Chapter Text
“Lie back, knees up,” Yoongi says, patting at Taehyung’s thighs until he follows instructions. Physical Examination lab has been over for a few hours now—the sun melting into a hazy blur over Gwanak-gu’s skyline, Taehyung’s classmates gone to study in the library or take a nap in their dormitories—and he’s the sole leftover, catching up on his missed lecture.
Monday’s evening class went over the abdominal exam, and this week they had Dr. Min Yoongi, part-time lecturer for their medical program, come in to tie possible findings to a differential. All of which Taehyung missed, because he was deathly sick over the weekend and still wasn’t feeling well enough to come in. So now it’s a Wednesday at 8:00 p.m., Yoongi is here after a shift at his GI clinic, and Taehyung is trying to will his stirring boner away as Yoongi instructs him to lift up his scrub top and tuck his scrub bottoms to just under his hips.
“You need to examine the entire abdomen,” Yoongi is saying, looking so fucking hot in his navy blue scrubs, Min Yoongi, MD Gastroenterologist stitched into the chest pocket. “Let’s say you get through the entire medical interview and when you go on to examine you see a scar in their right lower quadrant?” He punctuates the question with a quick palm over Taehyung’s belly.
Such strong, capable hands. Big. Big and warm and they’re touching Taehyung’s bare skin, just over the stretchy waistline of his scrubs. How can you not get turned on?
“Ap—appendix,” Taehyung tries.
Yoongi gives him a raised brow. “Appendix?”
“Appen—dectomy.”
Pleased, Yoongi returns his gaze to Taehyung’s stomach. Bare stomach. Taehyung is lying back on the table, mat underneath him, they’re alone in the dark, quiet PT room, and Yoongi is touching his /bare stomach/. “Alright,” Yoongi says. “We begin with auscultation. Listen to the patient’s abdomen in all four quadrants with both the bell and the diaphragm of your stethoscope. Why do we do this? You already learned this in your lecture.”
Taehyung is given some reprieve when Yoongi tucks one eartip in of his pink stethoscope and demonstrates by pressing the bell to Th’s upper left abdomen. Still, his brain is putty, mushy as he tries desperately to pound it into submission. “Sounds. Th’sounds—?” Taehyung says.
Yoongi slides the diaphragm over to the upper right quadrant now. His lips are pursed like he’s really listening, like Taehyung is genuinely his patient and he needs to sort out the differential diagnosis. Dr. Min Yoongi, sexy and serious. Taehyung’s cock gives a pathetic little throb, and Taehyung clenches his jaw, digs his nails into his palm to get his body to /shut the fuck up and pay attention/.
“I need you to be more specific.”
“Diaphragm for high pitches,” Taehyung bites out. “Bell for—for low sounds.”
“Right,” Yoongi listens to his bottom two quadrants, then switches to the bell and listens with it. “And what if you don’t hear any bowel sounds at all?”
He can at least answer this one without too much brainpower. “Could be some kinda obstruction. Small or large bowel.”
“Good boy.” Yoongi returns his stethoscope to hanging around his neck. The praise comes to Taehyung as a punch in the throat. Or the gut.
The dick. A punch in the dick. One that strokes more than it punches. Taehyung is absolutely half-hard in his scrubs now. He thanks his metabolism for once that he’s skinny enough for the bottoms to give him some room for plausible deniability. If he can just counteract the pleasure and his filthy fucking mind with pain, he can get through this. He can. How sexy can abdominal exams be?
Very sexy. Extremely sexy. Yoongi, in his early thirties and his ink-black hair and his lips that he keeps licking, touching Taehyung’s (bare) belly, his (bare) skin. Their hottest lecturer that the girls fawn over on a bi-weekly basis, putting his strong, capable hands on Taehyung’s (bare) body.
Instructional time has never been so arousing.
Yoongi mutters, “Sorry, my hands are cold,” in his (sexy) gruff voice, rubbing his palms together, and Taehyung stammers out a pathetic you’re fine.
Then he’s putting his hands on Taehyung, rolling from the heel of his palm to his fingertips, firm and deep and almost ticklish. A few times in each quadrant, Yoongi is explaining, but all Taehyung hears is /your cock is getting harder your cock is getting harder your cock is—/
“If you’re not sure if the patient is serious about the intensity of their pain,” Yoongi says, “you can pretend you’re listening with your stethoscope and press in hard with your diaphragm. Old trick of mine, especially for kids,” he winks at Taehyung.
Taehyung is pretty sure his face is scrunched up in pain and misery and humiliation. Yoongi’s hands aren’t cold at all, and when he slides them down to press into the skin just above his waistband, a stuttering breath rushes from Taehyung’s lips.
He doesn’t want to risk a glance down to where he’s slowly tenting his pants. It’ll draw attention to it, and Yoongi will notice, too—if he hasn’t already. Taehyung is hard from an abdominal exam and Yoongi will see and report him for harassment.
Maybe. Probably. They’ve had their moments, this semester, where Taehyung wondered if they were on their way to flirting, if not already. Lingering back-pats, lingering eyes—the one night Taehyung and a few of his classmates went out for drinks and saw Yoongi at a bar, drinking.
Taehyung, drunk and an absolute dumb ass, had slid up to Yoongi after his friends wandered away and pressed a hand to Yoongi’s lower back as he asked, “Here alone?” in a theatrically sleazy voice.
Yoongi laughed like he understood the joke, but said, “And if I am?” so genuinely Taehyung wasn’t sure how to respond at all. Still, he kept his hand there, low on his back.
And now they’re here, Yoongi asking, “If the patient feels pain in their left lower quadrant, what’s on your mind?”
Taehyung swallows hard. Swallows hard and his dick is hard. Nails into palms aren’t working anymore (if they ever were).
“Diverticulitis,” Taehyung whimpers.
Yoongi pauses.
In hindsight, it’s hilarious. A record-scratch moment where Yoongi looks at Taehyung and Taehyung looks at Yoongi, both in varying degrees of shock. Taehyung’s inflection sounded way too sultry to pass off. Taehyung has dug his grave so far an apology or pretending it never happened won’t work.
He tries anyway. Yoongi’s gaze glides down to where Taehyung’s cock is tenting his scrubs and Taehyung says, “Diverticulosis, too. If it spreads to your flanks, maybe pyeloneph—“
Yoongi is staring. Staring at his clothed dick and it only makes Taehyung’s cock pulse, leak a little dribble of precome that erases Taehyung’s resolve.
“—I am so sorry,” Taehyung breathes. “I didn’t mean to—I know you’re just—fuck I’m not a pervert I swear, Yoongi-nim.” He slaps the heels of his palms into his eye sockets before humiliated tears can slip free.
He’s going to get kicked out of the program. All that hard work down the drain. The sleepless nights and tears and tough exams and being the family’s pride. How is he going to tell his parents? His friends? Admit that he popped a boner during a harmless exam and his professor reported him to—
“It’s okay,” Yoongi says finally. His voice is distant, trapped somewhere in his thoughts.
Taehyung doesn’t dare look. He’s terrified. “Ignore it,” he says. “Just ignore it, please, I’m—“
“It’s okay,” he repeats, now firm enough to shut Taehyung up. “You’re okay.”
Immediate silence.
Taehyung can hear his own heartbeat hammer in his ears. Yoongi is staring hard somewhere between Taehyung’s pelvis and cock, his hands hovering. Not touching. Because Taehyung is a freak weirdo that’s going to get reported and removed from the program.
Taehyung is writing his future apology letter as Yoongi says, leaning on playful, “You normally get turned on by abdominal exams?”
It’s such an unexpected (and, frankly, unprofessional) question from Yoongi that Taehyung gives an automatic wry laugh and answers, also automatic, “No.”
Then there’s another pause for the implication to drown both of them alive.
He can’t run this one back. “I didn’t,” he tries anyway. His sentence tapers off into an awkward cough.
Yoongi looks at him. Looks at him without looking at him, Taehyung notices, Yoongi’s eyes gazing aimlessly. “So…”
“Ignore it.” Taehyung doesn’t think he can get any redder. He’s going to combust into flames. He needs Yoongi to /move on/.
Yoongi doesn’t move on. He says, “You sure?”
Another wry laugh. Taehyung twists his head to look at Yoongi without lifting his head. “What’s the alternative here?”
Another pointed stare. This time Yoongi is clearly look /at/ Taehyung and not through him. Taehyung genuinely considers if he’s been transported to the twilight zone via Yoongi’s strong, capable hands. Maybe he blinked too long once and fell through a portal, now in a dimension where a hot doctor is implying that there’s more that can be done about his erection other than ignoring it.
Maybe he wasn’t imagining things. Maybe those long stares and slow smiles meant something. He thinks of /And if I am?/ and the road they could’ve taken that if Taehyung weren’t with friends.
“Well,” Taehyung’s mouth is suddenly dry. “I’m taking suggestions.”
Yoongi continues to stare. “Hm,” he hums. He maintains eye contact as his palms make contact with Taehyung’s lower belly again. He presses in, listens and watches as Taehyung’s mouth drops open, a soft gasp slipping free. He tries and fails to not squirm on the mat, hips rocking up in a tiny little twitch.
They continue like that. Yoongi presses and squeezing at Taehyung’s belly, right above his pelvis, fingers brushing over his fuzzy happy trail. And Taehyung makes very gentle noises. His hips lift off the mat—barely. Briefly. His body subconsciously seeks friction more than the inside of his briefs and scrub bottoms.
Seoul’s sunset is splaying its orange haze across the dark, empty room, Yoongi is kneading Taehyung’s skin, and Taehyung is trying not to come prematurely. A spurt of precome leaks out, staining through his briefs (not yet his scrubs, thankfully). “Yoongi-nim,” Taehyung whimpers.
Yoongi’s lashes flutter. He wet his lips, wet them again. Taehyung has never been so turned on in his life.
Fingertips play under the waistband, over his fuzz of pubic hair, and Taehyung whimpers again. “Please,” he breathes. His gasps are loud in the silence. Yoongi hasn’t said a word. “Please, seonsaengnim—seonsan—“
“Shh,” Yoongi tuts, soft. He presses low on Taehyung’s pelvis. Just one quick slide down and he’s at his cock. “Need you t’be quiet. Unless you wanna tell me what you’d do for someone that has diverticulitis.”
He’s not sure how Yoongi expects him to string a coherent thought together right now. His dick has stolen every braincell and he feels like he’s gonna come any second now.
Taehyung hums, whines some more until Yoongi shushes him again. “NPO,” he whispers. “Metronidazole, cip—cipro.”
“Good boy.”
“I,” Taehyung’s hips kick forward on a particularly hard rub, “wanna come—?” It still feels very wrong to say that aloud, to Yoongi, even as Yoongi is clearly doing this to get him off. They’ve long since passed any semblance of professionalism. “Let me,” he tries to shove a hand under his own waistband to give his cock a squeeze, but Yoongi slaps his hand away immediately.
“C. diff,” Yoongi asks. “What do you do?”
Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck. Taehyung squeezes his eyes shut tight, balls his hands back into fists.
“Vancomycin.”
Yoongi somehow has the audacity to give him a stern look. “Administered how, Taehyung-ssi.”
If his brain was mushy before, it’s microscopic now. Just a puddle. “Oral,” Taehyung says.
“Correct,” Yoongi says. He tugs hard at Taehyung’s waistband until Taehyung gets the hint and lifts just enough for him to get it down just under his balls. “Oral.”
Yoongi promptly goes down on Taehyung.
Taehyung makes the most unattractive noise of his life, he thinks. It’s a cross between a shocked gasp and a gargle, like he sucked a grape into his trachea.
Yoongi quickly pins Taehyung’s hips down to the mat before he can choke him, sucking wetly. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t take any time to appreciate or enjoy it—he starts bobbing his head, sinking down, up, down farther, up, down even farther.
Taehyung fights his hands from burying themselves in Yoongi’s head, only gasps and quivers as Yoongi sucks his soul out.
“Ah—ah, seon—Yoongi ssaem—“ Taehyung moans. He lifts his head so he can watch in aroused awe as Yoongi closes his eyes and loses himself in sucking his cock, hollowing out at Taehyung’s cockhead before sinking impossibly low.
He’s already gonna come. He was gonna come in his scrubs and now he may come in Yoongi’s mouth. Yoongi’s fringe swipes across his forehead as he works Taehyung’s cock, one hand wrapped around the base to twist and stroke behind his eager mouth.
It sounds wet. Yoongi’s throat being breached when he sinks low enough, Yoongi sucking up his spit when he rises. Taehyung’s orgasm builds steadily in his groin, at the base of his spine.
Toes curling, thigh muscles wavering, Taehyung warns, “Ssae—ssaem wait, please, already guh-gonna—“
Yoongi’s lashes flutter when he opens his eyes to look up at Taehyung. It’s so obscene Taehyung’s shoved that much closer to the precipice—lips wet, thin around him, the highpoint of his cheekbones a bit flushed. An image Taehyung never in his fucking life thought he’d have the opportunity to see beyond fantasy.
Yoongi pops off with a wet gasp. Pants lightly, watching Taehyung’s face as he strokes hard and fast, paying attention to Taehyung cockhead. Foreskin sliding and retracting with the rhythm of his fist.
“I’m, ah, I’m, ssaem,” Taehyung says, stops. Goes quiet, jaw slack. A smudge of stars blur in his vision when he comes.
Yoongi brings his free hand up to catch as much as he can, a stray spurt slipping by and catching Taehyung’s belly.
He’s not sure how long he lies there, out of commission, for. It takes him especially long to reorient, and when he gets the stubborn stars out of his pupils, he finds Yoongi tossing soiled napkins into the trash by the front podium. Other than the remaining flush on his cheekbones, he looks collected. Himself.
They make eye contact. “Put your cock away,” Yoongi rasps.
Taehyung jerks his attention to his softening cock. “O—oh.” He shakily makes himself decent.
Long silence. Taehyung lies there stupidly and tracks Yoongi grabbing his stethoscope from the floor (when did it fall?), collecting his satchel bag, hooking it over his shoulders. He gives Taehyung a couple, cursory glances when he says, “I’ll show you how to percuss another time. When do you get out of classes on Friday?”
Taehyung stares. Thinks hard. His brain is back to the mush, which is better than a puddle, but— “5:30.”
Yoongi nods. Blinks a few times fast. Licking his lips, he says, “See you at 6:00. Put the mat back in the closet before you go.”
Taehyung can barely make a confused, affirmative noise before Yoongi slips out of the room.