11

And that's how it ends, folks! Started this thinking it would be a quick one-shot about a med student crush and somehow ended up writing an entire saga about trust, care, and finding someone who knows exactly what you need (even when you're too stubborn to admit it). Thanks for coming along for the ride—especially to everyone who's been here since that first couch scene. Special shoutout to my writing playlist that's now basically just "songs that remind me of these two idiots figuring out they're perfect for each other." I really debated on how to end this, because I like it as it is now, but also felt like it's not fully resolved. But at the same time, I feel sometimes actions speak louder than words and nothing can convey intimacy deeper than what these two just shared. Also gives me an excuse to write volume 2 if I ever feel like it. For now I'm closing this series like this, and feeling quite proud overall, because I have finally managed to finish a writing project. Hope you enjoyed this as much as I did writing it. See you in the next story! ♥

You don't realize you're still crying until Hoseok gathers you into his arms.

Your body melts against him immediately—shaking, overwhelmed, wrecked beyond belief—but his arms wrap around you tight, pressing you against him, shielding you from the world, keeping you close.

You're barely aware of movement, barely aware of anything but the warm press of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft rasp of his breath against your temple.

One arm hooks beneath your thighs, the other around your back, lifting you effortlessly.

You cling to him instinctively.

Arms curling around his neck.

Legs locking around his waist.

A desperate, unconscious attempt to keep him closer.

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 throbbingbetween 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 couldsquirt, 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, strugglingwith 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 watchingyou, 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 pouryourself 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, controllingthe 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 soakedfrom 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 youagain, making sure you stay full, making sure you staystretched 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 placewhile 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 hotagainst 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'tmaking 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 milkinghis 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 shakilyagainst 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 steadilyagainst 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 controllingthe 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.