♡‧₊˚ 🍓 writing for my delusions again 🍓 ˚₊‧♡
“Extra Credit” — Professor Hwang x Reader
You’re a quiet student who’s been slipping—missing notes, showing up late, testing boundaries.
And Professor Hwang has noticed.
But when he keeps you after class, it’s not for detention. It’s not even about your grade.
About how long he’s kept his distance.
And what happens when he finally stops.
Obsession isn’t on the syllabus.
But neither of you are following the rules anymore.
♡ ˗ˏˋ 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 ˎˊ˗ ♡
You could feel the tension even as the lecture started.
His voice was steady—measured. He spoke about ethical paradoxes in criminal psychology, about the human mind and its excuses.
They found you. Over and over again.
You stopped taking notes halfway through.
Like he was daring you to look back.
When the lecture finally ended, you didn’t even move. Just sat frozen while everyone else packed their bags and rushed out the door.
Then the silence returned.
He stepped down from the platform slowly, unhurried, like he had all night.
“You’ve been distracted,” he said.
You looked up, pulse thudding. “I’ve just been—tired.”
He stopped in front of your desk.
“And I don’t think it’s because you’re tired.”
He placed a single hand on your notebook and slid it toward himself. Looked over your incomplete notes, then flicked his eyes back to you.
“What’s really going on?” he asked, voice low. “I see the way you fidget. The way you can’t hold my stare anymore.”
You swallowed. “I didn’t think you noticed—”
Your chair scraped the floor as you pushed back instinctively.
“You want something from me.”
Your lips parted. “No, I—”
“Then why do you keep testing me?”
He placed both hands on your desk and leaned forward, eyes locked on yours. His voice dropped into something lower. Darker.
“You show up late. You stop taking notes. You wait for me to call you out. Why?”
You couldn’t answer. You didn’t know.
“You want me to lose control, don’t you?” he whispered. “You want to see what happens when I stop being your professor.”
And yet—you didn’t move away.
He walked to the door, locked it.
When he turned back, he pulled his tie loose, eyes scanning you like you were something he’d waited too long to touch.
“You’re not here for credit,” he said, hands brushing your hips. “You’re here because you like the danger.”
His mouth hovered over yours.
💌˚₊‧ 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒚 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒘 ‧₊˚💌
Your cheek was pressed to the desk, hands flat against the surface. It smelled like old wood and printer paper-but all you could focus on was him.
His footsteps were slow. Controlled. Stopping just behind you.
You felt his hand at the back of your thigh, grazing up until it slipped under your skirt. He didn't say anything. Didn't need to. You could feel it in the way his fingers curled into your skin.
"You want this?" he asked, voice low. "Say it."
"I-I want it," you whispered.
You heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of something dropping to the floor. And then— his body pressed against yours. Hot. Close.
His hips met yours in one slow, deliberate motion.
You gasped-your fingers tightening on the edge of the desk as your body adjusted to the way he filled you. He didn't move right away.
Just stayed there. Letting you feel the pressure. The weight. The fact that he was finally, completely, inside you.
"You take me so well," he murmured, almost to himself. "Just like I knew you would."
Deep. Steady. Each motion dragging a soft sound from your throat that you couldn't hold back. The desk creaked. Your legs trembled.
One hand gripped your waist-tight. The other slid along your spine and curled into your hair, pulling gently, keeping your head turned toward him.
"No one else gets to see you like this," he said. "No one else touches you."
He snapped his hips forward, harder this time, making your mouth fall open in a broken gasp.
