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bastardmandennis · 8 months

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pretty when you cry (jonathan levy x fem!reader)

Summary: You don't mind being Jonathan's TA--until he makes a mistake that almost costs you your job, and you decide to confront him about it.

Word Count: 4.9k (i need help)

AO3

Warnings: SMUT, literally pure smut. afab reader, no y/n, lots of pet names, slight power imbalance (professor jonathan/TA reader), crying (sexually and normal), drinking, smoking, asthma/inhalers (loser), men crying begging whimpering etc, slight dom/sub vibes? ish?, oral (m&f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), technically cheating (but imagine mira signed the divorce papers right away and isn't coming back at all, so technically not cheating? iffy), riding, dirty talk, coming untouched, im so bad at tagging things smh if i missed something pls let me know!

A/N: this is extremely niche and self-indulgent (i wrote this mostly for me and @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin tbh)--ty for indulging in the professor jonathan brainrot with me!! im so obsessed with this pathetic man. title comes from lana del rey’s song pretty when you cry (for obvious reasons). enjoy! xx

“I came here…I came here because you fucked me!” That gets his attention. He stubs the burning cigarette out on the counter, coughing wildly, eyes wide as he gestures to you in between wheezes. You spot his inhaler on the kitchen island next to you and hand it to him wordlessly. His ring finger is noticeably bare as he wraps his hand around the inhaler. He takes a deep breath, then another, slowly exhaling out into the silent kitchen. “Excuse me?” he says. Your cheeks burn.

After another long shitty day in a long shitty week, all you wanted to do was get home at a reasonable time, maybe have a nice glass of wine and a bath, and not talk to anyone for the next 3-5 business days. Today happened to be the worst day of all–you’d just gotten called into the philosophy department chair’s office, where she scolded you for a mistake in the curriculum.

A mistake that wasn’t even yours.

As a teaching assistant, you usually got stuck with the grunt work that the professor didn’t feel like doing. Last year, for example, you’d gotten stuck working with a man so old he didn’t know where he was half the time. That’s tenure for you.

You thought this year would be different: new year, new professor, new group of anxious overachieving students. And it was different, but not necessarily better.

Because you’d gotten stuck TA-ing for Jonathan Levy, the most handsome, charismatic–and let’s be real, a little absent-minded–professor in the department–maybe even the whole school.

You slunk out of the department chair’s office, cheeks blazing and heart pounding. One slip-up would’ve been bad enough, but this was technically your last straw. And if you got put on probation, or worse, kicked out, all because of Jonathan, you’d have to find some way to ruin his life in return. Tenure be damned.

The thing is, he’s not a bad teacher, not at all. He shows up to every class with a big smile, already rambling about the latest topic of the day as he walks into the lecture hall. He’s passionate, if a little disheveled–the stereotypical professor archetype. He clearly loves what he does, and if you hadn’t seen the glint of a wedding band on his hand that first day, well…

But no, he’s off limits personally and professionally. And that made you want him even more.

The thing is, he’s always so fucking oblivious to your attempts at flirting. Like the day you’d worn a short skirt to class, crossing and uncrossing your legs every time he looked in your direction, and he’d barely even looked at your bare legs. Or the night before Thanksgiving break, when you’d invited him to come out with some of your colleagues for a drink, letting your hand linger on the soft sweater covering his arm, and all he’d done was give you a goofy smile and mentioned wanting to leave early to beat the traffic.

So yeah, he wasn’t a bad guy, but he’s been clearly going through something these past few weeks. His normally rumpled clothes now look extremely disheveled, sometimes showing up two days a row in the same outfit. You’d never seen him look so hopeless, the way he raked his hand through his greying curls and mumbled vague instructions to the class about the test next week.

It wasn’t unusual for him to email you well into the early hours of the morning occasionally, sending a link to some journal he didn’t want to lose, an article he asked you to print out for class the next day. But something about this one lighting up your phone screen at 2am the morning before seemed extra…pathetic.

hey–can you handle class tmrw? not feeling good. attaching test for you. x j

It made you pause, this short misspelled email. You could usually expect a 3 paragraph minimum email from him, including a detailed report about how and why he wouldn’t be there tomorrow. This…this wasn’t right. But when you opened the attached word document with the test, everything looked normal. You had no reason to question it when you printed out the required 150 copies the next morning, when you handed out each one to a hall full of bleary-eyed students, when they shuffled to deposit the tests on your desk on the way out. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, even the next day when you’d left them in Jonathan’s office to grade. (Technically your job, but he liked to take his time writing detailed notes and explanations on why he was marking an answer wrong that you just hadn’t mastered yet.)

And yet, here you were after getting your entire ass handed to you by the department chair. The problem, according to her? Jonathan’s grading of the tests–it was inconsistent, vague, no sense or pattern to which answers he’d marked wrong or why. Enough students had complained–or rather, gotten their parents to complain, fucking trust fund kids–that she decided to investigate. And since it was supposed to be your job to grade tests, as the lowly TA, the punishment fell on your shoulders.

Bullshit.

Cheeks flaming, crumpled test in hand, you march down to Jonathan’s office, ready to semi-professionally rip him a new one for putting you in this position. His office was dark, empty–he rarely showed up to office hours on a good day, let alone with whatever’s been going on with him lately. Coward.

Before you could totally think it through, you reached for your phone and pulled up a new email.

Where are you right now? Need to talk to you.

You wait, pacing around the crowded office, not wanting to stop and let your anger fade. If he wasn’t such a control freak, if you’d been able to grade the tests like you were supposed to, this wouldn’t have happened.

A silver picture frame lays face down on the desk, and you pick it up carefully. You’ve seen it before–a picture of Jonathan and his wife Mira on their wedding day. She’s wearing some (objectively hideous) mermaid style gown, but he looks…so good. His hair is slightly shorter in the picture, less grey, a light stubble grazing his jaw instead of the full beard he wears now. His eyes are crinkled as he smiles at her–the same way he looks at you sometimes. You swallow back the sudden nausea and flip the frame back over.

Finally your phone pings with a new message:

home today. can this wait?

No, it absolutely cannot.

You’re around the desk and sitting in his scratchy office chair before you realize it, leaning over to type in his computer password (Ava123, of course) and quickly finding his name and address on the department directory. If he didn’t have time to talk to you here, well, you’d show up and make him make time.

It’s quiet as you navigate the backroads to his house, whistling to yourself when it comes into view. There’s his beat-up Subaru in the driveway, so at least he wasn’t lying about being home. You park across the street, letting your car shudder to a stop and marching up to the front door before you can change your mind.

You lay your finger on the doorbell once, then again when there’s no answer. It’s a cute little neighborhood, very quiet. You shiver in the late February air, realizing you left your coat in Jonathan’s office on your way over. Fuck it. You pound your fist against the door, abandoning all sense of subtlety.

Finally you hear signs of life inside–the creak of wooden stairs, a low fuck, shit, when he bangs into something, and he’s talking as he flings open the front door.

“Mira, I said–oh.”

The fight leaves your body immediately upon seeing him. He looks flustered, even more so than usual. You’ve never seen him this casual in a crewneck UMass sweatshirt and grey sweatpants. His socks have little rubber ducks on them. It feels weirdly intimate, like you shouldn’t be seeing him like this right now, this man you’ve never seen in no less than four different layers no matter what time of year.

You clear your suddenly dry throat. “Professor Levy, sorry, I–I have to talk to you. Is this, um, is this a bad time?”

“Bad time?” He chuckles sarcastically, gesturing to his outfit, his wild hair even fluffier than usual. His glasses sit crooked on the end of his nose. “I can’t think of a better time. Come on in.”

After a slight hesitation you do, stepping over various toddler shoes and toys scattered around the entryway. He doesn’t say anything as you follow him to the kitchen, searching through the cluttered drawers for a lighter and a half-opened pack of cigarettes. You didn’t even know he smoked–seems ironic for someone with bad asthma, but you bite your tongue and try not to make a joke to fill the uncomfortable silence. He gestures the pack to you, offering, shrugging when you shake your head. He cracks the back door slightly and inhales deeply, letting the heavy smoke flow out into the night air.

“So,” he says through a cough. “What’s–why are you here? Sorry, that was rude but I’m just a little confused.”

You watch his arms curl around himself, the way his biceps bulge even through his bulky sweatshirt, and suddenly you can’t remember why you’re mad. Oh right, the tests.

“Professor, I just–”

“Jonathan, please,” he quickly says. “You’re in my house, I think you’ve earned the right to be on a first-name basis.”

“Okay. Jonathan.” you begin again.

You don’t know why you’re suddenly nervous–you’ve had so many conversations with him before, able to go toe-to-toe with him in any of the many arguments you find yourself in. So why is standing here in his house that smells so much like him, so cozy and smoky and a little papery, watching him smoke in his comfy clothes, make you want to turn and run?

“I came here…I came here because you fucked me!”

That gets his attention. He stubs the burning cigarette out on the counter, coughing wildly, eyes wide as he gestures to you in between wheezes. You spot his inhaler on the kitchen island next to you and hand it to him wordlessly. His ring finger is noticeably bare as he wraps his hand around the inhaler. He takes a deep breath, then another, slowly exhaling out into the silent kitchen.

“Excuse me?” he says. Your cheeks burn.

“Not like that, I mean–” you remember the test in your bag and pull it out, slapping it down on the island. He squints and fumbles for his glasses, tucking them behind his ears as he peers down at the jumbled writing. You can smell the cigarette smoke clinging to him as he leans in your space, reading the paper on the counter.

“Oh,” he says. He rubs a hand over his scruffy jaw sheepishly, looking up at you through dark lashes. “I see. Did Sandra give you a hard time?”

Oh? That’s all he has to say? You feel the fire return from earlier, remember why exactly you were mad at him in the first place, with everything at stake for you. Of course he wasn’t worried–it wasn’t his ass on the line for this kind of fuckup.

“Yeah, you could say that.” You don’t try to hide the bitterness from your voice. “She–she wants to put me on probation, Jonathan. Said enough parents complained, big donors, and if one more threatened to pull their donation I’d be done–”

“Hey, hey, hey.” He steps closer, reaching a hesitant hand out to cover yours where it’s gripping the edge of the counter. His thumb smooths over your knuckles, back and forth, back and forth. “I’ll talk to Sandra, don’t worry about it, okay honey? They’re not getting rid of you that easy, huh?”

You manage a watery smile. His eyes are so warm, crinkled up in the corners as he looks at you. His thumb comes to nudge your chin up and you smile, and then he’s stepping away and clearing his throat. You miss his warmth immediately.

Now you’re embarrassed–he probably thinks you’re crazy, showing up at his house over something so simple. But he just looks at you, reaching up to push his glasses back up on his nose.

“Thank you Prof–Jonathan,” you say. Maybe you’re imagining the way his eyes darken when you say his name. Just a trick of the light, the way his eyes seem to linger on your nipples poking through your thin impractical t-shirt. Or…maybe not, if the way he shifts until he’s standing right in front of you again is any indication.

“You, um. You want a drink, or something?” he husks. “Came all the way out here, right? Let me—I was just about to pour myself a glass of wine. Want one?”

“I shouldn’t really, we have an early class tomorrow I have to get ready for…”

He scoffs. Finds two glasses in the cabinet, pouring a generous amount into each from the open bottle of red wine on the counter. He hands one to you, and when you don’t immediately take it, wraps his hand around your fingers to make you hold it. His hand is so warm and covers yours completely.

“I have it on good authority,” he says, “that class will be canceled tomorrow, anyway.”

You take a long sip, mostly to hide the smile pulling your lips. His eyes never leave yours as he drinks his own wine, watching you watch the pull of his throat as he swallows. Again you realize the finger usually wearing his wedding band is bare, a little sad looking. Just like him.

“So…how’s Mira?” you say gently.

His expression tightens, eyebrows pulling together as he scoffs.

“Don’t really know,” he says. “She, ah…left me. A week ago, now.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he chokes the words out.

“Jonathan, I’m–fuck, I’m so sorry,” you place your hand on his, unsure how to comfort him properly.

He shrugs, sniffs a little and turns so you can’t see the tears in his eyes. “Yeah, well. It’s been over for a while. I should’ve known when she stopped wanting to…” he clears his throat again. “Sorry you don’t, you don’t need to hear about this.”

Another tear slips out and you reach out before he can, bumping the edge of his glasses as you wipe it off. He’s silent, barely moving, and then he leans into your touch even more with a low groan.

“You know the best way to get over her?” you ask suddenly. He blinks more tears away and stares at you, uncomprehending. Heart pounding, you take his hand and lead him to the stairs, arousal growing with every step you take. He doesn’t resist, letting you direct him upstairs, down the hall to a big bedroom with an even bigger bed in the middle of the room.

One side of the covers are turned down, rumpled and thrown off. On the nightstand is the book he assigned for class next week–you know if you opened it, it’d be covered in nearly incomprehensible scribbles, post-its, half thoughts only he could figure out. You’d had to decipher his chicken scratch more than once.

Jonathan is silent as you examine the room, doesn’t say anything when you find your way into the walk-in closet. One side is almost completely bare, just a few dresses strewn across the floor. You step over them, ignoring the low noise he makes, and run your fingers across the sweaters hung up neatly on the other side, the brown corduroy pants you recognize immediately, the ones that have no business making his ass look that good. It’s not what you expected–the room, the closet, the bathroom–they’re all clean and tidy to the point of feeling sterile.

He’s leaning against the door jamb when you emerge from the closet. He clears his throat once. “What are you–I mean–”

“Do you or do you not want to fuck me right now?” you say, just to watch the flush spread across his cheeks, the way he shifts in place. He doesn’t look up until you move to stand right in front of him. The steady thrum of arousal you always feel around him, the one you’ve managed to push down and ignore out of respect for his wife, for your career and his, spreads unchecked like a wildfire.

“Of course, honey,” he whispers, rubbing at his watery eyes with a thick finger and you rub your thighs together.

Heart racing, you tell him get on the bed, and he scrambles to listen, perching on the rumpled side of the bed, the one he’s clearly been sleeping on, but that’s not what you want.

“No,” you say, and he freezes, apology already on his lips. “The whole bed.”

Something passes through his eyes, darkening until they look almost black in the low light of the room. He flips the other side of the covers down without hesitation, and when he leans back in the middle of the bed you can see the growing outline of his cock through his sweatpants.

His eyes follow you as you stand at the foot of the bed, hands fisting the sheets as you run a hand under your own shirt, lifting it up an inch, then two, before dropping it down again. He groans, low and deep, and you feel a little thrill at the noise, how wrecked he looks already. He’s so easy.

“Take your glasses off,” you instruct, and even before you finish speaking he’s pulling them off and setting them gently on the nightstand. Just waiting for you to tell him what to do next. His throat bobs with a hard swallow.

“Lean back and don’t move. If you do, I’m gonna stop, okay?” He looks dazed but nods, fisting his hands by his side in the sheets to keep them there.

You quickly shed your jeans and t-shirt, ignoring the whine in his throat when he sees your exposed skin, the light fabric of your panties already damp with want, and crawl up to settle in between his spread legs. For a moment you sit there, not sure what you want to do next. Would he let you sit on his face? Slip a finger or two inside you until you’re dripping, begging for him to fuck you? No, tonight should be about him first, you decide quickly.

You scratch your nails through his beard and he hums, leaning into your touch. He doesn’t move as you take his face between your hands, keeps his hands to his side until you shift forward until you’re hovering over the bulge in his sweatpants. He throws his head back with a low thunk against the headboard, gripping your sides with his warm hands as he tries to pull you down, closer to where he’s hard and aching.

“Jonathan,” you say mock-sternly and his eyes fly open immediately. You shake your head, lifting yourself up and back over to the end of the bed and he panics, hands scrabbling at the empty air.

“No c’mon, I’ll be good, come back–can you just, just touch me please, honey?”

His face is flushed, chest heaving as he watches you settle by his feet again. He’s still wearing those damn socks. His breath catches once but when you look up in alarm he smiles, gives you a thumbs up. What a loser.

“I think you’ll like this better, though,” you whisper. “Take your shirt off.”

And he does, whipping it off into the corner of the room before you can say anything else. His chest glints with sweat as he leans back again, breathing heavily. You run your fingers down his stomach, through the light trail of hair that disappears into his sweats and he groans, bucking his hips up.

Your fingers run under the waistband of his pants slowly, a barely-there brush of fingers that he tries to buck up into again. You push him down, holding him to the bed by his hips and he just lets you. It’s hotter than it should be.

“Are you gonna be good and stay still?” you ask. He nods quickly and you smile at him, ignoring the stickiness between your thighs. You pull down the waistband of his pants and to your surprise his cock bobs up, ruddy and thick and already leaking precum.

“Commando, really? What–were you jerking off before I got here, is that why you were too busy to talk to me?” He doesn’t say anything, averting his eyes from your knowing glance. “Holy shit, you were. What were you thinking about?”

He doesn’t answer right away so you drag your fingers lightly over the sticky head of his cock, and that gets his attention, the words spilling out almost uncontrollably. “I don’t know, you–shit no, I mean. Fu-uck, please.”

You let him push his hips up into your hand once, twice, and then you’re pushing him back down, cutting off his protest when you lower your head down, licking the salt and precum off your hand before you wrap it around him. You let your tongue run over the pulsing vein as he chants please please fuck please.

“Were you thinking about this? About me with your cock in my mouth, on my knees for you?” and before he can answer you take his length in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks just to hear him whine, jacking what you can’t take in your mouth. His hands grip the sheets, his own thighs, hovering like he wants to grab your head so you let him, guiding his hand to the back of your head as you move up and down, taking him further and further into your mouth until you’re swallowing around him.

He groans, trying to move his hips up and you push him down even harder, pulling back to suck light little kisses up and down his cock instead. He’s whining now, loud in the quiet house, pulling your hair and panting, practically wheezing. You’re just leaning over to take him in again, letting your breath fan over the thick head, but before you can even do anything he’s tensing up, a low groan spilling from his mouth as he comes, untouched.

A little string of saliva follows when you finally pull back, and he stares as you wipe your thumb across your cheek, pushing the string of come there into your mouth. His face is red as he watches you sit back on your heels, dick limp and twitching against his stomach.

“Fuck, are you okay? I’m sorry–it’s, uh, it’s been awhile. Clearly.” He rubs a hand over his face, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. He coughs again, breathes out sharply and then fumbles for the inhaler tucked into the nightstand.

“Was it everything you dreamed about?” you joke, settling yourself over his thighs, linking your arms behind his neck. He huffs out a quiet laugh and runs his hands over your sides, stopping when you push yourself forward, letting your bare breasts drag against his chest. His hands are unsure, lingering as he grabs your hips, rubbing his thumbs over the panties you’re still wearing.

“Not exactly,” he says, and when you start to protest he tightens his grip, quickly adding, “no I mean, of course, you’re–fuck, you’re amazing–but I wanted to do this properly. Wanted to get my mouth on you first.”

The thought of his mouth on you, taking you apart, letting his beard scratch up your inner thighs–it makes you even wetter than you were before and you try to be subtle about the way you’re shifting around in his lap but it’s clearly not working, if the groan he gives is any indication. You can feel him, half-hard and growing when you grind yourself against him.

“Already?” you gasp, somewhat impressed with his recovery time, and he gives you a shy smile and a shrug. His fingers drag down lower, snapping the side of your underwear and you rise up, shucking them off as he kicks his sweatpants down until you’re both fully naked.

“Will you let me touch you please? Can I get my mouth on you, please, been thinkin’ about it all night, since you walked into my office that first day of class, shit, you’re so pretty, please–”

You cut him off with a kiss, running your hands through his messy hair and he groans into your open mouth, a little rumbling thing you can feel as you kiss down his throat, his shoulder, and then he stops you with a hand to your chin, pulling you back up to look at him. He scoots back, dragging you with him as he settles back on the bed, grabbing a pillow from her side of the bed to place under his head and looking up at you expectantly where you’re waiting, holding yourself up over his stomach.

“Sit on my face,” he murmurs. “Please, will you? Let me make you feel good, c’mon.”

All the air leaves your body in a rough exhale–maybe you need his stupid inhaler this time. “Y-yeah,” you rasp, and then you’re shuffling up his body, hovering over his face until he grunts and wraps a hand around each thigh, pulling you down to where he’s waiting.

You’re right–his beard does burn, tickling the insides of your thighs as he mouths sloppy kisses there, nipping randomly until he pulls you down, again, letting you settle right over his warm mouth.

He’s good, licking up into you with an intensity you’ve never felt, fucking his tongue in and out until you’re groaning, gripping the headboard and grinding your hips down for more more more–so greedy. His nose nudges your clit lightly, not enough to do anything until you lean forward even more, pressing yourself against him. He groans and you feel it through your body, where you’re dripping onto him, moving even faster against his mouth. Your thighs begin to shake, pleasure coiling in your stomach, and then he nudges your clit again, licking hard and you’re done, coming hard into his mouth as he guides your hips over and over until you finally push him away, too sensitive.

“Holy shit,” you gasp when you see him, beard drenched, eyes hooded as he stares back at you, chest hitching and stuttering with his heavy breaths.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, yanking your body down until you’re rocking against his cock, hard and thick and just what you need. He tips his chin up to look at you with a soft smile as you press small kisses over his ear, his beard, the tip of his nose until he’s whining please please please.

“What do you want? Gotta use your words,” you murmur, reaching behind you to grab his cock. He’s still slippery with come and you run your hand up and down him slowly, ignoring the way he pushes his hips up, how his fingers dig in the spaces above your hip bones.

“Please sweetheart, lemme fuck you, ’s all I think about–you’re so pretty I just wann-ah shit, wanna–” he’s panting again, breath catching in a wheeze, and you reach down to clasp your palm over his mouth just to get him to shut up–the last thing you need is for him to have a fucking asthma attack right now. His whine is muffled and tears are forming in the corner of his eyes as you carefully grab his throbbing cock, steadily leaking precum, and position yourself over it. You just hover there for a second, letting him feel the heat of you, how wet you are, and his head jerks back beneath your palm, tears rolling down his temples.

And then you’re sinking down slowly, letting you both feel the stretch, his eyes wide as he watches the slow glide, the way you envelope him so completely. It’s so good and you just sit there for a second, adjusting to the way he feels, forgetting about your hand over his mouth until he mumbles something. His hands are gripping the covers again, the sheets a mess with both of your come, and you feel a perverse sense of satisfaction at the sight.

“What?”

“Can you p-please move, so tight, ’m not gonna last.” He breaks off into a groan when you lean forward, changing the angle until your clit presses right into his pubic bone, hips bucking uncontrollably when you rake your nails down his chest, watching the red marks appear with satisfaction. Mine now.

You hush him, wiping the stray tear from his face as you roll your hips slowly, keeping your hands pressed against his chest in warning when he tries to move too quickly. He’s thick inside you and you shift minutely, letting him rub against the spot you like, the one that has you clenching around him with a low moan.

He smiles when you gasp, murmuring right there, honey?, and all you can do is nod, chasing the growing tension as you try to keep moving at a steady pace. You feel your legs wobbling, tired now, and he grunts, shoving his hips up up up and all you can do is hold on and let him. He reaches for your clit with his thumb, rubbing lightly until you feel yourself tense up, pleasure zinging through your body until you finally explode, hips stuttering over him as your muscles lock up.

You try to catch your breath, getting ready to move again, to let him finish until he stops you, face red again. Then you finally notice the trickle of come seeping out from where you’re still connected, his cock slowly softening, and you lift yourself off and flop down next to him. It’s silent, the harsh rasp of his breathing prompting you to roll over and look at him but he’s already looking at you, eyes soft as he pushes a stray piece of hair out of your face.

“Thank you,” he says softly, and you shrug.

“Don’t thank me yet,” you say. “I’m still ratting you out to Sandra tomorrow.”

He laughs softly, a little wheeze that has you smiling. “Fair enough.”

masterlist here

#jonathan levy x reader #jonathan levy fic #jonathan levy smut #scenes from a marriage fic #just look at that gif and tell me u dont want to see him cry. RIGHT.#didnt tag anyone else bc i didnt know who else would be into this besides me and angela LOL #ok goodnight #lexi writes things

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