#liminaled

[angerbuilt]

you seem… like a person. and that’s great. 

“barely look like one.  definitely don’t feel like one right now.”  a person that had gotten into a lot of trouble in the last few hours.

@liminaled​ + rue

[angerbuilt]

( sms ) : you know how you totally adore me? 

( sms ) mm, sometimes. ( sms ) what are you after? ( sms ) because it feels like you’re after something

@liminaled​ + dakota

[fakedsciences-a]

@liminaled // dakota 

<I have to be honest. I hate watching people get drunk.> Too much vomit cleaned out of the diner bathroom, off the vinyl booths. 

<What if we just went to your place and watched a movie?>

[redlizardfather]

‘ shh, it’s okay. i’m here. ’ / sherlock!

        ONLY ONE BED

        IT'S AN AWFUL NOISE. He feels it as much as he hears it, tearing itself free of his throat in desperate fright. Morse jerks awake and though the cause of his fear remains firmly in his head, in his memory and his nightmare, the terrified noise coming from him crosses with him into reality. He's crying. Shaking too. The tears are still wet on his face when Morse begins to try and compose himself, suppressing any further sounds and covering his face with shaking hands.

        "SORRY," he tries to say. To his horror, his voice cracks. He ought to give a better apology; he's almost certainly disturbed Sherlock's sleep, and probably terrified him half to death as well, if he's been shouting aloud in even half the distress he was in his dream. But his pitiful voice can't even manage a single word, so Morse quietens again. Sherlock is shushing him. It's okay, he's saying. I'm here. He is here, and doesn't he understand? That's what Morse is sorry for--- he's truly terribly sorry that Sherlock has had to witness this. He opens his mouth to try and tell him so, to tell him that it isn't okay, and that Morse will understand if he prefers for him to go and sleep in a different room, but his voice betrays him a second time. He can't even speak for the whimpers pressing at the sides of his throat, protesting against his attempts to swallow his cries.

        HE FOLDS. He's tired. God, he's so tired. Morse covers his face again and this time when Sherlock shushes him, he curls forward into the space against Sherlock's chest. Face now hidden, he moves his arms and aims for a casual hold, the way he might choose to cuddle up to Sherlock any other time, but what he ends up doing is more desperate than that. Morse's fingers clutch at his shirt, the trembling of his own body all the more obvious to him now that he's got Sherlock's stiller body to press against. He keeps his head tucked firmly under his chin. By now, Sherlock will be very much aware of Morse's inability to compose himself, but that doesn't mean Morse wants to let him see it on his face. If there's any chance to hide it, avoid looking him in the eye, he'll take it.

        HE CAN HEAR SHERLOCK'S HEARTBEAT. It's slower than his own, racing away in his own chest and only just beginning to calm now that he can focus on the warmth of Sherlock beside him, the softness of his voice, the gentleness of his hands, instead of--- instead of the claws. The roar. The flash of colours, jumping towards him, the unyielding sharpness, unwavering and uncaring---

        MORSE LETS OUT ANOTHER SOB. He tightens his grip on Sherlock. He's going to regret this later. He regrets it now, actually. How terribly selfish of him to disturb Sherlock's sleep, just for his own fear. His own bad memories. And what on earth is possessing him to cry on him? "I'm sorry," he tries, for the third time. He's speaking into Sherlock's chest, voice entirely muffled. "I thought--- it would be better by now. I'd be--- I'd be better. It didn't even--- I've no right to---"

        IT HADN'T EVEN TOUCHED HIM. He's no right to be so distraught by the nightmare. No right at all. And still, he has to fight to slow his breathing. Still, he needs those whispered words from Sherlock. Still, he lets himself press, small and guilt-ridden, against Sherlock’s chest.

[redlizardfather]

[ SHARE ] sender, seeing that receiver is cold, wraps their jacket around them / sherlock!

        DOMESTIC INTIMACY PROMPTS

        "THANK YOU." He's already given all the protests he can think of, from the polite to the downright ridiculous, but for all his cries of "I couldn't possibly!" and his insistence that "you need it!", this outcome was both inevitable and somehow more meaningful than Morse is able to express. "Really, thank you. You needn't have been so kind."

        HE REALLY OUGHTN'T BE SO PLEASED. It's only a jacket. But it isn't only a jacket, because it's Sherlock's jacket. It's warm. Warmed from his body--- and it's like a hug-by-proxy, then, isn't it? It's Sherlock's warmth he's feeling, almost as surely as if the man himself were holding Morse as the jacket does now. Morse might've smiled, if he could find the strength.

        HE SUPPOSES ANYONE WOULD'VE DONE IT. It's not important, and he isn't special. Morse himself might've offered his jacket to someone looking the way he does currently; hands clasped, rubbing together for warmth, skin pale and sickly-looking. Morse really isn't feeling very well tonight. He shouldn't have come. But he did, and they did solve the case, it's just--- well, he's paying for it now, isn't he? The brief chills he's been feeling all day have turned into a near-constant shivering. He feels awful. And so it's no wonder, really, that Sherlock did as anyone might do, and gave Morse his jacket.

        BUT IT'S SHERLOCK'S JACKET. It's not anyone, and he's not anyone, it's Sherlock's jacket wrapped around Morse's body. It's a gentle weight on his shoulders, the tiniest pressure against his body as he pulls it around himself. The warmth is slight and will soon be more from Morse's own body than anything residual from Sherlock's, but to him, trembling and half-frozen as he is, it's blissful. He's half an urge to sit down, pull the jacket properly around himself and tuck his knees to his chest, blanketing himself in its comfort, just for a little while. He won't, of course. Sherlock can't possibly be allowed to see him looking any more pitiful than he already does. But he's terribly grateful for the jacket, all the same, and it takes all he has to say so only with words.

        MORSE LOOKS ACROSS AT HIM. Uncertainly still flickers in his eyes, despite the exhaustion and despite the gratefulness and the awfully distracting fluttering in his chest. "Are you really sure it's no trouble? I don't want you to be cold."

[drkroots-a]

@liminaled​ said: 1. at what age did you start RPing? 2. do you RP anywhere else, other than tumblr? 3. on what platform did you start RPing?

          munday asks

1. at what age did you start RPing?

In the context of writing, I started in 2012, the year after I graduated high school and I started off in fandom space, though in December I branched off and started to do my own thing and it was the best decision I ever made.

2. do you RP anywhere else, other than tumblr?

Again, writing wise, nope! But, I’m a big sucker for console rpgs and if i didn’t have the big anxiety, i’d probably be super into the tabletop scene too!

3. on what platform did you start RPing?

Always have been a tumblr girl, but that’s just because I hate change and I would try to do discord but my brain freaks when all my stuff isn’t together and sharing focus on two different platforms is near impossible for me tbh.

[drkroots-a]

@liminaled​​ said: “Maybe you should take a breather.” / sherlock to jewel!

          intervention starters

               “Justice isn’t one for taking breathers when there’s work to be done. You know that.” After her few words, headache pills were tossed to the back of throat and large gulps of water were swallowed. “Detective Mohr sent you any more information that we can work with or ie he expecting us to do some more investigating on our own?”