bakerstreet | Playing With Fire: The Meme

Playing With Fire: The Meme

PLAYING WITH FIRE: THE MEME

Didn't anyone ever tell you to never, ever play with fire? It's dangerous and there's always the very real possibility of getting burned. It's easy to understand the appeal though. The thrill of it, the temptation of walking on the edge, or the thrill of malice when you get just a little bit of revenge for a wrong that's been done to you.

Maybe it's a game you both want to play. You want to see who is the stronger, more secure of the two... or maybe you just get a thrill of pushing your lover to claim you, to show some possessive side. It's nice to have that affirmation they want you enough to fight for your attention if need be.

Maybe you have the perfect revenge scheme for that friend who went behind your back, betrayed you so deeply and left you with a scar. It's in human nature to want to strike back and strike back hard when one has been wrong.

Just remember this fair warning, not all things go according to plan. Maybe you'll luck out, maybe you won't. Just be prepared to deal with whatever may happen next.

- Post with your characters and list any preferences you might have. There is an optional form to fill out to give people a taste of your character and what they might be interested in. You can also set your own scene in the top thread and see who bites.
- If leaving the scene up to others, they choose a game from the option below to tag in with. See how twisted things can get.
- Be respectful of others if they don't like a direction something is going or aren't in to an option.

The Games ->
Jealousy - you want to make them burn with jealousy. Let them see how easy it would be for you to find someone new, how much of a catch you really are. Alternatively, show them how easy you can take what's theirs, how they should be wary of your charm and power.
Cheating - What's that? A few hickeys, some lipstick on the collar... oops. You flash the evidence of your cheating right in their face. Let them know you don't need them anymore, that you're leaving and going far away.
Ruin - You have been systematically ruining them for a long time. Sabotaging everything that is near and dear to them, ruining their lives and jobs. It's time to put in the final blow and let them know it was you all along. Let them see what they get for the wrongs they've caused you, how you were never the powerless one.
Blackmail - You have some amazing dirt and you are just dying to use it. They thought they could walk on you, make a fool of you? It's time to get something in return for all your suffering and if they won't give it, you'll at least get the satisfaction of ruining them.
Play - You aren't seriously trying to hurt the other. You're lovers and this is a game. You're out for a night on the town, flirting with other people and seeing how who can stand it the longest before they feel like dragging you off to remind just who you belong with. It's all just to spice things up a little.
Other - If there is another game you would like to try, feel free to do so. Let's see what deliciously dangerous idea you can come up with.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Name: Elaine Holland
Series: OC
Age:25
Orientation: (Mostly) Heterosexual
Background: Check her profile/user info for details, but basically she is a meddlesome investigative journalist with an interest in crime. Her brother is a vigilante and she lives with him. Her family is magical (though she avoids magic and can't use hers) so she's aware of its existence.
Personality: Check her profile/user info for details, but she's stubborn, prideful, sarcastic, a bit socially awkward, grumpy. However, she's also very compassionate to those in those in need and has a protective streak. Basically, she has trust issues and a temper, but a soft heart. (Corny sounding, I know.)

Yes: I'm pretty okay with everything, not much triggers me.
No: I'm cool with just about anything, but if you got any triggers/limitations, let me know.

[ Vampires are eating him again.

Oops.

No seriously I can't Briley with any of the other prompts without feeling horrible dirtiness and RileyOOCness. ]

[And Buffy, of course, has suspected things and all but storming the place and now she is standing there. Staring at him. With that quietly furious, just-about-to-explode look on her face.]

Name: Asano Rin
Series: Blade of the Immortal
Age: 17.
Orientation: Identifies as heterosexual, but it depends on the connection she has with someone.
Background/Personality: Here! (Yes I made a wiki shut up.) Buuut basically HER PARENTS ARE DEAD and she wants revenge now; personality-wise she's a sweet, helfpul determinator jesus who is always PLANNING THINGS and doing stuff and is very clever and resourceful, if also impulsive and often prone to acting way too rashly, which tends to get her into trouble. Also her idea of morals is. Interesting sometimes.

Yes: OPEN TO EVERYTHING.
No: Except outright non-con. Dub-con is fine.

Name: Starfire
Series: Teen Titans
Age: 18
Orientation: Inconsequential (pansexual)
Background: Long story short, she's an alien princess turned slave turned superhero. She crashed landed on our planet and now works with the Teen Titans as the team muscle.
Personality: Outgoing, loving, friendly, passionate, forgiving, a bit naive, though not to be crossed.

Yes: All of the prompts are cool with me. I especially have a fondness for jealousy (extra points for it backfiring) and play.
No: Nothing that's listed. If you have a limits, though, feel free to tell me.

Name: Chi-Chi
Series: Dragon Ball/Z
Age: Depending on what you'd like 18 (end of Dragon Ball) or 21 (Dragon Ball/DBZ time skip)
Orientation: Heterosexual
Background: Daughter of the Ox-King and childhood sweetheart of the world's strongest man. Though the latter part was mostly one sided, as said strongest man thought "bride" meant something to eat as a kid, so.
Personality: Chi-Chi is a sweet young woman who is very polite and domestic...and also prideful, stubborn, and the owner of possibly the world's biggest temper.

Pretty much Chi-Chi in a nutshell.

Yes: Everything listed is cool.
No: Nothing from my side.

Name: James Moriarty
Series: BBC Sherlock
Age: Early 30s
Orientation: Flexible
Background: Here!
Personality: Moriarty is the definition of playing with fire. Really, though, he's a very cruel, wrathful man. He has his fingers in a lot of pies, and has connections with quite a few dangerous people, himself. He's the world's only consulting criminal - he knows how to get under someone's skin, and enjoys challenges. Boring people are boring, he has no time to waste with them, and any games with "normal" people would be quick and gruesome and probably not bode well.

Yes: Ruin and blackmail would be lovely. The other scenarios are perfectly fine as well. Please specify if you'd be uncomfortable with anything - I tend to have no limits with this one. If you're okay or...not okay with character death, that'd be something to mention.
No: Everything should be alright with me! If you'd like your character to er, be controlling the game so to speak, Moriarty is a stubborn thing and doesn't like to play well with others. Just to forewarn.

[ Would John or Sherlock be more up your alley, if interested with either? ]

|| My first instinct was BOTH PLEASE BOTH but really, I'd be perfectly fine with either one! Do you have a preference? I've never played him with a John before, so that could certainly be interesting. ||

[[ Working off a slightly AU'd concept of Jim surviving Reichenbach for proper hideous purposes! ]]

[ Three years now he's been at this. Well, two and a half, perhaps; the first six months had been spent trying, and failing, to accept what had happened: The argument; the note; the fall. Six months of nightmares, and therapy, and well-meaning friends trying to help when all he'd wanted was to be left alone. Six months of staring at that gun in his drawer and giving it the most serious consideration he'd ever thought himself capable of. It was only when he'd nearly hit rock bottom that he'd begun what brought him here today, a strange life with the danger he so needed to survive that, while still paling in comparison to what he'd had before, was enough to keep him going from day to day.

After all, who better to expose Richard Brook as the fake he really was than someone with nothing left to lose?

That was how John had become a journalist, at least of sorts. His blog had enough support still that he'd actually taken to writing full-time; even with his so-called revelation as a "fake genius" tales of his successes - and failures - continued to earn him enough revenue to fuel what he listed as research trips in his checkbook. In reality it had been working to carefully and systematically pluck apart the web of one James Moriarty, steadily begin to expose him for the mastermind he truly was -- and frankly, he'd been doing quite well at it. He may not have been on the same level as Sherlock, but he was clever in his own right, and it had gotten him far.

Well. Until Russia, anyway. Which would be why he is presently handcuffed to a chair in a dimly lit interrogation room with a fat lip and a mild concussion, where he's been for the past two days. He's seen no one since he was dragged in limp and half-conscious, not even to ask his name. Despite having no food or even water in that time, his resolve remained intact; he's been working at the cuffs all this time, slowly and noiselessly, twisting a hairpin carefully into the lock. He's not going to stay in here until he starves to death. He's too much to do still.

He won't let himself die until Sherlock's name is cleared. ]

[ James Moriarty is not a man who gets his hands dirty. Not unless necessary, of course, and after feigning his own death and exposing the man, exposing Sherlock Holmes as a fraud, a liar, he's become more and more complacent. He reads though, reads the lovely little column written by one John H. Watson MD, the simply adorable little blog that used to contain cases and more, and more hints about Sherlock's present state of mind and personal life than he ever could have gained from one Mycroft Holmes.

He doesn't stop reading when the fall happens. No, the blog becomes a rather self righteous, desperate attempt to speak the truth about Sherlock. It becomes full of pleas to realize what is truly right, attempting to pluck apart the story he'd built around Richard Brook. This was the man he had become - slipping into the role easily, continuing to build news stories around the hoax and scandal Sherlock had potentially created. James Moriarty was off the record, off the map, and he conducted his business late into the night, offering advice to those who continued to seek it. They knew well enough to know that feigning death was just one of James Moriarty's specialties, no matter how clear the newspapers displayed him lying on the roof with blood and brain matter escaping out of a hole in his head.

And so it brings him here. No one has seen him, actually seen him for six months or more, the infamous consulting criminal conducting everything through the hands, the eyes, the actions of others. It's a delight what he can do with technology, what little effort it truly takes to bring a man down, to have him knocked unconscious and dragged bleeding into a room.

He wanted to give him a special welcome, slipping on a hopelessly familiar Vivienne Westwood suit. John Watson had never been Sherlock Holmes. He'd been so much easier, simpler, more boring. But Moriarty could somewhat admire the man's efforts as he put them forth. Because of this man, the world still had not forgotten about the name James Moriarty, the name Richard Brook, and it made it so…difficult to go about business as usual. For this, he would make it sweeter. He would give the man the courtesy, one of the only men that Jim had at his mercy directly, had strapped explosives to once in efforts to get Sherlock to come out and play, had trained a sniper directly at the man -- well, he deserved a personal visit.

Which brought him to Volgograd, standing in the abandoned room with John strapped to a chair, the door closing shut behind him. His dark eyes wander towards the hairpin, clenched in trembling hands, attempting so desperately to remove the cuffs that keep him trapped. He makes a sound to announce his arrival -- a soft inhale through the mouth, a somewhat derisive, slow exhale through the nose. ]

You're not going to escape. [ He sounds almost bored, making a gesture towards the cuffs. ] Even if you do manage to get them off… [ He fades out for a moment as if considering, then his lips twitch. ] There's no where for you to go.

[ His hands still the moment he hears the doorknob turn. Oh yes, isn't that timing perfect, just as he's starting to feel the hairpin turn just so... He holds his breath and for a moment does nothing more than glare hatefully down at the concrete floor as though it were to blame for the suffering he now expects to face. Yes, this is where the interrogation begins, isn't it? The strikes, the waterboarding, the blood -- he could endure it. There's still work to do. This is just a minor setback.

The exhale catches his attention, but the voice freezes his blood cold.

He'll never forget that bored and oddly playful lilt, tinged with violence. It used to haunt him before, stalk him in his dreams every now and again with a soulless smile that never reached the darkness of his eyes. Since Sherlock's death he's seen it more and more, mocking him every step of the way with each agent toppled and every scheme exposed. The only comfort that could ease the tremble of his hands and the pounding of his heart in those first few terrible moments of wakefulness was the knowledge that he would never see that face again.

No. God, no.

Slowly he lifts his head, meeting Moriarty's gaze with remarkable calm despite the cold sweat that's broken out across his brow and down the back of his neck. Oh, yes; he's not imagining this. That is Jim Moriarty wearing an all-too-familiar suit, looking as bored and casual as he did in the courtroom all those years ago. His hand clenches around the hairpin and he draws in a steadying breath. Keep it together, John. ]

You were dead.

[ His voice is low and even, if somewhat raw from disuse. He wets his lips then continues a bit louder- ]

A bullet, right through your brain. I saw the photos- Everyone did, claiming that he'd made you do it.

[ He's shaking now as the anger descends all at once. Moriarty is alive. He's alive and well while Sherlock Holmes lies rotting in the Earth with empty eyes and a skull cracked open at the temple. He's wrenching forward against the handcuffs and the bolted chair without caring how useless it may be, screaming at him with all the rage and pain he's endured since this monster of a man tore Sherlock out of his life. ]

You were dead!!

[ He's observing John, those dark, dark eyes staring towards him as that expression stiffens on his face, as realisation creeps in on the back of his neck. So it's worked, of course it's worked with everyone else, but it's worked with John too; he's gotten to him, he's made everyone truly believe that Jim Moriarty is dead, had died on the top of a tower in the very company of his dear, dear Sherlock. He's illuminated only by the swinging lamp in the interrogation room, his handmade Italian shoes making sounds against the concrete below, the only counter to John's voice that reverberates so delightfully against the walls of the room.

He's right, he's not imagining it, and Moriarty does have to show some restraint to keep from leaning right in to John so he can see his face close up. So he knows he's real. Oh yes he's very real, and he's very alive, and very dangerous at that. He does stop, meet John's gaze finally, standing in front of him with his hands crossed behind his back, hands folded. ]

That is what it looked like. [ He chides, as if talking to a child, a singsong tone to his voice, his head moving, rolling to crack his neck into place. ] Yes, I'd set it up perfectly didn't I. The gun, the blood, the body, it was done so perfectly. Bravo, me! [ He claps his hands mockingly, giving himself a round of applause. ---

And then he's quick, he's slamming his palms down, the table reverberating under impact, his brows furrowed and his eyes narrowed. ] As you can see. I'm not. Dead that is. It's easy - so so easy, he was an idiot for not being able to realise it but oh it made him do what he needed.

[ And then he pulls back, and that tone fluctuates again, higher ]

I can only assume you'll want to do the same. After all, he's dead. I'm not. Your chances of survival are limited, really, if you wanted to save yourself the trouble, [ He's glancing back at him, starting to walk again, starting to pace. ] I could get you a gun. [ He makes a motion with his hand, right at his head. ] Something tells me, you're not quite as good as faking a bullet in your brain, are you, John Watson? You could, if you wanted to. Keep yourself from so much worse I could do.

[ He laughs. ] I'd be so kind as to provide you with it. A way out.

Edited 2012-08-27 03:33 (UTC)

[ If he dislocated his shoulders, would it get him closer to the man? Could he reach him? He's considering it heavily, the rage making anything, any sort of attack worth the blood and suffering he would endure. He surges forward again, breathing heavily and shaking as the adrenaline floods his veins to push his hunger and exhaustion down to allow the blinding rage to take hold in full. There's no fear in him now as he faces down the spider. God, he's never hated someone so much in his life. Enough pulling, maybe he could work this chair loose, get his cuffs around the man's neck and yank until it snaps.

It could cost him his life, but it would be worth it. Isn't that what this is all for? ]

You son of a-

[ And then he stills, watching the little display, the pantomime to the side of his head combined with such appalling implications that John feels bile rise up in his throat. It's all the worse with the recollection of considering exactly this more than once on his darker days, when the entire world seemed to be crushing him on all sides and a bullet looked to be the only way out.

But that's not him anymore. Not now, and never again.

That's all it takes to allow his resolve to settle back to steel. His back straightens and his chin lifts to fix Jim with an even stare, jaw set hard and breath coming slow in and out through his nose. No, he won't play this game. This just means he can prove it. No one can deny the existence of James Moriarty if he drags him to the authorities in handcuffs -- or, more preferably, a body bag. Their eyes meet in a show of his solidarity. ]

I'd love to have one, thanks. You'll have to unlock me first. One bullet would be more than enough.

[ Not between the eyes, Jim. Not for you. In a lung, perhaps, to watch the man drown from his own blood. Through the carotid artery to enjoy the sight of him bleeding out. Into the stomach to cause a gastrointestinal perforation, spilling the contents into his abdominal cavity to let infection do his work for him. The options are nearly limitless. ]

[ He makes a tutting sound, shaking his head in disappointment. No no no, that wasn't the way this was supposed to work, though it was rather entertaining to him to watch John try. Try and try so valiantly, just as he'd observed him struggling before with that hairpin. John was like Sherlock in this way and in this way only, honestly. He didn't seem to know when to stop, even when faced with death in front of him. Jim finally sat, pulled that metal chair opposite the table and sat down in front of John, fingers laced, nearly friendly as if they were discussing terms of an arrangement. He even went so far as to have a smile on his face, gracing those thin lips, those flint eyes still staying trained on John, watching his reactions, watching as he struggles to

Keep it all together. And Jim just has to laugh at that, something unnerving and slightly unhinged, enjoying the way John has to recover, has to pull back up and face him with the tenacity and fierceness of an ex-soldier, his jaw set tight and his back straightening. While Jim is hunched, leaning over the table, just inches out of reach from John, John is set back straight.

And those muted blue eyes meet his. Not nearly as brilliant or as alive as Sherlock's were, in that brief little moment where Jim was able to look up at the man, watching that split second of reaction as he choked on the gun filled with blanks. Jim had no intention of killing himself today, nor making it look like he had. He smiled and twisted his head, cracking his neck as John asked for the gun. ]

Afraid I won't be doing that, dear. I'll be giving you a gun courtesy of one of my men, you see. Where would you like it?

[ He leaned forward, fingers inches away from the other man's skin, gesturing to his head. ]

Could do it here. Shoot the memory right out of your head, wouldn't you like that? [ His teeth bare, and the hint of a chuckle escapes past his lips. Unlike John, he doesn't need to watch the man suffer beneath him, choke on his own bile as he bleeds out, cries out in pain for someone who will never come. Jim's smile widens incrementally, dropping the fingers down to his heart. ]

You do protest an awful lot for someone who has no inclinations towards men, you know. [ He pauses, and chuckles again, almost amused at his own jokes, his own thoughts of the dearest doctor following the detective around. ] You're not gay, we get it already. But you do - [ He presses forward, and the tips of his fingers touch the clothed skin over his heart, pressing lightly, knowing full well he's making a dangerous move being so close. ] - have a special place for him right here, don't you.

[ And then a laugh, a derisive snort. ] Pardon me, did.

[ It's a bit like a game of chess, what they've had going on between the two of them. Each move is careful, calculated, planned turns and turns in advance, but must be laid out on the board before the time is up or risk losing everything. In this game, however, the board is vast and unforgiving and the clock works in months, not minutes. Each piece played costs lives, real human lives that are left to be pawns between two men who rather hate to lose. Sherlock has been careful, working diligently under the guise of death to take down pawns and rooks and knights alike, leaving them to be handled by the MI5 or anyone else in Mycroft's network with a knack for taking out the trash.

It had been long, and tedious, and oftentimes boring, going through all this. Sherlock has not enjoyed it. This is not the life he wants, and he earns no satisfaction from it; where's the fun in playing against a dead man, anyway? At least so he'd thought right up until the day he'd seen the ad in The Sun on the page after his latest assisted arrest: it was small, just something tucked away in the classifieds where most wouldn't notice.

A greeting, written just for him, words of vague affection that only he would recognized and signed with an unmistakable name: Love, Jim.

And then, code; binary, of course. An address. The sight of it had made Sherlock's stomach bottom out, though from panic or excitement he couldn't have said. Both, perhaps. Weren't they almost one and the same? That was why Sherlock had come to The Cuckoo Club in the first place to find a reservation in his name (odd, as he wasn't a member) and a private booth with a bottle of wine waiting for him. He hung up his coat on the peg nearby before sliding into one side, steepling his fingers and waiting.

The king would move into check soon. But who was checking whom? ]

[ And it truly is, like chess, a game of prediction. Both Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes are skilled in the art of predicting one's actions, in identifying motives - Jim knows Sherlock well enough that he's more moralistic than he is, he'll hesitate at anything that would cause something too terribly horrible to happen. And Sherlock knows him well enough to know that he's fashioned himself on being unpredictable - and in so, is almost always easily predicted to do the most unlikely thing. Their final problem has stretched on, stretched on for months and months. Moriarty's pulled the strings, casually, and Sherlock's unraveled them, able to continue assisting his own sources in stopping him before he gets terribly out of hand.

He's entering the Cuckoo Club with a dignified gait, the owner greeting him with a different name and taking his coat. The rest of the employees don't bother him nearly as much, used to this, used to the man coming in silently to meet with potential customers, clients. No one quite knows what he does and he keeps it as such; he likes this club specifically because everything is kept quiet, no one pries. He approaches Sherlock with an almost friendly smile on his face, picking up the wine, reading off the label. ]

Gaja Barbaresco. [ He turns the bottle in hand, brows lifting. ] 2008, you should try it. [ He nods to a gentleman in a white collar tuxedo, the man coming to open the bottle for them, pour a sample amount into the glasses. Jim nods, and he takes his leave quickly, leaving the two of them across from one another, entirely alone. Jim's still wearing a casually twisted smile, teeth not quite visible, only a hint of his lips parted as he stares. Stares and studies Sherlock nearly as much as he's certain the other man is studying him. ]

I almost didn't think you'd make it. [ He sips his wine, watching Sherlock over the rim of the glass. ] Glad I was able to…catch your attention.

[ He knows who has entered the club without even turning to regard the door. It's as though the air of the place has changed, a tension just for him that goes right over the simple heads of every peon working there. There is no mistaking when Jim Moriarty crosses the threshold and it's all Sherlock can do to not break out into a cold sweat. He'd like to tell himself this is a calculated risk and he has absolute control of the situation, that he's not put himself elbow deep in a fire pit from the get-go, but he knows that's a lie. This is dinner with the devil. This is true danger. One misstep and he's back on the roof of Bart's, this time without a safety net.

And then the spider arrives at his table.

His gaze lifts to offer a smile of his own that doesn't reach his eyes, cool and relaxed despite his anxiety. He doesn't even glance at the bottle, making his disinterest clear as he settles comfortably back into the cushion of his booth. Even the waiter is ignored, Sherlock's fingers lacing together atop the table. There is nothing here more interesting to him than the criminal on the other side of the booth. ]

I can't imagine how I could have missed it, actually. Rather bold move on your part, leaving something out so clearly in public. Perhaps you're just getting that eager to be caught?

[ His tone is smooth and mocking, ready to play the game. Shall we dance, Mister Spider? ]

Name: Tony Stark
Series: Iron Man, The Avengers
Age: 45
Orientation: Bi
Background: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iron_Man_%28film%29
Personality: Tony is arrogant, self-obsessed, and reckless. If you can get past that he's a pretty nice guy.

Yes: Anything and everything not listed below, would prefer guys for smut
No: Mpreg, toilet related fetishes

((fancy playing with a Loki?))

((Only always!))

((any particular situation you wanna play out?))

((Blackmail majybe? Or jealousy? I don't really mind.))

(Good ol bitta blackmail sounds good. Do you wanna start or shall i? Also who to be getting blackmailed?)

((Tony maybe? I'm not sure how blackmailing Loki would work. But I'm actually heading to lecture right now so would you mind starting? But I can always start when I get done if you want. ))

[He smirks standing behind Stark. Bent down just enough his cold breath at the back of Tony's neck. Whispering into his ear]

So Stark are you going to entertain me.

It's not easy to be forgiven if this were to accidentally slip out.

[He slowly paces round to his front and faces him directly]

So are you prepared to bargain. To keep your name clean?

Depends on what you're after, Rudolph. [He follows LOki's progress, hands shoved deep into his pockets as if there's nothing at all wrong with the exchange. However despite appearances Tony knows he is well and truly screwed.]

My name's pretty tarnished already, I don't need your help with that. [But somehow Tony doubts this particular one night stand would go over well with the rest of the team.]

You are cocky as always Stark. Even now, out of all your enemies it is I to offer a hand.

[He steps forward suddenly and grabs Tony's face between his hands. The grip tight he brings him close just a breath away his voice turning a little hostile]

This is not a game. I expect to see a little gratitude. Maybe even humility

I don't do humility. And I definitely don't do blackmail. [He tenses when Loki grabs him, pulling him closer, and grabs the god by the wrist]

All I have to do is tell them I didn't know it was you. Which is technically true since you had breasts at the time. [How was he supposed to know the beautiful woman at the fundraiser had been Loki?]

[He laughs. And lets go of him. But notices Tony still gripping his wrist]

Are you really that weak to a pretty face Stark? [He uses one hand and runs it down the side of Stark's face, speaking in a more gentle tone]

So weak to such a gentle touch.

Jealousy/Cheating
[The hired car slows to a stop outside Irene's destination, and before the driver to open the door, she checks her makeup in the mirror. She touches up her lipstick, vivid blood red against her pale skin, and allows the driver to help her out.

She climbs out of the car with fluid poise, and a smile as keen as the blade of a knife plays over her lips as her eyes take in the scene. It was but a second's work to pick out the person she was here for, and without hesitation, Irene began making her way towards her goal with an almost predatory grace.]

Play
[The gallery opening is a subdued affair, full of politicians wanting to be seen, affluent rising stars desperate to prove they were cultured. Irene raises her wineglass to her lips and takes a sip of the dark, heady vintage, knowing the eyes that were fixed on her.

She lets the Merlot trip over her tongue, and sets the glass back on a passing waiter's tray, the stain of blood red lipstick obvious on the glass. Her attention seems to be focused on the young trophy wife and her corporate chairman husband, though the way a smirk tugs at her lips, and the way her hips sway, show that they are not the only ones holding her attention, that she expects her companion to be watching from behind.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Playing With Fire: The Meme

Elaine Holland | OC | OTA

Buffy Summers | BtVS | OTA

random icons. DEALWITHIT. also cheating because canon?

Totally dealing.

Asano Rin | Blade of the Immortal | OTA

Starfire | Teen Titans | Open to All

Chi-Chi | Dragon Ball | Open to All

jim moriarty | sherlock bbc | ota

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Ruin

sorry that this took so long!

Oh hello lovely tag how are you

your watson is fabulous and i love him

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And tada, you get both!

I am obviously the luckiest person in the world.

TERRIBLY sorry for the delay, finally have net access again!!

Tony Stark | Iron Man/Avengers

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I'll Start!

Back!

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Irene Adler || BBC Sherlock || Options below