#blasian

[indigenoustotheworld]

[afrodesiacworldwide]

[mymyarchives]

[barbiemiaa]

1iiyah

[theereina]

IG: karinjinsui

[blackmalibubarbie]

[kikiskook]

DOCTOR'S ORDERS

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬; Hoseok's thumb traces your jawline and it is absolutely, categorically not a medical procedure. He knows it. You know it. The surveillance camera that definitely isn't in this room knows it. Three encounters. Three escalations. One gang rule that says this gets you killed. He tells you to leave. You leave. You come back. He breaks.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠; jung hoseok x nb!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭; 5.5k ➜ drabble

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞; crime/mafia au (kkangpae), forbidden romance, smut

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; explicit sexual content, piv sex (unprotected but they're tested and they’re on birth control don't @ me), teasing, edging, orgasm denial / orgasm control, cum on skin, wrist pinning, light restraint, praise kink, hand-holding during sex (the real killer), size mention, aftercare, injury depiction (split lip, rib bruising, blood that isn't his), medical setting, references to past addiction (alcohol, non-glorified), forbidden relationship dynamics, rule-breaking with real consequences, post-emergency emotional vulnerability, raw confessions, crying-adjacent energy from a man in bloody scrubs at 2 AM, the word ‘darling’ used as a weapon of mass destruction.

𝐚/𝐧; HELLO HELLO HELLO we are SO back in the Kkangpae Universe babyyyyy 🏥🩹 This one's another commission from the one and only @billy-jeans23 (Roo my beloved, my patron of unhinged gang AUs, the reason I have not known peace since KGP!Hoseok was created)—and if you thought the LAST installment was bad for your health, I need you to sit down. Grab water. Maybe a pillow to scream into. I'm not responsible for damages. So!! Quick rundown for the new girlies, gays, and non-binary baes stumbling in: Kkangpae is an AU universe—think organized crime meets found family meets 'the ONE rule is no falling in love and guess what these two idiots did'. The whole thing is built from the ground up with its own lore, hierarchy, divisions, aura system, the works. It's a whole world in here and I am simply a tenant. You can check the main story (jungkook x female!reader) here. Reader uses they/them pronouns and is heavily implied blasian. This chapter is essentially three escalations: the late-night exam where his thumb does something DEEPLY non-medical, the storage room 'audit' where they almost kiss surrounded by expired surgical equipment (romantic), and the 2 AM office scene where twenty hours of no sleep and someone else's blood finally dissolves whatever was left of this man's resolve. I wrote this in a feral haze and I regret nothing.

Roo—this one's for you. Again. As always. You keep commissioning these and I keep losing years off my life writing them. Fair trade. 💕

Enjoy, don't perceive me, and please yell at me in the comments because I WILL be refreshing. 🫡

The mission wasn’t supposed to leave marks.

But here you are anyway, perched on the examination table in the medical wing at half past eleven, watching Hoseok’s jaw tick as he catalogs the damage. 

Late shift means it’s just the two of you—the night nurse dismissed with a curt wave after one look at your split lip and the bruising blooming across your ribs.

“Training accident,” you’d said.

He hadn’t believed you.

But it doesn’t matter—it never does, because he’s still going to fix it.

When it’s you, he’s always going to fix it.

His hands are cold when they press against your ribs, efficient, therapeutic even. You’re not wearing a shirt—ditched it the moment he told you to, because modesty is stupid when someone’s checking for internal bleeding—and the sterile air makes goosebumps rise across your skin.

Or maybe that’s just him.

“Breathe in.”

You do.

“Out.”

The exhale hurts less than it should. Nothing’s broken, probably. You’ve had broken ribs before—this is just spectacular bruising and your body’s usual bullshit of marking too easily.

“You’re lucky,” Hoseok mutters, fingers tracing the edge of the bruise with a touch that’s gentler than his voice. “Another inch to the left and we’d be talking punctured lung.”

“But we’re not.”

“But we’re not,” he agrees, and his hand is still there, palm flat against your ribs, thumb resting just below your breast.

He hasn’t moved it.

You swallow and watch his face—the way his eyes track across your skin like he’s reading something written in the violence. There’s a crease between his eyebrows that only shows up when he’s worried, and it’s definitely there now.

“I’m fine, doc.”

“You came back bleeding.”

“Barely.”

“Bleeding is bleeding.” His voice drops lower, rough around the edges. “And you—you do this too often, Trouble.”

It’s not an accusation. 

It sounds more like something else, something he’s not supposed to say.

“Hazard of the job,” you say lightly, testing the waters. “Good thing I have such an attentive physician.”

His eyes flick up to yours.

Oh.

Yeah, he caught that.

The air between you shifts—not much, just enough to notice. Like the moment before lightning strikes when your hair stands on end and you know something’s about to change.

Hoseok’s hand is still on your ribs.

You’re very aware of this fact.

“Your lip,” he says finally, pulling back to grab supplies, and you can’t (or don’t want to) explain why the loss of contact feels like cold water. “That needs cleaning.”

He comes closer again, now standing between your knees where they dangle off the table’s edge, and you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact. 

This is normal, just your usual medical procedure. You’ve done this a hundred times.

But, somehow, today it feels different. 

The antiseptic stings when he dabs it across your split lip, and you hiss.

“Hold still.”

“Trying.”

“Try harder.”

His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb resting against your cheek to keep your head steady, and—

Fuck.

You blink. 

His thumb moves, just slightly, a tiny stroke across your cheekbone that could be accidental.

Except you can see his face and there’s nothing accidental about the way he’s looking at you right now.

“Hoseok—”

“Shh.” The cotton swab moves to the corner of your mouth, careful and meticulous. “Almost done.”

But his hand doesn’t leave your face.

You can smell him from here—sandalwood and something clean, antiseptic mixing with cologne in a way that shouldn’t work but does. 

It’s grounding. Safe. The kind of scent that makes you want to lean in and—

Bad idea.

Terrible idea.

“There.” He sets down the supplies but his hand is still on your face, and now his thumb traces your jawline in a touch that’s definitely, absolutely not medical. “You should be more careful.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Fun.” He huffs something that might be a laugh except it sounds pained. “You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days, pip.”

The usual nickname lands soft, intimate.

Too intimate.

You watch something complicated cross his expression—want and restraint tangled up so tight you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. 

His thumb is still moving against your jaw, this slow back-and-forth that’s making it hard to think about anything except how easy it would be to close the distance between you.

How easy and how stupid.

“We shouldn’t,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t move his hand.

“Shouldn’t what?” Your voice comes out a tad more brittle than intended.

His eyes drop to your mouth—just for a second, but you catch it—before snapping back up.

“You know what.”

Yeah.

You do.

“Then why are you still touching me?”

The question hangs there, dangerous and honest, and you watch him process it. 

Watch the muscle in his jaw jump. 

Watch his hand finally, finally drop away from your face like you’ve burned him.

“Get dressed.” His voice is back to professional, clipped and distant. “You’re cleared for light duty. Nothing strenuous for seventy-two hours.”

“Hoseok—”

“I’ll update your file.” He’s already moving away, putting space between you like distance will fix whatever just almost happened. “Try not to get hit in the next week. Your body needs time to heal.”

You slide off the table, grabbing your shirt from the chair. 

The fabric slides over your head and you catch it then—sandalwood clinging to your skin where his hands had been, mixing with your own cherry cordial in a way that makes your chest tight.

He’s at his desk now, back turned, typing something into the computer with a focus you’d say is forced.

You should leave.

You’re going to leave.

“Goodnight, Hoseok.”

A pause.

Then, so quiet you almost miss it: “Goodnight.”

You make it all the way back to your quarters before you realize you can still smell him on your skin.

Just as much as you notice the ache in your ribs has nothing to do with the bruising.

The inventory request comes three days later.

‘Medical storage room. 1400 hours. Need your dual-division expertise for equipment categorization.’

It’s bullshit, obviously.

The medical wing doesn’t need a Cyber-Seduction hybrid to organize bandages. 

But it’s plausible enough that no one will question it, and that’s probably the point.

You show up at two on the dot.

The storage room is tucked in the back corner of the medical wing—one of those spaces that’s technically on the floor plan but rarely used except for overflow supplies and equipment too expensive to leave in the main inventory. It’s cramped and windowless, lit by flickering fluorescents that make everything look slightly jaundiced.

Hoseok’s already there, standing among half-unpacked boxes with a tablet in hand and tension in every line of his body.

“Hey.”

He looks up, and something in his expression cracks before smoothing over into professional neutrality.

“Thanks for coming. This shouldn’t take long.”

Liar.

You step inside and let the door click shut behind you.

The tension from three nights ago hasn’t dissipated, makes the air feel different right upon entry—thicker, charged. 

He’s wearing his usual turtleneck under the white coat, and you know if you got close enough you’d smell sandalwood.

You’re not getting close.

You’re absolutely getting close.

“What am I looking at?” You move toward the nearest box, and the space forces you into proximity.

The storage room isn’t big enough for two people to maintain distance.

“Equipment audit.” His voice is steady but there’s an undercurrent you recognize now. “Need to cross-reference inventory codes with the digital system. Some items are still under old classifications.”

“And you need Cyber for this because…?”

“Because the database is a mess and you’re better at pattern recognition than my staff.”

Valid reason.

Still bullshit.

You pull out your phone, opening the relevant database while he shuffles closer with the tablet. 

His arm brushes yours—brief contact, could be accidental—and you watch his jaw tighten.

Not accidental.

“Okay, so what am I—”

His hand settles on your lower back.

Just rests there, warm through your shirt, like it belongs.

You forget how to finish the sentence.

“This batch,” he says, voice dropping lower as he leans in to point at something on your screen. His chest is almost against your shoulder now, and you can feel the heat of him. “Cross-reference with storage codes 4000 through 4200.”

“Right. Yeah. That’s—” You struggle to focus on the numbers. His hand hasn’t moved from your back. “That’s a lot of entries.”

“Narrow it down by date acquired. Anything older than two years is getting cycled out.”

You should step away.

And yet, neither of you moves.

Your fingers input the search parameters, but you can’t shake off your head how his hand remains on your back, how his arm is pressed against yours, how his breath ghosts across your temple when he shifts to see the screen better.

“There.” Your voice sounds foreign. “Forty-three items flagged.”

“Good.” But he doesn’t pull away to look at his tablet. Doesn’t create distance. “What about subcategory medical-grade diagnostics?”

“Hoseok.”

“Hmm?”

“What are we doing?”

The question sits between you, heavy and unavoidable.

His hand flexes against your back—not pulling away, but pressing in slightly, like he’s grounding himself with the contact.

“Inventory,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it.

“Right. Inventory.”

You turn to face him, which is a mistake because now you’re chest to chest in this tiny room and his hand has slid around to your hip and you can see the exact moment his control starts to fracture.

He doesn’t step back.

Neither do you.

“I want you,” you say quietly, letting your Seduction training color your voice—soft and deliberate and devastating. “You’re aware of that, right?”

His breath catches audibly.

“Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” You tilt your head slightly, studying his face. “Don’t tell you the truth?”

“Don’t make this impossible.”

“It already is.” You shift closer—not much, just enough that your bodies touch. “Has been for weeks.”

His hand tightens on your hip. The other comes up to grip the edge of the shelf beside your head, like he needs something to hold onto.

“We can’t.”

“So you keep saying.” You let your fingers trail up his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath the turtleneck. “But you’re still touching me.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

“But you are.”

His jaw clenches, and you watch him fight with himself—restraint versus want, professionalism versus the very obvious desire written all over his face.

You lean in, slowly, giving him the chance to step back but he doesn’t, until your mouth is a breath away from his. 

Not touching. 

Just close enough that he can feel the ghost of it, the promise of what could happen if either of you closed that final distance.

“You want me?” Your breath ghosts across his lips. 

The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a curse.

“You’re—” His voice is wrecked. “You’re playing a dangerous game, pip.”

“Hmm?” You let your nose brush against his, feather-light. “Am I winning?”

“Fuck.”

His free hand comes up to cup your face, and for a second you think he’s going to close the distance, going to kiss you and damn the consequences—

He doesn’t.

Just holds you there, thumb stroking your cheekbone, forehead almost touching yours, breathing hard like he’s just run a marathon.

“Look at you,” he mutters, and his voice has gone rough and low. “So tempting. So—god, you’re making it so hard to resist.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Don’t I?”

Your lips are still barely a breath apart. 

You can feel the heat of him, smell sandalwood mixing with your cherry cordial until the air is thick with it. 

Can see the exact moment his control starts to splinter.

“I could—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. “If I started, I don’t think I could stop.”

“Good.”

“That’s not—we can’t—”

“Can’t?”

You shift just slightly, and your body presses against his. 

The contact makes him inhale sharply. 

“Or shouldn’t?”

“Both.” But his hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel exactly how much he wants this. “Definitely both.”

“Liar.”

He makes a sound that’s almost a laugh.

“You’re dangerous.”

“Says the man with his hands all over me.”

“I should let go.”

“Should you?”

But neither of you moves.

You’re pressed together now—chest to chest, his thigh between yours—and you can feel his heartbeat racing to match your own. 

Can feel the way his fingers flex against your back like he’s fighting not to grab you harder.

“Tell me to stop,” you whisper, breath ghosting across his lips. 

“I—” His voice cracks. “Pip—”

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

He can’t.

You both know he can’t.

His thumb traces your bottom lip—not quite touching, just the barest suggestion of contact—and his eyes are so dark you can barely see brown anymore.

“You have no idea—” He swallows hard. “—how badly I want to—”

Footsteps in the corridor outside.

You both freeze.

The moment shatters.

Hoseok’s hands drop from your body like you’ve burned him, and he steps back so fast he nearly hits the shelf behind him. 

Puts three feet of space between you that feels like a chasm.

The footsteps pass by.

Keep going.

Fade.

“This can’t happen,” he says, and his voice is ragged. “We—this can’t—”

“Hoseok—”

“No.” He runs a hand through his hair, destroying the careful styling. “We can’t do this. It’s—the rules exist for a reason, and I can’t—I won’t—”

“You won’t what?”

“Ruin you.” The words come out fierce. “I won’t be the reason you get hurt.”

You stare at him—at the wild look in his eyes, the heaving chest, the white-knuckled grip he has on the shelf behind him like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“What if I’m willing to risk it?”

“Well I’m not.” But his voice cracks on the words. “I can’t—you need to go.”

“The inventory—”

“Fuck the inventory.” He won’t look at you now. “Just go. Please.”

You should argue.

Should push.

But something in his voice stops you—desperation mixed with genuine fear, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Okay.”

You head for the door.

Your hand’s on the handle when his voice stops you.

“Wait.”

You turn back.

He’s still standing there, gripping that shelf, looking completely wrecked.

“Don’t—” He swallows hard. “Don’t think this means I don’t—that I’m not—”

“I know.”

You do know.

That’s what makes it worse.

You leave before either of you can make this any harder.

But three hours later, sitting in your quarters, you catch sandalwood on your shirt and know he’s probably dealing with cherry cordial on his coat.

The almost is becoming unbearable.

Something’s going to break soon.

It’s past two in the morning.

You shouldn’t be here.

You came anyway.

The medical wing opens up ahead after the elevator doors, and you can smell blood and antiseptic in the air. 

That distinctive scent of wounds being cleaned up, of emergency protocols activated, of Hoseok running damage control on something that went very wrong.

The main treatment area is empty now, recently sanitized, but there are signs of chaos everywhere—discarded medical supplies not yet cleared away, monitoring equipment still beeping softly, disorder that only happens when people are fighting to save lives and can’t be bothered with tidiness.

You find him in his office.

He’s standing at the window with his back to the door, still wearing his surgical scrubs under the white coat. 

There’s blood on his sleeves—not his, you know, never his—and his shoulders carry the kind of tension that speaks to hours of adrenaline finally crashing.

“Hoseok?”

He doesn’t turn around.

“You should be asleep.”

“So should you.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re standing in the dark staring at nothing.”

His jaw tightens—you can see it in profile—but he doesn’t argue.

You step inside and let the door close softly behind you. 

The office is dim, lit only by the glow from the medical wing beyond and the city lights filtering through the window. 

It evokes a sense of disconnect from reality, like you’ve both stepped outside normal time where rules don’t apply. 

“Was it bad?”

“It’s always bad.” His voice is caustic, scraped raw. “But yeah. It was bad.”

You move closer, laggy and chary like he might bolt if you make sudden movements. 

“Emergency?”

“Yeah.”

“Are they—”

“Stable. For now.” 

He finally turns to look at you, and the exhaustion in his face makes your chest hurt. There are shadows under his eyes, tension in every line of his body, and his hands are shaking slightly. 

“What are you doing here, pip?”

“Checking on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

Something flickers across his expression—frustration or maybe relief that someone sees through his bullshit.

“Go back to your quarters, pip. I’m not—I don’t have the energy for this right now.”

“For what?”

“For pretending.” The admission comes out harsh. “For acting like I’m not—like we’re not—”

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

You take another step closer.

“How long have you been awake?”

“I don’t know. Twenty hours? More?” He rubs his eyes. “Lost count somewhere around the third transfusion.”

“You need to rest.”

“I need—” His voice splinters. “I don’t know what I need.”

Liar.

You both know what he needs.

“Hoseok—”

“Don’t.” He holds up a hand like he’s physically stopping you. “Don’t—I can’t—my control is shot to hell right now and if you—”

“If I what?”

His eyes meet yours, and there’s something wild in them. 

Desperate.

“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something we can’t take back.”

Your heart hammers.

“Maybe I want you to.”

“Fuck.” The word comes out broken. “Don’t say that. Don’t—I’m trying to do the right thing here and you’re making it impossible.”

“The right thing,” you close the remaining distance between you, “is standing here alone in the dark, falling apart, because god forbid you let someone care about you?”

“That’s not—”

“You were scared tonight.” It’s not a question. “I can see it all over you.”

His expression fractures.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Yeah, I was fucking terrified. And I can’t—I’m so tired of being scared. Of pretending I don’t—that you don’t—”

He doesn’t finish.

Doesn’t need to.

“We shouldn’t,” he says, but it sounds hollow now. Defeated.

“I know.”

“The rules exist for a reason.”

“I know that too.”

Neither of you moves away.

The office is so quiet you can hear both your breathing—his ragged and uneven, yours picking up speed to match. 

Can smell sandalwood and antiseptic and underneath it something raw and honest that you’ve never caught before.

Fear.

Want.

Surrender.

“If we do this—” His voice drops to almost nothing. “If I—there’s no going back, pip.”

“I don’t want to go back.”

He makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-breaking.

“I’m serious.”

“Good.”

That’s what does it.

That single word that cracks whatever’s left of his restraint, and then he’s crossing the space between you and his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like the almost-moments before.

This is desperate.

This is surrender.

His hands cup your face like you’re something precious, and he kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re air. 

There’s no gentleness, no careful testing—just need poured into the contact, weeks of wanting finally given permission to exist.

You kiss him back just as hard, fisting your hands in his bloody scrubs, and he groans against your mouth.

The sound goes straight through you.

“Fuck,” he breathes between kisses. “Fuck, I’ve wanted—so long—”

“Yeah,” you manage. “Me too.”

His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel how much he wants this. Can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way his hands shake when they touch you.

“Tell me—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide. “Tell me you want this. I need to hear you say it.”

“I want this.” You meet his eyes. “Want you. Please.”

The ‘please’ breaks something in him.

He walks you backward toward the examination table in the corner of his office—the one he keeps for quick checks, private assessments—and lifts you onto it with an ease that makes heat pool low in your stomach.

“If we’re doing this—” His voice is wrecked. “If I’m—god, I can’t believe I’m—”

You pull him between your legs, and his words cut off in a groan.

“Hoseok.” Your hands find the hem of his scrub top. “Stop thinking.”

“Can’t.” But he’s already helping you pull it off, revealing skin and muscle and the kind of body you’ve imagined too many times to count. “This is—we’re in the medical wing. Anyone could—”

“No one’s here.” You trace your fingers down his chest, watching his abs contract. “Just us.”

“Just us,” he repeats, and something about the way he says it sounds like he needed the reassurance.

His hands find the hem of your shirt, and he pauses.

“Can I—”

“Yes.”

He strips it off you, then your pants, slowly but surely, until you’re sitting on his examination table in just your underwear and he’s looking at you like you’ve destroyed him.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “So perfect. So—I don't deserve this.”

“Shut up.”

He almost smiles.

Then his hands are on you—sliding up your thighs, over your hips, ghosting across your ribs with a touch that’s way too honest and way too imbued in want. 

And when his thumbs finally brush the underside of your breasts, you arch into it.

“Sensitive,” he murmurs, taking inventory of your responses like they’re precious. “Good to know.”

“Hoseok—”

“Shh.” His mouth finds your neck, kissing and biting a path to your shoulder. “I’m taking care of you.”

And he is.

His hands map every inch of exposed skin while his mouth works your neck, finding the spots that make you gasp, that make your fingers dig into his shoulders. 

When his thumb brushes over your nipple through the fabric of your bra, you make a sound that’s almost embarrassing.

He does it again just to hear it.

“You sound so pretty,” he says against your skin. “Going to sound even prettier when I make you cum.”

The words send heat straight between your legs.

“Confident.”

“I’m very good at my job.” He palms your breast properly now, and you arch into his hand. “And right now, my job is making you feel good.”

Your bra comes off next, and then his mouth is on you—tongue circling your nipple before sucking it into his mouth—and your head falls back with a moan.

“That’s it,” he encourages, switching to the other side. “Let me hear you.”

His free hand slides between your thighs, pressing against the damp fabric there, and he groans.

“Fuck, you’re so wet already.”

“Your fault.”

“Yeah.” He sounds devastated by it. “Yeah, it is.”

Your underwear joins the growing pile of clothes, and then his fingers are where you need them most—sliding through wetness, finding your clit with relative ease—which honestly speaks to medical knowledge put to very unprofessional use.

The first touch, inevitably, makes you jolt.

“Easy,” he soothes, circling slowly. “I’ve got you.”

He does.

His fingers work you with careful attention, reading every single one of your tiny reactions to figure out exactly what you need. 

Then he slides one inside you, and your hips buck.

“More?”

“Yes—please—”

He adds a second finger, curling them just right, and the sensation makes you gasp. 

His thumb stays on your clit, circling in maddening patterns while his fingers work inside you.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take it. You’re doing so well for me, pip. Good darling.”

The praise mixed with the physical sensation is simply overwhelming, so much so that you can feel yourself getting close, that tension building low in your belly—

He stops.

“What—”

“Not yet, darling.” His voice is rough but controlled. “Not until I say.”

“Hoseok—”

“Trust me.” He kisses you, slow and deep, fingers still inside you but not moving. “It’ll be better. I promise.”

You believe him.

He starts anew—slower this time, building you up slowly once more. Kissing you, letting you get near the precipice again before he’s stopping his motions.

“Please,” you finally break. “Please, I need—”

“I know what you need.” His free hand cups your face. “But we’re not there yet.”

He pulls his fingers out, and you actually whimper at the loss.

Then he’s stripping off his remaining clothes, and you get your first look at him fully naked and—

Fuck.

He’s beautiful. He’s breathtakingly beautiful, all golden glistening skin, and his cock is hard and flushed and exactly as perfect as the rest of him.

“Like what you see?”

“Shut up.”

He grins—the first real smile you’ve seen all night—and pulls you to the edge of the table.

Then he pauses.

“I don’t—shit, I don’t have anything here.” His jaw clenches in frustration as he looks over the area. “The condoms are in the main supply closet and I’m not—I can’t—”

“I’m on birth control,” you say. “And I’m clean, remember? Last medical check included testing.”

“I’m clean too.” His voice drops. “But if you’re not comfortable—”

“I want you.” You meet his eyes. “Like this. Please.”

He groans.

“You’re so unfair.”

“Good thing you like it.”

His laugh is breathless.

Then he’s lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against you, and—

“Wait.” He leans his forehead against yours. “You okay with this? Really?”

“Yes.” You wrap your legs around his waist, look into his eyes. “Yes, I am. Please, fuck me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

The first press inside is patient, giving you time to adjust. 

He’s bigger than his fingers, stretching you in a way that borders on too much, and you watch his face the entire time—the way his expression goes slack with pleasure, the way his breath comes in short gasps.

“Good?” he grits out.

You nod quietly, watching the way he sinks in. 

“So good. More.”

He indulges, inch by agonizing inch, until he’s fully seated inside you and you’re both breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—I can’t—so perfect—”

“Move, please.”

And moving, he does. 

It’s slow at first, careful, but you can see him struggling to maintain control. 

His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, and when you clench around him, he makes a sound that’s almost pained.

“You’re—don’t do that—trying to last here—”

“Don’t want you to last,” you manage. “Want you to lose it.”

“Fuck.”

The next thrust is harder, deeper, and you cry out at the sensation. 

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Take it. You’re taking me so well, darling.”

Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders as he fucks you meaner now, each thrust sending sparks through your nervous system. 

The examination table creaks under you, and somewhere in the back of your mind you remember you’re in his office, in the medical wing, where anyone could walk in—

It just makes it hotter.

“Lay back,” he says suddenly.

You do, and he follows you down, bracing himself on his hands beside your head. This position is different—more intimate, nowhere to hide as he looks down at you.

“Give me your hands.”

You lift them, and he pins your wrists to the table above your head. Holds you there while he thrusts into you, and the feeling of being pinned, being held, being completely at his mercy—

“Oh god—”

“Yeah.” His voice is wrecked. “You like that? Like me holding you down?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

His fingers lace through yours, and somehow that’s even more intimate than the sex itself.

Holding hands while he fucks you, faces inches apart, breathing the same air.

“I’ve wanted this,” he confesses, words spilling out unchecked. “Wanted you. So long. Every time you came to medical, every time you smiled at me, every time you called me those ridiculous nicknames—”

“Hoseok—”

“You’re so addictive.” He leans down to bite your shoulder, not gentle, and you gasp. “Can’t get enough. Never going to get enough.”

The devotional quality in his voice, the raw honesty—it’s intoxicating.

Your cherry cordial scent must be everywhere by now, mixing with his sandalwood until the air is thick with both, and you can see it affecting him. 

See the way his pupils dilate, the way his breathing goes ragged.

“You smell so good,” he groans. “Smell like—fuck—like something I should stay away from but can’t—”

His rhythm becomes more erratic, less controlled, and you can tell he’s close. 

Can feel the way his cock twitches inside you, the way his grip on your hands tightens.

“Please,” you beg. “Please let me—I need—”

“Not yet.” But his voice is strained. “Little longer, darling. Want to make this last.”

“Can’t—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” He releases one of your hands to reach between your bodies, finding your clit. “Come on. Be good for me.”

You try, god you try so hard to hold it for him, but you’re right there on the edge, muscles tensing, breath coming in gasps—

“Now,” he finally says. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

Permission granted, you shatter.

The orgasm oozes out of you, pleasure crashing through your entire body, and you hear yourself cry out his name. Feel yourself clenching around him, feel the way it drags him closer to his own edge.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m—” His rhythm stutters. “I’m gonna—where—”

“Stomach,” you gasp. “Pull out—”

He does, barely, and then he’s coming—hot across your stomach, striping your skin—and the sound he makes is broken and honest and absolutely devastating.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Just breathing hard, hearts racing, processing what just happened.

What you’ve done.

“Hey.” His voice is soft, grounding. “You with me?”

“Yeah,” you manage. “I’m here.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering. “That’s good. Just breathe, okay? I’ve got you.”

Then his medical training kicks in, but gentle, always so gentle when it concerns you.

“Hold still,” he says, voice tender. “Let me take care of this.”

He’s already moving, grabbing gauze and warm water from the supply station. His hands are gentle when they touch your stomach, cleaning you up with careful attention. The cum comes off easily, and he’s thorough about it, making sure your skin is completely clean before tossing the gauze in the medical waste bin.

“Okay?” he asks softly, hand coming to rest on your hip. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Your voice is steadier now. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He lets out a breath he seems to have been holding.

“Good. That’s—that’s good.” His thumb strokes your hip absently. “Water. You need water. Don’t move.”

He crosses to his desk, still naked, and returns with a bottle of water from the mini-fridge he keeps stocked. Twists the cap off and holds it out.

“Drink.”

You take it, but your hands are still shaky enough that he notices.

“Here.” He guides the bottle to your lips, one hand supporting the back of your head. “Slow sips. There you go.”

The water is cold and perfect, and you didn’t realize how thirsty you were until it hits your tongue. 

You drink half the bottle before pulling back.

“More,” he says gently.

“I’m okay—”

“Humor me.” His voice is soft but firm. “You need to rehydrate. Just a little more.”

You drink again, and he watches with that attention to detail that’s so distinctive of him—the doctor who notices everything, who makes sure his patients are properly cared for.

Except you’re not just a patient anymore.

And he’s not just your doctor.

When you’ve finished enough to satisfy him, he sets the bottle aside and helps you sit up properly, moving with you so you don’t have to do it alone. 

Then he’s pulling you against his chest, arms coming around you like he needs the contact as much as you do.

“You okay?” His voice rumbles through his chest. “Really?”

“Yeah.” You let yourself relax into him, feeling his heartbeat start to slow. “Are you okay?”

He laughs, but it’s shaky.

“I don’t know.” His hand comes up to stroke your hair, slow and soothing. “I just—we just—”

“I know.”

“And I don’t—” His voice stills. “I don’t regret it. I should, but I don’t.”

“Me neither.”

He presses his face into your hair, breathing you in—cherry cordial mixing with sandalwood.

“We could get in serious trouble.”

“I know.”

“And I still don’t regret it.” He pulls back just enough to cup your face, tilting it up so you have to look at him. “I don’t regret you.”

The intensity in his eyes makes your chest tight. “Hoseok—”

“I need you to know that.” His thumbs stroke your cheekbones. “Whatever happens next, whatever we have to deal with—I don’t regret this. I don’t regret us.”

“Neither do I.”

His smile is small but genuine, and he leans in to kiss you—soft and sweet and nothing like the desperate kisses from before. This is careful. Reverent. 

A promise.

When he pulls back, his hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together.

“We’re going to have to talk about this,” he says quietly. “About what it means. What we do now.”

“I know.”

“The rules—”

“Still exist.” You squeeze his hand. “But so does this.”

“Yeah.” He squeezes back. “So does this.”

And you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

Not even a little bit.

@jungkoode 2025

[writingwithcolor]

How can I tactfully make fun of a Woman of Color in my story?

Anonymous asks:

The main character of my story is an eleven-year-old black-and-asian girl who’s just moved to a little hamlet in northern Scotland. The first two people she meets, a pair of siblings about her age who have never seen anyone with dark skin or hair that isn’t straight and blonde or red, are gobsmacked to see her. Everyone knows everyone in that hamlet and they all see each other as family, so the siblings have never had to learn how to greet a stranger. They immediately start poking and prodding her, and asking what in the world she did to her hair, her skin, her eyes, and she grumpily asks what they did to theirs. There’s no malice behind their poking and prodding, only curiosity, and after this scene, no one bothers her about what she looks like again. This sequence is played for laughs, but is this the kind of thing that’s okay to play for laughs? I also want to make sure I handle it as tactfully as possible. This scene is used to establish that my main character is very out-of-place in the hamlet, and to show that the siblings are extremely sheltered and ignorant about the wider world.

As is, the “joke” is not funny; it’s just ignorant 

I do not see the humor in mocking a Black and Asian girl for their very natural traits, that have a heavy weight of discrimination and systematic racism working against them already, both historically and very much currently. 

You also describe her as being “poked and prodded" by these white girls. That alone is obtrusive and dehumanizing, to have them touch her to assuage their own curiosity like she is an object. Is this meant to be part of the humor too? If so, it also does not land.

Your story would not feel like a safe space, at least not for me, and likely other readers, if you make humor out of othering a BIPOC’s common physical looks and traits. This comes across as racism from the author, no matter your light-hearted intent.

“…and she grumpily asks what they did to theirs.”

Your Blasian character’s mumbled comeback doesn’t hold equal weight when these girls do not have historical racialized prejudice against them for their hair, skin, and eyes, particularly in the setting of your story where these white people's hair, skin and eyes are the norm and deemed acceptable. 

Your Woman of Color is outnumbered here; besides possibly mild discomfort, this comment won’t leave these white girls feeling out of place when they have a nation of blond-haired, redheaded people to back up that they are the majority and the “normal” and she is the odd-one out. 

Unless the character takes it to their level with the comments and returns the evasion of personal space, this simply feels like she’s saying “I know you are, but what am I?” and that's enough correction to address their racism and dehumanization, intentional or not.

Race-based humor requires a delicate, expert touch

All that being said; a scene of surprise and humor related to her presence could take place, and it could even be “funny” without singling out the Character of Color as being the victim of a joke” for being Black and Asian. 

The success of your joke will depend on if it’s relatable to BIPOC, vs. it appearing as if you’re just making fun of our features, cultures and existence.

It should make us feel vindicated and satisfied with the outcome, vs. simply reminding us of the harm and othering people do/have done to us in similar situations.

There is a distinct difference between laughing with a joke and being laughed out: being the punchline of said joke. When the latter happens, I’d know I am in enemy territory and the book will be put down for good.

I wouldn’t trust what is next to come if this is the first impression we’re getting of how you’ll treat this character.

And it’s not about not being able to take a joke — we sure can! 

Humor is actually a key component in many Black communities (particularly American which is where my perspective comes from), a way to honor the good moments and to process trauma and ongoing harm. 

There’s also a distinct difference between laughing at ourselves and among common company vs. someone intruding in our spaces to make a joke at our expense. 

Comedic writing

Important note to any comedic writers: there are cases where some topics and moments will simply not be funny to most, especially coming from an outsider of the group.

(Notes on my experience: I am a HUGE comedy fan with a natural love for humor, consume comedic-material daily, and attend live comedic performances. My laughter can be heard across the nation.)

Comedians as research

Humor that pertains to race (and towards all marginalized communities, really) must punch up, not down, or it’s not really a joke. It is just thinly veiled racism/sexism/phobia, etc. This concept applies to all comedy and some comedians handle it well, while others (too many) fail. Time and place makes a major difference as well. 

For research, you could do the following:

Search examples of humor based on race, gender, religion etc. where audiences either loved it or condemned the comedian for it. This could give you a baseline on how it’s done well and when it lands poorly. You can learn a lot from both cases.

Read and watch people’s reactions and discourse of said jokes, particularly from the very people from those communities. (e.g., If the bad joke harmed or targeted Black women, give weight to their discourse over any other group. Period.)

Where to find these jokes and discourse

Search engine search

YouTube

Comedian social media pages

Instagram

TikTok

Facebook

Blogs

Streaming channels like Netflix

Jokes found within TV shows, particularly shows with more risque or blunt jokes that make identity-humor (The Office (US), Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Curb Your Enthusiasm, etc.)

And don’t forget to look at the comment sections.

Questions to ask yourself while researching:

Failed jokes/comedy towards marginalized groups

What did people [of the identity] find offensive about the joke(s)? 

Beyond obvious fails such as using slurs from outside the group or black/brown/yellowface, what aspects in their delivery made a joke fail, whether overt or more subtle aspects of it?

Did present or historical context affect the failure of the joke?

What was the aftermath or consequences from the joke and overall community reactions? 

Does the comedian’s background seem to contribute to the failure of the joke? (For example, having a history of picking on a certain group, their history of interactions with said group, documented history of racism, anti-xxx, sexism, assault, etc.)

Successful jokes/comedy towards marginalized groups

What did people [of the identity] find funny about the joke? 

What aspects in their delivery made a joke land, whether in overt or subtle ways?

Does present or historical context affect the success of the joke?

What was the aftermath from the joke and overall community reactions? 

Does the comedian’s background seem to contribute to the success of the joke? (For example, being an ally or having strong activism in the group, being connected to the group via partner, family or friendships, being of the same background, etc.)

Addressing the racism in story

As we’ve said before: if there are microaggressions/racism in your story, it should be corrected and addressed in the story. 

It should not be brushed off or used as humor with no commentary. 

From how you describe these girls, I'm curious if they're just crass children, or truly do not know it’s wrong to treat strangers like this. I’ve got a lot of nieces and nephews, and even the ones a little younger/around that age you mention would know better than to start touching people and making such comments. 

Of course, people are raised in different ways and cultures vary, so maybe this is realistic for them. 

Reactions (from my experiences) of someone talking/interacting with BIPOC for the first time

Staring unyieldingly with open curiosity (sometimes expressionless, sometimes with a smile, rarely have I seen over the top fear or panicked reactions, but they could happen?)

Blunt compliments, observations and questions (e.g., She was dark and she was beautiful! The lady with beautiful dark skin! He had big hair!)

An excessive amount of comments and questions to the point of feeling invasive or like a dissection 

Asking why their skin/hair/eyes are how they are (e.g., why is your skin dark? Why is my skin light and your skin is dark?)

Comparing darker skin to things they’re familiar with like chocolate and night skies (obviously not greatttt, but is just a common comparison children might make, again from what I've observed)

Referring to brown skin as being painted

Asking if they are dark because they spent too much time in the sun

Giving them a nickname based on their appearance (e.g., The brown lady)

Reaching out or trying to touch hair, skin etc. or pointing at them

The above, including the examples, are exact scenarios I’ve witnessed and experienced first-hand from white and light-skinned children of younger ages, generally 4-7years, having reactions or making comments of curiosity about skin and traits that are different than theirs. 

Handling these reactions

Obviously children of this age are generally innocent and these questions/observations aren’t generally said with malice. But when they are wrong, offensive or are rooted in racism, they absolutely need correction, whether bluntly if they’re older, or in a kid-appropriate way.

I believe that these children do:

1.Deserve an answer, explained in a way they would understand. We shouldn’t shy around the topics and it is not shameful to talk about race! Colorblindness is not real and is a racist concept itself that attempts to erase and culturally-diminish BIPOC, so it’s okay to discuss. Children of Color are born with the burdens of racism from day one and can/do face it at all ages, so yes, let’s answer their curious questions, but correct where needed.

2. Can handle gentle corrections.

Examples:

“You shouldn’t call the woman chocolate. She’s a person, like you. She is not made of candy. You can refer to her skin as brown.”

“That’s enough questions. Let them answer your first question, if they want to.”

“You can look at him, but staring is not very polite. Would you like to say hello?”

“We do not touch people without permission. Would you like it if a stranger touched your hair and clothes?”

Adding humor to these moments

I suppose there are ways to make some of these reactions humorous. Your mileage will vary, though. I’d like to note that Alice, who grew up in a predominantly white European country, says your current scenario brings up bad memories for her. You’ll hear from Mod Abhaya as well.

So, what you may see as funny may be more discomforting to another.

I’d advise getting opinions on these scenes to gauge reactions from Black, Asian and other BIPOC and readers overall (of any race).

Here are some ways that a curious/ignorant reaction could, possibly, be funny in story:

Your Blasian character corrects them with a long, silent scalding look that makes them wither and instantly regret and realize they’ve said something ignorant. They have to do the thinking themselves to realize their wrongdoing.

She rewards their ignorance with a spray of a water bottle or a swat of a handkerchief, fan, or whatever is era-appropriate. A few words explaining why she’s doing it would reiterate the fault in their words. Note: this works best if physical humor is part of your story, otherwise it can unfairly paint her as violent. If other characters get involved in the corrections, that would help too.

She returns their treatment equally. (e.g., they pet her skin? She pets theirs. They compare her hair to something odd and unflattering? She compares theirs to greasy noodles and dead grass)

If excessive questions are asked, she returns the favor and asks her own and makes them feel uncomfortable right back (see above)

The character intentionally provides tall tale explanations. It could be simple or a myth of epic proportions. Whether they believe it or not, at least at first, could determine how funny it is).

The girls, having realized their innocent/ignorant wrongdoing, apologize in an over-the-top way that entertains your character.

Again! Please correct or chastise this behavior in the narrative

Whether from characters or author, this behavior should be deemed unacceptable.

In Summary:

Framing the ignorant comments as being the source of humor is something I'd advise against. Source the humor from the resulting consequences that come from their ignorant actions. Let your Character of Color get the true last laugh.

And if the children grow sullen or have their feelings hurt in this story, well, lesson learned to treat the young woman like a human.

Additionally, I'd avoid making truly egregious comments about the character's appearance. It may be fiction, but such words hurt when us real people have these features.

Take your creator responsibility role seriously. You are writing the words of these fictional characters, and some things cannot be unheard or taken back.

~Mod Colette

Intent does not excuse harm

Short answer: an individual lack of malice does not mean that someone’s actions are not harmful or indicative of broader attitudes. Playing something like this for laughs, when many people have had bad experiences like this, leaves a sour taste in the mouth.

Longer answer: 

There are a couple of aspects of this that I would ask you to consider. 

You mention them poking and prodding at her. Are you intending to imply that these children do not understand the concept of personal space? I would assume most parents teach their children about not going up to strangers and touching them at random.

What time period is this placed in? Have they never seen a person of color on television or via the internet? Even if they have never interacted personally with a person of color, most children will have seen people of different ethnicities passively through the media. Many children’s books will show people of varying ethnicities. If they are tweens, how are they at a point where they have never seen people of color before? I would consider their actions to be indicative of deliberate aspects of their upbringing i.e. representative of attitudes shown by their parents or guardians.

Establishing your main character as a firm outsider to the setting by emphasizing her physical characteristics does not seem like it will reflect well to the audience. I understand that the incident is not repeated, but it sets an awkward precedent for the character coming into an entirely new environment.

As someone who has had their braid swung around like a jump rope by a random classmate, I would personally consider an incident like this harassment. Consider why you are choosing to frame something like this as comedic.

- Mod Abhaya

Published 10/25/2025