It started with a gentle smile.
Really, a twist of the lips and genuine interest in her day over an easily forgotten lunch. Jim from IT wasn't scared of bodies, or formaldehyde, or the fact that she could crack a man's sternum with ease. In fact, his pupils dilated quite a bit, and to his breathy 'How is it so easy?' She responded, flippantly (and she hoped in a flirty way) 'I have a lot of practice getting into men's hearts. Literally.' With a poorly timed wink.
That night he had her out for drinks.
He smiled and flirted and inched ever closer to her in the booth. Her red wine went down quickly, he barely touched his Guinness. By the time his thigh was flush with hers, her face was gaining a very becoming rosy glow.
When they drunkenly placed bets on who could name more bones in the human hand ("Winner gets a kiss, Jim, and not the boring kind." His eyes had flashed, "I don't know that kissing you could ever be boring, Molly Hooper.") and when she inevitably won ("I take people apart for a living, I think it'll be a long time before you can beat me." His response was "Oh we're so much more similar than you think, but you've won this round.") his kiss was long and slow and thorough. She'd almost run out of oxygen before he parted with a soft sigh against her lips and murmured against her lips "Your place or mine?"
That night she was fucked harder than she ever had been before. He ran his hands over her body, handling her in a rough way that she quite liked, and letting her handle him roughly in return. He took her against her sofa, with the lights on, and told her afterwards that she may have cracked him open and wormed her way inside and "Aren't you just so interesting, Molly Hooper?" With her cheap underwear hanging delicately off one ankle and his cock still buried inside of her quim. She tried to ignore the heavy scratches she'd left on his chest, but she secretly thrilled in the way she'd mapped his sternum and clavicle. Red lines all around, so precise. He ran his hands over her chest, keeping eye contact, letting her know he liked it too.
Jim from IT was a quiet, quelling thing. He was almost mousy. He could barely look her in the eyes at work and blushed over every little touch of their hands.
Jim from IT died as soon as moonlight hit him, fading away to reveal Jim Moriarty.
Jim Moriarty was a panther, an apex predator in the night. His eyes became dark and heavy and full of a liquid promise of pleasure and pain and so so much more than she had ever been offered before. Jim Moriarty loved to leave his mark, bites and bruises and rubbing his scent all over her. He especially loved to leave his mark between her slender thighs.
After she found out the truth, after that fateful, stupid, wasteful meeting with Sherlock, after Lestrade has questioned her over and over ("No, I didn't know. I had no idea. I'm not an accomplice. I'm safe, boring, small Molly Hooper.") she hoped and prayed and waited that he would show up on her doorstep again.
The first thing to show up was a sternal saw, set neatly on her dining room table with a pretty red ribbon around it. The note attached simply said "For getting to the hearts of men. xxJM".
She kept it handy.
The second thing to show up, weeks later, was a sharp eyed Irishman, in a well-cut suit, that may have worn the skin of Jim from IT in another lifetime.
She'd pushed him down the couch, ignoring his admonishment of "This is a Westwood, darling." and held the sternal saw up to his chest while straddling his thighs. His pupils got so blown and his dick so hard she felt like a fucking god. He'd rutted against her, through her ugly plaid pants, a sinuous move that had him rubbing his length against the whole of her sex, driving the seam of her pants along every sensitive nerve.
But like a good boy, he kept his hands in plain sight.
He kept eye contact while he raised his hands, quirking his brow, unbuttoning his expensive shirt down to just past the 8th rib, exposing his handsome chest now free of her claw marks, whispering, "Do you want to cut me open see how you've infested my heart to the core, Molly Hooper?" He never broke the rhythm of his rutting, his hips moving in their seductive dance. Her's started to respond of their own volition, pushing down when his pushed up, and his eyes just got darker and darker with every pass. She didn't spare a thought for what she looked like. A pull to his push, a tide to his gravity, an answer to his call.
She turned the saw on, just to see what he would do, and he grinned at her, full of sharp teeth and dark promise. He thrust up against her sharply, and his hands fisted in the fabric of her worn couch. To demonstrate her precision, her skill, her worth, she cut off two more buttons of his white white shirt before turning it off and setting it to the side.
As soon as the saw left her hands, his hands snapped up and held her by the waist, grinding her down against him. He panted and said, "You're so dark, Molly Hooper, so dark and so mine."
She didn't say anything, just pushed his hands off of her and leaned down to ravage his mouth. She bit his lip so hard it bled and it made him so excited she was surprised he didn't come in his pants. His sharp thrusts became harder, his rock solid dick straining the fine fabric of his trousers. His hands moved to her long hair and grabbed handfuls of the silky strands, twisting and pulling and demanding.
She tried to climb off of him and he refused, holding her waist in one hand and tearing the crotch of her pants with the other. "We need to get you some better clothes, darling." he muttered absently, while undoing his zipper with the same steady hand. His dick was too hard to be contained, springing free and resting against her lower abdomen.
Pushing her underwear to the side, he stared into her eyes, excited and flushed and dark, challenging her. "If you want it, Molls, you know what to do. You're excellent at it, as I recall." His hand was digging bruises into her waist, not moving her forward but not letting her back away.
She considered him, her face impassive but flushed, her center throbbing with need and her hair spilling down her shoulders. She opened her mouth and breathed out, "Beg. Beg for it, James Moriarty."
His expression got so dark, so predatory, so angry, but his dick was hard hard hard and she knew she was in uncharted waters. Nobody demanded things of this man, nobody who expected to live to see another sunrise. But she was on top, she had elicited this response. Mousy Molly, who nobody noticed except this man. She had this creature, this dangerous predator, pinned to her ugly couch by the force of her will alone.
And God forgive her, but she was going to fuck a Jim Moriarty shaped dent in it by morning.
He put his teeth together and hissed, trying to pull her forward, but she thrust her arms out, pinning his head in a cage of surprisingly strong arms. She smiled faintly ("You think my line of work would leave me without upper body strength? I cut people like you apart for breakfast.") and angled her aching quim away from him.
"What do you need to say, James Moriarty?"
He growled. Under his expensive shirt, his arms were bulging with lean muscle and his hands were shaking with tension. "Little one, you don't know what you're playing with."
She leaned down, conveniently angling her hips further away from his. In his ear, she whispered, "It feels a lot like fire, Jim." Her tongue darted out along the shell of his ear, and he snapped his teeth, trying to sink them into her shoulder.
Jim Moriarty was a predator, but he knew the fastest way to get what he wanted was combination of sugar and force. So when he said "Please, Molly Hooper, fix this for me." he also gripped her hips with both hands and lined up her wet wet pussy with his aching cock and sunk her down on it.
She wailed a little, her hands fisting in the deep blue silk of his blazer, sweating under her plain pink blouse, and her hips strained to meet his and sink him up the hilt. The waistband of her ruined pants dug into her sides, and he snarled. His strong hands pulled, ripping the single stitch seaming all the way down, destroying that which would contain her, keep her flesh from his hands. He ruined her clothing the way he ruined the junction of her neck and shoulder, with pure force and a lurid wanting. He sunk his teeth so deeply into that sensitive flesh he was sure she'd bear that mark until she died. He wanted to ruin her so thoroughly for anyone but him.
"Can anyone else do this to you, Molly Hooper?" He panted, his hips snapping up against hers with such force it was amazing that she was still able to grind down against him. "Can anyone else fill you up like this, make you feel this way?" His teeth were red with her blood, the bite as deep as he could make it, but Molly found that it just made her eyes glaze over even more and grind down on him even harder. His eyes were wild and having them focused entirely on her was a heady experience.
She managed to grin, her lips swollen and her cheeks red, "Maybe this guy, Jim from IT."
He bared his teeth at her, hands holding her hips in place while he thrust up into her, "Sounds like a pussy. Maybe I'll kill him next time I see him."
She chuckled, her eyes glassy and pupils large, "Avoid mirrors then, darling."
He pushed into her even deeper, claiming every part of her, and she howled.
It was fast, heavy and she tried to bear her weight into him, force him into the couch to leave a permanent dent.
When his thrusts started to be shorter and harder, she grabbed one of his hands and forced it between her legs, "Make me come, Jim Moriarty." He rubbed her roughly, pinching her clit and reaching up to roughly kiss her at the same time.
She reached her climax the same time as his mouth kissed it's way down to the unmarred side of her neck and sunk his sharp teeth into the skin above her jugular vein. She dug her nails in the back of her couch, ripping the fabric, and yelled her pleasure.
He pushed her down on him, forcing him to bottom out and fill her completely as he came in hot spurts. He shouted, his face smeared with her blood and his marks on her delicate neck.
His hands kept her in a vice long after they'd both come down from their climax.
She trembled, her arms on either side of his head keeping him trapped.
He breathed out, long and slow, running his hands over her sides. He looked up her with a dangerous, boyish grin. "Did you like your gift?"
—
When she came home from work two days later, there was a new pair of expensive pants on her dining room table, a tasteful navy silk trouser, with a note that said "I O U xxJM"
She smiled, bit her lip and sat on her ruined couch, turning on the telly.