the island of misfit prompts.

[thanksalotforthememe]

(thank you dyslexic for giving us this beauty)

Because sometimes you can't decide what meme to post to and you'd rather choose from a bunch of random prompts instead.



1. You're trapped in a McDonald's. It's only a matter of time until the McNuggets run out or the McFlurry machine breaks …
2. You're trapped in an elevator and it's like that M. Night Shamawhatever movie so the devil is haunting you in it and you're probably going to die.
3. You're trapped in one of those giant meat freezers and slowly freezing to death with the other person in the thread. Will you huddle together for warmth like Seth Green in that one move?
4. tfln. Every good random prompt meme needs tfln.
5. mpreg. See above. Aliens? Genetic mutations? That breeding stable meme redux? It happened, and now you've got to get your shit together.
6. You have a big secret to tell the other person and now is your only chance. You're probably on your deathbed idk.
7. You woke up naked in a hotel room with the other person and no clue how you got there. This is some The Hangover-type shit.
8. Kinky times. Because every random meme needs a smut prompt, too. Get your 50 Shades of Grey on.
9. Body horror. You and/or person b are mutating into a zombie/robot/vampire/furry/cthulu/etc. and it's freaky as hell.
10. Disney time. You and person b are now acting out the Disney movie of your choice.
11. Roadtrip! One car, one … cup?
12. Ghost, Patrick Swayze style. You or person b is a ghost, and now you're trying to communicate with them from the other side. (NO POTTERY.)
13. Human centipede. I'll leave this one up for interpretation.
14. Mr. and Mrs. Smith. You and person b are both keeping huge secrets from each other, but one of you is getting ~~suspicious~~!
15. High school AU. What it says on the tin.
16. ZOMBIES!!!!!! Were you bitten? Are you hiding out in a shack somewhere in the middle of a post-apocalyptic wasteland?
17. A raccoon is trapped in the house and now you and person b have to figure out how the fuck to kill it.
18. You're dying a slow tragic death so you better get those last words the fuck out.
19. You're possessed by a ghost/demon/yeerk/whatever the fuck. Fight for dominance or … don't, no one actually gives a shit.
20. You're connected by a red string of fate to the other person and you follow it and find them and hook up?

Comments

7ish

[womanwhobeatyou]

[The sun floods into the hotel room, warm and bright. Hard to say whether it floods in because of the woman standing without a stitch on in front of said window, or because he'd left the blinds open the night before. Either way, the room is flooded in harsh morning light, and the woman in question sidesteps the mess on the floor to stand next to the bed.

If the light doesn't wake him soon, she'll have to take matters into her own, very capable, hands.]

[i_favour_you]

[The mess on the floor is Sherlock Holmes. Nude, exhausted, and still reeking of several days without sleep or shower. The light burns his eyes, and he purposefully keeps them shut after he opens them.

Wait.

Nope, opening them again. A very naked, very beautiful Woman is standing by his bed.]

Irene?

[he's dehydrated, he realizes. All this time on the road, following this case. Obsessing. Substituting it for the drugs.]

[womanwhobeatyou]

[She arches an eyebrow at him and purses her blood red lips. The morning seems not to affect her at all, she is still perfectly, precisely made up, and utterly unconcerned about the fact that she isn't wearing a thing. Or that there are none of her clothes lying about.]

Good, you're up. Otherwise I might have had to slap that face.

[i_favour_you]

Shame I missed that.

[he winces as if hungover and sits up. He unbuttons the top button on his shirt.]

How long was I out?

[womanwhobeatyou]

I like you better unsatisfied.

[He sits up and she moves away, stepping out of reach again, prodding away some of his 'evidence' with the toe of her stilettos, scrutinizing his scrawled notes and the jumble of papers with a critical eye. She gives him the barest look at the question.]

Judging by the number of complimentary newspapers piled up outside your door, I'd say three days.

[i_favour_you]

Was your arse always that perfect, or is that my imagination?

[he rolls over, reaching out for one of the papers.]

[womanwhobeatyou]

Insinuating that it wasn't always? Tsk tsk, Sherlock.

[Her attention remains on the papers.] The girls were all dancers, you realize. None of them lasted more than six months, but they all tried ballet. The callous on the toe never goes completely away.

[i_favour_you]

[he looks away from her arse and up to her face, his eyebrows knitted together.]

Ballet?

Dozens of schools in New York like that. Even more with failed dancers.

[womanwhobeatyou]

[She gives him an expectant look.]

I've already given you the clue, you realize. Think.

[i_favour_you]

In the papers?

In your lack of clothing? I prefer that as a clue.

[womanwhobeatyou]

[Her eyes narrow with irritation despite the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She steps away from the papers and around the bed, behind him, out of sight.]

I could always leave if I thought I were distracting, you realize.

[i_favour_you]

No.

[it comes out too fast, and he sits back up too quickly. His head aches.]

No, stay.

Please.

[womanwhobeatyou]

[The bed seems to sink beneath her weight as she kneels on it, and a warm, firm hand rests on his shoulder, staying his motion. Her fingernails bite into his shoulder.]

You are out of sorts. Start thinking, Sherlock, and maybe I'll find something to sharpen your senses.

[i_favour_you]

Ballet dancers. Less than six months. Callous on toe.

[He feels very stupid in her presence, but he always has. Her fingertips on his shoulder calm, and then there's the delicious bite of her nails.

He unbuttons the next button on his shirt. He should put it on. There's something fantastically intimate about being here, nude, with her.]

[womanwhobeatyou]

[An expectant hum, and her grip on his shoulder remains firm as she runs the well-oiled leather of a riding crop that had not been in her hands earlier across his back, tracing the lines of one of his tattoos.]

Your latest victim quit recently. The coroner missed the mark of ribbons against her ankle.

[She traces the riding crop along his spine.] Don't get distracted now.

[i_favour_you]

[he sits up that much straighter, the sensation of the hard leather sharp against his skin. He closes his eyes and his voice is low, raptured.]

Not the cause of death, but an easier way to find how the victims are linked.

[he opens his eyes suddenly.]

The pattern of the ribbons was wrong.

[womanwhobeatyou]

Mmm... [She leans in, and her purr of approval is warm against his ear, the leather still lingering against his skin.]

Much better. I'm familiar with the pattern.

[i_favour_you]

Considering your abdominal muscles, I shouldn't be surprised that you danced.

[He is, however.]

But the turn, the twist of the ribbon. Something a reputable school would've caught. Failed or not, they don't teach you to make mistakes so obvious.

[womanwhobeatyou]

[She laughs, this time, and traces the crop along his tattoo again.]

You're assuming she got that pattern from dancing. [A tap of the crop against his skin, not enough to sting, but nearly.]

Shibari. I expect you know it.

[i_favour_you]

Ribbons instead of rope.

[his eyes shut again at the sensation of leather against skin, but he opens them immediately.]

She didn't struggle enough to cause marks, and ribbon would break. It as a mutual fantasy, at least at first.

[womanwhobeatyou]

That's better.

[The hand that had been at his shoulder moves, nails lingering along his shoulder, up the curve of his neck. Then suddenly it is covering his eyes, and the riding crop is no longer against his skin, pulled back, ready to strike.]

Keep going.

[i_favour_you]

Dancers, very specific body shape, body type. Shape of the legs. He focuses on it, that's why he uses that specific ribbon pattern. But something goes wrong. She doesn't realize it, but he does.

[womanwhobeatyou]

[And that's when she strikes, the snap of the riding crop seeming to echo in the hotel room as it meets his skin.]

Good. He realizes something's gone wrong. Something that would implicate him. So he panics. Then what?

[i_favour_you]

No, not anymore. Now he's prepared for it. It's the first time. That's the time he made the mistake.

[womanwhobeatyou]

[Her pleasure is obvious in her voice, in the way she traces a finger along the skin where she'd struck him.]

There we are. You simply needed the right incentive.