Second Loves First

(Source: yoohoopuddin)

♪ What’re you doing New Year’s?  New Year’s Eve? ♪

(Source: fassaddicted)

thetigersmagpie:

Being clean was always a unique sensation. There was nothing like it in the world, obviously, nothing that came close to getting rid of dirt, blood, soot, sweat, alcohol, or any of the other things the human body came in contact with on a day to day basis. And some days Jim lingered in showers only still warm by the grace of a hotel water heater’s endless supply of heat, and some days the need to be clean was short and sharp and the water was only on long enough to attain that end.

This was a different sort of clean, the clean of someone else scrubbing him down. Sebastian’s hands were big and very sure; no movement was extraneous, unnecessarily. The Irish criminal allowed the sniper liberties he allowed no one else, being close, touching him. The kisses he not only allowed but returned on a normal occasion. This time he allowed Sebastian to kiss him, his mouth, his chin, while the water ran over his face and took away the last vestiges of the afternoon’s mess on his body.

He was awkward getting out of the tub, grateful for the plush rug in front that immediately soaked up the water from his foot and gave him some traction.

“Mm…yes, better. Much better.” He sniffed the air once, twice, and pulled a face. “Did you use your shampoo on me? God, now if someone smells me they’re going to think I care about not eating dolphins or erasing my carbon footprint.”

He stretched a bit, arched his back, still wrapped in the thick towel.

“I’m going to get changed. Go make my tea and have it ready when I’m done.”

A stupid order, a minor command, but a command nonetheless. The road back to control. He smiled slightly and tipped his head to the side.

“And make sure I have biscuits or something with it.”

“Of course, sir,” Sebastian commented, watching as his employer walked.  His footsteps seemed steadier; he had little concern that the concussed criminal would pass out or stumble, so he let him go on his own.

Clad in only the towel and still dripping, the sniper walked to the kitchen with tread that was silent, smooth and heavy as a jungle cat.  The lingering heat of the shower made the slight chill of the room comfortable, verging on refreshing, as he set about letting the tea seep.

A few minutes later, Jim’s physician arrived.  Moriarty’s second in command bid him wait at the table in the small kitchen and prepared a cup of tea for him as well.  After finding a package of biscuits that hadn’t gone too stale, he left momentarily to dress.

Dressed in clean clothes and looking much like himself, save a few scrapes and burns, he looped back to the kitchen to find that Jim had not joined the doctor.  He sighed and walked back to the master bedroom and leaned in the doorway, “Boss?”

(Source: jiminwestwood)

(Source: cheshiresden)

(Source: jim-moriarty-hi)

(Source: yoohoopuddin)

(Source: leenajane)

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thetigersmagpie:

As soon as the warm water hit him, Jim’s muscles tensed. He hadn’t really taken inventory of his injuries, and getting into the shower with a cut led to the inevitable unpleasant sting of the water on bloody lines and scrapes. But the water was warm and soothing, and the steam had already begun to curl up past the curtain to warm the room and blanket everything in a misty sort of cloud. He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes as Sebastian began to scrub him.

Overall, it was a very nice sensation, not counting the dull aches and throbbing head and shoulder that was just not feeling right. Leaning against the sniper’s solid weight beside him, the water warm and soothing, and that always good feeling of getting clean. Regardless of what else was going on, having a shower was a good thing, a certain privacy (even with a companion) and a certain unburdening. An escape. Jim was known for taking long showers. He wasn’t consistent with them. Sometimes he sang, without any shame, sometimes he just stood under the water and stared at the tiny, uninteresting text on the back of the shampoo bottle. Sometimes he scrubbed himself within an inch of his life while grinning madly to himself because the water had kickstarted some wonderful plan in his ticking time bomb mind. 

Now he kept his eyes closed and took a moment to answer. He could almost hear the grime being washed away under Sebastian’s firm hand. 

“Oh yeah? I think I have the right to complain about the filth more than you, my dear. I’m the one who was not only involved in an explosion, I also had my life saved by a rubbish bin. This may be my lowest moment.” He smiled slightly, eyes opening slowly. He wasn’t going to comment on the earlier statement. He probably couldn’t stay on his feet, and Sebastian knew that, obviously. But if he didn’t acknowledge it, he knew Sebastian wouldn’t mention it again, and that way they could both pretend it wasn’t entirely necessary. “And I’d been having such a nice day. That suit, not to mention that coat, is destroyed.” 

The criminal looked up at Sebastian’s face; while the Irish sniper had not put himself directly under the stream of water, he’d ducked into it a few times. Water rivulets had made some clean lines in the soot on his face, giving him an odd fantastical tribal appearance. His jaw was tight, and Jim couldn’t imagine that this was still some residual worry for himself.

“Are you keeping track of the time until my tea is ready?” Flippancy, at this point, seemed safest.

“Unless I can hear it over the water, a whistling teakettle’s not going bother me too much if we take a few extra minutes,” Sebastian replied, his Ulster accent rolling comfortably through the peaks and valleys of the words. 

He squeezed a bit of his own shampoo into his hands, then lathered Jim’s hair.  With Jim leaning against him, he didn’t need to keep an arm around him, so he was free to take his time as he lightly massaged his scalp and the back of his neck, feeling carefully for bumps and cuts.  When his companion’s mouth tightened for a half-second, he noted a cut on his scalp.

Sliding one arm around Jim’s waist to support him, the sniper used his other hand to tip Jim’s head back into the stream of water and smooth the soap out of his hair.  He impulsively leaned in to kiss the smaller man’s upturned chin, then his mouth.  It was a kiss without expectation or implication of anything else, just a simple movement motivated by gratitude for his employer’s continued existence.

He carefully scrubbed off the rest of the soot and blood, noting which injuries would need to be tended more carefully when Jim’s physician arrived.  Finally, letting Jim rest against his broad chest again, Sebastian set to quickly and methodically cleaning himself.

He reached beyond the smaller man to turn off the water, then lingered for a moment in the cooling steam before pulling back the curtain and reaching for one of the oversized bath towels. 

He wrapped Jim in the towel and rubbed his arms through the soft, textured cloth, “S’better, isn’t it?” 

Grabbing a towel for himself, he wrapped it around his waist and stepped out of the tub, half-carrying the other man with him. 

(Source: jiminwestwood)

thetigersmagpie:

Jim leaned back against the mirror, closing his eyes. It wasn’t a comfortable perch, not really; the counter was cold against his newly-bared thighs and his shoulder ached where it pressed back against the unyielding surface of the mirror.

“Cadbury Roses. Chocolate. I need chocolate, booze, and painkillers. And that’s just to start it. If you brought me actual roses, just so you know, I’d probably stab the stem of one of them right through your eye. Which eye do you need less for shooting?”

The threat was half-hearted; it sounded lazy even to him. I mean, really? Could that even happen without some sort of reinforcement of the rose stem? This wasn’t some Japanese anime. Though the idea of the thorns going through the membrane…

The sound of continued rustling even now that he himself was mostly undressed prompted him to open his eyes. Well, part way. The lights were bright and uninteresting. However, Sebastian Moran divesting himself of his clothing was always worth watching, even when half-dead (alright, not really even nearly dead) and with the expensive marble bathroom counter leeching the warm out of the backs of his thighs.

“To what do I owe the strip show? I like it, by the way. I’m not complaining.”

“You’re not going to be able to stay on your feet,” the sniper told him mildly, stepping out of his boxers and toeing them to the side, “So I’m going in.”

He leaned into the shower to turn on the water and adjust the temperature.

Jim had commented once that Sebastian seemed bigger when he was naked.  It was a lot of bare skin, after all, and the well defined muscles shifted visibly in his long thighs and and calves, across his hips and waist, as he took the three steps to cross the distance between them again.  Despite his mental unrest, his movements were calm and his shoulders relaxed; it was partly his disposition, but partly a sheer force of will.  He devested Jim of his final article of clothing, then rested his strong, elegant hands on the smaller man’s waist and half-lifted him off of the counter as though he was a child.

Balancing Jim against him, Sebastian kept one arm wrapped about his waist as he gave the temperature a final, slightly untrusting check.  He stepped over the rim of the tub, then helped the other man up to stand beside him under the jets of water. 

“I’m filthy anyway,” the marksman added to his earlier explanation.  He kept a light hold on his employer with one hand as the other lightly rubbed Jim’s forearm and wrist, sending a darker splash of murky soot dripping down to be diluted with the rest of the water as it slipped down the drain.

(Source: jiminwestwood)