Open Thread

Open to everyone - M/F

Relationship type - Friend, lover, spouse, colleague, ex partner.

Plot type - Drama, angst, smut with plot

Approved Kinks- Roleplay, objectication, breath play, knife play, BDSM, exhibitionism, scene play, dom and sub, sadism and machoism, edge play, CBT, impact play, rope bandage, fisting, pegging, orgasm control, dirty talk, nipple play, gags, praise kink, electrostimulation, whipping, wax play.

Plot - Luca has been secretly diagnosed with stomach cancer and he's decided that he's leaving SWAT and leaving LA, but he doesn't intend on telling anyone who is in his life. Convince him to stay and give him some hope because he may or may not get the treatment to fight it.

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Luca removed his bag from his locker and discreetly began removing the contents of his locker piece by piece so no one would notice, sighing softly as he jammed a few pictures into one of the pockets before zipping up the pocket. In a few weeks he would be gone and no one would know where he would end up because truthfully, he didn't know where he would end up. And since he was off the next day, he was planning on going home and getting shit faced drunk. Do drunk that he wouldn't be able to walk, talk or even think.

“I’ve seen that look before. Spill it, what’s goin’ on?”

Am I off better dead?

Been thinking recently...

I think I want to travel some more. I've been stationary here too long, but where should I go?

Paldea maybe? I hear their gym challenge is a bit different as in, being champion is a title multiple trainers have. So if I did take the challenge I wouldnt have to stay in that region and I could still do gym leader duties in Sinnoh.

Decisions, decisions...

“Look, I know it’s late.  I know you’re not happy to see me.  I just...I needed to see you.”  The case he had just gotten back from had been one of the hardest ones he’d dealt with and all he had thought about was her.  He needed to see her. Needed to see she was safe.  

Open Starter

"Who knew you'd enjoy fairy porn.." Damon commented, looking through the pages. "You're so quiet when you're reading this, but..." Damon cleared his throat as he read. "I dragged a hand down his thigh, feeling the hidden warrior's strength. His body stilled and I could feel myself aching for his touch...". Damon stopped reading, a grin plastered on his face. "Should I go ahead and read more?"

🕷The spiders face seemed to take in all that was being said to her. It wasn't till she blew a large bubble with her gum that one could tell she wasn't listening at all.

" It's hot here....I can't consintrat ...." Then again, a lot of places were to warm for the raven hair. 🕷

@nightmarefuele sent://

❛ you treat all your ladies like this? ❜

+ Joker, music!Ben (feel perfectly free to discard bc we never did discuss a Jokerous thing, but I snorted when I saw that one. I'm releasing it into the wild. go, be free in K's askbox.)

{ from this meme / not currently accepting }

—☾—

(freedom:)

I. Crusty Gotham (NY State of Mind: Earth 718)

Ben knows this one. Joker's not getting a rise out of him, so he's annoyed and disappointed, so the knife is limp in his leather grip. Face about the same in its demeanor. Big-time music man won't say anything; didn't even have to gag him. Wouldn't even scream. Music spits and stutters on a chewed-up police scanner, and the undercroft echoes with a few damp, tinny notes Juice Newton borrowed from Joan Collins. Goon tapping his foot to the chorus. The punchline hinges on Ben's participation and attention, which he doesn't dole out to just anyone and won't bequeath the Joker out of spite. His pose is splenetic, a pose for a shoot in bi-lighting. But eventually, Ben's eyes flick up and land somewhere below the Clown Prince's coal sockets. And on to the next scene. "Other way around, Fortunato." The clown pantomiming in some seriously fucked vaudevillian language, cupping his ear with a purple glove, miming, 'What's that?' Hate. Hate gushing through Ben's cocainestricted arteries. With every apology to God—fucking God, he hates this guy. He hates the Joker's grease-painted forehead wrinkles and whatever the fuck's the matter with his mouth. That tongue thing he does. Ben hates that he's the one bound to a chair. He hates that he's here at all. But where else would he wind up on his one, once-free night in Gotham City? At rest in his trailer? Finally, Ben lifts his chin. His lips part and how fine the bottom one would look with a split-open seam. Maybe he's soft red velvet on the inside. Finally, he speaks loud enough to be heard. "Woof," he says. Ugly smudge of a smile quirks the right corner of his mouth, nudging a mole. Usually, the 'ladies' get the chair; it's fun. Usually, it's not as creepy. Doesn't smell like mold and sewage and bad news. Ben's eyelids flutter—not looking the clown in the eyes; there's no coming back from that—and close. Lashed insects, perhaps, the clown would remove and mount like butterflies. Because maybe it'd be kind of funny. Funny gross.

Ben hates his thoughts. In lieu of myriad torture, he tries to conjure an impression of Gotham’s sunburst-patterned stainless steel spires, the calcium fumes riding its broken skyline. Ink-wet cobblestone and labyrinthine alleys, barbed-wire-topped walls shimmering with Molotow Burner bats. (The way people only look at each other if they mean business.) The Gotham he'd marry. Postcards for the final moment. Not the rendering of Gotham he’s currently painted in, the Gotham ruled by rat kings, feral cat burglars, clown radicals, crocodile people, a one-woman park, and various skull-faced men with pointy teeth. Yet here he is, Ben Solo, feet and wrists going numb, the broad range of his eye-burning-green shibori shoulders going slack, somewhere in a three-hundred-mile city that only seems endless because it's frighteningly dense and crusted over with bodies. If Ben dies in Gotham, there could be a chance he'll never be found, and no one would know that he died right here at the bottom of the opera house. Who would report him missing? Who in this rancid, rogue city would alert LE to some famous asshole for whom going missing had formerly been a hobby? Rachel might. Rachel likes to get paid. The way a clown likes to put on a show. Maybe instead of bricklaying his corpse, it'll make the front page.

{Open Starter Thread}

♦

"What in the hell...?"

What kind of wine did you bring me? This just might be the worst thing I've ever tasted."

STARTER CALL!! {Harry}

LIKE OR REBLOG!

Open Starter (Females only)

Open to Everyone (Mutuals and Non- Mutuals)

Connection - Friend, ex girlfriend, ex wife, colleague, ex lover, lover, sister of colleague.

Plot - Luca has returned home to find his wife in bed with another man and during a confrontation with her, she's lashed out and injured him (isn't the first time) and demanding a divorce and reveals that their expected child isn't his. But the female coming to his rescue, he ends up putting the moves on her.

Trigger warnings - Domestic violence, affairs, violence, angst and drama.

Luca had found himself in a bar, sporting a busted lip and a black eye as he held the glass of ice to his head and finished another beer. He could smell her perfume as soon as she walked into the bar and it got stronger as she drew closer, not even bothering to look up at her. "This you coming to say i told you so?"

"I swear to fuck, if one more person in this goddamn hotel "nyan's" at me, I'm throwing myself off the roof..."

We get on like a house on fire.

~Whaaaat a starter with Anaisa that’s new~

> You stared into your reflection in the bathroom for almost too long, poking at the slight eyebags under your eyes before moving to flick and prod at the wild choppy mess your hair had recently become. Part of you was so tempted to chop it off as usual but another part of you kind of liked the direction it was going.

> Plus you kind of missed when your hair was longer.

> Throwing your hair up into a short ponytail you hurry out the door of your little hive without so much of a thought on making some breakfast first. You’d probably pay for it later but time waited for no one!

> You dug your palmhusk out of the hidden pocket of your skirt to check it mid-stride. All of your messages to Wyllow were still left on read and your calls still left un-answered. You definitely felt guilty about what you told her no matter how many ways you tried justifying everything. You two were two peas in a pod and when she needed you, you snapped at her.

> You were so focused on your palmhusk you weren’t entirely aware where your feet were taking you..

| Open Thread ❄ |

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"i told you to be careful with the ice!"

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" And I told you I can't see it! " he snapped back at what was probably meant to be gentle teasing, twisting around to snarl at the other with as much irritation and vitriol as he could manage - it was difficult to look angry enough to really mean it, when you were this small, sniffling and sickly looking with cold and sitting awkwardly stranded in the middle of a patch of glare ice. Cold weather like this and the hazards that came with it would always be his least favourite.

He didn't want to be mean, that hadn't been his intention right after he'd slipped, but his leg hurt and he couldn't yet tell if the snap he'd heard had been it or the ice he'd slipped on.

Open starter: Heartbroken & Drunk

Damon hung his head, keeping the bottle of alcohol close. Although it took lots of bottles to get him drunk, he found the time and ability to drown himself in it. It was his despair and loneliness which drove him to his state. He hiccupped, frowning into the bottle as he parted his lips and took a deep swig.

"No". He cried out when the bottle was taken from him. He blinked up at the individual, shielding his eyes from the light. "I-I'm ok-oay". He pressed his hand to his chest, expression grim as he massaged the spot where his dead heart lay. "Give it back." He hiccupped.