open post | 3 | 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

Okay, let's play doctor } R, canon or modern.

[fliesonfour]

negl that subject line is half this prompt.

[cynisme]

[ Once a month, Monsieur Phillipe Grantaire would have a rather sizable allowance sent through La Banque de France to his lethargic swill of a son, living in a flat half the size of what he should, in theory, be able to afford. It was expected, by the man who barely kept the boy in his line of sight, that his son would use that money on the basic essentials of life in their crust of society. That is, above the general merchant class and directly below that of the aristocracy. They did well in Toulouse, and to be an artist was a respectable profession for their boy, so they left him in the hands of Paris and the Salon of Monsieur Gros without much of a second thought.

Perhaps that is where the problem began, with a lack of supervision that began when Grantaire was still a boy. Now a man, after the money needed to remain a student is spent he has long since forgone the idea of comfort. All the comfort he needed was a full bottle and a tab at each cafe he frequented. No better living, no fine clothes, and no doctors visits. Alcohol would always be nature's way of cleaning all wounds, internal and external alike.

That was, of course, where Joly came in. To have no Doctor at all would be simply unacceptable to a hypochondriac like Joly, and so as easily as they had become friends, they became unofficial doctor and patient as well. The check-ups were all rather forced on Grantaire's part, but he stood relatively still with a minor amount of complaining, so long as he had a bottle in hand.

This particular bottle is beginning to run low, he notes, as Joly's long fingers prod at the skin of his neck. He sucks his cheek and tilts his head away from Joly's prying hands, bottle resting for the moment between his hands, between his splayed legs. ]

For all the fretting you do, mon ami, that mistress of yours must have strikingly intimate knowledge of those frigid fingers of yours in the oddest of places. I would almost be appalled if I cared much at all about the state of those fingers in every single tiny crevice they could find. Or if I were not insanely jealous.

Assuming I could muster jealousy.

baker boy, hello

[axed]

[ It's a typical Capitol party: wigs tottering as high as the pyramids of glasses filled with coloured drinks, pounding music, flashing lights, a room full of people who've never had an original thought in their lives. Johanna's bored already -- she only came because Finnick insisted they should, for appearances' sake. She's not sure why she let him convince her. Today was the last day of training before the Quell, and she can't be bothered to keep up pretenses any more. What's the point, really? The Gamemakers have made their move, and the rebellion is in the process of making theirs. Things are in motion. Nothing she does will change that. ]

[ An Avox slips past her, and she snatches a shot glass off his tray and knocks it back, because why not. The one thing that she really appreciates about the Capitol: good liquor. Although it takes far more than that to get her tipsy. She'll leave in five minutes, she decides, kick Finnick's ass later for wasting her time, and -- oh, look who's here. Johanna narrows her eyes, calculating. ]

Look who's here.

[flours]

[ It seems that every time Peeta finds himself in the capitol, he's in some sort of awful disadvantage. Sure, he could talk his way around most of situations where Katniss couldn't, and sure he had charm down pat, but more often than not he felt like a mouse surrounded by cats. Cats who were tossing him around before killing him, having a great time watching him try to defend himself with nothing but his squeaks when the rest were rats with sharp teeth and sharper claws. They were all seasoned killers around him, even the Capitol folk who had never raised a weapon to anyone in their lives, and there's no delusion about it: he's the softest of the bunch, with a target on his back.

It's a combination of fear and the knowledge that he needs to play it cool that had him drinking at all, but the drinks are sweeter than any alcohol they have in 12, and doesn't smell like it could possibly be disinfecting your insides. It's misleading, tricky, and he had far too much. He had only meant to drink enough to get a grip, but now he could barely keep one on the wall. He tries to steady himself against it, glass in hand, eyes focusing and unfocusing. ]

You know why I'm here B|

[laegolas]

gdi indeed I do.

[deeproots]

[ Many in his kingdom believe that after the death of his wife not long after the birth of his only son, the Elvenking never again took a lover. He could love no other and could not draw himself from his own sour demeanor. No one would arouse his heart nor his loins who did not resemble his beloved.

And many were almost right. Almost.

It was respect for the father and the son that kept their dalliances from becoming common knowledge. Thranduil himself doesn't know what it was that had his one hundred year old child crawling onto his lap in the middle of the night and waking him up his own body. He doesn't ask. All he knows is that he can see Legolas' mother in his eyes, in his neck, in his back, even though his shoulders and the muscles that pool at the base of his hips are all from him, all strong and sharp from centuries of use. He can see her in him and he almost can't help but touch, biting down on the skin of his son's neck with an urgency. ]

that thing that i said

[osse]

[ He is... warm. It is a strange thought, unused as Osse is to physical forms of limbs and flesh and not of water. He cannot move, cannot see, and straining the very edges of his fea grnts him nothing. He does not know where he is or why he is here.

These thoughts flit through his mind, but they are all brought to a sudden stop as he bites his lip and tastes the distinct tang of salt upon his tongue.

He is dry as though the seething ocean waters within have been trapped away, instead of soaking his skin.

He bares his teeth in rage and snarls, thrashing like a dog chained at the bit, unable to move as he wished. ]

[aringonit]

[ Two wargs growl in the dark corners of the enclosure that Gorthaur has prepared, their eyes shining and reflecting in the darkness. They can smell the heat that radiates from the ore holding Osse down, like a carcass cooking. Osse is not cooking, like a fish on a spit, but the links are of fine work, of which Gorthaur labored in his great fiery pit within Angband. Any water that Osse could control has evaporated, will continue to evaporate, from water into gas in the air and out the vent above.

He has thought this one through, and he is proud.

He speaks from the darkness when Osse awakes, hand steady on the head of one of his beasts. ]

And so he has awoken, the dry fish, so far from the water.

[murderdaughter]

[Abby should not have been flipping through those sketchbooks. And she certainly should have stopped when she saw Will. All of Will, really. But curiosity kept her going and she was so intent that she just.... Didn't realize she was no longer alone. Caught red-handed. With all the evidence. Oh dear.]

[avoirfaim]

[ Curiosity killed the cat, as the popular saying goes, but in truth it was Hannibal Lecter that had the honor. Curiosity was a dangerous game to play indeed, and he had gotten rid of his share of peeping felines. Miriam Lass, for example.

He comes upon her slightly, only making himself known by his hand on her shoulder. If he was going to kill her that hand would be covering her mouth, but Abigail is special. Abigail gets chances others could only dream of. ]

Going through others' things without permission isn't polite, Abigail.

[giveroffruits]

[Yavanna is on her knees.

It infuriates her, too. She is one of the Valar, after all, the Kementari, Queen of the Earth. And yet, she is trapped here, forced to her knees, kept as a pet and as a reminder.

Her heart aches when she thinks of her husband. Lord Aule would be furious to see her like this, bowed and broken before one of his own pupils. Her hope has not faded just yet, but to fight on her own has done her no good so far.

Still, there are lines that she will not allow to be crossed. Not if she can help it.]

[aringonit]

[ Yavanna is on her knees, and it thrills him. Once, so long ago, he came upon Yavanna and Aule entwined together on the ground and, so innocent and unaware of the potential of the physical, he had been confused. He's not confused anymore, but vengeful and proud, and the distant echo of Aule pounding on endless earth and steel only spurns him on. His fingers trace the chain that hold her by her neck, and he considers wrapping his hand around it and setting it hot against her forced skin.

He won't. He might later. ]

Can you hear him, Milady? Your strong, powerful husband so very far away.

Please, this line is an arbitrary inconvenience you know who he's here for.

[runarevolution]

ilu. I cannot for the life of me figure a starter. Want to start it?

[cynisme]

kee...

[feenotkee]

grantaire!

[protester]

[protester]

[ I believe in you, Grantaire had said, and Enjolras had been knocked momentarily off balance at the force of his words -- the genuine, undeniable way he had spoken in his turn, instantly when Enjolras' cruel, but self-deprecating words had left his mouth. It was some foolish argument about something or another that left Enjolras with the feeling of hopelessness, he can't even really remember it because he feels so bad about it -- even if he thinks Grantaire should believe in other things, should believe in everything, he can't deny that it feels heartwarming to be the single thing R believes in.

He decides to make it up to him, which is a rarity in itself -- Enjolras rarely apologizes, rarely sees fault in the harsh words he uses when they're deserving, but being Grantaire's sole belief gives him... a new perspective, maybe. A new way to look at Grantaire, not as something delicate or breakable, but as something to be treasured, to be loved.

So when Grantaire comes home at night, the lights have all been dimmed, candlelight being the only proof that someone is indeed home. They litter across every available flat surface and lead into the bedroom, where Enjolras sits on their shared bed, in a pair of lacy women's underwear. It's a kink that had been mentioned somewhere along the lines and Enjolras had been strongly against it, but now that he's sitting here in them, his long hair cascaded around his shoulders instead of his usual braid, he maybe understands the appeal of it. A little.

He'll wear make up next time. ]

grantaire! are you surprised yet

[docs]

[flaskerade]

[ The really awful thing about it is that Joly gets him. Not like Bossuet who pretends to get where he's coming from for the sake of amicable friendship, or like Jehan who believes that he gets him and instead fabricates a Romantic fiction of who he really is. Not like Enjolras or Combeferre or Courfeyrac who see exactly the man he presents himself to be at face value without such a grasp on his nuances. Joly on the other hand knows when to talk, when not to talk and when he just talk over him entirely. He plays the part of the best friend without Grantaire's consent, and he's come to do it so flawlessly that he's fallen into a sense of comfort around him. Around Joly he finds no anxiety, no pressure, just a blank slate that he can splatter his own colors onto, muddling vibrancies into a muddy series of browns without care or concern.

He owes Joly for his patience and he fucking hates that.

This isn't the first time he's woken up on Joly's pristine sheets that somehow hold on to the lingering smell of marijuana. His head is throbbing but the throbbing of the morning is but a soft cushion compared to what it could be, the stabbing of a worse hang over (he can't remember what waking up clear and crisp feels like). This isn't the first time that he kisses Joly, leans over and plants one right on his lips, but it is the first time where he's been mostly sober, and not pulling a joke. He doesn't love Joly, love being such a farfetched concept that he reserves for only the very pinnacle of an unobtainable ideal, but he owes him. If questioned, who would ever believe that he was sober anyway? ]

renly!

[flowerless]

female!hannibal

[contaminating]

soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42d4wzP9FZ0

[infomodder]

It was just after three in the morning when Will found himself at Lecter's doorstep—no, no, not found. It was not a black or lost time. It was purposeful. He'd gotten into his car and driven there knowingly, had been aware of his destination when he got dressed, put the keys in the ignition, and made his way up to Maryland for what seemed like the millionth time and in no way would be the last. It wouldn't be the last one he made with bloody knuckles gripping the steering wheel, either, but there was no dead body in the trunk this time. There was no bringing home the bacon on this instance, and there would be no breaking and entering. He would knock like a civilized person, wait to be let in, and what happened from there...

There was no word yet for whatever Will Graham was, Chilton had said on the stand. There was no word yet for whatever Hannibal Lecter was, and he thought there might never be. Nothing could encompass him entirely, no ridiculous smush of French or Latin or Greek or anything else could properly describe what Hannibal Lecter was. He imagined attempts to diagnose him would be met with a proper dissection of each one that proved he was most definitely not that, and he'd be right every time. Not just because he knew what all those pesky labels meant, but because none of them fit.

Lecter had adapted. Evolved. Became something so twisted and terrifying that no language had a single word that matched up with what, exactly, he was.

That coat and scarf combination would be awaiting Lecter when he answered the door, though his hair had been brushed and pulled back and he looked together. The old Will Graham that fell apart and came to work fevered and sweating and looking for all the world like he was ready to crumble was nowhere to be found. Lecter had found an old painting, put effort into it, and eventually the touch ups had pulled it all back into place. Faded pastels looked soft again, rays of light seemed like the sun itself had shot across the canvas, and the shadows were completely black once more. Whether he'd be put on the wall to admire or in a room with the rest so one day he could start tearing up the other Lecter paintings bit by bit wasn't something he could predict.

He had a funny, sickening feeling that he was meant to tear the rest to shreds and become something that could not be labelled by any word, either.

Fortunately, that wasn't going to happen. Mongoose and snake, and hadn't he been so right when he'd said that? His immunity to venom was a good thing, but eventually he'd had so much of it coursing through his system that he hadn't died, but he'd certainly been drowning in it. Poison that didn't kill him rushing through his veins, building up and burning under his skin—mongooses killed snakes, but what happened to one when it had bitten so much in such a short span of time that most of its blood was toxic?

Whether or not Lecter slept soundly (or at all, sick thing that he was), Will thought the two times he hit the doorbell in quick succession would be enough to get him out of bed. The only thing to be seen was his car—no flashing lights, no unmarked vehicles with tinted windows hiding in plain sight. Just his Virginia tag to give away who was waiting at the door, staring down at bloody knuckles and convincing himself that it would all work out to Will's design in the end. His art.

He'd wait a few minutes, give him time to throw on a robe. If it took longer than that, he'd text him. Then call him. Then, hell—why not break in again? He might even get the honor to sit in his living room and be the one to watch him come back a few hours later with a cooler full of whatever his catch had been that night.

He'd rather the latter not be the case. Not yet. He had a few desires he wanted to knock out of the way before he grabbed him by the throat with bared fangs and slung him into that cell Will had recently vacated.

...a third time hitting the doorbell didn't make him seem too eager, did it? If it did, oh well. Too late.

HELLO LATENESS MY OLD FRIEND.

[avoirfaim]

Three in the morning and Hannibal Lecter are old friends, whose schedules have synced towards the apex of productivity. With hobbies such as his, one does not get far without working out a schedule that adapts. He is nothing if not adaptable. A true artist, one who takes the mundane and makes it blossom under the power of his ego, doesn't get very far if he lets sleep get in the way. An artist works, and finds time to make up the sleep later. His body will listen, because his body knows better than to interrupt.

With the hounds sniffing, Hannibal had been spending many of his nights as of late catching up on missed sleep. They would turn around and chase their tails by the end of it, gnawing past fur and flesh down to the bone of their own body. On this fateful night at three in the morning, the hounds were still sniffing and Hannibal was not carrying a corpse through his kitchen or leaving a trail of blood drained into jars. Rather, he was in his silk pajamas, head against his pillow and ears unimpeded. Dreams are for those who desire something they lack, and nightmares for those shaken with fear with tremors in their bones. He doesn't dream, he merely rests and, unconsciously, listens.

It isn't Will's car that wakes him up. One doesn't grow up living in a buzzing metropolis without learning how to tune out external sound, and Baltimore is hardly a sleepy suburb. It is, predictably enough, the doorbell. He waits for the second ring, the confirmation of conscious presence at the door, before getting up. With a letter opener slid carefully into the pocket of his robe he glances out the window from above. The hawk looks down expecting a snake and sees only it's partner, returned home in the dead of night.

Needless to say it isn't long after that Hannibal has made his way downstairs with the letter opener still resting in his robe pocket and unlocks the door. He smells the blood before he sees it, the metallic tang of oxidation mixed with sweat and stark eye contact.

"You could have called."

It's not an invitation past the threshold, but Will has never seemed to need one. His breed of beast is welcome when wrapped in the trappings of Hannibal's influence.

oberyn » any verse tbh

[butnotaqueen]

[punkrockviper]

[ The main problem that Oberyn has found in Cersei Lannister is that she is strikingly beautiful, her strength shines through her posture and her tight calves in sharp heels, but her attitude sours her like milk in the sun. His dislike for her makes her ugly, makes the ever increasing lines of age more evident to his scrutiny.

Oberyn isn't picky, but he is discerning.

Oddly enough, in spite of all his dislike, it doesn't surprise him that they find themselves stripping and pressing skin to skin against cool marble. Crete is a lovely place for a wedding, and a better place yet to get trashed and fuck.

And she is beautiful. ]

[tryit]

Kate and Tommy. Personal vibrator.

[mph]

[ Lisa was the first one who put what he could do into words. She suggested once, when he was knuckle deep in her, that he try moving his fingers left to right as quickly as he could. He vibrated with excitement, both literally and figuratively, and she coined him the human vibrator. All through, of course, a stone faced frown which he knew to be approval.

That had been forever ago, when he was 14 and stupid. Now, at 19 and somehow less stupid, he knows better than to suggest it right away when he's already got Kate down to her underwear. This isn't even the first time they've done this but he knows he can do it with his cock too, and he wants to make her smile. Even though he knew Lisa was smiling with her eyes back then, a real smile from Kate is even better.

That and moaning. Lots of moaning.

Maybe, he thinks, he doesn't have to suggest it. Maybe he can just do it and see if she likes it. That's a thought. ]

husband

[trainings]

[magneten]

[ For years, Erik avoided showers. A shower-head became in itself a bad omen, and he prefers still to not be under them. The shriek at him in their steaming hiss. He is not a child anymore though, he's had to face his fears time and time again until standing under a shower-head was easy--and he can't blame Alex for accidentally destroying to pipe that ran to the tub in Charles' adjoined bathroom.

Well he can, but he's not going to throw a tantrum over a shower that he sorely needs.

So he suffers through feeling mildly trapped behind glass and under the rather elaborate set up as he washes the sweat of hard work away. He doesn't bother wrapping his towel around around his waist as he comes out to Charles' bedroom--there's no need to be modest anymore, with what they've done the last few nights in a row. He merely has it slung around his neck and he goes searching for underwear. ]

erik, please. charles ends up in a bad way

[mentation]

"there is something wrong with me."

woop woop house of C.

[magneten]

[ From the moment Erik wakes up, he feels something wrong in the pit of his stomach. He wakes alone in bed, the warmth of Charles' body still lingering on the sheets beside him. He knows logically that this is normal, this was always the plan. Charles would be speaking at Bard College not too far from the school today, giving a commencement speech on the values of progress, of the togetherness they have already achieved in their world and the greater good brilliant minds and open hearts could achieve. He knows the school is his responsibility while Charles is gone for the day, and yet this familiar warmth feels foreign. It sits improperly in his chest like a puzzle piece forced in, but the pieces are so close that he can brush it off; he can forget that something feels wrong because what, on all of this grand earth, could possibly be wrong.

The day continues pleasantly enough, with classes, meetings with parents who would love their children to be enrolled in such a great institution for mutant children, and tops off with a lacrosse game between the Xavier Institute and a local high school, with rules set to allow the non-mutants a sporting chance. They do almost win the game, but they don't, and that's fine.

Everything is fine, and it feels wrong. ]

erik. weird 60s au thing?

[notmarieanymore]

[magneten]

[ He gives a degree of credit for some of his more recent actions to Charles. The desire to think out of the box sexually, and the need to search out others like himself, to create a brotherhood. The young woman he ended up finding, keeping company with Mystique's new girlfriend, was something special indeed.

He couldn't touch her, not without a risk, and that made him want to test the challenge even more.

You learn things every day about women. Some need you to come to them, but others find their way to straddle your lap and take what they want at all costs.

Straddling his lap wouldn't be an option in Rogue's particular case. He purchased a steel vibrator for the occasion, content to sit clothed and comfortable in a nearby chair. ]