Warnings: Dub-con and mild gore
"Close your eyes."
John shot him a dirty look, but did as he was told.
Moriarty has had men blindfolded before. Most of them were victims, eyes covered to intensify the fear and pain of their torture. Sometimes all it took was the blindfold, and the fear did the work for him. Moriarty didn't care much for blood; too much of a mess and it took too long to clean up.
He has had past lovers blindfolded too. All of them consented at first but soon were reduced to simpering, crying messes when they realized Moriarty had no intention of taking the blindfold off, even after they said their stupid safe word over and over again.
Having someone like John Watson willingly close his eyes to him, a sociopath, mind you, was exhilarating. John wasn't tied down, his hands and feet free to twitch as much as they like. He wasn't gagged, free to scream as much as he liked.
And scream Moriarty could make him. He had the tools to cut him, to break him, to kill him. Oh, Moriarty wouldn't do the latter- part of the deal, he promised- but it would be so damn easy.
So damn easy.
At the moment though, all Moriarty wanted was to wipe that awful look off John's face. The doctor's face was pinched as if Moriarty had already cut into him. He looked constipated.
Moriarty lifted his hand and gently cupped John's cheek. John flinched back, caught himself, and relaxed against the hand. There, the doctor expected to touch him and he has.
John's cheek was slightly cold from the room and it slowly warmed against Moriarty's hand. He can feel John's jaw tightened as Moriarty began to stroke him using only his middle finger.
Military men had the bad habit of not moisturizing, and when they come back from the desert, their skin was raw and dry as the sands they slept on. John's lips should've been cracked, but the good doctor knew better, didn't he? His lips were thin but plump and soft to the touch.
This time John didn't flinch away, but his mouth did opened at first touch, and shut just as quickly. Gag ball, Moriarty thought regretfully. He knew John wouldn't refuse him, wouldn't protest and thought the need to gag him would be pointless. Except now Moriarty wanted to keep John's mouth open, stretch it and watch as little tears form at the edges of his eyes.
Moriarty did nothing more but touch, gently rubbing his thumb against John's bottom lip. He pulled the flesh down just enough to dab inside John's mouth, wet the pad of his thumb and resumed stroking.
This time John did reared back enough to say, "What are you doing?"
"Don't move," Moriarty hissed. "Quiet."
The constipation look was back but John exhaled deeply, and settled back without protest.
Oh, such a little soldier. Confused was he, by the gentle touches and little caresses? He was expecting pain and blood and that was what he was baring himself against. This was something different and Moriarty so did love fucking with his victims' minds.
Moriarty took back his hands, letting the silence to fully sink in. It was rather fun, to watch John slowly try to work out what just happened. Should he open his eyes and risk breaking the agreement? Should he just wait?
As much as Moriarty wanted to let the anticipation draw the madness out of John, he was an impatient man. He only resisted touching again for six minutes and twenty-seven seconds before placing a lone finger on top of John's temple.
He dragged the finger down, over the curve of John's forehead, down the bridge of his nose, barely touching his lips, hitching on his chin, then downward over his throat to end at the dip of his collarbone.
John hissed in a breath.
Moriarty did it again, slower this time, catching his fingernail on John's lips as he passed them.
He doesn't stop at the collarbone this time, allowing his finger to drift back upwards towards the curve of John's jaw, ghosting it below his ear, dragging it towards his cheek bone when he abruptly pulled away.
Moriarty only allowed John a brief second window of relief before leaning forward and kissed him gently on the eye.
John gasped, jerked back. Moriarty laughed at him.
Redness bloomed against John's cheeks as his face pinched further in embarrassment.
As fun as this was, enough was enough. If he kept this up any further, Moriarty will get bored and the whole experience will be thought back with disdain. He didn't want that.
The two front buttons on John's shirt were undone, and the rest were hidden underneath his off-white jumper. Moriarty pulled the fabric, revealing the flesh that he can.
Before John could register what he had done, Moriarty leaned forward, mouth opened and descending.
"ARGH, FUCK!" John cried out, his body involuntarily retreating back from the pain. Moriarty doesn't let him, his arms slinking around John. One hand grabbed a fistful of hair, and yanked back John's head, exposing more of his neck, while the other arm wrapped around John's back, pulling him closer.
John kept his eyes closed, and he was shaking from the effort to keep himself still. Moriarty simply bit down harder, breaking skin, drawing blood.
John fisted the back of Moriarty's jacket. From an outside perspective it may have looked like a lover's embrace, the way the two had their arms around each other and the way Moriarty buried his face into John's neck.
There was no mistaking John's cries of pain as the bite was deepened, almost threatening to tear a chunk of flesh off.
Moriarty finally pulled back, teeth stained with blood, taking a moment to peer down at his work. The bite will definitely scar and if Moriarty wasn't so sure, he would've bent down and tried again.
John was breathing hard now, gasping breaths but his eyes were still closed. His cute white jumper soaked up the dripping blood like a sponge: none of the blood had stained Moriarty's clothes. A quick swirl of spit, swallow, and dap of a handkerchief, Moriarty looked as clean as he did when he first walked in.
He tapped John briefly on the nose, and the doctor finally opened his eyes. They were red, angry, and still full of so much pain. Lovely.
"Sherlock's here," Moriarty grinned, taking out a little business card with an address scribbled on the back. Oh, how he wished he could be there when John discovered Sherlock and in turn, Sherlock discovered what Moriarty had done to his little pet. John will have to wear scarves or high-collared shirts in order to cover that scar.
With one last glance at the wound, Moriarty spun around on his heel and walked out of the room.