MorMor - Tumblr Posts
Yep.. I would be Seb.
Jim: time to get out of bed, the sun is up!
Seb: so fucking what? It’s not like I need to photosynthesise
When you spend hours upon hours just looking at adorable MorMor posts and realize it's fucking 4am... *whelp.. that escalated quickly*
...
Okay, so i have to watch this dry ass documentary about people dying and how their families deal with it.. and then all of a sudden Bad Guy from Billie Ellish comes on and I'm like 'would Seb sings this to Jim? Or the other way around?'
Fucking songs.
Okay, another song that reminds me of Seb and Jim. Broken -Lovelytheband. I can HEAR SEB HUMMING THIS AND THINKING OF JIM.
loving the idea of sebastian raging over the mere possibility of jim being hurt.
like when he spent those few weeks being interrogated (and kicking it with mycroft lmao)
something about seb losing rationality when it comes to jim being hurt. all the calm and calculated nature of being a sniper absolutely shattered. and it’s barely a protective thing (I mean hey maybe it is a bit) but more of a possessive primal type beat.
jim thinking it’s funny at first, like an angry puppy whose teeth aren’t nearly big enough to back up any kind of bark, and then seb keeps huffing and puffing about it and he’s like oh my god shut the fuck upppp
I have a huge chunk of time in my work diary today and since the muse won't touch my wips I'm gonna let her go wild on some drabbles -- my asks are open, prompt me! Pairings and fandoms I write for in the tags
See my existing works here
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writing-prompt-s:
Valhalla does not discriminate against the kind of fight you lost. Did you lose the battle with cancer? Maybe you died in a fist fight. Even facing addiction. After taking a deep drink from his flagon, Odin slams his cup down and asks for the glorious tale of your demise!
Oh my god, this is beautiful.
A small child enters Valhalla. The battle they lost was “hiding from an alcoholic father.” Odin sees the flinch when he slams the cup and refrains from doing it again. He hears the child’s pain; no glorious battle this, but one of fear and wretched survival.
He invites the child to sit with him, offers the choicest mead and instructs his men to bring a sword and shield, a bow and arrow, of the very best materials and appropriate size. “Here,” he says, “you will find no man who dares to harm you. But so you will know your own strength, and be happy all your days in Valhalla, I will teach you to use these weapons.”
The sad day comes when another child enters the hall. Odin does not slam his cup; he simply beams with pride as the first child approaches the newcomer, and holds out her bow and quiver, and says “nobody here will hurt you. Everyone will be so proud you did your best, and I’ll teach you to use these, so you always know how strong you are.”
————
A young man enters the hall. He hesitates when Odin asks his story, but at long last, it ekes out: skinheads after the Pride parade. His partner got into a building and called for help. The police took a little longer than perhaps they really needed to, and two of those selfsame skinheads are in the hospital now with broken bones that need setting, but six against one is no fair match. The fear in his face is obvious: here, among men large enough to break him in two, will he face an eternity of torment for the man he left behind?
Odin rumbles with anger. Curses the low worms who brought this man to his table, and regales him with tales of Loki so to show him his own welcome. “A day will come, my friend, when you seek to be reunited, and so you shall,” Odin tells him. “To request the aid of your comrades in battle is no shameful thing.”
———-
A woman in pink sits near the head of the table. She’s very nearly skin and bones, and has no hair. This will not last; health returns in Valhalla, and joy, and light, and merrymaking. But now her soul remembers the battle of her life, and it must heal.
Odin asks.
And asks again.
And the words pour out like poisoned water, things she couldn’t tell her husband or children. The pain of chemotherapy. The agony of a mastectomy, the pain still deeper of “we found a tumor in your lymph nodes. I’m so sorry.” And at last, the tortured question: what is left of her?
Odin raises his flagon high. “What is left of you, fair warrior queen, is a spirit bright as fire; a will as strong as any forged iron; a life as great as any sea. Your battle was hard-fought, and lost in the glory only such furor can bring, and now the pain and fight are behind you.“
In the months to come, she becomes a scop of the hall–no demotion, but simple choice. She tells the stories of the great healers, Agnes and Tanya, who fought alongside her and thousands of others, who turn from no battle in the belief that one day, one day, the war may be won; the warriors Jessie and Mabel and Jeri and Monique, still battling on; the queens and soldiers and great women of yore.
The day comes when she calls a familiar name, and another small, scarred woman, eyes sunken and dark, limbs frail, curly black hair shaved close to her head, looks up and sees her across the hall. Odin descends from his throne, a tall and foaming goblet in his hands, and stuns the hall entire into silence as he kneels before the newcomer and holds up the goblet between her small dark hands and bids her to drink.
“All-Father!” the feasting multitudes cry. “What brings great Odin, Spear-Shaker, Ancient One, Wand-Bearer, Teacher of Gods, to his knees for this lone waif?”
He waves them off with a hand.
“This woman, LaTeesha, Destroyer of Cancer, from whom the great tumors fly in fear, has fought that greatest battle,” he says, his voice rolling across the hall. “She has fought not another body, but her own; traded blows not with other limbs but with her own flesh; has allowed herself to be pierced with needles and scored with knives, taken poison into her very veins to defeat this enemy, and at long last it is time for her to put her weapons down. Do you think for a moment this fight is less glorious for being in silence, her deeds the less for having been aided by others who provided her weapons? She has a place in this great hall; indeed, the highest place.”
And the children perform feats of archery for the entertainment of all, and the women sing as the young man who still awaits his beloved plays a lute–which, after all, is not so different from the guitar he once used to break a man’s face in that great final fight.
Valhalla is a place of joy, of glory, of great feasting and merrymaking.
And it is a place for the soul and mind to heal.
Moriarty & the Priest
(This will contain spoilers for the second season of Fleabag)
So, I discovered the fic These Violent Delights by @pasiphile (and its accompanying stories) last year and it was incredible. I have loved Andrew Scott’s Jim Moriarty since the freaking pool scene and just devoured the world that @pasiphile has created. Truly spectacular. It’s canon as far as I’m concerned.
Then I saw that Andrew Scott was playing a character in the show Fleabag so I watched a clip on youtube from the show (of him and Fleabag making out by a confessional) and I thought, “I have to watch this show.”
So, I watched it. And it was beautiful. Bittersweet. I started watching the second season again and this thought popped into my brain (and I can’t have been the first to think this):
What if, after Jim “died,” he spent the ensuing time (before his resurrection) becoming a priest?
(Now, I like to consider myself to be a fanfic reader of discerning taste. In any crossover fic there has to be a believable reason for the crossover. I’m pretty good with the whole “expansion of disbelief” thing, but there are limits.)
So, here’s how it would work:
Jim “kills” himself on the roof of the hospital and he needs to lie low for awhile. He needs to distance himself from Seb because while the rest of the world may be ignorant of Seb’s existence, the criminal world is rife with information (all rumors and hearsay because Jim is nothing if not thorough) and they can’t be seen together (or even rumored to be seen together) until Jim’s ready for the next stage of his plan to commence. What’s he gonna do in the interim? He’s not going to be himself, that’s for sure. And a priest is pretty far removed from consulting criminal, so why not go to seminary?
He’s ordained and is sent to a perish and that is where we enter the Fleabag universe (yeah, we might be getting a bit timey-whimey, get over it). One thing he forgot was how Seb helped ground him in reality. Without him (and his Web) it is easy to get lost in a character. He’s molded himself into this foulmouthed priest and people are drawn to him - they can’t help themselves. Jim’s magnetism is a lot harder to hide, easier to do for smaller characters, and he makes it work for the priest. He meets this woman, this beautifully tragic woman who doesn’t fit in with the rest of the world - her resonance doesn’t quite match up.
(I love that, in the show, the Priest is the only one who notices Fleabag’s 4th wall breaks. That is such a Jim thing - after all, the Priest may not be Jim but Jim is the Priest and he can never fully turn off his brain. Of course he’s going to notice someone slipping away here and there.)
Jim loves chaos, he thrives in it - it’s never chaotic for him - and he revels in the chance to see what chaos this woman will cause. He reads her easily, unconsciously, the mask falling away as if it were never there. There’s so much grief and fear and guilt and loneliness - it’s intoxicating.
(At the dinner scene in the restaurant, when Fleabag asks if he is a real priest, she surprises him. He can count on one finger the number of people who have done that. But Jim is Jim and his mask stays up. Yes, he is a real priest. But, darling, he doesn’t say, I’m so much more.)
Jim enjoys making her fall in love with him, pretending to be so vulnerable and so human. It’s beautiful and, despite being predictable, it’s the most fun he’s had since before the trial - before he began to lose himself in Rich Brook and before he started distancing himself from Seb. And for a moment Jim’s irreversibly furious at Seb for turning him into such a romantic idiot. But that’s the Priest, not Jim. Jim doesn’t love. Jim owns.
(When their drinking G&Ts in his garden and he tells her they’re not going to have sex he knows he’s lying. He also wishes that he could convince her to drop it. He doesn’t really like sex - this stint as a priest is hardly his first go of celibacy. [Seb is the exception, of course, but that had more to do with Seb than Jim.] But then he get’s a bit bored and messes with his own plan and has her bear her soul to him in the confessional. For a second he’s Jim Moriarty again, commanding his subjects to kneel. He can see how uncomfortable this makes her, how vulnerable she is. And he almost laughs. But instead he drags the Priest back up and the Priest kneels before he and kisses her. It really is luck that brings the painting crashing to the ground.
In the end, they do have sex. Of course they do. Even she knew they would. And it’s…not his worst sexual experience. She’s not Seb, so the emotion she’s practically suffocating him with is uncomfortable. But she’s stopped slipping away quite as much when she’s with him. Interesting…and a bit disappointing.
He notices it at the wedding. Her resonance is not quite as off as it use to be. She’s a bit less out of step with the everyone else around her. And he’s so disappointed. She’s so ordinary now. But he knew it would end like this, of course.)
He leaves, pretends to be heartbroken about it, pretends to love her, even manages to shed a few tears. But he has an empire to get back to, a right hand to whip into shape, and a pair of brothers to destroy once and for all.
He leaves, because that’s what people do.
So, I decided to write the fic myself
I mean, it was half written anyways
You’re thirty-three when you shoot yourself in the head on the rooftop of St. Bart’s hospital. You’ve been holding London by the balls for almost ten years. Rich Brook may have been the (temporary) downfall of Sherlock Holmes, but he did more damage than you anticipated.
Seb has been picking up the slack over the last two years. He thinks that you can’t see the consequences of your obsession, but Seb can be so annoyingly human sometimes. You see everything. It was always going to end like this. But you didn’t anticipate the effect it would have on Seb. He’s surprised you again. Despite everything, he still loves you. He can be so annoyingly human sometimes.
The story can’t pick up again for another five years. You need to distance yourself from your kingdom. The stories of your reign need time to become legends. And you just know Seb is going to hold a grudge about this, he always did have trouble seeing the whole picture.
So, you have five years to spare. Five years to disappear into somebody else, somebody less. It’s all planned out, you’re going to Allen Hall. Maybe you should leave London, but people are so boring and this is the last place they’ll look for you. Seb won’t want to stick around and someone needs to keep an eye of things. Even if it is the distant eye of a broken man determined to change his life by going to seminary and becoming a priest. That really is the last place anyone would look for you.
You enter seminary and it quickly becomes a bit of a game. You’re thirty-three, older than the other prospective priests but you’re used to being an outsider. So, you push boundaries. You never paid them any mind before, why should you start now? You swear more than is acceptable, you talk about your alcoholic parents, you even make up a pedophile brother. (Seb would love that one. You’ll have to tell him about the silence that follows whenever you drop that tidbit). But like all games, you grow weary of this one. Everyone is so fucking predictable. You wish you could just sleep through the next five years.
At long last you're ordained. You do your six months as a deacon and every day you contemplate stabbing the priest in the face. He’s an old fucker. Probably wouldn’t live much longer even if you weren’t there to speed things along with a touch of aconite. He had a weak heart an no one questions the heart attack he suffers the week before your parish assignment comes through. Asking you to take over is only logical.
Things get a bit more interesting after that. Pam really keeps you on your toes, she’s always there when you turn around – you contemplate getting a little bell for her to wear around her neck. The parishioners are a bit of fun. You revisit your game from seminary – push boundaries just to see how far you can push them. And then this batty woman comes and ask you to be the priest at her wedding to the father of her godchildren. You leap at the chance to join them for dinner and that’s when you meet her. There’s something just a bit...off with her. She’s resonating at a different frequency than everyone else – an outsider, like you but not like you.
When you meet her at the restaurant she asks if you’re a real priest; she surprises you. You can count on one finger the number of people who have done that. Yes, you say, I’m a real priest. But, darling, you doesn’t say, I’m so much more.
She’s good, but no one is as good at wearing a mask as you. You read her easily, unconsciously, the mask falling away as if it were never there. There’s so much grief and fear and guilt and loneliness – it’s intoxicating. The chaos she brings would be a work of art, were it intentional. You want to harness it, own it, teach her to wield it like a knife. But that won’t work. She doesn’t mean for any of it to happen – it’s her sister who had the miscarriage, obviously, and the ensuing violence simply the result of sisterly affection. But, God, who gives someone a voucher for counseling? (That’s another thing you’ll have to tell Seb about – that list is starting to get long.)
There are these moments when she slips away. You don’t know where she goes, don’t see the destination. That intrigues you more than it should. It’s more of a testament about your life these last few years than it is of her. But where is she going? It infuriates you that you can’t figure it out.
You have time, and you know how this ends, but everyone else is so very boring; you don’t care that she’ll be just as boring afterwards. You’re exile is nearly over and you’ve missed making the world dance for you. She falls for you easily, so ready to believe how vulnerable and how human you are. It’s so predictable and so beautiful and so fun – the most fun you’ve had since before the trial. (Before you began to lose yourself in Rich Brook and before you began distancing yourself from Seb.) You know how this ends, but why shouldn’t you have your fun?
You’re not going to have sex, you tell her in the back garden, drinking those disgusting canned G&Ts from M&S. That’s a lie, but you almost wish it weren’t. You don’t really like sex – this stint as a priest is hardly your first go at celibacy. Seb is the exception, of course, but that has more to do with Seb than you. And if there is anyone to blame for this mess, it’s Seb. You find yourself furious at him for turning you into such a romantic idiot. You’re Jim Moriarty – you don’t love, you own. But you’re not Jim Moriarty – Jim died almost five years ago and it’s not yet time for him to return. Right now, you’re the broken priest with the broken girl falling in love with you. It’s as hilarious as it is annoying.
And maybe it’s out of spite, or maybe it’s out of boredom, but you’re starting to get a bit tired of this charade. You pry a bit too much, pick at the wounds she tries so hard to hide, and kicks you out of her little cafe. It won’t last, you know, and it doesn’t. She’s runs back to you later the same night. You act the tipsy fool and convince her to bare her soul to you in the confessional. You tell her to kneel and for a second, you’re Jim Moriarty again – back on your throne with genuflecting subjects before you. You revel in her discomfort and to stop yourself from laughing you kneel down and kiss her. It really is luck that brings the painting crashing down to the ground.
You fuck her a few nights later. It’s not your worst sexual experience, but she’s not Seb. She’s suffocates you with her emotions and you’re honestly surprised you can even perform under these conditions. She’s stopped slipping away quite as much when she’s with you. And isn’t that interesting? And just a tiny bit disappointing?
You notice it at the wedding – she’s still out of step with everyone around her, but it’s a bit less obvious now. And you knew this would happen, but still, your so disappointed. She’s so ordinary now.
You leave, pretend to be all heartbroken about it, pretend to love her. You even manage to shed a few tears. But you have an empire to reclaim, a right hand to whip into shape, and a pair of brothers to destroy once and for all.
You leave, because that’s what people do.
Just watched the Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse with my Mormor (Danish for Mum's mum), because we're seeing Across the Spiderverse tomorrow. And she liked it, surprisingly.