“What is a fiddlehead?”
“I'll fiddle your head,” Smith replies in a growl.
Trott sighs. “Please don't.” He waits for an answer to his question.
“Ugh, I don’t know. What is it?” Smith groans, rubbing his face with a hand. He and Trott are sitting cross-legged on Trott’s bed as Trott helps him study for his upcoming Botany exam.
“A fiddlehead is a frond of a fern.”
“Right. Ugh. Fucking botany! I'm so sick of it. I just want to be a biochemist. Why is it even required?” Smith flops backward onto Trott’s bed and stares up at the ceiling.
“For the bio half of your chemist.” Trott shuffles the vocabulary index cards in his grasp.
“But it's so fucking dumb. Like, dude, I don't give a shit about plants. I mean, I understand they’re important for so many ecological reasons- I just don’t give a shit.”
“You have to study, though,” Trott reminds him gently.
Smith groans. “I know. Dammit. I'm going to fail.” He covers his face with his hands and groans louder. “I’m going to fucking fail, Trott!”
Trott pats his leg. “No, you're not, sunshine. Just keep at it.”
“I've got a D- in the class. It’s halfway through the semester, I’ve failed all the tests- There’s no way I'm going to pass! Fuck! ” Smith sighs heavily and begrudgingly drops his hands back down beside him. “I don’t know any of this information well enough to get my grade up by the end of the semester.”
Trott rubs his calf affectionately. “You should go talk to your professor. See if he can help you understand it better.”
“I understand it fine, I just can't memorize it for these fucking stupid tests.”
“Can't hurt to ask, and see what he says.”
“Ask him what? Please raise my test scores?” Smith sighs. “I'd suck his dick for a passing grade.”
“Um, not what I meant.”
Smith snorts. “Course not.” He stretches and shakes his head. “Start rattling through them again, Trotty. I’m gonna need all the help I can fucking get.”
Smith treks his way through the science building, all the way at the back of the top floor offices. There are just enough sets of stairs to make him winded, and the creepy taxidermy displays set into the walls stare back unblinkingly. He was going to his botany professor’s open office hours. He hoped no one else would be there, or come by, that way he could awkwardly talk to his professor without having anyone else overhear.
Professor Sips was a decent enough guy, but his powerpoints sucked. And even though Smith knew the information he was required to learn was easier than other courses (far easier than fucking Organic Chem had been), he was still having issues fitting everything in when studying.
He knew at the beginning of the semester Sips had said, “If you have problems, come to me before the test, eh? So I can help before you fail.” But a lot of good that did when Smith didn’t expect to fail in the beginning.
There weren’t any tutors for the course, and Smith and his stupid pride didn’t want to go asking his classmates to help. This was one of the required classes for his major, but he was taking it later in his degree. Half of his classmates were underclassmen, and most of them were health, pre med, or gen bio majors. All very athletic and outgoing. Smith felt like an anomaly. He felt like more of an outcast than he was in high school, and that was saying something. He never talked to anyone in the class. He’d never even spoken to his professor before.
It didn’t help that Smith didn’t care about plants- and Sips made it the most boring thing on the planet.
The office hours room number listed on Smith’s botany syllabus was actually an empty classroom. The lights were on inside when he knocked on the door.
Smith opens the door and walks inside. Plants are lined up in rows on the countertop, bright and voluminous under growing lights. The room smells of potting soil and greenery. It makes his nose twitch with allergies. Fucking plants.
“Hello,” Sips greets when Smith walks up to the front lab bench. He’s sitting on a tall bar stool behind it, flipping through a dirt-stained notebook with a laptop open beside him. “Alex Smith, right?”
“Yeah...” Smith replies slowly.
Sips smiles, sensing his unspoken question. “I know all of my students. Part of the job description. What can I help you with?”
“I, uh, wanted to talk about my grade...and the upcoming test.”
“Sure thing, lemme pull up your grades and we can talk about it.” Sips beckons Smith around the lab table and Smith scoots around shyly, twisting the strap of his backpack where it’s slung over one of his shoulders. He tries to stem his nerves as he watches his shameful-looking grades being pulled up on Sips’ old laptop.
Sips whistles lowly as he scrolls through Smith’s gradebook. “Yeah, you got some making up to do here...”
“Is there any way you can raise my grade?” Smith asks.
“Syllabus says I don’t normally give extra credit.”
Smith’s heart crumples with a crushing feeling of hopelessness at the same time his anger spikes up. Of course it wouldn’t be too easy. “There aren’t any extra assignments? Something? There’s got to be- I can’t be the only one who’s in this situation.” He swallows thickly, and doubts that last sentence immensely. Most people had A’s and B’s in this class. Here he was, the bottom feeder, clinging onto a barely passing grade.
Sips crosses his arms over his chest, turning towards Smith and smiling bemusedly. “You know I don’t want my students to fail, right?” His body posture is open and friendly but his arms throw Smith for a loop. Does he actually want to help, or is he just going to be a dick?
Idly, Smith wonders, not for the first time, what it’d be like to feel Sips’ stubble against his.
“I-” Smith drags his gaze away from where he was staring, at the creases in Sips’ button-down shirt where it was pushed up to his elbows, the stretch in Sips’ jeans where the fabric pulled across his crotch, and the long lines of his legs. Sips isn’t bad looking, for being much older than himself. “I...guess? If you don’t want me to fail, then you can help me, right?”
Sips hums in thought, arms crossed, making Smith sweat.
“S-Dr. Sips, sir, look, I’ll do anything. You can’t just- there has to be- there has to be something.” He’s a damn inch from begging.
“You must really need this grade, huh?”
“I’d suck your fucking dick for an A, mate.” Smith finds himself saying brashly.
Sips laughs. “Is that so.” He reaches into the pocket of his windbreaker tucked in a cubby in the lab bench and tosses Smith a ring of keys. “Alright then, Smiffy. Lock the doors for me.”
Smith’s eyes widen. He’s frozen where he stands for a moment, and he turns slowly around to lock the front and side doors to the lab.
So they were doing this. Holy shit, he was about to blow a professor. For a fucking grade change. Holy shit. This can’t be fucking real. He’s only thought about this, like...twice, but he never thought it’d actually happen.
Fuck, this is such a bad idea, what is he doing?
When Smith finishes locking the doors, he rounds the lab bench again and drops his backpack to the floor.
Sips hops off his bar stool. “You know, you don’t actually have to do this,” he says, pulling the stool away from the table a little. He sits back down again and scratches the side of his face.
“I- Well, I do if I want a better grade,” Smith stammers,
“Nah, you don’t. I’d tutor you for free, on my own time.”
“That’s not a guarantee I’ll do better!”
Sips laughs again. “And a blow job is?”
Smith smirks, nerves melting a bit with this easy banter between him and Sips. “I give fucking awesome blowies, mate.”
“A is for Awesome, eh? Well. Alright.” Sips holds his hand out for the keys.
Smith drops them into Sips’ calloused palm. If he wanted to leave, he could- the doors only lock one-way.
“How about this, Smiffy- you come to private tutoring every open office hours and stay long enough to understand the material, I’ll up your grade, and this whole thing stays a one-time, secret thing between us.” Sips raises an eyebrow. “Sound fair?”
Smith nods. “Office hours tutoring, this stays between us, and my grade goes up. Deal.”
Sips puts his hand on Smith’s shoulder. “And your blowjob skills will determine how much of a grade boost you’ll get on the upcoming test, yeah?”
“Yeah, alright.” Smith smiles a little at the feeling of Sips’ warm palm on his shoulder. He files that detail away to think of later, to imagine those hands in other places.
Sips smirks. He pats Smith’s shoulder and waves towards the floor behind the desk.
There’s your insurance, then, Smith thinks. Hidden from sight just in case someone could accidentally come in.
Smith swallows thickly and kneels down, shuffling closer until Sips’ crotch is at face level. He can feel his heart pumping against his ribcage.
Fuck. Alright. Let’s do this.
Sips takes his wallet out of his pocket and passes Smith a condom. “I figure we’re both clean but better safe than sorry,” he murmurs.
Smith would make a snarky comment but he’s too focused on watching Sips undo his fly. His professor pops the button on his jeans and pulls the zipper down slowly, and the sound is amplified in the quiet of the room.
Smith shifts on his knees, tearing open the condom as Sips removes his dick from the confines of his boxers, and rolling it on.
Sips’ grey eyes are watching him intently, and Smith lowers his gaze. He wraps one hand around the base of Sips’ dick and slowly takes him into his mouth.
Smith uses his hands, tongue and lips, sucking wantonly and making sure to let out little moaning noises. Sips’ dick is thick and hot, pressing hard against the roof of his mouth and tongue. He bobs his head along the shaft and focuses on breathing through his nose, mind completely focused on the task.
“Shit ...That’s it, Smiffy. Fuck, yes,” Sips murmurs above him.
Smith works harder at the praise, moaning a little at the warmth that spreads along his shoulders and chest because of it.
Sips’ calloused fingers come up under Smith’s chin, tilting his head up a little more. They brush Smith’s throat and he moans again. He’s a little more turned on than he’s willing to admit. Smith takes more into his mouth and digs his free hand into his knee to keep from touching himself.
After several more minutes, Sips’ fingers press into Smith’s jaw, and his eyes flutter shut as he comes.
Smith pulls off, a little dizzy with the realization he just sucked his professor off. He’s uncomfortably hard in his jeans.
Sips notices when he opens his eyes again, and smirks. “Office hours next week, Smiffy. You get that Awesome A of yours, and maybe I’ll make you a deal of my own,” he says with a wink.
Smith grins. He stands up, gathers his stuff, and slips out of the room.