1 year ago | 4

((I can’t keep track of what’s happening and I don’t feel I belong anymore. I hope you have fun RPing and I’m really going to miss this group.

I’m so sorry.

Goodbye.))


#((ooc)) 
1 year ago | 1
1 year ago | 20

stoleatimelord-andranaway:

softirishwhispers:

stoleatimelord-andranaway:

softirishwhispers:

stoleatimelord-andranaway:

sweettoothangel:

Love A Tomb: mourn-not-the-morning: face-of-boeshane: withabluebox:…

worldsconsultingdetective:

mourn-not-the-morning:

face-of-boeshane:

withabluebox:

softirishwhispers:

((So I am going back through things and I saw our little truth or dare Tuesday game. I’m not sure who still holds the ball, but I was wondering if anyone would be interested in started that up…

((That sounds awesome!))

((I’m down!))

((Confession:  I’m pretty sure I’m the one that was “it” last and I completely forgot about it.  >.<  But yes, let’s do this!))

((No need to fret. I couldn’t remember if I had passed it or not. Would you like to start with it? We already have a list if interested clients players.))

((Absolutely!  Are we sticking with Tuesdays, then?  I can pass it along before I head to work, if I make myself actually wake up on time.  ^_^;;))

((I think it would be better to keep it ongoing. I know that not everyone could play on Tuesday’s and it really limits things. Start now if you like! I shall post the list on my page.))

((Alright.  I did see that after I asked, just hadn’t read far enough back yet.  ^_^;;  I’ll have to make up my mind who to ask now…))

((Because I’m never on and I can’t guarantee how often I’ll be able to post, I don’t think I’ll take part in this. Just so that I don’t hold everyone else up))

(originally from softirishwhispers)
#((ooc chatter)) 
1 year ago | 10

sallyweepingangelssparrow:

    Sally held her stomach; it felt odd, of course it would feel like she was going to throw up because she’s stuck in a mirror. An old, dusty, and horrible mirror. Sally paced back and forth but once the woman first moved the mirror the inside where Sally was shook; it seemed like there was an earthquake inside the mirror.

     Sally screamed falling to her knees, not on purpose; it seemed when the woman moved the mirror the inside moved also. Once she stopped Sally jumped up and watched what she was writing. 

    Once the woman finished Sally shook her head in a way of saying no “It shakes in here!” she screamed then sighed knowing the lady outside the mirror can’t hear her with made Sally get aggravated wanting to get out as soon as she can. It seemed she was taking the very well, especially for her being stuck in a mirror. 

The woman shook her head ‘no’, and Molly realized the problem.  “Okay,” she said to herself, rubbing her forehead.  “Okay…”

She let out a huff of air and scrawled ‘Lie down. Cover your head. Don’t move until the mirror stops moving.’

(via thecompanionwhogotleftbehind-de)

1 year ago | 15

mourn-not-the-morning:

Nick frowned deeply as she pulled him along in silence. It was strange to see the normally exuberant Molly so stoic, so worried—he wondered what he’d done to upset her. Milton, perhaps, hadn’t been the best choice. But he couldn’t resist; there were so few works of literature that caught some of the truth. Lucifer, glancing down below the surface of her skin, was amused to see the fear gripping her, the terror stilling her vocal cords, but more intriguing than that was the current of excitement lying beneath it. He could have laughed when he realized that she was actually sexually attracted to him. But he’d put too much effort into this to spoil it now, and besides, he wasn’t going to give up a new tool.

“Molly—” Nick insisted, gripping her hand more tightly and spinning her around to face him. “What’s the matter? Was it—was it something I said?” He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck nervously, words streaming out of his mouth with no real direction. “I mean, I get sort of weird when I quote things, sorry, it’s sort of a bad habit, my theatre teacher way back in the day said it was an ‘innate talent’ or something but I never really cared for the stage I get really weak in the knees—”

He stopped suddenly, blinking as he realized he was babbling. “Sorry. Do you want to leave?”

Molly looked at him, really looked, and the fear and strangeness that had invaded her melted away.  She smiled, shaking her head slightly and squeezing his hand a little.

"No, of course not.  It’s alright.  I was just a little unsettled."  She forced a giggle and toyed with her hair.  "I’m not used to people who take Milton so… seriously."  She searched his face, seeing the uncertainty there, and leaned up to kiss his cheek lightly.  "It’s alright," she repeated in a whisper.  "I’m sorry."

Smiling brightly, she tugged him on.  “Fiction, you said?  I think you’ll be impressed with the collection here.  It’s magnificent, really.”

(Source: just-the-mortician)

1 year ago | 13

of-the-golden-hair:

just-the-mortician:

Molly didn’t know that Niamh was within her mind.  She just looked from one preserved corpse to another, mentally rejecting them one by one.  Too tall.  Too short.  Weak bones.  Wrong.  Wrong.  Wrong.

There were no blondes, which was disappointing, but eventually she paused over a young woman with a lithe figure, long brown hair, and delicate features.  Not perfect, but acceptable.  It was as though someone had pointed and announced ‘this one’.  Molly stopped her search, dragged her cart over to the shelf still sticking into the room, and began the ritual that would place her friend, the Goddess, in this empty vessel.

Her lips formed words she didn’t understand, her hands performed tasks they’d never done before, and when the lights started flickering and then shattered one by one, her mind cowered while her body continued its work.  Molly was on autopilot, and once darkness fell save for the candles she’d lit, she was able to examine the scene with an objective eye, even as her mouth chanted and her fingers drew archaic symbols on the body before her.

This would look really, really bad if someone were to walk in, she thought.  Then her voice rose to a crescendo and the candles blew out.

There was a long, tense moment of silence, broken only by the sound of four different lungs drawing breath.

Niamh’s first instinct when she found herself in her own body was to breath. She regretted that instinct immediately - air filled her dead lungs and sent a spasm of pain through her chest. She cried out and quickly exhaled, making a mental note to not do that again.

Her first mistake made, she opened her eyes and took in the room. Her eyesight was strange, not as clear as she was used to, and that had either something to with her now very human eyeballs weren’t as strong as her usual eyeballs, or the fact that they had been dead just a few moments ago - still were. She decided figuring it out was useless.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice strained. While on the outside this body was fine, the inside said differently. It was simply a poorer quality body than her original, and that was to be expected.

“It will take me a moment to regain basic motor functions,” Niamh said as she focused on moving her fingers. She couldn’t feel anything, not even the wound in her gut where the previous host had been killed. It was sad, a young girl such as this stabbed in a mugging. Niamh couldn’t help but be glad though.

“Do you have some clothes I could borrow?” she asked, glancing over at her friend.

Molly had already pulled a pile of clothing from her bag and placed it gently on the rolling table beside her.  She ran her hands calmly and clinically over Niamh’s new body, gently massaging the tense, stiff muscles to help the blood begin circulating again.

"Are you alright?" she asked quietly, not wanting to overwhelm the delicate bones and circuits of the newly-reborn body’s ears and brain.  She slid her hands carefully beneath the Goddess and rolled her onto her side, digging her fingers into the solid muscles of her friend’s pale back.

1 year ago | 9

worldsconsultingdetective:

Just Another Day

worldsconsultingdetective:

When Sherlock’s phone went off that morning, though he’d never have admitted it, he’d quite possibly have taken a case to find a missing cat he was that bored. He would have admitted, if pressed, that the experiment he was conducting was entirely to pass the time.

The cab pulled up to St Bart’s and Sherlock stepped out. He walked straight past the reception office and into the morgue; he hadn’t needed to show ID to anyone in the building for a long time. He was on the receiving end of a few tentative waves, all of which he ignored as he marched into the morgue Molly usually inhabited, “forgetting” to knock.

'Morning Molly,' he said, his attention firmly on the body on the table in front of him, 'Details, what have you found out?'

He pulled his tiny magnifying glass from his pocket and started examining the body.

Sherlock spared Molly a near instantaneous glance before turning his attention back to the dead woman. ‘And the bruising on your neck came from what, exactly?’

For the first time ever, Molly noticed how Sherlock’s presence changed her.  The moment he came barging into her morgue she stood up a little straighter, her smile grew a little brighter, and she immediately stopped tapping her pen against her clipboard as she looked over her notes about Mrs. Tomlinson.

"Isabel Tomlinson," she said in answer to his question, gesturing at the body.  "27, died of cyanide poisoning.  It was inhaled."  Her hand went to her throat as she imagined the pain of it again, and then she froze when he asked his next question.

She didn’t want to tell him.  She didn’t want to say that she had nearly died at the hands of a dead body possessed by a demon — the very same demon who was currently trapped in her flat.  She didn’t want to explain where the bruising had originated.

Not because she thought he wouldn’t believe her — she knew he would, what with all the insanity of late — but because she knew he wouldn’t care.  He would look at her with cold detachment, tell her that she should work harder to cover up the evidence, and there wouldn’t be an inkling of concern in his face.

So she settled on a story that he probably wouldn’t question.

"I had rough sex," she told him, her tone neutral and flat.

(via wcd-archive-deactivated20130508)

1 year ago | 2

((I am finding it extremely hard to focus on this RP))

((I really, really want to, but I can never seem to build up the energy to reply to things))

((I’m going to give it a few more days, but I might need to bow out of this group))

((I don’t want to, at all, but it’s not fair to all of you to have someone who’s slacking as much as I am))


#((ooc)) 
1 year ago | 1
1 year ago | 9

worldsconsultingdetective:

When Sherlock’s phone went off that morning, though he’d never have admitted it, he’d quite possibly have taken a case to find a missing cat he was that bored. He would have admitted, if pressed, that the experiment he was conducting was entirely to pass the time.

He picked up his phone and turned his eyes from the microscope he was peering into to see the text he had received.

Molly. Likely something dull. He opened the text anyway and his eyes widened.

Death under unusual circumstances involving CN.  Might be M.  Come take a look if you have a moment?
~Mollyx

For once on reading a text of Molly’s, his thoughts couldn’t have been further from Molly’s irritating habit of signing her texts with a meaningless ‘x’ after her name.

'Could be M.' Three simple little words. So much possibility.

'John, I have a case!' shouted Sherlock to John, who was probably out. He fired off a reply.

Be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t allow anyone else near the body - SH

He dashed out the door. A tiny part of him thought that boredom was probably preferable to the havoc Moriarty was likely to wreak… his curiousity and thirst for entertainment squashed that thought into oblivion.

He’d hailed a cab in seconds upon leaving 221B. This was going to be interesting.

Molly didn’t bother answering Sherlock’s text.  Nor did she bother feeling insulted over the fact that he’d felt it necessary to tell her not to let anyone near Mrs. Tomlinson’s body.  As though she didn’t know.  As though she hadn’t been working with him for years.  As though she didn’t fulfill his every whim and fancy when he was at Bart’s for a case (which had, at one point early in their… well, ‘friendship’ wasn’t the right term — constituted an incredibly embarrassing hour dressed in a reproduction of a victim’s clothes, lying motionless on the cold floor of the morgue in order to recreate a crime scene).

The idea that this woman might have died at Jim’s hand, though intriguing, made her sick to her stomach.  She had let him make her breakfast, had slept in his arms, had — she had to cover her mouth to keep the bile down — had sex within the very morgue that Isabel Tomlinson’s corpse now occupied.  Self-consciously, she checked the bruising on her neck from her run-in with the demon (and Jim), and, once satisfied that it was mostly (if not entirely) hidden, she returned to work.

If Jim was responsible for this murder — he probably was.  It was too strange, too clever to be anything different — she would deal with it accordingly.  He had never said he would stop, just as she had never said she would stop working with Sherlock.  If Jim had expected special treatment from her just because they were… whatever they were, he was dead wrong.

As dead as Isabel Tomlinson.

(Source: just-the-mortician, via wcd-archive-deactivated20130508)