Madness of Two- MorMor + Severich

my mind is a safe

The insatiability or James Moriarty is not in the way he flirts outright, the way he winks and blows kisses and makes lurid comments about sex and about how he likes my ass and blah blah blah is that a gun in my pocket or are you just happy to see me blah blah blah I'd let you do such and such and I bet you're a freak in the sheets blah blah bloody blah. All the bullshit that gets eye rolls and little reaction on my behalf, though if he was a hot girl at a bar I'd play along just fine. With girls in bars you know what they want when they throw these comments around: they want to fuck you and be done with it, and believe me, I'm happy to oblige (or at least was, but we'll get to that). With Jim, however, it's less easy to suss out his intentions. That in itself is almost unbearably alluring- that beautiful enigma.

James Moriarty is insatiable because of the things he does without thought or want of provocation. The way he thoughtlessly reaches over me to grab something he needs (a mug, a pen, the TV remote when he can't stand what's on), the soft warmth of his body pressed against mine for seconds at a time that send jolts of electricity through me, a more than pleasant tingling that starts as a heat in my crotch and travels up to my chest where it grabs a hold of my heart and makes my breath hitch. The way he seems to see me in ways no one else has, his knowing and oddly compassionate looks on days the PTSD gets so bad I want to tear my skin off to get it to stop. Those are the days I magically have no assignments from him, and spaghetti- my favourite food- is always coincidentally what he decides to cook for dinner. Those are the days he tells me stories that are like weird, fucked up Jim Moriarty fairy tales which always make me laugh. The days he brings me hot chocolate (never alcohol or caffeine, the stuff he knows I want, but also the stuff he knows will make the anxiety worse and flashbacks more intense), and recommends music to me, sitting close as we share earphones connected to his phone, and he points out all the little intricacies of his stupid calming classical shit that's just so in contrast of his chaotic madness that it baffles me. Anyway, he knows how to make things better in subtle ways, never mentioning that he knows what's going on or drawing attention to it. He's good like that. And I love him for it.

I could on and on about all the small things he does that drives me crazy, the things I think about in the shower or late at night with my hand down low, imagining it's his, his name on the tip of my tongue as the last sigh of pleasure escapes and my eyes roll back in ecstasy. I'm not sure if it's normal to fantasise about making your boss feel so good all they can say is your name, but holy shit is it normal for me.

I'm not just a sex obsessed maniac though, I assure you. I have gentler, more tender fantasies as well, about him being emotionally vulnerable with me, maybe telling me about his childhood (something's gotta explain how messed up he is now, right? My guess is his parents. It's always about parents. That's where it started for me and all. A side note for all who may be reading: each and every one of us is fucked up, only in little ways if you're lucky, but we've all got insecurities and quirks we deem flaws, and if you think about it for long enough, you can trace it back to your parents, either because you're mimicking them or because they said something once that stuck with you forever and sometimes you're up at night staring at the ceiling in horror, terrified that you're the manifestation of everything your parents resent and that you'll never be what they need you to be. Or maybe you outright hate them and mould your personality around what you think would piss them off the most. I respect that.)

Often, to lull myself to sleep at night, I design our lives together as a couple, where I can kiss him on those stupid kissable lips and stupid soft cheeks and run my fingers through his stupid cute hair. He could sit on my lap when we watch films, and we'd cuddle close for warmth in the gruelling winter (he gets so cold so easy I always want to bundle him up and rub his arms until his skin gets a little colour back). I'd kiss his neck whenever I felt like it and know exactly how every inch of his body looked and felt. We could fall asleep in each other's arms and go on romantic holidays. Maybe we could get a cat or something. I've always wanted to buy a huge plot of land and build my own house on it. Maybe we could grow our on food, rescue animals that are going to be slaughtered and give them a better life. At night we could watch the stars together, and we'd be in the middle of no where so the sky would be alive with their celestial glow, and I'm sure in his wonderful knowledgable stupid head of his he knows a million constellations he could tell me about...