#off labels

Not that you’re thinking about that one.

Not that it would even be your case.

You shift on the couch, burying yourself deeper into the cocoon of your brother’s old hoodie. It’s massive on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the faded fabric smelling like dust and detergent.

Perfect. The ideal uniform for an evening of doing absolutely nothing.

Your e-reader is dead, so you’ve resorted to flipping through some random paperback you found wedged under the coffee table, something with an aggressively shirtless man on the cover. You’re only half-paying attention, your eyes skimming over the words without really absorbing them.

Caleb should be home soon. Probably. He has class—or he says he has class, but you’re not entirely convinced. He’s in that phase of university where it’s mostly networking and group projects and going out more than actually studying.

Not that you care. He does his thing, you do yours.

A sharp knock at the door pulls you out of your haze.

You ignore it. Caleb has keys. If he forgot them, that’s his problem.

The knock comes again. Then the doorbell rings.

You groan, untangling yourself from the blanket and shuffling toward the door with all the grace of a sleep-deprived goblin. Your hair is a mess, your socks don’t match, and you’re fairly certain you have crumbs on your face from earlier. Good. Whoever’s on the other side can suffer.

Except—

It’s not Caleb.

It’s Hoseok.

Oh.

You freeze, hand still gripping the doorknob, brain buffering at the sight of him standing there, all easy confidence and warm eyes and—why does he always look so put together? It’s unfair. He’s in jeans and a hoodie, nothing special, but it fits him just right, and his hair is slightly tousled, like he just ran a hand through it, and—

Stop.

You force yourself to blink, to breathe, to act like a normal human person.

“Uh,” you say, which is a stellar start.

Hoseok smiles. “Hey.”

He has the kind of voice that makes people listen, rich and smooth, the kind that carries even when he’s speaking softly. Which he is now, like he knows you spook easily.

“Caleb’s not here,” you blurt out.

He tilts his head, amused. “Yeah, I figured.”

Right. Obviously. Because if Caleb were here, he’d be the one answering the door.

You scramble for something else to say, but your brain is blank, completely derailed by the fact that he’s here. In your doorway. Looking at you. And you must look insane—your hair sticking up in weird directions, drowning in a hoodie that is definitely not yours.

And he’s still smiling. Patient. Like he has all the time in the world.

You clear your throat, gripping the edge of the door. “Um. Did you—need something?”

Hoseok shifts, rocking back on his heels. “I was in the area. Thought I’d stop by, see if Caleb was around.” A pause. “And you, too.”

Your brain does an emergency reboot.

You, too.

You, too.

You swallow. “Oh. Right. Cool. That’s—cool.”

His smile twitches, like he’s holding back a laugh.

You want to throw yourself into traffic.

“Mind if I come in?” he asks, ever-polite, ever-easygoing.

You should say no. Caleb’s not here, and even though Hoseok is Caleb’s best friend—and a genuinely nice person, thoughtful and reliable and the kind of guy who remembers your favorite coffee order—something about being alone with him makes your stomach twist.

But saying no would be weird.

So you step back. “Yeah, uh, sure.”

He steps inside, and suddenly the room feels smaller. Or maybe you’re just too aware of him—his presence, the faint scent of clean laundry and something warmer, something mellow. He’s always been like this, always drawn your attention whether you wanted him to or not.

You watch as he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair like he’s been here a hundred times before. And he has, technically, but not like this. Not without Caleb.

Hoseok glances at the book on the coffee table. “Good?”

You stare at it, momentarily forgetting what book it even is. “Uh. Yeah.”

His eyes flick to the cover. His smile turns amused.

Heat floods your face.

"Interesting choice.”

You freeze. A slow, creeping horror slithers up your spine. Because you didn’t even look at the book before picking it up—you just grabbed whatever you had lying around, assuming it was something boring, something safe—

And now Hoseok is holding a novel titled My Professor’s Secret Temptation.

Oh.

Oh, you actually might be sick.

You scramble for something—anything—to say, but the words wedge themselves somewhere between your throat and your rapidly spiraling embarrassment.

Hoseok flips the book over, scanning the back cover with a curious hum. “Didn’t take you for the forbidden romance type.”

You want the ground to open up. You want to disintegrate.

“I—I didn’t even read it!” you blurt out, a little too fast, a little too desperate. “I wasn’t paying attention, I just grabbed something random, and—and it’s not—”

Hoseok glances at you, amused but not in a mean way, just…interested? "Oh, yeah?”

You nod. Aggressively. “Yes.”

His mouth presses into something thoughtful, like he believes you, but there’s still a flicker of amusement in his expression, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with this new information.

“Huh.” He flips through a few pages idly, head tilting. “He’s pretty bold, huh?”

Your stomach drops. “Who?”

“The professor.”

Your soul leaves your body.

You stare at him, mouth opening and closing, incapable of forming a coherent thought.

Hoseok just nods, easy, unbothered. “Some of these lines are intense,” he muses, flipping another page. “Do real professors talk like this?”

You are going to die. Right here. On the floor.

“I—” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know.”

He hums again, like he’s genuinely considering it, then—just as casually as everything else—he looks up and says, “You think he’s hot?”

Your heart stops.

Not in a teasing way. Not in a mean way. Just…like it’s a normal question. Like this is just an easy, natural conversation between two people who absolutely do not need to be having this conversation.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Hoseok’s lips twitch, but it’s not a smirk, not a knowing smile—just quiet amusement, like this whole situation is genuinely kind of funny, and he doesn’t think it’s a big deal at all.

“Relax,” he says, closing the book with a soft thump. “I won’t tell Caleb.”

It’s so casual. So reassuring.

Like he really, really isn’t trying to mess with you.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Hoseok sets the book down with deliberate care, spine aligned parallel to the edge of the coffee table like he’s arranging museum artifacts. Your traitorous eyes track the flex of tendons in his wrist—medical resident hands, steady and precise, the kind that’ve probably held beating hearts in ORs. You bite the inside of your cheek until copper blooms.

He glances at the sofa.

You glance at the sofa.

Three cushions. Two throw pillows. Seventy-two inches of fabric that suddenly feels like the Grand Canyon between acceptable and catastrophic.

“Mind if I…?” He gestures to the spot beside your abandoned blanket nest, already moving before you nod.

The springs creak faintly as he sinks into the middle cushion, thighs spreading in that effortless way men do—knees wide, elbows propped, phone balanced on his lap. You sit next to him—two cushions away—and watch his thumb scroll through messages, the screen’s blue light catching the silver ring he always wears on his index finger. Surgical steel, he’d told you once when you’d asked. Sterile. Practical.

Practical.

Practical like the way his left knee now brushes the edge of your blanket. Practical like the faint cedar-and-disinfectant scent of his cologne. Practical like the half-inch of skin exposed when his hoodie rides up as he stretches his arms behind his head.

Don’t look.

You look.

Stop looking.

He shifts, a subtle roll of his hips that has no business being this distracting. The movement pulls the denim taut across his thighs, and you try—really, genuinely try—to keep your eyes anywhere else. The ceiling. The floor. The stack of medical textbooks by the TV. Anything but the way his thumb now absently traces the inner seam of his jeans.

“Told Caleb I’d wait,” he says, tilting his head toward you. The motion makes his throat work—Adam’s apple bobbing, chin catching gold in the lamplight. “Movie night. You’re welcome to join, if you want.”

Your tongue feels like it’s been replaced with felt. “I—I have… readings.”

“Readings.” His mouth shapes the word like it’s fascinating.

“For… neuroanatomy.” You gesture vaguely toward your backpack slumped by the TV stand, half-buried under a sweatshirt you’ve been using as a pillow. “Midterm next week.”

He hums, low and considering. “Limbic system?”

“Hippocampus. Amygdala. All the… emotional bits.”

“Ah.” His smile softens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “The parts that make you want to throw textbooks at walls.”

You blink. “You… remember?”

“Your first-year meltdown over the cranial nerves? Yeah.” He chuckles, warm and rasping. “You called them ‘twelve little traitors’ and threatened to switch to art history.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You’d forgotten he’d been there that night—Caleb dragging him along for a pizza run, finding you knee-deep in flashcards and tears. Hoseok had quietly made tea while Caleb joked about selling your cadaver lab notes on eBay.

“Still think about it sometimes,” you mutter, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “Art history sounds peaceful. No one dies in art history.”

“No,” he agrees. “But you’d miss this.”

“Miss what? The sleep deprivation? The existential dread?”

“The way your nose scrunches when you’re trying to memorize Brodmann areas.”

Your hands freeze.

He’s looking at you now—not the performative eye contact of someone making conversation, but the kind that pins you in place. Clinical. Observant. Like he’s cataloging your reaction.

“I don’t… scrunch,” you say weakly.

“You do.” His knee nudges the blanket again. Accidentally. Probably. “It’s cute.”

The air conditioner kicks on. You count the vents in the ceiling. Eight. Eight is a safe number. Eight is not the number of times you’ve imagined him saying that word in different contexts.

Cute.

Cute.

Cute.

Your lungs forget how to oxygenate.

Hoseok’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then sighs. “Caleb’s running late. Some study group thing.”

“Oh.”

“You hungry?”

“What?”

He’s already standing, rolling his shoulders in a stretch that pulls his hoodie taut across his chest. “I’ll make ramyeon. You like the kimchi kind, right?”

You stare.

He’s in your kitchen now, rummaging through cabinets with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times. Which he has—game nights, birthday parties, that one time Caleb got food poisoning and Hoseok stayed over to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit.

But this is different.

This is him pulling two bowls from the shelf you can’t reach without a step stool. This is him filling the kettle with exactly 500ml of water because he knows your stove runs hot. This is him glancing over his shoulder to ask, “Soft or firm noodles?” like it’s a question that matters.

“Soft,” you croak.

He nods, turning back to the counter. You watch his hands—capable, unhurried—tearing seasoning packets with his teeth. The steam fogs his glasses when he leans over the pot, and he pushes them up into his hair, revealing the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow.

Bike accident, he’d said when you’d asked. Twelve years old. Thought he could jump the curb like X-Games.

You’d dreamed about that scar for weeks afterward.

“Here.” He sets the bowl in front of you, chopsticks balanced across the rim. “Careful, it’s hot.”

You murmur thanks, staring at the swirling red broth. He sits closer this time—one cushion away instead of two. His knee brushes yours when he leans forward to blow on his noodles.

Accident, you tell yourself. Always accidents.

The TV murmurs in the background, some nature documentary about deep-sea creatures. Hoseok asks about your classes, and you answer in staccato sentences, hyper-aware of the way his sleeve brushes your arm when he reaches for the water glass.

“—and Dr. Park’s lectures are killing me,” you hear yourself say, chopsticks hovering over uneaten noodles. “She goes so fast, and the diagrams…”

“Want me to quiz you?”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye—the same one he gets when Caleb challenges him to Mario Kart. “I handled multiple neuro cases last year. Could walk you through the basal ganglia.”

“You’re… busy.”

“Not really.” He sets his bowl aside, rolling up his sleeves. Your pulse thrums at the reveal of his forearms—dusting of dark hair, veins mapping paths you shouldn’t be tracing. “C’mon. Hit me with your worst.”

It’s a mistake.

You know it’s a mistake even as you fetch your notes, even as he pats the space beside him. Even as his shoulder presses against yours, radiating heat through three layers of fabric.

“Okay.” He scans your color-coded flashcards. “First question. What structure connects the hippocampus to the mammillary bodies?”

“F-fornix,” you stammer.

“Good.” His finger taps the next card. “Main neurotransmitter in the substantia nigra?”

“Dopamine.”

“And loss of dopamine here causes…”

“Parkinson’s.”

“Nice.” He shifts, knee pressing into yours. “Now point to your amygdala.”

You freeze. “What?”

“On your head. Show me where it is.”

“I—it’s—it’s medial temporal lobe, so…” You hover a hand near your right temple, acutely aware of his gaze tracking the movement. “Here? Ish?”

His chuckle vibrates through the couch. “Ish.”

“Shut up, I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

You glare at him. He grins back, all white teeth and crinkled eyes, and something in your chest cracks open.

“Medial,” he says softly, reaching over to adjust your hand. His fingers graze your wrist—brief, clinical, devastating. “Deeper. Protected.”

You stop breathing.

The documentary narrator drones on about bioluminescent jellyfish. Hoseok’s thumb brushes your pulse point.

Accident.

Always accidents.

Then his phone rings.

You jerk back like you’ve been shocked. Hoseok answers with a calm, “Yeah?” while you stare at your knees, pretending your entire nervous system isn’t short-circuiting.

“Caleb’s downstairs,” he says, standing. “Forgot his keys again.”

“Oh.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

He pauses, head tilted. For a horrifying moment, you think he’ll call you out—on the shaking hands, the flushed cheeks, the way you’re clinging to a pillow like it’s a life raft.

But he just smiles. Gentle. Endless. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You collapse sideways onto the couch, pressing your face into the cushion that still holds the warmth of him. Somewhere in the hallway, the elevator dings. Laughter floats up from the parking lot.

Four years.

Four years of this.

Four years of almosts and maybes and don’t be stupid, he’s just being nice.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Caleb:

𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐?? 𝙽𝚎𝚛𝚍. 𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊. 𝚆𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎?

You type no with trembling fingers.

The couch creaks as you curl into yourself, knees to chest, forehead pressed against the spot where his ring had left a faint indentation in the upholstery.

Deeper.

Protected.

Somewhere in your medial temporal lobe, dopamine fires for all the wrong reasons.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

© 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

Hoseok hums against your skin, smoothing one palm up your spine, fingers tracing slow, steady circles between your shoulder blades.

"Shh, baby," he murmurs, lips pressing into your hairline. "I’ve got you."

Your throat shudders.

Your body is still trembling, pleasure still fluttering through your core, nerves still firing in the aftermath of everything he’s done to you.

And yet—

His hands keep soothing.

Warm, steady palms dragging down your back, up your ribs, over your arms, everywhere, mapping every inch of you with a softness that makes you ache.

"You did so well," he whispers, tilting his head to press a lingering kiss to your shoulder. "So well for me, Chip."

Your fingers fist into his shirt.

He hums, shifting you higher, cradling you closer, keeping you pressed against his chest as he moves.

The air changes.

Cool sheets brush against your bare skin.

And then—

Softness.

Your back meets the mattress, sinking into plush comfort as Hoseok lowers you, setting you down like you’re something fragile.

Like you’ll break if he lets go too fast.

Your breath shakes.

But his hands never leave you.

They stay—palming your waist, smoothing over your thighs, grounding you, soothing you as your body trembles in the aftermath.

Then—

A kiss.

Featherlight.

Pressed gently against your damp cheek.

You whimper.

Another kiss, placed just beneath your eye, tasting the remnants of your tears.

Then another.

And another.

Hoseok follows the path of your sobs—kissing them away, lips brushing over wet lashes, soft and slow, until every single tear is gone.

"You’re so beautiful when you cry for me," he murmurs.

Your chest tightens.

His lips move lower—pressing warm against the bridge of your nose, the tip of it, letting his breath fan over your face.

Another kiss.

Your forehead this time.

Slow. Lingering.

Like reverence.

Your fingers shake where they rest on his chest.

His voice dips to a whisper. "Such a sweet thing."

His lips brush yours.

Not taking. Not demanding.

Just there.

Waiting.

Soft. Warm.

Patient.

And then—

A kiss.

Gentle. Barely there.

Just the softest press of his lips to yours.

A breath, shared between you.

Your whole body shudders.

Hoseok smiles.

His fingers trace down your cheek, down your jaw, dragging slowly down the column of your throat.

"Rest a little, baby." A kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Then I’ll give you exactly what you’ve been begging for."

Your fingers fist into his shirt.

Weak. Trembling. Needy.

Hoseok stills above you, breath warm against your lips, his body heat pressing into yours.

Your throat burns.

Not from pain.

Not from exhaustion.

From want.

From him.

"Baby—" His voice is soft, careful, but you shake your head frantically.

"No." Your fingers tighten, pulling harder, tugging him closer. "Want now."

A slow inhale.

His head tilts, lips curling in quiet amusement.

"Do you?"

Your breath shudders.

"Yes," you sob, tilting your chin up, mouth chasing his. "Want you now, Hobi—"

A pause.

Then—

"Water first."

Your stomach plummets.

A whimper claws its way up your throat. "No—"

"Yes." His voice is firm, patient. "Water first, Chip."

Your lip trembles.

His thumb strokes along your cheek, soothing, warm. "I won’t fuck you if you pass out on me, baby."

Your stomach flips.

His voice is so gentle, so calm—like he isn’t fully clothed and hard as steel against your thigh, like he hasn’t spent the last hour dragging you through the most unbearable pleasure of your life.

But his eyes—

Oh, his eyes.

They gleam dark above you, swallowing you whole, already measuring, already planning.

You swallow thickly.

"Water," he murmurs, kissing your forehead. "Then I’ll give you what you need."

And fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You believe him.

You nod frantically.

Too eager.

Too obvious.

But you don’t care.

Because you want. Because your thighs are still trembling, your pulse still racing, your entire body still humming in the aftermath of—

Oh God.

That happened.

That really happened.

Your breath hiccups in your chest, a little wrecked, a little overwhelmed, but—

But you giggle.

You giggle, delirious and exhausted and gleeful, because—

You pulled this from him.

Hoseok.

Jung Hoseok.

Hoseok who wears neatly pressed scrubs and glasses and smiles politely when he enters a patient’s room. Hoseok whose hands are steady, whose voice is calm, whose expression is always gentle when he’s listening to someone’s symptoms.

Hoseok.

Who just spent the last hour tearing you apart.

You shudder.

The mattress shifts beneath you as he pulls away, and you whimper at the loss—weak, pathetic, needy—but he just presses one last, lingering kiss to your temple.

"Be good," he murmurs. "I’ll be right back."

Then he’s gone.

You blink.

Oh.

The warmth of him disappears, the sheets rustling as he rises from the bed. You barely catch a glimpse of his back—broad, steady, his white dress shirt still wrinkled from your hands on him—before he disappears down the hallway.

A glass of water.

Because he’s him. Because he still has to do things properly. Because he just spent an hour ruining you but God forbid he let you dehydrate.

A breathless little giggle bubbles up in your throat.

Your hands twitch against the sheets.

You stare at the ceiling, still hiccuping a little, still throbbing between your legs, and—

Oh, God.

Oh, fuck.

This happened.

You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your palms into the mattress, a quiet little thrill running up your spine.

You’re still here. Still in his bed.

Your fingertips draw tiny circles against the sheets.

A habit. A little nervous tic.

Your brain is spiraling, fast and sharp, flipping through everything at once—

(You came fifteen times. Fifteen.)

(You sobbed into his mouth, and he just laughed.)

(He made you squirt. You didn’t even know you could squirt, but of course—of course—Hoseok knew.)

A breathless little whimper slips from your throat.

And fuck, it should be embarrassing, it should be humiliating, but instead—

Instead—

Your fingers tighten in the sheets.

Because you like it.

Because it’s him.

Because he’s still Jung Hoseok, the perfectly put-together, golden-boy intern at SNUH, but he’s also—

He’s also this.

Not just gentle. Not just kind. Not just the careful, competent doctor your brother trusts, the one whose name gets murmured fondly in hospital hallways—

But this.

The man who dragged you through fifteen orgasms just because you lied to him.

The man who made you earn every single one.

The man who called you sweet while he broke you open.

Your thighs clench.

The distant sound of the faucet runs in the kitchen, steady and calm, like this is all normal, like this is just another part of his routine.

Like he didn’t just turn your body into his own personal science experiment.

You hiccup again.

Still lightheaded. Still soaked between your thighs.

But you giggle, dizzy and gleeful, tiny fingers still tracing circles into his sheets.

The bed dips beneath his weight.

Warm fingers press into your scalp, soft and soothing, stroking over your sweat-damp skin. A gentle pat, the kind meant for comfort, meant to steady you.

You shudder.

"Good girl," he murmurs.

The praise lands hot in your belly.

Your lashes are still wet, damp with the remnants of your overwhelmed sobs, but your fingers cling to the sheets as he presses the cool rim of a glass against your lips.

"Slow sips," he instructs.

You obey.

Your throat works, taking in the blessed relief of water, the cool liquid easing some of the rawness there. You swallow once, twice, lips parting around the rim, letting him tilt the glass just enough to let you drink properly.

His thumb brushes over your cheek.

"That’s it," he murmurs, voice soft, pleased.

Your fingers twitch.

When you’ve had enough, he pulls it away, placing it carefully on the nightstand, moving like he has all the time in the world, like he hasn’t left you bare and aching for him.

And then—

A rustle of fabric.

A shift of movement beside you.

Something warm and soft drapes over your shoulders, settling over your bare skin like a second layer. The scent of linen and faint cologne engulfs you, fresh but familiar, threaded through with the faintest trace of sweat.

You blink down at yourself, slow, disoriented.

It’s his shirt.

His white dress shirt, still warm from his body, sleeves too long, hem pooling at your thighs.

Your breath catches.

You hadn’t even noticed him unbuttoning it. Hadn’t registered the way his fingers had moved so easily, slipping it from his shoulders, rolling it off like it was nothing—like it wasn’t everything.

Your fingers lift, tentative, touching the fabric.

Hoseok just watches. Amused.

His head tilts, gaze dragging over you—soft now, lazy, pleased.

“Much better,” he muses.

His knuckles brush under your chin, tilting your face up. When he sees the look in your eyes—wide, hazy, still wrecked—his lips twitch.

A smirk.

And then, fingers slipping beneath the hem, brushing against your bare thighs—

“Now…” he murmurs, his palm flattening over your stomach, pressing just lightly.

“You’re covered, just like you wanted.”

The bed shifts as he moves, settling his weight beside you, one knee nudging between your thighs, parting them effortlessly.

“But since you seem to love my shirt so much…” His voice dips, smooth and teasing, hands already working the hem higher.

“I think I’ll fuck you in it.”

Your stomach flips.

You whimper, legs squeezing together, but—

Hoseok moves.

Not toward you.

Not immediately.

Instead, he shifts toward the nightstand.

Slow. Torturously slow.

Your breath catches.

He knows what he’s doing.

Of course he knows.

His movements are deliberate—each action drawn out, stretching the moment, letting you feel the weight of every second, every inch of distance between you.

Your fingers clench uselessly at the sheets.

He opens the drawer.

A pause.

His fingers rummage through—calm, methodical, as if he isn’t about to fuck you senseless, as if this isn’t the thing you’ve been begging for—

You whimper.

Hoseok smirks.

He takes his time, sifting through things that do not matter—his watch, a stray pen, his glasses case, something that isn’t a condom, because he’s cruel, because he likes this, because he likes making you squirm.

You do squirm, thighs pressing together, breath uneven, and—

Finally.

Finally, he pulls out a box.

The cardboard rustles between his fingers.

Your whole body locks.

The box is pristine, sharp edges, clearly unopened.

And yet—

The way he holds it.

The way he examines it, tilting it slightly in his grip, lips pursing slightly as if he’s considering something—

You hate him.

You hate him.

You whimper, shifting restlessly against the sheets, and—

Oh.

Oh, he loves this.

You can see it.

The way his mouth quirks at the corner. The way his tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek. The way his fingers drum lightly against the box before—

He flicks it open.

Your breath stops.

His fingers slip inside, slow, searching, before finally, finally—

He pulls one free.

Holds it between his index and middle finger.

And smirks.

The foil packet gleams in the dim light.

Your stomach flips.

Your fingers twitch.

But then—

Hoseok fixes his hair.

A casual, nonchalant movement.

Like this isn’t anything to him.

Like he’s not about to be balls-deep inside you for the first time.

Like this is just another part of his routine.

Your whole body shakes.

He notices.

Of course he notices.

The smirk lingers as he moves back to the bed, glass left forgotten on the nightstand.

And then—

He sits.

The bed dips.

Your whole body tenses.

Hoseok tilts his head.

"Wanna put it on me?"

His voice is smooth, just barely teasing, but underneath—underneath, there’s something else.

Something dark.

Something patient.

Something waiting.

Your breath hiccups.

You nod, fast, eager, wetness still clinging to your lashes.

Hoseok’s smirk deepens.

"Then go on, Chip."

He leans back on his hands, stretching out, voice dropping to a murmur—

"Earn it."

Your fingers fumble at his zipper, eager, shaky, desperate to get to him, to feel him, to finally have him the way you’ve been begging for.

Hoseok chuckles.

The sound is warm, soft, fond—which only makes your stomach twist harder, makes your fingers tremble worse.

"Easy, baby," he murmurs, his hand covering yours, stopping you before you can tug him free. "Need to take them off properly first."

Your face burns.

You whimper, shifting impatiently against the sheets, but he just smirks, brushing a lazy kiss over your forehead before standing up.

The loss of his warmth makes you ache.

You barely have time to mourn it before—

He starts undressing.

Your breath catches.

Hoseok moves unhurriedly, stretching out his elbows before reaching for his pants.

The button pops open.

The zipper glides down.

Your mouth dries.

You stare up at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving, pulse pounding, throbbing between your thighs as he shoves the slacks past his hips, letting them pool at his feet.

Then his briefs.

He hooks his thumbs under the waistband, pushing them down, and—

Fuck.

Your lips part.

Hoseok is…

Big.

You knew that.

You knew.

You remember the struggle of fitting him in your mouth, the way he barely fit past your lips, the way you had to work to take him.

But seeing him like this?

All of him?

Eight thick, aching inches, flushed and leaking, the veins pulsing up his length, the sheer size of him standing rigid against his stomach—

Your throat closes.

Hoseok notices.

Of course he notices.

The corner of his mouth quirks, amusement curling through his gaze as he reaches down—

And caresses your lower lip with his thumb.

Your breath shudders.

Your tongue peeks out instinctively, barely brushing his fingertip, and his smirk deepens.

"So eager," he murmurs, thumb pressing down just slightly, making you feel the weight of it. "Didn’t even wait for me to sit back down."

Your face burns.

Hoseok just chuckles.

The warmth of his touch disappears as he moves, settling himself back onto the bed, stretching out—legs wide, arms resting loosely at his sides, body completely bare for you now.

Then—

He raises the condom between his fingers.

A silent invitation.

Your stomach flips.

You reach for it, still breathless, still shaking slightly, but when you try to tear it open—

Clumsy.

Fumbling.

Your fingers don’t quite grip the foil properly, slipping against the edge, failing to find the right angle, struggling with something that should be so simple—

Hoseok doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t tease.

Doesn’t smirk.

Just… watches.

Quiet. Patient.

His gaze is soft, steady, waiting.

You feel it.

Feel the weight of his attention, feel the way he’s watching you, not mocking, not correcting—just looking at you.

And for some reason—

That’s worse.

Your fingers tremble harder.

You glance up, cheeks burning, lips parting before you can stop yourself—

"Stop looking at me."

Hoseok grins.

Slow. Amused.

Like he expected that.

Like he knew you’d say it.

But he doesn’t stop looking.

Just tilts his head.

"Can’t."

Your fingers pause, the condom still clutched in your grip, and you glance up at him—confused, breathless, waiting.

He’s still watching you.

Still looking.

Still letting you feel the weight of his gaze, unshaken, unbothered—completely at ease while you sit there, bare and flustered and desperate for him.

Your pulse skitters.

Then—

He smirks.

"You’re doing it again."

Your brows knit. "What—"

"Your cheeks."

Your breath catches.

He leans in, voice dropping lower, softer, teasing.

"Like a chipmunk."

Your entire body locks up.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Your chest tightens.

Because—

Because that’s—

The first time.

The first time he called you that. The first time he marked you, the first time he turned something innocent into something that belonged to him.

The first time you became Chip.

Your heart races.

Something deep inside you thrums, something unbearably warm, unbearably good, something that snaps—

You kiss him.

Your hands shoot up instinctively, grasping at his jaw, your lips pressing to his without thinking, without waiting, without hesitation.

Hoseok freezes.

Just for a second.

Just for a breath.

Just long enough for you to panic, for your stomach to twist, for you to think—oh, fuck, I shouldn’t have done that—

Then he responds.

His lips move.

He kisses you back.

Slow. Steady. Measured.

But warm.

So warm.

So good.

Your whole body melts, pressing closer, needing more, fingers still tangled in his neck as you sigh against his mouth.

Hoseok chuckles.

Soft. Fond.

"Sweet thing," he murmurs against your lips.

You whimper, pressing deeper, and he lets you—lets you take what you need, lets you cling to him, lets you pour yourself into the kiss until your lungs burn, until you’re gasping, until you remember—

The condom.

Your breath shudders.

You pull back, fingers clumsy as you tear the foil open, still shaky, still breathless from the kiss, and—

Hoseok just watches.

Smirking. Amused.

But he doesn’t say anything.

He just lets you try.

You slide it over him carefully, hands unsteady, still wide-eyed at the sheer size of him, still feeling the way your pulse thuds at the sight.

He’s…

He’s huge.

You knew that. You remember that.

But now—

Now you’re about to—

Your breath hiccups.

You shift onto your knees, thighs spreading as you move to straddle him, hovering just above him, body trembling, still dizzy, still soaked from everything he’s done to you—

And he still lets you try.

But then—

The moment your fingers press against his chest, the moment you try to steady yourself, the moment your thighs trembleas you hover—

His hands clamp down on your waist.

"Woah, Chip—"

A sharp exhale, his fingers firm, steadying you in place, holding you still before you can sink down too fast, before you can hurt yourself.

"Steady."

Your heart races.

His grip tightens slightly, thumbs smoothing over your ribs, keeping you held, keeping you anchored as he looks up at you.

His voice is lower now. Softer.

"Baby," he murmurs, something warm curling behind his words. "You have to take your time."

His hands slide up your sides, palms warm over bare skin, smoothing over the fabric of his dress shirt where it hangs loose around you. The sleeves slip lower as he adjusts his grip, dragging the soft cotton against your ribs, against your overheated skin.

Your thighs shake.

Hoseok smirks, eyes glinting.

"You think you can take me just like that?"

Your breath shudders.

Because—

Because no.

Not really.

Not all at once.

He’s too big. You know that.

But you’re—

You want it so bad.

You’re so ready.

You need it.

You shift slightly, pressing down just a little, feeling the head of him brush against your soaked entrance, and—

Hoseok groans.

His fingers dig into your hips, grip tightening, controlling the movement before you can force it, before you can rush it, before you can hurt yourself trying to take something that isn’t meant to be taken fast.

"Slow, baby," he murmurs, voice thicker, deeper.

You whimper.

Hoseok’s grip softens slightly, thumbs rubbing gentle circles against your skin.

"Let me help."

You nod frantically, fingers gripping at the open lapels of his shirt, still draped over your frame. The movement makes the fabric shift, slipping off one shoulder, baring more of your skin beneath his touch.

You feel desperate. Breathless.

And then—

Hoseok smiles.

Slow.

Dark.

Steady.

Then he guides you down.

Your breath shatters.

The first inch stings.

Not painful—not quite—but tight, an ache so deep and slow it makes your thighs tremble.

Hoseok feels it.

Of course he does.

His grip tightens, fingers firm at your waist, holding you still, keeping you from taking too much, keeping you from sinking down too fast.

"Easy, baby," he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

Because—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

This—

This is so much.

He’s thick, stretching you in a way that makes your walls clamp down, muscles fluttering, your body trying to pull him in while also fighting to accommodate him.

You whimper.

Hoseok hums, pleased.

His hands soothe over your waist, warm palms stroking up your sides, dragging slow, steady circles over your skin.

"That’s it," he murmurs, voice gentle, but the words still send something dark curling through your stomach. "Just like that, Chip."

His thumbs stroke slow circles into your waist, fingertips grazing over the smooth cotton hanging open around you. 

The fabric barely clings to your body now, slipping further apart with every movement.

Your walls pulse.

Hoseok notices.

His smirk deepens.

His fingers tighten slightly, just enough to hold you down, just enough to keep you where he wants you—halfway, stretched around the thickest part of him, not moving, just feeling.

And then—

His mouth is on you.

Your breath shudders.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses against your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder.

His tongue flicks out, tasting the salt of your skin, and you whimper, shifting slightly—

His fingers dig in.

"Stay still."

Your whole body locks up.

Your walls clench around him at the command, and he groans, deep in his chest, head tilting back for just a second before he regains control.

Then his mouth finds you again.

Lower.

Lips brushing against the tops of your breasts, warm and wet, tongue flicking over sweat-damp skin.

"You feel so good, baby."

A kiss over your sternum.

"So tight around me."

Another over your clavicle.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, hips twitching, but he doesn’t let you move.

"Shh," he soothes, voice low, patient, mocking.

His tongue flicks over your nipple.

The loose fabric shifts with the motion, dragging over your ribs, brushing against your stomach—just another sensation layered over the unbearable stretch of him inside you.

Your whole body jerks.

"Hoseok—"

"Dr. Jung," he corrects, lips wrapping around the sensitive bud, sucking slow, leisurely, like he has all the time in the world—

And he does.

Because he’s keeping you still.

Because you can’t move.

Because he won’t let you move until he decides you can.

Your walls flutter, squeezing tight around the thick, unmoving length of him, and he moans, breath hot against your skin.

His hands soften at your waist, but only slightly.

Still firm.

Still controlling you.

His lips drag lower, tongue swiping over the curve of your breast, down the center of your ribs, kissing, licking, letting the wet heat of his mouth distract you from the pressure, from the way he’s still so deep inside you, still so thick, still holding you exactly where he wants you.

"Tell me how it feels," he murmurs, lips pressing just above your belly button.

His fingers trace absent shapes against your waist, brushing over where the shirt is still barely covering you, ghosting over the open hem. 

He exhales, amused, eyes flicking up as he tugs at the fabric, letting it fall further apart.

Your breath stutters.

You’re so full.

So stretched.

It’s too much—but it’s not enough.

You need more.

Your thighs tremble. "Big."

Hoseok chuckles.

Low. Deep.

He likes that.

His tongue flicks against your skin, a soft hum vibrating through his chest as his hands knead over your waist.

"That’s right," he murmurs.

His thumbs tilt your hips, adjusting you slightly, just enough to make the pressure shift, make the stretch deeper, make you feel him more.

You whimper.

Hoseok groans.

Then—

"Take the rest, baby."

And his hands push you down.

Your breath shatters.

The last few inches burn, your walls stretching around him, struggling to take him, struggling to make room for the sheer size of him, and—

Oh, fuck.

Your head falls back.

Your entire body clenches, every muscle tight, your thighs trembling where they frame his waist, your breath coming fast, uneven, struggling to process just how deep he is.

Hoseok groans.

Low. Guttural.

A sound that comes from deep in his chest, vibrating against your ribs, making your walls clamp down around him in helpless, pulsing flutters.

"Fuck, Chip."

Your nails dig into his shoulders. "H-Hoseok—"

"Dr. Jung," he corrects again, but his voice wavers this time, mouth parting on a sharp inhale as his fingers tighten at your waist.

Because you’re squeezing him.

Because you’re so tight.

Because he can feel your walls still trying to adjust, still struggling to accommodate him, still fluttering, still soaked from everything he’s done to you—

And fuck.

Fuck, you knew he was big.

You knew.

But this—

This is too much.

Too deep, too thick, pressing against something inside you that makes your entire body tremble.

Your voice is wrecked. "I—I c-can’t—"

"Shh."

Hoseok’s fingers slide higher, smoothing up your spine, pressing into the knots of tension there, keeping you anchoredagainst him.

He leans up slightly, mouth ghosting over your shoulder, lips brushing soft against damp skin.

"Relax, baby." A warm kiss to the base of your throat. "Let me stretch you out."

Your pulse skitters.

His hands stay at your waist, holding you still, keeping you down, keeping you full.

And then—

His mouth moves.

Hot lips press against your clavicle.

Then lower.

Then lower.

Then—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

His tongue swirls around your nipple.

Your breath hiccups.

A sharp little jolt of pleasure spikes through your stomach, the contrast overwhelming—the deep, aching stretch of him inside you paired with the gentle, teasing flicks of his tongue against your skin.

You writhe. "H-Hobi—"

His teeth scrape lightly, lips sucking, slow, measured.

"You’re doing so well," he murmurs against your skin, voice low, warm. "So tight around me."

A sharp exhale against your breast, warm and teasing.

"Like you were made to take me, baby."

Your walls pulse.

Hoseok groans, dragging his lips back up your throat, sucking lightly at your pulse.

"Just a little more."

Your stomach flutters.

His fingers press into your hips, keeping you down, keeping you still, making you feel every inch, every stretch, every impossible, aching depth of him—

And then—

You feel it.

The moment your body gives in.

Your walls accommodate him, adjust, mold around his thickness, taking him completely, letting him settle inside you—

And Hoseok feels it too.

A sharp inhale.

His fingers twitch against your waist.

Then—

A low, wrecked "fuck."

Your breath shudders.

You feel the weight of him, feel the stretch, feel the deep, unbearable fullness of being seated fully on his cock.

It’s—

It’s so much.

But also—

It’s so good.

You exhale shakily, fingers trembling where they rest on his chest.

Hoseok’s lips press into your temple, soft, grounding.

His voice dips lower, quieter.

"You okay, baby?"

You nod frantically.

Because—

Because yes.

Because you’re so full, but you don’t want to move.

Not yet.

Not yet.

Not when it feels like this.

Hoseok smiles.

"That’s my girl."

Then—

His fingers tighten.

"Now," he murmurs, smirk pressing into your jaw, "stay still while I ruin you."

His hands slide up your sides again, slow, deliberate, palms pushing the shirt further open, exposing more of your body to his touch. But he doesn’t pull it off. Doesn’t let you be fully bare. He keeps you like this—half-dressed, swallowed in his shirt, draped in his fabric—while he sinks deeper inside you.

Your breath catches.

Because you believe him.

Because he’s still so deep, still so thick inside you, and you can feel the way your walls flutter around him, feel the way your body is trying to adjust but still clenching down, still so tight, still not used to him yet.

And yet—

His fingers tighten at your waist.

And then—

He moves.

The first drag is slow.

Not a thrust, not a pull, not a sharp snap of his hips—just a shift, a deep, rolling movement, barely anything at all—

But you feel it everywhere.

Your walls clench at the stretch, the drag, at the way his cock pulls against every sensitive spot inside you before pressing back in again, seating himself fully inside you again, making sure you stay full, making sure you stay stretched around him.

Your whimper is shattered.

"Oh my god—"

Hoseok groans.

His hands hold you down, keeping you trapped in his lap, forcing you to take it, forcing you to sit with it, forcing you to feel every single inch of him as he rocks into you.

"Good girl," he praises, voice warm, deep, slipping into your hair as his lips press against your temple. "Taking me so well."

Your whole body trembles.

His hands move up your back, palms flat, warm, steady, keeping you anchored against his chest.

Then—

Another slow thrust.

Deeper this time.

The drag of him burns, the stretch still so tight, but it feels good, feels like something your body is learning, something it’s adjusting to, something it’s craving now.

You writhe. "Hobi—"

"Dr. Jung," he corrects, lips dragging down the side of your throat, voice thick, teasing, mocking, and your walls clencharound him at the sound—

He feels it.

Of course he does.

He groans, grip flexing at your hips, fingers pressing harder, making you sink onto him, making sure you stay stuffed full of him.

"Fuck," he murmurs against your skin. "This tight little cunt." His teeth scrape against your jaw, breath hot against your ear. "Gripping me so well."

Your hips jerk.

A sharp little movement—too fast, too eager, your body trying to chase the friction, trying to take more—

Hoseok stills you immediately.

His grip tightens.

His fingers dig in.

He stops you completely.

Your breath shudders. "H-Hoseok—"

He exhales slowly, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

Then—

"Don’t rush me, baby."

Your stomach flips.

Because—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

You thought he was taking it slow for you.

Thought he was helping you adjust.

But—

But that’s not it, is it?

Hoseok is pacing himself.

For himself.

Because he’s still in control.

Because he’s still making you wait, still making you suffer, still teaching you what it means to take him properly.

Your thighs tremble.

You whimper, voice small, and—

Hoseok groans, pressing another kiss to your shoulder, fingers massaging at your hips.

Then—

He moves again.

Slow.

Measured.

Deep.

Rocking you into it.

Letting you feel it.

Letting you drown in it.

And fuck, you do.

The next roll of his hips is sharper.

It drags something new out of you—something sweet, something helpless, something hot that makes your fingers clenchinto his shoulders, makes your walls pulse around him in a way that makes him groan.

"There it is," Hoseok murmurs, breath warm against your cheek. "That's my girl."

Your stomach flips.

Because—

Oh.

Oh, you love this.

You love how good he is, how skilled he is, how precise he is with every movement. You love the way he’s picking up the pace now, the way his hips are guiding you into it, the way he’s still holding you still while he moves, making you take it.

You whimper.

Hoseok hums.

"So cute," he murmurs, voice thick, teasing, lips pressing softly to the corner of your mouth. "So eager for me."

Your walls clench down at the praise, and he groans, feels it, lets his hands tighten at your hips.

"H-Hoseok—"

"Dr. Jung," he corrects again, but this time—

This time, he smirks when he says it.

Your cheeks burn.

Because you know what he’s doing.

And he knows you love it.

His hands shift—one slipping from your hip to cup the back of your neck, holding you close, keeping you right there, breath mingling, bodies melded together.

Then—

He thrusts up.

You gasp, eyes going wide, mouth parting, and—

Hoseok laughs.

"That’s it, baby," he exhales, delighted, shifting his grip at your waist, holding you down now, keeping you in place while he moves.

He picks up his pace, guiding you into deep, steady rolls, each one pressing him harder into that spot inside you that makes your thighs tremble.

Your head falls forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder, and you whimper, overwhelmed, breath catching with every movement.

Hoseok groans, his lips pressing to the top of your head, voice warm, fond.

"You’re so sweet like this."

Another snap of his hips, and you wail.

His fingers splay over your back, holding you there, keeping you wrapped around him.

"So pretty when you take me so well," he murmurs, voice soothing even as he fucks you deeper, even as he makes you writhe.

Your thighs are shaking, your whole body melting into his hands, and Hoseok just smiles.

"Good girl," he breathes, kissing your temple. "You love this, don’t you?"

You nod frantically, breath hiccupping out of you, and he laughs, pleased, his hips rolling harder, making you feel it, making you understand how good he is.

"You love me taking care of you, don’t you, baby?" His fingers press into your waist, shifting you just right against him. "Love being my good girl?"

Your moan is wrecked, and he groans, pressing his lips softly to your cheek, voice warm, teasing.

"Such a sweet thing."

And then—

He really starts fucking you.

Hoseok moves before you can even process it.

One moment, you’re wrapped around him, clinging to his shoulders, gasping into his mouth—

The next, your back is hitting the mattress.

Your breath shatters.

He never leaves you.

Never disconnects.

His arms stay wrapped around you, his cock still seated deep inside you as he shifts, as he sprawls you out beneath him, as he spreads you wide across his sheets.

You whimper. "H-Hoseok—"

"Dr. Jung," he murmurs, voice dark, teasing, breath hot against your throat.

His fingers slide up your arms, pushing the fabric of the sleeves further back, exposing more skin.

The movement pulls the shirt even wider open, leaving it hanging loosely around your frame, framing the wrecked state of your body beneath him.

Then—

He thrusts.

Hard.

Deep.

Your head tilts back, a wrecked moan spilling from your lips, and—

He pins you down.

His hands grab your wrists, pressing them above your head, keeping them trapped against the pillows.

Then—

His other hand slides down.

Down your waist.

Down your thigh.

And then—

He presses it down.

His palm flattens against the inside of your thigh, forcing it against the mattress, spreading you wider, opening you up even more for him.

The shirt slips further apart with the movement, fabric barely clinging to your shoulders, gaping open, leaving you completely at his mercy.

Your moan is shattered.

You can’t move.

You can’t do anything.

He has you pinned, held open, fucked into the mattress.

And then—

He starts moving.

Deep.

Fast.

Sharp.

His hips slam into you, cock driving into that spot inside you that makes your whole body lock up, makes your walls clench around him, makes your thighs tremble against his sheets.

"Oh my god—"

Hoseok groans.

"You can take it, baby," he murmurs, voice thick, his fingers tight around your wrists, his hand pressing your thigh flat against the bed.

His hips snap into you, faster, harder, and you wail, body helpless beneath him, body opening for him, body taking everything he gives you.

"That’s it," he breathes, voice soothing, lips brushing over your jaw. "Take it, baby."

Your whole body writhes.

His fingers tighten at your wrists, his hand firm at your thigh, holding you down, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

Then—

A soft kiss to your cheek.

"You feel so good like this," he murmurs, voice warm, like he isn’t currently fucking you into the mattress, like he isn’t making you take it so deep you’re practically seeing stars.

"So sweet for me," he breathes, lips dragging down your neck, tongue flicking against your pulse. "Such a good girl, letting me ruin you."

The weight of his body presses you into the mattress, the soft linen of his shirt bunching beneath you, trapping heat between your bodies. 

The scent of him lingers in the fabric, surrounding you, filling every breath as he fucks you deeper.

Your moan is wrecked.

And Hoseok just smiles.

Then—

He snaps his hips even faster.

The pleasure builds too fast.

Too deep, too sharp, too much at once.

He’s fucking you open, pace relentless, cock slamming into that spot inside you over and over and over—

And your body can’t fight it.

Your thighs shake.

Your back arches.

Your walls clench down so tight around him that he groans, deep and wrecked, his grip bruising at your wrists, his hand pressing your thigh, keeping you trapped beneath him.

"H-Hoseok—"

"I know, baby," he pants, voice low, thick, his lips dragging over your jaw. "I know."

And then—

You break.

Your orgasm tears through you, a white-hot detonation that rips a shattered wail from your throat, your body convulsing, your walls clamping down on him, your thighs trembling.

But it doesn’t stop.

Your body keeps going.

The pleasure keeps pulsing, keeps cresting, one wave crashing into the next, your walls still fluttering, still milking his cock, still wringing him out—

And it destroys him.

Hoseok groans, voice breaking, hips jerking, pace turning erratic, messy, as he fucks you harder, deeper, chasing the unbearable tightness of you, the way your body won’t stop squeezing him.

The sweat-slick fabric sticks between you, damp at your lower back where the shirt has ridden up with the intensity of his thrusts.

But he barely notices—too focused on fucking you apart, on making sure you take everything, on keeping you wrapped in him.

"Fucking hell—"

His grip tightens on your hands while he spreads your legs wider, letting him drive in even deeper, harder, rutting into you with sharp, needy thrusts.

Your breath splinters.

Your back arches.

And then—

He curses, voice wrecked, pace losing rhythm completely, his body shuddering as he slams into you one last time—

And spills inside you.

His groan is low, broken, forehead dropping against your shoulder, muscles tensing as his cock pulses, warmth flooding deep inside the condom.

His breath hiccups against your skin.

Your walls flutter around him, aftershocks still shuddering through you, body still milking him, pleasure still lingering.

A beat.

A slow, heavy inhale.

Then—

His grip on your wrists loosens.

His hand on your thigh softens.

And then—

Hoseok laughs, breathless, voice low, wrecked.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Chip," he murmurs, exhaling shakily against your cheek. "You're gonna kill me."

Hoseok doesn’t move at first.

Just stays inside you, buried deep, forehead pressed against your shoulder, chest rising and falling steadily against yours.

His breath is warm against your skin, soft little exhales against the slope of your collarbone, his arms still wrapped around you, holding you close.

Then—

A deep, satisfied hum.

"You’re trembling, baby."

His voice is thick, smooth and soothing, and—

Oh.

Oh, you are.

Your whole body is shaking, weak and wrecked, nerves still firing from overstimulation, muscles useless beneath the weight of him.

Hoseok smiles against your skin.

"So precious."

Your face burns. "Shut up—"

But the words slur together—breathless, wrecked, voice barely functional—and Hoseok chuckles, amused, because—

Oh, he loves this.

Loves seeing you like this.

Loves knowing he’s the reason for it.

His lips press to your temple.

"Think you can move, sweetheart?"

You try, but the oversized fabric shifts against your skin, a reminder of how wrecked you are beneath it, how ruined you are in his clothes, how you’re still wrapped in him even now.

Your breath hiccups.

You try to shift, try to sit up, try to do anything—

And fail completely.

Your limbs don’t respond.

Your legs feel like lead.

Your thighs twitch, weak and useless, and you whimper, realizing you are—

Entirely.

Completely.

Boneless.

Hoseok grins.

"That’s what I thought."

Hoseok exhales, shifting above you, and the movement drags the loose cotton against your overheated skin, the open edges brushing against your ribs as he adjusts his grip. 

His eyes flicker down, taking in the sight of you—flushed, trembling, drowning in the fabric of his own damn shirt—and something dark glints in his gaze.

His arms tighten around you—secure, steady—before he moves, rolling both of you until your back meets the mattress and he’s hovering above you, still inside, still deep, still making you feel the stretch of him.

Your breath catches.

His smirk widens.

"So cute," he murmurs, voice low, hands smoothing down your waist, fingers tracing over every twitching muscle, everywhere he’s left his mark on you.

Then—

"We’re gonna shower."

You barely process the words, too dazed, too sensitive, but then—his hands are on you again. 

Slow, steady, smoothing down your thighs, adjusting the way his shirt still drapes over your body, as if debating whether to peel it off or leave you in it a little longer.

You whimper at the thought—warm water, his hands on you, his help—and the way he says it makes something deep in your stomach curl.

Because—

It’s not a suggestion.

It’s a decision.

A statement.

Like it’s already happening.

Like he’s already made up his mind.

And you—

You love it.

You love that he’s still taking care of you, still controlling the situation, still making sure you’re okay.

His smirk is slow. Amused.

“I like you like this,” he murmurs, fingers tracing over the loose fabric where it pools at your waist.

Your stomach flips.

“Hobi—”

“Dr. Jung,” he corrects easily, shifting back, peeling himself away from you—but not before tugging the shirt closed over your chest, fastening one single button near your collarbone.

Just enough to cover you.

Just enough to keep you in it.

Just enough to remind you exactly who you belong to.

You hum in response, lips parting—

But then—

A thought.

A very bad thought.

"Oh, shit—" Your voice is hoarse, throat still raw from moaning his name, but you panic, trying to move, trying to reach for your phone, trying to—

"Caleb—"

Hoseok snorts.

His fingers press into your waist, holding you down, keeping you still, making you look at him.

His smirk is lazy, amused.

"Already handled, baby."

Your stomach drops.

You blink. "What—"

He reaches for his phone, showing you the text thread with your brother from hours ago:

𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙷𝚎𝚢, 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚂𝙽𝚄𝙷. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝙺𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚊’𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚈/𝙽 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?

𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛: 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑, 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍?

𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙽𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝙺𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚈/𝙽’𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝙶𝚒𝚛𝚕𝚜’ 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛: 𝙾𝚑 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚛𝚘.

𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙽𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚖. 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙.

"You..." You stare at him. "You planned this? Before—"

"No. I texted him after I gave you the 20 minute warning." His thumb traces your lip. "Before that, I called in a favor from one of the nurses that know Kiara. Managed to get out early as soon as I knew you were drunk in that club. Got there, saw you; texted you."

"But you were mad. You blocked me—"

"I was." He kisses your temple. "Still am. But I was worried. Couldn’t help keeping an eye on you. And I wasn't letting you go home with that intern."

Your heart flutters. Because this is peak Hoseok—calculating every detail, ten steps ahead, making sure you're taken care of even when he's furious with you.

"How did you know I'd—"

"Misbehave?" His laugh is soft. "Because I know you, Chip. Know exactly how to make you chase what you want."

You should be annoyed at his confidence. Instead, you're melting further into his sheets.

"Now." He finally slips out of you, making you whine at the loss. "Shower. Then sleep. You have approximately—" He checks his watch. "—fourteen hours before you need to be at Kiara’s for brunch."

You blink. "What?"

"She's covering for us." He lifts you effortlessly. "Telling Caleb you crashed there after drinking. You'll show up tomorrow, properly hungover, full of stories about girls' night."

Your head spins. "You arranged all that while driving?"

"While fingering you, actually. In the elevator." His smile is smug. "Multitasking is a valuable skill in medicine."

"I hate you."

"No you don't." He carries you to the bathroom. "You love that I think of everything."

He's right.

You absolutely do.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @just-reading-dany @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @hobis-sprite0218 @mcflurry-220 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim

© 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

“Was he fun?” His free hand slides up your bare leg, calluses catching on sensitive skin. “That intern? Mike?” The name drips with venom. “Tell me, Chip—was he worth it?” 

Your throat locks. 

“Was he worth my fucking patience?” 

A sharp rip punctuates the question, and—oh God—the air hits your exposed heat before your brain catches up. 

He tore them. He tore them.

"Hoseok!" You squirm, face blazing hot, but he just dangles the ruined lace in front of you. 

"Shhh." The saccharine sweetness of his smile makes your stomach turn. He tucks them into his pocket, like a trophy. “Disobedient brats don’t deserve coverage.” 

His hand returns to your exposed slit, fingers parting you with clinical precision. His touch is colder than usual—calculated, impersonal. Like a scalpel sliding over flesh. 

"Elevated heart rate. Dilated pupils. Excess lubrication." His nail scrapes over your clit and you gasp. "Diagnosis: pathological need for attention.” 

Your hips jerk. “Fuck you—” 

"Precisely what you're angling for, isn't it?" His voice drops, low and lethal. "Parading around in this gorgeous dress. Looking devastating. Letting somebody else’s hands touch what’s mine." 

The floor numbers climb. 

"Prescription,” he murmurs against your ear, “intensive correction.” 

His fingers plunge inside you without warning, and you choke on your own breath. 

"Count the floors, Chip." The heel of his palm grinds against your clit, unrelenting. "That’s how many times you’ll cum before you take my cock.” 

Your stomach plummets. “You’re insane—” 

"Three." 

His fingers curl, precise and punishing. 

"Four." 

Another brutal thrust.

"Five." 

Your nails dig into his back as your vision blurs. 

"Six." 

Another stretch—his middle and ring finger, scissoring wide. 

"Seven." 

The mirrored walls reflect your debauchery—legs spread over his shoulder, dress pooled at your waist, face contorted in pleasure-pain. 

Your pulse is a frantic, fluttering thing. 

“Eight.” 

His knuckles press deep, unyielding. 

“Nine.” 

You come with a sharp, broken cry, back arching off his shoulder. 

Because it’s been too long. Because you’ve been riled up the whole night. Because he’s finally here and he’s swearing, and relentless and—

He doesn’t stop. 

“Ten.” 

His thumb replaces his fingers, circling ruthlessly. 

“Eleven.” 

"Please—" You're sobbing now, oversensitive and raw. 

“Fifteen.” 

The doors ding open. 

His fingers withdraw abruptly, and your wrecked body convulses at the loss. He licks your slick from his fingers with a detached hum, gaze sweeping over you clinically. 

You barely register him moving through the hallway. The scent of antiseptic and expensive cologne drifts through the air. His grip around your thighs is bruising. His steps are steady. Unhurried. 

The keys jingle. The door clicks open. 

Then— 

You’re airborne. 

Your stomach flips as he throws you over the leather sofa. The impact knocks the air from your lungs. 

The creak of leather. The bite of cold air against your exposed flesh. The press of his palm between your shoulder blades, flattening you into the cushions. 

His sigh floats above you, disappointed. 

"Welcome home, Chip.” 

The belt jingles. 

“Let’s begin your remedial education." 

The leather cushions are cold beneath your cheek. The air conditioning hums low, steady. The only sound between it—between you—is the slow, deliberate slide of silk as Hoseok loosens his tie. 

You can’t see him properly. 

Not like this, facedown, spine arched obscenely, ass raised like some offering. 

But you feel him. Feel his presence behind you, feel the heavy drag of each movement—tie slipping free, glasses clinking on the table, dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat, the roll of his sleeves exposing forearms you already know are capable of making you crumble. 

You inhale, too shallow, too fast. 

His watch ticks. 

You twist, craning to catch a glimpse of him over your shoulder, but the instant you do— 

"Face down, ass up.” 

The command snaps like a whip. 

Your body locks. 

His fingers press against your nape, firm but not forceful. Just… insistent. A nonverbal correction. The heat of his palm brands your skin. 

“Better get used to that position, Chip.” The rasp in his voice sends something hot and humiliating curling low in your stomach. “You’ll be like this for a while.” 

A whimper escapes before you can swallow it down. 

Hoseok laughs under his breath, and—fuck, that sound. Dark amusement, unshaken control. Like he already knows exactly how this night ends. 

Like he planned for it. 

Your heartbeat stumbles. 

The rustle of fabric shifts further away. His footsteps—measured, even—carry him across the room, the click of a drawer pulling open sending another shudder through you. 

He’s retrieving something. 

You wet your lips, pulse spiking as you hear the clink of glass vials, the quiet tap tap of fingers against a container. His tone is almost casual when he speaks. 

“How many floors, Chip?” 

Your stomach plummets. 

You knew this was coming. 

Your fingers curl into the couch cushion, nails pressing deep. 

Fifteen. 

You know it was fifteen. Because he counted them out loud, each number spoken with unshaken authority, each one branded into your skull between thrusts of his fingers. 

But fifteen— 

Fifteen is impossible.

Your highest was five. Alone, desperate, overstimulated and aching but still your own control. And now he’s— 

Your throat bobs. 

“Ten.” The lie slips out fast. Too fast. 

The air shifts. 

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just lets the silence stretch too long, so thick it suffocates. Your chest rises unevenly against the cushions, fingers trembling where they grip the leather. 

Then, slow—too slow— 

"Ah." 

You flinch. 

"So lying, too, now?" 

Fuck. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

The footsteps return, unhurried. You squeeze your eyes shut. The sound of a cap twisting open, a faint rustle of packaging. 

“You disappoint me, Chip.” 

His voice is soft. Almost gentle. 

It terrifies you. 

The footsteps stop. 

You hold your breath. 

Then— 

Click.

Something small lands on the cushion in front of your face. You blink, vision hazy, and focus on— 

A pill. 

Round, pale. A delicate thing. 

But its weight feels unbearable. 

Behind you, Hoseok hums, shifting closer, the heat of his body radiating against your back.

"Fascinating," he murmurs, voice smooth, composed. "You knew the number, didn’t you?" 

Your pulse thunders. 

“Answer me, Chip.” 

The threat in his tone is quiet. Unrushed. 

Your breath wavers. 

"Yes." The admission is barely a whisper. 

He hums again, almost pleased. "And yet, you lied.” 

You whimper. 

"Curious," he continues, like he's cataloging your reaction, filing it away into that clinical, calculating mind of his. "You understood the assignment perfectly. You knew the floors equaled your orgasms. You knew exactly what I expected of you." 

A pause. 

"Yet you still lied." 

The realization makes your stomach drop. 

"You don't think you can do it." 

The words aren’t a question. 

They're an observation. 

Your nails bite into the leather. Because he’s right. Because fifteen—fifteen times, fifteen orgasms, fifteen waves of unbearable pleasure before he even thinks about giving you his cock— 

It’s— 

"It's impossible," you rasp. 

Silence. 

Then— 

Hoseok chuckles. 

Your entire body goes rigid. 

"Impossible?" He repeats, and—fuck, fuck, you shouldn’t have said that, you should not have said that—because his amusement is not the warm, teasing thing you're used to.

No.

This is something colder. Something sharper. 

Something dangerous. 

A hand brushes over your ass, slow, possessive. 

Then—crack. 

A sharp smack lands against your skin, and you yelp, jerking forward. The burn seeps deep, stealing your breath. 

“Incorrect.” His voice is steady, unaffected. 

Your stomach clenches. 

Another smack, harder this time. Your legs twitch, body instinctively trying to pull away, but his free hand presses against your lower back, pinning you down. 

“Shall I explain why?” 

You swallow hard. 

He leans in, breath warm against your nape. 

“Because I know you.” 

Your throat locks. 

His palm soothes over the burning skin, fingers pressing possessively into the tender flesh. 

"No," he corrects himself, tone contemplative. "That’s imprecise." 

He drags his fingers through your slick, spreading the wetness, slow and deliberate. Mocking you.

“Empirical data,” he muses, almost to himself. “Your clitoral network has approximately eight thousand nerve endings. Your vaginal walls contain—” 

A finger sinks knuckle-deep, curling upward. 

“Ah, pay attention.” 

You bite the cushion to muffle a whine. 

“Concentrated stimulation of the anterior fornix—” Another finger joins the first, stretching you brutally. “—combined with sustained G-spot pressure—” His thumb finds your clit, rubbing precisely. “—induces serial orgasms in seventy-three percent of subjects.” 

The statistics shouldn’t arouse you. 

The clinical detachment shouldn’t make your hips roll back against his hand. 

But here you are. Dripping onto his imported leather as he lectures like this is a fucking TED Talk. 

“I’ve observed your responses.” His tone is calm, measured. “Your refractory period is negligible. Your nerve sensitivity is well above average. Your arousal duration is…” His fingers spread inside you, mapping you out, committing every reaction to memory. “…exceptional.” 

His thumb drags over your clit. 

“You’re multiorgasmic, Chip.” 

A strangled noise rips from your throat. 

“Fifteen orgasms isn’t a punishment.” He withdraws his fingers and smears your wetness over your swollen folds. “It’s preparation.” 

Your whole body shudders. 

Hoseok tuts. 

“Do you really think I’d feed you eight inches without ensuring you were properly conditioned? Slippery, dripping, pliable?” His voice drops lower, smooth like sugar lapping at your core. “Without making sure you’d take me without pain?” 

Your heart flutters. 

His breath brushes against your nape. “You thought this was cruel?” 

A hand slides between your thighs, forcing them wider. 

“This is mercy.” 

The words barely register before his fingers tap against your lips.

You flinch. The touch is light, impersonal—barely there. But when you glance down, something small rests against his fingertips.

The pill.

You blink, still dazed, vision blurry from arousal and exertion.

“What—”

“Open.”

Your stomach tightens.

His voice is calm. Detached. Like he’s instructing a patient instead of pressing a pill to your lips.

You hesitate.

He hums, amused. “Sublingual Sildenafil. Accelerates clitoral engorgement. Ensures optimal conditions for multiple orgasms. It will simply enhance your own multiorgasmic capabilities.”

Your thighs twitch instinctively, trying to press together, but his knee is still between them, holding you open.

“Ah.” A quiet, disappointed sigh. “Non-compliant patient.”

Your stomach plummets.

Then—a nudge. Parting your legs wider.

“You do understand,” he murmurs, almost amused, “there are other forms of absorption.”

Your throat locks.

Your breath stutters.

“What?”

A slow hum. A contemplative pause.

“Oral is most effective.” His free hand smooths over your ass, light and detached, like he’s just considering his options. “But mucosal absorption is still viable.”

You inhale.

“Rectal administration,” he continues, tone casual. Clinical. “Less efficient, but still sufficient. The lower absorption rate means you’d take longer to reach full saturation, but…”

His fingers trace the curve of your hip.

“If you’re unwilling to comply…”

His knee shifts—just enough to remind you how vulnerable you are.

“Spread yourself wider.” His voice is smooth, patient. “Hold yourself open for the administration.”

A wave of heat slams into you. Something between terror and arousal. Your hands fly up instinctively—gripping his wrist, nails pressing into his skin.

“N-No—” The words tumble out too fast, breathless, desperate. “I’ll—I’ll take it. Mouth.”

A pause.

Then—

A smile. Slow. Knowing.

“That’s what I thought.”

The pill presses against your tongue, and your mouth clamps shut around it before you can even think to resist.

His watch beeps.

“Ninety seconds.”

Your stomach lurches.

His fingers tap against your lips again—light, satisfied.

“Good girl.”

The pill tingles beneath your tongue.  

Hoseok straightens, rolling his sleeves up his forearms, unhurried.  

Then—  

His hands go for his belt.  

The buckle clicks. 

A slow, methodical tug pulls the leather free, the sound thick in the quiet. 

You whimper, pressing your cheek against the couch, pulse pounding. 

"Proper experimentation requires..." His voice is a slow drawl, calm, unaffected. The belt falls to the floor.  "…controlled variables." 

He takes the rest of your dress off. Bra follows. 

Then his fingers press into your dripping heat. 

"Let's begin."

The first tingle blooms beneath your skin, warmth trickling down your spine like the first sip of whiskey.

Hoseok watches.

Of course he does.

You can feel his gaze, heavy, assessing, as the effects take hold. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, watch gleaming on his wrist, fingers flexing idly like he’s already calculating his next move.

You squeeze your thighs together instinctively.

It’s a mistake.

The friction—just the barest shift—sends a pulse of heat straight to your clit, so sudden and sharp that you gasp.

Hoseok hums. “There it is.”

Your stomach lurches.

His palm smooths over your lower back, warm and firm, the weight of it keeping you pinned. You don’t know what’s worse—that he expected it, or that you reacted exactly the way he predicted.

Your breathing stutters.

“It’s working faster than anticipated,” he muses, more to himself than to you. “Good. I’d hate for this to take all night.”

He’s lying.

You know he is.

He wants it to take all night.

Your thighs tremble. The buzzing under your skin intensifies, a slow, creeping build, pooling low in your belly. The ache is growing—not unbearable, not yet, but constant. Like an itch too deep to scratch.

Hoseok’s fingers trace down your spine, featherlight. “Tell me what you feel.”

Your lips part—then press shut.

He waits.

You breathe in, shallow, unsteady. “Warm,” you admit. “Tingling.”

His fingertips ghost over your hip. “Where?”

You swallow. “Everywhere.”

“More specific.”

Your fingers tighten against the leather. “My—” Your face burns. “My clit.”

His hand stills.

For a moment, there’s nothing. No sound, no shift, just his steady, patient silence.

Then—

“Show me.”

The command is quiet.

It’s not a request.

Your stomach tightens.

Slowly, shakily, you obey—your fingers creeping between your own legs, breath hitching as they meet wet. The slickness is obscene, spilling over your thighs, making your own touch slippery, electric.

Hoseok exhales through his nose. “Good girl.”

A fresh wave of heat floods through you.

It’s humiliating, how much those words affect you. How easy he makes it seem—like compliance is inevitable, like your body is designed for this.

Like he already knows what you’ll do before you do it.

Your fingers move clumsily against your clit, the sensitivity almost unbearable. You’re too wet, too warm, the pleasure mounting too fast.

Hoseok watches for a moment—silent, clinical—then, without warning, his hand covers yours.

Your entire body jerks.

“Slower,” he instructs, voice low, controlled. “Focus on the pressure.”

You whimper.

His fingers guide yours, pressing down, rolling slow, steady circles. The change is immediate—the pleasure sharpening into something more potent, more targeted, the kind that makes your thighs tremble and your stomach clench.

Your hips rock.

Hoseok hums approvingly. “Better.”

His hand is warm, steady over yours, dictating the rhythm, making you follow it.

And that’s the worst part—you do.

You let him lead. Let him train you, let him control the pace, let him show you how to touch yourself properly.

A moan tears from your throat.

Hoseok exhales through his nose, satisfied. “Tell me when you’re close.”

You’re already close.

The words stick in your throat, but he knows. His fingers press down, a fraction harder, a fraction slower, dragging it out, prolonging it—

Your back arches. “Hoseok—”

“Dr. Jung.”

Your breath shatters.

His fingers disappear.

The loss makes you sob.

Hoseok smiles. “One.”

Dread and lust conquer your soul.

Your chest heaves against the leather, heart slamming against your ribs.

He’s counting. He’s counting them out loud, marking them like he did in the elevator.

There’s fourteen more.

You whimper, legs trembling.

Hoseok tuts. “Already sensitive?”

Your response is a choked little sound, barely coherent.

He laughs softly, dragging his fingers through your slick again, coating them in your arousal. 

“It’ll only get worse.”

Your whole body shudders.

He shifts behind you, and then—

A wet press against your clit.

You gasp.

It’s his tongue.

The sensation is too much, hot and soft and lethal, wrapping around your swollen bud with precise, devastating pressure. Your spine curves off the couch, legs twitching, a wrecked little sound spilling from your lips—

Hoseok’s hands clamp down on your hips, pinning you still.

“Stay put.”

Your vision blurs.

Then—suction.

Your moan is shattered.

The pleasure slams through you, instant and overwhelming. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t ease you into it, just takes—his mouth tight, his tongue pressing against your clit like he’s studying it, like he’s testing responses and cataloging results.

Your whole body is shaking.

“Dr. Jung—”

The title is barely a gasp.

Hoseok hums against you—approving—and the vibration sends you spiraling.

The orgasm detonates before you can brace for it.

You wail.

Your body locks, every nerve seizing, pleasure white-hot and unbearable. You can feel the aftershocks, each ripple making your thighs twitch, your lungs shudder.

Hoseok doesn’t move.

He doesn’t pull away.

Just stays there, mouth locked around your clit, tongue lapping at the oversensitive flesh, drinking in the aftershocks, making them last, making you suffer.

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes.

Your whimper is broken. “Hoseok—”

A sharp smack lands against your ass.

"Two."

You sob.

He chuckles. “Oh, Chip.”

A slow drag of his tongue makes you quake.

“You’ve got thirteen more.”

Your thighs twitch violently, your body trying to escape the onslaught of his mouth, but Hoseok’s grip is ironclad.

“Stay still,” he murmurs, lips brushing wet against your clit, and you sob because you can’t.

Your entire body is humming, nerve endings screaming—but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you breathe, doesn’t give you a second to recover before his tongue presses against you again.

“No, no, no—” 

Your hands scrabble against the couch, trying to find purchase, trying to ground yourself, but it’s useless, because the pleasure is already mounting again, rushing up your spine, curling hot and unbearable beneath your ribs—

“Already?”

His voice is drenched in satisfaction.

Your walls clench down on nothing.

He laughs, and you can’t discern whether it’s mocking or fond.

“You were made for this, Chip.” His lips brush against your slick heat, the tip of his nose nudging your entrance. “So desperate. So pliable.” A slow, teasing kiss over your clit. “Tell me—” His voice drops lower, lips just barely grazing you. “Are you going to give me number three?”

Your moan is wrecked.

His hands tighten on your hips, forcing you down, pressing you flush against his mouth.

The pressure is devastating.

His tongue flicks against your swollen bud—once, twice, again—the motion too light, too perfect, just enough to make your body ache for more, to make you chase it, to make you rock back against his mouth—

“That’s it,” he murmurs, like you’ve done something right.

The praise shoves you over the edge.

You scream.

Your whole body locks, your toes curling, your back arching off the couch as the orgasm rips through you—hot and sharp and overwhelming, pleasure blooming outward in a wave so intense it hurts.

Hoseok doesn’t move.

Doesn’t let you go.

Just stays there, tongue pressing slow, devastating circles into your clit as you shake, your release gushing over his chin, his cheeks—

But he doesn’t care.

He just licks you clean.

“Three,” he breathes, satisfaction curling around the word like smoke.

You wail.

He hums, amused.

Then—

He flattens his tongue against your clit, lips sealing over the aching bud, and sucks.

Your scream is immediate.

Too much, too fast, too soon, the overstimulation like a live current dragging you under—

“No, no—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he says smoothly, and then—

His fingers push inside.

You sob.

It’s instant—the unbearable stretch, the precise, practiced curl against that devastating spot, the obscene squelch of your own arousal as he fucks into you, his tongue relentless, his fingers ruthless.

The orgasm slams into you before you can fight it.

Your vision whites out.

Your whole body seizes, your breath stalling in your throat as you clench down on his fingers, every muscle locking tight, pleasure ripping through you so violently you almost black out.

His mouth never leaves you.

“Four,” he says against your skin, barely pulling away before his lips wrap around you again.

The suction is brutal.

You jerk, shrieking, your walls still spasming around his fingers, your nerves already fried—

But it doesn’t matter.

Because the next one is already building.

Your body is chained to it now, helpless against the tidal wave of sensation, every cell in your body primed to keep going.

He knows.

Hoseok knows.

“That’s it, Chip,” he murmurs, almost proud. 

His fingers stroke inside you, his mouth working your clit with calculated, rhythmic flicks, forcing you to stay on the edge, forcing your body to keep trembling under his hands, forcing you into a state of constant, inescapable pleasure—

“You’re learning.”

Your scream splinters into another orgasm.

“Five,” he purrs.

You’re crying.

Because you’re still coming.

Still coming when the next one starts, the two colliding, blurring into each other, your body locked in an endless cycle of pleasure, every sensation rolling into the next and the overstimulation is hellish, a wildfire under your skin, your walls still fluttering, still convulsing around his fingers, still unable to stop, still being dragged under—

He doesn’t let go.

Your legs are twitching, muscles seizing, your mouth falling open in a silent, wrecked moan—

“Six,” he breathes.

Your vision goes fuzzy.

Your body collapses against the couch, limbs trembling, sweat slick on your skin, pleasure roaring in your veins—

“Seven.”

Your breath shatters.

It doesn’t stop.

It won’t stop.

Hoseok’s voice is quiet, distant, a soft rasp in your ringing ears.

“You’re remarkable.”

Your body is still shaking. Your brain is gone.

And then—

The first real pause.

A moment to breathe.

You gasp, chest heaving, legs twitching. Your entire body feels wrecked, like you’ve been torn apart and remade.

You can’t move.

You couldn’t if you tried.

Hoseok chuckles darkly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, fingers sliding against his soaked lips.

He’s drenched.

Jaw wet, chin slick with your release.

He looks fucking filthy.

He looks fucking hot.

And so goddamn pleased with himself.

Your mind is floating, but your body is trembling. Your breath still hasn’t evened out. Your skin is burning, your clit pulsing, your thighs still shaking.

He smirks.

“Look at you.”

A warm hand spreads over your ass, massaging the flushed, tender skin.

"You’ve given me seven, Chip." His tone is almost soothing, like he's pleased. Like he's proud of you.

The heat in your belly tightens.

His fingers drag through your soaked folds, slow, teasing.

You whimper.

He hums.

"One more."

Your stomach drops.

Your eyes fly open, panic surging in your chest—

But Hoseok just laughs.

His fingers slip inside.

The stretch is devastating.

He leans in, voice a whisper against your ear—

"Let’s finish the first half, shall we?"

You can still feel the last orgasm pulsing inside you.

Your muscles twitch with every aftershock, your thighs trembling, your walls fluttering around his fingers even as he slows his movements. Your breath is still ragged, uneven, your skin damp with sweat.

But you’re not done.

Neither is he.

Hoseok knows.

He’s watching—waiting—taking in every tremor, every unconscious clench, every microscopic shift in your overstimulated body.

“Pl—please—" you manage to croak out because there’s seriously no way you can keep cumming like this.

But your body clearly has different ideas.

So he hums, tilts his head. “You’re not coming down, are you?”

You can’t form a reply. But that’s okay. He already knows the answer.

The pleasure is still there, smoldering low in your belly, a slow, molten burn that refuses to fade.

Hoseok chuckles. 

“Good.”

Before you can brace—before you can breathe—

His fingers leave you.

You wail.

But then—

You're moving.

Your body is weightless for a second before the leather disappears beneath you. You yelp as he flips you effortlessly, dragging you onto your back, thighs draped over his arms, your entire body stretched out beneath him.

He’s still fully dressed.

White dress shirt clinging to his shoulders, sleeves rolled to his elbows, black dress pants still perfectly fitted against his waist.

And you—

You are bare.

Slick and flushed and open for him, laid out like some kind of experiment.

You don’t know why the comparison makes you wetter.

His hands slide under your knees, pressing them up toward your chest. The shift changes everything—the angle, the pressure, the way your swollen, aching clit is now completely exposed to the air.

You shudder.

He watches.

Hoseok’s eyes darken. “Let’s try something new.”

A new wave of arousal pulses through you.

Then—

His thumb presses against your perineum.

Your whole body jolts.

The pressure is light—just a warm, steady presence against that sensitive patch of skin, pressing upward, sending a strange, unfamiliar sensation curling through your core.

Your breath stutters. “What—”

“Relax.” His voice is low, measured. “Just feel.”

Then his mouth is back on your clit, and—

Fuck.

It’s different.

The dual stimulation—his lips wrapped around you, his tongue flicking over your swollen bud, his thumb applying that slow, torturous pressure beneath you—

Your vision whites out.

You scream.

The pleasure is deeper, like it’s coming from somewhere else entirely, like a direct tap into something raw and untouched inside you. 

The pressure beneath your entrance makes everything tighter, amplifying every sensation, making you ache in a way that feels utterly foreign.

Hoseok groans against you. “That’s it.”

Your thighs tremble.

The orgasm sneaks up on you—doesn’t build so much as it erupts, slamming into you before you even realize you’re close. Your whole body arches, the tension snapping, pleasure ripping through your core—

And then—

Another.

And another.

Your body is spiraling, the pleasure cascading, one peak slamming into the next with no time to recover, your hips jerking, your nails digging into his arms—

Your vision swims.

Your throat is raw from moaning.

Hoseok just smirks.

He pulls away, lips shining with your slick, his tongue flicking out to lick the corner of his mouth.

Your chest heaves.

"Eight," he murmurs.

Your stomach drops.

Because he isn’t stopping.

Hoseok tilts his head, dragging a single finger through your soaked folds.

"You’re still trembling," he notes, almost amused.

Your whimper is pitiful.

Your whole body is still twitching, still throbbing with the aftershocks. You feel the orgasms reverberating through your core, stretching out the pleasure, making it impossible to come down.

And he’s going to use it.

Hoseok’s fingers flex against your thighs. “Let’s see how many we can chain together.”

Fucking sadist.

Fucking masochist, you, for enjoying it.

You know what he’s doing.

He’s taking advantage of your body’s responsiveness. Pushing you through a continuous orgasm cycle, keeping your muscles engaged, forcing your body into a loop of release after release, making it impossible to stop—

A whimper breaks from your throat.

Hoseok smiles.

"See, how you can behave if you want to?"

Then—

His fingers sink back inside you, and—

The pleasure surges forward like a breaking wave.

Your body clenches, your walls fluttering around him as the next orgasm takes over before the last one even fades.

Your body can’t tell the difference anymore.

There’s no start or stop, no separation between each peak—just one long, continuous state of pleasure, your muscles locking tight, your mouth open in a silent scream, the overstimulation forcing you to the brink again and again and again—

"L-let m-me—"

“That's nine.”

Your thighs tremble.

The pleasure is never-ending.

Every time it ebbs, every time it flickers even slightly, Hoseok adjusts. He keeps you there, keeps you riding the high, his fingers curving deep, his palm grinding against your clit, his voice keeping you spiraling—

“Ten.”

Your stomach flips.

He’s doing it on purpose.

Drawing them out.

Tearing you apart.

Your whole body is dripping, slick everywhere, thighs shaking as another orgasm slams through you, your muscles clamping down around his fingers, his wrist soaked with your release.

Your moan is hoarse.

Hoseok just smirks.

“Eleven.”

Your vision blurs.

You don’t even know how many are left.

You don’t know how much time has passed.

Your body isn’t yours anymore—it's his, his to push, his to mold, his to fucking train.

A sob rips from your throat.

Hoseok groans, his fingers fucking into you harder, his mouth brushing your ear—

“You’re perfect for me, Chip.”

Your whole body locks up.

The next orgasm slams into you without warning.

It’s violent, a full-body seizure, your muscles spasming, your breath stuck in your throat—

Hoseok grins.

“Twelve.”

Your vision goes black.

And he still isn’t finished.

Your body is wrecked.

You can feel it—the deep, aching exhaustion settling in your muscles, the uncontrollable twitch in your thighs, the overstimulation thrumming through every raw, abused nerve ending.

And he isn’t stopping.

You’re still trembling, pleasure still echoing through your core, your cunt still clenching helplessly around nothing, searching for something to hold onto, something to pull you down from the endless, unbearable high—

But Hoseok won’t give it to you.

Instead—

He laughs.

Low and quiet. Amused.

Like he’s barely even bothered.

Like your suffering is entertainment.

Your whimper is wrecked. "No more—"

Hoseok hums, dragging his fingers through the absolute mess between your legs, spreading it slow, smearing the evidence of your undoing across your inner thighs.

"Poor thing." His voice is gentle. Mocking. "Already begging?"

You sob.

Your arms shake as you try to lift yourself up—just enough to see him, just enough to plead, but the movement makes you dizzy, makes your vision blur, makes the world tilt—

And then—

He presses against you.

A new heat. A new kind of pressure, one that makes your walls flutter with desperate, helpless need.

Because—

Oh, fuck.

His cock.

It’s thick, the outline unmistakable beneath his dress pants, hot and solid where it presses into your soaking slit, the warmth searing through the fabric.

Your whole body locks.

He just stays there.

Utterly still. Pressed against you. Completely unshaken.

Watching.

Waiting.

His head tilts. “You want it already?”

Your breath shatters. "Yes."

It comes out wrecked, a plea, a sob, a humiliating, desperate confession.

Hoseok exhales through his nose, disappointed.

"You were so eager to earn my cock before," he murmurs, rolling his hips—just barely, just enough to tease, to let you feel the size of him through his pants, to let you ache for it.

Your mewl.

"Now you just want me to give it to you?"

You nod frantically, tears spilling over your cheeks. "Please—"

He chuckles.

And then—

He grabs your chin.

The grip is firm, fingers pressing into your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His thumb swipes over your wet cheek, smearing the tear tracks across your skin.

His smile is cruel.

“Three more, Chip.”

Your stomach plummets.

Three.

Your breath shudders. "No—"

"Three more." His grip tightens. "Then I’ll give this weeping cunt exactly what it needs."

Your whole body shudders.

The words land hot in your gut, twisting and humiliating and burning. Your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing, aching, soaked, still dripping for him.

You sob—pout—shaking your head, but he just laughs.

“Come now, Chip.” He releases your chin, exhaling through his nose as he leans back against the couch, rolling his sleeves up higher, the Rolex at his wrist gleaming in the low light.

Then—

His legs spread.

The black slacks stretch over thick, muscular thighs, and he pats one of them—calm, nonchalant.

A simple, silent command.

Your fingers dig into the leather beneath you, lungs fighting for air, because—

No.

No, no, no—

"You want my cock?" His voice is easy, like he's bored, like this is a waste of his time. "Then work for it."

Your vision blurs.

He won’t help.

He won’t help you.

He wants you to do it yourself.

You sob.

But you move.

Shaky, wobbly, exhausted—you crawl into his lap, straddling his thigh, knees pressing into the couch cushions, cunt slick and aching as it spreads over the firm muscle beneath you.

The heat of him—his body, his skin, his cock still impossibly hard beneath his slacks—

It’s too much.

Your whimper is humiliating.

"Go on," Hoseok murmurs, arms draped over the back of the couch, watching you passively, as if this isn’t even worth his effort.

Your exhale is rather needy.

Fingers dig into his shoulders, clinging to him, hating the way this makes you feel—needy, desperate, fucking pathetic.

But you grind.

The first drag of your clit against his thigh makes your whole body jolt.

It’s instant.

The friction—just enough to sting, to spark that unbearable ache again, to keep you there, to make your swollen bud throb with every roll of your hips—

Hoseok hums. “That’s it.”

Your whole body trembles.

You rock forward again, the slick mess between your legs smearing everywhere, soaking through the fabric of his pants, making each movement obscene.

"Pathetic," he murmurs, almost amused.

Your face burns.

But you don’t stop.

Your movements grow sloppier, thighs shaking, the pressure almost unbearable, every drag sending sharp, electric heat curling through your stomach, your breath coming faster, voice breaking on every exhale—

And then it’s there. It’s right there, once more.

Your orgasm tears through you.

Your vision goes white, your muscles locking up, hips stuttering against his thigh as the pleasure overwhelms you—

Hoseok clicks his tongue.

"You can do better."

Your sob shakes through your chest.

Before you can breathe, before you can stop trembling, before you can even begin to recover—

Strong hands grip your waist.

And move you.

Your body jerks as he shifts you into place—straddling his lap, pressed directly against his cock.

Your whole body locks.

You can feel it now, properly, not his thigh anymore, nothing to dull the reality of it—his cock is huge, solid and burning hot beneath his slacks, nestled perfectly between your soaked folds, the ridge of it pressing directly into your clit.

A broken sob tears from your throat.

Hoseok grins.

"That’s better."

You shake your head. "No more—"

"Two more," he corrects, fingers tracing down your sides, barely touching you, refusing to help. "You still want it, don’t you?"

You whine. "Yes—"

"Then move."

Knots form in your chest.

Because you do.

Because you have to.

Because you need it.

Even as the shame burns, even as the overstimulation shreds through you, even as your vision swims, even as you sob against his shoulder—

You grind.

And Hoseok just smirks.

"That’s my girl."

Your whole body is trembling.

Shaking with exhaustion, with pleasure, with ruin.

But Hoseok is not done with you.

Not yet.

Not until you give him two more.

So you continue grinding against him, thighs burning, chest heaving, your entire body stretched too thin. Your clit is aching, so overstimulated it feels like a volcano against the hard press of his cock.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

It’s everything at once.

You sob against his shoulder, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, desperate for anything to hold onto—

And then—

Warm hands.

Hoseok’s hands.

They move.

Not fast. Not rough.

Just… slow.

Slipping from the couch rest behind him, dragging down the curve of your back, lingering at your waist. Large and steady, fingertips pressing into your hips with that familiar, unshaken control.

A slow inhale.

A pause.

And then—

He guides you.

His grip tightens, pressing your hips down against him, rolling them in slow, devastating circles over the thick length of his clothed cock.

A wrecked cry breaks from your throat.

“There we go.” His voice is soft, soothing, his breath warm against your temple. “Let me help, baby.”

Tears well up on you eyelids.

Nails clench into his shoulders as he moves you, pressing your soaked cunt over the stiff heat beneath his slacks, dragging your swollen clit over every ridge and vein.

The friction is perfect.

The pressure is blinding.

And then—

His lips find your throat.

Your breath catches.

Soft, wet kisses drag down your neck—lingering, teasing, maddening—before his mouth descends.

Lower.

Lower.

His tongue flicks over your nipple, warm and wet, before his lips wrap around the peak and—

Oh, fuck.

A sharp suck.

Your entire body jolts.

Your moan is shattered.

His tongue swirls over the hardened bud, lips moving slow and sweet, sucking like you’re dripping with sugar, like he can taste your ruin on his tongue.

Your hips jerk.

Your walls clench down on nothing.

You’re so close.

And Hoseok knows.

"Look at you," he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with something sweet, something warm. 

His hands squeeze at your waist, pressing you harder against him, making you feel him, making sure you grind yourself open for him properly.

"Like caramel stretched too thin.” His teeth scrape your nipple, making you cry out. “Glistening, golden, melting all over me."

Your stomach flutters.

The words shove you over the edge.

Your body locks up, the orgasm ripping through you like a flood, so sharp, so raw, that you nearly collapse. Your walls flutter helplessly, your thighs trembling, the pleasure surging through every raw, aching nerve.

Hoseok groans.

“Fourteen,” he breathes, sucking hard at your nipple, letting your pleasure drip onto his slacks, soaking through the fabric, making you suffer in the overstimulation—

And then he flips you.

You gasp.

Your back hits the couch, thighs sprawled wide, and before you can even process it—

His hand is between your legs.

His fingers slide through your wrecked, swollen folds, pressing against your entrance, teasing, mocking, before thrusting deep—

Your scream catches in your throat.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice is so soft, so cruel, the pads of his fingers ruthless as they curl inside you, pressing against a spot so deep inside you that makes you convulse.

You sob, shaking your head, too much, too much, but he just shushes you, voice thick with mock sympathy.

"You've been holding out on me, haven't you?"

Spit catches in your throat. "W-what—"

Hoseok chuckles.

Deep, pleased, knowing.

"Don't worry, baby." A sharp thrust, his fingers spreading inside you. "I'll show you."

You whimper, legs kicking uselessly, body fighting something you don’t understand—

And then—

A firm press against your lower belly.

And then—

Another thrust.

The pleasure shifts.

It's new. It's deeper, sharper, something different curling at the base of your spine, something building too fast, something—

"Hoseok—"

"Shh," he soothes. "Just let go, baby."

Your stomach tightens.

The pressure is unbearable.

Your walls clench, your whole body shaking, something hot and unbearable coiling deep inside you, something you can't stop, something rushing to the surface, something—

"Oh—fuck—"

Your body takes over.

"Let it happen. Trust me."

Trust him.

You do. You absolutely trust him.

And maybe that’s the problem, or maybe that’s the solution.

Your thighs tremble, your spine arches, your vision blurs—

And then—

You gush.

Your whole body seizes, pleasure ripping through you in a violent surge, liquid spurting out of you, drenching his hand, his pants, the couch, your thighs—

You scream.

Your muscles lock, your walls fluttering helplessly, your release spurting in hot, wet pulses as Hoseok groans, watching you fall apart completely.

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice thick with awe.

Your body shakes.

Your mind spins.

Because—

Because—

What the fuck just happened?

Your whole body is trembling, gasping for air, blinking dazedly as the aftershocks pulse through you, as your thighs twitch, as the overwhelming humiliation of what just happened sinks in.

You whimper. "Hobi—"

He shushes you.

Soft. Gentle. Warm.

His hands move immediately—stroking down your sides, pressing into the muscles that are still twitching, still wreckedfrom the relentless overstimulation.

"You did so well," he murmurs, voice thick with something warm, something sweet. "So well for me, Chip."

His lips find your forehead, pressing a slow, lingering kiss there.

Your whole body melts.

His hands don’t stop moving—brushing over your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist, grounding you, reminding you that you’re safe, that you’re here, that he has you.

"Poor thing." His voice is low, gentle.

A kiss to your temple.

“So sweet when you cry for me."

A kiss to your cheek.

“Like honey dripping from the comb.”

A brush of lips against your jaw.

“You ready for your reward now, baby?"

Your whole body shudders.

You nod, desperate, a wrecked little whimper escaping your lips—

And Hoseok laughs, dark and pleased, as he finally moves to cradle you.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @just-reading-dany @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @hobis-sprite0218 @mcflurry-220 @mar-lo-pap

© 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

Your phone screen still glows with the text he sent this morning, casual as anything, like this is normal. Like this is something you do—just show up at his penthouse on a Thursday afternoon. You’d spent twenty minutes drafting excuses, each one more pathetic than the last, until your brother had mentioned it over breakfast:

“Oh yeah, Hoseok said you’re helping him organize his research papers today?”

Your toast had frozen halfway to your mouth. “He… what?”

“For his residency portfolio,” Caleb had said, not even looking up from his phone. “Said he needs a fresh pair of eyes on it.”

The lie was perfect. Believable. Academic.

(Of course it was. Everything about Hoseok is perfect.)

“Right,” you’d managed weakly. “That’s… that’s why.”

“Want me to drop you off? I’m heading that way anyway.”

And that’s how you ended up here—heart thundering against your ribs as you raise your hand to knock. Before your knuckles can touch the door, it swings open.

Your breath catches.

Because this—this isn't hospital Hoseok or teaching Hoseok or even party Hoseok. This is... home Hoseok.

He's wearing soft gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a white t-shirt that's clearly been washed too many times, the fabric thin enough that you can almost see the definition underneath. His feet are bare against the hardwood floor, and his hair is slightly messy like he's been running his fingers through it.

It's so domestic it makes your knees weak.

"Come on in." His voice is warm honey, dripping slow and sweet down your spine as he steps aside. The movement makes his shirt ride up slightly, exposing a strip of skin above his waistband that you definitely don't stare at.

(You stare at it.)

Your legs feel like jelly as you step past him into the apartment. His scent is everywhere here—that clean, citrusy smell that haunts your dreams, but stronger now, mixed with something warmer. More intimate.

The door clicks shut behind you with a soft finality that makes your pulse skip.

You're in Hoseok's house.

Alone.

With him.

On a Thursday.

Oh god.

"Shoes off," he instructs gently, and you comply automatically, toeing off your sneakers next to his neatly arranged row of footwear. The sight of your beat-up Converse next to his expensive dress shoes makes something flutter in your stomach.

"This way." His hand settles at the small of your back, guiding you down a hallway lined with framed medical certificates. The touch is light—barely there—but it burns through your sweater like a brand.

You follow him in silence, heart thundering against your ribs as he leads you deeper into his home. Everything is exactly how you imagined it would be: minimalist but warm, all clean lines and rich woods and subtle touches of luxury. A doctor's house. A successful man's house.

(A house where your brother's best friend is about to—)

"Nervous?" His voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, tinged with something that might be amusement.

"No," you lie immediately, the word coming out too fast, too high.

His laugh is soft and knowing as he stops in front of a closed door. "Liar."

Before you can defend yourself, he's opening the door, and—

Oh god.

It's his study.

Of course it's his study.

The room is everything you'd expect: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive mahogany desk, leather chairs that probably cost more than your tuition. Late afternoon sunlight streams through tall windows, casting golden shadows across polished surfaces.

But all you can focus on is the way he's looking at you—head tilted slightly, expression gentle but hungry.

Hungry.

"After you," he murmurs, and the words drip like honey down your spine.

You sink into one of the leather chairs, the expensive material creaking softly beneath you. Hoseok settles into the chair beside yours, close enough that his knee almost brushes yours. Almost. The near-contact raises goosebumps across your skin.

"Notes," he says simply, voice steady and professional like this is just another study session. Like you're not alone in his house, surrounded by his scent, drowning in memories of his fingers and his voice and his—

"Right." You reach for your backpack with trembling hands, but the strap slips through your fingers like water. Before it can hit the floor, Hoseok catches it smoothly, his reflexes quick and precise.

(Of course they're precise. He's a surgeon. Those hands are trained for precision.)

"Chip." His voice is gentle—too gentle—as he steadies the bag in your lap. "You're trembling."

Your face burns as his fingers brush against yours, lingering just a second too long. "What's up?"

Everything. Everything is up. You're in his house. Alone. And all you can think about is the way his thumb had pressed against your tongue in the anatomy lab, how his fingers had curled inside you while your brother's party continued downstairs, how badly you want him to—

"Nothing," you manage, voice tight and unconvincing.

He hums—that low, knowing sound he always makes and somehow feels menacing—and suddenly his hand is gripping the edge of your chair. Before you can process what's happening, he's pulling you closer with one fluid movement, the chair sliding across hardwood like you weigh nothing at all.

Your breath catches sharply at the display of casual strength.

Because fuck—how can someone be this effortlessly powerful? This casually devastating?

Does he even realize what he's doing to you, or is this just how he is?

Just Hoseok being Hoseok, completely unaware of how every little thing he does makes you want to crawl into his lap and—

"Nothing?" he repeats softly, and now his knee is definitely touching yours, the heat of him burning through your jeans. "You sure about that?"

No. You're not sure about anything anymore, except maybe the way your heart is trying to escape your chest and the fact that you're probably going to die right here in this expensive leather chair, killed by proximity and the ghost of his fingers on your skin.

His gaze lingers on your trembling hands, head tilting the way it does during patient evaluations—assessing, calculating. 

“Your motor coordination's deteriorated since Saturday," he muses, leaning back in his chair with deceptive nonchalance. "We should address that first."

You open your mouth to protest, but he's already spreading his legs, the movement slow and deliberate. His sweatpants strain slightly over his thighs as he nods toward the newly created space between them. 

"Come here."

The command is velvet-soft, phrased like a suggestion but weighted like an order. Your heart stutters as his fingers drum once—twice—against his left thigh. A silent countdown.

"W-why?" The question comes out breathless, already defeated.

His smile could sanitize an OR. "Ergonomic alignment. You can't properly present your research if your hands won't stop shaking." He gestures to his lap like he's explaining a textbook diagram. "Center of gravity adjustment. Basic kinesiology, Chip."

Your feet move before your brain catches up, drawn by the gravitational pull of his casual authority.

The first brush of your knees against his inner thighs sends electric currents up your spine. He doesn't help you, doesn't touch you—just watches with that infuriatingly patient smile as you awkwardly try to straddle the chair.

"Proper support requires full contact," he chides gently when you hover uncertainly above him.

His hands finally land on your hips, guiding you down until every inch of you molds against him. The heat of his chest seeps through your sweater, his heartbeat thudding steady against your racing one.

"There. Better?"

You nod mutely, hands braced against his shoulders. His t-shirt rides up slightly under your fingers, exposing the warm skin of his collarbone. 

"Good." His thumbs dig into the divots of your hips—clinical pressure points that somehow feel indecent. "Now, synaptic transmission." His breath fans across your lips as he reaches past you, grabbing your notebook. "Start with glutamate receptors."

The pages blur as he flips to your highlighted section. His forearm brushes your breast—accidentally?—as he holds the notes up between you. 

“Focus, Chip. Unless..." His head tilts, smile sharpening. "...you need tactile reinforcement?"

His knee shifts upward beneath you, applying deliberate pressure where you're already embarrassingly warm. A gasp escapes before you can stop it, fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Ah." His tongue clicks in mock disapproval. "Seems we've identified the distraction." The hand not holding your notes slides up your spine, pressing you closer until his lips graze your ear. "Shall we... desensitize the stimulus?"

His lips find the frantic pulse beneath your ear first—a calculated strike at your carotid artery that makes you sigh.

“Elevated heart rate," he murmurs against damp skin, teeth grazing the spot he'd marked days ago. "Persistent symptom since..." A suckling kiss that pulls a whimper from your throat. "...Thursday's assessment."

Your fingers twist in his worn tee as he works downward, each open-mouthed kiss along your jugular notch methodical. Clinical. Cruel.

"H-Hoseok—" 

"Shh." His hand slides up your spine, deft fingers finding your sweater's zipper. "Need to auscultate properly." The zipper parts with a predatory hiss, cool air rushing over your heated skin. "No extraneous layers." 

The sweater pools at your elbows before he tugs it off completely. Your arms instinctively cross over your chest—a futile shield against his darkening gaze. 

"None of that." He catches your wrists, pinning them gently against his shoulders.

His breath stutters when he sees the bra. 

Candyfloss pink. Lace scalloped with tiny bows. Straps straining over the swell of breasts he'd mapped through fabric days prior. 

His Adam's apple bobs. 

“Well." The word comes out rough, sanded down at the edges. "This is..." His thumb brushes a satin bow between your breasts. "...exceptionally thorough preparation." 

You squirm under the praise—the implication—but his grip tightens on your hips. "I didn't—" 

"Shh." His palm cups your breast through the lace, calluses catching on delicate threads. "Look at these." His thumb circles your nipple, watching it peak. "Like cherries dusted in sugar.”

"Hoseok—" 

"Merely observational." His other hand slips beneath the bra's band, blunt nails scraping your ribcage. "Soft here." A squeeze that makes you arch. "Responsive here." His mouth seals over the lace, tongue swirling the dampening fabric. "Sweet here." 

Your head falls back with a choked moo, nails biting into his shoulders. He hums approval against your breast, the vibration ricocheting straight to your clit. 

"Still trembling," he notes, fingers walking up your spine to unhook the bra. The clasp gives with a snick that sounds obscenely loud. "We should stabilize your core." 

His hands slide around to your front, palms flattening over your bare stomach. 

“Deep breath in." You obey shakily. "Hold." His thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts. "Now exhale." 

You deflate against him, breasts pressing into his chest. His groan rumbles through you. "There. Better." 

His lips find yours in the space between breaths—not a kiss but a shared exhalation. 

“Tell me you planned this," he demands against your mouth. 

"Planned wh—" 

His hips roll up, the thick line of his cock unmistakable through sweatpants and your thin jeans. 

“The bows. The pink." A bite to your lower lip. "This devastating little bralette." 

"N-no, I just—" 

"Liar." He sucks the word from your lips, hands cradling your face. "You knew." Another grind that steals your breath. "Knew I'd want to ruin you in it." 

His teeth close on a strap, dragging it down your shoulder. "Knew I'd need to see..." The other strap follows. "...how pretty you look coming undone in pastels." 

The bra falls away. His pupils swallow entire galaxies. 

"Fuck." The curse is reverence and ruin as he palms your bare breasts. "Should've known you'd weaponize cuteness." 

Your retort dies when he lifts you slightly, mouth latching onto a nipple. The suction is brutal—claiming, corrective—as his free hand slides between you. 

"Let's see..." His fingers find the button of your jeans. "...if your panties match."

His fingers still for a second as a wicked smile curves against your breast. 

“Coordinated sets suggest..." The button pops free. "...premeditation."

You can't deny it—not when his hand slips into your jeans to find matching pink lace waiting. 

His laugh ghosts across your damp nipple. “Knew it."

"I didn't—" Your protest breaks on a gasp as his thumb traces the scalloped edge. "It's just—"

"Just happened to wear a complete set?" His teeth graze your collarbone. "Just happened to pick the exact shade that makes me want to..." He tugs your jeans lower, exposing more pink lace. "...devour you?"

Your face burns as his fingers map the delicate fabric. 

"Look at these." He hooks a finger under a tiny bow at your hip. "Like sugar spun into thread." His other hand cups your breast again, thumb flicking your peaked nipple.

"Stop—" you whimper, but his palm slides lower, cupping you through damp lace.

"Why?" His smile is gentle poison. "When you clearly dressed for this?" His middle finger traces your slit through the fabric. "When you're already soaking through all this pretty pink?"

Your hips buck against his hand involuntarily. He tsks softly.

"Such a sweet little thing." His fingers press harder, making you mewl. "All wrapped up like candy." His teeth find your pulse. "Makes me want to unwrapyou. Slowly."

The word drips like honey as his hand slips beneath the lace. "See how many licks..." His fingers part your folds. "...it takes..."

Your forehead drops to his shoulder as two fingers slide home.

"...to get to the center."

You let out a shaky exhale at that. 

"Still so wet for me," he murmurs against your lips, two fingers pressing inside with careful precision. "Such a good—"

The rhythm of his movements changes subtly—no longer teasing but exploring. Something shifts in his touch, becoming more methodical. More... investigative.

You feel his breath stutter against your neck, the slight tension suddenly coiling through his body where it's pressed against yours.

His fingers curl slightly, pressing deeper, and you tense involuntarily at the unfamiliar pressure. It's different than when he touched you before—that night in your room when he stood behind your chair, his breath hot against your ear as his fingers worked between your thighs. This angle is deeper, more invasive, and your body responds with a reflexive resistance.

"Easy," he whispers, but the playfulness has evaporated from his voice. His free hand moves to your hip, steadying you as his fingers press more deliberately. "Relax for me."

You try, but your muscles tighten instinctively. The slight resistance—the way your inner walls grip his fingers—makes him go absolutely still.

His fingers withdraw so carefully it makes your chest ache. No teasing now. No slow, deliberate drag of his knuckles over your clothed heat just to watch you shudder. Just… absence. 

And when you open your eyes, his face is wrong. 

Too still. Too pale. His pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the brown. His lips part, then shut again, like he’s bitten through his tongue. 

The clinical terms evaporate. 

"Chip."

His voice is hoarse.

The nickname that always made your stomach flip—always made you feel small, breakable, something for him to toy with—now sounds like a curse.

Like a word he can’t take back. 

His thumb brushes your inner thigh, and—fuck, it’s trembling. 

"You’ve never…" The sentence trails off, unfinished. 

Your face burns as understanding clicks into place. Of course he can tell. Of course he knows. How many bodies has he been inside? How many women has he unraveled with those precise, knowing hands? Of course he can feel the difference.

"Not with—" your voice comes out too high, too thin, "I mean, I've done other things, but—"

"But never..." His gaze flicks down to where his hand still hovers near your thighs, then back to your face.

"I've used my own fingers," you blurt out, mortified but desperate to explain. "And that time in my room, when you—when we—"

"Different angle," he says quietly, almost to himself. "I was behind you. Not as deep."

You nod, humiliation crawling up your spine like ivy. Your thoughts scatter and race. Does it matter? Why should it matter? It's not like you're some precious untouched flower. It's not like you've been saving yourself. It's just—it's just—

(It's just that nobody has ever made you feel like you wanted to let them inside. Until him.)

"I didn't think it mattered," you whisper, the words tangling in your throat. "It's not like I'm—"

"Not like you're what?" His voice has gone dangerously soft.

"Not like I'm waiting for something special or—or saving myself or whatever stupid thing." Your words tumble out faster. "I just... nobody ever made me want to. Until now."

Silence stretches between you, taut as a surgical suture.

"Until me," he repeats, the words hollow. "Your brother's best friend. The one who's been deliberately blurring lines since the moment we met."

His face changes—like something has clicked into place. Like a puzzle snapping into its final, sickening shape.

But his expression. God. You've never seen him look like this. Like he’s about to be sick. Like you're the one who's done something wrong. 

"Don't." Your voice is barely a whisper. Your hands fly up to cover your face. "Don’t make it a thing." 

"It is a thing." 

His voice cracks. 

His voice cracks. 

And when you peek through your fingers, he’s staring at your thighs, at the damp lace beneath the unbuttoned denim. And his hands—fuck, his hands—are trembling as they move to adjust your jeans, tugging the fabric back into place like he can undo what’s already been done. 

"Christ," he breathes, hands fisting against the desk’s edge. "I’m your brother’s—" 

"Don’t." You sit up too fast, nearly headbutting him. "Don’t use Caleb as an excuse when you’re the one who—" 

"I know." The raw admission stops you cold. His knuckles blanch where he grips the wood. "I know exactly what I’ve done. What I’m doing." 

A short, bitter laugh punches out of him. 

"Manipulating your crush." His teeth click as his jaw clenches. "Abusing my position. Fucking my best friend’s sister in my—" 

"You’re not fucking me!" The words burst out louder than intended. "You’re—you're teaching me. Showing me. And I want it. I asked for it." 

His gaze snaps to yours, dark and devastated. 

"You don’t know what you’re asking." 

"Does it matter?" 

"It fucking matters!" His voice is jagged now, slicing through the space between you. "Because if I’d known—if I’d realized—" His throat works. "Christ. I let you choke on my cock. Made you take the whole thing. And you—" His eyes flick down, to your open legs, to the flush of your skin beneath the denim. "You didn’t think to mention—" 

“Say it.” Your voice is razor-sharp. “Go ahead. Diagnose me, Dr. Jung. What’s my prognosis?” 

His flinch is barely perceptible. 

"You’re actually—" His breath catches. His eyes squeeze shut. "Inexperienced."

The clinical term dangles between you, sterile and ugly.  

"So?" You lift your chin, daring him to look at you. "I wanted this. With you."  

His inhale is sharp. Like something being ripped out of him. His head tilts, his gaze drags over you—shaky, uncertain, searching. And then—

His face changes.

Like something has clicked into place. Like a puzzle snapping into its final, sickening shape.

"You don't understand what we've been doing." The words come out like they're being dragged from him. "All this time—the teasing, the ambiguity, the doubt—"

"I understand perfectly well," you snap, but he's already shaking his head.

"No. You don't." His voice breaks on the last word. "This whole thing—the way I've been treating you—it's a specific kind of dynamic. A power exchange. A mind game."

He pushes off the desk, runs his hands roughly through his hair.

"I thought you were playing along," he continues, voice rising with each word. "I thought you understood the game—that you were pretending not to know what was happening. That you were letting me seduce you, letting me make you doubt yourself because you liked it."

Your stomach drops as the implications settle.

"But you weren't playing," he says, voice hollow now. "You weren't pretending to be confused. You actually didn't know what was happening."

He staggers back like he’s been struck. One step. Then two. And then—

Oh, God.

He actually retches.

Bends over, a harsh, sick sound ripping from his throat, hands braced on his knees like he might actually vomit right there on the fucking floor.

Your stomach twists violently.

"Hoseok—"

"Don’t."

He doesn’t even lift his head. His shoulders are heaving, and the fingers pressed to his lips are shaking, and fuck, fuck, fuck, what have you done?

Why does it feel like you’re the one who did something wrong?

"You got off on it." Your voice is quieter now. Less rage, more—god, you don’t even know. "You liked making me doubt myself. Pretending this was all in my head. But now that you know I’m actually—"

"That’s the fucking problem!"

His voice breaks.

Loud. Raw. A guttural, vicious thing ripped straight from his chest.

His hands are in his hair, gripping hard. His chest rises, falls—too fast, too sharp, like he can’t catch his breath.

"You were doubting yourself," he grits out. "Actually doubting yourself. You weren’t playing—you weren’t teasing, you weren’t pretending to hesitate—you didn’t know!"

You don’t speak. You can’t.

"You weren’t letting yourself be seduced." His voice drops lower, ragged. "I was conditioning you."

The room tilts.

"You didn’t need coaxing. You weren’t fighting it. You just didn’t know what was happening to you." His eyes are blown wide, almost frantic. "And I liked it."

The breath punches out of your lungs.

"I liked watching you get flustered. I liked seeing you hesitate." His voice is hoarse, unsteady. "I liked watching you struggle to figure out if it was real or in your head."

Something in your stomach plummets.

"But it was never a fucking game for you," he rasps. "You weren’t playing along. You weren’t playing at all."

Silence.

Thick. Suffocating.

His hands drag down his face. His shoulders are still heaving, like his body is rejecting the words even as he says them.

"I wanted—fuck." His fingers tangle in his hair, tugging hard at the roots. "I wanted to ruin you. In pastels, on your knees, pink lace soaked through because I made you like this. I wanted you pliant, desperate—mine—but I never wanted—I thought you knew this type of play—"

His next inhale is sharp.

"But you didn't know the rules at all. Because you've never even played the game before."

His face is ashen now, like all the blood has drained from it.

“Put your clothes on.”

The finality in his voice turns your bones to ice.  

And you realize—too late—that the real game is over.

You dress mechanically, fingers trembling on each button. He watches like a surgeon monitoring vitals—detached, analytical.

The car ride is silent.

Your phone buzzes at 2 AM:

𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙻𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔’𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍. 𝚄𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚐𝚕𝚞𝚎.

𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝: A photo of your sock, neatly mended.

𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢.

You stare at the message until the screen dims.

He’s lying.

He has to be lying.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @just-reading-dany @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7

© 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

"You sure you're okay?" Mike asks as your hips sway against his.

"Perfect." You loop your arms around his neck, making sure to arch your back just so. Because you know he's watching. Can feel those surgical eyes cataloging every point of contact between you and Mike.

14 minutes.

Another buzz. Then another.

"Your phone's blowing up," Mike notes, glancing at your clutch.

"Let it." You turn in his arms, pressing your back to his chest. His hands hover uncertainly at your hips. "You can hold tighter, you know."

13 minutes.

Your phone starts buzzing continuously. Text after text after—

"Should you maybe check that?"

"Nope." You guide Mike's hands lower, letting them rest on your thighs where your dress has ridden up. "Just dance with me."

12 minutes.

The buzzing stops abruptly. Your stomach flips with anticipation.

Because you know what this means. Know what happens when he goes quiet. It's like watching storm clouds gather—that perfect, terrible stillness before lightning strikes.

11 minutes.

Mike's thumbs brush circles on your thighs—gentle, tentative touches that make you want to scream. Because they're wrong. No clinical precision. No calculated pressure points. Just... nice.

You hate nice.

10 minutes.

Your phone lights up with a single message. You shouldn't look. You really shouldn't look.

You look.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙷𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚞𝚗?

Heat floods your system. Because that's his voice—the one he uses right before he makes you fall apart. All honey and poison and promise.

9 minutes.

Your fingers shake as you type:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚞𝚞𝚞𝚞𝚙. 𝚖𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜

The response is immediate:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙽𝚘 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜??

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝟾 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜, 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚙.

You press closer to Mike, making sure your dress rides up just enough. Making a show of it.

7 minutes.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚋 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗

6 minutes.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎. 𝚆𝚑𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘.

Your thighs clench involuntarily. Mike mistakes it for encouragement, his fingers flexing against your skin.

5 minutes.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚞 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌. 𝚖𝚒𝚔𝚎’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙸𝚜 𝚑𝚎.

Just that. Two words that sound like a medical diagnosis and feel like a death sentence.

4 minutes.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚑𝚖𝚖𝚖. 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎

The dots appear, disappear, appear again. Your heart thunders.

3 minutes.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙽𝚘.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚘?

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎

2 minutes.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙾𝚑, 𝙸 𝚊𝚖.

Oh.

Oh so he's actually here. Somewhere in this crowd, he is watching. He was pretending to be home, pretending he hadn’t been watching, pretending he wasn’t here.

But he is.

1 minute.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙻𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚙.

You turn in Mike's arms, pressing closer. Let your lips brush his ear as you whisper something meaningless, making it look intimate.

30 seconds.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎’𝚜 𝚞𝚙

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙸𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚍.

Your phone goes silent. The crowd shifts around you, bodies pressing closer in the dark. Mike's hands move respectfully somewhere above your waist.

And then—

"Mind if I cut in?"

That voice. Honey-thick and surgical-sharp, right behind you.

Oh.

Fuck.

Your entire body freezes, even as Mike continues moving near you, oblivious to the way your pulse just flatlined.

Because Hoseok is here.

Not just watching from some hidden vantage point. Not just sending threatening texts. But here—close enough that you can smell bergamot and antiseptic and all those things you want to feel under your lips.

"Mind if I cut in?" he repeats, and now his hand settles on your waist, surgical fingers spanning your ribcage like they belong right there.

The touch is gentle. Clinical.

Lethal.

Mike hesitates, hands stilling immediately. "Uh, we were kind of—"

"Were you?" He responds swiftly, and it has no business being this hot.

Hoseok's thumb finds the pressure point between your ribs, pressing just hard enough to make your breathing stutter. His other hand extends past you, offering Mike something that glints in the strobing lights.

"I believe this is yours." He adds then.

You crane your neck to see—and nearly choke.

Because that's a hospital ID badge.

"Dr. Jung?" Mike's voice rises in recognition. "From the ER rotation?"

"Mm." Hoseok's thumb digs deeper into your side. "Small world."

The music flutters around you as understanding dawns on Mike's face. Because of course. Of course, Mike is doing his internship at SNU. He told you so earlier. Of course Hoseok would know him. Of course this whole situation would implode in the most spectacularly awful way possible.

"I didn't realize—" Mike starts, but Hoseok cuts him off with a smile that could sterilize surgical equipment.

"That this is my best friend's sister?" His hand slides higher on your waist, proprietary and utterly poisonous. "The one I specifically mentioned during orientation? About maintaining professional boundaries?"

Oh.

Oh no.

Mike's hands drop from your body like they've been burned. "Shit, I didn't—I mean, she didn't say—"

"No?" Hoseok's voice is dusted in cyanide. "Must have slipped her mind. Just like it slipped her mind that she has an 8 AM anatomy lab." His fingers tap your ribs. "With me."

You should say something. Should defend Mike or explain or—

"I'll just..." Mike backs away, hands raised in surrender. "Yeah. Nice seeing you, Dr. Jung."

He disappears into the crowd, leaving you alone with six feet of barely contained medical malice.

"Nineteen minutes," Hoseok murmurs against your ear, turning you in his arms until you're facing him. "I gave you nineteen minutes."

Your mouth goes dry. Because he looks... devastating. White dress shirt rolled to his elbows, dark slacks that you just know cost more than your textbooks, hair slightly disheveled like that day he fingered you.

He looks like he just stepped out of surgery.

He looks like he's about to perform one.

"I—" Your voice cracks as his hand slides up your spine, pressing you closer. "You said don't come Thursday."

"I did." His other hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. "And yet here we are. On a Friday. With your dress halfway up your thighs and some intern’s hands all over my—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

"Your what?" The tequila makes you brave.

Stupid. 

Reckless.

His eyes darken. "You know exactly what you are."

"Say it." You press closer, feeling the way his breath hitches. "If you're so concerned about my behavior, Dr. Jung, diagnose me."

His thumb presses harder against your mouth. "Don't."

"Don't what?" You let your lips part, tongue darting out to taste the pad of his thumb. "Test you? Pretty sure that ship sailed around minute seventeen."

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "You're drunk."

"Tipsy," you correct, rolling your hips against his. "Just drunk enough to tell you exactly what I think about you blocking my number and playing hot and cold and—"

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back. "Not here."

"Why not?" You bare your throat, feeling his pulse thunder for the first time ever. "Scared of losing control, sunbae?"

The honorific hits like a match to gasoline. His grip tightens painfully in your hair as he drags you off the dance floor, through the crowd, past the bathrooms to a darker hallway near the emergency exit.

Your back hits the wall hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. His hands cage your head as he looms over you, expression thunderous.

"You want to talk about control?" His voice is barely audible over the muffled bass. "Let's talk about how you deliberately disobeyed me. How you let some fumbling intern put his hands all over what's mine."

Flames lick down your spine. "Yours?"

"Mine." He leans closer, lips brushing your ear. "Or did you forget how pretty you looked choking on my cock? How desperate you were for my fingers? How you begged—"

"Fuck you," you spit, but your thighs press together traitorously.

His laugh is cruel and gentle all at once. "Oh, Chip." His knee wedges between your legs, spreading them wider. "That's exactly what you want, isn't it? Why you've been testing me all night."

You shake your head frantically, even as your hips roll against his thigh.

"No?" His hand slides up your inner thigh, bunching the dress higher. "Then why are you so wet?"

His fingers brush against damp lace, and you bite back a whimper.

"Tell me," he demands softly, circling your clit through the fabric. "Tell me why you're soaking through these pretty panties."

Your head thunks back against the wall. "I hate you."

"No." His fingers press harder, making you gasp. "You hate that I'm right. That I know exactly what you need." His other hand cups your breast through your dress. "That no matter how many other aspiring doctors you dance with, no matter how much you pretend..." His thumb rolls your nipple roughly. "You'll always be my Chip."

The possessive pronoun makes you whine. He swallows the sound with a kiss that tastes like punishment and promise.

"Car," he growls against your mouth. "Now."

"Make me."

His smile is surgical precision and poorly contained violence. "Last chance to behave."

You bite his lower lip in response.

His growl vibrates through your chest as he hauls you away from the wall.

"Have it your way."

The world tilts as he hoists you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing—all that strength he showed you back home on display as he secures you with one arm.

You're still giddy enough from tequila and victory to wave cheerfully at Mike's shocked face across the bar.

SMACK.

The sharp crack of his palm against your ass echoes even over the music. The sting blooms hot and perfect, pulling a sound from your throat that’s definitely not pain.

"Oops," you giggle, squirming deliberately against his shoulder. "Sorry, Dr. Jung."

Another smack lands harder, right where thigh meets curve. This time, your yelp dissolves into an embarrassingly breathy moan.

"Still feeling defiant?" His voice is sugary-sweet venom as he starts walking, each step jostling you against his shoulder. "Or should I conduct a more thorough behavioral assessment right here?"

"You wouldn't dare," you taunt, voice muffled against his back.

His laugh is quiet. Lethal. "That’s adorable, Chip. Truly."

SMACK.

You yelp again, fingers digging into the back of his shirt. “Sadist.”

“Self-restraint of a saint, actually.”

You’re halfway to the exit when he hums thoughtfully. Almost like he’s just remembering something.

"You know," he says conversationally, "I was going to let him off with a warning."

Something tingles in your stomach. "Hoseok—"

SMACK.

"But then he put his hands on you." Fingers tighten on your thigh, casual but severe. "And that? That’s something I just can’t overlook."

You push up against his back, twisting to look at him. "You’re not—"

"Relax," he murmurs, effortlessly adjusting his grip as you squirm. "I’m not going to ruin him."

A pause.

SMACK.

"But he’s an intern, isn’t he?" His tone is all polite, mere curiosity. "Which means his next rotation is what—three weeks?"

You unawarely hold your breath.

"ER is brutal at SNU," he continues mildly. "And interns? They burn out so fast."

"Hoseok." You say his name like it’s a warning.

Like you have any say whatsoever in what he does.

"Mm. No, you're right." He sighs like he actually considers it. SMACK. "Wouldn’t want him transferring to another specialty out of sheer exhaustion. What a shame that would be."

You dig your nails into his back, panic rising. "You can't—"

He chuckles, patting your thigh as if to soothe you. "Of course I can’t. That would be unethical."

SMACK.

You whimper, thighs squeezing against his chest.

"But maybe," he says softly, fingers pressing into the burning skin of your ass, "someone will make sure he remembers exactly where he stands."

You go rigid.

"Someone like…" He taps his fingers against your thigh. SMACK. "The Chief Resident?"

Your pulse pounds.

"Or maybe," he continues, voice all silky amusement, "someone even higher than that."

"You are insane," you breathe.

"And yet—" His hand slides under your dress, fingers teasing the damp heat between your thighs. "You keep testing me."

Your head thunks against his back.

His chuckle is quiet. Knowing. "That’s what I thought."

You squeal as he pinches the sensitive spot he just spanked. The cool night air hits your legs as he walks through the parking lot, carrying you like a misbehaving doll.

"Put me down!" You mean to say it like a retort—but you’re laughing now, drunk on tequila and victory and the way his fingers keep finding new places to leave bruises.

"Oh, I will." His palm connects with your other cheek, evening out the sting. "Right over my knee first, then bent over my desk, then—"

"Hoseok!"

"That’s not my name tonight, is it?" Another smack, another moan you can't quite swallow. "What did you call me? Dr. Jung?"

You're definitely going to die. He’s going to kill you with his bare hands and perfect voice and medical terminology.

(Worth it.)

His car beeps as he approaches—something sleek and black that probably costs stupidly too much. The passenger door opens and—

"Wait." You twist to look at him over your shoulder. "Aren’t you going to check my alcohol levels? Make sure I’m safe to—"

His laugh rumbles through your whole body. "Oh, Chip." He deposits you in the seat with gentleness, despite his rough demeanor. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be conscious enough to remember your own name when I’m done with you."

Your nipples perk up as he buckles you in, movements deliberately slow. His fingers subtly trace the marks he left on your thighs, pressing just hard enough to make you whimper.

"Besides." He straightens, smile pure poison in the streetlight. "I need you exactly this brave for what comes next."

The door closes with a soft click that sounds like a death sentence.

And you?

Well.

You've never been happier to die.

Hoseok sits on the driver’s seat in a matter of seconds, and the car immediately purrs to life with a swift flick of his wrist. His hands flex on the steering wheel—those perfect surgeon's fingers that make your mouth water just looking at them.

"Hair up," he commands without looking at you, voice clinical and cold. "Now."

You fumble with your hair tie (the one you always wear on your wrist and thank the Jesus for that right now), fingers trembling as you gather your hair into a ponytail. His eyes stay fixed on the road, but you feel him watching in your peripheral vision.

"Good girl." The praise drips like antifreeze—candied yet devastating. His legs spread wider, expensive slacks pulling taut across his thighs. "Now pull it out and suck."

Heat floods your face. Because he's not even looking at you—just expecting obedience as he navigates through Seoul's nighttime traffic with perfect precision.

"I—" You swallow hard, remembering how you'd barely managed half of him last time. How your jaw had ached for days. How he'd had to finish with his hand because you couldn't—

"Nineteen minutes, Chip." His voice stays honey-smooth even as his knuckles whiten on the wheel. "That's how long until we reach my apartment. Make me cum before then."

Your fingers shake as you reach for his fly. The zipper sounds obscenely loud in the quiet car.

"Nervous?" He takes a turn with too much accuracy, still not looking down. "After all that sass at the club?"

You finally free his cock—already hard, already leaking, already massive. Your mouth waters even as anxiety twists your stomach.

"I can't—" You remember choking, tears streaming down your face as he'd guided you deeper. "Last time I couldn't—"

"Eighteen minutes." His thumb brushes your cheek, the touch deceptively gentle. "Better start practicing."

You lean down, bracing one hand on his thigh as you take him into your mouth. The taste is familiar now—salt and skin and him. His breath hitches slightly as you swirl your tongue around the head.

"Deeper." The command is velvet-soft but unmistakable. "You wanted to play games tonight, Chip. Show me how much you've improved."

You sink lower, trying to relax your throat like he taught you. His cock hits the back of your mouth and you gag slightly.

"Sixteen minutes." His hand finds your ponytail—not pushing, just holding. "Remember your breathing exercises."

You whimper around his length, tears already gathering at the corners of your eyes. He's so big—stretching your lips obscenely wide as you try to take more.

"That's it." His fingers tighten in your hair as you bob your head. "Good girl. Use your tongue just like I showed you."

The praise makes you moan, the vibration making his hips twitch upward. You gag again as he hits deeper.

"Careful." His voice stays steady even as his cock throbs against your tongue. "Don't want to crash. That would be..." His grip tightens marginally. "...inconvenient."

You pull back to catch your breath, lips still stretched around his tip. "How much time?"

"Fourteen minutes." He takes another turn smoothly, like he's not getting his dick sucked in Seoul traffic. "And you've barely managed half. So disappointing, Chip. Can’t you do better?"

The words feel like a slap stinging across your cheeks, but you can’t deny the wetness they bring through your panties. You sink back down with renewed determination, forcing yourself to take more. Your throat spasms around him as tears streak your cheeks.

"Better." His thumb wipes away a tear. "But still not enough. Show me how sorry you are for disobeying me, Chip. Show me you mean it."

You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder as your hand works what you can't fit in your mouth. His breathing grows heavier but his driving never falters.

"Ten minutes." His hips roll up slightly, making you choke. "Want to know what happens if you fail?"

You whine around his cock, trying desperately to take more.

"I'll park the car." His voice drops lower, darker. "And teach you properly. Right here. Until you learn."

The threat makes you redouble your efforts, tongue tracing the thick vein on the underside as you force yourself lower. Your jaw aches, drool gathering at the corners of your mouth.

"Five minutes." His control is cracking—just slightly—voice rougher as you work him faster. "Running out of time, Chip."

You're crying properly now, mascara probably ruined as you desperately try to please him. He momentarily glances down, taking in your ruined expression as your eyes lock with his.

"Fuck." The curse slips out as his hips jerk up. "Three minutes. Show me how badly you want to make it up to me. You can do it, Chip."

You're a mess—tears and spit dripping down your chin as you take him as deep as you can. His cock twitches against your tongue, pre-cum bitter, but so perfect because it’s him.

"One minute." His grip becomes brutal in your hair. "Better swallow it all this time."

You feel him pulse, feel his thighs tense under your palm. His cum hits the back of your throat in hot spurts as he guides you down further than you've ever managed.

"Good girl." He sounds wrecked even as he parks the car perfectly. "Every drop."

You swallow obediently, throat working around him until he softens slightly. When he finally lets you up, you realize you're in his parking garage.

"Time?" you rasp, voice completely destroyed.

His smile is gentle but noxious as he tucks himself away. "Twenty-one minutes." He cups your tear-stained cheek. "You failed."

Butterflies erupt in your stomach as he exits the car, coming around to your door. His expression is pure medical malice as he helps you out.

"Don't worry though." His thumb traces your swollen lips. "We have all night for remedial lessons."

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You sidestep the portable otoscope charging by the door. The space is all sharp edges—stainless steel cabinets, framed diplomas, his white coat draped over the back of a chair still warm from his body.  

“Page 214,” he says, sliding your marked-up paper across the desk. Red ink bleeds through the margins. Insufficient clinical correlation circles your thesis on autonomic nervous system responses.  

Your throat tightens. “I cited six studies—”  

“Case studies aren’t lived experience.” He finally meets your eyes, thumb brushing the penlight. “You can’t quantify a gag reflex through PubMed.”   

The air shifts when he stands.  

“Sit.” He nods to the exam table, its crinkled paper sheet protesting as you perch on the edge.  

“I’m not your patient,” you say too quickly.  

His laugh is all teeth. “Would you prefer I bill your insurance?”  

The overhead exam light clicks on. You flinch at the sudden brightness.  

“Relax.” His knuckle grazes your jawline as he adjusts the lamp. “Just demonstrating research methodology.”  

He rolls the stool closer, knees bracketing yours.

“Let’s say…” His penlight traces the column of your throat, the cool beam skimming over your pulse point. “You wanted empirical data on vagus nerve stimulation.”

Your traitorous pulse jumps under the light.

“Theoretical,” you rasp.

“Mm.” The stool creaks as he leans in. “Hypothetically—if a patient claimed nausea—” A flicker of movement, then the glint of polished steel between his fingers. A tongue depressor. “—would you take their word for it? Or verify with a hands-on assessment?”

His meaning is clinical. Technically. In medical exams, the vagus nerve can be tested by pressing a tongue depressor against the back of the throat, triggering the gag reflex. A strong response might suggest hypersensitivity. A weak or absent one? Neurological impairment.

But that’s not what he’s asking. Not really.

The textbook slides from your lap, thudding against the floor.

His thumb finds the hinge of your jaw, applying just enough pressure to tilt your head back.

“You need proper mentorship,” he murmurs.

“Mentorship.” The word barely forms.

“Mm. Palatal anatomy. Gag reflex modulation.” His nail scrapes the tender skin behind your earlobe, where the auricular branch of the vagus nerve lies—just another pressure point, another test. “Essential for any aspiring neurologist.”

Overhead, the Code Blue alarm blares—a real emergency, somewhere beyond this room. Neither of you move.

“This is—”

“Academic?” He tilts your chin up with the tongue depressor, just shy of pressure. “Ethically sanctioned? Necessary for your… what was it? Comprehensive understanding of brain-gut axis pathways?”

Your own citation, thrown back at you, laced with velvet implication.

His pager vibrates against the desk. 

A reminder. A warning.

“Well, Chip?” He pockets the device, but his eyes never leave your mouth. “D’you want to practice?”

Somewhere down the hall, a defibrillator charges. The crash cart rattles past the door. And you—

You’re already nodding, fingers curling in the paper sheet as he snaps fresh gloves over those surgeon’s hands.

“For science,” you whisper.

His smile cuts through the antiseptic air. “Naturally.”

"Open." His voice is clinically detached as he positions the tongue depressor. "Wider."

You comply, heart thundering as he leans closer to examine your oral cavity. The exam light catches his glasses, making his expression unreadable.

"Good girl. Now stick your tongue out—just like that." His free hand steadies your chin. "Interesting. Your tongue control is quite developed."

Heat floods your face. You try to respond but can't with your mouth open.

"Shh. Focus on breathing through your nose." His thumb traces your jawline. "We'll start shallow. See how much you can take before the reflex triggers."

The metal slides deeper.

"Swallow for me."

You do, fighting the urge to gag.

"Again." His voice stays perfectly level. "Notice how your throat accommodates the intrusion? That's neuroplasticity at work."

Your thighs press together involuntarily. He continues as if he hasn't noticed.

"Most people choke at this depth. But you..." The depressor ventures further. "Remarkable control. Have you practiced this before?"

You make a strangled sound of denial.

"Breathing's irregular," he notes. "Try to relax your throat. Yes—just like that. Let it slide deeper."

Your hands grip the hem of your shirt as saliva pools in your mouth.

"Fascinating response." His tone remains purely academic. "The stimulation is triggering excess secretion. Perfectly natural biological reaction."

Your face burns hotter. There's no way he doesn't notice how you're squirming.

He glances down—just once—at where your thighs are clenched together. A gentle smile curves his lips.

"Tell me, Chip..." The words float soft as gauze. "Do you always get this wet during medical examinations?"

Your eyes go wide.

"Excess salivation," he clarifies, innocent as morning. "It's a common autonomic response to oral stimulation. Though yours seems... particularly robust."

The paper crinkles beneath you as you shift.

"We should document this," he muses. "For research purposes, of course."

The depressor glints under clinical light as he presses it deeper.  

“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs, thumb settling at the corner of your mouth. “Relax your epiglottis.”  

You try. You try. But all you taste is sterile metal and the faint salt of his skin where his thumbprint ghosts your lower lip. His thighs tighten imperceptibly against yours, a human vise steadying your traitorous tremors.  

“There we go.” His voice drops to a velvet hush, the kind nurses use with combative dementia patients. “Good girl.”  

Your pulse thrums where his thumb rests—so close to slipping past your teeth, so close to feeling the heat of your tongue. 

His nail catches on the swell of your lip, dragging downward as if testing pliancy.  

“Fascinating,” he murmurs, though you’re not sure what he’s referring to anymore—the depressor sinking another fraction of an inch, or the way your throat flutters around it. “Your vagal response is… delayed.”  

You whimper.  

He cocks his head, penlight sweeping across your uvula. “Pain?”  

You shake your head minutely, terrified to dislodge his thumb.  

“Discomfort?”  

Another shake.  

“Then what?”  

The question hangs between you, syrupy and dangerous. 

His thumb presses harder, blanching the pink of your lip white. You can’t tell if he’s pushing the depressor or if your body is pulling it deeper, some primal part of you craving the stretch.  

His exhale ghosts your cheek. “Saliva production’s increased thirty percent since we began.”  

You’re drowning in it—a slick, shameful pool gathering under your tongue, threatening to spill.  

“Swallow.”  

You obey, throat working around cold steel.  

“Again.”  

The third time, a bead escapes the corner of your mouth. His thumb swipes it away before it can fall, the pad rough against your chin.  

“Remarkable,” he breathes, rotating the depressor slowly. “No gag yet. How far do you think—”  

His glasses slip.  

It’s barely noticeable—a millimeter descent along the bridge of his nose—but his whole body stills. 

For one fractured second, you swear his demeanor falters: pupils blown black behind smudged lenses, lips pressed into a bloodless line, tendons standing rigid in his neck.  

Then he’s back—gentle, smiling, Hoseok—retracting the depressor with a soft click.  

“Clumsy me,” he chuckles, adjusting his frames. “Should’ve used the head strap.”  

You don’t mention how his hand shakes. You don’t mention the splintered wood where he gripped the depressor too hard.  

You must be imagining things.

You must be making correlations where there’s none.

He checks his pager, all brisk professionalism. “Duty calls. You did well today, Chip.”  

Chip. The nickname now lands between your thighs.  

You nod, swiping at your damp chin. His gaze follows the movement, lingering on your glistening fingers.  

“Here.” He offers a tissue—crisp, folded—with a smile that crinkles his eyes. “For the salivation.”  

You take it. He doesn’t let go immediately, fingertips brushing yours.  

“We’ll continue next week,” he says, and it’s not a question.  

The door sighs shut behind him.  

Left alone, you stare at the ruined depressor. The wood’s fractured where his grip faltered, grooves carved by clenched fingers. You press a thumb into the deepest dent, imagining the force required—the control overridden.   

Down the hall, his laughter floats through an open doorway, warm and easy as he chats with a colleague. 

Normal. Harmless.  

You bite the tissue between your teeth, tasting bergamot and salt and lies.  

Your lungs burn as you push through the apartment door, endorphins still singing through your veins. 

The run helped—three miles of pavement pounding your inappropriate thoughts into submission. Three miles of not thinking about surgical hands or tongue depressors or—

"Morning, Chip."

You freeze.

The water bottle slips from your grip, hitting the floor with a hollow thud. 

Because there he is—Hoseok—lounging on your couch like he belongs there, like he hasn't been haunting your dreams for weeks, like you haven't been actively fleeing every time you catch a glimpse of his white coat in hospital corridors.

"I—" Your voice cracks. "Caleb didn't say..."

"He's in the shower." Hoseok's smile is gentle. Always gentle. "You've been busy lately."

It's not an accusation. His tone is light, conversational. But something in the way he says it—in the careful way he watches you over the rim of his coffee mug—makes your stomach drop.

"Yeah, I..." You scramble for an excuse. "Classes."

"Mm." He sets his mug down with deliberate care. "Interesting. Because I asked about your attendance."

Your heart stops.

"Just checking in," he continues, voice honey-sweet. "Since you missed three anatomy labs."

The air feels too thick. 

You're suddenly aware of how you must look—flushed from running, hair escaping your ponytail, compression leggings clinging to every curve. 

His eyes track a bead of sweat rolling down your neck.

"I—had other commitments."

"Did you?" He tilts his head, expression perfectly concerned. "Because Dr. Park mentioned you've been switching sections. Always picking labs when I'm not assisting."

Fuck.

"That's not—" You swallow hard. "It's not like that."

"No?" He stands, and you realize with dawning horror that he's blocking your escape route to the hallway. "Then what's it like, Chip?"

The nickname lands like a physical touch. You back up until your spine hits the door.

"Because it seems," he continues, voice impossibly soft, "like you're avoiding me."

"I'm not—"

"Three weeks." He takes a step closer. "Three weeks of missed labs. Declined study sessions. Running away every time I visit your brother."

Your chest feels tight. "I haven't been—"

"Nice outfit, by the way."

The compliment throws you off-balance. 

He's still smiling, still gentle, but there's something else there—something that makes your thighs press together unconsciously.

"The color suits you." His eyes drift lower. "Though I wonder if you're getting enough circulation. You're flushed."

You're not flushed from running anymore.

"I should—" You gesture vaguely toward your room. "Shower."

"Of course." He steps aside, ever-courteous. "Wouldn't want you catching cold."

You bolt past him, careful not to brush against his chest. But his voice follows you down the hall:

"Oh, and Chip?"

You freeze, hand on your doorknob.

"Next time you skip labs?" The smile is audible in his voice. "I'll have to schedule a private make-up session. For your academic benefit, of course."

The door closes behind you with a click that sounds like a threat.

You slide down against it, pressing your thighs together as your hand creeps beneath the waistband of your leggings. Because you're weak. Because you're stupid. Because even his threats sound like kindness, and you're going to hell for the way that makes you feel.

In the living room, you hear him laugh at something Caleb says. Normal. Friendly. Like he didn't just pin you to a wall with words alone.

Your fingers slip through embarrassing wetness as you bite your lip to stay quiet.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @just-reading-dany @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7

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You can sense every inch of him near you: the way his thigh presses into the cushion just shy of yours, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the buttery smell of popcorn, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Even when he’s completely still, he’s present—pulling your attention. Even when you are trying to focus on a movie.

And then Caleb props his feet on the coffee table.

“Dude,” Hoseok says, swatting at him lightly. “Shoes off.”

Caleb grumbles something unintelligible but complies, kicking off his sneakers with a dramatic sigh. Hoseok shakes his head, amused, and leans back—but in doing so, he spreads his legs wider, settling into that infuriatingly casual sprawl that guys do without even thinking about it.

Your eyes dart to the ceiling. The popcorn bowl. The TV screen. Anywhere but there.

You swallow hard, your throat clicking audibly in the quiet between scenes. His knee brushes yours—just barely—and you jerk like you’ve been shocked.

Hoseok glances at you, head tilting slightly in that gentle, curious way he has. “You okay?”

“I’m cold,” you blurt out before your brain can catch up with your mouth. 

It’s not even remotely true; if anything, your skin feels hot and prickly under your oversized hoodie. But it’s better than admitting the real reason you’re acting like a skittish animal caught in headlights.

His lips curve into a soft smile—kind and unassuming—and he reaches under the couch without hesitation, pulling out a neatly folded blanket from the hidden storage compartment Caleb always forgets exists. 

“Here,” he says, holding it out to you. “Mind sharing?”

You nod quickly—too quickly—and take one corner of the blanket as he drapes it over both your laps. The fabric is warm and soft against your skin, smelling faintly of detergent and something else you can’t place but immediately associate with him. You clutch your side of it tightly, keeping as much distance as possible between your leg and his under the shared cover.

“Hey,” Caleb pipes up from across the couch, waving a hand lazily in Hoseok’s direction. “Toss me one too.”

Hoseok obliges without complaint, retrieving another blanket and tossing it over Caleb’s head with a quiet laugh when he fumbles to catch it. 

The movie becomes background noise. 

All you can focus on is Hoseok's breathing beside you—steady, measured, perfect. Even that he does flawlessly, like his body naturally knows the exact rhythm it should maintain. You wonder if his heartbeat is just as precise. Probably. Everything about him seems calibrated for perfection, from his gentle smiles to the way he always knows exactly what to say.

He's just... good. At everything. At being kind and thoughtful and making people feel at ease. At existing in a way that doesn't seem to require the constant internal screaming that accompanies your every movement.

"You want it?"

His voice startles you out of your spiral. Heat floods your cheeks as your brain short-circuits, because want—want what? What is he offering? Why does his voice sound like that? Like warm honey and—

"Popcorn," he murmurs, smile gentle as he offers you the bowl.

Oh.

Oh.

Of course popcorn. Because he's being nice. Because that's what he does. Because you're the one reading into things that aren't there, imagining subtext in simple questions, making everything weird because your brain refuses to function normally around him.

"Thanks," you manage, reaching for the bowl without looking at him.

Your fingers brush his. The contact lasts approximately 0.3 seconds, but it's enough to make your skin tingle.

He doesn’t seem to notice—or if he does, he doesn’t let on—and turns back to the screen like nothing happened.

But for you?

The movie might as well not exist anymore.

And the couch still feels like a trap.

You try to focus back on the movie—really, you do. You like Marvel. You like the ridiculousness of it all, the bright colors and loud music and Tom Hiddleston being… well, Loki. But right now, it’s like no part of you can bring itself to care about gods or hammers or screaming goats. 

Not when Hoseok is sitting this close. Not when his thigh is pressed against yours like it belongs there.

It’s not even that he’s doing anything wrong. Caleb’s the one who forced him into the middle seat, after all. Caleb’s the one who sprawled out like he owns the place, leaving you no choice but to curl up on your side of the couch and pretend you’re not hyper-aware of every single point of contact between you and Hoseok.

His knee is glued to yours now. Warm. Solid. Unmoving.

You try to shift away—just a little, just enough to give yourself some breathing room—but there’s nowhere to go without falling off the edge entirely. And even if there were, moving would draw attention. Caleb would say something stupid, and Hoseok would laugh, and you’d have to sit here and die while they teased you for being weird about a perfectly normal seating arrangement.

So you stay still. Or as still as you can manage with your heart racing and your skin tingling and your brain screaming at you to stop thinking about it.

It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just proximity. He probably doesn’t even notice.

Except… his thigh shifts against yours again.

You freeze, breath catching in your throat as his knee presses a little closer, his weight shifting ever so slightly toward you under the blanket. It’s subtle—so subtle you almost convince yourself it’s nothing—but then his hand brushes your leg.

Your inner thigh.

Under the blanket.

It’s quick—barely a graze—but it sends a jolt through you like static electricity, sharp and hot and impossible to ignore. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, half-expecting him to pull back, to apologize for invading your space. But he doesn’t even flinch. His gaze is fixed on the screen, his expression calm and unbothered, like he hasn’t just set every nerve in your body on fire.

It was an accident. It has to be an accident.

But then his hand shifts again.

Slowly.

Deliberately?

No. No, not deliberately. You’re imagining things. Overthinking things. He’s just adjusting his position—his hand sliding higher because there’s nowhere else for it to go, because Caleb is taking up too much room, because—

His fingers brush against your inner thigh again, firmer this time, lingering just long enough to make your stomach wince.

You almost whimper.

Almost.

Instead, you sink deeper into the couch cushions, pulling the blanket higher over your lap in a feeble attempt to shield yourself from… what? Him? Yourself? The way your body is reacting to something so small, so innocent?

He doesn’t notice. Of course he doesn’t notice. He’s smiling at the screen now—a soft curve of his lips that makes something in your chest ache—and you tell yourself it’s because of the movie. Because he finds something funny or charming or whatever normal people feel when they’re watching Norse gods fight shadow monsters.

Not because he knows what he’s doing to you.

Not because he’s enjoying it.

Your breathing quickens despite yourself, shallow and uneven as his hand ventures higher under the fabric. He shifts slightly, adjusting his position, and his pinky catches the hem of your shorts. 

Your stomach drops as his fingertips slip underneath, skimming along the edge where elastic meets skin. 

Testing. Exploring. 

You bite your lip hard enough to sting, trying to keep your breathing steady as his touch wanders higher. His thumb finds the lace trim of your panties—delicate, intricate—and follows it with thorough slowness. Like he's appreciating the texture. Like he's curious about what else he might discover.

There’s no way this is happening. No way his fingers are tracing the edge of your underwear right now, skimming along the waistband like it’s nothing at all. Like it’s casual. Like he’s not doing it and you’re hallucinating.

You clutch the blanket tighter against your chest, trying to hide the heat blooming across your face as his touch lingers—light and exploratory and devastatingly precise in its methodology.

Methodology?

No. No, not methodology. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He can’t know what he’s doing.

But his hand dips lower, so slowly you could almost convince yourself you’re imagining it. Almost. Until his fingers brush against you through the thin fabric, and you have to stifle a gasp at how wet you already are. How embarrassingly obvious your arousal must be against his exploring touch.

His thumb presses more firmly, sliding through the dampness with deliberate intent. Testing. Measuring your response as he traces your slit with methodical patience. Like he’s conducting research. Like this is just another careful examination.

The fabric is soaked. 

You know it. He knows it. 

There's no way he doesn't know it, not with the way his thumb presses experimentally against you through the damp material. Not with how easily it glides over you, gathering wetness that shouldn't be there, that you shouldn't be producing for him, that you definitely shouldn't be letting him discover while your brother sits three feet away.

He hums softly—contentedly—and for one horrifying moment, you think it’s because of you. Because of this quiet little game he’s playing under the blanket where no one can see except you.

But then Caleb laughs—loud and obnoxious—and Hoseok responds with an easy “You’re such a nerd for FX,” his voice warm and teasing like nothing at all is happening between his hand and your body right now.

“Bro,” Caleb says through another cackle, gesturing wildly at the screen with a handful of popcorn. “LOOK at the fuckin’ rain! It’s insane!”

“Mm,” Hoseok murmurs in agreement, his thumb sliding lower now—closer to where you’re slick and ready in ways you shouldn’t be for him right now. “Drenched.”

Your lungs forget how to work entirely as his thumb presses more firmly now—slow, almost absentminded up and down movements like he’s trying to memorize the texture of you under the material. 

It must be your imagination.

Because the alternative is… That's—that's ridiculous. 

He wouldn't.

Not Hoseok. Not sweet, thoughtful Hoseok who makes you tea during study sessions and remembers how you like your ramyeon. Not your brother's best friend who's sitting right here, watching Thor with perfect attention, commenting on special effects like his hand isn't currently—

He hums again—a low sound that vibrates through him—and presses a little harder against your slit like he’s testing something out, like he’s curious about what kind of reaction he can pull from you without anyone noticing.

You bite down on your lip hard enough to taste copper, desperate to keep quiet. No one notices—not Caleb with his ugly laugh or Thor with his hammer or anyone else in this stupid movie that might as well not exist anymore because all you can think about is him.

His hand on you.

His thumb dampening against fabric that shouldn’t be this wet for him—for anyone—but especially not for him.

His hand shifts higher.  

You stop breathing.  

For one excruciating moment, his thumb brushes the swollen nub of your clit through soaked fabric, and you—  

“Yo, pass the M&Ms.”  

Hoseok withdraws his hand so smoothly it’s like it never happened, reaching for the candy bowl with his damp thumb glinting in the TV’s blue light.

 “Chill,” he says, tossing the packet at Caleb’s head. “You’re missing the good part.”  

You’re frozen.  

You yank the blanket higher, covering your face. You press your thighs together, desperate to relieve the ache he's left behind, as he reaches for the candy.

And then—

Hoseok brings his thumb to his mouth.

Licks it.

Casual. Absentminded. Still watching the movie.

Your stomach plummets.

You're not crazy.

You can't be crazy.

But if you say something—if you react, if you acknowledge it—

Then it's real.

And you can't let it be real.

“Sweet,” he comments idly, eyes never leaving the battle.  

Caleb snorts. “Duh. They’re candy.”

The ache between your thighs remains sharp and insistent. Hoseok’s knee brushes yours again—innocent, always innocent—and you realize with dawning horror that his breathing hasn’t changed at all. Steady. Calm. Like he didn’t just—  

You’re imagining things.

The credits roll.  

“Bed,” Caleb announces, stretching until his joints pop. “You crashing here, Hoseok?”  

He shrugs, gathering blankets with those same steady hands. “If that’s cool.”  

No.

“Sure,” you whisper.  

His smile could power cities.

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