It was the way he moved, I think, that first caught my eye. I suppose I was meant to be paying attention to the bull shit he was spewing. I caught the odd cadence of his voice, but not much else. I should probably put you under the impression that I didn't care. Basically, I didn't. I still don't.

My focus was on the breadth of his shoulder in comparison to the slight cinch of his waist, which was ever emphasized by the way he moved. He managed to gesticulate with his center, keeping his hands in his trousers. His suit was perfectly tailored to his body. It wasn't so well fit that my imagination wasn't required - worry not, it was heavily employed. What really got me, and what fueled those late-night wanks, was the way he'd turn his head and strain that fucking gorgeous neck of his.

When someone would say something particularly stupid or misguided, he would turn his face to the ceiling and then to his left, giving me a particularly nice look at the ridges of his throat. Often enough his tie had loosened, the top button been undone at some point during the day, which gave an almost pornographic view of his trachea and the sinew surrounding it. His throat, and the sounds it made, seemed to stick into the pores of your skin like a blood stains cotton.

To say I wanted him was not completely correct. I wanted to fuck him. Obviously. Everyone wanted to fuck him. Or I assume they did. I didn't talk to everyone. They didn't talk to me. We had an agreement. I wanted to be him. I wanted to become a small piece of that sinister stare he had. I wanted to taste the depth of of his pupil. I wanted his skin over my bones, between my teeth, inside of me. I wanted something of him. I wanted all of him.

"What is it you need, Moran?" he asked as I stood before his desk. The other boys had cleared out very quickly before then, which left me standing there with my mouth agape. He did not look up to acknowledge me.

I cleared my throat and stepped back, touching the edge of his desk with the fingertips of one hand. "I was wondering what I could do to pass this course," I said, which sounded like a decent enough lie.

His dark eyes raised from his page to stare into me. I maintained the contact, "You're not a stupid boy, are you?" he asked. His voice was flagrantly slow. His expression appeared blank, though his eyes darted back and forth over me. I had no idea what he saw. I shook my head a bit and he grinned. His smile was controlled but seemingly genuine. "Meet me in my quarters in half an hour," he ordered, his voice low with the command. I nodded and began to move for the door.

He stopped me then with a, "No," which was high in pitch. "I've changed my mind," he explained. "Close the door and lock it," he said, standing behind his desk and calmly approaching me. I couldn't move. I wouldn't have moved if I could have. He touched my shoulder, his fingers delicate as the pressed against my bone. I turned to face him.

Professor Moriarty had his head turned in the way he did so often, but his eyes were on me, his jaw set and flexed before it swerved to return to it's normal position. He was smaller than me, which I should have known. It hadn't really occurred to me. I'd never been standing around him long enough to realize I had to look down into his face. "It's James," he says, moving toward me.

"What is?"

He made a high sound that was meant to be something like a laugh.

"My name," he said as he was upon me, his voice lilting in the delicious way it often managed. We weren't touching, not in any way that was obscene, although we'd certainly crossed into each other's personal space. We didn't touch for a while, he just stood there, looking into me. But his patience didn't last long. He scoffed and leaned forward to speak into my ear, "Well go on, then," he whispered.

Without further consideration, I slipped onto my knees before him.