Je Ne Sais Quoi

male reader x itzy Yeji

Tags: smut, au, teacher/student, whump-ish?, experimentally written, feelings, might be slightly half-baked, semi-public sex, donottrythisathome

10k words

There’s a problem, you see, with stupidly pretty little girls in boring old lectures that make your eye twitch every time they raise their hand. They’re a distraction. They contribute to derailed trains of thought, unprofessional work ethics and overall teaching incompetence.

There’s a problem with you, as well, you, who is not that young and not that old, not that young and not that bold, here because you are praying that it’s the stepping stone to a brighter future.

It’s no easy problem to solve.

Then, there too, how it’s perennially uncomforting to know you don’t fit among the teaching faculty, who at lunch drone on and on about the political state of the world and are so heavily invested in knowing whether Tom, Dick or Harry is still going to buy a new apartment with the skyrocketing and unjustly unjust prices when these wizened old bastards turn to you for your opinion you say-

“Hi, yes. I’m a teacher and my love for literature began with Percy Jackson.”

So yes, you’re a fresh grad, whoopie, and you’re teaching these goddamn kids something about books and honest to god- why the fuck are you in charge of these bunch of children barely younger than you.

They aren’t children. Poor diction.

But enough of you. You’re little more than a distraction. We’re here for, yes, the pretty girl. The one that catches your eye, the one student whose attendance you always mark first.

“Yes, Miss Hwang?”

“The essay on Standing Female Nude. It’s due today, is it not, sir?” Hwang Yeji asks innocently, eyes locked with yours.

And good god, just look at the perfect piece of silk cloth she’s cut from. Those eyes, fluttering like butterflies across her face, the way they perk upwards when you have her attention and the way they curve down when you make her laugh she cries.

And of course, your mind fills in all of the other relevant details for you. You’ve read this a million times. The school uniform, form-fitting fixating thy flirty gaze. Your mind flows just like the text books you’ve read, wondering what peaks just below the surface. Her legs are crossed, just barely pressing calf flesh against one another and you’re already losing it.

And that perfect student attitude, hardworking and focused rolled into one and so good at inferring into the little details you’re sure she can read the answer you’ve placed right in front of her.

You smile, amidst the collective groans from the entire lecture theatre.

“I can always count on my class rep for prompt deadlines. Thank you for reminding me. The essay is due.”

“Fucking dickrider,” Yeji’s deskmate, Ryujin, snickers with another one of her obscene remarks. Yeji holds her smile, and you would usually chide Ryujin for her vulgarity, but, callback, you’re distracted.

There’s a rustle of tables and chairs as students come up to submit their work, at the end of which you once again remind your class that if you do not see their essays tomorrow, they’ll be answering to their parents instead.

“Well, speaking of assignments,” you begin, rubbing your hands together with glee, “I’ve marked your speeches on the male gaze and its importance in society.”

Another collective set of groans. They hate receiving their work back as much as they hate submitting it.

You can’t blame them. You don’t really understand the idea of leniency, or bell curve, or sugarcoating whatever half-assed trash they dare to put on your marking table. So they know, already, that half of them probably failed, and that the other half that pass will probably declare that today is the luckiest day of their lives and pop a bottle of champagne right then and there.

But as always, there is always the one, single outlier, whose pieces of work you can proudly say are a pleasure to read.

You will gladly jump on any opportunity to once again publicly declare that Hwang Yeji is the perfect student.

“As usual,” you say, trying to hide your excitement, “Miss Hwang has delivered a perfect piece. A round of applause for our talented class rep.”

An unenthusiastic round of applause (they’ve seen this a thousand times), no doubt, but Yeji grins like it’s Christmas and you’re Santa. She runs up cutely to receive her assignment.

“Excellent work once again, Miss Hwang. You spoil me.”

“Anything for you sir,” Yeji grins cheekily, promptly returning to her seat.

Your tone dips thereafter, a one-eighty now that you’re no longer talking about your favourite pupil. “The rest of you can collect your abominations of varying degrees after class.”

And that’s how it is. Yeji, this perfect, gorgeous little starlet that is the wet dream of every form of educator, who pays attention, who asks intelligent questions, who always manages to go a step further in class.

There she goes again, raising her hand in the middle of your lecture, that radiant smile and a perfectly crafted question that honest to god tests you and your thinking.

Yes, one can say you essentially only really teach Yeji, out of all the other people succumbing to sleep in the lecture hall. You essentially only really teach Yeji.

And at the end of every one of your lessons, she always teleports to your side, barraging you with questions on the lecture, attaching herself to you even as you make your way to your next class.

“But sir, isn’t it ironic that the male gaze is seen as a result of the man’s domineering view of women, and yet women who despise this sexist mentality often abuse the male gaze to get what they want?”

“You’re right, Miss Hwang. That is a valuable point. Establishing counterexamples or ironic cases would be an enriching addition to your essays. But I do have a class, I’m afraid, and you probably do as well.”

Yeji groans at the thought of leaving you.

“He’s right Yeji. We have Biology next. You would hate to be late for Biology, wouldn’t you?” Ryujin grins with a lollipop in her mouth, the same vivid shade as the pink streak in her short hair that everyone knows is not school standard.

“No need to look so down. We still have later,” you reassure.

Yeji nods excitedly, like she can’t wait.

Later. She mouths, smiling like she loves you as she turns to leave.

--

In that sick, twisted mind of yours, you’d imagine every after school session with Yeji to be like this.

She’d walk into your classroom, now empty after dismissal, with her tie loose and the first three buttons of her school uniform untied.

She’ll greet you with a sultry, “good afternoon, sir,” and just like she’s been taught to do, she’ll get on her knees in front of you.

You’ll gently wrap a hand around her tie, the school leash, and gently tug her over to you, seated in the teachers chair.

She’ll smile, palpably excited, as she does her job diligently, peels off your pants and your boxers soon after so she can get to what being the perfect class rep really means.

She’ll slide her tongue up your hardened shaft, layer it with spit, give you that look that there’s nothing more in the world she enjoys that getting a throatfuck from her favourite teacher.

Oh, her mouth would feel amazing. She’d know all the right spots, she’s such a diligent worker. She’ll have you whimpering in seconds.

But you’re fucking daydreaming, and wake the fuck up dumbass, she’s seated right across from you. You jerk awake from your stupid fantasy and kick the edge of your table with your foot.