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]

R ➳ writing on hands/hidden messages

[vivelavenir]

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

grantaire.

[patrie]

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

GIVE ME R.

[emptier]

❝i've never seen him ooh and aah.❞

also gimmie eamesss

[merriest]

[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.

[shylyintrepid]

Liar.

[Jehan leans back on R's bed, legs out in front of him. He's actually quite insanely proud of those stockings. They fit and (maybe it was just him but) seemed to make his legs look even better than they already did. The corset he knows gives him an interesting figure, and the fact that he's not wearing anything else probably does make for an odd picture. It's really genderfuck-y, the undergarments (and the lipstick he stole from Courfeyrac's bathroom, left by some ex, he thought it'd be a good idea) with Jehan's slight-but-not-girly body type and his cock.

However...]

You like genderfuck and don't deny it.

[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.]

lady!R :D

[joliejoly]

Hermes

[kouros]

[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.

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?

[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.]

[kouros]

[Apollo's never made a deal with Hephaestus before: Apollo lets Hep tinker on his sun chariot (or sun luxury car) and Hep gives him wrist and ankle bands that let him catch or trip Hermes up five times before they won't work anymore.

He laughs as he straddles his younger brother's hips and grabs on arm to pin it]

Got you, brat.

[battlelusts]

[ It doesn't take more than a simple challenge to rouse Ares. A simple challenge for the simple-minded. Granted he was smart enough not to take the sprinting challenge, but also sprinting is just boring. Where's the physicality and the violence? No, wrestling is much more suited to Ares' tastes.

Hermes, as light as he is, hardly poses a challenge. (Some might say that that's the way Ares likes his fights, but they can go suck a dick.) It doesn't take much for him to throw Hermes off—it involves shoving upright onto his knees, scrabbling at the hands clasped around his neck to pry them off, and twisting out of Hermes' grasp once he's free.

Back on his feet, crouched low like he's about to spring, he grins. ] Yeah, you said it. [ His grin hitches higher, looking feral with a show of teeth. ] Still not convinced, though. [ And then he lunges forward, intent on grabbing Hermes around the hips and slinging him to the ground. ]

[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.

[joliejoly]

[Hey. Sexy dresses are serious business, Eugenie. Especially when they are meant to impress Maxence. Or maybe just distract him at work. It's hard to tell with her, sometimes -- and she couldn't find Bahorel, Sam doesn't really care about fashion, so -- it fell to Eugenie. But this was an interesting turn of events!

She wrinkles her nose a little and grabs for --whatever bottle may be closest, wriggling a little to get out of R's grip.]

What are you, a lion?

w/e w/e

[ftws]

Renly

[dyingisnotdead]

you know what this is

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.

[instagraham]

[ he was sleepwalking again, but didn't get far this time. he has his own clumsy slumbering feet to thank for that, having woken up to a bright flash of pain. it took long, hazy seconds to even realise it was him that was bleeding, then his brain cued up a panicked response to the injury which did not preclude the usual (call jack, call the emt's) but he managed to keep his mouth shut and not cry out. he marched back to the house, cradling his gashed forearm, palming the wound with enough pressure to keep him lucid with the sting. he found at his house that his rarely-used first aid kit was about a decade behind relevance and in desperate need of replenishing: there was one strip of gauze, an empty alcohol bottle, some medical tape, a tensor bandage, and two full boxes of band-aids. he grabbed a white towel and wrapped it around his arm instead, pulled on yesterday's jeans, didn't bother with his bloody and sweat-soiled shirt, and resigned himself to the emergency room.

he's not surprised at himself that he doesn't make it there. one of the worst places in the world to be, in his opinion. a permanent sense of urgency, totally dissonant with the apathy of the hospital night staff. wayward vagrants, alcohol poisoning, victims of street crime or date rape, crammed in a room with the unlucky daytimers, parents whose kids fell out of their bunk beds or children of the elderly and suddenly infirm. he can vividly imagine them all as he drives toward town, see them filling every seat, having to search between them for one to bleed on by himself, weaving between gazes, pursing his lips against drunken mutters. the imminent frenzy steers him left too early and he winds up at lecter's office instead. god, she's going to love this. what a reaction for her to pick apart.

still, it's less stressful than the alternative.

prideful's not a look that's in his repertoire so he doesn't try and fake it after knocking with his clean(er) hand. the towel has been left in the car, soaked upon arrival. he gives an uneasy nod when she invites him in with such a genteel tone. ]

Mine could use some restocking. [ he's not trying to start a conversation, or even scold himself, especially, but it is mostly himself that he's talking to. ]

[avoirfaim]

[She smiles to herself at his comment, a small hint of amusement, though he wouldn't see it with her back to him as she locks the door. It's too quick, gone by the time she turns to get said first aid kit.]

Do you have a habit of injuring yourself?

[If Will has a habit of this, it's better if she knows now, and the look she shoots him without a word more on the matter should, should be enough to get that across. She won't bring him into her kitchen, not like this (though any powers that be know how well she's perfected removing blood stains from every spotless surface in her sanctum sanctorum).]

I will join you in the dining room, if you would.

[Easy to clean, somewhat less tempting, without lacking any of the poetry of the long game. She goes off then to get a wash cloth, that tiny first aid kit with bandages and gauze opened only once before when Abigail cut her hand open on a cup, needle, thread, sterilizing equipment. Not long after, she joins Will again in the dining room.

Not before pausing in the doorway, enjoying the sight.]

[instagraham]

[ nothing to be amused at, other than hannibal thinking he might be the type; he gives a brief, humorless laugh, lips lilting with sardonicism. ]

On purpose? No. I was -- sleepwalking. Made it to the railroad this time. [ yay for him.

the road itself could use a little upkeep. he'll probably take care of it himself, tomorrow, make an afternoon of it and have the dogs along. he'd rather have discovered a loose tie this way than have one of his strays accidentally do it for him. he follows her kindly instruction with zero to no apprehension, careful not to drip on her carpet. once he's seated at her table, he has a good look at the wound. about three inches long, somewhat coagulated, and damn dirty. closer to his elbow than his wrist at least, clear of any major veins -- obviously, or he wouldn't have made it this far. then he leans forward and pinches the bridge of his nose with his other hand, making up a list of people not to tell about this (shorthand: everyone). ]