open post | 2 | kink

[meerkats]

O P E N   S M U T   P O S T

◉ Drop a comment with one or more of your muses.
◉ Give me a prompt
◉ you can specify any of my muses whom you might like to play with, or I can pick.
◉ Everything goes, even the retired ones, but I can't guarantee good tags from them.
◉ sex!

Comments

R ; the last one was the only decent actual corset pic I could find

[shylyintrepid]

[flaskerade]

[Grantaire doesn't remember ever giving Jehan a key to his apartment, but he also doesn't remember if he locked the door that morning. For as good as his drunk memory is, his body has become accustom to it's own weaknesses, remembering only the important things. The last time he saw Enjolras, what homework he's behind on, what he drank for breakfast. The state of his apartment? Not so much, no. It's not as if he has anything of any real value aside from his laptop, but everyone and their mother could afford a laptop now, and his apartment would be the last on most people's radars.

So, when he walked in and tosses his coat and bag on his couch, he has every reason to not expect to find Jehan on his bed, in that.]

Wow you look ridiculous.

R ➳ writing on hands/hidden messages

[vivelavenir]

Needless to say, a lot of alcohol probably also has to be involved.

I literally have no idea what to do with this prompt.

[cynisme]

[ so uh. can you start it? I trust you had something in mind. ]

grantaire.

[patrie]

❝Grantaire will you do me a service?❞
❝Anything. I'll black your boots.❞
( do it. )

[flaskerade]

[Grantaire is on his knees against the bare, pristine wood floor of Enjolras' apartment, with his hands taped behind his back, and he's sure he's having an incredible hallucination. Even with the tape digging into his skin and chafing (if that electrical tape or does Enjolras actually own bondage tape? Christ), even with his crisp consciousness (Enjolras had insisted he be sober before he come over, and for Enjolras he would do anything--at least 90% of the way), he couldn't possibly be so lucky. His heart pounding, his blood rushing, his mouth dry.]

Enjolras.

GIVE ME R.

[emptier]

❝i've never seen him ooh and aah.❞

[flaskerade]

[There's a thrill to being someone's first gay experience. Grantaire has done it before, in those situations where pulling pigtails got a more positive response than expected. What was once just a rush from knowing something about friends and enemies that no one else did became something different as he grew older. It became notches in his belt, the means to an agenda--no, not an agenda. That would imply actively seeking these mostly straight boys out. He simply got a kick out of proving himself right, proving that sexual preference is a social construct that humanity only subscribes to because the herd tells it to. Maybe if he were less busted, more pleasant to look at, he would have more notches on his metaphorical belt, or more gay women who made them up. Or, maybe he wouldn't, maybe his favorite one night stands wouldn't be nearly as comfortable around him if he were Jehan or Enjolras, beautiful, elegant and confusing.

Either way, Marius is a treat, one he's going to laugh about and hold over his head at a later date. He chuckles against Marius' lips with a grin, his fingers working open his friend's belt.]

also gimmie eamesss

[merriest]

ugh don't mind me rolling in my shippy feels

[blends]

[ Romance is an interestingly complicated thing, isn't it? He was quite bloody good at it once, when he was younger with less to lose and a life within the realm of rules to live. Plenty of girlfriends (and boyfriends his mum didn't need to know about, though she wouldn't have cared in retrospect). Times changed, people changed, and when push came to shove he chose this life, a life with no rules but one: you are alone. Protect yourself and don't make anyone else a liability and you'll be just fine in your fabulist lifestyle. No family, no friends, no lovers, just the world at your fingertips.

With enough one night stands in Paris or one week flings in Mumbai he had gotten used to it, appreciating his own freedom more than he needed constant company. Being your own best friend in a business like his, well, it could be damn rewarding if applied in the right way.

In all his 12 years of freedom that he was sure would become 22 and 32 and 42 if he was lucky enough to not get himself killed, he never imagined Arthur. He'd imagined people like Arthur of course, the pinned and pressed thug with military intelligence who could wear Armani and Brooks Brothers with perfect posture and enunciate perfectly but couldn't hide the fact that they were, in fact, still a thug under it all. Perfectly analytic with a temper and not a creative bone in his body, and yet for all the imagining he had done, they were never quite the same, he was never quite prepared.

Then again, who's ever prepared to fall hard for someone, especially when they've all but assumed that door was closed and locked for good?

He chuckles to himself under his breath and behind his lips as he watches Arthur sleep, the sun peering in through the blinds of this Chicago flat. Apartment, the word sticks to the roof of his mouth like it would anyone who didn't spend too much time stateside, but he would go anywhere for Arthur. Probably. Maybe. It's not something he wants to think on, uncomfortable territory they don't need to discuss but rather sweep under the rug with the rest of the conversations they shouldn't ever have. Their lives, it's all too complicated for feelings and sentiment.

Dust floats about the sunbeams and Eames returns to the moment lost in time in Chicago summer, moving closer to flop on arm over Arthur's body and press his face against the line of his lover's ribs like a loose skinned puppy.

Difficulty be damned, he chose this life for the little pleasures, and for right now this is one of them.]

lady!R :D

[joliejoly]

[boive]

[Eugenie is not Max, and she is not Sam. She isn't there because she loves Joly (at least not any more than she would any old and dear friend), and she isn't there to coddle her. She's there because she's tipsy, and because she's bored, and because this is far from the first time they've rolled around in their underwear in Grantaire's bed. It's Joly's fault for trying to make her get out of bed at all, when she was oh so very comfortable in not paying any attention to whatever fashion advice Joly needed at all.

Eugenie laughs, a playfully wicked grin on her face as she pins Joly down. Her hair's a mess, a mane around her head, but what does she care?]

Gotcha.

Hermes

[kouros]

[miscreantics]

[Hermes actually squawks when he hits the ground, hands shooting out to catch himself before his face could make contact. He hasn't been caught by anyone in countless years, so many that he can't keep track and wouldn't want to if he could. Teasing Apollo was always simple, he knew all the little tricks to rile him up and scurry away to get on with his daily, painfully busy routine.

He could always get away fast enough, with a grin on his face. Apollo had never managed to catch his feet from under him before. Never.]

twinkletoes (8

[battlelusts]

[miscreantics]

[The challenge had been simple. Not necessarily goaded in the way Hermes might normally goad Ares or any of his other siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews, et al, but simple none the less. Fighting Ares would be stupid, and Hermes may be reckless at times but stupid rarely, and not even Ares is stupid enough to accept a running challenge from the sprinter's God, but wrestling? It was the perfect challenge, where most who lose believe that brute strength can overpower the right angles and degrees of flexibility.

And that was how Hermes holding Ares' shoulders with locked hands over his head, straddling the back of his older brother with ankles locked around Ares' calves. He keeps his weight down, grinning. It's a shame he weighs next to nothing.]

What did I tell you, huh? Didn't I say I wasn't a pushover?

w/e w/e

[ftws]

Renly

[dyingisnotdead]

you know what this is

...woops

[antlered]

[ The leather is going to chafe Renly's wrists if he keeps squirming, but he simply can't help it. Not when he's hard and naked against his own sheets, and Loras isn't doing a damn thing about it. He even whines in the back of his throat, biting his bottom lip as he watches Loras expectantly, needily. ]

Loras, Gods, are you trying to kill me?

womannibal.

[instagraham]

[avoirfaim]

[The thing about blood is, of course, that blood does not make a meal. She's no vampire, and it would take a level of self-destructive delusion that she simply does not have to believe that blood alone could sustain life. Hannibal Lecter has more self-respect than that. Too much, perhaps.

Blood is a garnish, a natural addition to flavor that does nothing for her stomach and everything for her taste buds. Blood is akin to the oil and fat that drips from a juicy steak, that sweet tang that reminds your senses that this thing you're eating was once alive, once kicking and thrashing. It's an acquired taste.

She doesn't know if the blood on Will's arms and shirt is his own or someone else's, not right away. The smell fills her nasal cavity the moment she opens the door to her office, and there's that craving again, that lesser mortals would get when smelling freshly baked bread that activates salivary glands and reminds you how long it's been since you've had a proper meal. None of that is given away by her face, of course, and she glances down at his arms (she sees it now, the fresh gash that's still dribbling, though blood has coagulated over enough to not need hospitalization just yet) and moves out of the way to let him in.]

Come in, William, I'll get my first aid kit.

ahem

[relatable]

this makes me irrationally happy

[avoirfaim]

[Hannibal Lecter does not sleep in the nude, nor in his underwear. He has a sense of class, of propriety that makes up for his lack of it when it suits him to be as cruel and exposed as he need be. He sleeps in silk because he's earned it, because he treats himself right, with an expensive pair of pajamas to make up for how far he has come, how much he has achieved. Silk pajamas and a world-class mattress, a comfort for a killer's beauty rest.

He sleeps soundly, with no remorse for what he's done and the past far enough away in his life to be wrapped up and hidden from view. Still the slight shift of the mattress wakes him, and with bleary eyes and an understanding smile he regards her, pats the bed beside him.

For her own intentions, Alana Bloom was right. Letting Abigail Hobbs stay in his home would only be detrimental to her recovery. The fact is, of course, that he was planning on that. He had prepared for her to come to his bed to relieve the nightmares, to find comfort. It truly is a shame that such a brilliant mind as that of Alana Blooms could be so easily convinced that they maintained the same goals.]

What is it?

[somethingwrong]

[avoirfaim]

[There is something to be said for tying a man up. With a woman it's different, and not nearly as appetizing. There is too much predetermined expectation, the belief that it must be sexual, she must be dominated, she must bed and plead and subject herself to sexual torment before she is released from life or her misery. There is far too much simpering, that perhaps might make a less confident man than himself feel powerful but in his case only makes him hungry for better. Literally and figuratively. Alana Bloom, perhaps, may be a different sort of woman, but that was a thought for another time.

Now there was Will, shaking, taunt, tight Will, already sweating through his shirt and tied up with skilled knots, gagged. Hog tied, some might call him, and the thought makes him chuckle as he cards a hand through Will's hair. Keeping him clothed was a concession, for now, and one he was happy to make for Will's sake. It wouldn't do to make him too uncomfortable, not when this was only intended to be an taste to temporarily satisfy a craving. There is simpering frailty here, but of a very different variety, one that makes his cock harden. Then his hand is gone as he slips off his suit jacket, rolls up his shirt sleeves, examines his handiwork with an increasing tent in his trousers.]

I do hope you're comfortable.

[poeticverses]

[Jehan has no idea what prompted his offer to model for Grantaire, a man he barely knows beyond his drinking and monologues, but he supposes it's a bit too late for that now. He's sitting here, waiting for Grantaire's instructions and wishing desperately that he had something to do with his hands. The long curls hadn't worked out for him, so his hair's too short to play with and he doesn't have a pen with him. He eventually settles on messing with the chain on his watch as he watches Grantaire.

He's then promptly distracted by the idea of playing with his watch as he watches and what that could possibly mean were he to write it down]

[cynisme]

[ Jehan Prouvaire has a look to him. He is a very pretty young man, but he is not the only pretty young man in Paris. He doesn't have perfect complexion or the rosiest lips, but his hair curls around his ears and his greenish eyes pop out against freckled skin. Sometimes, if someone gets the boy into a rage, he seems momentarily more beautiful, more of an icon of romantic fervor, but then again he slips back into a degree of respectability, and once again he is boring.

Maybe it's that passion for the cause that has Grantaire interested. He would like to capture that look in his eyes, for he could never manage to get Enjolras to sit for him.

The image would be sub par, but practice makes perfect, right?

It's a waste of time, that he's entirely aware, but he was drunker when he invited Jehan back to his shamble of a flat than he is now. He drinks from a bottle at his feet before he returns to his paper and charcoal, frowning. ]

and there it is, that naive stare. whatever you happen to be thinking about is a waste of time and not worth putting down on paper.

miss beverly katz!

[glumshoe]

[follicles]

[ One of the truly great things about her job is just how much rope she has access to. Cotton, hemp and nylon are easy to find, but there's really nothing like kevlar and vecran for squirming partners. She knows will too well to even bother considering cotton or hemp--he would twist his wrists and give himself a terrible rope burn. The point wasn't to hurt him, merely to play, and he picked the right person to go to for this sort of experience.

Okay, so maybe she suggested it, but he was eager enough to seal the deal. It was all in the eyes and the pregnant pause for people like Will, with too much to feel and too much inhibition to put it all out there.

Kevlar was the best choice, she decided. The least likely to cause a rug burn and the least easy to fray if he got his nails into it. Vecram would have been lighter, more flexible, but flexibility wasn't the point.

When she tied the last of the knots lightly, she asked him to test them with a scientific calm that came from being so used to the material under lab lights, and when she was satisfied she stepped back with a smile, arms crossed over her chest. ]

How's that feel?

hannibal-senpai

[glumshoe]

[avoirfaim]

[ He's imagined what it would be like to eat Will's mouth. Not separate from the body but alive, bleeding twitching and entirely attached. He would start with his lips, tear them off with his teeth and chew. Blood would pour from Will's mouth, perhaps with something resembling a groan of a scream down below his uvula (he would have to be stunned, paralyzed, unable to do anything but watch and feel his own transformation from man to feast). Then the tongue, harder to chew but far more satisfying than the lips. Perhaps he would bite it off and then spit it out, to cut into chewable bights--no need to make a greater mess with something so swollen.

Maybe feed it to him, leaving his teeth. After that, of course, there would be nothing else in his mouth worth eating without taking it apart first, and then he would have to die.

A shame, really.

He thinks about it, but of course he doesn't act on it. He simply invades Will's space (with the proper consent of a minimalist nod somewhere between childish reluctance and adult discomfort), pressing his lips against those other, delectable ones. Perhaps they're more delectable whole and attached to a living body than he had expected, with inner heat and a pulse.]

SURPRISE :D

[notthatgreen]

i'm not late what are you talking about

[maneuvers]

[ Hikaru knows plenty of engineers who are grounded on earth at the moment, but there's something stupidly adorable about the way Pavel's hair curls around the elastic of his goggles. It's like an out of place bird perched somewhere it shouldn't be, and it makes Hikaru smile. He knows any of those engineers could probably do a better job at fixing his solar back-up generator, and any non-starfleet specialist could probably do better than that, but Pavel was right there, and why should he pay a stranger or bother a friend when Pavel had been complaining about the heat himself anyway?

Okay, maybe he'll call someone later, if this doesn't work.

He leans against the door frame watching, an amused smile on his lips and his arms crossed over his bare chest as he sweats, hoping that maybe Pavel can actually fix it. ]

( please hold for owedawe )

[draconianred]

( ooc )

[clothedinsun]

Hey so, are we still doing this or...?

[inmyworld]

[avoirfaim]

[ Hannibal was never quite so drawn to sexual release before Will. He had partners, of course, a few scattered throughout his life, but none that stuck, none that he allowed to matter and none that moved him quite the way that they did once he skewered them and peeled away their skin. Sex was the layman's drug of choice, the easiest to obtain and the least satisfying in it's conclusion. There was no true sense of ownership, and the rush of power faded far too quickly once it was over. Besides, if he were to truly disrespect a person he wouldn't want to get their filth on him.

He always cleaned his meat before cooking it, like a butcher would clean the filth off of a hog. Meat is clean, unspoiled.

Will though, has carved a hole into the heart he didn't know he still had. His ownership of the other man is complete, they have entwined like threads in a microscopic weave too close and too intimately one to pull apart. His ownership is visceral in a way nothing has been since his childhood, and he needs it like air. Will Graham who can understand him, who can be his captive, loving audience without judgement or disgust, with a higher understanding.

It takes only a few more thrusts into Will's raw, bloody hole for him to come, an experience intensified more than it ever had been before by their oneness, and the blood on his fingers that was still seeping past stitches the best they could. He removed a testicle, just one, cutting skin and stitching it up carefully, his voice a calm warning for Will not to move. It would only hurt more if he moved. He kissed the pulsing wound when it was finished, licking blood from his lips and placing organ, scrotum and all on a plate, set in front of Will. It would come later, after he relieved the tension in his own cock.

And he does so with a vigor, kissing Will's back over a notch of his spine and running a soothing hand over Will's hair. It would be okay, he was here, the paddle in the raging sea. ]

hannibal c:

[authenticities]

[avoirfaim]

[ You realize those PhD candidates thought we were having an affair. Why didn't we?

They didn't, at the time, because he wasn't interested. It was an interesting sort of surprise all it's own that Alana had thought he was having an affair at that exact time. A sign of her astute powers of observation that she was able to notice his preoccupation at all, and a sign of not only her misguided faith in him but her absolutely nonthreatening status exemplified by the fact that she attributed it to an affair of all things.

Well, the past was the past, and until he found that particular inspiration again so was the Chesapeake Ripper. Revisiting a methodology once did not mean a revival of the movement in its entirety. Now he had a different project, namely blending in with Will Graham's surroundings and manipulating the other man's perception of the world to fit his own. Perhaps, in that case, an affair with Alana Bloom might be to his advantage.

She came on to him after all, or he could claim it without being too much of a liar.

Seducing her had been too easy, almost to the point of being boring, but taking her on his kitchen counter that first time had enough thrill in it that his body responded as the human body does, enough to make her think he cared. It's different though now, in his bedroom as she strips off her skirt to show that the stockings don't go quite all the way up. It seems almost too desperate for him, but he eyes her thighs none the less, lingering for effect as he loosens his tie. ]

Doctor Bloom, are you trying to seduce me?

[authenticities]

[avoirfaim]

[ It was only a matter of time before Alana Bloom showed up at his door. There was something intimate in having a colleague as a friend in their profession. The understanding that this friend understands and can sympathize with not only your emotions but your pattern of thought is a temptation difficult to resist, if the need for some sort of crutch is necessary. It's an intimate crutch that some, such as Dr. Du Maurier, avoid as if the infection would spread to their brains, and others lean into like a comforter.

For Alana Bloom, Hannibal is happy to wrap around her like memory foam; how could she ever doubt his intentions as anything but the utmost helpful?

The night had been planned out simply before Alana showed up. Dinner (pieces of Abigail that wouldn't hold well in his freezer and were still quite fresh), a peaceful Tchaikovsky, a glass of wine and a proper list of vegetables and spices in his kitchen that needed restocking before bed. A peace of mind that would loudly cover that aching in his heart that he's trying to quell back to its original size -- that is, nonexistence.

This hadn't gone exactly to plan, but checkmate was in place none the less. Better to be unattached.

He smiles with welcoming sympathy when he opens the door and spots his faithful colleague on the other side.]

I'll fetch you a glass of your reserve. Unless a stronger port is in order?

Montparnasse

[neverminetolose]

Hannibal

[huntingknife]

idek if this works whatever

Bill <3

[ivegotmypride]

[noonementions]

[ Bill gets jealous, sometimes. He knows he gets jealous. He feels it in his bones before it takes over his brain with a rush of blood and rage that swallows up all other emotions. He knows that's how he's always been, and there ain't nothing he can do to change it. It's a fire in his brain and then there's Nancy to put it out, to wash the blood off his hands if it takes him maybe a bit too far, but that's just life innit?

It doesn't matter how much she fawns over him or sits on his lap, it's those looks and smiles at other patrons at the tavern that rile him up. He can't stand anyone else looking at her, the thought that she could leave him, that she could two time him when she was his. He's gone before she's finished her shift, off to walk, to mug some unexpected dandy and beat him close to death, but it's not enough. He waits for her in their crummy little room, and the moment the door opens his hands are on her, pulling her towards him by the hair, all strength, fury and blind fire. ]