat/f!reader

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and you blink your eyes open, staring down at her blearily. “I just want to hurt you so bad, baby.”

notes: legit don't remember writing this or if i posted this before. posting it the way i found it in my notes app (except added bullets for non-prose sections)

If you hadn’t already known Nat’s certifiably insane then her idea of what constitutes a reward would have done a good job of convincing you. It’s really quite twisted but everything is, with her. All you’d done was offer to make dinner—and a mediocre one at that—and she’d taken it to mean you were finally accepting your circumstance, so here you are: sweaty, panting, naked, of course. And denied. Four times denied. Some fucking reward.

Your nails dig into the back of her hand, fingers interlocked with hers. She doesn’t even wince. “Please,” you say sounding suitably wrecked. “Nat, please, please, please-”

She groans into your cunt, her breath hot and moist, and— gone because she pulls away just as you’re toeing the edge. Tears spring to your eyes. Maybe you scream; you’re not sure, awareness shot as it is.

“Why?” you ask, and you keep asking, crying, begging.

She shushes and coos at you, stroking your sweat-damp forehead. “It’ll feel good in the end,” she keeps telling you.

And you believe her. It’s always all right in the end; one way or another, Nat always makes you like it by the end, but before then, it feels so very-

“Bad. It feels bad,” you moan out.

You wish you could just shove her face back down but she’s got both your hands linked with her vice grip. You think she must have known you’d get frustrated enough to entertain taking charge, known that you might even have had the gall to try it if she didn’t have you restrained. When she’d demanded to hold your hands before she went down on you, you’d actually been quite endeared by her. Oh, how quickly that particular emotion fled from you.

“Last one, then. Just one. You’re such a good girl for me. My pretty baby.” Nat crawls up your body and cradles your head in her hands. Your shared body heat is nearly unbearable right now, but she makes it better. Always makes it better. She kisses you, pets you, and combs your hair. Lets you whimper into her shoulder, teeth scraping at her skin with every pant you huff out. “You can take one more, sweetheart. I know you can, obedient little thing. My good fucking girl,” she rasps into your neck.

Fuck if that doesn’t do it for you. Still: “I’m too sensitive.”

She traces a tear track with the back of her finger, licks up the streak on the other side of your face. So sadistic, your Nat. “I know.”

For the next few moments: silence aside from your persisting hiccups and her ragged breathing. Her excitement, her morbid fascination with the limits of your boundaries, is palpable. Infectious in a way. You do want to be good for her. For her. Your lover, keeper, owner, mommy.

She always takes care of you.

Slowly, you calm. Then, you grip the back of her shirt and, in a small voice: “Just one? Promise?”

She hums, hands reaching out once again to lace with yours. “Just one, sweet girl.”

You’re not sure if you trust her. Regardless, you have no real say in the matter.

“Okay.”

On her way down, she lays kisses down your chest, your navel, the height of your pubic bone. She tuts and you make a pathetic keening sound.

“Down, baby.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and, when her thumbs keep pushing insistently into the bones of your hips, you slump fully into the mattress with a soft groan. You receive punishment for that in the form of a nip to your inner thigh. Your skin, tender and bruised already from her previous attention, sinks under the points of her teeth and you yelp.

But then her mouth moves up and the slick heat of her mouth meets the one between your legs, forging a brain-melting fire in your center. You’re overstimulated to the point that you can’t tell if you’re really experiencing those aching, throbbing sensations or if it’s some sort of phantom feeling your overshot nerves are expecting. After all, Nat’s just ghosting her lips over your cunt, tip of her tongue teasing up the curve of your labia. Mewling in the way she likes, tensing and squirming your legs around her shoulders, does nothing to encourage her. She just keeps fucking with you, not enough literal fucking you.

You squeeze her hands until you can’t anymore. She makes a contemplative noise which sends a tiny shiver through you when you think you feel the sound vibrate near your clit. Then, she abruptly dives in, a guttural sound clawing out of her throat into your cunt. The flat of her tongue drags roughly from your leaking hole to your clit, and you can’t think anymore. She keeps groaning with your desperate begging, pleading, and it keeps going directly into your clit when her tongue passes over it.

The world—it’s just Nat. It’s just Nat and you, and the bits of sheets and mattress and corner of pillow that you’re lying on. The damp air where your bodies can’t meet and the sweaty, sticky skin from where you meet. She’s everything; the endless white of a foggy horizon. Something that can swallow you whole. Something you wish would swallow you whole-

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and you blink your eyes open, staring down at her blearily. “I just want to hurt you so bad, baby.”

It takes you a moment to process that. To process that she is no longer sucking and licking at your cunt like her life depends on it.

Tears prick at your eyes again. Your lip wobbles.

She doesn’t even pretend to comfort you this time. “Oh, you’re pitiful.”

“You promised!” You try to twist away from her, furious and betrayed. Her hands clamp down, bruising. Your stubborn leg kicks at the bed. “Mommy, you promised me. You said-”

“I know what I said,” she cuts you off, an edge to her voice.

You go limp instinctively, yielding, even if you’re still in emotional turmoil. You always end up letting her do what she wants. Even so: “It’s unfair.”

“Nothing’s ever fair,” she mutters into the feverish skin of your thigh, nosing at a bruise she’d left in the beginning. “It’s fun if it isn’t fair. You’re so easy to look at like this, baby. So beautiful this way: used up and crying. Pathetic for me. Good for me.”

“Why?” You stare down at her through a film of tears. In that moment, she cranes her neck so she can rest her cheek on the top of your leg and her eyes catch the glint of the bathroom lights. “Why hurt me? Why me?”

“It feels good. You feel good.” The corner of her lips sharpen into a smile against your leg. “Don’t think too hard. I can make it hurt more.”

You shake your head. How can you even reply to that?

Her smile widens. “Say something nice to me, honey.”

This one is easy. “I love you,” you murmur. Defeat.

“Again,” she rasps, spurred into action again. To the victor goes the spoils. Her tongue covers your entrance, dips in briefly.

“I love you,” you choke out. It’s too much. You wish she’d get this over with. You wish she would keep you here forever.

Her lips wrap around your clit, tongue probing harshly at it, and her hands tug at yours.

You take the hint. “I love you.”

She laves at your clit again, your pained whimpers falling on deaf ears. A tug on your arms.

Again. Again and again and again until you can’t speak anymore. Something inside of you stiffens, then it’s splintering into pieces, and it hurts intensely but it’s nice to let it all go, but you’d never want to go through this again. When you come back to yourself, Nat’s still licking at you but this time, your sound of discontent prompts her to pull back.

“Worth it?” At your head shake, she snorts. “What do you say?”

You take a moment to make sure you’re capable of movement, inhaling sharply and watching the rise of your own chest. Then: “Thank you, mommy.”

“Any time, sweet baby.”

later run ur fingers over the indents in your thigh, mark of her bites

imagery of ambulance driving by outside w the sirens and the blue-red-blue-red of nats skin

it’s like letting the dog socialize with other dogs at the park. but i prefer to keep mine at my feet (kicks u over) …clearly

come along hound

“It’s been a week,” you say quietly, meekly. Your hand tenses on the door knob, searching for something sturdy to hold onto.

“It has,” Nat notes evenly.

She stares and moments pass, her blinking just slow enough to unsettle you.

You shift, mustering the courage to release the handle and shuffle forward a few steps. “Please? You said- it’s been a week. You said you’d take it off in one week.”

“Did I?” Nat raises an eyebrow. “I don’t recall.”

“Mistress, please. Please.”

All of a sudden, her expression sours. She stands. You shrink back, your heel hitting the door loudly and making your heart drop even more.

“Sorry,” you say in a rush.

Contrary to what you expect, she doesn’t round the desk to seize you. Instead, she leans on her desk and pins you with that searing scowl of hers. “Dumb slut. I’ll forgive you when you learn your goddamn lesson, mutt.”

You open your mouth to apologize again but she glares harder and you snap your jaw shut with an audible clack.

“Now get out.”

You do so with haste even if you ache to stay.

leave her alone for a bit obedient af she fucks ur cunt like it’s her job and gives u aftercare and ur like that’s good. duh—nat always knows, that’s why she makes the decisions, she’s in charge always

she shows u a big dildo and is like ur taking it dry and ur like ok and she thinks u finally learned the lesson and tells u to get on ur hands and knees

“Do you get it now?” Nat asks, voice rough, chest heaving. She drapes herself over your back, can’t get enough of you. Her hands roam over your body, grasping at flesh, leaving behind bruises. Runs so hot, you begin to feel sticky from perspiration, uncomfortable but in a kind of familiar way that you immediately embrace in an instinctive response. She’s all around you, cocooning you, possessing you. Squeezes tight. “Do you get it?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“What do you get?”

Your arms shake from your combined weight. She bears down and smoothly maneuvers you onto your shoulders, arms bent up on the bed in surrender. Her hands tighten around your wrists, demanding your attention.

You soak in the feel of her on top of you. “You know best,” you answer into the duvet. A hand in your hair guides your head to the side. “I just listen.”

Nat hums. You think she sounds pleased. You hope she is. Anyway, by now your over sensitive cunt has produced enough slick around Nat’s cock for this to be somewhat enjoyable no matter how rough she plans to get. Its heavy presence inside you makes you want to squirm, delights you and scares you. You’ll take anything she gives. It’s what you’re for.

“I’m yours,” you say.

And she thrusts suddenly, humping her front into your ass so the head probes farther into your cunt.

You gasp and your fingers stretch out before clawing into the sheets. Yes, you’re wet enough. It hurts, the girth, the length, but you’ll bare it because it’s enough.

“Yes,” Nat hisses on the next thrust. “Your pleasure, pain, all mine.”

You nod, jaw fallen wide as you moan and mewl beneath her. As she forces her way in, stuffing you full, and tears her way out, leaving you empty. Not once does she let up off your back, and you love the feeling of your bodies sliding together, sticking against the friction of your movements.

“I fuck you when I feel like it, baby, in whatever way and for however long I want it. When I tell you to come, you do. When I tell you to sit pretty, you do. When I tell you to shut the fuck up,” she growls into your ear, the front of her body slapping particularly loudly and obscenely into yours on every syllable of those last four words.“You fucking do.”

“Yes.” Your voice sounds foreign, strangled. Your nods are frantic, runny nose rubbing against the sheets. “Yes, yes, yes.”

It’s meant as a response to her words and as encouragement for her to keep going, not that she has any intention to stop.

“Say something nice,” she pants into you. She sounds different too; demanding and harsh, of course, but there’s something desperate about it.

Not that you really register it anyway, since you’re shrieking, “I love you,” before you can even think about it. It’s not something you need to think about. Loving Nat is a fact of life, a part of life. As natural a thing as breathing. As being short of breath. Life is hard and easy, and loving her is the same. It’s being in sweltering heat and frigid cold. It’s too much, way too fucking much, and then, all at once, in the next moment, not enough.

Her teeth close around your shoulder, though not hard enough to break your skin. You’ll bruise, though. She bites deeper on every inward movement. Her mouth is wonderfully moist and warm on your skin.

God.

“I love you,” you cry out feverishly, “I love you, I love you, I love you!”

Indents of her canines remain in your sweat damp skin. Her breath is laboured, adjacent to pained, and it fans across one side of your face. Humid near your ear.

“I’m sorry. Thank you. I love you,” you babble. “I’m yours.”

“I love you,” she says back, over the wet sounds of your fucking. She’s relentless. “My girl. My baby. Come with me, okay? My good girl.”

It hurts. You’re numb. You’re burning up. She pants hotly into your ear, and you pant into your own spittle, face as leaky as your cunt.

Nat lurches in again, your bodies jolting forward, and you slam your eyes shut, seeing nothing but the dark and, briefly, a pang of colours from how hard you’re squeezing them shut. You cum, maybe. The sensation isn’t entirely new, painful and pleasurable at once. You’re pliant in her arms, twitching sometimes, not really feeling anything. And when you come back to life, she’s still going. The world is just this: the feel of her body on yours, the smell of arousal and sweat and spit, and her voice. A voice like tinnitus. A desperate, animalistic mine, mine, mine rings in your ears.

[orangetintedglasses]

@forgivenpunishment // one taser might not do it, but what about...?

Holding off a wave of people was no small effort.

Keeping an army off the back of another person while throwing yourself in harm's way, regardless of your strength, was something noble. Something that deserved praise, recognition; the undertaker's efforts would not go unnoticed.

... unfortunately for him, though, it wasn't Vash that they wanted. It wasn't Vash that would be swarmed by fully-amped stun batons and tasers and more bodies trickling in, crowding the hall to prevent escape, or even basic movement that might've allowed him to get the upper hand as some old, croaking voice shrieked don't kill him! We need him alive, he's useless to us dead...!

That had been nearly an hour ago, now, though. Trivial. Shouts and crackles of electricity had been replaced by the din of machines; the hum of glaringly bright surgical lights; the slow, steady blip of a heart monitor keeping track of vitals as six men bustled around the surgical table that they'd strapped him to. They'd cut him out of his clothes to save time, as well; naked save for the various nodes and monitors they'd fastened to him, and a clean, white sheet over his hips that went down to mid-thigh.

Was that sparing his dignity, or theirs? It didn't really matter, did it. No, no, what mattered now was how the subject was feeling whenever he came to again--

[havockingboo]

Sometimes…the only way to show how much you love and are quite honestly inspired by an underrated indie series…is by making over 40+ fan ocs…

I love Monkey Wrench. It’s genuinely a pretty fun show so far <:]

[ftmsimonriley]

OK. ghost enlists sometime after 9/11, and i don't think he would've been a butcher's apprentice for more than a year so he would've been 18 - 19, which means theoretically he was born in 1982/83. and soap's first (?) tour is in northern ireland, and presuming it's the year of the good friday agreement (1998 and that it isnt changed in mw canon since it IS alt history.), he'd be 1979/80 at latest (afaik modern soap wasnt successful in sneaking in at 16 so i dont think og soap was either? it's not even part of lore originally)

so ghost dies at 33 or 34 and soap dies (at latest) 36

[greycadearchives]

Neumannland (the state from my plot)

[solasfenheral]

veilguard really feels like its missing a guy thats weird about faith. faith (or the absence of) as a central talking point between the companions in general tbh

[ghostly-bastard-artchive]

Are you fucking kidding me with this shit

[smallturtlebomb]

JUST GOT ONE OF MY FRIENDS INTO MONKEY WRENCH.

YESSS YESSSSSS IM INFECTING HERRR😈😈😈

U WILL LIKE MONKEY WRENCH😈😈😈

[tassodelmiele]

NSFW Soap x Ghost

from the serie *why the hell i'm not sleeping it's almost 2 in the morning*

I like wet situations. Ok?

I also like sucking candies.

Maybe that wasn't necessary to be told. Oh well.

Also, i had not read it twice, that means there will be plenty of grammatical errors.

I've got 6 hours of sleep, so, my beautiful cinnamon buns, i wish you a nice sleepy night after the reading~

..................................

...

..

It started as a stupid game: sights undercover, pretended noises and silly moans in the ears when the team was around. 

Ghost was joking. 

Soap, on the other hand, no. 

<All down, till your nose tickels…»

He waited patiently, pushing Johnny's head little by little, feeling his hot breath gagging and choking on the length that was growing.

From time to time the Sergeant jerked a little, on the verge of throwing out. Ghost's hand blocked him in place.

<Air in sergeant, through your nose»

He did; he would have followed any order at this point; Ghost knew it.

<Good boy»

It was just a delightful pleasure for the eyes, that man knelt between his legs, so eager to keep his meat warm. The hand was pushing harder, strangling the mohawk in the grip, digging the fingers in the scalp. That touch wasn't enough.

<Suck it»

And Soap immediately did, closing his lips around the length and chewing it on the soft part inside his cheeks, while the tongue was helping, pushing and caressing every little vein, every bulge, catching every drop of bitter juice that Ghost was holding without breathing anymore.

His hand suddenly tilted, pushing Soap's stuffed, cute face on the hairy pube. Sergeant's hands grasped onto Ghost's tights; a desperate muffled whimper came out from his throat.

<Enjoying it, aren't you?>

Lt.'s hand grabbed his puppy's mohawk like a puppet, making his head scrolling a little, right and left, up and down, fucking his face so nicely, quietly and slowly, enjoying every gagged breath and wet droll on his pants.

<Ya'r gonna clean it, gorgeous»

A low, long moan gave him confirmation. 

Ghost's sight had been tied to that goddamn microphone the whole morning. He didn't know who was the genius who'd thought: "let's glue the mic in a choker"; Ghost would have thanked him later, though.

He had to wait till the evening to catch Soap by the back of his neck, like a goddamn cat, and resist the urge of pulling him by the choker in front of the whole team. 

<Need ya for a minute»

Well, maybe two minutes. Or three.

Half an hour later, the choked moans were wetting the walls, dripping off the Sergeant's mouth with so much pleasure it was like he was eating the yummiest piece of cake of his life.

Ghost was so spread on the chair he was almost melting inside the hot mess of that hole, holding back the primal instinct that was whispering in his ears: fill his ass and split him in two.

But he was not an animal. No; he was a human under a pressure test, grabbed on a chair that was threatening to fall apart and on the mohawk that had taken the print of his fist at that point.

On the other side of the ring, Soap was a bloody sucking-machine, so diligent, so good, so attentive in reaching all the length, down to the base as his Lt ordered, and up to the tip, without spit a drop, licking his own saliva on his way, just to come down again, not risking to let that deliciously hard meat uncovered.

Famished as a starving kitty, whimpering desperately at every push and pull on his hair, moving his hips alongside the sipping rhythm.

Then he opened the mouth wider, unexpectedly, choking on the length to the edge of his throat, tongue out and moans dripping with pleasure.

Ghost grew all at once inside those comforting lips; he gagged a breath, tensed up every muscle, held Soap in place till he could feel the heat of his face on the pube.

He came in a rushed, thick mess, stuffing the Sergeant's mouth all at once. 

The grip on the mohawk loosened. Lungs came back to work, and a growled sigh end up Ghost's apnea:

<That makes things way more complicated»

Soap chewed the white mess in his mouth, swallowing bitter-sugary liquid down the throat, tied up in constant eye contact with the black holes in the skull mask.

<Quantify»

...............................

[calkale]

need a new cod campaign where you play as shadow company

[radiation-detector-official]

I'm showing my mom mouthwashing and I've learned two (2) things.

1) the term "yimpy" is now going to be used often

2) she wants to punch J*mmy

My mom: "I want to punch j*mmy"

Me: "we all do"

So far she likes it :)))

[houseofdissension]

mwf? in addition, what are some of ur mw roles?

I  made  a  huge  list  linked  here  a  while  back  but  also  here  are  some  more  our  members  would  love  to  see:  Dichen  Lachman,  Sandra  Oh,  Meghann  Fahy,  Kathryn  Newton,  Monica  Barbaro,  Claudia  Doumit,  Adeline  Rudolph,  Fivel  Stewart,  Willa  Fitzgerald,  Daisy  Edgar  Jones,  Charlie  Cox,  Tramell  Tillman,  Nicole  Kidman,  Kevin  Bacon,  Salma  Hayek,  Emilio  Sakraya,  Aurora  Perrineau,  Simone  Ashley,  Keke  Palmer,  Isabela  Merced, Idris  Elba,  Kieran  Culkin,  Ito  Hideaki,  Omari  Hardwick,  Logan  Marshall-Green,  Wagner  Moura,  Pedro  Pascal,  Daniel  Craig,  Murray  Bartlett,  Zahn  McClarnon,  Danny  Ramirez,  Gina  Torres,  Florence  Kasumba,  Kurt  Russel,  and  Aldis  Hodge  for  FCS!  But  honestly,  anyone  you  personally  choose  outside  of  this  list  is  fine,  as  long  as  they're  not  banned or shown to be problematic ( which the research will be left to you personally ). As  for  most  wanted  roles:  Anyone  in  the  Volner  Nutrition  &  Sustenance  Team,  Celebration  Design  Technician  for  those,  quote  “dope  team  parties  and  milestones,”  The  Shepard,  the  current  CEO,  The  Archivist  Prime,  The  head  +  second  Watchdog,  Subtext  Filtration  Clerk  and  Gesture  Cataloguer, or even a Reporter looking into Volner-Downe secretly.  Hope  this  helps!

[finclgicls]

@someotherdog sent—— STORM :  for both muses to find shelter from a severe storm. muse: leah dunn, olympic figure skater, mid to late twenties. madelyn cline. plot: 6th bullet point here.

the sky had given some warnings—if she was being fair—but the rain still came like a fucking ambush. it wasn’t gradual, wasn’t gentle. it was the kind that made you question if the clouds had a vendetta. one second, leah was standing there mid-argument, and the next, the sky cracked open above them like glass, letting loose droplets that hit hard, like little fists, cold and relentless and angry. thunder shook the air, but it was the rain that stole her breath. it soaked through her clothes in seconds, plastered her hair to her face, turned her bones into ice. she didn't think. she just reached for their hand, tugged without a word, because now wasn’t the time to argue—now was the time to not die of hypothermia in travis' goddamn backyard. the boat shack on travis' property was the closest thing they had to shelter. it wasn’t much, but it was standing. that was enough. they burst in, the door creaking in protest, and as soon as they crossed the threshold she let go of their arm like it had burned her. like touching them had been a mistake—one of many. "jesus," she breathed, her voice nearly swallowed by the sound of the rain pounding on the roof like it had a score to settle. she was soaked to the bone, shivering so hard her teeth ached, arms crossed tightly over her chest like that would do anything to help. she could barely look at them. “bet travis didn’t see this one coming,” she muttered, more to herself than anything, jaw clenched and jawline slick with rain.

[haredjarris]

I love how Ciprien and Lasher are both a little thicc. Or at least just men with regular normal bodies. Where the Hell is this energy in IWTV?!