The material. Shoot. What's the material even about?

You replay the lilting melody of his voice, trying to remember the lyrics. Anything at all that would break the terrible silence that filled the room as your peers waited for your response. Hell, you would take even a wrong answer to calm the dread that fills your chest the longer he stares at you with those squinted eyes, stubbornly set with a furrowed brow.

But even then, you can only fixate on his pursed lips. The soft heart of his Cupid's bow, sloping into the corners of his mouth. You want to kiss them. You want to place delicate kisses across all of his features. And before you know it, your own lips part dumbly, no words able to come out.

Professor Fabelman nods once, "That would be: human excretions; saliva, for one. Perhaps it would serve your best interests if you paid more attention in my class; we both know the state your grade is in," You catch a few snickers at that. "Please see me at the end of the day," He concludes. It's a firm command, not a mere suggestion.

It's a small assertion that flings you back into the throes of misery. The small emphasis of the world saliva didn't escape your notice either. God, it made you salivate.

How could you have gotten yourself in this position? You almost didn't take the course this semester. But it was required for the general education standards and you figured you'd get it out of the way as quickly as possible. You were merely buying yourself time to finalize your major and figure out what you wanted to do with the rest of your life.

You figured it out pretty quickly the second you sat in Fabelman's classroom and watched him straighten his tie before introducing himself to the room. You wanted to spend the rest of your life being around him.

Observing him was an art form; a mental documentation of his form and the way it moved. He reminded you of the little wooden mannequins in your drawing class. Stiff, but still movable. Something about the softness of his joints told you that he could be suggestible, pliable.

Fabelman became both the reason why you wanted to drop out without a single explanation and also why you were tempted to go into the field of science just to get closer to him. It wouldn't be easy, being a woman...but you believed in yourself enough that you were sure you could make it happen.

Then came the catch that shattered your romantic visions. He had a professionally shot, framed, black and white photograph standing up on his desk. It faced the class instead of him, like he already seemed aware of his affect; like it was his attempt at warding off someone like you.

So for the first few weeks, you got a front row view of his lovely wife. You studied that woman better than anything Fabelman could possibly jot down on the chalkboard. Her hair was in a bob and her lips were outlined and painted precisely. Even in the monochromatic hues, she looked like she was in vivid color; a technicolor dream long before Hollywood had come along. Her smile could've lit up the darkest cavern, could've been imbued with some sort of glittering quality that made her seem something like a silver screen starlet. Larger than life, her sparkling gaze seemed to loom over you every time you ogled her husband.

No wonder he married her, you couldn't help but think bitterly, she's a star.

Yet you never noticed a wedding ring on his finger. That had sparked a little bit of hope in your mind. It was a long shot that it actually meant anything, but banishing that hurdle made it far easier to watch him without guilt. He’s the type of man that can make any action look good. Even when he stands at the front with his hands on his hips, expression stern as he waits for the room to calm down before beginning the lesson, you feel insane with want. It was starting to become obscene how much your mind loved to settle into the groove of objectifying him the moment you sat down.

The most shocking part: you'd never been caught before. Until now, of course. Sure, you might be completely failing his class due to your lack of attention on the actual subject. There are more important things to pay attention to. Those important things seem to escape you now though.

Standing in his office though, you have a hard time keeping your focus on him. Your steps were quiet and careful when you stepped through the door with his name painted on the frosted glass window. The authoritative edges of each letter seemed to emphasize your doom.

Not that you would mind Professor Fabelman chastising you; there's something about the thought of him doting on you that makes you want to keep zoning out in class, keep getting called back to his office. Maybe you'd fail his class altogether so you could take it again and repeat the pattern. Because you were sure that, just like him, no matter how many times you listened to him talk about antibodies and bacteria and cell cycles, you'd never get sick of it. Not if he was talking about them, at least.

You stood in the doorway for a few seconds, watching him mark up some paper. Trying not the thing of how much of a privilege it would be to know what he was thinking, you slowly shut the door behind you.

Before you have the chance to second guess how presumptuous the action was, Burt's chin snaps up in your direction at the sound of the door closing. You'd tried to be quiet with it. But he stares at you with that look at his face. The one where he looks all scrunched up and subtly frustrated with you. It makes a flushed mixture of embarrassment and want bloom over the tips of your ears. As much as you hate getting his attention this way, it's better than no attention, you suppose.

"Oh goodness, you scared me," Professor Fabelman states plainly, "You'll have to be careful. At my age, one little fright and that might be my one way ticket to having a heart attack."

You sniff at his dry humor and insist, "I'm sure you're not that old, Professor. If you are, then it certainly doesn’t show." And you mean that sentiment entirely. His face is round, cheeks soft and puffy. The curve of his jawline alludes to a time where his features were sharper, younger. You'd like to believe that you wish you'd known him when he looked like that. However, he was probably like all the other boys your age: immature and utterly foolish.

You liked knowing him now; when the soft waves of time had begun to wash his expression with a tide of wrinkles and soft flesh that only age can capture. He's beautiful, in every way possibly, you think.

"That's quite kind of you. Now, sit, Miss L/N." You catch the tiniest smirk hidden in the corner of your professor's perfectly pink lips and internally cheer yourself on. You can do this. You can make it through one meeting. He'll tell you to pay attention in class and you'll leave. Then you'll think about those lips being–

"Sit," Fabelman repeats himself. And just like that, you follow the instruction without sparing another second. You bastard. You know what you're doing.

Perhaps that's the most heartbreaking part: he doesn't. 

"You remember why I called you in here, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," you add the name at the end without really thinking of it. But now that you are...you don't think you'll be able to get it out of your head now. Not unless Fabelman were to lobotomize you on his desk within the next few minutes.

"Tell me again..." he trails off, waiting for your reply.

You can easily do that. "Yes, sir," you say once more. This time your eyes are wide, head bowed slightly, like a dog looking to its owner.

"That's not what I meant," Fabelman's brow crinkles with disapproval as he corrects you. "Tell me what I called you in for."

Cheeks beginning to scorch, you stare directly past his severe gaze. You can't look him in the eye ever again, you try to keep your urge to cringe trapped inside. "I was...spaced out," you decide on the simple excuse.

For some reason, you're still shocked when Fabelman pushes back, "I'm afraid you were far more than spaced out. You weren't even listening in the first place. You were disrespecting the time of your peers. And you were disrespecting my time."

His tone scrambles the contents of your already muddled head. "I'm sorry," you barely manage to squeak out the apology. "I've just been a little distracted lately."

"I would think you'd have at least a bit of interest in your own education." The gravity of his words hit you as gracefully as if he were to throw a pebble from the top of a skyscraper. The force of the tiny hit is enough to completely knock the breath from your lungs. You suddenly become all too aware of your position. Being on a campus like this is a privilege for someone like you; too many women saddle themselves with a high school sweetheart and get spiked with that white picket fence.

You should have better dreams for yourself, not visions of your college professor tutoring you through his class and watching you graduate in a few years; eyes squinting out of adoration when you kiss his cheeks and that goofy smile sprawling across his face when he spins you in his embrace. That dream sounds better than any other one you've had. 

Your professor continues, "And I'm merely worried that I have a student slipping through the cracks. We don't want that now, do we?" There's softness and a genuine care as he reaches forward. His fingertips slightly brush yours which are folded stubbornly on your side of his desk. He stares at where your skin meets his over the dark wood as if he'd expected you to flinch away from him. Instead, you exercise a bit more bravery and shift your hand, laying it over his own. Your pointer finger smoothes over the face of the old watch on his wrist. And it's the sight of goosebumps sprouting over the flesh of his arms that makes you say it.

"How many people do you ask to come back to your office, Professor?" you wonder distantly, eyes still fixed on the tiny hands on his watch. 4:17 PM; just past his office hours. The sun is already starting to set through the window of his office, casting golden light that reflects beautifully off his watch. You lazily trace the worn leather of the watch band. Knowing a man like him, the accessory is probably something he got for an anniversary or a birthday a decade ago and he'd put it on every morning since then. It scares you how easily you could already see yourself disrupting that routine by pulling him back to you in bed for a few minutes longer before he could fasten the buckle.

That's when Burt pulls his arm back. "Plenty. Plenty of students just like yourself that just need a little advice. And that's all." The subdued bite in his voice doesn't escape your notice. Like he'd offered you a single treat and put the box of milk bones away with the simple assertion of, and that's all. That couldn't be all he'd be willing to give you. You'd hate yourself if you didn't at least try.

You say suddenly, "What if I don't just want your advice? What if I wanted more?” His brow quirks. “What if I told you...that the reason I struggle so much in your class is that you're just so...handsome…that I just can't help but look at you?" an unsettling level of calm fills your veins as you bare your shame to him. "What if I said that I have the biggest crush on you, Professor Fabelman, and that I have no clue what to do with it?"

When you look back up at him, you realize that now he's looking just past your head too. Before you have the chance to be proud of the way you've flustered him, he replies evenly, "Then...then I'd tell you to speak to someone in the administration building. I'm not sure if you'll be able to drop my class without some sort of penalty, but, it's clear you're not receiving any sort of benefits from my teaching. Have a lovely rest of your day, Miss L/N. I wish you the best of luck on your academic journey."

You stand suddenly, making the man before you jump once more. Suddenly you are a wild thing, unafraid to look raving mad with desperation. "No, Burt!" His first name falls past your lips without hesitation. "Don't make me drop your class. Please," you plead.

Burt swallows hard. He still won't look at you, still won't let the burgeoning warmth creeping up around the collar of his polo become visible and contrast against his harsh expression. "I-I can't have you causing a distraction in my classroom." He asserts, though his tone is already nervous.

You begin to babble, "I'll drop the entire crush and the staring and the spacing out and we can forget all about this. I promise, Professor. Just– please, don't make me drop your class."

The sound of your whine seems to aggravate him slightly. Because his eye finally meets yours, tingled with fiery frustration, "You might be able to forget about all of this but I certainly won't."

"You teach dozens of students every semester, before you know it, I'll fade into the rest of them and you'll completely forget about me," You reason with him.

His hands raise and he gestures with them in a stern way that matches his tone. "That might be true but you're the only student who's ever presented this dilemma. You're the only one who's ever–"

The only one. Those are the only words you need to hear before you circle back around to feeling far too much for him. Because somewhere underneath his adherence to the rules and protocol, there's something else. Something that longs just as much as you do.

"I'm the only one who's ever liked you, Professor?" You murmur.

His voice wobbles, "Why, in my fifteen years of teaching, I have nev–

"When was the last time someone fell terribly in love with you?"

You wait for him to lose his patience. He should have the second you touched his hand the way you did. He shouldn't have craved that little bit of contact and shouldn't have felt that flicker in his belly when you looked at him with lidded eyes. Based on the darkness under your eyes that your makeup is beginning to fail to conceal, he deduces that you're tired. How much sleep had you lost over him? Guilt strikes him hard even though he knows he hasn't done a thing to bring this tension into fruition. But, for some reason, he can't gather the willpower to admonish you again.

His answer is small but a massive admission; a surrender.

"Twenty years ago."

You inch around his desk, approaching him carefully. "That long? Who was it?"

"...my wife," He wants to curse his loose lips. Yet, he can't help it. No one has spoken this tenderly to him in so long. At his core...he's a simple man; a weak one. He'd been called that word plenty of times. And just this once, he begins to believe this nature of his is a blessing in disguise. 

"Does she still love you?"

"Probably not. Considering we've been divorced for a few years now."

"Why?"

"I was...I was holding her back, I suppose."

"You suppose?"

"Why else would someone you love tell you that they deserved better?"

"From where I stand, Burt...you deserved better than that too,” you say softly.

The man ruminates on the statement. You're pretty. Gorgeous. He thinks back to how many times he glanced back at you out of the corner of his eye. How many times he caught yours glued to him like your life revolved around him. Every professor likes to think that their class is the single most important thing in a student's life. But the way you watched him made him believe it.

That flutter returns when he imagines you salivating in your seat. You pressing your thighs together when he rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing his tanned and freckled forearms. You imagining his hands holding your legs open as he laps up at that precious mound you hide under your clothing. Your tender fingers knitting their way through his slicked back hair and obliterating every moral code he thought he'd held. It's more than a flutter now. It's a slow but scouring burn that makes him twitch.

With a suddenly dry mouth, he warns you softly, "You should leave before someone walks in."

He doesn’t fully realize how close you are until your hand wraps around the tail of his tie and you use it to pull him towards you. So close that your chest is almost touching his. He's sure that you can hear his heart pounding against his ribs.

You whisper, "But it's after your office hours."

"If you don't go, we'll...we'll do things. Things that you'll regret,” he replies grimly.

It warms your heart that even in this moment, he worries about you. Your lips are moments away from quieting him but you still mumble, "You could give me everything you have and I would never regret it. Ever."

You're shocked when Burt closes the distance between your body and his first. The fervency he exercises as he pushes you back against his desk nearly makes you falter. Your knees buckle and you're forced to sit on the dark wood surface, desperately attempting to meet the intensity with which he unravels you with his tongue. You thought you'd known everything about your professor. But this new facet made warmth erupt in your lungs, in your belly, in your core. It flourished, consuming any rationality that might've been clinging onto the ridges of your brain. 

Burt's tongue brushing at the part of your lips clears all of those foolish principles that you're both supposed to follow. The way his strong hand darts up to hold your jaw so he can stay on track keeps you together in a way you thought wasn't possible. And before you fully realize it, Burt wedges his soft body between your legs. You yelp as his abdomen grazes your core, feeling shivers make waves over your entire body.

He flies away before you have a chance to recover, still holding your face. "Are you alright?" This time Burt's thumb strokes your chin; it reaches towards your bottom lip and drags it down slightly. He observes the plush pillow snap back in place when he lets go of it like he hadn't witnessed a movement like it before.

He'd read about the human body before, probably hundreds of times in his whole career. But the way yours moves, particularly when it's at his mercy, is fascinating; an art form of its own. He marvels that atoms could collect themselves in such a glorious array. And the fact that those atoms could come together to brew chemicals that made him feel so smitten that it could make him dizzy...seemed to be a welcome reprieve from the monotony and mathematics of his field. It's here, while watching you consider his words carefully, that he decides he can find meaning in his life.

It had been difficult to find that in the years since the divorce. The prospect of romance seemed hopeless without the woman he'd spent entire decades with. Until now. Until you looked at him and decided that he was worth taking the risk on. 

"I'm more than alright, Burt," You press your lips to his again, softer this time, allowing yourself to become acquainted with the cracks and grooves of his needy mouth. Because when you said you wanted more, you meant it . So you open your mouth once more and place your hand on his chest, right over his beating heart. You swallow the resulting groan that comes from your hand wandering lower and lower down his torso. 

Fingers finding the edge of his trousers where the stark white button-up tucks into, you fumble for the button and then the zipper. You think of one of the dissections you'd done in his class a few weeks ago. Remembering how much your hands had trembled holding the scalpel, you're surprised that there's no apprehension in your movements. And Burt shows no resistance. Though your stomach churns, you're glad he lets you undo his pants on your own. You wouldn't have the heart to make him continue if there was even an inkling of opposition to this new form of vulnerability.

His shirt untucks and reveals a bit of his pudgy belly. Before going any further, you run your fingers over his stomach and feel him shiver, feel the shaky breath beginning to form in his chest.

"Do you like that? Do you like when I touch you?"

The entangled guilt and worry has vanished, replaced by a need for your gentle touch and adoring mouth. Burt's response comes with a groan and sounds close to breathless. "So much...so much."

You venture deeper with another question, "Do you want me to touch you?"

"Yes, please, I want–" His tongue sweeps over his lips nervously before he affirms, "I want you."

Your fingertips contemplate the hem of his underwear, contemplate the position that you're putting both him and yourself in. Voice smaller now, you continue, "You know that I really do want this, don't you? I'm not just...trying to get a better grade or anything. I just want you to like me."

"Oh, sweetheart, I know," he coaxes you, using his hands on your hips to pull you flush to him again. This time, you can really feel him. Despite the fact that his cock is straining against his dark pants, he still speaks with that deep, throaty voice that makes you ache everywhere, "I do like you. Only I have no idea how a thing like you could want an old man like me," he chuckles warmly.

"I just do, Burt," you gasp as if it's a fact that he should've known already. Your feelings for his are as certain as a statistic and as thorough as a good peer review. All the experts in your mind agree, being with him is the right thing. Damn the rules and the ethics, you need him.

So you're glad when one of his large hands moves to your knee and travels it's way up your thigh. Finally, his fingers reach the high waistband of your underwear beneath your knee-length skirt. Careful not to gain any contact with your skin, he keeps his touches restricted to the thin cotton fabric.

His jaw goes slack when he reaches the delicate lace that lines the elastic leg bands. "Do you...wear these often?" he marvels quietly. You giggle at the blank expression on his face; he can't even see them, but just knowing that you've had the underwear on throughout the day seems to make his brain short circuit. 

You grin cheekily before pressing a kiss to his lips, "All the time. They're my favorite to wear on days when I'm in your class." You lean over to his ear, "You like the color blue, right?"

Burt's pupils grow so wide that his green eyes are finally clouded with an undeniable arousal. He still feigns politeness, never breaching the elastic confines of the laced garment. His fingers instead choose to trace the slit between your legs, feeling the damp spot that's already soaked through the center. He groans at the wetness that immediately covers his fingers but continues on, searching for the spot that he had once been so well acquainted with.

When he finds your clit, your hand flies to his shoulder. You brace yourself by bunching up the shoulder of his button up in your fist. Using the pads of two fingers, he softly circles the bud, sending you closer to the edge as he whispers tenderly, "There you go, dear, you've got it."

It is then that you determine that it must not have been an unskillful hand in bed that led to the downfall of his marriage. You would stay with him for however long he wanted you to, as long as he used that same pressure with his slightly calloused fingertips that still managed to stay gentle with you.

You'd heard him talk about a chemistry class he'd taught years ago, heard him talk about how important it was to observe lab safety. And you wonder if he'd ever burned those fingertips; you wonder if the fire building inside you is more searing than those of a Bunsen burner, if the dull ache of this connection could leave more of a burn. Because these flames are just past third degree. They make your skin seem to melt as a thin layer of sweat forms over your already trembling thighs.

It's his words that snap you back to reality. "Will you be a good girl for me?"

Your breath goes ragged as you remember Burt's sorely neglected flesh. Letting go of his shirt, you plunge your hand below his waistband and take him a bit too eagerly. He jumps at the contact but doesn't stop you. He lets you have your way, lets you be his very good girl.

Deep down, you wonder how long it's been for him since he's been touched like this. The thought to tease him with his sensitivity arises in your mind but you push it down, too lost in your own arousal and unwilling to break the heavy atmosphere. You keep your voice down, terrified that if you were a little too loud, it might knock some sense into Burt; might make him think a little too much about the way your fist gently drags along his cock and the way his hips involuntarily start to thrust into the movement. All you need is his jagged breathing and his throaty groans making vibrations on your neck as he gives delicate kisses.

He keeps his lips anchored on the warm thrum of your pulse and holds back the urge to bite and suck and soothe your skin, knowing full well that to mark you up would be a mistake. Instead, he grinds his teeth through the pleasure that begins to bubble in his belly; tries to ignore how every one of his muscles tense in anticipation of the release.

"Are you close?" Burt asks hurriedly. It may have been years since he'd done this, but he knows that it wouldn't be courteous to finish before you and leave you high and dry. That's what this is: a pleasantry. He hasn't been touched like this in God knows how long but that didn't mean that this was a meaningful entanglement. It's a working relationship; you offer your professor some relief and he’ll guide you through this crush. Because you don't love him. You don't, he assures himself.

But, goodness, he wishes you did when you whine, "Yes, yes, yes, I'm gonna– Fuck, Burt, I'm gonna–"

If he were in his right mind, Burt would've chastised your language. But he's never been in this wrong of a state of mind in his life. Because when your hand gets faster and sloppier, he fucks into your fist with even more of a reckless abandon and chases the overwhelming high.

His struggle to stay consistent with his speed and pressure on your puffy and aching clit proves to have been worth it because you crash into the wall at practically the same time as him. You can't be bothered to suppress the trembling, breathy whine that slips through your windpipe. But you do keep the sob afterwards that nearly chokes you. To let him know the extent of what he'd just done to you would change everything.

Because now all you want is his name on your underwear. Even though you're exhausted and gasping through the comedown, you're already picturing his soft face between your legs and the surprise that would blow his pupils wide open when he sees the cursive lettering of his own name over your abdomen.

Because when you imagine him clicking his tongue and teasing you with a, Oh, darling, all this just for me? you want to cry. You want chest pains and tear soaked cheeks and him to hold you through all of it and make it make some sort of sense. He’s been around for a while, he’d know how to cure this feeling, wouldn’t he?