09

→ A/N: I really liked this chapter, and as I said previously, it's probably my favorite one out of the 11 of them. 10 and 11 are a wild ride and basically pure smut. This one... I don't know why, maybe it's the thrill of pushing somebody to their limits or the anticipation of what's going to happen to Chip now that Hoseok is done holding back. But something scratches my brain just right. Anyway, enjoy this one, and get ready for the next two because you're going to need water (and Chip too... all I'll say is she's multiorgasmic, so.) Also, I did say this in my author intro for this series and all, but this is basically a self-indulgent story. I just wanted to explore plausible deniability, menacing kindness in medical settings, and a bit of psychological warfare. I like how brilliant Hoseok is and how he's always ten steps ahead, and I love how Chip has basically rewired herself to be attuned to him unconsciously. Like 'normal flirting' isn't for her. She doesn't like 'nice'. It's a silly thing, but I really liked writing that, having her realize those things about herself, it shows growth. Maybe they're both a bit messed up, but they somehow work. And that's realistic and that's what I like. So yeah, I wasn't going for full analysis and psychological depth in this one, because frankly, it's a mini-series so, word count is a thing. I wanted to actually have a story finished, a completed one, and if I went off-the-rails with this one then we'd be facing another slow burn 500k word count monstruosity—I can't do that to myself. Some things are not spelled out. Some things are for you guys to interpret. And as always, I'll be hearing all of you out in my inbox! 💕

The minutes tick by like honey drips—slow, sweet, deliberate. You check the time: 16 minutes left.

Fuck him.

Fuck his countdown and his medical terminology and his whole menacing kindness act.

"Mike!" You grab his arm, pulling him back to the dance floor. "Dance with me."

He looks surprised but pleased, hands settling carefully on your waist. Too carefully. You press closer, letting the alcohol and spite guide your movements.

15 minutes.

Your phone buzzes. You ignore it.

"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."