submissivekillers

[submissivekillers]

[submissivekillers]

[submissivekillers]

btw, i watched trap bc of your kinktober fic for cooper. oh my god. i completely understand the thirst. especially that scene with him in the swat gear angrily taking off his helmet *fans self*. made that ficlet even more hotter than it already was (and it was a *ton*!)

literally there is NO higher compliment 2 me than someone watching smth bc I wrote about it, hope you had a great time!! it's a very silly movie I love it dearly lmao :^)

and god Yeah. rlly need more directors to start slutting josh hartnett out like this bc between the SWAT gear and his tits out at the end I was like a rabid dog in that theater. m night shyamalan I will ride for u 4ever

[submissivekillers]

Your icon is violently in love with you for 5 weeks how screwed are you

[submissivekillers]

planned parenthood waived most of the fees for my hrt checkup can I get a fucking W in the chat

[submissivekillers]

approximately three times a day i have to stop in my tracks and say out loud ˡⁱˡ ⁿᵃˢ…. ˡⁱˡ ⁿᵃˢˢˢ…. ᵃʳᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵒʳᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᵒⁿ ʸᵒᵘʳ ʳᵃᵖˢ

[submissivekillers]

which ao3 tag are you?

[submissivekillers]

[submissivekillers]

it's been one year of horrifying genocide, on top of over seven decades of occupation and violence. please donate to palestinian families to help them survive. if you don't know where to look, or are anxious about making a choice about who to help, head to gazafunds.com. please do what you can to help.

[submissivekillers]

[submissivekillers]

macready the thing I have strong homoerotic feelings for u

[submissivekillers]

[submissivekillers]

kinktober day 4 - sensory deprivation (john kramer)

yall i wrote most of this so fast lmao?? literally banged out like 800 words in an hour yesterday n would've finished early if i didn't have to work a double (hell.) the spirit of old man fucking compelled me. also i think im into sensory deprivation now lowkey. mild tw for jigsaw-typical torture/violence but only in the first like 2 paragraphs

You had thought that you were intimately familiar with every kind of torture.

It was a knowledge you picked up quickly in the company of Jigsaw and his apprentices – they had refined it to something of an artform, in your opinion. Through careful study, you had determined exactly the amount of force necessary to snap the bones in an arm cleanly; you had calculated just how much blood a person could lose while still being able to drag themselves out of harm's way. With trial and error, you had learned how to discern the sound of screaming caused by third-degree burns from that of the agonized cries brought on by the loss of a finger, a hand, an entire limb. All these torments and more, you had learned by heart. 

And yet you think that this may be the worst of all. 

It's the unpredictability, you think; the fabric over your eyes is heavy enough that even the harsh industrial fluorescents in John's workspace can't penetrate it, and the silicone plugs in your ears block out even your own voice. You suppose that's a good thing, maybe – after he's brought you to the edge just to let you down thrice now, you're sure you must sound absolutely pathetic. Your chest heaves with staggered, gasping breaths, your lips stinging with the imprints of your teeth.   

It would be easier if he'd restrained your hands. He'd instructed you not to touch yourself, or him, and you hadn't – but your will is fraying with every passing second. You're so sensitive it hurts, threatening to tumble over the line from pleasurable to painful, even the circulating fans making you twitch and clench when the faint breeze finds its way between your thighs. Your fingernails dig into the seams of the chair beneath you so hard that you feel them pop. 

Bad enough that's he's worked you up and then abandoned you, but that's not the worst; no, it's the little touches in between that really break you down. John seems to have an uncanny ability to tell exactly when you've started to calm yourself down. Every time your breathing starts to slow and your trembling subsides, his hands are on you. Delicate touches, really no more than grazing over your skin – the ghost of his knuckles along your spine: fingertips tracing the arch of your cheekbone, teasing the plush of your bottom lip before flitting away: a gentle squeeze to the meat of your thigh. It's pathetic, how each tender brush of his hands makes your nerves spark. 

As if summoned by your thoughts, the pads of his fingers skim the curve of your shoulder, roughened from the long hours of planning and building. You suck in a stuttering breath, even that light touch sending a spasm of want through you. You think please, please, please and only belatedly realize your lips are moving. 

A pang of loss echoes in your chest when he pulls away, but before you can react his fingertips alight on your cheek instead, his thumb caressing the line of your jaw. You shudder with the effort of not pressing yourself desperately into his hand, letting him control the weight of his touch. It aches, tears threatening to dampen the fabric of your blindfold before you squeeze your eyes tightly shut. 

You feel the sigh of his breath on your skin, the knowledge of his proximity twisting beneath your ribs. When his other hand finds the line of your throat, cupping over your racing pulse, your lips part around some ragged, tremulous sound, your body singing at his touch. 

He guides you to lie against him, your temple tucked into the hollow of his throat, and the tears run freely down your cheeks. You’re breathless before he even deigns to slide a hand between your thighs, your spine arching taut at the first deliberate press of his fingers. Unthinking, you fist your hands tightly in the fabric of his sweater, praying he won't stop when you realize your transgression. 

Blessedly, mercifully, he doesn't. 

It takes embarrassingly little to bring you to orgasm; you don't think you've been in his arms longer than a minute or two before you spasm in his lap, spilling into his hand, nonsensical babbling that only John can hear streaming from your swollen lips. You're still shaking when he gently tugs the plugs from your ears, the influx of sound almost overwhelming. He keeps you blindfolded for a minute longer, guiding your hand to his chest so you can feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breaths.

When you're able to match his rhythm he unties the cloth, cupping your face in his hand as you blink against the sudden light. Your skin feels sticky, trails of salt drying on your cheeks that he tenderly swipes away. His gaze is warm when you can focus on his face, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes crinkled with the curve of his thin lips. “You did very well, dear,” he says, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You think there must be no sound sweeter than the low rasp of his voice. “I'm proud of you.”

You beam.  

Later – after he’s washed the sweat and slick from your skin in a warm bath, curled against him in your pajamas with a water bottle and a steaming cup of tea – he asks, “Do you understand now why I say you need to learn patience?” 

You laugh, a radiant sound that starts deep in your chest. “I might need a few more lessons.”

[submissivekillers]

I genuinely don’t know how I’m supposed to cope with just. Encountering zionists.

I was in an idol server talking about girl groups I liked. And two people started talking about how scary and annoying the bombing is and how they can’t wait to go on vacation after the terrorists are killed. And saying shit like “[jpop idol] will help us beat hamas!” Hello? What world do you live in?

What world do you live in where your heart is not torn open and bleeding? How do you look at the death tolls and think about vacation? Why do you hold up a teen girl celebrity from another country as a symbol of massacre?

At work we have a customer who is notorious for being an issue. Today she emailed in asking if we could ship to Israel. We can’t, we only ship domestic. But I just couldn’t answer her. I couldn’t email back. I had to send it to my boss.

I don’t know anything about her or her politics or her beliefs. But the thought of someone casually sending a $200 gift to Israel without a second thought just kind of broke me. Genuinely what world does she live in. Who is she gifting this home goods product to? Clearly they don’t intend to leave if she’s sending them $200 worth of home decor. What are these peoples lives like?

The weight of an entire genocide is more than one person could ever bear. Are you not torn to pieces trying to carry even a fraction of it? Do you truly feel nothing?

If you feel something at reading all that, please match my $20 donation to Mohammed. He has a beautiful family that he worked so hard for.

[submissivekillers]

kinktober day 3 - public sex (john hancock)

very mild cw on this one for mention of needles/injection near the end, in the context of radaway use

It was never out of the ordinary to see John Hancock out on the balcony of the Old State House — at least for residents of Goodneighbor, who’d had plenty of time to get used to the sight of a ghoul in colonial garb getting stoned out of his mind. 

Especially on a cool, clear night like this - almost unreasonably pleasant for an evening in the nuclear wasteland - the citizens who hadn’t flocked to the Third Rail weren’t surprised to see their Mayor perched on the landing over their heads, elbows braced on the flag-draped railing and the cherry of a lit cig glowing amidst the street lamps. Some raised a hand or shouted in greeting as they passed, while others lingered, exchanging pleasantries or giving reports from the Neighborhood Watch. 

If Hancock’s answers came delayed, his voice notably quavering, no one thought much of it. And from their vantage point on the ground, no one could see how his hands gripped the rail, so tight that his knuckles would have been white beneath the radiation-damaged skin. 

All the better for you. 

“Shit, sunshine.”

Hancock hissed, barely audible. His thighs were shaking, the lean muscle flexing beneath your fingertips. You hummed, swallowing with an audible gulp, and heard the railing behind your head creak worryingly. 

Pulling off his cock with a sleazy gasp, you replaced your lips with a loose fist, clicking your tongue at John in mocking disapproval. “Careful baby, this is a historic building, remember?” 

“I’m gonna be history if you don’t stop teasing me, sweetheart,” he wheezed, hips twitching into your hand when you pressed your thumb into the dripping slit at his cockhead. You rolled your eyes fondly and chased the pump of your hand with a long, languid swipe of your tongue, flicking at the deepest ridge of his textured skin that you knew would make him whine around his cigarette. One of his hands released the rail and found its way to your hair instead, curling into a loose fist at your nape. 

You drew back and swiped at your mouth, cleaning some of the drool and come that had accumulated on your chin. “Okay, just try not to be too loud — mmph.”

In the same movement, his fist tugged your hair back and his hips pitched forward, sheathing himself in your open mouth. You whined through your nose as Hancock pressed deeper, bullying his way into your throat with little pumps of his hips. He paused, your throat tight and hot around him; you could feel him leaking steadily into you, the taste of his cum vaguely metallic on the back of your tongue. When he pulled out, a thick, glistening strand connected your mouth to his tip. 

“Deeper, baby,” you slurred, saliva dripping from your swollen lips.  “Don’t wanna waste a drop.”   

“Sunshine—” He rasped, and that was the only warning you got before he slid back into your throat in one smooth slide. Your nose pressed into his rough skin, the short, whimpering breaths you managed to huff through your nose heady with his scent, and your eyes fluttered shut as you let out a final groan around him. That was enough — Hancock came with a curse down your throat, one, two, three pulses before he pulled you back and let the rest trickle onto your outstretched tongue. You shivered, your head light and thighs wet. 

“Jesus,” you croaked, swaying as you rose unsteadily before he caught you by the waist, “You were a little backed up, huh?” 

“Your fault, leaving me behind so long,” he growled, hands sliding down your hips to give your ass a squeeze. You smiled, swiping the last drops of cum from your chin with your thumb and sucking it into your mouth. A low groan rumbled through him as he watched you, fingers flexing tighter against you. “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.” 

You grinned. “But what a way to go, right?” 

His answering chuckle was muffled into your mouth as he leaned in to kiss you, wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding you through the door into the State House. “We should, uh, probably get some RadAway in you.”  

“Way ahead of you.” A familiar voice drifted from Hancock’s quarters. 

You locked eyes with John and laughed, a flush rising to your cheeks. Nick was lounging on one of the couches in his shirtsleeves, a prepped IV of Radaway beside him. He glanced up from the files in his hands when you stumbled through the door, a playful gleam in his yellow eyes.

“Sorry, Nick,” Hancock drawled, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “Hope ya didn’t wait long.” 

Nick scoffed, automatically reaching out to hold your waist as Hancock guided you to a comfortable seat, slumping on the armrest beside him. “Should’ve known better than to leave you two alone for ten minutes.” 

“Hey, at least nothing’s on fire this time.” 

The grey skin of his brow ridge quirked, his gentle hands holding your arm steady as Hancock slid the needle into the crook of your elbow. “Small miracles, I suppose.”  

You laughed again, then cut yourself off with a grimace as the RadAway started to take effect — it always gave you a killer headache, a pulsing in your temples making you wince and shut your eyes against the bright lights in Hancock’s quarters. Without waiting for your word, John was already up and moving to hit the lights, replacing the glare of the ceiling light with the dim glow of a table lamp you’d scrounged from Sanctuary (he’d teased you, as they all did, for picking up everything electronic that you could get your hands on, but had accepted the gift with pleasure all the same.) 

Nick’s hand on your chin, the cool plastic of a water bottle raised to your lips. You took a few eager gulps, then let yourself recline on the armrest again, breathing slowly.  

“John,” you called as his footsteps drew nearer. His palm cupped your cheek, warm and rough against your skin, and you nuzzled into the touch. “How d’you think we should apologize to Nick for making him wait?” 

A gravelly chuckle as he moved around you, then the cushions shifting beneath you, a soft grunt from Nick and the sound of a folder scattering on the floor. “I got a few ideas, sunshine.” 

“Get started without me, won’t you?” You sighed, blinking in the dim as you watched Hancock settle in Nick’s lap.  “I’ll just enjoy the show for a bit.”  

Nick chuckled, exasperated, but tilted his head all the same as Hancock bent to mouth at the ragged skin of his throat. “Don’t you two ever turn off?” 

“What, with you and sunshine? Never.”

[submissivekillers]

From MattXIV on Instagram

[submissivekillers]

once i beat the depression and the burnout and the anxiety and the loneliness and the exhaustion and the guilt and the awkwardness and the apathy and the low income and the chronic illness and the impatience and the vulnerability and the creative block and the capitalism and the cruelty THEN you'll see