Soft0bsessions

“Extra Credit” — Professor Hwang x Reader

୨୧ — ✦ — ୨୧

Summary:

You’re a quiet student who’s been slipping—missing notes, showing up late, testing boundaries.

And Professor Hwang has noticed.

He always notices.

But when he keeps you after class, it’s not for detention. It’s not even about your grade.

It’s about control.

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.

But his eyes?

They found you. Over and over again.

You stopped taking notes halfway through.

Your pen stilled.

Your stomach turned.

He was watching you.

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.

Just you. And him.

⸻

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.”

“You’re falling behind.”

He stopped in front of your desk.

“And I don’t think it’s because you’re tired.”

Your breath caught.

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—”

“I notice everything.”

⸻

He moved closer.

Too close.

Your chair scraped the floor as you pushed back instinctively.

He didn’t stop you.

He just watched.

“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.

Or maybe you did.

“You want me to lose control, don’t you?” he whispered. “You want to see what happens when I stop being your professor.”

You were shaking.

And yet—you didn’t move away.

⸻

He came around the desk.

“Get up.”

You stood.

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.

“Come here.”

You did.

Slowly.

Breathlessly.

“You’re not here for credit,” he said, hands brushing your hips. “You’re here because you like the danger.”

“You like me like this.”

You nodded, barely.

His mouth hovered over yours.

“Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

💌˚₊‧ 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."

You nodded. Barely.

"Use your words."

"I-I want it," you whispered.

That's all it took.

You heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of something dropping to the floor. And then— his body pressed against yours. Hot. Close.

Completely in control.

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."

Then he started to move.

Deep. Steady. Each motion dragging a soft sound from your throat that you couldn't hold back. The desk creaked. Your legs trembled.

He didn't stop.

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.

✧˚ · . “Touch Her Again” — Gong Yoo x Reader (Squid Game AU) · ˚✧

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✨ Summary ✨ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You knew what he did for a living. Knew what kind of darkness he walked in.

But you never expected to see that look on his face—

not until another recruiter dared to touch you.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ 🎀 ༘ ⋆｡˚ ⋆

The room smelled like cheap coffee and something colder—metallic, sterile.

You were perched on the edge of a booth, legs crossed, a smile playing on your lips as you stirred your drink.

You could feel eyes on you.

But not his.

Not yet.

The other man was new. Younger. Cocky.

He’d slid into the booth beside you like he belonged there, fingers brushing too casually against your thigh when he leaned in to talk.

“You here alone?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

Because the air shifted.

And then you heard it.

His footsteps.

Not rushed. Not loud. Just slow. Precise.

Measured in a way that made the other recruiter flinch before even turning around.

“Get. Up.”

That voice.

Low. Flat. Dangerous in how calm it was.

The other man blinked. You felt him hesitate beside you—confused.

You?

You just smiled into your cup.

Because you’d never seen Gong Yoo angry before.

Not like this.

“You know her?” the other guy asked with a little scoff.

There was no reply.

Just the dull sound of metal on wood as Gong Yoo placed his hand flat on the table beside you.

His other hand curled gently—too gently—around your shoulder.

“Outside.”

It wasn’t a question.

And your body moved before your mind caught up.

⸻

Outside, it was quiet. Cold. You could still hear the hum of neon signs buzzing overhead.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t look at you.

Just stood there, staring down the street with his jaw clenched tight.

You shifted beside him. “You’re mad.”

No answer.

So you tried again. “He just sat down. That’s all.”

He turned his head slowly, eyes unreadable.

“You didn’t stop him.”

“I didn’t want to make a scene—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Your breath caught. Not because he raised his voice—but because he didn’t.

He stepped forward, backing you gently into the alley wall, one hand braced beside your head.

“You let him put his hand on your leg.”

“He didn’t—”

“You let him breathe near you.”

And there it was.

The fire behind the eyes. The jealousy under the skin. The obsession in his bones.

You didn’t even realize how much it turned you on until your thighs pressed together.

“I wasn’t yours,” you whispered, teasing.

His hand curled into your hair.

“You’ve always been mine.”

⸻

You barely made it to the bed.

He turned you around, hands sliding under your skirt like he’d done it a hundred times. Slow. Focused. Like unwrapping a gift he already owned.

His lips trailed down your spine, soft and deliberate.

“You act like I won’t ruin you,” he said low, voice thick with restraint. “Like I won’t take my time.”

You gasped as his hands gripped your waist—firm, possessive.

“Say it.”

Your breath caught. “Say what?”

His mouth brushed your ear.

“Say who you belong to.”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

So he pressed his body flush against yours—hard, hot, and unrelenting. The way he moved made your legs shake.

“Last chance, baby.”

Your voice was barely a whisper.

“You. I belong to you.”

—

What happened next wasn’t soft.

He didn’t just take you—he claimed you.

His hands guided you, his mouth praised and punished.

Every touch was precise. Every sound you made? Earned.

He didn’t stop when you were breathless.

Didn’t stop when you said his name like a prayer.

He pulled you back. Again. And again.

And when it was over—when your body trembled and your lips could only part, not speak—

He leaned in.

Kissed your shoulder.

Brushed your hair from your face.

“Mine,” he whispered.

✧ Bonus Scene — A Few Days Later

You hadn’t seen him in two days.

No calls. No texts. Just silence.

That was rare for him.

You tried not to overthink it—tried to go about your day like normal. But something in your chest knew something was wrong.

Then you turned on the news.

A man found dead in a back alley.

Unidentified. No witnesses.

Just a blurry image of a red envelope found tucked into his jacket.

Your heart dropped.

Because you recognized him.

The man on the news.

The one who slid into your booth. The one who touched your thigh. The one who smiled like he didn’t know who was watching.

Gone.

And the envelope?

The same kind Gong Yoo always carried.

You didn’t call him.

Didn’t text.

You just sat there, watching the screen, skin cold.

Until you heard your front door unlock.

He walked in calm as ever, dressed in black, tie loosened just like that night.

You turned slowly.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at you with that same unreadable expression.

“You saw the news?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded once.

“Was it… you?”

A pause.

Then his head tilted slightly.

“Does it matter?”

He stepped closer.

“He touched you.”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

“You killed him.”

“I warned him.”

He reached for your hand. Lifted it to his lips.

“You’re mine. And I protect what’s mine.”

You should’ve been scared.