after hours | michael jackson
professor! michael jackson x grad student f! reader
cw/tw: 1991, michael teaches a graduate literature course at uc berkeley, no use of y/n, slight age gap — reader is mid 20s michael is 33, fluff, forbidden romance, praise, drunk makeouts, 18+ mdni, thigh riding, m!masturbation, semi-public oral (m! receiving), mention of semi-public sex, use of yes sir, soft dom! michael
wc: 3.9k
Everyone was drawn to him.
That became apparent with each passing lecture. The way he was able to hold the attention of the room as he spoke and moved, your eyes catching on the way his hand flexed as he wrote on the chalkboard. Not being able to help it.
The cadence he spoke in, a lull on the ears that kept the attention easily. He didn’t even have to try.
His smile infectious and when he’d lean against his desk with his hands in his pockets, cracking a joke only one with knowledge in fifteenth century literature would understand — the entire lecture hall laughed. Even if they didn’t get it, there was just something about him.
Despite how distracting Professor Jackson was, you were one of, if not the, top student of his.
Your gaze would catch his as he handed back assignments, forcing back a shiver as your fingers brushed when you took the paper from him. Practically melting when he winked at you and muttered a Good work.
Your face feeling warm as you looked down to see the familiar scrawl of his hand writing. You didn’t even bother to look at your grade, knowing it was an A.
Instead your attention was pulled to the annotations he had left.
He was probably one of the best professors to give feedback on work. He was honest, but he wasn’t cruel and he didn’t have the ego to withhold a compliment when it was due.
You smiled to yourself as you read what he’d written in the margins. His handwriting slanted and borderline messy and telling yourself his praise didn’t mean all that much. He was just doing his job.
Then your eyes caught on the smiley face he’d drawn next to one paragraph. Nothing else.
It made your stomach flip.
The infatuation was normal and you were sure half of the other students shared your sentiments. Professor Jackson was handsome and young. Soft spoken and intelligent. Kind and charming. A silly side to him that made him all the more endearing. He ticked every box.
Though you’d never admit it out loud, the small crush you had on him drove you to work harder. Desperate to win his approval in a way only academics knew. The hunger for it practically insatiable because you knew those brief interactions were all you were going to get.
At least, that’s what you had initially thought.
He’d mentioned two weeks ago that there was an essay competition and left a list pinned to the bulletin board outside of the lecture hall for people to sign up.
You’d been curious, of course. But the thought of people reading your work outside of a classroom setting made your bones slightly itch. The act of putting yourself out there like that too vulnerable. Saying you’d do it eventually, just not now.
Yet as the hour wrapped up and you were half way through packing your bag to leave, you heard your name.
Glancing up, convinced you were hearing things, you found him looking at you expectantly as he leaned against the desk, his arms on show given he’d rolled the sleeves up and you tried to ignore how dry your mouth suddenly got.
“Yes, sir?”
You had never actually talked to him before besides asking questions now and then during seminars.
“Do you have a minute?”
You nodded, blushing as he gestured for you to come over with his hand.
Sliding your bag onto your shoulder, you held the strap of it like a life line as you approached him.
His smile was lazy at the corners, his eyes just slightly narrowed as he looked at you. Debating something in his head and you felt like the world had stopped moving.
“Why didn’t you sign up for the competition?” He finally said.
You blinked at him. “Sorry?”
“The essay comp. You didn’t sign up.”
“Oh…” you continued to stare at him like an idiot. Not knowing what to say in a way that wouldn’t make it sound childish. “I just… I’m busy.”
“You get two weeks until the deadline.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. “I’m really busy.”
Professor Jackson raised a brow at you.
His direct and prolonged attention was overwhelming and you suddenly started to panic if you were breathing normally.
“I really think you should give it a shot, there’s no need to be nervous about submitting something. You’re a wonderful writer.”
You physically felt your chest bloom in warmth at the compliment. “Thank you, but I don’t know. I’ve never,” you shifted on your feet. His gaze was so intense. “I’m not sure if it’s right for me, is all.”
“That’s exactly why you should do it. If it would help ease some nerves, I’d be happy to look over your work before you submit it.”
Your brows rose a little bit. “You would?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“Is that allowed?”
He winked at you as he turned around to grab something, a moment later the sign up sheet and a pen were being handed to you.
You looked at him and held your breath as he leaned down a little closer. The smell of his cologne swirling around you in a comforting haze.
His voice was low as he spoke. “Our little secret.”
And because it was him and he was looking at you like that, you signed your name. Trying to ignore the way heat pooled in your stomach at how pleased he looked that you were doing it.
“Just let me know when you’d like me to review it, my door’s always open. Do you know where my office is?”
You nodded, your mind spinning at the thought of being alone with him in such a small space.
The next week and a half was spent practically tearing your hair out over the essay. Being abhorrently self critical as always and you were terrified to go to Professor Jackson’s office.
Not for any valid reason. You were simply nervous. The school girl crush you had on him practically rendering you useless.
It was pathetic.
You paced outside of the liberal arts building that his office was in. Your paper in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Half tempted to shove the blazing stick of tobacco into the header and watch it shrivel up into ash.
With a shaking hand, you brought the cigarette to your lips. Willing the nicotine to calm you down enough so you didn’t look like a blundering idiot in front of him.
Apparently the cigarette calmed you down too much.
You had sat there watching him flick through the paper just fine, but when he started lecturing you on your need to get over your childish stage fright of sharing your work or else you’d never make it as a writer, something apparently shifted in your common sense.
“Don’t be such a pretentious asshole, I’m perfectly capable of deciding when and what I want to do with my writing.”
He froze.
So did you. Watching as the sharp words swirled in the air, practically taunting you with regret.
“Sorry,” you mumbled.
At the stretch of silence in the small office you began to worry you’d royally fucked up.
Professor Jackson’s voice was quiet, his voice nearly as warm as the heat blowing out of the vent in the ceiling. "That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble one day."
You stilled for a moment before your fingers tightened on the hem of your skirt. Your stomach swirled a bit, a combination of worry and something else that was wholly inappropriate. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"
A light laugh left him, though it seemed more of an exhale.
He wouldn't look at you. His gaze was focused pointedly at something over your shoulder.
"It's fine, your bluntness is appreciated. That being said, I prefer you didn't call me anything such as a pretentious ass in front of my students."
You were being let in. Only a little bit.
You couldn't help it as you started to smile. "So only in private, then?"
You watched in fascination as a string pulled slightly at his mouth, his dark eyes sliding over to you for only a moment and it made your head spin.
"Only in private," Professor Jackson hummed.
He then stood up, gesturing for you to follow him and he opened the door for you. The warm light from the hall sweeping into the room and your legs shook a bit as you walked.
“Michael.”
“What?” You paused just in front of him, your eyes flicking up to meet his. He was looking at you intently now.
“Call me Michael.”
You wet your bottom lip, “only in private?”
He observed you for another moment, a quiet storm behind his eyes before he nodded once.
“Only in private.”
You felt like a line was being crossed. A boundary being carefully tread. Invaded. Redrawn. You knew better. Then again, maybe you were just delusional.
It probably didn’t mean anything.
When the weekend rolled around, you and your roommate headed to a popular bar that was only a few blocks away from the apartment.
You were in desperate need for a drink, your mind constantly spinning over the interaction between you and Prof— Michael, from the other day.
Nothing had technically happened. Yet it felt like the world had slipped off its axis since then.
“Why is it so busy?” You groaned as you rounded the corner, seeing the line to get in.
“It’s Friday. And it’s lecture night.”
You raised a brow. “Lecture night?“
“Yeah, a bunch of professors come here on Friday’s, give a lecture on whatever they want, and everyone gets progressively more wasted as the night goes on.”
You hummed, the idea growing more entertaining.
You were three dirty martinis in when Michael stepped up on stage. Your eyes widening at the sight of him.
He looked so… casual.
He wore a sweater with the sleeves rolled up, a white collar peeking out at his neck and navy jeans. His curls looking a little messier than usual and his gaze was a little glossy as he brought a glass of wine to his lips.
Michael stepped closer to the microphone, clearing his throat. “I had one too many before this, so if I start randomly slipping into old English, just throw something at me.”
Laughs bubbled up around the bar followed by applause as he started his lecture of choice.
It was something about Medieval depictions of hell and how it was really just a dogmatic idea of the working class, but your mind trailed off as you watched him move.
Mesmerized by his drunken and lazy smile, the way his eyes were set a little heavier as he squinted against the stage light. He was so easily able to take control of any room he walked into and he didn’t even have to do anything but be himself.
You turned to your friend, taking another sip of your martini.
“He’s so hot.”
They nodded in agreement, looking starstruck themselves as they watched him.
He concluded his lecture with a slight bow and a muttered Thank you through the mic. Stumbling a bit as he walked off the stage and his laugh was loud as someone helped steady him.
You weren’t thinking.
Clearly.
The room spinning slightly as you stood up and made your way over to him.
You could blame the bad decision making on the vodka when you were sober enough to care.
★
Michael spun you around the second the bathroom door shut, his mouth on yours, the sudden contact almost violent as he backed you against the wood of the door.
Your head would've slammed into it, but his hand had snaked into your hair and absorbed the impact.
His fingers twining, tight, and yanked. Making your mouth fall open in a moan and he all but lunged on the opportunity. Tongue slipping into your mouth and exploring, his own groan leaving him as his rationality left him with its tail between its legs.
His mouth slid down to your jaw, his teeth sinking in, biting and soothing. Caught up in a wave of want that felt borderline primal.
There was a small voice in the back of his mind telling him how wrong this was. You were his student. You were both drunk. This was inappropriate.
He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about before.
His imagination outrunning his better judgement as he’d think about you when the hour ran late. Grading papers but getting too distracted at the mere thought of you. Wondering what you would sound like. What you would look like… either being spread out in his bed or bent over his desk.
Waking up one too many nights in a thin layer of sweat, hips grinding into his mattress and wishing it was you.
It was wrong and he was horrible for thinking such things.
But he couldn’t stop.
It’s like you had infested his fucking soul, if he were to be so dramatic.
Not even realizing what he was doing half the time as his hand slipped beneath his boxers to take hold of his hardened cock. Picturing your pretty face and eyes as he started to jack off. Head rolling back and hitting the headboard of his bed as his fantasies ran wild, your name tumbling from his lips as his hips thrusted up into his own hand, hot cum making a mess on his stomach.
When Michael’s thigh wedged between your legs, a moan broke past your lips and it made him feel dizzy.
He didn’t think about how he was your professor. Didn't think about how he was too old for you. Didn't think about how you two were in the bathroom of a bar as you started to ride his thigh and his hands were pulling up your skirt.
A groan leaving him as his eyes flicked down to see your pretty underwear already soaked as you dragged your clothed cunt against his jeans.
One of his hands took hold of your hip, helping you grind against him while his other wrapped around your throat. Pulling your mouth back to his in a bruising kiss.
It was a mess. Wet with teeth hitting against each other and he couldn’t get enough.
The whimpers leaving your mouth as you started to go faster and harder going straight to his dick and he wished he could just bend you over the sink and fuck you. The idea was lewd and woefully unromantic, but his drunken mind had lost any semblance of self control.
He pulled back from your mouth, his teeth tugging your bottom lip as he did so and your skin was flushed with liquor and arousal.
“You’re so fuckin’ pretty.” He said it quietly, mostly to himself as he admired you.
“Michael, I—“ You choked out in a whine, your pupils blown. Reflecting his own desire.
“That’s it. You’re doing so good.”
His praise, though small, seemed to topple you over the edge and you buried your face in the crook of his neck as you came.
The sound was akin to the trumpets of heaven, he was sure of it.
His hands settled heavily on your hips, gently working you through your orgasm.
Before another thought could even cross his hand, your own hands were buried in his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours.
The following Monday as he got ready for work, Michael’s eyes kept catching on the hickey that was placed just between the curve of his neck and above his clavicle.
His jaw rolling at the memory of you putting it there Friday night.
He’d hardly slept since then.
A mixture of guilt and reruns of the night that only led to more sinful thoughts.
Although you were both adults completely capable of making decisions… he was your professor for God’s sake.
He couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol, knowing damn well he had thought about you in a plethora of more erotic ways— Michael just didn’t think he’d actually ever act on it.
But like a dog with a bone thrown in front of it, he’d leapt at the first opportunity.
He felt even worse because he knew he didn’t regret it.
Didn’t regret it at all as he asked you stay after class, muttering an apology for his behavior in case you regretted it.
Trying to ignore the flood of relief he felt when you shyly admitted it wasn’t just a drunken mistake on your behalf.
Shoving his rationality to the side when you’d come visit him during office hours, asking questions about a course you both knew you didn’t need help with.
His common sense shutting off with the click of the lock on the door as he undid his belt, eyes dark as he watched you.
“Get on your knees.”
Your gaze slipped to the window covered by half drawn blinds. “What if—“
“Do as your told.”
Your pupils were so blown as you slowly lowered yourself. “Yes, sir.”
He hated how much he loved hearing that.
Wrong wrong wrong, the voice would chant.
But the sound of it got drowned out as his hand wound in your hair and his cock slid into your mouth. His eyes never leaving yours and a broken sound tore right up from his diaphragm as your throat constricted around him.
Michael bent over slightly, his chest heaving as one hand caught on the edge of his desk so his knees didn’t buckle.
Your mouth was so fucking warm.
You pulled back a bit, tongue swirling around him and curious but it wasn’t nearly enough.
“Please, you can go a bit more.” His words were rough at the edges, his heart pounding as your brows furrowed in concern. Your mouth too full to try and talk, but you shook your head slightly.
“I know you can, you wanna make me proud, don’t you?”
He was definitely going to hell.
Michael’s thumb gently brushed against your cheek, feeling the head of his cock and he shuddered.
“I know you can do it.”
He rolled his hips forward slightly, the tip of his cock nudging the back of your throat and your nails dug into the exposed skin of his hips.
“Nice and slow,” he muttered.
He let you set the pace as you did as told, your throat eventually relaxing a bit and he was able to thrust a little further in but his patience was teetering on the edge of ruin.
His teeth sunk into his bottom lip, his grip on the desk tight as his dark eyes met yours.
The trust in your gaze made his chest ache.
You nodded at him once, the movement small.
Not a moment later his hand was back in your hair as his hips rolled forward, the surprised gagging sound you made as his cock slid all the way down your throat made his ears ring. His vision going blurry at the edges as he watched himself slide in and out your swollen lips, his cock covered in your salvia.
Hot tears slipped out of your eyes, leaving a ruddy trail of mascara down your cheeks and he groaned at the sight.
You were devastating in all the right ways to ruin him.
A whine tore up your throat and around his cock, making him throw his head back as the muscles in his stomach tightened when he came down your throat.
“Fuck, mama.” His hips mindlessly continued to roll as he rode out his orgasm.
Michael was mesmerized as he pulled out of your mouth, long strings of your saliva and his cum stretching from his tip and your tongue as he did so.
A pathetic sound left him when you swallowed his cum and he pulled you up gently by throat, lips crashing into yours and muttering a Good girl.
★
There was a thrill to stolen glances as he gave a lecture, his eyes catching knowingly on the way you’d bite your pencil and your thighs would clench beneath the table as you crossed them. Your skirt just a bit too short.
The day you had risked not wearing any underwear, he had casually asked you to stay after. His gaze dark and looking a little angry with you.
Not muttering a word as you followed him to his office.
You spent the next hour bent over his desk as he lectured you about it.
How inappropriate it was that you showed up to class like that, but you couldn’t summon single thought as his hands took hold of your hips, slamming your pussy back down onto his cock.
Mumbling a broken string of apologies you didn’t mean as you moaned his name.
Your chest would tighten when there was a quiet knock on the front door of the apartment well around two in the morning.
Your smile small as you opened it, seeing Michael in a Berkeley crewneck and jeans as you snuck him into your room.
It was ridiculous. It’s not like what you two were doing was illegal, you just didn’t want the drama of it.
Spending the night wrapped up in your sheets, falling asleep to the sound of his heart beat as your head rested against his chest. His fingers running gently up and down your spine as he read whatever book you had on the nightstand that evening.
Getting into the passenger seat of Michael’s car on weekends as he drove you two somewhere just outside of town. Sliding into linoleum booths of an old diner as you caught up with each other’s day, smiling absentmindedly as he went on a rant about something new he had read about.
You showing up at his house, walking in to see your favorite flowers on the kitchen table and a bottle of wine when you found out you had won the competition he had encouraged you to enter.
The rest of the night spent with your back arching off his sheets and Michael’s head between your thighs.
He’d bring you books often, leaving little notes on parts he thought you would like. Taking you to art exhibitions that opened and not muttering a single complaint as he walked slowly with you to each painting. Bending down and sliding his reading glasses on as he read each description with interest.
Curled up in one of his sweaters, sprawled out on the couch with your back against his chest as he showed you his favorite old Hollywood movies. You found it adorable when he would giggle, trying to hide it behind a hand but you’d tug his wrist away. Muttering how much you loved his smile and watching as he would blush slightly, his doe eyes softening before pulling you in for a kiss.
You adored him. The finality and truth of it hitting you sharply as the semester came to a close and he wished everyone a safe holiday break. Staying long after everyone else had left and not bothering to get up from your chair.
Michael’s shoes clicked sharply against the tile as he neared you, his smile small and knowing. Hands in his pockets as he came to a stop just shy of the table.
Your fingers thrummed on the wood.
“What now?”
You didn’t know why you were nervous. Though neither of you had said it out loud, you cared for each other. It wasn’t something to be easily discarded.
Michael’s finger hooked just beneath your chin, tilting your head up and he leant down to kiss you. The pressure of it even and firm.
He then pulled back and straightened, holding his hand out and looking at you expectantly.
“What—“
“C’mon.”
You slid your bag on your shoulder, fingers twining with his and you walked hand in hand out of the building and into your new life together, no longer having to be confided to hidden touches and stolen glances.
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