06

The knock startles you.

It's soft, almost hesitant, but it snaps your concentration and the faint noise of Caleb's party downstairs. You glance at the door, your heart already climbing into your throat.

You don't need to ask who it is. You know. 

Still, you move slowly, chair scraping against the floor as you stand. Your bare feet pad across the carpet, and when you open the door—of course—it's him. 

Hoseok leans against the doorframe like he has all the time in the world, one hand tucked casually into the pocket of his baggy jeans. His green sweater hangs loose on his frame, but it does nothing to hide the way his shoulders fill it out. He looks relaxed. Effortless. Like he belongs here in a way you never quite feel like you do. 

"Hi," you manage, voice barely above a whisper. 

His eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable under the soft glow of the hallway light.

"Hi," he says back, and it's so casual—so steady—that it makes your own greeting feel ridiculous in comparison. 

Your cheeks burn as you step back instinctively, retreating to your desk like that will somehow shield you from him.

You sit down too quickly, fumbling with your highlighter as if that's what you were doing before he knocked—studying, not thinking about him or Thursday or the way his thumb had pressed against your tongue like he owned it. 

(He hasn't said anything about it since then. No mention of Thursday beyond a vague text asking how your paper was coming along. Nothing to suggest that he's been thinking about it as much as you have.) 

Your hand trembles slightly as you drag the highlighter across your notes, leaving a thick streak of neon yellow that bleeds into the next line of text. 

"You're gonna ruin your notes like that." 

You jump at his voice—closer now—and whip around to find him standing right behind you.

When did he move? How did he move without you noticing? 

"I—" Your words catch in your throat as his head tilts slightly, studying your ruined page over your shoulder. His scent—clean and warm and always bergamot—wraps around you like a second skin, making it impossible to focus on anything else. 

"You're too heavy-handed," he murmurs, voice low enough that it feels like it's meant just for you.

His hand reaches out—not for the highlighter but for you—and hooks a finger under the thin strap of your tank top. 

Your breath hitches as he slides it down your shoulder with deliberate care, his finger grazing your skin in its descent. The touch is light—barely there—but it leaves a trail of heat in its wake that makes your pulse stutter wildly in your chest. 

"You should use lighter strokes," he says, like this is normal conversation, like his hand isn't now tracing down your arm to where it rests on the desk.

His fingers brush yours briefly before continuing their path downward—to your hip, then lower still—to the bare skin of your thigh where your skirt ends.

You can't move. Can't breathe. Your entire body feels locked in place under his touch, every nerve ending attuned to the slow slide of his hand against your skin.

"Hoseok..." His name comes out shakier than you intended, barely audible over the pounding in your ears.

"Hmm?"

He doesn't look at you—his gaze is still fixed on your notes—but his hand pauses just above your inner thigh, thumb brushing idly against the sensitive skin there.

"You're..." You swallow thickly, trying to find words that don't sound insane or desperate or both.

"I'm what?" He finally glances at you then, head tilting slightly as if this is just idle curiosity—as if he doesn't know exactly what he's doing to you.

You shake your head quickly, dropping your gaze back to the desk because looking at him feels impossible right now.

"Nothing," you mumble.

His lips twitch—not quite a smile but close—as his thumb traces slow circles against your skin.

"Relax," he says softly, almost teasingly. "I'm just helping."

Helping? Helping what? Your brain scrambles for context—for any explanation that makes this feel less dangerous than it does right now—but all you can focus on is how close his hand is getting to—

"You're tense," he observes quietly, fingers sliding another inch higher.

Your breath catches again as heat floods every inch of exposed skin.

"I'm not," you say too quickly.

He hums—a low sound that vibrates through the small space between you—and leans closer until his lips are close, way too close.

"You are."

Lips brush against the shell of your ear, soft and fleeting, but it's enough to send a violent shiver down your spine. The shaky exhale you let out is mortifying, and you clamp your lips shut immediately, praying he didn't notice. 

(He noticed. Of course, he noticed.) 

But Hoseok doesn't comment on it.

Instead, he pulls back just enough to return his attention to the desk in front of you, his gaze flicking lazily over your notes like this is all perfectly normal. Like his hand isn't sliding higher under the hem of your skirt, fingers skimming the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. 

"What are you studying?" he asks casually, as if his knuckles aren't brushing against the edge of your panties now. 

You open your mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a strangled sort of sound that doesn't resemble words at all. 

"Hmm?" His head tilts slightly, and you feel the faintest press of his lips against your shoulder—a kiss so light it might as well be a breath. "Cat got your tongue, Chip?" 

"N-no," you stammer, forcing yourself to focus on the question. "I'm—um—neurology." 

"Neurology," he repeats thoughtfully, his tone almost approving.

His fingers trace slow motions against the fabric covering your slit, and you tremble so violently that your knee knocks into the desk. 

"Relax," he murmurs again, voice low and coaxing. "You're usually so good at multitasking." 

You don't know what to say to that—don't know how to respond when his fingers press just slightly harder against you, finding the dampness already pooling there. 

"Hoseok..." His name escapes in a broken whisper before you can stop it. 

"Shh." His thumb strokes the outside of your thigh soothingly while his ring and middle fingers continue their slow exploration over the thin cotton barrier. "Tell me about the vagus nerve." 

Your brain short-circuits completely at that. "W-what?" 

"The vagus nerve," he repeats patiently, like he's talking to a particularly slow student. "What does it control?" 

"I—" You gasp as his fingers dip lower, teasing along the edge of your panties now. "It—it controls..." 

"Come on," he coaxes, leaving another kiss on your shoulder before resting his chin lightly there. "You know this." 

"Autonomic functions," you manage shakily, though it sounds more like a question than an answer. 

He hums softly in approval as his fingers brush over your clit. You mewl at the contact, thighs clenching instinctively around his hand, but he doesn't stop—doesn't even falter as he continues: 

"And those would include...?" 

Your mind is blank—completely blank save for the overwhelming sensation of his long fingers doing small little circle motions with deliberate care.

"I—I don't know," you choke out finally. 

"You don't know?" He tsks softly under his breath, almost disappointed. "Chip... I thought you were better than this." 

"I am!" The protest slips out before you can stop it, but it's hard to sound convincing when your voice is shaking so badly. 

"Then prove it." His fingers press harder against your clit now—an all-too-knowing touch that makes you jolt in your seat—and he chuckles quietly at your reaction. "Tell me what the vagus nerve controls." 

You squeeze your eyes shut tightly, trying desperately to remember something—anything—that will get you through this without completely falling apart under him.

"H-heart rate," you stammer finally. "And—and digestion." 

"Good girl," he murmurs approvingly, circling your clit once more before sliding lower again. His fingers tease at your entrance now. "See? I knew you could do it." 

You whimper softly as his lips brush against your shoulder again—this time lingering just long enough for you to feel the faintest scrape of teeth against skin before he pulls away.

"I like this skirt," he murmurs suddenly, voice still maddeningly casual even as his hand moves with devastating precision between your legs.

Your eyes snap open at that—not because of what he said but because of how he said it: low and amused and just a little too knowing.

"It's cute," he continues conversationally, like this is small talk over coffee instead of whatever this is right now.

His fingers slide back up to circle your clit again—slowly, lazily—as if to punctuate his next words:

"Easy access."

Your breath catches sharply at his words, mind reeling as you try to process what he's implying. But before you can even attempt to form a response, he continues:

"You should wear it more often." His voice stays light, even as his fingers continue their torturous circles against your clit.

"W-what?" The word comes out breathless, uncertain.

"Around me," he clarifies softly, and there's something darker in his tone now. "I mean."

You open your mouth to respond—to say what, you're not sure—but the words die in your throat as his other hand slides up your side, fingertips ghosting over your ribs before cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your tank top.

"Now," he continues, like he hasn't just short-circuited your entire nervous system, "tell me about parasympathetic responses."

Your brain scrambles to catch up as his thumb brushes over your nipple, the fabric doing nothing to hide how it pebbles under his touch. Because of course you're not wearing a fucking bra in your room.

"I—what?"

"Parasympathetic responses," he repeats patiently, though there's an edge of amusement in his voice now. "Basic anatomy, Chip. You should know this."

His fingers pinch your nipple lightly through the cotton, and you have to bite your lip to stifle a moan. "I do—I do know it."

"Then explain it to me." His other hand hasn't stopped moving between your legs, drawing slow, maddening circles that make it impossible to think straight. "What happens when the parasympathetic nervous system is stimulated?"

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying desperately to remember anything from your textbooks.

You shouldn't be doing this with him. Not when he helps grade your practicals, not when he'll be observing your clinical rotations next year. But the thought only makes you wetter.

"It—it causes..." You gasp as his fingers dip lower again, teasing at your entrance. "...relaxation."

"Mm." He sounds pleased, though you can't tell if it's with your answer or with the way you're trembling under his touch. "And what else?"

"Increased..." Your voice breaks as his thumb flicks over your nipple again. "Increased blood flow."

"Where?" His breath is warm against your ear, and you can hear the smile in his voice—gentle but knowing. Always knowing.

"To—to..."

You can't say it. Can't form the words when his fingers are right there, proving your point with devastating accuracy.

"To?" he prompts softly, and now he's definitely teasing you—waiting for you to say it out loud while his hands continue their merciless exploration of your body.

Your face burns hotter. "You know where."

"Do I?" His innocent tone doesn't match the way his fingers press harder against your clit, making your hips jerk involuntarily. "I think you should tell me. For academic clarity."

His fingers slip past the damp cotton barrier of your panties without ceremony, long digits sliding through your slick with a soft, obscene sound that makes your entire body flush.

"Ah—Hoseok—"

"Shh." His breath fans across your ear as his middle and ring fingers begin a slow, methodical glide through your folds. "You were explaining parasympathetic vascular responses. Continue."

His other hand moves to the hem of your tank top, lifting it slowly until both breasts are exposed to the cool air. Your nipples immediately tighten, and you hear his breath catch slightly.

"Poor circulation here though." His palm cups your left breast, thumb rolling your nipple into a stiff peak. "Look at these."

You don't want to look. Can't look. But his hand slides to your throat, tilting your head back until your neck arches over the chair's headrest. The new angle forces your chest forward, breasts fully on display as he hums approvingly.

"Beautiful. Like two rosebuds blooming just for me," he whispers, voice thick with something you've never heard from him before—something dangerously close to worship. "Keep talking, Chip."

His hand returns to cup one breast, thumb circling the sensitive peak as you whine his name.

"Hoseok, please—"

His lips find your pulse point, pressing a soft kiss against the frantic beat there. "Come on, Chip. If you pass, I'll let you cum."

You mewl as both his fingers slide into you with ease, your walls clenching around the intrusion desperately.

"Mm, excellent lubrication," he notes, voice steady despite how his fingers curl inside you. "Explain why that's happening."

"It's—ah—" You try to focus as his palm grinds against your clit, his other hand still teasing your nipple. "I can't—Hoseok—"

"Shh." His lips trail up the column of your throat, pausing to suck a bruise just below your ear. "You wanna cum, don't you?" 

The stretch burns deliciously, his long fingers crooking to stroke deeper. "Then answer." 

Your nails dig into the desk, textbook pages crinkling under your grip. "T-the hypothalamus—" 

"Mm." He nips your earlobe. "Specifics." 

"Triggers—" A gasp as his palm grinds harder. "Triggers pelvic nerve activation—" 

"Which causes?" His thumb flicks your nipple sharply. 

"Blood vessel dilation!" You nearly scream it, back bowing off the chair as he scissors his fingers. "Increased—fuck—blood flow and—" 

"Secretions," he finishes for you, voice gone rough at the edges. "Good girl." 

"Please," you gasp, walls fluttering around his fingers. "Please, I can't—"

"Passed," he murmurs, and that's all it takes.

It hits like a seizure—violently, vulgarly, your cunt fluttering around his fingers as you grind mindlessly against his palm. He works you through it with brutal precision, his free hand pinching your nipple now as he mutters filth against your sweat-slick throat: 

"Look at you. Dripping like a melted marshmallow. So sweet." 

When the last aftershock fades, he withdraws his fingers with a slick pop, holding them up to inspect the glistening strands connecting to your ruined panties.

"Saccharine, even," he declares after sucking them clean. 

Before you can process what's happening, he's crouching in front of your chair, hands gentle as he fixes your clothes—tugging your tank top back down, smoothing your skirt over your thighs. His fingers linger at your ankle, thumb brushing the chipmunk embroidered on your sock.

"So cute," he sighs, pressing a kiss to the cartoon nose. "My little chipmunk."

When he stands, he looks every bit the composed medical student—sweater undisturbed, hair barely ruffled.

Only the faint flush high on his cheeks betrays him.

"Thursday," he reminds you, adjusting his glasses. "Don't forget your notes on synaptic transmission."

The door clicks shut behind him.

Downstairs, the party continues—laughter floating up the stairs as you stare at the neon-yellow highlighter bleeding across your vagus nerve diagram.

Your phone buzzes.

𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚔'𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎. 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚌 𝚐𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎.

Next time.

You press your forehead to the cool desktop, the ghost of his fingers still throbbing between your legs. Across the room, your reflection in the vanity mirror shows tousled hair, swollen lips, and the faint red mark below your ear.

Normal Hoseok wouldn't notice loose threads.

Normal Hoseok wouldn't taste you like dessert.

Normal Hoseok wouldn't—

Your phone buzzes again.

𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤: 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚢𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎. 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚢𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚜.

You stare at the message, then at the half-empty water bottle by your desk.

Bastard.

Beautiful, terrifying bastard.