Poison

"About damn time you showed up."

You only have a foot inside the door to your office when her voice grates your ear.

It's a taste of your own medicine, the same exact thing you tell Kyujin whenever she shows up fashionably late for your classes. And now, she's using that very same weapon against you.

And it's not like you're 30 minutes late like she usually is; you're only five minutes off from the agreed upon time. Yet it's more than enough to get herself off the back foot and into attack mode.

When you risk a glance up, you're greeted by quite the sight: Jang Kyujin, sitting cross-legged on top of your desk, skirt too short for comfort, zipper of her dress shirt partially undone, enough to tease the faintest sighting of cleavage. It's the ceremonious welcome you've been dying to see at the end of another long, exhausting school day.

Add another half-dozen student infractions to stack on an already full laundry list of violations this semester alone, mostly dress-code related.

"Kyujin, please hop off my desk."

You say it with a tone that brooks no argument, but the tired, deflating side leaks through. The kind that has tolerated so much and is too damn exhausted to care at this point.

In response, she simply rolls her eyes.

"Make me."

—————

You shake your head, rubbing your tired eyes as you lean back against the shut door. "Please, Miss Jang. I'm not in the mood to deal with any of your shit today."

That stops Kyujin in her tracks. And somehow, it draws a hint of rare, genuine concern. She obeys your half-hearted command and clambers off, the skirt a touch longer now—at least from what you can catch.

"Awww, poor professor. Having to handle incompetent students must be so exhausting," she says with a cheeky grin, bouncing in front of you. You don't notice her move around you to lock the door, but you certainly hear the click. She coos in your ear, playfully brushing a hand under your chin. "Lemme guess, more AI generated reports?"

Completely unbothered, you just glare back, even if some of it is true. "Why should you care? Not like you're any better submitting your assignments two weeks late."

Kyujin shrugs, rolling her eyes again. "Just wondering."

You click your tongue. "Wondering or not, there's more important matters I need to attend to."

"Oh? Such as—?" she asks with an almost snarky curiosity.

It's not about anything involving her or even academics, at least to some degree. What you really need to be thinking about is how exactly you're going to properly enjoy your date tomorrow night, or when you’d finally get around to filing your two week notice. But Kyujin doesn't need to know about that, nor does she give a single fuck.

So instead, you lift up a rather large and thick stack of graded papers sitting right beside her, the mere sight of the workload drawing a brief widening of her eyes and yet another unamused eyeroll.

"More reports by lazy clankers?" she remarks, already knowing the answer before getting a reply.

"Always."

She lets out an exasperated groan. "Come on, professor. Is that what you should be doing before exams? When you should be doing better stuff?"

"And what, pray tell, would you consider 'better stuff?'" you question, raising a brow and arms crossed in feigned ignorance.

Kyujin raises her arm and puts it around your shoulder. The other hand rests on your chest, barely a sensitive touch away from getting all over each other.

"How about getting off your tired ass for one minute and—reward the student who, at the very least, passes each test with flying colors? Just a small congratulations is enough," she implores. Her voice is low and husky, an attempt to sound like a good little girl in need of some desperate praise and affection. "I'm not asking for much like I normally do. Consider this—a kindness discount."

"Maybe show up to my classes more than half the semester and I'll consider it," you counter, sighing after as she burrows further against your neck. The scent of her perfume is as strong as her grip, the girl hanging onto you as tight as you have onto the rest of her underperforming grades.

"Aw. You really miss seeing my cute face, professor?"

"Don't make this harder than it has to be, Kyujin."

She feigns offense, clutching her chest. "Why am I making things harder than they need to be?

“Cut the crap, Kyujin," you dismiss in a rather bored fashion, glaring in judgment at how disgustingly clingy she gets. "You've hardly shown up to my classes since the beginning of this semester and yet you wonder why I'm a little short with you."

For what's certainly not the first time, she only offers an annoyed smile as response.

But perhaps there's a part of her that holds a bead of respect for your efforts, despite them seemingly going nowhere. More likely the opposite. There's only one reason why she still tolerates you and bothers to try. Or maybe it's just your mind looking for excuses to be hopeful.

Your words seem to register; her annoying smirk normally wears shifts into a warm smile, though her hand slowly moving from your chest to your waist indicates it's nothing but a mere ruse.

Kyujin steps forward, sliding her hand down the length of your arm and drawing close until her chest presses itself close against yours. It's the kind of behavior you’d push back against, given your job as a professor and not caring about her as a person outside of your office. But that’s not what matters to you at all. Right now, the goal is trying to get the woman off of your back—both figuratively and literally.

"You sure? You really want this 'crap' cut from us?" she purrs. Her hand glides up your side to your shoulder and back down again, brushing under the edge of your shirt. She grabs the top button to unfasten, eager to shed off your clothes.

Your face twitches in discomfort and desperation, but the professional side in you doesn't want to let go just yet.

You grab her wrist to stop, but instead, she quickly finds and grabs hold of your cock through your slacks. She makes damn sure there's nothing subtle or suggestive about her intentions, but her utter boldness and the way she grips your shaft makes you go crazy within mere seconds.

Clear your throat and tilt your head. Your expression says, 'you're fucking serious?' but the growing tent in your pants says something else.

"It's been a long day, sir," she remarks, tilting down to the bulge poking through your slacks, her eyes glistening with mischievous intent. "You really do need to destress. And would you look at that?" she directs her attention to the overhead clock, now at exactly 6:00 P.M. "Everyone else should be leaving by now. Leaving only just the two of us."

"Kyu, please—" you protest, but she gives your balls a squeeze that turns your words into a deep moan. Needy. Wanting. You grab her hair in an effort to make her stop. "Not yet—"

Fuck, this is one of the reasons you keep Kyujin around, despite her brash, free-spirited behavior. She knows you more than you do. How you react to the slightest touch, the faintest sensation, how you always want her, and the thrill she gets off from leading you on despite the consequences and the risks—

"And come on. Be honest," she interjects as she continues to stroke. "A part of you is glad to see me, right?"

She gives your cock one long, firm stroke and lets her hand linger on your shaft. You can practically feel your precum leaking and dying to break free and touch her wet warmth.

Kyujin licks her lips at how fucking ready you are for her. The student meets her teacher, now fair equals in every sense of the word, and it's even more erotic because the fact is not lost on her that despite you teaching her, she can teach you. And you're always looking forward to every session.

Despite how aroused and eager you are, you stop. Grab her by the hair and keep some space between you. "Wait. I'm being serious here, Kyu. Take a seat over there."

Recognizing the urgency in your tone, she relents. Shooting you a mocking pout, she quietly sits on one of the guest chairs. And because she can't help herself and her mouth, she has to make it snarky:

"You're no fun."

"You want my cock and my cock only, I get it. Save the quips for later," you say as you plop in your seat with a heavy exhale, setting aside the damning workload on the desk, piling them on one of the drawers. "Can you at least humor me here for five minutes."

As she drums her fingertips across your desk, it's only now you notice that they're neatly manicured, an appealing shade of bright pink to match her strawberry colored lips. It's a reminder that outside of being a pain in your ass, Kyujin is very, dangerously attractive. More than that, she’s the definition of a teacher’s pet: always willing to take extra long breaks before returning to class looking a tad disheveled, getting eaten out or bent over in the bathroom, lockers, or offices—that is, if her long makeup fixes or a slightly rearranged bra isn't giving any signs away.

She rests her head on her arms and shoots a sullen stare at your unflappable nature. "Whatever, sir. Your wish is my command," she mocks with a little bow.

With an impatient sigh, you add: "Or you could stay there, I guess. Whatever makes you happy."