↠ free for all.

[buries]

free for all: open rp post.

❧ comment with one or more of your muses. it can be empty, contain a scenario, or a prompt for a scenario (image, lyric, quote, etc). for the best way to get something that isn't complete bullshit, please either leave a scenario yourself or an image (i work best with images, but can make do with lyrics).

❧ in the subject line, request one of the muses that you would like me to tag you with. no one is off limits. if you know i play someone who i haven't listed, feel fee to request them. however, i cannot guarantee you will get exactly who you choose (especially if they're inactive/a character i don't play a lot.) even if they have a post in this community, i don't mind doing anything with anyone.

❧ if you want a specific style, action or prose, please let me know. default is action spam.

❧ rp with me so we can psl and i can eat your soul. ♥ i would love to turn these into personal storylines.

❧ you can also use this as a space to write with characters that do not have an inbox post. this is primarily what this post is for. permanent open rp post.


( information | musebox | open rpbox | private storylines )

Comments

post-sh2 or w/e. this is going to hurt my heart so you better have gladstone nurse it.

[winking]

[ irene falls in an empty restaurant. but the one thing professor moriarty never counted on was her to possess the strength to pick herself up again. poison her tea with something that makes her knees buckle underneath her, but irene adler has never been one to break because of a man. she's done many stupid things because of them, but never has one lead to her demise.

a few months after it all, at a time where she thinks he's about to move on (and forget her face), she finds herself in 221b baker street. it's abandoned, just like it always is when she passes by, and she finds her photograph she remembers from years prior lying face down on the top of the table. some things linger on top of it, but she has the feeling the photograph is not forgotten. she lifts it up and slips the edges of a small postcard in the frame, covering her face. on the postcard is a design of a carousel, of nowhere specific, but sherlock holmes has always been a man to know the details when it comes to irene adler; from the men she likes to marry to the men she divorces moments after she says i do, to the kinds of hotel rooms she enjoys. he'll know the types of places she likes to visit to lose herself in, to become a stranger even to her own reflection, because sometimes she thinks he knows her better than she knows herself.

it's evening when she decides to linger by an old carousel, one that moves a little too slowly for the enjoyment of any child, and lingers around it. she's in slacks, rather than in one of her loud and feminine dresses that feel heavier than her own baggage, with her hands clasped behind her back as she waits. her hair is neat, though it bears some semblance to how it was on that bridge where he'd managed to slip her hands in cuffs and slip away with her heart in the palm of his hand.

she may buckle under the pressure at times, but irene always returns to him. ]