05

The anatomy lab in SNU Medical's west building feels different after hours.

The place where he assists Professor Kim with first-year dissections now seems more intimate without thirty other students around.

Emptier.

Like a liminal space where normal rules don't quite apply.

The preserved specimens float in their jars, casting distorted shadows under lights that seem too bright, too stark without the buffer of other students.

You hesitate in the doorway, fingers curling around the strap of your bag. The clock reads 6:47 PM. Late enough that most faculty have left, early enough that the cleaning staff hasn't arrived.

Perfect timing.

(Too perfect?)

Hoseok looks up from the desk, glasses reflecting blue light from his laptop screen. His smile is warm, welcoming—the kind that makes you forget why you've been avoiding this.

"There you are." He closes his laptop with a soft click. "I was starting to think you'd skip again."

Heat crawls up your neck. "I wouldn't—"

"No?" His head tilts, curious. "Three weeks of creative excuses suggest otherwise."

You clutch your bag tighter. "That wasn't—I mean, I had—"

"Commitments?" The word curves around his mouth like he's tasting it. "Other obligations? A sudden bout of seasonal allergies?"

Your face burns hotter. You had used that excuse last week.

"I—"

"Relax, Chip." He stands, rolling up his sleeves with methodical precision. "I'm not upset."

But there's something in his voice—something that makes your stomach twist even as he maintains that gentle smile.

He gestures to the empty lab bench.

"How's the paper coming along?"

You blink. "What?"

"Your vagus nerve study." He moves closer, each step measured. "The one requiring... practical assessment."

Oh.

Oh.

"It's—" Your voice cracks. "Fine. Good. I mean—"

"Citations?"

You nod too quickly. "Working on them."

"Mm." He's closer now, close enough that you catch the faint scent of antiseptic and something warmer underneath. "Still need to conduct those clinical trials?"

Your lungs forget how to function. Because he can't mean—he doesn't mean—

"The gag reflex data," he clarifies, innocent as morning. "We never finished collecting your baseline measurements."

You should say no.

You should absolutely say no.

Instead, you hear yourself whisper: "I thought—the lab equipment—"

"Is right here." He reaches past you—so close his chest almost brushes yours—and opens a drawer. The metal tongue depressor catches the light. "Unless you'd prefer a different method?"

"No!" Too loud. Too fast. "This is—this is fine."

His smile softens at the edges. "Hop up then."

You stare at the lab bench. It's higher than the exam table in his office, cold steel instead of crinkly paper.

Your thighs will definitely stick to it.

(Why are you thinking about your thighs?)

"I can grab a stool," he offers, reading your hesitation wrong. Always wrong. "Though the height differential might affect data collection."

You shake your head and boost yourself onto the bench. The metal is freezing through your thin scrubs, making you shiver. Or maybe that's just him—standing between your knees now, adjusting his glasses with one hand while the other tests the depressor's weight.

"Cold?"

You shake your head again. Lie again.

"Your skin suggests otherwise." His knuckle brushes your jaw, clinical and devastating. "Goosebumps."

You can't breathe.

"Open," he murmurs, and you do—automatically, embarrassingly fast. His thumb settles at the corner of your mouth. "Wider."

The metal slides past your lips, cool and smooth and nothing like what you've been imagining late at night when you can't sleep. Not that you've been imagining anything. Not that you've been thinking about his hands or his voice or—

"Focus, Chip." The depressor presses deeper. "You're distracted."

You make a strangled sound that might be denial.

"Breathing's irregular." His thumb shifts, almost slipping past your teeth. "Try to relax. Like last time."

Last time.

Last time, when you'd gone home and touched yourself until your fingers cramped, thinking about his voice saying good girl and his thumb so close to—

"Swallow."

You do. Your throat works around the intrusion as his eyes track the movement.

"Again."

Saliva pools under your tongue, threatening to spill. You swallow harder, fighting the urge to gag as the depressor slides deeper.

"Remarkable improvement." His voice stays perfectly level even as his thumb edges closer to your tongue. "Your oral cavity seems more... receptive today."

You whimper.

"Pain?" Always concerned. Always gentle.

You shake your head minutely.

"Then what?" His glasses slip slightly as he leans closer, examining your reaction. "Excess stimulation?"

You can't answer with your mouth full. Can't tell him that you're thinking about other things that might stretch your throat this way. Can't admit that you've been practicing with your own fingers, trying to suppress your gag reflex for reasons that have nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with the way he's looking at you right now.

"Your pulse is elevated." His free hand finds your wrist, thumb pressing against your racing heartbeat. "We should document these physiological responses. For research purposes."

The depressor shifts angle slightly, and you—

You moan.

The sound echoes in the empty lab, bouncing off specimen jars and steel surfaces. Mortification floods your system as Hoseok goes very, very still.

"Interesting," he breathes, and something shifts in his expression—pupils expanding until only a thin ring of brown remains. His throat works as he swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

The depressor pushes deeper.

"Let's... test your limits." His voice sounds different—rougher, like it's being dragged over gravel. "See how much you can take."

You whimper as the metal hits the back of your throat. Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, but you don't pull away. Can't pull away. Not when he's looking at you like that—intense, focused, hungry.

(No. Not hungry. Clinical. This is clinical.)

"Good girl," he murmurs, the words falling heavy between you. "Just like that."

Your vision blurs as you gag around the intrusion. His thumb catches a tear tracking down your cheek, the touch impossibly gentle.

"Breathe through your nose." His own breathing sounds uneven, which is... strange. Hoseok is never uneven. Never anything but perfectly controlled. "Focus on relaxing your throat."

You try. You try. But all you can focus on is the way his chest rises and falls too quickly, the slight tremor in his usually steady hands.

"Perhaps..." He withdraws the depressor slowly, watching your lips drag along the metal. "We should try something different."

Your heart stops.

"Different?"

His teeth catch his lower lip—a gesture so uncharacteristically uncertain it makes your stomach flip.

"Something more... anatomically appropriate."

Heat pools low in your belly. Because he can't mean—

"The depressor's angle is too rigid," he continues, setting it aside. "We need something with more... give."

You're going to die. You're actually going to die right here on this lab bench.

"What—" Your voice cracks. "What did you have in mind?"

His eyes drop to your mouth. "Something longer. Thicker." His thumb traces your lower lip. "Something that can... adapt to your oral cavity."

You can't breathe.

"For accurate data collection," he adds softly, but his voice has that breathless quality you've never heard before. "If you're willing to participate in a more... thorough examination."

Your thighs press together unconsciously. His gaze tracks the movement, pupils blown so wide they look almost black behind his glasses.

"I—" You swallow hard. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"For... for science."

His smile is different now—darker, hungrier. "For science," he echoes, stepping closer between your spread knees. "Then open your mouth, Chip."

You do.

His thumb slips past your lips.

It rests heavy on your tongue, pad rough against sensitive flesh. You stay frozen, unsure, until his voice drops to a whisper:

"Suck."

The command shivers through you. You close your lips around the digit, drawing it deeper as his other hand grips the edge of the lab bench. The metal creaks under his white-knuckled grip.

"Good," he breathes, watching your mouth work with half-lidded eyes. "Just like that."

His breathing grows heavier as you hollow your cheeks, tongue testing its path around the pad of his thumb. A muscle jumps in his jaw—it's the only tell he's not fully unaffected as his expresión suggests.

"Your oral fixation is..." His voice catches as you try sucking harder. "...remarkably developed."

You whimper around his thumb, heat pooling between your thighs at the strain in his voice. His free hand moves to his belt, the buckle clinking softly in the quiet lab.

The metallic clink makes your breath catch. His eyes flick over his shoulder, landing on the chair by his desk. A soft chuckle escapes him as he gestures toward it.

"Perhaps we should continue somewhere more... comfortable?"

Your thighs clench involuntarily.

Is this happening? Is this actually happening?

He raises an eyebrow, waiting for your response. You nod—too eager, too fast, probably looking desperate but you can't bring yourself to care because holy fuck this is real.

The belt slides free with a whisper of leather. He settles into the chair with easy grace, legs spreading to make space for you. Your knees hit the floor before he can even ask, positioning yourself between his thighs like you belong there.

His cock strains against his slacks as he works open his fly. You stare, transfixed, as he frees himself.

Oh.

Oh god.

Your mouth goes dry.

Because he's—he's huge. Thick and long and already leaking at the tip. Your hands look tiny where they rest on his thighs, and the thought of fitting him in your mouth makes you dizzy with want.

"Having second thoughts?" His voice stays gentle even as his cock twitches under your gaze.

You shake your head frantically. "No, I just—" Your voice cracks. "You're... big."

His thumb traces your lower lip. "We'll go slow. Test your limits gradually."

You sigh softly, leaning into his touch as his other hand wraps around his base. The sight of his surgical fingers barely meeting around his girth makes your cunt clench.

"Ready for your practical exam, Chip?"

You lean forward, tongue darting out to taste the precum beading at his tip. His breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

"Start shallow," he instructs, voice remarkably steady despite the way his cock jumps against your lips. "Focus on breathing through your nose."

You obey, wrapping your lips around his head. The taste is heady—salt and skin and him. His hand cups the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there as you take him deeper.

"Good girl." His thumb strokes behind your ear. "Now hollow your cheeks—yes, just like that. Notice how your soft palate accommodates the intrusion?"

You whimper around his length, the clinical terminology somehow making this filthier. His glasses fog slightly as his breathing grows heavier.

"Careful with your teeth," he murmurs, removing his frames. His eyes look darker without them, pupils blown wide as he watches you struggle to take more. "Use your tongue along the—ah—along the ventral surface."

Your jaw already aches from the stretch, but you press forward eagerly, wanting to please him. Wanting to be good. Drool escapes the corner of your mouth as you bob your head.

"Perfect form," he praises, voice growing rougher. "Though your technique could use... refinement."

You pull back to catch your breath, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock. "Show me?"

His hand tightens in your hair. "Eager student." His thumb wipes saliva from your chin. "Okay. Let's test your gag reflex properly now."

You stare at his length, anxiety bubbling in your throat. "I don't—I don't know if that's going to fit—"

"Hm?" His eyebrow lifts, expression mildly puzzled. "That's unlike you. Don't you always aim for perfect scores?"

Heat floods your face as he cups your cheek, thumb pressing at the corner of your mouth.

"Think of this as another practical exam, Chip." His voice carries that familiar teaching lilt. "Open wide."

You comply, jaw stretching as his thumbs press into your cheeks, guiding your mouth wider. His cock nudges your lips, hot and heavy.

"One inch..." He slides in slowly, watching your lips stretch around him. "Good. Just like that."

Your tongue flattens to accommodate him as he pushes deeper.

"Two..." His thumb wipes away drool from your chin. "Excellent oral cavity expansion."

Three inches in and your jaw already aches. He tuts softly.

"Three... Remember your breathing exercises."

You whimper as he continues, your hands clutching his thighs for stability.

"Four..." He pauses, stroking your hair. "Halfway there."

Your eyes snap up to his in panic. Halfway? That can't be right. You're already so full, your mouth stretched impossibly wide, and he's saying there's more?

"Five..." His voice grows rougher. "You're doing so well."

By the sixth inch, you're gagging, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Your throat spasms around him as you fight the urge to pull back.

"That's cute," he murmurs, thumb catching a tear. "You're struggling, aren't you? Ah—don't pull away. You can take it."

You whine, chest heaving as he holds you steady.

"Two more inches, Chip." His tone is gentle but firm. "You can handle that, can't you? Wouldn't want to disappoint me."

You make a desperate sound of agreement, even as your throat protests.

"That's what I thought." His fingers card through your hair. "Seven..."

Your vision blurs with tears as he pushes deeper, your throat stretching to accommodate his girth. Drool runs down your chin, but he doesn't seem to mind, just wipes it away with tender attention.

"Just one more," he breathes, voice finally showing strain. "Almost there. You're being so good for me..."

His thumb traces your stretched lip, pushing down slightly as you struggle to accommodate more. The burn is delicious—your jaw protesting as he inches forward. Saliva keeps pooling below your tongue, carving paths down your chin.

"Tsk." He clicks his tongue softly. "Swallow first. Need to keep the airway clear."

His palm settles against your throat, feeling it work as you obey. The contact makes you fuzzy—his surgical fingers spanning your neck, monitoring your every swallow.

For the first time, his exhale sounds unsteady. Sharp. Almost accidental.

"Good girl." The praise makes your eyelashes flutter. "Now—"

His hips shift minutely, cock head pressing against the back of your throat. You gag instantly, tears springing up.

"Angle your chin." His voice stays gentle despite the roughness creeping in. "Opens the passage."

You tilt your head back, letting him guide you with careful fingers. The new angle lets him slide deeper, breaching your throat properly. Your eyes water immediately, gag reflex fighting against the intrusion.

"Breathe," he reminds you, but his own breath catches when you hollow your cheeks. "Through your nose. Steady."

You try. You try. But it's so much—too much—your nostrils flaring as he pushes that final inch past your lips. A choked sound escapes around his girth.

His thumb catches another tear. "Almost there. Just relax..."

Your nose brushes his abdomen as the final inch disappears. He holds you there, thumb stroking your distended throat.

"Perfect depth achievement," he notes clinically. "How does that feel? Tap my thigh once for manageable, twice for overwhelming."

You tap twice, desperately.

"Mm." His smile curves like a scalpel. "We'll work on your endurance." His hips roll slightly, testing. "Now... let's practice sustained accommodation."

The door's distant rattle barely registers—you're too focused on not choking as he begins to move.

"Look at you, stuffed full like a cream puff about to burst."

You whine, the sound muffled by his cock stretching your throat impossibly wide.

"Shh." His touch remains gentle even as your eyes stream. "We'll practice until you get it right."

Your tongue tentatively explores his length, tracing the prominent vein on his underside. His composure fractures—just for a moment—as he hisses through his teeth.

"Christ—" His fingers pull your hair suddenly, holding you still as his hips stutter. "No sudden movements, Chip. You'll choke."

But his own control is slipping. His thrusts grow erratic—shallow, desperate things that make your throat flutter around him. Precum leaks steadily now, salty and thick as it mingles with your drool.

"Precious thing," he breathes, thumb collecting the mess from your chin. "Bet I could fit a dozen seeds in that pout... but you'd still beg for the whole fruit."

The commentary makes you moan around him, and the vibration finally, finally pulls a proper groan from his chest.

"God, Chip," he groans, "you're like taffy stretching around my cock. So soft, so pliant. Bet I could mold you into anything I want."

His hips snap forward suddenly—harder than before—and you gag violently as he bottoms out. He freezes instantly, cursing under his breath as he withdraws.

"Too much?"

You cough, shaking your head even as saliva drips down your neck. "N-no, I—"

"Shh." He tilts your chin up, examining your face with clinical attention. His thumb probes your stretched lips, pressing down on your tongue. "Swelling here. We should stop."

Panic floods your system. "Wait, I can—"

"Patience." His smile softens, thumb still working your abused mouth open. "We'll build your tolerance gradually."

His other hand wraps around his cock, stroking lazily as he studies you. The wet sounds fill the lab—obscene and perfect.

"Watch," he orders, and you can't look away from the way his fist glides—slick with your spit, his precum, the absolute ruin you've made of him. "This is the proper rhythm. Steady. Controlled."

But his breathing betrays him—ragged and desperate as his pace increases.

"Your turn next time," he promises, thumb pressing against your clenching lips. "Need to monitor your technique."

You nod eagerly, mouth watering as he speeds up. His hips jerk off the chair, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to stifle sounds you desperately want to hear.

When he comes, it's with a choked groan—hot spurts painting your waiting tongue before you can process it.

"Such a sticky mess..." He tuts softly, almost a chuckle. "Like you face-planted in cotton candy."

You whimper at that.

"Swallow," he grits out, hand gentle on your jaw. "Don't spill."

You obey, throat working around the bitter tang. His thumb swipes the corner of your mouth, collecting a stray drop.

"Perfect," he murmurs, pressing the digit between your lips. "Clean-up is crucial."

You suck obediently, watching his spent cock twitch against his thigh. His laugh sounds wrecked.

"Insatiable," he chides, but pride colors his tone. "We'll schedule another session. Thursday work?"

You nod, tongue laving his thumb. His eyes darken as he retrieves his glasses.

"Good. Bring your notes on esophageal motility." He tucks himself away with trembling hands. "We'll... review the material thoroughly."

His glasses fog slightly as he helps you up on shaky legs. Always the gentleman. Always in control.

"Thursday," you whisper, voice hoarse.

His smile is pure sin wrapped in medical precision. "Don't forget your notes, Chip."

You won't. You absolutely won't.

Though you doubt either of you will be reading them.